#his relationship was long distance and the absence had to have been felt in such strange ways | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

millers-girl · 29 days ago

Text

on the line

interconnected standalone/sequel-ish to bitter/sweet and fallout - a Dr. Jack Abbot (The Pitt) fanfic

pairing: Jack Abbot x f!reader

summary: Jack takes a six-week placement across the country. Four specific FaceTime calls—full of banter, longing, and everything unsaid—hold you two together until he comes home.

warnings/tags: grumpy x sunshine, age gap, long-distance relationship, mild language

word count: 5.0k

“What are you wearing?”

You cracked one eye open, squinting against the soft glow of your bedside lamp. Jack was staring at you through the screen of your phone, propped up on your nightstand. His image was bright against the dim lighting, accenting the sharp set of his jaw and the smirk playing at his lips.

“You know what I’m wearing – we’re on FaceTime,” you mumbled into your pillow, voice thick with sleep. Your limbs felt heavy under the familiar weight of your comforter. “When are you coming back?”

“You know when I’m coming back,” he echoed, mimicking your tone. “Why’re you asking – miss me?” His voice dropped an octave, teasing, and you saw his eyes flick down your form as you shifted to get more comfortable beneath the covers.

This had been an ongoing game for the last month – every time you talked, one of you tried to get the other to admit they missed them first. Neither of you had cracked.

Now, that didn’t mean you didn’t miss him. Quite the opposite, actually.

Jack had been gone for three weeks now, having been offered an intensive placement at UCLA Medical Center. You could still remember how he broke the news—quietly, nonchalantly, like he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it—and how you’d smiled widely and pushed him to take it even as something inside you fought every move.

This is UCLA, you told yourself. He has to take it; it’s an incredible opportunity. How many times does something like this come along?

But knowing it was the right decision didn’t make it easier.

Six weeks. Forty-two days. Nearly fifty sunsets without him.

After spending almost every day together, the sudden absence had carved out a hollow space in your chest.

The first week, you felt his absence immensely. But you figured, with time, it’d get easier.

Oh, how wrong you were.

The ache didn’t dull. It sharpened. Everything reminded you of him – how much he’d probably roll his eyes at a joke Eleni told during service, how he’d immediately get to cleaning your apartment if he saw how messy it had gotten, how he’d let you follow him around if he was back at the hospital when you were dropping dinner off for your sister.

Luckily, technology was on your side. While he was in California, you texted him constantly – mostly one-sided updates on your day, the chaos of the kitchen, the new weird thing your landlord did. He replied in his usual charming fashion: a “K” here, a thumbs-up emoji there.

FaceTime was more his speed. Every night, your phone took up its spot on your nightstand while you curled into bed, half-asleep before he even picked up. He was usually just getting ready for his shift – brushing his teeth, dressing in his scrubs, sometimes sitting in the car with one hand on the wheel.

“At least it’s regulating my sleep cycle,” you’d joked during one call, watching him frown in that subtle, concerned way he did.

“You love me doing night shifts,” he’d countered. “Said it keeps you on your toes, guessing.”

“Yeah, guessing how much sleep I’m gonna get that night,” you’d teased back, and he’d huffed a small laugh.

Now here he was, two weeks from coming home, asking you what you were wearing in that low, steady voice of his that always had knots forming in your stomach.

“You already know I’m wearing one of your hundred black tees,” you mumbled, cheek sinking deeper into your pillow.

“No panties?” he asked, a hint of a smirk at his lips as his eyes gleamed with mischief.

With minimal effort, you peeled back the duvet just enough for him to catch a glimpse of his boxers sitting low on your hips.

“You do miss me,” he grinned triumphantly, a quiet chuckle escaping him. You sighed through a small smile, eyes fluttering shut. His voice, even through the phone, grounded you. “Tell me what you did today.”

You took a moment to think, thoughts clouded by sleep and the warmth of your sheets. “Tried out a new truffle recipe,” you murmured.

Sure enough, you peeked an eye open just in time to catch his nose wrinkle in disgust. He hated truffles.

The sight made you smile – even 3,000 miles away, Jack was still so Jack.

“Dinner rush was crazy – some show was going on at the theatre down the block so we were packed. Almost ran into one of the sommeliers rushing out of the kitchen. Nicked my finger on the bottle opener he was holding.”

“Let me see,” he said immediately, and you pulled your hand from under the covers and held it up to the camera, watching his eyes narrow. “Did someone at the Pitt take a look?”

“My sister did,” you said, brushing it off. “It’s fine – just a scrape.”

He frowned that familiar, pinched-brow frown.

“You should keep it wrapped,” he muttered. “Could get infected.”

You mirrored his expression, this time out of something deeper – affection, mingled with longing. “I miss you medically scolding me.”

Jack paused a beat, then offered softly, “I can still do it over the phone. That’s why they invented FaceTime.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not true,” you giggled sleepily, burrowing deeper into your sheets. The weight of him not being there settled over you again, dense and unrelenting.

Silence stretched for a moment before you opened your eyes again. Jack was still looking at you. “What?” you asked, your voice small.

He hesitated. “Nothing… you just look tired.”

But the way he said it—gentle, weighted—made your throat tighten.

You didn’t just look tired.

You missed him. You missed sleeping better when he was beside you, the steady rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours as your limbs tangled together. You missed the safety, the stillness. Without him, everything felt a little bit off.

Your hand drifted across the sheets, reaching for his side of the bed – cold, untouched. Your fingers curled into the empty space as if you could will it to hold his warmth. That familiar ache bloomed in your chest again, pressing hard against your ribs, forcing you to acknowledge it.

And the way he was looking at you right now—gaze just soft enough for you to see the emotion behind it—it made the distance hard to bear.

You wanted to ask him to come back early. Just say it. Just tell him.

But you didn’t.

He was doing something important – teaching residents, working alongside brilliant attendings, contributing to something meaningful. You couldn’t ask him to give that up. So you buried it, like always.

Instead, you asked, “Any exciting cases today?”

Jack blinked at you, then shrugged, his voice returning to that calm, clinical cadence. “Someone said a guy came in with third-degree burns from resting his hand on the grill – didn’t realize his wife had turned it on.”

You winced, turning your face into the pillow. “Ugh, Jack – that’s gross.”

He chuckled softly. “Reminds me of an old army buddy who met the wrong end of a crockpot once.”

You hummed, already drifting. “Tell me about it.”

You tried to stay awake, but the familiar and comforting tone of his low voice began to lull you to sleep. A few minutes into the story, Jack noticed your breathing had slowed.

You looked so peaceful.

He watched for a while, the silence between you warm and heavy, filled with all the things left unsaid.

Then, in a quiet voice that barely crossed the distance, he whispered a sweet good night to you and ended the call.

Four weeks into the placement, when Jack FaceTimed you and you answered with a deep-set frown and red-rimmed eyes, he could already tell it would be one of those days.

The hard days. The days one of you missed the other so much, it was impossible to ignore. The days your heart was three thousand miles away, tucked into the go-bag of your favorite ED attending, somewhere in a cramped locker room in Los Angeles.

“What’s wrong?” he immediately asked, making your frown deepen.

“Nothing,” you promised, setting the phone down on your nightstand as you began to get ready for bed. The camera angle wobbled as you moved – half of your frame disappearing, your voice muffled by distance and steam escaping from the open bathroom door behind you.

This was unusual. Whenever Jack called at this time, you were already tucked in bed, cozy and glowing, hair a little messy, a smile curling at the corners of your lips the moment you saw him.

And, you always showered in the mornings – you said showering at night would intervene with how much time you two got to spend on FaceTime.

Yet, here you were now – hair wet from the shower, curling at the ends as you moved about your room, distracted and quieter than usual. You pulled on a soft t-shirt, then wandered off-screen, brushing your teeth with a kind of mechanical rhythm.

Jack stayed silent, watching.

He could tell something was bothering you.

Your hands shook as you did your skincare – too much toner on the pad, moisturizer forgotten halfway through.

“How was your day?” Jack asked slowly, treading lightly, trying to gauge how you were actually feeling.

“Fine,” you mumbled, disappearing again. The faucet turned on in the background as you washed your hands, cool water grounding your overheated nerves before you slipped into bed wit a heavy sigh.

Jack’s voice came again, cautious, “Anything happen?” He tried to sound casual, but you weren’t in the mood for it now.

You glanced at the screen sharply. “Like what?”

“I don’t know, just… anything good? Or… something bad?”

Your jaw tensed as you looked past the phone, voice bitter. “A critic came in today.”

“Oh?”

You laughed humorlessly. “I didn’t even know who she was, and I told her to fuck off.”

Jack’s brow rose at that. “And why’d you do that?”

“Because she was being an asshole – and I didn’t recognize her and I was rushing and – and I was exhausted. I just snapped and – and it wasn’t even about her. It’s just… I’m tired. I’m so tired of pretending this isn’t hard.”

Jack paused, his face softening, the weight of your words hanging thickly between you.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling like this?”

You shrugged, unwilling to meet his eyes. “Because it’s not your fault,” you finally said. “And I didn’t want to make it your problem.”

“You’re not a problem.”

His voice was quiet, thick with the guilt settling into his stomach.

You immediately noticed the shift in his tone – soft and frayed around the edges.

“I didn’t say it to make you feel guilty,” you said, gaze now locking onto his, unwavering.

“I know,” he replied, tiredly dragging a hand down his face, like he wanted to crawl through the screen and pull you into his arms.

“I just… I miss you.”

There it was.

You’d finally said it.

And yet, it didn’t make you feel like you’d lost the game – at least, not in the way you thought. And, it didn’t make Jack feel like he won, either.

“I miss you every day,” you continued. “I miss you so much I don’t know where to put it anymore. It’s just there. Always. Like a weight on my chest. And every day, you – you pick up the phone and I see your face and you’re fine. Smiling… Happy. And, it’s just – just… Don’t you miss me? Like, even a little?”

The moment you said it, you instantly regretted it.

Jack could tell – the way your eyes squeezed shut in regret, like you wished you could pull the words right back into your chest. It broke his heart even more than hearing the desperation in your voice.

He found himself looking away, swallowing hard. Then, finally, quietly, he said, “Of course I miss you. I miss you all the time. I just – I don’t let myself think about it too long. If I do, I can’t focus.”

You knew he’d never say anything hurtful on purpose but the comment still stung. A sharp pang, like a bruise pressed too hard.

If he missed you so much, how come it felt like you were the only one falling apart? If he missed you so much, why didn’t it seem like he felt it?

Before you could stop yourself, the words spilled out. “Right. Got it. I’m over here crying in the walk-in fridge like a lunatic and you get to compartmentalize.”

His eyes flinched shut, barely perceptible – but you saw it. Instantly regretted your words. And yet, you didn’t take it back.

And he didn’t push back either.

The silence grew too thick, claustrophobic.

After a beat, you shook your head, voice quieter now. “You’re running late – I should let you go. We can just… I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

Your hand reached for the screen, heart already retreating.

“Wait!” Jack’s voice rang out, startling you.

You hesitated, still refusing to meet his eyes, but something in you paused – your ribs tightened at the strain in his voice.

“I think about you all day,” he admitted. “I know I don’t say it enough, but I do. I make a list in my head of all the things to tell you when we finally talk, and then when you pick up and give me that smile, I forget how to say any of it.”

You blinked.

That wasn't what you expected at all.

Still, he kept going. “And I bought you this mug from the UCLA store, in the shape of a smiling sunny face. I keep it in my locker, drink coffee from it before the shift – and all the residents look at me like I’m crazy. But it just… it reminds me of you. Keeps me grounded. Gets me through the shift.

“And your voice notes – I save them all. I listen to one specific one whenever I miss you more than usual – the one where you called me a broody bastard and then basically told me you missed me in the same breath.”

That cracked something open in your chest. Like air rushing into lungs that had been holding their breath too long.

Soft tears lined your eyes. Not the frustrated kind. The aching, full-hearted kind.

You stared at the screen, heart thudding in your chest, throat thick with emotion. His face was still there – steady, honest, eyes staring back at yours, so full of you. Of all the missing he hadn’t said until now.

He missed you. Of course he missed you. Maybe not in the same noisy, unraveling way you did – but in the quiet, deliberate way only Jack could. Through mugs and voice notes. Through saved recordings and mental lists. Through showing up, every night, even when words failed.

Your lip trembled as a tear ran down your cheek.

“Jack…” you breathed, the apology catching somewhere between a sob and a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you finally said, voice low and thick. “I didn’t mean what I said. I just – God – I feel everything right now, and I don’t know if it’s hormones or just the distance or – ”

That four-letter word was at the tip of your tongue, but it didn’t feel right to tell him over the phone. This deserved to be told in person. He deserved that.

Jack’s face softened, almost imperceptibly, but you caught it – the way his shoulders eased like something fragile in him had finally seemed to settle.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, after a beat, he deadpanned, “It’s both. I checked the app earlier.”

You stared, stunned. Then, your eyes warmed, the corners crinkling as a small, disbelieving, shaky smile touched your lips. “You track my cycle on your phone?”

He shrugged, a little too casual. “Ever since the brownies incident – hell yeah.”

That conversation changed things – in the best way.

It made both you and Jack more intentional about the time apart. More creative, more present. FaceTimes evolved into something more sacred, more playful. You started doing virtual date nights, much to Jack’s technologically-deficient chagrin.

“I can barely work this FaceCall thing, you want me to do what now?”, to which you’d rolled your eyes and corrected, “FaceTime,” while suppressing a grin.

He’d grumbled, but you caught the way he cleared his evenings anyway – made sure he wasn’t on call any earlier than he needed to be, made sure his dinner (mediocre and suspiciously not homemade) was ready on time. Despite the mismatched time zones, you both made space. You’d end up eating hours apart, but “together” nonetheless. And that was what mattered.

Six days before Jack was set to fly home, you had another one of these date nights.

The screen flickered to life and there he was – tousled hair you wished you could run your fingers through, half-zipped hoodie you wished you could burrow into, sitting cross-legged on a too-modern couch that definitely didn’t belong to him. He held up a plastic takeout container like it was an offering.

“Dinner, courtesy of the fine culinary skills I’ve learned from you.”

You raised a brow. “That looks suspiciously like pad Thai.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I cooked. Maybe the DoorDash guy and I are becoming best friends.”

You snorted, curling deeper under your blanket as you reached for the remote. “What’d you do yesterday?”

Jack leaned back with a groan, the kind that said his spine hated him and the previous night had been long. “This guy came in with a ridiculous chest injury. We had to work carefully around the nerve endings in his nipple and – what?”

He paused mid-sentence, catching the grin spreading across your face.

“Should I be jealous by how excited you just got talking about someone else’s nipples?” you teased.

Jack coughed, nearly choking on his water. “Jesus. It was a very complicated procedure. We had to be extremely precise.”

“Oh, I’m sure his nipples were deeply moved by your devotion,” you grinned.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you miss it.”

“Unfortunately,” he deadpanned, mouth twitching.

You smiled, feeling that familiar warmth settle into your chest. God, you missed his face. You missed his voice, his sarcasm, the way he looked at you like you hung up the moon.

You squinted at the screen. “Is it just me or are you getting a tan?”

Jack glanced down at his arms. “Well, the sun does shockingly exist here. Unlike your vampire den of a kitchen.”

“I work best when the lights are dim, and you know that!”

He smirked. “Sure. That explains why every time you call me from there, you look like you’re in a hostage video.”

You groaned, tossing a throw pillow off your bed. “Well, not all of us can soak up some West Coast rays while also being a nipple whisperer. Guess you’re just built different.”

“I regret telling you anything about that case.”

You smirked as The Bachelor theme started playing faintly from your TV. You both fell quiet for a beat, comfortable. It had become your ritual – playing the show in the background, pretending to care about the drama, when really, it was just an excuse to sit in each other’s orbit for a while.

Midway through the episode, Jack stood up and walked off-screen and came back holding something. You squinted.

“Is that… a bobblehead? Of an avocado… surfing?”

Jack held it up proudly toward the camera like it was fine art. “Picked it up at a roadside stand. Guy said it was hand-painted by his seven-year-old niece.”

“It’s so ugly,” you commented, grinning anyway. “I love it!”

He just laughed, setting it on the table behind him so its little bobblehead eyes stared into your soul for the rest of the call. And, his heart grew every time he caught you staring at it.

Later, you rolled onto your side, shifting your phone as you got more comfortable. The new angle must’ve shown more of the room, because Jack leaned in, eyes narrowing.

“You changed the bedroom.”

You panned the camera, shaking your head. “Just been sleeping on your side lately,” you admitted through flushed cheeks, before cutting him off when he smirked and parted his lips to speak. “Don’t! Don’t ask me why. Just helps me sleep better.”

He didn’t make a joke. Just stared at you with that soft, unreadable look that always made your chest feel like it was going to burst open.

“I missed this view,” he said gently. His voice was low, almost reverent. “That room. That bed. You in it.”

You fiddled with the comforter. “It misses you. The vibe’s been different, though. Less broody. No angry sighs every time the neighbor’s dog barks.”

“That dog is a demon,” Jack said, on instinct.

“You’re just grumpy when you’re tired,” you teased.

“And you’re grumpy when I’m not there for you to stick those frozen toes under my legs to warm them up.”

You opened your mouth to retort, paused, then nodded. “Okay, that’s true.”

Jack laughed.

The show was long forgotten now. All that mattered was the glow of your screens, the way his eyes didn’t leave yours, the way his voice softened like it always did when the night got quieter.

“What do you miss the most?” he asked, almost shy.

You hesitated, then said, “I miss you hogging the blanket.” That made Jack laugh, but you shook your head, insisting, “I’m serious. In like a stockholm syndrome-y way – I miss that. And other stuff, like you leaving all the lights on or waking me up at the stupid hours of dawn when you get back from a shift… The little stuff.”

Jack nodded, smiling in that slow, aching way. “You know what I miss?”

“What?”

“Sitting at the island, watching you test out new recipes – make a mess of the kitchen like you’re on some Food Network competition.”

You smiled, fond and aching. “That’s the only way I cook.”

“I know,” he said. “I miss it. Miss you.”

You let that settle between you. Let it warm you all the way through.

“In six days, I’m gonna be stuck to you like velcro,” you murmured.

He quirked a brow. “Is that so?”

You nodded. “And you’re not allowed to leave again, by the way. And if you do, you’re taking me in your go-bag.” You lifted your pinky finger toward the camera. “Promise.”

Without hesitation, Jack raised his pinky to match yours. “Promise, baby.”

And for a moment, across the glow of two tiny screens, it almost felt like he was already home.

“Are you here yet?” you asked the second you picked up the FaceTime, barely able to contain the grin stretching across your face. The sounds of the kitchen clattered behind you, but your focus remained on the screen. On him.

Today was the day Jack was coming home and you were giddy with anticipation.

“I am,” he replied, voice smooth, teasing, “but where are you?”

You groaned, “A last-minute catering order came in, so I had to stay late. Almost just brought the chef’s knife with me to work in the car and just sprint to Arrivals.”

Jack smirked, familiar and smug. “I don’t know how TSA would’ve taken that.”

“But, I sent a good backup, huh?”

Jack shifted the camera to the driver’s seat, where Robby sat, looking amused as he drove. “You’re lucky I’m easily bribable with food,” he said. “Picking him up on my day off was not part of the plan.”

“Yeah, but you’d do it for the filet mignon these magic hands can make, right?” You wiggled your fingers at the screen, and Jack snorted.

“Oh, any day of the week,” Robby agreed, his grin cracking wider.

Jack turned the camera back to himself. He looked tired from the long travel day, but the way he looked at you—like he’d been waiting all day, or rather, six weeks, to see your face—made your chest ache.

You drank him in. Stubble. Black tee. Soft warmth creeping onto his features as he looked at you.

“How was your flight?” you asked.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he replied, rubbing his jaw. “I just spent six hours sitting in front of a guy who kept stabbing at the screen like it wronged him personally. Kept me up the whole flight.”

From off-screen, Robby piped up, “Is that why you fell asleep on my shoulder in the first five minutes of the drive?”

“Aww, is that true?” you cooed, and Jack immediately frowned, shaking his head. “Liar,” you accused with a knowing smile, before asking, “Are you close?”

“To your place?” You nodded. “I was gonna head home first, shower, sleep for a bit – ”

You were already shaking your head, correcting him, “No. You’re coming here first; not allowed to shower before you see me.”

Robby snorted, and Jack sighed in that over-it-but-not-really way before turning to his friend. “Can you drop me off at hers?”

“Kinda already assumed,” Robby said, tapping the GPS. “Route’s set to her address.”

“How much longer?” you asked Robby, bouncing on your heels with impatient energy.

“Twenty-three minutes.”

You groaned, tugging off your apron. The clock on the wall ticked slowly, teasingly. “Can you be here already?” you whined at Jack, then paused as a mischievous glint sparked behind your eyes. “I’m ovulating and miss you being in my – ”

“Ohhhkay,” Robby cut in, clearly scarred and making your grin widen. Jack’s mouth twitched.

“I was going to say ‘arms.’ Sheesh, Jack, what kind of freaks do you work with?” you teased, grin widening as Jack broke into a full smile and aimed the camera at Robby, who groaned in defeat.

“You’re gonna get me kicked out of this car, trouble,” Jack said, warmth bleeding into his voice at the nickname. Your chest squeezed, missing him.

Eleni walked into the office a moment later, waving at the screen. “Hey, Eleni,” Jack greeted.

“Hey,” she said, squinting. “Was that groaning I heard just now? You guys doing phone sex again or just emotionally scarring Robby?”

“For the record, those things are not mutually exclusive,” Robby chimed in.

Eleni grinned, turning to you. “You heading out now?”

You nodded. “Unless there’s something else – ”

She was already shaking her head. “Go. Get out of here. You’ve already cleaned the walk-in twice just waiting for Jack to land.”

Jack perked up at that. “Aww, is that true?” he mocked, using your tone from earlier.

You glared at him, but before you could deny it, Eleni added, “She reorganized the grain bins, too!”

You were already grabbing your keys as Eleni ushered you toward the door. “Okay, I’ll see you when you get here,” you said to Jack.

In a rare moment of vulnerability, he puckered his lips and blew you a kiss goodbye. You flushed, heart stuttering.

“You’re getting soft on me, Abbot,” you teased.

“Pretty sure we’re way past that.”

The drive home was a blur; you could barely keep your concentration. Every red light felt like the universe was plotting against you; every slow pedestrian crossing the street made you want to scream.

Your heart was hammering in your ears. You didn’t even remember pulling into the driveway, adrenaline surging. But the moment you caught sight of the front door –

There he was.

Jack.

Standing at your front door in that familiar black tee, suitcase sitting on the porch as he fumbled with the spare key you’d given him. He was so focused on unlocking the door, he didn’t even hear your footsteps approaching.

“You know, for someone who saves lives for a living,” you called out, approaching him, “you’re really struggling with the concept of a lock.”

Jack froze, then turned.

And then, a slow-spreading, lopsided smile that had lived on your phone screen for far too long was finally gracing you in person.

“Well, maybe if someone didn’t have ten million locks on the door, we wouldn’t be in this situation,” he said, voice lower than usual, rougher in a way that made your stomach flip.

You crossed the distance in three strides. The key clattered onto his luggage as he let it fall.

And then you were in his arms.

Not the thought of him. Not his voice through a screen. Not his pixelated smile or sleepy texts or pictures of his takeout. Him. Warm and solid and real.

His arms wrapped so tightly around you, it felt like he wouldn’t ever let go. And you didn’t want him to. You buried your face in his chest, breathing him in.

“I forgot how good you smell,” you mumbled into his shirt. “Like middle seat and recycled plane air.”

He tugged playfully at your ear, leaning back just enough for you to get a good look at him. Sun-kissed skin. Slight scruff that made your fingertips itch to trace it.

“You got more handsome. That’s annoying.”

He raised a brow. “You’re only saying that because you’re ovulating.”

“No,” you promised. “If I did, I would’ve already dragged you inside and ripped your clothes off – ”

He kissed you mid-sentence. Not hurried. Not desperate. Just… steady. Like he had all the time in the world, because now, he did.

When you finally pulled back, breath short, he rested his forehead against yours. “Missed you,” you said softly.

“Yeah,” he whispered, almost like it hurt. “Me too.”

You leaned into him again, arms tightening, greedy now that you finally could be. “You’re never leaving again, right?”

He chuckled, voice cracking just a little. “You going to chain me to the radiator?”

You shrugged. “Tempting. I do own zip ties.”

His laugh was full, unguarded, the sound of it seeping into your skin like sunlight. “Why don’t we save those for the bedroom, huh?”

He leaned down again to kiss your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. And then he whispered, “Let’s go inside.”

But neither of you moved. Not yet.

You’d waited this long.

What was one more minute in each other’s arms?

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yandere-daydreams · 11 months ago

Text

Title: Negligence.

Pairing: Yan!Geto Suguru x Reader x Yan!Gojo Satoru (JJK).

A Continuation of Nursle.

Word Count: 9.0k.

TW: Dub/Con - Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Unhealthy Relationships, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Kidnapping, Mentions of Pregnancy/Childbirth, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Lactation, Geto and Gojo Have Their Own Thing Going On That Is Entirely Separate From The Events of This Fic, and Age Gaps. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.

[Part One] [Part Two]

Suguru wouldn’t let you hold Himari.

You’d offered to as he led you out of Suguru’s apartment, reached for her instinctively as he gently urged you into the passenger seat of a familiar black car, but Suguru was in a fugue state – eyes glassy, voice softened and tempered, a glazed smile painted over his lips. He kept Himari pressed against his shoulder, and then, when she started to stir, in his lap, bouncing idly on his knee as he drove. It was dangerous – for Himari and for you. You were tempted to tell him that, to insist on holding the daughter that wasn’t supposed to belong to him, but then you remembered that he was a cult leader and a kidnapper and a murderer and you kept your mouth shut.

Instead, you kept your hands tucked between your thighs and your eyes focused on the passing landscape, on Tokyo as it dwindled from skyscrapers to rustic storefronts to backwoods. You thought of Megumi, first, surprisingly. Even if he didn’t spend the night with Satoru, he’d notice if you weren’t in class, tomorrow. He’d be worried.

You wondered if Nanako and Mimiko had been worried when they suddenly couldn’t find you in Suguru’s bedroom, where you’d spent the days following Himari’s birth recovering, when you stopped appearing at Suguru’s temple with a folder of worksheets and enough candy to keep two girls under ten engaged for a full ninety minutes. You wondered how Suguru explained your absence, if he bothered to explain it at all. You wondered how long they’d hold it against you.

It was getting dark by the time you left the city entirely. With the setting sun to your backs, Suguru slipped onto a deserted seaside road and, still in that gentle tone, broke the silence. “Was it different?” And then, as Himari sniffled, “With him, I mean. Different than it was for us.”

It took you a moment to realize that he was talking, another to recognize that you were supposed to answer. It was less that you were lost in thought and more that you were lost in the absence of it – your mind a vague, cloudy haze of static and fog and every other grey, disembodied, terrible thing that could seep its way into your consciousness and leave you entirely blank, entirely numb. It was all you could do to remember how to open your mouth, let alone piece an intelligent response together. “With Satoru?”

“Satoru,” Suguru repeated, almost disdainfully. “It took you months to call by my given name.”

You couldn’t deny that, although part of you was tempted to try. Because it was true. Because it had.

Because it was different – or, it had been, at least. Things had moved so quickly, with Satoru. He’d gone from a stranger to a stalker to something not totally unlike a partner in a handful of hours, and you’d watched it all from a distance, never fully able to shake that strange sense of liminality. He was rich, and stable, and he’d never suggested that you quit your job or attempted to lock you up in his mansion of an apartment, as trapped as you’d felt. He’d raped you, but you couldn’t say you believed Suguru wouldn’t have, had you not been so terrified of what would happen if you ever tried to remove any part of yourself from his control. You knew, rationally, that they had to be around the same age, that Satoru shared every quirk and every immaturity that’d once made you disgusted to so much consider Suguru in a romantic light, but it was different. When you first met Satoru, you’d seen him as a parent, a provider, a man who wanted to raise your daughter (albeit, with or without your consent). When you first met Suguru, you’d seen him as a boy who fell asleep in temple gardens and pretended not to be as scared as he really was, and if you were being entirely honest with yourself, you’d never really been able to stop seeing him that way.

Suguru clicked his tongue. He still wanted an answer, but it was all you could do to shrug, to let your gaze drift back to the passing landscape. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “I don’t think I would’ve wanted to marry him either, if he’d asked me to.”

You heard Suguru shift, the engine rev. He started to say something, but a shrill, ear-piercing, howl of a cry cut him off. You didn’t need to check to know it was Himari, and to know why.

“She’s hungry.” You spoke without thinking, snapping toward your daughter. You’d been on your way to feed her when you found Suguru next to her cradle, meaning she was already more than an hour past due. Himari didn’t cry often, but when she did, it was usually for a good reason. Yet another trait that must’ve come from Suguru – had she taken more closely after you, she might not have done anything but cry.

Something crossed across Suguru’s expression; a flash of irritation, a spark of anger, but nothing more violent, nothing lasting. He cooled back into stoic neutrality as one of his hands fell away from the wheel and to the back of your daughter’s onesie – lifting her out of her lap and depositing her unceremoniously in your arms, his eyes never leaving the road. “Can you take care of it?”

It. You had to dig your teeth into the side of your tongue just to stop from saying something you’d regret, from telling him not to talk about your daughter like some unfeeling, inanimate object, not to talk about her at all. You were in a car with a murderer, and you couldn’t forget that just because of some misplaced, motherly paranoia.

Instead, you looked around for a jacket, a blanket, something to cover yourself with, and when you found the car utterly and entirely barren, you settled for turning away from him and struggling the sleeve of your dress off of your shoulder. You went through the motions mechanically, automatically – cooing and running your fingers through Himari’s soft hair as she latched on, little hands grasping the scrunched fabric of your dress as she practically fed herself. You preferred formula, especially with Satoru breathing down your neck, but you didn’t have much of a choice.

A minute passed in relative silence, Himari’s crying slowly fading back into her usual incoherent, but relatively cheerful babbling. Eventually, her little eyes fluttered shut, and you pulled her away, holding her against your shoulder as she fell asleep. When she’d gone quiet, Suguru glanced toward you out of the corner of his eye. You saw him stiffen, straighten, then felt the car veer off the road and come to an abrupt, jeering stop.

You held Himari that much closer as Suguru let himself out. He took his time – his fingertips brushing over the hood as he made his way to your side of the vehicle, opening your door and nodding to the side. “You can leave her on the seat. I promise, I’ll try to be fast.”

You clung to Himari, who shifted restlessly against you. “You really can’t leave newborns unattended, she might—”

“I’ll be fast.” That smile was back in full force, albeit cast in shadow by the quickly dimming light. “I’ve missed you.”

You didn’t want to, but he was using that tone, again – the one that meant he was already running out of patience. Leaving Himari tucked against the backrest, you let Suguru take your hand and pull you out of your seat. No sooner were you on your feet than the door was slammed shut behind you, then Suguru’s hands were on your waist, pinning you against the side of the car. The heat of the dark metal sapped into your back, your shoulders as Suguru’s mouth found its way to the side of your neck, the crook. “I’ve missed you,” he repeated, his voice airy, edging on desperation. “I thought something happened to you. You were gone, and I couldn’t find her, and I thought someone must’ve taken you, or—”

His voice cut out. He didn’t draw back, but one of his hands fell away from your waist, reappearing on the neckline of your dress. His movements were hasty, rushed, like he couldn’t tear the fabric off of your shoulders and down your chest quickly enough. You weren’t wearing a bra, but even if you had been, you doubt it would’ve been much more of a barrier. A chilled sea breeze washed over your exposed chest as Suguru’s mouth fell from your throat to your collarbone, and then to the curve of your breast, lingering. “Wanted to do this since you got pregnant,” he muttered, as something heavy and spiked dropped from your diaphragm to the pit of your stomach. “Held off for the baby, but she’s had more than enough time with you.”

For a brief moment, every intelligent part of your mind seemed to slow, stall, then stop altogether. You opened your mouth, ready to ask what he meant, but unfortunately, you weren’t given the chance to be so painfully oblivious.

Suguru’s lips latched onto your left nipple, and anything you might’ve said was replaced with a hitched whimper.

He was rougher than he really had to be, than his daughter had ever been. The only thing you could think to compare him to, deservedly, was Satoru; just as forceful, just as loud, just as sickeningly eager. The only difference was his tempo. Satoru had always been too giddy not to rush, eager to steal a kiss before you left for work or wake you up with a hand lodged between your thighs, but Suguru seemed content to act as if he had all the time in the world, as if you were somewhere more private than the shoulder of a public road. The flat of his tongue lulled over your nipple as he drank, his free hand coming up to paw at your other breast in almost meditative patterns. You tried to shut your eyes, to block out the wet sounds of his lips working against your skin, but as routine as it was supposed to be, there was little you could do not to hear an occasional, satisfied grunt, not to feel a certain amount of relief as the pressure you’d learned to ignore began to dissipate. His teeth grazed against your skin, and reflexively, your hand found the back of his head, nails biting into his scalp. Rather than pull away, Suguru seemed to purr – the noise deep and throaty, reverberating against you as he leaned that much closer, as he shifted and you felt something stiff press into your thigh. Don’t think about it, you forced yourself to chant in the back of your mind, trying to remember all the age-old coping mechanisms you’d used when you were with him, all the coping mechanisms you’d forgotten after realizing that they wouldn’t work on someone as unpredictable as Satoru. You couldn’t think about it. You couldn’t put a name to it. You couldn’t acknowledge that sucking on chest was in any way connected to the hard, pulsing cock pressing into your—

But you didn’t have a choice. Suguru gasped, his breath hitching, and then he was drawing away from you, his forehead resting against your collarbone as a hand fell to the waistband of his jeans, freeing his cock – already stiff, already leaking into his palm. “I missed you.” You’d lost track of how many times he’d repeated the same meaningless phrase, but this time, his voice shook, misery seeping out from each fractured syllable. You might’ve felt more pity, but any sympathy you might’ve been able to feel for him was quickly drowned out by the material of your skirt being gathered in handfuls at your waist, his cock finding its way between your plush thighs. His larger body kept yours in place as he rutted against you, his open mouth leaking drool and milk and all the other ungodly things you could imagine onto your chest. It was embarrassing, really – just how tightly you kept your eyes shut, like a child walking through their first haunted house. Like all the bad things in the world would go away just because you couldn’t see them. “For weeks, I couldn’t—I didn’t know where you were, I thought—”

His form jolted against yours. You felt it – a sudden, liquid heat against your thighs, a sudden tension where Suguru’s chest pressed into yours – at the same time you felt the first tear fall, searing your skin where it made contact. There was another, then yet another, before you finally realized what was happening.

Suguru was crying.

Huh.

He’d never done that, before.

Finally, you forced yourself to open your eyes. Rather than attempting to look at Suguru, to see if his shoulders were shaking as violently as it felt like they were, your gaze moved outward, first to the bay, then to the sky – as black as spilled ink, now that the last traces of light had faded. As black as Suguru’s eyes.

You carded your fingers through his hair as he cried silently into your shoulder, never making a sound. Minutes passed before he spoke again, but you let him be the one to break the silence. “I don’t get it.” You hummed, and he went on. “I don’t understand why you didn’t try to leave him, too.”

“I might’ve, eventually. If I’d had more time.”

“But you didn’t.” His blunt nails bit into your waist with enough force to sting, but you didn’t say anything. “I don’t understand why you didn’t.”

You didn’t try to answer.

Suguru stopped at a gas station to clean himself up. You stayed in the car, clutching Himari to your chest, attempting not to flinch as her tiny hands pulled at your hair and grabbed at your skirt – searching for something to do, to entertain herself with. The rest of the drive passed in relative silence. Suguru didn’t try to make conversation, and even if you’d wanted to, you wouldn’t know where to start.

Finally, Suguru turned down an unpaved backroad, and far too soon, you were in front of a house you recognized. The architecture was traditional, the design compact, but you could remember Suguru saying that he and the girls didn’t need much. Later on, when he decided you shouldn’t be allowed to wander any farther than his line of sight during your pregnancy, he’d played with the idea of a larger property – something that could accommodate a growing family. If he’d ever had any real plans, they must’ve been abandoned after you left.

