#and became her own anchor

[fatal-blow]

growing up, my mum always told me, whenever i went to the doctors or any sort of health professional, that it was important that i told them that i was hypermobile. she'd done the tests with me (herself being hypermobile and disabled in large part because of it) and though she didn't know the details, she knew that hypermobility was important to have in my health record.

so it was to my great surprise and displeasure that, whenever i told doctors i was hypermobile, it was skipped over. never addressed, never touched on, not even a comment to belie what that meant for me. i myself didn't know the impact hypermobility could have on a person, but my mother had been insistent about that fact. it was important, so why did no one else seem to think so?

i grew up with kids in school who were on the extreme ends of hypermobility. i knew a boy in middle school who could put both feet behind his head. i knew a girl in high school with long, spindly fingers who showed me how far backwards her arm could bend.

both of them had health problems, which became more profound as they aged. i never knew the details, but it stuck out that they were hypermobile, and so was i, and with my own health declining there HAD to be a connection.

common knowledge gives the vague definition of hypermobility as extra stretchy muscles, of being double-jointed. it comes with warnings not to push your hypermobile body into the extremes. don't overextend, you will hurt yourself.

the warnings are warranted. the importance isn't overplayed. these things i knew, but i didn't know why. and without knowing why, they were warnings that i could never truly obey, despite how conservative i became with my movements in a vain attempt to protect what little ability i had left.

hypermobility is NOT stretchy muscles. muscles are supposed to stretch. in fact, it's important to their health (those conservative movements prolly hurt more than helped!). hypermobility affects connectives tissues, and lands under the umbrella of Ehlers-Danlos Sydromes (there are a few) which can range in severity from affecting skin and tendons to affecting blood vessels and organs.

severity is rare, and much easier to catch. this post is for the people who are "a little hypermobile" so that they can understand what makes their body different.

a muscle and its associated tendons are like a hammock. the muscle is the fabric you lie in, stretching to accomodate the load. tendons are the rope that attaches the fabric to the trees, providing a secure anchor for the muscle to operate.

so, what happens when the ropes on the hammock are also stretchy? well, you sit in the hammock and your ass hits the ground.

now imagine that the fabric of the hammock has the ability to clench like a muscle. a normal hammock doesn't need to work that hard to stop ass from meeting ground, because it has sturdy anchors. a hammock with stretchy rope, however, must exert several times more effort, because the more the muscle pulls, the more the tendons stretch.

in short, hypermobility forces your muscles to work harder, because they must first pass the threshold of stretch the tendons are capable of before it can actually do the task it's meant to do. the stretchier the tendons, the harder the muscle needs to clench, the easier it is to overwork.

this info reframed everything i was doing with my body. small tasks of strength required the effort of much larger tasks, and larger tasks ranged from extremely difficult to impossible. holding my arms up so i could work above my head required monumental effort. with an anatomical peculiarity of the feet, i needed to use several muscles in my calves and hips just to stand without losing balance.

so no fucking wonder i crashed and burned in my 20s, when everything i did took all of my strength to accomplish. no wonder i would contort myself out of shape, so flexible that i could anchor myself into extreme poses just to give my muscles a moment of relief, overstretching myself without ever realizing why, and what damage i could be doing.

so, some things to remember:

overextending isn't good for you, but it shouldn't be your biggest concern. instead, be aware of overexertion, both how LONG you are using a muscle without breaks and how HARD you are using it.

small, frequent breaks are your best friend if you need to do something for awhile.

when you take breaks, stretch the muscles you'd been using.

if you need to exert effort to maintain a pose (whether it's sitting, standing, etc) examine whether you need to be clenching those muscles, and why.

actually whenever you are using muscles, try to train yourself to use as few as possible. you can practice by sitting or standing, and relaxing as many muscles as you can before you tip over. finding a sense of balance can make your life so much easier.

become acquainted with what relaxed muscles feel like. chronic tension can distort your perception of this, and result in habitual tension.

so yeah. if you're hypermobile, that's important. don't let a doctor's dismissal make you think otherwise. take care of yourself and know what you are and aren't capable of.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

the beginning

words: 1.4k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, pretty fluffy and cute tho, male masturbation, kinda creeping on reader by masturbating to pics of her?, p in v sex, brief male receiving handjob, unprotected sex, a bunch of different scenes with time gaps this isnt one continuous fic if that makes sense?

“your bikini is so cute.” you tell your friend, looking at your own swimsuit in the mirror.

“i have another one in a different color, you wanna borrow it?” julie offers.

“girl, yes!” you squeal as she digs through her closet before tossing the small material to you. you were invited on rafe camerons boat, and while you chose your best swimsuit, you just moved to the outer banks from new york city and don’t have a ton of options.

you put the swimsuit on before standing next to your friend. “we look good.” you nod.

“damn girl, the boys are gonna be all over you.” “hopefully including rafe.” you say, a slight blush coming to your cheeks. it didn’t take you long to learn that rafe was the it boy of the outer banks, the kook prince, and that all the girls wanted him. you didn’t get the hype until you met him at a party and instantly became attracted.

“there’s no way he’s gonna be able to keep his eye of you.” julie encourages you, before glancing at her phone. “we better get going.”

you nod, looking one last time in the mirror before putting your coverup on and following julie out of her room.

--

“hey rafe.” you smile at him, letting him sling his arm around your shoulder. you’ve been flirting a lot, its how you got invited onto his boat along with a few other friends, but you haven’t progressed past just talking.

“hey.” rafe tugs you into him, making you press against his shirtless torso, in just his swim shorts. “wanna come up and drive with me?”

“yeah.” you nod, briefly looking to julie to make sure she was good, but she's already twirling her hair and batting her eyelashes at kelce.

you follow rafe up to the stairs to the second story of the yacht where the captains helm is. you sit next to him on the bench as he steers the boat out of the marina. 

“this is a really nice boat.” you comment. “maybe you should give some advice to my parents on what to buy, my dad is looking but has no clue what is good.” you say without thinking, before cringing at your words, worrying rafe might mistake your small talk as wanting him to meet your parents.

“ah yeah, didn’t have much opportunities to own a yacht in new york, huh?” rafes says as his arms move the wheel, making your attention shift to his muscles.

“nope.” you shake your head. “but i’m glad we moved, i love the city but its really nice to be somewhere… calmer.”

“i’m glad you moved too.” rafe says with a smile, making you blush as you nod at him. you manage to make the small talk not overly awkward as he drives the boat out towards the ocean before finding a place to drop anchor and hang out for a bit.

“wanna swim?” rafe asks as you both head down the stairs, rejoining the group.

“yeah.” you nod, pulling your coverup off over your head. you toss it onto a soft before turning to rafe, who is staring down at your body, blatantly checking you out as he pulls his lower lip between his teeth.

he doesn’t snap out of it until topper claps him on the shoulder. “i got the ladder in for us, man.”

“yeah, yeah thanks.” rafe nods, eyes finally flicking up to meet yours.

“y/n! jump in with me!” julie calls.

“lets go?” you tilt your head, looking to rafe.

“wait before you jump in i want to get a picture of everyone.” rafe shouts out, pulling his phone out of his pocket and handing it to topper. “you'll take it?”

“yeah, sure.” topper says, looking at his friend a little strangely.

you all group together on the front deck, rafe moving so you’re in the center, his arm around your waist as you smile at the camera. you change your pose a couple times as topper continues to snap pictures, including turning towards rafe and placing your hand on his abs, still grinning as you pose.

rafe eyes up topper as he leans and picks you up, topper getting the message to record as you let out a shriek, wrapping your arms around rafes shoulder as he hurdles towards the water before jumping off the back deck, sending a spray of water as you let go of him and swim towards the surface.

you push the hair out of your face before sending a splash in rafes direction, scrunching your brows to show your anger at getting tossed in, but you can’t help the smile that stretches over your cheeks.

--

rafe gives you a tight hug, not caring that your hair is still wet and smelling of salt water. “i had fun today.”

“i did too.” you nod, getting on your tip toes to press your lips to his cheek. 

“what are you doing tomorrow?” rafe questions.

“why, wanna take me on a date?” you ask, biting your lip as your eyes glance between his eyes and his lips.

“and what if i do?” rafe smirks.

“then i’m definitely free.” 

“pick you up at 6:30 then.” rafe says, pulling you against him again before letting you go, watching you get into julies car.

--

“fuck.” rafe groans, hips thrusting forward as he fucks his fist, phone pulled open to the pictures he had topper took. he doesn’t give a shit about anyone else, he cropped everyone out but you, in your tiny lilac bikini.

rafe groans, wanting to squeeze his eyes shut as he squeezes the head of his dick, imagining it was you instead, either your mouth on him or you spread out below him, moaning as he fucks into your cunt.

rafe thinks about texting you, about begging you to come over, but he remembers your date tomorrow, knows what is going to happen after if things go well. he doesn’t want to seem too desperate, but you’re too pretty, too enticing as he swipes to the next photo, the photo of you turned to the side, hand on his bare abdomen.

he looks at the curve of your ass, the way the bikini hugs your hips. rafe strokes faster, imagining his hand making impact with your bum, watching the skin ripple.

“y/n.” rafe groans out your name as he cums, releasing over his stomach as he squeezes himself until he’s satisfied, smiling as he swipes again, this time to the video of him picking you up and running into the water.

--

“this is easily the best first date i’ve ever had.” you say as rafe drives you home. it was surprisingly simple, a picnic on the beach all set up by rafe, and then some live music on the pier.

“mine too.” rafe says, placing a cautious hand on your thigh, relieved when you smile at him.

“you know…” you begin as rafe pulls up to your door. “my parents are back in new york this weekend.”

“really?” rafe hums, bringing the car up the driveway.

“if you’d like to come in for some… tea.” 

“tea, sure.” rafe nods, turning his truck off.

you move quickly inside. while you made up the tea excuse to get him in, you both know what the intentions are as rafe presses you against the wall of the entrance as soon as the door swings shut behind you, his lips meeting yours.

--

“good morning.” you mumble, turning over in rafes arms, both still naked from the night before.

“morning.” rafe says, his voice gruff from just waking. he moves a hand to your hair, brushing it out of your face. “you look beautiful.”

“not too bad yourself.” you smile, pressing your lips against rafes.

the kiss instantly wakes him up as his hand moves to the back of your neck, deepening the kiss as he turns so he’s over top of your body, your hair flared out on the pillow.

you smirk into the kiss when you can feel rafe growing against your stomach. you reach down with one hand, grasping his shoulder to keep him close and kissing you with the other while you stroke his cock, getting it to full hardness quickly.

“when are your parents home?” rafe asks suddenly when he pulls away.

“um-” your brain briefly doesn’t work at the randomness of the question. “monday evening.” “i say-” rafe says, reaching down and grasping his cock, pushing your hand out of the way as he rubs the head of his cock through your pussy. “we spent the entire weekend in bed then.”

you gasp as rafe thrusts into you, filling your cunt in one swoop. “sounds good to me.” you say, before pulling him back into a kiss.

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @rafecamerongirl @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @jjmaybankisbae @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @buckyswhxre @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary

[unboundprompts]

hi! i wanted to ask how could i write a scene of a band performing and make it flow smoothly? Reactions to it and inner dialogue of the leader singer while performing?

I hope that makes sense!

Thank you :)

How to Write a Band Performance

Set the Atmosphere with Sound and Sensory Details

Use sensory language to capture the energy of the music, the movement on stage, and the audience’s reaction. Think about the sounds of instruments, the lights, the thrum of bass vibrating through the floor, or how the crowd looks.

Example: The drums kicked in, a thunderous heartbeat that pulsed through the packed venue. Strings followed, filling the air with an electric charge, and the lights dimmed just enough for the crowd to lean in, hungry for the next note.

Anchor the Lead Singer’s Focus

The lead singer might catch moments in the crowd, like a fan mouthing every lyric, someone laughing, or even seeing familiar faces in the sea of people. These little connections add a human touch and make the performance feel alive.

Example: He spotted a girl in the front row, eyes closed, every word leaving her lips like a prayer. She knew each lyric by heart, maybe better than he did. That look kept him grounded—kept him singing.

Use Inner Dialogue to Show Nerves, Confidence, or Distraction

Let the lead singer’s mind wander a bit, but keep it tethered to the music. They might think of something unrelated that they suppress to stay focused, or maybe they reflect on what this song means to them, especially if it’s deeply personal or symbolic.

Example: Here we go. Breathe. Just like rehearsal. But it was never just like rehearsal. Each word brought him back to the night he wrote it—a night he barely survived. He shook off the thought. No. Tonight, it’s just for them.

Describe Body Movements and How They Connect to Emotion

Physical sensations can be as telling as dialogue. The lead singer might feel the warmth of the spotlight, the stickiness of sweat on their skin, or the way their voice feels strong, raw, or strained.

Example: He gripped the mic stand, fingers tight, and leaned forward. His voice cracked on a high note, but he let it, gave it to the crowd raw. They wanted his truth, his realness. That was all he had to give.

Show the Crowd’s Reaction

Describe reactions like a wave, where energy ebbs and flows. The crowd might sway during slower parts, roar during the chorus, or go silent in the song’s more intimate moments. This back-and-forth dance adds rhythm to the scene.

Example: As the first chorus hit, the crowd became a sea of outstretched hands, fingers clawing for a piece of the music. A roar rose, then softened as they sang with him, their voices tangling with his own, something fragile and fierce all at once.

Balance Between Action and Inner Thoughts

To keep the scene flowing, alternate between what the singer does (interacting with the mic, moving on stage) and what they think. Too much inner dialogue could slow down the scene, so give action and reaction space to keep the reader engaged.

Example: He took a step back, holding the last note, letting it resonate through the space. He stole a glance at his bandmates. They were lost in the music too, faces set, eyes closed. It felt like the old days—a secret between them, shared with everyone.

End with a Climactic Moment or a Release of Tension

End the scene with a dramatic finish, like a powerful note, a burst of applause, or even silence if it’s an emotional song. The lead singer could feel relieved, drained, or exhilarated by the end.

Example: As the last chord faded, a brief silence hung over the crowd—a pause, a heartbeat—before it shattered with applause. He closed his eyes, letting it wash over him, knowing that for now, the song was enough.

[criibibi]

Synopsis: After losing so much, Spider-woman learns to just keep moving. Only for her to end up somewhere far from home. Her first agenda is figuring out where she is, and how to get back. The only problem is that she ended up somewhere fictional (to her). Playing hero with Batman was not in her bingo cards this year. Hopefully she will be able to make it back home before she catches unwanted attention.

Masterlist: Prev; Next;

Chapter 4 - Calm Before the Storm

With the beginning of a new day it was like the calm before the storm. You stood up pretty late at night, making your way to a center, luckily they didn’t push for information knowing your situation is a dime a dozen around these parts.

Thank god. Though you did debate giving them your name or even a nickname, you decided against it. After all, you’re not staying here long term, you don’t need to cement your name here. Not as a civilian, or as spider-woman.

You shouldn’t even be here. You don’t belong here.

After having a fresh meal, bless the hearts of the passionate people out there giving out kindness like air, fix yourself up, and return to your makeshift home to decompress.

The cold air nipping at your face cools you off, making you vigilant of your surroundings. Quiet, a bit too quiet. Gotham isn’t known for its silence after all. Pushing the uncomfortable feelings aside, you decide to call it a night.

Making significant progress on your watch became your saving grace. The anchor of your sanity.

So the first thing you did in the morning was quickly get a nice breakfast at a shelter before dedicating your time to building the beacon until nightfall.

The voices in your head were getting restless so you even fixed up a radio you found in the piles of junk just to have a noise buzz in the background.

Days, you spent days inside this safezone you made a shelter out of. Two days to be exact. With how limited and unlimited your resources are, you had no time to waste. You had your own world to get back to, and help Miguel stop the Spot. Every day you spend here is costing you so much already. But you keep going, because you know you’re making progress.

Your routine was mostly some time in the morning, eat and wash up at any center, and go straight back to the junkyard. Snack for lunch and for dinner, back at another center. You make sure to hop around so as to not draw attention or to get familiar with anyone.

You don’t belong. Pretender, faker, liar, fraud, phony, sham.

You know that better than anyone else. You feel like a fraud. This world is like a different color pallet, monochromatic to you. You can’t stain this world with your presence.

You’re getting nauseous just thinking about it.

When taking some semblance of a break, you usually take walks to calm your mind in the morning, where crime is least likely to occur. And so far, you’re right!

Though there were a few (three) instances of muggers, and a drug dealer. Though you did stop (and robbed) them, but not as spider-woman, just as normal (fake) civilian you.

Those were the one’s just in your way or happening to you. Other than that, you have not put on the spider-woman suit to fight crime.

Why would you?

You were about to return home soon, if everything ends well. And it seems like luck is on your side since you have not caught a glimpse or heard any of the batsonas nearby. This also gave you hope.

So, how do you celebrate your near completion of your super secret science project?

Well, with ice-cream and a place of destination for your super secret science project!

So off to the library you go!

Finishing your ice-cream, you take in a breath of the polluted air of Gotham and make your way towards the library.

It was silent, and tranquil. Something you weren’t able to feel for some time. No big baddies escaping Arkham, no terrorist attacks, no bombing threats, no bat encounters, nothing. Just silence, and peace. And you embrace it with everything you have.

Your constant tense body finally felt itself ease as your stress levels went down.

Entering the library and once again greeting the librarian, you made your way back to the same seat you did days ago. With a clear mind, you browse the maps and possible locations for your beacon.

Finding a couple of very good locations, you made sure to memorize the landmarks and streets so you can pick the closest one.

You were giddy! Basically shaking in excitement. Tonight is the night! You just need to tweak a few things and you would be good to go! You would finally have a signal that can ping your location! And if you have time, you will be able to message Miguel through your signal.

With excitement, you quickly left the library and made your way back to the junkyard. Days of your blood sweat and tears, will all finally pay off your desperation to go back home.

Just a couple of adjustments.

Running into the warehouse, you turned on the radio and began to work.

Hours upon hours and you finally managed to get something done. It might have looked like a baby’s school robotics science project but hey! Ya got something at least!

You made something fast, not pretty.

Now, to connect his baby to a power source that won’t reveal your location- god knows you don’t need the bats up on your ass. If you trusted this world more, maybe you would have gone to Batman/Bruce Wayne first. But you know that- one, that idea is garbage at best, that’s how you would most likely get your cute ass locked at Arkham. And two, you know for a fact that Batman doesn’t trust metahumans or something- and you having enhanced powers in your fucking DNA, makes you the paranoid one.

You don’t want to step on anyone’s toes, especially the Batman’s. It just boils down to, you don’t trust him or his brood of sidekicks. That and the fact that if you could do it by yourself then you will.

And you’re already doing it. Ha! Take that universe!

This was a job for spider-woman. Changing into your suit, you hurriedly carried your mini beacon, and soared through buildings to find an appropriate source of electricity. You know you don’t have the right technology (you’re using scraps for fuck sake) to create an effective and accurate signal, but with this little baby, you should be able to send out a general area ping.

This way, for anyone who is looking for you (you fucking hope so) they can lock into a general area of the multiverse.

You are holding onto hope you get discovered soon.

Landing on top of a random construction site, you made quick work setting your things up. Connecting the cable to your beacon, and one towards your watch, you use the last cable and walk over a power generator.

This is it, this is where you’ll finally finally have a semblance of a chance to leave this universe. You just want to go home. You don’t exist here, you checked when scrolling through the web.

Not someone who looks like you- or a spider-woman either. You don’t belong here, and you never had the intention to play pretend either. This world isn’t your problem and you aren’t needed. So, now you’ll ping your location and go home.

Your very own emergency distress signal.

You plug your cable in the generator and it causes a power surge.

You pray to be discovered.

-

“B! It’s happening again!” Oracle’s alarmed voice caused Batman to head out immediately. “But this time it’s different!”

“Same place?” Hopping into his batmobile he sped off. “Different how?”

“No, this time it’s in the Narrows. A construction site twenty minutes from your location. It’s pinging like crazy!” Oracle couldn’t understand what was happening.

It had been a regular Thursday night until she got a ping of another disturbance. Not quite the ‘quantum disturbance’ like a few days ago, but then it was the flickering power surge. She was quick this time, getting an accurate location and with Batman on the way, they’ll find out what this is.

“It’s definitely the same as a few days ago, but not big enough, not strong enough. Causing a power surge!”

The surge only lasted ten seconds. Ten seconds too long. Then silence and all the light and energy came flickering back in that area.

“Robin’s close, he’s on his way B.” As if nothing had happened. Oracle wasted no time in finding cameras to see the situation. But the ripple effect caused security cameras to shut down for the duration of the surge. “Shit. Cameras are down- can’t find anyone in or out.”

“Hm.” Batman grunted. This was a grunt of annoyance.

Upon arriving on the scene, Batman made his way through the partially completed construction site. There stood only one other figure, and it was Robin.

“There was no sign of the perpetrator when I got here.” He spoke, his fixed glare at the spot where the ping was the strongest. “I surveyed the surroundings, nothing.” Frustration was clear in his voice and clenched teeth.

This confirms what Oracle said through the comms.

Batman sighed. Whatever was here, left just as quickly. This means that whatever caused a quantum disturbance days ago, is still here. In his city. In Gotham. And when he finds them, he’ll make sure to squeeze out every bit of information they possess.

He won’t take any chances of possible alien life force coming and going as they please.

“We’re not completely at a loss.” His words caught Robin’s attention, so he continued. “That means whoever did this is still here. It wasn’t as big as the other one, which means the recreation was not enough. Whoever or whatever it is, is still here.”

Robin processed the information and affirmed. “Understood. Means they will try again. And soon.” Robin makes sure to ping this area as a priority zone.

Batman nodded. He will find whoever is behind this. No matter the costs.

Nothing will escape their watch.

-

“No! No no nonono!”

Just as you plugged in the cable to the generator a huge surge of power came through, quickly to find a connection.

Your watch sprang to life, a bright screen greeted you and quickly you sprung to action. Seeing the universe number glitch but readable.

Finding a smidgen of a connection, you started calling Miguel; it couldn't even connect.

You wanted to sob.

“Miguel! Miguel please please see this! Please please please!” Then the connection went out and the watch turned black.

You felt like your whole world was crashing down on you.

You tried, you really did try! You did your best. You have always done your best. But in the end, it seems that no matter how hard you fought or tried to fight, defend, and protect, it just was never enough. But you lost waaaaay too much to give up. Especially now.

You’ll get discovered soon. And not by the ones you want to meet. “Fuck!”

You couldn’t let this get to you. They might be coming. Quickly unplugging the cables you grab the beacon and swing away, using the night as your cover to make a grand escape.

After all, you still were able to at least find a connection, just not a strong one. Try again next time.

A fire grew inside you. That’s right, you’ll just try again, and this time make something better. As long as you weren’t caught you can still make something better. “Can’t give up.” You spoke through your tears. You’ll fix this, you have too. It’s just you against the world.

Just like Miguel, you’ll throw yourself into fixing things. Making it better.

The obsession of trying to make things right by any means necessary, broken and unbroken. Take things apart and build it back together again, same and before, or better, greater even.

A Tinkerer if you will. Anything to be useful, needed, wanted. And in order for you to feel that, you’ll build an even stronger signal. This time, you’ll make your watch better.

You know Hobie Brown knows how to build his own watch. You both do. Discussed it when Hobie casually said he missed your presence at times. So you’ll just upgrade yours.

Building a better beacon and upgrading your watch requires more material. So you’ll plan for the days ahead. You will learn from this failure. You have to. You need to.

Your greatest failures were failing to save Ben, protect May, and defend Peter, those you cared for the most. You can’t afford to fail this. You will make it back. It just seems that you’ll be stuck here just a tad bit longer.

