#don't you dare be sorry for this not EVER | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

scoutofmymind · 6 hours ago

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hey loved your fics you are incredibly talented. i have a scene picture some angst reader is kinda like jo march if u watched little women and luigi is laurie in that one hill scene. basically reader prioritizes acads because of her upbringing - high achiever, academic validations, the whole package and luigi somehow is the same but he compels the reader in a magnetic way because luigi gets to be so carefree and awesome about it and turns out luigi and reader have a common thread and it's turning out rlly good but then reader is slightly scared of commitment in a relationship dare i say? because it was all acads for reader even though there were dreams of having a relationship, it all seemed abstract and unreal!! and the angst comes when luigi confesses to reader and reader reacts very defensive i suppose spitting out word vomit enumerating reasons why luigi shouldnt like her and how he's too good for her and luigi just shuts reader up by pinching their cheeks and holding them steady saying i want you all of you all that sweet stuff...this is just a thought i want to say i admire you heavily your writing is pivotal

Content: SFW, angst, yearning, pining, best friends, purest love, summer, unrequited, lowkey gut-wrenching (sorry)

W.c: 6,843 (I could not stop writing)

Notes; Before we begin, I have to say, anon, I very much enjoyed writing this!! And thank you so much for sending me this request! ✨ there are only a couple bits of dialogue that match the hill scene, but I wanted to throw them in there!

This is lowkey a mini-fic, so enjoy!

Side note: If anything is badly edited, I will likely come back to do some cleaning up. But maybe not. Also I’ve started picking songs to include in requests wherever they may fit in. I want to mention too that backstory is something I just simply can’t leave out when it comes to angsty or emotional scenes, so I’m sorry I literally can’t shut up.

The cicadas weave their summer hymn through the gentle lap of water against stone, your body stretched across whisper-soft grass beside the reservoir.

This spot holds years of you both — echoes of skinned knees and bruised elbows soothed by cool spring water, of childhood dares and teenage secrets.

"You never swim with me anymore." Luigi's voice carries no accusation, just a quiet observation that somehow makes it worse. You can picture his expression without looking —that gentle, knowing thing that always sees too much. "All you do now is torch yourself in the sun."

Your back peels away from the grass, elbows bent to prop you up. Through his borrowed sunglasses — because of course you forgot yours back at the house, and of course he had a spare —you study him.

He's summer personified: water-darkened hair curling at his temples, shoulders golden in the early evening light, wearing a smile easy as breathing.

"I just don't want to get my hair wet, Lu." You say it with the comfortable certainty of someone who's had this exact argument a hundred times before.

"Well, don't then." His retort is quick, familiar. He moves through the water with an easy grace that somehow makes the old reservoir look more inviting than it ever has, though you'd never admit it.

Your shoulders are painted with freckles from all these summer days — chasing chickens in the fields, racing bikes into the city with him riding at your back, his presence as constant as the seasons.

"But then when I get out, I'll be cold." The words float between you like lazy dragonflies, and Luigi just shakes his head, spattering droplets that catch the light.

He pouts, but not like you do.

Where your pouts are theatrical productions, his is a quiet thing — eyebrows drawn together in thought, bottom lip pulled inward instead of jutted out dramatically. His gaze fixes downward at his feet beneath the crystal-clear water, methodically toeing one stone over, then another, like the placement of each pebble might solve some grand puzzle.

You watch him wage his silent war of reorganization, using nothing but his ten toes as construction equipment. It's such a Luigi thing to do — finding the smallest tasks to occupy himself instead of splashing around like he usually does, trying to tempt you in.

"Bet the water feels incredible," he murmurs, more to the stones than to you. His toes have created a perfect semicircle now, a tiny amphitheater beneath the surface. "Like that lemonade your mom makes — you know, the one with mint?"

You do know.

The kind she only makes when the temperature crawls past ninety, when the air feels thick enough to chew. Like today. You can almost taste it — tart and cool and perfect — which is exactly what Luigi intended with that particular comparison, the sneak.

"You're not as subtle as you think you are," you inform him, but you're already sitting up straighter, your legs beginning to tingle from staying still too long in the sun.

The grass has left impressions on your skin, tiny crosshatched patterns that Luigi always says look like secret maps, his fingers drawing lines upon them.

He doesn't look up from his underwater construction project, but one corner of his mouth quirks upward. "Never claimed to be subtle. That's your department, avoiding the water like it's personally offended you."

"The water hasn't offended me," you say, though you draw your knees up to your chest, putting another inch between you and the shoreline. "We have a mutual understanding. It stays there, and I stay here."

"Mhm." Luigi abandons his stone circle, wading a few steps deeper until the water laps at his knees, stood there in his trunks, the cobalt blue ones that hit just above his mid-thigh. "And how's that working out for you? Enjoying your dusty patch of grass while I'm out here living like a king?"

The problem is, he does look a bit regal out there, all long limbs and easy grace, like he was born for summer days and spring water.

You've known Lu since you were both gap-toothed and gangly, but sometimes — like now — he seems to have grown into himself while you weren't looking.

Yet, your own limbs still feel too long, too awkward, like you're wearing a costume that doesn't quite fit.

Meanwhile, Luigi wears summer like a second skin, all easy movements and natural grace, as if the universe decided to polish him up while leaving you in your perpetual state of stumbling through doorways.

"A king of minnows, maybe," you counter, but you're already uncurling, letting your feet stretch toward the water's edge. Not to join him, obviously. Just to... test the temperature.

"Ah," he says softly, watching your toes creep closer, his voice taking on a funny narrators tone, an accent thrown in that sounded similar to his fathers. "The snail emerges from her shell."

"Shell-less snails are just slugs," you inform him primly, but dip one toe in anyway. The water isn't as cold as you expected — it never is, but that doesn't stop you from putting on this show every single time. "And I'm neither."

"No," Luigi agrees, dropping the accent but keeping that amused lilt in his voice. "You're more like- like one of those hermit crabs. The ones that think really hard about switching shells but then just stick with the same one anyway."

You splash water at him with your foot, and he doesn't even try to dodge. "Fuck, Lu —That's the worst analogy I've ever heard."

"Is it?" He takes a few steps backward, deeper into the water, like he's laying out a trail for you to follow. "Because you're still sitting there, thinking about coming in, just like you do every time.“

Luigi could easily remember all the days spent here, in this very body of water together — the secret collection of precious gems that were really just polished river rocks, the fossil that turned out to be an old bottle cap, and that infamous river snake from an overturned stone that had you shrieking and refusing to dive under for weeks.

"Can't be thinking about doing it if I'm already doing it, Lu." You roll your eyes, your shins now lapping gently with clean, cool water. The trees droop overhead like nature's own parasol, their leaves casting dappled shadows that dance across your shoulders.

He's quiet for a moment, watching you with an expression you can't quite read. And then. “Remember when we thought we found actual dinosaur bones here?"

"You mean the plastic fork?"

"A very convincing plastic fork."

The water feels like silk against your skin now, and you find yourself wading deeper without really meaning to. It's muscle memory, maybe — your body remembering what your mind keeps second-guessing.

"At least I wasn't the one who tried to sell it to the museum.” you remind him, the water now swirling around your waist. Each step stirs up tiny clouds of silt that disappear into the clear water.

He splashes in your direction, grinning. "We were tweleve! And Mrs. Henderson at the museum was very nice about it."

"She gave you a cookie and a lecture about scientific integrity."

"Exactly. A win-win."

You're deep enough now that you have to lift your arms to keep them dry, though you're not sure why you're bothering. Your bikini is already clinging to you, and that familiar weightless feeling is starting to take over — the one that always made you feel brave before.

"You know what your real problem is?" Luigi quips, but this time his voice is gentler. "You forgot how to play."

The words hit harder than you expect, maybe because there's no teasing in them now.

