#alas enjoy a glimpse

[frobisher-smythe]

🎶shuffle tag!🎶

thanks for tagging me @awistair

shuffle your library + pick ten songs, I won't upload a playlist bc my spotify is between me an god but here's the first ten songs

like crazy - jimin (as god intended)

pierre - ryn weaver

hypnotik - keys n krates

work song - hozier

live well - palace

sos - abba

simple romance - coin

inner child - bts

calgary - bon iver

interlude_dream, reality - agust d

tagging @dashuisofanubis @joysmercer @thechosenanubis and anyone else who wants to :)

[ugh-yoongi]

hi. i would like to request seungcheol (obviously). all i request is enemies-to-lovers. you may do with this what you wish. i leave it up to you to decide exactly how you will ruin my life 😌

tysm for the request my beloved !! he is so enemies to lovers coded i had TEWWW many thoughts (and started three separate wips oops), but here we are. i hope u enjoy this !! can't wait to get the collab fics out of the way so i can torture u further with baseball dk. i picked dodgers hat!cheol just for u. ♡

— we need to talk

pairing: choi seungcheol x f. reader summary: sometimes the only way to win the game is to not play, but sometimes it's not a game at all—sometimes it's four years of emotional build-up with nowhere left to hide. genre: enemies (kinda) w benefits to lovers; frat/university au; smut, angst?, fluff rating: explicit. minors do not interact with this or any of my work. warnings: frat boys. gendered language and insults. swearing. mentions of drugs & drug use (vernon is literally a drug dealer 🤷🏻‍♀️) as well as alcohol. possessive, jealous seungcheol who is extremely down bad and kind of an asshole and would be toxic af irl but is fine in fanfiction probably. this is maybe more "people who used to fuck and started disliking each other along the way bc they can't figure out their feelings" to lovers than enemies. there are very slight, very meaningless mingyu x reader undertones here. jeonghan is a bastard. feelings you think are unrequited but alas! this got softer than i intended oops. smut warnings: seungcheol truly is a man driven to the brink of madness bc of pussy idk what to say. kissing. hair pulling. mentions of masturbation. the dynamics shift in this one a lot, but to be overly cautious i will say dom!cheol and slightly dom!reader undertones that are not implicitly stated or defined. seungcheol uses the term "whore" once, sorry. oral sex (f. receiving). pussy slapping. unprotected sex. if i missed any pls lmk. wordcount: 8k. no i do not know what a drabble is, leave me alone. author's note: title from the song of the same name by waterparks but this was actually brought to you by "i'll never stop" by nsync bc it's their best song and fit the vibes perfectly. anyway, i still do not love writing smut but i am insane over this man so whatever, we persevere. everyone go shower mj in lots of love bc she's the best and deserves it. also everyone say thank u @the-boy-meets-evil for looking over this for me. i did not look at this again after she beta'd it so any mistakes are of my own stupidity. <3

Seungcheol is incensed.

What in the fuck are you thinking, showing up here? Ignoring him, walking by him with nothing more than a brush to the elbow and that sultry, electric gaze? A pair of painted-on jeans and a sheer top?

Who the fuck had invited you?

He looks around the room, gaze heavy under his furrowed brow. Bass thumps in his ears, the music so loud he can feel it in his chest. Still, his feet stay planted on the floor, already sticky with spilled alcohol and god knows what else. He needs to find Vernon—just needs something to get through this very unexpected (and very unpleasant) surprise, take the edge off.

But he can’t see through the sea of people. They’re everywhere, occupying every inch of available space in the house, but he just needs a glimpse of that mop of cornflower blue hair. If he could just—

Instead, he sees a streak of white-blond in his peripheral vision. “Soonyoung!” he calls, grabbing the man by the arm. “Hey, have you seen Vernon?”

Soonyoung stares up at him with glassy, bloodshot eyes, his breath already stinking of alcohol as he shrugs and says, “Dunno, hyung. Think he’s upstairs.”

Fingers still wrapped around his bicep, Seungcheol heaves a sigh. “Go find Jeonghan. He’s on babysitting duty and you’re already fucked.”

“I’m fine,” Soonyoung argues, slurred words giving him away immediately.

Seungcheol scoffs. “Bro, you can barely stand and you reek of shitty vodka. Go drink some water.”

As he sends Soonyoung away, he can feel eyes boring into him, tension wound tight in the center of his back that refuses to dissipate no matter how many times he rolls his shoulders. He turns slowly, already knowing exactly what he’ll find, but knowing does little to stop the hitch of breath as he takes you in.

And he hates it. Fuck, he hates the effect you have on him more than anything.

Hates that he’s still pining after you. Hates that all you have to do is look at him and he’s putty in your hands. Hates that you’re the first person he looks for in a room, the last person on his mind before he falls asleep. Hates you, hates that all of this is unreciprocated, because if Choi Seungcheol is anything, it’s proud. He’s rich, he’s good-looking, he’s pre-law, and the president of this fraternity, for fuck’s sake—he should not be hung up on a girl.

But he’d been doomed from the beginning. Ever since you’d been assigned to him as a challenge to overcome, an impossible task to conquer, he’d been helplessly, pathetically smitten with you.

And fuck if you didn’t know it, too.

So, it’s a game now. A lifetime’s worth of pining for Seungcheol all because his frat was misogynistic and refused to keep up with the times. They’d nodded in your direction and laughed at the confusion on his face, the knot between his brows. Seungcheol couldn’t figure out why his initiation was to fuck a girl, one his brothers wouldn’t even address by name, but when he’d approached you at a party and you’d immediately told him to go fuck himself, he’d figured it out pretty quick.

Call it determination, call it a stubborn streak that refused to quit, but the two of you soon came to a reluctant agreement: you would let Seungcheol lie to his frat, figuring he was attractive enough that people thinking you’d slept together wouldn’t be complete social suicide, and he’d owe you a favor you’d keep in your back pocket for as long as it took to cash in.

Which hadn’t taken long. The stress of finals that first year had gotten to all of you, and it wasn’t long before you were at his door looking for his drug-dealing roommate and a quick fuck.

That was the second time Seungcheol had been doomed to hopeless pining, because once he had you, he knew it’d be impossible to let you go.

Short of outright saying the words, he’d all but told you as much during some alcohol-induced brain shortage junior year. And, in turn, you’d all but laughed in his face.

Right.

Of course.

That was to be expected.

So, you’d continued your… well, whatever this is: quick fucks when both of you were bored or lonely or horny, usually under the influence of something illegal; a mutually tense but beneficial relationship for each of you, because you had been Seungcheol’s initiation and the initiation itself awarded him connections and opportunities. You got a back-up plan. A safe body and warm bed to retreat to when the need arose—one who clearly wanted it to be something more, but was, all things considered, fine with the current arrangement. Didn’t pressure you.

But, as was also to be expected, it was never going to be that simple when feelings got involved. When he started feeling slighted. When he wanted you so bad he ached with it sometimes and it was beneath you to care. Which is why he really, really needs to find Vernon. If he’s going to endure an entire party with you, he’s not going to do it sober.

He takes the steps two at a time, feet stumbling onto the landing as soon as he reaches it. Vernon’s door is the third on the left, and he can hear a separate, distinct bass line from the one booming downstairs that hums louder the closer he gets.

And Vernon knows. Of course he does, because he’s yanking his door open before Seungcheol has even raised a hand to knock, the stench of weed seeping out into the hallway, and all he needs is a quick look at Seungcheol before he pulls the door open wider and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States of America,” as if he’s speaking into a microphone. When Seungcheol doesn’t react, he awkwardly tacks on, “Hi, hyung. I’m assuming she’s here.”

Seungcheol nods, dumbly, and stands as awkwardly in the center of the room as someone who’s about to ask their roommate for drugs tends to be. “Yeah.” Shoves his hands in the pockets of his overpriced jeans so Vernon can’t see the sheen of sweat.

“You looking for somethin’ specific?” he asks, rifling through the top drawer of a tall dresser. “Like, is this an I’m about to fuck her the rest of the night visit or an I need something to help me forget she doesn’t actually like me visit?”

The words come like a reflex. “Fuck you,” he seethes. Vernon’s not wrong, per se, but he didn’t have to go and just… say it like that.

Vernon just shrugs, one side of his worn-out collar slipping down his shoulder as he does so, and Seungcheol can’t tell if he’s actually dressed for the party or not. “Gonna guess it’s the second one, then.”

Seungcheol scoffs. “Well, it’s not,” he insists, knowing damn well he should let it go, that he’s just digging himself a bigger hole, but the truth sits in the pit of his stomach like lead.

And, really, he knows he just needs to accept it. That little strand of hope hasn’t brought him anything but more pain—allowed him to delude himself into thinking it could be something more, something tangible—and it’s time to let it go.

You don’t want more.

You don’t want the label and the relationship.

You don’t want him.

He knows this, but it still tastes sour in his mouth. Still tastes like the chill of autumn when you’d first showed up at his door all that time ago. Tastes like all the blunts you’ve shared and the liquor from all the parties you’d snuck away in the middle of. Tastes like the sharp notes of your perfume, the ones that’d coat his tongue when he’d kiss down your neck—the same notes that stain his bedsheets.

Mostly, it’s the pitying look Vernon’s giving him that hurts the most. He’s above pity. Doesn’t need it, especially not from Vernon Chwe, but it hurts all the same to be on the receiving end of it.

“Give me whatever you’ve got.”

Vernon’s face quickly morphs into surprised concern. “Uh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea. I mean, I’ve got some pretty heavy shit here.”

Heat flares in his belly. The pity was bad enough—now he wants to be patronizing? “Then give me whatever the fuck you think I need,” he snaps. “I don’t care. I don’t have time for this shit.”

“Well, you definitely need to chill,” Vernon mumbles. “You want some dabs?”

“No. Something…” The word feels thick in his mouth. Stronger implies that Seungcheol does heavy drugs, and that’s not true. “Else,” he finally finishes.

Vernon sighs as he continues rifling through the drawer. “Your dad would fucking kill me if I gave you my real heavy shit, so…” He pauses, eyebrows raising in triumph as he finds what he was looking for: a small baggie filled halfway with some nondescript powder. “You want a bump?”

Maybe he should be ashamed at how quickly he agrees, at the urgency and greed with which he grabs the baggie from Vernon’s fingers, but he just needs something. Needs the distraction, the brain fog. He shoves it in his back pocket next to his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

Vernon wrinkles his nose. “Nah. Consider that one a freebie. No offense, but you’re a real piece of shit when you’re like this.”

The implication only pisses him off more. Seungcheol is loaded—he can afford to pay his drug dealer, thank you very much—but he’s not like anything. “I’m sorry?”

True to his nature, Vernon barely shrugs. “I’ll put it on your tab, hyung,” he says in a way that implies he’s not at all going to do that and is only saying so to get the fraternity president off his back.

Jeonghan (23:12) Better come get your girl. Kim Mingyu’s dick looks like it’s halfway up her ass by now. Jeonghan (23:12) Uh oh! I think I just saw a testicle

Seungcheol stares down at his phone, hands trembling in anger. Of course it’s Mingyu. That pathetic loser has been taking up residence on the subs bench ever since you’d made out with him months ago in an admittedly successful attempt at payback. Seungcheol had hooked up with some downgrade at a party one time and you’d gone and made out with his friend. It was hardly a fair trade.

Seungcheol (23:14) Good for Mingyu, he can deal with her then Seungcheol (23:14) I’m busy Jeonghan (23:14) Doing what? Jerking off in the upstairs bathroom again? Jeonghan (23:15) Do you know what size condom he wears btw? Looks like I might need to fetch him one if you don’t want to take care of another man’s baby Jeonghan (23:16) Although, to be fair, you might want to sit this one out. He has way better bone structure than you. Might be a blessing in disguise Seungcheol (23:16) Fuck you Jeonghan (23:16) Better be nice to me, Choi Seungcheolie~ that might be the only fuck you get tonight

Seungcheol needs better friends. He needs a lot of things, really, but number one on his to-do list is to never let Jeonghan be on babysitting duty ever again. Somehow he’d forgotten how obnoxious Yoon Jeonghan is when he isn’t stoned and half-asleep on a couch somewhere.

For now, he just stomps down the hallway; locks himself in his room and doesn’t bother to turn on the light. He’s not going to be here long. Just enough time to do this line, change his t-shirt, and come up with a game plan, because he’s not going to let Mingyu even entertain the thought of being able to have you but he also can’t appear desperate. Not just to you, but to everyone else. Choi Seungcheol is not clingy, especially not over a girl.

Especially especially over a girl who doesn’t even want him like that.

But the longer he sits in the dark, the more trouble he has finding his resolve. Can’t bring himself to dig that baggie out of his pocket. Can’t drag his t-shirt over his head. Can’t bring himself to think about anything other than Mingyu’s hands all over you, and fuck, does that image drive him insane.

Does he touch you like Seungcheol does?

Does he coax those same jagged whimpers from your mouth like Seungcheol does?

Does his semi-hard cock feel as good pressed against you?

God, he’s so fucked. Utterly and completely fucked. And he wonders if this would be as bad if he’d just kept his mouth shut, took that secret to his grave instead of fooling himself into thinking it could be more. If it wouldn’t have devolved into… this. You’d always told him not to get attached, that sex was just sex and there was no need to ruin a good thing. But Seungcheol is a selfish man, always has been, and what if? is a dangerous question.

Jeonghan (23:36) Wow, you’re a fucking pussy. Stop hiding in your room like a little bitch. Seungcheol (23:36) Fuck off

He can’t go down there. Not because he’s a coward, but because he’s barely tethered to his sanity as it is. Something about you brings him out of his mind, makes him toss whatever good judgment he has left to the wind. Seungcheol is far too impulsive when it comes to you, reckless in ways that have all twenty years of his social training weeping in a corner; have alarm bells ringing in his brain. So, no, he can’t go downstairs right now because he knows he’ll do something stupid. Stick not only his foot but his entire lower body in it. He should’ve listened, yet here he is, dick pulled halfway out of his jeans because the thought of you alone gets him hard but his pride won’t let him jerk off to the image of anyone touching you that’s not him.

Forget whatever Jeonghan had called him. He’s a fucking fool. A moonstruck, delusional fool who’d tricked himself into thinking he could swim when he can barely tread water.

You (23:41) Something wrong?

Oh, here we fucking go, he thinks. Because this is Seungcheol’s game—one he’d perfected years ago, the one where he’s coy and chilly, never too eager, never committed. Just a little bit of a tease. Barely enough to keep them on the hook, a little needy; still enough to keep them coming back. But you’d taken one look at him all those years ago and had him pegged immediately. Figured out his game and learned the rules, used them against him. Now you watch him flounder with a smile on your face.

Seungcheol (23:42) Never knew you were so needy baby. First you show up uninvited and now youre missing me?

But just because there’s now a player two doesn’t mean he’s doomed to lose. He knows how you look when you’re on your knees for him. Knows how you sound when you’re begging to cum and stuttering out his name like you’re singing hymns. Knows how you look with your eyes rolled back after he’s fucked you dumb. Kim Mingyu doesn’t know shit.

Seungcheol knows he’s the only one fortunate enough to experience you like this.

And god does it kill him.

You (23:44) Don’t act stupid

A pleased exhale of laughter, an equally-smug smirk. Yeah, this is still Seungcheol’s game, the crown still sitting atop his head. You can let Mingyu grind his dick against you all you want, but Seungcheol is still the one you’re seeking out, pouting at the fact he hasn’t come to find you yet.

You (23:44) Mingyu invited me

Oh, you’re good—know just which buttons to press and how much pressure to use. Whatever smug expression Seungcheol had been wearing slides off his face immediately, tongue pressing into his cheek.

Seungcheol (23:46) And yet youre looking for me? You (23:47) Don’t have to look for you to know you’re upstairs sulking in your room because Jeonghan tattled on me like a fucking five year old Seungcheol (23:49) Maybe you should come up here then Seungcheol (23:49) Away from prying eyes

You don’t reply immediately. It’s just long enough for Seungcheol’s brain to conjure up something indecent—the way you’ll straddle him, the way his cock will feel pressed against the apex of your thighs; the goosebumps that’ll raise on his arms when you work your tongue along his neck, that spot near his collarbone you know he likes. His cock throbs against the confines of his jeans when he thinks about the devastated look on Mingyu’s face when you make up some excuse to get away from him, to traipse up the stairs and fall into Seungcheol’s bed, when he realizes he’s not going to have you.

You (23:56) It’d be pretty rude to leave my date, don’t you think? You (23:57) If you want me so bad, come down here and get me yourself

Seungcheol doesn’t play games; doesn’t compete because he has no competition. He’s always been given whatever he wants on a silver platter, no questions asked, so he’s wholly unprepared for this turn of events. What he knows he should do (respond to your text and tell you to fuck off, that you know where he is should you stop being a brat and change your mind) is not what he does (tucks his dick back in his jeans, finally throws on a clean t-shirt, and takes his time descending the stairs so he doesn’t look too eager), because logical thought gets tossed out the window entirely wherever you’re concerned.

“Ah, if it isn’t our resident pissbaby making his grand re-entrance.”

Seungcheol clenches his jaw for the nth time and glares. “Fuck off, Jeonghan.”

The man in question laughs—the annoying raspy one that grates on Seungcheol’s nerves—and hands over a cup of something brown and pungent. “Well, judging from your attitude, and the fact you’re barely hiding that boner you’ve got, you clearly didn’t spend your time away jerking off. What finally got you down here, the promise of cheap whiskey I nicked off some freshman or the fact that your girlfriend’s about two seconds from getting a public indecency charge courtesy of Kim Mingyu?”

Well. Jeonghan may be an asshole but he’s not wrong. Even through the crowd of people and the haze of whatever’s in his cup and a contact high, Seungcheol spots you immediately. Your back is pressed against Mingyu’s chest, his fingers gripping tight at your waist as you roll your hips in time with his. Whatever manufactured filth he’s whispering to you draws a smile, causes you to reach up and tug sharply at his hair. Fuck, Seungcheol can almost hear Mingyu’s moan from across the room, and his blood quickly heats to a rapid boil.

Another chuckle from the demon beside him. “Stop fucking laughing,” Seungcheol snaps, still unable to take his eyes off of you. “Fuck this. I’m going back upstairs. Make sure everyone’s out of here by three. I’m not paying for another noise citation.”

Jeonghan rolls his eyes. “I’m absolutely not going to do that.” He shoves a bottle of something in Seungcheol’s hand. “Take this and think of me when you’re crying yourself to sleep because Mingyu stole guaranteed pussy right out of your hands.”

“Why do you do this?” Seungcheol asks, shoving at Jeonghan’s shoulder roughly. “You never know when to fucking quit.”

Another streak of white-blond. “Hey, no fighting!” Soonyoung slurs, trying his best to push Seungcheol to the other side of the kitchen with his useless, limp arms.

This attracts the attention of Joshua, who struts into the room looking straight out of Fashion Week, much like he always does. He hasn’t even broken a sweat. “Aw, are Mom and Dad fighting again?” he asks, his lips tugged into a smirk. He ignores Seungcheol’s scowl as he fixes himself a drink. “You know Mingyu only does it to get a reaction out of you,” Joshua adds, quieter this time, as if he’s telling Seungcheol a secret only meant for the two of them to share.

“What’s her excuse, then?” Seungcheol fires back, because even if he doesn’t like it, Joshua’s right. This is exactly the kind of behavior he’d expect from resident campus whore Kim Mingyu, but he never expected you to go along with it.

Joshua cocks an eyebrow. “She doesn’t need an excuse, Cheol. She’s not your girl.”

Even though it’s a truth he already knows, it somehow hurts worse being spoken in plaintext, a hushed conversation in a crowded kitchen. Being let down gently. Seungcheol knows he needs to make a decision. He needs to let you go and start moving on with his life; can’t be having these quasi-meltdowns during frat parties anymore. Can’t be possessive and spiteful. You don’t want him. Everyone knows you don’t want him, so that’s all there is to it. Maybe you’ll want Mingyu and he can finally wash his hands of this forever, scrape the jealousy off his tongue.

He steels himself. Rolls his shoulders back, cracks his neck. Navigates the crowd in the living room until he reaches you and your so-called date. Grabs you by the elbow—gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt but firm enough to send a message—and says the two of you need to talk. Upstairs. Now. Mingyu just smiles like he knew this was coming and presses a pointless, wasted kiss just below your ear. Seungcheol tells him to fuck off, too, and Mingyu grins wider, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

As he guides you to his room, he doesn’t think about the way your hand fits in his. Doesn’t think about how this is going to be the last time he has you. Doesn’t think about who’ll have you after. Doesn’t bother to wonder if you’ve finally changed your mind like he had all those other times he’d walked this same familiar path with you in tow. Because it’s the last time. Whatever happens once it’s over is out of his control.

Perhaps that’s what it’d always been about. Seungcheol has always been spoiled and selfish and so terribly, terribly desperate to prove he’s more than his family name and family money. So, yeah, he’d wanted the control; wanted what was never his for the taking. You’d always been the opposite—his perfect little counterpart. Always so pliant and careless and free: everything Seungcheol tried so hard to be but couldn’t, and that’s where the switch flipped.

Someone like you isn’t meant to be controlled.

What he used to want so badly now tastes rancid in his mouth.

The door locks behind you. Seungcheol doesn’t meet your eye as he says, “You got what you wanted. Are you done being a fucking brat?” It’s not a tone he usually takes. Usually he’s dirty, a little possessive, willing to let you set the pace. He doesn’t miss the way your breath hitches. “I asked you a question.”

“Seungcheol—”

He clicks his tongue, stalks closer until you’re nearly in his grasp. Your eyes close instinctively as if you’re expecting his mouth on yours. Instead, he threads his long fingers in your hair and pulls. “What’s so hard about answering a simple yes or no question? Did you really want Mingyu’s dick so bad you’ve gone dumb all of a sudden?”

You gasp. “No.”

“No what?” Seungcheol chides. “No, you’re not done being a brat? Or no, you weren’t just downstairs acting desperate and pathetic for mediocre cock?” He runs his thumb across the seam of your lips, follows their movements as you speak.

“I wasn’t—”

A low, mocking chuckle. “You were, baby.” Sounds condescending; speaks to you like you’re a stupid child. He’s so close to you now. Can smell the tang of your skin, the sticky notes of your perfume. Feels your breath fan against his own sweat-slick skin. Still avoids your gaze, because as domineering as he appears, he knows he can unravel just as quickly. “Take your clothes off. This is the last time I’m gonna fuck you and I’m not going to ask twice.”

Now you truly look caught off-guard. “What?” Still he ignores you, expensive silver rings clinking into a dish on his dresser one by one, expensive watch following. “What do you mean the last time?”

Deft fingers play at the buttons on his shirt. Not silk, but just as expensive. “Shit. You’re really testing my patience, you know.” You’re still standing at the edge of his bed, staring dumbly as if he’s just going to start spilling all his secrets, give you some kind of explanation. “I believe I told you to strip.”

Unlike Seungcheol, your fingers tremble as they work at buttons and zippers and hemlines, push down denim and remove heels. It’s clear you’re trying to work out what he’s playing at—if this is some punishment for fucking around with Mingyu or if he really means it—but you’re not going to risk asking. Things between the two of you are already tense as it is. Seungcheol has never been wound this tight, never been so ready to snap.

“That’s it,” he praises once you’re left in nothing but a skimpy underwear set you know he likes. “Look at you. Fucking gorgeous. I bet that’s why you think you can get away with embarrassing me, huh?” He grabs your chin, forces you to meet his gaze for the first time since he’d dragged you up here. “Get on your knees. I’m getting tired of repeating myself.”

It’s not an unfamiliar sight—as it is, you usually leave Seungcheol’s room with bruised knees on a good night—but it settles differently in his gut this time. Because he’d dared a glance at you once and knows he can’t do it again, so he watches the top of your head as you fumble with his belt buckle and looks away whenever he thinks you might risk a glance upwards. Finds some point on the wall to focus on. Hisses through his teeth when you pull his cock from his briefs, your hands cold against his flushed skin.

All he wants to do is kiss you. Draw this out. Give you a memorable last time, maybe mark you up a little. He really wants to savor the feeling of your tongue on his cock, but all he can focus on is the fact that he’ll never be enveloped in that wet heat again. He’s never going to feel your mouth working him over, feel you humming around his length because he knows you love the weight of it, you love wrenching away that little bit of control, turning him into a mess.

But he’s not going to dwell. He’s going to thumb at the hinge of your jaw, force it open just wide enough for his cock to fit inside. Then he’s going to fist your hair into a makeshift ponytail, grip it tight, use it to guide your mouth until there’s only an inch of space between you. He’s going to stare down at you, silently revel in how fucked out you look already even though he hasn’t touched you. He’s going to watch the way your fingers dig into your thighs because they can’t touch him. Then he’s going to say—

“Beg me. Beg me to let you suck my cock.”

There’s a flicker of hesitation. Seungcheol doesn’t talk to you like this. This is not the kind of dynamic the two of you have, and Seungcheol finds himself wondering if things would be different if it was. If he’d never started going so easy on you. Would you want him then? Or would you have left a long time ago?

He’s half-expecting you to do that now. You look ready to bolt, to pull your clothes back on and tell him to go fuck himself on the way out. Probably go straight back to Mingyu, let him fuck you hard but routine, the way Seungcheol usually does, the way he knows you like. He expects you to leave, and this is the last time, anyway, so he figures he has nothing left to lose.

“I’m going soft,” he snaps, the admonishment harsh on his tongue. When you look up at him, his jaw is clenched, eyes narrow. “You have one fucking job and you can’t even do that properly? Who’s going to want a dumb little whore that can’t follow simple instructions?”

He watches your eyes squeeze shut involuntarily. Wonders if he’s gone too far before deciding he doesn’t care if he has. It’s the last time, anyway, so it’s not like it matters. Watches the indents in your thighs grow deeper. Watches you inhale and try to steady your breathing.

Watches your eyes snap open, any trace of hesitation long gone. “Did you make that other girl beg for you?”

Seungcheol snorts, amusement showing all over his face. “Is that what this is about? You’re still mad I hooked up with some other girl so you act like this?” He clicks his tongue at you, fists his cock, slicking it up. “Are you jealous?”

“No,” you answer simply, “I’m just trying to figure out why you think you can speak to me however the fuck you want.”

Seungcheol’s hand stutters along his length before it stills, your words sharp and immediate against his skin. He should’ve known. Shouldn’t have thought something like this would work on you, that you’d like it, and he’s halfway to soft and throwing his hands up and tucking his dick back into his briefs when you say, “Answer the question.”

“What?”

You tsk. Move your hands from your thighs to his, nails pressing just deep enough to leave crescent moons behind that match your own. Something for someone else to see. “Did you make her beg for you?”

Seungcheol’s brain power decreases the higher your palms go, when your thumbs press into the dimples of his hips. Can barely choke out a hissed yes, yeah, fu-fuck when your hand covers his, fingers wrapping tightly around his own as you guide it back and forth, up and down the length of his cock. “What did you make her beg for, Cheol?”

“To—to to-touch me.”

You hum. Tighten your grip on Seungcheol’s hand and laugh as his hips roll involuntarily, seeking the friction. “Touch you how? Like this?”

“Yeah—fuck, yes, like this.”

“Did she? Did she listen to you like a good girl?” Your hand leaves Seungcheol’s only to collect the precum at his tip. “Don’t get all shy now, Cheolie.” You suck your thumb into your mouth and he whines. “Was she a good girl for you?”

You sit back on your haunches. Watch him jerk himself off. “Yeah,” he finally says, word cracking in the middle. “Boring, though. Not like—not like you.”

“No one is like me,” you admonish. “I could’ve told you that for free, before you went off and fucked someone else.”

“Not an idiot,” Seungcheol replies, the pace of his hand quickening. He’s playing a dangerous game; approaching the cliff edge at a dangerous pace. “No-nothing comes for free with you.”

All you do is smile, lopsided and smug. “Mm, that’s true. Guess your little dom moment earlier can just be chalked up to momentary stupidity, hm?” Seungcheol wants to nod, wants apologies to tumble from his lips until you shut him up, but his palm is so slick against his dick, fist tight enough to white out his vision. “Did you make her beg to suck your cock?”

Truth be told, Seungcheol can’t remember much of anything right now. He’s perilously close to coming, right at that precipice, and each filthy word that slips from your mouth just pushes him further to the edge. He remembers Chan inviting him to a party. He remembers a few drinks, a few hits from a blunt, compliments of Vernon; he remembers a girl making eyes at him from across the room—eyes that had looked a lot like yours in the haze of his crossfade. He remembers a locked bathroom and the sound of his voice as he told that girl how to touch him so it felt like you. He remembers her doing whatever he told her to, remembers how eager and submissive she was, how she didn’t mouth off to him the way you always do—

Remembers how unsatisfying it’d been when he came.

You’ve ruined him.

Not a revelation. Not even close to one. Seungcheol has known this for a long time, but that doesn’t mean annoyance doesn’t flare in his belly at the reminder. You don’t want him. Being so hung up on you isn’t doing him any favors, just means he’ll have a longer drop when this is all over. God, what the fuck is he doing?

He wants you so badly he’s aflame with it. He wants you so badly he can barely look at you anymore. He wants you so badly it consumes him, drives him insane, has him all fucked up and seething. He wants you, he wants you, he—

Loves.

Reality washes over him like a cold wave. Knocks him backwards, drowning, desperately trying to remember how to breathe. In, out; in, out—and none of it changes a goddamn thing.

Four years of this. Four years of touches exchanged in the dark, behind locked doors. Four years of yearning and trying and failing. Four years of everything getting lost in translation, because it’s hitting him now, but shouldn’t he have felt it before? Shouldn’t all those ‘drive me fuckin’ crazy, can’t fucking stand you’s he spoke into the crook of your neck rang hollow?

“Cheol—” you say, because you asked him something, tried to play along with this whole stupid charade, and he knows he’s frozen, just standing there, hand still wrapped around his cock, and he needs to say something, he needs to fix this—

“I’m a liar,” is what he comes up with. You’re still staring up at him, brows furrowed, pinched in the middle. Move, he wills himself, but nothing happens. “I’m a liar,” he says again, because if he says it enough you’ll believe it. “I’m sorry. I’m—”

“What are you talking about?”

He swallows. I’m in love with you, he wants to say. Feels the weight of the words on his tongue, heavy and pressing, and he thinks you should know. Even if you don’t feel the same, he thinks you deserve to know, but the way you’re looking at him—

He can’t bring himself to say it.

But he can—“Can I show you instead?”

Slowly, you nod. Seungcheol nods, too, still feeling off-kilter as he cradles your face in his hands, thumbs in the contours of your cheeks. Moves them down your neck, your shoulders, down the length of your arms. You meet him halfway, twining your fingers together, and he helps you stand, careful and considerate. At full height, he places a hand in the small of your back to tug you closer, kisses you like it’s the end of the world. Whines into your mouth at your familiar taste, and if he lets himself be delusional enough, he can pretend there’s form and substance to those sounds, that their edges are squared-off to form the words he wants to say.

Because it really might be the end of the world. Seungcheol has never known how to play the cards he’s been dealt when it comes to you. Always gets it wrong. Feints one way when he’s meant to go the other, takes the field with two left feet, always playing catch-up. Maybe the mistake was treating it like a game. Maybe the mistake was strategizing, only playing to win, because he lays you gently on his bed, fits his body in the space you create for him between your legs, and realizes he already won a long time ago.