“That’s okay… everything will be okay.” Your erratic mind becomes calm again.

You learned to take responsibility for your actions and mistakes, learned to accept the consequences and help others face their own, and finally to heal and move forwards, to hope. And right now, you’re hoping for a better outcome soon.

“I can do this.” Landing on the warehouse you climbed through a window, throwing your mask to the side, landing on your workbench. “I can do better.”

You were known as a dangerous spider. You have years of experience, years of trials and tribulations, you’re smart, curious, and compassionate. But you’re hungry, always hungry to learn more, to consume knowledge. You use what you learn and become better than yesterday.

You’re a dangerous spider because you always come out of every experience learning more, learning to be better as you adapt, plan and overcome every obstacle in your way.

You’re a dangerous spider, because you push yourself to the brink it’s almost madness. Your obsession of not being weak, helpless, and vulnerable forced your body to adapt at a rapid pace. It terrified your enemies and comrades. And how easily you can hide that obsession is also terrifying.

It’s the calm before the storm.

And right now, you need to plan better. You’ll leave the Narrows, go somewhere else. Possibly Park Row? No. That’s the Red Hoods territory. Maybe somewhere less chaotic. Oh! East End sounds perfect! It’s one of the places Batman doesn’t really interfere with.

Perfect.

You’ll only leave once you finish your beacons. Because you know the bats will come here, and most certainly discover that someone has been here building no matter how you try to cover up your doings.

Batman is just that good. You just won’t take any chances.

-

In a different universe far faaaaaaar away. Miguel discovered a heartbreaking partially audible voice recording of his missing protégé.

Location unknown. Coordinates unknown. Universe unknown.

You were lost, and he doesn’t know how to find you.

Prev; Next;

I know it feels like I'm rushing and to that- fair probably. I also really want to get into the bat family and stuff. Their actual civilian personas i mean. Not their vigilante alter ego. You are going to meet them next chapter for sure, I just need to find a way to up the states for you. Make you feel dread and anxious.

I'm not a funny person, so I feel like I am doing the spider-sona injustice. Rip.

[wolverigrl]

The Beauty and the Beast

Logan Howlett x Reader!mutant!

Soo I've decided to try out writing one shots again. The last time I did that.. oh hell.. definitely some years ago. So please don't judge if it's not a masterpiece. I hope you still enjoy this imaginary! <3

Please let me know what you think about it!

Warnings: Mostly fluff, maybe here and there some swearing, but that's all

‐-----------------------------‐-----------------------------‐---------

It was one of those fun evenings that you could only experience if you lived with Wade Wilson. Today, however, was a special occasion: Wade's house party.

The apartment that Y/N shared with Blind Al and him was filled with many different people - friends that Wade had made over the years. And then there was the new roommate, Logan Howlett, who most people only knew as Wolverine. He actually came from a different timeline, but after they both fought Cassandra Nova, Logan was more like stranded in this universe. According to Wade's brief tales, the Wolverine unfortunately had no future in his world, but he did in theirs.

Y/N, unlike Wilson, was a quiet person. One who rarely said much, but always listened and observed. She was the perfect example of still waters run deep. It was this calmness that fascinated Wade from the very beginning when they met in that cruel experimental camp. They both went through hell and became mutants in the end.

Y/N developed the ability to project the pain and feelings of others onto herself or onto others - a power that was both a curse and a blessing. Wade, with his regenerative ability and wacky sense of humor, had quickly become a steady anchor for her. He was her best friend who understood her like no one else. She lost her memory as a result of the human despising experiments, which is why she still doesn't know exactly who she is today.

They had stuck together ever since they had escaped the camp, and Wade never hesitated to make fun of Y/N's quieter ways - in his own affectionate way.

Lately, though, he found a new target for his jokes: Logan and Y/N. It hadn't escaped Wade's notice, nor Blind Al's, that there was an unspoken tension between the two, even though they had barely spoken since Logan moved in.

Y/N had kept an eye on Logan from day one. It was hard not to. He was, after all, an imposing figure - broad shouldered, muscular, with an prominent face and those eyes that always looked a little melancholy, as if they had seen and suffered too much. His kitty cat hair and beard, which Wade loved to make the target of his jokes, gave him an almost animalistic appearance.

Every morning, Logan and y/n met almost simultaneously in the apartment because they had one thing in common. Insomnia. In the kitchen, Logan prepared coffee for both of them, and she made breakfast or dinner in return. They ate together in silence, but they both always looked at each other when the other wasn't looking. If their eyes met, they both gave each other a warm smile. Sometimes, it was irritating for Logan that he was hardly ever grumpy towards her, but he couldn't even help it.

One evening, Y/n came home after a walk. She took her towel and clothes from her room and walked into the bathroom. To her surprise, she saw Logan standing in front of her in just a towel tied around his hips. His hair was wet, just like his upper body. He turned to her and cleared his throat.

"Sorry about that. I'm almost done." He said in his deep voice.

Y/n felt the warmth on her face. There was a lot of humidity and heat in the room, which made it feel harder for her to breathe properly after seeing him like that. Before she nodded and left the room, she couldn't help but let her eyes wander over Logan's body again. She had to admit that she found him incredibly attractive.

But it wasn't just his looks that attracted Y/N; it was the depth that lay within him, a darkness she knew all too well.

Wade noticed those looks from day one and couldn't help but comment on them every time. At breakfast, Y/N sat quietly, absorbed in her thoughts, when Wade came in, tousled her hair, and said, "Good morning, sunshine! Are you dreaming about our hairy roommate again? Tell me, do you prefer him in flannel or without anything?"

Grinning, he put his head on Logan's shoulder, who was looking into the open fridge.

Y/N choked on her coffee and started coughing like mad.

Logan, in return, roughly pulled his shoulder away and tensed his jaw.

"Bub, you really want to go through the void scenario again?" Logan growled, closing the fridge. Wade just laughed out loud and stood behind y/n.

"Oh please, Logan! You know, well, I'm just teasing you." replied Wade, unimpressed. He started massaging y/n's shoulders and added with a wink: "But honestly, y/n why so shy? Don't be so old school and make the first move yourself. I mean, Logan may look like a wild animal, but deep down, he's a cuddly bear."

Blind Al walked by the open kitchen door and just shook her head and mumbled, "One day Logan's really gonna rip his head off, and I'm gonna fucking enjoy it."

That night, while the party was playing at full volume and Wade was getting into over-the-top shenanigans with the guests, Logan suddenly realized that y/n was no longer in the room. He looked around, but it was as if she had vanished into thin air. His eyes wandered to the window front that led to a fire escape. By now, he knew that it was typical for her to hide in places like this when the crowd got too much for her.

Logan pushed his way through the people and stepped out into the cool night. There, on the fire escape, he found y/n. She was sitting on the metal step, her arms wrapped around her knees and staring off into the distance. The lights of the city glittered before her like an endless sea.

"Are you here to hide from Wade, or are you just enjoying the view?" Logan finally asked, his voice quiet and low.

Y/n smiled faintly. "Maybe a little of both. Sometimes I just need a moment to think, you know?"

He nodded thoughtfully, though he knew she didn't look at him.

"I know what it's like, bub. Sometimes, it's hard to get a clear head when everything around you is so loud."

"Yeah." she replied quietly before adding after a pause, "But you know what I still don't understand? How someone like Wade managed to get someone like you soft."

Logan snorted and gave her a skeptical look. "Soft? That's not exactly the word I'd choose."

Y/n smiled. "Oh come on. You never would have gotten yourself into such a mess if there wasn't something about Wade that made you...let's say, more human."

Logan scanned her face in the dark with a smile and stopped his eyes on her lips.

"Maybe you're right," he murmured with a smile. "Or maybe I've just gone crazy."

He sat down next to her, and the metal creaked softly under his weight. They sat side by side in silence for a while, listening to the distant hum of the city and the muffled noise of the party behind them.

"It's nice out here," Logan finally said and leaned back. He put his head back in the neck, closed his eyes, and breathed in the cool air.

Y/n looked over at him and felt a comforting warmth in her stomach area as her eyes traveled from his profile down to his neck and then to his muscular torso.

Y/n smiled. "I like being here when your own world is a little noisy."

Logan opened his eyes again and nodded as if he knew exactly what she meant. "I understand what you mean. Sometimes, you just need distance."

Y/n looked at the city again for a moment. There was a brief, comfortable silence.

Her voice was soft, almost hesitant. "May I ask what your real story is?"

He looked at her sideways, surprised by her question, but then he looked off into the distance. "I've lost a lot. More than any human should have to bear... and it's all my own fault." He paused as if collecting himself before continuing. "I was born in the early 1800s. Went through all that crap - wars, experiments, the loss of people I cared about. And then I became... what I am today. A man with a skeleton made of adamantium, unable to die." he sighed.

"One night, a group of humans went mutant hunting and attacked the X-Men. I had just tumbled out of the nearest bar and heard the screams of my own people."

He began to play with his hands and became tense before continuing on about how he didn't help his team and let them die.

Y/n listened attentively without interrupting him. Her sympathy for him grew, so she slowly began to project his feelings onto herself. She felt incredibly sorry to see him like this. He had already been through so much and now it was all coming up again because of her curiosity.

She could feel all the hatred and sadness that was deep inside him. With tears in her eyes and a lump in her throat, she looked at her hands.

Logan furrowed his eyebrows and suddenly fell silent. He didn't feel a single emotion when he continued his story. Not like he was used to. He looked to Y/n.

"What are you doing to me?" he asked in a calm voice.

Y/n's head lifted, and she blinked away her tears, smiling. "I'm sorry." She said softly and put her hand on his.

Silence for a moment. Logan stared at their hands and realized what just happened. He looked at her.

"I've learned to deal with it, bub. As best I can."

They were both silent for a while, lost in thoughts. Finally, it was Logan who broke the silence again. "And you? How did you get your powers?"

Y/n took a deep breath before she began. "Unfortunately, I can only remember the day I was taken to the experimental camp. They ran various tests on me there. Wade was there too, at the same time. We got to know each other there."

She paused as the memory of those horrible days overcame her. Logan squeezed her hand lightly, as if to let her know she wasn't alone.

"Wade and I kept each other alive," she continued softly. "Without him, I probably wouldn't still be here. He made me laugh, even in the worst moments. And at some point, we managed to escape. Since then... well, he's kept me on my toes ever since. Eventually, I made a new friend and now have powers that allow me to project the feelings and pain of others onto myself."

Logan nodded in understanding. "Wade may be crazy, but he's got a big heart. Even if he likes to hide it behind his stupid sayings."

Y/n smiled at those words. "Yeah, that's true. He's my best friend. Without him, I don't think I would have ever found my way out of my darkness."

"Then I guess I owe him," Logan said, his gaze soft but serious.

"Maybe," Y/n replied softly. Their eyes met, and in that moment, the connection between them felt stronger than ever. It was as if they understood each other through their shared experiences and the pain they both knew.

Logan looked at y/n, and in her eyes he recognized a pain so similar to his own that it almost took his breath away.

The distance between them seemed to close as they leaned towards each other, as if drawn by some unseen force.

"Logan..." Y/n whispered barely audibly as her eyes slid to his lips.

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he removed his hand from hers and placed it on her cheek. His thumb gently stroked her skin. The world around them seemed to blur as they drew even closer. It was as if they only existed in that moment. Only for each other.

And then, without further hesitation, Logan closed the last few inches between them. His lips met hers, gently at first, almost hesitantly, as if testing to see if she was about to pull away. Y/n's eyes closed as she returned the kiss and her hand finding its way to his neck as she let herself fall deeper into the kiss.

It was a kiss full of unspoken words, full of emotions that neither of them had been able to express before.

The world around them disappeared, there was only the feeling of their lips meeting in a mixture of tenderness and desire. But as beautiful as this case was, it was interrupted with a familiar voice.

"Heyy are you two making out here? Without me?" Wade's voice boomed into the night, accompanied by his trademark wide grin.

"Logan, you old romantic, you really picked the perfect moment to start a fling with y/n. Shall I get the camera? Wait a minute, I need popcorn too - what's on today, 'Beauty and the Beast'?"

Logan immediately backed off, while y/n slapped a hand over her face, half annoyed, half amused. "Gosh Wade..." she began, but he interrupted her immediately.

"What? I mean, I totally get it - Logan is a sight to behold! And those biceps, mmmh! But honestly, Logan! You, the man who usually stares at walls like they're his greatest enemies, are suddenly in the middle of a rom-com moment? What's next? Candle light dinner and a love song in the background?

Tell me you at least have some cool lines in store before you fuck her!"

Y/n reached out with her hand and smacked Wade's thigh, laughing. Her embarrassment was forgotten.

Logan, on the other hand, sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes as if trying to erase Wade's voice from his brain.

"For fuck's sake Wade, I swear, if you-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, 'if I say one more sentence, I'll have your claws up my ass'. Been there, done that."

Wade grinned broadly and winked at y/n.

"But, y/n, come on, I need to know - how does it feel sucking on the lips of the King of grumpiness? Electrifying? Did you feel sparks? Or did he just taste like whiskey and world weariness?"

Y/n couldn't help but shook her head with a laugh and looked at Logan. He scanned her face and you'd swear the corners of his mouth were twitching upwards.

"Wade" Logan admonished, his voice an octave lower, "if you don't get out of here right now, you might not live to see your next birthday."

Wade raised his hands in a gesture of peace.

"Hey, I didn't mean to interrupt you two lovebirds. But seriously, Logan, if you've come this far, do it right! A kiss under the stars? Come on, it's movie material!"

Y/n looked back up at Wade with a smile. Logan just shook his head, but a small smile crept onto his face.

"You're impossible, Wade."

"And that's exactly why you two love me so much! Now get your bums in here before Blind Al starts beating us all with her crutches!"

Wade winked at them before disappearing back into the apartment, still laughing.

Y/n and Logan glanced at each other, and an unspoken understanding passed between them. The moment had been shattered, but the connection they felt remained.

"He really is crazy," Logan finally muttered as they stood up.

"Yeah" Y/N replied with a soft smile. "But he brings out the best in us, doesn't he?"

"I guess he does," Logan agreed before he put a hand on her back, and they both stepped back into the noisy, chaotic world inside where Wade was surely already planning their next escapade.

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[cece693]

Touch Starved (Edward Cullen x M! Vamp Reader)

Summary: You were touch starved and didn't mind it. However, not everybody was fine with it. Your mate found it frustrating, especially when this distance caused rumors to swirl.

tags: reader doesn't care about touch, Edward does, rumors, students creating drama, needy Edward

Touch had never been a necessity for you. Even before you were turned, physical closeness felt redundant. You didn’t need to be held or touched to know you were cared for. Love, to you, was a state of being, a quiet understanding, not something proven through gestures or physical contact. The presence of someone you loved—just standing with them in comfortable silence—was enough.

When you became a vampire, this aspect of you didn’t just remain—it intensified. Your heightened senses transformed every little detail into something overwhelming. The smell of a distant forest, the vibrations of life beneath the ground, the heartbeat of a creature miles away, all became vivid. But touch? Touch became unnecessary, intrusive even. Feeling every texture, every pore, every slight imperfection was a reminder of how alien you’d become. Instead of comfort, it brought only awareness of your distance from the human experience.

For a long time, it didn’t matter. When you joined the Cullen family, they learned quickly that casual touch wasn’t your thing. You preferred your own space, your hands often resting quietly in your pockets or folded loosely in front of you. They respected that. Alice, of course, was the exception. Her constant, affectionate touches were something you tolerated, knowing it was how she expressed herself. You didn’t need it, but you didn’t mind it, either. It was Alice. That was different.

But Edward was different too.

Edward was tactile, always reaching out to touch you, needing that physical connection to feel reassured. For him, it wasn’t just affection—it was an anchor, a way to feel grounded in your relationship. He needed the brush of your fingers, the warmth of your hand, the brief press of your shoulder against his. It was how he knew you still loved him, still wanted him. You understood that about Edward, and for the most part, you tried to accommodate him. Even if it didn’t come naturally to you, you wanted him to feel secure.

But over time, your calm detachment, your natural tendency to pull away from physical intimacy, began to stir whispers at school. You had always been composed, quiet, and serene—never one to make a fuss or draw attention to yourself. To the students, your cool distance with Edward was misread as disinterest, something they couldn’t help but gossip about.

"He doesn’t even look at Edward anymore."

"They’re never together—he’s always with Alice. Have you noticed that?"

"I don’t think he’s into him anymore. Relationships fall apart, you know?"

And those whispers, those rumors, fed into something larger. It didn’t take long for people to start trying to test the waters to see if maybe there was truth to the rumors. Jessica Stanley was the first.

"Hey," she had said one afternoon, leaning against your locker, flashing you an overly friendly smile. "If you ever need someone new to talk to, I’m always here."

Her words didn’t register much with you; you'd barely glanced at her. You weren’t irritated or amused—just indifferent. Jessica, like the others, was human. Temporary. It was a passing moment, one that would dissolve as quickly as it came. You saw no need to correct her or give her a second thought. You knew the truth, and that was enough.

But Edward, standing across the hallway, heard everything. He heard the thoughts that accompanied Jessica’s smile, her hopes that maybe, just maybe, she could wedge herself between the two of you. He heard the other students, too—the boys who lingered near you, the girls who whispered when you walked past. It weighed on him more than you realized.

He never let it show but you could feel it. Even if you weren’t one for touch, you could sense the quiet tension building in Edward. He wasn’t just hearing the rumors; he was internalizing them, letting them feed into his own insecurities. His need for physical closeness became a silent plea, something you recognized but didn’t fully understand until much later.

That night, Edward finally spoke.

"Doesn’t it bother you?" he asked, his voice calm, but edged with frustration. You were in your shared room, the darkness outside framing him as he stood by the window, his hands fidgeting with the fabric of his shirt.

You looked up from your book, your expression placid, as always. "What do you mean?"

"The students," Edward continued, pacing slowly. "The rumors. They think we’re falling apart, that you don’t care about me anymore."

You tilted your head. "They’re just rumors. Why do they matter?"

Edward’s golden eyes flashed with a frustration you weren’t used to seeing in him. "It’s not about them. It’s about us. They think I’m losing you. That I’m not enough. And then, when I see them trying to—”

"You know that’s not true," you interrupted, your voice soft. "You know how I feel."

"I do," Edward murmured, running a hand through his hair, his movements sharp with tension. "But hearing it—hearing them think about taking you, seeing how you pull away when I reach out—it’s like I’m losing you. Like you don’t need me."

You exhaled slowly, realizing how deeply this had been bothering him. You loved Edward deeply, more than anyone else, and you believed that your bond would be enough. Hell, he could read your thoughts—how they never strayed far from him—and yet, even that wasn’t enough. He needed to feel it, to experience it in a way you had always found unnecessary.

"I don’t need touch to feel close to you," you said gently. "But I understand that you do. And that matters to me."

Edward’s shoulders loosened slightly, but you could see the residual tension in his posture. "It’s just…I need to know that you still want me. That I’m still important to you."

"I’ve never stopped wanting you," you replied, stepping closer, your calm, steady presence meeting Edward’s anxious energy. You slowly reached out, brushing your fingers along his arm, letting the touch linger, even though it wasn’t something you needed. But you knew Edward did. His eyes closed for a brief moment, and you could see him relax under your touch.

"I’ll try," you said softly. "I’ll try for you."

The next day, at school, you made an effort. You didn’t flinch or pull away when Edward’s hand brushed yours in the hallway. At lunch, when your shoulders touched, you didn’t lean away. It wasn’t dramatic, just subtle adjustments. But Edward noticed, and so did the students. Jessica’s glances faded, and the other boys who had started to hover around you backed off.

For you, the need for touch would always be secondary. It wasn’t how you measured your love, and it never would be. But for Edward, it was everything. And for that reason alone, you would keep trying.

[sundrop-writes]

Protective

Isaac Lahey x Fem!Reader

Summary:

During his first full moon, Isaac needs to think of something to ground him - to keep his newfound powers from getting out of control. Derek suggests that he use anger, and he knows that Scott grounds himself with his love for Allison.

Isaac finds something in between - thinking of the anger he feels when you get hurt.

Isaac Lahey x Fem!Reader. Pining Best Friends. Hurt and Comfort. Set during Season 2, Episode 9.

Word Count: 2,300

Teen Wolf Masterlist | AO3 Link

Full list of warnings and author's notes below the cut.

Warnings: canon level violence - mentions of Isaac, Erica, and Boyd having to be chained up on the full moon (to avoid hurting themselves and others), mentions of Isaac's abusive father (somewhat graphic descriptions of the abuse that Isaac experienced); Isaac has a self deprecating inner monologue because of the psychological effects of his father's abuse; mentions of Isaac being injured by his father's abuse; the reader also has an abusive father and it's a point on which they related and bonded (and how they became such close friends); at one point the reader describes her abuse as being 'not as bad' as Isaac's abuse (but that is psychological trauma speaking); mentions of the reader experiencing physical and emotional abuse; reader is described as 'pretty girl' at one point in the fic (again, this is very self indulgent); Isaac has a crush on the reader but has never voiced it (it's implied that the reader feels the same way); Isaac and the reader exchange friendly physical affection; emotional angst - Isaac feels powerless for not being able to stop the reader's abuse; I think that's it for this short fic? The themes are on the darker side, but it comes from a personal place for me.

A/N: If you've been following me for any amount of time, then you know I have a thing for sad, abused characters. If you have read my Ellie fic 'My Heart Is The Worst Kind of Weapon' - then you would know why. Isaac is the kind of character I immediately connect to for deeply personal reasons, so watching the entirety of Teen Wolf through for the first time, I couldn't resist writing a fic about him. There will likely be more to come about him, but for now - here is this deeply self indulgent moment inspired by Season 2, Episode 9. If you don't relate to this, I hope you can enjoy it as a distant whumpy fiction, and if you can relate to it - I hope that Isaac can bring you some comfort like he has for me. Much love, happy reading.

...

While the chains rattled against the abandoned subway car and Isaac tried to ignore Erica’s groans of pain from having several large bolts bored into her head, he couldn’t help the question that was rattling around inside of him. 

“How do you do it?” Isaac asked Derek as he arranged the chains around his limbs. He was trying to push down the sickly familiarity of it - being restrained. He was trying to tell himself that it actually was for his own good this time, not just a sick punishment given to him by a powerless, unhinged old man. “How do you keep it under control?” 

“You have to find an anchor.” Derek told him, firm, determined. 

It was nice to focus on the conversation instead of the anxiety rising in his chest, so Isaac pressed on. 

“An anchor?” He questioned, unsure what Derek meant. “Like what?” 

“Yeah. Something else for you to focus on. For me it's anger.” Derek paused. “But it's not like that for everyone.” 

It was immediately obvious to Isaac who Derek was speaking of. 

“Scott.” 

He had Allison. It was some dreamy romantic bullshit - using his love for his girlfriend to keep from wolfing out. But apparently, it worked well for him. 

Derek gave a subtle nod. 

Isaac didn’t have anything like that. He didn’t have some cheesy romance to fall back onto. He didn’t have someone declaring a love for him so openly - because he wasn’t worth loving. Even with his father gone, the world had made it very clear that he was just a piece of shit stuck to the bottom of someone’s shoe - a problem being passed around that nobody could seem to solve. 

“It just has to be something strong enough to keep your mind present. A strong feeling you can hold onto. Anger, love, resentment, regret, rage. Just find something that works for you.” 

Isaac nodded, and Derek went to check that Erica and Boyd were secure as the moonlight came to its full brightness. 

… 

It got Isaac thinking about you. 

You were probably the one person in his life who didn’t think he was a problem. The one person in his life who loved him, even if you didn’t say it out loud. 

