#PATH TRACING WAS KIND TO ME ONCE | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

baeshijima · 6 days ago

Text

— be still, my beating heart

the world has a rather cruel way of playing its jokes. it paid you no heed amid your desperation, watching passively as your wings were clipped before you could even take flight. and yet, when you began to accept such a fate, you were given new ones to soar and see the world you once dreamed of. the world may be cruel, but it gave you a new meaning and opportunity all the same.

(despite your newfound content, you almost wish you weren't given so many headaches to deal with.)

INCLUDES : king!mydei ; knight commander!phainon ; scholar!anaxa + knight!reader

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 13.5k wc (sobbing pls give this a chance... it's just a number... haha...), royalty!au, fluff (kinda), angst (if you squint), brief mentions of blood, some lore and character exploration fitted into the au (kinda), underlying darker themes (bc royalty aus are scary at times,,,) but still very much sfw !! i think... slight spoilers for their past/backstories (mainly anaxa's if you haven't played 3.2/read his first character story + some details of phainon's alose mentioned in 3.2) with some deviations

A/N : guess who is pushing their knight!reader agenda again !! for the third time :D once again royalty aus my beloved u will always be famous to me o(TヘTo) (also can u tell who is my favourite haha...)

various!hsr ver.

Becoming a full-fledged knight was never your intention, much less the personal knight of the king himself. If life had gone the way you’d planned all those years ago, you are sure you would have laughed in the face of whoever told you this would be your fate.

After all, you? A knight? For the then-crown-prince-now-king?

You?

Ha! As if you would let yourself become something like… like that. A tool, a pawn, a weapon easily disposed of when the cracks start to become too noticeable and the once sharpened edge too blunt to be of any use.

Honour? Integrity? Justice?

What use is there for such lofty ideals in a world where deceit and poison-laced saccharines and empty promises for something greater, something far beyond the scope of your isolated bubble was the only familiarity you had.

You’ve witnessed it countless times — the noble rise and the disgraceful fall of your kin. Having watched your siblings and cousins be subjected to the almost manic control of your family elders, you swore you would do everything in your power to escape their clutches; even if you had to reject everything you knew and start with nothing once more.

And yet, when your desperate attempts to retain your autonomy began to slip through, when your efforts to diverge and leave your own traces in this world were all but thwarted without a moment’s hesitation, the doubt began to settle like morning mist.

Maybe you were never meant for something greater. Maybe you were destined to be overshadowed by your family’s bygone history, dispirited and made to be forgotten by the elders who loathed disharmony in their control. Maybe this path was always fated to be yours to follow, to trudge in the weathered footsteps moulded in the shape of your ancestry. Generation after generation, stuck in an endless cycle of ash and sweat and metal and the suffocating stench of iron. Never to be free.

In the end, you were just a puppet to be controlled, your prodigious talent for the sword an attribute for them to weaponise.

But then he came in like a raging storm, your once gloomy and hopeless world bursting into a vibrancy you never once thought possible. In a seemingly impossible feat your shackles were shattered, a fate which had never been yours to claim suddenly handed back to you by that outstretched calloused hand and kind gaze unfitting for such a battle-haggard boy. Even so, despite such outward expression being a noticeably stark contradiction to the boy’s sharp features, his smile did not waver, nor did his patience for your eventual acceptance of his hand.

Perhaps you are a hypocrite — perhaps you are a spineless fool who cannot break away from the destiny instilled by those elders. But if this decision allowed you to devote your all to something wholeheartedly, to step into a world where those so-called lofty ideals may not be so out of reach, then you would gladly be one; even if it meant walking down a path carved by the very same wretched footsteps you loathed, the imprint of your own the last to be seen from that bygone legacy.

Side step. Downward strike. Duck. Envision your opponent standing overhead, their sword raised with both hands and ready to strike down. Pivot. Parry with an undercut. When they’re off balance, lunge and strike them at their opening—

“What have I said about overworking yourself?”

At the sudden voice, you startle. Luckily, your sword did not drop, and you breathe a faint sigh of relief before turning to the source of the voice. You shouldn’t have been surprised considering you already knew who would have such a profound voice and presence, but seeing your king leaning against the wall of the training grounds still manages to catch you off guard.

With your independent training now interrupted, the adrenaline guiding you through the motions vanishes. Flexing your stiff fingers, you roll your neck while making your way to the sidelines while trying to ignore the weight behind his accusatory gaze. When reaching the benches, you come to a stop, pick up your water bottle, and give a fleeting glance towards the intruder.

“Your Majesty?” you ask, voice lighthearted in a way that tries to ignore the underlying meaning behind his presence. “What are you doing here?”

He huffs. “That’s what I should be asking you.” Mydei regards you with scrutiny, arms crossed and lips pursed as you guzzle your water. “What are you doing here at this hour?”

“Well, I asked you first!” Is what you would counter with if he wasn’t your king. Alas, he is. And so the very apparent status difference between you prompts a much tamer response to spill after having wiped off the excess water clinging to your lips.

“Training, Your Majesty.”

…Perhaps you should have gone with your initial response. Had you done that, maybe the ominous clinks of jewellery would not be steadily growing in volume, nor would the brooding aura of an upset king (your king, you must remind yourself, for you alone put yourself in this predicament) be slowly encroaching on your back amidst a suffocating silence. Eventually he comes to a stop behind you, his presence heavy and lying in wait like a predator watching its prey.

You gulp. Is it too late to run? Most definitely. Will you at least try? You’re not an idiot. (You learned from your first attempt that it was useless to try. It was also very embarrassing. Never again.)

With almost robotic-like stutters, your head turns towards your right — towards the shadow currently looming behind you. When your eyes meet, your mind draws a blank. What were you doing? Where are you? Who are you? Why must you suffer like this instead of some other knight?

But then he parts his lips, narrowed gaze and deep-set frown still etched into his features, and suddenly you’re reminded how tough love is your king’s speciality.

“Are you aware how late it is?” he asks, tone firm.

“Um, I wasn’t exactly keeping track.” Had his glare not darkened, you would have thought that answer to be sufficient enough. Clearly it was not, and you scramble to conjure a more sufficient answer. “If I were to guess, however… quite late?”

“Very. Past dinner, no less.”

Oh. You knew time flew while you were training (the gradual darkening of the sky said enough), but to think you missed dinner? Maybe you’ll be able to snag some leftovers if you’re lucky enough. If not, then you will simply pretend hunger is nonexistent and your problem is solved.

Even so, if your king is known for his horrendously stubborn and competitive whims, then two can play that game!

“That’s too bad,” you sigh. “And here I was hoping I could spar with you, Your Majesty.”

At that, he brings a clawed hand to his head before releasing an exasperated breath. “Don’t be foolish, [Name]. It is late. You should get some food, too.”

“What?” you drawl, a grin slowly appearing on your lips. Raising a gloved hand, you try your best to hide your smile from Mydei’s suspicious expression. “Don’t tell me you’re… scared to lose, are you?”

You don’t even get the chance to blink before he is standing before you, eyes closed and a strained, twitching smile stretching his lips.

"A spar, you say? Sure. Let’s spar."

Well, that was easy. Hurting a man’s ego sometimes really is the way to go.

Making your way to the centre of the training ground with your sword in hand, you begin to think maybe this wasn’t the best method. Sure, you got what you wanted and managed to train a little longer, but having a murderous king standing opposite you and cracking his clawed gauntlets isn’t the most pleasant of visuals.

Well, whatever! You asked for this, so you must see it through; even if you won’t hear the end of it from him afterwards.

Taking a slow breath, you adjust your feet’s positioning and shift to find your centre of balance. Raising your sword at eye-level, you exchange a single nod. With a precise step, you close the distance, and—

Clang!

Within a second, your training sword flies out of your grasp and out of sight. A dull thud is heard, but all you are focused on is the glint shining off the clawed, gold-plated gauntlet as it withdraws from the position your sword once occupied.

Silence.

“...Your Majesty,” you start, voice hesitant as you try to process what just transpired. “Is it just me, or do you seem more agitated than usual?”

Mydei is relatively expressionless as he stands upright and cracks his neck, as though it were just a regular Tuesday.

“Hmph. There is no such word in the Kremoan dictionary. It’s because you skipped dinner to train. Again,” he stresses with absolute certainty you’re almost inclined to believe his words. Almost.

Despite how long you have been Mydei’s personal guard, you are yet to see a single dictionary in Kremnos. With how often he uses that phrase, you would think there would be at least ten of them in the royal library, not the figment of his imagination and temperament of an agitated cat to be his source.

But you don’t tell your king that. Instead, you opt to stare at your sword lying pitifully in a cloud of dust on the opposite end of the training grounds. “I see.”

“Do you now?” he asks, an undertone of scepticism woven within his tone. “Because the last I recall you saying that, you continued to skip dinner for your personal training. It is fine to train, but over-doing it and neglecting your health will only harm you.”

“Yes, yes,” you sigh, peeling off your gloves as you bypass him, heading straight towards the outer ring where your water bottle was previously left. “My king’s natural instinct to take care of his subordinates has triumphed once more. I concede.”

“If you know, then start listening to me.” His head shakes at your theatrics, joining you at the sidelines with your once flying sword now securely in his hand. You retrieve it with gratitude before stowing it away securely and taking another sip from your bottle. He lingers behind you, quietly helping pack away the equipment. You’re not sure what exactly is going through his mind, but you are enlightened soon enough.

“Come drink with me.”

You pause, the hand towel pressing against your neck also pausing in its ministrations as you process your king’s words. “You mean your pomegranate juice with goat’s milk?”

He gives you a strange look — all scrunched brows, narrowed eyes, and a downward curled lip. You’re almost inclined to poke the midpoint of his brows and tell him to loosen up lest he wants to get wrinkles early, but, alas, you fancy not being on the receiving end of his unamused stare for a change.

“What else?”

“You’re right. I apologise for assuming there would be something different for once, O fearsome king of— ow, ow, ow!”

Your words are promptly cut off by the biting cold metal entrapping your left cheek. Despite knowing escape is futile, you still try to free your cheek from your king’s bullying. It, as expected, fails, and so you’re left to do what you do best — complain. “What was that for?!”

“For being so cheeky,” he retorts. For extra measure he gives your cheek another squeeze before letting go. You jump away at the presented opportunity and cradle your poor, abused skin, pointedly ignoring his deadpan gaze and huff at your antics. “Don’t worry. There will be an assortment of cheese and other accompaniments as always.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll meet you in your chambers, Your Majesty.”

As you are about to trudge towards your quarters, his figure steps in front of you and blocks the way. When meeting his gaze, you find him already looking at you in a mix of confusion and mild annoyance.

“Why?” he asks, and you’re left wondering how this man is the king of a nation.

“So I can have a shower and change into non-sweaty clothes…?”

“Just use my private bathroom.”

“But what about my clo—”

“I still have some of your spares from prior visits. All clean,” he quickly adds, possibly seeing your attempts for a rebuttal.

That fiend. Of course he would look so proud of himself knowing you have no arguments, nor the will to argue, left in you. At this point, all you want is a nice shower and some food, all of which he has offered and knows you won’t refuse.

With yet another defeat fresh in mind you release a long sigh, accepting your fate once more as you begrudgingly fall into step with your king who looks far too pleased with himself, if his satisfied smirk is anything to go by.

Seriously, with how often he calls you into his office and personal chambers for a drink or some food, one might think you’re his personal attendant; you may as well be at this rate!

Well, at least he seems to be in a good mood. In the end, that is all that matters to you.

---

A curse. A sin. A stain upon the royal family’s name. That is what Mydeimos, the once celebrated crown prince of Castrum Kremnos, became known as after the prophecy was foretold. Without a question for the prophecy’s legitimacy, his infantile body was cast aside and thrown into the endless abyss by the man known as his father, King Eurypon, while his mother, Queen Gorgo, died by the king’s treachery after challenging him to a duel shortly after his descent.

…Or so he was told by his teacher, Krateros, who followed after him with the Kremnoan detachment after he resurfaced from the endless depths of that river at the tender age of nine. As it stood, Mydei’s childhood evaded him. He knew he hadn’t led a typical life. He'd grown up fighting endless monsters in an attempt to evade death, learned to read, write, and speak both the common tongue and his mother tongue after nine-years-old, and was forced to adapt his newly undying body to the overworld while traversing the lands. The phantom pain of injuries sustained never faded despite its physical evidence stitched anew without a lasting mark. His senses took a while to completely adjust, the new sounds and sensations leaving lasting remnants for days at a time.

And then would come the nights; the nights where he would dream of the mother whose face escaped him. They came frequently — every night, even. Truth be told, the young prince learned most of his fighting through those dreams. Where his mother awaited him by the flickering firelight, a training session would soon follow. They would spar, him left huffing while she remained unperturbed, and the same conversation would flow without diversion. She would praise him; he would ask why they learn to fight; she would give her response; he would question the philosophy; she would eventually relent and agree with his view, explaining her reasons. And, as in every dream, his mother left with the same parting words,

“I no longer put my faith in any oath or doctrine. Now, I have just one role… That of your mother, Mydeimos. Your guardian…”

And then it would end. And every time, the crown prince would wake up, go about his day with the detachment, and futilely hope for a sequel to his dream. But as was the cycle of life and death, that dream repeated endlessly and without cease. There was no closure, no elaboration of wisdom or guidance she departed him with.

While he never fully understood her words, he continued to traverse the lands with his detachment. Life and death came frequently. Sometimes it would be expected, other times it would grab him by the collar and steal his breath. Regardless of the many partings Mydei witnessed, the pain always lingered. That much never changed even as he became older; he just learned to hide the pain better, to not show any weakness.

His travels eventually led him to the territory of an influential family — one renowned for producing highly capable knights, as well as the budding rumours of the elders’ tyrannical control over their domain. Wealth clearly was not an issue, but rather the skewed distribution between the rich and the poor. The detachment was commissioned to put a stop to their oppressive reign and, after having witnessed the effects first-hand, it did not take long for them to purge the land of its dictators.

And then he stumbled upon you, alone amongst the carnage and debris with a listless gaze directed to your former home and a broken sword discarded beside your kneeled form. Maybe it was the spur of the moment — of your untapped potential or even the budding guilt of wrecking everything you once knew — but he was crouched in front of you with an outstretched hand as the words, “Come. Join me to see the birth of a new king,” escaped him before he could dwell on his next destination.

In truth, Mydei was unsure why he felt compelled to see through the territory’s reconstruction and stability. It was none of his business, and his people were not the patient type when it came to aimless pursuits. And yet, upon witnessing your eyes regain some of its light at his proposal, he found himself uncaring of their protests. He would bring order to the land himself if it came down to it.

Luckily, his men agreed and the restoration was a smooth process over several weeks. Poverty was gradually overturned, a democratic system would be established after their leave, and the people finally experienced peace. They were even celebrated in honour of their feats for freeing the citizens from the suffocating ruling, departing the next morning with you as their newest addition under Mydei’s behest.

(You had nothing left, you’d claimed to him the night of the celebration after sharing a drink, having lost your purpose after being caged for so long. He merely gave you a reason to soar once more.)

From travelling with his group, fighting side by side and experiencing losses together, to usurping the throne under King Eurypon’s ruling, you eventually found your place beside him after his ascension to the throne as his handpicked personal knight. The years flew by — some longer, others shorter. But throughout it all, it hadn’t taken long for Mydei to grow fond of you.

Perhaps it was your lost, broken shell he saw fragments of himself in back then among the carnage and debris which caused the first crack in his heart.

Perhaps it was your innate talent for the sword he witnessed first-hand after sparring you for the first time in the open planes to test your abilities for himself.

Perhaps it was how you gazed at him with purpose and renewed devotion, watching from afar as you dedicated yourself to honing your abilities in an effort to be useful to him.

(You would never be a burden, Mydei found himself thinking once. The very notion itself left an uncomfortable stir in his heart.)

Perhaps it was your expression when you first tried his cooking, him growing bashful in the face of your starry eyes after forcing you to take a break during your self-imposed training.

(Mydei was grateful it was nighttime. God forbid he let you see him so flustered just from you enjoying his cooking.)

Perhaps it was when you stood by his side for the first time not as the comrade he travelled and faced numerous hardships with, but as his personal guard who would forever stand by his side.

(Oddly enough, Mydei anticipated your knighting ceremony more than he did his own coronation. For having been raised with the ideology that overthrowing his father and becoming king was everything, the newly crowned king found himself overwhelmed with something inexplicable when you swore that oath before everyone in attendance, touching your knelt-form’s shoulders with the tip of the ceremonial sword, and handing you the kingdom’s royal insignia to proudly boast on your person.)

Perhaps it was when he spotted you chatting with Phainon back when he was a rookie and not yet the knight commander, who would follow you around like a puppy trailing behind its owner and pester you for the smallest of things; joining you to the water fountain, asking to watch you train, helping you with whatever menial task you decided to pick up for the day, somehow convincing you to be his personal instructor — just whatever routine of yours he could slot himself into.

(It struck Mydei as odd whenever the scene of you both together would cause his heart to clench. It was a pain unlike what he was used to experiencing, more akin to the air knocked out of his lungs and pin pricks settling deep within the beating organ. The mere thought of Phainon having your attention alone was enough to agitate the king, but maybe it was your easy acceptance of the starry-eyed rookie’s presence in your life which hurt a little more.)

Perhaps it was that time you threw yourself in front of him to stop an assassination attempt in his room in the dead of night when all but you both and the assassin were asleep, quickly disposing of him before Mydei rushed to catch your wounded form from hitting the bloodied floor before turning to him asking if he’s alright as though he was the one injured. He’d given a withering stare in response, offering no response as he picked you up and placed you on his bed to patch your fresh wounds.

(He’d given you a stern lecturing, reprimanding you for being so reckless and getting injured as a result. You’d quietened down then and offered an apology but, rather than his unintended harsh words, he’s almost certain it was his trembling hands as he tried to bandage your torso, the subtle shake in his voice he desperately tried to mask as disapproval, and the distraught manner he held you in which made you back down.)

Perhaps it was when he’d caught the way that blasphemous scholar started to seek you out on his own, having always been known to keep to himself unless absolutely necessary, even refusing palace summons were you not the one to personally guide him upon his arrival.

(In the beginning Mydei chalked it up to nothing but a passing curiosity during the scholar’s first visit to the palace, his gaze lingering when you walked away. But when Anaxa started to only ask, or demand rather, for you to be his escort otherwise he wouldn’t come to the palace — despite his personality, his discoveries are still one the best — a strange discomfort welled up within him. Sometimes Mydei thought himself to be petty when intercepting you both during the garden strolls, but when reminded of how that scholar would glance at him over his shoulder with a smirk before resuming his bickering with you, he believed some petty acts can be justified.)

Perhaps it was the days he spent by your bedside, gripping your hand as he barked out for all those well-accomplished physicians to do something to rid you of the lethal poison flooding your system while he could only sit and wait and pray for you to survive this, that you wouldn’t leave him alone. Not when you promised to remain by his side eternally.

(Despite running himself haggard, clinging to the fraying hope you would survive the longer the days dragged on, his wellbeing was nothing in comparison to the choked call of his name, voice hoarse from lack of use and eyes misty as they adjusted to the light. Despite all the words and nags and repressed emotions he all but wanted to tell you — because why would you take such lethal poison meant for him when you knew of his high tolerance? How something like that would have affected him far less than it did you? — Mydei deflated with relief when your cold hand touched his cheek in assurance, clutching desperately to the warmth beginning to seep through your palms as proof of life.)

Perhaps… it was nothing in particular; perhaps it was just you. Unapologetically. Wholeheartedly.

But really, if Mydei were to truly pick a moment where this inevitable downfall of his started, then it would no doubt be the day you were both about to reach the main outskirts with his resistance in tow the night before the Kremnos Festival, his goal to overthrow that man within grasp. The day you pledged to be his entirely.

Mydei had no expectations. He merely followed the path he chose and the fate awaiting him at the end of his journey. He was the crown prince. He was soon to be the king who would govern the land and do everything in his power to bring peace and prosperity to his people. Even if it took unimaginable sacrifice, countless losses, and surrendering his own freedom; everything he desperately wished to avoid in this inevitable power struggle.

He had long since accepted what the rebellion would entail.

And yet there in the heavy downpour did you kneel, one fist clenched atop your soaked heart and the other wrapped around the hilt of your sword wedged in the soil. Mydei could not hear anything happening around him; nothing but your clear voice as you made a vow that changed his life from there on out.

“Allow me to be yours, Your Highness. Your sword, your shield, your confidant, your friend… Whatever it is you need, allow me to assume that role. You don’t need to selflessly sacrifice yourself any longer. I pledge to be yours to use however you see fit, so please allow me to remain by your side eternally and fight for you until death itself forces me away.”

(…How could someone look so sure of themself? How could you say those without an inkling of doubt seeping through? How could you put so much trust in him when he himself had many doubts about his own capabilities?)

It was then, through your clear words and blindingly resolute eyes, did Mydei allow himself to dream once more — to hold onto the hope that, at the very least, you would remain beside him. Selfishly, just this once, he wished to have something to call his own without spilling his entire being for the sake of fate.

And so when he knelt down to match your height and accepted your pledge, the then Crown Prince, soon to be King Mydeimos made a vow to himself; to protect you from those who wished harm on you or tried to get you out of the way in an effort to target him, no matter the route it took to do so. Because regardless of the many potential threats that were to come once he purged the castle, the one thing Mydei refused to give up was you.

“Have you found something deserving of your protection as well, Mydeimos?” He faintly recalled his mother’s voice, the familiar words settled deep within his memory. Despite how long he had travelled with the Kremnoan detachment, Mydei could never give an absolute answer to that question. The answer was always there — just out of reach.

But as Mydei stared at you, your warm smile having melted the frigid rain from his subconscious, he could finally answer his mother’s question with full certainty.

Yes, Mother. I have. When I return home tomorrow, you can rest easy.

(Even now, as he watches in amusement when your lips pucker from the sweetness born from his preferred version of pomegranate juice, he vows to keep you safe from the dangers posed from those beyond this room.)

A languid yawn escapes you. Resting in the shade of a large oak tree secluded from the palace, you allow yourself to relax. Dashes of honeyed marigold slip through the gaps of the leaves and paint your leisurely form in dappled warmth.

Barely anyone knows of this spot other than yourself and Mydei (given the fact he is, y’know, the king and all), so you don’t have to worry about being disturbed in your rare, blissful moment of peace and quiet.

Sighing contentedly, you slowly melt further into the lush grass. Now, if only it could be like this every day—

“Fancy seeing you out here!”

…Of course someone would ruin your rare, blissful moment of peace and quiet just when you thought about it. A knight never rests as they say, and whatever higher being is out there looking over you seems rather keen on keeping it that way.

Maybe if you just keep your eyes closed they will take the hint and—

“Uhm, [Name]? I know you’re awake.”

…Darn it.

A resigned sigh escapes you. With great reluctance, you peek your eyes open. Through blurred vision you see a figure hovering over you, clad mostly in white, black and gold. Blinking a few more times and gently rubbing your eyes, the hazy outline becomes clearer, the smudged outlines merging into defined lines.

“...Hello, Commander.”

A bright smile lights up Phainon’s expression after your attention focuses on him, the corners of his eyes crinkling in glee. Really, what need is there for the sun when you have someone who is the very epitome of it right above you?

“There’s no need to be so formal. You can call me by my name, you know…”

“I’m merely treating you with the respect you deserve, Commander.”

The young leader visibly deflates upon your insistence, the upright tufts of hair drooping in tandem. His lower lip further juts out in a pout as he mutters, “Sometimes I wish I were still a rookie. At least you called me by my name back then.”

When catching his sulking mumbles, you merely give him a deadpan stare before releasing a low sigh. Hoisting yourself up, you scoot backwards until you can rest comfortably against the base of the tree. Probably having sensed your nonverbal invitation, he wastes no time joining you under the shade, his prior down-trodden mood instantly wiped off and replaced with an unmatched radiance.

Now, you would never outright admit to having favourites among the knights; that would just bring on more troubles and questions than you would like, and you already have your hands full with some of the people you know. Yet — again, never would you admit this to anyone outright — you could never deny the inherent soft spot you have for the young man. Aside from you being the one to introduce him to this haven away from the main palace years ago, it was probably his stubborn charm and constant presence which inevitably made you grow fond of him. He also has rather amusing reactions to certain things, so much so he can be like an open book at times.

A soft rustle. A gentle jab. You’re snapped out of your reverie when strands of white and gleaming cyan appear from your peripherals.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks, eyes slightly widened and head tilted in curiosity.

