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solxamber · 3 days ago

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Trash Novel Chronicles: Speedrunning Marriage Fraud || Ace Trappola

You get isekai’d as the heroine in a romance novel, but instead of dreamy suitors, you’re stuck with a yandere cryptid, a billionaire with no impulse control, and a knight who thinks he's in a Shakespearean tragedy (and more).

Your solution? Commit marriage fraud with your best friend, Ace Trappola, and hope no one asks for a marriage certificate.

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You should have known better than to leave your apartment. You should have listened to your instincts, that deep, primal voice that told you the outside world was a dangerous and unforgiving place. But no. You just had to touch grass.

It had all started with an innocent desire for fresh air. You had gone to the park, found a nice spot, and opened the novel that a colleague had given you—probably as a form of psychological torture disguised as a gift. From the summary alone, you knew it was going to be a lot, but you had no idea just how much your soul would suffer.

The heroine was a noble who clearly did not want to be in this story. Every single page was filled with her staring off into the void, giving half-hearted responses to the five men vying for her attention, like she was a protagonist who hadn’t realized she was in a romance novel yet.

And the love interests. Oh, the love interests.

The (Discount) Yandere Viscount (who had never heard of stealth)

His idea of "obsessively watching over the heroine" was lurking in the shadows like a particularly uncoordinated cryptid. Every single time he tried to “stalk” her, he tripped over his own sword. At one point, he dramatically whispered, “I will protect you… wait, don’t run!” before faceplanting into a bush.

2. The Childhood Acquaintance (who was delusional)

This man had spoken to the heroine exactly once when they were both six years old, but somehow convinced himself they were soulmates. He carried around the same handkerchief she had given him more than 15 years ago like it was a sacred relic and refused to take no for an answer.

3. The "Genius Strategist" Prince (who had the IQ of a raisin)

The man had already planned their wedding, their honeymoon, and the names of their three children within four minutes of meeting her. When she told him she wasn’t interested, his brain blue-screened and he simply repeated, “Ah, you’re just shy.” No, sir. She is not shy. She just isn't interested.

4. The Brooding Duke of the North (who was a caricature of a chaebol heir from a K-Drama)

He believed love could be bought. He once gifted her a solid gold chair because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.” He bought an entire carnival just so she wouldn’t have to wait in line. At one point, he threw money at a random tree, and you weren’t even sure why.

5. The Drama King Knight (who needed to calm down)

He was so powerful but refused to use his strength unless it was for dramatic effect. He got scratched by a cat once and collapsed into the heroine’s arms like he had been mortally wounded. His sword had the power to split mountains, but the only time he ever drew it was to dramatically point at the moon while monologuing about destiny.

And the villainess? She wasn’t even that bad. Compared to these five disasters, she looked like a sensible person.

Somehow, despite all odds, the heroine chose Ace Trappola, her childhood friend, which you had to respect. That was the one good decision this novel made. But just when you thought there might be some semblance of satisfaction—an assassin appeared out of nowhere (sent by the villainess of course) and killed her.

That was it. That was the ending.

You felt your soul leave your body.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you weren’t sure if it was grief for the heroine, sheer frustration, or physical pain from how hard you had been laughing at this disaster of a novel. It was the most ridiculous, nonsensical, brain-cell-destroying thing you had ever read. You could feel your neurons committing arson inside your skull.

You snapped the book shut and decided that was enough stupidity for one day.

It was time to go home.

As you trudged back, your brain still processing the absolute war crime of a plot you had just read, you heard it.

A faint rumbling.

A presence.

And then—

“OUT OF THE WAY, SONNY!”

A blur of gray hair and unholy speed tore through the park, the sound of wheels screeching against pavement like a demonic banshee’s cry. You turned your head just in time to see a grandma on rollerblades, moving at a velocity no elderly person should legally be able to achieve.

For a split second, you locked eyes.

And in that moment, you knew.

You were not surviving this.

Before you could even process what was happening, she collided into you full force, sending you into a full aerial somersault before you crashed into the bushes like a ragdoll. You barely registered the thundering roar of her departure as she continued skating into the sunset, leaving you for dead.

Now, as you lay crumpled in a bush, your body feeling like it had been hit by a sentient freight train in orthopedic shoes, you had to accept the consequences of your actions. The world had punished you for your hubris.

She. Didn’t. Even. Stumble.

Your body ached, your limbs refused to move, and as darkness crept into your vision, your last conscious thought was, How is a senior citizen more sturdy than me…?

And then, everything went black.

The first thing you noticed upon waking up was the suspiciously pleasant smell. It was fresh, like lavender and high society, with a hint of expensive tea and wealth you’d never personally known.

Your groggy brain latched onto the first thought it could process:

Damn. Hospitals really upgraded their budget.

Then, half a second later, a much more terrifying realization hit you.

Oh God. The ambulance bill.

Your eyes snapped open in unfiltered financial terror, hands clutching at the sheets as you prepared to calculate your medical debt down to the last miserable cent. You were already accepting your fate as a lifelong indentured servant to the healthcare system when—

The ceiling was too ornate. The bed was too soft.

And there was a man sitting beside you, holding your hand.

Your breath caught in your throat as your vision sharpened. Red hair. Heart earring. A cocky smirk, even in his sleep.

You knew that face.

You knew that godforsaken face.

This wasn’t a hospital. This wasn’t even your world.

Somewhere in the heavens, a cosmic entity was laughing as you stared at Ace Trappola, the very same Ace Trappola from the cover of the book you were reading before you got absolutely trucked by a grandma on rollerblades.

Your will to live immediately evaporated.

This couldn’t be happening. This was not real. There was no way that the trashy dumpster fire of a novel you barely got halfway through had decided to swallow you whole and spit you out as its heroine. You were a victim of circumstance. You hadn’t even wanted to read the book. Your colleague had shoved it into your hands with a laugh, saying, “It’s so bad, you’ll love it.”

And now? Now you were going to die in it.

While you were still reeling from this existential horror, Ace stirred beside you, stretching like he’d just taken a refreshing nap instead of being complicit in your suffering.

“Oh, you’re finally awake,” he said.

You almost threw up in real time.

NO. NO, HE DID NOT JUST SKYRIM YOU.

Before you could even begin to unpack that offensive introduction, Ace leaned back in his chair, regarding you with an amused grin.

“Man, you were out for so long,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself at your expense. “We were starting to get worried.”

He paused, then snickered. “Not that I can blame you, though. You got knocked out real bad after Sir Drama decided to pick you up and carry you across a puddle—y’know, because chivalry—and then you started struggling and he, uh…” Ace coughed, failing to smother his laughter. “He might’ve… dropped you on your head.”

Your soul left your body.

The sheer force of your disgust, fury, and resignation compressed into a singularity of unparalleled despair.

You had already suffered a head injury in this world and it hadn’t even been five minutes.

Meanwhile, Ace—clearly unbothered by your silent mental breakdown—casually reached out and ruffled your hair like you were some kind of small animal.

“Try not to scare everyone like that next time, yeah?” he said, standing up with a stretch. “Anyway, I’ll let you rest. See ya, drama queen.”

And just like that, he walked out.

The door clicked shut.

And you were left alone.

You sat there for a full minute, staring at the ceiling, dead inside.

Then at the overly luxurious furniture.

Then at the mirror across the room.

You knew what you would see before you even looked.

White nightgown. Perfect noble lady bedhead. The very same reflection that haunted you from the novel’s terrible cover.

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaled, and let out the most guttural, primal scream into your pillow.

This was real. This was happening.

And worst of all—

You were about to be pursued by five of the worst men to ever disgrace the literary world.

Tears pricked at your eyes.

You needed a plan.

You needed a way out.

You needed to reject them.

You needed to survive.

With renewed determination, you wiped your tears, hardened your heart, and began plotting your escape.

The moment you accepted that you were, in fact, trapped in this flaming disaster of a novel, you immediately went into damage control mode.

Step One: Gather Allies.

Your first course of action was to round up every single sane person in your immediate social circle—which, in this case, meant the heroine’s original friend group. You weren’t sure how well they’d take this, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

So, within the hour, you managed to corral Ace, Deuce, Riddle, Cater, and Trey into a private room like some kind of organized intervention.

They were all staring at you expectantly.

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for the sheer stupidity of what you were about to say.

“Listen,” you began, voice firm. “I need help. Serious help. I am being actively hunted by five of the worst men to ever exist, and I need to figure out how to reject them before I end up dead in an alley.”

There was a pause.

Riddle, bless his soul, was the first to react.

He patted you on the back, nodding solemnly. “Finally,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you to grow a spine. It’s about time.”

You blinked. That was the most support you had ever received in your life.

Meanwhile, Trey and Cater exchanged amused glances, Ace looked way too smug for comfort, and Deuce was already looking at Ace like he was onto something.

“You need to get rid of them?” Trey asked, as if he were merely discussing pastry ingredients.

“Yes,” you stressed. “Immediately.”

Riddle hummed in approval. “Good. Then let’s strategize.”

You, Riddle, Trey, and Cater huddled together like you were planning a war campaign.

Ace and Deuce, on the other hand, were having a separate conversation entirely.

A conversation that consisted of Deuce elbowing Ace repeatedly while Ace sat there, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

Then, with the casual arrogance of someone who absolutely had an ulterior motive, Ace stretched his arms and leaned back.

“Y’know,” he drawled, cutting into your very serious rejection plan, “we could make things way easier if you just tell ‘em you’re already taken.”

You stared at him. “Excuse me?”

Ace smirked. “You'd just need a fake lover, right?”

“…Yes?”

He shrugged. “I could do it.”

The room went silent.

Deuce’s face twisted into an undisguised scowl of "That's not what i meant." Riddle raised an eyebrow. Trey hid a knowing smile behind his hand. Cater was visibly entertained.

You, on the other hand, were experiencing about five different emotions at once.

On one hand, Ace clearly had a crush on the heroine—for you. Which meant using him for this felt slightly scummy.

On the other hand, game was game, and survival was survival.

And you were not above exploiting every advantage you could get.

“…Alright,” you agreed, shoving your morals into a dark abyss.

Ace grinned like he’d just won a bet.

Deuce looked one second away from committing homicide.

And just like that, Operation “Escape Horrible Men” was officially underway.

The first lunatic to cross your path was, tragically, the childhood acquaintance—if you could even call him that. This was a man whose entire personality was built on a single act of kindness you had allegedly performed when you were six, like some kind of feral pigeon imprinting on the first human to throw it bread.

He had the look of a man who had been living exclusively off delusions and a diet of unattainable dreams, and you could already feel your soul attempting to evacuate your body at the sight of him.

It all started when you, Ace, and Deuce were having a perfectly nice day at the market. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and you were engaged in the kind of casual battery that only true friends participated in—swatting at each other, shoving, stealing food mid-bite, and slinging arms over shoulders like a group of rowdy idiots. It was peace. It was joy. And then he appeared.

Like a cockroach that had survived a nuclear apocalypse, he inserted himself into the conversation with an ease that defied all reason, his hand creeping onto your waist as if that was something people just did.

The audacity. The sheer gall. The unmitigated temerity.

On instinct, you physically rejected his existence. You shoved him off with enough force to make a statement, then slammed your heel down on his foot. You were not the original heroine. You did not believe in suffering in silence. You believed in equal opportunity violence.

But this man—this absolute buffoon—had the mental resilience of a particularly dense brick. He simply did not process rejection.

You walked away. He followed. Like a stray cat you accidentally fed once, he clung to your side, ignoring all signs that he was unwelcome.

You showed Deuce a cool charm for his sword; he inserted his completely unsolicited opinion.

You cracked a joke to Ace; he forced out a laugh like you had told it for his benefit.

At one point, you were fairly certain he was just mimicking your breathing patterns to convince himself you were soulmates.

Alright. You had tried being civil. Time to be petty.

You turned to Ace with the kind of dramatic flourish that only came with years of consuming terrible romance novels, throwing yourself into his arms like some damsel in distress. Ace, to his credit, took exactly one second to process before he immediately understood the assignment.

He leaned in close, breath brushing against your ear like he was whispering something scandalous, and you, in turn, made a show of gasping, clutching his shirt like he had just recited the most romantic poetry in existence.

Then he hand-fed you a pastry.

It was too much. Too intimate. Too stupidly effective. You let out a little dreamy sigh, delicately biting into the pastry like it was a love declaration and not just your breakfast. Ace, ever the performer, brushed a crumb off your lips with his thumb.

Deuce, at this point, was convulsing with laughter in the background, nearly choking on his own spit.

But the acquaintance? The parasite? The man who had lived the past decade of his life under the assumption that you were his? He was seething. His face was twisted like he had just swallowed a whole lemon rind and all.

Time to twist the knife.

You turned to Ace with the most lovestruck expression you could muster and, in a voice dripping with sugar and malice, cooed, “Darling, when are you going to propose? I simply cannot wait to be engaged to you”

Ace visibly blue-screened for a moment. You could hear the Windows error noise in real-time. But he was nothing if not quick on his feet.

In a devastating move, he took your hand in both of his, looked into your eyes like you personally invented the concept of love, and murmured, “My love, I’ve searched the entire kingdom for a ring that shines as brightly as your eyes, but nothing has been worthy of you yet.”

That was it. That was the final blow. The childhood acquaintance physically recoiled, his reality shattering like fragile glass, his world crumbling like an over-soaked sponge cake.

“You’re… dating?” he whispered, trembling, as if he was the protagonist in a tragic opera.

You and Ace turned to him in perfect synchrony, all wide eyes and lovesick smiles, and in the most disgustingly sweet voices you could manage, declared, “We’re soooo in love~”

He ran away crying.

It was magnificent. It was euphoric. You turned to watch him flee, skidding into the distance like a wounded deer, while Deuce collapsed against a stand, wheezing.

And then, just for a moment—barely a second—you caught Ace watching you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then he smirked, slinging an arm around your shoulder like nothing had happened.

One down. Four to go.

The invitation to the ball had arrived with the pomp and circumstance of an execution notice.

You had already survived assassination attempts (by fate and by your own refusal to engage with the five unhinged men vying for your hand), but now you were being asked to waltz? Like some graceful noble lady who had spent her entire life twirling through candlelit halls and not someone whose idea of “dancing” was flailing in the kitchen at 2 AM while waiting for instant noodles to cook?

You tried to tell yourself, maybe the original heroine’s muscle memory will kick in.

It did not.

You attempted a single spin in your room and promptly tripped over the hem of your dress, landing face-first into the carpet with all the elegance of a sedated goose. The reality was undeniable—you needed help.

Unfortunately, Deuce and Riddle, your two best hopes for structured, competent lessons, were drowning in their official duties. That left you with Trey(thankfully), Cater, and Ace.

Ace. The man who claimed he could “totally waltz” but then proceeded to move like he was dodging invisible potholes. He swore he was just "freestyling," which, sure, was a thing people did—just not in 18th-century ballroom dancing.

Trey, ever the responsible elder brother figure, took pity on your plight and offered to teach you. You gratefully accepted, placing your hand in his, and the two of you began to move across the floor. Or, rather, Trey moved and you decimated his toes with every step.

Ace, watching from the sidelines, looked like he had been personally wronged by the universe.

His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. His grip on his drink? White-knuckled. If he had been any tenser, his soul might have ascended on the spot.

Cater, in contrast, was having the time of his life.

Sipping tea like a smug little gremlin, he watched the spectacle unfold with the kind of amusement normally reserved for reality TV drama. He did not care that Ace was clearly dying inside. In fact, it was making the tea taste better.

Meanwhile, Trey suffered.

He suffered so much.

You stepped on his foot. Again. You stepped on it without intent. Without malice. But with the weight of a hundred failed dance lessons.

“Ah, you’re getting there,” Trey said with the patience of a saint, even as he subtly tried to guide you away from his crushed toes.

Ace twitched.

The evening ended with you being marginally better at dancing and Ace looking like he had been force-fed an entire lemon tree.

The next day, you arrived at Ace’s estate with the singular goal of dragging him into town for shenanigans.

Instead, you were met at the entrance by his butler, who, with a knowing wink that immediately put you on edge, informed you that Ace was “currently practicing” and that you were "free to go in and see for yourself."

This, of course, set off all your mental alarms.

You pushed open the door just a crack, peeking inside, and what you saw nearly short-circuited your brain.

There, in the middle of the room, was Ace Trappola.

Dancing.

With a coat hanger.

He held it like a real partner, moving across the floor with surprising grace, his brows furrowed in concentration, his lips pressing into a frustrated pout whenever he missed a step.

You felt something unfamiliar rise in your chest. A warmth. A flutter. A sense of being deeply, irreversibly touched.

You immediately squashed the feeling. Crushed it under your heel like a bug. Incinerated it. You refused to let sentimentality win.

So, naturally, you cleared your throat and went straight for the teasing.

“Wow, Ace. I didn’t know you and the coat hanger were so close.”

Ace startled so hard he nearly dropped the poor inanimate object.

He turned to you, face flushing an almost adorable shade of pink, before scowling and attempting to play it cool.

“I—this—I wasn’t practicing for you or anything!” he scoffed, crossing his arms as if that would somehow erase the memory from your brain.

“Oh, of course not,” you said, nodding sagely. “You were obviously training to impress the coat hanger.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed the back of his neck. Refused to meet your eyes.

“…You wanna practice together?”

And that was how you found yourself dancing with Ace in the dim glow of the evening light, his hands warm against yours, the two of you laughing every time you stumbled.

It was awkward. It was messy. It was weirdly fun.

And somewhere in the background, Ace’s butler was already reallocating the estate’s budget for your wedding.

You had successfully survived the dance.

This was, by all accounts, a miracle.

There had been no toe-crushing disasters, no tragic falls, no wardrobe malfunctions that would have made the noble ladies clutch their pearls and whisper about you for decades. Not even a single case of you flinging your arms out too enthusiastically and smacking a duke’s son in the face.

You had defied fate.

And it definitely helped that your partner had been Ace—as much as that bruised your pride to admit. He was annoyingly decent at making sure you didn’t trip over your own feet, even though he kept smirking the entire time like he was waiting for you to say something ridiculous like "Wow, Ace, you're so talented and charming and handsome, what would I ever do without you?"

You would rather perish.

So, once the dance ended, you immediately excused yourself and found a nice, solid chair to collapse into. Ace, good little fake boyfriend that he was, offered to get you both drinks, which was a very convenient excuse for you to not be near him for five minutes.

And that was when the Genius Strategist Prince swooped in.

You did not see him approach. You did not sense his presence. It was as if he had teleported into existence like some eldritch being fueled purely by narcissism and misplaced confidence.

One moment, you were sitting peacefully, and the next—

He was there.

The cursed arm wrapped around your shoulders. The infuriating smirk. The unbearable arrogance wafting off him like overpriced cologne.

Oh, this was bad.

"You looked quite beautiful on the dance floor tonight," he murmured, his voice dripping with self-satisfaction. "Almost like a queen-to-be."

This man had the audacity—the sheer, unholy nerve—to look at you like you were supposed to giggle and blush at that line instead of chewing through your own tongue in an effort not to commit a crime.

You had one option.

You fled.

You simply stood up and walked away, directly towards the only person in this cursed ballroom who could save you from this richly perfumed disaster of a man.

Ace.

Ace, who had perfectly timed his return with two glasses of something that was hopefully strong enough to erase the last ten seconds from your memory. Ace, who took one look at your expression, saw the absolute horror trailing behind you, and immediately understood the assignment.

Without missing a beat, he wrapped an arm around you.

Possessive. Protective. The very image of a devoted fake lover.

You had never been so grateful for his dramatic streak.

The prince, who had followed you like a particularly persistent case of food poisoning, bristled.

"Remove your arm," he commanded, his voice low and sharp.

Ace did not remove his arm.

In fact, he pulled you closer, tilting his head just slightly in a way that perfectly balanced smugness and challenge.

"Why should I take my hand off my partner?" he asked.

You, who had spent your entire life developing a survival instinct specifically for escaping situations like this, felt the distant whisper of a self-preservation alarm. That was still the crown prince, after all. Ace was many things—irritating, reckless, an absolute menace—but he was not immortal.

Fortunately, before you had to say anything, help arrived.

Across the ballroom, Riddle nodded.

To your left, Deuce gave a subtle thumbs-up.

The plan was in motion.

Phase One

From the far end of the ballroom, Trey, the royal chef, emerged, balancing an enormous cake on a silver tray. It was a towering, masterful creation—a true work of art, layers stacked high, delicately sculpted sugar decorations shimmering under the chandelier light.

A cake that, in mere moments, would be used as a weapon of mass destruction.

Trey took one fateful step.

Tripped (As planned)

And the entire cake, in all its elaborate, multi-tiered glory, toppled over.

Straight. Onto. The. Prince.

Ace immediately shielded you from the debris. His hand was firm on your back as he turned you slightly away from the chaos, and when you glanced up at him, he was grinning.

Smug. Smug. Smug.

Something in your stomach did something.

You ignored it.

The prince, meanwhile, stood there in horrified silence, cake and frosting dripping down his very expensive, very now-ruined clothes.

And then came Phase Two

Deuce, moving with the "concern" of a man who absolutely knew he was about to ruin someone’s life, rushed forward.

