#Iron Sky The Coming Race

[theoniprince]

Iron Sky: The Coming Race ist derzeit auf Netflix 🙈

[tctmp]

Iron Sky: The Coming Race: Directed by Timo Vuorensola. With Lara Rossi, Vladimir Burlakov, Kit Dale, Julia Dietze. A follow-up to the film Iron Sky (2012) in which Nazis plan to take over the world after lying dormant in a secret military base on the moon.

[humanjarvis]

call it what you want

synopsis: when you visit a gathering of childhood friends, they’re wary of you and caleb’s relationship. and while you take it in stride, he takes it to heart. 

tags: fluff, angst, heart to heart, happy ending, calebmc judged by childhood friends for their relationship, mc withstands it but caleb withdraws, barely yandere caleb, he does watch mc when they’re apart though, caleb breaks somebody’s teeth with his evol, calebmc relationship depicted as the jumbled up mess that it is, there’s not really pseudocest though, calebmc are each other’s first kiss, caleb is insecure, mc comforts the hell out of him, references to caleb’s mental illness, allusions to sex. inspired by “call it what you want” by taylor swift  pairing: caleb x fem!reader, reader is mc word count: 8.1k (woah!)

a/n: behold my thesis on the intricate siblingfriendpartnership of calebmc. it’s the best thing i’ve written and i’m so glad. but also this has ended up doubling as my 2k followers special 🎉🎉🎉 that is an unfathomable amount of people subjecting themselves to my writing and i’m seriously so grateful. thank you for motivating me to create! anyway, i truly hope you get something out of this, but even if you don’t, i’m proud of it 💞

“C’mon, pip-squeak. We can't ignore it forever. I’m here now, and I'll be right by your side. All those bad memories…you won’t have to face them alone anymore.”

“I know. And I’m glad. But still, it’s…different now,” you smile weakly, failing to suppress a heavy sigh. 

Caleb was in Linkon for the week, having put his foot down about his well-earned time off. And you, having gotten used to the constant Fleet interruptions, had gone the extra mile to make him unreachable: locking his communicator in your bedside drawer. 

After three days of making new memories—you’d ticked the movies, the zoo, and a concert off your list—his love for nostalgia had finally gotten the better of him. He’d set his sights on reminiscence, and all morning, he’d been pestering you to visit your old neighborhood. Where your childhood home had once stood.

“We can just take a look around. Five minutes, tops. Aren’t you curious about that old playset you used to drag me to? Always made me spot you under the monkey bars in case you fell. I’m sure they miss you,” he teases, hope shining in his ametrine eyes. 

And as you picture it—the iron bars of the jungle gym, now rusted with time; the grayish, well-traveled cobblestone streets; the wild honeysuckle bushes scattered around the block—you know this is a battle you can’t win. 

“Fine,” you huff. “But you’re driving.” 

“As if I’d refuse. And hey,” he softens, grabbing your arm gently. “If it’s too much, let me know. We’ll come back right away.” 

***

Your stomach roils as familiar street signs come into view.  

Green lawns and picket fences. Symbols of safety you could no longer trust. 

Humming along to an old pop hit on the radio—a valiant attempt to distract you—Caleb turns into your neighborhood, and you clench your teeth involuntarily. 

Luckily, you don’t have too much time to worry. Because seconds later, he pulls over a few houses from home and puts the car in park. 

You sit for a moment. Watching. Breathing.  

Thinking of how the last time you came here, he was dead.

“I’ll race ya,” he says suddenly, shutting the engine off and throwing his door open. And with a strained chuckle, you follow suit.

You lose on purpose, slowing your steps the closer you get to Gran’s house. You know he can tell.  

But soon, you run out of room to stall. 

As you stand beside the “FOR SALE” sign, feeling like a stranger, the freshly polished wood and foreign color scheme deepen the pit inside your stomach. 

Caleb whistles lowly. “Sure looks different, doesn’t it?”

But you’re not listening. You’re remembering. 

You remember the smell—the charred scent that stuck with you for so long after the explosion, your nostrils blistered from too much blowing. The way ashes fell endlessly from the sky, and you didn’t know what—or who—they were made of. The last-minute salon visit you’d had to schedule to chop the singed ends of your hair off. 

“C’mon. That playground is just this way,” he offers, coaxing voice saving you from too much rumination. 

“Okay,” you whisper, sliding your hand into his.

It was an age-old lesson, one you’d learned a hundred times: summer heat and monkey bars don’t mix.

As you flinch away with a startled hiss, Caleb casually pulls spare gloves from his pocket—as if he kept them on him for a situation like this—and carefully slips them onto you. For someone whose hands dwarf yours, they fit suspiciously well. 

“Up you go,” he sings, lifting you to reach the handles. And just like all those years before, he walks beside you as you cross, steadying you with his gentle touch. 

When you reach the end, instead of jumping down, you shift your momentum to swing backwards, skater dress twirling with the motion. 

But as your front faces the street again, you realize your mistake a moment too late. 

“Oh my gosh, is that who I think it is?!” 

As a vaguely recognizable voice squeals, you freeze in place, hands squeezing around the iron bars in a death grip. 

“Oh, it totally is! You haven’t come around here in forever—it’s so good to see you!” the voice continues. 

Turning your head—slowly, like the main character in a horror film—your eyes land on an all too familiar figure. Sarah, a girl around your age you used to envy for her toy collection, stands just feet away from you, long leash corralling a massive German Shepherd held tightly in her manicured hand. 

With two light taps on your back—Caleb’s signal for you to come down—you loosen your hold and land almost gracefully on the pea gravel below. 

This was a situation you’d only been in once before. When Gideon had crossed paths with you at the cemetery and learned his dead friend was, well…not. 

In any case, the circumstances then had been rare enough for you to carry on without establishing a protocol. And now, as you stand at the mercy of someone with no reason to keep Caleb’s secret, you’ll be forced to improvise. 

“Hi…Sarah,” you grin awkwardly, fiddling with your hands in front of you. “Thought you’d have moved by now.”

“Nope!” she chirps, not catching your apprehension. “We’re gonna give it one more year. After my husband saves up from his new job, we want to travel a bit before settling down.” 

You nod brusquely. 

“By the way, we haven’t really seen you here since the accident. I’m so sorry about your grandmother and Caleb—I know how close you two were. But—oh! Excuse my manners,” she pivots, looking behind you as if a lightbulb flicked on overhead. “Who’s th—”

Sarah’s tanned face blanches. 

“Hey Sarah. It’s been a while,” he greets casually. 

And the woman in front of you looks between you both as if she’s seconds away from siccing that dog on you. 

“You…caught us at a bad time,” you giggle nervously. “It’s kind of a secret, but…that was a…false report, after the explosion. Caleb actually managed to flee the area with a few burns. The authorities just kept the whole thing under wraps in case it was a targeted attack, or something. So I’ve been keeping an eye on him ever since!” you smile tightly, squeezing his dry palm with your clammy one. 

“Oh…well…what a relief, I guess!” she chuckles uncomfortably. “Well…if you’re not laying too low, Caleb,” she starts, extroverted nature beating out her rationality, “we’re having a get-together with all the neighborhood kids tomorrow! You guys should totally come. We’d hate to miss our favorite duo—you were always so funny, nagging each other like siblings.” 

You bristle at the term, gripping Caleb’s hand so tightly it could bruise. “Um, thanks for the offer, Sarah, but we…” you trail off, looking at him to help you. 

“We’d love to come!” he doesn’t. 

“Uh, we…would?” you question, perplexed by his sudden enthusiasm. 

“Yeah, why not, pips? It’d do you good to reconnect with some of the girls you liked hangin’ around. Plus, I’ll be right there with you,” he smiles brightly. 

Though his reasoning barely quells your anxiety, your heart softens at the gesture.

“Alright, then,” you turn to Sarah. “We’ll be there.”

The old mall down the block is halfway through renovations. 

Neon orange construction cones litter the parking lot, and every door but the main entrance is sealed off with yellow caution tape. 

Navigating through the weekend traffic, you and Caleb wander through the swarming, noisy corridors, leaving store after store empty-handed. 

You don’t know what to wear. 

Meeting so many people after such a long time…there’s an irrational need to impress, to look like you have your life together.

And somehow, every outfit seems off on you. It’s not false advertising—the mannequins are gorgeous as ever. But there’s something about you that ruins every look. 

As you rummaged through different displays, Caleb had done some light hovering—staying near, but letting you do your own thing, overall. 

But as you return another dress to the rack with a frustrated growl, he swoops in to put his scary intuition to good use. 

“This would suit you,” he grins kindly, brandishing a pastel blue sundress. “Wanna try it on?”

You eye the fabric skeptically. It’s not your usual style, but you take it into the dressing room anyway. 

And of course, the first thing Caleb picks out for you is perfect. 

“Told ya,” he laughs when you call him inside, back hugging you in the mirror. “You look beautiful. ‘Course it helps that it was my idea, and all.”

Swatting him gently, you giggle as you try to push him out of the cramped space, grunting with annoyance when he sandbags you. 

“Get out of here!” you protest. “We still have to find your outfit, and the mall closes soon.”

“Okay, okay, I'm going,” he relents cheekily. “Snap a picture for me before you take it off, though, alright?”

***

Once you’d paid—or he’d paid, having levitated your purse in the air while you scowled at him—you’d dragged him over to the men’s section, where you’d found an outfit just his size with a similar color scheme.

He’d preened when you held it out to him, puffing his chest out with pride at the fact you knew his tastes so well. And in his sparkling eyes, you’d spotted a flicker of possessiveness as he looked between your clear garment bag and the clothes in his hands, not so subtly comparing the blues to each other. 

And evidently, with the way he’d refused to even try anything on before heading back to the register, he’d been satisfied. 

As you make your way back to his car, Caleb tugs you in by the waist to claim your lips in a tender kiss. 

“It’s perfect,” he breathes. “It’ll be perfect. And even though we’ll be matchin’…I get the feeling you’ll be the one people can’t look away from.”

Caleb’s hand is on the small of your back as you step through Sarah’s front door, but it leaves you as he encourages you to mingle. “Go catch up,” he urges with his signature grin. 

You know what he’s doing. What this whole thing has been. A way to push you out of your comfort zone, a prolonged apology, and a promise to be less overbearing, all in one.

He needs it just as much as you do. Needs you to know that he’s trying. So as you nod softly and make your way through the throng of laughing faces, you hope he sees you trying, too.

Sarah’s parents had both been lawyers, and if the diplomas lining the far wall of the living room didn’t make that clear enough, the sheer size of their house sure did. 

The layout is vaguely familiar—Caleb had been friends with her older brother, and you’d practically begged him to tag along on playdates so you could see the fancy house down the street. 

As you take it all in—the flat screen TVs (plural) broadcasting different channels, the iridescent streamers lining the bannisters, the variety of appetizers spread out across the first floor—you only grow more envious. 

Turning away with a petty huff, you focus on the people instead. As you study faces new and old, you wonder how many guests here brought their partners. How many know that you brought yours.

Sarah—ever the gracious host, never the gossip—had informed the attendees about Caleb’s situation in hopes that he wouldn’t be bombarded the second he stepped inside. And it was working, somehow, as far as you could tell. Aside from a few wary glances sent his way, people greeted him just like they did before: as the golden boy whose presence was a gift. 

At some point, as you’d hovered aimlessly by the drink table, a girl you remembered fondly had strolled up to you. Marley, her name was. With her lively eyes, kind smile, and eagerness to play dolls with you, she’d been your closest non-Caleb friend in the neighborhood. 

“Who would’ve thought the girl next door would grow up to be a hunter, huh?” she jokes, gently elbowing your ribs. 

“It’s really not that special,” you laugh, halfheartedly dodging her pokes. “Just something necessary, I guess, since the Wanderers came. I thought it’d be cool, high-stakes action movie stuff every day, but I kinda feel like a firefighter saving a cat from a tree sometimes.”

“Oh, please. You’re practically a superhero! Caleb, too, being a whole pilot and all. Time really flies—I still remember when he helped you set up your lemonade stand that one summer,” she giggles. “You were always so in sync.” 

“Still are,” you smile softly, gaze subconsciously finding Caleb from across the room. He's chatting in a group of his old buddies, but as always, it’s like he can sense you looking at him. His eyes find yours in an instant, as if he already knew where you were standing—because of course he did—and he shoots you a boyish wink.

“But, if you don’t mind me asking,” Marley hesitates, her eyes shifting perplexedly between you. “Are you two…together…now? You seem even closer than you were as kids, if that’s even possible,” she mutters sarcastically, talking from the side of her mouth. 

As the question hits you for the first time that night, you plaster a big, fake smile on your face. “We sure are! It was five months last week.” 

“Well, congrats, I guess,” she tries to exclaim, but her confusion stunts her sincerity. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s just…I never expected you guys would date! You always seemed more like…ah…friends,” she cringes, her own fake smile twitching slightly.

Friends.

As the word fights its way out of her mouth, likely beating several less polite alternatives, the weight of her hesitance is not lost on you.

“Friends, huh?” you echo, and your smile is real this time. A show of your teeth, a hint that she’s just entered dangerous waters. “What kind of friends grow up in the same house, Marley? Raised by the same person, and all. Pretty rare if you ask me,” you cock your head in mock contemplation. “C’mon, what do you really mean to say?”

You’d been taught well. 

“Okay, okay!” she huffs, folding like a lawn chair under the pressure. “I always thought you were like siblings. Thought you guys thought you were like siblings. I’m just surprised, is all.”

“There’s nothing to be surprised about,” you nod curtly. “You lived next door, not with us. You don’t know how we felt about each other.”

Your voice is robotic as you meet her with a deadened stare. No matter how much you’d expected it, no matter how much you’d prepared, the judgment catches you off guard. 

The rumors, the gossip—it’s one reason you thought Caleb would decline the invite. To protect you, if nothing else. But with a bitter, inward laugh, you guess that him trying means letting you be in situations you might’ve begged him to shield you from.

“I need some air,” you decide suddenly, interrupting Marley’s frantic apologies to turn toward the door. “It was nice catching up.” 

A cool breeze kisses your exposed skin as you watch the fireflies blink from the patio. And as beautiful as they are, glittering in the night sky, there are other things on your mind at the moment.

If Caleb was ever a brother to you, he was the best brother anyone ever had.

You’d seen the way your friends acted with their brothers. Always kept a watchful eye on their interactions, as if comparing their relationships to yours. Middle school, high school, college.

And over all those years, no brother had ever been as attentive—as doting, as patient, as loving—as Caleb. 

After the explosion, when you were left to deal with your feelings alone—no nagging, oversized puppy to distract you—you’d pondered how you saw him. Deep down, under the structure and order and propriety that was forced upon you too young. Regretted that it was too late to ask him how he saw you. 

And if those quiet nights crying so hard it felt like drowning had taught you anything, it was this: as much as Caleb was brotherly, he had always been more—so much more than what he had to be to you.

He could’ve shut himself in his room for hours, leaving you to fend for yourself. He could’ve ghosted you the minute you no longer went to the same school. Could’ve found a girlfriend, had kids early, and moved his real family far away from you. All these things, you’d seen happen.

But through it all, Caleb had stayed, and he’d done it with his signature smile. Even when you’d worried he’d outgrown you, had outpaced you with his stellar achievements, he’d just pinched your cheek with a fond grin. Who d’ya think I do all that for, silly? he’d laughed. 

By your reunion, when he’d stared down at you so cruelly, you’d known what he was to you. The only man you’d ever loved, in all meanings of the phrase. That’s why it had hurt so much. 

And Caleb had scared you off. Your feelings were fragile, only newly realized. But his…were developed. Intense. More intense than you were ready for, coming from someone who’d been off-limits for 15 years. 

So you’d resisted. Resisted his spiraling admissions, resisted the feelings you knew he had for you, resisted his frantic attempts to steal you from the world. 

It would take time for you to accept a love like his. You’d told him as much five months ago—that you needed to meet in the middle. And he’d promised to try. 

As the days went by, you got used to treating him like a lover. To putting new meanings behind every touch. And every time you kissed him, he carved out more of his own paradise in your mind, escaping the liminal area he’d occupied in unfulfilling restraint. 

It was only in moments like this when prying eyes and hushed whispers wore you down. People who thought that, because they knew you once—for a summer, for a semester, for a school year—they knew who you were and how you felt. But there was something paradoxically mercurial about you and Caleb: the more you stayed the same, the more you changed. And only the two of you were privy to it. 

Even still, some leers and questions got to you, just as they had tonight. Apprehension and a resented sense of shame had filled your gut, as if you’d been “caught” stealing from your own wallet. 

But of all the things Caleb was to you, only one mattered: he was yours. And as a firefly lands on your outstretched palm, twinkling beautifully in the darkness that threatens it, you know no one can take that from you. 

Caleb had had better nights. 

He’d had worse, for sure—agony and loneliness come to mind—but he’d definitely had better. 

He’s spent this one mingling among the names he hadn’t cared to remember, all as an attempt to show you he won’t cage you in. You can have fun, have friends outside of him, as much as the thought makes his stomach churn. 

And what better way to start than with people he already knew? Baby steps.

As he cranes his neck to find you again (which shouldn’t be hard, since he just has to look for the one dressed like him), he vaguely registers an incessant buzz of a voice talking his ear off. Jared, he calls himself. 

“Anyway, I can’t believe you did that to her. That’s fucked up, man,” the voice says, clapping Caleb’s back with an obnoxious chortle. 

And as much as he needs to find you, Caleb really wishes he’d spared some of his attention for the homunculus beside him. 

“What exactly are you implying?” he asks lowly, lifting the hand from his shoulder with a firmness that any sober person would find threatening. 

He’s almost certain you’re not in the room, now, your calming presence lost in the sea of discarded memories. Alarms sound in his head at the realization, only to be drowned out by something more damning.

“It’s just…you grew up together! Had the same grandma. That's like your sister, dude. But you know what, to each their own. The way she looks, I can’t say I would've held myself back any better than you did. Probably worse, man. Matter of fact, you fucked her y—?”

The force of Caleb’s Evol clamps Jared’s mouth shut.

And, if his muffled yelp is any indication, hopefully breaks a few of his teeth, their bloodied chips settling on his tongue.

“This sorry excuse for a conversation is over. Leave. Now. And if I see you talking to her on your way out, I’ll make sure you never get the chance to again.”

Jared nods fearfully, and after one last snarl, Caleb lifts his Evol, albeit begrudgingly. It takes Jared a few seconds to notice his newfound freedom, but the moment he does, he’s scurrying out of the house. Good. 

You’re back in Caleb’s sight, now. But as he takes in your shy smile, the faint melody of your laughter filling his keen ears, he doesn’t feel the comfort he normally would. 

Instead, he feels his dog tag. 

Your precious gift to him. A symbol of how you needed him, of your anticipation that he’d always be in your life. Of his hope that one day, you’d return his feelings. 

He recalls the once comfortable weight, the way his body heat would flow into the cool metal, linking it to him in a warm embrace. 

The chain now burns against his throat.

Jared had been brash.

Crude, crass, and certainly cocky, thinking he was deserving of you. 

So as Caleb watches you chat among a mixed group of guests, swirling his full cup in agitation, he decides he doesn’t care about the delivery. It’s the content that troubles him. 

Because Jared, in his drunken state, had managed to hit a nerve Caleb had tried to sever five months ago. 

Are you sure you want this? he’d asked you shakily. Want it from me? With me?

And in clear confirmation, you’d claimed his first kiss.

But even still, the thoughts lingered at the back of his brain. That he was tainting you, taking advantage of you, stealing your life away. 

He knows Jared isn’t worth the scum beneath his shoe, but those unsavory thoughts made his own worries resurface. 

And as fickle as his mind was, he’d only ever known to trust it. 

So when Caleb sees you beam at another man’s compliment, glowing like you’d been sent from heaven itself, he feels like maybe he’d been right.

For the rest of the night, Caleb dreaded the drive home. Luckily, you’d slept for most of the way back. 

But as he parks outside your building, gently rousing you from your sleep, the feeling returns in full force. 

“Good morning,” you giggle, stretching drowsily. “Sorry I fell asleep on you—I can’t remember the last time I talked that much. Did you have fun?” 

“Something like that,” he says, popping the driver’s door open. “You?”

“I did, I think,” you start, opening your own side and sliding out of his car. “I really did. It was a little rough at first, but it got better. What about you? Anybody try to stab your brains out? Since you’re undead and all.” 

He chuckles dryly. “Not exactly.”

As you trudge toward your apartment, Caleb trails behind you. You’re so dazed, you almost don’t notice it. But you miss the familiar warmth of his left hand.

Your tired fingers quiver as you fail to unlock your door, and with a gentle nudge, Caleb slides the key in for you. 

Mumbling a “thank you,” you step through the doorway, making space for him to follow. When he doesn’t, you turn to face him, frowning lightly in confusion. Gleaming in the moonlight, the metal threshold separates your feet: yours on the inside, his on the outside. 

“I’ve been called back to Skyhaven. It’s nothing too serious, but I’ll have to cut this visit short. Don’t worry about me.”

The words pierce your chest like a dagger, but his cold delivery twists the knife.

“Oh,” you breathe, not knowing what to do or where to look or how to hide your disappointment. “I didn’t know they had any way of contacting you. Your communicator’s still in my nightstand, you know,” you quip lamely. “But I guess four days has to be enough this time. I’m lucky to have gotten that.”

Smiling weakly, you lean in to kiss him. But with his sudden reservation, the moment is more chaste than you’d intended. 

As he starts to turn away, you instinctively grab his hand. “Are you…is everything okay? You’re being weird,” you whisper, eyes searching him in concern. 

“No I’m not,” he retorts, forcing life back into his voice. The weight of his hand ruffling your hair feels wrong, somehow, and his airy tone is a contrast to the darkness in his gaze. “Get some rest, pip-squeak.”

Caleb never thought the jewelry box you’d left at his place would come in handy. 

He had no use for it—the only piece he truly needed to preserve stayed looped around his neck at all times. 

But as he stares at the silver chain hung carefully on a hook, its ruby-crested apple dangling in the evening sunlight, he silently thanks you for your forgetfulness. 

It’s been two days since he returned to Skyhaven, but the events of that night remain fresh wounds in a fragile mind. 

I can’t believe you did that to her.

I can’t believe you did that to her.

To you. Not with.

As if his love was an assault. 

All his life, Caleb had tried to show you only the good sides of him. To tamper down his intensities so you’d eat from his palm. You were a skittish thing, failed one too many times by an inadequate world. So he’d approached you gently, practicing docility until it became second nature. To keep his eager hands from defiling you. 

He’d molded himself into whoever you needed him to be, never admitting what he wanted to be to you. All so you would tolerate him, want to keep him around for his services, if nothing else. Because as much as he claimed to protect you, your safety was his anchor. If you were loved, warm, and unharmed—if he kept you that way—then every consequence was worth it. 

He’d learned to live like a chameleon, his temperament matching your mood. And as much as a forgotten part of him yearned for identity, it was a role he’d settled into playing—until his weakened back had snapped under the pressure. 

When you’d confessed that you felt the same—that you loved him in more ways than the one you should—he’d deluded himself into thinking those years of restraint were over. That he could stop watching over you and start walking with you. That you would fall from propriety hand in hand. 

He’d never thought himself naive. Always launched himself ahead of the curve so that would never be an option for him. Naive was something someone with his responsibility couldn’t afford to be. 

But now, as his lifeline swings back and forth on its new perch, jingling with what could only be mockery, the feeling swallows Caleb whole. 

It would’ve killed him to see you with someone else. He’d had nightmares about it every month, save for the last five, ever since he was a teenager. But even if you chose to live with someone else by your side…at least he would have gotten to see you do it. To watch you be happy, carefree, without you wondering if it was your right to be. Without the guilt of robbing your life from you, tainting your purity with his sin.

He knew you were wary. You’d gotten better about it—at hiding it, at least—but he could still feel the panicked clench of your hand in his when someone looked at you too long. You were trying, for him, just as he tried for you. But if trying meant the unfiltered scrutiny that Jared had spewed could one day reach you, it wasn’t worth it, he decided. 

You deserved more than the headache he’d give you. 

***

The days drag on. 

Caleb’s vacation ends as little more than purgatory, and when he dons his Colonel uniform once more, the Fleet’s affairs feel his presence now more than ever. 

He’s sharper now, meaner. Mistakes that would usually earn a light slap on the wrist now end in termination. Figurative or literal, the recruits aren’t sure. 

He knows he’s spiraling. He hears the whispers: “The Colonel’s finally lost it” met with “As if he ever had it.” But rebuke from any voice but yours doesn’t reach him. 

During flights, he plays his missions a little less safe, making rash decisions sure to end in incident, eventually. He justifies it, in his head, by thinking that maybe an injury would inflict upon him the suffering he deserves. 

He’s been drifting, lately. Through the hallways, through the streets, through space. 

But aimless as he is, Caleb can’t bring himself to desert you completely. Those 15 years of gentle servitude had become so ingrained in him, he thinks a total cutoff would only make him more reckless. So he pacifies you with brief, polite answers, sharing none of his usual charm and emoticons. This flighty, diluted version of himself was all that he could offer. 

But each day, when Caleb stumbles back into the necessary solitude of his house, wheezing with overexertion, he heads straight to the hidden room where you’d discovered his bionic arm. Where, under dark wooden panels, a row of monitors hide. 

Their feeds are clear as they’ve always been. Your cubicle, your route home, your front door, your kitchen. Your bedroom. 

And until he succumbs to exhaustion, Caleb watches you. 

Watches you sift through reports, eyes open but unseeing. 

Watches you stumble on the way home, your foot catching on a stray root that he would’ve spotted in time. 

Watches you crumble, after a while, and curl up on the side of your bed where he always slept. 

Watches until the rhythmic rocks of your crying body lull you to sleep in place of his heartbeat.

As the clock strikes midnight, you complete your count to 23.

It’s been 23 days since you’d received anything more than a one-word response from Caleb. 

At first, you’d given him grace—thought he just wasn’t feeling well. He was always one to withdraw from you when sick, locking himself away for a while before emerging like nothing happened. 

But even then, he was never this curt with you. He always reassured you that he was okay.

Days passed, and the mysterious illness theory flew out the window. As you fired off another concerned text, all but pleading for him to say something, you wondered if he was mad at you—but what could you have done? Not to mention that when he was mad at you, it usually ended with him apologizing, somehow. It’s always Caleb’s fault, huh? he’d cooed at you, rubbing your back tenderly. I’m sorry, baby. 

Something was just…wrong. Terribly, scarily wrong. And whatever it was, you had to figure it out alone.

With a frustrated growl, you snatch your phone up from its place on your nightstand and scroll to your latest messages, hoping he’s decided to take you out of time-out. 

you: hi. i know you’re probably sick of me asking, but can you call when you get a chance? haven’t heard your voice in a while.

>:( : later.

Nothing. He was giving you absolutely nothing.

You want to scream. Want to hunt him down, grab him by the collar, and thrash him around for being so difficult. But as your gaze flits to the photo on your desk—a silly selfie you’d taken on your first official date—your heart constricts from how badly miss him. 

You miss him so desperately that the pain in your chest is worse than when he left for college. At least you’d known he would come back to you, then.  

As hot tears well in your eyes—far from the first time—you remember the words he’d written to you once, never intending for you to read them: “Any man who makes you cry isn't worth your time,” you repeat, snorting softly at the irony.

But unluckily for him, Caleb wasn't any man.

Any man wouldn't braid your hair from childhood to now, never teaching you to do it yourself because he wasn’t willing to give up doing it. Any man wouldn't skip the senior trip he’d saved hundreds for just to nurse you through a stomach bug. Any man wouldn't dedicate half his life to making sure yours was painless. 

So no, Caleb wasn’t any man. He was smart, skilled, and devoted. He was reliable, doting, and selfishly self-sacrificing. He was the reason you’d grown up so well, always wanting to make him proud. And he was yours.

Tugging harshly at the roots of your hair—a habit he’d always tried to break—you pace around your bedroom like a frenzied animal.

You were going to go to him, that much was obvious. To ambush him and make him explain what you’d done for him to discard you like this. To apologize, if he’d hear it. 

But how, if he wouldn’t give you the time of day? The man lived in a giant sky fortress, for God’s sake. And with his neverending suspicions, it wasn’t like he trusted any other members of the Fleet enough to give you their contact informati—

Except, you interrupt yourself, freezing mid-step. He did.

Liam.

Caleb’s faithful adjutant, the one you’d spoken to—or spoken at, while he looked at you unnervingly—just a handful of times.

Sometimes, bad ideas are the only ones available.

Retrieving your phone from where it lies face down on your rumpled blanket, you scroll and scroll to the bottom of your contact list, where Liam’s name stares back at you forebodingly. 

Steeling yourself with a shaky nod, you press call and wait with bated breath. He answers on the second ring. 

“Miss, may I ask why you’re calling? Are you in any trouble?” his deep, dispassionate voice, devoid of any true concern, rings out.

You swallow thickly before trusting your voice enough to sound as anything more than a pitiful squeak. “I-I have Caleb’s communicator,” you maneuver skillfully despite your nerves. “He left it at my apartment. Can you take me to him? So I can give it back.”

“You’d be better off turning it in to one of our administrators. The Colonel is very busy right now and—”

“Take me to him, please,” you repeat stubbornly, raised voice echoing off ivory drywall. 

“Miss, I'm only allowed to speak with you if you’re in immediate danger. I'm under strict orders not to facilitate any interaction with the Colonel.”

He’s going to hang up soon, you panic. And then your only chance is gone. 

A flare of anger heats your skin as you realize you don’t have an appointment to see your own boyfriend. The one who can pester you and break your boundaries with a barely apologetic smile, but shuts you out the second you try to do the same.

Channeling your tears from earlier—they still line your eyes, after all—you sniffle into the speaker. Desperate times… 

“What do you think will happen when I tell him you made me cry? You won’t be under any orders anymore,” you bait him quietly, relying on the fragile hope that Caleb was still as fiercely protective of you as he’d been before. 

The pregnant pause on the other line tells you you’d succeeded. “I…” he clears his throat. “Please arrive at the Skyhaven airport at your earliest convenience. I'll be there to take you to the Colonel.”

When Liam’s aircraft lands on the familiar floating island, you rush out with a muttered “thanks” and jam your thumb onto the sensor.

But as the doors slide open and you stomp inside, the silence you’re met with tells you Caleb isn’t home. 

Sighing heavily, you survey your surroundings: the spotless kitchen, barren like it hadn’t been used in weeks; the dust collecting on his most-used surfaces; the tray on the coffee table, missing its usual array of apples. Had he been eating? Had he been coming here at all?

Your worries carry you through the other rooms, but none hold the answers to your questions. 

And as you step into his bedroom, the place you were most likely to find a clue, you wish you hadn’t. 

Because there, hanging tauntingly on a familiar looking jewelry box, is Caleb’s dog tag. The chain he never went without. 

The ache in your chest becomes a gaping void. 

Blood rushes to your ears and makes them ring so loudly that you can’t hear the despondent noise you make. On unsteady feet, you lurch farther into the room and lower your trembling body onto the mattress. 

As you stare at the mahogany jewelry box, looming mockingly on the dresser, you think the walls spin around you. 

In all the years you’d known Caleb, he had never been one to just give up—so what about you was so condemnable that it finally made him?

He wasn’t here to answer. 

So you take the chain for what it is: resignation. Eviction. 

It feels like you shouldn’t be here anymore. Like you’re an intruder in a sacred space. Like maybe you shouldn’t have even made it in, but he just hadn’t had the time to axe your thumbprint from the system yet. 

