#Romance/Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Fluff

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Of Duty and Desire | Ominis Gaunt x Reader

Extra Long One-Shot

This is my first Ominis fic, I hope I do all you Ominis lovers proud :') The plot was heavily inspired by these (1, 2, 3) artworks by @tamayula-hl !!! (they literally create such gorgeous work, I fuckin swoon every time I see them ;.;)

Summary: After years apart, you are forced into a marriage with Ominis Gaunt, someone you once considered a close friend but who pushed you away after Sebastian's breakdown in fifth year. The rift between you has left years of unresolved tension, and on your wedding night, the two of you are forced to confront the fallout.

Words: ~15,700

Tags: Explicit Smut, Pureblood Politics, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, Drama, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, No Hogwarts House

The Gaunt family estate loomed like a mausoleum under the pale light of the crescent moon. Its dark stone walls seemed to absorb the light, and the air inside carried a suffocating chill that no roaring fire could banish. Ominis sat alone in his room, the only illumination coming from a single flickering candle perched on his desk. The Gaunt family ring, heavy and ornate, turned slowly between his fingers.

Tomorrow, it would sit on your finger.

His chest tightened at the thought of the ceremony, the vows, the look he imagined you’d give him as you forced to say, I do.

He wished you still saw him the way you did all those years ago, back when you’d shared tentative smiles across the library table, before fifth year shattered everything between you. He’d thought you were remarkable then—fierce, clever, and endlessly loyal to the people you cared about. He still thought so, though the years had placed a wall between you.

A wall he had built.

His hands clenched into fists, the metal of the ring biting into his palm. He could still hear the echo of your argument, that fateful day when Sebastian’s descent into darkness had reached its breaking point. You had wanted to help him, to pull him back, while Ominis had been determined to stop him at any cost. The two of you had stood on opposite sides of a chasm, and in his frustration, his fear, Ominis had pushed you away.

But now? Now, you were to be his bride.

The marriage contract had been delivered two months ago, the parchment sealed with the Gaunt crest and bearing the oppressive weight of their expectations. You had no grand family name, no wealth or influence to rival the Gaunts, but you had something far more valuable: ancient magic.

Your family had no power to refuse the offer—not when the Gaunts were known for their ruthlessness. You’d been given no choice, and neither had he.

Ominis exhaled a shaky breath, setting the ring down on the desk with a soft clink.

The bitter irony was that you had been right about Sebastian all along, and Ominis had destroyed what you had years ago for nothing.

Ominis had doubted Sebastian—had believed that his obsession with dark magic would destroy everything and everyone in its path. But eventually, with time and a painful amount of humility, Sebastian had begun to heal. He had come back to them. He had proven himself capable of change, of redemption.

And you’d seen it all along.

Ominis swallowed hard, the guilt twisting his stomach. You’d begged him to give Sebastian a chance, to believe in the person he could be. But Ominis had been too blinded by his own fears to listen. His distrust had cost him Sebastian’s friendship for years. And worse, it had cost him you ever since.

He rested his head in his hands, elbows braced on the desk. The weight of it all was suffocating.

The memory of your expression when you’d arrived at the Gaunt manor two days ago lingered in his mind.

Even without the clarity of sight, he could feel the weight you carried. He’d “seen” the stiffness in your shoulders, the faint tremor in your hands as you’d clasped them in front of you, your head turning ever so slightly toward him as his parents greeted you. For a fleeting second, he’d felt your attention, a thin, aching tether between you.

But you hadn’t spoken to him. Not then, and not since.

What could he possibly say to make this better? “I’m sorry” was laughable at this point. He was sorry, of course—sorry for every cruel word spoken in the heat of fifth year, sorry for not trusting you, sorry for not preventing you from falling into the Gaunt nightmare—but no apology could undo the damage.

A knock at the door startled him from his thoughts. He straightened, smoothing his hair as if that would make any difference. “Come in,” he called, his voice steadier than he felt.

The door creaked open, and one of the Gaunt family’s house-elves stepped hesitantly into the room. “Master Ominis,” the elf began, its voice trembling, “your bride-to-be is in the garden, sir.”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Why?” he asked, his throat dry.

“She—she is pacing, sir. She looks… upset.“

Ominis nodded, rising from his chair. “Thank you,” he said, though the elf was already retreating, bowing its way out of the room.

You were upset. Of course, you were. Why wouldn’t you be? Tomorrow, you were being forced to marry him and tie yourself to a family that cared only about what they could take from you. And worse, tied to him—a man who had pushed you away when you’d needed him most, who had no right to ask anything of you, least of all forgiveness.

But the thought of you pacing alone in the gardens, trapped in your own swirling emotions, was unbearable. Ominis didn’t know if he could say anything to help, but he couldn’t just sit here and do nothing.

He moved swiftly through the dark corridors, and when he reached the door to the garden, he paused, letting his wand hum faintly to map the space before him. He sensed the vast openness of the ahead, the night air cool against his skin, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and dying roses.

And there you were.

Your silhouette materialized in his mind like a shadow against the darkness. You were pacing, just as the house-elf had said, your movements quick and restless. It was a knife to Ominis’s chest, seeing the person he cared for so deeply reduced to this.

Care.

No, he thought bitterly, that wasn’t the right word. He loved you. He had loved you since before he even understood what love truly was. And that made it all so much worse.

Because you would never love him.

Ominis stood stiffly in the doorway. You hadn’t noticed him yet, too consumed by your thoughts and frantic steps that sent gravel crunching underfoot. But when he shifted his weight, the faint sound of his movement caught your attention. You stopped abruptly, your head turning toward him, your posture instantly stiffening.

“Ominis,” you said, your voice calm but sharp like the edge of a blade. “…Couldn’t sleep?”

He hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to answer. He recognized the tension in your tone, the way you carefully shielded yourself with polite indifference. It was the same tone you’d used with his parents when you arrived, the one where he’d sensed every ounce of resentment you’d tucked away beneath a mask of cordiality.

“No,” he said softly, stepping further into the garden. “I was told you were out here.”

“Of course,” you replied, your voice carrying a detached sort of humor. "Not allowed a moment of solitude, hm?"

Ominis flinched inwardly, his wand picking up on the subtle tremor in your hands as you folded your arms across your chest.

“I thought… perhaps you might want to talk,” he said carefully, his voice low.

“With you? No,” you replied quickly, brushing off the suggestion as though it didn’t matter. You turned your back to him. “Talking to you won’t help.”

Ominis winced but didn’t respond. The silence stretched between you, the night air growing heavier with each passing second.

“I’m sorry,” he said at length, the words feeling inadequate even as they left his mouth.

You laughed, soft and humorless, as you turned back toward the fountain. “Sorry,” you echoed. “Of course. And that makes it all better, does it?”

He took a hesitant step closer, his wand pulsing faintly to track the distance between you. “I mean it,” he said. “I wish things were different.”

“Do you?” you asked, glancing at him over your shoulder. ““Because last time I checked, you’re the one who pushed me away."

Ominis froze, the accusation cutting through him like a blade. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat.

You turned fully to face him now, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. “Do you think I don’t remember?” you asked, your voice trembling slightly with the weight of unspoken emotion. “The things you said to me? The way you looked at me, like I was… like I was the problem?”

“That’s not what I—” Ominis started, but you cut him off with a sharp laugh, one that lacked any real humor.

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, your voice quieter now but no less firm. “Nothing either of us says now will change anything. And tomorrow, we’ll stand in front of your family and say the words they want to hear."

You turned abruptly, your footsteps crunching against the gravel as you moved past him. “Goodnight, Ominis,” you said, your tone clipped and distant as you made your way back toward the manor.

He turned slightly, his wand picking up the blur of your retreating figure as you disappeared into the cold, sterile halls of the estate. The faint trace of your magic lingered in the air, turbulent and raw, and he hated himself for not being able to ease it.

~~~

Morning came like a thief, stealing away the fragile moments of sleep Ominis had clung to in the restless hours of the night. The Gaunt manor, usually oppressive in its quiet, was unnaturally alive with activity. House-elves scurried through the halls, their frantic movements punctuated by the clinking of silver trays and hurried whispers. His parents had spared no effort to make the day grand, though their motives were far from sentimental.

Even worse, his extended family had descended like vultures, eager to witness the union that would bind your ancient magic to the Gaunt bloodline. Even Ominis’s older brother, Marvolo, had returned from his work abroad for the occasion, his mere presence enough to sour the air. Ominis had always loathed Marvolo—arrogant, cruel, and every bit the model Gaunt heir their parents had hoped for. The rest of the family wasn’t much better. Aunts, uncles, and distant cousins he resented filled the halls, their haughty laughter echoing off the cold stone walls.

Ominis moved through the chaos like a ghost, his mind as numb as his steps. He had imagined marrying you a hundred—no, a thousand—times, but never like this.

In his dreams, you loved him back. Your smiles were soft and unguarded, your laughter warm, your hand reaching for his not out of duty, but out of choice. But those dreams had always been fragile, built on a shaky foundation of what-ifs and hope he’d never dared voice aloud.

You wedding band weighed heavily in his pocket, a cruel reminder of the vows he would unwittingly force you to take. He told himself he was doing this to protect you—that he was backed into a corner with no way out. It wasn’t a lie. His parents had made their expectations clear: defy them, and Ominis would pay the price. The Gaunts had always been dangerous, even to their own blood. He’d seen it with his older cousins, the ones who had been disowned or “disappeared” for daring to cross the family.

And that didn’t even encompass what they might do to you.

The sharp knock on his door startled him. Ominis straightened instinctively, brushing a hand over his hair as if readying himself for battle.

“It’s me,” Sebastian’s voice called through the heavy wood, rough but familiar.

“Come in,” Ominis replied, his voice steadier than he felt.

The door creaked open, and Sebastian stepped inside, his expression a mix of concern and irritation. He was dressed sharply, though his tie was slightly crooked—a detail Ominis would have pointed out if he’d had the energy to notice.

“You look like hell,” Sebastian said, crossing the room and leaning against the desk.

“I feel worse,” Ominis admitted, lowering himself into the chair by the window.

Sebastian tilted his head, scrutinizing Ominis with a sharpness that felt impossible to ignore.

“…You love her, don’t you?” Sebastian asked suddenly, his voice blunt and cutting straight to the point. He had never been one to dance around difficult questions.

Ominis let out a hollow laugh, his hands tightening on the arms of the chair. “What kind of question is that?”

“A simple one,” Sebastian said, standing straighter, arms crossed. “Do. You. Love. Her?”

Ominis sighed heavily, his head tilting back as though seeking answers from the cracked ceiling above. “You already know the answer to that, Sebastian,” he said, his voice low and bitter. “You’ve always known.”

“Humor me,” Sebastian pressed.

Ominis’s lips curled into a humorless smile. “Of course I love her. I’ve always loved her. Since before I even understood what that meant. And you know that. So why ask?”

Sebastian scoffed, fixing Ominis with an unrelenting stare. “Because you’re acting like this is the end of the world. You love her. And now you’re marrying her. She’s about to be your wife.”

Ominis turned his head sharply, his sightless gaze narrowing slightly. “My wife?” His voice rose, edged with frustration. “This isn’t a marriage, Sebastian. It’s a transaction. A cage.” He gestured vaguely toward the window, where the distant hum of laughter and footsteps filled the courtyard. “She doesn’t want this. And she certainly doesn’t want me.”

Sebastian didn’t flinch, his calmness almost maddening. “But you love her,” he pointed out again. “That means you can make something of this. You can try.”

Ominis let out a sharp breath, his hands gripping the arms of the chair so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Try what? To pretend that she doesn’t hate me?” He shook his head, his voice quieter now, but no less filled with anguish. “She does hate me, Sebastian. And why wouldn’t she?”

Sebastian frowned, his expression flickering with guilt. “You were scared. We all were. What happened back then…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t easy for any of us.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ominis snapped. “I made my choices. And now, she thinks I’m no better than my parents.” His voice cracked slightly, the weight of the words cutting deeper than he cared to admit. “She thinks I’m just like them, putting her through this. And maybe she’s right.”

“She doesn’t think that. You’re nothing like your parents,” Sebastian said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And if you’d stop wallowing in self-pity for half a second, you might see that she doesn’t actually hate you.”

Ominis scoffed, shaking his head. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” Sebastian said, beginning to pace the room with his usual restless energy. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you, Ominis. She’s hurt, sure. Angry. But hate? No.”

Ominis leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. “You’re imagining things,” he muttered.

“Am I?” Sebastian challenged, stopping in his tracks to face him. “You’ve spent years convincing yourself she hates you, but did you ever stop to actually talk to her about it? Or did you just decide she hated you because it was easier than dealing with the mess you made?”

The words hit their mark, and Ominis flinched. He couldn’t deny it. He had avoided you for years, too ashamed of his actions to face you properly. He had assumed the worst because it was safer than hoping for anything else.

Sebastian sighed heavily, glancing over at the ornate clock hanging on the wall. The ticking sound, once faint, now seemed to echo in the room like a countdown to inevitability. He ran a hand through his hair, his gaze flicking back to Ominis.

“We’re out of time,” he said flatly. “They’re going to be expecting us downstairs.”

Ominis didn’t move at first, his hands still gripping the arms of his chair. He looked like a man on the edge of breaking, and for a moment, Sebastian considered calling the whole thing off himself. But he knew that wouldn’t solve anything. This wasn’t a fight they could win—not here, not now.

“Come on,” Sebastian urged, his voice softer. “Let’s get this over with.”

Ominis exhaled slowly, the sound heavy with resignation. He stood, his movements stiff and reluctant, his fingers brushing down the front of his suit as though trying to compose himself. His family had ensured every detail of his appearance was perfect—he looked every bit the polished Gaunt heir, the image they demanded. But inside, he felt hollow.

Sebastian gave him a faint nod, adjusting his own crooked tie. “You’ll survive this,” he said with a slight smile. “Everything will work out.”

Ominis didn’t respond, his throat too tight to form words. Instead, he followed Sebastian out of the room, the sound of their footsteps mingling with the distant hum of activity that filled the manor. Every step felt heavier than the last, the anticipation building in his chest like a storm.

The courtyard garden had been transformed into a grand display of pure-blood prestige. Rows of white chairs lined the manicured lawn, and a narrow aisle flanked by enchanted, softly glowing flowers led to an altar at the far end. Ivy climbed the stone arch that framed the altar, its dark green tendrils twisting delicately around clusters of pale blossoms.

Ominis stood at the altar, his back straight and his hands clasped tightly in front of him, his wand tucked away in his sleeve. The suit he wore was immaculate, tailored perfectly to his tall, lean frame. But even as he stood there, a picture of composure, his mind churned with unease.

Beyond him, countless guests sat in waiting—pure-bloods from every corner of their miserable society, their presence a suffocating reminder of the world he had tried—and failed—to escape.

His extended family dominated the seats closest to the altar, their self-satisfied smirks and sharp whispers grating against his already frayed nerves. The Gaunts had arrived in full force, a parade of arrogance and entitlement, each one more intolerable than the last.

Ominis’s parents sat in the front row, their expressions masks of triumph. His mother, draped in rich emerald, surveyed the scene with quiet pride, while his father sat like a statue, his posture rigid, his face a cold, unyielding mask. And then there was Marvolo, lounging casually in his seat beside them, his smirk a permanent fixture as though the entire event were for his personal amusement.

Across the aisle sat the members of your family, their expressions far less composed. Your mother’s hands were folded tightly in her lap, her face pale and drawn as she avoided meeting anyone’s gaze, eyes flicking nervously between the guests and the altar.

The contrast between them and the Gaunts couldn’t have been starker. Ominis’s family were predators, their confidence unshakable, while yours looked like cornered prey. And you… you were the sacrificial offering, the tether between their worlds.

The low hum of chatter faded as the first notes of music filled the courtyard, soft and lilting yet as heavy as a tolling bell. Ominis stiffened, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. This was it. The beginning of the end. The melody floated through the air, a cruel, elegant herald of what was to come.

He couldn’t breathe.

The sound of footsteps against the stone aisle cut through the music, and Ominis’s wand pulsed faintly in his sleeve, mapping the space before him. In his mind’s eye, he saw them—two figures approaching the altar. Anne and Sebastian. The only two friends he had managed to invite to this sham of a wedding. His parents had objected, of course, but for once, Ominis had refused to yield. If they were going to strip away every ounce of choice from this union, he would at least ensure that two people who truly cared about either of you would stand witness.

Anne walked with quiet grace beside her brother, her head held high and her movements calm, even as the weight of the moment pressed down on her. She had always been your rock, and now, she looked every bit the part.

Sebastian, meanwhile, walked with his usual subtle defiance, his jaw clenched as though he were biting back a dozen remarks that would surely have caused a scene.

As the Sallow twins joined Ominis at the altar, the music softened, a momentary pause that signaled what came next.

And then, you appeared.

The air in the courtyard seemed to shift as the music swelled once more, drawing every gaze to the entrance. Ominis’s wand hummed, and for the first time in his life, he felt as though he could truly see.

Shapes and shadows sharpened in his mind, the lines of the archway and the glow of the enchanted lanterns framing you like a painting. Your figure materialized with unprecedented clarity, every detail irreversibly etching itself into his memory.

You were breathtaking.

The soft glow of the lanterns seemed to chase after you down the aisle, casting a warm, ethereal light as you stepped forward, arm looped through your father’s. Your gown was simple yet striking, its flowing fabric a cascade of soft ivory that hugged your figure just enough to suggest elegance without excess.

Your hair was swept into an elegant updo, soft tendrils framing your face and neck, accentuating the graceful curve of your collarbone. The tasteful touch of makeup enhanced your features without overpowering them, the faint flush of color on your cheeks and lips lending you an almost otherworldly glow. You looked every bit the part of a bride—refined, poised, and heartbreakingly beautiful.

Ominis’s heart twisted painfully. Despite everything, despite knowing how wrong this was, he allowed himself a single moment of cruel, fleeting hope. He imagined that this was real. That you had chosen this. That the soft shimmer of your gown, the elegance of your updo, the deliberate grace with which you moved—all of it was for him.

For a heartbeat, he believed it. That you had taken your father’s arm and walked toward him because you loved him. That your choice to stand before this crowd, to become his wife, was born of something true, not forced by the iron will of his family.

But reality was cruel.

He could feel it in the tremor of your hand as you reached the altar, in the absence of warmth in your fleeting glance as your eyes locked with his. There was no joy in your expression, no affection, only quiet resolve and resignation. You weren’t here for him. You were here because you had no other choice.

Your father released your arm hesitantly, his hand lingering for a brief moment as though reluctant to let go. His face was pale and drawn, his jaw tight as he gave you a faint nod. You stepped forward alone, taking your place across from Ominis.

He caught the slight hitch in your breath as the officiant spoke. It was subtle—so subtle that no one else would have noticed—but to him, it felt like a scream. He wanted to reach for you, to close the distance, to bridge the gap he had created all those years ago. But his hands remained at his sides, his palms clammy against the cool fabric of his trousers.

The officiant’s words droned on, his low, measured tone a blur in Ominis’s ears. He could barely hear it over the roaring in his chest, the heavy thud of his heartbeat as he focused entirely on you.

And then the moment came.

“Do you, Ominis Gaunt, take her to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

The words cut through the fog in his mind like a knife. For a fraction of a second, he hesitated, his throat tightening painfully. He could feel his parents’ gaze burning into him, his father’s unyielding authority pressing down like a lead weight. The crowd’s silence was deafening, expectant, suffocating.

His lips parted, and the words tumbled out before he could stop them, heavy and hollow.

“I do.”

The officiant turned to you, repeating the same question.

“And do you take Ominis Gaunt to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Ominis held his breath, his entire body tense as he waited for your response. The pause that followed felt endless, each second stretching into an eternity. For a moment, he thought you might refuse.

But when you spoke, your voice was quiet and steady, though devoid of any joy.

“I do.”

The words hung in the air, final and irreversible. The officiant’s voice rose again, completing the ritual with the formal pronouncement that sealed your fates.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. Mr. Gaunt, you may now kiss your bride.”

Ominis froze.

How had he forgotten about this part? He’d imagined this twisted mockery of a wedding day a thousand times, and yet this moment—the one he had once dreamed of with such hope—had slipped through the cracks of his planning. The girl of his dreams was standing right there, so close he could feel the warmth of you, and now he was meant to kiss you.

His hands twitched at his sides, his breath catching in his throat as he forced himself to move. The crowd was watching, their silence heavy with expectation. His parents’ satisfaction was palpable, his extended family practically giddy at the spectacle. But all Ominis could focus on was you—the tension radiating from your frame, the subtle way your shoulders stiffened as you waited.

He stepped closer, his wand mapping the space between you. His hand hovered near your waist, uncertain, before finally settling there lightly. He could feel the delicate fabric of your gown beneath his palm, the warmth of your body through the material.

Ominis leaned in slowly, his heart pounding so loudly he was certain you could hear it. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Not like this, not with the weight of obligation hanging between you like a curse.

With his eyes fluttering closed, his lips brushed yours in the faintest, most hesitant of kisses. As he expected, you were still—frozen, unmoving, your lips soft but lifeless against his. The kiss was chaste, obligatory, and for a moment, it felt like a dagger to his heart.

And then something expected happened.

You kissed him back.

Ominis’s mind went blank, his senses overwhelmed. It was subtle at first—a gentle press, a shift in the way your lips moved against his. But then it deepened, and the world seemed to explode around him. Fireworks erupted in his mind, a kaleidoscope of sensation, your warmth spreading through him like wildfire.

The taste of your lips, soft and slightly sweet, was unlike anything he had ever known. It was perfect. You were perfect. In that moment, everything else faded away—the oppressive weight of the crowd’s gaze, the suffocating expectations of his family, the years of distance and resentment between you.

His hands tightened instinctively at your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer, and he revelled in the curve of you beneath his fingers. It was everything, you were everything, he had ever dreamed of and infinitely more.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

You pulled away slowly, your movements deliberate, as though reminding both of you that the moment had passed. Ominis’s hands lingered at your waist for a fraction of a second before he let them drop to his sides, his fingers curling slightly as though trying to hold on to the ghost of your touch.

His breath was unsteady as he straightened, his mind reeling. You’d kissed him back.

Why?

Had it been part of the performance? A calculated move to play the part of the perfect bride? Or had it been something else entirely?

He didn’t have time to dwell on it. The officiant’s voice rose again, announcing the end of the ceremony and you were slipping your hand into his. Swallowing hard, Ominis led you back down the aisle.

The crowd rose to their feet, their clapping a dull roar in his ears as he walked with you at his side. Every step felt surreal, the moment between you still crackling like static in his chest.

He didn’t dare look at you. Not now. He wasn’t sure he could handle whatever answer your expression might hold.

But as the two of you passed beneath the ivy-draped arch, stepping into the unknown future that awaited you both, Ominis couldn’t help but wonder if, just maybe, that kiss had been real after all.

~~~

The reception had been nothing short of torturous for Ominis.

If the kiss at the altar had left him confused, the evening that followed only deepened the storm in his mind. Because from the moment you both entered the grand hall where the reception was held, you played the part of the happy bride.

You’d smile at Ominis, soft and convincing, allow him to hold your hand, to rest his palm lightly against the small of your back as the two of you made the rounds, greeting the guests who had gathered to witness your union.

You spoke to guests with grace and poise, weaving stories of your Hogwarts days into the conversation with ease. Tales of late-night library study sessions, Quidditch matches, and the occasional mischievous escapade were all recounted with a fondness that left Ominis reeling.

You spoke of those moments as though they had been golden—untarnished by the years of bitterness and distance that had followed. And for the guests, it was a perfect performance, a portrait of a couple deeply in love, bound not just by obligation but by shared memories and affection.

The guests were relentless in their attention, each one more insistent than the last in prying into your lives. How you met, what your future plans as a couple might be, when you fell in love, was it love at first sight.

Ominis had been stunned at how quickly you answered the last question. You didn’t miss a beat, your lips curling into a soft, polite smile. “Oh, absolutely not,” you said, your voice light with humor. “Our first meeting was… let’s say, less than ideal.”

His stomach twisted at your words, but you pressed on, the ease in your tone disarming the nosy crowd.

“He found me in his personal study spot,” you continued, glancing briefly at Ominis with a glimmer of something in your eyes that he couldn’t quite place. “I’ll never forget how furious he was.”

There were a few chuckles from the guests, and Ominis forced himself to smile faintly, though his mind was racing. He knew exactly what you were referring to. The Undercroft. But you’d never betray that secret, not even after all he'd done to you.

You went on, your tone growing softer, more reflective. “I thought I’d made a terrible first impression. And, well, I had.” A few more chuckles rippled through the group. “But a few days later, he apologized. He didn’t have to—he could’ve just ignored me forever—but he did. And...we became friends after that. It wasn’t easy at first. We’re both… stubborn.” You laughed lightly, the sound so genuine it felt like a blade cutting through the air. “But we figured it out.”

Ominis felt like the ground beneath him was shifting. These weren’t just pretty words spun to entertain the guests or to appease his family. This memory was real. Every moment you described was real.

In fact, he probably knew these memories better than you did, because he had held onto them as tightly as a drowning man clutches a piece of driftwood. They were the only part of you he’d been allowed to keep, and now, here you were, bringing them to life as though the years of distance and pain hadn’t fractured them beyond recognition.

“The moment I realized it was more than just friendship was not long after, right before Christmas,” you continued, your gaze growing distant as though you were looking back into the past. “We’d spent the day shopping in Hogsmeade. The three of us—Ominis, Sebastian, and me.”

Ominis’s heart twisted at the mention of that day. He remembered it vividly, every detail coming to life in his mind as you spoke.

“It had started snowing that afternoon,” you continued, a soft smile curling at your lips. “We’d bought sweets at Honeydukes, browsed the shop windows, even picked up a few last-minute gifts. By the time we made it to the Three Broomsticks, we were freezing.”

The guests chuckled, and Ominis’s lips quirked into a faint smile despite himself. He could almost feel the icy wind again, the way your cheeks had flushed red from the cold.

“And then,” you said, your smile widening slightly, “Sebastian—being Sebastian—managed to spill an entire mug of butterbeer all over me. It was awful, I was absolutely soaked, sticky, and cold.”

More laughter rippled through the group, and Ominis felt a faint heat rise to his cheeks as he remembered the way you’d looked—your expression caught somewhere between exasperation and amusement as you tried to wring out your sleeves.

“But then,” you continued, glancing briefly at Ominis, “he gave me his coat.”

That was true. He had. Though Ominis hadn’t thought much of it at the time—he’d just wanted to make sure you were comfortable and warm. But now, hearing you speak of it, he realized maybe it had meant more than he’d ever understood.

“And not just that,” you said, your voice softening. “He left the Three Broomsticks, in the middle of the snowstorm, and went to Gladrags to buy me a clean set of clothes. He didn’t have to, but he did. And when he came back, he handed me the bag like it was the most natural thing in the world, like it wasn’t a big deal at all.”

Ominis’s throat felt tight, his hands clenching at his sides as he remembered the look on your face when he’d handed you that bag. You had been startled at first, your eyes widening as you glanced between him and the neatly wrapped parcel. Then you’d smiled—a small, genuine smile that had left him momentarily speechless.

“That was the moment,” you said softly, your voice carrying a note of vulnerability that struck Ominis to his core. “The moment I realized he wasn’t just my friend. That he was… more. That I loved him.”

Your words hung in the air, a quiet confession wrapped in the guise of a story for the guests’ entertainment. Ominis could feel every gaze in the room turn toward him, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet any of them. His focus was entirely on you—on the way your voice had softened, the way your smile lingered just a fraction longer than it needed to.

Were you simply using a real memory to bolster your performance? Was this a carefully chosen story to charm the crowd? Or was there a flicker of truth buried beneath the polished delivery?

The rest of the evening passed in a blur for Ominis. The guests continued to press you both with questions, and you answered them all with the same ease and grace. He played his part, too. Smiled when he needed to, laughed when it was expected, but his mind was elsewhere, racing with memories of that day in Hogsmeade so long ago, of the way you’d looked at him then, and the way you’d spoken of it now.

By the time the reception finally came to an end, Ominis was exhausted—not from the physical effort of the evening, but from the mental and emotional toll it had taken.

And now, as the two of you walked through the opulent halls of the hotel where you would be spending your first night as husband and wife, the weight of it all was beginning to crush him.

The sound of your footsteps echoed softly against the marble floors, mingling with the faint hum of distant conversation and the soft rustle of your gown. The hotel was grand, each detail designed to impress, but Ominis barely noticed any of it. His focus was entirely on you—the way you walked beside him, close but not quite touching, your silence stretching between you like a chasm.

Finally, the two of you reached the door to your suite. Ominis hesitated for a moment, his fingers brushing against the ornate handle as he inserted the key.

Exhaling slowly, he turned the handle and pushed the door open. The suite beyond was as opulent as the rest of the hotel—richly furnished, with soft, glowing light and an enormous bed draped in luxurious fabrics. A chilled bottle of champagne sat waiting on a nearby table, two crystal flutes beside it.

The two of you stepped inside, and Ominis’s chest tightened as he shut the door behind you, the finality of the moment settling over him like a weight. Here you were. Alone with him, no audience, no expectations—just the two of you and the silence that neither of you seemed to know how to break.

You moved toward the corner of the room where the house-elves had neatly arranged your bags, the contents folded with meticulous care.

Without a word, you pulled a set of pajamas and your toothbrush from the bag, your movements quick and purposeful. Without meeting his gaze, you turned on your heel and headed straight for the bathroom. The soft click of the door closing behind you echoed through the stillness of the suite, louder than it had any right to be, and Ominis exhaled slowly, releasing a breath he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding.

For a moment, he stood there, motionless, his fingers curling and uncurling at his sides. Then, with a quiet sigh, he began to loosen his tie, the fabric slipping easily from his collar. He tugged it free and let it drop onto the nearest chair before running a hand through his hair. The day’s events replayed in his mind like a loop he couldn’t escape—your words, your smile, the warmth of your laughter, and the kiss at the altar that had left him reeling.

It was too much.

Ominis moved to the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he sat heavily on the edge. He toed off his shoes, one after the other, and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands came up to his face, fingers pressing lightly against his temples as he tried to push the chaos in his mind into some semblance of order.

But there was no clarity to be found. Only questions he was too afraid to ask and doubts he couldn’t shake.

The sound of water running in the bathroom was faint but constant, a reminder that you were just on the other side of the door. He wondered what you were thinking, whether the evening had left you as drained as it had left him. He wondered if you’d meant the things you’d said during the reception, if there was truth hidden in the warmth of your words, or if it had all been part of the carefully orchestrated performance.

More than anything, he wondered what would happen when you came out of that bathroom—if the silence would continue to stretch between you, or if one of you would finally be brave enough to break it.

With a heavy sigh, he sat up, his movements mechanical as he made his way toward his own bag to prepare for bed. He crouched down, his fingers brushing over the neatly packed contents until he found his sleepwear.

He stood, the soft fabric of his dress shirt brushing against his skin as he worked to unbutton it. His fingers moved methodically, one button at a time, but his mind was elsewhere—on you, still behind the closed door, and the way everything about this night felt wrong.

This wasn’t how a wedding night was supposed to feel.

It wasn’t supposed to feel so strained, so heavy. There should have been laughter, warmth, the giddy sort of nervousness that came with embarking on a new chapter together. Instead, there was unrelenting tension. A chasm of unspoken words and unanswered questions that neither of you seemed ready to bridge.

Ominis shrugged out of his shirt, letting it fall to the floor behind him as he reached for the waistband of his dress pants. He unclasped them, the fabric loosening around his waist.

And then the bathroom door opened.

The quiet click of the handle made him freeze, his hands stilling as he turned his head slightly toward the sound.

You stepped out, and for a moment, neither of you moved.

Without his wand, Ominis couldn’t sense the details of your expression, couldn’t see the way your eyes might have widened or the way your lips might have parted slightly in surprise. He couldn’t tell what you were thinking, how you were reacting, and it left him feeling unmoored.

The air between you felt charged, the silence stretching out like a thread pulled taut. He was acutely aware of his state—bare-chested, his dress pants undone and hanging low on his hips. He wondered what you thought of him—what you saw when you looked at him now.

He had an idea of his appearance, of course. His wand’s mapping magic had given him a sense of his own features over the years, an understanding of the angles and planes of his face, the height and shape of his frame. He had been told, more than once, that he was conventionally attractive—sharp, aristocratic features that bore the unmistakable stamp of his bloodline.

But those compliments had always left a bitter taste in his mouth. His pale skin, high cheekbones, and long, slicked-back blonde hair—all of it tied him far too clearly to the Gaunt family, to a legacy he resented with every fiber of his being. Even his tall, lithe frame, lean from years of discipline and sparring practice, seemed more like a reminder of his upbringing than something to take pride in.

And now, standing here in this charged silence, he couldn’t help but wonder what you thought when you looked at him. Did you find him attractive? Or did you see only the Gaunt heir—a pawn in the endless, suffocating game of pure-blood politics?

He had no way of knowing. And for a moment, he almost reached for his wand, desperate for the faint hum of its magic to ground him. But he resisted, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“Sorry,” you murmured softly, your voice breaking the silence. It wasn’t sharp or cold—just quiet, almost tentative.

“N-no,” Ominis said quickly, his voice low and uneven. He straightened slightly, his hands falling to his sides. “I—I should be the one apologizing.”

You didn’t respond immediately, and he could hear the faint rustle of fabric as you shifted, likely clutching your wedding dress tighter against you. “I’m finished in the bathroom, if you want to change in there,” you offered, your tone polite, carefully neutral. “Or… I can just turn around, if that’s easier.”

Ominis’s fingers twitched at his sides, his throat tightening. The absurdity of the situation struck him. You were married, bound by the vows you’d exchanged earlier that day, and yet you could barely manage to exist in the same space without this unbearable awkwardness.

“No, I’ll—I’ll use the bathroom,” he said, his voice tight. “Thank you.”

His toothbrush and pajamas in hand, Ominis disappeared into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. He set his things down on the counter and leaned heavily against the sink, exhaling a shaky breath.

The mirror above the sink offered no reflection, but he didn’t need to see his face to know what he’d find there—a pale, drawn expression, tension etched into every line. He let his fingers trail over the cool porcelain of the sink before reaching to splash cold water on his face, hoping it might clear his mind, if only for a moment.

He quickly changed into his sleepwear and brushed his teeth, though the routine didn’t do much to ease the tightness in his chest.

When he finally emerged, his hair slightly damp from the water he’d splashed on his face, he reached for his wand then stopped in his tracks. The bed, massive and draped in luxurious fabrics, was untouched. Instead, you had set up a makeshift bed on the floor using a collection of spare blankets and pillows.

You were kneeling beside it, smoothing out a blanket, and when you noticed him, you straightened, brushing your hands against the fabric of your pajamas.

“I thought…” you began, your voice trailing off as though you were unsure how to explain yourself. “You should take the bed.”

Ominis blinked, stunned into silence for a moment. “You… you don’t have to do that,” he said quietly, his voice laced with something that sounded almost like guilt. “The bed is yours too.”

You shook your head, the motion subtle but certain. “It’s fine. Really. I’ll be more comfortable here.”

Ominis stiffened, watching you adjust the blankets and pillows as though you could somehow make the situation less absurd. It struck him all at once just how wrong this was. It was your wedding night—a night meant for intimacy and closeness—and yet here you were, offering to sleep on the floor.

Did you hate him that much? That the idea of sharing a bed with him, even in the most innocent sense, was so unbearable?

He couldn't keep quiet.

“I’ll take the floor,” Ominis said, his voice quiet but firm. He stepped closer, his fingers tightening around his wand. “You shouldn’t have to.”

You looked up at him, startled for a moment, before shaking your head. “Ominis, it’s fine,” you said, your tone polite but insistent. “I’ll be more comfortable here. Really.”

“It’s not fine,” he replied quickly. “It’s wrong. You shouldn’t have to sleep on the floor—especially not tonight.”

“It’s not wrong if I’m choosing to,” you countered, folding your arms across your chest. “The bed is yours. I don’t mind.”

Ominis’s frustration began to bubble beneath the surface, his composure slipping. “You don’t have to pretend you’re fine with this,” he insisted, his tone growing sharper despite his efforts to keep it even.

“I’m not pretending,” you shot back. “I said I don’t mind, and I meant it.”

“Why?” Ominis asked, his voice rising slightly. “Why are we doing this? All this… politeness and decorum?”

Your expression shifted, your jaw tightening as you glanced away. “What are you talking about?”

“This,” Ominis said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “The careful words, the pretending that any of this is normal. Why are we bothering? Why are we talking to each other like strangers? There’s no one here to see it. No one to keep up appearances for. It’s just us.”

You stared at him, your expression unreadable. “Maybe because we are strangers, Ominis. We have been for years, haven’t we?”

Ominis froze, your words striking him harder than he expected. He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. You didn’t look away, your expression steady but tinged with something he couldn’t quite place—resignation, perhaps, or maybe sadness.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” you pressed, your voice quieter now but no less pointed. “After fifth year, you made it perfectly clear how you felt.”

He flinched, his jaw tightening as your words sank in. “I was trying to protect you,” he said quietly, his voice strained. “From Sebastian.”

“Don’t,” you said sharply, cutting him off. “Don’t put this on Sebastian. This isn’t about him. This is about you.”

Ominis turned his head slightly, his throat tightening as the weight of your accusation settled over him. He couldn’t argue with it—not entirely. You were right. It was his choice to push you away, though at the time he’d convinced himself it was the right thing to do.

“So no, you weren’t protecting me,” you continued sharply, your voice rising. “You were punishing me.”

He flinched as though you’d struck him, his sightless eyes widening. “Punishing you?” he echoed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and pain. “Why would I—”

“Because you didn’t trust me,” you cut in, your voice breaking slightly. “You thought I was wrong. You thought I didn’t understand, that I wasn’t on your side. So you pushed me away and you’ve done it ever since.”

“No,” Ominis said quickly, shaking his head. “That’s not—”

“Then what is it?” you demanded, taking a step closer, your anger and pain spilling out in equal measure. “Because that’s what it felt like. That’s what it’s always felt like. And now—” Your voice cracked, and you took a shaky breath before continuing. “And now, you’re stuck with me.” You lifted your left hand, the Gaunt family ring reflecting the lamplight. “And trust me, I know this isn’t what you want.”

Ominis froze, the weight of your words taking a moment to settle. And then, he almost laughed. The absurdity of the idea that he wouldn’t want you—you of all people—was almost too much to bear.

He’d imagined it—dreamed of it, hoped for it in the quiet, unguarded moments of his life. For years, he had spent his nights picturing you by his side, your hand in his, your voice soft and full of laughter as you spoke his name. He had clung to the idea of a future with you like a lifeline, even though, due to his own stupidity, it was impossible.

“If anyone doesn’t want this,” Ominis said finally, his voice trembling as he spoke, “it’s you.”

You blinked, your expression shifting from anger to confusion. “What?”

“You’re right,” he said, his grip tightening on his wand as he forced the words out. “You’re right about everything. About what I did, about why I pushed you away.” He swallowed hard, his throat tight. “Even if I didn’t realize it, I did punish you.”

