#Gilded Needles

[queerographies]

[Gli aghi d'oro][Michael McDowell]

Clicca qui per acquistare il libro Titolo: Gli aghi d’oroScritto da: Michael McDowellTitolo originale: Gilded NeedlesTradotto da: Elena CantoniEdito da: Neri PozzaAnno: 2024Pagine: 540ISBN: 9788854529199 Anno di Grazia 1882. New York festeggia il nuovo anno tra opulenza e miseria. Dalla sua dimora di Gramercy Park, il cinico giudice James Stallworth, affiancato dal figlio e dal genero, lancia…

[tarudce22]

I need my brain to please stop trying to jump into a new hobby when I still haven't finished my current project (the chirithy plush) in a hobby I haven't done in around 10 years.

I saw a needle felt kit for a highland cow and need to not get sucked into another hobby when I already barely do the ones know I love and have stuff for.

[astrids-blog333]

Before the Fall

Emperor!Lucius Verus Aurelius x Fiancé!Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: In the weeks leading up to your wedding, Lucius swears you’re his. But when a plot to kill you unfolds his protective instincts go into overdrive, and his need for revenge becomes a force that can't be stopped.

Warnings: obsessive love, betrayal, poison, dark romance, hurt/comfort, angst, death themes, violence, mention of needles/medical tools, nudity (no smut)

A/N: This is based off a request from the lovely @londonalozzy, hope its what you imagined. I really enjoyed writing this :)

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (OPEN)

WC: 3.5k

The city lies below you, gilded in dusk. It's a sprawl of rooftops and marble, with lanterns flickering to life one by one. You can hear laughter from the palace gardens far beneath, and the distant hush of fountains, the clink of goblets and soft strains of music carried by the wind.

But here, above it all, it’s quiet.

You lean on the balcony rail, the cool stone pressing into your hands. Behind you, the doors to your shared chambers stand open, silk curtains dancing in the breeze. The faint and heady scent of night-blooming flowers drifts on the air.

Lucius stands in the doorway, watching you.

He hasn’t said a word since he came in. Just shed his armour, piece by piece. First pauldrons, then chestplate, the belt goes, until all that remains is the linen shirt clinging to his frame.

You don’t need him to speak. You can feel him in your skin.

“You’re brooding,” you murmur without turning.

He doesn’t answer at first. Then the floor creaks under his bare feet as he moves closer. “I’m thinking,” he says, low and rough.

You smile faintly. “Dangerous habit.”

His arms come around you from behind, slow and sure. One hand flattens against your stomach, the other wraps across your chest, holding you flush against his powerful body.

“I can’t help it,” he says, and it isn’t a jest.

You tilt your head to the side as he brushes his mouth against your neck, a kiss that lingers without deepening.

“I saw the way that senator looked at you today,” he says quietly.

You sigh, resting your hands over his.

You twist slightly to meet his gaze. “I’m not a prize to be guarded, Lucius.”

His jaw ticks, eyes burning dark. “You are to me.”

There’s no apology in his voice. No shame in the way he holds you tighter, like he’s half a breath away from shielding you with his entire body.

You reach up and brush your fingers through his hair. It’s unbound now, wind-swept and silvering in the moonlight. “You’re too intense for this world.”

He huffs a soft sound that might be a laugh, or at least something close to it. “You’re too beautiful for this world.”

“You’re biased.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you fully, fingers curling around your wrist. “Utterly.”

The moment stretches, a welcome pause in the chaos of court and crowns. Then, wordlessly, he reaches for the clasp at your shoulder.

You don’t stop him.

His hand is steady, but his eyes search yours, still always asking. Even now when you’re to be his wife in days, even when your lives are tangled like roots in soil.

The fabric slips with a whisper, your gown loosening, sliding down one arm. Lucius watches it fall like it’s a sacred thing.

He helps you turn, facing him. The city is behind you now, but you can still feel it glowing on your skin. His gaze follows the light, tracing the place where your collarbone catches it, the hollow of your throat, the edge of your shoulder.

His hands come up to the other clasp, and you let him undo it, and the silk shudders as it slides down your body.

You should feel exposed. But all you feel is his eyes.

He touches your waist. Then your arms. A finger down your spine. Not lust, not hunger, something deeper.

You raise your hand and press it against his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm, a steady drumbeat. When you look up, his expression is thunderous—stormy, hungry, aching.

“Say something,” you whisper.

He shakes his head slowly, lips parted. “I can’t. You make words useless.”

“You’re thinking again,” you murmur.

His hands still. His voice is hoarse. “I don’t want anything to take this from me.”

You step closer, bare and unflinching. “Nothing will.”

But he doesn’t look reassured. He looks like a man staring at the edge of a cliff.

His thumb brushes your cheek. “I’ve known war. I’ve known loss. But this-”

You reach up, pressing your mouth to his before he can finish. It’s a soft kiss, one that asks instead of takes. He answers with a sigh, a sound that shudders through him.

You feel his restraint like a coiled spring.

When you break apart, your voice is soft. “Do you still want to marry me, Lucius?”

His eyes flash. “I want to chain the gods if it keeps you safe. I want to carve your name into time next to mine so we can never be parted. I want to wake beside you for every breath I’m given.”

You laugh, almost tearfully. “So that’s a yes?”

He kisses your temple. “Yes. And so much more.”

You stand there like that for a while, bare beneath his cloak, wrapped in arms that have held swords and shields and empires, and now only hold you.

He doesn’t take you to bed, not yet.

Instead, he carries you inside and wraps you in soft linen, his rings cool against your skin. He brushes your hair back and watches you fall asleep like you are something holy.

Like you're far, far too fragile for this world.

The feast sprawls across the garden in a blur of gold and wine and silks. Lanterns are bobbing in the warm evening air, casting lights over noblemen and generals, over perfumed women and simpering lords. Somewhere, a lyre sings.

But Lucius hasn’t left your side. He watches you like he still has his hand on your spine. Like you might vanish between one breath and the next.

You keep your smile polite, easy, soft. You let a duke’s wife compliment your gown. You lift your goblet when a toast is made. You play the part, but there’s a weight to your awareness now. His gaze presses into your shoulder blades.

“Try to enjoy yourself,” you murmur beneath your breath, turning just enough for Lucius to hear.

“I am,” he replies, voice low and unhurried. “You’re here.”

You reach for your wine again, only for Lucius to stop you, two fingers resting lightly against the stem of your goblet. Not forceful, not commanding. But final. Then he lifts the glass himself, sniffs it, and hands it to a nearby guard without a word.

“Too warm,” he says when you frown. “I’ll have another brought.”

You almost laugh. You don’t. Something in his eyes won’t let you.

Across the courtyard, past the music and marble statues and glistening tables, someone is watching you.

A young noble, tall, broad-shouldered, with golden hair and a face carved for vanity. Lord Severan. You’ve seen him in passing, heard his name wrapped around gossip. His family fought beside yours long before your birth.

He doesn’t look away when your eyes catch his. He simply inclines his head, as though he has every right to look at you for as long as he pleases.

He doesn’t see Lucius.

Lucius sees him.

Your future husband doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But the space around him sharpens. You feel his fury the way you feel the storm season rolling in over the mountains, a distant thunder, the scent of earth before rain.

When you glance up, Lucius is already watching Severan.

The younger man falters. It’s slight, almost nothing, a stutter in his stance, a flicker of something uncertain in his expression. But you see it. And so does Lucius. Severan turns away a moment later, voice rising as he joins another conversation, too loud, too bright.

Lucius exhales.

You want to ask, what was that? But you don’t, because part of you already knows.

The garden has always been your secret. A place carved from stone and vines, hidden past the west wing. Lucius insisted the entrance be sealed to all others after you found it together, calling it your little kingdom.

“You should let me build you a new one,” he says tonight, low in your ear. “With statues of you in every corner.”

You hum without turning, leaning back into his chest. “Tempting. But then where would we hide when the Senate bores us to death?”

His arms fold around your waist from behind. “I could banish them for that.”

You laugh. “You say that like you haven’t already threatened half the council.”

He kisses your shoulder, grinning. “Only the slow-witted ones.”

You’re barefoot, perched on the stone bench where he’s draped a throw for you, one slipper forgotten in the grass. The vines above sway gently, scenting the air with jasmine.

Lucius pulls back just enough to press a goblet into your hand. “To your patience, beloved. And your saint-like tolerance of me.”

“Oh, that ran out weeks ago.”

He chuckles, watching you take the first sip. “And yet here you are.”

“Because you’re pretty.”

He arches a brow. “Pretty?”

“Devastatingly. Like a sculpture. One of those marble heroes. But significantly moodier.”

“Moodier?” He feigns offence.

You glance at him sidelong, smirking. “Broodier?”

“I prefer commanding.”

“Mm. You’d still look very commanding as a statue. Naked, obviously.”

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “If you wanted me naked, love, you only had to ask.”

You swat at him half-heartedly, laughter slipping past your teeth, and he grins like a man completely, stupidly in love.

You drink. A sip, no more. The wine is sweeter than before. Thicker.

The silence stretches, but something shifts.

It happens slowly. A throb behind your eyes. A warmth in your chest that doesn’t spread, just tightens. Like a band drawn too tight.

You blink once. Twice. The moonlight blurs at the edges. Your breath catches.

Lucius’s head snaps toward you.

You try to speak, but the words catch. Your chest rises too fast, then too slow. The goblet slips from your hand and crashes to the stone.

Lucius is on his feet. Hands on your arms, your face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer, you can’t. The garden sways around you, your vision warping. You grip his tunic for balance and feel your body sag against him.

Lucius roars for the guards.

There’s no mask of Emperor now. No calm authority. He lifts you into his arms like you weigh nothing and turns toward the palace, already shouting orders. The corridors blur around you, columns and frescoes and startled faces. Lucius is yelling for Ravi, voice like thunder crashing through marble.

You hear your name. Over and over again.

“Stay with me. Stay with me.”

Then darkness.

A few hours later, Ravi works in near-silence.

His hands are stained with herbs and tinctures, sleeves rolled back to his elbows. A bowl of tainted wine stands on a side table, half-emptied for testing. A copper basin is dark with water and blood.

Lucius has not moved from your side.

You lie on his bed, pale and still, your lips parted as though caught mid-breath. Your skin gleams with sweat. There is a mark on your arm where Ravi injected the antidote, a desperate gamble on what he believes is poison from the south, rare, expensive, slow to kill but brutal.

“She’ll live,” Ravi says at last, voice hoarse. “It was close. It still is close. But I think we caught it in time.”

Lucius doesn’t respond. He only nods. His hand wraps around yours, cold, trembling slightly. His thumb strokes your knuckles like a litany.

Behind him, the guards wait, silent. Tense.

“Find out who brought the wine,” Lucius says quietly.

Ravi looks up.

Lucius doesn’t look away from you. “Every hand that touched it. Every link in the chain. I want names.”

The guards bow and vanish like shadows.

Lucius leans closer, his breath stirring your hair. He brushes it back from your brow and presses his forehead to yours.

“I swear to the gods,” he whispers, “I will find them. I will tear the world apart if I have to.”

The palace is hushed.

Not in reverence, not in mourning. In fear.

Lucius walks the halls like a spectre, draped in crimson. His jaw is locked, his stride steady. The guards who follow don’t dare speak. The scent of iron follows him. His hand is still stained red from the last interrogation.

He reaches the chamber at the end of the east wing.

They'd dragged Lord Severan here after Ravi confirmed it—the poison traced to the noble's house, hidden in a shipment of rare wine, sealed with his signet.

Fool.

Lucius opens the door himself.

Severan turns at the sound. He stands in the centre of the room, straight-backed, still dressed like a man of title. His tunic bears a pale smear of dust, but his eyes are sharp, unreadable. He does not kneel. He does not beg.

Of course he doesn’t.

“Your Majesty,” he says, voice even. “I trust this is a misunderstanding.”

Lucius says nothing.

He steps inside, and the door shuts behind him with a soft click. No guards. No audience. Just the two of them.

Severan lifts his chin. “I’ve served the Empire faithfully all my life. My family-”

“Thought I wouldn’t notice,” Lucius says, low. “Or care.”

A pause.

Then Severan’s face twitches, just slightly. “I’ve no idea what you’re implying.”

Lucius is across the room before Severan can blink, one hand slamming into his chest, shoving him back into the stone wall. The crack of it echoes like a gunshot. Severan grunts, breath knocked from his lungs.

“You poisoned her,” Lucius snarls. “You put your filthy hands on something that wasn’t yours.”

“She was never yours to begin with.” The words spill out before he can stop them, bitter and sharp. “Your engagement is recent. Our families have been allied for years. I expected-”

“You expected?” Lucius’s voice is low, dangerous. “You expected her to fall into your lap like land and cattle? Like shes property?”

“I would have treated her with dignity. She would have been safe with me.”

Lucius punches him. It’s fast, brutal. Bone cracks beneath his fist. Severan chokes on his own blood.

“She was safe with me. The only reason she is not anymore, is you.”

“She nearly died,” Lucius growls, fist curled tight. “She still might. Do you know what it feels like to watch someone you truly love suffocate in your arms?”

Severan coughs, lips wet with red. “She would never have been yours if she had a choice.”

Lucius stills.

Then he smiles. A thin, terrible smile.

He steps back. “On your knees,” Lucius says.

Severan doesn’t move.

Lucius draws his dagger. “On your knees.” This time, Severan obeys. Slowly. Jaw clenched.

“You think you’re the first man to covet her?” Lucius circles him. “You think you’re the only one to look at her and wish she belonged to you? Well you're not.”

His voice darkens. “But you’re the only one foolish enough to try to take her from me.”

The blade gleams in the torchlight. Severan’s breath comes in short, ragged bursts.

“I’m the Emperor,” Lucius says, voice almost soft. “I could have stripped your title, dragged your name through the dirt. But that’s not what you deserve.”

He kneels beside him, dagger at Severan’s throat.

“You deserve to bleed.”

“Wait-” Severan tries, voice hoarse. “Please-”

“No.”

Lucius cuts.

The blade slides across Severan’s throat with surgical precision. No hesitation.

Blood spills fast, warm and thick, soaking into the marble.

Lucius watches him fall. Watches him die.

His face is blank, empty, but his hands are shaking. He stays there a moment longer, crouched over the body.

Then he stands.

Ravi is waiting outside the door, eyes wide, breath held. He nods. “She’s breathing. Still weak, but stable. She’s asking for you.”

Lucius exhales once, sharp and unsteady.

Then he walks. Not like an emperor or a man victorious.

He walks like someone who nearly lost the only thing that ever made him feel human.

And left death in his wake.

You wake to the sound of breathing. Slow and steady. Not your own.

Everything aches. Your bones feel waterlogged, your skin too tight, your lungs not quite yours. The world is heavy and blurred, but not empty anymore.

There’s a hand in yours.

Warm, large, calloused. Gripping so tightly it’s almost painful, as if letting go might kill him.

Lucius.

You don’t say it aloud. You try, but it comes out as a whisper of breath, just enough. A ghost of his name.

His head jerks up.

He’s slumped in a chair beside you, his hair mussed, eyes bloodshot, his tunic stained with something darker than dust. There are bruises along his knuckles, dried blood in the grooves of his rings. But none of that matters.

Because the moment your eyes meet his, it’s like the whole world crashes into place.

“Lucius,” you rasp, barely a sound.

He’s already moving.

He doesn’t shout, doesn’t call for servants. He just presses forward, sinking to his knees beside the bed, wrapping both hands around yours like he’s trying to feel your pulse with his whole body.

“You came back to me,” he breathes. His voice is hoarse, wrecked. “You- fuck sweetheart, I thought I lost you.”

You manage a faint smile. “You’re the one who looks like death.”

He huffs a sound that’s almost a laugh. But his eyes are wet, his shoulders trembling as he bows his head against your arm.

Your fingers twitch, reaching, despite the fire in your muscles. You reach for him, your hand dragging against his jaw. He lifts his head instantly, eyes wild.

“You shouldn’t move-”

“I need to touch you,” you whisper.

Lucius leans into it, closes his eyes as your fingers brush the side of his face. His stubble scrapes your skin. He’s so warm. Solid. Alive.

“Ravi said it was close,” you murmur. “I remember his voice.”

Lucius nods slowly. “You stopped breathing. Twice.”

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. You can see it in him, in the smudged shadows beneath his eyes, the twitch in his jaw.

“How long?” you ask.

“Three days.”

You blink. “You haven’t slept.”

“No,” he says, without shame.

Silence falls.

Then, quietly, “You don’t get to die before I marry you.”

You smile, weak but real.

You glance at him properly now. The blood on his sleeves. The state of him. “You found out who it was.”

His jaw clenches.

“I didn’t just find him,” Lucius says softly. “I made him confess. I made him beg.”

You don’t ask for details. You don’t need to.

But he gives them to you anyway. “Severan thought you were promised to him. His family assumed your hand would be theirs by alliance. No contract. No vow. Just... pure entitlement.”

You close your eyes.

There’s a pause. You open your eyes to find him watching you, ruthless, wrecked, and so full of love it almost hurts.

“I didn’t kill him quickly,” he says. “I wanted him to understand. I wanted him to feel what it means to steal what’s mine.”

You swallow. “Lucius-”

“No. Don’t ask me to regret it.” He brushes your hair back, gentle as a prayer. “If I hadn’t been holding your hand when you woke, I’d still be out there, finding the rest of them.”

“You think there are more?”

“There are always more.”

You study his face. The darkness in it. The desperate, burning edge that hasn’t softened.

He’s not the same man who teased you on the balcony. Not quite.

But he’s still yours.

“Come here,” you say softly.

Lucius hesitates, just for a second.

He climbs onto the bed carefully, lying beside you atop the covers, his arm beneath your neck, drawing you gently into his chest. You can feel the tension still thrumming through him, like a wild animal only half-caged.

You press your face into his throat. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He holds you tighter. “You’d better not.”

“I’ll marry you,” you whisper, half-dreaming. “Even if you look like a ghost.”

He chuckles into your hair. “Then we’ll make it soon.”

“I want the dress with the pearls.”

“You’ll have it,” he murmurs, lips at your temple. “You’ll have everything.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of his heartbeat, steady against your cheek. The warmth of him. The safety in it.

And the sense, finally, that the worst is over.

But even now, as you drift, his grip doesn’t loosen. He’s still watching the door. Still ready to kill.

Still yours.

I had a lot of fun writing this, please comment/like/reblog is you enjoy, and as always requests are open <3

[mediumgayitalian]

Sometimes Nico just sits.

And he watches.

Will, squirming, lets him.

“I don’t know what you’re hoping to find,” he admits, one day. The sun is out, but it is cold; Nico wears a sweater over his camp shirt, and had borrowed Will’s least offensive flannel. Goosebumped skin peels through the holes in his jeans. “On me, I mean.”

Nico blinks, slowly. His mouth is hidden in his arms, tucked into his bent knee.

“To find?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

He has huge, dark eyes. Brown, will supposes, but really they’re black; black like river mud, black like crumbling ash, black like polished stone. Black like the deep dark bottom of the well, so far down you can see yesterday’s reflection. Black like the stars so far up they blink at the child-age Earth.

“I’m not much,” Will explains, or tries to. His shoulders draw back like a string has been pulled between them, the hilt of his humerus brushing against the fleshy end of his earlobe. “To — look at, I guess. Or anything.”

Nico blinks. Will exhales, quick and sharp.

“Says who?”

“I — don’t know.”

He’s itchy, he realizes, at the back of his neck and under his chin, heated blood churning and pressing until the skin bubbles with irritation, nerves sparking. He pinches at the side of his neck.

“Just know, I guess.”

Nico hums again. There is the tiniest of separations, Will notices, between his pupil and his iris. Only if you — look. If you stare, searching for flakes of gold, of amber. They’re there. Will’s sure of it.

Nico reaches out, slowly. He waits for the weight of Will’s breath to return, for the pound of his heart to calm somewhere near normal; the tip of his fingertip is cool and rough, sword-rough, and in its tracing path across his nose and down the sides of his cheek leaves a trail of ice and pricking needles.

“You’re interesting,” says Nico, quietly. He pauses on the jagged, rounded scar off-centred on Will’s cheek, dug through two years ago, trying to piece together fragments of a skull. He presses his narrow fingertip into the outline, inspecting the contrast. “I like you.”

The coarse wind blows, and Will shivers. Nico’s steady shoulders twitch in the cold, and his finger moves with them.

“I like you. Too.”

There is no smile to be seen with half his face masked so tightly. But there is a flash in his sky-black eyes, like a strike of gilded lightning, like the flaming arm of solar flare; it burns, for a moment, in the dark space behind Will’s eyelids, and he takes the time to memorize it. To stick it in the walls of his memory, like glued-on attic wallpaper.

“Good.” He pulls back, tucking his hand back against the curve of his neck. He nods, once, graphing Will’s exhales “Good.”

———

based on this post

[milkbobatyun]

foolish little dove

pairing: yandere!sunday x reader

genre: angstober, events, yandere

summary: the consequences of not listening to the head of the oak family

word count: 936

C O N T E N T W A R N I N G : yandere behaviour, manipulation, fear

a/n: this can be read as a continuation of my first yandere sunday piece 'my love, mine all mine'

the plush mattress of the bed dipped underneath you, the room furnished with an abundance of luxury—silk sheets, velvet drapes, golden accents, all shining in the glow of the candlelight. it was more than any common person could afford. yet, this was just a gilded cage, a dream disguised as a nightmare,

you were the dove, wings weighed down by invisible chains, helpless as you await for the fate your captor planned for you. the balcony teased you, thick, tempered glass doors teasing you, though it remained locked, the taste of freedom just out of reach.

oh how you prayed you could fly into the sky from the balcony, to feel the fresh air blow gently against your skin.

the vast room seemed to grow larger every day, the loneliness gnawed at your insides, making you yearn for company.

the sun rose and fell, night’s moonlight flooded the room. the repetitive ticking of the grandfather clock downstairs struck through throughout the room, the gramophone’s needle scratched out the same haunting tune, echoing around the bed chamber. 

you lost count of how many days you were locked up. the staff brought you your meals, took you to the bathroom to bath, their routine revolving around you like clockwork. your days began to blend into each other, making your mind a blurry haze.

today, a key jangled in the lock, the soft creak of the heavy oak door echoing in the still room.

sunday’s heavy boots thudded across the floor, muffled by the plush velvet carpet.

your blank gaze slid away from where your hands tangled each other, your hair hanging around your face like lifeless vines, towards the new figure in the room. when you catch sight of a white coat and not the mundane black uniform of the servants, your head snaps up, eyes lighting up with hope.

your eyes meet sunday’s steady gaze, lunging forwards, hands grasping at him, at his clothes, to prove to yourself he wasn’t a figment of imagination. those hallucinations happened more often now. 

sometimes, it was your family, screaming in agony, their bloody hands clawing at your exquisite clothing, cursing you to eternal suffering, their screams worming its way into your ears. other times, it was the trailblazer, haunting the dark corner of your room, a silent visitor who would stare blankly in your direction.

the smooth velvety fabric rippled cooling against your soft and warm skin. sunday’s mouth twitched into an amused smirk, as he closed the distance in a few long strides. for a fleeting second, you allowed yourself to believe that he was here, to free you from the cold shackles around your ankles. his cold hands, concealed by his pure white gloves, traced your face.