“We’re only stopping by,” Suguru explained, as he moved to step out. You didn’t wait for him this time – shouldering the door open and pulling yourself to your feet before he could decide he needed to drag you out of the car himself. “There’s a nursery attached to the master bedroom. The girls can look after Himari while we’re gone.”

Your breathing hitched, then stopped altogether.

The girls.

You’d managed to forget you’d have to see them, tonight. Suguru would’ve been enough to handle on his own.

You tried to take a step back, more out of reflex than anything, but your legs were unsteady, unreliable. You stumbled, but before you could so much as start to fall, Suguru was by your side, one hand on your arm and the other underneath Himari. He started to say something, but you were faster, louder. “I—I can’t. They’ll be so—I knew you wouldn’t hurt them, but I shouldn’t have—”

“They’ll be just fine.” He wasn’t crying, anymore. Instead, he took on the inflection, the stature he’d worn when you first met him – when he’d been the level-headed priest and you’d been a distraught non-believe desperate for help. If you hadn’t known better, if you couldn’t still see the reddened skin around his eyes, you might’ve called his composure sadistic. “And they’ve been waiting for you all night. Wouldn’t it be cruel to disappoint them now?”

It'd be crueler to make them face the woman who’d married their father and abandoned them without a second thought, but you doubted Suguru would agree. He was already curling his arm around yours, already guiding you towards the rustic villa. Whatever daze was keeping you from losing your mind entirely must’ve worn-off sometime during the drive. It was all you could do to keep yourself on your feet as you edged closer, closer to the front door. You were walking down the unpaved driveway, then standing on the wooden porch, and then, Suguru was ushering you inside – taking Himari out of your arms as you passed over the threshold. You didn’t try to resist. He wouldn’t ask the girls to hurt her, not after how long he’d spent holding the idea of a new, adorably helpless little sister over their heads, and wherever he was going to do to you after this, you didn’t want Himari involved. You didn’t want to give him an excuse to use her against you.

Suguru moved further into the villa, but you froze in the entryway. You could already hear the little, rushing footsteps, already picture the betrayal in their eyes, the questions they’d ask you and the answers you wouldn’t be able to give them. They’d hate you. They had to already hate you. You abandoned them, and they would know you abandoned them, and they would—

Two arms wrapping around your legs, the force of a smaller body crashing into yours. You glanced down and found Mimiko, clinging to your waist, her face buried in the material of your skirt. She wasn’t crying, but you could see her shoulders shaking, feel her nails digging into your thigh through the thin fabric. Reflexively, you reached down, resting a hand on top of her head and moving to nudge her away gently, to see if she needed help, but she only clung to you that much tighter.

Nanako was there, too, but she hadn’t latched onto you. Unlike her sister, she kept her distance, hands ringing the hem of her sweater as she stared pointedly at the floor. “Geto-sama told us what happened,” she explained, while Mimiko mumbled something incoherent and affirmative into your skirt. “He said that sorcerer – the white-haired one – took you and Himari away.” There was a pause, a quick glance in your direction. “He promised he wouldn’t let it happen again.”

Her eyes met yours, and suddenly, her nervous posture, the measured distance left between you and her – it made sense. You recognize the light in her eyes, or rather, the lack therefore.

It was the same shadow her father’s eyes took on, when he looked at you.

Whatever lie he’d told them, Nanako clearly didn’t believe it. Mimiko – sweet and loyal and prone to holding onto the things she loved like there was someone could come and take them away at any time – would’ve believed Suguru if he told her that world ended every time she closed her eyes, but Nanako was more pragmatic. She knew something was wrong. You doubted she would speak to you at all if she knew just how wrong, but still.

Swallowing your guilt, you lowered yourself to one knee and hugged Mimiko properly, squeezing her for one beat, then another, before letting her go entirely. Nanako was next. For all her reservations, she was running towards you as soon as you opened your arms to her, crashing into your chest and clinging to you twice as tightly as her sister had. “I’m sure he won’t,” you mumbled into her hair. And then, pulling back, “I know I was gone for a while, but it’s alright. The sorcerer Geto-sama told you about – he just wanted a little advice. He had two children he was raising all on his own, just like Geto. He heard all about how wonderful you two are, and wanted to know if I could stay and show him how to bring up the best kids in the world.” A kiss on either forehead, a thumb drawn over Mimiko’s cheeks to wipe away the tears she was frantically (and unsuccessfully) attempting to paw away on her own. “But, although I was very flattered, I told him that I had to go home. I knew you two would be fine, of course, but let’s face it – Geto wouldn’t last a day without me.”

It was your turn to pause, now, to lower your voice into something secretive. Mimiko was still sniffling, still determined to keep her face buried in her hands or your shoulder, but you made sure to meet Nanako’s eyes, to sound as sincere as you could – even if complete honesty was beyond you, at the moment. “Don’t tell Geto, but I missed you two most of all.”

Nanako looked like she wanted to say something. She almost did, too – tensing, opening her mouth, but she shut it again just as quickly, her eyes falling back to the ground in a sharp, violently narrow glare.

The pain was instant and beyond words. You wanted to pull her and Mimiko close again, to squeeze them tight and promise you wouldn’t leave them, not again, to apologize when you’d inevitably have to for the sake of a sister you hadn’t given them time to love. You wanted to—

You heard Suguru’s footsteps, felt his hand on your shoulder, and every thought you might’ve had that wasn’t devoted to your daughter’s well-being was gone.

Rather than embracing the girls, you drew back from them. Suguru pulled you gently to your feet, his hand falling from your shoulder to your elbow before wrapping around your wrist. “Keep an eye on your sister.” You could only be thankful there was still an ounce of warmth in his voice, as he addressed the girls. “(Y/n) and I have one more errand to run. We’re trusting you two to look after her, until we come back.”

You might’ve added something, made sure they both knew that you really had missed them, but Suguru was already drawing you towards the door – still ajar. The last thing you saw was Nanako taking Mimiko by the wrist before the door was slammed shut, and you were left entirely alone with Suguru.

Of all the places you expected him to take you, his temple hadn’t made the list.

His followers must’ve been sent away for the night, and the property’s attendants either dismissed or told to stay in their dorms. Every window was dark and shuttered, the gates locked and the doors bared. As you followed Suguru across the desolate courtyard and into the main shrine, you tried to think of places you would’ve wanted to be taken to, but came up empty. Part of you had been expecting the cheap, equally lifeless chain motels he’d shown a fondness for during your pregnancy, or worse, the hotel where you’d spent your first night together. Another, larger, quieter part had been able to imagine him driving into the deepest, darkest forest he could find and having his monstrous spirits tear you to shreds before you could so much as scream.

His ultimate destination was far from shocking, and yet, you still felt your heart drop into your stomach as he led you into his darkened sanctuary. As if in preparation, two tapered candles had been left burning in metal trays on either side of the screen door, and Suguru took one up as he passed by. You were left to linger in the doorway as, with a surprising meticulousness, he lit the candles scattered throughout the sanctuary, casting the open space in an ebbing golden glow. When he was finished, he collapsed onto his raised dais – perched on its edge, rather than laid across it. He almost looked out of place, without his usual costume, his usual posture. He almost looked his age.

You didn’t move. Running seemed impossible, but so did breaking the silence, doing anything to make yourself an active participant in Suguru’s bizarre ritual rather than a passive observer, a prop to be moved from place to place with little thought as to where you might want to be. A moment passed in silence, then another. Finally, he cracked. “Sit down.”

You didn’t move. “Are you going to kill me?”

He didn’t react. “All I asked you to do was sit down, love.”

“Are you going to kill Himari?”

He flinched into himself, going crooked. Something like hurt passed across his expression, as genuine as it was hypocritical.

He didn’t respond, but either out of pity or remorse or a lack of anything else to do, you found yourself closing the gap between you and him, setting yourself down on the edge of his platform. Immediately, his head fell onto your shoulder, his hand to your thigh, as if he was afraid you’d leave him again if he didn’t cling to you. “…I thought about breaking your legs,” he confessed, without prompting. “I was angry, when I realized you hadn’t been taken by force. I thought I’d be able to do it in Satoru’s apartment, leave enough blood to make him think I’d killed you, but—” There was a pause, a slow shake of his head. “I don’t know. I guess I waited too long, lost the nerve or something.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” And then, when he shifted curiously beside you, “It would’ve scared the girls. They’re already having such a hard time.”

At that, Suguru melted entirely against you. There was an airy laugh, a small sigh, and you felt his hand on your hip, his thumb drawing loose patterns into your side. “So considerate,” he muttered, nuzzling into the dip of your shoulder. “Maybe, one day, you’ll care about me like that, too.”

A knot formed in the back of your throat. It wasn’t that you didn’t care for him – or, that you hadn’t, before he made it clear that the ways you were capable of caring for him weren’t enough. If you hadn’t felt anything for him, none of this would’ve ever happened. If he’d been satisfied to let you feel the same way about him that you felt about his daughters, it would never have gotten this bad. If you’d just laid back and let him fuck you the first time he’d asked, he would’ve lost interest in you months ago. You almost said so, too, tensed and opened your mouth and everything, but Suguru was moving before you had the chance to spit something out, his mouth crashing into yours with all the care and all the tenderness of a blunt object shattering bone. His teeth cut into your bottom lip, his body pressing into yours with enough force to throw you off balance, but his arms were already around your waist, keeping you upright. It was less that he slid off of the dais and more that he collapsed – dropping onto his knees at your feet, as little difference as it made in terms of height. He never let you stray very far, but tonight, he seemed determined never to leave more than a hair’s width of space between your body and his. His lips fell from your mouth to your neck, his hands finding their way to your hips. One darted for your neckline, but dropped back to your waist just as suddenly – all ten fingers soon burrowed into the plush of your waist.

“Your dress.” He wasn’t panting, wasn’t grinning, wasn’t laughing. His voice reverberated dully against the base of your throat, his pointed canines scraping over your skin as he spoke. “Take it off.”

You swallowed. Normally, he preferred to undress and re-dress you himself. You’d been scolded more than once for thinking you had any right to decide what you wore without his loving input, and when pressed, he claimed it was a show of love; proof of his dedication, his devotion.

This wasn’t about love, though, or dedication, or any other flowery word he’d ever used with you.

This was about control.

Your hands shook as you raised them to the back of your dress, finding the row of corset-type strings keeping the loose material in place. You fumbled with the knot for seconds, but Suguru was patient, willing to wait until the bodice fell away from your chest entirely, pooling at your midriff. You weren’t wearing a bra (again, an extremely difficult habit not to get into with a newborn at home), and one of Suguru’s hands came up, a scarred palm cupping your breast with enough force to bruise. You remembered, dimly, the time he’d spent pulled over by the side of the road earlier that day, but the memory was foggy, already so far away. You wouldn’t have been surprised if all of this seemed like one hazy, distant dream by tomorrow morning.

He detached from you suddenly, pulling away and kneeling on the sanctuary floor. Rather than relief, you only felt the world distort more violently around you; your pulse slowing and your vision burning as you clumsily pushed yourself to your feet, allowing your dress to fall away entirely. You moved to sit back down, but Suguru caught you before you could – his fist wrapping around your ankle, then skirting upward, settling gingerly against your thigh as his dark, soulless eyes raked over you. His stare caught on your panties, and his expression darkened. “I’m going to kill him.”

You didn’t have to ask what he meant. The pair had been Satoru’s pick; not quite a gift, but something given to you, regardless. They matched his aesthetics – needlessly detailed, smothered in lace, cast a shade of light blue so pale, it bordered on ivory. With how expensive Satoru’s tastes tended to run, you were sure the set had cost a fortune, but the priceless fabric gave away without protest as Suguru slipped two fingers under the waistband and tore. The ruined article fell away before you could so much as process that he’d moved.

Suguru’s impressive patience waned quickly. In the same motion, he pushed himself to his feet and took you into his arms, carrying you against his chest onto the dais, then to the altar pressed against the far wall. The scrolls laid across it were sent to floor with a single movement of his arm, and in the blink of an eye, you were laid across the polished wood, Suguru on his knees between your open legs. Your mouth opened, but there was no time to protest, to call out before his face was buried between his thighs, tongue lapping over the length of your slit. Still, you grit your teeth, bracing yourself to sit up, to tell him to—

Oh.

He'd gotten his tongue pierced, sometime after you left.

He was shameless. A rounded, jeweled stud dragged over your pussy, circling your clit with no pattern or pace, no intention other than to taste you. Never content to leave you to your own devices, he kept his hands wrapped around your hips, pinning you to the surface of the altar as he tried to all-but swallow you whole. It was messy, and overzealous, and worst of all, it was good. It was a matter of seconds before a mixture of spit and arousal stained the inside of your thighs and dripped from his chin, less than a full minute before you had to concentrate just to keep yourself from squirming underneath him. Not that it would’ve mattered, if you had. Suguru had always been playful in bed, content to milk reactions out of you with measured precision and careful vigilance, but that had been when you at least attempted to present yourself as willing. Right now, anything you might’ve felt seemed secondary to Suguru’s pleasure; satisfied groans soon joining the slick, wet noise ricocheting off the walls of his sanctuary. You dug your teeth into your bottom lip, crossed your arms over your face, but neither distraction helped to stifle the feeling of his lips latching onto your clit, suckling on it with all the care and all the delicacy of a butcher’s knife cutting into lifeless flesh. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes by the time he pulled away, but the pressure was immediately replaced by the bridge of his nose grinding harshly against the bundle of nerves, his tongue slipping past your entrance to curl against the most vulnerable parts of your cunt.

He let out another reverberating moan, and reflexively, your hand shot to the back of his head, your fingers soon tangled in his dark hair. One of his hands fell from your waist, and for a moment, you thought he was moving to pry away yours, that he didn’t want you touching him. But, fortunately or otherwise, his attention wasn’t on you. Instead, he reached for the elastic band holding his hair in place, pulling it out with enough force to snap the cheap plastic. You didn’t realize what he was trying to do until you felt him lean into your palm, his eyes fluttering shut as he melted into the semblance of your touch.

If you’d been capable of feeling anything more towards Suguru than you already did, you might’ve found the sight pitiful.

At the moment, though, you weren’t in a place to be quite so sentimental. It was all you could do to knot his hair around your fingers as you felt tight and hot form in your core, as your thighs threatened to snap shut around his head. You bit into the inside of your check with enough force to draw blood as Suguru moaned shamelessly, as he dragged you that much closer. It was too easy to forget to care whether or not he’d enjoyed it, too reflexive to gather his hair in your first and pull, to buck involuntarily into his mouth, to—

Suguru drew back suddenly, pushing himself to his feet. Thankfully, you caught yourself before you could feel disappointment, and after a few shallow breaths, found the strength to follow his stare away from you and towards the sanctuary door. Instantly, your heart stopped beating, the blood running cold in your veins.

Satoru stood in the doorway, cast in shadow save for his bright, piercing eyes. One of his hands was still wrapped around the doorframe, while the other hung limp at his side, cupping a small, pulsing ball of… light?

You didn’t have time to think about it. Suguru acted swiftly – pulling you into his arms and onto his lap, seating himself on the altar where you’d previously laid. “Drop it,” he said, his tone cold, cutting, not unlike an owner talking to his disobedient pet. He’d been short with you all night, but you couldn’t say he’d ever spoken to you quite like that. “Before you do something you’ll regret.”

The light dimmed before disappearing entirely, but Satoru didn’t move. He didn’t do anything, but you could feel it – a drop in the sanctuary’s temperature, a change in the air pressure, something deep and intrinsic that you didn’t want to be a part of. Reflexively, you tried to stand, to move, but Suguru held you tight, an arm barred over your midriff.

Despite everything, Satoru was the first to break the silence, albeit without doing anything to make that intangible tension any more bearable. “I should kill you.”

“You should.” Suguru’s fingertips dug into your side. “Those are your orders, aren’t they? Or are you going to put off delivering my head to the higher-ups for another three years?”

Whatever he was talking about, Satoru didn’t seem interested in acknowledging it. “You took my girls.”

“You fucked my wife.”

At that, something seemed to break. Suguru’s chest pressed into your back as Satoru’s eyes shut, as he sucked in a harsh breath and broke out into a fanged grin, the sharpest you’d ever seen him wear. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.” He took a step forward, all hostility gone in favor of a sort of manic, unpredictable buzz. You didn’t know whether to be relieved that there was a slightly diminished chance you’d be caught in the middle of their fight to the death or terrified at the thought that they might want to do anything but tear out each others’ throats. “I fucked her after she left you. Bet you can’t stand it – knowing you’re not the only one who gets to run away.”

Suguru, for all his faults, didn’t flinch. He’d always had an even-temper at the worst of time. “What do you want, ‘toru?”

Satoru’s stare fell away from Suguru and onto you. His expression softened, taking on an almost apologetic lilt. Almost, but not quite.

“Not much,” he admitted, with a shrug. Even from a distance, even in the dark, you could tell his nonchalance was forced. “Just to say goodbye, make sure my pretty girl’s gonna be taken care of. Gotta wrap up loose ends, n’ all that.”

Suguru, for his part, seemed far from convinced. His grip didn’t loosen; if anything, he only held you closer. “And why should I let you?”

“Because I love her?” And then, with another step toward the altar, “Because you know I could wipe this building off the face of the planet, if I wanted to.”

Pragmatic as he was, Suguru seemed to consider it. The hand over your side flexed, a chin settling against the dip of your shoulder, and beneath you, his stiff cock pressed into your ass – either unaffected or worse, fueled on by Satoru’s interruption. You were still attempting not to dwell on the implications when Suguru responded, level-headed as always.

“If you try anything, I’ll kill the baby.”

The second before a car crash, the spark where two wires failed to connect. For the longest time, you couldn’t seem to process what he’d said or how it could’ve been so gut-wrenchingly terrible. Rather than pull away, you flattened yourself against him, glancing over your shoulder. You opened your mouth, but the ability to speak was suddenly beyond you, set deliberately out of your reach. He didn’t mean it. He couldn’t mean it, and yet, his expression was stoic, unchanging, the pinnacle of neutrality. There was no laugh from Satoru either, forced or otherwise. Still, he kept up his smile. As if Suguru hadn’t said anything of consequence. As if either of them had any right to so much as touch your daughter.

Satoru didn’t respond to the threat, nor did Suguru urge him to. Almost mechanically, Suguru’s arm fell away from your midriff, and with little more than a nudge to the back of your shoulder, you were on your feet, vulnerable and shaking on the center of the raised dais. You could still feel a mix of slick and saliva coating the inside of your thighs, and you had to swallow the urge to make a grab for your clothes, to put yourself through the humiliation of being forced to strip twice in one night.

Thankfully, tragically, you were liberated from any illusion of free choice swiftly. Without protest from Suguru, Satoru stepped onto the dais and took you by the hand, either overlooking or failing to acknowledge the panic in your eyes in favor of intertwining his fingers with yours and squeezing gently, as if you could still believe he genuinely wanted to comfort you. Rather than pulling you into his arms, dragging you down to the floor, he looked to Suguru, cocking his head to the side. “Get up.”

Suguru’s lips quirked downward, but he obeyed, pushing himself to his feet. “How blasphemous.”

Now, he pulled you off of your feet. In a moment, you were in his arms, and the next, you were perched on the altar, your back pressed against the wall and your legs spread around Satoru’s waist. “Blasphemous,” Satoru echoed, his voice low but plainly audible in the silence of the sanctuary. “would be fucking the most beautiful woman in the world on the ground. That’s why I’m her favorite – ‘cause I’m so considerate.”

No part of you trusted Suguru. No part of you preferred Suguru to Satoru, or the other way around. No part of you thought that, unless your life or his pride was threatened, he’d ever lift a finger to help you, but you found yourself glancing toward him out of the corner of your eye, doing your best to silently communicate that you needed to get out of here. Instead of sympathy, jealousy, you only found an idle smirk, a glassy sheen over his eyes that you could only imagine you’d mirrored for most of the day. “You’re not the one she’s married to, idiot.”

There was a dip, a surprisingly fleeting kiss to your lips, then your jaw, then your throat. “But she would get with me if you were out of the picture, right?” The question was punctuated with a nip to your collarbone, a hand dropped low enough to cup your pussy. The heel of his palm ground into your clit as two fingers pushed into your soaked cunt, spreading apart and scissoring you open. You tried to bow your head, to keep your eyes closed and your mouth shut, but you were still sensitive from your ruined climax, still so painfully exposed, and there was nothing you could do to bite back the cracked whines and pitiful mewls that slipped through your pursed lips. It was far from verbal confirmation, but Satoru hummed, grinned against your chest as if you’d sung his praises. “I’d get you a nicer ring, nicer house, nicer honeymoon. Always make sure you’re good n’ taken care of while Suguru’s busy playing god.”

Suguru huffed, and Satoru fell into a steady pace, adding a third digit as he carelessly fucked his fingers into your cunt. You didn’t hear him move, but before you could brace yourself, Suguru was at your side, leaning onto the altar to cup your face and trace over your jaw with the pad of his thumb. “I take care of you, don’t I?” You opened your mouth reflexively, ready to tell him that you were sorry, that you didn’t want him to touch you, that you wanted this to stop, but he was faster than you, more malicious. His thumb was forced past your lips before you could make a sound, pressed against the flat of your tongue with just enough force for your jaw to ache in protest. “I can’t blame Satoru for not being able to see that, though. Not when you treat me so cruelly.”

Cruelly. You’d never been cruel – at least, no crueler than you absolutely needed to be to survive. You felt pins and needles prick at the corners of your eyes before you noticed your vision blurring, before tears were streaming down either side of your face in boiling tracks. Satoru purred in sympathy, falling low and nuzzling into the tender spot at the base of your throat, flicking his wrist and burying himself inside of you to the knuckle. “You don’t have to worry, I know he’s the mean one.”

He was whispering, but that didn’t matter. He was too close, too awful for each word not to be absolutely deafening, for each little movement of his hand not to leave your nails scraping against the smooth wood of the altar, searching for purchase you wouldn’t find. Time was moving too quickly, it had been since you arrived at the temple. You couldn’t scream, couldn’t pull away, couldn’t breathe before Satoru pressed an open-mouthed kiss into the side of your neck and you were coming undone around his fingers, your thighs locking around his arm and keeping his digits inside of you until you could remember how to suck in a gasping inhale, until the last of the aftershocks faded and you could bring yourself to open your eyes. It wasn’t until the warmth of Satoru’s mouth fell away from your neck that you noticed the strange, copper tinge spread over your tongue, that you registered the absence of Suguru’s hand against your jaw. When you thought to look in his direction, he was evaluating his own hand. A thin, red line formed a dotted ring around the base of his thumb. You must’ve bitten down, at some point.

You must’ve hurt him.

Fear drowned out any satisfaction there might’ve been. He mentioned deciding against breaking your legs, earlier; was there any chance he’d change his mind? Would Satoru be able to stop him, if he tried to hurt you? Would Satoru even want to stop him? Himari was still alone, still in danger, and you wouldn’t be able to get to her if you couldn’t walk. You wouldn’t be able to stop Suguru from—

Satoru reached out, his hand curling around Suguru’s wrist and dragging it down to his height. With Satoru’s guidance, Suguru’s thumb came to rest against his bottom lip, then slipped into Satoru’s mouth entirely, his lips soon sealed around its base. There was a second or two of stillness, a swallowing-type noise too loud to ignore despite your best attempts not to hear it, and then, Suguru was pulling away and Satoru’s lips were crashing into yours.

It was strange for Suguru to be so clumsy, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be as surprised by Satoru’s lack of polish. It was all you could do to choke back a renewed sob as his mouth moved against yours, as his pointed teeth ghosted over your lips and grazed the underside of your tongue. He was all instinct, no logic, and when you tried to straighten, to leave enough room between you and him to catch your breath, he only seemed to want you closer. His hands were on your waist, then your arms, then your chest, never satisfied unless he could dig his claws into the most tender parts of you, and this time, when his canines grazed over your lips, he wasn’t satisfied to leave your connection at contact alone. He let out a shameless moan as he lapped at the puncture wound, warm blood leaking down your chin and pooling on your chest where it pressed into his. Again, you looked to Suguru for help, and again, you immediately wished you hadn’t bothered.

He wasn’t perched on the altar, anymore. No – he’d shifted, slinked, positioned himself behind Satoru where he was bent at the waist. He caught your eye as his arms snaked around Satoru’s midriff, as Satoru arched his back to better take advantage of the new contact. There was the distant, muffled sound of fabric rustling, a keening whine from Satoru, and then, Suguru’s hand was curled around Satoru’s stiff, leaking cock – pumping over the shaft while his dark eyes burned holes into yours. “Get it over with,” he muttered, the bitter sterility of his tone a sharp juxtaposition to the grin creeping across his expression. “Before I remember why I want you dead.”

Satoru didn’t have to be coaxed into compliance. No, he let himself be eased into place, let Suguru slot himself against his back as he carefully aligned Satoru’s flushed tip to your entrance. Even after he’d let go, his hands finding the edge of the altar on either side of you, Satoru failed to move on his own. You could feel him drifting from your lips to your throat, then lower – to the crook of your neck, a spot Suguru’d always favored. Vaguely, you were aware of his lips moving against your skin, of warm breath fanning over your chest and leaving frost wherever it’d touched. His voice was muffled by proximity, but whether or not you could hear him didn’t really matter. You would’ve recognized those three little words from a thousand miles away.

“I love you.”

If you’d been able to laugh, you would’ve.

At least Satoru didn’t expect you to say it back.

Suguru must’ve missed it – that, or he was beyond the point of caring. His teeth sunk into the nape of Satoru’s neck, and then, something hot and piercing was inside of you.

This time, you couldn’t stop yourself from crying out. A fractured moan tumbled past your lips as Satoru immediately fell into a brutal pace; all that teasing tenderness gone the moment your pussy was wrapped around his cock. Suguru didn’t pull away, but he didn’t help, either; straightening his back and gazing down at you with that same foggy, absent, pleased expression. It took you a moment to put a name to it; lovestruck, all glassy eyes and hollow smiles, any anger hidden behind a thick curtain of glazed-over satisfaction. He’d never looked away from you, but when you met his eyes, he seemed to soften even further, his shoulders dropping as he brought a hand to the small of Suguru’s back, spurring him on. “He’s always been this bad.” Suguru let out a keening whine into your shoulder, and Suguru chuckled airily. “Like a dog in heat. You’d think be as desperate as one, too, but apparently, his standards are too high for him to do anything but act like a whore.”

You couldn’t take it – the way Satoru’s hips crashed into yours, how his pubic bone ground against your clit, the pure venom interlaced with Suguru’s velvet-soft tone. You knew that it was useless, childish, but you couldn’t swallow down the cracked sob that rose up from somewhere deep and unprotected in your chest, couldn’t hold back the tears now flowing freely down your cheeks. Suguru’s smile widened, his sharpened teeth catching the dull candlelight, but Satoru was kind enough not to be so observant. His attention was dedicated entirely to fucking into you as quickly and as deeply as possible; his cock never less than half buried. You felt him twitch, and before you could hold yourself back, your hands were on his back, your nails embedded in pale skin and tearing upward every time he bottomed out and sent a new type of agony coursing through your system. “Stop, stop, I can’t—”

“You can.” Clipped, concise, dripping with stone-cold affection. You’d be surprised if you ever heard any warmth in Suguru’s voice again. “That is, unless you’d like to break two hearts on the same night.”

Your mouth was still open, but you couldn’t answer. Satoru groaned as he rutted into you, his pace growing that much more erratic, his hips grinding into yours. He pulled you into another deep, copper-tinged kiss as he pressed his body flush to yours, as you felt something thick and hot and soul-crushingly familiar flood into you. It might’ve been the sensitivity, or the overstimulation, or the herbal stench of incense left to burn for a minute too long finally taking its toll – it didn’t really matter, either way. No explanation could’ve dampened the feeling of your cunt clenching tight around him, could’ve prevented the utter desolation of cumming on Satoru’s cock.

It seemed to go on for the longest time – second after second of thoughtless, helpless pleasure, century after century of Satoru against you, edging on your climax with the occasional sharp movement from his hips, a hasty kiss pressed into the corner of your jaw. Finally, after a small eternity, the last of the aftershocks faded, unwanted bliss fading into a slow, pulsing ache settled deep into the deepest pit of your chest. You felt Satoru shift; not pulling away, but lifting himself up, bringing his mouth to the shell of your ear. “I love you,” he said, again, and then, more quietly, “I’m sorry.”

You wanted to say something, to call him a liar, to spit out every venomous and vitriolic and warranted thing you could ever say to either of them, but it was already too late. Something vital slid out of place, a poor signal finally losing connection entirely, and then, everything went dark.

Nine months later, you’d find yourself in Suguru’s temple again, albeit not his sanctuary. A brown-haired woman in a lab coat and several female attendants swarmed around you, pressing damp cloths to your forehead and constantly rearranging the thick quilts laid over your limp body. Dried tears formed defined tracks down your cheeks, and every part of you screamed for rest, for escape, for a quick and merciful death. It was all you could do to suck in a shuddering breath, to remind yourself that there were more important things in the world than your own well-being. Sleep could wait. This couldn’t.

Slowly, you managed to turn your head towards Suguru, standing at your bedside just as he had for the past six hours. Your vision was distorted, dimmed around the edges, but it would’ve been impossible to miss the small, white bundle in his arms, already beginning to move. You could practically taste the relief, only slightly soured by your own exhaustion. Loving Himari had been a miracle. It would’ve been a lie to say that you hadn’t expected yourself to be more callous, the second time part of you was ripped away and molded into the shape of a man you hated.

Your eyes flickered to Suguru’s expression, to those impossibly dark eyes, and instantly, your relief was replaced by pure, unadulterated dread. A smile played at the corner of his mouth, softened and careless, but… Oh, god.

You’d never seen so much death in his eyes.

“Suguru.” You hadn’t meant to say anything, and yet, your voice was clear – a little hoarse, but far stronger than you felt. Never looking away from the bundle, he hummed, and you went on. “Can I see…?”

“Him,” Suguru filled in, bouncing your newborn – your son, gently. “A healthy baby boy. It’s a shame, really – I chose names with another girl in-mind.”

Thankfully, he didn’t make you ask again. With no small amount of care, the bundle was placed gently onto your chest, Suguru’s hand remaining on your shoulder – as if only waiting for your limited strength to give out. It took you a long moment to brush the swaddling sheets to the swaddling blanket aside, little hands immediately reaching up to bat against your own, and another to register what you were looking at. It wasn’t hard to see why Suguru was so angry.

You stared down at your son, and eyes more blue than the clearest, brightest sky stared back at you.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen imagines #yandere jjk #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #yandere gojo satoru #yandere geto suguru #geto x reader #gojo x reader

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mooncleaver · 10 months ago

Text

Tender Mornings

you know it's a good day when the first sight you're greeted with is azriel sprawled out so beautifully on your bed.

ღ pairing: azriel x fem!reader

ღ warnings: very loosely cannonical pls don't ask i live in my dreams, fluff after fluff in your face, they’re MATED AND MARRIED!! 🥰 touchy azriel

"Good morning, handsome."

Your voice murmurs into Azriel's ears early in the morning, waking him out of his peaceful slumber. It's a quiet day, and definitely not the kind of quiet you'd be alerted by, hackles raised and ears perked for signs of danger. No, this was peace. The birds are chirping and the distant sounds of city bustle has just begun its routine, and you can't help but stare at your mate, the absence of fine lines on his forehead creating one of the most endearing pictures in your mind.

Honestly, you don't know how you've managed to slip out of his iron grip a few hours ago. Even his shadows had been relatively calm. But you pieced it to him finally getting his well-deserved sleep after a grueling week of running around as spymaster for Night Court. He'd almost collapsed right on top of you on the couch the moment he got home at the dead of night, practically purring under you into a dreamless sleep while you ran your hands through his hair. You love it when he's just Azriel with you. Not the deadly shadowsinger with eyes that could kill, but the one snoring himself away in your shared bed, wings splayed out without a care in this world.

As he opens his eyes blearily, he can make out your soft fingers on his face, warm and comforting as your thumb strokes his cheek, squatting down on the floor beside his edge of the bed. It's an awfully good morning whenever you're there to wake him up, which isn't often considering how light of a sleeper Azriel is. It's one of the rare times that he had a fully undisturbed 8 hours of sleep, with no nightmares plaguing his visions.

He smiles, seeing your face first thing. Gods, he would die over and over again if this was the sight he woke up to each time.

Noticing his expression, your grin widens as you lift your other hand from laying on the sheets, cradling his face and brushing your nose against his, closing your eyes as you breathe in your mate, all the while feeling the bond pulsate like a well-known bliss inside your chest. The golden band on your left ring finger glints wonderfully in the morning sun, the rays illuminating it as if it were a halo wrapped around your skin. The ring is a dainty but simple thing, its surface raised with signature Night Court swirls and stars, the pattern a twin to the bargain marks painting your sternum—the one that you made with Azriel the day of your ceremony with promises to love and protect, even beyond death.

It was an unusual thing to have around in Pythian, considering it was a human tradition.

You and Azriel picked up the custom after learning it from a mission the two of you went to a long time ago in the human lands. Of course, it wasn't like either of you needed conventional items to show your relationship, knowing the Mother had already blessed you with one of magic, something so deeply sacred that transcended both words and worlds. Still, you thought that the piece of gold represented a beautiful message. It told the story of your battles and triumphs, the countless suffering and victories that got you to where you were, being able to hold the hand of your fated mate, rings clinking and echoing the bells that rung in your mating ceremony. No distance could ever separate you. And most of all, it reminded you every waking day of the way Azriel accepted you as his, as someone who loved him through thick and thin, someone who he would kill and die for.

You were always a victim of sentiment, and neither you nor Azriel could deny the pride the two of you felt seeing each other's rings—the way it felt like a claim over each other, physical proof of your love beyond words.

When Feyre met the Inner Circle for the first time, she became an addition to the people who appreciated the symbol. You were confused at first, wondering why the Cursebreaker was staring at you so deeply. Then you saw the way her eyes never wavered from your hand, the one that was brushing against Azriel's scarred ones as he softly reciprocated up and down against your fingers. It had honestly been centuries since the two of you mated that you sometimes forget you were wearing a ring, the weight of it so familiar that it became a part of your body.

She'd told you one day how in awe and warm she felt seeing the two of you wearing your rings. It indeed was a rare sight, and in her heart she understood what it meant. Even if she hadn't been familiar with mating bonds, Feyre knew what wedding yourself to someone entailed, and for the one of the first times in a while she had smiled so brightly, sharing a nod that only the three of you seemed to understand.

Funnily enough, Rhys told you that even before she noticed the rings and the affection, Feyre had read Azriel up and down as being utterly in love with you. The Azriel whisperer. Guess it wasn't hard to notice the pure adoration pouring out of his eyes at the mere thought of you.

"I thought I'd let you sleep in for a bit before I go, I know it's been a rough week for you baby."

"I love you." That was the first thing he uttered, overwhelmed with the feeling. He could hear, feel and see your thoughts—ones of your ceremony. You never did block him off from your side of the bond, and it had really only been silent if he was out on a critical mission. Azriel loved it. Every side of you. Whenever you got frustrated, sad or jumping with joy, he celebrated in the knowledge that you were his and his only. That you were healthy and alive through all your emotions.

Now he basked into the memory of your mating ceremony centuries ago, his own heart following yours as it took him through every single thought and emotion that was felt proudly through your perspective. Cauldron, he felt so loved. Awakened and reborn every time he remembered that day.

I love you too, you uttered through the bond, giggling as he brought you up off the floor, setting you on top of him like you were a piece of paper. His hand on your waist comforted you like no other, the warmth so familiar. The shadows slithered all around you in an almost child-like nature, prodding at your cheeks and shoulders. They were always so delightful around you, pretty much accepting you as their own mistress ever since you and Az mated. You stayed there for a while, laying one side of your head on his chest while you closed your eyes and followed his heartbeat, enjoying the melody it followed.

The burst of shared happiness in you grew until a smile lit up on your face and you looked up from your position to him, climbing up his body and cradling his head in your arms, squeezing gently as you squealed when he began tickling the sides of your waist. You felt Azriel nosing the skin of your neck, breathing in your scent that had been so beautifully intertwined with his over the years.