You stared at him, your anger softening into something more complicated, though you didn’t interrupt.

“I’ve given you every reason to hate me,” Ominis continued, his voice breaking slightly, “For what I did to you then, and for what my family has done to you now.” He gestured vaguely at the room around you, at the bands on your fingers, at everything that bound you to him against your will. “I… I know you hate me, and I accept that. I know you hate this—hate us—and I accept that too. But if you think for one second that I didn’t want this—that I didn’t want you—you’re wrong.”

You rose slowly from where you’d been kneeling, your movements deliberate, your frame tense. Your arms hung loosely at your sides, and your gaze settled on him, unreadable. Ominis didn’t move, didn’t speak. The silence between you stretched taut, heavy and unbearable, his breath shallow as he waited, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest.

Then, finally, you spoke, your voice quiet, almost hesitant. “So… you... don’t hate me?”

“No,” he said immediately, the word escaping before you’d even finished. “Never.”

You blinked at him, as though startled by his vehemence. For a moment, he thought that would be the end of it—that you would leave it at that. But then you took a step closer, your voice trembling slightly as you asked, “Then why did you…?”

You trailed off, but he knew exactly what you meant. Why did you push me away for years?

“Because I’m an idiot,” Ominis said, the words escaping him sharper than he intended. His voice cracked slightly as he exhaled shakily, lowering his head in a mixture of frustration and shame. “Because I let fear and pride cloud my judgment. And Merlin, it’s the biggest regret of my life.”

Ominis's throat tightened painfully, the words he’d held back for years clawing their way up to the surface. They pressed against his chest, demanding release, and for once, he didn’t push them down. What was the point? You were already married, bound by vows neither of you could escape—trapped in this twisted arrangement orchestrated by his family. There was no undoing it, no going back.

“Because... because I’ve always loved you,” he stammered, his voice faltering but steady enough to carry the truth. He lifted his head slightly, his sightless eyes turned toward you as though he could see the effect of his words. “Always.”

The weight of his confession hung heavy in the air, and the silence that followed was unbearable. The room felt suffocatingly still, every sound amplified in the oppressive quiet. He could hear the faint rush of blood in his ears, a relentless pounding that seemed to echo his racing thoughts. Even the soft cadence of his own uneven breathing felt deafening, filling the space as though to taunt him with the vulnerability he couldn’t take back.

“I…” you began, your voice unsteady, but you trailed off again, clearly struggling to find the words. “You… loved me?”

“Love,” he corrected softly. “Present tense.”

Your breath hitched, and he could hear the faint tremor in it. “Why... why didn’t you ever say anything?”

He hesitated, his hands tightening at his sides. “Because I was afraid,” he admitted. “Afraid you didn’t feel the same. Afraid of what it would mean if you did. I didn’t want you getting tied up with my family—with the Gaunts. I didn’t want you dragged into… into this.”

He gestured vaguely around the room, his frustration with himself evident in the sharpness of his movements. “Not that it ended up mattering,” he added bitterly.

You were silent again, and Ominis felt the weight of your hesitation like a physical thing pressing down on his chest. He’d said too much. He’d gone too far. And now—

“I wouldn’t have cared,” you said softly.

"...Pardon?”

“I wouldn’t have cared about your family,” you said again, your voice a little steadier now. “I never cared about any of that.”

Ominis's heart twisted painfully at your words, the faint flicker of hope they ignited almost too much to bear. “You…” He stopped, his voice faltering as he tried to process what you’d said. "You didn't?"

“No. In fact, I don’t care,” you continued, your voice quieter now, almost shy. “Present tense.”

Ominis felt as though the ground beneath him had shifted, his entire world tilting on its axis as his mind scattered, his carefully constructed thoughts unraveling at the edges. Present tense.

The implications swirled in his mind, overwhelming and impossible to fully grasp. If you didn’t care—if you truly didn’t care—then what did that mean? What did it say about the way you felt about him now?

“You mean…” he began, his voice faltering as he struggled to form the question that had lodged itself in his throat. “You mean you still…”

You looked away, a faint blush coloring your cheeks as you clasped your hands in front of you. “What I mean,” you began quietly, your voice barely audible. “Is that I... I love you too.”

Ominis thought he might collapse under the weight of your words. His head swam, his legs trembling as if they could no longer hold him upright. It was too much—too good to be true.

Surely, he’d imagined it.

This had to be some cruel trick of his mind, conjured from the depths of years of longing and guilt. Perhaps he was dreaming, caught in that fragile space between sleep and waking where impossible things felt real. Any moment now, he’d wake in his cold, oppressive bed at the Gaunt manor, the warmth of your voice nothing more than a fleeting echo in the dark.

But the longer he stood there, frozen and breathless, the clearer it became that this was no dream. You were still there, close enough that he could feel the faint warmth of your presence, the soft sound of your breathing in the silence.

“You…” His voice cracked, his grip on his wand tightening as though it were the only thing keeping him upright. “You love me?”

“Yes,” you said softly, unable to meet his eyes.

Ominis shook his head slightly, as though trying to shake loose the fog clouding his mind. “You… are you sure?”

“Yes, Ominis,” you said again, this time with a small, amused smile. The warmth in your voice should have soothed him, but instead, it sent his heart racing even faster.

“You’re serious. You… you lo—”

The words caught in his throat as you stepped closer, your movements soft but deliberate. The sudden proximity sent a shockwave through him, and what he was about to say dissolved on his tongue. The world narrowed until there was only you—the warmth of your presence, the faint rustle of fabric as you drew near, the soft sound of your breath mingling with his.

And then you kissed him.

The contact was gentle at first, tentative, as though testing the boundaries of a moment that neither of you could take back. But the moment his mind registered what was happening, something inside him snapped. Ominis dropped his wand, the dull thud barely registering in the haze of sensation that overtook him. His hands found your waist instinctively, trembling as they settled against you, holding you as though you might disappear if he let go.

It was everything—more than he had ever dared to imagine. The taste of you, the softness of your lips against his, the faint sigh you let out as you pressed closer. You were all he could feel, all he could think about, and the overwhelming reality of it, of you, left him breathless.

When you finally pulled away, his chest heaved, his forehead resting against yours as he struggled to find his breath.

“That story…” he murmured, his voice low and uneven. “The one you told at the reception. About Hogsmeade. Was it… was it true?”

You pulled back slightly, just enough for him to sense the shift in your posture. He couldn’t see your expression, but he could feel the heat rising from you, could hear the faint hitch in your breath.

“Yes,” you admitted softly, your voice tinged with embarrassment. “It was true.”

Ominis felt his knees nearly give out at the confirmation, his grip on your waist tightening reflexively. “Merlin,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “All this time…”

He swallowed hard, his throat tight as the weight of everything settled over him. The years he’d spent aching for you, the nights he’d lain awake tormenting himself with what-ifs—it all seemed so absurd now.

“You really…” He trailed off, shaking his head as though he couldn’t quite believe it. “You realized then?”

“At Hogsmeade?” you asked softly, your voice still tinged with shyness. You hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Yes... I did."

Ominis let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh, his breath hitching as he shook his head slightly. “Because of some clothes?” he asked, the faintest trace of amusement coloring his voice. “Because I gave you my coat and bought you something dry to wear?”

"Sounds a lot less romantic when you say it like that," you mumbled, a hint of embarrassment coloring your voice. You glanced away, fidgeting slightly as though unsure how to explain yourself. “It wasn't just the clothes. I’d been falling you for some time, but I hadn’t really let myself acknowledge it. And then that day, it all just… clicked.”

His grip on your waist tightened slightly. “Clicked,” he repeated.

You swallowed hard as you cast your gaze downward. “You’ve always been… well, you, Ominis,” you began softly, your voice carrying a hesitant edge, as though you weren’t sure how much to say. “You, with your calm, your steadiness. Even when you’re angry, it’s controlled, measured, refined. It’s like you always know exactly what to do, like you were born knowing how to handle everything.”

He swallowed hard, unsure of how to respond to the quiet admiration in your voice. He’d spent so much of his life rejecting the parts of himself tied to his family’s legacy—the refinement, the composure, the quiet dignity that others associated with the Gaunt name. To hear you speak of it now, as though it were a part of him you valued, left him unsteady.

“And me?” you continued, your voice softening. “I’ve... I've never been like that. I’m messy. Emotional. I act too quickly and think too slowly. I’m… I don’t know. Chaotic, I guess.” You laughed softly, but there was no humor in it, just a quiet vulnerability that made Ominis’s chest ache.

“That’s not true,” he said quickly, his brow furrowing. “You’re—”

“What I’m trying to say is that you’ve always been my perfect opposite,” you continued gently, your voice carrying a faint edge of amusement. “My foil. You’re steady, and quiet, and level, and I’ve always felt like… like you even me out.”

Ominis’s heart twisted painfully at your words, the depth of your confession leaving him breathless. “You don’t need evening out,” he said softly, his voice trembling with emotion. “You’re brilliant just as you are.”

You gave a faint, self-deprecating laugh. “Well... that doesn’t change how I’ve always felt around you. Like you make me better. Like I can stand still and actually think when you're near.”

He was too overwhelmed to trust his voice, too unsure of how to put everything he felt into words. So instead, Ominis reached for you, his hand settling gently at the nape of your neck. And he held you there, his thumb brushing softly against your skin, his lips pressing a tentative kiss to your forehead.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was uneven, his voice quiet and raw as he asked, “Well, I’m here now. So… what are you thinking?”

You hesitated for a moment, your lips curving into the faintest smile. “I’m thinking…” You glanced toward the untouched bed before meeting his gaze again. “Maybe we can share the bed after all.”

"Is that so?" He murmured.

You nodded, your smile widening slightly. “Well, it’s a big bed. Plenty of room. And besides…” You reached for his left hand, spinning the wedding band around his finger. “You are my husband, after all.”

The words were light, teasing, but they sent a rush of warmth through Ominis that left him almost dizzy. He’d spent the entire day dreading what being your husband would mean, burdened by the weight of your resentment and his own guilt. But now, standing here with you, knowing you loved him, hearing you call him that—husband—filled him with an overwhelming, almost unbearable mixture of relief, joy, and hope.

Wordlessly, Ominis gently guided you toward the bed, his hand ghosted along your back. When you reached the edge of the mattress, he paused, his fingers brushing yours as he coaxed you to sit.

“Wait here,” he murmured softly, his voice warm and steady, though his chest was still tight with the weight of everything that had just happened.

Retrieving his wand from the floor, Ominis turned toward the small table where the champagne sat waiting, the chilled bottle glinting faintly in the soft lamplight. He reached for it with steady hands, though his heart was anything but calm. He needed the drink—something to take the edge off, to dull the sharp, almost unbearable clarity of this moment—the knowledge that you loved him, that he was about to share a bed with you not as strangers bound by duty, but as something far more significant.

Pouring the champagne into two crystal flutes, he turned back to you, carrying both glasses with a surprising steadiness for someone whose mind was in complete turmoil. Handing you one, he sat down beside you on the edge of the bed, closer than he’d dared to in years.

“To... new beginnings?” he offered softly, his voice carrying a tentative edge as he raised his glass slightly.

You hesitated for a moment, your gaze meeting his, before a small smile curved your lips. “To new beginnings,” you echoed, clinking your glass gently against his.

The crystal chime of the glasses meeting seemed to echo in the quiet room, a sound that felt impossibly delicate in the stillness between you. Ominis brought the glass to his lips, taking a small sip as his mind raced, the taste of the champagne crisp and cool against the tension still thrumming in his chest.

He inhaled deeply, steadying himself before speaking. “You looked…” His voice caught in his throat, hoarse and unsteady, and he cleared it softly before trying again. “You looked beautiful today.”

Your eyes widened slightly, and he could sense the faint blush that rose to your cheeks. “Ominis…” you began, but he shook his head, stopping you.

“I should’ve told you earlier,” he said quietly, his voice raw with sincerity. “You were… you are, the most stunning thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. I mean, um. Not that I can…” He trailed off, a faint, self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. “But I didn’t need to see you the way others do. I could feel it."

Your cheeks flushed faintly, and you glanced down at your own glass, swirling the champagne slightly as if to distract yourself. “Thank you,” you murmured, your voice soft but genuine.

“I mean it,” he said softly. “You have always been beautiful. And today, seeing you in that dress… it felt like I was dreaming. I still feel like I’m dreaming.”

A deep flush spread across your cheeks, the warmth creeping down your neck as his words lingered in the air. You didn’t respond right away, instead lifting your glass in a swift motion and draining the champagne in one determined gulp. Ominis raised a brow at your boldness, his expression hovering between amusement and surprise. Before he could say anything, you leaned forward, stretching across his lap to place your empty glass on the bedside table.

The unexpected contact sent a jolt through him. His entire body stiffened, his breath catching in his throat as your warmth seeped through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Sorry,” you murmured, glancing at him as you sat back.

“It’s… it’s fine,” he stammered, a rush of warmth crawling up his neck and settling in his cheeks. He gripped his champagne flute more tightly than necessary, the coolness of the glass a poor counterbalance to the fire you’d ignited in his veins.

“You seem… tense,” you remarked, your eyes narrowing slightly.

“Tense?” he repeated, forcing his voice to remain steady even as his grip on the flute tightened. “I’m not tense.”

“You’re holding that glass like it’s about to leap out of your hand,” you pointed out with a soft laugh, leaning in just slightly, your shoulder brushing his. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes,” he said quickly, though his voice cracked slightly on the word.

You hummed softly in response, your amusement now evident. “If you say so."

Ominis turned his sightless gaze in your direction, his throat tightening as he tried to summon a reply that wouldn’t betray the chaos now swirling inside him. But you spoke again before he could, your tone as casual as if you were discussing the weather.

“By the way,” you said with deliberate slowness, “did I ever tell you that you clean up very well?”

He froze, his pulse thundering in his ears. “I… I’m sorry?”

“You,” you said simply, your gaze flicking over him again in a way that made his skin prickle with awareness. “In your suit earlier. You looked very handsome.”

Ominis’s face burned. He gripped his glass tightly, taking another long sip to buy himself a moment to think. “Th-thank you,” he managed.

“You’re welcome,” you said, a faint smile tugging at your lips. You leaned back onto your hands, the bed giving under your weight. "You really are very attractive, Ominis," you added softly, the undercurrent of sincerity that making his heart ache.

You’d never complimented him like that before, never indicated whether you found him attractive or not, and the revelation was dizzying.

“Why are you—why are you saying this?” he asked, his throat tight.

“Because it’s true,” you said simply. “And because I can.”

Ominis exhaled shakily. “You’re... you're very bold."

“And you are shy,” you replied, a playful glint in your eye as you tilted your head toward him. “I told you it’s a good thing we balance each other out.”

He wasn’t sure whether to be flustered or comforted by the ease in your voice. The warmth radiating from you, the teasing lilt in your tone, and the sincerity beneath it all—it was overwhelming, intoxicating.

“You’re relentless,” he muttered.

"Because you make it so easy." You explained smoothly.

Ominis cleared his throat, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of composure. “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about."

You tilted your head, eyeing him. “Oh, I think you do."

Before he could respond, you leaned forward again, reaching past him toward the small table beside the bed. But this time, your free hand rested on his thigh for balance, the contact sending heat through his veins and a gasp threatening to pass his lips.

“Let’s see…” you murmured thoughtfully, your fingers brushing against a book as you pulled it toward you. “Huh. A bible. Why do hotels always have these?”

Ominis barely heard your question, his attention consumed by the weight of your hand on his leg, the warmth of your palm seeping through the thin fabric of his pants. He swallowed hard, his throat dry, as he tried—and failed—to focus on anything other than the proximity of your body to his.

“I suppose it’s tradition,” he managed weakly.

“Perhaps you’re right,” you mused, flipping the book closed with an air of exaggerated disappointment. “Though you’d think they’d leave something more interesting. A mystery novel, maybe.”

You shifted slightly to flip open the pages of the book, humming thoughtfully, but your elbow caught Ominis’s arm, sending champagne spilling directly into his lap, the cool liquid soaking through the fabric and clinging uncomfortably to his skin.

“Shit!” you exclaimed, sitting up quickly, your hand flying to your mouth. “I’m so sorry. Let me—”

“It’s fine,” he said quickly, his voice strained as he tried to wave you off. “Really, I can—”

But you were already on your feet, grabbing a towel from the bathroom. Before he could protest further, you were kneeling in front of him on the floor.

“Let me help,” you insisted, your tone sweet but tinged with a something else that Ominis couldn’t quite place.

He stiffened further, his entire body locking up as your hand brushed dangerously close to the center of his lap.

“I-it’s fine, truly,” he stammered, his voice rising slightly in pitch. “You don’t need to—”

“Nonsense," you said lightly, shaking your head as you continued to blot the fabric. “It’s my fault.”

Ominis held in a groan, fighting to maintain even a shred of composure. Heat had already been pooling in his abdomen, a slow, insistent burn that now threatened to spiral out of control, but with your hands so dangerously close, with you kneeling before him, he felt as though his very sanity was slipping through his fingers.

His mind raced with a flood of thoughts—improper, indecent thoughts that he told himself he was far too much of a gentleman to entertain. And yet, he couldn’t stop them. Couldn’t stop imagining what it would feel like to give in, to let go of the rigid self-control that had defined so much of his life.

He bit down on the inside of his cheek. “Y-you really don’t need to,” he stammered, his voice cracking slightly as he shifted, trying in vain to create some distance between you. “I can handle it.”

“No, no," you murmured, your dabbing movements now turning into wiping motions. "Let me help.”

Help. The irony of the word wasn’t lost on him. If anything, your proximity, your touch, was undoing him entirely. And what was worse—what truly horrified him—was the knowledge that the evidence of his attraction would soon become blatantly, inescapably obvious.

His breath hitched as your hand brushed closer—too close—and he couldn't handle another moment.

Ominis shot to his feet so suddenly that it startled you, his wand clutched tightly in his trembling hand. The movement sent the towel slipping from your fingers as you instinctively leaned back, your wide eyes snapping up to meet his.

The image that his wand painted in his mind was delicious and utterly disastrous: you, on your knees before him, your hair slightly mussed, your lips slightly parted, and those impossibly wide eyes staring up at him.

He clenched his jaw, quickly lowering his wand, but no matter how hard he tried, the image wouldn’t leave him. It was burned into his mind, vivid and unrelenting.

Ominis opened his mouth, but his words came out as a jumble of incoherent stammers. “I—I’m sure the house elves packed… something—uh—extra pants.” His voice cracked slightly as he gestured vaguely toward the corner of the room where their bags were stacked. “I should—probably just—”

He moved to take a step, desperate to escape, but then your hands were on his thighs, stopping him mid-motion.

"Running off on me, are you?"

"I—I just thought—"

You tutted and gave him a gentle push, coaxing Ominis to sit back down on the edge of the bed. He resisted for a moment, but your persistence, combined with his legs trembling beneath him, left him with little choice. Slowly, he sank back down, his hands gripping at the sheets.

“There,” you said softly, your tone soothing yet carrying a playful undercurrent that made his pulse quicken. “That’s better.”

Better? Hardly. Ominis was certain he’d never been in a worse predicament in his life. You were now kneeling right between his legs, your hands still resting on his thighs, the heat of your palms searing through the thin fabric of his sleepwear.

He was painfully, achingly hard now, pressed uncomfortably against the fabric, and he knew—he knew—you must have noticed.

How could you not? You were so close, on your knees before him, your face dangerously near to the source of his torment. He clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists as he tried to will his body into submission, but it was no use. The evidence of his desire was blatant, inescapable.

And then, as if the situation wasn’t unbearable enough, you tilted your head slightly, feigning an expression of concern.

“You can’t be very comfortable like that,” you said softly, your voice laced with innocence. “Your pants, I mean. All damp and cold.” The corners of your mouth tugged into the faintest hint of a smile. “Maybe you should just take them off.”

Ominis stiffened. He knew exactly what you were doing—knew you weren’t nearly as innocent as you were pretending to be. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to call you out. Couldn’t bring himself to break the fragile thread of tension strung taut between you. Because some part of him—some reckless, desperate part of him—wanted to see how far you were willing to push him.

“I—I think I’ll just wait until—”

You leaned in slightly, your expression soft and oh-so-kind. “Until what?”

Ominis exhaled shakily, his hands tightening into fists. “Until I’m alone.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “Alone?” you repeated, tilting your head as though the concept genuinely puzzled you. “Why? It's just me... and I'm your wife now, aren't I?"

His wife.

He swallowed hard. “You… you are,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But that doesn’t mean—”

“Doesn’t mean what?” you interrupted, trailing your hands further up his thighs. “That you can’t be comfortable around me? That you can’t let me take care of you?”

“Take care of me,” he repeated hoarsely, the word catching in his throat as his mind spiraled. He knew exactly what you were insinuating, and it was driving him to the brink of madness.

“Isn’t that what a good wife does?” you asked softly, your voice lilting as though you were enjoying this far too much.

Ominis swallowed hard, muttering your name. “…This is a dangerous game you're playing."

Your lips curved into a sly smile, your gaze never leaving his. “Is it?”

He forced himself to take a steadying breath. “You know exactly what you’re doing.

Your smile didn’t waver. If anything, it grew wider, teasing and entirely too confident for his fragile composure. “And what happens,” you asked, “if I keep playing?”

Your hands trailed upwards and his entire body went rigid, his fists tightening so hard that his knuckles ached.

And then you did it.

Your fingers hooked under the waistband of his pants, your touch light as you began to tug. And Ominis's composure shattered, the remainder of his control finally giving way.

He reached out, his hands catching your wrists and stilling your movements as he leaned down, his sightless gaze locked on you.

“Enough,” he said, his voice low, dangerous.

You blinked up at him, your playful smile faltering for the first time, though your eyes still held a glint of challenge. “Ominis—”

“Enough,” he repeated, his tone sharper this time. “You wanted to play a game, did you? Let me show you what it feels like to lose."

Ominis stood slowly, bringing your hands with him, guiding them back to the waistband of his pants. His breath was heavy, his voice low and rough when he spoke. “You started this,” he murmured, his tone carrying a dangerous edge that sent a shiver down your spine. “Now finish it.”

Your eyes widened, your earlier confidence faltering as you stared up at him. “Ominis, I—” you began, but he cut you off, his fingers tightening just slightly around your wrists.

“You wanted to see how far you could push me?” he muttered. “Congratulations. You found out. Now take them off."

You hesitated, your playful bravado faltering. This wasn’t the careful, reserved Ominis you were used to. This was someone raw, unguarded, and utterly unyielding.

But you had pushed him to this point, hadn’t you? Teased and taunted, knowing full well what you were doing. And now, you would face the consequences.

Your fingers trembled as they hooked under the waistband of his pants, tugging at the fabric. The damp material clung stubbornly to his skin, and the tension in the room was palpable, thick enough to choke on, but Ominis revelled in it, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

After a moment, the damp fabric finally gave way, sliding down his hips and pooling at his ankles, and for a moment, there was only silence.

Ominis tilted his head slightly, his fingers trailing along your jaw. “No teasing comments, hm? Not so bold now, are you?"

“I…” You hesitated, your breath hitching. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to what?” he interrupted smoothly, his fingers ghosting along your skin. “Tease me? Push me? Make me want you until I could barely think straight?”

Your eyes widened, your lips parting in shock at his bluntness. He tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening as he took in your reaction.

“Because if that’s the case,” he continued, his voice dropping even lower, “then you failed. Now... where were you?"

He reached for your hands again, skimming them along his legs before hooking them into the fabric of his underwear. Your lips parted, a soft, unsteady exhale escaping as you gazed up at him.

“Go on,” he urged, his tone leaving no room for argument.

With a shaky breath, you complied with his demand, the fabric yielding beneath your touch as you began to tug it down past his hips and over the hard length of him.

Ominis’s breath hitched, his jaw tightening as he fought to maintain his composure. His one hand found your shoulder, the other tangling in your hair as you freed him from the confines of his underwear, the cool air of the room brushing against his heated skin.

He could feel your gaze moving over him, taking in every inch of his body. He didn't need to see her to know exactly what you were looking at. He could feel her hesitation, the quickening pace of your breathing, and it stirred something deep inside him.

"Like what you see?" His voice was low and rough. It wasn't a question so much as a challenge, a dare for her to speak the truth he already knew.

There was a pause, a moment where he could feel her nerves battling with her desire. Then her voice came, soft and trembling, yet unmistakably honest. "Yes. I… Ominis, you're... fuck, you're so big.”

Her words hit him like a spark to dry kindling, igniting a fire he could barely contain. A slow, wicked smile curled his lips as his confidence swelled at the admission. He let his thumb trace the curve of your jaw, the movement gentle even as his grip on your neck tightened slightly, coaxing you closer.

Your hands trembled against his thighs, and he felt you hesitate again. That flicker of uncertainty was intoxicating, drawing out the predator in him that wanted to take his time unraveling you.

"I don't even know if I can..." you whispered,

"Oh, you can," he said, his voice a mix of promise and challenge. "And you will. Open your mouth."

Your lips parted without hesitation, your trust in him making something primal surge within his chest. Ominis let out a low, satisfied chuckle as he guided you toward him with deliberate care. "Good girl," he murmured, his voice thick with approval.

He could feel your breath ghosting over him, the slight tremor in your shoulders betraying her nervousness. But when your lips finally made contact, wrapping around him with warmth and softness, a sharp groan tore from his throat. The wet heat of your mouth was intoxicating, your tongue brushing against the sensitive underside of him sending jolts of pleasure rippling through his core.

He groaned, his voice low and gravelly, unrestrained. "God, you feel so good... yes, just like that."

His grip in your hair tightened, controlling your movements as he adjusted the angle with a firm but gentle tug. Each movement was controlled, his hips rocking forward slightly before pulling back just enough to keep you comfortable.

A low moan escaped him as your tongue flicked against the head of his cock, every slight drag of your lips sending waves of pleasure radiating through him like fire. His head tipped back briefly, a ragged exhale slipping from his lips.

"Relax your throat," he ordered breathlessly, his thumb brushing lightly against her cheek. "Let me in. Let me feel you take all of me."

You responded instantly, a muffled moan escaping as you took him deeper, the vibrations sending a shockwave of pleasure through Ominis that left him teetering on the edge. His control slipped, and his hips jerked forward instinctively, driving himself further into the warmth of your mouth. The way your throat tightened around him, the way you surrendered so completely to his lead—it was undoing him, igniting a raw, primal need he couldn't restrain.

"I’m close," he breathed, his thumb brushing against your chin. "Keep going. Don't fucking stop."

Your kept pace, and every sensation sharpened, from the slick slide of your lips to the pressure of your tongue and the slight resistance of your throat.

Ominis's body shuddered violently when the tension coiled tight within him finally snapped, a guttural groan tearing from his throat as his hips pressed forward, forcing you to take his release. He groaned your name, his voice raw and broken, the sound laced with unrestrained pleasure as waves of his release surged through him. He felt you swallow, the rhythmic pull of your throat around him drawing out every last bit of his pleasure and leaving him utterly wrecked.

“Fuck, you’re so good,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and uneven as he brushed his thumb gently against your chin, a subtle caress full of approval. “So perfect.”

His breaths came in uneven gasps as the intensity began to ebb, though the memory of your mouth on him lingered, searing itself into his mind. The slick warmth of you, your complete submission to him, was something he knew he'd spend his life chasing.

Finally, his grip loosened in your hair, and with a soft, wet pop, he pulled himself from your mouth, the absence of your warmth almost jarring. His legs trembled as he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed, his body still buzzing. Yet, even in his post-climactic haze, his hands remained steady, tracing the curve of your jaw with a reverence that felt entirely at odds with the raw dominance he'd displayed moments before.

“Are you alright?” he asked breathlessly, tilting your chin up to brush his thumb over your swollen lips.

Your breath was shallow, quick, and he could feel the faint tremor in your body under his hands. When you didn’t immediately answer, his brow furrowed. He withdrew his hand and reached for his wand.

The image of you that materialized made his breath catch—your breathing ragged, your cheeks flushed a deep, fiery red, your lips parted as you struggled to catch your breath, your eyes glassy.

He breathed your name, his voice tinged with worry as he cupped your face again. “I—I didn’t hurt you, did I? Please, tell me I didn’t hurt you.” His fingers brushed your hair back, searching for any sign of discomfort, his unseeing eyes filled with an almost frantic need for reassurance.

You blinked slowly, as if coming out of a haze, and the smallest of smiles tugged at your lips. Your breath hitched, and when you finally spoke, your voice was rough and shaky. “No,” you managed,“No, you didn’t hurt me.”

He let out a shaky exhale. “Are you sure you’re alright? Please tell me the truth.”

You nodded, your unsteady, watery smile sending a wave of relief coursing through Ominis, the tension in his chest easing ever so slightly. But that smile—soft, trembling, and paired with the glassiness in your eyes—made his heart falter for an entirely different reason. He had pushed you close to your limit; that much was undeniable. The sheen in your gaze spoke of intensity, perhaps even moments of overwhelming vulnerability. And yet, the faint curve of your lips said it all—you’d liked it.

You had trusted him so completely, surrendered so fully, giving yourself over to him for his pleasure, even when it stretched the boundaries of your comfort.

It was a realization that hit him hard, an almost overwhelming surge of emotion he wasn’t prepared for.

But Ominis couldn’t allow himself to dwell on it now. There was something far more important to focus on—taking care of you.

Ominis inhaled deeply, centering himself as he rose from the edge of the bed. He pulled back the covers with a smooth motion and turned back to you, his expression softening as he reached for you. “Come here,” he said gently.

Reaching down, his arms slid around you, steady and secure, as he helped you up from where you knelt on the floor. One hand pressed lightly against the small of your back, the other brushing against your arm as he guided you onto the bed.

Once you were settled, he tucked the covers around you, his hands lingering for a moment, brushing along your arm before moving to your face.

“There we are,” he murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair away as he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You’re alright,” he assured, though it felt as much for him as it was for you. “I’ve got you.”

Your voice, hoarse and barely above a whisper, cut through the quiet. “Ominis, you can stop fussing. I’m alright.”

He froze for a moment, his lips curving into a faint smile as a soft chuckle escaped him. “You’re alright, are you?” he asked, his tone a blend of teasing and disbelief. “You can barely speak. Forgive me if I’m not entirely convinced.”

You rolled your eyes weakly, the smallest of smiles tugging at your lips. “I mean it,” you said, your voice still raspy. “I’m okay."

He shifted closer to the edge of the bed as he adjusted the covers once more, making sure they were snug around you. “You need water," he decided, his brow furrowing slightly.

Before you could protest, he was already moving, locating a glass and filling it at the bathroom sink. He returned swiftly, slipping one hand beneath the back of your neck to help you sit up just enough. The other hand brought the glass to your lips.

“Drink,” he murmured softly.

You sipped obediently and he smiled softly, chest rising and falling with a quiet steadiness now that he knew you were truly alright.

"You were so good," he murmured, as his fingers trailed down to your jaw, tilting your face slightly upward. "Do you have any idea how amazing you felt?"

He leaned closer, his lips finding the flushed heat of your cheek, pressing soft, lingering kisses there, each one accompanied by a murmured word of praise. “So perfect,” he whispered between kisses, his voice low and reverent. "So well behaved."

His lips trailed to your other cheek, brushing against the soft skin as he continued. “It was overwhelming in the best way possible. The way you felt, the way you took me—it was more than I could have ever imagined.”

You hummed softly, the sound a mixture of contentment and satisfaction as his lips trailed across your flushed skin. A shaky hand lifted from beneath the covers, reaching out to find his cheek, your fingers trembling slightly as you guided his lips to yours.

The kiss was a whisper, soft and delicate, barely more than a brush of your lips against his. Ominis exhaled against your mouth, his breath warm and steady, a low hum of contentment escaping him as he leaned into you. His hand slid from your jaw to the nape of your neck, cradling you as his lips moved against yours.

Your lips barely parted from his as you whispered against them, your voice still raspy but filled with quiet conviction, “I love you.”

The words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, Ominis stilled, as though trying to convince himself they were real. Then, his breath hitched, and he pressed his forehead against yours.

“I love you, too,” he murmured in return, his voice trembling with emotion. “Merlin, I love you so much. I always have.” He paused, his unseeing eyes searching for something he couldn’t quite articulate. “After everything, after all this time… I never dared to hope we’d find each other again like this.”

You smiled faintly, your thumb stroking his cheek as you closed the small distance between you for another kiss, your lips speaking what words couldn’t.

Ominis pulled back slowly, his fingers brushing through your hair one last time before he adjusted the covers around you. He slipped into bed beside you, his movements careful, his body naturally finding yours as his arms slid around you, drawing you close. Your head nestled against his chest, your breath warm against his neck, and he felt your heartbeat, steady and sure, beneath his hand.

As he held you, Ominis let his mind wander, reflecting on everything that had brought you both to this moment. The pain, the distance, the longing—it had all been worth it for this, for you. A soft, contented sigh escaped him as he pressed a lingering kiss to the top of your head.

As he closed his eyes, his grip on you tightening slightly in an unconscious promise to never let you go again, a single thought echoed in his mind: This is where I’m meant to be. With you. Always.

Divider Credit

[aventurineswife]

Two Hands, One Home

Summary: After an abyss attack destroys your home, Kinich, who values independence and self-reliance, offers you a place to stay. Though he presents it as purely practical, his actions reveal a quiet, genuine care. Over time, you settle into a peaceful routine together, finding comfort in his reserved kindness and the small gestures of care he provides, learning that beneath his cold exterior, Kinich has his own way of showing affection.

Tags: @m1nella, Kinich x Reader, Domestic Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Reserved Kinich, Found Family, Quiet Moments, Pragmatic Romance, Subtle Affection, Soft Kinich.

Warnings: Implied Loss Due To An Abyss Attack, Mild Angst.

The aftermath of the abyss attack was devastating. Your home, once a place of safety and comfort, had been reduced to rubble, its walls shattered and roof torn asunder. The shock of losing everything you had worked for in an instant left you feeling hollow, adrift in a world that had suddenly turned cold and uncertain.

But amid the chaos, there was an unexpected offer. Kinich, with his usual stoic expression, had come to you with a quiet proposal. “You can stay at my place while your house is being repaired.” he said, his tone as dry as ever, yet beneath it was something softer, something genuine.

You were hesitant at first—Kinich was a private person, and you knew his past hadn’t been easy. Still, the practicality of the offer, and the simple fact that you needed somewhere safe to stay, won out. You nodded, grateful but unsure of what to expect.

The day you moved into Kinich’s house, you couldn’t help but be surprised by how… normal it was. The inside was modest, a far cry from the grandeur of the mansions you’d seen in the past. But it had a warmth to it, an unspoken coziness. The walls were lined with handmade furniture, small knick-knacks that spoke of a life lived with care and attention, even if it wasn’t a life of luxury.

Kinich showed you around, his gestures efficient but not unkind. “This is the kitchen,” he said, pointing to a simple stove and a small table. “If you need anything, just ask. And, uh… don’t go near the shed out back. I keep some of my… tools there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Tools?”

His lips twitched in what might have been a smile, though it was hard to say. “I’ve got a lot of things to fix. You’ll see.”

You followed him to the living room, where a modest fireplace crackled. The scent of wood and something faintly herbal hung in the air, and Kinich, ever the practical one, was already setting up a small cot by the wall for you.

“Don’t make a fuss about it,” he said as he smoothed out the blanket. “It’s not much, but it’ll do for now.”

You couldn’t help but feel touched. For someone who valued independence so much, Kinich was surprisingly attentive in his own way. You sat down on the cot, still a bit unsure of what to do next.

Kinich cleared his throat and turned toward the kitchen. “I’m making dinner. It’ll be ready in about an hour. You can relax until then.”

As he worked, you took a moment to look around the room. It wasn’t much, but it was his—his space, his home. The absence of his usual sharpness, the subtle kindness of his gestures, made you feel a little less alone. Even if he didn’t show it often, Kinich had a way of making you feel like you mattered.

Dinner was simple, a warm stew that smelled of fresh herbs and hearty vegetables. Kinich placed a bowl in front of you, his expression as unreadable as ever, but there was something softer in his eyes, a flicker of something more than just duty.

“You didn’t have to do this,” you said, quietly breaking the silence. “Let me help with something.”

Kinich paused for a moment, his hand still on the pot as he glanced over at you. “It’s fine,” he said with a shrug. “I’m not doing it for you. Just… don’t let the food go to waste.”

You chuckled softly, nodding. Kinich’s words were as blunt as always, but the care in his actions was something you couldn’t overlook. As you sat together at the table, eating in comfortable silence, you couldn’t help but think that, despite everything, you had found a place here—a place where, for the time being, you could heal

Over the next few days, life at Kinich’s house settled into a quiet routine. You’d help with the small tasks around the house—cleaning up, organizing things—and in return, Kinich would share bits and pieces of his life with you, small snippets of knowledge or skills that he’d learned over the years.

One evening, as the sun began to set, you found Kinich in the garden, tending to some plants in the fading light. You hadn’t realized how peaceful the house could feel when it was just the two of you, sharing this simple life together.

“Need help?” you asked, walking over to him.

Kinich glanced up, his face softening slightly. “If you want. I could always use another pair of hands around here.”

You knelt beside him, taking a small gardening trowel and gently digging into the soil. There was a strange comfort in working alongside him, the silence between you both not awkward but companionable, as if you were partners in something greater than just survival.

“Why do you do it?” you asked, looking up at him. “Tending to all this, I mean. I would’ve thought you’d want to leave it all behind.”

Kinich paused, the question catching him off guard. His eyes flickered briefly, almost hesitant, before he answered. “Because it’s mine. It’s the one thing in this world I can rely on. People… they come and go. But this? It’s real. It stays.”

You smiled at his answer, understanding him a little more than you had before. Kinich didn’t offer grand gestures or flowery words, but in the little things—like the way he cared for his home, or the way he offered you a place to stay when you needed it most—you saw his quiet strength.

And, despite his belief in self-sufficiency, you couldn’t help but wonder if, maybe, for just a moment, you could be the one thing he’d allow himself to rely on, too.

That night, as you both sat by the fire, Kinich spoke again, his voice quieter than usual.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.” he said, not looking directly at you but still offering the words with sincerity.

You nodded, your heart swelling with gratitude. “Thanks, Kinich. I… I really appreciate it.”

He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “It’s not charity. It’s just… practical.”

But the warmth in his eyes told you everything you needed to know.

[ao3demographicssurvey2024]

In the AO3 Demographics Survey 2024 - an unofficial demographics survey of 16,131 AO3 users - the three most popular genres/tags were Hurt/Comfort, Romance, and Canon Divergence, while the three least popular were Genderswap, High School AU, and Character Death.

To see more analysis, including comparisons to real fic data and previous surveys, please view the full results on AO3.

[prompt-heaven]

some reactions to a love confession

"..."

"...what?"

"What? Are you serious? Right now of all places, you really think it's the time to just blurt something like that out? You fucking-, urghh...."

"Wait, what?"

"...oh."

"Cut the bullshit, what do you really want? Because you should damn well know by now that kind of talk doesn't work on me."

"Excuse me?" *fucking clutching my pearls*

"Oh, no..."

"No, please don't. Please don't do this."

"Please stop saying that."

"Just don't."

slap them.