“It’s nothing,” you begin. “Just got caught up a little in my… thoughts…” Phainon blinks and tilts his head once more when your voice trails off. Yet you pay it no mind.

This time, you are solely focused on his looks; more specifically, how unusually dishevelled in contrast to his typically neat and tidy appearance.

While his hair being messy is nothing out of the ordinary, you spy more out-of-place strands than usual, all sticking out in sporadic directions. Despite the light colours taking up the majority of his uniform, it usually remains clean even during training sessions. Yet right now, prominent marks of dirt stain the once snow white of his apparel, his collar and cuffed sleeves slightly askew from their usual position. Despite this contrasting appearance, what holds your attention the most is the dark discolouration located on his wrist.

Perhaps noticing your intense gaze focused elsewhere, his eyes follow your stare.

“Oh. When did that happen?” he says, relatively unconcerned for the bruise blighting his skin.

You frown. “Commander, how did you not notice ”

“I suppose I might have gotten a little distracted, haha…” he trails off, sheepish. There is an awkward laugh as he lightly scratches his cheek, his eyes settling everywhere but on you.

Seriously, how is this guy the leading knight commander?

(…Well, actually, someone who can spar with your king for several days and nights in a row is more than qualified to be a knight commander.)

Without warning, you surge forward. Perhaps caught off-guard, Phainon stiffens, frozen in place as you gently hold his injured wrist and bring it closer, turning it over and lightly brushing your thumb over the amalgamation of deep purples and reds and blues.

“...They didn’t do anything to you, did they?”

Perhaps sensing your apprehension, he encloses his hand atop of yours and gives it a soft squeeze. “I am the knight commander, remember? Compared to before, things are different now. Besides,” he adds with a light smile, “it’s been a long time since then.”

His gaze holds yours in gentle assurance, leaning forward slightly. When remnants of his body heat brush against you, a sudden wave of awareness at your lack of distance has you hastily lean back.

“Really, you need to be more aware,” you reprimand, awkwardly coughing as your eyes resume scanning over him intently in search for other possible marrings on his person. “It’s not good to make others worry so much, you know.”

Okay, so maybe you might sound a little hypocritical — but it’s different when it concerns someone else! At least when you do it, it occurs away from lingering eyes, unlike him who practically prances around in his messy appearance.

When you hear no response, you pause. Typically, this would be when he had some playful quip or sly remark about how you’re not any better than he is to retort back with, often accompanied with that charming, boyish grin and teasing gaze of his. Usually, he would give a playful nudge to your shoulder as he recounts the times he found you dishevelled and roughed up with dramatic flair, often in pursuit of getting a reaction out of you before tending to your superficial wounds with a tender touch.

You find none of his usual antics this time. Instead, when you lift your eyes to meet his, there is an uncanny solemnity in his expression, his once spirited and mischievous gaze now shadowed with uncertainty. And when he opens his mouth after a beat longer than you would have liked, a flicker of doubt flashes briefly across his features before it settles into his shadowed contours, disappearing as though it were never there.

“Does seeing me like this make you worried?”

You blink, confused at his sudden switch in attitude. “Huh? Of course it does. Why wouldn’t I be worried about you?”

A beat of silence.

“I see…”

Something creeps into you then. Slow. Subtle. Discreet.

You’re not sure what it is about him. There has always been a subtle quiet nagging feeling in the back of your mind, whispering there is more to him than he lets on.

Is it that friendly demeanour he automatically has on display regardless of who or what he encounters? Or is it how his expression dims when he turns away, eyes dull and expression grave once he no longer has to put up such charades? Is he even aware how frequently his smile does not reach his eyes at times? How he looks as though something unfathomably burdensome weighs heavy on his shoulders as he plays the part of the hero people make him out to be?

…Does he even realise how worried it makes you when that sullen countenance of his has been increasing in frequency in recent times?

With a resigned sigh, you quickly discard such thoughts. Instead, you pat the space beside you before shuffling back down onto the grass in a comfortable position.

“Rest here,” you clarify, prompted by his furrowed expression spurred by confusion. “No one else other than His Majesty knows of this spot, so you can rest comfortably without worrying about onlookers.”

And when his downcast expression shifts into something far brighter as he readily scoots himself closer beside your seated form, you think it’s fine if he never tells you his story. If he can live the rest of his days free with his past behind him, then there is nothing more you would ask of him.

---

Phainon still dreams vividly of that day.

When he closed his eyes, the screams and the wails and the cries of sheer terror rang loud in his ears.

When he closed his eyes, he saw his father fighting to his last breath with a broken sword in hand.

When he closed his eyes, an all-too familiar heat licked his skin and ebbed away in a brief moment of reprieve in this hellish nightmare before returning with renewed fervour.

When he closed his eyes, his mother was in front of him once more screaming for him to run away all the while being ripped apart by those monsters.

When he closed his eyes, a pungent mix of ash and sulfur and iron burned him from within.

When he closed his eyes, his childhood friends were swallowed by the black tide and turned into the very monsters which destroyed his home.

When he closed his eyes, their voices asked, “Why, Phainon? Aren’t we the best of friends?”, their anguish and betrayal evident as he steeled his heart and drove his sword through them to grant eternal peace.

When he closed his eyes, her outstretched arm and final smile dissolved into smoke, billowing away with the ashy wind and distant cries.

When he closed his eyes, that harrowing embodiment of the reaper itself stood before him, a grim reminder for what had been done and what he strove to vanquish.

And then he wakes up. When he returns to slumber, the cycle repeats itself.

Phainon can still remember it. All too well.

Even as he journeyed across the lands to find a sense of belonging — to find a reason other than vengeance to pick up the remnants of his former self and piece them back together to feel whole once more — not for a single moment was he free from death’s shadow. It clung to him incessantly, its vice-like grip unforgiving in its grave reminder of his true purpose, of how the happiness he felt throughout his travels were fleeting remnants of his past hopes, of how the simmering anger and inevitable retribution for his people would come to overpower the temporary relief he’d been desperate to seek refuge in.

Regardless of how much he tried to dispel that nauseating voice, Phainon knew it would only be a matter of time until his psyche would give out.

In the end, his hatred would consume him. Entirely. Irreversibly. Unapologetically.

It continued like that for a while: wander from place to place; temporarily stay in a tavern or a makeshift camp; help the locals in whichever manner he could; build superficial bonds with those he encountered; move to the next destination; repeat.

It was a tiring routine, one which led to constant doubts about his own character and the purpose he had in the world when all was dark and silent, but it was a routine nonetheless.

And so he trudged on, roaming the land with but one clear goal in mind: to become stronger to kill that cloaked reaper.

Amid his wandering, he heard through word of mouth the rise of Castrum Kremnos’ new king. Former King Eurypon was slain in the winner’s duel of the Kremnos Festival, the challenger and recently coronated monarch having turned out to be the crown prince thought to be dead years ago. The tales Phainon heard kept piling up: some discussed the prosperity and improvements accomplished after he took the throne, while others spread exaggerated rumours of his feats on the battlefield.

But if there was one thing which stuck to the young wanderer, it was how strong this king supposedly was; the exact quality he strove to improve.

And that was how he found himself in a spar with said king until there was a victor. After much persistance and persuasion to be let in by the guards stationed at the gate, the king himself appeared at the site of the commotion closely followed by you, who Phainon assumed to be the personal knight he’d heard through various gossip.

King Mydeimos was curt in his speech, something Phainon thought went against royal etiquette. (Maybe Kremnos didn’t bother with trivialities such as etiquette?) But it mattered not, for his one and only purpose was to be part of the royal knights in order to get stronger.

“Stronger?” the king scoffed. There was an almost imperceptible mocking bite to his words, but it was soon forgotten when he tilted his head back with a cocky expression. “Then let us see if you are worthy. If you can best me in a duel, I will accept you as one of my knights.”

Contrary to Phainon’s thoughts, the duel lasted ten days and ten nights. They were both utterly stubborn, a feat he thought no one rivalled him in until that duel. Even so, the young man never realised how exhilarating it was to clash with someone of equal match, to be able to go all out without worry. Strength truly was unlike any other quality, both in the merits it brought and the weight it forced upon the wielder.

The duel came to a draw after the tenth night. It was you who stepped in, adamant in your decision even after Mydei’s bitter mutters. You’d approached them both with water and towels in hand. He never noticed how parched he was, nor the sheer amount of sweat and grime which clung to him until your deadpanned once-over.

(He had never rushed to bathe so quickly before in his life. He had also never expected a king of all people to look bashful at their subordinate’s scrutinising stare. The more you know, he supposed.)

The following morning marked his official instatement as a knight. Mydei, though with a rather begrudging acknowledgment, commended his prowess with a brief comment about his expectations before you stepped forward as his tour guide. The tour of the palace grounds was… efficient, to say the least. You showed him all there was to show, not forgetting to include some side quips about areas to stay away from and shortcuts within its grand structure. And just like that, his first day ended with a hearty meal.

The following days gave way to a few discoveries.

One, were all Kremnoans hard to get along with, or was it just those he encountered? Every time he tried to strike up a conversation with a fellow knight (or warrior, as they liked to call themselves), Phainon found himself on the receiving end of either a blank stare, a gruff response of some kind, or the cold shoulder, all of which left him awkwardly laughing on his own. But it was fine! Most of them were responsive in their own way, and there were some who even initiated the conversation before he did!

Two, they took their training very seriously — more so than he anticipated even after hearing about their battle-oriented traditions. In what he expected to be relatively light sparring sessions turned out to be full on tournaments, each opponent going all out in their matches. Considering who their king was, it really should not have been so surprising. (Then again, he himself wasn’t all that different when considering his competitive streak…)

And three, you were different compared to your first impression. While, yes, you came off as rather cold and stand-offish in the beginning, Phainon’s gaze somehow managed to trail toward you. He noticed you were always standing in the distance in some manner; always observing, always alert and at the ready. From what he managed to catch, you cared more than you let on to your peers whether they knew it or not, as shown through the subtle acts you did for them.

But he’d seen it in your eyes — in the way you sometimes spaced out with an all-too familiar shadowed expression as though the weight of the world was a burden too heavy to carry on your own. And, perhaps, you had noticed it in him as well when you allowed him into your space in quiet, reassuring company.

Maybe it was then when Phainon realised he wasn’t alone in this desolate world. That maybe, just maybe, you could both carry this weight together. (Two is better than one, as they say, so perhaps sharing such deep-rooted burdens could help you both as well.)

And for a while, he believed it.

He believed it when you allowed him to follow after you back during his rookie days. Unlike the king’s impressive brute strength, Phainon found himself drawn to the finesse of your swordsmanship. There was an undeniable artistry in the way you fought, your movements fluid and light as though you were dancing in the air itself. He never knew the way of the sword could be so beautiful, so utterly captivating; not until he fought you. Even when he lost there was no voice of self-loathing echoing within his mind, just pure admiration for you and your skills.

(It was then Phainon knew he wanted nothing more than to learn from you. Under your guidance, he was certain his eventual vengeance would turn successful. You were apprehensive at first. Perhaps you never thought to take on a student before him, hence your hesitance. But it was fine. He was nothing if not stubborn, and could be very persuasive when he wanted to be, which became evident when you eventually relented two weeks after his relentless pursuit with a weary sigh. He’d somehow found himself enjoying your company along the way, eventually making it a habit to tag along wherever you went. You never seemed to mind either.)

He believed it when he stumbled upon your anguished form all by your lonesome. It was in the dead of night. He was unable to sleep and decided a late night stroll and some fresh air would do him some good, only to have come across the scene where numerous training dummies laid in tatters while you were hunched pitifully in the centre.

(Phainon detested his inability to move, utterly frozen and helpless at your tormented cries of self-loathing. He wanted nothing more than to run to you, to kneel down to your crouched form and tend to your wounds, to provide you a comfort he himself wasn’t even sure he was capable of giving. And yet he could do none of what he desired. Instead he only gazed from the shadows in agony as you abruptly stilled, slowly stood back up, grabbed your previously discarded sword, and resumed what you were doing. He couldn’t remember how long he remained there watching you. By the time he regained his senses, dawn had risen.)

He believed it when you stood in front of him against your comrades without hesitation. Phainon knew it would take some time for him to be accepted by the pre-established knight order. They were all familiar with one another before the current king had taken his throne, having gone through unimaginable sacrifice and loss to get to where they stood. As such, he did not mind when they were particularly harsh during the spars against him. But when you appeared and defended him from their assaults, getting angry at the people you were more familiar with on his behalf, Phainon felt as though a new world had been opened up before his very eyes.

(They just wanted to make sure he was strong and capable enough to protect their land and king. He knew that. As such, he had no qualms with their harsh methods of training, even when his hands trembled and his knees buckled under their relentless attacks. If this would prove himself to them — prove his worth that he, too, had a right to stand and fight with them — then he would endure, and endure, and endure. Phainon never liked to rely on the help of others; if he could help it, he would be the one to help all those in need. And yet, in that moment when all said and done where only the two of you remained in the abandoned training grounds, your form crouched and gaze filled with unimaginable concern for him, Phainon found himself not minding being on the receiving end of your outstretched hand if it meant you would fuss over him like that.)

He believed it when you found him during a particularly rough night and let him find comfort in you. He’d been walking aimlessly in the gardens after one of his recurring nightmares in the hopes of cooling off. Phainon wasn’t sure what exactly he was expecting from his decision, but you finding him and offering your shoulder to lean on definitely were not on the list.

(Admittedly, it was a moment of weakness he never intended to show anyone — especially not to you. You were the last person he wanted to be seen as weak to. He wanted to show you the fruits of his labour under your teaching, to show you he was capable of handling whatever was thrown at him. And yet, when you looked at him with that warm, knowing gaze, his head was on your shoulder before he knew it. Maybe… maybe he could allow himself to want something for once. Maybe it was okay to be a little selfish, even if it was just during those brief fleeting moments where only the two of you seemed to exist.)

He believed it when he chanced upon you resting in the garden, your back against the lush grass and head angled towards the sun. He remembered tilting his head at the thought. You always reprimanded him for doing so (“Do you want to go blind?” you would huff and shield his eyes with your hand, unknowing that was the reason he continued such a trivial action), so what spurred you to go against your nags? To find the answer to such a riddle, he took it upon himself to sneak up on you, a cheeky line or two ready on the tip of his tongue to tease you about being a hypocrite.

At least, until he saw what — or rather, who it was you were gazing up at.

Mydei.

Phainon froze, feeling nothing more than a complete outsider.

That was the first time Phainon had seen you so… relaxed? At ease? Happy?

He paused. The word sunk into his conscience, descending into the abyss of his raging thoughts. You never showed such an expression with him. Sure, you allowed yourself to relax in his presence more so than when in others — a feat Phainon held very dear to his heart. You laughed and joked around with him, shed your carefully structured armour the rest of the world was only allowed to see, let him be privy to your vulnerabilities…

And yet — and yet, and yet, and yet — he had never once seen such an expression from you before; you, who seemed so unequivocally content sunbathing with the feared king, who also had an adoring expression the young knight had never seen before.

Phainon would not necessarily call himself a jealous man, nor one who covets what others have. It was ungentlemanly, an ugly vice unbecoming of the chivalrous knight he wanted to be — of who he strived to become. Someone worthy, someone reliable, someone capable of protecting others.

Yet there he was, hidden in the shadows watching from afar with clenched fists, a spiralling mind, and a rotten heart. Amongst the few intelligible thoughts in his chaotic mind, a dark cloud hung above him. Suffocating. Maddening. Unbearable.

Everything he vowed to never become suddenly seemed to be the only voices he could hear. Those revolting voices he once shoved down without a moment’s hesitation lingered a second longer, the words akin to poison-laced honey having sunk into the depths of his psyche before he could snap himself out of the trance and walk away.

If he were to climb to a higher position, to become someone of a more influential status… would he become someone you could rely on like that?

(Even now, as he finds himself fixated on your peacefully dozing form under the oak tree with his hand shielding your eyes from the burning sun, Phainon can only hope that hideous green monster never sees the light of day; at least, not around you.)

Today is not your day.

First, you overslept. Usually that wouldn’t be so bad — after all, who doesn’t need a lie-in every now and then? However, you missed the usual breakfast time, today consisting of your favourites. How did you know that, exactly? Well, your king had ever so kindly enlightened you on such crucial information after instructing you to run twenty laps after showing up to the scheduled training session late. You were rarely late, typically even being an early riser when there was morning training scheduled. But of course on one of the few days you were late, he was there overseeing the session.

(And, of course, since everyone was in attendance he couldn’t let you off without a disciplinary punishment of some kind. Go figure.)

And as if that was not enough, your oh-so beloved king decided to rain on your parade once you finished the laps by reminding you of a certain scholar’s visit, and how you are to once again escort him to the audience room.

Now, you are no stranger to this eccentric man. With how long you’ve been stationed in the palace, it would be more surprising if you weren’t at least acquainted with him. Even more so when considering how familiar you have become with him across the years with his… anticipated visits. At least he always had some rather interesting stories to share each time; some about his students and how “challenged his school of thought” (which he would boast with a proud expression and a rather hearty laugh of sorts), others rambling about how the other scholars in the Grove would get on his nerves with “meaningless drivel” and “unoriginal opinions unbefitting of their scholarly title”, as he would so eloquently put it, as well as even some stories detailing his latest experiments and the progress of ones he had previously shared with you. (And how they blew up in his face. Quite literally.)

Yes, since you’re so familiar with him, surely you wouldn’t have such a hard time finding him, right?

Wrong, apparently. You have been searching for the past hour with no luck — yet another thing added to your amazing day.

“Seriously, where could he be? It’s not as if he has anywhere else to go,” you mutter to yourself, bottom lip caught between your teeth as your narrowed gaze sweeps across the palace gardens for the fifth time.

“Ahem.”

Jolting at the abrupt sound brushing against your ear, you whip around with a hand on the hilt of your sword. Upon seeing that familiar nonchalant face, however, your previously tensed and battle-ready form relaxed. A sigh escaped you as you turned to properly face him.

“Oh. There you are, Lord Anaxa. To—”

“Anaxagoras.”

“—what pleasure do we owe this visit of yours, Lord Anaxa?” you continue, smiling at the visibly unimpressed man.

“Pray tell, are you being sarcastic with me right now?” he asks, arms crossed and expression as monotonous as his voice. “I find it hard to believe you happened to conveniently forget the reasons for my visits.”

“I am in no position status-wise to be as such with you, my lord.”

“I see. So you were.”

“Respectfully, my lord, I was not.”

“Your words implied if status were not an issue, you would be sarcastic. Therefore, you were.”

As though sure in his deduction (which was very much accurate, but you choose to not confirm what he already knows), he crosses his arms with a raised chin, narrowed eye, and a haughty huff; you have all but half a mind to strike him with your sword’s handle. But you refrain with all the self-control you can possibly muster. You would never hear the end of it with how much he tails you during his sporadic visits, after all. He complains enough about Lady Aglaea, the most renowned seamstress across the lands as well as one of Mnestia’s most cherished priestesses, and adding what he nitpicks about you? Yeah. No. You don’t need your ears to be bleeding any time soon.

Sure. He’s always been a little… vain? Prideful? Egocentric? Really, Anaxa is a lot of things, his penchant for getting under people’s skin and uncaring demeanour in regards to that being the key dominating factor. Rumours about him spread like wildfire. Some surrounded his rather questionable methods, but most surrounded his blasphemy. After he arrived in Castrum Kremnos for his first official audience with Mydei, you didn’t find anything of what they said in the stoic young man. Even so, you maintained a cordial distance, unwilling to entangle yourself with someone who had the potential to ruin your king’s reputation.

Well, up until you chanced upon him practicing one of his proposals requesting more funding and magic-imbued equipment for the Grove of Epiphany to a stationed dromas, that is. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on him and some of his rather… outlandish propositions meant for his discussion with Mydei, which you would have heard later in the meeting room regardless, but the way he practically waxed poetic in his long-winded speech, paused, then muttered something along the lines of, “No, no. That fool won’t appreciate nor understand such flowery prose. I’ll need to simplify it for him to understand,” all the while feeding and stroking the dromas with an unexpected gentleness struck a chord in you.

After all, someone who treats the dromas kindly in the way he did couldn’t be a bad person, right?

As it turned out, he was just a well-accomplished scholar who could get pretty cynical at times; namely when it came to the matter of the gods. (You’ve heard rumours of one too many complaints officially written by the various temples in Amphoreus. Despite their differing beliefs, they all seem to agree on their mutual resentment for Anaxa, a feat you find oddly impressive considering the sheer number of temples there are in the empire.)

“What has your mind so occupied?” he asks, brow raised and face closer than you last recall it being.

You blink. Once, twice. Without missing a beat, you respond, “I was thinking about how grateful I am to be your escort, my lord.”

“How quick-witted of you,” he says, deadpan. Anaxa straightens up and appears by your side, and you take that as your cue to begin the walk to the audience room.

Contrary to your initial expectations, the walk is relatively silent; peaceful, even. While you find some of his stories to be entertaining (particularly the manner in which he tells them), you feel you deserve some peace and quiet after the morning you had. Ah, the breeze is so lovely—

“So, have you considered my proposal?”

Nevermind. You spoke too soon. The breeze is horrible.

You inwardly sigh, already knowing where this conversation is going from the sheer number of times you have gone through it. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, my lord.”

Once again, Anaxa regards you with an unimpressed stare. “Are you playing dumb again?”

“I don’t know, am I?”

“Well, then. I suppose I’ll have to jog your memory.” With a fist raised to his lips as he gives a — rather dramatic, if you might add — clearance of his throat, the scholar turns to you, a smug grin stretching his lips. “My proposal for you to be my most cherished assistant, of course.”

“Oh,” you begin with a sigh, “while I’m grateful you think so highly of me, my lord, I’m afraid I’ll have to kindly refuse your proposal. Anything outside of the sword is beyond my capabilities, I fear.”

“Hmph. That’s what you always say. So you do remember after all,” Anaxa accuses, a petulant frown tugging down the corners of his lips.

“Perhaps my answer is just unchanging, my lord. My—”

“—loyalty lies with my beloved king. Yes, yes, I have heard it all, so spare me the theatrics.”

You frown. “Don’t—”

“—speak so dismissively about His Majesty or tarnish his name, lest you want to add treasonous snake to your plethora of nicknames, as well. Yes, I have heard that, too. And here I was thinking you would come up with something new after all this time,” he tuts, shaking his head in mock disappointment.

Your eye twitches. It takes every fibre in your being to maintain the strained smile tugging your lips, desperately reminding yourself to maintain composure. “My lord, has anyone told you how insufferable you are?”

Unfortunately, this man has a rather remarkable ability wherein your usual composed demeanour seems like a figment of your imagination.

“Plenty, dear knight. Are you only just now realising that?”

“Regrettably, I am well-aware of your…” you pause, grimacing as you try to find the fitting words, “much-to-be-desired reputation.”

“I’m happy to know you’re so interested in me, enough to be a cause for concern over my wellbeing,” he says. Oh, how you long to wipe that smirk off his face. “Now escort me through the palace gardens. You wouldn’t let a frail scholar such as I wander alone only to become lost in such a vast space or, worse yet, collapse in the middle of it all with no nearby help, would you?”

(‘Frail scholar’ your ass. You’ve seen that man shoot one of those plague-stricken monsters creeping up from behind him with such pin-point precision it would put shame on the battalion — he’s half blind!)

“...You talk too much, my lord.”

“And you, dearest knight, dilly-dally too much. Chop chop, the garden isn’t going to be toured itself.”

Lord almighty above, if my king does not strike down this fiend then so help me.

“You just wished harm upon me, did you not?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lord Anaxa.”

“That’s Anaxagoras to you. And your expression says it all. See? When you wish for something to besmirch me, your lips tighten. Your fists also tremble as if you wish to punch me — to which I will give you the benefit of the doubt since I still want you to join me. And also…”

…If Castrum Kremnos doesn’t want to see another incident, it better pray this man does not push your buttons any further today.

---

Anaxagoras was no fool.

He knew what it meant when his parents never returned home, their faces having long since faded from memory while his sister was the only one to remain beside him.

He knew what it was like to live in poverty, barely having the means to scrape by and eat what could be afforded from his sister’s measly income as an animal tamer.

He knew what it was like to lead an isolated life, having watched from the shadows of the trees as his peers frolicked the grassy fields while he sat alone picking at the fallen leaves or found companionship in the dromas.

He knew what it felt like to be wronged, that one priest always seemingly furious with his childlike curiosity and doubts about the oh-so revered gods as he was thrown out of the temple time and time again.