"Your Highness," he said earnestly, holding out his own coat, "you should remove your clothes."

The entire ballroom went silent.

The prince, still picking fondant out of his hair, turned slowly.

"What?"

"You’re covered in cake," Deuce explained, voice so painfully genuine that you nearly choked.

The prince, who absolutely would rather die than undress in public, refused.

Which was unfortunate. Because Deuce, bless his heart, did not take no for an answer.

He grabbed the prince’s jacket.

And pulled.

The ballroom collectively inhaled.

Because underneath—where there should have been the broad, powerful shoulders of a “warrior prince,” where there should have been toned muscle sculpted by years of battle and strategy—

Was nothing.

Not just nothing—an outright betrayal of physics and expectation.

The prince was built like a malnourished Victorian ghost.

His coat—once the source of his so-called “strong, masculine presence”—had been heavily padded. Not just lightly stuffed, but outright engineered to create the illusion of bulging biceps and warrior-like stature.

Biceps, it was now evident, larger than his actual head.

The ballroom gasped.

The prince, red-faced and humiliated, did what any reasonable man would do when faced with public disgrace.

He ran.

You, Ace, Deuce, and your co-conspirators high-fived.

And the next morning, Cater, journalist extraordinaire, published an excruciatingly detailed article titled:

"From Brawn to Busted: The Prince’s Muscle Mirage!"

2 down. 3 to go.

It had been a regular morning. A peaceful morning. A morning where you had intended to do nothing more than descend the stairs like a normal, functioning member of society, have breakfast, and not make a complete spectacle of yourself before noon.

The universe had other plans.

One moment, you had been confidently stepping forward, and the next—

Betrayal.

Your foot had missed the step. Gravity, that treacherous, fickle force, had seized its chance. You had plummeted like a sack of potatoes launched off a moving carriage, limbs flailing, dignity abandoning ship before you even hit the floor.

And then you hit the floor.

Hard.

Ace, your beloved thorn in the side, had stood over you, blinking, until you groaned and weakly waved a hand to signal that you were probably not dead.

And that was when he had completely lost it.

He had laughed for ten minutes straight. A full, wheezing, tears-in-his-eyes, struggling-to-breathe kind of laugh, slapping his knee like an old man who just heard the funniest joke of his life. The servants had peered around corners in confusion. One poor maid had whispered, "Should we call a doctor?" Not for you. For Ace, because he was about to rupture a lung.

"You're fine," he gasped out eventually, still giggling like a goblin. "It's just a sprain, right? But your ego— oh, your ego is never coming back from this one."

And that was how you had ended up here.

Ace had decided—without your input, without even a semblance of human decency— that you were now a particularly large handbag.

He carried you everywhere.

There was no logical reason for this. You could still walk. You had one (1) slightly messed-up ankle, you were fine. But Ace, seeing the opportunity to be the worst person alive, had simply hoisted you up like a particularly unruly sack of flour and declared, "Guess you're stuck with me, huh?"

And he had not put you down since.

Which led to your current predicament.

You had planned to meet Riddle, Trey, and Cater for tea in the gardens, because you were a person of class and refinement, not some gremlin carried around like stolen treasure. But did that stop Ace? No. Of course not.

The three of them had been waiting peacefully in the garden, cups of tea in hand, enjoying their serene afternoon—

And then Ace had strolled in, with you draped over his shoulder like a particularly expensive piece of luggage.

Silence.

The kind of silence that one might expect after watching a clown cartwheel directly into the king’s court.

Trey looked concerned. Riddle looked like he was going to spontaneously combust. Cater, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looked entertained.

And you? You had given up.

"You could just let me down, you know," you muttered, swatting at Ace’s shoulder in what you hoped was a dignified manner, though it probably looked more like a dying fish flopping around.

Ace grinned, because of course he did. "Nah. Too late. You’re furniture now."

You scowled. "Then put me near the table so I can actually reach my tea, you absolute menace—"

Ace ignored you completely.

He dropped into a chair, still holding you.

This was your life now.

Trey, who had likely woken up hoping for a quiet afternoon, cleared his throat and asked, very diplomatically, "So… sprained ankle?"

"Tragic accident," Ace said, like he was recounting the tale of a fallen soldier. "There I was, just minding my own business, when—boom. Disaster. Absolute catastrophe. They will sing songs about this one for years."

"You were laughing," you deadpanned.

"And now I'm grieving," Ace shot back.

Riddle, who had quite frankly had enough of both of you, massaged his temples.

Meanwhile, Cater, who had pulled out his camera at some point, was taking photos.

"This is gold," he muttered, already plotting his gossip column.

And then, just as you were mid-swat, trying to smack the smirk off Ace’s face while he cackled like a heathen, Riddle sighed under his breath, voice heavy with exhaustion and despair.

"They're so obvious," he muttered. "Sevens save us all."

Trey nodded solemnly. Cater just grinned.

It had been a perfectly normal day.

Which, of course, meant disaster was imminent.

You were standing in the grand hall, sipping a totally normal, non-poisoned cup of tea (probably), when you felt it. That eerie, spine-chilling sensation. The distinct, unsettling awareness that you were being watched.

Slowly, you turned your head.

A pair of glowing eyes peered at you from behind an indoor potted plant.

You sighed. Loudly. "Viscount, I can see you."

"Tch," the Viscount hissed, stepping out of his entirely inadequate hiding spot. "So perceptive… as expected of my fated beloved."

As if to ruin the illusion entirely, he tripped on his own cape and had to grab onto the plant for support. The entire thing tipped over with a thunderous CRASH.

Silence.

A servant slowly turned to look at him, unblinking.

The Viscount, sprawled across the floor, cleared his throat. "Pretend you did not see that."

You rubbed your temples. "What do you want?"

He rose to his feet dramatically—or at least, he tried. His foot got tangled in his cape again, and he had to do an awkward little hop to untangle himself before he could finally regain his dignity (what little he had left).

"I have come to confess," he intoned, "the depths of my undying love for you."

A dramatic wind blew through the hall. (Despite the fact that all the windows were closed.)

You braced yourself. This was going to be painful.

"From the moment I first laid eyes upon you," the Viscount continued, stepping forward (but nearly tripping over a rug). "I knew that you and I were bound by fate."

He gripped his chest. "Your beauty, your grace, your ability to evade me every time I attempt to watch over you from the shadows… truly, you are like a rare and precious bird, always just out of reach!"

"You mean because I run away every time you try to talk to me?" you deadpanned.

"Exactly!" he said, passionately. "Such a clever game of cat and mouse we play!"

You stared at him. He stared back, completely serious.

Cater was, once again, taking pictures of this entire trainwreck. Deuce had just pulled out a chair, grabbed a snack, and was watching like it was a soap opera.

"But no more!" the Viscount declared. "Today, I shall break this cycle and claim my rightful place at your side!"

He took a bold step forward—

—and promptly slipped on the fallen leaves from the potted plant.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Then—THUMP.

He faceplanted straight into the marble floor.

Cater wheezed. Deuce actually fell out of his chair. Riddle was muttering something about public executions. Trey looked like he was reconsidering his entire life.

But the Viscount?

He slowly pushed himself up, nose bleeding, expression unfazed.

"A minor setback," he rasped, wiping the blood off his face with his own cape like some kind of tragic war hero. "Love… is pain."

You exhaled deeply. "Alright, you know what?" You straightened your posture, voice heavy with overwhelming sorrow. "My dear Viscount… if only you had come to me sooner."

His breath hitched. "You mean—?"

"If only fate were kinder," you continued, placing a hand on your chest. "If only my heart were not already…taken."

Fake gasps echoed through the hall.

The Viscount staggered. "No… it cannot be!"

"I am afraid so," you whispered. "For I… I have already pledged my love to…"

You spun dramatically—and pointed straight at Ace.

Ace, who immediately choked on his drink.

Ace, who had agreed to fake date you but was now staring at you like you had just struck him with a bolt of divine judgment.

Cater’s camera zoomed in on his expression.

You turned dramatically, seizing Ace’s arm with a grip that could bend steel. "My darling fiancé, my heart, my sun and stars!" you declared, throwing yourself against him like a maiden in distress. "Forgive me for not introducing you sooner—this is my betrothed, Ace Trappola!"

Ace made a sound like a cat getting drop-kicked across a room.

"WHAT."

The Viscount looked like someone had just run him through with a broadsword.

"I know," you said, voice trembling with unspeakable woe. "It seems impossible. Unthinkable. But love, my dear Viscount, is a force beyond comprehension. Who are we to fight against fate?"

Ace was still making distressed noises. Riddle looked like he was five seconds away from committing homicide.

"No—no, this cannot be!" The Viscount staggered back, clutching his chest like he had just been mortally wounded. "You would choose him over me?"

You gripped Ace’s collar, pulling him until your foreheads nearly touched. "How could I not?" you whispered. "Look at him. Look at his—his, um. His face!"

Ace mouthed: WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW?

"His personality!" you continued, wildly grasping for reasons. "His—his unparalleled ability to be so Ace-like at all times!"

"I hate every single word coming out of your mouth," Ace muttered.

"And most of all," you gasped, voice hushed. "The way he carries me when I sprain my ankle. A true gentleman. A man among men."

The grand hall erupted into chaos.

Ace visibly short-circuited. "I— WHAT??"

Cater's hands visibly shook as he tried to keep taking pictures. Deuce had fully dropped his snack. The Viscount let out a dramatic, heartbroken wail.

"Engaged?!" the Viscount gasped. "But how? When?!"

You clutched Ace’s hand tighter. "Last night."

"LAST NIGHT??" Ace screeched.

You shot him a look. Ace, whose entire face was on fire, gulped and quickly switched tactics.

"Aha… aha… yeah, totally!" He threw an arm around your shoulders, grinning through his existential crisis. "We got engaged last night! Super romantic and all that! Just me and my beloved—" his voice cracked, "—who I love so much!"

You patted his chest reassuringly. "See? True love."

The Viscount staggered back. His entire world was shattering. The intensity of his emotional turmoil was so strong that he tripped over his own cape again and went tumbling down the nearby staircase.

It took twenty entire seconds for him to hit the bottom.

More silence.

Then, from below: "Love… is pain…"

Ace, still holding you, whispered, "What did you just do to me?"

You turned, smiling sweetly. "I just made you my fiancé, Ace."

Ace felt faint. His heart had been going a normal amount of fast when he agreed to fake date you, but this? This was illegal.

Meanwhile, Cater was already writing the next article.

The night had started so normally. Just you, your expensive, holy-grail skincare routine, and the unwavering determination to emerge from this ritual looking like a Renaissance painting come to life. You had your headband on, your fluffy robe wrapped around you, and the greenish-white sludge of your face mask setting into a crusty layer of beauty and self-care.

Then Ace Trappola happened.

He kicked the door open like he was the protagonist of a spaghetti western, took one look at you, and lost his entire mind.

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" he gasped, immediately doubling over in laughter. "Oh my god, you look like a haunted doll."

You did not hesitate. You lunged at him like an apex predator.

And despite all his athleticism and street-rat reflexes, Ace had not been prepared for an attack from a fully masked-up, vengeance-driven individual armed with a whole tub of premium skincare.

"WAIT—NO—"

It was too late.

You straddled his lap, pressed his shoulders down onto your bed, and slathered the mask onto his stupid, laughing face with all the delicacy of an artist painting their magnum opus.

"See?" you said sweetly, coating his nose with a dramatic flourish. "Now we’re both glowing."

Ace wanted to talk back— wanted to make a joke, to tell you off, to do anything but sit here like a dumb, frozen idiot while you cupped his face, held his chin so gently, and smoothed the mask over his cheekbones like he was something precious and breakable.

And he was losing it.

Your legs were slung over his lap. His back was against your bed. Your hand was on his jaw, tilting his face however you wanted. And Ace, the very same Ace who laughed at every romantic in the kingdom for being cringe and stupid, was about two seconds away from throwing his dignity out the window and leaning into your touch.

Because all he could see, smell, and feel was you.

Your voice kept going, rambling about something stupid and inconsequential—some royal drama, a new gossip column, your thoughts on different brands of facial cleanser—but Ace couldn’t process a single word because his entire stupid, traitorous heart was screaming at him to just—just—

The revelation slammed into him like a meteor. A deadly, world-ending, history-changing impact that reduced his brain cells to rubble and left behind only the smoking wreckage of a man who was well and truly screwed.

This was not a platonic feeling.

This was the opposite of a platonic feeling.

And yet, instead of saying anything, instead of introspecting like a sane person, he just let you keep talking, let himself bask in the feeling of your fingers on his face, let himself sink into the sheer stupidity of his predicament.

By the time he could regain enough motor function to think about moving, it was too late.

You had both somehow, inexplicably, fallen asleep.

The morning arrived with the unmistakable sound of high-pitched giggles.

You cracked open a single bleary eye, your body heavy with sleep, and—oh.

Oh no.

Ace was snuggled up against your arm, his face relaxed in a way you had never seen before. His usual cocky smirk was nowhere to be found, replaced by something painfully soft and vulnerable.

His hair was a mess, sticking up in ridiculous angles, but somehow, it made him look even cuter. His cheek was squished against your shoulder, his arms curled slightly around yours, one leg lazily slung over yours like he had every right to use you as a makeshift pillow.

And the worst part?

It wasn’t even weird.

It felt… right.

And that was when it hit you.

Like a meteor. Like an act of god. Like the universe itself had conspired to wait until you were at your most defenseless before smacking you in the face with one singular, undeniable truth.

You were in love with Ace Trappola.

You. Loved. Ace.

How unfortunate.

You had half a mind to violently shake him awake, make him take responsibility for making you feel this way—but then he muttered something in his sleep, something unintelligible, and shifted closer, pressing his nose against your arm.

You stopped breathing.

The maids were still standing at the door, watching, waiting for you to react.

You slowly raised a hand.

And, with the elegance of a queen issuing a decree, you waved them away.

Five more minutes wouldn’t hurt.

The Duke of the North was an annual disaster. Like a migrating bird that exclusively flew south to be annoying, he only visited the capital once a year—and every single time, it was to do one thing: propose to you.

This would have been flattering, except for the fact that you had been rejecting him since the dawn of time. Yet, for some reason, he was deeply convinced that, one day, you would simply change your mind upon seeing him standing there, brooding dramatically in his tailored, imported-from-a-country-that-doesn’t-even-exist coats.

He did not take rejection well.

Of course, you never answered his letters. Why would you? His correspondence was a tragic novel in real-time, each letter trying and failing to sound aloof, with absolutely zero success.

"I suppose you are busy, as I am also very busy, thinking about extremely important things, such as war and finance and not at all about why you have not replied to me in the last six months." "Should you choose to acknowledge my existence, I will, of course, consider taking time out of my incredibly packed schedule to respond (though I have already cleared next Tuesday for you, just in case)." "It is of no consequence to me whether you reply. However, I have sent my fastest courier, so you may want to respond before he breaks his legs trying to reach me before nightfall."

Pathetic.

And now, as expected, here he was again.

And as always, he came prepared.

This time, he had doubled down on his "love can be bought" philosophy.

A solid gold chair—because “only the finest furniture is worthy of your presence.”

An entirely new breed of horse, bred specifically for you, because "standard horses are beneath you."

A fleet of ships. Why? No one knew. You were not a sailor. You had never even been on a boat.

Riddle, who had been an unfortunate witness to this entire spectacle, had been slowly turning redder and redder, not out of anger, but out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. He looked like he was debating whether to intervene or let natural selection take its course.

Meanwhile, the villainess, who had been throwing you dirty looks since the Duke’s arrival, stood nearby. It didn’t take long for you to realize why—she liked him. She wanted him.

You turned to face her. Slowly. Deliberately.

Your expression said: “Lady, I don’t even want him.”

Her expression said: “You lying harlot.”

And before you could even think of clarifying that you had no interest in this walking gold reserve, the situation somehow got worse.

Ace appeared out of nowhere, grabbed your hand, and, with the audacity of a man who had never once in his life considered the consequences of his actions, declared with full confidence:

"Oh, sorry, we already got married."

Riddle choked on air.

The Duke froze, mid-proposal, like a glitching NPC in a poorly coded game. His mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were about to say something but his brain was actively refusing to process the information.

"You," he said hoarsely, like someone had just stabbed him in the chest. "What?"

You nodded solemnly, forcing yourself to look as heartbreakingly sincere as possible. "We even have a dog," you said.

Ace, who had waited his entire life for a bit like this, effortlessly raised the stakes.

"Two dogs," he added, gripping your hand even tighter.

You smiled sweetly, as if recounting precious memories of a long and happy marriage. "Three, actually."

The Duke’s breathing audibly shortened.

Riddle buried his face in his hands and muttered, “Oh my god, make it stop.”

"WHAT?!"

Ace sighed, the weariness of a devoted husband weighing down on him. "We also have six kids."

The Duke, who had already been dangerously close to a stroke, seemed to visibly glitch.

"SIX?! BUT IT HASN’T EVEN BEEN A YEAR!"

Ace, seeing an opportunity and deciding to go all in, dramatically gestured at a group of stray cats on the street.

"There they are," he said, with the utmost conviction.

The Duke followed his gaze, slowly, hesitantly, as if he already knew he was about to regret it.

There, on the sidewalk, were six very dirty, very chaotic stray cats.

One of them, making full eye contact with him, immediately started hacking up a hairball. Another was biting its own tail, because it had seemingly forgotten that it was attached to its body. A third was somehow climbing a wall upside down, defying both gravity and logic.

The Duke completely lost his mind.

"YOU—YOU HAVE—YOU’VE BIRTHED FELINE OFFSPRING?!"

Riddle made a strangled noise. His entire body convulsed with the effort of holding back laughter.

Ace did not hesitate. "Yeah, we just love them so much," he said, as if this were a completely normal and factual statement. "Fatherhood changes a man, y’know?"

"Don't forget our youngest," you added helpfully, pointing at a cat stuck in a flower pot.

Ace wiped an imaginary tear. "That's little Gregory. He's the smart one."

At this point, Riddle was not even trying to stop laughing anymore. He had completely given up, his usual decorum shattered beyond repair.

The Duke, however, looked like he was experiencing all five stages of grief simultaneously. His face twisted into pure devastation. He opened his mouth to say something, then immediately closed it, shaking his head in silent agony.

And then, without another word—he left.

Ace, smug beyond words, turned to you, grinning. "That went well."

Riddle, who had just witnessed a full-scale psychological takedown using nothing but sheer absurdity, wiped a tear from his eye. "You two are insane," he muttered, shaking his head.

Ace didn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the evening.

Ace doesn’t know what the hell is going on.

He’s always liked you. A little.

A manageable amount. A totally ignorable amount. The kind of dumb little crush that normal people have. The kind you lock in a box, throw into the ocean, and then blow up the ocean for good measure.

But then you woke up from your fainting accident and became his worst nightmare.

Because somehow, in that brief unconscious state, you became ten times more interesting. More chaotic. More fun.

You met his sarcasm with even faster comebacks. You encouraged his bad ideas. You had absolutely no self-preservation. You went from exasperatedly tolerating his nonsense to actively participating in it, and it was the worst thing you could have possibly done to him.

Because now?

Now he’s the one barely keeping up.

You match him perfectly—step for step, disaster for disaster. If he’s instigating, you’re escalating. If he cracks a joke, you one-up him. When he nudges you in the ribs, you shove him into a bush.

And when you grab his arm, lean in close, and whisper, "Hey, let’s cause some problems," his brain just shuts the hell down.

He’s so ruined.

And the thing is?

Ace has done this to himself.

Because when he suggested pretending to be your lover, he genuinely thought it was a great idea. A genius plan, even.

He’d fake it, get it out of his system, and then tragically move on once you found someone else.

Except now he’s holding your hand in public.

Now he’s whispering in your ear just to make you laugh.

Now he’s calling you ‘sweetheart’ and ‘darling’ and ‘my love’—and you play along like it’s a game, and every time, his heart detonates like an unstable potion.

At this point, if you actually fell for someone else?

Ace thinks he might literally die.

No, really. He would simply perish. Collapse. Expire. He would crumple to the floor like a puppet whose strings had been violently severed and haunt the castle as the world’s most bitter, lovesick ghost.

Cupid was somewhere, rolling on the floor, wheezing.

The other day, you smiled at him for too long, and he forgot how to walk and almost tripped.

You called him ‘Acey’ once, and he almost bit through his own tongue.

One time, you said, "I feel safest when I’m with you," and he blacked out for a full thirty seconds.

You took a sip from his drink the other day, and he had to go lie down.

And now you’re standing beside him at some stupid jewelry stall, pointing at a necklace with that gleam in your eyes, and Ace is staring at you like an absolute idiot.

He can’t stop thinking about how pretty you look under the market lights.

How he’d buy you every single piece of jewelry in the damn kingdom if you asked.

How his entire soul is in shambles because he’s standing next to you thinking, "Oh no. I actually, genuinely, idiotically am in love."

Ace Trappola, Ace ‘Fake-Dating-Was-A-Good-Idea’ Trappola, is staring at you thinking:

"Oh, Trappola. You absolute dumbass. You’re in love."

And then you turn to him, all bright-eyed and smiling, and ask, "Ace, do you think this would suit me?"

And he almost chokes on his own tongue.

Because yes.

