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millermouth · 4 days ago

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Masterlist || Harry Castillo x Reader || Part III: KissCam

Summary: An argument over breakfast lights a new fire under you before another staged date with Harry. But you’re not as good at this as you thought. Feelings creep in, an interview falls apart, and Gossip Girl is always there to twist the knife. || fake dating, tabloids, Gossip Girl AU, socialite!reader, richgirl!reader, NYC, reader is in her mid 20s, old money lifestyle, trust fund babies, age gap, rich people problems, argument with family, panic attack, paparazzi ||

It was almost like deja u, sitting at the long, stretching lacquered table at the center of the dining room. Morning light spilled through the large windows as always, hitting the marble floors with soft golden rays. It was a nice change compared to the last time you were sitting here, being blinded by sun rays and vodka twisting in your stomach. That was progress at least.

Or, so you thought.

“Why do I have a feeling this is becoming a pattern?” your father’s voice sounded with a sigh as he sat at the head of the table beside you, dropping the newspaper beside his coffee.

There was a grainy photo there, pulled straight from Gossip Girl’s Met Gala afterparty tip. It was the same one that you received in a video: you and Harry curled into each other in a dark corner booth, his mouth close to your ear as you giggled like he’d said something wicked, your smile warm and flirty. You really looked the part.

FROM SPECULATION TO SPOTLIGHT: CASTILLO AND MONTCLAIR CONFIRM RELATIONSHIP

Your mother entered the room shortly after your father, her eyes pointedly kept away from you as she sat, pouring her tea silently in her bright green Lululemon. You sent another grateful prayer that you weren’t hungover this morning, knowing the migraine you would’ve gotten just by simply looking at her.

“And why,” she began, her eyes finally falling on you in a narrowed gaze, “in god’s name is it with Harry Castillo of all people?”

You didn’t look up as you stirred your coffee, the spoon clinking delicately on the rim. “He’s nice, I thought you’d approve.”

“Approve?” she parroted, “He’s almost twice your age.”

“Harry’s a great guy,” you said simply, “He’s successful and kind, he understands me.”

“That’s very sweet, pumpkin,” your father added, “but we asked you to stay out of the headlines, not make the news every morning.”

“He’s bored,” your mother went on, and you wondered if it was more to herself than you. “That’s what this is. A midlife crisis with press coverage.”

You let out a short, tight breath. You knew this argument was coming, knew how you wanted to play it, too. “I try to make you happy by getting out there, dating and seeing someone. And he’s respectful, established, everything you said you wanted and still, it’s not enough. It’s never enough.”

And then—and maybe it was petty, maybe you’d just had enough—you said: “No wonder Chuck never comes around anymore.”

The room went deadly still for about half a second.

And then the violent scrape of your mother’s chair rented the silence. She stood abruptly, her perfectly manicured finger pointing at you across the table, “Don’t you dare bring your brother into this!”

“Alright,” your father said quickly, palms flattening against the table in that weary peacemaker gesture he always pulled out when she got loud. “Sit down, darling. Please.”

She didn’t listen.

“End it.” she said forcefully.

You blinked up at her, “Excuse me?”

“End it with him.” she said, cold and sharp, “Before this gets worse.”

You tilted your head. “Worse for who?”

Your father shifted in his seat, eyes glancing between the two of you. “Let’s all take a breath—”

“No,” your mother cut in. “I won’t have her parading around with that man like this family is a tabloid punchline.” she pointed her finger at you again, “You think you’re being clever? You think this is some kind of game?”

“I'm giving you exactly what you wanted,” you said calmly. “Isn’t that the deal? Eight weeks, someone respectable, a cleaned-up image—”

“I will take away everything,” your mother said, her voice trembling with fury, her palms laying flat on the table now, leaning in. “Your cards. Your trust, you won’t have a cent to your name.”

You stared at her, something in you sparking. “Then do it. I’m already almost cut off from everything, what else is there to take?”

Your mother barked a harsh laugh, “Oh, please, you have no—”

Your father’s hand came down flat against the table, “Enough.”

She rounded on him. “You said—”

“I know what I said,” he interrupted. “And I also said we’d give her eight weeks. That’s what we agreed on.”

You looked at him, only slightly surprised. You knew he wasn’t defending you so much as just trying to keep the house from catching fire.

He exhaled slowly as your mother began to sit back down in her chair, her fingers slightly trembling with adrenaline as she picked up her tea to take a grounding sip.

“If this is real,” he went on, looking at you now, “and it’s not some ploy to get back at me and your mother, then fine. But show us. All of it, not just cozying up in a dark booth playing girlfriend over cocktails. I need to see real effort here, pumpkin. Make something of your life. I’d be happy to get you a position at the firm, to help you find a place of your own. But I need to see you trying. Because right now, this just feels like you’re throwing a tantrum in our faces.”