"I hate you."

"I hate you." (affectionately)

"No you don't. I know you may think you do, but you don't, not really."

"Okay."

"...okay..."

"Oh, okay.... uh.... look, I care about you too, so much, but just not like that. I'm really sorry."

"Alright. Tell me again when you finally mean it."

"Tell me again when we make it out of here alive."

"Ah, sure you do."

"I thought I was always just a friend in your eyes..."

"Since when?"

"I had no idea... why did you never tell me before?"

"I'm sorry, I can't... I want to, but I can't..."

just kiss them instead of finding the words.

kiss them as soon as they confess and thereby shut up whatever else they wanted to say.

"Took you long enough."

"I love you."

"I love you too."

"I love you more."

"Ditto."

"I know."

start tearing up.

start full on crying.

start crying happy tears.

start crying angry/confused/frustrated tears.

"Shut up."

"Shut up." (affectionately)

"Seriously?" (hello early seasons of grey's anatomy with all of the seriously's ♡)

"Say it again."

"Oh my god, it all makes so much sense now!"

start giggling uncontrollably.

start laughing uncontrollably.

goes nonverbal.

[aubvrns]

just on time, sweetheart

| wanda maximoff x reader

Synopsis - You were running late because you missed your alarm. Who knew that a simple mishap could be met with connections from the past?

Note - i’m happy so lemme hurt you a bit #sadist

You weren't the type of student to be irresponsible.

You just happened to miss the aggravating sound of your alarm. It was just one of those mornings where your blanket feels much softer than it was when you slept. You bolted through the university halls, your bag bouncing against your back as you struggled to catch your breath. Your alarm betrayed you, and now sprinting to your second period, a strict voice cuts the uncomfortable silence.

"You're late, Miss Y/L/N."

You cursed under your breath and turned around, facing the disapproving gaze of Professor Fury. You had no excuses, not really. No one would believe that your alarm clock had miraculously decided to rebel against you this morning.

"Guidance office," The professor ordered, tapping his pen against his clipboard.

You groaned inwardly. Just great, you thought.

You turned on your heels and dragged yourself towards the guidance office, mood already sour. The last thing you needed was another lecture about punctuality and responsibility. As you pushed the heavy door open, you barely glanced at the person seated inside—until your gaze locked onto a pair of all-too-familiar green eyes.

Wanda Maximoff.

Your breath hitched, like you forgot how to breath. You heart slammed against your ribs, and for a moment, you wondered if the universe was playing some kind of cruel joke on you. The girl who had once whispered forever into her skin.

The girl who had shattered you. The girl who was now sitting right across from you, looking just as stunned.

A beat of silence stretched between them—thick, heavy, suffocating.

Then, the Dean cleared his throat. "Miss Y/L/N, since you have time to be late, you have time to be useful. Our new transfer student, Miss Maximoff, needs a tour of the campus. You’ll be her guide for the day."

Your blood ran cold.

The Dean continued, oblivious to the storm brewing between you two. "You'll show her around, make sure she knows where everything is. Understood?"

You forced herself to nod. Words were a foreign concept right now, especially when Wanda’s gaze was still piercing into her, unblinking, unreadable.

The Dean dismissed himself, and before you could think of an excuse, you found yourself stepping out into the hallway with Wanda right beside you. The silence stretched, clinging like ghosts.

Finally, Wanda spoke. "You look different."

You let out a humorless chuckle. "To you, maybe."

Wanda flinched, just barely, but you caught it. And for the first time in years, you felt something close to satisfaction.

It was going to be a long day.

-

The tour was hell.

Every hallway, every classroom—they all held the weight of things left unsaid, of a past neither of them had completely buried. You led Wanda through the university, pointing out the library, the gym, the best place to get coffee. You kept your words clipped, distant, careful.

You didn’t want to remember. But memories had a funny way of creeping in, uninvited.

"Do you still drink too much coffee?" Wanda asked suddenly, her voice softer than before.

You clenched your jaw. "Some things never change."

A flicker of something crossed Wanda’s face— regret? Guilt? You weren’t sure, and you didn’t care to find out.

"You were always late in high school too," Wanda mused. "I used to wake you up."

You swallowed hard. "Well, you’re not here to do that anymore, are you?"

The redhead didn’t respond, but you felt her gaze linger. It was the same way she used to look at you—like she saw through the walls you tried to build. Like she still remembered.

You hated it. Because you remembered too.

The remembrance of Wanda’s laughter in the morning, the way she used to tug you closer under the covers, whispering nonsense just to make you smile. You remembered Wanda’s hands, warm and certain, tracing constellations on your skin. You remembered the way Wanda had said, “I love you,” like it was a promise.

A promise that she had broken.

You clenched your fists, blinking back the sting behind your eyes. You wouldn't give Wanda the satisfaction of knowing you still cared.

You didn't.

Not anymore.

-

The tour ended at the courtyard, beneath the massive oak tree where students gathered between classes. It was the kind of place that should’ve been peaceful. But with Wanda beside you, the air felt suffocating.

"You don’t have to act like this, you know," Wanda said finally, her voice quiet.

You exhaled sharply. "Like what?"

"Like I never meant anything to you."

You turned to face her, something sharp curling in your chest. "You broke up with me, Wanda. You fell for someone else. What exactly do you expect from me?"

Wanda flinched, and you hated that she still cared enough to notice.

"Vision wasn’t—" Wanda hesitated, then sighed. "I thought you never took us seriously.”

"You thought wrong."

The words came out colder than you intended, but you didn’t regret them. Wanda searched your face, your expression unreadable. "I’m sorry."

You almost laughed. "You don’t get to be sorry." And just like that, the dam inside her cracked just a little.

Because the truth was, you had stayed. You had waited, you had hoped. You had watched as Wanda chose someone else, as if everything meant nothing. And now, she was supposed to pretend like everything was fine? Like the past didn’t still dig its claws into your heart?

You wouldn’t give Wanda the satisfaction. So instead, you turned on her heels and walked away. You walked furiously, each step slowly detaching yourself from the past

“Y/N, please.”

You didn’t look back. You refused to let yourself be vulnerable again.

But you knew Wanda’s was on your back, lingering like a wound that had never truly healed. Like an echo of something that still, somehow, refused to fade.

-

The wind was colder than usual, sending a shiver down your spine as you hurried across campus. The weight of Wanda’s gaze still lingered on you like a phantom touch, unwelcome and yet impossible to ignore.

You had thought you were over this. Over her.

You had spent years convincing herself that the past was just that—the past. But the second you saw Wanda sitting in that office, looking at her like she wasn’t a shattered remnant of what they once were, something inside her cracked. Not Wanda looking at her like she regretted it. Like she missed her.

You shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away. You weren’t going to do this. You weren’t going to let Wanda drag you back into a storm you barely survived the first time.

As you reached the hallway towards your locker, you heard your name.

"Y/N."

An all-too familiar voice called you. You clenched your jaw before turning, already knowing who you’d see.

Wanda stood a few feet away, arms crossed, shifting on her feet like she was hesitating. You arched a brow. "What do you want?"

Wanda hesitated, then sighed. "You’re mad."

You let out a hollow laugh. "Mad? No. That would mean I still care."

A flicker of something passed across Wanda’s face—hurt, maybe. "You never used to lie to me," Wanda murmured, almost like it was an afterthought.

You inhaled sharply. "That was before you made me question everything that came out of your mouth."

Silence stretched between them. The kind that wasn’t comfortable anymore.

"I didn’t want to do this here," Wanda muttered, running a hand through her hair. "But I don’t want to keep pretending either."

You scoffed. "That’s rich, coming from you." Wanda flinched, and for a moment, you almost felt guilty.

"You really think I didn’t love you?" Wanda asked, voice quieter now, like she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.

Your heart clenched, but you forced herself to stay distant. "I think that whatever we had wasn’t enough for you."

Wanda’s jaw tensed. "That’s not fair."

You took a step forward, and before you could stop herself, the words spilled out. "You left me, Wanda. You left us. And for what? Someone who didn’t even know you the way I did? Someone who didn’t—" She cut herself off, swallowing hard.

Wanda’s gaze softened. "Y/N…"

"Don’t," you sternly said.

Because if Wanda said your name like that again—like you still mattered—you weren’t sure you’d be able to keep standing.

"I never stopped loving you."

You clenched your fists. You didn’t believe it, because if you did, it would destroy you all over again.

-

For days, you did your best to avoid Wanda.

You took different routes to class, skipped places you knew Wanda might be, and buried herself in your studies. It should’ve been easy.

But then came the moments in between.

A glimpse of red hair across the courtyard. The sound of laughter that sounded too much like Wanda’s. The feeling of her eyes lingering on you when you weren’t looking. You hated how much space Wanda still took up in her mind.

Even now, as you sat in the back of the lecture hall, you could feel it. The ache of something unresolved. And then, as if the universe enjoyed watching you suffer, the professor spoke.

"You’ll be working in pairs for this project," he announced. "I’ll be assigning the partners."

You barely heard the names being called. You were too busy trying to focus on your breathing. There were at least twenty students in this class. There was no way you would get partnered with her.

"And lastly," the professor continued, flipping a page. "Y/L/N and Maximoff."

Your stomach dropped. The room blurred at the edges as you slowly turned your head, but Wanda was already looking at you.

And the worst part, she didn’t even look surprised.

"I can switch partners," you said as soon as class ended, already standing from your seat.

Wanda caught your hand, feeling her slightly caress your wrist, just like how she used to. "No, you won’t."

The touch burned. Not in the way it used to, soft and safe. But in a way that made you feel like she was drowning in everything she had tried to forget.

You pulled your arm back. "This isn’t going to work."

Wanda tilted her head. "Why? Because you still hate me?"

You exhaled sharply. "Because I don’t trust you."

For a second, something flickered in Wanda’s eyes— hurt, maybe. But then she straightened. "We don’t have to like each other to work together."

You clenched her fists. "Fine. But don’t expect anything more from me."

A small, bitter smile tugged at Wanda’s lips. "I never do."

You turned away before Wanda could see the way that sentence wrecked you. Because once upon a time, you had given Wanda everything. Every piece of yourself.

And in the end, it still hadn’t been enough.

-

You had been sitting beneath the old oak tree, headphones in, pretending to study. But the second Wanda sat down beside you, everything inside you tensed. Your eyes didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge her. Maybe if you ignored Wanda long enough, she would just disappear from your life.

"Are you going to avoid me forever?" Wanda’s voice was quiet, but there was a sharpness underneath it.

You sighed, closing your book. "I don’t see why it matters to you."

"Of course it matters." Wanda hesitated, then softer, "You still matter."

You clenched her jaw. "Don’t," you warned, turning to face Wanda for the first time in days. "Don’t say things you don’t mean."

Wanda exhaled, looking down at her hands. "That’s the problem, Y/N. I meant everything."

You scoffed, bitter. "Right. You meant it when you said you loved me. And then you meant it when you chose someone else."

Wanda flinched but didn’t look away. "You think that’s what happened?"

You stared at her, feeling something in your chest twist painfully. "Isn’t it?" A silence stretched between them—thick, heavy, suffocating.

And then, Wanda spoke.

"I never fell out of love with you." The words were barely above a whisper, but they hit you like a thunderclap.

Your breath caught, your heart pounding as you forced herself to stay still. "Then why?" you asked, your voice almost breaking. "Why did you leave me for him?"

Wanda swallowed hard, looking at you like she wanted to reach out, but didn’t. "Because I thought I had to."

She let out a shaky breath. "You never saw it, but my family was struggling. My father lost his job, my mother was barely holding things together, and I was scared. Vision—he had connections, opportunities. My mother thought if I was with him, I’d have a better future. A stable life. And I was stupid enough to believe that maybe, if I forced myself to feel something for him, I wouldn’t have to lose everything else." Wanda looked away, blinking quickly.

"But I never loved him, Y/N. Not the way I loved you."

You felt like the ground had been pulled out from beneath you. "You broke my heart," she whispered, voice unsteady. "And you didn’t even tell me why."

"I know," Wanda said, voice thick with regret. "And I’m sorry. I’ve been sorry every single day since I walked away."

You inhaled sharply, gripping the edges of your book as if it could keep you steady. You wanted to be angry, to hold on to the bitterness you had nurtured for so long. But now, the truth sat between them, raw and undeniable, unraveling every wall she had built.

And maybe that was the worst part of all.

Because despite everything, despite the pain, despite the years of silence and regret— you still loved her. And you didn’t know if you could stop.

"I need you to know something," Wanda said, voice steady despite the hesitation in her eyes.

"I didn’t come here expecting you to forgive me. I didn’t transfer here hoping we’d just go back to how we were. I know I hurt you, Y/N. And if you never want to see me again after this, I’ll understand. But I can’t leave things the way they are. Not again."

You swallowed, heart in your throat. "Wanda—"

"I love you," Wanda said, voice breaking just slightly. "I never stopped."

You felt something inside her shatter. The walls you had spent so long building crumbled in an instant, leaving nothing but the undeniable truth of what had always been. You could feel the weight of your own feelings pressing against your ribs, too big to contain.

And then, before you could stop herself, you reached for Wanda.

You felt Wanda freeze, breath hitching as your fingers brushed against her wrist—tentative, testing. And then, slowly, Wanda exhaled, tilting her head just slightly, waiting.

One second, there was space between you two, and the next, Wanda was pulling you closer, warm foreheads nearly touching. You could feel Wanda’s breath against your lips, warm and familiar, sending a shiver down your spine.

"Tell me to stop," Wanda whispered, voice trembling. "And I will."

You swallowed hard, hands tightening against Wanda’s jacket. "I don’t want you to." And that was all it took.

Wanda closed the distance, and the second your lips met. You felt the weight of every year, every unspoken word, every heartbreak melt into the kiss. It was desperate and soft and everything in between, full of the years you had lost and the love that had never really left.

When you finally pulled away, Wanda rested her forehead against yours, breathing hard. "I don’t deserve this," she murmured.

You sighed, closing your eyes. "Maybe not. But I think we deserve a second chance."

Wanda let out a soft, shaky laugh, pressing another gentle kiss to your soft lips. "Then let’s not waste it this time."

And just like that, the ghosts of what once was this puddle of hurt finally began to fade.

You weren’t sixteen anymore, lying under the stars and making promises you couldn’t keep.

But maybe this time, you would.

Maybe this time, forever wouldn’t be a lie.

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

Keep Moving Forwards, Part 1

Azriel x Reader Fic

Summary: After finally deciding to leave your abusive and manipulative mate for good, you find unexpected companionship with Azriel, the Shadowsinger of the Night Court. As you navigate the aftermath of your traumatic relationship, you struggle to understand where the mating bond went wrong and contemplate your path forward, vowing never to return to the past.

Find other parts here: Master List

To follow this fic, follow that "Keep Moving Forwards Fic"

Content Warning: This story contains depictions of extreme emotional manipulation and abuse, mentions of physical abuse, loss of a child, and general trauma.

Word Count: 4.3k

Author's Note: This is the first part of what I anticipate will be a multi-part series. Unlike my previous works, this fanfiction delves deeper than just fluff, exploring complex emotional landscapes. As I navigate this new writing journey, I kindly ask for gentle feedback. The topics addressed are profoundly impactful, touching many lives with diverse experiences. Please be gentle with yourselves and others. Healing is a journey, and everyone processes it differently. Be kind to yourself. Take what resonates, and leave what doesn’t.

Please continue reading being aware of the above content warnings, ensuring you are in a healthy headspace. Give yourself time to process and be gentle with yourself.

Keep Moving Forwards, Part 1

There would be no going back. You had promised yourself that. As you stepped out of the cabin door, you vowed not to look back, not to turn around, not to wish for what was. You would move forward, one foot in front of the other, into the world. Yet, as you crested the first hill, your heart clenched, and tears welled in your eyes, a sudden and overwhelming loneliness gripping you. You shook your head, dismissing the thought. What could possibly bring you back to that place? A place where everything hurt constantly, and the only safe refuge was sleep—where even then, he invaded your subconscious.

You wouldn’t go back. Not this time. Not like the last time.

Pushing the tears down, you took another step forward. The companionship of the night, lit by the full moon, felt both lonely and liberating. You adjusted your pack and pulled your oversized, worn leather jacket tighter around your torso as you silently crept through the forest.

It wouldn’t be morning for a few more hours, and if you kept moving, you would cross the river while it was still dark. You had a plan and a general idea of where you were heading, but at the time you made this plan, your only thought was to get as far away as possible. To put as much distance as you could between yourself and the old, rotten cabin that had been your home for the past fifty-three years.

The moonlight made the trees seem farther apart, and you felt exposed. Glancing over your shoulder, despite the hill and the fallen trees and boulders between you and the cabin, you imagined you could still see smoke rising from the chimney. You quickened your pace.

You hoisted yourself over a fallen log, the moss soft and forgiving under your fingertips. The new spring air was beginning to overtake the cold of winter, and the damp scent of rain filled your nose. You had loved spring—or at least you used to, fifty-three years ago. Now, you couldn't remember what you loved or who you would be when you finally made it away. But you would make it away. You would not go back. Not for anything. No matter how much he begged, no matter how much he cried, no matter how much you ached to return.

Hours passed as you continued your trudge through the woods, your legs growing more tired with each step as you carefully descended the mountain. You lost your footing twice, but quickly regained your balance, careful not to make a sound. You wouldn’t stop moving, not until you had crossed the river.

As the night sky shifted from deep blue to purple, and the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, you heard the rushing of the river and quickened your pace.

When you reached the clear waters of the Highlawn River, you stopped, tossing your pack onto the pebbled shore, and leaned down to drink from the cold, clean water. You dipped your hands in greedily, cupping them to your lips, when you caught sight of your reflection glaring back at you. As you sipped, your eyes traced the cut on your cheekbone. What had once been a wound was now only a trace of dried blood, just like the gash on your forehead. You splashed water onto your face, scrubbing at the blood caked on your skin. You scrubbed the area raw and red, as if washing it away would also erase the memory of what caused the bleeding.

Kneeling there, your face burning slightly from the cold water, you took a deep breath and let yourself feel alive.

You pulled your jacket back over your shoulders, catching his scent, which made you recoil, your heart racing and your stomach dropping. But you reminded yourself you were alone. He was not with you. He would never be with you again. You grabbed your pack and hauled it back onto your shoulder, then turned and wandered down the shore of the river, searching for the shallow, rocky crossing. When you reached it, you carefully tiptoed across, taking care not to slip into the nearly freezing water.

Once on the other side, you turned and looked back up the mountain you had just descended, squinting to see the cabin's roof that sometimes poked out when the leaves were down. You couldn’t find it. Not that you wanted to, but you just couldn’t help yourself.

He would be getting up soon. He would find your note. Would he run from the house calling your name? Would he cry? Would he rage, swearing what he would do when he found you? Would he hunt you down, sending birds flying from trees and animals racing for their burrows? Or would he stand there in silence, reading the note, his green eyes calm and collected, before starting the kettle for his tea?

You hoped you would never find out. You turned again and walked farther into the deeper woods. You would not come back. You would live. You would live your life. You would survive this, just as you had survived the last fifty-three years.

As the early morning turned warmer and the sun rose higher, heating your hair and sending warmth radiating down your body, you removed your jacket, tying it around your waist. You continued wandering through the deeper woods, determined to reach the tavern, a day's walk away. Despite your legs burning and aching for rest, you kept moving forward. You would always keep moving forward.

The trees of the Night Court, now blooming with spring flowers, cast shadows on the forest floor. The sun's warmth on your face was both comforting and energizing. Morning shifted to afternoon, and afternoon into evening, and by the time you saw the tavern lights, you were nearly crawling with exhaustion. A renewed sense of energy hit you, and you made your way across the field, nearly running as you pushed open the creaky wooden door.

You peered around the lively room, searching for an open table. The crowd chattered animatedly, downing beers and spirits, guffawing with friends. You hadn't been around this many people in a very long time. Almost giddy with excitement, you chose a table near the back of the tavern. Settling into the booth, a waitress promptly placed a cold glass of water on the table, which you downed before she could introduce herself. You ordered a plate of chicken and potatoes and allowed yourself a moment to breathe. Leaning back in your chair, you felt your spine relax and the ache in your feet begin to subside.

When your dinner arrived, you scarfed it down as quickly as you had the water, the grease of the meat making your lips shine. You wiped your face with your sleeve, not caring if you looked like an animal. When you inquired about a room, the waitress informed you there was one left, but it was connected to another room already rented. You considered sleeping in the woods but knew you wouldn’t rest well and still had miles to travel. So, you pulled a satchel of coins from your bag, paid for the room, and gave the waitress a few extra coins, asking her to deny anyone who might come in asking about you.

When you made your way up the creaking steps, the lights in the other rooms had already been turned out for the night as the other travelers rested their weary bones. You found yourself at the end of the hall, the light under your door still lit. As you unlocked it, you were quickly taken aback by the sight of a man sitting in a chair across from you. His feet were propped up on an end table, and he leaned back comfortably in an oversized armchair, a book in one hand while the other hand lazily traced his lips. He looked up quickly, closing his book. He wore only a pair of black linen pants, his tanned skin covered in various whirling tattoos, and his black hair tousled as though he had been running his hands through it repeatedly.

“Sorry, I think you have the wrong room,” he said, quickly putting his feet back on the ground.

You paused, taking a tentative step back. “Um, no, actually, I rented this room. The owner said that someone else was staying in the adjoining one, but I can go to that one if you’ve taken this one.”

The man rose to his feet, and you suddenly noticed the large wings tucked behind him. He was much larger than he had looked when curled into that chair. “No, please,” he said, gesturing to the room and moving toward the adjoining door. “I was just using this as a sitting room.” He picked up his book, his bare feet padding across the floor. Opening the adjoining door, he ducked his head, turned back to you, wished you a goodnight, and quietly shut the door.

You didn’t move until the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears subsided. You hadn’t spoken to a man in decades, and the first one you see is half-dressed, and you walk in unannounced. Shaking your head, you muttered to yourself before walking in and shutting the door behind you, pressing your back against the wood, resting your head on it, and closing your eyes. You had worked so hard all day to keep the bond shut on your end, willing it closed while he pounded on the other side, screaming to be let in. You had given yourself a headache doing so.

You threw your pack down on the floor, pulling off your sweat-drenched shirt and pants from the hike and tossing them over the chair the man had been lounging in before flopping down onto the bed, your head pounding.

________________________________________________________

The sun beamed down onto your face as you squinted, eyes still shut as you rolled over in bed, groaning softly. You inhaled deeply, taking in the smell of the burning fire, the heavy wetness of the April woods, and the scent of spruce and sage. Your eyes opened, and you found yourself staring at the log wall, the window above it slightly open with sheer linen curtains fluttering in the wind. The quilt you had spent months making was balled at your feet, kicked away in the night as the pre-summer air seeped in through the open window. Your hair was plastered to the sides of your face with sweat.

You sat up, your cotton nightgown sticking to your torso, the lace scratching lightly at your skin as you rubbed your neck and eyes. The cabin air was slightly damp; it must have rained last night. Planting your feet on the hard wood floor, you looked across the room to see a small wooden cradle. Walking towards it, you tied your hair up with a ribbon from the window sill and leaned in to see your tiny babe, still sound asleep. You smiled down at them, brushing your fingers over their soft cheek as they softly gurgled. They were perfect, angelic, with your nose and lips, their tiny hands curled into loose fists beside their head as they slept on their back. Even in just their cloth diaper, the heat of the morning had made their cheeks red and their skin slightly damp as you continued to run soft lines down their face. Perfection. They were perfection.

The morning dove cooed its melody as the world around you seemed perfectly soft and hazy, as though all the colors were muted and edges somehow rounder. Then you heard it, the soft crying from the main room of the cabin. The babe stirred slightly but remained asleep as you looked through the open door to the living room. You glanced back at your perfect babe, still sound asleep, and then lightly stepped through the bedroom, trying to peek around the corner of the door without making the floorboards creak.

You stopped at the threshold, placing one hand delicately on the frame as you peered out. He was sitting there, on the couch he had carved for your 120th birthday, the blanket your mother gave you draped over the back. The window next to the front door was shattered in a moment of blind rage many months ago that he still hadn’t fixed.

He sat there, his head in his hands, sobbing quietly. The wet inhales and exhales formed a rock in your throat as you stood there, still as a deer. His head jerked up, and he turned to look over the back of the couch at you. His eyes were red, bloodshot, and he sniffled back another sob.

“Why would you do this?” he asked, his voice a breathless sob. “Why would you leave me?”

You said nothing, eyes wide in shock, seemingly frozen in place. The only movement in you was your heart, beating faster and faster. You worried he could hear it. Your hands and feet went numb, and you felt every twitch in your body as you tried to keep still. Your mouth parted slightly to speak, but before you could get a word out, he was standing, walking over to you, the heavy sound of his footsteps echoing in your head, pounding through the cabin until he stood in front of you. You took a step back, hands flying upwards to block the doorway.

He wrapped his arms around you, his large frame towering over yours as he sobbed into your neck. “We can fix this, baby,” he cooed into your ear, still sobbing. His height lifted you from the ground, rising to stand on your tiptoes as he continued to plead. “Just come home, baby. Come home. We can make this right.” Your arms slackened at your sides as he held you up. You swallowed the lump in your throat, unsure if you were going to scream or vomit as everything inside you burned. “Just come home,” he whispered again into your ear, his hot, wet breath streaming down your back as his tears glued your hair to your face. He pulled back to look at you, releasing you back to the floor. His green eyes peered into yours, searching for a response—the response he wanted. He leaned down to kiss you, and in a moment of bravery, you stepped back. He reached for your arm to pull you back, and you took another step backward, your hands behind you.

“Baby,” he managed to get out, but the sound of his voice, broken by sobs, no longer echoed through your mind. Instead, it was a warning. He took a step toward you, reaching out. He grabbed your wrist, which you tugged free. He took another step, reaching for you.

“No!” you shouted as he grabbed for you again. Your voice barely above a whisper, “I won’t come back.”

He stopped, his hand still extended toward you as his face twisted in anger. His mouth curved into a catlike smile, though his eyes darkened. “Where are you going to go, baby?”

You swallowed down the rock in your throat, your vision blurring as tears clouded your eyes. “I-I-” you stuttered.

He smiled at you again. “Where would you go?”

You took another tentative step back, your hands brushing the cradle, which rocked softly. Your babe cooed lightly, looking up at you with bright, brown eyes.

He peered over your shoulder at the babe in the cradle. “You want a baby? I can give you a baby,” he promised. “You just need to come home.”

You looked at him, your mouth hanging open, searching for words to shut him up. Words that would let you win. He reached for you again. “Where will you go where I can’t find you?”

You turned, grabbing the babe from the cradle, picking up their blanket with them. In the frantic motion, the babe let out a wail, but it didn’t stop you. You pushed past him, dashing through the living room, past the broken window, and down the steps. Your feet barely registered as you pounded through the front grass and headed into the woods, your babe pressed to your shoulder, crying out. As you hit the treeline, you turned to see him standing on the porch, his arms crossed, the catlike smile still inching across his face.

You tore through the woods, careful to hold your babe's head to your neck, trying not to trip over roots and branches, panting out wild breaths as the woods crashed around you.

As your babe let out another piercing wail, you found a hollowed out log that you crouched down in, trying to shush the screams. You rocked, hushed and pressed soft kisses into their temple as your heart continued to beat wildly in your ears. From behind you, you could hear branches and twigs snapping as he made his way towards you. Where would you run? Where could you go? Where can you go he wouldn’t find you? As your mind races you suddenly realize the babe has gone quiet and your arms are light, you look down and in your arms you hold an empty white blanket. A sob escapes you as you search around frantically for your babe, a wail crosses your lips as the sounds of the branches get louder and louder, you fall to the ground screaming as the sounds of him calling your name mixed with your pounding heart flood your head. It’s all gone. Everything is gone. 

________________________________________________________

“Hey! Hey!”

Your eyes shoot open, and the room around you is pitch black. You hurl in a heavy breath, wheezing out a cough, sweat pouring down your face and back as you scream, but no sound comes out. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you see moonlight streaming in from the window, tears blurring your vision, and the silhouette of someone yelling at you, their hands pressed onto your shoulders.

You rip their hands off, kicking back to ball up in the corner of the bed, pressed into the wall, ragged breaths tasting of iron in your lungs. You pull your legs into your chest, eyes wide and frantic. The figure in front of you is the male from earlier, sitting on his knees, his wings tucked behind him and his hands up, showing he means no harm.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, “It’s okay.” But it doesn’t feel okay. Everything is on fire.

You shake your head, snot running down your face, your lips quivering as you try to form words that won’t come.

He shushes you quietly, lowering himself from the bed onto the floor. He slides closer, reaching out a hand, his hazel eyes filled with concern. You look down at his hands, scarred and malformed. You try to let out another breath, but it gets caught in your throat as you cough. His extended hand covers your foot, and you continue to fight down sobs and screams. He hushes you again, “You’re safe. You’re here. You’re right here.” He squeezes your foot lightly, the pressure somehow grounding you. Your screams fade, but the tears continue to stream down your face as you cry silently. He runs his thumb up and down the top of your foot, his eyes never leaving you. After a minute, he reaches out his other hand, and you reach back. His hand engulfs yours, squeezing gently, kneeling beside your bed as if in prayer. “It’s okay.”

As if the reminder shatters something inside you, your tears fall heavy and full as your body relaxes. “Everything is,” you start, “it’s so loud.”

He lifts himself from the floor, and you curl away again, pulling your hand back. Realizing your response, he slowly lowers himself back to his knees, reaching out again. You take his hand, and he presses it between his palms so it disappears completely.

“There are clouds rolling in. I can smell the rain,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Between sharp intakes, you can smell it too. A storm is coming.

One hand stays with yours as he runs his other over the blanket. “This blanket,” he says, pressing your hand to it, “is scratchy and wool, too hot for this season.”

You nod slightly, unsure of what he’s doing. He glances at the clock. “It’s a little past two in the morning.” He looks back at you, your hand pressed into the bed, his hand over yours. 

“Can I stand?” he asks, still whispering.

You nod, unable to speak. Slowly, he rises from the floor, which creaks beneath him. His movements are deliberate, raising both hands as he gets to his feet. “Can I sit down?” he asks, gesturing to the bed.

You nod, and he turns to sit next to you, his back against the wooden wall. He holds out his scarred hand again, and to take it, you have to scoot away from the wall. He takes your hand and runs his thumb up and down the back, his face now calmer. “You’re okay,” he reminds you.

Finally able to breathe more steadily, you wipe your eyes with your free hand, never letting go of his. He never loosens his grip.

“I’m-” you start, your throat raw, “I’m so sorry.”

He smiles lightly at you. “It’s okay. I was already awake.”

You look around the room, everything as you left it when you went to sleep, but the bed is a mess. Pillows have been ripped, and the sheets are strewn about as though a tornado had passed through.

You glance back at him and suddenly become aware that you’re only wearing your underwear. You rush to pull the blankets up around yourself, the wool feeling immediately too warm. The male reaches for the armchair and hands you your shirt, which you gratefully pull over your head, pushing the blanket off of you.

He looks at you again, his hazel eyes scanning your incredibly red, puffy face. “Has this happened before?” he finally asks.

You swallow and nod, licking your cracked lips. In truth, it had happened many times before, whenever you had run. In sleep, when the bond opened up, he wormed his way back into your mind and tormented you. You had replayed this scene so many times: you and the babe you wished you had, sprinting through the woods to get away, only to find the babe missing. Normally, he made it all the way to you and brought you back to the cabin, finding your scent and coming for you. But not this time.

You wipe another rogue tear from your eye, pushing the snot from your face where it pooled above your lips. You sniffle as he takes your hand again, rubbing soothing circles into the back.

“I really am sorry,” you say, the words coming out broken.

He just shakes his head. “Like I said, I was already awake.” Then he smiles slightly at you. “Are you okay?” he asks.

You nod, trying desperately to clean your face.

“I’m going to grab you a wash rag, okay?” he offers.

You shake your head. “That’s okay. You can go back to bed. I’m alright.”

He gives you a tight-lipped smile. “I’ve heard less intense screaming on the battlefield.” You look down, shameful. “Let me at least get you a washcloth.” With that, he stands slowly and makes his way to the washbasin, running a rag through the water and bringing it back to you. You look up at him, your eyelashes clumping together from the tears as he props your chin up and runs the cloth delicately over your cheeks and eyes, giving you a soft smile. When he’s finished, and the cool water has soothed the burning on your skin, he pushes your hair back behind your ear.

He hands you the cloth as he takes his place next to you on the bed again. You run the cloth over your face and chest as he watches.

Your head feels heavy, your body like you’ve run miles. Everything feels sore. You let out a sigh, wiggling your nose slightly as it finally clears.

“I am genuinely sorry,” you say, looking down at the bed, hands in your lap.

“And I genuinely don’t want you to worry about it,” he responds, chuckling slightly. “It sounds like whatever’s going on in your head is much worse than losing a few hours of sleep, if I was sleeping at all.”

You chuckle slightly as well, then look up at him. His eyes meet yours. It’s so strange. This whole interaction is very strange.

“Thank you,” you finally say.

He smiles at you, a genuine smile, laced with a tinge of pity.

“I think I’m okay now.”

He nods, his smile fading slightly. “Are you going back to sleep?” he asks.

You nod, even though you’re sure you’ll spend the rest of the night with your eyes wide open, too afraid to let your guard down again.

He slowly stands, reaching out to take the wash rag, which he brings back to the basin to wring out. He turns, looking at you again, and opens his mouth as if to say something but stops himself. He makes his way to the door of the adjoining room, still flung open from when he crashed through earlier.

“If it’s alright with you, I’m just going to keep this cracked,” he says, one hand on the door.

You nod.

“Just in case you need anything,” he says again, “not that you do, but,” he pauses and smiles, “for my sake.”

You smile, the dried tears on your cheeks making your skin feel tight, and chuckle slightly, “Sure.”

With that, he closes the door to a crack. You hear him through the wall as he crosses his own room, the rustling of blankets being pulled back and the creak of the bed as he lies down. You wait until it goes quiet before pulling the sheets back up, resting your head on the last pillow that isn’t shredded, and stare at the window, waiting for the sun to come up.

[deadtired-highkeyenergetic]

hey! i just had a request (if you like it!) - cazador taking astarion’s partner (reader/tav) when all the siblings try to kidnap astarion, and turning them, intending for them to take astarion’s place - ofc astarion and crew arrive in time and scene progresses as normal, but now reader/tav is a vampire spawn. just fluff and hurt/comfort

Oh wow this became far darker than intended, I hope you don't mind. I do feel a little bad for reader in this one, honestly. Part 2 can be found here!

Spoilers for act 3!! If anyone still needs this.

Astarion’s shout stirs you from your peaceful slumber and you sit up with a start, eyes wide. Your hand automatically shoots to your weapon, fingers curling around it when you see two figures slowly approaching your lover who back away, hackles raised.

“Peace, brother. We’re here to take you home.” One says and you frown, ready to step in if needed. The other one urges Astarion to return with them, to ‘be reborn’ and you quickly make your way to Astarion’s side, ready to fight if need be. You didn’t care that those two were vampire spawn, you would defend Astarion with everything you had. You weren’t going to lose him now, not after coming all this way.

Astarion’s hand gently brushes against yours, a silent thank you for your show of support as you size your potential opponents up. With a gentle squeeze of your hand, Astarion moves to step slightly in front of you and begins to tell his siblings of his plan to take Cazador’s place in the ritual, to ascend and his siblings are none the wiser about the lies he’s weaving.

You know how desperately he wants the ritual, how he yearns for the power it will give him and yet you’re torn between convincing him otherwise and letting him take it. You don’t want to see him drown in the pursuit of this power but you know how much it means to him, the idea of being able to walk in the sun again, the idea of no longer being under someone else’s control, so you keep silent, your mind in turmoil.

Either way, the encounter ends with Cazador taking control of the spawns and it delves into a fight as Astarion does all he can to protect himself and you do all you can to ensure neither spawn manage to lay a hand on him. By the end of it, you’re panting from exhaustion, scratches lacing your skin but the two spawns have been backed into a corner and you have emerged victorious alongside Astarion.

Or so you think.

Suddenly, a chill runs down your spine and mist turns into a humanoid figure with glowing red eyes. Astarion’s eyes widen and he takes an instinctive step back. The two spawn cower as a sneer forms on the humanoid’s face, a clawed hand reaching out towards you.

“Y/N I presume? I have heard much about you, it is an honour to finally meet you.”

Cazador.

You swallow hard, refusing to show the vampire lord a hint of fear and meet his burning gaze that stares into your very soul.

“Cazador,” you say, tone measured. “If only I could say the same.”

Why was he here? Was he going to forcefully take Astarion away? If he was, you were pretty much powerless to stop him by yourself and he would be able to start the ritual. You keep your eyes fixed on the vampire lord who is smiling unnervingly, standing your ground as he takes a step towards you.

“Thank you for taking care of my precious lost son,” he places a hand on your shoulder which you brush off, glowering at him. He remains unfazed despite your rude gesture, the smile still fixed on his face.

“You’re very welcome,” you say stiffly, still uncertain about what Cazador was here for. He hadn’t spared a glance at Astarion at all, which was odd and the other two spawn hadn’t made a single move to kidnap Astarion, even though now was the best time to do so.

“In return, I would like him back so that he may return home.”

“No.” You immediately growl without a second thought. “I will not let you lay a hand on Astarion again.”

“How courageous of you,” the vampire lord chuckles. “To think that my son has found someone like you…to guide him back. I really am extremely grateful to you.”

Astarion makes a noise, ignoring the shaking in his hands and moves to stand next to you. He can’t leave you to face Cazador alone, not after he’s promised to always be by your side and so despite the nauseating fear that is rising in his throat, he forces himself to face his tormentor.

“Now then, my boy” Cazador continues, gaze finally turning towards him. “I will give you a choice. You, or your precious Y/N.”

“What?” Astarion narrows his eyes.

“Choose. You, or Y/N.” Cazador repeats.

“What do you intend to do?” Astarion snarls. Cazador doesn’t answer his question and simply raises three fingers, slowly counting down. Confused, Astarion opens and closes his mouth, unsure of the consequence each choice will spell and a wide grin forms on the vampire lord’s face once the last finger is down.

“Time’s up, my boy. I suppose, I will have to make the choice for you since you cannot make up your mind.” Cazador places a hand on your shoulder. “Say goodbye to your precious Y/N.”

Astarion takes a step towards you, your name on the tip of his tongue but he is too late, slowed by the tadpole and Cazador whisks you away along with the other two spawns, back to his palace.

“No, no, no!” Astarion roars, hand grasping thin air. “Cazador!”

The others come running over at the commotion, confused when they see Astarion on his knees, sobbing and cursing.

“What happened?” Halsin asks, kneeling next to the wailing vampire.

“Cazador!” Astarion snarls through the tears. “He took Y/N!”

“He took Y/N? Aren’t you the one he’s after? Why did he take them?” Wyll asks.

“Didn’t you say you’d protect them? Why didn’t you?” Lae’zel snaps. Astarion whirls around, ready to tear Lae’zel apart but Halsin holds him back, the vampire thrashing in his grip.