You loved moments like this, when the two of you didn't have to speak out loud, all the feelings simply existing.

After a calming while, you begrudgingly had to get up from your comfort, remembering why you were up early in the first place. Though, you had only made one inch of movement before you felt Az's arms locking themselves behind your back, face attaching back to his rightly earned place on the supple skin of your chest. And in times like these, you truly thanked the mother for blessing you with a mate who rivaled you in clinginess. It was dangerous when Azriel got like this. Difficult was an understatement to how it felt trying to get out of his arms, knowing his Illyrian training and position in Rhysand's court fully translated to his strength and state of his (godly) physique. Even your family had commented on how soft Azriel was when it came to you, now used to the image of the male having his arms and wings—or any part of his body really—against yours at all times.

You gently tapped the top of his ruffled hair, resting your right cheek on it as you urged him to let you go, kissing his head in between. Azriel only mumbled in response—the sound too unintelligible for it to be distinct—and closed his eyes again, ready to enter the realm of dreams.

You laughed breathily, craning your neck up and softly pulling his head back while you dragged your hand down the back of his head, holding a loose grip on his hair. "If you let me go right now I'll be back in your arms sooner than you can blink, Az." He smiled, blinking slowly in thought.

"How ‘bout that, huh? You, me, and fresh bed sheets tonight?" You mumbled, bringing your face close to his until your lips just barely brushed each other.

Now that got him up and alert.

Not even a second later you had taken the chance to jump out of the bed, letting your fingers drag onto the skin of his arms and turning around to get dressed. Azriel shook his head, his breathy chuckle being the only indication of his acceptance of defeat. And acceptance of your offer, of course.

Leisurely, (as if you didn't have a certain purple-eyed highlord waiting for your arrival) you shrugged your night slip off, leaving you bare all the way except for your sapphire colored lacy underwear, the one your mate loved so much. "Rhys asked me to help him sort out his fucking mounds of paperwork again."

"—honestly Az, he's been dragging me into his office ever since I did it that one time he kept dropping down cold out of exhaustion." You sighed out exasperatedly, crossing your arms as you dug through your giant closet to find an appropriate outfit.

"You know he's just trying to find a way to spend time with you right?" Azriel answered, clearly distracted by your undressing. So easy. It was so easy to hook this man right around your fingers. You could clearly feel his piercing gaze travel up and down your body, tracing all your curves, not leaving a single inch yearning for his attention. You loved it, relished it. It made you feel so beautiful and desired, and your prideful Illyrian never failed to mention it out loud.

"Yeah yeah..." You shook your head affectionately. You weren't actually annoyed at Rhysand and honestly thought this was really sweet. With his mind running around the whole bargain with the Cursebreaker and the dizzying problem of recovering Prythian after what happened for the last 50 years, you knew your long-time friend needed a break, and you'd help him in whatever form, even if it meant going through all of his tedious High Lord work. Plus, you wouldn't miss a single chance to goad him on about the shoe-throwing incident.

You most probably would get wine-tipsy by the end of it. He did have one hell of a drink collection.

Once you found the pieces you were looking for, you grabbed each one in a hanger, walking back over to face Azriel as you held both of them up, asking his opinion for which one to wear.

He had his arms crossed in front of him and scrunched his eyebrows for one second, raising his eyebrows as he silently nodded his head towards the one on your right. Hm. This was his favorite because it displayed your... assets very well. Typical mate. Winking as a thanks, you put the unused set back, putting on your outfit for the day, all the while he watched with twinkling eyes.

"I mean, couldn't he ask me to go training or something?" Still, you continued your tangent, feeling playful in this happy morning.

"Rhys knows not to train with you because you're lazy." His words hadn't registered in your mind yet because Gods did you love this version of your mate so much. The crumpled bed sheets did absolutely no help covering him up, falling right below his hip while his muscles flexed. His chestnut hair spiked in all kinds of directions, remnants of your own hands playing with the soft strands. The constant darkness that surrounded him only drew your attention to his half-lidded eyes, so sultry without a try. The smug bastard was leaning his head back, both his hands behind them and he knew how much you loved it when he did that—bulging biceps and all. You could just claw at him right now. You were so thankful for his Illyrian DNA.. it was like they were born with divine statures.

"What. Did you just say to me, Azriel?" You gasped in mock offense, a hand on your chest and all.

He had the audacity to show you his sorry smile, as if it would get him out of every sticky situation (It did. Every time. You were just too prideful to say it) "No, no, don't you smile at me like that."

You held your finger up, trying your best to ignore him. You scoffed. Lazy. Okay well in your defense, Rhysand just fucking loved to rile you up whenever the two of you were in the ring. It almost always made you annoyed to the point that you couldn't look at his face without feeling the urge to punch it. It wasn't like you couldn't take a friendly banter, but he did it for way too long and way too often. That's why you preferred to fight with Azriel or Cassian for that matter.

Seeing you hold your stance, he got up in all his glory, boxers being the only unfortunate thing covering him up. It was purely instinct to look him up and down, savoring the image while you bit your lip. Pride. That’s all he felt whenever you did that.

Azriel walked towards you with open arms, enveloping you in his large frame when he got close enough, one hand going right down its snug place on your ass while the other went behind your head.

He whispered in your ear lovingly, satiating your unserious upset. "I'm very sorry, my beautiful, intelligent, kind and sexy mate."

You could only melt right into his embrace, bringing your arms to coil around his neck as you smiled against it, pressing your lips onto his skin a couple times. His throaty voice right to your ears made you shiver in delight, goosebumps rising in its wake. You really couldn't get enough of this man, his voice, his smile, his scent and his everything. Feeling your love, Azriel responded by holding you tighter against his body, feeling every inch pressing against him.

"So sexy." He murmured, squeezing your ass.

A laugh bubbled deep from your chest and you leant back from your cozy spot, resting your palm against his chest as you smiled up at him, sighing and nodding in delight. "Knew we were mates for a reason."

He joined you a moment later, his laugh vibrating deep within his chest. This on its own could make any fae in Prythian drop down to their knees. Azriel didn't hesitate to kiss you, feeling a type of content that could only be fulfilled by your lips.

You giggled as you felt his lips trek your jaw, down to your collarbone and trailing your shoulders, all the while letting his enormous wings cocoon the two of you. You were pleased to stay inside the little world you two built, letting the joy simmer between you and your mate until he released the hold he had on you with his wings. Without a single word being spoken, you let him trail you as you made your way towards the generous vanity on the corner of the bedroom, picking out the everyday items that were displayed. And of course, you had to use the perfume that Az got for your 100th anniversary, the bottle no longer the original as you had gone through so much with constant use.

The male loved whenever you’d wear it,—which was almost everyday—the smell mixed with your own natural one driving him mad, further and further falling for you. And that was exactly his reaction after you gave your wrist a small spritz. Azriel melted deeper into you, if that was even possible with the lack of space between your bodies.

“Think I’m gonna fly out to the city later. Cass is back from Windhaven.” He murmured into the nape of your neck once you were done, fully wrapping his arms around you and not missing the chance to slip them under your top to cup your breasts at it. You hummed in response, laying your head back and tilting to the side to look at your mate and giving him sweet kisses.

“Mm, sounds fun. Tell him I said hi—Ooh, can you please bring back those chocolate chip cookies we had last week? They were soo good.” You closed your eyes in the memory, proceeding to pout at the Illyrian while reaching behind to lay one of your hands on the back of his neck.

Azriel hummed knowingly in response. Obviously he’d get them for you. You didn't even have to ask and he would’ve brought them back anyway. “Okay baby, anything you want.”

This man. Everything out of his mouth made you feel so madly in love.

While he swayed your bodies leisurely, you couldn’t help but grin up at him, teasing his behavior as you scratched his scalp to emphasize. “You’re so in love with me, Az.”

“‘Course I am, look at you. Beautiful. So beautiful.” He raised your left hand towards his face, emphasizing the word with a delicate kiss on your knuckles, lips lingering on the finger that adorned your ring.

He’d do anything and everything for you. Fly to the edge of Prythian and back, steal the moon, burn the world, collect the stars and hang them up again to paint the sky. If you asked he would do it.

What else could you do in response than to lean up and kiss him in return, letting him twist your body to face him while his hands pull at your waistband, caressing in calming motions. “My mate is so sweet.”

“I love you too.”

“Okay okay, I should go now. Rhys will start nagging me about being glued to you and our bed as he always does.” You reluctantly separated yourself from his embrace, rubbing your hands down his arms in consolation for the loss of warmth.

“Been over 400 years now, sweetheart. I don’t think he’s going to stop anytime soon.” And Azriel meant this in an entirely endearing way. What happened under the mountain with that insane bitch Amarantha had truly changed Rhysand. He returned home different, haunted. The first time you heard him playfully tease yours and Azriel’s inseparable nature you had both been stunned, finally seeing the old friend—no, brother—that you knew so well show through the cracks.

You shook your head in agreement, grinning as you took the chance to bump your noses together. “I’ll see you when I see you, hot stuff. Tell me everything tonight.”

“On our fresh bed sheets?” He smirked playfully, echoing your previous promise as a way to remind you.

“Mhm, exactly on our fresh bed sheets.” You laughed and winked at him, finally turning around and grabbing your trusty dagger by the drawer and sheathing it on your thigh. The weapon never went anywhere without you, even if you were only venturing to the Town House. It was something small to reign Azriel’s constant need of making sure you were safe and armed at all times.

Your mate followed you out the door of your room, beelining towards the kitchen, no doubt to make himself a nice cup of coffee.

As your passed him by the isle, you gave him one last goodbye kiss, throwing your head back in laughter at the (soft) slap on your ass on your way.

The minute you opened the door to his large office, Rhysand had paused, nose up and muttered with a teasing smile, “Gods, you reek of Illyrian.”

“Shut the fuck up, Rhys.”

AAAH! guys im insanely back from writing hiatus after like a year. This is fucking surreal and also im so sorry to my friends that i abandoned.. yall… ily and my messages are open

On another note, i am glad to start it all up again with an azriel piece. Despite loving his character since 2021, ive never written for him but i got inspired after reading a terribly sweet soldier boy fic lol.

I really hope that this story, in all aspects, is okay! I feel very rusty

masterlist

dividers credit @rookthornesartistry @chachachannah @dollywons

(also if you see this thank you GWEN for convincing me to post again)

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faebled-stories · 7 months ago

Text

Max Level: Pleasure Unlocked

Le Sserafim's Miyawaki Sakura x Male reader

AN: So... I may have been a tiny bit late to class today 😅. Why, you ask? Well... I was up all night re-watching Marry My Husband (totally worth it, btw). Anyway, fast forward to class, and I casually checked my phone, and—wait for it—WHAT?! Almost 300 likes for Ms. Kim Chaewon?! You guys are seriously amazing! 💖 This story was supposed to drop tomorrow, but because I love you all so much... here’s a little treat! 😘✨

P.S. Why is this lecture soooo long? Send help! 😂

Miyawaki Sakura, the eldest member of Le Sserafim, had found a new thrill—one that didn’t involve the stage lights or concert crowds. Live streaming had pulled her into its vibrant, fast-paced world of colorful pixels and instant connection. It wasn’t just a hobby anymore; it became her escape—a digital realm where she could unwind and be herself. Streaming offered her a space where she could share her love for video games in the most authentic way possible. Her laughter would echo through the headset, filling the room with the joy she found in navigating complex game worlds and strategizing with her audience. It was a welcome reprieve from the pressures of K-pop stardom, a place where she could exist without expectation.

But as Sakura’s love for streaming grew, so did the distance between her and Y/N. Y/N cherished their quiet evenings together—the ones filled with soft conversations, playful glances, and the warmth of shared intimacy. Now, those moments seemed to slip away, replaced by the blue glow of Sakura's monitor and the sounds of gaming filling the room. He found himself feeling increasingly sidelined, the comforting presence of his girlfriend diluted by the endless stream of fan interactions and in-game distractions. Every evening, as he sat in their apartment watching her stream, Y/N felt like a shadow in her life, forgotten behind the glow of her screen.

The silence after Sakura's gaming sessions hung in the air, heavy and unfamiliar, a stark contrast to the laughter that used to fill their nights. He would lie in bed, staring at the empty space beside him, wondering when their quiet, intimate nights had been swapped for late-night streams. The late-night absence became more palpable, the connection they once shared now buried beneath layers of bright pixels and fan interactions.

Frustrated and unsure of how to bridge the growing gap between them, Y/N turned to the one person who knew both of them best—Kwon Eunbi, Sakura's former leader and the matchmaker who had brought them together in the first place. Eunbi, always the voice of reason and support, listened with a thoughtful expression as Y/N poured out his concerns.

"I just don't know how to get her attention anymore," Y/N confessed, his voice tinged with frustration. "She used to light up when we were together, but now it feels like I'm competing with a screen."

Eunbi, ever the sage, leaned in with a twinkle in her eye, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "Well, my dear, sometimes you just need to remind her of what she's missing," she said, her tone playful yet reassuring. "There's this little shop downtown. They have... items that might help reignite that spark you're worried about. A little mystery, a little surprise—that's the key."

Y/N blushed at the suggestion, but the idea intrigued him. Maybe Eunbi was right—maybe a little spontaneity was exactly what their relationship needed. "Okay noona," Y/N said with newfound determination. "Take me there. I'll do whatever it takes."

Eunbi grinned. "That's the spirit. Trust me, after this, she'll be more than eager to spend some time away from that screen, and if it doesn't work out... you have my number" the older girl winked before giving a slightly playful slap to Y/N’s behind

As soon as Eunbi led him into the little adult shop tucked away in a quiet side street downtown, Y/N’s nerves melted into curiosity. The shop was intimate, lined with rows of items that promised to stoke passion and bring lovers closer. Eunbi was more than willing to offer her guidance, clearly enjoying herself as she pointed out various products.

"Trust me," Eunbi had said with a wink, picking up a small bullet vibrator from one of the shelves. "This one is discreet but packs a punch, It's perfect for getting things started. She won’t see it coming." Y/N’s cheeks had flushed at the thought, but the image of Sakura’s surprised reaction made her smile. It was perfect for catching his girlfriend off guard.

As they continued browsing, Y/N’s eyes landed on a sleek, curved G-spot vibrating dildo that promised deeper, more intense sensations. He couldn’t help but imagine how Sakura might respond to its use—what that extra thrill might do to rekindle the heat between them. Eunbi happily skips over to Y/N with a box that he hasn't seen before, a rabbit ear vibrator "Y/N you have to get this, I’m telling you Sakura will melt and turn to putty in your hands, I have one myself and it's pretty amazing." Y/N looked at his noona with a skeptical look. Why is she so into this, is his precious noona actually not as innocent as she portrayed to the public?

Thinking about her words he can't deny that the idea of being the one to control Sakura’s pleasure sent a surge of excitement through him. He added it to his growing selection of items.

The final addition was a delicate set of pastel pink lingerie. His girlfriend's favorite color. lace-lined and revealing, something that he knew she would love, he remembered her saying she wanted something similar to this but was always ashamed and embarrassed to buy it

Y/N picked up the set knowing how much it would make his lover feel even sexier. He could already imagine the fabric clinging to his girlfriend's skin, the look in Sakura’s eyes when she sees it. There was no doubt that tonight, he would make sure all of Sakura’s attention was focused on him.

As the duo went to the counter the current cashier was about to take a break and out comes his replacement, someone who Y/N would not have expected to work here.

"Oh Eunbi unnie welcome back Oh! and Y/N oppa, what are you doing here?" the duck looking girl squealed. To say Y/N was shocked is an understatement. His girlfriend's former members, his friends, were all so familiar with this place.

"I was showing Y/N around the store, he needed my help" Responded the eldest. "Oppa is Sakura unnie giving you a hard time?" Yena responded, causing Y/N to shrink into himself in embarrassment.

The girl started scanning the products one by one, her curious eyes glanced back and forth from y/n and each product he bought. "I didn't think Sakura unnie would be into this, I guess she's less of a prude than I thought" At this point Y/N just wanted to leave, he slightly hid behind his noona as she started placing her own products she wanted to buy.

"I’ll pay for it Y/N I get a discount here, just pay me back after" Y/N nodded before Eunbi tapped her card and they both left with Yena waving to them, saying that they should visit her again.

With his purchases in hand, Y/N left the shop feeling embarrassed about the whole situation but he thought about the end goal and it made him feel more confident than ever. This was his chance to break through the monotony that had settled between them.

Later that evening, back in their shared apartment, Sakura was already in the midst of her nightly streaming routine. Her set up was in the living room, per Y/N's request after waking him up way too many times. It was bathed in the soft glow of the monitor, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across her face as she engaged with her audience. Y/N, his heart pounding with a mixture of nerves and excitement, watched from the shadows, clutching the items he had bought earlier.

He knew exactly what to do.

Grabbing a piece of paper, Y/N quickly scribbled a note and held it up just out of view of the camera, flashing it at Sakura with a grin. The note read: "Since you're so into games, let's play one right now, this will be level one, don't make anything obvious, good luck."

Sakura blinked in confusion at first, her head tilting as she tried to make sense of the message. But when she looked up at Y/N’s playful expression a delicate smile spread across his lips, a knowing look in his eyes. Sakura then glanced down at her stream, her posture adjusting as if nothing had changed, she quickly muted her mic. “ Not now Y/N, I'm busy.” before turning it back on and saying her mic was glitching. But Y/N had spent too long planning this out, spent too much money to turn back now.

Satisfied with the confusion, Y/N smiled back. The game was on.

Without another word, Y/N crouched and began crawling under the desk. Since her desk was longer than any normal person would normally have, It made the access to the prize easy for him as he just needed to go from the side, his movements smooth and deliberate, hidden from the camera’s view. Sakura’s attention was still on the screen, her voice cheerful as she interacted with her viewers, but Y/N knew it wouldn’t be long before his girlfriend’s focus would shift entirely. Beneath the desk, Y/N felt a rush of excitement as he prepared to introduce a new level of spontaneity into Sakura’s night.

The note had been the first step—a secret shared between them, a playful challenge that only the two of them would understand. What happened next was up to Y/N, and he was ready to make it unforgettable.

Y/N smirked as he slowly slid the small bullet vibrator out of its box, he wiped it with a wet wipe before lifting up the pink short skirt in front of him, He brought the toy up and pressed it against Sakura's panty-covered mound, watching with delight as the Japanese girl jolted slightly in her seat. Sakura tried her best to maintain focus on the video game, determinedly gripping her mouse and keyboard as she attempted to hide her reactions to the subtle vibrations. But Y/N could see right through her act - the way Sakura's thighs clenched together, the slight flush creeping across her cheeks, the rapid rise and fall of her chest as her breathing quickened.

To save face Sakura quickly slapped Y/N’s hand away from her wet pussy but Y/n quickly placed it back to its home.

The little vibrator buzzed away, its vibrations transmitted through the thin fabric barrier. Y/N could feel the heat radiating off of Sakura's core, could sense her wetness growing with each passing second. Sakura squirmed almost imperceptibly, fighting the urge to spread her legs further.

Sakura's game character died with a pitiful electronic squeal, breaking the spell. She blinked hard a few times, trying to regain her composure as she struggled to stay focused on the screen. Y/N chuckled quietly, pulling the vibrator away.

Rising up from his spot on the floor under the desk, Y/N made sure that he was holding eye contact with Sakura the whole way. Sakura's eyes widened as Y/N made a show of slowly swiping his fingers on the toy before rubbing them together and slowly pulling them apart a slick line of the idols juices were connecting Y/Ns fingers showing her that even though she's against it, her body doesn't lie. Y/N’s fingers were brought to his lips, eye contact still not breaking and in an exaggerated motion he licked her fingers clean. Sakura quickly glanced away, her face burning crimson now, but she couldn't keep her eyes from peeking back at Y/N. A shaky exhale escaped her lips.

Y/N just winked before reaching for a piece of paper that read Level 2 commencing before crawling back to her side of the desk, leaving Sakura even more flustered and distracted, though trying her best to play it cool. Y/N made a mental note - Sakura was even more responsive than expected. This was going to be fun indeed...

The next level involved the G-spot vibrating dildo, escalating the intensity. There was only one small thing blocking his way, deciding to deal with it he wrapped his fingers around her panties before giving it a quick and powerful tug completely ripping them. The sound loud enough to catch Sakura off guard. Shocked, the idol’s hand instinctively reached down, her fingertips brushing her now bare, wet pussy. She inhaled sharply, her body reacting to the sudden exposure, but she didn’t dare glance away from the screen.

Y/N teased her relentlessly, his fingers circling her entrance before finally pushing the toy into her slick cunt. He moved it slowly at first, letting her adjust to the sensation, feeling her muscles tighten around the intrusion. Sakura’s hand gripped her mouse tighter, her knuckles whitening as she fought to keep her composure. She nearly missed a key on her keyboard, her body betraying her as Y/N expertly played with her, pulling the toy out just as she neared the edge of release.

Her breath came in shallow, uneven pants. The subtle strain in her voice didn’t go unnoticed by Y/N, who watched with a smirk, knowing just how close she was to losing control. Yet, he denied her the satisfaction of climax, bringing her to the edge again and again only to retreat, leaving her desperate and aching.

“Fuck,” Sakura muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible as she tried to focus on her stream. Her viewers, blissfully unaware of the torment unfolding beneath her desk, cheered her on in the game, oblivious to the real game being played just out of sight.

Y/N pulled the toy away once more, but this time, Sakura couldn't hold back her frustration. "Ahh, what the fuck" she whispered harshly, trying to control her reaction. She couldn’t look down to see what he was doing, not without giving herself away on camera. She tried to push through the absence, hoping Y/N would relent, but the moment stretched on.

And then, without warning, Y/N switched the vibrations onto its highest setting and plunged it back into her, the thick dildo buried deep inside her clenching cunt, the toy felt around and lived up to its name, pressing on that spot she loved.

"AHHHH!" Sakura’s cry pierced the quiet of the room, her pussy convulsing around the toy as an intense orgasm overtook her. She barely had time to mute her mic, her thighs trembling and squeezing together, her stomach contracting as wave after wave of electric pleasure crashed over her. Her body felt like it was on fire, every nerve ending alight with sensation

Her game character spun wildly on screen, her mouse jerking out of control as her body seized up. Her viewers, concerned but unsuspecting, quickly flooded the chat with messages.

"Are you okay? What happened?" one asked.

"You just screamed like you saw a ghost, lol," commented another, oblivious to the real reason behind her outburst.

Sakura’s cheeks burned with humiliation. They had heard her, but thankfully they couldn’t know the truth—how their sweet, innocent idol was secretly being driven to the brink of madness by her boyfriend under the desk. With a shaky breath, she forced a laugh. "Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry! I thought I saw a bug under the desk," she lied, her voice higher than usual, the embarrassment clear. "You know how I get when it comes to bugs!"

Her viewers, still clueless, accepted the explanation, laughing along with her as they playfully scolded her for getting so worked up over something so trivial. But Sakura’s mind was far from the stream now. The aftershocks of her orgasm still rippled through her, and she bit her lip hard, willing her body to calm down. The irony wasn’t lost on her—here she was, playing the role of their wholesome crush while secretly being ravaged by Y/N just out of sight.

Satisfied for the moment, Y/N leaned in and gave her sensitive pussy a slow, teasing lick, sending another shiver through her body. Her thighs trembled, clenching around his head as his tongue worked its magic. She didn’t want to admit how much she missed this—missed him—but the pleasure coursing through her veins made it impossible to deny. He left a final lingering kiss against her soaked lips before pulling away, leaving her panting and desperate for more.

As Y/N stood, he reached for the final toy in his collection, pulling the rabbit-ear vibrator from his bag. His fingers traced the packaging—Rabbit Ear Toy: Maximum Clitoral Stimulation—and a grin spread across his face. The playful sparkle in his eyes revealed his mischievous intent, recalling how Eunbi had enthusiastically recommended this particular device. With a small chuckle, he knew this would be the perfect grand finale to their secret, unspoken game.

Y/N scribbled a quick note—Level three, good luck—and slid it over to Sakura. Her gaze flicked to him, and their eyes met briefly. A silent exchange of both anticipation and trepidation passed between them. The tension hung thick in the air, a blend of excitement and nerves that only heightened the moment. Sakura’s cheeks flushed as her fingers hovered over the keyboard, pretending to remain focused on the game, but her attention was split, knowing what was coming next.

As Y/N shifted back into his familiar spot under the desk, his breath hitched in anticipation. It had become his little domain, a place where he could send Sakura into oblivion without her viewers being any the wiser. He carefully unwrapped the vibrator—an egg-shaped toy, compact but powerful. The soft, flexible rabbit ears promised an intensity that could tip her over the edge with just the right pressure. His hands, steady and deliberate, moved between her legs, teasing her for a moment. The toy slipped between her folds, refusing to cooperate at first, but Y/N’s persistence paid off. He finally nestled it perfectly in place, the rabbit ears snugly embracing her clit.

For a second, he paused. The anticipation in the room grew thick as Sakura shifted in her chair, her breaths shallow. The tension between them felt electric. Y/N knew what this small delay would do to her—he was prolonging the inevitable, letting her body crave the release that was just out of reach. Then, with a press of the button, the vibrator buzzed to life.

The effect was immediate. A surge of pleasure ripped through Sakura’s body, her muscles tensing as the toy began its relentless rhythm. She bit down hard on her lower lip, trying desperately not to give herself away. The overwhelming sensation sent waves of heat cascading from her core, and her hands trembled as they hovered over her mouse and keyboard, trying to maintain some semblance of control. Her breath came in short, shallow bursts, her body writhing ever so slightly, desperate to remain still for the camera.

Her chat lit up with messages of encouragement. Her viewers had no clue the real battle she was fighting—the one between maintaining her composure and succumbing to the pleasure that was quickly unraveling her. The boss fight on screen grew more intense, each phase of the battle requiring her utmost focus, but her concentration wavered with every flick of the vibrator against her clit. It was nearly impossible to think, let alone execute precise game mechanics, as the rabbit ears worked her over with merciless efficiency.

Sakura whispered to herself, “Y-You’ve got this, Sakura!” Her voice was strained, too high-pitched to mask her struggle, but she plastered on a wide smile for her audience. Her hands shook violently now as they moved across the keyboard, trying to keep up with the rapid pace of the game. Her pulse raced in sync with the toy, the pleasure mounting to unbearable levels.

The boss’s health bar ticked down in sync with her endurance, her every keystroke becoming sloppier, more frantic. As the final blow landed and the boss collapsed in defeat, Sakura could no longer hold back. Her body convulsed as the climax hit her like a tidal wave. A guttural shout escaped her lips as she slammed her hands down on the desk, her voice cracking with a blend of triumph and carnal release.

“YESSSS!!” she screamed, her eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving with the force of the orgasm that ripped through her. Her muscles clenched, and her toes curled as the vibrator continued its assault, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure until she was utterly spent.

Her viewers erupted into cheers, congratulating her on the hard-earned victory. Oblivious to the real reason behind her breathlessness and the flush on her face, they celebrated her skill and persistence. The screen flashed with messages of admiration, and Sakura forced herself to sit up, her body trembling with the aftershocks.

“Whew… that was intense!” she gasped, wiping away the sheen of sweat on her forehead. Her hand reached for her water glass, her fingers still trembling slightly as she took a long, much-needed drink. “Thanks for cheering me on, guys,” she added with a weak laugh, masking the exhaustion coursing through her.

As Sakura leaned back in her chair, Scrolling through other games to hopefully find a good one to end the night, Y/N, who had been patiently watching her recovery, wasn’t quite done yet. A devilish grin played on his lips as he leaned forward, his finger hovering over the vibrator’s controls. Without warning, he cranked the toy up to its highest setting.

The sudden jolt of the vibrator sent Sakura reeling. Her body stiffened, eyes widening in shock as the intensity of the stimulation threatened to unravel her all over again. Her breath hitched in her throat as her muscles tensed, gripping the arms of her chair to ground herself. Y/N’s laughter echoed softly from beneath the desk, watching her fight the new wave of pleasure with a mixture of amusement and satisfaction.

Sakura, the ever-composed streamer, found herself on the precipice of a new kind of experience. The powerful vibrations of the new toy sent shivers through her body, a primal force that ignited a wildfire of anticipation within her. Her body responded with a raw, undeniable intensity, the moisture building until it seeped through her folds, dripping off the chair and leaving a glistening trail on the floor. The sweet scent of candles that once permeated the room was quickly overtaken by the pungent aroma of her arousal, a testament to the burgeoning passion that consumed her.

As the pleasure reached its crescendo, a surge of instinct took over. With lightning-fast reflexes, Sakura muted her microphone and switched off her camera, craving the sanctuary of privacy for the intimate storm that was about to break. The online world faded away, and she surrendered completely to the throes of ecstasy.

The timing was impeccable. As Sakura neared her peak, Y/N, her boyfriend, seized the moment. He seamlessly combined the pleasure of the vibrator with the intimacy of his mouth, diving forward with a ravenous hunger. His tongue explored the depths of her, savoring her taste and fueling the fire that burned within her. Each flick and swirl of his tongue sent shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through her body, pushing her closer and closer to the edge of oblivion.

The combined sensations were too much for her to bear, and with an animalistic moan escaped Sakura's lips, a guttural sound intertwined with a scream that seemed to rise from the very core of her being. "UGH FUCK YEEESSSS Y/N!" Her voice was a raw expression of unrestrained pleasure. She grasped his hair, her body convulsing in a wave of ecstasy. Her legs lifted and wrapped around him pulling his face impossibly close to her core, her muscles contracting and relaxing with each tremor, the old gaming chair squeaking in protest with every movement. Her cheeks flushed a vibrant hue, a visible marker of her heightened state as she rode the wave of her orgasm with unbridled abandon, her breasts heaving with each ragged breath. Sakura climaxed with a force that left her breathless and trembling. Y/N continued his ministrations, prolonging her orgasm until she felt every ounce of pleasure.

For Y/N, the experience was both exhilarating and intensely intimate. He couldn't see anything; his vision was blocked by Sakura's body. Each subtle movement sent shivers down his spine—her soft skin felt warm and alive against him, her thighs encasing his head in a passionate vice that was as constricting as it was pleasurable. it was just the two of them, enveloped in a cocoon of heat and desire.

This was a Sakura he rarely saw, one that lay hidden behind the carefully curated persona of her online streams. In those moments, she had shed the facade of the cheerful, bubbly entertainer and revealed a side of herself that was raw and unfiltered. It was the Sakura from before her streaming career, the girl who had always been playful and spontaneous, exuding an authentic vulnerability that left him breathless. Her laughter echoed in the confines of his mind as he realized how seldom he’d had the chance to witness this intimate version of her.

The chaos of streaming and the demands of her audience faded into the background, replaced by a potent chemistry that crackled between them. His own heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum echoing the urgency of the moment, while his breath hitched at the raw display of passion and surrender before him. Every heartbeat was a reminder of how deeply and irrevocably he craved this connection.

This moment carved a permanent mark on him, etching itself into his memory like a secret tattoo. It was a reminder of the beautiful, complex dynamics that fueled their relationship—beyond the streaming lights and scripted interactions lay a blend of affection, longing, and a hint of danger. Their souls intertwined in this rare instance, revealing as much about their hearts as it did about their desires. The very essence of their bond lay anchored in these fleeting but fervent exchanges, making each encounter a treasure and a risk he was willing to embrace.

Sakura's breath came in ragged gasps as she slowly released her hold on Y/N, her legs trembling, weak from the intense stimulation. The room seemed to amplify all her senses, the cooling sensation of sweat mingling with her skin a stark contrast to the recent heat. Her legs, barely able to support her, struggled to find their footing as she fought to regain her composure. The assistant to her pleasure, the formidable toy that had helped push her to the edge of chaotic bliss, lay on the floor, a glistening reminder of the storm that had just passed. Its surface, coated in her essence, served as a tangible testament to her unleashed passion.

Realizing that her momentary loss of control had severed her connection with her viewers, Sakura quickly attempted to regain her composure. Her cheeks flush with a mix of embarrassment and vulnerability. But before she could complete the act of resuming, Y/N’s steady hand came to rest against her thigh, gently halting her fidgeting. Kneeling between her legs, his tall frame allowing him to almost come face to face with her, their eyes meeting in a moment that felt both electric and profoundly intimate.

Sakura's mind swirled with a haze of emotions, a flicker of melancholy washing over her like a soft tide. She missed these moments—the brief interludes where they could shed their roles and embrace a deeper connection, where laughter and genuine emotion melded seamlessly into something more. Each stolen glance, every shared laugh had been a thread weaving them closer, and yet, amidst the chaos of their lives, she felt those threads fraying, slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.

In that heavy silence, Y/N reached for her, his fingers warm as they gently cupped the back of her head. There was no need for words; his eyes spoke volumes, conveying understanding and longing in a single gaze. Then, with a tenderness that sent shivers down her spine, he leaned in and sealed their lips together in a passionate kiss. The flavors of her arousal mingled with saliva—a delicious, intoxicating symphony that danced on their tongues, each movement igniting a fire deep within her core.

Sakura was momentarily consumed by the warmth of his embrace, every worry dissolving into the sweet elixir of their connection. But as the kiss lingered, her heart raced at the thought of what lay beyond this moment. Still lost in the afterglow, Sakura whimpered softly when Y/N finally pulled away, his lips brushing against hers gently as they parted. His gaze held her captive, a silent promise lingering in the space between them, but it only deepened her desire, leaving her craving more.

This was the testament to their bond—a connection that blossomed amidst the chaos of her storm, a lingering whisper of hope amid uncertainty. She knew she couldn’t let this slip through her fingers again, not when they had ventured into a territory that felt so beautifully raw and undeniably real.

But as the seasoned entertainer she was, she corrected her streaming gadget, turning her webcam back on and adjusting her microphone. Her face, still flushed from her recent exertion and her lips swollen, was now contorted into an apologetic smile as she addressed her audience, hiding the true reason behind her sudden departure by blaming it on unpredictable internet issues.

"Sorry about that, guys," she panted, her voice slightly uneven with the remnants of her peak. "We had a little technical glitch," she continued, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous hint that was not quite caught by her virtual audience.

The chat, a flurry of messages, was filled with questions and mild irritation. Her viewers were curious, their previous excitement now shifted to suspicion and a growing sense of doubt . They wondered what had caused such a sudden disruption. Yet, despite their curiosity, they respected her privacy, unwilling to push for explanations that she was not willing to give until she was ready. In their minds, the truth of her interruptions could often be their most decadent fantasies, creating an air of mystique and allure around her that kept them coming back for more. Sakura, a master of her craft, knew how to keep her audience hooked, turning even a glitch into a potential performance enhancement, as her viewers' imaginations filled in the blanks left by their sudden disconnection.

Y/N, with an air of mystery swirling about him, gracefully emerged from under the desk, his presence suddenly filling the room with an electric energy. As if appearing from the shadows, he moved with a fluidity that captivated Sakura, drawing her gaze irresistibly. From his vantage point behind the monitor, Y/N's eyes met Sakura's, a hint of mischief dancing in their depths.

His movements were deliberate, with a rhythm that matched the beating of Sakura's heart, as if he were conducting an intimate dance where only the two of them could hear the music. The fact that he planned this whole thing gave Sakura a warm feeling. The remnants of their shared passion became a declaration of love, a promise of intimacy, and a reaffirmation of their bond.

Satisfied with his thorough work, Y/N offered Sakura a look, his eyes darting back and forth from Sakura and a bag that was placed just to the side. A secretive smile playing upon his lips. It was a silent challenge, an invitation for Sakura to join him in their next adventure. Turning away, he walked calmly towards the bedroom.

As he cleaned the toys and meticulously arranged them in their new resting place, the nightstand, Y/N took the time to appreciate the small details of their shared space. The nightstand, once merely a piece of furniture with no purpose, now held a whole new meaning, a symbol of their intimate connection.

Sakura remained seated, her breath catching in her throat as Y/N disappeared into the shadows of the bedroom. The atmosphere lingered with a charged energy, the room still humming from the intensity of their shared moment. Sakura’s mind raced, replaying the image of Y/N’s mischievous smile, his teasing, deliberate movements, and the unspoken promise that hung in the air like a secret waiting to be unraveled.

