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threeacttragedy · 2 months ago

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Entry 13: The One Where the Ashes Blew Towards Us with the Salt Wind from the Sea

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.”

Ah, yes, that ominous opening line from Daphne du Maurier’s novel, “Rebecca.” Have you ever read it? It’s an old book – from 1938, in fact! – but it’s truly a remarkable story, especially for its time. It’s not often you find yourself rooting for the murderer.

Lately, I have found myself becoming more and more frustrated with the fandom. And, no, my annoyance is not from the Sincerely Ignorant teetering on and off the boat every time someone takes a dump on the deck of the USS Lukola – I’m pretty fucking used to that shit – and, honestly, many of our dear Sincerely Ignorant seem to be gaining their sea legs. It’s the Conscientiously Stupid that have struck a chord with me – a disturbing, dissonant chord that leaves me questioning the average level of human intelligence.

My issue with the Conscientiously Stupid is that they push narratives that, when taken collectively, make no goddamn sense. Thanks to The-One-That-Lurks-in-a-Play-Misty-For-Me-Heaping-Pile-of-Discordant-Garbage, I have had the [dis]pleasure of learning about Nicola- and Luke-Adjacent theories. Did you know that the small scrap of green blanket Nicola was sitting on in her August 11 “Drink Your Milk” picture proved that the picture was meant for Jake? You know the guy that, at that point in Fandom History, most people had no clue even existed? I mean, that makes a lot more sense than linking the “Drink Your Milk” shirt Nicola was showcasing to the one Luke was seen wearing on June 22. Now, I’m not saying the shirt belonged to Luke, but if we’re comparing apples to apples, which one of these theories seems more plausible to you?

At this point, you have probably started to realize I enjoy weaving in and out of storytelling mode, mixing fact with theory and speculation. Today, I decided to take a classic novel – surely you didn’t think I made that reference to “Rebecca” for nothing – and loosely intertwine it with some Conscientiously Stupid adjacent theories. This is all in good fun and, like usual, mostly for my own dark humor.

I should probably begin by introducing our book characters. Honestly, you can probably guess which of our shipmates I have assigned to each role fairly quickly.

First, we have our Unnamed Narrator. Seriously, her first name is never revealed.

Second, we have Mrs. Danvers, the obsessive, borderline psychotic housekeeper.

Third, we have Maxim de Winter, our Narrator’s husband.

Fourth, we have Jack Favell, the dodgy and unlikeable cousin.

Lastly, we have our titular character, that darling creature Rebecca.

Now, let’s see who is on the playbill.

ANTONIA AS MRS. DANVERS

It pained me just a little to give the role of Mrs. Danvers to Antonia, primarily because Mrs. Danvers is such a complex character and I’ve always found Antonia to be rather simple. And, no, I’m not insinuating Antonia is simple-minded; I am saying it was never difficult to see through her bullshit (i.e., the phrase, “patterns are patterning,” didn’t come out of thin air). It helped that Mrs. Danvers is one of the main antagonists in the book and almost certainly the GOAT at trolling the heroine of “Rebecca.” I mean, the second Mrs. de Winter didn’t stand a chance with Danny lurking in the background.

The general narrative in Lukola Lore is that Antonia is an online troll. I’ve never been sure as to who her primary target was – Nicola or the Lukola fandom. I tend to believe it originated as Nicola and the Lukola fandom was simply collateral damage. I also cannot say for fact that Antonia was trolling anyone, but I can confirm that the general belief within the fandom that Antonia was trolling is well-documented on social media. For today’s story, we are going to assume the narrative that Antonia was trolling both Nicola and the Lukola fandom. We are also going to assume the USS Lutonia (because I have no fucking clue what the Luke-Antonia ship is called!) was real. Don’t get your feathers fluffed over this. This belief does exist – and it’s why Antonia has been able to fuck with the Lukolas as long as she has – but I promise I have every intention of peppering the side of this ship with holes.

Okay, let’s tow the USS Lutonia out to sea. Don’t forget your Dramamine!

We are living under the umbrella that Luke and Antonia were dating during the World Tour. Poor Antonia was forced into hiding by – who the fuck knows but let’s keep rolling with this narrative – and she wasn’t allowed to be openly seen with Luke or post anything on her social media with Luke. And, Luke mirrored this behavior and made an effort to keep Antonia out of the spotlight (in fact, at the New York City premiere, the average viewer wouldn’t have known Antonia was anything more than Luke’s “friend of a friend”). Antonia, annoyed with this lack of engagement (and, almost certainly fed up with, at a minimum, fans shipping Luke with Nicola), started the pattern of posting pictures of herself and tagging her location as places the fandom knew Luke had recently been. Luke, for his part, made no effort to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia. Instead, he continued his flirtatious relationship with Nicola. After the London premiere, the Lukolas put a target smack dab in the middle of Antonia’s back and blamed her for setting up Papsmear for her own benefit. Luke still made no effort to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia or protect her from the abundance of online hate she received. In fact, he posted his “I will not let [Cressida] ruin our night” story to Instagram instead (see my “Entry 1 – The One About That Weird Ass Cressida Post” if you’re confused by this comment). During post-Papsmear events, Luke did not list her as a plus one and he didn’t like any pictures of Antonia that were not on her grid. In fact, the only evidence directly linking Luke to Antonia were leaked and/or since-deleted pictures and videos not released by Luke. Throughout the summer, Antonia continued her efforts to place herself in proximity to Luke via tagged or easily recognizable locations. Oddly, many of Antonia’s posts seemed to occur shortly after Nicola posted or before/after DeuxMoi posted pap pictures, which gave birth to the “Antonia is trolling” subplot. Still, Luke made no effort to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia. On July 30, Luke was papped with Antonia and his friend group in Sorrento (see my “Entry 11 – The One About the Heart of the Ocean” if you want my opinion about that excursion). This was the last time Luke and Antonia were publicly photographed together. Once Luke returned to London on August 2, Antonia continued her campaign of insinuating she was in the same location as Luke, with the most recent being the Italian restaurant in Rome (which the restauranteur debunked, in my opinion). Again, Luke and Antonia have not been photographed together since July 30. To date, Luke has made no effort to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia, and the only visible interaction by Luke are his likes on Antonia’s semi-monthly Instagram grid posts, which seem obligatory at this point. For the month of November, there was no interaction between Luke and Antonia because Antonia did not post to her grid (gasp!).

Now, for all the Lutonia’s out there, explain to me why this kind of relationship is acceptable to you. Seriously, explain it to me.

Convince me that Luke didn’t shutter Antonia from the moment the USS Lukola schematics were presented to the engineers.

Convince me that Antonia is the kind of woman who would happily accept Luke’s blatant dismissal of her existence while he globe-trotted around the world with a woman he was being openly shipped with by fans, the press, and Bridgerton mates.

Convince me that Luke’s behavior towards Antonia doesn’t make him the worst boyfriend on the planet.

Convince me that Antonia’s online behavior towards Nicola and the Lukola fandom during and after the World Tour doesn’t make her a troll.

Convince me that Luke and Antonia are the definition of “true love.” Actually, before you do that, convince me that Luke and Antonia are currently dating.

Or, maybe you’ve realized that any effort to try to convince me would be a waste of your time because you, too, are starting to find this entire narrative unacceptable. It equates Antonia to someone who doesn’t mind being boxed into a corner and forced to claw her way out, and it likens Luke to an overbearing womanizer who doesn’t give two flips about how online hate may be affecting his partner. I mean, we may as well dump these two into an entirely different book called “The Handmaid’s Tale.”

I didn’t assign the role of Mrs. Danvers to Antonia because I thought Antonia was a feeble coward without her own voice. And, no, I didn’t give her the role because Mrs. Danvers is an obsessive psychopath. I gave Antonia the role of Mrs. Danvers because the fandom handed her the power to influence this narrative on a silver platter, just like the Narrator in “Rebecca” allowed herself to be manipulated by Mrs. Danvers. Moving forward, when you see Antonia with a lit match, all you need to do is lean over and blow it out. Poof! And, she’s gone. Seriously, if you see our version of Mrs. Danvers with anything that might light a fire, take it away from her!

Surely someone out there gets my joke…

LUKE AS MAXIM DE WINTER

Of course, Luke is Maxim de Winter, the outwardly charismatic, but recently widowed anti-hero who caught the affection of our Unnamed Narrator. I mean, he’s a good guy, right? Uhh, yeah, sure… Who doesn’t want to be married to a brooding chauvinist who is outwardly obsessed with the titular character? Wait a minute, that doesn’t sound like Luke at all! Oh, no, actually it does – if you believe the USS Lutonia is real!

For Luke, we are going to assume the same narrative as above – that the USS Lutonia is real, that Antonia trolled Nicola and the Lukola fandom, and that Luke refused to acknowledge his relationship with Antonia. Besides the obvious “Luke is the shittiest fucking boyfriend in the universe,” I have a few other gripes with the USS Lutonia.

Initially, I understood the concept of “keeping Antonia in the dark,” after all I try to be logical when I process information. It was always possible Luke and Nicola were rocking some great PR in the beginning of the World Tour, and that was the only thing they were rocking. In fact, that’s what I initially believed Nicola was doing – being cute but also professional in her interactions with Luke during those early press junkets. Luke, on the other hand, always seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve. Once they hit Australia, it seemed obvious to me that something had changed (go back and read my “Entry 12 – The One Where We Start Laying the Yellow Brick Road to Italy” for a briefing on this). The more I watched Luke and Nicola interact on the World Tour, the more I became convinced Antonia must have been a thing of the past (or possibly nothing) for Luke – until Antonia showed up at Papsmear. At that point, I fully expected Luke to just own up to her. Like, give up on trying to hide Antonia from public view. But, then he pulled that goddamn “Cressida” post (seriously, if you have not read my first entry to this blog, go back and read it!). When you look at the World Tour and subsequent Hot Boy Summer, and the behaviors that were – and were not – on display during that timeframe, you start to develop a completely different view of the USS Lutonia. I mean, I’m not even sure that ship ever left the planning room!

One of the most glaring cosmetic flaws with the USS Lutonia is why “nice guy” Luke would treat Antonia with such indifference if he loved her. When asked who was most like their Bridgerton character, everyone always answered Luke. That he was the kindest, most genuine person. If that’s true, then why did Luke treat his “girlfriend,” Antonia, like she didn’t exist? Again, convince me that Luke’s Public Display of Apathy towards Antonia made him a great boyfriend. Even if Luke was a private person, one would think that after someone he cared about received as much hate as Antonia did after Papsmear, he would have stepped up and taken control of the narrative. He didn’t hesitate to clear up the “cake eating” picture from his September 7 Instagram post (about Nicola), and that “Cressida” post will live rent-free in my mind forever. The only “logical” explanation I can come up with for “nice guy” Luke to shutter Antonia right from the jump is that Antonia is not, and was not, a significant person in his life. That, or he really is a shithead, and he has a team of people lying about what a great guy he is.

We also need to consider Nicola’s interactions with Antonia. First, Nicola has never followed Antonia and Antonia has never followed Nicola, at least not on her public account. But, Nicola followed – and still follows – Luke’s ex, Jade. Now, typically, I’d just be like, “Meh,” on something like this. But, after Papsmear, Nicola could have very easily played the “Diplomat Barbie” and given Antonia a follow on Instagram. But, she didn’t, which signals to me that Nicola wasn’t touching Antonia with an invisible 10-foot pole. Second, if you watch the back-and-forth between Nicola and Antonia on social media – in black and white, pen on paper – you’ll see Nicola playing the cat-and-mouse game right along with Antonia (Nicola just played it a helluva lot better). It even appears Nicola sicced her – what my father calls JVN – “assassin” on Antonia starting around July 20 or, at the very least, she condoned JVN teasing Antonia. If everything was great between Luke and Antonia – and Luke was genuinely happy with Antonia – why would Luke put up with the back-and-forth on social media between Antonia, Nicola, and JVN? Oh, that’s right, because Luke is the corrupt captain of the USS Lutonia. Seriously, if all was well between Luke and Antonia at this point in the timeline, then you’d have to surmise that all was not well between Luke and Nicola. We will get to that in a moment. Right now, aboard the USS Lutonia, Luke is just a lousy boyfriend.

Lastly – and what has always left me scratching my head – why would Luke allow Antonia to troll his fandom? Why allow Antonia to make insinuations online that they’re together but never come to her rescue when the fandom starts flinging shit at her? In my opinion, the InStyle copycat pictures (go read my last blog entry…) were just Antonia getting her feet wet. Why continue to put up with Antonia after allegations began flying that she arranged Papsmear and the Italy pap pictures? I suppose the answer most Lutonias would give is, “Because they’re in love.” With everything I have outlined in this entry, do you honestly get the “in love” vibe from those two? Because I don’t.

Now, why did I draw parallels between Luke and the book character, Maxim? It’s not because I believe Luke to be a male chauvinist so wrapped up in his own drama that he ignores those around him. The USS Lutonia will definitely paint that impression, though! It’s because Maxim’s demeanor was superficial. What the Unnamed Narrator believed was true about her husband was not actually true. And, that’s how I view the USS Lutonia – Luke’s behavior and the narrative surrounding this ship does not match the logic.

JAKE AS JACK FAVELL

Sorry, Jake, you get to be the icky Jack Favell. Yeah, that manipulative, blackmailing creep sleeping with his own cousin! But, hey, that subplot isn’t any more disturbing than Jake being shipped with Nicola, is it?

Alright, let’s jump on board the USS Jakola but not before I preface this section with my father’s flabbergasted words: “This ship is on the bottom of the ocean. These people must have oxygen masks. They’re down there with Jules Verne. This just doesn’t make sense.” No, it really doesn’t make sense but, because I’m here to tell a story, I will begrudgingly dive into the USS Jakola narrative. And, by “dive,” I mean plunge to the bottom of the ocean because that’s where this ship rests.

Just like we did with the USS Lutonia, we are going to assume the USS Jakola is real. The Jakolas believe that Nicola has been seeing Jake since, I guess, the Renegade Nell premiere on or about March 26, 2024. Although, the last I checked Eamon Farren was also at that premiere holding an umbrella for Nicola. I am not confirming Nicola was ever dating Eamon; I am simply saying he was present at the event and holding a fucking umbrella for her. You can make up your own mind about Eamon’s role in Nicola’s life. Regardless, it must have been an instant connection between Nicola and Jake because, if the Jakola narrative is to be believed, they began secretly dating after that. The Jakolas will argue that all the songs Nicola posted to her Instagram stories were for Jake. The Claddagh ring has no traditional meaning when Nicola wears it, and Chaos Week was also for Jake (and a “fuck you” to Luke). The Lukola-coded fan fiction was a “fuck you” to the Lukola fandom (see my “Entry 10 – The One About the Audibly Loud Lukola FanFic”). And, Jake and Nicola are in love and have hard launched their relationship because (a) Jake has been seen wearing Nicola’s bucket hat, (b) they have been seen in public together, and (c) they occasionally hold hands.

I’m not going to lie – for the longest time I didn’t pay any attention to the USS Jakola because it was such an incredibly absurd concept to me. A few weeks back, I posted to my Tumblr account a music video that Jake had done in early 2023. The song is called “Mixed Emotions” by You Me at Six, and the article that came out with the video on February 7th, 2023 stated, “With Jake Dunn who played the protagonist in the video who is actually a friend of mine, we actually spoke a lot about toxic masculinity and his experiences within his sexuality and the impacts it has had on his relationship with his dad.” It honestly never occurred to me the USS Jakola actually had passengers on board until October when the Jakholes went bananas over Nicola holding Jake’s hand. In my opinion – and you do not have to agree with me – the music video speaks for itself as does Jake’s social media presence, whether it be on his own pages or on those of his friend group. I’m sure I’ll get some Jakholes in here crying that we shouldn’t speculate on Jake’s sexuality, but the reality is the only people speculating on Jake’s sexuality are the Jakolas trying to discern whether he’s heterosexual. But, why doesn’t he just come out and say it? I get this question all the time. The answer is quite simple – he doesn’t need to. Jake never buried this part of his life; it’s other people burying it for him. Do you need to blast your sexual preferences out into the universe? I didn’t think so.

For shits and giggles – because that’s what I’m here for – let’s keep going with the story that Nicola and Jake are hot and heavy with each other. I’ll play center field and say Jake is a switch hitter. Happy now? If Jakola is real, then why would Nicola lay all those Lukola-coded breadcrumbs? And, NO, I am not explaining every crumb she’s dumped online. This post is already too damn long. But, Dear Jakolas, don’t tell me those coordinated airplane pictures didn’t have you crying into your pillows. Seriously, though, why would Nicola fuck with the Lukola fandom? I’ve mentioned in previous posts that Polin and Lukola have even been blurred by Netflix & Co. at this point. What would be the point of dragging the Lukolas along only to find out it was Nicola just fucking around? That makes about as much sense as “nice guy” Luke being the shittiest boyfriend on the planet. Again, the narrative does not fit the logic – although you’re welcome to try to convince me that Jakola is real.

For starters, convince me as to why Nicola is Jake’s “type” and not Luke’s. I am not being factitious. I seriously want to know why she’s acceptable for Jake but not Luke. And, if you’re going to tell me it’s because Luke likes brunettes, you better bring me some evidence that Jake likes blonde women.

Convince me that the Claddagh ring has no traditional significance to Nicola and that Jake would be okay with Nicola wearing that Claddagh ring – the one she had made in honor of Bridgerton Season 3, the season she shared with the man that fills her Instagram grid and tags and is the other half of Lukola. If you’re stuck on the significance of this ring, go read “Entry 6 – The One Where I Explained the Claddagh Ring to My Dad.”

Convince me that Nicola and Jake are a couple. And, if you’re going to mention handholding, then convince me that Nicola is not in a relationship with Mark, JVN, Jack R., Golda, Hannah D., Dylan L., or Luke. Oh, and is it true Jake is now dating Ellie Bamber? Convince me he’s not…

Any ways, good luck, babe, trying to sway me into believing Jakola is the real deal because I have a feeling your efforts are going to make your face become as flushed as Jack Favell’s when he was caught with his hand in the till.

NICOLA AS REBECCA

Surely you didn’t think Nicola was going to be the heroine of this story! If you believe the USS Lutonia and USS Jakola are smoothly sailing across the ocean blue, then the only role Nicola could reasonably play is that of the story’s villain – Rebecca. Yes, Rebecca was a bad, bad girl. She was manipulative and intentionally cruel; a Bitch with a capital “B.” She haunted poor Maxim and controlled Mrs. Danvers and Jack like a master puppeteer. She also tortured the Unnamed Narrator from her watery grave.

Seriously, though, let’s turn the tables. Let’s pretend Lutonia and Jakola are real. Starting, say, April 29, Nicola started trolling Antonia by dropping Luke-coded material online and really started ramping up those doe-eyed looks in Luke’s direction. Remember all that cute BTS? Perfectly timed to make it look like Antonia was trolling her when in reality Nicola was trolling Antonia! Unbeknownst to Luke, Nicola commissioned that Claddagh ring and started wearing it to make it look like she was in a relationship with Luke. She even organized a side jaunt over to Galway to introduce Luke to – surprise! – her mother! But, after being rejected by Luke – because he really is in love with Antonia (the USS Lutonia is blasting its horn right about now) – Nicola – YES, Nicola! – set up Papsmear to ruin Luke. I mean, if he wasn’t going to be her boyfriend, he sure as shit wasn’t going to be anyone else’s! All summer Nicola waited for Luke, but he’d gone into hiding, scared to surface because Nicola might find him! After growing tired of waiting for Luke, Nicola got her assassin, JVN, to start trolling Antonia online, that way Nicola could put all her efforts into finding and trolling Luke. She set up Chaos Week. She trolled him on the airplane. But, she needed help (after all she had so many other events and awards shows this summer) so she enlisted her unwitting accomplice, Jake! Jake helped her set up that Lukola FanFic to remind Luke of what could have been. But, nothing was working so Nicola upped the ante and volunteered Jake to be her confused boyfriend. “Luke…Luke…” I can still hear her desperate cries being carried like ashes in the wind…

SEE! I can do it, too – make up total bullshit to fit whatever narrative I please!!!

Yeah, yeah, maybe I went a bit too far (I warned you I had a dark sense of humor) but, honestly, I believe the only way the USS Lutonia and USS Jakola could stay afloat is if Nicola is the villain. She doesn’t even have to be a super villain. She just needs to be disingenuous enough to alienate Luke, terrorize Antonia, manipulate Jake, and mislead an entire fandom. Lucky for her, I don’t believe Nicola to be a real-life Rebecca. If you need an explanation as to why, then you didn't watch the same World Tour as me and you’re clearly on the wrong side of the fandom.

In truth, I believe the real villain to be…

YOU AS THE UNNAMED NARRATOR

Now, now, calm down. I’m not calling you out – at least not individually. I’m calling all of us out.

We as a fandom are the Unnamed Narrators of Lukola, Jakola, and Lutonia. We built these ships, and we control whether they stay afloat.

We took the narrative out of Luke and Nicola’s hands the moment we launched the USS Lutonia. Then we had to go and build the USS Jakola – I guess, because we were bored. No matter how hard Luke and Nicola try to pull the narrative back under their control, we allow side characters to feed us their side of the story! We fill our bellies with their nonsense and then vomit it all over the deck of the USS Lukola.

Seriously, we are the villains in this story. And, collectively, we are one bloody powerful super villain, aren’t we?

We control the narrative. So, if there’s a narrative you don’t agree with – for example, one that doesn’t make sense to you – stop being Conscientiously Stupid and feeding into it.

Remember what I said earlier? If you see Mrs. Danvers with a lit match, blow that fucker out! Otherwise, you’re going to let that bitch burn down the whole goddamn house.

#lukola #luke newton #nicola coughlan #my thoughts #my opinion #speculation only #my mood

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odearly · 5 days ago

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part 1 - without me

habits (stay high) - tove lo

⟡ summary : after your boyfriend left you to avoid getting caught in your drug scandal you enter a deadly game unknown of the fact your ex boyfriend found himself in a similar situation.

⟡ warnings : drugs and drug addictions, typical squid game violence

before the games

after su-bong's departure from your life around a month ago your addiction only worsened. requiring a weekly supply now just to get by without looming thoughts of him.

freshly out of your little blue pills you texted your dealer in a hurry, deciding to meet him in a secluded alleyway to avoid the glances of your ex-fans.

you were standing in a dark alleyway, desperately awaiting the arrival of your dealer who promised to cut you a deal today. standing against the brick wall of the building behind you, you looked away from the alleyway's entrance to avoid recognition of any paparazzi. it was difficult to keep yourself hidden from the watchful gaze of the media, especially after your recent scandal, so you opted for large hoodies and sunglasses that covered most of your face now. however, tonight you took a risk and left your friend's house in a hurry to find any kind of drugs for a release.

a flash flooded through the alleyway and the only thing you could say was out of habit. "no pictures please.." your voice sounded hoarse, almost like you were sick.

when your gaze finally turned to the man in a fitted suit, flashing a flashlight in her hand. your gaze turned confused as you noticed the ominous vibe of the man who was approaching you. you were about to make a run for it before the man spoke up.

"would you like to play a game, miss?" he asked with a raised eyebrow, then pulling out a set of ddakji.

you took a once over his entire look, slightly confused. you are great at ddakji.. but why did he want to play this game? you stared at him a moment longer before finally speaking up. "what's in it for me?"

the man smirked a little before popping open his briefcase which looked like it had at least a billion won in it. your jaw dropped in surprise as he looked up at you, silently awaiting your answer.

"uh... yeah, I'll play." you spoke out in a surprised whisper.

in the games

your dreamless sleep was disturbed by the sound of bells ringing. you sat up in your bed and it took a moment to remind yourself exactly where you were. you had hoped this was all a nightmare but as you glanced around at the bunkbeds topped with people in dark green jumpsuits you were knocked back into the reality of this situation.

the bells stopped before a group of guards walked through the metal bolted door in the front of the room. a square guard in a different uniform stepped up before speaking to the players.

"please create a single file line to be escorted to the second game."

you let out a deep sigh before standing up on shaky legs. you followed into the line with the rest of the players walking down the colorful stairs that led so many to their demise the day before.

you notice the unsteadiness in your hands due to your withdrawal as you walk into the room used for the next game. the room was so bright, with blue walls meant to imitate a sky and the sandy floors meant to imitate a children's playground. the most distinctive factor though, was the two large rainbow track circles splitting the room in two.

you looked around before the sound of a click and a loud voice began flowing through the room. the robotic voice that announced the rules of the last game.

"Please divide into teams of five in the next ten minutes."

you begin walking around the room, gauging your options and not finding many good ones. you did, however, notice the gaze your ex-boyfriend had on you, almost like he was deciding whether to ask you to join his team or not. this moment of harsh staring was cut short by a tap on your shoulder.

you turned around, swiftly moving your gaze to the girl who had approached you. the girl's green tracksuit read the number '380', and the timid boy behind her said '125'.

the girl smiled slightly before speaking up. "would you like to join our team? I think I recognize you."

you glanced at her eyes searching for any sign of disappointment as most of your fans had in you, but surprisingly you found none. you stare at her blankly, making your decision before speaking up with a smirk. "alright, yeah. I'll join you guys."

the girl nodded at that, glancing back at the boy she had brought over with her. she pointed to him "this is Min-su." she turned back to look at you. "I'm Se-mi."

you nodded and spoke up to tell her your name but she spoke up before you.