“my, my,” he purred, voice soothing. “how is my little dove?”

“please,” you pleaded, tears streaming down your face. “please, let me go… i beg of you” your voice trailed off, dying like the hope you held in your heart.

a hollow chuckle flooded the room, sunday’s face twisted in cruel humor.

“you still don’t get it, do you?” he hisses, voice taunting. “you’re mine now, little dove. even if i let you go, where would you go? home?” 

a twisted smirk adorned his face. 

“oh right,” he continued, tapping his finger on his chin in mock consideration. “you don't have one anymore! maybe because…they’re all dead!”

his eyes were alight with evil delirium, looking down upon you like a hawk would upon its prey. 

with one finger twirling a lock of your hair, sunday leaned close to your ear, lips brushing your ear like a lover’s promise, and whispered, “remember, my little dove, you’re mine now, always and forever.”

with a gentle, almost lover-like caress of your cheek, sunday placed a kiss on your forehead, before he turned on his heel, heading towards the door.

something within you snapped and you moved before you could think, hope shining in your eyes. you tried to run towards the opening. though your legs, weak with days of sitting around, failed you. sunday watched you with sadonic delight, gaze cold and emotionless as he observed you while you flailed about, like a newborn deer. 

throwing dignity to the wind, you dragged yourself towards the door, the comfort of the carpet burning against your skin. you watched as the shining sliver of freedom shut behind sunday. 

the door clicked shut with an echoing finality. hearing the snap of the lock, turning back into its place, you remained, clawing at the door. you were but a dove in a gilded cage, weighed down by invisible chains, freedom nothing but a cruel illusion, always out of reach.

taglist (open): @yeonjunsfox

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳)  © curated with love by milkbobatyun 2024 / づ ♡

[ilium-ilia]

Everything You Touch

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | previously known as "soft spot" | masterlist

Chapter Thirteen: another life

tw: light angst

Though the moon is out to play, the Christmas lights adorning the streets of London nearly drown out her beauty with their own. 

Glittering, incandescent lights hang over the streets in a loosely knitted blanket, and they swirl up each lamp post you pass by. Wreaths and holly hang on frigid brick walls, glistening with frost as the night time forces the temperatures to plummet. You find that if you stare at the pavement long enough, you can almost convince yourself the golden glow is from the sun itself rather than synthetic light sources. 

Every now and then you find yourself glancing up at Simon. With the colder weather, he dons a plain black balaclava, and has shoved his hood up over his head. The monochrome pallet of his clothing would have him blending into the shadows if it weren’t for the festivities. 

He hasn’t said much since you left your apartment—though, he usually doesn’t say too much at all. Always quiet, the wallflower who prefers to listen and watch. Something is different about this silence. A buzz rattles his bones, reverberating through his body, making everything hum with a frequency that’s not usual for him. There is something inside of him attempting to break free; something he refuses to let see the light. 

That incessant buzzing quiets marginally when you take his hand into yours. His eyes flicker to you, and for a slight moment they brighten before focusing back on the walkway. 

There are plenty of people out and about to fill in the silence. Swathes of prismatic coats, hats, and scarves turn the dull streets of London into a fashion show accompanied by giggles and photoshoots of the more picturesque scenes. Simon is out of place among everyone—a clandestine operative failing at his attempt to blend in. A sore thumb. A patch of rot searing through otherwise pristine grass. 

Eventually, the two of you stumble upon a square lined with various shops on its environs. A baronial Christmas Tree stands proudly in the center, bundled in a blanket of lights until the pine needles appear gilded. Someone has taken great care to put equally as giant golden ornaments on the branches, not just at the base, but swirling all the way up until the branches are too waifish to hold the weight. A fat star crowns the tree, glistening with faux gems and a bulb that emanates a soft glow. 

A fair crowd has gathered around the tree, and their chatter fills the square, drowning out the music emanating from the toy store nearby. Several small stands have been set up in strategic places where you note people exchanging items, or even wrapping boxes with iridescent paper. Upon taking a closer look, you realize it’s a charity event; an organization gathering donations of either money or toys in order to provide presents for children who otherwise wouldn’t be able to get them. You note their already towering pile of goods, sporting anything from Barbie dolls to model airplanes and art kits. 

As you and Simon cut through the square, you note the Santa hats and warm wishes. Some coordinators sport elf costumes, others seem more than content with light up necklaces or jingle bell bracelets. You pay most of it no mind until a familiar scent wafts through the air, nearly stopping you in your tracks. 

“Is that hot chocolate?” you wonder out loud. 

At your question, Simon looks around, carefully scanning the stands until he spots the one closest to the tree. An electric soup warmer sits precariously upon pristine white cloth where volunteers dip a ladle to pour out rich, thick hot chocolate into styrofoam cups. He lazily notes the sign just beside the stand: 

Hot chocolate - 5£ All proceeds to go the Angel Tree Program

“Want some?” he offers, hand already fishing in his pocket for his wallet. 

You bite your lip in thought for a moment while you survey the small line of people. It really does smell delightful, and even from a distance you can tell it’s good stuff. Not the dehydrated powder—a real recipe. There’s even a bowl of butter mints to add to it. 

“Maybe,” you say, unsure. 

“C’mon then,” he urges.

Grinning, you trot along behind Simon until you’re waiting with all the other hot chocolate enthusiasts. The line moves quickly, and each step you take warms the bitter skin on the tip of your nose and the apples of your cheeks.

By the time you and Simon get to the front of the line, something feels off. 

One of the women serving hot chocolate seems to recognize you, and even calls you by your name. Her tone is saccharine but it leaves a sour pit in his stomach. He remembers what happened the last time someone called your name like that in a public setting. Knuckles kissing a cheek bone—lights fading from someone’s eyes. 

He studies the woman. Her curled blonde hair blows in the lazy breeze, but the periwinkle hat on her head helps keep most of the strands in place. She looks at you with a dazzling smile. He can’t help but wonder if she whitens her teeth. 

“Ness?” you ask in disbelief. “Goodness, it’s been a minute!”

Simon stays quiet as he exchanges cash with the other stand operator, but he’s suddenly aware of everything. Every twitch that he can see from the corner of his eye, each person who walks by, every pair of eyes that lands on you—none of it goes unnoticed. 

“It’s so good to see you!” the woman—Ness—exclaims with a grin. “How long has it been since we last saw each other? Had to have been right before we went to uni, huh?”

Nodding, you begin to fidget. Restless fingers toy with the buttons on your coat, pulling at the plastic, challenging the thread. “Yeah, it feels like forever ago. How’ve you been?” 

“Good! Things have been great. Graduated, got a job as a social worker. That’s one of the reasons why I’m here, actually. Helping to raise some extra cash for our kids,” she says with a bubbly chuckle. “What about you? How was The States?”

Though he makes no mention of it, Simon’s brow quirks. You? In America? 

“Erm, it was good! Enjoyed it a lot. Liking it much better here again, though,” you explain. Your fingers continue to twist the buttons on your coat. The sound of the thread struggling is audible now. 

“Bet your mum’s glad you’re back. I remember her being nearly in tears during graduation. Couldn’t believe her little girl was going off to see the world,” Ness jokes. “I remember you were the talk of the school for a bit because of that. Going off to see America, I mean.” 

Simon’s handed a styrofoam cup, and he mutters a quick thanks before turning his attention to you. Though you’re smiling, he sees a small quiver at the corner of your mouth. Not even the warmth of the drink can stave off the shiver that slices through his spine. 

“How is she, by the way?” Ness continues. 

You cough. 

“She’s alright,” you say stiffly. “It’s… been a bit since I’ve visited her, though.” 

The button snaps off your coat. The quiet fraying of the thread gives you pause as you glance down at your hand. Swallowing, you shove it into your pocket. 

“Here,” Simon quietly interjects. 

He holds the cup out for you to take, patient and kind, yet you stare at it as if you’ve forgotten the whole reason why you’re even here in the first place. Shaking off the shock, you reach for it and revel in the warmth bleeding through the styrofoam and into your stiff fingers for a moment before you turn your attention back to Ness. 

“Well, it was good seeing you again. We won’t hold up your line any longer.” 

With a quick and somewhat awkward farewell to your old acquaintance, you and Simon dash off to the streets again, leaving the square far behind you. Rich chocolate exudes heat with steam swirling just above the surface of your cup, yet all you can do is stare at it. 

Simon notes the way your posture has changed. Curled shoulders. Gaze cast down to the ground rather than staring up in awe at the lights like you were earlier. You’re making yourself smaller. 

Family isn’t something Simon ever talks about. Just isn’t his thing. Maybe it’s to save himself from the heartache, or maybe it’s just to try and preserve the only image he has left of them in his mind. The good ones—the ones where their bodies aren’t soaked in blood and gore. Untainted. Luckily, you never ask him about family; not his parents, if he has any siblings. Yet, you never offer that information up about yourself, either. 

Two very close strangers—still stuck on opposite sides of the same looming wall. 

“America, huh?” he asks, shattering the silence that’s settled between the two of you. 

A soft scoff of sorts leaves your lungs where it turns into nothing but frosty air in front of your lips. “Yeah. I… got accepted to Yale on scholarship.” 

Simon hums. “Never told me you were smart,” he teases. 

This gets a laugh out of you. Something staccato but sweet. Still, your eyes are locked onto your drink, unable to bring yourself to taste it. The button from your coat is burning a hole through your pocket. 

“I was going for general studies at first. Until I figured out what I wanted to do with my life,” you explain, but you don’t sound proud of yourself. Voice monotone. Timbre low. “Never really did figure it out. I just thought it would’ve been nice to go out and see the world. Just get out of here for a bit.” 

“Not what you expected?” he asks. 

You shake your head. “No, it was amazing. Just wish I could’ve stayed there longer.” 

There’s brutal hesitation gnawing on your throat. It appears in your muscles, forcing them to grow rigid as the anticipation quickly becomes all consuming. Something is screaming to break free from you. A too-full balloon waiting to pop. The painfully long time it takes for a hand to connect to a cheek in a slap. 

“She’s dead. My mum,” you finally let out. “I, erm… Well, I didn’t even get to finish a full year in America before she got sick.” 

Collected, Simon quickly blinks away the shock from his eyes. “You came back to take care of her?” 

“I was the only one who could,” you say bitterly. “She didn’t ask me to. She never would have. But I knew she needed someone, and well, my father would never do anything good in his rotten life. So I came back, got a shitty job working in finances. I’d take care of her during the day, and work in a money transfer service place at night. I don’t… regret it or anything, but…”

There might not be regret, but there is guilt. Raw, brutal guilt. Choosing between living your life, and helping someone go through the end of theirs. A sacrifice either way. It was never something you were ever intended to go through and come out whole. 

“Doesn’t make it any easier,” Simon finishes your sentence. 

“Yeah.” 

Finally, you force yourself to choke down a sip of your hot chocolate. The thick liquid coats your tongue with sugar, and your teeth tingle in your maw. It doesn’t make you feel any warmer. 

“She always liked this time of year,” you reminisce. “She had breast cancer. A really intense form. She’d have to stay in the hospital for long stretches, but she just loved when they put the lights up and decorated the halls. All the streets would light up and reflect the frost at night. She’d always take pictures of it on her phone and send it to me. I think it made her feel less lonely.” 

Sighing, you swirl the cup in your hands as Simon listens to your rambling. Neither of you have ever talked about your families before, and you detest how much it hurts. Nagging, nettling pain shooting deep into your stomach. You think it might be the kind of pain that needs to happen. Like cleaning a wound. 

“It doesn’t feel the same without her. Even though it’s been years, I always think about her. It feels stupid, missing her so much.” 

“It’s not stupid,” Simon assures. He’s quick to give you these words, and he says it with such conviction you almost believe him. 

Though, he’s not sure who he’s saying it for—you, or him. 

Either way, it gets a laugh out of you. The sort of laugh that’s just air through your nose, a forceful expelling, but it’s something. Instead of answering him right away, you take another sip of your drink before looking at him. 

“She would’ve liked you.” 

Simon glances at you from the corner of his eye and shakes his head. “Was she blind?” he asks facetiously. 

“Oh, quit it,” you scold him. “I’m being serious. Really. She would’ve adored you.” 

It’s not enough to convince him. For all his cockiness and jokes, Simon knows deep down he doesn’t deserve you. Not your softness, or your laughs. Not the bed you share with him or the press of your lips on his. It eats him alive; knowing that realistically you’d be better off without him. Still, he holds you in the palm of his hands, terrified that you’ll fly away but refusing to crush you in his grip. 

“I get it. You’re brooding, and quiet, and a military man. Not exactly every mother’s dream guy for her daughter.” You pause for a moment to swallow the lump in your throat. Why does this feel like a confession? “You won’t ever admit it, but you’re kind, and some days I feel like you read my thoughts better than I can. I mean, for fucks sake, you nearly broke Eric’s jaw. If my mother was alive she would’ve beat him half to death herself. You take care of me, Simon. You’re good to me. That’s all she ever wanted for me.”

Just when he thought he had pushed aside all those memories and feelings aside, here you are, bringing them bubbling back to the surface. Not just the blood; that sour scent of iron staining his skin. Not just the bodies haphazardly fallen to the floor—but Joseph’s giggles. The shrill sound of it nearly burst his ear drums but he would go deaf if it meant he could hear it one more time. He sees the way his brother looked at his wife, how the two of them would share loving touches and grinning whispers. He remembers the taste of his mother’s Christmas ham, with the thick honey glaze that sparkled in the light. 

Maybe, in another life, you could have met them. You could have joined them in their ugly Christmas sweaters, one you would probably bully him into wearing, too. At the table you could sit next to him and he could help dish out your plate. You and Beth would drink wine and maybe get a little carried away, leaving him to lead you into the bedroom in his mother’s house for a nap. Joseph would grin up at the two of you for the model airplane that would be gifted to him, and he would promise to help the little tyke put it together. 

But he’s not in that life. He’s in the one where they’re nothing more than burnt carcasses with bullet holes riddling their bodies. The one where his childhood home is nothing more than an empty lot. The one where Christmas always makes him feel numb. 

But he does have you, walking alongside him. You, the woman he gets to wake up to in the morning. The woman who never minds his odd quirks. 

Simon has you, and he knows it’s more than he deserves. 

“It’s gettin’ late,” he says as his feet drag to a halt. “And cold. We should head back.” 

He’s right. Your hot chocolate no longer emanates that swirling heat, and your fingers are beginning to grow stiff around the cup. You follow him back home, tossing the cup into a nearby trash bin along the way before slipping your hand into his. His reassuring squeeze makes you smile as the two of you meander back through the square, cutting across and giving the event a wide berth. 

Neither you nor Simon spare a single glance at the tree in the center. 

Both of you are sluggish by the time you walk through the door to your apartment. Shoes hitting against the wall, coats haphazardly tossed onto the couch—your bed is a welcomed sight. Nestled beneath the covers, you scoot close to Simon as he situates himself on his back. Arm wrapping around your shoulders, head propped up on his chest; each beat of his heart bites back the loneliness that attempts to seep into your psyche. December has always been the nadir of the year for you. A bitter reminder that your mother is gone. Yet as you begin to fall asleep in Simon’s arms, you think that maybe you can replace this empty space with something else. 

When morning comes, you are alone. 

Not even the warmth of Simon lingers behind in the bed, having gone long cold, a desolate tundra in your algid room. Blinking the weariness from your eyes, you drag yourself out of bed after shutting your alarm off, taking care to wrap a blanket around your shoulders to stave off the cold. His side of the bed is neat. Blankets pulled back over the mattress, pillow fluffed—he’s done his whole morning routine without you rousing. 

Yawning, you scuttle into the kitchen, only to find the room just as barren as the rest of your flat. Though, you quickly note the freshly done dishes drying in the rack, and neatly folded cloth on the counter next to it. 

As you approach it, you realize it’s your coat. The one you had worn last night while out on your walk with Simon. Brows narrowing, confused as to why it would be here in all places, you unfold it just to watch a slip of paper flitter to the floor. You retrieve it with a huff just in time for your eyes to focus on the small, shaky handwriting. 

I’ll be by with lunch today. See you at noon, sweetheart. Hope you like the coat. 

That’s all there is to the note. It takes a long moment for you to figure out what he means. Fingers tracing over the stitching, noting the old worn textures—your button. 

The one you had broken off the previous night; it’s sewn back on. The thread is the wrong color—a charcoal black instead of smoky grey—yet when you toy with it, there is very little give to it. Smiling, you toss the coat over your half-dressed body and fasten it as you smile down at Simon’s handiwork. 

Hope my shite stitching holds up. Can’t have my girl getting cold.

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[minhosimthings]

Gilded Skin || 18+

Synopsis: A makeout session with your tattoo artist neighbour

Pairings: tattoo artist!Jay × fem!reader

Warnings: SMUT MINORS DNI 18+, Dom!Jay, sub!reader, fingering, p in v sex, rough sex, exhibitionism, semi-public sex, manhandling because idk I love Jay's hands, kinda pervert Jay, unprotected sex (not for you), swearing, use of "sweetheart"

A/N: for you my beloved @jaeyunluvr. Also possibly my last work for in a while since I'm getting kinda busy!

Tattoos.

Controversial (to some people) as they were, you loved them.

The mere thought of getting a tattoo scared you though, yes they were pretty, but number one, money and number two, needles. But soon enough, your friend, Heeseung, who was ironically a tattoo artist himself convinced you to pay a visit to the tattoo parlour.

Normally you would have refused, stating the usual excuse of 'I'm busy maybe next time?'. But lo and behold to Heeseung's ears you agreed this time.

"It's because of that hot guy there isn't it?" Heeseung snickered, his hands on the steering wheel as he drove you to the parlour.

'That hot guy' aka your new neighbour, aka the tattoo artist at the new tattoo parlour that had opened up down the street.

Even though it had been just a two minute walk's distance from you, Heeseung insisted on coming to the parlour with you. Although his actual motives were to see you absolutely melt infront of the man you had a cunt-destroying crush on, he kept on with the absolute lie that he was trying to be a supportive friend, and also obseve the artists at the parlor.

"He has a name you know." You rolled your eyes as Heeseung parked his car into the alleyway, "It's Jay or something."

"So we can no longer call him 'hot guy'?" Heeseung asked, seemingly amused by the way you were fiddling with your fingers, "Shame, I liked that nickname. What do you like about him anyway?"

What did you like about him. What answer could you have possibly given to that? Of course there were so many factors. The fact that he was your new neighbour but you still hadn't talked to him, the fact that he fed the street cats, the fact that he-

"His hands."

Heeseung's reaction was... appropriate to say the least. His choking on air made you roll your eyes, as you slapped his back to make him calm down. Then after a few moments of silence, he burst out laughing.

"His WHAT?" Heeseung held his stomach as raucous laughs escaped his lips, "Please don't tell me you're being serious right now." He doubled over again, almost hitting his head to the car's ceiling.

"Oh shut up, you're talking as if you're any better." You rolled your eyes, opening the car door, with Heeseung doing the same, "Remember last September when you-"

"Do not even start right now." Heeseung glared, slamming his car door shut, "Come on, don't want to keep the hands waiting do we?"

Taking a deep breath and letting it out rather too quickly, you pushed on the neon pink decorated door, which opened with a tinkling sound. The smell of lavender hung around, an unfamiliar scent for a tattoo store, which was covered in rock posters from head to toe, along with a few blue beads here and there, the kind Heeseung liked to collect.

"Hey." You greeted the red haired girl behind the counter, "I have an appointment under the name Y/N."

The girl looked up and sent you a quick smile before looking down at her computer, her eyes whipping around before finding a spot she thought was satisfactory.

"Yep right here." She popped her lips together, "I'll see if anyone is free Ma'am, could you wait for a minute?"

You smiled at her as if to say yes and plopped down on the couch next to Heeseung, who had been analysing the store with a lot of vigour in his eyes.

"It's fancy." He whispered, eyeing the girl at the counter, "Let's just hope your man comes out and you can get to catcall him before he goes."

"I am not going to catcall him, im not you." You chuckled, getting distracted from the conversation when you saw a black haired figure from the corner of your eye.

"Is that-?" Heeseung didn't even have to finish his sentence. He knew, judging from the look in your eyes and the fact that your mouth fell slightly open, that this was the person he ever so passionately called "your man".

You were mesmerised.

No, mesmerised wasn't the right word.

You were starstruck.

Maybe your hormones were on a whole different level, maybe you had just been dick-deprived for a long time, or maybe it was the lavender fumes, but you truly thought you had seen a Greek God fill the vision of your corneas.

"Y/N. Y/N!"

You felt Heeseung's elbow jab you painfully in the side, which was effective in breaking you out of your stupor. You blinked a couple of times, to see the red haired woman and Jay looking at you in what seemed to be amusement.

The woman coughed to defuse the seeming tention, you swore you could feel Heeseung awkwardly smiling for your left.

Well they always say bad beginnings have good endings don't they?

"So," A steady hand carefully polished the silver of the miniscule needle, "Y/N was it?"

Though the air conditioning was turned onto a high, you could feel sweat drops form at your forehead, why were his hands polishing the needle so erotically?

"Y-Yeah. You're Jay right?" You managed to cough out, feeling yourself immediately melt into the chair leather chain again when his eyes fell on you. His eyes were sharp as an eagle's, seemingly darting around to catch it's prey, but never leaving one point of focus.

"Nervous?" Jay chuckled, "Don't be, unless you're chronically afraid of needles."

"I am." You laughed, leaning back a little more comfortably on the chair, "Probably shouldn't have gotten a tattoo then should I?"

"Perhaps not on your most sensitive area." Jay nodded, sitting in front of you, his legs spread wide open, did he realise how welcoming that was to you?, "Most people go for the arm, I'm surprised you went for your thigh."

"Heeseung told me it doesn't hurt much." You braced yourself in the chair at the sight of Jay's needle pressing into his tattoo machine, "He's a tattoo artist too."

"I should make a friend of him then." Jay chuckled, looking into your eyes, he could bore deepwells in them and you thought you'd forgive such a handsome man like him, "How did you meet him?"

"Are you-" you gave him a funny look, "Are you trying to make conversation with me?"

"It helps most of them." Jay shrugged and smiled at you, you noticed his dimple come off his cheek, the one you saw last week, whilst spying on him from your bedroom window.

"So, new neighbour who I've never talked to until now," Jay raised his eyes up to you, "How about some conversation to lessen the pain?"

You had always known since you were a child that you had the attention span of a butterfly, eyes always zooming from one place to the other, but you never knew all you needed was a handsome face and some pretty hands to get you to focus.

Jay's deep voice soothed into your nerves, effectively proving his theory of "more talk, less pain". You hadn't noticed much of the tattooing process, except for a few instances here and there when his knuckles brushed across the skin of your thigh, making you mold your orgasmic whimpers into 'painful' winces. You could physically hear Heeseung in your brain telling you about your pain kink.

"So any relationship goals?" Jay asked you, your eyes briefly meeting with his, as his fingers stopped to move across the cross section, "I know that's sorta personal, don't answer if you don't want to."

"No it's fine." You laughed, pretending as if you didn't maniacally want to answer the question, "I'm still single for now, and as for goals, I'm free for ramen tomorrow, and that's it."

"So how about ramen tomorrow then?" Jay smiled, looking up at you, his hands coming to a halt and resting softly on your thigh.