He won the first time your eyes met. He won the first time he’d kissed you, more nerves and teeth than anything else. He won the first time you tucked yourself against his side and stared at his bedroom ceiling, half-smoked joint between your fingers, and made fun of the stupid flag he’d hung up. He won every time you took all the bullshit he threw at you and dished it right back. He won every time he had the privilege of tracing mindless shapes into your soft skin.

Every second of your time you chose to give him—all victories.

He presses in further. Groans when your hands move to his shoulders and grip tight; when your nails dig into the skin of his back. “I’ve been so stupid,” he says, punctuating his words with a nip at your ear. Smirks out of the corner of his mouth at your shuddering breath. “Haven’t I?”

“Yeah,” you answer, rolling your hips upward. He grabs at you desperately, tries to keep you still; hisses when you swat his hands away and redouble your efforts. “You’ve been a fucking asshole for a—for a while.”

You can’t see the way he pouts. Wonders, too, if that would work on you, if it’d earn him one of those rare moments of tenderness. “Well I’m trying to—shit, baby—trying to make it up to you, but you seem pretty determined to make me bust right now.”

He can see the way you roll your eyes. See the way the corners crinkle after as you laugh softly, breathlessly, still trying to chase a high Seungcheol refuses to provide. “You deserve it. You tried to dom me, you dickhead.”

Embarrassment sits obvious on his ruddy cheeks. He hides his face in the crook of your neck so you don’t see it, don’t have something to poke at him with later, but you’re having none of it. You thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently, forceful enough to have him pliable, and there it is: there are stars in your eyes as you stare up at him, tender and soft just like he hoped you’d look, and he misses the feeling of your nails on your scalp until you’re tugging at the delicate chain around his neck and pulling him closer. “Just kiss me and we’ll call it even.”

This is how it feels to get struck by lightning, he thinks. Every part of him is on fire, and he’s content to burn as his lips find yours. He sighs happily into your mouth, hikes your thigh higher around his middle, presses in to lay claim to what little space is left between you. Seungcheol is so close he can feel the rapid pace of your heartbeat, because this is not the way you usually kiss. What used to be dirty and quick, a means to an end, now has intent, purpose. He’s kissing you like he wants to steal the air from your lungs to replace it with something better.

Trails those same kisses down the length of your body. Open-mouthed at your neck, your collarbones, the space between your breasts. Teasing and slow in the space between each rib, just to watch the way your skin pebbles. Hungry and insistent at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, because if he’s feeling this unhinged, he wants you right there with him. Can’t bear the thought of still being in this alone. Not anymore.

“Legs over my shoulders.” You listen immediately, and Seungcheol mutters a quiet fuck at the sight before him. “God, you’re so wet.”

“No shit—”

He swats at your clit, delighting in the way your body jolts. “Hush. The only thing I wanna hear out of your smart mouth from now on is my fucking name.” And then he’s diving in.

He eats you out like a man starved; like he could do this every day for the rest of his life and he still wouldn’t be satisfied. Can’t help but rut against the mattress at the way you taste, the way your thighs tighten around his head, the sting as you pull at his hair. Places both hands beneath your ass to lift and drag you closer to his waiting mouth—licks at you wet and feverish, all of this seemingly more for him than it is for you, and you’ll get tired of it soon, just like you always do. You’ll tell him—

“Do it right, Cheol, please—”

And he’ll pull away and tsk, swat at you again. His responding laugh will be cocky and derisive when your body trembles again, frantic with the need for more. “What did I say, baby? Do you not trust me to make you come?” You cock an eyebrow, torn between throwing some sarcastic remark at him and following the rules long enough to get what you want. His voice grows serious as he presses a soft kiss to your core. “I will always take care of you.”

The rest is muscle memory.

The rest has a chorus of Cheol, Cheol, Seungcheol spilling from your lips as he suctions his own around your clit. The rest has you grinding your pussy against his face. The rest has him groaning at the way he’s so wholly consumed by you: the taste of you on his tongue, face soaked, two fingers pressed deep into your cunt. The rest has him saying that’s it, baby, come on my face, I know you can and feeling delirious when he finally pushes you over the edge; when your walls clench around his fingers, breathing fractured, when you grab at him until you’re eye-level and you’re licking into his mouth to taste yourself.

Tastes a lot like I love you.

“Want you to ride me,” he says, gaze half-lidded and pleading. You whine as he moves his thumb back to your clit, tracing slow, slow, slow circles, oversensitive. “Will you do that for me?”

The party seems so far away. Grows even further away when you nod and straddle his lap. Seungcheol sits up, tells you to wrap your legs around him. Can’t stand not touching you; needs every inch of his skin to be covered by you like a bruise—something deep that’ll last for days, weeks, months. The mottled colors will change, but it’ll still be there.

“Need you, Cheol,” you whisper, kissing his eyelids. He hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes.

“You have me,” he answers, but it sounds foreign to his ears—sounds wretched, like the words have been punched out of him. It sounds like forfeit. “Always have.”

You pull back. Study his face. Run over his plush bottom lip with your thumb. It feels like an eternity of silence before you speak. “No, I haven’t,” you insist, tone insistent but delicate, like you’re trying to convince him of it, too. “Not like this.”

I love you.

You lift your hips just enough to sink down on his cock. Seungcheol’s moan is loud and unabashed, not afraid to let anyone hear the way you make him feel. All he can think is familiar: he knows your blinding white heat; has made countless homes in your tight grip he still holds the keys to; has done this so many goddamn times it’s second nature.

He was an absolute fool to think he could ever walk away.

You roll your hips, taking him deeper like you’ve got something to prove, body moving on its own sinuous accord. Seungcheol loves you like this, when you know exactly what you want and aren’t afraid to take it. When you press sloppy kisses to his neck, the column of his throat. When he grabs at your hips, tries to move you faster along the length of his cock, and you swat his hands away. When your rhythmic up-and-down turns into a slow grind that has you gasping and breathless, pussy spasming around him.

“Goddamn, I love this pussy,” he chokes out, fingers gripping tightly at the sheets since he can’t touch you. He’s mindless with pleasure, feels himself start babbling nonsense he can’t make sense of, and it’s overwhelming, having you like this. Isn’t sure how he’s survived this long, but maybe you were right.

Maybe it was never like this before.

Usually he’d take you from behind, quick and dirty, hands digging into the meat of your ass, palm cracking down on it every now and then, imparting white heat of his own. Usually he’d have you beneath him, knees pressed to your chest, all condescension as you told him, eyes rolled back, that he was too deep, that you couldn’t take it, and he’d rub at your clit and tell you you could as he dragged another orgasm out of you. Usually he’d be so frenzied and worked up he’d take you against the door, sweats pushed to mid-thigh, forearms straining as they held you up.

So, yeah—this is different. This is a patient, sensual dance to the finish line. This is Seungcheol in his rawest form: a live wire, vulnerable, anxious. This is the unknown, because something has to come after but he doesn’t know what it is.

This is Seungcheol throwing caution to the wind, leaning in close enough to taste the salt on your skin, and saying, “I love you.”

This is Seungcheol planting his feet and fucking up into you, unwilling to hear your response. Sometimes ignorance is bliss, but sometimes bliss is just bliss, and he’ll willingly take either.

This is you coming undone on his cock, breathing rapid and ragged, pupils blown wide as you stare at him in awe.

“Say it again.”

Someone slams into the wall just outside Seungcheol’s door, and all at once the real world creeps back in: the thrumming bass line of the music downstairs; laughter, shouting, and yelling; fists banging on shut doors—but he hears you loud and clear. Presses each word into your mouth this time and groans when you swallow them. Barely makes a sound as he spills inside of you, feeling like every nerve in his body is aflame.

The two of you are quiet for a time as you try to catch your breath. Seungcheol only moves to grab his duvet and wrap it around your shoulders, smiling fondly at the small thank you you mumble, seemingly still bogged down, well-fucked.

He presses a tender kiss to the corner of your mouth.

“Okay?”

You nod, push at him until he lays back and pulls you with him, lets you use his firm chest as a pillow. That flag you’d made fun of before isn’t up there anymore, but Seungcheol feels warm at the memory anyway, almost laughs at the comment he imagines you’d make.

Clears his throat. Tries to find his courage. “I really am sorry,” he tells you again, because it doesn’t matter if he loves you if he doesn’t know how to be good at it.

“I know, Cheol,” comes your easy reply. You’re tracing shapes on his stomach that have his muscles contracting. “I know you love me, too.” You sigh, press your lips to his rib cage. “Who knew it’d only take making out with Mingyu to get you to admit it.”

A wild laugh tumbles out of him. “Fuck off.” He can feel your grin.

“You got a fucked up way of showing it, though.”

He hums, holds onto you a little tighter. “Go easy on me, I only figured it out about an hour ago.”

“An hour?” you faux-gasp, make like you’re about to leave. “I’m outta here. I know my worth. If I’m going to say it back to someone, they need to be in love with me for at least two.”

He chokes at the implication, heart threatening to beat right out of his chest and into yours. He knows he looks exactly like the moonstruck, loved-up loser he is, and he coughs to cover it. “That’s what I said,” he lies. “Two hours. You must’ve heard it wrong.”

No, it was never like this.

[fhrlclln]

I’ve been living for the Qimir fanfics. Can you write one where reader and him were lovers in the Jedi together, he thought she died, but actually the Jedi wiped her memory. When he bumps into her again he’s FURIOUS but also just happy that she’s alive and tries to get her memory back. Lots of angst but with a happy ending?👀

and here you stand | qimir

SUMMARY -> a man in your dreams feels like a distant memory you cannot seem to touch upon but when a particular meeting with a man in the streets of olega might be the answer to everything.

qimir x fem! reader

masterlist

GENRE -> angst & fluff

WC -> 2.85k

a/n: aNONz i hope this fic is what you requested for!!! i tried my best with the angst 😩🤌

likes, comments and reposts are greatly appreciated !! <3

enjoy !!

the dream always started out softly...

a glimpse of a man with short black hair, dawning a padawan braid, smiling and laughing with you in the gardens of the jedi temple in coruscant. he’d always kissed you and for a moment in the dream, you could feel his hands gently caress your cheek and see the loving gaze of his eyes on you. but the dream was always somewhat blurry... you can't remember the young man's face but his laughter, his love you feel is everything to you. it was comforting, it felt like home but the moment his laughter ends, the dream did as well.

and you wake up with a longing feeling stuck in your chest.

you'd try to remember your times as a former jedi, a former padawan in your time in coruscant. hoping you could somehow remember the man in your dreams, for it felt it was a distant memory than a dream but it always ended up with no avail. it was painful enough that you missed being back in coruscant and to reoccur those memories again in hopes of remembering who the man in your dreams makes it even more painful.

that's until you had just given up at some point on remembering him.

you now reside in a humble planet called olega. the city was large enough for you to explore it in your first days of living there. you opened up a merchant stall, selling the local fruits and vegetables for consumption. leaving the order was a tough decision the council had made upon you, you were a gifted student, gifted with the force. it was strong within you but alas, you failed, you could not somehow learn to control your own self- your own emotions. you can't remember why back then and it haunts you to this day of your failure as a jedi.

but that didn't matter now.

your quiet life of being a merchant had its perks. you were not bound by an order anymore. there were no more responsibilities and expectations placed upon you. you didn't need to train every single day- but sometimes you missed your training lessons. you did miss your former master and padawans, for they were the second family to you. even if it was told that at that time, familial or romantic feelings were forbidden, you still saw them like that.

granted, it was hard to fall back into the normal routine of an everyday civilian. you had been with the order since you were a child. you still would close off your emotions from time to time with the people you grew to know with in olega, but you got the hang of it eventually in the years of living here. but sometimes you wished to go back to coruscant, hoping if you'd visit the gardens and the great tree, you might remember the man in your dreams.

but here you are, standing behind your stall as you packaged the fresh fruits for a customer. you handed to them with a smile on your face and humbly accepted their credits. you sigh, sitting on your stool as you counted your savings to see if it would cover the rent you have to pay for this month. it was enough, your stall was popular in demand because of how fresh your picks was and you were grateful for that. you stand up again, noticing that you had to close now, seeing that almost all your merchandise was sold.

"closing off early again?" the cheery voice of your fellow merchant quips. you laugh, shrugging as you started packing away.

"i am!" you chuckled, checking if everything is in place before you could leave. you adjusted your satchel as you put on your hood, bidding your fellow merchants a kind goodbye as you went off.

a hot meal would be nice, you think to yourself, before you'd head home. walking through a crowd, you squeeze yourself in as you excused yourself to get by. the heart of the plaza certainly was always full of people at this time. for a moment, a watchful feeling washed over your senses as you look up ahead.

your eyes meet with a man’s. his black hair is slightly disheveled and greasy and the way his eyes were set upon you made you confused for a moment how hard his stare was. you look away, getting out of the crowd, an uneasy feeling settling in your chest as you walk away quickly.

qimir stands still in the middle of the plaza, his heart is thumping loudly against his ribcage. it couldn't be you. he doesn't know if the glimpse of you in the crowd was a mere apparition of the force but the way you looked at him had him thinking otherwise. you disappear from the crowd and he is hot on his feet to catch up to you.

he watches you go into an alley way, he follows in-suit, thinking that you’re trying to escape him. his nostrils flare, his agenda for today to go to the local apothecary is out of his plans as he follows you.

he watched you die.

he was sure of it, that memory of you of pushing him into his own ship whilst you stand guard to help him buy him some time to get out of coruscant never left his mind. it haunted him until he lives and breaths and it enraged him that you foolishly given your life for him to flee before his own former master would have killed him.

you were supposed to be together, right?

he thinks bitterly as he squeezes in the alley way. a lot of questions pop in his mind, were you still with the jedi after all you and him have suffered through because of them? that you willingly stayed? that you faked your own death just to leave him? those thoughts made him feel betrayed. you were his light when he was in the darkness. you were the one that understood him despite your refusal to let yourself be seduced by the dark path. he understood you as well yet he hoped that you would see truth that what the jedi do is all a lie.

he quickens his steps and your figure is starting to inch closer to him. he immediately reaches out to grab your arm and push you towards the wall making you gasp as you struggled in his tight death grip as he cages you with his whole body before you could defend yourself.

“let go!” you yelled at him as he ignored your angry yelps as you tried to get out of his grip. he merely stares down at you as you looked up at him. he observes, waiting if an emotion of guilt would cross your face… but there was none? only confusion and annoyance were plastered across your face. and he somehow indulges in your close distance, the feeling of you in front him again has him weak. here you are, warm and smelling the same after years since he had fallen into a rabbit hole of revenge and hatred for the jedi that he thought they killed you.

“i said-“ you weakly tried to pry him off you. your heart was beating so loudly, fearing what this unknown man would do to you. you wished for a moment that the force could help you. he was much stronger, you could tell, even if he looked like a twig underneath his robes. “-let go!”

“you… you’re supposed to be dead.” he breaks his silence. your brows raised with confusion. dead? you wonder if this man was crazy for thinking of you like that. not once did you remember angering any person here for this kind of response.

“i’m standing right here, buddy.” you roll your eyes as he lessens his grip on your arm. and here you do stand, qimir thinks. you relax for a bit as the hard stare he gives you softens slightly. something in him tells him that you don’t even recognize him. and that makes him worried.

“do you know me?” he tests his theory, hoping it was not true. you know him, you would never forget about him.

you two were your other halves of each other’s body, soul and mind, never to be separated even if the cosmos were in between you two. you would always find each other in the end. even in death, you were his other soul, the half of his battered and broken heart. he knows you vow the same as he heard those vows underneath the great tree in the gardens of the jedi temple in coruscant.

i will never forget you. as you had said to him when his lips last touch yours before you threw him into his ship, leaving him in agony seeing you turn on your saber before his master slashes you with her saber.

i love you, qimir.

he blinks wetly. there’s a hollow feeling inside his chest when he sees that you don’t genuinely recognize him the slightest bit.

“…no? no, i don’t know you. look, sir, if you have any problem with me or you want money, i have some credits-“

“what i want is for you to tell me the truth.” he cuts you off, wondering if you were lying as he tries to peer into your mind. he feels furious, furious that you are acting like this but the desperation… the desperation of trying to see you at least recognize him is taking over. you feel the hum of the force, so familiar even if it had been years since you trained. but it wasn’t just that, his force felt familiar.

“…you wield the force.” you say as your eyes widened when you feel him try to pry in your mind. an instinct in you erupts as you somehow managed to surprise him by grabbing him by his arm and the collar of his robe then pushed him into the wall that you were pressed against, making the roles reverse. qimir lets you do that as he looks down at you, a sadness in his eyes as he realizes that you don’t remember him.

what happened to you?

“you don’t remember me…” he whispers, defeated. he grips your wrist gently as a congested look of hurt is across his face.

“and you know me?” you ask, somehow feeling like he knows you more intimately than you had expected. confusion is breaking your calm mind, it frightens you that somehow you feel like what he’s saying is so close to the truth but you can’t discern it clearly. you know nothing of him. you let him go and qimir almost wobbled in his knees when your touch is gone.

he nods and your chest suddenly hurts. you back away, frightened and confused, it was overwhelming that you feel for him but don’t remember him. before qimir could utter anything else, you walk away. he watches you go, sensing that something was wrong. something had been wiped away in your mind with the memories of him and he feels lost. the one person that had stayed with him throughout his grievances and frustrations, the one good person he thought dead and the one woman he loved doesn’t remember him.

he’ll have to talk to you again when he wills himself.

・゜゜・．

it had been days since you last saw that strange man and your dreams have been getting even more vivid.

it was scaring you.

remembering the look in his eyes, you saw that he did in fact know you. but you don’t know him. sometimes when you wake up now after dreaming of that young man in your dreams, it felt like something in you was lost. and that your mind was actively trying to remember, trying to hold on what was missing but it always fails. and it leaves you feeling so lost and confused.

you sit by your bed now. you haven’t started your day like the usual. you felt sick, nauseous and incredibly exhausted of trying to will yourself to remember that strange man. his touch felt familiar when you remember it, his voice was somehow a comfort and his gaze… you know you would be in trance with those dark eyes of his that spoke of tenderness.

your eyes felt heavy as the sun peaks through the blinds of your windows. you sigh, weakly trying to get up. you felt you were about to fall back onto your bed again until a knock on your door surprises you. you freeze, the knocks then grew more louder and you sighed, thinking it was your landlord as you get up, wrapping your cloak around you.

you push the red button on the control panel as the sound of your door swiftly opening doesn’t ready you for him to be standing by your doorstep. you freeze, seeing that he’s dressed in another way-too-huge robes on him. he looks at you for a moment, taking in your face of confusion.

“i just want to talk.” he pleads and you stay frozen in your spot for a moment, wondering if you want to talk with him. but deep inside, your heart is telling you yes as it beats loudly.

“okay.” you say quietly as you let him in. qimir relaxes as you close the door once he crosses the threshold and he stands inside your small apartment.

“how long have you been living here?” he asks, looking around the place. “in olega… i mean.”

“seven… eight years, i think?” you answer as best as you can. “i stayed in coruscant for a couple of months before moving here.”

“why?” he asks further, confused.

“i left the jedi… i used to be a jedi.” you shrug. “it was the council’s decision why i couldn’t continue my training.”

“because?”

“…i- because they said i didn’t control my self, my emotions.” you sighed, not liking that you were telling this stranger of your failure. a stranger that you somehow know. you remind yourself.

“and you’re sure the council had told you that was their true reasons for letting you go?” he faces you, understanding bit by bit what happened to you. "they lied."

“why do you ask me? are you a jedi or was- as well?” you ask him now.

“i was.” he nods bitterly.

you blink. “then how do you know me?”

“we were…” he starts, finding his words to try and let this information on you easily. your memories were wiped as far as he could tell. he thinks that vernestra orchestrated to do this to you when they had disarmed you at some point after he had escaped. for it was to conceal those outside the jedi order of his existence and that it may put them in a political disaster. he scoffs at that in his mind. he wills himself not to go to the local jedi temple and slaughter master torbin himself for this, out of spite he’ll kill them all in there.

“you and i, we shared a bond.” he softly says as he nears you and you let him. “a bond that the order told us that it was forbidden.”

you blink, understanding what he meant. did the jedi lied to you? you think, feeling betrayed by the order that you had respected could do this to you. his soft gaze felt familiar and you reel in to his gentle voice. qimir’s chest filled with hope seeing you slowly start to understand him even though you still don’t know him.

“i am yours.” he takes your hand to his, placing it above his chest. “and you are mine.”

“and together…” those words leave your lips without even you registering it for a moment as he presses his forehead against yours. you shudder, your eyes welling up with tears, feeling overwhelmed as this felt like the scene in your dreams. this man was the young man in your dreams. you realized, why you somehow feel like you know him.

vows in the gardens, whispering it underneath the great tree. two padawans’ hearts beating with one another and the sweet song of love fills their chests as they become one. bound to eternity forever.

“we are bound to each other forever.” he finishes as he wipes the tears streaming down your face.

“i want to remember you…” you sobbed, your own chest hurting for not remembering him. this man that you had just met days ago but felt like you’ve known him forever. qimir smiles sadly as he pulls you into his arms. you cried on his shoulder, loving the way his arms felt around you.

you don’t even know his name and it breaks your heart again.

“i’ll help you remember. we found each other again.” he vows and promises he’ll make you remember. his own eyes wetting with his tears as he nuzzles his face on your soft hair and he whispers. “i promise.”

but all that matters now is that you are with him at last.

[nathaslosthershit]

First Impressions and Poorly Made Assumptions (FC43)

Summary: Franco fell hard and fast for a girl that is actively trying to keep her distance, but she knows she has already lost that battle.

Not many people can say they signed with Williams to join their drivers academy, a contract that would secure a future in F1, and met the love of their life in the same business meeting. But Franco was happy to tell you about it till he was blue in the face.

That is, if he was allowed to tell anyone about it, but alas, no one was to know that Franco had fallen hard and fast for the eldest daughter of Williams legend, Jenson Button. Not even the girl he had fallen for.

Miss. Button wasn’t one for the spotlight. She used to love the attention, but it never managed to be good attention she attracted. 

Her knack for being at the wrong place at the wrong time when it came to reporters and paparazzi finding her far from her best moments had also given her a public image not unlike Jenson ‘playboy’ Button had in the early stages of his career. 

The only difference is that many of those instances made him a bachelor just enjoying his youth and good looks, while they just made her a ‘whore’.

It didn’t help that enough of the bad press caused her to purposefully hide from the spotlight. They only ever saw the bad she didn’t want them to see.

But that had been when she was a teenager. At 21 years old, the public had not gotten more than a small glimpse of her in the background in a while, not since she was accused of sleeping around with the then Williams Academy driver, Logan Sargeant. 

Her and Logan had never done such things. Had there ever been feelings between them, which there had not, being her father’s unofficial mentee meant she wouldn’t have taken a risk in ruining that dynamic for any of them. Her dad loved her more than anything, but he really liked Logan and wouldn’t have been too pleased to have to pick a side. 

The bad press had ruined their friendship, unable to not let the public views of them get in the way, plus with Logan about to secure a spot in the second Williams seat, neither could afford for gossip and rumors to ruin his career so early on. 

Despite how bad Williams publicly handled situations, they did not like any bad press. 

Which is why she handles any work related relationships with care, keeping it completely professional. Unfortunately, keeping it completely professional meant she grew a reputation for being a stuck up bitch. 

She could never win.

The lack of personal relationships at work hadn’t impacted her job before, working in the academy’s media coordination meant she planned things, set them up, and made sure everyone got where they needed to be, but that's all she had to do and she was damn good at it. Even if some of her coworkers were afraid of her, it usually made them easier to work with. But a need for more led her to finding a new position, one that complicated this attitude she had towards her colleges. It would be hard to be a driver relations coordinator when not allowing yourself to develop more than an acquaintance with the drivers. But she was determined to not let it change her ways. 

So when she sat a seat away from the newest academy driver, one that was her age, she tried not to think about how she would be the person in charge of advocating for him, fighting for him, knowing what he was getting and what he needed. She tried not to think about how her job required her to care for his well being. She tried not to think about how the minute she heard him speak in that meeting, her stomach did somersaults. She tried not to think about his brown curls and what it would be like to-

“Um… Miss.Button?” James Vowles said.

“I’m sorry, yes?” she was totally not listening.

“I just thought you would like to introduce yourself to Mr.Colapinto here, as you too will be working closely together during his time at the academy.” 

Before she could begin to make her introduction, the newest academy driver spoke up, “It is very nice to meet you. I was very excited when I heard you would be a part of my team.” 

She wanted to roll her eyes at that. He probably saw what the public saw about her and thought she would be an easy lay. The realization seemed to hurt more than usual for some reason. 

“Yes, well, I would appreciate it if you didn’t make my job harder.”

The room seemed to laugh at this, but she was not joking. 

As everyone packed up after the meeting, as all her colleagues talked about their day and made plans after work, she pretended to busy herself on her computer so as to not draw attention to the fact that no one would talk to her, focusing on maintaining a cool and uncaring demeanor. 

When she finally left the room, a few minutes after the last person cleared, she was startled by a curly haired argentinian on the other side of the door. 

Unfortunately, she was unable to remain cool and uncaring when she screamed, embarrassingly loud.

“Shhh I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Franco said as he waved off the people down the hallway that all peaked out of their rooms to see who was seemingly being murdered in cold blood. “Wow, I did not think you would react like that.”

Unable to stop herself, she angrily asked, “Why the fuck would you wait behind a door to scare a girl you had just met? One, may I add, that has the power to make sure you have a terrible time at the academy.” A great first impression they were making.

“I wasn’t trying to scare you!” She didn’t buy it. “Okay, maybe a bit, but if I knew it would upset you so much, I wouldn’t have. This isn’t how I wanted the conversation to go.”

“Well it is how it's going, and I don’t care to continue it, so it was nice meeting you, Franco.” She snipped at him as she began to walk away, ignoring his calls from behind her. As she got farther, she hurt a groan in defeat and smiled realizing he had given up, quickly looking back to see that he had in fact left. 

She had calmed down from the interaction by the time she approached her office, in fact she actually felt a bit bad for yelling at him.

That was until she opened the door and the man she had thought she lost popped up from behind the door. Again.

This time, she didn’t yell. She just glared at him.

Franco, now frightened and a little turned on, wished she had just screamed. 

Silently, she walked over to her desk and sat down, turning on her computer and beginning to do work, ignoring the man in the room, or trying to.

She was actually just typing nonsense, hoping he wouldn’t notice he was distracting her too much to do work. 

After a few minutes of silence, she heard a familiar groan and saw him sit down in front of her.

Neither spoke, neither wanted to bite first.

Luckily the driver didn’t have the patience the coordinator did. “Come on, we won’t be able to work together if you don’t talk to me.”

“We can work just fine this way.” She said, not looking away from her computer.

“I don’t want to work that way, I want to get along. I want to be friends.”

“Why, Franco? You don’t know me! You are basing your entire perception of me off of what the public thinks. You are here because you think I will be someone easy to get with.”

“Huh? No, I’m not.” “Yes! There are two versions of me the motorsport world knows. Either some irresponsible teenager who was constantly getting into scandals, or some stuck up bitch who works for Williams and had an affair with our rookie F1 driver”

“What! No! That isn’t why I said I was excited to meet you. God, you know you are also making false accusations about me.”

“No, I’m not.” “Yes! You think I am some desperate man who is here to seduce you the second I meet you. When I said I was excited when I heard I was working with you, it's because I know Sargeant and he said you were a good friend of his. That I'd be lucky to work with you.”

Of course Logan said that. Even if their friendship didn’t work through the gossip, they had been close for a while and he was one of the sweetest men she had met in this god awful sport. And as she looked at Franco, she could tell he was being genuine.

Guilt and a bit of embarrassment shot through her, “Fuck, I’m sorry, Franco. I made assumptions about you and got mad when I thought you were doing the same thing.”

He smiled, and damn that smile gave her butterflies, even if she had been mad at him seconds before. “You are forgiven, if you agree to be nice to me from now on.” “I wasn’t being mean, you did start off our first impressions of each other by scaring the shit out of me.”

He groaned, “I thought I was forgiven, can’t we just jump to being friends now?” 

She would have laughed at such a request, she didn’t make friends at work, or out of work really, but something about the way he looked at her had the refusal dying in her mouth.

He smiled when he realized the same, she already couldn’t say no to his charms.

She was fucked, but she wasnt as upset about that as she should have been.

“Fine, we can work towards a friendlier relationship, but I won’t be your friend.”

“I can work with that. Don’t worry you will love me in no time!” He said as he walked out of the room. 

Lord knows he already loved her.

[yanderemommabean]

Yandere Choso X Reader fic

(Quick note! This was a com, who ill keep anonymous, but I was told this was A-Okay to post and share! I hope you beans enjoy! The premise is Choso being affected by Hanami's flower in a sex pollen sense, and it goes from there! CW: Dub-con, but con at the end, chasing through woods, random guy gets obliterated for talking to reader, and reader is female/has AFAB language! Its a bit of a read of 3,500 or more words so get cozy!)

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His skin feels like it's incessantly itching. His eyes glean more dilated and red than usual as he looks around his room, pacing the floors like a beast caged. Choso can’t explain it, honestly. He would just feel better if you were here, safe and sound by his side like you should always be-- Especially after how harrowing that fight got when he was slammed into Hanami. Flower buds burst open when Choso’s body  brutally collided into the curse, and thankfully he was able to take the brunt of what followed, but you…

He clutches his hair a bit, not wanting to think of what could happen if you were any closer than you were. To think anything could happen to you at all made him feel shaky and uneasy and he knows that can cascade into a pit of despair if let to simmer for too long. It’s a bad habit of his; he’s had it for as long as he’s been the eldest brother. It’s never really let up, in fact he’d say it’s worse now since he’s been given people to care for again. He can’t be fully blamed for that can he? After coming into this world, you and Yuuji were really all he had to get him by. Loss hurts. He’s so tired of that aching loneliness.

Going from adversaries to allies was the least of what anyone expected though  he wouldn’t have it any other way. You managed to bring to life what he thought was dead and buried. He’d been so sure he’d strangled it with his own hands.

Choso couldn’t ask for a better friend, yet… Lately he’ll admit, he’s been craving more than just  that. When he gets a glimpse of you, he has to force himself to behave and not gather you into his arms, insistent to press his lips to yours and drink in the taste of you. It’s all he’s been wanting these past few days, picturing how your voice would go weak as you beg him for more. 

Dear god, he wants to give you more. He’d give you anything your pretty beating heart would desire, simply as long as you only called his name; only ever allowed his fingers and lips to explore your body. 

Before you, Choso never once considered looking for a lover. He was sure your kindness could only stretch so thin, denying him anyway. Alas, he was contempt in letting you radiate the sunshine in his life as he loved from afar. After that Hanami incident however, he isn't so willing to sit and wait anymore. 

“Cho?” Your voice calls out, poking your head into the room as he paces like an animal being caged. His eyes dart to where you stand, mouth acting before his brain could catch up. “Where the hell have you been?” 