Just truth, floating there on the surface like a leaf.

"I didn't forget," you say quietly. "I just- I put it away somewhere."

The look in his eyes tells you exactly what's coming, but muscle memory kicks in before you can retreat, your arms already up in defense position as he sends a massive splash your way, the arc of water catching sunlight like scattered diamonds before it hits you full in the face.

"Luigi!" you shriek, but you're already laughing, already moving. Your soul remembers this dance even if your mind's been trying to forget it, and the water parts easily as you lunge toward him, years of practice making your movements swift and sure.

He tries to dodge, but you know all his tricks — the way he always feints left before going right, how he can't resist staying just within splashing range.

The water battle that ensues is immediate and fierce, both of you laughing and gasping, sending waves in every direction, limbs smacking into each other at times, your body trailing away from his while he charged closer.

"See?" he manages between splashes. "The Queen of minnows!”

You're about to respond when your foot slips on a smooth stone, and suddenly you're going under.

For a split second, panic flares — but then the tranquility and silence envelops you, and it feels like greeting an old friend, your eyes open underwater, seeing the filtered sunlight create shifting patterns all around you, and suddenly you remember why you used to love this so much.

When you surface, pushing wet hair from your face, Luigi is watching you with a grin, his sunglasses pushed away from his face and atop his head instead, nestled in his damp black curls. “You got your hair wet.” He gives you one last gentle splash, his grin so carved into his features it may as well be everlasting.

Luigi, the son of Marco Mangione, whose genius lay in transforming his grandfather's modest Milan carpentry shop into Mangione Artisan Living — now a name whispered in the same breath as Fendi Casa and Bottega Veneta's home collection.

When Marco married Sofia Bernardi in the 80’s, a celebrated interior designer, they moved to America, the local papers painting it as another wealthy foreigner's passing fancy — this modernist villa rising among cornfields and weathered barns.

But Marco had seen something in these hills that reminded him of Tuscany, in the calloused hands of local woodworkers that echoed his grandfather's.

The Mangione Mansion stands like a slice of northern Italy transplanted to American soil, with its stark geometries softened by groves of imported olive trees and terraced gardens.

It's a world away from your family's farmhouse, where the paint peels in honest patches and the screen door creaks a familiar welcome, yet Marco moves between these worlds with effortless grace, discussing the merits of different wood grains with your father across the fence line, or clearing out your mother's farmer's market stall of preserves, declaring each jar Perfetto, just like my Nonna's! with the same genuine warmth he uses to greet European royalty.

Luigi, who could have been pressed into private academies and dinner jackets, groomed for Ivy League legacies and country club memberships, had instead grown up alongside you in public school — though his future was cushioned by both financial security and natural brilliance.

You can't remember a time when academic excellence wasn't your north star — every assignment a stepping stone, every grade a battle in the war for your future.

Being a veterinarian wasn't just a dream, it was your escape route from the endless cycle of farm life that had worn your father's hands to calluses and bent your mother's back.

Perfect attendance since kindergarten, straight A's through AP Biology, even showing up on Senior Skip Day — just you and Lacey Williams, the would-be neurosurgeon, bent over your textbooks in an empty classroom.

Now here you both are in the water — you with your scholarship letters and student loan applications waiting at home, him with acceptance letters from Harvard and Yale gathering dust on his desk.

Two lives that should never have intersected, meeting in the middle of sun-warmed water, your shared freckles catching golden light, limbs tangling as Luigi feints another playful attack.

•

Summer buzzes by your eyeshot like a cicada in a hurry, the season winding down with cooler, longer nights and shorter, blazing hot days.

August comes barreling through like it always does, hot and sticky air clinging to your skin as you sit with Luigi upon the sloped side of the barn, a Birds Eye view of the farm, this very spot the first place the two of you had tried smoking weed, the very first time you ogled at a traumatizing porn everyone at school was talking about — this spot, worn from years of shared moments together is the very place you create some distance.

For the first time.

“I think I want my own party this year.”

The words land like a stone in still water, ripples of hurt crossing Luigi's face before he can master his expression.

For a moment, he looks eight years old again, standing in the tall grass with his first American birthday cake — the one your mom made because his parents were still learning that birthdays here meant homemade frosting, not elegant catered affairs and grand garden parties.

"Oh," he says, and it's the smallest you've ever heard his voice. "Yeah, of course. That makes sense. We’re turning twenty-two. Not eight anymore.” His smile doesn't reach his eyes, hands fidgeting with the bracelet you’d made him years and years ago — the same nervous tell he's had since childhood. "Actually, Ma’s been saying I should do something more — you know, formal this year anyway."

The lie sits between you like a third person.

Luigi, who once convinced his parents to move his elaborate garden party to your barn because you had the flu has never cared for formal anything.

You can see him rebuilding his walls, brick by careful brick, protecting himself the way he never had to with you before.

"Send me pictures though?" he adds lightly, but there's at least fifteen years of shared candles and off-key, bi-lingual singing wrapped in that request, fifteen years of your mom's chocolate cake and his ma’s tiramisu side by side on the same table.

"Luigi, it's not-" you start, then pause, because it is exactly what he thinks it is. A separation. A gentle fracture. "I just need to figure out who I am without- without being part of a matched set. Does that make sense?"

The words feel clumsy in your mouth, inadequate to explain this need that's been growing since your acceptance letter arrived.

You watch him nod too quickly, the way he does when he's processing something that hurts.

The same way he looked when Benny, one of the milking cows had passed three summers ago, or the way he looked when you told him you couldn’t go on the Mangione trip to Italy, desperately needing the vet clinic hours.

"My party's probably just going to be pizza with my study group anyway," you continue, trying to make it sound smaller than it is, even though you've already planned every detail — your first real birthday party that isn't shaped around accommodating both your worlds. "And you should do something spectacular. Twenty-two is a weird number, but you could make it your thing.“

He laughs, but it's his polite laugh, the one he uses at his father's business dinners. "Maybe I'll rent out that new rooftop place in the city," he says, playing along with this sudden pretense that the two of you haven't spent months quietly planning your joint party like every year before. "Very grown-up."

The space between you fills with unspoken memories — dual parties with increasingly ridiculous themes, the year you both got chicken pox and celebrated in quarantine together, or the year his mother hired a magician who pulled you both on stage as assistants.

Fifteen years of wishes and synchronized candle-blowing, and you’ve put an abrupt end to it, with not so much as a warning.

"You're not mad?" you ask, even though you can see he is — not angry-mad, but hurt-mad, the kind that makes his shoulders tight and his smile too careful.

He stands abruptly, brushing invisible dirt from his shorts. "Mad? Nah, come on. We're not kids anymore." The words come out just a touch too fast, too light. "Actually, I should head back. Papa wanted to discuss something about the company tonight."

It's barely seven, and Marco's in New York City until Thursday — you both know this. But Luigi's already stepping back, that practiced social smile firmly in place, the one he uses when he needs to retreat but is too polite to say so.

"Night," he calls over his shoulder once he scales the side of the barn down to the grass again, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

You watch him walk away, his usual easy stride now stiff and measured, leaving you alone with just the sound of the bullfrogs near the pond, and the chickens settling in their coops for the night.

The sunset feels colder somehow, and you wrap your arms around your knees, trying to convince yourself this is what growing up looks like as you sit there until the mosquitoes start biting, watching the space where Luigi disappeared and wondering if this is what independence is supposed to feel like — this hollow victory that tastes nothing like freedom and everything like loss.

•

The late August evening slowly begins to melt into night, the air carrying whispers of autumn though summer still reigns.

You breathe in deep — catching hints of hay being baled in distant fields, leaves just beginning their subtle shift from green to gold, and lake water evaporating off sun-warmed skin. The pontoon boat hums steadily beneath you, loaded with friends sprawled across every available surface, their laughter echoing across the darkening water.