"Will we be eating or will we be talking like this?" You chuckled, your brain fog capturing you entirely as you had no idea what words were coming out of your mouth, "Because to be honest, I'd just be staring at either your lips or your hands if we do either of them."

The most painful part of getting a tattoo, according to the internet, was the beginning part, when you'd be so scared, because apparently fear paralyses you more than the actual tattoo process. But you now knew, the most painful part would probably be Jay's amused eyes staring at you, while your brain managed to catch up with what you just said.

"Oh- no! No I'm so sorry—i didn't mean-"

"It's fine sweetheart." Jay's soft voice stopped your panicking, he stifled a chuckle at your behaviour. Adorable, he thought.

"No I'm really sorry Jay, I shouldn't have said that." You apologised again, feeling the heat come upto your cheeks.

"Oh sweetheart." Jay chuckled, leaning in towards you, "Do you really think I had no idea of your pretty little face spying on me through your window?"

He knew?

"I must admit, you look cute in that flimsy tank top, which hides nothing by the way." His deep voice rang through your eardrums, "but don't worry, I won't press charges or anything on you for spying."

Your back pressed against the leather of the leaning chair, as Jay put his tattoo machine down. Taking off his gloves, his tongue swept across his lips in a swift motion, as his hands trapped you in a cage, laying on either side of you.

"May I?" Jay asked, not even waiting for permission, he already knew the next thing to come out of your mouth was a pathetic whimper.

Without a moment's waste, his soft lips landed on yours, hands rubbing to take off your shorts.

You soon became lost in his presence, lips meeting his in a fiery kiss. his tongue pushed past, kissing you like his life depended on it.

"Fuck sweetheart." Jay said, "You taste good."

You moaned quietly into his mouth, feeling his fingers trail down and start to rub your clit. Your hand came down to grab his cock, already half hard, and you could feel him growing with each stroke you gave him.

His fingers slipped past your clit, toying with your opening and eventually plunging in as deep as he could with the angle he was at. Your head fell back, resting on the leather of the chair as your pussy fluttered around his fingers.

“fuck, you're so tight.,” he managed to say through gritted teeth, chuckling as you let out a stifled whimper, "You like that baby? You like my fingers hm?"

He began to set a fast pace, one of his hands gripping your hip to keep you in place for him and the other hand next to your head. you could see the veins in his arms as it flexed beside you, no doubt he was trying to hold back.

Small whimpers came out of your mouth with each thrust, but then you heard it. Footsteps outside the room, you had forgotten you were in a public place in the heat of the moment. The footsteps died down after a few seconds.

“Just gonna have to keep those pretty sounds in. Wouldn’t want them to hear you,” You clenched down at that.

He chuckled, a devilish, almost cruel sounding chuckle like he had something in mind.

“oh you like that, huh? Like the idea of someone walking in on us fucking in here, watching us. Watching you come apart on my fingers. You’d like that, wouldn’t you baby? Dirty fucking slut.”

At that moment, he made it his mission to make you cum, hard. keeping one hand clamped around your mouth to stifle your moans, your eyes practically rolled back into your head when his fingers touched a particularly sensitive position, the new position making his fingers fuck impossibly deeper into you.

As you were nearing release Jay pulled away standing up, quickly unbuckling his pants to unveil his already hard twitching cock eager to pound into you.

“gonna let me fuck you princess? gonna be a good girl for me?” he says, stroking his dick as he swipes his thumb over his slit wiping away his precum yet it still spews out, covering thumbs in the substance

He held the base of his cock, dragging the tip in between your wet folds, before slowly pushing himself into you, causing a groan to escape from the back of his throat.

His hands grabbing onto your hips, he began to slowly move his hips watching your pussy swallow his cock.

“You feel so fucking good” he said as he began to pick up the pace. Your hand moved up to your mouth blocking out the moans leaving your lips, doing your very best to stay quiet enough so others wouldn’t hear your lewd sounds.

Jay's thrusts became rough, his hand releasing your hip entangling his fingers through your hair tugging on it as he pounded into you. “You’re such a good girl, taking me so well”. 

“fuck…you’re so tight” he says, pulling your legs up to sit on his shoulders as he thrusts inside you at a steady motion, fucking you deliciously in missionary. His eyes stare at your tits that are bouncing with each motion he pulls you in.

“fuck baby..i’m gonna cum…gonna cum inside” he says as he gets that dumb look on his face, he squeezes your breast with white knuckles as something to hold on to while his eyes roll back in his head, a beam of his sweat falling on your chest.

your orgasm comes as his does, his dick twitching inside of your cunt making it almost impossible to keep going.

“m’gonna cum too…” you whimper, wrapping your legs around his waist, pushing him further into you to feel his cum covering your walls. the warm liquid coming fast inside you.

as Jay pulls out, he’s met with his mess, the pool of his cum leaking out of your cunt.

His fingers make their way down and pump inside of you, the squelching noise of your wet pussy filling the room. His fingers make their way out of your cunt and up to your mouth, pushing in his cum covered fingers inside your mouth.

“Suck sweetheart.” he demands, and so you do. You suck the mixture of cum off of his fingers while maintaining eye contact, his thumb cradling your chin for support. You could get intoxicated on those eyes for centuries.

Jay's thumb swept out of your mouth swiftly, as his lips landed on yours again, pressing you into a sweet and chaste kiss, breathing heavily as he pulled away and supported your tired structure with his strong arms. You could see the veins flex on his hands.

"So how about that ramen date tomorrow hm?" Jay asked, his dimple once again appearing on his cheek, "that is, if you can handle staring at my hands while I eat."

"A ramen date, if I can walk by tomorrow." You chuckled, "So, I guess this messy hair is because I was struggling too much out of pain while getting the tattoo? Or should I tell Heeseung something else?"

"Tell him how good of an artist I am." Jay chuckled, "And that his friend won't have to spy through bedroom windows anymore."

"Was I really that noticeable?" You rolled your eyes playfully, as Jay handed you your shorts.

"Sweetheart you have no idea."

[lovesickeros]

☆ even the gods bleed

{☆} characters furina, neuvillette {☆} notes cult au, imposter au, multi-chapter, gender neutral reader {☆} warnings blood, injury, light angst {☆} word count 2.3k

What was justice?

Focalors had asked herself that question many times during the long nights she spends awake pouring over the prophecy of a dead God, words replaying in her mind like a broken record until the sun rose like a blooming flower.

She was the God of Justice, an Archon, yet she herself lacked the answer to such a simple and yet so very complex question.

How does one define what is just and what is not? How does she know that what she believes to be just is right? Is it justice if one being alone may sway the scales of justice on a whim? What justice is there to be found in the cold, watery grave that awaits her nation?

She does not know.

Perhaps she may never know.

What she does know, at least, is that this is not justice.

It is a mockery of it.

She stands before the bloodied, broken body like the judge, her sword held so tightly in her hand her fingers feel stiff, a dull ache adding to the weight of what she's seen. For a long, horrible moment she almost thinks they are dead – something she would have reveled in, only a day prior – before she sees the subtle rise and fall of their chest. Breathing, but barely.

The rain felt heavier upon her shoulders at the realization – she was not sure if it was in relief or horror.

Her nails dig into her palm, mind stuck somewhere between that abject horror and confusion so palpable she swore she could hear the gears in her head turning.

For a long, silent moment as she stares upon the body beneath the heavy rain..she wonders if this is how it all ends instead. If the world itself will simply crumple in on itself and cease – without its heart, it will wither, after all – long before the waters ever swallow her nation whole.

Because, try as she might to rationalize it, for every drop of rain that hits her like pins and needles, soaking her down to the bone..the body of the imposter is completely dry. Even the water pooling along the stones dares not to leave so much as a splotch against their ragged, torn clothes.

She remembers the meeting so very clearly, and she thinks she is a fool to not have noticed sooner – the Creator upon their gilded throne, finger pointed in accusation at the visage far too similar to their own. The imposter. She remembers the lilt of their voice as they called for their death as easily as one would speak of the weather – and to no one other then herself would she admit the spark of fear it had ignited within her. Because beneath the divine charade there was a sick enjoyment in the way they looked upon the imposter – like a bug beneath their shoe.

She understands, now.

She had thought that perhaps finally – finally – she could do right by her people, by her Creator, if she rid Teyvat of this..intrusion.

Now she sees herself as what it all really is – blind lambs following the herder.

Perhaps she would be considered a heretic under the eyes of the law – beneath the weight of justice, heavy as the heart that bears its sins. Perhaps this is a mistake, one she would come to regret.

But for now, she sheathes her blade with unsteady hands, the sound making her ears ring – for what she had almost done, what she had already done – as she stumbles like a newborn lamb towards the broken body of..

..What, exactly? Human? Divine? She is not so sure what to call them. Creator? No. The name is bitter upon her tongue, now, burning like liquid flame down her throat.

Where once she had spoken it in reverence and admiration, it felt hollow and empty, now.

Her vision wavers as she kneels down against the rain soaked stones, the rain upon her back growing heavier as she reaches a shaky hand forth – and for a moment, however brief, she feels the weight of expectation, of a title she fears she may never live up to, wash away with the waters that fall from the heavens.

The bruises and blood smeared across their skin are like strokes of a paintbrush, their body the canvas from which such horrid art is created. It makes her ill.

Doubt wavers her composure briefly – her position is already unsteady. She has never been seen as an equal to many of the other Archons. Her own people do not see her as their Archon, but an actor in a grand play that they shall simply toss aside and replace like a broken doll the moment she bores them.

What does she have left to lose?

She reaches out again, her hand settling onto their shoulder and turning them onto their back. She..isn't sure what to do, actually. She's never been particularly physically capable – she tended to avoid fights, even if she oft provoked them – and she was certainly no healer.

Yet what choice does she have but to march on anyway? She is in the heart of the city, it is far more dangerous here then anywhere else..she had little time to make her move.

Fontaine was, after all, a nation founded on the principle of justice. To know an injustice has been made against the most Divine..the entire nation was in a frenzy.

Her eyes dart around nervously, hands clasped tight on their shoulders and her lips drawn into a taut line – someone would notice her absence. One of the Archons would point out her absence in the coordination of the search.

Her options were just as limited as her time – she couldn't just take them out of the city. Security was tight, and as much as she fancied herself an escape artist – Neuvillette could hardly keep her in one place for too long – she doubted she could do the same with the limp body of the imposter in tow.

..The Palais Mermonia it was, then.

Her room had a secret entrance that few knew about, and even fewer would dare to traverse. She just..had to hide them there for a bit and hope Neuvillette wouldn't notice anything different.

Probably.

Still, there was the problem of actually..transporting the body. As grim as it sounded. Her only solace was the fact she didn't have to worry about them catching a cold, at least, and their breaths were still audible, if only barely. So she had to resort to some..unexpected methods.

Seeing the limp form of, well, the imposter – she'd really have to ask for something else to call them when they woke up – stuck in a bubble of hydro wasn't exactly on her bucket list.

Then again, neither was treason.

Well, first time for everything, right?

It wasn't breaking the law if no one else knew about it.

..Neuvillette didn't have to know about it, really. It was fine.

She could, of course, technically try to talk some sense into Neuvillette – he'd listen to her, right? She thought she was pretty close with him..but he was also the one person more obsessed with justice then she was. Such a stickler for the law..so maybe she's breaking a few, it's fine.

But he was also pretty devout, as much as he tried to keep his worship private – with Focalors around, nothing was really secret. Maybe she could get him to settle down long enough to prove it.

..How was she going to prove it?

An exaggerated groan escaped her lips as she led the bubbled imposter – she really wished she didn't have to resort to that, it would be a lot a more awkward to explain then dragging the body around – through the winding streets of Fontaine. She's just glad she's already memorized the entire city like the back of her hand..and a little dramatics went a long way. People listened when the Hydro Archon spoke, and she was suddenly very, very glad for that fact, even if they treated her more like a mascot then a God.

And partially because she, maybe, just a little..stole a few documents detailing the layout and a little personal exploration of her own – but what Neuvillette didn't know couldn't hurt him!

After what felt like hours, though was really no more then half an hour at best, she'd managed to drag herself – soaked to the bone with rain – and the conveniently bubbled imposter up through the secret entrance and into her room.

The perceived safety, as flimsy as it was, was..comforting. Until she heard the rustle of fabric, the clearing of a throat and the pop of a bubble as she, in her surprise, popped it – and then the thud of the imposter hitting the floor.

She felt a bit of regret about that part, at least, wincing.

"Lady Furina." His voice was as sharp and cool as she remembered it always being – like fresh spring water, she'd heard it described. Soothing. It did not feeling very soothing right about now.

She turned sharply on her heel, a forced smile tugging at her lips on reflex, every muscle in her body tensed – she probably looked like a wet cat right about now, soaked with rain, but that was the last thing on her mind.

"Do you mind explaining what, exactly, you did?" Not what you're doing, she notes – what she did. He was mad. Oh, she was really in for a scolding now. She twiddled her thumbs, laughing weakly, though it quickly dies out at the awkward, tense silence.

"Well, you see – it's rather complicated! I can– I can explain." Her attempts to diffuse are met with a raised brow and the sharp tap of his cane. Every single thought is plagued with the urge to run, but the unsteady breathes of the 'imposter' keep her rooted in place. "Well?"

She was sweating bullets, her nails digging into her palm as she scrambled for any excuse that could warrant her not getting hauled off and scolded thoroughly at best – she was coming up empty. How was she supposed to prove that the 'imposter' was very much not what the 'Creator' said they were? Their unconscious body was doing no one any favors, certainly.

"The Creator is lying," She blurts out, immediately regretting her impulsiveness when she feels the sudden weight of his stare – the piercing hues of his eyes that remind her just who is the strongest between them. It is not her, she knows. It never has been. "You can see for yourself! Don't you trust me, Neuvillette–?"

Her voice is cut off by the sharp click of his cane as he strides across the room in only a few steps, his height making her feel like a child about to scolded. She hated it, but she grit her teeth through the exchange. She reminded herself that this was for the sake of the 'imposter' and any affront to her ego was..tolerable.

To her credit, too, she didn't immediately lash out when she saw him poke at their body with his cane, turning them onto their back – she wanted too, though. She considered it, but the thought was quickly shot down when his stare turned back upon her, and she felt frozen in place again, her tongue a heavy weight in her mouth.

Yet she couldn't shake the sudden tenseness to his shoulders, his brows furrowed and a distant look to his eyes. It was..haunting, in a way.

She knows it well, she realizes. The realization and acceptance, the crumbling of every solid foundation you've ever known – leaving you to flounder in the waves, alone and afraid.

The gentleness in which he picks up the limp body surprises her though, his cane set aside. The rain howls like a horrid storm outside, but she cannot focus on anything but the furrow of their brows, the soft noise that escapes their lips.

"I trust that you know that this must stay between us," His voice is soft, like the gentle lap of waves against the shore, as he sets their body down against the bed, his hand lingering against their cheek with something almost like reverence – and if her eyes do not deceive her, affection. "Lady Furina."

She does not hesitate to agree.

"Well– well of course!" She huffs, crossing her arms over her chest and frowning at the feeling of her wet clothes clinging to her skin, a heavy weight that feels like it's dragging her down. "Just what do you take me for?"

He doesn't deign to respond.

It only makes her fume more.

Not that he seems to notice, unbuttoning his heavy outerwear and tossing it on the bed, rolling up his sleeves and focusing on the injured– er..yeah, she really needed a new name for them. Calling them imposter felt wrong.

"So long as you understand, then we will have no problems." She huffs again, pouting and puffing up her cheeks, sitting down on the other end of the bed with only an occasional glance towards him as he worked at peeling away the ragged clothes and examining the injuries marring their skin.

She suddenly felt out of place.

..What was she supposed to be doing?

As if noticing her sudden quietness, Neuvillette sighed, his back turned to her though his attention very much falling upon her. She really hated the feeling like she was being dissected whenever he looked at her. It was unnerving. She doesn't know how anyone else handles it..

"If you are so eager to do something, Lady Furina, then please have something brought up for when our..guest awakens. They will need to recover their strength."

Finally! Something she can do. She perks up, her heels clicking on the floorboards as she darts out like a bullet, unable to stay still for so much as a moment.

Neuvillette, for his part..

Feels an odd sense of serenity as he stares upon the troubled features of the..guest. A peace that lessens the burdens upon his shoulders, the weight of a nation upon his back.

He cannot hear the rain, anymore.

..It must have stopped.

[rohvee]

The steampunk adventure au intro 🤎

The Piltover Academy auditorium was not the temple of quiet lectures and theory it usually was. Gone were the tiered seats where professors once pontificated beneath stained-glass oculi; the space had been gutted and reimagined in brass and linen.

What now sprawled was a great and haphazard bazaar of invention. Long rows of demonstration tables jostled for attention on the marbled floor, each bearing strange apparatuses like altars to rival gods. Arc-lamps, strung from wrought-iron gantries above, hissed and flickered, casting long shadows over polished gears and oiled levers. The scent in the air was thick: scorched copper, varnished mahogany, the faint sweetness of ozone.

This was the Distinguished Innovator’s Competition—an annual tempest of ambition and vision, where the Piltover Academy’s finest, or at least its most desperate, unveiled the inner machinations of their minds to the city’s elite. The auditorium was a throbbing cacophony: a din of overlapping demonstrations, raised voices, hydraulics, and the occasional alarming hiss from a pressurized pipe.

A mechanical arm attempted to knit a sock and promptly strangled itself with yarn. A self-boiling kettle shrieked like a banshee and spat steam in the face of its inventor, who bowed anyway. A student demonstrated an atmospheric condenser that quietly turned fog into ice within the glass lungs of a humming cube.

The judges floated through this chaos in clusters of three and four—academy staff in pressed uniform, trade lords with silver-topped canes, and venture financiers with toothy smiles. They murmured, took notes, and occasionally raised a brow to devastating effect. Some candidates blanched as they approached; others straightened spines and grinned too wide.

For those gathered here, it was not merely a contest. It was stage upon which a single brilliant moment might secure a lifetime of funding, patronage, and renown—or else consign an idea to obscurity and student debt.

This was Piltover’s true theater, and the curtain was already rising.

Jayce stood at his table, posture straight as a rifle barrel, but his fingers betrayed him—twitching at his sides, drumming anxious patterns along the seam of his coat. He’d polished his boots twice that morning. Now they scuffed restlessly against the gleaming tile, unable to keep still. The judges were one table away.

He glanced sidelong toward the neighboring exhibit and immediately regretted it.

Dmitri. Of course.

Dmitri and his stupid ponytail already grinning in his direction. The man beamed, raised both thumbs in an encouraging gesture that practically radiated good will.

Jayce scowled.

Top of the class. Preternaturally polite. Unfailingly kind. And always, always looked at Jayce like he'd hung the moon in the sky. Jayce loathed him with every fiber of his being.

He rolled his eyes and turned sharply back to his own table.

Jayce’s exhibition lay at the center like a reliquary in a chapel. It rested atop black velvet, arranged with ecclesiastical care: a gilded cradle of finework brass and filigree. It resembled some celestial device—an orrery or diviner’s scope more than any earthly thing. And yet at its heart nestled the true marvel: a gemstone, glistening blue, teardrop-shaped, clenched in golden teeth no wider than a compass needle.

Wires spilled from the contraption’s flank like viscera, snaking toward a tall mechanical limb to its right—elbow-jointed and claw-tipped, folded like a mantis in patient wait.

Jayce stirred at the movement in his peripheral. The judges had begun to bleed away from the neighboring display, and his heart climbed into his throat like a stowaway. He adjusted his stance, smoothed a wrinkle from his lapel, gave his curled moustache a twist, and composed himself.

They approached his table in a cluster.

A vastaya in pince-nez and brocade, fur combed sleek as gunmetal. A chirean of considerable height, nails lacquered and spats spotless. A man with a breathing apparatus of polished brass and wet, hissing filters—the scent of brine and antiseptic trailed him like perfume.

And last, the Dean of the Academy himself: Professor Cecil B. Heimerdinger, who had not missed a single competition in sixty-three years. The yordle's snowy mustache was a sculptural wonder that Jayce often envied.

Jayce inclined his head. “Welcome, honored gentlefolk,” he said, enunciating each word with theatrical clarity, though his pulse thundered in his ears. “I am Jayce Talis, son of the late Caetano Talis—explorer, inventor, and the first man to chart the skies beyond the Shadow Isles in search of the legendary Camavor.”

There were a few mutterings of recognition and approval. Everyone knew of Caetano Talis. His name held a weight that Jayce had every intention to exploit.

Jayce reached to the core of his device and delicately unseated the gem from its cradle. It caught the lamplight and held it like breath in a bottle—blue and infinite.

“On one such expedition, my father unearthed a most curious mineral—what he called a hexstone. Though it may appear unassuming, this is no ordinary gem. Within it pulses a force that defies steam, coal, or even combustion. Colleagues, this stone may offer what the engines of progress have long cried out for: clean, inexhaustible energy.”

There was a rustle among the onlookers. Heimerdinger’s eyebrows gave a subtle twitch. Nearby students—fellow inventors and visitors both, began to collect in a small crowd.

Jayce returned the stone to its golden housing and flipped a switch.

There was a moment’s silence—then the machine stirred.

Light welled up inside the hexstone like a sunrise in deep ocean. It crackled—delicate arcs of lightning leapt along its cage. The arm beside it unfurled like a serpent stretching after sleep. Servos whined. The claw rotated, then lowered with ritual gravity toward the metal block on the table.

A beat.

Then: a searing beam of blue lanced forth from the core of the claw. The table glowed with it. The metal block sizzled. Half the observers flinched.

Jayce kept his hand outstretched like a showman before a curtain drop.

“Laser cutters, as you know,” he said, “require immense power to operate—usually fed by great quantities of coal. And yet, this cutter is powered by a single hexstone.”

The beam sliced cleanly across the block, leaving a line of molten silver.

The judges stirred like deepwater fish sensing heat. There were sharp murmurs and the fevered scratchings of fountain pens.

Jayce cast his gaze over the crowd.

His eyes locked with another’s: a young man in the Piltover Academy uniform, leaning on a cane, a year his senior from the color of his cravat. His face was sharp, arresting, his expression one of quiet intrigue. Amber eyes held Jayce’s gaze with disarming steadiness.

Jayce faltered, momentarily thrown off course.

Then he gave a quick shake of his head, cleared his throat, and turned back to the judges, recovering his rhythm quickly.

“Alas,” he went on, “this is the only hexstone presently known to exist.”

A pause. Just long enough for the drama to curdle.

“My father left no coordinates, no records of the site where he found it. That is why I ask for your support. Your patronage, sponsoring an expedition of discovery. With it, I will retrace my father’s steps across Runeterra to find the source of the hexstones. To bring back more, and change the—”

A sudden noise interrupted him.

Wet and sparking, like a metal lung collapsing.

The generator hiccupped. Then rattled. The golden cradle hissed as veins of lightning began to crawl across its arms like restless centipedes. The gemstone's light shifted—brilliant, then flickering, then too-bright.

Jayce’s smile died.

“No—no no no, not now—”

The machine shrieked. The cutter arm twitched, spasmed, then swung violently to the left.

A student’s project—an elegant clockwork aviary—was reduced to burning feathers and melted brass in a blink.