You’re both stunned by the coldness his usually warm voice held. You stay still, eyes rounded as you decide to fully enter the room to ask just what the hell his problem was. He’d been aggressive before, sure. You’ve seen him be rough and ruthless as he fights, spewing venomous words and poisoned blood to pry open curses like pistachios. Though, never has he had that sort of cold and demanding tone with you. 

“I'm sorry…” he utters, delicate and tired as he walks over, embracing you tightly. You hug him back on instinct, pressing your face into his chest as you feel him play with your hair; pressing his face into it as he breathes your scent in to calm his nerves. Oh dear god, it does the exact opposite. That sweet scent only lets his blood rush south and his mouth goes dry; his fingers start to shake as they brush through your hair and do their best not to yank your head back to force his lips on yours. 

You have to be fucking with him. You have to be. Teasing him with every movement you make as his sanity trickles from his ears and he comes closer and closer to just giving in and sinking his teeth into you. Maybe even in a literal sense with how desperate he is to mark you up and keep others away. Or to show you off and to taunt the other, lesser men who thought they could ever get ahold of a gem like you. Pathetic, really. 

Those vermin need to crawl on their knees and beg for his forgiveness when he gets ahold of them. 

“Look, you’ve been cooped up in here for a while, Choso” You say as you begin to pry away from his tight embrace -was he always this hard to pull away from? “I think you should come with me on a little walk. I know you hate the town so the woods should be fine, right? Fresh air, no paranoid thoughts, you’ll get to see that everyone's ok! I mean, I know how you get when you worry too much…” It’s nothing like that. Though, how can he tell you that? How could he shatter this image you have of him etched into your mind’s eye? How could this beast look at such innocent prey and tell them he’s about to devour them? 

He’ll hide that for now. Maybe you’re right. Maybe this is all because he’s gotten sick from Hanami and needs to just let the air and the sunlight heal him. You had never led him astray before.

He trusts you to lead him; guiding him away from the solitude of his living arrangement as he follows dutifully beside you. His body becomes flushed and red as your scent only grows more and more enticing. Do the people walking by not sense it at all? How delectable you smell? How you desperately need to be stuffed to the brim until your voice is broken? 

A deep breath, and the curse composes himself. Breeding you in public wouldn’t be ideal anyway. These sick humans would want to taint you, take you away, try to have a piece for themselves, and he wouldn’t hesitate to level a few buildings to make them scatter like the roaches they are. 

“Hey, is there anything else you’re not telling me? I mean even in messages you seem, I don’t know…Off '' You ask, stopping mid walk to turn and look up at him. His long hair was down from his usual pigtails and in this light his eyes held more of a dark, dare you say hunter-like aura; it only added to the man's beauty. His scowl seemed to grow as he watched more people walk by, getting way too close to you-- way too comfortable with your personal space. 

The woods was just another five minute walk away, and yet it felt like an eternity trying to get there. 

“Well, some troubling thoughts have been arising” He admits, while rather harshly yanking you closer as the sidewalk turns into a path that leads into the trees. 

“These people need to get away from us. I’m about to strike down the next one who gets too close, I swear.” He grits out, teeth showing in a snarl as he looks over his shoulder, watching as the last two people he hoped would be on this trail were leaving. 

You aren’t sure what to even say, you’ve never seen him this high strung before. That’s honestly saying a lot with what you’ve seen Gojo and Yuuji  put him through. But in all seriousness, you were beginning to feel uneasy, like something dark was bubbling beneath the surface. You are starkly reminded that he is in fact, a special grade curse.

“L-let’s just calm down and get to the woods before we vent ok?” You say with a forced laugh, feeling the energy shifting even more as a jogger comes running up the way, and stopping to catch his breath. He hunches over, hands on his knees as he lets his lungs get in whatever air they could.  With a wipe to his brow, he began smiling up at you two with what Choso saw as a flirtatious smile while you only saw a friendly one. “Careful out there” he says between breaths, standing up fully. “It’s getting dark. You know how those trails get when you can’t see as good. Hate for a cutie like you to get lost…” he says, looking like he was moving in to press closer. “Especially with someone like him-” he whispers, gesturing vaguely “-are you safe with him? Do you trust him?”.

After that question, you feel as though a snap of electricity went through the air. 

That’s when it all goes downhill. The warm splash mixed with the thudding of a now headless body hitting the ground, you can’t comprehend what you’re seeing for a few horrifying seconds. It's silent somehow. That’s the worst part. It’s like the world isn’t aware that a man was just beheaded and killed before your very eyes, his lifeless body now bleeding out on the dirt before you and the curse who did the horrible deed. 

“He touched you” Choso spits, eyes holding a viper-like stare as he wipes his cheek, a blood streak following his knuckles as he spits at the man's corpse. You act on instinct. You rush forward, your feet carrying you like your life was about to end, and for all you knew, it was. There wasn’t any semblance of the Choso you knew in those eyes as he struck down the innocent man who wanted to check on you. You can’t even begin to process the words Choso is throwing at you as he chases you through the rocks and trees, the sun beginning to fully set as the hunt begins. 

You feel like a deer trying to sprint away from a predator. Every flicker of your eyes shows his face, still blood speckled as he runs after you. Every twist and turn you take only makes your heart beat faster as you look for any possible hiding spots, anything to shield you from whatever wrath Choso has had buried within him these last few days. Why? Why is he doing this? He seems so evil and terrifying! You almost let out a sob, hunching over behind a large tree so your breath could come back to you. “Don’t you dare show feelings for someone like him” Choso snarls, but it’s far away, his voice sounding strained as he tries to speak. “Don’t you get it? I did that to protect you! All these people, they…They don’t want what's best for you, they want to hurt you!” Hurt you? Telling you to be safe was hurting you? No, Choso’s just lost it, he’s gone completely crazy! 

“Y/N…You know I’d never hurt you” His voice pacifies, coming closer and closer as you fear trying to flee from the tree you’re behind. Oh god please, please don’t let him find you. Don’t let him kill you! “I’d never forgive myself if you were hurt” He continues, stalking closer like a large cat as he follows your scent. “I just want to have you safe. To be pampered. To be mine as I lavish you in my love and adoration” he seemingly purrs, voice dropping an octave as he stalks closer and closer, knowing exactly where you were hiding.

“To have you bear my own children…have you love me as I love you. To taste you. Feel you. Have your body molded to fit mine as we breed like rabbits” he chuckles, dark and sinister as his fantasies seem to take over and spill from his lips. “Tell me, Y/N, are you a gentle lover? Or do you need me to bruise you a little? Rough? Soft? However you need it, you know I’ll give it to you until your pretty little head is empty and only full of thoughts of me.” 

That voice, that sultry purr, was this some sort of sick thrill for him? 

You don’t get much time to dwell on his true intentions. Once you feel his presence behind you, it’s too late. In a blink, your hands are being pinned, and your mouth is covered by his hand. Your eyes meet beautifully dark ones, staring at you like you were a meal he couldn’t wait to devour. 

“Gotcha.” You whimper, shaking your head as Choso simply stares for a moment, soaking in your scent and salivating at the intensity of it. There’s no way he’s not getting a taste of you. He’s even worked up the appetite for it. Once his hand pulls away, you openly sob, shaking and terrified. “Please, please don’t kill me! I-I thought we were-” He clicks his tongue, grabbing your face roughly as he pulls you into an intense kiss. It’s abrupt, unplanned, but he doesn’t care anymore. He’s had enough of these feelings building and building with no release. He’s taking what he wants, and he’s going to be sure you enjoy every bit of what he plans to ensnare. 

You find yourself melting into the kiss. You’re confused, and admittedly turned on at the same time. The panted breaths shared between you are hot and primal. He knows how to suck and bite just right to get your lips to open, allowing his eager tongue to slip inside and taste you, dragging the tip of his tongue over the pad of your mouth while his hand goes to your hair, pressing your face closer so he can kiss you deeper. 

The deep moans Choso makes as his tongue curls around your mouth, they’re deep and hungry, making your thighs clench together even more. Fuck, are you actually into this? You can’t even feel the amount of shame that you think should as the kiss becomes more feverish, both of you panting and moaning into one another's mouths as he tugs and paws at your clothes. He’s so close to just tearing them off if they keep denying him contact with your warm skin. 

He needs you. He needs to feel you pressed against him, bare and naked. He won’t let you get away until his cravings are satiated; your body decorated in his teeth and nail marks. “Choso wait-” You breathe, light headed and confused as you press at his chest, tears still drying on your face. You needed a second to breathe, to think! Everythings happening too fast and too much and- “Say my name again.” he demands, low and carnal as his hands tear off your bottoms. In one fell swoop your wet panties came off with the shorts you wore to make walking easier; showing Choso that at the very least, your body was enjoying this. Who were you kidding? You wanted this to keep going. That fever pitch was only rising and that desperation was filling you too. You wanted to see what he could do to you. Despite being terrified for your life, you knew you were safe. Well, as safe as one could be with a rabid dog like Choso had become. A collared beast isn’t a threat to their owner though, yeah?

“I said-” he barks, pulling you forward to steal another heated kiss, one hand coming to shuck off his own pants. “Say my name again.” 

There was no room for arguing. Decorum had left the moment the chase started. You look up into his eyes, kiss swollen lips parted as you both press forward into an embrace. There was a beat of silence, like you both were caught in admiration of one another. The forest waits on baited breath before you reach your hand up and wrap around his neck, holding yourself up as he wraps your leg around his waist. “Choso.” It sent a visceral shock down his spine hearing you say that in such a way. So needy, begging for him to keep his body against yours as you both find yourself kissing again, his hand coming to cup your ass and hold you up until you’re backed against the same tree you were just trembling and crying behind. Everything blurs after that. There’s clothes coming off completely, possessive phrases being moaned into your mouth or bitten into your skin as he falls apart, greedily taking in whatever he could of you as you two go at it like animals. You swallow, deep and nervous when you feel his cock pulsing against you. Where the hell was that thing hiding? Is that why he wears baggy clothes?! He doesn’t let your mind wander for too long. His fingers grip your face again, tilting your head upwards to meet his lust filled eyes. In this moon light, he looks even more inhuman. A true monster who got what he wanted. A death painting. Part of you feels like you want to see him like this more often. Hopefully with less murder involved. 

“Eyes on me baby. Only me” he commands, holding you still as he guides himself into you, inch by thick inch. Your entire world was on tilt, feeling him enter you while your legs trembled and struggled to hold onto his waist. How was he so strong? Holding you up this easy, it made your mind race and trip over itself with imagining what all he was holding back on, how he could manhandle you as he pleased. 

“Fuck, you’re taking me so good. Just like that.” he praises, and fuck, it goes right to your core, making you pulse and throb with arousal as he begins to pump into you. You feel yourself go taut as he decides to press you into the ground, his cock angling even deeper inside of you as he has you in a damn near mating press. 

“To think I waited for this-” he groans, deep and guttural as he begins to grind into you, over and over, long and languid strokes to drag the pleasure out of both of you. “-Ngh, to think I wouldn’t have you, begging for me and my cock, moaning for me like a good little whore.” “Ch-Choso!” You gasp, choked and stunned as he begins to speed up, the haze only growing as he holds his hand to your throat and buries into you over and over again. “You should have been mine since I fucking laid eyes on you! Fuck-I should make you my pretty little mommy, breed you like your pussy craves until we have more kids than I have brothers.” he rambles, tensing up and manking sure his angles were just right, stroking every bump and ridge inside of you. Your toes are curling at this, being used like some flesh light while Choso babbles away about how he owns you, how he wont let anyone even breathe near you, all while his massive cock carves its place inside of you. It can’t be helped when you scramble for any sort of purchase, grabbing onto his arm and clawing at his skin, drawing blood as you clench your fingers. 

Your mouth falls open, heat flooding your system as you moan louder than you’re sure you ever have when you used toys or had sad experiences with other dates. It was so much, it was too much. You hadn’t known you’d be so turned on by this; how possessive Choso was, never even considered it until now. 

With the way your body tensed, a splash of your cum coating Choso’s cock and dripping down to the forest floor, there was no denying it. You were perfectly ruined for this man. The white hot pleasure came rushing behind your eyes, your back arching off of the ground as you cried out, spasming and writhing as your orgasm wracked your frame. 

Choso watches, enthralled and beyond turned on as he watches you fall apart. His hand comes to press right on your abdomen, feeling how deep he is inside of you as his thrusts refuse to cease. “That’s it. Good fucking girl, Y/N. Feel how deep I'm going to breed you? How full I’m going to make your womb? Fuck, you’re going to be so pretty round and soft with our babies.” He’s lost in his animalistic thoughts, his pace picking up as he sloppily kisses you, chasing your taste with his lips and tongue as his balls slap against your ass, his orgasm coming to its peak. “Going to mark you from the inside, make you mine.” he growls, only getting your weak and worn out whimpers in return as you watch how his cock enters you over and over, knowing he means every word. He steals another desperate kiss, his hips suddenly stilling as warm fluid empties into you, fucked deeper and deeper into your core. You shudder, feeling like an aftershock of pleasure leaves you as his cock slips out and his load begins to follow. You two sit there, panting and catching your breath. Choso seems so much more, how do you say, soothed? Subdued? Pacified? Whatever it is, he seems so much more calm than he had earlier as he admires how his seed leaks from you and lets his fingers play with your soaked and swollen hole. “Hmph. I love how you jerk and twitch from this. Sensitive aren’t you?” he chuckles, crawling on top of you again, admiring every bite mark that was now swelling and welting. “I think this is a good start.” “T…To what?” you ask, head more clear as you try to once again process everything that’s happening. “Our family” he says, like he didn’t just rearrange your guts. “I'm going to make us a family. A big family. A loving one unlike the one I was brought up with.” 

He smiles, soft and amused as he plays with a few strands of your hair, like you weren't covered in dirt and sweat. “I’ll give you a few minutes before we get started again”. 

((I hope you beans loved it! -mommabean))

[sfehvn]

new religion

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Description: AU- Astarion is enamored by you, and while he fights it at first, he may have just found his new religion. A/N: Just a tad bit of sweet smut to be honest. This was my listen while I wrote if you were curious. Enjoy! xx Rating: M (18+ minors DNI) Word count: 2,069 Characters: soft!ascended!Astarion x fem!au!Tav

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  From the moment Astarion had seen you, he knew he had to have you. Walking through the animated city of Baldur’s Gate, your radiant smile was the first thing that had caught his eye. Flowing hair kissed your shoulders adorned with freshly plucked daisies. Your aroma was the most intoxicating scent that had graced his nose in all of his years. Your rose-tinted cheeks teased with the blood flowing beneath your flawless skin. Your eyes sparkled with wonder, reflecting the rays of the sun above. He had never been a believer in the love at first sight nonsense, yet there you were. If his undead heart could beat, he was sure it would be skipping against his ribcage. It was the only time the vampire had found himself utterly speechless. 

  For months, he watched from afar, finding excuses to go into town. Not that he had to excuse anything to anyone, but the newfound feelings were frightening, to say the least. Alas, day after day Astarion went out, whether for a drink or an unnecessary shop trip, and he would wait to get even the slightest glimpse at you. He was aware that this obsession was snowballing out of his hands as he fell harder and deeper. Hells, he had never even spoken to you. Yet he knew nearly everything there was to know. 

  He knew every other day you made your way to the apothecary to pick up medicines for your sick father, whom you cared for. He knew once every fifth day, you picnicked in the graveyard next to your mother’s grave. He knew your favorite color was yellow because it reminded you of the summers you spent with your mother before her untimely passing. You had six siblings: an older brother and five young sisters. 

  Astarion had also realized that you had a death wish, apparently. You were constantly staying out past sundown, running errands or helping neighbors. Did you even comprehend the dangers? He would often think to himself. Of course he had to follow you home to ensure you made it inside safely. You were becoming a liability to him, and quite frankly, he was terrified of how you made him feel. Just when he had decided to end this one-sided arrangement, there you were. Sat on the side of the road with tears pooling rivers down your cheeks, his body felt out of his control as he approached you.

  He stood in front of you, his words caught in his throat. You stared at him with those big doe-eyes, and his knees felt like jelly. “Are you alright?” He finally managed out. Gods, what am I doing? I should just sink my fangs into her and be done with it. It’s just bloodlust. This was something he had tried to convince himself of many times already- a lie.

  “Oh, yes.” Voice sweet and smooth, like the finest honey gold could buy. “Just this silly book.” You giggled, holding up the novel you had previously been engrossed in before Astarion had found you.

  “Right. Good.” He clears his throat in an attempt to regain his composure and still his spinning mind. “I’ll just be on my way then.” You nod, gifting that sweet smile to him. Astarion felt his legs would give out beneath him if he stayed longer, but he didn’t move an inch.

  The man intrigued you, ruby red eyes and skin pale as the snow that fell during winter. He was gorgeous. An aura of mystery surrounded him, and you were keen to discover those mysteries. “Say, you live in that big fancy manor?” You question, breaking the awkward silence that had befallen you two.

  “I do. Why?” Skepticism was palpable in his tone. 

  You disregarded his tone, and he believed it to be your naive nature. “You have the most exquisite daffodils blooming alongside your walls. I didn’t want to pick them without asking.” Your smile is sheepish, innocent. Astarion doesn’t speak, his face unreadable. “I-I enjoy putting bouquets together. I don’t mean to-” He already knew this, obviously.

  “They are yours.” Astarion can’t contain the smile that tugs the sides of his lips.

  As you two stroll to the location of said flowers, Astarion finds himself loosening up in your presence. He watches you intently, the way you move your hair from your face as you carefully pluck a few from the group. He urges you to take more.

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother. These are plenty.” You assure. In response, he crouches down next to you to help pluck the remaining flowers.

   After walking you home, Astarion ordered flowers to be planted around the grounds. With the help of just a little magic, within weeks, roses, peonies, sunflowers, and carnations bloomed healthily. You would come with a fresh serving of food, a bouquet as thanks, and collect the flowers. As naive as you were, you could recognize what Astarion was doing. The daffodils were a one-off in that area, but now flowers surrounded the entirety of his property. The rate at which they grew, too; you were aware some effort went into getting them to blossom so hastily. At every mention of a new flower, the next time you came, they were miraculously in bloom.

  This compromise had been in full swing for months when you finally questioned him about it. Astarion was on his knees as he snipped red roses from the bush, insistent on doing it himself so you didn’t prick yourself on a thorn. “Why are you doing this?” You question, a wicker basket that was already overflowing held firmly in your hands. 

  “I told you, you’ve nabbed yourself on these blasted thorns one too many times.” His reply came without a look in your direction as he continued to snip the stems.

  “That’s not what I meant.” A soft chuckle emanates from behind closed lips. He looks up at you in realization, his hands coming to a halt. Your breath catches in your throat as he stares at you wordlessly, longingly. Standing slowly, he takes a step closer to you. He drops the roses into your basket before cupping your cheeks, closing the distance between your faces. The kiss is electric. You drop the basket to your feet, arms snaking around his neck while he presses your body tightly to his, clinging to you like a prayer. His lips were a colder temperature than you expected, but they were soft and hungry. 

  That’s how Astarion ended up with you in his bed. As he eagerly ripped the pale blue dress from your body, you took note of the bouquets around his bed chamber. Every single one you had gifted to him was on display and in perfect condition. Your heart flits in your chest, eyes closing in ecstasy as wet kisses trail up the inside of your thighs. A soft moan is elicited from you as his mouth reaches your warmth, his tongue flicking teasingly along your slit. Your fingers thread into his stark white hair, instinctually tugging with every contact against your clit. Colors explode behind your eyelids from the euphoric excitement.

  He pulled away briefly, with his starving mouth against your thigh, he spoke muffled words, “I don’t think you realize how long I’ve been waiting to hear that, darling.” Your breathing quickens as you look down at him between your thighs with hooded, lustful eyes. His mouth returns to your clit and he suckles lightly, two fingers dipping into your dripping center. The sensation brings your back into an arch, aching to feel him deeper inside of you.

  The swirling motion of his tongue brings you close to the edge, your legs shaking mercilessly. Astarion’s free hand moves between his torso and your legs, holding them steady as he continues his work on your body. Just as you are about to cum, he places a final kiss on your mound before his eyes meet yours. “You’re much naughtier than I thought.” He tsked, crooning his neck at you before moving up your body.

  Your lips meet passionately, his tongue slipping effortlessly into your mouth to meet your own. He creates a gap between you as one hand holds him up, quickly removing his trousers and undergarments with his other hand. He pressed his bulge down onto your warmth, hitting your sweet spot as he grinds against you. “Do you taste how lovely you are?” He murmurs, plunging his tongue further into your mouth. You can only let out a delighted moan in response.

  Once he breaks the kiss, you press your slippery core harder against his erection. “Please fuck me.” You whimper lustfully, “Please-” Your words are cut short by the sensation of him rubbing the head of his cock against your clit, causing a delicate moan to leave your throat.

  “Fuck. You’re soaked, my darling.” He coos. As much as Astarion wanted to continue to play with your body, he needed to be buried in you as quickly as he possibly could. He slides the head of his member from your clit, pushing slowly into your welcoming embrace. He savors every sensation as he enters you. There is a momentary flicker of pain on your face as you adjust to his size, and he falters for a moment.

  “Have you done this before?” He asks quietly, pressing his forehead to yours, avoiding your throat to save himself from temptation. He cursed himself inwardly for even asking; he shouldn’t care. This woman brought a side out of him he had never met before- a softer side. The scariest part is he actually, well, liked it.

  You wavered for a second before shaking your head, confirming that he was indeed the first man to have ever been in such a position with you. The thought makes him feel feral. Such a sweet flower trusting someone like him to take your virtue; he would never admit it to anyone, but honor and pride swelled in his chest. He nodded in acknowledgment, “We’ll go slow, pet.” He reassures, hips rocking delicately into yours as he fills you with as much of him as he can manage without causing you discomfort. He lays a gentle kiss on your forehead as your pain turns into pleasure, still-shaking legs wrapping to engulf his hips.

  “A-Astarion.” His name sounded like a hymn gracing his ears from your mouth, and he wanted to devour you right there and then. It took everything in him not to plow you into the bed. His hand rests on the bedframe as he finds a comfortable rhythm, eyes never leaving your face. He wanted to soak up every reaction to his touch.

  “You drive me crazy, pet.” He grunts as his pace quickens, gripping the mahogany wood tighter at the magnetic pleasure buzzing through his body. He uses his free hand to effortlessly move you further up into a slightly seated position as his thumb once again finds your clit to draw purposeful eights over it. 

  “I-I’m- Oh my gods-” The moan is loud, music to his ears as your walls tighten around his cock.

  “That’s right. Be a good girl and cum for me.” It’s a stern demand, all to mask just how close Astarion was himself. His words push you over the edge, your body clinging to his for support as the euphoria rushes over you. Every hair on your body standing on end, you throw your head back and scream Astarion’s name thrillfully. 

  With you coming undone, he allows himself to reach fruition, his seed filling you to the brim. His hand on the frame loosens, and his head hangs, face full of gratification. He looks down at you, pulling his now-soft member from you, a satisfied sigh leaving your lips as you stretch contently, much like a cat. Your eyes were droopy, a giddy smirk on your face as you fought to keep them open. Astarion chuckles, pressing another kiss to your lips. “You can sleep, my darling. I’ll wake you in a little.”

  Astarion swore he felt the tiniest tinge of warmth in his heart at the sight of you so comfortable cuddled into his side as you dozed off. This could be a welcome change. Maybe his undead life just needed his very own light, his own sun. All he knew was that he was done fighting it. One weakness couldn’t hurt.

[alexander-arcturus-black-lupin]

Loki using his Shadows on you after your behaviour at a party

TW: Slight Voeyerism, sex with shadows, hints to somnophilia.

Odin had held a grand festival. It had beautiful nymphs and goddesses from different worlds. You had dressed in a beautiful black top with a matching skirt. The shirt cut off before your navel and the skirt cut off before your thighs.

Wrapped in a beautiful glittery veil, and a golden headband. You were stunning, in Loki's eyes you shined brighter than all the stars above, glittering on the ceiling.

Grünle a jöttenhimer had asked you to dance and you agreed to one just to indulge him. Suprisingly akward was far from it. He was a gentleman through and through. With slight jokes and remarks. You enjoyed his company yes. Buqt you wished to be in the arms of a god a few yards away.

Although those yards felt like seas. You knew this wasn't one sided as you felt his gaze on you, and you only the entire time. Grünle brought you close for the last time and gave you a polite hug.

Kissing you cheek, he smiled and told you to enjoy yourself. You simply smiled and said you would.

You allowed the music and the wine to guide you, mingling with he crowd. You didn't feel his gaze anymore. You started to turn but was caught when yoy fwlt something trace your waist.

Or rather.

Someone.

"You of all people should know that i get jealous very easily, especially with people i care about," he whispered gently into your neck.

He moved you to he music and you began to dance. You didn't need to look behind you, or at the long veiny hands infront of you.

And he was jealous.

He slowly twirled you and you glimpsed his face.

He was jealous.

The dance between you was filled with tension, he held you closer at parts, his hand going higher towards your neck as though to collar you.

You smiled to yourself, if he ever wished to do that, boy would you let him. He kissed your cheek at the end of the dance. Before stealing one from you lips. It was a quick one.

You only bit your lip and curtsied and after your dance gave your hand out to another, and another, and another. Till you swore you shoes had worn out. With every dance, they would swoop in a kiss your cheek.

You could basically feel his jealousy rising with each peck. You had gone out to the adjoining balcony for air. You tried to gather your thoughts. You had teased the god of mischief. Surely some form of punishment should be on its way.

As you stood pondering what you had done. You realised you weren't alone. You felt them.

His shadows.

You felt them slip under your dress, fondling and groping you. One even slipped into your hand and took your drink. Sliding it onto the balcony table.

The slowly relieved you of you dress sliding it off your shoulders. Soon you were on your back, softly moaning at the invisible person on you. You felt everything, from your breasts to your nethers.

It's not like you've never been touched there before, it's just that you've never been touched by his shadows.

The moved in sync guiding you to your orgasm, one went over your mouth to stop anyone from getting to hear you.

Loki was the type to either fuck you infront of everyone, or the keep your moans and pleasures to himself.

It stopped at your breasts for a minute giving it a light squeeze before heading up your face to your ear.

Over and over, these shadows were relentless. Guiding you to every orgasm. You were a sweating heaving mess. You turned to try and crawl away but they wouldn't let go.

Finally they released you. Cleaning you up aswell. Your mind was hazy and in a mess. Slowly one slid up your body again.

"The things I wish to do to you lovely, but alas my shadows will have to suffice for now, do not wait up for me love, i shall come for you, then, I shall have you, awake or not."

lo elysium.

You felt the floor open at your feet and off you went. You hoped loki would join you soon.

A/N: curtsied

Idk how to spell it and I'm too lazy for da shit

Also if y'all cannot picture the outfit, I got reference from. The Dragon King's bride on WEBTOON , CHAPTER 16

Also reader is either black or like dark skinned, am I projecting? 🤔 maybe🤷🏾‍♀️

[mobbu-min]

☆ yummy in my tummy ☆

part two

a/n i swear everytime im about to play love and deepspace, the app needs another update. my phone storage can't keep up T0T anyways, i'm not that far in but xavier is my fave. he lowkey reminds me of silver haha. rafayel is a close second tho

includes: all of octavinelle, scarabia + pomefiore

tw mentions of eating disorder

want more? check out part one!

Octavinelle <3

⋆ Perhaps the last dorm that you want to know about your skills. But alas, your heart is vast, so even shady seamen deserves some delicious home cooked meals/treats!

⋆ How about making some extra cash? Is what Azul says after taking a bit. He does mean it. Not only would Monstro Lounge gain some more popularity after news of the Ramshackle Perfect’s home made meals/treats were being served, but he gets to spend time with you without giving his feelings away? A win-win if you asked him. As we all know, Azul does suffer from an eating disorder, as much as he tries to deny it, but somehow your cooking/baking doesn’t upset him at all. If anything, he gets so lost in the flavors that he doesn’t realize that his stomach is full and plate empty. Should he be concerned? Disgusted with himself? Lots of negative emotions begin to swell up, but when he glances at you, fully expecting the worst, he’s met with your proud smile. Happiness practically radiating off your being. And suddenly, Azul doesn’t mind the feeling of a full stomach as long as you look at him like that again.

⋆ Jade finds himself coming to you more often to ask for tips on how to cook mushrooms in different ways. Heck, he even encourages you to come out mushroom hunting with him. He’s fascinated by the way you work, seeing you mix different spices and ingredients together inspires him to do the same. He enjoys getting a glimpse at a third world, your world. It reminds him that the universe is truely a big, fascinating place. He is touched that your first thought was to bring him food, don’t worry he’ll repay the favor.

⋆ Your food is the only thing to get Floyd out of his moods! Once he smells the delicious scent of your meals/sweets, he instantly goes back to being silly and goofy! He will pester the living daylights out of you to make his favorite foods. You will know no peace! Floyd always makes his distaste clear. He’s an honest guy, what can he say? So it’s a big achievement that your food gets the Floyd pass. He will glare at anyone that dares to come near his food. This is his food, not theirs! Floyd’s a good cook himself, so like Jade, if he’s feeling particularly chummy, you might be gifted with his own unique concoction.

Scarabia <3

⋆ Scarabia is known to have the best food in the school! So it was a little jarring when you decided to give them some of your homemade food. But you really have nothing to worry about when it comes to these too.

⋆ You thought you were going to go blind with how bright Kalim's smile was. It truly could rival the sun. Because of the trust between you and Kalim, he devours it within seconds. Practically buzzing in excitement as the flavors touch his tongue. He’s not joking when he says that it’s as good as Jamil’s food. He wants to throw a party where you and Jamil have a cook off! But also just to show off your amazing cooking. You’re going to have to politely tell him that might be too much for you. Or that you only cook for special people! (subtle flirting hehe) And well Kalim is Kalim so it’s like a 50/50 chance that it won’t fly over his head. But in the case that it doesn’t, Kalim gets all warm and flustered. You know how some people get cuteness aggression and just want to squeeze said cuteness, well that’s Kalim. Instantly you're in his arms while he exclaims how much he loves you!

⋆ Jamil gave you the weirdest look, thinking that you wanted something from him. But alas! You did it out of the goodness of your heart. After getting over his initial suspicion, Jamil is incredibly thankful! I get a feeling that between everything that Jamil has to handle, he tends to eat very little most days. Just enough to get him to bedtime. So when you popped out of thin air with food, but not just any food his favorite, Jamil is touched. Though just because he’s touched, that doesn’t mean he won’t critique it! Internally of course, unless you ask. I would like to say that this would lead to cooking dates, but Jamil gives me the impression that he doesn’t like others in the kitchen while he works. Though he’s willing to try it out for you! Omg, if you make him food from the Scalding Sands, he just might tear up (lol, probably not but that’s a funny thought) but he will be incredibly touched!

