#New Blood/Old Sorrows | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

astraystayyh · 6 months

Text

The snow falls, we fall apart.

summary: when heartbreak looms on your life, and winter becomes a time you loathe, hyunjin helps you rewrite your memories with the season, and with it, everything you once believed about love.

genre: producer student!hyunjin x reader. roommates!au. friends to lovers. acute descriptions of heartbreak and general sadness. slow burn. hurt/comfort. healing and hopeless romantic hyune. very inspired by long for you so lots of pining and yearning. (wc: 13k)

warnings: mentions of alcohol. it is implied that reader was in an a very toxic relationship but no details are shared.

a.n: happy birthday to my hyunjin, my muse, my light. thank you for being so full of love that it made me love love again in return. this is i think my most personal piece, and i hope it reminds those who need it that love should be soft and kind, that it shouldn’t hurt, that it should heal not break. i love you guys and i love you my xi, writing this collab with you has been a true honor <3 also!! please listen to long for you while reading :,)

winter falls masterlist.

You’ve only ever felt utter despair twice in your life.

First, when you were seven years old, playing hide and seek with your cousins at your grandma’s house. It was a warm summer afternoon, the air sweetened by pastries you devoured hours ago. You decided to hide in a wooden cabinet up in the attic, only to end up stuck there. The walls felt like they were closing in on you, the oxygen seeping away from the cracks underneath the door, leaving you deprived of air, of life.

Second, at twelve, when you've come to discover sorrow's new facet, clad in grief's heavy cloak. Your parents adopted a hamster for your birthday, but they did not know he had a terminal disease. You were distraught, to say the least, when you awoke to its still form, death claiming a frail heart unaware of its imminent fate.

And now, third, many many moons later, you are knocking on Hyunjin’s door a few minutes after midnight. It is cold out, tears tracing rivulets on your cheeks, your fingers tinted pink from roaming outside in the harsh winds, your heart much heavier than when you were a child. More grief-stricken, at your own hands, this time.

A disheveled Hyunjin opens the door, his blonde ash hair tousled and sticking upwards, a clear indication of the many times he had run his hands through it in fits of frustration. His gray hoodie zipped up hastily, revealing the silver cross necklace he was wearing, nestling perfectly against his honeyed skin.

You've always had an aversion to seeking comfort, saw it as revealing your deepest vulnerabilities to a world that isn't always kind. It was easier, much simpler to do so when you were a clueless child— when you sank in your cousin Lia's hold as she attempted to steady your breathing, when your mother cradled you in her lap after Pinky died.

It is much harder now, much more embarrassing because Hyunjin has never seen you this sad, never glimpsed your shadows that now swarm his doorstep, unannounced.

“What's wrong?” he quickly asks, eyes darting over your figure in a rapid search for visible wounds. He wouldn’t find any. All your injuries stem from within— blood doesn’t have to be spilled for your heart to weep.

You had rehearsed a lie as you walked up to his doorstep. You would say that your car broke down near his place and ask if you could stay over for the night. He would insist he could drive you to your place and you’d refuse, saying that it was too late and you did not wish to bother him. You’d sleep on the couch and slip away in the early hours of the morning.

Yet, it is the genuine worry etched in his eyes that dismantles the fortress you've hidden in, melts the lie in your throat, morphing it into a steel lump coiling in your throat. He looks concerned when all you’ve had directed towards you recently was anger. And you missed someone looking at you in care, not reproach.

“I didn’t know where else to go.” You admit, your voice shattered, fragments of your vocal cords scattered out in the wind like a broken mosaic, the sound of it scraping against your ears.

Blow one hurt. It felt like your body turned against you as it deprived you of oxygen. The sobs that escaped you once you perceived the light pained you, perhaps more than being confined in the darkness.

Blow two was even worse, it was your first time experiencing grief. It was too hard of a concept for your innocent heart to grasp, too complicated for you to find solace in anything as adults do.

You promised yourself that you’d reserve blow three for monumental agonies— big pains and big sorrows only. That’s how you managed to keep all your tears at bay for most of your life. Would they be worth losing your third sob for? No, you've always found the answer to be.

And in all the twisted scenarios you’ve conjured up in your mind, deaths and illnesses and the haunting tale of failure, you did not imagine that it would happen on Hwang Hyunjin’s doorstep. That you’d burst into sobs at the compassionate look in his gaze, and the sad smile he sent your way. As if he knew, as everyone did around you. That you had handed a knife to a serial killer and it was only a matter of time before he stabbed you in the heart.

Two weeks ago.

“I’m trying to understand you but you aren’t helping me,” Seungmin is frustrated as he paces relentlessly before you from left to right like a swinging pendulum. You sit on the couch, beholding only his shoes, avoiding his gaze that would reflect the truth you dare not confront.

“He’s sucking the life out of you, can’t you see that?”

You can, out of everyone that surrounds you, you can see it the most. You feel as if you are carrying a skin that isn’t your own, weighed down by a relationship that has taken everything from you. But admitting it is admitting that you were wrong, in trusting him, in loving him. You couldn’t bear it.

“We are fine!” you shout back, the defiance in your voice surprises even you. This is a familiar script with Seungmin, a recurring conversation spurred by your puffy eyes and diminishing appetite. He tells you, begs you to leave, but where could you go? How could you leave a home where you've shed all your treasured belongings at the door— your skin, your bones, your very self.

What place would welcome you now that you're stripped bare of your soul?

“When was the last time he made you smile, huh? All he does is hurt you, and you...” he chuckles incredulously, running his hand through his hair. “You are letting him.”

Deny, deny, deny.

“This isn’t true. He loves me,” the words taste foreign in your mouth like rusty metal dragging across your lips. A small voice whispers that love shouldn't feel like this, but you quiet it down.

“Are you hearing yourself? Yn, I…” he kneels before you, his hands resting comfortingly on your knees. This is Seungmin, your best friend of five years. You know he has your best interests at heart, you are even more sure of it when his voice softens, shakes slightly when he utters your name. “Yn, please. I’m trying to help you. Please.”

“I didn’t ask for your help,” you push away his hands, standing up. “I don’t want your help, and I don’t need it.”

You quickly leave Seungmin’s dorm, your heart heavier than when you entered it, foolishly hoping that he'd ignore your distressed state after yet another fight with your boyfriend. But Seungmin doesn't understand, no one around you does— you’ve gambled your heart, and you cannot stop drawing the cards, even in the face of losing strikes.

❁ ❁ ❁

Hyunjin offers you a cup of tea with a gentle smile and you grab the steaming drink from his hands. The smell of chamomile wraps around your senses, and your brain fizzles out for a second before the soothing aroma. But it is a fleeting respite, the tempest of your thoughts crashes back onto you with an unsettling force, causing you to almost drop the drink as your hands shake. You place it down the table without taking a sip.

“I’m sorry for coming unannounced,” you apologize, wincing at the intrusion, “I hope I didn’t wake you up.”

“I always sleep late. Don’t worry about it,” he smiles, but you know it isn’t a genuine grin, because his eyes betray an unsubdued concern, refusing to morph into their usual moon crescents.

You’ve always thought that Hyunjin wears his emotions openly— when he laughed, he did so loudly, his boisterous giggles traveling around Seungmin’s dorm. When he hurt himself, everyone in the vicinity would know so from his loud yelps. And when something worried him, he would bite his lip, toying with the plush flesh to ease his nerves.

As he is doing now. Looking at you.

“We broke up,” you quickly say, and your words hang over you like a gloomy cloud. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Do you want me to fight him? I’ll bring changbin too,” he suggests a serious tone underlying his playful offer, and it manages to tear a reluctant giggle out of you.

“Changbin doesn’t know me well enough to fight for me,” you counteract and he shakes his head. “He’ll fight for me, I'm his princess.”

“Are you now?” The giggle escapes your mouth less forcefully, and the smile that graces Hyunjin’s face is a genuine one.

“I am. My proposal stands,” he extends his hand and you wrap your fingers around his palm. “Thank you, I’ll keep it in mind,” you smile but he frowns, flipping your hand around in his hold.

“You are freezing,” he whispers, using his other palm to rub warmth into yours.

“It’s fine,” you lie, slipping your hand out of his grasp, not feeling deserving of his kindness.

Wordlessly, Hyunjin stands, walking into what you assume is his bedroom. You only know of his place because you dropped off Seungmin here some time ago. You are too exhausted to even drink in the interior.

“Here,” he returns, handing you a navy hoodie of his and black joggers. “This will keep you warm at night.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, hesitating for a few seconds before speaking again. “Can you please not tell Seungmin, I... I can't face him right now.”

“Of course. I’ll be awake still if you do need something.”

Hyunjin’s clothing is warm, although peeling away your own garments felt like shedding layers of your skin, as if the fabric melted into your very flesh, just like memories from the day did. You have never felt this worthless before, discarded like a forgotten leaf on the roadside, one he stepped on for his own enjoyment, leaving you crushed in his wake, unable to fly away again.

Hyunjin’s rose perfume wraps around you, and you find relief in sleeping somewhere where your, his, scent was no longer around. You foolishly hope that if you close your eyes hard enough, you’ll manage to convince yourself that you’re someone else, tonight. Someone who isn’t tethered to the heartache, someone who can slip away from the clutches of a love that hurts more than hate could ever manage to do.

❁ ❁ ❁

Heartbreak isn’t beautiful, no matter how eloquently you try to dress it in the syllables of poetry, no words can soften the burn in your lungs, the searing ache that courses through your very core, reminding you that deep within, down to the fundamentals of your being and the most basic alchemy that ties your atoms together— you are unlovable. Whether you cut your hair or allow it to grow, change your heart, or leave it as it has always been, you will remain so.

You don’t remember much of the past week, blurry fragments here and there that float in your mind like a distorted water reflection. There is little room for memories when you are busy trying to remember how to breathe— one inhale in, one exhale out. The simple concept seems harder when there are unkind hands permanently lodged into your heart, squeezing it tight.

What you do remember is telling Seungmin through text the next day, because you couldn’t bear the way his eyes would soften if you spoke to him in person. No signs of surprise cast on his figure, because he knew that it was long coming, a train with one final inevitable destination— you in shambles, him okay.

You remember Seungmin cradling you in his arms when he came to see you, and you trying desperately to keep the tears at bay— too focused on pinching your arm to let Seungmin’s warmth radiate through your being, Hyunjin lingering uncomfortably by the entrance of his living room.

You remember begging Seungmin to grab your belongings from the apartment you shared with your ex because you were unable to face him, him, and everything that your old place spelled out for you. Stand in the ruins of what you once thought would be your permanent home.

And now, you watch as Seungmin and Hyunjin bring suitcases full of your stuff into the latter’s place. And you feel like an outsider in your own body, standing at the corner of the room gazing at utter destruction, unable to stop it, unable to mend it. Seungmin quickly reassures you that you could crash in his and Minho’s place until you find a new one to live in, already taking out his laptop to search for new apartments for you.

But you did not care for it, your eyes zeroed in on the satin shirt peeking out of your suitcase. The one he bought you on your first month anniversary. Back when love felt like a gentle feather running down your spine, and not a dull knife slicing away at your skin.

“This place's expensive too,” Seungmin sighs, rubbing his temple warily. Your logical best friend could not fix your heartbreak but he took it to heart to alleviate your other troubles. You would thank him for it, later, when your tongue finds enough will to move.

“What if you move in with me?” Hyunjin suddenly says and his words filtrate through the fog in your mind easily, as if he rehearsed them enough times so they’d roll out smoothly out of his mouth. “I mean, Felix is away for the next year since he went back to Australia. And I was looking for a new roommate anyway.” He shrugs and Seungmin turns to look at you, his eyes convey the question his mouth doesn’t articulate— is it okay with you?

“I don’t…” your voice is croaked, so you clear your throat. “I don’t want you to do things out of pity.”

“I’m not. If I was, I would've told you to move in with me for free. I still need you to pay rent,” he raises his eyebrows, a playful tease and you smile in relief, nodding, “Okay, I will. thank you.”

Heartbreak is ugly and all-encompassing, weaving through the roots of your heart and infecting each organ with its insidious touch. It renders you immobile, incapable of performing the simplest tasks, burdened by a weight unseen by the world. But you try your best, your very best to contain it.

You smile at the cashier as she hands back your money only to wonder if her soft, well-manicured hands would too crush a soul without remorse. You go to all your classes without fail but your mind is elsewhere, contemplating why the sun filtering through the windows no longer warms your skin. Can nerve endings perish when subjected to too much pain? What's left of life when you can no longer feel the caress of the sun?

You watch a movie at Seungmin's dorm but your mind is elsewhere, fleeting to this morning and how you refused to stay in the shower for more than three minutes because your thoughts might become haunting ghosts tempting you to follow them. You brush your hair and spray your perfume, only because you have to, because you live with Hyunjin and you wouldn’t want your sadness to taint him too. You wonder how long you’ll have to bear it. You wonder if it’ll ever leave you or if the veins in your heart have molded themselves after the pain and they wouldn’t know how to accept happiness anymore.

You greet Hyunjin as he walks past you, shaking your head when he asks you if you want to eat dinner with him, quickly retracting back into your room. You have ten unread messages and a pile of growing laundry you need to do, but all you can muster is to gaze at the empty walls, mirroring the void within you. Your mom told you to call her again and you don’t know how you’ll speak to her without bursting into a sob, how you’ll tell her that all it took was one person to break you. Or maybe it was two people, your hands and his tearing apart your flesh and bones. Maybe that’s the worst part about it. So you don’t call her.

And you only ever emerge from your room when you need to, just like now because your water bottle is finished and you need to refill it. You go to open the kitchen door when you hear Hyunjin’s muted shatter, Felix’s distinctive deep voice coming out of the phone speaker.

“Next you add the melted butter and stir it,” Felix instructs, the sounds of pots and utensils clinking in the background. You fidget slightly, mustering the strength to paint a fake smile on your lips.

“What next?”

“Sift the dry ingredients then add them to your wet mixture,” Felix explains, met with a few seconds of silence. You can almost visualize Hyunjin's perplexed expression, blinking rapidly in confusion.

“Explain it to me like I’m five years old,” he requests, prompting a small smile to etch itself onto your face.

“How are you surviving without me?”

“I’m not please come home,” Hyunjin sounds horrified as Felix’s rich chuckles fill the air. “Why do you suddenly want to make brownies anyway?” he then asks.

You go to open the door when Hyunjin’s response catches you off guard.

“They’re for Yn.”

Hyunjin's words resonate in the air, causing a hitch in your throat and Felix’s teasing whistles simultaneously, but Hyunjin is quick to stop him. “No, no, no, it’s not like that. They’re just a bit down and I remember them loving your brownies. So…”

It takes you a fleeting moment to dig the memory out of your mind, a year ago, right before your ex came to pick you up from Seungmin’s dorm. You had a bite of Felix’s brownies, a surprised gasp escaping your lips at its delicious taste, back when food had taste and happiness came easily to you. It was an insignificant memory, you did not imagine Hyunjin, out of everyone, would remember it.

But he did, and he’s now pacing before your closed door, contemplating how he’ll convince you to finally eat something with him. He throws a thumbs-up in the air for no one but himself, inhaling deeply before knocking on your door.

“Hey,” he greets with a hopeful smile, his gaze meeting your tired form. He hesitates for a second, clearing his throat. “Brownies?” You remain unmoving and he falters, “Hm? Please?”

“Sure,” you nod and a wave of relief floods through Hyunjin as you step out of your room. His joy is short-lived when he takes the brownies out of the oven, only to find them thoroughly burnt.

His mouth hangs agape, and he walks back shamefully to the oven, lowering its door only to scream inside of it.

“This will be more therapeutic,” you say, pointing nonchalantly to the fridge and he agrees, opening its doors and yelling once again in the much larger space.

Your melodic laughter fills the kitchen, Hyunjin’s embarrassment is suddenly a forgotten memory.

“I’m craving kimbap. Should we get it instead?” you propose, a touch shyly and he quickly agrees, afraid you’d change your mind and walk back to your room where he can no longer ensure you are okay.

Hyunjin absentmindedly dances along to the music blasting through the convenience store when a girl sidles up to his side, a saccharine grin on her lips as she looks up at him, “hi,” she greets and his tentative smile mirrors hers. “Hey.”

“Are you single?” she asks, her gaze briefly fleeting to the window. “I think you are really cute.”

“I’m…” he glances at you but you're suddenly engrossed in the ingredients of the tuna kimbap you are holding, pretending not to listen. “I am but I’m not interested, thank you.”

“Oh, come on,” she places a hand on his arm and he physically recoils. “Give me your insta and we could talk.”

“No,” he repeats, grabbing her hand to remove it when a loud voice startles him. “Baby, what’s taking you so— What are you doing?” Hyunjin watches in horror as the girl’s eyes grow wide, before she scrambles to the man’s side, feigning fear.

“He kept hitting on me when I said I had a boyfriend, baby.”

“What?” both you and Hyunjin gasped in comical unison. He would find it amusing if not for the escalating anger radiating from the man, who looks like he spends all his days in the gym. Hyunjin suddenly regrets not working out with Changbin.

The man strides towards Hyunjin. “Do you want to die?”

“No? there’s a misunderstanding,” he replies, swiftly standing before you and shielding you with his arm. “Your… baby,” he wiggles his finger in front of the man's face, “she was the one hitting on me!”

The man scoffs loudly, his face growing redder from the anger seething in him. “So you hit on my girlfriend and then accuse her of cheating?” His fist rises threateningly, prompting Hyunjin to step back, accidentally bumping into your chest.

“Wait, wait, wait! Let’s go talk outside, man to man,” Hyunjin pauses, his voice taking on a taunting edge, “unless you're too scared?” he smirks as he feels you pull at his shirt, whispering an incredulous- “What are you doing?” He shakes his head, grabbing your hand and leading you outside, throwing a sly wink at the man behind you now.

“Are you seriously going to fight him?” you ask, your gaze shifting towards the deranged couple who are about to step out of the grocery store. “No, of course not. I'm a lover, not a fighter.”

“You said you'd fight my ex,” you point out and his eyes soften surprisingly.

“You are an exception.” He looks back at the man, who's now walking towards you both. “But anyways, do you know how to run?” he asks and you frown, “who doesn’t know how to—” you pause as realization dawns on you. “No," you whisper furiously.

“Yes.”

“No,” you shake your head, horrified and he nods, eyes apologetic.

“Yes.” His fingers entwine with yours, he squeezes your hand once before he takes off running.

“Hwang fucking Hyunjin!” you shout and he looks back at you, a mischievous smile on his face. “I’m sorry Yn my face is too pretty to be beaten up.”

“He’s following us!” you yell, looking back horrified as the, even angrier, man runs after you.

“Well, run faster!”

“I’m wearing fucking slippers!” you curse and he giggles, tipping his head back, the wind slamming into you both, his hand never letting go of your own.

“Oh my god why is he still running!” you groan and Hyunjin picks up speed, moving you even closer to his sprinting figure

“I know, is it ever that serious?” he yells above his shoulder and you dig your nails into his palm.

“Shut up, this wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t so gorgeous.”

“So, you think I’m pretty too?” Hyunjin grins proudly and an incredulous laugh escapes your lips.

“Really? Is this what you’re getting out of this situation?”

“Silver linings, Yn, silver linings,” he shouts as you round a small alley, finally stopping to catch your breath. You both fall to the ground, heavy breaths escaping your chests.

“Holy shit, I’m not athletic at all,” he heaves, his eyes meeting yours. He expects to find anger lingering in your gaze but all he can grasp is your amused smile before you collapse into a fit of laughter, clapping loudly and clutching your stomach with your hand.

“Oh my god, I’m crying,” you laugh harder, wiping away at the tears falling from your eyes. Hyunjin’s weariness disappears in the blink of an eye— he did not realize how much he missed your smile until he glimpsed it again. And it is beautiful. Happiness looks beautiful on you.

“Idiot,” you hit his shoulder playfully, and his response is delayed for a few seconds, the warmth from your smile rendering him immobile.

“I’m sorry,” he chuckles, pulling you up. “Here, I’ll carry you home,” he squats slightly before you. “How impolite of me. How dare I make your majesty run.”

You shake your head, amused, before climbing atop his back, his warm palms holding your thighs securely. “Only because the slippers hurt my feet.”

You walk in silence for a while, your arms wound up around Hyunjin’s neck, the ghost of a smile still lingering on both your faces.

“They said it will snow tomorrow,” Hyunjin speaks suddenly and you stay silent for so long he starts to wonder if you even heard him.

“Mm? That’s nice,” your tone is melancholic, and he pauses at the peculiar sadness in it— as though you were trying to act nonchalant about something that has once meant the world to you.

“Don’t you like the snow?” he asks and your hold on his neck falters.

“I loved it. Loved ice skating and building snowmen.” Your voice is light and airy, like Hyunjin’s favorite mint chocolate ice cream. “But now it reminds me of bad times, bad memories.”

“I understand.”

Hyunjin knows what it feels like to relinquish parts of yourself you never wished to part from. For someone to grab your happiest places and to cast a gloomy filter atop them. Sometimes it is the loss of a season that hurts more than the departure of a person.

And Hyunjin loves winter.

He’ll do everything so that you’ll come to love it again too.

❁ ❁ ❁

Is it a nightmare if the person in it is one you once loved, looked forward to beholding with your gaze, hoping they’d never slip out of your reach? You don’t know, but you are growing tired of having the same dreams every night. Of waking up with an exhaustion that goes beyond your restless sleep but pleads from your soul to rest after almost a year of torment.

You sigh wearily, rubbing a hand through your face before walking to the kitchen to retrieve a glass of water. You find Hyunjin there, eating a cupcake while standing shirtless, scrolling through his phone. You blink at the sight.

“Hey,” you clear your throat and he startles, dropping the cupcake on the ground. He goes to pick it up only to bang his head on the table, a loud yelp escaping his lips. You barely contain your giggles as you walk to his side, rubbing your palm soothingly on his head. “I'm sorry I didn't mean to scare you.”

“At least pretend you are sorry,” he mumbles, pointing to your amused smile and you chuckle, taking his hand and helping him to his feet.

“What are you doing up now?” he asks as he grabs some napkins to clean up the pink frosting smeared across the floor.

You hesitate for a few seconds before whispering, “Just nightmares. And you?” you quickly add, not keen on pushing the subject any further.

“I'm working on a song,” he explains, as his gaze lingers on your sunken eyes, weighed down by dark circles from too many sleepless nights.

“And the cupcake?”

“Some people need caffeine to function. I need flour.”

“I literally see you drink three americanos per day.”

“Okay well maybe I need both,” he admits sheepishly and you grin, drumming your fingers along the countertop.

“Can I sit with you while you work?” you ask quickly, before the words linger enough in your mouth that you no longer wish to spit them out.

The smile that Hyunjin sends you is kind, pushing the shadows of your nightmares just slightly out of reach.

“Of course, yeah you can. Don’t even need to ask.”

Hyunjin walks first into his bedroom, quickly slipping on a hoodie while you take in the interior. It is a quite simple room— a large bed with gray covers, and a desk filled with what you assume to be his producing equipment sits adjacent. But what catches your attention is the dried rose hung delicately on the wall, and the array of paintings surrounding it. You edge closer to it, drawn to the well-crafted paintings— a sun-drenched beach, a couple lost in an embrace so intimate their forms can no longer be separated, and an elderly pair riding a motorcycle, their love radiating vibrantly as if enclosed in eternal youth.

“You paint?” you ask, turning around to find Hyunjin watching you. He steps closer, enveloping you once more in the fragrance of his rose perfume.

“In my free time.”

“You are amazing, Hyunjin,” you compliment sincerely, your gaze fixed on that imagery of the old couple, one that most likely grew together. It tugs at your heartstrings, stirs a painful longing within you, a memory of a time when you too believed you’d find such boundless love.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, before brushing his fingertips gently against your forearm, for a fleeting second. “Are you okay?” he asks, a tenderness you’ve been aching for latched into his question. Your eyes refuse to peel away from the paintings and the love spilling from each paint brush stroke, a love that refuses to rest on your being as if you were harboring an armor that repels it.

“No,” you reply sincerely, turning to face him. “It’s really hard,” you say with a smile, hoping that the mechanical display of happiness would keep your tears at bay, tricking your brain into believing you're not as sad as you feel.

It fails to do so, and the tears well in your eyes like a gathering storm. Frustration twists your features as you shut your eyes, tilting your head upward in a desperate attempt to contain the flood. It pauses as Hyunjin cradles the back of your head, drawing you close to the warmth of his neck. His palm glides soothingly along your spine, before patting your back ever so gently.

Your back stiffens, hands curling into tight fists, breath catching in your throat. You've grown accustomed to pushing away comfort, putting up tall barriers to shield yourself. But tonight, Hyunjin seems to break through your defenses.

Tonight, you soften, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, head nestling deeper against his tender skin.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he whispers and another sob wracks through you, but he only holds you tighter. “It’ll get better soon.”

“I loved him,” you hiccup, your voice breaks, “a lot.”

“I know, that’s why it hurts.” His voice is gentle, and yet his hold on you feels secure as if you could stumble and fall, and he would be there to catch you

“I want it to stop hurting.”

“It will, with time.”

Your next words are tinged with a childlike vulnerability, reminiscent of blow one, then two. But you do not care for it, in that instant, you crave the reassurance, you need someone to plant a seed of hope in your soul because your hands are too frail to dig for it.

“Do you promise me?”

His response doesn’t come hastily, carelessly thrown into the air like idle chatters. He takes his time, considering it with the gravity of an oath.

“I promise you.” He finally says, each syllable infused with sincerity. A brief pause hangs in the air before he adds. “And if it doesn’t then you can hit me.”

“On your pretty face?” you ask, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“On my pretty face,” he confirms with a chuckle.

“What an honor,” you roll your eyes playfully as you lean back and he grins, tenderly wiping away your tears with the back of his fingers.

“I can't believe it took three minutes for you to cry in my room. This isn’t good for my reputation.”

“Good thing this will never leave this bedroom, right?” you point a finger at him threateningly, and he pretends to zip his lips, tossing away the imaginary key. “You got it.”

“So what are you working on?” you ask as you settle on the edge of his bed, knees drawn up to your chest.

“It’s a pretty sad song, wanna hear?” he offers, sitting across from you on his chair.

“Yeah, I'd love to,” you smile, and Hyunjin deftly adjusts a few buttons, before his melancholic whistles weave through the air, coupled with the somber melody of a piano. Your breath catches in your throat, the music reaching into the very depths of your soul. It's as if the notes are calling out for a loved one, for a time that has long passed, for a past that will never come back no matter how much we long for it.

The instrumental continues, each piano note and each violin string echo like a bittersweet lament, springing tears to your eyes. But the melody remains beautiful, akin to the beauty always found in the sadness— in the tears that cascade down your cheeks like glistening crystals, in the tremble of your hands akin to branches swaying in the wind, in the rise and fall of your chest with each breath, mirroring the ebb and flow of the waves.

Hyunjin watches you intently as the music envelops you both, his gaze softening with each passing moment. You bring a hand to your chest, almost unconsciously, too engrossed in the melody to even blink. He feels a blush sprout on his cheeks as your teary eyes hold his with the last fading guitar strings.

“You keep on making me cry,” you whisper, your voice choked with emotion, and he grins, tilting his head shyly against his shoulder.

“You like it?” he asks, a tad eager and you nod, not bothering to wipe the lone tears that are falling down your cheeks.

“I think this is what my loneliness sounds like,” you confess softly.

“As do mine.”

A silent beat runs between you both, it isn’t uncomfortable, but safe. Because you understand him, just as he understands you.

“Sometimes I long for things that have passed," he admits, “although I know I can't get them anymore.”

“The most terrible thing you can long for is yourself.”

“Because no one’s to blame for that loss but you?” he muses and you nod, a sad smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah, exactly.”

You bite your lip, casting a glance back at the paintings adorning the wall. “I don't love him anymore,” you begin quietly. “I stopped a long time ago because there was no room for love anymore to grow amid weeds and thorns.”

He remains silent, sensing that this is a weight you need to unburden yourself from.

“But in the midst of it I think I stopped loving myself too,” you whisper, a confession too terrible to be uttered out loud. “That's what I long for. The things I used to love that I'm indifferent to now.”

“Like you’re a stranger before everything once familiar to you.”

“Yeah, you express it prettily,” you remark with a small smile.

“It's my job,” he grins lightly.