The cutter jerked again. A nobleman’s hat halved neatly by the beam. Its owner screamed, clutching his scalp and dignity alike.

Jayce lunged for the controls, but the machine was not yet finished in its path of destruction.

The arm rose—higher, higher—then slashed upward in an arc of glorious light.

Right through the gantry.

There was a sizzle as the beam kissed iron. The structure groaned. Weld-points glowed red-hot. A shout echoed across the hall.

“Clear the floor!”

Panic moved like gas through a breached hull.

Innovators scattered, skirts catching, boots slipping on tiles gone slick with spilled oil and tea. The judges fled, coats flaring behind them. The gantry gave a final metallic shriek—then fell.

Arc-lamps burst like supernovae. Wires lashed. Sparks rained.

Flame found silk. A row of tables blossomed fire. Black smoke rose thick and cloying. Screams followed.

And at the center of it all, framed in the infernal glow of a dying dream, Jayce stood in shock.

He stood like a statue carved in the moment of tragedy. Mouth ajar. Blue in the strobe-flashes of the dying machine.

Professor Heimerdinger stepped through the ruin with the quiet dignity of someone who had weathered worse. It wasn’t the first Distinguished Innovators catastrophe—not by far. His waistcoat ends were scorched. His whiskers stood on end with residual static.

He stopped before Jayce, who glumly lowered his gaze.

“I am sorry, my boy,” Heimerdinger said, not unkindly. “It is a grand dream. But I fear the technology of our time is not yet ready to house such wonders.”

He touched Jayce’s hand—a ghost of reassurance—and turned to follow the tide of scholars, sponsors, and engineers streaming toward the exits beneath the alarm-bells.

Jayce remained a moment longer.

He moved then, stepping back to the smoldering remnants of his table. Amid scorched velvet and crushed metal, the hexstone lay still—dull and dormant. He lifted it from the debris, cradling it in his palms.

He turned to go, casting his miserable gaze to the smoke rising toward the fractured oculi far above, carrying his dreams away with it.

Jayce sat on the Academy steps with the slack posture of the thoroughly defeated. His coat was singed at the hem, and soot had settled in the folds of his collar like old guilt. In his hands, the hexstone glimmered faintly.

Behind him, the world carried on: fire-brigades doused the auditorium with hissing foam. Students clustered on the lawn, their voices low, scandal-bent. A few spared glares for the man on the steps. Some pointed accusatorily. One threw a crumpled flyer.

Jayce ignored them. He turned the stone over in his palm, as if a new angle might reveal something salvageable. It did not.

“Sorry, Papa,” he murmured to the stone. “I suppose I’ve fucked everything up again.”

There was a clap on his shoulder, startling him out of his melancholy.

“You’ll get it next year, mate,” chirped a voice like sunshine in a bottle.

Jayce didn’t have to look to know it was Dmitri: stupid ponytail bouncing, optimism radiating from every pore. “You were brilliant right up until the bit where everything exploded. And I’m sure you’ll get that part sorted. Just needs a bit of tinkering!”

Jayce said nothing. He didn’t even scowl.

Dmitri gave his shoulder a squeeze, then bounded off to go join their fellow students.

Jayce sighed. He reached for his coat pocket—and froze.

He patted it. Then the other side. Then rummaged through his satchel. Panic prickled.

“Shit,” he breathed.

His notebook was missing.

Years of equations, test notes, frantic breakdowns, errant sketches scrawled in midnight ink. Obsessions, revisions, half-formed revelations. His life’s work—every fevered inch of it. The thought that it all might’ve gone up in smoke filled his gut with a cold, rising horror.

“Looking for this?” said a voice, each syllable rolling with a thick accent—

Jayce turned—and startled.

It was the man from the crowd. The one with the cane and the amber eyes.

He stood a step above Jayce, idly flipping through a familiar leather-bound book. “I must say, Mr. Talis; I’ve never met anyone who signs every single page of their notes. A little egotistical, don’t you think?”

“Give me that!” Jayce scrambled upright, indignantly lunging for the book. He was a full head taller, but the man was quick and unconcerned. He pivoted with a deft flick of his cane, holding the notebook just out of reach like a matador taunting a bull.

“They were impressive pyrotechnics,” the man said, still leafing through. “But this ‘HexTech’ theory of yours—I’m far more interested in that.”

Jayce faltered mid-grab. “I—pardon?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “It worked, did it not?”

“I… suppose so,” Jayce muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I can’t stabilize the output. It always hits a runaway threshold and overfeeds the system.”

“Have you tried increasing the frequency?”

Jayce blinked. “I’ve always focused on dampening the oscillations.”

The man stopped at a page. “Ah, and therein lies your issue.” He drew a pencil from his vest pocket and scribbled a few marks. “Here—see this? You are thinking in terms of suppression, but the stone will only stabilize at high frequency.”

Jayce leaned in. His eyes widened.

He took the notebook, staring down at the page, wonder flooding his veins.

“So… I have to crank it,” he breathed.

The man blinked. Then gave a soft laugh. “Yes. You have to, eh, crank it.”

“It certainly works on paper, but...” Jayce breathed. “I must test this immediately.”

“A tad troublesome with a melted generator,” the man noted.

“I’ve another at my workshop,” Jayce replied. “A prototype. Not as refined, but it’ll do what we need it to do.”

“We?”

Jayce smiled—wide and sincere—then reached out to clap a hand on the man’s narrow shoulder, who raised a curious eyebrow at the contact.

“You solved the issue,” Jayce said. “You ought to see it through with me.”

The man regarded him. Then, with a shrug, “Lead on, then.”

Jayce turned, eagerly bounding down the steps with renewed purpose—then paused, glancing back.

“I realize I don’t even know your name.”

The man gazed at him for a moment, a slow smile crossing his face.

“It’s Reveck. Viktor Reveck.”

[vampiriito]

✮⋆˙ stepbro! rafe x bambi! reader

ᡣ𐭩. ݁˖ . masterlist.

There was a story your mom used to tell you when you were little. A strange, unsettling one for a bedtime tale, the kind that lingered long after the lights were out and shadows crept across the ceiling. It was about a cruel prince who hunted a young fawn in the dense forest beside his palace. How he chased her through tangled branches and dappled sunlight, his footsteps heavy, relentless, echoing through the trees. He cornered her, time and time again—but never struck. Not at first. He dragged it out, savoring the hunt as much as the fear in her wide, trembling eyes. He let her live in that constant, agonizing uncertainty—watching, waiting, always wondering when the final blow would come.

You could never quite remember how the story ended. The ending was always hazy, elusive—like a half-forgotten dream. Maybe it was meant to be that way. Maybe it was a warning, or a puzzle left for you to solve on your own. Or maybe, deep down, you feared you were about to find out for yourself.

Because sometimes, the hunter and the hunted aren’t so clear-cut. Sometimes, the cruel prince is less a monster and more a mirror—reflecting the pieces of yourself you didn’t know were fractured, sharp, or aching to break free. And sometimes, the fawn isn’t just prey but something stubborn, wild, and impossible to cage.

The move to the Outer Banks had been brutal. In Florida, summer had meant freedom. Salt-streaked boardwalks, Jeep rides with the windows down, diners that smelled like syrup and cigarette smoke. The ocean back home felt like a friend. Here, it felt like a stranger. Pretty, distant, cold. Like everything else.

Your mom, though? She was thriving. Practically glowing on Ward Cameron’s arm, newly minted as Mrs. Cameron and drinking in the fantasy. Ward was everything she’d ever wanted—rich, powerful, and polished like a campaign ad. He had that unnerving charm, too. The kind that curled off him like cigar smoke—pleasant at first, but it lingered too long and left a sour taste. You weren’t sure if your mom didn’t see it, or just didn’t care. Maybe it was easier to play pretend when you finally had the life you used to dream about.

The island itself was beautiful. Painfully so. Gilded skies, glittering waves, the kind of sunsets you could write songs about. But it was divided straight down the middle—Kooks and Pogues, rich and poor, privilege and survival. “Two tribes, one island,” they liked to say, but it felt more like two separate planets orbiting the same sun. That is, until the parties started. Then the borders blurred under the haze of liquor and heat, and everyone forgot who they were supposed to hate for a little while.

Some people clung to those lines anyway. Gripped them like lifelines.

Rafe Cameron was one of them. Your new stepbrother. Ward’s oldest, and every inch the heir he was raised to be—entitled, volatile, and furious in a way you couldn’t quite define. Like the world had already given him everything, and it still wasn’t enough. There was a sharpness to him that never dulled. A quiet kind of danger that didn’t shout. It simmered. Seeped into the air around him like static before a storm.

From the moment you moved in, Rafe made it clear: he didn’t want you here. Not in the house. Not in his world. You didn’t know if it was the invasion of space, the shift in power, or just the fact that you didn’t worship the ground he walked on—but something about you got under his skin. And he didn’t bother hiding it.

The two of you clashed like fire and fuel. Every conversation was a game of chicken. Every glance felt like a loaded weapon. Rafe didn’t yell. He needled. Mocked. Smiled like he already knew your secrets and couldn’t wait to use them. And you? You tried to match him. Tried not to shrink beneath that razor-sharp gaze. But sometimes, even when you held your ground, you walked away feeling flayed.

Worse than the fights were the silences that followed. Tense, brittle, like glass on the verge of breaking. Sometimes you'd catch him staring, long after the words ran dry. Not angry. Not smug. Just… searching. Like he couldn’t figure out how you’d slipped past his guard. Or maybe how he let you.

You never mentioned it. Neither did he.

But something about you rattled him. And as much as you hated it—you were starting to realize he rattled you right back.

It was the fourth party since school let out, and tonight felt particularly frenzied—driven by cheap beer, loud music, and the desperate itch for something unforgettable. The Cameron estate was packed to the rafters, pulsing with sound and sweat and the kind of manic energy that came with privilege and boredom.

Inside, bodies moved in a rhythm that didn’t quite feel human. Music thudded through the floors, lights flashing in dizzying bursts. Strangers brushed past you, sticky cups in hand, laughing too loud, their cologne heavy enough to choke on. You were dry-mouthed and overstimulated, every brush of skin stealing another sliver of your calm.

You hated it. These weren’t your people. This wasn’t your scene. Back home, parties were messy and warm, spontaneous and soft-edged—bonfires on the beach, road trips to nowhere, someone’s busted Bluetooth speaker skipping halfway through a song. This? This was a performance. And you were off-script.

Rafe’s crowd was even worse. Older, richer, more vicious. Their cruelty was subtle, polished, hidden behind teeth-whitened grins and perfectly timed laughs. Every time their eyes slid over you, it felt like you were being weighed. Measured. Dressed up in something that didn’t quite fit.

Sarah had found her own group—laid-back, artsy, softer around the edges. People you might’ve actually liked, if you’d let yourself try. But you hadn’t. Pride or fear—you weren’t sure which held you back harder.

So you stood in the kitchen, a half-melted drink in your hand and a permanent scowl on your face. Watching a couple make out like they owned the place. Listening to the music pulse through your bones. Trying not to look like you were counting the minutes until you could disappear.

You didn’t belong here. Not in this house. Not at this party. Not in this life your mom had carved for herself and expected you to squeeze into like an ill-fitting dress.

You were just about to slip upstairs, lock your door, pretend none of it had happened.

But then—you felt it.

That unmistakable pull. The tingle at the nape of your neck. That someone’s watching kind of heat.

You turned.

And there he was.

Rafe.

Leaning against the doorway like he’d been standing there the whole time. Blue eyes unreadable. A red Solo cup dangling from his fingers. And that look—cool and amused, like he’d caught you thinking something you weren’t supposed to.

Like the prince who found the fawn. And still hadn’t decided whether to let her run… or start the hunt.

In the dark and the chaos, he almost didn’t seem real—an apparition with sharp edges. His hoodie clung to him like a second skin, the black so deep it absorbed the light around him. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses this time, but the lack of them didn’t soften him. If anything, it made everything worse—his eyes too clear, too aware, too… sharp.

You shifted where you stood, a familiar tightness coiling in your chest—panic, maybe. Or dread. Or something jagged and hard to name, lodging itself between your ribs. Your teeth found the inside of your cheek, biting down just enough to ground yourself as your eyes locked—briefly—on him.

Rafe tilted his head back and drained whatever was left in his Solo cup, the curve of his throat easy and smooth, like he didn’t feel the weight of anything. Then, without looking, he dropped the cup. Just let it fall to the hardwood like the house wasn’t worth respecting. Like it wasn’t his fucking name on the deed.

You glanced away quickly, gaze darting to the fridge, to anything else. If you didn’t look at him, maybe he wouldn’t look at you. Maybe he wouldn’t smirk like he could see right through you, or mutter something to his friends later—about the girl with the big glasses and the nervous energy.

You pushed your frames up your nose, a reflex, and fixed your eyes on the couple tangled together by the fridge. They didn’t notice you. No one did. You blended too well into the background, like wallpaper, or a coat rack someone forgot to use.

The music pulsed up through your sneakers, rattling in your bones. The lights were dim and gold and too warm. The smell of expensive cologne and spilled beer clung to the air. Everything about tonight felt surreal, like a party you weren’t supposed to be at. A party you didn’t even want to be at.

And then you felt it—like a wire pulling taut between your shoulder blades. Someone was watching you.

You looked back before you could stop yourself.

Rafe.

Still there. Braced against the wall in the hallway like he owned the oxygen. His arms crossed. His eyes on you.

And the worst part? He wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t talking. He wasn’t even pretending to be part of the party. Just watching—like he'd been waiting for you to crack.

Your pulse jumped. You looked away again, chewing the inside of your lip now instead. It was a stupid habit. But you didn’t stop.

When you looked back, he moved. Straightened up. Took a step.

You froze.

He didn’t weave through the crowd—he parted it, brushing shoulders with people like they weren’t even there, never apologizing, never looking. You knew he was headed straight for you before he even looked your way again.

Your stomach dropped.

He stopped in front of you, too close. Not touching. But close enough that his presence crashed over you like static. His cologne was strong, sharp. Expensive. It mixed with the smell of beer and sweat and heat. You could feel the warmth coming off him, could hear the low drag of his breath.

You didn’t look up. Not fully. Just enough to register the outline of his jaw, the curve of his smirk.

He didn’t say anything.

Instead, he leaned forward—reaching past you to grab a beer from the cooler behind you. His arm caged you in, palm flat on the counter beside your head, forcing you to flinch back a fraction. Your glasses slid down the bridge of your nose.

He didn’t need to come that close.

He did it because he could.

You swallowed and pushed your glasses back up with a quick flick of your finger, trying to calm the trembling in your hands. You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t. Not yet.

Rafe lingered even after he had the beer. Still leaning too close, his head tilted down like he was inspecting something. You, probably. Like he was waiting for a crack to show.

And yeah—maybe you flinched. Maybe your gaze dropped to the floor too fast, like prey refusing to meet a predator’s stare. Maybe that gave him exactly what he wanted.

But you stayed where you were. You didn’t step back. You didn’t run.

Your voice, when it came, was low. Dry. The sarcasm weak but present—more out of habit than confidence.

"Didn’t realize the beer was magnetically sealed to the wall behind my head."

Rafe didn’t laugh. Not really. But his smirk widened, one brow raising like you’d just made his night.

“You know,” he said, voice low and lazy, “for someone who hates being looked at, you’re not exactly great at hiding.”

You blinked, mouth twitching as you struggled not to react.

“I wasn’t hiding,” you muttered, more to your cup than to him. “Just… standing.”

“Oh. My bad,” he drawled. He took a long sip of his beer, eyes never leaving yours. “You just looked so comfortable. All alone in the kitchen. Squinting at everyone like they’re an alien species.”

You flushed. Instinctively reached for your glasses again. It was worse knowing he noticed. Worse knowing he remembered things. The way you fidgeted. The way you looked at crowds like they might bite.

You turned slightly, shoulder angling away from him, trying to reclaim just an inch of space.

“I didn’t come here to socialize,” you said softly, but it came out brittle.

Rafe clicked his tongue. “Yeah,” he said, gaze flicking lazily across your features. “That part’s obvious.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared past him like maybe if you focused hard enough, you could melt through the wall.

He leaned a little closer, like he wasn’t done yet. Like he wanted to make sure you heard him over the bass pounding through the walls.

"Having fun?" he asked, voice a notch lower. Mocking.

You exhaled slowly. Then turned your head toward him just enough to meet his eyes over the rim of your glasses.

Your smile was tight. Fragile. But it held.

"You're ruining it for me," you said, voice barely above a whisper. A scalpel, not a sword.

Rafe’s expression didn’t shift much, but his eyes gleamed—like he liked that answer.

Like maybe he liked you flinching more than you liked pretending you didn’t.

He leaned back finally, beer in hand, like he’d given you enough rope.

But you knew better.

You were still holding it.

And eventually, he’d pull.

Your brows knit together instinctively at the nickname—Bambi. Familiar, yes, but laced with something else now. Something darker. It sounded different in this setting, with bass thudding from the next room and his eyes fixed on you like that. You didn’t know what he meant by it exactly, but it settled beneath your skin like a chill—unshakable, unwelcome.

Your teeth found your bottom lip as your gaze flicked away—just for a second—before you yanked it back to his, forcing yourself to hold steady even as your stomach twisted. You scanned the room like maybe someone would interrupt, hand you an escape. No one did.

“I live here,” you said finally, voice low but laced with sarcasm so thin it felt brittle. You raised your drink in a half-hearted gesture, like that explained everything, even though your grip on the cup was just a little too tight. “Kind of hard to leave.”

You didn’t shift your stance, didn’t blink too fast or chew your lip again, but he made you hyperaware of everything your body did. Like he was taking inventory. Every twitch. Every breath. Every tiny, involuntary give.

“You’ve been here six months,” he said, voice low and rough. “Still don’t act like you belong.”

He stepped in closer, close enough for the heat of him to press against the space between you. His cologne was stronger now—earthy, expensive, mixed with sweat and something unmistakably male. It made your chest tighten.

Then his fingers lifted—light, unhurried—and brushed the edge of your choker. The shell beads clinked faintly under the touch, soft and shockingly intimate.

Your eyes snapped down, sharp, reactive. The touch was featherlight, but it felt like a spark on bare wire. Your breath hitched through your nose—sharp with irritation, mostly at yourself. At the way your pulse betrayed you. At how off-balance everything felt tonight.

Maybe it was the cologne. Maybe the freckles across the bridge of his nose, reminders that he wasn’t all carved marble and venom. Maybe it was the way his eyes crinkled faintly at the corners when he smirked—like he found all of this so entertaining. Like you were entertainment.

You hated the way he clung to you without touching, the way his presence wrapped around you like humidity—thick, heavy, inescapable. And worse, you hated that it got to you. That the flutter in your chest wasn’t about fear anymore.

“Because I don’t belong,” you snapped, voice low but biting as you looked up at him—really looked.

Your eyes, wide and dark and too honest, flicked between his like they might find something you’d rather not see. He always looked at you like this, like he was waiting for you to crack. There was something undeniably predatory in his stare—but also something... captivated. Like he couldn’t help it.

He called you Bambi when he was feeling cruel. Or bored. Or weirdly soft in the worst moments. It was a jab, but not a lie. You looked like a girl caught in headlights—lovely, out of place, and one wrong move from splintering.

And maybe that’s why he was still watching, longer than he should’ve, fingers still brushing the edge of your choker like it grounded him. Like you did.

“You don’t feel like you belong, bambi?” he murmured, voice roughened by something you didn’t want to name. His fingers traced lower, skimming over the delicate curve of your collarbone. The pads of them were rough, and your skin buzzed with every inch he took.

The red flags had been waving from the moment he stepped too close. From the shift in his tone—low, almost gentle. Too gentle. Rafe Cameron didn’t do nice. Not without a reason buried beneath it.

You remembered those early weeks with razor clarity. The way your presence had seemed to offend him. The condescension. The little public humiliations he served with a smile. How he’d pull you in just close enough to make you drop your guard—only to cut you down in front of his smug little circle.

So no, this wasn’t charm. It was strategy. A shift in tactics.

Your expression tightened, suspicion threading through every muscle in your face. Your gaze dropped to his mouth—quick, involuntary—then flicked back up to those ice-blue eyes, too sharp, too focused.

“You don’t have to worry,” you said, voice going syrupy-sweet, a sharp contrast to your eyes. “I’m liking the Outer Banks just fine.”

The smile you gave him was all sugar and teeth, mock-politeness dipped in venom.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He was too busy staring. The way he always did when your voice turned acidic and your eyes burned. You knew what he saw—big, soft eyes that betrayed too much, lips still parted from a breath caught in your throat. You looked like something fragile, even when you spoke like a blade.

He called you Bambi because he liked the illusion of fragility. Because he liked seeing if he could make it real.

His fingers traced the curve of your collarbone again, slower now, then moved upward to skim the underside of your chin. You should’ve pulled away. He should’ve stopped. But neither of you did.

And then his thumb ghosted over your bottom lip—gentle. Too gentle.

“You don’t seem very happy, bambi,” he said, voice low enough to rumble through your chest.

You jerked back, instinctively, the second his thumb made contact. It wasn’t rough, but it was invasive—like he had any right. Your sneer cut through the silence, but of course, he didn’t flinch. He just smiled. That smug, half-lidded look deepening like your defiance was dessert.

But you knew what he was doing. You knew.

You hated that your face still gave you away—sweet features betraying the fire you felt burning behind your eyes. That you still looked like something cornered, even when your voice hissed like venom.

“What do you want from me?” you snapped, too quiet and too direct, as your hand flew up to adjust your glasses—a nervous tic you barely registered. But he did.

Your gaze lingered on his mouth again—just a beat too long. Maybe out of disbelief. Maybe out of curiosity. Or maybe it was the heat blooming under your skin, the kind you didn’t want to admit had anything to do with him.

Rafe’s smirk curved higher at your glare, like he was savoring it. This was how he liked you—spitting fire, eyes shining with fury, too reactive to hide it. He had you backed into the counter, and he knew it.

“Oh, bambi…” he murmured, and his thumb brushed your bottom lip again. This time, you didn’t pull away.

“Aren’t you just precious.”

The word felt condescending on its own, but coming from Rafe, it landed like a slap—sharp, humiliating, and intentional.

"You think you're cute when you act all tough," he went on, voice a low murmur that slid under your skin like oil. His thumb moved from your lip to the ridge of your jaw, brushing along your cheekbone with a softness that made the gesture feel more invasive than tender. "When you glare and throw your little tantrums, thinking you have any power over me."

Your expression faltered. Just for a second. A slight dip in your mouth, the barest tremble in your lashes—but it was enough. Enough for him to catch it. To seize on it.

And he always did. Always managed to twist the moment until it bent into something ugly and mean. Until your reactions—your real, human reactions—felt like flaws he’d uncovered, like strings he could pull just to watch you unravel.

“I don’t want power over you,” you said, voice low and tight, fragile even in its defiance. “I just want you to leave me alone tonight.”

Your fingers shot up, warm and trembling, wrapping around his wrist—not with force, not really, but out of something raw and instinctive. You pushed his hand away from your face like it burned, and maybe it did. Maybe it always had.

Because it wasn’t just how he stared. It was why. Like he saw straight through you—right past your sarcasm and forced calm and into the bruised, unspoken parts you tried not to show. Like he was the only one who saw you not as you were, but as something fragile and foreign, a deer trembling at the edge of the woods with nowhere left to run.