You'd done your best to prepare them all, carefully explaining the separate celebrations to avoid awkward questions.

But Luigi's absence feels like a shadow you can't shake — in the pause after every joke, in the empty space at the boat's stern where he always sat, in the way conversations drift and fade without his easy charm to bridge them.

You're learning that some people leave gaps too precisely shaped to fill, and you catch yourself waiting for sounds that aren't coming —the full-bodied laughter that usually ricochets across the lake, the constant stream of Luigi's commentary that made even silence feel alive.

No one's standing at the boat's edge, goading others into increasingly ridiculous diving contests. The absence of these things sits heavy in your chest, like missing the last step on a familiar staircase.

"Good for you for doing your own thing this year," Mia offers, wine sloshing in her solo cup as she gestures vaguely. "Must be nice not having to compromise on everything for once."

Not really, you think.

The evening settles into dinner in the back garden, strings of lights casting warm halos over familiar faces — relatives, neighbors, friends who'd trickled in as the day aged and as if on cue, the peaceful scene splinters at the sound of tires on gravel and a booming voice that makes your stomach drop.

"Where's Luigi?!"

Cousin Tony's borrowed truck sits askew on the path, driver's door still swinging open like an afterthought.

He bounds toward you, one arm clutching what's clearly a wine bottle wrapped in what looks like yesterday's newspaper, his face bright with the anticipation of seeing his favorite duo.

The sight makes something in your chest twist.

He’s always treated you both as his own blood, never drawing lines between family and chosen family.

You're crushed into a bear hug before you can dodge it, his familiar cologne mixing with engine grease as you try to breathe through compressed lungs, but he’s still calling for Luigi over your head, each shout making the other guests shift uncomfortably in their seats.

"He's somewhere in the city, Tone," you manage to wheeze out.

Your phone burns in your pocket, where Luigi's latest Instagram story sits unopened — some rooftop view you're deliberately not thinking about.

"What'da ya mean?" His grip loosens just enough for you to see his face fall, confusion creeping into his features like a slowly spreading stain.

"We're... trying something different this year," you say, words feeling clumsy as you glance over your shoulder at the laden table — a spread that still unconsciously includes all of Luigi's favorites alongside your own. The sight of his mother's recipe for stuffed shells sitting next to your grandmother's pierogies makes your throat tight.

"Well, is he at least comin' later?"

"No." The word falls between you like a stone. "He couldn't cancel his reservation without losing the booking fee, so I just told him it was fi-"

"No, no, mia cara," Tony drags his hands through his hair, face crumpling like you've just told him the world is ending. "Potrebbe essere l'ultimo!" The words tumble out in his rushed native tongue, his distress making him forget himself.

"You just said that in Italian." Your voice sounds far away, even to your own ears, like it's coming from the bottom of a well.

"Shit — It could be your last time, cuginetta." Tony's sigh seems to come from his bones as he pulls out his phone, cursing when he sees the no-service icon.

"My last time?"

Tony lifts his head slowly from his phone screen, eyes finding yours with a weight that makes your stomach drop. "What — oh, Dio — do you mean to say he has not told you?"

"Told me...?” You brace yourself, chest aching with a sudden, sharp regret for all those breakfast lessons with Luigi's nonna, her patient voice guiding you through pronunciations you'd carelessly let slip away between coffee and lunch.

"He got big'a job in the big city," Tony's hands sweep upward, as if trying to encompass the vastness of a metropolis that stretches far beyond any gesture could capture. "Saying bye-bye forever to smelly farm." His hands fall, and his expression softens into something dangerously close to pity. "Sorry.”

"Leaving? Like — he's moving there?" The words feel strange in your mouth.

You're standing in the same garden where you and Luigi once buried treasure maps at age eight, where you learned to cartwheel together at twelve, where you shared your first illegal beer at sixteen — and suddenly it all feels like archaeological evidence of something that's already gone.

"That's where zio Marco is now, making sure Princess Luigi has all the things he need there for — uh—" Tony lapses into rapid Italian, but you've already stopped listening, the rest of his words fading into white noise.

You're hung up on the present tense of it all — Luigi’s father is there now, apartment hunting, setting up a brand new life while you stand here in your shared history, surrounded by people who apparently knew more about Luigi's future than you did.

The realization hits very suddenly.

Luigi was moving away, and he spoke not a word of it to you.

Tony manages a plate of food before borrowing your landline, desperate to track down Luigi in the sprawling city and when his truck finally crunches back down the gravel path, you feel it like a physical wound — as if he's taking a piece of you with him, torn straight from your core, yet, you maintain your composure with award-winning precision, a smile fixed firmly in place as guests filter away into the darkness.

You go through the motions, accepting kisses on cheeks, graciously receiving gifts labeled with just your name - no more Dynamic Duo or Thing 1 and 2 scrawled in familiar handwriting.

You help clear the garden, stack chairs, wash dishes that held food Luigi would have fought you for the leftovers of. You kiss your father's cheek goodnight, and tell your still-bustling mother you're heading out for some stargazing.

It's not entirely a lie.

You do end up beneath the stars, though you hadn't exactly planned to collapse here by the waterfront, where the distant dock creaks its lonely song, the splash of jumping fish and the bold croaking of nearby bullfrogs barely register — sounds that would normally make you jump now feel as distant as satellite signals.

You're lost in the undertow of your thoughts, barely noticing the warm tears tracking down your neck until your t-shirt is damp with evidence of a grief you didn't know you needed to prepare for — the silence holds you, envelopes you, and you’re almost convinced you can disappear here until-

"Hey, stranger."

His voice cuts through the cricket symphony like a knife, and you freeze, tears still wet on your face.

You don't turn around — can't turn around — because you know exactly what he'll look like: silhouetted against the moons full and distant glow, wearing that stupid designer jacket he bought last month that suddenly makes too much sense.

Big City boy.

The grass whispers beneath his feet as he approaches, each step measured like he's greeting a spooked animal.

It's funny — he used to just crash down beside you, all elbows and laughter.

When did you become something he had to be careful with?

"Tone called me," he says softly, still standing. "Said he found you but couldn't find me." There's a pause, heavy with unspoken words. "Told me other things, too."

The lake laps at the shore, a steady rhythm that used to calm you both on countless nights like this.

Now it just sounds like a countdown.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Your voice sounds small against the vastness of the lake, broken and confused, betrayed and disbelieving.

"Would it have changed anything?" His words come sharp, defensive. "Would you have suddenly decided to stay?"

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" The laugh that escapes him is bitter and unfamiliar. "You want to talk about fair? I watched you apply to every college more than fifty miles away. Watched you light up talking about leaving, about getting out. Never once asking—" He cuts himself off, his gaze turning up instead at the trees that sway and rustle in the midnight air, a chill taking your spine.

"Asking what, Lu?”

"If I wanted to come with you." The words hang in the darkness between you. "If maybe I had dreams too, ones that didn't involve watching you disappear."

"I never said you couldn't-“

"What do you think I was going to do, wait around forever?" His voice cracks at the end, brittle and broken. "God, I've spent my whole life orbiting you like a personal Pluto. I don't even remember my life before you." He paces now like an agitated zoo animal behind a sheath of thin glass, just out of reach. “And yet, you expect me to stay here without you? While you go to college, make your own dreams come true?"

The moonlight catches his face as he turns, and you see something break in his expression. "I would have waited. I would have always waited, but fuck—" His hands tremble as they rake through his hair. "You've pushed and pushed and pushed me away. Every college application, every excited story about your future somewhere else, the party -“ he watches as you stand, your posture ridged and nervous, but attentive.

"Lu, please -“

"So what do I do?" His voice drops lower, trembling. "I have to think of myself too. I have to accept that we won't always be this way." He watches as you scrub your hands over your face, your unsteady legs carrying you off the dock.