“I think when your heart is pure,” he begins after a while, pausing to carefully choose the words that will soothe your burn, help sleep come more easily to you. “You give love to others more readily than you do to yourself. And it takes time, patience, to redirect that love back to your own heart once again. But it's not a mistake to love, you shouldn’t hate yourself for it. Nor should you blame your past self for loving the wrong person because they did not know what you now do.”

“Think of it as a caterpillar in their cocoon,” he continues gently, “when they finally emerge from their chrysalis, they might long for who they were, where they once were because it is the only place they've ever known. But they do not realize that they've transformed into a beautiful butterfly, that they can now fly, and witness much more than their chrysalis. So maybe, your new self will love the same things as before, or maybe you’ll find new, better things to love that you would have not known before. But in either way, your heart is beautiful. That is what matters, no?”

A small pout draws on your lips, your eyebrows scrunched as you gaze at him.

“You have a very tender soul, Hyunjin.”

Your words linger in Hyunjin's mind long after the sunrise, as you lay peacefully asleep on his bed. The melody of the instrumental he produced continues to play faintly in the background, serving as a gentle lullaby that eases you into slumber, entwined in his sheets, your arms wrapped protectively around yourself, one hand cradling your shoulders and the other resting gently on your stomach. The image sears into his eyes as he sketches the outlines of a figure holding itself absentmindedly, long into the night.

Hyunjin has had his fair share of compliments, mostly pertaining to his face, and others to his craft. but it is you who seems to have sensed that a part of his soul resided in his art, that he left pieces of his heart hidden in the notes he composes and the lyrics he writes, hoping they’ll find soft hands that will take care of them, just like your own.

Five days later.

hyunjin [11:34 p.m.]: are you home?

yn [11:34 p.m.]: yeahh, do you need anything?

hyunjin [11:35 p.m.]: come downstairs, im waiting for youu

if you say no i’ll freeze to death..

hurry i can’t feel my fingers anymore (please please) ㅠㅠㅠ

“This better be a life and death situation Hwang Hyunjin,” you say threateningly as soon as you appear before Hyunjin, causing him to straighten up from the wall he was leaning against.

“It is a very dangerous life-altering situation that requires your immediate assistance, indeed,” he responds solemnly, ushering you gently to his car and opening the door for you.

“Which is?” you ask as soon as he settles inside the car and he simply grins at you, his left dimple coming forth like the very sun on a gloomy day.

“You’ll see.”

Hyunjin’s eyes fleet to your figure every now and then, but you do not seem to notice, your gaze lost into the blurring lights ahead. He can tell you're still not entirely yourself, so he was prepared to forcibly drag you along with him. He’s almost surprised you accepted to come down so easily.

“Is that… Seungmin?” you speak suddenly, pointing to a man waving in the distance, as Hyunjin parks his car near an empty field.

“And Changbin? And Minho?” you continue, squinting your eyes, “and a bonfire?” you giggle with a hint of excitement.

“You love s’mores during the winter, right?”

Hyunjin smiles, your soul softens.

“I do,” you say quietly, “I really do.”

You quickly exit the car, running into Seungmin's arms with a grin of disbelief plastered on your face. “This is insane,” you almost shout, squeezing him tight in a hug.

“It was so hard to find the perfect middle of nowhere for this,” Minho grumbles as you move to greet him, but the warmth of his embrace assures you he's only teasing.

“Thank you,” you say with a smile as you hug Changbin, who affectionately ruffles your hair. “It was Hyunjin’s idea,” he reveals, and you glance back at Hyunjin, who stands with his hands buried deep within his sweatpants behind you. You mouth a silent “thank you” to him, but he shakes his head modestly as if it is nothing to bring happiness to a bruised heart.

The night unfolds in endless laughter, with Minho and Hyunjin taking turns roasting marshmallows over the crackling bonfire, and Seungmin serving you hot coffee to keep your hands warm. Your stomach aches from the uncontrollable fits of giggles that overtook your being as Minho recounts the time he danced so vigorously on stage for his dance club that he ripped his pants, feeling a breeze where there shouldn't be one; and Changbin tells you the story of the time his voice cracked in the middle of a rap battle, and how none of the boys stopped teasing him about it for months to come.

And as the four of them take turns making you laugh, a quiet, tender realization dawns on you—you are loved. It is something he tried to convince you was impossible, that no one around truly cared for you but him. And even then, you weren’t deserving of his love whole, only scrapes of it, as if you were a beggar tugging at the outskirts of his heart.

But Hyunjin reminded you otherwise. And if your friends found something worthy of love within you then perhaps so will you again, one day.

“Did you have fun?” Hyunjin asks as he opens the door to his, your, apartment hours later. What he doesn't expect is for you to respond by wrapping your arms around his slender torso, squeezing tight in gratitude.

“Thank you,” you whisper and he nods, though you cannot see him, returning the embrace by wrapping his arms around your shoulder blades.

Hyunjin doesn't let go first, sensing that perhaps you need this hug more than he does. He smiles as your eyes meet his again, but his grin falters when he notices your gaze flickering towards your bedroom, a hint of unease clouding your expression. It's as if behind that door lie monsters only you can grasp, wearing the faces of people you once knew, once loved.

“Wanna stay with me while I work on the song?”

“Last time I ended up sleeping on your bed,” you say a bit shamefully, recalling the morning you woke up to find yourself covered with a thick blanket that wasn’t there before, alone in Hyunjin's room.

“It's okay,” he shrugs, “I missed sleeping on the couch.”

You stare pointedly at him and he chuckles, “Fine, I did not miss it. But you needed the sleep, so it’s okay with me.”

“Fine,” you concede, though you did not need much convincing for it. “But only if you promise you’ll wake me up if I end up falling asleep again.”

Hyunjin tilts his head, thinking to himself for a few seconds before shaking his head stubbornly, a small pout drawn on his face, his eyes semi-closed. “No.”

“Hyunjin!”

“Nu-uh,” he insists, shaking his head once more as he walks back towards his room. “I'm waiting for you!”

“I'm not coming!”

But you do eventually join him, after changing your clothes and washing your face. You find Hyunjin clad in beige and white checkered pajamas, his glasses pushing back his silky hair as he hunches over his journal, scribbling away before erasing what he wrote.

“Struggling with lyrics?” you ask, leaning against the wall and he startles. “Do you float on the ground? Why can I never hear you come in?”

“Or maybe you just love being dramatic,” you sing-song, laying atop his bed, much more at ease than the previous night.

Hyunjin sticks his tongue out childishly in response, and you playfully mimic the gesture before both of you dissolve into happy giggles.

“Kind of,” he explains once you both settle down, “I have this specific feeling in mind that I need to convey.”

“You'll do well,” you reassure softly, “your lyrics are always so beautiful. Remember Cover me?” you smile and he scratches the back of his ear, a shy grin spreading across his face.

“You still listen to it?” he asks and you nod eagerly, attempting to belt into Seungmin’s ending high note. You fail horribly and Hyunjin throws a crumpled piece of paper on your face to get you to stop singing.

“My poor ears,” he laughs loudly, and you retaliate by throwing back a pillow on his head.

“You just don’t get my artistic abilities.”

“I’d get them more if you stayed silent.”

You gasp, faking offense as you stand up to tickle Hyunjin on his chair, he starts squirming immediately, his loud giggles spilling all over the room, coating it in vibrant hues of happiness, and you’re suddenly captivated by the sight of him— his head thrown back, a golden lock framing his laughter-filled eyes, his top lowering slightly to reveal glimpses of his collarbones and the delicate veins that trace enticing paths on his neck.

You pause, your hand hovering over the side of his stomach, as a long-forgotten warmth spreads through your heart, like the first rays of dawn greeting the earth after a long winter night. It doesn’t diffuse quickly through your being, but rather drapes like sticky honey on your veins, making you well aware of your growing blush, of how beautiful Hyunjin is in his joy.

“Never singing to you again,” you clear your throat, laying atop his bed once again, and quickly reaching for your phone, anything to avoid his eyes which rival the crescent moon outside his window.

Hours pass before a warm hand gently settles on your shoulder, rousing you from your slumber. Blinking away the fog of sleep, you find Hyunjin leaning over you, his grin wide and infectious. “Wake up,” he whispers, but you only groan, burying your face deeper into his pillow.

He doesn’t yield, taking hold of your wrist and guiding your drowsy figure upright, before wrapping the blanket snugly around your shoulders. Without a word, he leads you out onto his balcony, carefully putting his neon green beanie on your head to shield you from the cold.

“It’s snowing!” he smiles, and his excited tone manages to dissipate the fog in your mind. You blink repeatedly and soon enough, you too behold the fallen snowflakes, each one resembling a tiny speck of light bidding farewell to the sky to greet the earth.

“You missed the first snow so I didn’t want you to miss this one too,” he explains, and his thoughtfulness blankets you with a warmth that seeps into every crevice in your body, drips down your fingertips and makes the cold of 4 a.m. seem less harsh, less biting to the touch.

You don’t know how to say thank you, because those two words don’t encapsulate the depths of gratitude that you feel for Hyunjin. Because he is speaking to the person within you who still loves snow, the part buried underneath layers of dust from a ground heartbreak. But you still manage to hear him, and you squeeze his hand tightly, and he doesn’t let go until you finally do.

❁ ❁ ❁

Remembering has become easier for you these past two months— both the good and the bad. And each day, the scale tips towards one side or the other. Sometimes you recall the suffocation you felt with him, the feeling that no matter what you did you could never please him, that your hands were crafted to break rather than mend. And on those days your wound grows, it throbs and bleeds different emotions.

Sometimes it's anger— at him for treating your heart so carelessly as if you were a being devoid of feeling. And then at you— for staying, for giving him excuses and desperately searching for goodness within him, for the one redeeming quality that would convince you he was worth the pain.

And other days bring an excruciating sadness along, a weight that presses down upon you until you're paralyzed. Because you feel bad for yourself and for everything you went through. Because you’re unsure how to rise when unseen hands push you deeper into the abyss.

And on these days, Seungmin becomes your anchor. He buys your favorite food, skips classes with you, and takes you to your favorite gardens. He talks and he talks and you try your best to laugh because you do not wish to worry him more. It is enough to be your own burden, you do not wish to burden him too.

But when he drops you home, your facade slips away, the smile fading from your face as if it were never truly yours to wear. You are too tired to pretend so you don’t, and Hyunjin doesn’t let you, either. He brews you tea and orders takeout because he knows you lack the energy for cooking. He goes with you on walks and drapes you in pieces of his clothing— scarves and beanies and gloves because he knows you couldn’t care less about a cold when there is a frost coating your bones. He lets you sit in his room while he works on his songs, and while he paints. Sometimes you talk and often you don't need to. But he’s there. He's there with you.

But you also remember the good. You remember your movie night with the boys, Hyunjin building an entire fort for you, adorned with twinkling lights and the softest blankets. How you watched movies until 5 a.m. your bodies so closely huddled together that there was no room left for sadness.

You recall Hyunjin begging you to build a snowman with him at the crack of dawn, the two of you collapsing in fits of laughter as you threw snowballs at one another, your footsteps marking the fresh fallen snow.

You remember being so exhausted after one of your showers that you simply laid atop the couch, gaze fixed on the void, too drained to even untangle the knots in your hair. Yet, it is not the tiredness that you exactly recall, nor the salty tears you shed underneath the scorching water jet. But it is Hyunjin's tender hands as he brushed through your hair, his fingers tracing the nape of your neck, his knuckles ghosting over the slate of your shoulder. You remember whispering that it was a particularly hard day and Hyunjin understanding. You remember him watching many YouTube tutorials to prepare your favorite seaweed soup, only for it to end up being too salty. But you still ate it all, because he made it for you, to lift your wounded spirits. And that alone was enough for it to taste good.

You remember your heart hardening then softening again, breaking then stitching itself back together, closing off then blooming like flowers on the first day of spring. You remember smiling only to cry then smile again. And you remember liking snow, a bit more than you thought you would. Because Hyunjin was there, holding your trembling hand, steadying it enough for you to rewrite your memories with winter.

So, you want to say thank you.

You do not wish to spell it out, because there are too many things to thank Hyunjin for and too few words to do so. Instead, you drag him to the farmer’s market near your home, and you tell him to help you pick flowers.

“I could be in bed watching my favorite show and yet here I am bestowing you with my enchanting presence,” he sighs, not too modestly, as you both eye the array of colorful blooms.

“Okay, Shakespeare, are you done?” you roll your eyes, attempting your best to hide your grin.

“Done annoying you? Never. These are very pretty,” he adds, pointing to the white roses in full bloom, their delicate petals emitting a sweet fragrance into the air.

“I agree, what else should we add?” you ponder, picking out four roses.

“Mm, Hibiscus? The red in the center is so vibrant,” he suggests, taking out his phone to capture the flower.

“Cute. Baby breath’s would look good too,” you say as you gather the flowers, heading to the cashier with Hyunjin trailing behind, still admiring the delicate blooms.

“Can I write a note?” you ask the middle-aged man as he wraps the bouquet in a powder blue paper.

“Sure,” he replies with a smile, and you return the gesture, quickly jotting down your words.

“Are you done?” Hyunjin grins when you return to his side and you nod, exiting the flower shop.

“What do you think?” you ask, angling the bouquet towards him.

“It's beautiful.”

“It’s yours,” you smile, growing shier at the intensity of his gaze as it lands on you, then the flowers, then on you again. “Take it,” you hand it to him, your cheeks flushing like the hibiscus’s crimson core.

“Actually?” he says softly, his fingers trembling slightly as he accepts the flowers and you nod in response. You bite your lip as you watch him take out the note, his eyes softening once he reads the words inscribed in it— thank you for making my winter less cold.

“Should we go?” you say a tad too cheerfully, turning away, but Hyunjin grabs your wrist, spinning you around once more. His fingers trail up your arm, coming to rest gently on your cheek as he leans down to plant a tender kiss there.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, his lips lingering against your skin for a moment longer than necessary. You think that if his soft lips grace your skin a few times more, your nerve endings might forget the harshness they were subjected to. If his gentle hands remain on your cheeks, then maybe, your heart would heal quicker, better. Maybe your past self that you long for would emerge again, maybe Hyunjin would be able to unearth it.

Your hopeful thoughts disappear as quickly as they arrive, overshadowed by a sense of helplessness that crashes over you, all of the sudden. You sense him before you hear him, the familiar anxiety that is only synonymous with your ex’s presence.

“Yn?” the sound of your name feels harsher in his mouth, the syllables spat out rather than spoken tenderly, as they are when Hyunjin pronounces it. Your veins run cold as his voice pierces the air, your heart skipping three beats at once before plummeting to your knees. You wrap your hand around Hyunjin’s forearm instinctively, and he looks down at you, his expression morphing into one of concern.

You’re unsure of what he sees in you— whether it is your pale face, the quiver of your lower lip, or the fear that has coated all your features— but his eyes harden, his brows furrowing as he gazes at the man behind you.

You refuse to turn around, bracing yourself for his next words. “Yn,” he repeats his tone laced with anger, his fingertips grazing your arm as if intending to force you to face him. But before he can touch you, Hyunjin intervenes, swiftly stepping in between you and your ex, shielding you with his own body protectively.

“Leave,” Hyunjin's voice is cold, dripping with a venomous edge you've never heard from him before, his jaw clenching with barely contained fury.

“Is this your new shiny toy, Yn?” your ex taunts and his voice cuts through your being against your will, triggering a flood of memories you've tried so desperately to suppress. Memories of his cruelty, his manipulation, and the pain he inflicted upon you—using your love as a weapon to bolster his own ego.

“What's in it for you?” you find your voice again, though it trembles when you speak. He is the very embodiment of your pain and everything you loathe about yourself. You wish for the ground to swallow you whole, for a bolt of lightning to strike the earth, anything to spare you from facing him.

“It's only been three months, I didn't know you were a whore.”

Hyunjin's fist connects with his cheek before you can register his words. It all unfolds so rapidly that you barely have time to comprehend it. Your ex staggers back, blood trickling from the cut on his lip, while Hyunjin stands before you, his chest heaving with restrained anger, his right hand clenched into a fist, the bouquet still held tightly in the other.

“Fine, I deserved it,” your ex chuckles, his voice laced with mockery as he wipes the blood from his lip. His gaze meets yours briefly behind Hyunjin's back.

“You might not be a whore but you are unlovable, keep that in mind.” He spits out before walking away, crude words that tear at every scab covering your wounds, reopening them with a brutal force. Hyunjin moves to follow him, but you grab his shirt, pulling him back.

“He’s not worth it,” you murmur.

Your words seem to snap Hyunjin out of his haze as he turns to look at you, worry cast across his figure. He moves to cradle your cheeks but you step back, refusing to meet his eyes. He swallows thickly, clutching the bouquet in his hands. “Are you okay?”

You let out a heavy sigh, your shoulders slumping as you shake your head slightly. “Let's just go home,” you whisper, eyes fleeting to his for a split second. All the lights in your gaze are muted.

You’re crumbling before him once again and he cannot stop it, no matter how much he yearns to.

It's long past midnight when you find yourself seated on the floor of your living room, a bottle of red wine placed between you and Hyunjin. You exchange it wordlessly, taking turns sipping from it, the alcohol warming your insides but doing little to ease the ache in your heart. You don’t exactly recall when Hyunjin sat next to you, but you don’t mind. You were too lost in your own thoughts to even register his presence.

“Yn,” he calls out softly and you hum absentmindedly, memories of when your ex spoke your name haunting you, each time he yelled your name, uttered it in disdain as if it was the starting point of everything wrong with you.

“Talk to me, please?” he pleads, angling his body towards your own. But you refuse to meet his eyes and Hyunjin’s heart twists in his chest. He is afraid of all the ugly thoughts that must roam your mind. He wishes he could enter it, open the windows wide, and usher the light in.

“I'm sorry you were dragged into this,” you say, your gaze fixated on the bouquet placed atop the table. The crimson painted on the hibiscus’ petals reminds you of the blood that spilled from your ex’s mouth, and your gaze fleets to Hyunjin's hand, slightly bruised from the punch.

“Don’t apologize,” he whispers, “there is nothing to be sorry for.”

It’s as though you don’t hear him, your fingers trailing gently across his scraped knuckles, tears pooling in your eyes the more you stare at his hand.

“Does it hurt?” you ask, voice thick with emotion, and Hyunjin’s quick to shake his head. “No, don’t worry about it. He deserved it.”

“You didn’t deserve to be hurt.”

“Neither did you.”

Your disbelieving scoff that follows scares him. What if you’re slipping away into a dark place yet again, one void and barricaded, in which the only sound that echoes is your ex’s hurtful words? What if he can’t reach you again?

“If the only person I’ve ever loved says I’m unlovable then maybe I am.”

You’re drunk, you wouldn’t have said such an ugly thing otherwise, wouldn’t have allowed this sentiment to materialize into the air, to take a tangible form apart from your abstract thoughts.

“No,” Hyunjin says in a panic as though he’s trying to quickly pull the brakes on your free-railing thoughts. He cups your face between his palms, your tears falling freely atop his hands but he does not move away.

“No,” he repeats, more calmly this time. “How he treated you is a reflection of who he is. And how you see him is a reflection of who you are. And you wanted him to be loving because you’re full of love. You wanted him to be good because you are a good person. And he can’t stomach that, can’t stomach that you are happy without him so he’s trying to ruin you again.”

“Hyunjin…” you shake your head but he only inches closer to you, his thumbs gently caressing your cheekbones. “No, listen to me. Seungmin loves you so much he couldn’t eat properly for the first few days you stayed here, texted me all the time asking me how you were and if you were feeling better. He isn't good with words so instead he tries to make you laugh. He wishes he could give up parts of his happiness for you.”

A sob swells within you but Hyunjin presses on. “And Minho, he tried to memorize all your favorite recipes so he could cook them for you. It isn’t a coincidence that every time we go over to their dorm it is your favorite food that we eat. He takes more pictures of his cats these days so he could send them to you because he knows it cheers you up.”

“You told me Changbin doesn’t know you well enough to fight for you but when we saw your ex across the campus one day he wanted to get up and beat him. He always asks me if you are well and if there is something he can do for you, anything.”

He inhales deeply, tears welling up in his eyes as well. “And me…” a tender smile graces his lips as he gazes at you, “you make this house a home. I feel like my true self when you are around and loneliness doesn’t come to me as often as it did. Because you are here. You are like a beam of sunlight that lightens up every life you touch, mine first,” he’s baring his soul to you, vulnerable yet resolute. “So tell me, Yn, what’s not to love in you when you yourself are so full of love?”

“Hyune,” you speak the nickname for the first time, and Hyunjin’s heart thrashes achingly around his ribcage. “If you keep talking like this I might end up loving you,” you smile sadly at him as if it is a terrible thing to be loved by you.

“But I don’t want to love you, because I won’t know how to, not anymore. So I'll end up leaving. And I'll long for you, and I don't think I can stomach longing for you from afar.”

“So please,” you place one hand atop his own, wipe away the lone tear rolling down his cheek. “Don’t make me love you, hm? You deserve more than to be loved by someone like me.”

You leave Hyunjin in the living room, alone before the white flowers you gifted him. He doesn’t want to put them away in a vase, for as soon as he grabbed them from your hold, everything around you both crumbled. So he leaves them there for the night, the creamy white petals aglow underneath the moonlight. He spends the night painting the bouquet from memory, but the petals end up too tinged with red, perhaps mirroring the blood his heart refuses to stop spilling still.

He did not realize it before, maybe he blinded himself so he wouldn’t see what was before him all along. But it is all the clearer to him now— that in his attempts to make you love winter again, Hyunjin only ended up loving you.

A week later.

hyune [1:25 a.m.]: i miss you

You and Hyunjin spent the last seven days avoiding one another, well you more than him. He just understood your silent plea when you took a step back the one time he tried to talk to you in the kitchen, swallowing thickly before inching away, allowing you to move past him.

You did not know how to face him after what he said, partly because you were embarrassed by your own response, mostly because even in your drunken daze, his words etched themselves permanently into your memory.

It is his reassuring words that echoed in your brain for the past week, not those of your ex.

hyune [1: 26 a.m.]: and i miss sleeping on the couch

You giggle, shaking your head before replying.

yn [1:26 a.m.]: no you don’t

hyune [1:26 a.m.]: no i don’t ㅠㅠ

but i finished the song

wanna hear?

Walking to Hyunjin’s room feels as familiar as going into your own. And when your gaze finally meets his you can’t help but break into a relieved smile. It was foolish of you to punish yourself, enough people have done that for you already.

“Hey,” he greets tentatively, and you respond with an awkward wave, a moment pregnant with anticipation passes before both of you dissolve into laughter.

“What is this? Are we in middle school,” he teases and you giggle, settling comfortably on his bed once more.

“I know. We are so lame.”

“You are,” he corrects with a grin and you gasp, pretending to leave but he quickly catches your hand, stopping you. “No, please stay. I meant it when I said that I missed you,” he repeats quietly, as if afraid that his confession would make you run away once again.

Your heart aches, the knots in your stomach tightening and unraveling all at once. “I missed you too,” you admit softly, and he smiles, his thumb tracing a gentle path above your pulse before releasing your hand.

“So it's done then?” you ask and he nods, running a hand through his hair with a hint of anxiety. “How do you feel about it?”

“Good. I hope you’ll like it, mostly.”

“I'm sure I will,” you reassure him with a soft smile, and he nods once more, pressing a few buttons before his melodious whistles fill the air once again.

Nothing could have braced you for the sound of Hyunjin's voice that followed, its timbre soft as silk yet imbued with profound sorrow. It's as though he recorded the song on one of his loneliest nights, his honeyed vocals dipped in an excruciating nostalgia that seeps into every corner of the room, every corner of your heart.

In the faded photo, I come across a smile spread across a youthful face, overlapped with the seasons.

Your gaze flickers to Hyunjin as a shadow of recollection dawns on you. You remember telling him that you couldn’t stomach looking at pics of your past, ones in which you smiled so freely because you were blissfully unaware of what was to come.

The night’s so cold that it’s almost unreal.

Because you weren’t aware of the winter that will follow and the biting cold that it would bear, for everything that will go astray in your relationship, for your ex's facade to crack like a glacier succumbing to the pressure of lies and pretense.

I wake up in another silence, and I close my eyes.

You remember Hyunjin confessing that silence haunted him more than words ever could, and you had agreed, sharing how sometimes you shut your eyes, pretending that the reality you woke up to wasn't the one you were living.

The white flower we planted together has bloomed. I do not dare pick it. Now it withers away.

You gaze at the white flowers you brought him, now wilted in the vase placed on his desk, yet Hyunjin refuses to throw them still. You see the card you wrote for him hung on the wall, right next to the dried red rose. He kept it. Though it withered, he kept it all.

So I long for you. And I long for you. And I'll long for you.

You remember the longing you both spoke of, how he understood a feeling you felt so incredibly alone in. How he tried to reassure you when he too was caught in the webs of the past. How you longed for him in the past week. How you wished he longed for you just the same.

So I can keep loving you. So I could be loving you. And morе.

The violin swells and so does the emotion in your chest. You remember him asking you ‘What’s not to love in you’ and how you've spun those words in your thoughts ever since. You remember thinking that if he gave you a few more weeks, just a bit more time, you might have found it in you to believe them.

You see Hyunjin’s glimmering eyes holding yours, you see his heart atop a platter handed to you, and you see the resignation in his being. Don’t make me love you, you told him. You didn’t dare to tell him not to love you in return, deemed it too foolish of thought to entertain.

For he was Hwang Hyunjin, the quiet producer who paints in his free time and who wears his heart on his sleeve. Who remains hopeful, loving, and tender, despite the thorns pricking at his side. Who is beautiful, so much so that he allowed you to see beauty in the universe once again, through his eyes.

How could he love you?

How could you not love him?

“The song,” you whisper, the words barely escaping your lips as you stand, trembling, on your feet. Hyunjin rises too, meeting you in the center of his room.

“It is about you. For you,” he says simply as if his words don’t cause your world to burst at the seams only to mend itself once again, too eager to fix itself and exist in the same timeline as Hyunjin.

“I don't… I don’t know what to say,” you say earnestly, feeling your heart pound in your chest, its beats resounding loudly in your ears.

It is wrong of you to assume he wishes you to say something. He is Hyunjin, the one who finds words in your silences too, after all.

“I don’t need you to say anything,” he shakes his head, taking another step closer to you. “I don't want an answer, I don't wish to pressure you. I just wanted to tell you that my love is here, it is yours to take or to leave, to cherish or to discard. But it is yours, because this is who I am. I am someone who loves you.”

“So do not tell me to forget you because I don't know how to. And don’t tell me that you’ll leave because I will love you still, because you’d still be you, near or far, you are you. And you are someone I long for.” He pauses, his voice softening. “And I long for you, Yn, more than anything I've ever longed for. And I've spent all my life longing.”

His lips meet your forehead tenderly, and you feel your entire being grow limp at the chaste kiss, as if your limbs wish to liquefy and form a puddle on the floor. His touch is soft, and you miss it the moment he parts from you.

“There must be something in this room that keeps on making you cry,” he smiles and you bring your hands to your damp cheeks, surprised to find there tears you didn’t realize had fallen.

“It’s you,” you pinch his arm playfully and he squirms away from your hold, stabbing his toe on the desk in the process. A loud fuck echoes around the room, and your laughter dissipates the tension clinging into the air.

“Can you play it again?” you request softly and Hyunjin’s theatrics fade as a shy smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“Is it good?”

“It's everything to me.”

“It's called ‘long for you’, by the way.”

“Long for you,” you repeat quietly. There has never been a prettier combination of words.

The title all but makes sense as you lay on the bed, your gaze fixed on the paintings hung on the wall, Hyunjin sketching quietly on his desk, the song resonating softly in the background. You've longed for many things in your life—the person you once were and the tender love you once craved—but amidst it all, nothing has weighed heavier on your heart than the longing for the man sitting just two meters away, almost in your loving grasp. Almost.

❁ ❁ ❁

It is an excruciating five days that Hyunjin spends apart from you, the both of you too caught up in your assignments to find a moment to properly speak. But you do not shy away from him when he greets you, and your grin is kind as it drapes across his being, and Hyunjin swears he has never seen a prettier sight than you smiling.

On the sixth night, Hyunjin completes the cover for the song— a figure wrapped around itself protectively, mirroring the way you hug yourself in your sleep. He hangs it on the wall, right next to your thank you card and the white bouquet he drew once again, wishing to properly immortalize its beautiful flowers, to purify that memory from the tumult that followed it.