You need to leave. That much is clear. But here, stranded in the sky, you don’t exactly have a getaway plan. 

Without the leverage of Caleb’s love, you doubt Liam would take too kindly to being threatened again, just hours after the first time. 

As fruitless minutes tick by, it’s clear that waiting is your only option. But as you curl up in the center of the bed, chest heaving with labored breaths, you no longer anticipate Caleb’s return. 

When your eyes blink open in the dead of night, you know he’s there before you see him.

The air in the room feels different. Heavy and charged, like just before a thunderstorm. 

Anything could happen when you face him. But he’s deprived you of so much lately, that at least something would. 

Shoving the thought to the front of your mind for motivation, you raise your head to find him in the darkness of the room, lit only by a lone streetlight. 

And the sight of him makes your stomach drop.

Caleb, uniform torn and tattered, slumps against the wall closest to the bed, eyes closed and head lowered. 

A smear of blood paints his cheek, and as you zero in on it, you notice the eyebags so dark they look like bruises. Like he hasn’t slept in days. 

But even with his eyes closed, you should know by now that you don’t have the time to ogle him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispers hoarsely. 

“Where else would I go?” 

And those violet irises find yours. 

“Do you regret it? That you have nowhere else to go?” he asks softly, bloodshot gaze searching your huddled form. Checking, like he always did. 

No is your immediate answer. But you figure you should ask him first. That way, when you say it, he might actually believe you. “What?”

“Do you regret what I’ve done to you?” he elaborates, voice dropping near the end. 

The explanation doesn’t help. “What have you done to me, Caleb?”

He winces at the phrasing, though he knows it’s not an accusation. 

Cocking his head cynically, he lets a hollow chuckle escape. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to go to that party. Guess that’s what I get for trying.” 

“What are you talking about?” you probe, shifting to the edge of the bed. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“What’s wrong with me,” he mimics, “is that I’m trying to stay away from you. For your own sake.” 

“You weren’t there to see it. Hung up in another room, or outside, or something. It was the only time I lost sight of you,” he recalls bitterly. “And this guy started mouthin’ off about how fucked it was for us to be together. Said I was sick for the things I must’ve done to you.” 

A sliver of understanding eases the tension in your muscles. But you need to hear it from him. “And you believed him?” you ask, eyeing him warily. 

“It wasn't him who I had to believe. I already knew. Have known, for a while now, no matter how much I tried to pretend I didn’t. The way I thought my hands deserved to touch you—it’s a sin, isn’t it? One you shouldn’t have to carry. That’s why I left—so you could live a life unburdened by me.” 

At his words, an all too familiar irritation stirs within you. Alongside sadness that he’d thought it best to feel this way alone. 

Pushing forcefully off the bed, you kneel between his knees, gripping his bloodied face between your hands. “Who said you had permission to leave?” you ask lowly, and you hear his voice in yours. 

“I asked you what happened that night,” you continue. “More than once. And I'd have listened if you told me. Would’ve been there to tell you that none of it mattered. But you said it was nothing—another way to protect me, I guess. And then you left me on my doorstep, wondering how I’d hurt you.” 

Caleb’s mouth drops slightly, but you don’t let him interrupt. “When you said you would try, you overlooked one thing. Part of trying is considering how I feel. Like when I saw your necklace—how do you think I felt? I thought…you didn’t want me anymore. That you’d decided I was too big a burden for you,” you breathe, and when your voice breaks at the end, Caleb covers your hands with his.

“If your sin involves me, you don’t get to live through it alone. You pulled away from me without wondering if I wanted to be complicit. If I wanted to share it with you. You don’t get to make me a victim without asking if I feel like one. And I never have.”

He freezes at that, gazing up at you imploringly. When he finds what he’s looking for, he turns his head slightly, lips brushing your wrist in a hesitant kiss. “I know—” he swallows. “I know you feel ashamed sometimes. Of being with me, now, when I was who I was to you. Even if you don’t want to be, when we go out together, I can feel it.”

“You’re right,” you nod simply, and he fails to stifle a choked gasp. “But I don’t let it change anything.”

Now, it’s Caleb’s turn to ask. “What do you mean?”

“Remember Marley?” you start softly, stroking his tousled hair. “Girl I used to play dolls with when you were too busy? She asked about us, too. And I told her the truth: we’re together, and we’re happy, and our story is ours. It’s not just your choice, Caleb. I’m with you because I want the same. I always have.” 

And as much as you know he wants to believe it, to accept it and move on, things were never that simple with him. 

“You don’t understand,” he murmurs shakily, returning your hands to your lap as if they’ve burned him. “I can't…I've only ever wanted to keep you safe. No matter who I had to be to you. And when you let me have you—how I want to, how I’d wanted to…I wasn’t strong enough to turn you away. I’m not strong enough to do what’s best for you,” he whispers with glistening eyes.

Slowly, gently, you reach out to him a second time. To splay a hand on his exposed chest, to get him used to the feeling of your touch again. 

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” you murmur, stroking your thumb against him. “Because I think you’re very strong.” 

“I thought you were strong when you saved me from those bullies in middle school. Still remember the black eyes you gave them. When I saw that…I thought you were a hero. And I wanted to be just like you.” Pausing, you lean down to kiss his collarbone, and though he shudders, you take his pleading gaze as a sign to continue. 

“I thought you were strong when Gran got really sick, and you had to do everything. Cooking, cleaning, taking me to school. And you did it with a smile.” Giving him one of your own, you cradle his flushed face in your hands, stroking his darkening cheeks tenderly. Violet eyes watch you with disbelief—a reflection of six months ago, when you’d entrusted your first kiss to him. 

“And when you kissed me back that first time? When I felt how much you wanted to, how you kept it bottled up inside you for so long—I thought you were so strong,” you whisper, mouth hovering over his. “You’ve always been strong, Caleb. It’s why I love you so much.”

In time with his sharp inhale, you press your lips to his. But as large hands flex against your sides, he doesn’t respond to your touch. 

So you press harder, deeper, as if your kiss will awaken what’s dormant within him: his molten, unabashed need for you. The need that holds purity in its paradox, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

And when you circle your hand around his throat, where his necklace once collared him in your name, Caleb kisses you back. 

It’s an exploratory kiss, but a passionate one. As if your reacquainted lips are making up for lost time. 

You guide him with the steady suction of your lips, and when you tug at his frayed lapel, Caleb takes the lead. 

His tongue surges into your mouth, reclaiming what he’d missed, and you moan at the welcome intrusion. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, backing away slightly. “Sometimes I just wonder…if you’d be better off without me.” 

“I wouldn't,” you soothe, pulling him in for a reassuring peck. “You’re a part of me. I want you wherever I am, whichever version of you will have me.”

“All of them,” he mumbles against you. “And then some.”

And as you slip his hand under your shirt, there’s no reluctance in his tender grasp. Like he belongs there. 

Soft strokes on your bare shoulder wake you as the sun rises. 

“I missed seein’ you like this,” murmurs the voice you’d missed just as much. 

“And whose fault is that?” you chide, cutting your eyes to glare up at him playfully. 

“Mine,” he concedes instantly. “All mine.”

“Mhm. Speaking of,” you begin, stepping out of bed gingerly. “If you’re going to be my Caleb, there’s one more thing you need to do. Close your eyes,” you instruct. 

And Caleb complies—something that’s come easy the past six months. 

The room is silent for a moment, with only the distant sounds of jet planes piercing the air. 

Then, a soft clink. 

And as the mattress dips with your return to him, Caleb lifts his head instinctively. And the cool surface of metal slips around his neck. 

As Caleb spares you a glance from the passenger’s seat, the apple charm on his dog tag glints in the sunlight. 

Row after row of familiar houses comes into view, but you seem calm, this time. Unburdened. 

With some compliments and exaggerated enthusiasm, Sarah had been more than happy to host another party. And you’d been more than patient as you’d encouraged Caleb to attend. 

He’d been cautious, at first, for obvious reasons. But you didn’t dare push. 

So as the date loomed closer, he’d decided to try. 

And when you cross the threshold hand in hand to a sea of curious faces, the tension he expects to compress his pulsing heart never comes.

Instead, something kinder blossoms: pure, weightless pride.

[vinnyvamppp]

To Be Desired PT 2

⭐:ViltrumMark, OmniMark, Hooded Invincible, Masked Mark, HeadCap Invincible (Requested!), Mentions of Invincible. (PART 1 HERE)

Commenter: Can u write some viltrumark n Omni mark. Pleasee. (Special at the end!)

Synopsis: Variants of your childhood best friend spawn across the globe, and you find yourself in the crossfire of their previous lovers. What happens when you experience the parallel pleasure they can offer?

Warnings: Power Struggles, Dom/Sub Dynamics, Morally Grey, Nipple Play, Fingering, Pussy Eating, Overstimulation, Public Sex, Ejaculating Inside, Rough Sex, 69, Car Sex, Switch!Reader, Switch!Invincible Variants, Plot changes for convenience, Matching Freaks, Position Changes, Porn w a Plot, etc.

Invincible Variants x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 6,079

Previously on 'To Be Desired' ... Helping where you could, you began assisting in fighting off the weaklings who figured now was the best time to attack Earth. Micro tears riddled your uniform as you tore through them mercilessly, all through a look of pity. There were days you'd resent this “job” you'd granted yourself, the little recognition and appreciation you'd receive from the public. How selfish of them and you. You wanted an excuse to have this world fair alone, without a need to rebel when no one would notice. As luck would have it, a voice suddenly dawned behind you, his body floating midair and adorned with the appearance of your dearest friend.

ViltruMark

Gazing upon the malignant figure, his jaw ticked ever so slightly at the sight of you. A mangy mutt of a man was within his grasp—its maw bludgeoned with the imprint of his knuckles. The sound of a body hitting the ground beside you was like a heavy, wet slap, followed by a faint whoosh of air being forced from its lungs. It was a sickening thud—like a ripe melon dropped from a great height, and you froze with a sense of unease.

The impact was startling and violent, and for a moment, you forgot about the raging havoc being reaped around you. The suddenness of it all made your heart race—you were almost certain he could hear it—as every instinct shrieked within. Your body language became defensive, his gaze hardening in response.

"I've killed you once, and I'll kill you again," he proclaimed, yet it held little intent. His uniform was a staple of the Viltrumite Empire—its clad symbol emboldened in the sky’s smoke like a false beacon of hope. "Then get it over with. You won't be the first variant who dies tonight." The snarky remark was met with a confident scoff. His padded feet landed in front of you, his eyes absorbing your features as if to reminisce. "I won’t. That was my first mistake," he replied, his fingers finding themselves tangled in your hair.

It was sudden; you couldn't help but grimace at his words. A Viltrumite admitting their mistakes? Unbelievable. That was until his grip suddenly tightened, cocking your head to the side as he whispered in your ear. "I've come to right my wrongs and take you with me." The man's grip was a hold of domination, a vice-like clamp that strangled the last vestiges of hope. It was merciless—like that of a warlord who wielded power with an iron fist. Yet the soothing hand around your waist and the calloused fingertips that scratched against your costume told the story of a starved man.

It wasn’t a debate—nor did you intend to argue, as your annoyance with your reality simmered. "Right your wrongs…?" you questioned, a wicked grin slowly spreading across his face as you two suddenly took flight. Tears bubbled at your waterline from the speed, your fingers clinging to him as you could’ve sworn he nearly melted. You always did talk too much, so he figured he'd show you. The underground vibrations beat against your eardrums as he cradled you. Your gaze was fixed upon a newly formed crater within the valley, only destroyed rubble offering privacy. "We’ll do it here. You’ll be my new beloved and will give me children."

His fingers traced down your abdomen as they tore through the fabric, gooseflesh rising from the exposure. It was a depressing past, really—having to murder you in cold blood so soon due to his agenda—but not this time. You would stay ignorant of his past, and he would provide it, given your indulgence.

His hands grasped the spandex material of your suit, prying it open as his lips began their pleasurable assault on your neck. The wet warmth of his tongue tickled your skin as he harshly nipped the welcoming flesh. Your faint pulse beneath it enticed him to experience what he had yet to. So alive and welcoming.

Head resting against the soft soil, his hardened cock imprinted beneath the loincloth. His body did little to hide his excitement—though his expression remained cold. Once the clothing was peeled from your body, his lips continued their journey south—pausing to lavish attention on your breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth—swirling his tongue erratically around the hardened peak while his hand kneaded and caressed the other.

You moaned at the sensations, your hands instinctively tangling in his hair as his hips ground against your clothed cunt. He didn’t stop. He worshiped your breasts until you were writhing beneath him, the skin tender and reddened from his teeth. As he traveled lower, you could feel his warm breath on your most intimate area, his pre-cum now staining the cloth of both his and your costume. Just before his lips could reach your sex, he pulled away in satisfaction. All mild waves of pleasure were ripped from you, and a feeling of annoyance bubbled within.

Pressing back against him, your eyes pleaded seductively, a hand resting against his chest. "It’s not fun when it's just me; let me please you," you muttered—watching as the faintest smirk graced his lips. He sat on his knees as you shuffled yourself forward—hands eagerly tugging at his clothing. His costume splintered as it fell from his form, your mouth practically watering at the sight of his swollen cock eagerly awaiting your touch. You leaned in—inhaling deeply and savoring his musky scent. You ran your tongue along the underside of his veins, from the base to the tip—feeling it twitch against your lips. He shivered.

You circled the head with your tongue, dipping into the slit to taste his essence before taking him into your mouth. Instantly, he sucked in a deep breath through gritted teeth. The man was more sensitive than expected. As your throat relaxed and another inch slid inside, the soft lining of your esophagus welcomed him so fruitfully that his eyelids began to twitch. His pride had failed to forewarn him, and his temperament began to crumble.

As his hips bucked forward, you gagged—only to see a placid grin etched onto his face as his nose crinkled with restraint. He groaned loudly with every bob of your throat, his dick twitching with each contact. Suddenly, his hand gripped your hair, pulling you back. "Enough," he muttered, his voice carrying enough command to make you pause.

Before you could process it, you were flipped onto your hands and knees, panties being lowered as his eyes devoured the sight of your pussy. "You’re soaked… I would’ve fucked you sooner if I knew you’d be so willing." The mumble seemed more to himself than to you. His tip glided down the skin of your folds, the squelching sound causing his grip to tighten as he pushed your head into the ground. Just as he pressed himself inside, the quietest whimper slipped.

Your eyes met his with a smug expression; he returned it as a warning before your velvety walls swallowed him whole. He sighed—like a man being gifted after a long day of work. He didn’t give you time to adjust—immediately pulling out and setting a brutal pace, pounding into you with a force that rocked your entire body. Each thrust pushed you forward, your hands scrabbling for purchase in the burrow of grass. His balls slapped against your clit with every stroke—sending sparks of pleasure through you.

One of his hands left your hip, wrapping around your hair and pulling your head back, forcing you to arch your spine. He fucked almost with a hatred. With every stroke, your body bounced forward, and you could swear you heard your vertebrae popping. Does he not know what gentle is?! No! He’s a Viltrumite, born and raised!

Unbeknownst to you, the dual stimulation of his balls slapping against your skin and the soft twitching of your pussy had him hunched over. He began to chase his own release—loud growls echoing in your ears as you could barely formulate sound. His free hand rested against your ass—enjoying its recoil as a pathetic whine scratched his throat. He was hellbent on burying himself within you, each thrust deepening with the swivel of his hips. His muscles tightened as his jaw clenched, heavy pants echoing between groans. It was beginning to sound needy—a rough greed that consumed him.

Your moans were muffled, his hearing sharp enough to catch every one, his tactics shifting subtly to bring you the utmost pleasure. God, why did he kill you? He could barely remember as his brain began to fizzle out from the pleasure. “Mphm… Mark… can’t breathe,” you muttered, his eyes finally snapping into focus. In a last-ditch effort, he tugged you back, ripping a hiss from you as your spine curved. Your back rested against his chest, and although the sex was rough, this was a moment of gentleness. “Aah—ugh, mm, fuck, I’m going to fill you,” he whispered, sheathing himself one final time as he came.

You two remained still as his stamina recovered; he pressed a chaste kiss against your lips, both of your suits ruined. No matter—he couldn't care less about flying into space naked. It was short-lived as he abruptly readied himself from a voice buzzing within his ear; you remained seated in absolute awe. “How long can you hold your breath?” he asked, a plan to return home brewing.

OmniMark

His gaze remained fixed on you, expression unimpressed as he observed. You had just defeated another swarm of enemies, their blood coating the streets. As you stumbled toward him, your breath came out in labored gasps, and your vision blurred, making it hard to focus on his figure. Mark—or rather, this mysterious figure in similar fashion—seemed to be studying you intently, his eyes piercing through your facade.

The sound of his cape billowing finally caught your attention. Roving over his figure, you observed his costume. A dried patch of blood littered his hand, pink lint from the fabric clinging to it. It resembled Omni-Man's and only struck you with confusion as your mind rang from your probable concussion. "Hey, are these giving you any trouble?" he asked, his body idly bobbing midair as he awaited an answer.

"Who are you, really? If you're Mark, why are you dressed like... well, like him?" You gestured to his costume, a near-perfect replica of Omni-Man's, complete with the red and white color scheme, only missing the distinctive 'O' emblem. He sighed—almost regretfully, as a realization seemed to dawn upon you. Omni-Man in his world was dead; just why did I have to run into this one?! He glided toward you with a strangely disturbing grace.

"I've come to defend you. There are many of us gathering over Chicago." Your question was swatted away like a fly as he continued. His response made you drop your guard—albeit naively—since there was no reason to trust him. He landed in front of you, dark goggles showing your reflection as he contemplated. "Why? What happened to me in your dimension?" you inquired.

He replied with the slightest look of pity and weariness. "She… was like a pet. Served her purpose and got in the way after I killed my father." His words made your heart drop. "I've been looking for you… for a new pet. So, understand me this time, and we can conquer together." The tone of his words was low— almost careful, like it somehow softened the demeaning blow. Every word was woven in silk, but underneath lay a quiet demand. His fingers gently wrapped around yours—his gloved thumbs ghosting over your knuckles.

Truthfully, he hated his dimension's version of you. Such a nuisance, but you were already proving to be more favorable. A glimpse into what you could've been.

"But you have more to offer than she did. She had no powers, no abilities… but she was cute while it lasted." A sense of sadness lingered in his voice as his eyes focused behind you—on the destruction your battle had caused.

"Fine, I'll let you protect me," you said, releasing his fingers.

"It’d be best if we stayed together at all times," he replied.

"I don’t think I could stomach being around you." It was a petty jab, spit with unintentional venom.

"I could change that," he quipped with the cockiness of his father, his palm outstretched to you.

Just how did you allow yourself to be swept away like this? Yes, the Mark you knew was the son of Omni-Man with morals; this one went against every principle you had when becoming a hero. Like father, like son. His words were sensitive—meticulously put together to string you along—not that you cared now, not with his fingers buried deep inside your cunt.

Somewhere along the way, he had flown you to Paris like some fancy vacation. The leveled city burned brightly, the embers painting your skin in a dewy orange that made you look so divine. The Eiffel Tower stood tall, almost as a harbinger of justice—and here you were, on the structure, being fingered by him. You let out a sharp cry as he started to stroke, his digits gliding through your wetness with ease. The very sight of your cunt had him in a hedonistic trance, his thumb slotting over your clit. He teased and circled—applying just the right amount of pressure to have your hips bucking beneath him. His pace quickened ever so slightly—reveling in the ridges of your pussy that he anticipated to hug him so snugly.

"You like that, don't you? You like it when I touch you like this?" he purred, watching as your face scrunched in pleasure. It wasn't like he needed a response; seeing your reaction was enough. Your abs began to tighten as your orgasm built, and just as your body lurched forward, his hands pulled away, leaving you clenching around air.

"You said that would be it," you whispered, watching as he smiled faintly, almost pleading. "I know, but it would be better this way… I can't monitor with just my fingers." He excused himself, and your eyes rolled sarcastically. "Last thing." It was a harsh spat that crawled from your throat and into his ear. "Last thing," he agreed—when you both knew he was the type to say that while fucking you senseless for the tenth time.

Against the cold metal, he spread your legs wide, his free hand freeing his weeping cock from its confinement. It's been punished enough for now. Clothes were shed quickly, eagerly, until you were both naked and pressed together, skin against skin. He hovered over you, his eyes roaming your exposed body hungrily. Circling his tip around your entrance, he finally pushed in—jaw clenching with a shaky exhale.

His hips began to build into a relentless pace, your bouncing legs wrapping firmly around him to pull him in deeper. He was becoming lost within you—quite literally—as your pussy swallowed him balls deep. No wonder his father remained active with Debbie; this was fucking godsent to him. Perhaps his words from earlier were no longer manipulation but the truth. He would vow to know you on a personal level later.

Moans of pleasure from you both echoed. He was shameless about his noise, enjoying the sound of skin slapping in the air. You could have sworn his particularly deep thrusts sent the tower shaking. Sweat formed on his brow as he concentrated, ab muscles flexing as he withheld his orgasm. Mark loved it here. He would do anything not to pull out. His body began to tremble with restraint, nearly convulsing with the overarching effort. Your bodies shifted with each powerful thrust. Lost in your own pleasure, you barely noticed your head now dangling from the structure.

His attempt at being romantic after destroying a city was dreadful. "Mark…!! Ah! I'm gonna fall, fuck—!" you wearily shouted, and he grimaced slightly, his fingers shoving themselves into your mouth to simulate sucking his cock as he watched you gag on them. "You know better… swearing doesn’t make you cool." He stated it so casually, as if he weren’t balls-deep inside you.

Flying you both into the air, his hands gripped your ass, fucking himself into you. His thrusts grew erratic, his whimpers barely contained. It was obvious—his toes curled in his shoes, his feet flexed, his eyes rolled back into his skull, the veins in his neck prominent. Clasping his chin, you focused his attention on you as your insides nearly squeezed him dry. It was your minute revenge. "T-Take what you… what you want." His lips were caught between his teeth. "I wo… won't stop you."

The words were weak, both of you heaving, breath fanning against each other's faces. Wrapping your legs tighter around him, and with bated breaths, he buried himself inside you, his cock pulsing as he came with a shout. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as he hissed, unable to stop himself. After realizing what he had done, he ironically cursed under his breath.

"S… shit, I should’ve come in your mouth; it would’ve been better," he muttered, disappointed in himself. Wrapping your bare body within his cape, he gingerly kissed you with praise. His lips parted—as if to utter something sentimental, his gaze hardening. Suddenly—he observed heroes gathering within France to save the people. A grimace enveloped his face. He had enough decency to place you securely at your apartment before taking off. HeadCap Mark

“Oh…? And who do we have here?” he asked rhetorically, one hand resting at his side. His overzealous grin gleamed beneath the obscurity of his features. Not to mention was—was he bald? His appearance was a far cry from his better counterpart. You kept raking over every detail, unsure what unsettled you more.

“I… I don’t want to fight you. You look like my friend… I couldn’t,” you replied timidly, tension stunning your body. He landed without a sound, the silence eerie—like a grinning cat toying with its prey.

There was dried blood riddled through his costume, his demeanor confident as he strutted toward you with his head held high. You were awfully perturbed, not noticing him already in front of you. “Well, this is gonna be fun,” he chirped as he gazed expectantly at you—his amusement only growing. “You know how hard it was to find you? Your friend's bug brother straightened me out on my way here.” A series of sharp, satisfying cracks from his spine echoed through your ears, each pop releasing tension like bubble wrap as they twisted. His octave dropped a notch as he leaned in.

“Now it's time to straighten you out.” The words were of insincere politeness, their meaning striking you upside the head. His fingers curled around your neck as he guided you backward. The cold metal of a now disheveled and crumpled car met your back. “Ah ah ah, don’t even think about it,” he whispered—your ear tingling from its warmth, your fingers relaxed at your side.

The smile on his face was almost sweet as you complied, only begrudgingly allowing his touch. “Then move before I change my mind.” You snorted in response. It was scandalous; you’d never admit that the hand around your neck nearly made you weak. Just how could you reject a man so desperate to have you? He wasn’t going to deny you either; in fact, he felt almost obligated to show you he deserved this.

He shoved you roughly against the hood of the car, his fingers tracing the length of your curves. The loud creak of the vehicle settling, the sputtering electricity of nearby landline wires, and the open air of dust filling your lungs made you feel truly exposed. Even without the removal of clothing. His tongue flicked over his lips, a brief, deliberate motion—like a cat after cream. The elastic fabric of his costume fell down his muscled legs, his hands eager as they jutted forward. It was rushed—he stripped the latex from your body with the urgency of a man digging for gold.

Only then, when he saw the pretty lace covering such delicate areas, did an audible groan of delight scratch his throat. “Pretty,” he teased, his hands reaching into his boxers as they clung to his thighs. His dick was flushed a pale pink—longer than it was girthy—as bulging veins pathed their way to his tip. “Pretty,” you mimicked, legs spreading as he closed in like a moth to a flame. He left your bra and panties on, enjoying the sight too much to tear them off. Instead—he pulled the fabric aside to watch your tits bounce, your pussy lips already weeping.

His tip parted you like a river, his head hanging back as he bottomed out. Your walls fluttered to accommodate his length; if he wanted to, he could kiss your cervix. Your legs crossed over his shoulder, and his hips reared back before driving into you. Each thrust pushed you further up the car's hood, your breasts bouncing with the force of his movements.

Your hands reached to clasp at anything behind you—only to find a shattered windshield to dig your fingertips into. He couldn’t help but chuckle to himself as he watched you bounce on his cock; it was something deserving of a painting. His head turned, tongue slithering across the soles of your feet in a gesture of worship. As much as he didn't care about this world—in this moment—he was determined to make you feel like a goddess. His pace quickened, each stroke pushing you closer to the edge of ecstasy.

The movements were entirely guided by lust; broken chuckles bubbled from his throat as moan after moan was ripped from him. Your eyes nearly lost focus—every stroke caused a slight bulge to imprint in your lower abdomen. Your moans encouraged him—urged him to go deeper, to claim you completely. “So… so much is d-different about this world, but this… t-this was made for me.” His lips grimaced as his hips purged through the trembles riddling his body. The car creaked as it rocked violently, his fluid motion throwing you against him in time with his thrusts.

The street fills with the unfiltered sounds of your moans and the slap of skin against skin. You could feel your throat becoming raw; he was practically silenced, communicating with the tightening of your cunt and its impending orgasm.

Propping yourself onto your hands, you leaned back slightly, one leg gingerly switching to his other shoulder, giving him a full view of how you drank him in. His thumb rolled tight circles around your clit, watching as your hole puckered so vigorously around him.

A ring of your juices—mixed with what he couldn’t tell was pre-cum or cum—sputtered against his pelvis. The sight was enough to tip him over the edge. “Come… all over my cock—mmm—like the good l-little ssslut you are!” he groaned, eyes darting between your folds and your eyes as he inhaled your intoxicating scent.

As he thrust into you with increasing fervor, you felt your body begin to tense, your walls clenching around him as your orgasm approached. He seemed to sense it, his movements becoming more erratic as he chased his own release.

You cried out, fingernails scraping against the car's metal; his jaw clenched wearily as his knees grew weak. A weakened grin etched across his face once more—eyebrows knitting upward as he sighed shakily. With frantic pacing, he waited until his eyes nearly crossed before pulling out and ejaculating on your stomach.

You were winded, arms giving out as you rested against the car; he stared at you, unnaturally tired himself. But as he watched your juices bubble around your entrance, a new energy suddenly surged to his cock. “W-What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, stroking himself with a strangled whimper. “Mmm, I plan on using every inch of this car while I’m here.” Hooded Invincible

The momentary silence was deafening; the veiled mask drifted ever so slightly to show the grin lurking beneath. His costume had blood leaking down the front; the amount would suggest he’d been bested—yet he stood defiant and cocky before you. Just how powerful was he to remain standing? As you readied yourself for another battle, a sigh leaving your lips, his hands suddenly bound together over his head before slamming his full weight onto the concrete road. The rubble cracked beneath your feet, and a strong gust of wind slid you back. It wasn’t nearly as strong as anticipated. He was holding back.

“You won't be enough. You’re not even a fraction of my power!” He enunciated every other word—making the insult feel a little more scathing. “No wonder you get jumped so often, you fucking asshole,” you chided with annoyance. The dull ache in his head was the last thing he registered; the blow landed with a sickening thud—its crack making him stumble back slightly. “Oh, fuck off.” His return strike was swift, a flash of movement followed by a grunt of pain.

You nearly crumpled—the floor rushing to meet you before you regained stability. He was quick to compliment, almost too eager. “Okay… I’ll admit, you’re stronger than I thought.” The feeling of his hands cupping around your wrist—dried blood flaking from his palm. “That’s not why I’m here though,” he finished, his yellow-tinted goggles reflecting off the sunlight, a faint glimpse of his eyes meeting yours.

Just why did they have to have the warmth of your friend's? This was making it difficult to hate him. “Not interested,” you deadpanned, arms tugging within his grasp. He sucked his teeth with an exasperated sigh. “I don’t remember you being this fucking mouthy.” His head cocked slightly to view your expression change like his personal performance. “Wrong dimension; I’m not her.” Your words made him pause as that grin made its Broadway appearance. “Nah, you’re better; I love it when my girls are a bitch.” He taunted, your eyes searching for an escape route as you mentally dismissed him. “C’mon, give me a chance.” The words dripped from his lips, less of a plea and more of a certainty.

You couldn’t deny he had certainly piqued your interest in more ways than one. Suddenly, a pair of calloused fingertips ran a strip down the center of your costume—the fabric outlining a faint camel toe. His fingers pressed against the indent of your pussy lips—a desired dampness nearly causing him to groan. “Oh, you’re fucked,” he said with mocking restraint. In almost an instant—you were dragged into an alleyway and—with the weight of a feather—flipped upside down. “Put me down! What are you doing?!” you grit out, but the words lacked conviction, lost in the echo of his ragged breath.

He ignored your plea, fingers now deftly parting your swollen lips, teasing the clit that throbbed insistently through your costume. Your question was more of a criticism of his crassness. “Relax, you’ll like this.” He brushed off every critique, his focus narrowing to the only thing that mattered—his next dessert.

A firm finger dug into the fabric above your cunt before the screeching sound of fabric tearing. It was better than he imagined; his tongue already sought a taste as he admired the view. “That's it. I know you want this.” His tongue flicked out, tracing a wet path from your clit to your swollen opening. A jolt of electricity shot through you, silencing you momentarily as your hands dug into his hip. He chuckled again, pleased with your reaction. “See? Already loving it.” His response made your pleasure-filled veins run cold.

Returning the favor through shaky moans of your own, your fingers tore through the fabric of his clothing—leaving little time for him to react as your teeth sorted through the pocket of his boxers before his cock sprang out. Its tip was greeted with fervent kisses as a guttural growl rumbled from behind his veil. His tongue, hot and demanding, flicked out, tracing the sensitive flesh. A gasp escaped your lips, a mix of grit and nascent pleasure. He lapped at you with deliberate strokes, teasing and testing your limits. The fluttering of his tongue grew desperate to draw more sounds from you as you writhed.

That was until his toes curled upon a pair of nails dragging down the length of his swollen, veiny cock. He grumbled a string of curses, his tongue pursuing to ravage you in the wake of this being a competition. With practiced ease, your lips parted, bubbles of spit gathering around his tip as you toyed with him. “Fuuuuck me,” he sighed.