He had felt all of those things - anger, love, resentment, regret, rage - the last time he had been with you. When he had been sitting in your bathroom, perched on the closed toilet seat lid after an argument with his father. Naturally, the argument had ended with Isaac having a black eye, and a large cut on his cheek from his father's ring colliding with his face. 

You were the only person he ever went to. No matter how bad things got, you were the only person he ever told. You were the only person who ever understood. Isaac had found out the hard way that your own father was much the same as his. On the first day of freshman year, he had seen you wearing a sweater when it had been a balmy, sunny day, and he had volunteered to be lab partners with you - partially to get closer to a pretty girl and partially because a gnawing feeling was going off in his stomach. 

Even back then - even when he was scrawny and powerless, his instinct to protect you had still been so strong. Even if all he could offer you was a shoulder to cry on and the chocolate bar out of his lunch, he looked at you and he felt the world turning on the simple hope that he could make your day just a bit better. Because he knew, even without words, by the tiredness in your eyes - that you suffered like he did. And he wanted so badly to make it better. 

When the two of you were doing an introductory experiment of baking soda and vinegar to cause the classic foaming volcanic reaction, the rubber gloves you had been wearing caused your sleeve to ride up, revealing a menacing purple bruise on your wrist. Isaac spotted it instantly, and when you locked eyes with him, he held nothing but deep understanding there - not shock or even pity. Nothing but deep understanding and warmth. 

He held your hand under the table for the rest of class, and you had never wanted to pull away. You felt a unique kind of mourning when the bell rang and you had to part ways. 

At lunch that day, you found him under the bleachers by the lacrosse field. Without so much as a word, only a cursory glance around to make sure that nobody else was watching, he pulled up his shirt, revealing an array of horrifying bruises to you - some purplish, some green, some faded yellow - all collected from different points throughout the summer. The time when he had been trapped at home with his father, having nowhere else to go as the man got more aggravated with his presence. 

You ran a gentle touch along the wounds - the most gentle touch he had been greeted with since his mother's death, something that easily brought him to tears. And from that moment on, the two of you had a silent understanding. You spent the rest of the lunch hour exchanging ‘war stories’ and laughing with a tainted dark humor about your separate twisted patriarchs. And the next time he was bloodied and bruised, he texted you to meet him under the bleachers in that same spot, and you didn’t hesitate to rush out of bed at three in the morning to get to him. 

It became a sacred place for the two of you to escape to when you needed it. 

The two of you became a sacred comfort to each other - knowing that there was little escape in telling the police or a guidance counselor, because you had nowhere else to go. 

Today, when Isaac called you, you found your house luckily empty. Your mother and your father were away visiting relatives in another state, so when Isaac told you that he needed you, you texted him the all clear to come over to your house for a reprieve. He was lucky to be able to spend the night somewhere else - to get to sleep in your bed, cuddled up close to you for comfort, without fear. 

He tried not to wince with pain as you dabbed disinfectant on the large cut across his cheek. He hated seeing you flinch with empathy every time his expression wavered even slightly. He could handle the pain. He could be better than this. 

“Isaac.” You sighed his name pitifully, clearly on the edge of tears. 

Both of you knew the thoughts that were pulsing thickly through your head, even without you having to speak them. 

Isaac didn’t deserve this. You wanted to hurt his father in return. You wished you could take away his pain, you wanted to help him escape from it. 

It was a ‘wishful thinking’ conversation that the two of you had dozens of times before. It always ended with you both more upset than when it started, so you swallowed up those thoughts now. But Isaac knew them too well, written across your face and swollen on your lips like the tears brimming your pretty eyes. 

You put down the cotton ball you had been using and turned your back to him, poorly hiding your crying as you stiffly wiped off your cheeks. 

“What do you want me to say?” He replied, hating that this whole thing had to upset you. “You know how it is.” 

To an extent, you didn't. Your father was a screamer. He yelled loud enough to shake the walls, but he rarely escalated to physical violence. You found that you were lucky if you escaped a fight with death threats and tears rather than having hands laid on you. Isaac came to school with fresh bruises every other week - you had to feel that he was worse off than you were. 

“We should just go.” You said, feeling bold in your suggestion. It felt obvious - escaping. “We should just run away. Get the hell away from all this.” 

You whipped back around, still feeling a terrible twinge of pain and sadness inside you at the bruising across his face, the fact that his cheek was definitely swelling up now. 

Isaac frowned. It was a nice dream, and he hated to be the one to dash right through it. 

“You know we can't do that.” Isaac sighed. Ever the realist. Of course. “Where the hell would we even go? With what money? No offense, but the couple hundred dollars you have saved up from babysitting isn't gonna get us anywhere.” 

“It's over fifteen-hundred.” You told him honestly. 

It was a nest egg that you had been sitting on since middle school, hoping to escape your father and never look back. When you met Isaac, you had another thing anchoring you to Beacon Hills, keeping you from buying the bus ticket you had always wanted. 

“But you're right. That'll get us - what? A couple of nights at a motel?” You let out a harsh, dry laugh. Trying to relieve some of the tension. “Well… we could go on a vacation? Escape for a few days?” You suggested, sounding hopeful. 

The idea of spending time alone with Isaac - a getaway where the two of you could pretend none of it was happening, even for a few days - it sounded like paradise. 

Isaac’s mind went to a dream-like vision - having you alone in a hotel room. A bed just for the two of you. Even just getting the chance to sleep peacefully with you, cuddle you, it sounded like a dream. 

He had to pull himself back before his mind went to places a friend shouldn’t stray. 

“A last hurrah before my dad kills me for running away on him.” Isaac sighed. 

The consequences of it would be inevitable. The two of you would have to come back home eventually. He knew that your father would likely feel much the same. He would never forgive himself if you ended up bruised and battered because of something he had encouraged you to do. 

You let out a sob then - the thought of Isaac dying by his father's hands had been all too real to you at times. A horror you imagined in your mind over and over again, especially after times he had come to you with half his torso nearly bruised black and he had been unable to move properly for days. His father was a monster, and you didn’t doubt that he would be capable of murder. 

Isaac rushed to stand up, and pulled you into a hug. His warmth, his arms surrounding you tightly - it was the only place you ever felt safe. You eagerly gripped him back, missing the wince he let out when you squeezed a bit too hard over one of his bruised ribs. But no - he would never fault you for holding onto him too tightly. 

Holding you like this - he felt like he had the world in his arms. Something tight in his chest, telling him that if anything ever happened to you, he would become the same kind of monster that his father was. But in the same way any threat to you made him boil over with rage - you made him gentle. You made him soft and loving. You were the only person in the world who made him feel okay to weep. 

He kissed the top of your head, not a stranger to comforting you with affection even though the two of you remained strictly as ‘friends’. As much as he yearned for more - you were a life vest while he was drowning and he wouldn't risk fucking that up just to kiss you and call you his girlfriend. He wouldn't throw any messy feelings into the mix. 

“It'll be okay.” He told you. 

Coming from his lips, you had to believe it. 

“Thank you, Isaac.” You sniffled. And then, something hit you. “You came over here for my help, and now you’re comforting me.” You let out another dry chuckle, clearly resisting the urge to scold yourself. 

“This is helping.” He told you, hugging you tighter. “This always helps.” He said the last part quieter, a dropped whisper that you could barely hear. 

It was a truth he was afraid to confront just yet. 

… 

But in the present, it was a truth that was helping him more than anything. 

Isaac hadn't spoken to you since he had gotten the Bite. He had been terrified of hurting you somehow. The last thing he ever wanted was to become the thing that you feared. It would have been his worst nightmare to be the one to make you cower in a corner and cry rather than to be the one giving you comfort from it. 

As the moon came to a full wane overhead, and the mighty rage and power pulsed through his veins, Isaac thought of you. He thought of using that power to tear apart anybody who had ever hurt you - to finally free you from those tears. He thought of giving you the same relief he had felt when his father died. He thought of his love for you, even if it was a silent love that he had never gotten the chance to voice. 

“I see you found your anchor.” Derek remarked to Isaac later, after he had gotten Erica and Boyd back in their chains, tightening Isaac’s binds once again, if only as a precaution. 

“I did.” 

Derek looked at him with intrigue, as if waiting for him to explain. 

“Well, you said that you use anger. And Scott uses love.” Isaac told him. “I guess that mine is… some combination of both.” 

“Protectiveness.” Derek explained. “That's what wolves call it.”

...

A/N: This is a oneshot, and I wrote this to be a closed off story/its own little moment inspired by the show. This is a complete story, however, if there is enough interest, I might turn this concept into a longer oneshot and expand on the idea. It would not be me writing a 'part 2' of this, it would be me using this concept and writing a longer oneshot. I do have a personal vested interest in writing about powerful characters defeating abusers, but currently I don't have the time to turn this into something longer, so this is all I wrote. Please do not harass me about making this longer or posting something more, and if you're going to leave a comment asking for a continuation, please also tell me what you liked about this current story. Though I have something else in mind, I do consider this to be a completed story on its own.

[aphroditelovesu]

Hi, can you please write a Yan!Daenerys prompt 27?

[27]; "My dark nature is a reflection of the depth of my love for you. I know I'm a monster, but I'm your monster."

❝tw: mention of death, mildly angst (?) and obsessive behavior.

The smell of ash and blood filled King's Landing almost like a plague. The screams of those burned by Drogon, once so excruciating, became just uncomfortable memories in Daenerys' mind.

For that was all they would eventually become. It wasn't right but Daenerys didn't care. She no longer cared about becoming what she became. As long as she had you in her life, the entire world could be consumed by dragon fire.

You were all that mattered to her.

Daenerys watched the devastation around her, her eyes fixed on the smoldering ruins of the city that once represented the heart of the Realm. Her expression was a mix of cold determination and a rare tenderness reserved only for you.

She did it for you. All for you.

"I did this for us. For you." Daenerys whispered in awe, more to herself than anyone else. Your presence beside her was an anchor amidst the chaos, a shining light in the darkness she had created.

You looked at her as if you no longer recognized her and, in a way, that was true. This was no longer the Daenerys you knew and once loved. This was a shell of what she once was.

A woman dominated by grief and the fear of losing someone else she loved. And only the gods knew what Daenerys would do to the world if something happened to you.

"Some things need to be destroyed so that others can flourish." She continued, turning to look at you. "They would never understand. They would never accept the world I want to build."

You felt the weight of his words, the intensity of his gaze. There was a deep pain there, a loneliness that only you seemed able to alleviate. Even with all the power and destruction she commanded, Daenerys was, deep down, a woman looking for love and acceptance. And she wanted that from you, just you.

Her gaze, although filled with burning passion, had a coldness that hadn't existed before. The glow in her eyes was now more intense, but also emptier, as if an essential part of her humanity had been consumed by the fire of her own despair.

And it hurt. The sight of a person you loved, maybe still love, being destroyed like this was too much to bear.

"You didn't have to do that." You tried to say, trying to reach the real Daenerys that remained somewhere inside her. "You didn't need to destroy King's Landing, you didn't need to burn all those people and destroy their home. There was another way, there always is."

But your words seemed to be lost in the freezing winter wind, swallowed by the distant sound of echoes from a city in ruins. She lifted her head and the strength in her voice left no room for doubt. "I can't go back anymore." She declared. "What's done is done. And now, you're all I have."

There was a palpable fear in her words, a fear of what might happen if you walked away, a fear that made her cry out for your presence, not just as a partner, but as her anchor in a sea of ​​uncertainty. Not that she would let you get away, but she wouldn't want to hold you prisoner.

Daenerys looked at you with an intensity that mixed love and despair, her voice a painful whisper filled with truth. "My dark nature is a reflection of the depth of my love for you. I know I'm a monster, but I'm your monster."

Her words seemed to hang heavy in the air like a sentence of condemnation and devotion at the same time. She was not just revealing herself, but giving herself completely, displaying her scars and shadows as if they were a sign of absolute love.

What was left of Daenerys, the woman you loved and feared, was desperate to hold on to what she still could hold, even if it meant sacrificing the world around her. And when you looked into her violet eyes, you knew there was no going back.

She was your monster. Your queen. And she loved you so hard that she would be willing to burn the world to the ground, even if that wasn't your desire. It didn't matter in the end, though. Daenerys would always hold on to you.

[gabgabwrites]

LOVE ON THE LINE | Art Donaldson [part 2]

summary ⇝ your and Art’s relationship progresses in college where you two find yourself in love with one another, with many promises on the line and a ring on your finger, what is there to lose? One word: everything.

warnings ⇝ swearing, kissing, cheating/affair, children, smut! p in v, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, gagging, blindfold, oral (F), cum eating, marking, clothed sex, allusion to car sex, mentions of Patrick x reader.

read part 1 here

note: this is messy relationship

You and Art Donaldson were finally official. The transition from friends to something more had been surprisingly smooth, marked by a moment of sweet vulnerability on your third date at the cinema.

It was there, amidst the flickering lights and the hushed whispers of other moviegoers, that Art shyly asked you to be his girlfriend. You had smiled warmly, feeling your own heart skip a beat as you agreed, watching the relief and joy wash over Art's face, turning him into a lovesick puppy right before your eyes.

Art couldn't seem to take his eyes off you after that. His blue eyes, speckled with hints of brown, became a constant presence, following your every move. Whether it was during lunch breaks on campus at Stanford or late-night study sessions in the library, his gaze was always on you. It was both thrilling and comforting to be the center of his attention, knowing that you had become someone incredibly special to him.

During those lunch breaks, Art would sit so close to you that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, sending gentle tingles across your skin. His presence was reassuring, anchoring you in a world that sometimes felt chaotic and uncertain. You cherished those quiet moments together, sharing sandwiches and conversations that ranged from silly jokes to deep dreams about the future.

Art wasn't just attentive; he was also surprisingly thoughtful. He remembered the little details about you—your favorite coffee order, the way you liked to organize your notes, and even your secret fondness for cheesy romantic comedies. He would surprise you with small gestures, like leaving a handwritten note in your textbook or bringing you a hot drink on chilly mornings before class. Each gesture made your heart swell with affection for him, knowing that he was investing time and effort into nurturing your relationship.

He'd sneak out from his dorm to go to yours, where you'd often find yourself with your lips locked together. Spit dribbling down your chin while you both pathetically ground your hips together in a feeble attempt to relinquish pleasure. Dark purple marks would litter his skin by the time you were done, and your thighs would stick together from your recent endeavours.

Of course there was Tashi, who had broken up with Patrick after finding out that he was unfaithful to her, the last they spoke was when she injured her knee. You remember being there, in the nurse's ward, fingers intertwined with Tashi's to comfort her after her knee had seriously sprained. Her quiet sniffles filled the room before Patrick Zweig had come barrelling in, pleading for Tashi's attention only to be shown the cold shoulder.

Tashi had changed, not only physically, her hair a little shorter and her face was more mature, but she lost her spark after the injury, one that guaranteed her to never touch a single racket no matter how hard she tried—in her eyes, her future was over.

She had always talked about tennis, but now she hyper fixated on it, she's constantly talk about your form and how you could approve, you always listened and took her advice, but that was it. You'd try to talk about other stuff, like how you were excited to meet Art's parents, or how you hated your physics professor, but alas, the main focus was tennis.

You had a game that afternoon, and of course, both Art and Tashi were there. Before, Art had snuck into the locker room, after making sure it was just you in there, before his arms were around you and his nose nudged yours. "Good luck," He told you, big smile etched on his face.

"I won't need it if you're here," You said back, grabbing the collar of his polo shirt and bringing his lips down onto yours. The kiss had to break when another girl walked in and shrieked, leaving Art flushed from embarrassment while you had to hide your smile.

The match itself was a blur of adrenaline and determination. As you stepped onto the court, you felt the weight of Art and Tashi's encouragement spurring you on. Their presence in the stands, cheering and clapping, fueled your determination to perform your best. You could see Art's animated gestures of support, his eyes never leaving you as you played.

Despite a few tense moments and fierce competition from your opponent, you emerged victorious. The rush of adrenaline was matched only by the pride in Art's eyes as he pulled you into a tight hug after the match. Tashi's smile, though more subdued, conveyed a deep sense of satisfaction and pride in your achievement.

Then one day, everything changed. It was probably one of the moments in your life where you felt the most hurt. There was a dramatic shift between you and Art in your relationship, he became distant and you became quiet. You had both agreed to end things, you remember the night you did, you sat in your room, sobbing. Tashi was put in a different dorm, so you had to drag yourself off your bed, cheeks wet with tears, and walk a few passages until you faced her dorm's door.

You knocked against it once, then twice, but no answer. You looked down to where light shone from the crack underneath the door, you could even see shadows dancing so there had to be someone in there. You knocked again, harder, yet still got ignored. You waded back to your dorm, face buried in your pillow as you cried some more.

Two months since that incident passed, things had improved. Tashi became more talkative to you, you hadn't told her about that night, and if she knew, she didn't bring it up.

Then there was Art, who one day came crawling back, begging for you to let him into your heart again. You knew you had to deny him. You knew it was what was right. You didn't believe in second chances, but for Art, you made an exception.

Things were still patchy between the two of you, you weren't back to square one but you weren't exactly back to how they used to be. You decided to ask him why he went distant and what he did during your time apart.

"School and tennis got the better of me," He said. "I was so so stupid to let that get in the way between us. It won't happen again," And he was right, he somehow managed to get everything sorted and execute his plans accordingly. He also told you that while on your 'break', he had practiced more tennis and studied. He told you he had to ask Tashi for advice.

Fast forward three years later, and life had taken a remarkable turn for both you and Art Donaldson. Graduating from college marked the beginning of a promising journey towards becoming world-renowned tennis players. The countless hours of practice, the sacrifices made, and the unwavering support for each other had culminated in you both achieving your dreams.

Art, with his infectious enthusiasm and competitive spirit, was your perfect match both on and off the court. His sense of humor and spontaneity kept life exciting, whether you were training together or exploring new cities during tournaments. As your careers soared, so did your relationship, growing stronger with each shared victory and overcoming every setback together.

Then, one magical evening at a lakeside restaurant, Art surprised you with a proposal that took your breath away. It was classic Art—cheesy yet endearing, thoughtful yet spontaneous. After a delightful dinner overlooking the serene lake, he suggested a walk and led you to a secluded dock adorned with candles and rose petals. With a heart full of love and nerves, he knelt down, producing the most stunning ring you had ever seen. The words spilled out earnestly, and you couldn't help but say yes, tears of joy glistening in your eyes.

From that moment on, everything seemed even more perfect. You ascended to become the women's champion in tennis, while Art mirrored your success on the men's side. Together, you became the U.S.'s elite power couple, celebrated not only for your athletic prowess but also for your genuine love and support for each other.

However, the pinnacle of your joy came on your wedding day—a day that felt surreal, like a dream wrapped in hues of love and anticipation. The venue was adorned with flowers, the air filled with music that resonated with your hearts. Walking down the aisle, emotions surged through you—a mix of excitement, nerves, and overwhelming happiness.

Art stood at the altar, his trademark grin stretching from ear to ear, his curly hair slightly tousled by the gentle breeze. His eyes, reflecting his deep affection for you, met yours as you approached him, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause. The exchange of vows was heartfelt and tender, promising a future filled with love, laughter, and unwavering support. As the ring slid onto your finger, sealing your union as Mr. and Mrs. Donaldson, you felt a rush of emotions—gratitude for finding your soulmate, excitement for the adventures ahead, and a profound sense of belonging in his arms.

The reception was a celebration of your love story, with friends and family cheering as you danced the night away. Each glance exchanged, each touch shared, spoke volumes of the bond you had forged through dedication, trust, and mutual admiration.

And the consummation of your marriage was on a whole new level.

You still wore your wedding dress, sitting on the small foot stool while Art's head ducked under the white skirt of your dress, his tongue trailing up the length of your thigh before meeting your lacy underwear. His tongue soaked your panties more than what they were, sucking on your clit that hardened with want.

His eyes rolled right back when your thighs closed around his skull, suffocating him. He used his strength and pried your legs apart. He worked skilfully to slip your panties off, now face to face with your arousal. Art thought how ethereal the scene in front of him looked. Your dewy pussy, dripping and throbbing, crowned by the one of a kind wedding dress.

You couldn't see Art, except for the mound where his head was. You watched as it dropped when Art connected his lips back to your pussy, making you grab the sides of your dress and bunch it up in your palms with pleasure. "You make me feel so good, Art."

That spurred him on. His fingers dug into the plush of your thighs while his tongue lapped at your folds, spit and arousal coated the whole of his face from the tip of his nose down. He was on his knees, hips thrusting into nothingness, he got high off your pleasure.

Between your moans and grunts, you could hear the wet sounds of his spit and your pussy, and his whimpers and whines. His tongue would go from your needy hole to your throbbing clit. His suckled and lick, spit and slurp you up until his name fell from your lips, cumming on his tongue.

When he came out from under your skirt, his cheeks were flushed, his lips were saturated and bruised, his hair was messy and his face was shiny with slick. "Come here, my baby," You cooed, grabbing him by the tie and kissing his lips. There was nothing short of delicate. It was full of desire, passion and love.

Your makeup was already ruined by the time he started kissing you, so you didn't mind when it got messier. Mouths open, hot kisses and shared saliva. Art used his strength and picked you up, carrying you over to the bed where he placed you down, immediately pushing you backwards onto your back so he could cage you in.

Your fingers worked to undo his tie, placing that to the side of the bed before popping his shirt's buttons open, exposing his pale torso. His blazer had come off, and his belt was loose. Your hands went to his shoulders and pushed him to the side, forcing him to roll onto his back.

You wasted to time to straddle him, leaning forward to connect your lips once again. You gently took ahold of his hands, breaking the kiss, and leaning to the side to retreat his tie. "What are you doing?" He asked, voice rough with arousal. He watched you bring his two wrists together before looping the tie around. He got a sense of an idea, making his throat bob.

"I want to try something new, is that okay?" You asked, he eagerly nodded making you smile. This moment reminded you a lot of when you two first had sex, you reminisced about the moment as you gazed upon your lover. White collared shirt open, showing his muscular body, hands wrapped up in his tie, hair askew and the common blush on his cheeks.

Bending forward at the waist, you kissed him once again, except this time, confusion clouded Art's mind when he felt something material brush his cheek. In a split second, your lips left his before something was shoved into his mouth.

Art had no hands to take it out and struggled with his tongue to spit it out, blonde eyebrows drawn together in confusion while you sat up to look at him. "It's my underwear, Art."

'Oh,' He thought, it surprised him, yet the idea of having your panties that he previously ate you out through in his mouth turned him on even more. His saliva soaked the underwear, his teeth clamped down on the lace.

You moved down slightly, going to properly undo his belt before sliding his pants down, Art raising his hips to help you. You didn't bother with foreplay, freeing his hard cock, pink tip leaking already, twitching once exposed. It took a hot minute to move your dress up your waist, now bunched at your hips, using one hand, you positioned his cock at your entrance before looking up at Art.

"You ready for me to fuck you? For Mrs Donaldson to fuck her husband?" You asked, Art nodded, a muffled plea escaped his lips, turning into a moan when you sunk down on his length. He watched you bite your lip, your hands on his ribs before he felt you slip off, then sink on him again.

Art choked on your panties when he moaned, so he opted to close his mouth around them and suck on the fabric, trying to taste you. Heavy pants and whimpers came from breaths our his nose. Your painted lips, smudged and blotchy fell open.

Art felt a desire, he raised his tied hands and managed to stick out a finger, bringing it to your lips. He watched your lips close around his fingertip before softly sucking away.

You snaked a hand to where you two met, and pressed your finger on your clit. Your wrist jerker from side to side, making you feel like hot lava was boiling in your tummy, this pleasure had you biting down on Art's finger, making him softly whine out in pain.