For a moment, Sakura sat frozen, the temptation pulling her forward. She felt a surge of warmth radiate through her, a tug towards the bedroom where Y/N awaited, his presence as enticing as ever. The weight of their connection, unspoken but deeply understood, anchored her as she ended the stream and rose from her seat.

Sakura’s eyes fell to the bag on the floor, under the coffee table, its presence both familiar and intriguing. She had seen Y/n walk in with it earlier but hadn’t given it much thought in the midst of her stream. Now, as the evening light dimmed into twilight and the apartment grew quieter, curiosity took over. Slowly, she bent down, her fingers brushing against the soft fabric of the bag as she picked it up. It was a simple gesture, yet it sent a ripple of anticipation through her.

Peeling back the wrapping, her breath caught when her eyes landed on the contents. A stunning set of lingerie lay folded neatly inside, the color immediately striking her—her favorite color. The rich, silky fabric shimmered slightly in the low light, delicate lace tracing intricate patterns along its edges. She lifted it out of the bag, feeling the cool smoothness of the material slip between her fingers. The fabric felt luxurious, softer than she imagined, and as she held it up, a smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

Y/N had remembered.

In the whirlwind of their lives, it wasn’t often that someone paid attention to the small details, but Y/N always had a way of doing just that. Not just any lingerie, but a set that spoke to her tastes, a color that made her feel powerful, beautiful, sexy. The care and thoughtfulness behind it warmed her from the inside, the kind of warmth that settled deep, in the quiet places of the heart.

Sakura didn't waste time, a surge of excitement bubbling up inside her. Without even heading to the bathroom, she began to undress right there in the middle of the living room. Her body was sore, every muscle aching from the games “levels”, but the thrill of the moment outweighed the discomfort. She moved slowly, peeling away the layers of her clothing, and as each piece fell to the floor, she felt lighter. Her breath hitched when the cool air of the room brushed against her bare skin.

Pulling the lingerie up over her legs, she marveled at how perfectly it fit, as if it had been crafted just for her. The lace clung to her curves in all the right places, accentuating her figure in a way that made her feel both strong and undeniably feminine. She caught a glimpse of herself in the nearby mirror and paused for a moment. The reflection staring back at her was striking—she looked lovely and powerful. The fatigue that had settled into her bones seemed to dissipate, replaced by an invigorating energy, one that thrummed beneath her skin like a quiet storm ready to break.

Her gaze shifted from the mirror to the slightly ajar bedroom door, and that’s when she felt it. The pull. It was almost magnetic, an invisible force drawing her toward Y/N. There had always been something between them ever since they met, something more than words or physical attraction. It was an unspoken connection, a shared intimacy that went beyond the surface of things. Y/N had a way of turning even the smallest gestures into something profound. A simple gift of lingerie wasn’t just a gift; it was a conversation, an invitation, a reminder of the bond they shared.

Sakura’s heart raced as she stood at the threshold of the bedroom, her hand resting lightly on the doorframe. From where she stood, she could see Y/N’s silhouette bathed in the soft, golden glow of the bedside lamp. The room itself was dim, quiet, filled with the gentle hum of the night outside. Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp, focused. There was a look in his gaze—one that she knew well. Mischief, affection, desire, all wrapped into one.

Her breath caught again, but this time it wasn’t the cold air or the tightness of the lingerie. It was the way Y/N looked at her. As if she were the only thing in the world that mattered in that moment. As if the night was theirs and theirs alone.

Without breaking eye contact, Sakura stepped inside the room, her bare feet soundless against the wooden floor. The door clicked shut behind her, the soft sound echoing in the quiet. It was as if the outside world ceased to exist, leaving only the two of them in the cocoon of their own making. The air between them was thick with anticipation, with the unspoken promise of what was to come.

Y/N didn’t move, didn’t say a word. His gaze traveled over her slowly, taking in the sight of her standing before him in the delicate lace and silk he had chosen. The corner of his mouth lifted in a small, appreciative smile, but there was something deeper in his eyes—a smoldering intensity that made her heart skip a beat.

She moved closer, the space between them shrinking with every step. Her own breathing had become shallow, her pulse quickening in response to the heat building between them. It wasn’t just about the physical desire; it was the emotional weight of everything they had shared, everything they had been through together, all condensed into this one, intimate moment.

Sakura reached the edge of the bed, standing just before him, her body illuminated by the soft, golden light. Y/N reached out, his hand gently grazing her thigh, his fingers brushing over the delicate lace. His touch was light, teasing, sending a shiver up her spine. She closed her eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation, the feeling of his skin against hers.

He had given her so much today, endless pleasures each one more intense than the last. But now, as she stood before him, she knew the time had come, it was his turn. She smiled, slow and teasing, as her fingers toyed with the straps of the lingerie. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear, her voice a soft whisper filled with promise.

"You’ve given me so many gifts today baby. Now it’s your turn to unwrap your present."

She gave him multiple kisses from his neck to his cheek, ending with a needy one on his lips.

“Since you're so into games, let's play one right now,” her words mimicking those that started this whole thing.

The night had just begun, filled with endless possibilities Sakura's situation mirrored her favorite games. She had failed multiple times but knew that this was a fresh start, an extra life, With a smile she positioned herself face to face with his crotch and pulled down Y/N's pants exposing his member, she gave the tip a quick kiss and lick, before reminding him that singing was not the only thing her mouth was used for.

Miyawaki Sakura was back on level one.

#le sserafim #le sserafim smut #male reader #girl group smut #sakura x reader #Miyawaki sakura x reader #kpop fanfiction #kpop fanfic #sakura smut #kpop smut #reader insert #miyawaki sakura #miyawaki sakura smut

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controld3vil · 5 months ago

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𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣, 𝙨𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙠𝙚𝙨

pairing(s): aemond targaryen x twin!reader

synopsis: “My son, Daeron, what’s he like?” Alicent wondered as she couldn’t recall ever waiting so eagerly for news from her youngest. Oldtown felt distant now; her home was here. “And his sister?”

notes ➜ i got major writers block from writing for rhaenyra :( content warnings: targcest, twincest, happy & bittersweet reunions 😋, features only ONE scene with aemond (at the very end :/), slowburnn

Despite the turmoil of her life – the crowning of her son, the tragic murder of her grandson, Jaehaerys, and the loss of her father as Hand – Alicent never felt as anxious as she did now waiting to meet her son and daughter after more than five years apart. Love for them lingered in her heart, even amidst the estrangement that marked their relationship. Oldtown seemed like a distant memory, a place she sometimes revisited in dreams. It was a compact city of scholars and believers, a center of Faith that once filled her with strength, a quality she now desperately craved. The Queen Dowager sat with her hands folded in her lap, her fingers nervously plucking at the debris on her cuticles, an irritating habit she found impossible to suppress. Each tug felt like a reflection of her own fraying nerves as she prepared to face the children she loved yet scarcely knew.

A hint of red bourbon hair catches Alicent’s eye. “Gwayne.” Her brother turns toward her, momentarily distracted by the horse at his side.

“Sister.”

“I wish to give you my blessing,” she says, her hands folded solemnly. Gwayne steps forward, with a casual ease.

“Wow,” he replies, a light-hearted tone in his voice. “My thanks to the Dowager Queen.” He bobs before glancing back to his tasks, preparing to march south the new Hand, Ser Criston. His men and the forces of King's Landing would soon form a formidable army.

“Have you heard from father?” Alicent asks, her voice laced with anxiety. “I sent word to Highgarden and Oldtown but, there has been no word.” She twiddles her fingers, a restless gesture as she fights to quell her unease.

Her brother picks up her distress. “Otto Hightower is ever resourceful. He will send news when there is news.” His tone suggests a reassuring nonchalance, yet it also reveals his own certainty. Gwayne knew their father well – he rarely wrote unless there was something significant to report. It was not unusual for Otto Hightower to remain silent; he preferred to communicate only when necessary.

Though their conversation comes to a halt, the Queen is left unsatisfied with Gwayne’s dismissal. Her heart is heavy with concern, and she longs for more than just the absence of news.

She peeks into the distance before turning back to him. “I often wonder what life could have been if he had brought you to court instead.” Earnestly, she offers a tentative smile, her expression drawing a warm grin from her older brother, who is charmed by her speculation.

“I’m the oldest son,” he replies, focusing on the object in his hand. “It was right that I was raised in Oldtown.”

“You were eight years of age and motherless. It must have been difficult.” Alicent’s tone carries a mixture of sympathy and concern, her desire to delve deeper into the topic. The knight senses her intention; their conversation is more than just light banter.

He shakes his head again, his demeanor shifting. “You get on with it, don't you? When there isn’t any choice.” His eyes are expectant, as if urging her to reveal what’s truly on her mind.

“My son, Daeron,” the Queen begins, her lips tightening with a mix of pride and longing. “What’s he like?” A small glimmer of affection leaves her eyes when she mentions her youngest, though it stings to know how long it has been since she received from him or even heard his name mentioned. She regrets not having time to raise him, to know the man he might become. Daeron feels like a stranger to her, and despite her disappointment, all she longs for is to seek insight from someone who knows him well.

“Does he not write to you?”

“Less and less, these days.” A subtle curve of her lips transforms into a sad frown.

“Ten and six now,” Gwayne says with a gentle chuckle, warmth flooding his expression at the thought of his beloved nephew. “Let us perhaps hold less of his interest. He's stalwart, clever – adept with both his lute and his sword. And a feature in the fancies of many young ladies, I'll wager.” He pauses, catching the concern on her face. “He's kind."

Relief washes over Alicent, her shoulders relaxing as if a heavy weight has been lifted. A kind son – at least he embodies the benevolence she always had hoped for her children.

“Kindness is a quality I find lacking in his brothers,” she admits, her tone reflecting candid honesty that earns a thoughtful hum from Gwayne. Her thoughts drift back to the one person she has longed to meet. “And his sister?”

The Hightower knight fixes his gaze fondly on his sister. The mention of another niece, one he has watched over, brings forth a rare tenderness in her older brother – a warmth his sister rarely sees. “Well she’s certainly well-regarded,” Gwayne replies, placing both hands on his hips and shifting his weight to one foot. A playful pride lights up his face as he reminisces about the recent achievements of her youngest children. “She’s adapted remarkably well among the scholars. She carries herself with grace and resolve, and they speak highly of her intellect. I’m sure her letters, though few, speak of contentment and growth.”

“Yes, she has,” The Dowager Queen giggles, recalling your recent letter. With every message came, your handwriting and style has evolved. A smile brightens her face at the memory of her earlier struggles with grammar; the first few letters had been messy and disorganized. Though she may have had her doubts as your mother, she is undeniably proud of your respected place among the scholars. “She thrives, or so she assures me. But I yearn to see for myself the woman she is becoming."

Gwayne offers her subtle comfort, placing a hand gently over hers. His reassuring grin promises that when you and Daeron finally come to King’s Landing, a part of her guilt-driven heart will be lifted. “I understand your worries, sister. You’ll have the chance to see them both soon enough.”

Days later, the army returns to King’s Landing, exhausted from a ruthless battle that claimed both casualties and deaths. Ser Gwayne and the Hand, Ser Criston led the march back, to focus on reinforcing their troops and resupplying. The journey was grueling, marked with constant vigilance against Rhaenyra's forces. However, the tension eased momentarily when a dark purple dragon appeared overhead without warning. While the sight terrified the hearts of men, it ignited a spark of relief and joy to Ser Gwayne’s face, leaving Ser Criston bewildered.

The Hand had never seen a dragon with white claws and plum scales.

As you made your unannounced arrival at King’s Landing, chaos erupted. Townsfolk scrambled and fled as your dragon, Blood Moon, circled the castle grounds. Many had not seen your dragon in a long time, and some had never laid their eyes on it before your departure. Blood Moon screeches menacingly, soaring above, casting a shadow over the weary army under Cole’s command. Dragon! The townsfolk gasped in horror, frantically jumping from house to house to hide from the inevitable.

Meanwhile, the Queen Mother rushed to the courtyard, her heart racing at the familiar, nihilistic roar of your dragon. When she caught sight of Blood Moon passing her window, Alicent felt a rush of adrenaline – she knew you had arrived. You were home.

She clutches her dress, tightly, a sharp pain in her chest as the sight of you approaching makes her eyes water instantly. You follow behind her brother and Ser Criston on horseback, conspicuously absent from her dragon. Yet, somehow she knows Blood Moon is close. “My sweet girl!” Alicent rushes forward the moment you dismount, locking eyes with you. Gods, you looked so beautiful. It feels like an eternity since you last met.

“Mother!” In an instant, you were a child again, clamping your arms around her as if to anchor yourself in her presence. You sink into her embrace, basking in the familiar scent of her hair, the warmth of her touch as you nestled your head against her neck, filled with affection.

Alicent pulls back, cradling your face into her hands. “It’s been so long. You’ve grown so much. I can see the change in your eyes…” Her dark, chestnut-colored eyes brim with tears. Her lips quiver as she fights back a sob.

You hold her hands, and offer a soft smile. “I missed you, Mother.” She beams at you, fondly with nostalgia, pecking a gentle kiss on your forehead before gliding her thumbs softly across your cheeks. Gods, you’ve changed. You’re no longer the frightened little girl who resisted staying in King’s Landing. Though Alicent regretted seeing you so sad, she knew it was best for you to learn and grow alongside your brother, Daeron.

There was a time in your early childhood when you dreamed of becoming a lady in waiting for Highgarden, yet when the day arrived, you unexpectedly became homesick, clinging to Alicent like a newborn.

But now, you stand before her, a grown woman. Gone are the days of silly hair ribbons and flowing dresses; you’ve matured into a striking figure, like a blooming rose. Alicent notices how you’ve preferred to braid your hair, gathered in a high ponytail with intricate braids extending from your forehead to the base of your tail. This style frames your face perfectly, allowing her to see your expression fully—happy and radiant. You even complement your look with a striking outfit, featuring long leather garments reminiscent of dragon scales and breastplates adorned with chromatic metal accents.

“I trust the journey to King’s Landing wasn’t too taxing, niece?” Gwayne quips with a playful grin. You let out a short giggle sensing your uncle’s presence behind you.

“It was fine, thank you, Uncle.” You chuckled, turning to see Gwayne with his hands clasped behind his back. Stray hairs fell across his forehead from the skirmish days prior. Though he appeared weary, he maintained a façade of composure as he greeted you.

“You must be exhausted from the journey,” Alicent perks up, as she brushes her fingers over your bare knuckles, sheeply. “Come let us find a place for you to rest and share what I have missed.”

A warm fuzziness flutters in your chest as you savor your mother’s tender urgency. Few understand the depth of her protective love for her children, most only notice her as the former Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Even though you haven’t stepped foot in King’s Landing for so long, you appreciate her efforts to ensure your childhood was a happy one. Many dismiss her as a princess bound to duty to bear heirs, but all forget the countless moments that defined her as a mother. They do not recall her swaddling young Aegon when she was only ten and nine, or rushing to the Godswood to catch Helaena from her wandering. Even that time you attempted to make a flower crown, too small for her head, which Alicent wore to appease your pleas.

The rest of the afternoon was spent catching up with your mother who was determined to stay close to you at all times. You were not sure if she took note of your hesitance, but stepping back into King’s Landing stirred distant memories you had long buried. You couldn’t help but gaze around the different sections of the castle, wondering if any of the tapestries had changed or if new furniture had been added. This familiar yet strange home felt like an enigma as you tried to thread together the small moments of your past.

You had changed out of your dragon gear, and now wore a stunning silver dress, laced with an embroidered corset featured with blossoming gold florals. The transparent cuffs by your wrist added an ethereal touch as well as the sleeves. The Red Keep was a serene and quiet place to study and chat with your mother. You sat beside her by a small table, discussing the latest news from the city. Rumors spread quickly as if they were smoke and you both indulged in whatever topic came to mind, relishing in the intimacy in the moment. Sometimes you would bring up about your time in Oldtown while your mother spoke vaguely about the Council's plans. In all, you were spouting words to fill in the inevitable space of silence, cherishing the connection that always bound you as mother and daughter.

“How is Aegon?” Your eyes flashed with concern when your mother placed down her drink. There was a glint of sadness you saw from her. For a quick flicker, it disappears when the widowed Queen plucks one of the pastries from the plate in the center.

Her voice, though tender, betrays her hesitation. “He is healing. But he will never be the same.” The words hang heavily in the air, a quiet acceptance of the grim truth. Aegon’s body had been ravaged, rotted with infection, covered in sores and pus. Alicent couldn’t say it outright but she knew the cruel reality; he might never walk again. The thought of it was too heavy to bear to tell her daughter. She couldn’t tell you the full extent of his suffering; the memory was still fresh in her mind as if it was only yesterday.

Your breath hinders as you process her words, and a deep frown pulls at your face. “He is alive. That is something I am thankful to the Gods for.” Though your relationship with your eldest brother had always been distant, it was never cold. You made sure to write to all of your siblings whenever you could, each filled with personal messages. Aegon, in particular, was never fond of books or history. He was the one who’d light up any room, the first one to suggest a drink when things had dulled. You would not deny how much you missed his infectious laughter, his wide grin that could cast away your sorrows.

Now it seemed, that smile might never return. The war had stolen it from him as it had stolen so much. A lump forms in your throat, and suddenly you feel tears stinging your eyes. You wiped them away with the back of your palm.

Alicent’s gaze falls, lost in thought as she considers the words she wanted to say but can never bring herself to. She felt, even now, like a failure as a mother. Her mistakes, her foolishness, lingered unspoken between you both. The few letters she sent, the distant exchanges, were all reminders of the distance that had grown between you over the years. She could feel the weight of her own neglect – the little attention she’d given you in letters should have been enough to make you stop writing altogether. But despite it all, you never once turned away from her. Alicent had never felt worthy of your love, and though you had every reason to harbor anger or resentment, her heart ached for failing her children.

It was then she felt your hand creep over hers, the simple touch sending a jolt of surprise through her. Your mother lifts her solemn visage, her heart breaking as she meets your eyes. For all the pain and disappointment she imagined you had, there was no trace anywhere in your expression. You looked at her with stoic calmness, your deep indigo eyes pierced with consideration – and a hint of fondness that made her heart ache even more.

Your demeanor shifts, softening into a sympathetic grin, and with a tear-stricken pout still clinging to your lips, you squeeze her hand gently. “None of this is your fault, Mother.”

“It is,” She weakly admits, her voice faltering as she fights the urge to break down in front of her sweet daughter. “It is my fault, for your brother’s cruelty. Don’t you see?”

You pause, the weight of her words sinking in, but you reply with unwavering certainty. “Aemond may be cruel but he would never kill his brother.” The words come out steady but something shifts when you fully acknowledge your twin since your arrival. His absence feels oddly conspicuous, like a shadow that haunts the hall. The Red Keep, so familiar, now seems strangely hollow with its newly reassigned staff and the ever watchful eyes of the City Watch. Yet, even as the quiet settles in, a desire stirs in you to seek him out. Aemond was never far, even when distance separates you. Now, back in King’s Landing, you find that something in your restless heart settles, as though the mere proximity of the Red Keep could ease your disturbed thoughts.

“You have not laid eyes on him in years, my love,” Alicent pleads, a tremor in her voice as she lowers her gaze, avoiding your eyes. “You don’t know what he has become. Aemond is angry.” The visible fear in her earth-toned eyes is raw and unsettling, like a shadow that lingers in the room, one that threatens to swallow the very air between you.

The incident at Rook’s Rest was ambiguous. You were not there to witness it firsthand, and while you had your suspicions, you could never know for certain who struck first. But you were sure – it had not been intentional. Aegon and Aemond didn’t see eye to eye, but they had always shared the same blood, the same bond. Now, from what your mother described, a flicker of doubt stirs within you, uneasy and unfamiliar, making your heart sink. What had Aemond become in these years of absence?

After your chat, a Kingsguard arrived to summon your mother on urgent matters. The former Queen’s gazes lingered on you for a moment, her expression filled with guilt for interrupting your time on short notice. She catches your comforting smile as she gives a curt nod and exits the Red Keep.

For a while, you were left to your residence with the comforts of nature. You sat by the window, absentmindedly nibbling on forgotten baked goods, their sweetness grounding you as your eyes drift toward the sky. The clouds moved at a glacial pace, their slow drift contrasted to your storm of thoughts brewing in your mind. Momentarily, you are allowed to forget your purpose for coming back to King’s Landing. The afternoon sunshine bathed the room in a golden light, casting a calm, almost serene glow on everything.

You didn’t need much more than that – the gentle warmth, the quiet, and familiar taste of tart delicacies your mother knew you loved. It was enough to quiet your mind, if only for a while. The taste of pastries, sweet and tangy, reminded you of simpler times, of moments before the weight of duty and family obligations tangled your soul. You found yourself yearning for that comfort, anything to keep your mind off the growing unease with the inevitable encounter with Aemond.

It was the early evening when the bells of Baelor rang out. The Great Sept, just a few houses down from King’s Landing, held its call long enough for it to be heard in the very heart of the Red Keep. You had arrived hours earlier, slipping through the castle halls with grace of a predator – quiet, deliberate, waiting for the surge of adrenaline that always accompanied your return to this place.

The Council had met moments prior to your arrival, so you knew you’d have to wait until the morning to join them. The politics of the realm could wait. In the meantime, you roamed the ancient, empty corridors of the Keep, your footsteps the only sound in the silence. The air was thick with history, heavy with memories of a time when the halls had been full of life, of laughter and conversation – before everything had changed.

Your thoughts drifted to your siblings. It’s been far too long since you had been together in one place. The Red Keep, usually so bustling with court, now seemed like a ghost town – empty and hollowed out, a shadow of its former self. The events of the past loomed over you, pressing down with the weight of what had been lost, what had been broken.

Perhaps this is why you found yourself at Aegon’s chambers. Your heart pounded with anticipation when the doors swung open, revealing the King’s quarters. The air within was thick and quiet murmurs of the maesters attending to him, their words halting when they saw you – your unexpected presence casting a brief shadow over the room. It was strange. To see your brother like this – unconscious, barely clinging to life was a sharp bitter thing.

Sorrow gripped you tightly and unrelenting, as you gazed upon Aegon’s tarred state. His skin, once vibrant and strong, was now tarred and burnt, the pale sheen of his injuries almost too much to bear. His legs, now broken, twists, spoke of the pain you could never truly know. For a time you spoke as thought he could hear you, as though he might awaken any moment. You told of your travels through Oldtown, of Daeron’s small but proud achievements. The familiar weight of his absence made your words tumble out like a lifeline, a way to fill the space between the present and the years that had passed.

It was comforting, in a way, to be near him again. Though this was not the reunion you had hoped. Years ago, Aegon struggled with the position of being the firstborn son to King Viserys. The expectations that pressed upon him, the constant weight of responsibility, were more than any young should bear. Your mother, with her quiet but unyielding voice, had often spoken of it – how the throne was his to inherit, and how Rhaenyra’s claim, a constant reminder of a fractured family, only deepened the divide. The more Alicent and Otto insisted on Aegon’s future, the more you saw him under pressure. He never wanted to defy his sister, yet torn between duty and blood. You had watched him from the shadows, seen his faults, his mistakes, but only made you love him more. In his moments of playfulness, you had found a fleeting sensation of freedom, a reminder that even in the midst of terrible situations, he was your brother.

You watched his chest rise and fall, with each breath fragile of life. The weight on your heart lifted, if only slightly, as held onto that small reassurance: Aegon was still alive. He was still strong. He was the Blood of the Dragon, the rider of Sunfrye, and he was your King. No matter what came next, you would stand beside him, sworn to protect him, willing to give your last breath if it meant keeping him safe.

You left your brother to rest, and set off in search of your next destination. Deep down, you knew where you’d go first, where you always went for comfort, to Helaena. She is the balm to your restless soul, the voice that could untangle your anxieties with a few soft words. When the world seemed too large, too overwhelming, her presence was a silent sanctuary.

Helaena, the second daughter of King Viserys, had been both a mentor and maternal figure to you in your younger years. Her kindness had been a steady anchor in your life, her wisdom a guiding light when the weight of your responsibilities felt too much to bear. As a child, you sought her out whenever you felt lost or afraid and her gentle guidance had given you the courage to venture into new worlds. Her advice forever shaped you in ways you hadn’t fully realized until you left for Oldtown. In that city, with its strange customs and faces, you leaned onto her worlds to adapt quickly, to carve out your own place.

When you found your sister in your old playroom, sewing quietly with her daughter, it felt as if no time had passed. The familiar sight and sounds of the room washed over you – its warmth, its history, the memories that had once made it a sanctuary for both of you. Helaena’s moved with the same careful precision you remembered, her fingers threading the needle with quiet grace. Her daughter, Jaehaera, sat beside her, her wide eyes fixated on her mother’s work. You stood for a moment, watching them and a smile tugging at your lips. The sight of them – mother and daughter, together in their own world, stirred something deep inside you. The years between you seemed to melt away in an instant.

Quietly, you crept closer, your footsteps soft on the floor as you approached the pair. A mischievous grin spread across your face, without earning you shouted, using your niece’s shrill cry to startle your sister. Helaena 's hands faltered, the needle slipping from her grasp as her face registered in shock, her expression frozen for just a heartbeat before it shifted into relief and then pure joy.

She stood quickly, her eyes wide with excitement, as she took you in from head to toe. And then, without a moment, a silent sob escaped her lips, her hand pressing to her chest as she whispered your name.

“Sister…” she breathed, her voice thick with emotion.

Unexpected and sharp, there was a lump in your throat. You swallowed it down, trying to steady yourself but the emotions surged in a way you had not anticipated. “It’s good to see you, Helaena.” you whispered, the words catching as they left your lips.

For what felt like an eternity, you indulge yourself in the soothing warmth of rosemary oils and the sweet aroma of fragrant tea. The tapestry above the balcony swayed gently in the rhythm with the tides, the fabric rippling like satin kissed by the breeze, catching the light in delicate waves. The sunshine poured in the small opening between the outside world and your private space, casting a soft, translucent pink hue across the horizon. The late summer warmth wrapped around you like a blanket, filling the room with a quiet comfort that you never find elsewhere.

A porcelain tea cup sat at the edge of the table, its base a soft coral pink, the edges trimmed in lustrous gold. Besides it, the matching coaster resonated with the same elegance. The teapot shared the same intricate design, its spout crafted to imitate the graceful curves of vineyard vines. Tiny matcha leaves curled around the handle, their delicate shapes glinting with golden highlights. It was a beautiful set – one that made the room feel like a pristine sanctuary, but something was missing. The topper.

Sometimes, in the stillness of these moments, you would let your imagination roam. You would pretend you were some from a faraway land. It seemed childish, almost absurd, but it lingered with you. You often wondered what the world was like beyond Westeros, the vast deserts of Dorne, the mysterious lands of Essos, or the distant, shadowed shores of Asshai. Asshai especially. The thought of it, so remote, so mysterious, had always called to you. You used to daydream that you were a girl from Asshai, someone who knew nothing of wealth, beauty, or the court of King’s Landing.

You imagined yourself seeing the teapot for the first time. You would change your character, each time with a different persona – some curious wanderer, a child of the unknown, discovering the simple elegance of a teapot that seemed to carry more meaning than it should. You’d pretend to be in awe, a stranger to luxury and react differently each time, letting your curiosity guide your every movement.

It was strange, but comforting. In those moments, you could be anyone – but the child of a royal bloodline.

Alicent, however, found you peculiar. In many ways, you were nothing like Aemond, despite being his twin. While she hoped you would be as easy to mold as Helaena or as compliant as Aemond, you were neither. You had a quiet way of drawing attention, of showing interest in things that made others uneasy. Aemond, with his fiery intensity, demanded things, but you – your power laid in silence.

From a young age, you have learned how to meet people with nothing more than a glance, a tilt of your head, or the quiet intensity in your eyes. Alicent never could figure out how you did it – how you could command attention with such subtlety. She often watched, perplexed, as your eyes would light up at the slightest opportunity or how your lips would press into a small pout when the Kingsguard denied you entry into her office. And then, with practiced ease, you would cry – small, silent tears that glistened like pearls on your cheeks. The effect was always the same. Suddenly, the men who had once denied you would be at your feet, ready to do whatever you asked.

Alicent didn’t know the secret. You did.

It was almost too easy for you, the way the ceramic topper fits perfectly into your hand, as if it had always been meant for you. The weight, barely there, seemed to vanish the moment you cradled it, leaving only the sensation of smooth china beneath your fingers. Your gaze traced the delicate rims, following the curve with the tip of your thumb as you glide over the shiny finish.

For an old teapot, it remained unchanged, an artifact from the past that, like the porcelain, had been carefully preserved. It reminded you of childhood, of simpler days that felt like they belonged to someone else. A smile, slow and wistful, tugged at your lips as memories drifted to the surface – tea parties held in this room, alone with the teapot, lost in your imagination.

“Do you miss this?” Helaena’s meek words cut through the quiet, grounding you back into reality. Her words were simple, yet they carried weight. She stood before you, her eyes intent but tender, watching you with a knowing gaze that seemed to see straight through your soul. Never one for many words, Helaena was always able to strike the right chords when it mattered. Conversations between you two never cluttered, there was no need for endless explanation. It was as if, without saying much, you both understood each other completely. She knew the thoughts you carried without needing to ask. And somehow, you always knew hers.

Your grin fades, the playfulness slipping away as you grow contemplative, searching her face for any trace of misunderstanding or unspoken hurt.

“I do,” Your tone coming out slightly more strained than usual. “They don’t have tea parties or play dates in Oldtown. They don’t have anything, really,” The final words felt heavier, laid with sorrow that you hadn’t quite realized was there until now.

A somber silence hangs, the weight of your absence pressing down onto the room. Oldtown had been another world entirely – foreign, starkly different from the warmth of King’s Landing. As much as you had once embraced the city’s beauty, part of your childhood still lived here, among these walls, among the memories shared in this very room. Your eyes drift over the old ornaments and forgotten toys, each one sparking a fleeting moment of nostalgia. It was as though you were caught between two places, two worlds, each different from the other at the ends of the map.

Helaena, ever so quiet, glances down at her sewn collage, her fingers pausing mid-motion. She was lost in thought, the needle still in her hand as she set it aside carefully. Without a word, she scoots closer, settling beside you on a plush cushion. The cushion is periwinkle, a soft reminder of your childhood obsession with the color pink. You smile faintly, remembering how everything had once been pink to you – the teapot set, the floors, even the smallest trinkets. If you had ruled the Seven Kingdoms, Helaena was certain the banners would have been changed to a soft shade of pink, just because you would have insisted on it.

Of course you would. The thought of it, so hysterical, almost makes you laugh. But for now, there’s only the quiet companionship of the moment, and the comfort of your sister’s presence beside you like a silent reassurance that despite the years and distance, this place, this feeling, would always be home.

When the Queen’s knees made contact with yours, you felt the quiet look, filled with anticipation, but not fear, only certainty and love. “I hope you mean to stay this time.”

Her words settled in the space between you, gentle but insistent, like a tender plea. For a second, you simply stared at her, her warmth radiating outward, but your response came without thinking.

“Stay?” you asked, almost as if the very concept of it was foreign to you.

“Stay here,” She planted her palm onto the soft woolen rug, her fingers splayed wide, almost spider-like. “Here.”

There were a few things about Helaena that could catch you off guard, but her sweetness had always been one of them – an undeniable force that softened even the hardest edges of your heart. Still you hesitated.

“Helaena—” You faltered, unsure how to voice the conflict swirling inside you. “I don’t know—”

“Mother would want you to stay.” Your elder sister leans forward, as you witness the beauty of her ribbon silver hair up close. “I want you to stay. It’s been too long, I’ve missed you. Aemond misses you—“

“Aemond.” You repeat, sharply, each syllable weighted with spite. Your expression darkened, the emotions inside you shifting to a cold, quiet rage. “After all these years, he does not come to see me come home. Not even a word from our mother or Cole.” The words tasted like ash on your tongue, heavy with the silence that built between your twin.

Helaena, unfazed by your tone, leans in even closer, her voice faint. “That is what he does.” she said simply, her lilac orbs meeting yours with understanding. “Aemond is… who he is.”

“And you say he misses me…?” The words left your mouth with sharpness that even surprised you, your voice laced with disbelief and frustration.

“I know you are upset, sister,” The Queen reached out to grab your wrist, the one holding the teapot topper as if to calm the storm brewing in your head. Her touch was gentle, yet firm, the kind of protective care only a mother could offer. It was the same tenderness she had to her own children, an unwavering love. “But believe me, Aemond would’ve been there for you… It’s just… He’s not himself lately.”

“Rook’s Rest,” The name falling from your lips with weight of its own. The rumors had reached you, whispered among the soldiers and your uncle’s counsel. They spoke of things that had been kept hidden, too raw and dangerous to put into words. “He was there,” The realization creeping up your spine like an icy chill. You had tried to be discreet, seen enough in the faces of the men who had returned from that place, the devastation in their eyes, the scars that would never heal. “Did he… Was he there?”

Helaena’s silence spoke volume. The Queen hesitated, her expression flickering between you and her thoughts. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she nodded, the tension in her jaw was apparent as she unclenched her teeth, the words coming out strained. “He almost killed Aegon.”

The silent recollection of your brother’s condition, his broken legs and half burnt face. The weight of it crushed you in a way words couldn’t describe. You had sworn to avenge, promised yourself that you would hunt down whoever was responsible. It was Aemond. Him. Your other half. The brother you had once shared everything with, now the source of your deepest grief.

For a while, you felt like a child again, small and helpless, standing in the shadow of things you could not control. The memories flooded back, the days your brother claimed Vhagar, the dragon that should have been Laena’s daughters, a move that had shaken your family to the core. You had been in Oldtown by then, unaware of the unfolding storm, but a raven arrived with the news that made your blood run cold. You knew, even from miles away, that Aemond had done something that could not be undone.

As a result, he lost an eye. You could imagine it vividly, the moment when his world – your world changed forever. From a distance, you were devastated. But there was no room for grief, no time to mourn. All you could do was watch, helpless as everything you once knew spiraled further away. The cold empathy you felt in the pit of your stomach couldn’t be expressed, instead it festered, twisting inside you like a wound that never healed.

You were never a part of the war your family had started, yet here you were, caught between duty and the chaos they created. And now, with Aegon, weak and broken, you couldn’t help but worry for Aemond, about his ambition, about the hunger in him that only grew since your separation. It had been long overdue. The moment you would have to face the One-Eyed Prince. But you wondered, would he still look at you with the same sentiments or stare at you coldly for how absent you’ve been?

The fleeting hours of your restless dreams had long since faded. As the bright sunrise bathed the room in soft light, you shared breakfast with your uncle and your mother. Helaena, however, had chosen to eat in her room, not wanting to disrupt the delicate reunion between the Dowager Queen and her brother. You had insisted on staying with her, but she had quietly declined, offering a gentle pat to your shoulder. Her gaze lingered on you, full of unspoken concern, a clear hint of worry for your restless sleep. How did she know? You had asked once, but Helaena wouldn’t say a word.

“You’re thinking about him,” she said, softly, noticing your hesitation. You didn’t flinch or give a nervous sigh. You simply said nothing, your body frozen for a moment before you hummed in response.

“I never realized how long it’s been… until I saw you. How different you look,” you murmured, distractedly tracing the lines of your palm. You shifted slightly in your stance, and Helaena mirrored you, her head leaning closer into your personal space.

She smelt of lavender and poppy – Helaena always did.

“Talk to him.” she urged, her voice quiet but insistent.

You pondered as you walked, your mind racing with thoughts of how to approach Aemond, while your heart thudded in your chest, refusing to be ignored. As you made your way down to the Red Keep, you realized that your mother and uncle had long since finished breakfast. Gwayne was preparing for another march with Cole, and Alicent had slipped away, offering you a sympathetic smile as she excused herself from the table. For once, you found yourself leaving with your uncle to a grand feast set for twenty – but your appetite had long since vanished.

“I trust you are well acquainted with the place?” he teased, his voice light with a playful edge. With no one else in the room except for passing maids, you let out a soft chuckle.

“My early childhood was here,” you replied, your gaze drifting to the half-full glass of wine in your hand. “Everything feels the same.”

“Good to know nothing has changed,” Gwayne muttered with a dramatic sigh, shoveling tart in his mouth.