You took him in, the softness of your mouth enveloping him as you began to move, your head bobbing rhythmically. The swirl of your tongue was like pleasant lashings against his cock. Your throat relaxed as your nose met the tightening sack of his balls; he was losing his ability to resist. Every so often, you would flatten your tongue, ruining what might’ve been the build-up of his orgasm.

Your combined groans echoed mindlessly in the alleyway. With a clenched jaw, he flipped you right-side up, your hands dragging across the pavement momentarily. The sight of him frazzled you—his hair disheveled from the clenching of your thighs, and the front of his veiled mask drenched in your taste.

“How do you even have the energy to still hold me?” you asked, bewildered as he chuckled. “You underestimate my power.” His response made your eyes roll, and you both were winded nonetheless. He shifted again, his hands now gripping your thighs, spreading them wider. He positioned himself between your legs, his hard cock pressing against your clit, a tantalizing promise of what was to come. As he penetrated the twitching valley of your warmth, you both responded to one another with a moan—a sound of pure, unadulterated need.

Holy fuck, was he glad you couldn’t see his face. He was holding on by a thread, eyebrows furrowed with a quivering lip. “You probably… would’ve made me cum a-already if you didn’t keep playing,” he rasped, somewhat annoyed. “Shut the fuck up and keep going.” He couldn’t argue; his grip tightened against your upper thigh. With every drawback, you tightened around him, threatening to suck him in. Through labored breaths, his jaw went slack as his body nearly locked up on him. “Haa… ha… haa! You r-ready?” he drawled—dick pumping into you with his last shrivels of energy before his dick milked him dry inside you.

You both remained in somewhat of a daze. That’s when the familiar clang of Cecil's reAnimen echoed in the distance. Setting you down with a strange gentleness, he promised his return—leaving you with a hole in your pants. “Fuck.”

Masked Invincible

“Finally…” he whispered; you could’ve sworn his eyebrows creased beneath his mask—the full obscurity of his features made him difficult to identify. “Mark…?” you questioned, his shoulders drooping slightly as a relieved sigh left him. His costume was barely recognizable if it weren't for the signature black and blue; his frosted lenses left little to be discovered.

The instinct for danger—and to fight—was suddenly drained from you as he spoke. “We didn’t all make the same deal.” He approached, desperation weighing down his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter, Mark. You all murdered thousands… I don’t know you. I don’t care to hear you plead your case.”

Your response stunted his movements as the sound of padded feet quickened their pace.

“I—I know, but it was for a good reason, I swear,” he continued with a slight stutter, his hands gesturing to his chest. This somehow felt manipulative. “I liked it here… I came back to bring you and my mom back with me. We can start over.” His hands clung to your shoulders as he spoke, fingernails digging into the flesh. “And why would I do that?” you inquired, your gaze hardening as you anticipated a response. “Because… because I need you.” The delivery was purely pathetic, a voice cracked, edging his words as he nearly pleaded.

Considering the whole ordeal, it didn’t sound like an awful offer. However, it would be unsafe to assume the woman you once loved in the past was the same in every dimension. His submission might’ve unlocked a new kink you were unaware of, the sentiment tugging at your heartstrings. He was similar to the Mark you knew—emotional—but this one felt far more dangerous, a dog off its leash. You began to lie through your teeth. If it meant having a variant as an ally rather than an enemy, then so be it.

“Okay. I’ll come with you if—” Your words were abruptly sawed off as his hands hastily lifted half his mask and his lips found yours with fever. He brushed his lips against yours, featherlight, as if testing the moment—savoring it. He sighed into the kiss, his hands cradling your face, drawing you closer, deepening the space between breath and bliss. His fingertips dug into your skull as he was encased in your warmth.

Just how could he have ever let this go? Not this time. No, he would do better. He’d imagined this countless times.

Hands quickly shifting to your hips, he decided your apartment was best. Being on his best behavior would convince you more, right? Landing on the balcony, he slid open the door as you shuffled backward into the kitchen. You both pulled away, erratic breaths dampening one another's faces. Interestingly, as his costume loosened and pooled around his ankles, the mask remained. He seemed truly hellbent on keeping it on—not that you paid any mind.

Slowly tugging each article of clothing from your body, he watched as if hypnotized. It was nearly comical watching him progressively become aroused as seconds ticked by. His mind and body were one. His ragged gasps produced a small cloud of condensation through his mask. His dick a red, irritated mess with smeared pre-cum. Messy. Desperate. Guiding him into a chair, he manspread to allow you plenty of room once you straddled him, feet hooking against his inner thigh.

His tip pierced through you, giving you little time to adjust as gravity pulled you downwards. Your puffy lips cushioned him between hungry blows, combined arousal leaving a stringy mess in his lap.

Gripping your hips, his jaw clenched as he assisted you in riding him, the pace solely reliant on his stamina. "Wait, wait, slow down," you gasp, trying to regain control. But he's too far gone, his lust clouding his judgment. He grips your hips tighter, slamming you down on his cock with bruising force.

The pleasure is intense—bordering on pain—but you can't deny how much you're enjoying it. He leans forward, his masked face inches from yours. "I—I can't slow down," he pants, his breath hot against your skin. "I've wa… wanted this for so long. Needed this."

You can feel him throbbing inside you, his desire for you evident. But you need to take back control, to show him who's in charge here. You grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as your ass meets the meat of his thighs from your efforts to ride him.

He groans, his head falling back as you take what you want from him. "F-fuck, yeesss," he hisses, his hands moving to your ass, squeezing and spreading it. "Take it all; take everything I have to give."

It was his most coherent sentence—just barely—as his voice cracked with a whimper.

Your moans began to mingle until it was a harmony unable to be differentiated. The sound bouncing off the walls sounded ten times louder than it was. His nose scrunched from beneath his mask, jaw flexing with an effort to remain sane.

"I am. And I'm going to use you until I'm satisfied." He shudders beneath you, his cock twitching inside you at your words. You can tell he likes this—likes being used and controlled by you. After all he’s done, he’d gladly let you go for today.

Your hips slammed against his with every downward thrust. The sounds of skin meeting rang in your ears, a whine of pleasure filling your lungs as unrestrained sounds began to filter. His pubic hair caused delicious friction against your clit as he began to grow sloppy.

He reaches up, his hands cupping the back of your shoulders to hold you in place as he rams into you. The added stimulation sends you closer to the edge, your body tensing as your orgasm approaches.

"C-...Cum for me," he growls, his eyes watching you intently with the goal of watching your face contort in lust. "Fuck… fuck… fuck, yes! G-Give it to me! Please…!"

His voice nearly gave out as he came with a shout, finally being able to make you his.

You soon followed after, collapsing on his chest as remnants of a moan leave your lips. It takes a while for you two to finally gather your bearings. He pulls his mask down, a smile etched into the fabric, before that damned voice calls out within his ear. “I’m sorry… I—I have to go. I'll come back for you,” he stutters, reluctantly leaving and flying into the murky horizon.

This was actually fun to type up. (If interested in Mark's subplot (same scenario), it's linked: here.)

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[cercandodiscrivere]

Damnatio memoriae | emperor caracalla x reader.

word count | 2k

warnings | 18+, NSFW, concubines, blood, dark themes (implied murder), mental health, porn with too much plot, unbeta'd.

synopsis | “Nothing was ever mine". He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks. It’s almost like he’s sing-songing now, words rolling off his tongue. "Until now".

gifs by @fredhechingerdaily

Run. Run.

You are running, but the ground shifts beneath you. Screams tear through the air—familiar voices, distorted, distant.

The road is a river of bodies, writhing, pushing. Those who once praised now promised venegance – praetorians’ swords nothing to the rage.

Smoke curls in the sky, dark and thick. The air is burning with it. You stumble, slipping on something wet—hot, sticky, the scent of iron flooding your senses.

A fire blazes ahead, the orange glow painting the world in shades of red and black.

Blood. So much blood.

It fills your lungs, the sharp and suffocating smell.

Closer. Closer. The crowd surges. You push forward, but something pulls you back.

A hand touches your shoulder. Cold. Wet.

_

You are jolted awake, your eyes snapping open as you sit up in bed, heart racing. The dim light from outside filters in through the window, sending scattered rays of light across the room.

No one from the raging crowd outside has followed you into this room: the hands gripping you belong to someone you know.

Someone familiar.

Caracalla's fingers remain clasped around your shoulder — and even though you know you are awake now, the unsettling feeling remains, a sense of danger that lingers in the air.

The voices in your mind continue chanting: murder, murder, murder.

It takes a moment for you to quiet them down enough to find your voice.

“What happened?”.

His eyes are wide open, bloodshot and vacant: he stares at you and yet he is not seeing you at all. When he answers, his words are a nothing but a jumbled mix of accusations directed at the air behind your back: liar and traitor and ours.

“Are we under attack?”. Traitor, he’s saying. Maybe your dream was not at all a figment of your scared imagination; perhaps, just above your heads, angry individuals are truly storming through the halls.

If that's what's going on, Caracalla does not feel the need to confirm it. He remains as motionless as a statue —  his face just as pale as one — muttering under his breath, lost.

You reach out and grasp his arm, gently shaking him in an attempt to snap him out of his daze. “Are you injuerd?” but even as you are asking, you know he must be: his richly decorated tunic is soaked with blood, sticky and warm against your touch. In the dim light, you can't see the full extent of it, but you can smell the sharp metallic tang. You attempt to shift him closer to the light, feeling a surge of fear rising in your throat.

“Carus?”.

The endearing name falls on deaf ears. It’s just a repetition of traitor and liar and alwayshimhimhim.

He only comes to his senses when you attempt to rise and call a servant for help; then he he grabs your shoulder again, this time  with more force, and pushes you back onto the bed.

“I am fine”. He’s… chuckling.

For a brief moment, you question if this is all just another nightmare. Is Caracalla really in his own bed, sound asleep? Have the ongoing revolts taken such a toll on your sanity that you are now hallucinating him bleeding into your room?

Because there is no way for a man to lose that much blood and laugh as if nothing is wrong.

“Are you… hurt?”.

“Hurt?” he seems taken aback. “No, of course not”.

You take a deep breath as you finally have his attention. "Is it Geta?" you whisper, still concerned. "Is he injured?”.

Caracalla takes a moment to respond, his eyes darting around as if he's trying to gather his thoughts. His lips move, but the words come out in fragments. “He tried to strangle me”.

You stare at him, trying to discern if this is just another one of his warped jests — but there is no hint of humor in his expression. His brows are furrowed, a deep sorrow that animates his eyes again.

And yet, what he says could not be possible; their love for each other is too strong. There is no place where one can exist without the other. A wolf with two heads.

You nod to humor him, in an attempt to keep him focused on your face. “Geta tried to strangle you tonight?”.

“Tonight? No. No!” Caracalla now laughs, his usual mirth returning.

His face is stained in red, too: smalls pecks of blood that dot his cheeks. “Inside the womb”.

He’s rambling,you realize. He most likely fell and hurt himself, and he’s having another one of his episodes.

As you exhale, you feel a sense of calm wash over you.

The world around you is quiet; the concubine’s quarters are too distant from the entrance to hear the clamor of the crowds, but if the threat reached inside the palace halls, you would be able to hear it.

Things are under control. The praetorians have quelled the insurrection — Caracalla’s mind is rebelling on its own.

“I think you need a healer” you finally conclude.

Once again, he shakes his head — frantic now. “You don’t understand. I made it right”.

His hand jerks, digging his fingers into the skin of your shoulder. "Nothing is ever mine" he mumbles, almost as if talking to himself again. “Everything is ours, always”.

You wish you had a sweet and clever comeback; something that would snap him out of his delusions and bring him back to the real world – but you can't make sense of the words coming out of his mouth. His brother is better with this: he knows how to placate his mind, how to soothe the spirits that inhabit it.

“I’ll have a servant call Geta” you suggest — and yet this time it’s not his strength that holds you in place, but the look on his pale face. He’s livid, his usually kind features distorted with pure rage.

His gaze is no longer aimlessly wandering around the small room; his eyes are now dark and focused on you. Just the sight of him causes the hairs on your arms to stand upright.  

"No". His voice becomes more insistent as he continues. "No need. There is no Geta left to call. Don’t you get it?".

His features contort into a strange, almost anguished look as he gazes at you. "He can’t lie now”.

Confusion tightens your chest. "What do you mean? If Geta isn’t here, where is he? Is he—".

"He is fine" Caracalla interjects. The smile that follows is not a reassuring one. "He’s fine. You don’t need him. It’s just you and me now".

A sudden chill runs down your spine. In all the months you have spent as a concubine for the emperors, you have never seen him act so possessive.

While Caracalla is bashful and joyous, Geta often is the assertive one:

the brother who would have you down to your knees for entire nights just to show how superior he was.

Yet – Geta is not here, and his absence now feels unsettling.

"You don’t need him" Caracalla says again, as if he is the one trying to convince the other to see things with reason. "Nothing was ever mine". He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks. It’s almost like he’s sing-songing now, words rolling off his tongue. "Until now".

His kiss, fierce and unexpected, feels more like a punch than a passionate gesture. The taste of blood—you are less and less certain this is his blood—lingers on his skin as he holds you tighter, pulling you onto his lap.

“You don't belong to him,” he whispers, pulling away briefly before his mouth crashes back onto yours. His teeth graze your lips, blood spilling in your mouth, mixing with his saliva. It's disturbing and disorienting, but you find yourself enjoying it even more.

“I decide now” he declares, now moving to your neck. He bites down like a dog — a wolf — would do with his prey, leaving bruises where his teeth dig in. You feel the thin fabric of your nightgown rip apart, and the chill of the night air hits your bare skin.

Caracalla's whispers fill the room.

His other hand, the one that is tightly holding onto your shoulder as if you might try to run away at any given moment, starts to palm your chest – and you prefer not to think about the thick, wet substance he’s coating your skin with.

The scent of blood fills your nostrils once more. “Mine”.

His soft whines fill your, an almost pathetic pleading sound. He's pressing himself against your leg, torn between the craving to have you and the need for something else first.

His tongue laps your neck once more before he finally speaks in a low whisper. “Say it” he pants. “Say you are only mine”.

You do. Whether it's true or not, in this moment, you are helpless under his control. “I am yours. Only yours.”

Caracalla is not one for foreplay, but when his cocks enters you, you are ready for it. You always are.

He eagerly begins to push and glances down at you, as if he wants to say something else; however, his gaze remains focused on something lower than your face.

Your breasts – now adorned with dark red lines where his hand had touched you before. The view holds him captive, stealing all of his attention.

His hips don't slow down as he traces patterns on your bare skin with his finger. If anything, the added stimulation only encourages him to move faster.

“You are gorgeous” he purrs. He pulls out and thrusts back in, a hard snap of his hips against yours that has you moaing.

Gods help you, you want to tell him how breathtakingly beautiful he is. How, to you, he has always been as bright as the sun. Radiant.

Yet — he���s consuming you entirely, rendering you speechless: so instead you hold onto his back with all your might and squeeze your thighs around his hips, urging him on. Yours yours only yours.

“No lies” he pants, his breath hot. He pounds into your harder, rougher, as if he has something to prove. His grunts are interrupted by small fits of laugh, delighted and unhinged.

Caracalla is ravenous. It's unusual, and you can't help but feel a bit unnerved – but at the same time you can’t stop the heat rising in your lower stomach. It's as if you're melting under his burning touches.

His mouth opens wide with a loud groan, and his eyelids flutter in ecstasy for a brief moment. You cling to him as you ride the sensation together — hands gripping each other, legs trembling and muscles straining as you hold on to him with all your strength. He keeps calling you mine as he he shakes and shudders in pleasure, his cock emptying inside you.

The world holds its breath, just for a moment, as Caracalla pants heavily against your neck. “You are so good for us” he murmurs, pulling out of you.  

You can feel his warm seed dripping down the inside of your thigh, mingling with the blood: the thought sobers you, right before Caracalla leans in to share one last kiss and moves.

You let him drag your body down next to him on the ground. It’s cold, but you don’t want to move: the man hasn't looked this peaceful in a while.

Caracalla absentmindedly starts playing with your hair, just like he used to do when you first arrived at the palace.

He strokes your skin with tenderness; his gaze returning to its usual soft demeanor.  

It’s him who breakes the silence.

“Tomorrow is going to be a great day”. His voice is calm now, eager.

You can sense that in his mind, he is already living out the grandiose moment that awaits him in the morning.

The blood on his skin has dried in a multitude of dark brown freckles. Some of them splash into his neck and torso; the right side of his body almost entirely stained by it, but he doesn't seem to notice or care.

It’s no matter. Nothing happened, that’s what he told you.

“Geta will be so happy for me”.

[hrtwayne]

Guilty as Sin? || Alessia Russo

Pairing: Alessia Russo x Fem!Reader

Summary: On a stormy September night, you realize the love of your life was closer than you ever imagined.

Note: English isn’t my first language!

Warning: Mention of breakups, Alessia and Reader being completely oblivious!

Masterlist | Women's Football Masterlist

It was a little past 1:15 in the morning when you sat on the porch to watch the rain, which had intensified over the last fifteen minutes. The downpour hammered against the windows, and thunder rumbled across the dark sky, briefly illuminating the room you were sharing with Alessia that night.

You had woken up just a few minutes earlier, stirred by the storm, tossing and turning in bed as if the rain had only worsened your already terrible sleep routine. Wrapped in Alessia’s worn-out hoodie, you took a deep breath, letting the night’s cold contrast with the warmth that piece of fabric—and everything it represented—brought to your body.

There was something almost ironic about the situation. Just a few weeks ago, you had ended a relationship you once thought would last forever. Something that, in your mind, should have culminated in promises and rings. But when the tears came, when the emptiness settled in your chest, the first person you thought of wasn’t your mother, your longtime best friends, or even your team.

It was Alessia.

And Alessia, as always, showed up. Without hesitation, without question. She took the first flight from London, crossed oceans and time zones just to sit beside you on the floor, listening in silence, holding your hands as you poured your heart out between sobs. Now, in that stormy early morning, you weren’t crying anymore. But your heart was far from at peace.

Because something had changed. Or rather, something that had always been there—something you had never allowed to take shape in your thoughts—now imposed itself with an almost painful clarity. The hug before bed.

Alessia had wrapped her strong arms around you, pulling you close as if you were something precious, something she was afraid to lose. And for the first time, you had felt something different. Alessia’s touch wasn’t just comforting—it was electrifying. The warmth of her skin, the scent of her shampoo, the sound of her calm breathing near your ear. All of it made your heart race in a way no girlfriend ever had.

And now, alone on the porch, you finally admitted it to yourself:

I love her.

Not as a friend. Not as a sister. But in a way that terrified you—because it was intense, deep, and above all, without guarantees.

The creak of the door pulled you from your thoughts.

"You should be sleeping, darling." Alessia’s voice was soft but laced with concern.

You turned slowly, meeting the footballer’s blue eyes, still heavy with sleep. Alessia wore nothing but a jacket draped over her shoulders, her blonde hair disheveled, as if she’d gotten up in a hurry.

"Mhm, I just needed some air." You lied, trying to mask the tremor in your voice.

Alessia frowned but didn’t push. Instead, she stepped closer and placed a hand on your shoulder—her touch so familiar and yet, now, so loaded with meaning.

"You’ll get sick standing out here in the rain." She murmured, her fingers lightly gripping the fabric of the hoodie. "So that’s where my hoodie went."

You smiled, unable to muster a response.

"Come on." Alessia held out her hand. *"Let’s get you something warm to drink."

And you followed. Like you always did. Because when Alessia asked for something, you could never say no.

In the kitchen, Alessia moved with the same confidence she carried on the football pitch. As the kettle heated, she stole glances at you, leaning against the counter as you watched her.

"You should’ve woken me." Alessia said, pouring hot water over the tea bags."You know this lack of sleep is going to catch up with you eventually."

"I know, A."

Alessia sighed, recognizing the resigned tone in your voice. It was always like this when something was bothering you.

"Mhm, you’re coming to the match on Saturday, right?" Alessia changed the subject, her lips curving into a small smile. "I kinda need my good luck charm."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart beat faster.

"You know I am."

Alessia handed you the cup, your fingers brushing for the briefest moment.

"Then I’ll dedicate my goals to you."

You nearly choked.

"Don’t pretend you don’t know, darling." Alessia continued, her eyes gleaming with an intensity you’d never been able to decipher. "I always dedicate my goals to you."

And there, in that dimly lit kitchen, bathed in yellow light, you realized—maybe you weren’t alone in your feelings after all.

Because Alessia didn’t dedicate her goals to just anyone.

Just like you didn’t dedicate your songs to just anyone.

And suddenly, the fear felt a little smaller than the hope.

[pathologicalreid]

heart to heart | s.r.

in which hotchner!reader is set to have heart surgery, and Spencer can't help but be concerned for her

margotober masterlist

who? spencer reid x hotchner!reader category: angst content warnings: fem!reader, chronically ill!reader, spencer is anxious, inadvertently made jack hotchner a glass child, hospitals, medications, surgery, heart transplant, hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, mostly medically accurate, rejected proposals, spencer's pov, mentions death and dying and wills, howl's moving castle word count: 2.51k a/n: this might be my favorite margotober post of the week. i don't know. it's very introspective. twas a request!

Ironically, his heart was racing. Spencer made his way through the cardiac unit with nothing but his imagination to guide him. He had just left the building a few hours ago when you insisted that he sleep in a real bed, and now he was back.

Your dad hadn’t told him what was going on, he just told him to get to the hospital. It was an hour’s drive from his place in D.C. to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore—you could already be dead by now.

He didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to you. Not a real, proper goodbye. He told you he’d come back in the morning, which felt ridiculous now.

The sterile fluorescence of the intensive care unit only added to his irritability as he washed his hands upon entry, the CVICU had been your home for the past two months, and in a way, it had become Spencer’s as well. He couldn’t be shocked, you’d been in heart failure for nearly two years, and there was no way he could ignore the worried glances between your doctors and nurses.

You slept more than you were awake most days, Spencer and your dad took turns staying behind on cases, and you usually didn’t have the energy to hold a conversation.

That’s why he’s so surprised to see you sitting up in bed with a cap over your hair, talking to your cardiologist. You looked drained, dark circles gave your eyes a haunted look, but Spencer’s chest filled with relief at the fact that you were still very much alive. “Hey,” Spencer said, looking around the room for even the slightest clue as to what was going on.

Sluggishly, your head turned to look at him, “Hey,” you said back, a weak smile on your face.

He wanted to tell you to lie down, sitting up was obviously draining you of what little energy you had, but more than that, he wanted you to tell him what was going on—he couldn’t guess, he couldn’t bear to be wrong. “What is it? What happened?” His questions were frantic, your father had never called him in the middle of the night like this.

“I’m getting a heart, Spence,” you told him, your voice was gentle.

So, the sky wasn’t falling. The feeling of impending doom that he’s had for the last two years was potentially going to be lifted away, “When?” He asked, stepping further into the room and setting his bag in the chair, crossing his arms as he joined the conversation between you and your doctor.

You took a deep breath, in through your nose and out through your mouth, “Tonight.”

He needed to sit down.

“We’re just waiting on some final pre-op labs,” your doctor confirmed, nodding at the both of you. “It’s a good match,” he assured Spencer, “I’ll let you two talk.”

As soon as you were alone, Spencer guided you down to the pillows. Too weak to resist, you leaned back until your shoulders hit the pillows, “Where’s Hotch?”

You hummed in response, “Jack freaked out when we told him I was getting a new heart, dad’s with him until our aunt gets here.”

“He’s worried about you,” he observed, sometimes it was hard to put the age difference between you and your brother into perspective, but at times like this, he remembered just how young Jack really was.

Clearing your throat, you shook your head once, “He’s scared that my new heart won’t love him the same.”

Spencer nodded in understanding, “So, what did you tell him?”

You smiled softly, “I told him it was like in Howl’s Moving Castle.” Pausing for a moment to catch your breath, Spencer took your hand in his, “They’re not taking my love away, I’ll be able to love him even more with a new heart.”

“So, now he thinks your heart is on fire,” Spencer pointed out, tucking a stray hair underneath your cap.

Sighing, you shut your eyes for a moment, “Sometimes it feels like it.”

His chest tightened in sympathy while watching you try to catch your breath, vaguely aware that this was the last night that tonight would be like this, “Are you scared?” It seemed like a foolish question to ask, knowing that you’d had more procedures than most people your age, but this was a big one. This was the big one.

You nodded gently, there were so many things to be scared of, surgical complications, transplant rejection, but you looked at Spencer with pity in your eyes. You were pitying him, “My will is in the top drawer of my nightstand,” you started.

“No,” Spencer interjected, denial creeping up on him.

You sighed, it took everything in you to hold back your tears, “Spence, we have to talk about this.”

He shook his head, “No, we don’t. You’re going to be fine.”

“I need you to be rational,” you pleaded. The irony of the situation was not lost on him, you were begging him to think rationally as refusal crept over him. “You know the statistics. In fact, you probably know them better than me,” you said pointedly.

He sniffled, “You have good odds,” he insisted. “Even if you didn’t have good chances, you’ve always been good at beating the odds,” he reminded you. The two of you had said goodbye before, a nasty battle with bacterial endocarditis had put you in a coma, but you had come out of it, sending you even higher on the UNOS transplant list.

Issues with your kidneys had knocked you out of the running for some hearts, so your only hope was a direct donation. It seemed like you were getting your wish. “My heart won’t be as big,” you murmured, not having the energy to debate Spencer on probability.

“No,” he affirmed, “It’ll be a bit smaller.” Your heart muscle was thick as a result of your cardiomyopathy, and your pacemaker wasn’t able to keep up with your deteriorating health. A transplant became your only hope.

You sighed contentedly, “You always made me feel so lucky.”

“Stop trying to say goodbye,” he told you, tilting his head to the side.

Nodding, he could tell that you understood him, “You’ll never get rid of me, I’ll come back and haunt you.”

Spencer shook his head dismissively, “No dying, sweet girl. We’ve got to take care of your new heart.”

A peaceful silence blanketed the two of you, sitting and waiting for someone to tell him it was time to go. He didn’t want to go. He’d go with you to the operating room if they’d let him.

He said goodbye to you in the hallway, watching you get wheeled away before shoving his hands in his pockets and walking to the waiting room, stopping in his tracks at the sight before him.

A majority of the BAU had gathered in the waiting room, taking up all of the chairs on the right-hand side, settling in for the long haul. “Hey,” JJ was the first one to speak, giving Spencer a quick embrace before stepping back, “How was she?”

“She’s good,” he answered absentmindedly, still looking around the room, a few familiar faces nowhere to be found. “She was tired,” and a bit morbid toward the end.

Jack was curled up on one of the loveseats, a blanket tucked over him. Spencer continued looking around, confusion settling in until Emily spoke up, “He’s in the chapel. Rossi and Morgan are with him.”

Hotch was in the chapel, likely lighting a candle for Haley while Rossi and Morgan said a prayer for you. Oddly enough, it brought Spencer comfort to know that his friends were pulling for you in the ways they knew how, especially when he didn’t believe in it himself.

Spencer looked at the bracelet that you had placed in his hands, it was one of your most prized possessions, and should something happen to you, he was under strict instructions to hand it over to your father.

You were still a teenager when you were first diagnosed, and you were scared of having a big scar from open heart surgery, so your mom went out and bought you a charm bracelet. For each procedure after, you’d gotten a new charm for the bracelet with Hotch continuing the tradition after your mother had passed away.

There was no doubt in his mind that there would be a special charm for this surgery, Hotch usually had Penelope and JJ help him pick it out.

Penelope walked in, handing Spencer a cup of coffee. The average heart transplant takes six hours, but you have so much scar tissue that he wouldn’t be surprised if it took longer than that.

You were two years younger than him, and he found himself enamored with you from the moment you met. Your disease had forced you to leave college early, but your dad had set you up with a job in records at Quantico, both to give you something to do and to keep you nearby.

Until you just kept getting sicker, you were the best person they had working in records, but eventually, you had to leave that too.

The rest of the team caught on to Spencer’s crush, but you found yourself avoiding him like the plague. You turned him down eight times before you finally acquiesced, come to find out the only reason you said yes is because Hotch pushed you in that direction. Of all people, your father had just wanted you to continue living your life—he didn’t want you to become a hermit.

You would be one now though, with all of the immunosuppressants you’d be on post-transplant, you’d be spending a lot of time at home.

Rejection became a trend in your relationship when Spencer proposed to you last year. He’d done it properly, asking your father and Jack for permission, but you’d said no, rattling off some excuse about how he shouldn’t shackle himself to someone with one foot in the grave.

That night, after you had all but broken up with him, you’d collapsed and ended up in the hospital. The two of you made a promise to each other. If you ever got a new heart, you’d finally say yes.

The promise had been your idea, claiming that karma had caused you to collapse in your apartment because you turned him down. Spencer didn’t believe in karma and fate the way you did, but he did believe in you. That was enough for him.

Hotch came back up first, setting a comforting hand on Spencer’s shoulder before he walked back to where Jack was sleeping, your Aunt Jessica was back there with the two of them.

They hit the two-hour mark with no update, and Spencer convinced himself that no news had to be good news.

Derek and Rossi had made their way up to the waiting room, pulling out a deck of cards from the hospital gift shop and dealing around the table. Spencer just watched, he’d played more than enough card games in this hospital before, and he’d likely be playing many more in the future.

You’d have to stay in the hospital post-transplant for approximately a month, but it was some comfort to Spencer that instead of your health declining, you would begin feeling better. It hurt to hope, but he found himself excited at the prospect of you regaining your strength.

By the time five hours had passed, JJ and Derek had fallen asleep in their chairs, but everyone had committed themselves to waiting for you.

Spencer wanted to take you home, settle you into your shared apartment together, and let you heal, but you weren’t going to come home with him. When your month in the hospital was up, you’d go home with your dad and Jack. Your apartment didn’t have an elevator, and he worried about you having to use the stairs all the time. Your dad’s apartment had an elevator, so it became the obvious choice.

You told him you didn’t even remember what home looked like anymore. He couldn’t wait to bring you home.

He’d started to worry after six hours had passed, but just before hour seven hit, your cardiothoracic surgeon came out to the waiting room.

Careful not to wake Jack, Hotch stood up from his chair, approaching the surgeon with a wariness that Spencer had never seen from him. He waved Spencer over, silently inviting him to join the conversation.

“Everything went well, she’ll be in the CVICU still for a few days before she’s strong enough to be transferred,” the doctor explained, garnering the attention of some of the other people in the room. “Visiting hours don’t start for a few hours, but if one of you wants to stay with her until she wakes up, then I’d be willing to arrange an exception.”

You’d be waking up in a bright room with a tube in your throat, and having someone that you knew with you when you woke up would hopefully ease some of your fears. As soon as Spencer was about to offer to keep an eye on Jack so Hotch could sit with you, Hotch interrupted his train of thought, “You should go.”

Spencer frowned, glancing over your father, “Are you sure?”

Nodding, Hotch looked back at Jack, still sleeping on the loveseat. “I need to stay with him, and she wouldn’t want him to see her first thing,” he explained.

If Jack’s fear from earlier was any kind of forewarning, Hotch probably had a point when it came to wanting to stay with his youngest. Even still, Spencer protested, “I can stay with Jack.”

There were a number of people in the room who could stay with Jack, but Hotch clearly wanted to stay, “Don’t keep my daughter waiting, Reid.”

He did not have to be told twice, turning around and following the doctor to your room, scrubbing his hands before approaching the door. Faltering slightly at the doorway, Spencer found himself staring at you. There were so many wires and tubes connected to you that he’d have to take his time doing inventory of them all, there was a tube breathing for you, but your heart—your heart was beating steady.