Even when he barely reached the early stages of his childhood development where his cognitive skills became more prominent, he still perceived things well-beyond his years. Perhaps a little too much.

Anaxagoras was no fool, and yet, sometimes, he wished he were.

His sister never blamed him for the trouble he knew tended to follow him. The money she could have used for herself was instead split into basic needs and funds to buy the items he looked at for a second longer during market strolls. Books, screws, heavy pliers, delicate scales… These were some of the few items she bought him with the money she could have used on herself; the money she should have used to treat herself more often. Yet she would merely smile and stroke his head, the words, “Your happiness matters most to me, Anaxagoras. The money can always be earned again,” always uttered without fail.

Perhaps that was when his endless curiosity for life itself manifested, her support his sole pillar.

(Despite all the trinkets she bought which he held dearly, his most cherished item would be the dromas stuffed toy hand-sewn by her, it accompanying him to bed every night without fail.)

And when he had ever so boldly declared he would become the most knowledgeable person in the whole empire— no, the whole world, she took him seriously. Despite believing her encouragement at face value, he truly realised it during one of their market strolls when passing merchants talked about the Grove of Epiphany, a sanctuary devoted to the pursuit of wisdom, caught his sister’s interest.

(He’d memorised that name in secret — the Grove of Epiphany. If, somewhere in the future, both he and his sister could attend together�� would their lives be a little easier?)

Then one day she’d sat him down and presented a stash of funds she had kept hidden; his travel funds to attend the Grove. When he’d asked if she would join him, she refused, instead insisting she would continue making ends meet and remain in their remote city-state as a home he could return to.

Anaxagoras believed her.

Of course he did. He believed she would always be there waiting for him, on the receiving end of his letters sent during his time in the academy, there to greet him when he returned during the breaks, appearing at his graduation where he could amass the funds to support her after everything she had done and sacrificed for him all those years.

Anaxagoras believed her.

And so despite the heavy heart of their parting — of being separated from each other for the first time — he clambered onto the carriage of her merchant friend and waved until he could no longer see her. Thoughts of what new things he would learn and experience filled his mind as the carriage trekked onward, the prospect of growing his boundless curiosity instilling hope for a better future in the young boy for the first time.

At least, until word of the black tide having struck his home reached him halfway through the journey.

Anaxagoras never knew true fear until he was rushing back. The bile which would not go down no matter how hard he swallowed; the thunderous beats of his heart having drowned out everything around him; the suffocating grip which clawed at his throat.

When he drew nearer to the place he called home, a sense of foreboding rushed through him all at once as he sprinted harder. It came in the form of a creeping darkness, spreading its tendrils far and wide with nowhere to run nor hide. The panic, the tangy metallic scent, the mayhem, the loss of breath, the smoke, the screams and cries and wails and—

And then the silence. When all was laid to rest, young Anaxagoras found himself fearing the silence more than he did the chaos.

He stumbled at the sight of the corroded ruins, his breath knocked out of his lungs when the dread became too unbearable and rendered him imobile. There was no one to answer his desperate cries. There was no one to console him as he weeped amid the debris. There was no one to wipe away his tears as he silently stared at the area his house once occupied. There was no one to reverse time back to when his sister sent him off to the academy and instead take her with him to avoid the tragedy. There was no one to soothe the rage simmering beneath the despair. There was no one — no god — who answered his desperate pleads for help.

He was alone amid the carnage, the destruction his to bear in its entirety.

When the realisation there would be no help struck, that the gods everyone had revered so deeply would never extend their hand to the likes of him, Anaxa knew he had to take matters into his own hands. It was he who controlled his own fate, not the voice of some unseen being. He had to gain power, and what better way was there than to see through to his enrollment in the Grove of Epiphany? It was every aspiring scholar’s dream to attend and receive education there and yet, for the boy who had lost everything with not even the gods on his side, his only motivation was his beloved sister’s wish for him to attend in hopes for a better life.

The enrollment was nothing special. Perhaps it was his family’s connections, or maybe they just saw the talent within him at a glance, but he got in without hassle. The school lived up to its reputation, knowledge found in every nook and cranny if searched for. His teacher, Empedocles, was understanding and kind, his wisdom far beyond anything Anaxa could have imagined before attending the school.

And yet it wasn’t enough. There had to be something more; something he could dedicate his entire being to.

Then, as though the puzzle pieces fell into place, he came to learn of Thalesus, the First Scholar’s, theory of souls, and how life, as well as the composition, movement, and transformation of matter, all stem from souls themselves. Alchemy, he came to realise, and how it could be the answer he had been searching for all along. After all, since all living things had the same origin, why would he be unable to sacrifice himself to resurrect his sister?

It was the rope he clung to without hesitation, throwing himself into alchemy without pause. His teacher voiced his concerns, but Anaxa took little heed. This was his path — this is what his purpose was for.

Then one day, he succeeded. His left eye was no more, but he managed to see his sister once more… Even if it was for a brief moment. A moment in which she did not say anything, but just the sight of her one last time was enough for him. That momentary exchange soothed his ailed heart in a way he nearly forgot about, and he was able to give a proper send-off with closure.

Despite the resurrection not happening the way he’d planned, Anaxa discovered a new path after his desire had been laid to rest. To continue the study of souls and prove the scholars of the Grove truly knew nothing about the First Scholar’s depth of study.

His achievements soon racked up. He soared academically, brought new ideologies and questioned the tried-and-true. The matter of the gods, however, was what sullied his name.

The Foolish. Demised Scholar. The Great Performer. “A dromas wrapped in finery.” (He never knew why people thought the latter title to be an insult. If anything, Anaxa took that one as a compliment.) He gained many aliases throughout his academic pursuit, but what did that matter? All it meant was people were acutely aware of him, and that was the greatest gift he could have when his whole purpose was to educate them on the real truth of the world.

And when he was soon to establish his own school, the Nousporists, Anaxa was sent as a representative of the Grove of Epiphany to Castrum Kremnos to establish communications. It was there he met you; the personal knight of the newly crowned king.

He hadn’t thought much of you at first. You were merely doing your job to guide him through the palace grounds, ensuring he wasn’t led astray. You hadn’t talked much either. Not that he minded; in fact, he was rather grateful you weren’t the overly chatty type to talk his ear off (there were enough of those back in the Grove as it was). The escort was quick with no detours. Simple and efficient.

He appreciated it, truly. And yet, when you walked away with a quick bow and respectful, “I wish you a pleasant audience, Lord Anaxagoras,” his gaze followed you even after you’d rounded off and disappeared behind a corner. It was an inexplicable feeling, that long-forgotten emptiness back when he lost everything having abruptly resurfaced with your departure.

But he shook it off and walked into the audience room where the recently ascended king awaited. It was merely a scholar’s curiosity. Nothing more, nothing less.

It didn’t take long to note your habits during the two week-long stay at the palace.

Through observation, Anaxa came to realise your tendency to linger in the gardens when you had no immediate duties. With how stoic and business-like you were, it never occurred to him how gentle your expression could become when cradling the flowers. Sometimes when he would take a stroll by himself, he would catch you dozing peacefully under a large tree, your armour shed for lighter and more comfortable clothing.

(Heh. For someone so rigid, you sure had a knack for finding ways to slack off. It was rather amusing when he frequented you more often, sometimes choosing to reveal himself while other times he remained hidden and observed from afar.)

He also observed your rather bad habit of overworking yourself late into the night. He never meant to snoop, but when the crisp sound of a sword slicing through air and haggard pants could be heard in the stagnant evenings, it was natural to let curiosity guide its course. Had it not been for curiosity, he would have never stumbled upon your moments of weakness, where frustration took you by the throat and reduced you to a crumpled heap in the training grounds and he could only watch from behind a pillar.

(Hmph. Really, you were already skilled enough as it was — more so than any knight he had ever seen. Seeing you tell yourself to be better, that you would never be able to protect anyone at this rate… a strange pang pierced in his chest at the thought of you doubting yourself.)

He also noticed how he was the only one you would call by name. Your lower status with the king forbade you from saying anything other than “Your Majesty” or “His Majesty” and, despite how familiar the overly friendly rookie knight seemed to be with you, you rarely addressed him by name. In fact, Anaxa heard his name uttered by your lips more times than that knight’s! Phainon, if he recalled correctly.

(Truthfully, Anaxagoras shouldn’t have been as elated as he was upon the discovery, but the self-assured smirk could not help but to slip out at times when either of the two happened to pass by and catch you saying his name.

…Even when you eventually turned to using a shortened version after he’d annoyed you on a particularly bad day. He would take the small wins, however, as you did use his original name for some time.)

And, eventually, he discovered your stalwart nature. Again, he hadn’t meant to snoop, but it wasn’t as though he expected to stumble across the gaggle of knights discussing his less-than savoury rumours. You were amongst the roster, polishing your sword amid the rowdiness when they turned the spotlight to you asking for your thoughts. Having upset you just two days prior, Anaxa was almost certain you would partake in such trivialities against him — you had been giving him the cold shoulder, after all. Only… you hadn’t. You ended up doing the very opposite. “Please refrain from such ridicule. He is a guest of His Majesty, and it is our duty to remain sharp against unforeseen dangers — not participate in blatant slander.” There was a slight pause, and Anaxa was almost grateful he allowed his curiosity to get the better of him once more upon hearing your next words. “Besides, those rumours seem far too exaggerated. Lord Anaxagoras isn’t as bad as the gossip makes him out to be. A stubborn and prideful man he may be, but he has much passion for his cause; something I find admirable compared to those who only know how to run their mouths with nothing to show for it.”

(He would have stifled a rambunctious laugh at your brazen words, if not for the obnoxious heartbeat that rang loud in his ears nor the rapid flush which rushed through his body. A hand was placed above the erratic palpitations in a futile attempt at calming the restless orgain while the other dragged pitifully slow down his face, only stopping to try — and fail — to cover the trembling grin which split his lips and let loose a few shaky chuckles. Really, he’d thought amid the last breathy laughter, fully slumped and slid down against the base of the looming pillar. You’re making me almost want to be a little more greedy, my dear knight.)

His departure after those two weeks was nothing special. King Mydeimos came to personally see him off, sharing a brief word or two regarding future relations between Castrum Kremnos and the Grove of Epiphany, while the main figures who worked in the palace were by his side. Despite saying his farewells and climbing into the carriage, Anaxa found himself unable to tear his gaze away from you even after the carriage began its trek back. It was reminiscent of when he first met you, and he could not help the quiet laugh which slipped out at the realisation.

It wasn’t until a fair few years later did Anaxa come to realise what that curiosity of his truly was — of what it had evolved into.

It happened during one of those utterly stifling banquets he loathed, all because he had to show face in at least one of them each year. As it so happened, he hadn’t publicly appeared in any for the year. So what did that old coot of a teacher do? Why, he gave Anaxa that familiar smile before kicking him out into a carriage conveniently on its way to the end of year banquet hosted at Castrum Kremnos, of course.

Really, if he had it his way, Anaxa would have spent this precious time cooped up in his office surrounded by all his alchemical experiments — not loitering in the back of the ballroom with a flimsy champagne flute and grimacing at all the gossipmongers surrounding him.

Utterly ridiculous. Did those people have nothing better to spend their time on? He pitied them, truly, to do nothing but waste away in a stuffy room and exchange faux pleasantries with one another.

Having had enough, Anaxa promptly stepped out. The cool evening air was sufficient, and he decided a stroll around the gardens was due. It had been a while since he wandered around on his own, becoming used to you escorting and indulging him with conversation.

Funnily enough, the moment he’d thought of you, you appeared in his peripheral vision. Stood in the distance, side profile visible to him. While he wondered what brought you out to the gardens, he supposed he really shouldn’t have been so surprised to see you in the place he knew you frequented most. And for such a stuffy occasion such as the banquet, he really didn’t blame you for being outside.

Just as Anaxa had smoothed down his suit and cleared his throat in preparation to walk over to you, he froze. The sight he witnessed had him rooted before he could even take one step.

Anaxa had met that brutish king more times than he would have liked. As with his usual outlook, he mostly regarded the monarch with nonchalance, sometimes a slight admiration if a good argument was brought up in their negotiations, and other times a subtle annoyance when his garden stroll-escort with you was interrupted. Yet, seeing you both together under the dim moonlight away from the suffocating crowd and caught in your own world made him feel as though he were imposing on something he should have not. An unfamiliar sensation stirred in his heart. And yet he could not look away, seemingly enraptured.

Such blind, unwavering loyalty... Though a fleeting thought, Anaxa could not help but wonder what it would take for you to direct such beguiling devotion to him instead.

(Even now, as he watches from the sidelines how your unshakeable devotion to your king’s sudden interruption during the garden escort blurs the rest of the surrounding world into an incomprehensible blend of colours, he cannot help the fleeting hope you would one day gaze at him like he was your entire world and more.)

TRIVIA TIME !!

well, more like WORLD BUILDING-SLASH-LORE TIME !!, but i digress. anywho i just wanted to add in this little segment to try and explain the au world a little more, mainly the composition of amphoreus !! this was mainly done for myself bc i kept having inner battles abt whether i wanted castrum kremnos to be the kingdom where everyone resided in with mydei as the sole ruler, or if i wanted amphoreus to be an empire made up of various nations (like how it is in game basically). i ended up going with the latter bc i ended going down an entire rabbit hole creating the world of a fic that most likely won't get a continuation of sorts, but it was fun to imagine and made it a little easier writing the backstories, hehe !!

anyway here are some key notes which hopefully explain it a little more for those interested ^^

Amphoreus = empire

All cities (e.g. kremnos, okhema, etc) are the kingdoms in amphoreus with their own ruler/democracy

Amphoreus has multiple leaders to discuss state affairs (basically hsr main chrysos heirs but not all - like castorice is aglaea’s right-hand in a way + the executioner bc adonia is no longer a nation, or phainon & anaxa who lost their homes) with aglaea as the main/overseeing leader (empress but not really. She just wants to create beautiful clothes ;w;)

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

@milk-violet heres ur tag <33

#honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #anaxa x reader #mydei x reader #phainon x reader #honkai star rail x you #hsr x you #anaxa x you #mydei x you #phainon x you #honkai star rail imagines #hsr imagines

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gr4cier4cie · 1 month ago

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♡ after midnight (can't be a good girl) ♡

or: the drivers may be rough, but they'll always be sure to smooth you over afterwards. featuring: carlos sainz, max verstappen, daniel ricciardo, lando norris ♡

warnings: explicit sexual content ahead!! thank you to @mikeyspinkcup for this ask, sorry i derailed from it a lil lol was feeling freaky when i wrote this, XOXO always from gracie!!!

♡

carlos sainz ♡

oh i just know this man is trying to get you pregnant every single time you fuck. it could be an extravagant hotel room overlooking monte carlo or a gala bathroom with all the lights off and he's still clawing at your clothes, sinking his teeth into the junction between your neck and shoulder, molding you into the position that best suits him. he's not mean about it, no. he's sweet. saccharine, undercut with the slightest tint of restrained anger. he's vexed beyond words that he wants you like this. he's vexed that he can't keep himself in his pants for more than thirty seconds every time he finds himself searching for a whiff of your perfume. "mi zorrita," he'll whisper when he sinks into you, your hair (so pretty, so pure, so damn ruinous) wrapped around his tanned fingers. around his fist. "my perfect girl. so good for me." and when you unmistakably exhale a breathy, sniveling whine, scrambling for his bicep as his cock kisses the spongy surface of your cervix, he'll curl two fingers into your mouth to muffle the strangled sounds of your pleasure, lips pressed to your ear, words punctuated by every hard snap of his hips. "¿esto duele? bien. debería."

that doesn't mean he won't take care of you. in fact, it's the opposite. when you come down from the high, he's peppering kisses to your sweaty hairline, smoothing his knuckles across the blooming marks of purple littering your skin. fixing your clothes and cleaning the sticky mess between your thighs if you're out, zipping up your dress with the kind of reverence that has your stomach spasming violently. he'll run you a shower if you're at home, will stand underneath the stream of scalding warmth alongside you and stare at the rivulets of water trailing across your skin, will follow their path with his tongue if you'll let him. he's attuned to what you want, what you need. sometimes he'll whisper into your neck as he coats his hands in soap and traces the soft lines of your body with a touch so gentle you swear it's not even there. "i love you," he'll say. "te amo, mi princesita."

♡

max verstappen ♡

did someone say light daddy kink? because yeah. sorry, but yeah. max wants you to want him. need him. wants you to despair for him the same way he yearns for you, for your touch and your smile and the taste of your skin lingering on his tongue like a memory imprinted into the ivory of his bones. and he's a firm believer of hard work; if you want something, schatje, you're going to have to work for it. he wants to teach you, and, moreover, he wants you to learn. adapt to him. and when i say it's hard to break him, i mean it. he'll leave you wanting for weeks while he's away with strict orders to keep your hands off what is his—your pleasure is his, so why would he let you come without him? that's just bad manners. if you're good (which you usually are), he'll come home and fuck you to heaven and back. he'd drag you down to hell if you asked nicely, too. and no doubt he's snarling words you can barely understand into the curve of your shoulder: "pretty girl. did i leave you too long?" and when you whimper, nod shakily in response, he'll go mean, bark with bite. "maybe it'll be longer next time, hmm? you didn't learn, did you, schatje? can't ever listen to me, can you?"

but he won't leave you forever, no. max stakes claims the same way he plants trophies on your nightstand. once he has you, he'll do everything in his power to keep you. he'll clean you up (once he's done licking up the mess he can reach), run you a bath, massage the curve of your spine and grin at the way you melt into his touch entirely. he'd braid your hair neatly, pull the up blankets to your chin, kiss your temple with longing you couldn't believe you owned. because you might have been his, but he was equally, if not more, of yours.

♡

daniel ricciardo ♡

i have 110% certainty that this man asked you to sit on his face ten seconds into knowing you. it's simply an aftereffect of his effortless charm, the salacious way he runs his tongue along his canines, inviting thrill. danger. you. and, furthermore, i have 130% certainty that he asked if he could film it. what can he say? he's just getting older. "memory issues," he says with the sort of cheeky, one-sided grin that has a flash of molten heat spreading across your navel. "gotta keep it all up in here somehow," he continues as the blinking red flash of his decades-old camera catches the way his hands search hungrily for skin, more animal than man. he likes you on top, spine arched under the leading touch of his palm pressed to the small of your back, likes the way you sob when he's so far up your cunt you feel him in your ribs. and he likes it when you reciprocate. likes how you're desperate to get on your knees, to brace your shaky hand around his tattooed thigh. he knows you like them, his tattoos. he doesn't spare seconds using that to his advantage. you're easy to rile, easy to calm. wild. his type.

he won't turn off the camera, after. he'll leave it running as he carries you off the frame, cradled in arms he knows are meant to hold you. he'll clean you up (or, you'll let him make a mess of you yet again) in the shower, the shit-eating grin plastered to his face mirrored on your own. you'll kiss the column of his throat as he washes his hair, and he'll breathe your name into the back of your neck. he's gentle with you, steering you with a hand around your waist back to bed, kissing the tip of your nose or the curve of your chin as you drift off. only then will he reach across the bedside table and turn the camera off, tucking it into his bag for safekeeping. it goes everywhere with him, after all. he'd hate to lose it.

♡

lando norris ♡

speaking of cameras, lando isn't above stealing a few flicks for himself, either. he's a fan of fine art, and you're the perfect muse. he doesn't bother being inconspicuous, however; every person within a five-foot radius of you should know about the fact that his black leather wallet—one he continues to 'misplace'—contains a rather risque polaroid of you laying on your back, hands cupping bare tits splattered with his cum. and to make matters worse, he adores mirrors. specifically, fucking you in front of them. he made you watch, of course. made you watch his cock slide in and out of your soaked folds, an arm wrapped tight around your waist while the other slid up to the back of your neck, breaking the haze of your blurry-eyed pleasure. "look at us," he'd murmur, choking on a laugh as your cunt tightened. "we look good, yeah?" he'd tap the side of your face slightly when the only answer you find yourself capable of exhibiting is a withheld gasp of his name, clicking his tongue. "good girls answer me when i talk to 'em, baby."

he's never domineering. doesn't push you anywhere you don't already find yourself going. it is not an afterthought, to take care of you. he doesn’t let you go, not even when your body goes slack against his, not even when your breaths grow heavier against the line of his collarbones. not even when you hum, too spent to say anything. he just smiles—that boyish, sickeningly lovesick grin that always makes your heart ache, fingers gliding up and down your spine, soothing, grounding. and even as sleep starts to pull you under, he stays right there—holding you like you’re his most precious win. because damn him, loving you feels better than any podium ever could.

♡

note: this is not proofread at all and THIS WAS NOT WHAT THE ORIGINAL ASK WAS AT ALL IM SO SORRY I RAN WITH IT!! + there's a part two in the making obviously w more of the grid so stay tuned!!!!!! LOOOVE FROM GRACIE!!! ♡

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serensho · 1 month ago

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୨୧‿‿‿୨ﾠ୧‿‿‿୨୧ ୨୧‿‿‿୨ﾠ୧‿‿‿୨୧

she

in which you and mark have drifted apart...but that doesn't mean he's left your life for good.

warnings: SMUT, coochie eating, angst, surprisingly soft/fluffy, variant!mark, kind of creepy vibes but not too much imo, not canon compliant, fem!reader

wc: 2766

inspired by tyler the creator's she, sycamore tree by kali uchis

a/n: ayy doing something different by having my note at the beginning; thank you sm for the love on my last two posts! i hope you all love this one and reblog, like, reply, request, etc!! this could be imagined with any mark variant imo, but let me know who you think fits this best! also it is pretty light despite its inspo, and i hope you all like it! i had fun writing it and getting out of my comfort zone. enjoy

You and Mark Grayson have lost touch.

It wasn’t surprising at first. Having grown up with him and watching his transformation from ordinary high schooler to superhero from only a few doors down– it seemed only natural that he would act differently, make new friends and find new hobbies.

The two of you drifted apart as he began fighting crime, talking to girls, and the friendship that was once so strong between you fizzled out. There wasn’t any animosity– at least you tried not to harbor any– but it was only natural that a sense of bitterness began to fester as he stopped trying.

He stopped coming over late at night after a fight with a petty villain, stopped walking you home, simply stopped. And you tried to reach out to him, to let him know you would always be there but he found comfort elsewhere. Which was fine. He was following a different path, one that was extraordinary compared to your ordinary experience going to the nearby college sometimes crossing paths with William and Amber.

Last you heard she and Mark had broken up and he was now with Atom Eve. But a lot had been happening to Mark recently with the arrival of different versions of him wreaking havoc on Earth, and his subsequent fight with some sort of super strong hero from a completely different planet. You couldn’t help but worry for him, worry for Debbie and his little brother, Oliver.

You still cared despite the loss of contact and that was what prompted you to try to write a text to him, hoping that his number hadn’t changed. However, it sat in your messages, too scared to send it. You stewed over it, reread it probably a hundred times, before giving up on it. Weeks passed by and you hadn’t read or watched anything in the news about Invincible, deeming that that was probably a good thing.

Which was why when you saw him waiting on the sidewalk in front of your house after dark one night was so weird. At least you were pretty sure it was him. Deciding to investigate further, you padded downstairs from your bedroom to the front door, slipping on a pair of shoes and walking outside, turning on the flashlight of your phone while approaching the pavement. Only to find that Mark– whoever had been waiting outside had left without a trace. You called out into the night, looking around before going inside, but you couldn’t shake the feeling as though something, someone had been watching you. You walked back upstairs and decided to try to relax, pamper yourself for tonight to rid yourself of the sensation.

From far above in the sky, Mark held a hand over his mouth as he chuckled. Your cute chirp and frightened look on your face excited him. Back in his home universe, you hadn’t been so close to him– it was a wonder why this world’s Mark hadn’t taken advantage of your proximity but after days of observation, weeks, Mark realized that you two weren’t together, weren’t even friends. That was something he would be sure to remedy. But he couldn’t rush it no, that would be too suspicious. He tapped his chin in thought as he flew to your bedroom window. Your light was still on, blinds open to let the moonlight in, and he quickly flew to hide behind a nearby tree as you approached the window– only to open it to let the cool night air flow into your room. He could hear your sweet humming and watched as you sat down on your bed to brush your hair. He imagined running his hands through it, brushing it himself, pulling it– but it got so much better when you began undressing right before his very eyes.