“But I’ve changed,” you said, lifting your glass to the light. The sun streamed through the window, casting a red hue over the liquid that shimmered like a blood moon. “I don’t belong here anymore.” You could feel the eyes of lords and ladies as you passed by strangers and familiar faces alike, each gaze heavy with contempt. They looked at you as if you no longer had the right to be here, as if this place, once your home, no longer welcomed you.

Gwayne’s voice cut through your thoughts. “That doesn’t change your place here,” he said, firmly, studying your face as you rubbed the tension from your brow. “The lords of Westeros are nothing but greedy old men. They should not concern you.”

You know he was right. You were more than they thought, more than the whispers and the cold stares. You were still the daughter of the late king, and that commanded respect, no matter how they looked at you.

Your gaze lifted, a small smile curling on your lips as you beamed at your uncle. “You’re right.”

“You have every right to be here, sweet niece.” he said, rising from his seat and stepping toward you. His hand gently brushed through your hair, and his auburn eyes, filled with empathetic warmth, offered you quiet comfort. “Your brother will be here in a few days.”

“Ah,” You couldn’t help but smile to yourself, a fleeting moment of joy. Daeron, your beloved brother, would join the battle alongside you. You had missed his sharp wit and clever nature more than you cared to admit. The bond you shared was unbreakable, he was the one you had confided in, the one with whom you had bedtime stories in your childhood. You’d watched him grow, maturing into a young man with a fierce spirit. Together, you’d flown with Blood Moon, him with his passion for adventure, and you with your love for literature. You couldn’t help but smile wishfully. “I’m sure he terribly misses me.”

This time, the knight laughs, a soft, knowing sound, as he gives the back of your chair a light, affectionate pat. “He’ll be challenging every lord and knight that would ever look down on you.”

The moment it happened, a hollow emptiness settled within you. In that vulnerable space, you sought solace, mediating in silence as the clouds drifted lazily across the sky. Beneath the sacred boughs of the Godswood, you sat with a quiet sense of divinity and pride. The place was often sought by others, but you claimed it for yourself, a refuge where you could empty your mind. Your arrival was gentle, unhurried. You moved with patience, your steps slow as you approached the great roots of the tree, stepping into its cool shade. The tree itself was majestic – its crimson leaves a remainder of autumn’s embrace. One leaf detached from a high branch, falling gracefully through the air. Without thinking, your hands reached out, catching it as it floated toward the Earth, landing perfectly into your palm.

And then, he appeared.

“Sister,” came his voice, unmistakable, sending a chill down your spine. The sound of it stirred something deep within you, a hunger you had tried to quell. You felt a shiver ripple through you, desperately resisting the urge to show any excitement at his sudden presence. It had long been so long, and after all the time you spent in King’s Landing, Aemond chose now, of all moments to seek you out? “It’s been ages since we’ve been given your presence.” he remarked, his tone sharp, almost teasing.

You turn to face him, noting the neutral timber of his voice. Your brother, he’s changed. His posture was poised, his features more refined. The years had shaped him, as you had expected. He was no longer the boy who cried for a dragon, but the man who had claimed Vhagar – the Queen of Dragons, the largest beast to ever soar across the Seven Kingdoms during Aegon’s Conquest. A small part of you wondered if he might look at you the same way. You, too, had changed. Gone was the mischievous girl who caused trouble for your mother to clean up. Now, you were a woman – grown, poised, and more refined than ever.

You give a curt nod. “Aemond.”

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment, as if unsure how to read the shift in your demeanor. His arms crossed behind his back as he stepped closer. Dressed in obsidian leather from head to toe, a dagger sheath resting at his hip, he presented himself like a predator. His eye patch sat comfortably over his face, and his silvery hair flowed straight and silken, like the velvet fabrics of Highgarden.

“I thought you’d forgotten this place.” He closed the distance between you. Most people would have stepped back when he approached, but you stood firm. There was no fear in your gaze, only a subtle scowl – the one he would know all too well. “Do you remember the stories we used to tell here?” Aemond’s tone shifted, growing softer, almost nostalgic. “Before you drove us apart?”

Oh. His tone is sharp, reflecting the past you both left behind, laced with a hint of nostalgia. He prowls closer, as if waiting for some retributive excuse, a justification that might ease the tension between you.

Yet you respond with a mixture of skepticism and offense. “I haven’t forgotten this place.” you say, your voice steady, but your glance betrays a moment of vulnerability, tinged with grief. "It holds memories — both good and bad." The weight of those memories presses on you, the remnants of a shared past that broke the moment you stepped away from King’s Landing. You had left him behind, left him to dwindle with your mother and siblings, while you sought something else, something that still stirs beneath the surface, unresolved, as it had been the day you left. “Do you think I have forgotten you?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy with the years and emotions that separate you now. The One-Eyed Prince halts as if he lays caught red-handed. But he quickly recovers, regaining his rigid posture. “You left, sister. You chose Oldtown over your family.” he says, bitterness lacing his words.

“Only because I had to,” you retort, knowing it was a weak excuse with the way your frustration was bubbling to the surface. “I didn’t abandon you.”

You were pleading at this moment, the tone of your voice meek and growing softer. However his silence was deafening, thickening the tension like a storm cloud. “I was left here alone.” Aemond says, his voice strained. “While you were away, I had to earn my place. We were once one, yet it was you who separated us. You think I wanted to be alone?”

The silence stretched between you, immeasurable and heavy with unspoken grievances. Memories flooded back into your mind — shared laughter, sibling quarrels, late night sneakouts to the Godswood, the bond you once had was failing. You wanted to berate his discretion, to defend your choice and consequences but the weight of his gaze pulls at you. The subtle yearning you both missed for years, miles apart from Oldtown to Kings Landing. Even as a child, you felt the odd coincidence, always finding Aemond’s stare back to yours. The Blood of the Dragon ran thick, weaving a bond neither of you could fully escape.

“I need you, brother,” You spoke in High Valyrian for the first time in years, adopting a strange accent. It felt rushed and rigid against your tongue yet you persisted, with ease. “More than I care to admit. The tides are shifting in King's Landing. Alliances are fraying, and we cannot face this alone.” It’s a desperate plea that escapes your lips, a vulnerability that rarely shows anymore. You were never emotionally empathetic, exceptionally only with your mother and sister. But with Aemond, you had shown glimpses of the weight you carried, moments that spoke of the things you long buried.

Your brother searches your face, his gaze searching for the truth in your eyes. His resolve falters, the harshness in his expression giving way to something softer. Your own softened expression features seem to shatter in his mind, like a broken ship in the middle of a nasty sea storm.

“You expect me to forget?” His voice cracks, the words laced with pain. “To forgive the years of silence?” For a fleeting moment, something in him flickers – something raw, something real. You notice the brief exposure, a fleeting softness in his eye, before it vanishes, replaced by anger. But in that moment, your gaze doesn’t waver. You look at him lovingly, tracing every line and contour of his face, the old and the new. You remember the boy he once was – the faint blush of his childhood cheeks, the tousled hair that now Aegon wore as his own, the green emerald clothes that pleased your mother so.

But he was no longer that young boy. Aemond’s cheeks were more refined, the delicacy of youth replaced by a hardened appearance. His lean physique tells you he’s trained well with swords. His missing eye, his most defining feature, reminds you of the day he claimed Vhagar, while losing that very eye.

“Don’t forget,” you said, your voice steady as you mirrored his every move, no longer concerned with the forgotten leaf on the ground. You stood just a few feet apart, your gaze fierce, unwavering. “Two heads are better than one, Aemond. Because the Blood of the Dragon flows through us.”

The weight of your shared history hung in the air, thick and uncomfortable. Your palms were slick with sweat, the tension of your nerves palpable. Yet you remained still, your posture resolute, like a dragon poised to strike.

Aemond finally exhales, feeling the remnants of his anger slowly dissipate like mist. “I don’t trust you.”

You step closer, merely under his gaze, close enough to make out hesitation and contempt from his momentary silence. The possibility of rebuilding what was lost was upon you, hanging on the threads of your next words. It was like a fragile thread, binding you together that guarantees loyalty is a promise.

“Let me earn it.” Sincerity in your voice cuts through the air yet the weight of the past lingers, like a shadow. Aemond walks closer, studying you for a moment. His intensity is sharp and brittle. The air you breathe under feels electric with the tension between you evolving into something that may appear on the brink of hope.

This time, you see intrigue under his gaze, enjoying the short moment of nostalgia happening. “You think it’s that simple?” His voice is low, laced with doubt. “Years of silence can’t be erased with just a few words.”

There is a flicker of something that eases his gaze, but it quickly vanishes.

“I know,” You say, settling on the weight of his words like the branches of the Godswood tree behind you. “I won’t abandon you again. I swear it.”

And like the boy you had always known, his breath hitches, the storm of emotions swirling in his one good eye. For a moment, you stand within the vicinity of each other’s comfort, relishing in the warmth of his presence, the ghost of your shared youth – the unkempt promises spirling around you, binding you in ways that were painful and profound.

Eventually, he exhales, easing the tension in his shoulders slightly. “I don’t trust you.” The edge of his voice mellowed, hinting at a reluctant approval. Aemond’s gaze holds yours for a moment longer, as he memorizes every bit part of you. You catch onto his discreet watch and that act alone stirs your heart, creeping a faint smile on your lips. As he walks away, the bittersweet ache settles into your heart. Your promise hangs in the air, intertwining with the silhouettes of your former younger selves. Though it feels uncertain, you know that the Blood of the Dragon runes through you both, that could potentially mend the distance between you.

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dreamescapeswriting · 1 year ago

Text

Reunions Embrace ~ HYJ

WORD COUNT: 2.1K

GENRE: idol!AU, established relationships, SMUT MINORS DNI, blow job, unprotected sex, reader taking care of the prince as deserved,

PAIRING: Hyunjin X Fem!Reader

⤜Copyright: © DreamEscapesWriting - March 2024

⤜MASTERLIST

The moment Hyunjin stepped into the house, a sense of tranquillity washed over him, filling every corner of his being with a comforting embrace. The home had been completely transformed since he left as if his absence had somehow imbued it with an even greater sense of warmth and homeliness.

The living room was bathed in the soft glow of evening light filtering through the blinds, it felt like peace compared to the bus he'd been cramped on for months. The coffee table had a vase of fresh cut flowers placed in them, so fresh he could smell them from the doorway and his body began to relax completely but the one thing putting him into a complete state of relaxation was the smell of cooking. Not just any cooking but Hyunjin's favourite meal that was greeting him, instantly warming his heart as he went toward the kitchen in the hunt for you.

In the kitchen, he found you standing by the stove, your sleeves rolled up as you tended to a pot simmering on the stove. The air was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of his favourite meal, a comforting blend of spices and flavours that instantly transported him back to simpler times.

"Hey, you're home!" You exclaimed, rushing over toward him and instantly wrapping your arms around him, his arms snaking around your waist as his head rested on the top of your head. This was what peace was, this was everything he ever wanted in life. To come home to you and this hug. He held you close, feeling the warmth of your embrace chase away the lingering chill of his travels.

"I've missed you so much," he whispered, his voice filled with longing and affection. It had been far too long since he'd gotten to hold you and he wasn't planning on letting go so easily. You smiled to yourself, letting out a happy sigh as you snuggled your head into his chest.

The two of you spoke almost every day whenever you could but it was hard when his schedule kept him so busy on tour, but you understood the risks of dating someone in his career and you accepted them. As long as he continued to come home to you, that was all you cared about.

Slowly pulling back you looked up at him with eyes that sparkled with joy and love, you were almost afraid if you looked away he would suddenly disappear.

"I've missed you too," You replied softly, your hand reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead, it had grown so much longer since the last time you saw him and you knew it was going to be irritating him sooner or later.

As you stood there, wrapped in each other's arms, he couldn't help but feel overwhelmed by a wave of gratitude for having you in his life. Despite the distance and the challenges you faced, you were always there for him, supporting him and loving him unconditionally. No matter the rumour going around you stood by him, waiting for him to tell you his side before ever passing judgement. Always there to care for him whenever he was sick or overworked, you were always there and he couldn't have been more grateful for you.

"I can't believe you cooked my favourite meal," he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You really are the best." He kissed the top of your head as you grinned up at him, your eyes shining with happiness.

"Well, I wanted to do something special for you," You said, your voice filled with warmth as you slowly went back over to the stove to make sure everything was cooking nicely. You had a whole night planned out for him and it wasn't going to end with just the meal,

"Welcome home, my love." You whispered as he wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his head on your shoulder while he stood with you and you cooked. And at that moment, as you stood there together, surrounded by the aroma of his favourite meal and the love that filled the air, he knew that no matter where his travels took him, he would always find his way back to you.

After savouring every last bite of the meal you'd lovingly prepared, he felt a warmth spread through his body unlike any he had experienced before. It wasn't just the delicious flavours that filled him with contentment, but the knowledge that each bite was a tangible expression of your love and devotion. As he leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smile playing at the corners of his lips, he felt a sense of peace wash over him. The worries and stresses of his time away seemed to melt away with each mouthful, replaced by a profound sense of gratitude for the love of his life sitting across from him.

"Wait right here," You whispered, your voice soft and soothing, you walked over to him, pressing a kiss to his temple and smirking to yourself.

"I have something special planned for you." Without giving him a chance to respond he watched as you disappeared from the room, anticipation fluttering in his chest like a butterfly's wings.

Moments later, you returned, your arms cradling a stack of fluffy towels and a bottle of his favourite bath oil.

"Come with me," You said, your voice a gentle melody that beckoned him to follow, almost like a siren's call and he was up in a flash, following after you in silence.

Together, you ascended the stairs, the soft glow of candlelight casting flickering shadows on the walls. As you reached the landing, you led him into the bathroom, where the air was heavy with the scent of lavender and eucalyptus.

With tender care, you began to fill the tub with warm water, the sound of rushing water a soothing symphony that filled the room. Once the tub was filled to the brim, you poured in a generous amount of bath oil, the fragrant aroma enveloping you both in a cloud of tranquillity.

"You don't have to do all of this for me," He mumbled a little, guilt weighing on him as he thought about all of the efforts you were going through for him. He'd been away so long and yet you were still doing all of this for him and a small part of him felt as though he should be the one to do this for you.

"I want to, I missed you and want to take good care of you," You told him as you glanced over your shoulder, reading the look on his face easily and sending him a reassuring smile.

"But-"

"No buts, I want to do this and I will," You said sternly, making him chuckle a little as you stood up and turned to face him.

"Now, it's time to relax." You whispered as you kissed him softly, slowly peeling off his clothes and dropping them into the laundry basket inside the room. Continuing to strip him and kiss his naked shoulders as you did so, smiling happily as you watched him sink further into relaxation.

Hyunjin stepped into the tub, sinking into the warm embrace of the water with a contented sigh. You knelt beside him, dipping a soft sponge into the water and beginning to wash away the cares of the day with gentle strokes. As you washed him, your touch was tender and loving, each caress a silent promise of your devotion. He closed his eyes, surrendering himself fully to the sensation of her hands moving over his skin, washing away the tension and fatigue that had accumulated during his time away.

"This is nice," He whispered, his head leaning back against the tub as you continued to wash his body gently. It was the first time touching him in a long time but it wasn't sexual, it was relaxing.

"Lean forward." You whisper in his head, once he does you begin to run the sponge down his back, smiling as your boyfriend fully relaxes for you.

"Thank you," He whispered as he leaned back against the tub, his eyes finding yours and smiling in a completely relaxed state. There was no place he'd rather be right now than right here,

"Anytime baby," You giggled a little, kissing him softly as he slipped further into the water, his eyes fluttering shut as you smiled leaning back against the tub enjoying him back with you.

Hyunjin sucks in a sharp breath as he watches your soft lips wrap around his hard length, he couldn't remember how you'd gotten to the bedroom but he didn't care, he was in complete bliss. Your eyes flirt with him as you sink lower onto his shaft and back up again, his moans filling the room as his eyes flutter shut,

"F-Fuck I missed this," He mumbles, his hands clutching onto the sheets as you run your tongue up and down his length, using your hand to stroke what your mouth can't reach as your head bobs up and down, tracing the veins in his skin as you suck.

"Just like that," He moans, his gaze now on you as you looked up at him, humming around him as you continue to suck him deeper, his praises filling you with determination. You wanted this to be the perfect welcome home for him and you were going to do anything for that to happen.

"Ffuuck," He hisses, your pace quickening as you suck him and stroke him faster, pulling off him to spit on the tip before taking him back into your mouth and to the back of your throat again,

"S-Stop...S-Stop," He begs as you pull back, afraid you'd done something wrong but he brought you onto his lap, kissing you deeply and hungrily as he wrapped his arms around you.

"I want to come with you," He whispered as he lined himself up at your entrance, your hands making their way into his hair and you bit down on his lip softly.

"I need you" You whimpered, as he slowly pushed into you, your eyes squeezing shut at the stretch, it had been far too long since you'd been with one another but you needed this.

"Shit, Yn, you're so fucking tight," He groans, his head rolling back against the bed as you sank further onto his cock, letting yourself adjust to his length as you breathed out a happy sigh,

"You're too big," You mumbled to him, rolling your hips slowly moving your hips in slow circles as his hands clutched onto your hips, there was no way he was going to last long, not when it had been too long since you were last together,

"Y-Yn," He stuttered out, he wanted this to be good for you too but he knew there was no chance he could make you come like this, not with how needy he was,

"This is all about you tonight," You breathed out, biting his ear softly as you slowly began to raise your hips only to let them fall again, rocking back and forth on him as he moaned your name out loudly. Your breathing went faster and shallower as you moved your hips faster on him, his hands digging into your hips as he groaned squeezing his eyes shut and trying to list off baseball players to distract him,

"Come for me baby, I missed you." You moaned out, looking down at him as he whimpered, his hips bucking wildly as he couldn't fight it anymore, the urge to come taking over him as he bucked into you, your pussy clenching around him as he thrusts harder and faster into you. Cumming suddenly as he whimpered your name out, sweat dripping down his forehead as you continued to ride him through his high.

"Maybe I should have made you bathe last," You teased, kissing his lips softly as he whimpered, unable to find words to speak at that moment.

"I'll run a fresh one and I'll join you this time," You told him, slowly getting up and smirking as you made your way to the bathroom, your boyfriend's eyes on you the whole time.

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blainesebastian · 2 months ago

Text

ex-something

word count: 11,109 ship: Nick Leister x reader rating: NC-17 (for some smut, suggestive sexual language and expletives) summary: Just because you and Nick are broken up doesn’t mean that you’re over one another. notes: really appreciate the overwhelmingly positive response on my first nick x reader post :) hope this is just as enjoyable! i have a masterlist! notes 2: gifs from this gif pack

You get it—relationships change, that’s true with anything. You’ve had friendships that have evaporated into thin air or have fused together thanks to one night, boyfriends who promise they’d hand you the moon but couldn’t even show up when you needed them. You’re also different, you’re not the same person from year to year, nor day to day. Small, minute shifts sometimes make the greatest ripple effects. It’s good to see how something can adapt, how you can realize one thing and decide on another.

Maybe you should have realized that you and Nick were never going to work—a thought that’s ugly that sprouts in your mind like a weed. Like ivy twisting around your ribcage and squeezing. You know him like the back of your hand, have been part of the same circles for so long—the orbiting around one another felt inevitable.

So maybe the disintegration was too.

Nick’s come a long way since you’ve known him in opening up, both of you bringing so much baggage to the table that you could no longer see the surface. Everyone has their own weight to carry, their own shit to get through, but it felt like…what you were carrying was no longer heavy when he was around. You both shared things, secrets in the dark, things you felt like couldn’t be shared with anyone else. While that should have caused the bond between you to strengthen, it created cracks and fragments that were sharp enough to cut the skin.

Nick has trouble trusting that people won’t leave him, and you have trouble trusting that something will last the way it’s supposed to. As awful as it sounds, you never thought you and Nick would be together long-term. It’s not about him, but about yourself—about not deserving something good, about losing someone you were never supposed to have in the first place.

When you began to pull away, creating distance and space, Nick overcompensated by yanking harder. He leaves you before you can leave him. The break-up, though surprising, is…somehow amicable, even though the devastation of it ending was clear on both your faces. Like a roadmap of a decimated city, the skyline crumbling into itself.

The sudden destruction is so ugly that neither of you can look away. There’s regret almost instantly, that much is obvious, and yet neither of you speak up to change anything. You just…part ways, Nick leaving first.

You let him go, you allow him to push you and keep that chasm of space, because it was never meant to work out, right?

“He’s in love with you, babe,” Jenna tells you one night over her house. “That’s never gonna change.”

“Guess not enough.” You mumble—but you’re not innocent. You didn’t chase after him.

“Well I never said he was smart,” Jenna teases, attempting to lighten the mood, and a smile twitches the corners of your mouth but you can’t reply. You shake your head, running a hand over the side of your face before lying back on her bed.

But Nick is smart. He’s smart, and calculated, and even though he sometimes thinks with his fists, he knows the consequences of actions before he makes them. He knows exactly what choice he’s made and why he’s done it.

Which is one of the reasons you can’t bring yourself to tell him he’s wrong.

—

You miss Nick like you never knew you could. It’s one of those cliché things that you don’t understand what’s missing until it’s gone. There’s an absence that feels like a force, that sits on your chest, that makes it hard to breathe. An ache that begins behind your ribs and pulses outward. You miss things that aren’t altogether obvious—things you never knew you thought about until they pop-tap-pop like morse code in your mind.

You miss his hands, the way they felt on your body, his fingers brushing through your hair or lingering along your hip. The squeeze on your knee or the gentle pattern of circles along your spine. You miss his mouth, the way the corner quirked up when he found something ridiculous, the way it felt on your own, his lips on your cheek, your shoulder, between your legs. You miss the way your bodies felt lined up, curled up in bed to sleep or slotting together during sex. You miss the sounds he used to make. You miss the gentle crinkle of his nose before he laughed, you miss that too; the laughing.

But most of all you miss the way he stood by you, protected you, cared about you, a driving power that’d run anyone else over if you needed something. You miss the way he made you feel loved, actual love—something real and tangible and consistent. Something you didn’t know you deserved.

It’s too late to take back what you’ve done and you lay awake at night, sometimes, wondering what would have happened if you would have tried to talk to him instead of letting your thoughts get the best of you.

—

Just because you and Nick are broken up doesn’t mean that you’re over one another.

—

Jenna drags you to Anna’s party—literally, she has to drag you.

“Enough moping,” She sing-songs. “Time to put on your tightest dress and your best lipstick and have a fucking good time.”

You roll your eyes but…she’s not wrong. So you follow her lead. Little black dress, comfortable shoes, red lipstick. It brings out the color of your eyes, it matches with the tiny, ruby, heart-shaped earrings you’re wearing and it draws people to look at your lips. But most of all? It makes you feel good. Your mother has always had a saying, to ‘dress your best when you feel your worst’, and you suppose that’s what you’re doing.

Surviving.

And sometimes? That’s more than okay.

“Wish this party wasn’t here, though.” You comment, a soft sigh leaving your lips as you enter the lavish home of Anna. Anna who is probably salivating at the concept that Nick’s single again. You’re sure he’s here tonight, you don’t need to ask Jenna to know. You smooth your fingers along your dress, adjusting your small purse so it sits on your hip.

You and Jenna wouldn’t exactly call Anna a friend…a frenemy, maybe? Maybe not. But Jenna smiles over her shoulder, “Shouldn’t let her expensive booze go to waste, should we?”

You let out a soft laugh—you suppose that’s true.

The night swirls forward with a lot of dancing, a messy game of darts, and almost too many shots. You roll your hips to the beat of the music, a grin on your face as Jenna bounces in time to the base, her hands finding yours and squeezing before giving you a twirl. It’s in that spin that you see him, leaning against the back of the couch on the outskirts, watching you.

Or maybe that’s a trick of the light, or the hazy alcohol licking your common sense. Either way, you don’t look back over your shoulder towards him, you can’t. You wish that Jenna doesn’t call over the music that she needs water, because your knees suddenly feel like jello at the concept of staying on this makeshift dance floor alone. So you don’t.

You make your way through the crowd to follow her, lingering, and hate yourself for your eyes being pulled from the task at hand…towards Nick.

He looks gorgeous tonight, but you suppose that’s not a surprise. Jeans, a white t-shirt, an oversized jacket. It’s pretty textbook and yet it’s enough to practically sway you off kilter. Without being close to him, you can smell the leather of his jacket, the expensive cologne, something purely him tying it all together. You can feel the heat of his body, the chill of the thin silver chain he’s wearing and the rings on his fingers over your skin.

An ache begins low in your stomach, which only turns sour when his eyes flitter to you and then look away. It’s so quick it feels like a slap to the face, his own expression impassive, like he has a million better things to do than be standing around at this party. You know his masks well, the ones he puts on when he thinks no one is looking, the ones he peeled off when he was around you. You know this is his favorite one—pretending he doesn’t care, when he does.

Chewing on your lower lip, you take a step towards him though you’re not sure why. To speak to him, maybe? To make a joke about how his face looks like it was carved in stone? That if he keeps making that expression it’s going to stick like that. But then he shifts when someone comes up beside him—

fucking Anna.

You stop short, trying to tell yourself to turn around, to get some water, to go back to having fun with Jenna. And yet, like a car crash, you can’t seem to look away. Anna has always been obvious about her feelings for Nick, whether it’s something genuine or just purely physical—it doesn’t matter. She practically molds herself to his side, a pretty grin on her face, talking about something that you can’t hear about—but her hand glides down his arm.

There’s a small, gentle tilt to Nick’s lips, ever so subtle, but it’s enough to make it feel like the floor is opening up underneath you.

Turning on your heel, you move through the crowd towards the bathroom, trying to quell the nausea rolling in your stomach. You try to tell yourself that you’re overreacting, that it’s not fair for you to have a reaction like this, that Nick is single and he can do whatever the fuck he wants… regardless that Anna is the worst.

It hasn’t been too long since you’ve broken up, and yet you find yourself trying to rationalize that it shouldn’t hurt like this. You know that’s a defense mechanism, that trying to convince yourself that you’re okay is just something to keep yourself from hurting. But maybe it’d be good to feel that hurt, to let it in instead of shoving it deep in a box that’ll remain unopened.

Maybe if you let yourself hurt, you wouldn’t be spiraling over Nick’s almost smile at Anna.

When you go for the bathroom door, it’s locked, and a groan leaves your lips because of course. Running a hand over your forehead, you lean back against the opposite wall, waiting, allowing your eyes to close as your head tips back.

“You look a little nauseous.”

Nick’s voice jolts you out of your position against the wall, almost setting you off balance. When your eyes dart to him, there’s that playful quirk to his lips, warm amusement in his brown eyes. His jacket is missing—you hate that you wonder if it’s around Anna’s shoulders. You straighten your shoulders, letting out a breath as you turn to look at him.

He’s not wrong, you are nauseous. But it’s not from the alcohol. “Think this house just does that to me.”

Nick smirks, shaking his head as he takes a few steps towards you. He stops short, too short, leaning his shoulder against the wall. His eyes dance over your form, making you squirm, hating how he seems to see right through you. Like you’re made of glass. Heat gathers low in your stomach and pulses between your legs, that familiar ache comes back in the center of your chest. You miss him and you fucking hate that you do.

Tearing your gaze away, you curl your hair around your ear, glancing back towards the bathroom door. Sheesh, what is someone doing in there?

“Is it the house or is it someone in particular?”

You scoff out a soft laugh—fuck, he’s got a lot of nerve. “Is that any of your business?”

The smile he gives you is something slow and knowing, his gaze wandering to your lips, lingering on the red lipstick there. Butterflies erupt in your stomach, fluttering up towards your ribs, living there on the bones. The way he’s looking at you digs under your skin in the best way.

“Think it’s completely my business.” He replies, sticking his one hand in his pocket. You can picture his fingers flexing, maybe trying to resist touching you. You love the sound of that. It’s one of the reasons you decide to flip the script, to take a little power back when he won’t stop staring at your mouth. Two can play this game—whatever game this is.

Taking a step towards him, you say, “Is my lipstick your business?”

Nick draws in a slow breath, it may seem causal, but you can see the heat darken the color of his eyes. Regardless of how things have played out between you two, things that maybe should have never happened in the first place (breaking up sounds like it was a stupid idea), you know that you feel safe with him. It’s that safeness that has you eliminating space, the toe of your shoe bumping into his.

He’s not that much taller than you but it feels like he’s towering, eyes zeroed in on your lips. He lifts his hand, brushing his thumb over your lower one, purposely smudging your red lipstick,

“You never seemed to be jealous of anyone when we were together.” He whispers, his breath fluttering over your cheek and yet it feels like a bucket of ice water tossed over you. A reminder. Dick.

You lean further into his touch, your noses bumping, close enough to kiss him but you don’t. Nick goes dangerously still and licks his lips.

“Unsurprised that you didn’t seem to know me very well.”

And with that you pull back, putting distance between your bodies. You wish it was enough to get your head on straight. Nick rubs his fingers over his thumb, erasing any traces of lipstick, like it never even happened.

You wished it didn’t sting to see it.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t want to keep Anna waiting.” You cross your arms over your chest, a clear defensive move but almost creating a shield as well, protecting yourself.

You’re not looking at him but he lingers, a soft hum leaving his lips. He then moves to the bathroom door that…still hasn’t opened? Jesus, who’s in there? Though you try not to think about how often you and Nick found an empty bathroom during a party, a dark corner, a place where hands could roam and lips could nip.

He jiggles the handle and pushes, your mouth falling slightly open—

“The door sticks,” He says, amused, eyes bright. And then turns to head back down the hall.

Well, fuck.

—

Nick leaves the party before you do but you’re not going to deny that you feel a zing of enjoyment that Anna’s left behind. And she looks pissed.

—

Time crawls forward—it’s somehow achingly slow at the same time that it spins like a top. You and Nick are unfortunately like magnets, stuck in one another’s orbit. You suppose that’s the downside of having the same group of friends, seeing one another is unavoidable. It’s not…the worst thing, despite the prickly conversations you’ve been having. You know the fallout is a reflection on how good your relationship could be. There’s still strong emotions lingering—guilt, regret, love. It stains everything around you both.

There’s a moment that comes and goes, just like your feelings, about having a conversation with Nick. About explaining to him why you were pulling away—that your parents have a shit relationship, that their divorce and their problems and their burdens sometimes sit in your bloodstream in a way you can’t put into words. You’re used to people disappointing you, you’re used to relationships not carrying merit—the only good one you’ve ever been in had been with Nick. And sometimes you were afraid that you weren’t worthy of it, that eventually he’d realize it too.

That he’d leave. That all good things come to an end.

Maybe then he’d crack wide open and explain that he likes to hurt people before they can hurt him. That it was a mistake.

That you can start over.

That thought is gone as quickly as it comes. Everything happens for a reason, right? There’s no need to go backwards when you need to focus on what’s ahead. Just because a relationship didn’t work out doesn’t mean that…you and Nick can’t be what you were before.

Friends. Good friends.

—

“Can you check again, please?” You ask, rubbing the back of your neck as you hold up a line at this charity event that your parents were supposed to attend.

Well—your parents decided to get a divorce three months ago and neither of them wanted to get dressed up and go. You get it, you really do, they don’t want to spend time with one another anymore. They want to continue separating their assets and not be in one another’s lives unless they have to. You're the bridge between and that’s…that’s something you’re coming to terms with.

You tried to explain to both of them that you’ve been wanting to go to this, that this charity event is about donating money to cleaning up the ocean. That plastic removal and creating turtle sanctuaries and doubling-up efforts on proper recycling is really important to you. It always has been—this shouldn’t be some sort of surprise.

And yet neither of them can get their shit together to just be present. To go with you.

So whatever, fine. At this point you’re used to feeling like you’re doing things by yourself, and that’s how you decide you’re going to go. By yourself.

Except for some reason, your name isn’t on the guest list.

Vanessa, who’s in the same social circles as you, scowls behind the podium. She must be some sort of volunteer in whatever rotations that rich kids fall into, her nose wrinkling as she taps her fingers down the so-called list that you’re missing from.

“Sorry—who are you again?”

You feel your cheeks heat in frustration, refusing to get flustered even though you’re sure that’s her intention. There’s this group of girls that are always hanging out with Anna at any party you’ve ever been to. Vanessa knows exactly who you are.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, can feel people getting restless behind you, wanting to get inside to escape the chill in the evening air. You’re not sure whether your parents took themselves off the guest list when they decided they weren’t attending or whether Vanessa is just being a bitch.

“Y/N,” You say your name and add your last, just in case there’s any confusion.

Vanessa purses her lips, about to say something nasty, when her gaze catches something over your shoulder. Her entire demeanor changes—her shoulders relax, there’s an easy smile on her face, eyes soft. You already know who it is before he speaks.

“Is there a problem?” Nick asks, the warmth of his body at your back. You feel yourself bristle, not turning around.

“Nick, hi,” Vanessa offers.

Nick ignores her, his gaze falling to your own when you finally tip your chin. You turn a little, crossing your arms over your chest. He’s dressed in all black; slacks, dress shirt, overcoat, it makes the softness of his brown eyes and the golden curls in his hair stick out even more.

“You alright?” He lifts his eyes away from you just briefly and you know he’s checking the crowd for your parents who aren’t there.

“She’s not on the guest list.” Vanessa sounds altogether too pleased at informing him.

“Your parents made these reservations months ago,” His attention doesn’t waver from you.

You swallow, giving him a small smile as another podium opens up to get guests inside since this one is obviously backlogged. You resist the urge to just give up, to head back down the steps and go home.

“I know.” You reply, and Nick’s head tips back just slightly, recognition flashing in his eyes. Months ago. Your parents. The divorce.

He turns to Vanessa, finally acknowledging her. “There’s space at my table for her.”

“Nick,” You say gently, touched by the sentiment, by him trying to help, as Vanessa visibly bristles.

“All the tables are filled—“

Nick cuts her right off, voice cold and sharp as glass. “Then I suggest you figure it out, Vanessa, because Y/N’s my plus one.”

Vanessa scoffs, waving us in, muttering whatever under her breath. Nick’s hand falls to your lower back, encouraging you to step forward to walk inside. You roll your lips together, glad you’re not wearing lipstick tonight before turning to look at him in front of the coat-check.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

Nick gives you a soft smile, motioning you to turn around so he can help you take your coat off. “Like I’d get in-between you and saving the otters tonight.”

You can’t help the bubble of laughter that threatens to slip out, amusement pulling your mouth into an honest smile. Something warm and comfortable and feels far too familiar with him.

“Sea turtles.” You correct. “I’m worried about the sea turtles.”

You’re not sure why he’s here if he doesn’t really know what the event is for, but you bite down on the inside of your cheek from saying that to him. A twinge of warmth butterflies your stomach in hopes that he came because he knew you’d be here.

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

Your lips twitch and you smooth your hands down your dress, removing imaginary wrinkles. “Thank you.” You add.

Nick’s hand slides effortlessly into yours to tug you towards the open doors and awaiting tables. He doesn’t say anything back, but he does squeeze your fingers.

—

When you donate an amount at that charity event, Nick doubles it.

—

It’s easy to get lost in those simple touches, it’s always been something so easy between you and Nick. That communication runs deep. Sometimes, you think, that words often get in the way. A misplaced phrase, a misunderstanding, syllables stuck under tongues or behind teeth. There’s never been any confusion in how you touch one another, in how Nick’s hands convey a love language that maybe words can’t.

The problem is that touch between you two is sometimes too much, too honest, too real. Too complicated.

How are you supposed to move on and get over him if you’re constantly near one another? If one brush of his fingers turns into a playful squeeze at your hip, if one lingering gaze ignites into him brushing his lips against your temple?

You convince yourself that you can somehow create space, that it won’t be so difficult, that the universe has to be on your side here—that even though it’s hard? It’ll be good for you in the long run.

Turns out the universe is a bitch.

—

There’s too many moving bodies on the dance floor, it pushes you and Nick closer and closer together.

To be fair, you’re in a tight circle of friends and beats are pulsing through the tight spaces. You’re in a tiny slip dress, a pair of high-top converse sneakers to move easily, which just ends up being a bunch of bouncing and swaying to the beat at a wicked pace. Jenna’s grin is wide as she throws her arms around you and you laugh, tipping your head back towards the ceiling.