“You can take a seat here,” a nurse said, gesturing to a chair for him to use. He sat down obediently, setting his bag on the ground next to him.

You wouldn’t come out from under the anesthesia for hours yet, but Spencer found comfort in knowing that he’d be here for you when you woke up. He could let you squeeze your hand when you felt pain, and he’d be there to wipe your tears away. At this point, he’d do anything you asked of him.

For now, all he had to do was wait. He clasped your hand in both of his and sat at your bedside, a ring box burning a hole in his messenger bag—waiting for you to be ready for it.

[ahundredtimesover]

I Want You to Stay (09) | JJK

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: boss!JK x assistant!reader; idiot strangers to lovers; slow slow burn; k-drama feels; angst, drama, fluff, smut

Chapter (Series) Warnings: foul/explicit language; alcohol consumption & passing out, unhealthy coping mechanisms; family drama; minor injuries; power dynamics (JK starts off as a jerk); work-related anxiety, feelings of helplessness, insecurities; childhood traumatic experiences, nightmares; sexual harassment, attempted assault; use of the term slut in a derogatory way, prior incidence of domestic violence (PLS PLS BE CAREFUL WHEN READING); arts and business/property devt talk that’s probably inaccurate; commitment issues & emotionally constipated characters; cold and detached JK; eventual explicit sexual content (specific warnings stated per chapter) (18+)

Chapter Word count: 18.4k

Series Masterlist

Status: Ongoing

Series summary: Working for Jungkook isn’t the same as working for Hoseok. For starters, Jungkook doesn’t smile, he doesn’t appreciate you, and he gives you too much work. It doesn’t help that he’s incredibly handsome and has women at his beck and call. But as the tension grows, it becomes impossible to resist him. You’ve dedicated yourself to your job for 8 years so when you finally decide to put yourself first, he asks you to reconsider. And while you know that leaving is difficult, you learn that when it comes to Jungkook, staying is always so much harder.

Playlist 🎶: on the way home

A/N: Hiii thank you for being patient, and again for all your love and appreciation for this story. 🥰 Updates will continue to take longer as I return to uni. On another note, I hope you enjoy this!

And as always, my biggest thanks to @wonwoonlight  🥰

PS. If I can’t tag you, pls fix your settings!

Seeing you standing in his kitchen donned in that pastel-colored blouse makes Jungkook stop in his tracks; you’re exactly who he needs to wake him up. 

It’s been weeks of vacation, which also means weeks without his usual routine. It’s striking how being absorbed in his work has altered him in that sense - he looks for the stress, for the long hours, for the isolation that’s demanded of his job. Perhaps there was just really nothing to look forward to, and work was an excuse for all those things because there wasn’t much else going for him. Ironic, considering everything he can do with what he has, yet nothing seems to be what he’s looking for, even if deep down, he knows what it is.

This is something that Hoseok and A-yeong made him realize during the trip as he watched them gush about the pretty streets and marvel at the fjords and immerse themselves in the view of the northern lights. 

His cousin, the President of the company who makes decisive decisions and conducts press conferences and signs off on billion won projects, is the same man who squealed during a husky ride in Finland, laughed his butt off when he slipped on a glacier, and muttered words of love to his wife as they all watched the bright evening sky over the lake in Norway. There was so much passion in him, something A-yeong mirrored, whether it was about work or his relationships or just about everything in life. Hoseok looked forward to that trip, to that time with his wife, to that break, to seeing the scenery and feeling peace. 

While Jungkook found himself constantly thinking about the Arts Center and upcoming projects and new design ideas… and the one person who connected him to all those - you. It felt like he was rushing towards something because the achievement was the goal, and while he stopped by the mountains and marveled at the water as he sat on the cliffs, his mind was racing, chasing something that he couldn’t even grasp. 

That’s how the past six years have been. Perhaps more, he thinks. Maybe 20. He’s never allowed himself to just be. Quite frankly, he doesn’t know who he is outside of what he does; he doesn’t know much of how he is outside of being an executive and heir, and so during the moments when he isn’t functioning as such, he’s a bit lost, just existing in a place he’s visiting, not knowing how to interact, how to breathe; not knowing how to connect or to be free.

You’re the bright spot amidst it all. With you around, he still seems to be wandering while stuck in a certain spot, but he’s not alone because you’re there. With you around, there’s a sense of calmness somehow, with your smile and your presence warming the coldest parts of him that he’s left untouched and unfeeling for years.

So when he walks towards you, his eyes fully opening now to see you better, he hums in satisfaction. 

“It’s nice to see you again,” he says, prompting you to turn around. “It feels like it’s been so long.”

“Really, Mr. Jeon? I thought the three weeks felt fast,” you giggle. “But it’s nice to see you, too. Were you able to rest out there?”

“Somehow,” he replies, taking the glass of water you give him.

“Is that why you passed on your morning workout to sleep in?” You raise an eyebrow, thinking that he’d slept in when you walked into his penthouse earlier without the usual sounds from the gym that you’d gotten used to.

“I was pretty jet lagged,” he groans. “Couldn’t sleep so I did it last night to tire myself out and then I finally fell asleep three hours ago. It’s a miracle I woke up after the tenth snooze of my alarm.”

“Ooh, that is not good, considering all the documents on your desks and messages on your inbox,” you shake your head. “What if I move the team meeting to tomorrow so you don’t push yourself too hard today? You could’ve taken the day off.”

“And have a worse day tomorrow? No thanks,” he chuckles. “I’m fine, but I agree with moving the meeting.”

“Just take it slow,” you advise. “I brought some pastries because I know your fridge and pantry are empty. I’ll get them ready shortly.”

“I’ll wash up then.”

You follow not long after, preparing his outfits for the second half of the week, then setting out the breakfast for both of you. He returns to the kitchen wearing the brown suit you chose for today, looking just as handsome as you remember. You fix his tie like you always do and meet his eyes like it’s reflex, the warmth bubbling within you when he returns your soft smile. You take your seat a chair away, taking your iPad after to start going through updates when he stops you.

“Not yet, please. My mind’s still half asleep.”

“Okay, sir,” you respond. “We can talk about your trip instead. How was it?”

Jungkook finds himself more engaged in telling you about it, not like how he was when his best friends met him for dinner last night and he was too tired to narrate how it went. But you ask with such excitement that he ends up sharing more than what he planned.

He talks about the Vikings museum and historical tours, the bike rides and coastal walks, the calm but lively cities and the breathtaking waterfalls. He even mentions the things he’d only kept to himself - like that one evening when the sky looked like one of Lee Jaemin’s paintings that had him staying at the balcony with a glass of wine while basking in its beauty, and when they were in Hans Christian Andersen’s hometown and he wondered what kind of fairytale character he would be, and that he learned he really enjoys hot springs during the winter. They’re random thoughts that he just ended up saying, somehow feeling natural and comfortable in sharing them with you. 

You indulge him, asking more and sharing your thoughts, too. You even throw in the occasional teasing remark and playful laughter. You ask about the scenery, expressing your yearning for the outdoors that you said you never really appreciated before, as the open space always overwhelmed you.

He passes you his iPad where he’s opened the folder of the photos that he took with his camera, a gift from Taehyung who’d said that Jungkook needed to go out more and “feel the sun.” He rarely used it but a Northern Europe trip seemed like the perfect excuse. He’s used to assessing interiors and marveling at structures from afar, but this time he got to appreciate what lies beyond his walls, beyond the little world he’s been burrowing himself in.

“These are stunning, Jungkook,” you gush, dropping the formalities as he shares something that feels so personal. “I didn’t know you had the talent for photography, too.”

“I wouldn’t call it a talent,” he shakes his head. “I took it as an elective during university and it helps with design ideas. I should at least take nice photos if I need inspiration or a basis. I don’t really do it much, though.” 

“Did it make you feel good, at least?” You ask, wondering what else gives him satisfaction.

“Somehow. It makes me feel good when I’m looking at the pictures. I’m transported to that day and that place again, like a holder of memories and desire for the good things.”

You go through the photos - dozens of them. He didn’t take too many, just one or two shots of every scenery. Beyond the majestic landscape, there are the everyday scenes - people talking at a cafe, strangers enjoying the park. There’s a couple holding hands, laughing at each other; from the silhouettes, you can tell they’re Hoseok and A-yeong, a moment that Jungkook probably thought too precious to not capture. 

Something in you stirs, as the photos elicit a mix of awe and yearning. You look at Jungkook and you think it’s what he felt, too. 

There’s a saying you heard about watching what people photograph to learn what they fear losing. With Jungkook, it seems as if these - freedom, tranquility, connection, intimacy - are things he wants; somehow they seem to be what he fears having. 

“It’s nice to have a keeper of good memories, isn’t it? Of that reminder that beautiful things exist and that they’re tangible, you know?” You say, returning his gadget. 

“It is,” he responds after a beat of silence, seemingly processing your words. “We forget sometimes. Or maybe, we just don’t know what that’s like. In that case it’s like an illusion. But it’s still good to have that, I guess. It’s still something.”

You don’t know what more could be said. It feels too personal or even intimate of a conversation to have with your boss on a Wednesday morning as you eat breakfast in his apartment. So you let it go, smiling as you say you’re glad he got to have some rest. 

He says that so does he and then asks about how your holiday was as you both head to the car. You talk about it during the ride, how you spent a week in Wando with your mother’s partner’s family and then drove to Jeonju, how the entirety of your break had you stuffing your face with food and bonding with them, and how they drove you back to Seoul last weekend, thankful that for those two weeks, they had you around.

You don’t tell Jungkook that some days, you’d think of him, wondering how he’s doing. You don’t tell him that you’d seen A-yeong’s posts and that he looked at peace in them, that there was a softness in his eyes that you’ve rarely seen on him. You don’t tell him that despite the vacation that you said you were looking forward to, you were also looking forward to this - having him back, sharing stories, and living in the silence alongside him.

You wonder, as you glance at him looking out the window, if this is what you meant about savoring the moment, enjoying what’s in front of you, and feeling less alone. Because right now, those are exactly what you feel. 

Jungkook wanted to wait to get to the office before proceeding to work matters, something that surprises you because he always gets down to business immediately, not unless he’s recovering from a hangover. But he blew you off even in the car, wanting instead to listen to your stories and then doodle on his leather notebook again for the rest of the ride. You end up meeting with him for an hour before he settles in, then he goes to lunch with his father, meets with your team, and then decides to visit the Arts Center mid-afternoon. 

Work is back in full-swing just like that, and you pull the energy from within you to manage the crazy week. There are start-of-the-year events to attend and organize, a board report and meeting to prepare for, new projects to initiate, and a major one to monitor. 

You’re glad that despite all that, Jungkook allows you to have a four-day off on the succeeding week so you can celebrate your birthday with a road trip down coastal towns with Jimin and Soomin. It’s a silly thing to do in the middle of winter, but they insist that warmth is most satisfying when it’s cold outside, and you don’t disagree. You’ll definitely be sighing in relief when you hold the steaming hot hotteok in between your hands, and it’ll be the best one you’ll have. 

It’s Thursday and you’ll be back in a week. You’ve just finished briefing Do-hyun, who’ll be covering for you while you’re away, and you get off your chair to grab tea in the pantry. Jungkook’s voice stops as you, as he stands by his door and asks if you’re already leaving.

“In an hour, Mr. Jeon,” you reply. “Is there anything I can help you with until then?”

“No, nothing,” he says. “I’m actually about to leave for dinner with Taehyung and Seokjin.”

“Oh, alright, sir,” you hum. “Goodbye, then. And I’ll see you next week. Just know that you’re the only one who can disturb me.”

He laughs in response. “Come on, I won’t be badgering you, especially on your birthday. It’s your one week away from me. You have to savor it.”

“So should you,” you counter. “But okay. I will.”

“Good,” he nods. “I’ll just fix up and go ahead then.”

He returns to his room and you’re just the tiniest bit disappointed that he didn’t properly greet you but you suppose that’s good for you. So you go to the pantry and end up chit-chatting with the team, finding yourself smiling when you look up and see Jungkook by the door, who tells everyone not to stay too late before he heads out. 

You arrive back at your desk, your heart beating fast at the sight of a small brown bag on your table. 

For your trip. Something to help remind you that beautiful things exist and they’re tangible, the note reads. Happy birthday. 

Your mind goes to a conversation you had not long ago, about how photos can elicit certain emotions and be a keeper of memories, especially of good ones. You know this is from Jungkook, and you also have an idea of what this might be, which is why you open the package right away.

Still, it catches you by surprise, especially when you find two disposable film cameras inside. They’ll definitely be enough for your upcoming trip and you know the photos will come out amazingly. You’re ecstatic. 

Perhaps this is why he wanted to leave before you did - you’d thank him and he’d be terrible at accepting it again, then you’ll call him out for it. Maybe it was good he hadn’t stuck around to see you act this way. At least he didn’t see you with that silly smile on your face.

But Yoongi does as you head down the elevator, smirking at you when he sees the bag you’re holding and the familiar handwriting on the card.

“I’m guessing you’re not fighting it anymore, huh?” He says, teasing yet somehow still comforting. 

“I’m trying not to, even if I know I’m being stupid,” you admit. “I can at least have these fleeting moments of joy after I walk away from this.”

“Retain the good memories. That’s one way to let things go,” Yoongi advises, as he exits the carriage on the parking lot floor.

The doors close on your smiling face, and he chuckles to himself at the irony of things. That’s how he learned to let you go, after all.

You return to work the following week with a spring in your step, with Jungkook noticing as you heat up the fried rice that you told him you’d be preparing for breakfast. You hum as you go about in the kitchen, feeling energized after the last few days you’ve had. 

It was freezing, but you, Soomin, and Jimin went a little crazy and ran down the beach whenever you drove by one, something you all did as kids living in Busan. The drives from town to town were slow but they had you all singing to your favorite songs, munching on chestnuts and bungeoppang, and stopping over viewing sites for fresh air and photos. 

You used Jungkook’s gift a lot, taking pictures of things that elicited strong emotions and good memories - purple and orange skies, snow melting on the pavement, the crashing ocean waves turning white at the tip, an empty playground in the park, Soomin’s infectious laughter, Jimin’s angelic smile. 

The cold was an excuse to seek your best friends’ warmth and they took advantage of it. It reminded you of those few years growing up with them before you returned to Daegu for college, something you and Jimin reminisced about, and something that you thanked him for after what seemed like ages. You recalled how he approached you first as the new girl who entered school in the middle of the school year, how he followed you around because you were always alone and was scared of loud noises, and how he’s never left your side since then. 

Every night during that trip, he hugged you as you tried to fall asleep, knowing you needed it for the cold you felt inside and out. He was next to you when you talked about Jungkook gifting you the cameras and admitted that it made you feel good, that it made you happy.

“I’m glad he’s showing you kindness,” Jimin had said. “But… just be careful, okay? Your heart is capable of a lot of good things. Pain is the last thing it deserves.”

“I don’t really know what my heart is capable of,” you replied. “My brain does the hurting but my heart… I don’t know what it does. I don’t know how it works.” 

It left him speechless then and somehow, you were glad that he just held you tighter, only because it was the only way you wanted to be comforted at that moment. But you also knew that whatever your heart ended up doing or experiencing, Jimin and Soomin would be there to help you make sense of it, to pick up the pieces should they need to.

“It seems as though your birthday rejuvenated you, ___,” Jungkook disrupts your thoughts. “You look much lighter and relaxed.”

“Only because I haven’t checked my emails nor taken new instructions from you,” you laugh as you serve the fried rice in bowls then head towards him. You fix his suit again and speak casually like you’ve gotten used to. “Once I open that iPad and see what I have to deal with, relaxed would be the last thing I’ll be.”

“Fair enough,” he chuckles. “Let me savor this then.”

His words catch you off guard and they prompt you to meet his eyes - soft yet piercing, then he turns shy and turns away from you. Perhaps he’s surprised at what he’d said, too.

“Work is stressful and your calmness rubs off on me most times,” he says nonchalantly. “We’ve got a busy few days ahead and I want that calmness to linger.”

“It will,” you assure him. “And yes, I feel rejuvenated, and that’ll probably last me for days so that will linger, even if I’m stressed, so don't worry. You’re gonna do well. I don’t doubt it one bit.”

Jungkook’s meeting the Culture Minister next week to present the Arts Center’s plans and activities leading to its opening to the public, which is why you think he needs that calmness as well. The team has been helping him with the preparations and while you felt bad that you didn’t get to contribute as much, he assured you that all the notes you left him have been instrumental. 

But still, his words affect you. Is this calm and relaxed version of you all he wants to savor? Does it mean anything more? 

The thoughts wander away as you have breakfast with him, and he asks if you wish to talk about work later on but you insist that you’re mentally ready for it all. He’s the one who gives you updates this time, and just like that, you’re back to your usual routine.

You glance at his plate, all clean right after because even this dish, he savors. And you realize that doing things for him, no matter how simple, makes you happy, too, especially when his lips turn up in a small smile and he nods in satisfaction.

“Good, huh?” You wiggle your eyebrows. 

“It’s infinitely better than mine,” he hums.

“So, it’s really, really, really good then?”

“You don’t even know how mine tastes like.”

“True. But Taehyung said once that yours was really delicious and I’ll take his word for it. Seokjin agreed and I believe them.”

“Wow, really? That’s a rare moment where they praise me,” Jungkook laughs. 

“You should savor that, too.”

“I should. Heavens know the last time that happened. And when it’ll happen again.”

“That’s kind of hard though, isn’t it?” You say, being a bit reflective as you go back to your daily routine after a trip that you wholly enjoyed. “Savoring things… capturing them, appreciating them. Like, you have to be in the moment, you have to be present, and that’s not easy to do.”

“It isn’t,” he responds after a while. “You have to care enough for something to be worth savoring, I guess.”

“Exactly. But how do you do that when everything is temporary - things, feelings… people. Not all of them are meant to stay,” you reply, meeting his eyes as they seem to be in deep thought.

“Maybe they will… if you ask them to,” he softly says.

“That depends.”

“On what?” He asks.

“If they have a reason to,” you shrug. 

Your faraway eyes tell him that you’re in deep thought, perhaps processing the exchange that even Jungkook can’t fully wrap his head around. But you turn to him not long after, smiling as you take the plates to clean up, as if you’d just snapped out of a trance, of a moment of honesty. 

He watches you from his seat. There’s an aura about you that truly feels more relaxed, yet there seems to be an added layer of pensiveness, of deep thinking that could easily be mistaken for savoring the moment when you might be questioning it, perhaps wondering if it’s real… or worth caring about in the first place.

Even until now, he doesn’t know what it is about you that has him hanging on to every word you say, like it’s some secret message or code to learning who you are and what your fears and pains and hopes and dreams might be. 

In the past months, his moments with you have allowed him a peek inside - there’s this yearning for something that you’re not ready for; there’s this knowledge of the fleeting nature of the world that you want to capture as memories because that’s the only way you can make them stay; there’s this desire for companionship that terrifies you more than anything.  

But then again, as he sees that soft courage in your eyes, maybe he knows why - he has the same fears as you, and perhaps that’s terrifying, too, as he realizes that much of what he’s scared of is tangible. 

He fears the emptiness left in your absence and the silence surrounding him when you’re gone. His trip over the holidays made him think so; this past week when you were away solidified it. There’s a lot of you to miss. He’s unsure how to deal with these thoughts and feelings; he doesn’t know how to move forward and be professional when you affect him this way. All he can hope for is that you’ll always find a reason to stay close to him, that you’ll always find a reason to want him around, and that every moment you share is something worth it enough for you to savor but that you both never have to let go.

You think about the conversation with Jungkook later that night on your way home. There’s something about the impermanence of the world that’s always scared you; things break and wither away all the time and you fear the loss in their absence. Perhaps it’s because you’ve experienced various types of losses throughout your years of living. 

You lost that childhood innocence the first time you saw your mother cry, then when her smile that finally returned was wiped off, and then when her hopeful eyes became filled with tears out of fear. You lost that comfort of a routine when you left Seoul at 10 years old, and then that stability when you said goodbye to your life in Busan. You lost that security when you decided to come back here with a dream tucked away, burdened with a debt and a past that you couldn’t escape. You lost that feeling of freedom when your favorite library closed, and then of safety during that night at the restaurant when you were hurt and exposed. 

It’s hard to savor things when you know you’ll lose them one day. But that’s also precisely why you should, as what these past months have been showing you, you think now. The absence reminds you that something good was in its place, and that at one point in time, it made you hope that you deserved it, that you were worthy of having it. 

But as you lay in bed that night and think of how much of Jungkook you thought about while you were away, you start to think that maybe things aren’t as temporary as you once believed. He was in the icy streets that you walked on and the warmth of the hot chocolate drink you had. He was in the drizzle on the playground that you wiped off and the touch of the leather notebook you saw at one of the shops. 

And perhaps that was the difference - you didn’t just stand by; somehow it felt like you connected with them - they were tangible, within your grasp, and that made them linger, that made them feel real. In your mind, that’s where they stayed.

The tail-end of winter marks the time when you’ve settled in the new year. All your backlog from the holidays and your short birthday break have been worked on. Operational plans and goals for the year have been finalized. The Board report and meeting are over and major events have been scheduled. Things are picking up now as the Arts Center is near its completion, with the consequent promotions and marketing on full speed. That last bit has been contracted to a subsidiary company but Jungkook is still on top of most things, which means that so are you. 

You accompany him to meetings with different departments regularly, and that’s on top of monitoring the other small projects that the VP office is working on, which is also on top of supporting Jungkook’s executive functions. In a blink of an eye, you’re back to the hustle and bustle nature of your job, and you’re reminded of why it’s been so hard to get out of it, and also why you can’t wait to do so. 

There’s just so much going on all at once, and given how you are, you give all of yourself to it because it’s the only way to get things done; it’s the only way to get through it without feeling like you’re taking for granted all that you’ve been given and achieved. But it also means you’ve lost the sense of meaning of most other things, and you wanna be able to do something that means something to you, something of good memories, of beautiful things that are tangible that you can touch and feel. 

You let go of the thoughts when Do-hyun and Yohan pop in your area to say goodbye. It’s another long night for everyone and you’re glad that they finally listened to you and decided to go home. You say that you still have a couple of things to work on when they insist that they walk you to the bus stop, telling them once more that you’ll be fine. 

“It’s forecasted to rain soon,” Do-hyun informs you. 

“I’ll get a cab, don’t worry,” you assure them. “Finance needs these files first thing tomorrow morning and we’ve got that ocular at 8. Thank you though.” 

“Fine, but let us know when you’re home, okay?” She says.

“I will. Get home safely, you two.”

You get back to work, and with the peace and quiet in the office with you being the last one here, you manage to finish what you need to in an hour and then finally call it a night. You head out and sigh to yourself once you see the lightning strike, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before the rain will begin to pour. You manage to bring out your umbrella by the time it does, then turn at the corner to look for a cab so you can avoid those who’ll be hailing from the main road. 

There are a few people who have the same idea as you, and it’s after some time before you spot one, with the driver slowing down once he sees you. But right as you start speed walking towards it, some man decides to get ahead, running past you and bumping you in the process, causing you to lose your balance. The wet pavement doesn’t help, as you slip on your foot and fall to the ground. You try to get up but jerk in pain when you do, realizing that you’d hurt your ankle, a foreign feeling that has you immediately worrying. 

After all the times you’d found yourself under the rain, this is the worst moment of all - you’re hurting, all alone, and completely worn out. You’ve had a really long day and you don’t have the energy for this; all you want is to go home and have some rest. But you know there’s no other way, so you shift on your bum, manage to get up and strain your arms in the process, then you limp to the nearest post you can find using your umbrella as a walking stick then stand on one foot.

The rain has weakened a little, so you’re at least not getting even more wet, but it’s still winter and you’ve started to freeze. There are no other cabs in sight and all ride-hailing apps have been such a pain to book. Knowing that it’ll be tough to get home in any way at this stage and that you won’t be able to manage on your own, you decide to call Mr. Ri. He’s always told you that if you need help for anything, he’s another person that you could call.

It’s half past 8 in the evening. You’re banking on him being on the way home after having dropped Jungkook off at his building after a dinner meeting at 5:30.

“Hey, ___. Is everything alright?” Mr. Ri asks, knowing you rarely call at this hour. 

“Not really,” you sigh, the shiver in your voice evident. “Have you dropped Jungkook off?”

“Not yet. But what do you mean, not really? What happened?”

“Are you driving?”

“No. I’m still waiting for him to finish. Tell me, are you in danger?” He presses, and you hear the worry in his voice. 

You told him about Chi-won some weeks after it happened, and Mr. Ri, having known you for many years, knows you’re not one to usually reach out. He’s made it a point to check on you regularly, and calls like this would definitely ring some alarm bells. 

“I’m not in danger but I hurt myself,” you say, quickly appeasing him that it’s probably just a sprained ankle and not that serious. “I just can’t get any ride and I can barely walk. I was hoping you were on the way home.”

“I’m not but I’ll go get you, okay? I’ll tell Jungkook and we’ll drive to you right away.”

“Mr. Ri, he’s in a meeting!” 

“That’s most likely over and now they’re just chatting over drinks,” he reasons. “I’ll get him. You know he’ll want me to.”

“You don’t know that,” you stammer.

“You weren’t there with him the days after what happened that night at the restaurant, ___,” he huffs. “I just knew it was really bad because of how worried he was, and he’s never been that way. So yes, I know he’ll want me to get his ass out of there and be on the way to you. Plus, I’m sure he’ll fire me if I don’t.”

“Fine,” you concede. “Just don’t make it sound so bad because it really isn’t.”

“You know I can’t control how that kid reacts,” he hums. “Just send me your location.”

Mr. Ri heads out of the driver’s lounge and rushes to the restaurant where he manages to send a message to Jungkook that you’re stranded somewhere with possibly a sprained ankle. He says it as it is, knowing that Jungkook won’t need much to decide on ending the meeting and go to you, which he does right away.

“What happened?” He asks the older man as they both walk towards the basement parking.

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask any more questions,” Mr. Ri responds. “She’s somewhere near the office. We’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

“Try for 15,” Jungkook instructs.

He calls you right after and he immediately picks up on your chattering teeth.

“Hey, ___. How are you feeling?”

You’re a little surprised when Jungkook calls this soon, and with how you’re trying to move past whatever attraction you have towards the man, this really isn’t helping.

“Just… cold. My umbrella flew away,” you laugh. “The wind’s picked up and I think it’s gonna rain again.”

Just as you say so, it starts, and you pick up on the change in Jungkook’s voice. You’ve since learned that he’s not fond of it, always closing his eyes and trying to tune everything out with even just a drizzle. But he continues talking and asks what happened, trying to keep you company. You narrate the incident and attempt to play it off as something minor, although the longer you stay leaning against the post, the more pain you’re starting to feel. 

“We’re five minutes away. We’ll be there soon,” he assures you then drops the call.

Jungkook clenches his fist and closes his eyes as the rain continues to pour. With the sound of the thunder, he jerks in his seat like he always does, but he pushes forward, knowing you need his help. He takes deep breaths just as he’s learned to do, and not long after, Mr. Ri informs him that he sees you just meters away.

The car slows down and Jungkook looks outside the window. He can see you leaning against a pole on one foot, drenched and shivering, your eyes closed as you wait for them to arrive. He meets Mr. Ri’s eyes in the rear view mirror as they halt, and with the rain just barely stopping, the older man nods and exits the car.

Jungkook watches from inside as Mr. Ri runs to you. He sees the smile on your face despite the droplets on the window. The older man takes your bag then helps you walk, leading you to the car where Jungkook manages to push the door open. 

You slowly enter with as much energy you can muster, wincing in pain when you have to adjust your foot inside. You sigh in relief as you feel the warmth and dryness of the car, prompting you to apologize for getting it all wet.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jungkook shakes his head. “We’ll take you to the hospital, okay? And I won’t accept no for an answer.”

You nod in agreement, knowing that much as you’re causing him inconvenience right now, you’re too tired to argue. You lean your head by the window and try to catch your breath. 

“Have you had dinner? He asks.

“Not yet. I was supposed to grab it on the way home.”

“We’ll pass by somewhere after the hospital.”

“Okay,” you look at him and smile. 

Jungkook isn’t surprised when you don’t counter him. Perhaps it’s the exhaustion, as he sees it in how your smile isn’t as bright as what he’s used to, with it fading as you turn away. You’re still shivering though, despite the car heater being turned up. He doesn’t have a towel to dry you up, though, so he instead removes his coat and instructs you to lean forward so he can place it over your shoulders to warm your back. He takes his puffer jacket from the front seat and puts it over your lap right after, giving you warmth there, too. 

“Is that better?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you mouth. “Thank you.”

His scent wafts through your senses, allowing you to breathe and feel all of him at once. It’s the closest thing to tangible comfort you’ve gotten from him, and you hate how good it feels.

You’re just about to fall asleep when the car comes to a stop. The rain has subsided and perhaps that’s why soon after, you hear Jungkook open his door and then your door, too. He removes his coat over your back, placing it back inside, then he holds onto your forearms to help you climb out. He takes his jacket and instructs you to wear it, giggling at how you’re being swallowed in it.

“I look ridiculous,” you pout as you sit on the wheelchair that he’s asked the nurse to get.

“Just a little,” he teases.

He walks next to you as you’re wheeled inside the hospital, staying close by when you explain to the ER doctor what happened. She assesses your foot and lower leg, diagnosing you with a sprained ankle like you expected, and proceeds to wrap it in elastic bandage. 

She treats the minor scratches on your palms you got from the fall then writes you a prescription for painkillers. Jungkook takes it so he can buy them for you after, then he helps you settle the bill with your insurance. 

You’re quite uncomfortable - you’re still a little wet and the bandage feels foreign around your foot. But you’re also feeling a bit shy, now that Jungkook is the one pushing the wheelchair towards the pharmacy nearby. He parks you at the side while he buys the medicine, and as you look on, you can’t help the relief mixed with giddiness that you feel despite the pain that’s close to overtaking you.

He stands by the counter with his white dress shirt slightly untucked and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hands are in his pockets while he waits for the pharmacist to return, and amidst everything that’s going on, you’re still able to admire how overwhelmingly handsome he looks, especially given what he’s doing right now for you. His side view is quite blinding, so you’re slightly embarrassed when he turns around and calls your name again after you missed it the first few times.

“Dazed and tired?” He asks as he walks back to you with a pack of medicines.

“Definitely,” you say, which isn’t a lie; it’s just not the whole truth. “I just want to eat and have a nice bath and then sleep.”

“And you’ll do all that soon,” he assures you. “We’ll pass by whatever’s open on the way to your place. Just make sure you don’t have the hot water on, okay? And then elevate your foot when you sleep.”

“Yes, I heard everything she said,” you playfully roll your eyes. 

“Including the full-on rest that’s required of you for the next few days?” He raises an eyebrow. “Because that’s what you’re gonna have. You’re on leave until you’re able to walk properly again, Ms. Cho.”

“So now you’re being formal,” you tease, flashing him a playful smile. “But yes, Mr. Jeon. The instructions are understood.”

“Good,” he laughs softly. “Glad you’re not being stubborn about it.”

“Oh, not with this one, not when I’m this tired and in this much pain.”

His look turns sullen at the admission of what you’re feeling and you wish he didn’t feel this bad. But you can’t deny the way it’s giving you butterflies, prompting you to scold yourself internally because learning how caring he is isn’t exactly what you need to get over a crush. This is definitely the worst part about being injured, you decide. 