The cool, damp grass beneath your feet becomes an anchor, something real in a moment that feels anything but.

He follows, his body angled toward yours like a compass finding north. "But it didn't have to be like this." His voice softens to barely above a whisper, his dress shoes crushing the grass with each step.

"Well, what exactly did you expect?" You whirl around, wiping furiously beneath your eyes, moonlight catching the tears on your cheeks that refuse to be unseen. "We were going to play in the river forever? Did you think we'd just find our way without ever trying?" The words come out harder than you mean them, sharp with the kind of anger that's really just fear in disguise.

"I- you-" Luigi's voice breaks.

His eyes are bloodshot, the bridge of his nose red from earlier tears hastily wiped away in the party bathroom. In the half-light, he looks both younger and older than your shared twenty-two years — a boy trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers, a man facing his first real loss.

"You know, maybe it might have been that easy for you, Lu." Your eyes drift to the Mangione Mansion, its windows gleaming like jewels against the dark hills, an anomaly among the endless cornfields. "You never had to lift a finger — it always just..." You gesture vaguely, bitterly. "Fell into place."

The words taste like copper in your mouth, sharper for how unfair they feel.

Because he's always shared everything.

Those lavish family dinners where his mother insisted you sit next to her, those delicate necklaces from Rome that he'd drape around your neck with careful fingers, those shopping trips where his nonna would press dresses into your arms with a conspirator's wink.

He's never once made you feel like charity.

But there are some things that can't be shared, some advantages that run deeper than generosity.

While you pieced together credits between evening classes and online courses, fighting for every inch of progress, he'd come home rolling his eyes at another Harvard letter, another Yale recruiter calling.

You take a deep breath, feeling the summer air fill your lungs, and air that smells like it always has, like corn silk and cut grass and the all-consuming night. "Did you think we'd just stay here in our bubble, Lu?" Your voice softens despite yourself. "The only place we've ever known?"

All he can do is stand there, helpless, caught between a nod and denial.

His expression crumples into something raw and pleading — such a far cry from the boy who, just last week, had painted patterns across your skin with river mud, both of you laughing until your sides hurt.

The same boy whom you could communicate with without even speaking to, who knew exactly how you took your coffee, who was born the day before you, and who could read your silences like a book he'd memorized; yet now he's looking at you like you're written in a language he never learned to speak.

"No." The word propels you forward, feet moving before your brain catches up.

His face softens into something unbearable — like watching a star collapse in slow motion, finally understanding that this isn't just another one of your theoretical late-night talks about the future.

His carefully constructed composure crumbles, leaving behind something young and scared and achingly real.

"I love you." The words fall from his lips like muscle memory, like breathing, like the thousands of times before — whispered against your hair during movies, shouted across parking lots, mumbled sleepily during long car rides. But now they land heavy between you, a weight pressing against your chest until it hurts to breathe. "I always have, and I always will—"

"No. No, Lu." Your voice cracks on his name, and your pace quickens, bare feet crushing grass beneath desperate steps.

But he matches you stride for stride.

“My life has been so intertwined with yours, when you began to pull away - I- I panicked,” He was rambling now, quick and out of breath but keeping up with you nonetheless, the two of you navigating the vast property, moon and starlight the only thing guiding your path. “I settled on what I knew would be easiest,”

“That’s the problem.” You stop again to look at him, your chest heaving. “You don’t need to settle, Lu — you’re brilliant, you’re so fucking brilliant-“ he grabs your wrists gently, taking several steps to close the gap between you.

"I have never settled on you." Luigi's voice goes rigid, cracking in the middle like ice breaking over deep water. Each word carries the weight of years — shared secrets, dreams whispered under blanket forts, and promises made in tree houses. "You have always been my first option."

You catch your breath, the familiar warmth of his hands on your wrists suddenly feeling like shackles.

Your head shakes, slow and deliberate, as you try to pull back — but his grip steadfast remains. "How would you know of the other options?" The question comes out softer than you mean it to, weighted with everything you've both been too scared to say. "Do you know yourself without me?”

"I don't want to know myself without you."

"Luigi. Please stop-“ You wrench your wrists from his loosened grip, your feet carrying you forward through the night but he follows, like an echo you can't shake, like a shadow that refuses to fade with distance.

His words tumble out faster now, chasing the shrinking space between you and home, visible through the wavering corn stalks like a lighthouse warning of rough water ahead. "I know I'm not — I know I'm not Matthew Williams, or that guy that works the stables near the Bradshaws. And I know I’m not a perfect man, but—"

You stop once again, so abruptly this time he nearly collides with you, turning to face this strange new version of Luigi — one you've never seen before, one who wears his insecurities like an ill-fitting suit.

He's brave, you'll give him that, but he's also terrified in a way that makes your chest ache.

This boy who's never had to compete for anything in his life, suddenly listing off names like entries in a contest he thinks he's losing.

"You stop that." Your finger jabs at his chest, connecting with the expensive fabric of his jacket. "You are the most-the most magnificent person I have ever met, Luigi. And you're not perfect, no-“ You swallow against the rising bile, against the irony of having to defend him to himself when you're the one walking away. "But you're honest, and you're good — a goddamn great deal too good for me."

The last part comes out like a confession, like something you've carried so long it's carved itself into your bones — the real reason you're running, the fear that someday he'll wake up and realize it too.

The night holds its breath around you, your ragged exhales mixing with his in the space between heartbeats, and the trees shiver their leaves like witnesses to your undoing, crickets falling silent as if they too understand the gravity of this moment — this closing act.

"But-“ You step into his warmth, drawn forward like a moth to flame, even now, knowing it would burn. You’re close enough to catch the familiar scent of his cologne mixing with fresh-cut grass and summer sweat. Close enough to see the moonlight catching in his eyelashes. Close enough to break both your hearts properly. "I can't love you the way you deserve to be loved."

The words tear themselves from your throat like barbed wire, each syllable drawing blood.

Your stomach twists inside out, acid creeping up your throat again, "I can't love you like that. I’m - I’m so, so sorry, Luigi — I just - I can’t,

His hands find your face with the reverence of a prayer, thumbs brushing across your cheekbones like he's trying to memorize the geography of your skin. "Listen to me," he whispers, his voice thick with desperation. "Listen."

The tenderness in his touch nearly breaks you — the way his fingers tremble against your jaw, the gentle circles he traces beneath your ears, the familiar callous on his right thumb from his tree-climbing habit.

His forehead drops to rest against yours, and you can feel his breath hitching, unsteady and warm against your lips.

"You've already loved me better than anyone else ever could," Luigi's voice cracks, splintering like ice in early spring. "You love me exactly as I am — not the heir, not the prodigy, not the Mangione name." His hands slide into your hair, “You have loved me even though I can’t remember to help feed the hens, but I can recite every constellation. And you’ve loved me even though I name every cull cow — even though you think it’s cruel.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and the raw hope in his gaze is almost unbearable. "Please," he breathes, the word more air than sound. "Please don't decide for both of us what kind of love I deserve." His thumbs catch the tears you didn't realize were falling, smearing them across your cheeks like war paint. "Let me choose.”

“Then choose someone else!” You shake your hands at him, helpless and wishing to disappear. “I - I’m so unsure of myself - every goddamn thing I do, Luigi. I break everything, I’m useless at being a homemaker. I’m awkward, I’m a black sheep, even all the way out here.”

You aren’t made for the big city like he is.

The moonlight catches in his dark eyes, turning them to liquid as they search yours. "I don't need perfect love. I don't need textbook romance or fairy tale." His voice breaks, raw with honesty. "I just need you. But - but I can’t live like this forever" He’s speaking faster than you’ve ever heard the smooth-talking, easy going Luigi say anything.