You love nights like this, the feeling of freedom, your heartbeat loud in your ears, no concerns other than when the next drink is gonna be bought. Lion tugs your dance partner away, twirling her into a circle and you back up to avoid the spin—

And bump right into Nick.

The man is like black hole—endless, all-encompassing. He’s dressed simply, but he could probably wear a paper bag and still have the same sex appeal. Lean, tapered body, intricate line tattoos on muscled biceps and you try not to think about the set of Roman numerals that you used to love to kiss on his collarbone. You’re close enough to see the light sheen of sweat sticking to his skin, deepening the scent of his cologne and him somehow. You want to run your hands through his curls and tug—

You must show how you feel right on your face because Nick steps closer, his hand reaching for you, sliding it around your waist to pull you flush against him. It’s so confident and knowing that it nearly takes you out at your knees.

You know you could pull away and that he’d let you, but the moment his fingers curl against your back, the moment he gathers a bit of the fabric of your dress between his fingers—you know you’re not going anywhere.

The weight and heat of his body against your own feels like coming home.

You dance like that for a while, pressed against one another, your arms resting on top of his shoulders, fingers against his neck, curling into the bottom of his hair. He slips close enough at one point to press a kiss to your shoulder, something that you ignore. You have to.

And yet your fingers dig into his shoulders and Nick pulls back, eyes dark, on your lips.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You’re about to say something, maybe mention grabbing water or stepping outside—but Nick’s thumb begins to trace circles through the thin material of your dress against the underwear line on your hip. A struggled gasp leaves your lips, and he must feel it more than hear it, a slow smile curving his handsome mouth.

“I need to—“ You take a step back, almost running into someone else. Nick’s arms stabilize you from stumbling, even though he eventually lets you go. You immediately regret opening your mouth. “Bathroom.”

You turn and make a b-line towards the restrooms before he can say anything. The sharp coolness off the dance floor manages to shake reality into focus and you run a hand over your face, a soft laugh rumbling in your chest.

Jesus.

You don’t end up using the bathroom, just leaning against the wall near them and breathing, trying to center yourself. It’s blissfully devoid of people back here and you need that. Your body aches in a delicious way, a throb of heat still present between your legs.

And apparently it’s not going to go away, because Nick rounds the corner.

“Nick—” His name barely slips out from between your teeth before he’s pressed against you again, and your resolve goes right out the fucking window, your mouth crashing down onto his.

You thread your fingers into his hair and yank him forward and you can feel him chuckle against your body as he has to balance himself with his hands on the wall on either side of you. His thigh slides between your legs and a full body shudder passes through you as you allow yourself to lean down into him.

Fuck.

Nick pulls back just a little, brushing your lips together. His hand slides between you, tugging your dress up so that the only thing between your cunt and his jeans are your underwear.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks, mouth at your ear. “I can stop.”

That’s something you’ve always loved about Nick—he checks on you, he makes sure you’re okay. Doesn’t matter if it’s something soft or like this, heated and desperate. You know you shouldn’t—you know that this will only complicate things that are already complicated…

And yet you don’t want to stop.

“No,” You reply, assure your response with your hips pivoting down, grinding against his leg. Nick’s hands fall to your waist, holding you in place, a groan vibrating in his chest.

The pulse of the music is muffled, you can hear the uptick in his breathing, can feel how hard he is against you. You’re not ashamed of the tiny whimpers that leave your lips as you roll your hips down against him, the pressure incredible but not enough—he feels so fucking good. You’ve missed him terribly. All logical thought evaporates when his one hand comes up and cups your breast through your slip dress.

“Can feel how wet you are for me,” Nick says. “Desperate for it, aren’t you?”

Jesus. You need more. You need him to help—to do something. You can only use the momentum of your legs to get off on him to a certain point. There’s not enough leverage, there’s not enough friction to sate the heated ache quickly building in your lower belly.

“I—I need—”

“No,” He nips at your lower lip. “If you want to cum, you’re gonna have to do it just like this.”

An exasperated noise leaves your mouth, and you’re stuck between wanting to throttle him and kiss him. He drags your hips down, and you wish his fingers were inside of you, wish his thumb was circling your clit. The thought alone is enough to uptick your pleasure, and you’re so fucking close.

“Nick,” You moan, “Please.”

He licks his lips, smiling a little as his hand tugs down your dress over your breast. “So polite.” He teases, before he dips his head, taking your nipple into his mouth.

There’s a snap of your hips when he drags his teeth over your puckered flesh and then you’re shattering. He holds your body up as you shudder, waves of pleasure slamming into you like the base of the music pulsing in your ears.

He doesn’t let you go, even when your breathing settles, even when his leg moves out from between your thighs. You’re sure you look absolutely wrecked—you feel it. Underwear ruined, sweat sticking some of your hair to your neck, your heart thrumming for a completely different reason.

Your eyes find Nick’s, the port that’s always been in the center of your storm, and a sudden thick emotion lodges itself in your throat.

“I miss you.” You choke out, blaming the almost waterworks on endorphins, on the bliss that’s still kissing your nerve endings.

Nick visibly swallows, brushing your hair over your shoulder after he fixes your dress. You think he might say something, he even opens his mouth, but no words come.

Jesus. One good orgasm and you’re tumbling head over tincups into emotions too heavy to come with words. Nick broke up with you—you should be furious, you should push him away, except this is how the whole problem started. You pushed first.

You straighten your shoulders and he takes a step back. You expect him to turn and leave, but he doesn’t, hovering—waiting? You’re not sure for what. He runs both of his hands through his hair, as if to compose himself, as if there’s words stuck in his throat that he doesn’t know how to say.

Instead of saying anything at all, he reaches his hand out for you to take. A peace offering, of sorts, a promise that even though things aren’t okay, the door isn’t completely closed off.

You discreetly wipe away a tear that’s slipped down your cheek and take his hand.

—

You don’t talk about what happened at the club but things don’t change between you. It’s the same heavy glances, the same shared, soft smiles, the same brushing of fingers and calling it an accident.

It should be fucked up. But it’s not.

—

You haven’t been to an underground car show and race in a while, so the thrum of engines and the smell of gasoline is exciting. Comforting, even. You come with Jenna even though you know Nick will be there. Avoidance doesn’t work and trying to ignore the crackling energy between you two just…ends up with you getting off on his leg in a darkened corner at a club.

“Don’t get me wrong, babe,” Jenna says over her shoulder as she moves to lean against her car. “I love Nick, I really do. But…whatever this is between you two—”

“I know,” You put your hand up to stop her.

She smiles a little, “I was hopin’ you two would talk, figure it out.”

“Oh, you mean you ruining my favorite pair of underwear wasn’t ‘figuring it out’?” You laugh a little, rubbing the back of your neck. Despite it probably not being the best decision…you can’t find yourself regretting it either.

You still love Nick. You don’t think that’ll change.

You look down at your shoes, a pair of sneakers, high waisted jeans and a crop t-shirt. You’re showing off your shape but nothing that overdoes it; comfortable. You feel like you need that tonight.

“I told him I missed him.” In an orgasm induced haze, but still. “And he didn’t say anything.”

You know Nick isn’t exactly very forward with his words all the time, his actions speak the loudest. But…you needed to hear something then, you needed some sort of assurance that…maybe you both made a mistake.

Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking on your part. You can’t quite picture ripping yourself wide open to talk to him about why you pulled away if he can’t admit he purposely let you go.

You run a hand over the side of your face, glancing over at another set of cars pulling up and guys getting out, greeting one another, the space turning into an outside party with music and beer. While you’re glad you came, it’s been a while, part of you feels like curling under your comforter at home with a book.

“Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to branch out?” Jenna asks, tossing an arm over your shoulder. “Not saying you need to have another orgasm,” You laugh softly. “But maybe talking to some handsome strangers wouldn’t hurt either.”

You breathe in through your nose, looking out at the crowd of cars and people. You suppose it wouldn’t hurt.

—

Turns out talking to guys about cars is fun. You don’t know much about them? But they like responding to your questions—and none of it has been mansplaining, which you’re grateful for. You’re really not in the mood tonight…just trying to sink into your own skin, enjoy something that’s a little different, not think about Nick.

Even though you can feel his eyes on you.

You know he’s here because you saw him drive in, park his car, and find Lion and Jenna. He doesn’t come find you; wouldn’t be surprised if Jenna told him to give you some space. Either way, you can feel his gaze every so often, lingering, something open and warm that you miss. That you feel like you can dive right into.

Your heart flutters in your chest as you lock eyes, the guy you were talking to, Pete, headed to the bathroom. Nick crosses the pavement, giving you a small wave.

“Hi.”

You smile, the word somehow too simple , but you say it back. You try to think of something else to say, to fill the space between you,

“There’s not a race tonight, is there?”

His eyebrows crinkle together, smiling, “Why? Did you want to give driving a shot?”

You laugh and he takes a step closer, “No, I wouldn’t stand a chance. Even when you’re driving too fast sometimes I get nauseous.”

“I’m always under the speed limit.”

“You are not,” You scoff out a sound but you’re grinning.

“Very responsible,” Nick tacks on with a playful tilt of his lips, sticking his hands into his pockets.

The banter is familiar but it makes you miss him even more. That gnawing pit in your stomach rears its ugly head as you think about the other night, about saying something so vulnerable and it not being reciprocated. Nick must see the shadow pass over your face because he clears his throat, tilting his head in the direction of the bathrooms.

“I’m gonna—” He trails off and he turns to leave but then pauses, “I’ll see you later?”

The question sinks into your skin and blooms before you give him a small nod. You then look at your shoes, unable to watch him walk away.

—

Having another sip of the drink in your hand, you smile as Pete finishes his semi-cute rant about the first car he ever owned. Some sort of thing he and dad fixed up together, which is how he’s come to love cars. It’s nice, having that connection to something special, something that becomes a passion project. You thought for a long time that might be art for you but…you’ve learned that you’re much more someone who appreciates viewing art than creating it. Maybe you’ll end up going to school for something that involves the ocean.

Shifting on your feet, you curl your hair away from your face. There’s a soft headache pinching the back of your head, behind your ear, but it’s probably from the muffled sound of music constantly pulsing against the concrete down here.

“So would you say you like driving or fixing up cars more?” You ask, running your thumb over the rim of the cup.

He opens his mouth to reply, but then his gaze narrows to someone behind you. Turning, you come face to face with Nick, who looks furious. It’s not so much in his face, it’s the way he’s holding his body—like a tight band about to snap. He zeroes in on the cup in your hand,

“Give that to me.”

You blink, “What? No.” Seriously? You thought you kinda parted from one another on good terms and now he’s here? In your business while you’re trying to talk to a guy? To have a decent night that doesn’t include him?

You open up your mouth–

“Y/N.” There's something in the way that he says your name that makes you feel cold, your gaze wandering down to the cup. It only takes a moment to connect to dots about why Nick would approach you like this, pissed. A sour feeling develops in your stomach, connecting to pinpricks of dread as the cup leaves your hand.

Nick takes it, your fingers brushing, setting it down on the pavement. And as if he wasn't moving carefully before, he suddenly whirls his body in precise movements, suckerpunching Pete in the face. His body bows and he lands on the ground, screaming about his face—

"You broke my fucking nose!"

"You think someone wasn't going to hear you in the bathroom, you fuck?" He snaps and you stumble a step back, bumping into the driver's side of a car nearby. You’re trying to piece together what’s going on but your thoughts are sluggish, which just serves to make you feel more panicked.

"I didn't know she was your girlfriend, man, she said she was single."

You put your hand over your mouth, swaying a little on your feet, though you're not sure if it's because Pete...he put something in your drink or because of the blood on Nick's knuckles as he throws another punch, this time hitting him square in the jaw. Pete's head snaps back like a ragdoll but all he does is groan.

It’s unclear if Nick says anything else because the garage begins to spin and you let out a short, sharp breath, bending a little at your waist to close your eyes. Fuck. Whatever Pete gave you? It's strong and working fast—you only had a few sips of that drink. Terrifying to think if you'd been alone with him...

Someone comes up beside you and wraps an arm around your waist and you begin to squirm until you hear Nick's voice against your ear, "Shh, it's me." A small, uncomfortable whimper leaves your lips—your body feels weird, like it's disconnected. Bone by bone, muscle by muscle. Your cheeks are hot and your stomach is dipping in nausea. "I know, I got you. Hold onto me."

You stretch your arm across his shoulders, squeezing your eyes shut as everything spins. There's movement, but you have no idea how you're even walking with how heavily you're leaning into Nick's side.

Flashes of movement, sound, and pitches of light. You can feel warm leather underneath your body, head lolled back against the headrest, Jenna's voice? Then Nick's.

"No, I got her." He closes a door, opens up another, "I get it Jenn, but it’s not happening. I’m not leaving her.” Confusion prickles along your forehead, unable to make heads or tails of that conversation. You want to ask but your veins feel like they're filled with cotton as the world goes black.

Sleep is uncomfortable and dreamless. You wake up several times with a pounding headache, a sour stomach, and shaking that makes you feel like there aren’t enough blankets in the world to keep you warm. When you wake up and it sticks, you blink as you try to get your vision to adjust. The room is a little dark, sun trying to shine through drawn curtains. There’s an anvil that’s been placed on your head, there has to be, because when you turn to lie on your back the pain in your temples is unheard of.

You close your eyes again, pinching the space between your nose and forehead with your fingers. It doesn’t help. A weight sits down near your legs, an arm stretched over them. When you manage to pry your eyelids back again, Nick comes into slow focus. He looks tired, eyes not as bright, curls a bit mussed.

“How you feeling?” He asks, voice nearly a whisper.

“Like I swallowed a tire and then was run over.” You wince, sitting up just a little, which somehow makes everything worse. Your hand covers your face and Nick threads his fingers through your hair, brushing the strands over your shoulder. The room is quiet for the moment, birds chirping outside, the even movement of Nick drawing in breath.

“I can't believe this happened,” You mumble, “I feel like an idiot.”

“This isn't on you,” He says, voice gentle but firm. “If Pete knows what's good for him, he'll never think about doing shit like that again.”

You raise your eyebrows, the corner of your mouth twitching in a smile as you finally look at him. “What are you, like, the mafia? Did you cut off his hands?”

A wisp of a smile, and yet something dark in those eyes that make you swallow, “No, but I did threaten to slam them in his car door if I ever saw him at another event you were at.”

You shake your head even though your entire body bursts with warmth. What does it say about you? That you're willing to accept such a violent sentiment? You draw in a long breath through your nose. Maybe a thought for another day when you don't feel so sick.

One of Nick's hands lace through yours, his thumb brushing circles around your knuckles. "Seeing you like that..." He was scared, you realize, you can see it on his face—plain as day. He's quiet for a moment, licking his lips before he speaks again,

"Can I get you anything?"

You shake your head, not wanting him to leave, drawing in a breath as you finally notice that you're in his bedroom and not your own. You pick up hints of the smell of laundry detergent and his shampoo on his sheets. He drove you back to his place,

"Didn't think I'd end up in your bed any time soon." It's a small joke, just something to break what feels like a vice-like tension around your ribs.

Nick's gaze holds your own for a moment, something unweighted and unsaid, "I miss you here."

You swallow over an instant lump in your throat and you have to tear your eyes away and blink, trying to get rid of the sudden onslaught of tears. Partly because of the situation that landed you here, but also because you didn't realize how much you needed to hear him say it, to hold that same sentiment as you.

You sniffle, a tear slipping down your cheek as you try to play off the comment with a light laugh, "Well your bed does have the best pillows."

Nick doesn't reply but instead leans forward until his arms are wrapped around your back, gently pulling you to his chest. His one hand slips through your hair as you press your face into his shoulder, while the other rubs up and down your back in firm, even strokes.

Nothing is fixed between you two, not by a long-shot. But some of the visible cracks, you think, begin to heal.

—

You were wrong.

That much is clear. You’ve had so many good moments with Nick that you’re not sure why you allowed your unfounded anxiety to control you, to convince you of something that wasn’t true. But that time spent with him in his bedroom after the whole Pete thing only solidifies what you’ve been feeling for a while.

You fucked up.

You pulled away based solely on fears that were baseless, something you thought you didn’t have a claim to. But you do. You do deserve to have someone be there for you, to take care of you, to look out for you. To miss you.

You’re ready to own that you didn’t make the best choice…but Nick needs to own his mess too.

Y/N: Can we talk?

It takes a little for your phone to buzz— Nick: You’re not gonna convince me that diner food is somehow better than Italian, you’re just not.

A small smile tugs the corners of your mouth, Y/N: I mean…

You’ve had this banter back and forth before and it’s easy to fall back into similar patterns, something comforting. That feels like home.

Nick: You’ve never had homemade carbonara. Life-changing.

Y/N: Are you offering?

Not what you were originally trying to text him about but spending time with him wouldn’t suck, either. Who says you can’t bring up past mistakes over pasta? You chew on your lower lip, as you wait for a response.

Nick: What do you want to talk about? Nick: I might be out of London next week, my dad is traveling for work and I think I’m gonna go with him.

You stare at the messages for a moment, almost getting whiplash. You know that tone completely disappears sometimes with texting but…you also get the sense that you and Nick are on the same page. And he doesn’t want to be.

You swallow over unspoken words in your throat, not wanting to lose your nerve. If Nick leaves, you’re almost worried that you’ll be at square one when he gets back.

Y/N: Something important.

You curl your hair around your ear, pulling yourself up in bed. You do your best not to pace, trying to clean up your room instead, something more productive than wearing the carpet down. When your phone pings, you deny practically diving for it.

Nick: Then I’ll make time for you.

—

That conversation doesn’t happen. Not because neither of you want it to happen, but because the next day, your grandmother passes away. It’s not something you were expecting—you thought your grandma was in pretty good health for her age. You just saw her a month ago…went over to her house, baked cookies and watched episodes of Magnum P.I., because your grandmother’s thirsting commentary over Tom Selleck was one of your favorite things to participate in.

You were close. Sometimes you talked to her about relationships because she was married to your grandfather until he died a few years ago. They were in love in a way that made you feel like…like maybe it’s one of the best and worst things to happen to someone. That maybe not all relationships are doomed from the start. Your gram talked about her husband every day, even after he passed, something warm and gentle in her eyes. That love never faded.

Sometimes you and her talked about Nick.

When your parents tell you, you don’t cry. You just kind of stand there staring at them, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to turn this into a warped joke, a morbid sense of humor. It doesn’t feel real. How does one day have your grandmother in it and then the next just…doesn’t? How are you supposed to keep going through each of them moving forward without her? Someone who was always willing to listen, someone who made you laugh and feel at home in your skin.

Someone who just saw you. There’s only been one another person in your life that’s made you feel like that.

The days slip forward but you don’t end up leaving your room, spending time in bed, unmoving. You ignore your laptop, your pinging phone that eventually dies, the pleas of your parents to eat something. You just…you can’t. Not right now. There’s an ache in your chest that is beyond anything you’ve ever felt before, it immobilizes you. In the back of your mind you know you should take care of yourself, that the last thing your grandmother would want is this.

But today isn’t that day.

You shift in bed, adjusting your head on your pillow, hearing your bedroom door open. You don’t turn to look at who it is—probably your mother, either setting food on your nightstand or maybe deciding she’s gonna force your hand. Yank the covers off and encourage you to get a shower. You cover your face with your hand, listening to the movements as the door closes again.

Blankets are pulled back, but someone crawls in, your heart lurching into your throat as you realize who it is.

Nick drags his hand down your arm, shuffling closer until his front maps against your back. “You don’t have to say anything,” He murmurs, “But I’m going to lay here with you. Alright?”

You lick your lips, the bridge of your nose stinging as you realize he’s supposed to be gone this week. He mentioned he was going to travel with his dad and yet he’s here, with you, offering you comfort and space all at once. You lean back just a little into him, a silent reply, squeezing your eyes shut. Nick’s hand rubs your shoulder, thumb tracing back and forth along your elbow, a kiss pressed to the back of your neck.

The weight of his body and the heat of his skin make tears gather in your eyes. You’re not sure how your heart can feel so full and empty all at the same time. Sniffling, you turn your body so that you’re facing him, Nick leaning back just a little. His hand comes to rest on your waist, his head perched on your one pillow. Your eyes begin to trace the soft blonde curls that are near his forehead, the slope of his nose, his strong jawline and full lips.

He’s here—and you love him even more than you already do, which doesn’t feel possible.

Nick’s eyes explore your face, his one hand cupping your cheek and brushing underneath your eye, removing invisible tears that haven’t fallen yet. “I’m so sorry.” He whispers.

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, trying not to cry, but on the next intake of breath tears spill over your cheeks. You cover your face with one hand, your shoulders shuddering, and Nick closes the space between you. He draws you into his chest, tucking you under his chin, and you find yourself clinging to him as each sob wracks your body. All the pent up emotions you’ve had since you found out empty against his chest—and Nick takes it all.

He steadies you, wrapping his arms tightly around your frame, pressing his nose and lips into your hair. He squeezes every so often, your fingers gathering his shirt into your hands as if you can ground yourself in him.

“That’s it,” He threads his hand through your hair, rubbing his thumb against the back of your neck. “Just let it all out.” Nick knows you far too well, knows that you haven’t given yourself time to feel, to be. To let it all wash over you. That you need this and didn’t realize how much that was true until it was happening.

You exhaust yourself, until you’re a mess of sniffles and stumbled breathing. Nick pulls back a little, cupping both sides of your face to brush your hair behind your ears. He presses a kiss to your forehead, reaching over your shoulder to grab a few tissues from the box on your nightstand.

“Thank you.” Your voice is a bit strained from lack of use and you try your best to clean up your face, crumpling the tissues into your palms. You’re not just thanking him for the tissues though, it’s for everything, for being here.

Your chest hurts but…you feel a little bit better. You’re not sure when you’ll feel like yourself again, but it’s a good, small, first step. Your gaze finds Nick’s, who’s watching you with a careful expression. Not because he thinks you might start crying again, but because he’s concerned. Worried. You lift your hand and brush your thumb over his lower lip, leaning forward to press a kiss to his cheek.

“I love you.” You tell him, feeling him go still beneath your touch. You know this might not be the best time, that maybe these thick, heavy emotions are driving forth how you make decisions, but…if anything? You’ve just been reminded that life is short. That you shouldn’t go through it without sharing how you feel about things, about people.

“I know it’s…I know we still have to talk and I understand if—” If you don’t feel the same way, is what you want to say but the words get trapped underneath your tongue.

Nick’s hand falls to your neck, tipping your chin up with his thumb, “I love you too.” He replies, stealing the air right from your lungs. “That’ll never change.” He holds your gaze a moment, playfully pinching your chin between his thumb and fingers. “Okay?”

You give him a soft, watery smile, nodding before he tucks you in close again.

Nick stays as long as you need him.

—

A handful of weeks pass by—the pain of losing your grandmother doesn’t completely disappear. But you do feel better. They say that time is capable of healing all wounds, and maybe that’s true, but honestly? You think it has everything to do with Nick.

—

Jenna’s birthday is celebrated at her house, a large party underway. You’d expect nothing less at celebrating someone so vibrant. You’re over there early to help set up, to hang out and do your makeup, to eat a little too much cake with sweet icing. Her house fills up fast, people you’ve never even met before spilling into all the rooms of the lavish London estate. You’re looking for someone specific though.

You and Nick haven’t spoken with the intention of clearing the air since your grandmother passed. He’s been giving you space to breathe and work through your emotions, which…you appreciate, but you don’t want space anymore. You don’t want to spend one more day caught between a ‘sometimes’ and an ‘almost’.

“You seen Nick?” You call out to Lion who’s mixing drinks in the kitchen.

“Playing pool I think.” He volleys back.

Making your way through the crowd of people, you turn towards the dining room were the pool table is located, but stop short when you hear Anna—

“C’mon Nick, at the very least we used to be good friends.”

“Jesus Anna, I’m just trying to take a piss.” Which tells you she cornered him outside the bathroom. You chew on your lower lip, debating turning the corner and revealing that you’re standing there or going about your business to the dining room…or maybe even go back the way you came.

You shouldn’t be eavesdropping, you know you’d be annoyed if someone was listening in on you, but…your feet feel glued to the carpet. You’re not sure you can move even if you decided to.

“I’m just trying to say,” Anna replies, softer than before. She must have stepped closer to him because her voice is no longer carrying like it was. “That I miss you.”

There is no reply from Nick.

“We’ve always known how to have a good time.”

When Nick finally does speak, his voice is matter of fact, “That hasn’t been true for a long time.”

Anna bristles, “I just thought that since you’re single now, free from that—”

“Don’t,” Nick interrupts, a warning. You can picture the muscle in his jaw working, the way it clenches when he begins to get pissed off. Then, “You thought wrong.”

A door closes, effectively ending the conversation. You know you should probably move as Anna storms down the hallway, but you don’t and when she turns the corner, her eyes go wide. You straighten your shoulders at her scowl, offering her a bright smile…before heading in the direction she came from.

Down the hall, towards Nick.

You wait patiently outside the bathroom for the door to open, his eyebrows lifting in soft surprise as he sees you leaning against the far wall. Warm amusement blooms over his face, erasing the earlier attitude lines from his expression. Nick’s shoulders drop from his ears, his entire demeanor relaxes around you, as if he’s peeling away a version of himself. That he’s showing you something real. You have no idea why you hadn’t noticed it before.

He props himself against the doorframe, “This feels vaguely familiar.” He smirks, glancing down the empty hall.

You move towards him, a fond smile on your face, “I was looking for you.”

Nick draws in a soft breath, tipping his chin down as you come to stand in front of him. “How have you been doing?”

It’s a large question, one you’re not sure you have a complete answer for, but you love that he asks, “I’m alright,” You nod, “Some days are better than others.”

He nods, silence stretching between you both but it’s not uncomfortable. Your heart hammers a little into your ears and you resist the urge to straighten your dress when you know it’s perfectly fine.

“I’m not keeping you from anything, am I?” You ask after a moment, “Anna waiting to have a good time?”

Nick lets out a soft laugh that sounds like a breath leaving his nose, rolling his eyes, “Heard all that, did you?”

And yes, you may have admitted that you were eavesdropping, but he doesn’t look put off in the slightest. “Was a valiant effort on her part.”

His gaze is warm as he shakes his head and suddenly the silence between you two feels electrically charged. “She didn’t come close.”

You feel heat splotch across the back of your neck and fuck, you have no idea what it is exactly about Nick and how he can make you feel like this. Like everything you thought you knew has been flipped upside down. You breathe in through your nose to settle the butterflies, straightening your spine in resolve so you don’t chicken out—

“This…distance between us, it’s…it was my fault.”

Nick’s eyebrows draw together a little and he takes a step forward and you’re almost breathing the same air. You can feel the heat of his body through his clothes, his cologne achingly familiar, his fingers brushing yours as he takes your hand into his. You turn your wrist, your thumb playing with a ring on his index.

You expect him to make a joke about there not being distance at all, but instead, he shakes his head, not allowing you to take all the blame, “I knew what you were doing,” Pulling away, “and instead of trying to talk to you, I made it worse.”

“You wanted to hurt me,” You admit in a small voice.

Nick glances away, a twitch in his jaw that tells you everything without him even having to say it. Not something he’s proud of, yet true.

“Is that what you really wanted?” You ask, quickly clarifying when pain flashes in his eyes. “To break up?”

He lifts his hand and plays with a strand of hair near your ear before tucking it behind. There’s a soft smile playing with the corners of his mouth, but it’s like he’s afraid to give into the full emotion.

“Think we both know I’m not exactly over you.”

You smile back, “So I’ll take that as a no then—”

Nick leans down to kiss you. It’s gentle at first, wary, asking for permission—just in case. But the moment you thread your fingers behind his neck, when you lean your body into his and make a soft, pleased noise, that’s all it takes for him to deepen the kiss. The atmosphere shifts around you and Nick leans down, lifting you up into his arms, backing up into the bathroom as your legs wrap around his waist.

Sometimes Nick reminds you of fire—warmth, crackling energy, unpredictability. All-consuming. It’s one of your favorite things about him, how undeniable he is.

The kiss breaks for a moment, you breathe and Nick’s one arm keeps you close while the other slips between you. His hand cups your cheek, thumb toying with your lower lip. “Whoever thought breaking up was a good idea is an absolute tool.”

A giggle slips out, making Nick smile against your lips, and he backs up until he becomes flush with a wall. When that happens, he carefully loosens his arms so that you end up back on the floor, pressed against him. Your arms lazily wrap around his waist, up and under his jacket, a soft squeeze following.

He purses his lips, “You think Jenna would be angry with us for leaving her birthday party early?”

You really like where that thought is going, “I think she’ll understand,” You tip your chin up at him, smiling, “Besides, I have one of those faces that’s hard to say no to—sure she can’t be mad at it, either.”

Nick sighs softly, grabbing your hand to lace his fingers with your own. He begins to tug you from the bathroom, “Don’t I know it.”

You grin, wandering back down the hallway and through the party towards the front door where all the cars are parked. You pass Anna on the way out, her eyes zeroing in on your joined hands. You know it’s petty of you to wave goodbye to her with your other hand—yet you do it anyways.

—

Nick’s kitchen is filled with the scent of spices, herbs and fatty pork. He kept his promise about making homemade carbonara and you should have known that if he was going to cook, he was going to go all out. You lean against the counter as you sit on a high stool, chin pillowed in your hand, eyes on the back of him as he twirls pasta on the stove with tongs. Your gaze follows the long line of toned muscles in his shoulders, down to his waist.

One of the hottest things a guy can do, you think, is cook.

Jenna playfully snaps her fingers in front of your face, breaking your staring contest. You’re not even embarrassed, you just grin at her. She shakes her head, amused, “I’m so glad you’re back together, babe. No offense, I love you, but you both were just absolutely insufferable.”

You scoff out an affronted noise, your hand on your chest in mock offense as Nick turns around to plate pasta. He’s smiling, his eyes flickering to yours before concentrating on the task at hand. He pulls long noodles from the pot, twisting even helpings onto serving plates.

Everyone eats their fill—Jenna, Lion and Giles headed towards the pool for a late night swim. You and Nick will join them, eventually, but for now you have another helping of pasta as Nick cleans up the kitchen. You smile a little as you hear Jenna laugh outside, splashes of water. A pleased breath is drawn into your lungs as you eat the last bit of pasta on your plate.

It’s gone—a tragedy.

“Not going to lick the plate?” Nick asks, voice full teasing, a warmth in his gaze as he takes the plate from you.

You narrow your eyes a little, “I mean, it was good, but check your ego.”

Nick smirks, “Alright, so what’s the verdict?” You pretend to give it some serious thought, pausing for dramatic effect. Your boyfriend laughs suddenly, shaking his head— “Oh come on, you’re not serious.”

“I’m still thinking!”

“What’s there to think about?” He asks, “Homemade carbonara.”

“Yeah, but like…have you ever ordered a cheeseburger with a perfect side of cinnamon pancakes?” You ask, purposely trying to jerk his wire, “Only a diner can do that.”

Nick sets the plate down behind him, turning to lean against the counter. He gives you an incredulous look, “You are absolutely wrong for that, don’t know how else to put it.”

You preen, a grin on your face, “You love me.” You toss it out rather carelessly, not expecting Nick to catch it.

And yet he does, handles it with care, keeps it close. “Yes,” He nods, a small smile on his face. “I do.”

A soft breath catches in your throat and warmth, affection, gathers in the center of your chest. The sensation used to make you feel like running away, but not anymore. You tilt your head a little,

“Come over here and kiss me.”

Nick pushes himself off the counter, rounding the island counter as you shift your body on the stool. He’s moving almost too fast, eager, and you don’t have time to open your legs for him as he leans down and captures your lips. That’s just fine though, his hands splay your knees apart before he sinks between them.

A soft noise leaves your lips, an ache beginning in your stomach and blooming lower, your one ankle hooks around the back of his leg. There’s a distant thought in the back of your mind, shouldn’t we be getting back to our friends? — but that is quickly overshadowed when you feel the beginning of Nick’s hardness against your inner thigh.

He seems to read your mind because in one quick motion, he’s lifting you up into his arms and you steady yourself with your legs around his waist, arms draped over his shoulders.

“What are you doing?” You laugh, noses brushing as he tips his head up to look at you.

“Making up for lost time.” And carries you towards his bedroom.

#my fault london #my fault: london #nick leister #nick leister x reader #matthew broome #matthew broome x reader #my fault series #mccall writes things #my fault london x reader

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ruewritesoccasionally · 4 months ago

Text

Running Home | Aaron Pierre

pairings: aaron pierre x black reader

about: Aaron’s hectic work schedule has strained his relationship with YN, pushing their bond to the brink. After a close encounter sparks jealousy, anger, and confusion, Aaron is consumed by guilt. In the midst of it all, they seek solace—but is love enough to repair what’s been broken?

warnings: angst, jealousy, heartbreak, emotional conflict, guilt, relationship strain, self-doubt, miscommunication, intense emotions, confrontation, love and reconciliation. (changing POVs between aaron and reader throughout)

author's note: my original idea for this was nowhere near this long, very little angst and plenty of smut but i couldn't stop typing and i kinda like where the story went. definitely different from my usual stuff but a good different, i hope ?

word count: 5.7k ************************************************************************

She stood in the doorway of their bedroom, staring at the space beside the bed that used to feel warm and alive with him. Now it was cold—empty. The spot where he should’ve been, the place where they used to find comfort in each other, felt like a distant memory. She let out a quiet sigh, her fingers brushing over the soft fabric of the pillow he should have been resting on.

Sure, she was happy that Aaron was finally getting the recognition he deserved. She knew better than anyone how hard he worked, how relentless his dedication was. She had seen it all—the long hours, the sweat, the sacrifices. This wasn’t just any man she loved. This was Aaron. The love of her life. Her childhood sweetheart. Her future husband. The father of her children. And yet, in spite of it all, the life she had once dreamed of with him felt more out of reach than ever before.

He wasn’t completely absent, of course. She would get the occasional FaceTime call when his schedule allowed it, or a text when he found a moment to spare. Sometimes, he’d send her a bouquet to make up for missing an arranged call. But none of that was enough. She needed more than a screen to look at him, more than a few hurried words exchanged between his busy days. She needed him here, with her, in the same space, to feel his presence beside her again.

The silence of their home echoed louder than it ever had before. She missed him more than she cared to admit. She missed the way his laugh filled the room; the way his touch grounded her. The warmth of his skin, the way he held her close as if nothing in the world could pull him away. That was the version of him she craved—the one who wasn't lost in a whirlwind of meetings and press tours, the one who remembered how to make time for them.

And now, as she stood there, facing the emptiness once more, she realized it wasn’t just about the physical absence. It was the emotional distance that hurt more. He was out there, conquering the world, but she was here—alone, waiting for the man she loved to come home.

The power of love was indeed frightening, something Y/N had always known but never fully understood until now. This season of her life had thrown her into new territory, teaching her things she never thought she'd have to confront. She tried to brush it off at first, telling herself it wasn’t that deep—just a phase. But the more she sat with the thought, the more she realized it wasn’t something that could be ignored – the growing tension between them, his absence his busy schedule and her silent yearning. Their life together couldn’t be swept under the carpet, not for long. No matter how much dust they let settle over the cracks, something had to give.

“Something has to give,” she murmured softly to herself, her heart heavy with the weight of those words. She wasn’t sure what it was, or how it would unfold, but she knew one thing for sure: something had to change.

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

“No. I refuse to sound like this, I refuse to look like this,” she whispered to herself, standing in front of the mirror, eyes meeting her own reflection with a resolute gaze. “I love my man, and I am proud of his accomplishments, but I will not mope and whine. I am not sad or angry or even bitter. I just miss my man, and that’s not unreasonable. But what is unreasonable, is staying in this house, thinking about it, and expecting it to change in an instant. It’s not who I am, have been, or will be. Self-care starts now.”

Her thoughts rang with clarity, like the first breath of fresh air after being suffocated. She wasn’t going to let herself drown in loneliness. She was going to reclaim her power, and she was going to do it the only way she knew how—by looking after herself.