Pomefiore <3

⋆ A tricky dorm to cook/bake for. A life or death situation! You must satisfy the Queen’s tastes or else you’ll face everlasting sleep! OoooOOoooooOOOoooo

⋆ Your greatest foe, the Queen herself! Does your food satisfy the Queen’s strict diet? ………partially. Listen, Vil holds himself to high regards and keeps a stern eye on his calories and where those calories come from. And while yes, you are going the right path, you also took some side quests on the way. In other words, you were like 74% to getting Vil’s approval. But fear not! For Vil is more than willing to take you under his wing! Though, Vil’s not a chef himself, so he’ll guide you in the ways of his diets. As long as you keep those in mind, Vil finds himself thoroughly enjoying anything you make him. He enjoys foods that are light on the stomach with plenty of nourishment. Vil will oftentimes find himself thinking about your food. His stomach growling in hunger. He appreciates it whenever you show up with homemade snacks. Vil will oftentimes submerge himself in his work, whether that be new roles, schoolwork or guiding his dorm mates, and forget to eat. So knowing that you're always thinking of him and coming to check up on him makes him feel all mushy and gooey inside. Goodness, the effects you have on him.

⋆ C’est délicieux! Anything and everything you give Rook is eaten with fervor. Truly enjoying and savoring every bite! For how could he let anything go to waste? You put your heart and soul into it, it would be wrong not to enjoy it with his own heart and soul. His appetite is never quenched when it comes to your food. He consumes your food with such earnestness that it's hard not to get all flustered. The compliments are never ending when it comes to him. Rook could (and has) write poetry off the delicious taste of your food. Sweet, yet a little off putting. Will jump at any occasion to speak about your food, and by extension you. Eveytime he sees you with a bag or box, Rook is skipping towards you with a little tune to each step.

⋆ Nothing could beat his Meemaw’s apple pie, but Epel supposes that yours come to a close second. Your food is the only thing Vil will turn a blind eye to, which Epel takes as an opportunity to slyly (not really) suggest new recipes for you to try. Honestly, Epel really likes your food! He gets all flustered whenever you pop with food for him. At first he was a little insulted that you made him food, thinking you were insulting his masculinity or something by babying him. But after your very honest words (and a reprimanding from Vil and Leona for making you sad), Epel understands that it was just you trying to show him that you cared for him. I can see Epel going to Jack and asking ‘Is someone giving you food manly?’ and Jack, who happened to overhear Leona telling Ruggie, casually responds with, ‘My mom always makes my dad food, so yeah…” And Epel’s all like, ‘Well damn, if Jack looks like that then his dad must be super macho.’ or something like that. Needless to say, Epel has never hit someone so hard before over food. (rip grim and ace)

[yuutaok]

Can We Lose Our Minds, and Call It Love?

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Rockstar! Yuuta Okkotsu x Reader

“I’ve seen you before,” he said quietly, his voice rough from the performance. He didn’t look at you as he spoke, his fingers tapping absently against his leg, a nervous habit that felt out of place coming from someone who had just commanded a stage so effortlessly.

You blinked, did you hear that right? You shook your head, surprised by his words, “You remember me?”

⋆୨♡୧⋆ Word Count: 6.2k

⋆୨♡୧⋆ Content Warnings: MDNI 18+, mutual obsession, dry humping, p in v, unprotected sex, cervix fucking, brief nipple-play, Yuuta is a strange little man agenda

⋆୨♡୧⋆ Author’s Note: This is only lightly beta’d, I was possessed by a demon what can I say. Title is from PTV’s song ‘The Balcony Scene’. It’s been soooo long since I have written, I hope that you enjoy this!

The thrum of bass reverberated through your chest as the lights dimmed, bathing the concert hall in a mix of deep purples and reds. The air itself felt alive, heavy with anticipation, excitement, sweat, and liquor. The crowd was buzzing, swaying bodies pressing closer to the stage. But your attention wasn’t on them. It was on him.

Yuuta Okkotsu.

The lead singer of the rising band that had taken the scene by storm. He wasn’t just another rockstar; he was different. His voice carried a rawness, a haunting quality that made your heart soar. He was confessing secrets, whispering melodies that cut through your ribs into your heart.

You were a longtime fan, but it had been years since you’d been able to make it to a live show. There was a time when you’d attended every local concert, following Yuuta and his band from one venue to the next, drawn by something in Yuuta you couldn’t put into words. You always swore, in a bit of a delusional manner, that he started to recognize you up on that stage, giving you small smiles that felt just for you.

Alas, life had changed. You went away for school and navigating the demands of professional life had become your focus, pulling you further from the late-night scene.

Online streams and fancams filled some of the gaps, but they could only do so much. You missed the energy of live shows, the feeling of being there, surrounded by the sound, with Yuuta’s voice breaking through everything else. His music had always spoken to you in a way nothing else could.  It was like he understood the hollow ache you carried inside, the kind of loneliness you could never quite explain.

Tonight was the first time in years that you’d been able to see him in person again, and the weight of that old longing resurfaced with an intensity you hadn’t expected.

It was after the last show you were able to attend—the venue still buzzing with the fading energy of the performance—that you met him. The crowd had thinned, people slowly trickling out into the night, but a handful of fans lingered near the exit, hoping for one last glimpse of the band. You stood at the edge of the group, feeling your pulse race as Yuuta appeared, shyly signing a few autographs, his head down, his shoulders hunched as if he wasn’t used to the attention.

When it was your turn, you hesitated, holding out your CD with trembling hands. Yuuta’s fingers brushed yours as he took it, and for a brief moment, your eyes met. It wasn’t the usual excitement of meeting a celebrity, it was something quieter, something that felt like recognition.

You hadn’t planned to say much. Just hand him your CD, and maybe offer a quick compliment about the show. But when his eyes met yours the words you’d rehearsed in your head dissolved. Instead, you found yourself blurting out something entirely different.

“I know what you mean.”

Yuuta blinked, his pen hovering over the paper, his brow furrowing slightly. “What?”

You hesitated, wondering if you should have kept quiet. But there was something about the way he looked at you, really looked at you,that made it feel like the world had faded away. The noise of the venue, the chatter of the fans,all of it disappeared in that moment. It was just the two of you.

“I can hear it in your voice— the way you carry yourself. There is something that aches. Like you’re reaching for something just out of sight.”

For a second, his expression shifted,just barely. His eyes widened, only slightly, and his grip on the pen tightened. His lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but the words never came.

You pressed on, your voice quieter now, unsure but unable to stop. “It’s in the way you sing. It must be so lonely. It’s like you’re looking for something. Or someone. There’s an emptiness that is so hard to quench—  like you’re starving.”

Yuuta didn’t respond right away. He just stared at you, his dark blue eyes locked onto yours as if trying to figure you out as if you had just exposed something he did not expect. The silence between you stretched on, thick with unspoken tension, and for a moment, you wondered if you had crossed a line, if you had said too much.

But then, slowly, he nodded. His hand trembled slightly as he signed the CD, his gaze never leaving yours. The simple acknowledgment, so small yet so heavy, left a strange knot in your chest.

His fingers brushed against yours, cold and hesitant, like he wasn’t used to touch.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice low, rough. Something unspoken in those two words that lingered between you long after you left the venue. It was honestly the best night of your life.

As the first strum of the guitar echoed through the venue, Yuuta emerged from the shadows, his figure bathed in a dim spotlight. His dark hair fell across his forehead, and those intense, brooding eyes swept over the crowd. The microphone in his hand trembled slightly, not from nerves, but from the restrained energy coiling within him. The crowd roared louder, but you stood frozen, heart pounding in sync with the beat.

The music began, soft at first, but growing with intensity. Yuuta’s voice resonated through the sound, both soothing and chaotic, a paradox that wrapped around you. His presence was magnetic, and no matter how much you tried to blend into the crowd, it felt like his gaze landed on you— only you.

You shivered, the hairs on the back of your neck standing as you looked back at him. There was something in his eyes, a darkness you couldn’t look away from, like a storm brewing just beneath the surface. It was terrifying and thrilling at the same time. He moved with a quiet, simmering intensity, his voice dropping lower during certain lyrics, his words carrying a weight that tugged at the pit of your stomach.

The air between you crackled, sending a chill down your spine. You blinked, and the moment was gone—his focus shifting to the rest of the stage, but the feeling lingered, like electricity and sparks in the air.

By the time the set ended, you were breathless. The performance had stirred something deep inside you, your eyes twinkling, head spinning, absolutely starstruck. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from him as he bowed slightly, the crowd screaming for more. Yuuta didn’t soak up the adoration like most rock stars would. He simply smiled politely at the crowd and turned, slipping into the shadows backstage, his silhouette disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. You swore he looked back, right at where you stood.

It felt like he’d seen right through you.

A couple more bands continued to play, with the crowd still crazy for more. You were mostly here for Yuuta, though. You opted to take a seat back at the bar, downing your drink as you took solace in the coolness of the cup and the warmth and fuzziness the alcohol gave you.

The lingering pull in your chest hadn’t faded. You played with the cherry stem your drink came with, mind racing with the image of Yuuta— his pale skin gleaming under the dim lights, the way his black hair had fallen messily over his sweaty forehead, the deep blue of his eyes, heavy-lidded with exhaustion. There was something so haunting, almost fragile about him.

You barely noticed someone approaching until they were standing right in front of you—a man dressed in dark clothing, with a cold expression that sent a prickle of unease down your spine.

“Yuuta wants to see you,” he said simply, offering a small black card with a backstage pass clipped to it. Your breath caught in your throat.

“Me?” you asked, uncertain if you’d heard him right.

The man didn’t repeat himself, just nodded and gestured toward the side door. You hesitated, your heart hammering in your chest. Why would he want to see you? Maybe it was a mistake and this was some weird coincidence.

But you couldn’t deny the thrill that shot through you at the thought of seeing him again. Without fully understanding, you accepted the pass and followed the man through a dimly lit hallway that led backstage. The excitement of the concert had faded, and now the atmosphere felt colder, heavier.

The man stopped at a door and knocked softly before opening it, gesturing for you to enter.

You stepped inside, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. The room was small, warmly lit by a single lamp in the corner. Posters and musical equipment were scattered around, but it was Yuuta, sitting on a worn leather couch, who drew your attention.

He looked different from the confident figure on stage. His black hair was still messy, but now it hung in damp strands, framing his pale face. The dark bags under his eyes made him seem even more exhausted up close like he hadn’t slept in days. But it was his eyes—those deep, shadowed dark eyes—that made you pause. There was something sweet in them, but also something unsettling, something that made you feel like he was keeping secrets far too heavy to be shared.

“You came,” he said softly, his voice still raspy from singing. He offered a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I wasn’t sure if you would.”

Your throat tightened, and you nodded, feeling strangely vulnerable under his gaze. “I—yeah, I guess I… I just didn’t expect this.”

He gestured for you to come sit next to him, patting the worn-out leather. You swallowed, obliging his request as you took quick, nervous steps towards him. His presence felt almost overwhelming in the small space, his skin glowing faintly in the dim light. “I saw you,” he murmured, his voice quiet but intense. “In the crowd.”

The air between you crackled with something heavy, and though his words were soft, there was a weight behind them that made your heart race. It felt almost predatory.

“I… Yeah… I guess you did. ” your breath hitched. You nervously looked up at him, cheeks hot. Wow, was he always this handsome?

He smiled again, “I don’t usually do this, bringing fans backstage… But you… there’s something about you.”

Yuuta kept his distance, his hands clenched together in his lap. His black hair fell over his pale face, casting dark shadows over his blue eyes, which flickered toward you but quickly darted away. Something was unsettling about his stillness as if he was trying to figure out how close he should get—or how far he should stay.

“I’ve seen you before,” he said quietly, his voice rough from the performance. He didn’t look at you as he spoke, his fingers tapping absently against his leg, a nervous habit that felt out of place coming from someone who had just commanded a stage so effortlessly.

You blinked, did you hear that right? You shook your head, surprised by his words. “You… You remember me?”

Yuuta nodded slowly, his gaze finally lifting to meet yours, but something was unnerving about the way he looked at you— like he wasn’t just seeing you in that moment, but recalling something deeper, something that had been bothering him for a while. “You’ve been to some shows,” he continued, his voice low, a little too casual. “I’ve noticed.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, and you weren’t sure why. There was nothing inherently strange about a musician recognizing a fan, but the way he said it, the way his eyes lingered on you, made your stomach twist. “I… yeah. I’ve been to a few,” you admitted, suddenly feeling exposed like he had been watching you far more closely than you’d realized. “It’s been a while.”

 He didn’t come closer, but the air between you felt thinner now as if the space that remained wasn’t enough to protect you from the weight of his gaze. “I kept seeing you. Every show. Always in the crowd. Always watching. But then, you stopped.”

Your heart pounded harder in your chest, but it wasn’t from excitement. It was something darker, something that made you feel as though you’d been caught in a web you hadn’t even realized was being spun around you. “Yeah… Sorry… I… I didn’t think you noticed, let alone acknowledged my presence,” you said, your voice sounding smaller than you intended.

Yuuta’s lips twitched, but it wasn’t quite a smile. It was more like a recognition, a knowing that made your pulse quicken. “I keep a close eye on things,” he murmured, his voice soft, almost hypnotic. 

The words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been.  His eyes were tired, rimmed with dark circles, but there was something else behind them, something far less innocent than the vulnerability he projected.

“We spoke once, after a show,” he murmured, his voice quiet, “I was already looking for you then… but after that night, I couldn’t help myself. Every time, I kept searching the crowd, hoping to see you. And when I saw you again tonight… I had to find you.”

The way he said it wasn’t direct, like a confession. More so an observation, something he had come to terms with over time, something that had slipped into his awareness without his permission. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, dark and unreadable, but they lingered only briefly before shifting away again. 

Your breath caught in your throat. The room felt smaller, the shadows creeping in closer. You didn’t know how to respond, your mind spinning with the realization that Yuuta had been watching you, tracking your presence from show to show, even after the autograph session, and now… Now, you were here, with him, alone. Your heart swelled that you might mean something to him.

“Why?” you asked, your voice shaking slightly, though you tried to hide it. “Why did you need to see me?”

Yuuta tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes searching yours as if trying to find the answer himself. “I don’t know,” he said finally, his voice quiet, but there was an intensity behind it that made your chest tighten. “But it doesn’t feel like I can ignore it anymore.”

Yuuta's fingers twitched at his side, and for a moment, it looked like he was going to reach for you, but he stopped himself, his hand dropping back to his side. “I don’t want you to think my invitation back here is… normal,” he said softly, his eyes holding yours in a way that made it impossible to look away. “It’s not.”

The warmth of his performance, the energy he radiated on stage, was gone, replaced by something more unsettling, something of quiet passion.

Your pulse quickened, the anxiousness mixing with something else now— thrill. “Then. Why did you do it?” you asked, your voice shaky with nerves.

Yuuta looked down, his jaw tensing as if he was struggling with something he couldn’t explain. “Because I can’t help myself.”

Yuuta’s eyes met yours again, and for the briefest moment, you saw something raw in them, it made your heart ache with a strange kind of sympathy. He wasn’t trying to scare you, but he couldn’t deny that something about his fixation wasn’t right. And yet, here you were, standing in the middle of it, unable to pull away.

The room was still, but there was a tremor beneath the surface, an energy so thick it made the air feel too heavy to breathe. He didn’t move closer, not yet. Instead, he lingered in the space between you, his body tense, his eyes lowered as if he couldn’t bear to meet your gaze for too long. There was a quiet restraint in him, but it was thin, frayed at the edges, as though it wouldn’t take much to pull it apart.

The room seemed to shrink around you, the space between you both growing smaller, though neither of you moved. Something magnetic, something that had been pulling you together long before either of you had understood it.

“You’re still here,” he added, his voice softer, more tentative, as though the fact of your presence was something that puzzled him. His fingers curled slightly, the faintest movement, but they didn’t reach for you. Not yet.

You could hear the unasked question in his words, the quiet uncertainty that underlined everything he wasn’t saying. He had seen you. He had noticed. You have come back. You were here, standing in the same space, breathing the same heavy air, tied together by something you couldn’t name.

There was no need to say that you felt it too.

The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t empty. It was filled with everything neither of you could say, everything that simmered just beneath the surface. The tension was there, thick and palpable, but it wasn’t rushed. It was slow, deliberate, like the pull of a tide that dragged you in, inch by inch.

“Why?” Yuuta asked finally. The word hung in the air between you, not demanding an answer, but leaving space for one all the same.

You didn’t answer right away. The truth wasn’t something you could put into words, not in a way that made sense. It wasn’t a decision you had made consciously, wasn’t something you had planned. It was as if something larger than yourself had been guiding you all along, pulling you back to him, tying you to him in ways you didn’t fully understand.

“I think I’m meant to be here,” you said finally, your voice soft but steady.

Yuuta’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in his eyes that flickered, something dark, that hinted at the same confusion, hungry.

You could feel it— the shift in him, the way his restraint was fraying at the edges, the way he seemed to be holding himself in place with the thinnest of threads. You could feel it in the way Yuuta’s fingers twitched slightly at his side, his hand so close to yours but never quite touching. In the way, his breath hitched every time his gaze flickered toward you.

And you were holding your breath, waiting.

The air between you was thick, almost suffocating, but neither of you moved. The moment stretched on, and yet you both seemed content to exist in it, neither pushing nor pulling.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, looking for you,” Yuuta said quietly, his voice so soft it barely broke the silence. His eyes lingered on the floor for a moment before he looked back up at you, his gaze heavy with something you couldn’t quite place. “At every show I have played, I tried, but I couldn’t stop.”

The truth in his words was obvious, the pull between you as tangible as the air you breathed, thick and heavy, as if something larger than either of you was at play.

You paused, your heart beating deep in your chest, “You never wanted to stop,” you said softly, your voice steady but quiet, as if you were sharing a secret.

Yuuta’s eyes flickered with something dark and intense— something that hinted at all the things he hadn’t said, all the things he couldn’t say. His fingers curled slightly, the faintest movement, but they didn’t reach for you. Not yet.

“No,” he admitted after a beat, his voice low, almost rough. “I didn’t.”

Yuuta’s gaze darkened, his fingers twitching at his side, and for the briefest moment, you thought he might reach for you. But he held himself back, as though on the edge of something he couldn’t fully grasp.

“I don’t understand this,” he murmured, his voice rough, as if the admission itself cost him something he couldn’t afford to give.

 The silence stretched between you like a living thing, thick and heavy, pressing in from all sides, as though the room itself was holding its breath. Yuuta’s gaze hadn’t left yours, and though his body remained still, something in his eyes betrayed the careful control he was trying so hard to maintain.

“Do you?” Yuuta’s voice was barely audible, the question itself fragile, as if he feared breaking the moment with it.

Yuuta’s hand twitched again, and for a moment, you thought he might reach for you, might finally close the distance between you that had been growing smaller and smaller. Instead, he held himself in place, the tension in his body palpable, as though he was fighting some unseen force, something that threatened to consume him if he let it.

You met his eyes, feeling that same pull you’d felt from the start. “I think we are meant to find each other,” you replied, your voice low, a quiet certainty settling over the words. You reached over to grasp Yuuta’s hands into yours, his eyes going wide. You intertwined your fingers, clasping them delicately, as if this moment was something that could shatter in an instant.

“We should…” He trailed off, his voice barely a whisper, as if he wasn’t even sure what he was about to say. His eyes were dark, heavy with something you couldn’t quite name, and the space between you felt smaller than ever.

And then, finally, it snapped.

It was subtle at first, just the barest shift in his posture, the slightest tightening of his grip on your hand. But that was all it took to send a jolt through you, the air thickening as he stepped closer, his presence overwhelming in its intensity. His fingers curled around yours, tighter now, as if he had finally given in to the pull that had been tugging at him for so long.

His breath was unsteady, his chest rising and falling just a little too quickly, and his gaze flickered down to your lips, lingering there for a moment before sweeping back up to meet your eyes. There was no more restraint in his expression now, no more hesitation. Whatever had been holding him back had finally frayed beyond repair, and you could feel the shift in him— the quiet, barely contained need that was simmering just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over.

“I can’t—” He started to speak, but the words died on his lips, his voice rough, almost broken. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say, it was that there were no words left that could explain what was happening between you. Whatever this was, it was beyond reason now, beyond logic or explanation.

It just was.

And that was enough.

Without thinking, you closed the distance between you, your breath catching in your throat as you finally leaned into the pull, into the gravity that had been drawing you both together from the start. Yuuta’s fingers tightened around yours, his other hand lifting slowly, hesitantly, as though he was still trying to hold himself back— but only barely.

When his fingers brushed against your cheek, the touch was feather-light, almost trembling, as if he was afraid of what might happen if he let himself go any further. But the weight of his hand was enough to send a shiver down your spine, enough to make your breath come out unsteadily, the heat of the moment settling deep in your chest.

You looked up at him, and for the first time, you saw it clearly— the quiet desperation in his gaze, the raw, unfiltered intensity that had been simmering beneath the surface all along. He wasn’t just looking at you. He was seeing you, in a way that felt almost too much, too overwhelming, like he was trying to drink you in, trying to consume you whole.

It was the look of someone who had been holding back for far too long.

And it made your heart race.

“Yuuta…” you whispered, the word barely audible, but it was enough to break the last bit of tension between you, enough to make him close the final gap.

His hand slid from your cheek to your jaw, his grip firm but still trembling slightly, as though he was still fighting against himself even now. His eyes flickered down to your lips again, and this time, he didn’t look away.

His breath was warm against your skin, and when he finally leaned in, the movement was slow, almost hesitant, like he was still giving you the chance to pull away—to stop this before it went too far.

But you didn’t.

You leaned into him instead, your breath mingling with his as the space between you dissolved completely, the tension snapping into something more intense, more immediate. His lips brushed against yours, light at first, like a question. But when you didn’t pull away, when you leaned into him, he finally let go of the restraint he had been clinging to for so long.

The kiss deepened, slow at first but quickly becoming more urgent, more insistent like the floodgates had finally opened and everything he had been holding back was spilling over. His hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and the weight of his presence was overwhelming, mouth lapping at yours, hungry, absolutely starved.

There was no hesitation in him now, no more uncertainty. His fingers curled into your hair, his grip tightening and allowing him better access to devour you.

Your hands found their way to his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you pulled him closer, the heat of his body pressing against yours in a way that made your pulse race, your breath coming faster now, more unsteady.

The room seemed to spin around you, the air thick with heat. Yuuta’s hand slid down your back, his touch a possessive grasp, pulling you closer and closer to him, as if he was never ever going to let you go.

And the thought of it—of being his, of letting him consume you completely—made your heart soar, the heat between you growing more intense. The kiss deepened–all saliva, teeth, and tongue.

The air was still thick, charged with the aftermath of what had just passed between you. Yuuta hadn’t pulled away. His body was still close to yours, his hand resting on the back of your neck, his fingers tangled in your hair as though he couldn’t bring himself to let go. His breath was uneven, his chest rising and falling too quickly, and though the kiss had ended, the weight of it still hung between you like a heavy cloud.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. There were no words that could make sense of what had just happened, no explanation that could satisfy the raw, electric energy that still simmered beneath the surface. It was as though time had stopped, the world around you shrinking down to just the two of you, suspended in the tension that had finally snapped, leaving both of you gasping in its wake.

Yuuta’s eyes were dark, heavy with something you couldn’t name, and though his grip on you had loosened slightly, his body remained tense, as though he was still holding himself back, even now. His lips parted, and for a moment, it seemed like he was about to speak, but the words didn’t come. Instead, his gaze flickered down to where his hand rested against the small of your back, his touch still firm, still possessive.

“I shouldn’t have…” His voice was quiet, rough, like he was trying to find a way to apologize for something neither of you wanted to take back. But the apology never came. He trailed off, his eyes flickering up to meet yours again, and the intensity in his gaze made your breath catch in your throat.

It wasn’t regret you saw in his eyes. It wasn’t hesitation either. It was something darker, something that had been there all along but had only just begun to surface.

Possession.

He hadn’t just wanted to kiss you. He had wanted to claim you, to make sure that whatever was between you wasn’t something you could walk away from.

“Yuuta,” you whispered, the sound of his name enough to break the silence, to make his grip on you tighten again, pulling you closer once more. His breath hitched slightly at the sound of his name on your lips, and you could see the way his restraint was fraying, the way the darkness in his gaze was growing, becoming more insistent, more all-consuming.

His fingers tightened in your hair, and his other hand slid down to grasp your waist, holding you there as though he was afraid to let go, afraid that if he did, you might slip away, and this moment might disappear.

You lifted your hand to his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, grounding him in the intensity of what was happening between you. His breath came out in a sharp exhale, and for a moment, you felt him tremble beneath your touch, as though he was still trying to hold himself together, still trying to keep from losing control.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered, the words falling from your lips before you could think better of them. But it was the truth. You didn’t want him to stop. You didn’t want him to pull away. 

Yuuta’s breath hitched again, and for a long moment, he didn’t say anything. His grip on you tightened his body tense with the weight of everything that was happening, with everything that had been left unsaid. And then, slowly, his lips found yours again, softer this time, moving down your jaw and trailing to your collarbone. You laid back and guided him towards you as you bore your neck, allowing him better access as your hands slid up to the back of his neck, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.

Yuuta’s kisses felt hot against your throat, love bites and bruises left in his wake as he sucked at your skin. They left you dizzy, your senses filled only with your darling Yuuta. 

His hips made a home between your legs, the hardness beneath his pants rubbing at your clothed heat as your hips moved up to grind against him. You gasped, letting out soft moans as Yuuta rutted harder and faster against you, your slick building and seeping through your panties. He could keep at this all night, if you let him. Perfectly content with just dry humping you until you came against him over and over again. Alas, you wanted more than that.

“Yuuta,” you whined, hands clawing at his belt, desperation heavy in your voice.

“What do you want?” Yuuta asked, voice rough as his breath tickled your ear, “Tell me.”

“I want you. I want you. Please,” You beg, unsuccessfully trying to unbuckle his belt, fingers clumsy and desperate against the worn black leather.

Yuuta’s eyes darkened at your words, his breath catching in his throat as the weight of them sank in. His hand, still resting at the small of your back, tightened, pulling you closer, and you could feel the shift in him—the way his possessiveness mirrored your own.

Yuuta’s breath was unsteady, his forehead resting lightly against yours, as though he needed to feel you close to stay grounded. But even in the closeness, you could sense the restlessness in him– the way his fingers still gripped your waist, the tension in his body that threatened to spill over.

From your waist, his hand moved to snake its way to the source of your slick, fingers carefully dancing across the heat of your skin down into your soaked panties. Muffled moans escaping your lips as his fingers rubbed against your swollen clit, calloused fingers dipping into the folds of your dripping-wet pussy. Yuuta’s breath hitched, cheeks flushed as he realized how needy you were for him.

He felt absolutely haunted by the way your soft little moans made his heart swell.  ‘Addicting’, he thought, he wanted to strum you like a chord and make you sing a melody that never stopped looping in his mind.

Your thighs shook as Yuuta unbuckled his belt, pants drooping around his hips as he pulled out his cock. It sprang to life, your mouth watering at the size of his member. He smiled sheepishly as you moved your hips towards him. He moved to situate himself over you, his leaky tip rubbing against the swell of your clit. He worked himself against your slick, coating himself as he teased your dripping hole, smearing his sticky precum over your pussy.

He sighed as he pushed into you, slowly, carefully. The air was knocked out of your gut and your legs wrapped around his waist, welcoming the satisfaction that came when he made a home in your tight walls.

Yuuta’s fingers dug into your hips as he bottomed out into your cunt, his head kissed your cervix in a way that made your eyelashes flutter. He started off with slow, languid strokes that only began to ramp up pace as the two of you fucked into each other. Sloppy noises filled the room as you both moaned breathless puffs into the crisp air of the room. The quiet thrum of show still going on outside, bass reverberating and vibrating against the walls lost on the two of you.

Yuuta made sure to make a mess of you, pushing your knees up against your belly as he continued to pound into you, his painted nails and calloused hands digging into your flesh, his dark eyes peering down at you adoringly. You could only stupidly grasp at the leather beneath you, seeing stars every time his tip fucked the deepest parts of your guts. 

He loved the way your pussy tightened around his cock, the view of him pulling out of you only to sink deeper and deeper into you. It was mesmerizing, the way your back arched above the couch and your hips found their way to meet his. He adored you, he adored you, he adored you.

“Ah, you’re so cute, so good for me. I’ve always dreamed of this,” he rasped, “You’re perfect.”

“Yuu— Yuuta,” you cried, “Feels good, feels so good.”

Yuuta’s fingers moved up your shirt to fondle at your tits, fingers playing with your hardened nipples while he drilled into your poor sopping cunt. You sobbed as your mouth went slack, drool pooling down your pretty lips. Your eyes rolling into your head. You think you look so stupid, Yuuta thinks you look like an angel.

Your cunt felt stretched to the brim, overstimulated to the point where all you could do is cum around his cock, your dripping pussy spazzing around his girth, a pool of slick coating him.

“Fuck, fuck— I’m never letting you go,” Yuuta groaned through clenched teeth. His pace only became more erratic, his hips working into you when he drops down to give you a gentle kiss despite him ravaging your body. 

It wasn’t long until he was spilling himself into you, pressing deeply to make sure you got every last bit of his seed. His tongue and teeth swiping over your open mouth, as if he was fully trying to consume you whole. It made your heart skip a beat, your arms moving to caress the back of his neck, guiding him somehow even closer against you.

“I don’t know how to…” he started, his voice faltering, rough with the aftermath. His forehead pressed harder against yours, “I don’t know if I can ever let you go.”

“Then don’t,” you breathed, “I won’t let go, either.”

The intensity in his gaze deepened, something darker, something raw flashing behind his eyes. His hand slid up to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair again as though he needed to feel the weight of you in his grasp to believe that this was real, that you were here with him. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

But you did. You did know. And that was why you wanted it even more.

“I do,” you said, your voice low but steady, filled with the same quiet urgency that had been building between you the whole night. “I do know. And I want this just as much as you do.”

Yuuta’s breath hitched again, his grip on you tightening as though your existence would evaporate before him. His eyes were dark and desperate, “You’re mine now,” he whispered, his voice so low it was barely audible, but there was no mistaking the possessiveness in his tone, the way his fingers dug into your skin as though he was marking you. “I really won’t let you go.”

You brightened at him, beaming, “I know.”  You didn’t pull away. You didn’t hesitate. You belonged here.

Yuuta’s lips brushed against yours again, softer this time, more deliberate. His fingers curled into your skin as though he couldn’t get close enough. His breath was warm against your mouth, his body tense with the weight of everything he had been holding back.

You looked up at him, your breath shaky, your heart pounding in your chest, and you knew it too. You had felt it from the moment you had first seen him, the moment you had started following him, inexplicably drawn to him.

“You’re mine, too.”

[witchywomanrunningupthathill]

The Keep

Summary: A bout of banter with a certain knight leads to the promise of something more.

Pairing: Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen!Reader

Warnings: idk incest?

You soared over the palatial Great Sept on the back of Silverwing. Above the markets, the inns, the taverns and brothels, and the many smallfolk who now stood in the shadow of the dragon. The wind raced through your hair and made your squinted eyes water. You gripped the handles on your saddle, veering in the direction of the Red Keep across the way, but eager to indulge your dragon.

“Sovēs!” you commanded as Silverwing flew higher into the clouds, twisting and flipping through the air. 

Alas, you arrived at the castle.

“Gēltīkun…” the dragon tamer said, stepping slowly in front of the dragon. “Lykirī!” Silverwing let out a screech, not wanting her rider to leave her. “Dohaerās!”

