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hivemuthur · 2 days ago

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From Kether to Malkuth

viktorxgn!reader explicit (blindfold, body worship, rimming, handjob, power play - it is entirely unestablished who doms and who subs as it shifts within the plot *wink*)

word count: 2,3K

author’s note: Hi there. I like butts and I cannot lie. I dedicate this to @doggrowth and @a-babe-without-a-name who encourage me to be sillier, cringier and grosser. Thank you for loving me as the freak I am. Artist is ofc @petitesieste, and guess what: this wouldn't be here without the heart-wrenchingly gorgeous art you're seeing on the cover. Honorable mentions: all my sniffers and ass enjoyers, I see you, I love you, I cherish you.

AO3

—

Conclave obscurum of mouths—veiled in dusk, flesh glides flesh; soft where it’s lips, hard where it’s tongues. They spar and yield, trading warmth, salt and hunger. Threats are thrown in teeth: will they puncture, turning red to ruby, or settle on tease only? That is for him to know.

His hands, willow-boned, go rogue, circle your throat and there it is—tender throttle of love. Thumbs settle like calm verdicts on either side of the column; pressure blooms—measured, careful—until each breath must pass gates of his choosing. Jaw loosens, knees knock, and your fists clutch the silken tongue at his chest, seeking stability. A pulse flutters under his left thumb; he feels it rally and taper, matching the cadence of your surrender.

“Pliant beast,” he murmurs, praise folded into dare. His lips brush the curve of your ear, scent of cardamom and ink clinging to his breath. You tip further into the cradle of his grip, heart beats in willing captivity. “You never take, you only give, don’t you?”

Not as supple as he thinks, your palms skim higher—fingers coax and graze, first at his suprasternal notch, then the square of jaw. Then, gentle—one pad at the dust above his lip, the other beneath his eyes. “Is that a challenge?” you ask. Before he answers, his blood betrays him—vein skips a beat where neck meets ear.

For him, it’s gut-blossoming pressure: neck could be snapped or spared and it’s thrilling. His mouth curves into a crescent, eyes molten as he blinks. “If you want it to be.”

Emboldened, you tug the silk loose—the knot surrenders easily. Viktor’s grip slackens as you lift the tie and fold dusk over his eyes. Fabric meets skin—cool at first, then warming to his heat—cutting sight but sharpening breath. He inhales, lids fluttering beneath the dark.

“Are you shy?” he asks, tone attempting to bluff a cocky lilt, but it softens—shy as well.

“Always,” you say, knotting the blindfold until it bites. You let him believe it’s only for you—yet know the gift is mutual: your privacy, his heightened sense.

He tilts his head, deaf to light, hunting by touch alone. It sweeps the mattress edge, then climbs the curve of your hip, testing the firmness of muscle. Next—your mouth. He pushes four fingers past your lips, watches nothing, feels everything: hot clamp of teeth, slick drag of tongue, spit cooling on his knuckles.

Thumbs wipe damp from your lashes. Lid skin paper-thin, vulnerable. He presses—un-gentle, never cruel, enough to remind it would take nothing to change the game. Inside you, breath stumbles; his lips split in a feral half-smile, sightless and sharp, pleased by your body admitting its limits. Flesh answers flesh, brutal in its honesty, neither of you pretending comfort is the point.

“If you could take anything,” he says, “what would you take from me tonight?”

This smirk, you think, and make it buckle into whimper. His features, stern, contorted into new shapes. You nose along the blindfold’s edge, lips skimming the arch of his cheek. “This attitude,” you whisper, “Let’s see if it’s everlasting. Strip it to the bones.”

“Earn it,” he rasps. “Break it.”

Your nails dig, drag down the ladder of his ribs. He inhales—sharp, but willing—and tightens the grip at the nape of your neck, daring you on. You bite the line of his jaw, feel it flex under pressure, then bite harder until a hiss leaks past his teeth. That hiss is yours now, banked in your chest, a pearl stolen from an oyster.

You flatten him with a shove; the mattress groans, springs answer his spine. Buttons pop one by one under your knuckles, cloth peeling back to expose skin already flushed. He keeps his hands in the sheets, fingers paling—far from surrender, close to an offering, letting you set the pace while he measures tremors he’s forced to give up.

You bend to his chest, drag your tongue across the quick throb above his heart. He jerks, blind eyes snapping wide beneath silk, breath trapped in a harsh little stutter he can’t swallow. When your teeth close over a nipple he arches, the knot biting tighter as his head tips back.

Smirk collapses, composure fissures. “Pulse still steady,” you mutter against his sternum.

“Try again.”

There, where desire darkens, Viktor doesn’t faulter. He thrives, when the recipient is his equal. Where greed absolves into pure hunger. Where darkness of being human meets understanding transcribed through touch. It’s another challenge, yes, but his touch is fond on your cheek now—trust given, not to be squandered, but to grow.

Your hand slides lower, over taut abdomen to the waistband—heat floods your fingertips. He exhales through clenched muscles, toes curling as you palm him through fabric, slow grind of heel against cloth.

Teeth catch the leather tongue of his belt; metal clicks open under minimal fuss, trousers easing over his hips. Cloth darkens where your breath settles, tongue pressing a slow, damp line that marks the outline of heat rising beneath. Through the canvas you chart him: the way flesh thickens, fills, pulses against its prison. His breathing tilts, then tumbles into a quicker rhythm, soft curse pulsing at the back of his throat.

You draw the waistband down, underwear surrendering with it, baring him to uncertain light. He’s half-hard, the slow surge of blood matching your unhurried pace. You keep your mouth a cruel inch away, letting warm air torment where lips have not yet claimed. Viktor’s hand drifts into your hair—contact that hums both permission and plea.

It’s a lovely state: thick at the bottom where he grows out from a flat plane of navel, adorned by a sputter of soft dark hair. Tender toward the tip, where foreskin still shields the slit. You ghost your thumb over that sensitive ridge, dry at first; sweat transfers to satin and Viktor swallows a whimper that lands as a guttural hum.

“No cheating,” you tell him, and he has the gall to chuckle.

You lick the hollow of his hip first, a single wet swipe that pulls a hiss from his teeth. Another follows, closer. His fingers tighten, but he stays silent, jaw rigid, refusing to beg. You taste salt, skin, tension wound tight. One patient kiss lands at the base, then your tongue flicks higher—no rush, just the slow erosion of whatever composure he has left. His chest heaves; the smirk is gone, replaced by parted lips and a shaky exhale that proves pulse is anything but steady now.

Idea sprouts, then thickens into ache. Viktor has ridden pressure a thousand times and never cracked, but you mean to tempt fracture. Your fingers thread through his, guiding him to roll onto his front; the mattress sighs under the shift. A quick breath of surprise escapes him, but he obeys—silk still blacking out the world.

“Remember I can’t see you,” he says, voice edged with humour, trying to battle weakness on its way out.

“It isn’t about you seeing me,” you answer, palms claiming the faint curve of his ass. “It’s about you seeing nothing—feeling only this.”

You knead the muscle of each cheek, thumbs working circles that coax a slow surrender. Nose brushes the base of his spine; you breathe him in—skin again, and something darker born of sweat and want. Beneath, his cock lies pinned between stomach and mattress, each small rock of his hips betraying how sensation ladders straight to thirst.

He inhales sharply when your tongue traces the valley where spine meets muscle, a wet brand that dares him to move. He doesn’t, but his knuckles bunch in the sheet, shoulder blades sharp and risen. Your mouth strays: open, careless—a canine carves its path from modest swell down to where ass creases into thigh. Viktor’s breath fragments, turns ragged, pulse drumming beneath what you haven’t finished claiming.

He’s cocky, but obedient—teases you with laughter, arches and writhes, then calms where your palms smooth over him. Until your mouth finds the soft heft of his balls—then, finally, you get your prize.

“Ah, f-fuck,” Viktor moans, hips rising from the bed to meet you. He melts on your tongue, presses on, spine winding tight at the base. Just to tip him further, you hum—taunt, yes, but pleasure too. Because there you discover another scent—a secret that lives in the narrow expanse no one else gets to discover. Yours.

You release him, and smile. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes,” he breathes. “Keep going. Please.”

“You are so lovely here,” you tell him and rest your face between his cheeks—firm at first, then yielding. Your nose rubs in the crease as wanting hands part him. There, you lay a trail with your kissing mouth: from the seam of his balls, up, up, until you reach the centre of him—round muscle drawn tight, where skin pinks into tender tissue.

And Viktor is gone—it’s just a simple kiss, and it renders him a brainless creature. He thinks not, sees not, only feels; your breath against him and your hands, spreading him open. He’s no longer the scholar, no longer the scientist, just nerve and want and trust given over wholly. In darkness, his eyes flutter, lashes catch on silk, and he realises it’s damp.

His hips jolt forward, then back, caught between retreat and need. Alleviation comes in the shape of your tongue—soft and broad. And to you, he tastes like a lover.

First, it lands as warmth—alive and human—then salt, the trace of soap clinging to skin that’s already broken a nervous sweat. Beneath that: dark musk, private, like the inside of a warm palm after hours of hidden work. Nothing bitter, nothing sharp—just the quiet proof of blood and pulse, earthy and immediate; so personal, it’s like tasting a heartbeat.

Stroke after stroke, his skin dampens, loosens, and he’s split open. Exposed, but not used. Unguarded and adored. There, where heat gathers and vulnerability waits to be eaten, you take this power from him with the tip of your tongue.

Want roars within him—knees bend and hips lift, until his ass is up and he’s presented to you like a slut. Cock jerks with every cramp tormenting his lower belly and you use this new space to relieve him there too.

Keeping the slow orbit at the base of his spine, your hand slips forward, closing around the thick, heated weight that hangs heavy under his stomach. The skin there is satin-slick, alive with a steady throb that jumps under your grip like a bird in the hand. He shudders—hips flexing, breath fracturing into a low, helpless sound—and the pulse you feel through your palm mirrors the one hammering in your wrists.

A twin rhythm that short-circuits thought: each pull that matches the careful work of your tongue draws a fresh twitch along his thigh—the muscle beneath your fingers tightens, then melts, as if unsure whether to flee or fall apart beneath the gentleness you grant.

Viktor is surrounded—held at the hips, opened by your mouth, coaxed by your grip. His moans spill uncontrolled, lips slack against the rumpled sheet.

He teeters there, weightless, ready to surrender every last sinew—until your soft chuckle ghosts over his tender flesh. It’s bright, almost teasing; it jolts through him like a whip. In that spark he remembers the pressure of his thumbs on your eyes, the edge of power you both enjoyed.

A growl breaks free. He braces on one forearm, guided by memory. The other hand finds the back of your head—firm, reclaiming. “Don’t stop,” he rasps, voice torn between plea and command.

The current sways again—power not laid out like rungs but rolling like tide, sliding back and forth beneath both skins. Viktor presses his ass deeper into your mouth, blind to everything except the shock of your hum; you drink the trust, throat aching at how natural it feels. There’s no conqueror and the conquered, no force that commands or rebukes—each pressure you give returns through him, doubled, as if nerve were wire and you’d closed the circuit.

He feels it first as recognition: someone listening, someone matching, someone unafraid of the dark he offered. The knowledge cracks him open. A tremor rolls the length of his spine; your hand, still working him, catches the surge in his pulse and tightens just enough.

“Oh God—my darling,” he mumbles, voice frayed. “You’re so good to me. Thank you—thankyouthankyou—ah, fuck—”

Words dissolve into a shattered groan as his body locks: he arches, head fallen back, neck seized and when your eyes rise to see it, he’s beautiful. Coming undone, glistening with sweat, sheltered in your mouth and hand—broken and put together in a glimpse of a second that only you are worthy enough to see. Hot seed spills across your palm, coats him, and drips onto the sheets when his coiled muscles pull him to fall onto his belly.

Shaken from root to the crown—from crown to the root, Viktor breathes heavily. He’s forgotten he has eyes until your fingers peel the silk away, and the shy glow of the night-lamp is suddenly blinding. Your face comes into focus—lips shining, pupils dark. He wonders if this is what he looks like when he’s done with you. If yes, then no wonder you surrender easily.

He reaches for your face, palm resting against the flush of cheek. “Still a pliant beast?” you murmur, teasing, though your voice trembles.

“No,” Viktor says, pulling you in, noses brushing. He inhales with his eyes closed. “Dangerous beast,” he mutters against your lips. “My beast. My generous creature.”

You lie knotted together, breaths ebbing toward the same slow tide. From Kether to Malkuth—from crown to root—the distance is all muscle and mercy, power given, pleasure coming back like blood to a heart. Walk it side by side and it isn’t a fall; it’s a circuit complete, devotion burning itself clean.

#my writing #viktor arcane #viktor fanfic #viktor x reader #viktor x reader smut #viktor smut #viktor x gn!reader #arcane #arcane fanfic #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #viktor nation

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alittlegiraffe · 3 days ago

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Title: "You Always Come First"

You knew you shouldn’t have gone to the studio that day.