Bambi. The nickname had always been a jab, but it wasn’t a lie. You were wide-eyed, reactive, soft in all the places he liked to press. And he loved watching you flinch.

His smirk faded slightly as you held his wrist, and for a flicker of a moment, something shifted. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unreadable but intense—too focused, too calm for how rattled you felt.

“You want a lot of things, Bambi,” he murmured, his voice softened now—not out of kindness, but curiosity. Like he was studying a creature he didn’t quite understand but wanted to get closer to anyway.

Your pulse thrummed against his skin. His heart under your fingers was steady, maddeningly unaffected. You hated how calm he was. How thrown you were.

“I want you to join your friends,” you said quietly, a tightness in your throat that made your voice feel smaller than it should’ve. “And stop playing with my mind.”

That made his jaw tick. A subtle reaction, but a reaction all the same. He took a step closer, the air between you shrinking again. The edge of the kitchen counter pressed into the small of your back. There was nowhere to go. He was towering over you now, shadowed in the low party light, the scent of his cologne wrapping around you like smoke—rich and heavy and dizzyingly masculine.

His hand rose again, fingers skimming your chin until you were forced to look up at him. His gaze dipped to your lips, then back to your eyes—lingering, dark.

“Play with your mind?” he echoed, a mocking note tucked under his breath. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip again, slow and deliberate. You didn’t pull away this time, and you hated yourself for it.

Then he tapped the tip of your nose lightly with his free hand, the gesture irritatingly affectionate. A cruel parody of tenderness.

“No, princess,” he said, his tone cooling into something razor-sharp. “It’s this pretty little face I’m interested in.”

This pretty little face.

The words clanged in your skull like an insult disguised as a compliment, like every awful thing he’d ever said dressed up in sugar. And that nickname—princess—it was never sweet. Not from him. It was soaked in disdain, always used to remind you of what you were before you landed here: softer, easier, untouched. A relic from a life that no longer fit, one he’d made it his mission to rip apart.

He was your step-brother. The one who spat venom across shared dinners, who twisted every sentence into a blade, who called you a leech to your face and meant it. And now he was looking at you like this—like you were something wanted.

Your jaw clenched. “Don’t patronize me,” you snapped, voice sharp but wobbly, tight with heat you didn’t want to name. You jerked your head to the side, breaking the contact with a flick of resistance that felt more desperate than defiant.

And in the silence that followed, you realized something else.

He liked this.

Not just the tension. Not just your fear. But you. The way you refused to yield, even when your hands trembled. The way you stood there—big, soft eyes blazing, chest heaving, lips parted from the breath you didn’t know you’d held—still trying to hold your ground. Still fighting.

Those doe eyes, the ones he never stopped mocking, had always been your curse. But maybe they were the reason he couldn’t look away.

Rafe leaned in again, his voice a whisper that brushed the shell of your ear like a secret, far too intimate.

“I don’t have to play with your mind, Bambi,” he said. “You’re already coming apart on your own.”

And the worst part?

You were.

Because somewhere beneath the irritation, the hate, the history—there was heat. Pulling you toward him like gravity. Dangerous, undeniable, and cruelly familiar.

And Rafe could see it all. In your lashes. In your lips. In the way you hadn’t really let go of his wrist.

Not yet.

Rafe remained leaning against the counter for a few long moments, watching you slip out of the kitchen and vanish into the thick crowd pulsing through the house. He hated watching you walk away—hated how easy it was for you to disappear. You slipped through his fingers like a glass figurine, always just out of reach before he could decide whether he wanted to shatter you or keep you.

His jaw tensed, muscles ticking as he shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, trying to stop them from doing something impulsive. Like dragging you back. Like cupping your jaw just to see if you'd flinch—or lean in.

He couldn’t get the look on your face out of his head. That subtle flush rising up your neck when he stepped too close, the way your eyes darted to the side like you couldn’t stand the weight of his stare. He hadn’t meant to get under your skin. Not really. But he had, and the proof was in your silence, your retreat.

He needed air. A distraction. Something—anything—to drag him out of the spiral you'd triggered just by looking at him like that.

Rafe pushed off the counter and moved through the house like a storm cloud, past dancing bodies and smoke-filled corners, toward the back deck. The cool night hit his face like a slap, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly. A group clustered near the railing passed around tequila and something harsher, and he accepted both without hesitation, downing a swig before leaning back, bottle resting casually in his hand.

He tried to focus on the warmth spreading down his throat, on the girls lingering nearby with too-bright eyes and too-easy smiles. He let them talk, flirt, touch his arm—he even laughed once, hollow and sharp—but every few seconds, his eyes would drift back toward the sliding glass door, searching for you.

You were curled up near the pool, tucked into one of the lounge chairs like you were trying to make yourself small. Knees drawn up, arms loose around them, head tilted toward the water that shimmered under the glow of string lights tangled above like a scene from a movie trying too hard to be romantic. It should’ve been peaceful. But you felt like you were watching the party through a window, like the sound and light couldn’t quite reach you.

This place didn’t feel like home. It never had.

Florida had been messy, yeah. But it was your mess. You’d known where you fit there, even if it wasn’t always perfect. Late-night drives with friends, vodka pulled from glove compartments, bonfires on the beach where everyone knew your name. Here? You were a ghost in someone else’s castle. And the only one who seemed to notice was Wheezie—thirteen, awkward, too young to carry the weight of your confessions, but still the closest thing to company.

Sarah was a blur, always slipping through your fingers like she belonged to everyone and no one at once. Your mother was too busy playing rich-housewife dress-up with Ward to notice you hadn’t unpacked your heart since you arrived. And Rafe? Rafe acted like your existence was a personal offense. Except sometimes, in those rare, sharp moments when his stare lingered too long, he looked at you like he owned you. Like you were something to be figured out. Or maybe ruined.

You didn’t flinch when someone stepped into your light—part of you hoping, maybe, that it was him.

But it wasn’t. It was one of his friends.

“Yo. You good?” The guy’s voice was too laid back to be real, casual in that practiced, predatory way. You blinked up at him—tan, smug, beer can dangling like a party trick. You knew his type. Brant? Brent? Something entitled.

“Fine,” you said shortly, brushing hair behind your ear and sitting up just enough to make your disinterest clear.

A second one came up, sloppy with drink, his red cup nearly spilling. “You’re the Florida girl, right?” he asked, already halfway laughing.

You didn’t answer. Just stared.

“Rafe’s little sister,” the first one added with a grin, exchanging a look with his friend like they were about to share a secret they’d been dying to tell. “He talks about you, you know.”

Your stomach dipped. “Talks about me?”

“Oh yeah,” the second one chimed in. “Says you’re, like… delicate.” He gestured loosely to your curled-up frame, like you were some exhibit. “All skittish. Bunny-like.”

Your mouth tightened. Bambi. That stupid nickname again, carried out of Rafe’s mouth like smoke and settled in the mouths of people who didn’t even see you.

“I’m not really in the mood to be the punchline tonight,” you said as you stood, forcing your voice to stay calm even though your throat burned. “So unless Rafe sent you over here to play fetch, maybe go back to whatever testosterone pissing contest you came from.”

“Relax, Bambi. We were just being friendly.”

You blinked at the nickname but didn’t flinch. “Well, now you’ve been friendly. Congrats.”

You pushed past them with your head high, even as the shake in your fingers gave you away. You didn’t know where you were going—just away. Away from the deck, away from their eyes. But another blockade was already forming near the pool house, this time all hair extensions and lip gloss and faux-innocent curiosity.

“Whoa, where are you going, Florida?” The voice was syrupy, mean in that plastic way. A blonde girl at the front of the group grinned, clearly enjoying the performance.

Back on the deck, Rafe lifted his beer for another drink when Brett clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“You sure you’re not into that?” he asked, nodding toward the pool where you were now cornered by a gaggle of girls.

Rafe didn’t even blink. “Into what?”

“The whole delicate bunny thing,” Brett teased. “She’s out there looking like a lamb in a lion pit. Pretty ironic for someone who keeps pretending to hate attention.”

Rafe’s jaw flexed, his fingers tightening around the bottle.

“She’ll be fine,” he muttered.

Brett gave him a look, amused. “Dude, come on. You let this happen. Amy and the girls got wind you’ve been messing with her and decided to have a little fun. You could’ve shut it down.”

Rafe’s eyes flicked toward the group where Amy stood with arms folded and a venomous smile on her lips. He’d hooked up with her once, mostly out of boredom. She didn’t take rejection well.

“It’s not my prank,” Rafe said flatly. “They came up with it. I just didn’t stop them.”

“Right,” Brett snorted. “So innocent.”

Rafe didn’t respond. His eyes stayed locked on the scene unfolding by the pool. You stood stiff, your body language screaming discomfort even from a distance.

“She’s really hot, though,” Brett added, casually cruel.

Rafe’s grip tightened. “She’s like… a seven.”

Brett laughed, disbelieving. “A seven? You’re a damn liar. She’s a nine easy. And those eyes, man. She’s got that whole, look at me I’m soft and breakable thing. Guys go feral over that shit.”

“They’re too big,” Rafe said coldly, eyes still locked on you. “Creepy. Like a deer that doesn’t know it’s about to get hit.”

Brett just raised a brow, letting the silence say what Rafe wouldn’t. That he saw it too—the way Rafe stared, the way he always seemed to know where you were in a room.

“You think she’s hot?” Rafe asked suddenly, voice sharper than before.

Brett smirked, catching the edge under the question. “Hell yeah. Hot enough that watching her get eaten alive by those girls almost feels wrong.”

Rafe’s eyes narrowed, that tightness in his chest returning like a bruise he couldn’t rub out. He stared at you, small and alone in a sea of teeth.

“She’ll be fine,” he muttered again. But this time, even he didn’t believe it.

You looked between the girls and guys circling you, heart thudding quietly against your ribs, the music from the house feeling suddenly miles away. Amy, all blonde hair and glossed lips, was draped over your shoulders like you were best friends, but the weight of her arm felt more like a leash. Her fingers tapped lightly along your collarbone in a rhythm that made your skin crawl, and the way she threw amused glances at the guy beside her—Derek, maybe—told you everything you needed to know.

She leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear as she laughed at something he said, her breath sticky sweet with vodka. Then she looked down at you like you were some child about to cry over a scraped knee. That same sympathetic, mocking look girls like her perfected in private schools and summer yachts. You recognized it from Florida. It meant you don’t belong.

You tried to step to the side, to break the huddle they’d formed around you, but another guy shifted to block your path like it was all an accident. His arm raised casually to stretch—just enough to corral you in tighter. His grin twitched slightly, like he got a kick out of how flustered you were trying not to look.

"You’re so quiet," one of the other girls cooed, sipping from a thin metal flask. “It’s kinda cute.”

“She’s probably scared,” another voice said. It wasn’t teasing. It was cruel. Laced with something that sounded like challenge. Like they wanted to see how long you’d last before you broke.

You caught it then—the way eyes darted around the pool, how the guys kept glancing toward the deep end. How Amy’s smirk twitched higher every time you adjusted your glasses or shifted uncomfortably. Something was brewing. You weren’t stupid, no matter how many times they treated you like you were.

The Outer Banks was no different than Florida in one specific way—rich kids got bored, and when they did, they got mean.

Rafe's friends didn’t do nice. Not unless they were working toward a punchline.

And now, here you were, dead center of their circle. A convenient, lonely new girl. Glasses, nervous hands, and big doe eyes that made their cruelty feel even more cinematic.

Amy squeezed your shoulder like it was a comfort. Like she wasn’t sizing you up for the moment she’d push you just hard enough.

“C’mon,” she chirped brightly, voice saccharine. “We should take a cute group picture by the pool. Bambi in the middle, obviously.”

The others laughed, and the world seemed to tilt slightly on its axis as they started guiding you—gently, oh so gently—toward the edge of the water. You went still for a second too long, pulse hammering beneath your skin. The fake smiles, the rehearsed sweetness, the way no one was pulling out a phone. You knew this script. You just didn’t know what act you were in yet.

Rafe watched your body stiffen as Amy put her arm around your shoulders, guiding you toward the pool with the rest of the group. His eyes followed your hesitant steps, the visible tension in your posture, the way you weren’t smiling even when they pretended this was all a joke. You looked like a deer trapped in headlights—and somehow still too proud to flinch.

His jaw hardened, the knot of guilt growing tighter in his stomach, twisting his insides uncomfortably.

Brett elbowed him, a smug grin spread across his face. "Look alive, man," he said, clearly enjoying the sight of you being cornered by their peers. "Show���s about to start."

Rafe forced himself to look away from you, downing the rest of the beer in his bottle. The cold liquid didn’t cool anything inside him.

"Yeah,” he replied gruffly. “Show’s about to start.” He clenched his jaw, trying to push down the twinge of guilt that twisted in his gut. His hands curled around the empty bottle, knuckles tight. He reminded himself it was just a prank. Just something to put you in your place. Just something to remind you where you stood.

But his stomach didn’t stop turning. Not when your eyes darted up toward the deck. Not when you looked like you already knew he was watching—and still wouldn’t call out for help.

You felt your pulse in your throat as the group shifted, movement subtle and casual but deliberate in every step. Amy’s arm stayed looped around your shoulder, guiding you toward the lit edge of the pool with the kind of practiced grace that only came from years of social manipulation. You’d seen it before—how girls like her used fake warmth like a trap, how boys played dumb just long enough to say "Relax, it's a joke." You weren’t unfamiliar to this dynamic. It was just worse here, wrapped in Carolina humidity and privilege so thick it was suffocating.

“Picture time,” someone said again—maybe Derek, maybe one of the other nameless guys whose laughter always felt half a second too loud, like they were waiting for someone to cry. Their chuckles followed you like static.

You gave a small, reluctant shake of your head. “I don’t really feel like—”

“Oh, come on, Bambi,” Amy cut in, and you flinched at the nickname. It rolled off her tongue with such faux affection it stung more than when Rafe used it. At least with him, the venom was obvious. Amy was a different beast entirely—soft-spoken and cruel, her smile too sweet to be safe.

You tried again. “I think I’m just gonna sit—”

Amy laughed, loud and breathy, tossing her hair like it was all just a misunderstanding. “Don’t be shy. You look cute. You’ll thank me when you’re not, like, sixty and looking back at photos of your prime.”

Another hand touched your back. Not hard, not forceful. But there. Encouraging. Herding.

You glanced back at the house. No sign of Sarah. No one you knew. Your fingers clutched your phone tightly, unsure whether to text or bolt. But where would you go? You were already out of place in that kitchen, on that staircase, in this life. Now you were a deer surrounded by wolves in designer sunglasses and boutique bikinis, laughing about god-knows-what and staring just a little too intently.

“You like Florida, right?” one of the boys asked, draping himself across a lounger behind you. His tone was casual, but there was something simmering underneath it. “Bet you’ve fallen in a pool before.”

That earned a snicker from someone else. A quick exchange of glances. One of the girls giggled, too-loud and too-fake.

You stopped short near the pool’s edge, heels digging into the concrete. The water glistened beneath the lights, rippling gold and green under the surface. It might’ve looked peaceful if it didn’t feel like a trap.

Amy moved ahead of you, phone in hand, spinning around like this was just a normal photo op. “Stand here,” she chirped, motioning beside her. “We’ll get the pool in the background.”

You gave her a flat look, not moving. “I’m fine right here.”

But it didn’t matter. One of the guys behind you closed the distance casually, and another’s footstep echoed closer. You felt it—the way the air changed. How your gut twisted with something primal. Instinct.

They were going to push you.

You knew it now, with a clarity that made your skin crawl. This wasn’t random. This wasn’t a joke that “just happened.” This was planned. Organized. Decided.

Rafe’s friends didn’t just want to laugh—they wanted a moment. A spectacle. You were their new toy. The stepsister. The weird one. The Florida reject. The one Rafe always sneered at in front of others but maybe watched a little too closely when no one else was looking.

And if you went in that water? All of them would laugh. All of them would remember.

Amy took a step closer, beaming. “Ready, Bambi?”

And you weren’t sure what scared you more—the water behind you or the idea that, if you fell in, no one would stop it. Not even Rafe. Especially not Rafe. Maybe he was the one behind it all.

Rafe’s eyes remained fixed on the scene unfolding by the pool, his jaw tightening as he watched the group of idiots surround you. He could see you getting nervous, cornered. His friends had you trapped like some caged animal, circling around as if they were about to pounce.

One of the dumb shits said something to you and you shot them a look that even Rafe would’ve been wary of pissing off, clearly trying to stand your ground. Which was probably a bad idea with Amy around. That girl was a nightmare when she got pissed, even worse when she was drunk.

Rafe's jaw ticked as he caught a glimpse of the look on your face. You were trying to be confident, but he could see the slightest hint of nerves in your eyes. He knew his friends well enough to know what they were thinking. And he wasn't going to let them get away with it. Not tonight. His grip on his bottle of beer grew tighter as he watched his friends move closer to you, their laughter loud and obnoxious.

This was bullshit.

Rafe's grip on his beer bottle was so tight it looked like it might crack. He couldn’t just stand here and do nothing. Even though he was probably the one who got them all worked up in the first place. This was all his friends’ idea. Your face flashed through his mind again, the way your bottom lip trembled when he stepped towards you, the way you stumbled over your words when all those questions bubbled up in your brain. It almost made him feel bad. Almost.

Almost.

Your breath caught, lashes fluttering as you stood your ground, the sound of the pool filter humming faintly behind you—a dull, distant roar beneath the chorus of laughter and muffled music pulsing from the house. You could feel the chill radiating off the water, the anticipation humming like electricity in the air. A joke. A prank. That’s all this was to them. And you were the punchline.

Amy’s nails brushed your arm again, light and saccharine, like she thought you were stupid enough to mistake her sweetness for sincerity. “You’re so quiet,” she pouted playfully, tilting her head. “It’s hard to know what you’re thinking.”

You didn’t respond, just shifted half a step back—not enough to fall, but enough that they’d notice. The guy behind you, one of Rafe’s meathead friends in a backwards cap and no shirt, reached out lazily like he might steady you. Or maybe shove you. His fingers skimmed your elbow. You yanked it away like it burned.

Amy’s smile stretched wider, eyes glinting with something mean. “Careful, don’t fall in,” she said in a mock-concerned tone, her voice edged with laughter.

You scanned the crowd for him. Rafe. The only person here who might have enough control to stop this, if he wanted to. But he was nowhere. Probably inside, pretending this wasn’t happening. Or worse—watching from a distance with that smug half-lidded gaze, taking inventory of your humiliation like it was some science experiment he’d set in motion.

Your jaw clenched.

You were suddenly aware of how exposed you felt. The way your tube top slipped down if you didn’t keep tugging it up, the clingy fabric hugging your ribs. The thinness of your glass frames, which kept sliding down your nose from the summer heat and your nerves. The sheen of sweat slicking your skin. You felt like prey—skittish, soft, too pretty in a way that just made them want to ruin you more.

“Maybe she can’t swim,” another guy joked from the side, pretending to whisper but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Oh my god, can you not?” you snapped, voice sharp as it cracked through the air.

Amy blinked at you like a cartoon villain, all wide eyes and mock innocence. “Relax. We’re just playing.”

You swallowed hard, legs tense, breath shallow. They were too close now. Any sudden movement, a bump or a nudge, and you’d be in the water. Phone ruined. Pride obliterated. A camera flash away from being someone's viral story or private group chat joke. You thought of Florida—your real friends, your real life—and something ugly twisted in your chest.

You took a small step forward, away from the edge. Amy moved with you, not letting up.

“You should smile more, Bambi,” she added, arm looping back around your shoulders.

And all you could do was breathe, heart slamming against your ribs, wondering how much longer you had before the joke finally landed.

Rafe's grip on the beer bottle tightened further, his knuckles turning white as he watched the scene unfold. His blood boiled at the sight of Amy's arm around you, the way every guy seemed to be closing in around you like you were some kind of prey. And everyone was just laughing. His friends. Amy. The girl with the camera. Some of the guys, he could tell just by the look on their faces, were enjoying this. His jaw ticked as his fingers threatened to break the beer bottle in his hand.

And then the joke landed.

You felt it in the shift of Amy’s posture—how her hands gripped your shoulders just a little too tight, manicured fingers pressing into your skin like she was staking a claim. Her smile turned theatrical, performative, the kind meant for an audience. You watched her look over her shoulder, giving a knowing nod to another girl in the group who, right on cue, pulled out her phone and unlocked the camera. The girl’s eyes flicked up and down your body like you were something pathetic and hilarious to capture.

Then Amy stepped back with a soft little gasp, tilting her head and holding up her own phone now, the lens catching the pool lights behind you, framing your silhouette like a deer caught in headlights. “Let’s take a picture of you for your Insta story,” she said, all sugar and venom, her voice syrupy sweet. “You do have an account, right?”

The question burned. Condescending and cruel, a jab that wasn’t even subtle. You heard the laughter, quiet and scattered, building like background static in your ears. You knew what they were doing. Isolate you. Dress you up. Humiliate you publicly—so they could pretend it was just harmless fun when the guilt caught up. If it ever did.

“I don’t need—” you began, arms crossing reflexively, shoulders tight.

“No, come on,” Amy interrupted brightly, already lowering her phone and reaching toward you again, like she’d fix your hair or straighten your top—both of which were code for touching you in ways that made you feel like you weren’t real, just a doll for them to pose and push around. “You look so cute, we’ll make you the main character for once.”

A guy to your right laughed. “Yeah, for like ten seconds.”

You flinched.

“Bambi’s first cameo,” another voice said. “Better get the pool in the background.”

Amy’s eyes gleamed with a silent joke, one she didn’t even bother to hide anymore.

And that was when you knew. They weren’t going to take the photo. You weren’t going to post it. They were going to. They were going to take the picture, caption it with something snide, maybe tag you, maybe not. But it would get passed around. Laughed at. Archived.

And then?

They’d push you.

Rafe took another swig of his beer, his hands white-knuckled around the bottle. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything except watch Amy, watch the guys surrounding you like vipers about to strike, watch the way you looked like an animal backed into a corner. It made something angry stir in his gut, twisting his insides into knots. He shouldn’t feel bad. This was partly his fault.

But he did.

Amy stepped back with a teasing little skip, as if to admire the angle she’d staged. Her phone was already angled toward you again, recording this time—definitely recording. You could see yourself reflected in the black screen, seated and stiff with your legs folded awkwardly, cup balanced between your fingers, and a look in your eyes you didn’t like seeing mirrored. Wide, doe-like, uncertain.

“Okay—ready?” Amy sing-songed, too bright, too smooth. She didn’t wait for you to answer.

Before you could brace or blink, there were hands on you. More than one set—one of the guys behind you clapped your shoulder too hard, another brushed your thigh like he was helping you up. But it was Amy’s shove that sealed it—hands at your shoulders again, pushing firmly, deliberately, and suddenly everything tilted. Your glass fell from your fingers and clattered to the pavement, spilling the last few drops of your drink as your back arched and your arms pinwheeled uselessly.

And then—impact.