“Calm down, Astarion. We won’t get anywhere fighting amongst ourselves. Do you have an idea of where Cazador might have taken Y/N?” Halsin’s low voice gently rumbles.

“His damned palace, probably,” Astarion mutters, guilt tearing away at him. He should have given Cazador an answer, he should have been stronger and pressed Cazador for answers, he should have pulled you away from Cazador the moment the vampire lord had placed his hand on your shoulder.

“Then we will head there immediately,” Jaheria smoothly takes command and the other nod in agreement. The longer you were with Cazador, the dimmer your prospects, for who knew what Cazador wanted with you? Time was of the essence.

“We will get Y/N back,” Gale said firmly. “We will rescue them.”

At Cazador’s palace, you were held in place by blood red glyphs as Cazador circled you, ruby eyes glowing in the darkness.

“You are a fascinating creature, Y/N. Time and time again, I’ve taught my imperfect son not to form a relationship, that such bonds are a weakness he cannot afford, and yet he still chooses to form a bond with you. He knew of the consequences that would follow, and still decided to proceed. I wonder what about you makes him decide to risk it all.”

You remain silent, glaring as hard as you can at him. He leans in closer, a cold finger traces along your jawline and stop at your chin.

“Is it because of how much you make him think you care for him?”

“I genuinely care for him, unlike you!” You spit, jerking away from his touch.

“Or maybe your looks.” He pretends to contemplate before tightly grabbing you by the chin and pulling you towards him.

“No…that can’t be it.” He smirks. “Oh, I know. It’s the delectable taste of your blood, isn’t it? I can see the bite marks, he clearly loves drinking from you.”

“Piss off!” You snarl despite the fear creeping into your chest. “Whatever goes on between Astarion and I is none of your concern!”

“Oh, but it is. He is, after all, my son.” Cazador leans even closer, pressing his lips against the bite marks on your neck. “And you too, will become my child.”

His fangs sink into the soft supple flesh of your neck, painful and harsh unlike Astarion’s bite and you hiss, struggling to get away but the glyphs hold you tight. Your heart thunders, blood rushing in your ears as you snarl, spit and thrash as hard as you can but his fangs remain firmly lodged in your neck, your precious lifeblood gushing down his throat. Spots start to form in your vision and you feel yourself weakening, life fading away.

“Oh, don’t worry.,” you barely hear him as the world starts to turn black. “I don’t kill my own children.”

When you wake, everything is dark, but something feels different. Your sense of smell is sharper, you can see the lines of wood in the dark and…

“Welcome back, my child.” The sound of wood scraping rakes your ears and you quickly cover them, hissing.

“How are you feeling?” Cazador smiles, setting something down before turning to you, holding out a hand.

“Get lost!” You slap his hand away, trying to take in your surroundings. You’re in some sort of underground area, judging from the leaking ceiling and the musty smell in the air. The tiny squeaks of rats fill your ears and you notice chains hanging from the wall in front of you, covered in dried blood.

“How rude. It seems the first thing I must teach you is manners,” Cazador tuts. “Repeat after me, ‘I am fine, thank you for asking, master.’”

“Go —” A presence dominates your mind, sending your tadpole squirming as it tries to take back your mind. You scream, the tadpole’s fight tearing your mind apart and you hear Cazador snarl in frustration.

“That blasted thing!”

He looks back up at you, a smile slowly reforming itself upon his face. “Still, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to have complete control over you for my plan to work. All I need is you.”

“What do you intend to do?” You pant, head throbbing.

“Why, have you take that boy’s place in the ritual of course. He chose to sacrifice you instead of himself. Now come along, I would rather not have to drag you out in front of your new siblings.”

You quietly follow him, mind still struggling to wrap around recent events. One moment you were trying to find Gortash and Orin to prevent The Absolute from taking over Baldur’s Gate, and then next you were Cazador’s latest vampire spawn, a sacrifice for his ascension. Cazador didn’t seem to mind your silence, tightly holding onto your hand to ensure you couldn’t just run away, not that he would have much of a problem catching you anyways.

He leads you to a grand hall where a pentagram has already been drawn with blood in the center of the floor and seven pedestals surround it. His other vampire spawn each stand on one, waiting for further instructions and you glance around nervously. Would the others be able to find this place before it was too late?

Cazador unsheathes a dagger, snapping his fingers and glyphs appear around your wrists and ankles once more, forcing you to kneel on the ground in front of him. He slices your clothes open, tossing them away until you’re half naked and bends down next to you.

“I believe you know what comes next.”

Bile rises in your throat, your clawed fingertips digging into your palm as you prepare yourself.

“Go rot in the hells.”

He laughs, knowing that all you can do is spit words at him and raises the dagger with a sadistic grin.

Then plunges it straight into your back.

The pain tears you apart from the inside, gnawing at every fibre of your being as you keenly feel each and every sinew being split open by the dagger, warm blood coating your back. You can hear screaming, was it coming from you? You couldn’t tell, your mind was far too hazy to make anything out.

Everything hurts, everything hurts, everything hurts.

You scream until your voice turns hoarse, but Cazador doesn’t stop. He continues with his work of art, twisting the dagger whilst its blade is embedded in your flesh whenever you collapse, shocking you back into reality. Over and over again he marks your flesh with Infernal script and you wonder how Astarion pulled through this.

Suddenly, the dagger stops. Cazador shouts something but your ringing ears can’t make out anything. Something red slams into the vampire lord and sends him crashing into the floor with a war cry, followed by an axe.

The glyphs holding you up disappear and you feel yourself falling, but not an inch of your body obeys your command to break your fall. Before the floor can meet you, a pair of warm arms wraps around you, holding you steady.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

You stare blankly at the floor beneath, wishing it had ended your suffering but then you remember that you’re a vampire spawn now and simply smacking into the floor wouldn’t kill you.

“Y/N? Talk to me,” the voice speaks again. Your swimming vision barely manages to scrape together an image and through the haze your mind recalls a name. Wyll.

A small noise escapes your lips and the Blade of Frontiers lets out a sigh of relief.

“You’re alive, that’s good.”

“No,” you whisper. “Not. Alive.”

“Not in that sense,” someone else speaks. Halsin.

Something new warms your back, blue light shimmering around you, “don’t you dare fall asleep.” Shadowheart.

“As…”

An angry cry pierces through the air. More shouting. Then. Silence. A figure rushes to your side, silvery curls stained with blood.

“Y/N!” There’s panic in the voice. “Darling?”

“As…ta…rion.”

“You’re safe now,” he pulls you into a hug. “You’re safe now.”

“Hurt…”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Astarion chokes. “I’m sorry I let that monster take you, I’m sorry I let you get hurt, I’m sorry I was late.”

His apologies are met with silence, your body limp in his arms as you struggle to stay awake. You want to reassure him, you want to say something but your body refuses to cooperate.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs. “It’s my fault that you were taken, I promised to protect you and yet, and yet I —”

“It…s…ok.”

“It’s not!” He snaps. “It’s not ok! Nothing is! I let Cazador take you! I let him turn you! Now…now you can’t walk in the sun anymore! Not once that damned tadpole is removed! You’ll constantly feel the hunger! Others will call you a monster!”

Astarion stops when he sees the fresh tear streaks on your face, biting his lip hard. You come first, you need him right now. He pushes his self-hatred away and focuses on you, wrapping his arms around you and hugging you tightly, ignoring the blood that seeps between his fingers. He presses his lips against the top of your head as your shoulders shake.

“I’m right here, my love. I’m right here. I promise, you’re never alone. You will never be alone. I will be right here, by your side to help you shoulder your burdens as you’ve helped me. I promise.”

[thatlotuscookie]

Mikey from Tokyo Revengers please. Maybe where the reader is the only one who can calm him down when he's having a bad day or feeling overwhelmed, but she doesn’t realize how much it means to him?

✧･ﾟ: a/n : to the lovely anon who requested this—thank you! Mikey’s the type of character who hides his emotions well, but I can totally see him seeking comfort in someone who brings normalcy into his chaotic life. I hope this hits all the right feels for you! I listened to Understand by Keshi the whole time and AGHH brought me into the feels.

✧ Title: ✧ The Weight Of Everything ✧ ✧ Characters: Mikey (Manjiro Sano) x Reader (Fem!Reader) �� Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Romance ✧ Rating: T ✧ Summary: Mikey carries burdens that no one else can truly understand. On days when everything feels like it’s falling apart, your presence becomes his only source of calm. But when Mikey realizes just how much you mean to him, he's left wondering if there's a chance for something more. ✧ Content/Tags: Emotional vulnerability, Mentions of stress/burnout, Angst, Slow Burn, Vulnerability, Pining, Emotional Support, Confession ✧ WC: 1323 words // 7470 chars

Mikey was used to handling things alone.

Being the leader of Toman came with burdens that no one else could truly understand. The pressure of making decisions, keeping his friends safe, staying strong for everyone—it was a constant weight on his shoulders. Most days, he carried it without complaint, hiding his exhaustion behind that calm, almost childlike demeanor he was known for.

But there were days when it all became too much. Days like today, when even the smallest frustrations piled up until they became overwhelming, leaving him on the verge of snapping.

Mikey sat at the edge of the rundown rooftop, his legs dangling over the side as he stared blankly at the horizon. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the city, but he couldn’t bring himself to appreciate the beauty of it. His mind was racing, his heart heavy with unspoken thoughts.

It was one of those days.

He’d been distant with the gang, unusually quiet, and though his friends had noticed, none of them dared to ask what was wrong. They knew better than to pry when Mikey was in one of his moods. Only Draken had given him a look, that knowing expression that said he understood—but even he hadn’t tried to approach.

Mikey preferred it that way. He didn’t want to be asked how he was feeling. He didn’t want to explain. He just wanted… to escape.

And that’s where you came in.

You weren’t a member of Toman, not in the traditional sense, but you’d been around long enough to be considered part of the family. You were close to the core group, though you never really saw yourself as anyone particularly important. You were just… there. Someone who offered a kind smile, someone who listened, someone who brought a sense of normalcy to their otherwise chaotic lives.

Unbeknownst to you, that normalcy had become something Mikey craved more than he would ever admit.

You spotted him sitting alone on the rooftop when you went looking for him. The others had mentioned his unusual behavior today, and while they didn’t seem too worried, you couldn’t help but feel concerned. Something about his silence had struck you as different, more unsettling than usual.

“Mikey?”

Your voice was soft as you approached, not wanting to startle him. He didn’t turn to look at you, but his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly at the sound of your voice.

Without waiting for an invitation, you sat down beside him, careful to leave a little space between you. The cool breeze tugged at your hair, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

You glanced at him, noting the way his eyes were fixated on the horizon, distant and unfocused. “You okay?”

Mikey didn’t respond right away. He wasn’t sure how to explain what he was feeling—not even to himself. Instead, he shrugged, a small, almost imperceptible movement.

You weren’t surprised by his silence. He had always been a man of few words when it came to his emotions, and you’d long since learned that pushing him for answers wasn’t the way to go. So, you sat quietly beside him, your presence calm and steady.

After a few minutes, you sighed softly and leaned back, resting your hands behind you. “You know,” you began casually, your tone light, “sometimes I just come up here to watch the sunset when I’ve had a bad day. It’s kinda nice, isn’t it?”

Mikey’s gaze flickered to you for the first time since you’d arrived, his expression unreadable. He didn’t respond, but the tension in his posture eased just a little more.

You smiled, more to yourself than to him. “Yeah. It’s peaceful up here. Like nothing else matters.”

He remained quiet, but you didn’t mind. There was something about just sitting with him, even in silence, that felt… right. You didn’t need to fill the space with meaningless words. Sometimes, just being there was enough.

Minutes ticked by, and the sky shifted from orange to pink, then deep purple. The world around you seemed to grow quieter, and you found yourself relaxing more, the weight of the day lifting from your own shoulders.

Mikey, on the other hand, was watching you now. He didn’t know when it had happened, but at some point, your mere presence had become something he relied on. Something that grounded him when everything else felt like it was slipping through his fingers. You never asked for anything, never expected him to explain himself or act a certain way around you. You just… were. And that simple fact had become his lifeline.

He shifted slightly, moving closer to you, though he made sure not to draw attention to it. He didn’t want you to think too much of it—not yet, at least.

You turned your head, catching his movement, and smiled at him, though you didn’t comment on the fact that he was now sitting a little closer than before.

“Thanks,” he muttered suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You blinked, surprised by the suddenness of his words. “For what?”

“For… this.” His eyes were still on the horizon, but his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it. “For just… being here.”

Your heart warmed at his words, but you shrugged it off, trying to keep things light. “Hey, that’s what friends are for, right?”

Friends. That word stung more than Mikey had expected it to. Was that all you thought you were? Just friends?

He didn’t respond, but the silence that followed was different this time—more charged, more significant. You felt it too, though you weren’t sure why. There was something in the way he was looking at you now, something in the air between you that made your pulse quicken.

Before you could say anything else, Mikey spoke again, his voice low and almost hesitant. “You don’t… even realize, do you?”

You frowned slightly, confused. “Realize what?”

“How much this means to me.” His gaze finally met yours, and the vulnerability in his eyes took your breath away. “How much you mean to me.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, you were at a loss for words. You had never seen Mikey like this—so open, so raw. It was like the walls he had spent so long building around himself were starting to crack, just enough for you to see what lay beneath.

“I…” You struggled to find the right words, unsure of how to respond.

Mikey sighed, his usual confident demeanor faltering as he ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an idiot, but… you’re the only one who can calm me down. When everything feels like it’s falling apart, you’re the only thing that keeps me from losing it.”

His confession hit you like a wave, and suddenly, everything made sense. The way he always seemed to seek you out, the way he relaxed whenever you were around. It wasn’t just coincidence. It was because you had become something more to him—something that went beyond friendship.

“I didn’t know…” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I didn’t know I meant that much to you.”

Mikey smiled, though it was small and a little sad. “Yeah, well… I didn’t realize it either, until now.”

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken feelings, and you weren’t sure what to say. Your heart was racing, your mind spinning, but one thing was clear: Mikey needed you, in a way that no one else did. And maybe, just maybe, you needed him too.

Slowly, you reached out, your hand brushing against his. “I’m here,” you said softly. “Whenever you need me.”

Mikey’s fingers curled around yours, his grip firm yet gentle. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight on his shoulders lifted, just a little.

And for the first time, he allowed himself to hope—for something more, for something real.

[notsunnyowo]

The love of my life

Word count: 833

Summary: You can't live in a world without Satoru, but if he's forced to live in a world without you, you hope that he can still live his best life.

Content: Death, Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Slight canon divergence, Satoru Gojo x Female! Reader (AFAB)

If you die. I die.

You looked at your classmate, a look of pure admiration etched on your face as a delicate smile danced along your features. The sound of your laughter filled the classroom as you chuckled at some funny joke Satoru had said just now.

The four of you were layzing around in your classroom, waiting for Yaga-sensei to come and tell you about your respective missions for the day. And Gojo being Gojo decided the best way to pass the time was to goof around a bit. Cracking dumb jokes, one after the other, face lighting up each time he heard your melodic laugh.

But if I die.

Satoru stood in front of your lifeless body, his face as pale as a ghost and his pristine eyes filled with unshed tears. He didn't want to stare at the horrid sight of your blood covered body, yet he couldn't bring himself to look away either.

No.. This wasn't real.. It couldn't be..

He felt a lump forming in his throat as he stood there, completely motionless.

This was just some sick joke right..? Yeah..! Any moment now, you were going to get up and chuckle at his stupidity for believing that you had actually died..

Right..?

Get enough sleep.

Satoru laid in his expensive armchair. His blindfold loosely covering his eyes as he slept, his arms folded neatly in front of his broad chest that rose and fell with each and every slow breath he took.

His breathing wavered for a moment, as the large man shifted in his seat, before slowly sitting up. His head turned to the side of his chair as his back hunched slightly and he leaned down to the side to grab something.

A small paper bag he had set down on the floor.

Eat properly.

Satoru picked the bag up into his large hands and set it down on his lap before opening it and taking out a small box filled with his favorite flavor of mochi.

Taking out a single piece, he opened his mouth and took a bite of it, his jaw moving in a circular motion as he chewed the sweet treat. It's sweet and savory essence filling his mouth and coating his taste buds.

Meet new people.

Satoru's ears perked up as he glanced in the general direction of the door in his office, just in time to see it swing open and his students barge in. Happy smiles etched on all their faces.

"Gojo-sensei!" Yuuji called out, raising a hand to his teacher and giving him a big, cheerful grin.

"Why is it that you've called all of us here for?" Megumi grumbled, looking at the blindfolded man with a slight look of annoyance.

"Are we going on another mission?" Kugisaki asked, as she spun her hammer around in-between her fingers.

Live a happy life.

Satoru smiled as he looked at his students, before finally speaking up. "Just wanted to share some mochi with my precious students." He said, his voice low, yet gentle.

The offer caused a set of confused glances to be thrown his way from his students.

"You really called us here, just so we could eat some mochi?" Megumi inquired, raising a brow.

"Seems about right." Kugisaki took the liberty of answering the dark haired boy.

"Why are you saying that like it's a bad thing?" Yuuji looked at the two of them, clearly not bothered by the fact that they all rushed to their sensei's call, just for it to turn out to be him wanting some company. "It's free food! And delicious food at that!" The boy grinned, eagerly taking a mochi for himself.

And when you think of me occasionally.

"Hey, Gojo-sensei.." Satoru let out a low hum, in response to Itadori's question. "Who's this girl with you in the photo?" He asked, pointing a curious finger to the small picture frame set on his teacher's desk.

Satoru looked over to the frame and smiled gently. "She was my classmate back in high school." He said, his voice filled with melancholy.

With gentle motions, he reached for the picture frame and took it in his hands, looking at it as if it were the most precious item he owned.

Remember that..

"She was also the first girl I ever fell in love with." He added, although barely loud enough for his students to hear. "The only person I ever fell in love with." He smiled fondly at the photo, his thumb gently brushing over the girl's face in the picture.

"How come you've never mentioned her before?" Megumi found himself asking, his interest now peaked. He walked over to the Yuuji and glanced down at the photo.

"Whoa, she's so pretty..!" Nobara interrupted, stepping in-between her two classmates to get a better look at the photo.

I will love you.

"Yeah, she is, isn't she?" Satoru spoke, looking at the photo with a gentle adoration. "The prettiest girl I've ever seen.."

For eternity.

Author Note:

I'm back and totally NOT dead! (Just lazy) But I wanna get back to writing again and good lord do I have a lot of requests!

Thank you all sooo much for sending so many requests, I really hope I'll be able to give y'all what you're looking for!

Requested to be tagged: @21aurora

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

HOME || CHILDHOOD BFF! SIMON 💔

Summary:

Teen Simon and his best friend often spend their nights away from their respective houses because they found a home in each other…

Pairing:

teen!Simon x teen!F!reader

Content Warnings:

This fic gets dark. It references Simon's backstory (from '09), child abuse, domestic violence, child death, arguments, injuries, abandonment issues, drugs, sex, alcohol, youth homelessness, etc.

Check every chapters' tags/cw for specific warnings.

Chapters:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Canon Ending (Hurt/No Comfort):

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Non-Canon Ending (Hurt/Comfort):

Alternative Ending

Extras:

Home: Moodboard

Home: Playlist

1st Attempt at a Happy Ending (I don't like it)

[MY MASTERLIST]

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

Been thinking about this for a while, but how about a scenario where reader is a muggle-born from a wealthy family who care much about their public perception. They ask her to bring Sebastian over for dinner because they wanted to meet the guy she keeps mentioning in her letters (she may not say it outright but they get the idea they’re dating) only to find out that he is in fact, poor, an orphan, and potentially not to the gentlemanly standard they expected for their daughter. (he tried this time to act good. He swears) How this ends can go one of many ways.

I don’t know if this is too complicated or fully formed as an idea but I think the drama could be fun

Enough | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

THANK YOU FOR THE ASK, ANON. I've never written anything quite like this but AH the drama was chef's kiss! I hope you love it <3

Words: ~10,400

Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Drama, Fluff, Romance

The morning started the way most mornings did—early. The Great Hall was awash with the usual clatter of silverware and the soft hum of conversation, students huddling over their breakfasts, discussing the latest Quidditch scores, impending exams, or whatever gossip had surfaced overnight. You had been sipping on tea, a half-buttered slice of toast on your plate as you flipped absentmindedly through a letter from home, the familiar script of your mother’s handwriting blurring before your eyes.

That is, until you hit the second paragraph.

You blinked. Once. Twice. And then you reread it, hoping you had misunderstood.

"We were intrigued by this young man you’ve been spending time with, darling. You’ve mentioned him in nearly every letter for months now, and it sounds like he’s been quite an influence on you. Your father and I agree it’s high time we meet him properly—this Sebastian fellow. What a charming name! Please invite him to dinner over Easter holiday. We’re so looking forward to putting a face to the name and getting to know the young man you’re so fond of."

Your heart stopped. Your stomach lurched.

Sebastian.

You’d written about him often, sure. He was your best friend, wasn’t he? Or, at least, that’s what you told yourself to avoid admitting the truth. And yes, you’d spoken of him in glowing terms—how could you not? But your parents had interpreted it all so horribly wrong.

Courting? Meeting him? Easter dinner?

The idea of parading Sebastian in front of your parents, of them scrutinizing him, made your hands tremble. Not because you thought poorly of him—Merlin, no. You thought the world of him, had thought the world of him since the fifth year. It was your parents. Their expectations. Their... standards.

You could hear their voices already: "He doesn’t come from a respectable family. What are his prospects? What on earth does he think he could offer you?"

The clatter of a fork on the floor startled you back to the present. You hastily folded the letter and shoved it into your bag, breathing deeply as you tried to collect yourself. Panic simmered just beneath the surface, threatening to boil over.

You glanced across the Hall to the Slytherin table, where Sebastian sat, as he often did, leaning back with an infuriating sort of confidence that only he could pull off. He was laughing at something Garreth Weasley said, his grin sharp, his dark hair a mess that somehow still suited him perfectly. You felt your chest tighten, both with fondness and sheer, unbridled terror.

You were in love with him, of course, but that hardly mattered now. You and Sebastian weren’t courting. You weren’t even close to broaching that topic. He had no idea how you felt, and you certainly weren’t about to admit it under these circumstances.

And yet, the prospect of defying your parents—ignoring their request—felt equally impossible. Their disapproval carried a weight you’d been trying to outrun your entire life, and the idea of disappointing them made your stomach churn.

You were trapped. Caught between an impossible expectation and a boy who didn’t even know he held your heart. And now, you had to somehow tell him about this invitation—a dinner he’d have no real reason to accept.

You made your way over to the Slytherin table, your palms sweaty as you clenched the strap of your bag. Sebastian caught sight of you before you even reached him, his grin widening as he straightened in his seat. His brown eyes narrowed on you—your nerves must have been written all over your face.

“What’s got you looking like that?” he asked, scooting over to make room for you as if he expected you to sit. He took a bite of his toast, completely at ease, while you hovered awkwardly beside him.

“I need to talk to you,” you blurted, your voice a little too high-pitched for your liking. “Alone.”

Sebastian raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued, but didn’t push. “Alright.” He stood, brushing crumbs from his hands, and slung his bag over one shoulder before nodding toward the doors. "Ladies first."

The two of you walked out of the Great Hall in silence, the weight of your impending confession settling heavily in your chest. Sebastian matched your pace, his usual confidence softened by curiosity as he shot occasional glances your way.

Once you reached the empty corridor just outside, you stopped, turning to face him. He leaned casually against the stone wall, his arms crossed, waiting for you to speak.

“Well?” he prompted, his tone light. “What’s this about?"

You inhaled sharply, clutching the strap of your bag as if it might ground you. “I got a letter from my parents this morning.”

“Ah,” he said knowingly, his smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Let me guess—another lecture about how you’re tarnishing the family name by being at Hogwarts instead of some fancy Muggle school?”

You frowned. “No, not this time. This is... different.”

That seemed to catch his attention. His smirk faded, replaced by a slight furrow of concern. “Alright, what’s it this time?”

You hesitated, the words sticking in your throat. How were you supposed to explain this? It felt ridiculous, mortifying, and yet you couldn’t avoid it. You had to tell him.

“They...” You exhaled shakily. “They want to meet you.”

Sebastian blinked. “Me?”

“Yes.” You looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “They think we’re... courting.”

For a moment, there was only silence. You risked a glance at him and found him staring at you, his mouth slightly open as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly.

“They what?” he finally managed, his voice rising just slightly.

“They think we’re courting!” you repeated, your face burning. “I didn’t say we were! I just... I mentioned you in my letters—your name might’ve come up a few times—and apparently, they got the wrong idea.”

Sebastian stared at you for another second before his lips twitched. Then, to your horror, he burst out laughing.

“This isn’t funny!” you hissed, glaring at him. “Sebastian, they’ve invited you to dinner over Easter holiday. They want to meet you, and they’re going to expect you to—” You cut yourself off, your heart pounding as you tried to gather your thoughts. “They’ll expect you to act a certain way, to be someone you’re not.”

“Why? Would they think I’m not up to snuff for their perfect daughter?” he asked, his grin still infuriatingly wide. “You make me sound like some street rat.”

“Because to them, you might as well be!” you snapped, then immediately regretted your words. “I didn’t mean it like that,” you said quickly, your voice softening. “It’s just... they’re very particular. They have high standards, and they’ll be looking for reasons to disapprove of you.”

Sebastian’s grin faltered, his expression hardening just a fraction. “So, what? You don’t want me to go?”

“It's not that," you insisted, shaking your head. "I just… I don’t want to put you in that position.

He studied you for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. Then, to your surprise, he shrugged. “Alright.”

Your eyes widened. “Alright what?”

“I’ll go,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Sebastian, you don’t understand,” you said desperately. “This isn’t some casual dinner. They’ll judge everything about you—your clothes, your manners, your background. And if they don’t think you’re good enough—”

“They’ll what? Disown you?” He smirked, though his tone was softer than usual. “Come on, I’ve faced cursed tombs and Dark wizards. I think I can handle a couple of uptight Muggles.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding. He wasn’t taking this seriously at all—or maybe he was, in his own strange way.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” you said weakly.

“Well, lucky for you, I do,” he said, his confidence unwavering. “Tell your parents I’ll be there. And don’t worry—I’ll even wear my best shirt.”

You sighed, and Sebastian opened his mouth to say something else, probably another snarky remark, but you grabbed his wrist and tugged him along before he could. “Come on. We're going to the library."

He resisted slightly, his boots scuffing against the stone floor as he dragged his feet. “The library? Now? I wasn’t even finished with breakfast!”

“You’ll survive,” you shot back, glancing over your shoulder to see him smirking again.

“I don’t know,” he drawled, letting you lead him anyway. “I was in the middle of a very important debate with Garreth about whether treacle tart or cauldron cakes are the superior dessert.”

You huffed, ignoring him as you hurried down the stairs, taking two at a time. The sooner you found Ominis, the sooner you could start sorting out the absolute mess that was your life.

“Why the library?” Sebastian asked after a moment, though he didn’t sound all that curious. He was just enjoying making you squirm. “If this is about your parents, shouldn’t you be writing them a letter to tell them how incredibly lucky they are to have me gracing their dinner table?”

You ignored that, your face burning. “We need Ominis.”

“Of course we do,” Sebastian said dryly. “Can’t have a proper crisis without Ominis.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed open the library doors. The room was mostly empty this early in the morning, the usual quiet amplified by the faint rustle of pages turning in the far corner. Ominis was easy to spot—or rather, his familiar posture was. He was seated at his usual table near the enchanted globe, his wand resting lightly in his hand as he read.

“Ominis,” you called softly, leading Sebastian toward him. “We need your help.”

The blonde lifted his head at the sound of your voice, his expression calm but curious. “And good morning to you, too,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “What sort of trouble are we in this time?”

Sebastian dropped into the chair across from him, looking far too relaxed for someone about to be dragged into a week of preparations. “Her parents think we’re courting,” he said bluntly, leaning back in his chair with a smirk.

Ominis’ brow furrowed. “They what?”

“They think we’re courting,” you repeated, sitting beside him and burying your face in your hands. “And they’ve invited him to dinner to... meet him.”

Ominis turned his attention to Sebastian, who looked far too relaxed given the situation. “And you agreed to this? Willingly?”

Sebastian shrugged, smirking. “What can I say? I like a challenge.”

“And here I thought I’d be spending my week in peace,” Ominis muttered. “Fine. I’ll help you prepare. But don’t expect miracles.”

As expected, the days that followed were, quite frankly, exhausting. Between classes, Quidditch practice, and your usual routines, you and Ominis dedicated every spare moment to preparing Sebastian for the upcoming dinner.

It started with the basics. Ominis took the lead on etiquette lessons, drilling Sebastian on everything from proper table manners to the art of polite conversation. He even went as far as to mimic the kind of snide remarks Sebastian might encounter, forcing him to practice responding without sarcasm—a monumental task, to say the least.

“Let’s try again,” Ominis said one evening in the Undercroft, his tone patient but firm. “I’ll be her father, and you’ll be... well, you. He asks, ‘What are your intentions with my daughter?’ Go.”

Sebastian groaned, leaning back in his chair and running a hand through his hair. “We’ve done this a hundred times, Ominis.”

“And we’ll do it a hundred more if that’s what it takes,” Ominis replied sharply, tapping his wand against his palm. “Now, try again.”

Meanwhile, you took charge of teaching him about Muggle traditions and customs, including the subtle differences he might not have noticed otherwise. You explained everything from the layout of a formal dinner to the kind of small talk he could expect. It was tedious work, but Sebastian humored you, though he often did so with a grin that suggested he found the whole ordeal amusing.

The real challenge came when Ominis insisted on taking Sebastian to Hogsmeade to purchase a proper suit.

“This is ridiculous,” Sebastian grumbled as Ominis guided him through racks of tailored jackets and waistcoats. “I already have clothes.”

“Your duelling robes aren’t enough,” Ominis replied, his tone brooking no argument. “You need to look the part. Now hold still.”

You stood nearby, hiding a smile as Ominis measured Sebastian with his wand, his expression the epitome of focus. Despite Sebastian’s complaints, the results were worth it. When he stepped out of the fitting room in a sleek black suit with a crisp white shirt, you were momentarily stunned.

“Well?” he asked, spreading his arms and spinning once for effect. “Do I pass inspection?”

You cleared your throat, trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks. “You’ll do.”

Ominis smirked knowingly. “You look presentable. Let’s hope your behavior matches.”

By the end of the week, Sebastian had begrudgingly mastered the basics. He could navigate a formal dinner, hold polite conversation, and even manage a few compliments without sounding insincere. Whether or not it would be enough to win over your parents remained to be seen, but for now, it was the best you could hope for.

On the evening of the dinner, you stood in your dormitory, staring at your reflection in the mirror with growing unease. Your usual confidence felt oddly absent as you adjusted the neckline of your dress; a light blue gown from Gladrags, soft and elegant, flowing like water down to your ankles, the color reminiscent of a clear spring sky.

Taking a deep breath, you smoothed your hands down the front of your skirt, grabbed your shawl, and headed out. The castle felt oddly quiet as you made your way to the appointed meeting place near the Floo. 5:30 sharp. You were certain you’d be the first to arrive—Sebastian had a habit of being fashionably late, after all—but as you turned the corner, you stopped short.

He was already there.

He stood near the fireplace, his hands stuffed into his pockets, his dark hair neatly combed for once. He wore the suit Ominis had picked out for him—black with a crisp white shirt—and his tie, much to your surprise, was light blue, perfectly matching your gown. The sight of it made your breath hitch.

For a moment, you just stared, taking in the way the tailored jacket fit him, the sharp cut of his shoulders, the way he shifted his weight from foot to foot. He looked... different. Polished. But there was still something so unmistakably Sebastian about him, from the way his brow furrowed slightly in thought to the nervous energy in his movements.

...Nervous?

Sebastian Sallow, the boy who faced cursed tombs and duels with a smirk, who thrived in chaos and relished a challenge, was pacing slightly as he waited for you. His hands fidgeted with the edge of his jacket, and he glanced at the clock above the fireplace every few seconds.

The sight made your chest ache and your heart flutter all at once.

“You were early,” you said softly, stepping closer.

He turned at the sound of your voice, his brown eyes widening slightly as he took you in. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, his gaze sweeping over your gown, your carefully chosen jewelry, and finally settling on your face.

“And you're right on time” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual. He cleared his throat, straightening his posture. “You look—” He stopped, his words catching. Then he smiled, the kind of smile that wasn’t teasing or cocky but genuine. “You look beautiful.”

You felt warmth rise to your cheeks, and you clasped your hands together to keep from fidgeting. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

He grinned at that, some of his usual confidence returning. “Well, if I’m going to face the gauntlet, I might as well dress the part.”

The two of you stood there for a moment, the soft crackle of the torches filling the silence. There was a weight to the air between you, a sense of anticipation that neither of you seemed quite willing to break.

Finally, Sebastian stepped closer, offering his arm. “Shall we?”

You hesitated for only a second before slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow. His warmth was steady beneath your fingertips, grounding you as the nerves in your chest threatened to bubble over.

“Let’s get this over with,” you said with a weak smile.

Sebastian smirked, though the slight tightness in his jaw told you he wasn’t as calm as he was pretending to be. “Don’t worry,” he said as he reached for the Floo powder. “I’ve got this.”

He grabbed an adequate amount, and with one last glance your way, Sebastian guided you both into the Floo.

The swirling green flames spat you out onto the gravel drive of your family’s manor, the grand estate standing tall against the backdrop of the darkening sky. The familiar sight made your stomach churn with nerves.

Sebastian let out a low whistle, glancing up at the imposing structure. “So, this is home, huh? Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, half-defensive, half-curious.

He shrugged, his hands slipping casually into his pockets. “It suits you. Polished. Impressive. Maybe a little intimidating.”

You snorted softly. “Intimidating, really?”

“Absolutely,” he said with a grin. “You should see yourself when you’re angry."

You rolled your eyes, but his playful banter did little to ease your nerves. The thought of what waited inside—your parents, their judgment, the impossible expectations—made your stomach twist uncomfortably.

Sebastian must have noticed, because his grin softened, and he stepped closer, his voice low. “Hey. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’ll behave. Promise.”

You gave him a weak smile, wishing you could believe him. “You’ll need to do more than behave.”

“Then I’ll dazzle them,” he said with a wink, though the tightness in his jaw betrayed his own unease. “Shall we?”

For a moment, you hesitated, your heart pounding as you stared up at the towering manor. Then you took a deep breath, slipped your hand into the crook of his arm, and nodded. “Let’s go.”

Together, you climbed the stone steps to the front door, the sound of your heels echoing in the stillness. Sebastian reached for the brass knocker but paused, glancing at you one last time. “Ready?”

No. Not even close. But you nodded anyway.

The knocker fell with a heavy thud, and within seconds, the door swung open. A butler stood in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral as he looked the two of you over. “Welcome home, Miss,” he said with a slight bow before stepping aside. “Your parents are expecting you in the drawing room.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, stepping inside with Sebastian at your side.

The manor was just as you remembered it—pristine and impossibly grand, every detail designed to impress. The faint hum of conversation drifted from the drawing room, mingling with the crackle of a fire. Your nerves tightened with each step, but Sebastian walked confidently beside you, his arm steady under your hand.

As you approached the drawing room door, your mother’s voice carried through, clear and sharp as she spoke to your father. “Do try to make a good impression, darling.”

You froze for a split second, glancing at Sebastian. He caught your eye, offering a small smile that was more reassuring than cocky this time.

With one last breath, you stepped into the room, the weight of the evening settling firmly on your shoulders.

This was it.

The drawing room was as stately as ever, bathed in the warm glow of a crystal chandelier and the flicker of firelight dancing across polished wood paneling. Your parents sat on the velvet settee near the hearth, the picture of poise and elegance. Your mother, ever the perfectionist, smoothed invisible creases from her gown as she glanced up. Your father, a tall man with a commanding presence, stood as you entered, his sharp eyes taking in the scene with quiet scrutiny.

“Darling,” your mother greeted, her tone light but laced with expectation. She rose gracefully, her gaze flickering to Sebastian. “And this must be Mr. Sallow.”

Sebastian straightened, his easy confidence slipping into something more formal as he stepped forward. He bowed his head slightly, his movements smooth and deliberate. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” he said, his voice steady and polite. "And please, call me Sebastian."

Your mother’s lips curved into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “The pleasure is ours,” she said, her tone cool but courteous. “Do come in and sit.”

Sebastian glanced at you, waiting for you to move first. You gave him a slight nod, releasing his arm as you both crossed the room. The chairs arranged across from your parents suddenly felt much too far apart, but Sebastian didn’t hesitate. He sat with perfect posture, his hands resting loosely on his knees, his expression calm.

You took the seat beside him, wishing you could shrink into it. Your mother’s sharp gaze swept over Sebastian, taking in every detail of his appearance—his perfectly tailored suit, his neatly combed hair, the faintest hint of tension in his jaw.

She folded her hands in her lap, her poised smile never faltering. "So, Sebastian," she began, her tone deceptively pleasant. "Tell us. How did the two of you meet?"

Sebastian turned to you with an easy smile. "We met during Defense Against the Dark Arts," he said. "My fifth year at Hogwarts—her first. Professor Hecat paired us for a duel."

Your father arched a brow. "A duel?"

Sebastian’s smirk twitched at the corner of his lips. "Yes, sir. I was confident I’d win."

"And?" your mother prompted, her eyes glinting with curiosity.

Sebastian glanced at you, and though his expression was perfectly neutral, you caught the amusement dancing behind his eyes. "I lost," he admitted, the words coming smoothly, without a hint of shame. "Rather spectacularly, if I’m being honest."

Your mother’s lips pressed together, but she nodded as if accepting the explanation. "I see. And tell me, Sebastian, what do you do in your spare time?"

Sebastian exhaled lightly, as if considering his words carefully. "I enjoy dueling. I still train regularly—it keeps me sharp. I also read quite a bit, mostly historical accounts of magical warfare, defensive strategy, things of that nature."

"Interesting." Your mother tilted her head. “And tell us, Sebastian, where is your family from?”

You adjusted in your seat, hands smoothing over your dress in a futile attempt to steady yourself. This was exactly what you had expected—no lighthearted conversation, no genuine warmth, just the relentless, calculated prodding of your parents. Every question, though cloaked in civility, was a test. A careful dissection. They weren’t getting to know Sebastian; they were measuring him, scrutinizing every word, every movement, silently deciding whether he was worthy of the world they had so meticulously crafted.

Sebastian, to his credit, didn’t so much as flinch. His expression remained composed, though you didn’t miss the way his fingers curled slightly against his knee before relaxing again.

“I grew up in the Scottish Highlands, not far from Iverness,” he said smoothly. “My family lived there for generations.”

Your father leaned forward slightly, his expression still unreadable. “And what do your parents do?”

The air grew heavier. This was one question you’d been dreading, the one that no amount of preparation could soften. You risked a glance at Sebastian, your heart hammering in your chest.

“They were Professors, however my parents passed away when I was young,” Sebastian said, his voice steady. “It’s just my sister and I now."