Maybe then you wouldn’t have noticed the way her laugh rang through the hallway, loud enough to pull Marshall’s attention from the track he was working on. Maybe you wouldn’t have seen how she leaned too close, touched his arm, giggled at everything he said like it was the funniest thing in the world.

You’d been his wife for twenty years. You’d lived through the tours, the parties, the constant revolving door of industry people trying to get something from him. You thought you were immune to it by now.

But standing there—watching that new girl twirl her hair, watching her bat her lashes—it made something inside you crack.

You didn’t even make it to the car before Marshall caught up with you, his voice laced with irritation.

“Yo—babe—what the fuck is going on?”

You spun, arms crossed over your chest. “You really don’t see it, do you? She’s practically climbing into your lap.”

Marshall groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously? You’re pissed because some rookie thinks she’s cute? Baby, c’mon—you know I don’t give a fuck about her.”

But your stomach churned, the words falling out before you could stop them. “Maybe because she’s young and pretty and not… some washed-up housewife.”

That made him step back like you’d slapped him. His jaw clenched, eyes flashing. “Don’t. Don’t put that shit in my mouth. You think I care about her? Look at me.” His hand came up, tapping his chest. “You’ve had me since before I was anything. You really think I’d throw that away because some chick flirts a little?”

But the heat in your chest only grew, swallowing you whole. “You didn’t even shut it down, Marshall. You smiled at her. You fucking joked with her.”

“Because I’m a grown-ass man who’s gotta work with these people!” His voice was rising now, frustration bleeding through. “Why are you acting like this? You know better. You’re making this shit up in your head.”

That… stung. More than you could admit.

Your throat tightened, and you felt the tell-tale burn of tears threatening to spill. You grabbed your bag, turning away from him.

“Yeah… maybe I am irrational,” you snapped bitterly, storming past him. “I need air.”

“Babe—” he called after you, footsteps following for a few beats before stopping. “Don’t do this right now—come on, can we just talk—”

But you were already pulling your keys out, already slamming the car door shut before your heart could completely shatter in front of him.

You didn’t realize how hard you were gripping the steering wheel until your fingers cramped.

The roads blurred, headlights dancing in your periphery. You wiped angrily at your cheeks, hating how quickly you spiraled. You were better than this. Stronger than this. God, how stupid could you be?

You didn’t even see the car until it was too late.

You heard the screech of tires, the shattering crunch of metal, the sickening jolt that slammed you sideways—

A sharp, crushing pain exploded through your ribs, and the world tilted.

Glass rained around you, your head hitting something hard as your vision blurred. Voices. Sirens. Distant, muffled shouts.

Then, everything went black.

When Marshall got the call, his heart damn near stopped. The phone slipped from his hand, his knees almost buckling.

“Intersection… T-boned… trapped in the car… ambulance en route…”

The only thing he could think—over and over—was that he should’ve gone after you harder. Should’ve stopped you, should’ve swallowed his pride, should’ve reminded you that there wasn’t a woman in the world who could compete with you.

Because he didn’t just love you.

You were his world.

And now… now he was terrified it was about to be ripped away from him.

---

The hospital was a blur of bright lights and hollow, sterile hallways. Marshall’s heart felt like it was about to tear through his chest, his legs carrying him faster than his mind could catch up. Every nurse he passed barely spared him a glance, too busy, too rushed, until he reached the front desk, slamming his palm down hard enough to make the woman behind it jump.

“Mathers. My wife—(Y/N) Mathers. She just came in—car accident—they said it was bad.”

Her expression shifted from startled to grim within seconds. “Trauma Room Two. Down the hall, double doors, but—sir, you can’t—”

But he was already gone, shoving through the doors before they finished swinging open, lungs burning from panic.

The sight of your body, small and fragile, strapped down to a gurney surrounded by frantic doctors, stopped him in his tracks.

“BP’s dropping—one hundred over sixty—she’s tachycardic—”

“Chest tube in—collapsed lung on the left—prep the OR, we’ve got active internal bleeding—”

Marshall felt like he was going to throw up.

One of the nurses spotted him, stepping in his way. “Sir, you need to step back—”

“What’s happening?” His voice cracked—he didn’t care how pathetic it sounded. His hands shook as he tried to peer around her, glimpsing the blood-stained gown, the oxygen mask over your pale, slack mouth.

“Her ribs punctured a lung, she’s bleeding into her chest cavity. We’re doing everything we can, but we need to get her to surgery, now.”

“Is she—she’s gonna be okay, right?” His voice was raw, begging, desperate.

The nurse’s eyes softened, but the hesitation—fuck, the hesitation—ripped through him like a blade. “We’re going to do everything we can, Mr. Mathers.”

That wasn’t a yes.

That wasn’t a promise.

“Can I—can I just—fuck, let me see her, let me talk to her,” he choked out, moving toward you like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Sir—she’s not conscious—”

“I don’t care!” His voice rose, cracking. “That’s my wife—don’t take her in there without me saying something.”

For a split second, time stalled. Then the nurse nodded tightly, stepping aside.

Marshall stumbled to your side, his throat tightening so viciously it felt like he couldn’t breathe. Your face was too pale, your chest rattling with each mechanical breath. Your hair was matted with blood from a cut on your temple, but it was your hand that broke him—a lifeless, delicate thing resting on the stretcher.

He grabbed it, clutching it between both of his, pressing it to his lips.

“Baby… you hear me?” his voice trembled. “You don’t fucking get to leave me like this, you understand? I don’t give a fuck about that girl, I don’t give a fuck about anybody. You… you are my everything.”

Your body didn’t stir. Machines beeped in protest, nurses shouting to move.

Marshall leaned in, pressing his forehead to your temple.

“I love you,” his whisper cracked. “You come back to me… I’ll spend every day reminding you why you’re the only woman I’ll ever need.”

Your head lolled gently as they shifted the gurney, rushing you toward the OR doors.

A nurse tugged him back, but he fought it, fighting the panic tearing through his chest. “Don’t take her from me,” he whispered like a prayer, like a broken man.

Then you were gone—swallowed by the doors—leaving Marshall standing there, fists clenched in his hair, knees threatening to give out.

And all he could do… was wait.

The waiting room felt like hell.

Too cold, too quiet except for the occasional ding of an elevator or muffled footsteps. Marshall couldn’t sit down—couldn’t do anything except pace, hands dragging down his face every few minutes, head pounding like a war drum.

Hours stretched like years.

Every time the doors opened, his heart seized in his chest… but it was never for him. Never news about you.

His mind wouldn’t stop playing tricks on him—flashing back through the years, pulling him into memories he hadn’t touched in ages.

You were seven years old the first time he saw you. Dirty sneakers, hair falling in your face, tiny little hands clutching the chains of the swings at the old run-down park near his house.

Too shy to look up. Too small to ask for a turn.

He’d walked right up to you, all wiry limbs and a busted-up hand-me-down shirt, and said, “You wanna go higher?”

And when you’d glanced up at him, wide-eyed and nervous… then beamed—so bright, so sweet—it was like something cracked open in his chest, even as a dumb little kid.

That was it for him. Right then.

It was always you after that.

Always the girl who smiled like sunshine, who stuck by him when everyone else said he wouldn’t be shit. You were there through the hungry nights, the freezing winters, the fights that left him bloody and bruised. You were the first person who ever made him believe he could be more than nothing.

And now… now you were lying on a fucking operating table because he’d made you feel like you weren’t enough.

He pressed his palms to his eyes, sucking in a shaky breath, trying to keep it together.

Paul showed up at some point, his voice low, steady, trying to offer something like comfort, but Marshall just shook his head. “Don’t need anyone else here,” he rasped. “Just her.”

Paul didn’t argue. He knew better.

Another hour passed. Another round of coffee in a cheap styrofoam cup that sat untouched, cold.

Another memory.

Your first date—both of you too broke to afford anything fancy, sitting on the hood of his rust-bucket car eating dollar-menu fries, sharing a blanket because it was freezing. You’d leaned into him and whispered, “As long as I have you, I don’t need anything else.”

His eyes squeezed shut, throat tight. “I need you,” he whispered to himself, voice cracking. “I need you, baby, don’t leave me now…”

Time felt like it was moving underwater. Doctors coming and going, but no one looking his way.

He sank into one of the cheap plastic chairs, head in his hands, trying to remember every soft laugh, every whispered I love you, every time you kissed him like you meant forever.

He just needed to hear your voice. Needed to see those eyes open again.

Needed you to smile at him… just like that day at the swings.

---

Here’s the next part, with the heavy emotion you requested:

Marshall’s leg bounced uncontrollably under the plastic chair, knuckles white where they gripped the edge of the seat. His throat felt raw from hours of silence, every muscle coiled so tight it felt like he’d snap apart.

Finally—finally—the doors opened, and a nurse in pale blue scrubs walked toward him with a clipboard tucked under her arm.

Marshall was on his feet before she could say anything.

“(Y/N) Mathers?” she asked softly.

“Yeah—yeah, that’s my wife,” Marshall answered, voice cracking from hours of swallowing panic. “Is she—what’s happening?”

The nurse hesitated.

It wasn’t the expression he wanted. It wasn’t relief. It wasn’t good news.

“She’s still in surgery,” she said gently, keeping her voice steady like she’d done this too many times before. “They were able to stabilize her enough to open up her chest. The damage from the impact… it’s extensive. There’s significant internal bleeding, a punctured lung, and some splintered ribs that required immediate intervention.”

Marshall’s chest felt like it was collapsing in on itself.

“But she’s alive?” His voice came out hoarse, his throat so tight it hurt to breathe.

“She’s alive,” the nurse confirmed quickly, but the pause afterward made his stomach twist violently. “We’re doing everything we can… but these kinds of injuries… they can change hour to hour.”

Marshall dragged a shaky hand over his face. “Okay… okay…”

The nurse shifted on her feet, her clipboard lowering. “Do you have any children?”

Marshall blinked, confused for a second, his head not keeping up with the shift in the conversation. “Yeah… yeah. Three girls.” His voice was automatic. “Alaina, Hailie, and Stevie.”

Something flickered in the nurse’s expression. A softness. A sadness.

She stepped a little closer, lowering her voice. “I think… you may want to call them. Just in case.”

Marshall’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.

No.

No, this couldn’t be that conversation.

His wife… his girl… she was the strongest person he knew. She’d been through worse—life had tried to break her before and failed every damn time.

His heart pounded so loud it echoed in his ears.

The nurse gave him a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. “They’re still working on her. She’s fighting… but if there’s anything you’d want to say to your daughters—anything they’d want to say to their mom—it might be time to bring them close.”

Marshall nodded slowly, like he was underwater, his vision burning.

“Thank you,” he rasped.

The nurse squeezed his shoulder again before stepping away.

His hands shook as he pulled out his phone.

His fingers hovered over Alaina’s name first, chest aching, before moving down to Hailie… and then Stevie.

His whole life in one contact list.

Three girls who adored you. Three girls who’d be gutted if you didn’t make it.

And Marshall wasn’t sure he’d survive it either.

With a trembling breath, he pressed the first call, bringing the phone to his ear, his voice breaking before the first ring even finished.

“Baby… it’s Dad… I—I need you to come to the hospital.”

---

The quiet hum of the waiting room was broken by the rush of footsteps.

Marshall looked up just in time to see Alaina push through the doors first, eyes wide, face pale, her phone still clutched in her hand like she hadn’t let it go since his call. Hailie was right behind her, jaw tight, trying to hold it together but failing with every shaky breath. Stevie trailed after them, cheeks streaked with tears she’d clearly tried to wipe away before coming in.

Marshall stood, and in an instant, all three girls crowded around him.

“Dad,” Alaina’s voice cracked as she threw her arms around him. “What’s going on? You said it was bad but—what’s happening?”

He swallowed hard, wrapping his arms around her, pulling Hailie and Stevie in too, like he could somehow shield them from what was happening just by holding them tight.

“She’s… they’re still working on her,” he forced out, but it sounded weak even to his own ears. “It’s… it’s rough right now, but your mom’s a fighter. She always is.”

Stevie sniffled into his chest, her small hands clutching his hoodie. “But they said… we needed to come… ‘just in case’… what if—” Her voice broke off into a sob, and Marshall’s heart splintered into pieces.

“Hey… hey, don’t talk like that,” Marshall whispered fiercely, cupping the back of her head. “We don’t go there, you hear me? She’s not done. She’s not gonna leave us.”

Alaina’s lip wobbled as she pulled back just enough to see his face. “But what if… we aren’t ready to lose her, Dad.”

Hailie’s chin trembled, but she blinked hard, fighting to hold it together. “No… no, we can’t lose her. She always comes back, right? She’s strong. She’s gonna pull through.”

Marshall nodded, but the knot in his throat made it impossible to speak.

He wasn’t ready either. Not for a world without you in it. Not for the empty spot in the bed, the missing laugh in the kitchen, the quiet where your voice used to be.

Not now. Not ever.

The doors swung open again, and they all turned at once, like one unit.

A different nurse approached—older, serious lines around her mouth, scrubs faintly streaked with something red that Marshall didn’t want to think about.

She stopped just shy of them, folding her hands in front of her.

Marshall’s stomach dropped like a lead weight. “What’s wrong now?”