On the sixth night, the house is quiet, the full moon high up in the sky, snowflakes falling softly to the ground. Hyunjin wonders if you too mimicked the snow’s descent— both of you falling apart with it.

But then, there’s a knock on his door.

His heart catches in his throat, his body freezing as if it forgot how to move. You are here.

“Come in,” he manages to say, his voice barely above a whisper. You push the door open, and Hyunjin's words wilt on his tongue as he sees what you're carrying—another bouquet, filled with white flowers, yet again.

“Hey,” you smile, standing by the door.

He remains silent, unsure of what to say, or how to speak. He longs for you when you are away, even more so when you’re before him.

“We shouldn't let these white flowers wither away too, right?” you smile slightly, placing the bouquet on the desk before walking to Hyunjin’s bedside. His voice falters, vocal cords refusing to move and overshadow your voice.

You sit beside him, gently pulling his hand so that you’d both lie on the pillows. Your hand doesn’t leave his own, instead, it moves to rest on his cheek, reminiscent of the many times he had cradled your face before. Inch by inch, you close the gap between you, nuzzle the tip of your nose against his own. “Hi, Hyune”, you say softly, and he swallows thickly, his voice coming out just as quietly.

“Hi, my Yn.”

“If we take care of the white flowers together do you think they’ll survive a bit longer?” you ask, your gaze never wavering from his, countless stars twinkling in the depths of your irises.

“I believe so,” he says tentatively, too aware of the warmth of your palm against his skin, of the sweet ache unfurling within his being.

“Mm, and even if they wilt we can always buy new ones. We can learn how to care for them better, with time,” you say, and he nods in agreement, laying his hand atop your own, tilting his head to bestow a chaste kiss on your palm.

“With time,” he echoes softly and you smile, vulnerable yet secure in his gray sheets, in his hold.

“Will you give me time too?” you ask, and Hyunjin reads in your eyes what you mean, understands in the shake of your voice the question you are too afraid to voice. Will he give you time to heal in order to love?

“As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures, pressing his forehead gently atop yours, and you both close your eyes, as a running warmth encloses you both, blooms a blush on both your cheeks.

His arms wrap around your back, drawing you close until your chests are pressed together, your head resting naturally in the curve of his neck. And it is long forgotten in your mind, all the nights you slept in this very bed alone. You feel safe, safe enough to long for love knowing that it patiently awaits you behind the door, once you find enough courage to turn the doorknob. You feel serene, as Hyunjin’s warm palms glide soothingly up and down your spine, as every muscle, every nerve, every atom in your being relaxes in his hold.

You are healing, slowly, with each fleeting second that passes in which Hyunjin’s heartbeat resounds within your chest, as its melody runs through your veins, melds with your own as if it was destined to be there all along. As you rest in Hyunjin, as you find a safe home within his soul to discard your worries at the doorstep and breathe.

“It did get better,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade. “Hm?” He leans back to look at you, and he’s so beautiful, so tender as he gazes at you, you can’t help but trace the contours of his face with your fingers, hoping to commemorate him with your eyes, with your touch.

“You promised me it’ll get better, and it did,” you smile, as your legs further intertwine with his, and his rose perfume becomes an indelible mark on your skin. “Too bad I can't hit your pretty face now,” you joke and he giggles, tipping his head back.

He's so beautiful, body and soul, and he longs for you, you alone.

“But I can still do this,” you murmur before finally pressing your lips against his like a boat finally reaching the shore after months of sailing. You both exhale, in yearning, in relief, as your mouths move together in a slow, languid dance, his hand finding the pulse on your neck, yours settling atop his jaw.

He would kiss you again, this intimately, in the coming months, when your heart expands enough to contain the love Hyunjin deserves. He would kiss you again, when your past comes to haunt you, and healing sounds like an elusive myth you’d never encounter in your life.

And he would kiss you again, over the kitchen table and under the fridge’s light, in between paintings and in supermarket aisles, while picking flowers and watching the first snow.

He would kiss you, this tenderly, in the next winter, and the ones after it, as if his longing for you never wanes. Till blow three disappears from your memory, till all you remember is the love, the true one, the kind one, the soft one Hyunjin alone could have brought you.

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momenalostaz444 · 10 days

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Hello, my name is momen alostaz, a Palestinian from Gaza. I write these words with a heart heavy with sadness and sorrow. My family, consisting of ten members, is now living under unimaginable conditions after the recent war. My father, who suffers from diabetes and high blood pressure, is struggling to get his much-needed medication, while my mother, who also suffers from high blood pressure, becomes more anxious with every bad news coming from Gaza.

LlNk GFM👈🆘❤️‍🩹

Before and After the War:

The *first photo* I share with you shows our home in Gaza before the bombing. Our life was simple but full of love and safety. We would gather every day around the dinner table, laugh, and talk about our dreams, while the voices of children filled the house with joy.

But everything changed. The *second photo* shows our home after the bombing. Nothing is left. Every corner, every wall that once held memories is now just rubble. My parents, who used to care for us with love, are now unable to provide even the most basic needs. My family no longer has a home. They have been forced to live in a small tent that neither protects them from the heat nor the cold in Deir al-Balah. They sleep on the ground, without warmth or security.

During the bombing, five of my family members were severely injured. I can never forget the sound of my little sister crying out for help, nor the look on my brother's face as he tried to save our family from the rubble. And with all these physical wounds, the greatest wound is what has been inflicted upon their spirits.

My Brother and His Children’s Health:

My brother Ahmed lives in northern Gaza, in a situation no less tragic. He has three children: Amir, Malak, and Mohammed. Amir, just three years old, suffers from a severe skin disease due to living in the tent under the scorching sun, and he can’t sleep at night due to the pain. I cannot describe the helplessness my brother feels, watching his son suffer, unable to help him.

As for Mohammed, the child who once filled the house with laughter and energy, he is now silent. Mohammed has polio and cannot get the treatment he desperately needs. Each day that passes, his condition worsens, and with each passing day, our family’s suffering deepens.

Where is Safety?

I cannot describe to you the pain and suffering my family is enduring under fear and darkness. How can they sleep on cold ground, with broken spirits and bodies? We live with this sense of helplessness, wondering when safety and comfort will return to our family.

@mangocheesecakes @kyra45-helping-others

@7bitter @tortiefrancis @claudiasescapesubmarine@neptunerings @malcriada@timetravellingkitty @magnus-rhymes-with-swagness @northgazaupdates2 @rhubarbspring @watermotif @kyra45-helping-others @gaza-evacuation-funds @appsa @emathystg @transmutationisms @lonniemachin @retvolution @rairikka @a1m3v @bookn3rd-cartoons

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@fridgebride @27-moons @tamarrud @familyabolisher @fleshdyk3

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undreaming-fanfiction · 5 months

Text

The Corroded Coffin used to think they'd be the new Metallica or Judas Priest. But where their passion and hard work never lacked, their big break just never came.

What did come, however, was an unexpected change of their career path.

It started innocently enough - they went through yet another failed meeting with recording studios, they'd travelled pretty far and it was for nothing. Instead of going back to Hawkins and risking another one of Eddie's road rages, they decided to break into an abandoned house and drink their sorrows away.

That is, until their empty bottles started collecting themselves, something invisible touched Gareth's shoulder and the dusty floor started showing written messages.

Jeff wanted to flee. Gareth to faint. But Eddie and Freak just shrugged. Eddie gestured towards the approximate ghost location and said "by the power of I don't give a shit anymore, I compel you to sit down and stop it, we'll clean the bottles when we leave tomorrow."

The rattling stopped. There was a moment of silence when the Corroded Coffin actually thought it had worked, but then the ghost overcame its shock and physically threw Eddie, his bandmates and their things out.

They sat on the wet grass for a while and contemplated their whole exitence. Eddie was pretty shaken about the whole thing because he'd just managed to royally piss off a ghost and lived to tell the tale. But apart from absolutely terrifying...it was also fun?

And his friends seemed to think the same. Jeff patted his shoulder and said: "not bad for a first touch with the unknown, huh?"

They stayed in the area and tried again. They decided to tape over their promotional video - not so great, they had to admit after rewatching it - and started documenting their ghostly encounters. And maybe it was just the timing, maybe it was their interactions and personalities, but it worked. They showed some of their tapes to a local TV station and they got a cautious yes, more than they ever had with their music.

They got assigned a small crew, Fred with a camera and Chrissy for sound, wrote their own episodes and did plenty of research. And they got to try quite a lot of different approaches with their ghostly friends. Eddie was amazing at taunting the ghosts, making them appear if there were any present. Gareth had a wonderfully calming presence, managing to save the CC's ass several times. Jeff was the brains, he made sure they'd always know the history of the house and the probable identity of the ghost. And Freak decided to dabble in the occult sciences with a terrifying precision. There could never be enough salt in Eddie's van for all the circles he made.

It all went well until they learned of the Creel House in Hawkins. They went there, did their research and before entering the house, they ordered some pizza for dinner. They assumed it would be over by midnight, thinking it was just another sad story of an unresolved murder, but the ghost of Henry Creel was out for blood.

Oh, and he also controlled the spiders of the house. That was new.

To set the scene: The crew had fled the house about an hour ago. Eddie was crouching behind an old table, blocking Henry's barrage of kitchen knives, shouting "IS THIS THE BEST YOU'VE GOT?!". Gareth was behind the table with Eddie, but he went more into the wailing territory with "I DON'T THINK THIS WILL HELP YOU MOVE ON, HENRY!". Jeff had blocked himself in the pantry and kept trying to identify the triggering moment - "I think he's re-enacting the murder of his mother, guys! Does that help?!" (it doesn't). And Freak gave up on salt circles and was now tossing handfuls of salt around the house with a questionable technique but unwavering determination.

Suddenly, a car horn.

Then, a bitchy male voice: "Are you coming to get your pizza or what? I have other customers to get to!"

Eddie gritted his teeth as Henry added heavy pans to the mix and hit his shoulder. "We're a little busy surviving here! Ask Chrissy to pay you!"

There was a muffled and annoyed "ugh" from behind the door and then: "Is it Henry again?"

Eddie just blinked. Gareth was more ready to answer: "Sure is! He's not a fan of our exorcism!"

And the pizza guy didn't leave. He just huffed and said something that sounded suspiciously like "amateurs".

Eddie wanted to punch him.

But before he could do that, the front door opened. Gareth held his breath, half expecting a sound of knives hitting their target.

Instead, they heard a few more steps and then: "What the fuck, Henry?!"

A faint whispering reached their ears, but they couldn't decipher it. But the pizza guy could.

"I don't care they didn't get your permission, Henry. Yeah, it's annoying, but what are you going to do? If more people die in this house, it's going to get demolished. You know that. Yeah, I know the house is old, but it's great for your spiders, right? They'd be homeless. Do you want to make your spiders homeless, Henry?"

They dared to peek from behind the table, and Eddie had to pinch himself. Because in the middle of the dusty dining room stood one of the prettiest young men Eddie had ever seen, hands on hips and arguing with something invisible.

The man completely ignored them.

"That's what I thought. Now, apologize. No, they can't hear you, so get creative."

All four CC members stared as words formed in the spilled salt: "SORRY".

The pizza guy seemed to be pleased. "Good job, Henry. Now, let me get them out of here and I promise I'll get the Party to bring you some new spiders when they capture them outside, yeah? Three knocks, slide them in a glass behind the door. Got it. Take care, Henry."

Only then did he look at Eddie and the others and frowned. "That's your cue to leave. Get your stuff and go, now." And as they were quickly collecting their scattered notes and recording equipment, he added: "and say goodbye when leaving. Don't be rude."

Four rushed "Bye, Henry!" and "Sorry, Henry"s later, the Corroded Coffin was standing on the grass outside, feeling the setting sun on their skin and smelling fresh pizza. Gareth promptly paid for the delivery, and everyone proceeded to thank their mysterious savior.

"I'm Steve," he said after they'd all expressed their thanks, "and you're stupid. Do you really do this without anyone who sees and hears them? Do you just stumble blindly into haunted houses for a fun and stabby time?"

Eddie had to swallow down a very bitchy response of his own. "Sorry to stroke your ego even more, pretty boy, but a man of your talents is hard to come by."

And Steve, to Eddie's massive shock, just cocked his head and fluffed his hair, probably out of habit, but damn. "Well, consider yourself lucky because I'm open to job offers," he said with a wink that brought Eddie back into his teenage fantasies. "You need someone like me, and I assume you pay better than pizza delivery. Do you?"

Turns out, their producer was willing to get one more person on board, especially when they finished processing the leftover footage from the Creel house.

Steve was an amazing addition. He was snarky, self-confident, easy to look at and most of all, he was fun and compassionate. Watching him communicate with ghosts of kids and help them move on made Eddie's icy heart melt.

But one day they were on a site of an unfortunate teenage death, Steve was chatting with the ghost of a 17 year old girl like they'd known each other for ages, he was laughing, cracking jokes, and then:

"No, he hasn't kissed me yet."

Eddie turned around on his heel and stared at Steve, snickering to himself and talking to a misty figure next to him. And worst of all, they were both staring right at Eddie.

"Hasn't even asked me out, no. You'd think he'd be interested, but I guess I'm doing something wrong."

And Eddie's head short-circuited, and all the repressed fantasies from nights next to Steve in their trailer came back with vengeance. He howled and threw himself at Steve, kissing him right on that bitchy mouth. "Doing something wrong?! Steven Harrington, those shorts of yours are doing everything right, but how about you say something, huh?!"

Steve returned the kiss to the cheering of the CC guys, Chrissy's clapping and Fred's disgusted noise, and shrugged when they broke apart. "I knew you'd get it, eventually. Oh, and Heather?" he turned to the ghost. "You're the best wingwoman ever, in this life and after."

Four good things came from this ghostly encounter:

After the kiss, Gareth finally gathered enough courage to ask Chrissy out. She said yes.

The episode with Heather became the most watched episode of the CC's show.

Steve and Eddie remained in an equally blissful and teasing relationship for the rest of their lives.

And finally...

The TV station decided to design official merch for the CC's show: incredibly short shorts that said on the backside: "DOING EVERYTHING RIGHT".

#steve harrington #eddie munson #corroded coffin #steddie #steddie drabble #steddie fanfiction #steddie ficlet #gareth emerson #jeff stranger things #freak stranger things #chrissy cunningham #drumcheer #not proofread we die like my sleep schedule

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risuola · 1 year

Text

TOO MUCH — F. READER x GOJO SATORU

Lately, it felt like not a second pass by without some new curse appearing somewhere in Japan and both you and Satoru had your hands full of work for few weeks, but when he comes back home, exhausted to the bone, his composure snaps and he unloads his frustration on you.

cw: angst, verbal abuse, hurt/little comfort, mentions of blood and hurt, reader is injured, mental exhaustion — 2,5k words

Too much. Too much of everything that piled up on Satoru's shoulders, weighing him down so heavily that he almost couldn't breathe. It felt like the world was on fire, curses crawling out of every shithole in Japan, most of them first or special grade, spreading nothing but death and chaos. So many people killed, so much blood and pain he had witnessed in the last few weeks, it drowned him in exhaustion and helplessness. Satoru Gojo, the strongest sorcerer alive, and yet he felt so helpless in the current situation. He traveled from town to town, fighting these terrors, but the lives that had been taken away, he couldn't bring back, and he used to think that he was immune to it already. Turns out, one can never be immune enough.

You had your hands full with work as well, but you stayed in Tokyo. The situation drained your energy too, the cascading waves of sadness and sorrow made you feel like you couldn't think straight, but you pushed through. You felt so weak, but had to be strong, everyone had to be. All of your sorcerer friends were just as engaged in the fight as you were, just as tired and distressed, but the show must go on, as they say.

You and Gojo weren't officially a couple, though everyone knew you were together. You were friends, yes, the kind of friends who kiss and have sex. The kind of friends that use pet-names and fall asleep while cuddling naked. Shit, you lived together for a few months, you know everything about him and he knows just as much about you. And you were happy, sharing every moment. He always said that you bring him so much comfort, that he feels like he can be openly himself when he's with you and be accepted for it. Nothing could ever bring you more joy than the man you love feeling comfortable with you.

That being said, it wasn't the best time for your relationship slash situationship. He was more out of the house than in it, and you were just sleeping there, barely. It's been going on for a few weeks already, and it's just now it’s beginning to finally calm down. Few weeks of constant fighting for everyone involved in the jujutsu world, but it started to slow down. So you knew that Satoru would finally return home.

It's when you showered and put on your pajamas that you heard the keys twisting in the lock and the doors opening. Putting on a smile, you rushed to welcome Gojo home, but the moment you saw him, you knew he's extremely exhausted.

Satoru entered the house already annoyed by the conversation he had with Gakuganji a few moments before. That old fart had the audacity to nag him about his methods while he himself was sitting in his cave sipping green tea, not caring one bit that the world was drowning in curses and blood. He threw the keys on the shelf, kicked off his shoes and took off the blindfold, then looked at you, all clean and comfortable in your pajamas. He scoffed quietly.

He felt like his own body was falling apart, everything hurt, his head was pounding, his eyes were burning. Even though he was actively healing himself, the side effects of everything were getting to him. A few weeks of nonstop fighting, of domains, of reds, blues, and purples, and so much physical combat had left him hanging on the last thread of his composure. The usual mask of cheerful carelessness long gone.

Suddenly he wished he could enter the empty house, throw away his clothes, collapse on the bed dirty and just fall asleep, but he couldn't. You were there. And there was never a time in the past when he wouldn't be absolutely overjoyed to come home to you. Even when tired, he wanted nothing more than your arms around him. But not right now.

"Satoru, hey," you greeted him, keeping your voice soft and on the quiet side. You knew him so well, you could see how fatigued he was and frankly, you couldn't blame him. Being the strongest had its downsides, one of which was being very much in demand, and sadly, no one could take his place. "You're exhausted, huh?"

"Look at you, so damn perceptive," he snapped harshly, his eyes cold and empty as he looked down at you. He walked past you to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

“Are you hungry? I can make you someth-“

"No, just shut up, you cannot make me fucking anything," once again, his tone was cold as he snarled at you. It was the first time so much cyanide spilled out of his mouth and he just barely opened it. At first you tried to understand it. Things had been really draining lately and you knew he was angry because he was tired, but it hurt nonetheless.

"Alright," you sighed, deciding it's best not to get deeper into the conversation when he's so argumentative. "Do as you wish, get some rest, Satoru."

"You know, why instead of telling me what the hell to do, you just don't leave my house, huh?", Shut up Gojo, he screamed at himself subconsciously. "Why are you even here anyway?" Shut. Up. " All comfy when I'm constantly on the job?"

"I know you're tired, Satoru, but I've been on missions too. I'm tired too," you looked at him in defeat, unable to keep the smiley mask on. There was so much wrong in this situation, so much anger being thrown at you for no reason whatsoever, and you had every right in the world to be just as angry as he was, but you just chose not to. You wanted to welcome him home with warmth, comfort him, and keep him up even if you felt down. You wanted to soothe his aching body when yours hurt just as much. Or worse. You were badly injured during the last few battles, but Shoko had her hands so full, you told her you could wait, and you hid all those wounds from Gojo's eyes so as not to worry him.

"'Yeah, your little missions,'" he bit, and your brows furrowed at the sound of his words.

"What does that even mean?" you asked, slowly feeling the heat of anger coursing through your veins. "I'm first gra-"

"I don't care what you are. You're still nothing to me. I deal with real shit, not those..."

You slapped him. Or at least you tried, your hand stopping just short of his face, and it surprised you to realize his limitless was still on, even though he was home already. He was still in fight-or-flight mode, still feeling threatened enough to keep his defensive techniques activated.

"Just what do you think you're fucking doing?" he growled, taking your wrist into his grip, the squeeze shooting shockwaves of pain through your nervous system. "Did my words hurt you? Did the truth hurt you so badly that you thought you could actually hit me?", his tone had a taunting undertone, and when you looked into his blue eyes, you saw nothing but cold. "Funny little thing."

"Let go, Satoru."

"Oh, I will. And when I do, you'll get your useless ass out of here. I'm not your boyfriend, we just fuck, we're not in a goddamn relationship for you to be here all the time. I need my space."

Gojo hated every word that fell out of his mouth, but now he couldn't take them back or erase them, and he didn't exactly know how to act now that he had said them. Immediately, he let his limitless inactivate, hoping you'd want to slap him again. Shit, he'd even accept a kick in the balls, but you remained silent, just looking at him. He could tell by the way your eyes glistened in the sharp artificial light of his kitchen that there were tears threatening to come out, but you didn't cry. Your jaw clenched for a moment and you lowered your hand.

"Right," you exhaled deeply, feeling the hurt burn your heart and soul. The smoke of sadness already flowing through your veins, your cells, your mind. "You're right, we're not. Here," you performed a theatrical swing of your arm, displaying the interiors to him, "your fucking space. I'll let myself out."

"Y/n..." he tried, but you were already in the room, changing from your pj's to sweatpants. He stayed in the kitchen, hoping you'd just jump into bed and maybe cry about it all, and he'd just come back later and comfort you when he wasn't mad anymore, but it didn't go that way.

Once he saw you again, you were heading towards the door.

"Y/n stay, don't be silly, stop," he tried to grab you, but you slapped his hands away.

"What, does the almighty, fucking honored one wish to add something to his oh-so-wonderful speech?"

"No, I'm sorry, stay," he took your hand forcefully, pulling you into his chest, but you fought back, not wanting anything to do with him right now. He had said too much. You knew it was all driven by his exhaustion, but it was far too much.

"No, Gojo, I don't want to stay here. I'm more than pleased to leave you in your space. There's no damn reason for you to share your precious air with such a useless nothing."

"No, no, please," he begged, his anger slowly being overtaken by panic. The sound of his last name felt cold and unfamiliar as it rolled off your tongue. "I'm sorry, please stay. I didn't mean it. Fuck, I didn't mean any of it."

"Please, take your hands off me," you told him more quietly. You were tired and now emotionally drained as well. All you wanted from this evening was to cuddle up with him to sleep. To bask in his warmth, knowing he's safe and home, to feel his skin against yours, to breathe him in. But no.

"No, I won't," he lowered his head and buried his face in your neck. "Please, I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't mean it, I'm just so tired. I feel dead, there has been so much fighting and pain and suffering and death all around me these past few weeks. I'm sorry, y/n," his voice faded to whisper as he rambled against your pulse.

"Gojo..."

"I don't think you're useless or nothing. Fuck, what have I done" he was spiraling slowly into a panic attack. You could feel his heartbeat getting hectic, his breathing uneven, and his grip on you so tight it hurt. "I am nothing without you. Please stay."

"Gojo."

"I love you," he whispered, his tone breathless, and at first you thought you had heard him wrong. He had never told you that. Not even once. "I love you so fucking much, please. Slap me, kick me, punch me in the dick, I don't care. Just don't leave me. I'm so sorry."

"Satoru, please, it hurts..."

"Hurts?", he froze. What hurts? Did he hurt you? The thought frightened him, not only did he insult you for no damn reason and now he caused you pain? As if burned, he let go of you completely, raising his hands as if he wanted to keep them in sight so you knew he wouldn't hurt you anymore. "I'm sorry."

"I've been fighting for these weeks, too. I'm tired too. I would never compare myself to you, but I gave it my all, too," you exhaled deeply. "And I know you're exhausted, Satoru. So please go to bed and get some sleep. I'll just go home."

"Here is your home, with me."

"Here?", you briefly looked around. It was a place you loved because it was filled with him. It was where your heart wanted to be when you felt safest and happiest, but now... "Suddenly I feel like an intruder here. I feel like I shouldn't be here."

"No, please don't say that. Listen, y/n, love," he dropped to his knees, took your hands in his and kissed the tops of them gently and tenderly. "Please, stay with me. I'm an idiot. But I love you. And I need you here, I need you in my life. I want you by my side."

"So, what do you want us to be? You said we're just fucking. God, I thought we were at least friends, if not a couple, but..."

"I want us to be everything. I want you to be my friend, my partner, my lover, my wife and my entire world."

You sighed. Deep and slow, pushing the air out of your lungs, letting your whole body deflate as you took his hands and pulled him up.

"Go take a shower and come to bed. You need to sleep it off. I need to rest too."

Obeying, Satoru rushed to the bathroom and you made sure to lock the doors, turn off the lights and took the time to change back into your pajamas. Sitting on the bed, you finally felt the tears running down your face. They brought you some relief and you let them flow freely, desperate to get it out of you before Gojo came back. It pained you how wrong the evening went and you wondered if there was anything you did to cause it, but no. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t deserve it. And you should leave him there alone, just as he wished for. Then why were you still here?

"Please don't cry," his long arms wrapped around you from behind, enveloping you in his warmth. The light sweet scent of his body wash pleasantly filled your airways and it's out of habit that you leaned into him. "Will you ever forgive me?" he asked, gently wiping the tears from your cheeks. Slowly, he laid you down on the pillows and took his usual place beside you.

"I will," you sighed, already feeling the discomfort. "But please, let's change sides."

Satoru didn't understand at first, but he did what you asked anyway. When he saw you exhale in relief as you turned to the other side, his brain clicked. Moving his hands in the most delicate way possible, he lifted your shirt a little, revealing the many layers of bandages, already tinged with red that was seeping through them slowly.

"God, you're wounded. That's what was hurting you when I held you... I had no idea why you didn't tel-, ah, because I was being an asshole, right," he sighed.

"Yeah, I wasn't going to tell you anyway. I'm fine, just Shoko had her hands full, so I told her I'd wait a day or two. It's just a scratch, really," you told him, fixing your shirt. "Please, let's get some sleep, okay? We'll talk about it all later."

"I love you," he whispered, pulling you to his chest and planting a kiss on the top of your head. It was only now that he could feel his body relax, with you right next to him, your heartbeat syncing with his own, and all of your loving aura filling his body. And he realized that the words he never had the balls to say out loud to you now felt natural, rolling off his tongue. "I love you so much."

"You idiot," you sighed, closing your eyes and slowly melting into his form. "I love you too."

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sarahsinferno · 21 days

Text

Revolution of the Heart

in the silent chambers of the heart,

a revolution stirs, unseen but profound,

an uprising not of banners or blood,

but of echoes and whispers.

here, the old guard of fear and doubt

crumbles beneath the weight of truth,

and the walls, once high and unyielding,

are breached by the soft siege of hope.

it begins with a flutter, a murmur,

a flicker of light in the darkness,

a quiet rebellion against the shadows,

the tyrannies of self-doubt and resignation.

love, the unarmed insurgent,

moves through the corridors,

its gentle force tearing down

the barriers built of solitude and sorrow.

in this new realm, compassion rules,

an unassuming leader, guiding

the steps towards healing,

towards a horizon where grace

is the common language.

the heart, now freed from its chains,

beats a rhythm of renewal,

a drum that echoes in the quiet spaces,

a testament to the power

of the unspoken revolution,

where change blooms in the tender soil

of vulnerability and connection.

by S.T.

diana the huntress by gaston casimir saint-pierre

reaching for the moon by edward eggleston

an afternoon rest by guillaume seignac(one of my personal favorites)

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oceandolores · 2 months

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | series

Dbf! Joel Miller x female reader

"𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦."

summary: In the small town near Austin, Texas, you are trapped in a life of rigid expectations and silent suffering. As the preacher's daughter, you endure the mental and physical abuse of your father while your mother, bound by obedience, offers quiet love. Your longing for a father's warmth finds an unexpected solace in Joel Miller, your father's best friend and neighbor. In Joel's presence, you discover a forbidden sanctuary, where your yearning heart is met with a gentle strength you've never known.

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, ped0ph!l1a, cann1bal!sm, human traff1ck1ng, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 1

masterlist of the series!

next | chapter 2

The Texas sun had a way of casting long, dramatic shadows across the sprawling landscape, painting the world in hues of gold and amber. In small town near Austin, the heat clung to everything, wrapping the town in a sweltering embrace that seemed to slow time itself. You, a preacher's daughter on the cusp of graduation, trapped in the rigid confines of a life dictated by faith and fear.

Your father, Reverend Gibson, was a towering figure in the community, his voice booming from the pulpit every Sunday, filling the church with sermons about sin and salvation. To the congregation, he was a man of God, a beacon of righteousness. But within the walls of your home, he was a tyrant. His heavy hand and harsh words left marks not just on your skin, but deep within your soul. Your mother, ever the obedient wife, offered what little comfort she could, but her love was a quiet, subdued thing, overshadowed by her fear of defying your father.