Yes, it would suit you.

So would every other necklace in existence. So would a crown. So would the title of Supreme Ruler of the Universe, if he could somehow get that for you.

But instead of saying that, he just shoves his hands in his pockets, tries to look normal, and mutters, "Yeah, yeah, whatever. If you like it, just get it already."

And you laugh.

And Ace Trappola is never going to recover from this.

The worst of the lot finally appears.

You had dealt with the Brooding Duke who thought love could be purchased, endured the Prince who wept into his lace handkerchief at every rejection, and even managed to shake off the Yandere who believed true love was an elaborate chess game. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the Drama King Knight.

He stood before you in the garden, his impractically long cape billowing in the completely windless afternoon, because he had, no doubt, hired a peasant to stand just off-camera fanning him.

His sword—which was capable of splitting mountains but had only ever been used to dramatically point at celestial bodies—glinted in the sun. He looked at you with eyes that had definitely rehearsed this exact expression in the mirror for three hours.

"Fairest of all," he said, already halfway through a monologue you did not want to hear. "I have braved the perils of—"

You sighed dramatically, cutting him off. "A single brush of your hand might shatter my frail mortal bones."

The Knight visibly trembled. His gauntleted hand hovered in the air like he was about to faint. "You’re right… I must protect you. From myself."

Riddle, standing beside you, pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes. Do that. From very, very far away."

And for a moment, it seemed like that would be enough. The Knight turned away, his cape swishing dramatically. You could practically hear the imaginary background music swelling, the curtains closing, the credits rolling.

Then he whirled back around. God, why do they always whirl back around?

"But if I cannot be with you in body," he declared, voice shaking with raw emotion, "then I shall remain by your side in spirit. Our souls, forever entwined. Our hearts, eternally wed!"

You blinked. "What."

"Yes!" He threw an arm toward the heavens, pointing at the sun like he was about to challenge it to a duel. "We shall be together in spirit! No matter where you go, I shall always be watching! Always waiting! Like the moon follows the tide, I shall—"

Alright. You had tried to reject him normally. You had been reasonable. But clearly, reason had no place here.

Riddle sighed. "Do whatever you're about to do. Just… make it quick."

You nodded grimly. If this was how it had to be, then so be it.

You squared your shoulders, took a deep breath, and clutched your chest like a woman stricken with a terrible, unknowable curse.

"No," you whispered. "You don’t understand."

The Knight faltered. "Understand… what?"

You threw an arm over your eyes. "I am cursed! Any man who loves me shall be turned into a… a… a goose."

Silence.

The Knight blinked at you. He opened his mouth. Closed it. His sword, which had been dramatically trembling in his grip, clattered to the ground.

"A… a goose?" he repeated.

You solemnly nodded.

And then, as prearranged, Deuce rushed off to fetch the goose.

The Knight looked between you and Deuce’s retreating figure, his expression one of dawning horror, like a man realizing he had proposed to a person who was actually an eldritch horror in disguise.

Deuce returned, struggling slightly because the goose had absolutely no interest in being part of this nonsense.

But this was not just any goose. This was the Emergency Goose.

Ace, hiding behind a tree like the gremlin he was, gave you a solemn nod.

Deuce carefully lifted the goose, revealing the final touch—the little red heart painted onto its cheek.

Riddle rubbed his temples. "I hate that you were prepared for this."

"This," you declared gravely, "is Ace."

The Knight reeled. "No. That… That cannot be!"

The goose honked.

"Yes," you continued, "he loved me once. And this was his fate."

A perfect beat of silence.

And then, from behind the tree, Ace whimpered, "Save me."

The Knight—a man who had once stood before a charging wyvern and laughed in the face of death—let out a shriek so bloodcurdling it startled every bird within a five-mile radius.

And then, cape billowing, he turned and ran.

Not a noble retreat. Not a dignified exit. No. Full-speed sprint. He shoved a confused maid out of the way. He leapt over a market stall. A small child pointed and laughed as he fled, but the Knight did not slow down, because his heart—once so full of love and poetry—was now full of terror.

Terror of you.

Terror of your goose.

Terror of the idea that at any moment, he too might sprout feathers and begin honking at the moon.

You, Ace, Deuce, Riddle, and the goose watched him vanish into the horizon.

A long silence followed.

Deuce set the goose down. The goose, finally free from its obligations, pecked him on the shin and waddled off.

Ace emerged from behind the tree, cackling. "Did you see his face?! Bro really thought I turned into a goose!"

Riddle sighed the sigh of a man who was simply too tired for this nonsense. "You two are the worst people I have ever met."

"You love us," you said.

"I do not."

Ace slung an arm over your shoulder. "You totally do."

Riddle turned on his heel and stormed off in the opposite direction.

But you saw it. You absolutely saw it.

A single, fleeting twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.

Freedom. Sweet, unshackled, unburdened freedom.

No more men in capes dramatically reciting poetry at you. No more gold furniture being delivered to your doorstep. No more wild-eyed knights trying to prove their devotion by fighting literal bears in your honor. No more deranged suitors appearing at your window like particularly uncoordinated bats.

You were free.

And yet—

As you stood in the gardens, bathed in the golden glow of your well-earned peace, you felt… unsettled. Uneasy. Almost—upset.

Which made no sense. You had spent months rejecting these lunatics. You had faked engagements, lied through your teeth, orchestrated elaborate hoaxes, and weaponized a goose. You had done everything in your power to be rid of them, and it worked.

So why, in the face of your glorious victory, did you feel like you'd lost something?

And then, like a lightning bolt to the brain, it hit you.

Ace.

This meant no more holding hands in public to “convince” people. No more cheek kisses for the sake of believability. No more stupid, infuriating, wonderful Ace, grinning at you like you hung the damn moon.

It was over. Your fake dating/marriage/engagement (depending on the day and the level of your theatrics) had served its purpose.

And now it was gone.

The realization hit like a carriage crash.

You were an idiot. A complete, utter idiot.

Because somewhere between the first fake kiss in front of a suitor, the first time he laced his fingers through yours, the first time he winked at you like you were his favorite person in the entire world, you had fallen for him.

And now, standing in the wreckage of your successful campaign of repelling suitors, you realized that it was either confess right now… or take this to your grave.

Your horribly embarrassing, entirely unavoidable, painfully obvious feelings for Ace Trappola.

Ace is happy for you. He really, really is.

You’re finally free. No more unhinged declarations of love from men who have the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. No more dodging elaborate marriage proposals like a rogue in a dungeon raid. No more looking over your shoulder, expecting some cape-wearing lunatic to be reciting poetry in your honor.

Most of them think you’re taken. One thinks you’re cursed.

It worked. You’re safe. You’re free.

So why does Ace feel like he’s the one who lost?

He was kind of hoping it would take longer. Just a little bit. A few more weeks, maybe. Another month, if he was lucky. Because every day you had to pretend to be his meant another day you were in his arms. Another day he got to hold your hand in public and call it necessity. Another day he could press a kiss to your cheek without consequences. Another day of you being his.

And now? Now it was over.

And he doesn’t know how to go back.

How is he supposed to just… be your best friend Ace again? How is he supposed to look at you and not wonder what it could’ve been? How is he supposed to stand beside you like nothing has changed when everything has changed for him?

Because now, every time he looks at you, he just wants to grab you and kiss you until you’re the only thing he can taste. He wants to pull you close, whisper all the things he never let himself say. He wants everything.

But most of all, he knows—knows deep in his bones—that if you ever fall for someone else, it will destroy him.

He has to confess right now or take it to his grave.

You’re running like a madman. Like some kind of deranged romantic heroine who’s just realized she’s been in love with her childhood friend all along. Your dress is catching on every stray branch, your hair’s a mess, and you probably look like you’ve barely survived a war. But none of that matters.

Because Ace is running too.

You see him, just as wrecked as you, his coat unevenly buttoned, his hair windswept, his face flushed and frantic like he’s been sprinting for miles. And maybe he has. Maybe you both have—metaphorically and literally.

You skid to a stop, panting, staring at each other like two idiots who have finally realized the answer to a question they should’ve known all along. Ace looks at you, his breath shuddering, his eyes wide and teary like he can’t believe you’re actually here. And maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the fact that you’re both half out of your minds with feelings, but you throw caution to the wind.

You’ve survived up till now on sheer audacity. Maybe it can take you further.

So you kiss him.

And for a second, there’s nothing. Just the stunned stillness of the world as you close the distance, pressing your lips to his.

And then he’s grabbing you, pulling you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. His hands are tangled in your clothes, your hair, desperate, shaking, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you through touch alone. He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this moment forever, like he’s terrified it’s all a dream and any second now, he’ll wake up.

You pull away for air—and he chases after your lips, stealing another kiss before you can even take a full breath.

This one is deeper, slower, but just as desperate. It’s like he’s pouring everything he’s ever felt into you, like he’s afraid to stop, like he’s trying to tell you everything he never could with words. And you get it—because you feel the same way.

When he finally pulls back, breathless and shaking with emotion, you press one more soft kiss against his lips, and then you say it.

“I love you.”

Ace lets out a watery laugh, his forehead dropping against yours as he grins like a fool. His eyes are shining, and he cups your face like he can’t believe you’re real.

“What took you so long?”

And then he kisses you again.

The morning after your dramatic, borderline cinematic love confession, you and Ace walk into the usual meeting spot grinning like absolute fools.

You’re both trying to act normal, like the world hasn’t completely shifted on its axis, like Ace hadn’t kissed you breathless under the stars, like you hadn’t confessed to each other in a moment so romantic it could’ve been a grand finale scene in a novel. But normalcy is impossible because the second you walk in, hand-in-hand, everyone immediately knows.

Riddle, the most composed of the group, simply pinches the bridge of his nose, exhales sharply, and mutters, “Great Sevens, finally.” His tone is not congratulatory—it is the tone of a man who has suffered for far too long, who has borne witness to the sheer idiocy of your mutual pining and is just relieved that he no longer has to endure it.

Trey, ever the calm and collected one, gives you a small, knowing smile and nods. “Congrats,” he says simply, because Trey has probably seen this coming since the very beginning. He is the type of man who could predict the weather based on the way the wind blows and has likely bet money on this exact outcome.

Cater, on the other hand, reacts as expected.

“LET’S GO, MY MAN!” he hoots, high-fiving Ace so hard that Ace actually staggers backward. “Finally out of the friendzone, huh? This is a historic moment. A certified win.” He’s already pulling out his camera, preparing to document this for the masses, and you barely manage to swat it away in time.

And then there’s Deuce. Sweet, exhausted Deuce.

He doesn’t cheer, or exclaim, or even try to congratulate you. No, Deuce just sits there, staring at the both of you like he’s just been freed from an unspeakable burden. Like he’s been carrying the weight of Ace’s obliviousness and denial on his shoulders for so long that he no longer knows what to do with himself now that it’s over.

“I don’t have to hear him deny his feelings anymore,” Deuce whispers, voice thick with emotion. “I’m free.”

Ace shoves him.

And as your friends start heckling you, teasing you, yelling at you to get a room, you turn to Ace, grinning at him as he grins right back.

And in that moment, you can’t help but think back to the mysterious, rollerblading grandma who is the reason you even ended up here. The woman who defied all logic and physics, who sent you hurtling into this world with nothing but sheer willpower and questionable urban transportation.

You close your eyes, sending a silent thanks to her.

She was a real one.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

#twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #ace trappola x reader #ace x reader #ace trappola #twst ace #twst ace x reader #ace #trash novel chronicles

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toastedpotatoes · 2 days ago

Text

"What's all this about?" asked someone behind him during a lull in his routine. Their voice carried the distinct lilt of the Folk (good) and an air of extreme exasperation (slightly less good).

Jal turned to face them, cooking implements still in his hands. "Finally—I mean, it would sure suck if—"

"I heard you the first time," said the newcomer, voice tired and dry as dead bark. "And we do understand sarcasm."

"Oh," he said. There went his plans. "Um. Take me anyway? Please?"

They stood facing him a long while, their expression reading visibly as why do I have to deal with this? even in the moonlight.

He must've got stuck with a dud or something. Weren't the Folk supposed to be... magic? Ethereal? Something greater than what amounted to little more than a sharp-eared person with lichen in their hair?

They sighed. "First of all, if you wanted us to take you, why did you bring iron?"

"Oh," Jal said for the second time. He looked down at the pots and pans. "I wanted to get your attention."

"Well, it worked. It also made an incredible racket. Put them away now."

He hesitated—he wasn't exactly eager to lay down his best defense against things like them—but this was his best chance at getting out of his life. He set them down outside the mushroom ring.

"Second," they continued, "why did you decide that the best time to do this was the middle of the night?"

This he had an answer for. "Well, you lot always dance in circles under the full moon, don't you? Figured now would be a good time."

They sighed again, muttered something about sky folk messing everything up, and said, "Not always."

Jal was getting impatient. The night was too chilly, he honestly should have been in the fey realms by now, and instead here he was getting interrogated by some house brownie. "So can you take me or not?"

"I can," they replied. "Doesn't mean I will. Why're you so eager to get abducted anyway?"

"Why's it matter?"

"It matters because I'm the one deciding if you get to go or not. And I'm being rightfully suspicious of the weirdly-excited-to-get-kidnapped human here."

He looked around for anything else he could do besides spill his life story to one of the Folk. There were still the pots and pans—if he could grab one quick enough—but they noticed him looking and their eyes flashed green in the moonlit dark and suddenly all the knots in the surrounding trees were blinking, watching, watching—

"I want a new life!" he cried, not missing how the trees snapped back to normal as soon as he spoke. "I want a fresh start! There's nothing left for me over there anyways. My home's evicted me, my friends've all left, and I can't face anyone there anymore, and—"

"You do realize that none of this necessitates banging bowls together in a mushroom circle, right?"

"They're not bowls, they're—never mind. Just—I can't stay here anymore."

They thought a moment. "Go back to bed."

"No!" He didn't even have a bed anymore. He didn't have anything left to lose. This was his only chance.

"Give me your name, and I'll take you."

Okay, maybe he had one thing left to lose.

"I'm not that dumb," he said, ignoring the highly doubtful look he received. He rifled through his pockets for—

"Thirty dollars?" he offered.

Their eyes narrowed at the bills he held out. "I don't need your money, and it wouldn't be enough anyhow."

"Thirty dollars and I don't leave all this iron in your precious forest."

They deliberated on this, periodically glaring at the lovely assortment of metal noisemakers he'd brought with him. "Fine. Deal. Pack up your clanking mess."

"Yes!" He gathered up his things and took their proffered hand, giddy enough that it was about five seconds before he realized they were leading him away from the mushroom ring, not into it.

"Wait," he said. "You said you'd take me."

"Never said where," they replied, calmly, and for a moment it felt like the trees had eyes again.

"Wait—but—where are we—"

"Relax," they said. "Just the nearest inn. You really need to go to bed." They picked a twig out of their hair. "And so do I, to be honest."

"OH BOY, IT WOULD SURE SUCK IF THE FAE TOOK ME!" cried the man banging pots and pans together in the middle of a mushroom circle.

#potato's pages

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internetpuppetgxrl · 2 days ago

Text

Sleeping in the Shadows - a Shadow Milk x Reader One Shot

au where shadow milk is a sleep paralysis monster, kinda like the boogeyman

You couldn’t sleep.

No matter how hard you tried, you just couldn’t sleep.

You had multiple instances of getting out of bed to get a snack, some water, go to the bathroom, or just do whatever. All in that order, over and over. Staring up at your ceiling, you let out a long and loud sigh. Your eyes fluttered a bit then you decided you’d try counting sheep. That always worked, right?

1…

2…

3…

4…

Oh, wait.

You suddenly remembered an old urban legend you heard told multiple times in multiple different ways. It even had an episode about it on an old tv show you used to watch as a kid that was all about scary stories. The story was about a strange cookie called Shadow Milk. Legend has it he’d come for those who couldn’t sleep, and counting sheep was one of the ways to summon him. Depending on how many you counted before you gave up, he’d appear to you and ask you which of the sheep you counted is real, and which one is just an illusion. If you guessed correctly, you’d be rewarded. If not, you’d be dragged either in your closet or under your bed, into his spire, and he’d turn you into his puppet to dance in his twisted shows forever and ever.

Some versions of the story would have him come to those who played card games at sleepovers, in some he’d come to those who were up past their bedtime, which was the version you watched in the tv show. In some you could just summon him by putting a joker card in front of your closet door, telling a good amount of lies and then sliding it under, and of course the game with the sheep would begin, with the amount of lies being the same amount of sheep that were present. Sometimes, instead of sheep, you’d have to answer questions, and if your answer was a lie, his appearance would become more and more terrifying, before he finally took you and made you his puppet. But no need to reminisce on the past, that’s just a little legend anyways. It’s a nice story, but it’s not real at all!

Right?

You smiled remembering that show you used to watch and the one episode that actually managed to scare you, which wasn’t the one about Shadow Milk, oddly enough. Your sweet nostalgic thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a bleat. You jolted up in terror and looked around, only to see there was nothing there. You calmed your breathing and laid back down. “Maybe I should stop thinking about that, for now, at least.” You mumbled to yourself as you stretched your back in your bed. After a moment of silence, you heard the sound of a music box. Only problem is,

You don’t own a music box.

And you’ve never heard that melody before.

Peeking out over your covers, you were too afraid to even move. You had no idea where that music was coming from, and you did NOT wanna find out anytime soon! You covered yourself up with the blankets and laid under there nice and still, covering your mouth with your hands. A blue glow was coming from outside, but no matter what, you’d never take them off. The music came to a halt after what felt like way longer than the minute it was playing for. You peeked an eye out from your hiding spot, and there was nothing there. You shuffled out of hiding and went back to sleep as normal, convincing yourself you were just sleep deprived.

“Well there you are…~”

What… was that? WHO was that? You opened your eyes, and a man in a blue harlequin outfit sat in front of you on the edge of your bed. He smiled at you and your closet in front of you was full of glowing blue eyes watching you. “There’s no way…” you thought to yourself. “A-are you… n-no… no it can’t be… shadow-“

“Shadow Milk Cookie? The great and powerful? Who else?” You lay there, eyes widened. You could not believe it! The very urban legend himself, right in your house, right at your bed, right now! “Yes, yes, hold your applause. I heard someone can’t sleep. Someone’s been a bad, bad cookie, huh? Good cookies should be put to bed right away, but look at you, all wide awake like it’s nothing!” Your voice was shaky as you replied, “I- I’m sorry, I, I promise I was trying to g-go to sleep but I-“ He interrupted and held a finger up to you, “Shhhhh… I know, Y/N Cookie, I know. Which is why… we’re gonna play a game! Since you know me so so so so so well, I think you know what you’ve got to do, yes?” You nodded “Yeah. I gotta figure out the sheep that’s not fake, got it.” He clapped his hands, “What a smart cookie you are! Oh, you must be a HUGE fan! Let’s see… what number did you count to? Five? Ah yes, Five!” Shadow Milk snapped his fingers, and on cue 5 sheep came out of your closet. You didn’t really want to think about how this was possible, you wanted to focus on figuring it out. “Think reeeeeal hard, Y/N Cookie. You got this!”

You looked real hard at each one, eyes scanning over the herd. Their blue eyes eerily glowed as you tried hard to spot the odd one out, but they all just looked so similar, you had no idea. Your index finger began to tremble as a tear formed from your fear. You really didn’t feel like being turned into a puppet. The idea of being bound to strings and losing all your will was… everything but pleasant. “Awww~ There, there, Y/N Cookie.” He began to pat you on the head, “There’s no need for those crocodile tears! You’ve got all the time in the world! Unless… that is, unless I get too bored waiting!” You swallowed, and went with your gut and made a decision. “That one! That one there!”

“Oh?”

Your finger was pointed to the second sheep in the row. “I-it’s that one. I-I think that one is the real… sh-sheep…” You almost began to hyperventilate. There was no going back now. You looked to Shadow Milk Cookie, who was smiling. He stood there, watching you shiver with anticipation. The silence felt like an eternity till he began to slowly clap his hands and opened his mouth.

“So you HAVE been listening to the whispers of deceit!”

You sighed in relief. “So I… So I got it right?” He nodded his head, “Mmhmm, mmhmm, mmhmm! That’s right! Look at you! Such a good (girl/boy/cookie), doing the homework! I’m so proud of you!” He gave you a pat on the back, which made you flinch a bit. “Well, now that playtime’s over, I think it’s only fair I give you the sweet relief of slumber you crave.” He took a fistful of something out of his pocket, “But rest assured, I will be back, and I cannot wait to play with you again! Now then… Ready, Y/N?” You sighed and laid down on your bed, falling onto the pillow. “Heh! I’ll take that as a “yes” then!” He opened up his hand and blew a shiny blue powder in your direction. The blue dust made you sleepier and sleepier till you couldn’t help but drift off. Shadow Milk Cookie turned to exit from your closet into his Spire of Deceit. He turned his head to get a good look at how peaceful his new playmate looked all bundled up with their head in the dream world.

“I shall see you later~!”