Her expression was tight, but honest. “There’s been complications. We’ve had to increase the level of intervention. The internal bleeding isn’t slowing like we need it to… she’s lost a lot of blood.”

Hailie staggered back a step, pressing a fist to her mouth to muffle a sob. Stevie’s grip on Marshall’s sleeve tightened.

“We’re beginning transfusions now,” the nurse continued, her voice calm but grim. “Multiple units. Her vitals are unstable, and… we’re doing everything we can to control the bleeding and repair the damage.”

Marshall’s chest seized. His knees nearly buckled. “But… but she’s still fighting?” he asked, his voice barely more than a rasp.

The nurse hesitated, and it nearly broke him apart. “She is… but this next hour is going to be critical.”

Alaina’s hand flew to her mouth, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Oh God.”

“Dad…” Stevie whimpered. “Dad, please…”

Marshall pulled them all into him, swallowing the panic that wanted to claw out of his throat.

“Listen to me,” his voice was rough, but solid. “She’s still in there. She’s still fighting. And we’re not leaving until she comes out of that damn operating room and looks at us like we’re crazy for crying.”

His girls clung to him, shoulders shaking, hearts breaking—but trying to be strong. For each other. For you.

Marshall pressed his lips to the top of Stevie’s head, his eyes stinging.

“Come on, baby… come back to us,” he whispered.

Because none of them were ready to lose you.

---

The fluorescent lights of the waiting room felt like they were burning into Marshall’s skull. The suffocating silence, broken only by the occasional sniffle or the shuffle of footsteps, was driving him insane.

Stevie had curled up in one of the stiff chairs, her head against Hailie’s shoulder, both of them clinging to each other. Alaina’s leg hadn’t stopped bouncing, her foot tapping a nervous rhythm against the tile.

“Come on,” Marshall muttered, standing abruptly and running a hand down his face. “Let’s go get something to drink.”

Alaina blinked up at him, hesitant to move, but after a beat, she nodded. “Yeah… yeah, okay.”

They walked down the corridor together, the quiet pressing in around them. The vending machine stood in a forgotten corner next to the bank of elevators, its dull hum the only sound.

Marshall stared blankly at the buttons before finally jabbing one for a Diet Coke. Alaina picked ginger ale.

The can thunked down, and Marshall cracked it open, taking a long gulp that didn’t do a damn thing to settle his nerves.

That’s when it happened.

The overhead speaker crackled to life, a calm but urgent voice ringing out from just around the corner by the nurses’ station.

“Trauma OR Two… code blue… code blue… patient coding… rapid response to OR Two… code blue, code blue…”

Marshall froze. The can nearly slipped from his hand.

OR Two.

That was you.

Alaina’s ginger ale clattered to the floor, spilling across the tile as she spun toward the voice. “Oh my God—Dad—Dad—was that—?”

Marshall’s heart stopped, stomach bottoming out, blood rushing in his ears so loud it drowned out everything else.

“Code blue,” the voice repeated over the speakers.

Your OR.

You were coding.

“No—fuck—no, no,” Marshall hissed, already moving, stumbling toward the direction of the OR like instinct alone was dragging him there.

Alaina caught his arm, tears streaming down her face. “Dad, they said it was her room, didn’t they? That’s her room! Oh my God—what’s happening? What’s happening to Mom?”

Marshall’s chest caved in on itself.

He didn’t have any answers. He couldn’t protect you. He couldn’t fix it. All the power he had in the world—money, fame, influence—it meant nothing right now.

His wife… his girl… the love of his life… was on that table coding, heart stopping, body giving out.

And there was nothing he could do.

“Come on,” he rasped, dragging Alaina with him, the Diet Coke forgotten on the floor. “We gotta… we gotta get back to your sisters.”

But in the back of his mind, all he could hear was that voice.

Code blue. Code blue.

You were dying… and Marshall felt like his heart was going with you.

---

Marshall’s legs felt like they could give out at any second by the time he and Alaina made it back to the waiting room. Hailie and Stevie snapped their heads up immediately, alarm written all over their faces.

“Dad…? Alaina?” Hailie stood up so fast her chair screeched against the floor. “What happened?”

Stevie’s lip trembled, shrinking into herself. “What—what’s wrong—what did they say?”

Marshall swallowed hard, trying to keep it together, to not fall apart right in front of them.

“Your mom… she coded.” His throat was raw, voice rough as gravel. “Her heart stopped… but they—they got her back.” He forced out a shaky breath, his hands resting on the back of his neck like it could somehow hold him together. “She’s still in there… but it’s bad, girls. It’s really bad.”

Stevie immediately burst into tears, and Hailie’s face crumpled as she turned away, her hands digging into her hair. Alaina didn’t say anything, just stood there frozen, her face drained of color.

Marshall sat down hard, elbows on his knees, trying to steady himself as they all circled around him. He couldn’t lose you. His girls couldn’t lose you. Not like this. Not over some stupid fight, some dumb shit that didn’t even matter.

The doors pushed open again.

Every head snapped up.

A man in dark blue scrubs stepped through, mask pulled down, eyes tired but steady. The name badge clipped to his chest read Dr. Morales – Trauma Surgery.

Marshall shot up so fast his knees cracked.

“Mr. Mathers,” Dr. Morales said, stepping forward. “I’m leading your wife’s trauma case.”

Marshall didn’t wait for him to finish. “Is she alive?” His voice was sharp, almost a demand, too full of panic to pretend to be calm.

The doctor nodded once. “She’s alive. For now.”

Hailie gasped quietly, a hand clamping over her mouth, and Stevie pressed closer into Marshall’s side.

Dr. Morales continued, voice even but grim. “She coded on the table. We were able to revive her, but her body… it’s weakening. The injuries from the accident were severe—multiple rib fractures, both lungs compromised, significant internal bleeding that required massive transfusions. Her vitals are fragile.”

Marshall felt the ground tilt underneath him, his breathing jagged.

“We’ve done everything surgically we can to stop the active bleeding, repair organ damage, and stabilize her fractures,” Dr. Morales said gently. “But… it’s up to her now.”

“What… what does that mean?” Alaina’s voice was small, cracking.

“It means… we’re past the point where medicine can fix things,” Dr. Morales said, looking each of them in the eye. “Her body has to fight. And with the amount of trauma she’s endured… it’s going to be a very difficult road.”

Hailie wiped her face furiously. “We want to see her,” she whispered, almost pleading.

Dr. Morales nodded slowly. “You can. We’ll be transferring her to the ICU soon… but I want to prepare you.” He exhaled softly. “She looks… very hurt. She’s on a ventilator. There’s a lot of machines, lines, monitors… it’s going to be overwhelming.”

Marshall’s jaw clenched, eyes burning. “We don’t care what it looks like,” he ground out. “She’s our mom… she’s my wife… we’re seeing her.”

The doctor’s eyes softened. “I just didn’t want you to be shocked… but yes, we’ll bring you back as soon as they finish setting her up in ICU.”

He gave Marshall’s shoulder a quick squeeze before walking away to coordinate.

Marshall’s arms fell back around his girls, pulling them all close as they fell into a messy, broken hug.

“She’s fighting,” Marshall whispered, more to himself than anyone. “She’s still fighting.”

And now… it was all they could do too.

---

The elevator ride to the ICU was suffocating. Marshall stood in the corner, arms crossed so tightly across his chest it hurt. Alaina kept fidgeting with the sleeve of her hoodie, her knuckles white. Hailie leaned into the corner, biting her lip raw, and Stevie stood between them, eyes puffy, holding onto Marshall’s hand like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

The nurse led them down a quiet hallway, every step louder than it should’ve been, each passing room filled with the soft beeping of machines and quiet murmurs of nurses working through the night.

Then the nurse stopped in front of a door.

“Room twelve,” she said gently. “We’ll give you some time. Just… take it slow.”

Marshall’s stomach twisted into knots as she pushed open the door.

Nothing could’ve prepared them for what was inside.

You looked… small. Too small. Almost like a ghost of yourself lying there under stiff hospital blankets, your skin pale, lips cracked and colorless. The breathing tube was taped at the corner of your mouth, chest rising and falling in mechanical rhythm from the ventilator.

Wires trailed from every inch of your arms, monitors beeping and blinking, a bag of blood hanging from a pole by your bedside, draining into you as the machines fought to do what your body was struggling to handle.

There was fresh bruising along your ribs, swollen and angry. A line of stitches tracked up your side, bandages layered thick over your abdomen where they’d fought to stop the bleeding. You didn’t move. Not even a twitch.

Hailie gasped and broke immediately, stumbling back into the corner, covering her mouth as sobs cracked through her chest.

Stevie just stood frozen in the doorway, whispering, “No… no no no…” as tears streamed down her face.

Alaina pressed a hand to her chest, her breathing coming too fast, eyes wide and horrified.

Marshall felt like his heart physically ripped open.

This wasn’t his girl—not the woman who laughed loudest in every room, who teased him over dumb things, who danced in the kitchen even when she couldn’t dance for shit. This was a body trying to stay alive. This was you… broken… fragile… fighting for every breath.

He stepped forward slowly, dragging the chair as close to your bedside as he could get without disturbing the tangle of lines.

“Come here,” his voice rasped, motioning for his girls, though it felt like his throat was shredding with every word. “Come on… we sit with her now… we don’t leave her.”

Hailie sobbed harder but stumbled toward the other side of the bed, reaching out, fingers shaking as they hovered near yours before gently curling around your wrist.

Alaina wiped her face fiercely and settled beside Marshall, her head resting on his shoulder, staring at you like she couldn��t believe this was real.

Stevie crawled up into the chair next to the monitors, her legs folding beneath her as she pressed her forehead to the side rail, holding your arm between her hands like it could bring you back.

Marshall leaned in, brushing a kiss over your forehead, careful not to disturb the tubes. His lips lingered there, breathing you in even through the antiseptic smell.

“You hear me, baby?” his whisper cracked. “We’re right here… you don’t gotta do this alone… you don’t ever have to do anything alone.”

The ventilator hissed, monitors beeped, and your body stayed still… but Marshall kept holding on.

All of them did.

You weren’t going anywhere without a fight.

---

The room was quiet except for the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator and the steady, slow beeping of the heart monitor. Night had settled heavy over the ICU, fluorescent lights dimmed, shadows stretching across the corners.

All three girls had eventually passed out, exhaustion and heartache weighing them down. Hailie was curled up in a stiff chair, hoodie pulled over her head, arms folded tight across her chest. Stevie was tucked into a blanket a kind nurse had brought, legs folded beneath her, clutching your hand even in sleep. Alaina sat closest to Marshall, her head leaned against the armrest, breathing soft and even.

But Marshall didn’t sleep.

Couldn’t.

Not when you were lying there like this. Not when every beat of your heart was being counted by machines.

He sat at your side, dragging his chair up close, fingers trailing through your hair the way you always liked when you were feeling sick, when headaches got too bad, when you were run-down from life and just needed someone to care for you.

Slow, gentle strokes through your soft hair, combing it back from your forehead with a tenderness that nearly broke him apart.

“I shouldn’t have let you leave…” his voice was barely more than a whisper, raw and cracked. “You were upset… I should’ve gone after you. Should’ve dropped the ego… just—just told you what you mean to me.”

His other hand came up, thumb grazing over your temple, careful not to disturb any of the tubes or wires.

“You’re everything to me, baby… always have been. Since we were kids… since I was just some punk ass kid who thought he didn’t need anybody… it was always you.”

A tear slid down his cheek, but he didn’t bother wiping it away.

“I let you walk out that door thinkin’ you weren’t enough… like some dumbass rookie could ever mean more than you.” His throat tightened until it physically hurt. “And now you’re lying here… and all I keep thinking is, God, what if I don’t get to fix it… what if I don’t get to make it right.”

The machines kept beeping quietly, your chest rising and falling with each mechanical breath.

Marshall swallowed hard, pressing his forehead gently against your temple, like being close enough might wake you up.

“I love you,” he whispered brokenly. “You hear me, babe? I love you more than this whole fuckin’ world. More than the music, the fame, the bullshit… none of it matters if you’re not here.”

His fingers kept moving through your hair, slow, steady.

“Come back to me, baby… come back to us,” he begged softly, his voice crumbling with every word. “We need you. I need you.”

And in that quiet, sterile room, surrounded by his daughters sleeping fitfully, Marshall stayed tucked at your side, whispering apologies, I love yous, and every memory he could summon—anything to remind you that you weren’t alone.

That you still had everything worth fighting for.

---

The days stretched long, bleeding together like some endless nightmare no one could wake up from.

Every morning started the same—nurses checking vitals, changing IV bags, adjusting the ventilator while your body stayed limp and quiet in the bed. Every night ended with Marshall and the girls half-asleep in the same stiff chairs, waiting… hoping… praying for any sign of life.

But you didn’t move. You didn’t blink. You didn’t come back.

The bruises had started to yellow around your ribs, but the swelling stayed. The ventilator kept breathing for you. The machines kept humming, but the nurses stopped smiling when they came in. The updates turned quieter, softer—measured words that danced around the reality they didn’t want to say out loud.