You don't know why you came as quickly as you did, gushing around Art's cock as you orgasmed for the second time. The feeling of you unravel had Art cumming just as fast, spilling his hot seed deep inside you.

Your hips slowed, taking a minute to lift your hips, his soft cock falling out. With a heavy sigh, you lay next to him, brushing his sweaty curls away, his eyes trained on yours, chest heaving. With a soft chuckle, you brought your fingers to his lips and pulled your panties out, coated in his saliva. "A little help here, please?" He raised his hands to you, allowing for you to undo his tie.

It caught you by surprise when you felt him grip the tie, now hands free, before snatching it out of your grasp. He scraped up some strength, on wobbly legs and got off the bed. He moved to stand at the foot of the bed, his strong hands found your ankles and yanked them, pulling your hips against his.

He climbed on top of the bed again, tie in hand. "You do a lot for me, so I want to do this for you," He told you softly, face hovering over yours. There was a pause, Art staring deep into your eyes, before he swallowed. "I've been think about you, about us, and I want to start a family."

"Yeah?" Your heart swelled in your chest, you felt your cheeks burn at the thought, that Art did not only see you as a wife, but a mother to his future children. "I'd really like that too."

Art smiled down at you. He didn't say anything, instead just maintaining eye contact. You could see the emotions behind his blue eyes, he had a much love and admiration for you, that it was overflowing. "So you trust me, right?"

"More than anything," You watched Art nod, before your vision went black. Art was tying his tie around your eyes, taking away your vision.

You felt him lift your one leg, his lips on your ankle as he placed soft kisses on the skin there before it was placed on his shoulder. Your dress was moved up again, exposing you to him.

Art could feel himself harden again. He took his cock into his hand and pumped it until it was fully erect. His pink tip nudged at your folds before he spoke up. "I love you," he said, holding his breath as he waited for a response.

He watched your lips part, exposing your teeth in a smile. "I love you too, Art."

Art waited for any hesitation before releasing his breath, pushing himself into you. He watched your pussy swallow him again before he began to thrust his hips. The both of you were already so sensitive, Art gripped your leg for support, his eyes caught sight of his ring that reflected the light.

His teeth grazed your calf, goosebumps rose in its path. Having one sense taken away had increased the others. Not being able to see Art made this ever the more arousing. "Mm, you're so good to me," Art moaned.

"You're the one that's...fucking me," You said with a choked chuckle, words being swallowed by your moans. "Oh g-god, you fuck me so good," Art bit his lip, already on the verge of another orgasm. He let his one hand find yours, holding the hand that had your ring on it, diamond shining brightly.

His thumb rubbed the shiny stone, a truckload of unspoken promises guaranteed by the small diamond. Art couldn't wait for you two to move into a luxurious apartment and have a family, have a creation of both your undying love for each other run around and call you 'mommy' and 'daddy'. He couldn't wait to grow old with you, watch your child grow up and start a family of their own.

He'd wait lifetimes for you in the heavens and stars if it meant your souls could spend every waking moment together. You were his, and he was yours.

"Ah, fuck Art! 'm cumming!" You mewled. Cum flooding from you like a broken dam wall. Art wasn't far behind, his arousal mingling with yours for the nth time. Your name fell from his lips.

He slipped out to help clean you up, undoing the tie around your eyes, carrying you to the bathroom—albeit on wobbly legs, and run you a bath.

That was six years ago. Now the two of you lived in a fancy apartment. Your wedding ring sparkled under the bright chandelier as you stirred your cup of coffee. You had four mugs lined together. Once all drinks were made, you set them on the table.

You walked around to your room to find your husband sitting on the bed, book open. "Your coffee's ready," You told him, he looked up from the book and gave you a curt smile and nod.

Art had changed over the years, his youth had faded and how replaced with mature features. His hair was shorter now, not having his luscious curls you loved. Scars littered his body where he had to have stitches from tennis related injuries.

You walked out of Art's room and down the passage, stepping into another bedroom. "Your hot chocolates are ready," you told the two five-year-olds. They both turned to you with happiness before bouncing past you.

"Thank you, Mommy," your little girl, Mila, said, bringing the pink mug to her lips and slurping away. She then slammed the mug down and whipped her head toward her brother, pigtails flying as she did. "Say thank you."

"I was gonna!" Zachary, your son and twin brother to Mila, retorted. His eyes found yours, his heterochromia always catching you off guard: his left eye brown, and his right blue. "Thank you, Momma."

"It's only a pleasure," you smiled at the twins, watching them drink away. You felt a warm arm wrap around your shoulders before a pair of lips were placed on your temple.

"Thank you, my love," Art mumbled against your hair before he too picked up his mug of coffee and took a sip. You picked yours up and brought it to your lips, savoring the warmth and the rare quiet moment in your bustling household.

"I'm going to meet up with Tashi later for lunch, m'kay?" you told your husband, who nodded.

"When can we see Auntie Tashi again?" Mila asked, her eyes wide with curiosity and excitement.

"Maybe on Sunday, remember Daddy has a match on Saturday," you replied, glancing at Art, who smiled back at you.

"We'll make time for a visit soon, sweetheart," Art reassured Mila, ruffling her hair affectionately. "I know you both love spending time with Auntie Tashi," The kids finished their hot chocolates, and you helped them clean up before they dashed off to play with their toys. You and Art stood in the kitchen, enjoying the rare moment of peace and sipping your drinks.

Three days had passed, it was not nearing evening. Art had a fan meet-and-greet to attend, which would only end in an hour and a half's time.

You had just dropped off the twins at your mom's for Friday night like you always did. You stood in the lobby of your apartment, waiting for the lift when a voice called your name.

Your eyes widened in surprise once you turned to see who called you. "Patrick?" You hadn't seen them man in years. Last you saw him was when you were still in school. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here for dinner," He smiled sheepishly, pointing to some brunette woman who was staring at the two of you, when making eye contact, she was quick to look the other way. "Uh, congratulations by the way," He pointed towards your wedding band, making you cross your arms.

"Thank you, Zweig. If this is all, goodnight," You spun on your heel, only to have your arm grabbed and yourself pulled back. "Hey!"

"Wait, can we talk. Please?"

"There's nothing to talk about Patrick. Last I heard from you was me telling you to 'fuck off' after breaking Tashi's heart," You snapped.

"I know, I know, and I'm sorry for how things turned out. It's just... there's something you have to know." Patrick's eyebrows furrowed, and his eyes held a sincerity that made your heart pound. You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue. "Where's Art?"

"At a fan meet-up," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady.

"He's not," Patrick said firmly, making you scoff and shake your head. "I promise you, he's not. And I can tell you exactly where he is."

"Oh yeah? Then where is he, Patrick? If you know my husband so well," you challenged, crossing your arms defensively.

Patrick chewed on his bottom lip, choosing his next words very carefully. "He's cheating on you, right now, with Tashi."

“And you expect me to believe you?” You scoffed. “I mean, I knew you were an asshole, but I didn’t think you’d stop this low and—.”

“I swear I’m not lying,” He interjected. “I heard about this fan meet-up and it’s not until Sunday.” He told you, making you shake your head. “Remember that time when the two of you broke up? And he told you he was getting training from Tashi? That was bullshit, Art’s tennis playing is goddamn near perfect, instead be went to her and found his way between her legs.”

“Y-You’re making this all up,” You denied, you didn’t want to believe your fairytale ending was all receipt. “I’ll call him right now even.”

“Fine, but if he doesn’t answer, he’s probably too busy sucking off Tashi’s face. The two haven’t said anything because they felt bad. Things were awkward between the three of you, am I right? Art realised how much he messed up and went back to you, only to do the same thing.”

You rolled your eyes, fishing your phone from your purse before punching in Art’s number. You pressed the metal device to your ear and waited. It rung, and rung, and rung, before a beep was heard. ‘You have reached the voice mail of Art Donaldson, please leave a—.’

You sucked your teeth before slamming the phone shut. “He’s probably busy.”

“Yeah, making out with your best friend.”

“And how do you expect to be actually believe you?”

“I’ve known Art since we were 12, he may seem all cute and cuddly, but trust me, he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing,” Patrick watched as your bottom lip wobbled a smidge before you took it between your teeth. “You have to believe me.”

“Where’s the evidence?” You asked him. Patrick sighed before shaking his head. You watched as he retrieved a small piece of paper and a broken pencil from his pocket before scribbling on it.

“My number, if you ever want to talk,” He sighed, passing you the paper. “Goodnight,” with that, he turned around and walked back to his date, leaving you alone and confused.

That night, you lay in bed while Art was coming out from the bathroom. You wanted to ask him if he was actually at a fan meet-and-greet, or if he was out, having an affair. You laughed quietly to yourself, imagine how embarrassing it would be if you accused him of cheating and it all being fake, how bad you’d look, how you’d raise suspicion.

Art climbed in the bed next to you, leaning over and pressing a kiss to your cheek, arm pulling you into him. “I love you,” He said, moving back to stare at you with twinkling blue eyes before smiling and leaning back to rest his head on the pillow.

You could not bring yourself to echo his words, heart breaking in your chest as your eyes bore into the purple and red mark on his neck, it looked fresh and raw. It definitely wasn’t you, you and Art hadn’t bad sex in over two months.

You just nodded to yourself, turning your head to blink back tears. “I know.”

Art went silent at your choice of words, letting out a sigh before turning around, switching off his bedside lamp and falling asleep.

You did the same, except you could not fall asleep. There was no way, no fucking way. Where had it gone wrong? Why did it go wrong? Were you not good enough? How long had this been going on for? All these questions swarmed your mind.

You lay restlessly before sighing, sitting up and grabbing your phone. Quietly you got out of bed and out the room where you grabbed a long coat and slippers, putting them on. You found the small piece of paper and dialled the number on there.

So that’s how you found yourself in Patrick’s car by some cheap gas station. Tears staining your cheeks while Patrick watched you solemnly. “Tell me how you found out about all this, and I didn’t?” You asked him.

“Tashi told me, we had met up after the first time they… and she confessed. She told me how bad she felt, but also told me she couldn’t bear to tell you. Um, Tashi and I have been meeting up, if you know what I mean, she told me how she planned to meet Art this evening, when I asked why, she kept quiet.”

You let out a broken sigh. “Okay Patrick, now what?” You turned to him. “I mean, why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I’m sorry, I wanted to, it’s just…you two seemed so happy—.”

“So you didn’t want to ruin it? Thanks, Patrick. No really. But I think I better get going,” You shook your head, going to undo your seatbelt before a hand on yours stopped you.

“I know you’re hurting, and I know how to help,” Suddenly his breath of on your ear. You dare not move to look. “This won’t hurt him as much as he’s hurt you.”

“I’m not a cheater, Patrick,” You whispered out.

“No, but you’re petty,” His words caused you to let out a breathy laugh. “You like to get even, it feels right,” His hand found its way on your thigh, a grin spreading on his lips when you didn’t stop him. “I’ll help you get even.”

Call yourself a monster and a heartless bitch for turning to face Patrick, smashing your lips on his. His hand unbuckling your seat belt, allowing for you to slide onto his lap, hands groping you everywhere. “Help me forget, Patrick,” You moaned against his lips.

“I will, baby. I will,” And he did. Any thoughts of Art and Tashi melted away faster and faster as you lost more items of clothing.

The sun beat down on your shoulders the following day, your head would love to and fro, eyes trained on the green ball that whizzed between Patrick and Art in the final match of the whole tournament. Patrick was winning, some on his own and some penalty points.

Sweat dripped down your husband’s face, he licked his lips to ridden the salty liquid. Patrick was much the same. When he felt you looked, he smirked, making you scoff and look away. You watched the clock tick by before it was half time, Art dipping his shirt off as he sat down, taking out his bottle while Patrick ate on a banana.

When the game resumed, Patrick was first to serve. His racket swung above his head, he adjusted his grip before he stalled.

You watched his brown eyes flicker to you, the corner of his lips rose, before his eyes went back to Art. He dropped his hand, kicking his left leg out a little before holding his racket and waist height, other hand holding the ball, placed the ball by the throat of the racket.

You turned to look at Art, after noticing that’s how he holds a racket. You watched his eyes move to you and his expression fall. A distant look in his eye. Patrick served the ball and it went straight past Art, who didn’t bother to hit it.

You seemed puzzled by this, watching Art’s head drop before he got a ball from the ball-boy. Like a switch, Art was playing ferociously, now winning every serve he had.

You watched with amazement as Art let out a roar, jumping high into the air, foot touching the net as he won an ace before he came tumbling into Patrick’s arms, both males bursting into smiles.

What had just happened?

[kentstoji]

ㅤ ㅤㅤ‹ CRUEL INTENTIONS.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ‹ 𖤐 pairing. new era! bi-han x gn! reader | platonic! liu kang x reader!

ㅤ ㅤㅤ‹ 𖤐 setting. mk1 timeline.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ‹ 𖤐 type. headcanons. | this part focuses more on reader's relationship with their friends and family than actually adding anything to romance (or in relationships with other yandere). some characters may be ooc, but everything here is for fun and writing exercises.

ㅤ ㅤㅤPART ONE | MEMES | PART THREE.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ— Immortality was not a gift but a curse, a heavy anchor. A cruel burden that Liu Kang, a monk who once felt the relentless touch of time, began to bear after gaining control over the sands of time. Since then, the God of Fire and Thunder was left alone with the stories he wove, his creations, and the ghosts of a bittersweet past.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ— Geras was a familiar face, but not quite the same. Merely a shadow. Liu Kang was, without a doubt, alone in this timeline, serving his own creations. Over time, he came to understand that, despite all his power, fate did not always respect his scripts.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ— It was in that quietude that you appeared in his life: a sweet child, with curious eyes and an easy smile.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ— Loving you was easy. For the first time, Liu Kang could realize the fantasies he had shared with Kitana: he finally had a family. Becoming a father became his greatest honor, and he embraced this role with pride. You were his treasure, an unexpected variation in the code he had written, which made you unique in his eyes.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ— Liu Kang was a devoted father, always indulging your wishes but also knowing when to set boundaries. Beyond that, he was an excellent mentor. You grew up with everything you needed: knowledge, diplomatic training, and physical strength.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ— Johnny Cage, a champion of Earthrealm, would say that your essence was radiant, like a little sun. Inspired by your father's actions, you strove to be kind and strong. Perhaps that’s why it was so easy for you to be seduced by the empty promises of the Lin Kuei Grandmaster. Love, loyalty, honor— qualities you valued and sought in your marriage. But instead, you found a painful betrayal.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ— Sektor was a loyal friend, and although you noticed how her gaze lingered on your husband, she never acted on those feelings. You were always grateful for that. When the monks from the Wu Shi Academy came to collect your belongings, she was the first to try and understand your motivations.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ— Without hesitation and without shedding a tear, you revealed the truth. Bi-Han had made his choice, and you would respect it, even if it was a foolish one.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ“The Grandmaster wouldn’t be capable of such an offense,” Sektor murmured, shaking her head in disbelief, her braids mirroring her movements. “He respects you deeply.”

ㅤ ㅤㅤ— You laughed. The truth was already public. Everyone in the clan had seen what was truly happening between the Grandmaster and Sareena, who now wore the colors of the Lin Kuei, leaving the scarlet garments behind.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ“I believed that too, but maybe I never truly knew the real Bi-Han. And I don’t even know if I want to.”

ㅤ ㅤㅤ— Even so, you were happy. You still had the support and affection of friends. After your departure, Kuai Liang and Tomas found time to visit you, often bringing Cyrax and Sektor along. These visits warmed Liu Kang’s heart, though he harbored a quiet fury. You were his greatest weakness, and any offense against you was enough to awaken the brutal side he tried to suppress.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ— With the distance from Bi-Han, you returned to training and began building new connections. The champions of Earthrealm were captivating companions, each in their own way. Eventually, however, it was inevitable that you would find yourself in your ex-husband’s presence. On one of these occasions, you congratulated him on his victory over the Black Dragon.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ “It was an easy fight,” Sareena replied before Bi-Han. A sharp smile on her lips. “We make a great team, I must say.”

ㅤ ㅤㅤYou laughed, with veiled cynicism. “Of course you do…”

ㅤ ㅤㅤ— Despite keeping up appearances, Sareena’s presence and that of her sisters caused a noticeable discomfort for Liu Kang. But he knew how to hide his feelings. The real tension arose when you and Bi-Han were alone. Your calmness and the innocence he always criticized remained, as if those three years of marriage had never existed.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ— The first direct confrontation came from him, during a gathering that Liu Kang had organized. Dressed in the colors of the Academy, you were cheerfully talking with Kung Lao, exchanging cheeky smiles.

ㅤ ㅤㅤ “Now I see why you went back to your father,” Bi-Han growled, once the meeting ended. “To stay close to that weakling?”

ㅤ ㅤㅤYou paused, confused. “Are you being sarcastic?”

ㅤ ㅤㅤ— It was impossible to forget: he had brought another woman into your home, someone with whom he spent more time than he ever had with you. Needless to say, that night ended in a fight. Kuai Liang had to drag his brother away while Tomas apologized repeatedly to Kung Lao and Liu Kang, who watched the scene in disbelief.

[himasgod]

King Deshret x Reader II

Where Cyno, through the eyes of Hermanubis, begins to have all the memories about the Queen, you, and King Deshret

KING DESHRET X READER I!

SCENARIO: Currently, Cyno has visions about Hermanubis, a person very close to the Queen, you, and King Deshret, living through her entire story in pain first hand, stories that torment Cyno every night.

(I'm definitely loving this a lot. I loved the first part, and I love this one even more. Should I another part about the relationship between Reader and Hermanubis? I love them so much. Thanks as always to sailorstar9 for her amazing idea for this request and I love you all, enjoy!)

(And just to remind you, there will be a third part posted on my profile on Friday the 15th!)

VII.

The nights after receiving the second fragment of Hermanubis were a silent torture for Cyno. He would close his eyes, hoping for rest, but instead he would be drawn into a whirlwind of visions so clear that he seemed to live in another time, in another skin. Through the memories of Deshret's faithful priest, he witnessed a past he had never imagined.

He found himself walking through the halls of the palace under a sky tinted red at dusk. Through the eyes of Hermanubis, Cyno watched as the Queen, you, stood by the throne, your gaze fixed on the horizon of the desert that stretched beyond the palace walls. There was a mix of determination and melancholy in your eyes, a longing for something you could no longer reach.

Hermanubis watched you from the shadows, sensing a loyalty that went beyond duty. You were the light that had guided Deshret through his darkest moments, the anchor that kept him steady when his ambitions threatened to consume him. But now, your dear Hermanubis could see that light slowly fading.

Cyno felt Hermanubis’s anguish, his thoughts mingling with his own. How could a king who promised to protect you, a man who shared his dreams with you, have become so lost in another’s promises?

VIII.

One night, in one particularly vivid memory, Cyno felt the gentle desert breeze caress his face as you and Deshret walked together beneath the starry sky. Deshret, wrapped in his regal attire, spoke passionately of his visions of a kingdom that would challenge the celestial gods. But this time, your responses were slower, less enthusiastic than before.

“Deshret,” you whispered to him with a softness that contained all the love you had shared, “do you still remember the day you promised me that nothing would come between us?”

The king stopped and turned to you, his eyes shining with an almost feverish intensity.

“I remember, my queen. But now…” his words trailed off, his gaze distracted by a thought that no longer included you. The silence that followed was deafening.

At that moment, Cyno felt a lump form in his throat, a sharp pain that he could not attribute to his own feelings, but to the echo of the anguish Hermanubis had experienced upon seeing you. The priest had seen how, in that instant, your heart broke silently, but you said nothing. You simply nodded, letting your tears get lost in the darkness.

IX.

The memories became more and more painful. The palace, which had once been a haven of love and warmth, was now a place filled with shadows. Since Nabu Malikata’s arrival, the air had changed; there was a fragrance in the air that did not belong to the desert, but to the lush gardens she brought with her.

Cyno, still seeing it all through Hermanubis’ eyes, noticed how you struggled to maintain your composure as Deshret spent more time with her. The Goddess of Flowers had a grace that seemed to enchant everyone around her, and despite your best efforts, you couldn’t help but feel the connection you once shared with your husband fading away.

One night, in a vivid memory that made Cyno shudder, Hermanubis approached you in the palace’s private garden. The flowers you used to tend to had been neglected, a reflection of your own inner state. You stood alone in the palace gardens, your face hidden under a veil to hide your tears. You, the strong and resolute queen, were kneeling on the ground, your hands shaking as you tried to hold back your tears.

Hermanubis, ever respectful, approached without making a sound. But you, sensing his presence, spoke to him without turning around.

“I am fading, Hermanubis,” you whispered, your voice barely audible above the murmur of the wind. “My love means nothing to him anymore. His eyes only seek her… and I…” you paused, as if afraid to utter the words that would bring your pain to reality, “I don’t know if I can be here anymore.”

Hermanubis closed his eyes and took your hands, kissing your knuckles softly as he whispered a prayer to try and calm you down.

“You know, Hermanubis?” you whispered, your voice broken and barely audible, “If there was a next life… I wouldn’t want to see him again.”

Those words fell like a sentence, a whisper that pierced Hermanubis’s soul… and, through it, Cyno’s heart. The pain Cyno felt in that instant was heartbreaking. It was as if the weight of centuries of desolation and resentment was seeping into his mind.

What kind of pain drives a person to wish never to meet the being they once loved more than themselves?

X.

Cyno continued to witness the events that followed. You went to the Great Dendro Archon, Rukkhadevata, to beg her to help you disappear from history, faking your death so you could start anew in adistant land.

The Archon and your friend, moved by your grief, acceded to your wish. In a secret ritual, your death was faked. And so, with tears in his eyes, Hermanubis watched as you faded into the night, leaving behind the realm you once called home.

XI.

When Cyno awoke, his hands were shaking. He had spent entire nights reliving the Queen's desolation, feeling the love you once had for Deshret turn into a hatred so deep that you did not even wish to see him in another life. Those words were a dagger still stuck in his mind.

Back in the actual Sumeru, Cyno could not stop the memories from mixing with his own emotions. He found himself in front of the statue of Deshret, looking at it with new eyes.

"Were you really a wise king?" Cyno murmured, his voice full of disdain. "You abandoned what held you most dear for an illusion of grandeur… and in the end, you weren’t even able to keep the simplest promise: to be there for those who needed you."

“I’ve seen the price of your ambitions,” Cyno snapped. “I saw how she loved you, and how you condemned her to oblivion. Her last words, King Deshret, were that if there was a next life, she would never want to see you again. Can you live with that?”

The silence that followed was as vast as the desert itself. Even the great Deshret couldn’t escape the weight of the words of the woman he had loved and betrayed.

Here is my masterlist, in case you are interested in any more of my work or want to send me a request <3

[vroom--vrooming]

Homelander x Reader

Homelander was told that you were gone, dead, never to return to him again. He just didn't know how big of a lie it was

Homelander stepped through the ruined doors of the lab, his presence an overwhelming force in the desolate space. The facility was a tomb of memories, the walls steeped in the screams of his childhood. This was where they had forged him in fire and agony, a place of sterile white rooms, needles, and cold, unforgiving hands. And it was here, too, where he had lost the only person who had ever mattered to him.

The floors were slick with blood, the bodies of scientists and doctors strewn about like broken dolls. He had hunted them down with methodical cruelty, each one meeting a brutal end under his unrelenting fury. They deserved worse, far worse, for what they had done—not just to him, but to her.

She had been everything to him back then. The girl with eyes that reflected the same pain, the same fear. Her ability to mimic the powers of others had fascinated the scientists, turning her into a living experiment, just like him. Together, they had endured the tortures, finding strength in each other’s presence. She had been his anchor, his one source of light in that pit of darkness.