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bcksbarnes · 3 days ago

Text

time's never been on our side - chapter one

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary: you and bucky happen to meet by chance one night, and it feels like there is a spark between the two of you - but he has to leave. was this destiny? or cruel fate?

word count: 3K

a/n: ahhhh first chapter of my new fic! i can't wait to write more and explore this plot. thank you all who voted in my poll! this was the fic i was leaning towards so i hope you all enjoy reading as much as i did writing :)

there’s nothing that bucky enjoyed more after months undercover than a dive bar in the greatest city in the world – the city he was lucky to call home. new york had been there to wish him farewell when he left for the war and had welcomed him back with open arms after his deprogramming over seven decades later.

that’s why he loved the city; it changed rapidly but it never felt different.

he had a list of bars he’d like to frequent, most of them small and quiet, the sound of some 90s rock band coming from the speaker and the smell of smoke lingering in the air. he liked places that didn’t ask questions. places that felt like he could blend in seamlessly.

his life as the winter soldier was so far removed now, a life where he had been both infamous and a ghost. they never saw the winter soldier, but they knew of his stories.

now, he was just happy to be bucky. though, and he’d never admit it to steve, he was tired. tired of fighting. tired of missions. there was always something new, though there was hope in the back of his mind that one day he could quit, settle down, start a new life. but that’s all it was, wasn’t it? hope, not something he was capable of actually doing.

bucky felty an immense amount of guilt about his time as the winter soldier, but he felt even worse when he thought about steve. the man had done so much for him, he believed in him, he found him, he fought for him – when he called for another mission how was bucky supposed to say no?

his thoughts are interrupted when he hears the door of the bar open, his ears perking up and his attention brought back to reality. that was how he was conditioned. there was always a threat, he always needed to be on guard.

he hadn’t been there long when you walked in, the ice in his whiskey had barely begun to sweat. his head turns to look at the front door, eyes watching as you sit down next to him at the barstool, not even sparing him a passing glance.

bucky turns his head back to his drink, his brain working in overdrive to drown out the memories of his last mission. his therapist – ugh, he hated that – had suggested that continuing to fight might not be great for his stress but he couldn’t slow down. that’s when he felt like he would let steve down and, honestly, that’s when the thoughts were worse.

“what’s good here?” your voice hits him before he has a chance to realize you’re talking to him, his grasp on his glass clenches for a moment before he slowly turns his head, your gazes catching. it feels like ice is pumping through his veins as you two look at each other, a shiver running down his spine that he does his best to ignore.

your eyes watch him carefully, this stranger is looking at you like you had just asked the most ridiculous question he had ever heard.

“nothing.” his voice is gruff and unwavering, a hint of humor in it if you were to listen close enough.

you smirk a bit at his response, unphased by his disgruntled attitude towards you.

“good to know.” you hum to yourself a bit, squinting your eyes as you look at the alcohol selection behind the bar, eventually just settling on a beer that seems safe as the bartender serves you.

you have buckly’s attention now, he watches as you bring the bottle to your lips, your brows furrowed together as you wonder how a bar can get away with selling such stale beer.

“not up to your tastes?” he asks, seeing the face you make after you sip.

“try about five years past its expiration.” you say, head turning to look at the man next to you.

he’s watching you intently and you would normally feel exposed under such a gaze, as if he’s trying to read your every thought with just a look. but, there’s something warm and inviting underneath the cold stare, something that makes you relax a bit.

“i’ll give you some advice – when in doubt, always go with whiskey.” his metal hand picks up his glass, tipping it towards you before bringing it up to his lips.

you chuckle a bit as you hang your head, shaking it. what an asshole.

“you couldn’t have told me that like two minutes ago when i asked?”

he smirks for a quick moment; it fades as soon as it appears.

“you asked what was good. i said nothing. i didn’t lie.” he quips back. “i just didn’t think it was necessary to go into all the details.”

you rake your eyes over this stranger as he speaks. despite being seated you can tell he’s tall, well built – no doubt. he looks like he hasn’t seen sleep in a few days, and the dark hair on his face is between scruff and a beard. and despite it all, handsome.

“thanks.” you mumble sarcastically before tipping the bottle of beer again, taking another sip.

“you don’t seem like someone who frequents these places.” bucky’s not entirely sure why he continues to engage with you. he visits these bars to get away from people, to not be disturbed, not to talk to some random woman who had just sat down. though it’s very out of character for him, he continues nonetheless.

“that’s a bit presumptuous.” though he’s not wrong, you make no effort to correct him. “and what do you mean by these places?”

“you know ...” he shrugs a bit, searching around the room.

you know exactly what he means. the bar is small, cramped actually, you two are one of five people in the place including the bartender. the walls were dark and uninviting, behind the smell of cigarettes was a deep rooted hint of musk. beer signs hung on the wall, all which were slightly off centered, and the tv that hung, which was in fact muted, had been flickering for quite some time. it wasn’t a place that you would come to, but you had stormed out of another bar and this was the first place you landed on, and you needed a drink badly.

“places where you don’t have to ask what to get.” he’s teasing, there’s a soft sparkle in his eye for a moment as he takes in your features. you roll your eyes at him, feeling your hand grip the bottle of your beer tighter.

“i was looking for a change of scenery.” you say. “and my ex is at the bar i usually hang out at.”

you had been broken up for months, actually, he had moved on at this point. new girlfriend, new apartment, and there was no malice there, or jealousy. sometimes it felt like you were stuck. like you couldn’t move forward or find someone new. you stayed at your old job, in your old apartment, single. it wasn’t that you wanted him, it’s that it was too difficult to feel happy for someone when you weren’t happy in your own life.

“ah, classic.” bucky says, nodding empathetically.

“yeah,” you shrug as you take another sip of your beer, it’s starting to go down a lot smoother now. “i didn’t get your name.”

you can see the hesitation in his eyes, like he doesn’t want to tell you, but it’s quickly replaced with something more meaningful, something you can’t really read.

“bucky.”

“bucky.” it rolls off your tongue easily as you repeat it, and it also fits him perfectly. he looked like a ‘bucky’. you say your name back and you can see he makes a mental note of it. “it’s nice to meet you.”

he grunts a bit in response as he takes another sip of his drink, the liquor burning but he shows no change in his facial features.

“are you someone who frequents these places?” you ask.

“you could say that.” he responds, his glass now resting on the wood bar, though he makes no attempts to clarify. “are you from around here?”

“yes and no.” you say with a shrug. “grew up across the river, moved into the city once i was able to get a full time job. now i live around the corner in the east village in my shitty one bedroom that costs way too much.” he laughs at that. “what about you?”

“i was born and raised in brooklyn.” bucky explains, looking down at his drink. “joined the army, did some things here and there, and now i’m what most would consider a nomad.”

“yeah? why’s that?”

“haven’t settled down … my work requires me to travel a lot for extended periods of time. if i find myself with downtime in a city i just usually book a hotel for a few days until i need to leave.”

bucky cannot, for the life of him, figure out why he is telling you all this information. it’s like his brain is in some sort of fog and he can’t stop himself from speaking. he was leaving tomorrow for another mission, he didn’t need you, a random stranger, knowing all this about him. bucky didn’t like to get attached, or feeling like he left any loose ends.

when he had finished his mission upstate earlier that day he was excited about some time off, being in new york was few and far between now for him so he wanted to make the most of his time. but, when steve had called and said that he needed help on a month-long mission - how could bucky refuse?

“what do you do for work?”

you can tell the question makes him shift a little in his seat, uncomfortable by whatever he does and the need to always be moving.

“i’m a soldier, of sorts.” he says, though he doesn’t elaborate. “actually, i’m only in town for the night. i have a flight out in the morning.”

“where to?”

“that’s classified.”

the response makes you chuckle a bit, feeling your cheeks heat up slightly. of course it was. you were just enthralled by this enigma of a man that you couldn’t help but ask, it was worth a shot.

you and bucky spend a few more drinks together, the night passing by quickly as the two of you talk. you pick up that he eyes his watch a few times, knowing that the hours are ticking by and it’s getting later, he had an early flight in the morning but he makes no attempts to stop your conversation, as if he’s just making a mental note of when he needs to leave.

it’s a little after midnight now, about two hours had passed since you had made your way into the bar. somehow you two were huddled a little closer than what would normally be considered friendly, your elbows touching as you both lean on the bar. it feels like the universe is pulling you together, like magnets slowly inching their way towards one another.

bucky’s in the middle of telling you a story about a friend of his, he makes no mention that it’s steve rogers, and the both of you are laughing at the absurdity of it.

“and then he says to me,” bucky clears his throat before lowering his voice an octave to do an impression. “now, buck, if i could have a word with you. have you ever thought of … smiling a bit more?”

“he said that?!” you ask, your eyes a bit hazy from the alcohol. you had made the switch over to whiskey per bucky’s earlier recommendation. “in front of everyone?”

“in front of everyone!” he says, his eyes wide slightly. he’s glad you found the story just as absurd as he did. “not that i care, but also why right at that moment?”

“your friend sounds like something else.”

“you can definitely say that about …” he trails off, remembering that he didn’t want to mention steve’s name. “... him. we’ve been buddies for a long time, i know he means well, but sometimes i wish he would just shut his mouth.”

the two of you laugh again, filling the otherwise silent bar with some much needed warmth.

“hey,” you say after the laughter dies down and there’s a moment of silence between the two of you. “i’m sure you probably have to get out of here soon, but do you wanna stop and get a slice of pizza together?”

drunk food sounded like heaven to both of you. bucky hadn’t realized he was starving until you mentioned it, he actually wasn’t even sure he had eaten that day. the hours post missions tended to blend together most of the time until he was able to either sleep, or find some alcohol to down. and you didn’t realize how badly you were craving anything that wasn’t whiskey, you weren’t sure how this man drank this at all. you felt like your whole body was on a fire - though the more you thought about it, it could also be the scent of bucky’s cologne that’s making you feel that way - but, the whiskey was definitely hard to stomach.

he nods his head over to the door, the two of you standing up from the barstools. both of your tabs are paid by the time you make it out to the street, the cool air hitting you like a slap in the face. bucky is behind you, shrugging on his leather jacket as you both begin to walk in the direction of the pizzeria.

“i’m surprised you’re not in brooklyn.” you say to him, your head turning in his direction, watching as he puts his hands inside his jacket pockets. “you only have one night in the city and you decided to stay in manhattan.”

“yeah.” he shrugs a bit, not meeting your gaze. what he doesn’t tell you is how hard it is to go back to brooklyn, to walk the streets he grew up on and know that everyone he’s ever loved had passed on, how all the memories he had were all just distant, haunting reminders of the life he wasn’t able to have. “thought i’d change it up a bit.” he lies easily, wishing to drop the conversation.

a few minutes pass, and two slices are secured, both of you standing on the sidewalk outside the pizzeria trying to down them as you talk about everything and nothing. now, in the streets of the city, the two of you are just one of hundreds of people enjoying their night, unlike the private, secluded nature of the bar. although he doesn’t show it, bucky is on alert, watching every person who passes by and treating them as a threat, all while maintaining a light conversation with you … and eating his pizza. he was a good multi-tasker.

it’s when the two of you are finished and were walking back in the direction towards bucky’s hotel that the weight of realization hits both of you. this was the first and last time either of you would see each other. a one night only, ships passing in the night, hello and goodbye.

“i had fun.” you whisper softly, the quiet around the both of you suddenly feeling suffocating. bucky doesn’t respond back, his eyes on the ground ahead of him, his thoughts of not wanting this to end weighing heavily on his mind. “when’s the next time you’re going to be in new york?”

“i’m not … i’m not sure.”

your shoulder accidentally brushes against his as you walk and you’re sure that your whole body is on fire now. how unfair was this? meeting someone new and exciting for the first time in months, someone who made you forget about the empty, lonely feeling bubbling deep in your gut? it was all a cruel joke set up by the universe. of course he would be off tomorrow and you would most likely never see him again.

“this is me.” he says, as the two of you stand outside of his hotel.

neither of you want to meet the other's eyes, neither want to make the first move to say goodbye. you barely knew him, yet something inside of you felt like you did, or at least wanted to find out in the future.

“you could text me some time?” you ask.

you watch his face and how he hesitates to say anything. his metal hand grips and releases into fists at his side. he’s thinking of all the ways he wants to tell you no. that he can’t let a loose end exist in his world.

“sure.” his voice betrays his mind, he digs into his coat to grab his phone handing it over to you. you quickly type in your number and send yourself a text.

bucky’s number.

he reads the text you sent when you hand him his phone back and he smirks to himself.

“how original.”

“it seemed like something you’d say.”

the both of you stand there for a moment, searching each other's faces, before bucky takes a step back, the sound of his leather boot hitting the concrete snapping you back into reality.

“it was nice meeting you.” he whispers.

“you too, bucky.”

he gives you one last glance over before he turns on his heel, briskly walking into the hotel and leaving you to the dark streets of the city. a gust of wind hits you and you pull your jacket closer to yourself as you head off in the direction of your apartment. had it always been this cold? or did the distraction of bucky have you so far removed from reality you hadn’t realized?

it’s me :)

you text back as you stand in the elevator to your apartment. three dots appear on your screen and quickly fade. it’s late. he had an early flight. surely you’d hear from him soon enough. you hoped.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #mcu #mine #fic

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chrissssssmut · 2 days ago

Note

School setting ice queen popular girl x nerd prom story

F(x) Krystal Jung x male reader pls pls pls

COLD HANDS, WARM HEART

Popular girl Krystal Jung x Nerd Male Reader

AN: Made this during my free time! Super short though but hope this is good!☺️

High school was a hierarchy, and at the top sat Krystal Jung. Effortlessly beautiful, wickedly intelligent, and always carrying an air of indifference, she was the girl everyone wanted but no one could touch. She walked the halls with the confidence of someone who knew her place—above everyone else.

She was an enigma, the Ice Queen of the school. People admired her, envied her, desired her, but never truly knew her. She had no close friends, only followers. No one dared to push past her cool, composed demeanor because Krystal never let anyone close enough to try. Every confession of love she received was met with cold rejection, every attempt at friendship subtly brushed aside. It wasn’t that she was mean—she was just untouchable.

I, on the other hand, belonged at the bottom. Just another faceless nerd drowning in textbooks and obscure science facts, existing quietly in the background. That was fine. It was safe. People like Krystal and I didn’t cross paths, and life made sense that way.

I never spent much time thinking about her. Unlike the rest of the school, I didn’t see her as some unreachable goddess. To me, she was just another student—someone who happened to exist in the same building but had no impact on my life. While others obsessed over her, I had my books, my small corner of the world, and that was enough. I never wanted to be part of her orbit.

Until one week before prom.

“Be my date.”

I had been retrieving my notebook from my locker when I heard her voice. I turned, half expecting to see someone else, because Krystal Jung speaking to me? Impossible.

But there she was, standing in front of me, arms crossed, looking down as if I were an insect she had to negotiate with. Her uniform was pristine, her long dark hair perfectly straight, and her eyes? Cold. Calculating.

I blinked. “Huh?”

Krystal sighed, as if she already regretted talking to me. “Prom. You. Me.” She gestured vaguely. “We go together.”

I almost laughed. Almost. But her expression was unreadable, and something told me she wasn’t joking.

“I think you have the wrong guy,” I said, gripping my notebook tighter.

“No,” she said simply. “I don’t.”

That should’ve been the end of it. I should’ve walked away, let her realize her mistake, and carried on with my life. But Krystal Jung didn’t give people the option to ignore her. She lingered, waiting, expecting an answer.

“Why me?” I asked, suspicion creeping into my voice. “You could have anyone.”

Something flickered in her gaze. A shadow of irritation? Amusement? I couldn’t tell. “I have my reasons.”

Cryptic. Classic Ice Queen behavior.

I shook my head. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but—”

“I wasn’t asking,” she cut in, her tone sharper. “I was informing you.”

That threw me off. I stared at her, waiting for the punchline, the cruel laughter that usually followed when people like her toyed with people like me. But it never came. Just Krystal Jung, staring me down like she was daring me to refuse.

And for some reason, I couldn’t.

The days leading up to prom were a blur of rumors and stares. Everyone wanted to know how the school’s most unattainable girl had ended up with the most forgettable guy. Some thought it was a prank, others a bet. A few wondered if I had blackmail on her. I had no answers.

Krystal, meanwhile, acted as if none of it mattered. She barely spoke to me outside of telling me what color my suit should be. When I tried to ask again why she picked me, she waved me off with a bored, “I just did.”

I should’ve let it go. I should’ve just enjoyed the fantasy of it all, but something about her choice gnawed at me. I started paying closer attention to her, watching how she interacted with others. She was polite, cold, detached. She smiled at the right moments but never too much. It was like she was playing a role, keeping a distance that no one dared to cross.

I started noticing things I hadn’t before. How she sat alone at lunch despite the crowd that always hovered around her. How people talked about her like she was a trophy rather than a person. How guys boasted about trying to win her over, but no one ever claimed to know her favorite movie, or whether she even liked being the queen of the school.

Then I realized—Krystal Jung had never been given a choice. The whole school had already decided who she was supposed to be.

Then prom night arrived.

I stood awkwardly outside the venue, adjusting my tie for the tenth time. People whispered when they saw me. Some smirked, some sneered. But when Krystal arrived—when she stepped out of the car in a sleek black dress, her gaze cool and unreadable—the entire room held its breath.

She walked toward me, unfazed by the attention. “You clean up okay,” she said.

I swallowed. “You look…” Breathtaking. Stunning. Unreal. “…Nice.”

She smirked, linking her arm through mine without hesitation. “Let’s get this over with.”

Inside, the dance was exactly what I expected—loud, crowded, overwhelming. I tried to stay out of the way, but Krystal never let go of me. She led me through the crowd like we belonged together, ignoring the way people whispered behind their hands.

Then came the slow dance.

Krystal turned to me expectantly, her hand outstretched. My throat went dry. “You…actually want to dance?”

“Isn’t that what people do at prom?” she deadpanned.

I hesitated, but she was already pulling me in. Her hand rested lightly on my shoulder, the other slipping into my palm. I held my breath. She was so close I could smell her perfume—cool, crisp, like fresh rain.

“This isn’t a joke, right?” I asked quietly.

Krystal’s gaze flickered up to mine, something shifting in her expression. “No.”

For the first time since she asked me, she looked…different. Not cold, not indifferent. Just—Krystal.

“Then why?” I whispered. “Why me?”

She exhaled, her fingers tightening around mine. “Because,” she said, voice softer now. “You were the only one who never tried to change me.”

I thought back to all those times I had barely acknowledged her, how I had never idolized her, never treated her like she was some unattainable dream. To me, she was just another student, another person figuring things out. I never expected her to smile more, to be friendlier, to be anything other than what she was.

And that, apparently, was enough.

The weight of her words settled over me. It hit me then—how exhausting it must be to constantly live up to an image, to always be someone people admired but never truly saw. Everyone wanted Krystal Jung to be the Ice Queen. No one ever let her just be…a girl.

I didn’t know what to say to that. But as the music played and we swayed under the dim lights, I realized something.

For the first time all night, Krystal Jung wasn’t looking at anyone else.

Just me.

And in that moment, it didn’t matter why she chose me. Because I realized I wanted to be chosen.

#fx kpop group #kpop story #kpop scenarios #kpop girls #kpop idols #kpop gg #krystal jung #kpop fluff #fluff #idol x male reader #male reader #male reader fluff #fluff scenario

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oneforthemunny · 14 hours ago

Note

you mentioned rockstar eddie watching her have their babies and still being obsessed ofc, and i’m wondering how janitor eddie would be, esp if she was feeling self conscious

so here's my thoughts on this, because i love janitor!eddie from the bottom of my heart, but... he's a little ball of anxiety and sometimes it makes the situation soooo much worse. like he gets in his own head, and stays in his own head, won't tell you what's going on just starts acting weird, so you think it's you and in reality, he's just in need of prozac lmao.

since oliver was adopted, there was no "down period" ya know? if anything, i think watching you be a mom to him and be sweet to him and kind and loving, it made eddie even fucking more insatiable than before in the most love sicken devoted way.

after you gave birth to olivia, it was different. through the pregnancy, he'd already been a little nervous with you. there's a full blurb about it, where he's nervous to touch you because he doesn't want to hurt you. bless him, there's not a lot out there at the time (early 90s) about having sex and being pregnant lol. so he's just scared. better to stay hands off than hurt you. which in the blurb, doesn't last because once you tell him you want to and it's ok, he's actually feral.

but after olivia, the doctor tells the usual, no sex for this six weeks or it can hurt you. eddie, ofc, asked a million questions about every single thing (turned a thirty minute visit into an hour and a half), but specifically about what could happen, how would you know if you're healed, what did they do to verify that everything was good, was there a test- like a million questions.

six weeks turns into eight, and it's really not too bad because you're both exhausted and literally collapse into each other. but around ten weeks, the routine is becoming more normal, olivia's sleeping through the night, you both feel like you can catch your breath, but eddie's still so distant with sex? like everything else is so good, but if you try to initiate, kiss him a little deeper, make yourself into the little spoon and back your ass up on him, he stills and shuts it down.

by eleven weeks, you're frustrated. by twelve, almost three months, you're hurt. wayne kept the kids for the night, wanted to give you two some alone time and wanted to spend time with his grandbabies, and you think it's perfect. you're about to go back to work, and it seems like a good time to "break the seal" so to say.

you have a dinner at home, he cooked, wined and dined you, is so so soooo fucking sweet and lovey. you're on the couch, watching a movie, but really making out like you used to. you can feel him, feel him getting hard, and when you try to make a move, he starts like panicking. apologizing, and trying to hide it.