The Millers lived just a few houses down, their home a testament to both prosperity and tragedy. Joel Miller was your father’s best friend from high school, a bond forged in the fires of youth but strained by the paths they had chosen. While your father found his calling in the church, Joel built a successful construction business with his younger brother, Tommy.

Joel and Tommy not live far from each other, while your house is just one house away from Joel, Tommy is a few houses down from Joel's.

The Miller brothers were well-known and respected in the community, their work evident in the many buildings that dotted the town.

Joel’s life had been forever altered by a single, devastating moment. He had lost his wife and daughter in a car accident, an accident where he had been behind the wheel. The guilt of their deaths weighed heavily on him, a burden he carried in the lines of his face and the shadows in his eyes.

Since that tragic day, he had distanced himself from the church, finding solace instead in his work and in raising his adopted daughter, Ellie. Joel has adopted Ellie when she was only 10 years old with the help of Tommy.

At 16, Ellie was a spirited girl, one of your juniors at school. She attended church every Sunday with her uncle Tommy, her presence a reminder of the Millers’ lingering faith.

Tommy, married to Maria, had recently welcomed a baby boy into their family. The joy of new life was a stark contrast to the sorrow that had marked Joel’s existence. The Millers were a close-knit family, their bonds of loyalty and love a stark contrast to the fractured and tense environment of your own home.

You had known the Millers your entire life, their presence a constant thread in the fabric of your existence. Yet, as you stood on the brink of adulthood, your interactions with them took on a new significance. Your father’s sermons about the dangers of straying from the path of righteousness echoed in your mind, but so did your longing for something more, something real and tangible.

It was just another Sunday, and you were helping your dad with the after-service fellowship. The congregation mingled in the church hall, sharing coffee and pastries, their voices a low hum of conversation and laughter. You moved through the crowd with a tray of refreshments, offering smiles and polite nods, your mind elsewhere.

The Sunday service had been like any other, filled with hymns, prayers, and your father’s booming voice delivering his sermon. Today, he had spoken about temptation and the perils of straying from God’s path, his words heavy with the weight of his own fervent belief. As always, you felt the eyes of the congregation on you, the preacher’s daughter, the living example of his teachings.

You couldn’t help but glance towards the back of the room, where Tommy and Ellie stood, their presence a rare but welcome sight. Joel, as expected, was absent, his appearances in church growing increasingly sporadic since the accident.

Your thoughts kept drifting to Joel Miller. It had been years since the tragedy that had claimed his wife and daughter, leaving an indelible mark on him, transforming a once regular churchgoer into a haunted, reclusive figure.

You didn't really know or remember Joel's wife and daughter. Sarah Miller had been much older than you, and she passed away when you were only five. The memories you had of them were hazy at best, a blur of faces and voices that you couldn’t quite place.

Ellie caught your eye and waved, her smile bright and genuine. You waved back, feeling a pang of longing for the carefree spirit she embodied. She was one of the few people in your life who treated you like a normal person, not just the preacher’s daughter.

After the service, as the crowd began to thin, you found yourself gravitating towards Tommy and Ellie. Tommy, ever the warm and approachable figure, greeted you with a smile. “Hey, kiddo. How’ve you been?”

You returned his smile, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. “I’m good, Tommy. How’s Maria and the baby?”

Tommy’s face lit up with pride. “They’re great. Little Luke’s growing like a weed. Maria’s over the moon, of course.”

Ellie nudged you playfully. “You should come over and meet him sometime. He’s the cutest.”

You laughed softly. “I’d love that.”

Tommy’s expression grew more serious as he glanced around the room. “How’s your dad doing with all the church activities? Keeping busy?”

You nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah, he’s always got something going on. Keeps him out of trouble, I guess.”

Tommy chuckled. “Good to hear. Your family always looks so put together. It’s impressive, really.”

You shrugged, trying to brush off the compliment. “We just try to do our best.”

As you continued chatting, the weight on your shoulders seemed to lighten, if only for a moment. Ellie shared stories about school, her infectious laughter bringing a smile to your face.

“So, any plans after graduation?” Ellie asked, her eyes twinkling with curiosity.

You hesitated, the uncertainty of your future looming large. “I’m not sure yet. I’ve been thinking about college, but it’s complicated.”

Tommy’s expression grew serious again. “You should follow your dreams, kid. Don’t let anything hold you back.”

You nodded, grateful for their support. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Tommy.”

As you chatted with Tommy and Ellie, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Glancing around, you caught your father’s stern gaze from across the room. His eyes were a silent warning, a reminder of your place and the expectations that came with it.

Excusing yourself, you slipped out of the church hall, needing a moment of solitude. Your dad won't notice you are gone a little, your job has been taken by your mom.

The Texas heat hit you as soon as you stepped outside, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the gravel parking lot. You decided to walk, the streets feeling empty because everyone was still in church. As you walked aimlessly, your mind whirled with conflicting thoughts and emotions.

You found yourself drawn towards the lake behind the church and the town, a place far enough to avoid everyone. The lake and the surrounding forest were comforting, a sanctuary from the oppressive atmosphere of your home.

Looking around to ensure you were alone, you carefully pulled out your cigarettes and lit one, taking a long drag. Your parents never knew you were quite a smoker, especially your father. If he ever found out, the repercussions would be severe, his wrath swift and unrelenting. The thought of his anger made you shudder.

You decided to sit by the old fallen tree near the lake. It was very quiet, the only sounds were the rustling of leaves and the gentle lapping of water against the shore. You loved to come here every chance you got, a hidden escape from the prying eyes and harsh judgments of your daily life. As you exhaled a cloud of smoke, you heard a rustling sound in the underbrush.

Startled, you quickly put out your cigarette and looked up. Emerging from the trees was Joel, a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder. Your heart pounded in your chest as you met his gaze. "Joel?" you stammered, hoping he hadn’t noticed the cigarette.

He looked at you, then at the still-smoking cigarette butt near your feet. His expression was unreadable, but you felt a wave of fear. What if he told your father?

Joel approached, his steps slow and deliberate. "Didn’t expect to see you out here," he said, his voice as gruff as ever.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. "I… I just needed some air."

Joel’s eyes flicked to the cigarette again. "That why you’re hiding out here? To smoke?"

You bit your lip, the truth hanging heavily between you. "Please don’t tell my dad," you whispered, the desperation clear in your voice.

Joel sighed, his expression softening slightly. "Your secret’s safe with me," he said finally, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Relief flooded through you, and you nodded gratefully. "Thank you,"

As you stood up, brushing off the dirt and bits of wood that had stained your dress, you noticed Joel's gaze lingering on the rifle in his hand and the heavy boots caked with mud.

"You didn’t come to church today," you said, your curiosity overcoming your apprehension. You had noticed his absence with the frequency that had become almost routine over the years.

He glanced at you, the stern lines of his face softening slightly. “Yeah, I’ve been... busy,” he replied, his tone clipped and noncommittal.

You took in the sight of him, his rugged appearance a stark contrast to the tidy, polished look of the other churchgoers. The rifle and the muddy boots seemed to tell a story of their own, a story that was far removed from the neat rows of pews and the polished wooden floors of the church.

“You know, Father always says that you used to come every Sunday,” you said, trying to sound casual. “He misses you at church. Everyone does.”

Joel’s expression hardened again, the hint of vulnerability disappearing behind his usual reserve. “Yeah, well, things change,” he said tersely, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “People change.”

You wanted to press further, to understand what had driven him away, but you knew better than to push too hard. Joel was a man of few words, his emotional landscape a guarded territory. You had seen it in the way he interacted with Ellie, the way he kept his distance, the way he seemed to be perpetually battling some invisible storm.

"Are you okay?" you asked quietly, your concern slipping through despite your efforts to remain detached.

Joel’s eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of something raw and unspoken. He shook his head, as if to clear the thoughts from his mind. "Just trying to get by, same as anyone," he said gruffly. “Out here, it’s a little easier to do that.”

You nodded, accepting his answer even if it left many questions unanswered. The silence between you stretched, filled only with the distant chirping of birds and the gentle rustling of leaves.

Joel shifted, breaking the silence. “What are you doing out here anyway? It’s quite a trek from town. This place isn’t exactly safe, you know.” His tone was a mixture of concern and curiosity, revealing a sliver of his protective nature.

You sighed, glancing around the lake and forest. “I needed a break. Just... needed to be away from everything for a bit. It’s peaceful here." You looked at Joel, your eyes subtly asking if it was okay to continue smoking.

Joel noticed your look but chose not to comment immediately. Instead, he took a few steps closer, his boots crunching softly on the gravel. You took that as an invitation and sat down under a large tree near the lake, patting the grass beside you.

“Feel free to join me if you want,” you offered, your voice light despite the heaviness of the situation.

Joel hesitated for a moment before sitting down next to you. His presence was a grounding force, even if he wasn’t the most expressive. He glanced at the cigarette pack you had placed on the grass between you.

“Want one?” you offered, extending the pack towards him.

Joel shook his head with a faint, rueful smile. “Nah, I’m good. I’m not sure it’s right to be smoking in front of you.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I thought you of all people wouldn’t judge me for it.”

Joel chuckled, a rare, genuine sound. “Yeah, well, I guess I’m a bit of a hypocrite when it comes to that. I’ve had my share of bad habits.”

You nodded, accepting his refusal. “How are you, Joel? I don’t see you much,” you said, your curiosity evident. It was true; Joel had been increasingly distant from the people in your town, retreating into a shell of his own making.

He met your gaze briefly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his features. “Just... getting by. Working hard, dealing with stuff. Not much else to it.”

There was a weariness in his voice that spoke of battles fought silently and wounds healed only with time. It was clear that the years had not been kind to Joel, even if he tried to mask it behind a facade of rugged determination.

You sensed that pushing further wouldn’t get you anywhere. Joel was not one to open up easily, and you could see that the topic of his feelings was closed off. You decided to shift the conversation, sensing that it was best to focus on something lighter.

"How’s school?” he asked, his tone shifting to something slightly more personal but still restrained. “Almost done, right?”

You nodded, a smile touching your lips despite the lingering tension. “Yeah, I’m just a few months away from graduating. It’s been a whirlwind, but I’m looking forward to it.”

“That’s good to hear,” Joel replied, giving a slight nod. “High school’s a big deal. A lot changes after that.”

You shifted slightly, tucking your legs beneath you as you sat on the grass. “It is. It feels like the end of one chapter and the start of another.” You took a deep drag from your cigarette, the smoke curling around you in the still air. Exhaling slowly, you continued, “I just want to get out of here.”

Joel’s gaze, always direct, fixed on you. He didn’t speak immediately, allowing the weight of your words to settle between you. He shifted his weight, leaning slightly on the rifle, his hands still coated in the grime of the day’s work. “Yeah?” he finally said, his tone soft but edged with curiosity. “Where do you want to go?”

You looked out over the lake, its calm surface reflecting the last rays of the sun. “Anywhere but here,” you said with a sigh. “I want to leave this town, start fresh somewhere new. I’ve been dreaming about it for a long time.”

Joel watched you silently for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes getting out can seem like the only way to find something better,” he said slowly. “But it ain’t always as simple as it sounds.”

You took another drag from your cigarette, the ember glowing brightly as you exhaled. “I know it’s not that simple,” you said quietly. “But it feels like I’m suffocating here. I just need... something different. Something real.”

Joel’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze not unkind but keenly observant. There was a protective instinct in him that had always been there, even when you were much younger. He sensed there was more to your words than just a desire to leave town. The carefully constructed façade of normalcy that your family projected wasn’t lost on him, though he had never delved into the specifics of your home life.

“You know,” Joel began, his voice taking on a slightly softer tone, “sometimes people want to leave for reasons that go beyond what they’re willing to say. It’s one thing to want a new place, but it’s another to be running from something.”

You stiffened slightly, the cigarette now nothing more than a stub between your fingers. You were careful not to let your emotions betray you. “It’s not just about running away,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “It’s about finding a place where I can breathe.”

Joel nodded, his gaze steady. “And you think you’ll find that out there?”

“I hope so,” you said. “I just need to get out and find out for myself. It’s been hard to see beyond this place.”

Joel shifted his weight, leaning on his rifle. His rugged face, often set in lines of stoicism, now bore a hint of concern. “You know, I’ve seen a lot of folks runnin’ away from what they don’t want to face. Sometimes they find what they’re lookin’ for, sometimes they don’t. But it’s dangerous out there for someone who’s not ready.”

You looked at him, sensing the genuine concern behind his words. “I’m ready,” you said softly. “I’ve been ready for a long time.”

Joel studied you for a moment longer, his fatherly instincts kicking in. He could see the innocence in your eyes, the quiet strength that belied your troubled soul. He had been a father before, and he knew what it was like to want to protect someone from the harsh realities of the world.

But then, with a shift in his demeanor, Joel decided it wasn’t his business to involve himself further. He cared for you, that much was clear, but he also knew his boundaries. His expression hardened slightly, a testament to his tendency to keep people at a distance.

“Look,” he said gruffly, his Southern accent thickening his words, “it’s not my place to get too involved in this. You’re gonna have to handle things your way.” His tone was direct, carrying the weight of a man who had learned to let his actions speak louder than his words.

Despite the coldness in his voice, there was a flicker of tenderness in his eyes, a brief glimpse of the protective instincts that lingered beneath his guarded exterior. Joel operated in a morally gray area, making decisions that were often difficult and controversial, and he understood the complexities of navigating a world where right and wrong were not always clear.

He wanted to help, but his experience had taught him that sometimes the best way to show care was to step back and allow others to find their own way.

“You know,” Joel said, shifting the topic slightly, “Ellie talks about you sometimes. Says you’re smart, and she admires you for stickin’ it out. She’s got a good head on her shoulders, but she looks up to you. So, if there’s ever a time you need someone to talk to, or if you just need a friend, don’t hesitate to reach out. I may not be the best at this whole ‘talkin’’ thing, but I’m here if you need me.”

You appreciated his attempt to offer support, even if it came in a roundabout way. “Thanks, Joel. It’s nice to know that someone cares,” you said, smiling as you put out the cigarette.

Joel watched you with a mixture of concern and curiosity, as if weighing whether to press further. You could see that he was struggling with how much to say, his usual reserve at odds with the genuine warmth he was trying to convey.

“Well,” you said, glancing at the fading light, “I should head back to the church before Dad notices I’m gone.”

Joel shifted his stance, a hint of hesitation in his eyes. “You sure you don’t want a ride back? It’s a long walk, and it’s gettin’ dark.”

You shook your head, feeling a pang of guilt for declining his offer. “I appreciate it, Joel, but I don’t want to trouble you. I can manage the walk.”

Joel’s brow furrowed, and he gave a firm nod. “It ain’t no trouble. It’s just a ride. Besides, I’d rather make sure you get back safely.”

His insistence made you feel slightly uncomfortable, but you also recognized his sincerity. Raised to be polite and considerate, you found it difficult to refuse when someone was being genuinely helpful.

“Alright,” you said reluctantly, “if you insist. Thank you.”

Joel nodded, his face softening a bit as he walked over to his truck. The vehicle was old but reliable, with a rugged appearance that matched Joel’s own. He opened the passenger side door for you, gesturing for you to get in.

As you climbed into the truck, Joel got into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The interior was a mix of practical and worn, with a faint smell of leather and earth. Joel drove with a steady, practiced hand, the truck rumbling over the uneven terrain as he navigated the path back to town.

The silence in the truck was comfortable, with only the sound of the engine and the occasional rustle of the trees breaking it. You stared out the window, the fading sunlight casting a warm glow over the landscape. You could feel the weight of the day’s conversations settling in, and the quiet offered a moment of reflection.

After a few minutes, the truck rolled into town, the familiar sights coming into view. Joel slowed as he approached the church, where you could see the remaining congregants beginning to disperse.

Joel pulled up to the curb and stopped the truck. "We're here."

"Thank you once again, Joel. It’s good catching up with you," you said, giving him a grateful smile. Just as you were about to step out of the truck, you spotted your father from a distance. A sinking feeling washed over you as you realized he had seen you.

“Oh no,” you muttered, catching Joel’s eye. He turned to see your father walking towards the truck, a determined look on his face.

Joel, ever the gentleman, exited the truck as well. You followed suit, feeling a knot tighten in your stomach. Your father, who had been conversing with some church members, excused himself and made his way towards you and Joel.

“Evening, Reverend,” Joel greeted, extending a hand.

“Evening, Joel,” your father said with his usual charming demeanor, shaking Joel’s hand firmly. “It’s been a while. I hope you’ve been well.”

Joel’s expression was polite but reserved. “Can’t complain. Been keeping busy.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” your father replied smoothly. “You know, we’ve missed you at church. It would be good to see you back.”

Joel gave a noncommittal nod, his discomfort barely masked. “Maybe sometime.”

As your father turned his attention to you, his smile faltered slightly. “And where have you been, young lady? You were supposed to help with the service.”

You flinched at the stern tone, feeling his grip tighten around your arm as he spoke. “I was just taking a walk, Dad. Joel gave me a ride back.”

Your father’s grip was rough and unyielding, his fingers digging into your arm with a strength that was both painful and controlling. Joel noticed, his gaze briefly flicking to your father’s hand before returning to his face.

“Is that right?” your father said, his voice carrying a hint of disapproval. “Well, I hope you weren’t gone too long. We have responsibilities.”

"Yes, I'm sorry, father." You said smile a little to hide the pain he's causing you.

Joel cleared his throat, attempting to steer the conversation away from the tension. “I’m just making sure she gets back safe."

“Of course,” your father said, releasing your arm but maintaining a veneer of politeness. “We have a dinner invitation from Tommy and Maria next Saturday. I trust you’ll be joining us?”

Joel looked momentarily surprised. “Well, I'm supposed I am,"

Your father’s smile widened, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “Yes, they extended the invitation to our family. It will be good to catch up.”

Joel nodded, his expression neutral. “I’ll have to check with Ellie, but I’m sure we’ll make it.”

“Excellent,” your father said, still maintaining his charming facade. “It’ll be good for everyone to reconnect.”

As the conversation continued, Joel’s discomfort grew. He noticed the strain in your father’s demeanor and the way he seemed to be masking a more sinister undertone behind his polite words. Joel had been out of the social loop for a while, but he was perceptive enough to sense when something was off, even if he chose not to probe further.

“Well,” Joel said, his tone shifting to one of finality, “I better be on my way. Got some things to take care of. It was good seeing you again, Reverend. And you too,” he added, offering you a brief, reassuring smile.

You gave him a grateful nod, feeling a mixture of relief and apprehension. “Thank you, Joel."

Joel, giving one last nod before turning to leave. As he walked away, you could feel the weight of the evening’s encounters settling heavily on your shoulders. The brief respite you’d found in Joel’s company had been overshadowed by the return of your father’s control and the unsettling realization that your escape from this small town and its complexities might be more challenging than you had hoped.

After the Sunday service, you returned home with a heavy heart. The warmth of the day had turned cold, and the familiar feeling of dread settled over you as you approached the house. Inside, the tension was palpable, and the moment you walked through the door, you knew there would be consequences for your absence during the service.

Your father’s voice was stern and unforgiving as he called you into the living room. “You’ve abandoned your duties. Do you have any idea what that means?”

You tried to explain, but his anger cut you off. “I was just trying to get some fresh air, Dad. I didn’t mean—”

Before you could finish, he was on you, grabbing your arm with a grip that left no room for argument. He dragged you to the center of the room, his face a mask of fury. “You’ve abandoned your duty. It’s about respect and responsibility. You know how important this is.”

“No, please, Dad, don’t. I’m so sorry. I will not do it again,” you pleaded, your voice trembling.

The fear in your voice only seemed to fuel his anger. He disappeared into the hallway, returning with his belt in hand. The leather looked menacing, and your heart raced as you saw it.

“Please, Dad, I’m sorry,” you continued to beg. “I didn’t mean to disobey. I’ll make it right. Just please—”

Your father’s face was a mask of cold determination. “Take off your dress and face the wall,” he ordered, his voice steely. “You needs to be taught a lesson.”

You could barely keep your composure as you undressed, your body shaking with fear and dread. The scars on your back from a previous punishment throbbed with anticipation. When you were finally positioned with your back to him, every nerve in your body was on edge.

The first crack of the belt was sharp and painfully immediate. The sound echoed through the room, followed by a searing pain that made you flinch. You cried out, tears streaming down your face. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” you sobbed, your voice breaking with each cry of pain.

You could feel the belt cutting into your already tender skin, the sensation of bleeding mixing with the agony of the blows. Each strike felt like a betrayal of your trust, a reminder of the harsh world you were trapped in.

Your mother stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her face pale and tear-streaked. She wanted to intervene, but fear held her back. She could only watch helplessly as you were punished, her own sobs mingling with your cries of pain.

In a desperate attempt to mask the sounds of the abuse from the neighbors, she turned the gospel music up loud, hoping the noise would cover your screams and your father’s harsh words.

The music blared in the background, a twisted contrast to the suffering in the room. It felt like a cruel mockery, the joyous hymns clashing with the reality of your punishment. Your mother’s tears fell silently as she stood by, unable to offer more than the muted comfort of her presence.

As the beating continued, your strength waned. The pain was overwhelming, a relentless reminder of the control your father exerted over every aspect of your life. You could only endure, hoping for it to end soon, each moment stretching out painfully as you clung to the hope that this would be the last of such torment.

When he finally stopped, you were left huddled on the floor, your body aching and your spirit broken. Your father’s anger subsided, leaving him with a cold, resolute expression. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” he said gruffly, his voice devoid of empathy. “Disobedience won’t be tolerated.”

Your mother rushed to your side as soon as your father left the room, her hands trembling, “I’m so sorry,” she whispered through her tears, her voice filled with sorrow and helplessness.

You looked at her through blurred vision, your own tears mingling with hers. “I—It's okay, mama." you said weakly, your voice strained and shaky. “It’s my fault."

She helped you put your dress back on, her fingers brushing gently over the raw marks on your skin, causing you to wince. Each movement was a reminder of the pain you were enduring.

As you slowly gathered your strength, your mother helped you to a nearby chair, her hands still shaking. She sat beside you, her presence a small but comforting anchor in the storm of your emotions. The music from the kitchen blared on, a cruel backdrop to the quiet moments of shared sorrow between mother and daughter.

In the midst of the pain and turmoil, there was a flicker of hope that someday, somehow, you might find a way out of the darkness. For now, though, you could only cling to the small comforts and the hope that things might one day be different.

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eldrith · 2 months

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i literally just thought abt this ajehbsha but like what if the reader was jace's bethrothed that was "killed" by the greens during the dance, but was actually captured and brainwashed her to be an assasin ksjwbsna

think of it somewhat like bucky barnes

safe flight on ur trip!:)

BABE YOUR MIND…. also i haven't seen the marvel movies in ages so im kinda going off what i can recall . and i took this in a bit of a diff direction i hope thats ok but i love this i could write a whole fucking book about this omfg. your mind is beautiful id love to keep it in a jar warnings: mentions of torture, death, assassinations, angst, allusions to smut if you squint, targcest bc its implied you are aegon's sister/of valyrian blood, brief allusion to suicidal thoughts, fluff mostly at the end and is a bit canon divergent. and yes i know this is 3.1k words but it's still a headcanon ok. its just a great concept

you and jacaerys are betrothed when you are young.

despite this, you remain close; shy smiles, kind whispers and youthful awkwardness that blossoms into a strong, devoted friendship. you're to be queen - and he, king. indeed you study for your future duties side by side, with prideful grins - and along the way, you find time for yourselves.

in youth, it is in teaching jacaerys to sew and read tarot, painting, or maybe even showing him the game you used to play with your brothers; it is in him teaching you to wield a sword, studying high valyrian together, him showing you how to climb the castle's ramparts, and inviting you along with he and luke to throw stones at the sea.

as you grow old, it is in jacaerys giving you rides on vermax, dancing with him any chance you can, exploring nature - mountains with caves and tall waterfalls that he pulls you under with feverish kisses, finding ways to sneak to each other's chambers; it is in you kissing his cheek and teasing him when his face grows pink, bringing lucerys along with the two of you when you begin to sneak out of the castle, in sharing too many cups of wine and stumbling to your quarters, in hands weaving through each other's hair.

it is nice.

but then, the war.

things are as okay as they can be for a while- duty is a blessing and a curse for you both. tensions mount. jacaerys feels like everything is falling apart, but he has you; his best friend, his lover, his favorite person in the entirety of the seven kingdoms. you cry with each other, train with each other, sneak off when things become too intense in court. you begin to whisper about a secret wedding, a traditional valyrian one; intimate, quiet.

he just wants to call you his wife, and you just want to call him your husband. but duty has a way of interfering with even the sweetest plans.

the evening jace leaves to treat at winterfell, you clasp a chain round his neck, one you strung your favorite ring through; a keepsake, perhaps. or as he likes to think, a reminder of you during the cold nights in the north.

despite it all, things are okay.

until he loses you.

you are killed with your dragon, defending a crucial line of passage for their men; vhagar and aemond are the last ones to see you as your dragon spirals beyond a hill, wings singed and aflame. you vanish.

jace is overwhelmed with grief.

the news comes just as he's beginning to find himself in a new world - a world without his younger brother - and he, an empty pit of grief and despair, isolates himself from others. consumed by sorrow and rage, his emotions spiral out of control - snapping, yelling, unable to contain his emotions even at council.

his days are marked by a deep mourning that he's unsure will ever be mended. life continues in its droll capacity - the war rages on, and jace becomes more bitter, and more like his great uncle daemon. bloodthirsty, demanding revenge.

and then, you return from the dead.

the day you come back to him is rainy and drowsy. he had foolishly, or in a bout of grief, not noticed the sounds of dragon overhead the caste; a dragon whose screech he had not heard in many moons.

his mother is the one to find him - alone, staring at the hearth in his quarters, eyes filmed with the glossy haze of sorrow.

rhaenyra's face is ghostly, sickly - and he grows immediately concerned as he sees her expression, rising to grasp her arms. "mother, are you well?"

he is shocked when he hears her whisper out: "she's alive."

his worry for his mother vanishes, blinded by her words. you. you're...

and despite being ordered to remain, his legs carry him out - to you. his mother's own footfalls follow behind him, her voice begging. he does not listen, even when she warns him - there is something that isn't right.

when he finally finds you he's elated, heart nearly stopping when your eyes meet.

but there's something missing.

when he takes you into his arms, you're cold; barely blinking, you are not who you used to be.

his own tears distort his vision as he cups your face, pressing a kiss to your full lips - and perhaps that is why he does not notice the sullen, empty look on your face. but he feels it in the way your lips do not kiss back.

jace tries to ignore it, at first.

as you are nursed back to physical health, you avoid telling the court of the truth. all that is revealed is the harrowing tale of your mangled body, put back together by the maester in the red keep; your mutilated dragon, whose health was dangled over your head by your own brother, the one whose head bears a crown that is not his.

you do not speak of your time, but the nightmares you wake from, screaming your throat raw, speak for themselves.

you heal.

you begin to show some signs of humanity after the initial shock subsides; and when you begin to seek his touch, he is glad for that semblance of what you used to have.

but it isn't the same.

you flinch at the slightest movements; your face, once expressive and joyful, is rarely lax of the straight, icy stare you send mostly towards walls. he knows he must be patient; you've endured something he could not imagine - but he cannot help his unease.

you do not speak as you used to - lapse in memory, seemingly unfamiliar with jacaerys; as if you did not grow up together, running down halls, whispering secrets, notching each other’s heights in the frame of your chamber’s threshold.

he can't help when he begins to turn away from your lips, avoiding the mechanical feeling of your mouth upon his, the coldness of your eyes when you attempt to unlace his tunic.

he feels as though it is a different person that tries to kiss him each time. he grows incredibly lonely.

in time, he is suspicious of you. you're... different. during conversations, you forget important details, you cannot recall milestones or memories you used to cherish.

the way your palm fits oddly into his, the way you no longer brush his hair back when it falls into his eyes. you call him jacaerys, or your grace - that, indeed, is the first seed planted in the suspicion of his mind. always jacaerys, never jace - and when he asks you what you do with all the time you spend alone in your chambers, you lock up as if mute.

when performing certain duties around the queen, your eyes would slide to odd objects, or pay close attention to cupbearers and how the queen enjoys her wine.

and he begins tracking your walks when you think you're alone: he discovers you sending ravens with a cloak pulled low over your head, visiting odd alleys in town and disappearing into the lower bowels of peculiar shoppes.

jace goes to daemon, of all people - daemon, first. he knows his stepfather's reputation—ruthless, cunning, and fiercely protective; if anyone can help him discern the truth, it's him. "something is not right," he tells him, worried daemon would somehow turn it into something it's not.

even worse, though, is that daemon is quick to agree. and when jace tells his mother, she confesses her own concern.