You hummed along to a soft tune as you applied velvety lotion along your body, massaging your thighs, hips, before moving up to your chest. You plopped down on your bed again, putting some on your arms before redressing into a silky pajama set and turning your lights off.

Mark was hoping for you to do more. To touch yourself, rub and pinch your nipples, play with your clit until he could hear you mewling and crying out in pleasure– but he supposed he would have to be the one to pull those sweet sounds from you instead.

In the days that followed Mark began to slowly insert himself back into your life. He began leaving signs, walking throughout your house leaving doors and windows open so he could watch you later that day. He followed you around as you drove to work, college, to the grocery store–meanwhile you had been noticing these things, realizing that you hadn’t left your bedroom window open all day…Had you?

Mark continued to stay hidden, biding his time for the perfect moment to approach you but he wanted to learn more about you in this world, and found himself falling for you all over again. As luck would have it, that perfect moment arose the same day this world’s Invincible made headlines after having been in a particularly nasty fight with another villain.

You paced your room, contemplating sending that text to Mark. It certainly couldn’t hurt, could it? It was simple and to the point–Saw what happened, hope you’re doing alright. I’m always here if you need to talk. You took a deep breath as you collapsed onto your bed afterwards, the night hours becoming later as you tried to distract yourself in anticipation of a response. You were reading a book as your phone suddenly buzzed, the screen lighting. Your heart jumped as you scrambled to grab it, the message reading, I’m alright. Just been dealing with a lot, hope you’re okay, too.

Well, at least it was something. A sense of relief washed over you–quickly being followed with panic as a knock came from your window. You got up and opened it, only to see–

“Mark!? Holy shit, how are you–what are you doing here right now?” You gasped as he hovered into your room and landed.

Something was up…you had just seen him fighting for his life on television and now he was wearing a new suit and visiting your bedroom after so many years?

“I had to see you,” he said as he looked you up and down. God, you looked even better up close.

“I thought you were hurt? How did you heal so fast?” you shook your head as you grabbed his arm, assessing him for injuries. None. You turned him around, seeing there wasn’t even a rip in this new suit. But he looked different in it, somehow. More muscular, like he filled it out more but maybe it was just the difference seeing him in person and on a screen. Your hands trailed along his body as you grabbed both of his hands in yours. Realizing what you were doing, checking him out and gawking, you dropped them as you turned around and cleared your throat, embarrassed.

“It’s my powers. I’m good as new, now,” he said as he stretched, missing your soft hands on his body already.

You frowned as you turned back to face him. “Mark, what are you doing in my room? We haven’t spoken in years. I mean, just because I sent you that text doesn’t mean I was expecting you to visit or–or that we can suddenly go back to what we used to be.”

Mark walked toward you as you backed away from him. Seriously, what was up with him?

Noticing your apprehension he began taking off the face piece of his suit, grabbing your hands. “I’ve missed you. And that text…” he trailed off. What the fuck could he say that wouldn’t alert you to the fact that he wasn’t your Mark? “I–I realized that I wanna make up for the time we’ve lost together. It’s you I should’ve been giving my time and attention to, not anything else,” he reasoned, looking into your eyes deeply.

You looked down to your hands, intertwined in his. You shook your head, thoughts running wild. You had harbored a crush on him when you two were friends. But he was with Eve, was he not? This all seemed to be some sort of dream, a fantasy.

You sighed before meeting his longing gaze. “Mark, you have a girlfriend. I’m not some sort of boyfriend-stealer. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling right now, but you need to stop. It isn’t fair.”

His brows raised as he scowled. “I don’t care about her, we’re done. Her, those other girls, they were just distractions, I thought that I wanted them but my judgment was clouded. Now, I see what’s been in front of me this whole time,” he pulled you closer to him, still holding hands. He rubbed comforting circles as you looked at his face, carefully examining his features.

His body was definitely more muscular in person– but his face was the same Mark you had been missing, yearning for. He seemed aged somehow, eyes sad but still holding that same depth you remembered. Which was what prompted you to lean into him, breaking your hands apart to rest one on his chest as you looked up at him.

Everything was falling into place, perfectly.

“Mark, I’ll be honest, I don’t know what to think right now. Maybe this is stupid, but I…I believe you.”

You could feel his heartbeat quicken, from your touch or words you were unsure, as his hand which had been rubbing those comforting circles, stilled, tightening before releasing entirely.

Mark’s eyes darkened, his gaze dropping to your lips before flicking back to your eyes. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,” he murmured, his voice huskier now, lower. There was something dangerous, electric, in the way he spoke, as though he was holding back.

Your chest tightened as you leaned in closer, your lips just inches from his. “I missed you too,” you whispered, barely audible, feeling the weight of everything you hadn’t said in years. It all came crashing down now, in this moment—every longing glance, every unspoken word.

Without thinking, you rose up on your toes, closing the gap between you, your lips brushing his in the lightest of touches. For a second, you hesitated, your heart pounding in your ears as you pulled back just enough to see his face, wondering if you’d gone too far.

But Mark’s reaction was immediate. His hand slid up, cradling the back of your neck, pulling you in for a deeper kiss. This time, there was no hesitation, no uncertainty. His lips crashed against yours with a kind of desperation, like he’d been starving for this for as long as you had. The kiss was firm, claiming, his other hand slipping down to rest on your waist, fingers curling possessively around your side.

You gasped against his mouth as his body pressed closer, his heat enveloping you. Every touch, every sensation felt amplified—the brush of his lips, the way his hand tugged lightly at your hair as he kissed you harder. Your fingers dug into his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath, and you could feel the tension in his body, something tight and wanting, waiting to be released.

“Mark…” you breathed, breaking the kiss for a moment as you leaned your forehead against his, your lips swollen and tingling from the intensity of it all. His eyes were clouded with desire as he stared down at you, his thumb brushing gently over your bottom lip.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he muttered, his voice rough with need. “I’m not letting you go this time.”

You shivered at the possessiveness in his tone, your body responding in ways you couldn’t control. His hands slid down your waist, pulling you against him, and you could feel the hardness of his body pressed firmly against yours. The air between you felt thick with desire, each breath you took seemed to pull you closer.

The line between wanting and restraint blurred as his lips found your neck, leaving slow, heated kisses along your skin, each one sending a shock of pleasure through you. You couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped your lips as he nipped lightly at the sensitive skin beneath your ear, his hands roaming lower, fingers brushing the curve of your hips.

Your pulse quickened, your body arching instinctively against him as his hands found the hem of your shirt, teasingly sliding beneath the fabric to touch your bare skin. His touch was warm, firm, but careful, like he was savoring every second of this moment. He helped you out of your top as he took in the sight of your breasts.

You moved to cover yourself before Mark grabbed you bridal style, placing you on your bed as he quickly rid himself of the rest of his suit, completely bare before you.

“Don’t be shy, baby. Lemme show you how much I want you,” he said as he climbed on top of you, pulling you into a long kiss. While your lips were locked, his hands came down to palm your breasts, pinching and pulling at your nipples. Mark pulled away from you, moving lower, sucking and kissing as he fondled one of your tits, bringing the other between his warm, wet mouth as he began suckling.

You arched your back in pleasure as you brought a hand to pull at his hair as you moaned.

“Oh, Mark–Please!”

He pulled away from you and tilted his head coyly. “Tell me what you want,” he said in a low tone as he moved his mouth to your other breast, giving it the same treatment. “I-I don’t know I want–want more,” you whimpered as the hand that was in his hair came to grab at the pillow under your head.

Mark stopped his efforts on your chest and moved lower, using both hands to spread your legs as he appraised the heat between your thighs. “Poor thing. She’s begging for some attention, you know that?”

Mark’s strong arms kept your legs apart as you squirmed under his touch. He placed light kisses along your inner thighs before he brought his mouth against your clit and sucked. Hard. You cried out in bliss as Mark continued licking, and sucking, swallowing your essence as you writhed under his touch.

Mark's tongue worked expertly, flicking against your sensitive clit with a rhythm that made your body tense and shiver with every stroke. His grip on your thighs tightened, holding you firmly in place as you bucked against him, lost in the overwhelming pleasure.

Your fingers gripped the sheets, your head falling back as the intense sensation built inside you, a fire spreading through your core. "M-Mark..." you gasped, your voice trembling as his mouth moved faster, the wet sounds of his tongue sending electric jolts through your body. He moaned against you, the vibrations sending you even closer to the edge.

Just when you thought you couldn’t take any more, his hand slid up, teasing your entrance with his fingers before thrusting them inside, curling just right. The sudden fullness made you cry out louder, your hips lifting off the bed as the pleasure crested. His tongue and fingers worked in perfect harmony, pushing you higher, deeper, until the pressure inside you finally broke.

You shattered, waves of ecstasy crashing over you as your body shook uncontrollably. Your cries echoed through the room, your thighs trembling around his head as he continued, drawing out every last bit of your orgasm until you were spent, breathless, and completely undone.

Slowly, he pulled away, kissing your inner thighs tenderly as you tried to catch your breath, your body still trembling from the aftershocks. Mark looked up at you, his lips glistening with your arousal, his eyes dark with satisfaction as he crawled back up to hover over you.

"That," he murmured, brushing a stray hair from your face, "was only the beginning." But the intensity of his gaze softened as he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, leaving you breathless all over again.

You registered the sound of your phone buzzing, but with Mark on top of you, loving you, the edges of your mind fuzzy and melting, you willfully ignored it.

For now, you were his, and the world outside didn’t matter anymore. Mark was different–but did it really matter to you all that much if it gave you the chance to be his?

tags: @weeb-simp-11

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multi-fandom-imagine · 2 months ago

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Odysseus all places he would fuck when 🙏🙏/silly

A/n: Me vibrating with excitement because I have been waiting for this.

Odysseus’ Favorite Places He and His Wife Have Had Sex

(Because Even the Cunning King of Ithaca Has Weaknesses… and His Wife Is the Greatest of Them All.)

From the moment Odysseus took you as his wife, you knew patience would be required. He was a man of sharp wit, endless charm, and the kind of arrogance that came naturally to someone favored by the gods.

But beneath all of that?

He was devoted. Fiercely. Unrelentingly.

To Ithaca. To his people.

And most of all—to you.

And gods help him, he could never keep his hands off you.

1. Your Wedding Night – The First Time He Claimed You As His Own

Odysseus had never believed in fate.

He had always believed in cleverness, in shaping his own destiny, in finding the path no one else could see.

But then he met you.

And suddenly, fate didn’t seem so ridiculous after all.

On the night of your wedding, after the celebration had faded, after the guests had drunk themselves into contented sleep, he had taken your hand and led you to his chambers.

And for the first time—Odysseus, the man who always had a plan, had no idea what he was doing.

Not when it came to you.

Because you were different.

You were his.

And as he undressed you—slowly, reverently, as if he were unwrapping the most sacred of treasures—he realized he had never wanted anything more in his life.

The first time he made love to you, it was slow. Deep. A vow in the form of touch.

Your fingers had tangled in his hair, your breaths had mingled between kisses, and the moment you gasped his name—he was gone.

Gone for you. Gone forever.

And in that moment, he knew—

No matter what war, what storm, what trial the gods threw at him… he would always find his way back to you.

2. The Olive Grove – Where He Learned to Worship You With More Than Words

Odysseus was not a simple man.

But his love for you?

That was simple.

It was in the way he reached for you without thinking. The way he let his fingers drift along your skin, even in the presence of others. The way he always returned to your arms after a long day, as if the weight of ruling Ithaca meant nothing once he was touching you.

And sometimes, his love for you turned into something he could not control.

Like the evening he found you walking alone in the olive groves, your hands skimming the silver-green leaves, your dress flowing around you like some kind of divine vision.

You had turned to him with a teasing smile, eyes full of mischief.

“Are you following me, my love?”

Odysseus had not even bothered to deny it.

You had expected a witty remark. A playful response.

Instead, he had kissed you.

Hard.

You had barely had a moment to gasp before he pressed you against the trunk of an ancient olive tree, his lips tracing the line of your throat, his hands pushing aside the soft fabric of your gown.

“We shouldn’t,” you had whispered breathlessly, but your arms had already wrapped around him, pulling him closer.

Odysseus had laughed against your skin.

“You knew what would happen the moment you smiled at me like that.”

And then he had worshiped you, right there, beneath the trees that had stood for centuries.

The gods had surely been watching.

And Odysseus hadn’t cared, because feeling you come undone by a few thrusts was everything.

3. The Palace Balcony – When He Needed to Prove You Were Still His

Odysseus was not a jealous man.

But he was possessive.

You were his. His wife. His queen. His breath and his heart and his home.

So when a visiting noble looked at you too long, let his compliments drip too sweetly into conversation—

Odysseus had remained calm.

Outwardly.

But later that night, as he pulled you onto the stone balcony that overlooked the sea, his hands gripping your waist with something close to desperation, you had known.

He needed to remind you.

Remind himself.

That you belonged to him as much as he belonged to you.

His kisses had been rougher that night, his hands pulling at your clothes with less patience than usual.

And when he took you—pushed against the balcony railing, the night wind cool against your fevered skin, his name gasped between your parted lips.

He made sure you felt him everywhere.

Made sure you knew that no man could ever touch you the way he did.

The sea had stretched endlessly beyond the cliffs.

But all he had cared about was you.

4. The Battlefield Tent – The Night Before War Took Him Away

War had always been Odysseus’ curse.

He had never wanted it. Never craved it the way Ares did.

But it had come for him anyway.

And the night before he sailed to Troy, before ten years of war would steal him away from you, he had needed you.

Needed to remember the way you felt beneath him, the way your body fit against his, the way you whispered his name like it was both a prayer and a command.

So that night, in the privacy of his tent, with only the flickering oil lamps casting shadows against the canvas—

Odysseus had made love to you like a dying man reaching for his final taste of paradise.

And when it was over, when your fingers traced the muscles of his back, when your lips pressed against his shoulder in silent understanding, he had promised—

“I will return to you.”

Because no war, no gods, no storm could keep him from you.

And he had kept that promise.

Even if it had taken him twenty years to do it.

And his favorite Places you two have had sex after his return home.

(Because After Twenty Years, the King of Ithaca Had A Lot of Time to Make Up For.)

Odysseus had dreamed of this.

For twenty long years.

Through war, through storms, through gods and monsters—he had clung to the memory of you.

But memories had never been enough.

Not when he had spent nights reaching for you, only to find empty air.

Not when he had whispered your name into the wind, hoping the gods would carry it back to you.

But now?

Now, he was home.

And he was never letting you go again.

1. The Marriage Bed – Where He Needed You First

He had built this bed.

With his own hands. With his own sweat. A piece of himself woven into every fiber of it.

And for twenty years, it had remained untouched.

Just as you had.

So it was only fitting that the first place he took you again was the same place he had last held you.

That night, it was slow.

It was gentle.

Not because he did not burn for you, but because he needed to savor it.

Needed to map your body with his hands, his lips, his breath, relearning every curve, every sound, every way you responded to him.

Needed to feel you, flesh and warmth and devotion, to remind himself that this was real.

That he was real.

That he had made it back to you.

You had gasped his name between kisses. Had tangled your fingers into his hair, pulled him closer, as if afraid he would vanish again.

He had whispered promises against your skin—ones that had no need for words.

And when you had come undone beneath him, when your breath had hitched and your body had trembled

He had followed, his hands gripping your waist, his forehead pressing against yours as if grounding himself in the very thing he had fought for.

You.

Always you.

He may have been covered in blood but that did not matter to you because your husband was home.

2. The Throne Room – Where He Took You as His Queen

The suitors were dead.

Their blood had been washed away. Their bodies dragged from the palace.

And yet—Odysseus still felt their presence.

Still felt their lingering trespass in his home, in the halls that had belonged to him and him alone.

Most of all, they had dared to exist near you.

And that?

That, he could not abide.

So as you stood in the throne room that evening, watching the last traces of war fade from your home, he came to you.

“You are mine,” he murmured against your ear, voice dark, rough, full of something deep and primal.

You shivered beneath his touch, but you did not stop him.

Because you understood.

Odysseus had reclaimed his throne. Now, he needed to reclaim you.

There, against the very seat of his power—he pressed you against the throne and took you as his queen.

It was not gentle.

It was not patient.

It was desperate, possessive, a silent declaration that you belonged to no one else.

That no man—mortal or god—could ever take you from him.

Your nails raked down his back. Your lips bruised against his.

And when he finally collapsed against you, breath ragged, his arms trembling around you—

He knew.

He had conquered many things.

But you would always be his greatest victory.

3. The Shoreline – Where He Marked You Beneath the Stars

The sea had tried to keep him from you.

For ten years, Poseidon had raged, had thrown him to the mercy of the tides, had cursed him with loss after loss.

So Odysseus found it only fitting that he take you beneath the very stars that had guided him home.

You had been walking along the shoreline, barefoot, your dress flowing around you in the wind, looking like something out of a dream.

Odysseus had been watching.

Always watching.

He had waited long enough.

He had come up behind you, his hands sliding along your waist, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

And when you had leaned into him, sighing softly—

That was it.

He had guided you down onto the soft sand, his body covering yours, his mouth sealing away whatever protest you might have given.

And there, beneath the endless sky, with the waves lapping at the shore—

He made love to you.

Your back against the earth, his hands gripping your thighs, your hips, keeping you steady as he drove into you.

The rhythm of the ocean matching the rhythm of his thrusts—

The sea could have raged. The gods could have watched.

Slow at first, teasing, making you beg—

And then faster, rougher, until all you could do was cry out his name.

And when it was over, when your bodies were spent, tangled together in the warm sand—

Odysseus didn’t care.

Because for the first time in twenty years, he was exactly where he was meant to be.

With you

He had kissed your forehead, chuckling softly, murmuring, “I should bring you here more often.”

And he had..

4. The Olive Grove – Where He Worshiped You Again

Odysseus had taken you here before.

Years ago, before war and fate had stolen him away, he had pressed you against these very trees, whispered filthy promises against your skin, laughed as he undid you beneath the cover of green leaves.

It was only fair that he do it again.

Only this time—it was different.

Because now, there was no guarantee of tomorrow.

Now, he knew what it was to lose you.

So when he took you there again, it was reverent.

It was not rushed.

It was Odysseus, pressing worship into your skin, hands memorizing every inch of you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

He had groaned your name against your throat, had kissed you until your knees buckled, had held you up as he sank into you, slow and deep and unyielding.

And when you had whispered his name, breathless, undone.

He had answered with a vow.

“I will never leave you again.”

5:The Throne Room (again) Because He Likes to Remind You That He Is King

Odysseus is a man of power, a man of command.

And some nights, he enjoys reminding you exactly who he is.

The first time had been unplanned.

You had been sitting on his throne, draped in his cloak, waiting for him.

When he walked in, his gaze darkened instantly.

“You look far too comfortable there,” he had murmured, stepping closer, his voice rich with heat and something dangerous.

And before you could tease him back, before you could move.

He was on you.

His hands were gripping your thighs, pulling you forward, making you gasp.

His mouth was hot against your neck, against your collarbone, against the swell of your breasts—

And then, he was inside you, pressing you down into the throne, moving deep and unrelenting.

His lips brushed your ear, whispering, “You may sit upon my throne, but I will always rule you.”

And the moment you moaned at his words, tightening around him, trembling beneath him—

He had growled in approval, claiming you again and again.

Afterward, when you were panting against his chest, your body boneless, your lips swollen, tremors still hitting you.

He had leaned back, smirking. “Perhaps I should let you sit on my throne more often."

6. The Bedchamber – Where He Loved You As a Husband, Not a King

Odysseus was a king.

A warrior. A tactician. A man who had fought against fate and won.

But here, in your arms, he was none of those things.

He was just a man.

Just yours.

This was the last place.

The one that mattered most.

Because here, it was not about reclaiming or proving or marking.

It was just about loving.

And gods, he loved you.

So when he pulled you into his arms that night, pressing you into the softest of linens, tangling himself with you beneath the warm glow of the fire—

He didn’t rush.

Didn’t devour.

Didn’t conquer.

He just loved you.

For every night he had missed.

For every kiss he had been denied.

For every whispered promise he had wanted to give but couldn’t.

And when he finally collapsed beside you, arms still wrapped around you, your heartbeat steady against his chest.

For the first time in twenty years, Odysseus felt at peace.

Because he was finally, finally home.

#drabbles #drabble #imagines #odysseus #odysseus x reader #epic #epic the musical #odysseus epic #odysseus etm #etm #etm x reader #epic odysseus #epic x reader #epic x you #greek mythology #greek mythology x reader #epic odysseus x reader

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lovelymindescape · 3 months ago

Note

can i request a thanos x virgin reader smut

Softened Edges (Choi Su-bong x Virgin!Fem!Reader)

pairing — choi su-bong x virgin!fem!reader

Summary - In the games you and Thanos were getting closer than friends. You have a special bond. Maybe that's because you told him in the games because you thought you're gonna die that you are still a virgin and that you want someone (him) that you trust to take it

warnings -most likely ooc Thanos. oral (fem receiving). unprotected p in v. implied cumming inside. Dirty talk. Virgin!Reader. Mild Roughness (Thanos's personality).Emotional Vulnerability. later established relationship. MDNI!

author’s note — not my first time writing smut but my first time Posting my smut writing , ignore typos , English is not my first language

The dim glow of the neon signs out on the street flickered through the window, casting hazy red lines across your shared bed. Thanos sat at the edge, rolling a cigarette between his fingers, the rough pads of his thumb pressing against the paper as if lost in thought.

“You sure about this?” His voice was deep, rasping with the weight of someone who had seen too much. He didn’t look at you right away, his dark eyes scanning the floor instead, as if giving you space to change your mind. You swallowed, fingers gripping the sheets beneath you. “Yeah. I am.”

That made him pause. Thanos wasn’t a man who hesitated often, but something about this—about you—made him move slower, more deliberate. He finally turned, setting the unlit cigarette aside before reaching out. His hand cupped your cheek, rough callouses dragging lightly against your skin. “I ain’t the kind of guy who does this ‘sweetly.’ His thumb brushed over your lower lip, gaze flickering with something unreadable. “But I can be careful.”

A shiver ran through you, nerves mixing with anticipation. “I trust you.” That was all it took. Su-bong let out a low sigh, as if shaking off whatever restraint was left in him. He pulled you closer, his warmth grounding you even as your heart raced. There was nothing rushed, nothing careless. For once, the man known as Thanos wasn’t taking—he was giving. And for the first time, you weren’t afraid to let yourself fall.

He let's his hand wander, his fingers softly tilting your chin up. The kiss starts slow—gentle, coaxing—before deepening, his tongue teasing against yours. His hands slide down your arms, tracing over your wrists before pulling you against him.

You shiver as his hands find the hem of your shirt, pushing it up inch by inch. "Lift your arms," he whispers. You obey, and the fabric is gone in seconds. His gaze lingers on your newly exposed skin, hunger flickering in his eyes , as he starts to plant little kisses all over. His fingers trail over your stomach, down to your hips, before slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. Thanos pauses, searching your face for hesitation. "Still with me?"

You nod, breathless.

With one swift movement he also removes your pants off you , Thanos takes a step back and admires what he just discovered. "I don't say this with a real meaning often , but you're beautiful , very beautiful to be honest".

He eases you back onto the bed, his lips tracing a slow, deliberate path down your chest. With skilled fingers, he unclasps your bra, sliding it off with practiced ease. His mouth latches onto your breast, lips warm and wet, tongue circling your nipple in lazy, teasing strokes. Each flick sends a spark straight between your thighs. He doesn’t stop there. His kisses travel lower, grazing over your ribs, dipping to your stomach. With every press of his lips, he leaves his mark—soft nips, lingering heat—claiming every inch of you.

His lips travel lower, grazing over your ribs and dipping to your stomach, each kiss lingering just long enough to make you squirm beneath him. His fingers skim along the edge of your panties, teasing, not yet giving you what you need."

"You're already trembling," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. "I’ve barely even touched you." Your breath catches as he hooks his fingers into the fabric, sliding it down slowly. He watches your expression, drinking in every flicker of anticipation.

The way you press your thighs together doesn’t go unnoticed. "Open up for me, sweetheart,"he coaxes, softly but his voice is low and commanding, with an edge of tenderness. "Let me see all of you."

Your heart begins to race in your chest. You part your thighs hesitantly, feeling exposed under his dark, heated gaze. "Good girl," he praises, running his hands over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. His fingers trail upward, barely brushing over your core, enough to send a shiver through you—but not enough to satisfy.

You let out a quiet whimper, hips shifting slightly. He chuckles, clearly pleased by your sudden reaction. "So desperate already?" He dips a single finger between your folds, just teasing, gathering the slickness there before withdrawing again.