Her body’s not recovering the way we hoped.

Sometimes… after trauma… they don’t come back.

You should prepare for… all possibilities.

By week two, Marshall felt himself unraveling.

He stayed glued to your bedside, stroking your hair, holding your hand, whispering to you through cracked lips. He barely left the room, only dragging himself down the hall to splash water on his face when the walls closed in too tight.

By week three, the nurses exchanged pitying glances. They stopped trying to convince him to eat. The doctors stopped giving him false hope.

And then… the worst came.

It was late—night spilling over the ICU, and Marshall came back from a brutal conversation with one of the surgeons to hear the tail end of hushed voices.

“…I mean, I just don’t want to wait until it’s too late,” Hailie’s voice wavered, soft but broken. “If she… if she doesn’t wake up, she always said she’d want something simple… nothing big or flashy.”

Alaina sniffled. “Yeah… she hated that stuff. She’d want… family. Close friends. Flowers… maybe sunflowers… she loved sunflowers.”

Marshall’s feet stopped cold outside the door, his chest going tight. His breathing turned sharp, like every word was a knife sinking deeper into his ribs.

He pushed open the door hard enough that it slammed, startling all three girls.

“What the fuck did I just hear?” His voice came out low, dangerous, ragged from exhaustion and heartbreak.

Stevie immediately curled in on herself, face red and blotchy. Hailie’s eyes went wide, guilt washing over her face. Alaina stood up, hands lifted like she could calm him down.

“Dad… we—we were just—”

“No.” His voice was sharp, final. His jaw clenched so tight it ached. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking go there.”

Marshall moved to your bedside like he always did, gripping your cold hand, pressing it to his chest.

“I don’t care what they say,” his voice cracked, emotion choking him. “I don’t care if it’s been weeks. I don’t care if you’re lying there lookin’ like you’re not gonna open your eyes again.”

He turned, eyes burning into his daughters, voice rising with every word.

“I’m not talkin’ about no fuckin’ funerals. I’m not saying goodbye. I’m not giving up on her.” His breathing turned uneven, chest heaving. “Because she’s everything. You understand me? She’s not just your mom—she’s everything good in my fuckin’ life. Everything that ever made me want to be better… everything that made me want to survive all the shit I went through.”

Alaina’s lips trembled. Hailie’s hands covered her face, breaking down. Stevie was crying again, quiet and heart-wrenching.

Marshall’s throat worked, swallowing down the swell of grief threatening to drown him.

“I’m not saying goodbye to her. Not now… not ever.”

He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, his voice softer but just as fierce.

“You’re comin’ back to me, baby,” he whispered. “You’re coming back… ‘cause I ain’t got shit without you.”

And in the silence that followed, the machines kept beeping… the ventilator kept hissing…

But Marshall didn’t let go.

Marshall was still gripping your hand, knuckles aching from how tight he held on, head bowed over your fingers like if he stayed close enough, he could will you back with the force of his love alone.

His chest heaved, hot tears burning tracks down his cheeks, his thumb brushing across the back of your hand like muscle memory. He barely noticed Alaina moving around the room, or Hailie sobbing quietly into Stevie’s hair.

He could only hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Until—

Something… shifted.

It was so faint he almost missed it.

His thumb stalled mid-stroke. His eyes snapped open.

There—underneath his grip—something moved.

A squeeze.

A feather-light, almost non-existent squeeze of his fingers. His head jerked up, wide eyes staring down at your hand in disbelief.

“Wait—” his voice broke, raw and raspy.

His heart slammed so hard it hurt.

Then again—another slight, timid squeeze. Like you were trying—trying to reach him, trying to calm him, the same way you used to when you’d grab his hand during interviews or concerts, grounding him without saying a word.

“Baby… hey… hey—” his voice cracked hard as his hand tightened around yours, every nerve in his body going electric. “You’re here—you’re fuckin’ here—girls!”

His chair scraped back violently, almost toppling as he shot up, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Girls, she—she just squeezed my hand!”

Alaina’s head whipped around so fast her hair flew. Hailie stood up like she’d been electrocuted, Stevie gasped, stumbling forward, all of them crowding around.

“She moved—I swear to God—she squeezed my hand,” Marshall was shaking, overwhelmed, his voice breaking with the first shred of hope he’d felt in weeks.

Hailie’s trembling hands reached for yours, Stevie touched your wrist like you were made of glass.

“Mom… can you hear us?” Hailie’s voice cracked.

Marshall leaned in close, still cradling your hand against his chest, his lips pressed against your knuckles, whispering frantic, shaky words.

“You come back, baby… come all the way back,” he pleaded. “You fight, you keep holding on… just like that, yeah? Don’t you stop… don’t you let go.”

Because for the first time in twenty-three endless days… you squeezed his hand.

And for the first time in three goddamn weeks, Marshall felt hope roar back to life inside his chest.

---

You didn’t open your eyes.

You didn’t speak.

But your fingers… they didn’t let go.

Marshall hadn’t moved from your side. Not for water, not for the nurse who came rushing in when he yelled, not for the doctor who checked your pupils and re-evaluated the ventilator settings. Not for anything.

He sat right there, bent over the edge of your bed, your hand clasped in both of his, like a lifeline had finally been tossed to him after weeks of drowning.

The nurses tried to say it could’ve been reflex. That sometimes trauma patients grip things involuntarily. That there was no guarantee of consciousness yet.

But they didn’t know you.

They didn’t know the way your thumb used to brush his every time he got overwhelmed. The way you’d interlace your fingers with his just to soothe him, to anchor him when he got too deep in his head.

They didn’t know the difference between a twitch and you.

Because you weren’t twitching.

You were holding on.

Not tight. Not strong. But steady. Deliberate.

And you still hadn’t let go.

Marshall stroked the back of your hand with his thumb, his voice low and rough with emotion as he leaned in close.

“You’re still in there,” he whispered, forehead pressed gently to the side of your temple. “I know you are. You don’t gotta rush. Just… stay with me, baby. Just hold on. That’s all you gotta do.”

Your fingers twitched again—just slightly—and then settled, curling tighter into his.

Marshall exhaled shakily, something fragile breaking open in his chest.

“You’re really fightin’, aren’t you?” he murmured, smiling through the wet shimmer in his eyes. “You’re doin’ it, baby.”

Behind him, the girls sat in stunned silence, watching, afraid to even breathe too loud and disrupt the miracle unfolding in front of them.

Stevie whispered, “She’s holding his hand.”

Alaina nodded, barely able to speak. “She hasn’t let go.”

And she didn’t.

Even as night fell again and the monitors continued their gentle chorus.

Even when the nurses dimmed the lights and draped a blanket over Marshall’s shoulders.

You never let go.

And Marshall never stopped holding on either.

---

It was like being underwater.

Sounds muffled, voices distant, everything slow and thick—like trying to swim through syrup with limbs that wouldn’t move. Your body felt weightless, detached, but the voices… they were real. They kept you tethered.

You couldn’t see anything.

Couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t open your eyes.

But you could hear him.

Marshall.

That rough, familiar voice was the first thing that broke through the fog, like a thread pulling you back from the dark.

“…you’re here, baby… you’re here with me… you’re fighting…” his voice cracked on the words, close, so close you could almost feel his breath on your skin.

You tried to squeeze his hand, just to tell him you were there, but your body wouldn’t listen—not at first. You were too heavy, too numb. Every thought felt like it was trying to claw its way through concrete.

Then… you focused.

You pushed everything you had left into your fingers, and something shifted—muscles straining, bones screaming, but you managed to hold on. Just a little. Just enough.

That’s when the voices changed. A gasp. A scuffle of chairs. The sound of your girls—your babies—rushing in, voices thick with tears and disbelief.

“She moved… Dad, she moved…”

You wanted to tell them you could hear every word. You wanted to tell them you weren’t gone. That you were fighting—even if your body was broken, your heart hadn’t stopped trying to get back to them.

The room filled with soft footsteps, more people, beeping monitors adjusting, words you didn’t understand from doctors and nurses. But none of it mattered.

You tuned it all out except for him.

Marshall never left your side, his hand never letting go of yours. His thumb kept brushing your skin in slow, soothing circles.

“You don’t gotta talk yet, baby,” his voice was quieter now, raw and steady all at once. “You don’t gotta open your eyes… I just need you to hold on… just hold my hand, yeah?”

You wanted to scream that you were trying. That you were still here.

Your lungs felt crushed, your body weak, but your heart thudded softly—barely there, but determined. You were fighting because you weren’t ready to leave. Because you could hear the people who needed you.

The world beyond your eyelids was blurry and painful, but you held on to the only thing you could—his hand, his voice, and the quiet, broken I love yous whispered like prayers into your skin.

And you swore… you’d find your way back to them.

Even if it took everything you had left.

---

You floated somewhere between dreams and reality, the steady rhythm of Marshall’s voice like an anchor in the storm. His touch was the only thing that kept the darkness from pulling you under again—his thumb brushing soft circles into your hand, his whispered promises filling up the spaces where fear tried to creep in.

Then suddenly… it was gone.

The warmth. The weight of his hand. The steady presence you’d clung to without words.

Your body noticed before your mind could catch up.

Everything inside you screamed.

You couldn’t open your eyes to look for him, couldn’t ask where he went. Your lungs felt too tight, chest pressing in like it was collapsing on itself. The beeping of the monitors, once steady, started climbing—too fast, too loud—spiking in sharp, rapid bursts.

In the haze, you heard it happening.

“Her heart rate—” a nurse’s voice, clipped with alarm.

“BP’s climbing—oxygen’s dipping—what the hell?”

You wanted to move, to tell them it wasn’t pain or some medical emergency—it was fear. Raw, suffocating fear that came crashing down the moment the last bit of warmth left your hand.

“She was fine,” another voice said frantically. “Vitals were stable five minutes ago.”

“Where’s her husband? Get him back in here—”

“I told him to step out for a second—just for vitals—”

The monitors screamed louder, your chest squeezing so tight you felt like you were drowning. Muscles you hadn’t been able to control before were pulling tight now, straining against the weight of your injuries, panic setting off alarms that only your heart could scream.

Then—his voice.

“What the fuck is happening?” Marshall’s voice roared from the doorway, fast footsteps closing in. “Why the hell is everything going off—what did you do?”

“Sir—her levels are unstable, her heart rate—”

Marshall didn’t wait for explanations. His chair scraped violently across the floor as he practically threw himself back to your side, grabbing your hand in both of his.

“Hey—hey, baby, shh, I’m right here,” his voice dropped, still urgent but softer, his palm wrapping around yours again, his forehead pressing close to your temple.

And instantly… the world started easing back.

The beeping slowed, steadying, your chest loosening just enough to pull in a shaky, assisted breath. You couldn’t open your eyes, but you felt it—the tremor in your body calming, the air flowing a little easier, the panic peeling back like a crashing wave retreating to sea.

“Jesus Christ…” a nurse whispered in shock. “She’s responding to him.”

“She was panicking,” someone else realized aloud. “She panicked the second you let go.”

Marshall stayed close, tightening his grip, his jaw clenched but his voice soft and reassuring. “You don’t like me letting go, huh?” His thumb stroked your wrist again, steadying you both. “Yeah… no more of that, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

The monitors stabilized, the room easing into quiet once more.

And even though you couldn’t speak… your fingers stayed curled tight in his hand.

You weren’t letting go.

And neither was he.

---

It had been thirty-seven days.

Thirty-seven days of machines breathing for you.

Thirty-seven days of your body broken and still.

Thirty-seven days of Marshall holding your hand like it was the only thing keeping him together.

And then… your eyes fluttered open.

It was slow, like dragging yourself through wet concrete, heavy lids cracking open to harsh hospital lighting. Everything was blurry at first, shapes and colors bleeding together until things began to sharpen, your brain piecing together where you were—who was there.

Marshall sat slumped forward in the chair by your side, face buried in his crossed arms on the edge of the bed, one hand still gripping yours even in sleep. His hoodie was wrinkled, stubble thick on his jaw, exhaustion carved into every line of his face.

Alaina was curled in the corner of the room, a book fallen closed on her chest. Hailie had kicked her shoes off, her head tipped back against the chair, mouth parted slightly in deep sleep. Stevie had practically folded herself into the armrest, blanket pulled up to her chin.

Your girls.

Your family.

Still here.

Tears threatened to sting, but your throat felt too raw, too tight. The breathing tube made it hard to do anything except feel—the uncomfortable pressure, the soreness in your ribs, the dull ache everywhere.

But the overwhelming thing was… you were alive.

And you weren’t alone.

You turned your head just slightly, weak muscles trembling with the effort, eyes locking on Marshall’s messy hair as he slept inches away from you.

Your fingers twitched, then curled around his hand with the last bit of strength you had.

Marshall jerked awake instantly, eyes wide and panicked as he sat up straight, disoriented for a moment—until he saw you.

Your eyes. Open. Awake. Focused straight on him.

“Baby…” his voice cracked, sheer disbelief washing over his face as his chair scraped backward, body lurching forward like gravity yanked him into you. “Oh my God… oh my God—”

You blinked slowly, exhausted but steady, hand squeezing his just enough to tell him you knew him. You saw him.