"that isn't her," his voice warbled when he tells his mother - lip, trembling, tears tracking down his cheeks as she pulls him into her embrace, her own fear poorly concealed.

when it finally happens, it is a shock to his entire body.

a mere word; murmured, off-hand at a council you happened to be attending - of which you often no longer attended, your trauma and recovery from the kidnapping having sequestered you to your quarters most days.

"Usurper," he'd said.

and then your head had snapped up.

a change in your face - as if no longer human, you’d leapt, ripping out a dagger that had been concealed in your bodice.

and then you'd lunged at him; slicing like a hound rabid for a piece of meat.

he does not remember much besides his reaction: striking you across the cheek and disarming you- kicking hard, your body being thrown to the stone. four swords at your throat. daemon holding you down with a look of disbelief at your heaving frame.

you were relentless, ready to kill - but you are too small, and the rest too many.

a stinging pain, throbbing at his neck as he watches you in shock.

but that was not you - a statue, some sleeping beast that'd been awoken in your tortured brain at the trigger of such a word. it had nearly been worse than when you'd died.

brainwashed, maester gerardys tells them.

it is not until after you have been thrown into the cells below and a bandage sealed around jace's neck.

the blade was one of green and black hilt; intended, likely, for the queen herself - in hopes that she'd have been the first one to utter the word.

likely, maester gerardys says, you were led to believe you'd been abandoned by them, and subsequently tortured for all the time you'd been held at the red keep.

and of course, there was the threat of further maiming your dragon, perhaps, or other similar threats - and physical torture, if the scars on your body are anything to go by; this twists a raw agony in jace's gut and he has to shut his eyes to ward off the thought of you, in pain.

it is a miracle you did not lose your head for nearly slitting the throat of the crown prince; he contests while still lying abed with the open slice of red across his throat, relieved when his mother informs him you are still among the living. she is a merciful queen.

he does not weep until he is alone that night.

breaking the brainwashing is the hardest part.

nights, falling asleep in his brothers or his mother's quarters where your screams of anguish or anger could not be heard - days walking past your heavily guarded chamber to reach his own, swallowing thick as he imagines you on the other side.

isolation is key, he's been told, but it makes it so much worse.

it takes so long that jacaerys nearly forgets what your voice sounds like, how your eyes shine in the sun. he forgets how your smile, beautiful and uneven, makes his heart flip; the taste of your lips, the cadence of your voice.

he even finds himself praying to the seven for the first time since he was just a babe.

slowly, as you begin to heal, you are permitted to see others. he is not allowed, nor is his mother - daemon first, then baela and rhaena with their grandmother. servants and maids.

he begins to hear you again. walking past the chambers which lie near his own, he'd hear your voice, conversing quietly with maester gerardys. when he dozes off over a strategy tome at his desk, he is jolted awake by your gentle, haunting humming; a tune he used to love.

his mother tells him it is not healthy to keep it in.

but he cannot bring himself to speak of it.

shame, pain, anguish, embarrassment - heartbreak. he has grieved you twice over, seen you become a ghost. he has lost you and lost you again.

herbs, potions, guided discussions and meditations. solitary confinement, exposure to the word - all of this, and you begin to shed the skin of whatever person they had made you into.

he pretends that he does not endure nightmares of that day every time his eyes close - of the glint of your knife, the soulless stare of your eyes. the swelling bruise on your cheek - in the shape of his own fist.

there is a thin scar, a puckered pink line of fresh skin across the apple of his throat the next time he sees you.

it's an accident; he walks past just as a maid leaves your chambers, and he naturally glances over. your eyes meet him, hair wet and fresh from bathing; wide as a sweet doe, pain and regret laced through your gaze. "jace."

his throat is tight when he hears your voice - gentle, laced with remorse. jace, you'd called him. he hides the tears in his eyes when he continues briskly past your chambers. he thinks about you ceaselessly the rest of the day.

he's told you do not sleep. you eat only when it becomes impossible not to, you cannot make meaningful eye contact nor hold steady conversations without breaking down in guilt. it eats away at him.

but as you begin to show signs of improvement, jacaerys is finally allowed to visit.

they're brief, supervised; he brings paintings, books, and anything they believe could help stimulate your memory of life before your change. he tries to ignore the sting of pain when you barely meet his gaze, voice stuttering, hands shaking.

you’re still not you; flickering eyes, quiet voice. but soon, after moons of quiet conversation, stunted by the armored guards standing between you and observing your every move, it changes.

little by little, he sees glimpses of you again. you laugh like you used to. you recount stories of your shared youth - with a grin, you remember the day he'd fallen from an apple tree trying to pick you a fruit, and you'd had to snap his arm into correct place.

you brush flecks of dust and lint from his shoulder with shy looks, you share the books you’ve been reading; one day, you ask him to braid your hair - a task you'd taught him in youth. you fall asleep when he's halfway through.

and yes, there are bad days - days where your grief and guilt eat your stomach and you refuse to even look him in the eye; when you sob into your hands and curl yourself on the chaise longue and jace is stuck, heartbroken, watching you push him away.

you do not forgive yourself, you will not let him forgive you - but you soon let him hold you, and you soon begin to hold him back with a desperate grip.

it takes a while for jace to accept help.

but soon, he undergoes his own healing process; he knows he must reconcile the grief of losing you with the joy of having you back, albeit changed.

eventually, he speaks openly with you about the death of lucerys and about your own assumed death as well. you stroke his hair when he cries into your chest, you kiss his nose and cheeks to rid the tracks of tears.

during quieter moments, you find solace in each other's presence. you walk together in the gardens, hand in hand, your steps in sync as you talk about the future; you sit by the hearth in the evenings, your heads close as you share whispered conversations and stolen glances.

you broach the subject one stormy day, your beautiful hair loose and whipping around your head.

he watches your mind churn behind those eyes, the ones that have regained their expressive nature - the eyes he's loved since before he knew such a word.

"i would have killed you." it's a whisper into the wind. "and yet, you saved my life."

your voice is not grateful - to his horror, it is pained - as if you believe such repentance could only be achieved through greeting the stranger.

he shakes his head, "it was not you who did it." but you've heard it countless times, and you still find it hard to accept - guilt swims in your beautiful eyes.

"i love you." he whispers it.

tears drop from your eyes as you look at him. "why?"

eventually, the fog clears fully.

you remember the details of your manipulation, the torture, the indoctrinating, the conditioning. you confess it all to queen rhaenyra and the dragonstone court - voice shaking and body bent with shame, you apologize for your weakness. jace has to look away when you begin to cry, when you beg for forgiveness, for another chance.

it is given without hesitance.

one evening, you sit by the fire with him.

something upon him catches your eye; with a tentative reach, your fingers brush his chest. jace looks down, breath catching as he realizes what you've found; gently, you pull the necklace from his tunic - a ring upon it, untarnished. your smile is sad, sorrowful - "you kept it," you whisper.

he can only nod, eyes never leaving yours. "i never took it off."

it is that night you tell him about a dream you had; you were both young again, carefree and in love. his eyes glisten with unshed tears just as yours do, and he takes your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "we'll get there," he promises, his voice unwavering. you both believe it.

you come back to him in ways he doesn't expect.

longing glances, eyes holding on his lips when he speaks to you - short teases that release your sharp tongue and quick wit. you are given some old duties back. kept to the castle, you mostly held draw efforts from within, but he can see the fire in your eyes return as the guilt subsides.

when the word usurper is accidentally used in conversation, eyes still flicker to you. there will remain wariness - conscious or not - for the rest of your days. but you prove yourself loyal and trustworthy, and you soon begin to forgive yourself.

nights you spend in jace's arms, fingers brushing against the scar you'd given him. tears are replaced with soft kisses upon lips, and eventually upon flushed, sweat-laced skin.

he is terrified each time you ride into battle - even when he and vermax are alongside you.

perhaps it is a weakness - to worry so, during a war; he cannot help it. but to his relief, you always come out unscathed, as does he - and you always slide off the wing of your dragon and pull him to you, murmuring into his neck, soothing over his back with your palm once you return.

you love him, and you tell him as much any chance you get. you begin to stop wincing when he tells you he loves you, too.

you still wake sometimes with a hoarse throat, but now you are soothed back to sleep when jace, bleary eyed and heart pounding, crawls into your bed alongside you. your cries turn into soft puffs of breath as he braids your hair until you fall asleep.

you still sometimes flinch when someone raises a hand, jace sometimes watches with wariness when he sees you wielding a knife.

but eventually the war ends.

you and jace marry.

a traditional, valyrian one; dragonglass sliced into lips, palms. a kiss that tastes of metal, of loyalty, of love. you whisper the words to each other, no echo of ghosts nor fear in your minds.

one flesh, one heart, one soul. now and forever.

you become prince and princess of dragonstone, first in line for the succession to the iron throne.

you show to be just rulers; fair and kind, strong willed and bright. ceaselessly, fiercely in love.

your firstborn son is named lucerys.

he has jace's eyes and your hair. you sing him the song jace remembers you humming those days after you came back to them - and when the queen visits to give her congratulations and to meet her grandbabe, the heir to the heir, she calls you daughter.

the scar upon his neck fades away, until you can scarcely trace it with your finger as he pulls you to him in the late hours of eve, wrapped in furs and the soft flicker of candlelight.

you do not hear the word usurper again.

requests open, or talk to me <3 taglist/mutuals; @bitchydragonparadisee @lukehughes43 @rhea-ripley @jottositto @chloe-petrichors @softspiderling @dipperscavern

#requests #jace thoughts ༊*·˚#jace x reader #jacaerys velaryon x you #jacaerys velaryon x reader #jacaerys x reader #jace smut #prince jacaerys #hotd x reader #hotd imagine #hotd smut #house of the dragon #house of the dragon x reader #jacaerys fanfiction #jacaerys velaryon smut #jacaerys velaryon imagine #jacaerys velaryon fanfic #jace fanfic #jace imagine

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novaursa · 1 month

Text

Where Honor Burns

- Summary: After the tragedy Above the God's Eye, you decided to go to King's Landing, in hope to prevent more bloodshed. Even if it means your death.

- Paring: targ!reader/Gwanye Hightower

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger sister of Rhaenyra and was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after The Chains We Break. To read all parts in chronological order visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. Also, in this AU Rhaenyra never sized King's Landing.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 017

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @holdingforgeneralhugs @sachaa-ff

- A/N: you guys liked this so much I've decided to push next part out early again, since I have the entire thing finnished already for some time and I feel unfair to keep it from you, as it's very well recived series. There will be one more part of this posted, then it's done. Enjoy. ❤️

The day dawns with gray skies, heavy with the weight of impending rain, as if the gods themselves mourn what has been lost. You stand at the edge of Dragonstone’s cliffs, fingers tightening around the rough parchment in your hand. The inked words smudge slightly from the salt in the air—or perhaps it is the tears you refuse to shed.

Daemon is dead.

The news is sharp and bitter on your tongue, like ashes. You should feel grief, yet what blooms in your chest is nothing more than an emptiness edged with relief. Daemon’s death severs the last frayed threads binding you to him, a marriage that was doomed from the moment it began. The years of ambition, control, and quiet disdain have left scars deeper than any sword could carve. The day you and Rhaenyra agreed to release Gwayne to Otto—sealed your doom as Daemon’s wife. He never forgave you for that.

The sound of footsteps draws you from your thoughts. Vaeron approaches, his brow furrowed, his usually confident stride hesitant. He’s grown into a fine young man—strong and determined, the fire of Old Valyria running hot in his veins, a fire that no doubt still confused him, born as he was not of Daemon’s blood but of Gwayne’s. The tension between them had only worsened in recent months, yet Vaeron was still the same boy Daemon had taken under his wing, raising him as his own.

“Mother,” Vaeron’s voice is tight, the pain behind it unmistakable. “Is it true?”

You nod, unable to bring yourself to repeat the words. “Daemon and Aemond both perished above the Gods Eye.”

He inhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, full with the silver of his true heritage. “He was a fool to challenge Aemond alone,” he murmurs, but there is no triumph in his voice, only a deep-seated sorrow. Despite everything, Vaeron still sought Daemon’s approval, still yearned for some semblance of affection from the man who had twisted the role of father into something cruel and cold.

You reach out and place a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension beneath his skin. “He made his choice, just as we all have,” you say, your voice soft yet firm. “This war has gone on long enough. Too much blood has been spilled, and more will be if we do nothing.”

Vaeron’s gaze sharpens as he looks at you, the young warrior ready for battle in his eyes, but beneath it lies uncertainty. “What are you planning, Mother?”

You straighten your back, steel in your voice as you declare, “I’m going to King’s Landing.”

The words hang in the air like a thunderclap. Vaeron’s eyes widen in shock, a flicker of fear quickly masked by anger. “You can’t! They’ll kill you the moment you set foot near the Red Keep. You’re the one who crippled Aegon at Rook’s Rest! They’ll flay you alive for that alone!”

A bitter smile touches your lips. “Perhaps. But we cannot keep hiding behind dragons and armies, waiting for a decisive blow that may never come. Rhaenyra has the right to the throne, but we cannot burn the realm to the ground for it. Someone must act before there’s nothing left to rule.”

“Mother, please,” Vaeron’s voice breaks with desperation now. “If not for yourself, then for me. You’re all I have left.”

You feel the sting of tears prickling at the edges of your vision, but you blink them away. You’ve made your choice, and there is no room for doubt. You cup his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin under your palm, and see the boy you once cradled as a babe, a child of love born in secret. “I am doing this for you, Vaeron. For you, and for the realm. The bloodshed must end, and if it is my life that brings peace, then so be it.”

He looks at you, eyes shining with unshed tears, his jaw clenched. “You can’t do this alone.”

“No,” you agree, your voice softening. “But I must be the one to start it.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The wind howls around you, the sea crashing violently against the rocks below. Vaeron pulls away, shaking his head as if trying to ward off the inevitability of it all. “I’ll go with you,” he finally says, determination hardening in his voice.

You shake your head gently. “No, my son. You’re needed here. If things go wrong, Rhaenyra will need someone she can trust—someone with a clear head. You must protect your family, no matter what happens.”

He clenches his fists, trembling as he battles between wanting to protect you and knowing you’re right. “I hate this,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “I hate all of it.”

“So do I,” you reply, your voice breaking. “But sometimes, we must do what is necessary, even if it costs us everything.”

You lean forward, pressing a kiss to his brow, and for a fleeting moment, you allow yourself to hold him close, the way you did when he was small, and the world was far simpler. When you pull back, his face is set in a mask of determination, so much like yours when you were younger, filled with dreams and desires that have long since turned to ash.

“Stay strong, Vaeron. For our family. For the future.”

With that, you turn and walk back toward the fortress, your steps heavy with the weight of what you must do. Behind you, the wind carries the sound of your son’s quiet sobs, a painful reminder of all that this war has taken and what it will still demand before it is over.

You do not look back. You cannot afford to.

You have a realm to save.

King’s Landing reeks of decay, the stench of rot clinging to every breath. Gwayne Hightower stands on one of the parapets overlooking the city, the once-proud banners of the Greens fluttering lifelessly in the breeze. His gaze is fixed on the distant horizon, where storm clouds gather ominously, but his thoughts are elsewhere—always elsewhere. No matter how far he tries to distance himself from the past, it haunts him relentlessly, like a ghost that refuses to be exorcised.

It has been months since his return to the capital, and yet every corner, every shadow in this city, reminds him of her. Of Y/N. His beloved, and the sister of the woman the Greens have fought so bitterly to keep from the throne. He grips the stone ledge tightly, knuckles white as he remembers the day he was brought back, humiliated and paraded like a traitor, a stain upon his family’s honor.

He had expected death. He would have welcomed it if it meant sparing him from the hollow gaze of Ser Criston Cole, who had demanded his execution for treason. The memory of Cole’s cold sneer, his self-righteous fury, still makes Gwayne’s blood simmer. The man had practically salivated at the thought of executing him, of making an example out of the “traitorous” Hightower who had saved Rhaenyra’s sister from the flames at Rook’s Rest. He would never regret that decision. Not for all the power, gold, or prestige in the world.

But it was not Cole who held Gwayne’s fate. It was his father, Otto, and his sister, the Dowager Queen Alicent, who intervened, silencing Cole’s demands with a forceful refusal. Yet, they had not been merciful. No, they had allowed the rotting head of Silverwing to be mounted for all to see, a cruel display meant to drive a wedge deeper into Gwayne’s heart. Silverwing, Y/N’s dragon, who had died protecting her—left to wither and decay like a forgotten relic. It was an injustice that Gwayne bore like a festering wound, a humiliation barely concealed beneath the mask of duty.

He shuts his eyes, and her face comes to him unbidden—the softness in her eyes that had never wavered, not even in the face of Daemon’s cold disdain, or the harsh realities of war. He remembers the warmth of her hand in his, the way her voice had soothed the fear in his heart, even when the world around them was crumbling. How could he not have saved her that day? How could anyone expect him to do anything less when it was her life at stake?

The rustle of skirts and the subtle scent of lavender and rosemary pulls him from his reverie. Gwayne opens his eyes, finding his sister standing beside him, her expression unreadable. Dowager Queen Alicent still carries herself with the grace of a woman who has shouldered too much, yet refuses to break beneath the weight. Her once fiery determination has dulled into a cold resolve, a woman shaped by grief and loss, and the endless machinations of court.

“Brother,” she greets softly, her voice carrying the echoes of weariness. “It’s been too long since we spoke.”

He offers her a tight nod, forcing the tension from his jaw. “It has, Your Grace.” The formality is deliberate, a barrier between them. Though they share blood, the distance between them has grown insurmountable over the years.

Alicent’s eyes flicker with something—regret, perhaps?—before she turns her gaze to the city below. “I’ve heard whispers that you’ve been restless of late. The men say you spend too much time brooding alone, staring into the distance as if searching for answers the gods have hidden from us.”

“I am where I am needed, as you and Father commanded,” he replies curtly, unwilling to entertain her probing. He knows what she’s doing. She’s always been good at drawing out what’s hidden beneath the surface, even when he wishes she wouldn’t.

She sighs softly, a sound filled with unspoken words. “You blame us for what was done to Silverwing.”

Gwayne’s grip tightens on the stone again. He doesn’t deny it. “It was a needless cruelty. She was a noble creature who died protecting her rider. Displaying her head like that—it was an insult to the memory of what she represented.”

“An insult, perhaps,” Alicent admits, her tone carefully measured. “But it was necessary. The people needed a symbol, something to remind them of the cost of defiance.”

He scoffs, bitterness curling his lips. “Defiance? Is that what you call saving someone I love?”

The admission slips out before he can stop it, the rawness of his emotions slicing through the air between them. Alicent’s eyes widen slightly, surprise momentarily breaking through her composed mask. But she recovers quickly, her gaze softening as she studies him. “You still think of her.”

“Every day,” Gwayne says quietly, the ache in his chest tightening. “I think of her every godsdamned day, and I regret nothing. You can have me stripped of titles, cast me into the black cells, and I would still choose to save her.”

For a long moment, there is silence between them, broken only by the distant clamor of the city below. Alicent’s eyes are misty as she watches him, her lips parting as if she’s searching for words that won’t come.

Finally, she speaks, her voice barely above a whisper. “Love makes fools of us all, Gwayne. It blinds us to what is prudent, to what is wise. I once knew a man who would have risked everything for love, but time and circumstance have a way of teaching us that such devotion often leads to ruin.”

Gwayne meets her gaze, defiance burning in his eyes. “Then let me be a fool, Sister. I would rather be a fool than a coward who sacrifices what is right for what is safe.”

A flicker of pain crosses Alicent’s face at his words, but she doesn’t flinch. “I pray that the choices you’ve made do not bring you to ruin, Gwayne. We’re all caught in this web of power and bloodshed, each of us trying to hold onto what little we have left.”

Her words linger, heavy with the weight of their shared burdens. Gwayne looks away, his heart still tethered to thoughts of Y/N, of what might have been had the world been kinder, had fate been less cruel.

But the world is what it is—a place of suffering, where even the most noble acts are punished and love is a weakness to be exploited. Yet, even knowing that, he would still choose her. Every time.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now,” Gwayne says after a long pause, his voice thick with resignation. “Daemon and Aemond are dead. The game we’ve all played has grown cold, and soon it will be Rhaenyra or Aegon who claims the last move.”

“Perhaps,” Alicent murmurs, though her eyes are distant, as if she’s looking at something far beyond this moment. “But war has a way of devouring everything in its path. Whatever happens next, we must be ready.”

Gwayne doesn’t reply. His thoughts drift back to Y/N, to her strength and the resolve she must be clinging to now. He wonders where she is, if she’s safe, and if she ever thinks of him the way he thinks of her.

But such thoughts are a luxury he cannot afford. He is here, bound by duty, trapped in a city where his only solace is the memory of what once was—and the unshakable knowledge that he would do it all over again, consequences be damned.

The clouds overhead break, and the first droplets of rain begin to fall. As the chill seeps into his bones, Gwayne turns away from the edge, leaving the ghosts of what might have been behind, even if they’ll never truly leave him.

The streets of King’s Landing are thick with discord, and the air hums with the whispers of the crowds. The cobblestones are slick with grime and spilled wine as people press closer to watch, their eyes gleaming with morbid curiosity. The moment you arrived at the city gates, there was no ceremony, no dignity—only the iron grip of Ser Criston Cole’s men as they dragged you from your mount, jeering insults trailing in their wake.

“Look at the whore! Just like her sister!”

The words sting like poisoned arrows, yet you hold your head high, refusing to break. The crowd surges, pressing closer, feeding on the spectacle of your humiliation. You’ve been paraded through the streets like a common criminal, Cole’s grip never loosening as he drags you closer to the Red Keep, his eyes alight with vindictive satisfaction. It’s clear he’s been waiting for this moment, to claim victory over the woman —Rhaenyra— who once defied him and the family he serves so devoutly.

He stops abruptly before the gates of the Red Keep, turning to the gathered throng with a sneer curling his lips. “Behold! The dragon’s whore, sister to the pretender queen, come to grovel for mercy she does not deserve!” His voice carries, cold and mocking, inciting the crowd further. They howl their approval, eager for blood—yours or anyone else’s. It makes no difference to them.

But you do not bow your head. You meet Cole’s gaze with icy defiance, refusing to let him see how your heart hammers in your chest. The memories of Silverwing’s rotting head flash in your mind, a stark reminder of the cruelty that awaits you here. But you force yourself to stand tall. You’ve faced worse than this.

You’re brought into the throne room, where Alicent Hightower and her father, Otto, wait. Aegon’s absence is notable, but you know the reason. The rumors speak of his broken body, of his delirious cries as the milk of the poppy steals his sanity away. The once-proud king is now nothing more than a husk, a shadow of the tyrant he once was.

Alicent’s expression is tight with a mixture of weariness and caution, her eyes flicking between you and Cole as if assessing the weight of this confrontation. Otto stands beside her, his face carved from stone, every line etched with ambition and ruthlessness. It’s clear they intend to wring every ounce of leverage from this moment.

“You have a great deal of nerve coming here,” Otto begins, his voice clipped, “knowing the crimes you’ve committed against this family and this realm. You crippled the king, threw the Greens into disarray, and now you slink back like a beggar, expecting what? Mercy? Forgiveness?”

You square your shoulders, refusing to cower. “I came to end the bloodshed. How many more sons, brothers, and fathers must die before you realize that this war has no victors? Only ashes.”

Alicent’s eyes darken, the mention of sons clearly striking a nerve. She opens her mouth to speak, but before she can, the doors burst open, and Gwayne strides in, his face a mask of barely-contained fury.

“Enough of this!” he bellows, his voice reverberating through the chamber. He moves to rush toward you, but Cole steps forward, his hand already on the hilt of his sword, blocking Gwayne’s path.

“Stay back, Ser Gwayne. This is not your concern,” Cole snaps, his disdain for Gwayne evident in every word.

Gwayne’s eyes blaze as he turns his glare on Cole. “Not my concern? You dare speak to me of what concerns me when you’ve dragged the mother of my son through the streets like some common criminal? You’ve no right to degrade her like this!”

Otto’s eyes narrow at his son, but his voice remains calm, almost condescending. “You forget your place, Gwayne. This is not a matter for your heart to decide. The woman stands accused of treason, of crimes against the Crown.”

“I care nothing for your accusations, Father!” Gwayne’s voice cracks with the intensity of his emotions. “I will not stand by while you humiliate the woman I love—while you let her suffer when this war has already taken too much from all of us!”

There is a silence that follows his words, thick with the weight of what he’s just confessed. Alicent’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, her gaze softening with a flicker of sympathy as she studies her brother’s desperate expression. She’s lost so much—Aemond to the skies above the Gods Eye, Daeron at Tumbleton, and Aegon reduced to a broken shell. For a moment, her mask of cold resolve cracks.

“What would you have me do, Gwayne?” she asks quietly, almost pleading. “What resolution is there, when every path leads to more bloodshed?”

Gwayne takes a step forward, his voice gentler now, imploring. “Let me marry her. Let Viserys’ refusal be buried with him. If we end this cycle of vengeance, perhaps—just perhaps—we can stop this madness. Rhaenyra’s forces are strong, but even she tires of the bloodshed. The realm cannot survive more of this conflict.”

Alicent’s lips press into a thin line, uncertainty warring with her long-held beliefs. “Marrying her would be an insult to the Greens, to everything we’ve fought for. How can you ask me to allow such a union?”

“Because you’ve already lost two sons,” Gwayne says, his voice raw with pain. “Daemon is dead, and so is Aemond. Aegon is no longer fit to rule. You know it, Alicent. We’re fighting a war for a crown that no one truly wants anymore—not in the way it once mattered. The people starve, the dragons die, and for what? The Iron Throne is a curse, not a prize. Let there be peace. Let us find some measure of hope before it all crumbles to dust.”

His words hang heavy in the air, each one a plea, not just for your freedom, but for an end to the suffering that has stained this realm. Alicent looks away, tears glistening in her eyes as the truth of his words gnaws at her heart.

Otto, however, is unmoved. “You would throw away every gain we’ve made for the whims of your heart? This woman’s marriage to Daemon was a slight to our family’s honor from the beginning. To accept her now would be to admit defeat.”

But before Gwayne can respond, Alicent raises a hand, silencing them both. Her voice is quiet, but it carries the full weight of her authority. “No, Father. Perhaps Gwayne is right. How much more can we lose before there is nothing left worth protecting?” Her gaze turns back to you, and for the first time, you see not just a queen, but a mother who has lost almost everything. “If there is a chance to end this, to save what remains of our families, then we must take it.”

Gwayne exhales shakily, relief flooding his features as he steps closer, his eyes locking onto yours. “Let me marry her, Alicent. Let this be the beginning of something better—something that might actually last.”

Alicent stares at you for a long, agonizing moment, weighing the choice before her. Then, finally, she nods, her voice laced with exhaustion. “Very well. The marriage will be sanctioned. But know this—if this decision leads to more chaos, more ruin, it will be on your head, Gwayne.”

Gwayne bows his head in gratitude, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you, Sister.”

Cole steps back reluctantly, anger simmering in his eyes, but he knows better than to openly defy the queen. As the tension in the room finally begins to ease, Gwayne moves to your side, his fingers brushing against yours, a touch meant to ground you both after everything that has happened.

You meet his gaze, the storm of emotions within you barely held in check. This was not the path you envisioned, nor the life you had dreamed of, but it is the one before you now. And perhaps, in this fragile truce, there is a glimmer of hope—for your son, for Gwayne, and for the future you might yet carve from the ruins of war.

For now, you allow yourself the comfort of his presence, knowing that whatever comes next, you won’t face it alone.

The room is dimly lit, the flickering light of candles casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The scent of roses and herbs wafts through the air as the servants bustle around you, their hands quick but gentle as they prepare your bath. You can barely focus on their movements; your mind is still spinning from the events of the day, from the jeers of the crowd to the cold fury in Otto’s eyes. Your body aches, the cuts and scrapes from being dragged through the streets stinging sharply with every brush of fabric against your skin.