The she-dragon mellowed out after the series of commands, lowering her head. You ran your hand affectionately along the great beast a final time before she followed the tamer back to the dragon pit. Soon you’d be flying to Rook’s Rest. But that was in two days’ time.

You’d decided to stay around the grounds of the castle entrance, watching servants and squires mill around.  

“Enjoyed your time in the sky, princess?” Gwayne said, tending to his horse.

You walked up to the man, removing your gloves as you did so. “It’s not too late. My saddle seats two, uncle,” you replied, smiling.

“I’m afraid my responsibilities are more of the terrestrial sort.” He left his horse to his squire. “You smell of dragon.”

You smirked, enjoying the banter as his eyes raked over you. You’d had a new set of dragonriding leathers made. The pants clung to your thighs and backside flatteringly. Gwayne had lost count of how many times he’d thought of those thighs wrapped around his legs as you rode him. You took a daring step closer to him, looking him in the eyes. “I thought you might like that.”

He cocked an eyebrow, a quizzical but amused expression playing on his face.

You hummed affirmatively. “Oh, come on. Having me in the highest tower of the Red Keep, fresh from dragonriding and you just having finished sword fighting with Aemond? Don’t tell me you haven’t imagined it before. On those long journeys, late at night all alone in your tent.”

“Don’t be daft, I have no time for such things when leading my men.” He licked his lips.

“Do you want to find out, Ser?”

“What do you take me for, some common animal?”

You chuckled, nodding in understanding. “Alright, uncle, I shall away to bathe then.” You caught a glimpse of the bulge in his breeches, now becoming hard to hide. You bit your lip as your eyes flitted back up to his. You moved close, whispering in his ear, “shall we say an hour’s time? You know where to meet me.”

Part 2

[n0tamused]

Could I request Aventurine's s/o just making and giving him a bunch of random gifts? From simple things like cupcakes and plushies to more lavish gifts like a multi-purpose gun and tricked-out sunglasses.

A/n: A little drabble for this idea, hope you enjoy

Contents: Aventurine x GN!Reader, fluff, not proofread

“My, my, what do we have here? And who are you bringing this to?” Aventurine inquired after he glimpsed the little pile of gifts stacked on the coffee table. There are boxes wrapped in pretty and colorful papers and decorated with bows on top, and there are desert boxes next to them, ones he could see the contents of due to their translucent lids. 

You startled at the sudden voice, too immersed in wrapping up another gift in pretty green wrapping paper. Turning your head to look at him you beam with mirth, eyes gleaming as you notice the genuine confusion in his eyes. Had you not known him as best as you do, you would have thought him dull-witted for not already noticing these were for no one else but him.

“Take a wild guess, why don’t you? I might give you a reward if you get it right on the first try” you tell him, feeling rather proud of yourself with the assortment of gifts you managed to snag on the planet that was new to you both. There were local delicacies and deserts in the boxes on the table, but also wrapped goodies that would be of daily use to him, 

Aventurine feigns skepticism, although he now recognizes his momentary error and chuckles for not already having guessed. “Might it be.. hmm, hmm..” he hums and coos, dragging the moment out as he prowls around your sitting form and trying to get a glimpse at what you were wrapping up, but the box was already enveloped in the pretty glimmering paper. “Could it be me?” he asks at long last, tilting his head down at you when you look up to meet his colorful gaze.

Judging by your smile spreading further, crinkling the corners of your eyes, he was right on the dot.

“Took you long enough, but you got it right. Would you like to open these now.. or perhaps when we’re back home? I thought I had more time to hide these away - I wanted it to be a surprise, but alas, you always had such amazing timing” you tell him, clearly in jest.

“What would you prefer? I don’t wish to trash your plans any further... I may have caught you off guard with this, but now you have me rather speechless, I must praise you for that” he responded, your smile spreading to his lips like a disease as he lets his eyes wander over to the other presents once more. You rise from your seat, leaving behind the box and go to meet him in an embrace. He accepts it, a bit stiff at first but it is like your warmth melts that unease away from him, and soon after he is wrapping his arms around you. “Missed me already?” he coos at you, his tone now mellow as if his usual tone would hurt you at such close proximity.

“I have” you state simply, looking up at him as you pull away, melting into the view of the pretty blonde man.  “And I’d rather show it all to you now. We have time until this ship lands again, might as well indulge in some sweets, right?”

His gloved fingers brush against the line of your jaw, slightly tilting your head to the side and he mirrors the motion. “That is right.. I am desperately craving something sweet right now. You mentioning it is only making me more hungry for a taste” he says, and you notice the slight flush that comes over his cheeks. You beam at it, but it is him that leans in and catches your lips in a chaste kiss.

You chase his lips before he can fully part, finding yourself in a craving as well, in need of another kiss. It felt as if days had separated you until now and not just a few hours. You feel his huff against your skin, the corners of his mouth twisting upward. Once you pulled apart, you notice his grip on your arms, keeping you steady as your own hand keep him steady in return. He blinks at you, his eyes half lidded and full of warmth that was only reserved in quieter moments like these. 

“Come.. let me show you what I’ve gotten for you” 

He obliges, your voice snapping him out of his fuzzy thoughts. He doubts he’ll ever get used to your kindness and gifts, they’re too sweet to him, and he doubts he has earned them, but he is not the one to decline your invitations or offers - that’d be too mean.

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[sirenedusud]

once more to see you (adar x elf!reader)

decades at a time, you find yourself crossing paths with the Uruk.

AN: hey guys i was listening to mitski and for some reason (yeah sure) i was filled with yearning for adar. he intrigues me so. i need help like mentally or something.

AN II: at some point the horny evaporated from my body and i was feeling something different, this ended up being like 30% adar lmao, BUT ALAS I WRITE FOR MY OWN PLEASURE AND I CANNOT HELP IT. enjoy.

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Dawn swept across the great delta, the pools of seawater and grains of sand glistened like stars as the sunlight dappled through the clouds. Eärendil's plea had been answered by the Valar, and so a host of your fellow elves from Valinor arrived upon the shores of Beleriand. You followed the call with haste as you wished to be reunited with your dearest friends in exile, but now your stomach turned at the sight ahead. A looming shadow crept over the mountain range, threatening to overtake what remained of Middle Earth's western shores.

Your company had concluded setting up camp the day before. Now only battle preparations were being rehearsed repeatedly, for no one could predict when the fight would erupt. You spent the entire morning doing drills you could have done as easily in your sleep and so decided to slip away from the encampment for a moment away. The forest gave you no comfort though, darkness lingered everywhere, muffling your hyperaware senses. Still you wandered, bow clamped tightly in one fist. Minutes later, you stumbled upon a clearing in the woods, but someone was already there. Their presence made your blood run cold; you notched an arrow for good measure.

It was too late though, the figure turned swiftly, looking directly at your frozen figure behind a tree. He did not draw his sword, nor did you release your arrow. You found yourself completely transfixed on him. He seemed to be an elf, with his long, pointed ears and tresses of midnight black hair.

Whatever danger oozed from him ceased now as his own eyes captured every inch of you. You noticed tear stains on his hollow cheeks, had he been crying before you came? You stepped out of the tree's shadow without hesitation, allowing the sunlight to pour down on you, illuminating your pale blue attire and long, woven hair. He only continued to gaze at you, as if he was studying the magnificent night sky etched with constellations.

“What is something so fair doing wandering on this dark path?” he asked calmly. Your cheeks flushed, but before you could open your mouth a horn blared in the distance and you pointed your arrow in its direction, then back at the elf. He was gone. This couldn't mean well. You ran back to the encampment as fast as you could to find elves running back and forth, your commander yelling at soldiers and captains alike. The war began.

***

The black blood mucked onto your armor would not budge regardless of how much pressure you rubbed at it with. With a sigh of defeat you dropped the filthy rag and laid your head on the boulder behind you. Decades had passed and the war continued. In this moment of stillness between the two fronts, you and Galadriel had led the injured away from the desolate northern regions. Your mind wandered on the events of the past years: the countless orcs you had slain, the mountains and plains which had been ravaged, the elves and men that fell to their death beside you, and the glimpses of the dark elf from the woods passing by you on the battlefield yet never crossing your path.

"What troubles you?" Galadriel's soft voice stirred your attention. She stood before you, glorious even through the weariness of war.

"Nothing. Nothing besides the stench of those rotting Orcs," you replied without a look to her, guilt creeping into your heart. She crouched down before you and took your hands into her own without another word.

A deafening roar split through the air suddenly, snapping everyone awake. Upon the northern horizon, winged serpentine beasts flew in your direction. Men and elves alike shouted at the sight in an uproar of confusion.

"What treacherous hole have those beasts crept out of?" one man cried out, looking to his own equally mortified commanders.

"So this is Morgoth's desperate assault," your tall commander pondered, before speaking loudly for all to hear, "his forces have been expended. Do not give into fear. Do not fear!" In a blur, you part from Galadriel and fall into line with the remaining soldiers charging back into the heat of battle. The dragons devastated the front line, scalding skin off of bone, melting armor and sword, snapping arrows like twigs. As one dragon swooped down to rake through soldiers, you shot a large arrow into the beast's eye, causing it to roar in pain, but too quickly it recovered to charge straight at you. In that moment, fear paralyzed you. The cloud of flame descending upon you grew hotter by the second, and you closed your eyes. No fear.

That was until a cold metal hand yanked you by the nape of your armor, dragging you away from the now burning spot. You opened your eyes to see a black-haired figure pulling you further and further away from the fields and into a dark ravine. The ground was bloodied, black trees stood completely charred here. The air hung thickly; perhaps it was from the dragon fire, perhaps it was only something between you and the elf. He finally stopped to release you, causing you to catch yourself from face-planting into the rocky ground. He paced a little ways further, keeping his back to you. The sounds of clashing metal and roaring dragons continued in the background, yet grew faint as you focused solely on your savior.

"Who are you?" you asked warily, a hand resting upon the slender blade on your hip, yet rather pathetically you wished nothing more than for him to gaze at you like in your last meeting. He does turn eventually, and his eyes do find yours, but they were filled with anguish so strong it drew a worried expression from your own face.

"I am..." he began, "I thought I was fighting for my children’s place in this world, but it seems I led them all to death..." Children? What children did he speak of? You knew he served Morgoth, alongside other monsters and tormented souls twisted into Morgoth's "creations,” but no children were on that battlefield. You stood up slowly, trying to navigate the elf's mood as he looked down at the ground. His scarred hand grasped his black sword tightly, but you crept closer. He looked up again, stopping you in your tracks as electricity crackled between the two of you.

His pale face was scarred so severely that you winced at the thought of what it looked like when they were fresh, but he was beautiful nonetheless. His melancholic grey-blue eyes shone upon a set of high-cut cheekbones. His thin lips parted to speak again, but his gaze dropped down to the black blood staining your armor. Suddenly, his eyes darkened and he grew angry, stepping away from you. You panicked at this change in temper and unsheathed your blade.

"Forgive me," he muttered before striking you across the head with the butt of his sword. The power of his hit threw you unconscious and you crumpled to the floor. For a moment he regretted his action, but the shrieks of the dragons snapped him back into reality. He pulled you behind some large rocks, out of sight from any dangerous passerby, and returned to the battle which costed him his kin. The battle which he knew Morgoth was losing.

***

The golden forest welcomed you with a gentle breeze as you walked down the rows of trees carved into figures of martyred elves. You stood before the familiar faces, ebbs of grief resurfacing in your heart. Decades had passed since the War of Wrath ended and now you remained in Middle-Earth with numerous other elves. Sometimes you longed for the light of Valinor, yet other times a dark desire only found in this foreign land kept you chained to Middle-Earth. Now, you simply resided in the elven kingdom of Lindon.

"There you are," Gil-galad's voice called to you gently. You turned to greet him, his eyes softened at the sight of your weary face. Your heart, on the other hand, leapt after taking in the sight of the golden king. Moments like this passed between the two of you before, a connection that yearned to blossom during these peaceful years spent together in Lindon, but you said nothing of it and neither did he with all his power in the world. He stepped closer to you, taking your hand into his larger, warmer ones before speaking.

"I know this look. I know you regret not joining Galadriel on her...search," he began, his golden rings dazzling in the sunlight, "but I have a task for you which I hope proves to be a distraction because I do not wish to see you mourn the past, wandering here in these woods alone." His voice grew firmer towards the end. He was right, long had you spent idly in solitude, spiraling in dark memories yet also refusing to return to Aman.

"What is your command?" you asked aloofly. Gil-galad let out a sigh and patted the back of your hand, guiding you back out of the forest and towards his halls.

"I want you to go see Celebrimbor. See what he is conjuring in that workshop that keeps him so occupied," Gil-galad continued, "I'm afraid our friend is not replying to my envoys as swiftly as I would like, and thought perhaps a more familiar face would get things out of him sooner." A stronger breeze passed through the exit of the woods, causing your eyelids to flutter shut and you to inhale deeply. You opened your eyes to find Gil-galad studying your face, then looking away shyly. Before entering the main hall, he turned to you, gently clasping his hands upon your shoulders.

"Go now. Take two with you," he instructed, "and allow that foul battlefield to leave your mind.”

***

The road to Eregion was short. Your companions became immersed in the citadel's magnificence upon arrival, and so you made your way to Celebrimbor alone. Sure enough, you found him in his workshop, chipping away at a slender blade handle made of polished marble.

"Celebrimbor-"

"Oh!" he shouted in surprise, the blade snapping off of the handle before him, "Ohhh." He turned to you with a frown, but immediately lit back up.

"It is a delight to see you my dear friend," Celebrimbor stood up to come closer to you, "such a delight! We must feast and drink on this occasion...for when was the last time you graced my humble workshop,” he rested one hand on your back as he began guiding you towards the doors you had just entered from.

“But you see…right now I'm quite busy." You began to protest with the elf, but he swept you out of the tower quicker than you could repeat Gil-galad's inquiries. With no other way back inside, you headed out of Eregion's main gates and into the woods. You hadn't meant to go wandering again, but your body had grown accustomed to this ritual: to walk deeper into the woods, fall deeper into memories with every step, become blind to what stood before you physically as your mind filled with images of the past.

The sun began to set and you found yourself in a small clearing full of sweet scented flowers and lightning bugs floating about. Images of the dark elf's face flashed before your mind’s eye, causing your heart to stammer. You admitted to yourself that right now more than anything you wanted to see him once more. The softness he spoke to you with, the scars on his pale face, the agony in his burning gaze, the way those same eyes were so captivated by you in the woods; everything about him was intoxicating. It was so pathetic of you, an Eldar, to be emotionally bound to a creature of darkness. There was now an emptiness within you that he had dug, a hollow that tore open even wider when you remembered him. You fell to your knees in a soft bed of moss, grabbing fists of your hair as you begged yourself to forget the enemy.

"This is madness! I've been marked by some ill will. It’s a stain. It's just a trick of the dark forces, not my own mind! Not mine, not mine, not mine." Your hands hammered at your head. You threw your body forward and released a frustrated scream and then, bereft of any more strength, remained in child's pose upon the soft green earth. Crickets began to chirp around you, and the sound of careful footsteps reached your ears as well. You should have looked to see who it was, but you chose to sulk in self-pity. They grew closer, stopping midway as if they had seen something, then began to head towards you before stopping mere feet away.

"Fair creature..." a low voice spoke above you. You whipped your head up to find the darkling standing before you, clad in full black attire. Suddenly, you became aware of your lack of weapons, but then fell distracted by two tears escaping your eyes. It is a strange sensation, unfamiliar to you completely. Two drops of warm water traced down your cheeks and into the crevices of your lips, the taste of salt hitting your tongue, before continuing down your chin. You raised a hand to wipe the salty rivulets away, but a thumb in a black glove found them first. The dark elf knelt before you, looking curious as ever.

"How are you here?" Numerous questions filled your head at once, but time was of the essence with someone as fleeting as this elf.

"I fled in the end with my remaining children, in...someone else's refuge,” he hesitated with his words. He was afraid to reveal too much, yet he yearned to be vulnerable with you because he felt that he could. You caught his hand before it dropped away from your face, and rubbed your thumb against the back of his glove. He fell into a trance again, bewitched by your beauty, the beauty of elves he could no longer recall from his own memory. Your heart beat rapidly in your chest as he kept his hand in yours, your questions now forming quicker in your mind than on your tongue.

"Who are you? You left me in the mountain last we met. Why did you do it? Why not kill me? I killed…so many of yours," you spoke frantically. His eyes grew hurt, but he did not pull away from you.

"For as long as I can remember, I am called Adar," he began slowly, "My kin and I are Uruk. Yes, you killed many of them, yet I do not know why I spared you. I know...I saw something in you that day in the woods. Something that I should have turned away from, but I gave into it in that moment, and then again in the battle." Your face flushed and it was your turn to cease eye contact. Whatever intense desire you felt, he had felt it too, you were sure of this. All the sinners of Middle-Earth could have been pointing and laughing at you in this moment. You grew afraid, so afraid of how relieved you were to be with Adar right now, to know him a little more.

"I know what it is that stopped you from killing me," you tested your words as you were still apprehensive of this servant of Morgoth, "I felt it too." Slowly, you pulled Adar's hand up to your heart. For a moment the two of you remained like this, then he uttered something in a foreign tongue and pushed you away. He marched away from you before turning around.

"Do not ever seek me out," he said hoarsely, "for your own sake."

***

The waves lapped at the edge of the harbor on which you stood upon. You watched as some elves began to slowly board the ship set for Valinor. Galadriel stood beside you, looking increasingly agitated as her time to board came closer. Her company had returned several days ago from their search for Sauron, but the elves refused to carry on, forcing their commander to fall back as well.

You turned to Galadriel and she mirrored you. You gave her a weak smile, knowing full well she did not wish to take this gift of returning to Aman.

“Perhaps you could speak with Gil-galad once, since Elrond was of no use in this,” she said with a hint of hope, but you shook your head.

“If I speak any word of this to him, he’ll put me on that boat too and be rid of the both of us,” you turned to look back as you spoke, catching sight of the king in the distance. He gave you a small nod, perhaps thinking you were having a heartfelt farewell with your friend. Galadriel let out an airy laugh as she glanced at the king as well.

“Well, why aren’t you coming with us?” Galadriel inquired suddenly, curious as to why you had bound yourself to Middle-Earth. You looked at her shyly but simply shrugged; if you told her the truth you knew she would have dragged you onto the ship herself.

“There is still much I want to see. Things not as troubling as well, Sauron,” you responded slowly, taking the last few steps on the dock with Galadriel before she boarded the white ship. She turned back one last time to embrace you, bringing her lips close to your ear.

“I know he is alive,” she whispered.

“I believe you,” you reassured her before releasing her. She muttered a final goodbye before turning to face the front of the ship. You watched as Círdan, Master of the Grey Havens, stepped off the ship before it made its way out of the harbor. Galadriel, nor any of the other elves, turned back. You watched until the ship became a speck on the horizon, until the sun began to set, and until Elrond reached for your arm to guide you away from the harbor.

***

The elves of the Southlands were to return home. Wishing to escape Gil-galad’s ever-watchful eye, you chose to carry this message to the Watchtower of Ostirith. The elves spoke ill of the men in the villages below, who all felt the same way towards the elves even though they were severely defenseless without them. Save Arondir, who had grown fond of one particular woman. Oftentimes you wanted to advise him against it, to say that he would only be hurt if he chose to love a mortal, but you yourself chose worse things to love.

Upon one quiet morning, something had drawn you to the black forest surrounding the tower. The silence of these woods became unnerving though after walking through them for half an hour and you contemplated turning back, but you found yourself lost. You could not sense the way you came from at all. Terror split into your mind as you trekked down the path you were certain you had come from, desperately scanning the forest floor for signs of your own footprints. You were beginning to lose daylight, and prayed the woods were as empty as they sounded.

You suddenly stumbled into a thicket of webs and groaned at the white strands sticking to your hair and clothes.

“Cursed things! Spiders this close to people? Or, perhaps…I am not as close to civilization as I thought I was…” you trailed off into thought as you cut through the webs. The task at hand becoming so distracting that you did not detect one spider crawling up behind you. Your ears had caught the sound of one of its feet slipping though, but before you could turn to parry its attack, you found the arachnid dead with a black arrow through its skull. It fell with a loud thud to your feet, and you stared, dumbstruck, at the archer. Adar stood there, though not as shocked as you. You scrambled out of the webbed mess and straight to him, desperate to catch him before he slipped away again.

“I caught sight of you when you entered the forest. I sensed you were lost and only followed to make sure you returned to Ostirith in one piece–“ Adar began but stopped as you wrapped your arms around him, pressing your cheek into his armored chest.

“Please, please don’t leave! Please stop doing this to me,” you pled. A split second later Adar dropped his bow and clung onto you as well, his one bare hand raking through your long, soft hair. He pressed his face into your smooth forehead, and inhaled your floral scent, absorbing anything and everything he could of you. No guilt or shame reached you now. It was as if no one could see you, not Ostirith, not Gil-galad, nor the Valar.

“What does an Eldar want to have to do with me?” Adar’s question finally broke your peace. You looked at him in confusion, your mind juggling between reality and its possibilities.

“You could be forgiven, you did not know what you were going to be forced to do when Morgoth had twisted you into…none of this has to be your burden,” you rambled, but Adar shook his head.

“I cannot abandon my children. They have every right to be free in Middle-Earth as anybody else.”

“Children? What are these children you keep speaking of?” you sighed as you took a small step back and planted your hands to your hips. Adar smiled down at you, but inwardly he prepared for you to finally be disgusted by him, to finally reject him and free the both of you from this tangled web of emotions.

“The Orcs,” he explained, “they had been abused by Morgoth once, and I cannot allow it to happen again. They deserve to be free, to have their own land, with no ruler above them…I wish to grant them this peace.” You stared at Adar incredulously. What madness could possess someone to pity the vile Orcs?

“The only peace you could grant them is to put an end to their treacherous existence,” you replied harshly. Adar’s eyes grew angry for a moment, but his pent up desire caused him to soften under your stern gaze. You trembled as you began to realize that perhaps he would not join you in this eternal life, the darkness had truly twisted his soul. As if sensing this, Adar grasped your chin with his hand and forced you to look into his eyes.

“I don’t know what to do…” your lip began to quiver.

“For now…be here with me,” the Uruk responded before dipping his head down to capture your lips in his. You immediately melted into his armored body, any flame of despair within you extinguished. You kissed him back fervently, your hands reaching for his neck, lips feeling every inch of his cold ones. He rocked your head gently to the side, giving himself more leeway to devour your lips. You let him slip his tongue into your mouth, a cold metallic taste filling your senses. His hands wandered down your body, slowly squeezing every bit of you from your breasts to your hips. A moan slipped out of you after one of his hands trailed back upward and gave your throat a soft press.

Twigs snap in the distance and you lurched back from Adar. His cold eyes scanned into the dark forest, his body covering yours protectively. After a minute passed, he turned back to you. His own heart, which he once thought long dead, jumped at the sight of you. The moonlight illuminated your flushed cheeks, your lips now glistening from the kiss, and the ardor in your eyes.

“We are not alone, fair creature,” Adar whispered to you between kisses on your cheek then nose then other cheek, “Your kin searches for you. Go to them.” You wanted to protest, but Adar only brushed a hand through your hair once more before stepping back into the forest, fading without a trace.

“There you are,” Arondir’s voice came from behind you. You turned to face the stoic elf with a dazed expression. He did not ask you why you were here, but simply beckoned you to follow him back to the tower. On your way back, you turned the cold taste of Adar on your tongue over and over again.

***

Arondir led you straight back to the tower, but before entering the fortress, he turned on his heel to face you.

“Who was with you out there?” he asked.

“Wh-what?” you stammered as the question caught you by surprise.

“Who was with you in the woods?” Arondir repeated, emphasizing each word. He took a step forward, looking down at you sternly. Your blood ran cold. Did he already know? Could you lie?

“I was lost, I was talking to myself. There wasn’t any–“

“Do not lie!” Arondir’s jaw tightened as he snapped at you. You stood with your mouth agape, feeling as if you were shrinking smaller and smaller under his judgmental gaze.

“Did you not think I could sense the darkness lingering on your flesh?” you shivered as he continued, “and to think…you succumbed to it so easily.”

“You don’t understand! It was nothing of that sort!” you pled but to no avail. Arondir scowled, turning away from you and headed into the tower.

“It is best you leave these lands. For good,” Arondir called over his shoulder before leaving you alone in the dark. You fell to your knees, praying under your breath for the night sky to come down and swallow you up from your spot.

***

When you reached Lindon, two soldiers immediately led you to Gil-galad. As you entered the king’s study, you noticed a crumpled letter on his ivory desk, as if he had read it and crushed it in his palm immediately. The tall elf stood with his back to you for several minutes, sweat began to form at your hairline. Finally, he turned to you with a somber expression.

“Do you know what I just read?” he asked, barely in a whisper.

“Gil-galad…” he raised a trembling hand to stop you regardless of asking you a question. He stepped around his desk and loomed over you. His eyes searched yours for something you could not decipher. He raised a pointing hand as he spoke.

“Tomorrow, at first light, there is a ship leaving for Valinor. You will take it, and you will not have any say in this,” he seethed. Disappointment burned in his eyes, and for once you became afraid of him. Naturally, you did not protest and without another word bowed to Gil-galad before turning to leave the room.

Hot tears streamed down your face as you made your way as far as you could from everyone. You kept your face down in shame, making your way to the edge of the city before bumping into someone. You looked up to see Elrond. His mouth parted in surprise but he quickly swept you into a tight embrace, patting your back as you stifled a sob.

“Surprised he didn’t send you off with Galadriel the first time,” Elrond joked quietly, but his voice remained solemn. He did not ask anything else of what had happened in the Southlands, even though he knew the basis of it.

“I should have left the moment the war ended.”

***

The waves were gentle as they carried your ship closer and closer to the golden rays before you. Warmth hummed within your chest as the clouds parted completely to reveal the brilliance of Aman. The welcoming light grew stronger, infiltrating every bit of your surroundings. Your senses began to buzz entirely. Any despair in your mind melted away, and the hollow in your heart filled with something soft and kind. A song from the Amanyar carried through the breeze; the chorus of silken voices beckoned you home.

[mandalhoerian]

sacrosanct | leon kennedy x reader | 2

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pairing: leon kennedy x f!reader

summary: Leon, a paladin of the temple who became a disillusioned oathbreaker, returns from years of war with a noble title and shattered faith. Once devoted to the Saintess who healed him, Leon's admiration has twisted into repressed desire—feelings he could never express, tainted by guilt and shame. Now a celebrated hero, he’s drawn back not to the kingdom’s praises, but to the chance of one last glimpse of you to move on with his life.

The god he abandoned has other plans for him.

word count: 13K

warnings: none. leon being embarrassing is all... you'll see

disclaimer: Leon has some backwards thinking about "providing and protecting" during the end of the fic. Please keep in mind there's two reasons as to why that is:

1) this is a historical fiction no matter how fantastical it is, so conservative values very much exist

2) it actually isn't gender-based. leon is very much okay with the reader doing whatever she wants. he just has a worshipper mentality when it comes to the reader and sees the real world beneath her, so to speak? he basically has her on a pedestal that nobody is allowed to take her down from. she's god's favorite princess and he wants to treat her as such and her serving others is grating on his nerves (they don't deserve it AND she deserves better is the theme here)

3) get your whimsy on and just enjoy being worshipped damn

note: i meant this as a two-shot but . alas, we're here. i swear the next one is the final one. I SWEAR

🌀 READ ON AO3 !

The sound of scrubbing fills the busy kitchen, a rhythmic rasp of bristles against copper. The bucket of soapy water at your side ripples with each jerking movement of your hand, and the cloth slips again, plunging your fingers into the cold water. You wince, pulling back, hands trembling as they fumble over the simple task of cleaning the tarnished pot.

A frustrated sigh escapes your lips. This should be easy—anyone could scrub a pot, right? Any maid worth her salt would handle this without even thinking. But here you are, elbows deep in water, raw fingers rubbing awkwardly at the stubborn stains, trying to remember how much pressure to apply without ruining the metal. It’s a dance you haven’t quite learned yet, despite the amount of practice in the Redfield household.

The weight of the chore feels unnatural in your hands. Once, they were only meant to offer blessings, outstretched for others to kiss, the soft skin never meant for labor. Now, every slip, every misstep, reminds you of how far you’ve fallen. The holy aura that once clung to you like a second skin feels stripped away, leaving you bare, vulnerable—human in the most unflattering way.

Another sigh, heavier this time, as you scrub harder, muscles protesting. Your fingers ache, the bristles biting into your palms, and you fight the urge to just let the cloth drop. The world wasn’t supposed to feel so gritty, so solid. The faint scent of soap mingles with the cool breeze wafting through the open kitchen window, but it does nothing to lift the fog that wraps around your thoughts.

"You're doing it wrong again."

The sharp correction snaps you out of your reverie, and you look up to see Sarah standing over you, hands on her hips. There’s no cruelty in her eyes, only impatience. She bends down, effortlessly taking the pot from your hands.

"See?" She shows you how to twist the rag in tight circles, moving the cloth firmly around the base. "It’s not about force; it’s about control."

Control. You were once the embodiment of control, the saintess who never faltered, who embodied grace in every breath. But here, in the kitchen, control slips through your fingers like water, and you struggle to even follow the motions.

"I see," you murmur, though the words feel hollow. You watch as Sarah finishes the task in a fraction of the time it took you, setting the gleaming pot down with a nod before bustling off to tend to something else.

Once alone again, you look down at your hands, wrinkled from the water, red and sore from the effort. The delicate touch that once administered blessings now feels clumsy, the softness worn away by the rigors of everyday tasks. Dirt clings beneath your nails, and though it frustrates you, there’s something grounding about it, something... real.

Ethelion’s grace never truly belonged to me, you think. I was only ever a vessel. And when that vessel cracks, the divine cannot stay.

Rising from your crouch, you stretch your aching back. Strange how heavy your body feels now, no longer ethereal, no longer buoyed by the sacred weight of divine purpose. Instead, you are bound by flesh and bone, muscles screaming at every chore.

The day stretches ahead, an endless rhythm of work. There are beds to be made, floors to be swept, linens to fold. Each task pulls you further away from the pedestal you once stood upon, but there’s a quiet solace in the routine, in the steady, simple motions. The other maids chat as they move through their own chores, but you remain mostly silent, your thoughts too tangled to join in.

By mid-afternoon, your feet lead you to the garden, the one place that offers a semblance of peace. The air is lighter here, the scent of lilacs and roses calming in a way that nothing else seems to be. Flowers bloom in delicate clusters, their petals soft against your fingertips as you run your hands through them absently.

"Careful now,” someone calls out. "You don’t want to bruise the petals."

You turn to see Piers, the young gardener, smiling at you as he wipes his hands on his apron. He’s always so gentle with the plants, his fingers coaxing them into life with the same patience he shows with you. There’s dirt smudged across his cheek, his hands stained with earth, but it suits him.

"I wasn’t trying to," you reply, embarrassed by your carelessness. Your touch once healed the wounded, and now you worry about crushing flowers.

"Didn’t say you were," he says, coming closer to kneel beside you. "Just reminding you. These flowers... they’re like people. Handle them too roughly, and they’ll wilt. Handle them too gently, and they’ll never bloom."