His breathing turned ragged, emotions ripping through him like a tidal wave. His other hand brushed over your hair, trembling as he cupped your cheek, eyes glossed over in shock.

“Fuck—fuck, okay, that—that tube—baby, you gotta be uncomfortable—just hold on, hold on—” Marshall was already fumbling for the nurse call button, smashing it with frantic fingers, his head whipping toward the door. “Nurse—NURSE—SHE’S AWAKE!”

But you weren’t looking at the door.

You were just… staring at him. The love of your life, the man who never let go, who stayed when everyone else would’ve crumbled. Your heart felt heavy and full all at once, tears welling because after everything… he was the first thing you saw.

Marshall turned back to you, gripping your hand tighter, eyes wet, smile breaking through the panic. “You came back to me,” he whispered, forehead pressing against yours. “You came back, baby…”

And you blinked slowly, exhausted but fighting, because you had finally made it back home—to him.

It wasn’t long before the door burst open. Nurses rushed in, one after another, wide-eyed and moving fast as monitors beeped steadily, your vitals finally showing life again. Marshall stood back just enough to give them room, but his hand never left yours, knuckles white from holding on.

“Eyes open, following commands,” one nurse murmured, already pulling on gloves.

“She’s been intubated too long,” another nodded. “Let’s get her extubated.”

Marshall swallowed hard, jaw tight as he brushed your hair back gently. “They’re gonna get that tube out, baby, alright? Just hold on a little longer,” he whispered, voice still cracked and hoarse from pure relief.

You blinked at him, a tear slipping from the corner of your eye. Your chest ached from the strain, but nothing could stop the comfort that settled deep in your bones—he was here. Still here. Never left.

It felt like minutes stretched forever, but the nurses worked efficiently, explaining softly what they were doing, checking your oxygen, disconnecting lines. Your body trembled with every shift but you stayed focused on Marshall, on the familiar rasp of his voice telling you it was okay, you were safe.

“Alright, sweetheart,” the lead nurse said kindly. “We’re going to take the tube out now. It’s going to be uncomfortable, but it’ll be quick. When I count to three, I need you to give me a little cough, okay?”

You couldn’t nod, but you blinked slow—yes.

Marshall pressed his forehead lightly to yours, whispering, “You’re doing so good… just a little more, baby.”

“One… two… three—”

The sensation was awful—your throat burned, chest strained, a horrible gag reflex kicking up as they pulled the tube out in one steady motion. You coughed, weak and shallow, but the second it was gone you gasped softly, lungs raw but free.

Marshall was already there, brushing the tears off your cheeks, thumb gently stroking along your jawline.

“Take it easy, just breathe… just focus on me.”

Your chest heaved with every broken, shallow breath. It hurt, but God, it felt like living.

The nurse checked your oxygen, adjusted the mask, nodded in satisfaction. “Good… very good. You’re okay. Rest your voice… don’t strain it.”

But you couldn’t stop yourself—not when Marshall looked at you like you’d just saved his life.

Your throat was dry, voice barely more than a crackling whisper, but the words forced their way out on instinct, your first real words in thirty-seven days.

“I’m… s-sorry… I ran…”

Marshall froze.

His lips parted, eyes glistening, his whole chest collapsing like those broken words physically shattered him. A soft, choked laugh escaped him, tears spilling freely now as he cupped your face, leaning in close.

“Baby… no… no, don’t… don’t apologize…” his voice cracked, his thumb shaking as it wiped at your damp cheeks. “You don’t gotta say sorry… you came back to me. That’s all that matters. You came back.”

Your body was weak, throat sore, but your hand squeezed his tighter—telling him you heard him, that you meant it, that despite everything… you were here.

You’d come back.

And Marshall wasn’t letting go. Not now. Not ever.

#eminem #marshall mathers #eminem x reader #angst #marshall mathers x reader

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oneinnocentprincess · 20 hours ago

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There was no denying that the advisors could certainly be irritating, but still there was a growing curiosity within her as to how those meetings went. She knew if she attended one the focus would shift to her, and that she would be asked questions she had never been given before. What she wanted was to simply sit in and watch her husband work, and how these meetings end.

“Nervous?” She repeated in slight surprise. “I have never heard of a nervous horse. Mine have always been well prepared and ready when I ride them.” Mostly because someone else was preparing them weeks in advance to ensure it was all fairly easy for the princess. All she had to do was get on the horse, with the assistance of a stable boy, and ride it. No training needed on her end.

Eleanor did listen and consider what he said, it was definitely against what she has been told by others. The crown was above all, which is why it did feel odd to her how he managed to cut a meeting short just so he could spend time with her. “We still have the evenings to share.” She mentioned to him. “But I understand… this also is probably and adjustment for you—and then the advisors—too. I prefer not to eat dinner alone, so I do expect you to make time for that, incase you are like my father who will sometimes have his meals in his meetings.”

Eleanor was looking for being able to ride again. It had been quite sometime since she’s last actually been on a ride due to all the wedding planning and other meetings she had leading up to this. It was going to be strange riding a horse that was not the one she had at home…another adjustment to add to the list. She gently petted the other side of the horses neck, looking over the horse.

After a beat, she then went to the horses side and gripped onto the reins. Her foot went up to meet the stirrup…only to quickly realize how much higher off the ground this was than she expected. Her foot immediately missed it, causing her to awkwardly stumble forward. Typically there was at least a stable boy nearby to give her assistance for this. Eleanor brushed it off and attempted again, only to still miss the footing. Frustration slowly starting to rise within her. “It’s because I’m sore from sex.” She did not look, but she could feel his eyes on her. The excuse sounded valid to her, and nice that some of the blame could be shifted over to him. After a few more attempts she finally got her foot in the stirrup, but that was not the end of this.

Eleanor cursed under her breath when she realized that was not even the most difficult part. She tried to reach as far as she could on the saddle, knowing she should be reaching over to the other side of the horse, but she could not do it without her usual assistant. Eleanor did manage to at least lift herself off the ground, that seemed to be the easiest part, it was the lifting her leg over that became the real challenge. How the hell was that physically possible? Her face was starting to turn red from the embarrassment of it all, but she was not caving for help. This move she actually did feel the soreness from sex kicking in whenever she attempted to lift her leg over. Even if in the back of her mind she knew if she were not sore…she still would be struggling.

Then she fell right on her ass. “I’m fine! Your saddles are different than how mine are.” They actually looked to be near duplicates of the ones in her kingdom, the only differences being some of the designs on the sides. Eleanor refused to accept any help from him and pulled herself up, wiping off the dust and dirt. “Are all of your horses this tall?” She asked, her eyes wondering around wondering where a stable boy would be.

Eleanor took a random sheet of paper at his desk and placed it on the page of the book before closing it to save her place. “Cut them off?” She repeated in slight surprise, sure she could make the educated guess that there were things still needing to be done. However, that was not how she was trained as royalty. “Do you usually end your meetings suddenly?” She asked as a follow up, now getting more curious as to how he lead compared to her. The ones she’s attended she’s managed to find ways to find a way to mutually put a halt to conversations…cutting off sounded harsh to her. “Will they not let you take a break? I know my parents when they were married took a break for about a full week after they wed…they did not even stay in my kingdom.” Perhaps the circumstances were different, but she was sure that was common.

“Unless your horses are feral, I will be fine.” She assured him, coming from a place of stubbornness despite his decent reasoning. Eleanor never found herself having too much of an issue with horses before, they were always well trained by the time she first rode them. She safely assumed his were also well trained…so what if they did not know her? Did they have a backwards way of how to ride a horse here? She highly doubted that. “I’m wearing riding clothes and my hair is braided, do you also want me to wear some armor?” She asked with some sarcasm then, not sure what else he needed from her. “I have never met a horse that had a vendetta against me and I have even ridden in ball gowns.”

Eleanor accepted his hand, more so because she needed the guidance to the stables themselves. “I’m sure they are probably stuffing notes into the picnic baskets.” She joked, not sure if they would be that extreme about this all. "Please do tell me, though, if there are times you need to prioritize your work. I do not mind." Her gut told her she needed to vocalize this now, before something erupts and it was all because she had taken his attention for a few hours. "I can manage here."

#isles of man

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darlingeternally · 5 hours ago

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—⁠☆ Paige thoughts 🩷

thinking about gf!Paige who's a sucker for whenever you look effortlessly pretty. you could be wearing an old, oversized tee with panties and her coochie is already wet. you're wearing her former UConn jersey? you'll be hearing from that strap tonight. and her ultimate fav, when you're wearing a moomoo with nothing underneath -- no panties, no bra.

"look at you, ma" She'd tease as if she's not already desperately brunching up your moomoo to your waist, big hands groping your ass like her life depends on it and giving it a few smacks for safety measures. you could only roll your eyes, trying to focus on the curry that's currently cooking in the pot. "Later, P, don't wanna burn your lunch." You'd whisper back, but Paige already made up her mind and once she's set her mind onto something, she'd get it. And right now she wants nothing more than to eat you out before practice.

gf!Paige who'd turn the stove off and lift you up on the kitchen counter as if you weigh nothing, wasting no time and pushing up your moomoo to your waist before kneeling between your legs. She'll leave kisses on your calves, then the back of your knees, then your thighs before she looks up at you, blue eyes desperate and wanting. "can I, pretty baby?" and of course you'd nod, how can you deny her when she looked like a starved woman between your thighs? and it's not like you're not already dripping.

gf!Paige who'll give your lower abdomen a kiss before licking a long stripe from your entrance up to your clit, wrapping her lips around it and gently sucking. she'd throw your thighs over her shoulders to anchor herself before burying her face deeper. she knows what you want, more than you do. tongue flat, one of her calloused thumb rubbing your clit while she fucks her tongue in you, moaning like a bitch against your pussy. "f-fuck, baby... mhm, Paige..." all you could do was moan and take it, hand gripping the side of the counter while the other was raking through her blonde locks.

"you taste so fucking good, mama" she'd whine, lapping you up like you're her first meal in ten years. your slick was dripping down to her chin but she doesn't give a fuck and she'd keep eating you out, warm tongue lazily twirling around your clit occasionally flicking it before going back to sucking. You're starting to lose your mind, gaze foggy and breathing heavy. "c-cumming, baby... I'm cumming" you moan, voice cracking when you feel her thrust two fingers in you, eyes rolling back, and thighs quivering.

gf!paige who'll fuck you through your orgasm, gently licking your clit while she pump her fingers nice and slow until you rode out your orgasm. she'd carefully pull her fingers out, licking them clean before licking your pussy clean as well, drinking every single drop. "You good, lovely?" She'd ask as she got up from her knees, wiping her lips with the back of her hand before she pulled your moomoo back down. "M-mhm... I'm good" your voice was quiet and meek which made her smile and hum, pulling you close to her, hugging you and letting your head rest on her chest until you got your regular breathing back. "I love you, mama. You better be careful the next time you wear a moomoo, I might just make you a mama for real" she'd joke, pecking your lips softly with a smile

gf!Paige who'd kiss you goodbye by the door of your apartment, wearing an all gray set of sweatpants and sweatshirt, hair pulled back in a slick back bun, bag in one hand while her other's wrapped around your waist. "I'll see you after practice, baby girl. I love you." She whispered, placing one last kiss on your temple, you nodded and smiled, watching her disappear down the stairs. "I love you too, superstar" you'd whisper to yourself before closing the door.

gf!Paige who'll brag about you to the whole Dallas team about how you're the most beautiful, caring and amazing girlfriend ever.

gf!Paige who's already shopping for a ring.

just a little Paige fic because I love her and she's so hot, wanna hear ur thoughts abt this so I know if I should do more or nah and who should I do next 😜 das all, xoxo kyriaki 🪽

#💮 kyriaki's #wbb #wnba #paige bueckers #dallas wings #uconn wbb #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers smut #wlw #lesbian #paige bueckers fanfic

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barleyo · 18 hours ago

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Afterglow.

Scandalabra X F! Reader

A/N: my birthday just passed, so i wrote this purely as a present for myself. very, very self-indulgent, but it would be lovely if others could also enjoy it :)

Tags: insecurity, aging, comfort fic, slight suggestiveness, slight physical description of reader, fluff

Wordcount: 1k

Another birthday passed, and you were feeling every bit of your age. Getting a year older used to feel like something to celebrate with partying and shots, but this year, all you could feel was wasted time and back pain. Going out didn't sound fun, so you stayed in bed most of the day and had a thin slice of cake that you hardly had an appetite for. Too sweet.

Aging changed nearly everything in that way, it felt. Things you used to enjoy seemed pointless and wasteful.

Who wanted to party all night, anyways? And what about the city sound ordinance? Loud dance music would violate it. What was the point of getting shitfaced drunk with friends if it would just make your usual morning migraine twice as bad? You would rather stay home and eat takeout, but even that was ruined by your slowed metabolism.

Even then, with your now softer tummy and legs, you were able to power through. Age was something that happened to everyone. It was natural. You tried to hammer than into your head. It quickly flew out, though, when a particularly deep wrinkle formed between your brows. It felt downhill from there.