You make it out of the hospital and he helps you again as you enter the car, sliding in next to you as he ensures that you’re warm. 

You pass by a noodle house on the way, and he buys you some more food for the next day despite your insistence that he didn’t have to. But you’re too tired to argue some more, and you doze off a little during the drive to your apartment, with your half-awake self mumbling your apology about taking up his time.

Jungkook playfully shakes his head. Knowing you’re probably shallow sleep-talking, he disregards your words. He just gets glimpses of you, comforted to know that you’re at least getting the most rest you can have, given your current state. The painkillers will kick in soon and that’ll help you sleep better, but right now, he wishes he could do more for you. 

In the deepest crevices of his heart, he wants to hold your still shivering hands and maybe hug your trembling body. He wants to stay with you until you’re warm and comfortable in your bed, perhaps assure you in whatever way that you’re not alone, that there’s help whenever you need it. He can’t imagine how it would’ve been like for you being under the rain, cold and hurt with no one around. 

On second thought, he can, and that’s the thing about it. Even if you get out of it with just a sprained ankle - considering how much worse it could’ve been - it’s still terrifying being alone and powerless, paralyzed on the spot and not knowing if anyone will show up. He wants nothing more than for you to get over that and be able to move past it because he knows how haunting it could be; he knows how restraining such memories are.

But he also knows that there’s not much he could do - not with the unnamed feelings he can’t express, and not with the line he still believes he shouldn’t cross.

So he settles for glances and soft smiles at your fluttering eyes and slightly parted mouth. You look tired but peaceful; he thinks it’s quite endearing. It also feels intrusive so he looks away, out into the streets that he’s able to somehow see now. He thinks about the timing of it all - your late night and his dinner out, your injury and the bad weather. He’s thankful that the rain subsided and that allowed him to help you as much as he was able to, and that he got to you in the first place.

You arrive at your apartment with you now fully awake, and Jungkook heads to your side right away. Pulling you out of the car requires more strength from him, and despite your terrible condition, the butterflies appear once more when he instructs you to hold onto him for support. You have to act unaffected when you feel his broad shoulders and taut arms, with your hands gingerly laying on them; you wonder if he feels anything, too, under the thin material of his dress shirt. 

His left hand only grazes your waist but his hold tightens after you grant him permission, perhaps knowing that it would be harder for you if he holds you that loose, he asked you to put your weight on him after all. Despite your agreement, you still hold in your breath, a silly attempt at slowing down your quickening heartbeat. He’s never been this close, and you’re unsure if you want him to be anywhere else.

You suspend your thoughts for the shortest of seconds until you both manage to get up the few steps to your door. Mr. Ri helps in unlocking it, and you settle on the dining chair that Jungkook pulls out for you after you both enter.

As you release a breath and watch him look around, it’s then you realize that your boss - the Jeon Corporation Vice President who lives in a penthouse in an exclusive district in Seoul - is in your tiny studio apartment that’s literally just the size of his bedroom. You’re not ashamed one bit but you are a little shy, so you jokingly welcome him to your “little mansion.”

“It’s nice,” he hums, looking around some more, which he doesn’t need to move to do. 

The small round dining table, the off-the-wall kitchen, and the three-seater couch are all in the open living space. There’s a half-wall that separates your sleeping area, with your double bed against it and the tiniest of balconies just off of it. 

You’re quite proud of what you’ve made of the place, with the plants in the corners, some chic art pieces on the walls, and photos with your friends and family on stick-on frames resting on the shelves. It’s cozy and comfortable for you, and you feel quite proud when Jungkook’s lips turn up when you respond that you’re happy here when he asks.

“It’s everything I need,” you hum. “And it’s in a safe part of town. My neighbors are older couples who are all kind.”

“That’s good,” he says, turning to you. “Will they be much help to you while you recover?”

“I’ll be okay,” you insist. “I have a crutch. I’ve got food to heat up, and my place is so small that I don’t have to move around to get things done. I don’t really need help, you know?”

He scrunches his eyebrows, seemingly unconvinced. 

“Watch,” you say, your shallow confidence pushing you to grab the crutch next to you then using it to walk towards him so you could prove that you’re capable enough to look after yourself. 

But your unfamiliarity with it leads you to mistime your step. Before you know it, you’re tripping on your foot and losing your balance, and as your life is about to flash before your eyes thinking that you’re gonna fall once again and make your injury worse, Jungkook’s reflex kicks in and he steps forward to catch you. You feel his grip on your waist gradually tighten as if to keep you steady, as if to make sure you’re alright. He’s so close, you can feel his breath as he pants, the worried look on his face something you’re familiar with by now. But he stays there, inches away, and so do you. 

He’s bending, so he stays leveled with you. You can see his long eyelashes resting on his honeyed skin and the endearing curve of his nose. He looks so soft like this, comfortable even, with his big round eyes looking like the most innocent ones you’ve ever seen.

The voice in your head suddenly becomes loud enough and you break his gaze, realizing then that you’re also clutching onto his shoulder for support. You give him a look of apology but he just laughs, something you’re thankful for because the last thing you want is for the tension to thicken.

“You’re stubborn, aren’t you? You think it’s that easy?” He shakes his head, his tone sounding like he’s both teasing and reprimanding you.

“It seemed like it,” you shrug, allowing him to help you back on the seat, disregarding the slightest bit of giddiness you feel as he has one hand on your free arm while the other ghosts over your waist in case you fall again.

“It’s not. And I know this because I’ve used this before,” he says. “So since you’ll be by yourself, we have to make sure you can at least use the crutch without falling, okay?”

“Fine,” you concede, listening to his instructions carefully then trying to do it on your own. 

It takes some getting used to, but after a few tries, you manage to at least walk without tripping. You plan on just staying in bed or on the couch tomorrow anyway so you’re not that worried. Even if Jungkook still seems to be.

“I’m okay,” you insist. “I’m gonna survive. But you should head home. It’s getting late and you have that ocular in the morning. I’ll just have to email Chin-sun about accompanying you and—”

“None of that,” he interjects. “I’ll be the one to tell her and I don’t want you worrying about work tomorrow, okay? You’re gonna take your medicine and just rest.”

“You’re demanding, aren’t you?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Only when I’m dealing with someone as stubborn as you,” he counters. 

You just laugh at him answering back, enjoying your banter more than you should, then he says that he’ll go ahead, for as long as you’re sure you can manage. It takes another five minutes until he makes it out the door. But before he disappears, you call his name, your heart skipping a beat when he turns around, as if he’s just hanging onto your every word.

“Thank you,” you say. “I know it was a long day and it was raining but… you still came for me.”

“Just recover quickly, okay? I’ll check on you in the morning.”

You nod and he leaves. And just like that, you’re once again on your own - damp, injured, and extremely tired. Jungkook’s presence remains in your apartment though, and there he is again, making you smile and making you feel things you shouldn’t.

You don’t mind being alone. In fact, you enjoy it. But during the times when you don’t want to be, he just happens to be there. And being the stubborn woman that you are, deep down, you like it that he is, that in your own little world with the walls up so high, he’s become a frequent visitor. You’re just not sure if you want him to stay just yet. 

You wake up the next morning feeling faint and sore, and it’s probably the painkillers having lost their effect. And there’s a reason why, seeing that it’s close to midday when you finally get out of bed. You manage to stand and walk to the kitchen with no issues, and you take your medication and heat up the food that Jungkook bought for you last night. It’s when you’re seated that he calls, bringing that smile to your otherwise uneventful day.

“Hello?”

“Hey, ___. How are you feeling?” He asks.

“Just fine. I took my medicines for the day and I’m about to eat lunch,” you reply. “And you? How was the ocular?”

“It was good. It has a lot of potential so I’ll run down the details with the teams and propose it. But speaking of sites, remember what I said about Hoseok and I thinking of a Scandinavian-inspired mid-rise in the mountains?”

“Yeah, the one you came up with during your trip. Are you gonna push through with it soon?”

“Perhaps. I’ve gotten emails of proposed sites for some other projects but I’ve seen a few that could work with this idea,” he shares. “There’s one in Gangwon that’s near the town center so it would be practical for many. There’s even— ah, why am I saying this to you now? You’re off the clock.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him. Jungkook doesn’t always show this much excitement with the projects he has to manage so when he does, you encourage him. It’s also an excuse to hear more of his voice. “My mind’s not prepared for being home today anyway so I’m a little disoriented. But that’s good. I can look into the sites and we can do an ocular whenever you prefer.”

“Alright, that’s something to schedule for next month. But uh, you sure you’re fine? Does your ankle still hurt? Did you get proper sleep?”

“Well, I slept like a baby,” you giggle. “And I at least remained in one position. It still hurts a bit but it should be okay in the next few days. I’m just gonna have to replace the bandage tomorrow morning.”

“Okay. Just make sure to ice it and keep it elevated.”

“Yes, boss,” you tease, earning you a groan. “But uh, thank you for checking up on me. I know you’ve got a busy day ahead.”

He’s silent, and you suppose it’s him again not knowing how to respond to gratitude, so you follow it up by saying that you’ll eat your meal now and reminding him of his meeting at 2PM.

“You better not be checking your emails and my calendar right now,” he warns.

“I’m not. I just memorize your schedule,” you defend.

“Okay then, I’ll go ahead.”

Jungkook drops the call and sinking in his seat, he sighs in relief. He managed to get through that conversation without sounding extremely worried, which is what he’s been since last night. His busy day today actually includes constantly worrying about how you’re doing, but he supposes it’s too much to let you know. Sure it’s just a sprained ankle, but knowing how you tend to move about, anything can happen. You were all alone for some time last night, too, just waiting for a way to get home. And that’s another thing he worries about - that fear latching onto you, that helplessness weighing you down.

He asks Mr. Ri if he’s heard from you, thinking that you’d probably be more honest with him, but the older man says you told him the same thing.

“Don’t you believe her?” Mr. Ri wonders.

“I do, but she’s quite stubborn though,” Jungkook laments. 

“Well, I’ve known her for a while and she tends to just deal with things on her own,” Mr. Ri says.

“But she shouldn’t. She’s injured.”

“I think it’s natural for people who’ve been alone for many years to be that way,” the older man shrugs. “I mean, you’re the same.”

Jungkook doesn’t disagree. And if you’re truly anything like him, then you’d just push through the pain and force it to stop hurting so you can go back to your normal busy life because doing so keeps you from thinking of how lonely it feels when you’re sick or hurt and there’s no one around. It’s how he’s always been, too, he admits to himself.

The thought disturbs him, which is why he messages you three more times during the day and then again the next morning, asking if he could drop by. He’s expecting you to insist that you’re fine and he doesn’t need to, so it surprises him when you say that he could. 

You’re pacing back and forth in your mind since you’re unable to physically do so, but the thought of Jungkook visiting you this Saturday morning is a lot for you to handle, even if you did say it was alright for him to come. The truth is, you wanted him to, only because selfishly, seeing someone be that worried about you gives you some form of comfort.

You called your family yesterday and told them about the injury, which they obviously panicked about. Your mom asked if you needed her to come to you but like always, you said she didn’t need to. You told Yoongi about it, too, and he was worried as well, in the classic way that he often is; he had food delivered to you for dinner last night so you didn’t have to think about it. You only told your best friends about it this morning and they were furious you waited so long to let them know; they were packing their stuff right as you were speaking to them two hours ago. 

You know you have people to depend on and would be at your doorstep anytime you ask. These are the same people who’ve done that for years and you fully accept their care and attention; it’s become a part of you and your healing process. But when someone like Jungkook who, for whatever reason he has, shows you the same, it feels different; he goes out of his way to show it to you, and he’s not even someone who normally does it. It’s a new kind of comfort, one that you find yourself seeking. So when he called earlier and asked if he could drop by, there was an internal sigh of relief. 

Over half an hour later, your doorbell rings, and you limp your way towards the door to open it. 

Other than being in suits, you’ve only ever seen Jungkook in his gym clothes - half naked as well - and in night out wear. You realize that this is the first time you’re seeing him in a casual outfit, and with a jacket over a sweatshirt and a brown beanie, he looks different - there’s that boyish charm that you’ve never seen; he looks softer, kinder, still reserved but a lot more comfortable.

You let him in after your greetings, then you turn to him and smile. 

“It’s really the suit, I know it now,” you tease. “It’s what makes you look intimidating.”

He looks at his attire then frowns at you. “So how do I look now?”

“Not intimidating.”

“Wow, what a surprise,” he playfully rolls his eyes. “Whereas you…” He eyes you in gray leggings and a blush jumper, looking soft and comfortable and even more like the bright spot he’s realized you are, but he’d never tell you that. “You look injured.”

“Gee, what a surprise. I feel injured, too,” you laugh. “But uhm, it’s nice of you to visit my humble mansion once again.”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re doing better,” he hums. “And bring some more food so you don’t have to worry about it.”

You eye the beef brisket with rice and say that you know what you’ll be having for lunch. He responds that he might just go back to the restaurant and meet his best friends there, too. You return to your seat on the couch, realizing there’s not much room for him to sit on, but he gets to you first, standing in front of you and eyeing the elastic bandage on the table.

“Aren’t you due for a redress?” He asks.

“Yes but uh, I can’t actually reach my foot,” you say with an embarrassed smile. “I’m not really flexible so I’ll just wait until Soomin and Jimin arrive.”

“I can do it,” he offers, thinking that the bandage isn’t serving its purpose if it remains loose. “I mean, I’ve dressed myself on my own before so I’m familiar with it.”

It’s probably the painkillers but something possesses you and you agree, your mind too out of it to take the words back. A part of you wishes you had, especially when your heart does a thing when he kneels on the floor and slowly takes your injured foot. You wiggle your toes in reflex, as if they’re shy, too, and Jungkook laughs at your silly antics, especially when you admit that you’re a little ticklish. 

But he softly looks at you right after and asks if he’s hurting you, and you shake your head, unable to say anything else and process that you really allowed this man - your boss and in-denial crush - to do this. 

You sit there, charmed by the way he looks determined to get this done. He removes the old bandage and wipes your ankle before wrapping it with a new one. His hands are large and quite rough but he’s very gentle, making sure to not lift your foot too high and that the bandage isn’t wrapped too tightly. Once he’s finished, he lays it on the table and looks up at you to ask if it feels okay.

“Yes,” you shyly smile. “Thank you. That was, uh, that was really nice of you.”

He nods and stands up to throw the trash in the bin, wanting to quickly hide his smile at how wholesome you looked in thanking him. 

He proceeds to look around, taking more of your home in. There’s something very calming about it, and it’s more than just the plants that you have and the right amount of sunlight coming from the balcony door and kitchen window. There’s also something familiar, as he looks through your shelf of photos, seeing your mom and her partner for the first time. She looks a lot like you. She has a nice smile like yours, and she sees that same joy on her face as he’d seen on you, as she hugs you tightly in one of the pictures. 

The familiarity is similar to when he first had a whiff of your scent - old rose like the one his mother used to wear, one he remembers as a child when he still clung to her. There are those memories that stick with him. Others he doesn’t have anymore but that’s good, he supposes. Seeing your shelf, he sees all the good and tangible things you hold dear. 

“The photo on the far right, the one with Soomin and Jimin. We took that during my birthday trip using your gift,” you tell him. “It came out really nicely.”

“It did. Did you finish the film? What else did you take photos of?”

“We used it all up,” you smile. “And just a lot of the scenery and the three of us. We all divided them so we could have copies and just remember how fun that week was.”

“Good, that’s what I hoped.”

Jungkook stands there, his jacket now off so his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his hands are in his pockets as he looks through your shelf. You wonder what he’s thinking, what he’s seeing, if any of this makes him curious. It’s as if he’s taking in all the small parts of who you are that he can see displayed before him. He turns to you and your eyes meet again, and for a moment, it feels like you’re really seeing him and he’s really seeing you, like there’s something only both of you share and understand and want and can give.

But the doorbell ringing disrupts it, with you wondering who it could be since your best friends won’t arrive until an hour from now. Jungkook walks to the door and opens it, surprised to see Yoongi who’s just as surprised to see his friend in your apartment.

“Hey, you’re back. And… here,” you smile, attempting to stand up but Yoongi tells you to stay put. 

“I flew home last night and thought I’d visit and get you some food, but it seems like I’m second in line,” he says, his smug face causing you to glare at him. 

“I just wanted to make sure she was okay,” Jungkook defends. “I won’t stay long.”

“Of course you do. And I won’t stay long either. I don’t wanna disturb anything.” 

He smirks at his friend, prompting Jungkook to glare at him as well. 

“Yah, chill, you two. I’m really just passing by,” Yoongi reiterates, making his way now to sit on the arm of your sofa. “Just wanted to check on ___ and make sure she’s well-fed.”

“I’m injured, not starving, okay?” You groan. “But thanks. What have you got there?”

“Noodles, custard buns, and some tarts. Wasn’t sure what you’re into when you’re incapacitated,” Yoongi shrugs. 

“I’m very much mobile,” you correct him. “Just… slow and limping.”

Jungkook pulls your dining chair and sits in front of you, and the three of you talk as if this isn’t weird at all. You’re all colleagues - you and Jungkook consider Yoongi as your friend, but you don’t know if you should consider your boss as such, and you don’t know if he considers you the same. You’ve definitely experienced a lot of things that could qualify what you have as friendship, but even then, there’s something more about it, something a little more intimate, different, terrifying.

You brave through this dynamic and learn that Yoongi likes to tell Jungkook off a lot. It’s the kind of bluntness you expect from Yoongi’s no-nonsense attitude but it’s refreshing to see him be more straightforward towards someone like Jungkook who you’re used to seeing as commanding and serious. Jungkook takes the hits, seemingly unbothered as they bicker, and it’s another side of him you enjoy seeing - the smiles and laughter are natural, and there’s this comfort about him that you suddenly want more of.

The time passes quickly, with the doorbell ringing again signaling that your friends have arrived. Yoongi gets up first to open the door, greeting them who do the same. You manage to stand up with Jungkook telling you to be careful, and when it dawns on them who else is in your apartment, Jimin’s face turns sour and Soomin’s goes from confused to amused. 

Jungkook looks taken aback by the cold welcome, but he manages to introduce himself to them.

“Oh, we know,” Jimin says dryly. “You’re the one who gives her so much work that she had to do overtime again and that’s why she got hurt.”

You feel the tension come like a strong wave and you try to lower the level a little bit. 

“He also brought me to the hospital and got me some food,” you tell Jimin, whose bitterness isn’t unfounded. He did listen to you complain about this very man all those months ago. “He’s just checking up on me, making sure I’m alright, the way you guys are.”

“As we should,” Jimin huffs. “At least we don’t cause you any injury or pain.”

“You don’t. But you do make things better so could you do that, please?” You say, opening your arms for a hug, something to appease him before it gets even more tense. 

Jimin has the sweetest smile but wouldn’t be afraid to burn anyone down with his looks if they deserve it. Jungkook did at one point, but you obviously feel very differently about that now. But still, you glance at the man, hoping this encounter isn’t putting him off too much, and with the slight tinge of guilt in his eyes, you suppose it hasn’t.

Jungkook turns away, partly because a reminder of how he’d treated you before makes him regret even more how you both started, and partly because seeing you affectionate with any man - even if it’s your best friend - makes him a tiny bit jealous, only because it’s something he can’t be with you. Seeing you that way with Hajoon months ago was different; Jungkook had been more shocked than anything. But this time, given that his attraction towards you seems to grow every second, and that he’s been wanting nothing more than to comfort you, there’s more of that feeling of loss, of hope that it could be him one day, even if that’s something that’ll probably never happen.

“I know you dislike him but tone it down for now, okay?” You whisper to Jimin. “My place is too small to contain all this tension.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Seeing him just reminds me of what you had to go through because of him,” he says before pulling away. “But he did help. And well, Soo and I are still upset that you didn’t tell us sooner. You know we would’ve driven here on Thursday night.”

“I know, and that’s exactly why. You both had something big going on and I could wait,” you reply, a reason you give them everytime. 

Wanting a short breather from all this, you excuse yourself and ask Soomin to help you with something in the bathroom, and she heads there right away.

“Can you make sure that those two don’t murder each other?” You whisper to Yoongi as you gesture towards Jimin and Jungkook.

“It would be entertaining if they did, but yes, I’ll try,” he chuckles.

You walk to where Soomin is and after closing the door, she looks at you with the same amusement that she’s had since she arrived.

“What in the romance drama is this!” She exclaims, lowering her voice when you scold at her to keep it down. “All your three men coming to your home to make sure you’re okay? Talk about making an impression.”

“They aren’t my men, okay!” You scowl at her. “They all just happened to have the same thought. And no, Jimin doesn’t count.”

“Whatever,” Soomin laughs. “It’s just… I know you’re hurt and that you’ll be okay but it’s just amusing to see them show up for you like this. Especially the big boss. He’s way hotter up close, I can tell you that.”

“Please don’t remind me,” you frown. “I wish there was a potion I could take to make him look unattractive to me so that I’d stop being so giddy at everything he does. And fuck, Soo, I haven’t been like this in ages. Or ever.”

“Well, you haven’t been this accepting of someone’s attention, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah, and I’m being silly. I might just be putting myself up for disappointment here,” you groan. “I mean, I don’t even know what I’m feeling, but I know what I’m not supposed to feel. And he’s not making it any easier.”

“Your situation isn’t easy in the first place, hun. And there are many reasons why,” she sighs, wishing there was a way to uncomplicate this very complicated relationship you have with Jungkook. “But whatever it is you think you shouldn’t feel, think about what he may be feeling, too. He wouldn’t be making all this effort since Thursday night for this to just be nothing.”

“I wish none of that means anything. That’s probably gonna be easier, right? That he doesn’t feel anything remotely close to what I do? That’s probably better than dealing with all the complications.”

“Maybe, but we don’t really know,” Soomin says, pulling you in for a hug. “But also think about how new and different this feels. It might be worth it in the long run.”

You fall into her embrace, knowing that during the toughest times of your life, this was your saving grace. It’s no different when you’re confused and in need of guidance, and though you’ve always made decisions for yourself with knowledge of the consequences, Soomin was there to back you up during the times when you were going in somewhat blindly. She wants you to be happy, and you won’t really know if continuing to feel what you do about Jungkook will make you so. If all else fails, well, you could always go back home, or maybe return to Busan and start a life there. Jungkook will just be a memory; you hope to the heavens it’ll be a good one.

You shake away the thoughts and finally go back out and are relieved to find some peace. Jimin’s washing your dishes while talking to Yoongi who wipes them dry. Jungkook sits on your sofa, looking around quietly, but he stands when he sees you approach him. 

“I’ll go ahead,” he says, gesturing towards the door. “I… I think you’ve got everything you need.”

“Let me walk you there,” you smile. 

He’s outside the door when you thank him again then apologize if Jimin made him uncomfortable.

“It’s okay. I’d be protective of my best friend, too, if I learned how their boss treated them,” he responds.

“I, uh… those were hard times and I may have complained quite a bit about you,” you pout. “I’m so sorry.”

“I’m sure I deserved it,” he chuckles. “You’re lucky you have them. I mean, my best friends tease me a lot and say shit about me to my face and behind my back.”

“Oh come on, Seokjin and Taehyung love you,” you laugh. “I’ve seen it, but you all also said you’re like that to each other; it’s how you guys grew up. I mean, I was the new girl in school and Jimin and Soomin have been protective since day one, whereas your best friends have shown you tough love since you were kids. They said you never accepted their affection so they switched tactics.”

“That’s fair. I was always shy and then turned into a bitter, introverted child. There was no transition, I guess. Now we’re adults and have just stuck with each other because we’re all we’ve ever known.”

“Well, you make decisions to stand by people, Jungkook. They do with you and you do the same with them. Plus, you’re not that insufferable,” you tease. 

“At least you don’t think so. Not anymore, I hope,” he says softly, looking away. 

“People deserve second chances. You gave me some and more and I… I’m glad you did. I at least get to see this side of you that’s helped me a lot these past months. I’m thankful. And I hope you know that.”

Jungkook just nods, unable to reply through words again. You let him, knowing it’s his default response. He walks to his car and turns around for a final goodbye, leaving you in anticipation for when you’d be with him again.

“Well, that was a long goodbye,” Yoongi says, surprising you as he stands behind you. “And no, I didn’t hear anything.”

You turn to him with a playful frown. “I was just making sure that Jimin didn’t make him feel too bad. I mean, I know I complained a lot but still. I didn’t want Jungkook to think I cursed his existence or something.”

“You did at one point though,” Yoongi laughs. “But it’s acceptable. Jungkook was rude, and heavens know how much shit I gave him for treating you the way he did.”

“You did, huh?”

“I always told you I’d look out for you, ___. Whatever happened or didn’t happen between us, I was always going to have your back.”

“You’re heaven-sent, Min Yoongi,” you smile. “I wish I could do half as much as you do for me.”

“You do more. I hope you don’t ever doubt the comfort that your presence gives to people. Maybe that’s what it’s done to Jungkook. And I know he hasn’t felt much of that in years.”

It’s Yoongi’s last words before he says goodbye, and they stay in your head for the next few days. Maybe Soomin’s right - all that Jungkook has been doing might mean something, and you hope that finding out what it is will all be worth it.

Jungkook decides to meet with his friends at one of his favorite restaurants for lunch. All he planned on doing today was visit you and he has nothing else going on for the rest of it. The club scene has become boring for him, and going to one only to bring home a woman to hook up with is no longer appealing, not when you invade his mind all the time.

Being welcomed in your home was refreshing. And even if it was awkward, meeting your friends allowed him another peak into your world. You choose the people you allow in, and you don’t choose many of them. The ones you do stay for a long time, and that’s the kind of person you seem to be. You value relationships so much that’s why you don’t have many of them, and with all that you went through and the vulnerability you’ve both shown each other, he’s started to hope that one day, he’d be deserving of that, too. 

“So did you feel like a fish out of water being there with her actual friends?” Seokjin asks. “Because I don’t know what you’d consider your relationship with her is. Boss-assistant feels too simplistic at this point. Are you friends? Are you more? Or is that all too ambiguous?”

“I don’t… know,” Jungkook sighs. “We’re all that but we also aren’t. We’ve gone through so much that it doesn’t seem like there’s a way to define what we are. But I feel like I’ve seen her at her most vulnerable and we’ve connected because of that.”

“And what about you? Have you been vulnerable in front of her?” Seokjin asks.

Has he? Jungkook thinks. Maybe that first time he asked for your help with his new role but he supposes it’s nothing compared to what you’ve shown him, intentional or not.

“Not really. I… I don’t let myself be. That’s still distance I need to establish,” Jungkook reasons.

“More like, because you know that if you do show that side of you, you’re scared you’ll find out that she’ll understand, and that having her next to you is what you need to heal whatever parts of you that are still hurting?” Seokjin counters. 

“I don’t want to need her, you know that. There’s a boundary I shouldn’t cross. She’s my assistant and—”

“You’ve been treating her like the most important person and it’s not hard to miss,” Taehyung interjects. “You were never like this, not since Chaerin.”

“I don’t even know what it is about ___ that just makes me consider risking things, you know?” Jungkook sighs. “I’m always torn with what our reality is and what we could be but I���m afraid that if we cross that line, we’ll have to make sacrifices. I… I’m finding myself wanting her around all the time. When she leaves, I want her to stay. When she’s not there, I want her to come. But at the same time, I don’t want her too close because I don’t know if I can have her or if I can want her. Because I don’t know what of me I can give that won’t hurt her,” he admits, with a bit of help from some whiskey.

“Maybe if you let yourself be vulnerable, you’d know,” Seokjin advises. “Some people would run and hide but there’s always that one person who wouldn’t. That might just be her. And then you’ll learn what you can give, too.”

Jungkook lets his friends’ words settle and then thinks about them throughout the night that he spends all alone in his penthouse, with another glass of whiskey in his hand as he looks out the balcony. A part of him wants you to run and hide when you see who he really is, what he hides and what he’s ashamed of. Maybe that would be easier, he thinks; maybe that would hurt less.

You return to work the next Tuesday, having gone to the hospital the day before and being cleared to return to your usual routine. Jimin and Soomin stayed with you until that evening, with you rejecting their insistence to stay another day. You can manage, you assure them. You’re able to walk properly now and would just need to do daily exercises, wear the elastic bandage for another week, and forego the heels. 

Jungkook’s pleased to know that you’re doing better and makes sure you don’t walk around if you don’t need to, so he’s been the one going to see you when he needs something. He also postponed some potential site visits for the project that he and Hoseok are working on until you’re fully capable, which is why it’s three weeks later when you find yourself in the car with him, on the way to some towns in nearby provinces on an early Friday morning. 

Mr. Ri called in sick today and Jungkook didn’t want to deal with a chauffeur he doesn’t know, so he decided to drive instead, thinking it’s more efficient that way. These are all initial checks and being that you’re the only one from his team who’s privy to the details, he wanted you to join him as a sounding board and also to get your own thoughts about what you’ll be seeing. He has a vision in mind and he needs to translate it properly; you’ve been helpful these past months in making sure he’s able to do that.

Disregarding what this time alone with you would do to him, Jungkook meets you in his penthouse, telling himself to focus on only one thing today, and that’s finding the right place for his planned project. 

You leave early for a quick stop at a cafe and then head north to some towns in Gyeonggi province. There are some properties and land that are up for sale, and you prepared the information about them beforehand, allowing Jungkook to play around with the timeline and budget in his mind, even drawing rough drafts on his iPad as he assesses them. You’re both in work-mode, discussing each site on the way to the next one, with you searching for more details along the way and him, stopping on the side of the road to add an idea that he comes up with on the spot. 

It’s a little chaotic, as his mind goes from one thing to another, but you suppose this is how Jungkook naturally is. You’ve seen him perform his duties in various ways, but this is when you see the most raw side of him, and it’s quite the privilege to see. He always said he preferred the creative aspect of the job, which is why he enjoyed his time in Singapore, handling the design department. You contend that he’s grown tremendously in his executive role. As Hoseok has said, Jungkook relates to his staff better now, and has even engaged and attracted more partners with his great ideas.

You’re quite sentimental going on this trip with him. It wasn’t long ago when you were going to work with anxiety, anticipating his next criticism so you can prepare yourself, and then going home feeling like a failure. So much has happened since then, and you could even say that you’ve found comfort in your daily routines; doing something different like this is now exciting and something you look forward to, especially since it allows you to go outside, see the sights, and breathe the cool air. 

“You okay there?” He asks, noticing your silence.

“Yeah. I was just thinking how 10 months ago, this would’ve stressed me out so much.”

“What? Going on a road trip?”

“Pretty much going anywhere with you,” you laugh. “Car rides even with Mr. Ri made me freak out, and I was so scared to make a mistake or make you wait for information that I couldn’t find. And now here we are - I survived the last five hours with you and not once did you groan at me.”

“Wow, I must’ve been a really terrible boss to make your standard for a non-stressful day to be that low,” he laughs before turning serious. “But I… I’m… I’m sorry, for all the stress and anxiety that I caused you. I was being selfish and irrational about it. I hate change and you were the biggest one, even with my new role. I took out all the frustration on you and I shouldn’t have.”

He says more than he expected, but it’s also the apology that he should’ve given—that you deserved —months ago. 

“I forgive you,” you say softly, glancing at him before returning your eyes towards the road. “I always knew my limits and I guess I let you push it and that was on me. I could’ve stood up to you, too.”

“You did though, more than once. And that knocked some sense into me.”

“I guess,” you hum. “And then things improved and I’m just glad they did.”