With renewed purpose, she grabbed her gym bag, deciding that a Pilates session would be the first step toward grounding herself again. The studio was quiet, the soft thrum of music and steady breaths filling the air as she worked through each stretch and movement, pushing her body to feel alive and in control. It wasn’t about competition; it wasn’t about impressing anyone—it was about her.

After the session, she was packing up, gathering her water bottle when she noticed the guy who’d been a few spots down from her. He had just finished setting up his phone and was filming a piece of his workout for his social media page. He looked up at her, gave a friendly smile, and then—seemingly hesitant—approached her.

"Hey, sorry to bother you," he said, offering a warm smile. "I’m filming my workout routine for my TikTok, and I was originally thinking of cropping you out, but you’ve got a good flow going. I wanted to ask if you'd be cool with being in the background for a second. I’ll make sure it’s all about the technique and not about you, promise.”

YN looked at him, intrigued. She wasn’t usually one to be filmed, but his demeanour was easy-going, and the thought of seeing herself in action on video made her smile. "Sure, no problem," she replied, stepping forward as he adjusted his phone. "I’m just finishing up my session, so feel free to catch me stretching if you want."

He grinned, clearly pleased with her willingness. "Appreciate it, thanks. Actually, if you're cool with it, I’d love to film a few post-session stretches of you. Just some stuff that really helps with flexibility, you know?"

YN gave a nod, feeling more at ease now, and moved through a few of her favourite stretches. She’d always been comfortable in her body, and today, with her focus on herself and no pressure, it felt even more liberating. As the camera clicked, the guy gave a few encouraging words. She kept her posture steady, breathing deeply and taking it all in.

Once the last stretch was filmed, the guy stopped the camera and gave her a thumbs-up. "Thanks for the content feature, you were great."

YN smiled, adjusting her water bottle. "No worries, glad I could help."

“Do you mind if I tag you in the video once I post it later? I’ll send it your way when it’s up, and I’ll tag you in the caption.”

She thought about it for a second, then nodded. "Sure, why not?"

After exchanging social media handles, the guy introduced himself as a personal trainer who regularly posted fitness content. He promised to send her the link once he had everything edited and ready to go. "It’s all about sharing good vibes and helping people get better, you know?" he said with a smile before he packed up his things and headed out of the gym.

YN felt an unexpected spark of positivity, and the small interaction, though brief, reminded her that she could still engage with the world, have fun, and be her own person—even without Aaron always being there. She wasn’t sure if that was the motivation she needed, but it was a start.

Next stop: the massage parlour, where the soothing touch of the therapist’s hands seemed to wash away the tension in her muscles, but it also helped release the weight that had been heavy on her heart. She closed her eyes, letting herself drift, imagining that each stroke of oil and pressure point was bringing her closer to the woman she was trying to reclaim—the one who didn’t wait around for things to change, but made changes for herself.

Afterwards, she treated herself to a visit to the nail salon. She didn’t need much—just a simple refresh to feel a little more polished, a little more put together. As she sat in the chair, she gazed at her hands, feeling a sense of satisfaction as the technician worked her magic. The small things were always enough to remind her that she was worthy of taking up space, of indulging in moments that made her feel good.

Finally, she treated herself to a fresh hairdo. The perm rod set was a game changer—her curls bouncy, defined, full of life. It wasn’t just the hair that felt good; it was the boost it gave her spirit. Her face felt lighter, youthful, her eyes brighter. The woman looking back at her from the mirror was a glimpse of the happier, more vibrant version of herself she’d been striving to be. A version who didn’t sit around waiting for Aaron to come home to feel complete.

As she stepped out of the salon, hair freshly done, nails polished, skin glowing, and a sense of calm in her chest, she couldn’t help but smile at the reflection in the glass door of the salon. She wasn’t the same person who had stood in that bedroom, empty and waiting. She was becoming someone new—someone who could hold her own, who didn’t need to feel like she was waiting for Aaron to come home to feel complete.

No, she wasn’t done yet. But this was a start. And for now, it was enough.

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

YN arrived back home, the weight of the world lifting from her shoulders with each step. She took a moment to breathe deeply as she walked into her bedroom. Her sanctuary. It was time to settle into her evening.

She wrapped her freshly styled curls in a silk scarf, knowing that she’d need a long, relaxing shower to finish what had already been a restorative day. She laid out her favourite robe, soft and warm, alongside matching lingerie she’d been saving for a moment just like this. A little treat for herself.

Her lotions, body oils, and scented candles were carefully placed on the vanity, ready to immerse her in an atmosphere that screamed tranquillity. With a click, the lights dimmed, casting a gentle glow across the room, and the candles flickered invitingly in the silence. The mood was perfect, set just the way she liked it.

She filled a glass with wine, setting it on the side of the tub, just within reach. This evening was for her—nothing, and she meant nothing, could ruin it. Not tonight.

She connected her phone to the Bluetooth speaker in the bathroom, sinking into the soft hum of her favourite playlist. The water was the perfect temperature when she stepped under the spray. She let the heat cascade over her, each drop easing the tension in her body and mind. She stood there for a moment, eyes closed, inhaling the calming scents of her body wash as it enveloped her in comfort.

The shower was short but thorough, just long enough to rinse away the remnants of the day, to cleanse not only her skin but her spirit. She emerged feeling refreshed, wrapped in a plush towel, and ready to complete her routine.

After drying off, she slipped into the robe, took a deep breath, and began massaging the body oils and lotions into her skin, taking her time, not rushing. She was indulging in the sensation of self-love and care, feeling more like herself with every stroke of lotion, every touch of oil. She felt beautiful, confident, and... whole.

Once her skin was silky smooth and glowing, she made her way back to the vanity, where her glass of wine awaited. She picked it up and held it in her hand, the rim nearing her lips when, to her surprise, her phone buzzed on the counter.

She froze. The screen lit up—Aaron’s name flashed across it.

She sighed, feeling the tightness in her chest. It had been hours since they'd spoken. They had barely exchanged a word that day, and the mood in his text messages had been distant, curt even. She pressed the answer button, raising the glass to her lips, but she hadn’t even taken a sip before he spoke, his tone off from the very beginning.

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

Aaron had been running around all day, caught up in the madness of his press tour. His mind was racing as he made his way through interviews, photoshoots, and calls, but somewhere deep inside, a gnawing feeling was growing. He hadn’t been present for YN in a while—something he knew, but had convinced himself wasn’t a big deal. It was just the nature of his life now, right? But even as he justified it, that sinking feeling remained.

He was sitting in his hotel room when he finally got a break. He pulled out his phone, scrolling aimlessly through his feed. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the air conditioner. He hadn’t planned to watch the video at first. But then something caught his eye—the familiar figure in the background. He froze.

His heart skipped a beat when he recognized YN, her hair perfectly styled, the kind of glowing confidence she only had when she took the time for herself. And then he saw it—her lingerie, unmistakable, just as he’d bought for her on their last trip. It was the same set he’d complimented her on, the one he knew she liked, but there it was, on her, in someone else’s video. The man filming—he had his own following. The whole thing felt off, too casual, too intimate.

The more he looked, the more the little pieces began to add up in his head, and the more his anxiety took over. Why had she let herself be filmed like that? Who was this guy? His mind raced, thoughts spiralling into territory he’d never intended to go. He couldn’t help it—he was irate. Jealousy had a hold of him. Before he knew it, he had stepped outside his room, his hands clenched at his sides, breathing in the cool air like it could somehow clear his head.

He could have ignored it. Could have brushed it off. But instead, his fingers trembled as he dialled her number. The tension in his chest only grew, his heart pounding as he waited for her to pick up. Why was he feeling like this? He knew he wasn’t around enough, knew he was neglecting her in more ways than one. But still… this?

The phone rang, and when she picked up, her voice sounded calm, collected, almost too calm. Her indifference made it worse. She hadn’t even said hi yet.

“YN.”

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

The way he said her name made something in her stomach churn. His voice held an edge. She took a slow breath, steadying herself. “Hey,” she replied, trying to sound casual, though the unease gnawed at her.

There was a beat of silence before he spoke again, his words sharp and demanding.

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

His voice was rough, low. He couldn’t hold back. His mind was a mess, thoughts disjointed and irrational, and he just had to ask the question, to get some sort of clarity, even if it meant sounding crazy.

Silence. He waited for her to speak, but it didn’t come. He could hear her breathing softly on the other end of the line, and it only made him more frustrated.

“Who is he?” The words tumbled out without thinking. He didn’t even care if they were right or wrong at that point. His thoughts were running too fast. The guy on the video, the way YN looked, the way her hair was done just for someone else—it all made sense to him, and he needed answers now.

He could feel the silence thickening on her end, the weight of his question hanging between them. And then—finally—he heard her voice again, casual, as if she couldn’t believe he was even asking. His stomach twisted at the indifference in her tone.

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

The words hit her like a punch to the chest. She almost dropped the wine glass in her shock. She hadn’t even realized that Aaron had seen the video yet. It had been a simple interaction at the gym, nothing that even remotely warranted his reaction. But there it was—his jealousy building, a storm brewing behind his words.

Her stomach twisted as she tried to calm herself. This was what they were doing? She could feel the fire rising in his voice, but she wasn’t about to entertain the absurdity of it.

"Aaron..." she started, her voice measured, though it was a struggle to keep it even. She took a deep breath. "What are you even talking about?"

He was fuming now, she could tell from the way he inhaled sharply, like he was trying to control something boiling over inside him. He didn’t answer her question directly. Instead, he let out a frustrated breath, clearly struggling with something he couldn’t put into words.

YN clenched the wine glass a little tighter, her jaw tightening. This wasn’t about the video. Not really. It was about the space between them, the distance he’d created. The fact that he hadn’t been there—not the way he should have been.

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

He paused, feeling his pulse quicken as his mind spiralled. What did this mean? His thoughts raced—was she out here doing things I didn’t know about? He hated himself for even thinking it. He knew better. He knew she wasn’t like that. But still, his mind couldn’t stop itself. It was the first thing on his mind. The first thing he fixated on, despite how irrational it sounded. I should’ve been there for her.

He could feel the weight of his own neglect, the guilt heavy on his chest. He’d been pulled in so many directions—his career, the press, the endless tour—and he told himself it was for the greater good, that it was all part of the plan to build a life for them. A stable future together. That was his justification. If some time away meant he could offer her the life they’d always dreamed of, then it was a sacrifice he’d have to make. For her.

But now? Now everything felt like it was slipping through his fingers.

His eyes burned as his anger shifted from a place of resentment to one of self-loathing. It wasn’t even about the guy. Not really. It was everything else—the distance between them, the silence he’d allowed to stretch on, the way he couldn’t seem to bridge the gap. It was the hollow realization that he hadn’t been enough for her, not the way she needed him. And now, all of it—the effort, the time away, the fame he’d worked so hard for—seemed empty.

I hate this, he thought, the frustration building. He hated that he had to let himself be swallowed by it all—he hated that he let it go this far. But the video... the sight of her, looking so perfect, so together, like she didn’t need him to complete the picture anymore... It hit him harder than anything else. The image of her, dolled up, glowing with that confidence that he used to be the one to see in person, to witness up close. He used to be the one who was there to hold her when she came back from self-care days like that, to marvel at how lucky he was to have her. Now, that privilege was fading.

He could already feel the guilt eating at him for even letting the jealousy creep in. To tarnish her name like that, he scolded himself. What kind of man was he becoming? This wasn’t her fault. She had every right to look beautiful, to feel beautiful, to be admired by others. She wasn’t the problem. I am. He could have been the one there for her, could have prioritized her above the endless demands of the industry. He should have been there. But he wasn’t.

She was silent on the other end of the line, and he knew the ball was in her court now. She’s disappointed, he thought. And that was worse than anything else. I’ve let her down. And now I’m going to lose her for good. He hadn’t meant for it to go like this—hadn’t meant to let the space between them stretch to the point where she could look so flawless without him even being there to see it firsthand.

His stomach turned as he waited for her to respond. He wanted her to say something, anything that could make him feel like this wasn’t all falling apart. But as the silence stretched, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it already had. He wanted so badly to be the man she deserved, the one who noticed her beauty every day, who put her first, who wasn’t too lost in his own world to care about hers.

But now, as her voice finally broke the quiet, he was almost afraid of what she might say. He already knew what he deserved to hear. And he wasn’t sure he could take it.

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

Aaron’s words hung in the air, thick with irrationality and self-doubt, but YN didn’t flinch. She didn’t rise to it. The tension between them had been brewing for days, weeks even, and this phone call was just a catalyst. She’d had enough of the back-and-forth, the unspoken frustration.

“Aaron,” she said, her tone steady, her voice clear. “This is the first time I have seen your face and spoken to you today, and this is the energy you want to come on with? Really?”

She could feel the anger building within him, could almost hear the defense rising in his throat, but she wasn’t interested in that right now. She was tired—tired of the distance, the silence, the passive aggression. She wasn’t going to sit here and play into his insecurities.

“If you want to talk…” she continued, her words firm but measured, “be a man. Come back to this home and speak to me properly.”

Without waiting for a response, YN ended the call, her finger tapping the screen decisively. The silence returned, and with it, the soft hum of the music in the background. She raised her glass of wine to her lips, the cool glass meeting her fingertips as she took a slow, deliberate sip. The weight of the moment settled over her as she simply… relaxed. She wasn’t going to chase him down. It was above her now.

She would wait.

Let him come to her when he was ready to talk like the man, she knew he could be.

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

Aaron’s gaze lingered on the screen, his heart pounding in his chest. YN’s calm but resolute demeanour stirred a conflicting mix of emotions within him. It was a sharp contrast to the chaos swirling in his mind, a reminder of the peace they once shared. Her voice had been steady, unwavering, and despite the tension, it was a reminder of the respect they’d always had for each other. In the heat of it all, he felt a flicker of warmth—because he knew, despite everything, they had never raised their voices at each other. But then came the sting of her final words: “Be a man.”

It struck him hard, a reminder he desperately needed. She was right. He hadn’t been the man she needed. He had failed her, lost in the whirlwind of his own success, and now the reality of it all crashed over him. The guilt was suffocating. He had to fix this. He had to make things right before he lost the one thing that truly mattered.

As the call ended, the sound of the line cutting through the air seemed to snap him from his thoughts. Without wasting another moment, he stood, packed his things in a blur of urgency, and made the decision: the flight had to be soon. He didn’t bother notifying his team. The consequences could wait. Some things were too important to delay.

He rushed to the airport, the weight of the moment pressing down on him. A tight knot formed in his chest as he boarded the flight. The seatbelt sign blinked on, and the flight attendants' voices were lost in a distant hum, drowned out by the turbulent thoughts racing through his mind. Each jolt of turbulence mirrored the storm within him, challenging the calm that the flight attendant’s voice tried to impose.

When the plane finally landed, he didn’t waste time. A cab took him swiftly towards the woman he needed to reclaim—YN, the woman who still felt like home. And with every mile closer, his resolve strengthened. He would make things right. This time, he wouldn’t wait any longer.

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

YN lay back on the bed, the wine in her hand and the soft hum of the music surrounding her. The evening had settled into a calm, peaceful rhythm, and for the first time in a long while, her mind was quiet. She didn't think about the call, didn't dwell on the tension that had bubbled up between them. What would be, would be. The words lingered in her mind, their weight like a steady pulse beneath her calm exterior. She hadn’t given up on him, but she also wasn't going to hold on any longer than what served her. The push and pull had worn her down, and the wheels of their relationship felt close to falling off—but still, her mind remained clear. Acceptance, she thought, was a beautiful thing. There was no need for stress. Whatever came next would find its place.

The quiet of the moment was interrupted by the sound of the door latch clicking. YN’s eyes shot open, a flicker of panic spreading through her chest as she checked the time. She hadn’t realized how much time had passed, how long it had taken for him to get here. She heard her name, his voice breaking through the silence, and the heat rushed to her cheeks. Suddenly, her voice felt trapped, as if the words were lodged in her throat.

He’s here. He’s really here.

Her thoughts raced, but she didn't speak any louder. She simply let out a soft, meek “In here,” trusting he would follow the sound of her voice into the bedroom. For a moment, the house seemed to hold its breath. The space between them stretched, filled with the anticipation of what would come next. There was a rustling sound from the other side of the house—his movement through the quiet halls—before heavy footsteps echoed through the walls. All she could do now was sit still, her heart beating faster with every step that brought him closer. And wait.

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

Aaron leans back against the doorframe, the familiar weight of his frustration creeping up his spine as he watches you from across the room. His gaze is possessive, yet patient, as if he's been holding his breath, waiting for you to make the first move. He knows this dance all too well.

There are good and bad ways to do anything. And right now, he's walking the line between them. He’s the kind of man who wants it all, but he also knows better than to take it without giving you space to breathe. You're free, and he knows you need to feel that. But God, the thought of you with someone else—just the idea—sends a sharp sting through him. He refuses to acknowledge the tightening in his chest as he tells himself he’s being unreasonable.

But what if you're drifting? What if, somewhere between his neglect and your silence, you’ve already started to look elsewhere for that attention, that touch?

He clenches his jaw, the thought rattling around in his head like a damn bell. His love for you isn't a request, it's a demand. He’ll give you space, but only so much. He’ll let you go, if that’s what you want, but he’s the type of man who doesn’t back down when he knows what’s right. And you are what's right for him. If you need to test the waters, fine, but there's a line—one he’s drawing now.

“I give myself to you,” he whispers to himself, his voice low and firm. “I expect the same in return. This isn’t a one-way street.”

He feels the heat rise in his chest as the image of you and that guy at the gym flashes in his mind again. His fingers twitch as he thinks of how quickly he could erase that image from his mind. He’s not a jealous man by nature, but when it comes to you, that’s different. You're his. And if you’re going to be with him, then you belong to him—body and soul.

He’s not naïve. He knows you have your own life, your own choices. But his love, his protection—those aren’t things he offers lightly. “If we get this right,” he murmurs to himself, “if we love one another with everything that we have… then we go for it. All in. No turning back.”

He swallows hard, the thought of loving you completely, without reservation, both excites and terrifies him. But he’s done holding back. The next time he sees you, he’s not letting you slip away. Not again.

And then, as he moves toward the door, the words he’d held back all this time—those words he should have said, needed to say—come to him.

“YN…” He stops for a moment, his voice wavering with raw sincerity. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve been there for you. I’ve been selfish, caught up in everything else, thinking it would be enough for us, but I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there the way you needed me to be. I should have put us first.”

He steps forward, his chest tightening with the weight of his regret. “I’m not proud of the way I’ve treated you, of the way I let you slip away while I chased things that, in the end, don’t matter as much as you do. I never meant to hurt you, YN. I never meant to make you feel like you were alone in this. You’ve always been my everything, and I failed you. I’ve taken you for granted, and I hate myself for it.”

The words hang in the air, raw and unrefined, but they are his truth. His voice breaks as he continues, “I need you to know that I love you, with everything I have. And I’m not running anymore. If you’ll have me, I’ll fight for us—for the love we have, for the life we’ve always wanted. I’ll make it right. But I need you. I need us. Please, don’t give up on me.”

As he finishes, he stands there, feeling vulnerable, exposed—like a man who’s finally showing up, but unsure of whether he’ll be enough. The silence is deafening, but he doesn’t look away. He’s finally ready to fight for what’s his, for what he needs. For you.

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

YN’s heart pounds in her chest as each of Aaron’s words slices through the quiet air, each step he takes forward tugging at the frays of the binds around her, forcing them to mend themselves. She feels the familiar magnetic pull, stronger now, deepening as he speaks. It’s as if the very core of her is being reeled back toward him, drawn in by the sincerity in his voice, the vulnerability that he rarely let’s slip. The same heat she felt when she first heard him call her name in the house now swells again, but this time, it’s joined by the sting of tears threatening to spill.

The man before her, the one she thought she’d lost, is the same man she has always needed and wanted. She can feel the weight of every moment that has brought them here, the unspoken words, the silence. She could never say no to him, not when he’s standing here, laying himself bare before her. But still, there’s a hesitation in her heart. She knows that as much as she wants to give in to the pull of his presence, things won’t be okay straight away. Not yet. The damage isn’t irreparable, but it’s still there, lingering between them like a shadow.

Her heart swells with love for him, with forgiveness that’s as much for herself as it is for him. The release of the pain she’s been carrying is almost overwhelming, and she feels a quiet gratitude wash over her, as though a burden has been lifted. There’s so much unsaid, but somehow, in the space between them, everything is understood. She wants him—wants to move forward, wants to heal—but she needs to make him see that it will take time. There’s so much they have to rebuild.

Her words fail her as the weight of her emotions rises. She opens her mouth to speak but finds it hard to put her thoughts into any kind of order. Her eyes, though, say the rest. They speak everything she can’t quite find the words for: I forgive you; I need you, I’m scared but I want this too. The tears in her eyes blur her vision, but in that moment, they become the truest thing she’s ever known.

And then, without thinking, without another moment of hesitation, she runs into his embrace. Her body moves instinctively, driven by the need to be close to him, to feel his arms around her. The smell of his skin, familiar and comforting, envelops her like a shield. She sinks into him, her body cradled by his larger frame, his hands locking around her in an unbreakable, protective clasp. It’s a promise, even without words—a promise that she’s not alone, that they are in this together.

His lips press softly to her forehead, the kiss tender and full of quiet assurances. It’s a kiss that carries with it everything that’s been unsaid, everything they both need. Things aren’t fixed, not yet, but the warmth of his embrace, the steadiness of his touch, tells her that they will be better. It may take time, but they’ll heal. Together.

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nataliescatorccioapologist · 9 months ago

Text

What we know about each Yellowjackets character’s life before the plane crash

Shauna

Not a lot is known about Shauna’s childhood, but it definitely seems like she had an estranged relationship with her parents. It is confirmed that Shauna’s parents divorced when she was younger. Jackie mentioned that Shauna lied to her about her father’s sudden absence, saying that he was traveling a lot because he had become the new president of Hello Kitty (aww Shauna). This suggests that, after the divorce, Shauna had little to no contact with her father. Additionally, Shauna never even mentions her parents in the adult timeline, which may imply that she is no longer on speaking terms with either of them. Further emphasizing this distance is her childhood bedroom, which appeared to be in an attic. Whether she chose to sleep there or not, this detail speaks volumes about how separated or neglected she felt by her family.

Shauna had been best friends with Jackie since grade school, although their relationship was strained by jealousy and Shauna's feeling of living in Jackie's shadow. Nevertheless, their love for each other ran DEEP (a little too deep). Shauna’s jealousy of Jackie led her to lose her virginity to Jeff, Jackie’s long-term boyfriend, behind Jackie’s back. The night before the crash, Jeff and Shauna slept together again and she became pregnant with his child.

We also know that Shauna was a straight-A student and received admission to Brown University right before the crash, and she was a very good soccer player (she was very fast according to Coach Martinez!) even though she apparently didn’t even like soccer.

Shauna was most likely a Defensive Midfielder on the soccer field, given that her jersey number was 6. This means that she was in charge of acting as a shield in the midfield, breaking up attacks, covering teammates, and intercepting passes.

Jackie

Jackie appears to have come from a wealthy family given how massive her house was (complete with those fancy mansion columns). She was an only child and lived with both her parents. Jackie’s parents seemed to put a lot of pressure on her to be perfect, and we see that they tend to brag about her achievements (even after her death), which highlights their high expectations for Jackie’s success. Jackie’s mother may have had a dependence on prescription drugs, as she mentioned that her mom was on “ten different kind of downers”, some of which (Valium) Jackie stole to fall asleep on the plane.

Jackie was popular in school and was the captain of the Yellowjackets soccer team (more expectations that she had to live up to). She was said to possess great influence over others due to her natural leadership skills and magnetism. She had been dating Jeff since freshman year, although she mentioned having broken up with him multiple times, so it seems like it was a tumultuous relationship. She refused to have sex with him due to wanting to make losing her virginity special. Jackie planned to go to Rutgers for college and be roommates with Shauna.

We can assume Jackie was a forward/striker on the soccer field due to her jersey number: 9. This means her primary role was scoring goals.

Natalie

Out of all of the Yellowjackets characters, Natalie’s life pre-crash is explored in arguably the most detail. We learn that she came from a low-income family and lived in a small, cluttered trailer with her parents, both of whom appeared to struggle with drinking and drug problems. Her father worked a blue-collar job, possibly as a mechanic, given the (tire?) patch on his work shirt, while her mother, Vera, seemed to stay at home, often drinking and sleeping throughout the day. We also know that Nat’s father was physically and verbally abusive to her and her mother.

Nat’s best friend was Kevyn Tan, whom we first see her with when she is 14 or 15 years-old, although it seems like they had been friends for a while before that. Kevyn had a significant crush on Natalie, which she was unaware of. When Nat was 14 or 15, her father found Kevyn in her bedroom one day and berated Nat, thinking that they were sleeping together. This escalated into her father beating her mother, prompting Natalie to grab a gun and attempt to shoot him. However, she forgot to take off the safety. Her father then took the gun but accidentally shot himself in the head after tripping on the stairs.

It is strongly implied that Natalie's mother blamed her for his death, as she makes comments in the present day like, "You never know what you have until it gets ripped away from you." This suggests that Natalie had a cold and distant relationship with her mother.

It appears that Nat spent much of her high school years experimenting with drugs and sex to cope with her guilt and had gained a reputation at her school for being sexually promiscuous and a “burnout.”

Somehow she ended up playing soccer, and she was likely a right midfielder or winger given her jersey number: 7. This means she was in charge of attacks in the midfield and passing the ball to other teammates closer to the goal.

And one more interesting detail: Nat was definitely a hardcore feminist in her teen years, as we can see riot grrrl posters all over her childhood bedroom walls.

Travis

We get very little information about Travis’s life before the crash, but we know that he lived with his father, Bill, his little brother, Javi, and his mother. Travis stated that his father was “a shit dad” who “didn’t even like him,” so he clearly did not have a good relationship with his father. Additionally, before leaving to get on the plane, we see that Coach Martinez leaned in to attempt to give his wife a kiss goodbye, but she turned away and appeared stiff. Travis rolled his eyes at this. My guess is that Coach Martinez cheated on his wife and Travis knew about it. His parents’ relationship was strained after the affair but they stayed together for the kids, and Travis resented his father for it. Just definitely seems like the context behind that scene.

Travis seemed to hold some resentment towards Javi as well given his harsh treatment of him even before the crash, perhaps because he received more attention and care from their father. We also know that Travis was bullied since 7th grade after he had spinal fusion surgery and Bobby Farleigh made up the rumor that he got one of his ribs removed to perform…certain acts on himself, earning him the nickname “Flex.”

Van

We got a brief scene in the pilot episode of Van’s home life. Like Natalie, Van also appears to have come from a low-income home. Van’s father was likely not involved in her life, as Van’s mom seemed to be the only option when she needed a ride to the airport and her father was never mentioned. Van’s mother was an alcoholic, as she was laying passed out on the couch and Van had to slap her to wake her up. It seems like Van had to take on a parental role with her mother and likely had to raise herself for the most part. In the adult timeline, Tai mentions that Van had always had a strained relationship with her mother.

Van went to New York City once for her 7th birthday and wanted to do the carriage ride in Central Park, but she was taken to see Cats instead. She dreamed of going back to NYC and doing the carriage ride ever since.

Van is the Yellowjackets’s goalie, and it seems like she and her teammate Taissa had a romantic relationship before the crash (or were at least flirting a lot).

Lottie

Lottie’s pre-crash life gets explored in a little more detail. Lottie grew up in a very wealthy family. Her father, Malcolm, is a businessman who seemed very strict and controlling. Lottie’s mother, Emilia, seemed more soft and understanding of Lottie’s potential gifts. We see that, as a child, Lottie often experienced strange visions, including a time in which she started to scream in the backseat of the car while her parents were at a red light, which ended up preventing them from getting into a car crash when the light turned green. It is implied that Lottie experienced these visions often. Lottie’s parents argued over the nature of these visions, with Malcolm saying that Lottie had psychological issues and needed to be fixed, while Emilia argued that Lottie had a gift for seeing the future. Lottie was placed on medication for schizophrenia, and she is seen taking this medication the morning of the crash.

Lottie had a disconnected relationship with her father. It seems like he never understood her and neglected her as a result. It is implied that he wasn’t around much due to his work. Lottie said that her dad paying for the private plane to take the Yellowjackets to Nationals was “basically his only form of parenting.”

Lottie, according to Coach Martinez, is a talented soccer player with great footwork. Lottie is likely a Defender on the soccer field, given her jersey number: 5. This means she was in charge of keeping the other team from scoring goals and stopping attacks.

Taissa

Tai appears to have come from the most well-adjusted household among the group. She lived in a nice home with both of her parents, who seemed supportive, as shown in their brief interaction in the pilot episode. Her mother offered to drive her to the airport, while her father was cooking breakfast. He reminded Tai that "the most important thing is to have fun," which conveyed a sense of care and encouragement. Despite this, Tai was always intensely focused on success and hard work. As a star player on the soccer team, she was implied to be the best player, according to Coach Martinez.

When Tai was little, her grandmother got sick and Tai often visited her on her death bed. Not long before her grandmother’s death, she saw a “man with no eyes” in the mirror of the bedroom and began to scream. Tai saw this man, as well, and also began to scream. At her grandmother’s open-casket funeral, Tai noticed that her grandmother’s eyes were missing.

Tai was likely in a romantic relationship with Van before the crash.

According to the Pilot episode script, Taissa is the star midfielder of the Yellowjackets. Her jersey number is 8, also supporting that she is a Central Midfielder, which is often considered to be the most difficult position on the field. This means she acted as a link between defense and attack in the midfield.

Misty

Misty was clearly a social outcast before the crash. She was bullied throughout her school years. One classmate, Becky, frequently targeted her with prank phone calls, spreading rumors and mocking her with her friends. During one of these calls, Misty quoted Plato, hinting at her intelligence and academic inclinations. Misty clearly loved learning and equipping herself with knowledge, as she obsessively took Red Cross babysitting classes, had a great deal of medical skills, and paid close attention in Coach Ben’s health classes. Misty always craved the feeling of being useful and needed by her peers. This was most apparent in the scene where Allie broke her leg—Misty was the first to spring into action, trying to help, although her attempt was unsuccessful.

We can also see that Misty may have always had some sociopathic tendencies, as she is seen watching a rat struggle and drown in a pool with no emotion on her face the morning before the crash.

As the Yellowjackets’ equipment manager, Misty didn’t play soccer herself but still found a way to be involved with the team. Her responsibilities likely included maintaining equipment, ordering new gear, and issuing uniforms to the players.

#yellowjackets #natalie scatorccio #jackie taylor #misty quigley #shauna shipman #taissa turner #van palmer #travis martinez #yj #Lottie Matthews

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honeydippedfiction · 25 days ago

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The Quietest Goodbye {LH43}

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Synopsis: After months of loving Luke Hughes in silence, she finally walks away—unseen, unheard, and completely emptied by his absence. It’s only when he finds the letter she wrote in the beginning—full of hope and love he never returned—that he realizes he was everything to someone he treated like nothing.

Warnings: Emotional Neglect in a Relationship, Breakup / Heartache, Unresolved Emotional Conflict, Loneliness / Isolation, Regret & Abandonment.

Themes: Unreciprocated Love, Emotional Distance vs. Physical Presence, Regret & Realization After Loss , Memory & Nostalgia , Silence as a Form of Heartbreak, & Identity in a Relationship.

WC: 1.8k

A/N: Here's some angsty Luke.

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Playlist Greatest - Billie Eilish Two Ghosts - Harry Styles I Fall Apart - Post Malone

She used to mark the dates of his games on her calendar, circling them in red like holidays. It didn’t matter if the arena was in New Jersey, or halfway across the country. If she could find a way to be there, she would. Red-eye flights, long drives through snowstorms, airport terminals where her name was barely whispered by the intercom—she never missed a chance to see him.

Luke never asked her to come. But he never told her not to, either.

In those early months, that silence felt like a kind of permission. Maybe even affection. She’d show up with a cup of his favorite coffee and a soft smile, and he’d greet her with a tired kiss and say, “You didn’t have to do all that.”

“I know,” she’d always reply. “But I wanted to.”

That used to be enough for her—wanting him. Wanting to give.

But over time, something shifted. Not all at once, like a thunderstorm crashing through a clear sky. It was subtler than that. Like a slow leak under the floorboards, something rotting quietly, just out of view.

At first, it was the little things. Missed calls that used to come with an apology and now came with silence. Texts read but not answered. Excuses that felt thinner every time he gave them.

“I’ve just been swamped,” he’d say. “Back-to-back games. My head’s not right.”

She tried to believe him. She really did.

“You don’t talk to me anymore, Luke,” she finally said one night. Her voice was quiet, but steady. “I feel like I’m dating a ghost.”

He rubbed his eyes and let out a tired breath. “You’re making this into a thing.”

“It is a thing.”

He didn’t argue. Just stood up and left the room, like the weight of her words wasn’t worth carrying.

That was the moment she realized something cruel: you can’t beg someone to care. You can’t pour yourself into a person and expect them to hold you gently.

She waited for him to come back. Not just into the room, but into the relationship. Into them. But he stayed gone in all the ways that counted.

And she stayed, too—for longer than she should’ve. She stayed because she remembered the boy who kissed her forehead when she fell asleep during his post-game interviews. The one who whispered, “I love you,” like it meant something he couldn’t put into words.

But that boy had vanished somewhere beneath the weight of travel, fame, and distraction. What was left was someone she didn’t recognize. Someone who couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see the slow unraveling between them.

One night, after another game she watched from her apartment instead of the stands, she sat on the edge of their shared bed and stared at her packed bag.

He walked in after midnight. She could smell the rink on his skin—sweat, ice, cold plastic. He dropped his gear by the door with a sigh.

“You’re not asleep?” he asked, voice low.

“No,” she said, not looking at him.

He nodded, started toward the shower. She almost let him go.

But then—

“I’m leaving, Luke.”

He stopped, hand still on the doorframe. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I can’t do this anymore.” Her voice trembled, but she didn’t back down. “I’ve been showing up for someone who doesn’t even notice I’m here.”

He turned to face her. The expression on his face wasn’t shock. It wasn’t anger. It was… confusion. As if he truly didn’t understand why she was breaking.

“You know I care about you,” he said.

“But you don’t show it,” she whispered. “You haven’t in months.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve been under pressure. I can’t be everything all the time.”

“I never asked you to be everything,” she said. “I just asked you to be present.”

The silence that followed was deafening. No more excuses. No more last-minute promises. Just the quiet acceptance of something already too far gone.

She picked up her bag and walked past him. He didn’t stop her. Maybe he didn’t know how. Or maybe he didn’t want to.

And that, she realized, hurt more than anything.

Luke didn’t think much about the bag when he first saw it missing from the closet. She had packed light before, for weekend trips to visit her sister or those last-minute flights she took for work. Maybe she’d just gone out of town.

That’s what he told himself.

But the next day, her coffee mug was gone too. The one with the cracked handle she always refused to throw out. And the framed photo of the two of them on the bookshelf—faded from sun and time—had vanished like it had never been there at all.

That’s when the noise in his head finally stopped long enough for him to hear what he’d ignored.

She was gone.

Not temporarily. Not for space. Gone, like she meant it.

He sat on the edge of their—his—bed, looking at the empty space where her phone charger used to be. The charger. It shouldn’t have gutted him. But it did. Because it meant she took her time. Thought it through. Didn’t just walk out on impulse.

He could still remember her last words, though at the time, they barely registered.

“I can’t do this anymore.”“You don’t even notice I’m here.”

Back then, he had nodded like she was being dramatic. Like she didn’t understand how exhausting the schedule was, how hard it was to balance the season, the press, the pressure.

But now… Now he realized she wasn’t asking for his time. She was asking for presence.

And he hadn’t given her that. Not for a long time.

ﾟ･:.｡:ﾟ･♡⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭ﾟ･:.｡:ﾟ･♡⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

The season rolled on.

Post-game interviews, team meetings, long bus rides with earbuds in and a seat to himself. He used to text her from the road. She used to send him voice memos that made him laugh under his breath in the middle of practice.

Now his phone was quieter than it had ever been.

The guys didn’t ask where she went. A few of them noticed, sure, but no one brought it up. No one wanted to poke the bruise.

Except Dawson Mercer.