You try to turn away, to escape the weight of his words, but his touch holds you steady — gentle but unwavering. "Luigi — let me the fuck-“

"No," he breathes, the word ghosting across your lips. "No, don't push me away because you think you're protecting me. Don't make decisions about what I can handle." His fingers thread through your hair, cradling the back of your head. "I choose this. I choose the messy parts, the broken parts, the parts you think are unlovable. I choose all of it."

I am stopping this here. Love you 💕

#req #luigi mangione x reader #luigi mangione fanfic #also thanks so so much for the compliments anon!! I’m here to serve you

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cafem3wcuryy · 3 days ago

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౨ৎ ━━━ HURT

req from anon: I always see oikawa x reader and the reader is almost always slapping the poor boy 😭 imagine oikawa flinches as the reader does it too much or his exgirlfriens did it a lot and reader comforts him or maybe he break down 🤷🏽‍♀️🫠

━ character: oikawa tooru

━ sum: when a simple gesture can reveal so much about a person.

━ tw: established, relationship, mentions of violence, no pronouns used.

lowercase intended

m.list

it was another lazy day for you and tooru. tooru didn't have anything planned for today nor did he have anything planned for yesterday, leaving the two of you to finally be able to spend time with one another. you guys didn't have anything planned for the day due to tooru's request for the two of you stay in the comfort of your shared home.

it was almost nine pm, and the two of you were watching a romance movie. tooru had been fighting off his exhaustion, and every once in a while, you would catch him dozing off. smiling to yourself, you shook your head, deciding to let him doze off as you continued to watch the movie.

once the movie had finally ended, you looked over to your sleeping boyfriend who was sat back, with his fist holding up his head. shaking your head, questioning how he is able to sleep in such uncomfortable positions, you got up, standing in front of him.

softly shaking his body, he stirs, eyes slowly opening. as he began to gain consciousness, you stretched your arms out in front of you.

"holy-!" tooru's voice rose slightly in shock, as he put his arms out in front of him, his hands protecting his face.

jumping in place, you quickly turned around, thinking he flinched at something that was behind you. seeing nothing behind you, you looked at your boyfriend in disbelief.

"are you okay?" you asked him, in which he nods his head, his eyes slightly wide and his breath slightly uneven.

"i thought you were about to hit me." tooru responds, his voice slightly groggy. he sat up, running his hands over his face.

"what? tooru, why would i hit you?" you questioned him, eyes soft.

shaking his head, he stands up, kissing the top of your head. "sorry, i know you wouldn't. it was a reflex."

"did your ex-girlfriends hit you a lot or something?" you asked, looking up at him, with a frown.

"yes and no?" his tone unsure. "well i got hit a lot when i would fall asleep and they would get mad."

"jesus christ, tooru." you shook your head, softly tugging his arm to your shared bedroom as he followed. "thank god you aren't with them anymore. poor baby, i wouldn't dare hit you because you fell asleep because you work so hard. i wouldn't dare hit you. period."

tooru's eyes softened as you continued to ramble on all the way to the bedroom. you continued to ramble on as the two of you got into bed.

"baby, shh." tooru cut you off from your rant, bringing your body closer to his, his head on your chest. his body immediately relaxed as you started running your fingers through his brown locks. soon he was beginning to fall asleep.

"i love you, tooru. please don't ever think i would put my hands on you to harm you in anyway." you spoke softly. "i wouldn't hit you for being tired either, okay?"

"i know, baby. i was just caught off guard. i love you, so much." tooru sleepily spoke, his words slightly slurring. "i love you."

notes:

slightly proofread

i hope this was to ur liking anon 😭 requests are open!

#anime #anime and manga #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #oikawa tooru #oikawa x you #oikawa x reader

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unofficial-writing · 1 day ago

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Sugar cookies

✵ Pairing: Fred Weasley/f!reader

✵ Word count: 2k

✵ Summary: You were notoriously horrible at any form of baking or cooking, but hopefully having another shot at it could improve the well-earned reputation

✵ Warnings: Established relationship, possible inaccurate cookie baking (I'm no chef), really nothing but fluff

Baking was a form of art, and you had never been that kind of artist. Every time the thought even crossed your mind, something had already gone wrong. Something was on fire, severely burnt, the wrong consistency, or just tasted awful. No matter how many times you tried, there was never any sort of improvement. No food or dessert had ever survived in your hands. So it wasn't often anymore you could be found in the kitchen, having mostly accepted that this was simply not your strong suit. However, every so often, you found a sudden urge to try and prove you could learn, even if you already knew the likeliest outcome. Today was one of those days, that urge tempting you into giving it another try.

It was a warm and quiet morning in the burrow, Molly and Arthur being away and most of the others busying themselves in different ways. You took the opportunity to try yet again at baking something. It was safer for everyone if there were fewer present to witness it, or possibly taste it. If you could get that far this time.

You approached the situation optimistically. The plan was to choose something simple to make and an even simpler recipe to follow. Just cookies couldn't hurt, right? It seemed easy enough, as long as you were careful.

Leaning against the counter, you studied the little book. There were very few ingredients, and that only meant fewer places where mistakes could be made. You were definitely capable of this. So with a newfound confidence, you got to work gathering an array of bowls, pans, ingredients, everything you thought you may need and more. As you scattered them across the counter at random, You were caught by the only other Weasley in the household.

Fred walked in on what was turning out to be a manic episode. You could tell he knew this based on the sudden panic in his face. "What are you doing?" He questioned, fearing the day he'd find you here again. Flashbacks of previous incidents were likely spinning through his head.

"A good morning would suffice." You replied without looking up from what you were doing. Another quick check of your book and you were ready to go, carrying hope for a more positive ending this time. Fred strode over lazily, sleep clearly still clinging to his mind. He slid his arms around you to gaze over your shoulder.

The embrace briefly distracted you from your task. And to further this, he pressed a long kiss to the top of your head. "I'm sorry, love. Good morning." His voice was muffled against your hair, but the way it sounded was almost tempting enough to drop everything in your hands and give him your full attention. Unfortunately, you were far too determined for that.

"That's much better," You remarked, earning a chuckle. Against your better judgment, you wiggled out of Fred’s arms to continue on with your cookies. After a few words of complaint, He leaned an arm on the counter beside you, finding the only open spot that hadn't yet been touched by your wave of disaster. You prepared your first ingredients, movements followed by his curious gaze.

"Now, don't tell me," He started sarcastically, continuing only once you glanced up at him. This look only lasted a moment, as you were in the middle of measuring flour. "You're making something."

"Clearly," Was your simple response. You were so focused on getting everything right.

"Something simple?" Fred gestured down to the not-so-simple mess on the counter. "I'd guess it's something even you couldn't ruin? Dare I say cake? Cookies, maybe?" He watched you pour the flour into a bowl, which came back up to coat the front of you in a white puff of smoke. A snort of laughter escaped his mouth, resulting in an immediate glare from you. It was very early in the game for you to be wearing your cookies.

"That's enough from you." You pointed a finger of your now powdered hand at him. "Unless you'd like to be covered in flour as well."

His expression changed as he considered your words. "Well, I could think of worse things to—” You put an end to his statement by launching a handful of flour at him, coating the both of you in a thin layer of white. He first tried to wipe his face with the back of his hand, only to find it would smudge. You roared with laughter at this discovery.

After your fit had calmed, you picked up a spoon in an attempt to return to your work. But you had started something Fred would be more than happy to finish. "Oh, no you don't." He grabbed your arms and pulled you to him, tickling and completely disarming you. Laughter jumped back into your throat and your utensils clattered to the ground.

"Fred! No!" You struggled to say, squirming to find an escape. By the time he had stopped, you could barely breathe and practically choked on the giggles that tried to escape your lips.