You swallowed dryly, the room going quiet except for the clinking of mugs on porcelain. Your mother’s eyes narrowed but she remained silent now, seething behind her teacup.

You smoothed your napkin across your lap, heart pounding, but your voice was steady. “Fine. I will.”

You and Harry had a scheduled appearance in Central Park that afternoon, and you met him at the East entrance just past the stone archway. Your flared jeans and a soft white knit sleeveless vest were perfect for the warm spring afternoon. The sweater, fastened neatly down the front with just enough left undone to feel fresh—not scandalous, but far from plain. Classy, but tailored. You’d never risk a Gossip Girl photo op without looking intentional.

Harry arrived in a tan button up with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. Casual and easy, and for a moment, you simply took in the way his hair curled a little looser today, less product, a little disheveled. His watch gleamed darkly at his wrist, something polished but understated. In his crisp jeans with brown loafers, he looked like someone to be admired without reaching for it.

“Hello,” you said, smiling as you approached.

“Hi,” he returned, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek, light and warm in its curated intention.

When he pulled back, he paused just slightly. “That okay?”

“More than okay,” you replied, your voice even but bright. “Shall we?”

You offered him your hand, and he took it with an easy nod, gesturing for you to lead.

The walk was… surprisingly nice. You moved slowly down the paved paths, fingers laced as the wind stirred through the trees and the late afternoon sun filtered through the canopy in long, shifting lines. For a while, the performance faded into the background.

Harry was so easy to talk to with his low-voiced, observant, quick wit, always seemingly able to listen intentionally while adding a dry remark here and there that made you laugh. You found yourself telling him about your mother’s meltdown that morning, how she'd threatened to cut you off, how your father wanted proof you could be a functioning adult.

“And what did you say?” he asked, tilting his head as you passed a group of people walking dogs in matching coats.

You glanced at him, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “I said fine. I’ll do it.”

He raised a brow. “Just like that?”

“There’s something exhilarating about being able to prove them wrong,” you said with a mischievous smile. He chuckled a little at that, but seemed to know there was more you wanted to say, so he waited.

You sighed, “I don’t know, though. Part of me wonders…if they have a point. I mean, I’ve never worked a day in my life other than brand deals on Instagram or showing up to events in a designer’s clothes. It would be nice to not be under their nose twenty four seven as well, to have my own place. To call it mine. Oh, and I even have an interview tomorrow.”

“That’s great,” he said genuinely, “Where?”

“The Times,” you replied, trying not to sound too proud.

He glanced over, impressed. “That’s very impressive.”

You smiled as you looked at the profile of his face. There was something about the way he said it so simply and so…sincerely that settled in you. You weren’t used to that. Usually, praise came with a caveat, a backhanded comment, a reminder that you should’ve done more. You squeezed his hand without thinking, and your finger brushed the gold band of his ring.

“You know,” you said, glancing down at it, “Serena recognized you. From the photo I posted. Our ‘soft launch’. I was surprised it took Gossip Girl so long, but she… she knew. Right after I posted it, at her bridal shower.”

You slowed a little, still looking at the ring, bringing up your clasped hands to look at it closer, “How would she know you by a ring?”

You felt him tense before looking back at him. His posture changed, and you saw how his shoulders tightened up, how the careful smile that usually touched his lips was gone.

Harry suddenly looked quite…uncomfortable. And you weren’t sure why, but that suddenly made your pulse spike.

“What is it?” you asked.

“Serena Van Der Woodsen…” he said quietly, biting his top lip, looking down at his feet, his free hand scratching at the five o clock shadow at his jaw. Your heart began to flutter into your throat, nerves lighting up. You pushed down the nerves, the thoughts of…what, you weren’t entirely sure.

“We went on a date or two,” he finally said.

You stopped short, “What?”

He looked a little sheepish, “It wasn’t anything serious,” he said, shaking his head. “A couple of dinners. Nothing meaningful came of it.”

You weren’t entirely sure what to say.

“Through Adore.” he added, “You know the matchmaking service?”

You nodded, stiffly. You knew of it, knew your friends that had tried it. The owner was one of your mom’s college friends, so you regularly heard the updates of marriages they’d tailored together, how your mom often begged you to add you to their roster.

“I told them I wasn’t looking to date anyone that young,” Harry said carefully. “This was years ago, and… a friend was persistent. Said Serena had just come out of a long-term relationship.”

You could still vaguely remember the times before Serena and Dan were engaged when their relationship was all sharp turns and slow recoveries. They were endlessly tangled in Gossip Girl posts and whispered rumors that always seemed timed to hit just when things were starting to feel stable. It had been dramatic, sure, sometimes exhausting to witness, but in hindsight, it was almost admirable. No matter how messy things got, they always found their way back to each other. Even through high school, through university, through making a life for themselves back in the city.