But then, one day, she was gone. They told him she was dead, and something inside him snapped. That was the day he stopped being the boy with a name and became Homelander, the unfeeling weapon Vought wanted.

Now, all these years later, he was back. The lab was eerily quiet, the only sounds the faint hum of machines still running despite the carnage. He was ready to leave this place behind, to burn it to the ground and let it be consumed by the flames of his vengeance. But then, he heard it—a heartbeat.

Homelander froze, his super hearing honing in on the faint, rhythmic sound. It was coming from deep within the facility, far below the main level, where the most secret and secure rooms lay hidden. His heart pounded in his chest as he followed the sound, a flicker of something strange and unwanted stirring in the pit of his stomach—hope.

He reached a metal door, thick and fortified, sealed with a lock designed to keep out even the most determined intruder. With a single thought, he tore the door from its hinges, the steel groaning in protest before crashing to the ground. He stepped inside, his breath catching in his throat at what he saw.

There, on a medical bed in the center of the small, sterile room, lay the girl he had thought lost forever.

She was still, her body connected to an array of medical equipment. Tubes ran from her veins to machines that hummed with a sickening familiarity, and her skin was pale, almost translucent under the harsh lights. But she was alive—he could hear her heartbeat, weak but steady, echoing in the small space.

Homelander’s chest tightened, a mixture of rage and grief crashing over him like a tidal wave. They had lied to him. They had kept her alive, hidden away, draining her of whatever they thought she could give them. And he had been too blind, too consumed by his own darkness, to see the truth.

He moved to her side, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch her face. Her skin was cool beneath his fingertips, soft and fragile, and for a moment, he feared she might shatter under his touch. He gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering on her cheek, tracing the delicate line of her jaw.

She was still as beautiful as he remembered, but there was something different now—an emptiness in her that hadn’t been there before. She looked like a ghost, a shell of the vibrant, resilient girl he had known. And it was all because of them, the people he had just slaughtered, the people who had kept her in this hell.

A tear slipped down his cheek, an unwelcome sign of the emotions he had buried for so long. He wiped it away quickly, his expression hardening. There was no time for weakness now. He had to get her out of here, had to save her, even if he didn’t know if she could be saved.

Homelander began disconnecting the tubes and wires from her body, his movements slow and careful. Each piece of equipment that fell away felt like a chain being broken, a step closer to freeing her from this nightmare. He lifted her into his arms, holding her close to his chest, her head resting against his shoulder.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “I’ve got you.”

He walked out of the lab, carrying her as if she were the most precious thing in the world, his grip firm but gentle. The night air was cold against his skin as he emerged into the open, but he barely noticed it. All he could focus on was her—the girl who had once been his only source of light in the darkness.

He flew to Vought Tower, faster than he had ever flown before, the world a blur around him. He couldn’t lose her again. He wouldn’t.

When he arrived, he stormed into the medical wing, barking orders at the staff to get the best doctors, the best equipment. The scientists scurried like frightened mice, too afraid of the wrath that radiated off him to question anything. They worked quickly, setting her up in a private room, hooking her up to machines that would monitor her vitals, but Homelander never left her side.

He watched as they worked, his eyes never leaving her face. He didn’t trust them, didn’t trust anyone with her life except himself. But he knew he couldn’t save her alone. Not this time.

As the night wore on, he sat by her bedside, his hand gently holding hers. He could feel the warmth returning to her skin, hear her heartbeat growing stronger, but she still hadn’t woken up. He prayed, silently and desperately, to whatever gods might listen, that she would open her eyes, that she would come back to him.

For hours, he stayed there, refusing to leave even when the doctors assured him she was stable. He couldn’t leave her, not again. The sight of her lying there, so still and fragile, filled him with a fear he hadn’t felt in years. The fear of losing her all over again.

As dawn broke, casting a soft light through the window, he finally allowed himself to hope. Her breathing was steady, her heartbeat strong, and though she was still unconscious, he could see the signs of life returning to her.

“You’re going to be okay,” he whispered, his voice filled with a determination that had carried him through countless battles. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, the first real sign of tenderness he had shown anyone in years. As he pulled back, he saw a flicker of movement in her eyes, a twitch of her fingers, and his heart leaped in his chest.

“Come back to me,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “Please.”

And for the first time since he had found her, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, she would.

[oceandolores]

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 | chapter I

General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

"in her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy."

summary: In the grandeur of ancient Rome, you are the secret daughter of Commodus, living a quiet life as a servant in the imperial palace. Everything changes when you meet General Marcus Acacius, Rome’s honorable and stoic leader.

Though devoted to duty and loyalty to the princess, Marcus is drawn to you in a way he cannot ignore. A forbidden passion ignites between you both, and an affair begins—one that threatens the very foundation of loyalty, power, and honor. As you fall deeper into your dangerous love for Marcus, each stolen moment becomes a fragile, dangerous secret.

warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Loss of virginity, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story

Chapter I

next | chapter II

The palace is alive with preparation, a beast of marble and gold that never rests. Its veins are the labyrinthine halls, pulsing with servants like you, carrying trays of delicacies, wreaths of flowers, and jugs of wine.

Its heart beats to the rhythm of whispered orders, clinking metal, and the distant echo of the marketplace beyond its gates. Tonight, the beast awakens for another feast.

You adjust the folds of your simple tunic, careful not to brush against the elaborate tapestries that line the walls. Each thread tells a story of conquest, glory, and power—legends you’ve only heard murmured by those old enough to remember.

You are not part of those tales, nor their lineage. You are a servant, a shadow cast by the towering figures who walk these halls.

The kitchen is a tempest. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet figs. Claudia, the head cook, barks orders, her voice slicing through the chaos like the edge of a Roman gladius.

You pass her with a nod, your arms laden with trays of fruit—gleaming apples, plump grapes, the kind of bounty the common people outside these walls could only dream of.

Livia catches your eye from across the room. Her presence is a steady anchor in the storm, her face worn but kind.

“Have you checked the wine?” she asks, her tone soft but urgent.

You nod. “It’s ready, Mother,” you reply, the word slipping out as naturally as breath.

She is not your mother—you know this much—but she is all you have.

The story of how you came to be here is one you’ve heard countless times: a baby abandoned at the servants' chamber door, cradled in a basket of woven reeds, with nothing to mark your origin save for a scrap of fine cloth that no one in your station would dare to own.

Livia found you there, swaddled in whispers of mystery, and against all odds, she chose to keep you.

Raised among the laboring hands of the palace, you were given no privilege beyond survival and no legacy but that of work.

The great marble halls and gilded frescoes became your entire world, a place as eternal and unmoving as the gods themselves—or so it seemed.

The servants’ quarters where you lived were nestled in the hidden bowels of the palace, far from the glittering feasts and marble statues.

You learned to scrub floors and pour wine long before you understood the language of wealth and power that filled these walls.

Your life had been carved out in the shadows, molded by the soft voices and calloused hands of those who raised you.

Today, like every other, begins in service to Rome's ever-churning hunger for spectacle.

The air hums with anticipation, thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, a stark contrast to the stench of poverty that lingers just beyond the palace gates.

“Are the platters for the atrium ready?” Livia’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“They are,” you reply, glancing at the polished silver laden with grapes and apples, their skins shining like jewels under the torchlight.

“Good.” Livia’s sharp eyes soften, though her expression remains tense. “Take the fruit out yourself. And stay close to the kitchen. Today will bring trouble, I feel it.”

You nod, understanding the weight of her instincts. Years of serving in the palace have taught her to sense the storm before it strikes.

As you lift the platters, Claudia, calls over her daughter, Alexandra.

“Go with her,” Claudia orders, waving a ladle for emphasis.

Alexandra groans dramatically but obeys, rolling her eyes as she grabs one of the platters.

“She can’t let me rest for a moment,” she mutters, her tone more amused than annoyed.

You chuckle softly. Alexandra has always been like this—bold where you are cautious, quick to speak where you stay silent.

She is your only true companion here, older by four years and infinitely more daring.

As you and Alexandra arrange the fruits on a grand table in the atrium, she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “The Princess will be here tonight.”

You nod absently, focused on ensuring the grapes cascade just so. “Of course, she will. She is the Princess after all.”

“No, I mean, I haven’t seen her in years,” Alexandra continues, ignoring your tone. “Not since I was a kid. That was ten years ago. You know she moved out of the palace after marrying the general.”

You don’t reply immediately, your hands steady as you arrange the fruit. Alexandra has always loved to gossip, but you prefer to keep your thoughts unspoken.

“Can you believe it’s been ten years, and she hasn’t had a child? Not one with him,” Alexandra muses.

“Maybe it’s their choice,” you say quietly. “It’s not our place to wonder.”

Alexandra scoffs lightly. “I’m just saying, after her son—what was his name? Lucius?—after he was taken and killed by her brother, Commodus…” She trails off, her voice tinged with something between pity and fascination.

You remember Lucius vaguely, a boy with a quiet demeanor and a sad smile.

You were too young then to understand the weight of his loss, but the servants whispered of curses and tragedies surrounding the imperial family.

“It’s not good to talk about the great emperors like that,” you murmur, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Before Alexandra can reply, the sound of heavy boots echoes through the atrium.

The guards step forward, their polished armor glinting in the firelight. “Make way for their majesties,” one announces, his voice carrying over the growing murmur of the guests.

You and Alexandra immediately bow your heads, the platters forgotten as the twin emperors enter the room.

Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla are a study in contrasts.

Geta, an imposing figure, commands the space with a cold and calculating gaze. His every step seems deliberate, as if the weight of the empire rests on his shoulders alone.

Caracalla, by contrast, walks with an erratic energy, his pet monkey perched on his shoulder. Dondus, the creature’s name, chatters and hisses, a mirror of its master’s unpredictable moods.

You feel the weight of their gazes as they sweep the room. Geta’s lips curl into a smile—or is it a smirk?—as his eyes linger on Alexandra.

There have been whispers, rumors of an affair, though Alexandra denies them with a laugh.

Caracalla’s gaze lands on you, and for a moment, his expression softens. Unlike his brother, he has always been strange but oddly kind to you.

When you were a child, he would find you in the halls, offering you small trinkets or asking you to keep him company.

“Your Majesties,” Alexandra says again, her voice like honeyed wine, sweet but strong.

She curtsies with practiced ease, her eyes cast downward, yet her boldness hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.

You follow her lead, bowing deeply, but your heart pounds in your chest like the war drums of a distant legion. In the presence of the emperors, the room feels smaller, the air heavier.

To serve Rome, you think, is to breathe in the will of its rulers, no matter how suffocating.

Geta's gaze lingers on Alexandra, traveling from her head to her feet, as though she were a statue he might commission or a possession he already owns.

His smirk deepens, the corner of his mouth curving with an indulgence that unsettles you.

“Alexandra,” he drawls, his voice smooth as polished bronze. “Why do I find the table half-dressed? Are my guests to dine on the promise of fruit alone?”

You glance at the platters, perfectly arranged but not yet fully adorned with the remaining dishes. Your pulse quickens; you know the punishment for displeasing the emperors can be swift, unpredictable.

But Alexandra, bold as always, doesn’t flinch.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” she says, her tone measured yet edged with defiance. “The final trays are being brought out as we speak. The delay was unforeseen.”

Geta arches a brow, his smirk turning sharper, more dangerous. “Unforeseen,” he repeats, as though savoring the word.

“I wonder, Alexandra, if you’ve grown too accustomed to... distractions.”

You know the meaning behind his words. Everyone does.

The whispered rumors of their affair swirl through the palace like incense smoke, clinging to every corner.

Her mother Claudia knows, though she turns a blind eye, perhaps thinking it wiser not to provoke the wrath of an emperor.

Beside him, Caracalla shifts, uninterested in the exchange. His pet monkey, Dondus, chitters softly on his shoulder, its small, beady eyes scanning the room.

Caracalla’s gaze falls on you briefly, but it is not unkind. He has always been more erratic than cruel with you, there is a peculiar understanding in his glances—a shared knowledge of solitude.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” you say suddenly, your voice trembling like a bird caught in a net. The words tumble out before you can stop them, and the weight of the room shifts.

Geta’s eyes snap to you, sharp as a blade. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake.

But then he laughs—a low, indulgent sound that sends shivers down your spine.

“Ah,” he says, leaning slightly toward you. “The little dove finds her voice. How curious.”

You stiffen under his gaze, your knees threatening to buckle. It feels as though he is peeling back your very skin, seeking something hidden beneath.

“You’re the youngest servant here, aren’t you?” Geta muses, his tone light but with an edge that cuts.

“A curious creature, so quiet and unassuming. And yet…” He trails off, his eyes narrowing, as if piecing together a puzzle.

The weight of unspoken rumors presses against your chest.

The whispers about your lineage, the murmurs that you are more than a servant—that you are the illegitimate daughter of Commodus himself, a shadow of Rome’s bloody past.

You’ve heard them before, though never directly. Livia, your steadfast mother in all but blood, dismisses them as lies, the gossip of bored tongues.

But in moments like this, when Geta’s piercing gaze locks onto yours, it feels as though the marble walls around you whisper secrets only they can hold.

Secrets of your origin, of what blood may or may not flow through your veins, encased in the silent austerity of Rome’s cold embrace. You feel the weight of it, a shroud both invisible and suffocating.

Geta doesn’t believe the rumors entirely, but he cannot ignore them either. To him, you are a thorn he cannot pluck without proof.

If the whispers are true, if you are indeed the hidden scion of Commodus and the only living grandchild of Marcus Aurelius, you would be a danger to his rule.

Rome, after all, has loved its Aurelius lineage fiercely.

The plebeians would rally to your name like vines twisting toward sunlight.

Still, no woman has ever ruled Rome.

The Senate, the soldiers, and the gods themselves would balk at such a notion. But Geta knows that power is not always rooted in precedent—it is rooted in the hearts of the people.

And the people would love a descendant of Marcus Aurelius far more than they could ever love him.

“You wear the palace well,” Geta says finally, his tone dripping with mockery. “A little too well, perhaps.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks but keep your gaze respectfully lowered. His words are like serpents coiling around you, their venom lying just beneath the surface.

Caracalla hums softly, breaking the tension. He strokes Dondus, the little monkey perched on his shoulder, as though soothing himself rather than the animal.

“Leave her, brother,” he mutters, his tone flat but carrying weight. “You scare the child.”

Geta casts his twin a glance, his smirk briefly faltering. With that, he straightens, clapping his hands once in finality. “Finish the table,” he commands, the sharpness of his tone slicing through the room.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” you and Alexandra reply in unison, bowing deeply as the emperors turn and walk away.

Their robes ripple like molten gold, catching the light as though the gods themselves had woven the fabric.

The moment they are gone, you exhale shakily, the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding slipping from your lips.

The grandeur of the palace, so often a thing of wonder, now feels oppressive—a prison of marble and ambition.

Alexandra nudges you gently, her smile faint but reassuring. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, though the tightness in her voice betrays her unease.

You nod and return to your work, the routine motions of arranging platters grounding you once more. But the unease lingers, like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.

Later, after the feast preparations are complete, you retreat to the servants’ quarters. The hallways grow quieter as the palace begins to prepare for the night’s debauchery.

Your mother, Livia, finds you there, her expression tight with concern.

“Are you all right?” You nod quickly, not wanting to worry her further.

Livia’s sharp eyes search yours for a moment before she exhales heavily. “Stay away from them tonight,” she warns. “There will be soldiers, senators, politicians—men who think they own the world. And women and men from the brothels to entertain them. It will not be a place for a child like you.”

“I understand,” you say softly, though the thought of the gathering makes your skin prickle.

"Go to your chamber and stay there.” You nod, obedient as always, and Livia cups your face briefly before bustling away.

But as you walk toward your chamber, the stillness of the afternoon draws you elsewhere.

***

The sun bathes the palace gardens in a golden light, soft and warm, like an embrace from the gods themselves.

The sky is a flawless stretch of azure, and the air carries the faintest scent of blooming jasmine.

Unable to resist, you veer toward the gardens, seeking solace in their quiet beauty.

You make your way to the small pond at the edge of the grounds, where the world feels simpler, untouched by the weight of marble columns and imperial decrees.

This is your sanctuary, a place you’ve tended with your own hands.

The hedges are trimmed neatly, the flowers arranged in bursts of vibrant color—crimson roses, golden marigolds, and pale violets that seem to glow in the sunlight.

The pond reflects the sky like polished glass, its surface rippling gently in the breeze.

You settle onto the cool stone bench nearby, pulling out a small parchment and charcoal.

Writing has always been your escape, a way to make sense of the labyrinth that is your mind.

The words flow from you like water from a spring, each line capturing fragments of your thoughts and fears.

To live in the shadow of gods is to forget the warmth of the sun.

You stare at the words you’ve written, sentences about Rome and its people, the empire’s endless hunger that devours the poor while the rulers gorge themselves on the spoils.

It isn’t rebellion that drives you—at least, not yet—but a quiet, gnawing sense of wrongness.

You have lived your entire life within the confines of this palace, its gilded walls both a sanctuary and a prison.

Outside, beyond the Forum and its grand marble temples, the streets of Rome teem with despair. You’ve seen it, fleeting glimpses on the rare occasions you ventured beyond the palace gates.

Children with hollow eyes and grime-streaked faces.

Men broken by war or taxation, their shoulders bowed under invisible yokes.

Women clutching bundles of rags that you realized, with a sick lurch, were infants too still to be alive.

These thoughts weigh heavily on you as you sit by the pond, the garden’s beauty unable to shield you from the world’s harsh truths.

You lower your quill, pressing trembling fingers to your lips, when the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you sharply from your thoughts.

You stiffen, the air in your lungs turning to stone. It isn’t one of the servants; their steps are lighter, quicker.

This tread is deliberate, measured, carrying a weight of authority. When you glance up, your breath catches.

The man before you is not adorned with the opulence of the Senate nor the ostentatious silk of the emperors.

You know who he is. How could you not?

General Marcus Acacius.

Rome’s shield and sword, the hero of distant campaigns whose name is whispered with both reverence and fear.

You have never seen him in the flesh, for he seldom resides in the palace, choosing instead to live with Princess Lucilla far from its labyrinth of intrigue.

But his likeness is everywhere: etched in marble statues, painted in frescoes, immortalized as Rome’s protector.

Yet, here he stands, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if the gods themselves have sent him.

The crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders glints faintly in the golden light, its hem embroidered with intricate patterns that seem to tell the story of the empire’s conquests.

His tunic, simple yet stately, is cinched with a polished belt, a gleaming buckle bearing the proud insignia of the wolf of Rome.

Unlike the ornamental decadence of the Senate or the twin emperors, his attire speaks of purpose and practicality—beauty tempered by utility.

And his face—by Jupiter, his beautiful face.

It is a map of victories and sacrifices, weathered yet noble. The lines carved by years of sun and battle only enhance the sharpness of his features, as if the gods had personally molded him for their own designs.

His hair, dark and streaked with silver like the gleam of moonlight on a blade, curls faintly at his temples.

His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a mouth set in the hard line of a man who has spoken a thousand commands and swallowed a thousand regrets.

But it is his eyes that strike you most: deep, piercing, soulful-brown eyes.

They are the eyes of a man who has seen the best and worst of humanity and bears the weight of both.

Your breath catches as his gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sight of a young servant clutching a parchment like a shield.

He regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze, his eyes like iron tempered in fire—unyielding yet reflective.

His presence is commanding, a gravity that draws everything into its orbit. You are struck by how different he is from the emperors.

Where Geta and Caracalla exude indulgence and cruelty, Acacius carries himself with the disciplined grace of a man who has known the weight of true responsibility.

“Not many choose the gardens for their thoughts,” he says, his voice deep, steady, and tinged with curiosity.

It is a soldier’s voice, devoid of the honeyed pretense of courtiers.

You scramble to your feet, clutching your parchment to your chest. “General,” you manage, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

He raises a hand, the gesture more commanding than any shout. “At ease,” he says, a faint flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossing his face. “You are Livia's daughter?"

His question hangs in the air like the distant clang of a bell. You nodded, your name feels small in your mouth when you finally say it, barely audible against the rustling of the garden’s leaves.

Acacius nods, as though filing the information away. His eyes flick to the parchment in your hands. “A poet?”

You hesitate, “I... I write, sometimes. Thoughts.”

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming yet strangely grounding. He does not reach for the parchment, but his gaze lingers on it as though he could read its contents by sheer will alone.

“Thoughts on Rome, perhaps?” he asks.

His tone is even, but there is an edge to it, a subtle weight that suggests he already knows the answer.

Your throat tightens. To speak of the empire’s flaws to a general of its armies feels like standing on the edge of a blade.

Yet something in his bearing—a quiet patience, a restrained curiosity—compels you to answer honestly.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “About Rome. And its people.”

Acacius’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a shadow crossing his face. He looks away, toward the pond, his gaze distant now, as if seeing not the still water but something far beyond it.

“The people,” he repeats, almost to himself. “The heart of Rome. And yet, the heart is always the first to be sacrificed.”

The words are spoken quietly, but they carry the weight of experience, of battles fought not just with swords but with conscience.

You watch him, your earlier fear now replaced by a cautious curiosity.

"Do you... believe that?" you venture, your voice barely above a whisper, the words trembling like a fledgling bird daring its first flight.

Marcus halts, his crimson cloak swaying like the banner of a legion stilled in the wind.

He turns to you, his eyes—sharp as a polished gladius—softening for the briefest moment, as if your question has reached a part of him long buried under layers of duty and steel.

“Belief,” he begins, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a man who has lived lifetimes in service to an empire, “is a luxury in the life of a soldier. I deal in action, not faith. But I have seen enough to know that Rome’s strength lies not in its emperors, but in its people. And we are failing them.”

The honesty in his words strikes you like the tolling of a great bronze bell, reverberating through the quiet garden and deep into your chest.

It is not what you expected from a man like him—a hero to some, a sword-arm to the empire—but here he stands, speaking not as a general but as a man, his voice laced with something unguarded. Regret, perhaps. Or hope—fragile and faint, but alive nonetheless.

“Do you believe in Rome, little one?” His question falls like a stone into still waters, and you startle, unprepared to have the conversation turned toward you.

“I—” Your words falter, and you look down at your hands, clutching the parchment that now feels like an accusation.

But then, something inside you stirs—something that refuses to shrink back beneath the weight of his gaze.

You lift your eyes to meet his, the courage in your chest kindled like a flame drawn from embers.

“I believe in what Rome could be,” you reply, your voice steadier now.

“I believe in the Rome that lives in the hearts of its people—the ones who work its fields, who build its roads, who kneel at its altars not out of fear, but out of love. That is the Rome worth fighting for. But the Rome I see now…” Your throat tightens, but you press on.

“...has forgotten its people. It worships marble statues and golden coins while the streets crumble and the people starve. How can an empire endure when its foundation is so neglected?”

Your words spill forth, unchecked and unmeasured, and it is only when you see the faintest flicker of something in his expression—respect, perhaps, or surprise—that you remember who stands before you.

The weight of your boldness sinks in like a gladiator realizing they’ve overstepped in the arena.

“Forgive me, General,” you murmur, lowering your gaze. “I forgot myself.”

But Marcus shakes his head, a wry smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Do not apologize,” he says, his tone gentler now, though no less commanding.

“You are young, but your words carry the wisdom of one who has not yet been corrupted by power. Few speak with such clarity, and fewer still with such courage.”

His gaze lingers on you, searching, and you feel it like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

“You remind me,” he says, his voice quieter, almost reverent, “of someone. He believed, as you do, in the strength of Rome’s people. He would sit in gardens much like this one, speaking of justice and duty, and wonder aloud whether the empire could ever live up to its ideals.”

Your heart quickens, the weight of his words settling over you like the cloak of a goddess.