You bite your lip, frustration mixing with anticipation. "P-please..." His smirk deepens, but there’s warmth in his eyes. "Patience, sweetheart. I want to feel you come undone first." He leans in, pressing a lingering kiss just above where you need him most, his breath hot against your skin. Then, with agonizing slowness, he lowers his mouth.

His breath is warm against your most sensitive spot, the anticipation making every nerve in your body stand on edge. You barely have time to process the feeling before his tongue flicks out—just once, barely a touch—before pulling away again. The gasp that leaves your lips is embarrassingly needy.

"Mmm," he hums, satisfied. "You’re so sensitive. I wonder… how much more can you take?" Your fingers clutch at the sheets as his tongue moves again, this time with more purpose. He starts slow, dragging the wet heat of his mouth over you in slow, torturous strokes. His hands grip your thighs, keeping you open for him, completely at his mercy. "You taste so sweet, sweetheart," he murmurs between kisses, his voice thick with desire.

"I could stay here all night." Your mind feels hazy, lost in the unfamiliar but intoxicating sensations. You’ve never felt anything like this before—each stroke of his tongue sends a pulse of pleasure straight through you, leaving you breathless and trembling. Your hips buck slightly, chasing the feeling, but he immediately presses them back down with firm hands. "Ah, ah," he chides, amusement lacing his tone.

"Look at you, already so eager. But I’m in charge here, remember?" You bite your lip, embarrassed but unable to stop the soft whimper that escapes you when he flattens his tongue against you, applying more pressure. A tightness starts to build deep in your stomach, unfamiliar but overwhelming, and it only grows stronger as he adds a single finger, pressing inside you with slow, deliberate care.

"You’re so tight," he groans, his voice strained with restraint. "Relax for me, sweetheart. Let me in." His finger moves slowly at first, curling just right, coaxing pleasure from you with every stroke. His mouth never stops—lapping, teasing, driving you higher until the tension inside you coils impossibly tight. "That’s it," he breathes against you, feeling the way you tighten around him.

"Let go, sweetheart. Let me feel you fall apart." The pressure snaps. A cry leaves your lips as pleasure crashes over you, wave after wave rolling through your body. Your thighs tremble, fingers tangled in the sheets as you struggle to process the intensity of it all. He doesn't stop—not yet. He works you through it, tongue and fingers moving just enough to prolong your high, until the pleasure turns into oversensitivity and you're forced to whimper his name.

Only then does he finally pull away, lips glistening as he looks up at you with dark, heated eyes. "So beautiful," he murmurs, crawling back up your body to capture your lips in a deep, lingering kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, but you’re too dazed to feel shy about it. "You’re not done yet, sweetheart," he whispers against your lips.

Your whole body trembles as the aftershocks of pleasure ripple through you, leaving you breathless and weak beneath him. Every nerve feels alight, oversensitive, but your mind is hazy, floating in the warmth of his touch.

He watches you, drinking in the sight of your blissed-out expression—your chest rising and falling, lips parted as you struggle to catch your breath.

A smirk tugs at his lips, but there’s something else in his gaze, something darker. "Still with me, sweetheart?" he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. You nod weakly, but before you can fully recover, his hands slide up your body, covering you with his warmth as he moves to hover over you again. He kisses you—slow and deep, his tongue teasing against yours, letting you taste the remnants of your release on his lips.

Your body is still tingling, sensitive, but when he shifts between your legs, his hips pressing against yours, a different kind of heat starts to build. Your breath hitches as you feel him, heavy and hard, pressing against your entrance. "Mmm, you’re still shaking," he muses, brushing his lips along your jaw. His fingers glide down your side, soothing, grounding. "That felt good, didn’t it?"

You manage a nod, but the moment his tip nudges against you—just barely there—a soft gasp escapes you. He groans at the sound, rolling his hips just enough to tease. "So sensitive," he murmurs, voice thick with desire. "But you’re still so warm… so wet for me. You want more, don’t you?" Heat flares in your cheeks, but the way your body reacts—the way your thighs instinctively part for him—betrays you.

"That’s my girl," he praises, dragging his fingers along your hip before gripping it firmly. "I’ll go slow, sweetheart. I want you to feel everything." One hand finds yours, fingers lacing together as he slowly and carefully starts to push inside.

A soft whimper escapes you as he pushes deeper, stretching you inch by inch. The fullness is overwhelming, teetering between discomfort and something unfamiliar—something almost too much. Your fingers tighten against his shoulders, and he stills immediately, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Easy, sweetheart," he soothes, voice strained, as if it’s taking every ounce of control to hold himself back. "You’re taking me so well."

His hands caress your thighs, his thumbs drawing slow, grounding circles into your skin. He leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss—distracting, comforting, easing you through the adjustment. "Breathe," he murmurs against your lips.

You do. A deep inhale. A shaky exhale.

As your body relaxes around him, the discomfort begins to fade, replaced by a warmth that spreads deep inside you.

A new kind of pressure lingers there, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. You shift slightly beneath him, testing, and a soft moan slips from your lips at the sensation. His breath hitches. "Fuck," he groans, his forehead pressing against yours. His voice is rough, his control fraying at the edges. "You feel so tight, sweetheart. So perfect around me."

The praise sends a fresh wave of heat through you, and he notices—of course he notices. A smirk tugs at his lips, teasing, but there’s something deeper in his gaze. "Does it feel good?" he asks, his voice low, coaxing. You swallow hard, nodding shyly. "Words, sweetheart." His hips roll forward, just barely, sending a shiver through your body. "Tell me how it feels." "I—I like it," you admit breathlessly, your voice barely above a whisper.

His smirk deepens, but there’s warmth in his expression, something almost reverent. "That’s my good girl." Slowly, carefully, he pulls back before pressing in again, a slow, deliberate glide that has your nails digging into his skin. The stretch still lingers, but this time, pleasure begins to unfurl beneath it, curling low in your stomach. "That’s it," he murmurs, his voice a low rasp. "You’re taking me so well, sweetheart. Just let go for me."

His movements start slow—measured, gentle, letting you feel every inch of him as he fills you completely. He watches your expression intently, catching every flutter of your lashes, every gasp that spills from your lips. His hands never stop moving—one grips your thigh, keeping you open for him, while the other strokes soothing patterns against your skin. The teasing edge remains, but it’s softer now—less playful, more intimate. He leans down, capturing your lips in another kiss, this one deep and slow, matching the rhythm of his movements.

"You're mine now," he whispers against your lips, voice dripping with possessive affection. "Every little inch of you." A shiver runs through you, and something shifts. The pleasure starts to build, the sensitivity from before making every movement feel sharper, deeper. Your hips move instinctively, chasing the feeling, and he groans at the way you tighten around him.

"So eager now," he teases, but his voice is strained, as if he’s barely holding himself together. His pace picks up slightly, not rough, but more insistent—each thrust pressing deeper, sending waves of heat through your body. Your mind feels hazy, lost in the pleasure, the overwhelming fullness, the way he makes you feel completely his.

"I want to hear you," he breathes, his lips brushing against your ear. "Don’t hold back, sweetheart. Let me hear those pretty sounds." A soft moan escapes you, and he rewards you with a deep thrust, dragging another breathless whimper from your lips. His grip tightens on your hips, his control slipping as your body molds to his, meeting him perfectly. "That’s my girl," he praises, voice thick with need.

The heat in your stomach tightens, coiling, building, rising higher and higher. He feels it—feels the way your body clenches around him, the way your breaths turn shallow. "You're close, aren’t you , sweetheart?"* he murmurs, a smirk in his voice. "Let go for me, sweetheart. Come around me." His fingers slip between your bodies, finding your clit , drawing circles with his thumb , pressing just right—and the world shatters.

A cry escapes your lips as pleasure crashes over you, your body tensing, pulsing, unraveling beneath him. He groans, his pace faltering for a moment as your walls tighten around him, dragging him deeper into the sensation. "Fuck—" his breath stutters, his control snapping as he buries himself to the hilt, his own release hitting him hard.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are your uneven breaths, the faint hum of your racing heartbeat in your ears. He stays inside you, warm and solid, his body pressed firmly against yours as he presses soft, lingering kisses along your jaw, your cheek, your forehead. "You were perfect," he murmurs, voice softer now, his teasing replaced with something warmer, something deeply affectionate.

He shifts slightly, careful not to move too fast, his hands soothing over your skin. Taking care of you. "Are you okay?" he asks, voice gentle, lips brushing your temple. You nod, your body still tingling, your limbs heavy with exhaustion and warmth. A contented sigh escapes you as he pulls you against his chest, wrapping you securely in his arms.

He smirks, but there’s nothing smug about it this time—just satisfaction, love, and a hint of possessiveness. "Get some rest, sweetheart," he murmurs. The warmth of his body surrounds you, his arms wrapped securely around your waist as he pulls you against his chest. His heartbeat is steady, a soothing rhythm beneath your ear, grounding you in the soft haze of exhaustion and lingering pleasure.

"Are you really okay, sweetheart?" His voice is softer now, husky from exertion but laced with something deeper—concern, affection. His fingers trace slow, absentminded circles on your back, his touch tender in contrast to the dominance he held before. You hum a sleepy, contented sound, nuzzling closer.

His scent is everywhere , a mix of heat and musk, but beneath it lingers something undeniably him —comforting, familiar. He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. "That good, huh?" Your cheeks warm, and you make a small, embarrassed noise in response. He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

His eyes—so intense before—now hold a different kind of fire, something softer, more possessive in an entirely different way. "You were perfect," he murmurs, brushing his lips against your forehead. A sigh escapes you as his hands continue their slow, soothing strokes along your skin.

He shifts slightly, sitting up just enough to pull the blankets over both of you before tucking you firmly against him again. "Do you feel okay?" he asks, his voice laced with genuine concern now. "Not too sore?" You shake your head, though there’s an ache settling deep in your muscles—a reminder of just how thoroughly he had you.

He seems to sense it because his hands drift lower, massaging your hips gently, easing any tension. "I’ll run us a bath soon," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "But for now, just rest, sweetheart." You bask in the comfort of his warmth, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

The room is quiet except for the occasional crackle from the fireplace and the sound of your intertwined breaths. Then—his fingers pause their gentle strokes against your back. A beat of silence lingers between you before he exhales, almost as if gathering his thoughts.

"I meant what I said earlier," he murmurs, his voice quieter now, more serious. You blink up at him sleepily, confusion flickering across your face. "About what?" His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing over the flushed skin there. His gaze searches yours , something unspoken lingering behind his teasing smirk.

"That you’re mine," he says simply. Your breath catches. "But I don’t just mean for tonight," he continues, his voice lower now, more intimate. "I don’t want this to be just once, sweetheart." He leans in, his lips ghosting over yours , his breath warm and full of unspoken promises. "I want you."

His fingers tighten slightly against your hip, as if grounding himself in the moment. "All of you. Not just in my bed—but in my life." Your chest tightens, a different kind of warmth flooding through you now—not desire, but something deeper, something almost overwhelming.

"Be mine," he murmurs, his forehead resting against yours. "For real."

There’s no teasing in his voice this time—just genuine affection, quiet possessiveness, and a rare kind of vulnerability. The words hang between you, weighty and full of meaning. And as you look up into his waiting gaze, you already know your answer.

A/N : So , this is my first real story posted on here and it is pretty long from what I have before , also like I said this the first time Posting smut , so Feedback is appreciated !💜

Tag: @onecojg

#player 230 smut #player 230 #player 230 x reader #player 230 x y/n #choi subong #thanos x y/n #thanos x you #thanos x reader #thanos smut #thanos squid game #thanos #x reader smut #squid game x reader #reader insert #fem!reader insert #squid game s2 #squid game 2 #thanos x reader smut

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sweettu1ips · 2 months ago

Text

PAIGE BUECKERS x SINGER!FEM READER

SYNOPSIS: "The push and pull had always been intoxicating, a slow burn of control and surrender. But tonight, the rules shift—an unspoken goodbye lingering in the space where lips almost met."

WARNING(S): (18+) toxic relationship ⋮ situationship ⋮ hook-up buddies ⋮ fuck buddies ⋮ kissing ⋮ not exactly a happy ending, but if you like that reader got her lick back, then yes consider this a happy ending... ⋮ flashbacks to intimacy ⋮ not really sure what else I'm missing soo...

WORD COUNT: 6.7K

| MAIN MASTER LIST ⋮ VELVET TRACES [P2] |

THE THING ABOUT PAIGE BUECKERS is that she doesn’t do attachment. Not in the way that matters. Not in the way I wanted.

She’s like a storm that never settles, all presence and pressure, rolling in heavy and hot before vanishing like she was never there at all. A name whispered in locker rooms, an echo in arenas, a breath against my neck in the dead of night. She loves like a shadow—only seen when the lights are dim, only felt in fleeting touches that never sink past the surface.

I should’ve known better.

But how could I, when Paige is all adrenaline and honeyed words, wrapped up in a body that moves like poetry, lips that turn even the most fleeting moments into something that sears? She’s a habit, a high, a hands-on-my-hips, teeth-against-my-skin kind of addiction that I can’t shake, no matter how many times I swear I will.

We started as nothing. Just a few run-ins at events, a reckless decision after too much tequila and neon lights bleeding into the early morning.

Me, fresh off a sold-out tour, my name looping through radio stations like an anthem, still buzzing from the stage, from the energy, from the world’s obsession with me.

Paige, the golden girl of the court, drowning in expectations but never once missing a shot. Our first time was impulsive, a collision of egos and sweat, hands grasping, mouths hungry, neither of us looking for anything more than the rush of it all.

And then it happened again. And again. Until suddenly, I had the code to Paige’s apartment, and she had a habit of pulling me into dark corners whenever our paths crossed.

It was easy. Until it wasn’t.

Because while Paige only ever wanted hands tangled in sheets and a body pressed to hers, I wanted something deeper. Something beyond the four walls of a dimly lit bedroom, beyond the stolen kisses and murmured goodbyes before dawn broke.

I wanted late-night conversations that didn’t end in tangled limbs. I wanted mornings where Paige didn’t slip away before the sun rose. I wanted to be something more than just a fleeting thrill, more than just a name she moaned into the dark before locking the door behind her.

But Paige?

She wanted nothing more than the sensation, the moment, the rush.

And I don’t know how much longer I can pretend that’s enough.

That’s how I found myself in the studio late at night, the soft hum of the city’s distant chatter filtering through the windows.

The overhead lights cast a warm glow, the dim shadows stretching like the quiet ache in my chest. The walls around me, lined with instruments and sound equipment, felt both comforting and isolating at the same time, as though they had absorbed every secret I had whispered into the microphone over the years.

Two days had passed since I had last sent a message to Paige, the blue text bubble sitting unanswered on my phone.

My thumb hovered over the screen, pausing just before tapping it to send another message—my emotions like a tangled wire, too complicated to be untangled with a few simple words.

Every minute that passed without a reply felt like a bruise on my heart, a dull throb that seemed to sink deeper with each second.

The night was mine now, a time to drown out the ache, to lose myself in music. I sat at the keyboard, fingers brushing lightly against the keys, a note breaking the silence in the room.

My mind wandered as the melody spilled from the ivory, filling the space between the notes. My thoughts slipped into the lyrics that had been playing on repeat in my mind— Would you hear me more if I whispered in your ear?

A small sigh escaped my lips, and I exhaled slowly, almost like I was trying to let go of the tension held within my lungs. My hands hovered above the piano once more, the next note suspended in the air, waiting for something, anything to push it into reality.

I could feel the weight of the question—a question that had stayed in my mind since the moment Paige and I had begun drifting, a question I didn’t have the courage to ask aloud.

Would Paige hear me? Would she understand me more if I approached things differently? Would the vulnerability, the quiet intimacy of whispering, make her more present in our connection? Would it make her feel wanted, or would it push her further away?

I bit down on my lip, the sudden wave of emotion flooding my chest. The lyrics replayed in my mind, Would you hear me more if I touch you right here?

I didn’t mean to think about it like this, didn’t mean to feel the heat of the words burning in my veins, but the song had a way of weaving itself into my very skin, sinking under my bones.

The “right here” was never a place—it was an act, an invitation, a vulnerable plea for attention, for connection. I could picture it: my fingertips barely grazing Paige’s skin, the tremor in my touch betraying the uncertainty in my heart.

The thought of making that kind of contact—so close, so intimate—was both electrifying and terrifying.

I slowly stood, the music still playing in my mind, as my hand reached for the microphone stand. The cool metal against my palm felt oddly grounding. The intensity of my emotions surged, threatening to spill over like an ocean crashing against the shore.

I couldn’t stop it. I leaned into the microphone, my breath steadying, and whispered softly, “Ah, ah.” It was just a sound, a simple exhale into the space around me, but in that moment, it felt like I had said everything I needed to.

The vulnerability of the sound echoed, filling the room. A sensation of wanting, of longing, crept up my spine.

I moved to the center of the room, the dim light casting shadows across the floor, and closed my eyes, my body swaying with the rhythm in my chest. My hands floated just above my skin, as if reaching for something that was just out of reach.

Would it be enough if I reached out and touched someone, poured my desires into every delicate movement? Would it be enough if I brushed my lips against their skin, against their thoughts, the weight of every unspoken word shared in the air between us? The question lingered, as heavy as the silence that hung in the room.

I exhaled slowly again, this time with more certainty, as if releasing the tension that had built up between Paige and me, between myself and the world around me.

I wasn’t sure if this would be enough—if this small act of touching, of whispering, would ever be enough to bridge the gap of distance that had formed between us.

But there was something about the act of letting go, of offering myself in the quietest way, that made it feel like I could be heard. Even if it was only by myself.

My fingers brushed the strings of the guitar by my side, the soft strum of the chord filling the space with its melancholic sound.

It was almost as if the act of playing the song was a silent plea—a desire to be understood, to be touched not just physically, but emotionally, in ways that words couldn’t express.

My heart raced, the lyrics flowing through me as if they were written just for me. Would you hear me more?

I paused, letting the silence settle in. I wasn't sure if I was ready to hear the answer. But in this moment, in the stillness of the room, I let myself be vulnerable, letting the music carry my thoughts into the night.

I snapped out of the haze, the weight of the emotions that had overwhelmed me suddenly lifting, replaced by a sharp, determined clarity.

My heart, still thudding in my chest, quieted as I reached for my phone on the corner of the desk, the cold screen feeling almost foreign against my palm.

My fingers fumbled for a moment, as if they were still tangled in the last few lingering chords of the song that had played over and over in my mind, but soon found their place.

The familiar touch of the phone felt grounding, like a lifeline pulling me back to reality.

I pressed the call button, the sound of it ringing filling the silence, each ring seeming to echo my anticipation, my nervousness, my need for something—anything— to move forward.

It was as if I was trying to shake off the last remnants of the vulnerability I had just laid bare. I couldn’t stay here, lost in my head any longer.

When the line finally clicked, the voice on the other end greeted me with that familiar, steady calm, “Hey, it’s me.”

I exhaled sharply, as if releasing all the tension I hadn’t known I was holding in. “How fast can you get to the studio?” The words came out faster than I had intended, but they carried an edge—urgent, a little desperate. My voice shook, just barely, the slight crack betraying the layers beneath the surface.

I could hear the slight rustle of movement through the phone, as if my producer was shifting his position, maybe setting his coffee cup down, or running a hand through his hair.

It didn’t matter. I could feel the moment stretching between us, filling the space with an electric charge. I wasn’t even sure if I was asking for help, for direction, or for something else entirely, but the need was undeniable.

My hand, still gripping the phone, tightened around it as I gazed out the studio window, my eyes scanning the night outside. The city’s lights twinkled in the distance, just a blur of movement that felt so far away, so detached from the chaos inside me.

I was still on edge, still haunted by the unresolved feeling that had settled in my chest like a heavy weight. Paige. The distance between us. The things left unsaid. The longing that pressed against my ribs, urging me to do something, to make a choice.

But in this moment, I needed to focus. I had to focus. I wasn’t ready to dive back into my thoughts about her, about us. Not now.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. “I’m not sure what I’m doing, but I need to get this out,” I admitted, my voice a little softer now. The honesty slipped through, unintended but there all the same.

My eyes shifted over the studio, taking in the dim lights, the instruments scattered around like pieces of a puzzle I wasn’t sure how to solve. The walls that had once felt so comforting now seemed like they were closing in on me, the air thicker with the weight of my feelings.

The producer’s voice came through again, low and calm, but with an undercurrent of reassurance. “I’ll be there in 20.”

I nodded instinctively, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. A sigh of relief escaped me, and I finally let my shoulders drop, feeling the tension melt away, bit by bit. It wasn’t over, I knew that.

The song I was trying to create, the emotions I was trying to channel, the unresolved ache that lingered—it was all still there, pressing at the edges of my mind. But I had made the decision. I was going to push forward, try to create something, anything, to move past the confusion and the frustration.

As I hung up, the weight of the room felt just a little lighter. I wasn’t completely sure where I was heading with the song, but in this moment, it didn’t matter. The only thing I knew for certain was that I had to keep moving, keep creating. Maybe in the music, I would find the answers. Or maybe, just maybe, the answers would find me.

𖥔 A WEEK LATER 𖥔

The air was thick with anticipation, the bass from the speakers humming through my body like a second heartbeat. Backstage, I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the strap of my top—minimal, yet enough.

The dim glow of the vanity lights flickered against my skin, casting shadows that felt almost poetic. The weight of the moment pressed down on me, but not in a suffocating way. It was exhilarating. Electric. Like standing at the edge of a storm, just waiting for the thunder to crash.

For the last week, I had poured myself into two songs. Every lyric, every melody had come faster than ever, flowing through me like something inevitable. Like I was supposed to write them.

Like they had been waiting for me to put them into words. I hadn’t released them yet, holding onto them for this moment—this night—when I could perform them live for the first time. A choice that was far from accidental.

I ran a hand through my hair, inhaling deeply, trying to shake the gnawing feeling in my chest. It had been almost a week since I had last spoken to Paige. Since she walked away. Since I stood there, silent, replaying every word, every sharp edge of our argument, over and over.

"You act like this is more than what it is," she had said, her voice edged with something I couldn’t quite place—frustration, maybe. Or indifference. "But it’s not. We’re not. You know that."

I remembered the way she had looked at me, the way something flickered across her face just before she turned and walked away. Like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she knew her words would stick to me, get under my skin, wrap around my ribs and refuse to let go.

I clenched my jaw, blinking away the memory as I exhaled sharply.

The arena was dark, thick with anticipation. A low, pulsing hum vibrated through the air, rattling through the floor beneath my feet. The crowd was already screaming, their voices blending into a chaotic symphony of excitement, but they hadn’t seen me yet.

Not yet.

A single spotlight flickered on, illuminating nothing but the stage floor. The massive LED screen behind it came alive with static, glitching shapes and distorted visuals flashing in time with the deep bass that rumbled through the venue like a heartbeat. The sound of distant sirens echoed—warped, haunting, looping. A breathy, distorted voice whispered my name, stretched and layered over itself until it sounded surreal, hypnotic.

This—this performance—was my way of getting the last word in.

Maybe Paige would see it as an eye-opener. Maybe she’d see it as an attempt to get under her skin. Truthfully? I couldn’t give a single fuck.

What mattered was the music. The stage. The way the lights would hit just right, the way the crowd would scream the lyrics back to me, their voices colliding with mine in a way that felt almost sacred.

And the fact that I looked good. No—better than good. The deep purple lace hugged my frame just right, the dark fabric catching the glow of the stage lights in flashes as I moved.

A crew member signaled that it was time, and my pulse quickened, the air around me shifting. The venue was packed—thousands of bodies pressed together, waiting, the energy buzzing like static in the air. And right at the heart of it all—Madison Square Garden. The place where it all started. Where we started.

The music built slowly, a heartbeat turning into a racing pulse, synths creeping in like something alive. The fog machines hissed, rolling thick waves of smoke across the stage, swallowing the floor in shadows. And then—just for a second—total silence.

The arena went pitch black.

Suddenly..

The bass dropped. A blinding flash of white light strobed through the venue in sync with the first beat, illuminating me for the first time, standing center stage. Head down. Eyes closed. The breath of the moment curling in my lungs.

The screen behind me glitched again—flashes of old, grainy footage, a mix of blurred city lights, broken reflections in puddles, flashes of hands, lips, fleeting touches. Her silhouette. The past bleeding into the present.

A deep, sultry voice—mine, but distorted—spoke over the mic, just two words:

"You watching?"