Fred picked up the spoon off the ground, narrowly dodging a slap to the arm. If your cookies turned out poorly now, you could place some of the blame on him. He went to rinse it off, which gave you enough time to add most of the remaining ingredients to your bowl.

You checked back with the book to ensure it was still going well. Other than the rapidly growing mess in the kitchen and all over you, it seemed fine so far. As long as there were no other setbacks, you may actually succeed this time.

As if you spoke it into existence, Fred turned around at the sink, just as you were placing the cookies in the oven. "Slight problem," His hands were held away from himself, face twisting into concern.

Your gaze was pulled to him to see he had tried and failed to rinse the flour off his hands and arms. Instead of washing away, it clumped and stuck to his skin. The realization hit you at the same time and you stared at each other, both covered in more flour than what was in the cookies.

Water did nothing against the powder. It was mixed with whatever other ingredients escaped the bowl, turning it into a glue and making the situation far worse. You took ahold of one of Fred's arms, but it immediately made your hands sticky as well. No matter how much you scrubbed, it only further spread across the skin

"It's not coming off," Fred announced simply, as if you weren't actively trying to fix the problem.

You sighed. "I can see that, love." You pointed to a bar of soap at the edge of the sink, beckoning Fred to hand it over. He obliged and reached for it. The soap helped significantly, freeing some of the sticky paste.

It took no small amount of effort, but you eventually had clean arms and hands. Fred took the bar from you, wetting the soap in his hands and lifting it to work it into the flour on your face. You gazed up at him while he did this, letting out a little giggle as he struggled to keep his eyes from finding yours.

Fred had very little self-control when it came to you. It didn't take any convincing for him to give in and meet your stare. It was intoxicating. Whatever you had been doing previously was easily forgotten the moment the look was exchanged. He practically melted, thumb still brushing across your cheek while his mind drifted away from cleaning your messy faces.

You did try to resist– or so you told yourself– But a flicker of your eyes toward his lips and it was over. You met in a sweet kiss, the chalky taste of flour finding your tongue. It was warm and gentle and filled with the same longing you felt every time you kissed him; even back to the very first time. The act was so simple, and yet was more than enough for him to take over your entire mind and body. You were completely at the mercy of your lover.

His hands cupped your face, the mixture of soap and flour making a mess of your skin. He held you there with no intention of moving and in turn, rapidly draining any of yours. This only lasted until a distinct burning smell reached your nose.

Fred noticed before you, lips parting from yours as his eyes fell on the sight. "Y/n," He muttered and let his hands drift down to your shoulders.

"Hm?" Was your oblivious response, further proof you belonged nowhere near an oven. Realization hit you at the same time as the harsh scent.

"Is that supposed to be on fire?" You jerked your body around to follow his gaze, only to find that your cookies had gone up in flames. How? You had only taken your eyes off them for a few minutes at most. Your hands went to your pockets, but there was empty fabric where your wand should have been. So Fred's was the next best option.

He wasn't one to handle emergency situations well. While you calmly tried to locate a solution, Fred seemed to lose any instinct for survival. "Fred," You snapped a finger to get his attention. "Your wand, love."

"Right," He searched around the counter for it. A sigh escaped your lips and you put a hand on his arm to stop him, taking his wand from his pocket. With a swift flick, water sprayed from the tip of it and extinguished the flames, which had roared on during the moment of panic.

As the fire subsided, you lost any hope in salvaging your dessert. They came out of the oven pitch black, hard as a rock, and now waterlogged; definitely not edible. You set them on the counter so you both could get a good look.

After a moment or two of dead silence, Fred made a poor attempt to lighten your disappointment. "Well, this isn't the worst thing I've seen you take out of an oven." You shot him the makings of a glare, which confirmed his attempt had ended in failure.

The expression turned into a frown. "Maybe I'm just destined for burnt cookies." As the words came out, so did a giggle. You really were cursed. Every single time, without fail, something goes wrong. You were convinced you were the only one with such terrible luck when it came to baking.

"Or maybe you just need more practice." Fred suggested, giving you his smile. Somehow he had become more enthusiastic about this than you.

You leaned onto the counter, sinking down in defeat. "I think I’ve had a little too much practice." Adding another kitchen disaster to your resume didn't make you any more eager to jump back into it.

"One more couldn't hurt, darling." He pulled out another set of ingredients, this time indenting to help you rather than distract. With Fred, your chances for success were greatly increased but still slim. Even with the odds stacked against you, how could you refuse? Especially at the sight of him standing there, so ready to try again with you. So with an exaggerated sigh, you got back to work.

These cookies had made it much farther than the previous batch. Even just surviving long enough to make it out of the oven was a victory. You could admit there was an obvious improvement. But even though they looked the part— mostly— One taste and you found they were not the most appealing to consume. It was a sign of progress, but still not something anyone else would find edible.

Finally, you were able to start coming to terms with your skill; or lack thereof. Baking was such a delicate art, and you just had to accept that not everyone was meant to be that type of artist.

Find more like this here!

#fred weasely x y/n #harry potter fanfiction #fred weasley #fred weasley fluff #fred weasley x you #hogwarts fanfiction #weasley twins #weasley twin fanfiction #hogwarts #harry potter #harry potter fandom #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley imagine #fred weasley fic #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley oneshot #fred weasley x y/n #Fred Weasley x y/n oneshot #oneshot

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bapeach · 13 hours ago

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Not an early bird

A bit of a shorter story, hope you guys don't mind! Again, sorry for any mistakes. Let me know what you guys think :p

Pairing(s): Azzi Fudd x female!reader Word count: 1.3k+ Summary: You were not a morning person, unlike your girlfriend, but you suppose mornings aren't so bad when you get to wake up to the love of your life. ------------

If there's one thing people knew about you, it's that you were not a morning person. Your team could attest to that, especially Paige. The blonde still couldn't stop talking about the time you almost gave her a black eye when she tried waking you up to get to the bus on time (it's not your fault, really. Who the hell thinks it's a good idea to wake someone up by jumping on their bed and screaming in their face?). You also know KK wouldn’t dare to wake you up to play games anymore, not after you locked her out of her dorm as a punishment (you still don't know why you had the key to her dorm and she didn't, but you found it best to not question these types of things).

So no, you were not an early bird. Not unless you counted staying up till the crack of dawn playing video games or binge-watching shows. Your girlfriend, Azzi, had tried many times to make you an early riser, though always being unsuccessful. She’d also tried to get you to wake up early once to watch the sunrise with her. You ended up agreeing, seeing as you couldn’t really say no to her, but that resulted in you falling asleep against her not even 2 minutes after getting to the lookout spot. After that she stopped trying, choosing to tease you about your sleeping habits instead.

Currently you were having an amazing dream. You were out on the beach with Azzi, hearing the waves gently crash on the shore. She was wearing her black bikini with a pair of your sunglasses. The ocean was the most beautiful blue, with the shore being a gorgeous white sand. None of that mattered, though. You only had eyes for Azzi. The way her skin shone in the sun, looking softer than ever. The small smile she had on her lips as she leaned back, trying to soak in all the sunbeams. Listening to her mumble about how you two should go out for dinner later, you could barely pay attention. You could only think about how her velvety, calming voice could lull you right to sleep.

The scene started fading from your mind as you felt yourself waking up. Even with your eyes still closed, you could tell it was early, no sun shining through the curtains yet. You don't get the chance to get upset at the time though, feeling a finger gently tracing the slopes of your face. The trail started on your forehead, going down the side of your face, swiping softly on the skin just below your lips. You feel Azzi's finger climb back up to your forehead, smoothing out your eyebrows before letting her finger slide down your nose.