When you finally lower yourself into the steaming water, a hiss escapes your lips as the heat bites into your wounds. You bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, determined not to show even the smallest sign of weakness. The water slowly works its way into your muscles, easing some of the tension, but your thoughts remain a tangled mess. You think of Vaeron, of what he must be feeling, and of Gwayne—the man who risked everything for you, who still fights for you.

The sound of the door creaking open draws your attention. You glance up, expecting one of the servants, but instead, you see Gwayne. His presence fills the room, his eyes blazing with barely-contained anger. The servants freeze, their hands mid-task, exchanging nervous glances.

“Out,” Gwayne says, his voice low and commanding.

The servants hesitate, torn between obeying their orders and respecting the strict instructions they’ve been given by Otto. But Gwayne steps forward, his gaze hardening. “I said out,” he repeats, more sharply this time.

The authority in his voice leaves no room for argument. The servants bow hastily, gathering their things and scurrying out of the room, leaving you alone with him. The door closes behind them with a resounding thud, and the room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker.

You watch Gwayne as he strides toward you, his expression softening as he takes in the sight of you in the bath. But there’s still a dark fury simmering beneath the surface, a quiet rage barely held in check. He kneels beside the tub, his eyes raking over your body, lingering on the cuts and bruises that mar your skin. His jaw tightens as he reaches out, his fingertips grazing a particularly nasty scrape on your arm.

“They did this to you,” he murmurs, his voice trembling with barely-suppressed anger. “Cole did this to you.”

You can see the guilt in his eyes, as if he blames himself for not being there, for not stopping it before it happened. You reach out and touch his hand, trying to reassure him, but the moment your skin meets his, something shifts between you. The air grows thick with tension, a tension that has been simmering for far too long.

“Gwayne,” you whisper, but it’s all you manage to say before the words are stolen from your lips by the intensity in his gaze.

Without a word, he leans forward, cupping your face with both hands, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. His touch is soft, almost reverent, but beneath it, you feel the tremor of barely-contained desire, of need and longing that has been held back for far too long. He moves closer, and you feel his breath against your lips, warm and ragged.

“I can’t bear seeing you like this,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t stand knowing what they did to you, how they hurt you.” His eyes darken, his expression raw. “You deserve so much more. You deserve everything, and all they’ve ever given you is pain.”

His words are laced with a desperation that pulls at something deep within you. You’ve both suffered so much, sacrificed so much, and yet, here you are, still drawn to each other with a pull that’s stronger than duty or fear.

You don’t know who moves first—whether it’s you or him—but suddenly his lips are on yours, and the dam that’s held back your desire for so long shatters. The kiss is not soft or tentative; it’s fierce, fueled by months of longing and years of denied affection. His hands cradle your face, and you respond with equal fervor, threading your fingers through his hair and pulling him closer.

The kiss deepens, turning frantic, as if you’re both afraid that if you stop, the world will tear you apart again. You can taste the salt of your own tears mingling with his as he kisses you with a passion that’s almost overwhelming. Your bodies move of their own accord, and before you know it, you’re both reaching for each other with a desperate urgency.

Gwayne pulls back just enough to catch his breath, his eyes searching yours, filled with a hunger that leaves no room for hesitation. “Let me have you,” he breathes, his voice husky. “Let me show you how much I need you.”

You nod, the words caught in your throat, and he rises to his feet, his eyes never leaving yours as he sheds his cloak and begins to unlace his tunic. You watch, your heart pounding, as he strips away the layers, revealing the body you’ve longed for, the one that’s haunted your dreams. There’s no more hesitation, no more fear—only desire, raw and unbridled.

He steps closer, helping you out of the bath, his hands warm against your damp skin. You undress him as he guides you toward the bed, your hands trembling with anticipation. The kiss is reignited the moment you’re close enough, fiercer now, more demanding. There’s no gentleness this time—only a primal need to feel each other, to claim and be claimed.

When he finally presses you down onto the bed, there’s nothing slow or tender about the way he moves into you. It’s not like the times you’ve been together before, where every touch was measured, every caress deliberate. This time, it’s raw, almost rough, driven by months of pent-up desire and longing. He thrusts into you with a desperation that makes you gasp, your body arching beneath him as you cling to him, meeting each of his movements with your own.

It’s frantic, unrelenting—a tangle of limbs and fevered kisses as you both give in completely to the storm that’s been brewing between you. Every thrust is a declaration, every kiss a vow unspoken. There’s no room for words, only the sounds of your shared pleasure, the feel of his body against yours as he takes you with a hunger that has no end.

You’re both lost in it, in the release of everything you’ve held back for so long. The tension, the heartache, the desire—it all spills out in this moment, leaving you breathless, trembling with the intensity of it all. You give yourself over to him completely, letting him take you in every way you were once denied, and he meets you with the same fervor, as if he’s been starving for you.

And then, in the midst of it all, you reach your peak together, a wave of pleasure crashing over you both. The world narrows down to this single, perfect moment—where there is no war, no crowns or thrones—just the two of you, lost in each other.

Afterward, you collapse against him, both of you breathless, your hearts pounding in tandem. Gwayne wraps his arms around you, pulling you close as you bury your face in the crook of his neck. He presses a lingering kiss to your hair, his fingers tracing lazy circles along your back.

“I should never have let you go,” he whispers, his voice filled with regret.

You lift your head, meeting his gaze, and for a moment, the world outside seems distant and unimportant. “You didn’t let me go,” you murmur, your fingers brushing over his lips. “We were both trapped by the choices others made for us. But now… now, we have a chance.”

His grip tightens around you, a silent vow in the way he holds you close. “I won’t let them hurt you again,” he promises, his voice low and fierce. “No matter what happens, you’ll never be alone. Not anymore.”

You close your eyes, letting yourself believe in that promise, even if it’s only for this fleeting moment.

#house of the dragon #hotd gwayne #gwayne x you #gwayne x reader #ser gwayne #gwayne hightower #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd #gwayne x y/n #alicent hightower #otto hightower #ser criston cole #silverwing #rhaenyra targeryan

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gor3-hound · 7 months

Text

don't hold your breath(nobody's home)

ft. leon kennedy x fem!reader

cw: 18+ content, dead dove, uncle-niece incest, non-con, loss of virginity, very minor blood description, forced alcohol consumption, alcoholism from leon ofc, reader gets slapped, age gap, guilt, one threat, fingering, p in v, non-consensual creampie, crying, idk leon feels entitled cause his brother sucks, reader hinted at having nice tits idk

a/n: sorry if this sucks ass... my motivation for writing has been non-existent w real life stuff n all the drama so... i feel like this is awful but here we are. title from razzmatazz by idkhbtfm... not proofread i'm sorry </3

word count: 1.9k words

Leon knew he had a drinking problem. He just hadn't realised it had gotten this bad. He couldn't even get his dick up with viagra anymore. He frowns as he looks down at the brunette he was planning to fuck, tempted to try and just push it in soft.

He ends up just kicking her out to drown his sorrows. He wasn't dealing with this shit tonight, not when he was seeing his asshole brother tomorrow. Pretty wife, perfect kids. His job pays better than Leon's ever will, and he didn't need to undergo years of trauma. Lucky bastard.

Leon does what he does best that night and drinks enough whiskey so he can pass out without worrying about the nightmares coming to ruin his night.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He hasn't seen you in a good six years. You were still playing with dolls and shit when he last visited. Makes him feel stupid when he brings you a plushie as a gift. Clearly he forgot how time worked, cause he still expected you to be thirteen. You still hug him and say thank you, sweet as ever. When his brother said he'd be watching the house and looking after you, he didn't expect to see you so... grown. Too old to need a babysitter, really. Even if your parents are gonna be gone for a week.

He gulps as his hands settle on your hips, trying to prevent you from pressing against his hardening cock. Down boy. At least his dick still works. It just took his college-aged niece to get it up. Doesn't help that you've got your tits smooshed against his chest.

Therapy was gonna be a doozy this week.

He could only pray that this doesn't turn into anything. The last thing he needed was his dick being the thing that got him thrown into prison for doing something stupid to you, no matter how cute that body of yours is. That's a new one, he thinks, mentally slapping himself for even thinking about touching you like that. He'd never do it, of course. That's sick, and he knows it. He's just so frustrated. And you're hot. A total babe. Somehow, you managed to get a better rack than your mom. Must be the Kennedy genes coming in. Leon's got tits for days.

He knew he had a drinking problem, but he never thought he'd lose himself this much. He never thought about hurting anyone. He's not a bad guy. It's just that every time he tried to be with someone, he just couldn't get his body to react the way he wanted. That's what the oxytocin was for, he thought, already thinking about taking a swig of whiskey from the flask in his pocket. If only that fucking stuff worked on him. The part of his brain that controlled his cock seemed to be permanently on vacation, and his wires clearly got crossed somewhere if he wants to fuck his own blood.

Whatever. He could get through a week alone with his niece without any trouble. He's faced worse monsters than the ones making themselves present in his mind right now. He'd keep his distance, and all would be okay.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

That didn't work. Of course it didn't. You were just as clingy with him as you were when you were a kid, following him around like a lost puppy. He's convinced he's clutching the glass of whiskey in his hand hard enough to shatter it as you curl up against his side. His cock is throbbing, and he seriously hopes you don't notice how the fabric of his jeans is getting a little strained.

You really need to stop with those tits. He's gonna lose it if they brush his arm one more time. He's not sure what it is about you, particularly, that has him acting like a teenage virgin again, but his self-control is wavering by the second. He hasn't paid a single second of attention to the movie he was meant to be watching to keep his mind off of you.

Fuck this.

He takes a swig of whiskey that drains half the liquid in his cup in one gulp. Liquid courage and all that. Maybe he'd drunk a little too much while he was here, ‘cause his brain clearly isn't working right. Not when he's pinning you to the couch, kissing your neck despite your protests.

“Leon… Leon, what're you doing?” You force out, small hands pressing at his chest as if you'd be able to knock him off. Cute. He'd fought creatures six times your size. You didn't stand a chance.

He starts undressing you, and you start writhing and crying, hitting his chest with clenched fists. He swallows the lump that builds in his throat, wiping the tears that fall down your cheeks.

“Shh… it's okay, I'm… I'm gonna take care ‘f you.” He murmurs, his voice slightly slurred from how much he'd drunk. You cry even harder when he presses a finger into you, making the guilt rise up faster in him. That's not fair. He's being nice. God didn't bless him with much, but at least he gave him a fat cock. You should feel lucky he's prepping you. Not making him feel bad.

“Hey.” He warns, shoving another finger in just to shut you up. You finch when he scissors you open. Poor thing. “That's enough. One more complaint for you, and I'll just force myself in.”

Shit. Now he really does feel like a monster. He's not drunk enough to handle the pure terror on your face at his words. He fumbles on the coffee table with his free hand as he lazily pumps into you with the other. Glass? No. Bottle.

Maybe you need some, too. Get you nice and pliant so you'll take his dick without bitching. Not a bad idea. He twists the cap off with his teeth, gulping some of the liquid down himself. He takes another mouthful before leaning down to kiss you, spitting the liquid into the back of your throat. He keeps your mouth on yours even as you try to jerk away, making sure you swallow it.

You really are adorable as you start coughing and spluttering. Such a sweet thing, you probably hadn't even drunk before. He lifts the bottle to your mouth, pouring some more into your mouth before setting it down, covering your mouth. “Swallow.”

He starts thumbing at your clit as he fingers you, relishing in the ways your whimpers turn into soft moans, your hips bucking against his hand. He manages to coax an orgasm out of you with a few more touches, a big smile spreading across his face.

“There we go, sweetie. See, that wasn't so bad, was it?” He coos, unbuttoning his jeans. The sound of the zipper has your eyes widening in horror, and he tuts softly. “What're you giving me that look for? It's your turn to take care of me now.”

There goes the begging and pleading again. It has his brows pinching together as a frown tugs at his lips. You really are his brother's kid. So goddamn ungrateful. He just took care of you, and now you just want him to… what? Fist his dick in the guest room?

He smacks you so hard your head snaps to the side, your breaths coming out in short gasps. You look better like that, tears stinging your eyes but your body completely limp. He can see the fight draining out of your eyes.

“I was gonna be nice.” He mumbles, brows furrowing as he lines his tip up with your entrance, forcing himself inside in one thrust. He groans loudly, shuddering as your tight heat envelops him. His eyes look down, locked onto your cunt as he fucks into you with long strokes. He freezes when he notices blood. He's not sure if he's happy or disgusted that he's your first. No wonder you put up such a fight.

You keep weakly begging him to stop, but your pussy is gushing all over him. It's not his fault he can't stop – you're giving him the hottest look he's ever seen, and your puffy cunt is so fucking greedy for his cock, sucking him back in everytime he starts to pull out.

“S-sorry… I'm so sorry…” He grunts, picking up the pace of his thrusts, groaning at the sound of your punched out moans as he drives into you with as much force as he can muster. You almost sound like you're enjoying it, but you're still fucking crying and he can't take it. His heart hurts.

“Baby, please…” He whispers, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn't have to see the betrayal on your face. His arms tremble as he holds himself up, sloppily fucking into you. “I'm sorry… just stop cryin’, please…”

Every time his hips smack the fat of your ass, you're moaning out a ‘please’. With his eyes shut, he can pretend you're begging for more. That you like this. That is, until you start saying ‘stop’. He winces, but the movement of his hips doesn't falter.

“Fuck, baby… please stop begging.” He pleads, throwing his head back as his tip kisses your cervix. He whimpers as it makes you tighten around him, angling his thrusts to hit that spot each time he fully sheaths himself inside of you.

“I-I can't stop…you feel so… fuck. So fucking good. M'so close.” He groans. He can't even find the strength to pull out anymore. He buries himself balls deep in your cunt, grinding himself into your tight heat.

“L-Leon… please.” You say weakly, chest heaving with heavy breaths as panic sets in, your hands pushing at his chest. “Y-you gotta pull out, you can't… you can't.”

“What?” He breathes out, cracking his eyes open to look at you again. He looks genuinely confused. Why would he ever pull out when you felt so good? He can't bring himself to. “Baby, no. I'm cumming inside of you. Can't pull out now.”

That seems to bring your fight back. You start struggling under him again, punching him with all your strength. Luckily, that's not a lot. Especially when you're sluggish from your first time drinking and getting fucked. It's Leon's lucky day.

“Shit, baby. Don't look at me like that.” Or do. He's gonna cum if you keep staring up at him with that wide-eyed expression. “No need to be so scared, princess. I just… shit. Can't help myself.”

Doesn't take longer than a minute after that for him to finish. He buries his face in your neck, whining as he cums. His cock kicks inside of you, the warmth of his release filling every inch of you. You start sobbing all over again, slumping weakly against the couch.

He lies on top of you, his weight pressing you down into the couch. He pets your hair like you're a doll, his fingers carding through your hair.

“I'm sorry, baby. Forgive me. I'll be so good. Do whatever you want. Didn't mean it.” He murmurs, kissing your cheek over and over as if he's trying to get you to relax. He keeps it up until you fall asleep, wrapping you up in his arms.

When you wake up in the morning, you're fully dressed in your bed. You almost think it's a dream until you feel the dull throbbing between your legs.

#leon s kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon s kennedy x you #leon kennedy smut #leon s kennedy smut #leon kennedy #tw dark content #dark content #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic

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dameronscopilot · 1 year

Text

burrowed in under my skin

miguel o'hara x f!reader

summary: years spent apart and a shiny new ring on your finger still don't stand a chance against the way you feel when you look at miguel o'hara.

word count: 2.8k

18+ content: NSFW, smut, infidelity, angst with a hopeful ending, feels, biting, a bit of blood, dirty talk, possessive!miguel, fingering, oral sex (m!receiving), unprotected p in v, sex against a wall!, creampie

A small part of you always knew he would come back.

Miguel’s hair is wet from the storm raging outside when he silently climbs in through the window in your bedroom, remnants of the rain following him inside. Pausing in the doorway, your breath catches in your throat as your arm freezes midair, fingers aborting their journey toward the light switch on the wall. Your hand drops uselessly back to your side as you tighten your grip on the laundry basket balancing against your hip, eyes roving over the sight of Miguel fucking O’Hara dripping all over your goddamn hardwood floors.

Bathed in the soft glow of string lights framing the curtains, you feel an ache of concern as your eyes track across a fresh cut along his jaw. It’s a fleeting emotion, one that you quickly stomp down and kick to the side—he’s no longer your concern.

Briefly, you let your gaze pointedly fall to the rainwater accumulating beneath his sodden form, and the corner of Miguel’s mouth quirks upward so slightly you’re not quite sure if you imagined it.

He hastily tugs off the scarf that’s around his neck, dropping it to the ground and wiping up the water with his foot.

“You always did like to clean up your messes,” you comment, your mild tone a direct contrast to the frantic rhythm trembling in your chest.

He shrugs off his jacket, and you briefly consider shoving him right back out the still-open window as your eyes betray you, greedily roving over the way the damp, white cotton clings to his broad chest.

“You still leave this window unlocked,” he observes quietly, idly toying with the small plastic lock before sliding it shut.

“Force of habit,” you mutter, putting the basket down beside your closet and folding your arms across your chest as you turn back to Miguel.

Some things about your room have changed in the years that Miguel has been gone, like the pale blue bedspread that you’d never really liked and the collection of framed photos spread out across the top of your dresser. But there are also things that remain wholly the same, untouched—like your dad’s tattered old hat hanging on the wall and the well-loved, faded copy of Miguel’s favorite book nestled amongst your own collection on a shelf in the corner.

But there’s something else that’s changed, too. And you catch the exact moment Miguel notices it—his entire body tensing as you curl your left hand against your forearm, the diamond on your finger falling into his line of sight. You let your arms fall back to your sides, hands tightening into fists while something hard reflects across his features.

“You left.”

He looks away, running a hand through his hair.

“I know.”

Miguel always left.

He wasn’t even from your universe, after all.

You’d gotten used to it, for a while—the stolen moments with him. The starved touches, the desperate kisses, sex that left you aching for him again long after he snuck back out into the night…to another place. Another time. Another plane of existence entirely.

Just once, you’d pleaded for Miguel to take you with him. To let you pack your bags and leave your life—your universe—behind.

You would have done it. Would have done anything for him, really. Even though you’d known what his answer would be before the words left his mouth, the weight of the obligations the suit plastered across his chest demanded far outweighing the scraps of borrowed time he stole with you.

The sorrowful regret in his eyes had been answer enough.

And when Miguel left that night, you both knew he wasn’t coming back.

He couldn’t, for both of your sakes.

So to find him standing in the middle of your bedroom now, each of you taking a step toward one another like you can’t quite help but give in to the magnetic pull of whatever invisible string is now pulled taut once more between you? It leaves you feeling off kilter, shaken. Thrumming with anticipation. You sway just enough that Miguel reaches out an arm to steady you, his grip firm against your shoulder for a heartbeat.

He’s too late.

He’s too fucking late.

Half of your living room is packed neatly into the cardboard boxes piled neatly behind your couch, the kitchen next on your list to dismantle for your impending move across town to your fiancé’s much larger home. The weight of the ring on your finger that you’ve only just grown used to begins to feel foreign again as Miguel takes your hand and gazes down at it.

“You hate gold,” he muses, taking in the ornate design of a band that, admittedly, isn’t something you would have picked for yourself.

“It’s growing on me,” you protest as you snatch your hand back, though you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him or yourself.

“Hmm.”

It’s a noncommittal sound, one that most would brush off as a bland response. But you know Miguel, can nearly see the thoughts churning in his head by way of the slight tick of his jaw alone.

“Do you love him?” he asks, the question nearly drowned out by the sound of thunder rumbling outside.

You don’t know why you hesitate, why you suddenly find it so hard to arrange three letters into one simple word. The word catches on your tongue, stubbornly lodged in the back of your throat and leaving your lips gaping for a beat like a fish out of water. Maybe it’s because you know Miguel won’t hesitate to leave the moment you say it, leaving behind nothing but the licks of rain he brought in his wake.

Lightning flashes outside, illuminating your face, and he tracks the way you bite your lower lip before you admit, “I don’t know.”

Miguel takes another step forward, close enough that you can feel the warm caress of his body heat. Shamelessly, you inhale as his familiar scent curls around you, something inside of you cracking open in response.

“Tell me to leave,” he murmurs, lifting a hand and running his callused thumb along the curve of your jaw.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Instead, you tilt your head to the side, drawing an audible intake of breath from the man in front of you as you expose your neck to him. He curses quietly, and you can feel the faintest whisper of claws against your cheek before he leans in.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, voice rough as his lips ghost over the shell of your ear.

You ignore him, pressing close enough that you can feel the steady beating of his heart in his chest. A sound of frustration leaves Miguel, one of his hands coming to grasp at your waist as he wars with the rapidly dissolving dregs of his self control.

A shiver crawls up your spine at the feeling of his fangs trailing down your neck, coming to a stop at the curve of your shoulder. He pulls his head back slightly, running two fingers over the place where the smooth expanse of your skin is disrupted by the feeling of slightly raised scar tissue. And you can’t help it, the breathy little sound you let out at the memory of him sinking his teeth into you while he fucked you. The way your lips part at the undeniably possessive way he kisses the spot, flicking his tongue over it.

Miguel pulls away again, eyes meeting yours. There’s a note of desperation his tone when he asks, “Where is he?”

For a moment, you have no idea what he’s talking about, no recollection of why you shouldn’t be doing this until he threads his hand with yours and jostles the ring on your finger.

And as horrible as it is, you can’t bring yourself to care as you look right back at him, gaze unwavering when you respond, “He’s not here.”

A part of you will always belong to Miguel O’Hara, no matter what universe he’s in.

It’s the part of you that’s felt so fucking empty every single day that he’s been gone. The dull ache that bloomed sharp and hot the moment you laid eyes upon him tonight, flaring back to life like a wildfire across your chest.

“I missed you,” you admit on a quiet exhale.

A nearly imperceptible shudder runs through him as he rests his forehead against yours and rasps, “I’m sorry.”

And when he eventually cups your face in both of his hands, the raging storm outside goes wholly silent as he lets one last question dance in his eyes.

Do you still want this?

Your head’s barely begun to dip with a nod before Miguel’s lips crash against yours, the rest of your world slipping away under the swift current of desperation in his kiss. For all his reservations moments prior, there’s nothing hesitant in the way his mouth claims yours, tongue flirting with the seam of your mouth as he grasps the back of your head. And you can’t help it, the way you go pliant under his touch, your needy whimper in response to the pointed tug of his fangs on your bottom lip. The shameless way you rock into the thick thigh he slots between your legs, your silk sleep shorts helpless against the firm denim of his jeans.

“Missed you so much,” he groans against your mouth, his palm a searing brand as it presses into the dip of your lower back.

“Miguel,” you breathe, caught somewhere between a whine and a moan.

A soft growl escapes him at the sound of his name on your lips, both of his hands now firmly grasping your hips, the firm outline of his cock pressing into you. There’s nothing subtle about the way you gasp into his mouth, chasing the delicious friction.

He reaches between you, cupping your clothed cunt with his hand and rasping, “Missed this, too.”

You know he can feel how wet you are already, arousal soaking clean through your underwear, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Not when he’s slipping a finger up through your shorts and tugging your panties aside to tease at your slit, pupils dilating with lust at the sticky squelch of his digit sliding through your folds.

“Always so wet for me, baby,” he murmurs, his other hand sliding one of the thin straps of your tank top down your shoulder. He pulls your breast out, dragging his thumb over your peaked nipple as he continues, “Do you get this wet for him, too?”

Mind drifting to the bottle of lube tucked in your bedside drawer, you shake your head, “No.”

A sound of satisfaction rumbles in Miguel’s chest while he moves aside the other strap, letting both of your breasts spill free for him to grasp and massage.

At the feeling of his finger circling your fluttering entrance, you don’t care how desperate you sound as you whimper, “Please, Miguel.”

He doesn’t hesitate to oblige, lips slotting against yours to swallow down your keening moan when he plunges a thick finger into your dripping cunt. Lace panties straining against the stretch of his hand tugging them aside, you rock into his touch, threading one of your hands into his hair.

Miguel groans as you pull at the strands, “Gonna make you feel so fucking good tonight,” slipping another finger into the wet heat between your thighs.

You head spins with pleasure as he plunges his digits in and out of your aching cunt, more slippery arousal dripping into his palm with each and every stroke. Whether it’s a testament to how badly you missed him or just how well he knows your body, it doesn’t take long for the coiled knot of pleasure in your gut to burst open, your climax rippling through your body the moment his thumb begins to massage your aching clit.

“That’s it baby, come for me,” he croons, the tone of his voice like liquid fire in your veins. “Get that pretty pussy nice and wet for my cock.”

Legs still trembling, you drop to your knees before Miguel can lead you toward the bed, fingers scrambling to tug down his jeans. Miguel’s hips cant forward as you begin to mouth at the tip of his cock through his boxers, lapping at the wet spot of precum staining the material while you grip his thick shaft.

You know it’s a battle of restraint for Miguel to hold still as you slide off his boxers, eyes hungrily taking in his hard, flushed cock, cunt already clenching again in anticipation of feeling his length stretching you open. He breathes heavily when you slowly begin to take his length into your mouth, lips parting wide to accommodate as much of him as you can take. A salty spurt of precum hits your tongue, and you begin to lap at his cock, wrapping your fingers around the base and bobbing on his shaft just the way you know he likes it.

There’s something about sucking Miguel’s dick that you’ve always loved—the feeling of this powerful man shivering and moaning with pleasure at your touch. The way he brushes a hand along your face as you take him deeper, wiping away the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes as he nears the back of your throat. The taste of his cum as he spills his hot load into your waiting mouth.

But you know you won’t be getting that far right now, not when your cunt’s still waiting for him to bury his cock in it, a fresh wave of arousal leaking down your thighs.

As if on cue, Miguel pulls you to your feet, lips claiming yours hungrily as he backs you up to a wall. He makes quick work of your clothes as you tear off his shirt before he lifts you up, and you wrap your legs around his waist. And despite how many times you’ve fantasized about this feeling in his absence, when he notches the head of his cock at your entrance, nothing can compare to the feeling of him splitting your empty, needy cunt open once again.

You cry out his name, fingers leaving scratches down his back when you grip him tightly, rocking into him, moaning and whimpering with each thrust. Miguel kisses you hard as he fucks you against the wall, quickly finding a relentless pace to satisfy your desperate pleas for him to fuck you harder.

“I bet he doesn’t fuck you like this, does he?” he breathes out heavily, sweat on his brow. “Doesn’t know how to make that pretty little face cockdrunk and begging for it.”

He snaps his hips upward so hard you almost see stars, your tits bouncing with each deep plunge.

“No,” you shake your head, whimpering. “Only you, Miguel.”

A possessive growl tears from his lips at that, and he takes your left hand, eyes narrowing as he grips the ring on your finger.

“Mine,” he breathes out, lips slotting against yours, tongue sliding into your mouth.

And when a picture frame hanging on the wall goes crashing to the floor, your back arching into Miguel, you whisper, “Yours,” just as he sinks his teeth right into that same spot at the junction between your shoulder and neck.

You cry out when he bites down, slamming his cock inside of your fucked out cunt to the hilt, and as a warm trickle of blood drips down your breast, your soaked, sloppy walls clench down on his cock with an orgasm that leaves you sobbing in pleasure. Your name is a broken sound on Miguel’s lips as he moans it, hips jerking into you one last time as he climaxes, spilling hot ropes of cum deep inside of you.

He peppers soft, soothing kisses along your face and licks at the shallow wound on your shoulder as he pulls out of you and gingerly sets you back down on the floor. You’re so dazed in the aftermath, so sated that you miss the tensing of his shoulders—a reaction to a sound you can’t quite hear. Not yet.

Not until a key scratches in the front door, shoes brushing against the mat in the entryway.

Miguel tucks you into the robe hanging beside your closet, determination sparkling in his eyes as he brushes his thumb across your bottom lip before leaning in to kiss you again.

“I’ll be back,” he murmurs against your mouth, hands trailing over the tender spot on your neck.

And before you can say another word, he’s gone, the sound of the now calm rain filtering in through your window left just slightly ajar. A trail of Miguel’s cum begins to slide down the inside of your thighs just as your bedroom door swings open.