And then—violins.

Soft at first, delicate, but haunting. They floated through the venue like a slow drip of honey, smooth, entrancing, weaving their way through the charged air. The LED screens behind me shifted—deep purple and black, slow-motion imagery of silk slipping off bare skin, fingers ghosting over lace.

The first beat crept in underneath, a subtle pulse beneath the strings.

Then the drums hit, and the violins swelled, twisting into something richer, more dangerous.

The lights flickered, shifting to deep reds and violets as the beat intensified, climbing into something sultry, hypnotic. The bass curled through the melody like smoke, smooth but intoxicating, pulling the entire track into the kind of rhythm that demanded to be felt.

I let the moment stretch just long enough—let the tension coil, let the crowd feel the buildup in their chests, waiting, craving.

And then, just as the beat fully dropped, I moved.

Hips swaying, chin lifted, gaze locked forward.

The mic brushed my lips, and I let the first words spill out.

“I been singin’, I been screamin’...

“...I been goin’ all night till my throat’s bleeding”

If she was watching, good.

Because this time, I was saying everything I never got the chance to.

The LED screens flicker to life behind me—glitching city lights, reflections rippling in puddles, fleeting hands skimming over skin. A fragmented memory playing for thousands to see.

And then—my voice.

"Did my purple lace bra catch your attention?

Uh Yeah, the look in your eye made me question."

The words drip from my lips like honey, smooth, effortless, but laced with something deeper. Something raw. Something meant for only one person.

And somewhere above—watching, devouring—Paige.

She's here. Actually here, in New York. In the VIP section, perched above the stage with the best view in the house. I don’t see her at first, too lost in the rhythm, in the way my body moves in sync with the dancers around me.

The choreography is sultry, deliberate, every step calculated. When I drag my fingers down my torso, lingering just slightly against the purple lace that clings to me, the crowd screams—but only one gaze matters.

Paige.

And the second I finally lock eyes with her—piercing blue, locked onto me with a fire that burns even through the darkness—I feel it.

The shift.

Her gaze settles on me like she owns me, like every movement is hers to consume. And then the realization hits—I see it in the way her lips part slightly, in the way her fingers tighten around the glass in her hand—this is a new song.

She hasn’t heard these words before. Hadn’t known until now just how deep this ran.

A memory flashes, one neither of us could ever forget.

Me, sprawled against silk sheets, bathed in moonlight, wearing this same shade of purple. The lace barely covering me, teasing just enough to make Paige lose her mind.

The way she had whispered against my skin that night—God, you’re wearing this just to kill me, aren’t you?

I had laughed then. But tonight? Tonight, I’m performing.

And Paige is watching.

"Would you hear me more if I whispered in your ear?

Made all my inner thoughts sound like, ‘Ah, ah’

Would you hear me more if I touch you right here? Made everythin' I want sound like, ‘Ah, ah.’"

The choreography intensifies, fluid, seductive. I roll my hips, arch into the movement, dragging my hands down my curves before flipping my hair back, locking eyes with Paige again. There are thousands of people here, screaming my name, but I only care about one.

Paige’s grip tightens around her drink.

I smirk.

I feel the effect I have on her, see it in the way her chest rises and falls just a bit quicker, in the way her jaw tenses.

She’s unraveling.

And me? I’m going to make her feel every second of it.

"I could take it off for you and tell you what I'm goin' through, hm

'Cause my body positioning determines if you're listenin', ah-ah."

I turn, my dancers moving in sync with me as I twist my body, sinking into the rhythm. The choreography is intimate, teasing—slow rolls of the hips, fingers grazing down arms, lingering touches that set the stage ablaze. And the entire time, my eyes never leave Paige’s.

The flashbacks bleed into every lyric. Paige’s hands gripping my hips that first night, pulling me closer, our bodies pressed together in the dim glow of city lights. The way she had looked at me—like I was something to be worshiped.

And now?

Now, I’m untouchable.

"Did my dance on your lap pique your interest? Yeah

Now I got you like that, let me finish."

The words are a challenge. A reminder.

I run my fingers over my chest, pressing into the lace just enough to tease, enough to dare Paige to remember.

The chorus hits again, and I let myself sink into the song, into the power of it. Paige feels it—the way I own this moment, how every movement is meant to be felt, witnessed.

"I'm losin' my mind, I'm losin' my head

You only listen when I'm undressed

Hear what you like and none of the rest, 'est."

And Paige feels that lyric.

It’s the truth she never wanted to admit.

The way she ignored the things I actually needed to say, the words that got lost somewhere between tangled limbs and gasping breaths.

"I'm-I'm losin' my mind 'cause giving you head's

The only time you think I got depth."

Her stomach drops.

I see it—the way her fingers dig into her thigh, her jaw clenching so tightly I swear she might crack a tooth.

Because fuck.

This isn’t just a song. It’s us.

I know exactly what I’m doing, the way I sway my hips, run my fingers along my thighs. I let myself sink into the music, into the feeling of being desired.

And Paige?

Paige is trapped. Watching. Needing.

But this time, she doesn’t get to have me.

But this time, she didn’t get to have her.

The final notes linger in the air, and I let the moment hang. I let her sit with it, drowning in the weight of the lyrics, the weight of me.

Then, slowly, I tilted my head, eyes flickering up to Paige’s seat.

I smirked.

And it was as if I knew— felt the way Paige was losing her mind, unraveling at the seams.

And then, just before the lights went dark, I mouthed one final thing.

“Still listening?”

Paige had actually sat through the whole concert—watching, studying, caught somewhere between lust, anger, and something heavier that neither of us had ever put a name to.

Her eyes had been fixated on me the entire time, tracing every movement, every note I sang, her expression an unreadable mask of longing and frustration, the kind that simmered beneath the surface, never quite reaching the surface.

By the time I was done with my last set, she was already out of her seat, her body taut with tension as she stood.

I thought, maybe, that this was it. Maybe this was the moment she would finally walk away, truly done with me for good.

But the second I hit backstage, pushing open the door to my dressing room, I realized how wrong I was.

There she was.

Paige was sprawled across the leather couch like she owned the place—legs casually spread, arms draped lazily over the backrest, her fingers barely curled as if she had all the time in the world. Her body was relaxed, but there was something predatory about her stillness, something that told me she had been waiting for this exact moment.

Her head tilted slightly, eyes never leaving me, watching as the door swung open, revealing me in all my post-show glow. The rush of the performance still lingered in the air around me.

My skin was flushed from the lights, damp strands of hair clung to my neck, and though my body ached from the show, I could feel the hum of my confidence still thrumming beneath the surface, energizing me, keeping me upright. But in an instant, that energy started to flicker, replaced by something I hadn’t prepared myself for.

My breath caught in my throat as our eyes met.

Everything stilled.

The cool, collected air that had surrounded me the entire night faltered for a second—just long enough for her to catch it. That self-assured smile I had walked in with faltered, just barely, enough to let her know she had the power to break me, to make me doubt every inch of the poise I had so carefully constructed.

The weight of the silence in the room pressed against me, the distance between us shrinking with each heartbeat.

I stood there for a moment longer than I meant to, the tension between us so thick that it felt like it could snap at any second. My final outfit of the night clung to me like it was made just for this moment—soft fabric molded to my form in a way that demanded attention.

The mini skirt skimming the tops of my thighs, the hem dancing with each subtle movement, while the fitted top traced the curves of my torso, leaving just enough skin bare to tease, just enough to make her notice.

The dark brown chunky platform boots I wore added an edge to my look, the weight of each step grounding me but also making me feel powerful in a way I couldn’t quite explain.

And all the while, Paige’s gaze was on me—slow and deliberate, her blue eyes tracing me from head to toe, each movement of her eyes sending heat pooling in my chest. Her expression remained unreadable—calm, controlled, like she was watching a masterpiece come to life, but there was something else there too.

Something simmering just beneath the surface—an intensity I couldn’t look away from. It was like she was waiting for something to break. Waiting for me to break.

I could feel the pull of her gaze like gravity, dragging me toward her without a single word exchanged. It wasn’t just her eyes that had the power over me. It was the tension, the rawness, the fact that I had never really escaped her orbit, no matter how many times I thought I had.

And I knew then, just as I always had, that she was never really done with me.

She wasn’t just watching. She was studying. She was waiting. And I was no longer sure if I could fight it.

I broke eye contact with her, a scoff slipping from my lips before I even realized I was doing it. I rolled my eyes, not bothering to hide the annoyance that flickered beneath my skin.

If she thought I was going to stand there, locked in some silent power struggle with her, she had another thing coming.

I turned my back to her and walked deeper into the room, letting the door swing shut with a sharp click behind me. The sound reverberated in the otherwise still air, cutting through the tension that had settled between us like a thick fog.

My hips swayed with the rhythm of my steps, the heavy click of my platform boots echoing off the cement floor. The sensation of each boot hitting the ground felt grounding, like I could still control this situation, even if my heart was already betraying me.

I moved toward the vanity, not daring to look back at her. Not yet. I reached for the small mirror on the edge, adjusting it slightly, watching my own reflection instead of facing Paige’s unwavering gaze.

I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of seeing how much she affected me, not tonight. Not when I was so close to losing myself to whatever this was between us.

I could feel her eyes burning into my back, unblinking, like a predator watching its prey. It wasn’t just the weight of her stare; it was the certainty that no matter how hard I tried, no matter how many walls I built around myself, she always knew how to break through them.

She always knew where to strike. Her jaw was clenched tight, her body unmoving, but I could feel the tension radiating off her in waves.

She didn’t say anything, but the amused smirk that danced on her lips told me everything I needed to know. She was watching, waiting for me to crack, to give in, to say something. Anything.

I wasn’t going to give her that. Not tonight.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, like it was daring me to do something. I stayed focused on my reflection, pretending that the quiet wasn’t eating away at my insides. But deep down, my mind was a storm.

Thoughts swirled like a cyclone, each one more confusing than the last. Paige—her presence, her control, the way she always seemed to hold every card—was never easy to ignore. It wasn’t just her ego, the way she carried herself with an unshakable confidence, or how she always had a smirk on her lips like she was always one step ahead. It was the pull of her. The constant tug she had on me, whether I wanted it or not. The way she made me question everything I thought I knew about myself.

I wasn’t some naive girl who couldn’t see the truth. I knew exactly what this was. Paige and I, we were never going to be anything more than what we were—hook-up buddies, tangled in this chaotic mess of lust, anger, and everything in between. Her ego was too big.

Her confidence too loud. It was a game, one she always won. Always kept me at arm’s length, just enough to keep me wanting more, but never enough to let me close.

And yet, I found myself caught in it, every single time.

The weight of her presence grew more suffocating, and I could feel my patience wearing thin. But I refused to show it. I refused to let her see the way my heart raced when she was around, the way my body seemed to lean toward her without my permission. I couldn’t give her that satisfaction. I wasn’t going to let her win tonight.

She broke the silence, her voice cutting through the room like a blade.

"You really think that outfit's going to distract me, huh?" Her eyes flickered over my form, her smirk widening as she took in the tight mini skirt I’d chosen for tonight, the way the soft fabric clung to my skin. "You think that’s gonna make up for what you did on stage?"

I didn’t look up, kept my gaze focused on my reflection. I wanted to give her nothing. I wanted to return to the calm, collected version of myself—the one that could walk into a room and own it without breaking a sweat. But the truth was, I was already unraveling, piece by piece. And Paige? Paige was the one who had the scissors.

Her voice was a poison, calculated and precise. "So tell me, Y/N, is this your way of proving something? With that little performance of yours? You really think you can just walk out there, do your thing, and not expect me to notice?"

But I refused to give in.

“Don’t pretend like you don’t get a kick out of this,” she continued, her tone dripping with challenge. “You’re not fooling anyone, Y/N.”

I let out a slow breath, letting the tension roll off my shoulders like it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to let her get to me. Not tonight.

“You really think I care?” I finally said, my voice steady, but I could hear the lie in it. The cracks in my calm. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, but I didn’t move.

Paige let out a low chuckle, a sound that made my pulse quicken. She stood from the couch, the smooth, calculated movement of her body almost predatory as she took a step toward me.

“I think you care more than you’re willing to admit.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. Because somewhere deep down, she was right.

I was in too deep.

The silence between us stretched, suffocating yet electric, and I refused to meet her eyes, even as I felt the weight of her gaze searing into me.

The reflection in the mirror, though, was another story. I could see the smirk spreading across her lips like a slow burn—satisfied, triumphant. I hated that damn smirk. It was her weapon, a reminder that no matter how much I tried to hold my ground, she always had the upper hand.

I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much it grated on my nerves. Not once did I meet her eyes. Not once did I let her see how badly she was getting under my skin.

Instead, I focused on the mirror, watching my own reflection, trying to cling to the remnants of composure. I could almost pretend that I wasn’t trapped in this web of tension, but I wasn’t fooling anyone—least of all, Paige.

She didn’t let it go. Her presence shifted, darker, closer. I felt the heat of her body pressing against mine, her chest just barely touching my back, and I bristled at the contact. But I didn't move, didn't flinch. I wouldn’t let her have that.

Her hands slid around my waist, just above the hemline of my mini skirt. The warmth of her touch made my skin prickle, my breath hitching slightly as she pressed her body further against me.

Every movement was calculated, deliberate. Her hands were claiming me, possessive in the way they moved, gripping the soft curve of my waist with just the right pressure. My heart raced, but I didn't show it. I wouldn't show it.

I let her. I let Paige think she was winning, let her believe she had me right where she wanted me. Her kisses, slow and feather-light, trailed along my skin, familiar, almost too familiar. I knew what this was. I knew the drill.

She wanted control, wanted to be the one in charge, and I was giving her that—just for a moment. But deep down, I was already ahead. I always was.

I kept my silence, my body still, my expression neutral, and I could practically hear her self-satisfied smirk. She took my lack of response as confirmation.

"Did I hurt your feelings, baby?" Her voice, dripping with honeyed mockery, made my pulse spike as she pressed a kiss to where my neck met my shoulder.

The way her lips felt against my skin should have been comforting, but instead, it ignited something darker, something more dangerous. She was playing a game, and I was letting her think she was winning, letting her think she had the upper hand. But all I had to do was wait.

Paige didn’t give me any time to breathe. In one swift motion, she turned me in her arms, so I was facing her now, my back pressing up against the edge of the vanity table with a jolt that made my breath catch.

The shift was urgent, messy, the kind of passion that made the air between us thick with anticipation. I didn’t flinch, though. Instead, I stayed still as she pressed her hips against mine, the pressure making me bite my lip to hold back a reaction.

Her hands began to roam, tugging, gripping, finding familiar places that made my body betray me.

I could feel the way she took pleasure in it—the way I let her touch me, let her feel me respond to her. My hands gripped the edge of the vanity behind me, fingers curling against the cold wood.

Paige’s lips found their way back to my neck, and I let her—let her think that she had me, that I was melting into her touch, that I was submitting so easily to whatever game she wanted to play.

I tilted my head back, giving her more access, playing into the illusion, letting her think she was in control. But it was all a lie. I knew exactly what I was doing.

Her kisses were relentless, tracing sweet spots along my neck that made my breath hitch and my body tremble.

Her hands slid around to grip my ass through the fabric of my skirt, and I couldn't suppress the soft noise that slipped past my lips—one she loved, one she craved.

Paige was a menace, always knowing exactly where to touch, how to make me fall into this web of tangled emotions, of lust and anger and everything in between.

Her lips trailed up my neck, slow, deliberate, marking their territory, moving toward my jaw. The warmth of her breath on my skin made my chest tighten, but I could feel the moment approaching, the moment when I would stop this game.

Just when her lips were about to claim mine, I opened my eyes, my gaze slicing through the thick haze of desire like a blade through silk.

I tilted my head to the side, deliberately slow, a teasing pout curling at my lips—a cruel mimicry of surrender. Our mouths were barely a breath apart, the ghost of contact lingering in the air between us.

If it had been any other night, I would have caved, let her take what she wanted, let myself get lost in her touch. But tonight wasn’t any other night. Tonight, I was the one pulling the strings.

Paige froze, her breath hitched, her eyes flickering with confusion, frustration—searching for confirmation, for any sign that she still had me wrapped around her finger. But I refused to give her that satisfaction.

“I’m not your toy, baby,” I murmured, my voice a quiet storm, steady and unwavering. The weight of my words settled between us like a final warning.

For a moment, nothing existed but the shallow, ragged cadence of our breathing. I watched the disbelief flicker in her eyes, the realization creeping in like a slow-moving tide, threatening to pull her under.

She didn’t move at first. But then, the smirk she always wore like armor cracked, faltering, and I pushed her back—gently, yet firm enough to carve a space between us, a boundary she had never encountered before.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, her lips parted slightly in stunned silence. My gaze stayed locked onto hers, heavy with something she wasn’t used to seeing in me—control. And worse—rejection.

A slow smirk ghosted across my lips as I turned away, pivoting toward the vanity behind me. Paige wasn’t far enough for there to be real distance, so when I leaned forward, fixing my reflection with careful precision, the curve of my ass hovered dangerously close to her front—just barely not touching.

A whisper of temptation. A reminder of what she wouldn’t have tonight.

I adjusted my hair, smoothed my lipstick, acting as if her presence didn’t unnerve me in the slightest. The silence behind me was deafening, thick with unsaid words, unfinished games.

Satisfied, I straightened, meeting her eyes in the mirror, the corner of my mouth twitching with something smug and unforgiving. I turned, stepping past her, my fingers barely grazing the fabric of her sleeve as I moved toward the door.

Pausing in the doorway, I glanced back just once, my voice laced with something light, but sharp enough to leave a mark.

“You know where the exit is.”

And with that, I was gone.

The air outside the dressing room was thick, suffocating, despite the hum of excitement still pulsing beneath my skin. The second the door clicked shut behind me, sealing her inside,

I exhaled—a slow, deliberate release of breath that did little to steady the riot inside me. The hallway stretched ahead, a blur of dim, flickering lights and the distant hum of voices, but I moved through it like I was weightless, like my body hadn’t fully caught up to the gravity of what I’d just done.

I left her there—just like she had left me a thousand times before.

The symmetry of it should have satisfied me, should have made the ache in my chest shrink, but it didn’t. Instead, it spread—slow and creeping, like ink seeping into paper.

A stagehand passed by, tossing me a wide grin. “Insane show, Y/N. You killed it.”

I nodded, murmuring a thanks that barely scratched the surface of my lips. Their words felt distant, muted by the steady pounding of my heartbeat. My hands, wrapped in rings that glinted under the fluorescent lighting, flexed at my sides, still buzzing from the way she had looked at me.

Paige, sitting there like she had all the time in the world, like she had been expecting me to cave—to melt under her gaze the way I always had before.

But tonight, I hadn’t melted.

Tonight, I had watched the cracks form in her armor, had seen the exact moment realization settled in—that she no longer held the leash she thought she did. That I wasn’t hers to summon at will.

I made my way through the labyrinth of the backstage corridors, my heels clicking against the polished floors.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat, perfume, and something electric—an aftershock of the show still clinging to the walls. But none of it compared to the static lingering on my skin, the ghost of her gaze burning into me long after I had walked away.

The night unraveled in a blur after that. The dressing room, the press, the distant hum of a celebration I couldn’t bring myself to care about. People talked, laughed, congratulated me, but I wasn’t there. Not really.

Because in the back of my mind, Paige was still sitting on that leather couch, still staring at the door I had walked out of, still replaying my words like a cruel, looping melody.

I’m not your toy, baby.

I wondered if she had stayed there for long, if she had run her hands through her hair in frustration, if she had exhaled sharply the way she always did when things didn’t go her way. If she had sat in the silence, replaying every moment between us with that same restless, hungry energy I had spent years suffering under.

And then the days stretched into weeks.

Paige didn’t call.

Didn’t text.

But she didn’t need to. Because I knew she had seen it.

The internet had erupted like an uncontained wildfire, speculation running rampant in the wake of my performance. Every move, every lyric dissected, pulled apart, devoured by fans and gossip columns alike.

The video of me on stage went viral within hours—the way I sang with fire in my voice, like the words had been ripped from my ribs, like I needed this to be heard.

The analysis was relentless.

"Did you see the way she looked toward the VIP section? SHE WAS SINGING TO SOMEONE." "The way Y/N sang that line… she meant that. You could feel it." "Purple lace bra. PAIGE’S FAVORITE COLOR. The way she moved during that part? She knew exactly what she was doing." "Paige was in the crowd. You think she didn’t feel that?? That wasn’t just a song; that was a message."

The evidence stacked, theory after theory, fans pulling together every little thread like detectives unraveling a scandal.

Then came the videos of Paige at my concert—sitting in the shadows of the VIP section, her eyes locked on me like a predator watching its prey.

She hadn’t moved much, hadn’t reacted outwardly, but the cameras had caught enough. The sharp set of her jaw. The tight grip on her knee. The way her chest had risen just a little too sharply when I had turned in her direction.

I should have ignored it. Should have turned my phone off, drowned out the noise, let the world do what it did best—talk.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I let myself scroll. Let myself watch the videos, read the tweets, trace over every blurry, stolen moment that confirmed what I already knew.

She had felt it.

I pictured her in some dimly lit room, scrolling through the same chaos, lips pressed into a thin line, fists clenching as she watched the world speculate about us.

Wondering if she was regretting every moment that led up to this—the push and pull, the endless games, the times she had left me in bed, tangled in sheets and longing, only to disappear without a word.

Well, now she knew what it felt like.

And yet…

I missed her.

Not in the soft, romanticized way people spoke about heartbreak. Not in a way that felt poetic or tragic.

I missed her like a craving, sharp and unrelenting. Like something I had been forcibly weaned off, left to suffer the withdrawal.

I missed the way she would’ve laughed at all this—at the internet’s obsession, at the way people were tearing their hair out trying to figure out what we both already knew.

I missed the way she would have leaned in, breath hot against my ear, whispering, "Look what you did, baby."

But I wouldn’t break first.

She had spent years teaching me patience, teaching me the pain of waiting, of wanting. Now, it was her turn.

I stood in front of my mirror, makeup wiped clean, skin bare, exhaustion weighing heavy in my bones. My reflection stared back at me, lips curling at the edges with something dark, something smug.

You know where the exit is.

I wondered how long it would take before she found herself standing at my door.

𖥔 J'S JOURNAL 𖥔

Dear sweets,

this was a quick write--- well more of a get done to test the waters fic. But, here's my first Paige Buecker's fic <3

Not sure if I should leave it as it is or write a second part and make y'all happy...

Anyway's please let me know :)

P.S my main account is: @angelshxt. Thought the wifey deserved a separate blog, so here it is :p

xoxo,

#paige bueckers x fem!reader #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers x y/n #paige bueckers x you #paige bueckers #paige bueckers x singer!reader #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers imagines #Spotify

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novaursa · 8 months ago

Text

The Wolf's Flame

- Summary: When you take your son flying, Cregan keeps fires warm for your return.

- Pairing: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is only daughter of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is bonded to a dragon. These events happen after Fires That Never Freeze. To read all parts in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 4 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @daeryna @21-princess

Your fingers gently trace the downy softness of Alysane's silver hair, a mirror of your own. Her tiny eyelids flutter as she breathes steadily against your chest, her warmth a comfort in the quiet of the nursery. The light filtering through the windows casts a soft glow, making the strands of her hair shimmer like moonlight on water. She stirs slightly, letting out a small, contented sigh, and you can't help but smile, though it is tinged with sorrow.

You can still vividly recall the first time Jace held your son, Killian. He had been so careful, so reverent, as if the boy was made of the finest glass.

"He's got your spirit," Jacaerys had said, cradling Killian in his arms with a grin that could have brightened the darkest day. "And a bit of Cregan's stubbornness too, I reckon. He's going to be a strong one."

You remember how his brown eyes had softened, his usual warrior's stoicism giving way to a tenderness that was rare to see in him. You had laughed then, a light, joyful sound that echoed in the stone halls, lifting the spirits of those around you.

But now, that memory is a dagger to your heart. Jace is gone, another brother taken by the cruel hands of war and treachery. The Battle of the Gullet claimed him, like it claimed so many others, leaving behind only a hollow ache where once there had been warmth and love.

Your grip on Alysane tightens ever so slightly, as if you can protect her from the world that has already taken so much from you. She shifts in her sleep, her tiny fists clenching, and you wonder what kind of life she will have in this world that seems so determined to tear your family apart.

The door creaks open softly, and you glance up to see Cregan standing in the doorway, his gaze heavy with unspoken thoughts. His presence is a comfort, a solid anchor in the storm of your emotions. He steps into the room, his boots barely making a sound on the cold stone floor.