There was a brief pause, the kind that stretched just long enough to be uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” your mother said at last, though the words felt hollow.

Sebastian inclined his head. “Thank you, ma’am.”

He was holding his own, but this wasn’t a conversation—it was an examination. And it was only going to get worse.

You could feel Sebastian’s gaze flick toward you, just for a moment, as if checking in. Making sure you were okay.

You weren’t.

Your father continued on, clearly not ready to let the conversation drift into safer waters. “And your sister?” he asked, his tone polite but probing. “What does she do?”

“Anne’s focus has been on her health in recent years,” Sebastian said carefully. “She’s unwell.”

The words hung in the air for a beat too long, the weight of them sinking into the polished wood and embroidered silk of the drawing room. You knew your parents well enough to recognize the flicker of calculation behind your father’s eyes, the way your mother’s fingers twitched as she reached for her teacup, as if trying to mask the direction of her thoughts.

No parents. An ill sister. No meaningful connections to high society.

To them, it meant one thing: nothing to offer.

You clenched your hands in your lap, nails pressing into your palms as you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. It was maddening, sitting here while they dissected him like this, peeling him apart with careful, polite words, as they decided whether he was worth your time. As if he hadn’t already proven himself a hundred times over to you.

“Sebastian,” your mother said, breaking the brief silence, “our daughter speaks very highly of you. She’s mentioned your... intelligence and resourcefulness.”

Sebastian turned his gaze to your mother, his expression unreadable. He didn’t preen under the supposed compliment, nor did he flinch at the underlying weight of her words. Instead, he simply waited, letting her continue, as if he knew there was more to it.

Your mother took a delicate sip of her tea, the fine china barely making a sound as she set it back on the saucer. “I do hope she’s not exaggerating.”

Sebastian smiled—just a flicker of one, polite but unreadable. “I suppose that depends on what she’s said," he glanced at you briefly before continuing. “But if I’ve earned even half the praise she’s given me, I’d say I’m doing quite well.”

Your mother tilted her head, her smile tightening. “And what are your ambitions, Mr. Sallow? What do you hope to achieve?”

The question made your stomach tighten. They weren’t interested in him as a person. They were interested in whether he was worth investing in.

Sebastian, however, didn’t so much as blink. He exhaled softly, as if considering his words, then tilted his head slightly.

"I’ve always been drawn to subjects that require critical thinking—Defense Against the Dark Arts, for example," he said, his voice calm but deliberate. "My main considerations have been Cursebreaking or perhaps training to become an Auror."

Your father cleared his throat, leaning forward slightly in his chair. “Cursebreaking and… Auror?” His tone was polite but clipped, as though he was carefully parsing the unfamiliar terms. "What would such professions look like?"

“Yes, sir,” Sebastian replied carefully. “Cursebreaking involves uncovering and disarming magical traps, often tied to ancient artifacts or ruins. Akin to... archeology. And Aurors are... the magical equivalent of a detective, sir."

Your mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, her hands folding neatly in her lap. “Quite dangerous,” she said, her tone clipped as her sharp gaze flicked toward you for a moment before returning to Sebastian. “Do you find yourself drawn to danger, Mr. Sallow?”

“Not for its own sake, no,” he replied smoothly.

His response almost had you laughing—because if there was one thing Sebastian Sallow was drawn to, it was danger. You pressed your lips together tightly, trying to stifle the smile threatening to break through, but it was too late. Your amusement must have flickered across your face because your mother’s sharp eyes immediately snapped to you.

“And what, may I ask, is so amusing, darling?” she said, her tone as smooth as silk but edged with curiosity. Her gaze pinned you to your seat like a hawk spotting prey, and you froze, your mind scrambling for an excuse.

Sebastian’s gaze flicked to you, and for a brief second, you caught the faintest glimmer of a amusement in his eyes. But before you could respond, a knock at the drawing room door broke the tension.

The butler stepped inside, bowing slightly. “Dinner is served, everyone.”

Relief flooded through you so quickly you nearly sagged in your chair. Your mother nodded gracefully, rising from her seat with all the elegance of a queen. “Shall we?” she said, gesturing toward the dining room.

You wasted no time in standing, brushing down your dress as you avoided your mother’s lingering gaze. Sebastian rose smoothly beside you, his hand brushing against yours briefly as he offered his arm again. You hesitated for only a moment before taking it, his steady warmth grounding you as you followed your parents out of the room.

As you walked, you leaned in slightly, keeping your voice low. "It's unnerving how talented you are at lying."

Sebastian glanced at you, his expression unreadable but his lips twitching into the faintest smirk. “Who says I lied?"

You snorted softly. "You’d dive headfirst into a cursed tomb if someone dared you.”

He chuckled under his breath, his voice barely audible as he replied, “Not if it’s a boring tomb.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a laugh as the two of you entered the dining room. It was grand, of course—your family didn’t do anything halfway. The long table was set with gleaming silverware and crystal glasses, a centerpiece of fresh flowers and candles casting a soft glow over the room.

Your father took his seat at the head of the table, your mother settling in beside him with a practiced grace. You and Sebastian were directed to the seats opposite them, the distance between you making the table feel even more intimidating.

The first course—a delicate arrangement of roasted quail and glazed vegetables—was placed before you, the table settling into a brief silence as your parents inspected the presentation with the same scrutiny they applied to everything else. You glanced at Sebastian, your heart sinking slightly as you noticed the slightest flicker of uncertainty in his movements.

He picked up a fork, pausing for just a moment too long as he seemed to second-guess whether it was the correct one. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. He began to cut into the dish with the smaller dessert fork, and while it wasn’t glaringly obvious, it was enough to catch your mother’s sharp eyes.

“Not quite that one, Sebastian,” she said, her voice saccharine sweet but laced with condescension. “The proper fork for the main course is the one on your left.”

Sebastian froze for the briefest moment before smoothly setting the fork down and picking up the correct one. “Thank you for the clarification,” he said evenly.

Your mother smiled thinly, her eyes gleaming with something that made your stomach turn. “It can be so difficult to keep track of these things when one isn’t accustomed to formal settings.”

You stiffened, your grip on your own fork tightening as a surge of indignation rose in your chest. You wanted to say something, to defend him, but before you could, Sebastian beat you to it.

“Quite right,” he said, his tone still calm but now carrying a subtle edge. “It’s not a habit I’ve had the opportunity to form. I suppose that’s what makes learning new things so valuable.”

Your mother’s lips twitched, as though she couldn’t decide whether to be irritated or impressed by his response. “Indeed,” she said finally, her tone cool.

The meal carried on in uneasy silence, each bite weighed down by the lingering tension that clung to the air like a storm waiting to break. The clink of silverware against porcelain was the only sound, punctuating the unspoken challenge that had passed between Sebastian and your parents. Though the conversation had momentarily stalled, the scrutiny had not. It lingered, sharp and assessing, filling every quiet second with a pressure that made it harder to swallow.

Sebastian remained composed, his expression carefully neutral, but you could feel the way his fingers occasionally curled around the stem of his glass, the subtle flick of his gaze toward you—a silent check-in, a quiet assurance.

But it wasn’t him they turned their focus to next.

“Darling,” your mother began, setting down her fork with an air of practiced grace, “how are your studies progressing this term? I trust you’re excelling?”

You swallowed, already feeling the familiar prickle of anxiety creeping up your spine. “They’re going well, Mother,” you said carefully. “I’ve been—”

“Well?” she interrupted, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. “Is that the best you can say? I sent a letter to Professor Garlick who indicated to me that you've been struggling in Herbology. I’m sure you could apply yourself more diligently.”

You clenched your jaw, your grip tightening on your knife. “It’s not my strongest subject, but I’m doing my best.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, a clear sign that your answer wasn’t satisfactory. “I see,” she said coolly. “And what about that... brutish sport you insist on playing? What’s it called again? Quilt... ditch?”

“Quidditch,” you corrected quietly.

“Yes, that,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I fail to see how spending your time chasing after a ball does anything to further your education.”

Your father chimed in, his tone gruff but no less pointed. “I suppose it’s her way of rebelling.”

You focused intently on cutting your food, willing yourself to remain calm. This wasn’t new; you’d endured countless dinners like this before. But tonight, with Sebastian sitting beside you, the sting of their words felt sharper.

Sebastian, to his credit, didn’t outwardly react at all. You were impressed by his restraint. His eyes stayed fixed on his plate, though you knew him well enough to see the occasional twitch of his jaw, the subtle shift in his posture.

Your mother’s next comment was the tipping point.

“And another thing, darling,” your mother said, her tone saccharine and laced with something sharp. “I couldn’t help but notice you’ve put on a bit of weight since the summer. I do hope you haven’t been neglecting your studies in favor of… indulgences.”

The words sliced through the air like a knife, precise and deliberate, meant to wound in a way that could be brushed off as concern.

Your stomach twisted, heat creeping up your neck as every childhood insecurity came rushing back all at once. You knew better than to react—she wanted a reaction—but the sting of it lodged deep in your chest anyway.

You swallowed, unsure if you even wanted to look at Sebastian, afraid of what you might see—awkwardness, pity, maybe even silent agreement.

But when you did glance at him, what you found wasn’t hesitation.

It was fury.

Not loud, not dramatic, but cold—sharp enough to cut.

Sebastian’s hand had stilled around his fork, his knuckles just barely white with the force of his grip. His jaw was tight, his brown eyes dark with something unreadable as he stared at your mother.

When he finally set his fork down, it was deliberate, the soft clink against the plate somehow louder than any shouting could have been.

“With all due respect, ma’am,” he said, his voice deceptively calm, "your daughter is one of the most capable, brilliant, and resilient people I have ever known. And if she carries any unnecessary weight, it’s the burden of expectations placed on her by others.”

The room fell silent, your parents frozen mid-bite as they turned to look at him. You felt your heart leap into your throat, a mix of shock and gratitude and anxiety rendering you momentarily speechless.

“I understand you have high standards,” Sebastian continued, his tone polite but firm, “but I can assure you that whatever expectations you’ve set, she’s already surpassed them.”

Your mother’s expression barely flickered, but you knew her well enough to sense the barely concealed offense in the stiffening of her posture. “How very passionate of you, Mr. Sallow,” she said, setting down her fork with quiet precision. “I suppose you believe you know her better than her own family does?”

Sebastian didn’t so much as blink. “I believe I see her clearly,” he said. “Which is more than I can say for most.”

It was a direct hit. You could see it in the way your mother’s shoulders tensed, in the way your father exhaled slowly, setting his silverware down with a pointed clink.

Your father leaned back, fixing Sebastian with a cold, assessing look. “It is quite bold to assume you have any right to comment on such personal matter," your father said, his tone sharp, “Perhaps you’d care to elaborate further on what exactly your role is in her life?”

The shift in their focus was immediate and ruthless, their pointed gazes turning back to Sebastian like predators zeroing in on prey.

"I’m simply someone who sees her for who she is, not who she’s expected to be.” Sebastian replied, a flicker of something dangerously close to amusement crossing his face. “And I have to say, sir, that seems to be a rare thing in this house.”

The air turned brittle, thick with unspoken tension.

Your father’s fingers tapped once against the table, his expression cool but unreadable. Your mother inhaled slowly, exhaling through her nose as she reached for her wine glass, taking a measured sip.

You braced yourself.

"How very poetic," your father finally said, tone devoid of any real warmth. “And yet, poetry has never paid the bills, nor built anything of lasting worth."

Sebastian’s expression remained calm, though you could see the tension building in his jaw.

“With all due respect, sir,” he said smoothly, “neither has cruelty.”

Your mother’s grip on her wine glass tightened ever so slightly. Your father’s expression remained impassive, but the temperature in the room dropped like a sudden frost. The moment stretched taut, every unspoken rule of decorum cracking under the weight of Sebastian’s words.

“Clever,” your father mused, his tone devoid of amusement. “But clever words don’t change the reality of things, Sebastian. You may think you understand our daughter, but understanding is hardly the same as providing for her.”

Your mother hummed in agreement, tilting her head as she studied Sebastian like he was an unfortunate stain on her pristine tablecloth. “Yes, and you do come from rather humble beginnings,” she said smoothly, reaching for her wine. “It's tragic, truly. No parents. A sick sister. I can only imagine how difficult it must have been for you, growing up without proper guidance.”

Sebastian didn’t react, but you saw the barely perceptible flex of his fingers where they rested against the table. His posture remained relaxed—perhaps too relaxed—but there was a sharpness in his eyes, a quiet fury coiling beneath the surface.

“I imagine it taught me resilience,” he said evenly. “Self-sufficiency. Things I suspect not everyone in this room has had the opportunity to learn.”

Your mother’s lips twitched, something cold flickering in her expression while your father leaned forward slightly, hands threading together.

“You speak boldly for a man with nothing to offer," he said, his tone deceptively mild. "No wealth. No status. No respectable lineage. And yet, you seem to believe you deserve our daughter. How naïve.”

You clenched your fists beneath the table, your stomach twisting with anger.

Sebastian tilted his head, and though his expression remained perfectly polite, something flickered behind his gaze—something sharp, knowing. “And you speak as though she needs something from me,” he said smoothly. “As though she isn’t already more than capable of carving her own path.” He let the words settle before adding, “She doesn’t need anyone to provide for her, least of all me. But I imagine what she does need is support. Respect.” He smiled, a slow, deliberate thing. “I have no issue giving her both. I can’t say the same for others.”

The jab landed. You saw it in the way your father’s mouth pressed into a thin line, in the way your mother’s fingers twitched slightly before she masked it with a sip of wine. Her gaze flickered toward you, and in that moment, you saw it—annoyance, disappointment, maybe even frustration that you had allowed someone like him into this house. Into your life.

Your father recovered first. He inhaled slowly, his voice quiet, cold. “Let me explain something to you,” he said, his tone shifting from condescension to something far sharper. “This—” he gestured vaguely between you and Sebastian, “—is temporary. She’ll tire of whatever… fantasy you’ve spun for her soon enough.”

Your heart clenched. You opened your mouth, but before you could even form a response, Sebastian did.

He smiled. Not a soft smile. Not a kind one.

A sharp, knowing smirk. “Funny,” he said, tilting his head, “I was just about to say the same thing about your influence over her.”

Your mother inhaled sharply. Your father’s expression darkened. “You insolent scum,” he sneered, the veneer of civility finally cracking. “Do you honestly believe you can stand there and challenge me? In my home?” He leaned forward, his eyes cold, voice laced with something cruel. “You are nothing. A nobody. A street rat with no family, no future. Do you think some clever words and a polished suit change that?”

Your mother sighed, setting down her wine glass with an air of exhausted patience. “It’s pathetic, really,” she murmured, eyes sliding over Sebastian with a look of detached pity. “You must think yourself so noble, playing protector. So righteous.” Her lips curved into something resembling a smile, but there was nothing kind about it. “But it doesn’t change what you are. A boy who clawed his way out of the dirt, only to find himself desperately reaching for something beyond his station.”

Sebastian’s shoulders stiffened, his fingers curling subtly against the edge of the table. His expression didn’t waver—his mask of practiced ease was still firmly in place—but something about him changed.

Your mother took another slow sip of her wine, setting the glass down with a soft clink before turning her attention to you. “I trust this little performance has run its course?” she asked lightly. “Or shall we continue entertaining the delusion that this—” she gestured at Sebastian with a dismissive flick of her fingers, “—is anything more than a childish infatuation?”

The words hung in the air, sharp and gleaming, waiting to cut.

Your mother’s gaze was expectant, coldly patient, as if she were merely waiting for you to confirm what she already believed—that this was just another phase, another mistake she would soon correct. Your father, too, sat with the quiet confidence of a man who had never once considered that he wouldn’t be obeyed. That you wouldn’t bend to their will.

You looked at Sebastian.

The amusement that had once danced behind his eyes was gone. The sharp, confident smirk had faded. And for the first time that night, you saw it.

Hurt.

It was gone as soon as it came, so fleeting you might have missed it if you weren’t looking. But you were looking.

A sick sort of guilt coiled in your stomach, pressing against your ribs. Because Sebastian didn’t have to be here. He hadn’t asked for this. You had invited him—not because you wanted him subjected to your parents’ scrutiny, not because you thought he owed you anything, but because you had been too afraid to defy them. Too afraid to tell them no.

You had brought him into this house, sat him at this table, knowing exactly how it would go. Knowing exactly how they would look at him, dissect him, tear him down with a thousand polished, cutting words.

And yet... and yet he had fought. Not just for himself, but for you. For your dignity, your choices, your right to be more than just a perfectly groomed extension of them.

He had sat at this table, met their every challenge, endured every cutting remark. He had taken the blows meant for you, over and over, without hesitation.

Because that’s who he was.

And that’s why you loved him. Why you always had.

You inhaled slowly, then with careful, deliberate movements, you pushed your chair back. The legs scraped against the polished floor, slicing through the silence like a blade.

Your mother’s expression flickered, just slightly—her perfectly trained poise faltering for the briefest second. Your father’s gaze sharpened.

You stood.

Sebastian's head turned toward you, something wary in his expression. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just waited. Because despite everything, despite all the words that had been thrown between them, this moment wasn’t his.

It was yours.

You lifted your chin, meeting your mother’s gaze first. “Enough.”

A single word. Final. Absolute.

Your father scoffed. “Sit down.”

“No.” You turned to face him fully, voice unwavering. “You don’t get to speak to him that way. Not anymore. Not ever again.”

Your mother let out a breathy laugh, reaching for her wine. “Darling—”

“I love him.”

The words left your lips before you could second-guess them.

Your mother froze, her glass hovering just above the table. Your father’s expression turned to stone, his mouth pressing into a thin line. But it was Sebastian’s reaction that mattered most.

He went completely still.

You turned to look at him fully now, heart pounding, searching his face, because you’d never said it before. Not out loud.

But it was the truth.

And for the first time, you weren’t afraid of it.

“I love him,” you repeated, each syllable firm, unshaken. “And I won’t, for one more second, listen to your condescension, your cruelty, your endless judgment, not towards him.”

Your father scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re being ridiculous.”

You snapped your attention back to him. “No, I’m done being ridiculous,” you said, voice firm. “I’m done playing this game. Done pretending that what you want for me is what I want.” You exhaled, steadying yourself. “I just won’t sit here and pretend that what you’re doing isn’t vile. I won’t sit at this bloody table and let you look down on someone who is worth ten of any society man you’d rather have me with. And I’m done letting you dictate my life.”

Silence.

Then your mother’s voice, quiet but cutting. “You would choose him over your family?”

Your throat tightened.

“If you won't accept my choice, then yes. I would. And I will.”

The finality of it rang through the room.

Your mother’s lips pressed together, her shoulders going rigid. Your father simply let out a slow breath through his nose.

And Sebastian.

Sebastian, who had spent the evening enduring the worst of them, who had sat through every cruel, veiled insult and outright attack, who had stood his ground even when it hurt—

Sebastian looked at you like you were something impossible.

Like you had just rewritten the laws of the universe before his very eyes.

Like he had braced himself for battle and, instead, you had stepped in front of him and ended the war with nothing but your voice.

Your father made a low sound, something between exasperation and disgust. “You’re making a mistake.”

You exhaled slowly. “Then it’s mine to make.”

He shook his head, his expression unreadable. “You’ll regret this.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “No. I won’t.”

You lifted your chin, offering Sebastian your hand. “Let’s go,” you said, voice steady, unwavering.

Sebastian didn’t move for a heartbeat. His fingers twitched at his side, his gaze flicking from your hand to your face, searching—really searching—for any sign of hesitation, of regret.

He found none.

And that was when he took your hand.

Warm. Solid.

Your mother let out a quiet breath through her nose, something unreadable passing over her face before she schooled her features back into perfect neutrality. Your father, however, wasn’t as composed.

“I will not be made a fool of in my own home,” he said sharply, his voice carrying an edge of finality, of command. “You walk out that door, you do not walk back in.”

The weight of his words settled in the space between you, heavy and suffocating. A lifetime of expectations, of obligations, of control—all crumbling with a single choice.

Your mother folded her hands neatly in her lap, watching you with a cool, detached expression. “Well, darling?” she said, tilting her head. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Sebastian stiffened beside you, like he was ready for you to turn around and stay. Like he was bracing himself for the inevitable.

But there was no decision to be made. Even if Sebastian didn't love you back, even if you weren't actually courting, even if he never felt the same, even if this all ended tomorrow, you wouldn’t regret standing here, choosing yourself for the first time in your life.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

And with that, you turned.

You didn’t wait for another word, another cruel remark, another attempt to claw you back into the cage they had built for you. You simply walked away.

Outside the manor, the gravel drive crunched beneath your feet, the only sound in the otherwise still night. You didn’t speak. Neither did Sebastian. The weight of the evening hung between you, thick and suffocating, stretching into the quiet as you made your way down the long path.

When you reached the gates, Sebastian finally let go, of your hand, stepping forward to unlatch them. The metal groaned slightly as it swung open, and you hesitated only briefly before stepping through, leaving your childhood behind with the soft click of the latch snapping shut behind you.

The Floo loomed in front of you, smelling of ash and magic, thick with the weight of old decisions and new ones yet to be made.

Sebastian stepped forward first, tossing a handful of Floo Powder before vanishing into the green.

You inhaled, steadying yourself. Then you followed.

The second your feet touched the cool stone floor of the castle, the weight of it all, of everything that had just happened, crashed into you.

It was sudden, overwhelming—like the entire evening had been held at bay by sheer force of will, and now, with no more battles to fight, no more words left to say, it all came rushing in at once.

Your breath hitched. Then another. Then another.

You were breaking.

The grief, the exhaustion, the anger—it clawed up your throat all at once, twisting into something ragged and uncontrollable. You gasped, pressing the heel of your hand against your chest, as if you could physically hold yourself together.

And then you were crying.

Sobbing, really.

Not the quiet, dignified tears of someone mourning something small, but the raw, wrecked kind.

It was too much. The fight, the way they had looked at him, the way they had looked at you. The finality of it all. The loss. Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? Walking away meant you had lost something, even if you had never really wanted it in the first place.

But you had gained something too. You knew that.

And yet, it still hurt.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped, your voice barely more than a whisper, barely holding itself together. “I—I shouldn’t have taken you there. I shouldn’t have—” Your breath shuddered violently as you wrapped your arms around yourself, your body shaking. “I knew what they’d do. I knew. And I still—”

Sebastian moved before you could finish.

Warm hands found your shoulders, solid and grounding. “Hey,” he murmured, voice low, steady. “Look at me.”

You did.

His gaze wasn’t full of pity. Not anger. Not resentment.

Just… Sebastian.

Soft. Steady. There.

And that was worse somehow, because it made you sob harder.

“I just—I don’t know what I was thinking,” you choked out. “I just wanted to get through it, to—”

“To satisfy them,” Sebastian murmured.

You nodded, another sob breaking free. “And I did. For years, I did. But I can’t anymore.” You exhaled sharply. "And now, now I've lost them, and I know it was right but—"

“It still hurts,” Sebastian finished for you, his voice softer now. "They're still your parents."

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, your nod barely perceptible.

For a long moment, he didn’t say anything.

And then—

“...Do you really love me?”

His voice was quiet. Almost hoarse.

You stiffened, your breath catching. Slowly, you lifted your head, looking up at him.

Sebastian's expression was unreadable, his shoulders tense like he was bracing himself for the answer. His fingers flexed at his sides, but his eyes—his eyes were wide, dark, filled with something you couldn’t place.

You had never seen him like this.

Never seen him afraid. Not of a fight. Not of a curse. But of this.

Of you.

“Do you?” he asked again, softer this time. “Or was it just—was it just something you said to get them to stop?”

You blinked, your breath still shaky, your cheeks still wet. And yet, somehow, the weight in your chest lifted just slightly, just enough for you to see through the grief, the exhaustion, the fear.

And the truth was still there, waiting for you, steady and undeniable.

You reached for him, fingers trembling, pressing against his arm first—then his jaw, his cheek, the way you had always wanted to but hadn’t dared.

His breath stuttered.

“Yes,” you whispered. “I love you.”

Sebastian didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Didn’t blink.

He just stared at you, eyes wide, lips parted like he was trying to process the words—like he had heard them, understood them, but didn’t believe them.

“You—” His voice broke. He swallowed hard, shaking his head slightly. “You don’t have to say that just because—”

“I mean it, Sebastian.”

His whole body tensed.

“I didn’t say it for them. I didn’t say it to make a point. I didn’t say it to win.” Your voice was raw, stripped bare, nothing left to hide behind. “I said it because it’s true. It's been true for years."

Sebastian’s eyes flickered, something breaking apart behind them. His lips parted slightly, his breath uneven, and for a single, fragile moment, he looked lost.

And then he crashed into you, his arms wrapping around you with such force that it knocked the breath from your lungs. His grip was tight—almost desperate—like he had been waiting for this his entire life and still couldn’t believe it was real.

You barely had time to react before you were sinking into him, your fingers fisting into the back of his jacket, your face pressing into the warm, solid plane of his chest.

Then, his voice. Barely a whisper. Barely holding itself together.

"I love you, too."

You froze.

Sebastian only held you tighter.

His fingers curled into the fabric of your dress, gripping it like he needed something solid, something to keep him standing. His forehead pressed into your hair, and his breath was warm against your temple, coming in unsteady bursts, as if the words had taken everything out of him. Like they had been clawing their way out of him for years.

You turned your face deeper into his chest, squeezing your eyes shut as your arms wound tighter around him, your fingers pressing into the muscles of his back, warm, solid, real, yours.

Sebastian exhaled sharply, his whole body shaking. "You don’t—” His breath caught, like he couldn’t quite get the words out. “You don’t understand. I’ve wanted—I never—” He let out something between a laugh and a choked breath, his hands smoothing up your back, then gripping you tighter again, like he couldn’t decide if he should hold you gently or keep you locked against him forever.

“I thought—” He swallowed hard. “I never thought—" Another breath, another exhale, another shudder running through him.

"I never thought I was enough."

You pulled back just enough to see him, to look into his face, to make him see you. His eyes were wild with emotion, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he wanted to say more but didn’t know how. You reached up, cupping his jaw, thumbs tracing the sharp planes of his cheekbones.

“Then you’re an idiot,” you murmured teasingly, voice thick with emotion, “because you’ve always been enough.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. He searched your face, as if he was still trying to make sense of this, as if some part of him was waiting for you to take it back, to wake up from whatever dream this must have been.

But then—slowly, carefully—he let himself believe it.

And that was when he kissed you.

Slow, deep, desperate—in ways that only years of restraint could make it. In ways that made it feel inevitable, like the two of you had been pulled toward this moment by some unseen force long before either of you had the courage to acknowledge it.

Sebastian kissed you like he was starving for you, like he had been holding himself back for so long that now, given even the slightest permission, he couldn’t stop himself. His fingers splayed against your back, pressing you flush against him, as if the space between you was unbearable, as if he needed to feel you to believe this was real. His other hand slid up, cradling your face with a reverence that made your chest ache, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone.

You melted into him, into the heat of him, into the way his lips moved against yours like he was memorizing you, like he needed to commit every touch, every sigh, every trembling breath to memory so he could keep it locked inside himself forever. He kissed you with years of unspoken words, years of buried longing, years of wanting but never allowing himself to have.

You weren’t sure which of you was trembling more.

And then, slowly, like he was dragging himself away from the very thing keeping him alive, Sebastian pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice wrecked, raw in ways you had never heard before.

Your fingers loosened their grip, moving up, tracing along his jaw, mapping out every curve, every freckle, every part of him that you had never allowed yourself to touch before.

“I love you, Sebastian.”

His throat bobbed, his grip on you tightening, a smile splitting his face in two.

“I love you, too,” he murmured, soft but steady. He turned his head, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple, his lips warm and reverent.

Something inside you—something that had been wound tight for years—unraveled.

You had spent so long living the life that had been laid out for you, bending beneath expectations that had never truly been yours. You had spent so long trying to be what they wanted, waiting, waiting, for the moment you would finally be free.

And now—standing here, wrapped in his arms, his heartbeat thrumming against your own—you realized that freedom had never been something waiting for you on the horizon.

It had been yours to take all along.

[punkette1026]

I Run to You

Summary:

After a fight with Pedro, you two go your separate ways for the holidays. However after receiving a phone call that Pedro got hurt, you rush to him in the hopes that you can salvage your relationship and nurse him back to health.

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x Reader (no use of Y/N)

Rating: T

Word Count: 9155

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

Author's Notes: Thank you all for your support. This one was a little scary to write because I have never written a Pedro non character fic. Please be kind and let me know what you think!

****italics means flashbacks

This was not how you expected your Christmas Eve to go. You were supposed to be in the kitchen helping your mother bake her famous Christmas cookies. Instead, here you were on a plane rushing to see your boyfriend of three years, Pedro. You felt a surge of guilt in your chest as you realized that you should have never agreed to spend the holidays apart after having one of the biggest fights in your life.

You had spent the last few days at your parents’ house moping around debating whether or not to call him and apologize first. Then you got a call from Pedro’s sister Lux, letting you know that they had to take him to the hospital. When you heard those words, it felt like your whole world stopped. The fight that you had with him no longer mattered. All of that went out the window and you knew that you had to get to him as soon as you could. However, getting a flight out to Chile on a holiday weekend was going to be nearly impossible. Thankfully, after numerous calls and by a Christmas miracle, your dad got you on the first flight out to Santiago.

As you sat there looking out the plane window, you couldn’t help but think back to the fight that you and Pedro had. Now it seemed so senseless, but back then, it became intense quickly. Sure, you had small fights before, but nothing like this. You both said some things that you regret and neither one had yet to apologize or even check in on each other.

You remembered that it all started over a picture you saw on X. You had already gotten cozy under the covers while Pedro got ready for bed in the bathroom. After scrolling through tik Tok for a while, you switched over to X and that’s when you saw it. It was a picture of your boyfriend walking out of a restaurant. The caption read, “New Couple Alert! Pedro Pascal and former costar seen getting cozy at prominent LA restaurant Friday night. The pair was spotted having drinks and left in smiles as Pedro walked the actress to her car. Could this be the start of a new power couple?”

Normally these types of rumors didn’t bother you. You could care less, because you had seen for fair share of them, and you knew that every single one of them was a stretch. You also knew that was something that you were going to have to get used to if you were going to date a celebrity. However, to you, Pedro wasn’t a celebrity. He never acted like it and was very down to earth. If fact, that was what drew you to him when you first met.

You remembered like it was yesterday when he stepped out of his house and saw you outside of your own home struggling to change the tire on your car. For whatever reason, you just couldn’t seem to get the last nut off of the rim.

To be honest, Pedro had noticed you way before that, but he had been chickening out. He first took notice of you when you moved into the neighborhood over a week ago. He was hesitant even then to come over and introduce himself. He was instantly taken back by your beauty as soon as he laid eyes on you for the first time. You looked absolutely stunning in that black polka dot dress. Your smooth legs glistened in the hot summer sun. Much to his luck, it looked like you were moving into the single story alone. He did spot two other people helping you, but it looked like they were your parents. Little did he know, but that was the first time that you saw him too.

After that the only interaction that you two had was a quick wave here and there when one of you left. Neither one of you had mustered up the courage to go over and introduce yourselves to each other. Pedro almost chickened out that day as well, but after giving himself a pep talk, he decided that it was finally time to go over and say hi.

Quickly doing his best to look presentable and that meant in his favorite Lakers shirt and a pair of gray shorts, Pedro casually walked out of his house like he was going to go check his mail. Then when he was hidden by a couple of cars, he crossed the street and began walking up your side of the street making a B line straight to you. You didn’t even see him come up from behind.

“Hi there neighbor!” he called out to you. “I was just walking by and noticed you struggling there. Do you need any help?”

“Oh my, you scared me,” you chuckled. “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind. I have been struggling to get this damn nut off. I think it’s stuck, or I did something wrong.”

“I’m sure it’s fine. You just need a little more muscle. May I?” he asked holding out his hand.

You nodded appreciating the help and handed him the tire iron, “Of course, knock yourself out.”

Like nothing, as soon as Pedro tried to turn the tire iron, the nut came loose with ease. “See there, easy as pie!” He smiled up at you with his dimple on full display.

You almost melted right there and then. It took all that you had to not lose your shit. “Hey that’s not fair. I’ve be trying to get that off for the past fifteen minutes!”

“What can I say, you just needed little more muscle,” he teased again before helping you swap out the flat tire for the spare. “There you go, all done.”

“Thank you so much! You are such a life saver. I was so sure that I was going to have to call a tow company. I’m...” you introduced yourself.

He hesitated for a second with shaking your hand. He didn’t want to get you dirty, but when he saw your hands were equally covered in grime, he graciously shook it, “Hello, it’s very nice to meet you. I’m Pedro, I live across the street.”

You let out a cute giggle that melted his heart, “Yes, I know exactly who you are Mr. Pascal. I... may have seen a movie or two of yours. Also Mrs. Walker next door seems to be very smitten for you too. She came over with some cookies and told me all about the famous movie star that lives in the neighborhood.” Mrs. Walker was their 85-year-old widow that took care of the neighborhood.

Pedro’s face grew red with embarrassment, “umm...yeah, she may or may not have a crush on me. Listen umm...I was going to grab a coffee or something. You-you wouldn’t want to join me, would you? I-I mean if you are not busy or anything. If you are then no big deal maybe next time. I can-I can just go by myself.”

You thought the way he nervously rambled on was adorable. You had never met a celebrity before, and he was completely different from what you thought it would be like. From your very brief experience with him, Pedro was just a normal guy, older, but normal guy. You weren’t going to lie to yourself when you thought that he was pretty attractive too. That dimpled smile of his, the soft brown curls, and those broad shoulders of his, ugh all of him got your blood going. Not to mention that he towered over you. That was one of your turn ons. You could almost imagine yourself wrapped in his embrace.

“Um...yeah, I think I can do that. I was going to go get groceries, but I think that can wait till tomorrow. Besides, it’s not every day that Oberyn Martel asks you to get a cup of coffee. Did you know that Mrs. Walker has a few photos of you up on her wall in that ugly mustard robe?”

“Okay first off, that robe is freaking amazing, super comfortable. Next, I did not need to know that. Do you know how awkward it’s going to be now when she brings me over one of her famous apple pies? I’m not going to be able to look at her in the eyes now,” he groaned causing you to giggle again. “Well, I’m glad that you find that funny. You know if I was a smart guy, I would revoke my coffee offer to you.”

“Awe did the little celebrity get all embarrassed,” you said like you were talking to a baby. “Well, I’m sorry Pedro, I apologize. If I buy you a cup of coffee, will that make you feel better.”

Pedro playfully pouted his lips with a frown, “It might, but I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I didn’t buy you the first cup. So about I buy us coffee time, then next time, you can buy that round.”

Your heart about nearly skipped a beat at the thought of possibly getting to hang out with him at a later point in time. You felt like a giddy schoolgirl who’s crush finally gave you the time of day. But at the same time, you knew that you had to play it cool, “Next time huh? Who said anything about a next time Mr. Pascal.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know you are right and stop calling me Mr. Pascal. That’s my father,” he pouted again. “But umm…, do you think I can come in for a second and wash my hands. It beats having to go all the way home.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his dramatics. “Oh yes because it’s such a long walk. Well follow me then Mr. Pascal” you winked at him before leading him up the driveway. “And I do apologize for all the boxes everywhere. Nursing school has been taking up the majority of my time and it’s been a little hard finding the energy to unpack.”

You didn’t realize it, but as he followed you, Pedro couldn’t help but stare at your ass. He didn’t mean to stare like a dirty old man, but he couldn’t help it. It would end up being one of his favorite things about you.

As you both made your way inside your house, you weren’t lying. Boxes littered the kitchen and living room. Thankfully Pedro didn’t seem to mind though as he made his way through the maze behind you. Taking turns at the sink, both of you scrubbed the grime off of your hands the best that you could.

However just as Pedro went to dry his hands, his large frame accidentally knocked over an open box that was full of VHS and DVDs. “Shit, I’m so sorry,” he apologized as he quickly bent down and started to pick them up.

“It’s okay Pedro no worries. It was bound to happen sooner or later. I’m surprised that I haven’t done that myself already,” you really hoped that he didn’t feel bad. It was just an accident.

“You umm...you sure do have a lot of movies. You a bit of a movie buff?” He was amazed at the vast selection that you had. A lot of them were some of his favorites and some that he hadn’t seen in a while. Then a certain VHS tape caught his eye, “No way, you have this on VHS still? You don’t look old enough to know what a VHS is.”

“Ha ha very funny Pedro. I may be 24, but I sure do know what a VHS tape is. That’s all my grandmother watched when I was little. Gosh, I didn’t think that I still had that one. I used to watch that at least twice a week in high school. See I umm... I was bullied a lot in school and my parents were too busy at the time dealing with their own shit. After school in order to just get away from everything, I would put this movie on or any movie really and get lost for hours,” you couldn’t help but get teary eyed at the thought of how lonely those times were. Then you suddenly got embarrassed already crying in front of him, “I’m sorry Pedro, I didn’t mean to unload on you like that.”

“Hey it’s okay really, I don’t mind. I want to know more about you,” he then sympathetically reached out and took your hand into his. “Movies also hold a special place in my heart. Seeing the different actors portray different characters, emotions, and storylines, all that appealed to me and is part of what made me want to become an actor.” He then got an idea and really hoped that she didn’t mind if they switched things up, “So umm..., would you be opposed if we instead of going to get coffee, we put this baby on, if you have a VCR that is, and I can help you unpack. Seems like you could use the help more.”

“You know what that sounds like a wonderful idea. I still have my grandmother’s VCR and it’s still like brand new. And if you don’t mind, what if I order some pizza for some energy? I have a six pack of beer in the fridge as well if you drink. Otherwise, I have some water and juice.”

“Beer is perfectly fine by me and as for the pizza, since I’m the one who offered coffee and came up with the new plan, please let me buy it. It’s the least I can do. Think of it as a welcome to the neighborhood pizza.”

You nodded your head as you were too embarrassed to speak. You had never met someone so generous as Pedro. You could see the both of you becoming really good friends. It was like you instantly connected and were already comfortable with each other. “Alright fine, but remember Pedro, I get the next time. Now come on, everything is already set up in the living room.”

Once the movie was playing and the pizza was ordered. Both you and Pedro got to work unpacking the living room. You had made a lot of progress getting through a couple of boxes while making small talk. However as soon as the pizza came and you sat on the couch to eat, that’s where the packing stopped. Between the movie and swapping stories with Pedro, all of it consumed all your attention.

Before you knew it, it was well past midnight. After helping you clean up and taking some boxes out to the dumpster for you, Pedro bid you a good night. However, before he left, he promised to come over and help you finish the rest, so he gave you his number and told you to text him when it was convenient for you. Much to his surprise, you texted him the next day asking him if he wanted to come over for some breakfast. Before you even had time to crack an egg, he was at your doorstep with two cups of coffee in his hand.

From that point on, you and Pedro had become inseparable. You spent every moment that you could together. Whether it be at your house or his, you two became super close. Both of you knew you had feelings for each other but neither one of you was brave enough to admit it out loud. Then after a month apart since Pedro had to go out of town for work, he showed up at your door with a bouquet of flowers. There on your door step, he admitted his true feelings for you. How he felt so strongly for you and missed you every day that he was gone. That he couldn’t go another day without you being his. Before he could even finish expressing himself to you, you jumped into his arms and placed a deep kiss to his lips. You had never loved someone as much as you loved Pedro. It felt like you met your soulmate, and you weren’t going to let him go.