"I know who you are." she said with a smirk on her face, she definitely didn't seem like she was in the target audience of your ex k-pop group.

you let out a small laugh and a nod. "alright then. nice to meet you Se-mi."

you, Se-mi, and Min-su began walking around together looking for a group. the glances of your ex-boyfriend lingering on your small group.

your trio began to get slightly annoyed at the amount of people who said no, except Min-su who just got worried. the time was slowly ticking down and at 3 minutes left you began to get slightly worried as well.

that's when your guardian angel worst nightmare walked over to Se-mi. you honestly didn't notice until you saw Se-mi turn around beside you, turning around as well in curiosity only to be met by the boy with purple hair you once believed you loved.

he smirked. he fucking smirked.

looking between you and Se-mi with a silly gaze, his eyes dilated as you let an angry frown settle on your face.

"senorita, join my team?" he said looking at just you now. "let thanos protect you." his voice dripping with cockiness.

you rolled your eyes with a scoff, gaining the attention of Se-mi who was confused about who the hell this guy is.

Su-bong's smirk dropped slightly at your annoyed expression but he kept his composure as he spoke again. "c'mon girl, you haven't found a team yet.. might as well team up with me. there's only a couple minutes left anyways." his sly flirty tone still remained even through his falter.

Se-mi spoke up this time. "I mean.." she looked over at you. "he's not wrong and I'm not willing to see what happens if we don't find a team."

you let out a sigh in defeat, glancing over at se-mi as you spoke. "fine.." you muttered out in an annoyed tone.

Su-bong let out a big grin at you, he was happy even if you weren't but that definitely was because of the drugs he'd snuck into this place.

your group sat down with the rest of the groups in the middle of one of the large rainbow track circles. unfortunately for you Su-bong made sure he sat beside you in the group, pulling you from the other side of Se-mi to make you sit beside him. you scoffed in annoyance but you didn't really protest because you knew you missed him.

the clock to find a team ticked down to zero slowly as everyone sat with their teams waiting for the rules of the game.

once the timer hit zero the click of the feminine robot voice began again.

"the time for team selection is up. the game you will be playing is six legged pentathlon. You will start with your legs tied together. Each member will take turns playing a minigame at every ten-meter mark, and if you win, the team can move on to the next one.

number one, the Ddakji. number two, Flying Stone. number three, Gonggi. number four, Spinning Top. number five, Jegi. your goal is to win all the minigames and cross the finish line in five minutes.

please decide which player will play what game."

your team glanced around at each other before se-mi spoke up. "so.. who's good at these games."

your team stayed silent, Su-bong staring at the back of your head as you glanced at Se-mi and Min-su. "one of the girls should be good at gonggi, right?" the black haired boy on the other side of your ex broke the awkward silence with a slightly rude remark.

Se-mi sent him a glare as you stayed silent and looked down at your shaky hands, more worried about how you were going to play a game with your trembling hands. you knew there was only one way to fix this issue, you noticed Su-bong's dilated eyes the moment he walked up to you yesterday. the only way to fix this was to get the pills you knew he had.

the argument between Se-mi and Su-bong's friend faded into the background, turning into whispers compared to the thoughts of panic that filled your mind. Su-bong noticed you falling subject to your own worry and put a stop to the meaningless arguing between Se-mi and Nam-gyu.

he put a hand on your shoulder to try and bring you out of your thoughts. your head swiveled around seeing his hand on your shoulder, your tense state involuntarily softened at his touch. he looked at you in almost a worried stare into your eyes. Su-bong looked at you for another beat before slowly pulling out his cross necklace from under his tracksuit, whispering from beside you "I know what you need, señorita."

you glanced up at him in surprise as he tried to be less conspicuous he picked two blue pill from his cross, handed one to you, and slipped his necklace back under his shirt. putting the other pill into his mouth as he looked at you.

you immediately down the pill, although you know it's hurting you. you truly felt like you needed them now after becoming so reliant on them and being in a game like this while going through withdrawals was not going to help.

he smirked slightly, and moved over to look at his friend. "what game are you good at, bro?" he asked with a newfound confidence from the pill he just swallowed.

"I guess I could play spinning top." the man said in slight frustration, still giving Se-mi a rude glare.

Su-bong nudged you slightly. "well, señorita is great at ddakji, aren't you?" He stared at you with almost admiration in his eyes.

you let out a casual shrug as you began to feel the drugs work their way into your system. "Yeah, I can do ddakji." you are definitely still untrusting of Su-bong but you figure if you don't want to go through withdrawal in this place, you'd need to stick by your ex.

Se-mi nodded and turned to Min-su. "do you have a preferred game?" she said in a gentle tone. she was a kind girl no doubt, making sure the weak Min-su didn't get left behind.

Min-su looked up at her nervously. "gonggi I guess.. is what I'm best at." Se-mi nodded. "alright, min-su's on gonggi. I can play flying stone." she said confidently. "..unless 'thanos the great' isn't too fond of jegi." she said using intense sarcasm on the words 'thanos the great'.

Su-bong scoffed and rolled his eyes before confidently speaking up. "I can play any game. jegi is perfectly fine with me!"

you involuntarily rolled your eyes at his cockiness. the drugs he gave you we're now running wild through her veins. "alright. then its settled, we all know what to do." you announced, glancing around at your team which seemed to hold a lot of tension at the moment, despite you and Su-bong locking your equally dilated eyes on each other.

your team was settled, and you watched each group before yours compete in the game beside Su-bong. the drugs in your system make the game amusing, almost. you kept your overwhelming emotions under control, though and you didn't even notice your team being called until you felt yourself being yanked up by Su-bong to lead you to what could be you and his demise.

a/n: cliffhanger.. but I wanted to get this out tonight so I could stop procrastinating!!! enjoy dears and I will try and get part 3 written asap🥲

#thanos x reader #thanos squid game #thanos #choi subong #choi subong x reader #choi su bong #squid games #Spotify

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tuesdaykiss · 1 month ago

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“touching toes”

rafe cameron social media au

“he’s over more and more, had to give him a whole drawer. to be honest, kinda like seeing his trainers by the door.” — olivia dean, ‘touching toes’.

synopsis: after finishing her fashion studies at college in nyc, y/n moves to outerbanks to live with her grandparents. she worries about the loneliness that comes with being in a new place, knowing only her cousin topper and other relatives… that is until she is acquainted with a certain cameron.

part — 7 | 8 | 9

masterlist

your phone

turning off your phone, you placed it on your bedside table, leaving you to stare into the dark abyss of your bedroom.

“so am i” he had said, “friends”. is that all this was? friendship. your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to understand what part of your relationship with the cameron boy exuded mere friendship.

you couldn’t help but feel quite… silly, in a way. were you making this all up in your head? piecing interactions together that meant nothing more than friendship.

a yawn broke its way past your lips, lulling you into a deep sleep of thoughts; a night of overthinking was about to ensue.

rafecam

liked by sarahcameron, boykelce and 54,129 others

rafecam can finally share that i’ll be in @/dazed magazine, next month.

view comments

sarahcameron magazine debut looks good on you!

rafecam couldn’t have done it without you

user aw so they do like each other!

topthornton looking good bro

boykelce what’s 4 + 4?

user2 ATEEEEEE

topthornton who are you and what have you done with kelce?

a loud, repetitive knocking at your bedroom door pulled you from your sleep. knocking was an understatement; harsh thuds repeatedly sounded from the wood of your door.

“i’m coming!” you called out, in an effort to control the noise. dragging yourself from the comfort of your bed and towards the door, you were greeted by topper. his face full of amusement, as he laughed at your state; hair messily placed atop of your head, pyjamas hanging lazily from your frame and your face a telltale sign that you had just awoken.

as topper stepped to the side, you noticed the presence of another. rafe cameron, stood at your kitchen island, popping grapes into his mouth from the fruit bowl.

clutching your forehead, you questioned, “wha- what are you both doing here?”

“well, we were going out to celebrate rafe’s magazine debut,” topper said, nonchalantly, “and he suggested, since you probably have no plans, we ask you to tag along.”

behind topper, you could see rafe attempting to hide his smile; it was obvious that topper had, unbeknownst to him, disturbed the day rafe had planned with you — in an attempt to resurrect it, rafe had suggested you tag along.

“magazine debut?” shock covered your expression, “congrats rafe, that’s amazing!”

“thanks.”

“so are you coming or not?” topper interrupted, clearly growing agitated with your lack of hurry, “beer doesn’t drink itself, y’know.”

“yeah, yeah, just let me go get changed, ‘kay?”

“you have 30 minutes, or we’re leaving without you.”

and with that you departed from the boys in the kitchen, scrambling to your wardrobe to find something to wear.

rafe’s phone

sarahupdates

liked by yourusername, sarahfan101 and 32,091 others

sarahupdates sarah’s brother has his magazine debut, in next month’s edition of @/dazed magazine!

view comments

user he’s so hot

sarahfan101 following in his sister’s footsteps

user2 it’s giving model siblings

user3 he knows he ate

ilovesarah ‘sarah’s brother’ put some respect on his name

user4 fr that’s rafe mf cameron

user5 yup, my mannnnn

a/n: merry christmas to all of those who celebrate… today is a double feature so i’ll see you again in 4 hours for the next part 😉

apologies if it takes me a while to update the masterlist, taglist, etc: i’ve scheduled the next two posts as i’ll be celebrating with family all day!

taglist: @my-name-is-baby @yesshewrites1 @urbrunettebombshell @leather-n-velvet @fruitcakerafe @littlefreak-liz @wdwbts101

#dividers by pommecita #obx fanfiction #obx season 4 #outer banks #rafe cameron #rafe cameron smau #social media #social media au #sarah cameron #topper thornton #rafe x you #rafe x reader #rafe imagine #rafe fanfiction #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #outerbanks rafe #obx rafe cameron #smau

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reality-detective · 5 months ago

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EXPOSED: The Hidden Network of 10,000 Deep Underground Military Bases (D.U.M.B.s) – A Global Conspiracy Unveiled

Beneath our feet lies a world shrouded in darkness and secrecy—a network of over 10,000 Deep Underground Military Bases (D.U.M.B.s) that stretch across the globe. These aren’t just military bunkers; they’re part of a sinister plan by the global elite to maintain control over humanity, operating far beyond the reach of any government oversight.

The Dark Underworld: 10,000 D.U.M.B.s Across the Planet Imagine a vast labyrinth of underground bases, hidden from the public eye, where the most horrific activities take place. Over 10,000 of these bases exist worldwide, with 1,800 in the United States alone. These facilities aren’t just military outposts; they are massive underground cities connected by high-speed trains, built for purposes that defy the imagination.

Unthinkable Atrocities: Human Captivity and Bio-Experiments Within these bases, unspeakable horrors are said to occur. Reports of human experimentation, especially on children, are whispered among those who dare to investigate. These facilities allegedly host bio-research labs developing weapons designed to target specific DNA, viruses meant to decimate populations, and other forms of biological warfare. These aren’t just theories—they’re terrifying realities hidden from the world.

The Elite's Secret Army: Engineered Super Soldiers One of the most disturbing revelations is the existence of engineered super soldiers, bred and conditioned within these D.U.M.B.s. These soldiers, created through a twisted combination of genetic engineering and cybernetics, are designed to be the ultimate weapons—loyal, fearless, and nearly invincible. Their purpose? To protect the secrets of these underground bases and to enforce the will of the global elite.

The Vatican-Jerusalem Tunnel: A Sinister Connection Adding to this web of deceit is the recent discovery of a 1,500-mile tunnel connecting the Vatican to Jerusalem, reportedly filled with a staggering hoard of gold. This treasure trove, transported by an armada of 650 planes, is rumored to be part of the Vatican’s secret wealth, hidden away for centuries and now uncovered as part of this global conspiracy.

A Global Web of Control: The Super Elites At the heart of this conspiracy are the so-called "Super Elites"—a tiny fraction of the global population who pull the strings from the shadows. These are the same elites who control the military-industrial complex, the media, and even the highest levels of government. Their reach is so vast that over 800 million individuals within the global military and intelligence complex answer to them, ensuring that their grip on power remains unchallenged.

The Puppet Masters: Rothschilds, Rockefellers, and Khazarian Bloodlines Behind the scenes, powerful families like the Rothschilds and Rockefellers, along with ancient Khazarian bloodlines, have been orchestrating this control for centuries. Their influence spans continents, manipulating world events to maintain their dominance. Their goal is not just to amass wealth but to control humanity itself.

The White Hats: A Glimmer of Hope But not all hope is lost. A group of brave individuals within the military, known as the White Hats, are fighting back. These warriors operate in the shadows, working tirelessly to expose the truth and dismantle the structures of oppression. They are the last line of defense against this global conspiracy, dedicated to restoring justice and freedom to humanity.

The Final Hour: A Call to Action We stand on the brink of a new era, where the truth will finally be revealed. The age of ignorance is over. The forces of darkness will be exposed, and the world will see the light of truth. But we must be vigilant and ready to act. The future of humanity depends on our willingness to confront the darkness and reclaim our freedom. The time for revelation is now—will you be ready when the final battle begins? 🤔

- Julian Assange

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

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Shameless

Sequel to Graceless

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, dejection, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: The reader attempts to move past her ruination, but is reminded of her tarnish conscience at every turn. (Regency AU, tall!reader)

Character: Steve Rogers, Thor Odinson

Note: Here we are. The sequel but not the end.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like I love coffee and that’s a lot and probably unhealthy. Take care. 💖

The string of the glove’s seam trails loosely from the thumb. You twist the thread, playing with it, but doing little to mend it. Even with a needle in hand, you have no whim to darn. There are many things in life that cannot be repaired no matter how you try. Occurrences which cannot be taken back.

You pull at the seam until a hole forms in it. You poke your finger through with no heed for the glove’s integrity. You detest that pair anyhow. The very same you wore… that day.

Albina lays at the foot of the bed, her head bent back over the edge as she peruses one of her novellas. Hannah and Cora disappeared ages ago and you only just heard them through the windows. They are likely causing chaos in the gardens. You hope your mother finds them and issues a reprimand for their immaturity.

The autumn thins the air as it creeps in around the window frame and you smell that discerning scent of dirt and leaves. Only a week and it feels as if the whole world has changed seasons. Your world has transformed irrevocably.

There’s a clatter and you glance over as Albina rolls onto her side. She’s always hated to be disturbed amid her stories. She huffs and falls onto her back to begin again, but the door bursts open, your two other sisters tromping through with excitement.

Albina shuts her book loudly and sighs as she sits up. You go back to your exploration of the glove, watching the thread stretch along the seam as you tug. If only that were Cora. If only you could rent her pretty hair from her pretty head. Or in the least, swat the smug grin from her lips.

You can’t even look at her. It just makes you think of him. Of how stupid you’d been. You believed his promises were meant for you but it’s only as you relive that haunting episode every night that you realise, he never proclaimed his intent for you, only alluded to a vague offer. Another mean trick.

“Lord Rogers has sent a gift,” Cora trills as she stands at the vanity, shuffling something unseen before her. Hannah stands at her side, bouncing with anticipation.

“Oh, what do you think it is?” Hannah chimes.

“Could you not unveil it in the sunroom, where there is no one reading?” Albina says as she drags herself to the edge of the bed, resting her book on her skirts.

“Could you not get your head out of those ridiculous fancies,” Cora retorts over her shoulder, “if you ever do for long enough, you might just find a husband too.”

You don’t look up. You refuse to give her the satisfaction. You haven’t missed her wandering glances, how she taunts you without even a word. She turns back to her gift and rustles beneath the thick paper.

“Oh, heavens,” she swoons and spins, “isn’t it beautiful?”

“Are those rubies?” Hannah preens.

“I think.”

“Garnet?” Albina suggests.

“No, no, surely they are rubies,” Cora insists. “Do you see?” She swirls around the room closer to you, “I must find the perfect gown to wear with this. Oh, he would fawn to see me in his ribbon, wouldn’t he, sister?”

You grip the glove tight as her figure looms over you. With your other hand, you clutch the needle, letting it jab into your palm until your eyes prick. You nod, “very beautiful.”

You stand the moment you get the words free of your dry throat. You try to smile but can only muster a strained grimace. You try to step past Cora but she moves with you.

“You’ve not even looked,” she says, “how would know how beautiful it is?”

“Cora, please.”

“No, no, have a look. It’s so elegant, isn’t it?”

You clamp your lips together. Your insides tangle painfully. Even as the tenderness leaves the bruises in your thighs, you swear they hurt just as much as the day after. You sniff.

“Please, move out of my way,” you beg.

“Oh, sister, why must you be so dour? Is that jealousy I sense?”

“No,” you snarl. Jealousy. Oh, something much deeper, something agonizing. “I said move.”

“Move? Well, it looks like I am the first to wear a title so it is me who should be issuing the orders, don’t you think?”

“Oh, Cor, you are not duchess yet,” Albina reproaches, “let her pass.”

The heat rises up your back and crawls onto your neck. You feel like you’re suffocating. You feel like the walls are closer together, as if the world is hewn in fire. It is all burning down around you.

“She is being a sour little brat about it, Al,” Cora snaps, “it isn’t fair of her to ruin my engagement. I don’t know where she ever got the idea that Lord Rogers had any mind for h–”

You don’t think. You need to get out of here. You shove Cora out of your way and stomp past her as she gasps. You drop the glove as the needle sinks further into your palm. You sweep out of the door and hurry down the corridor. You hear her, whining pitifully as you flee.

“She shoved me! She–”

“Oh, you did goad her,” Albina’s quiet scolding follows you to the stairs, “put that ribbon away, you’ll only ruin it.”

Ruin…

The word clings to you as you barrel down the stairs, as if running from your own shame and anger. You love your sister, you would never wish anything horrid on her, but you can’t help that small whisper in your mind that suggests that Lord Rogers may just treat her as cruelly as he has done you.

💙

The autumn continues its slow advance, nipping in the air and at the foliage alike. You smell the crispness as it wafts through the open window of the carriage, cooling the cluster of bodies within. Your father rides with the driver, guffawing loudly with the clop of hooves. Your mother fans herself as she needles away with her relentless critique.

…Albina, push your shoulders back; Hannah, keep your lips shut tight, you don’t need horseflies wandering in; You, fix your bonnet, it is dipping at the front; Oh, Cora, isn’t that a lovely ribbon…

You try not to mope. The more you do, the more pleasure Cora takes in her victory. You will forget it, you will go on as you’ve ever done. Dejected. You fold one hand around the other, your palm tender from the bite of the needle still wrought into your flesh.

You look up as the carriage slows. The lush green of the promenade tinges with edges of russet and patches of goldenrod. Lords and ladies stroll along the brickwork walkway, skirts swishing around languid steps, arms hooked in one another, others perched upon benches or huddled around the grand fountain at the center.

Your father climbs down as the driver unlatches the door. Your mother emerges first, her fan clapping shut sharply and knocking against the frame. Cora is second, then Albina, Hannah, and yourself. You come out behind them and feel your height all the more. You hunch and grip your wrist tight.

“Do not slouch,” your mother looks back and raps your arm with her fan, “no lord wants to walk alongside a hobbling giant.”

“Yes, mother,” you correct yourself and let your vision drift off into a vacant blur.

“Ladies,” a familiar timbre approaches with a pair of footsteps, “you’ve arrived.”

You refuse to look at Lord Rogers as he stands just along your peripheral. He greets your mother with a cordial bow of his head and shakes your father’s hand. At last, he addresses his betrothed as she wiggles in her skirts and nearly squeaks.

“Lord Rogers,” she drawls, “I wore the rubies.”

“Beautiful,” he praises, “my lady, might I request a stroll upon the promenade?”

“Aye, you may,” your father answers, volunteering himself as escort.

“Sir,” Rogers accepts elegantly and offers his arm to Cora, “and perhaps a few more daughters might care to join us?”

“They will remain with me,” your mother insists, “we would like to see the roses.”

You wait until they’ve departed to dare a peek at them. Lord Rogers struts away confidently with his arm through Cora’s. Your father trails them with his brass-tipped cane. Your ribs rack as if they might collapse in on themselves.

“Come girls, the autumn will wilt away the roses,” your mother declares, “let us make our rounds, perhaps we might have two engagements this season, hm?”

You linger behind the others. You keep your head down as you watch the toes of your boots poke out from beneath your skirts with each step. Your led by the hem of your sisters ahead of you.

As you approach the hoop of rose bushes, there is an unexpected furor. Voices trill and flutter, a booming laugh that rolls like thunder. You raise your eyes and see a blond head above a cluster of hats. You don't recognise the lord amid the clan of amused men.

"How rowdy," your mother remarks in her curmudgeon way.

She ignores the pluck of glee for the thorny tangles. Hannah and Albina give longing looks to the uproar but dutifully accompany your mother to the hedges. The eldest of your quartet pets the paling pink petals and grieves the browning at the edges.

The dullness of that moment feels like a promise. This is how life will always be for someone like you. You will never know excitement, you will only ever be a witness, a scrap of collateral left to squander.

You pretend to admire the greenery. The colours are faded and worn. Just like everything since that night. As you are.

You smell the leaves and the pollen and you're taken back to that moonlit moment. The cool air on your skin, the friction of his figure, his weight trapping you on the stone.

The leaves mesh together in a tapestry of swirling hues. You quickly dab your eyes before your tears can spill over. Those bouts come suddenly and dry up just as soon. You cannot let it take you here.

An emptiness enshrines you and you peer over to find yourself all alone. Your sisters and your mother have left you, forgotten you. Not such an unexpected plight but painful nonetheless. You turn in search of them and nearly collide with another.

You press yourself to the bushes behind you and swallow a gasp, creaking out an apology.

"Apologies, my lord, I did not see you–"

"Lady," the man greets with a courteous dip of his chin, looking down at you. Down! He is even taller than you.

The same lord with the blond hair who had a crowd raucous. You do not know him. He is rather older than any courtly debut.

"You mustn't catch yourself," he reaches around you delicately and untangles a fold of your skirt from the thorny vines, "it is too fine a dress to tarnish."

"Thank you, sir, it seems I am a bit obtuse at the moment," you force a smile.

He is very handsome. He eyes a brighter shade than even Lord Rogers and his hair even more golden. That comparison urges you back to the ground. You are still you and you cannot be so foolish as to let yourself believe contrary ever again.

"Might I–"

"I spy–"

You speak at the same time and both correct yourself. You defer and touch your lips in embarrassment, "apologies, once more, I keep treading on your toes."

"I have tough toes," he japes, "I meant to ask if I might have your name."

"Oh, yes, sir," you give him your name, "I admit I am ignorant of your own identity."

"Ah, yes, I have come from far," he grins, "Lord Thor Odinson, of Asgard."

"Asgard, why that is very far," you comment, "well, sir, it was a delight to meet you. Welcome to our homeland."

"A privilege," he returns, "if I might be so forward, as I am a stranger to this land, I would extend to you an invitation to dinner as I acquaint myself with your country. Would that be too improper?"

"Sir," you flutter your fingers at your side as you stand awkwardly before him, "I would needs ask my father."

"Yes, certainly you would, as you are unwed," he says as if untwining a riddle, "I do hope you will be permitted."

"My lord," you bow your head, "my mother…"

You look past him to your mother's fan as she beckons to you with it. Lord Odinson steps aside and extends his arm in gallant dismissal. You shift to move past him.

"Thank you, my lord."

"Allow me to thank you, lady, for entertaining my tedious conversation," he counters and you quickly flit away.

You near your mother as your other sisters crowd her. She is jibbering behind her fan, "...an ambassador," she says and snaps together the folds, "I hope you did not spoil our welcome."

"Mother?" You look at her in confusion, your cheek hot and tingling still.

"With that Lord, he did invite us to a dinner," she explains, "it would be very important for your father."

You shake your head. You don't argue. Ah, but the invitation was extended to all. Are you so foolish to think otherwise? You must shield yourself in the harsh lesson you've been taught. You are not and can never be special.

💙

The night of Lord Odinson's dinner arrives. You wear a gown of black patterned with deep green vines. Plain attire in contrast to Cora's shining scarlet silk, Alvina's buoyant blue bodice, and Hannah's deep rose sleeves. You add a simple beaded ribbon around your head, and a string of pearls around your neck.

"Dour," your mother remarks as she emerges in a tangerine satin, "ah, Cora, my darling, you look splendid. And to think, now that your engagement is public, you will be a pretty ornament on Lord Rogers' arm."

"Mother," she preens, averting her eyes in feigned modesty.

You clutch your reticule tight and glance over as you hear the approach of hooves. It is Lord Rogers' coach. The vehicle bustles towards the gates, open in expectation of him, and you look away. You can hardly bear the sight of red paint that decorates the doors.

His driver slows and breaks in the dirt. He greets your father as ever, gallant and proper. You put your teeth over your lower lip and peek up, catching the glint of Rogers' sapphire irises. His cheek dimples as his brows twitch. You swiftly rescind your gaze, favouring the dust on your slippers to him. He is as handsome as ever but to you, he is a vile cad. A demon clothed in cravat and vest.