There is a meaning in there that makes your skin prickle, an awareness that you wish you could erase. He understands too much, has seen too much. Not many of the Redfield staff know your true identity—the noble family wishes to preserve their secrecy regarding you—but Piers knows. From the day you stepped through the estate gates, he knew.

The afternoon sun shines brightly as the two of you fall into the usual silence, the one you enjoy. As you work together, weeding and trimming the hedges. You try to copy his movements, but you feel clumsy beside him, fumbling over yourself with every touch. The lilies you looked after in the temple were plucked and placed in elegant vases, you only ever stood in their presence in the garden, as the monks cared for the vegetation in the sanctified grounds. The fact that you were chosen to stand for Ethelion, you didn’t touch anything—they touched you, and you felt like the flower, the angel of mercy, the beautiful goddess. The ones that surround you now call for more work to thrive, to grow. It seems that no matter how hard you try, your touch won’t be enough.

You reach to pick a weed and nearly knock over a rosebush, the thorns grazing your hand. The sting feels grounding, in a strange way, and for a moment, you linger in it, letting the pain settle into your skin. It doesn't immediately heal like any other wound used to.

"When will you teach me?" You blurt out, looking over at him. "How to properly help you?"

Piers chuckles softly, carefully correcting your posture with his hands until you get into position. "Soon, little lady. Soon, you'll be good at this, just as you are with everything you set your mind to."

Years after, you're still awkward and at a loss with touch. A lifetime of only coming to contact with fabric and porcelain will do that to you, and you think that he notices as such—the way you flinch at unexpected contact, the way you seem to carry that old elegance that never went away with you in all of your actions, even as you struggle with the physicalities of your new life.

To his credit, he doesn't question it, simply guides you patiently as if it's natural. If the rest of the staff finds it odd, they don't say a thing.

This is another world. A world very different from your life before. People of your standing hug and hold hands, brush against one another. When you first began your training, it felt overwhelming, like being engulfed by a current you didn't know how to fight. Now, it is like the sea itself, ever-present but constant.

"Firm grip," Piers says quietly, putting his own hands over yours to guide the motion as he weeds the soil around the small hedge bushes. "You need to have a light touch, but not too light or it won't be efficient."

You adjust your fingers accordingly, gripping the clump of earth and tugging. It comes loose without resistance, falling into your hand. A smile spreads across your face, your eyes brightening.

"Like this?"

"Yes, perfect," Piers says, nodding encouragingly. The corners of his lips quirk up in the barest hint of a grin. "And don't be afraid to get dirty. Mud is natural and good for the earth, helps the flowers flourish."

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, and you find yourself wishing, for a moment, that life would remain like this. It isn’t comfortable—not in the way the temple had been, with its cushioned chairs and silken sheets, the robes so thick and warm they felt like velvet against your skin. But here, surrounded by flowers, with the wind ruffling through your hair, it feels...right.

Maybe that is why you found yourself returning to the gardens whenever the chance arose, whether it was after completing your daily chores or even on your days off, even if you were sure you wouldn’t learn anything from it. There was a comfort that came with the sun shining down on you as you pruned and picked at the roses, looking forward to the day when you would be knowledgeable enough to plant lilies on your own and care for them how they deserved.

The day passes in quiet rhythm after that, the routine of your tasks blending into the hum of the estate. There’s comfort in the dirt, in the steady, simple work of tending to life, of watching something grow. It’s not grand, it’s not divine, but it feels real, and for now, that’s enough.

As the sun dips below the horizon, you return to your small room in the servants’ quarters. The day’s dirt still clings to your skin, and as you sit at your modest mirror, you catch a glimpse of your reflection. You’re no longer the saintess, no longer the holy vessel. The person staring back at you is human, grounded in the earth just like the flowers you’ve come to care for.

The soft clink of porcelain and silverware fills the dining hall along with the the quiet hum of conversation between the Redfield family. You stand at the ready, your hands clasped before you, ever attentive to the needs of the table. The crystal carafe of wine glimmers faintly beside you, waiting to be lifted, though your thoughts are far from the task at hand.

"What happened after that?" Lady Claire leans forward, a sly smile on her lips as she gestures animatedly in a very unladylike manner. "You can’t just brush that under the rug! The hero of the kingdom storms into a coronation and attacks the Archbishop? I need details!"

Lord Chris waves his fork dismissively, his mouth full of roasted vegetables. He huffs out a breath, shaking his head as he reaches for his wineglass, "It wasn’t as dramatic as you’re making it sound. Just a bit of a misunderstanding, really."

Lady Claire laughs light and airy as she leans back in her seat. "A misunderstanding that resulted in the knight attacking an esteemed member of the Church of Ethelia? In public. How is that not dramatic?"

You glance toward Chris as you subtly refill his glass, the liquid swirling gently. His features are calm, but there’s a tension around his mouth that suggests he’s holding back more than he’s letting on. You pause, hoping to catch more of the conversation without drawing attention to yourself, your curiosity piqued.

The mental image of Leon doing something as bold as interrupting an event in the capital, let alone something as severe as accosting a highly-respected man of faith is... Unrealistic and highly out of character for him. It seemed too distant from the kind boy who would climb trees to bring down fruits just to make you smile.

The man clears his throat as he cuts into his steak, the knife slicing through the tender meat with ease. "It was more like a minor incident than an attack, honestly. No one was hurt, and the Archbishop has already moved past it."

"Why would he do such a thing?"

It's a great question. Leon wasn't known as someone who made reckless decisions like that—if anything, he was known for following his orders without hesitation, which was what made him an excellent paladin, regardless of what the rest of the clergy thought about him. You had even heard whispers among the priests about his loyalty, his dedication, how he was unfailingly loyal to the temple. He seemed like a steadfast soldier, reliable and sturdy, always steady on his feet no matter what trials Ethelion sent his way.

Lord Chris exhales slowly through his nose as his gaze falls upon his wife. There's a pause, the air heavy with unsaid words, before he responds. "Maybe something just snapped when he saw that Archbishop standing there, acting like everything’s fine after everything he’s seen and been through."

His response is blunt, the words like a punch to your gut. You try to swallow against the dryness in your throat, blinking back the tears that suddenly threaten to spill, biting the inside of your cheek.

An uncomfortable silence settles across the dinner table, broken only by Lady Claire's uneasy chuckle.

You exhale slowly, the sound barely audible, as you reach for the water pitcher. It isn’t until your hand trembles as it hovers over the delicate glass surface that you realize how tense your body is. The truth that he spoke, that slipped through you like poison in bloodstream—

Would Leon attack you the same way he did the Archbishop? The Saintess who sent him off into a war with a prayer and a blessing? Would you, too, end up with his fingers clutching at your clothes, teeth gritting together in a snarl, the words of accusation cutting into you as you stood frozen in place, unable to respond?

"Do you think he’s... dangerous?" Lady Claire asks, stripped off of all her playfulness. "Should we be worried?"

Lord Chris chuckles, though there’s a bitter edge to it. "No, Leon’s not dangerous. Not to us, anyway. He’s just... different. War changes people. It’s not something you can just walk away from without it leaving scars."

Your hands tighten around the stem of the pitcher, steadying your grip. The mention of the Holy War brings a hundred memories rushing back, as fresh as the day they were forged. They wash over you, filling your veins with a rush of sorrow and anger, regret and remorse—

You sent Leon there. Into the midst of that violence and hatred, where men became monsters. Where his blade tasted blood for the first time and changed him forever, like an animal weaned off of milk and discovering a taste for flesh. You did that to him. Did that to all of the righteous paladins and courageous soldiers who died in that field, whose bones now lie in unmarked graves.

Leon would be right to hate you. Ethelion himself should despise you, condemn you. It's why He has let go of you so early into your service.

You don't know why Lord Chris doesn't spit on your face. Why Lady Claire allows you to pour their drinks and serve their meals. How could you ever repent for what you have done to the paladins of this kingdom, their fellow noblemen of faith?

"Enough talk of battle at the dinner table," Dame Jill chides gently, a soothing balm amidst the tension. "We've spent too long dwelling in the dark. Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

"Right, right," Chris agrees, shaking his head with a sheepish grin. "Sorry about that."

The moment between them is tender, so simple yet so intimate that you can’t help but feel like you’re intruding. The way Jill’s hand lingers on Chris’s arm, the way he leans into her touch without even realizing it—it’s a closeness you’ve only ever observed from a distance, a kind of bond you’ve never experienced. You’re not sure you ever will.

"Let's talk about more exciting things," Lady Claire picks up her enthusiasm once more, and as if she's read your mind, she says, "How long do you think is until his marriage to Princess Ashley?"

Chris chokes on his food. So would you if you were in his position.

Jill sighs, a thin smile on her lips as she shoots him a look. "That isn't a conversation we're meant to entertain."

"I don’t think Leon’s worried about marriage right now, Claire," Chris says, though with a hint of amusement. "He’s got enough on his plate without worrying about courting anyone."

"Still," Claire continues, her eyes twinkling mischievously, "I bet every noble lady in the capital is throwing themselves at him right now. A war hero, a noble Margrave, and still single? They’re probably lining up just to get a chance."

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat at the thought. Is that really what’s happening? Is Leon being paraded in front of noble families, their daughters hoping to catch his eye, hoping to be the one he chooses? The idea leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, though you can’t quite place why.

Leon... a Margrave now, a hero of the kingdom, sitting at the top of nobility’s ladder, one step away from being at the king’s side. The image of him standing among lords and ladies, dressed in fine silk and polished armor, feels alien in your mind. You remember him in a different way—so much simpler, much... closer. A heavy feeling settles in your chest.

"Claire, please," Jill interrupts with a chuckle, light but firm. "Leave the poor man alone."

The conversation moves on, but you remain rooted in place, the weight of it all pressing down on you. You steal a glance at Jill and Chris, their easy smiles, their shared glances, and you can’t help but wonder if Leon will find someone like that. Someone who can stand by his side, someone who fits seamlessly into his new world.

Perhaps it's for the best, after the "holy cause" that left him with nothing but a medal of honor and an oathbreaker reputation, the life of a soldier, a faithful paladin cut off from divinity and glory. To have the blessing of Ethelion once again, as a lord, with a beautiful young woman to share the legacy—it's a picture that could only bring envy to anyone's heart.

The manor feels like a gilded cage.

Leon slumps back in his chair, the smooth leather creaking beneath the weight of his armorless body. Before him lies an endless spread of parchment on the grand oak desk in his office—documents stamped with wax seals, crests of various noble families, and inked signatures of men and women he couldn’t care less about.

The words blur together into a maddening jumble, formalities and regulations, reminders of his newfound role as Margrave, a title he’d never wanted but had earned through blood and grit on the battlefield. Now, instead of commanding soldiers, he commands... paper.

The clinking of metal rings from across the room as Dame Ingrid Hunnigan arranges a fresh stack of documents beside him, her presence calm and efficient as always. Her gaze flickers toward him, calculating, and Leon doesn’t miss the slight narrowing of her eyes as she notes the papers he has yet to sign. The steady tick of the ornate clock in the corner seems louder than it should.

"My Lord."

Leon looks up, blinking as though he’s surfacing from deep water. “Yes?”

“We’re behind schedule,” she says, ever pragmatic, her gaze flicking briefly to the mountain of paperwork before returning to meet his. “If we’re to have everything in order for your proposal to Princess Ashley, we’ll need to finalize these arrangements by the end of the week.”

Leon freezes, his quill hovering above the paper like a blade suspended in air, droplets of ink forming a dark blot on the parchment beneath. His heart thuds once, hard, against his ribs, and he feels a strange coldness spreading from his chest to his limbs. Proposal. Marriage. Princess Ashley.

It was the logical next step, wasn’t it? The hero of the war, the man who saved the princess, standing beside her as her husband, uniting the people with their fairy-tale ending.

But the thought of it feels like a noose tightening around his throat.

“I’m not marrying her.”

Hunnigan’s sharp intake of breath is almost imperceptible, but Leon catches it. She doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, but he can feel the shift in her—an unspoken surprise. "But—”

He places the quill down with a deliberate slowness, his fingers resting on the desk’s polished surface.

“I won’t marry her,” Leon interrupts, low but firm, as if saying it again will solidify his decision, make it real.

“Sir, I’m not certain you understand the implications. The court is already abuzz with speculation. The king’s council has all but planned the ceremony. If you—”

“No.” Leon’s tone sharpens, the edge of it cutting through the room. His jaw tightens, and he pushes back from the desk, rising to his feet in one fluid motion. The papers, the plans, the obligations—they all feel like chains, tethering him to a world he never wanted to belong to.

Hunnigan doesn’t flinch, though she tracks his every movement, assessing. “Then what will you do? The court demands an answer, and soon.”

“I don’t care about their impatience,” Leon cuts her off, harder than he intends. He runs a hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair, his frustration mounting. “I’ve just returned from war. I’ve barely had time to breathe, and now they want me to walk down the aisle? It’s absurd.”

“You’re not just a soldier anymore,” Ingrid replies evenly. “You’re a noble now, Sir Leon. A Margrave. And with that title comes expectations. Marrying Princess Ashley solidifies your position. It ensures stability.”

Stability. It’s the word that grates against his skin like a thorn. Stability meant confinement. It meant being locked into a life that wasn’t his own, chained to a destiny he didn’t choose. Marrying into the royal family would make him something he never wanted to be.

From the temple to the palace. Still a pawn.

And worse, it would make him someone unrecognizable to himself.

When she only gets irritable silence in return, Hunnigan doubles down, "The people adore you. You saved Princess Ashley. A marriage between you two would unite the noble houses, secure your standing. It’s—"

"I don’t care." The words burst out of him, louder than intended, and the air between them seems to crackle with the tension of it. He meets her look, daring her to challenge him, to push him further into this corner he feels trapped in. "I’m not marrying her. I never promised that. I never wanted that."

"It’s not about what you want, my lord. It’s about what the kingdom needs. What the crown expects from you."

"The crown expects a puppet," Leon mutters, his voice dropping to an icy low. He rises from the chair, the sound of his boots heavy against the floor as he paces the room, his movements sharp, restless. "They dress me up in these fine clothes, give me a title, and expect me to smile and play my part in their little game. I didn’t fight a war to become this."

"You fought a war to protect the kingdom. And this is part of that protection," Hunnigan argues, "You’ve earned the people’s respect. The life of a hero comes with its responsibilities."

"Responsibilities." He almost laughs at that, though there’s nothing humorous about it. His hand drifts to the hilt of his sword—a relic from the battlefield that feels more like a part of him than the heavy mantle of nobility ever will. "You think I don’t know about responsibilities? I’ve seen men die under my command, Hunnigan. I’ve seen villages burn, innocent lives lost. That’s responsibility. This... this is just playing dress-up."

Hunnigan exhales softly, her face softening, just a little. "I understand. I do. But we live in a world where appearances matter just as much as actions. The people need their hero. And they need their princess to stand beside him."

“I’m not going to chain myself to a life I don’t want. I’ve fought for this kingdom, bled for it, nearly died for it. But I’m done letting other people decide my fate.”

She sighs, crossing her arms as she studies him carefully. “And what do you plan to do? Walk away from the nobility entirely? Abandon your responsibilities now that you’ve earned the title?”

Leon meets her gaze, his eyes dark, stormy. “I’ll fulfill my duties as Margrave. But I’ll do it on my terms.”

There’s a long pause, the weight of his words hanging heavy between them. Ingrid’s expression softens, just slightly, but her professionalism remains unshaken. “You know this won’t be easy. The court won’t be happy with your decision. They’ll try to pressure you, manipulate you. You’ll be seen as defying tradition.”

“Let them,” Leon replies, pushing himself up from the chair, the tension in his muscles begging for release. “I’ve faced worse things than court gossip.”

Hunnigan watches him for a moment longer before nodding, though the concern doesn’t fade. “Very well. But if you’re going to make a decision like this, you should be prepared for the consequences.”

He nods, feeling a wave of exhaustion settle over him. “I am a walking consequence, Hunnigan."

She turns and leaves him to the silence of the room, her footsteps quiet against the stone floor. The moment she’s gone, Leon exhales deeply, his chest tight and his thoughts swirling in chaos. The paperwork remains unfinished on his desk, an ever-growing mountain of expectations and demands that suffocates him more with every passing minute.

He can’t stay here. Not now.

Grabbing his cloak, Leon moves toward the door, his steps quick and purposeful. Outside, the air feels thick, the walls of the manor closing in on him like a vice. He’s grown used to wide open spaces—the battlefield, the wilderness. Here, in the capital, everything feels too close, too crowded, too suffocating.

This is how you must have felt, he thinks bitterly as he pulls the hood of his cloak over his head, his mind drifting to you. Caged in, always watched, always expected to be something more than human.

The streets of the capital stretch before him, bustling with people going about their day—merchants haggling, children running through the alleys, noblewomen in fine dresses gliding down the cobblestone paths. Leon moves through them like a shadow, his presence hidden beneath the cloak, his face obscured from the watchful eyes of guards and passersby.

For the first time in what feels like forever, he’s alone.

He walks with no destination in mind, his boots scuffing against the uneven stones, his thoughts swirling with frustration and longing. The scent of fresh bread drifts through the air from a nearby bakery, mingling with the earthy scent of rain-soaked stone, but none of it grounds him. It only reminds him of the distance between the world he’s in and the world he longs for—the simple, the honest, the free.

His steps carry him further into the city until he reaches the cathedral gates, and he stops, gazing up at the towering spires and stained glass windows. A shudder of recognition courses through his spine as he recalls the last time he was here, the day he knelt at your feet and promised loyalty.

Ethelion may have forsaken him, but this place still calls to him in some strange, primal way—a piece of his past, a connection to his lost faith.

People file in and out of the massive wooden doors, their voices raised in a joyful hum. There is an energy to the crowd that he hadn't noticed before, a buoyant air that sweeps through the throng of worshippers like a tide. Curious, he follows the flow, stepping aside to allow the others to enter as he peers in, watching the mass from the outskirts. The chapel is packed to its gilded seams, everyone cramming into every available space. Every seat is occupied; even the pews on the second story are crammed with devotees, necks straining to catch a glimpse of the spectacle below.

Being on the outside looking in is...strange for him, all his life, he'd been on the inside. An honorary knight, a devoted acolyte, then, a holy warrior tasked with bringing peace back to the world. Now he's on the other side, on the edges. Alone. He should have been in the crowd, standing just beside the Saintess, having a place in line with her.

Now, he's one of the many faces in the crowd. One of the people he had protected with his sword.

At the pulpit stands a new Saintess, clad in shimmering robes of purest white, her mask alight with a silvery glow. The feeling of uncanny valley crawls through him, like the sight is wrong somehow. The figure before him looks the same, the attire, the veil, and even the ethereal glow. However, everything feels off. Where you had held yourself tall and steady with a presence that demanded attention, the current Saintess seems shy, her movements small and uncertain as she addresses the crowd.

Leon's frown deepens as he listens to the girl speak, sweet and lilting, but lacking in the conviction he remembers from your sermons. There's no passion in it, no fervor or fire. Just rote memorization, a pretty puppet reciting lines written by others.

It's not supposed to be like this. He doesn't get the Saintess Cycle, or whatever bullshit it's called that he was informed about right after his outburst.

He had never heard of it before that day. Not even when he’d been sworn in as a paladin. Not when he had stood at your side, thinking you were eternal, untouchable.

The letter sent by the Temple said the Saintess is a vessel—a temporary, ephemeral thing. When she reaches the end of her "cycle," she is retired, replaced by a new, younger girl blessed by Ethelion. It is the way of the divine, they wrote. It’s natural. It’s necessary.

Necessary. The word is poison, burning through him.

The cycle they speak of is cruel, cold. He remembers it again: Once the Saintess matures, her divine grace wanes, and Ethelion selects a new girl, free from worldly knowledge, pure in body and mind.

Pure. That’s what they had valued about you. Not your kindness, not your wisdom, not the way your smile had once lit up entire rooms. Just purity. What do they even mean by that word?

So that’s it then, he thinks bitterly. They’ve stripped you of everything. Reduced you to some… some tool to be replaced when your usefulness runs out.

He can't accept this. He refuses to.

This “cycle” they speak of is nothing but a lie—a grotesque farce designed to keep the chosen girls under their thumb, to strip them of their humanity, their will so they are easier to control, more obedient, self-sacrificing. They want to act as though it’s all part of some divine plan, but Leon knows better. He’s seen the temple’s machinations, the politics woven into their robes, the way they turn divine grace into something transactional.

You were never just a vessel, he tells himself, his jaw tight. You were never just a role to be filled.

He had sworn an oath to protect you, to serve you, and yet, when you needed him most, he had been gone—fighting in wars, chasing glory on blood-soaked battlefields while they took everything from you.

Leon steps back, ready to turn away from the chapel that now feels hollow, stripped of the sanctity it once held, when something catches him—sharp, like the sudden crack of a whip in the still air.

A scent.

It slips through the incense and the stale breath of prayer, weaving between the worshippers like a thread of memory pulled taut. Faint, almost hidden beneath the smoke and ash of the sacred space, but unmistakable. It strikes him like a blade, cutting through the fog of disbelief clouding his mind.

Lilies.

Among the scentless masses, with their simple soaps and the cloying odor of frankincense that clings to the walls—the smell of lilies.

His pulse stutters, a beat skipped in time, before surging back with a violent, thunderous force that shakes him to his core.

It’s your scent.

His breath halts in his throat, suspended, as the world tilts, shifting on its axis as his focus narrows. Someone brushes past him, draped in a nondescript cloak, their head bowed like the rest, just another figure blending into the sea of worshippers.

But his soul screams.

He knows it’s you.

The recognition strikes him so hard he reels with it, body twisting as he turns sharply, every muscle tensing with a frantic energy he can’t control. His eyes dart around, searching, desperate. His heart is slamming against his ribs, each beat like a drum echoing in a cathedral. The scent lingers, tantalizingly close—so close he can taste it, feel it—but the figure is slipping away, vanishing into the faceless crowd, swallowed whole by the masses.

"Wait!" The word rips from his throat, harsh, strangled, louder than intended. Heads turn, whispers hiss, but they are meaningless sounds in a world reduced to the scent of lilies and the figure that’s slipping through his fingers like sand.

"Wait, please!" His yell cracks, raw, frantic. He pushes through the crowd, bodies jostling against him, every step a growing surge of panic that claws at his chest.

The scent fades, thinning like smoke dissipating in the wind, until it’s gone.

Gone.

Leon stumbles to a stop, breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling in time with the wild thrum of his heartbeat. His hands shake, fingers curled into fists at his sides as if he could grasp hold of the memory, keep it alive through sheer will.

But you’re gone.

The world around him fades to a dull hum, the whispers of disapproving worshippers like gnats buzzing in the distance. His vision blurs at the edges, narrowing, tunneling, until all he can see is the space you once occupied. His chest constricts, tightens, the weight of everything—of this moment, of the years lost, of you—crashing down on him with the force of a wave that threatens to drag him under.

No, you’re here.

The thought is dizzying, overwhelming in its certainty. You’re here, in the capital, breathing the same air as him, walking the same streets. The realization hits him like cold water, shocking him awake, filling his lungs with something raw and desperate. His mind spins, thoughts unspooling in a frantic mess he can’t make sense of.

Leon strides into the office, his boots thudding against the polished floor, the sound bouncing off the high, vaulted ceiling. The door swings shut behind him with a muted thud, the energy of his entrance reverberating through the quiet space. Hunnigan barely looks up from her desk, the rustle of paper and the scratching of her quill the only acknowledgment of his presence. The scent of ink, parchment, and faint traces of cedarwood drift through the air—but unable to overpower the lilies at the back of his throat, like a ghost in the chamber.

Without preamble, he blurts out, "Where does one buy lily soap in the capital?"

Hunnigan’s quill freezes mid-stroke, her brows knitting together as she raises her head, her gaze flicking up to meet his with an expression of mild annoyance. Her office is meticulously arranged, papers stacked neatly in front of her, the ink pot perfectly centered on the desk. Leon's sudden intrusion seems to upset the delicate balance of the room.

"My lord?" Her voice carries that familiar undercurrent of impatience, but Leon can see the confusion etched into her features. "Lily soap?"

“Yes," he snaps, pacing before her desk, his movements restless, unsettled. "Soap scented like lilies."

Hunnigan’s stare is blank, clearly trying to piece together the urgency behind his question. She places her quill down carefully, folds her hands in front of her, and straightens her back, as if preparing for some bureaucratic debate.

"I'm afraid I don't—"

In an instant, Leon slams both hands against her desk, rattling the ink pot and causing a cascade of parchment to shift slightly out of place. The sharp bang echoes through the room, and for a second, there is silence, broken only by the rapid rise and fall of Leon's breath. A few sheets of paper flutter down from the pile, but he barely notices.

"Lilies, Hunnigan," Leon grits out, leaning forward, his eyes flashing with a desperation that feels foreign even to him. “Where do they sell lily soap? I need to know, now.”

To her credit, Hunnigan doesn’t flinch, doesn’t so much as blink at his intensity. The edges of her lips tighten, but she meets his frustration with her usual unflinching calm, tilting her head slightly, watching him with that sharp calculation, as if measuring the weight of his demand against her need for propriety. "Lord Leon, it will require time, but if you would like, we will investigate the sources. Such things aren’t kept on record like weapons or grain."

Leon drops into the chair opposite her with a heavy sigh, his hands pressing against his temples as if he can massage away the growing headache pulsing at his skull, but there's a part of him—the rational, disciplined soldier—that knows he can't barrel through this like an enemy barricade.

Hunnigan regards him thoughtfully, studying him as though she’s contemplating his sanity. Finally, she relents with a small nod. "However, at the top of my head, I can tell you that a fragrance like that would most likely be sold at shops that cater to the upper class. Apothecaries, perhaps, though I’ve heard of merchants who specialize in rare oils and soaps for wealthier clientele."

"But no," Leon says, frustration building, "that person... that soap can't have come from somewhere like that. It's too expensive. They're not wealthy, not someone who could afford those kinds of luxuries."

She taps a finger thoughtfully against the edge of her desk, not asking any questions, thankfully. "Commoner households purchase their necessities from street vendors. Most don't have the means to indulge in frivolities, but there are some apothecaries that sell fragrant items for medicinal purposes. Perhaps that’s where it came from."

Leon's mind races, his thoughts jumbling together, ticking off possibilities. He could search the market districts, scour the streets where vendors peddle their wares, but that would take time—too much time. And still, you could be anywhere, hiding among the crowds or nestled in some quiet corner of the capital. He drags a hand through his hair, the rigid set of his jaw flexing.

His thoughts swirl, trying to latch onto something, anything that will give him a lead. And then an idea begins to take shape, unformed at first, but gaining momentum the more he entertains it. He sits up, his eyes sharper, clearer. "Hypothetically, if we were to open a scented soap stall in the market, do you think people would buy it?"

Hunnigan’s brows raise, clearly not expecting the question. "The common folk aren’t exactly known for their fastidiousness when it comes to daily bathing, but soap has been increasing in popularity among the younger generations, particularly young women."

That catches his attention. The market is shifting, changing with the times. And you—you always appreciated those little luxuries, even when you were cloistered away, out of reach. You might not be living among the nobility, but that doesn't mean you wouldn’t still indulge in what small comforts you could.

Leon straightens, the hint of an idea forming. "Good," he murmurs, nodding more to himself than to her. "Then we’ll need to monopolize the market."

Hunnigan watches him with a raised brow, a subtle hint of disbelief in her gaze. "May I ask what exactly brought about this sudden interest in the soap trade? Surely you haven’t returned from the battlefield only to decide you’d like to dabble in perfumeries?"

Her tone is dry, but Leon can hear the underlying curiosity in her words. For a moment, he almost laughs at the absurdity of it all—a knight of the kingdom, scouring the city for lily-scented soap like a man possessed. But the laugh dies in his throat, replaced by the phantom scent of lilies, achingly familiar, almost painful in its clarity.

"I’m looking for someone," he admits, low, quiet, but no less determined. He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together tightly as if holding on to his last thread of hope. "And this... this is the only way I can think of to find them."

"Someone," Hunnigan repeats slowly, drawing out the word as if rolling it over her tongue, weighing its significance.

He nods, his jaw clenched.

Hunnigan stares at him for a long moment, and then, without another word, she picks up her quill and begins to write. The scratch of the pen fills the silence as she scribbles down his instructions with the precision and efficiency he’s come to expect from her.

Before she's about to me it to the end of the page, she glances up, the slight furrow of her brow the only indication of the questions that linger in the back of her mind. "Shall I send someone to retrieve these lily soaps for your sampling, or would you prefer to dispose of them immediately?"

"Neither. Send word to the streets that they can only find lily soap in our store in the entire kingdom. Offer them a special gift if they purchase it from us. I want it to reach everyone."

"The entire city, my lord? That will be quite the undertaking."

"If that's what it takes, yes."

She gives a single, decisive nod. "As you wish."

With that, she finishes writing his instruction, rolls up the scroll, and stands, carrying the parchment to the servant waiting outside the doors, whispering instructions to be taken to his household's estate.

He knows this isn’t exactly an ideal plan, that the odds of success are slim, but it's a chance, however small, and he clings to that like a lifeline. Besides, he hasn’t survived this many years on the battlefield, faced monsters and beasts and unspeakable horrors, to lose his nerve now in the face of a soap business.

He can't find you on his own. So, the next best thing is having you come to him.

You sit among the other maids, wooden spoon idly stirring the stew in your bowl, listening to the idle conversations around you. The dining hall of the servants' quarters is loud as usual, the chatter and laughter of the staff filling the room with warmth. A few seats down, Piers and Mark argue about the proper way to clean a fireplace, gesturing wildly with their spoons as they bicker good-naturedly. On the opposite end of the table, the new maid, Nina, sits with Rebecca, listening raptly to a story about Lord Redfield's exploits during a hunting trip.

There's a comfort to it—the familiarity, the routine. After spending years surrounded by the hushed, reverent air of the temple, the chaotic camaraderie of the kitchen staff is almost exhilarating. You sigh, reaching for your goblet as you lean back in your seat, content to listen to the various conversations surrounding you.

"Guess what? The Margrave isn’t marrying the Princess. How crazy is that?"

"Really? Why not," Mark interjects, equally bewildered. "Who wouldn't want to marry a princess?"

Piers shrugs, shoveling a large spoonful of stew into his mouth and continuing. "I guess he wants to be a bachelor."

"Over becoming king one day?"

"This is why you can't trust men to relay information," one of the maids, Angela, says, rolling her eyes. "He's already announced he's looking for a bride. They say he’s broken the hearts of more noble ladies than anyone can count. And the families! Furious, every last one."

A ripple of laughter spreads through the group, the maids delighting in the drama. The bread you’re holding crumbles between your fingers, but you barely notice.

“It's a scandal,” someone else chimes in. “The Princess was practically promised to him, wasn’t she? Now he’s insulted the royal family by turning her down. People should have expected it, he started wreaking havoc as soon as he got back to the capital. Who does he think he is?"

“He’s a war hero, that’s who. He could probably have any noblewoman in the kingdom if he wanted to. Though it seems like none of them are good enough for him.”

You push your bowl away, the food suddenly unappealing, staring down at your hands as if they hold the answers to the growing unease inside.

The Leon they speak of now—a man who breaks hearts, who defies royal expectations—is a stranger to you. But what bothers you more is the memory of him at the cathedral.