"Still, I agreed to a couple dates. She’s very nice, very charming."

“Much like you,” you said, and you didn’t realize how sad you sounded until it was already out of your mouth.

Harry offered a small, tired smile. “It became clear quickly we were looking for different things. We agreed to part ways, and I stepped back from the service after that. But yes — she would have recognized the ring. I believe she asked about it on our first date.”

You stopped, turning toward him, studying his face in the soft light. “I was wondering why I had never seen you dating anyone before. I mean…you’re so nice, so put together and not hard to look at, by the way—”

“Are you hitting on me?” he said with a sudden mischievous twinkle in his eye, his loose smile back on his face as he turned to you.

You rolled your eyes, giving his hand a playful tug as you smiled back. “Stop. I’m just saying… you’re a catch, Harry. Any girl would be lucky to have you. So why haven’t I seen you in anything serious?”

He looked away briefly, the smile lingering before it faded into something quieter. “Just never found the right person, I guess.”

“You’ve never been in love?” you asked, tilting your head.

His eyes found yours again—those warm, watchful eyes that always seemed so sure of themselves suddenly looked so unsure. Sad, almost, like the question had tugged on something old and partially buried.

“I—”

The flash of cameras cut him off with the sound of your name ranging out like a warning bell.

You turned fast, hand coming up instinctively to shield your face. Harry mirrored you, stepping in closer, his hand dropping yours to find your lower back, guiding you both away from the cluster of photographers.

“Crap,” you muttered under your breath.

“Shouldn’t we be happy to see them?” he asked, glancing at you beneath his hand.

“Under no circumstances could I ever be happy to see these assholes.”

Gossip Girl tips were one thing. They came from passersby, people sipping their coffee on a park bench or walking their dog and just happened to catch a glimpse of you. But people who made a living off invading your privacy with flashing lights, shouted names, and cameras always at the ready were something else entirely.

But when you looked back at Harry, he was smiling. Something sly and boyish tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“We could give them something to talk about,” he said with a teasing lilt.

You slowed, blinking at him through the slats of your fingers. “Are you serious?”

“I wouldn’t suggest it if I weren’t,” he said. “But only if you're okay with it.”

“Harry!” one of the photographers shouted over him, “Give her a kiss! C’mon, kiss her!”

You gaped at him, slowing down your gait. “You’re actually considering it.”

He dropped the hand from his face and stepped a little closer, his expression calm. “I’m game if you are.”

When you didn’t answer with words and only smiled at him, his own lips widened, the lines in his face deepening with a knowing kind of joy. He reached for your jaw, and you let out a surprised laugh as he pulled you in, his palm warm where it cradled your cheek.

God, his lips were so soft.

Softer that you’d expected, and warmer too. His mustache tickled your upper lip and nose, and he smelled like pine and something fresh, clean in a way that surprised you, so different from the oud wood of the night before. It was like catching him in a different season, a different light.

It was meant to be for the cameras, you knew that. Knew it in the way his hand held the side of your face that wasn’t facing the flash of bulbs, angled and calculated and strategic in every way. But still…

As his hand stayed cupped gently along your jaw, thumb resting just under your ear, something wriggled in your stomach. And he kissed you harder, longer, like he was playing a role with more conviction than expected. You refused to name the feeling fluttering through your nerves, reminded yourself that even has your fingers curled slightly around his bicep where you help him, that this was for show, for cameras. It wasn’t real.

But you couldn’t help but find yourself smiling through it, and when Harry pulled back, he was smiling too, your lip gloss faintly smudged on his mouth.

You reached up and brushed it away with your thumb, and he chuckled, fingers wrapping around yours again as he led you away down the path, flashes still popping behind you.

You absolutely were not thinking about the kiss from Harry as you stepped into the sleek, silver elevator on your way to the interview the following day. You were not remembering his crisp, forest-y cologne, or the way his mustache tickled your upper lip, or how his hand cupped your face as you pressed the button for the 30th floor.

And you were certainly not, under any circumstance, thinking about how badly you wanted to do it again as the elevator dinged for your stop.

Because, for the love of God, you needed to focus. You had answers to Top Questions Asked At Interviews rattling around your brain, half-memorized. You needed to remind yourself that this was a real opportunity and not a staged date or photo op for the next headline. It was nerve wracking, yes, but manageable. Especially since you technically knew the interviewer from a yacht party in Palm Beach last summer.

So when you stepped into the main reception of The New York Times, you were absolutely, unequivocally, without question not thinking about kissing Harry Castillo.

The receptionist greeted you and soon motioned you toward a set of double glass doors, and you followed her through a quiet corridor lined with framed Pulitzer winners, your heels clicking sharply on the tile. At the end of the hall, she held a small office door open for you.