"fuck, i-i'm sorry. i don't, just gimme a second, an-and i'll-"

"-so do you just think i'm disgusting now?" tears in your eyes, you're beyond hurt. you'd heard so many stories about men who saw their wives give birth and didn't want to have sex anymore, deemed them gross, but you never in a million years though eddie- your sweet, kind, perfect eddie would be one of them.

eddie is on the brink of an anxiety attack, because ???? why would you think that? you're the prettiest, most beautiful girl in the world to him, and he tells you so.

"then why... why are you not wanting to have sex?" you blubber around your tears. hormones still wild even after, emotional from the hurt too.

"i know you're hard. i can see it." you point to his crotch, his semi still prominent. "so it's me."

"no, no. what? no." eddie thinks he might throw up, head spinning so fast. "it-it's not you-"

"-yes it is! why else wouldn't you want to? it's because i had a baby, and-and you think-"

"-don't." eddie's throat is tight, swallowing his heart. "it's- i- i just- i don't want to hurt you."

"hurt me? you are hurting me. you're hurting my feelings because you won't even touch me."

eddie does nearly throw up, swallows bile and it's like his world is turned up side down. he was so fucking scared, petrified, of having sex with you after and accidentally ripping something. that maybe you weren't healed, that the doctor made a mistake, and he'd fuck you and cause you to like, internally bleed and die or something insane. or that he'd just hurt you, that it would hurt and he'd hear you in pain, and he'd never forgive himself.

you'd just given him everything he ever wanted, made the ultimate sacrifice out of love, and he would not- could not hurt you over that. if he did, he'd genuinely be unable to live with himself.

after he finally just tells you that, instead of being so fucking weird, you calm him down. tell him it doesn't hurt, that you'd let him know if it did.

"just... just use your fingers first. and if it hurts, we can stop and i'll go to the emergency room. i promise. you won't hurt me." you tell him, gently cupping his cheek.

and really, it didn't take much convincing after he finally spilled what had been eating at his mind, once you soothed him. i mean, he had also been in agony. every time you'd take off your top or bend over to pick up a toy, he'd have to run to the bathroom because he was so fucking hard.

it was never unattraction, it was genuinely just his own mind and anxieties and spiraling.

#oneforthemunny #munnytalks #janitor!eddie munson

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rin-eko · 21 hours ago

Text

New Intimacy - Caleb x Reader

Description: First time with Caleb and the morning after

Warnings/Content: some light story spoilers, nsfw themes

WC: 3.4k

Caleb, who goes manic the first time he sees you naked. Not even fully naked, just your breasts peaked with tight nipples, skin so soft but not as soft and vulnerable as your shaky eyes focused on him in the dim light of his high room in Skyhaven. His brain completely short circuits.

The dark curtains are still drawn open, giving way to the glittering city lights outside, the two of you on his bed above it all and in a position you have never been in before.

All of this, the two of you have never done before.

And it’s strange, because he’s seen you in every other way imaginable. He knows every part of you, perhaps better than you know yourself at times. He was there when you were ten and got a wad of bright pink bubblegum stuck in your hair, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice but still carefully and gently untangling it for you, cutting your hair neatly when the task proved impossible.

He was there when you got your first period, speaking to you in calm tones through the bathroom door as you freaked out on the other side. Always ensuring you had enough supplies, that you did nothing but relax while watching movies during those difficult times, his big, warm hands gently massaging your stomach to soothe the cramps away.

He was there when you got drunk for the first time, pressing two fingers deep in your throat to make you gag out the poison into the toilet while holding you up and promising your pale, clammy face that he wouldn’t tell Gran. And then the next day, threatening to tell her if you didn’t do the dishes for him.

He had been there for you through quite literally everything. Growing up, you had followed him everywhere like a little duckling. Even as adults, your closeness showed in the way you only had to briefly make a gesture, or just open your mouth and Caleb was already answering you, knowing what you wanted or what you were going to say. Your closeness shows in the cadence of your voice, your speech, so similar to Caleb’s. All the slang you’ve adopted was from years of hearing it from him and naturally integrating it into your own manner of speaking without even realising it.

But he doesn’t know this part of you. He has never seen you like this, with sticky, dewy strings of arousal between the junction of your soft thighs. With small gasps and moans escaping your kiss-swollen lips, hands that were hesitant at first gripping him in ways you never had before, in places you never had before.

You’re no better than him. Not for the first time, you have to reconcile with yourself that Caleb is no longer the teasing boy from your childhood, but a full-grown man. And he’s so big… everywhere. Your eyes dip low between your bodies before quickly shooting back up… a small, sharp inhale… You demurely look to the side.

He’s so… big down there. Thick and long, even his balls heavy and swollen with semen. Beneath his navel is a short, dark trail of hair that reaches low.

And you aren’t a girl anymore. He’s thought of this moment so many times, played it in his head over and over but now he feels a brief flash of anxiety. Your most private place… while it certainly appears he’s gotten you wet enough, it’s so small…

Will he even fit?

He’s deeply researched sex and knows the anatomy of the female body but you struggled to take even his fingers…

But then a small snort somewhere between indignation, impatience and false bravado erupts in a way that is so typically you.

“Caleb, just hurry up!” you whine. “Don’t tell me you’re scared you’re gonna blow in two seconds? Well I have heard guys struggle during their first time so I won’t blame you, hehe…”

But then, when he really pushes inside you, tears immediately spring on your lower lash line. His entire body shudders, at the warmth, at your cuteness.

“Baby…” he holds the top of your head and soothes you with kisses on your lips and cheeks, fingers reaching down to circle your clitoris. You gasp into his mouth.

So big… he’s stretching you completely, going so deep his coarse pubic hair presses flush to your own.

You feel suffocated and liberated all at once. Blood rushes to your ears in rolling waves timed with his heavy thrusts.

Everything you both had been imagining for so long and now you really are split apart on him. This person who you have known your whole life. Who taught you everything you know. What love is. How deep and twisted and also beautiful it can be.

So is it screwed up or only right that you also teach each other how your bodies should come together now that you’re adults, free to do as you please? Or rather, uncaring to restrain yourselves anymore.

He groans, long and low. He was prepared to never have this. He would have waited or restrained himself forever if he had to, but now… he doesn’t know if he could go back to the way things were before. Without this warm, wet heat within you and surrounding you in something you aren’t even sure you can describe simply as sex.

…

Caleb’s home doesn’t allow for a lot of sunlight but perhaps the sun has decided to mimic your mood because you wake to find soft, pale yellow rays casting streaks of light through his window, warming the room in patches.

Your eyes blink a few times to adjust to the light, and in response to your awake state, the man holding you tightly from behind releases a shuddering exhale. You moan, mind still in a groggy place somewhere between dreams and reality, but you hold his forearm wrapped around your waist, stroking lazily.

You both bathe in the silence for a while, somehow both happy yet nervous. You, because you’re worried he’ll go back to acting like a friend or brother in an effort to put some distance between you and protect you. After all, there were things he knew that you simply didn’t. Or perhaps he’d be walking on eggshells, afraid of messing up the newfound intimacy the two of you had discovered last night.

Him, because he worried you’d regret it. And if that was so, he wasn’t sure how to deal with that pain. If he’d be able to tuck it away and carry on confidently as usual.

You take the initiative to turn around in his embrace, chests flush against each other. His hand strokes your tailbone in small motions. Quiet. Then,

“Last night-”

“I think-”

You both pause, and then smile softly. You tuck your head to rest your forehead to his throat, tracing his bicep idly. “You first,” your voice is shy and adorable.

He inhales deeply. “I just… I just wanted to say that last night was more than I ever imagined…” he exhales in that full-chested way you love. “God, baby, it was amazing, I don’t know what to say.”

Your entire chest melts. Saliva pools in your mouth. Something tightens from your lower belly to the place between your legs.

You swallow and look up to meet his dark purple gaze. “Me… For me, too.”

“Yeah?”

You hum because anything else you say might just come out as a wanton moan.

A part of Caleb can’t believe it had actually happened after so long imagining it in the deepest, most shameful parts of his mind. But you really are beside him, your smooth, bare skin pressed to him, your hair messy with the evidence of last night, your neck littered with his love bites just like his back is with your nail scratches. He loves it.

So, so much.

He strokes the back of his finger down those love bites now, admiring his work. “Ah,” he starts sheepishly. “Ya may need to cover these up when you go out.” But you both know he doesn’t really want you to. Go out, or cover up the hickies, that is.

And as much as you complain, you don’t really mind. You like everything from him, whether it be reassurance or teasing, because you know there is nothing about yourself that could ever change his heart even fractionally.

So comforting.

You aren’t sure how to describe the night. Whether it was rough or deep or loving or painful or maybe all of it meshing together in one storm of sweat and yearning and flesh and immeasurable deep love exploding after being hidden away for so many years, just like the old time capsule you and Caleb had buried when you were kids.

You, subconsciously, living in ignorance, having long accepted him as a brother figure in your childhood. And him, always knowing, but never able to do anything about it. For fear of others, for fear of losing you, of no longer being able to protect you.

Whatever it was, it had been a long time coming.

After so long holding back, this gorgeous, talented, sought-after man is yours in every way. Even if you’ve always had him, even if words like ‘girlfriend’ or ‘partner’ or ‘soulmate’ shouldn’t matter and can’t possibly describe the depth of your bond, it still sends a shiver of delight up your spine. You definitely want that. Will greedily snatch those titles up and keep it to yourself for eternity, just as you wished to when he would have you play his pretend girlfriend all those years ago.

His huge hand reaches down and covers the whole of your most intimate area. “Your pussy sore?” His finger dips down just to very lightly brush the top of his middle finger against your entrance before coming back to rest on your pubic bone. And you wonder if you’ll ever get used to him speaking about such intimate parts of yourself in that voice you’ve adored for so long, the voice that has guided you your whole life, slightly rough with morning sleep. The same voice that used to tell you ‘Pipsqueak, breakfast is ready!’ every morning and ‘Sweet dreams, little one’ every night.

It was the same last night. You were sure your whole face was red when he had started groaning as he thrusted. Uncontrollable, delicious, deep moans causing tingles throughout your whole body all the way down to your curled toes. Grunting in exertion as he slightly shifted your positions to penetrate even deeper. You had never heard him like that. Had never thought there was a part of him you didn’t know. Even as an adult, you were inexperienced, so he was your first. And when you asked if you were his, too, he chuckled a little, a lovely rumbling sound from the depths of his chest and kissed your forehead affectionately.

“Of course, my only.”

You wanted to unravel this new side of him for the rest of your life.

But a small memory makes a crack in a barrier of your mind, emerging like a seed sprouting from the ground. You squint, trying to catch the thought.

“Actually… I think I’ve heard you moan like last night before… You were in your childhood bedroom…”

The pained, embarrassed way in which he groans and slings an arm over his eyes, laying on his back now, is your answer.

You tease him. “Wow, I guess you were really horny as a teenager. You actually spent a lot of time in you room with the door locked. Your showers were suspiciously long, too, now that I think about it… And you always used to tell me I took so long getting ready but you were actually the culprit who made Gran’s water bill shoot up!”

He peeks out from his arm, one eye glaring at you. “Fuck’s sake, you’re such a brat. Can you blame me? Going through puberty while living in the same house as you was hell. Sometimes I thought I was going to rub myself raw. I must have made more noise than I thought because one day you came innocently knocking on my bedroom door, asking if I was injured of all things.”

You giggle and let it settle in your chest that he really had felt the same way as you for as long as you have. While you always felt it deep down, having the feelings liberated and out in the open is a wonderful feeling you’ll have to get used to.

You stroke his bare chest, just below his collarbones, aware of your naked lower bodies touching and twining beneath the covers. Neither of you are used to touching each other like this and it shows in the light dusting of red on his cheekbones before he also reaches to stroke one arm up and down your bare waist in a soothing and casual manner. You can feel he wants to say something, and after another moment’s hesitation, he speaks up, voice purposefully light to try and disguise how curious he really is.

“You… never did it to the thought of me?”

Your immediate pause, accompanied by flushed cheeks, are his answer. You bury your face in his sternum, collapsing in a heap of humiliation. He chuckles. “Glad I wasn’t the only one, baby.” His head tilts slightly in thought. “Hmm… now I kind of want to see that, though.” He grins cheekily when you lightly slap his chest, satisfied with your reaction to his teasing.

You both quiet down again, enjoying being with each other like this. He strokes up and down your abdomen comfortingly and you count the freckles on his body until you’re forced to halt when his hand makes its way down… down… to your sex once more. He touches the neatly trimmed hair there and rubs it. He hums in thought.

“When you’re shaving, or trimming, here next time, let me do it.”

“Why?”

“Why not? I always used to shave the back of your legs while you sat on the edge of the bathtub. There were parts you couldn’t reach and you’d always cut yourself.”

“Believe it or not, I’ve grown up. I’ve learned how to do it safely.”

“Still,” he presses a hot kiss to your throat. “Let me.”

You don’t object because you’re sure you’ll end up liking the unique ways he dotes on you anyway, but when his fingers, long and thick, nailbeds neat and clean and cut short, travel lower to spread your lips, a small moan escapes you. Cool air touches your clit before his finger presses it lightly.

You’re breathing hard. “Caleb… what… are you… doing… ungh…”

Last night, he stayed down there for ages, memorising you. Your taste, your smell. And now, he seems just as fascinated with that secret part of you, rubbing you lightly in case you’re sore.

“I love this,” he says quietly. He gets underneath you, so your back is laying on his chest, your full weight on him. Your legs are spread wide over his, face next to his on the pillow, neck arching up when he circles your clit more firmly, hairline sticky and perspiring. Your arm naturally winds its way around the back of his neck while his other holds your waist, heated gaze full of smoke drinking you in completely. His dogtag, the same one that was hanging between you last night before he moved it out of the way to rest between his prominent shoulder blades, tinkles by your ear. You feel the cool metal against the side of your face just as one long finger enters you carefully.

You moan, unabashed, and hide your face in the crook of his neck, leaving everything to him as tension once again simmers and boils over.

…

The two of you spend the rest of the morning making love. Tenderly, closely, desperately. Your foreheads tightly press against each other, your legs tucked up, one hand around his neck while the other rests on his back as he moves between your thighs.

His gravelly voice keeps speaking to you,

“Are you sore? Is it okay? I love you, love you, love you… ah, I don’t know how to say what I feel for you…” he whispers and breathes into your mouth, face flushed and perspiring. He licks across your teeth, still raring to go even when you’re a satisfied, but very tired, slump on the bed.

He kisses and licks your closed lips, the drool at the corner of your mouth, the redness beneath your eyes. Like an animal licking and soothing its kindred, he can’t stop touching you. The sun moves through the sky but neither of you ever want to stop caressing and petting each other now that you finally fully belong to one another. It’s a level of pleasure, physical and emotional, unlike any other.

…

After spending too much time in bed and deciding neither of you wants to leave the house today, Caleb kisses your forehead and gets up from the bed, saying something about getting breakfast started even though it’s late in the day.

“You tired me out last night, pipsqueak, I’m starving.”

You watch his strong body move fluidly. As he searches for something to wear, he stretches his neck from side to side, the sound of two cracks seeming to satisfy his muscles.

He finds a pair of sweatpants and pulls them over his firm butt, remaining shirtless. He grins over his shoulder when he catches you staring and drooling at him.

He stretches his words, “Orrrrrrr, do you want some more of me?”

You grab a pillow and throw it at his face, but it stops short just before him and slumps to the ground. He laughs his way out of the room, the carefree, happy sound making your heart pulse quickly.

You take your time getting out of bed, finding a comfortable shirt of Caleb’s to throw on before sliding a pair of underwear- that you recognise as yours but have no idea why Caleb has it tucked in his draw- up your legs.

You meet him in the kitchen, admiring his muscular back before he turns from the stove to place a steaming plate of breakfast on the counter, catching your gaze.

“Just in time, pipsqueak. Order up.”

As he stands in front of the sink, dealing with pans and utensils, you brave coming up behind him and cuddling into his bare back, wanting one more moment of skinship before sitting to devour the food.

He freezes momentarily before his shoulder relax. He touches your hands around his waist that are resting over his stomach.

“Hm? What’s up?”

“Caleb, you know…”

“Hm?” he glances over his shoulder curiously. Rather than playful, your tone is more quiet and serious.

You take a small breath and whisper into the place between his shoulder blades.

“You are the only one for me, in any way, ever.”

He tenses.

Something you hadn’t expected from you dependable, strong and self-assured ex-adoptive brother, who was literally good at everything he did, was that he needed reassurance and was often unsure of the standing of your relationship. Of the way you regarded him.

He had always been trying to protect you, but not push too much, always trying to hold you without giving into his true desires. Always scrambling to learn everything so you’d only come to him for anything you needed.

For so many years, he had to make sure to maintain that delicate balance while you remained blissfully unaware of his internal struggles.

“That’s what you are to me,” you continue to whisper.

He turns against the counter and you go on your tiptoes to softly kiss his lips, speaking lightly against them.

“Everything. A brother, a friend, a guardian, a life partner.” He took on all the duties of these roles. Always unquestionably, always without complaint, always happily, even possessively, so you could always rely on him. So you would always know he’d be right there waiting if you turned to look. And even if you didn’t, still, he would do everything to make you happy.

Even after he had left, when he had returned and you had slowly become a part of each other’s lives again, you found yourself so easily slipping back into that role of having Caleb take care of you.

But now, you wanted to take care of him, too.

The person who you had both loved and hated, but always wanted with a desperation that made your entire body ache, your gravitational point.

#love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x reader #rins.works

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sunnyrealist · 2 days ago

Text

Chapter 01: A Prologue Chapter 02: Yellow Personified

The Sun, the Moon, and All Our Stars (rewritten!)

Hi! After working on this story for about a year and a half, I've decided to take a break from creating new chapters for now to focus on rewriting from the beginning. I hope you'll give the new and improved version a chance. Constructive feedback is always welcome and much appreciated!

Nine years after the events of Hogwarts Legacy, Sebastian Sallow has little hope for a positive future. While serving a life sentence in Azkaban, he managed to escape with the assistance of a terroristic organization of Dark wizards. When the Ministry of Magic eventually caught up with Sebastian, he struck a deal to serve as a double-agent and bring the gang to justice as a means to his freedom. Lonely, traumatized, and depressed, he never imagines his luck will change. But one moonlit night, it does. Fate intervenes in the form of Kate Mayflower, the Hogwarts assistant librarian. Infinitely optimistic and kind, she helps Sebastian find joy and peace again as he regains his humanity and rebuilds his life. While their journey towards happily ever after is a turbulent one, they slowly learn to trust in each other, believe in the power of true love, and heed the lessons from the past in order to grow. Tags: Romance, Fluff, Fast Relationship, Strangers to Lovers, Smut, Adult Relationship, Settling Down, Happily Ever After, True Love, Domestic Bliss, Soulmates, Fate, Reincarnation/Past Lives, Mutual Pining, Humor and Banter, Redemption, Drama, Angst, Secrets, Trauma and Healing, Coping Mechanisms, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Dark Magic, Wizarding World Gangs, Undercover Work, Violence and Danger, Death, Revenge, Familial Relationships, Parental Disapproval, Pureblood Society, Expectations, Friendship, Kindness and Compassion, Goals, Hopes and Dreams, Illustrations Pairing: 25-year-old, post-Azkaban Sebastian Sallow x 24-year-old Kate Mayflower, my original character and the Hogwarts assistant librarian Word Count for First Two Chapters: ~4970 Art Credit: @giselsann Link to Wattpad Link to AO3

Chapter 01: A Prologue

Albert Sallow glanced at his watch. 9:15. Scribbling his name and the time into the log, he yawned fiercely, recalling the early morning wake-up caused by his screaming infant daughter. He shook his head at the memory. The moment he heard the baby’s wails, Albert had darted out of bed so that Sage, his exhausted wife, could take in a few more hours of much-needed sleep. Never mind that he had been assigned a nearly impossible task at work; she deserved the rest.

As an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries, Albert could not disclose, even to Sage, what his work entailed. Her curiosity was endless, yet he could not even breathe a word to her. Little did she know that Albert’s own family heirlooms - rather famous ones - had suddenly disappeared.

The door to the Love Room unlatched as soon as Albert’s name was written in the log. He opened the huge door only just enough to sidle inside, then closed it immediately. Hit with the enchanting scent of honey, lavender, and jasmine, he knew that the Amortentia fountain was in full working order. It was difficult to focus at times when he needed to work here; sometimes, he even needed a charm to dull the scent before his mind was flooded with thoughts and images of his wife.

Strolling towards the shelves, Albert's eyes searched for the box he needed. “S. and K. Sallow, 1874-1979.” He lifted it up, taking it to the large community desk across the expansive space. Inside were various items and a large black binder. Easing himself into the leather chair, he flipped the binder open. Paintings and photographs of a happy, handsome couple through the years, letters, copies of an ancient spell, and more filled the file.