There’s a prolonged silence after, as you both opt to bask in the scenery around you. There’s that understanding and acceptance of how things were and that regardless of what’s going on in your own minds, you at least have this. You think to yourself that this just makes leaving that much harder, but at least this is one more memory you could take with you.

You make it to Hwacheon in Gangwon past noon, and this is where you spend most of your time in, as the sites are spread out around the county. There are areas tucked away in the mountains while there are those closer to town with grand views. It’s in the latter where you grab some lunch and go through some of his plans, and you take in his ideas, learning from him in the process. 

It’s late in the afternoon when you inspect the final site, which is in an area in the neighboring Chuncheon county. It’s got potential for another project that CEO Jeon is looking to do, and with your notes completed, you and Jungkook start the trip back home. You would reach the tail-end of the Friday night traffic by the time you return to Seoul, the GPS says, and so both of you savor the sky’s changing colors as it transitions to the evening, letting the soft sounds of the radio replace the silence.

Barely 30 minutes in, the rain starts to pour, and it’s seconds later when it dawns on you what that means, as you hear heavy breathing next to you. You turn to Jungkook whose hands are tightly gripping the wheel, with sweat lining his eyebrows despite the cool temperature.

“Did the forecast say it was gonna rain?” He asks, the mix of panic and frustration evident in his voice. 

“Yes, but not until late in the evening,” you say, checking your phone to make sure you got the correct information. 

Your heart breaks upon realizing that at midday, the weather station warned that there was going to be a thunderstorm, with rainfall coming in around this time. You inform Jungkook, and despite all the progress in your relationship, your heart breaks a second time when he says that you should’ve constantly checked, that the weather changes all the time and you should’ve been mindful, and that now you’re both gonna be stuck on the road because he’s unable to drive and you don’t know how to. His tone is harsh, accusatory, as if it was something you could control, as if everything was your fault, just like how it was before.

Jungkook stops on the side of the road as the downpour continues, and he leans his head on the steering wheel now as he takes deep breaths. You tell him he could breathe better if he sits straight up, but he ignores you. 

A part of you wants to remark how it’s ironic that just earlier, he was apologizing for the way he treated you, and now it’s like you’ve both taken a few steps back. You want to say it’s not your fault, that you wouldn’t even have known that the rain affected him this way if you hadn’t seen him be nervous about it when you went home from the gala last year. But you think about the way his eyes looked earlier, how they filled with worry and fear, like there was a sense of powerlessness that you know a little about. 

So you settle for a bit of grace and understanding, thinking they’re what he needs.

“I don’t know why this is on me,” you say softly. “I didn’t know how bad it was but if I did, I would’ve checked constantly and I would’ve had us turn back the second I saw that forecast. And if I could drive, I’d drive us back as fast as I could. I’m sorry.”

He slows his breathing and sits up. His hands still tightly gripping the wheel but his eyes are downcast, and you suppose there’s more sadness than anger, so you stop pressing your nails on your skin, which you’d started doing in anticipation of him arguing with you about it.

“I don’t like the rain,” he shares, his voice low. “I… I have a bad memory of it as a kid and I just get reminded whenever it starts. I panic when it gets louder and I just… I can’t stay out here when that's all I can hear.”

His honesty surprises you. You can’t imagine how it must’ve been like for him, even more that he has to suffer through this right now in front of you, considering how hard it is for him to express how he feels. You don’t know how bad this weather is gonna go, and at this pace, the thunderstorm will probably reach you by the time you make it back to Seoul. So you do what you do best, and that’s to come up with options. 

“There’s a guesthouse not far from here,” you say after checking the map. “It’s the closest one. We could spend the night there and wait out the rain. That’s better than being stuck here or continuing the drive back to the city.”

He nods in agreement, knowing there’s not much he could do. He doesn’t want to be stuck here; even more, he doesn’t want to unload on you nor have you witness how much worse it could be. 

He keys in the address you give him while you call the property and ask if they still have available rooms. They do, so you reserve two and sigh in relief that that’s one problem solved.

You make it there in 15 minutes. Jungkook heads out the car first with the rain having eased up a bit, and you retrieve his luggage from the trunk, the one he keeps there for emergency trips and instances like this one. It has enough clothes for a day, and you’re glad that at least he has something to change into.

You make it inside and meet the owners then introduce yourself, stating that you reserved two rooms. 

“I’m so sorry but we had to give up one of them,” the woman says. “A family came in with a baby and we couldn’t turn them away. The weather’s going to get worse tonight and we try to accommodate as many people as we can. I hope you understand.”

“That’s… that’s okay,” you say, knowing you would’ve done the same. 

The thought of sharing a room with Jungkook feels too intimate and definitely not good for your heart, added to the fact that you’re probably not his favorite person right now, so you try to find a way out. You turn to the living room and see the sofa that’s big enough for you, so you ask if you can just stay there instead.

“Our cleaners will be using that space since they can’t go home due to the rain. I’m sorry again, Miss. Your room has twin beds so I hope that eases your worry somehow.”

“It’s fine, we’ll manage,” Jungkook says from behind you, hoping to the heavens that he will. He has one fear, and that’s you seeing how he really is during times like this.

He takes the key and walks up the stairs to the room you’re given. It’s spacious with a fair enough distance between both beds. He takes the one farther from the window then gets his clothes from his bag. It dawns on him that you don’t have your own with you, so he offers you his sweatshirt. 

“It’s okay,” you shake your head. “It’s gonna be cold and you’re gonna need it.”

“So will you. You can’t be in wet clothes, not in this weather.”

“It’s happened before,” you shrug.

“___, just take it,” he insists, placing the item on your bed. “I have a top here that I can wear and the blankets will be enough. This is loose but it’s at least better than damp clothing. And you can go ahead in the bathroom. I’ll just give Mr. Ri a call.”

You nod and head out, taking his jumper and the towel with you. You’re given some basic toiletries, and the warm shower is just what you need for that bit of comfort after a stressful evening. As you’re about to dress up inside, you hear a knock on the door.

“I asked the lady if they had spare pajamas for you and she gave me a set,” Jungkook says from outside. “I’ll leave them on a stool by the door.”

You wait for him to leave before getting them and putting them on. It’s a plain set of shorts and shirt that’s a little big but it’s way better than your damp skirt and blouse, which the owners offered to wash and dry for you for tomorrow.

You return to the room with Jungkook sitting on the floor, and you give him back his sweatshirt that he turns down. 

“I’m fine,” he insists. “Don’t you get cold easily? You’ll need that.” 

He walks out, barely meeting your eyes. You’re sitting on the edge of your bed when he returns half an hour later, the sight of him with damp hair in black sweatpants and a white sleeveless top doing things to you. But you shake the thoughts away, especially as he once again creates that distance. He doesn’t look at you when he settles in bed, nor when he switches off his bedside light, and definitely not when he turns around to face the other way. You sigh to yourself, feeling even more alone now with him acting like this.

You can’t really blame him though. Dealing with something that elicits painful memories is difficult, and you understand the tendency to isolate yourself and push people away when that happens. It’s what you do sometimes, but still, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt you a little when Jungkook does this to you, considering how good your relationship has become, regardless of your stupid attraction.

Settling in your bed, you decide to turn around and face the window. You focus on the droplets creating their own artwork on the glass, in hopes that it’ll help you take your mind off Jungkook, even if he’s literally just a few feet away from you. The last thing you want is a strained relationship, and you hope that this doesn’t make him fall back into his old ways. Although he’s experienced a few stressful moments these past months, they weren’t personal, and you suppose situations like this are when his emotions truly come out.

The rain has gotten stronger again and you’re pleased that Jungkook isn’t awake for this, based on the soft snores you hear. You’re about to fall asleep, the sound hypnotizing you a little, but that’s when the first blare of thunder strikes, causing you to jerk in bed in surprise. It used to scare you because of what it reminded you of, but you learned how to manage it after the first hit; the succeeding ones are no longer triggering. In fact, you just think of how it used to drown out the sounds of what you were truly afraid of.

Just then, you hear distressed moans. The sounds of frantic breathing and shifts on the bed follow right after. And then there’s a restrained groan, like a call for help that doesn’t fully come out, and that’s what alarms you. You immediately get off the bed and rush to Jungkook’s side. You see that he’s still asleep, his body - now uncovered by the blanket - is tense, despite his efforts of turning about. The low sounds of almost-cries convince you that he’s having a nightmare. 

Thunder hits once again and it’s much louder this time, eliciting another frantic response from Jungkook. He’s kicking the covers while gripping the sheets, and with another roar of thunder that causes him to scream, that’s when you decide to wake him up. 

“Jungkook, hey, listen to me,” you say, sitting on the edge of the bed and keeping his head still with your hands. You’re able to control him as he continues tossing and turning, repeating his name until he slowly opens his eyes. “Hey, you’re safe with me, okay? Just focus on my voice.”

He’s awake now and you see the worry in his eyes, but you talk to him calmly, wanting him to trust you. It works, as he nods and slows down his movements. But he’s still breathing heavily, his lips chattering and the rest of his body shivering. 

You anticipate another hit of thunder, and you’re able to shield him from it, pressing your palms on his ears, trying to drown out the sound. You stay that way, thumbing his temples as you tell him it’s okay, that you’ve got him, and that it’ll be over soon. You hold his gaze to let him know that you’re not going anywhere, and his pretty eyes that often look so far away are now overtaken with fear. 

“Just look at me, alright? And follow my breathing,” you instruct him, your voice as gentle as you can make it despite your own worries for him.

He does as you say, his hands gripping your wrists as if to keep them there, and you assure him that you won’t let go until he says so.

“You’re doing good, just keep breathing,” you repeat, pacing your breathing with his until you’re doing it together. 

You don’t know how long you stay that way, with his head between your hands and your eyes locked on his. It takes a while, but the thunder eventually stops and the rain eases. Jungkook finally calms down and you slowly release him from your hold. You watch him shut his eyes, as if in desperation to let everything go, before he opens them again. 

“Is that better?” You ask, moving just a bit farther from him to give him space, but you remain close, wanting to be next to him in case something happens again.

“Yeah, that was, uh… that was tiring,” he huffs.

“I think the thunder has passed but if it happens again, I’ll be here, okay?”

He nods, his soft and desperate eyes now looking at you to express his gratitude. You want so badly to hug him, to hold his still-shaking hands and assure him that he’s not alone, that you won’t let anything hurt him for the rest of the night, and that you understand it all - whatever it is he’s afraid of, and why he keeps it all to himself.

But you suppose that’s going too far. You’re afraid that you’d want to stay there, even more if he doesn’t want you to. So you nod as well and think that he at least has this to comfort him, that he at least knows you’re just there.

You walk back to your bed and lie down, facing him this time. You smile, wanting that assurance to be the last thing he sees before he falls asleep again. Jungkook does the same as he settles under the covers, patting it down so he could see you better. You both stay there, safe in your corners, your eyes telling each other things you can’t say.

Whatever distance you felt earlier has shortened. Right now, with both of you falling asleep to each other’s view, he’s never felt so close.

The morning after heavy rain is always bittersweet. There’s the reality of the damage it caused but you also can’t deny that it gives life to other living things. What it also does is make way for clear skies and give you that fresh, rainwater scent of the grass and the trees. It’s what you see and smell when you open the bedroom windows, reminding you that the evening has passed and the worst is over. 

You spot Jungkook seated on one of the chairs in the garden, and you hope that the view is making him feel better, with the nightmare from last night slowly drifting away from his mind. You dress up in the dry clothes you find hanging on the doorknob of the room then head downstairs, surprised to see food prepared in the dining area. The tofu stew and grilled mackerel are so appetizing, and the loud rumbling of your stomach reminds you that you didn’t eat last night, with all the stress making dinner your last priority.

“Hello, dear. It was a pretty hard evening so we prepared something for our guests,” the owner says, her radiant smile reflecting the brightness of the day. “You may call your friend outside so you can both eat and get ready for a long drive home.”

You thank her then call Jungkook, his eyes brightening when he walks back inside and sees the food. He engages in conversation with the owners, asking about this town and the surrounding ones, and what their appeal is to non-residents. You gauge that he’s doing a bit of research himself, and you think he’s at least not too out of it to still do so.

“You’re free to stay until noon,” the owner informs you. “You can enjoy the view outside; it’s really pretty now that the sky has cleared. I’ll be making tea shortly as well.”

Jungkook says he’ll return to the garden and you wait for the hot drinks before following him. You’re unsure if he wants you around but you try, sitting next to him then sighing in relief when he doesn’t move away.

“I was 10 years old when my parents sent me and my brother to a cabin somewhere in Hwasun,” he starts. “I thought they were coming with us but it was just me and Jeong-sik and some staff. He and I never got along. If he wasn’t ignoring me, he was teasing me. But that day, he convinced me to play hide-and-seek, saying that by the time he finds me, our parents would be back. We were outdoors and I ended up wandering too far, so close to the woods that I couldn’t find my way back. My brother hadn’t come and I was getting scared. And then it started to rain.”

“Jungkook, you don’t have to—”

“It started getting stronger and the skies had become so dark, I could barely see anything,” he continues, his eyes fixed towards the mountains faraway. “The rain made the ground slippery so I decided to just sit by a large tree and hope someone would find me. It felt like hours and maybe it was. The thunder was so loud then and it kept going and going and going. And I was drenched and all alone, and no matter how hard I screamed, no one could hear me.”

“I’m so sorry, Jungkook,” you say, feeling your heart break as he narrates a painful memory that you can relate with. 

It’s only close to what you experienced yet it feels so real to you. You can feel his fear and his pain in the tremble of his voice, in the way he grips on the edges of the bench, in the way his jaw clenches at the memory, like it’s one he’s tried hard to bury yet can’t get rid of, no matter how hard he tries. 

But this feels so personal, and you don’t want him to feel like he needs to share it with you.

“You don’t have to explain,” you add. “I know it’s difficult to share something like that.”

“But I want to,” he responds, turning to you now. “Because I’ve carried the memory with me for 20 years and I’ve been dealing with it all on my own. But that’s not an excuse to treat you the way I did last night. That’s not a reason for me to take it out on you and especially to blame you. That was wrong of me and I’m sorry, ___. I…”

He looks down, perhaps trying to gather the courage he needs to be honest with you, to be vulnerable with you.

“I don’t want you to think that I didn’t need you because I did,” he adds. “I was scared and I didn’t think I needed you but you were there and I’m so sorry.”

You sit there and watch him cower onto himself, and somehow you see the little boy who was scared, who was wondering why he’d been left alone, who was waiting for someone to come find him or perhaps… someone to sit there and be with him until the rain stopped. There’s a lot he carries; there’s also a lot he buries, as if there’s a bottomless hole within him where he keeps everything hidden but it still feels too heavy, too much, taking from him every time he hides something new. 

You don’t say anything for a while, as you start to see Jungkook for who he really is. You feel the weight of his words and how much it took for him to say them. It’s not that his experience makes him different, but now that you know the pain he’s been carrying with him, you’re able to see the other parts of him that he’s unable to show, perhaps too afraid that someone wouldn’t understand, or that they wouldn’t stay if they found out why he keeps his distance and why he pushes people away.

Your silence prompts him to look up. You meet his eyes and see the sadness in them and it feels like he needs more than just forgiveness.

“We do things we don’t mean to when we’re afraid,” you tell him. “It doesn’t always mean we intend on hurting them. And I understand that, more than you know. I’ll never take that against you.”

Jungkook nods, shifting again towards the view as he lets your words sink in. He was hoping for forgiveness, but he got so much more. Maybe there’s a reason why you’ve been patient and gentle with him ever since the beginning. Perhaps you’re carrying your own burden and painful memories that you’re unable to share and deal with, too, and though he’s nothing like you, there’s comfort in knowing that you’re the same somehow.

He senses you turn back to look at the mountains, and the silence prompts him to continue the story of an experience he’s only shared twice before - once to his best friends and another time with Chaerin, all of whom have seen this side of him - the scared and vulnerable side. They were understanding and supportive as well, trying to find ways to comfort and help him deal with it. You’re the third and the one he’s known the shortest time, yet he feels more comfort with you than anyone who’s ever tried.

“I fell asleep at that tree while waiting,” he recalls. “The next thing I know, I was being carried back to the cabin. The rain had stopped but it was still dark, and I was tended to until I fell asleep again. I was sick for days and I didn’t see my parents until we were back in Seoul. It’s just a hard thing to remember. I know we have selective memories and I always wish that’s one thing that I don’t ever have to remember but life isn’t that kind, I guess.”

“It isn’t. But we learn to face those fears though, and manage them. It’s the only way we can get through it,” you say.

“Have you?” He asks, wondering if that’s another similarity he shares with you. 

“Not really. I wouldn’t be alone and where I am if I have,” you say. “But I’m trying. And I’ll continue to.”

“That makes one of us,” he sighs. 

“Well, it’s not always easy if you’re not quite sure what you’re really afraid of,” you respond. “Is it just thunder?”

“Yeah… but once the rain starts, it tells me that thunder could come. It doesn’t always but it’s what my brain tells me. Then I get anxious and I… I don’t know what to do. Like I’m paralyzed and unable to think or move. I just… stay there and sometimes, I don’t even know what’s happening.”

“Well, it rained when I got injured,” you remind him. “But you managed to get me to the hospital. And you stayed with me. That’s definitely something.”

“You were hurt and it was more important that you got treated,” he reasons. “That was scary and I guess my brain told me to get shit done that moment.”

“So… do I always have to be hurt for you to get through the rain when it starts getting bad?” You ask.

“Don’t talk like that. I can’t have you going through that again,” he frowns at you. 

The way he reacts to the thought of you being hurt gives you that warm feeling again. But it reminds you that you feel the same. You don’t want him to be scared, you don’t want him hurt, too.

“Fine. But when it starts to rain and you’re all alone and you feel like you can’t manage, you call me, okay?” You tell him.

“And what would that do?”

“That way I can talk you through it. Maybe go to you if you want me to.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because during the times I was afraid and alone, you were there,” you bravely say, turning to him and prompting him to do the same. “Sometimes something triggers those memories but then I think of how you stayed with me in the alley and in the playground and in my apartment. I think of you and I stop feeling scared. Maybe you can think of last night when it starts to get bad, too. And we can just create more of those memories to override the bad ones. Wouldn’t that be better?”

He savors your words, not realizing how much you’ve held onto your moments together. And he understands that now. The way you held him together last night is ingrained in his mind, and if that’s how it feels to be with you during his darkest moments, he starts to wonder how good it would feel during the good ones.

Maybe he’ll start with this, as you both sip citrus tea while looking at the lush mountains out on the horizon. He’ll continue with the scenic drive back to Seoul and a stopover at a cafe for some iced coffee and conversations about good memories. And at least for today, he’ll end with the sight of you walking to your apartment and then turning around to wave him goodbye, and then your smile giving him warmth on this cold afternoon.

The door shuts and he starts the trip back to his place - empty, lonely, just like how it’s been for years, all his pent up emotions bringing him to this point of isolation. But there’s you - the feel of your touch, the soothing sound of your voice, and the gentleness that got him through the night.

He misses you already. And much as he knows he’s in big trouble, thinking about you and wanting you is all he could do.

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[rafeysvenicebitch]

cowboy!rafe x babydoll!readerੈ✩‧₊˚

cw: SMUT, p in v(semi rough), cussing, fluff

summary: Rafe comes back from a long work day to surprise you…with an engagement ring

It was late, and the sky was painted in dusty pinks and sleepy purples. Fireflies blinked in the tall grass just beyond the porch, and the air was thick with the scent of summer. Honeysuckle, cedarwood, and the smoke curling lazily from Rafe’s cigarette.

You were sitting sideways in his lap on the old wooden bench out back, arms wrapped around his neck, your baby-pink sundress soft against his sweat-dampened flannel. He’d been working over at the neighbor’s ranch all day, helping mend fences and break in a wild colt. Came home with sunburnt shoulders and dust on his jeans, and still he looked at you like you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

You’d made him another dinner, despite his protests, despite your teasing when he asked for seconds. And now you were telling him stories from your shift at the diner—sweet little things he liked to pretend didn’t melt his heart. How a little girl drew you a picture with crayon hearts, how you gave a lonely old man an extra slice of pie. How a tourist couple asked if you were a doll come to life.

He laughed low in his chest, dragging gently on his smoke before flicking the ash. “They’re not wrong,” he said. “You are a doll.”

You blushed, tucked your face against his neck. “Stop it…”

He kissed your temple, held you tighter. “Don’t think you realize how much I love sittin’ like this. You, me, quiet night, nothin’ but stars and the sound of your voice.”

You hummed, content, fingers playing with the ends of his hair. “I like it too. Feels like home.”

Then it went quiet.

Too quiet.

You felt him shift beneath you. One arm stayed around your waist, the other reached into his back pocket. Before you could ask what he was doing, he was holding a small black box in his calloused hand—fingers shaking just a little.

You blinked. “Rafe…”

He opened it slow. Inside: a soft glow catching on yellow gold and a freesia-inspired hidden halo wrapped around a perfect marquise-cut lab diamond. Elegant. Delicate. So you.

“I been carryin’ this around for a while,” he said, voice low and steady. “Waitin’ for the right night. Turns out, any night with you’s the right one.”

Your breath hitched.

“You already take care of me like a wife, cook f’e, iron my clothes, give me love. Already love me better than I ever deserved. You’re it for me, babydoll. Always have been. So, let’s not waste any more time.”

His voice cracked just a bit at the end.

“Marry me.”

You stared at him, heart racing, eyes stinging, lips trembling—and then you nodded so hard you nearly lost your balance.

“Yes,” you breathed, tears spilling over your cheeks as you cupped his face. “Yes, Rafe. Of course I will.”

He slid the ring on your finger like it belonged there—like it always had—and kissed you hard, deep, forever.

From that night on, every time he called you his wife, it didn’t sound like a pet name anymore.

It sounded like a promise.

The ring glinted on your finger as you stepped inside, Rafe's arms wrapping around you instantly. He lifted you up, mouth crashing against yours in a deep, hungry kiss.

"You're mine now," he murmured against your lips, voice thick with emotion. "Finally, completely mine."

You hummed happily, nipping at his bottom lip before breaking away. "Always have been," you reminded him, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "But I love that it's official."

He carried you to the bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed before crawling over you. His hands framed your face as he stared down at you, eyes full of adoration.

"I love you so fucking much," he breathed, thumb brushing over your cheek. "Can't believe I get to call you my wife."

Your heart fluttered at the raw tenderness in his voice. "I love you too," you whispered back, reaching up to touch his face. "More than anything."

He kissed you then, slow and sweet, pouring all his love into it. His hands roamed your body reverently, slipping under your dress to caress your skin.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured, kissing down your neck. "My beautiful bride."

You arched into his touch, craving more. "Please, Rafe," you whimpered. "I need you."

He groaned, grinding his hips against yours. "Need to make love to you," he panted, already pulling your dress over your head. "Gonna worship this body like it deserves."

He undressed you slowly, kissing every inch of newly exposed skin. By the time he had you naked beneath him, you were writhing with desire.

"Look at you," he rasped, hand sliding down your stomach to cup your mound. "Already so wet for me. My sweet little wife."

You gasped as he circled your clit with his thumb, hips rocking into his touch. "Only for you," you promised breathlessly. "Only ever you."

He dipped his head to take one nipple into his mouth, sucking and flicking the bud with his tongue. His other hand continued its slow torment between your legs, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

"Please," you begged, hands fisting in his hair. "I need to cum, Rafe. Need it so bad."

He nodded, fingers plunging deep inside you as his thumb rubbed your clit. It only took a few pumps and curls before you were coming apart, back arching off the bed as pleasure crashed over you.

He stood to remove the rest of his clothes, freeing his thick erection. You licked your lips at the sight of it, reaching out to stroke him from base to tip.

"Fuck," he groaned, hips thrusting into your hand. "Gonna fuck you so good, baby. Gonna fuck cunt like it deserves."

He covered your body with his, lining himself up with your entrance. He pushed in slow, giving you time to adjust to his size.

"So tight," he panted, forehead resting against yours. "Fucking perfect. Made for me."

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Yes," you hissed. "All yours, Rafe. Only yours."

He set a steady pace, hips rolling into yours with deep, purposeful thrusts. His mouth found yours in a searing kiss, tongues tangling together.

"Cum with me," he urged, hand sliding between your bodies to rub your clit. "Wanna feel you on my cock."

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, body clenching around him as you cried out his name. He followed seconds later with a low groan, spurting hot and deep inside you.

Afterward, he gathered you close, peppering your face with soft kisses. "I love you," he murmured against your lips. "My sweet babydoll."

"I love you too," you replied sleepily, already feeling yourself drift off in his arms. "Forever and always."

Taglist: @memoirofasparklemuff1n @rafesbabygirlx @ilovefiction4lmen @strawberries-and-lots-of-kisses @rafeyscumangel @rafeyscumangel-recs @skel-skell @mqyra

[rxqueenotd]

PART VII

In the Roman world, damnatio memoriae was used to describe a range of actions taken against former leaders and their reputations. These actions included: defacing visual depictions, removing heads from public statues, chiseling names off inscriptions, and destroying coins.

summary: reader, who goes by Prima, was raised by a powerful Roman consul, under the reign of Imperator Septimius Severus. When it comes time for his eldest son, Caracalla, to marry again, a chain of events is set off, changing the course of Prima's life and the lives around her.

warnings: mentions of death, cremation, animal sacrifice, sexual themes, mentions of menstruation, Ancient Rome as a warning itself, see previous tags.

notes: are you guys still with me? I feel like this fic has taken a serious turn since the first few chapters and I need to check in. We good? I love your comments and thoughts. Thanks to @trashmouth-richie for being my beta and brotha.

They burned him as the sun began to fall—when the light turned gold and shadows stretched long across the Field of Mars.

You wore black, no trim or embroidery. No crown, no imperial mantle. A single bronze pin fastened the cloak at your shoulder. Your hair, unbound, fell down your back, and the only piece of jewelry you wore was a necklace from Julia Domna’s collection, a gift from Septimius himself.

You stood apart, just behind the temple steps, the air thick with oil and ash, the scent of it curling into your throat like a hand. The pyre rose above the crowd, layered in cedar and wrapped in purple, gold, and blood—the appropriate splendor for a god who had ruled with iron in his veins. His armor rested atop the body. His standard behind him. Two eagles were caged beside the pyre, silent.

When the hour came, it was the sons who approached the pyre. Together.

Geta reached first, laying the coin between the folds of linen near the mouth—his hand steady, his face unreadable. He bowed his head once. Not out of respect. Out of finality. There was no crack in his composure, no flicker of pain for the crowd to see. Only silence, held tightly in his jaw.

Caracalla stood beside him, torch in hand, the flame crackling low and blue. Another was handed to Geta. The moment was brief, unscripted, the air taut between them.

They lit the pyre together.

One from the left. One from the right.

The fire caught immediately, racing through the cedar and oil-soaked silk, roaring into the early dusk. The priests behind them began their chants. The crowd pressed closer, held back only by the Praetorian line.

Caracalla turned first, handing the torch off, and walked to where you stood. He said nothing. He stood beside you—not ahead, not behind—and let his shoulder rest against yours, his jaw clenched, his face unreadable. You didn’t look at him. But when his hand reached out beneath his robes, fingers finding yours where they rested at your side, you let him hold it.

No one saw.

When the pyre bloomed, the first crackle of it was swallowed by silence. The flames leapt higher than the temple roof. The smoke curled black against the sky.

Caracalla did not blink.

He watched his father burn with a stillness so complete it made the senators uneasy. No tears. No words. No gesture of farewell. Only the tightening of his grip around your hand and the sharpness of his jaw as the fire grew.

You said nothing.

Your veil shifted slightly in the wind, the scent of burning flesh brushing against your cheek. You did not turn from the smoke.

Geta stood unmoving, his arms folded across his chest, eyes fixed forward. He did not blink when the armor collapsed inward. He did not bow when the eagle rose. He stayed rigid, statuesque.

When the eagles were released—one into the smoke, the other a second later to chase it—the people roared. The priests chanted. The augurs lifted their hands toward the sky as if they might catch whatever was left of him in their fingers.

And still, Caracalla did not let go.

By the second day, the ashes had cooled. The marble urn had been sealed. The emperor had joined the gods.

____________________________________________________________________________

The Curia was quieter than usual, as if the walls themselves had gone still after the funeral.

You stood above, behind the patterned screen near the high arch where only shadows reached. You weren’t there to be seen. You were there to listen, and to be remembered later, by those who thought back on this moment and realized they should have paid more attention.

Caracalla entered last.

He wasn’t in mourning black anymore. The color had left him as quickly as it came. He wore a dark crimson cloak over a new tunic, the wool heavy across his shoulders, the hem weighted with fine gold thread. He had come dressed to be watched.

The senators stood when he did.

But he didn’t wait for the usual formalities. No invocation. No blessing. No opening words from a priest or steward.

“I leave for Germania within the week,” he said.

It came sharp and clean, like a spear thrown into silence.

“The Chatti have crossed further south. Patrols have vanished near the Rhine. A trader caravan was found with no heads. I’ve read every report from Mogontiacum to Argentoratum and none of them end with peace.”

He walked slowly as he spoke, letting the weight of his words build the room around him. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“The legions need command. Not from men who sit and talk in halls like this, imploring no direct action. They need to see Rome in the flesh. They need to know their emperor still bleeds.”

He reached the center of the chamber and turned to face them fully, the hem of his cloak swaying slightly behind him.

“When I return,” he said, “there will be no more questions. No more divided loyalties. No more wondering which son was meant to lead. There will be no space left for guessing. Rome cannot belong to two men. And I will not let her.”

He didn’t speak Geta’s name. But he didn’t need to. Not when every man in the room had just imagined the same ending.

____________________________________________________________________________

He came to you at dusk.

The light outside had already begun to fade, soft and silver, the kind that didn’t cast shadows so much as it softened them. You stood near the window, one hand resting lightly against the marble, your other arm tucked close to your ribs.

The door opened without warning.

He didn’t knock. He never did.

You didn’t turn at first. You heard the sound of his sandals against the stone, then nothing. When you finally looked, he was standing just inside the threshold, his hand still resting on the frame behind him.

He was still wearing the clothes from the Senate. The red cloak had come unpinned and hung lopsided over one shoulder, the edge of it trailing low near his calf. The tunic beneath it was creased now, his hair slightly damp where it curled at the back of his neck. He hadn’t stopped to change. Hadn’t stopped to eat. He watched you like a man who had already run through the conversation a dozen different ways in his head and hadn’t liked any of them.

For a moment, he said nothing.

“You haven’t bled.”

Not a question. Just something pulled straight from the center of him, from deep in his gut. Not the way he had asked before, this was easier. More delicate.

You didn’t pretend not to understand.

“No,” you said. Your voice didn’t waver.

He stepped closer. Slowly. Like you might vanish if he came too fast.

“Not since Baiae?”

You gave one small shake of your head. “Not since before.”

His eyes dropped to your waist.

You felt the weight of it, the way he studied the line of your body—not with hunger, not with desire, but with calculation. With need.

“I don’t feel any different,” you said, before he could speak again. “No changes. No signs.”

His hands twitched at his sides but didn’t lift.

“It would explain everything,” he said, quieter now. “Why you look at me like that. Why you’re quiet. You’re carrying my heir.”

Your spine straightened at that.

You turned fully, your hand dropping from the window.

“How I look at you?” you asked. Your voice didn’t rise, but something under it changed. “What are you talking about?”

He blinked once.

“I look at you no differently than I ever have,” you said, and now you took a step toward him. “And I’m quiet because I have nothing to say.”