The last three years had gone by in a blink of an eye for you as it did move faster than any other relationship that you had been in, especially in the early stages. By the time your one month anniversary came, you two were already sleeping together and saying I love you to each other. Heck by the time your six month anniversary came, you were practically living with him. From the outside, your friends and family thought you two were crazy for how fast you were moving, but you two didn’t care. You were so in love that it just felt right to you.

That got you thinking though, maybe that’s why this fight had turned out to be so bad. In the entire time of your relationship, you hardly argued. If you did, then within a few minutes after it ended, you both would come running back to each other apologizing profusely. You couldn’t stand being mad at each other, so now what’s changed?  Were you getting fed up with each other? At one point you thought that you had the entire world, but now, you felt so unsure. It felt like everything was now up in the air. You hoped that this surprise trip to your injured boyfriend would be enough to salvage your relationship.

As the plane landed and the passengers began to deplane, you grabbed the only bag that you brought with you and followed the hoard of people. You then as quickly as you could headed straight for the exit where your ride was waiting for you. Thankfully it didn’t take long to find her. It was Pedro’s sister Lux, the one that called you about his accident.

“Over here!” she called out to you. As soon as you got close enough to her, she ran straight into your arms, “Oh, it’s so good to see you! I’ve missed you! Thank you for coming so quickly. My brother is going to be so happy to see you. He had been a grump since he got here.”

“I really hope so Lux and it’s so good to see you too. How is he?”

“He’s hurting but thankfully it’s just his shoulder and nothing too serious. They released him from the hospital a few hours ago. He is at my father’s house sleeping,” she updated you as you walked to her car.

“So, what exactly happened? All you said was that he fell.”

Lux just shook her head in disbelief, “I still can’t believe it myself. We were talking in the kitchen and then the next thing we knew, we heard a big boom and Pedro was at the bottom of the stairs. He couldn’t tell us what happened, and he couldn’t move his arm.”

“And the doctor’s what did they say?” You really hoped that his injury wasn’t going to be too bad.

Being a nurse, you had seen your fair share of shoulder injuries and had seen the range that they could vary. What you were really concerned with those was Pedro’s mental health. You knew that he would be beating himself up as this injury may affect his professional work. He had a busy schedule in the upcoming year with award shows and production on varies projects starting. You were so happy to see him finally get the recognition that he deserved. You just wished that you could be there to celebrate with him.

“Well, they think he may need to have surgery,” she sighed. “He may want a second opinion though. He damn near almost choked the doctor when he heard them say that. I know seeing you is really going to brighten his day. I was really shocked when he showed up alone. I thought you were going to split the holidays again.”

For the first two years of your relationship, you and Pedro compromised and decided to spend Christmas with one family and then New Years, with the other. This year, it was Pedro’s family to host Christmas. “Umm...yeah well, I don’t know if Pedro told you or not, but we decided that it would be best if we took some time apart away from each other. We umm...we had a pretty bad fight.”

You trusted Lux in telling her what was going on. Over the years, you two had gotten super closer to each other. You had been an only child, so she was closest thing to a sister that you had. In fact, you had grown close to all his family.

“I didn’t know you two had a fight. All he said was that this year, something came up and you weren’t able to come this year. That’s so strange though. You two never fight. In fact, I have never seen either of you even raise your voice at each other. What was the fight about?”

Tears began to fill your eyes as you recalled that night....

Pedro finally finished up in the bathroom and came to join you in bed. However, as he got under the covers and tried to pull you over to him, he was surprised to have you pull away from him. “Hey what was that for? What’s going on mi vida.”

You said nothing. You just rolled over to your side facing away with tears starting to fill your eyes. “Mi vida, what’s going on? You know that you can tell me anything.”

“You...you lied to me,” you said quietly that he could barely hear you.

“I... I’m sorry what?”

“I said that you lied to me Pedro!” you shouted and got out of bed. “You...are a liar Pedro Pascal and that is something that I thought I would never say.”

Pedro’s eyes grew wide. He had never seen an outburst like this from you before, “Whoa, what the actual fuck! What the hell are you talking about?”

He got out of bed and tried to get to you, but you didn’t let him “No, you just stay back,” you yelled. “I know about Friday night Pedro. Were you stupid enough to think that I wouldn’t find out? The paparazzi follow you everywhere for crying out loud. I saw the pictures of you!”

Pedro just huffed and shook his head, “Really, this is what it’s about. So, what, I went out Friday to have some drinks with old friends. What’s the big deal?”

“What’s the big deal? The deal is Pedro Pascal, that you lied to me about it! When I was leaving for work, you told me that you had no plans that night. Now I find that you did go out and that you were hugging up on some chick!”

“You...you’ve got to be kidding me,” he groaned. “Please don’t tell me what I think you are inferring. Please tell me you don’t think that I’m cheating on you.”

“Well, what the hell am I supposed to think Pedro? Did you plan this? Did you plan on hiding this from me?” tears stung your eyes as you threw the phone at him.

Pedro managed to dodge the phone as it hit the wall behind him, “Jesus what the hell! I didn’t lie to you okay. I had every intension of staying home, but then one of my old costars called saying that they were having a get together. I figured that since you were working yet again, I would go. I also am not cheating on you. I fucking love you okay. Yes, I know there were rumors about me and her back in the day, but nothing ever happened. We were surrounded by our friends the entire time. We were never alone together!”

“Oh, so now this is my fault, because I had to work. Well, I’m sorry that the hospital is short staffed Pedro. Besides, weren’t you the one encouraging me to work overtime?”

“Yes, and that was when I was working!” Pedro shouted at you. “I told you that you should work some more when I am not home, so you wouldn’t have to think about us being apart like you usually do. I don’t get why after I have been gone for months filming, you all of a sudden want to work more hours now. I’ve hardly seen you in the past two weeks.”

You couldn’t believe how selfish Pedro was acting right now. “Are you serious Pedro? So, you mean to tell me that when you leave to go work in another country, I have no choice but to be here all alone in this big empty house, but when you come home, I am not allowed to work. I have to be here with you, so you don’t feel the same way that I do when you leave. So, you do not get bored. I know things were easier when I was in nursing school because I was able to be home and work on homework and stuff, but now that I’m that working, I can’t just drop it all as soon as you walk in the door. I work in an environment where people’s lives are at stake.”

“I know that and I’m not asking you to give it all up. I know how hard you work and how much you love your job. All I’m asking is just to have some uninterrupted time with you. No work, no commitment, nothing. Next year is going to be super busy and I want us to spend as much time as we can with each other,” he sighed.

“And if I do manage to stop working overtime Pedro, what are we going to do then? Stay home?” you asked. “Stay cramped up in this house, door dashing date meals. Ever since this whole “Internet Daddy” thing started, we don’t even go out anymore. You don’t let us go out together anymore.”

That was true. In the beginning of your relationship, you were able to sneak in dinner dates, coffee trips, and the occasional vacation without being noticed by the public. But now that Pedro’s popularity blew up, cameras constantly caught his every move. It was a miracle with social media being what it was, that no one had a clue that he was dating. He made sure that you always took the proper precautions if you needed to go out.

 “Yes, you are right, and I still stand by that decision. There is no way in hell am I putting you in the public eye. No, I will not do that to you. They will tear you apart. I have a lot on my plate already and I do not need to be constantly worrying about you. No, things are much simpler and safer if people don’t know about you,” he tried to convince you.

“But at what cost Pedro? You can’t keep us locked up in this house forever. It’s not healthy. Someone at some point is going to find out and then what? We deny that we know each other? Deny that we love each other? No, I refuse to do that. There are tons of actresses and actors that keep their wives and families out of the public eye yet can maintain a normal life. They aren’t afraid to go out and get seen. Why can’t we be like them? If you are worried that I can’t handle it, then I swear to you that I can. I can handle it Pedro,” you pleaded your case. You didn’t understand where this sudden fear of his was coming from. It wasn’t like him at all.

“Oh, like you handled seeing that picture?” he snapped back. “You really handle that like a champ.

You growled at the nerve of him trying to turn this around on you, “No, no Pedro, you do not get to do that. You do not get to use that on me. I don’t care that you went out. You can do as you please. What I am mad about is that I had to find out on the internet what my boyfriend has been up to. I would have never know that you went out if the pictures didn’t get released Pedro. I’m hurt that you didn’t even bring it up the next morning. I even asked how your night went and you said that it was fine. You always, even on set, tell me when you are going out. So why not this time? Was it because she was there? You two looked pretty cozy as you walked out of the restaurant with your arm around her waist!” you gave him a look that could kill.

“It was nothing! And I did not go there because she was going to be there. The reason why didn’t tell you was because I didn’t think that it was a big deal. I got the text at the last minute. I stayed for maybe an hour, two hours tops and that’s it. I came right back home and spent the rest of the night upstairs reading scripts and emails. The only reason why I walked her out and to her car, was because she was telling us about a stalker that she had. I just wanted to make sure that she got to her car safely. You know that I would have done that with anyone,” he just couldn’t understand how you couldn’t see that. Nothing else happened after that and it would never. Pedro loved you with all his heart and would never disrespect you or your relationship like that.

“The...the stalker thing, are...are you afraid that might happen to us? With me?” you asked shuddering at the thought of some stranger being completely obsessed with you.

Pedro’s face fell as the same thought came into his mind, “Yes in a way. People are crazy Y/N. you can never know what can happen. I’d rather keep you here safe, away from all of the craziness. Now can we please just forget about all this and go to bed. I don’t like fighting with you.” he tried to take a step closer to you and for a second, you let him.

However as soon as he got close enough to try to reach out for your hand and pulled you to him, you placed your hand on his chest to prevent you from being pulled closer, “I...I... I’m sorry Pedro, but I can’t. I just...I can’t get over how you are acting like this isn’t a big deal. I feel betrayed right now Pedro. I...I don’t think I can sweep this under the rug like that. I’m sorry.” You then walked over to the bed and grabbed your pillow and the quilt that was at the foot of the bed.

“Where...where do you think you are going?”

“I’m going to go sleep in the spare room Pedro. I...I just need time to think and calm down,” the pain and hurt that you were feeling was clear all over your face. You felt completely drained.

Pedro was right behind you hot on your heels as you made your way to the guest room, “So this is how we are going to start off the holidays. Everything up in the air now because of one picture that made you feel insecure....” As soon as that word left his lips, both of his hands flew to his mouth shutting himself up. He knew that he messed up. “Mi-mi vida, I’m sorry I didn’t mean...”

You didn’t care if you hit him with it, but you slammed the door right in his face. You couldn’t believe that he said that. You always thought of yourself as a strong woman, but for the first time, you felt so small, so little. Were you really being insecure? Were you really blowing this whole thing out of proportion, because of your sudden lack of self-esteem? You didn’t know, but you didn’t like what you feeling deep down inside you.

You both went to bed feeling angry and disappointed with how things played out. You both tossed and turned, plagued with nightmares and replaying the fight in your head. The next morning, you stayed locked away in the guest room. You were too scared and still annoyed with Pedro to face him. You only came out when you heard him leave. That gave you enough time to freshen up for the day, find your now cracked phone, and get something to eat. When you heard him come home, you rushed back to the guest bedroom and locked the door. You could hear him sigh on the other end of the door but couldn’t find it in your heart to open it.

“I stayed locked up in there for the rest of the day. When I finally did come out, we could hardly look at each other. I don’t know if it was anger, guilt or what, but we completely avoided each other. The next time we did speak, I told him a was going to my parents for Christmas and New Years and he said that was probably a good idea. We didn’t even see each other off the airport, we just left,” You sighed. “I... I don’t think we are going to make it Lux. Maybe we did rush into things like everyone said in the beginning. Maybe the honeymoon stage has finally come to an end, and we are as compatible as we thought.”

“No, no, do not say that. You two are meant for each other. I can see it in your eyes. Having one big fight doesn’t mean that it’s the end for you. Sometimes fights happen that you can’t avoid. Both of you had very valid points. Pedro should have been honest with you. I know for a fact that my big brother would never, ever, cheat on you. I just think he honestly didn’t see it as a big deal. I do agree that he should have mentioned something just in case you came home before he did or just to check in with you in case something happened, and you knew where he was. With that being said, he is an idiot for calling you insecure. I have half my mind to break his other shoulder. You are not insecure. You are entitled to your feelings, and he shouldn’t have invalidated them. You just have to look at things from his perspective. After the loss of well...you know, he has closed himself off in a way from every really truly loving someone. That was, until he met you. The past three years I have seen my brother grow so much. He truly, madly, deeply, loves you. I think part of him feels like if the stress of you two going public is too much for you, he may lose you in more ways than one. I don’t think he would survive that if that were to happen. I believe that you two can work this out. You just need to be completely honest with each other. We love you Y/N and we would really hate it if you and Pedro broke up. You just need to take things slow. I believe both of you will really grow from this.”

Thankfully at that point, you had pulled up to the Pascal family home. So as soon as the car was parked, you quickly undid your seatbelt and threw yourself into Lux’s arms, “Thank you Lux, for everything. I owe you more than you know. Your words mean so much. I promise you I will do my absolute best to work out things with Pedro. So much of what you said makes total sense. We both let things get out of control. We should have really listened to each other and saw where each other was coming from. I think we both invalidated each other. I hate to say it, but maybe him getting hurt is what may help us put everything into perspective and work things out.”

“See now that’s the spirit. You just gotta go into this positively and have an open mind. Now come on, let’s go see that boyfriend of yours,” Lux smiled brightly.

Walking into the Pascal Family home, it was still warm and welcoming like you remember. When Pedro first brought you there, you could remember how nervous and scared you felt, but as soon as his family welcomed you with open arms, you felt like you had been part of the family for years.

Following Lux to the kitchen, you smelled wonderful cooking on the stove. That’s when you saw Pedro’s father Jose come around the corner, “Oh sweetheart, you made it! So glad that you could make it. I wish it wasn’t under these circumstances, but I’m glad you are here.”

“Yes, I came quickly as soon as I could Mr. Pascal. There is no other place that I’d rather be. I am so thankful that Lux called me,” you said giving the older man a big hug.

“Well, I’m sure that son of mine will be very happy to see you. Lord knows that he could use the company. And please for the thousandth time, call me Jose,” he chuckled.

“You got it Jose. So how is he holding up?”

Jose frowned as he thought back at what happened, “He is okay for now. Poor guy gave us all a scare. I feel so horrible. He is upstairs sleeping now. Why don’t you go to him? It’s the first door on the right.”

Nerves suddenly overtook you as you nodded and headed towards the stares. You couldn’t help but have visions of Pedro lying at the bottom of them. Guilt then consumed you as you knew that you should have been here. Like he said, it was so dumb to pick a fight right before the holidays. You should have just calmly asked about the picture and the other stuff, well the other stuff should have waited.

Quietly opening the door, your heart broke as you saw the love of your life sound asleep. His poor arm being held closely to him by a sling. Walking over to the bed, you gently pulled the covers back, took off your shoes, and got in next to him. You carefully tucked yourself into the side of his good arm. His breathing was slow, and you could hear his heart beat under your ear as you rested your head on his chest.

Pedro must have sensed the pressure on his chest, because you felt him take a deep breath and let out a groan. Lifting your head, you saw those big brown eyes staring down at you. “Mi vida...is...is that you?” he said hoarsely.

“Yes baby, it’s me,” you smiled and cupped his bearded cheek. “Lux called me and said that you took a spill. I took the first flight that I could get out here. You had me so worried.”

“I told no one to call you. I knew flights were going to be hard to come by. I wanted to call you myself when I was feeling better,” he pouted.

That damn pouty look of his was so adorable. You couldn’t help but lean up and place a small kiss on his lips. “Don’t be mad baby. I’m happy that someone called. Now you have your own personal nurse to help get you back to help.”

His pout turned in to a big smile as he got an idea, “Oh yeah huh? Do you think Santa will bring a naughty nurses outfit?”

“If you play your cards right mister, I think I can make something happen,” you then captured his bottom lip between your teeth and gave it a little nibble.

“I love you too Pedro and thank you for apologizing. I need to apologize to you too,” you smiled through tear-soaked lashes. “And I’m sorry for not seeing your side or reason. I was filled with so much anger and feeling betrayed that I just had tunnel vision. My mind was only seeing things one way. I just that all I could see was how happy you too looked together and a big part of me wishes that it was me with you. I couldn’t help but feel like you are ashamed of being seen with me.  I wished so badly that I was the one that you were parading around happily and the one that was making you smile that way. I know you are trying to protect me, Pedro. And I know that you have this fear of something really bad happening to me. As much as I still think we can and will be okay if we do make our relationship public, we can handle it. We would have each other to lean on. However, if you want to keep things quiet and keep things the way that they are, I am willing to do that. I know how important my safety and well-being are to you Pedro. Hell, we have been doing a pretty good job staying quiet the last three years, so why change it.”

When you pulled back, Pedro ran his hand through your hair and sighed, “I...I... I’m sorry mi vida. I’m so sorry for everything. I apologize for not telling you about going out and I am so fucking sorry for calling you insecure. That was my anger talking, not the real me.” When you went to open your mouth, he gently placed a finger to your lips, “Please mi vida, just let me finish. I need to get all of this off my chest. I never meant for you to find out about the get together from the internet. I had every intention of telling you, but I forgot. Between packing, the holidays, and everything that I have to do next month, it really did slip my mind. I know I should have for peace of mind, should have sent a text letting you know what’s going on. I know that if I saw you in that position, I would have lost my shit too. I swear to you nothing else happened that night. Me and her didn’t even speak that much. She was completely on the opposite of the table. I only really talked to her when she told us about the stalker and as soon as I walked her to the car, I came straight home. I love you with all my heart. I would never cheat on you. I would never jeopardize our future like that. And you are not insecure. That was an asshole thing to say, and I will spend the rest of my days making it up to you. You are the strongest woman that I know. You are the backbone of our relationship and the reason I keep going every day.”

Pedro reached out with his good arm and wiped the tears from your puffy face, “As much as I appreciate you doing that for me, mi vida, I had a lot of time to think things over and I realized that you are completely right. I have been being selfish and unfair to you. I have been putting my job and fears ahead of you and that’s not right. You have never asked me for a thing and the first time that you asked me to do something for you, I completely shut you down. It’s not that I’m ashamed to be seen with you. Like I said, it’s all been my fears controlling my every move with you, especially now. It was my fears that kept me from almost introducing myself to you and now that I have you, it’s my fears that are making me extremely overprotective of you. I’m just really scared that my fans or the media will come after you before they even have a chance to know you. I don’t want to see you get hurt. You do not deserve that. I just can’t shake this feeling that all the stress and negativity will become too much for you and something will happen. I can’t let that happen and I refuse to let that happen. I would never forgive myself for that. I can’t lose you mi vida.”

Now it was your turn to be the strong one and comfort him. You held his hand tightly, while running your other through his soft curls, “Pedro Pascal, love of my life, my future baby daddy, thank you for being honest with me. That’s all I wanted. You don’t know how much I appreciate that. You don’t know how thankful that I am that I found someone like you. You are the greatest lover, friend, and protector that I have ever had. Not a day goes by where I don’t feel safe where it’s in your arms or by the sound of your voice when you are away. That’s why I am not afraid to be seen in public with you. I know that no matter what may happen, good or bad, you will be right there with me to help guide me. I honestly think that it won’t be that bad. Sure, it may be chaotic in the beginning but at the same time, it may not. Your fans love you Pedro and while they might be a little sad that you are seeing someone, I’m sure that they will be happy for you. Apart of me just keeps thinking of what happens if we do slip up and get seen together. Don’t you think that it would be best if we get ahead of this ourselves versus having someone else do it and spread lies. Do this on our own terms?”

“But…but…would you really be okay with this though? I really need you to think. You would be giving up your privacy. These days people are going to find everything about you that they can on the internet. Are you ready to see every move we make, documented by social media? I need to know that you aren’t going to run or shut down at the first sign of trouble. I need to know that how you reacted to the picture won’t happen again.” If you both agreed to this, he knew that this was going to be the ultimate test to your relationship.

“Pedro, I promise you on everything that I am not going to run. I have thought this through, and this is what I want. I really don’t care what people say. All that matters to me is your opinion and your opinion only Pedro. I will be the only one who knows the real you and you are the only one who will know the real me. I really want to take this next step with you Pedro. I want to be that proud girlfriend and hopefully wife who gets to brag about how amazingly talented their partner is. I want to be the first hug and kiss when you win an award. I want to show everyone how I’m the lucky one to have you in my life. If you still aren’t sure about this Pedro, then like I said, I’m happy to keep things the way that they are. But what do you say baby, will you take this leap of faith with me?”

Fighting back his own tears, Pedro nodded his head. Still to this day, even three years later you still found a way to floor him, and he knew that you would continue to. You were so fucking incredible, and he got to call you his. He was still in disbelief that you gave him a shot. The thing that he loved about you and should have trusted in the beginning was how even after a fight, you found a way to be levelheaded and work things out. He never felt lost when you were with him. And even though you called to him to help guide you through the crazy waters that is the celebrity life, it was you that helped guide him though every life.

Every day you brought out the best in him. You gave him the inspiration to be the best man that he could be. Everything that he did, he did for you. He did everything that he could to make you proud. He tried to be that someone that you could proudly show off as the love of your life. He couldn’t believe that he had the potential to be your husband and father of your kids. Two things he didn’t think were ever going to be possible till he met you. You were everything that he could ever want, and you were everything that he could ever need. You were the one that he would take this leap with.

“I Pedro Pascal, would love nothing more than mi vida. You are right, no matter what happens, we will be in this together. You are remarkable and I think it’s time the world gets to know the woman that has captured by heart. Just at any point, please if things get too much, you need to tell me. All you have to do is say the word and I will do my best to shut it down. Can you promise me that mi vida? I’ll promise to be more open and understanding with you, if you promise to be open with me. This is the only way that it will work.”

“Yes Pedro, I promise you. We will get through this baby. I know we can,” you then carefully wrapped your arm around his good side and buried yourself into that strong neck of his. “I love you, Pedro Pascal. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, mi vida, with all my heart. And I make another promise to you here, right now. I will marry you Y/N and we will have as many kids as you want. Just say the word and I will get down on my knees. You deserve the world and I want to give it to you,” he muttered into your hair before placing a kiss on your head.

You pulled back slightly enough to rest your head on his, “I do have the world, Pedro. I have everything that I want and need right here.” You then leaned forward and pressed your lips against his.

Both of you moaned as soon as your lips met. These past few days that you were apart were brutal. Going days without speaking, cuddling, or kissing, was something that you never wanted to experience again. It wasn’t like when he was on set, and you couldn’t see him. No, this was way worse and both of you hated it.

Pedro couldn’t help but bring his hand up and run it down your side till he reached your backside. Giving it a rough squeeze, causing you to moan into his opened mouth, he pulled you close and deepened the kiss. But as he slipped his tongue in, he moved just enough to send a shot of pain running through his body, causing him to cry out in pain.

“Shit baby, are you okay?” you gasped and pulled away quickly.

He groaned, gritting his teeth and hunching over. “Just…just give me a minute.”

Never leaving his side, you sat there next to him making sure that you rubbed his back and peppered kisses on his good shoulder until the pain started to subside. “Just breathe baby, just breathe it out. I’m here, I’m here,” you whispered to him, running your hand through his sweaty hair.

“Th…thank you mi vida. Forgot that I can’t really move like it want to,” he sighed. “The umm…the doctors said that I fractured my shoulder. I may need to have surgery. I am such an idiot.”

“Hey, look at me,” you said sternly and lifted his chin to look at you. “You are not an idiot. Accidents happen Pedro. Do you remember what happened?”

“I…I just fell. I must have tripped and lost my footing. Next thing I know I’m at the bottom of the stair and everyone is running to me. My dad and sister took me straight to the ER. I can’t believe that I scared the shit out of everyone.” He could still see the petrified look on everyone’s faces, including his nephews.

You shook your head disappointedly, but you had warned him countless times to slow down when it came to stairs especially at your own house. “Jesus Pedro, you are so lucky that you didn’t break your neck. Have you called your doctor back home? Lux said something about a second opinion.”

“No, I haven’t called anyone yet. I just want to sleep and do all of that tomorrow,” he sighed leaning back into his propped-up pillows.

Your heart broke at seeing how much pain he was in. For being such a big man, at that moment, he looked so small. If you had the ability to take his pain away, you would. Instead, you were going to help him anyway that you could and nurse him back to health. “You sleep then baby. I’ll go downstairs and start getting everything sorted out. Do you need me to get you anything?”

Pedro nodded and looked up at you with his big brown puppy dog eyes, “Stay with me, mi vida. I know that plane ride wasn’t the most comfortable thing. You look exhausted. Take a nap with me?”

“Of course, baby, you don’t even have to ask twice. Let me just get out of these jeans first,” you told him as you stood up to strip them off and your sweater.

“That’s so not fair, mi vida. You just can’t get naked in front of me like that while I’m laid up here,” he pouted.

Rolling your eyes as you got back into bed, you couldn’t help but softly slap his chest, “I’m not naked and if even if I were and you weren’t hurt, we wouldn’t be doing anything in your father’s house naughty boy. No sex for a while I’m afraid. Last thing we need is for you to get more hurt because you couldn’t keep it in your pants.”

“That’s a chance I am willing to take mi vida,” he laughed and wrapped his arm around you as you cuddled into him. “I love you and thank you for coming to take care of your old man.”

“No need to thank me baby. There is no other place that I would rather be. Let’s just promise not to fight anymore, okay. And absolutely no more falling downstairs.”

[sinisterexaggerator]

Hancock x F!Reader [ A03 ]

Summary: You are important to John Hancock; there is a radstorm brewing. As a skilled and reformed scavver, you’re after a part for a decommissioned lounger—it belongs to Doc Amari’s famed Memory Den.

Hancock's tense; he should have gone with you, but it’s not too late to search you out. He would be glad to have you home safe in his arms, only things don’t always go as planned, nor do you go unpunished for your negligence.

Explicit: NSFW / 18+ for PWP, PiV sex, fingering, cunnilingus, dirty talk, whump / hurt and comfort, angst, gun violence, light bondage, praise, light sub/dom undertones, edging, use of chems, alcohol, foul language, and canon-typical violence and behavior. Other worthy mentions include fluff, romance, a worried and protective Hancock, and love confessions.

Notes: I am normally a Star Wars writer. This is my first time writing for Hancock, and my first fic for the Fallout fandom. I see Hancock as multifaceted, which I am having fun exploring. I have many ideas, but one fic can only contain so much! I used a few lines of dialogue from the game because they stuck with me T__T. I will also most likely try my hand at Nick Valentine at some point, (and maybe even Coop), but this ghoul stole my heart.

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Feedback appreciated. Like? Reblog! <3 Requests accepted!

Eyes as black as tar pits searched the ground at his feet, though no answers would present themselves, the cold, grimy filth of the Commonwealth something he could relate to on an atomic level. Flecks of barren soil and bits of detritus vaulted upward in a stagnate aggregate of dust, cavalier leather boots—having seen better days—leaving a swirl of varied particulates in their wake.

Hancock paced, the Mayor of Goodneighbor impatient as a hungry mole rat, the man left to stalk before the door that led to the Financial District. A dreary, dark green pall signaled to anyone with brains that there was a storm looming on the horizon, and yet you had not returned.

“Where the hell is she?” a raspy voice asked its sparse audience, two ghouls dedicated to his cause doubling as bodyguards, though if he felt safe anywhere, it was here among his brethren.  Besides, it wasn’t his safety he was worried about, it was yours, and he wasn’t afraid to convey his feelings to the whole of town.

“Startin’ to get antsy. Gotta hand it to her, she’s got me sweatin’ like a whore in church over this. Hope she’s havin’ fun at my expense.”

Scavenging was lucrative, or it could be if you managed to score the right loot. You had to know where to look, or where not to look; danger was always in the cards. It was a game Hancock didn’t like to play, and especially not now, not when lightning streaked the sky, rain clouds pregnant with radiation threatening to burst open like a feral’s head looking down the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun.

He knew what it was like to be forced to scour the bare bones of buildings, filching anything that was ripe for the picking. A single find could feed a man for weeks, and places like Goodneighbor just didn’t just build themselves. People needed things. Lucky for them, Hancock was able to provide. It was his one claim to fame—his rep was solid—but he didn’t look down on you for being one to scout for buried treasure.

“She’ll turn up,” one of his companions offered. It was a piteous attempt to console him, Hancock all but ignoring his dismissive comment. He felt his concern was obvious, yet his bedfellows were none of their business. Either way, he brushed it off like a decent man instead of snapping like he wanted to—the guy’d done nothing wrong.

Thunderclaps echoed through town, the first of many droplets pelting his marred face, the ghoul’s faithful tricorn not doing much in the way of shielding him from the dirtied water that had begun to trickle down onto its weathered surface.

He rued allowing you to go out on this wild-mongrel chase to begin with, not to say that you weren’t capable. What he might say is that you’re too good for this world, too good for him, but that hadn’t stopped him from falling head over heels.

You weren’t anti-social like most of your kind; you had a good heart, gave paying customers fair deals, and somehow you had kept the ruins from tarnishing your cheerful outlook; you sported a chipper disposition even at the worst of times.

In other words, you were his little ray of sunshine; Hancock had no qualms with telling you that to your face. And things as precious as you were to him? They needed protecting. It was becoming more obvious by the minute that he should have done the job himself.

“If this is her definition of ‘fast,’ we’re going to need to have a little chat to clear a few things up. Should have fucking gone with her, don’t know what I was thinking,” fried vocal cords scratched out, words tinged with worry as he made his way to the reinforced slab of steel that was Goodneighbor’s single entry point, not counting the alley behind Rexford.

“Maybe you weren’t thinkin’ at all, John…” that little voice inside his head nagged at him, reminding himself at every turn of the ways he’d failed, this on the verge of being one of them.

“Want us to look?” the other rejoined, aware you had been sent out on a job to find a replacement circuit board for Doctor Amari, as one of the memory lounger’s had been marked out of service. The doc would pay you well; everyone’s gotta eke a living somehow. Hers was made by sellin’ a man’s own memories back to him, and yours was made by sellin’ spare parts.

Didn’t mean he couldn’t have skipped out on his Mayoral duties for one evening, Hancock mentally scolding himself, his sentiments leading him toward the need to kick his own ass.

Quick, adept and clever, he had no doubt you could pull it off, but you were used to traveling in a group, used to back up and a lookout. You had willingly ditched your crew and settled here for him, making Goodneighbor more or less your permanent home. He couldn’t help but feel like he was ultimately responsible for you and your well-being—so far, so good. He’d be damned if anything happened to you on his watch.

The coming radstorm was starting to sound like a stampede of angry Brahmin. Not even those of his ilk should be out in this mess. Technically immortal, sure, but not immune to accumulating all that bad stuff brewing in the atmosphere; he was comfy right where he was, but not without his lady by his side.

Their self-elected leader ignored the question, reaching into the confines of his red frock coat to unveil the firepower hidden just out of sight. His break-action, double-barreled 12-gauge had most of its stock removed for easy concealment; he knew better than to step foot outside Goodneighbor without packing heat.

“No, you might say this is a personal problem. Not to say she wouldn’t make a damn fine Ghoul,” he stated with deadly calm, kicking the door open with reckless abandon despite his unflappable demeanor, not caring what awaited him on the other side.

“I’m going with you, ain’t safe,” words spoken over harsh winds, a breeze not in the least bit refreshing having descended upon the Commonwealth as Hancock slipped out into the mounting tumult, both men following close behind. Truthfully, he was grateful for their loyalty.  

“Suit yourself, but don’t go gettin’ yourself killed. Would defeat the purpose of a search and rescue, ya feel me?”

A question not needing a response, he ventured forward, running headfirst into the growing tempest, chaos reigning overhead in the form of a blinding light show.

Hancock called out for you, yelling your name over the deafening commotion that was going to get worse before it got better, not about to go home empty-handed, even if it took the whole damn rest of the night. He hoped you were smart enough to know when to quit, or that you’d taken those Mentats he’d stuffed in your pocket on the way out.

“Get back here, scavver!”

Footfalls echoed in the dark, brisk in pace, inky, depthless eyes narrowing as the ghoul searched out the source. He had taken no more than half a dozen steps before he was forced to witness you at a full-fledged run, two burly raiders belting out insults and expletives hot on your trail.

It all seemed to happen in slow motion, but he was stone-cold sober, time standing still as you dove into Hancock’s open arms.

“There’s my girl,” the scoundrel purred into your ear, sinewy limbs enshrouding you as the sound of gunfire and discarded ammo casings nearly went unnoticed. Hancock let his own weapon fall to the ground to accommodate you, your pursuers dispatched like the trash they were. The members of the Neighborhood Watch who had accompanied him outside the walls made short work of both men; they deserved a drink and some chems on his dime.

“John,” you breathed out, smiling up at him, eyes sparkling with mirth as you held up that piece of scrap you were so proud of. His name off your tongue was musical, a warm sensation spreading through him like wildfire, better than drugs—it was a high he would never come down from.

“I—I got the part,” you spoke softly, your tepid breath tickling the remnants of a disfigured ear.

Hancock almost shivered.

But oh, no. He wasn’t about to let you off that easy, not when he’d felt that pang of anxiety and the sickening feeling in his gut like someone had shanked him with his own knife. He held you back by the shoulders, breaking your embrace, his face taking on a displeased, stern shade.

“What’s wrong with you, huh? Makin' me all kinds of nervous. Scarin’ me half to death. And some might say I don’t look too far off.” He breathed in nice and slow, exhaling through exposed nasal cavities, Hancock emitting a sigh to emphasize his disappointment. “Can’t be doin’ things like that, or you’re liable to give this old ghoul a—”

“—Sunshine?” His heart sank, as if the universe was out to prove he had every right to worry, Hancock’s attention inexplicably drawn to the red staining your fingers—it neared the color of his coat. You only now seemed to notice, that radiant light swept from your beaming face as you acknowledged the presence of your own blood on your hands; no wonder it had been so hard to take those last few steps.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, eyes blown wide as you apologized for upsetting him. You would collapse into a heap, the adrenaline that had carried you home seeming to dissipate all at once—at least your fight-or-flight response had done its duty.

---

“Move over, out of the way. I ain’t askin’ twice,” Hancock seethed, the distraught man’s threat to bowl over anyone who stood in his way not to be taken lightly, though his tone was traitorously even and his despondency well-masked. He stormed the Old State House, ascending the spiral staircase to the second floor, carrying your limp body to a tattered red couch.

Refuse and empty Jet inhalers, along with half-drunk bottles of alcohol and boxes of Mentats, were all swept aside, Hancock throwing open cabinet doors and dislodging drawers in his haste.

“Oh, you’re really in it now, aren’t you, sister? Just had to make a few extra caps!” he chided, the ghoul’s husky voice rising in volume as he took to another part of the room.

Having not yet succumbed to blood loss, you were barely cognizant as you fought to stay awake, your beloved Mayor nothing more than a blur of motion and splotches of red as he systematically searched every nook and cranny for the syringe that would save your life.

“Hang on, dollface, you’re not dying today. Not if I have anything to say about it—and you know how much I love to run my mouth.” Hancock spoke to reassure you and himself, filling the silence with something other than the curses he wanted to dish out every which way to the wind. You couldn’t help but to smile again despite your predicament, eyelids drooping as you thought about the idea of sleep.

“There you are,” he growled, your vision starting to glaze over, though you were aware Hancock had come back to your side. His scarred, yet deceptively handsome face hovered inches above your own; it was an acquired taste you had no trouble in accepting.

“This is gonna hurt, but it’s better than the alternative,” he provided in short warning, withered fingers fumbling to unbutton your top, exposing first your sternum, your ribs, and then your belly.

“Shit, they got you good,” Hancock grumbled, your hand rising to cradle his jaw as he had peeled back the flaps of fabric to inspect the wound in your side. You were surprisingly calm, thinking that if today was your last day on Earth, at least you had been blessed to experience his company. 

“I’m glad it’s you here with me,” your voice, meek and mild, declared. Hancock hesitated for one precious second, caught off guard, but pleasantly so.

“Don’t go gettin’ sentimental on me! Ain’t like these are your final moments or nothin’,” he assured, an audible tremble causing his words to waver, voice rising in pitch. He went on to stab you without ceremony, the needlepoint of a stimpak and its revitalizing medicine at once injecting itself into your damaged flesh and pulsing through your bloodstream.

You moaned in pain, hips arching as you lifted slightly up off the cushions before you settled once more, allowing yourself to finally relax as Hancock watched the regenerative process take hold, much to his relief.

---

You awoke, finding yourself supine atop a mattress, with Hancock crossed legged on the floor beside you. He had brought it down from upstairs, wanting you to have somewhere more comfortable to recover; the drifters weren’t using it, but he was sure he could scrounge another one up should the need arise.

The door was shut, the rest of the room empty, the man teetering off the edge of a high he wished he could prolong; he had pumped himself full of all those things that made him feel better. Riddled with guilt, he had imbibed both chems and alcohol, his body slightly swaying from left to right as he could not sit entirely still, yet he was too far off in his own head to notice you had come back to him.

You shifted, realizing he had draped his frock across your body to act as a temporary blanket. This simple gesture caused a flutter behind sore ribs, biceps activating so that you might push up and rest on the flat of your palms.

John was idle, near-dead to the world, eyes closed as he kept up that gentle rocking, back and forth, as if lost in music or in deep meditation. You only desired to watch him, studying the intricate, striated patterns of his ravaged flesh, gazing over the hollow of his once human nose, and admiring his sullied, foppish tunic that was a part of his infamous ensemble.

While some might consider him a monster, he was a being of light. He had superficial, obvious flaws, but he was no more guilty of sin than anyone else in this day and age. He was a beautiful soul, inside and out, and your opinion was the only one that mattered to you. Hancock always tried to do the right thing—it’s what drew you to him—even if that meant taking out a few loose ends. 

Your heart stirred, natural chemical processes taking hold that would prompt you to touch him, your hormones dictating that you wanted this man carnally.

The ghoul’s eyes bolted open as you shuffled forward on your behind; you set his coat aside almost reverently, folding your legs like his, knees brushing as you leaned forward to kiss his wiry lips. Soft flesh against textured skin, rough in comparison, felt no less wonderful, Hancock groaning out a throaty sound of appreciation as he slowly shut his eyes again.

That was all the encouragement you needed, pressing closer, crawling onto Hancock’s lap as his hands found the meat of your ass to give it a squeeze. “Someone’s feelin’ better…” he quipped, allowing himself to lie back on the floor. His smile was lackadaisical and content, his touch roving to your thighs as he gazed up at you, noting you were tugging off your already unbuttoned top to reveal your shapely breasts.

“How’d a guy like me get so damn lucky…” he drawled, Hancock’s normally assertive way of speaking temporarily replaced by a calming cadence—it was dreamy—his indolent tone arousing your most base instincts.