Everything crashed down on you like a hurricane. The things that seemed to blend into the background—the warning signs—flashed vividly. The small crows feet at the corner of your exhausted eyes. The time-weathered, angry tilt of your eyebrows. Worst of all, smile lines. God, you never thought living such a joyous life would come back to bite you on the ass, but the tiny lines around your mouth were definitely there.

The mirror hadn't yet become your enemy, but the glass started to feel like an old flame. An ex you avoided when possible.

Why now? Just a few months ago, you felt young as ever. Not a care in your mind, nor insecurity in sight. The change came nearly overnight, it seemed, but you were resilient. You could stop it, you hoped. You could do something.

Anything.

You were getting ready for bed, a process that now took much longer than it used to. On a good night, you used to barely wipe your mascara off and take your day clothes off. Now you couldn't let your face hit the pillow without ten steps of skincare.

Serums, syrups, lotions, and endless potions. You had almost no idea what you were smothering your skin in at this point. Anything that read as anti-aging and wrinkle reversing found its way into your repertoire. Retinol. Fuck, it burned, but it was worth it. Collagen. Supplements and pills that had worryingly long names.

It all felt so pointless. Embarrassing.

You slathered on a plumping face mask and sighed, rubbing the creamy formula over the wrinkles between your brows. Old, old, old.

All Scandalabra saw, though, was sex appeal and elegance. He stood, perched behind you while you sat at your vanity. He stared into your reflection harder than you did, admiring every bit of it.

His pupils blew a bit. Everything about you screamed maturity now. Your curves were teasing him as they snagged the loose silk of your nightgown. Much nicer than any lingerie you owned, he thought. More fun to tear off.

"You know," he said, letting his voice roll over your shoulder like melted honey, "if I did not know better, I would think you've been hogging the fountain of youth from the rest of us."

You let out a tired snort, eyes dipping up to him. "Cut it out."

"Oh, but I mean it, love. How could you hold out on me?" he asked dramatically, arms wrapping over your shoulders from the back. He sneakily pressed his face into the curvature of your neck, huffing the scent with needless greed.

Scandalabra peeked up at you, hoping to see one of your smiles. It pained him how you seemed to bite them back more often, not wanting to exacerbate the lines they left in their wake.

"Time fights against so many, but you?" He pressed his lips against your temple, unbothered at how you tried to wave him away. He left smudged, faded marks of rouge with each peck, his makeup desaturated from earlier happenings that you still felt between your legs. "The odds are ever in your favor. And you are—"

"Do not."

"—Radiant. I want more than youth. I want elegance. I want beauty. I want maturity. You have all of that in spades."

"You don't know what it's like to lose so much of yourself, Scandy. I feel different." You looked up at him, turning away from the vanity. With a deep sigh, you closed the cap on the face mask. "I feel old."

He pressed a kiss to your jaw. With time, it too had softened. Your features went gentle and less defined. Rounder and set deeper.

"And I feel that aging is a privilege. Not just for you," he said, pressing another kiss higher, near your temple where your laugh lines branched out, "but for myself as well. Truly, I am blessed to see you change into the woman I see in front of me."

You leaned into his touch a bit, feeling slightly more reassured. "You don't age, do you?"

"No, but I guess that means I'll just have to live vicariously through you, then, won't I?" His haughty laugh thinned out a bit. He tried to act like your question didn't shake him, but it did.

He did not age. You did. For all purposes, he and the other objects were immortal, and every year, he too was reminded of your age. It worried him—the future—but your worries mattered more.

So every year, he put on a brave face, appreciated your beauty, and vowed to himself that he would enjoy every year he had with you, because he knew that time was eerily finite.

"I cannot wait until you get grey hair, darling. Very chic."

You groaned and pushed him away. "Damn it, Scandalabra!"

#scandalabra x reader #scandalabra date everything #date everything scandalabra #date everything x reader #scandalabra #barlabra #date everything

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serensama · 3 days ago

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Thursday Bangers: Dr, Who?

YES IM UP TO DATE! MWAHAHAH! My many thanks to @woundedsoul12 for this amazing game and much love to @brennacedria for picking a kick ass song. I was actually going to change scenes, but because of this spectacular choice, we got a little more sweetness. Teehee.

Read on Ao3

Rules: Free form a blurb or drawing based on the weekly lyrics prompt. It doesn't have to include the prompt just whatever you're inspired to write, write it! Then tag some friends so they can play as well. It doesn't have to be finished on Thursday just post it whenever you can (you have a whole week between Thursdays).

"Baby, you're all that I want, When you're lyin' here in my arms, I'm findin' it hard to believe, We're in heaven" – Heaven by Bryan Adams

---

Illario stepped back and allowed her to hop off the desk, her hands quick to ensure her hair was still in place, rearranging the neckline of her dress, which had somehow gotten skewed in their brief interlude. He sighed and shrugged his shirt cuffs into place, fixing the collar of his shirt with a practised pull of his finger at the button. He lamented moving toward the door to reach for his jacket, because that would mean the end of their only time alone together that night, when he saw her head there first, her fingers already reaching for it.

He paused, mildly startled, unsure exactly what to do.

Lilya held his tuxedo jacket up without thinking, expectantly, the same way one might offer someone a pamphlet or pass the salt across the table. She was not trying to do anything out of her nature; in fact, it looked to be the opposite. Something completely ingrained in who she was and what she was used to, not to be showy or try to impress him. It was just... automatic. Like she’d done it for him before and like she always would. That was a thought he never expected would make his heart skip a beat.

Illario didn’t say anything; he only coughed into his hand and walked over to her, letting her help him slip into it. He tried to remain relaxed as her hands smoothed the fabric down across his shoulders and down his back. Sure fingers brushing over his lapel once, twice and then thrice- just for good measure.

He was drunk. He had to be. Otherwise, why did it feel like it meant more than just a kind gesture? As if he were being chosen, like someone deciding he was worthwhile. Worthy.

His silence made her glance up, worried that she had done something to offend him. She knew some men hated being fussed over, but she wanted to make sure he looked impeccable walking back into the hall. She wasn’t the one under scrutiny tonight; he was.

“What?” she asked, a small smile tugging at her lips.

He was smiling at her, openly now, unable to hide it even if he tried. A soft, arrested kind of smile that made her feel too warm, too lost and all too good for it to be considered normal.

“Nothing,” he murmured. “Just… It’s nothing.”

She blinked, curious as to what was going on in the man’s mind to make him smile at her like he knew a secret but was not allowed to tell her. “What?”

“No, nothing,” he grinned, patting a hand over her hair and enjoying the silken strands under his fingertips. “Don’t even worry about it.”

“Mhmm,” Lilya hummed, letting him keep his secrets for the moment. They didn’t have time to dawdle, and the last thing she wanted was for Teia to knock on the door asking for her to be able to ‘come out and play’ with the rest of the guests. Or worse- Caterina. Lilya looked up and giggled at the pink-hued smudges that had transferred onto his mouth and jaw. She leaned in and narrowed her eyes with a smirk, fingers lifting to his face. “Well, we can’t have you going out like this,” she said lightly, using her thumb to wipe away the faint sheen of her lip gloss from the corner of his mouth. “As pretty as you are, Mr Dellamorte, this really is not your colour.”

He huffed out quietly, eyes crinkling from holding back his laughter. And then he stepped forward, gently pressing her back against the closed office door. It had not started with want this time, but wonder. He did not understand what twist of fate brought her there, within arms' reach once again, but now he had her, he wasn’t going to let go. Illario reached for her like he’d been waiting for the moment for years, hands drifting down her sides to glide slowly along the seam of her sinfully indulgent velvet dress.

“Maker,” he whispered. “This fabric. I knew it was perfect.”

His palms followed the curve of her waist, over her hips, then back up again, pressing just low enough on her back to earn him a quiet, involuntary gasp from her lips. That sound. Maker, that sound made his thoughts stutter.

Lilya’s eyes fluttered open, dazed, breathing so shallowly from just a simple touch, she thought she might pass out. “We are well past our allotted five minutes, Illario,” she murmured.

“I know,” he said, pressing a kiss on the tip of each ear, earning him another soft hum.

“You, good sir, are cheating,” she whimpered, as a shiver went through her as his hands cupped her ass for only a moment.

“I’m trying very hard not to,” he said, voice hoarse. “You’re not making it easy.”

Lilya stifled a grin against his chest, trying her damndest not to give in. It would be so, so easy to take his hand and run away into one of the waiting cars there and take him back home. But that was going to lead them right back to where they started- and Brown’s quote of the definition of insanity- of doing things over and over and expecting different results rang loudly in her mind.

He cupped her cheek then, eyes locking onto hers. “This colour,” he said softly, brushing his thumb beneath her right eye. “This colour will be the death of me.”

She swallowed, suddenly unable to remember how to think.

“No matter how hard I tried,” he continued, “I could never get it right.”

“…W-What?” she whispered, a whirling in her stomach she had to believe were either butterflies or her intestines tying themselves in knots from her giddiness.

“The green,” he said, as if speaking to himself rather than answering her question. “I tried to find the right shades and tones. I layered them together, the foliage, the flowers, the specific way the lights would hit the plants… but I could never get it right.”

And just like that, she finally understood.

Green.

She remembered Lucanis saying it once as they danced, tapping at his eye cryptically as if that were enough for her to solve the deep mysteries of the Dellamorte psyche, like that one word and action was the equivalent to him using skywriting to say “you do realise everything around you is your green?”

Her eyes. He had meant her eyes.

On one of the most important nights of his life, Illario had painted the world green. Her green. Even believing she would never be there to see it, never know. But still, he had surrounded himself with the colour of her gaze. Not to impress her or for spectacle, but because he missed her. Because, on some quiet, lonely level, he needed to feel like she was with him. Watching. Smiling. Beside him, with him, even if only in symbolism. What kind of man did that?

Well, she was with him now.

Lilya looked up at him - at the boy with eyes that smouldered with sorrow and sweetness both - and felt her chest give out. Her hands reached for him without bidding, wrapping her arms around his neck, fingers curling into the fine material of his jacket as she kissed him, no longer concerned about the wrinkles it would cause.

This wasn’t a mistake. This wasn’t her doing the same thing and expecting something different. This was��different. Yes, they had agreed: five minutes only, just to let everything out and be able to breathe… but how was she supposed to breathe, now?

She pulled back, breathing heavily, hands somehow back on his lapels and holding onto them for dear life- even though she could feel his hands strong around her waist. “Illa- Illario, you just can’t drop something like that on a person.”

“Like what?” he asked all too innocently. She truly believed he didn’t know the weight of his words, which made it all the more disarming. Illario rested his temple against hers, willing himself not to dip his face into her neck, to drag his teeth across her supple skin.

“Like a Mr Darcy-esque, ‘I love you ardently’, desperate, devastating confession about my eyes and expect me to be completely unaffected,” she murmured against his cheek, breath uneven.

“Good. I don’t want you to be unaffected. I want you affected as much as I am, Lilya. You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he said softly, forehead against hers. “You. Here. Like this. Everything finally feels right. And it’s insane, you know it. I know it. I’ve never… had… this. I don’t know what this is, but I do know, for the first time in months, I can breathe again.”

“This?” she asked, eyes searching his intently for silent validation she didn’t know she wanted.

He nodded and pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose, causing her to wrinkle it in response. He was obsessed with it already, wanting to do it over and over, learn and count all the different ways she’d crinkle the adorable little thing. Andraste, what was happening to him?

She grinned, the sharp glint he so adored returning in her eyes.

“You’ve been dreaming of me like this? Pressed against a door, velvet between us… and your silk trousers doing very little to hide anything? My, my Mr Dellamorte. What exquisitely specific kinks you have. Good to know.”

He blinked twice before laughing, full-bodied, his hand giving hers a warm squeeze instead of an answer.

“Alright, now that…that… is over, I’ll go first,” she said after a minute, slipping back into some semblance of composure. She was not going to think about him, his body or the intensity of his feelings. Not until she was in the safety of her house, where she could scream bloody murder all she wanted whilst kicking her legs in the air like a bloody love-sick teenager. “If we walk out of this room together and someone sees us, polite society will implode.”

He nodded. She hesitated as she cracked the door open, and then squeezed his hand one more time - and was gone.

Illario let the door close slowly behind her and leaned back against it, eyes closed, grinning like an idiot. He was an idiot. He slapped both cheeks lightly and tried to school his face into something respectable. It didn’t work. He was laughing to himself now, dizzy, mad, something like happiness bubbling under his skin- like he was just a boy with his first sweetheart.

Maker help him.

---

Lilya slipped through the crowd with ease, weaving past guests and waitstaff alike as a string quartet signalled the final call to be seated. She slid into her place beside Emmrich with a practised smile, smoothing out her gown to keep her hands occupied.

Across from her, Teia raised one perfectly groomed brow. Dearest brother Viago did not bother to look up at all. His jaw was locked, arms folded, staring into the distance with the brittle rage of a man who knew exactly where she’d been, what she’d been doing, and with whom.

A moment later, her clutch buzzed on the table.