The end of the binder contained two empty pockets in which very small artifacts could be stored. There were two images of the items inside the pockets - precisely what Albert needed. He plucked the photographs from the binder, using a charm to copy them.

The artifacts in question were two ancient moonstone rings.

Somehow, the rings had vanished from their place within the case file. Albert’s boss had pulled him aside to explain the situation regarding the bands; since they were Sallow family heirlooms, it was in Albert’s best interest to investigate and locate them.

The case file of Sebastian and Kate Sallow was well-known to the Unspeakables who worked full-time in the Love Room. Reincarnation was not a topic widely understood, despite centuries of research and experimentation. Albert, though not an employee in this particular department, was fascinated with their story. He was too young to have known his ancestors personally, yet he felt a deep connection to them and their lives. Perhaps because his great-great-great grandmother had been a librarian and avid bookworm, their story had been well-documented and preserved through the years. He was eager to locate the rings that had caused the couple’s reincarnation and reunion and supposedly would allow them to be born again in another lifetime. The Love Room Unspeakables did not believe that the reincarnation process had continued as of yet; they were waiting and watching for certain conditions to take root. It could potentially take centuries, they explained, but Sebastian and Kate would live on, thanks to an ancient spell and the rings.

Albert hoped that whenever it were to happen, that their souls would have a much easier time of it than in their past iterations.

Examining the time yet again, Albert found it was 9:32 now. He spent a moment considering his schedule today and realized he was not officially needed anywhere until his meeting in the late afternoon. Knowing he may have some hours to himself in this room, he decided to read through the case file again.

Chapter 02: Yellow Personified

Diagon Alley, May 1899

Loud hollering and laughter carry across the tavern.

The Leaky Cauldron is more alive tonight than Sebastian Sallow was hoping. Drowning in Firewhisky is not quite as easy when one’s attention is constantly drawn elsewhere. His jealousy, masked as annoyance, is clear as he scowls at the table across the pub that seems to be causing at least half of the noise. There, a group of about ten young adults grin, cackle, and shout in merriment. Sebastian wonders how long they’ve been here, hoping they’ll all be on their way soon so he can properly wallow in his darkness and misery. It’s impossible to achieve when the sounds of content companionship fill the air. Their table is littered with empty mugs and cocktail glasses - perhaps they’ve had enough. Narrowing his gaze, he throws suggestive thoughts their way, trying to anchor them to their minds. Float on home now. Time to leave.

No such luck.

Instead, there are encouraging shouts as a young woman stands and glides to the front of the large table with the grace of a selkie goddess. As if a life preserver was thrown his way, his interest suddenly awakens and bobs to the surface. His eyes grow wide.

She tucks a strand of her long, blonde hair behind her ear and then throws the rest of it behind her, letting it settle midway down her back. The ocean of her hair is calm, with waves only at the bottom, carrying daisy passengers up above. Her dress, yellow and long, only adds to the effect of the sea at sunset. It rides her body tightly, accentuating the feminine curves of her body; her breasts swell and fall, only for her hips to ripple out again, and then subside. Her short sleeves are puffed, keeping her fashionably afloat.

Brown packages and bags decorated with colorful ribbons are tossed to the head of their table as offerings to the golden angel. She smiles, her rosy pink lips widening before her perfect teeth. Her eyes sparkle as she listens and nods, agreeing to something. Then, her dainty hands begin to untie a bow and rip open the paper of one of the presents. She shrieks with laughter upon opening the box. Sebastian strains his eyes, trying to determine what was inside, but he’s just too far away to be able to tell. All of her companions erupt into giggles, men and women alike.

As the young lady speaks and picks up the next gift, her head suddenly turns Sebastian’s way, her eyes focusing directly on him. He realizes he has been watching her for far too long. Immediately, his eyes flick down to his Firewhisky, feigning fascination in its composition. She narrows her view, looking for just a moment longer before returning to the attention of her friends.

Sebastian knows he shouldn’t keep staring. He knows. He just can’t seem to help it, continuing to observe her for hours like a creep while he nurses drink after drink. It takes a great deal to get him buzzed these days; alcohol is just about one of his only escapes from the daily torture of his pathetic, meaningless existence. What’s the harm in looking at a beautiful girl for a while, anyway? It’s not like she’d ever want to talk with him. She has her people; he has his bottle. He takes a large swig of his Firewhisky, enjoying the burn as it distracts him momentarily.

When Sebastian orders another round, the barkeep gives him a pitiful look. He scowls at this; he doesn’t deserve anyone’s sympathy. He fixes his gaze on the countertop in front of him. Then a familiar feeling settles; someone is watching. Sebastian’s senses pick up on this immediately, his eyes opening wide to scan his surroundings. It’s her. Yellow personified. She’s studying him. When her eyes meet his, she turns pink for a moment, then looks away.

A wordless game of spying continues. As the night goes on, Sebastian observes as the girl’s companions start to disperse, one by one. By 12:30, only two of her friends remain, holding hands and whispering in each other’s ears. The golden girl smiles and speaks to them from time to time. She glances at Sebastian frequently with curiosity.

His brows lift when she stands up, an empty drink in her hand. He follows her with his eyes as she makes her way over to the bar, slinging a purse over her shoulder. As she strolls towards two empty stools, her eyes flick up to Sebastian’s, but when she notices his own gaze mirroring hers, her head whips away from him, embarrassed to be caught.

Should I approach her? Is it worth it? He weighs his options as she comes closer.

Two teenage girls sitting nearby decide to vacate their seats. One of them clearly drank far more than she could handle; she appears dazed and stumbles off of her stool. She attempts to correct her footing but fails, bumping hard into Yellow Personified. The empty tumbler she was kindly bringing back to the barkeep slips from her grasp and shatters on the wooden floor; her bag also tumbles to the ground, its contents spilling everywhere. The teenager slurs a pathetic apology, rushing out of the pub with her friend’s arm around her.

Sebastian immediately rushes to her aid. She already has drawn her wand, casting a charm to repair the broken cup.

He smiles as he crouches down beside her. “Please, allow me to help.”

He quickly gathers some of the items that fell, placing them back into her purse - a quill, a silver comb, a barrette decorated with pearls, and a tiny tin filled with peppermints. Finally, he notices a piece of parchment that had fluttered out, and he grabs it. Before he can stop himself, his curiosity gets the better of him; he discovers that it is a to-do list on the official stationery of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A student? She doesn’t seem young enough… When his eyes quickly read through some of the items on the list, it quickly becomes clear to him that she must be a staff member.

“Oh, thank you,” she murmurs to Sebastian as the glass rematerializes in her left hand.

“Of course,” he replies, his voice low. He holds out the parchment. As she takes it from his hand, her fingers brush his, causing her breath to hitch. “Wouldn’t want you to forget to… write letters of recommendation for the seventh-year helpers, now, would we?” He chuckles.

She gently takes the to-do list from him, an expression of mirth on her face. “We certainly wouldn’t.” Her grin and giggle are infectious and impossible to resist.

Finally getting to see her closely, he is taken aback by her eyes - sparkling, bright, and as blue as the summer sky. He gazes into them for a moment longer than he should, already feeling as though he has lost all ability to think or reason. Everything and everyone else has disappeared, and all that exists is her sweet laughter, her joy, her… sunshine.

When the two of them stand, Sebastian discovers that she is far more petite than he realized when he had studied her from afar. He easily has twenty centimeters on her, if not more. Her physique is feminine, and he imagines that underneath her clothing, her form might be quite similar to sculptures of ancient Greek goddesses. Everything about her seems soft and curvy and heavenly to touch.

She’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

Sebastian knows that his chance of anything serious with her is slim to none. He has nothing to offer. Who in their right mind would have any interest in someone like him? He is a criminal - not just that but a murderer. He barely managed to escape a life sentence in Azkaban prison and only did so with the help of the most notorious terrorist group in the British Wizarding World. He is a man whose freedom relies entirely on the whims of the Ministry of Magic’s Department of Magical Law Enforcement and whether they continue to deem him competent enough to continue serving as a double-agent to bring down that very same gang. He has no money, nor a permanent place to call home. The unfortunate truth is that he is a bloke with no connections - he has no one he truly considers real friends, and, well, his entire family is dead. The list of qualities deeming him unsuitable as a long-term partner is endless.

But yet, something within him urges him to try. It isn’t likely to pan out, but she seems so sweet and friendly - what if it could?

And if it couldn’t, he still might play his cards well enough to have her in bed tonight.

“Sebastian Sallow,” he introduces himself, holding out his hand. “May I have the pleasure of making your acquaintance?”

She accepts it, studying him excitedly. “I’m Kate Mayflower.”

Like a proper gentleman, Sebastian leans down, briefly pressing his lips to her dainty hand. “It’s lovely to meet you, Kate.” He allows his hand to linger on hers for a moment longer than necessary. “You seem familiar to me somehow, but I don’t believe we have met before.”

“I thought the same,” she acknowledges, flushing pink.

“May I buy you a drink?” he asks, hopeful.

Kate smiles. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

As he ushers her towards two empty seats at the bar, he adds, “I… take it that you are celebrating tonight. Is it your birthday?”

“Yes, it is,” she replies as she settles on the stool. “My 24th.”

“Well, happy birthday, and many happy returns.” He gets the attention of the barkeep. “A butterbeer for me, and for the lady…”

“A Fizzy Lemon, please,” Kate orders. “Thank you.” She pauses, then turns towards Sebastian. “So… What brings you to the Leaky Cauldron tonight?”

“It’s been a long week at work. I came to relax, have a drink, and just do some people-watching,” he answers. “I’m an Auror.”

Impressed, Kate’s eyebrows rise. “Really? That has to be an interesting profession. I know how difficult it is to get into that line of work. A couple of acquaintances of mine tried, but they didn’t make it past the application process. So many requirements…”

“That’s true. Luckily, I had the right connections and skills,” he tells her with a smirk. “What about you? You work at Hogwarts, right? I saw the insignia on your parchment.”

Kate eyes him in wonder. “You’re quick to catch on. Yes, I work at Hogwarts. I’m the assistant librarian.”

He inhales sharply in surprise and delight. “Really? You’re a librarian at Hogwarts?”

“Yeah. I love it there, but… I am definitely looking forward to the summer holiday. I can’t wait to catch up on some novels I’ve saved. Working with the students is great, but it is so tedious to clean up after them all the time. That, well, and working with Madam Scribner… definitely takes a toll.” She gauges his reaction, knowing full well that almost everyone who ever went to Hogwarts hates Madam Scribner.

A goofy smile creeps across Sebastian’s cheeks as Kate mentions his least favorite staff member in a negative light. “You must be a saint for working with Madam Scribner. She used to hate me when I was a student. I was always sneaking into the restricted section.” He laughs, and his expression turns a bit sheepish.

Kate begins chattering away now that she knows they have a common enemy. “Well, Madam Scribner has been talking about retiring for years now. I am hoping this is her final year so I can finally have the- oh, I shouldn’t even breathe it! I’m getting ahead of myself.” Kate pauses, stopping herself from saying too much. “Anyway, she and I have very different perspectives on the library in general. Personally, if a younger student has a good enough reason, I’ll let them right into the restricted section.” Kate tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, then grins mischievously. “So, you were a bit naughty at Hogwarts, Sebastian? What were your reasons for needing the restricted section?”

“My parents were professors long ago, and they instilled in me a thirst for knowledge. There are so many things Hogwarts doesn’t teach, and I took it upon myself to learn all I could, even if some of the information might have been considered… controversial.” A nostalgic look comes over his face. “To be completely fair, I was quite the troublemaker back then, and I very much enjoyed annoying Madam Scribner.”

Kate bursts out laughing just as their drinks are delivered. Sebastian pays and thanks the bartender.

She takes a sip of her bubbly cocktail. “So, erm, anyways… Why don’t you tell me a bit more about yourself, Sebastian?”

“Did you want to know anything specific?”

“The basics…? Like, how old are you? Where do you live?” Kate asks with great interest.

Keep it simple - keep it safe. “I’m 25 years old - almost 26. I’m from Feldcroft.”

“I’ve never heard of Feldcroft. Where is it?” Kate smiles.

“It’s a wizarding village located in the Highlands. Where do you live, Kate?”

“Hogsmeade. I moved there a couple of years ago when I got my job at Hogwarts. I’m originally from Epping Forest, though, where my parents still live. It’s somewhat close to London,” she explains.

“The name sounds familiar,” he responds, then pauses, considering where to take it from here. He decides to turn on the charm. “You know, I… was not expecting to meet someone so pretty tonight. When I arrived here earlier, I noticed you right away. I wanted to talk with you, but I wasn’t sure I could get you alone. I’m glad I did.”

Kate blushes at his bold statement but smiles and decides to take a chance. He is rather handsome. “I… noticed you, too.” She meets his eyes. “I was hoping there would be a reason for our paths to cross. Good thing someone bumped into me and caused a mess.”

They both chuckle.

“I hope you don’t consider this too forward,” Sebastian begins, his heart pounding in anticipation, “but I would love to take you out on a date and get to know you better, Kate.”

“I would like that,” she replies with a grin.

“When… would be a good time for you?” he inquires.

“How about…?” She thinks for a moment until her face lights up. “You know what? How about now?”

“Now?” he asks, surprised at her boldness.

“Yeah. Now,” she replies, nodding. “I’m not tired, and… honestly, it’s a perfect night for a stroll. What do you say?”

He laughs. “I’m not tired anymore, either. In fact, I haven’t felt this awake in a long time, if I’m completely honest.” A lopsided smile tugs at his lips. “A stroll sounds amazing. We could enjoy this drink together and then head out.”

“My only concern,” Kate begins, taking a quick sip, “is that I am here with my friends, Pearl and Felix, and they’ll be expecting me to return. Maybe you could join us for a few drinks…” She gestures towards their table across the pub, only to discover that the two are making out, not caring at all about the setting. She practically chokes on her cocktail.

Sebastian can barely contain his laughter when he sees that they are passionately kissing. “Your friends seem to be… enjoying themselves.”

“Merlin, how indecent!” Kate giggles, red in the face. “Well, I suppose we don’t need to worry much about them, then! They’re plenty busy now.”

His laughter grows as they observe the scene. “I think you’re right. As fun as it might be to meet your friends, Kate…” He leans in, gently taking her hand. “...I would rather give you all of my attention tonight.”

Kate inhales sharply at the contact. His hand is hot to the touch, rough and calloused; it easily devours hers. Her heartbeat quickens. Something about him - she can’t place it and doesn't know what it is… is right. His hand over hers just feels… right. Her chest rises and falls as she contemplates what this is between them, why he seems so familiar, and how she is able to be so daring with him so quickly. She’s always been a confident young woman, but… normally, her instinct is to be meek in romantic relationships, as she was taught was proper for a lady. But something inside of her has been urging her all night to seize this opportunity, to not let it pass by as a fleeting encounter.

She doesn’t know if this will truly go anywhere, but what harm is done in getting to know someone better? And if it goes nowhere, at least it could make for a memorable birthday story…

“So, Sebastian, what are some of your interests? What do you enjoy?” Kate asks, stirring her cocktail.

After a brief moment of consideration, he answers, “Reading. I love reading. I always have. I fly through books - any kind.” He chuckles softly. “I suppose we’re a good match, considering you’re a librarian.”

She offers an amused grin in response. “Maybe we are. So, what else?”

“Hmm… learning and research. I like magical history, theory, mythology - honestly, most subjects, really. I’m an excellent duelist. I try to keep up with new techniques, spells, all that.” He drinks some of his butterbeer. “I enjoy the outdoors. Walking, hiking, exploring, camping, flying… I love getting fresh air.”

“I like being outside, too, but I’ve never gone camping before. I’m not sure it’s for me. I’m not used to… roughing it,” she admits. “I mean, I don’t know, maybe I do to a point. I’m an avid gardener, so I’m not exactly afraid to get my hands dirty. I grow a lot of items I use in cooking and baking. I’m told I’m rather good at it.”

“You’re a chef, and I love to eat. You’re a librarian, and I love to read. How… perfect,” Sebastian notes.

Kate enjoys more of her beverage, her glass more than half empty now. “So… since we’re on an ‘official’ date now, I guess I’d like to know… “How long has it been since you were in a relationship?”

Sebastian pauses in thought for a few moments before he speaks. “If I really think about it, I haven’t been in a proper relationship since I was in school at Hogwarts. I’ve been out with women here and there, but…” he trails off.

“Oh, I see. Too busy at work?” Kate suggests, quickly filling in the blank. “I’m sure the work of an Auror is grueling… but then again, here you are, carving out some time for yourself here in the Leaky Cauldron…” She gives him a lopsided smile.

Sebastian’s expression turns warm, appreciating the excuse she has provided him. “Yes, I guess it’s good to take a step back and relax a bit sometimes. After all, if I hadn’t come here tonight, I wouldn’t have been able to meet you. So, what about yourself? Do you date much?”

She shrugs. “My mother keeps setting me up on dates. They never amount to anything. I rarely feel a connection with any of the men. I’ve had a couple of serious relationships in the past, though, but they were not my family’s doing. My last relationship ended about two years ago, and it was brutal in every way. It was a terrible, terrible relationship - and a terrible breakup. That’s when I decided to make a completely fresh start.” Kate pauses to make sure Sebastian is listening; he clearly is interested, leaning in. “I left my parents’ home, got the job at Hogwarts, bought my own little cottage outside of Hogsmeade, and, well… here I am,” she explains, shrugging again with a grin. “I like being independent and living on my own terms, but I would like some romance.”

Sebastian listens intently. “I can understand wanting independence and living on your own terms.” He pauses, his eyes locking onto hers. “If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly happened in your last relationship?”

“Ugh…” Kate mumbles, looking down at her beverage. “I don’t want to talk about it too much. It was… incredibly toxic, but for some reason, I stayed with him much longer than I should have.” She pauses. “I did, however, learn a lot about what I want in a future love match. I want someone who…” She considers her words for a moment. “...actually listens to me, who allows me to have friends, cares about me and my dreams. Someone I’m not afraid of.” Kate frowns, bad memories flooding her mind.

Sebastian reaches out and squeezes her hand in support. “Your last relationship sounds horrible. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

Kate smiles softly, meeting his eyes. “There’s no need for you to pity me. I made those choices myself, and I have to live with them. I’m just glad I didn’t make a commitment. Now I have the chance to find real love.” There is a pause. “I’m certain the hard lessons I’ve learned are nothing in comparison to what others have lived through. I've honestly had things very easy in life.”

“I have been through a lot of tough lessons as well. Some are… way too personal for me to talk about right now,” Sebastian admits. “Some days, I think I’m in the midst of one of those rough patches. I’ve just been living in the here and now for too long. Always just… getting by in the moment.”

“Well, there’s something to be said for living in the present, but no, you can’t do that forever. Eventually we all need to start looking forward. Making plans, growing roots…” she trails off, wondering if his roots might intertwine with hers someday. She shakes the thought away, trying not to get too caught up in the moment, too enchanted by his looks and charming nature. Take it easy, Kate.

“You’re right,” he replies. “It’s time for me to start making plans and goals. I want to make something of myself. Become a better man than I was yesterday.”

“And… What do you want for your future, Sebastian?” she asks quietly.

Sebastian takes a breath, looking into Kate’s eyes. “Well, a lot of things. I want stability. I need to stay out of trouble.” He chuckles, playing it off, but it’s quite true. “And honestly, I would really like to be in a healthy relationship. It would be nice to have a partner.”

“I can completely relate to that. I think I’m… I’m ready to settle down,” Kate replies, smiling as she realizes they have some similar goals. “For me, I… don’t want to rely on my family, even though they are more than happy to help me. I just… I want my own life.” She pauses, thinking of how to best explain. “My family is quite well-off. I grew up spoiled. I had a perfect childhood. But when I graduated from Hogwarts, I moved home, and I never felt like an adult while I was there. My mother wanted me to stay at home until I married. She wanted me to just be pampered, to have very few responsibilities. I just felt like a child there. That’s another reason why I left home and bought my cottage.”

“Your family sounds like they care about you - but perhaps almost too much. You’re not a child, Kate. You’re... well, you're a beautiful lady. You deserve to be treated as such.” His hand goes to Kate’s arm, his fingers lightly caressing up and down over her bare skin below her short sleeve. Her eyes widen at the bold physical touch, but she doesn't recoil or ask him to stop. She really likes him, so she finds it comforting and sweet.

When she finishes her cocktail, Kate tries to gauge how close he is to finishing his drink. “Well, perhaps I should say farewell to my friends, if we are going on a walk soon.” Kate pauses, then gives him an out, just in case, even though his body language is practically screaming about how interested he is. “Do you… still want to go? It is late. I would understand if you’d rather not.”

Sebastian downs the remaining butterbeer, setting the mug on the bar and wiping the foam from his mouth. He gives her a warm smile, leaning in to whisper, “Kate, I want nothing more than to continue our date.”

Her skin erupts in gooseflesh, and she tries not to sound flustered, even though her pink cheeks likely give her away. “Well, since - since it’s getting late and all… perhaps we should go on a walk closer to home. Instead of Diagon Alley, we could apparate to Feldcroft or Hogsmeade… What do you think?”

His eyes widen in panic when Kate mentions Feldcroft, but he covers it up with a quick reply. “Hogsmeade sounds great to me. Shall we spend the rest of the night there?”