He helps your mother first into the coach, then Cora, Hannah, Alvina, and finally yourself. He extends his gloved hand to you and you stare at his palm with disgust. You put your hand in his and step up into the vehicle. He squeezes before he lets go, a subtle tug on your skirt as you duck inside.

You sit on the bench between Albina and Hannah. You play with the strap of your reticule, focusing on it as you coil it like a snake. You only need to survive the journey to lord's manor. You've survived worse, and all at his hand.

💙

The manor is called The Nine Pillars, a rather strange name for a house, but referenced by the columns set into the stone walls. Each is topped with the facsimile of a different beast's head; a lion, a boar, a bear, a wolf, a falcon, a stallion, a bull, a viper, and an elephant. You lean over Albina to take it in, only to be nudged back to the middle.

You sigh and trail the part from the court. Attendants await your arrival at the broad steps of the manor house, the style much unlike that of the other courtly homes. The peak of the house resembles a warship overturned and the walls are without the typical white wash. It is very antiquated yet refined.

You enter the glowing hall, the glass lamps hung from the walls lit in an illuminating speckle. Voices carry from the drawing room where other guests gather and the bustle of the house staff flutters around the corridors and clamours from the kitchen. Your stole is taken by a groom and you nod in acknowledgement at his diligence. Your stomach swirls nervously.

The drawing room is a cluster of swishing skirts, flapping fans, and waggling coat tails. Your mother and father greet another older couple as your sisters disperse; Cora to show off her betrothed, Albina to whisper to Maria about her novels, and Hannah to gossip about the newest debuts. You find yourself lost before the sea of elegant figures.

You wade towards them, weaving between the bodies, looking around for any sense of welcome. Those who do see you, turn away quickly, as others pretend not to notice your towering form. You will find a place on the wall as you ever do.

"Lady," a deep voice calls but you don't bother to hear it. It cannot possibly be directed at you. It calls again, several times, before pronouncing your name. You spin to face Lord Odinson before you can retreat to your setinel against the wallpaper.

"My Lord," you greet him, "pardon me, there is much going on, I mustn't have heard you calling."

"Ah, but forgive me, it is rather uncouth to be shouting," he stops before you, "my mother always said I did blow in like a storm."

"Oh," you nod politely. You're not used to someone looking you in the eye, not without having to awkwardly contort your posture.

"She would like you, very much, I think."

"Why would you think that, my lord? You hardly know me."

"But I see you, a strong woman, built like a valkyrie. You are resilient and might I so forwardly say, resplendent."

"Sir?" You peer around, looking for an audience, for someone in collusion taking amusement from his false interest. It is always a trick.

"Again, I am the tempest, I cannot be subtle, not with a lady so stunning. Awe-inspiring. If I am the storm, you must be the sky," he remarks boldly.

You face him, a frown.

"Lady, it is a compliment," his face turns sober, "I hope I didn't overstep--"

"It is a joke. Who do you make laugh? For who am I the farce tonight?"

"Joke? Not at all. Never," he glances around the room. He is quiet as he takes in those around him. As he sees their elusive eyes and cold shoulders. "They cannot see what is right in front of them. A goddess--"

"No," you nearly sob, "no. I am not goddess." You bow your head, as you hear that same word from enough, a memory; Athena. "No sir," you put your chin up defiantly, "I will not be fooled by you."

"Fooled, my lady--"

"Excuse me," you shuffle away from him, "I need air..."

"Lady," he calls again but you elude him, delving into the crowd, marching away with head and shoulders down.

As you near the door, you hear a familiar laugh. You look to find Lord Rogers with Cora on his arm, his golden hair shining, her locks perfectly spiraled and set. He tilts his head towards her, "I call her my Athena," he says loudly, as if he knows you are listening, "for I worship her."

His eyes flick up and meet yours. You recoil and spin on your heel. Scalded, you flee into the hall and huddle into an alcove. No one would notice if you stayed out here all night.

💙

You sit among the guests at the table. The women chatter as the men speak in low voices about their business or some writ tabled in session that morning. You do neither as you're isolated in the fervor. As sherry and wine flows generously, you partake only of lemon water and loneliness.

You peer down the table and find yourself drawn to a pair of eyes. Lord Odinson. Where you expect tension or disappointment, you find only an amiable smile. He is almost dreamy as he watches you. You turn in your seat and look at Albina next to you, she's bent so far toward Hannah in her whispering that he likely cannot even see you.

You keep your gaze on the table. You will not encourage him. Lord Rogers taught you caution, he taught you your worth and not to think yourself above it. You feel suddenly sick, as if you could spew onto the table.

There is the clink of glass and someone clears their throat. The buzz around you hushes and all turn to the head of the table. You look over reluctantly. It is Lord Odinson, the host, about to make his toast. He stands, a crystal glass in hand.

"Welcome and thank you all for attending. You've all made me feel rather at home," he raises his glass and the guests mirror him. You lift yours a few seconds too late. He sets down the flute and continues, "and while you've all ingratiated me so kindly, I hope you might tolerate a little piece of my homeland."

He pauses and gestures to someone you can't see. A servant comes forward, holding a wooden box carved with symbols you don't recognise. Runes, perhaps.

"In my faith, there are the Valkyrie. They are the embodiment of female power and prestige and thus they are the keeper of our culture, of our ways. They are fertile and beautiful. So it is that each season, one lady is crowned as Valkyrie. I understand that I've come late but I am honoured to spend the season here, in your society. Thus, tonight has been more than a dinner..."

He stops as the servant opens the box. He takes out a crown of daisies wrought in gold and silver. He presents it to the room with a smile.

Cora leans forward as her eyes round in greed and the other women sit up, admiring the piece of jewelry and peeking at each other. You don't move, you stare at the wall and wait. You wonder who it will be. Maybe Cora or Maybelle and her doe eyes.

There is another lull, swollen with anticipation and intrigue. Lord Odinson gives a soft chuckle before he declares his valkyrie. No one speaks, none says a word. You blink. He speaks again.

You feel a nudge on your elbow as Albina leans towards you and whispers, "it's you."

You glance at her, then along the table. Cora's eyes are narrowed at you and Lord Rogers looks like he's chewing his own tongue. You turn your attention to Lord Odinson, trapped in surprise and disbelief.

"Yes, lady, please, come and claim your crown."

You grasp the arms of the chair and push it out as you rise. You walk stiffly, keenly aware of those watching you. You stride down the long table and near Lord Odinson. He faces you and hovers the crown over your head. You bow and he lowers it on, wiggling it to be sure it's firmly in place.

"It is I who shoulder defer to you, sweet lady," he lowers himself to a knee and bows his head, "our valkyrie."

The silence looms. You refuse to look back. You feel the stare, the disapproval, and disappointment. There's a clap and you flinch. Then another, and slowly the applause build.

Lord Odinson stands again and takes your hand, placing a kiss on your fingers. You meet his eyes, so intense you could melt.

"As I said," he keeps his timbre low, "it was not a joke."

💙

"Can I see it?" Albina asks as you go to set the crown on the narrow table.

"Oh, certainly," you turn to her. You're still burning with excitement. It's only one night, it doesn't mean anything, but it is a good night.

You hand her the crown and she takes it, admiring the craftwork with aw and showing it to Hannah as she nears. She places it on her head and rocks her shoulders.

"I am the valkyrie," she japes.

"No, I am the valkyrie," Hannah snatches the crown and dawns it.

"You are both children," Cora sneers as she shoves her ribbon of rubies into her jewelry box, "please, that lord is only here to pander to our king on his family's behalf. Nothing else."

"You're only jealous," Hannah rebukes.

"Am not," Cora stomps up and swipes the crown of daisies, "what would I need with a meaningless thing like this. Queen of what? The chimera? You don't even know what a valkyrie is."

"Nor do you," Hannah retorts.

"I do," Albina asserts, "they are an army of female warriors who lead the dead--"

"I do not give a fig," Cora flings the crown so it hits the bedframe and bounces off, "we don't believe in them here. That man is a fool."

"Oh, I saw you fawning over him, Cor," Albina goads, "don't lie. Rogers himself looked concerned."

"Fawning? Don't be silly."

You don't say a word as you go to fetch the crown from where it's fallen. You notice that one of the petals is bent out of shape. Oh, no.

"It's fine. She's right, it's just a silly crown."

"You all need to grow up," Cora insists, "as a woman soon to be married, I can see now how juvenile you lot are."

"Not married yet," Hannah snaps, "sooner the better if it means you're off."

"Charming, Hannah, I wonder why you've not had a proposal yet?"

Hannah waves her off with her hand and goes to Albina, "I'm tired. Help me out of my dress."

You turn away and set the crown on top of your own jewelry box. You take your time undoing the ribbon on your head and unclasping your pearls. You peel off your gloves and as you face the bed, you see Cora's hot glare.

"You'll see. That Lord Odinson will leave you behind and next season, you'll be on your way to a convent."

You swallow down her bitter words. Deep down, you don't doubt it. She is likely right but less than clairvoyant. You know better than any what your fate will be.

💙

You watch from the window as Cora walks in the gardens with Lord Rogers. Albina is in bed, moaning and rubbing her pelvis, as Hannah is downstairs with your mother stitching at her frame. The winds of autumn rattle the window frame and you back away, nervous to be caught observing.

You sit on the mattress and lean back against the pillow. Albina curls up on her side and faces you. You offer your hand and she latches on, squeezing. Her cramps have struck and she's already stained several shifts. Her blood has her in agony.

You don't mind keeping her company. Your own was due a week ago. You know because you've not stopped counting the days since... since Lord Rogers' proposal.

"I should hate to miss the promenade..." she mourns.

"You shouldn't miss very much," you assure her.

"Yes, but it will be cold soon. Too cold and it will snow and I will hate to go," she utters, "will you go?"

"Perhaps," you answer.

"And walk with Lord Odinson again?"

"If he wishes."

"I am certain he does. He is very friendly. Last night, when he told us of his families stronghold. About the mountains and the crossing rivers..."

"He has many stories," you agree, "and he tells them well."

"Oh, he does. He tells them for you."

"Pardon?" You nearly laugh.

"Sister, don't act clueless. He gave you his crown--"

"It was only a game."

"I do not think he plays."

"Why..."

"He always finds us on the promenade, doesn't he?"

"He is polite."

"Oh, you are stubborn."

You puff but don't argue further. She's wrong but she can't realise she is. She doesn't know what's happened, how you know for certain that he has no true intentions. That he cannot be any different than Lord Rogers.

💙

The hedges along the promenade are thinning. The roses have wilted away and the greenery curls and recedes. You wear a pair of lambskin gloves and an unlined cloak. It isn’t cold enough yet for fur.

As he does most days, Lord Rogers approaches to greet your family. Your mother and father bow to him briefly and bid their best before strolling off to meet with their peers. The betrothed couple will lead the way, as you walk behind with Hannah. Albina remains abed at home, her presence sorely missed as Hannah yawns and makes faces at the duke and his engaged.

You resist the urge to look around, to search for the man who crowned you valkyrie, the same who appeared at your side nearly every day. You restrained yourself from depending on his presence, from longing for it. He is a fleeting acquaintance, destined to return to Asgard one day. You shouldn't think so much of him.

“I wish we could have a summer wedding,” Lord Rogers declares, his voice raised loud enough for you to hear.

“But, my lord, that is so far away,” Cora protests, “so long as we wed before the snows, I will be content.”

“You, content. I am not mistaken, I know the sort of wife I’ve chosen,” he chides, “you only relish in that you might wear velvet.”

“Not at all my lord. I relish that I should marry you,” she preens, her arm hooked in his firmly.

You stare at the linking of their bodies. You remember the way he held you down, the way he cooed and coaxed, how he so softly coerced you. You should fear for your own sister, yet their misconceptions may be mutual.

“My ladies,” Lord Odinson’s voice precedes him and he steps up beside you, “and my lord. You are ashen, does the cold not agree with you?”

Lord Rogers glances over his shoulder, an edge in his jaw, “I handle it finely.”

You don’t mention he was only just longing for the summer. It isn’t any of your concern and you don’t very much care. Or you try not to.

“In Asgard, the winters, ah, they are splendid,” Odinson begins vibrantly, “there are days when the snow builds walls on its own and the next, they blow over to rippling oceans of frost. Endless and powdery.”

“Oh, we do not get so much snow here,” Hannah comments, “I don’t think I would survive such winters.”

You nod, listening intently as you picture the swirling snow and white dunes. It reminds you of a fairytale or a scene from one of Albina’s novels. Otherworldly and fantastical. Something entirely new and wonderful, but terrifying.

“And you, my valkyrie, would you face the blizzards?” Odinson challenges.

You hum thoughtfully. You know he is looking at you but you are too shy, too wary to return his gaze.

“I suppose with the proper cloak and a thick pair of boots, I might make it through, sir.”

“A coach and a horse, and any lady would say the same,” Rogers scoffs back at you, “girls hardly know the truth in matters of spirit. They can be overly presumptuous upon their own abilities.”

Odinson pushes his jacket back, hooking his finger in the pocket of his vest, “women are strong in ways men can never be. They carry lives, they bear the burden of the world, they maintain a grace lost on most men.”

“And the demure to the strength of men, to the wisdom they can never possess,” Rogers snaps back, laughing cruelly, “it is in the vows they take, is it not?”

“Only the strongest man can see the strength of women,” Odinson dismisses calmly, “my own mother keeps a pack of snow wolves. She goes out in the winter storms and reins her own sleigh. All while my father sits warm before his hearth. Her victories are not his losses.”

“Sounds rather quaint, Lord Odinson,” Rogers clucks, “your country strikes me as lacking civility.”

“Uncivil is a boring way of saying lively, and I promise, my home is much and more,” Odinson affirms, “but I think that fate has a way of placing us all where we belong, wouldn’t you agree?”

Rogers is quiet for a moment, his steps heavy as he strides on. He turns his head, his eye flicking between Odinson and yourself. He snorts and turns forward again.

“We must all take as we earn, accept what we do and do not get,” he says tritely, speaking animatedly with his hand in the air, “more often than not, we have only ourselves to thank… or blame.”

As cryptic as his words are, they are plain to you. That night with him was not unearned. Your foolishness bought your destruction. You must now live out your sentence of watching him walk arm in arm with another woman, your sister, everyday. You must accept that what he took can never be reclaimed.

💙

You sit in the garden, wrapped in a shawl as autumn breezes around the table. Your mother has a fur on her shoulders and your sisters chatter their teeth as they sip their tea. You rub your hands together, your gloves doing little against the crisp air. You suspect the days of dining without are close to done.

As you watch a leaf drift down from a branch, the hinges whine, and your father emerges from within. He gives an emphatic shiver as he claps his hands together. He seems rather pleases as he has his shoulders pushed back and his hat on a tilt.

"Daughters, my lovely wife, it is a beautiful day, is it not?"

You wonder at his uncharacteristic glee. Your father is ever practical and serious, on all matters. More so, he confounds as through the mutter of responses, he looks to you. You nod and agree with his sentiment softly.

"My daughter, my eldest, you... have a visitor."

You blink and withhold a grimace. He hates when you make faces. You force a smile and your voice crackles as you muster your voice.

"A visitor, father?"

"He is inside, he cannot have his tea alone," he says as if you should know who he alludes to.

You stand as Cora rolls her eyes, "who could be here for her?"

You notice how Albina and Hannah share a look. You cannot determine whether it is at your expense or Cora's.

"Daughter," your father drawls, "do not be sour that your betrothed eludes you."

"He does not--"

"So be happy for your sister and enjoy your tea."

She huffs and reaches for her cup. You step around her chair and approach your father. He smiles and as you near, he puts his hands on your arms. He is smiling. Genuinely.

"He has my blessing, of course, I will need accompany you to maintain propriety," he speaks quietly, "come."

You dip your chin down and meekly follow him inside. A servant pulls the door closed behind you. Your steps echo down the corridor as your father leads you to the sunroom. As you enter, there is some rustling and a subtle creak.

You peek up to find Lord Odinson standing with a hand on his vest. He bows to you and your father. You stop in the archway.

Your father proceeds, unaffected, and sits in the cushioned chair nearest the fireplace. He slaps his thighs as he splays his legs and grunts.

"Well, then, get on with it," your father grumbles.

Lord Odinson straightens his posture and gulps. He reaches up and toys with his cravat, the starch fabric already askew. He smiles, his cheeks reddening. He sways and looks between your father and yourself.

"I thought it very difficult to put this in ink but now I am here, I find the same is true of words," he says, laughing at his own joke, "so, lady, I trust this isn't very surprising to you. I've made my intentions clear and I've made your father a proposal, which he has graciously approved. Thus I put to you the question..." he twists his cravat, stops himself, then grips his jacket lapel, "would I be a fair husband to you? Er, or rather, would you... would you... honour me as a wife?"

The air stills and the chill that trailed you in dissipates. You blink dumbly and let your mouth fall open. You glance at your father. You understand his happiness now and yet you cannot believe it.

Your stomach churns and you clamp your mouth shut. The silence turns unbearable. You notice how Lord Odinson's cheek spasms and his complexion drains.

"Yes, sir, I... suppose... rather, I would..." you feel as if you're choking, "is it true? A marriage?"

"You wouldn't have to leave your homeland forever. I have some months ahead of me and my holdings here. We could visit--"

"Yes, yes, I will marry you," you murmur.

You hold your breath. Waiting. For one of them to break. For a peel of laughter between them. For it all to be another trick.

"Glory," Odinson exclaims as he proffers his hand, "shall we sit for tea, then, my valkyrie?"

You nod, unable to speak for fear of croaking. It is real. This man is real but you worry, his attention may yet prove false.

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melanieph321 · 3 months ago

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Can you make a fanfic of Gabriel Medina where reader is an f1 driver and their dating and reader wins the Brazilian gp where his the one waving the flag and it’s all cute and fluff sorry if that didn’t make sense had the idea but didn’t know how to word it

Omg yes!!! ☺️☺️☺️☺️💞💞💞

10 DAYS OF REQUESTS

(DAY 8)

Gabriel Medina x Reader - Waving Flag

I haven't written cute fluff like this in so long ☺️☺️

Enjoy! 🏁

"You're thinking about the race, aren't you?"

You shifted in bed. The hotel room was dark, but the light from the moon revealed your boyfriend's teasing smile. "So what if I am?"

His lips widened. "You should get some sleep, baby. The race isn't won in your mind. It's won on the track."

"Oh, yeah? And when did Gabriel Medina become such a racing expert?"

"Easy..." He said and bent down to kiss your lips. "My girlfriend is a racing driver. One of the best in the world."

"Is she? How many races has she won?"

"None this season. But you just wait and see tomorrow...."

"Tomorrow..." Tomorrow was indeed a big day for you. The whole world refused to let you forget that.

"Hey, where did you go?" Disturbed by your silence, Gabriel shrugged your body.

"I'm here." You whispered, your hands stroking the outlines of his face. "I just really want to win tomorrow, that's all."

"And you will." He shifted his weight onto you, his arms tugging you closer. "Trust me, baby, you'll beat them all."

"I really want to win." You repeated, more as wish than a statement. "It would make my family so proud."

"And me." Gabriel mumbled against your neck, where his lips had gone to attached themselves. It tickled when he spoke. "You're gonna make the people of Brazil proud if you win it tomorrow. And you will win it, baby. Trust me."

You closed your eyes and sighed, his hungry kisses tracing down your throat. Fiery kisses, that burned every inch of your skin.

"Gabriel, please." You gasped. "We can't."

"No sex before the race." You said shyly. "You know my rules."

His hands were searching for you under the covers, knuckles brushing over the fabric of your panties. "Why not?" He murmured, head still burried into the crook of your neck.

Gabriel lifted his head, eyes big in the night. "Your rules, huh?" He let his hands slip out from underneath the covers, respecting your needs. Gabriel always did. However, he resumed tracing feather like kisses up your arms, his lips a gift from God himself. "So no sex before the race...." He traced the kisses upwards, stopping to nip and lick the spots that he knew would make you squeal.

"No." You squirmed, stirring frantically below him. However, Gabriel's weight pinned you down against the matress, the warmth of his naked torso flat against your cheeks. "But if I win...."

He raised his head, eyebrows arched. "If you win?"

You grinned. "Then you can do whatever you want to me."

His head knocked against your chest, a deep groan rising from his throat. "Fuck, Y/N. You're literally driving me crazy."

"I am." You giggled. "I really am."

******************************************

Getting in the zone was the easy part. With Gabriel taking care of your family, you really had no distractions surrounding your garage. Your team took you through the usual race preparations, which you analyzed mindfully but also critically. Today, there could be no mistakes. Still, the atmosphere of the Interlagos circuit was of no other. You caught yourself glancing at the many faces of the cheering crowd. How they proudly waved the Brazilian flag, a flag you wore at the hip of your racing suit. It might as well have been attached to your chest because that's how much it meant to you.

The next day couldn't arrive fast enough. It was race day, which meant not as much media. All your focus was on the task at hand. To win the Brazilian Grand Prix.

Like you told Gabriel, it would mean so much to your family. The whole nation, really. To win your first home grand prix on the F1 Academy's first trip to Brazil would simply mean the world to you. You'd do anything to accomplish this objective, starting by focusing solemnly on that exact goal. To cross the line first.

Brazil was your home.

Brazil was your heart.

Today you'd show the world what a Brazilian racing driver could do.

Your heart was beating fast, like it always did at the start of a race. However, once your car had taken position on the track, the engine revolving to the countdown of the lights, there was no turning back. Either you sink or you swim.

Your gaze was narrowed from behind your vizor. Once your helmet was on, you were one with the car, man, and the machine. Correction: Woman and the machine. At the end of the day, that's what you all were, women, trying to prove themselves in a man's world.

Many men have told you not to do what you do. To not try to fix what isn't broken. However, you've only really cared about what one man thinks of you, and today, you were racing for him and him alone

"She's done it. Y/N takes the checkered flag as the winner of the Brazilian GP!"

The feeling was of no other. First win of the season and the first win at home. Although your eyes were dimmed by tears you were pretty sure that you saw your boyfriend over head, waving the checkered flag as you crossed the finish line.

What a day.

What a life.

And it had only just begun.

DON'T MISS - 10 DAYS OF REQUESTS

(DAY 1)

(DAY 2)

(DAY 3)

(DAY 4)

(DAY 5)

(DAY 6)

(DAY 7)

#fanfiction #gabriel medina x reader #gabriel medina imagine #gabriel medina #f1 imagine #f1 #f1 x reader #brazil #brasil #10 days of requests #day 8

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kitorin · 1 year ago

Text

sweet dreams.

in which, nanami kento finally goes on a long overdue vacation

contents. nanami kento x gn!reader, 2.965k words, fluff but then heavy angst (mcd and hurt no comfort), mentions of murder (true crime stuff) but no detail of it, reader is a coward and really can't handle horror (sorry that's just me projecting)

"What did you do?"

Guilt makes your lips purse, tongue swiping over them out of habit. You didn't want to call him, to interrupt him during the night shift he ever so loathes, contributing to the things he has to do.

But with demons lurking in the dark and the sense of impending doom beginning to latch onto you, it felt necessary, especially when fear decided to be quite clingy.

"I got scared."

A tired sigh comes from the phone. "How many times do I have to tell you not to watch anything disturbing at night?"

"This documentary got really interesting. I wanted to know what happened next..." Explicit content was fine, with Kento there to cling onto and his never-ending reassurance. Your husband watched these intense shows and documentaries without so much of a flinch, unfazed by quite literally everything displayed on the screen.

You, on the other hand, was a completely different case.

The slightest raise in volume managed to steal a scream from you, and jump scares had you flinching just a bit too hard. The mere build up and suspense of the music had your heart racing, even if nothing happened and it served as a little trick.

"I'm so sorry Ken, I'll hang up so you can focus on work." You're an adult, you shouldn't be so cowardly towards a mere genre of entertainment, and you should know better not to consume it.

Your thumb reaches for the red button, and your emotions hold you back, while rationality argues not to.

"No. Neither of us are going to be hanging up."

One part of you celebrates quietly, while another insists. "But you're working. Overtime nonetheless, and I know you hate those shifts. It's best to get everything done as soon as possible and get out of there."

His voice is raspy, garnished by a sultry tone. "Love, I belong to you, not my job. I do appreciate your thoughts, but you're more important than a mere paycheck."

Fuck. There it is, his eloquent, smooth way with words.

"Still. I can wait." That was a lie, though one you were willing to utter if it meant he'd prioritise his job. "Besides, what about that higher up you mentioned? The irritating one that's childish and overtalkative?"

Kento chuckles. "He's here, but he takes his job seriously and is highly capable. I'm on break anyways. Talk to me. If you can."

"I read about the Sapporo murder case. I still feel like the culprits from the case is going to sneak up on me. Or one of the zombies from Happiness." You adored the show and its cast, but god forbid you sit through another one of its jump scares.

"That's fine, it's normal. The point of this type of media is so scare. A lot of effort is put into making sure they elicit emotion." You cling onto every word he speaks, the world around you still there, only a bit blurry now. "Breathe in through your nose for four second, pause for two. Then breathe out through your mout for another eight."

Have you brushed your teeth?"

Kento hums as a response when you answer yes.

"Where are you right now?"