One night, after a brutal loss and a longer-than-usual silence in the locker room, Dawson tossed a towel over his shoulder and leaned against the bench next to him.

“You good?” he asked.

Luke nodded instinctively. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“You haven’t been right,” Dawson said. “Not for a while.”

Luke didn’t answer.

“She meant a lot to you, didn’t she?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. I think I just… didn’t realize how much.”

Dawson clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Most guys don’t. Not until it’s too late.”

ﾟ･:.｡:ﾟ･♡⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭ﾟ･:.｡:ﾟ･♡⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

Late one night, after a road win in Pittsburgh, Luke sat in his hotel room with the curtains drawn and the lights dimmed. He opened his Notes app and started typing something—anything. A message to her he’d never send.

I thought you'd always be there. I thought I had more time to figure it out. You were never asking for the world. Just for me. I’m sorry I didn’t show up.

He stared at the screen for a long time, then closed it without saving.

Some things weren’t meant to be fixed with words.

She had given him everything. And all he gave back was absence wrapped in routine.

Now, all he had left was empty space, a pair of laces untied by the door, and a silence that felt heavier than any crowd he’d ever played in front of.

ﾟ･:.｡:ﾟ･♡⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭ﾟ･:.｡:ﾟ･♡⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

He wasn’t looking for anything.

It had been raining all afternoon, that cold kind of spring rain that made everything feel heavier, and he found himself pacing his apartment—their apartment—like a stranger in someone else’s life. Drawers he hadn’t touched in months, closets that still smelled faintly like her shampoo, the back of the bookshelf where her things used to be.

It was a drawer in the nightstand she always used. The bottom one. The one that used to stick a little when you pulled it too fast. He opened it without thinking, without really expecting anything except maybe an old hair tie or a receipt she forgot to toss.

But there it was.

A letter. Folded in half, edges soft and a little curled, like it had been handled more than once. His name was written on the front in her handwriting — loopy, careful, and familiar in a way that made his chest tighten instantly.

He stared at it for a long moment. His thumb brushed over the ink.

He thought about not opening it. Letting it sit in that drawer forever. But curiosity is a cruel thing when mixed with grief.

He sat on the bed and unfolded it.

ﾟ･:.｡:ﾟ･♡⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭ﾟ･:.｡:ﾟ･♡⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

Luke, (written in the soft blue ink she always used)

I know it’s kind of cheesy to write something like this, but I guess I just wanted you to know what you mean to me — in case I don’t say it enough.

I didn’t expect to fall for someone like you. I didn’t expect to feel so safe with a person whose life is always on the move. But when I’m with you, everything feels still. Even if it’s just a few hours before your next flight, or a quick dinner between practices — I’d take that over anything else.

You have this way of making everything feel easy. Even the chaos. Even the distance.

I don’t need flowers or grand gestures. Just you. Just your voice on a bad day. Your hand reaching for mine in a crowded room. Your laugh when I make a joke that’s only half-funny.

I don’t want to be just another girl in the stands, or another message on your phone you forget to answer. I want to be your person. The one you come home to, even if your home is always changing.

And if we ever get lost in all the noise… I hope we find our way back.

I love you. I really, really do.

— me <3

ﾟ･:.｡:ﾟ･♡⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭ﾟ･:.｡:ﾟ･♡⋆·˚ ༘ * 🔭

Luke sat still for what felt like an hour. Maybe more.

The words blurred at the edges from where his fingers pressed too tightly to the paper. He didn’t cry — not really. It was something else, something heavier. That kind of grief you feel when you realize someone once believed in you so purely, so completely, and you let them down anyway.

She had written it during the best part. When she was still waiting in airports and braving snowstorms just to watch him skate. When she still thought love would be enough to hold them together.

He folded the letter back up slowly, like it might shatter if he moved too fast.

Set it on the nightstand.

Sat there in the dim light with nothing but the hum of rain against the windows, and the echo of her words.

“I hope we find our way back.”

The cruelest part?

He wasn’t sure there was a way anymore.

And if there was… he didn’t know if he deserved it.

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NHL Taglist: @ashloveshockey

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the-halloween-jack · 2 months ago

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Asphyxiated ✢ Bruce Wayne

Synopsis: Y/N’s once-adoring relationship with the charming Bruce Wayne begins to unravel as his nightly disappearances and distant demeanour create an insurmountable chasm between them. Unaware of his double life as the infamous Batman, Y/N is left to wonder where she went wrong, seeking solace in an old friend, Jonathan Crane. Bruce Wayne x Reader, female pronouns. This piece is not plot-specific, so any iteration of Bruce will work. Though I wrote it with Christian Bale in mind. Warnings: Angst (there's a lot, sorry), canon typical violence (not overly descriptive). Masterlist

Note: This is my first time writing for Christian Bale's Batman, and I can definitely see myself writing for him a lot more; god, I love him. I would also love to thank my lovely friend @lettherebemorelight for helping me with this plot.

Disclaimer: I have since written a prequel to this piece, you by no means have to read it, but if you do, here is the link.

Words: 7,292k

She had once known warmth in his embrace. His open arms beckoned her with a promised safety, drew her in with steady reassurance.

But that warmth had long since dissipated. In its wake, it left behind an empty, desolate bed, cold sheets, and a gnawing uncertainty festering deep within her. Bruce Wayne was slipping through her fingers, their love was fraying at the edges, and try as she might, she could not halt its relentless unraveling. Y/N was at a loss; she could not make sense of it.

The nights were the worst. Y/N would shift in their bed, reaching instinctively for the warmth that now so often evaded her, his warmth, only to find his side untouched, brisk against her moon-ridden skin. She would hear the ceaseless ticking of the clock, each of its hand's faint circuits mocking her with the unremitting absence of the man she adored.

She would lie there, vacant eyes gazing above her, with the remnants of her dream shimmering at the edges of her vision and fading into her memory. The uncertain haze of her unconscious contrivance left a burning at the base of her throat as she fought against her tears. She would always dream of him, and though she was met with twisted caricatures of what their love had once been, she pined for sleep to drag her under its unrelenting grasp once more, simply to reunite with them.

And then, come morning, he would finally show, always interminably long past the promised hour. His drawn movements weighed down with lassitude, and his words bare of any real explanation.

‘Something came up.’ He would reach for her hand and whisper it haphazardly against her hair, in the muted light of dawn shining through their panoramic windows. His words were always nonchalant, as though late-night escapades did not stray far from convention. Bruce would then press a distracted kiss to her forehead before heading to the shower, leaving her alone on their bed, her arm falling slack to her side once more as he drifted away and out of her grasp.

She wanted to believe him; she yearned for it. But there was something in the way his shoulders tensed under her timid caress, in his taut hesitation before offering any answer. It twisted at her stomach and made it coil with unease.

She had tried speaking to Alfred, desperate to understand. The older man, a perpetual fountain of wisdom and warmth, could only ever offer her a tight smile and a soft excuse.

‘Master Wayne has a great many responsibilities, Miss.’

He would always say the same thing, and it was not an answer, not truly. He was speaking without saying anything at all.

Y/N would not miss how his smile evaded his eyes, turning to pity. Alfred felt sorry for her, and her mind was reeling for the catalyst.

She used to tell herself it was better not to ask, that silence was safer. But that silence had since turned into distance, and that distance was unbearable.

When they had first started dating, she felt like the luckiest woman alive. Bruce Wayne—handsome, charming and kind—made her feel like the centre of the universe. But now, spiraling into her dejection, she felt like she was standing at the edges of a macrocosm she no longer belonged to, staring in and hammering at its unabating walls.

Bruce remained steeped in shadow, staring out into the murk that sheathed Gotham like an integument. The familiar weight of the suit clung to his body like a second skin; it was his mind that made it feel as though he was suffocating, a heaviness that seemed impossible to rid himself of. His gaze flickered to the clock on the cave wall—another night spent apart from her. Another night, he had failed her.

He could still discern her face clearly in his mind, how it had looked before all this. Her lips would curve into a dulcet smile when she saw him, a tenderness would reach her eyes when he held her close. It was not just love he felt when he gazed upon her—it was a need. She anchored him, gave him something to cling to in a city that constantly tried to drag him under, take him somewhere darker, twisted.

But now? There was nothing but distance between them, a chasm of unspoken words and apologies; it seemed nothing could bridge the gap.

Bruce clenched his fists, leaning his weight against the cool stone of the cave, head falling back against its concrete foundations. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to admit everything, every single detail — he wanted to make her understand why he could not be the man she deserved.

But the words never came.

He could not let them.

He had convinced himself over and over again that this was for her own good. She need not know. He could not inflict her with the weight of his world. The dangers, the violence. The darkness and the murk. None of it.

He was not blind to the fact she was pulling away; he was making a stranger of her. Bruce did not miss how her eyes, in the gleam of dawn, would search his with that dreaded unspoken question, the one he could never answer.

It was imperative for her safety.

If she knew, if she understood what he did when the night fell and the city beckoned its protector, she would be at risk. If she knew he was the Batman, she would become a target. A pawn in a deadly game that he could not protect her from, a game he could not win.

He had seen it happen before; too many people who cared for him had suffered. He would not let that happen to her. Not when it was within his power to keep her away from it, to suspend her above the reservoir that engulfed him.

But the guilt ate away at him regardless. The empty promises, the way he would brush her off with some vague excuse, knowing she would never get the truth, knowing she did not believe his lies. He hated it. God, he hated it.

But what other choice did he have? She was not just his lover—she was his heart; she was akin to the blood that flowed through his veins; she was life. If Y/N knew, if she saw the man he truly was, she would leave him. She would never forgive him.

He did not deserve her forgiveness.

And the thought of losing her, of watching her walk away, was a torment worse than any form of hell, its torture paling in comparison. He could never survive it.

It was for her own good.

His mind repeated this mantra like a prayer, something to hold onto as he watched her slip further and further from his embrace. But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that it was the right thing to do, the truth gnawed at him, unfurled like caustic tendrils within his abdomen. The expanse between them had become too wide to ignore.

If she knew, if she knew the truth…

He would never be able to keep her safe.

Bruce’s hand hovered over his phone, his fingers trembling with the desire to call her. To hear her voice, to hear her ask him where he had been, what he had done. She felt so close, yet so entirely out of reach.

The rational part of him — the Batman — told him it was better this way. She would be safer if she stayed in the dark, if she never knew the man he truly was. But somewhere deep inside, in a plane where Bruce Wayne still existed within him, he did not believe it; he knew this was not what she needed.

The truth of it was that the Batman was the real him; Bruce Wayne was the façade, an image of the man he yearned to be, the likeness of the man Y/N deserved.

So, he kept her away. Ensured she remained in the dark, drowning in his guilt, persuading himself it was for her own good. Because if he told her, if she saw what he truly did when the sun went down, she would leave him. And that, in the end, was the one thing he could not survive. He was too selfish to allow it.

His eyes flickered to the suit, to the mask now gripped, with pale knuckles, in his unyielding hands, the mask that concealed his true identity. To the symbol of the man he had to be, to protect Gotham, and to protect her — by not telling her the truth.

But it did not feel like protection anymore. It felt akin to betrayal.

He pressed his eyes shut, the weight of it all crashing down upon him. He was not a hero. He was not even the man he had once hoped he could be.

He was a liar.

And she was slipping through his fingers; he was losing her.

It had started as small exchanges, polite words over coffee when their paths crossed amidst the twisting, serpentine alleys of Gotham City. Then, lunches at cafés, after that, afternoon walks through parks. It was the comfort of familiarity that had drawn her in, the sequestered ease of conversation with someone who had known her before her world became so complicated, so delicate.

Jonathan Crane listened when she spoke, his sharp mind quick to offer observations, to make her laugh when she had forgotten how. And she needed that, needed someone to remind her that she was not invisible, that she was not losing herself in the silence of an empty home, a chilling manor.

Because it was not just the empty bed anymore.

Y/N found herself growing accustomed to the silence that followed Bruce’s ever-present absence. There were no longer any excuses, no more explanations to be had. She did not ask. She simply waited, quietly, biding her time, until he would return to her, distorted, in some fragmented form of himself — always just a little bit further out of her reach.

The coffee would grow cold. The breakfast table remained untouched as she piercingly stared at the empty seat opposite her, mind whirling. Bruce was always sleeping, analogous with a nocturnal creature. The shadows beneath his eyes seemed permanent now, etched into the crevices of his face; in this way, they were very much alike. She would stare dolefully at the toll he took within her complexion.

It was becoming too much to bear — the distance, the constant, unceasing unraveling of everything she had known and cherished. She would go on pretending, to herself and to others, that things were fine, that the silence was not loud enough to drown her, but she was gasping for air, trying in vain to ease her asphyxiation.

She had tried everything, every little trick she could muster, to fill the void between them. She tried to meet him halfway, to carve out small moments that would make him feel like the man she once adored. But these futile endeavours were like stitching a wound that had long since festered.

And it was Jonathan Crane who made it easier.

Their meetings were innocent. Just old friends reconnecting. A simple chat over coffee, an afternoon stroll to catch up. Nothing more. But with each conversation, the air between them shifted. The rhythm of their exchanges became familiar, comfortable, safe—something she could almost rely on, like a steady pulse. Jonathan was there when she needed him. He listened. He did not push. He was not an enigma like Bruce, wrapped in layers of secrets she could never quite peel back. She felt like she could breathe again.

She noticed the slight curve of his lips when he smiled. The glint in his eyes when he found something interesting in her thoughts. There was a sharpness to him that kept her alert, something she could not quite place. But it did not alarm her — not yet.

And so, she allowed herself to lean into this unwavering presence, drawn to it like a moth to a flickering fire, not yet aware that the inferno would singe her just the same. She did not notice how the conversations between them shifted from casual, lighthearted exchanges to something more intimate. There was unresistable comfort in the way he seemed to understand her pain, her quiet, gnawing desperation. He did not push her for answers; he simply gave her the space to find them within herself. He quietly guided her toward the conclusion he had already been forming.

‘I know you’re not one to speak your mind often,’ he remarked one afternoon, as they sat in a secluded corner of a café, ‘but I can see it in your eyes, you know. You’re asking yourself all the wrong questions.’

Y/N looked up at him, eyebrows furrowing. ‘What do you mean?’

He smiled again, this time a little softer, a little more knowing. ‘You’re trying to find out what you did wrong, aren’t you? Why Bruce is pulling away.’

She hesitated, the words teetering on her tongue, but she couldn’t speak them aloud—not yet. Instead, she simply nodded, her finger faintly circling the rim of her coffee cup.

Jonathan continued, his voice measured, calm. ‘Sometimes, when people change… we forget that they’re changing for reasons beyond us. But what I think you’re failing to see, Y/N, is that you’re not the cause. You never were.’

This whole time, she had been asking herself what she had done wrong. Instead, should she have been asking what he was doing wrong?

It was the first time someone had told her that. Not Alfred, not even Bruce himself. His words settled into her chest, warmth chasing away the cold that had been so enduring.

But underneath that warmth, there was a hint of something else—a flicker of curiosity, or perhaps something darker, lingering just beneath the surface. What had he been keeping from her?

She did not see it. Not yet.

Bruce brooded in silence. The jealousy eroded him, made him bitter and cold, as he watched Y/N draw closer to Crane. He had seen them together more and more, like a slow, insidious shadow creeping closer to everything he was desperately trying to hold onto, enveloping her and stealing her from his sight.

His suspicions flared, each casual encounter between the two of them fueling the fire within him. He would track their meetings, silent and calculating. How many times had they met this week? How long had they been talking before she left with a smile on her face? A smile that had not been directed at him for what seemed a lifetime, a smile he would do a great many things to receive once more.

He had been foolish, had he not? Bruce could not decide which was worse—the slow, inevitable fall of his relationship with Y/N or the suffocating realisation that he was already too late.

There were nights when the bitterness was overwhelming. He would stare at the monitor in the Batcave, unable to concentrate, watching the movements of Gotham’s criminals as they spilled into the streets, oblivious to the wars they waged. All he could think about was the way Crane’s smile lingered in his mind, how it made his blood simmer and his chest tighten.

It was not just the jealousy. No. He was not stupid. He had seen enough of Crane’s work to know there was something wrong with him—something dark, lurking beneath the façade of a charming, polite man.

Everything she and Bruce had suffered was designed to keep her safe, though his efforts were in vain; he had pushed her away to safeguard her, but in her isolation, she turned to someone precarious.

Crane was luring Y/N into the imperilment he had been tirelessly attempting to shield her from; the very notion of it was sickening.

She was slipping away. She was beginning to look at Crane with something in her eyes, something that was not there before, a curiosity, an ease — a trust.

And Bruce could do nothing to halt it.

The suspicions were creeping in slowly for her, like soft inclinations in the rifts of her mind, barely perceptible at first. Of course, there were the large things — his sudden disappearances at night, his long sleeps during the day.

But then, bruises would blossom on his arms, and he would rush to conceal them behind clothes, to hide them before she could distinguish them. There were the late-night phone calls that always seemed to be cut short when her presence became known to him. There was his perennial fixation on the news and his rush to leave every time an active emergency broke.

She was not naïve. She saw the patterns.

Y/N perceived the unsavoury connection between Gotham’s most elusive figure and the man she loved. But the idea that Bruce could be the Batman was still too far-fetched, too unbelievable to fully take root within her beliefs, to alter her reality.

There were moments. Fleeting moments when she would see something in his eyes, in the way he moved, in the way his voice carried, moments that she could only describe as…

Haunted.

She did not want to believe it. She did not want to acknowledge the possibility. The inclination that Bruce had been hiding something from her was almost too painful to entertain, but the evidence was mounting, smothering. Every time she questioned him, his answers became more distant, more rehearsed, more evasive.

Bruce had been trailing them for weeks now, his shadow lurking behind as they shared fleeting moments of companionship, the kind that burned with familiarity and ease, a type of connection he had once known. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was sick, perverted even. There were countless awful words that could describe his behaviour, but he rationalised it; he told himself he was only worried for her safety. And he was; this was not a deception. But Bruce could not deny the burning there, the acid that would sink down and simmer in the base of his throat every time he saw him touch her.

He would watch, vision burning red, fists clenched, as Crane guided her through doors, hand rested on her lower back. Bruce would visibly cringe as Crane placed his slender hand on her shoulder as she made him laugh. Every time he saw them together—quiet conversations over coffee, casual strolls through parks—something dark inside him twisted. A ghastly sensation he could not name, a vulnerability he would never let anyone see, a jealousy he had, at this point, never known; it was foreign to him.

Tonight, he could no longer bear it. The dreadful images plaguing his mind, of Y/N’s laughter in the company of another man, had piled up until they were an intolerable weight. He needed to see for himself. He needed to know if she was truly slipping away or if, perhaps, he could still save her from the seemingly ineluctable distance between them.

To save himself from the pain of her harrowing departure.

He followed them from a distance, keeping himself shrouded in shadow as they walked together, their movements eased and unburdened. He watched them as they reached the park, a secluded part of Gotham, where trees grew thick and branches cloaked them in gloom.

Bruce lingered in the shadow of a nearby building, hidden from their view, his eyes narrowed on Y/N’s form, her back to him as she walked a few steps ahead of Crane. His heart pounded in his chest, his breath shallow. Something inside him, perhaps the instinct of a man who had seen too much loss, who had felt too many betrayals, sensed it. This was more than simple companionship.

Then, it happened.

Jonathan Crane stepped closer to Y/N, and for a moment, everything seemed to freeze. Bruce watched with bated breath. The air was drawn taut with a tension; it could have been sliced with a blade, a strain that needed no words to be understood. And then, with a smooth, calculated motion, Crane cupped Y/N’s face and kissed her.

Time seemed to stretch in that moment; in the span of a single heartbeat, the world seemed to slow to a suffocating crawl. Bruce’s stomach turned, and his throat closed. He had watched it happen—watched the betrayal unfold before his very eyes—and in that moment, he could almost feel it. The fracture of everything he had once held dear, the very thing he had worked so hard to protect, had now slipped from his grasp.

He could not move. He could not breathe.

Y/N’s face had been tilted up towards Crane, her expression soft, vulnerable. But Bruce did not see her eyes in Crane’s approach — he did not take in the hesitation there. He failed to see the way her body stiffened, her hands pressing against his chest, urging him to step back. All he saw was the kiss. The final straw. The moment that would unravel everything.

He turned sharply, his heart pounding in his ears, and walked away.

He did not hear the faint sound of her voice, calling out Crane’s name, pleading.

Y/N did not know how long she stood there, still reeling from the kiss. It had caught her off guard, an intimacy she had not expected and one she had certainly not reciprocated. And for a split second, her mind faltered. But only for a split second. In the moment the weight of what had happened settled, she knew something was wrong.

She pushed away from Crane, her heart thumping in her chest; he let her go easily.

‘I can’t…’ She stepped back, her voice trembling, hands still raised, unsure of whether the words were for herself or for him. ‘This… this isn’t right.’

Crane did not say anything for a moment, simply watching her, his eyes calculating. His lips twitched, but it was not a smile. It was something darker. Something she had not seen before.

But she did not wait for his response. Nor did she want to.

Y/N turned quickly and stumbled away, not caring if he called out to her or how he took her sudden departure. Her feet carried her swiftly, her breath sharp in the night air. She could still feel the weight of his kiss; it prickled against her skin and lingered there. Though it had meant nothing — nothing at all.

It was not until she was far enough away that she stopped, her phone already in her hand. She needed to talk to Bruce. She needed to explain, to plead and beg for his understanding.

Her fingers hovered over the screen, anxiety eating at her consciousness. With shaking hands, she scrolled through her contacts, found Bruce’s name, and pressed the dial button.

It rang once. Twice. Three times.

The screen flickered as it went to voicemail.

Her stomach plummeted.

Once the dreaded high-pitched note sounded, indicating it was her time to speak and keeping true to his unrelenting distance, she rushed out a flurry of words; she needed him to understand, to know and believe how much she loved him. To know how little Jonathan meant to her, how much he paled in his comparison.

She ended the voicemail, her hand trembling as she stared at the screen, as if hoping for it to light up with his name—hoping for him to reach out to her, to offer the words of comfort, of validation, she so wretchedly longed for.

But the screen remained blank.

Bruce’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel, his jaw clenched tight. He knew she had called, but he had left her to go to voicemail. He did not want her explanation, her excuse; he understood the words would feel like a knife twisting in his chest, offering no reprieve. He knew he could not face her; he knew he could not answer her call without breaking, without crumbling under his despair.

He had seen what he had seen, and no explanation, no words from her, and no amount of time could erase that vile image from his mind — the way Crane’s lips had pressed against hers. The way he had held her, as if she belonged to him.

But she did not; Y/N was his. Or was she? He thought once more of the wedge he had driven between them, the walls he had established higher and higher until she was left standing on the other side, wondering if she could ever reach him again. He was not blind to the way she would observe him, sadness steeped within her eyes. Bruce clenched his fists, a deep ache forming in his chest. Had he pushed her away so far that she had to find comfort in the arms of another man? His own insecurities, his unspoken fears, had they created a chasm between them that was too wide to cross now? The thought of losing her, of her slipping through his fingers, falling into the grasp of another — was more than he could bear. Yet, deep down, he knew it was not Crane who had pulled her away. It was him.

Maybe he knew, deep down, that she had pulled away from Crane’s clutch. He knew she would not have wanted this. But this apprehension was futile now. The seed of doubt had already been sowed within his reality, and it had taken root in his heart like a venom.

His phone vibrated on his dash again, informing him of a voicemail left unheard. He could not bring himself to listen to it. The voice that had so recently been a source of comfort, of love, now felt like a weight. Her words would be a reminder of everything he was failing to give her—everything he could not be.

He drove off into the night, unable to find the courage to turn around.

Not yet.

Y/N’s mind raced as she roamed, and the city’s hum buzzed in the background. She was not ready to go back to the manor — not yet. Not until she could find a way to break through the walls he had built around himself, not before she could get through to him. She glanced at her phone once more; the silence radiating from it was somehow, completely illogically, deafening. The weight of what had happened hung over her, and despite everything, she could not bring herself to face him, in fear she might break.

How could she reach him when he refused to answer? Where was he? Her heart ached at the thought of him, so distant, so unreachable in his silent pain. She needed to fix things, needed to make him understand, before they lost each other completely. But the longer she wandered the streets, the more uncertain she became. What if there was no way back? What if they were already too far gone? She sighed and pushed the thought away as her footsteps quickened. The uncertainty settled deep in her chest as she realised she was not sure where she was going anymore. Y/N stumbled backward, her breath quickening as the dark figures loomed closer. She realised too late that she had backed into an alleyway, the weight of the situation settling heavy, like lead, in her chest. Her heart is pounding, her instincts screaming for her to run, to flee, but her nerves betray her. She glanced around herself frantically. She realised with a fear that felt like ice down her throat that there was no escape. One of them lurks closer, the flicker of the streetlamp catching the glint of a weapon in his hand. Her pulse thunders in her ears as she tries to steady her rattling breath. This was not supposed to happen. She was not supposed to be here. This was not supposed to be how it ended.

Her mind races, but it is too late. She knows it is too late.

There is nowhere to hide. The heinous men are closing in around her, swallowing her up. She is trapped.

A wave of nausea hits her, a sharp, cold panic that twists her stomach into knots. Her thoughts are a blur, but one thing is clear: she has to reach him.

She closes her eyes and forces herself to calm down, focusing on the small silver ring Bruce had given her — her last hope. The same ring she thought was merely a gift, a meaningless yet sweet gesture. But now she understands. She remembers the way he had pressed it into her palm, his gaze full of a quiet intensity that she had not fully grasped at the time.

‘If you ever need me…' he had said, his voice low, tone heavy with something unspoken.

‘This will help me find you.’

She recalled the confusion she had felt when he gifted it to her, though she had not dwelled on it at the time. But now, she was kicking herself; it all made sense. She had considered it before, but she was always careful to cut the notion short, halt it before it could fully form, before it became too real.

Bruce was the Batman and she had already known it; of course he was.

The late-night escapades, the sleep-riddled day times, the empty dinner tables, the cuts, the bruises and the urgent, poorly explained disappearances whenever something terrible had happened within the city.

Her hands trembled as she slipped the ring from her finger, the cool metal feeling foreign against her skin; it harboured hope. She placed it carefully between her fingertips and pressed just hard enough to activate the concealed mechanism inside.

The tiny, almost imperceptible whir of the system coming to life is the only sound she hears. And then, as she places it upon her finger once more, the faintest of beeps. A signal sent.

Her chest feels tight as she forces her sight upward, to look upon her soon-to-be attackers, forcing herself to maintain their stare. She is aware of their figures closing in again, of their eyes boring into her, hungry and cold. But her focus is on the single thought that keeps her grounded: He will come.

A sharp laugh echoes from one of the men. They are talking, but the words are unintelligible to her; she cannot hear them over the pounding in her ears. She makes no effort to answer. Her gaze shifts further upward, towards his signal illuminating the murk of Gotham’s night sky, and for a split second, she lets herself believe she can feel him out there—somewhere in the dark, coming to her.

She has to hold on. She has to hold on just a little longer.

Her vision starts to blur, the world becoming corroded at its edges, her body beginning to betray her, but she does not move. Makes no effort to run. She stays still, waiting. Waiting for him.

The night is too quiet, an empty expanse of soundless tension that suffocates with each breath. Bruce’s grip on the steering wheel is tight, his fingers stiff, trying to suppress the tremor that is slithering into his limbs. His chest feels hollow, a dull ache that has been consuming him since the moment he received her distress signal. The weight of it pressed down upon him, pushing the air from his lungs until he could not breathe at all.

The ring. The ring he had hidden a distress mechanism in. In this moment, it is all he has; it is what tells him she is still alive, that she is still fighting, though he can feel her slipping away with every second. He does not have time to think, does not have time to wrestle with the inevitability of what is coming. He pushes the Batmobile harder; the kiss, the betrayal, it is all but a faint memory; it no longer matters.

His heart ticked like a bomb, each beat augmenting the terror that wore at him. It’s too late. It’s already too late. He could not end the foul thought from hammering within his mind, a thought that burrowed deeper within him with every passing moment. But he pushed forward, went faster, even though every fibre of his being told him she was already lost.

He could not afford to think like this. She deserved better.

Bruce did not remember stopping the car. He did not remember climbing from its front seat.

As he moved, he felt akin to a puppet held suspended by strings; he was not in control of himself. He did not know how he made it to her; the time between the last glimpse of the signal on his dash and the moment he knelt beside her, in her blood, was lost to the haze of adrenaline and dread.

But then, he is there.

Her body is crumpled, macabre, like a broken doll, her form so still it makes his heart skip a beat. Her attackers were nowhere in sight. The blood pooling beneath her seems to grow darker by the second, stark and seeping into the crevices of the pale, illuminated pavement. She is breathing—just barely. It is the kind of shallow, desperate breath that sends a jolt of panic straight through his spine.

For a moment, he does not move, hands suspended above her. The world feels frozen, a long, aching pause; like it is waiting for him to act. But he cannot — he is paralysed. The sight of her, broken like this, shatters everything inside him, destroys everything he is. He wants to scream, wants to rage against this fate, but all that fills his mouth is the taste of failure, it burns like acid; he chokes on it.

‘Bruce…’

As soon as she speaks, a burning grief chases away the fear that had kept him still; he feels this morbid flame flow through his system and takes her into his arms. Her voice is a faint rasp, as if his name is all she can summon. Her eyes flutter open, and it is as though she is seeing him for the first time. Her gaze is distant, unfocused. Her fingers twitch, but they do not reach out for him—they do not have the strength. She is already too far gone.

But then, those eyes meet his, and something breaks in him, something deep and painful, something he has not allowed himself to feel in so long. She knows. And it is not anger or betrayal that he sees in her eyes. It is only sorrow, and love, and an ache that mirrors his own.

‘Take off the mask,’ she whispers, her words fragile like glass, much like her figure. She tries to lift her hand, but it trembles weakly, falling short as her body fights to stay alive, to keep breathing. ‘Let me see you... Please…'

Her plea hits him like a punch to the gut, and something inside him crumbles. Still supporting her, his fingers tremble as he reaches for the cowl. The motion is so slow it is almost torturous. Every inch of it feels like it is tearing him apart because once he does this — once he removes the mask — there is no going back. She will see the man beneath it, the broken man he has been hiding for so long. And it will be the last thing she sees; he knows it.

But she is asking, pleading. She wants to see him. And somehow, that small piece of her strength is enough to push him over the edge.

He takes it off.

The cool air brushed against his skin, and for the first time in years, he felt raw. Exposed. She does not flinch. Does not recoil. Not like he thought she would.

She smiles, a faint, fragile beam, as though nothing is wrong in the world; it is enough to break him completely, more than he already was. Her eyes are filled with a quiet recognition, and the corners of her lips twitch upward. ’I knew,’ she breathes, her voice shaky, but the words are certain, resolved. ‘I didn’t let myself believe it. But, I knew.’

His throat tightens and burns. He wants to tell her so many things — everything he never said, everything he kept locked away. But the words do not come. He opens his mouth, but the only thing that leaves it is a strangled sob.

Her body jerked in pain, her chest heaving. His hands let go and instead hover helplessly over her, shaking with the urge to do something, anything. His breath hitches, a desperate, choking sound that he cannot control. But there is nothing to do. Nothing. She was slipping through his fingers once more; only he could have never imagined it would be like this.

‘It’s too late…’ she whispers again, her voice so soft it is almost lost in the wind. The words catch in his throat, and he feels them like prickles puncturing and twisting deep into his skin. The agony of hearing her speak, knowing what is coming next, is enough to shatter the fragile control he has kept over himself for so long, the control that was already extinct, not since he took in her crumpled form on the blood-stained concrete.

‘I’m going to help you,’ he says, his voice cracked, a broken echo of a promise that he knows he cannot keep. He tells her over and over, as if saying it will make it true, but the words are hollow. They are not real. She is already gone; he cannot save her.

Her hand slides to his cheek, her fingers cold against his skin. She is so cold, so small, as if the life has already been drained from her completely. She looks at him with those same knowing eyes, her smile still lingering, even as the weight of the world presses down upon her chest, pushing her under.

Then she exhaled, a long, shuddering breath that shook him to his core, a breath she could not follow.

Her body goes still.

And in that moment, she is gone. Lost to the world. Empty eyes, gazing unseeingly past him and above her, facing, but not taking in the candescent signal shimmering in the ether.

And in the hollow of her absence, Bruce feels everything stop.

His world has fallen away. The darkness around him seems to stretch infinitely, suffocating him, pressing in on his chest.

Tears burn at the back of his eyes, but he refuses to let them fall. He holds her tighter, his body trembling with the weight of her loss, shaking them both. He does not let go. He cannot. He will not.

But soon enough, they come. And he quickly grasps for his cowl, tugging it over his head.

The tears finally fall. Slowly at first, then faster, until they are pouring down his face and mixing with her blood on the pavement; it is already cold, and the groan he makes at this perception is inhumane in sound. His shoulders tremble with it, a raw, guttural sob tearing through him. It is a sound of pure grief, pure, undiluted agony — the sound of a man who has nothing left but the wreckage he cradles.

He does not care anymore.

He does not care when the officers arrive. He does not care when they try to pull him away from her. He does not care about anything but the ever-growing coldness of her being, the weight of her death pressing down on him like nothing had before.

They cannot make him leave.

But eventually, they do. The silence that follows, the vacantness of his arms without her weight, is so absolute, so entirely harrowing. Alone in the manor, he stumbled to his phone, to the voicemail, the one she had left him earlier, after the call he ignored. The voicemail she had left when she was still alive, still reaching out to him with hope. Hope he did not deserve.

He pressed play.

Her voice fills the room, shaky, unsure. ‘Bruce, please, pick up,’ she had whispered under her breath, her voice shaking with anguish. ‘I… I don’t know what happened. I don’t know why it happened. But, please, I need you to understand. This… this wasn’t what I wanted. Jonathan… he kissed me, but I pulled away. I swear. I… I wasn’t trying to hurt you, Bruce. Please, just… just understand. Please. I need you. I love you.’

She paused for a moment, her end going silent. Bruce had thought it finished when her small voice spoke up once more,

‘I love you,’ she had repeated, ‘God… I love you,’ she choked on her sob, trying desperately for air, ‘I love you so much, Bruce. Please, don’t shut me out. I need you. I love you…’

The static cuts through the air when the message ends. The words carved into him like scars that will never fade, worse than any real affliction.

He collapsed into their bed, a broken shell of a man, his body wracking with silent sobs. His hands shake, his chest heaving with each breath, but he cannot stop it. He cannot cease his crying; it sputters out.

And as the tears flowed, it felt like the world around him was disintegrating, leaving only an empty void where she used to be. He reached out, and the cold sheets of her side made him heave harder. Alfred is in the hall, trying to get through the door. He wants to take him in his unyielding embrace and tell him it was not his fault, but it is a lie. Alfred was attempting to suppress his own sobs, though Bruce could still hear them; they pierced his ears like needles.

He can still feel the cold weight of her body in his arms, the way her breath slowed to nothing, the fragile, fleeting warmth that slipped through his fingers like sand. His mind replays the moment over and over, like a cruel loop he cannot escape, a perpetual torment.

If only he had gone to her after the kiss. The thought is bitter, venomous.

He had let his fear — his overwhelming need to protect her, to keep her safe — push him away, convincing himself it was better to stay distant, to be the Batman, rather than risk anything more. But now, he cannot help but see it for what it truly was, cowardice. She was his. She had always been his, and if he had just confronted her, talked to her, if he had given her the chance to explain that the kiss meant nothing, then maybe, just maybe, she would still be alive. She would have told him the truth, and they would have worked through it together. They would have gone home together. They would have been happy.

But instead, he let her fade away, believing the lie that keeping his distance was the right thing to do. The guilt claws at him, a suffocating weight, each breath sharp and ragged. He was not there when she needed him most. He was not there when it mattered. And now she is gone.

And the words she said echo through him once more, louder than anything else:

‘I love you so much, Bruce. Please, don’t shut me out. I need you. I love you…’

But it is too late for those words now. It is too late for anything.

Here is the link to the prequel if you're interested.

Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #bale!batman #batman #dc comics #dc #gotham #jonathan crane #scarecrow #christopher nolan #x reader #oneshot #angst #alfred pennyworth

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