Teia: Once the amuse-bouche hits, we’re going to the powder room. I expect EVERY sordid detail you can fit between the time I pee and the time I powder my nose. EVERYTHING.

Emmrich, who had clearly read the exchange over Teia’s shoulder, was already chuckling into his wine glass. Teia hadn’t even looked at her or her damn phone whilst typing it, which somehow made it worse.

The doors opened again, and Illario entered.

He was composed, of course he was. Effortlessly elegant. The rat bastard. No one in the room would notice the subtle swell of his chest as his eyes found hers, the way his smile curled just that little bit more at her. But she did. And when she bit her bottom lip, almost without meaning to, his expression darkened - not lasciviously, but like he’d felt what she was doing to her mouth on his. He shifted his weight across his shoulders as if steadying himself. The gesture was so slight no one would clock it if they weren’t watching him like a hawk. Which, of course, she was.

Viago let out a very soft, very displeased grumble, his brow ticking like he was already calculating what this next idiot move his little sister was going to cost him in time, money and new grey hairs. Lilya was about to say something biting across the table when Emmrich, astute as ever, cut the tension with a sigh of poetic timing.

“Ah,” he said wistfully, swirling his wine. “To be young and in love.”

“Maker, Professor, please don’t,” Lilya muttered into her napkin to hide her growing blush.

“Too late,” he added with a smirk. “We saw the look. He saw the look. You’re already very much spoken for, Ms de Riva.”

Viago made a noise under his breath that sounded eerily similar to ‘the hell she is’, or at the very least like the beginning of a long and painful lecture. Lilya knew she would pay for this later with one of her brother’s lessons about maintaining the dignity of their name, forcing her to remember all the training she endured about propriety and the expectations of her as a de Riva.

But it was worth it.

Her eyes flicked across the hall again, much to her brother’s obvious chagrin.

Illario was already speaking to the host, gesturing lightly and nodding along to their conversation. When he returned to his place, it was beside Lucanis, but the cousins switched seats wordlessly with a familiar efficiency of people who knew each other too well. And now he was angled just right, to be perfectly within her line of sight.

He winked.

Oh no. Oh. Fuck. This was going to be a long, wonderful night indeed… and Maker. She was so screwed.

---

Softly tagging: @rookamell @jenn2d2 @selennes @serstolas @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @obsessed-with-book-boyfriends @hedwigoprah @trash-nerd @gingervitus @thedissonantverses @hightowerqueen @the-sparrohawk @basedonconjecture @kabsey @mythals-whore and anyone else who wants to play (if you've already completed this and my forgetful butt tagged you, please just prod me to the direction of your work heheh- it's been one hell of a week!)

#thursday bangers #illario dellamorte #Illario x rook #illarook #no edits we die like men #emmrich volkarin #teia cantori #viago de riva #modern au #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age fanfic

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vviolets444rroses · 16 hours ago

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— muscle memory (ex!rafe)

cw: alcohol use/intoxication, drug mention (weed), emotional tension, exes, some angst, toxic dynamics (implied)

a/n: this took forever to write- ONLY BECAUSE i had to make sure i had other parts too heheh.. but i hope you guys like this! please like/rb so i can continue to do more of this <3 kisses!

a bonfire at the boneyard— kooks, pogues, and tourons. you sit beside your friends as they all get drunk off their asses. you’re sober and clinging to yourself, wrapped in a hoodie you’d forgotten wasn’t even yours, and jean shorts— your chosen attire no longer fitting for the night’s weather. you’ve zoned out, your gaze fading into the flames of the fire, now locked onto a figure on the other side.

across from you, kooks are passing around a blunt and laughing, just high out of their minds. but that’s not what you’re looking at. it’s who. your ex-boyfriend, rafe cameron, just as intoxicated as the others. he stares through you, like you’re not there. like you’re nothing.

at least, that’s what it feels like. you saunter off on your own to sit by the waves— just far enough to be on dry sand, but feet in the retreating ocean water. your phone dings. opening it, you see a familiar number. it had been deleted months ago, but your mind can’t seem to forget it.

wjat r u doinb u wearin my hodie?? knwoin i’d be hre n stil missjng uuuu ur smethin els idkkk bsby

it's rafe... drunk and spamming your phone. he knows he’s your weakness. who could blame you? you two were in love— until it felt like you didn’t belong.

is tht u byy the wateerrr?? immmm comin ovr ther babyyy fruck u lookk beautifullLLL

of course he is. you hear sand kicking around and drunk laughter— his laughter. you turn your head, knees tight against your chest, watching him slump toward you.

“there’s my girl,” he yells out. he finally makes his way and slaps down beside you, leaning into your body.

“jeez, rafe. what’s wrong with you?” you hold him up, straightening him out.

“me? nothing!” he cackles. “ah… except i miss you… heyyyy. you still wear the perfume i got you?” he leans his face into your neck, getting a better whiff of it.

you sigh. he’s so damn drunk. you can’t really do anything, or else he might react badly. you fold, comforting him and keeping him close. but it's not like it took a lot of convincing yourself, right?

“hey, hey. let’s go. wanna go home? need me to take you?”

“but my bike!” he hollers, your hand smacks over his mouth to shut him up. he sticks his tongue out, wetting your palm.

“rafe!” you shake your hand and wipe it on his sleeve. he just hyena-laughs in your face.

“we can get your bike in the morning. let’s go,�� you drag him up by his arms, but it’s impossible to do at all. he’s always so bulky with all the protein powder and creatine he inhales like it’s his life support.

“alright, i cannot drag you. up and at ’em. we’ll go to my car.”

the two of you slog through the sand and eventually make it to your car. rafe presses against the passenger door. “must’ve missed me soo bad if y’taking me home.” he cackles and pulls you into him by your hips with cold hands, almost magnetic.

“dude— rafe, stop it. i’m trying to help you.” pushing off him, you click the car unlocked, swing the door open, and push him into the passenger seat.

“buckle up,” you mutter as your patience wears thin at his childish drunkenness.

“buckle up,” he mocks. “like a fucking mom.”

slamming his door, you walk around the front and get into the driver’s side, buckling in and starting the car.

“you’re fine going home?”

he mumbles a quiet yes.

“alriiighty.”

after a few minutes of driving, his hand reaches across the console and finds yours— fingers clumsy at first, but certain. he laces them with yours like it's the most natural thing in the world, and his thumb starts tracing soft, slow lines across the back of your hand.

your lips part— halfway to tell him to stop, to remind him this isn’t what you do anymore. but the words don’t come.

because it doesn’t feel like a mistake.

it feels like routine. like second nature. like something your physical being missed before your mind even realized.

maybe it’s the way his touch is gentle, or the fact that he doesn’t even seem aware he’s doing it. maybe it’s how the movement is more muscle memory than anything else. how it calms you instead of starting something. no pressure. just presence.

so you don’t pull away. you let it happen.

you drive with one hand, eyes on the road, heart somewhere else— somewhere softer. and his thumb keeps moving, slow and quiet.

you park in front of his house and leave the engine running for a second longer than needed. his thumb is still tracing lazily on your hand like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. or maybe he does. that’s the thing with rafe— you never really know.

“mmkay, come on.” you gently slip your hand from his and unbuckle his seatbelt. he doesn’t move.

“we are home?” he says like a question, blinking slowly.

“yes. now get out of the car before i leave you.”

you get out first and walk around the car, opening his door and crouching a little.

“rafe. up.”

he groans like it’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, then stumbles as he swings his legs out. you catch him—barely—then sling his arm over your shoulder.

“jesus, you’re heavy.”

“mmm. muscle,” he hums, grinning into your hair as you both half-drag, half-walk up the front path. “you used to like it, remember?”

you don’t say anything. just keep your eyes ahead and focus on getting him to the door without falling over.

you fish his keys from his back pocket, then unlock the house, pushing the door inward with your hip. you pull him inside as he puts most of his weight onto your body and his boots thud heavily against the tiles. he’s so fucking close you can smell his cologne— the one you always loved on him. faint and distant, like the memory of when you were still sworn to him.

you help him kick his boots off and move them aside to the shoe corner.

“where’s your room again?” you tease lightly, trying to keep the mood easy.

“oh, you know where it is,” he laughs softly and swigs his head back.

you do. unfortunately.

he’s still hanging on you, head heavy on your shoulder now.

“you good?” you ask, catching your breath. “or are you gonna collapse here?”

“mmm,” he hums, “you staying?”

you freeze for a beat but keep walking, dragging him through the foyer toward the stairs.

“uhh… we’ll see. you’re gonna feel like hell in the morning,” you mutter.

“worth it,” he mumbles. “i got to see you tonight.”

you ignore that— mostly.

the silence that follows is heavy. he lets you lug him up the stairs, his hand still glued to yours— but neither of you says a word about it.

#vviolets444rroses #rafe cameron #obx #outer banks #rafe cameron x reader #obx drabble #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron angst #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron x you #obx rafe cameron #rafe outer banks #ex!rafe #ex!rafe x reader #ex!rafe x you

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nanamismoonchild · 2 days ago

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Can I request a beach day with the reader for all the boys (separately or together your choice 🤷🏾‍♀️) and them participating in what you think their preferred beach activity is?

(I immediately thought of Rafayel making sand castles and swimming. While Xavier is probably snacking on the beach blanket 🤣)

I'm gonna use gifs for this lol.

Warning: 18+ once you hit Sylus. Didn't mean to. It just happened.

Rafayel

You haven't made it three inches on the private beach before Rafayel has you pinned down on that hot ass sand.

"Rafayel! I swear to-"

"Shhh! Art isnt supposed to talk."

"Art?! I'm about to be fried seafood if you don't get me off this sand."

"You'll be delicious."

He brushes every complaint you have and laughs at you while he busies himself with making you a tail similar to his own.

Eventually, you quiet down and admire it.

"See, art doesn't talk."

"Shut up."

Sylus

Sylus just wanted to admire the sunset.

That's it. He didn't want to be near the blinding sun that would have his eyes on fire for too long.

But then he saw you. Sprinting down the shore with the TINIEST bikini on. It was practically some string held together with thoughts and prayers.

Ass jiggling. Tiddies swaying.

And everyone's attention was on you. And he couldnt have that.

So commenced the chase instead of a peaceful evening.

Note: this was safest gif I could find. My gay ass was bout to have cheeks on this damned website.

Caleb

The two of you hadn't seen each other in a while.

So a beach date had to be.

Caleb had a cooler full of your favorites and a few mimosas too.

Of which you had too many.

So Caleb who had initially wanted to go surfing, ended up dancing with you on a beach.

"Next time, im not bringing anything to make mixed drinks."

"Yes you will."

"Yes I will."

Zayne

This fake nonchalant simply watches as you splash your way around the ocean.

Of course hes keeping a close on eye on you even though he's on his third (maybe even forth) drink of the evening.

"Zayne!" You're running over to him, and he cant help but watch you.

"Are you going to come play with me?"

Soooo he mightve had more than four drinks because his brain rewires and he thinks you asked "are you going to come eat me"

He doesn't know why. You don't know why. But what he does know! Is that this is the nudist side.

So he munches. And wipes his lips afterwards and keeps on sipping.

Meanwhile you're stunned into your chair and simply watch the sun go down.

Xavier

Listen, I know you said Xavi would be eating his weight through anything he puts his eye on at the beach. And that is true. But stay with me for a moment

You're having flashbacks to the sporting event you and Xavier had entered with the Hunter's Association.

He had made the two of you lose because he went off course.

And now, you're sat on the back of a jet ski, and having no choice but to watch him the do the same.damn.thing.

"Xavier! Stay on course!"

"But this way is faster!"

"Faster won't get us a free seafood boil if we don't win!"

"Fine."

Uncovered and unbothered.

This is what Sylus was worried about.

And i would worry too.

#love and deepspace #lads rafayel #lads caleb #lads #lads sylus #lads x black reader #lads reactions #lads x reader #lads xavier #lads zayne

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saloonslut · 2 days ago

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CAR TROUBLES? | G. SUGURU

[SCENE: Rattlecreek County. 11:45AM. Somewhere... in the middle of crops and a lone dirt road.]

You knew you shouldn't have bought that busted old Chevrolet—thing ran like it was one bump from the grave—but the minute you saw her, you fell in love. Vintage cars, vintage love, vintage life.

Hell of a start for your new beginning.

You sighed in frustration, half-buried in the engine, 'bout ready to cry right there in the middle of nowhere. You’d been hoping to drive into town—Pumpkin had encouraged it, said not to let the stares scare you off—but your new place sat a few miles deep into farmland.

Dirt roads and rows of corn as far as the eye could see.

You were good and fucked.

Groaning, you wiped the back of your hand across your cheek, debating whether to call Pumpkin. The sultry woman had given you her number when you'd both first met last week, but you felt hesitant. You didn't know her that well, and while... she seemed nice, she had a look in her eye that gave you the shivers.

You nearly missed the sound of hooves.

Your head jerked up just in time to catch sight of a rider cresting the dusty road. He was tall, lithe, with dark hair tucked beneath a black Stetson. Sharp eyes. Sharper jaw. White tee stretched across broad shoulders, jeans worn and dusty, boots to match the hat.