Something flickered behind his eyes, something almost wounded, but he swallowed it down before it could show on his face.

“You’re different,” he said. “You’ve been different since we returned.”

You tilted your head. “Your father is dead. Do you expect me to laugh in the halls?”

He didn’t answer that.

Instead, he took one more step forward and lifted a hand, like he might reach for your arm, then let it fall again before he touched you.

“If it’s true…” he said, almost to himself. “If there’s a child…”

His voice dropped further, more thought than speech.

“It changes everything.”

You didn’t flinch.

“It doesn’t change me.”

He looked at you then—not like an emperor, not like a husband, not even like a man—but like someone trying to see through the fog of something he didn’t understand. And couldn’t control.

“I need to be sure,” he said. “I can’t go north not knowing. I need to know what the gods have seen.”

And then, before you could say another word, he turned and left.

Not to rage. Not to curse. Not to demand.

But to find the augurs.

To ask men who watched birds and smoke to tell him what you wouldn’t. To search for omens where no truth lived. Because deep down, even he didn’t trust what was real. Only what could be interpreted.

____________________________________________________________________________

The augurs came just as the sun had set.

Not to the palace, but to the eastern field outside the city wall, where the air was quiet and the sky could be seen without interruption. A square had been marked in the earth ahead of time. Ropes stretched at the edges. Incense was already burning to keep the smell of blood from hanging too long once the sacrifice began.

Caracalla arrived alone, on foot. He didn’t speak to anyone.

The god named aloud was Jupiter. But other gods were called, too—Mars, for battle. Janus, for a clear path. Silvanus, in case the signs came from the ground instead of the sky. They didn’t say those names loudly. But they were there.

The bull chosen was young, black, without flaw. Its eyes were steady. Its hooves were clean. When Caracalla laid his hand between its eyes, it didn’t pull away.

The priest gave the signal.

The cut was fast, but not clean. The animal dropped slowly. It groaned once before its legs gave out and the blood hit the dirt. That sound made the priest’s face tighten.

He said nothing.

The entrails were pulled carefully from the body. The liver had a dark mark on the left side. The heart looked swollen. The priest leaned closer to study it, then stepped back without giving a word.

A second man, the augur, stepped forward and raised his curved staff. He didn’t speak right away. He tilted his head to the sky.

A young boy opened a wicker cage and released three birds. One flew straight west. One circled above the square, then vanished. The third flew east, dropped low, then rose again and went north.

When the augur finally spoke, he didn’t rush.

“There is strength,” he said. “But also pressure. Something unknown. Something beneath the surface.”

Caracalla didn’t move.

“It’s not a curse,” the augur added. “But it’s not clean.”

He looked at the sky again before saying more. “One bird flew east. One flew north. The third didn’t fly far enough to be counted.”

Caracalla’s voice came low and even.

“What did they see?”

The augur didn’t meet his eyes.

“A lion stands in the shadow of Mars. There is no cub. Not yet.”

____________________________________________________________________________

He didn’t go back to his chambers after leaving the augurs.

He walked the long inner corridor instead, the one past the council rooms and the wall where the carved map of the empire still showed provinces they hadn’t held in years. The guards at the arch stood aside without needing a signal. They had seen that look on his face before—the one that meant he didn’t want anyone following. He turned into the corridor that led to his study, the one just off the inner courtyard, not far from the formal receiving hall, close enough to power that it stayed warm with movement, but private enough that no one entered without reason.

The door was half-shut when he reached it.

He paused—not because he expected anything strange, but because the light coming from under the door was softer than usual. No clerks. No rustling. Just the low glow of oil behind carved cedar and the faint sound of something moving quietly inside.

When he stepped inside, the first thing he saw was you.

You were seated beneath the narrow window, not at his desk, not where you would have had to explain yourself, but in the corner—on the stone bench against the wall, knees drawn slightly beneath your stola, a tablet balanced on your lap. Your fingers moved over the wax with quiet precision. You weren’t writing quickly, but you weren’t wasting time either. You looked like someone trying to get something down before it vanished.

You didn’t notice him at first.

The door closed behind him with a soft sound, not loud enough to startle but enough to break the rhythm. Your eyes lifted immediately. You didn’t stand. You didn’t hide the tablet with panic. You moved like someone who had already rehearsed this moment in your head and knew exactly how long it would take to tuck the stylus away, fold the cloth over your knees, and slide the writing beneath your arm as if it were nothing at all.

He didn’t speak.

He looked at you, and then at the small lamp beside you, and then back again.

“I didn’t think you came here,” he said finally.

“I don’t,” you said, standing slowly. “I needed quiet.”

He nodded once, stepped deeper into the room, and let the space settle around him. He didn’t sit. He didn’t ask what you were writing. His gaze lingered on the place where your hand had moved, but he didn’t press it.

“I saw the augurs,” he said.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to. You waited.

“They burned the bull,” he continued, slower now, the words coming like someone still deciding whether they were worth saying out loud. “The signs were mixed. The liver wasn’t clean, the heart swollen. The birds flew in different directions.”

Still, you said nothing.

“They told me there is strength in my house,” he said. “But something hidden. Something coming. A lion under Mars. No cub.”

He looked at you then.

“I asked if it was a curse. They said no.”

You didn’t look away. You didn’t ask what he believed. You didn’t ask what he wanted.

He took a breath.

“I think I needed them to tell me something I could hold on to.”

You didn’t speak.

And still, somehow, he knew you understood.

____________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t expect him to follow you.

When you left his study, you assumed it was over—that he’d said what needed saying and would return to whatever preparations still demanded his attention. The army would move soon. There were generals to summon. Roads to clear. Scribes to instruct. You thought you’d walk the long way back to your chambers, maybe have Cassia bring something light, eat alone.

But he followed.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t try to walk beside you. He stayed a step behind, quiet, not looming, just there.

You didn’t stop him.

When you reached the door to your rooms, you paused—not to wait, just to see if he would keep walking. But he didn’t. And when you stepped inside, he followed again.

The table had already been set.

Cassia had left without comment after lighting the lamps—two plates, a covered dish of barley and roasted dates, figs, cheese, a bowl of wine watered just enough to dull the edge. The bread was still warm. The steam hadn’t settled yet.

You turned slightly, watching him as he moved further into the room. He didn’t ask if he was welcome. He didn’t announce he would stay. He simply removed his cloak, folded it once, and laid it across the back of the nearest chair.

Then he sat.

No command. No tension. Just a man choosing, for reasons he didn’t explain, to stay where you were.

You sat across from him. The meal was quiet. Not cold. Not strained. Just quiet.

He ate slowly, chewing each bite like he was paying attention for once. The only sound was the soft movement of fingers against bread, the clink of pottery, the occasional shift of his hand as he reached for another fig.

You didn’t speak until halfway through, and even then it was only, “The cheese is better than last week.”

He looked up, not sharply, but like he hadn’t expected anything out of your mouth that wasn’t measured. His eyes flicked to the plate, then to yours.

“It’s from my mother’s estate,” he said. Then, after a pause—“Outside Lugdunum.”

The words sat there for a moment. You remembered what they’d said at the funeral—how the urn would be placed beside hers. How he hadn’t spoken her name since.

“She died before the Rhine campaigns,” he added, quieter now,as if you didn’t already know. “But they still send the parcels. Out of habit, maybe. Or memory.”

He didn’t seem to realize he’d told you something real.

You didn’t answer.

He didn’t raise his cup. He didn’t pour wine to the gods. No offering. He only took another sip and reached for more bread.

It wasn’t prayer. It wasn’t thanks. It was just dinner. And it was quiet. And strangely, it was enough.

____________________________________________________________________________

When the meal was done, you stood without a word.

You reached for the cloth folded neatly over the edge of the table, wiped your hands slowly, then moved toward the door that led into the adjoining room, your fingers already loosening the tie at your waist. You didn’t turn to look at him. You didn’t need to. You could feel his eyes on you from the moment your chair scraped back.

“I’m going to the balneum,” you said. “The day’s been long.”

You made it halfway across the room before he rose.

He didn’t speak immediately. Just followed—quiet, careful, like he wasn’t sure if the moment would stay intact if he moved too suddenly.

When you paused near the curtain, you felt him behind you.

“You don’t have to,” he said.

You turned slightly. “Don’t have to what?”

“Wash,” he said, his voice lower now, more certain. “I want you just as you are.”

The silence after that wasn’t empty. It was thick.

You looked at him fully then, letting the moment stretch. Not challenging. Just seeing if he meant it. He didn’t look away.

“If I am already with child,” you said, your voice even, “then there is no need for us to have sex.”

“I don’t need a reason,” he answered. “I can want you all the same.”

You watched him. The space between you wasn’t wide, but it held everything that hadn’t been said across weeks—his want, your silence, the nights you didn’t speak, the moments you could’ve touched but didn’t.

You turned to face him, slowly, without speaking, without lowering your gaze. You didn’t move with invitation or hesitation. You just stood there, your hand resting lightly against the curtain, your breath steady, your eyes holding his like you had made a decision you weren’t going to say out loud.

He stepped forward.

Not in a rush, not like a man trying to claim something, but like someone who had waited long enough and didn’t want to ask again. His hand found the edge of the belt at your waist, the one you’d started to undo before the words stopped you, and he touched it gently, like he was still giving you a chance to leave.

You didn’t.

His fingers worked the knot slowly, carefully, as if the fabric might tear if he moved too fast, and when it slipped free and loosened against your hips, he let the silence stretch. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. You watched his hands instead of his eyes, the way he slid the stola from your shoulder first, then down the length of your arm, one side at a time, the linen dragging soft across your skin as it dropped lower.

You didn’t help him. You didn’t move to cover yourself either.

The fabric hit the floor in a slow hush and stayed there, forgotten. He stepped back only a little, his eyes moving over you like he was seeing you for the first time. And you let him look. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t hide. You only stood still, bare in the lamplight, the curve of your back catching the glow, your hair still pinned from earlier, your lips parted just slightly like you might speak but hadn’t decided yet.

He didn’t reach for you. Not right away.

He just stood there, looking at you like the moment might break, and maybe he didn’t want it to.

And still, you didn’t move. You let him stand in it. You let him want. You let him wait.

____________________________________________________________________________

You didn’t speak when he stepped toward you again.

You didn’t look away when his hand lifted to your cheek, his fingers brushing the edge of your jaw before moving lower, tracing the shape of your throat like he needed to remember it. He didn’t ask anything. He didn’t command. He only touched you like it had been a long time since he’d done it without anger behind it.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t fast or hard. It was slow, almost hesitant, like he was asking something and didn’t want the answer out loud.

He led you back toward the bed with one hand resting low at your spine, steady but unhurried. The way he looked at you made it feel like you’d never been here before, like he was seeing something he hadn’t earned.

You let him lay you down.

He didn’t undress all at once. He moved like he had time. He knelt between your legs and pulled your thigh over his shoulder, his hands slow on your skin, his mouth brushing just above your knee before moving lower, lower, until the tension in your breath gave you away.

He tasted you without speaking, without warning, his mouth soft but focused, like this was the only thing that made sense anymore.

You tried not to move. You tried not to let it show. But when his tongue dragged in that slow, deliberate way, again and again, your hips lifted before you could stop them, and he held you there, steady in his grip, mouth never leaving you.

You didn’t moan.

When you came the first time, it was in silence, your back arched, your fingers tight in the linen beneath you, your lip caught between your teeth. He didn’t stop. He didn’t lift his head. He only kept going, slower now, like he wanted to draw out the shape of it, learn the rhythm of what broke you open.

The second time was worse. Or better. You weren’t sure.

Your thighs trembled, your hand came up to your mouth like you could stop the sound that threatened to slip, and that was when he lifted his head, just for a moment, and brought his fingers to your lips.

They were wet. He touched your mouth gently, and when you wouldn’t open it, wouldn’t meet his eyes, he pressed one finger against your lips until they parted. You let him in. He watched the way your mouth closed around him, slow and soft, your tongue catching the taste he’d left there. He didn’t move at first—just watched. And then he crawled up, leaning over you, hands planted on either side of your ribs, his body warm and close, and kissed you deep—like he’d waited weeks to do it right, like the taste of you was the only thing he wanted to carry with him to Germania.

His body pressed down against yours, not with weight but with warmth, his chest brushing yours as he shifted, the length of him hard between your legs but not demanding. His breath was steady, his mouth dragging across your jaw, then your neck, slow enough to leave heat behind but not enough to mark you.

When he entered you, he did it without a word.

No thrust. No snap of movement.

Just a slow press, thick and full, dragging through the slick he’d pulled from you with his mouth and fingers, his hands sliding beneath your thighs to lift you higher, to angle you deeper, to make sure every inch of him found a place inside you that hadn’t been touched properly in weeks.

Your legs folded over his shoulders, your knees brushing his jaw as he moved, slow and steady, each roll of his hips deep enough to make your breath catch in the back of your throat. He wasn’t trying to break you. He wasn’t trying to prove anything.

He was just there. Moving with you.

Touching the inside of your thighs with one hand, stroking up and down like he wanted to memorize the shape of you. His other hand rested at your calf, thumb tracing lazy circles as he fucked you deep and slow, the weight of his gaze locked on your mouth like he was waiting for the sound you still refused to give.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

The room was too warm now. The lamplight shimmered along the curve of your stomach, your breasts, the sweat gathering low on his spine. Your hands found his back, your nails not clawing but holding, your legs trembling against his shoulders, your breath a little shorter now, a little tighter.

And still he didn’t rush. He moved like a man who had all night. Like there was nowhere else he wanted to be.

____________________________________________________________________________

When it was done, he pulled out slowly and said nothing.

You reached for the sheet without thinking, dragging it up over your stomach as you rolled your shoulders against the mattress, your legs still parted slightly, your chest rising and falling in quiet, steady waves. The heat between your thighs hadn’t faded. The ache in your hips was still there, pulsing gently, but it didn’t hurt.

You didn’t look at him. Not at first.

He lay beside you on his back, not close enough to touch, not far enough to forget. His breath was slower now, deep and even, one arm resting behind his head, the other across his chest, his eyes fixed on the ceiling like he was waiting for it to speak.

You kept your body still, your arms folded lightly beneath the sheet, the sweat drying at your collarbone.

But you turned your head. Not fast. Not fully. Just enough to see him.

And he turned too.

Your eyes met in the quiet. No words passed between you. There was no smile. No question. Just that look.

The one that lasted longer than it should have. The one that said nothing.

And still—meant everything.

____________________________________________________________________________

Over the next passing days, Rome began to change.

It didn’t happen all at once. The noise didn’t crash through the gates or arrive with fanfare. It crept in slowly, through the sound of sandals in the dark, the clink of armor being fastened at dawn, the low voices that carried between pillars before the sun reached the courtyard stones. Banners were unfurled over the barracks—freshly dyed in red and gold, crisp from disuse—and soldiers took to the training fields earlier each morning, their drills echoing faintly across the Palatine before the rest of the city opened its eyes.

Letters moved like smoke through the halls, tucked beneath arms, sealed with the emperor’s mark in warm wax that hadn’t yet hardened. Supplies were tallied twice. New horses brought in. Provisions arranged and then rearranged by stewards who kept their hands busy so they wouldn’t ask what would be waiting for them on the other side of winter. And still, the palace didn’t sleep. Not truly. Not fully.

You heard the change before you saw it.

Doors opening when they shouldn’t. Generals whispering over maps spread too wide to read at a glance. Messengers appearing in the corridors before vanishing again with parchment tucked into their belts. Servants moved faster than they used to. Fewer of them met your eye. And even those who once dared to speak softly in your presence now fell silent the moment you crossed the threshold of any room.

The air shifted in ways you couldn’t name but couldn’t ignore, and though Caracalla never asked for your help, never brought you into his councils, never asked your opinion on who should ride ahead or who should remain in Rome, you still knew what he kept close.

___________________________________________________________________________

Two days passed, and then the morning came.

The sky was still pale when you heard the sound of metal below the colonnade—helmets being fastened, bridles pulled tight, sandals striking stone in rhythm with the first calls from the training yard. Rome was awake before the sun, but not for worship. Not for ceremony. Today it moved with purpose. Today it prepared to send off its emperor.

You had not seen him the night before.

No message. No knock at your door.

When you stepped into the light, he was already below, standing near the base, not yet mounted, speaking to one of the handlers as they adjusted the reins. His horse stood waiting, the armor glinting in the morning light, motionless beneath the weight of preparation.

You were not two steps past the marble arch before a servant stepped forward.

He was young, clutching a satchel to his chest, his face twisted with uncertainty, but his voice didn’t falter when he called up to you.

“Domina,” he asked, “should I prepare the herbs again? The ones you’ve been giving him. For the journey.”

The question wasn’t sarcastic or filled with malice. But it carried, and it carried far.

Cassia turned her head immediately. Two younger girls standing behind the pillar leaned forward just enough to hear your answer.

You didn’t pause.

“They’re for his virility,” you said, smooth and unbothered, not too loud, not too soft. Just enough.

Cassia blinked once, then nodded, satisfied, stepping back into her place.

But the others—the younger ones, eyes too wide and mouths too quick—exchanged a glance. A small one. But you saw it. The kind of look that travels farther than it should.

And by the time you reached the top of the steps, Caracalla had already turned from his officers and begun walking toward you.

“I’ll send word from Mediolanum,” he said. “If the snow holds, we’ll reach the border before the month ends.”

You nodded. That was all.

He didn’t touch you. He didn’t offer his hand. There was no blessing. No farewell.

For a moment, it looked like he might say something more.

But instead, he turned, walked back down without pause, and took the reins from the handler with one hand. He mounted in a single movement, the leather shifting beneath him, his posture straight, his face unreadable.

Papinian stepped forward from the formation and spoke low.

“Domine, the soldiers are gathered. They expect words before the gate.”

Caracalla gave a single nod.

He turned his horse toward the open square where the legions stood assembled. The sound of armor shifting filled the air. Shields gleamed in the morning light. Banners moved faintly in the wind. These were not fresh recruits. These were men who had bled for Rome. And now they were about to follow Rome into another winter, another war.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“When we reach Germania, we do not ask for peace,” he said, his voice cutting clean through the quiet. “We take it. We show them the empire doesn’t hesitate. We show them that men who stand with Rome—stand with me—do not return in shame.”

He looked across the rows, his gaze steady.

“Some of you have fought in the north before. Some of you have buried friends there. That ground knows your blood. Let it know your victory.”

A pause. His jaw clenched.

“This is not about land. This is about fear. And I want them to be afraid.”

The words lingered only a moment before the roar of the legion rose up behind them, loud and heavy and full of the kind of noise that covered every doubt. You didn’t flinch. You only let your gaze follow the weight of his voice down through the open square, past the banners and armor and movement that blurred against the edges of your sight.

And then, without needing to turn your head, without hearing a name or the shift of a sandal on stone, you felt someone come to stand beside you. There was no sound to it. Just the weight of presence at your side. You didn’t look. You didn’t need to. You knew it was Geta.

He didn’t speak. He stood there, hands still at his sides, his posture easy but not relaxed, the way it always was when he knew people were watching and wanted to give them nothing they could use.

And down below, just as the archway opened wide and the crowd shifted to clear the path, Caracalla pulled the reins and turned his head. He didn’t look toward the banners. He didn’t look toward the senators. He looked directly up the marble steps.

Not at you. But to his brother.

His gaze locked there, sharp and still, and whatever passed between them didn’t break the silence, but you felt it all the same.

And then he turned forward again, cloak snapping behind him in the wind, the sound of hooves striking the ground in rhythm with the gate as it opened wide.

Taglist:

@alwaysahiccupandastrid

@justnobodynothingmore

@miamariposita

@niungguang

Dividers: @ghoulbloggerrr

[sunny44]

I’ll love you to the day I die

Pairing: Lando Norris x Girlfriend!reader

Warnings: it’s a sad story guys so be prepared. And English is not my first language.

Summary: It’s yours and Landon’s one-year anniversary.

I look out over Monaco's stunning landscape as the sun slowly rises, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The city, usually vibrant with the sound of engines and the glow of lights, is quiet this morning. I adjust my shirt collar and check my watch once more. The flight to London is scheduled to leave in a few hours, and I want to make sure I arrive on time for such an important date.

As I drive to the airport, my thoughts turn to Y/n. I remember how she always laughed at my jokes, how her eyes sparkled when I talked about racing, and how she supported me unconditionally in every challenge. Today, we would be celebrating one year together, and I want to do something special.

At the airport, I meet some fans asking for autographs and photos. I smile and answer them all, but my mind is far away, focused only on the surprise I'm preparing. The flight to London is smooth, and I spend most of the time mentally going over every detail of my plan. I want everything to be perfect.

When I land in London, I take a cab straight to the city center. The streets are busy, as always, but I don't pay any attention. My destination is clear and fixed in my mind. I get out of the cab and walk through the streets until I reach a small flower store. I choose a bouquet of white roses, Y/n's favorite flowers, and go on my way.

As I walk, I mentally revisit every moment I spent with Y/n. Every laugh, every kiss, every promise. Finally, I reach my destination. The entrance to the cemetery is sad and silent, a shocking contrast to the liveliness of the surrounding city.

With slow steps, I enter the cemetery, walking among the gravestones until I find Y/n's. My eyes fill with tears as I see her name engraved in the marble. I kneel down, placing the bouquet of white roses on the grave after cleaning it up with my hands.

"Happy one-year anniversary, my love," I whisper, my voice breaking. "I miss you so much. I promised I'd be here today, and I am. I wanted you to be with me so we could celebrate together. I love you so much."

I stay silent, just staring at something that still seems like a lie. Today was supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life, but it has become one of the worst. Five months ago, I wouldn't have thought I'd be coming to the cemetery to celebrate one year of dating the love of my life, but here I am.

"It's funny how I never thought that out of the two of us you'd be the one to passed away first, and considering what I do for a living it's ironically sad." I sniffle again and feel my heart break more and more.

"You have no idea how much I love you and how much I miss you. How I miss your wet towel on the bed, seeing you walking around the house in your bare feet and the post-it’s you used to put in my suitcase before I traveled to a race you weren't going to."

I stand there in silence for a long time, remembering all the precious moments I shared with Y/n. I think of the first time I saw her, the way our eyes met and I knew, in that instant, that she was going to be special.

I think of all the races where she was there, cheering me on, sending me strength and love. I remember the quiet days when we walked hand in hand through the streets of London, laughing and making plans for the future.

Even in her absence, I feel her presence, and that gives me the strength to carry on. I know that, somehow, she will always be with me, guiding me and loving me, no matter where I am.

And I feel that it’s so unfair that I could only have her in my life for such a short time, cause I know and I feel in my heart that we should’ve had more time together.

Finally, I stand up, wiping away the tears. I take one last look at Y/n's gravestone, promising to come back soon. With a heavy heart, but full of love, I leave the cemetery, determined to honor her memory in every race, in every victory, and in every day of my life.

As I walk back to the city, I think about how Y/n had changed my life. She taught me to cherish every moment, to live intensely and to love deeply. I know that, no matter how difficult it may be, I will continue to live for her, keeping alive the flame of the love we shared. And so, with Y/n's memory engraved in my heart, I prepare to face another day, knowing that she will always be by my side, in spirit.

Bonus Scene!

Landonorris instagram post

Liked by @carlossainz, @olivernorris, @maxverstappen1 and other 917291

@landonorris missing you extra hard today my love. These past few months have been the worst of my life and I still can’t believe that you’re gone.

I love you so much and I’ll make sure to live for the both of us.

Happy one-year anniversary muppet, you’ll be forever my girl 🖤.

@carlossainz I’m really sorry mate, we all miss her so much. Stay strong

@oscarpiastri sending you lots of love Lando

@maxverstappen she was a very special girl, we all will live for her

@charlesleclerc a very special person taken away from us so soon, we’re all here for you mate ❤️

Comments on this post have been limited

[midnightwritingsessions]

Promises of forever

Summmary: Louis planned a special date night for the both of you, where unbeknownst to you he planned to give you a promise ring. [1.1k]

Masterlist

Requested

-

The soft hum of your curling iron filled the bathroom as you carefully wrapped a section of your hair around the hot barrel. Tonight wasn’t just any date night, Louis had insisted it would be ‘special’. Though he hadn’t given you much to go on, you could tell by his excitement and how much effort he’d put into planning that he wanted everything to be perfect. His cryptic hints and mischievous smile over the past few days had only heightened your anticipation. You’d spent the afternoon pampering yourself with fresh nails, styled hair, and a simple but elegant black dress that fit you like a dream. As you added the final touches to your makeup, you couldn’t help but feel a flutter of excitement. Whatever Louis had planned, you knew it would be memorable.

Meanwhile, Louis sat on the edge of the bed in your shared apartment, fidgeting with the small velvet box in his hands. His thumb traced the edge of it as his mind raced. “What if I muck this up?” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. He’d never been nervous about speaking to you before, you had a way of putting him at ease, making him feel completely at home. But tonight, with this ring in his pocket, he felt the pressure. He thought back to the moment he’d decided on the promise ring. It had been a few weeks ago, during a lazy morning at home. You were curled up on the couch in one of his oversized hoodies, laughing at something on the telly, and he’d felt it so strongly. The certainty that you were it for him. That he wanted to spend his life with you. He’d thought about proposing outright, but he didn’t want to rush it not because of doubt, but because he wanted it to be perfect. This ring was his way of telling you how serious he was about your future together, a promise of everything to come.

Louis took a deep breath, slipping the box into his jacket pocket. “You’ve got this” he murmured to himself before heading out to meet you in the living room. When Louis saw you waiting by the door, he stopped in his tracks, his mouth going dry for a second. “Wow” he breathed, his eyes wide as they traveled over you. You blushed under his gaze, smoothing your dress nervously. “Do I look alright?”. “Alright?” He let out a low whistle, stepping closer to wrap his arms around your waist. “You look stunning, love. I mean, you always do, but tonight… you’ve outdone yourself”. His words and the way he looked at you sent a warm flush through you, and you smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of his face. “You clean up pretty nicely yourself, Tomlinson”. He grinned, offering you his arm. “Shall we?”

The car ride was filled with soft conversation and laughter, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that Louis was unusually quiet. You didn’t press him about it, assuming it was just part of his plan for the night. When you arrived, the venue took your breath away. It was an intimate rooftop setting, softly lit with fairy lights strung above. A small table for two sat in the center, surrounded by candles that flickered gently in the evening breeze. Beyond the edge of the roof, the city skyline glittered against the darkening sky. “Louis…” you murmured, taking it all in. “This is incredible”. He smiled, a little sheepishly, as he guided you to your seat. “Only the best for my girl” he said, brushing a kiss against your temple before sitting across from you.

The dinner was perfect- your favorite foods, soft music playing in the background, and conversation that flowed as easily as always. Louis was still a bit quieter than usual, but his eyes never left you, his gaze filled with a mixture of love and something else-nervousness, maybe? As dessert arrived, a decadent chocolate tart, Louis shifted in his seat, his hand sliding into his jacket pocket. He cleared his throat, catching your attention. “Alright” he began, his voice steady but soft. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you- well, more like show you” He hesitated, pulling the velvet box from his pocket and placing it on the table between you. Your breath hitched as you stared at the box, your heart thudding in your chest. “Louis…” you whispered, looking up at him.

He opened the box to reveal a delicate gold ring, adorned with a small diamond in the center. It wasn’t flashy or over-the-top, it was understated and beautiful, perfectly you. “This isn’t an engagement ring” he said quickly, his voice trembling just slightly. “Not yet, anyway. But it’s a promise. A promise that I’m serious about us, about building a life together. I can’t wait to marry you someday, but for now, I want you to have this. To know how much you mean to me”. Tears pricked at your eyes as you listened, your heart swelling with emotion. He reached across the table, taking your hand in his. “You’re everything to me” he continued, his blue eyes locked on yours. “You’ve been my rock, my best mate, my safe place. I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I do know I never want to let you go”.

A tear slipped down your cheek, and you laughed softly as you wiped it away. “Louis… I don’t even know what to say. This is… perfect. You’re perfect”. He smiled, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Does that mean you’ll wear it?”. “Of course I will” you said, your voice thick with emotion. “I love you, Louis. So much”. He stood, walking around the table to slip the ring onto your finger, his hands steady despite the racing of his heart. Once the ring was in place, he pulled you into a tight hug, holding you as if he never wanted to let go. As you pulled back slightly to look at him, his lips found yours in a kiss that was soft, tender, and full of unspoken promises.

Later that night, as you both lay tangled together on the couch, the ring glinting softly on your finger, Louis rested his head against yours. “Y’know” he murmured, his voice thick with contentment, “this was the scariest thing I’ve ever done”. You laughed, threading your fingers through his hair. “Well, you pulled it off beautifully”. He looked up at you, his eyes filled with love. “One step closer to forever, yeah?” You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Yeah, Louis. Forever sounds perfect”.

-

Thank you for reading! As always requests are open <3

[dranna]

Milk Boy

AO3

Summary: You cuddle and then feed Homelander milk with your fingers after a stressful day and he whimpers all over like a good boy.

Contents: sub!Homelander, established relationship, dom!reader, fluff, tiny angst, hurt/comfort, hand feeding, gender neutral reader, any pronouns, praise kink, big scary man whimpers an unhealthy amount, soft dom, human x supe, suggested nsfw, clingy Homelander, mommy kink, sucking milk off of fingers as a passionate experience  🤨 , not beta read we die like translucent

a/n: english is not my first language 

I've been having difficulty with sleeping due to anxiety so here is the annual, lets calm down fic :')

_______________________________________________________

He was marching through the corridors of the Vought tower, leaving a disquiet air behind him among the staff and 7 members. The spiky couple of frustration and anger was merrily pushing their thorns deeper and deeper into his chest, the longer he went on. The only destination he was still able to see through the constant attacks of that annoying couple was his penthouse, several floors above, where you were waiting for him. 

You, with your calming presence and trusting eyes. He closed his ocean eyes as the lift started to ascent towards his floor, imagining your smoothing voice in his ears and your warm, loving touches. “Why is that shit so slow?!”  – his racing thoughts questioned as he took off his gloves, holding them in one palm while putting his fists behind his broad back. “Do I really have to be the one, who tells Ashely about that fucking lift?? Am I the only one who does anything in this tower?” – the muscles of his picture perfect face started to twitch involuntarily which fueled his anger deeper. “You are pathetic. – sturred a heavy hiss from somewhere inside of his mind – Do you really think you’ll ever be good enough? I’m sure you know deep down what that little human thinks about you when you leave. Hmmm. Yes, after you cried your eyes out like a little bitch!” –The elevator dinged with a sigh of relief, while he stood staring at his reflection, petrified. He looked into his own face, feeling the forming of unwanted tears at the back of his eyes. What if I am right? And you are like the others, lying to him? And… no. He cracked his neck, moving his head around to relieve tension, huffing at his own incompetence, letting the thorns sting him again. 

His fists jammed into tighter iron fists as he moved towards the living room, searching for you. The tension of his hands mirrored the tightness he felt in his gut, suffocating him. He felt like he was carrying a weight in his chest, a weight too heavy even for him, pulling him more and more intensely into a bottomless pit. “I’m scared.. please.”

He didn’t know how, but he found himself sitting on the sofa, fiddling with his ungloved hands nervously … and you, looking at him with such concern in your eyes. In his state of despair he didn't notice you in the kitchen, so when he didn’t turn to greet you, you went to investigate. 