The water was cold and shocking and loud. It swallowed you instantly, dragging your body down into chlorine silence. Your arms flailed instinctively, legs kicking to find the floor of the shallow end. But your tube top slipped a little and the weight of your drenched clothes pulled at you. When you finally pushed your head above the surface, coughing and gasping, the sound of laughter broke over you like a second wave.

Laughter and phones. Screens pointed directly at you.

Someone whistled.

“Oh my god—did you see her face?”

“She looked like a wet cat—”

“Wait, wait, I didn’t press record in time—someone airdrop me!”

You blinked water out of your lashes, hands moving quickly to pull up your top and fix your choker. You were trembling. From the cold, the embarrassment, the realization that this—this moment—was exactly what they’d been building to since they circled around you.

Amy leaned down by the pool’s edge, smiling sweetly, crouching like a concerned friend.

“Oops,” she said softly, phone still in hand. “You okay? I thought you looked warm.”

Back in Florida, this would’ve crushed you. And maybe it still did—but there, at least, you would’ve been able to hide it. Your friends knew you. They knew how soft you were, how precious and emotional and sensitive in all the ways that made you human. You were still quiet, still careful, but you had room to breathe, to fall apart without an audience waiting to laugh.

But here—this—felt different. Crueler.

You stayed where you were in the water, arms gently stirring against the surface just to stay afloat, the weight of your soaked clothes dragging at your limbs and pride alike. Your lip trembled and your chin wobbled despite the sharp breaths you took in through your nose to keep it together. It wasn’t working. The tears were hot behind your eyes, clashing terribly with the cold sting of chlorine and humiliation clinging to your skin.

You glanced up again, slowly, cautiously—toward him.

Rafe stood just above, backlit by the string lights of the pool deck, his expression unreadable—until it wasn’t. Until the corner of his mouth twitched. Until he exhaled through his nose and let out a low, dry chuckle. One that didn’t match his eyes but still came. He shook his head like this was typical, like you were typical, like all of this was just one more punchline in the story of a weird, clingy girl who didn’t belong.

And then he laughed. Not loud, not like the others. But real enough to sting.

You hated that you looked for something in his face. A flicker of guilt, remorse, discomfort—anything. You hated that some tiny, shrinking part of you wanted him to defend you, to do something to stop the eyes on you, the laughter, the hush of whispers as phones lowered and the attention stayed fixed.

But he didn’t.

And now you were treading water both literally and emotionally, blinking hard to keep the tears from falling because once they did, you knew you wouldn’t be able to stop them. Not here. Not in front of them. Not in front of him.

You sniffed sharply and turned your face away, staring blankly at the pool’s far edge, the gentle ripple of light cast against the tile. Your arms floated limply, your legs aching as they kicked beneath the surface. You could still feel their eyes, still hear the giggles being stifled behind manicured fingers, Amy whispering something into Rafe’s ear as she leaned on him like you weren’t still right there.

You were alone. Completely.

No Esther. No Andy. No one to pull you out or help you laugh it off or wrap a towel around your shoulders and drag you inside. Just you—floating, humiliated, eyes glassy, throat tight, and face flushed with shame. And him, standing above you, not saying a damn thing—just laughing.

His laugh rang out above the music—low, smooth, threaded with the kind of amusement that made your stomach drop. Like this was all a joke and he was the only one in on the punchline. Amy clung to him like she was in on it too, nails painted the exact same red as the Solo cup in her hand, her fingers curling possessively around his forearm like she’d claimed a prize. His hand rested on her lower back with that casual confidence he always wore when he knew people were watching. And they were. Everyone was.

It clicked too late. The whole thing—his too-slow approach by the kitchen counter, the way he’d blocked your path just to say something cryptic and unimportant, how he stood so close you had to back up a step or two. It was buildup. Like a scene crafted with intention, all tension and pacing, except the tension wasn’t sexual—it was predatory. Like a psychopath playing with his food, smiling sweetly as he circled you with a knife behind his back. Your breath caught in your throat, lungs starting to cramp from the chill of the water and the weight of realization crashing over you.

You blinked up through soaked lashes, trying to get your bearings, but everything shimmered and distorted behind the wet lenses of your glasses. Useless. They slid crooked down your nose, and your hair—once carefully styled—now hung in limp strands against your cheeks, plastered to your skin with chlorine and shame. The burn in your eyes wasn’t just from the chemicals; it was from the tears that threatened to spill, hot and angry, mixing with the cold that had crept under your skin.

You treaded water aimlessly, heart hammering in your chest, limbs sluggish, like your body hadn’t caught up to the humiliation yet. You looked around for something—someone—but no one moved. No one flinched. Just shadows of people by the pool, their faces twisted in laughter or frozen in shocked silence, unsure if they were supposed to find it funny. That only made it worse. The indecision. The way people hesitated to care, like they needed permission.

Then there was Rafe. Towering above, untouched, pristine. His golden hair looked artfully messy, like he was born to ruin things and still look good doing it. His smile hadn’t faded, not even a flicker of guilt in his expression. Just pure, calculated detachment. Like this wasn’t personal. Like it was just another night. Another game.

He didn’t look surprised. Didn’t ask if you were okay. Didn’t offer a hand.

Instead, he leaned in closer to Amy, said something you couldn’t hear over the music and the water in your ears, and she laughed. Loud. Shrill. A sound that cut through you sharper than the cold ever could. They were still talking. Still drinking. Still basking in the attention, as if your presence in the pool wasn’t even worth acknowledging.

Your frown probably looked fake now, more of a grimace, your lips trembling from the cold—or rage. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that this had never been about an accident or a misunderstanding. It was about control. It was about him showing you just how little you mattered in a world where he pulled the strings and everyone else laughed when he said it was time to laugh.

And the worst part? He didn’t need to say a word. He didn’t need to look at you again. You were already drowning in it.

The laughter eventually broke. Not all at once—more like the uncomfortable tapering off of a joke that had gone too far, that dragged a little too long. A few people glanced at each other, eyes darting from your dripping frame to Rafe’s still-simmering smirk, the energy turning brittle in the space between the music and the water lapping at the pool’s edge. Someone mumbled something. Another tugged at a friend’s sleeve. Shoes scraped against concrete as the crowd started to dissolve, as if the aftermath of the joke made them itchy. Guilty, even.

One by one, they peeled off—back to their red cups and shallow conversations, distancing themselves from the scene without acknowledging it. No one helped. No one said your name. They just drifted like smoke after a fire, fading into the hazy string-light-lit night and pretending they hadn’t just watched someone be publicly discarded.

Except Rafe didn’t move.

He stood at the edge of the pool, alone now, his posture stiff and his gaze pinned to you like he couldn’t quite figure out what he’d done. Or maybe he was trying to decide if it had the effect he wanted. The crowd was gone but his mask hadn't dropped, though there was a flicker now—barely there—something tight in the way his jaw clenched. His hand fell from Amy's lower back like it didn’t belong there anymore.

You stayed where you were, chest deep in cold water, breathing unevenly, hair slicked to your skull, your soaked clothes clinging to every part of you that had just been on display. The silence between you stretched, warped, thick with chlorine and something far more suffocating. And still, he didn’t move.

Rafe’s brows twitched. Like maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t expected you to stay there. To not cry. To not scream. To not beg. You just floated—tired, humiliated, burning—and stared right back at him with a fury so quiet it made him hesitate.

His fingers flexed at his sides. His mouth parted slightly, like he might say something. Might offer you a hand. Might pretend to care, or maybe actually did, in some twisted, guilt-ridden part of himself he kept hidden behind bravado and cruelty. But nothing came out. He stood there, golden and untouchable, just watching you suffer in something he created—and for the first time all night, he didn’t look proud of it.

He just looked… frozen. Caught in the wreckage, unsure whether he was supposed to help you out or leave you in it.

You threaded the water more surely now that the crowd had dissolved, your movements calmer but still heavy, limbs dragging with the weight of what just happened. The sting of chlorine mixed with something hotter behind your eyes, but you refused to let it spill over. Not in front of him. Not in front of him. Your fingers curled over the pool’s ledge just as a shadow dropped beside you, and you flinched before looking.

Rafe crouched at the edge, forearms resting on his knees, tan skin glowing under the patio lights like this wasn’t anything. Like he hadn't just stood by and let you get shoved into the deep end of a humiliation he helped orchestrate. His smirk came slow, coiled like a snake sunning itself on stone. “Should’ve brought a swimsuit, Florida,” he murmured, voice low and slippery, every syllable cutting clean as glass.

You didn’t answer. Your brows only furrowed deeper, your silence thick and trembling. He was so close. His shoes were beside your hands. You gripped the cement like it was the only thing tethering you to solid ground.

His smirk wavered at the edges, faltering like he wasn’t sure whether to hold it or drop it altogether. Like he didn’t understand why your silence stung worse than anything you could’ve said. His eyes flicked over your face—your hair plastered to your cheekbones, your lashes stuck together, your lip caught between your teeth to keep it from quivering. You looked like you’d been drowned on purpose and still chose not to break.

And something about that made him reel.

Fuck.

He hadn’t expected to still be here, hadn’t expected to care once it was over. It was supposed to be a punchline—a warning dressed up in public humiliation. A lesson. He told himself that’s all it was. You were always too bright-eyed, too untouchable in that quiet, doe-like way that made people trip over themselves to be good to you. And something in Rafe hated that. Hated the way you made decency look easy.

So he played the villain. Because that’s what he was good at—older stepbrother, the prince turned sour, the boy behind the gold veneer who sharpened his teeth on jealousy and bitterness and turned it into charm.

But now, watching your hands shake just under the water, something curdled in his stomach.

You wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. Not with his eyes on you like that. Not when he looked like he was waiting for you to cry. Or maybe waiting for himself to stop feeling like this—tight and wrong and strangely cornered by the ache in your silence.

You could still hear his laugh. You could still see her hand on his back. That staged little picture they painted just to make sure you were looking. And you had. You’d looked. You’d watched it all unfold like a story you’d already read too many times, where the villain wins and the girl gets used for entertainment. You clenched your jaw, blinking hard. You were not going to give him tears. You were not going to give him you.

Rafe swallowed, slow. His hand twitched like it might reach out—but it didn’t. He just crouched there, watching you like some half-conflicted predator in a fawn’s meadow. Like he’d just remembered what mercy was and didn’t quite know what to do with it.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” he added, softer now, gaze flicking to the water around you, voice slipping toward something it wasn’t supposed to be. Something almost uncertain. “It was just a joke.”

Your lip curled before you could stop it. You could taste the pool chemicals on your tongue, bitter and sour, like the taste of believing someone when they tell you you’re overreacting.

You looked up at him fully now, letting him see the betrayal—raw, unfiltered, boiling under your skin. And he flinched like you’d hit him.

Because he didn’t see the fawn this time. He saw the fury she could hold.

"Fuck you." The words slipped out quiet but lethal, your expression hardening as they cut the space between you. His smirk twitched, not quite faltering, but something behind his eyes shifted—like a tiny crack spreading through glass. You were still dripping, soaked and breathless, the chlorine stinging your skin and your pride worse. But you looked at him like you could peel the first layer of skin off his face just by staring—see inside his head, figure out what made him do it. What made him stand there and watch you flail and gasp while his friends laughed like it was all just a fucking game.

You tried to understand. Tried to trace the steps backward. What was the conversation before this? What had Amy whispered in his ear? Who dared him, who joked first, who asked if you could swim? Did someone even bother asking? But the more you tried to make sense of it, the more you remembered who you were dealing with.

This was Rafe Cameron.

And Rafe didn’t need reasons. He didn’t play by logic or emotion or remorse. He didn’t care if he went too far—because no one ever held him accountable. He lit matches for fun and left others to burn. And now you were the bonfire, smoke rising from your ears and salt in your mouth as you gripped the edge of the pool like it was the only thing tethering you to the surface.

You didn’t flinch when he laughed under his breath, didn’t look away when he crouched beside you with that prince-gone-rotten look in his eye. That same gaze he used to wear at family dinners when your mom told him to be nice and he’d smile with his teeth but not his eyes. He was good at pretending. Pretending you were annoying. Pretending you didn’t matter. Pretending he hadn’t spent the entire semester looking at you like you were something he wanted to break and keep all at once.

His voice came low, smug. “You’re being dramatic.”

You tilted your head, water still dripping from your lashes, vision blurred but your anger sharp. “You’re being psychotic.”

And even as you said it, your chest ached—not just with rage, but confusion. Because some small, stupid part of you had wanted him to be different. Some part of you had looked up at him from the water hoping, maybe, he’d reach for your hand. But he didn’t reach for you. He just sat there like a bored god on the edge of Olympus, watching his chaos unfold.

You wondered if this was how the fawn had felt in your mother’s story—trembling in the dark, knowing the prince could’ve struck her down long ago but didn’t. Because hurting her slowly was the point.

“Sweetheart…” His voice dropped low, thick with a slow, deliberate drawl that stripped the word of any real tenderness. It wasn’t an attempt at kindness—it was a barb, a patronizing jab aimed right at the soft spot he’d already figured out you had. “You’re the one about to have a mental breakdown over a lil’ prank.” He shook his head with a mocking sort of pity, clicking his tongue like a teacher disappointed by a failed lesson. His grin stretched wider, more genuine now—slick and sharp as broken glass. Any trace of hesitation or doubt had melted away under the pool’s harsh lights, leaving only satisfaction and cruelty shining in his eyes. “Might wanna get that checked out, Bambi… you might be severely mentally ill.”

He crouched at the edge, elbows resting on his knees, spinning one of his many silver rings like it was a weapon in his hand. His gaze flicked to your fingers curling tight around the pool’s edge, and for a moment, you swore you saw him weighing whether he’d step down and crush them—just to prove a point. The sick power trip was all too familiar, even if you’d only known him for six months.

You said nothing. Your legs kicked beneath the water, barely enough to keep your head above the surface, as if every breath was a battle you were losing. You fought to stay afloat—not just physically, but against the sinking weight of humiliation and fear and that raw, exposed ache inside you. Your chest heaved unevenly, your ragged breathing echoing painfully in your ears, sharper than the faint chorus of distant laughter from the others who’d long since scattered. And then the first tear slipped free, warm and salty against the chill of the pool water. You hoped the droplets from the pool masked it, but the sting burned just the same.

“Fuck you,” your voice cracked, shaky and wet, fragile yet defiant. “You didn’t even think about the fact that I could’ve drowned.”

His grin faltered for just a second—enough for a shadow of something unreadable to flicker through his eyes. But then he shook his head, as if brushing off an inconvenient thought. “Drowned? Come on. You’re tougher than that.”

His words were a lie coated in a challenge. The older stepbrother persona he wore like armor—the prince who twisted the game so that the prey was always on edge—never quite letting you forget you were outmatched. But underneath the cruel mask, maybe he felt the flicker of something else. Maybe the edge of guilt—or maybe just the satisfaction of seeing you tremble beneath his gaze.

You remembered the story your mom used to tell you: the cruel prince and the hunted fawn. How he chased her, cornered her, dragged out the fear because the hunt was more thrilling than the kill. Rafe played the prince to perfection—just cruel enough to keep you on your toes, just distant enough to keep you guessing whether he’d ever drop the act.

But right now, in the cold glow of the pool lights, all you felt was the weight of his stare, the echo of your own breathing, and the sinking realization that maybe this hunt wasn’t about to end anytime soon.

“Maybe you should see this as an opportunity,” he said with a casual shrug, like he was offering you some twisted gift wrapped in indifference. “Finally being noticed. Maybe God gave you a chance at befriending someone other than the bees and little birdies, Bambi…”

The nickname hit with a sharp edge, but it wasn’t just the word itself. It was the way he said it, as if you were something delicate and out of place—a fragile creature caught in a world that didn’t really notice you unless it was to mock. He played the part of someone amused by the unevenness of it all, like a prince watching a fawn stumbling through unfamiliar woods, his amusement folded in a quiet, cold smile.

You swallowed hard, voice shaky but steady enough to push back. “You can’t play God,” you said softly, eyes tracing the gentle ripples the water made around your fingers. “Send me plunging into the pool, hoping your stupid friends will want to ‘befriend’ me after I pull myself out…” The words felt small in the vastness of the night, like the cold water wrapping around you, making your body feel heavier. The space between you and him felt crowded somehow, like his shadow leaned over you, larger than it should have been.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, spinning a ring on one finger slowly. His voice lowered to a drawl, smooth and sharp all at once, “You think it’s about them?” The smirk he wore flickered under the pool lights, and there was a weight behind the words that made your chest tighten. “It’s never about them, Bambi. It’s about you. About making sure you remember where you ended up.”

You forced down a bitter taste in your mouth, trying to find some solid ground in the uneasy tension stretching between you. You wanted to push away the feeling that curled in your chest—the strange mix of irritation and something darker, something electric that you couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t just the way he carried himself, the way he claimed the space like he owned every glance and every breath in the room. It was more. An intensity that pulled tight at your skin, keeping you alert and uncomfortably aware of every moment.

Your legs moved gently, barely breaking the surface of the water, as you fought not to sink or let your voice break. Your breathing was uneven, but steady enough. You could almost hear the sharp thrum of your pulse in the quiet night air. And for a moment, the confident mask he wore softened just a fraction, like even the most assured could hesitate when faced with the weight of something unexpected.

He didn't say anything right away. Just crouched there, elbows on his knees, letting the moment stretch between you like a drawn string. His gaze moved lazily, from the frantic way your fingers curled against the concrete lip of the pool to the shiver that flickered down your arms when the wind cut across the water. You half-expected him to laugh again—say something sharp or smug to put you back in your place—but he didn’t. Instead, he reached up and tugged one of his rings off, turning it idly between his fingers as if trying to distract himself from something he couldn't name.

Behind him, the backyard was nearly emptied out now. The night had lost its party gloss, voices faded to a distant hum behind closed patio doors. Only the glow of the pool lights remained, painting the water in shifting blues and greens that danced over your face and shoulders. If someone were watching from inside, they might've mistaken the quiet between you two as something tender. But you knew better. And so did he.

“Thought you'd be crying more,” he said at last, voice low, almost thoughtful. “You look like the type.”

You scoffed, breath catching in your throat. “Sorry to disappoint.”

His eyes flicked back to yours. And for a second, the amusement slipped. Not entirely, but enough that it unsettled something in your stomach. You didn’t know what he expected from you—maybe for you to flinch, or shrink under his gaze, or hurl another half-broken insult—but you stayed still. Quiet. Legs still moving softly to keep you afloat, even though the weight of your clothes was dragging at you now. Even though your lungs felt like they were working too hard for not enough air.

He rolled the ring across his knuckles, slow and practiced, like it soothed him. “You don’t get it, do you?” he murmured, more to the pool tiles than to you. “This place—it eats people like you.”

“Then maybe you should’ve left me alone,” you said quietly, hating how small your voice sounded, even when your words held their edge.

His head tilted a fraction, a sharp breath escaping like a laugh that never quite made it. “I tried. You showed up anyway. You made it real hard.”

You stared up at him, confused by the shift—by the strange way his tone walked the line between blame and something else. A warning, maybe. Or regret, in its most unrecognizable form. And you hated that your mind went quiet trying to interpret him, because that’s what he did. He filled the silence and made you crave meaning in the chaos he left behind.

He stood suddenly, like he’d caught himself lingering too long. The spell broke with the scrape of his shoes against concrete. “Dry off before you catch something,” he said, turning toward the house. But he hesitated once more at the threshold of the light. “You should be careful around here, Florida. People get the wrong idea. Think you’re soft. Think you’re safe.”

And then he was gone—shoulders disappearing into the dark of the patio, the sound of the door swinging shut behind him echoing louder than it should’ve.

You stayed in the water a little longer. Breathing through the tightness in your chest. Letting the sting of chlorine and humiliation settle in your lungs. You didn’t feel safe. You didn’t even feel like yourself. But something in the way he said it—soft—made you want to prove him wrong.

Even if it meant staying in this world longer than you planned. Long enough to understand the rules. Long enough to stop being the hunted thing.

Maybe long enough to learn how to chase something back.

author's note! i had this idea on whim really, wrote down like a scrap of it before obsessing over it for an entire night until 6 am. this is like a longer wip so please don't judge it too hard. i'm also gonna make it more of a dark romance. i know i was supposed to post it along with lucky charm but i just couldn't wait!!! also it doesn't have a title yet so if you can help me decide that would be so great! the options: the cruel prince (basic duh), blame it on the kids (this one's inspired by a song), the fawn doesn't run, teeth in the thicket, where the prince waits, soft things shouldn't stray, glass-eyed creatures, pretty when you struggle (bc i love lana's song lol). talk to me and tell me if you guys like it and i'll sacrifice myself and add it to the on-going stories! love you, peaches💓 and join the tag-list if you just found me!

Tag-list*:･ﾟ✧ @cali-888, @bee-43, @jjscoquette, @melsbels-zip @stanseventeen @wh0reforbucknasty,@wtfisastiles,@annaconscience,@pqndxra,@carrerascameron,@nini2mem,@iynsane,@gublerstylesobrien1238,@wrldfilms ,@shayofandom @wren5650 @alimarie1105 @chuuuchuuutrain @ordinary-barbie, @p45510n4f4shi0n @literallylexie, @polli05927 @holyfootie @artbymin (sorry to this person because they asked me to be on the tag-list and somehow i forgot!) @stevebuckybarnest

[thesweetestofdreams]

Collapsed - 2

Steve Harrington apocalypse au 1.9k (here's part 1, part 3)

warnings: blood, nightmares, light descriptions of wounds but nothing too gory

A light tap at your shoulder had you bolting upright. It was like plunging into ice water waking that quickly, nothing like the slow mornings you used to know. The sudden movement pulled at the wound on your side, spreading a searing pain that caught your breath and contorted your face in the dark.

"Sorry, y/n I didn't mean to scare you," it was Robin, "though I guess these days it's hard not to." Definitely Robin. "It's your turn." She said it like an apology.

"It's alright," you croaked in her general direction. "How's your ankle?" Robin had taken first watch, not ready to brave the latter on a twisted ankle. Now that she was up here in the hayloft she must have found the courage. You'd hardly made it yourself.

"It's getting better, thanks for taking my spot on the run today." Robin shuffled making her way to her spot beside Steve.

You sank to the ground in the doorway of the barely standing barn. There were holes in the roof, and it sagged in other spots, but it was safer than any part of the city. It was a fortress of rotting wood and now it was your turn to keep watch over it all. Hands shaking you pulled a needle and thread from your jacket pockets. With a lighter in hand, you passed the needle through the flame.

You listened closely for the sound of steady breathing from the hay loft, making sure no one was stirring. Your breath shuddered as you exposed the wound. The makeshift bandage stuck with dried blood. Though your eyes were still adjusting to the dark, a full moon shone in the sky gilding every edge with silver light. It was enough to see without risking a fire. Gritting your teeth you did what had to be done.

By the time it was over your head was swimming. Your fingers were so cold, and they shook so hard it was a wonder you could even hold the needle. The wound was closed that's all that mattered. You pressed the other side of the t-shirt bandage down over it, breath hissing in pain.

"You wouldn't happen to be hiding a drink, would you?"

You jumped so hard at the sound you knocked into the barn door frame. It gave a loud creak through the rest of the building.

"Don't sneak up on me like that," you bit out. Steve was now towering over you still huddled on the ground. You pulled your shirt down far past your handiwork, hoping it was too dark for him to see.