The way his eyes had darkened when he looked at the Saintess.

You hadn’t seen him like that before, his expression twisted with anger, with hatred. The shock of it had frozen you in place, and then…you ran. You ran from the cathedral, from the possibility that the man who once looked at you with kindness now only saw betrayal.

And now, sitting here, the moment drowns out the light laughter of your fellow maids. You can’t shake the feeling that the Leon who stood in the cathedral wasn’t just angry—he was looking for you.

But you’re not the Saintess anymore.

You haven’t been for some time, but he wouldn't know. He couldn’t have known that you’d been stripped of your title, that you’ve been replaced. He must’ve thought the woman he saw was you, still wearing the veil of divinity. And the way he looked at her—looked at you—wasn’t with the softness you remember. No, there was something darker, a disdain so palpable that it tore through every fond memory you had of him.

You swallow, your throat dry, as the image of him at the cathedral burns in your mind. How had it come to this? How had the boy you once knew become a man so consumed by anger, by hatred? You think of the maids' gossip—how he’s rejecting noblewomen, how he’s broken hearts without a second thought—and you can’t help but wonder what he would look like now, staring at someone he loves...

Shuddering, you push the thought aside, trying to shake it from your mind. Maybe you can talk to Lord Chris about it, ask for his guidance in making amends with Leon, or maybe—

"Hey, you okay?"

Mark's question cuts through your spiraling thoughts, and you look up to find the entire table staring at you with varying shades of concern. A flush rises to your cheeks, and you fumble for a response, tripping over your words.

"I, um— yes, I'm alright." You take a steadying breath, immediately going back to stirring your food, knuckles whitening. "It's just—I'm a bit tired. I toured nearly the whole market today but had no luck with the thing I was looking for."

You give him your best attempt at a reassuring smile, but judging by the way he tilts his head at you, he's not buying it. He stares at you for a moment longer, studying you intently, before he gives a shrug and turns away.

Not even a month passes before the report lands on his desk.

The majority of lily soap sales, it seems, have gone to one place—the Redfield estate. The testimonies from shopkeepers speak of a particular maid, one who purchased an absurd amount of the soap. They claim she spent a small fortune, fearful of another shortage. But that isn’t what stands out.

No, it’s the way they described her—mistaken for a noble the moment she entered the shop, all because of the way she carried herself. Poised. Dignified.

Leon leans back in his chair, closing his eyes, and for a moment, he allows himself to breathe. It’s you. It has to be. The fragments of the puzzle are slowly coming together, each piece falling into place with a clarity that tightens something in his chest.

He exhales softly, an excited, expectant grin tugging at the corners of his lips. He’ll keep playing this game, keep pulling at the threads until everything unravels. Until you’re standing right in front of him once more.

Sunlight filters through the large, arched windows of Chris Redfield's office, casting long streaks of gold across the dark mahogany floor, dappling the room in a warm, almost serene glow. Dust motes drift lazily in the beams, like memories swirling in the still air. The crackling fire in the hearth only adds to the warmth, a comforting presence in a room filled with sharp edges—of old swords hung on the walls and the faint tang of oiled leather and metal.

Leon sprawls on a chaise near the window, one leg draped over the other, his posture deceptively relaxed, but his body is a coiled spring, ready to snap into action at any moment. His dark coat hangs loosely on the back of the seat, cravat untied, a few buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the faint lines of old scars crisscrossing his chest. There’s a ruggedness to him, an edge that doesn't quite fit in with the refined waistcoat stretching taut against his broad chest. His rolled-up sleeves expose forearms marked with callouses and veins, the map of a warrior’s life etched into his skin.

"How's Claire?" Leon asks, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, watching the sunlight dance off its surface.

Chris takes a long sip before answering. “She’s well. Busy, as always. The horses are coming along better than expected. She’s hoping to have them ready for sale in a few months, especially with the new barn completed.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees, taking on a more direct approach. “But I don’t think you came here to talk about my sister or the horses. What’s really going on, Leon? Why the sudden visit?”

Leon offers a tight smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Can’t an old friend stop by for a drink?”

Chris snorts, his grin broad but skeptical. “Sure, if you consider bribery drinking. I see you didn't disappoint with the bottle of twenty-five-year-old cognac." His amusement fades as quickly as it came, the weight of serious matters creeping into the conversation. "Come on, we both know you have more than a friendly visit on your mind, and if it's business, you've been acting strange about it. So...?"

"You're housing the former Saintess."

Chris's glass stills halfway to his mouth, and he looks sharply at Leon as if he's suddenly grown two heads. "What did you just say?"

"You heard me."

"Where did you hear that?"

Leon huffs, leaning back casually and propping one ankle on the opposite knee, as if he hadn't just dropped a bombshell. "Does it matter?"

"Considering it could be a rumor spread by palace spies? Yes."

The question makes him want to tear his hair out. "No palace spies. I did my own investigating."

"Why are you sniffing around her, Leon? If you’ve come here to cause trouble—" Chris's expression darkens, the threat evident as he blatantly starts to glare. "Leave her alone. Don't drag her into whatever scheme you're planning."

Leon bristles at that, his surprise turning to frustration as his fingers tighten around the glass. "Scheme? You think that lowly of me?"

"You come to my home, interrogate me about one of my staff, and expect me to believe it's for innocent reasons? Are you trying to play me for a fool? That won't fly."

"If you must know..." Leon pauses for a beat, letting the tension build before continuing. "I intend to marry her."

For a moment, Chris stares at Leon in stunned silence, a range of emotions flickering across his face—from disbelief to exasperation, finally settling somewhere between exhaustion and resignation. "Are you insane?"

"She deserves better than being a servant, Chris. You and I both know that," Leon shoots back, his grip on the glass tightening to the point where it feels like the whole thing might shatter. "I'm not letting the Saintess be disrespected."

"She deserves peace. That’s what I’m giving her here. She’s living a life of anonymity, away from politics, away from the court. She’s finally free, Leon. You think dragging her back into the spotlight, back into a world that nearly destroyed her, is better?"

"It’s not better if she’s being worked like a peasant. She’s the Saintess. She doesn’t belong here, scrubbing floors and washing dishes."

Chris’s expression hardens. "She’s not the Saintess anymore. She chose this life."

"Did she?" Leon stands abruptly, unable to contain the restless energy burning inside him any longer. He paces to the large windows, his boots thudding heavily against the wooden floor. Outside, the gardens stretch out in a sea of green, the flowers and foliage swaying gently in the late afternoon breeze. His hands press against the cold stone windowsill, knuckles turning pale as his grip tightens. "Or did the temple abandon her, strip her of her title, and toss her into the gutter? She didn’t have a choice, Chris. She was thrown into this because they used her and discarded her when she was no longer useful."

Finally, Chris exhales, the tension in his body deflating as he slumps back into his chair, running a hand over his face. "You don’t understand what you’re asking for. You think you can just walk in here, sweep her off her feet, and everything will be fine? You’re a noble now. If you marry her, you’ll expose her to the same world that's crushing you."

The words strike a chord in Leon. He looks away, running a hand through his hair, jaw tense. You'd be thrust into a world of backstabbing and corruption, of scheming nobility and ambitious opportunists, all vying for your attention and affection—just as he is. The thought makes something twist in his stomach. By trying to give you the life you deserve, he could very well condemn you to the same fate as him. The irony isn’t lost on him.

After a moment, he meets Chris's gaze with equal intensity. "I can keep her safe."

"And marry a maid instead of a princess? What do you think will happen to keeping her safe once the word gets out? They'll tear into her name trying to figure out who she is and where she came from. Every detail of her life will be dissected by the public. There's no going back after that, Leon."

"I've already purchased a title for her. Daughter of an inconsequential Baron in the countryside, far away from court intrigue. I won't hurt her, I swear to you, I won't—"

"What are you going to do if she doesn’t want that? What if she’s content with the life she has now?"

Leon’s breath catches, his chest constricting painfully as the question slams into him with the force of a blow. His mind whirls, memories of you—laughing, serene, unreachable—colliding with the possible image of you now, hands roughened from labor, back bent in servitude.

Leon’s jaw clenches, his hand curling into a fist at his side. He’s never liked being questioned like this, least of all by someone who doesn’t understand the weight of what he feels. It’s not about control or power, it’s about making sure you’re safe. Protected. Cherished. You deserve more than the drudgery of a servant’s life, more than the anonymity of living in the shadows.

“Content isn't enough,” he snaps, sharper than intended. He looks out the window again, following the path the maid and gardener take as they disappear around the corner of the estate. The thought of you, hidden away, your light dimmed by the mundanity of daily life—it's unbearable. “I want her to be happy.”

“Not everyone wants the life we have. Hell, I barely want it sometimes.”

Leon stays silent for a moment, his mind racing. He’s known Chris for years, fought beside him, trusted him with his life on countless battlefields. And yet, at this moment, it feels as though Chris doesn’t understand him at all. How can he not see that you deserve better? That you deserve more than what this world has handed you?

“I can protect her,” Leon repeats, though the words feel hollow now, like he’s trying to convince himself more than Chris. He turns away from the window.

Chris exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, the lines of stress deepening around his eyes.

Leon’s throat tightens, frustration and something deeper clawing at his chest. He knows Chris is right. He knows it. But that doesn’t make it any easier. He wants to protect you, to shelter you from the harshness of the world, to wrap you in the safety and comfort that he can provide. But what if that’s not what you want? What if you’ve already found peace in the simple life you’ve built for yourself here?

Silence stretches between them, uncertainty flooding the room like a heavy mist. For a while, neither speaks, the only sounds are the faint rustling of leaves and the chirping of birds outside. He watches another maid rush to the gardens down below, idling, starting to tend to it, and his mind wanders, consumed by the possibility of what might be. Of you, warm and smiling, dressed in luxurious gowns, wearing jewelry, no longer burdened with hard labor.

"I know you feel for her," Chris states, breaking the silence.

"Of course, I feel for her! She's the Saintess, Chris. She's—" Leon pauses midway through his outburst, catching the glint in his friend's eye and stopping short. He runs a hand over his face, exhaling heavily. "I've sworn loyalty to her. That isn't going to change."

"So, marriage, all for the sake of her station. What if she wants to marry for love? Did you think about that?"

No.

Leon didn't think about that at all.

His brows furrow, his knuckles white as he grips the windowsill, the confession sinking into him with a force. Had he not taken a vow to Ethelion during his first visit to the cathedral, just to protect the Saintess? Then he'll honor it, he's decided, and it isn't only because he's loyal to his word. There's an unmistakable desire inside him, one he doesn't quite know how to quantify, a selfish, possessive urge that wants to wrap you in silk and diamonds and lace and never let you go. He'd marry you to keep you protected and by his side. He would wed you out of devotion to his duty and to you. He would lay his heart at your feet, offer himself, kneel before you, worship you—if he could.

His heart aches at the thought of you being taken away by some faceless somebody who doesn't deserve you. No, the mere idea of it sets every nerve in his body on fire, a deep, unsettled rage stirring in his gut. Who could ever be worthy of something sacred and untouchable as your love?

The imagination cuts him deeper than any knife could, his ribcage can't expand as if a chestplate way too small for him was forcibly wrapped around his torso. The thought is enough to draw a pained noise out of him, a sound more animal than human, a feral, primal part of himself roaring at the notion. He shakes his head as if to clear the vision from his mind, swallows thickly as he stares blankly out of the window, unable to meet the man's gaze. Beneath his boots, the floor feels unsteady, and for a second, he thinks he might topple over, sink to the ground. Instead, he presses his palms against the stone wall beside the window, anchoring himself to something solid.

The truth is that he's in a position to make a difference in your life, to provide security and happiness beyond your wildest dreams. And Leon would use all that he has for you. Everything he owns, all that he possesses—it's all yours, if only you would accept it.

He ends up saying, "She deserves respect. I can give her that," while focusing on the two workers down in the garden to gain back his footing.

Interrupting the conversation is the door creaking open, and the maids enter, carrying trays of refreshments. The soft clink of glass against polished silver fills the space as they move about, placing items on the low table before the fire. Leon remains by the window, facing the crisp autumn air head blowing in from the open windows on, his silhouette bathed in golden sunlight, hands clasped behind his back, his posture taut.

He hears Chris mutter something, dismissing the maids, but one set of footsteps lingers. A single presence. And Leon knows those gentle, deliberate footsteps like the back of his own hand. He stiffens, arms loosening to hang by his sides like a soldier coming to attention, his throat going dry. He doesn't turn, not yet, unwilling or perhaps unable to face what he feels coming.

“Here she is," Chris says with a quiet finality. "You wanted to speak to her, didn't you? Talk then. I'll be right outside. Don't take too long."

With that, he pushes up from the armchair, taking one of the glasses with him and heading towards the door. The door clicks shut behind Chris, the sound of it like the final toll of a bell, sealing his fate. And for a moment, there's nothing, no movement, no words. Just silence.

For a heartbeat, all Leon can do is stand frozen, the world narrowing to that small room, the soft breath of the person standing just a few steps behind him. Your perfume—lilies and a hint of freshly washed linen—drifts towards him, washing over him in an alluring, almost numbing wave. In this instant, it feels as if all the time and distance he's crossed to find you has brought him back to the cathedral, when you were still the Saintess, veiled and untouchable. You seem to surround him, overwhelming his senses, making the past few years vanish, as if he's walked right into a waking dream.

You shift, and he can sense the slightest movement, like an electrical current beneath his skin, drawing his attention and heightening his awareness of your proximity. He turns slowly, the motion almost hesitant, breath catching as he takes in the figure standing near the exit of the room, framed by the shadows close to the walls.

You're not the same as he remembers. You don't wear flowing robes of pristine white or a veil that obscures your features, standing there, awkward and still, a tray balanced delicately in your hands. The clothing doesn't even resemble the uniform of a saintess—or what the servant garb should look like at the estate. Yet, somehow, in this instance, seeing you dressed like this, a demure maid, hits him with a sense of injustice that tears at his heart.

When your gazes collide, he doesn't know where to look. His gaze darts briefly to the floor, to the mahogany paneling, to anywhere that isn’t your face. The vulnerability that grips him is unfamiliar, unsettling, and it leaves him feeling unmoored, as though the ground beneath his feet might give way at any moment.

When he finally musters the courage to look back up and take in your features with all of his heart without being ashamed by it and feeling like he might go blind like he's looking directly at the sun, it’s in time to catch your wide-eyed stare. You’re just as stunned as he is—perhaps more so—as if you've seen a ghost. And then the tray falls from your hands with a clatter, sending the wine splashing across the expensive rug, a red river swirling with gold.

"Oh, I'm—I apologize!" You flinch back, crouching down hastily to gather the tray with trembling hands. You grab at the cloth napkin and dab at the carpet frantically, desperately trying to mop up the spill.

His body reacts faster than his mind does, and he closes the distance in two long strides, falling to his knees in front of you. His hands cup yours, fingers curling gently around yours. You jolt in surprise, shoulders tensing, but don’t pull away.

"It's alright." His voice is hoarse, thick with emotion. He glances at you and sees your brow creasing as you hold his gaze, your eyes bright with unshed tears. "Please."

There's a sudden prickling pressure at the backs of his nose, the threat of tears threatening to break through, and he drops his head, inhaling a steadying breath. Goddamnit. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing the swell of emotion to subside.

Your response is softer than the rustle of pages in a book, almost a whisper, barely audible in the silence of the room. "Sir Leon...?"

The sound of his name is both a caress and a dagger, digging into the tender parts of him that have been raw and exposed.

"Saintess." The word slips out on a ragged breath before he can stop it, an involuntary confession. "I've returned to you."

The warmth of your fingers pressing against his startles him the moment you move, and he becomes aware of what he's been doing -- touching you so carelessly. The newfound title and fame couldn't have gotten to his head so badly that he would forget himself now, could it? Leon can't be sure whether he'd really been the type to behave like a reckless fool all along or if his meeting with you just now and seeing your form for the first time after years had broken down the little that remained of the disciplined man.

Heat climbs his throat and settles in his ears—you're not someone who he can put his hands on. Not even a stranger at this point, to him. In the back of his mind, the young boy with the sickly body remembers that he was touched by you, as a child, the day you healed him, the sensation still vivid, even after so many years.

Leon withdraws, shifting to a kneeling position as he clasps his hands together on his thighs. He tilts his chin upward to find you still crouched in the same position as well, with the wet napkin clenched tightly in your hands, holding your gaze fixed on him. Your intense focus, the way you're studying every line of his face, drinking in his appearance—it makes Leon swallow harshly, hoping his cheeks wouldn't color under your unabashed scrutiny.

"You..." You trail off, lowering your gaze to the floor as you fix your bonnet, as if unsure you should give shape to the words. "I'm no longer the Saintess. The temple has appointed another."

Something twists in his chest, a dark, twisting ache that's become all too familiar as of late. "You think I don't know that?" He means to sound understanding, patient, but instead, his words come out biting, edged with frustration. He deflates when you blink rapidly at him, startled at the change in his demeanor. "I'm sorry," he breathes, offering a shaky smile, "it's just... it was just a lot to take in."

It's a hell of an understatement, but it seems to satisfy you, at least enough to relax a fraction. Still, he watches as your shoulders rise and fall in a shuddering motion, a soft intake of air escaping you.

"We shouldn't be sitting on the floor."

"Ah, yes!" He scrambles to his feet, extending a hand to help you to yours.

When his fingers brush the back of your palm, he feels that same shock, the hairs on his arm standing on end, like an electrical charge, and it takes all his willpower not to snatch his hand away. Instead, he curls his fingers tighter around you, a reflex, and pulls you to your feet. He keeps you steady as you straighten, your bodies close enough that he swears he can feel the heat radiating off yours, warming him better than the fireplace ever could.

He shouldn't.

He really...

"You've changed."

At the sound of your voice, Leon blinks, returning to the present. It takes him a moment to realize he'd been staring. "What, no 'welcome home'?" The attempt at levity dies on his lips when he sees your expression—earnest, searching—and he swallows hard, forcing a tight smile. "Sorry. Impertinent now, aren't I?"

"No—"

"Come," he gestures towards the couch, "sit with me for a bit. It's been... a long time, hasn't it?"

You hesitate for a beat, uncertainty flashing across your features before you nod slowly, allowing him to lead you to the chaise by the hearth, the same seat Leon vacated.

As you settle, his eyes sweep over you, noting your appearance in excruciating detail. A faded grey dress, loose and modest, the neckline high and unfashionable. Lace cuffs, fraying at the edges. Thick wool stockings visible from the ankles, probably borrowed and a size too big, peeking out from under the hem of your skirt. Hems threadbare. Even now, you make it look lovely. Elegant. He wants to get on his knees.

He clears his throat, pulling his thoughts back to the present. "I wanted to—"

"How did you—"

Your words stumble over each other in a rush, and you stop short, caught halfway through your sentence.

He holds his tongue, waiting for you to finish.

"I'm sorry, please, continue," you bow your head apologetically, embarrassment in the flutter of your lashes.

"No, no, it's okay. Please," he motions for you to speak.

You press your palms flat against your lap, smoothing out your wrinkled skirts, trying to buy yourself a few seconds. "Why, I wondered... why you came to see me. After all these years, after everything?"

Why.

Now that was a loaded question.

"Because I swore a vow, didn't I?" He offers a small grin, but it wavers as he tries to explain. "I mean. To—"

"Are you perhaps here to call me to account for my failure, as a servant of Ethelion?" You ask, shaking, almost on the verge of tears. "For failing all my paladins when I should have protected you?"

You duck your head again, hiding behind the brim of your bonnet. Your gaze dips to the floor, fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of your skirts. But not before he catches a glimpse of the haunted expression, the torment and regret clear in the line of your mouth, pulled tight with emotion.

Leon slips off of the chaise all too easily, kneeling on the ground before you, his body moving of its own accord, as if drawn in by an irresistible force. He's so close that if he were to try looking down, he could just... rest his forehead on your knees, lean against your legs for support.

"What are you doing?" You start, half rising from your seat as if you're about to bolt, shocked at his boldness, but sit back down when you can't go anywhere with him as a barrier. “Sir Leon! Stop it, you can't—"

But he doesn't. He stays right there, unmoving, not daring to push boundaries. "You never failed anyone," he says earnestly, speaking with a clarity that catches you by surprise. "Not our cause, not me, not any paladin. It wasn't you who sent us to battle, it was those who served the gods, and they... They ordered their own people into a fight for their own glory."

He pauses, glancing up at your teary eyes, the disbelief, and he knows that you won't believe him, that the guilt will cling to you for days or weeks after today. If he's being honest with himself, the grief of losing his comrades may never fully go away, but—you haven't abandoned them. He will make damn sure you never consider yourself complicit in what happened, for as long as he lives.

Your lips quiver, and you tilt your head away from him, as though wanting to shield your face from view. He hates that he can't do anything to assuage your pain, to shoulder some of the burden you're carrying, but he's equally fascinated by this side of you, hidden and vulnerable, that he rarely saw when you were a saintess. He's grateful, too, that you're trusting him enough to see you like this.

You waver, thin and unsteady, as you respond, "And now what do you need? I'm no longer a Saintess who can bless your endeavors. I can’t give you anything."

The way you say it…

The words feel clumsy on his tongue at what you just said, inadequate compared to the burning intensity of what he truly wishes to convey. There’s too much to be said. That he’d never want anything out of you, that he wouldn’t stand you talking about yourself like something to be exploited, that he hates the way you see yourself…

It's tempting, so tempting, to just reach out. To slide his hand between yours, interlacing your fingers like lovers might. To curl his arm around your waist and draw you closer, to pull your smaller frame into him. It would be easy, so easy. But it would also be improper, disrespectful, wrong. And besides, despite what some might think, he knows how to restrain himself. He doesn't allow his hands to follow through with these baseless impulses.

Instead, he sits back on his heels like a dog, folding his hands in front of him. His posture is stiff and formal, mirroring your own, but his heart hammers wildly in his chest, betraying the calm façade he's attempting to maintain.

"I know you're no longer Saintess," he begins carefully. Your breath catches audibly at the title, and he hurriedly continues, "But I swore an oath to you, nonetheless, and I intend to honor it. You're my Saintess. Always will be."

Silence stretches between you, and he averts his gaze, focusing intently on the swell of your knees, afraid that if he looks at you, he'll break. "It's my duty to protect you, if you'll let me. I—" His words falter, caught in his throat as he struggles to speak past the sudden tightness there, "I swear upon Ethelion, I'll never leave your side. No matter what."

The room falls quiet again, save for the crackling of the logs in the fireplace, the soft hiss and pop as the wood splits apart, consuming itself. Outside, the sounds of birds singing in the breeze drift in, mingling with the rustle of leaves in the wind, distant conversations floating upwards from the grounds below. He counts the heartbeats pounding against his ribcage, three... four... five...

"Leon, what..?"

"Please marry me."

The words slip out, almost involuntarily, as though they'd been perched on the tip of his tongue, waiting for an opening to leap free. The silence grows, stretching taut between you, until he can't stand it any longer.

You draw a breath, and he raises his head. There's no mistaking it now — your eyes widen, and your shoulders tense as you sink back into the cushions of the couch. For a split second, the surprise gives way to something approaching fear, and a surge of panic wells up inside him at the sight.

This isn't what he intended — or, rather, not quite. He meant to ease you into the idea, to present his offer gently and smoothly, the proposal rehearsed in his mind countless times before. But his usual composure and decorum have abandoned him today, and now his mouth is running far ahead of his mind.

"Wh...Why?"

Of all the possible responses you could give, that is perhaps the most unexpected one. He stares at you dumbly, utterly thrown, fumbling for an answer. "I would cherish your hand in mine," he answers after a beat, trying to salvage his words, "I would treasure you, more than anyone ever could."

"But why?"

Leon's frustration bubbles to the surface. “This—” he gestures to the simple dress you wear, the apron tied around your waist, the calluses that have begun to form on your hands from hours of labor. “This is beneath you. Bowing down to others, doing their bidding… this isn’t what you’re meant for.”

Something flares behind your eyes—hurt? Anger? Indignation?

Before he can analyze your reaction too deeply, you ask again, more forcefully this time, “Why do you think it’s beneath me? Just because I don’t hold a sword like you or a blessing scepter in my hand doesn’t mean what I do is any less important—"

"It's not like that!" Leon interjects.

"—You think I should be wasting away as an ornament somewhere, is that what I am to you—"

"That's not what I meant! I meant I'd want to provide for you and protect you, and—"

"From what?! What is there to protect me from here?"

He rakes a hand through his hair, mussing the neatly coiffed locks and lets out an aggravated huff. "They don’t deserve you. The people here… they don’t deserve your labor, your effort. You should be served, not serving others.”

He must have said the wrong thing, your brows knit together as you frown, clearly displeased by his statement. Something in the twist of your lips sends a tremor through him, the way the set of your jaw is so determined, so stubborn, even against his arguments. This is the first time he's seeing fire from you instead of light, a display of character beyond the serene saintess façade you had to carry during the days at the cathedral. It makes heat pool in the pit of his belly, something heavy settling in his lungs and he's suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

"Then what am I supposed to do? Sit around doing nothing because—because you still see me as someone divine?" You shake your head, adamant in the words you utter. "I have purpose here! The Redfields have been kind to me, they took me in—"

"But you serve. You still serve."

Your words seem to die at what he says at the very end. Still serve. "I beg your pardon?"

"You bled every single day. Serving in the temple, serving the masses, serving others with a smile on your face, to the point of losing yourself. Used yourself, your strength, your grace, gave up your sleep and food and even your freedom. Your dignity, as the temple tried to mold you to suit whatever they wanted. That's all you knew for years and then just dropped into the world to figure things out by yourself, and went back to what you know best once more. Serve. This time, under a different name. A Saintess. A servant. It's not all that different, you know. And maybe you don't know how else to live. But I'm here to change that for you. To give you a choice."

Something wounded takes over you, like an injured animal struck by surprise before it bolts. A deep chill settles in him at how lost you look, how frightened and unsure, so unguarded and unprepared for him. He doesn't even know if this conversation is making you feel worse or better; maybe his intentions are clearer now, or more nefarious. It hurts either way, but Leon doesn't back down, doesn't look away from you.

The tears begin to fall without warning, trailing hot and wet down your cheeks. Leon's face crumples at the sight, shame washing over him at causing you distress. He reaches up instinctively, wanting to brush them away, but his fingers only graze your skin for a second before you flinch back and turn, covering your face with a hand as you forcibly stand up from the couch and move away from him.

He lets you go, a pang shooting through him as you cross the room. But when you reach the door, your steps hesitate, and his pulse stutters when you glance over your shoulder at him one last time.

"All I ask of you is to think about it," he pleads, not able to hide the note of misery in his voice as he leans toward your direction, hands placed on where you were just resting, fingers sinking into the cushions, "please."

Your lips part as if you're going to say something. You almost speak, almost giving way to your thoughts. Then you shut your mouth and dart forward, yanking the doors open and fleeing the room.

[nickmarini]

Hey Nick! I just wanted to say I really enjoyed your performance as Ayden in Downfall. You were really wonderful in portraying those softer sides of the Dawnfather that haven't gotten to see in campaign 3! As a long-time Pelor fan, I loved seeing the positive representation! And the way you bounced off the other players at the table was just amazing! Not to mention Ayden's absolutely insane build. I can only hope to become as good of a player as you are!

There's two things I really wanted to ask that I unfortunately missed during the Beacon AMA:

One, What would Ayden's perfect day look like?

Two, If Ayden/Dawnfather and Asmodeus were forced to wear the metaphorical (or literal, I guess) "get along shirt" for a day, what sort of shenanigans do you think they would get up to?

Thank you so much, and I hope to see more of you at the CR table!

These are amazing questions that no one else asked so I am glad you did so here! And thank you I'm so glad the Dawnfather is getting the love I think he deserves!

Wake up and watch the sun rise. Take Gilly out while you tend to the fields and plants. Play with Haylie and Topher and the other students before school. Help Trist teach. Have a nice family dinner. Watch the sun set with Gilly. Look up at the stars and know that the rest of my family out there somewhere can see them too.

HAHAHA I think they would get up to all sorts of stuff ala Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Bug the other gods, get chased out of the wild mothers forest, I think they would have so much fun and be so heart broken when it was over. Ugh what a brief glimpse of hope it would be.

[a-simple-imagine]

Bigender asian with pronoun fuckery

synopsis: you're a rising star at godu. just cracked the top ten but a budding relationship with jordan li may bring everything crumbling down

pairing: jordan li x fem!reader

words: 5.2k+

a/n - not sure how i feel about this but i am putting it out there. if this gets enough attention, I can work on another part that goes a little deeper?? I use all pronouns for Jordan but mainly they/them

WARNINGS - swearing and drug use

a groggy groan slips past your lips as you bury your face further into the gentle embrace of the pillow. it is early. too early. you have no clue what time it actually is but whatever the case may be, you weren't ready for the day to start just yet. it takes a moment to realise you're alone in this bed. you hadn't been when you fell asleep. it doesn't bother you too much though. they're probably just getting ready. that is until you hear a curse word muttered quietly; perhaps an attempt to not disturb you or maybe they just wanted to hide their frustration. "what are you doing?" your words half muttered into the pillow.

"rankings are out." that was it? rankings? you sometimes forget how competitive they can be. it's not like you're not interested. you've wanted that top spot since freshman year. alas, golden boy holds that spot and you'd never be a pretty blonde white boy if you tried. this semester you've been working extra hard. Everyone knows you're in the best chance of scoring a city contract if you can break the top ten but the seven? they want the best of the best. sure it's not impossible to be lower and also become part of the team, the deep managed it, but that was an anomaly. most supes just end up as walking advertisements for vought. and as much as you may enjoy the occasional acting class. you weren't here to end up on some CW show or a Netflix special. you were gonna make it into the seven. you were gonna prove to everyone that you are one of the best.

"who cares," you mumble, rolling onto your back and spreading your arms out wide.

"oh, so you don't care that you're now second."

"come back to bed." you urge. a silence seals the room until your brain catches up to what it just heard. did they say second? as in second place? as in one spot away from first? you didn't mishear that. sitting up, you eventually spy a feminine presenting Jordan sitting at her desk, illuminated by the blue glow of their tablet. their short bob falls to one side. a perfect backdrop for such a pretty face "Are you fucking with me?" they don't bother responding just shove the tablet out in your direction. grabbing it you see your school ID photo with a massive '#2' next to it. you blink a few times. scroll down a little. refresh the page. but again it's still there. it was real. "fuck"

"My thoughts exactly," Jordan reacts. you glimpse at them wondering what that comment means. it could merely be a jest or a reflection of their current mood. you take a moment to look at the rest of the list in search of their name. they were no longer top three. you found them sitting nicely at number five. double fuck. you had taken their spot. they're still top ten which most would be happy with but not Jordan. tossing the tablet aside, you drop back against the bed. letting your eyes fall closed. "we have class in like an hour."

"I don't need to go to class. I'm number two now," you press.

"not how that works," A dramatic groan falls past your lips, pulling the covers up over your head. bed sounded better than a morning lecture. you wish they would just join you or leave you be. "get out of my bed." Jordan huffs after a moment. "we're gonna be late." you don't move. you frankly don't care. "if you don't hurry up, no breakfast."

"fucks sake." you whine, emerging from beneath the darkness of the duvet. "fine. I'll let you buy me Jitterbean."