You stepped inside, expecting to see Chloe—tan, fake boobs, and wildly overqualified for her position thanks to nepotism and generational wealth. The girl who once told you, barefoot on said yacht in Florida, that journalism was just a vibe, like, totally a vibe, don’t let anyone tell you you need experience.

Instead, you were greeted by someone else entirely. An older woman, maybe in her late sixties, sitting behind a stark black desk. Her hair was silver and pulled back in a low twist, her reading glasses perched halfway down her nose and a navy silk scarf was knotted at her throat. She reminded you a bit of your mother if she traded in the Lululemon for department store sale racks.

“Miss Montclair,” the woman said, standing only halfway as she extended a hand. Her voice was cool and clipped as she introduced herself. “I’m Margaret Lang. I’ll be conducting your interview today.”

You took her extended hand despite your confusion, “Hi, I thought I was meeting with—”

“Miss Hargrove was pulled into a meeting earlier than expected,” she replied briskly, already sitting down and gesturing to the chair opposite her desk. “Please.”

You sat, your black skirt covered ass hitting the seat harder than you intended. You smoothed it out and tried to smile. This was fine. After all, you’d prepped, at least a little. You had notes, you’d watched a couple videos. You had answers to things like where do you see yourself in five years? and what would your past coworkers say about you? She didn’t need to know you’d never even had coworkers before in your entire life.

“So, Miss Montclair,” Margaret began, lacing her fingers together over a thick, leather portfolio. “Tell me: what drew you to this role?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

What drew you to the role?

You swallowed. The truth was... nothing did. Only that you knew people who worked here, that the household name The New York Times would keep your parents off your back, give you back your Amex Black Card, and potentially give you the freedom to get back to your regular life.

You cleared your throat. “Well, I… I’ve always had a deep appreciation for the written word.”

Margaret didn’t blink. “Mmhmm.”

“And journalism,” you added, like that somehow clarified anything.

Another pause.

You panicked. “I love words. And…and the paper.”

Jesus Christ.

Margaret made a small note on her pad.

You tried again. “I read The Times growing up. My family reads it every morning too.”

She looked at you over her glasses. “The digital edition or print?”

You froze. “What?”

“Print or digital?”

“Oh. Um. Both?”

Another note scribbled on her notepad.

“Let’s move on,” she said, mercifully. “Tell me about a time you overcame a professional challenge.”

Professional challenge. Okay, you could do this. You had something, had made sure to have this answer ready—you just had to dig for it in the archives of your brain.

The problem was, the only thing surfacing was that stupid kiss with Harry in the park. The way his hand had cupped your jaw, the flashbulbs, the sound of your name being shouted. Your nerves were fraying as you sat in this stuffy little office, with the whole of New York outside her window, and you could actually see Central Park from here. It didn’t help as you tried to push the memory away, trying to keep your nerves intact. But you could feel them coming apart at the edges, thin threads snapping inside your chest.

You tried anyway, forcing your brain to just think of something as you said, “There was a… a summer in Saint-Tropez. We lost WiFi on the yacht, and I had to send—”

“Let’s try another one,” Margaret cut in, voice still cool. “How would your peers describe your work ethic?”

You stared at her.

“Miss Montclair?”

“I… think they would say I show up.”

Margaret didn’t move, waiting for you to continue. You felt your hands going clammy as you wiped them on your thighs.

But still, you pressed on. “I always show up. I mean—I’m punctual. Not always, like, early. But… present. In a meaningful way. Emotionally.”

Another pause.

You were going down, you knew it. For the love of god, the Titanic had more grace than you did right now.

Margaret adjusted her glasses. “I see.”

You weren’t sure if she did. Or if she’d already decided to blacklist you from the entire building. She made another note, her pen barely scratching the paper.

She looked up again, perfectly composed. “One final thing, Miss Montclair.”

You straightened in your seat, hands clasped in your lap.

“I’ll admit, when your application first came across my desk, I had my doubts,” she said, her tone somehow both warm and cold. “Given the… recent visibility surrounding your name.”

You froze. Here it was, moment of truth.

She offered a thin, polite smile. ““Given the recent attention you’ve garnered—however unintentional—I had reason to wonder whether someone with your background would be the right fit for The Times. We take our values seriously here. But as I understand it, your family has a long standing connection to Mr. Lancaster.”

You blinked, slowly, recognizing the name, vaguely. Publisher, maybe? Owner? Someone old and powerful and usually in golf photos with your dad.

“And I must say,” she continued, flipping a page in her folder with clinical grace, “you do seem to have a talent for remaining culturally relevant.”

You couldn’t tell if she meant it with judgment or pity. It surely wasn’t a compliment.

“So here’s my question,” Margaret said, peering over her glasses. “If we were to bring you on, in what ways do you believe you could elevate our brand?”