"In bed, but I need to clean up and turn off some lights before I sleep."

"Ignore it. I'll do it when I'm home."

"Are you sure?" There was no point in asking that, not when you'd rather not move away from the security of the doona. "You're going to be exhausted by the time you're home."

"Doesn't matter to me." Genuine indifference to the matter displays itself in Kento's tone. "I took a nap earlier, had a coffee or two as well. I'm going to be alright—" Something in the background echoes, though you could barely decipher what you were hearing, the furious tone of the voice concerned you.

"Who was that...? Is your boss mad at you? Wait but it doesn't make sense for a boss to give you a nickname—"

For a moment or two, Kento remained silent. "No, just an enthusiastic intern. He's talkative and sometimes loud but he's a good kid."

Your former worry dissipates, so quick that it almost seemed like it was never there in the first place. "Nanamin, was it?"

He sighs, the two of you know damn well that you'll refuse to forget that one.

"It's cute! Nanamin. I like how it sounds."

Voice softening, he replies with a chuckle. "I feel like you'd get along well."

"You should invite him over then. He must adore you if he's calling out to you that much."

"If that's true then I'd say the feeling is quite mutual." All you have is his voice, yet you can say without a doubt that he's beaming, a subtlety only you'll ever know— one of the many which compose the love between the two of you.

"Keep working." You whisper as a yawn claws out of your throat.

"Are you sure? Are you okay now?"

You nod, though he can't see it. "I am. Just listening to you helps a lot."

"I'm glad."

"Do your best at work, okay? And make sure you stay safe on the way home?" You hold back a grin, even though you're alone in your shared bedroom. "I have a surprise for you when you get home."

Kento piques with curiosity. "Really?"

"Yup, I think you'll love it." You stare at your bedside table, where tickets to Malaysia were stored. "I hope you do, at least."

"If it's coming from you of course I'll love it sweetheart." It's miraculous really, how you've been together for so long yet you have to suppress the urge to squeal over his sweet words. "My boss is going to start making me work again, good night darling. Sweet dreams, love."

You fall asleep with ease that night, this time with welcomed thoughts of spending time with Kento on the shore of Kuantan, running around whilst cherishing the cold, salty water licking at your ankles; rather than the intrusive thoughts from earlier.

"You could've kept talking to them. I wouldn't've told anyone even if it took a lot of time."

Fushiguro Megumi is examining the sharpness of his blade when he reassures his teacher Nanami Kento, not looking up from his weapon, seated by the railing of the bridge.

"I appreciate that, but it'd be wrong of you." He moves his shoulders in circles, loosening his tie to wrap it around his knuckles. "I can teach you other methods."

"Pardon?"

Nanami crouches in front of Megumi. "Your breathing changed when I told them how to." The student doesn't respond. "It varies from person to person, I've tested out a lot."

Megumi still doesn't answer, averting his gaze towards the weapon that he held down.

"Fushiguro - kun. Are you scared?"

The younger finally speaks once more. "... I guess." Hesitation presents itself in his words, barely stable and his reluctance to maintain eye contact. "I won't let that stop me from completing my tasks—"

"It's okay. You're merely sixteen, you're not even old enough to drink, nor get your driver's licence."

Megumi returns to silence.

"Look at me." And so Megumi does. "To be a child is not a sin. I'm perfectly fine with withdrawing you from this operation if it's too much."

"Wouldn't that get you in trouble?"

Indeed he would. He'd tolerate plenty of discipline and anger from the higher ups. But Nanami Kento knows too well what it's like to risk you and your peers for a 'greater good', at nonetheless a ridiculously young age too—an age where you're supposed to go to regular school and be regular, stupid kids figuring themselves out; not witnessing the death of the ones dear to your heart with the sight of their corpses forever imprinted into your mind, nor have the stench of blood memorised meticulously instead of historical dates or mathematical formulas.

If it were up to him, he'd prohibit such exploitation of children. None should be performing such tasks, even if born with an advantageous cursed technique.

If the higher ups adopted the same philosophy as him, Haibara would be alive and well, and Nanami wouldn't feel his stomach lurch whenever he sees a bowl of rice, nor flinch whenever he hears the mention of Geto Suguru.

'I don't mind if it means you'll be at ease. Gojo can protect me, and if I'm unable to extract you from this operation then I'll handle everything."

Megumi takes a deep breath. "I shouldn't run away. I'll do my best. I have Tsumiki I need to return to. We should go find Itadori now."

“If you say so then, but it’s still my duty to protect you.” With a final, strong tug he tightens his tie around his knuckles. “I can't guarantee any results, not in this instable world and career. What I can promise, is that I will protect you with my life."

A determined nod from Megumi is all he needs.

Quick and efficient; that's the plan. Shibuya was already a mess, and all he wanted was the security of your arms within the four walls he calls 'home'.

"Thank you for having us."

Megumi, the one with the messy, black hair speaks coldly, though very politely, his manners were courteous and so was Yuuji. They'd come to your door and introduced themselves as interns at Kento's company. Now, they were seated in your living room, on your couch.

"Don't mention it, Ken's always been fond of the interns." You already miss him, he must've stayed overnight at the company again. "Are you okay with first names?"

Both nod.

You smile. "So, Yuuji, Megumi, what have you come here for?"

Yuuji speaks first. "It's about Nanamin, I mean Nanami—"

Without malicious attempt you cut him off. "Nanamin is fine, I overheard you calling him that last night. He was fond of it, it was quite cute after all." You chuckle to yourself at it.

The boy swallows, appearing apprehensive. He sounded so enthusiastic last night, perhaps he was the type who needed to warm up towards people first.

"Well, um."

You don't say anything, giving him time to respond comfortably.

"Nanami sensei passed away last night." Megumi finishes what Yuuji couldn't.

Your heart drops.

Temptation to make an accusation of a prank attempts to claw out of your throat, but with how their expressions scream nausea and discomfort, it'd be rude to do so.

That explained why he never kept his promise of finishing up on chores, knowing Kento he would’ve done everything to make sure he made it home to do as he said he would.

"What happened?" It doesn't feel right— and it isn't at all, but you have to figure out the truth, even if this all doesn't seem real.

"There was a fire." Yuuji whispers, barely loud enough and coherent with the tremble of his voice. "And he didn't make it out in time."

You remain silent, so does Megumi. Yuuji bites his lip, suppressing what seemed to be a sob.

"I see."

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If only—" It drowns out in his bawling. "It was my fault. He—"

He completely lacked incoherency now, hiccuping as tears rolled down his cheeks.

"He helped us first." Megumi once again continues Yuuji's words. "But they recovered his body, we brought you his ashes."

He pulls out a package from his shoulder bag, wrapping it to reveal a pale blue funerary urn. Megumi places it onto the table.

"I'm sorry. If I had been capable of protecting myself he wouldn't've died saving me."

Your gaze meets Megumi’s, you're too afraid to properly acknowledge the urn, where your boyfriend was supposedly resting.

Silence permeates the air, Yuuji bites his sleeve to suppress his crying and Megumi breathes shakily.

"Don't apologise. You have no reason to. Neither of you." You've barely known the two, but the way Yuuji was sobbing broke your heart, and how both seemed to genuinely believe they caused Kento's passing. "It's not your fault. I don't think it is, and he would agree with him. He made the choice to help you, because he cared deeply for both of you. You can cry freely, I won't stop you." You muster a smile, hoping it'll be comforting in some sort of way. They're only kids, they can't be blaming themselves for the death of another they didn't cause.

Yuuji's teeth release the sleeve of his hoodie, hiccuping out what sounded like a thank you. You push a tissue box towards him, to which he accepts the offer.

"You idiot…” Megumi sniffles a bit.

“It’s okay, you’re going to be fine.” You pat him on the back, rubbing it too. You give him your phone, opening a new contact. “I’d like to invite you two to the funeral, can I have your contact details? In the meantime I’ll make some tea.”

You earn a nod, and are quick to retreat into the kitchen, hand holding your mouth shut as you slowly cry, pleading for Yuuji and Megumi to be unable to hear.

"Kento! We're here, at Kuantan!"

After a long flight and travel, you finally arrived at your destination, you had dropped your luggage off at the accommodation, the urn Megumi had given you was held up against your chest.

I've always wanted to go to Kuantan, in Malaysia. One day I'd like to build a house on a secluded beach and live there. Of course with you, if you were okay with it.

You take off your sandals, tossing them away as you approach the shoreline, the coolness of the water catching you off guard. You continue walking, until it reaches halfway up your calves.

Off goes the lid of the urn, and you toss the ashes into the beach, watching the waves swallow Kento whole. It's not long before the urn is empty, you've never had to scatter someone's ashes, yet it felt like something was missing.

In all honesty, you have no idea if Kento wanted to be cremated, you've never touched on the subject of death, probably because the two of you were so young.

But something tells you this is the right decision. Kuantan's beautiful, and he wanted to go when work and money permitted him to do so. He'd loved to read a book under the shade of that large tree over there, and would've wanted to try fishing at the rock ledge nearby. It was just the two of you here, even better.

Fuck.

As you watch him swim into the ocean, you notice the tears threatening to spill. You don't bother trying to avoid it, not that you would've been able to.

"It's not fair!" You yell, out into the ocean. You don't blame Yuuji, or Megumi, or anyone, but you're still livid. "I miss you, I miss you so much that it gets hard to breathe."

The ring box feels heavy in your pocket.

"If you had to leave this world early you could've done it later." Your cry becomes a sob. "Just one month, then I could've fucking proposed. I don't need a honeymoon or marriage, I just want your fucking answer."

In an ideal world, you'd like to think that he would've accepted without hesitation, but that fantasy doesn't compare to the pain of remaining oblivious to his answer forever.

"Who's going to comfort me now? Who am I going to spend the rest of my life with? Who am I going to cook dinner with? What about Yuuji and Megumi? They had to finish their internships without you. Do you know how hard Yuuji cried when he came to tell me you passed away?"

By no means are you mad at Kento, you could never. But anger that slowly accumulated in your heart for the past few months, and had erupted. The empty coldness of your bed stings, and the amount of cutlery required being halved overwhelms you with misery. You can’t even laugh at his high school photos anymore, the amusement from his ridiculous haircut can’t triumph over the fact that he had passed away a mere ten years later.

You’d much rather store it all away, each and every possession and photo of the man. The sight of his favourite mug serves as a harsh reminder that morning coffee with him will never happen. Listening to old voice mails seemed reassuring and almost lulled you to sleep, until you had to come to terms that he was truly gone once more.

But at least sound can be captured.

What about his scent? Eventually his clothes would lose their scent, they probably were already on that course, even with your refusal to wash them. Touch can’t be preserved, you can cling onto the memory of your skin against his for as long as you want, but you’ll never truly experience it again.

“Goodbye Kento!” Despite your miserable state you pull yourself together just enough so you can see him off with a smile. “I love you, so so much. More than anything in the world, I always will! Thank you, for being there. Th-thank you for loving me.”

You've lost the energy to yell, throat now hoarse. You venture deeper into the shore, not caring about your clothes getting wet, as your face gets soaked with your own tears.

Who's fault is it? Was it the culprit of the fire (if there was one)? Or perhaps yours, for not proposing earlier. Maybe then he would've been safe and sound in Kuantan, after taking leave. Perchance it was the heavens deciding they’d rather just not authorise him to spend the rest of his name.

Whoever it was, it doesn't matter. Nothing could bring back the warmth of Nanami Kento.

taglist (send ask to be added) : @yuzurins, @pokkomi, @chigirizzz

#nanami my beloved #nanami kento #jjk nanami #nanami x reader #jujutsu nanami #kento nanami #jujutsu kaisen #jjk x reader #nanami kento x reader #jjk #nanamin #jujustu kaisen #fluff #angst #nanami angst #nanami fluff #kento nanami x reader #nanami x you #nanami kento fluff

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engelgabriel · 5 months ago

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RANT i’ve been thinking about

ZD is such a thought provoking and self reflecting film and it sucks that most people view it from only one perspective or preconceived bias of what is taboo / “morally incorrect” in media. it has significantly larger meaning than just the “school shooter” movie. it’s hypocritical of people who are interested in, for example, slashers to criticize a fictional movie and or it fans because of the content material. lots of people find comfort or interest probably because of the deeper messages and emotions behind it, and relating to cal or andre because of (in my opinion) well representation of REALISTIC mental illness instead of “socially correct” mental illness isn’t bad. self-destructive and harmful behavior, even though it is negative, is unfortunately a major part of struggling with mental illness. OBVIOUSLY what they did is wrong; in no way does the movie try to make them out to be guilt free and their mental illness is not an excuse. however i dont think its crazy whatsoever for people to enjoy it because a significantly large amount of people in this fanbase are mentally unstable (no offense guys…) and i don’t think anyone should be painted as a bad person because you vent or even just cope with violent/dark media instead of harming yourself and or others irl. “art is meant to comfort the disturbed 🤓” OR WHATEVER.. putting emotion towards fiction in general helps me personally and methinks it is a great movie besides its cinematography and whateva… ok DONE

#zero day #cal gabriel #andre kriegman #zero day 2003 #caldre #is this a hot take?#i don’t know and don’t care

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yoursinisforgiven · 19 days ago

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VIRTUE ──

pairing: zaros x reader (earis)

cw: very light dark content, smut, afab reader, dom–ish reader (?), bondage, sword play(?), oral (male and female receiving), overstimulation, power play, pain play, fear play, body worship, unconventional items used as gags, hair pulling, multiple orgasms, cumming without touch (?), denied orgasm, breeding with intentions of pregnancy, mentions of pregnancy, slut shaming (not towards reader), crying(?), earis is a tad bit mean, mentions of arranged marriages, mentions of ownership of a human(?) reader is implied to be anemic, mentions of blood.

you are responsible for your own media consumption, the piece of writing contains dark content; it’s not suitable or meant to be enjoyed by all readers.

The palace is deathly cold at night.

The kind of cold that seeps into your bones, clings to your skin, and turns even the grandest halls into desolate, lifeless spaces. You’d mentioned it once to your mother, your voice timid but earnest, hoping she might offer some comfort or explanation.

“Mother,” you had said as you wrapped your shawl tighter around your shoulders. “Why is it so cold at night?”

She’d looked up from her embroidery, her gaze sharp but detached, as though she were considering something far more pressing than your discomfort. “It is not cold,” she replied in that ever-gentle tone of hers, the kind that somehow dismissed you without sounding unkind. “You are simply imagining it. Focus your thoughts on something productive, and you will feel warm soon enough dear.”

And that was the end of it. No fires stoked higher, no thicker blankets fetched. Just another lesson in silence and endurance—a lesson the palace itself seemed intent on teaching.

Now, as you wandered its halls alone, your footsteps barely audible against the marble floors, the cold seemed more oppressive than ever. The flickering torchlight did little to dispel the shadows that stretched along the walls, their shapes shifting and twisting like restless spirits. The air smelled faintly of stone and wax, a scent that had grown so familiar it felt like part of your skin.

You pulled your cloak tighter, but it did little to keep the chill at bay. The palace seemed alive in its stillness, its emptiness a palpable weight that pressed down on you. The ornate arches and towering columns, so grand and imposing by day, now loomed like silent sentinels, their grandeur turned to menace.

It had become a routine now, so familiar you could probably navigate the winding halls to the library with your eyes closed. The route had carved itself into your memory—turn left at the grand staircase, pass the hall of tapestries, and follow the faint scent of parchment and aged wood.

When you reached the heavy wooden door, your palm rested against its surface, feeling the faint grooves and knots beneath your fingers. The library always seemed to breathe, even when the rest of the palace lay still. You pushed the door open carefully, wincing as it gave a low, resonant creak. The sound echoed like a whisper through the cavernous room, breaking the fragile silence.

The door had been like this for as long as you could remember—old and temperamental, perhaps older than time itself. You’d grown used to its groans, but tonight it felt louder somehow, as if scolding you for disturbing the library’s rest. You paused for a moment, listening to the stillness beyond. Nothing stirred. The palace was asleep, everyone tucked away in their chambers. Everyone except you.

Stepping inside, you pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, the fabric brushing against your legs. The library welcomed you with its warmth, the wooden floors beneath your feet noticeably kinder than the cold, unforgiving marble of the palace corridors. The smell of the room was intoxicating—leather-bound tomes, faintly dusty shelves, and the lingering trace of candle wax. It was a sanctuary, a place untouched by the sharp edges of politics and duty.

The moonlight streamed through the high, arched windows, casting soft beams across the towering shelves. Shadows danced in the corners, and the faint glow of the embers in the hearth added an amber hue to the otherwise pale light. Your footsteps were soft as you moved deeper into the room, the floorboards creaking gently beneath your weight.

You made your way to your usual spot—a low table nestled near the hearth, surrounded by plush chairs that had seen better days. A stack of books sat waiting for you, some you had left behind the night before, others collected over countless visits. Their spines bore titles in languages both familiar and foreign, their pages promising escape from the weight of the waking world.

As you settled into one of the chairs, the cloak slipping from your shoulders, you exhaled a sigh of relief. The fire’s warmth brushed against your skin, chasing away the chill that had followed you from the halls. Your fingers traced the edges of the topmost book absently, the embossed title rough beneath your touch. You weren’t quite ready to open it yet, to dive into the words and lose yourself entirely. For now, you simply let the quiet wrap around you, as comforting as the firelight as you close your eyes.

The sudden feeling of an oddly warm hand brushing against yours made you jump, a sharp jolt of surprise shooting through your body. You let out a strangled sound—half gasp, half scream—and pulled your hand back instinctively, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Earis!”

His voice was low but laced with alarm, and when you whipped your head around, there he was—Zaros, standing beside you with one brow arched in a mixture of confusion and mild amusement. His usually composed expression faltered for just a moment, his dark eyes scanning your face as though trying to gauge the severity of your reaction.

“Zaros!” you hissed, clutching the edge of the table to steady yourself. “What in the void are you doing!”

He raised his hands slightly in mock surrender, though the faintest smirk played at the corner of his lips. “I might ask you the same. You screamed as though I’d come to murder you, and all I did was reach for a book.”

You blinked, following his gaze to the thick tome sitting on the table between you. Its spine was cracked from years of use, the faded title etched in a language you could barely decipher. It was one of the volumes you’d been meaning to dive into tonight, its pages promising insight into the histories of Serulla’s political alliances—a subject you’d grudgingly started studying yourself.

Zaros folded his arms, leaning slightly against the edge of the table as he watched you. “Well?”

“Well what?” you shot back, narrowing your eyes.

He gestured to the book. “I need it. That’s what.”

You stared at him incredulously. “You need it? I’ve been sitting here for the past 5 minutes. If you needed it so desperately, why didn’t you get it before I did?”

“I wasn’t aware there was a time limit on how soon I could claim a book,” he said smoothly, his voice tinged with humor. “Though, clearly, I’ve made a grave misstep by not consulting you first.”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms defensively. “Well, you can wait until I’m finished with it.”

“Earis,” Zaros said, his tone softening just enough to make it clear he wasn’t looking for an argument. “I need it tonight. The council meets tomorrow, and I’d prefer not to walk in unprepared.”

You hesitated, glancing down at the book. A part of you wanted to dig your heels in, if only to annoy him. Zaros had a way of commanding attention and resources that always grated on your nerves, even when he didn’t mean to. But there was something in his voice tonight, something earnest and almost pleading, that made it hard to refuse outright.

Still, you weren’t about to make this easy for him.

“And what exactly are you studying?” you asked, tilting your head as you regarded him.

“The treaty proposals from the Third Era,” he said without missing a beat. “Specifically, the sections on land grants and mutual defense agreements. I assume that’s why you’re reading it as well?”

You blinked, surprised by his straightforward response. “...Yes, actually.”

“Good,” he said, moving to pull out the chair next to you .“Then we can study it together.”

“Wait—what?” You gawked at him as he settled into the seat, completely at ease. “No, no, no. That’s not how this works. If you’re here to steal the book, at least have the decency to leave me in peace afterward.”

“Steal it?” Zaros echoed, raising a brow. “Hardly. I’m merely proposing a compromise.”

“It doesn’t feel like a compromise when I don’t have a choice,” you muttered, but he was already flipping open the cover, his eyes scanning the first few pages with practiced ease.

For a moment, you considered protesting further, but the sight of him leaning over the book, his focus entirely on the text, gave you pause. Zaros, for all his charm and wit, rarely let his guard down. Yet here, in the quiet warmth of the library, he seemed almost... human.

With a reluctant sigh, you shifted your chair closer, leaning in to read over the page he’d stopped on.

“Fine,” you said, your voice tinged with exasperation. “But don’t think for a second that this means I’m sharing my notes.”

He glanced up at you, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

For the next hour, the two of you pored over the book together, your heads nearly touching as you leaned over the pages. Occasionally, your fingers would brush as you turned a page or pointed to a passage, and each time, you felt a small jolt of awareness, though you tried to ignore it.

As much as you hated to admit it, the collaboration worked. Zaros’s sharp insights balanced your methodical approach, and by the time you reached the final chapters, you found yourself grudgingly impressed by his depth of knowledge.

When you finally closed the book, the fire in the hearth had burned low, and the chill of the palace had begun to creep back into the room. Zaros leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied sigh.

The room had settled into an almost intoxicating quiet. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the dying fire and the occasional creak of the wooden floor as one of you shifted. You sat back in your chair, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and glanced toward Zaros.

He was still leaning back, his arms stretched above his head, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut across his chest and shoulders. You quickly averted your gaze, focusing instead on the flickering embers in the hearth.

"Not bad for a late-night study session, especially with a ‘leech,’" Zaros said, his voice carrying a subtle warmth that made the cold air seem less biting.

You huffed, though there was no real annoyance behind it. “Don’t flatter yourself. I did most of the work.”

Zaros chuckled softly, his head tilting as he regarded you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. “Did you now? I seem to recall a few moments where you looked ready to throw the book at me.”

“I still might,” you quipped, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

His gaze lingered on you, his usual playfulness tempered by something softer, something unspoken. You felt it too—that strange, weighty stillness that seemed to hang between you, as though the library itself had paused to watch. The firelight cast golden shadows across his features, and for a brief, suspended moment, the room felt impossibly intimate.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on the edge of the table, closing the already narrow distance between you. “You’ve got soot on your cheek,” he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a whisper.

You frowned, instinctively raising a hand to your face. “What? Where?”

“Here.” His hand caught yours before you could reach, guiding it away as he leaned closer. His touch was light, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest moment before he reached out, his thumb grazing your cheek in a deliberate, careful motion.

Your breath caught, your pulse quickening as his hand lingered, the warmth of his touch stark against the coolness of the room. His gaze locked onto yours, and in the dim light, his eyes seemed impossibly dark, their depths holding something you couldn’t quite name. Something dangerous, something that threatened to pull you deeper into him.

“Gone,” he said softly, though he didn’t pull away immediately.

The air between you felt electric, charged with a tension you hadn’t expected but couldn’t deny. Your heart pounded in your chest, and for a moment, you wondered if he could hear it. The stillness between you stretched, fragile yet full of meaning. In that instant, everything else—the weight of Serulla, the politics, your fractured alliances—faded into the background.

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words caught in your throat as the library door creaked open, the sound slicing through the intimate stillness like a blade. You both froze, turning toward the source of the interruption.

The moment shattered in an instant. You slapped his hand away from your cheek, your heart racing, and shot him a venomous glare. Zaros’s hand lingered in the air for a moment before he quickly withdrew, his usual composed expression faltering for just a second.

Lady Nira stood in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim light of the hall behind her. Her gaze swept over the scene with razor-sharp precision, taking in the closeness of your chairs, the faint flush still lingering on your face, and the way Zaros’s hand hovered just a breath away from yours.

"Am I interrupting something?" she asked, her voice cool and deliberate, each word laced with subtle menace.

Zaros straightened immediately, his composure snapping back into place like a well-worn mask. “Mother,” he said smoothly, his tone neutral but firm.

Nira’s gaze flicked between the two of you for a moment longer, before she turned her attention back to Zaros. "A word with you, in private," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Zaros hesitated, his eyes flicking to you briefly before he rose from his chair. “Of course,” he said evenly, his voice devoid of the softness it had held just moments ago. There was no apology in his gaze, but something about his expression seemed to say that he was sorry for the intrusion—not just for the moment, but for whatever it was that lingered between you.

As he followed his mother toward the door, he glanced back at you, a flicker of something in his gaze—something almost... regretful. Then the door clicked shut behind them, leaving you alone in the library.

The warmth of the fire suddenly felt much farther away, and the sudden emptiness of the room pressed in around you, as if the air had thickened. The tension from the brief moment you’d shared with Zaros hung heavily in the air, and for a moment, you wondered if it would ever dissipate.

As the morning light filtered through the high windows, you found yourself sitting in front of the mirror, furiously scrubbing at your cheek. The skin there felt raw, a slight redness still lingering from where Zaros’s thumb had brushed earlier. You had tried to wash it off, to erase the feeling of his touch, but no matter how much you scrubbed, the sensation remained, like an echo that refused to fade.

Your mother’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and worried. “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice still laced with that unsettling calm, though there was now an edge to it.

You froze, the rough cloth still in your hand, and turned toward her. She stood at the doorway, her brow furrowed in confusion, watching you with a mixture of concern and mild bewilderment. Her gaze dropped to your face, her eyes narrowing at the redness spreading across your cheek.