Good lord.

Your breath hitched the second your eyes locked as he pulled the reins gently, halting just a few feet away.

"Hey there," he said smoothly, voice covered in velvet, "car troubles?" He asked, eyes flicking toward the heap you were halfway inside. There was a teasing note in his tone, but not unkind.

"Yeah, something like that," you mumbled sheepishly, ducking and coming up from beneath the hood, food on the air filter inside. With your vision obscured, you couldn't see the way he swallowed thickly, eyes stuck on how your ass locked in those denim jeans propped up on the front bumper. "Usually I can just jimmy these things myself, but I'm having a hard time today. I was just trying to get into town." You murmured, easing your way off the front of your truck.

"You mind if I lend you a hand?" Suguru asked, clearing his throat, face passive even though his thoughts were everything but. He'd heard that there was a new face in town, word travelled fast. Far. As far as county lines, but seeing it for himself had his jaw going slack. Mouth drying. Just at the sight of you. "Geto Suguru. I work nearby." He offered to make you feel more at ease. He hadn't wanted to tell you he worked on old man Yaga's ranch, much less dive into the county politics of who, what, when, where, and why. Didn't even want to tell you that you were trespassing on private property using a private road. Did you even know where you were going?

"No, not at all, thanks for stopping," you said as Suguru threw his leg over the saddle, the pretty large brown horse huffing as its rider descended from his seat. "I really appreciate it." You continued to make small talk, introducing yourself in the process, as Suguru held the reins while he walked over; tying the horse to a nearby post of the wooden fence lining the road.

He glanced at you as he tied the lead, watching the way your eyes crinkled, cheeks puffed up ever so slightly as you spoke. It was cute. He gave you a quiet nod, a ghost of a smile curving at the corner of his mouth. Something about the way you smiled when you introduced yourself made his chest ache — round cheeks, bright eyes, like you didn’t even know what kind of trouble you’d walked into. He approached the Chevy, sun beating soft on the back of his neck, and all he could think about was how damn lucky he was to be the one who found you first.

#deadmanstrail #pumpkinspurpress #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #geto suguru #jjk geto #jujutsu geto #geto x reader #suguru #geto #country #wildwest #cowboys #cowgirl #ranch hand suguru

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redfoxwritesstuff · 3 days ago

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Sundew: Chapter 12 (Tom Hiddleston x OFC Mia)

CW: smut, verbal abuse Previous Chapter -- Masterlist -- AO3 -- Kofi Want a bonus chapter? See the post on Kofi for details. Or just to say hey, thanks for the fic!

“Hello?” Mia answered the call cautiously.

“You slut,” Ray started in, voice slurring and full of gravel in the worst kind of ways. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ray.”

“You thought you could hide it from me?!”

“I’m not hiding anything from anyone.” Mia’s heart raced in her chest. Every part of her wanted to run. Even after all these years, Ray could make her feel as small as she felt that day he walked out of their home.

“Sandra brought home some fucking gossip pussy magazine and who’s fucking in it sucking face with some hot shot? Your slut ass in a wedding dress.”

“That’s old,” Mia wasn’t sure what she should say to tame Ray’s anger. “It’s been a few months.”

“So what, you replaced me with some actor asshole? What did you do to convince him your worn out pussy was worth a damn?”

“Ray,” Mia’s chest grew tight. Tears gathered in her eyes. It wasn’t fair that he could still hurt her like this, after all these years.

“There were pictures of her in there,” he accused. “My daughter with that rich fuck. How fucking dare you.”

“You could have met him,” Mia whimpered. “He was at her birthday. I don’t- I don’t want any trouble.”

“You belong to me,” Ray hissed. “Sally belongs to me. Don’t you dare forget it.”

The line disconnected, leaving the implied threat hanging in the air, choking off Mia’s oxygen like a noose.

Mia took a shaky breath and got into her car. Her purse bounced on the passenger seat along with her phone, tossed aside as she slammed the car door shut. Curling in on herself, Mia allowed herself to cry.

Ray didn’t have to know he got to her like this. He didn’t have to know he won, reducing her to tears as she wrapped her arms around herself. He didn’t have to know his words could still cut her.

She just needed a few minutes to cry, and then she would be over it. A few minutes turned into over half an hour before Mia could stifle the tears and wipe her face. The baby wipes she kept stored in the glove box made it easy to wipe away the smeared makeup.

It was time to pull herself together and get on with the day.

Mia was so distracted by the thought of Ray returning to her life that she was simply going through the motions when Tom called. She absently listened to him as his words went in one ear and out of the other ear.

“Is there something bothering you?” Tom finally asked.

Mia thought for a moment. It would be so easy to tell him that Ray called. What would he say if she told him how her ex screamed at her? It wasn’t like he could do anything about it.

“I put in my notice today,” Mia finally said.

“Did you really?” Tom asked, voice brightening.

“Yeah.” Mia pulled the phone from her face and texted him a picture of the letter sitting on the desk. “I really did it.”

“You didn’t have to send proof,” Tom laughed. The news clearly delighted him and it took a few moments for him to realize Mia was much more subdued. “How are you feeling about it?”

“Scared,” Mia admitted, though she didn’t mention that there was something else contributing to the feeling of fear. It didn’t matter, anyway. Ray was all talk. “But it’s okay to be scared, right?”

“Right,” Tom said. “Because I’m here for you.”

The first week seemed like it flew by. The second week, however, seemed to drag on and on. Tom flew in a few weeks earlier than planned. He wanted to be there for her as she made the big step of quitting her job and depending only on him.

Each day that passed put Mia further away from the phone call with Ray. He’d not said or sent anything since. If she was lucky at all, it was a one off burst of anger and he would disappear again, letting Mia and Sally live their lives.

Her last day at the Casino was full of tearful goodbyes. It felt strange to leave the little cocktail dress behind as she walked out of the locker room. This was the end of a large part of her life. These were the people that helped her find her feet when Ray left.

It was the end of an era. Mia wasn’t sure if she was really ready to say goodbye, but the time was now.

Before walking out, she stopped in the bathroom and washed the bright makeup from her face. Today, she would walk out without any part of the role she played on the casino floor.

From here on out, if she stepped foot in a casino, it would be as a guest.

Mia sat in silence as she pulled off the Las Vegas strip. It felt right to just absorb the sights and sounds that were so much a part of her every day life. She came down to the strip five days a week, every week, for years.

Now, she didn’t know when she would come down this way again. There was no real reason for locals to come to the strip other than to work.

As she turned left, taking the on-ramp onto the highway, Mia finally flipped on the radio, twisting the dial until she found some station playing the bouncing pop music that would be the tone of the upcoming summer.

She cranked the volume up and rolled down the windows, letting the hot air whip her hair around and dry the tears on her cheeks. This was it. Mia had nothing more to keep her in the United States but her own fear.

She felt at peace with quitting by the time she was walking down the hall toward her apartment door. That wasn’t to say she wasn’t anxious. Anxiety ran laps around her mind, telling her that what she really needed to do was find another job as soon as she could.

Mia was so focused on what was going on in her head that when she opened the door to a chorus of “Surprise!”s and “Welcome Home!”s, it startled her right out of her skin.

Tom had candles lit, flowers in his hand and in a few vases scattered around the apartment and Sally, dressed and ready for bed, holding her own small bunch of flowers.

“What’s this?” Mia asked, her hands hovering over her pounding heart.

“Tommy and I made a surprise!” Sally bounced up to her mother, giving her the small bunch of flowers. “He said I could stay up as long as I go to bed right after!”

“Did he now?” Mia made a show about sniffing the flowers as she hugged her daughter. While it mattered that quitting pleased Tom, it was how excited Sally was that Mia would be there every morning when she got up, every day when she got off school and every evening when it was time for bed that reassured Mia that she was making the right decision.

“And now it’s off to bed with you,” Tom stepped forward, resting his large hand on the girl’s small head. “Right? It’s time for mom and me to have a special dinner.”

Sally giggled and squealed, “Dinner date!” as she ran back to her room.

“I’ll get her settled,” Tom said as he wrapped Mia in his arms. “You can change and shower if you want. I’ll be out by the time the food’s delivered.”

Tom disappeared to take on bedtime story duty, leaving Mia standing in her candlelit living room. She walked through the apartment slowly, making her way to the bathroom.

More candles sat on the counters, their dancing flames doubling in the mirror. Soft music played, already waiting for her. A small box sat on the back of the toilet with a card that read, “For after your shower.”

Tom knew her well enough to bet on her wanting to wash the casino stink off of her.

The shower was quick, but not rushed. While Mia ran a razor over her legs, she heard Tom’s humming as he moved around the bedroom. While she rinsed the conditioner from her hair, she heard him answer the door. Whatever he was up to, he took every bit of time she offered him to get it set up.

Mia took her time drying off in the softly lit room before opening the box. Inside was a nightgown that clearly leaned more toward lingerie than anything Mia owned. The cups would just cover her breasts and the dress would reach her upper thighs.

There was very little of anything that made up the panties to go with it. They were almost entirely made of lace, unlike the silky satin of the dress. Together, they just covered enough that Mia wouldn’t have to do some explaining if Sally got up. A satin robe sat under the rest, offering her a way to cover herself if she needed to.

Mia’s face flushed as she put on the skimpy outfit, taking in the way it hugged her curves. The shiny fabric highlighted every swell on her, even those she was less proud to display. She had to remind herself that what she was doing was perfectly fine. Married women wore these kinds of things for their husbands.

She took one last deep breath and walked out of the bathroom. The robe hung from her shoulders, giving her the security of being able to tie it closed if it got to be too much while she presented herself to Tom.

He stood at the counter holding an opened bottle of wine, pouring a glass. Glancing up, he lost track of what he was doing instantly. Red liquid pooled in the glass, rising higher as his eyes stayed on her.

“Tom?” Mia softly called his name. “You’re going to spill.”

“Right!” He snapped back to reality with a visible jerk. “That looks lovely on you.”

“Thank you.”

It didn’t take long for dinner to be abandoned in favor of lingering touches and teasing kisses. Gasps and sighs quickly became a music of its own. Candles flickered, casting Tom’s chest in a warm glow as he leaned her back on their bed.

When had he lost his shirt? When did they make their way out of the living room? The hem of her skirt pooled around her waist as her legs folded, wrapping around him as he leaned down to kiss along her chest.

The wine they shared made it hard for Mia to keep track of what was happening or where Tom was. Their bodies moved together on instinct, finding union easily. Her back arched as he slid inside her, his pants falling around his legs.

He kicked them off as he climbed onto the bed, pushing himself deeper. His strong hand gripped her waist. She sighed into him, wrapping her arms around him.

“So soft,” Tom whispered as he ran his hand over her side, fingers slipping over the silky satin.

“Strong,” Mia whispered as his muscles flexed. His long hair seemed all the darker cast in the firelight. It made her dizzy, how different he looked.

There was something magical about this night, about the way he moved within her. Each of his sighs made her wish to hear him sigh again. Their lovemaking was tender, slow, and soft.

Orgasms were a funny thing. Sometimes they rocked through Mia’s body. Other times they crashed into her with such power, it felt like the very muscles of her body, not just her limbs but her core itself, would rip apart with the force of it. Sometimes, it would rip the air from her lungs in a scream she could only hope to muffle.

Other times, it was a soft quaking that one rode with gasping breaths and quivering legs. They were soft waves of pleasure that pulled Mia along, stealing the air from her lungs as she clung to the man whose love surrounded her at that moment.

This was the last kind.

Tom’s name was as sweet as sugar on her lips as her walls fluttered around his twitching cock, buried deep within her. It wasn’t possible for a man to be closer to a woman than they were in that moment, but that didn’t stop Tom from grinding into her, trying to push himself deeper as he deposited his very essence inside her.

“I love you,” Tom whispered as he rolled, pulling Mia to rest atop him. His spent cock was now quickly softening inside her.

“I love you, too.”

As sleep claimed Mia, safely tucked in his arms, she knew it was all worth it. Tom was worth it. Unlike Ray, Tom would never hurt her. He wouldn’t shout at her. He would be everything for her she needed in a man, everything she didn’t even know she wanted.

Ray.

He stuck in her mind for a moment. There was something she needed to tell Tom about Ray. If she couldn’t remember, was it important?

What was it?

Oh, yeah. Ray called.

She could tell Tom in the morning.

Want an exclusive sneak peek at my works? Join the Kofi membership for as little as $2 a month today! You'll see the first two pages of the next chapter of Sundew and a peek at upcoming fics!

Tag List: @winterisakiller, @alexakeyloveloki, @jennyggggrrr, @dangertoozmanykids101, @tilltheendwilliwrite @tinchentitri @wizardcherryblossom @buttercupcookies-blog @violethaze @kats72 @soulpiercing @evedia @princess-ofthe-pages, @tom-hlover Get on the tag list of follow #sundew for updates

#Tom hiddleston x ofc #tom hiddleston x oc #Tom hiddleston x original female character #Tom hiddleston x original character #tom hiddleston fanfic #Tom hiddleston fanfiction #tom hiddleston rpf #Sundew

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