You swallowed, forcing yourself to not bend under her serious, hawk-like stare. “I… I think I understand attention.” you began, maybe a little shakily, but you pushed through it, through the nerves and uncertainty, “Not in a performative way, but in the sense that I know how quickly a narrative can spread. What people respond to, what makes them stop and look.”

Her brow raised, fingers finally stopping, fully listening to what you had to say.

“I don’t mean that I want the attention,” you clarified. “I just… I’ve been at the center of it enough to recognize its power. And I think maybe, if I learn the right way to use that, I could channel it into something worthwhile. Something better.”

Margaret stared at you for a long time before nodding once. “Thank you, Miss Montclair. We’ll be in touch.”

Back in the elevator, the sleek, chrome-trimmed doors closed around you with a whisper, sealing you in a silver capsule that smelled faintly of eucalyptus and cold metal. You leaned against the mirrored wall, exhaling slowly as you tried to go over the interview in your mind, but the thoughts floated uselessly now, weightless and out of reach, as if once you stepped out of the office it was blacked out of your memory. She hadn’t cared about your goals or your education. She’d just wanted to see if the tabloid girl could sit still long enough not to embarrass her paper.

The elevator began its descent, and when you finally glanced down at your phone, the screen was already lit with notifications.

The ding of the doors rang again for your arrival to the ground floor, and you straightened reflexively, shoving the phone back into your bag, trying to collect yourself, to focus, to fix your expression into something less readable. But the moment the doors parted, the lobby lit up like a runway.

Flashes burst through the glass windows. Shouts echoed off the marble.

You blinked, half-frozen as the wall of cameras snapped toward you from outside. Faces you didn’t recognize, lenses trained like weapons, their voices merging into an unintelligible roar as they pressed against the building's glass front. They shouted your name, Harry’s name, asking about your date with him, about the kiss, if the wedding was next, if you were moving in, if you’d left your family behind.

The air thinned around you in an instant. It felt like being trapped, the walls getting closer and closer, their voices echoing through the glass as security tried to keep them back. Why were they flocking here? God forbid you showed up to an interview where Harry happened to work, was nothing sacred? Nothing for you to do without wondering if it was about a man? You wanted to scream, to throw your phone, your bag, your claws at them. But you felt frozen, you couldn’t breathe or think or move.

But finally you seemed to be able to feel your feet as another security guard approached, and you turned sharply, heels clacking loud against the tile, darting past the lobby desk without meeting anyone’s eyes. The hallway narrowed behind the steel elevators, leading toward a corridor, and you made for the farthest door marked for restrooms, not pausing until you were inside and the heavy door shut behind you with a thud.

Fluorescent lighting buzzed overhead, far too loud and sharp. The tile floor was cold beneath your heels, the walls a sterile pale gray that made everything feel more clinical than private. You locked the door behind you and made it to the sink, grateful for the single stall bathroom. You finally let yourself slump forward, palms braced against the porcelain as the room pressed in around you.

The air in the bathroom felt hot, even though the building’s AC was blasting. Your hands were shaking as you pressed them to your face, trying to block out the noise, the headlines, the questions. You’d thought the interview was the low point of it all, feeling like you would never be good enough for any of it, feeling so small and useless across from that old hag. But this, now, made it all feel worse. Like you were some creature on display, circling the same glass walls over and over, no way out.

You gasped for air but didn’t cry. You wouldn’t cry, you wouldn’t let them see the tear tracks through your foundation when you finally had the courage to leave. Your breath came sharp and shallow, the sound of it echoing too loud against the marble walls of the restroom. You pushed off the sink and sat on the closed toilet lid. You didn’t know how to move your limbs, arms curling around yourself, body stiff with humiliation and dread. Your phone vibrated in your bag—another text, maybe another photo, another reminder that your life belonged more to strangers than to yourself.

You fumbled for it anyway, nearly dropping it on the tile, barely glancing at the flood of notifications lighting up the screen. The first number you called was Blair’s.

It rang and rang and rang. And just when you thought she might pick up, her familiar voicemail started—“You’ve reached Blair, I–” and you hung up before she could finish, the sound suddenly unbearable.

You could call Serena, maybe. But she was knee-deep in wedding planning and you couldn’t stomach the idea of being that kind of friend. You could call your parents but…God, no. They’d only make it worse. Chuck? He was probably wasted somewhere on the West End with his buddies in an underground poker scene he loved so much.

Looking down at the screen, thumb hesitating just above Blair’s name, thinking maybe if you called again…but then moved on through your contacts. Past the ones who’d only make it worse, ones who never answered or only called when they needed something. That’s how it always was, so transactional, so superficial. You landed on the only name that felt equal parts safe and humiliating. You tapped it anyway.

It only rang once.

“Hello?” His voice came warm and low, casual like he’d just stepped out of a meeting.

You opened your mouth, but your voice didn’t come. You had to swallow down a sob, had to force your tongue to move.