—

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#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara smut #oscar isaac fanfiction #spider-man 2099 x reader #across the spider-verse

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laurorne · 4 months

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༊*·˚ HE MADE A SLAVE OF ME | daemon targaryen x targtower!reader, minor aegon ii targaryen x twin wife!reader

summary: confined to the sullen walls of the red keep, there isn’t far you’re afforded to wander. entertained only by the people you silently watch, you find excitement in the visit of your older sister and uncle. though the latter is far more appealing to spend the night with, and more willing.

warnings: nsfw, minors dni, targaryen incest (uncle x niece), porn with minimal plot, p in v, rough sex, slapping, degradation, masochism, blood play?, praise kink, breath play/choking, breeding kink, a lil’ stomach bulge, cheating on both halves, swearing, inaccurate high valyian (i tried?), weird pure bloodline shit, fiending for that valyrian d, hightowerphobic daemon, bastardphobic reader

word count: 3.5k

a/n: daemon is so ugly but he’s so hot it’s so bad. okay, i can’t see daemon as a rough lover except maybe with a cunty targtower so this was the only way i could bring myself to write this 😭 (this was my inspo for this entire fic, bless tiktok editors 🙏🏼🙏🏼)

As a daughter of Alicent Hightower and Viserys Targaryen, you'd found that most people bent to your will regarding requests. The lords would bend over twice fold if it meant a chance at earning your hand, and the girls at court dared not step a foot before you in the case you'd remove them from your entourage of highborn ladies.

With eyes so doe-like and lips like honey, one would mistake you for just that, a doe, not the dragon draped beneath green silk that shifted like flames in a hearth.

That's how you'd created yourself. How you'd curated each step and each titter of laughter, every slow blink at every lord and all those tight lipped smiles at ladies of court who came too close to your family.

People at court had said that you were the best half of your twin brother, that he had taken all the bad traits so you could shine as the darling of the realm. Poor, sweet Aegon. Ever the scapegoat and always the perpetrator.

So as you sit across from your uncle, Daemon Targaryen, you find yourself rather... without.

He sits beside your half-sister. A beautiful glow on her skin as she laughs along with something your father had said. She's stunning, Valyrian in every sense of the word. With her pale hair and aquiline nose, you can see why she was adored.

Other than the Realm's utter Delight, dinner is less than… familial.

Everyone can clearly see the divide between both sides of House Targaryen. The Hightowers sat to the right of the King, the mix of Targaryen and brown-haired Velaryon to his left. You find no warmth in this arrangement, other than false pretenses of civility and feigned love for each other, the entire affair is only for show of the poor old King.

Though there is an affair that consumes your thoughts, a tryst that would no doubt end messily. So you opt to speak with your family, with a spare glance thrown his way just to divulge yourself after all these years of self-control.

Daemon understands the weight of your gaze on him. Even from across the table he can feel the way your eyes trace his features, the way you're devouring him without lifting your fork or grinding your teeth or even touching him. Your supposed indifference to the sides that the house of the dragons has taken makes his fingers twitch around his goblet. You're speaking with Baela and Rhaena as if you've sat beside them in court for years, doting on their new dresses and telling them snippets of what they've missed at the Red Keep.

Jacaerys' gaze is flittering over to your figure every couple of seconds, eyes dipping to your dangerously low neckline of your green dress, every time you laugh and your chest heaves he looks away like a wide-eyed virgin. Red at the ears as he scolds Lucerys for holding a fork wrong, Daemon guesses, with the way the older boy points to another utensil.

And your family, gods.

Your twin brother, Aegon, is attempting to drink away his sorrows but you're always quick to scoop the cup out of his grasp and palm it off to a servant. The fool simply allows you, resigning to watch everyone speak as you have him by the balls practically. And to still have him fawning over you, his pretty little twin-wife, is absurdity.

Aemond is glaring daggers at Rhaenyra's boys and Helaena is off in an entire world of her own.

When he looks back to you and finds those lilac-coloured iris' already poised on him, his jaw clenches and he takes another pass at his Dornish wine. The way your hair falls in pure white curls around your face and frames the heavy gorget necklace that adorns your neck, inlaid with moonstone and rubies that look eerily similar to the ones from the Conquerors crown. Spoiled Hightower brat.

Daemon is far from naïve. He's been apart of how many wars?

He's a seasoned veteran to these types of women, to their greedy plans and treacherous thoughts.

Though... that colouring that she has, so clearly a staple of House Targaryen, he's not so convinced that he's entirely immune. He's sure that his nephew is beyond stupid to not have made you a mother sooner. With tits like that and eyes so sweet? He'd have you swollen with babe two moons after your last birth.

He watches the way you lick a droplet of wine from the corner of your mouth, watches the way your eyes flicker from Jacaerys to him, and he can see it then. Something so wanton in your gaze.

Perhaps paying a visit to his dear, sweet niece tonight would not be such a bad thought.

You arch up into the touch —his touch— as shivers run along the length of your spine. His hand smooths over the swell of your breast in response, easing your ache as you squirm for more. It travels over the fat of it until his fingers pinch roughly at your nipple. A stuttering breath punches its way from your throat as he stares down at your face.

“So eager, aren’t we?” He admires the way your lips part, the way your eyes dance back into focus and meet his heated gaze. The way you seek out the eye contact. Want to know he’s watching the show you’re putting on.

Just as you’re forming the vowels on the tip of your tongue, he’s grabbing a fistful of your thigh and pushing his hips impossibly closer to yours. It makes you shudder, makes you want all the more. But there is no give to his press, he’s seated far too deeply inside you to move any further in. He’s pulling his hips back just the smallest fraction before he starts inching back in, heavy and hot and oh-so deep it burns.

Your tongue swipes over your lips, your hand moving to clutch onto the arm that props him up above you. The thickly corded muscle makes holding onto him all the easier, makes your cunt flutter and your chest heave and your eyes water. He’s so large, far different from your husband, this pure-blooded Valyrian —this man— he’s encompassing your body and stuffing you all at the same time, filling, holding and folding you how he wants.

You move to weave your fingers into the loose strands of his hair but the hand that was cradling your thigh is quick to grasp your wrist, tugging the appendage away as he begins dragging his hips back. “Where did all your words go, dōna riña?” (sweet girl)

You swallow thickly, fingers balling up as he oh-so slowly pulls out til’ just the tip rests in you. It’s agonising, having been so full not even moments ago, you feel empty. It’s involuntary, the way your hips lift towards him, cunt greedily taking him as you stifle the way your breath hitches. His thighs tense up as he groans, fingers tightening around your wrist as his hips rock forwards just the tiniest bit.

“Daemon, please.” It’s breathy, spoken from someplace in your chest that you feel with every inch of your body. “I want you.”

Your eyes only just catch the tic in his jaw as he drops your wrist, immediately grabbing a fistful of your tit and pushing back into you. Hips meeting flush as he glares down at you. The grip he’s got on your fit fucking hurts, but you’d be damned if it doesn’t set all your nerves on fire.

“Ilībio,” He all but snarls. (whore)

You don’t even register the next thrust before he’s pulling out again. He leans forward, large hand coming to press down onto your throat. His fingers curl around your neck —encompassing it entirely as he presses down onto you— using you for leverage as he fucks into you.

You moan, mouth falling open as he uses your body and paws at your tit messily. You can feel the flesh spill from between his fingers, feel the sensitive peak rubbing against his rough palm.

It’s driving you insane.

The hand leaves your tit, moving to the next and grabbing on just as roughly. He hits a particularly forceful thrust that has you jolting up the bed, back arching up as you whine. Your legs curl around his hips, thighs bouncing with each stroke, making a distinct slapping as he fucks you into the plush sheets of your bed. You roll your pelvis to the rhythm he sets, it’s practised, timed and purely filth.

“You belong in the,” He pauses as he sneers down at you, watching his cock sink deep into your tight little cunt. “Street of Silk.”

You can only sigh out a breath as his hand clamps down on your throat, your air coming in short bursts only when he pulls out to thrust back in.

“Your husband mustn’t have fucked you well enough.” He thrusts violently on husband, heavy cock bullying its way back into you as your cunt clenches.

His words are driving you closer to the edge, making you feel all the slicker as he fucks you, uses you like he’s your husband. Like you belong to him. Like you’re the sister he married in the ways of Old Valyria —in the ways of your house— in blood and fire.

The thick drag of his dick brings you back from your cock drunk haze, his words ringing in your brain as he watches your lashes flutter.

“Tight like a Lyseni virgin,” He buries himself into you until oxygen evades you entirely, all his weight resting on your throat as he leans in, licking a stripe up your throat and biting at your pulse point. “Wet like a pillow house whore.”

You writhe beneath him, fingers curling into the thickly corded forearm that presses you down into the bed, he teasingly slows to a stop only to rocks forwards. Watching your eyes turn hazy as your hips twitch up onto him. Jerkily grinding onto him as you struggle to take a breath.

“Struggling to breathe and you still want me to fill you, tala.” He smiles down at you, lifting a hand from your throat to caress the bone of your cheek. “So desperate for it.”

Oh, how badly you want to spit an insult at him. How badly you want to punch him and pull on his hair and suck marks into the muscled line of his shoulder.

He lifts the heel of his palm slightly, just when the edge of your vision was beginning to cloud. A quick respite of air before he’s pressing a bruising kiss to your pouty lips. Teeth digging into your bottom lip as he fully cups the side of your face. Tongue pressing into your mouth intrusively as he overwhelms you. Full of cock, his tongue, and being pinned to the bed by the entire weight of him.

The red hot coil in your stomach is cooling quickly, fading away into nothing as he devours you in the most deliciously possessive kiss you’ve ever had. His thumb presses roughly into the bone of your cheek as he thrusts gently into you. There’s a bloom of pain in your lip as he begins pulling away, teeth biting your bottom lip as he lifts himself back up. Blood smears your pearly white teeth, and you can taste it on your tongue.

Your chest heaves as you grab a fistful of his hair, pulling his face back down so you can kiss him roughly. You practically consume him with this kiss, wanting and needy as you fight to gain control. He pants out a chuckle, thumb pulling on your chin as he licks over the cut and your teeth. Your fingers tangle in his white strands and you give a sharp tug, the rasp that escapes him sends a needy throb through your cunt. But you take his unfocus as a chance to lick into his mouth, cunt throbbing as his lower half folds you over, sinking into you so deeply it makes your hips twitch and writhe in pain.

You fight against the pain, neck aching as you crane up against his weight, biting his lip harshly until you feel the break of his skin between your teeth. Blood mixing in your mouths as he pants into your mouth, thumb hooking into the corner of your mouth as he looks down at you with something akin to satisfaction.

“Smile, tala.” (niece)

You breath in shallowly, greedily taking in air that you neglected yourself of.

“Uh-uh,” He squeezes your cheeks together, until your lips pout and he presses down onto your jaw hard. “Smile.”

And you do, lips pulling up as best they can with his fingers holding your jaws apart. He lets his fingers loosen so he can watch your teeth peak out from beneath your abused and bloody lips. You can guess that you both look the same, blood staining your teeth a burning carmine. The colour of House Targaryen.

“Good girl.” His voice is condescending as he pats your cheek roughly, pushing himself back up, and sitting back on his knees as he stares down at you through wispy strands of platinum hair. Dick sitting heavy inside you, fill to the point of it being a bit hard to breathe. Your sheets reeks of sweat and sex, and the iron tang of blood sits in the air and on your tongues.

His hands smooth over your thighs, thumb running along a pink scar nestled closely to your knee.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, tits on full display while you look up at him through those pretty lashes, admiring the scars that mar the pale skin of his torso and the blood the runs a rivulet down his chin. “What are yo-“

He unwraps your legs from his waist, grabbing at the back of your thighs and pushing them towards you. You whine at the sudden movement, the blunt tip of him nudging against what the deepest parts of you. Pressing you in half with ease until he can hold your legs against his chest with one arm. The other coming to rest against the soft spot of your stomach as he hovers over you.

“Fucking an heir into you,” He presses a quick kiss to your calf before he’s snapping his hip forward and pressing down on your stomach. And that’s when you feel him. You let out a breathy moan as he fucks you, with your back arched toward him as you let him take you.

Like a virgin during her bedding ceremony.

His fingers leave pale prints in your skin as he grips onto the meat of your thighs so tightly. His thighs slapping against the backs of your legs while he fucks his length into you. With his arm wound tightly around your knees, there’s no way you can move or adjust or even move with him, you’re practically in his lap as he uses your hipbone for leverage.

Choked-out pants and whiny breaths are the only noise you can make as the hand that was holding your legs together drifts to your soaked pussy. Thumb slipping through until he bumps into your clit —he can tell by the way your tits heave and your cunt clenches impossibly tighter— and he can’t help but snicker as he presses down onto the poor thing. Hands used for more than just sword fighting, skilled in pleasing wives long gone that were no doubtingly three times older than you, are so deliciously textured.

“Hightower votrītsos nȳmagon wal morghūljagon.” Your maternal house is spat with hatred, he punctuates it with thrusts that grow more violent as he claims you. (hightower cunt calls men to die.)

“Iksā kempa isse nyke, issi ao daor, kepa?” You heave the sentence, attempting to speak without falter as he continues his selfish pleasure seeking manhandling. (you are heavy in me, are you not uncle?)

He grunts, nose scrunching up for a moment as a strand of hair dangles between his eyes. Silver locks messy. His thumb flicks over your clit again —a full-bodies shudder follows— so he can stare intently at your bouncing tits without the chatter.

“Aōha Valyrio Eglie jorrāelagon mirre.” (your High Valyrian needs work)

You admire the way his hair falls to his shoulders, undone from its hairstyle tonight at dinner, the slope of his shoulders to the plains of his front. A battlefield of cut muscle and scars that create ridges and valleys. Your eyes dart up as his nails cut into the skin of your calf, his lip curls up as his eyes finally drift from the harsh jerk of your pliable body beneath him, to your lilac eyes.

His eyes are dark, ringed by what little purple you can see in the darkness of your lonely chambers. The way he looks down at you, the look of curiosity, of lust, of hatred, it burns in your throat and makes your thighs quiver as he just stares.

You could nearly compare it to the way Aegon admires his cups, the way he drinks in every hitch of your breath, the way he huffs your scent, the stutter in his hips at every flutter of your cunt around him.

(Akin to Aegon’s lust for Dornish import wine, he drinks you in and savours the way your body begs for the extra inch.)

Your fingers tangle up in the silken sheets of your bed as you stutter, stomach quivering as he keeps his hips in motion, brining you oh-so close to your peak. Though it’s barely enough, used to the drunken fumble of your twin, you need a rougher edge, a little more pain. He’d just need a push.

“Iksā iā buzdari naejot kasta orvorta. Hae se dārys.” (you are a slave to green cunt. like the king)

He hums, brows pinching together as his thrusts grow sloppy and unpractised, like the green boy your husband had been on your wedding day.

“Kostilus ziry ūndan mirros hae bisa,” He circles your clit roughly, pad of his thumb rubbing deliciously against your slick cunt. “gōvilagon aōha muña grēza.” (perhaps he saw something like this, beneath your mothers dress.)

You let out a strangled moan, hips rocking up to meet his every thrust. The coil in your stomach is tightening and heating and making your thighs twitch and tense, and he doesn’t seem to take the movement kindly. The rhythm stutters when he forces one of your legs to his side as he surges forward to capture your mouth in a crushing kiss. Your other leg is caught over his shoulder as he moves in and it stretches muscles you hadn’t know existed in your legs as he bullies his way deeper and deeper, like he owns you, like your his to ruin.

“I would have loved taking your maidenhead.” He breaths the word into your mouth as the cuts on your lips open anew, smearing blood across your mouths, cheeks and noses. The kiss he pulls you into next is careless and messy, all knocking teeth and hot breathes.

“I- I’m,” He cuts you off by wrapping his hand back around your throat, pinning you down as his nose buries itself in the hair on the side of your head.

A blinding heat curls in your stomach and your cunt flutters around the abusive cock he fucks you with. The one leg that wasn’t pinned between you both is quick to pull his hips flush to you as you moan wantonly, though it’s smothered by his hand. Chest heaving and pale baby hairs sticking to your forehead as your lashes flutter closed. Taking the last few cants of Daemon’s hips as he finishes inside you, spilling deep inside you with heavy panting accompanied by a groan.

Everything is all warm, floating in your soft bed as the heavy man above you lets his weight onto you fully. Cock keeping you stuffed with his seed.

The hand on your throat drifts to your hair —you gulp down air as you feel an ache begin to form— deft fingers stroking at the loose strands behind your ear as he breathes in the perfume oil of the Dragons Breath flowers you'd chosen for tonight.

“I may take you to wife, with a cunt like that.” He murmurs, fingers tightening around those stray strands of hair as he lifts his face to meet yours. Pupils blown wide as he rolls his hips to nestle nicely between yours. That leg wedged between you both falling loose, and landing on the bed softly.

Oh?

That sentence shouldn't have made you so giddy, nor should it make a delighted grin pull across your bruised lips.

A plan well curated is always fruitful.

TAGS: @avalyaaa

#house of the dragon #hotd #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x you #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x rhaenyra targaryen #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen x reader #targaryen incest

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letstalkaboutshtufff · 5 months

Text

I’m Sorry I Wasn’t Enough

Neteyam x reader

Pairing: Neteyam Sully x Reader Mate

Warnings: Mentions of Arranged Marriage, violence, blood.

Summary: A year after your marriage you are looking back on things, more specifically your non existent relationship with your mate. When something happens and you’re in danger how will Neteyam react? Oh and you’re injured?

****************************************************

Today marked the one year anniversary of your bonding ceremony to the future oleykten of the omatikaya. One year and one month since your life had changed forever

Neteyam te Sully, son of Toruk Makto… your husband. You remember it like it was yesterday..

The war with the sky people had gotten increasingly difficult, Toruk makto had been meeting with your Grandfather to discuss a potential alliance between the clans to aid in the fight against the sky people.

It was a shock to all when your Grandfather said they would only help if there was a blood alliance. Meaning you, the sole heir were to be married to Neteyam, there clans heir.

It was a smart move for all parties involved on paper. A decision that would strengthen everyone, combining resources, combining armies, combining… well everything. But happiness for everyone else unfortunately meant the sacrifice for you and Neteyam.

Toruk Makto had asked you many times if you were alright with it, to which you politely said you were ready to do anything to aid the cause against the sky people.

It’s not like you could have said anything else.

Your parents were not alive to defend you, your grandfather was a good leader but couldn’t care less about your happiness. “Good leaders need to make sacrifices for the people.”

Neteyam understood the same thing. He also wanted nothing more than to prove himself.

So you both agreed without so much as having more than one conversation together.

Within a few days you had packed all your belongings and were mounting an Ikran. Your new life awaited you.

A month later you were mated before Eywa to Neteyam. Bonded in every way except the heart.

Neteyam wasn’t cruel no but he was… serious. The heavy burden of war on his responsible shoulders. He was civil with you. Spoke when nessesary to you but other than that… you barely ever saw him.

His days were either filled with preparing for raids or the raids himself and he would enter your home pod late when you were asleep and leave at first light.

The only time you ever felt any sort of emotion from him was during your first and only mating bond. Connecting your queues forced emotion to flow through the both of you, and he had been gentle and caring. But you realized soon after that that was a one time occurrence and that warmth was not a thing your mate was capable of.

Well at least not with you. He was caring with his family, you’d watched him interact with them from afar. He was careful not to show this side of him to many but you did manage to see it several times before he noticed you were there, then he’d swiftly mask his face.

You really didn’t understand his coldness. You were mated for life shouldn’t you both make an effort to at least be friends?

You tried to be someone he would proud to call his mate. You helped around the village, especially with the wounded, you made sure not to fight with anyone and keep a cool head. You did everything you could but he never saw you.. never saw your efforts.. even though you saw his.

Over the year you watched your mate. You grew to admire his strength and character. Perhaps that is why it hurt so much. You had feelings for a man who barely acknowledged your existence.

You let out a deep sigh. The trees of the forest were the only ever witnesses to your sorrow. You adjusted your net covering around you. It was getting colder, your old home never reached cool temperatures so you were not prepared for it.

You really didn’t have friends save for Neteyams siblings. And even there you didn’t spend that much time with them seeing how much trouble they liked to get into. You didn’t want to risk upsetting your mate.

You would admit that you were lonely however. When you weren’t needed in the village you spent your time exploring the never ending forest that was your home. You weren’t raised in one so you were always venturing out and exploring.

Today however due to your more than usual sadness, what with it being your anniversary and all you had walked further than you intended.

You paused your steps hearing several voices up ahead, what were Navi doing all the way out here?

You slowly crept closer to the sounds but made sure to stay hidden behind the trees.

Your eyes widened when you caught sight of the Navi- no Avatars that were clad in military gear and holding AR’s.

You carefully moved backwards until you were out of earshot.

You knew you had to tell your mate. They were clearly dangerous.

You felt for the weird contraption around your neck, you never had to use it before. You pressed down on it,

“N-neteyam?” You spoke shakily.

A few seconds passed before you heard a click. “Y/n…? Is that you?”

You could hear the slight confusion in his voice. At least he recognized you.

“Y-yes um, I’m out in the forest and there’s these Avatars… but they don’t look normal, they are dressed in camo and are holding AR’s…”

“What’s you pos?”

“W-what?” You furrowed your brows.

“Your position, where are you right now?” He spoke a bit more sternly.

“I’m-“

Wait where were you?

“Y/n?”

“I’m not sure but they were standing in front of an old worn down building..like a shack… something from the sky people I think..”

You could hear an intake of breath, “Y/n listen to me carefully, you’re going to get out of there without making a sound ok? Get back here immediately.”

You nodded before realizing he couldn’t see you, “ok I’m coming” you released the button and started to run as quietly as you could back the way you came.

Adrenaline coursed through you, you looked back several times to ensure you weren’t being followed.

You stopped to catch your breath, hopefully this was far enough-

“Ah!” You cried out falling backwards seeing a fresh bullet lodged in the now smoking tree beside you.

You quickly regained your footing and started barreling forward.

A round of explosive pops rang from behind you, debris grazing your back.

Oh Great Mother help me!

You cried out as another bullet whizzed right by your ear causing you to lose balance.

You heard shouts but they spoke in a language unknown to you.

You moved to get up when suddenly your queue was yanked back forcefully.

You hissed at your abuser, but he only smiled. Again he spoke in a language you didn’t understand.

“L-Let me go!” You tried clawing at his hand but he only yanked harder causing your vision to go white in seering pain.

Was he going to kill you? You wish you could at least understand what he was shouting at you.

He used your queue to turn you harshly around. You hissed again now able to fully see your attacker.

He only rolled his eyes said something that again failed your understanding and swiftly backhanded you into the dirt.

While you lay on the ground in pain he held a hand to his ear saying something into his comm.

You had to do something, he was going to kill you or take you back to the others…

Your eyes perked up seeing something glinting strapped to his boot.

You figured it was best to attack while he was distracted…

I guess it’s now or never,

You swiftly grabbed the knife and plunged it into his stomach.

“Gah! You bitch!”

You didn’t stick around to see his reaction, you were already darting away. You heard the cocking of his gun and immediately started weaving through trees.

*POP* *POP* *POP*

It was a miracle you avoided all the bullets.

You made the mistake of looking back for a split second and found yourself tumbling over a root.

You gasped and tried to right yourself but he was already there pointing his gun.

Your eyes met his murderous ones and you knew this was it.

You let out one more frightened hiss and watched his finger start to pull.

*POP POP*

You couldn’t help the cry that left your mouth but- why weren’t you in pain?

“Y/N move!” Suddenly an arm was yanking you up onto your feet.

“N-neteyam!?” You couldn’t believe your eyes. He was about to speak when moments later more gunshots rang out. You gasped seeing more avatars emerging from the trees.

“Neteyam get her out of here! Move!” Jake jumped in front of you both and motioned for you to run. A few Navi warriors aiding him shooting their own weapons.

Neteyam pulled you through the trees at record speed, he quickly pulled you onto his Ikran before mounting it himself behind you and flying away. His eyes scanning the trees to make sure no one was aiming anything at them.

“Are you injured?” He asked in that raw tone he used in the middle of battle. Serious and to the point.

You shook your head, not trusting your voice not to crack. That was the last thing you wanted to do was cry in front of him.

He sighed before adjusting his reins. His silence was like poison. Slowly seeping into you making you feel ten times worse then when you were just under that guys gun.

You were breathing heavily when he landed the ikran on the mountain ledge.

He dismounted first then held out his hand, you let him help you down thanking Eywa that your legs didn’t give out on you in front of the entire village who were currently staring.

“Neteyam!” Tuk ran up and hugged your mate tightly.

The silly siblings all ran up to you guys asking what happened.

“Are you hurt sister?” Kiri eyed you up and down wearily.

“I’m alright, don’t worry…”

“Y/n!” Tuk was quick to switch to you and you embraced her warmly wanting to ease the fear on her face.

“Everyone is alright Tuk, please don’t cry…” you stroked her back calming her down, or maybe you were using her as a buffer.

You hesitantly glanced up to where Neteyam was speaking to his mother. He looked pissed. Neytiris eyes met your worried ones for a split second, softening slightly before turning back to her son. Her eyes widened in some sort of threat before sighing and coming to you.

“Are you alright daughter?” She placed a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m alright…I’m sorry for all of this I-“ she shushed you quickly.

“Don’t, it’s alright, everyone is alright…” you sighed and nodded to her thankful that she wasn’t upset with you for putting her family in danger.

“Y/n” you sucked in a breath and met your mates eyes. You wanted to let out a whimper at the anger they held.

He motioned for you to follow him. Every step felt like someone had placed a stone in your heart.

He pulled aside the flap of your tent and looked forward waiting for you to enter.

With shakey breaths you ducked under and stepped into your home.

Your fingers pulling at your netted covering as a nervous distraction.

You had seen Neteyam angry countless times before, at warriors who disobeyed orders. At his brother for causing trouble, at anyone who seriously stepped out of line.

You shivered in place now that for the first time that anger was directed at you.

He yanked the flap back down and rounded on you.

“What the hell were you thinking!?” His eyes shooting daggers through you.

“I-I I’m sorry I didn’t mean-“

“Do you know how much danger you’ve put everyone in?! They could’ve followed you back to our village and done who knows what!”

“I never would have-“

“What were you thinking wandering around there!? That areas off limits for a reason!”

“I didn’t know- Neteyam I-!”

“Enough! I don’t want to hear your excuses.” You felt the tears running down your cheeks and it seemed to trigger Neteyam to at least bring his anger down a notch.

He turned around letting out a sigh,

He hated you, that was evident now. He may have hidden his distaste before but now that you had finally angered him his true colors showed.

It only made your tears come faster. The adrenaline finally wearing off, you realized just how scared you had been. Your body ached, craving nothing more than to curl up and rest.

Not to mention an annoying pinching feeling on your abdomen that was getting increasingly more painful. Like a sting from a beertus beetle.

You ignored it focusing on the man before you.

He held a hand up to his neck, you could hear his father speaking on the other side.

They talked for a minute, you released a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you heard that everyone was alright.

Neteyam ended the line and his head turned towards you. He seemed a bit calmer now that he knew everyone was ok.

Your eyes couldn’t handle his glare at the moment so instead they landed on the mat beneath you.

It was quiet for several moments, the air thick with tension.

“You are never to go there or anywhere near that area again understood?” He spoke to you like you were one of his soldiers.

“Understood…” your voice was hoarse but at least it didn’t break.

He nodded before turning to leave and meet with his father to discuss this new threat.

Your heard his footsteps start to fade which meant he was going to leave. Of course he would. Why would he want to stay with someone like you?

Your eyes were still glued to the mat. A beautifully woven mat that was a gift from your Mother in law. It was dyed in beautiful colors.

Huh? Did something spill on it? Your eyebrows furrowed seeing red droplets. Hopefully that wouldn’t stain.. was it juice? You hoped it-

Another drop, forming right before your eyes. You looked up at the ceiling, frowning when you didn’t see anything. Then something clicked and you moved your netted cover to the side, you expected to see a cut or deep scrape from your falls. But you felt like a bucket of ice had been dumped on you when you saw it.

Why Great mother? Why were you testing me like this?

You let out a distressed whimper. Your eyes shot to the entrance where your mate had just stepped out of seconds before. You could still hear his footsteps.

You could call to him. He would hear you. But you didn’t. You couldn’t.. your mate already hated you. You would not tell him this and make him even angrier.

You would not tell him you had been shot…

****************************************************

You cursed realizing quickly that that was probably the dumbest mistake you had made. Because moments later you were too dizzy to stand and were sprawled out onto the floor clutching your side.

How could you get help now? Was this how you were going to die? It certainly looked like it..

You thought of your mate. He hated you, maybe it was…. You whimpered at your next thought.