The way Marcus looks at you—as though he sees not the servant, but the soul beneath—makes you feel for a fleeting moment.

“I am no philosopher,” you say softly, your fingers tightening on the parchment. “But it is hard to remain silent when I see so much suffering.”

“A Roman citizen has every right to speak of their empire’s failings,” he says, stepping closer now.

“Do not mistake me for a politician, child. I am a soldier. My loyalty is to Rome—not to the men who rule it."

You nod, the words settling over you like a cloak woven of both gravity and reassurance.

The air between you feels charged, alive with the kind of understanding that is rarely spoken but deeply felt.

You watch him, his form cast in the golden hues of the setting sun, the crimson of his cloak vivid against the muted greens of the garden.

There is something about him that draws you—not merely his reputation, not the legends whispered in the palace halls of his valor and victories, but him.

The man behind the titles and statues.

You swallow, your heart a restless bird in your chest. You should not linger, not with him, not now.

And yet, you find yourself unable to walk away.

Words rise to your lips, hesitant at first, but then they spill forth, tentative and careful, like a child offering a wildflower to a god.

“Forgive me, my lord, but shouldn’t you be inside?” you say, your voice trembling under the weight of its boldness. “The palace is bustling with your celebration—wishing you fortune for your campaign, for Rome’s glory.”

He turns his gaze to you, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Rome’s glory,” he repeats, as though tasting the phrase on his tongue, finding it bitter.

He lets out a soft chuckle, low and warm, a sound that feels oddly out of place amidst the solemn grandeur of the garden. “Let them feast. Let them toast. I’ve no appetite for gilded words tonight.”

You blink, surprised by his candor. He is not what you imagined—not the marble statue immortalized in the Forum or the hardened general whose name echoes in the chants of soldiers. He is… more human than that.

“I’m waiting for my wife,” he adds, his tone casual, though his eyes seem to linger on you as if measuring your reaction.

Princess Lucilla.

The name hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of legend. Rome’s Princess. The only daughter of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor. You’ve never met her, though her shadow looms large over your life.

“She was delayed,” he continues, glancing toward the palace, though his stance is relaxed, unhurried.

Princess Lucilla, her legend precedes her, a name spoken with reverence, and sometimes, in hushed tones, with fear.

Your mother, Livia, has served her since she was but a girl.

Livia, who moves through the world with a quiet dignity, has always spoken of the princess with unwavering loyalty. “She carries Rome on her shoulders,” your mother would say, her voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. “The weight of a crown rests on her brow, even though it does not sit there.”

Your thoughts drift, but his voice pulls you back to the present.

“Your mother,” Marcus says, his tone shifting to something softer, more contemplative, “she’s a loyal servant to our household, isn’t she?”

You nod, feeling a strange warmth rise to your cheeks. “She is, my lord. My mother adores the princess. She always speaks highly of her.”

At this, Marcus smiles faintly. His expression, though guarded, carries a warmth that feels rare, as if he’s allowing himself a brief reprieve from his usual stoicism.

“Livia is wise, then. Lucilla is… more than most know. Rome sees her as Marcus Aurelius’ daughter, but to me—” He pauses, his voice lowering to something almost reverent.

“She is a woman of strength, far greater than any man I’ve known. Her loyalty to Rome and its people… it humbles me.”

For a fleeting moment, his mask of a hardened general slips, and you glimpse something deeper.

A man bound not just by duty but by love.

His words hang in the air, gilded with affection, and you feel a pang of longing, though for what, you cannot say.

“I’ve never met her,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

He turns to you, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Lucilla?”

You nod, feeling suddenly self-conscious beneath his scrutiny. “I’ve only heard stories. My mother always told me about her strength, her grace. But we’ve never crossed paths.”

Marcus regards you for a long moment, as if seeing something in you he had not noticed before. “She would like you,” he says at last, his voice steady, though something lingers in his tone, a note of intrigue.

“Are you coming to the feast tonight?” he asks, the question catching you off guard.

You hesitate, glancing toward the palace where the distant hum of celebration filters through the evening air. “Servants are not permitted to attend such events, my lord,” you say, lowering your gaze. “I am only a servant after all,"

His brows furrow slightly, as if the answer displeases him. “Rome is built on the backs of those it calls servants. Do not diminish yourself.”

You blink, unsure of how to respond. There’s a weight in his words, one that feels both heavy and freeing.

Before he can say more, hurried footsteps echo through the garden. You turn, and there stands Alexandra, one of the palace attendants, her expression tight with worry.

“My lord,” she says, bowing her head quickly as her wide eyes catch sight of Marcus.

The respect is immediate, almost reflexive. General Acacius commands not just authority but admiration.

Men respect him, but women… they speak of him in hushed tones, a figure both distant and impossibly magnetic.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Alexandra continues, her voice trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze. “Your mother is looking for you,"

Marcus looks at you, his expression softening. He steps aside, the movement graceful despite his formidable frame, as though making room for your escape.

"Tell Livia my apologies for keeping her daughter here," he says, his voice low yet deliberate, as though each word is a promise carved in stone.

His gaze lingers on you, longer than it should, and it feels as though he is reading something beyond the surface—a map of your heart, perhaps, etched in the lines of your face.

For a moment, the world narrows to just this: the garden bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, the faint murmur of the distant feast, and the weight of his eyes, heavy yet strangely gentle.

There is something about you, his expression seems to say—something unspoken but undeniable.

You feel it too, a spark that flickers to life beneath the layers of duty, expectation, and fear.

“I’ll see you at the feast tonight,” he says, the words more a statement than an invitation, leaving little room for protest.

There is a finality to his tone, yet also a quiet insistence that stirs something within you.

Before you can respond, he dips his head ever so slightly—a gesture of respect, or perhaps acknowledgment—before turning and striding away, his crimson cloak flowing like a banner in his wake.

You bow reflexively, watching him disappear into the shadowed corridors of the palace, his figure swallowed by the grandeur of Rome itself.

Yet even as he leaves, his presence lingers, an echo in the air, a weight in your chest.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps fades, Alexandra is at your side, her face alight with barely contained awe.

“Was that… the general?” she whispers, her voice tinged with something between disbelief and reverence.

“Yes,” you reply, though your own voice feels distant, as though it belongs to someone else. Your thoughts are still tethered to the garden, to the quiet intensity of his gaze.

“By the gods,” she breathes, clutching your arm as though you might disappear. “He’s… he’s even more handsome up close.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Ale,” you chide gently, though there’s no malice in your words.

“I’ve heard so much about him,” she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“About his loyalty to Maximus Decimus Meridius—the late general—and how he served under him during the great campaigns. They say he adored the princess even then. Some even whisper that his loyalty to Maximus was why he stayed so close to her after his death, marrying her to protect her.”

You glance at her, your brow furrowing slightly. “You know far too much for someone who spends their days in the laundry.”

She grins, unrepentant. “The laundry is where all the palace’s secrets come to dry.”

You shake your head, though her words gnaw at the edges of your mind.

You’ve heard the stories too, in bits and pieces from the older servants: tales of Lucilla’s love affair with Maximus, and Marcus’s steadfast devotion not only to his commander but to the empire itself.

A marriage born of loyalty, they say, not love. And yet, there’s something in the way Marcus spoke of Lucilla earlier that makes you wonder.

As Alexandra chatters on, her words a tide of gossip and speculation, your thoughts drift back to Marcus.

To the way he stood in the garden, his form framed by the soft glow of the setting sun. To the depth in his eyes, like wells carved by the gods themselves—deep enough to drown in, and yet you couldn’t look away.

You feel a strange restlessness in your chest, a stirring you can’t quite name. It isn’t admiration, nor fear, but something more complicated. Something heavier.

Marcus is unlike anyone you’ve ever known—unlike the indulgent senators with their honeyed words, unlike the cruel twin emperors whose laughter carries the sting of a whip.

He is a man of iron and fire, tempered by years of battle, yet beneath that hardened exterior lies something softer. Something… human.

And perhaps that’s what unsettles you most.

You’ve spent your life surrounded by women: your mother, Livia, with her quiet strength and unshakable loyalty; the other servants, who taught you to navigate the palace’s labyrinthine halls.

Men were distant figures, their power felt but never seen up close. Fathers, you’ve only heard about in stories—abstract concepts, not flesh and blood.

But Marcus is no abstraction.

He is real, tangible, a presence that feels larger than life yet undeniably mortal.

To see him, to feel him, is to glimpse a side of the world you’ve never known—a world shaped not by whispered orders or silent sacrifices, but by action, by conviction, by the weight of decisions made on the edge of a blade.

You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they cling to you like the scent of blooming jasmine in the garden. “It’s nothing,” you tell yourself, though your heart betrays you with its restless rhythm.

“Nothing at all,” you murmur, though even the words feel like a lie.

[mysunshinetemptress]

Call Your Mom

Leah Williamson x reader

Warnings: talks of suicide please please know you are never alone

Tears streamed down your face, blurring the already distorted image in the mirror. It had been years since the suffocating darkness of suicidal thoughts had threatened to consume her. Back then, Leah had been your anchor, your lighthouse guiding you back to the shore. But lately, with the weight of the loan to Manchester City pressing down on you, a familiar coldness had begun to seep back in. The vibrant colours of your recent success with Man City seemed to have drained away, replaced by a suffocating grey.

you had convinced yourself it was just the stress of the new environment, a temporary blip. But tonight, the blip had morphed into a monstrous wave threatening to pull you under. The once vibrant colours of your apartment seemed muted, the silence deafening. The thought of reaching out to Leah, of tarnishing the happiness you'd built together, felt unbearable.

But as the racing thoughts spiraled, each one darker than the last, the fear became a raw, primal instinct.  Tears pricked at your eyes, blurring the digital clock on the nightstand. 3:12 am. Shame burned in your gut. How could she be feeling this way again, after all, Leah had done to pull her back from the brink .

 Leah's voice, even thick with sleep, was a lifeline.

You fumbled for your phone, the familiar warmth of the screen offering a flicker of comfort. Leah's name on the contact list taunted you. Reaching out felt like a betrayal, a regression. Yet, the darkness whispered terrifying thoughts, a relentless chorus you couldn't seem to silence.

With a shaky hand, you hit call. One ring. Two. Three. Just as you considered hanging up, Leah's drowsy voice filled the silence, even thick with sleep,  it was a lifeline.

"Y/n? Everything alright?"

You sucked in a breath unable to answer.

"Baby? Hey, what's wrong?" Leah's concern, though muffled by distance, sliced through the fog of despair. Shame threatened to choke you, but the words tumbled out, ragged and desperate. Leah listened patiently, her voice a soothing balm even across the miles.

"Stay on the phone, babe. I'm on my way."

You choked out a protest. "No, Le, it's too late, you..."

"Don't argue," Leah interrupted gently. "Four hours. I'll be there."

There was a brief moment of silence on the other end of the phone that was deafening. You squeezed your eyes shut, tears leaking past your lashes. "Le? Are....Are you still there?" you croaked, your voice thick with despair.

"Always," came Leah's unwavering reply, even through the static of the phone call. "Don't you even think about hanging up."

You knew Leah could hear the tremor in your voice, the raw vulnerability that sliced through years of carefully constructed walls. The move to Manchester had felt like a fresh start, a chance to prove yourself on a bigger stage away from the stacked bench of Arsenal. But the pressure had become a suffocating weight, and the initial excitement had morphed into a suffocating loneliness.

"It's stupid," You mumbled beginning to pick at the skin around your fingernails, hating the pathetic sound of your own voice. "I thought I was past this. But it just…it hit me tonight."

The four-hour drive was an agonizing eternity for both of you. You paced the apartment restlessly, the phone pressed tight to your ear, the silence punctuated by Leah's gentle reassurances and the rhythmic hum of the engine in the background.

The guilt gnawed at You as you began to feel guilty for calling Leah so late. "Leah, you don't have to do this," you whispered, your voice hoarse. "It's just me being a mess.....I'll.....I'll get over it."

"No," Leah's voice came resolute through the speaker. "This isn't just you. You're not alone in this, i'm not letting you do this alone not tonight not ever."

The dam broke then. You confessed everything - the creeping despair, the fear of disappointing your Mom,  god your mom was the only one you had growing up and the only child to a single parent, she had sacrificed everything for you and now here you were wanting to end the life she had given you, the life she had sacrificed so so much for."Oh my god Le, My Mom I don't...I can't" Leah listened without judgment, her unwavering support a beacon in the storm.

"She'd be disappointed," You mumbled, "that I'm not... stronger."

You choked back a sob. the thought of dragging Leah into it was unbearable, of your Mom "I can't let Mom know," you whispered, your voice tight with fear. "She thinks I'm… I'm better now. She'd be so disappointed.....Le she...she gave up everything and I...oh god...I just want to through it all away." Leah didn't know what to do.

"Y/n," Leah said, her voice firm, "being strong doesn't mean bottling things up. It means reaching out for help when you need it. We'll face this together, okay?"

You shook your head unable to answer.

Leah sighed, the sound travelling through the phone line. "Your mom would want you to be happy and healthy, Y/n. She would understand you can't keep this bottled up it won't help. I'll call her, I'll explain everything and I already know she will be so proud you called me instead of struggling alone ok, so hold on and I'll call your mom ?"

The suggestion hung in the air. The thought of facing your mother's concern, of potentially shattering the fragile image of your recovery, terrified you. But the alternative - the terrifying chasm of despair that had threatened to engulf you - was even scarier.

Taking a shaky breath, You finally conceded. "Please," You whispered, the first flicker of hope igniting in your chest. "Please can you call her?"

Leah sighed in relief sipping in "Of course baby, as soon as I get to you I'll call her ok?" You let out a hum letting Leah know you heard her.

Through the night, Leah's voice became a lifeline. You talked for hours, about everything and nothing, about the weather in Manchester, Leah's upcoming game, and the silly things you both used to laugh about back in your younger days. With each passing minute, the frantic edge in your voice softened. The dawn broke just as you finished reminiscing about a particularly chaotic prank you'd pulled on a teammate in your youth.

Exhausted but with a fragile sense of calm settling over you, you looked at the phone screen. Leah's location showed she was somewhere near Birmingham now.

"Leah," You began, a nervous tremor in your voice, "you really don't have to come all this way."

"Nonsense," Leah interrupted, her voice full of determination. "I wouldn't be anywhere else. I told you we'll face this together, okay?"

By the time Leah arrived, the first rays of dawn were painting the sky a soft pink. Relief washed over you as you pulled Leah tightly into a hug, the familiar scent of your girlfriend a potent reminder of the love and support that still surrounded you.

"We'll get through this together," Leah whispered, her arms wrapped securely around You, slightly scared to let you go. "Come on let's get you to bed and then I'll call your mom," she added, her voice firm.

[peoniesnro]

Closure | One shot

Synopsis - You first crossed paths with him at a club, where he fucked you on the hood of a stranger’s car. The second time, Taehyung found you at the house of the girl he was seeing, and you let him take you in your shared bathroom, the lock barely holding. He became your anchor, and you became his sun and moon. Now, all you want is one more chance—to tell each other ‘I love you’.

Paring- Kim Taehyung × Reader

Genre - Well, I have no idea which genre this falls into.

Warnings - Public sex/ semi public sex/ grinding/ breast play/ nipple play/ unprotected sex(this is a fic)/penetrative sex/word 'slut' and 'whore'/ oral(male recieving)/ fingering/ handjob/ shower sex/ orgasm denials/edging/implied bondage/alcohol consumption/ smoking/ angst/ I don't know what else but huge SMUT warning and MDNI.

Word count - 11k

a/n - Well well, while I was peacefully raising my first born (In Another Universe), I got distracted by this song (Sweet music) and Kim Taehyung. So, I gave birth to this. Hope you'll enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It’s really bad when the whole world revolves around one person. When that one person is gone. The whole world crumbles. That’s what happened to Taehyung. His whole world fell down. Crumbled. Crushed. And he became a shell. Empty.

A soulless creature who wanders the earth. Nothing made him happy. Nothing made him laugh. Nothing gave his vacant eyes life. There was a time he wanted nothing but to be gone. It was his friends who kept him alive. They hold on to him. With an invisible string tied onto their hands. A single tug on that string, they came crashing like a storm. Even though that tug was barely there. Never allowed those unshed tears to consume Taehyung up. Made sure he is breathing. Sleeping. And everything in between. Taehyung became nothing but a burden on his friends’ shoulders.

He wanted to be something else, to be honest. Something else that wasn’t a soul-withered husk. Wanted the hollow feeling inside him to vanish. Wanted to feel something. Something other than the pain. Wanted to laugh. At least smile. Manage his life like a normal person would. Do something other than emptying bottle after bottle of alcohol. Feel his heart beats. But everything seemed impossible in his eyes. He would never be happy again. Never laugh again. He would always be the hollow shadow. Hiding from the world. Hiding from that ray of sunshine.

That’s what he thought. At least until this moment. The moment when he is lying in a stranger’s bed. In the darkness. Listening to water running. Imagining her under the shower. In this moment, he can feel his heart beats. Madly. Violently. He can feel him breathing peacefully. Brain quiet. Blissful. Basking in the aftermath of a good orgasm. He feels alive. For the first time in a year and a half. He feels alive.

.....................................

Sometimes, just sometimes, despite everything, Taehyung hates his friends. Like he hated Jungkook when he asked him to go out earlier tonight. He hated him for making him do something he didn’t want. For not letting him drown in his anguish. He simply wasn’t feeling it. To be in a crowded club. To buy drinks for a nameless woman he would meet. Get drunk with them. Dance while groping their slender curves. Only to feel nothing. Get high. To a point he would not remember his own name and end up sleeping with that woman. Regret everything in the following morning. Drown in guilt. He wasn’t feeling it. But Jungkook and Jimin always find their way.

“She’s fucking gone, Taehyung. Fucking gone. You need to move the fuck on.”

Taehyung hated Jungkook for saying that. Because in his mind, that wasn’t true.

“It’s been more than a year, Kim Taehyung. How are you still in denial. You’re going out tonight. It’s better to get wasted together than alone.”

Taehyung hated Jimin for saying that out loud. It can’t be that long.

In the end, somehow, they won. Taehyung found himself on one of the bar stools. Lost in a fog. No jokes, no laughter, reached his ears. He intended to keep it that way. Just listen to his friends laugh. Ignore their desperate attempts to make him laugh. Until the barman will ask them to move away. Stop crowding the bar. He didn’t intend to, however, turn around before barman asked them to do so. Didn’t expect to bump into someone. On top of everything, he certainly didn’t expect that someone on his way to change something in him. Change things for a third time. In a club. As before, in bygone echoes.

The moment her drink splashed on his shirt; Taehyung felt his heart beats. As if it was the first beat of a heart. The moment her panicked, doe eyes locked in his eyes, Taehyung felt his lung deflate. The pressure on them was gone. The moment she started apologising over and over again, Taehyung felt his entire body calm down. The pain subsided. The moment when she tried to wipe his wet shirt. The moment she touched him, Taehyung felt everything he had been wanting to feel. The electrifying, burning sensation. The sensation that made his head spin and breath hitch. But what sealed the deal was her words.

“I’m really sorry, sailor. Wasn’t looking where I was going.”

That’s exactly how you said it.

“Whatever you wish to buy me, sailor.”

.....................................

You stood in a crowded club. In a dark secluded corner. Watching two people on the dance floor. Drunk. High. Dancing. Grinding. You knew how this one would end. Had seen how each and every club session ended. In a bed with different woman each time. You wanted to stop him all those times. You couldn’t. No matter how hard you tried. So, you learned to move on with that. This day, however, when you watched Taehyung’s hand sneak under her crop top. Watched his lips pepper kisses on her neck, jaw and every inch of skin he could find. Watched his eyes getting darker and more hooded. You knew something was changed. Something was different.

You know it has changed.

.....................................

Now

All those time Taehyung ended up on some random woman’s bed, he regretted it immediately. In the very moment his high faded, he regretted everything. Made sure he disappear into his miserable life the as soon as he could. This day though, he isn’t regretting anything. He didn’t run away, and he doesn’t plan to. He is waiting patiently for her to join him again. Maybe it’s bad. Maybe he is wrong. He is doing something wrong, isn’t he?

He feels guilty to a certain extent. But this time it’s not entirely towards you. It’s partially toward her. Because despite everything, it’s the memory of you that made him follow her. She is not like you. Not completely at least. But it’s the same kind of aura. The kind of aura that made him follow. You and she both are like magnets. Magnets that pulled him. Like he was spell bounded. Made his heart skip beats. She made him lose himself in a reverie. Made him travel through time. To a day he felt same kind of spell bound sensation.

To the day he met you on a crowded club.

.....................................

Six years ago

Taehyung had never felt such kind of feeling. A feeling of content simply by looking at someone. He felt satisfied. It was as though his heart found a place to rest. Every moment stretched. The world blurred around him. You hadn’t even noticed him. Were just enjoying your company on a booth. You weren’t drunk. Taehyung could tell that you weren’t. Just tipsy. Tipsy enough to laugh loudly for whatever your friends said, which was probably not that funny.

Subjects involving women were never a problem for him. But that day, he almost didn’t make his move. If it wasn’t for Jimin and Jungkook, he would have never talked to you. It was a gentle push on his back that made him approach you. With clammy hands and a pounding heart. He was nervous. So nervous that his stomach hurt. Yet, the moment you caught him approaching. In the moment you smiled. A stellar collision occurred. Oh, how sweet your smile was. How he thought you were the type to be timid and innocent. He read you completely wrong. And he loved the surprise. Loved when you turned out be a vixen. His vixen.

Of course, he ended up buying you a ‘Sex on the Beach’, when you asked him to buy whatever he wanted. And you didn’t like it.

“Let me guess, you’ve never had to try now, have you?”

“Oh, no. I’ve had to try pretty hard sometimes. Can I buy you something else?”

“Nah, this is fine.”

When you said yes to dance. On the crowded dance floor, your body pressed against his, Taehyung was in a bliss. Every single movement of your body. Every time you brushed against him. He felt his blood boil. Rushing southward. Making his mouth dry. Heart hammering inside his ribcage. And you knew what you were doing. You knew you had him wrapped around your pinkie finger. You knew his brain is short-circuiting when you pressed your tits on to him. Hands curling around his neck. Mouth hovering over his. Breath mingling. He smelled the alcohol on you. It was intoxicating. The way your breasts peeked through your low neckline. The way they were pressing onto his chest was captivating. Made his dick twitch. Painful. And you allowed him to do whatever he wanted. Just stared into his eyes when he grabbed you by your hips. Pressed you onto his throbbing dick. You sighed blissfully. Almost like a moan. And Taehyung nearly came in his pants. You moved your body against him. Pressed your tummy onto his hardened member. Almost pressed your lips into his. And then pulled away. Smirked.

“Life isn’t this easy. You should try harder sailor.”

.....................................

Six years ago

When that awfully good-looking man approached you, you never in a million years thought you would seal the your fate with him. He looked the type to be able to make you cum more than once for the night. And disappear right afterward. And you were fine with it. Just wanted to get laid, and he was the catch of the night.

You had your ways with men. Rules you made for yourself. To maintain a sense of power on your mind. To not let men have you used, and left unsatisfied, not being able to cum at least for once. Rules for one-night stands.

Rule one: you always made them desperate. Men are easy. You don’t have to try hard. Just having pair of tits are enough. Taehyung seemed to be the same kind of man to go on his knees for a peek of your tits. Oh, how wrong you were. The moment you turned around, you expected him to follow you. That’s how the horny men you met in clubs acted. Desperate.

He didn’t. Neither followed you nor approached you again. You regretted it. Regretted not going with the flow and let him have his way with you. Kept sneaking glances toward him. And he took his sweet time. Enough time for you to down three more drinks. Enough time for you to reluctantly agree to joined someone else on the dance floor.