"She's beautiful," he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion as he comes to stand beside you. His hand comes to rest on your shoulder, a warm, steadying presence. "Just like her mother."

You smile faintly at his words, but it's a fragile thing, easily broken. "She reminds me of Jace," you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. "The way he looked at Killian… it was as if he could see all the good in the world reflected in him."

Cregan's jaw tightens, and he nods, his eyes darkening with shared grief. "Jacaerys was a good man," he says after a moment, his voice low and filled with respect. "He would have been proud to see how you're raising our children, Y/N. Proud of the mother you've become."

His words are a balm, easing the sting of your loss, even if only slightly. You lean into him, resting your head against his chest, drawing strength from his steady heartbeat. "I just wish he were here to see them grow," you admit, your voice thick with unshed tears. "To see the family we’re building…"

Cregan wraps his arms around you, careful not to disturb Alysane, who remains peacefully asleep in your arms. "We'll make sure they know who he was," he promises, his voice strong and resolute. "We'll tell them stories of their uncle Jace, of his courage, his kindness. He won't be forgotten."

You nod, a tear finally slipping free, tracing a path down your cheek. "I just miss him so much," you confess, the words breaking like waves against the shore.

"I know," Cregan whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

For a long moment, the two of you stand there in the quiet of the nursery, holding each other close, sharing the weight of your grief. Alysane stirs again, and you look down at her, at the peaceful innocence on her tiny face. She is a beacon of hope, a reminder that even in the darkest times, life continues, new stories begin.

As you gaze at your daughter, you feel a small spark of determination flicker within you. You will protect her, protect Killian, and ensure they grow up knowing the love and legacy of those who came before them.

"I'll make sure they know," you whisper, more to yourself than to anyone else. "I'll make sure they remember him."

Cregan nods, his grip on you tightening just slightly, a silent promise that he will stand by you, no matter what. Together, you will keep Jace's memory alive, woven into the very fabric of your children's lives, a legacy of love and courage that even death cannot erase.

The chill of the northern wind bites at your cheeks as you stand in the courtyard of Winterfell, the ancient stones of the castle walls towering around you. The sky above is a pale, wintry blue, the kind that stretches on endlessly, promising the first snows of the season. Thraxata, your beloved dragon, is a dark silhouette against the sky, her massive form casting a shadow over the courtyard as she awaits you with the patient stillness of a creature who knows her place in the world.

Cregan stands nearby, holding Killian in his arms. Your son's violet eyes are wide with excitement, his small hands clutching at the fur-lined collar of his father's cloak. His breath comes in quick, excited puffs, visible in the cold air, as he watches you secure the last of the straps on Thraxata's saddle.

"Is Mama ready?" Killian asks, his voice high with anticipation, his gaze flicking between you and the towering dragon.

"Almost, little wolf," Cregan replies, his deep voice softened with affection. He adjusts his hold on Killian, allowing the boy to lean forward slightly, getting a better view of the magnificent creature before him.

You finish tightening the final strap and turn to face them, your heart swelling with love at the sight of your son’s eager face. "She's ready," you confirm, walking over to them with a smile that feels more natural now, more present. The cold air feels invigorating, as does the promise of the flight ahead.

Killian wiggles in Cregan’s arms, his excitement barely contained. "Can we fly now, Mama? Please?"

You chuckle at his enthusiasm and reach out to take him from Cregan, who hands him over with a tender smile. "Of course, we can, little one," you say, holding Killian close for a moment before lifting him up to press a quick kiss to his forehead. "But you must hold on tight, alright? Just like we practiced."

Killian nods eagerly, his little hands gripping your cloak as you turn to face Cregan. Your husband’s grey eyes are filled with warmth, the kind that always makes you feel grounded, no matter how high you fly. He steps closer, wrapping an arm around your waist as he bends down to press a kiss to your lips, a slow, lingering gesture that speaks of love and longing.

"Fly safe," he murmurs against your lips, his breath warm in the cold air. "And bring him back to me in one piece."

You smile against his mouth, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze. "Always," you promise, your voice soft but filled with the certainty that comes from years of shared battles and shared love. "We'll be back before the sun sets."

With a final kiss, you turn back to Thraxata, your heart thudding with a mix of excitement and the familiar rush of anticipation that always accompanies a flight. You cradle Killian with one arm as you approach the great beast, who lowers her massive head in greeting, her violet eyes shimmering with intelligence and recognition.

“Hello girl,” you whisper, your free hand brushing against her polished obsidian scales, which glimmer faintly with hues of violet and blue in the sunlight. Thraxata rumbles in response, a sound that vibrates through the ground beneath your feet, as if she’s sharing in the excitement of the day.

With practiced ease, you swing yourself up onto the saddle, positioning Killian in front of you. His small hands reach out instinctively to grasp the pommel, and you secure him with a careful, reassuring grip. He giggles with delight as he feels the warmth of Thraxata’s body beneath him, the thrill of the impending flight already bubbling over.

“Ready?” you ask, your voice a blend of both motherly concern and the thrill of the adventure ahead.

“Ready!” Killian exclaims, his voice filled with a joy so pure it sends a spark of warmth through you, despite the cold.

With one last glance at Cregan, who watches you with that same steady look, you give Thraxata the command to take flight. The dragon responds immediately, her powerful wings unfurling with a sound like thunder. She launches into the air, her great body rising smoothly from the ground as the wind rushes past you, carrying the scent of pine and snow.

The world below falls away quickly as Thraxata soars upward, the chill of the wind tugging at your hair and cloak, but the cold is nothing compared to the exhilaration of the sky opening up before you. Killian’s laughter rings out, a bright, joyous sound that echoes across the open sky. He turns his head back to you, eyes wide with pure wonder. “Mama, we’re flying! Look, we’re really flying!”

You tighten your grip on him, feeling the steady thrum of Thraxata’s heart beneath you, the power of her wings carrying you higher, above the walls of Winterfell and the endless expanse of the North. “Yes, we are,” you say, your voice filled with the same awe you see reflected in your son’s eyes. “Just like I did with my mother when I was your age.”

The dragon’s flight is smooth, a testament to the bond you’ve shared since her hatching in your cradle. She’s been with you through every trial, every loss, and every victory. Now, she carries your son just as faithfully, as if she understands that he is a part of you, a continuation of your legacy.

As Winterfell grows smaller beneath you, you feel a sense of peace settle over you. Up here, with the sky stretching out infinitely above and the world below far removed, it’s easy to forget the weight of your grief, the loss of Jace, the uncertainty of the future. Up here, there is only the sound of the wind, the warmth of your son in your arms, and the steady, powerful beat of Thraxata’s wings.

You glance down at Killian, whose eyes are now glued to the horizon, a look of pure wonder on his face. “What do you see, little one?” you ask, curious to hear his thoughts.

“Everything, Mama,” he breathes, his voice filled with awe. “I can see everything.”

You smile, leaning down to press a kiss to his temple. “Then let’s see where the wind takes us, my brave little dragon rider.”

As Thraxata glides effortlessly through the sky, you let yourself enjoy the moment, the rare freedom it offers, the bond between mother and child, between rider and dragon. And for a time, as the cold wind whips past and the world falls away beneath you, you are simply Y/N Velaryon, a daughter of House Targaryen, a mother, a wife, and a rider of dragons. The rest of the world can wait until your feet are back on solid ground.

Cregan Stark watches as Thraxata’s obsidian-black form rises higher into the sky, the great dragon’s wings beating with a rhythm that reverberates in his chest. He stands in the courtyard of Winterfell, eyes locked on the shrinking figures of his wife and son as they ascend into the endless blue, until they become little more than a speck against the pale sky. The wind whips through the courtyard, carrying with it the scent of pine and the distant promise of snow, but Cregan remains still, his gaze unwavering as long as they are visible.

There’s a sense of awe and pride that fills him every time he watches Y/N with her dragon. Even after years of seeing her soar above the battlements, it never fails to stir something deep within him. She is a true daughter of the Targaryen line, a force of nature bound to the skies, and it amazes him that she is his—his wife, the mother of his children.

As Thraxata and his family disappear from sight, he finally lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, a mix of contentment and longing. He knows she’ll be back before long, but there’s always that small pang of separation, as if part of him takes flight with her every time she ascends into the heavens.

With a final glance at the now empty sky, Cregan turns and heads back toward the Great Keep. The stone walls of Winterfell rise imposingly around him, offering a stark contrast to the boundless sky from which he has just watched his wife and son disappear. The weight of his responsibilities returns to him with each step, grounding him in the reality of the world below.

As he enters the Great Hall, the warmth of the hearth fires greets him, a welcome change from the crisp air outside. The hall is quiet this time of day, the usual bustle of Winterfell subdued, with most of the household attending to their duties. He makes his way down the familiar corridors, his boots echoing softly on the stone floors, until he reaches the chamber where his daughter, Alysane, is being tended to.

The door is slightly ajar, and as he steps inside, he is greeted by the sight of a nursemaid cradling the infant in her arms. Alysane is awake, her bright violet eyes—so much like her mother’s—tracking the nursemaid’s movements with the curious intensity only a baby can muster. The soft, cooing lullaby being sung to her halts as the nursemaid notices Cregan’s entrance.

“Lord Stark,” she says with a respectful dip of her head, adjusting her hold on the child. “The little lady has been a delight today, though I daresay she misses her mother already.”

Cregan crosses the room in a few long strides, his gaze softening as he looks down at his daughter. “She’ll have her back soon enough,” he replies, his voice a low rumble of reassurance. “Let me hold her.”

The nursemaid carefully transfers Alysane into his arms, and Cregan feels the familiar, grounding weight of his daughter settle against his chest. She’s so small, so delicate, and yet she has a strength in her grip that makes him smile every time she reaches out to grasp his fingers. Alysane’s eyes, so much like Y/N’s, meet his, and he can’t help the rush of love that fills him.

“Have you been good for the nursemaid, little one?” he asks, his tone lighter, more playful as he gently rocks her. Alysane coos in response, her tiny fists waving in the air as if to say, Yes, Papa, I’ve been very good.

“She’s taken to her feeding well, my lord,” the nursemaid informs him, a smile tugging at her lips as she watches the interaction. “And she seems to enjoy the warmth of the fire. Perhaps she takes after her mother in that regard.”

Cregan chuckles softly, nodding. “She has the blood of the dragon in her, no doubt. But she’s a Stark, too. She’ll grow to love these cold winds, just as we do.”

He spends a few more moments with his daughter, savoring the simple joy of holding her, of feeling her small heartbeat against his chest. It’s a different kind of peace than what he feels when he’s with Y/N, but no less profound. Alysane is a part of them both, a perfect blend of fire and ice, and he treasures these quiet moments with her.

After a while, he gently hands Alysane back to the nursemaid, who resumes her gentle rocking and humming. “Thank you,” he says, his voice warm with gratitude. “Keep her close to the fire. The day will grow colder before it ends.”

The nursemaid nods. “As you wish, my lord.”

Cregan leaves the chamber, his thoughts now turning to the evening ahead. The wind outside has picked up, and he knows Y/N and Killian will appreciate a warm welcome when they return. He heads toward the Great Hall once more, this time with purpose in his stride. The fires need to be tended, more wood brought in, and the hearths stoked to a roaring blaze. Winterfell might be a cold, unforgiving place at times, but it was also a home—a sanctuary for his family—and he would see to it that they returned to warmth and comfort.

As he reaches the Great Hall, he calls out to a nearby servant, a young man quick on his feet. “We’ll need more wood for the hearths,” Cregan instructs, his tone commanding but not unkind. “Bring in what you can carry and see to it that the fires are stoked high.”

The servant nods eagerly, hurrying off to fulfill the request. Cregan moves to the main hearth himself, where the fire is already burning but not nearly to the level he desires. He takes up a heavy iron poker and stirs the embers, watching as the flames leap higher, their glow reflecting off the stone walls.

As the fire roars to life, filling the hall with a warm, golden light, he steps back, satisfied with his work. The crackling of the flames, the scent of burning wood, and the comforting heat are all reminders of why he fights, why he endures. It’s for these moments—for the quiet, peaceful evenings after the storms have passed, when his family is safe and together under one roof.

He can almost hear Killian’s excited laughter already, the way his little boy’s voice fills the hall with joy whenever they return from a flight. He imagines Y/N’s smile, the way it lights up her entire face, and how her silver hair catches the firelight as she steps inside, Killian in tow, both of them flushed from the cold and the exhilaration of the sky.

The servant returns with an armful of wood, and Cregan helps him stack it near the hearth. The warmth is already spreading through the hall, driving away the chill that had begun to settle as the day waned. He can feel the sense of home building around him, the very thing he’s fought to protect, to preserve for those he loves most.

With the fires now blazing, he takes a moment to himself, standing in the center of the hall and letting the warmth seep into his bones. It’s a simple pleasure, but one he doesn’t take for granted. The flickering light of the flames plays across his face, casting shadows that dance along the stone walls.

He glances toward the door, knowing it will soon swing open, admitting his wife and son back into the safety and warmth of Winterfell. He’s ready to greet them, to hear about their flight, to listen to Killian’s breathless recounting of the view from above and to feel the reassurance of Y/N’s presence beside him.

As he waits, the fire crackling at his back, Cregan Stark feels a deep sense of contentment. There’s a storm coming, as there always is in the North, but for now, his world is warm, his heart full, and his family is safe. And that is all he could ever ask for.

The warmth of the fire mingles with the lingering heat of your bodies, still flush from the passion that had just consumed you both. You lie nestled in the soft, thick furs of your bed, the heavy pelts providing a cocoon of warmth against the biting cold that lurks just beyond the walls of Winterfell.

Cregan's strong arm is draped around you, his hand tracing lazy, soothing patterns on your bare back. Your head rests on his broad chest, rising and falling with each steady breath he takes. The intimacy of the moment is profound, the kind of peace that only comes after such intensity, when every barrier has been stripped away, leaving only raw, unfiltered affection in its wake.

His fingers slide through your silver hair, untangling the strands that had become tousled during your lovemaking, and you feel a contented sigh escape your lips. The connection between you is tangible, a bond forged not only in love but in shared trials, in the promises whispered in the dark and the strength you find in one another.

"Sometimes," you begin softly, your voice barely more than a murmur in the quiet of the room, "sometimes I wish I could be down there, in the thick of it, fighting alongside my mother. Facing the Greens with fire and blood, like we were meant to."

Cregan’s hand stills on your back for a moment before he resumes his gentle caresses. He knows how deeply the conflict weighs on you, how much you struggle with the separation from your mother and the battles you were born to fight. "You’re a warrior at heart, Y/N," he says, his voice low and full of understanding. "It’s in your blood, in your very soul. But you’re here now, and there’s strength in that too—in being the heart of this family, in raising our children with the knowledge of who they are and where they come from."

You nod against his chest, taking comfort in his words. It’s not easy to be away from the fight, to know that your family is out there, risking their lives while you remain here, safe in the North. But Cregan is right—there is strength in what you’re doing here, in the life you’ve built together, in the legacy you’re creating.

"I know," you whisper, tilting your head to press a soft kiss to his chest, right above his heart. "I know. But I’m grateful, Cregan. For this, for you, for everything we’ve found here in Winterfell. It’s more than I ever imagined for myself."

He shifts slightly, turning so that he can look down at you, his grey eyes dark and intense as they meet yours. There’s a tenderness there, a love so deep it nearly takes your breath away. "You’ve brought light to this place, Y/N," he says, his voice filled with conviction. "You’ve made it a home, not just for me, but for everyone within these walls. You are the heart of Winterfell now, just as much as you were born both of Dragonstone and Driftmark. And I will always be grateful for that, for you."

You smile up at him, a warmth blooming in your chest that has nothing to do with the fire. "And I, for you, my love," you reply softly, lifting your hand to trace the strong line of his jaw, feeling the roughness of his beard beneath your fingers. "I never thought I could find such peace, such happiness, in a place so far from the warmth of the South. But here with you, it feels like I’ve found something even better. Something that feels like home."

He leans down to capture your lips in a slow, lingering kiss, one that speaks of love and promises, of the future you’ll face together. When he pulls back, his gaze is serious, his expression thoughtful. "Winter will come soon," he says, his voice taking on a more somber tone. "The snow will fall heavier, and the North will sleep beneath its blanket of white. But when the spring sun melts the snow, when the rivers flow again and the ice recedes, the North will rise. And we will march south, to deliver the justice that has long been owed. Just as I promised you, Y/N. The time will come."

You see the resolve in his eyes, the fire of his conviction, and it stirs something within you—a spark of hope, of purpose. You’ve always known that the North was a place of endurance, of long winters and even longer memories. But with Cregan by your side, you also know it is a place of honor, of loyalty, and of promises kept.

"And I will be ready," you say, your voice firm with determination. "We will be ready. For whatever comes."

He nods, the tension in his expression easing as he presses another kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there as if to seal the promise between you. "But for now," he murmurs against your skin, "we have this. These moments, this peace. And we will hold on to it for as long as we can."

You close your eyes, letting his warmth and the steady beat of his heart lull you into a state of calm. The world outside can wait for now—the battles, the struggles, the uncertainties of the future. Here, wrapped in Cregan’s arms, you find solace, a reprieve from the weight of the world, and the strength to face whatever comes next.

As you drift off to sleep, cocooned in the warmth of the furs and the security of Cregan’s embrace, you feel a deep sense of contentment settle over you. The future may hold its challenges, but in this moment, all is well. You are together, and that is all that matters.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd cregan #hotd x female reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #cregan x you #cregan x y/n #cregan x reader #cregan stark

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stargazedwinchester · 1 month ago

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ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ `catcall, sam winchester ༘♡

summary: sam protects you when you're vulnerable. word count: 747 pairing: sam winchester x fem!reader warnings: touching without consent, light sexual assault

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Your friend asks, hesitation in their voice. You nod. “Yeah, go. It’s two minutes away.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. I’ll call you when I’m home.” You show them a warm, assuring smile. You’re thankful for them. Not everybody can say they have people they can rely on, even if it’s waiting with you for two minutes for a taxi.

They smile back at you, walking down the path, disappearing into the hustle and bustle.

Town is busy, more-so than normal. You keep your bag clutched under your shoulder and your phone tight to your chest. You glance down at your phone, keeping your head low. The last thing you want is some weirdo approaching you.

“Nice boots.”

The voice makes your stomach drop. You look up. A guy, maybe 5’10”, blonde with a cocky smirk spread across his face. His eyes drag over you, slow and deliberate.

“Bet they’d look nice laying on my shoulders.”

Your throat tightens. Your words snare, catching like prey in a spider’s web. “What?” You spit, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion and disgust. He stops in his tracks, his friend chuckling behind him. Like this is funny. Like it’s a joke.

“What’re you gonna do?” He asks, the words lingering like an underlying threat. There’s no one else here to back you up, no one to protect you in case something happened. You move back toward the wall behind you.

“No one’s here.” He begins, “No one’s here to protect you.”

He’s sly. The tone in his voice rough and harsh, his body almost flush against yours. Your pulse pounds in your ears, a cold wave runs down your back. Your brain is screaming at you to do something—anything—

But the words tangle in your throat.

His fingertips trace up the side of your thigh, the lace of your dress lifting as he moves higher, higher—

“Get off me, you fucking prick.” You retort, staring at him dead in his eyes. He gazes at you as if it’s your fault. But he doesn’t move.

“I fucking said,” you repeat, “get. The. Fuck. Off. Me.” You threaten, but your body doesn’t budge. It’s like you’re still frozen in place, trapped behind an ice wall.

“Hey,” another voice greets to your left. Terrific. You look over. A mammoth sized man walks up to you, a red Stanford hoodie frames his broad shoulders and messy mousey brown hair covers his brows. He points to the guy hovering over you. “You know him?” He asks, smirking ever so slightly. “N-no, I-”

And that’s enough for him to square him in the jaw. His friend tumbles backwards, in shock at what’s just happened. He stands there as the guy in the hoodie shoves him hard, sending him to the ground. You stand there in terror, as he lays a couple more punches on his face, causing him to bleed. You can’t help but watch, though, as this is exactly what these kinds of sons of bitches deserve. The hoodie guy stands up, wiping a small splatter of blood from his cheek. The mark stays there and he pushes his hair out of his face.

“You okay?” He asks you, and you nod profusely. “Y-yeah, I don’t even know what to say. Thank you.”

You look up at him, a gentle smile appears on his face, his eyes glossy as if he’s either drunk or having a tough night, too.

“Don’t mention it.” He grins, holding out his hand. You shake it. “Sam.”

“Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N. How’re you getting home?” He questions, and you look to your right, noticing your taxi had been there this whole time. The driver looks a little off-guard, but who wouldn’t be after seeing a fight?

“That’s my taxi.” You point over to it, and he walks with you. The friend of the guy is assisting him in standing up, but the other is wafting him away.

Sam walks you over to your taxi and opens up your door. “Get home safe, yeah?”

“I will. Thank you.”

Sam glances at you once more, before shutting the door behind you. The taxi sets off.

“You know that guy?” He asks you, looking at you through the rear-view mirror.

“That’s Sam. I just met him.” You reply, glancing back at the driver.

“Good kid. We need more of him.”

You look down at your thighs, still clutching your phone in your hand.

Yeah, and fewer bystanders like you.

#supernatural #spn #supernatural imagines #spn imagines #sam winchester #sam winchester imagines #supernatural imagine #spn imagine #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester x you #sam winchester angst #sam winchester meet cute #sam meet cute #sam angst #spn angst #supernatural angst

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littlelamy · 6 months ago

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Reader request with Rafe. Maybe she breaks down sobbing in the middle of sex and he has no idea why, thinking he hurt her. Her reasons aren’t bad. As someone that has only been with one person personally, and he was such a selfish uncaring lover, I legit think I would start sobbing in bed if someone was loving and caring towards me and treating me like the most precious thing. Love your writing <3

a/n: thank you so much for requesting...hope you like it!!⭐️

the room was drenched in golden light, the low hum of the bedside lamp the only sound as rafe’s hands roamed your body. his palms were warm against your skin, calloused but soft in their touch, tracing a path down your sides like he was discovering you for the first time. his lips followed, pressing kisses that started at your neck and trailed lower, his breath hot and deliberate.

“you okay?” he murmured, the deep rasp of his voice sending a shiver down your spine. his fingers hooked under the hem of your shirt, brushing the bare skin of your stomach as he paused to look at you.

your lips parted, and though you nodded, the tightness in your throat betrayed you. “yeah,” you whispered. “i’m okay.”

rafe studied your face, his brow furrowing slightly before he leaned down to kiss you again. it wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate, but slow, sensual, the kind of kiss that set your skin alight. his tongue slid against yours, coaxing a soft moan from your lips as his hand moved lower, slipping between your legs.

“god, you’re so wet for me,” he murmured, his voice thick with awe and desire. his fingers stroked you gently, building heat that spread through your entire body, but there was nothing hurried about the way he moved. "my baby, so perfect." he almost purred, everything about him was deliberate, like he wanted to savor every second of this—every second of you.

you arched into his touch, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders as he pressed his body closer to yours. his hips rocked against you, his movements careful but firm, and the pressure sent sparks of pleasure through your veins.

but that was the moment it all became too much.

your chest tightened, your breath hitching as the weight of everything crashed down at once. the tenderness, the patience, the care—it was everything you’d never known, everything you thought you didn’t deserve. and suddenly, the tears came.

a sob tore from your throat, raw and unbidden, cutting through the heated silence like a knife.

rafe froze instantly, his body going rigid above you as his eyes snapped to your face. “y/n?” his voice was sharp with concern, his hands pulling back like he was afraid he’d hurt you. “what—did i—did i hurt you?”

you shook your head, tears spilling freely now as you pressed a trembling hand to your face. “no,” you managed, your voice cracking. “no, you didn’t hurt me. i’m sorry, i—”

“hey, hey,” he interrupted, his hands hovering near your arms but not quite touching. his voice softened, though there was still a note of panic in it. “don’t apologize. just tell me what’s wrong. did i do something? did i push too far?”

you shook your head again, harder this time, your tears soaking into the pillow beneath you. “no, rafe. it’s not you. it’s… it’s me.”

his brow furrowed, confusion flickering across his face as he searched your eyes for answers. “what do you mean? you’re crying, baby. i don’t know what to do.”

the raw vulnerability in his voice broke something inside you. you forced yourself to take a shaky breath, your hands trembling as you reached up to touch his face. “i’m crying because you’re too good to me,” you admitted, the words tumbling out in a rush.

rafe blinked, clearly caught off guard. “what?”