You quickly dropped the cloth, irritated by the way her eyes studied you as if you were some foreign creature. “It’s nothing,” you muttered, trying to brush past her concern. “Just... a mistake.”

She was by your side in an instant, her movements quick and graceful, as if she knew exactly how to close the distance between you and her worries. “A mistake?” she repeated, her voice hardening. “A mistake that makes you draw blood?”

You didn’t meet her gaze. Instead, you focused on the floor, the empty space between you and the mirror feeling like a chasm you couldn’t cross.

──

You hadn’t been eavesdropping—at least, not intentionally.

The wind had whispered through the garden, and the rustling leaves had carried every word with an almost haunting clarity. The vastness of the garden, with its labyrinthine paths and towering hedges, amplified every syllable. And if you had been listening on purpose, it would have been entirely justified—after all, who wouldn’t want to overhear a conversation like this? Gossip in someone else’s garden was not only crass, but it also revealed truths, peeling back the layers of decorum and revealing the sharpness beneath.

Still, you lingered behind the towering hedge of pale roses, their petals creamy as moonlight. From here, you could hear every syllable exchanged without needing to strain. The voices—sharp and precise—carried across the open space like arrows aimed at unseen targets.

“Should you win,” came the clipped, commanding voice of Nira Atha'lin, Zaros’s mother. Her words cut through the air with the precision of a blade, demanding obedience. “If is not a word we will entertain. Should you ascend to the throne of Serulla, you must understand that your duty will not end with winning the Imperium Trials.”

The pause that followed felt like an eternity, loaded with weight. You could almost imagine her steel-gray eyes, narrowed and calculating, aimed directly at Zaros.

He laughed, low and mocking, his voice tinged with irreverence. “Ah, yes. Winning isn’t enough. You’d have me bound in chains of duty before the crown even settles on my head. How delightfully maternal of you.”

Her tone sharpened, slicing through his deflection. “You think this is a jest? You will need alliances, Zaros. Solid ones. The kind built on bloodlines and legacies—not petty camaraderie. Serulla cannot be secured with charm alone.”

“I suppose this is the part where you propose shackling me to some noble’s vapid daughter, all for the sake of political gain?” Zaros’s voice was colder now, every word carrying the bite of frustration. “Do you have a list prepared, Mother? Or perhaps you've already sent out invitations to my engagement banquet.”

The tension between them thickened, and you felt it too. The air was suffocating, the weight of their words pressing in on you like an unseen hand. You crept closer, careful not to snap a twig or disturb the delicate flowerbeds. The words carried across the garden, wrapping around you like a noose.

“Arrangements have already begun,” Nira Atha'lin’s voice was as sharp as ever, deliberate and polished. “It is only a matter of time before I finalize the alliance. The families are eager, and for good reason.”

“For good reason, indeed,” Zaros replied, his voice softer, contemplative. “They seek a claim to the throne through marriage, not to strengthen Serulla but to carve out a piece of it for themselves.”

A long silence followed, and in that stillness, the world seemed to stop. Nira’s response came, a quiet venom creeping into her tone, more terrifying than the earlier sharpness. “Refuse, and you will not only lose the throne but the very foundation upon which your name stands. You will doom us all, Zaros. And that, I will not allow.”

Her footsteps grew louder as she stepped closer to her son, her voice softening just enough to carry an undercurrent of something almost... maternal. “I have given you freedom, Zaros, to test your strength, to find your path. But that freedom has limits. You cannot rule alone, nor can you afford the luxury of foolish pride. The throne demands sacrifices—beginning with your own.”

You inched closer, trying to stay hidden behind the rose trellis. From your vantage point, you could see Zaros standing tall, his posture regal but unassuming. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Nira, towering in front of him, stood as a stark contrast—her steel-gray gown rippling in the breeze like storm clouds, her presence commanding and absolute.

“They seek stability,” Nira countered, unyielding. “And they are not alone in that desire. Serulla needs more than strength, Zaros. It needs allies—powerful ones. The trials may grant you the crown, but it will take alliances to hold it.”

Zaros exhaled slowly, his expression thoughtful rather than defiant. “I know my duty, Mother. I always have. But Serulla’s stability cannot come at the cost of its soul. An arranged marriage may secure borders, but it cannot forge loyalty—or love.”

At that, a sharp pang tugged at your chest, unexpected and unwelcome. You shouldn’t have been listening. You shouldn’t have cared. You reminded yourself of who you were—who he was. This was his duty, his world, far removed from your own. And yet, envy stirred beneath your skin, an unwelcome heat you could not shake.

“And what would you suggest?” Nira asked, her tone cold but curious. “Do you believe love has a place in politics? In war?”

Zaros met her gaze without flinching. “I believe Serulla deserves more than a hollow alliance. If I must marry for the throne, I will do so—but it will be to someone who understands what it means to serve this kingdom, not someone who sees it as a prize to be won.”

Nira’s laugh was sharp, humorless. “Idealism will not protect Serulla. It is a luxury we cannot afford.”

“It is not idealism,” Zaros replied, his voice steady, unyielding. “It is resolve. You raised me to fight for what I believe in. Do not ask me to abandon that now.”

For a moment, the only sound was the wind brushing through the garden, the faint rustling of the roses. Nira stepped closer, her voice softening just enough to reveal the faintest hint of affection. “You have always been stubborn. A trait you no doubt inherited from me. But resolve alone will not shield Serulla from its enemies. I pray you understand that before it’s too late.”

She turned and walked away, her footsteps fading into the distance. Zaros stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His expression remained unreadable.

You stepped back from your hiding spot—not because you were ashamed, but because, after all, you weren’t eavesdropping. You had simply been... observing. And yet, as you turned and made your way back toward your quarters, a heaviness settled in your chest. A weight that had nothing to do with Serulla, but with the strange, dangerous pull you had started to feel toward Zaros.

You scratched at your cheek, trying to shake the sensation that lingered there, as if you could scrub away the thoughts and feelings he had stirred in you. You had no time for this—no time for distractions, especially from someone like him. You had a throne to take, a future to secure. A leech’s business was of no concern to you.

And yet, as you walked through the quiet halls of the palace, the taste of his words—of his defiance—lingered in your mind.

──

You had ignored Zaros for an entire week, a feat you had set your mind to with surprising clarity. It helped that the trials had been temporarily halted, the tests needing to be updated to reflect the demands of the modern era. In the absence of the incessant pressure to prepare for the trials, you found yourself with more time to distance yourself from the chaos that had unfolded between you and him.

Throughout the week, Zaros had made several attempts to get your attention. His presence had lingered near your quarters, the sound of his voice reaching you through hallways or gardens. He would appear in places where you couldn’t avoid him, but each time, you had steeled yourself against his words, his gaze. He had faltered, of course, as he always did when he couldn't play his game. His charm and quick wit had been useless in his attempts to break through your defenses. He had not been able to summon a smile from you or evoke a response beyond indifference.

It was a victory. Or so you told yourself.

This wasn't about jealousy—right? No. Jealousy was born from insecurity, from the fear that someone else might hold the power you desired. And you, you had never been insecure. Zaros’s efforts, and the vague rumors of his arranged marriage, could not affect you. Neither he nor the woman he would marry—if such a thing truly came to pass—could ever hold more sway or influence than you did. You were a force in your own right, as capable and formidable as any noble of Serulla. You had your own ambitions, your own path to walk, and no one could distract you from that.

So why did it hurt so terribly?

The thought clung to your mind like a shadow, refusing to let go. You paced through the corridors of your quarters, trying to quell the gnawing discomfort. The walls that separated you from Zaros had seemed so strong when you first built them, but with each passing day, the cracks in your resolve had deepened, and the ache had worsened.

It was absurd, really. If Zaros had tried to worm his way into your thoughts a week ago, you would have crushed him beneath your ambition without a second thought. Yet, now... his absence seemed to echo in ways you hadn’t expected. The silence between you felt heavier than any confrontation.

You paused by the window, staring out at the garden where the pale roses bloomed in the dim light. The beauty of it all struck you then, more sharply than it ever had before. There was something sad about it, something that spoke to the fragility of all the structures you were so desperate to build. Power, alliances, and ambition—these were the tools you had always wielded, and yet... they had never once protected you from the messiness of human connection.

Was it really so much of a luxury to want something more?

Zaros, with his sharp words and sharp wit, had been nothing but a nuisance. And yet, there was something about him that felt so… real. He was as entrenched in the game as you were, but his sincerity—his unyielding belief in what he wanted for Serulla—struck a chord. His belief, however misplaced, in something beyond politics, beyond the throne... was that so foreign to you? Were you so different? Or had the very foundation of your existence been built on ideals that no longer made sense?

The deeper you thought about it, the more the ache spread. It wasn’t jealousy you felt—it wasn’t insecurity. It was a recognition of something you were afraid to admit. Zaros was not just a reflection of the game you were both caught in. He was a reflection of the part of you that had always longed for something more than power.

You clenched your fists at your sides. This is absurd. This is not what I’ve built my life for.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. You straightened, composing yourself quickly, but the uneasy flutter in your chest refused to be ignored. You didn’t need to ask who it was—the timing and the familiarity of the knock told you everything you needed to know.

You opened the door, and there he stood—Zaros. His gaze flicked over you for just a moment before he gave you a smile that was almost too practiced, too perfect.

“My Earis—”

“Get out.” The words were sharp, cutting through the air like a knife. Your voice, though calm, was firm, unwavering, the kind of command that left no room for negotiation.

Zaros stood in the doorway, his posture unyielding, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something vulnerable, a hint of frustration, maybe even something like regret. His usual smirk had faded, replaced by an expression you couldn't quite read. But the way he said your name—your full name, your title, your identity—it felt almost like a claim, like a reminder that, despite everything, he still thought he had a right to you.

“I’m not leaving until you at least listen,” Zaros said, his voice softening, though the determination behind it remained. He stepped into the room, the sound of his boots against the stone floor filling the space between you.

You narrowed your eyes, crossing your arms in front of you, a barrier between yourself and him. “You’ve had your chance, Zaros. Multiple chances. I’ve been more than patient with you.” Your gaze hardened, every inch of your demeanor cold, unyielding. “So, no. You’re leaving. Now.”

Zaros stopped a few paces away from you, his eyes intense, piercing. “You think pushing me away will make this go away? You think pretending I’m nothing more than an inconvenience will change what’s between us?”

You couldn’t help it. A small, bitter laugh escaped you. “What’s between us?” you echoed, your voice like ice. “There’s nothing between us. There never was. You’ve never been anything but an obstacle in my way.”

He took a step forward, his jaw tightening, but there was no anger in his eyes—only a quiet, almost painful understanding. “You’re lying,” he said, his voice low. “You’ve been lying to yourself. And you’ve been lying to me.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, a lump rising in your throat as you fought to keep your composure. You were supposed to be strong, to keep your walls high, but with each word he spoke, those walls felt a little less secure, a little more fragile.

“I don’t care about your marriage,” you spat, your voice dripping with contempt. “I doubt any woman or man would want to marry the whore of Serulla.”

The words hung between you like poison, the weight of them sinking into the space between you and Zaros. It was a calculated insult, something to wound, to deflect from the rawness you felt deep inside. You weren’t sure if you truly believed the words—or if they were just a defense, a shield to keep him from seeing the vulnerability that threatened to surface.

“I hadn’t mentioned marriage. I wouldn’t expect my mother to tell you—” Zaros started, his voice calm, controlled, like he was used to these exchanges. But you cut him off.

“She didn’t,” you snapped, your chest tight. “I… I just overheard.”

The pause that followed felt endless, his gaze unreadable as he processed your admission. You couldn’t quite bring yourself to meet his eyes, not after you’d thrown that insult at him, not after the uncomfortable truth you had unintentionally let slip. You stood, frozen, the tension between you crackling like a live wire.

Zaros didn’t move for a long moment, but you could feel his eyes on you, sharp and piercing, as if he were seeing right through you. Finally, he spoke, his tone quieter now, a note of curiosity lacing his words. “So, you overheard it, and that bothers you?”

You swallowed hard, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but the anger—the hurt—was too raw to ignore. “It doesn’t bother me,” you said, though the words sounded hollow even to your own ears. “It’s none of my business.”

Zaros took a step closer, his presence filling the room with an almost unbearable intensity. His voice was soft but insistent, cutting through the distance you had tried to put between you. “You’re lying,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “It bothers you more than you’re willing to admit. I think you’ve been pretending it doesn’t. But you’ve been watching me, haven’t you? Just like you overheard that conversation—just like you’ve been trying to ignore everything else.”

You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, the words struggling to break free, but you couldn’t speak them—not yet. Instead, you glared at him, your arms crossing defensively in front of you. “I don’t care, Zaros. You can do whatever you want. You don’t owe me anything.”

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering. “Do I?” His lips curled into a small, almost mocking smile. “Do I really not owe you anything? Or is that what you’re telling yourself to keep from admitting what’s really going on here?”

You stepped back, frustration building in your chest. “Get out.” The command was sharp, and you turned toward the door, willing yourself to maintain some control over the situation. “Now.”

Zaros didn’t move immediately. Instead, his smile softened, and for a moment, it was as if he were letting down his guard—just slightly. He took another step closer, his voice low. “I have eyes for no one else, Earis,” he said, his words quiet but resonating with something deeper. “You know that. Don’t pretend you don’t see it.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. Your pulse quickened, and you fought to suppress the rising tide of emotion. The ache, the jealousy that had been simmering beneath the surface, suddenly felt like it was suffocating you. You refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his words affected you, but you couldn’t push them away either.

“I told you to leave,” you said, your voice shaking slightly, but you couldn’t stop it. The words were sharp, desperate, as if pushing him away would make the feelings inside you disappear.

Zaros didn’t seem to take offense at your outburst. If anything, there was a flicker of something softer in his expression. He paused for a moment, studying you. Then, in a rare shift, he nodded, his shoulders relaxing.

“Fine,” he said, his tone gentler than before. “I’ll leave.”

You fix your gaze on the floor as you struggle to regain your composure. Zaros turned to leave, his footsteps soft against the stone floor. You heard the door open, and for a brief moment, the weight of his presence seemed to linger in the room.

The door clicked shut behind him, and you were left alone in the silence, the air thick with the aftermath of his words. You let out a shaky breath, running a hand through your hair, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—something you hadn’t expected, something you weren’t ready to confront.

Why does it matter? you asked yourself, but the question remained unanswered. Because it did matter. And whether you were willing to admit it or not, Zaros was the last person you could afford to be distracted by.

──

The next night felt like an exact mirrored version of the last. The weight of the previous conversation lingered in the air, but you were determined to move past it. That was, until you opened the door and found Zaros standing there, as though summoned by some cruel twist of fate. The moment you saw him, an audible groan escaped your lips, frustration already bubbling inside you.

But your gaze immediately fell to the small box he held in his hand, and the frustration melted into something more complex. What now? You didn’t want to be intrigued, didn’t want to care, but the sight of it—small, simple—seemed like a symbol of something he was trying to force upon you.

Zaros’s lips curved into a knowing smile, though there was something else there, something you couldn’t quite read. “I thought we could try this again,” he said, his voice smooth but with an undercurrent of something softer, something more vulnerable than you were used to hearing from him.

You crossed your arms, doing your best to look unaffected. “Another attempt, Zaros?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. “I’m getting tired of this game.”

He stepped forward, the small box still resting in his hand. “I don’t think it’s a game,” he replied, his voice quieter now, a hint of something almost earnest beneath the surface. “Not for me, at least.”

The sincerity in his words cut through the tension, leaving you feeling strangely off balance. Why did he keep coming back?

“Don’t,” you said quickly, your voice firmer than you felt. “I told you last time—this doesn’t matter. Whatever you think is between us, it’s not real.”

Zaros’s eyes darkened, and he stepped closer, his presence suffocating, like the weight of his gaze was forcing you to confront something you’d been avoiding. “If that’s what you really believe, then why does it still bother you?” His voice was low, each word calculated to chip away at the walls you’d so carefully built.

You could feel your pulse quicken, your chest tightening with the emotions you refused to acknowledge. You did care. You had cared more than you were willing to admit. It had been weeks of pretending, of pushing him away, but deep down—no matter how much you tried to deny it—the ache remained.

“I told you to leave,” you repeated, though the command lacked its usual bite. “This isn’t something I’m interested in.”

Zaros’s smile softened, and for a moment, you saw the barest flicker of something genuine in his eyes—something unguarded. “You don’t have to be interested,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant. “You crave power—control, it’s rooted deep within you.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, the sting lingering in your chest. You hated how well he saw through you, how he could pinpoint the very thing you fought so hard to hide. The truth of it—your need for control, your unyielding pursuit of power—was something you’d never allow anyone to exploit.

And yet, there he was, reading you. Exposing you. And it made you feel vulnerable in ways you couldn’t ignore.

Before you could respond, Zaros reached forward, taking the small box from your hand and opening it slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. Your heart raced, and the sudden tension in the room seemed to swell, filling the space between you both.

Inside the box was a coil of thick, dark rope—smooth and sleek, with a weight to it that immediately unsettled you. Your breath caught, and you couldn’t suppress the flicker of confusion that passed through you.

You stared at him, unsure of what exactly he was proposing, but the flicker of something between you both was undeniable. There was something in the air now—something that left you unsure of where the line was, where the rivalry stopped and something else began. It wasn’t a trick. It wasn’t manipulation. Zaros had always been an enigma, but now, he was offering something different, something raw.

“I don’t need this,” you said, your voice faltering slightly as you tried to push him away, even as a part of you longed to feel something else, to let go.

Zaros stepped forward, his gaze unwavering. “No, you need to choose.” His voice was firm, no longer teasing, but instead grounded in something more serious.

You swallowed hard, your fingers curling around the edge of the box, but you didn’t pull away. The temptation was there, the pull to let him—to allow the vulnerability that had long been buried beneath your ambition and fear to surface.

His hand hovered near your own, the space between you charged with a tension that was both electrifying and terrifying. “Take me, Earis. Let me be the one to surrender—if that’s what you need.” His voice was low, almost a whisper, but every word seemed to slice through your defenses, each syllable leaving you raw, exposed.

You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, a powerful mix of anger, fear, and something else—something you couldn’t name. Zaros had always been your enemy, always been the one who made the game more difficult than it should have been. And yet, there was no denying it—the connection between you two, this tension that had built and built, could no longer be ignored.

This was the moment. The line between you had blurred, the rivalry and ambition that had once defined you both now mingled with something more dangerous: desire. Power. Need.

Zaros took the rope from the box and held it out to you. “You’ve fought long enough, Earis. You don’t have to fight me anymore.”

The rope was a symbol, a question, and you stood there, uncertain but pulled by something you couldn’t resist. Every fiber of your being told you to fight him, to push him away, to remain the untouchable figure who controlled everything. But another part of you—the part you refused to acknowledge—was already reaching for the rope, already wanting to let go.

Your hand trembled slightly as you took it from him, your fingers brushing against his. The act of it, of taking that first step toward relinquishing control, felt almost dangerous. And yet, it felt inevitable.

As you gripped the rope, its weight in your hand felt like more than just a physical object. It was symbolic, a tether between you and Zaros that was heavier than it appeared—fragile, yet unyielding. You could feel your pulse racing, each beat hammering in your chest as your mind grappled with the gravity of the moment. Every instinct told you to turn away, to stop this before it went too far. But deeper still, there was a voice—one you had long silenced—that urged you to lean in, to step forward and face what you’d been avoiding.

Zaros stood before you, silent, his gaze steady. His expression didn’t waver as you moved, as you took control of the moment. It was as though he had known all along that you would get here—that you would be the one to decide how this played out. There was no hesitation in his eyes, no resistance. In this moment, he was giving you something—something real. And for the first time, you didn’t know whether to embrace it or tear it all down.

You reached for the sword at his side, the cold metal gleaming under the dim light. It was a part of him, a part of his power, his identity. It was the weapon that had defined him, just as much as his words had. But now, it felt like something you had to take from him—not out of malice, but out of the need to prove something to yourself. Something beyond what either of you had allowed.

Zaros didn’t flinch as you unclasped the sword from his belt. His gaze was unwavering, his posture relaxed, almost accepting. In that moment, he wasn’t the force of nature you had always seen him as. He wasn’t the untouchable, confident figure that had stood in your way. He was just him—vulnerable in a way you hadn’t expected, but still not willing to shy away.

The weight of the sword in your hand felt different now, heavier in your grip. You set it down on the bed with a deliberate motion, the metal thudding softly against the fabric.

“Are you sure?” Zaros’s voice was quiet, almost too soft, as if testing the waters, searching for any sign of weakness.

But there was no hesitation in you anymore. You had crossed a line, and there was no turning back now.

You wrapped the rope around his wrists, tying it with deliberate care, each knot a testament to the decision you had made. The act was oddly intimate. Every movement felt like a small, tender exchange, a reminder of how close this connection was, how much of it you both had been denying. When you tightened the knot, the faintest whimper escaped him—a small sound, but enough to make you look up. His face, usually so composed, was contorted in pain, his eyes meeting yours with a mix of vulnerability and something you couldn’t quite place.

You paused for a moment, the power dynamic between you shifting with every breath you took. The tension hung thick in the air, like a storm that threatened to break. You could feel it—the pull between control and surrender.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, as you finished securing the knot.

But Zaros only looked at you, his expression unreadable. “You don’t have to apologize,” he said, his voice rough but steady.

It was an unexpected admission, one that hit you harder than you cared to admit. Zaros had always been your rival, your equal, the one who had tested you at every turn. But now, here he was—vulnerable, offering something different. Trust. Surrender. Himself.

Once his wrists were securely bound, you guided him toward the bed. He moved without resistance, his eyes never leaving you, as though the very act of you taking charge of this moment was enough to strip away the bravado and reveal the man beneath.

You moved toward the bedframe, the rope still in your hands. The act of securing him felt almost ceremonial, as though each knot tied was a step further into uncharted territory, binding not just his wrists but something more. His eyes followed your every movement, unwavering, like a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken understanding that this moment was different—this was no longer about mere games or power struggles.

As you tied the rope to the bedframe, ensuring that the knots were tight, you looked toward his legs, considering the next move. But when you glanced back up at him, you were met with his unwavering gaze. There was no defiance there, no anger—just a quiet intensity, a vulnerability you hadn’t expected. His lips parted, and for a moment, you thought he might speak, but he remained silent, the weight of the moment pressing down on both of you.

You furrowed your brows, a playful edge creeping into your voice despite the tension that still hung between you. “Will I need to tie your feet too?”

His eyes flickered with something unreadable, but his lips quirked into a half-smile, soft but tinged with something darker. “Only if you want to,” he said, his voice low and steady.

For a moment, the air between you was charged, filled with the electricity of the choices both of you had made. You hadn’t planned for this—none of this—but here you were, standing at the precipice of something raw, something that defied everything either of you had ever wanted to admit.

“My Earis…” His voice, low and quiet, cut through the tension in the room. It wasn’t the usual command or challenge you were used to hearing from him—it was something softer, more vulnerable.

You froze for a moment, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. There was no mocking, no playful defiance. Only the weight of his words, hanging in the air like a question neither of you had dared to ask before.

“Yes, Zaros?” you responded, your voice steady, though your heart was racing. You didn’t know what he would say, didn’t know what he wanted from you this time. But you felt it—something between you was shifting, and there was no turning back from this.

His eyes met yours, dark and intense, and for the first time, there was no wall between you. He wasn’t the calculating figure you had always known. He wasn’t the rival or the political opponent. In this moment, he was just Zaros—raw and unguarded, waiting for something you weren’t sure you were ready to give.

“Would you kiss me?” he asked, his voice quiet but carrying a weight that made your chest tighten. It wasn’t a command. It wasn’t a demand. It was a simple question—a plea, almost.

The room seemed to freeze in that moment. Your mind screamed at you to resist, to stay in control, to push him away, as you had done so many times before. But the words hung in the air, and for some reason, you didn’t want to ignore them. You didn’t want to push him away this time.

You looked at him, your breath shallow, your pulse quickening as you processed the question, the unspoken emotions between you both. He was waiting—waiting for your answer, waiting for something. His gaze was vulnerable, more open than you had ever seen, and it struck you harder than you expected.

There was no arrogance in him now. No confidence. Only a quiet longing that mirrored something deep inside you, something you had tried so hard to suppress. And as much as you hated to admit it, you were afraid. Afraid of what it meant. Afraid of what it would do to both of you.

But despite that fear, despite the walls you had worked so hard to build, something inside you shifted. The walls didn’t feel as impenetrable anymore. The mask you had worn so long was slipping.

You took a step closer towards the side of the bed, your heart beating faster with each movement, and when you finally stood in front of him, you didn’t need to speak. You didn’t need to ask. The answer was in the air, in the way he was looking at you, in the way your body responded to his presence.

You leaned down slightly, your hand trembling slightly as it brushed the side of his face, your fingers tracing the sharpness of his jawline. His breath caught, his body tensing at the touch, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his eyes closed for a brief moment, as though savoring the contact, as though he too was trying to process the intimacy of it.