“Had a stressful day dear?” – he heard your quiet melody as you sat down next to him on the sofa, gently holding out your hand to caress his right cheek. Oh how small he looked with his puffy teary eyes, glaring at you, as if you’ve hung the moon and the stars up the sky, kindling his dark night up with your light. He barely dared to nod, fearing to interrupt your touch on his cheek. You softly whispered “come here”, patting your thighs and pulling him towards you. 

He moved with the caucion of a scared little bird in a cage, preparing to flee but fearing to leave. At last his blond locks brushed the fabric of your clothes and his ocean irises searched for yours. He still didn’t speak but looked at you expectedly, pleading silently with his gaze. 

The moment you touched his hair, he closed his tired eyes and sighed in relief. You continued to pet him, running your fingers through his curls, carefully scratching his scalp. With every passing second, the thorns of the couple seeped out of his cramped muscles. He looked so serene like this, abandoning all pride and fears, leaving all of himself up to you. You could’ve asked anything of him at times like this and he would have done it without question. 

The Sun was slowly diving behind the skyscrapers of the city, puffing the bubbles of his breathy light over every surface. Deep below the busyness of the streets were running on in all sorts of blue and purple hues, setting the temperature lower while red heat remained in hearts. However up there, above everyone else in the sky, the diving of the sun mixed the colours of the air with the most beautiful shades of yellows and pinks, hinting their tints over thousands of windows. One stray line of warm shine found its place into the penthouse of our scene. Homelander was still laying on the sofa, with his head placed on your lap. He turned slightly, burying his face further into your chest, seeking comfort. He was so beautiful like this, his golden eyelashes in the light, leaving their merry shadows on his cheek, and coloring his hair. He was quietly whimpering and moaning, barely audible for now, under your untiring hands. 

“That's my brave boy.” – you whispered softly as you leaned down to place a kiss on his smooth forehead. He opened his azure eyes, which were swimming in their own seas and their heightened hue of colours. The blueness blended with the yellows, pinks and purples of the air as well as the mirrored colours of yours, making them shining with life and emotions. “Homelnader, you are so so beautiful and perfect, my love.”  – you told him, pulling him even closer.  “Good boy.” – You continued to sing praises over him, covering him with your love. More and more tiny voices of his began to escape from his thin lips, grabbing you desperately. 

“Hush my love, it's okay. What do you need?”

“I… C-Can I h-have …m-m-milk?” – he looked up at you shyly, his own embarrassment colouring the tip of ears. The redness of his self-consciousness travelled down from there, warming his puffy cheeks. 

“Of course you can, dear. Let's get, hm? Why don’t you go to the bedroom while I warm up a little milk for you?”  

“B-but I d-don’t want y-you to g-go.”

“Shhh, I’m not going anywhere I promise. I’ll be there with you in a minute.”

“... okay.” 

🥛🥛🥛

The now warm glass of milk you placed on the bedside table, and you slipped into bed. You positioned yourself in a half sitting position and gestured to him to lay in between your legs. He carefully placed his blond head onto your chest and waited with barely contained need. You held the glass in one hand and pushed your fore and middle finger of the other into the creamy white liquid. He chased your fingers hungrily with his eyes, not letting them out of his sight. As you moved them closer to him, his lips started to move in anticipation, curling unintendedly, preparing to taste. Oh he couldn't wait, “Please!” – he whined loudly, too occupied in caring to hold it back. “I need it, please mommy.” –  he whimpered inward, shimming closer to your breasts. Your fingers were richly covered with this sweet, snowy nectar of his, moderately showering his suit with its tiny snowflakes. 

Your slick fingers met his craving lips and he couldn't help but moan and greedily take them into his mouth. Like a thirtsing man in the desert who found an oasis, once your fingers were in his hot mouth he didn’t want to let them go. His eyes were shut, completely lost in this bliss. He sucked, then kissed, then swirled his tongue, repeating these motions until your fingers were completely clean. He was a growling mess, hungrily sucking on. 

“That's my good boy, doing so good for me.”

Looking down at him, you felt a certain warmth spreading through your body. During his pleasure, pink and red flowers started to blossom in his cheeks, planting their seeds in his veins, leaving their blooms all over his neck and chest. He breathed heavily with shallow breaths, couldn't get enough of the weight of you in his mouth and the taste of safety on his tongue. 

“Ahhh.. ah.”  – was the only thing he could manage to blurt out from amongst the many dirty noises of his delight. But he wanted to say so much more, express all the love that dwelled in his chest. He felt your delicate arms around him, shielding him from the outside word, keeping him safe, and stroking his undercut with the utmost gentleness. Your praises didn’t stop either, they continued to float over him with all the rhythmic qualities of your voice. “Good boys” were the most heard, because you knew he needed someone to reassure him that he was doing fine. However even with all the praise, and touch, and care, the biggest impact was your heartbeat. It sang so soothing and steadily into his ears, choosing the melody that it wrote only for him. “I love you. I love you so much!” – he cried in his mind while noisy sobs started to escape from his lungs – “I want you to know!” — His own heart invited yours for a dance and under your sweet harmony, the two of them began to waltz. His slowly picked up the pace, showering you with his own composition, swaying the two of you. “It’s soo good, but so much yet I want more! Ah!”

His breath was becoming rapid and his whimpers deeper, louder, begging for more. His right hand found one of your breasts and started to caress it, imitating the motion as if pushing milk out of it. 

“It’s alright dear, mommy knows exactly what her good boy wants.” — his mouth was still full of your fingers so he could only whine more breathy. 

You replaced your clean fingers with freshly milked ones and drew them along the curve of his lips, slowly savoring the noises this simple motion elicited from him. It felt intoxicating with every cell of his body buzzing with electric excitement. Whines fell from the curled, parted lips as goosebumps sent shockwaves all along his form, from the tip of his curls to the toes of his feet. 

“P-ple-ase.” 

“Please what, my love?” 

“P-p-plea-e l-let me … t-taste.” 

“You did such a good job all day my boy, have a taste.” 

This is all he needed, the second you said those words, his mouth was all over your warm fingers. His eyes rolled back under his eyelids as his head started to bob up and down in his own rhythm. His clingy sounds filled up the colourful air around you two as he was getting closer and closer to the goal of his need. Drool began to form around his lips, smearing all over his cheeks and down his Adam’s apple. No other masterpiece of a painting was to match the sight of his right now. He was utterly beautiful in his blissfully dazed state of mind, sucking on your fingers, drinking up all of ‘your’ milk. His saliva gleamed in the darkening room, contouring his face. The red flowers were full blown, offering all their beauty up to you and you only. 

“Mhm!” 

“I know my love, you can let go.” — you murmured sweetly to him, which pushed him over the edge toward his release. The tightness in his suit left a wetness on the fabric, flowing down his thigh. He appeared at peace, tiredly cuddling his head further into your chest while still holding your fingers with his lips. You gently pulled them out which elicited an adorable whine from him. You continued to pet his blond head, hinting sweet kisses all over his face. 

You carried on with caresses in silence while his breath slowed and his heartbeat steaded itself. 

“…Thank you.” — you heard his faint voice addressing you. He looked up at you with eyes that possessed so much love, they nearly bursted out. — “I-I love you.” 

“I love you too.” — you whispered back and placed a kiss on his nose. He pulled you closer to him, hugging you tightly, but not too tightly so as to not hurt you, and keeping you close. You made him feel so happy and loved, he couldn’t articulate how much, so he resorted to drawing you as close to him as possible. 

You two stayed like that for some time, exchanging innocent kisses between each other, when after a while he discovered a mischievous light in your eyes.

“What is it?” — he cocked an eyebrow up.

“Well, since there is still some milk left, it would be a pity to waste it, don’t you think?” 

“Yes, absolutely!” — he joined in, firing up his excitement again. 

“Not like that you silly!” — you giggled, making your heart jump joyfully. It made his own pump warmness along his whole system. — “Here.” — she placed the glass near his lips and slightly turned it. He slowly drank all it up, gazing up at you sleepily when he was done. 

“Thank you.” 

“You’ve already said that.” 

“I know, … but I haven’t said it enough for you. I love you.” — he murmured as he slowly fell asleep in your arms. 

You watched over his dreams until the Moon swam up from the depths of the sky, placing her stars up the darkness to dry. 

[rottenmeatsack]

Bouquet || Neuvillette x AFAB reader (NSFW)

Prompt || when it rains, a visit from him and a bouquet of flowers is inevitable - NSFW UNDER THE CUT / MINORS DNI

Warnings: unprotected sex, strange dragon anatomy (long tongue, TWO pp), inexperienced/previously virgin Neuvillette, mentions of previous loss of virginity(for Neuvillette, reader is left ambiguous), secret relationship, messy kissing, kiss marks on Neuvillette, Neuvillette is on top but reader is lowkey guiding him.

This is my first and only attempt at Genshin characters, I stopped playing after Fontaine, but I still love Neuvillete.

***

“Hydro Dragon, Hydro Dragon, don’t cry.”

-

Thunder rolls over Fontaine’s roaring seas, the waves quake and throw themselves against the shores in a violent frenzy, and the sky rumbles with a vicious crack of lightning tearing through the heavy-hanging storm clouds. Once again, it is raining in the nation of justice. 

She turns her head out of her window as the lightning tears through the air with a crackling scream, but she can see nothing but her own reflection peering at her from the darkened and rain-drop stained window. Absent-mindedly, she watches the rain beat against the soaked panes, she can’t help but watch as droplets race down the glass in hurried streaks and pool just at the basin of the windowsill. There’s an air of familiarity that hangs above her head, perhaps even a taste of nostalgia that hangs off the tip of her tongue. 

With the rain, and that unique, earthy smell that comes with it, she knows she’s certain to have a visitor soon. 

As if her thought’s had manifested, she hears the cast iron door-knocker hit the mallow wood three times. Although the sound is nearly lost in the tumultuous downpour, she turns her body towards the echoing call of the late night visitor that stands just outside of her door. She adjusts the silk robe that hangs over her shoulders, unconsciously tucking the edges into the other by crossing her arms one over the other as if in an embrace. She brushes her ____ hair out of her face and walks towards the front of her home, the only sound that fills the halls of her lonely abode besides the wind and rain was the soft pitter-patter of her bare feet hitting the tilted  floor with every step, for the visitor outside knows that she’ll answer the door without fail— so he doesn’t dare knock again. 

Her robe slips down her shoulder as she reaches an arm out and curls her fingers around the handle, she takes a deep breath before she takes a step back with her body she pulls it back with the wind’s strong arms pushing it the rest of the way. She flinches and closes her eyes as the cold grazes her skin, a rush of shivers crawls through her spine and splinters through her body before she reaches a hand up and drags her robe over her once exposed collar-bone. “My apologies, ____ , this heavy rain is quite an inconvenience, isn’t it?” She hears his voice before she sees him, prying her eyes open to look at the man before her that stands on her porch with the rain battering his back in hefty never-ending waves.

Neuvillette gazes at her, his silver hair is taken by the wind's current and whips against his cheek, he stands on her doorstep absolutely soaked to the bone and in his hands was a single bouquet of Lake Light Lilies. Although it’s obvious that it was once wrapped neatly in paper, ribbons, and foil, it now is held between his hands rather limp and beaten from the rain’s brutal touch. He looks at her with that same calm expression he always does, the same he dons whether he stands before her now or stands above all of Fontaine in the Grand Iudex’s seat, although the rain clings to his cheeks and runs down from the corners of his eyes— as if he’s crying.

She crosses her arms and tilts her head at him, “It’s rather late.” she says. 

“So it is,” He says as he holds the beaten bouquet out to her, his sleeves positively dripping and she watches as the equally soaked bundle of native Fontaine flowers makes quick little drops fall at her feet. She casts a wary glance out behind the Iudex, her eyes wondering the road in concern that prying eyes might see him, and that the public might become aware of the Chief Justice of Fontaine’s very own private affairs.  “I’ve brought these for you,” he tells her, bringing her gaze back to his own with his voice never raising a pitch. It remains calm and steady, as if he isn’t standing outside in another violent Fontaine storm. She shakes her head at him, before reaching both hands out and taking him by the wrists. He does nothing to protest, instead allowing her to drag him inside of her home and close the door behind him. He drips rainwater on her floor.

She takes the bouquet from his hands, “Thank you,” she says, turning and cradling the bundle of bright-blue flowers in her arms. She lets her fingers trace the bulbous petals, the texture is strange under her touch and the flowers seem to glow in her hands. “Although,” she hums, pressing her lips into a fine line. “It’s been a few weeks since you’ve come to visit me,” she hints, acting aloof and gazing up at her ceiling as Neuvillette visibly tenses. She cast a glance at Neuvillette behind her, “Although, it’s quite the storm outside, I wonder why?” she says, shifting to look at Neuvillette with an expectant gaze crossing her expression.

Neuvillette doesn’t fail to miss it, and he shifts in place with his eyes turning down and away from her. There’s a sense of shame in the way he does it. “I suppose—” he flexes his hands by his side, an anxious twitch evident in his fingers. “I’ve missed you, greatly.” 

Lightning lashed through the sky like a whip with the thunder not too far behind, she couldn’t believe it but it seemed like the rain was slamming down against the pavement even harder. Perhaps guilt? Her shoulders slumped and she sighed through her parted lips, she gently set the bouquet down on her mantel that’s decorated with decayed or dying flowers that wilt and hang low in their vases. The bouquet of Lakelight Lilies  stands alive as the newest addition, just beside the crinkling bodies of what were once fresh Lumidouce Bells. With her arms now freed she walks to Neuvillette and cups the sides of his fine jaw. He tips his head down, finally allowing his gaze to meet her own just as she ghosts her palms over his damp and rain kissed cheeks. She doesn’t miss the way he leans into her hands, resting his head in her tender touch and closing his eyes as she rolls the pad of her thumb along the corner of his lips. 

“I’m not really mad, you know.” she whispers, a small smile gracing her lips while she tilts her head to the side. “I see,” he murmurs in turn. “I’m relieved,” he tells her.  “I understand, you’re the Iudex, you’re just busy is all, I know.” She says and  lets one hand trace down the arch of his throat until it rests on the pronounced arch of his chest. He breathes a little harder as her fingers ghost just above his breastbone, almost hovering over his own beating heart. He says nothing, but he leans forward until he’s arched over her while she takes his wrists and places his palms flat against the curves of her waist. Slowly, and cautiously, his fingers curl into the fabric of her robe. The silk bunches and raises up the smoothness of her thighs, Neuvillette  daring to go lower and run his gloved hands over the newly exposed skin. He presses his palms down, gripping cautious handfuls of her hips. 

“It’s okay,” she murmurs, her nose brushing against his own while her hands wind around his torso. She presses her fingers against the low arch of his spine and brings him closer. “Keep going,” she prompted, turning her head up and filling the gap between them as she slants her lips over his own. In that moment Neuvillette is truly breathless, he gives a shaky little breath, his fingers curl into the meat of her hips before he fully melts into her body. He kisses her gingerly at first, his almost saccharine touch consuming her until she tastes nothing but himself. Then he grows bolder, his grip tightening and he draws her closer, his tongue flickering across her bottom lip and pressing into her mouth— and she lets him.

Ah, yes, it’s like this with every bouquet.

She moans as that hot muscle twists around her own, her fingers curling into the back of Neuvillette’s damp coat while he cups the nape of her neck. He tilts her back until her spine is arched and her chest is pushed up into his own. He absolutely devours her. Swallowing little moans and breathy gasps between desperate wanton kisses. He only pulls away when he’s done stealing the breath right out of her lungs, his long draconic tongue slipping past her lips with a shuddering gasp. Her lipstick became smeared across Neuvillette’s bottom lip, making a messy stain of rouge drag across his cheek.

Her robe has slipped further down her shoulder, exposing the valley of her breasts and the exposed skin of her torso. He’s not subtle about the way his eyes begin to roam over her prone form, it’s a detail that is not missed by her. She also doesn’t fail to notice that hefty tent that’s formed and pressing up against his slacks. Making his own arousal alarmingly clear. “May we… continue…?” He asks, so gentle in tone that she can’t help but smile in turn. Truly, it is like this with every bouquet.

“You already know where my bedroom is,” she says with a nod in the right direction.

-

By the time they reached her bedroom, the rain had long stopped.

Neuvillette’s bare body isn’t an unfamiliar sight, but it’s still a relatively new one to her. Neuvillette’s inexperience and distance with the people of Fontaine, let alone humankind, was obvious in how exploratory and curious his hands were as they still fumble to touch her as if it’s the first time all over again. He palms desperately at her thighs, pressing himself down and closer to her naked body beneath him while he slots his pelvis between her spread legs. He mouths at her throat, teeth scraping the junction where her neck meets her shoulders and tongue rolling over her warm skin while he desperately ruts against her. He pushes his waist down to meet her raised pelvis, her legs uselessly hang by the sides of his hips while he slides his long, thick, and ridged double cocks slip and slide against her soaking wet cunt. “I’ve missed you,” he mutters, “I’ve missed you so dearly.” 

Neuvillette calls her name near breathlessly as he grinds the base of the bottom shaft against her trembling bundle of nerves, her hips twitching and chasing after  his own, desperate for more friction against her aching clit. It’s still strange, getting used to his anatomy that differs from any human man, but she didn’t mind in the slightest when the shock wore off the first time she saw him disrobed. There’s two of them that hardly resemble a human mans, with soft ridges lining the underside. She remembers how they had intimidated her when she first laid eyes on them but now it almost came as a delight to feel those two twitching cocks drag and press against her dripping and wet hole. 

Neuvillette adjusts himself back on his knees before pressing the weeping tip of his dick against her pussy, the way he thrusts against her is desperate and quick, trying to press  inside of her only to slip up  and grind the slick underside of his cock against her swollen clit. She jumps at the contact, hissing through clenched teeth as he inadvertently grinds against her. She grunts, feeling him once again adjust until the tip is pushing against her. He  whispers something incoherent under his breath, perhaps a silent plea that she can’t quite catch before he slips once again and clumsily slides against her tight little hole. She claws at his shoulders, whimpering each time he fails to breech her. He wants to go in so badly but he’s too focused on her and her alone, he’s kissing at her, running his hands over her, scraping his teeth down her throat, he’s already a disheveled mess. He slides against her again, pathetically moaning as the tip of his cock bumps against her navel. 

She can’t take the wait anymore. Blindly, she reaches her hand down in between them and grips him by the base. Feeling the warmth of her palm he thrusts desperately into her curled fingers. He tilts his head back, breathing harder as she positions him at her soaking cunt and holds him there. “Hurry,” she mutters, spreading her thighs apart further and draping her locked ankles behind his lower back. 

He dips his head down and presses his sharp canine teeth into the side of her neck, pivoting his hips down and finally sinking into her wet heat. He groans into her skin and jerks his hips in desperate little thrusts, stretching her around his first fat cock while the other grinds against her hand that remains tucked between them. Once he’s pressed halfway inside, she finally pulls her hand out from between their waists only for Neuvillette to slam his hips down the rest of the way, pressing her pelvis to pelvis  into the mattress. 

She tilts her head back and cries out, absolutely writhing underneath him as she’s stretched to her limit, all while his second dick is still sliding against her clit. She whimpers, and Neuvillette raises his head from her throat to kiss at her temple. “My apologies,” he murmurs, because he can’t stop himself from already fucking her down into her own bed. He can’t stop himself and he knows it. She’s being absolutely overwhelmed by him, the smell of expensive cologne mixes with that earthy smell that comes with the rain and she’s suffocating in it. Her eyes roll to the back of her head as her face flushes with warmth and sweat. 

She claws at his shoulders, at his back, at the nape of his neck while her moans mix with that distinct sound of skin hitting skin— and Neuvillette’s own ragged and breathless grunts and groans. It’s a filthy mix of noise, and  a part of Neuvillette is stunned that such vulgar noises could be coming from him. He sounds no better than an animal, like some beast, his pale skin burns red at how far he falls into his own depravity because it only fuels him further. He’s hitting as deep as he can go, his pelvis knocking into her while his hands travel lower, he grips the backs of her thighs and folds her in half until her knees are touching her shoulders. Her legs now dangle on his shoulders with her ankles on each side of his head. He’s pressing her down and losing every bit of restraint. 

The dragging sensation of his cocks inside and outside of her make her head spin. She kisses his blush-stained face, leaving lip shaped red marks all over his ivory skin until it melts with his rose-tinted cheeks. He hilts to the base and her toes curl, gripping onto his shoulders and raking her nails down his pale back until she leaves vicious red streaks behind, Neuvillette doesn’t seem to notice let alone feel it, because he barely flinches at the contact. Although it emboldens him, pressing deep inside until he can go no further. “Neuvillette,” she whispers against the corner of his mouth, her mind goes blank and stars burst inside of her vision as the tip of his cock drags over her aching g-spot.  “Ohh— there, right there.” she closes her eyes, “Yes, right there— don’t stop, ohh, don’t stop.” she pleads, Neuvillette leans forward until he can rest his forehead against her own, framing her beneath his body while she rocks up and down with every hard thrust. He attacks that spot deep inside of her with newfound determination to abuse it, hitting it over and over again until she’s whining loud and reedy with trembling legs that shiver on his shoulders.

The constant stimulation to her clit mixes with the hefty drag of his cock deep inside of her, at this rate she knows she’ll finish before Neuvillette. She trembles, tossing her head back and forth as her hips push and roll up into Neuvillette. Her stomach curls and her cunt aches with pressure building deep inside of her waist. Neuvillette’s gaze doesn’t leave her, he stares down at her with unwavering focus, he’s determined to see her come undone. “Neuvi—” she chokes on barely strung together words, whimpering while he smothers her beneath him. He's positively transfixed on her, watching how her body shivers and chases his own for that sweet relief she craves so desperately.

"Beautiful," he whispers beneath his breath in a voice so low it doesn't grace her ears, "Absolutely beautiful," 

It's like this with every bouquet, and Neuvillette already can't help but wonder what flowers he'll bring to her doorstep next time.

[r-memberme]

the world tilted | k.m

⎯⎯Klaus’s scream—raw, unpracticed, and filled with an agony that no immortal soul should ever endure—broke the night

warings: can you hear my heart breaking?

In the twilight of a forgotten village—where the cobblestone streets echoed with ancient secrets and the winds whispered of bygone sorrows—there lay a time when Klaus Mikaelson was still human, his heart a fragile thing unscarred by immortality. Back then, before destiny would twist him into a creature of eternal hunger, he was merely a boy burdened with pride and the weight of a family legacy. And in that time, you were his confidante, his dearest friend, the one whose laughter lit up the dusk and whose eyes held magic all their own.

The days were long and tender, filled with the quiet murmur of the river, the rustle of leaves in the forest, and the secret smiles exchanged in hidden glades. You were a witch—a gentle spirit with the gift of healing and the curse of being misunderstood—whose subtle powers enchanted the villagers, drawing wary glances and furtive whispers. But in Klaus’s eyes, you were the embodiment of all that was luminous in a dark world. You were his solace and his forbidden delight, a kindred soul against the harshness of a life dictated by brutal traditions.

It was a crisp autumn evening, when the sky burned with the last remnants of daylight and the air was laced with both promise and sorrow, that fate took its cruel turn. The village was abuzz with rumors of strange happenings—murmurs of magic, of a power that could either heal or curse—and your gentle nature had always drawn both admiration and suspicion. Klaus, ever protective and possessive in his own quiet, secret way, had stood by your side through whispered slanders and fearful stares. He had promised you, without uttering the word, that he would never let harm come to you. Yet in that fragile era, even promises were as delicate as glass.

༊*·˚

One fateful night, as a bitter wind swept through the narrow lanes and the moon hung low like a mournful eye in the sky, Klaus’s father, the formidable and unyielding Mikael, arrived in the village. His presence was as chilling as the night itself—an ancient force of cruelty and iron will. The villagers, steeped in superstition and fear of the unknown, had long eyed your gifts with dread. Mikael, believing in the old ways and in a ruthless order, saw you not as a gentle witch but as a dangerous aberration. That night, when the wind howled and torches were lit in the streets, suspicion and anger coalesced into a plan of violence.

Klaus had been away on one of his errant wanderings, restless and brooding, when the chaos erupted. He returned, heart heavy with an unspoken dread, to find the village aflame with terror and the bitter cry of a crowd that had come to judgment. With trembling steps, he raced through the narrow alleys, each footfall pounding a rhythm of hope and horror until he reached the modest cottage that had been your sanctuary.

There, in the flickering shadows of the torchlight, he saw it: you, radiant even in despair, standing defiant as Mikael’s wrath descended upon you. His father, a towering figure clad in darkness and cruelty, raised his arm as if to deliver a final decree. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and blood, and Klaus’s heart pounded in his ears like a war drum as the inevitable unfolded. With one swift, ruthless motion, Mikael struck, and the light in your eyes dimmed, extinguished by a force so absolute that time itself seemed to shudder.

The moment he saw her crumpled on the ground, the world tilted.

Klaus’s scream—raw, unpracticed, and filled with an agony that no immortal soul should ever endure—broke the night. He rushed forward, pleading and desperate, as if his words could unmake the horror. “No! Please, don’t leave me!” he cried, voice cracking like shattered glass. But there was nothing left to salvage; your form lay still beneath the unforgiving gaze of your father, and Mikael’s features were etched with a merciless finality that froze Klaus in place.

In that desolate moment, the past and present collided. Memories of your shared laughter in the woods, the gentle evenings by the river, and the quiet, stolen moments of youthful hope flashed before his eyes—a montage of light that now seemed so painfully distant. You had been his anchor in a world gone mad, the one constant in a life ruled by chaos. And now, with your life snuffed out like a candle in the storm, Klaus felt the weight of every broken promise and every silent prayer he had ever uttered in your name.

He cradled your head in his arms, his tears mingling with the rain that fell ceaselessly around you, each droplet a tiny witness to the devastation. “I will never leave you,” he whispered, the words a broken vow that tore at his soul. “I will carry you with me in every moment, in every breath, until my very heart stops beating.” His voice was a mixture of anguish and a desperate, unyielding love that echoed in the cold night air.

༊*·˚

The villagers soon dispersed, leaving behind a silence so deep it pressed against Klaus’s ears. In the aftermath of that night, the world became a place of bittersweet echoes—each familiar sound, each whispered memory, a reminder of what he had lost. In the quiet mornings, he would find himself wandering the banks of the river, touching the stone he had once given you, now a relic of a promise he could no longer keep. He would sit in the empty cottage where your laughter had once filled the rooms, and in the silence, he would cry.

Days melted into weeks, and Klaus became a man haunted by the ghost of your smile, by the phantom touch of your hand. The pain was constant, a dull ache that never truly left him, even as he tried to bury it beneath the weight of centuries yet to come. He wandered through the village like a lost soul, his eyes searching the crowds for a glimpse of what he had lost, for any sign that your spirit still lingered in the corners of the world.

And yet, even as he roamed, Klaus found himself unable to let you go completely. Every time he closed his eyes, your face would emerge from the shadows—a bittersweet vision of youth, warmth, and an innocence that no cruel fate could ever erase. In his dreams, you whispered to him, “I will always be with you.” But upon waking, the harsh reality was a void that could never be filled.

In the months that followed, Klaus’s heart became a repository for every unspoken word and every painful memory. He would speak to you in the solitude of night, as if you were there beside him, his voice trembling with longing and regret. “I am sorry,” he would say, over and over, as though the words could stitch his broken soul back together. Yet, no matter how many times he uttered them, the wound remained—a deep, raw scar that no time could heal.

The world around him moved on, indifferent to his sorrow. Seasons changed, and the land that had once echoed with your shared laughter fell silent under a blanket of perpetual grief. Klaus became a phantom in the village, a man whose eyes held an eternal sadness, whose every step was heavy with the burden of loss. He no longer sought the warmth of human company; he retreated into himself, finding solace only in the memories of a love that had been both his salvation and his undoing.

In the final, silent hours of one cold, unyielding night, Klaus stood beneath a sky so vast and indifferent that it mocked his sorrow. The stars shone like distant promises, unattainable and forever out of reach. With a voice that trembled like the wind through barren trees, he vowed to carry your memory with him for all eternity.

And as the night swallowed his whispered vow, Klaus Mikaelson disappeared into the mist, his figure a solitary silhouette against the endless void of a world that had stolen his only light. There was no happy ending here, no solace to be found—only the bittersweet, unyielding truth that some loves, however fierce, are meant to haunt us forever.

[ghostlycod]

okay so i actually have been working on something and it’s turning this post into an actual fic, this is my first one so please enjoy

slasher!ghost x finalgirl!reader

you’re the final girl in the horror movie, and ghost’s the killer that’s been picking off your group one at a time. now it’s just him and you.

part 1

NSFW;MDNI

cw: MAJOR DUBCON/NONCON. don’t read it if you don’t like it, murder, blood, dead bodies, body mutilation (it’s not that bad), violence, ghost trying to kill reader, reader trying to kill ghost back, there will be smut I just couldn’t get to it in this part

They say when you have anxiety that you should count your senses. This is supposed to help you calm down and ground yourself. What’s one thing you can you see? One thing you can hear? One thing you can smell?

Drip, drip.

A single sound. Breathe in and out in time with the smooth splatter of the droplets.

Drip, drip. Breathe in. Drip, drip. Breathe out.

It’s dark in this ramshackle shed you’ve found refuge in. The cloudy night sky bleeding in from the small window does nothing to help illuminate the room. You can hardly make out the details of the source of the slowly dripping fluid, but you know that it’s there. The butchered body of your friend, strung up to the ceiling like swine. Carved up and cut open at the throat.

Drip. Drip. Breathe in.

His corpse reeks of iron and woods and death. You probably don’t smell too great either. The woods you’ve been running in cling to you to, along with the stench of your sweat and your fear. You lay still, cowering beneath a table, because that was the best hiding spot you could come up with in your frenzy.

Drip. Drip. Breathe out.

He’s been bled nearly dry now. His blood runs down his body in a black, faltering stream that ends as it coalesces into a teardrop on the tip of his white shoes, heavy and pregnant before it falls, shooting to the ground like a meteor racing towards earth.

Drip. Drip. Breathe in.

The only world that’s left to hit is yours, and you feel your life is ending with every sickening drop onto the sloppy wooden floorboards.

Drip. Drip. Breathe out.

You are an island now. Alone. No other masses of bodies to cower behind. No other sheep in the flock, no one more injured than you to sacrifice to the wolf.

“I don’t have to run the fastest, I just have to run faster than you.”

That’s what your friend, currently preoccupied with the flood of his bodily fluids onto the floor, had said to you in a moment of desperation. How’d that turn out for him?

He was no hero, and there’s no one left to save you now anyway. The psycho hunting you and your group on your little lakeside cabin getaway had saved you for the last lovely little morsel. So, just you now. You and him.

The silence of the shed snaps when the floorboards creak.

You gasp and immediately regret it.

From your vantage point underneath the flimsy table, you can see dark leather boots in the corner of the room, caked in mud and grass and other things you don’t even want to think about. You watch as those boots softly tread across the floor, making their way closer to you, the leather softly squeaking with the stress of movement.

Drip, drip.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He’s looking for you. Stop breathing so loud.

Drip, drip.

Breathe in, breathe out.

You didn’t even hear him open the door. How long has he been in here?

Drip, drip.

Breathe in, breathe out.

His feet stop only a step away from your pathetic hiding spot, boots squelching as he stands in the pool of blood.

Drip, drip.

Breathe in-

“Birdie…” His voice is as smooth as a fork in the garbage disposal. You feel it reverberate from his body, through the soaked floorboards, all the way down to you as it tingles up your spine.

“I know you’re in ‘ere, bird.”

Run.