“you’re too good to me,” you repeated, your voice barely above a whisper. “i’ve only ever been with one person before, and he… he didn’t care about me. not really. it was always about him—what he wanted, what he could take. i got used to that, and now… now you’re here, and you’re so kind and patient, and i don’t know how to handle it.”

his expression shifted then, his confusion melting into something softer, though there was an edge of anger in his jaw—anger directed not at you but at the person who had made you feel this way.

“y/n,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “that guy? he didn’t deserve you. not for a second. and i don’t care how long it takes, i’ll spend every moment proving to you that you’re worth everything. do you hear me?”

tears spilled down your cheeks again, but this time they weren’t born of pain. his words wrapped around you like a balm, soothing wounds you hadn’t realized were still bleeding.

“i don’t want to scare you off,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“scare me off?” rafe repeated, his tone incredulous. he cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away your tears. “y/n, you couldn’t scare me off if you tried. i just… i want you to feel safe with me. always.”

“i do,” you said quickly, your voice breaking with urgency. “i do feel safe. that’s why i’m crying, rafe. because i’ve never felt this before. no one’s ever… treated me like this before.”

his lips pressed to your forehead, lingering there as he exhaled deeply. “then we’ll go slow,” he murmured against your skin. “as slow as you need. or we can stop altogether. whatever you want, baby.”

“no,” you said firmly, your hands curling around his wrists to keep him close. “i don’t want to stop. i just… needed to tell you. needed you to know why i’m like this.”

his eyes searched yours for a long moment before he nodded, his lips curving into the softest smile. “okay,” he said simply. “but promise me, if you ever need to stop, you’ll tell me. no matter what.”

“i promise,” you whispered, your voice steadier now.

he kissed you again, but this time it was different. there was still care in the way his lips moved against yours, but now there was something deeper, something hungrier. his hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him as his hips rolled forward, the friction sending a gasp spilling from your lips.

“you feel so fucking good,” he groaned, his breath warm against your neck as he pressed wet kisses to your skin. his body moved against yours in slow, deliberate thrusts, his hands roaming your body like he couldn’t get enough.

and this time, you let yourself feel it. you let yourself drown in the way he touched you, the way he held you like you were the most precious thing in the world. because for the first time in a long time, you believed that maybe—just maybe—you were.

taglist: @namelesslosers @princessslutt @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @starkeysprincess @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @kissrotten @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @aariahnaa @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog

#rafe x you #rafe x reader #rafe outer banks #rafe fic #rafe cameron x reader #rafe #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron #rafe imagine #rafe obx #rafe cameron blurb #rafe fanfiction #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron obx #outer banks rafe

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scarletcomalies · 6 months ago

Note

may i request something??. nat having f!r in all fours, taking her w her strap. all soft, vulnerable. please? need her domestic possessive side (you can create a plot if you're up to, but that's pretty much it!!)

all of you, all of me

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Word count: 1,608

Warnings: 18+ content, strap-on usage (R. Receiving), fluff.

A/N: Thanks for the request, anon! Hope you enjoy <3

After a dangerous yet successful mission, Natasha Romanoff returned home to you, her loving partner.

Your thumbs gently ran over the once smooth skin of your beloved, now stained by a few scrapes and bruises to which she gave very little importance.

The woman before you was immune to any stimuli, except your caresses, or you as a whole, for that matter. It was obvious from the way she sighed and closed her eyes as soon as you had placed your hands on her cheeks.

After each life-risking mission, the only thing she needed was to feel your touch, and she wouldn't let some silly superficial wounds to deprive her of this delight.

"Oh, baby," you cooed, tracing a path with your hands from her cheeks to her ears, ending at her red hair. It was tangled, and you could even feel the powdery texture of dirt within. "Would you like me to run you a hot bath? Or would you prefer me to bring the first aid kit? Or would you rather rest?"

"Don't 'baby' me," Natasha grumbled, pulling you closer and wrapping her hands around your waist. "I'm not fragile, I don't need to rest," her tone indicating irritation, as if it was an insult that you simply offered to give her the care she deserved after such hard work. “I just want you, okay?” She added lowly.

You hummed disapprovingly, scratching her scalp in circles to soothe her usual high-defense demeanor. She rolled her eyes slightly, and threw her head back so your hands could continue to run through her scarlet locks.

"You're like a kitten," you commented with a chuckle. "A kitten that needs a bath, a massage, and a good night's sleep."

"I don't need any of that, you know I've had worse," she protested, stubbornness shining through. And it's true, Natasha's been through worse. Much, much worse. "What I need is to get you out of these clothes in the next five minutes...—" she stated, her lips moving to kiss your neck as her hands gripped your hips, pushing you tighter against her.

"Whatever makes my love feel better," you agreed, and it was your turn to tilt your head back to give her more access to that area, to let her slowly give in to the intoxicating need for more of you.

Natasha had given you a fair share of small heart attacks whenever she returned unexpectedly from missions at the most ungodly, unpredictable hours known to human kind. The first time, you had given her a bruise on her torso when you felt an extra weight on your shared bed, thinking someone had broken in.

It took some time for you to become accustomed to the fact that an additional weight no longer signified danger, but it rather indicated the return of your partner from another successful mission.

"I want to touch you," she pleaded, mewled against your ear.

"Well, nothing's stopping you," you whispered, your voice full of desire.

"Damn right!"

One of the things that characterized your relationship with the redhead was her ability to elicit a strong physical response from you, regardless of whether you had been sleeping, or had experienced a rough day, she just had to say the word, and that was sufficient to prompt a readiness on your part to comply.

Natasha's hands exerted pressure on your shoulders, guiding your back against the matress. She observed your body from an arm's distance, her eyes tracing the outline of your skin.

"You have no fucking idea how badly I've longed for this," she murmured.

Her lips captured yours for the first time in three weeks, her tongue exploring your mouth passionately. Said kiss was deep and hungry, chanelling all the longing that had built up during her absence. Her hands desperately traced the contours of your skin beneath your shirt, roaming up and down your body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

As the kiss intensified, Natasha nibbled at your bottom lip, pulling it gently between her teeth before releasing it with a soft pop, proceeding to begin a journey southward, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck. She paused at your pulse point, sucking the sensitive spot, and in consequence, eliciting a soft moan from you.

Her hands, meanwhile, had found their way to the hem of your shirt, slowly pushing it upwards. As more of your skin was exposed, the redhead's kisses followed, intending to cover every inch of your upper body with her touch.

She paused for a moment, looking up at you with a brief vulnerability.

"I've missed this," she whispered, her voice raspy with need. "And I've missed you."

With a gentle but quick maneuver, Natasha gently turned you onto your stomach, her hands caressing your back as she did so. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of your pants, slowly sliding them down your legs.

When the fabric pooled at your ankles, her hands returned to your hips. She leaned down, pressing a trail of kisses along your exposed skin, from the small of your back up to your shoulder blades.

"You're beautiful," she murmured against your skin, her breath warm and even comforting in comparison to the already present winter. "So perfect,” she added, as she lifted your hips to position you on all fours.

Natasha sat back on her heels, her eyes never daring to leave your ready body as she slowly began to undress. She started with her sweatshirt, pulling it off to reveal her toned abdomen and the simple black bra underneath. Her fingers then moved to the clasp behind, unhooking it with ease as the garment fell down.

Subsequently, she stood up, taking out of her pants, letting them pool at her feet before stepping out of them. Her underwear followed, sliding down her toned legs to join the rest of her discarded clothing on the floor.

Now fully naked, Natasha stood before you, her soft skin adorned with a few bruises and scratches. Perhaps it was wrong to admire the marks of such physical exertions such as her soul-draining missions, but there was something undeniably magnetic about the way she wore those bruises with pride.

She allowed you a moment to appreciate the sight of her, a small smirk playing on her lips at the obvious hunger you displayed shamelessly.

She then reached for a strap-on dildo from the bedside drawer, and fastened it around her hips, your all-time favorite black silicone perking up and adding to her already alluring form. And so, like a lioness eyeing her prey, she positioned herself behind you.

She started slowly, easing the toy into your hole with gentle, shallow thrusts. Your body welcomed the intrusion, already primed and prepared due to her earlier teasing.

Her hands then gripped your hips firmly as she began to thrust with more force, each movement driving the toy deeper. The room filled with the sound of your combined moans and the rhythmic slap of skin against skin.

"Mine, mine, mine," she remarked accompanied by each thrust, making you cry out in response.

They became deeper, more forceful, each movement causing waves of pleasure to drown you more and more, threatening to leave you breathless and defeated. The only sound present in the room was that rhythmic, familiar one of skin meeting skin.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" You cried out, followed by high-pitched gasps.

Your eyes were shut tight, your hands gripping the bedsheets with such force your knuckles turned white, anchoring you to reality.

Your back arched involuntarily, pushing you further onto Natasha, seeking more, always more. The clenching on your walls, and the tension on your core built to an almost unbearable level, teetering on the edge of oblivion.

Hers, hers, hers. Utterly and completely hers. With each thrust, each caress, each burning kiss, she once again branded you as her own.

“Nat! M’ gonna…” You weren't able to finish the sentence, for your body went rigid, as the pleasure of release overcame you.

Nevertheless, her hips continued to move, albeit slower and gentler as she helped you ride out your orgasm.

Her lips found the sensitive skin of your back, trailing soft kisses along your spine. This moment, this connection with you, was what she had craved during every lonely night on during her mission.

The feeling of your skin against hers, tte sound of your voice, your addictive scent that was uniquely you, it all reminded her of why she fought so hard to come back home in the first place.

As the aftershocks subsided, you collapsed onto your back, and Natasha took the opportunity to snuggle against you, the last bit of energy gone.

She had the presence of mind to be slightly embarrassed by how quickly and intensely you'd managed to affect her, excessively so, if she was being honest. But she was too drained, too satisfied to care much about it.

"Feeling better, baby?" You asked, your voice soft and filled with affection. Your fingers traced lazy patterns on her back, soothing and filled with tenderness.

Instead of a verbal response, Natasha managed a weak nod against your skin.

Her hands moved languidly, cupping your breasts in a delicate manner that contrasted with her earlier fervor. She let out a contented sigh as she settled her face more firmly between them, nuzzling against your soft skin. She could perfectly fall asleep right there and then, all spent and completely at peace.

Natasha pressed a soft kiss to your chest, right above your beating heart. It was a wordless expression of gratitude, of love, of coming home. No matter where her missions took her, no matter what dangers she faced, you would always be her sanctuary, her safe haven in a world of disaster.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x reader #natalia alianovna romanova #marvel #marvel fanfiction #scarlett johansson

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pucksandpower · 7 months ago

Text

Cool Down

Day 13 → Temperature Play 💋 Charles Leclerc

Warnings: 18+ content

Kinktober Masterlist

The room is dimly lit, just the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting warm shadows across the walls. You’re curled up in bed, tucked under a cozy blanket, lost in the book you’ve been reading for the past hour. The apartment is quiet, the kind of peaceful silence that you cherish after a long day.

But then, the door creaks open, and Charles steps in, carrying something in his hands. You glance up from your book, eyebrows raising in curiosity.

“Charles?” You say, a hint of amusement in your voice. “What are you doing?”

He’s holding a bowl, and it’s only when he gets closer that you realize what’s inside.

Ice cubes.

He grins at you, that boyish, mischievous smile that always sends a thrill through you. “Just trust me, mon amour,” he says, setting the bowl down on the nightstand.

You close your book, placing it on the bedside table, your curiosity piqued. “What are you up to?”

Charles sits on the edge of the bed, his eyes gleaming with playful intent. “You’ll see. But first,” he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a soft, teasing kiss, “do you trust me?”

There’s a spark in his eyes, something that makes your heart skip a beat. “Of course I trust you,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Good,” he murmurs, his lips grazing your ear as he speaks. “Then lie back and relax.”

You do as he says, leaning back against the pillows, your eyes following his every move. Charles reaches for one of the ice cubes, holding it between his fingers. You watch as he brings it to his mouth, his lips closing around it, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Charles?” You ask, your voice tinged with both anticipation and confusion.

He swishes the ice cube around in his mouth, the cold sensation evident on his face. When he finally pulls it out, his breath is cool against your skin as he leans in close. “Trust me,” he whispers again, his voice low and reassuring.

Your heart is pounding in your chest as Charles kisses you, his lips cold but his kiss searing. It’s an odd combination — cold and hot all at once — but it sends a shiver down your spine, making you gasp softly against his lips.

“Relax,” he murmurs against your mouth, his hand sliding down your body, the ice cube leaving a trail of coolness in its wake. “Let me take care of you.”

You nod, though it’s more of an instinctive response than anything else. Your body is already reacting to his touch, to the way his cold lips press against your neck, to the way his fingers trace along your skin, leaving a cold, wet path.

Charles moves slowly, deliberately, savoring each moment. He places the ice cube back in his mouth, letting it melt slightly before pressing his lips against your collarbone, the cold shock making you gasp.

“Charles …” you breathe, your fingers tangling in his hair as he kisses his way down your body.

He doesn’t say anything, just hums against your skin, the vibration sending another shiver through you. His mouth is cold, but the way he touches you, the way he kisses you — it’s like fire against ice.

When he reaches your chest, his tongue flicks out, teasing your bud with a cold, wet touch. You arch into him, your breath hitching at the sensation. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before, the coldness making every nerve ending come alive.

“Oh …” you gasp, your hands gripping the sheets as he takes his time, his mouth working over your peak, his teeth grazing gently. The contrast between the cold and the warmth of his mouth is almost too much, making you squirm beneath him.

“Do you like that?” Charles murmurs, his voice husky as he moves to your other nipple, giving it the same attention, his breath cool against your skin.

You can only nod, your voice lost to the sensations coursing through your body. You’ve never felt anything like this before, the way the cold makes everything more intense, more vivid.

Charles seems to sense it, his hands moving lower, the ice cube tracing along your stomach, making you shiver and gasp with each touch. “I want to make you feel good,” he says, his voice filled with a promise that makes your pulse quicken.

“You already are,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling with the effort of holding back the moans that want to escape.

He smiles, that confident, knowing smile that always makes your heart flutter. “Not yet,” he says, his hand sliding lower, the ice cube leaving a trail of cold water along your skin. “But I will.”

Before you can respond, Charles takes another ice cube and moves lower, his mouth following the same path his hand just took. The coldness against your most sensitive areas makes you gasp, your back arching off the bed.

“Charles …” you moan, your hands gripping his shoulders as he starts to kiss his way up your inner thighs, the ice cube in his hand tracing patterns against your skin. The sensation is overwhelming, the cold making everything more intense, more immediate.

He doesn’t rush, taking his time, letting the coldness build up, the anticipation driving you crazy. You can feel the wetness between your thighs, the cool air against your heated skin only intensifying the feeling.

“Tell me what you want,” Charles whispers, his breath cool against your skin, his eyes dark with desire as he looks up at you.

“I want … I want you,” you manage to say, your voice breathless, your body trembling with need.

Charles smiles, a slow, satisfied smile that sends another shiver down your spine. “I know,” he says, his hand sliding up your thigh, the ice cube cool against your skin. “But I want to hear you say it.”

“I want you,” you repeat, your voice stronger this time, your need for him overpowering everything else.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding against you, the coldness making you gasp, your hips bucking involuntarily. He chuckles softly, his thumb brushing against your most sensitive spot, the coldness making you cry out.

“Charles … please,” you beg, your voice trembling with the need for release, for him.

He doesn’t respond with words, just presses his lips against your inner thigh, his teeth grazing the skin, the coldness of the ice cube making everything more intense. His hand moves, fingers sliding inside you, the cold sensation making you moan loudly.

The pleasure is overwhelming, the coldness making every touch, every movement feel magnified, more intense. Charles’ mouth follows, his tongue flicking against your clit, the coldness sending shockwaves through your body.

You’re lost in the sensations, in the way his fingers move inside you, the way his mouth works against your bundle, the coldness making everything more intense, more immediate. You can feel the tension building, your body trembling with the need for release.

“Let go,” Charles murmurs, his voice husky, his fingers moving faster, his mouth working harder. “Let go for me.”

His words are your undoing, the tension snapping as you cry out, your body convulsing with the force of your release. Charles doesn’t stop, his fingers and mouth working you through it, drawing out every last bit of pleasure.

When you finally come down, your body spent and trembling, Charles moves up, his lips capturing yours in a slow, deep kiss. “You did so well,” he murmurs against your lips, his hand sliding through your hair.

You can only nod, too exhausted to form words, your body still trembling from the intensity of it all. Charles smiles, that soft, tender smile that always makes your heart skip a beat. He pulls you close, wrapping his arms around you, the coolness of his skin still lingering.

“Sleep, mon amour,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’m here.”

You nestle into him, your body relaxing against his, the warmth of his embrace comforting. The last thing you hear before sleep takes you is Charles’ soft voice, whispering words of love and reassurance, his arms holding you close.

***

The early morning light seeps through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. The air is still, filled with the quiet hum of a new day beginning. You’re sound asleep, curled up under the covers, your body still humming from the night before.

Charles is awake, though. He’s lying beside you, his gaze fixed on your peaceful face, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.

He’s been awake for a while, just watching you sleep, his mind replaying the events of last night. The way you responded to him, the way you trusted him completely, letting him push you to new heights of pleasure. It’s a memory he wants to keep, to treasure. But there’s something else on his mind now, something that makes his smile widen with a mix of mischief and anticipation.

Charles glances over at the nightstand where the bowl of ice cubes has been replenished. He reaches for it, careful not to disturb your sleep. He selects one, the coldness sending a familiar thrill through him. The idea had come to him in the middle of the night, a spontaneous thought that had planted itself in his mind, growing into a plan he’s eager to put into action.

He shifts closer to you, his movements slow and deliberate, not wanting to wake you just yet. The ice cube in his hand is already starting to melt slightly, the cold water trickling down his fingers. Charles pulls back the covers just enough to reveal your lower half, his gaze hungry as he takes in the sight of you.

You’re still fast asleep, unaware of the game Charles is about to start. He brushes the ice cube against your inner thigh, watching as your body reacts instinctively to the cold, a small shiver running through you. You don’t wake up, though, just shift slightly in your sleep, your legs parting ever so slightly.

Charles takes that as an invitation, a sign that you’re ready for him, even in your sleep. He moves the ice cube higher, pressing it gently against your entrance, his breath catching as he watches it start to melt against your warm skin. Slowly, he pushes the ice cube inside you, his eyes darkening with desire as he feels the coldness slide into your heat.

You stir slightly, a small sound escaping your lips, but you don’t wake up. Not yet. Charles holds his breath, his hand resting against your thigh, holding you apart so he can watch as the ice melts inside you. It’s a slow process, the coldness spreading through you, your body reacting even in sleep.

He leans in closer, his eyes fixed on the spot where the ice is melting, watching as your body flutters around it, your muscles tightening instinctively against the cold intrusion. Charles can feel the heat of your body working against the ice, melting it faster, making it disappear inside you.

“Shh, mon cœur,” Charles whispers, his voice soft, soothing, even though you’re still asleep. “Let it happen.”

He knows you’re close to waking up, can see it in the way your breathing changes, in the way your body starts to respond more actively. But he holds you there, one hand still keeping your legs apart, the other brushing against your skin, urging you to stay in that hazy, dreamlike state for just a little longer.

The ice is almost completely melted now, just a small, cold sliver left inside you. Charles watches, his own breath coming faster, matching the rhythm of your soft, sleepy breaths. He knows you’re on the edge, teetering between sleep and wakefulness, between the dream world and the sharp, intense reality he’s about to pull you into.

He waits until the very last moment, until the ice is nearly gone, until you’re on the brink of waking up. Then, Charles leans down, his breath cool against your most sensitive spot, and blows a soft stream of air against your clit.

Your eyes fly open, a gasp escaping your lips as the sensation hits you all at once. The cold, the warmth, the way your body has been primed, ready to unravel — it all crashes into you in a wave of intense pleasure. You don’t even have time to process what’s happening before you’re falling apart, your body arching off the bed, your hands clutching at the sheets.

“Charles!” You cry out, your voice raw with the suddenness of it all, the intensity of the pleasure.

Charles doesn’t respond with words, just presses his lips against your inner thigh, his teeth grazing your skin, his hands holding you steady as your body convulses with the force of your release. He watches you closely, his eyes dark and intense, taking in every detail, every tremor that runs through you.

You’re gasping for breath, your mind spinning, trying to catch up with what just happened. It’s only when the last waves of pleasure start to subside that you realize what Charles has done, the remnants of the ice melting away inside you, leaving a lingering coolness that makes you shiver.

“Charles,” you breathe, your voice shaky, but filled with a mix of amazement and something else — something darker, more primal.

He finally looks up at you, his smile both tender and teasing. “Good morning, mon amour,” he says, his voice low and smooth, like velvet. “Did you sleep well?”

You can only stare at him, still trying to catch your breath, your heart racing from the sudden intensity of it all. “What … what did you do?” you manage to ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Charles chuckles softly, his hand brushing against your thigh, soothing the trembling that still lingers there. “I thought I’d wake you up in a … special way,” he says, his tone laced with mischief.

You shake your head, trying to find words, but they escape you. All you can do is stare at him, at the man who just made you come undone before you were even fully awake.

“Was it too much?” He asks, his voice softening slightly, a hint of concern creeping into his tone. “I didn’t mean to-”

“No,” you interrupt, shaking your head more firmly this time. “No, it wasn’t too much. It was just …” You trail off, searching for the right words. “It was intense.”

Charles smiles at that, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Good,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your lips. “That’s what I wanted.”

You close your eyes, sinking into the kiss, into the warmth of his mouth against yours, the way he soothes you after pushing you so far. It’s a gentle kiss, one that lingers, grounding you after the intensity of what just happened.

When he pulls back, Charles looks at you with that same tender, yet mischievous expression. “How do you feel?” He asks, his voice soft, almost reverent.

You take a deep breath, letting it out slowly, trying to find your footing again. “I feel … incredible,” you admit, your voice trembling slightly, but filled with truth.

His smile widens, and he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his touch gentle, loving. “I’m glad,” he says simply, his voice full of affection.

You look at him, really look at him, and you feel a surge of emotion, of love so strong it almost takes your breath away. You reach out, cupping his face in your hands, pulling him closer so you can press your lips to his, a kiss that’s filled with everything you’re feeling.

Charles kisses you back, his hands sliding around your waist, pulling you into him, deepening the kiss until it’s all-consuming, until there’s nothing left but the two of you, tangled together in the morning light.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing heavily, your foreheads pressed together, the air between you charged with something electric.

“You’re amazing,” you whisper, your voice filled with awe and love.

Charles smiles, a soft, humble smile that makes your heart ache with how much you love him. “So are you, mon amour,” he says, his voice filled with sincerity.

For a moment, you just lie there, wrapped up in each other, letting the quiet of the morning surround you. There’s something so intimate, so perfect about this moment, something that makes you feel like you could stay here forever, just the two of you.

But then Charles pulls back slightly, his eyes gleaming with that familiar mischief again. “I have an idea,” he says, his voice playful.

You raise an eyebrow, already feeling a mix of excitement and trepidation. “What kind of idea?”

He grins, a wide, boyish grin that makes you smile despite yourself. “How do you feel about breakfast in bed?” He asks, his voice filled with playful enthusiasm.

You laugh softly, shaking your head at him. “Breakfast in bed sounds perfect,” you say, your voice warm with affection.

Charles’ eyes light up at that, and he leans in to give you one last kiss before he pulls away, slipping out of bed with a spring in his step. “Stay here,” he says, his voice full of excitement. “I’ll be right back.”

You watch as he heads for the door, a smile tugging at your lips. There’s something so endearing about the way he’s always full of ideas, always thinking of new ways to surprise you, to make you smile.

As he leaves the room, you sink back into the pillows, your body still humming with the aftereffects of his earlier attentions. You close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself bask in the warmth of the morning, in the love that fills every corner of the room.

You think about the way Charles makes you feel, the way he pushes you to new heights, both physically and emotionally, always knowing exactly what you need — even before you know it yourself. There’s a comfort in that, a deep trust that makes you feel safe and cherished, like you’re the only person in the world that matters to him.

As you hear the sounds of Charles moving around in the kitchen, you smile to yourself, feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude.

This is what love feels like, you realize. It’s in the small moments, the quiet mornings, the laughter, and the tenderness. It’s in the way he surprises you, in the way he loves you without holding back.

It’s him.

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