That’s when he nearly made the chairs fly in the air. Stormed to you. Grabbed you by the wrist. Pressed his lips to yours. Nothing was said. No questions were asked. Just came and kissed you. Hard. Bit into your lower lip. Made you moan. Took his chance by sneaking his tongue into your mouth. And you moaned again. Your own rules started to crumble. You kissed him back. Lapped your tongue against his. Ignored your friends’ incredulous looks. Ignored the betrayed look on your supposed one-night stand’s. Just allowed Taehyung to guide you back to the dance floor while still kissing you. You decided you won’t pull away until he did. Not even if you fell dead without being able to breathe. Fortunately, he did pull away. You didn’t die.

Pressed his forehead to yours. Breathing rapid. Snaked his hands around your waist. Pulled you onto him.

“Don’t play.”

“I wasn’t playing.”

“You can’t make me rock hard and walk away. And find another man.”

“I didn’t do anything to make you hard, Taehyung.”

“You exist.”

You lied. You did everything to make him hard. Played well to make him desperate. Even though it was subtle. Was so happy he came back. Your rules had been thrown out the window long ago. He made your heartbeat stop just with his words. Made your cunt drip by just kissing. But where’s the fun when you just give in? Were just curious to know his limits. It was fun teasing.

“Sorry I did that. Look like I must apologise.”

Pressed your palm onto his toned chest. Pushed him slightly away. Let your hand wander down. Through his toned chest and abs. Felt how he tightened his muscles under your touch. Stopped right at his belt. Watched his breath hitch. Anticipation firing in his eyes. You smiled wickedly at that. Let your hand go even further down, caressing -or rather grazing- his clothed cock with the back of your hand. Taehyung groaned. Grunted. Bucked his hips into your hand. Oh, he was desperate. Just had good restraint. You had good restraint too. You hoped to keep playing the game. Taehyung didn’t. Maybe he didn’t have good restraint. Before you knew it, he had turned you around. Your back against his chest. Groaned again. This time in your ear. And your walls crumbled, completely. You willingly handed the power over to him.

“Don’t play. I’m so fucking hard it hurts.”

“Yeah? What should I do about it?.”

“You little vixen. I asked you not to play.”

“I am most definitely not playing Kim Taehyung. What should I do about it?”

He never answered that question. Just dragged you away from the dance floor all of a sudden. You let him. It was you who were waiting in anticipation then. Couldn’t help the sly smile on your face. He was hard to read. He appeared to be nervous. Timid. Subby. But he was manhandling you. And you were allowing it. Allowing him to drag you to a booth. Not private. Just empty. As luck would have it, it was empty. Sat back while pulling you to straddle him. You had no idea what he was playing at. You’d done some exciting shits, from fucking in a bathroom stall to car sex. Public sex? You hadn’t. And you didn’t know if you liked it or not. Made you nervous.

“We are in public, Taehyung.”

“I know.”

“You know? What are you trying to...”

“You asked me what you should do about it? This.”

He placed his hands under your knees. Pulled. Made you properly sit on his lap. Your already soaked cunt, pressed right against his rock-hard dick. Grabbed from your hips and pressed you further down. Down onto his dick. You both moaned. But you moaned a little harder. Your skirt ridden up. Flimsy material of your lacy panties bushing against your soaked folds and his pants. You wanted them to be gone. Both your panties and his pants.

“Grind.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Grind on me.”

“But we are in public.”

“Don’t care vixen. You asked me what you should do- well, it’s your fault I’m painfully hard. So do something about it. Grind. Like a bitch in heat hm? Be good?”

Oh, how the man who practically stuttered when he first reached you has changed. You loved it. Who needs power after all? You had read him wrong. He wasn’t the type to be subby. He wasn’t going to play your game. You had two options. Either to back away or let him have his way. You simply chose the latter. You didn’t need power. Nodded. Started slowly moving your hips. Careful experimental rubs at first. He encouraged you. Bucked his hips upwards. Into your soaked cunt. Moaned. And the world around you disappeared. It was him who left on your world. Him only.

“Fuck like that. Keep going.”

“Wha.... What if someone sees us.”

“Let them. Let’s give them a show. Hm?”

Your blood was boiling. Cunt dripping. For the first time in your life, you allowed a man to play you. Like the way he wanted. And it was exhilarating. To let him handle you. Do things to you. Stopped trying to be smug and cocky. Became pliant. Found out that you like the idea of being seen. Moaned shamelessly to his words. He smirked. Bucked his hips more into you. Controlled your movements with his hands on your hips. And you did as he asked. Grind on him like a bitch in heat. Taehyung glanced towards where your cunt was dripping onto him. Moaned.

“Fuck baby... Like that... keep going. Look how you’re dripping. Make a mess baby. “

“I... I nee... need more.”

“Yeah? You need more? I’ll give you more. Just keep going huh? Be a good slut for me.”

You listened to a man for the first time in your life. Quickened your movements. Followed his gaze. Watched how you were staining on his pants. Made your head spin. Grabbed onto his shoulders for leverage. Pushed your cunt harder on him. Felt the knot on your tummy tightened. Couldn’t care anymore about being on public. Of someone catching you. It was so good. Not enough but so good. Taehyung looked into your eyes. His eyes were blown out with lust. Pressed a kiss on to your lips before removing his hands from your hips. Only to snaked it between your bodies and pressed two fingers on your clit. Over your panties. Started rubbing your clit softly.

“Shit you are so fucking hot. So fucking hot dripping on to me. On a club full of people. So hot rubbing your cute cunt on a stranger. Keep going princess...”

You nearly cried. The knot tightened and tightened. Kept grinding. Felt dizzy. Your cunt on fire. And right at the moment that knot was about to explode Taehyung’s hand left your sopping cunt. Grabbed onto your hips back and stilled you. Pressed you hard down. You whined so loud. Loud enough that you were sure so many people looked at you. It was intense how he robbed you of that orgasm. Intense enough that your thighs trembled.

“No.... I was... So.. so close.”

“I know”

“Why did you do that then?”

“Don’t want this to end. Want to keep you dripping for me as long as I can.”

A shiver ran through your spine. You stared into his eyes. They were beautiful, blown out with lust. Had no idea what came over you when you started kissing him madly. Pressing your lips into his harder. Sucking on his bottom lip and then on his tongue. Taehyung just let you had it. Encouraged you with moans and groans. Started bucking his hips again onto your sensitive pussy. In a minute you were back to grinding. Kissing. Staring into his deep dark eyes. His hands were everywhere. On your hips. Thighs. Back. Ass. And on your boobs. He squeezed them, hard enough you cried out. Circled your nipples through the dress.

“Can I pull this down. Wanna see your pretty tits.”

“Fuck Taehyung. What if....”

“No one’s looking. Please. Please fuck.”

He didn’t wait for your yes. Not that you planned to say no. He was irresistible. So, all you did was moan when he swiftly pulled your dress down with your lacy bra. Making your tits bounce in the air.

“Holy fuck. Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

Closed his eyes and groaned. Opened them again. A fire burning in them. It was the most hottest sight, the way he licked his lips before wrapping those wet lips around one of your nipples. Slapped the other tit. Made it bounce. Did it again, and then again and again. All while sucking on your other nipple hard. Teeth grazing. You were a crying mess. There were no restraints left in you. People could see you. Your naked chest, bouncing under his little slaps. You couldn’t care, however. Not when his hot tongue was swirling around your hardened buds. Not when his lips were sucking on your nipples like his life depended on it. Like you were his source of life. Not when he kept his eyes on your face all the time. He popped your nipple out of his mouth and put the other one in his mouth. Did the same thing to the free one. Made it bounce. Pulled away. Kissed your nipples like he was gone mad. Squeezed them together. Buried his face between them. Groaned into your skin. That made your hips rolled faster, bringing you to the edge again.

“I’m gonna cum. Taehyung I... I... please I need to cum.’

For the first time in your life, you asked permission before cumming. Begged from a man for your release. Good thing was that you loved every moment of it. And he stilled you again. You were devastated. Didn’t even realize you let the tears gathered on your eyes to rolled down. Wetting your cheeks. Taehyung watched you shatter. Hitched your bodice up again, covering your assaulted tits. Pressed his lips on to your collar bones. Peppered you with kisses. Patted your ass.

“C’mon move baby.”

“Where? Where are we going?”

“To make you cum. Want you to cum on my cock. As much as I love having you rub on me like a needy slut. I want to feel your cunt around me. And as much as I love giving people a show, you’re too pretty to be shown.”

Both of your intended destination was a bathroom stall. It was occupied with a long queue of patrons. No fucks were allowed there. And it felt like the end of the world for you. Never have been that turned on in your life. Taehyung was something else.

Fortunately, Taehyung looked like his world ended that moment too. Pressed few kisses to your lips needily before suggesting, leaving the club. That was the fastest yes you gave someone. Didn’t know where you were about to go when you exited the club. Not being able to take two steps without kissing. Didn’t know how your back ended up pressing against a car door. Kissing like it was the last time you would get to kiss someone. Just a mess of tongue and teeth. You were the first to pulled away first with a pop. Him chasing your mouth. Trail of saliva connecting your still wet lips.

“Shit I can’t wait anymore Taehyung. I fucking can’t.”

“Fuck don’t say that. I’ll fuck you here.”

“Then you should.”

You may have given the controller to him willingly. Still, you had some tricks to play the game, hidden up your sleeves. You pulled one of them. Hiked your dress up and pushed your panties aside. Kept staring into his lust-filled eyes. Circled your clit for a second before plunged two fingers inside your quivering, needy hole. Moaned intentionally loudly, making him curse. Pulled your fingers back and held them in front of his eyes, glistening with your arousal.

“See… so fucking wet. I’m dripping.”

“Shit! You needy slut.”

Taehyung grabbed your wrist. Pressed his entire body into yours and caged you between his radiant form and the car. Brought your fingers to his mouth. Wrapped his lips around your fingers. You didn’t know who moaned louder. You were uncontrollably rubbing your thighs together. Taehyung sucked your fingers clean. Let your hand go and cupped your cheeks with one of his hands. Kissed you again, generously allowing you to taste how sweet you were. Pulled away.

“You want to get fuck here? Out in the open? Are you sure?”

“Yes. Never been so sure Taehyung.”

“What my slut wants, she gets.”

It was only a surprised yelp that escaped your mouth when he yanked your figure on to the hood of that car. Hoisted you up on the hood. Buried his face on your neck. Peppering wet kissed across your honeyed skin. Tongue poking out. Teeth grazing. Sucking and indefinitely giving you some purple marks. Made your toes curl and cunt clenched.

“This isn’t your car, is it Taehyung?”

“No… No, fuck. I don’t know whose car this is. Do you care? Do we have to wait.”

“No no no. I don’t care. Keep going please.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, bringing him impossibly close. Taehyung chuckled. Darkly. Peck your lips.

“You really are a slut. Aren’t you baby. A needy slut?”

Mumbled. You didn’t answer that question. Only got to nod your head when he slipped his hand inside your already ridden up dress. Hooked his finger on your panties to push it aside. Grazed his fingers over your slicked slit. Made electric sensations run through your body. Kept looking at your fucked-up face when two of his slender fingers teased your hole. For a moment. And then he was pushing past your entrance, in a one swift go. A strangled cry left your throat, your own hand grabbing from his wrist. Your needy hole sucking up his fingers greedily. Started pumping those slender fingers into you without warning. Curled them a bit. You were beyond surprised that he hit the spot right there. He smirked when you reeled at his fingers. Added another. Stretched you wide.

“Fuck baby. You’re wet. So fucking wet. And tight. You gonna fucking kill me. You know. Fuck my fucking dick hurts.”

His voice was shaky when he mumbled against your lips. Hips bucking into your thigh for some kind of friction. That was your sign to do something about his pain. Felt bad that you were selfish. Flew toward his belt and unbuckled it in record time. Did the same with his fly. Slipped your hand inside his boxers, feeling his raging hard for the first time. His dick twitched when your fingers lightly grazed it. Curled your delicate fingers around his hot shaft. Made him moan, and wasn’t it the sweetest melody you’ve ever heard. His dick felt damn good on your hand. Twitched agian. So, you squeezed it.

“Harder. Squeeze it harder, princess. Holy fuck!! Like that.”

You obeyed his commands so unlike you. Squeezed his dick and pumped. Grazed your thumb over his tip. And he kept pumping his fingers inside you. You were no longer a part of the earth that day. The breeze didn’t make you realize you were out in the open. The sound of the music didn’t remind you that you were in the parking lot of a club. And you didn’t care about dripping onto someone else’s car hood. You were high. High on Taehyung. Never wanted to pleasure someone else that badly. Never wanted to have someone inside you that badly.

“Please Taehyung. Fuck me now hm?”

From there it didn’t take much more convincing or begging. Taehyung pulled his fingers out of your cunt, making you feel empty and wincing. You did the same. Let his hard cock go. Watched him fumble with his pants for second before he freed his hard dick out. Watched it spring out in the cold air, tip red and angry. Swollen and pre cum leaking. You gulped harshly. That was the most fucking beautiful dick you’ve ever seen. Made your mouth water.

“Fuck I want you in my mouth.”

“Yeah? You want my dick on your slutty mouth? I fucking love the idea baby. Love to see your lips wrapped around me. But my cock will fall down if I don’t fuck you right now.”

That was very dramatic, but you agreed. You felt like you were about to die. Nodded desperately. Spread your legs wide apart. For him and him only. Taehyung chuckled. Pumped himself. And that was a sight for sore eyes. Came closer to you. Only to halt his movement all of a sudden. His smile faltered while you watched.

“What? What is it?”

“A condom. I don’t have one.”

For a second time you felt like your world ended. It was incredulous how he came to a club searching for lay but didn’t have protection with him. Incredulous how that it was your intention, but you didn’t have one either. You gaped at each other. He shivered. Not from cold. Let his cock go so he could grab from your thighs. Looked like he was about to cry.

“Baby, I’m clean I promise. I’ll stop if you want but I’m clean. I really want you. It hurts princess.”

That was a damn risk to take. How did you ever trust a stranger? That could have been the end of your sex escapades. But his words lit a insatiable fire inside you, driving you crazy. So, you nodded, desperately. Making Taehyung sigh in relief.

“I’m clean too.”

That’s all it took him to spring into action. Pushed your thigh further back, hiking your dress up. Stared at your sopping cunt and your wet panties sticking into your core. Cursed. Asked you to push your panties aside and aligned his tip with you. Silently asked you if you were ready and with one nod from you, he entered you in one go. No slow penetrations but a hard thrust in that made you nearly scream. Seized your hips, pushed you even more into him. Stilled you, while his cock was buried deep inside you. Breathed into your mouth. Took a moment. Allowed you to feel how perfectly he slotted inside you. Your walls stretched apart. He had girth and length to made you fill to the brim. Made you feel how pleasurable to have him stretched you and how good it was to feel his dick twitch.

“Move please.”

Every second that passed, only added fuel to the fire inside you. Even when he was deep inside you, you wanted more. You bucked your hips onto his. Grind. Gave him the best puppy eyes you could muster, and he listened. To your desperate plea. Held on to your hips from one hand for leverage and made your thigh pushed onto you with the other. Gave an experimental roll of his hips. Got you reeling. Gave another and then another, until he was thrusting into you fast. Hard. Your toes curling and thighs shaking. His eyebrows pulled together in concentration. Mouth agape. Short quick breath nibbled your lips. He was intoxicating. And you were drunk on him. Each and every pleasurable thrust, each drag on your fluttering walls brought you to ecstasy. And the moment when he pushed his hand under your ass to pull you slightly up, the moment his tip hit you at that one spot, you allowed yourself to cry.

“Fuck, like that baby. Cry dumb on my cock. You fucking feel like heaven. You wanna cum? Touch your cute little clit for me baby. Make yourself cum. Cream my cock.”

Your hand reached to your clit between your bodies so fast. Started rubbing figure eights furiously. Drove yourself into insanity and dragged Taehyung with you to that. He picked up his phase. Fingers digging on to your thighs harsh that they left marks for weeks. You were sure it didn’t take you more than two fucking minutes to fall apart. His name was the only thing left on your tongue as you cried for him. Cried from the immense pleasure. Dragged your high for as long as you can. Stopped rubbing your clit when it became too much but Taehyung didn’t even slow down. Overwhelming you. Making your legs tremble. Making you whine and plead.

“Can’t stop. Fuck I can’t baby. Sorry, but you feel so damn fucking good. Fucking wet. I can’t stop. C’mon cum again. Cum for me like a good whore. One more time. Please..”

A new wave of arousals shot through you at his words. Made you drip more on his cock with your tummy fluttering. Held onto his shoulders for dear life and let him pound onto your abused cunt. Happily, allowed him to pull the neckline of your dress back, freeing your tits. Moaned when he started sucking and squeezing on them. Came apart for a second time while he started at your bouncing tits like he was enthralled. You were absolutely right to think he would be able to make you cum more than once. He made you cum twice and then thrice. You were a crying mess sprawled on some stranger’s car after falling apart for a third time. Taehyung was hanging on a thread himself. Covered in sweat. The hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

“I’m close baby. So close. Keep squeezing me like that. Like good girl huh? God, you’re fucking perfect.”

And he had a dirty mouth. You loved it. You loved every moment of it.

“Shit I’m gonna cum. Where? Where do you…. want…”

That was a question to which you should give a straight ‘pull out’. He was a stranger. You were already risking the STDs. That was the day you learned that people make stupid decisions when they are drunk and high. It doesn’t matter on what.

“Inside please. Want you to cum inside me.”

“Fucking hell!... You want a fucking stranger to cum inside you? Fuck. How much of a whore you could be?”

“Don’t care. Please Taehyung inside. Fill me up.”

“Fuck yes. Yes. Yes. Gonna fill you up. Fill you up with cum. And you gonna go home like that. My cum dripping down your thighs. Like the good slut you are.”

“Yes, fuck yes. I promise.”

Pathetic how you cried for a shot of cum. But was worth every minute of it when he finally broke apart. Shattered. Cursed out aloud. It was the pure ecstasy when you felt his hot cum spilled inside you. And it was heartbreaking how you wanted to hold onto him forever when he hid his face on your neck. Whining. His dick still throbbing inside you.

It was heartbreaking, that everything ended.

.....................................

Five years and seven months ago

Taehyung had never thought the best sex of his life would be on top of a stranger’s car. He never thought that fuck would mess him up so much that he couldn’t sleep for days. Never thought that a one-night stand would ruin him for anyone else. That he would have to fuck his fist to the memory of you for any kind of relief. On top of everything, he never thought he would ever see you again. But then he did. Unexpectedly. After five months. On his colleague slash the girl he was in a situation ship’s house. He was there with her to pick some documents up. Something she forgot.

He stood in the living room while she rummaged through her house. That’s when someone descended the stairs in such a hurry that they skipped a stair. Held on to the banister to save their neck. Eyes landed on him at the same time his landed on them, clutching the banister for dear life. You. You who was his best fuck for the life. You, in front of him again in a baggy white T-shirt and blue shorts. You who stared at him with an open mouth, just like he did. You both blinked at each other. Until his colleague slash situationship realized you were there. She looked at you and then at Taehyung and told the last thing he wanted to hear.

“Oh, meet my sister Taehyung. Say hi sis, this is Taehyung. The man I’ve told you. I think I left that in my room. Gimme a min Tae”

And she disappeared through a door to her right. Left you and him alone. He watched you regain your composure and got onto your feet again. Waited till you descended the stairs and approached him. You smiled at him. Your sweet smile. The sweetest. His heart stopped. The world blurred, like the first day he saw you.

“Well, hello Mr. Kim Taehyung.”

“Hello Vixen.”

Ever since then he found a reason to be at your place. He was a selfish little shit for doing that. To use your sister just to find a way to you. He knew he was giving your sister hope by visiting her almost every day. For so many dumb reasons. Yet, he couldn’t help it. Just one sneak at you made him want to dance. Made him feel alive. He felt like a stupid teenager. So, he kept being selfish. At first, you were surprised to see him for a second time at your place. Then day by day you realized why he was there. You were a smart girl after all. Proved to him that you were indeed a vixen. Stopped wearing those baggy T- shirts and replaced them with flimsy tank tops. Wore booty shorts instead of sweats. Wore see through blouses with no bras. Made his brain short circuit and dick throb at how your nipples peaked through. Treated him like your sister’s boyfriend. That annoyed him to no end. They weren’t in a relationship at all. But you knew how to torture his mind and body. With your occasional slutty smiles. With your body innocently and accidentally brushing against him here and there.

Still, he never made a move. Never grew the balls to stop playing his cowardly games. Simply was the biggest coward on the damn earth. Until that day you brought a man home. While he was lounging on your couch. With your sister. In a sour mood because you weren’t home. And then there you came, with someone else’s hand on your waist. Introduced him as a friend of yours. Invited him to your room. And Taehyung was burning. Burning with a fire that set by you. A fire that ate him inside out. He was seeing red because how jealous he was. He wanted to strangle that man. Wanted to fuck you in front of him. Couldn’t think of anything else other than what you might be up to in your room. A room he had never been to.

That’s when you came downstairs again. Your shower basket in your hand. Taehyung has been in your house long enough to know you share a one bathroom and it’s on the down floor. Knew you were about to take a shower. It made his sour mood worse. Didn’t want another man to see you in your damp hair. With your skin glistening after water freshened you.

He was only seeing blind red when he waited until your sister went to grab something. He was enthralled by the jealousy when he found himself striding to your bathroom. Knew the lock of the door was broken. Funny how your family has been screaming ‘I’m taking the bathroom’ before anyone of you used it. He stood there for a minute. Listening to the sound of water. Imagined you naked under that shower. That thought alone made his dick hard. Wasn’t thinking clearly when he pushed the door open. You didn’t notice nor did you hear anything until he was inside, closed the door behind him and walked up to the little shower box. Yanked the glass door open. That’s only you jumped at the sound, turned around startled. Eyes wide, and taking him in. Hands went to cover your chest.

“Fuck, Taehyung, what are you doing?”

You were innocently and genuinely surprised. Taehyung on the other hand was spell bounded. Enchanted by your naked little figure in front of him. Water cascading across your honey skin. Through your slender curves. He ogled at your breasts and the way they pushed higher with your hands. Fuck weren’t you gorgeous. The most beautiful thing he has ever seen. How he always regretted and blamed him for rushing things with you that night. For not being patient enough to take you to a private place and get you stark naked. For not being able to see you in all your glory. Sue him for ogling at you like that. But you were just perfect.

“Aren’t you a fucking pervert Kim Taehyung?”

When he looked at your face, he knew there was no malice in your words. There was a sly smile. Your sweet slutty smile.

“I am. I am a fucking pervert.”

He knew you enjoyed the snap of his limit. Knew you were happy that you made him follow you into the shower. Knew you expected him to act on his impulses under your tortures one day. You didn’t, however, expect him to be stormed into the shower box. Your eyes bulged out when he pushed you back on to the slippery wall tiles. The sound you let out when he pressed his lips onto yours made his tummy flutter. He didn’t care about his clothes getting wet. Didn’t care how he would explain this to anybody later. About your sister being there in the same house. It was only you in his eyes. Only you when he tasted you after so long. Your intoxicating taste. Your tongue lapped against him.

It happened all fast. The way he discarded his clothes. Started savoring every inch of your body with his hand and lips. You mumbled something about how you shouldn’t do that there. He simply didn’t listen. He was thinking with his raging boner. Made you go on your knees and choked on his dick. Eyes tearing up and gagging around him. Thrusted into your mouth and praised you for being a good slut. His slut. Pulled out from your mouth when his balls started to tighten.