While you'd rather never play basketball again than wake up early (Okay, maybe you were being a tiny bit dramatic), you couldn't help but smile a little. I mean, how could you not? Your head resting on Azzi's chest, feeling it go up and down, hearing her soft breathing and her heartbeat like a beautiful song. You breathe in deeply before letting out a contented sigh. You think this might just be heaven. The warmth of Azzi's body heat keeping away the chill that lingers in your room from the cold night. You hear raindrops trickling against the window, the gentle rhythm making you feel even drowsier. As you inhale, you smell the lingering scent of the skin care products your girl used before bed, mixed with the scent so unique to Azzi. The scent that makes you feel more at peace than you've ever been.

You squeeze her closer to you, wishing you could just sink into her until you become one. "G'morning baby," she whispers, knowing loud noises in the morning overwhelm you. You open your eyes and crane your neck to look at her. You feel your heart skip a beat. You can't believe that this is your life. Waking up to the love of your life as she smiles softly at you, letting you know that no matter what, everything will be okay. You groan a little in response, your voice cracking from not being used for a while. You send her a sleepy grin, crawling up a little so you can put your head in the crook of her neck.

“Did you sleep well?” she mutters, her hand sliding to your neck to play with your baby hairs. “Mhm,” you hum, pressing a kiss to her neck. You grin against her skin as you sense a slight shiver going through her body. “You?” you ask huskily, giving her another squeeze. “Yeah,” she breathes.

While you love your sleep dearly, you’re glad Azzi is an early bird. Being able to just lay in her arms as you wake up with no need to rush to get ready. (Which happens a lot when she doesn’t stay the night). It’s moments like these where you feel like you could conquer the world. You feel like you’ve never felt peace before meeting the brunette, at least not like this.

As you’re laying there, you’re already trying to find the best ways to convince the smaller girl to stay in bed all day. Who cares if Paige wanted to go to the mall for new shoes or that KK needed to go get Crumbl cookies? You could already imagine it, cuddling with Azzi for a while before she grabs her latest book and starts whispering the words to herself (She swears she doesn’t). She’d be wearing the little reading glasses that you love but she hates because they “make her look like a librarian”. You’d lay next to her with your own book in your hands, or maybe you’d play the game you’d been wanting to play for ages on your switch.

Letting go of the brunette, you roll over to grab your phone from your nightstand. Seeing as it was still dark in your room, you figured it was probably around 9 AM, the rain making the sky gloomier than usual. Your eyes widen as you whip your head back around. “7 AM?!” you rasp, your voice cracking, “What is wrong with you, you insane woman?!”. She giggled at your sudden exclamation and the slight horror in your eyes. The same giggle that usually sounded like music to your ears sounded evil this time instead.

You flop back down on top of her with a huff, your head on her chest as you sling an arm across her stomach and a leg across hers. “Sleep,” you say with a playful frown, closing your eyes again. She chuckles, your head bobbing up and down in jolts as she laughs. “We need to get up soon anyways to go meet the girls,” she says, her grin evident in her voice. “Shhhhhh,” you grumble, “sleeeeep.”. You can feel her smile as you place your hand on her mouth to shut her up. Returning your hand to her waist, you hear her mumble lovingly, “You’re such a grumpy baby in the mornings.”. You don’t pay her any mind however, already being lulled back to sleep as she softly scratches your back. Azzi places a kiss on your forehead as you nuzzle against her chest, trying to get more comfortable. Finally happy with your position and the returned silence, you exhale contently, a small smile on your face as you start drifting off again.

Looking down at you, the younger girl smiles in adoration as she closes her eyes again as well. She supposed you two could sleep in for once. Knowing KK and Paige, they’d be late anyway, Paige taking ages to get ready while KK is probably too busy making TikToks to realize what time it is. So she falls back asleep to your soft snores, feeling safe, wrapped up in your arms. And even as the sun starts peeking through your curtains and the outside world starts waking up, you remain blissfully asleep in your cozy, little cocoon, without a worry in your mind.

#azzi fudd x reader #azzi x reader #oneshot #imagine #azzi fudd oneshot #uconn wbb #azzi fudd #paige bueckers #kk arnold #azzi x you #uconn huskies #azzi fudd x fem!reader #BaPeach writes

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iaminfourthwing · 17 hours ago

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The Generals Daughter

A/N: Hello Guys. Again, I am really sorry for not posting in so long. Took me a while to gain the motivation again but it's not fully back yet. But you get a (very) little chapter now. Oh and I wish you all a happy new year. Thanks for all the nice comments <3

Chapter XVI

It’s been a few minutes and he hasn’t said anything. He studies me, again. He always does that, silently trying to find my flaws. Innea doesn’t find that funny as well, as she grumbles in annoyance behind me.

‚Be careful. The black beast won’t like it, if you incinerate his rider.‘ I warn her, knowing that she’ll absolutely ignore it.

‚Codagh can fuck off, as if I’ll ever listen to what he says‘ she spits out.

I smirk, which the man in front of me doesn’t likes.

„You have an … interesting dragon, that chose you.“ I can practically feel the distaste, that radiates from him. Innea huffs, clearly as offended as I am.

„She is perfect, I don’t care what other people think about her. She chose me, and I am honored to be her rider. I’ll hopefully fulfill her demands wisely and without .. flaws.“ I say.

„She is nothing special, just from the same den as the dragon from Riorson. And you are surely not special either. You are not to fulfill her demands, but those of Navarre, are we clear? This is why you are here, to defend the kingdom against any threat, no matter the form.“ He hisses while stepping closer.

„Are we clear, Cadet Melgren?“ He also has to emphasize the last name every time so that I am reminded of who (he says) has power over me. Not anymore.

„I am here, to defend those who cannot defend themselves. I will listen to whatever SHE demands of me, no-one else. I am NOT-“ I can’t react fast enough. The blow echoes across the flight field, loud and clear. No one dares to speaks. My head snaps to the side violently and my cheek burns. I can hardly believe it, but he actually dared to hit me in public. Not that anyone would intervene, no, that would be suicide. But now it is obvious that I am not enjoying any benefits. Only pain. And punishment.

Innea is furious, mad even. She roars loudly, while coming close, her head tilted to my father. She bares her teeth and curls her tongue like she wants to spit fire.

‚I will KILL him! Codagh can surely fuck off but I will NOT accept any disrespect against MY rider!‘ she roars loudly in my head and over the flight field.

The ground vibrates as the black monster approaches us. Its snout twisted into a nasty grimace. God, it is so ugly, and yet so powerful. I hate it with all my heart.

'Innea, don't do it. We are only at the beginning of our adventure here. I refuse to let this be the end. Please take a step back. I will sort this out with him. He will no longer have any control over me, but he is still the commanding general of the Navarrean army. So please, don't let yourself be provoked, as much as I want to rip both of their heads off aswell.‘

I can sense the stares of the other cadets, riders and leadership. I don’t dare to turn my head to see who is judging, who has pity in their eyes, or who is just observing (we all know who I am talking about). Innea still grumbles, mad and absolutely terrifying. Shuffling can be heard, when Codagh reaches us, tilting his into my direction, directly staring into my eyes. Out of my eye I can see blue.

‚Sgaeyl is to the right, if he dares to attack‘ my dragon says.

She would .. protect us?

‚They all would. You’ve got your wing at your back. They definitely would defend you and me. And your friends would be the first ones to come to your rescue.‘

Fuck, I will never be able to thank them enough.

I raise my chin, looking my father in his (cruel and cold) eyes, ignoring his dragon at his back.

„I apologize, General. For offending you. My dragon and I will work on it, to strengthen our bond and hopefully manifest a powerful signet to defend .. the kingdom. We will protect those who can’t protect themselves and fight against any threat.“ If he noticed the pause he doesn’t let it show.

He nods. „I’ll see you in a few weeks.“ He steps closer, to close for my (and Inneas) liking. „If I hear just one misstep, or one mistake, no matter you or your dragon, it will be over for the both of you.“ He whispers. All I can do is nod my head. He steps away and leaves me alone with Innea. I can finally breathe again. Fuck, one day he will kill me.