You didn’t answer at first, thinking you’re the one who’s lucky. You had wanted and needed a change of pace, not happy with the way your business partners were operating, willing to bring death to others in order to get what scrap they could. You only took things from the ruins, or from those who deserved to be robbed, the idea of senseless violence proliferating thanks to people like your ragtag group something you decided you couldn’t live with.

You’d come to Goodneighbor looking for work; Hancock had been willing to give you a chance, and you didn’t disappoint. After a few heady conversations and risqué flirtations at the Third Rail, you had wound up in his arms—a place you found yourself never wanting to leave.

“I could ask you the same question,” you finally muttered, grazing his mouth, kisses repeating, small pecks placed from one side to the other in a physical show of adoration. The ghoul laughed a wry, salacious little laugh, head turning to allow for this impromptu bout of affection, stretching one arm out behind his head to act as a pillow as he relished the attention.

Then, his smile faded, the chem’s effects lingering like background radiation, less intense than before—the high lasted mere minutes if that, his faculties gradually returning. The hand left free gingerly touched your side, just below where he had administered the stimpak hours earlier. Concern was apparent in glistening eyes, so dark and lovely, starry pupils reflecting the faint luminescence of his surroundings.

“Not lettin’ you out of my sight again,” he promised, every shred of levity fleeing to be replaced by austerity, low, somber notes causing a visceral reaction as the onset of something warm and fuzzy spread throughout your core.

“Bein’ out here with me? Means you don’t gotta work, but I should have had your back, sunshine. Ain’t got no excuse.”

“You can have me on my back,” you playfully retorted, the simple suggestion unleashing a purr from the bowels of the ghoul’s throat. The idea of being a kept woman pleased you, but you were more interested in pleasing him.

“You better watch your mouth, or I can’t be held responsible for all those things I’m going to do to you,” Hancock countered. He talked big game, but he was still feelin’ shook. He didn’t want to risk getting too frisky on the off chance your body needed more time to heal; you were only human, after all.

“I’m shaking in my boots,” you simpered. Hancock was quick to snark back.

“I know that’s a lie, ‘cause you’re not wearing any.”

You gasped as Hancock flipped you without warning, pinning both your wrists to either side of your head. He drank in the smooth, supple flesh of your curves, hungry eyes making damn sure to get their fill.

He couldn’t stop himself, exploring the swell of a perfect tit, Hancock’s mouth becoming newly acquainted with the sensitive flesh of your nipple. He flicked its pert tip with the point of his tongue; you brazenly rolled your hips as you tried to contain the lewd sound that threatened to escape you.

“I double dog dare you, ” you tempted, not in the least bit afraid of what he might have in store.

Hancock didn’t take the bait.

“Don’t want to hurt you, love, but let’s say I give it to you nice and slow… Or as slow as I can give it; hard to keep promises, lookin’ the way you do,” he argued, ruined lips applying pressure as he began to suck, his growing erection gently grinding into the meat of your thigh.

“You won’t hurt me.” You shuddered as he pulled back, gazing into murky, otherworldly eyes, their glow hypnotizing. You half-assed a struggle, wanting to pull your hands free if only to touch him, Hancock chuckling mildly at your efforts.

“Don’t be so sure, ‘cause I got a hankerin’ for human,” his voice dropped emphatically lower, toying with you, his dire inflection sending tingles down your spine. Coming from a ghoul, most people would run the other way, but you knew from experience, Hancock had a twisted sense of humor—it was something you loved about him.

“Eat me,” you jeered, snapping your teeth playfully like some creature that roamed the wasteland, Hancock pulling his head back just enough to satisfy you, as if he had a nose to bite off to begin with.

“That’s the plan, sister,” he snickered, finally releasing his grip on your arms.

You took the opportunity to take hold of Hancock’s already tousled vest, guiding him down to meet your lips. Your fingers busied themselves with its unbuttoning as the ghoul had his hands full, cradling the plump, healthy tissue of your blushing cheeks in the crooks of his palms.

Hancock fed a grating moan into your mouth before asking a pointless question he already knew the answer to, not one to miss out on a chance to have his ego stroked. “Somethin’ about me.. turnin' you on? Don’t know why you’d go for this ugly mug,” he conceded, fishing for a compliment. 

“You. You turn me on,” you whined plaintively, “everything about you,” you confessed, furling your tongue around his, willing him to shut his trap long enough for you to kiss him properly. He aided in the undressing, whipping his sash off in one fell swoop, an idea blossoming only to come into fruition shortly thereafter.

“That why you’re actin’ so desperate for me?” Hancock laced that bit of ragged flag around both your wrists, constricting them once more, his own arm extending to tauten its hold. He wouldn’t give you the chance to kiss him the way you wanted to, cinching its loose ends around the legs of the coffee table just behind your head, giving it a good tug to make sure you couldn’t break free.

In reality, it would have been easy to wiggle loose, but he knew you were the type to play along.

“What are you doing?” you asked, feigning alarm. The ghoul only grinned a shit-eating grin, crawling backward across your lap to adjust to a better position for his next course of action. 

“Makin’ sure you can’t skip out on me,” he said matter of fact, a mischievous lilt to his voice, “gonna have to punish you for all that worryin’ you made me do.” 

“But, Hancock—” you protested, realizing he was barring you from the one thing you wanted—full access to his person, unable to grope and caress all those parts of him you were so eager to touch and kiss.

“—Hmm?” he hummed, the bastard having the nerve to stand. He left you in a recumbent position with hands tied, unable to do anything but gaze up at the seductive set of motions he was now subjecting you to.

The ghoul painstakingly unfastened the remainder of his buttons, wizened digits fondling each in turn, his manner suggesting something that for now would remain unspoken. Then, Hancock shrugged his vest off, allowing his arms to hang as the garment dropped silkily to the floor. It was followed by a festooned shirt, leaving the man bare chested and amused; he wasn’t sure you had blinked even once.

“Like what you see?” he asked lazily, tracing a line across his gaunt pecs toward his navel with the curl of a finger, black eyes glinting impishly at the sight of you jostling your wrists as you failed to liberate yourself.

“Yes,” you breathed out shamelessly, unable to deny the effect his little striptease had on you. This in and of itself was torture, finding his brand of punishment entirely unfair.

“Good,” Hancock crooned, doing the unthinkable as he vanished from view. He even went so far as to walk beyond your peripheral vision. Instead, you were reduced to listening out for him, the ghoul shuffling around somewhere behind you. 

“John,” you whined, sitting up and scooting back against the coffee table the best you could. You endeavored to crane your neck, hearing the clink of glass preceding other innocuous sounds, the gentle thud of Hancock’s boots echoing across the rotting floorboards as he made his way back around. 

“You can say my name all you want to, princess, but it ain’t gonna change a damn thing,” Hancock stressed, words clawing their way out of cracked pipes as he nudged your knees apart with his foot; he knelt between your legs, a dispenser of Jet in one hand, and a dose of Rad-X in the other. “Open wide,” he instructed. 

You should have known what he’d been after, the drug-addicted ghoul popping the lone anti-radiation capsule inside his mouth after dispensing a heavy spray of the illicit substance into his lungs; its potency was limited in his case, but you were easily susceptible to its high. 

You gratefully obeyed, wanting any excuse to be close to him, Hancock’s silver tongue molesting you as easily as it had persuaded you to listen. He deposited the pill into your mouth, kissing you deeply, your beloved Mayor giving you a shotgun of thick, odorous chems without so much as a single protest on your part. 

Your heart thrummed, Jet leeching its way into your bloodstream to trigger a bodily response via your nervous system. In the meantime, you had almost forgotten to swallow your dose of Rad-X, Hancock prompting you by trailing the full length of your throat with a single, sallow finger. 

He massaged it down, feeling for the activation of those muscles that would help ferry it along, his thoughts drifting to the memory of his cock once upon a time being slopped on by the wet whorl of your tongue. His prick had throbbed almost painfully, sequestered snugly inside your zealous gullet, the powerful suction of your hollow cheeks threatening to wrench his soul from his body, or it sure as hell had felt that way.

He was drawn back to the present moment by the look in your eyes, your pupils dilating to rival the circumference of dinner plates. You gazed at the man before you; Hancock pulled back the edge of your bottom lip, exposing your gumline, the ghoul snaking another of his fingers inside your partially open mouth. 

The slender extremity would bypass your blunt teeth, saturating itself in your saliva. Even in this state, you had the wherewithal to pucker up, intaking that explorative digit to the knuckle, your plush maw behaving like a deluxe pre-war vacuum cleaner. 

The ghoul shuddered, though keeping his cool intact, lost in the depths of your unwavering stare. He slowly slipped back out, releasing your lip for it to snap gently back into place, Hancock satisfied with the knowledge you had swallowed the pill.

“Look at you, bein’ such a good girl for me,” Hancock praised, speaking in a low, sultry whisper. You did not reply, your desire for the man at its all-time high, that warmth in your belly having spread to complement the unparalleled ache of your loins.

“Hancock,” you whimpered, once more tugging at the cloth that bound you. You felt delirious with longing, your heart racing as you saw stars, euphoria overtaking all of your senses. You pushed forward, halted partway by that fucking flag that had you fettered like some common criminal, too blazed to even think about squirming loose. 

“Please,” you begged, lips reaching for his. Hancock evaded you, trailing a divot devoid of cartilage across your sateen cheek, directing it toward your lovely, intact nose. 

“Please, what, sister?” he ruthlessly teased, watching as your tongue tried to skirt his teeth; its vertex barely met its goal. Still, Hancock would return the gesture with a sweep of his own, flitting his against yours, inhaling deeply the scent of Jet off your breath as he was suddenly consumed by an almost feral need to taste your neediness—it was nearly palpable. 

“Please.. touch you? Please kiss you? Please.. fuck your pretty little hole?” he asked in a derisive tone, though his movements were languid, Hancock in no rush to oblige you, even as his veiny hands glided over every inch of your sleek skin.

“Is that what my little ray of sunshine wants?” the ghoul taunted, moving to unbutton the clasp at the top of your pants, then pinching the pull of your zipper, teeth parting to reveal clean cotton. You were nearly embarrassed by how damp your panties were, the chems only making your arousal ten times worse; Hancock wasn’t helping matters, a lecherous moan reaching your ears as the man slid back and realigned himself, bending forward to bury his face in the moist outline staining your skivvies.

“Shit, you’re so fucking wet—” he marveled breezily, “—is it all for me?” Hancock rasped, nipping you through the fabric, a desiccated finger tucking itself into its elastic hem. Hancock dragged it down just far enough to expose your sweet-smelling sex, the ghoul’s tongue slithering easily between slick folds. 

You inhaled a disjointed gasp for breath, voice cracking as you cried out in ecstasy, Hancock having barely swiped your thrumming clit. That alone was almost too much, your hips bucking beneath him of their own volition as you pleaded with him to keep his promise.

“Don’t tease,” you sighed, naked breasts rising and falling with every labored breath. Hancock’s eyes traveled up your fine as fuck body before meeting your gaze, a twisted hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his ghoulish mouth. 

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” he snickered, fingers grasping the entirety of your waistband to help you shimmy off your bottom layer of clothes. Your hips wriggled all too desperately, overjoyed to finally be free of their constraints. 

“But that’s not fair!” you entreated, unabashedly spreading your legs in the hopes of providing him a suitable meal, ready and willing to be devoured if you could only convince him to take the plunge.  

“And why not?” he asked in all seriousness, nuzzling into the lush flesh of your labia as his silky tongue entombed itself, gathering your moist heat from its source. He dipped back out to your chagrin—you had inhaled sharply in preparation only to be left disappointed—Hancock licking a stripe to the cusp of your throbbing bud. 

“Because I’ll die,” you replied, overexaggerating, writhing in bliss, albeit temporary; Hancock seemed out to drive you mad, retracting once more to glance back up at you, reedy lips downturned in a disapproving frown. 

“No, you won’t,” he asserted, voice taking on a sobering, sincere quality; even if you were being hyperbolic, after the events that had just transpired, Hancock didn’t find it funny, resolving to dine on you good and proper, as if it would be the thing to save your life. 

“I—” You were cut off mid-thought, lightning crashing thunderously outside, the ghoul introducing two coarse fingers into your clenching cunt as the radstorm raged on. Hancock’s neck sank low as you arched your hips, the flat of a thick tongue bringing you toward rapture as he succinctly lapped your clit in delicious combination, playing you like some Old World violin. 

“Aren’t you glad you’re trapped in here with me instead of out there cookin’ alive?” Hancock asked offhand, digits curling to find the seat of your pleasure, warm, wet muscle dancing slow, precise circles across your sensitive nerves. You halfheartedly yanked at your bindings once more, wishing for nothing more than to ravish him like a woman starved, deprived of sustenance. 

“Yes, yes— please, just like that,” you answered, urging him on, the man encouraged to keep at it, long, languorous strokes titillating you toward release.

Then, he simply stopped, fingers glossy upon exit, Hancock sucking your slick clean off with a scarecrow smile, tilting his head like a curious animal as you bemoaned your plight, left to suffer on the edge of an orgasm. 

“Relax, I ain’t through with you yet,” Hancock remarked, lifting himself up to a seated position on his knees. You whined indignantly, made to watch as he unbuckled and unzipped his own pants.

The rogue stood completely, giving you another show, kicking one boot off after the other before slinking out of the rest of his clothes. 

You took a moment to admire him, skin pockmarked with scars, deep pits of tissue missing where cells had inevitably healed all too quickly, John a mosaic of gnarled, misshapen flesh and keloid. Yet he was so handsome, charming, and cavalier, the man leaving nothing on but his tricornered hat, returning to his previous enterprise by way of interring his roiling tongue into your aching center. 

“Oh, John,” you murmured, voice hushed, the man’s thumb working itself concentrically atop your little pearl. 

For once, he was quiet, his strokes inside you meticulous, the nearly silent room filled with a plethora of obscene sounds as he feasted on you like a Yao guai over a fresh kill. Just a little attention was all it took, nails digging into the palms of your tied hands as you twisted beneath him, vocalizing loud enough you were sure the whole State House would hear.

A shiver rocked you to your core, riding out your climax for as long as you could stand it. You were unable to push Hancock’s head back even if you wanted to, the ghoul finding a new way to punish you, continuing to stimulate your already oversensitive clit. 

“Hancock, please—” you begged him under different circumstances, the ball of your foot gingerly pushing against his blatant hard-on. The ghoul finally let up just enough to chortle dryly, obviously nonplussed.

“Done already? Thought we were just gettin’ this party started,” he flouted, sitting up properly, probing fingers caressing the curve of your slit as they trailed upward, ghosting over your navel to tweak your nipple. They didn’t stop there, reaching just behind you to nab a cigarette off the edge of the coffee table, your expression giving away your confusion as he struck a match to ignite the end.

“No, John— you’re supposed to fuck me!” you berated, another devious little chuckle let loose from wilted lips. The ghoul inhaled a deep drag of nicotine laced with radiation, though the amount contained therein was so trivial he didn’t bat a lash—not that he had any.

He gazed at you through a thin veil of smoke exuded from eroded nasal passages—a short burst of pressure from his lungs propelling it outward—a freakish sight to some, but you had grown accustomed to it. 

“So, that is what you want,” Hancock digressed, snubbing the end of his cig on the floor after a few more laggard puffs. The Jet was wearing off, Hancock having already sobered completely, its side effects leaving you feeling used-up and exhausted. Hancock had forgotten what it felt like to come down from such an intense high; you pouted pathetically up at him.

“Baby,” you whined, immediately capturing Hancock's attention. He dropped the act, eyes softening around the edges, colorless voids somehow the most expressive you had ever seen them.

“What is it, sunshine? Feelin’ all right? Need somethin’ to take the edge off?” he asked gently, concern present in his tone, the ghoul finally being kind enough to reach over your head to free you from your bindings. 

“I need you,” you implored, your speech sounding childishly irritable, tired, heavy arms lifting to wrap themselves around John’s neck; you couldn’t help yourself, having been prohibited from touching him for what felt like hours, when in reality it had only been a short length of time. 

“I’m all yours,” Hancock vowed, whisking a stray strand of your hair away. A soft kiss was pressed into even softer lips; the man was two sides of the same coin, like night and day. Part of you prayed you would never cross him, his temper volatile, like an active volcano lying dormant until such a time the right conditions were met, inevitably causing an eruption. 

But he was also kind, genuine, and a good person, only wanting to make the Commonwealth a better place; he held within him a righteous anger, and for good reason, determined to stick by him through thick and thin. 

"Nice and slow?" you asked, bringing the conversation full circle, ushering the ghoul down on top of you as you laid back, gazing up with heavy-lidded eyes. He searched your face, as if double-checking for something, needing to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that nothing was wrong—you were only sulking. 

“You got it, sister,” Hancock replied coyly, the fullness of a finger returning to you as he tested the waters; you were still so unbelievably wet. It was a stark contrast to the dry, desolate landscape that stretched for miles just beyond his little town, the ghoul humming in gratitude as you kissed him once again. 

You wasted no time, slipping your hand between the depression of your bodies where hip meets hip, his weight a warm, inviting presence that comforted you like nothing else. Your fingers toyed with his variegated shaft, thumbing a bead of loosed pre-cum to moisten its tip; Hancock moaned lustfully as he buried himself deeper into the column of your throat, teeth raking tender flesh, barely withholding the intention to bite.

“I’m thinkin’ you must be the single best thing to ever happen to me,” Hancock confessed in a dulcet whisper, voice quavering with emotion as you carefully escorted his cock inside you, one delicious inch at a time. Jagged breaths found their way into your ear, distorted, ribbed flesh, more than adequate in length and girth, stretching you open, a subdued sound of longing and relief birthed from parted lips. 

“I love you,” you blurted out, unable to keep your feelings at bay, any and all movements ceasing before they had wholly begun.

You had closed your eyes; they fluttered open, fear wheedling its way inside your heart as Hancock gazed at you in silence. You cursed yourself, having never before expressed such a sentiment out loud, unsure how the man would take it, or if he even felt remotely the same—all signs pointed to yes, but you refused to be presumptuous. 

Then, he pushed up into your tight cunt with one slow, smooth stroke of his cock along your anterior walls, stimulating your G-spot. Pleasure radiated through you as you emitted a stilted breath, Hancock cradling your cheek, resting his forehead against yours to stare penetratingly into your eyes.

“Took you to be smarter than this, but I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life to hear you say that,” he breathed against your lips, slipping a motile tongue into your mouth, wanting to desperately deepen your connection. 

You readily accepted, your own tongue writhing and contracting in unison with his, heart beating fervently behind a wall of blood and bone. Your fingers clawed and grasped at his narrow shoulders and the tendinous flesh of his back, exploring every inch of your ghoulish lover, from head to jutting hipbone.

Hancock drove his cock into you, back and forth, keeping a steady, equal rhythm like the beat of a drum. “Why now?” he asked, voice tempered, each pump of his thick prick inside you unhurried and sensuous.

“Nearly dying may have had something to do with it,” you jested in-between indecent, muted moans, Hancock’s deliberate pace driving you toward orgasm. The arm not supporting his weight curled tightly around you. He clutched you to his chest, and you wrapped your thighs around his waif thin waist in return. 

“Mmn.. that it?” Spindly fingers moved to grip the back of your head, digging into tufts of your hair; your back bowed to support you in joining with him more fully, Hancock massaging your scalp as he massaged your insides, debauch, rich sounds filling both your ears.

“And because I have nothing to lose,” you reluctantly answered, breath picking up speed as you pushed back against firm, rawboned pectorals with the palm of your hand; you had the intention of arranging yourself at just the right angle to please— a simple slant of your hips would make things all too easy.

Within moments, you came, pinpricks of light overwhelming your senses. You were elated, as if your consciousness had been overtaken by a nebulous cloud of love and electromagnetic radiation, a soul set adrift in a swirling haze of thoughts, feelings and emotions that would amalgamate into something beautiful—it caused you to cry out a sound of intense, heartfelt bliss. 

Your mind went blank, only registering that John had simultaneously shared in the experience. It would take you both a moment to calm.

Then, you squeezed Hancock tightly between your legs, a signal for him to not withdraw, but to stay awhile, the tension in your body settling as you laid back down.

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart.” Hancock would smother you with his scant weight, caressing the point of your chin, his thumb snaking across your bottom lip. He gave a faint exhalation of breath, the concave outline of his nasal cavity grazing the convex shape of your nose; it tickled.

“Nothing to lose but each other.”

[thefemmefatalexo]

Gojo SMAU - The Art of Falling Fake

Introduction

Summary: The campus buzzes with life, but you feel like a shadow slipping through the cracks—unnoticed, unimportant. At home, it’s no better. Your parents dote on your step-sister, the star tennis player, while you’re the afterthought they barely acknowledge. She’s here too, her perfect reputation casting an even bigger shadow over your existence. College was supposed to be your escape, but living at home and walking the same halls as her makes it impossible. Then he shows up—Satoru Gojo, the rich, arrogant engineering major everyone seems to worship. His smug grin and effortless charm are the kind of things you can’t stand, but when a ridiculous twist of fate forces your lives together, you find yourself fake dating the most insufferable man you’ve ever met. It’s just a deal, temporary and harmless—or so you try to convince yourself.

tropes: Fake Dating, Opposites Attract, Hurt Comfort, Reluctant Allies, Found Family, Slow Burn Romance

an: I hereby welcome you to my third SMAU in this Universe! (Yay?). I hinted at this one in Chapter 14 of Toji’s SMAU if any of you noticed hehe. I really hope you enjoy this story because I’ve had so much fun writing it so far LMAOOOO. Let me know what you think! SMOOCHES 💋💋💋

{next}

taglist: OPEN!

Main Cast:

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

Keep Moving Forwards, Part 2

Azriel x Reader Fic

Summary: After finally deciding to leave your abusive and manipulative mate for good, you find unexpected companionship with Azriel, the Shadowsinger of the Night Court. As you navigate the aftermath of your traumatic relationship, you struggle to understand where the mating bond went wrong and contemplate your path forward, vowing never to return to the past.

Find other parts here: Master List

To follow this fic, follow tag "Keep Moving Forwards Fic" or comment to be tagged in future parts.

Content Warning: This story contains depictions of extreme emotional manipulation and abuse, detailed descriptions of direct physical abuse, and scenes of men hunting women with implied sexual assault. Please read at your own risk.

Word Count: 5.1K

Author's Note: This is the second part of what I anticipate will be a multi-part series. Unlike my previous works, this fanfiction delves deeper than just fluff, exploring complex emotional landscapes. As I navigate this new writing journey, I kindly ask for gentle feedback. The topics addressed are profoundly impactful, touching many lives with diverse experiences. Please be gentle with yourselves and others. Healing is a journey, and everyone processes it differently. Be kind to yourself. Take what resonates, and leave what doesn’t.

Please continue reading being aware of the above content warnings, ensuring you are in a healthy headspace. Give yourself time to process and be gentle with yourself.

Morning did not come quickly. You kept the blankets tucked to your chin, desperate for a barrier between yourself and the outside world. Your eyes stayed locked on the window as the dark blues faded into lighter shades until finally, a soft pink glow filled the room. Throughout the night, the only sounds were the male in the room next door shifting in his bed, occasionally letting out soft sighs. It seemed he wasn’t sleeping much either, and you couldn’t help but wonder if your screaming had woken him enough to stir his mind awake for good.

When the first birds began their calls and the room was barely lit by the morning sun, you finally pulled back the blankets. Every bone in your body ached, and your head still pounded from the incessant headache, now mixed with lack of sleep. You ran your hands over your face, smoothing them over the back of your head before clasping them behind your neck. You took a deep breath in through your nose. Now what?

You sniffled slightly, wiping your nose before letting your feet finally hit the floor. The bed creaked softly. You made your way to the adjoining door, peering through the crack to see the male lying in his bed, facing the wall, his wings spread out behind him as his shoulders gently rose and fell. At least he was able to sleep. You pressed your hands against the door, willing it shut as silently as possible. How are you going to get through this? You can’t hide from sleep forever, and you certainly can’t keep going without rest. You shook your head. You’d figure it out, somehow.

You moved through your morning, treading lightly as the inn’s old floors creaked and groaned under your weight. You dressed, pulling the leather jacket back over your shoulders, your nose crinkling at the scent of spruce and sage. He was everywhere, even now.

You closed the door to your room, boots in hand, fearing the noise they might cause if you wore them inside. You tiptoed past the closed door of your strange companion from the night before. Sneaking down the steps, you threw a smile to the waitress, who nodded at you as she wiped down platters before her morning began.

The air outside was crisp, with dew still clinging to the grass. The morning sunlight cast a pale glow around the clearing where the tavern sat. You paused to slide your feet into your boots, lacing them as you looked at the purple hyacinths blooming in the fields. The dotted purples brought you back to when you were a child, wandering the streets of Velaris with your family. Your mother would buy a bouquet of flowers from a vendor and tuck one of the soft-stemmed flowers behind your ear. You always loved the purples the best. You smiled to yourself, shaking away the memory, as you did with all of them. But you let yourself stop as you crossed the clearing, plucking a single purple flower from the group, which stood slightly shorter than the rest. Given its stature, it wouldn’t be missed. You tucked it behind your ear. Silly, you thought, to take such precious time picking flowers, but you did it anyway as you entered the woods again, not looking back at the tavern where that strange male, who was so gentle, so attentive, still lay asleep in bed.

Your only plan was to head south, away from the mountains and deeper into the country. You weren’t sure how long it would take to cross the border into the neighboring court, or if you would even make it that far, but south was the only clear option to put as much distance as possible between you and him. You’d considered trying to make your way to Velaris, but it seemed too close, too obvious. You feared it would be the first place he would look for you, the place where you felt most at home, where he could easily come and take you back. If you cleared the Illyrian mountains, it would be farther than you had made it in past attempts just a decade ago, and perhaps that would be enough. 

You had planned this escape months ago, setting aside coins left out on tables and scattered on the floor during his moments of rage, when it seemed the blinding red overtook all his senses. You had packed and repacked your bag, changing out clothing and supplies for each season, hoping for the day when you might finally have had enough and decide to leave. You were always ready, waiting for the right moment.

It was foolish, you thought to yourself as you wandered through the dense woods, that just a few weeks ago you believed things were getting better. He had brought you fresh berries from a farm a few miles away, kissed you on the forehead, his hands still holding the berries as he wrapped himself around you, and you pressed your nose to his chest. He had promised things would get better after he shattered that window, where you ducked as he raged and threw a pan through the glass, leaving shards in your hair. He had promised he would stop. You were a fool to think that the nights you spent tucked into his side, his hands gently stroking your forearm as the night passed quietly, were a glimpse of a peaceful life that the Mother and the mating bond had promised you.

You couldn’t even recall what had shattered that illusion. He had come home from the forest in a rage, already flying off the handle as you stood, pressed into the corner counter while he slammed around the cabin searching for the absinthe you had poured out into the grass behind the house a few days before. He nearly tore the doors off their hinges as he screamed for it, his hair growing wilder with each yell, demanding to know where you had hidden it. You swallowed the lump in your throat, your knuckles bone white as you gripped the lip of the counter until he finally came over to you, pressing his body into yours as you whimpered and tried to shrink away. 

He grabbed your face, his large hands nearly covering the entirety of your chin, forcing you to look at him. His breath, already laced with alcohol, assaulted your nostrils as he leaned in close and through clenched teeth asked, “What the fuck did you do, you witch?” When you closed your eyes tightly, he squeezed your jaw, the pain forcing them back open. “Why do you fucking hate me?” he had asked, moving his hand to your throat, his large, callused fingers tightening around it. “I do everything for you. Every godsdamned thing, and you—” he stuttered as you wrapped your own hand around his fingers, begging for release or even a bit of air as your windpipe was squeezed shut. “You bitch, all you do is fuck with things. You fuck with my head, and you lead me on, and you do this shit.” As your eyes widened and you sputtered for breath, he finally released you. You hadn’t even realized he had lifted you off the floor until your feet hit the wood again. You grabbed at your own neck, gasping in ragged breaths as he continued to scream at you, calling you every possible wretched thing as you doubled over, still coughing life back into your lungs. He grabbed your wrist and pulled you forward from the corner cabinet, the jerk causing you to fall to your knees before he yanked you back up.

You cried out in pain as he hissed at you to shut your mouth. He led you to the counters, already ripped apart in his frantic search. “Find it. You better fucking find it.”

Hot tears filled your eyes, threatening to spill over. You began hopelessly searching for the bottle you knew wasn’t there. You cursed yourself for not just emptying the bottle and putting it back in the cabinet, claiming he had finished it during his last bender. Instead, you had buried it deep in the woods, foolishly hoping he would give it up completely. Panic rose in your chest as you rifled through the cabinets, trying to think of something to say to stop what you knew was coming. He stood next to you, arms crossed, a scowl plastered on his face. He knew there was no bottle. This was purely to torment you.

When you finally turned to him, you whispered, “I don’t know where it is.”

His hand rose, and he slapped you across the cheek, yelling, “Liar!”

The blow threw your head to the side. Instinctively, you brought your hand to your cheek, the sting radiating through your face. “You’re a liar and a fucking witch!” he raged. You took a step back, hand still pressed to your cheek, as he barreled toward you again. He ripped your hand away from your face, took both your wrists in his hands, and stared at you with hollow green eyes. “You better fucking find it, or you’re dead,” he howled, his voice echoing with a chilling finality.

“I don’t know where it is,” you pleaded, tears finally cascading down your cheeks.

His anger deepened as he gripped your wrists tighter, causing your fingers to curl into claws. He shook you violently, screaming, “What the fuck did you do with it?”

A sob escaped your lips as he slammed your body into the counter. Your hip screamed in pain, and your legs gave out from under you. Sliding down to the floor, his hands still grasped your wrists, holding you upright. You turned your face away from him as he continued to yell, spittle spraying your cheeks. When your body finally hit the floor, he released you from his grip. You curled into yourself as he reeled his leg back, sending a kick to your abdomen that knocked the air out of you. An unnatural gurgle erupted from your lips as he kicked again and again. Your head knocked against the sharp edge of the cabinet corner with each assault. The searing pain spread through your body as you curled in, trying to protect the soft parts of yourself.

You sobbed as he, with reckless abandon, continued his assault. His boot, splattered with your blood and spit, struck you repeatedly until you had nothing left and stopped making noise. Your vision blackened as your head hit the counter again, your body knowing nothing but the fire of pain as every part of you willed to let go. Your eyes shut, tears still streaming down your face.

Suddenly, without warning, the kicking stopped. You felt air rush back into your lungs, the taste of iron filling your mouth. You winced and recoiled from the pain, feeling the bones in your ribs cracking, already beginning to mend, but the spasms of your muscles fighting to stay intact caused you to wince. Above you, without looking, you heard his quiet sob. Too weak to lift your head, you felt him drop to his knees beside you, burying his face in your neck, wrapping his arms around your broken body as he sobbed.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he cried between sobs, his voice breaking.

Your face remained expressionless, save for the pain etched in every feature. He pulled you into him, his tears dampening your hair and shoulders. “I don’t know what’s happening,” he kept repeating, the heat of his tears burning into you as he held you close. 

You had no words, and even if you did, the air had been forced out of your body, and your throat was raw from screaming. Anything that would come out would have been as broken as you felt. What felt like an hour passed, but you were sure it was only minutes before he stood up, muttering again how he wasn’t sure what was happening. He ran his hands frantically through his hair, pacing about the kitchen of the cabin. The tea kettle you had put on whistled a scream, echoing your own pain. 

He sniffled, his breathing ragged, before he finally stopped pacing and looked towards you, still curled into the corner of the counter, blood streaming from your eyebrow, eyes hollow and empty. He started to speak but paused, then turned and walked out of the cabin and back into the woods, muttering and yelling indistinctly.

When you finally managed to stand, you hoisted yourself up by the counter, your legs weak, almost giving out on you. You dragged yourself, one hand cupping your side where pain still shot pins and needles through you. You grabbed the kettle from the stove, barely registering that the hot metal handle burned your flesh, and threw it into the washbasin.

Somehow, you made it to the bedroom. Uncaring if the blood slowly drying on your forehead stained the sheets, you willed yourself into the bed, the pain of your body hitting the mattress causing you to cry out. The window above the bed, slightly open, let in the sounds of him yelling outside, muttering things you couldn’t make out as you heard him assaulting the forest with his fists, screaming out. The background noise of his torment was the last thing you remembered before blacking out into nothingness.

In those moments, which happened more frequently than you would like to admit, you sometimes wished one of his blows had caused an organ to split or your head to hit the floor with such force it would have knocked the life out of you, ending the hell you were living. You often questioned why you didn’t leave sooner, why you wouldn’t fight back to escape, or why, in moments of excruciating pain, you didn’t scream back at him. Why did you feel compelled to stay silent as blow after blow landed? You pushed those thoughts from your mind. They were of no use to you now. You would keep moving forward, away from that place.

You had lost all track of time as you continued through the forest. The familiarity of the woods around the mountain and cabin was lost as new trees and boulders surrounded you. The sun hit its peak overhead, and you allowed yourself a short moment of rest, unwrapping a roll you had packed in a linen napkin. You ate it greedily, hunger pangs gnawing at your stomach as you scarfed it down. Its slightly stale flavor and hardened exterior were no bother as you finally quelled the growling from your core. As you chewed, you took in your surroundings. The trees here were taller and fuller, as if summer had already arrived, and the leaves had fully regrown. The canopy above cast long shadows on the lush green forest floor, and the boulder you sat on was slightly damp.

You folded the napkin, carefully placing it back into your well-packed bag as you took stock of your remaining food: two more rolls, a few apples, two chicken drumsticks wrapped in beeswax paper, a small bag of granola, and a handful of dried fruits. Enough to get you through a week, though you silently prayed for a town or even a small village where you could rest overnight.

Continuing into the forest, you allowed yourself to breathe freely, even enjoying the light burn of the sun across your cheeks. You went as far as to take your boots off and walk down a stream that babbled happily through the woods. The freezing chill of the water sent a spark up your spine as you searched for brightly colored stones and salamanders. It was silly to waste time doing this, but you hadn’t let yourself explore the world in so long, and for such little joys, it was worth it.

The afternoon waned, and the shadows grew longer before you came to a clearing. A meadow of soft spring ephemerals bloomed, filling the grasses with splashes of white, pink, and orange. As the sun cast orange fire across the sky, you deemed this as good a spot as any for the night. You threw your pack down at the edge of the meadow, unfurled the blanket you had wrapped your food in, and laid it on the meadow floor. You allowed yourself the luxury of one piece of chicken, the skin still crisp from when you had cooked it a few nights before. 

You watched the sun dip behind the treeline, the oranges turning to evening purple, as a mother deer and her fawn approached from the opposite edge of the clearing, feasting on the meadow’s flowers. You watched them carefully, not daring to move an inch. The fawn stayed close to its mother, who ate without fear, while the young one occasionally pricked its ears at the snapping of a branch. The mother seemed content with safety as the fawn locked its eyes on you. You stayed still, the fawn scanning you before turning back to its mother and resuming its evening meal. The tranquility set your mind at ease as the family wandered back into the deep woods, disappearing as night fell.

Your eyelids grew heavy with sleep as you lean against a tree, using a small knife to peel bark away from a branch you had picked up, fighting the urge to lie down. Another day of uncertainty had passed, another day of finding who you were, and another day of tasting the tantalizing flavor of freedom and deciding you wouldn’t live without it.

______________________________________________________________

Your eyes shot open as you heard the nearby crunch of the forest floor. How long had you been asleep? The branch you had been working on lay in your lap, your neck sore from where your head had fallen forward, and the side of your mouth wet from drool. You scrunched your face, shaking your head slightly to wake yourself up more when you heard another crack of a branch and what sounded like calculating footsteps.

Your heartbeat picked up speed as you frantically tried to pack your things. You had gotten too comfortable and unpacked most of what you had. The footsteps, now sounding like multiple pairs, grew closer. Silently, you pushed your items under a nearby bush before getting to your feet. You whipped around in search of a hiding place, but your only options were to run across the meadow, where you would be seen from every side, or run deeper into the woods toward the approaching steps. Instead, you looked up the towering evergreen above you and started climbing, limb after limb, higher and higher, each branch slightly less thick than the last. The ground disappeared below you, and you were panting, perched on a branch at least thirty feet up. You tried to steady your breath, gasping air into burning lungs as you waited and listened.

You heard the beginnings of voices but couldn’t make out what was being said. The voices were deep, male, in an accent you couldn’t place. The footsteps grew louder, and you saw the soft light of a torch through the trees as the group approached. Three males, all in black attire, swords drawn at their waists, and no lack of knives strapped along their legs and torsos, trampled through the undergrowth.

Finally, they were close enough for you to make out some of their conversation. “No, no, he wouldn’t have done that,” one noted.

“You weren’t there,” replied the second, following the leader in front, holding the torch. “He said he gutted him, drove his knife into his stomach, and ripped up through his chest.” You gulped as they continued to approach.

One of the males let out a slight chuckle. “Malek doesn’t have the balls for that.”

“He had enough balls to land you on your ass the other day in the ring,” another chided, causing the initial storyteller to shove him hard in the shoulder. As they continued through, you noticed they, like the odd male from the tavern, had large wings that hung from their backs, though more proudly than the one you had met.

One of them, the shortest, with jet-black hair braided back, trailed behind his two companions, swinging his sword idly. Though he did it without much thought, you could tell he was trained to use it lethally. “Why did we get stuck doing this patrol?”

The other, a few paces ahead, turned his head back over his shoulder, his shorter-cropped black hair glinting in the torchlight. You could make out the slight scar across his cheek, slashed into his lips. “Maybe because you couldn’t keep your fat mouth shut.”

The smaller one groaned, dropping his sword to his side. “That was months ago. He can’t keep shitting on us just because of that.”

The one in front, the tallest, with long cascading black locks pulled into a half bun, responded without turning back, “Well, apparently he can.”

You held your breath as the males continued their approach, now just under the tree you were perched in. Suddenly, the leader stopped, holding his hand up to signal their immediate halt. “Shut up,” he said.

The male behind him quickly brought his hand to the hilt of his sword, preparing to draw it, while the short one behind raised his sword in a ready stance. The leader then whispered, “Someone’s here.”

Your heart sank as you pressed your hand to your mouth, hoping the sound of your heart trying to escape through your ribcage wasn’t audible from below. The leader glanced around in a slow circle, his ears pricked, trying to pick up any noises. The two others did the same, silently scanning the area.

Finally, the second male crouched down where your blanket had been laid. “The grass is pushed down,” he whispered, moving forward slightly to where your body had been. “And it’s warm.”

The smallest one took a few silent steps forward, crouching next to his companion and gazing around. He reached forward and from under the bush pulled out your pack. “They heard us coming.”

The leader, still scanning the surrounding area, said, “They can’t be far.”

“We would have seen them in the meadow,” one responded. The other chimed in, “And they would have had to come toward us if they ran into the woods.”

The leader slowly and carefully turned his head to scan the trees above. Your stomach dropped as he locked eyes on you. You begged it be dark enough that he couldn’t see you, but the smile that crept onto his lips told you otherwise. He pointed one long, tanned finger upwards. “Found it,” he whispered. His companions turned their heads skyward, and your eyes widened in fear.