"Mmm." Steve sat next to you on the ground. You shuffled a few inches away. "I was really hoping for a drink," he said throwing his legs out in front of him.

"Yeah, cause a drunk watchman is exactly what we need."

"There's no need to be such a priss about it," he said. Sometimes it felt like he was the only one unaffected by the whole world going to shit. It certainly hadn't made him any kinder.

You tucked your supplies back into your pockets as he watched the sky, his profile gilded in that same silver light of the moon. You could see how once you would have thought he was handsome.

"What are you doing down here anyways?"

"It felt like my turn." He shrugged.

Your eyes narrowed at him it hadn't been near long enough. "I would've came and got you if I was tired."

"You're not?" he questioned cocking his head to one side. "You sure seemed that way."

Silence was all that sat between you, until finally you moved to stand. Your head still spun, and you caught onto the door frame to catch your breath. You saw Steve open his mouth like he was going to say something, but he quickly changed his mind. You did your best to walk as normal as possible. "Night pretty boy," you threw over your shoulder.

-------

"You have to keep your arms up Robin," Steve said exhasperated. "If you're not punching you're blocking." He looked at her expectantly. She gave him a wide eyed nod. He saw the shift in her feet as she lunged forward. He swiped her fist away as quick as it came. Robin huffed stepping back. He could see she still favored her right ankle.

"Are you sure you're the best one to teach people how to fight?" Jonathan teased. He was pouring over a book of maps Nancy had found.

"Very funny," Steve sneered. In all honesty he'd thought the same thing, but Robin had to learn. He had to know she wasn't completely defenseless.

"It's useless Steve. Fight or flight, I'll always pick flight." Robin pulled out her barely holding ponytail.

"You won't always be able to run," Steve said with a huff. He lowered himself to the ground. The grass was cold with morning dew, and the sun cast gold through the trees. In any other world it would be beautiful, but it just unsettled him, like there were shadows hiding and he just couldn't see them.

Robbin plopped down next to him. She pulled out another ponytail and started pulling tufts of short hair into two small braids. Steve elbowed her lightly in the ribs making her elbow duck dangerously close to his nose.

"You're smart. If there's a way to get out then take it. Otherwise, you have to find any way to get the upper hand. Eyes, throat, and nose. Go for those first."

"Or between the legs." Steve craned his neck to see you walking towards the simmering pot of oatmeal sludge. Robin reached up to touch your hand as you passed, he saw you give it a small squeeze.

"Get enough beauty sleep, princess?" It had more of an edge to it than he meant to. There was something about you that just irked him.

You snorted, pouring a mountain of brown sugar into the oatmeal. Robin was on you before the sugar could even melt.

"Did you find that yesterday?" Robin said it like you'd found gold.

You gave her a small nod.

Robin beamed, "Lucky we sent you yesterday. I would've never thought to get that." She sent Steve a look over her shoulder that said he should act greatful, but all he saw was competition.

"Here," you held two mugs overflowing with steam, "get your share." You gave one to Robin. Steve groaned, standing. "Get your own Harrington." You cradled your mug turning yourself away from him. He could have sworn he saw something other than disdain in your face. Something was definitely off but he just couldn't tell what. Maybe it was just the light but he swore you looked paler.

Jonathan now had a large map sprawled on the ground. Nancy nearly trampled it as she passed. "Nance," Jonathan called out, shooing her from his map.

"Sorry," she offered hardly paying attention. She had a small notepad topped with a messy stack of papers in her arms.

"Y/n found sugar," Robin said around a full mouth.

"That's great." Nancy looked at her papers. "None of you happen to have a first aid kit would you?"

Steve shook his head, he saw you stiffen and quickly settle back down as Nancy began scribbling on her papers. "Guess we'll need at least one of those then," she said, mostly to herself.

"Are we leaving?" you asked, looking from Nancy to Robin to Jonathan, not to him.

"Guess you missed a few things while you slept in, cupcake." Steve said precisely because you weren't looking at him.

"Yes. We can't keep roughing it like this, not if we want to make it to Hawkins and not freeze to death." Nancy said, her look of determination firmly settled into her features. There was no negotiating now.

"I hope sleeping bags are on that list. Robin's teeth chattering isn't really the best lullaby." Steve gave her a lopsided smile, tipping the ends of his hair over his eyes. His smile fell when she clobbered him in the shoulder. His smile quickly resurfaced. "So you did learn something."

"We're leaving at first light tomorrow." Nancy paced around a makeshift table made from rotten boards. She bit the end of her pencil and Steve saw the lines forming between her brow. She was worried. He had to admit in the deepest parts of himself, he was too, but he'd be damned to let anyone find out.

Steve's eyes slid from Nancy to where you sat. You're steaming mug was forgotten in your hands. You looked out, past Nancy, past the tree line. He turned around, walking the other way, towards the barn. He couldn't do it. He couldn't afford to worry about you.

---

You sat up with a start. The wood beneath you creaked. The hayloft was never the most stable of structures but it kept you off the ground. It kept you safe. It was the one place where you could let your eyes shut without jerking them back open. And now you were supposed to leave. You all were.

The usual chorus of snoring and even breathing was absent this morning. You overslept again it would seem. The persistent ache at your side was lessening. It felt more like a bruise than a deep cut. It didn't even hurt as you lowered yourself down the ladder.

The end of the world could be so quiet. The birds hardly sang anymore. The golden morning was still. Too still. As you made your way outside there was no steam wafting into the air. The only proof of your camp was a bed of dead embers and cold forgotten coals.

They left. They finally left you behind.

You fell to your knees, the wet grass reaching up to catch you. It was all that was left. You were all that was left.

A stabbing pain caught your breath. You looked down to your side, the dull ache had given way to a burning fire. Blood seeped onto the ground. Suddenly you weren't outside anymore. You were in your living room kneeling on the floor as the blood pooled around you.

No light fell through the windows. Dust fluttered through the air, drifting down to the wet floor. They were gone, you lost them. You couldn't save them. You fell further onto the floor and you kept falling.

You gasped as you woke for the second time. For real this time. The light of the morning stung your eyes and your wound returned to the dull, biting ache, it had been.

You sat in a heap on the hayloft, not ready to go down. You couldn't risk it yet.

"Sweet dreams?" Steve sat at the other end of the hayloft. He was carving a block of wood with his pocket knife. You heard the soft clatter of shavings falling to the floor.

You looked away not trusting your voice just yet.

"Did something happen in the grocery store?"

Your eyes went wide until you recovered closing them and pinching the bridge of your nose. You couldn't let them know. They were leaving. They would leave you if they knew.

"I slipped on some cans," you lied, tugging on the ends of your hair. "Wicked bruise, but I'll be fine." The best lies were wrapped in truth, there was bruising around the stitches. You just hoped you were convincing enough.

Steve nodded slowly. He didn't look at you, just kept carving. "Jonathan has tylenol," he offered. After a moment of silence, he made his way to the latter.

"We're leaving with or without you two," Nancy yelled from the barn door. Steve smiled in a way that told you she wouldn't actually leave without you, or at least without him.

Steve clicked his knife shut. "After you sunshine."

---

Thanks so much for the kind response to this story. I plan to really up the ante and develop their relationship and the world a lot, so stick around for that. Drink some water, get enough sleep, and I'll see you next time <3

[aster-daydream404]

Sipping Tea Under the Wisteria Blooms

Materials:

(Homemade) Air dry clay

Needles

Carboard

A4 bond paper

White acrylic paint

Gold acrylic paint

Violet poster paint

Blue poster paint

Clear nail polish

Dollar store wisteria flowers

Lavender gina cloth

lilac colored paper

A lovely three seated teaset based on the Purple Bloom Teaset from days of bloom— most commonly known as the Wisteria Teaset. It is complete with a dainty set of three tea cups, a gilded sugar bowl and creamer jug, a lovely tea pot with wisteria petals painted on it, and a tower of golden tea cakes for skykids to enjoy! The white gilded chairs are toped with soft plush lavender pillows, and the table (of similar design is lined with a gilded lavander tablecloth whose design resembles the petals of a wisteria flowers. This tea set is perfect for skykids to relax and idly chat in while the wisterias bloom.

I made this entire teaset for the SoraSky discord server’s Art Prop-ject contest. And although I wasn’t able to join due to forgetting to put in my description and submitting late (EUGHH THE CENTERPIECE KEPT ON FALLING APART ON ME!!!) I am still incredibly proud of how this project turned out 🥹🥹🥹 I wanted to make the purple bloom tea-set because it was a prop that I’ve been wanting since I was still a moth on sky. It was a memorable time for me, especially when me and my friends would chat under the wisteria tree in Forest’s social space🪻✨ This tea-set was made of love, struggle, sleep deprivation, and lots of planning. It was via this project that i was also able to appreciate the little details and intricacies that sky’s purple bloom tea-set has, giving me a deeper appreciation for the item and the artists behind it 🥺 So despite feeling a bit salty of how it ended, i hope this piece brings happiness to those who see it, just like how we feel when anticipating spring ☺️ 😉 🏞️ 🌱🕊️✨ [insert moomin reference ahsjshjahaha]

[echantedtoon]

A Lovers' Circle (Poly Haishira x Reader) Ch17 Setting Hearts A Blaze P3

Taglist: @shadyd3ar @jcrml

@tengensangel @miniverse-zen @mysteri0uz @jjamsbangtan

@the-unknown-fandom

@lavenderdropp @mimisweetz. @purplesoulsapphire

@kksmush @denkpanda18 @whomisi @lessthanimperfect @silver-rin

@namis-noodlebox

@k1ttyluverz @akiramente

@rascalraccoon @ravenclawkae1

@gilded-sunrays @crescent-blades

@yukari1k @bloodymarysgirl21

@artbyrebel @abaker74

Remember if you want to be added to the taglist lemme know

You didn't want to do this. But they asked to see your aunt. If they found out that you didn't ask her then they'll be upset. But if I DO ask her I know she's going to do something embarrassing like take their cups to read their tea leaves or show up in her fortune teller's outfit. Gods. What if she does the same thing she did when she met Gyomei?!

Your body cringed inwards on itself just picturing your aunt feeling Kyojuro's arm and then declaring he'd make a wonderful husband for someone she knew. Your gut feeling BEGGED you to not go through with it, and you had asked your boyfriend's opinion on the matter. He knew what she was like so surely he'd be against the idea too right?

"They requested her presence didn't they? It would be unkind to everyone if you don't at least tell her about the invitation."

Crap. He was right. Sigh. You'd have to go tell her the next time you saw her, which happened to be the very next day. So with a heavy feeling in your stomach, you drove all the way to her house and forced yourself to climb up the steps and enter the house where you found your aunt trying to manhandle giant boxes of Christmas decorations out of the thin entrance to her attic. 

"They want to what?"

"They wanted to invite you to dinner." You ducked avoiding the top plastic pine needles of a Christmas tree. "To thank you for helping them out. Um..Do want a hand?"

"I'm not old as dirt yet! I can put up a stupid tree." You only watched her struggle with the big thing until she wobbly placed it hard on the floor with a thud before sighing and stepping back to admire her work. "When is this dinner?"

"Um..I think Kyojuro said it was tomorrow night?"

"NO CAN DO, KIDDO!" She pointed up spinning on her heel and walking over to a big box labeled 'ornaments'. "I'm going to a speed dating event! There's only so much of me to go around!"

You sighed. A wave of relief flooding over you for a long moment. "So.. You'll be busy?"

"Honey, broken hearts and lonely souls are an epidemic in the world. When the world's calling me I must answer!"

"Well you didn't have to say it like a line written out of a story."

She waved you off. "Life is a story. Who's writing the story is whoever you decide to give the pencil to." Her arm then made a come here gesture. "Now come help me decorate the place! The halls won't deck themselves."

Everything seemed to go well enough the next day. Of course being a Saturday you had no work, but you still had the project with Giyuu and Shinobu to do due the last day of November which wasn't too far off. You opted to do it early in the morning so you could just go grocery shopping. So you did what you've been doing every morning. Getting up and ready before leaving to meet up with your friends at their house. Just ended up doing an hour of yoga before leaving to go grocery shopping at the local supermarket. Giyuu offered to drive you back but you declined as pretty much everything was within walking distance, even if it was pretty cold out. 

No doubt the first snow wouldn't be too far behind. That's what you thought to yourself as you walked into the thankfully warm grocery store, and grabbed a shopping cart to start pushing it around to start grabbing groceries and things you'd need for dinner tomorrow night, some rice and eel cutlets for unadon. So it really was a surprise for you to just be carting around listening to the generic Christmas music already being played over the loudspeakers and the squeaky wheel of the cart as you pushed it along, stopping every so while to grab milk and eggs and other small things, only to turn the corner into the other aisle and then completely pause.

You blinked before a big smile pressed against your lips at the realization of a familiar face. A man with short ink black hair was standing sideways at the end of the aisle. Shopping basket in one hand while his other ran across canned goods looking at each label for a specific product. Murata didn't see you as you started up towards him.

"Murata!"

"GAH?!" Said man jumped and whirled around as fast as a startled cat but he paused and blinked upon seeing you. "Y/n?!"

You giggled. "Yep! It's me!"

"Don't do that! I could've had a heart attack!"

Despite his frown you giggled again. "Sorry. I haven't seen you in like a month! How have you been?"

"Hmph. I've been fine. Trying to pay for rent and go to classes hasn't been easy to multitask lately is all."

"Oh. I'm so sorry. Your boyfriend ok?"

"Sabito's fine. Like I said, it's just been super busy." Murata paused taking a moment to lean over and look behind you for something. Or really someone. "Is..your boyfriend here too?"

"Gyomei? No. He's helping a friend move some stuff. Why?"

He didn't answer at first. Continuing to look behind you and then behind him as if making sure you both were alone before looking back at you in a dead serious face. "Are you here by yourself?"

"Um.." Your brow rose at him. "Yes? You're being kinda weird, Dude."

"I just wanted to make sure none of...those people were around here." 'Those people'? Who was he talking about? Looking around once more, Murata looked back to your confused face. "Remember when I said I had something important to tell you?" You nodded. You did but he never told you what he wanted to talk about. "I wanted to warn you sooner but you were surrounded by those guys all the time."

"Warn me?" That certainly surprised you. "Warn me about what? And what are you talking about?" 

"I'm talking about the polycule nuts!" You blinked as he groaned. "I'm talking about your boyfriend's boyfriends..and girlfriends!"

"You mean Giyuu and Shinobu?"

"And the rest of them!"

You were surprised. What about your friends warranted Murata wanting to warn you? It confused you to the core. "Why? What's so wrong with them?"

"Um. Everything??" He held up his hands. "When I first saw that guy I thought he looked familiar but I didn't know he was Himejima. If I'd known who it was then I would've told you to not go out with him!"

"Why? What's so wrong with him?"

"How do you not know about their reputation?!" He facepalmed with a loud groan. 

"Murata, WHAT are you talking about?"

"People call them the 'Haishira' on campus." He explained looking up from his hands. "And they're pretty notorious for their lifestyle."

"You mean the fact that they're polyamorous?" Your brow rose with a frown. "Murata, there's lots of people in the world that's polyamorous. I'm not being cheated on or anything if that's what you're worried about. I already know about Gyomei having other partners and I'm fine with that-"

"It's not just that!" He cut you off with a look. "It's already super weird, but it's WAY beyond having like an extra boyfriend or girlfriend on the side! I'm worried about you being around them. Especially dangerous people like Shinazugawa and Iguro Obanai. And that Tengen guy!"

Sanemi and Obanai? Why? What was wrong with them? And Tengen?  Your questions were answered as Murata continued talking in your silence.

"Both of them have got a bad reputation on campus and for good reason. They're always getting into fights and Sanemi sent a guy to the hospital his first year of Uni just cuz someone hit on his girlfriend! Everyone's scared of them cuz they're loose cannons! Not to mention that Tengen guy is like the biggest womanizer on campus! He's always flirting with people and winking and posing naked for the art classes-"

"Don't... people usually volunteer as nude models for art class all the time so the students can practice drawing anatomy?"

"That doesn't change the fact that they're all super weird to be around! Look! I'm like REALLY worried about you here! And as your friend, I'm begging you to stay away from those guys! They're trouble and there's a reason why people avoid them!"

Haishira? Avoiding them? Well you knew from Gyomei that many people tended to opt out of dating him due to his blindness or after learning about his orientation, but you never heard anything about them all having any kind of 'reputation'. The closest thing to that is when you had encountered Jake a second time at the pub. One of his friends had seemed to recognize Sanemi causing the group of them to flee the scene.

But Sanemi dangerous?

Not to you. He'd been nothing but respectful and passive towards most people outside of his relationships you've seen him interact with. He wasn't rude to anyone that didn't decide to poke him with a stick or decide to be rude or try to cause trouble to someone he seemed to care for. Most of the time around other people he just seemed neutral. Obanai...well you didn't know him too well. You've only spoken to him a handful of times but he didn't seem like someone who would harm someone on a whim either. As for Tengen, he was flirty whenever you spoke to him but that seemed more like his personality than him going around womanizing people.

"They never acted that way when I was around them."

"That's because you're dating their boyfriend! Which is a sentence I never thought I would ever say! *Sigh* Look. I just don't want to see you get hurt again!" His hand found your shoulder and a look of concern came over him. "I'd ask you to break up with him but I don't know if I'm in a position to do that. So instead I'm gonna warn you."

You still stared at him for a long, silent moment before sighing. "Murata, I appreciate your concern and I'm glad I have such a good friend. But I'm happy. Gyomei's not perfect, far from it actually, but for the first time I'm seeing someone who makes me happy and I'm worried about if he's going to ghost me or is secretly married. He makes me happy, and I actually like making friends with them. They're good people despite what rumors or people say. You don't have to worry about me."

Murata slowly sighed again deflating with a nod. "I had a feeling you'd probably say something like that. But...Would you at least please, PLEASE promise me you'll be careful?"

You smiled at him. "I promise but you don't have to worry about me. I'll be fine."

**************************************

You didn't know what to feel for the rest of the day. Running into Murata had left a bad taste in your mouth in your otherwise happy mood. It's not that you believed the rumors that were repeated to you in worry by him. Of course you didn't believe Sanemi was actually dangerous or any of the other ridiculous things Murata warned you about, but there was something bugging you.

Rumors usually didn't start out of no where.

Usually they were started by someone or they were based off something that did happen or sometimes a bit of both. So now which of the three was it? You debated calling Sanemi and asking him yourself but it would've been too awkward to just ask if he'd ever beat up someone and put him in the hospital. So instead you just went home and put your groceries away in some attempt to get your mind off the fact despite it still bugging you. Your day had gone by normally then but you still didn't shake the feeling of curiosity surrounding it all. In fact you nearly forgotten about the time because you were so distracted by it all. The clock showed up five p.m and the dinner was supposed to be at six.

OH CRAP!! YOU WERE GONNA BE LATE!!

It was a rush to shower and throw on a cute sweater before grabbing what you needed and running out of the door and towards the restaurant Kyojuro had insisted on you coming too. Luckily you knew exactly what restaurant it was. It was the new one Mitsuri wanted to go to but couldn't because it had been closed. It was right across from the park and the park wasn't too far away from your house as well. 

Of course the afternoon was cold and nearly dark as the days grew shorter this time of year, but you held your purse halfway in your teeth as you yanked your coat over your shoulders and hoped the wind didn't smear your makeup. You were going to be late. You were going to be late. Oh you hoped they weren't going to be mad at you for being late. The trip as the sun set quickly took you along the sidewalks on your usual route to the university only to go straight through the park as some kind of short cut and straight to the streets and buildings on the other side. Where you went to was the first big building  that let delicious smelling food waft on the breeze. That should be the one.

With a brisk pace you made towards the older styled building and opened the front door setting off a bell above your head, and a wave of warn air washed over your cold skin. Immediately after you stepped in, someone else was standing right there in front of you with a wide smile. 

"Greetings!," he greeted you with a smile on his customer service face and a waiter's suit slapped on his body. "Do you have a reservation, Ma'am?"

"Um." You pushed the hair from your face attempting to smooth it over from the wind blowing it about. "N-No."

"Oh. I'm afraid I can't seat you without a reservation."

"I'm actually meeting someone here. Uh..Rengoku?"

"Rengoku? Hm. Let's see." From his podium thing he looked down at what you assumed was a check book. "Ah, yes. Table fourteen. Of course." With a gesture of his arm he pointed towards the inside massive room of tables. "Please follow me."

You did hoping you didn't look too out of place amongst the fancy furnishings and dressed up people. Until you spotted a familiar face and head of red hair. ...And a very familiar sounding voice.

"Umai!....Umai!....Umai!!"

You heard him before you saw him. Following him to the table in question revealed three identical figures of long red hair. One of which was a young man shoving pieces of wagyu steak pieces into his mouth and yelling out each time he took a bite. Yep. That was definitely Kyojuro alright.

The worker stopped behind Kyojuro whom had his back towards you but gained the attention of his parents. Shinjuro and Ruka if you remembered right from the party. "Excuse me, S-"

"UMAI!!"

Both the worker and yourself jumped back as Kyojuro just whirled around to surprise both of you. His wide grin only instantly widened more and his eyes brightened up when he saw you standing there. 

"Y/N!!" Kyojuro announced loudly catching the attention of more tables turning to look towards the loud voice. "You've made it!"

With a blink or two you slowly relaxed back and awkwardly nodded. "Um. Y-Yeah. Sorry I'm late. I got..distracted."

"Nonsense! You arrived just in time!" With a scoot over, he easily moved his plate over and gestured to the place next to him. "Come sit! Join us and have something to eat!"

Taking the opportunity to make this less awkward, you quickly sat down next to Kyojuro and across from his father. The older man sat there with a neutral expression on his face as he watched you sit down in front of him. With a smile you turned to Kyojuro whom smiled widely and softly at you. A little strange but you figured it was out of gratitude for what you and your aunt did for them. 

"I'm glad you could make it!," he started with a bright tone, "With your busy schedule I was afraid you wouldn't make it."

You waved him off. "Oh no. I wouldn't miss this! It was really nice of your family to invite me for dinner."

"Indeed! Speaking of which, I don't see your aunt anywhere? Is she running late as well?," he asked looking over your shoulder and around the restaurant in search of anyone else coming towards their table. 

"I'm sorry but she couldn't make it since she's working tonight."

"That's a shame." Mrs. Rengoku smiled at you softly. "I was so looking forward to meeting her, but maybe next time. However I'm happy to make your acquaintance again. You're Y/n correct?"

You nodded. "That's me. I'm happy to hear that you're situation has improved!"

"Yes! My husband and I are very grateful! Thank you!" ....Ms. Ruka turned to her husband before lightly bumping her elbow into his arm.

He jolted turning to her. "What?" Ruka motioned her eyes towards you as he stared. "Oh. Right." He sighed before turning to you with a semi frown. "Thank you I suppose but I didn't need any help. It was nothing I couldn't have solved myself.. Eventually."

"There's no need to thank me really!" You held up your hands. "I'm just glad you all are doing better!"

"Well the least we can do is buy you dinner."

"Oh, you don't have to. I can pay for my own food."

You stopped blinking up as Kyojuro placed a hand on yours which he was still holding up. You blinked again looking between him and where he held your hand before he spoke up again.

"I insist. My treat. One meal is the least I can do to pay you back for all the kindness that you shown me."