“I—I’m in your building apparently,” you said, rushing the words out.

“You are? Why?” A pause. “The Times interview?”

“Yeah, but—” you couldn’t stop the wobble in your voice, the way your throat closed up. “I’m in the bathroom. I—I didn’t know what else to do. They’re out there.”

“Who is, sweetheart?”

You pressed your hand to your forehead, trying to settle your pulse because somehow the pet name managed to both make your heart dance and swell all at once as you gasped for breath, “The photographers. I saw the flashes through the windows, and I just—I can’t breathe, I can’t—”

“Hey, hey,” he cut in gently, all the casual charm draining from his voice. “You’re okay. Just tell me where you are.”

Your hands were shaking as you wiped your nose on the back of your sleeve, mascara smudging under your eyes. “It’s the first floor. Women’s bathroom, just past the elevators.”

“I’m coming to get you,” he said, firm but kind. You could hear papers shuffling around in the background. “Stay right there, okay? Lock the door, I’ll be there.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Okay,” you whispered.

The line went quiet. You stared at the screen for a moment after the call ended, the silence in the room pressing in again.

By the time you heard the knock, your breathing had evened out, though your hands still trembled faintly in your lap. You blinked at the handle, fingers curled against the hem of your skirt, heart still lurching in your chest. Another knock, so soft and careful, and you stood on legs that didn’t quite feel like yours.

You cracked the door open, and Harry stood there, suit jacket left behind, hair perfectly styled but tie loosened like he’d come in a rush. His expression was all concern, brow furrowed, lips parted like he was about to say something. But instead of speaking, he just opened his arms.

And you stepped into them.

He smelled like cedar and something warmer—amber, maybe, or vetiver—something expensive and clean. How many different colognes did this man own? His arms wrapped securely around you, pulling you in with that careful kind of pressure that told you he wasn’t going to ask you to talk, or apologize, or explain anything just yet. You let your head fall against his chest, the thrum of his heart steady beneath your cheek, and let out a shaky breath.

“I think I had a panic attack,” you whispered.

“Yeah,” he said gently, brushing a hand across the back of your hair. “I’m glad you called me.”

You swallowed, pulling back, stepping away from him and swiping under your eyes again with the pads of your fingers. “Sorry. I didn’t know who else—” You bit your lip, shook your head. “I just couldn’t go out there again. I saw all the flashing and…I just couldn’t.”

Harry’s voice was calm, reassuring. “Come on, I'll get you home. We don’t have to go out the front.”

You blinked up at him.

“I know a way out the back,” he said, giving you a quiet, coaxing smile. “Come on.”

“But don’t you have to get back to work?” you asked, voice still scratchy from the tears.

He gave a little shrug, the corner of his mouth quirking with something light and easy. “I’m the boss. I do what I want.”

You let out the faintest laugh, breath catching in a hiccup, and nodded. Then his hand found yours, and you let him lead you.

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fushigurokogane · 3 months ago

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❝𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐦❞

Royalty AU || Crown Prince Megumi x Reader || Part 3

"Either way, you weren’t supposed to catch the eye of the Crown Prince. But you did — not because you tried to impress him, but because you didn’t."

wc: 3.4k

authors note: HAIIII im back!! alr so this is kinda long?? idk. but im having so much fun adding to this plot tbh so i hope you enjoy and if your new, PLEASE read the first 2 parts first, it'll help you understand the storyline better :)

warnings: fem!reader, crown prince! megumi, forbidden romance, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, and political pressure

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masterlist

They didn’t ask questions at first.

The nobles, the court, the whispers behind fans and wine glasses — they all saw you once and dismissed you. A curiosity. A blip. Another face swept into the tide of courtly games.

But then they saw you again.

At the edge of the solarium, where the Crown Prince stood just a little too close. On the second terrace, where his eyes tracked your exit even while a visiting duchess tried to flirt with him. In the south garden, at dusk — a place no one went unless they wanted privacy.

And suddenly, it was a pattern.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

You told him that, more than once. In the flickering dark of the archives, where lanterns hummed like fireflies and your knees touched beneath the reading table. In the old chapel where no one dared go except ghosts and people pretending not to be in love. In the silent corners of the palace kitchens, hands brushing over teacups and smuggled fruit.

“This is dangerous,” you whispered once, the night his fingers found yours behind the velvet curtain of the observatory.

He didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you.

The kind of look that felt like a vow.

Like if anyone found you in that moment, he’d set the world on fire to keep you safe.

But fire makes smoke.

And smoke draws attention.

The first time you were summoned, it was under the guise of a simple interview. Routine, they said. Just part of an “internal security review.”

You weren’t stupid. You’d seen wolves wear sheep’s clothing before.

They asked strange questions.

How long had you known the Crown Prince? What was your family’s profession? Had you received any… unusual gifts lately?