With a grim laugh, the one with braided hair stood, cupping his hands around his eyes to look up at you.

The leader called out in a sing-song tone, “Come on down, we don’t bite.” But you didn’t believe that for a second.

The small one chimed in the same tone, “Just come down.”

The second then followed, “You’re trespassing. Get your ass down here.”

You weighed your options. The large wings on their backs and toned bodies made you believe they would outrun you and take you down the second you stepped foot on the ground. But the tightness of the branches made you consider if you could climb higher, hoping they couldn’t reach you. You barely had time to consider before they called out again, “Just come down.” You stifled a whimper. There were no good intentions within these three males, not like the one you had met just the night before. These males had smirks on their faces that made you recoil, your insides gurgling. You opted not to move.

The leader finally called out, “If you don’t come down, we will bring you down. It’s your choice.”

Your knees locked, sore from crouching and balancing. Your only chance was to stay here and hope they couldn’t get to you. When you didn’t respond, the little one let out a chilling laugh and rubbed his hands together. “May I?” he asked.

The two others looked at each other, nodding in agreement before the leader noted, “Go ahead.”

With that, the smallest one chuckled with excitement before shedding his harness with his sword and knives, giving you a better look at his lean, muscular body. He was toned and fit for battle. Placing a steadying boot on the trunk of the tree, he hoisted himself up onto the first branch and made his approach to you, moving fast. 

As he continued his ascent, you pressed yourself closer into the trunk of the tree, blending into the darkness. When he was about ten feet off the ground, he finally made out your general shape. Looking down to the other two, he called out in a voice like a hungry predator, “We got a fae female on our hands, boys.” He turned back to you, licking his lips before singing out, “Here kitty, kitty, kitty.” Bile rose in your throat as you watched him inch closer. You looked up to see another twenty feet of branches, each getting smaller but tighter together. In this moment of life or death—or something worse—you decided you might have to climb higher. The male below continued his climb as his two companions hollered encouragement. When he was merely ten feet from you, you made your choice and scrambled to the next set of branches.

He called back down to his friends, “And she’s quick. And fit.” He let out a small growl of desire, and you didn’t dare look back to see how much he had gained on you. “A tight ass,” he called out again, prompting his companions to laugh and groan with lust.

Your hands were bleeding, cut by the tiny twigs, but it didn’t stop you from pulling yourself up through the branches, away from the approaching danger. When you finally turned your head back, the male was at the branch you had just left. He took a moment to inhale deeply, “And she smells delicious.” He continued after you, faster than you could climb. You must have been ten feet higher when the males below you disappeared from view, obscured by the tree branches. The one with the braid was hot on your trail, struggling as the branches grew closer together. He let out a frustrated huff as he pulled his wing through a particularly tight spot. “Bitch,” he grumbled, “just come here.” His voice sounded as if it were directly below you. When you dared to glance down, he was a mere arm’s length away. He moved faster than you thought possible, and you let out a slight yelp, which made him smile, his toothy grin lit by the moonlight.

He reached forward, his hand clasping around your booted ankle and yanking you down. A scream left your lips as you clung to the branch above you, your fingers screaming in pain. Without thinking, you used your other leg to stomp downwards, your boot making swift contact with his face. He cried out in pain, yelling, “Fucking bitch!”

The two below shouted, “What happened?”

“She fucking kicked me in the face,” he replied.

The two below laughed amongst themselves, and the one in the tree yelled down at them to shut their mouths. You scrambled higher, finally reaching the last row of branches that could hold your weight. You pulled yourself through three separate crisscrosses before steadying yourself, clinging to the trunk like a bear. The midsection was thin enough that you could almost wrap your arms around it. You looked down, and a few feet below, the male wiped the mud from his face and spat blood from his lips. He looked up at you with a new sense of anger bubbling. “You bitch,” he cried, continuing his ascent. “You’re going to pay for that,” he growled.

You whimpered, pulling yourself tighter as he continued up. Finally, when he reached the crisscrossed branches, he tried to push through, but his broad shoulders halted him. He groaned and grumbled, looking up at you with a sneer. “You bitch,” he whispered. He called back down to the two below, “She’s too high. I can’t get to her through the branches.”

The second called back, “You’re telling me your ass is too fat to fit through there to get her?”

The small one peered over his shoulder, “No,” he called back, “my dick is too big to make the clearing, dumbass.” He peered back up at you, considering his options.

The leader called up from below, “Just come back down, Darian. She has to get down at some point, or fall.”

Darian let out a growl, looking up at you. “I’ll be waiting down there when you’re ready. And when you come down, just know, I have big plans for you.” With that, he slunk back down, cat-like, almost sliding down the length of the tree. Below, you could hear them speaking. The second chided, “Your dick is not that big.”

Darian laughed back, pushing the other slightly, “My dick is huge, and you fucking know it.”

The second let out a noise of uncertainty. “I’ve seen it, and it’s nothing to get excited about.”

Darian jumped on the back of the second, his forearm wrapping around his neck as the second laughed, pushing himself back against the tree. The air in Darian’s lungs knocked out of him before the leader finally said, “Knock it the fuck off.”

That was enough for Darian to drop from the second’s back. “Thoren, head back to camp and tell them we found a trespasser who we’re going to wait out.”

The second let out a groan, “Why do I have to go back? Send the cock-master instead.”

The leader shot Thoren a glare, “That’s an order, Thoren.”

Thoren shook his head, taking a step back, arms raised. “Okay, okay, fuck.” With that, Thoren made his way into the meadow, his giant wings spreading before he took a bounding leap and jumped into the sky. He flew up past the tree you were perched in, peering in at you from the thick branches with a criminally vicious smile. “See you soon, little squirrel,” he said before flapping off into the night, back toward the woods.

The leader ordered Darian to build a fire as he rifled through your pack, pulling out the food and taking a hungry bite of a roll. Looking up at you, where you knew he couldn’t see you, he gave a slow wave. “Goodnight, sleep well” he called up, before a sinister laugh escaped his lips. You gulped once more.

_____________________________________________________________

Special thanks to the following readers of Part 1 who have encouraged me to continue writing this, it's truly wonderful to have such phenomenal support while I continue to craft these works!

Tagged accounts:

@annabethgranger123, @nickishadow139, @thatacotargirl, @depressedreader209

[ellesthots]

Fateful Beginnings

XXXIV. “the affliction of pity”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce is forced to look in the mirror after the next morning’s antics with you.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, bickering, hurt/comfort, splash of angst

words: 7k

a/n: more Alfred in this chapter !! let’s goooo !! more of a few things 😌 pretty significant chapter, might I say 💬 setting some seeds…

As you rolled over in bed the next morning, everything felt normal. Until you remembered you were in his clothes, in his house, and you’d hugged.

And the gun to your head. That too.

You checked your phone, at a measly eight percent. There were two missed calls from Dr. Crane. You sat up in a rush and called him back, worried something might have changed. He picked up on the last ring this time, a shift that caused a wash of anxiety to run through you.

“Ms. Y/N.”

“I’m sorry I missed your call.”

“As am I. How was Mr. Wayne last night?”

Shit. In the bustle of the evening, you’d forgotten. You lowered your voice. “Fine. We were able to touch base, and everything seems to be going well.” You stammered along. “I didn’t see any of the side effects you mentioned, either.”

“When will you see him again?” His tone was terse. Evidently he didn’t like when you didn’t answer.

“Today, actually.” You hoped he wouldn’t ask why. He didn’t.

“I don’t need to remind you of the stakes. I anticipate another update tonight or tomorrow.” The line clicked off. You wished you hadn’t taken the call first-thing, and struggled to shake it off as you walked down to get more Tylenol. You wondered if this much acetaminophen was good for you, but figured this much pain wasn’t, either.

Thankfully you didn’t have to dig for the Tylenol, or a glass, because they both sat at the counter beside the fridge. Your head hurt less, but your leg was positively throbbing. Bruce wasn’t in the kitchen, which you were grateful for. Last night’s memory was rapidly sinking into you with an anchor weight, particularly how you’d offset your conversation until some time this morning. You didn’t feel nearly as uninhibited now, and didn’t know if you’d be able to bring anything up.

You grabbed a protein shake and walked up the first stairwell. You held in a gasp when Alfred appeared, dressed immaculately as ever, as if he got a lovely full night’s rest. Part of you suspected he heard your shrieking cries, but he didn’t give it away if he did. “Morning, Miss. Would you like breakfast?”

You held the shake up. “I can just have this, thanks.”

“It’s no issue. I’ll be making some for myself and the boy. Come down in ten minutes.” He waved dismissively at your ‘meal’ and headed downstairs. You wondered what the hell he could make with only a few veggies, chicken, and ice cream. Maybe he had a secret butler lair with anything Rapunzel could ever want.

You turned to walk up the second set of stairs when a sleepy voice halted you. “How’d you sleep?”

You didn’t look at him, forcing your eyes to remain forward. Anxious butterflies swarmed in your stomach at the memory of him, on the brink of passing out, holding you while you sobbed. Your throat tightened, shy. “Fine.”

“Want to talk while Alfred cooks?”

You didn’t, but that gave you a time constraint. Alfred would save you from whatever awkward, embarrassing territory you and him might venture into. You still didn’t face him. “Okay.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Where is there?”

“The study, your room, mine. Anywhere.”

Your cheeks reddened at how genuine he still seemed. You’d fully expected him to act like last night never happened. You didn’t want to go in either of the bedrooms, and you eyed the old man’s study just up the stairs. You gestured to it, and heard him follow close behind.

The room was exactly as you remembered it; a thick wood table with a seat behind and in front. There was a decent-sized rug by a fireplace with some newspapers scattered around it. You cringed thinking about sitting across from him so officially, so you went to sit on the floor. He followed your lead, sitting a few feet away, closest to the papers. You fiddled with the unopened drink in your hand, moving its weight from palm to palm.

“How’s your pain?”

You sighed, an embarrassed grin exploiting your cheeks. “An attentive host.”

He waited, and you glanced up at him for the first time since you’d hugged. He had the same pants, and a different shirt. You inhaled so quickly you almost coughed. “I’m sorry about last night,”

“Don’t be.”

“I’m serious. It was weird and awkward of me,”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t have to do this.” You shook your head loosely, biting your lip. His eyes focused there a moment before flitting down.

“I want to help.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, tears beginning to well. You were frustrated and self-conscious of how much strain you’d put on him. “You’ve been nothing but helpful.”

Bruce was quiet, watching you try to force back tears and channel your energy into one of his protein shakes. He didn’t know how helpful he’d be perceived when, after breakfast, he’d have to have another talk with you, essentially demanding that you’re never seen in the city again. He pondered how manipulative it was not to disclose that prior to asking you to open up, which clammed him from speaking.

The room felt staticky, like if you reached into the air, the tip of your fingers might spark. You figured he was being quiet so you had space to speak. The skeptical part of you wanted to tie your lips closed, ranting about how he didn’t want to give this to you, he felt he had to. The sensitive side yearned for someone to hear your pain, and he was being persistent about it. It was blood-curdlingly difficult, but you took the first step—chucking the words out of you while forcing your anxieties to the back.

“I’m just lonely.” You stared down at your hands, setting down the drink so you could wring them. “I thought coming here for school would give me community.” Your voice was shaky but you tried not to think about it, throwing the words out as quickly as they formed. “It made it all worse. I had this fantasy that the size of the city would energize me, but it’s just spitting me out.” Tears sprung to your eyes, forcing you to pause, rubbing your eyes hard. “Sorry.”

He could feel the desolation oozing off of you. Every time you apologized made him more indignant. “I’m not judging.” You glanced at him as you removed your hands from accosting your delicate corneas, and he nodded for you to continue.

The combination of his attentive presence and kind reassurance made the tears pass the floodgates. The words were coming quicker now, less inhibited. “Being home isn’t fun either, my mom’s cancer is just, they don’t want to talk about it.” Frustration bled. “They’re acting like everything is fine, like nothing is different. I don’t like being around them and I hate being away.” Your throat was constricting as you held back full-bodied sobs.

Anger was beginning to creep in, your face contorting into a glare. You still weren’t looking at him, looking off to the side, unfocused. “I had this friend group back home but they don’t give a shit about me. I don’t know if they ever did. I have Mar here, but she just parties all the time, and she didn’t even, she didn’t even ask how I was before she left yesterday.” You could hardly believe it hadn’t been twenty four hours yet. You could hardly believe how whiny you were acting.

The devastation and anger was riling you up, making the words spill out before you even comprehended them. “And I fucking hate that I’m even saying all of this right now. The gun, the fucking, the interview, you breaking down in that fucking alley wouldn’t have even happened if I weren’t meddling!” You were beginning to pant.

“Hey,”

You didn’t hear him, and started shaking, breathing so fast you could hyperventilate. Your thighs were starting to become a receptacle for your tears. “I thought he was gonna kill me, I’ve never seen a gun that close; I yelled at you and, kicked you out and, and, you’re tied up and,”

His hand on your knee made you shriek, slapping your palms to your cheeks as you folded over, wailing. “Everyone’s gonna die, everyone around me,” you gasped between every word, which rapidly devolved into trying to catch your breath in painful puffs.

He was melting like butter. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,”

“Look at me.”

You wanted to say no, but you didn’t want to further inconvenience him. Meeting his concentrated gaze filled you with cavernous shame, your eyes stuttering down to his chin in subtle avoidance.

“Stop apologizing.”

Another lump jumped to your throat.

“Can I hug you?”

You nodded, relief pooling in your stomach at his request. You wanted another hug from him even if you weren’t losing your mind. “Please.”

This was foreign to him, but it was the only thing he could think to do. He wrapped his arms around you again, and it felt just as desperate, just as necessary, even for him. You didn’t cry as much as when he hugged you the night before, seemingly getting a lot of it out beforehand, and he struggled not to stiffen when your breathing began to even out, and your sniffles waned. Quickly. Very quickly. Your shaking slowed until the only movement was your breathing. That ‘please’ stuck to him like velcro.

It was extremely disorienting. He’d experienced people clinging to him in the suit, looking at the cowl with a frantic desire to be soothed, but never just as him. Not once. He didn’t know he could calm someone like this as Bruce.

You pulled out of the hug and sniffed, getting up to leave. You almost apologized. “I need to blow my nose.”

Alone in the study, he was worried he’d panic. The way you’d said it, it seemed not like you’d wanted a hug, but that you’d wanted a hug from him. ‘Please’ like you’d wanted one already but wouldn’t ask. ‘Please’ with your eyebrows knitting with neediness, ‘please’ cutting through the tears and shame even when his words didn’t make a dent.

He sat in a haze of dismay as disappointment crowded him at your departure. This wasn’t good.

He stood up to leave, mentally rehearsing a ‘need to shower before breakfast’ shout as he walked past the hallway bath, but you’d already come back.

Both of you wanted to hug again, but neither said so.

“Setting the table.” Alfred’s voice floated from downstairs. It almost sounded like he was whistling.

Bruce walked past, but you caught his elbow. “Thanks.”

Your lashes were still clumped together from crying. Your eyes were puffy and red. His hand twitched to wipe the tears still lingering on your cheekbone, but he cringed instead. “Don’t thank me.” He hurried down the stairs and hastily shut the door to his room.

Doing your best to ignore the tinge of frustration coating his tone, you met Alfred in the kitchen. The scent of a fresh omelet wafted from the stove out to the foyer. He had three table settings in the same fashion as last time, and you sat at your place with your hands tucked in your lap. Alfred was whistling, a jazzy sort of tune, as he scooped up the first one and walked toward you. “Same ingredients as your last visit. No peaches.”

Visit. What a kind way to dress it up. You thanked him as you took the plate, suddenly struck by a hazy memory of Bruce tilting your chin up to drink Benadryl. You swore you could feel his finger there now. You swallowed.

You weren’t in love with eggs by any means, but Alfred made them look salivating. It was plated to perfection, intimidating you nearly into not wanting to eat it. When he walked over with a pitcher of orange juice, you wondered where they’d come from—until you noticed an empty bag of orange netting sitting across the kitchen in the pantry. A few rinds were discarded near the stove, and you hurried to pour some for yourself. Bruce was woken up every morning with fresh squeezed juice? Or at least had the option?

The coolness of the juice was everything you needed, a balm to your hot throat. A satisfied chuckle came from the stove as you reached to pour a second glass. “Sumo citrus. Out of season, but still quite stunning.”

“I’ll drink you out of house and home.”

Alfred finished dishing up, and pulled out his chair before frowning. You followed his eyes to Bruce’s empty seat. After the short pause, he wiped his hands. “Ah, well. We’ll get started without him.” His cheery demeanor was infiltrated by a short grimace, undoubtedly perturbed by Bruce’s absence. “If you fancy any salt, pepper, let me know.”

He’d seasoned it spectacularly, and you told him so after your first few bites. Your stomach felt like an empty pit, realizing you hadn’t eaten more than the odd granola bar in days. You finished quickly, leaving little space for conversation, and he gestured to the stove. “Would you like more? I made an extra.”

You nodded, and he took your plate with a wink. “Finally I have someone who enjoys my cooking.”

“It’s stellar, really.” You eyed the orange juice, now with only a third of the pitcher remaining. You ate the second omelet, surprisingly just as warm as the first. Alfred had just finished his, taking a sip of his juice.

“Thank you. I needed that.” Your eyes trailed across the table to the glaringly empty seat, feeling dejected. He probably hadn’t come because you’d been too much, gone too far. Not only had you pushed the boundaries, you’d obliterated them. Why had you agreed to hug him again? Why had you let yourself lose control in front of him, again?

You’d forgotten how perceptive his butler was, too. He set his utensils in the middle of the plate, untucking his napkin from his lap. “I apologize for his behavior, Miss. It’s truly abhorrent.”

You shook your head so fast you saw stars. “No, it’s fine. He’s had a long day, and night,”

“So have you.” He gathered both of your plates and disposed of them in the sink. He rested his hip against the counter, tucking one hand into his pant pocket, the other grabbing the cane resting nearby. He sighed. “Feel free to have the rest of the juice, a shame for it to go to waste.”

He looked tired. Not as tired as the last time you came, but nonetheless. You obliged, already feeling the pressure on your bladder. You must’ve had half a gallon of this stuff.

Alfred’s head cocked toward the foyer. Bruce appeared not a moment later, his expression distant and cold. He slid into his seat and dug in without comment, not looking at either of you.

You set your glass down, your stomach flipping. You had half a mind he had simply taken too long in the shower, and tried his best to hurry, but no. In the same outfit, same dry hair, like he’d just been ignoring you.

Out of the corner of your eye you noticed Alfred glance up to the ceiling before tossing a dish rag over his shoulder, getting to work at the sink. You stood to join him, but he waved you off. “Appreciate it, Miss; you need to recuperate. I’ll manage.”

You stood there between the table and the sink, the already dim energy in the room withering further with every second Bruce remained unspeaking. You blinked a few times, unnerved and upset, walking quickly out of the room. You ducked around the corner, hoping they thought you gone. A few moments later, Alfred spoke.

“Bruce.”

“Don’t want to hear it.” They were both speaking hushedly, though Bruce was admittedly not trying as hard to muddle his volume.

Alfred’s tone was the coldest you’d ever heard it. “I’ve never been more embarrassed.”

Bruce didn’t respond, only scraped the fork against the plate as he likely hurried his meal.

“She’s been in a terrible situation,”

“I said I don’t want to hear it.” His tone was back to that very first night; back to the hallway at City Hall when you’d blackmailed him. That same haughty, defensive, biting timbre.

“I’m telling you regardless.” The sink stopped. “I fear you’ve become too desensitized for your own good.”

More scraping.

Alfred sighed, his tone gentling. “I know the last week has been difficult,”

Bruce pushed his seat out. “Going to talk to her.”

You tiptoed further into the corner, cloaking yourself in shadow.

“What about?”

“Getting her to leave.”

You’d never before heard Alfred scoff, but now you had. It was freakily uncharacteristic. “You’re better than that, Bruce. Do not.”

“Or what?” Bruce’s tone was mocking, the chair making a final thud into the table. You bit your cheek to abate the rising anxiety. Of course he wanted you gone. Of course you were nothing more than a nuisance. Rage nipped at your skin thinking about how he’d led you on, thinking that he might have cared.

Before Alfred could reply, Bruce emerged into the foyer, and immediately caught on to your presence. You glared at him, feeling tears smart your lashline again. His face fell with his shoulders and you huffed past him. “Y/N,”

“I’m grabbing my phone and you’re taking me home.” You were already halfway up the stairs, but he was catching up.

“Stop,”

You pressed on, breaking into a run up the second set.

He grabbed your wrist and you yanked it back, barely catching your balance. You whipped around, chest heaving, eyes wild. “Sorry for overstaying my welcome.”

You spun around and ran to your room, trying to slam the door but his foot stopped it. Tears streamed down your cheeks in silent fury. You grabbed your dress, shoes, and phone. “I won’t bother you at City Hall, don’t worry.”

“It’s for your safety.” His stepping into the room crowded it. He sounded exasperated. “You need to leave Gotham. Immediately.”

“You don’t get to boss me around.”

He scoffed. “Less than a week and you’ve already been threatened.”

“And he’s in jail whether I leave or not.” No longer giving a shit, you shimmied off the sweats and yanked off his shirt, leaving you in your bra and underwear. He averted his eyes and stared at the wall, audibly scowling. You threw them at him and they hit his shoulder. You wrangled your dress back on, still damp and awfully smelly. You sat on the edge of the bed, pulling on your loafers.

“It could happen again. You’re a target now.”

“I’m not leaving.”

He side-eyed you, checking if you were clothed. He loathed that he knew the color of your underwear now. “And I’m not cleaning you off the sidewalk.”

“Bruce Wayne would never have to do such custodial work.” Your tone was dripping in sarcasm and mockery, forcing him to grit his teeth. You were riling him up, you both knew it. You were riling each other, teetering on the precipice of words better left unsaid.

He stepped fully into the room, shutting the door behind him. You glared at it. “You were going to leave last week.”

You finished fighting with the heel of your shoe, finally able to rush past him. He stepped in front of the door and your heart lurched into your mouth, eyes flashing. “You are not blocking me.”

He hesitated before stepping aside. When you put your hand on the doorknob he did too. “If this is because of last Thursday,”

“You don’t want it, I get it.” You jerked the door open, the phone falling out of your hand. You both stooped to reach it at the same time, your hands colliding once more. His hand tightened atop yours, forcing you to look at him. You ripped the phone away and swung the door open, leaving into the hall. He followed you out, draining the last bit of resolve you had.

“Is it a sin to make sure you’re alright?” You bit back the last half of what you wanted to say: ‘I already see how Alfred’s being punished for it’.

Bruce glared at you. “I don’t need babysitting.”

“It’s not just you.”

“None of it should be.”

“I wanna see where this election goes.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

You bristled, hard. “I do. I want to report on it.”

He rolled his eyes. “You expect me to believe that? In a city you hate?”

“I hate the culture. Which I could influence.” You made the mistake of wincing down toward your thigh, and he stepped closer.

“I want to help you.”

You glowered at him, unappreciative of his indecisiveness. Did he want to help you, or hide away in his room to try and forget you existed? “Would’ve been helpful to show up to breakfast.”

Bruce groaned. You had a physical reaction to the sound.

You hated it more than most things, more than you hated humid hundred degree days and men catcalling—but even when he was angry, and distant, and weird, you wanted to stay in his orbit. You needed to, or Dr. Crane would have your head… and maybe his. “I’m the only one outside of this place who knows. I can be a tool.”

“I have enough tools.” He hated the piece of him that wanted to give in. He hated how his voice lost its edge the closer you got to the stairs.

You were also excruciatingly aware of how close you were to the exit, and how much you didn’t want to take it. Squeezing your eyes shut and imagining the Bruce that cried into your palm was the only way to cool your temper. His hugs lingered not too far behind… if they were even real. The only thing that actually moved the words past your teeth was remembering how deeply you regretted being cold to him at your apartment. “I want you to have someone to go to. And I want someone to go to.”

Your candor surprised both of you.

“It’s not worth throwing your life away.”

The wear of this argument wasn’t sitting right in your chest, and it forced your expectations lower. You shifted quickly back to the matter at hand. “I’m staying in Gotham, at least for now, whether you want to acknowledge me or not.” You didn’t need to be on good terms to keep an eye on him. He’d still come to City Hall meetings, and you’d be able to give some updates to Dr. Crane until he was out of the woods. It would only be a few more weeks. And you would enjoy getting to hear the city’s voice, trying your hand with more interviews.

You turned and set off downstairs. “What’ll it be this time? Packing me in the trunk?”

He barely registered what you said, his eyes fixed on your back as you descended the steps. ‘I’m just lonely’.

He grabbed his keys and walked to the garage with you, instructing you to lie flat again. “I’ll drop you off a few blocks away.”

Staring at the black ceiling of Bruce’s car while you bumped through back alleys and cobbled streets was, to put it lightly, depressing. You were starting to get used to the pain, utilizing it to distract from your whiplash disappointment and deep-seeded fear about being home alone tonight. At some point you must have closed your eyes and been lulled asleep, because his voice startled you into sitting up.

“Just a few blocks south. Closest I could get.”

When he noticed you’d fallen asleep, he drove around a few more miles so you wouldn’t be disturbed. He only started winding back in the direction of your apartment when he heard you begin to whimper. His hands had tightened on the wheel, his teeth gritting, as they so often did around you. He thought he’d mastered letting Alfred’s disappointment seep like guilt through his skin, but he couldn’t stop the thought he might be misrepresenting you.

Selfishly, he’d been centering himself in your distress, when in actuality… your life was bigger than that. You had parents to worry about. Friends to be disappointed with. A burgeoning journalism career to dive into, to which the corners of the internet were behaving like piranhas. A gun to your head, and an empty apartment in a city that genuinely seemed hell-bent on hurting you. Spitting you out, as you so eloquently put it.

Maybe he was pitying you, now.

The Moore was not-so-conveniently located on one of the main streets of town, forcing him back into a side alley between an old pharmacy and a deli that wasn’t open half the time. In the early days he’d stow the Batmobile here. The brick hadn’t changed much, a few new potholes. Wasn’t frequented enough to be as decimated as the roadway. He parked here when he’d visited you those few times.

He woke you, and while you roused, pulled your recorder and notebook out of the passenger glovebox. He’d circled back to Miller’s car on the way to your friend’s before the police got to it. He just hoped you didn’t make too big a deal out of his remembering.

Thankfully, you didn’t. You looked a bit surprised, but took it without comment. You looked disheveled, tired, pained. The passenger door swung open after he told you which direction to walk.

“Can your friend stay with you?”

You’d nearly shut the door on him before he spoke. Too tired to lead with irritation, you gave him a lackluster response. “It’s Friday. She’ll be out clubbing.”

You hesitated before shutting the door, wanting to thank him, but too hurt to commit. You fought not to think about how his laser eyes were focused on your back as you walked away. Struggled not to recall the weight of him.

Walking around Gotham in midday was like walking around an entirely different environment. Late morning to mid-afternoon was the only time kids were seen, and only with older siblings or adult family members. You couldn’t imagine growing up here. How it might harden a person.

It was a massive triumph pushing open your apartment door while holding a feeling bordering on terror that someone was waiting to jump you. You rushed in and shut the door like when you’d watched something scary as a kid. When the anxiety got too high, and you were positively certain a demon was rushing behind you to beat you to your bed.

In a blink you’d shoved a chair under the handle. Once in your room you walked its perimeter, checking all corners of the bath, under the bed, and resigned to shoving the couch in front of the door. A hazard if there was an emergency, but you couldn’t prioritize anything else right now.

You went to get water at the sink, feeling like a paranoid freak inspecting the jenga at your entryway. Once a-fucking-gain your thoughts wandered to the city’s prince; how silly did he think you? All this over one gun? I take fifty billion a night. A dark streak of violence ran through him, one that wasn’t evident in his arms, or gazing into his sleepy puppy eyes… You slammed the rest of the water, almost choking on it.

If you thought too long, you would break down, so you drew up an imaginary list of tasks to keep yourself tethered, trying to ignore how the water was beginning to sour the more you smelled the city’s backwash on your clothes. First: shower. Second: nap.

It was a Herculean effort not pressing DOWN when the elevator doors opened. Alfred was sitting across from it in the kitchen, his hands clasped together on the table. His gaze was focused precisely at eye-level, like he’d been a statue primed for Bruce’s arrival. “I want to talk with you.”

He looked at the ground, stepping out. “I’m going upstairs.”

“No, Bruce.” His tone was deadly serious, with a shaky undercurrent. Bruce conceded, as he so often did once Alfred got to this point. He didn’t come closer, only stepping out enough for the elevator doors to close, making up the difference by stepping to the side.

“I’m disappointed in you. Deeply.”

Bruce stared at the ground. He figured he’d have something to say to him about your leaving, like he had any idea what he was talking about.

Seemingly sensing his frustration, Alfred’s tone softened. “Seems to me you both could use a friend.”

“Look where it got you.” With a shrug of his shoulder, he gestured to where Alfred was sitting. It was evident by the way Alfred’s face fell, and his strict tone, he was referring to Riddler’s blowing up the top of Wayne Tower.

He didn’t miss a beat with his curt response. “Look at where it’s gotten you.”

Bruce slowly glanced up, struggling to see the full features of his face in the unlit kitchen, but still managed to meet his eye, sensing plenty more where that came from.

“Dory and I are getting older. If you keep following this path,”

“Alfred, stop.”

“I’m afraid you’ll end up entirely alone.”

The room’s ensuing silence chewed at that word, alone. Bruce wondered how he could slip past the man without escalating things. He knew he wouldn’t be let off without responding. He knew these situations all too well. “So I should risk someone’s life, for what? Temporary company?

“People come and go, that’s how life works.”

Bruce stepped forward, trying to work up the courage to storm past. The fuel wasn’t entirely there yet. “I’m not speeding up the process.” No matter how many times he explained this to him, he never got it. He never understood he was doing what he had to do, and that—

“The least you can do is be kind to her.”

Alfred was slipping under his skin again. “I am.”

The butler’s voice raised slightly. “By leaving her alone?”

“It’s for her safety.” He took another step, tempting a getaway.

“Or for yours?”

Bruce blinked hard. The old man never failed to tie a rocket to his shoes, and he propelled himself across the kitchen and nearly made it halfway before he spoke again.

“Don’t think I forgot what you said that night.” Alfred shifted in his seat, the boy now a few feet closer. He knew he was losing him, his hairpin trigger temper always half pressed when he spoke. Sometimes he felt like Bruce was waiting for him to give up with his fingers crossed behind his back.

“Year after year you’ve denied my every demand for your safety. Every time you’ve struck it down, as if each night you’re out planting flowers.”

Bruce looked everywhere but the table’s vicinity. “I don’t know what point you think you’re making.” He cloaked his words in as much snarl as he could, hoping he would get the hint and stop where he stood, before stuffing the air with more life lessons.

“Yet, after my accident, I noticed you changed the suit. You began coming home earlier.” Alfred stood up, and Bruce stepped back. He leaned on the cane, taking off his glasses with the other hand. “You know what you do is dangerous.”

He let out a brittle, taunting laugh. “That’s what I‘m saying.” Maybe he was finally getting the point. Maybe he would finally stop wasting his time and keep his projective, sentimental thoughts to himself instead of dragging them both down with it.

“Not in that way, Bruce.”

Sometimes Bruce wished Alfred could read his mind, hear all the things he wanted to say but kept hidden. Right now it was a lot of grumbles, some pointed accusations, but nothing unfurled on his tongue. Instead, his body reacted, quickening his heartbeat and narrowing his eyes.

“I think it goes both ways.” Alfred set his glasses on the table. “I believe you’re afraid if you let someone close, you’ll put them in the same position you once were.”

Heat bloomed in Bruce’s throat, and he tried to storm out of the room and escape the clouds weighing down the ceiling, but Alfred tossed another hook into his arm near the doorframe.

“And if you were honest with yourself, truly faced what you endure each and every night, it would feel like looking down the barrel all over again.”

Bruce could’ve screamed. He wanted to. He could’ve done a lot of things, but his mind was fuzzy. All his tired body did was tremble. All his mouth did was bite his cheek. Say the most benign version of the dialogue swarming inside. “You don’t know what I think.” As soon as he said it, he knew it was a bluff. He felt the tips of his fingers go cold.

“It’s far easier to disregard your life when you have no one to answer to.”

“I’m answering to you, aren’t I?”

Alfred paused, his voice lowering and slowing. “I often think you wish you didn’t have to.”

He locked eyes with him in an instant, Bruce having a visceral reaction to what he was insinuating. Did Alfred really think he didn’t care about him? Was his behavior being represented that poorly? His body filled with blue and purple emotions, his stomach tightening, face heating. The bruise fronted as defiance. “I’m doing what I need to. I—”

Alfred’s voice was bored, frayed. “‘Have a duty’. Yes, boy.”

Bruce bristled, hard, and visibly so. Alfred caught it, and felt a desire to rescue him, looking decidedly dejected. After the last week, however, he knew he couldn’t let things slide as he used to. The path he was on was destructive, and walking away wasn’t going to change anything. “You also have a duty to yourself.”

Bruce shook his head, his vision blurring slightly. “I don’t care about that.”

Alfred hesitated to go this route usually, and reserved it only for occasions supremely deserving—this was one of those times, though he was concerned how it would go over. Bruce was standing a few feet from him, between the fridge and the kitchen’s entry, his eyes darting across the ground like his head was swarming with thoughts. “Your parents would want you to be happy. Are you happy?”

As expected, Bruce responded with silence. Silence that cut Alfred’s heart in two. He knew he wasn’t. He hadn’t seen a genuine smile from him, or a full-bellied laugh for that matter, in decades. It might have even been since that night. The boy held so much pain, and kept so isolated. He gulped back tears.

“What I’m doing is more important than that.”

Against his better judgment, he folded. Bruce never liked to see him cry, going stiff and static. He didn’t do it often, but worried about burdening the boy so soon. So he sighed, shifting the subject. “If you don’t check on Y/N tonight, I will.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and set it near his glasses, moving his hand up to massage his temple.

“She doesn’t want pity.”

He held back another sigh, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “Care and pity are not the same, Bruce.”

Alfred left first, not wanting to chance the boy’s tender conscience with any more guilt at having left preemptively. It wasn’t unusual for these conversations to end with Bruce coming into his room later that night with a thinly veiled olive branch.

Once in the confines of his room, Bruce nearly missed the edge of the bed, fighting off disorienting swells of emotion that left no energy for proprioception. Possibly more than he ever had, he wanted to curse Alfred out. Run into his study and tell him he had no idea what he was talking about. But his body was telling him otherwise. Telling him he was right. He was isolating. It was obscenely dangerous. He didn’t want to look at it.

Care versus pity. Every face from his childhood stuck to the back of his retinas. The pouting, downturned faces at the funeral. The ‘gentle’, rather condescending tone that echoed off the tower walls for years, until people stopped caring. Until he stopped trying. Until he stopped visiting his parent’s room and bolted the lock.

He squeezed his eyes shut tight and clenched his core, subtly rocking back and forth, juxtaposing the two scenes, a task which felt like drowning—whatever happened last night and this morning, and absolutely everything he’d ever experienced from everyone else.

One felt warm. Uncomfortably so, but nevertheless comforting. The other was distant, and cold.

He tried to avoid it again, unclenching his stomach and stripping as he walked toward his bathroom. He turned the shower to scalding, and stepped in, hoping it would soothe his aching muscles to sleep, maybe beam Alfred’s confrontation out of his brain.

One felt like a balm, or a salve. The other felt like it carved him out deeper, eviscerating his insides. One told him it would be okay, and the other said he’d never be the same again. Their eyes gutted him. Told him his parents were gone, slaughtered, murdered. He ran some shampoo through his hair.

He lathered his body while it sat, feeling every pass over scar and scab. He loathed being in his body. Being aware of the injuries painting his skin. The drain in his bones. He was usually adept at avoiding it. Grinding until he passed out the instant his head hit the pillow. Sleeping in until it was time to suit up. Time to plan. To think about anyone else’s problems besides his own.

A bubble of soap slipped in his eye, and he flinched.

He suddenly felt like crying.

Pulling on your own sweatpants and a baggy hoodie was a luxury as you prepped to visit Rai’s. Frustrated at your screaming stomach that wouldn’t let you simply sleep the rest of your life away, you popped a small-dose edible so it would kick in after you’d come back and finished eating, letting you have a semblance of peace the rest of the evening. At the very least it would lower the risk of you screaming into your pillow all night.

Same walk, same street, same people, same sky. The constant ebbs of injury had colored you blue. A leaf startled you on its crunch, the sudden movement and barely-tempered shout causing the parents and children to slink away from you on the sidewalk. You kept your head down the rest of the route.

Rai was helping another customer when you arrived, but he gave you a small wave. You never liked to crowd people, especially the older customers that came in who lived in the historic buildings nearby. They treated Rai’s like a full-on grocery, sometimes bringing their own cart to fill. This lady, with her wispy gray hair and thick red sweater was one of those patrons.

You pulled a sweet tea from the drinks, and an orange soda. Rai was chattering away with the lady, who had ostensibly selected one of everything in the store. You reveled in having less time to spend in your apartment, and wandered to the chip aisle while you waited for your turn at the counter. Your fingers traipsed through rows of Ruffles and Lays, when you felt a buzz in your pocket.

Alfred.

Jesus, fuck. You raced to set the drinks down, your heart pounding. You’d left him in another state again. Too harsh, too unforgiving, fuck! “Hello? Alfred?”

“Hey.”

Bruce answered, and a concoction of relief and bitterness settled on you like a blanket of snow. “Hey…?” Your fingers tightened around the phone.

“I was wondering,” he drew a sharp intake of breath. “If you wanted to watch a movie or something.”

Shit, how out of sorts was he? “Like tonight?”

“Like tonight. I could go to your place, or,”

“Mine’s fine. I’ll bring the TV by the couch.” You were buzzing. You couldn’t very well decline, or what might he get up to? Was this his way of asking for help? You also couldn’t very well ignore the twinge of relief that having company would bring, even if it was his. Or the single atom in your body that preferred it to be him.

“Want me to bring anything?”

Your eyes flickered to the deli. “I’m good.”

“Half an hour work?”

“Yeah. See you then.”

Bruce hung up, heaving a deep breath. He flopped onto his back on his bed, Alfred’s phone falling out of his hand near his pillow. He felt better now. And worse. A little bit of everything.

What does someone wear to watch a movie?

After a few minutes he strolled to his closet, and thumbed a hole in his only clean pair of jeans. Hmm.

Dior. Prada. The sound of metal hangers sliding on a metal rod. Gucci. Dolce & Gabbana. He eyed the black jeans again, and the matching pair of trodden Converse in the corner. He pulled them on and grabbed the least distressed tee from his dresser… they were all worn thin.

It didn’t matter. Did it? No.

He grabbed his keys and headed for the basement. He’d have to leave through Wayne Terminal, take the beater car, drift. He passed Alfred on the stairs, noting the fresh outfit and shoes. “Going out?”

Bruce nodded, not saying anything until he turned into the kitchen and was fully out of view. “Checking on her.”

Alfred grinned with the sound of the elevator’s descent.