"thought so," they offer you a tight smile. you could never say no to a free treat before class. "chop-chop."

Drink in one hand, pastry in the other, you're feeling brighter as you stroll into class. Jordan trails behind you. they'd been usually quiet on the walk over. you put it down to all the attention you were attracting today. couldn't even walk across campus without people asking for pictures or saying hi. you weren't sure you liked it just yet but for right now it was fine. when you spot cate you offer a scrunched up smile which she quickly returns. you and cate had been friends since day one. something just clicked. "there she is," cate starts as you approach your usual spot in class. "the girl of the hour. you're literally all anyone can talk about."

"aren't i always," you tease.

"we're going out tonight"

"are you asking-" you begin as Dean Shetty strides into the room. guess brink was out today. "or telling me?"

"telling," cate's smile quirks up before she turns to focus on the class. guess that was the end of that conversation.

you linger by your desk as everyone else filters out of the room after class. Dean Shetty requested a word. you can't imagine what it's about. surely she isn't that bothered by your attempts at chatting through her lecture. you offer up an awkward little smile as you push off the desk you were leaning against; slowly making you way across the room. "so what have I done wrong?"

"you mean other than talking through the entire class," you internally cringe a little. maybe she was bothered by all the whispering. she watches you for a moment before continuing. "it is nothing like that. don't worry."

"then why am I here?"

"I just thought we should have a little chat." your brow furrows. what did you and the dean of an entire university have to discuss? was this about your ranking? was she about to tell you there had been a mistake? "I believe congratulations are in order- such an extensive jump in ranking, you must be proud."

this felt like a conversation that could have been an email. "sure. thanks." you shrug. you're not really sure what to say. of course, you're proud. you were the second highest ranked student in a school of exceptional kids. "is that all?"

"no," her head shakes a little. I wanted to make sure you understand the gravity of the position you're in." when you don't respond she decides to just continue. "being a superhero is about more than just your abilities. it's also about how you present yourself. people care about you. they wanna know what you're doing. who you're hanging out with. One minute you're taking a picture with a nice girl you met at a party the next you're fighting nazi allegations for hanging out with a white supremacist. do you get what I'm saying?"

you shrug. "don't hang out with nazis, got it."

"I'm saying you need to look at yourself more like a brand. Be careful about what you say and who you spend your time with. you're the sum of the people around you."

"I know. I took branding." everyone knew how this worked. being a good person only took you so far and if homelander was anything to go off, that doesn't even matter that much. it's all about how you market yourself. it's about how many followers you have. how much attention you can get. inevitably, how much money can you make for Vought? Dean Shetty smiles but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"you do want to be number one, correct?" you nod a little. "I want to help you get to the top but only if you wanna help yourself."

"what about Luke?"

"he is far from my concern right now." what did that even mean? "so?"

you hesitate. you did want this but you weren't entirely sure what you were agreeing to here. If Dean Shetty can help you secure first place though, maybe it was worth the risk. she was an expert here. should you even bother questioning why the sudden interest in you? "I want this."

"Good," her smile seemed more genuine now. "I know you can go far, just keep in mind what I said."

"I will," you start edging towards the stuff you left on your desk. "thanks."

"also try listening during lectures. I'm sure you and Miss Dunlap can talk some other time."

"Sorry." with that you practically run out of the classroom before she can continue talking.

it's a particularly chilly night smushed in the back seat of an old car. bright lights zoom past the window and music blasts through the speakers. you're not really paying attention to the noise around you. it's a mess of meaningless conversation. Dean Shetty's words play over in your head. She certainly would not approve of this little venture out into the night past curfew; what she didn't know couldn't hurt her. Jordan eventually pulls your attention; in his hand, he holds two small red pills. you don't really question it before popping one into your mouth. a second for later. tonight was gonna be fun or if nothing else you can abuse enough substances to pretend. the secret location is just a massive warehouse. on the outside, you'd think it any old thing. inside you find massive tanks of rainbow fish, long sweeping curtains, jester-themed masquerade masks and other eccentric decor. it is the most random selection and yet it works so well. creates the perfect balance of sexy and mysterious but inviting. you find yourself in a booth with your friends all around. "so how's being number two going for ya?" Andre asks. "feeling the pressure yet?"

"I don't know," you shrug. "people are weird."

"what do you mean?" Luke questions.

"Dean Shetty said some things to me after class."

"-I come bearing gifts." Jordan appears, now in their feminine form with a couple of drinks followed by Marie. "courtesy of the young gentleman at the bar."

"What did Dean Shetty say?"

"it doesn't matter." you shrug it off. "two will never be one right."

"has it not hit yet?" Jordan wonders.

"i know what it's like to suddenly have all this pressure on you but try not to think about it much," Luke reassures you. "just keep doing what you're doing. you've got this."

"my guy. you're supposed to be happy here," Andre leans forward slapping his hand against your leg. "we're out here celebrating you, dude. cheer up."

"I'm plenty happy," you grumble sinking further into your seat. you appreciate their attempt to cheer you up but it's honestly not needed. you're happy to be in second place even with all the newly founded pressure; just a little confused about what was expected of you. "ecstatic even. let's talk about something else."

your head feels fuzzy. nothing feels real anymore. but it's good. great even. you feel so fucking good. like you've rid yourself of every lingering thought that wrapped itself around your body. you're light. you're free. the shimmering blue of the giant fish tanks is so mesmerising; you almost want to climb in but instead, you watch. colours morphing and shifting before your eyes. back and forth. back and forth. you jump a little as something touches your shoulder. "here you are." their words seem distant; muffled even. "you good?" you nod a little continuing to stare at the fish. two hands slip around your waist and connect in front. you feel their body press into yours from behind. you know it's Jordan. you know they're masc. You know them well. their smokey cologne. the way their body feels around you. the subtle differences between both forms. taller. bigger. firm. you let out a content hum. it's a rarity for such open affection. "what are you doing?" whispered in your ear.

"Just watching the fish,"

"why?"

"do you ever wonder what it would be like to be a fish?" you wonder softly. "to just swim around all day without a care in the world… no complex family systems. no pressure to be the best. just… swimming and pretty colours." their chuckle is temperate. affectionate. it almost seems like they somehow get closer.

"you're fucked, huh?"

"I'm good. I'm great," you respond. they just chuckle again, planting a soft kiss on your shoulder. your relationship with Jordan was hardly one of romance. you have slept together. a few times actually. and some kind of feelings are there; at least for you there are but you're not dating. you're just… having fun. maybe you want more. who knows? you don't. would they even want more? probably not. you'd like it. maybe. doesn't matter. they make you feel warm. safe even. and that's all that really matters.

"shall we get you a drink?" you nod a little. "yeah?"

"yeah," you repeat nodding more eagerly. a dopey smile settling on your lips as you let your head fall back; nuzzling against him. "something fruity, please."

"let's get you something fruity," arms vacate your waist replaced with a hand in yours.

"bye fishies," you throw a wave back. "say bye Jordan."

"Absolutely not." they interlock your fingers before leading the way back into the turbulent crowd of the club.

"you're no fun." you groan playfully. weaving through the mass of people back towards the bar, you come across cate. as you approach, Jordan let's go.

"you found her then," shouted over the heavy bass and mess of voices.

"she was alone staring at the fish tanks," they respond.

"the fish were really pretty," you contribute with a bright smile.

"you gotta stop running off, silly."

"but the fishies-"

"I know they're pretty but still," cate continues. "do you wanna come dance?"

"hmmm… yes." you respond brightly. "jordan's gonna get me a drink. jordan get cate one too."

"yeah Jordan, get cate one too." cate repeats playfully. her hand slides into yours and she pulls you towards the dance floor. it's a lot of blurred colours as you sway and move alongside the blonde. she wears a playful smile and smells so good. really sweet. like freshly baked cookies. "are you good?"

"mhmm,"

"you sure?" it's so loud out here. there are so many people around you. it's hard to pick up what is being said.

"I am so good, cate," you respond loudly. "I mean definitely fucked but yeah. are you good?"

"yeah," she nods. "I'm-" the rest of her sentence is impossible to comprehend.

"what?"

cate places her hands on your shoulders bringing you to a stop as she leans in extra close. "i said i'm proud of you."

"you're starting to sound like my mom," you joke. she playfully hits your arm. "but thank you."

"i think you could actually take luke's spot."

"i definitely can." you declare proudly. "dean shetty offered to help."

"really?" cate seems shocked by the idea. "why?"

you shrug. "i'm gonna be in the seven one day." you yell loudly. nobody cares. everyone is being loud. it'd drowned out by everything else. cate stares at you for a moment before letting her smile return.

"fuck yeah, you are," cate shouts. your smile brightens. fuck yeah, you are.

your head pounds with the weight of your bad decisions. maybe you went a little too hard. Nausea settles deep in the pit of your stomach. you think you're gonna throw up. you don't. you breathe deeply through it. a long groan forces its way past your lips as you roll onto your back; stretching out your limbs as far as they go to very little relief. A pain radiates from your left leg. god only knows why. you're just a little achy. how did you even get here? the last thing you remember is dancing with Cate; having fun.

"she's alive," the voice catches you off guard. it sounds like… wait. your eyes finally focus on the person in the room who definitely wasn't your roommate. that black hair. that pretty face. the effortless expression of too cool to be here. jordan li is still in the exact same outfit as last night. why were they here? "how's our newest celebrity?"

there were many ways you could answer but your brain could only come up with. "shitty."

"I bet," they approach the end of your bed, holding out a glass of water. "here."

you slowly push yourself up into a seated position. trying desperately to ignore the intense pressure building in your head. "why are you here?" you ask, accepting the glass and taking a long, big gulp.

"Jordan stayed all night," your roommate, Beth, interjects. By her tone, she was not happy with your newfound company. "would have been nice to know."

"I'm allowed to have people in our room, Beth." you hand the glass back to Jordan before falling back down against the bed. rubbing your eyes with your thumb and forefinger. "I wanna die."

"tell me next time." Beth continues to argue. "instead I wake up to a stranger in our room."

you groan loudly. this was too much talking for your poor delicate head to handle right now. "I'm right here, guys," Jordan insists. "I literally spoke to you last night."

"I'm making a point." your roommate argues. "I'd like a heads up."

"gooooood! okay- sorry," you groan. you really don't care this much

"Okay, well, I gotta go," Jordan hums. "wasn't supposed to stay this long just wanted to make sure you're cool."

"I'm fine. go," you wave a dismissive hand as your eyes flutter close. "thanks for getting me home."

"any time," their weight leaves the bed and you roll onto your side to face the wall. pulling the duvet closer around your body. "I'll text you- bye Beth."

"bye Jordan." you hear the door click and an uncomfortable silence fills the room. it's preferable to the loud conversation that just happened. it's a relief to your head. you just want to go back to sleep. "they must really like you."

urgh. you don't want to talk anymore. "yeah, jordans cool."

"no, I mean, they like you," Beth continues on. you bury yourself further into your cocoon of pillows and duvet. "stayed the whole night just to keep an eye on you. I said it was fine- you'd be fine but they insisted."

Jordan insisted? just how fucked up were you that Jordan li of all people would stay the night just to make sure you were okay? you guys were good friends but most of the time they were either bullying you or treating you like a child which is like a subset of bullying you. you remember them wrapping their arms around you as you watched the fish last night. you've seen Jordan's softer side obviously but yeah. "we're just friends, dude."

"All I know is that Jordan li, as far as I've seen and heard, would not do that for just anyone. they're into you."

"sure. fine. whatever." you growl. you just wanted this conversation to end. Jordan was cool but if you think about this for too long your head is gonna explode. right now, sleep was what you needed. "Jordan Li is in love with me. I'm going back to sleep." it's hard not to think about what Beth suggested. that Jordan was into you as more than just a friend and occasionally fuck buddy. is that something you should talk about? What if Beth was wrong and you bring it up and it makes things super weird? you can't handle that. you have like a million classes together, you would never be able to escape them.

it was a bright sunny day in the quad of Godolkin University. you sit in the courtyard. a laptop, criminology textbooks and a water bottle spread across the table. you have an essay due in a few days. you had sat down to work on this essay multiple times with a beautiful blank document and many hours on TikTok to show for it. "hey," your TikTok time is interrupted by none other than Jordan Li. you had not seen them since that night or morning. you hadn't really spoken either. you weren't avoiding them by any means. you were just busy and they hadn't seemed too eager to talk so. "hey," they say after a moment. "how's the essay going?"

"so great," you flash a smile. "I've written so much."

"that good, huh," they joke awkwardly taking a sip of their coffee. you just hum in response. you need to get this done. no time to add Jordan to the list of distractions. after a few moments of silence, they speak up again. "I was hoping we could talk

"Can this wait? I really need to get this done."

"I guess…" Jordan trailed off. you look at him for a moment. he seems disheartened by your request.

"what's up?"

"it… doesn't matter. don't worry." a small smile settles on their lips. "I should go."

"you sure?"

Jordan pushes up from their seat. "I'll see you later."

that was weird. definitely something you need to come back to later when you're not working on a deadline. for now, you had an essay to, at the very least, start.

"Have you spoken to Jordan recently?" you ask Cate as you slide into a booth at the on-campus Vought - a - burger. the smell of deep-fried food hangs heavy in the air and you know damn well this table is probably gonna be sticky as hell. "I feel like they're ignoring me."

"What makes you think that?"

"the fact that they're quite literally ignoring me. I've text them a couple times and nothing. even in class, they can hardly look at me." you reach into the bag to pull out the food; placing it on napkins in front of you. cate hands you your drink in exchange for her order. "I feel bad. they tried to talk to me the other day but I wanted to get my essay done."

"they've seemed fine to me but I've been working on a project for my hero management class." Cate shrugs. "is this about what happened the other night?"

"what happened the other night?" you questioned, popping a fry into your mouth. it actually tasted fresh and salty; guess you came at the correct time. you hate it when they're all soggy.

"I don't know if it's my place to say- you were pretty high."

"did I do something… bad?" you didn't remember that night but you never imagined you would ever do something inappropriate.

"no. not bad." you can tell she regrets bringing this up; whatever this is. torn between wanting to help and not overstepping boundaries. She is about to continue when two girls approach the table. freshmen you presume. you've never seen them before.

"Can we get a selfie?" the taller of the two requests. you frown a little.

"we're actually trying to have a private con-"

"it'll just take a minute," they turn around and hold the camera out, snapping a picture before you have a chance to react. "thanks." they scurry off almost immediately. you'll probably find yourself tagged in a picture on Instagram later. it had been happening a lot recently; so much so that you had to turn notifications off.

"the fuck?" you share a confused look with Cate. "people are so rude."

"they're just excited. you're basically a celebrity to them," Cate chuckles.

"do you think Jordan hates me now?" you wonder bringing the conversation back to Li.

"it's probably just because of the rankings."

"you mean because I took their spot?"

"Jordan has always been pretty intense when it came to rankings. they've wanted that top spot for as long as I've known them." Cate explains, hiding her mouth as she shoves more food into her mouth. "must suck that you just jumped to two and have the dean in your corner no less." you never really considered how Jordan must be handling all this. you knew they'd be a little upset but this seemed extreme.

"I never really thought about that," you sigh softly. "should I apologise?"

"I don't know," Cate resumes, biting the head off some fries. "if you think it'd help."

"I don't know why they didn't just tell me that when we first found out," you frown a little. "they were a little distant but they seemed cool when we went out."

"maybe you should just try talking to them," Cate suggests, picking up her drink. She takes a swift sip before continuing. "if it's about rankings or the other night- I don't know. only Jordan does."

"what happened the other night?" you ask again.

"ask Jordan."

"I'm asking you, Cate."

"you were just a lot and said some things."

"Cate!" you huff, falling back. you know Cate well. you know when she's avoiding something. "I know you're being cryptic so I give up on it."

"it's just not my place. it's between you and Jordan. I don't wanna get in the middle." Cate presses sharply. "did you get your essay done?"

"no," you shake your head. "I ended up getting an extension- how am I supposed to speak to them when they're ignoring me?"

"i don't know- can we please talk about something else?" Cate pleads.

"Sure," you hum softly. taking another fry you dip it into some sauce. "let's talk about how I'm about to fail criminology."

you text Jordan that you're coming over. It wasn't a question but a statement. no option to refuse. you needed to sort this out and being direct was the best approach. did every inch of your body buzz with anxiety as you made your way towards their dorm room? yes. but it beat constantly thinking about every little interaction you had with Jordan in the past week trying to figure out exactly what you had done wrong. the only blank spot was that night and Cate had unintentionally convinced you that you had done something absolutely awful. maybe you told them you hate them or invalidated their identity in some way? fuck. you swallow hard staring at their closed door. you shake out the nerves before knocking. knock. knock. knock. and the door swings open to reveal Jordan. "hey," they hum before retreating into the safety of their dorm. shutting the door behind you, you step inside the all too familiar space; you had been here a great many times and yet today there was a weird vibe. it felt foreign. cold even. "so what did you wanna talk about?" for a split second you almost forgot why you were here. you turn to Jordan who is sitting on the couch, a laptop thrown off to the side now. your eyes fall to the homelander Vought-a-burger toy that has somehow become a staple of this room. leader of the seven. currently facing major allegations. "you good?"

"Are you mad at me?" you blurt out. "is it about the rankings? I know they mean a lot to you and I basically took your spot so I get it if you're mad. it's a little unfair because I've always wanted this too but like I get it." your rambling but you can't help yourself. you need to get this all out as quickly as possible before your brain catches on and you chicken out. "And I'm sorry about the other day, I just really needed to get my essay done. I ended up getting an extension because I was so stressed out about it, I just couldn't start." you can't bring yourself to look at them. "or if I did something shitty on that night out. I'm sorry. it was fucked-"

"whoa dude, chill out," Jordan ultimately interrupts. "you're talking a lot." you dare a glance at them. their face is pretty neutral so you have no clue what was going on in their head. "what are you even asking?"

"why are you avoiding me?" you ask. "I've clearly done something wrong."

a heavy sigh leaves their lips as they fall back against the plush fabric. "I'll admit I was a little annoyed with the rankings at first but I'm working on it. this is like a really big deal for you."

"so you're not mad at me?" you sound so pathetic. an even bigger sigh leaves their lips. you're not sure what that means but nobody sighs that heavily for good reason. they push to their feet, crossing the room towards you.

"I'm not mad at you," they say softly as they approach. for a second they hold your gaze as they linger close but then they flicker away. "I'm just… confused."

"About what?" they take a step closer. so close. too close. their hot breath pricks at your skin but you don't dare move away. you almost feel drawn to them.

"Is this okay?" they say quietly.

"Are you only doing this so we'll stop talking about it?" their head shakes just a little.

"no," their hand graces over your neck and up to the bottom of your jaw. Their thumb gently brushes your skin, sending a chill down your spine. there would always be something about Jordan Li that made you melt inside. when they're here and so close, you almost forget all your worries. the way they look at you. like you're the only person in the world. a feather-like embrace is enough to send you spinning. "I don't think I can just be your friend anymore," whispered against your lips. "I… like you too." they pull back.

"Jordan,"

"I need you to say it- I need you to say it sober so I don't feel like a fucking idiot," say it sober? when did you say it in the first place? maybe this was what Cate was talking about. the thing you couldn't remember. you admitted to having feelings for Jordan. fuck.

"I…" you trail off, the words are caught in your throat. this is gonna change everything?

"It's cool," they declare loudly, letting their hand fall as they away. "I get it."

"no Jordan-"

"no it's fine. you were fucked. it didn't mean anything- I shouldn't have said anything."

"Jordan," you say louder, reaching out for their hand. a deep regret fills your stomach. you liked Jordan. they meant a lot to you and you were throwing it all away because you were scared; terrified even. if this doesn't work out then you ruin everything. there's no coming back from this.

"don't," they yank their hand away. "please don't. I don't want your pity."

"It's not pity."

"I don't get you." they huff. "you're all over me and then you want nothing to do with me. you tell everyone you like me but then… nothing? it's… confusing-"

"Jordan just- stop please," you say loudly. "I… like you, okay?"

"don't say things you don't mean."

"I mean it," you say a tad more confidently. "I like you." you try to reach for them again. they let you take their hand. " i don't know what it means exactly but I do… like you… too." you squeeze their hand slightly. it's warm and fits so perfectly in yours. they turn back to you with a smile. a small genuine smile that fills you with butterflies. they really did mean so much to you.

"so… now what?" they ask.

"I don't know." you pursed your lips, shrugging your shoulders. "but I do have to go."

"Seriously?"

"I have a meeting with Dean Shetty." you express. "I'm sorry. She wants me at some dinner so."

[heartpascal]

i’ll be brave

▹— joel miller x platonic!f!reader

▹— summary: an infected attack leaves you fragile, in more ways that one.

▹— a/n: prepare for many father figure joel fics bc i love him!! also this is not the best thing ever but i love joel so!! hope you guys enjoy <33 planning on doing some more platonic fics where we see them develop more but alas. this is what you get rn!!

▹— tags: @loversdomain

masterlist

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Growing up in the QZ was all you had ever known, your life limited to the walls that surrounded you, trapped you. You’d heard stories about the world outside, though it was such a foreign concept to you, both of horror and nostalgia.

Until Joel, you were certain you’d never see it. The guards that patrolled were too strict, at least where you lived. It was easier to sneak further in than it was to get out, heading towards where most of the residents lived and worked.

Your father would’ve worked here, you thought to yourself, the very first time you’d managed to get into the centre of the QZ. He would have lived and worked and would have known your mother here. Sometimes, you wonder what life could have been like if he hadn’t of died mere weeks after you’d been born. There was a part of you that longed to know where he was from, actually from, before the world fell to pieces. To know his accent, the sound of his voice, the way he acted… anything.

They told you that your mother fled the day he died, leaving you abandoned in a flat crying for hours until the neighbours finally had enough and cracked open the door, finding you there: alone.

That’s how you had lived your life since, alone. Facing the current world with nobody to teach you, nobody to protect you, to help you escape.

You’re sure that Joel finding you was a miracle, though most people didn’t believe in those anymore, or so you were told. But you were certain that if one was to exist, it’d be this man.

The man who, despite his unwelcoming appearance, had hauled you away from the guards who had tried to beat you until you learned the lesson they were teaching. Who had given you shelter even when he knew nothing more than your name, who had lended you blankets and clothes to keep you warm.

Joel himself certainly wasn’t expecting you — your presence scared him. That day, when he saw those guards attacking you, he felt a glimpse of who he used to be in the life before, and he was unable to walk away. It terrified him, more than any clicker or runner ever could, that he may have some humanity left within him after all.

After Sarah, he turned his nose from anyone who could’ve needed his help. Other than those exempt from that, such as Tommy or Tess, he decided that it wasn’t his business.

But when you called out, being struck again by two armed guards, grown adults, something inside of his chest snapped. Like a tether that had been pulled far too taut, frayed away until the tension was too much to bare. He vividly remembers the blood that had dropped from his hands as he pulled you to your feet, remembers the way it matched the droplets that stained your face.

He wasn’t planning on you becoming part of his and Tess’ little… group, but once he found you, you seemed to stick. You didn’t particularly want to leave, anyway, and when the duo didn’t kick you out? You figured there was no harm in staying.

Now, you travelled with them, earning your place among the two adults, even when they suggested you stay home, where it was the slightest bit safer.

They had refused your requests to come with them on runs for a while, but the first time they allowed it was imprinted on your brain as if branded there by hot metal.

The brightness that came with being outside of the QZ was something you truly didn’t expect, though that could’ve just been in your brain. The QZ was dull, full of grey walls and faces and dirt, but out here was full. Greens and yellows and everything between covered the horizon, and you squinted to see as much of it as you possibly could.

Joel had huffed at you, nudging you lightly to keep you moving, but he wasn’t angry. He and Tess had shared a look, something going between their silence that you didn’t understand, and in that moment, you didn’t care to.

By now, you’d been coming on runs with the two of them for a few months, here and there. When they deemed it wasn’t too dangerous, of course.

Which is why today’s occurrence was so odd — it was a regular run, with you spending all your time in the great outdoors admiring everything that surrounded you, something akin to wonder in your eyes. Seeing all the buildings that had crumbled not long after your birth, taken over by nature and its most fearsome monster; cordyceps. As soon as you approached the desired hit of the day, you put your game face on. It was like flicking a switch in your brain — one second, you could have no worries in the world, stuck in your own head as you wandered around. The next, it was like every movement echoed in your ears, the slightest of sounds drawing your attention.

It was meant to be safe.

That is what Joel and Tess had said — god, that was the only reason they let you join them today, on one of their rare daylight outings: the safety factor.

So imagine your surprise when you slipped, ankle twisting as it went through the creaking floorboards of the building, followed by the clicking.

It was like your whole body froze solid, every muscle fibre tensing and pulling taut, eyes wide — a deer in headlights, Tess might’ve described you as, if her heart hadn’t have been beating so fast it could’ve burst.

Your head swivelled towards where Joel stood, just in front of you, to your right. He stared at you, something dark in his eyes, and you swallowed harshly as he held a finger to his lips, shushing you.

Each of your breaths came out silently, the only sound being the echoing clicks before the footsteps started coming towards the three of you, directly from your left. You swore you could hear the drip of blood in the quiet between each footstep of the monster.

You kept your eyes towards Joel and Tess, as much as you wanted to look to your left, where the sounds were starting to get louder. You watched them as they shared a conversation through their eyes, a nod of understanding held between the two of them. Joel’s expression was pained, but Tess put on her best brave face, giving you a wink.

“Hey, asshole!” Tess yelled, before scrambling to run ahead, a screech echoing in your ear, deafening you. Your breath hitched as she ran, and the clicker followed before your eyes.

As soon as its attention was on Tess, Joel was grasping you underneath your armpits, hauling your leg out of the hole it had fallen in. You held in your cries and winces as the broken floorboards left splinters and cuts all along your calf, your ankle hurting like a bitch.

He was pulling you out before you could utter a word, and by the time he managed to get you outside, your blood had covered your shoe. He leant you against the broken wall that had surrounded the building, ensuring you could stay upright — though you couldn’t put pressure on your leg — before he barked out a, “Stay here!” and ran back inside for Tess.

Your heart was beating in your ears, your throat clogged up as you did your best not to cry. This was your fault — had you not insisted upon joining them again, they would’ve never been put in this situation. They could die in there, and you were stuck out here, unable to even stand on your own two feet.

The pain in your leg was worsening now that you weren’t in imminent danger, though you were sure you were going to pass out when you heard the gun fire a single round.

“Are you guys okay?” You all but yelled as soon as you saw them emerging from the door, Tess leading, seemingly unharmed, with Joel following in much the same condition.

“We’re fine,” Tess breathed out as she approached you, leaning against the wall beside you. “It’s dead.”

“Are you alright?” Joel asked, his hand grasping on to your forearm, keeping you steady where you were shaking, holding yourself up against the rough surface of the wall. You nodded, breath still not able to properly filter out past the lump in your throat.

He knelt in front of you, hands reaching out and pulling the trouser leg up to see the full extent of your injury properly.

“Shit, kid,” he sighed out, looking up to Tess, “we’ve seen worse. We can manage.” He dropped the backpack where it was hung on his one shoulder, digging through it to tape some spare cloth around your injury, taping it around your ankle to keep it secure, too.

When he finally got you on your feet, silence lingering between all of you, he had to help you carry your own weight all the way back to your home in the QZ.

By the time you had managed to pick all the splinters out of your leg, Joel and Tess had gone to their beds, leaving you in the ‘living room,’ alone.

You felt sick, knowing you could have gotten all three of you killed today, just because you wanted a taste of the world that had long since decayed past anything worth wanting. Finally left on your own, the tears spilled past your eyelids, cleaving clean lines through the dirt and muck that caked your cheeks.

You couldn’t help but feel terrified, like you could still hear that damned creature coming for you. Like its footsteps echoed in your own home, right now.

With a fearful sob, you looked up to where you swore the sound come from, only to find Joel approaching, frown present on his face. His eyebrows were creased upwards, taking his expression from grumpy to worried.

Without a word from him, he came and sat beside you on the couch, wrapping the blanket that usually stayed firmly on the back of it around your shivering shoulders.

You clutched at it, wanting nothing more than to hide underneath it and pretend the entire day hadn’t happened — you wanted to forget the fear that shredded your veins, leaving your heart hammering. If you could just lose the entire memory of today, you would in a heartbeat, because the idea of leaving the QZ again with Joel and Tess made you feel sick.

Joel sighed, coming to kneel in front of you after you continuously avoided looking towards him. His hands reached out to your leg, the movement sending deja vu straight through you. He checked over your injury again, wrinkles caused by his frowning getting deeper. “You know it’s all okay, right?” He checked, finally, unsure what else to say in the quiet you usually tended to fill.

“It’s not o—okay, Joel,” you sobbed out, barely even breathing between your cries, “I al—almost got you and Tess kill—killed.”

“No, no, listen to me, kid. The… situation today was not your fault. Hear me? Not your fault. We thought it was safe, it wasn’t, that happens. We’re just glad you’re okay. Mostly.” He added on, nodding towards your bruised and bloodied leg.

“I tried so h—hard to be brave,” you continued, now even more hysterical as you thought of the way that thing approached you, how it could’ve killed any one of you had you made the slightest noise.

“I know,” Joel said, and he returned to your side at the couch, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and squeezing it with his hand. “You were very brave, and I’m sorry you had to be.”

Part of Joel couldn’t help but feel like this was too much, too reminiscent of the daughter he’d lost. It made his head spin, even as he pulled you closer at the sound of your continuous cries, the way you could bring back that piece of him, the piece with some kind of humanity.

You didn’t have anybody else. All you had was Tess and Joel, and all he had was you and Tess, at least while his brother was out of town. This thing you had built, during the apocalypse and all, was a family.

“C’mon, kid,” he said, nudging your shoulder with his hand, “It’s alright. We’ll go out just to see the outside, next time. No risk of infected.”

“No, I—I don’t want to get you guys hurt again.” You responded, shaking your head and feeling your tears slow, remembering the pain that burned through your leg. You didn’t want to experience anything like today ever again, even if that meant staying inside the walls of the QZ for the rest of your life. “You didn’t even get what we went out for, because of me.”

His chest lurched, and he huffed a frustrated breath. “I don’t give one shit about that,” Joel said, leaving it to you to catch on to the end of that sentence that he couldn’t quite bring himself to say. I care about you.

You couldn’t tell him how you truly felt — like dead weight, a burden they couldn’t get rid of. You stayed with them, ate their food and used up their supplies, and now you were ruining the only way for them to get a decent income, too. It’d upset him, hearing you say that aloud. You knew it would.

“I just… I don’t want to end up alone.” You translated, the best you could do to tell him that you needed the two of them, for more than just the ability to survive they provided you with.

You knew they missed the old world, everybody who had lived before the outbreak did, as much as they tried not to think about it. It was a deep longing for something you would never know. While their world was gone, they were your world.

Joel’s arm squeezed you close, like all the words that refused to leave his lips could be heard that way.

In a way, it told you everything you needed to know.

Your eyes closed soon enough, and you missed the look that crossed Joel’s face, the warmth in his eyes that he never thought would return after the loss of his first daughter. And yet here it was, present and warm as ever, as he looked at where you’d fallen asleep resting against him.