“Yes. But let me say goodnight to Pearl and Felix. I’ll… meet you outside,” Kate tells him.

Before getting down from the stool, Kate leans over and presses a little kiss to his cheek. She smiles and gazes into his eyes for a moment afterwards, noticing how his cheeks bloom scarlet. A huge grin grows on his face. Then, Kate drops down off of the stool to walk across the tavern to her friends.

After a few minutes, Sebastian watches her hug her friends. Kate gives him a “come-hither” look, tilting her head and stepping out of the pub and into the moonlight.

She can’t help but grin like a fool. Kate certainly hadn’t come to the Leaky Cauldron expecting to leave with someone new and exciting. A birthday, after all, is the perfect time to start a new chapter.

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cheerysmores · 2 days ago

Text

Sunrise sunset

Pairing: Bloodweave Word count: 2.6K Preview: Gale recognised the coolness in his words, something open, almost raw. He’d heard it once before, deep in the Shadow Curse that surrounded Reithwin. They’d floated tangled and formless in his conjured sky, breathless from their lovemaking. He’d whispered his devotion, kissed it over that wretched scar hacked into Astarion’s flesh again and again and again until the feeling was brighter and hotter than the stars that drenched them. Astarion hadn't been ready to say it back. Not quite yet. ‘It’s the first time in centuries that this hasn’t been a transaction.’ ‘My love will never be a transaction.’ ‘Darling, everything is a transaction. Heroes, nobles, the great and the good, when you spend 200 years stalking the underbelly of a city, you see the truth behind such pretty masks. Nothing is given freely— it’s all about the right fingers in the right pocket’ ‘Which pocket am I pilfering then?’ ‘That’s just it. You aren’t– which is a first for me. Whatever this is, not knowing where it will go… it’s nice.’ A/N: Another February birthday gift! This time it's for the ever-talented @unforgiving-girl

Most knew Baldur’s Gate as the City of Heroes. For centuries it stood with unyielding walls, its stories intense enough to catch the ears of even the most seasoned travellers. Many a legend began or ended on its streets; many an adventurer's life too. Now that city was burning. The black sheet of night flickered with the embers of smouldering buildings. The lofty watchtowers had fallen like twigs in the wind, littering the streets with rubble and splintered lumber. Bodies were silently piled into carts and taken to be identified, yet still, its citizens cheered. Ballads of victory drifted from the standing taverns and fireworks burst like showers of golden stars above the Upper City.

The Absolute was defeated. And beyond all the celebration, Gale Dekarios waited.

The Chionthar rippled black and cool before him, pieces of the Netherbrain caught in the gentle tide. Barely hours ago he’d watched it rain fire onto the city below, its tendrils heavy enough to knock buildings like they were toy blocks. Now it was nothing but waste in the river. He almost wanted to laugh. The brain that called itself a God had turned to meat because he willed it to.

Most of the wreckage had disappeared into the water along with its leash– the Crown of Karsus. Retrieving it from such sludge would not exactly be pleasant but then he’d have it. The true power of the divine, the same power that clawed and burned in his chest, could be his. He’d been able to taste the magic from a half mile away, the thought of getting closer, of touching it…

The halo of lights above his head dimmed as his concentration wavered.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to focus. Exhaustion had dried almost every shred of magic from his fingers. Even keeping up such a simple cantrip lit felt like trying to catch an especially sharp breath.

He forced through it, the lights dancing brighter as he exhaled. They were his beacon, words he didn’t have time to say before he was being pushed away in a cloud of brandy-scented smoke.

‘I’m not going anywhere, I promise.’

Hours passed before a familiar voice broke the silence.

“I didn’t think you’d still be here.”

A relief larger than any other he’d felt bloomed in his chest as he turned and met Astarion’s crimson eyes. Last he’d seen them they were wide with fear, glittering under the very sun that was burning and tearing at his face. He’d run before Gale could summon darkness, disappearing completely into the city like breath in the air. It had been impossible to find him, more impossible to quell the fear that the man he loved was now nothing but ash on the cobbles.

Gale jogged towards him, the lights scattering in a mess. “Thank the heavens you’re alright–”

He stopped as Astarion took a small step back. “You know, I’d heard there was talk of celebration. Reverlies, drinks, speeches, the whole hero's song and dance. I’m surprised you’d miss it.”

Gale tried to keep his smile gentle. “It would hardly be fitting without you.” Even with the dimming lights he could see the burns on the vampire’s face were not fully healed. The damage cracked through his skin like veins of silver, the real price of their victory.

Astarion looked out to the mess of the river. “Were you worried?”

“I dearly hope that is not a serious question.”

“You sweetheart. There was nothing to fret about.”

The ease of his tone dripped like melted sugar from his lips. Gale’s lights seared around them. “You were burning. I thought I was too late. That–”

“That I’d just evaporated under the sun?” Astarion’s smile wavered. “It takes a little longer than that. Trust me, it isn’t pleasant to watch. I’ve seen it.” He rubbed the back of his neck, sighing before he answered the question Gale was too tactful to ask. “Cazador showed every new spawn he made, forcing one of us to stand outside until there was just enough of our body left that could heal itself.”

Black ice curled around his words, the same as it always did when he spoke of his late master. Even as a corpse Gale knew that monster’s hands still found their way into Astarion’s mind.

“I’m sorry. Truly,” Asatrion continued, eyes slowly sweeping back to his. “I didn’t want anyone to see me like that, fleeing into the dark like some creature, especially you. Just as we save the world, I’m hit with a screeching reminder of what I truly am.”

Gale took a small but definite stop towards him. Gods above how he wanted to hold him, reassure him, remind himself that he was still alive and solid in his arms. He’d felt the layers Astarion had so carefully built up over the years, thick and dulled as old varnish on a painting. Slowly he’d made his way under, peeling them back until he could see the bright colours underneath.

“I thought you’d been taken from me. I wasn’t going anywhere until I knew, until I could look at you again,” Gale said quietly. His chest already rotted with the orb, but the thought of losing him, of the one bright red thread in his life being ripped away was a much more crippling hurt.

Astarion’s eyes flickered like tiny fires. “This, what we have, it’s still so new. And I’m the one that pushed you away. Of course I was going to come back but I could hardly blame you if you’d gone out and made the most of the night. There are drinks to be had, crowns to collect.” A white fang digs into his bottom lip. “Divinity to claim.”

Gale recognised the coolness in his words, something open, almost raw. He’d heard it once before, deep in the Shadow Curse that surrounded Reithwin. They’d floated tangled and formless in his conjured sky, breathless from their lovemaking. He’d whispered his devotion, kissed it over that wretched scar hacked into Astarion’s flesh again and again and again until the feeling was brighter and hotter than the stars that drenched them.

Astarion hadn't been ready to say it back. Not quite yet.

‘It’s the first time in centuries that this hasn’t been a transaction.’

‘My love will never be a transaction.’

‘Darling, everything is a transaction. Heroes, nobles, the great and the good, when you spend 200 years stalking the underbelly of a city, you see the truth behind such pretty masks. Nothing is given freely— it’s all about the right fingers in the right pocket’

‘Which pocket am I pilfering then?’

‘That’s just it. You aren’t– which is a first for me. Whatever this is, not knowing where it will go… it’s nice.’

“It would be a lie to say I haven’t thought about claiming Karsus’s power,” Gale started, closing the space between them a little more. “The Gods in all their infinite might and wisdom do so little to help the plight of mortals, and those they do deign to speak to, they ruin. I could do so much more, make new rules and claim a domain that would make even Mystra shake with fear… But I won’t.”

Astarion tilted his head. “Why not? It sounds right up your proverbial alley.”

“Part of me wants to say that there is a long and thought out reason, that I finally learned my lesson after the rather ignominious end to my relationship with Mystra– but truthfully, it’s much simpler than that.” He looked back to the ink of Chionthar, his voice softening. “You told me that you preferred me as I am: mortal, thrown from grace, aging and imperfect. Knowing that… it’s more than enough.” It still surprised him how solid his words were. When they’d sat in his illusion of the outer planes, he’d been more than steadfast in his want to claim divinity. He had to admit, it was almost poetic in its perfection. The last vestige of Karsus’s power was in his chest and the crown so close to his grasp. All he’d have to do was take it.

And all Astarion had to do was tell him not to.

‘Just think of what I offer. I could help you live again, to walk in the sun without a parasite locked in your head.’

‘Once I would have jumped at that chance and made you claim this power regardless of what it might do to you or your soul.’

‘You are not making me do anything. I want to do this. For me. For us.’

‘You sound like me… and strangely that’s not a good thing. Back at the ritual, you told me what taking the power of all those souls would do, that I was enough– just as I am. I meant it when I said that was a gift, and it’s one I’m now returning. Please. Just be you, the first person I’ve truly cared for, the only one who’s ever seen me for...well… me. I can’t lose that.’

Gale held onto the memory like a candle on a cold night. “When I finally locate the crown, it won’t remain in my hands for long.”

Astarion was quiet for a moment. The breeze picked up, loosening a perfectly styled curl from its place. “You know, I think we’ve spent enough being used for ends we have no say in. If Mystra wants this crown so badly she should get it herself. I’d pay any amount of gold to watch a goddess wade through this sewer of a river. I’m sure picking through all that brain matter will be delightful. Now we both choose what we want.” A more genuine smile returned to his face. Crooked. Devious. Perfect. “Who we want.”

This time, Gale didn’t fight the urge to hold him. Astarion swung into the circle of his arms, his body cold as early spring against his own. Gale threaded his hand into his hair, clinging, caressing, reminding himself that it is indeed over. He’s here. They both are. Breathing. Safe. Unburned and unexploded.

Astarion softened against him. Gale’s breath caught slightly. Holding him was still new, a boundary strangely more delicate to cross than stripping naked and getting ravaged against a tree. It was a discovery unto itself, thoughts of the fires of Mystra’s arcane embrace quickly melting to something solid. Real. Almost frightening in a way.

He never wanted to let go.

Gale tucked the stray curl back into place. “Here’s my counter argument. If I give the crown to her, she’ll remove the orb. And then you can bite me.”

“Getting jealous of other necks are we?” Astarion gently scraped his teeth against the line of Gale’s throat. “It would be nice to get the memory of that netherse bile out of my mouth. I have wondered what it would be like to taste you right here.” He bites down at the juncture of his neck. Hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to set Gale’s mind spinning.

It’s almost shameful how much he wanted it. Years feeling only the pleasure of illusions, he needed something messy. Painful. An intimacy that could only ever belong to Astarion’s full pale lips.

He dragged his tongue over the mark, murmuring into Gale’s skin. “So– how fares the rest of this great city? Still standing?”

“I haven’t had much of a chance to explore but it is looking rather…” Astarion traced the spot again and Gale’s mind ground to a halt.

“Flattened?”

He huffed out a shaky exhale, sure the vampire could smell the bouquet of his blood from the amount of it pooling in his cheeks. “Though strangely the Upper City seems to have avoided the worst of the damage. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was as it was within the month.”

Astarion halted his tease. “Then I suppose Cazador’s palace is still standing. Even in death he’s still a lucky bastard.” The name dropped like a stone between them, pulling all the warmth from his voice with it. Gale brushed the side of Asation’s neck, thumb resting over the twin scars there. On nights when sleep flitted from his grasp, he’d find himself zeroing in on those marks and trying not to wonder just how hard Cazador bit him to leave such deep jagged craters.

Anger rose in Gale’s throat. It felt like a shard of ice piercing into his skin when Astarion tried to feed yet the resulting scars were barely pinpricks. How much did Cazador take when he changed him? How much did he bleed? Gale had immediately burned the diary they’d found in Cazador’s bedroom, forever destroying page after page of detailed poetry about Astarion’s pain- how he screamed, when he didn’t– an obsession so engrossing it almost dripped from the parchment.

It had been a tenday or more since they’d left his pathetic punctured body sprawled in that dark chapel. Gale hoped he was never found, that his body rotted for a thousand years in the darkness. When he leafed through the Annals of Karsus, his first thought was not saving people or fighting Mystra. No. It was of reaching into the hells, pulling the last flicker of that monster’s soul back into his bones and making him feel every second of pain as his home crumbled around him..

They both knew that some blood could never be washed off. Gale would wear Cazador’s like a badge of honour if it meant Astarion could finally find some semblance of peace.

Gale tilted Astarion’s head back. “Actually, I believe I did hear something about his palace. It burned.” Astarion’s curiosity morphed into understanding as Gale raised his hand, now wreathed in flame. “It was such a terrible, if surprisingly controlled blaze. Whoever was in there has been completely lost to ash and history.” The flame danced in his palm, playfully inviting.

Astarion’s eyes glinted in the light. “Oh dear. That is such a pity. Well I suppose I should see it for myself.” He moved his hand in a jerkier movement, his own flame splintering from his fingers.

They kissed under their joint light, the night blooming pink and red behind Gale’s eyelids as Astarion captured his bottom lip between his teeth. In a few days he could break the skin. Gale was already counting down the minutes.

“We’ve hours until dawn,” Gale murmured as they pulled apart.

Astraion shook the fire from his hand and looked to the dark horizon. “I must admit, I’ll miss it. I'm not afraid of the darkness, the world’s or mine– but I suppose I did make the choice to embrace it.”

Gale hummed, a softer light now swirling in his palm. “There’s all kinds of magic hidden in the reaches of the world. Ancient artefacts that only the most skilled of adventurers could find. I just need my library, then I’m sure we could find a way to take away the sun’s anger. But until then, we can still enjoy the light.” The magic burst from his palm. Stripes of pink and orange cascaded over the sky, the illusion of morning unfolding around them.

Astarion silently walked to the water’s edge, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. The sunrise cast the pearl of his skin with a rosier hue. “Do you really believe it’s possible?”

Gale pulled his sun higher into the sky, the whole dock now awash with gold. “Half a day ago we were standing on the precipice of an Elderbrain. Finding a way to shield you from the sun almost seems a trifle now.”

Gale quietly stepped to his side, holding back the rest of the words he was so desperate to say.

Marry me. Come home with me. Let me follow you wherever you go.

They were sentiments for the morning. And there was still mischief to be had this night.

Astarion quietly reached for his hand. “Then we are going to have an awful lot of fun.”

#bloodweave #my writing #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #astarion #astarion ancunin

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talesfromawannabewriter · 1 day ago

Text

The Falling of an Apple

Disclaimer: This book will have many parts that some readers may find triggering or offensive. The list includes but is not limited to slavery, feed-ism, adipophilin, slight fat shaming, urolagnia, coprophilia, and menstruation

chapter 1

Tearing through secrets

Adam couldn't breathless he lay in the crater, his robes all but obliterated, and he was left in nothing but his black skintight suit, which constricted against every fat on his body. It was just begging to be all released to free Adam from the prison in which it held.

Looking up he saw the shadow of his nemesis flying above him. His daughter was safely placed on the ground before returning to the first man. He had much planned for him, his first best friend betraying him like this and hurting his daughter.

Then again one would say he betrayed him first. Lucifer shook himself from such pitiful thoughts. Now was not the time to become sentimental, now was the time to put this human in his place.

He got right up to Adam and pulled him by the front of his suit. Unaware of the tearing he was causing.

Lucifer: Alright you dumb son of a bitch you are going to pay for your fucking crimes by...

He stopped as he stared at his chest. Something about it was different. It had been centuries since he saw him last. Even during the meeting to discuss the exterminations Lucifer paid him no mind.

But now as he stared at him, at his chest he could see that there was something...soft about it, and if he wasn't mistaking it for something maybe...jiggly.

He didn't know why he dropped him, but he did. When he heard it completely, the suit, was tearing.

Lucifer watched astounded as flesh poured out like water from the fall. His thighs were so full of meat they touched together. His back had love handles and his were wide.

Then came the absolute most delectable part. Adam's once flat chest and taut stomach were now nothing more than made up by fat. And Lucifer loved it.

His chest had boobed, which Lucifer would say were about going up to H cups. Which were even bigger than Lilith's or Eve's. But when Lucifer finally got to see his full stomach, he could no longer hide his massive erection.

At first, it was rupturing from underneath the suit then with one final push popped right out. His giant, soft belly sloshing around as many of the others looked on in disgust. But not Lucifer, never had he ever felt this way for a person before.

Not even when he was with Lilith. Though she had a pretty face and was nice when she wanted to be she was thin as a twig and practically curve less. All those stories about her beauty and bouncy breasts were simply that, stories.

The truth of the matter is that she was actually a twig. Both her breasts and bottom were only implants that she got from Belphegor herself. Lucifer would never admit it during their marriage, but he wished he had more to hold, to suck on, to fuck raw until his dick was completely drained.

This man had exactly what he wanted. Without another thought, he stepped closer to Adam who was wheezing from being in that suit for so long. Dear father he was so fucking fat; it made him lick his lips as felt some of his own inner juices slightly flow out the tip, wetting his normally clean pants.

He pulled Adam by his hair and said in a harsh voice: Adam the first man for trespassing the agreement and harming the princess of Hell, my daughter, I hereby sentence you be my personal slave for all of eternity.

The two heard shouting and screams of anguish as Lucifer's fire surrounded them and took him back to his castle. Where he would begin to play with his new pet.

(I know it's not much now, but I promise it is about to get incredibly dirty, starting with the next chapter)

@lilacwriter07

@sir-tater-of-the-tot, hope you guys enjoyed the first part ;)

#adamsapple #hazbin hotel adam #hazbin hotel lucifer #hazbin hotel #chubby adam #curvy adam

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reiwanwan · 1 day ago

Text

Sweet mourning lamb

When Tommy Shelby sits alone by the fire, haunted by the weight of war and business, an unexpected visitor steps out of the darkness—his sister, Delilah. But Delilah is dead. As she delivers a chilling warning, Tommy is forced to confront a truth that defies logic, setting both him and Delilah on a path where revenge and fate collide.

Inspired by Ethel cain’s album, Preachers Daughter. Try to guess which song of hers inspired the first part of the story! Also I changed my writing style a bit for this.

Word count: 5.3k

Content includes : Blood, Mentions of killing, Violence, Religious beliefs, Mentions of drugs and alcohol, Death. Might be heavy and disturbing to some readers so please do proceed with caution.

i. A prayer

The church smelled of wax and old wood, the air thick with incense that had long since stopped masking the rot of something deeper. A place of worship, of confession, of supposed salvation. Yet Delilah Shelby stood at its entrance as though she were being swallowed whole, a shadow of herself wrapped in a threadbare coat, her fingers trembling from something more than the cold.

Her boots, scuffed and damp from the night, made no sound as she stepped inside. It was quiet. Always quiet. The hush of a graveyard, the breath before an execution.

She came here when it hurt. When the grief inside her became a living thing, crawling beneath her skin, gnawing at her bones. Polly was gone, and there was nothing in this godless world that could bring her back. But there was Lucas Woods. The preacher. He stood near the altar, bathed in the glow of candlelight. He was waiting for her. As if he knew she would come, like he knew what she had done.

“Delilah,” he murmured.

His voice was like the low murmur of a hymn—soft, and careful. She exhaled, closing her eyes briefly as if to steady herself, before making her way forward.

“I failed,” she admitted, her voice hollow. “I—”

She swallowed hard. The words felt thick in her throat. “I went back to it. I started drinking and taking opium again... I thought I could—I thought I could stop, but then I heard about Tommy and Michael, about the war that’s about to come, and it just—” Her breath hitched. “It started to hurt again.”

Thomas had called her from her home and vaguely mentioned a “war” that was going to happen between them. Delilah had known about the dispute between him and Michael. And she knew that “war” meant that serious shit was about to get down. That also most definitely meant that one of them was going to die. And death was something she didn’t want for either of them.

Lucas watched her with half lidded eyes, his gaze was lazy. “You told me once that grief and worry is a sickness, and that I must suffer before I can be saved” she whispered, her hands trembling, “And I—I think it’s eating me alive”. But deep inside, she knew that salvation was never meant for her.

Lucas tilted his head slightly, his dark brown eyes solemn as he stepped forward, bridging the space between them. Gently, he lifted her chin, his fingers soft as a whisper against her skin.

“I was with you there, I invited you in twice, I did. You love blood too much.”

Her brows furrowed as she looked at him with glistening teary eyes, Lucas often spoke in metaphors that were slightly confusing to understand. “What do you mean?”. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch between them like the taut pull of a noose. When he finally spoke, his voice was as gentle as a lover’s confession.

“The first time I invited you in, I found you sprawled outside these very doors. Cold. Drunk. Sobbing.” His thumb traced the curve of her jaw, almost reverently. “I let you in to pray, did I not?”. Delilah’s breath shuddered out of her.

She remembered that night. The way the rain had seeped into her clothes, the way her body had felt so small, so insignificant against the vast, uncaring world. She was grieving the death of her Aunt Pol. How she had died so unfairly by the hands of the IRA. The one she believed was the pillar and backbone of her family. Delilah remembered weeping pathetically on the muddy ground and it was Lucas who had found her and brought her in for warmth.

“And the second?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer. Lucas’ smile was small, almost pained.

“The second time was when I let you into my heart.”