“No don’t do that. Wanted you to cum in my mouth.”

“Next time, baby.”

“Next time?”

“Yes, next time. I promise.”

It was adorable how you whined for his cum. Even adorable how you, a little vixen, turned pliant under him. A whiny mess. Made his dick throb. He ignored your cautions of getting caught and being in your house, inside a closed door which wasn’t locked. Was so happy to think, that man you bought home was currently waiting for you while he hoisted you up. Pressed you against the wall and lined his throbbing dick at your sopping pussy. His brain was malfunctioning when he started to push inside you. This time he did it slowly. Painfully slow for both of you. It was euphoric how your walls fluttered around his girth. Was head spinning the feeling of your cute cunt struggle to take him.

He knew he was a goner when you started squeezing on him. When you started to beg for him to move. So, he did. You were irresistible. Thrusted into your quivering cunt with everything he got. Made you cum so hard on his dick. Picked up his phase when you cried out for him. Didn’t stop until you were trembling badly. Didn’t stop when your sister knocked on your door and you had to answer. Made sure you screamed his name when that friend of yours did the same and asked you what’s taking so long. Best part was you came at that moment, bringing him over the edge with you.

“Fuck like that slut. Cum on my cock while he listens”

“Taehyung god. Want you to cum inside me.”

“I will baby. I’ll make sure you’re always full of my cum now on.”

.....................................

Five years ago

Ever since that day, he kept his promise toward you.

Next time, I promise

There were so many next times. How you didn’t get caught by your sister was a miracle. Only that your friend was gone by the time you left the bathroom. You snuck clothes for Taehyung that day. Even managed to keep him for the night. And he stopped coming to your place with your sister. Instead, popped up on your porch after few days with orchid. You snorted so hard at that. He pouted so hard at that. You felt your heart swell. Had no other options but kiss that pout away. You sneaked him inside. Every night from that day. To your attic room.

That’s how he slowly became an inseparable part of your life. From your endless sex to cuddles on the bed. From your sneaky outings to just sitting on your windowsill. In the middle of the night. Smoking cigarettes with your window open. Just to let the smoke go out so your mom won’t find out. Sharing the same cigarette and laughing about his silly jokes. Getting your lives startled out of your bodies whenever a knock came on your door. Throwing the cigarette out of the window and waving the smoke out. Pushing a grinning Taehyung under your bed and sit on you bed very non-suspiciously when your mom or sister poked their head inside your room. You lived a teenage life with him when you both were adults.

Made endless excuses every time you spend a day at his place. Invited him over to yours whenever you were home alone. Made him read books with you. He never liked it. Preferred to gape at your face more.

“You don’t have to read if you don’t want to.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course, Tae. You can do anything you want.”

“Let’s fuck, then.”

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“You always take control over me. I kind of like it. But, still Tae, I prefer to have some control in my life sometimes. Like this. So, no. No fucking.”

“Oh c’mon, take the control then.”

“You should be more careful when you speak Tae Tae.”

“I know what I’m saying. Take the control vixen. Tie me up to your bed.”

And you did. Got revenge for all the time he edged you. Edged him until tears rolled down his cheeks. Kept his cock warm inside you for hours. Knew he would take revenge one day, but you lived in those moments. With him. Lived an exhilarating life until you met the first boulders together. Getting caught by your sister being the first. Walked up to him after a huge fight at your house. Knocked on his door to say you should stop your fuck buddy relationship. Almost left him there when he yelled.

“I love you. I fucking love you stupid vixen. You can’t just walk away.”

Those were the most beautiful words you’ve ever heard in your life. You had frozen when he shouted at your back. Had gaped into his face when he ran to you and turned you to face him.

“I know you love me too”

“Don’t be so sure sailor.”

You weren’t feeling cocky that day. Your throat was dry like you ate sand. And he didn’t grin at your words like other days. Watched you with a stern face. Made you realize there will be no sun rising in your world without him.

“Yes. Yes, fuck. I love you too. I fucking love you too…”

And he grinned. Kissed the life out of you. Told you he will walk with you to end of the world. Cheeky. You said so. He didn’t care. And he did walk with you. He walked with you when you cried over unanswered emails from hundreds of book publishers. He walked with you until you finally resolved things with your sister. He walked with you when you eventually received an answer from a little publishing group. He walked with you when you finally published a book. He was there with you each and every step.

You went from strangers at a club to buying a house together. His friends became your friends. Yours became his. You slotted together like puzzle pieces. Fought and cried over silly matters. And then one of you pouted so hard until the other forgave. Slow danced in the living room and threw your own little musical shows. Him just wearing a towel and you in your bathrobe. Hair dryer was your mic, and he was your only admirer. So was you for him. You lived in those moments. With him. Through every up and down. You loved him. You still do. Dearly.

.....................................

One and a half year ago

He and you fought. Not always but sometimes, like all the other couples do. But ever since you started your new job at a new publishing agency, you have fought a little more. The reason was your agent. Kim Namjoon. Taehyung always despised him. Maybe he wasn’t fair. But the guy always had heart eyes when he looked at you. Taehyung was still obsessed with you after all those times. He was freaking jealous to see Namjoon all over you. And you knew that too. Knew Namjoon wasn’t just being a friend. Still, you wanted your job. Taehyung understood. Understood that it was your dream, knew you loved him more than your own world. And even with that his jealousy side sometime won.

That’s what happened that day. When you were about to leave for a meeting with Kim Namjoon. Taehyung was frustrated. Devastated. And he regretted it immediately after you left. Regretted that he called you an attention seeking slut and asked you to do whatever the fuck you wanted.

Why the fuck you can’t understand what I’m… No. Guess what (….), go fucking ahead and do whatever fuck you want. You’re nothing but an attention seeking slut…

You weren’t. You was nothing but his entire world. His sun and moon. His little princess. The most lovable, kindest, and gentle person on the world. You were that high spirited bubble that made his world colorful in the darkest of night. He never said that to you, however. Instead, he called you an attention seeking slut. And when he wanted to say sorry and take everything back. It was too late. He never got to tell you that.

The moment he received that call from an unknown number, his only chance to tell you that you were his world was robbed from him. A single phone call was all it took to let him know that he will never be able to tell you those things that were left unsaid. The phone call that changed his life, and informed him that they were regretting it to tell him, the car his girlfriend was travelling is crashed. Crushed by a truck. And they were so sorry that you didn’t make it. Taehyung yelled at that person from the top of his lungs. Cursed them for playing funny games with him. Denied it over and over again. Until he couldn’t. In the end he couldn’t. He never got to tell you that you were his sun and moon. You weren’t there anymore.

.....................................

One and a half year ago

It was all a vague memory. The way your heart shattered at his words. The way you shouted back at him. The way you left your home. It all felt like a dream. So did your conversation with Namjoon. All of his questions regarding why you were crying. Hell, you didn’t know you were crying. You shrugged those questions away. But Namjoon was stubborn. Kept asking you questions until you broke into a loud cry that caught his complete attention. His attention, which should have been on the road, instead of on you. You didn’t remember when and where that damn truck appeared but when you noticed and screamed, it was all too late.

You woke up, however. Yes, you did. While it felt like your head spinning. Even with everything, you woke up, only to find your own body lying in the crashed debris of a car. It took you a little while to understand that you were dead. To understand that it was all too late. To remember that you left Taehyung behind. That you stormed out of your home that evening after fighting with him. It was all too late when you turned around and started running toward your house. Too late when you reached your home that Taehyung was already a sobbing wreck on the floor. With Jimin and Jungkook. His head hidden in Jungkook’s chest. He was fucking wailing. Wailing uncontrollably into his friend’s chest. Both of his friends were crying too but Taehyung was struggling to breathe.

“Fuck it was my fault Jungkook-ah. I drove her away... I…I...”

The rest was muffled in Jungkook’s chest.

“Holy fuck, no man. It wasn’t you. No. You didn’t do anything. It was no one’s fault.”

You watched Jungkook sob into Taehyung’s hair. Watched Jimin trap Taehyung between him and Jungkook.

“She would hate herself if she heard you say that. Don’t fucking say that. It wasn’t you. She knows it wasn’t you Tae. She knows.”

Yes. You knew. Yes, Jimin was right that you hated yourself that moment. It wasn’t him. Only if you had listened to him and stayed home. You wanted to console him. Touch him. Kiss him. Say that it’s all okay and there’s no reason to cry. Made him hide his face in your chest like you always did when he was sad. You tried. You tried with all your will. But nothing worked. Nobody bat an eye toward you. Nobody felt you. Heard you. No matter how hard you tried to touch Taehyung. It was all too late. And the last thing you said to him was, that he was a jealous, possessive prick.

You are fucking jealous Taehyung. Fucking jealous I’m making it, don’t you. You fucking jealousy, possessive prick. Guess what? Yes, I’m an attention seeking slut, and I’ll gain all the attention of the world.

Those weren’t true. He wasn’t someone like that. He was your sunshine. The boy who brought flowers for you. For a girl who never received flowers in her life. He never was jealous. Not with you. He was your pillar to hang on to. The only person who believed in you like a moth would follow flame. You wanted to tell that to him. But it was all too late. He didn’t hear you.

.....................................

Now

Ever since that cursed day, you followed Taehyung around. To every place you could. Watched him break apart. Shattering into a million pieces. Watched him die day by day. From crying onto his pillow to stop showing his emotions at all. Watched him become an empty husk. Hollow. And you died all over again with him. You thought all pains would end with death. And there you were burning on a fire that never went off. Shared that hell with Taehyung. Felt helpless when you couldn’t make him eat. Help him sleep. You were a nothing more than a reader of an anguished book. Helpless. Your heart broke each moment passed. Still, all you could do was watch and cry.

Watched him bring women home. Watched him go to their homes. Hell, you followed him even there. Cried your eyes out. It was a tortures mix between seeing him suffer and seeing him with someone else. You were selfish after all. Selfish enough that you couldn’t leave him. Couldn’t leave him in his misery.

Until now, the day everything changed.

You watch him stare at the bathroom door, waiting for her to come. You are in pain. So much pain.

.....................................

Now

Taehyung had waited countless times on your bed until you joined him after your shower. On the days he was too lazy to join you. Even after spending more than three years with you, he always felt giddy when you entered the room just in a towel. Just like how he feels now. To see her enter the room. Just in a towel. It feels wrong because he came here because she reminded him of you. The same kind of aura that pulled him up. It feels wrong because he is comparing her to you. He expects her to be you. She isn’t you. Even though she smiles at him fondly like you always did.

“Stay the night here, sailor?” She mumbles as she throws a T-shirt over her head. Taehyung’s heart stops for a beat again.

Stay here tonight sailor. I’ll find a way to sneak you in.

That’s exactly what you said after he fucked you that day in your family house bathroom.

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” She asks again when he doesn’t reply. Climbs onto the bed next to him. Peers at his eyes. Smiles with her eyes. “You should smile more. Like this.” She smiles at him. Pokes at his ribs. Nuzzles his cheek with her nose. “C’mon sailor. It doesn’t cost you to smile.” Wines in complaint and Taehyung can’t help but softly chuckle.

“There you go. You’re fucking beautiful when you laugh.” She says as she keeps poking at his ribs.

“I want to be handsome. Not beautiful.”

“You’re most definitely handsome. Smile some more. Laugh.” She bites onto his cheek. The smile ghosted on his lips breaks into a grin. And then into a laugh. He can’t help it when it naturally comes within his chest. And she laughs too. Aloud.

For the first time after one-and-a-half years Taehyung laughs. Like how he used to do. Like himself. Like he did with you. And she laughs like you. Not in the same way but in the kind of way that makes him relax. In a way that makes his darkest night colorful. She is a rainbow, and you were a sun. She is not you but that’s okay. She can give him hope again. Hope and purpose to live. He can hang onto her. He can laugh.

……

He watches her chest rise and fall while she is sleeping. Looks at her peaceful face.

She’s fucking gone Taehyung. Fucking gone. You need to move the fuck on.

It’s been more than a year Kim Taehyung.

Yes, his friends were right. You were gone. You aren’t coming back. No matter how long he waits. He can’t die. Not anymore. He wants to live. For you. For him. To remember you till the day he dies. To cherish your memory with him. To see what the life will hold for him. He will tell her about you one day. He will heal. Move on. Not forgetting you. No, he can’t do that. You will always be his sun and moon. But he will learn to love again. Learn to live. And he will let go of you.

It hurts. Hurts to think that he will need to finally let go of you. To finally accept that you were gone. Without giving him a chance to let you know how much he loves you. All he wanted was one chance. Just one to tell you that he loves you. To hear you say it back. To apologise. Hold you and kiss you dearly. Tell you that you were his sun and moon. He can’t. He will never have that one opportunity. It’s time he should let you go.

“You are free, my vixen. You can go. I love you but it’s time for you to go.” He mumbles into nothing before closing his eyes. Peaceful for the first time.

.....................................

Now

It hurts. It hurts like hell to hear him say that. To hear him ask you to leave. You don’t want to. The sun will not rise in a world without him. Even though this is neither living nor dying you want to hang onto him. Even though this is an endless pain you want to be with him. Even though you can’t make him happy or laugh, can’t make him live, you want to be there for him.

“That’s your closure (….) You need to move on now.” The sudden voice doesn’t startle you. Not when you are so accustomed to that presence next you. For a year and a half. You turn to look at him.

“What do you mean?” Your voice trembling.

“You couldn’t move on because he held on to you. You were stuck here because you didn’t have your closure to move on. You were stuck to him because he was hanging on to you. You couldn’t leave him when he was suffering. But he is going to be okay.” Namjoon���s voice is soothing. Like always.

“That’s not true. I was here because I wanted to. Because I love him. Because he loves me.” You shake your head in dissent.

“Yes, you both love each other. But sometimes it isn’t enough. You can’t make a difference in his life (….), like you couldn’t all this time. You need to let him live his life. I’m sorry I killed you. I’m sorry I dragged you into this place-”

“It wasn’t your fault, Namjoon. It was nobody’s fault.” At first, you resented him so much. Blamed him for everything. For the pain Taehyung was feeling. But it wasn’t him. You know it wasn’t him.

“Yeah, but I don’t know…. You died (…). He is still alive. Let him live that life. This is your time to move on.” Namjoon looks at you. You can’t make his features in the dark.

It was at your own funeral, sitting on a dark corner, watching Taehyung breaking apart, when you first saw Namjoon. Neither of you made it. And you forgot him until that day. You yelled at him. Accused him for being at fault. Yet, he never left. All those times you watched Taehyung, he was watching you. You knew he loved you more than a friend when you were alive. You knew Taehyung was right. But it wasn’t as if you would choose someone over Kim Taehyung. Not even that person is Kim Namjoon. You are bounded to Taehyung even after your death. Still, you feel gratification towards Namjoon.

“Why didn’t you go Namjoon? Why then, you are here? If I was simply stuck here until Tae gives me my closure. What are you doing here?”

He smiles at you. His dimple smile.

“Maybe you are my closure. You just gave me my closure.”

It wasn’t your fault, Namjoon. It was nobody’s fault.

You gave him his closure. You watch him. He smiles again. It makes sense now. You turn your head to Taehyung, walk over to the bed where he is sleeping with another woman. There’s nothing you can do. You are dead. He is not. You want him to live. A life he will remember. A life where he would always laugh. You need to let him live. There’s pang in your chest. Nothing unfamiliar, that pang was always there.

You watch Taehyung breathe peacefully as he sleeps. After a long time, he is not thrashing. Not crying in his sleep. Doesn’t mumble your name. He is peaceful. You can move on now. He let you go. Tears start rolling on your cheeks. There are so many things that left unsaid. You never got to tell him that how he made you feel alive. That he is the most selfless person you met. That you felt how much he loved you by just the way he looked at you. You didn’t get that chance.

“I never got to tell him sorry Namjoon. Sorry for saying those things to him. Never got to apologize for anything. I don’t want him to think that I hated him. Because I didn’t. I loved him, I love him. I…”

“Trust me he knows (…). He knows you loved him. He knows you love him.”

You don’t believe Namjoon. But what other options do you have. You can’t say sorry to him.

He never blamed you. Not even for leaving him. He is fucking selfless. There are things still unresolved but then why you must go now. You still have to apologize.

You feel Namjoon’s hands wrapped around your trembling figure. From behind.

“You need to go because he knows. He knows you never meant them. He freed you (…)” That was an answer for an unasked question.

Taehyung freed you. You need to free him too. Live him his life. You watch him for another moment. Nod. He knows. You know he knows.

You step forward. A little bit closer to the edge of the bed. Namjoon follows you. Hands never leaving you. You desperately want to feel Taehyung one more time. Just feel his warmth. Desperately want one more day. You wish you had one more day to tell him he was your life line. One more day to tell him you love him. Just for one more time. To hear him say those words back.

I love you. I fucking love you stupid vixen.

“I love you, Kim Taehyung. I always did and always will. I’m sorry I called you those things, but you know that I didn’t mean them don’t you sailor? I didn’t. I should have let you know that you were my anchor. I’m sorry that I left…. Sorry for every fight, every harsh word....” You want to say so much more but words get tangle in your throat. You want to apologise for every time you couldn’t be what he needed. But the words keep sticking to your tongue. Only the ache of what’s unsaid left in you. So, you simply repeat that you love him for a one last time.

You lean down, freeing yourself from Namjoons hands. Stare at the breath-taking face of your lover. Past lover. His flawless skin. The little moles. Sharp jaw. Perfect cupid bow. The man you love. You want them engraved in your memory. What if you forget them? What if you forget how beautiful he is? So, you stare, stare and stare. Until you feel Namjoon’s hand softly graze your shoulder.

You nod, just to let Namjoon know that you’re ready. You’ll let your baby go. Just need one more minute. You use that minute to say you love him once again. Even though he can’t hear. You use that minute to place an invisible kiss to his forehead, like you always did. Even though he can’t feel.

Straighten up. Turn around and take Namjoon’s hand. Let him walk you out. Walking away feels like chains are breaking. The chains that kept you tied up to Taehyung. Weight is lifting but it isn’t relieving. Your story with Kim Taehyung is ending. For real this time.

You don’t know what’s wait for you in other side. You will face that anyway. You will let the sweet boy with starts in his eyes live. You will let the boy who brought you flowers everyday even after you died, bring those flowers for some one else. You will let the boy with his adorable boxy grin laughs, like he did with you. You will leave him behind. To live his life. Even if it means leaving the love that still blinds you.

THE END.

[pickingupmymercedes]

Not now, not ever - Lewis Hamilton

pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!

summary: Having her pressed to him brought back how important she's been to keep him grounded.

warnings: Angst, Mercedes 2024, Monza 21'.

wordcount: +1K

a/n: Hello everyone, I felt like angsty was in order. Sorry to bring that accident 😶, but yeah, hope you guys enjoy it!

As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!

______________________________________________________________

Defeated and exhausted, that was Lewis scotched in his airplane seat with you tangled in his arms, asleep beside him. The flight back to the UK after a disastrous Japanese Grand Prix held all the weight of the race, the frustration of the poor performance, and the uncertainty of his future with Mercedes weighing heavily on him.

Gently cradling you in his arms, Lewis pressed his face into your hair, breathing in your scent, finding solace in the familiarity and warmth of your presence. His fingers lightly traced the contours of your back, feeling the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his chest. Holding you like this; he felt a fleeting moment of peace amidst the storm of emotions and uncertainties that surrounded him. He whispered softly, barely audible above the hum of the airplane engine, " Thank you for always being there for me, even when I'm at my lowest”

He held you close, drawing comfort from your presence, knowing that whatever happened, you had been through much worse and had always stood strong together. As he looked down to your sleeping figure, the scene brought back a nagging memory on repeat, a night back in 2021, when you had comforted him after a nightmare. Now, as much as back then, you were his anchor, his safe haven amidst the chaos and uncertainty.

You were jolted awake when his entire body lurched, causing him to drop you abruptly onto the mattress. His breathing was rapid, coming out in sharp puffs as he hid his face in his hands, his shoulders tense under your arms as you held him from behind. You waited patiently, holding him until his breathing began to even out. Eventually, he turned to you, fear evident in his eyes. Without a word, you pulled him into your embrace, running your fingers through his braids and soothing the tension in his arms.

You had never seen that happen to him – that nightmarish episode that left a haunting impression. It had been two days from the crash with Verstappen in Monza. You'd traveled with him to NYC under the pretense of having an important. No one knew about the two of you yet. A few stolen moments here and there, and nights tangled in each other were all you had. He returned to his penthouse almost at dawn after the Met Gala, quietly ushering you from the bedroom you were occupying to his own bed. His friends, drunk from the after party, were oblivious to the fact that your supposed meeting was just a cover-up. The real reason you were there was that you couldn't bear to be apart from him after that crash.

Hours seemed to pass without either of you uttering a single word. The mere press of each other’s bodies was enough to ground you both. By the time Daniel knocked on the door to let him know they were headed out and assumed you hadn’t spent the night, it was well past noon. Little did he know, you had been there the whole time and would continue to be there for the rest of the day.

Lewis had witnessed similar episodes with you, most often triggered by situations related to Ayrton. Sometimes it manifested as restlessness, with you tossing and turning in bed. But on other occasions, it was far more severe. You'd wake up cold, tears streaming down your face, a scream caught in your throat, and a deafening ringing in your ears.

When these episodes occurred, Lewis knew exactly what to do. He would hold you tightly, his fingers lightly tracing your skin and scalp, while he repeated reassuring words over and over. And when you finally became aware of your surroundings, he'd listen attentively as you spoke about whatever had triggered the nightmare, comforting you until you fell back asleep in his arms.

As the sun began to set, casting a hauntingly beautiful golden hue through the penthouse windows, you went to find some food, Lewis hot on your feet, taking any opportunity to find himself wrapped in your arms. His arms securely around you, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your back as you leaned into him even while you waited for the stove to warm up the takeout from the previous night. The events of the day had left both of you emotionally drained, the scars of the past resurfacing with a vengeance.

The weight of the nightmare and fear of the unknown had taken its toll on both of you. The emotional strain was palpable, the shadows of past traumas lingering in the corners of your minds, waiting to strike when least expected. "You don't have to go through this alone, you know," you whispered, your voice filled with genuine concern. "I'm always here for you, no matter what."

He looked at you, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude, love, and pain. "And I'm here for you" his voice softly reassuring you “Always."

Lewis smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He pulled you closer to him, cherishing the moment of fragile peace and understanding between you. The bond you shared was unique, built on trust, understanding, and unconditional love. Despite the challenges and nightmares that sometimes haunted your nights, the love and support you provided each other were unwavering.

As night fell, Lewis led you back to the bedroom, ensuring you were comfortable and safe before joining you in bed. He held you close, his presence a constant source of comfort and reassurance. You drifted off to sleep, protected and loved in the arms that secured you so tightly.

Lewis remained awake; his gaze fixed on your peaceful sleeping face. The haunting memories of the accident with Verstappen in Monza played in his mind, and a shiver ran down his spine as he thought about how close it had come to being his end.

His thoughts were consumed by the accident, the fear of losing you, and the nightmares that had been haunting both of you. The emotional strain was palpable, and tears welled up in his eyes as he continued to watch you sleep, his mind tormented by the events of the past and the shadows of the traumas you both had endured.

The room was silent except for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing. Lewis leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss on your forehead, his heart aching with love and fear. He whispered words of love and reassurance, hoping that somehow, you could feel his presence and know that he would always be there for you.

He tightened his grip around you, pulling you closer as if trying to protect you from the world and the nightmares. His mind was filled with what-ifs and worst-case scenarios, the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future pressing down on him.

"We almost lost it all," he whispered to himself, his voice choked with emotion. "Gosh, I can't lose you, not now, not ever."

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