You lied, carefully. Just enough truth to keep from slipping.

When you told Megumi later — behind the carved wood of a forgotten study — his jaw clenched so tightly you heard his teeth grind.

“They’re watching you now,” he said.

You didn’t ask if he meant they or he — because the answer was the same.

You looked at him, and you saw the storm coming.

He was different now. Not colder, but harder. Like steel forged under pressure. Every move measured. Every glance weighed.

He’d stopped leaving you notes. Stopped appearing in public anywhere near you.

But you still found each other.

In the space between dusk and nightfall, just before the bells rang the final hour, you met in a room that didn’t exist on the official floor plan.

Stone walls. Dust. A broken mirror no one had bothered to fix. It was perfect.

You were already there when he arrived, boots silent on the old tile.

“Megumi..I missed you,” you said, voice barely more than a breath.

“I missed you too. A lot." he replied.

Then his hand was at your jaw. Fingers tilting your face upward. His thumb brushing the line of your cheek like he was trying to memorize the way you existed.

“Tell me to stop,” he said.

You didn’t.

So he kissed you.

Not tentative. Not unsure. But like someone whose leash had finally snapped — restrained for too long, now moving like a tide pulled forward by gravity and grief and longing.

It was the kind of kiss that meant something. The kind that leaves bruises behind your ribs.

But when he pulled away, his expression had already changed.

Not regret. Just reality.

“They’re forcing a decision,” he said.

You already knew what he meant.

A political marriage. One that would “strengthen alliances,” “preserve tradition,” “ensure the future of the realm.”

The usual excuses for arranged betrayal.

“Who?” you asked.

“Lady Hisakawa.”

The name made your stomach turn. Not because of jealousy — but because she was cruel in the way polished things often are. Beautiful and hollow. Sharp behind the smile.

“I don’t have a choice,” he said, low.

“Yes, you do,” you whispered.

“No,” he said, and the weight in his voice nearly broke something in you. “I have duty.”

You didn’t cry. Not in front of him.

But you reached out. Held his hand like it might keep the world from spinning off its axis.

“I won’t stay here,” you said.

His gaze snapped to yours.

“If I watch you marry someone else, I’ll lose everything good I’ve ever been.”

Silence.

“Then I’ll never marry.”

You stared.

“I’ll delay. Strategize. Break rules they thought unbreakable. Whatever it takes,” he said. “If they want a performance, I’ll give them one. But I won’t give them you.”

Your chest ached. Every word was a wound and a balm.

“But if they find out…”

“They already suspect. And I don’t care.”

“You will,” you said. “When they come for me.”

His jaw tightened. “They’ll have to go through me first.”

And for once, you believed it.

That night, you left the palace through a side gate no one guarded anymore.In your pocket, you carried another violet. This one dried. Fragile. Pressed flat between the pages of a stolen royal ledger.

It wasn’t a promise.

It was a warning.

Because the palace walls weren’t made of stone. They were made of glass.

And glass only holds until it shatters.

It had now been a few days, the palace whispered.

A tapestry tugged at the seams, delicate threads coming loose under the weight of secrets. Servants changed routes. Guards took new posts. Doors once left ajar began locking behind them. No one said your name, but it lingered in the air like smoke: known, unspoken, dangerous.

And Megumi was more careful now.

Not distant. Never that. But sharper. As if he walked through each day counting steps and knives. As if he knew that one wrong move might unravel everything.

You saw him less, but when you did, it meant something.

A glance across the throne room during an open council. A single brush of fingers beneath a shared parchment in the library. A quiet moment in the garden just before dawn — when the sky was still indigo and the world hadn’t remembered to be cruel yet.

You didn’t speak of the marriage again.

Not aloud.

Not after that night.

But the threat of it hung over everything, a sword waiting to fall.

Three weeks passed.

You kept to shadows, wearing quiet like a cloak. The shopkeeper missed you. The capital streets missed you. But you’d become part of the palace’s undercurrent — a ghost no one saw unless they looked too closely.

And people were starting to look.

Lady Hisakawa was the first to make it known.

She wasn’t subtle. The court never was.

She found you alone in the conservatory one evening, pretending to admire the frost orchids while you waited for a servant to slip you a message.

“Pretty things don’t survive long here,” she said, voice lilting like it was dipped in honey and edged in venom.

You didn’t respond.

She stepped closer.

“You don’t belong, you know. Whatever fantasy you’re indulging in — it ends badly. For people like you.”

You met her eyes. “Is that a threat?”

She smiled, slow and deliberate. “It’s tradition.”

And then she walked away, trailing lavender perfume and poison in her wake.

The message never came.

You didn’t see Megumi again until the Midwinter Gala.

You hadn’t planned to attend. It was too public, too exposed. But the invitation arrived in silence — a single envelope bearing only your name, slipped beneath your door with no seal at all.