Without another word, you leaned in, your lips brushing his gently at first, a soft meeting of two people who had spent so long circling around one another, too afraid to acknowledge the pull between them. But the moment your lips met, it was as if everything inside you, everything you had fought to ignore, came rushing forward.

The kiss deepened, slow but urgent, filled with a raw intensity that neither of you could deny. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was an unraveling, a breaking down of every defense, every wall you had built around yourselves. For a fleeting moment, there was no politics, no throne, no rivalry. There was just the two of you, caught in something neither of you could control.

Zaros whimpered softly into the kiss, the sound raw and filled with need, as though every part of him was desperate for more. He strained against the restraints, pulling gently at the rope around his wrists, a silent plea for closeness, for something deeper than the connection you had already shared.

You could feel the intensity of his reaction, the way his breath quickened, the way his chest rose and fell beneath your palm. Every instinct in you wanted to yield to him, to let the moment continue, but there was something you had to remind him of. Something that, despite the undeniable pull between you both, needed to be acknowledged.

You pulled away, your lips lingering near his, and your hand stayed gently cupping his cheek. His eyes were wide, clouded with want, but there was something else there too—something vulnerable, something you couldn’t quite name. The rawness of the situation made your heart race, but you couldn’t ignore the weight of the moment.

“If you continue to pull,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion, “you’ll bleed—likely leaving scars.”

The words felt heavier than you intended, but they were true. His struggle, his desire, could lead to something irreversible. His wrists were already red from the pressure of the ropes, and the strain in his body was evident. There was a sharpness to the moment—an awareness of the risks, not just physical, but emotional, too.

Zaros’s gaze flickered to your face, his breath shallow, eyes filled with something deeper than just longing. “I don’t care about the scars,” he whispered, voice thick with something raw, desperate. “I’ve lived my life covered in them—inside and out. If it means more of you, more of this...”

His lips parted as his voice broke the silence, hoarse and pleading, each word heavier than the last. "..Please. Mount me." The plea escaped him in a soft, desperate whisper, trembling in the air between you.

Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of his plea sinking deep inside you. The rope in your hands felt suddenly heavy, a physical reminder of how tightly you held his fate—his surrender. Yet in that moment, it was you who felt unmoored. His words had cut through your defenses with a force you hadn’t anticipated.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, you swung a leg over to straddle his hips. The heat of his skin seared yours, even through the thin barrier of your clothing. You could feel the hard, rigid length of him pressing against your core, separated only by the fabric of your garments. It sent a shiver of anticipation rippling up your spine, a thrill of knowing that you were the cause of his arousal.

Zaros's hands clenched around the ropes binding his wrists, his knuckles turning white with the force of his grip. A low, guttural moan tore from his throat as he felt you settle over him, the warmth of your sex cradling his aching erection. His hips bucked up instinctively, seeking more of that delicious friction, that maddening pressure.

Your heart raced as you slowly peeled off your garments, baring your most intimate places to Zaros's hungry gaze. You could feel his eyes devouring every inch of newly exposed skin, his pupils dilating with unbridled lust. The air between your bodies felt charged, crackling with a palpable energy that made your skin tingle.

Once you were fully bared to him you shifted your position. Straddling Zaros's face, you hovered your dripping sex just above his mouth, close enough for him to feel the heat radiating off your core. His breath hit your sensitive folds in hot, desperate puffs as he panted with anticipation.

"Is this what you want, Zaros?" you asked, your voice a husky murmur.

Zaros could only let out a guttural moan in response, his hands fisting the ropes tighter as he bucked his hips up urgently. His tongue darted out, trying to catch a taste of your essence, but you kept yourself just out of reach.

Zaros's chest heaved, his breathing ragged and labored as he stared up at you with wild, fevered eyes. "Please, Earis," he rasped, his voice raw and broken. "Please, let me taste you. I need it, I need you. Please, I'm begging you."

His words sent a thrill through you, stoking the flames of your desire. The desperation in his tone, the way he pleaded so beautifully for the chance to serve you, filled you with a heady sense of power and lust. Slowly, torturously, you began to lower yourself onto his waiting mouth.

Zaros's tongue delved deep, plunging into your hot, slick center with a hunger that bordered on desperation. He lapped at your essence, his tongue swirling and stroking your most intimate places with a fervor that left you breathless. The feeling of his mouth on you, his tongue exploring every inch of your dripping sex, was pure ecstasy.

The muscles of his chest and abdomen flexed and rippled beneath you with each ragged breath, each muffled moan vibrating against your sensitive flesh.

His eyes remained closed, lost in the taste and scent of your arousal. He was drunk on it, intoxicated by the heady musk of your desire. He wanted to drown in it, to be consumed by it until there was nothing left. His tongue worked tirelessly, driven by a primal need to bring you to the heights of pleasure.

He could feel your body beginning to tremble above him, your thighs clenching around his head as your climax approached. It spurred him on, urged him to redouble his efforts to bring you to that pinnacle. He wanted to feel your release, to taste your essence flooding his mouth as you came undone.

Zaros's hips bucked up urgently, the rough fabric of his trousers created a delicious friction against his clothed erection, stoking the fires of his own need. But his focus remained solely on you, on worshipping your body with his mouth until you were sated and satisfied.

He could feel the heat of your core, could taste the slick evidence of your arousal coating his tongue. It was a flavor more intoxicating than the finest wine, more addictive than the strongest drug. He knew he would never have his fill of you, would always crave the taste of your essence on his tongue.

His mind was hazy, his thoughts consumed by the feel and taste of you. The world narrowed down to the slick heat of your sex against his mouth, the sound of your ragged breaths and muffled cries above him. In that moment, there was nothing else, only the all-consuming need to bring you to ecstasy.

Your body tensed, your back arching as your climax crashed over you like a tidal wave. A sharp cry tore from your throat, echoing off the chamber walls as wave after wave of pure, unadulterated bliss consumed you. Your fingers tangled in Zaros's hair, gripping the silken strands tightly as you held him to you, your nails digging into his scalp.

Zaros's eyes flew open at the sound of your cry, and he looked up to see your face contorted in a mask of ecstasy above him. The sight of you coming undone, of being the cause of such intense pleasure, sent a surge of male pride and satisfaction through him. He wanted to bask in the glory of your release, to sear the image of your rapture into his mind.

As your essence flooded his mouth, Zaros drank it down greedily, swallowing every drop of your offering. The taste of your climax was ambrosia to him, a nectar sweeter than the finest honey. He could feel your body shuddering and quaking above him, your thighs clamping down around his head as you rode out the aftershocks of your intense orgasm.

Zaros's own hips jerked and bucked against the bed, his arousal throbbing and pulsing with a desperate, almost painful need. The feeling of your release, the sound of your cries, the scent of your satisfaction - it all combined to drive him to the brink of his own end. But he held back, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists in the ropes binding him as he fought to maintain control.

With a guttural, almost feral growl, Zaros's body went rigid beneath you. His back arched off the bed, the muscles in his neck and shoulders straining as he threw his head back in ecstasy. At the same time, his hips surged upwards, pressing his aching, clothed erection tightly against your thigh as he found his own completion.

Through the fabric of his trousers, Zaros's essence pulsed and throbbed, his hot seed spurting forth in thick, heavy ropes. The damp patch on the front of his trousers quickly spread, growing larger and darker as his intense orgasm played out. The sensation of his release, the relief and rapture of finally achieving his own climax, was almost painfully exquisite.

His chest heaved with each shuddering, gasping breath as he rode out the waves of his pleasure, his body trembling and jerking beneath you.

You turn your head slightly. The sight of the damp patch spreading across the front of his trousers drew your gaze, and you couldn't resist the urge to tease him about his loss of control.

"Well," you murmured, arching an eyebrow as you traced a finger along the edge of the growing stain. "It seems someone couldn't quite hold himself back, could he?"

Zaros's eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at you with a sheepish, almost boyish grin. A faint blush colored his cheeks as he realized you had noticed his lack of restraint."It's not my fault," Zaros admitted breathlessly, a note of playful defense in his tone. The sheen of your arousal glistened on the lower half of his face in the flickering candlelight, painting a vivid picture of your intimate encounter. Unable to resist the temptation, Zaros poked his tongue out to lap at the remnants of your essence, savoring the taste with a soft, appreciative murmur.

You couldn't resist the urge to see more of Zaros's magnificent body, to feel his bare skin against yours. With a wicked grin, you began to slowly unbutton his shirt, revealing the toned chest and abdomen beneath. Each button popped open with a soft click, exposing more of his tanned, muscular flesh. You expose his chest though you couldn't push the shirt off his broad shoulders entirely due to the restraints

Next, you turned your attention to his lower half. Hooking your fingers into the waistband of his trousers, you slowly peeled them down, inch by tantalizing inch. The fabric slid over his muscular thighs and calves, baring his skin to your hungry gaze. You couldn't help but admire the way his muscles flexed and rippled as you stripped him bare, his body a work of art carved by the gods themselves.

Once Zaros was laid out before you, naked and exposed, you took a moment to drink in the sight of him. The candlelight danced over his skin, casting shadows that accentuated the hard planes and angles of his physique. Your eyes lingered on his cock, still slick with the evidence of your shared arousal, standing tall and proud against his abdomen.

Unable to resist the temptation any longer, you leaned down and wrapped your hand around his thick shaft. Zaros gasped at the sudden contact, his hips jerking up involuntarily as he bucked into your touch. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, could see the way his chest heaved with each ragged breath.

Emboldened by his reaction, you took him into your mouth, your lips stretching around his girth as you began to suckle. Zaros let out a strangled moan, his head falling back against the pillows as he surrendered to the pleasure of your mouth on him. His hands clenched the ropes binding his wrists.

Tears of ecstasy pricked at the corners of Zaros's eyes, his vision blurring as he lost himself in the bliss of your skilled ministrations. His hips pumped and bucked, driving his length deeper into the warm, wet cavern of your mouth with each thrust. The sounds of his ragged breathing and muffled moans filled the room, a symphony of his all-consuming pleasure.

As you bobbed your head up and down his shaft, strands of saliva dripped down your chin, dripping onto your heaving breasts. The lewd sound of your slurping and suckling echoed through the chamber, a vulgar symphony of your unbridled lust. You could feel his cock throbbing and twitching against your tongue, growing even harder with each pass of your lips.

Your free hand gripped the base of his shaft, pumping and stroking in time with the movements of your mouth. Your fingers couldn't quite close around his girth, a testament to his immense size. The other hand reached down to gently fondle his heavy, cum-filled balls, rolling them in your palm and giving them a gentle squeeze.

Zaros's body shuddered and jerked beneath you, his muscles clenching and unclenching as he fought to maintain some semblance of control. His chest heaved with each gasping breath, the sheen of sweat glistening on his skin in the candlelight. Tears of pleasure streamed down his face, his eyes clenched shut as he surrendered to the overwhelming ecstasy of your mouth on him.

A broken sob tearing from his throat. "Fuck— please, need it, need you so bad," His words dissolved into a guttural moan as his hips bucked up sharply, burying his throbbing cock deep into the tight, wet heat of your throat. You could feel him pulsing and throbbing, his release fast approaching as you worked him with single-minded determination.

"So good—! feels so fucking good, don’t stop, please don’t stop—"

Just as Zaros teetered on the brink of his explosive climax, his body coiled tight and ready to unleash, you suddenly pulled your mouth off his throbbing shaft. The cool air hit his slick, overheated skin, making him gasp and shudder at the sudden change in sensation. Zaros's eyes flew open, hazy and unfocused, staring at you in a mix of confusion and desperate, aching need.

"No, wait!" Zaros cried out, his voice a ragged, pleading rasp. "Don't stop, please..." His hips jerked and bucked, trying to follow the movement of your mouth, seeking that blissful warmth and pressure that had been so close to bringing him to the pinnacle of ecstasy.

You sat back, wiping your saliva and his leaking pre-cum from your kiss-swollen lips with the back of your hand. A wicked, teasing smile played at the corners of your mouth as you gazed down at his straining, flushed body splayed out before you. The sight of Zaros, bound and desperate, his cock pulsing and twitching with the need for release, filled you with a heady sense of feminine power and control.

As Zaros's body shuddered and jerked beneath you, his cock pulsing and throbbing, you reached down and snatched your discarded panties from the floor. With a triumphant smile playing at the corners of your mouth, you balled up the delicate fabric and pressed it firmly against Zaros's lips, muffling his ragged moans and cries of pleasure.

Zaros's eyes, hazy and unfocused with the force of his orgasm, widened in surprise as the soft, damp fabric filled his mouth. He made a muffled sound of protest, his tongue darting out to lick at the material, no doubt tasting the heady essence of your arousal.

"Shhh," you cooed, trailing a single finger teasingly up the underside of his shaft, feeling it jump and throb at your touch. "Patience, Zaros."

You leaned down to press a feather-light kiss to the sensitive head of his cock, your tongue darting out to lap up the pearl of pre-cum that had gathered at the tip. The anticipation and frustration etched on his handsome face was almost comically adorable.

With a wicked glint in your eye, you reached over and grabbed the sword that had been carelessly tossed onto the bed earlier. The cold metal was a stark contrast to the heated, flushed skin of your body. You held it aloft, the blade glinting menacingly in the candlelight as you straddled Zaros's hips, positioning yourself above his throbbing, aching cock.

Zaros's eyes widened as he saw the sword in your hand, a flicker of surprise and a hint of fear flashing across his face. But as you settled yourself over him, the head of his shaft nudging against your slick, heated entrance, a fresh wave of lust and desire overrode any trepidation.

You slowly lowered yourself onto his cock, taking him inch by excruciating inch into your tight, wet heat. Zaros's eyes rolled back in his head, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as your walls clenched and fluttered around his throbbing shaft. The sensation was exquisite, the feeling of being enveloped in your silken, grasping warmth almost too much for him to bear.

As you settled fully onto his hips, impaled on his thick cock, you brought the sword down and pressed the sharp point against his chest, right over his pounding heart. You move a gentle hand to take your pants out his mouth absentmindedly tossing them to some corner of your room, the cold steel of the sword was a jarring contrast to the scorching heat of your core gripping him like a vice.

"Don't move," you commanded, your voice a low, authoritative murmur. "Not until I say so."

Zaros swallowed hard, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple as he nodded jerkily. The thrill of the danger, the taboo nature of your actions, only served to heighten his arousal. He could feel every ridge, every vein of his shaft rubbing deliciously against your fluttering walls as you sat astride him.

Zaros's hands clenched and unclenched where they gripped the ropes, his knuckles white and trembling. "I am yours, Earis," he vowed, his voice a fervent, desperate promise. "My body, my heart, my very soul - all belong to you. Command me as you see fit, and I shall obey, come what may."

The air between you was charged, crackling with a dangerous, thrilling energy. The scent of your arousal, the ragged sound of Zaros's breathing, the cold kiss of the blade against his skin - all blended into a heady, intoxicating mixture that set your nerves alight. In that moment, you held the power of life and death, pleasure and pain, in your hands.

You began to move. Slowly at first, you rolled your hips in a sensual circle, grinding your slick heat against the base of Zaros's shaft. The sensation of your walls rippling and squeezing his sensitive flesh drew a strangled groan from his throat, his back arching slightly off the bed as he struggled to maintain control.

You could feel every ridge, every throbbing vein of his cock as it pulsed inside you, stretching your silken walls to their limit. The delicious drag of his thick length against your most sensitive spots sent jolts of electric pleasure racing up your spine, making your toes curl and your fingers tighten around the sword hilt.

As you rode him with languid, teasing undulations, you began to increase your pace. The sword remained pressed firmly against Zaros's heaving chest, the point biting into his skin just hard enough to leave a reddening mark. Beads of sweat trickled down his temples as he panted and moaned beneath you, his eyes glazed over with lust and a hint of fear.

“Gods," Zaros gasped out, his voice a broken, desperate rasp.

As you rode Zaros with wild abandon, the obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the chamber. Each powerful thrust of your hips drove his thick, throbbing shaft deep into your dripping core, your slick arousal coating every inch of his pulsing cock. The lewd, wet squelching noises of your coupling echoed off the stone walls, a debauched symphony of your all-consuming lust.

Zaros's hands gripped the ropes with a ferocity bordering on pain, the fabric straining and creaking under the force of his desperate, erratic tugs. His chest heaved with each ragged, panting breath, sweat dripping down the valleys and peaks of his muscular torso. The sword's point left a trail of angry red marks on his skin, the steel glinting with each roll and bounce of your hips.

Arousal dripped down your inner thighs, coating your skin and his in a glistening sheen of your combined essence. The scent of sex hung heavy in the air, the musky, heady aroma of your coupling permeating every corner of the room.

You could feel Zaros's cock throbbing and pulsing inside you, growing harder and more insistent with each passing second. His shaft was slick with your arousal, coated in the evidence of your desire. The sensation of his thick length rubbing against your most sensitive spots, stretching you wide and filling you so completely, was almost too much to bear.

"Wait, wait!" Zaros suddenly cried out, his voice pitching with desperate urgency. "I... I can't hold back any longer, Earis. I'm going to... fuck, I'm going to cum!"

The sword wavered in your grip, the blade dipping and tilting as Zaros's body bucked and jerked beneath you. You could feel his cock throbbing urgently inside your clenching heat, the shaft pulsing and twitching as his orgasm approached.

His eyes, hazy and lust-darkened, searched yours imploringly. The scent of your arousal, the slick heat of your core gripping him like a vice, the very real possibility of you bearing his child - it was all too much for the conflicted warrior to bear. Zaros teetered on the brink, his body screaming for release, his mind awhirl with the consequences of succumbing to the moment. The choice was yours, and the weight of it hung heavy in the charged air between you.

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against Zaros's ear as you whispered your decision, your voice low and filled with a dark, triumphant satisfaction. "You can't marry another if I'm carrying your child, can you Zaros?" you murmured, your breath hot against his sweat-slicked skin.

Zaros shuddered beneath you, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as your words washed over him. " Earis," he groaned, his voice a broken, desperate rasp.

"Say it, Zaros," you commanded, your voice a low, authoritative growl. "Tell me that I can have your child, Now."

His chest heaving as he stared up at you, his eyes blazing with a fevered, desperate light. He frantically nodded, still pushing himself into you as he began to feel his orgasm close in. “W–whatever you want, whatev—please, I'm going to cum.”

With a final, powerful thrust, Zaros let go. His cock jerked and pulsed inside you, erupting like a volcano as he spilled his hot, thick essence deep into your core. You could feel each throbbing spurt of his release painting your walls, filling you with his potent, virile seed. Zaros's body convulsed and shuddered, his hips jerking erratically as he rode out the intense, overwhelming waves of his climax.

As Zaros's hot seed flooded your core, you felt your own peak crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your inner walls clamped down around his pulsing shaft, rippling and squeezing as your climax consumed you.

Your body shuddered and jerked above him, your back arching as the intense pleasure radiated out from your center. Each spurt of Zaros's release triggered another surge of your own, your womb greedily accepting his potent essence.

“I love you... I love you... I love you, I love you…” Zaros began to babble, his voice frayed with desperation, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. His chest heaved with each labored breath, his body trembling beneath you as he lay there, bound and exposed, each confession more urgent than the last. The rawness in his voice, the way it cracked as he repeated those words, shattered the fragile control you had fought so hard to maintain.

You could see the way his hands strained against the ropes, the muscles in his arms flexing as he twisted in an attempt to break free—not physically, but emotionally. He wasn’t just begging for release; he was offering his vulnerability, his soul laid bare before you in a way that was impossible to ignore. The tremors that wracked his body only seemed to deepen the weight of the moment, as if the very act of being so open, so exposed, was pushing him to the brink.

His eyes searched yours, wild with need, pleading with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. “I love you…” The words were a mantra now, tumbling out of him, his eyes locked on yours with an almost frantic intensity. But there was something else there too—a silent cry for something more than just affection, something more than just love. There was a raw, aching need in him that you couldn’t look away from.

You felt the sword in your hand, it's cold metal pressing into your palm, the weight of it too much to bear in this moment. It was a symbol of power, of control—but that control felt so distant now, so irrelevant. Zaros's plea was louder than the sword, heavier than the ambition you had built your life on.

Without a second thought, you hurled the sword to the ground, the sharp clang of metal against stone echoing through the room. The sound reverberated in your chest, a stark contrast to the silence that followed, thick and suffocating. The sword’s heavy ring faded into the distance, leaving only the sound of Zaros’s shaky breathing and the rapid beating of your own heart.

You move to untie the knots with swift precision, your fingers working to release him. Each pull of the rope felt like a crack in the wall you had so carefully built around yourself, the barrier between control and surrender breaking apart with every knot that gave way. Finally, his arms were free, and the moment the ropes fell away, his hands dropped to his sides, his breathing ragged, his whole body trembling with the weight of what had just happened.

His gaze softened, even as his chest heaved with the aftershock of everything you had just shared. He was no longer fighting, no longer pleading. He had surrendered entirely—physically, emotionally—and there was an honesty in his eyes that you could no longer ignore. You had seen him bare his soul in ways you never thought possible, and now, the layers between you had melted away, leaving only raw, unspoken truth.

You lowered yourself gently onto his chest, your head resting there as his heartbeat reverberated through your very bones. The rhythmic thump of it calmed the chaos that still churned inside you, the storm of emotion that had no outlet, no name. With every beat of his heart beneath your ear, you could feel him—the weight of him, the presence of his essence, the very thing that had always called to you.

You closed your eyes, letting the sound of his heartbeat lull you, finding solace in the rhythm of it. The world outside faded, the tension in your body slowly unwinding as the steady thrum of his heart kept you anchored, kept you tethered to this moment. His hands, still trembling from the aftermath, rested gently against your back, offering the comfort you didn’t know you had been seeking.

It was only when you felt his breathing shift—slowing, deepening—that you allowed yourself to relax, the last vestiges of your own restlessness slipping away. You listened intently, the sound of his heartbeat guiding you, soothing you, until it became steady, until it became the only sound that mattered. Only then, with his pulse calming and his body finally sinking into the quiet of sleep, did you allow yourself to close your eyes his cum slowly dripping out of you, halted by his cock still buried in you.

In the stillness that followed, you could feel the weight of everything between you—the unspoken bonds, the rawness, the honesty of the moment. And as you drifted into sleep, it wasn’t because you were exhausted or overwhelmed by the emotions that had consumed you. It was because, for the first time in a long time, you had found a place of peace—a place where, despite everything, you could truly rest.

──

author's note: no comment..

#zsakuva #sakuverse #zsakuva fandom #zsakuva zaros #zaros atha’lin #sakuverse zaros #zaros x reader #zaros x earis #the noble trials #audio roleplay #audio drama #if saku ever sees this im deactivating my blog.

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demigod-shenanigans · 2 months ago

Text

Summary: The quest to earn Jason’s first college recommendation letter had gone almost too well. The second one was currently trying to make up for this by being a massive pain in the ass.

After trips to three different sacred libraries and hours of stumbling through a cave system in the dark, Piper should have wanted nothing more than to have this stupid quest over and done with.

Except, well… the completion of their quest required them to find the Mnemosyne—the Fountain of Memory. And considering no one had ever bothered to fix the mess that the Mist had made of Leo and Piper’s memories, or the mess that the Queen of the Heavens had made of Jason’s… maybe there were things Piper wanted just a little more than going home.

Word Count: ~6K

Rating: Teen and Up

I did hope to eventually do at least some key moments from Jason’s college recommendation letter quests, so here’s one of them! So so stoked to finally be sharing my @lost-trio-week fics with you guys! I’m really excited about the event, I cannot wait to read everyone’s works and look at people’s art!!

This was technically written for the Wilderness prompt, but did end up a little nod to the Nickname prompt, too.

There’s some valgrace in this, but it’s relatively minor. This is, first and foremost, a fic focused on both the lost trio in general and Leo and Piper’s friendship specifically.

———

As they approached the third hour of stumbling through the dark underground tunnels, still looking like varying degrees of drowned rat in their drying, muddy clothes, Piper decided that this quest was much worse than the previous one had been.

For all that had gone wrong on the quest to earn Jason’s first college recommendation letter, it had been clear Apollo had at least intended to give them an easy win as an apology for temporarily getting Jason killed the previous year.

Mnemosyne had clearly had no such restraint. It wasn’t that the Titaness had been unkind—she’d been nice enough when they’d spoken to her—but she’d taken one look at them, decided they seemed competent and given them a quest that was a massive pain in the ass.

They were looking for the Mnemosyne—the Fountain of Memory—which had the exact same name as the Titaness for maximum confusion.

One of the children of Moneta, Mnemosyne’s Roman aspect, had been involved in an unfortunate Lethe-related incident on their last mission and had since had a worrying amount of memory problems. This would have been disturbing enough for your average demigod, but considering that poor kid’s whole power set revolved around memories, they’d taken things really badly.

The three of them had immediately agreed to help—honestly might have even if it hadn’t been for the college recommendation letters. They were all uncomfortably familiar with the concept of demigod memory issues and wouldn’t have wished that on anyone.

Piper still stood by that decision, even as they continued to stumble through the dark with only Leo’s fire lighting the way, as a little dip in an underground river had utterly wrecked their flashlights.