Maybe this was for the better. He would find a new mate and be happy.

Yeah, you could do this for him… why should such a good person be miserable..?

But wait… would this damage his reputation? That he let sky people kill his mate?

Was this actually going to hurt him?

A Navi males reputation was everything. If he couldn’t protect his family who would trust him to protect the people.

No, you couldn’t be selfish. If you died, he would suffer in his position.

For the second time ever you reached up to your neck, fingers slippery from the blood.

“N-neteyam…” was that your voice? It sounded so different…

Would he even answer? He probably thought you were trying to make excuses for what happened. You tried calling out a few more times.

You felt your heart sink at the silence, it looked like he had shut the line off.

As your vision began to blur at the edges you realized that it looked like his reputation was going to suffer after all.

Even though you knew he wasn’t listening you held the button down once more, one final time…

“I’m s-sorry Neteyam.. I really tried to be a w-worthy m-mate.. I’m sorry I couldn’t do b-better mmh, p-pl.. please tell the p-people it was m-my fault not yours…I… I really did love you N-Neteyam, I-i h-hope your next mate will make you happy-“

Your fingers slipped from exhaustion and your vision failed you completely.

Goodbye my Neteyam…

****************************************************

Neteyam had never moved so fast in all his life.…

Ooooh a cliffhanger hehehe, also is anyone actually reading this? Should I do a part 2👀❤️

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diejager · 5 months

Note

Just the boys and König finding sh scars on reader, and/or helping them stitch a wound? Platonic, if possible

I’m gonna make the assumption (I might be horribly wrong about this…) that sh means self-harm???

Cw: Self-harm, blood, scars, protective behaviour, helicopter parent (Price and Laswell), angst?, fluff?, stitches, tell me if I missed any.

There’s a certain level of… panic in their eyes, the rising waves of fright until it threatened to drown them in a thick and dark abyss, swallowing their minds whole at the single fear of losing you to something they could have stopped; prevention they thought, a plan B in case plan A failed, but if they didn’t know, how could they have time to set it up? König almost had a heart attack when he broke the door at Gaz’s call, finding you slumped against the bathroom door, one hand on the door knob and another - the bloodied one - limply clutching your phone, eyes blinking blearily at them, clouded in confusion and fatigue.

It didn’t take them long to call the rest, rushing you to the infirmary after your accident, cutting too deep and risking death from your slight slip of the hand. Laswell and Price were called, finding the four of them seated beside you after they stormed into the sterile room. You looked ashamed, not about the act of cutting yourself to feel more than the depression and darkness in your heart, but the act of being caught, letting them know of your… ways to refresh your mind. The shameful tilt of your head downwards, staring with heavy eyes at your bandaged wrist, cleaned and stitched up.

Ghost had forced your sleeves up, rolling them until your biceps to show the extent of it, the many lines, crisscrossing in old and jagged lines of paler skin, standing starkly from the usual flush. He wasn’t disappointed at you, never, from a person who cut themselves to another, he was more so disappointed in himself from not catching the signs —a dark omen of pain and sorrow, forgetting that he was blinded by your happy smile to catch the tired gleam in your eyes.

Both he and König knew the pain, the new scars that no one asked for, but kept adding and adding until it would eventually tear your arm off, limb from limb, piece by piece until you lost the will to keep on. He took on smoking instead, as self-destructive as cutting was, but the thicket of nicotine would calm his loud mind, and König had a therapist, someone he was… willing to talk to when things got too hard. They understood and felt, but failed you all the same, despite everything they vowed, they almost lost you because they were too blind to see past your thin mask.

It was a feeling shared by the two sergeants, the more sensitive and sympathetic of the bunch, more in tune with heartfelt affection and human socialisation than the others, and the two weren’t afraid to voice it. The anger at themselves, the rage that crossed Soap’s face when he curled his fingers, bleeding his palms in the same manner you bled your feelings, hidden and alone in your dark room, bathroom and floor stained in the iron-rich ichor.

Gaz made a face, lips pulled down, brows pinched and eyes wet, tears fluttering at the edge of his lashes. He was a soft man, feeling and sympathetic, nearing empathetic whenever he wanted to feel what you felt, but in a crisis like this, where the thought had crossed his mind once or twice, but never acted it, he was lost. Confused and afraid, a daze where he thought that - perhaps - was how you felt when he wasn’t there to ease your pain, ignorant of the subtle signs of agony in your heart, screaming for help when your mouth wouldn’t utter a single word.

Price and Laswell hovered, combat helicopters roaming around you for any danger, watchful and worried, confident in their helping hand, but worried you would need help. Wanting to help, but afraid that needing it would mean something much deeper, and today was just the boiling point of it, the discovery of your sorrow and their dread and disgust at their inactivity. Laswell had made a few phone calls, her voice hushed as she spoke, eyeing Price for corrections and agreements until they came to the same consensus.

If you hadn’t known any better, you would have considered them your parents, loving and caring, tender and affectionate, just as the rest of them, all friends and teammates you considered brothers. Yet, there was a stigma to it, one imposed by normal people that made you feel a certain way. Perhaps that why you hadn’t spoke about it, the dreadful need to keep it hidden until it was forced into the light.

“You don’t have to do it alone anymore, luv,” Price promised, his low and rumbling voice that exhumed calm tenderness.

That was all it took you to sob, a dam creaking and breaking, letting your tears flood outwards while you clutched at the lapel of his jacket, hiding away in the familiar musk and cologne of his parental figure.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce

#x reader #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #konig mw2 #konig x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #gaz mw2 #gaz x reader #soap mw2 #soap x reader #price mw2 #price x reader #laswell mw2 #task force 141 #tf 141 x reader #platonic relationships #tw self harm

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romanoffsdarling · 11 months

Text

Summertime Sadness

Pairing: Dom!Wanda Maximoff x MILF!Reader

Summary: You hadn’t expected the summer after your divorce to be anything more than you simply getting used to being alone and drowning your sorrows in glasses of wine. The sudden homecoming of your daughter brings those plans to a screeching halt, but nothing could have prepared you for the woman that she brought along. Her best friend, the woman you’ve been hearing about in all of her phone calls home, offering you a glimpse into parts of yourself you never even knew were there.

Word Count: 4,891

Warnings: Legal age gap, oral (R receiving), fingering (R receiving), and hints of possessiveness. 18+, Minors DNI.

Author’s Note: I’ve seen a lot of stories with Wanda being the MILF, rightfully so, but I wanted to spin it a bit and make the Reader the MILF in this instance. Hope you all enjoy! (Also, I’m so sorry for disappearing for so long, college has been absolute hell.)

You never truly comprehend how much time you waste, how much had truly slipped through your fingers, until it’s already too late to do anything about it. Until you look into the mirror and see the once youthful face marred by faint wrinkles, a sign of wisdom your best friend would tease, and hair speckled with the vaguest hint of grey.

Twenty-five years... You had been married to your husband for twenty-five years; giving him your youth, giving him your heart and soul, and you never once imagined that he would have tossed all of that away for some floozy at his law firm. Never thought that you’d look down at your left hand and not see the delicate gold band situated on your ring finger. Of course, even now, you didn’t regret marrying him-- for it had given you the house you lived in now, the friends that had flocked to your side when the news of his infidelity spread through the neighborhood, and it gave you your darling daughter. Even if she was not yours by blood, you couldn’t imagine anyone housing the same space in your heart like your beautiful Natasha did.

All you did regret was being stupid enough to trust him so much. For putting your faith, and your dreams, in his clearly incapable hands. It had hurt, and still does hurt, but it wasn’t because you had lost him-- your marriage, in truth, had been dead for years-- but for all the time you had lost in chasing smoke and mirrors; in staying for something that should have been let go of long ago. You hated him for what he did, for getting caught with his pants down in between his secretary’s thighs, but you hated him even more for not being man enough to simply let you go, to give up the fight when it had already been lost after his first thirty seconds with his new whore, and it’s for that reason that you were currently scrubbing every inch of his old office clean.

You wanted to get rid of any reminder of him-- both in your home and in your mind.

The smell of bleach and lemon disinfectant surrounds you, but you had long grown used to the cloying scent. Dark oak floors, and the matching desk, gleamed underneath the antique lighting of the room; it had been a long time since they had been given the proper care they needed. It seems that I have more in common with inanimate objects that I thought, you muse, a sense of bittersweet irony strewn within the thought.

Settling back on your haunches, a sigh escapes your lips, and you roll your shoulders, wanting to relieve the tension that had been slowly building up for the past couple of hours. “I’m not getting any younger,” you mutter, tossing the damp rag to the side. “I just hope everything will get a bit easier.”

Even to yourself you knew that was asking for a miracle.

Before you could delve down into that specific line of thought, you faintly hear the sound of the front door being opened and the familiar sound of jangling keys with the slightly deadpan calling of ‘mom’ permeates the usual silence. The sound, although not unwelcome in the slightest, causes a small frown to furrow your brow all the same.

“Natasha?” You call back, already making your way towards the living room, sure that your confusion rung clearly within your tone. An expression that only grows that much more pronounced when you’re met with the shimmering gaze of your daughter; tousled red hair cut short, falling to just above her shoulders, and her usual penchant of wearing darker colors being tantamount. “What are you doing home, sweetheart? I wasn’t expecting you for another month.”

Her lips twist in a wry smile. “Are you not happy to see me, mother?” She tilts her head, faux hurt making an appearance. “I thought you’d be glad to see me.”

You gently swat her arm, before pulling her into a tight hug. “Of course, I’m happy to see you, Natasha,” you murmur, your lips briefly brush across her cheek before you disentangle from her completely. “I just know how you value your independence too.”

“I knew that you were alone in the house, mom,” she replies, a shrug calmly following her words. “I didn’t want you to wallow in self-pity while that fucker I call a father gets his rocks off with someone half his age across town.”

“Language, Natasha,” you gently chide, well aware your daughter was in her early twenties now and didn’t need to be reprimanded for it. “You know that your father still loves you dearly, and I believe he’s excited to see you whenever you get around to going to his new house.”

Jade eyes roll so hard you’re almost concerned about them getting stuck. “He should have thought about that before he stuck his tongue down someone else’s throat.” Natasha’s lips press into a line, clearly agitated, but she takes a deep breath through her nose and forcibly calms herself down. “But I’m not here to talk about him. I’m here to spend time with you.”

Sudden movement from behind Natasha causes your reply to catch in your throat when you finally focus on the woman standing behind your daughter. Whose presence you were completely astonished you hadn’t noticed before, especially given how electrifying it felt to have her emerald eyes honed directly on you, but your gentle smile doesn’t fall away; even if you do feel it twitch slightly due to your surprise. Your hand, that was near enough to your daughter’s forearm, clenches around it in a silent reprimand, but you try your best to keep the pleasant tone to your voice.

“I see that my daughter didn’t think it best to introduce her guest first.” You gently pinch Natasha once before stepping closer to the unknown woman in your home. “I apologize for not noticing you sooner.”

The woman smirks, the light emerald of her eyes shifting to tantalizing jade as she observes you. “It’s quite alright,” she replies, her voice a husky whisper that’s enveloped in an accent you couldn’t pinpoint the origin of. “I’m not surprised that Nat was too focused on her mother to remember me.”

Subtext is etched into every inch of that statement, but you didn’t have time to even try to sift through it before your daughter’s teasing voice cuts through.

“It’s not my fault my mother is more interesting than you, Wanda.” She slides past you to stand beside the now smiling woman. “You just need to learn to get on her level.”

Wanda’s gaze shifts from your daughter to you once more-- the barest hint of her earlier smirk returning. “I don’t know, Nat,” she teases, amusement, mixed with something else you couldn’t put a name to, laced within her words. “I think I quite like my view from where I’m at.”

Your daughter, once again, rolls her eyes skyward but her easygoing smile doesn’t leave her lips. “Mom.” She turns back to you and gestures towards Wanda. “This is Wanda Maximoff, I’ve talked about her a bit when I’ve called home.”

The name finally clicks into place within your head. Memories of your daughter’s exasperated voice, filled with hints of fondness, come forth from the recesses of your mind. All of the stories, all of the thinly veiled jokes, that your daughter had shared with you, and the clear warmth that she felt for the other woman, brings a fond smile to your lips. An expression that causes various emotions to flicker across Wanda’s face for the briefest of moments before it smooths over.

“So, you’re the one my daughter kept talking about?” You couldn’t keep the genuine amusement out of your tone if you tried. “Her best friend?”

Wanda arches a brow. “I’m your best friend, Nat?” She playfully places her hands to her heart. “I’m honored that you think so highly of me.”

You can tell your daughter just barely refrains from rolling her eyes. Not even bothering to deign Wanda’s teasing words with a response, Natasha turns back to you. “Can we go put our things away, mom?” She rolls her shoulders, and, for the first time, you notice how tired she looked. Of course, it was over a four-hour drive from your house in Westview to her college in Ithaca.

“Of course, sweetheart,” you soothed. “I’m just going to finish up some work down here and then I’ll get started on dinner, okay?”

Natasha smiles. “You’re the best, mom.”

Your heart flutters at her words, a simple compliment to most, but one that you’ve desperately needed in the last few months. Knowing that you may start crying at any moment if you tried to speak, you wave your daughter towards the stairs and step back towards the hallway to continue your work in the office. But, before you could a throat clearing behind you causes you to turn back around-- only to be met by beautiful emerald eyes that seemed to encompass you in a bubble you didn’t know if you wanted to escape from.

“Is everything alright, Wanda?” Your gaze quickly flicks over her body: from the black skinny jeans with holes, to the simple red leather jacket, and the casually tousled way her dark auburn hair fell over her shoulders. “Did you need something?”

Pale pink lips quirk for a moment, before a genuine look of something passes over Wanda’s face once more. “I don’t need anything.” She shakes her head, a low chuckle escapes her, but you weren’t quite sure what was so funny. “I just wanted to thank you for letting me stay here with Natasha. Especially since it was clear you didn’t know I was coming in the first place.”

“It’s not a problem, Wanda,” you reply, a smile of your own playing across your lips. “I’m glad that I won’t be alone in this house for however long you both decide to stay. It definitely beats what I was going to do.”

“What were you going to do?”

You shrug. “Just wallow around and get drunk off of some wine.”

Wanda considers you for a moment, emerald eyes cast in shadow. “I’m not so sure about the wallowing, but I’d love to have a glass of wine with you sometime.”

“Oh.” You’re surprised by the simplicity in which Wanda makes the offer. None of Natasha’s previous friends, or best friends, had ever bothered, or seemed that keen, to spend time with you. Not that you’d ever fault them for doing so. Who would want to spend time with the parents of their best friend? “I’m sure you’ll have much more interesting things to do, Wanda.”

A smile, much softer than the one’s she had shown you before, plays at the corners of her lips. “I’m not so sure about that, but the offer still stands regardless.” She looks over her shoulder when the call of her name from Natasha’s room spears through the house, an almost disgruntled look etching itself across her face because of it. “I think it’ll be fun to get to know the woman that raised Nat. Her stories of you haven’t done you justice in the slightest.”

You’re not able to reply before Natasha’s annoyed voice from the upper-level calls Wanda towards the stairs, clearly impatient with how long her friend was taking. Conversation over then, you think, taking a small step back, towards the direction of the kitchen. The action elicits the smallest of frowns from Wanda, an expression that is there and gone before you could even blink, and you offer her one last wave before heading further into your house, vaguely aware that you didn’t hear the telltale signs of footsteps on your stairs until you rounded the corner.

The following week passes quickly, and you easily grow used to having Natasha back home-- Wanda slipping in seamlessly throughout it all. It was nice to have some company in the large house, even if Natasha did tend to disappear to reconnect with friends she had left behind once she went off to New York and left Westview behind, but knowing that your daughter was there, and would continue to be, if you needed her soothed you in a way that you hadn’t even known you needed.

Wanda, despite Natasha’s persistent pestering, seemed to enjoy spending her time lounging around the house, citing that she didn’t know anyone in Westview and didn’t plan on getting chummy with the locals, offering her help whenever she saw you doing something, with an ever present look in her eyes that you still couldn’t place. Although you didn’t exactly mind spending time with the younger woman, her perception of the world was enlightening, along with your shared interests in various topics that had never seem to intrigue anyone else except you-- until now, of course.

You could feel yourself getting close to her, closer than you’ve allowed yourself to be in a long time. Not since college, you muse, taking a small sip of the chilled wine that Wanda had just brought you. Finally deciding, with Natasha going out for friend’s birthday party, that it’d the perfect time to finally share that glass of wine. You didn’t bother trying to argue with her, not when she looked so earnest in her request.

Wanda settles next to you, causing you to shift your position, pressing your back into the arm rest, in order to be able to look at her. Emerald eyes were glued onto you, a smile playing on the edges of her lips, before she shifts into a comfortable position of her own.

“So,” you begin, setting down your wine on the coffee table. “What are you planning on doing once you graduate college? Any idea on where you’d like to end up?”

“I’ve always loved the idea of being a Producer, being the magic behind the scenes if you will,” Wanda replies, a charming grin catching her lips. “And, yes, I do believe there’s a place that’s caught my eye on where I’d like to end up.”

You arch a brow. “Really?”

Wanda simply hums in response, a spark of mischief dancing within her gaze-- a look that you had long since grown used to. It’s clear that she wasn’t going to answer you, not that you truly expected her to, after all what college kid has plans on where they’d like to end up? Ideas, perhaps, but nothing concrete as most go where the wind takes them.

“Well,” you continue, a soft smile pulling at your lips. “I’m glad that you have everything figured out. I definitely envy you for that?”

The younger woman’s brow furrows at that, bottom lip disappearing behind pearly white teeth. “Why do you say that?” Emerald eyes flit over the immaculate expanse of your house, one that you had strived hard to maintain through the years. “I think you’re definitely a few steps ahead of me in that department.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” You wave the pseudo-compliment away. “All of what I have isn’t what I originally dreamed of, or wished for, myself, but when certain cards are laid out in front of you.” Trailing off, you run a singular look over the now empty expanse of your ring finger. “You either fold or raise, I wasn’t willing to do the latter. Not when it had so many other consequences attached to it.”

“What would you wish for then?”

You shift your focus back to Wanda, confusion etched across your face. “What?”

She waves a hand. “You said that all of this isn’t what you originally wished for yourself.” Wanda shrugs. “What is then? What would you wish for?”

“I wish I could find someone that’d treat me in the way he never did, that’d show me what love truly is, and make me forget about all that he’s put me through,” you sigh, taking another sip of your wine. “Of course, with my age, I don’t think that’s really in the cards for me anymore.”

Wanda scoffs. “I don’t think that’s true. I think there are quite a few people that’d love to be with you.”

Something tells you, maybe some deeper part, a more sensible part, of your brain, that you shouldn’t continue forward with this conversation, that you should take her words as the compliment they are, but another, more needy part of your brain, one that desperately needs to feel some form of validation after so long, doesn’t want to in the slightest.

Rolling your shoulders, you level Wanda with a look. “Really?” She hums in confirmation. “And who might those people be?”

“Me.”

If it wasn’t for your back being wedged against the armrest of your catch, you’re fairly certain you would have reared back completely at the calm nonchalance in which she gave you the answer. “Y-You can’t be serious Wanda.” You shake your head, not believing at all what you were hearing. “I’m over a decade older than you.”

She tilts her head. “So?” A salacious smirk tugs her lips upward. “I think that makes you even hotter.”

“You--” You huff out a breath. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Wanda. I think I’m going to get you some water because you’ve obviously had quite a bit to drink already.”

But, before you’re able to even push up from the couch, Wanda’s hand grabs your wrist and tugs you closer. Noses almost smashing together, you’re only able to keep yourself steady by grabbing ahold of Wanda’s shoulder with your free hand. “I know exactly what I’m talking about,” she hisses, warm breath ghosting across your face. “I’ve wanted you from the first time I saw you on Nat’s phone and it only grew the moment I saw you in person.” Her hand lightly traces down your face, almost reverently. “You’re the most beautiful woman that I’ve ever seen. No one could ever compare to you in my eyes.”

The sweets words, coupled by the earnest expression etched across her youthful face, causes your willpower to begin to falter. How long has it been since someone looked at you like that? Spoke to you in such a manner? Have you ever had that? The thought makes something twist within your gut.

“You’re my daughter’s best friend,” you begin, trying to force some semblance of reality into this situation. Trying to make yourself see reason before you did what this was no doubt leading to. “We can’t do this, Wanda.”

“We can do whatever the hell we want. We’re both adults, I’m not some child.” She tugs you closer, nuzzling her nose against yours. “And what I want to do is kiss you the way you’re supposed to be kissed.”

A hitch in your breathing gives Wanda all the information she needs, and seals your fate completely, but, even with that go ahead, at the clear sign that you wanted her as much as she clearly wanted you, her lips still descended onto yours at a snail’s pace, giving you the opportunity to pull away.

You didn’t want to.

Didn’t want to have this moment be ruined by what could potentially come after. For the first time, in what felt like forever, you were going to put what you desired, what you wanted, before everything else. So, when Wanda’s lips finally did meet your own, and you’re able to faintly taste the cherry chap-stick she seemed so fond of, you give your all to the embrace. Mouth easily opening to her questing tongue, a small moan escaping from deep within your chest at the feel of it entangling with your own, and Wanda seems to press even closer.

At this point you’re not even sure where you begin and Wanda ends, being pressed so closely together as you are. All you do know is that you never want this to end, never want to go a moment without Wanda’s warm hands trailing down your body, slender fingers digging slightly into your sides to pull you tightly against her, never want to be without the feelings she invokes within your chest-- the butterflies she causes within your stomach.

With a small snarl, Wanda rips her mouth from yours, making you just barely stifle the noise of disappointment the action causes within you, but the darkened emerald eyes leveled with your own renders you temporarily mute. Wanda’s chest heaving in her effort to get enough air, but she doesn’t once stop running her hands down your body-- seemingly not being able to get enough of touching you.

“I want to see you,” Wanda growls, hands gripping the material of your flimsy shirt and quickly pulling it over your head. Darkened green eyes taking in each inch of flesh that’s been revealed to her-- on any other circumstance you’d be mortified by the fervor in which she was looking at you, but underneath all that hunger, you could see a sense of awe, a spark of reverence, as if you had just made a wish of hers come true. “You’re even more beautiful than I imagined.” Her head dips, pressing a hot kiss against your neck, tongue soothing the place her teeth had dug in. “I’m going to worship you, baby, I’m going to make everyone else before me feel obsolete.”

Your back arches on its own volition, pressing yourself further into the heated touch of the hand trailing down your abdomen. Burning kisses, that feel like they’d send the raging inferno coursing through your veins absolutely haywire, following the path her fingers had just traced-- sharp canines delicately nipping the flesh of your navel before her tongue sweeps over the flesh to soothe the mark that she had undoubtedly left behind. You’re barely aware of when Wanda had been capable of tugging your sweatpants down your leg, along with your panties, before tossing them in a random direction behind her, but you’re definitely honed in on the moment her tongue, that had just done such sinful things to your chest and stomach, made contact with the apex of your thighs.

A breathy whine escapes you then, the feeling of Wanda’s tongue lapping at the wetness beginning to escape you, little hungry mewls escaping her throat, as if you were the most appetizing thing she had ever tasted, brings a whole new high to your pleasure-- something you had never felt before. Digging your fingers through her hair, tugging at the long strands to pull her impossibly closer, you’re rewarded by a breathy snarl, Wanda’s lips latching onto your clit and sucking it into her warm mouth-- slender fingers taking up residence where her tongue had just been, entering you hard and fast. Not giving you even a moment to get used to the new feelings before she’s pounding into you, the slender digits curling up just right to brush the spot within you.

The sounds of your wetness, of the sloshing noises that Wanda’s fingers made every time she pulled out, would have normally made you embarrassed, and it probably would have, if Wanda hadn’t made sure to maintain eye contact with you throughout it all. Emerald eyes, blown almost black with lust, keenly observing every minute expression that flits across your face, tongue lashing across your clit in the precise moment that you needed her to, fingers scissoring inside of you the moment you felt your high coming that much closer. The simple fact that she already seemed to know your body so well, that she could already read your face, in a way that your ex-husband never could, makes the need to have her closer almost like a drug coursing through your veins.

With the fingers still tangled in her hair, you tug her upwards. Seeming almost hesitant to leave, Wanda follows your wordless command after another thorough swipe of her tongue, her mouth latching onto your own the moment she’s within reach. And, the heady mix of yourself and something that’s inherently Wanda, fogs your brain, but you still have half the mind to wrap your arms around her back, arching more fully into her body-- needing to feel connected to her in some way. Moreso than you already were.

Ripping her mouth away from your own, when air becomes a necessity, Wanda groans. “You’re doing so good for me, baby.” Nimble fingers are quickly accompanied by a third. “Taking my fingers so well. Fuck you’re so tight for me, aren’t you?”

You nod, a soundless scream escaping. The stretch, the feeling of being so full, and the warmth of Wanda’s breath across your ear, a combination you never knew you needed until now. The cliff, that you hadn’t been able to achieve by yourself, and rarely ever with your ex-husband, seems to be getting closer and closer; you were more than excited to finally take the plunge.

“That’s right, baby,” Wanda coos, thrusting harder into you. “Just feel my fingers in your perfect cunt. He never fucked you like this, huh? Never treated with the roughness you’ve obviously wanted?”

Something in her voice, in the darkened tone, tells you that this line of questioning wouldn’t be as rhetorical as the first. “N-No--” A sharp whine is pulled from your lips. “Only you. Only you’ve fucked me the way I’ve wanted.”

A sharp grin pulls at Wanda’s lips, her free hand gripping your hip in a possessive hold. “And I’m only ever going to be the one to do it from this point forward.” Her head dips, teeth digging into the sensitive flesh right beneath your pulse point. “Isn’t that right, baby?”

“Yes!” Your back arches, your incoming orgasm nearly blinding you. “I-I’m so close. I-I can’t--”

Wanda rolls her hips, shushing you gently. “It’s alright, baby. You’ve done so good for me. Be my good girl and cum for me.”

At her command your body finally releases the final coil that had been prepared to spring forward, as if it had been waiting for her words all along, and a keening cry passes your lips-- Wanda-- as your world is whitened by your pleasure. Only vaguely aware of Wanda’s lips pressing repeatedly against your cheek, her fingers gently guiding you through.

When you come down from your high, from the toe-curling pleasure that she had given you, and your vision clears enough for you to see Wanda, still hovering over you, with that same look of reverence on her face from before, you couldn’t help the almost shy smile that appears. Something that causes Wanda to dip forward to place a chaste kiss against the smile, so tender from the hungry ones that she had bestowed on you only a moment before.

“How the fuck could he ever leave someone like you?” It’s said in a low voice, one that you don’t think you were supposed to her, but her clear confusion fills you with warmth, nonetheless. Emerald eyes raise to meet your own gaze, softness suffused within it. “Will you give me that honor, baby? The honor of making you forget.”

Your earlier words, said in a mournful whisper, come back to you instantly: I wish I could find someone that’d treat me in the way he never did, that’d show me what love truly is, and make me forget about all that he’s put me through.

“I’m over a decade older than you, Wanda,” you rebuke. “Why the hell would you want to be with someone like me?”

Her brow furrows. “Why wouldn’t I?” She lowers herself, finally pressing her body against yours, allowing you to feel the warmth of her skin, she places another gentle kiss to your lips. “You’re the only woman that’s ever made me feel like this. I don’t give a damn how old you are, I don’t give a damn if Natasha has an issue with it, I’ll talk to her, all I care about is that I get to have you like this again. That I get to love you in the way that you deserve to be.” Emerald eyes sharpen, her grip on your body tightening. “In a way that only I could ever give you.”

Your eyes flutter shut at her words, something you’ve been wanting to hear for so long. Could you actually take this plunge? Allow yourself to take such a huge risk? Potentially cause a crisis with your daughter and Westview at large? What if it didn’t work out?

What if it did? The gentle voice of your conscience counters. What if this is your chance at finally being happy? At finally finding the one person you’ve been searching for? Are you really going to let that pass you by?

You didn’t know how this was going to turn out, how any of this would end up snowballing into years down the line, but as your eyes open and you peer into emerald green, a color that had enchanted you since you first looked upon it, you know your answer instantly-- have known it for longer than the question even being posed.

“Yes.”

Wanda’s answering smile, bright with her happiness, is all you see before she descends onto your mouth again, clearly wanting to show you everything that you’d now be experiencing from this point on.

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