Something inside her twisted. She searched his face, finding nothing but that same quiet devotion in his eyes, that unwavering gaze that had always felt like both salvation and damnation. Delilah had suspected that she might’ve fallen in love with Lucas the first time he put his hands so painfully gently on her shoulders and told her to pray. His brown eyes, so forgiving and polite. Her throat tightened. “And the blood?”.

He regarded her for a long moment before answering. “The blood is those who hurt you”. Her stomach squeezed and turned cold. She made the connection instantly. It was too painfully obvious.

Lucas said nothing. He didn’t need to.

For a long, excruciating moment, the weight of it pressed down on her chest, suffocating. She had spent so long trying to ignore it, trying to drown it in whatever poison she could find—this unbearable love for a brother who had done nothing but carve her heart into something unrecognizable.

But he was the one who had been there for her all her life. The only one who held her when she cried after her mother had passed, when her father would disappear for long periods of time. The one that made her heart feel safe. How could she not love him the way she did?

She felt Lucas’ hands on her face again, cradling her gently as if she was fragile and would break any second. His touch was warm, grounding. “I heard you,” he whispered. “Saw you. Felt you. Gave you. Needed you.”

“Loved you.”

His thumb softly pulled down on her bottom lip as he slowly leaned in. A soft and lingering kiss against her cheek. Then, his lips at her ear, his voice sinking into her bones like a prayer.

“You poor thing. Sweet, mourning lamb.”

Her eyes flutter shut as he murmured sweet nothings into her ears with his deep, syrupy voice.

“There’s nothing you can do,” he whispered.

“It’s already been done.”

His lips met with hers, interlocking naturally. She felt herself sink into it, into him, desperate and aching, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat as if he were the only thing tethering her to this world. He grabbed the softness of her nape, his other hand cupping her head, he groaned when her fingers tightened on his brown locs.

Delilah was slowly losing herself in his touch. Maybe this was all she needed, she thought to herself. She shut her eyes tightly and allowed herself to drown in this moment. She started to hear multiple voices, all sorts of different sounds, all around her spatial awareness. She grabbed onto his lapels tighter in hopes that the voices would go away. There was no time to pay the voices any attention. But the voices started becoming more coherent. It was calling her name.

“Delilah” the voice called.

Go away, not right now.

“Delilah”

Whoever you are, fuck off. I don’t need this right now.

“Show me your face”

Delilah remained keeping her eyes screwed shut. She recognised that voice. Her eyes flew open once she was sure who the voice belonged to. The church was gone and she was small again. A child.

She was crouched down with her knees pulled into her chest. Her small hands trembled as she raised them to her face, covering it, shielding herself from the gaze she knew was waiting for her. “Please don’t look at me”.

“Why won’t you show me your face, Delilah? Do you not love me anymore?” He said, crouching down to her who was curled into a ball.

“Because if I do, I’ll start crying again Tommy” she said, her voice cracking. She felt his hands, warm and steady, prying hers away. Forcing her to meet his icy blue eyes. He was young as well. The Tommy she remembered before France took the light away from her doting brother.

“I can see it in your eyes, you’re guilty” He said. Delilah sobbed softly when Tommy held her small face in his hands.

“Tell me, what have you done?” he wiped her falling tears with his thumbs.

Stop. Stop…stop. Make it stop.

“Why wont you tell me, Delilah? You don't love me anymore?” His voice slowly started to sound like her fathers.

Delilah shook her head, trying to get him to be silent. Tommy and her father loved asking her that when she was younger and she hated it a lot. They weren’t aware of how much it hurt her little heart. She always felt like she had to do something— anything as proof of her love. It almost never ended well. In pain most of the time.

Stop. Stop…stop. Make it stop.

“Why don't you listen to me, Delilah? Do you want to make Tommy sad?”

I’ve had enough.

Stop…

STOP

Delilah gasped, her eyes widened and quickly pulled herself away from Lucas’ lips, trying to desperately catch her breath. Her chest heaved quickly, she could feel her heart pounding and held onto her chest to try and control its strong and painful palpitations. She turned her attention to Lucas who was already smiling at her lazily.

“After all I’ve done,” he mused, “you’re still crying for your brother.”

She could barely think. Her head, a dizzying and mushy mess. Her voice was hoarse when she finally spoke. “How do you know I’m crying for him…and not for you?” she asked breathily, trying to force a smile. Lucas’ eyes darkened, his coarse thumb brushed over her cheek, smearing away a tear.

“You’ll never cry for the one who doesn’t hurt you” he murmured. “Only the one who pains you”

He brought his lips closer to her ears and whispered, “The pain that only you can remember”. Lucas reached behind her head and that’s when she felt it—The cold kiss of a steel pistol at the back of her skull.

How long had it been there? Had it been there when he kissed her? How long had she clung to him?

She exhaled shakily. She knew what was to come, because when she lifted her gaze, she saw them. Mother, Polly and John. All standing behind Lucas and smiling so beautifully. She had spent so long running from the inevitable, drowning herself in opium, in whiskey, in prayers whispered into the collar of a preacher’s coat. Now, at last, there was no more running. It is as Lucas said, it’s already been done.

Her lips parted. A broken breath escaped. And before she could think of anything else the world went black. Her body went limp, falling back before she was caught by Lucas in his arms. He lifted her lifeless frame up and examined, bringing a chaste kiss to her lips. His fingers drew a cross on her chest with the blood from the back of her head as he prayed— The prayer that he had saved for Delilah.

“Blessed be the Daughter of the Shelbys,

Bound to suffering eternal through the sins of their fathers committed long before their conception.

Blessed be their whore mothers,

Tired and angry, waiting with bated breath in a ferry that will never move again.

Blessed be the children,

Each and every one comes to know their god through some senseless act of violence.

Blessed be the girl, born into blood, raised in grief.

Blessed be her restless soul, which will never find peace.

Blessed be the hands that held her, the lips that kissed her, the man who loved her.

And blessed be the bullet, the only true salvation I could give.”

ii. The priest

Lucas Woods watched as the body of Delilah Shelby bled out on the church’s marble floor. She looked like a beauty bleeding out in such a beautiful place of worship.

His mind was noisy. With thoughts that he couldn’t identify. But it was probably not that important. Lucas was the type of person who knew what he wanted and exactly how he wanted it. If he couldn’t pick out what it was that he felt while watching her, then the thought most likely didn’t serve him any good. Besides, there was no room left in his heart to grieve.

He recited every prayer he had ever known, In hopes her soul would forgive him. Not like he ever believed in any of the prayers that he recited. Not as if he believed that it would save her, but fear of the possibilities that there is heaven, not as if he believed any of them could get in but there was that little pathetic hope in him.

He bathed her in candlelight, traced crosses over her forehead, whispered to her in the darkness. He took off his robe, leaving it on top of her lifeless body and left before shutting the big wooden church doors, leaving her behind for the flies to keep her company.

Lucas had told her things he had never told another soul. The things he thought were unworthy to share. Lucas’ reasoning was that his value would not have changed either way— there was no benefit in knowing who he was and what he was inside.

Born to a Belfast family that never knew peace, similar to the Shelbys, Lucas had been raised on the promise of bringing justice to the weak. His father’s hands were always bloodied; his mother’s eyes were always swollen from grief.

“Some people have to be sacrificed for the greater good, Lucas” is what his father would say when he came home with blood on his clothes. His father was a preacher and often twisted the word of God to justify his bloodshed, poor little Lucas never could tell the difference between the devil, god and his own father.

The church had been his only solace, the only place where he could pretend, be a killer with a cross around his neck, for a moment, and not his father’s son.

But the IRA had taken him in before God ever could, stepping right into his fathers foots steps He had killed before he ever learned how to pray properly. And yet, when he met Delilah Shelby, he had felt something shift. Something softened. Maybe it was his damned heart.

She was not innocent—no one born a Shelby ever was—but she was something else entirely. The pain in her eyes, the quiet way she clung to him when she thought no one was watching, the desperation and sincerity in the way she sought absolution and repented even when she knew she could never truly be forgiven. Something about her desperation and loyalty pulled him closer. He had loved her.

Perhaps for his own selfish needs, for the way she made him feel like something more than a killer in a preacher’s robes, and more than his fathers obedient dog.

Loving that girl made him feel clean. The only ones whose hands were tender on his face. Maybe it was knowing how much she needed him. For whatever reasons he had, there was no denying in his heart, he had love for that girl. And maybe that’s why he had to destroy her. Because love like that doesn’t belong in a man like him.

iii. The awakening

Darkness consumed her. Not the soft, velvety blackness of sleep, nor the tranquil void of death she had once imagined—but something far heavier, more suffocating. It wrapped around her like a burial shroud, thick and endless, stretching into eternity without form or meaning.

For what she could only assume was more than an hour, she was aware of nothing but this abyss. No pain, no thought, just the cold, unfeeling void. She wondered, vaguely, if this was what it meant to die, or how it felt. If she had finally escaped the blood, the grief, the war that followed her like a specter. There was no peace in this emptiness, but neither was there suffering. Perhaps that was enough.

Delilah’s ears picked up a sound. Faint at first, distant, like an echo through water. A dull, rhythmic thump, steady and unrelenting. It pulsed through the void, rippling outward, drawing her toward it. It took her a moment to recognize it.

A heartbeat.

Her heartbeat.

The realization struck her like a hammer to the chest, sending shockwaves through the darkness. Sensation flooded in all at once—a slow, dragging pain that curled through her skull, a dull ache spreading through her limbs like fire smoldering beneath the surface of her skin. Her breath hitched, sharp and ragged, as a new awareness settled over her.

She was alive.

Or at least—she was something close to it.

Her fingers twitched against the hard cold surface beneath her, the texture rough and unyielding, pressing against her palms with an unbearable weight. Cold air wrapped around her, carrying the heavy scent of incense, candle wax, and something darker—something metallic. It clung to her, thick and suffocating, stirring something deep in her chest. Blood. She groaned helplessly.

Her lungs burned as she sucked in air, as if she had been drowning for an eternity and was only now breaking the surface. Her body rebelled against the motion, heavy and sluggish, as though she were made of lead. Her head lolled to the side, the sharp, dragging pain intensifying, throbbing at the base of her skull. She tried to move, tried to lift her arms, but they felt like dead weight, resisting her every attempt to reclaim control.

Something warm trickled down her forehead.

Slow, thick, and wet.

Her breath stilled. Forcing her muscles to obey, she dragged her hand upward, the movement strained and unnatural, her fingertips brushing against her temple. Her skin was slick, the texture strange and foreign. She pressed her fingers against it, feeling the warmth, the stickiness, the undeniable reality of it.

Her hand trembled as she pulled it away.The dim light overhead cast a dull glow over her skin, illuminating the color smeared across her fingertips. Deep crimson, nearly black in the flickering candlelight. It pooled in the creases of her palm, clung to the lines of her skin, refusing to fade. Blood. Her blood.

A sickening realization settled over her like a weight. She had felt the bullet, had heard it—the crack of the gunshot, the way the world had gone silent in its wake. The moment of impact had been sudden, sharp—then nothing.

And yet, she was here. Alive?

The floor beneath her was cold, the air thick with the scent of iron. Her breathing came shallow, uneven, her chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate motions, as if her body was still trying to understand what had happened. She should be dead. She was dead.

Then why did she feel like this?

Her vision swam as she forced herself to sit up, the world shifting violently around her, tilting at unnatural angles. A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her, but she pushed past it, planting her hands against the floor, steadying herself. Her body felt foreign, her limbs sluggish and uncooperative, as though she had been stitched together all wrong.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, her movements unsteady, legs trembling beneath her. The sensation of blood running down her skin was maddening—warm, constant, unnatural. She needed to see.

Her gaze flickered across the dimly lit church, her surroundings unfamiliar in her disoriented state. The air felt heavier than before, thick with something unspoken, something watching. But there was no one else here.

A bitter laugh threatened to crawl up her throat, but she swallowed it down, forcing her body to move. She needed to find a mirror—needed proof of whatever had been done to her.

Each step felt wrong, as though she were walking through water’s tough tides, her body resisting the motion. The shadows in the church stretched long and sharp, flickering with the unsteady candlelight. The air was too still, too quiet, pressing in from all sides.

She reached the far end of the room, her fingers grazing the cool surface of an old mirror. The glass was fogged with age, its surface marred with scratches, but it was enough.

She hesitated, but slowly—she looked.

A sharp breath escaped her lips.

The woman staring back at her was a grotesque mockery of the one she had once been. Her skin, once warm and full of life, had taken on an unnatural pallor—too pale, too still, as though all warmth had drained from her body. Dark veins curled beneath the surface, spreading from the wound at her temple, reaching down her neck, disappearing beneath the collar of her dress.

The wound itself— A small, perfect hole, right at her hairline. The skin around it was raw, cracked, as if something had forced its way through and refused to heal. Blood had dried in uneven streaks down her face, crusted in places where it should have clotted, but never fully did. It oozed, slow and thick, an unnatural, endless trickle.

Her eyes were wrong. She leaned closer, her breath fogging the glass. The irises, once a deep brown, had darkened, their edges swallowed by shadow. They looked sunken, hollow, as if she had been awake for centuries. She wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light, or if something inside her had shifted—something that could never be undone.

This was not survival. This was something else.

She exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down her face, smearing blood across her cheek. She could only laugh at her own reflection.

It was quiet at first—soft, bitter, but it grew, shaking in her chest, a sound born from madness and exhaustion. A laugh with no joy, no warmth. Just the cold, sharp edge of realization sinking into her ribs like a knife.

She should be dead. But she wasn’t.

She turned from the mirror, dragging a hand through her blood-matted hair, her mind racing with the weight of what this meant.

There was a sudden shift in the air. The sensation of something unseen watching. She stilled. Slowly, she turned and there, standing in the flickering candlelight—was Polly.

Polly stood with her arms crossed, an unreadable expression resting on her sharp features. She looked exactly as Delilah remembered, before and after she left—proud, knowing, untouched by death. But Delilah knew what this meant. Polly always had something to say.

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t even think it was possible.Her lips parted, her voice hoarse when she finally spoke.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?”

Polly quirked a brow and tilted her head, “What do you think?”, amusement flickering in her sharp gaze.

Delilah let out a slow breath, glancing back at the mirror.Her reflection had not changed.She clenched her jaw, shaking her head.

“Fuck”.

Delilah clenched her jaw, dragging a hand through her blood-matted hair. “I don’t know,” she muttered. “I’m still standing here, aren’t I?”. Polly exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking her head. “Look at yourself, sweetheart,” she drawled. “And tell me—does that look alive to you?”. Delilah glanced back at the mirror, her stomach twisting. She let out a slow breath, licking her lips, tasting iron.

Delilah clenched her fists, shaking her head.

“Fuck” she said exasperatedly, releasing a soft and defeated laugh.

Delilah sat down on the benches and reached into her pocket, fingers brushing against something familiar—A pack of cigarettes. She pulled it out, along with a silver lighter, flipping it open with a flick of her wrist. The flame flared to life, casting shadows across her face. She placed the cigarette between her lips, lighting the tip, inhaling deeply before exhaling a long plume of smoke into the stagnant air.

“Being dead hurts,” She shook her head, smirking.

Polly smiled, watching her fondly. “You’re still here because you have something to say,” she said simply. “Something he needs to hear.” Delilah exhaled another breath of smoke, staring at Polly through the haze. Polly met her gaze, steady and sharp.

“You already know what it is.”

Delilah took another slow drag of her cigarette, watching the ember glow like a dying star. She exhaled through her nose, the smoke curling between them.

“And what if I don’t want to say it?”

Polly’s gaze didn’t waver nor did her smile, “Then you’ll never rest.”

iv. The message

The fire crackled, the embers rising into the night air like lost spirits, twisting and flickering before vanishing into the darkness. The flames burned low, a soft orange glow against the damp cold of the woods. Smoke curled upward in lazy tendrils, mixing with the heavy scent of damp earth and decayed leaves. The world was quiet here—no city noise, no voices, just the steady hum of insects and the rustling of branches overhead.

Tommy sat hunched on a fallen log, elbows on his knees, a cigarette hanging from his lips. The firelight carved shadows into his face, deepening the hollows beneath his eyes, making him look even more tired than he already felt. The weight of war pressed against him, the endless calculations of men and money and blood turning over in his mind like the cogs of a machine that never stopped. But for now—for this one moment—he let himself sit in silence, watching the flames dance.

Suddenly, Tommy heard the leaves shuffling and rustling, sounding like footsteps and that made his skin prickle before his mind even caught up. He turned his head, eyes sharp, fingers twitching toward the gun at his hip. The fire flickered, the shadows stretching, and then—she stepped into the light.

Tommy froze.

His cigarette slipped from his lips, landing in the dirt at his feet, the ember still glowing. His breath caught in his throat, heart hammering hard against his ribs.

Delilah.

She stood at the edge of the firelight, her skin pallid in the flickering glow. Her dark hair hung loose, disheveled, strands falling into her hollowed-out eyes. The dried blood on her temple had darkened to an unnatural black, a grotesque smear down her face. But it wasn’t just the wound—it was her.

The way she stood, too still. The way her breath didn’t fog in the cold air. The way her eyes blinked too slowly like a haunted doll. The way the firelight didn’t quite touch her.

His voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper.

“Delilah?”

She tilted her head slightly.

He was on his feet before he even realized it, moving toward her, hands reaching as if to steady her, as if to fix whatever had been done to her. “Fuck—Delilah, what happened to you?” His voice was sharper now, laced with urgency. “Come on, let me—Jesus Christ, let me get you to a doctor—” His hand hovers between them before finally gripping her wrist. Cold. Too fucking cold. His fingers flex, his breath stilling as if he’s afraid she might crumble beneath his touch.

She held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. “Tommy,” she said, her voice eerily calm, “I’m already dead.”

His breath left him all at once.

Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating. The fire popped, embers snapping in the air, but Tommy heard nothing but the pounding of his own heartbeat. He stared at her, at the blood, at the way her lips barely moved when she spoke.

She blinked, her expression unreadable.

“I saw Mom.”

It wasn’t possible. He’d been drinking, maybe—no, he hadn’t. He wasn’t asleep, so he couldn’t have been dreaming. But Delilah—his baby sister—was standing in front of him, pale and still, with a bullet hole in her skull.

“And Polly,” she continued, glancing at the fire.“And John.”

Tommy’s hands curled into fists. Teeth clenching against each other. His logical mind fights against what his heart already knows: this is Delilah. But it’s not. It can’t be. And yet, she speaks his name like she never left, like she isn’t a ghost standing by his fire, telling him the truth he doesn’t want to hear.

His jaw tightened. “Who?”

She met his gaze then, and something in her expression softened. Not with sadness, not with fear—but with something almost amused.

“A priest,” she said simply. “From the church I used to go to.”

Tommy’s lips parted slightly. She stepped forward then, sinking down onto the log beside him, sitting as if her body still remembered how. As if she hadn’t been shot dead. For a long moment, Tommy said nothing.

Then, moving on autopilot, he reached into his coat, pulling out his cigarette case. He lit one with slow, deliberate movements, inhaled deeply, then held the case out to her. She took one. The small gesture felt wrong. Like something out of a dream he hadn’t woken up from yet. He exhaled, smoke curling from his lips, and muttered, “Dead people smoke now?” Delilah smirked before lighting up her cigarette, she took a slow drag, and exhaled. “You’re in luck, then”

For a moment, they just sat there, side by side, watching the fire. It felt almost normal—almost. “Lucas Wood,” Tommy murmured, more to himself than to her. Delilah nodded slightly. “You’ve heard of him?.”

“I know the name”, Tommy admitted. “Never met him. I don’t go to church.” A bitter smirk, “And if I did, it wouldn’t be to pray.” She huffed a quiet laugh, taking another slow drag of her cigarette, “Yeah it was him alright”.

Tommy exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’ll get the police involved.” His voice was firm, but even as he said it, there was something hollow in his words. “I can’t send my men after him—I need them”.

Delilah scoffed softly, flicking the ash from her cigarette. “And what exactly do you think the police are gonna do, Tommy?” She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “It’s no use. Lucas is an IRA member”.

Delilah smirked, “Funny, isn’t it?” She tilted her head, watching the way his grip on his cigarette tightened. “It was the same with Polly, What goes around comes around.”

Tommy inhaled sharply, his cigarette burning dangerously close to his fingertips.

Delilah’s voice softened. “Lucas is coming in a few days,” she said. “He’s going to tell you about my death himself.” There was a slight pause before she added, “That’s when he plans to take you, Tommy.” Tommy was silent for once.

She turned to him fully, studying his face in the firelight. “Do you understand now?”

“Will you listen to me now? you love me, right?”

He looked at her for a long moment, taking her in. The way the fire cast flickering shadows across her face, the way her expression stayed calm despite the weight of everything. Tommy’s hands found her cheeks, her skin was cold, his thumb nearly freezing from simply rubbing across it. “I do love you” he responded, his eyes never leaving hers.

She was already dead. And yet, here she was. Waiting for him to finish what needed to be done.

He flicked his cigarette into the fire, the embers swallowing it whole. He closed his eyes for a moment and pulled her in, holding her tightly in his arms, hands cradling her head as if he was trying to comfort her. Tommy pressed a lingering kiss to her temple.

“Alright, for you Delilah”

To be continued…

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