The issue Piper had with this mission didn’t come from what they were trying to achieve. It came from the fact that they’d gone through three different sacred libraries in different parts of the country in search of a flask that could hold the black waters of the Fountain, only to learn afterwards that the main part of the Fountain was in the Underworld.

Maybe this would have been fine, but no version of Eurydice in the myths had ever lived to touch the sunlight again, and none of them had been all that eager to find out what might happen if they took Jason back into the Underworld.

Unfortunately, this meant they had to deal with the only other place they knew that might still hold the water of the Fountain, if they were lucky: the Bluespring Caverns in Indiana, aka the residence of the Oracle of Trophonius.

As in: the very same place that Lester and Meg had partially blown up as a precaution about a year ago.

Originally, the Fountain had been above ground. But whatever explosive had been used to destroy the caverns had done its job so thoroughly that it had taken the waters with it, which made them much harder to find than they’d initially hoped.

The cave system was as vast as it was currently unstable, and it made for quite the experience. Several times, Piper had found herself wishing they had Hazel with them.

When, after hours of wandering around semi-aimlessly, the cave in front of them widened into a cavern and they could finally, finally hear the sound of running water that sounded more like a stream and less like a river, the three of them let out a collective sigh of relief.

“Wow, that stuff really is pitch black,” Leo concluded, holding his flaming hand over the river so he could take a proper look. “So, how do we find out if this is really the Mnemosyne and not, like, the grimiest stream of all time? Because, as the guy who has the most experience with Titans between the three of us, trust me, if Calypso had sent me to find magic memory water and I’d presented her with a bottle full of mud instead, she would not have found that especially funny.”

Before Piper could suggest something really foolish—like how one of them should try drinking the waters and seeing if it fixed the holes in her own memories, which she’d been secretly hoping to do ever since they’d gotten this mission—a figure took shape in front of them.

“You’ve come to the right place,” the Titaness confirmed before she’d even fully taken form. Her dark hair blended nicely into the general darkness of the cavern. Her luminous white robes, which were almost startlingly bright, were still covered in black words like they’d been the first time they’d met her, which definitely did not help her beat the walking e-reader allegations.

The words seemed to have shifted. Maybe someone had skipped a few pages on her cloak since the last time they’d seen her.

“How’s Zac doing?” Jason asked immediately, clearly worried. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know this kid. Of course he was worried about them. He had first-hand experience with having his memories utterly shaken out of him.

“They’re still very confused.” Mnemosyne sighed. “But the waters will help.”

Piper tried not to be annoyed. If the Titaness could have appeared by the stream any time she wanted, why hadn’t she just taken the waters to her child herself?

But she knew by now that things were just like that in their world. There were rules, and gods didn’t do their own quests if they could send random demigods to fetch their magic items instead. That wasn’t ever going to change.

“So, did you just pop up here to confirm we’re not about to gather mud water?” Leo asked, raising an eyebrow.

“No.” The Titaness eyed the stream, then looked between the three of them. “I wasn’t sure how much of the Fountain would be left after everything that happened here last year, or I would have made you this offer much sooner. But if the three of you wish to have your own memories restored, you may drink.”

Piper’s body went rigid, and she could tell Leo and Jason were just as affected. Apparently all three of them had had the same thought for the entire mission—that this might be their one chance to finally get back the memories that Hera and the Mist had taken from them.

“How- how did you know-” Jason asked, startled.

“I’m the Titaness of memory, child.” She smiled at him. “I never forget a story, and yours is quite unique. I’ve heard it told many times, and I remember each version in detail.”

“That sounds like a massive headache waiting to happen,” Leo muttered.

The Titaness laughed. “Perhaps. It can be both a blessing and a curse. But I knew you three have had parts of your memory taken from you, and it was not hard to guess you might wish to regain it. Memory is powerful. It shapes us into who we are as people. Mortals aren’t made to retain all memories, of course, but losing too many can utterly reshape their being.” She eyed Jason with a curiosity in her eyes that Piper really did not like. “I’ll admit, part of the reason I offered you this quest was that I wanted to meet you, Jason Grace. I was intrigued to see who you’d become, with so much of your sense of self stripped away.”

The way she spoke wasn’t unkind, but it was a tone Piper was used to with most gods—one that suggested demigods served mainly as a source of entertainment for higher powers, with no regard for how it made them feel.

“And? Happy with the results?” Piper snapped.

Even in the dark, she could tell Jason was trembling. She moved to stand beside him. Apparently, Leo had had the same impulse—within a moment, they were flanking Jason.

“The path he might have carved with his memories intact would have been very different from the one he carved with them gone,” Mnemosyne said, tone gentle. “It’s important for me to reflect on this, every now and again. The way forgetting can be just as powerful as remembering. Lethe and Mnemosyne balance each other out for a reason. Your friend served as an excellent reminder.”

“I understand that Juno did what she had to do, at the time,” Jason said quietly. He squeezed Piper’s hand. They hadn’t been dating for more than a year, and they were better off for it, but their natural instinct for comforting touches had stayed. “I wouldn’t change what’s happened for anything. But now that the camps are united… is it selfish? To want to remember?”

“Not at all. Being the Titaness of memory, I may be slightly biased on the matter, but wanting to remember has always seemed like a natural instinct to me.” She smiled at him. “The waters could return your memories. Restore what was yours. But you must know that it will restore all of them. Memories can be a heavy burden, sometimes.”

“Is it safe? Drinking from the stream?” Piper asked hesitantly.

“For you and Valdez? Utterly.” Mnemosyne confirmed immediately. “The memories you’ve lost are still within you. A single sip is all you’ll need.”

“And for Jason?” Piper probed, not liking the fact that he'd been left off the list one bit.

“He’ll need to drink more deeply than you two. It’s not without dangers. The memories may overwhelm him.” Mnemosyne turned towards Jason again. “I’m grateful for everything you’ve done to help my child. You will have your recommendation letter regardless of whether you choose to drink. But know that if you choose not to regain your memories now, it’s likely you never will. The more time passes, the greater the dissonance will be between the person you were in those memories and the person you’ve grown into without them. Even now, there’s no telling how well you’ll handle this fact. Waiting longer… it would simply be too dangerous.”

Piper knew Jason wouldn’t reject the waters just because it was risky to drink them. He’d gone through two quests assuming he was destined to die. He’d never been as scared for his own well-being as would have probably been good for him.

Besides, she’d heard the way he talked about Reyna. He’d forgotten so much—felt so detached from the memories he didhave—that only the shape of loving her remained. And for all of Piper’s insistence that that shape could be filled with new memories, she knew that it had never felt like that was enough to Jason.

She knew what he’d say even before the words left his mouth.

“I’ll do it.” Jason wrung his hands. “I want to remember who I was. All of it. Even the bad parts. It’s a burden I don’t want to keep living without.”

The Titaness seemed to like this answer.

“I’ll leave you to the privacy of your memories, then,” she announced, disappearing in a swirl of letters.

Piper wasn’t sure there could be any real privacy, considering she was the Titaness of memory and this was her stream, but she appreciated the sentiment.

~~~~

They gathered some of the water up in a flask. It was far more than Zac would need—Mnemosyne had said that a gulp or two should be more than enough to fix them right up—but they figured it couldn’t hurt to have extra, just in case the usual shenanigans happened or someone else might need the power of the waters in the future. Who knew how long this stream was going to stick around here. It was pure luck that it had even still been here at all, linked as it was to the destroyed Oracle. There was a good chance it would shift and reappear elsewhere in the future, and who knew how soon they’d be able to find it again when that happened.

Once Leo had safely stored the flask in his tool belt, the three of them kneeled side by side at the bank of the stream.

Jason was trembling, staring intently into the water but making no move to touch him.

“Whatever happens, we’ll be right here with you, okay?” Leo said gently, one arm wrapping around his boyfriend’s shoulder.

“It’s just… what if I remember who I was and decide I don’t like myself?” Jason asked, voice suddenly small. There was clearly more he wanted to say. Piper could tell he was afraid.

But Jason had never been good at letting himself be vulnerable.

Thankfully, Leo had the situation handled. He elbowed his boyfriend, raising an eyebrow. “Are you implying I have a terrible taste in men? Because I cannot let that stand.”

He leaned forward and kissed him.

Jason laughed, despite everything.

“You always manage to make me feel better. I don’t know how you do it,” he said, voice full of fond awe. He took Leo’s face in his hands, sighing contently. “I love you so much.”

“Aw, I’m dating a complete sap.” Leo grinned. He flicked Jason in the head and kissed him again.

Maybe Piper should have felt awkward watching them. Third-wheeling your best friends when you were newly single would probably not have been most people’s favorite activity.

But Piper had spent the better part of a year grieving Leo and three months with the gaping hole Jason’s death had left in her chest. Seeing them alive and well and so genuinely happy together after everything that had happened made her heart swell.

This didn’t mean she wouldn’t give them shit about it, though.

Piper whistled, grinning widely at them.

“Hey lovebirds! We should probably get a move on with the memory stuff if we want to make it back to the Waystation before dark.”

“Buzzkill!” Leo complained, chuckling.

“That is my job description as your best friend, yes,” Piper confirmed, pulling them both into a tight hug. “No matter what happens next, we’ll handle it together. We’ve been through much, much worse.”

~~~~

Jason gulped down a handful of stream water and was out like a light within three seconds.

This just left Leo and Piper conscious on the bank of the stream.

Maybe it would have been smart to take turns with this—have two of them drink and the third stand guard until the others woke up—but as difficult as this place had been to find, Piper doubted any random monster would be unlucky enough to just wander in here.

Besides, she was itching to touch the waters herself. The thought of getting her Wilderness School memories back almost made her vibrate out of her skin with excitement.

No more random flashes of Jason where he hadn’t been. No more fake memories overwriting the friendship her and Leo had shared. She couldn’t stand the thought of waiting even a second longer.

“Hang on,” Leo said, grabbing her arm before she could reach into the stream. “I mean, obviously I get why Jason needed this. But are we sure we even want to remember?”

Piper’s first instinct was to protest that they’d wanted this for so long—that they’d spent forever mourning those first few months of their friendship, thinking they’d never get a chance like this—but the look in her best friend’s eyes gave her pause. Apparently, Jason hadn’t been the only one of them who was afraid.

She put a hand on Leo’s shoulder, squeezing it gently.

“What are you worried about?”

“I’ve been thinking, and… what if all of it was fake? What if all the memories we have of Wilderness School were Hera just making things up so we’d do her stupid quest?”

“You think maybe we weren’t really friends before that day at the Grand Canyon?” Piper asked, heart clenching at the thought.

Over the past two years, she had gotten occasional flashes of Wilderness School memories with Leo that hadn’t featured Jason, and she’d always assumed those were her real memories. But what if Leo was right? What if that had just been a second layer of Hera-induced nonsense? What if she’d spent this whole quest hoping to get memories back that didn’t even exist, and the reality of Wilderness School had just been them being lonely and miserable in separate corners of the school?

“Yeah. Maybe we didn't even know each other aside from being classmates,” Leo mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck and refusing to meet her eyes. “Or worse, maybe you, like, hated me or something. What if you get those memories back, and you suddenly decide that you do find me annoying?”

“Hey,” Piper said, pulling him into a hug. “I think you’re plenty annoying now, but that’s never stopped me from wanting to be your best friend,” she teased, squeezing him tightly. “And if Wilderness School Piper really did hate you for whatever reason, I’m just gonna have to tell her off for having shit opinions about my best friend. End of story.”

“Okay,” Leo said shakily. He buried himself in the embrace, squeezing back just as hard. “Okay. I just… you’re my best friend, and I…” he trailed off. His voice was watery.

“I know. But whatever we were back then can’t take away what we are now. Trust me on that one.” Piper rubbed his back soothingly. She could feel herself tearing up, too. “If you originally thought Wilderness School Piper sucked? Tough luck. You’re not getting rid of me ever again.”

“Sorry. I’m getting better about this, I swear. I know you guys love me so much. I just- I don’t want to lose you, ever.”

“I get it. The feeling is very much mutual.” Piper gave him a watery smile.

“I don’t really want to spend my whole life wondering if we had memories together from before,” Leo continued, voice growing steadier. “If we were friends back then, I want to remember every moment of it. And hey, maybe I actually do want to remember it even if I did think you sucked at first. I was really good at keeping people at arm’s length back then. Remembering how that changed with you and Jason… maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

They kneeled next to each other at the pitch black river, leaning down to gather up a small handful of black water each.

“Ready?” she asked, glad to have Leo by her side for this.

He smiled more genuinely now. “Bottom’s up.”

They drank—a small sip, and no more than that.

The water had no taste, but the feel of it was intense. It was a numbing kind of cold that reminded Piper of the anesthetics she’d been given when she’d broken her arm as a child. She remembered the doctor asking her a question or two. She remembered giving nonsense answers.

In a few seconds, the world had faded into nothingness, just like it did now. The cavern surrounding her disappeared, turning as black as the water of the stream.

*******

Remembering felt like walking into a dream and like waking up all at once.

Piper was fifteen again, staring intently out of the window of her Wilderness School classroom and tuning out the teacher. Suddenly, the door had banged open, and there he was—Leo Valdez. He had his arms spread out and bowed mockingly, a cheeky grin on his face. She’d known immediately that this boy would spell trouble.

“You’re fifteen minutes late!” the teacher had protested, which had just made Leo’s grin widen.

“Hey, I figured if I was going to join the class mid-semester, I might as well make a grand entrance. Punctuality is bad for grand entrances, you know.”

The teacher had looked at him in displeasure. Then she’d said the words that were about to make her own life significantly worse, and Leo and Piper’s lives significantly better.

“You’re sitting in front with McLean, where I can keep an eye on you.”

He’d rolled his eyes, but dropped into his assigned chair regardless, not bothering to unpack his bag.

They hadn’t really talked much during that first class they’d shared. Leo had spent the whole time tinkering with some unidentifiable object made of screws, bolts and rubber bands.

Piper had pretended it didn’t bother her. She hadn’t felt like anyone at this stupid school wanted to be her friend since she’d first arrived there, and she’d convinced herself she was fine with that.

It wasn’t like she’d ever really managed to make friends who were interested in her as a person rather than her celebrity dad. That was never going to change.

Except, well… Piper’s pen had gone out of ink, and a moment later, the new guy had wordlessly pushed one of his pens in her direction.

“Don’t give her your stuff,” someone in the row behind them had warned Leo in a stage whisper. Piper had known instantly that their classmate had wanted her to hear every word. “Piper’s here because she’s a klepto. You’re never getting that pen back.”

Piper had been fuming, getting ready to retaliate, but the new kid had been quicker on the draw than her.

“Good. I fucking hate that pen.” Leo had smiled at her, then whirled on the person behind them, speaking loud enough that the whole class heard. “And what are you here for? Because, unlike me, you’re clearly not at risk of getting arrested for your winning personality.”

The girl’s face had gone as red as her stupid hair. Several of the kids around them had started snickering, Piper very much included.

“I can deal with these idiots by myself,” she’d told him afterwards. “But I do appreciate the sentiment.”

“Noted. I just can’t stand people like that. Would gladly watch you take her down a couple notches from the passenger seat sometime, though.” He’d grinned at her. “The name’s Leo, by the way.”

“Piper.”

She’d known they would be friends, then.

~~~~ The roommate thing had come as a surprise to both of them. Wilderness didn’t really do co-ed rooming.

But Leo had apparently managed to piss off three roommates in just as many days, and since they’d chatted a few times in class and sat together at lunch twice, someone in the faculty had apparently decided that, if nothing else, Piper was at least very unlikely to beat Leo up.

“What did you even do to piss Tyler off that much?” she’d asked, allowing Leo to sit on the bottom bunk that had belonged to her for the past month while he pressed an ice pack to his face. “I mean, I know the guy’s got a short fuse, but usually it takes him longer than a few hours of knowing a person to flip his shit like that.”

Leo had shrugged. “Apparently he liked his previous roommate. Came as a shock to me, too—I didn’t think he liked anyone.”

”Just that?”

“Okay, admittedly, the 3 am tinkering probably didn’t help,” he’d amended. “Fair warning: I don’t do well with sleep. Or silence. Or most things, really. If you get sick of rooming with me—which I’m sure you will—don’t worry. I won’t bother you for long.”

~~~~

Leo had tried to make good on that promise less than a week later, when Piper had woken up to him noisily breaking their window lock at one in the morning.

“What in the world are you doing?” she’d asked, eyes wide. She’d crawled out of her bunk to see Leo standing in the dark with a backpack slung over his shoulder and a makeshift tool that looked a little like a torture device in his hand. “You’re leaving?”

The memory was vivid now—the way her heart had dropped into her gut at that moment. It had startled her, then, just how much the thought of Leo leaving had terrified her when they’d barely known each other for a week and a half.

What right did she have to feel this level of attachment to a guy she barely knew? Sure, they’d talked, and she’d made the teachers cut him some slack about homework a few times. Sure, they’d sat together at lunch for all of the past week.

But there was so much she hadn’t known about Leo at the time. So much he hadn’t known about her.

They had, for all intents and purposes, still been strangers.

But they’d been less strangers than any of the other people she’d met at this school—or, honestly, most people she’d met in the years before that. Leo made her laugh. Being around him was the happiest she’d felt in months.

The thought of him leaving her…

“I’m just going up to the roof,” he’d told her. “It’s kind of stuffy in here, and I really need to stretch my legs. Realized earlier that the fire escape outside our window goes up, too, so I figured why not?”

A lie. Piper knew it now like she’d known it back then.

She couldn’t have asked him to stay. Not under those circumstances. But there had been something she could do.

“Can I join you?” she’d asked. “The view’s probably pretty great, and you did wake me up, so might as well make the most of it.”

At least admit you’re leaving, she’d thought. At least tell me goodbye.

Leo had hesitated for a moment, but then his face had softened into a small smile.

“You know what? What the hell. I guess I wouldn’t mind company.” He’d looked her over. “You might want to change into something that isn’t pajamas, though. Unless, of course, your goal is to freeze to death so you won’t have to go on that stupid survival trip we’ve got scheduled tomorrow. Which, you know, would be completely understandable.”

Piper hadn’t pointed out that Leo was only wearing a t-shirt and shorts himself. She hadn’t known he couldn’t get cold back then.

They’d spent the whole night lying on the roof, just talking about a whole bunch of nothing for hours and hours. Piper had pointed to some of the constellations her dad had taught her when she’d been little.

Her dad… she still didn’t know entirely why she’d done it, but when the moon had started to dip towards the horizon, she’d told Leo the truth about her father.

“Hang on. Tristan McLean like the movie star?” Leo had looked at her with wide eyes. “I thought having that kind of money got you out of just about anything. What in the world did you steal to still end up here?”

“Technically, I didn’t steal anything,” Piper had said quietly. She hadn’t expected him to believe her. No one ever did. “I did get a car salesman to lend me a BMW, though.”

Leo had laughed wildly. “You may be the craziest person I’ve ever met. And trust me, that’s a compliment.”

“Gee, thanks,” Piper had told him, but she had let out a small chuckle of her own.

Then, Leo had done something that had really surprised her. For the first time, he’d shared a little bit of himself.

“I’m a tragic orphan, personally. I’ve been through a bunch of foster homes since I was eight.” He’d shrugged. “I’m not really great at sticking around. That’s how I ended up here.”

You stuck around tonight, she hadn’t said. “They can do that? Stick you in a correctional facility for running away?”

“Apparently.” He’d shrugged again. “I’m kind of jealous. Your backstory is much cooler than mine.”

They’d declared that roof their secret hiding spot after, using it to stash snacks they weren’t supposed to have and skip gym whenever Hedge was being particularly annoying. It was the first place they’d ever carved out that had truly felt like theirs.

~~~~

Piper remembered venting to Leo about her dad and his stupid assistant—something she’d never, ever gotten to do with anyone else before this. She’d complained about the last birthday present she’d gotten: a makeup kit that had clearly been picked out by her dad’s assistant, along with a card that misspelled her name as “Pipes”.

She remembered Leo joking that clearly he should be Pipes, because he was smokin’—a joke that was made even worse by the fact that Leo had fire powers, which she hadn’t known at the time.

“What about you?” she’d asked eventually. “When’s your birthday?”

“I don’t do birthdays, Pipes,” Leo had said, smirking at her. Was that where the nickname had come from? “Tragic orphan, remember? Besides, I ended up here for being a serial runaway. No way in hell I’m sticking around until my next birthday.”

“Then there’s no harm in telling me.”

“I guess. If you really want to send me a birthday card from juvie, I suppose I’ll let you know what bridge to address it to ahead of time.” He’d paused. “Sorry, stupid joke. Rich girls don’t go to juvie.”

But he had told her. He’d done it claiming it wouldn’t matter, sure. But Piper knew him now, in a way she hadn’t back then. Saw the slight change in his posture. The way his smile melted into something a fraction more vulnerable. That she’d wanted to know had mattered to him.

As much as Leo spoke of leaving, she’d never woken to him halfway out the window again after that.

~~~~

The memories kept crashing over her. Weeks upon weeks of sitting together at lunch and late night conversations and passing notes in class. Of playing stupid pranks on their classmates as well as each other. Of carefully letting down their walls, brick by brick, until they could at least mostly see each other past their respective barriers.

There’d been a lot they hadn’t talked about back then, but even when they weren’t talking, the fact that they’d had someone to sit with and say nothing to had been a welcome novelty for both of them.

Piper remembered her dad not showing up on the weekends he’d promised to come visit, and how Leo had never pointed it out, but had always made backup plans so they’d have something fun to do to distract her.

She remembered how down Leo had been on what she now knew was the anniversary of his mom’s death. She hadn’t known exactly what was up with him, at the time—just that something was. She remembered roping him into a kitchen heist. She remembered sitting in their shared room afterwards, laughing, handing the tub of strawberry ice cream back and forth until they both felt sick.

She remembered coming down with that stupid cold in late November that had left her bedridden for a week, and how Leo had skipped class and gotten himself in trouble just so he could sit with her, rambling excitedly about some projects he was tinkering with and how they could be misused in the next pranks they’d planned. She remembered being snuck several cups of chocolate pudding in an attempt to cheer her up—which had tasted strangely better than the one the cafeteria usually served.

Back then, Leo had claimed her taste buds were probably just wonky because she was sick.

She realized now that he’d probably made it for her.

~~~~

Piper remembered the meteor shower—gods, the meteor shower. The memory that she’d spent forever thinking of as her first date with Jason.

She remembered Leo dragging her up to their spot on the roof, his whole face alight in excitement. Remembered them sitting together on a picnic blanket for hours, watching light streaking across the night sky.

“You were right, by the way. About what I was up to that night I broke our window lock,” he’d told her quietly, when it was already late into the night. “I was going to leave. I’m still not sure why I didn’t.”

“Do you regret it?” she’d asked. “Staying?”

“Pretty much every time Hedge makes us run laps.” He’d grinned up at her. “But then I look back to see you eating my dust, and I think, hey, maybe this isn’t so bad.”

“Aw, you like being around me that much?” she’d teased, and- oh. Oh no.

Piper felt the mortification of that moment slam back into her as the rest of the memory hit her like a truck.

“Maybe,” he’d said, looking up to meet her eyes. “Hey Pipes? Can I do something really stupid?”

“Past evidence suggests that you very much can,” she’d told him, feeling weirdly shy all of a sudden.

And then he’d leaned forward and kissed her.

She’d thought about kissing him before that moment—about how she’d never loved anyone like she loved Leo. If there was any boy in the world she’d want to kiss, it had to be him.

She remembered the exact moment it had hit them both that this wasn’t it. They’d jumped apart so abruptly that Leo had nearly toppled backwards off the roof.

“Careful!” Piper had yelled, and Leo had gone rigid where he stood, thankfully unharmed. “Jeez, Leo. The kiss was bad, but throwing yourself off the roof over it seems a little dramatic.”

Relief had unspooled in her chest when she’d seen the grimace on his face and known it hadn’t just been her.

“Nope, that was completely warranted,” Leo had told her, wiping at his mouth, her own relief mirrored in his expression. “Sorry, Piper, you’re really great and I love you to death, but let’s never do that again.”

“Gladly,” she’d agreed without hesitation. “If I could forget this ever happened in the first place, I would.”

Current Piper wanted to smack herself a little bit for tempting fate like that, despite the fact that she sort of shared the sentiment. That was the one memory she wouldn’t have minded losing permanently.

*******

When Piper woke, it only took a second or two more for Leo to jolt awake next to her, which made sense, seeing as they’d been reliving the same memories.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” she teased, trying to find a sense of normality in all the things she was feeling right now.

“Well, this is officially the most embarrassed I’ve ever been about something I did over two years ago,” Leo groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Why did we do that?”

“You ended on the memory of the kiss, too, then?” Piper asked, cringing.

“You should have just let me fall off that roof,” he joked, shaking his head.

“Death isn’t getting you out of this friendship. You’ve already tried that, remember?” She pulled him into a tight hug—this stupid fool that she’d never, ever wanted to kiss, and that held half of her soul regardless. Her face felt wet. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this fragile and vulnerable and utterly whole. “I don't regret getting my memories back. I can’t believe all of that was you. I can’t believe we almost lost it forever.”

Leo held her just as tightly.

“Yeah, I-” He sniffled. “That would have really sucked, hm?”

If there was any merit to the myth that humans had originally been two-headed, four-armed, four-legged beings that Zeus had split in two, there wasn’t a flicker of doubt in Piper’s mind that Leo had been hers—the half she’d spent her whole life searching for.

Their love didn’t need to be of the romantic variety for that to be true.