"You?"

"Uh! M-My family too!," he quickly corrected. "I truly do insist! Please get whatever you'd like and I'll take care of it!"

"Well...I usually don't like taking other people's money like this."

"Then just take it as paying you back for those delicious cookies you've made us and we can call it even!"

You hummed again thinking it over. "Mmm...Ok. But just this once."

He beamed. "OF COURSE!! You won't regret it! Order whatever you'd like!"

"Thank you!" ....You looked down. "Um. Kyojuro." He hummed in question. "You're still holding my hand."

Immediately his eyes shot down and a bright pink color slapped across his upon the realization. "AH!! APOLOGIES!!" He immediately cried out loudly dropping your hand and making his mother giggle, his brother blink, and his father sigh and roll his eyes.

The dinner was nice. Casual even. Nothing really strange about it. You all talked about where everyone worked, what Ms. Ruka did as a calligraphy teacher, how Kyojuro came to work part time at the local shelter, a little bit about Senjuro's studies, and at one point Kyojuro asked how the project with Giyuu and Shinobu was going. Just a casual, normal family conversation...Minus yourself as you weren't a part of the Rengoku Family.

Slowly things came to a close. You did try to one more time pay for the small meal you had ordered but Kyojuro had pushed your card away and slapped down enough money to easily pay for both of your meals plus a tip for the waiter....

It was odd though. 

His parents paid for their own and his brother's meals. Wasn't he paying for everyone? You brushed it off in the moment as you all made for the exit and then as you turned to bid them goodnight, Kyojuro turned to you sharply.

"Let me walk you home." You blinked at him. "It's getting dark and I'm sure Gyomei would appreciate that I didn't let his girlfriend walk home alone one dark winter night."

"What about your home? Isn't it in the opposite direction?"

"Haha! I don't live with my parents and my home is much closer to yours than theirs. I'll be fine!"

You were a bit confused with the sudden gesture, but Gyomei and even Giyuu once or twice had walked you home before so Kyojuro walking you home wasn't a bad thing. "Ok. If you're sure."

That's when he offered his arm out to you taking you aback again. Wasn't expecting him to do that. Was it ok to accept? After debating on it for a moment, you accepted his arm and (after thanking his parents for dinner and telling them all good bye-) you both walked back towards the park. It was mostly silent now in the dark with the night sky overhead. The only lights in the park being the stars and street lamps. Eerie. You were kinda glad you accepted Kyojuro's offer after all.

Midway through the park you slowly glanced up at him. He wasn't looking at you and instead continuing to walk and look around with you leading him towards your house....Maybe..HE had answers to your problem?

"Kyojuro?" He snapped to you immediately with a questioning him. It was kinda spooky how fast he reacted. Hesitating you looked away from him. "Can I..ask you something?"

"BUT OF COURSE!!," His loud voice echoed over the park. "Ask away!"

You hesitated again feeling a bit guilty. "Well...N-Not too long ago I ran into someone else who goes to the university." You decided it was best not to throw Murata under the metaphorical bus and keep his name out of it. "And...they told me some stuff about you guys-"

You stopped. Well Kyojuro immediately holted to a stop yanking you back too. The sudden jolt had you blinking, looking at him in instinct only to pause at the way he was staring at you. Still smiling but it looked more...serious.

"I see..", he slowly said after a moment, "What kind of 'stuff' did they tell you?"

"Oh..N-Nothing I actually believe of course." You quickly added holding up your free hand. "It's just some rumors."

"What kind of 'rumors'?"

You winced shrinking up a little bit and looking away again. "Well...T-They said that...Sanemi and Obanai were dangerous- Again I don't believe that! And t-t-that Te-Tengen was a...playboy I guess- Again I don't believe any of it!" You again looked at him nervously. "I-It's just something that someone else told me and I-I thought you guys should know about it is all!"

.... Kyojuro blinked. "Oh. Is that all?" You were again taken aback when he threw his head back and laughed loudly. His laughing echoing off the wind before he looked at you. "Those old rumors again. You have nothing to worry about." He assured you waving a hand. "Those are baseless rumors people had made up over misunderstandings and bad intentions!"

A sigh of relief left you despite it all. Yeah. You already figured as much, but hearing someone else confirm it put you at ease. "I figured that already... Although there is one more thing bugging me."

His head tilted. "And what might that be?"

"This person also told me Sanemi got into a really bad fight with someone who ended up in the hospital." You couldn't shake the way those men literally feared Sanemi at the pub. Something clearly happened. "Is that true?'

Kyojuro stared at you still, looked you up and down, before sighing. "It is but it's exaggerated way out of context. What really happened was someone else tried to kiss Hinatsuru without her consent at a party. When they wouldn't leave her alone, Sanemi more or less punched him in the face."

"So..he did make someone go to the hospital?"

"Well I suppose technically but the only thing he had was a broken nose. People like to make it seem like he had beaten the man into a coma but it's simply just a matter of him defending someone he cares about."

"Like he did for me."

Kyojuro smiled wider. "Yes. Exactly! You get it! Is that everything that concerns you?"

You nodded in relief. "Yes it does. Thank you, Kyojuro. It's been really comforting. I guess it goes to show there's still things to learn about you guys."

A glimmer of excitement formed in his eyes. "Then you should come celebrate with Tengen next weekend!"

You blinked. "Huh?"

"There's this cloud we're celebrating Mario's birthday at! Since you'd like to learn more about us you should come along and spend time with everyone!"

"I-...I don't know. I haven't even been invited." 

"I'll throw the idea their way! If they say yes, you should come! It'll be lots of fun!"

"Well..Maybe. I'll have to think about it first!"

"SPLENDID!! Now come! It's getting colder and as much as I enjoy the beautiful night, Gyomei wouldn't be happy if I allowed you to catch a cold."

[dhampling]

sunburn dadstarion, <1k

She runs in with cheeks flushed, head wet with a thin clad layer of sweat. Remnants from some form of cool treat dry on her chin. Plaits - neat this morning - loose now with tangles and damp as she beelines straight for his workroom. 

Face scalding as she buries it in his abdomen. 

“You’re getting muck on my shirt, little one.”

She mimics his words with a cutting tone as she burrows deeper, wraps even tighter around him. Smells like cloves and hot paving and the dry-sweet musk of city dust. As he presses a kiss to her head he feels the sun lingering in her hair. Little white cowlicks brushing his nose.

If he stills he can hear you out on one of the cast-iron chairs with a glass of red in hand, talking to a friend of some parental variety in the early evening heat. 

“You’re so cold” 

His heat comes from woodsmoke and yours from the sun. Both familiar to her. He could light a fire but you’d moan at him for it.

“That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

He pokes at her clammy arms with a fat laugh and she winces away, pulling a face.

“It’s hot.” She sneers. He quirks a brow.

“Sounds like a you problem.’

He lifts the last of her plaits and looks round at the ruddy blush beginning to bloom at the nape of her neck. She squirms at the ice of his fingers.

‘Run up to the washroom and get the cream. Quick.” 

You sit just beyond the window - he can hear your laughter, the muffled lilt of your voice by the climbing ivy. He imagines the ornate carafe - left to aerate all afternoon - rich and ripe as the wine within soaks on your tongue and darkens your teeth. Your loving grin. The little wave you’d do; the light clothes he’d spent all winter designing for you to sit out front and feel comfortable in, in spite of the sweltering sun. 

To throw a casual look through open shutters and see you out there again. A wink. A little sign that he’s thinking of you. 

Maybe he’ll head out, when the stars are newly minted yet the sun still lingers. Feel the iron sear his skin through his clothes. The warmth of your palm as it wraps around his forearm. 

It’s not until the youngling returns that his gaze shifts from the dark to her, a tired furrow on her brow. 

“I’m too hot.”

Her mouth hangs open in a wide pant. Astarion kneels before her.

“Have you had any water?’

No.

‘Right then.”

-

Hours pass and you shuffle back in with a thick-knotted shawl draped lazy over your shoulders, the singe of a giggle still whisper-light in your breath as your friend shouts their farewells.

“She burned today, you know.” 

He’s quiet as he stitches, merely an observation; thread between teeth. You sigh fondly in the doorway.

“She’s a child. It’s what children do.”

You bring your warm chalice to his mouth and he lifts his head to take a sip, humming softly. He looks up at you with a raised brow. 

“Get burned?”

“You morose bastard. Sun-burn. Children get sunburned.”

She’s lounging on his worn chaise, hair wrapped in towel, with a small bowl of plums at her side and a drawing pad atop her knee. Contented in new pyjamas and the cool dim of her father’s workroom.

The cream has seemingly worked. The cool bath you heard her splash about in not so long ago must’ve been some clever placebo work.

“Found some pretty beetles today, but wasn’t allowed to bring them in.” She speaks as usual with Astarion’s theatrical whine, riddled with fatigue. You roll your eyes affectionately.

“What were they like, darling?”

He’s preoccupied, stitching something small in the gilded embroidery he works at; but there’s the persistent glimmer of interest in his tone. The slightest tilt of his head as his eyes find her in the periphery.

“Really pretty. Different colours. All pinky and greeny.” She waggles her fingers and sighs with a start.

“Draw them for me?”

She looks at him warily as you watch on.

“Will you keep it if I do?”

At that, Astarion stops. A gentle halt. The needle and thread in hand gently tucked into the stitchwork. 

“I keep everything you do.”

You scoff. She looks at him with a tiny glare.

“Where is it then?”

“What?”

“All my drawings?”

“It’s where are they, darling.’ He chides, the smallest chit of his fangs.

You move to sit and your daughter lifts her head from the chaise, so it rests on your settled lap when dropped once more. The hint of a grin plays at his mouth.

‘And I keep them somewhere safe so when you’re old - like me - you’ll be able to look back on you now. You’ll be able to remember the beetles.’

He shuffles over to where you both sit, cross legged as he rests his chin on the chaise. Brings the back of a hand to her forehead and swears a sizzle as he pulls away.

‘Plus. I can’t see these beetles now, can I? My sunburn gets a fair bit more serious than yours in nature. I’d like to see them.” 

She pauses for a moment.

“Okay. But ONLY because you can’t go and see them for yourself.”

[whalesongsblog]

The Princess and the Parselmouth

Chapter 1: A New Dawn

On the outside, nothing seemed to have changed. The train station in Hogsmeade still echoed with the sound of children playing and raucous laughter, a drone of background conversation rising in the cold air as merchants, shopowners, university students, and residents of the village drifted about in the play of their lives, moving from one scene to the next. 

But take a closer look. A vein of concern had woven its way into the general consciousness. Spurred by bold headlines and harsh words spoken by men who were meant to lead, hushed words exchanged beneath shop awnings began to mutate from greetings to assurances of safety. The Goblin Rebellion. The growing vitriol towards Muggle-borns and the threat of economic collapse if the unprecedented inflation of the galleon continued. All subjects mingled on the lips of wizarding Britain as the lines carving their way through society deepened, perhaps irreversibly. 

Far away, in a sun-blessed empire in India, a princess received an acceptance letter into a PhD program at the best wizarding university in Britain. 

xxxxxxxxxx

Ominis Gaunt was used to hearing his name on people’s lips, tossed around carelessly like a ship in violent waters.

Hushed speculation that he was dabbling in dark magic, that he upheld his family’s beliefs with all the poisonous zeal of his ancestors before him. Some avoided him entirely due to that unfortunate misconception, while others looked disdainfully on him for not taking on his role as the scion of one of the most powerful pureblood families in Britain with the enthusiasm expected of him. It was almost amusing if it wasn’t so bleak. 

Hated by both sides for not being what they expected. 

He’d received a top-notch education at the Merlin Academy, where it was purebloods-only in all but written law. Because that, unfortunately, was still illegal.  He’d even gone and provided a victory tour for the Gaunt family by earning a Bachelor's at a similarly reputed institution where his roommate’s voice had wavered slightly upon hearing his family name. He was gone by the next day, and- no doubt due to Mortis Gaunt’s meddling- Ominis enjoyed the privilege of a room to himself and virtually no friends throughout all four years. 

Ominis felt the noose of his family’s expectations tightening. In a moment of panic spurred on by a late night and perhaps too much Firewhiskey, he’d made the wild decision that his next course of action to avoid the threat of an engagement looming on his head was- of course- to push his education further. In the early hours of the morning, the answer had come to him in a stroke of inspiration. 

A postgraduate degree. It would be easy enough to convince his father that he wanted to continue studying, and Dr. Gaunt did have a rather nice ring to it. Any trepidation he felt about a potential rejection was kindly soothed by the family, who assured him that Black wouldn’t be stupid enough to reject a Gaunt. 

I wouldn’t even need to show up to get the degree, clearly. Perhaps my family name could do all the work for me. 

His father hadn’t been amused by the snide comment. 

xxxxxxxxxx

Cragged mountains stood sentinel over the borders of the Surya Empire, fortification provided by the expanse of desert and lush forests, only a fool would attempt to navigate without rock-solid navigation wards and cartographic sigils. Six provinces sprawled over the region, villages and towns aggregating towards the center of the empire where the palace sat like a crown jewel on the slopes of the high hills, surrounded by scrub brush and Frangipani trees renowned for their wandwood. 

Dominated by needle-precise geometrical towers, intricate carvings along ancient stone walls, and opulence that drew visitors from every corner of the globe, the Surya Royal Palace was a muse, a symbol of strength, and a warning all in one. Color and artistry swept along each gilded chamber, magic curling along the vaulted, gold-streaked ceilings and Lapis pillars that centered themselves as ground zero of powerful spots of arcane energy. 

Surya prided itself on being the anomaly it had gained a reputation for. A crossroads of magic and science, where both Muggle and Wizard contributed progress in their own unique way. Further solidifying its reputation as a unique spot in the wizarding nations, the royal family was entirely Muggle. That fact drew scrutiny and ire from sister nations such as Britain, but greatness was the goal, and diversity was the tool with which to achieve it. Magic wove itself into the roots of the land, simmering in the desert heat and only amplifying itself with each generation that strengthened it. 

From the Weaver Witches spinning intricate magic into each stitch of their handwoven garments, allowing the shimmering threads to shift and dance under the burning sun, to street vendors making their harvested dried chillis even more potent through murmured spellcasting, every corner of the empire thrummed with vibrancy, with power, whether magic or not.

When the little princess had been born, a third child, and the first girl, the kingdom had been jubilant. Goblin tribes from the deep desert traveled alongside lycanthrope nomads to pay respects to the royal family, giving blessings in the form of precious goblinsilver amulets to ward away nazar, and yantras that had been strengthened during the full moon. When the little princess showed her first sign of a command over magic, the celebrations had lasted for days, and the royal family had been ecstatic. 

Since the moment she was born, Princess Miradevi Surya Lakshmi was loved. 

xxxxxxxxx

Twenty-eight men sat around an oak table in the center of a marbled room. A crystal chandelier caught the light of family crests and signet rings, and the cherubs painted into the gilded ceiling turned away, their rosy faces cracked with age. They could not bear witness to history repeating itself. Not again. 

“Things will change soon. Of that, you can be assured.”

“And what if the people do not agree? Only a fool would ignore the threat of a displeased public.” 

A cold voice cut in. “Only a fool would think that the masses hold a candle to the power we possess. This world is ours to take- and take it back, we shall.” 

xxxxxx

Ominis heard whispers that there was a high-profile student set to attend Hogwarts at the same time as him and, before the term even started, the buzz had begun. He'd brushed it off, clinging to the faint promise of a new life Hogwarts offered, and he was more concerned with breaking away from the fate that seemed to be carving itself into his destiny. He had other things to do besides stick his nose in gossip that had so very little to do with him. Besides, there was also Anne’s malady to worry about. 

Sebastian Sallow had been a good friend since their early years together at the Academy. Ominis had taken the observations of them being joined at the hip with cool nonchalance, neither confirming nor denying it, but always having a supportive word to say for the Scotsman. Sebastian had provided a necessary space when his life had started descending into deep, merciless waters, and he’d kept afloat only because of his friend’s unique brand of loyalty that would have demanded subjugation from a mountain range. Anne- for the brief time Ominis had known her before the incident- was lively, mischievous, and certainly did not deserve any of what happened to her. And yet.. the darkness her brother insisted on dragging himself into was beginning to grate on his nerves, stirring up something worse. 

But he pushed it down and focused on what Hogwarts promised. A new start. This was a new start and Ominis decided he’d be damned if he let the swirling mess of swords hanging over his head be his undoing. 

That new start had as inauspicious a beginning as he could have imagined. It was ridiculous, in his opinion, to be sorted into houses as if they were children, but somewhere he knew his resistance came from the knowledge of where he’d instantly go. His ancestor had been a part of the university’s ancient legacy, after all. A fact that his father would rather kiss a house elf than stop reminding him about every second of the day. 

“ Gaunt, Ominis. PhD candidate with a Concentration in Audiomancy.”

The hat had taken a few seconds and declared him a Slytherin- a fact even he could have seen coming. He slid into place on the long wooden tables, exchanging cursory words with people he quite enjoyed avoiding. Friendships his father wanted him to cultivate- Felix Malfoy, the Lestrange’s absolutely unhinged son- 

“Her Highness, Lakshmi, Miradevi Surya. PhD candidate, concentration in Ontokinesis.”

His head snapped away from whatever Mulciber had been saying- not that it was important in the first place. A low murmur began to rise from the Hall like hornets. Ominis tilted his head, wondering he’d bloody heard right. 

Princess Miradevi. The muggle-born daughter of a royal family that presided over the most formidable empire of the wizarding nations, and loathed by the people sitting at the same table as him. The pulse of light at the tip of his wand flared, catching the sound of steady footsteps and the faintest hint of jasmine. He exhaled softly. He’d heard about the princess. He’d heard a lot. Whether any of what he’d heard was true, however- 

“ Slytherin.” 

———————

Miradevi stepped off the stool as the Deputy Headmistress returned the silver and sapphire-wrought tiara that had to be replaced with the mangy hat for a few seconds. She murmured a thank you, readjusted it on her head, and looked up. Slytherin. She’d done some reading on the rather odd division system the university boasted and chalked it up to typical English oddity. Unlike nearly everyone before her, no one had applauded for her being assigned to the House of people sitting at the far end who were glaring at her as though she’d personally insulted their mothers. The princess’s gaze darted over as she approached the long table, scanning for one friendly face- 

There. 

Seated beneath one of the torches, pale orange light spilling over his features, sat a man she was convinced had wandered out of an Austen novel. Tall, pale-oh, he’d burn to a crisp if he ever saw the Indian summer- although she did have to wonder why on earth she was thinking about showing him her home as soon as she’d clapped her eyes on him. A smattering of beauty marks spilled over high cheekbones, and unfairly long lashes framed opalescent eyes that seemed fixed on a spot around her shoulder as she approached. 

Mira paused before him, strangely uncertain. She was aware of the eyes of far too many people on her, but scrutiny could almost be called a friend at this point. He tilted his head up, slightly to the side, then stood. 

For a moment, she said nothing as he bowed, low and perfect. Her hand automatically reached out for him to take, her bangles jingling softly with the movement. He took her hand like she’d handed him her crown. Strangely enough, nothing around her seemed to exist except the slight coolness of his hand against hers, and the way he looked off to her right, like he was trying to seek her out to the best of his ability. “Your Highness.” 

Well, that was just unfair. He couldn’t be ridiculously good-looking and have a voice that set her nerves on fire. A voice crafted for telling stories by firelight, for expensive teas, and perfect posture. 

“Mira.” She said softly. “Please, just Mira. And- you are?” He seemed hesitant to reply. “Ominis Gaunt, princess. It’s an honor.” 

Miradevi smiled. “The honor is all mine. I know exactly who you are, Ominis Gaunt.” “Oh. I understand. Quite a few people do seem to think so.” 

His hand stiffened, a slight crease in his brow marring his forehead. There was a quirk downward on his lips as he sighed softly as if internally reprimanding himself- for what, she had no idea. Miradevi shifted, wondering if she’d said the wrong thing. “I’ve read your research on auditory spellwork, and found it fascinating- and deeply necessary, may I add.” She pushed forward, not really caring that her hand was still in his, that they were still standing. “Your work has inspired some changes in the accessibility of our institutions and magic systems back home- that’s all. I’m sorry if I said something untoward.” 

He was silent for a few moments. His eyes softened. And Miradevi caught a glimpse of something hidden beneath the cool exterior and impeccable manners. Someone so achingly kind she nearly leaned closer to get a better look. 

“That means more to me than you can ever know, Your Highness,” Ominis said softly, his voice distinctly breathier, as if he’d hardly believed the words coming from her lips. “Please, sit. I’ve kept you standing for far too long-“ he gestured, and Miradevi slid onto the wooden benches as he sat beside her. 

“I would have hated to put my foot in it the moment I arrive at a new place.” Mira grinned, feeling slightly more at ease. “I am capable of diplomacy, I promise.” 

The hostility from the people around her was easy to ignore when Ominis Gaunt laughed softly, indulgently, at her words. 

“I don’t doubt it.” Ominis fought down a smile as he heard her delighted gasp at having seen something on the table she liked. Something chocolatey, based on the scent.

“I have a feeling, princess, that you will be making these next few years very interesting for me.” 

--------

AN: slowburn? WHO'S THAT?? these fools are the definition of SAFS (simp at first sight) naur jk I tried to.,.,. hold off on the romance hinting and establish JUST a friendship first but their chemistry ATEEEE I'M SORRY like I was writing their first interaction and giggling and kicking my feet and I was like okay love at first sight Ig. Chapter two is also edited and up on ao3!

Tags! @rypnami @butternutt613 @rosewoodcafe @heylorrain @amethystandemma @rambling-tam (thank you so much for your help with my writing so far btw I really appreciate it)

[jimmyscanongf]

I'm really curious to hear your thought's on this scenario...

How would Jimmy be with a gf that's far more privileged than him? Grew up in the suburbs, wealthy parents, a very stable family life, pretty spoiled.. But still makes sure that he knows that she really loves him.

honestly… one of the most salient points about jimmy’s character is his massive inferiority complex. he would try a relationship, if he thought you were attractive enough. and i’m not saying he’s entirely using you, but he does recognize that getting with you would be a huge benefit for him, cause he’s broke af. i think he does crave real love, and it could be sweet, in his own way, for a little while at least. your affection feels good. he wants it to work.

but eventually, this huge jealousy and resentment would come bubbling up. he’s mad as hell that you had life handed to you on a silver platter, and it’ll come out in snide little remarks, just this bitter undertone to his interactions with you. much like his relationship with curly. and i get the sense that like, he’s a guy who’s trying so fucking hard to prove himself to everyone around him and has a hard time believing that people who care about him don’t see him as lowly as he sees himself. so that resentment and paranoia are gonna make a toxic chemical reaction where even though you show him how much you genuinely love him, he’s gonna have a harder and harder time believing it. because like, why would you? your life was gilded growing up and he came from nothing, and he has an unsavoury past, and everyone in your life thinks youre too good for him. so there must be some ulterior motive to you being with him, like making yourself feel better and look better by comparison next to him and he’s gonna needle you about it and make all sorts of shitty assumptions about you and you’ll be hurt because, what the fuck, Jimmy? yah nobody needs to have someone lower than them to feel good about themselves but you and every other traumatized fucked up human being like you. the man needs extensive extensive therapy.