‚He will not. I will not let anything happen to you. You are my rider, I chose you and we will survive this together.‘

Taglist: @puttyly @lxnvmvrzx @freyagallileaevans @aroacemushroom @dragonsandrinks

#fourth wing #iron flame #fourth wing x reader #bodhi durran #xaden riorson #bodhi durran x oc #bodhi durran x reader #violet sorrengail #booktok #fourth wing by rebecca yarros

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kirain · 2 days ago

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Dare I ask... Emmrich & Lucanis love triangle?

Ooooh, I'm so bad at love triangles! I hardly ever write them. I hope this is decent!

The room was heavy with the scent of blood and sweat, the candle light pooling in the hollows of Vae's unconscious face. Her breathing was shallow, strained, and her body trembled under the fever that gripped her. At her side, Lucanis sat with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together in accidental prayer. He refused to look away, even as his chest tightened with guilt.

The bandages around her torso were soaked through, the crimson stain a dagger twisting in his heart. He wanted to scream, to curse the gods, the Venatori—and most of all, himself. You were reckless. Weak. This is your fault! His teeth clenched, his nails biting into his skin as he felt the darkness inside him stir: Spite, coiled and restless, feeding off his turmoil, and surprisingly upset.

"She's going to die! Because of you!" the spirit snapped, his voice rattling the bars of his cage.

Lucanis parished the thought, refusing to let it take hold, but the guilt remained, festering and raw—until an anguished sound broke through the haze of his stupor. Vae shifted, her face contorting in pain. With a strangled gasp, she shot up, her eyes wide and unseeing, before she dropped back down onto the bed with a shrill cry, clutching her side.

"Vae!" Lucanis leaned closer in an instant, his hands hovering uncertainly before settling gently on her shoulders. "Don't move. You'll only make it worse."

"Ugh..." Her breathing was ragged, her fingers moving to grip the sheets, desperate for relief.

"Hold on. I have something."

Quickly, Lucanis reached for the small cup on the table beside him, the liquid inside a bitter-smelling concoction Emmrich had left behind. When he touched the handle, he felt a pang of envy, but swiftly eased it to her lips.

"Drink this," he said, his voice more pleading than demanding. "It will help."

Vae hesitated, her face scrunched in discomfort, but she nodded. With Lucanis' aid, she sipped slowly, grimacing at the taste, before the diligent assassin laid her back against her pillow, willing the medicine to work.

Before long, her heaves waned into exhausted pants, the lines on her face fading slightly as Lucanis set the cup aside. Much to his relief, the elixir—whatever it was—soothed her pain better and faster than he'd expected, though it did little to soothe his worry.

"Vae?" he whispered. "Are you—?"

When her breathing steadied, her eyes fluttered open again, glassy but searching. For a moment, they lingered on Lucanis, revelling in his uninjured form, but then they seemed to bore past him.

"Emmrich..." she rasped, "is he all right?"

The question tore through his soul, harsh and unrelenting, though he knew he had no right to feel that way. "He's safe," he said, forcing a stoic expression. "Everyone is. We put the Venatori down. Every last one, including the one who hurt you."

Vae groaned, looking about the room. "Where... is he?"

"He went out," he said, his tone flat. "To find more elfroot for your wound."

Vae's lips curved into a weak smile as she sighed, her eyes closing again. "Thank you," she murmured.

His stomach turned. Even after everything, she was inexplicably kind. "I'm sorry," he muttered, his throat tight with the weight of his unspoken desires. "This is my fault. I should've seen that bastard before he—"

"Stop..." Vae wheezed, weakly brushing her hand against his, unknowingly causing him to flinch. "You can't see... every enemy, Lucanis. It's not your fault... at all."

"But it should have been me. You took the blow."

"And I'd do it again."

Her words wrenched the air from his lungs. In that moment, all he wanted was to hold her, to steal her pain, to tell her how deeply she mattered to him. But before he could utter a word, the door creaked open, and Emmrich stepped inside.

"Vae!"

The older man dropped the bundle of elfroot in his arms and rushed to her side, sliding to his knees. At the sound of his voice, Vae's eyes struggled open one last time, landing on his overwrought face. When her vision cleared, she gave him a bright smile—one so full of warmth that it shattered something in the depths of Lucanis' psyche.

She didn't look at anyone else that way.

"Emmrich..." she whispered, her consciousness slipping.

"Oh, thank the Maker!" he sobbed, his voice trembling. "I'm here, darling. I'm right here." He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "You're going to be fine. The blade went deep, but it missed every vital organ."

"Sorry for... scaring you..." she mumbled.

"No. Don't apologise, dearest. Just rest." He caressed her cheek, lulling her into a peaceful slumber. "I promise, with my remedies, you'll be back on your feet in no time. That dreadful wound won't even leave a scar."

Lucanis stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. He didn't intend it, but it was too late, his back tensing as the legs chipped the marble with a violent hiss. Emmrich glanced up at the sound; though not in suspicion, but gratitude.

"Thank you for staying with her," he said, his tone vexingly polite and sincere. "I can't tell you how reassuring it was for me, knowing she wasn't alone while I was out."

"Of course," was all Lucanis could muster.

Then, he turned and left the room, leaving Vae in Emmrich's care.

-----

The hallway was cold, the silence oppressive. Lucanis clutched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as he walked, each step a battle. Once he was far enough away, he collapsed against the wall, his muscles throbbing. To his dismay, his eyes glowed a vicious purple, and Spite's voice echoed in his ears.

"Get rid of him," he snarled. "He makes you feel bad. I. Don't. Like it."

Caught in a malicious snare, the assassin's hand drifted to the dagger at his hip, his thoughts clouded with anger and jealousy. Against his will, his eyes flicked to the door, the image of Emmrich writhing beneath his blade unnaturally appealing. Kill him. Kill him.

"No!" he roared, slamming his knuckles against the stones. Spite growled as the pain knocked his hold, though not entirely.

"Why?!" he screamed. "Tell. Me. Why!"

"Emmrich is a good man," Lucanis winced. "You like him."

"No! I like. Vae! I want her. You want her," the addled spirit sneered.

"I do," he admitted, struggling to maintain control. He finally understood—this was his doing. "And that's why I have to let her go. It's called 'love', Spite."

"Love?" Spite repeated, spitting through his teeth. "What is 'love'?"

"It's what we're feeling, Spite... what I'm making you feel. It's why you're mad at Emmrich. It's why we want Vae."

"Then take her!"

"No," Lucanis shook his head, sternly. "That would only hurt her. You don't want to hurt Vae, do you?"

Spite paused, his grip on Lucanis slipping. "Why would it... hurt her?"

"Because she loves Emmrich. If we took him away, it wouldn't make her love us, it would only hurt her."

"But we. Hurt. Instead!" Spite cried, confused.

"Yes," Lucanis chuckled. "Sometimes that's what love is."

"Pain?"

"Unrequited." He straightened up, moving his hand from his dagger to his chest. "If we truly love Vae, we'll want her to be happy, even if it isn't with us." His fingers bunched in his shirt, his brow furrowing. Spite was still fighting. "Or do you want her to feel what we're feeling? Is that it, Spite? Do you want Vae to hurt?"

The voice fell silent, the purple sheen in his eyes slowly ebbing away. His body was once again his own, and though he could sense Spite's ambivalence, and he felt terrible for making him feel the grief in his own heart, he was glad the spirit relented, at least for the moment.

"Thank you," he sighed. "I know it's difficult. Complicated. But this is the right choice. I'm... proud of you, for putting Vae first."

"Shut. Up."

Lucanis smirked, glancing back at the door one last time before continuing down the hall.

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