~~~~ For the longest time, they stayed like this, just holding each other.

It took much longer for Jason to wake up. This didn’t really come as a surprise to either of them. Piper and Leo had only lost a few months of memories, and regaining those had knocked them out for almost half an hour.

Jason was missing the majority of his life.

They sat with him the whole time, each of them holding one of Jason’s hands between their own to remind him he wasn’t alone—to lead him back, if necessary.

“He’s got this, right?” Leo asked anxiously. “I don’t know what I’d do if-”

“None of that,” Piper interrupted him. “I’ve warned you both what would happen if you died on me again. He’s not going to risk that. He’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” Leo wiped at his eyes. “Okay, you’re right.”

“What would you do without me, hm?” she asked, grinning at him.

“Steal much less cars, probably,” he said, grinning right back.

“Fuck off,” Piper told him, laughing. “I’ve returned almost all the cars we’ve borrowed for demigod emergencies, and I’ll have you know that we’re using an actual rental this time.”

“Somehow, the thought that someone would let you rent a car is even scarier. I’ve seen how you drive.”

“Shut up.”

Before she could think of another, wittier remark, Jason started to stir between them.

He made a confused noise, looking up at them with a hazy expression.

Leo leaned down to press a kiss to his boyfriend’s forehead. “Hey, Superman. How are you feeling?”

“Leo? Piper?” Jason’s eyes slowly started to clear.

“That’s us,” Piper agreed, trying to ignore the growing unease in her chest.

The way Jason spoke sounded different—a little more stern. Something about the look in his eyes was different, too, though she couldn’t quite pin down what it was.

When he sat up, his movements seemed stiffer. More controlled. It reminded her of the Jason they’d met all the way back at the Grand Canyon, and not in a way she liked.

She tried to remind herself that this was to be expected—he’d just gotten the vast majority of his memories shoved back in his head after living without them for more than two years. Of course he was different. It would have been weirder if he hadn’t been.

This didn’t mean that he wouldn’t still be their Jason.

But then he opened his mouth again, and her blood turned to ice.

“Get up. We need to move.”

He said it like a general giving orders to his troops.

———

Fic notes:

Someone please take Piper McLean away from me, I cannot bring myself to shut my darling girl up (I do not mean this, don’t you dare take her away from me actually)

Yesterday this fic was 2k words long. It’s now 6k words. I have spent all day on this and am now feeling thoroughly unwell. So glad you’re here to feel unwell with me!

If you’re wondering what the hell is wrong with Jason at the end there, the answer is getting his memories back, including all of the traumatic ones, mayyy have messed him up a little. Are things going to be okay? Well, wouldn’t you like to know! There will be a sequel fic to this one that’s from Jason’s POV, but that one isn’t written yet and isn’t a lost trio week fic, so you’ll have to wait a little longer before you get answers on that one. Sorry!

For now, I’ve got lots of fun stuff planned for Lost Trio Week, though! The fic for tomorrow’s prompt is going to be late, though I will at least tease that it’s a Star Wars Crossover and shall be posting a snippet on here tomorrow, if nothing else!

Most of the other fics are already written and just need to be edited. I’m very excited to share them with you all.

Thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed! Comments immensely appreciated as always!

I’m having so much fun with this event, and I’m hoping so is everyone else!

#Lost trio week #the lost trio #piper mclean #leo Valdez #jason grace #platonic liper #heroes of olympus #hoo #leo and Piper #valgrace #Pjo fanfic #my writing #Leo pjo #Piper pjo #Jason pjo #ao3 link

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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago

Text

Man-Sized

3/9 Hope is a Dangerous Thing

Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!OC

Tags: Explicit content, +18 audiences only. Smut, romantic angst, fluff. An unapologetic LOVE STORY. Sexual tension, mutual pining, banter, flirting, developing relationship, strangers to lovers. Simon Riley has a dark past (partly inspired by Modern Warfare 2: Ghost comics).

CW/TW: References to PTSD, depression, past torture and abuse in later chapters.

Summary: A uni student who pole dances at a strip club to pay her rent encounters a mysterious giant of a soldier seemingly incapable of falling in love.

She googled the name Simon Riley and found close to nothing. He wasn't on Facebook or any other social media platform, and she was pretty sure he had given her a false name until a short news article popped up. It was in some Manchester local paper, and from almost 20 years ago. He had won medals in local school olympics, and even with the black and white raster image and a 20 year younger, estimated 90 pounds skinnier Simon Riley, she could recognize that jaw and those eyes.

Days passed by, and he sent her a message every night. They communicated only through text – he never called. It felt like she was living in the turn of the century, the way he refused to use social media or any messaging app. He asked her how her school was, what classes she was taking at the moment, and if work was good. She sent her a photo every night before going to sleep; it simply became a habit. Some were cuter, some were naughtier, but he always expressed his gratitude with a sly, sexy comeback that made her think she might actually be the only girl Simon was texting with.

He rarely disclosed anything about his work, and never sent another picture even when she tried to request one in a roundabout way. She soon stopped fishing for more details of his work because he always redirected the conversation elsewhere. All she knew was that he was used in some special operations of a private, international company. And from what she could deduce from that one single picture he had sent her, the company he worked for had a lot of money.

The headset, the tactical gear, the weapon she distinguished with another profound googling session to be some sort of an assault rifle… All that shit spoke the language of international investors with certain political interests. Simon was doing something that most likely included hybrid warfare, clandestine operations, dealing with nuclear threats and bio-weapons and whatnot.

She wondered why he had been so trusting; after all, she knew his whole name now and knew it wasn't an alias but his real, actual childhood name. Not that she was any kind of threat. Perhaps that was why…

But what made her a bit depressed was that he also didn't seem to regard her as someone he needed to protect. By staying in contact with him, she supposed she was taking at least some kind of a risk. But Simon didn't seem to care. It was both exciting and infuriating to keep in touch with a man like him.

After six days of excited, heated messaging, he sent a text "Off to work." It wasn't that cryptic; she figured it meant that he wasn't to be disturbed or that he wouldn't be able to talk for a while.

A while… that turned into a week.

She found herself zoning out in dull classes, thinking about what Simon was doing right now. Was he infiltrating some foreign military base, or going on a mission to prevent a hijacking, or storming a terrorist compound, or… whatever the fuck soldiers like himself did.

She began her day with a caffeine overdose and then went to listen to some professor talk about medieval manuscripts or Dante Gabriel Rossetti or curse tablets of ancient Rome, only to realize she was thinking about Simon firing his assault rifle in another continent with a skull mask on. She kept thinking about whether he was in danger, whether he would come back, whether she would ever see him again.

The while turned into another week, and she began to get anxious. Should she text him and ask how he was doing? Ask “You still at work?” or “What about that date?”

The last message she had sent was a reply to his work announcement. Have fun! — from 17 days ago.

17 days.

Was he dead?

His message It's your fault if I get killed now seemed more like a gloomy prediction of a future without Simon Riley.

But at the beginning of the third week of silence, she realized she had just been an idiot. Simon wasn't dead or injured or taken prisoner or anything like that.

He had simply forgotten about her.

He had realized she was not a Bond girl after all, but just another boring chick. He had found someone better. Something like that. A man like him could have pretty much any woman on this planet if he wanted to.

That was just the way the world was built.

She wouldn't say that she was depressed. She wouldn’t admit that she was devastated. She just needed a little time to clear her head.

It was difficult to sleep, and school felt more boring than ever. Work just reminded her of him. One day, she nearly fell from the pole while doing a simple straddle because she saw a man looking like Simon walk in the club.

He had given her an exorcism, only to replace the demons that haunted her with himself. Now she needed an exorcism from Simon, but no one knew how to do that.

She just needed to give it time, sleep it away, study it away… Distractions filled her day, and still, she refreshed their conversation every night before going to sleep, as if it was a fault in her phone that prevented his messages from reaching her. And felt like a stupid bitch, a lovesick fool while doing so.

And then, one Tuesday afternoon, after almost four weeks, he appeared at her uni.

She was arriving from a class that had just ended when she hurried past a man she had been pining for for 25 days.

"You working tonight?"

Hearing that voice in a place she had least expected to hear it made her shoulders shoot up and her breath get caught in her throat as she stopped and turned around.

"Jesus…- You scared me."

He laughed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Boo."

"When did you… What are you doing here?"

She didn't say I'm happy to see you. I missed you. That would've sounded too desperate. Right? Even after 25 days.

He looked her up and down, and her knees felt like pudding.

"I like to stalk school girls."

She tried to suppress her smile. God, she had missed that cheeky humour.

"Pervert. No, I don't have a shift tonight."

"Then I can finally take you out on that date."

It was like her dreams had suddenly come true in one single minute. She went from a bird with a broken wing to Icarus flying toward the sun.

"What do you have in mind?"

"You'll see."

He was even taller than she remembered, broader, even when he was wearing all black. People were staring at them, staring at him, because he certainly didn’t look like someone who studied in the Art and Culture Department.

"How did you even know I was here right now?"

"Doesn't really need a rocket scientist to find that out, luv."

Right. But the fact that he had made the effort to dig up what classes she took, when and where, and then come and surprise her like this, made her heart ache. He gave her another once-over, and she squeezed her bag against her chest like that could shield her from the searing gaze.

"You look hot."

And that definitely made her blush… She was an umptieth year student and didn't bother to take pains anymore when she dragged herself in the class. She had her comfiest ballerinas on, her hair was tied to a simple ponytail, and she had no foundation, no mascara, only a bit of her favourite lipstick on. She was wearing a huge, flowy skirt the color of a Halloween pumpkin and a black, simple turtleneck — while perhaps neat and cute in this environment, to him, she would've thought she looked more like a librarian. Far from a hot Bond girl who danced at a strip club with curled hair and cat eye makeup.

"Um.."

"Such a diligent little student."

It seemed he did have an actual thing for school girls, even if they were almost 30 years old. She would never have guessed that this would send him itching. If Simon preferred the girl next door look to her being half-naked on a stage with a pole, then perhaps she did have a chance after all.

"I knew you were a good girl but I didn't know- "

"Stop it, people can hear you," she hissed while, in truth, feeling quite exalted by that good girl talk. She grabbed him by the arm, and he allowed her to guide him out of the building while looking perfectly content with himself and what he was doing to her.

They began the walk to her place so she could shower and get changed for whatever he had in mind for that date. The complete turnaround in her mood, the shot of hormones and giddy feelings and butterflies in the stomach left her feeling shaky. Even the colors seemed more vivid all of a sudden. It was a bit frightening how one single person could change the whole world in a second, have a remedy for all the shit she had been rolling in for the past week. Or two weeks. Or three.

"Sorry that it took so long. Work was... a bit of a challenge."

"It's okay."

Well, it really was not, but she would rather die than tell him that.

"It's better if you don't know where I am and when. I hope you understand that."

Safety measures for her sake after all. Now she felt almost flattered that he hadn't told her he was coming. Jesus...

"Yeah. Sure," she tried to sound neutral about it, but the sudden shyness that had taken over made it sound like she was being passive-aggressive. "I mean, I didn't expect you to entertain me every night."

Well, that sounded even more sour and pathetic… She snapped her mouth shut and tried to calm her heart that was racing from his presence, his scent which had been only a memory until now.

"So, what will you become when you graduate? A historian?”

"I’ve always wanted to work in a gallery. You know, as an art curator or something like that."

"Hm. Ambitious."

She wasn’t entirely sure if he was mocking her, but she laughed. In the culture business, it was a sought-after position, but of course it wouldn't seem like much to someone who wasn’t familiar with the art world.

"What about you? What do you wanna be when you grow up?"

"Alive."

Simon's humour was dark, but after seeing that picture of him, she knew he meant what he said. And she realized that it wasn't perhaps one of her most brilliant ideas to get attached to a man who could actually be killed.

When they got to her place, she went straight to the shower and left the door open, secretly wishing that he would be the one to sneak in this time. But he never showed up, and when she stepped into her small living room, she found Simon had dozed off on her sofa. He barely fit her neat little couch and was lying on his stomach, with one hand dangling out and brushing the floor. The soft snore made it clear that he was very tired and not just chilling in a very relaxed position.

It was a cute sight, downright adorable.

But it also hurt her heart. What made him so exhausted, time after time, month after month? He wouldn’t tell her, and it was futile to ask. The man was overloaded with stress and things ordinary civilians had no clue about. She had no clue about.

He must think of her as a harmless little mouse who knew nothing of the world's darkness. And she didn't. She had her own demons and traumas, but didn't everybody? Simon, on the other hand, seemed to have the combined lives of a gladiator, spy, and war veteran. He had access to a reality that was out of sight and mind for the rest of the civilized world.

Was Simon a good guy or a bad guy? Was he a hero that saved people, or a soldier who executed orders of rape, torture, and kill?

These were questions she had never thought she would need to find answers to. The guys she had dated had been equally as harmless as her. If not even more harmless. And that was saying something.

When she had dressed, she walked to him and heard how the snoring stopped immediately.

Simon was awake and listening. He had woken just from a few soft steps, from her tiptoeing and kneeling beside the sofa, and she wondered if he had been trained for this; to wake up when someone was sneaking up on him. The thought was both gruesome and spine-tingling.

But she hadn’t meant to steal his precious sleep. And if he was so exhausted, he should sleep and not take her out…

Now that he was supposedly awake, she dared to raise a hand and caress his back, remembering what he had said in the shower when she had stroked him. His upper back was tense, even when he was lying relaxed like this, and she felt pity: someone should give this man a back rub, a whole body massage to get those muscles loose. Get some blood flowing. She caressed him with the back of her palm, then slowly traced every little vertebra of his spinal column with two fingers.

He was using both one of the cushions and her sweater as a pillow. Something in the sight of him pressed against her old, snug woolen shirt made her hand come to a halt somewhere on his lower back.

“Don’t stop,” he muttered, sleepy against the softness of her home and hand. She had to fight back the reflexive flinch: his voice was always so rough, even when he whispered and the words were muffled by the support his head was resting on.

“You have tension in your back,” she told him, not knowing why she was whispering too. It wasn’t like he was about to dart off from a sudden noise.

He merely purred for an answer, still sounding drowsy and half-asleep. How disarmed and defenseless he seemed now… On that little couch, under her gentle touch.

“I need to buy you a massage gift card for Christmas,” she blurted and regretted it immediately.

Buy him a Christmas present? As if they were some kind of a couple already… As if this wasn’t barely the second time they were spending time together.

At first, Simon didn’t show any signs of wanting to escape that hopeful suggestion of them becoming something more than just fuck buddies someday. But then he suddenly turned, and she took her hand away.

“I’d rather have you massage me,” he offered with a soft smile and a dreamy stare.

Good. Good, everything was good..

She hadn’t ruined it, hadn’t lost another poker game to this man. She still had cards to play.

She noticed the obvious signs of his arousal and felt wild in the breeze of the moment. Or perhaps she wanted to brush away what she had just said — and make him forget it too.

She reached for his pants to take them off, and he helped her with them, clearly having no objections to what she was about to do. Which was giving him a blowjob that would erase the traces of him thinking he had an obligation to buy her a present for this Christmas.

When she took him in her mouth, he grabbed the edge of the sofa as if the situation was a little too much for him.

"Didn't see that coming…"

His voice had an edge of trepidation to it. Uneasiness, almost worry. But he must've liked it, for he eased into it shortly after, slumped back onto the couch, and spread his legs in relaxation. She guided her frustration and doubts into the blowjob, tried to turn into someone else — to that girl from the stage. The Bond girl he had met, the woman of his dreams: just anything but a meek little woman who rarely left her house except for class or work.

She was fully present, not sloppy at all, almost felt like a magician as she forced groans out of him and felt his balls pull taut under her touch. He would never fit inside her mouth completely, but she tried her best.

She sure as hell made an effort.

"You must've really missed m- ah… Fuck.."

It was pretty evident that he enjoyed it. After those weeks at work, perhaps this was what he had wanted all along? To come somewhere safe, some place completely different, and throw himself on a soft couch for a quick nap before some homely girl came to give him a few caresses and a blowjob.

She swirled her tongue around the tip, gave him a little suck, then took him in as far as she could and felt him all the way at the back of her throat.

"Bloody hell Sarah..."

It couldn't be that good…

But he was all but melting under her tongue and touch. Was it just that it had been so long, or was this a rarity in his life? She'd thought that women touched him often, but apparently, they didn't. Or then he didn't allow them to.

Perhaps Simon didn't allow himself to be touched by women. He made love to them and fucked them against a wall in the shower, but he didn't get attention and caresses and blowjobs.

Well, this was news.

It didn't take too long before he came with a hoarse grunt that nearly made her shrink from him. It sounded both sublime and painful, and sent ripples of gold in her stomach and a pang of wet heat between her legs. The load was generous, but she didn't pull away, briefly wondering how awkward it would be to choke on his cum the second time they met. It had been a while for him, then, and she felt disappointed. It wasn't anything special after all, merely the cause of him not having had the opportunity, desire, or time to fap.

His chest was heaving, and she had made a mess in her attempt to swallow it all while keeping everything under control. With Simon, she wasn’t in control, and she had no choice but to accept it.

He reached a hand to absentmindedly caress her hair, and she rested her head on his thigh — but they didn't stay that way for long, for he stirred, and she had to draw back.

"Your turn," he suddenly rose from the couch while still looking like someone who was about to pass out. He got out of his pants, pulled his shirt over his head, threw it somewhere on the floor, and hauled her up in a bridal carry. He literally swept her off her feet and carried her to the bedroom, and she must’ve looked like a deer in headlights.

Because Simon was and wasn't safe.

He had strength, charisma, and forearms to die for, but he didn't feel like someone she would choose to tell her every secret, someone who she would call if she needed help. He came into her world and walked out of it like there was a swinging door between the two of them.

He didn't commit. Which meant that she couldn't commit. Which furthermore meant that she had trouble getting wet.

As infuriating as it was, dark and dangerous didn't exactly turn her on. This wasn't dating; this was more like an adventure or a roller coaster ride. She didn't know what phase they were in because the usual dating-related stuff was off the board. There was nothing to hold on to.

He laid her on the bed, crawled next to her, then reached a hand under another skirt she had chosen for going out with him.

"Perhaps later," she whispered as his hand was already traveling up her thigh. She almost took those words right back when she saw the obvious hurt flash in his eyes. She didn't know if she had de a chip to his pride or if it was something else, but he clearly hadn't expected her to say no to him again.

"Why won't you let me touch you?"

"I…"

She didn't know what to tell him.

What could she say? That she felt unsafe with him? That wasn't even entirely true.

She couldn't tell him that she needed trust and commitment while knowing he couldn't give them to her. Her shy silence stretched on, and the frightened state she was in only worsened when he stared at her, tilted his head, and wouldn't remove his hand.

Then he kissed her — unhurriedly, languidly, and the hand just stayed there under the skirt, pressed against her thigh, firm and broad. Only after she answered his kiss with a shy hunger did he move it further up, up — until it came to rest on her sex.

The kissing finally did it: at some point, she could feel the sudden rush of wetness down below. Her lips trembled when he pulled away only an inch and looked into her eyes while their breaths danced in between their lips. His palm moved only a tiny bit; he was soothing her, coaxing her to open for him. Eventually, his fingers met the soaked spot on her panties, and she swallowed. There was a slight twitch at the corner of his lips, just a tiny little hint that he knew he was doing it right.

"Did you like the picture I sent you?"

Oh fuck.

"Um, yeah.."

He pressed a finger against the center of her wetness, covered only by the thin fabric, and she tried to draw breath as inaudibly as she could.

"Did you get wet?"

So fucking cocky…

"Yes, she whispered against his lips, which finally curved into a small smile.

"Come again?"

"Yes."

The smile widened into a smirk as he moved to slip underneath the fabric. Her folds parted without effort as he guided his finger over her, the length and thickness now resting on her entrance and all the wetness that only increased by the second. She was blinking and breathing shallowly against his mouth while he simply continued to drink in every sign of her unease and arousal.

"Is that why you asked for more?"

Oh God…

"Yes. Would you just-"

"Begging already?"

He was so… infuriating. So cocky, so damn self-confident… It drove her crazy.

"No."

Something flickered in his eyes, a twinkle of endearment.

And not just a twinkle. It was bold, blazing mischief. Shit… She was fucked.

"I'll make you beg."

Oh my God…

He moved even lower, then dipped one finger in, so deep that she was left blinking again. Her mouth opened, then closed, and she realized she must be looking like a fish on dry land. He pulled out, and she wanted to protest, but her pride stood in the way. The moisture was spread all over her folds, especially over the tight, sensitive bud that had been left without attention for so long from the sadness and hopelessness, from her having thought Simon wouldn't come back. She couldn't even touch herself because she had already gotten used to thinking about him when she did that.

A shaky little moan finally hit his lips, and he kissed her again while drawing a circle on the bud, sweeping a few strokes across her folds, then driving two fingers in. Slowly, lovingly. The laced fabric that was stretched to give him space must be sodden by now, but he wouldn't pause to take it away. He just continued to fuck her slowly with his fingers while holding that kiss, holding her steady with his mouth only.

He had taken her hesitation as a challenge, and she wondered if she was some kind of a challenge to him overall. If something in her made him want to break her, get to the bottom of her, get a reaction out of her… And he was succeeding splendidly. She was everything but frigid now. He only needed a finger or two to make her like this. And perhaps that voice of his. That stupid cockiness.

He left her mouth and pulled out, only to finally reach for her poor underwear and take it off. She didn't object this time, but when he moved between her legs and she realized he was about to replace those panties with his face, she jerked away from him.

"Hold on…"

"Nah. You hold on."

He wouldn't relent. He simply pressed his mouth against her pussy which, by now, was wet to the point of leaking, and grabbed hold of her hips as if to remind her that she couldn't get away even if she tried. She could only sink back to the bed and let him have his way: to embark on a mission to make her beg.

And she did beg, eventually, when he pressed his tongue flat against her and plunged it inside, and sucked her clit and did it all with such infuriating patience and laid-back attitude that it made her squirm against him. He caressed her with his tongue, those lips, caressed her with his thumb before guiding it inside as well while kissing her thighs, now wide open for him.

She didn't beg with words, but she did coat the air with sighs and moans that must've stroked his ego like nothing else. Even the stubble did its job: it didn’t sting. It only drove her more mad. She could hear him chuckle against her occasionally, could feel him smile in her pussy as he ruined her with that mouth. Even the intrusive thoughts of whether Simon had done this to dozens of women before her and would do it to dozens after her didn't prevent her from approaching the peak in minutes, mere minutes…

Just as she was about to grasp his hair for support, to brace herself for the incoming, he withdrew. The bastard rose to sit and left her shaking and whimpering.

"Wh-… why did you…"

He was licking his lips, smiling, and stroking himself, fully erect again. The fact that he was hard from pleasing her with his mouth, left her feeling even more weak.

"You want it?"

"Fucking hell, Simon." She knew how she must look: dripping wet, with desperation in her eyes and a shaky curse on her lips.

"Is that a beg?"

He placed the thick tip to her entrance, and she throbbed and writhed against him like she was about to come from the slightest touch of that cock.

"Yeah… Yes, please, Simon, just-"

He granted her plea to the full before she had even finished it. The spread, the feeling of being filled with him, was so exquisitely divine that it only took less than five thrusts before she came.

He looked annoyingly pleased while watching her have one of the most powerful, gratifying, leg-shaking orgasms of her life. Perhaps it was only a proper way to greet a man who had been inside her head for so long: who was finally inside her for the first time in four desolate weeks. She didn't feel wild or raw now; she felt like molasses, like puddle of tears, a boneless, limp heap of muscle from all that love and gentle fucking.

After the tension, tremblings, and shaky sighs had left her, and she was merely panting, he finally stopped. Lodged deep inside her to feel the rest of the waves, he was still watching her. The stare of those warm eyes was too much to bear after another implosion that made her even more attached to this man.

"If you call me a good girl, I swear I'll slap you again," she whispered. The body against him shook from silent laughter. He kissed her again, buried his fingers in her hair, gave her another rock of his hips. And then, suddenly stopped just to whisper in her ear…

"That's my good girl."

Fuck….

It was useless. Utterly, completely useless with Simon.

"Ok… Ok." She tried to gather herself while he was still inside her, still filling her and shielding her with his body. "You're asking for it, so I'm not giving it to you."

"Poor me," he answered with that gruff, heart melting voice.

She was laughing again, smiling for the first time in days. Beaming, even…. Probably looking like a brain-dead idiot.

"This was a good date. I had fun."

In her opinion, it was the best date ever, but would she let him know it and stroke that ego further? Hell no.

"This wasn't what I had in mind," he hummed while moving to kiss her neck.

"What if we just stayed here for the rest of the day?"

"Wouldn't mind that."

“You know.. I... really missed you,” she finally confessed with a whisper while he was preoccupied with her neck; safely somewhere else than right there in front of her, staring her in the eyes, gathering evidence of her vulnerability. He huffed a chuckle against her skin in response, sounding close to relieved.

"I missed you too."

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