Inside, one sentence:

You said you wouldn’t watch. But what if I want you to see me fight?

You frowned, you didn't know what it meant. You wanted to know what it meant.

So you went.

You borrowed a gown from the wardrobe of a sympathetic court musician — deep navy with silver threading, the colors of dusk. You wore no jewelry. No mask. Only your resolve.

The ballroom gleamed. Light caught on ice sculptures and velvet drapery, casting stars on the marble floor. The nobles danced. The royals mingled. Everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

Until he stepped forward in full ceremonial attire — sword at his hip, crown band gleaming like forged moonlight — and walked to the center of the room.

He didn’t call for silence.

He didn’t need to.

The crowd quieted on instinct.

Megumi looked at the gathered lords and ladies, eyes like winter storms.

Then he spoke.

“There’s been speculation,” he began, voice even but edged. “About my intentions. About the future of the realm. About alliances.”

He looked toward Lady Hisakawa, who stood near the dais, already lifting her chin with anticipation.

“There is truth in what you’ve heard,” he continued. “I have made a decision. But not the one you expect.”

A ripple moved through the crowd.

“I will not marry for power,” he said.

A gasp.

“I will not bind my life to politics. I have seen what love becomes when it’s used as currency. I refuse to bleed it dry.”

His voice cut like a blade now — controlled, lethal.

“I will not announce a bride tonight. Because she already knows who she is.”

And then he looked at you.

Not a flicker. Not a glance.

A look so direct, so defiant, it lit the entire room on fire.

You didn’t breathe.

He bowed his head, a silent vow in a room made of silence.

And the court exploded.

You were gone before the storm hit.

You slipped out through the west corridor, skirts lifted above your ankles, heart thundering like hooves on stone. Footsteps followed. Voices. Chaos in the wake of his truth.

But you didn’t stop running until someone grabbed your wrist and pulled you into an alcove.

Megumi.

His breath was ragged. His collar undone. He looked like a man who had just set fire to everything and didn’t regret it.

"You look so beauti-"

“Are you insane?” you hissed.

“Yes,” he said. “For you.”

“You’ve just undone a decade of strategy!”

“They’ll fix it,” he said. “They always do.”

“And what if they come for me?”

His hand framed your jaw again, tender and furious. “Then they’ll find you gone.”

Your breath caught.

“What are you saying?”

“I made arrangements,” he said. “Safe passage. A place outside the capital. No one knows but me.”

“Megumi—”

“If you stay, they’ll use you. To hurt me. To control me. I won’t let that happen.”

“And what about you?”

“I’m the Crown Prince. I can’t run. But I can protect you. Even from here.”

Tears pricked the edge of your eyes.

“I don’t want protection,” you whispered. “I want you.”

He kissed you then.

Fast. Desperate. Like he knew it might be the last.

Then he pressed something into your hand — a key, worn with age and silver-etched.

“There’s a gatehouse in the mountains,” he said. “It’s yours now. Go tonight.”

You stared at him.

And then, slowly, you shook your head.

“No.”

“Don’t be stupid—”

“No, Megumi. I won’t run unless you ask me to.”

Silence.

Then, his hand closed over yours.

“I won’t. Not yet.”

“Then I stay.”

His mouth trembled, just once.

And he let go.

The fallout came fast.

Whispers turned to accusations. Nobles turned on each other. The king grew ill. The court tried to rewrite the story in real time, but the damage had been done.

Megumi stood his ground.

And you?

You watched the kingdom crack beneath the weight of two people who refused to let go of something real.

A dangerous, impossible love.

The kind that shatters kingdoms.

The kind that builds them too.

@obsessivestrawberrysimp

95 notes · View notes

megalony · 1 year ago

Text

You'll See Him Soon

This is an Eddie Diaz imagine, requested by anon. I hope you will all like it, I wrote this one so quickly. Let me know what you think.

Taglist: @justagirlthatlovedtoread @musicistheway @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @luula @missdreamofendless @bradleybeachbabe @woderfulkawaii @amberpanda99 @daggersquadphantom @marvel-and-chicago-fan @angryknightstatesmantrash @minjix @lyjen @kmc1989 @itsmytimetoodream @noonenuts @hiireadstuff @ashie-babie @classyunknownlover @jayyeahthatsme @sp1ritssz @dumb-fawkin-bitch @oliverstarksbae @gimatida @heart-35 @supernaturalstilinski @stefansalvatoresgf @kyky9103 @wutheringhearts2275 @gay4hotmilfs @itshamleth @chaoticnosleepinfluencer @gs29 @wh0reforsmutstuff @mel-vaz @natashamea18 @chrisevansdaughter @alexandra8484 @deena-beena-weena @targaryenluvs @shelbygeek @kpoplover-19 @marvelmenarebeautiful @gillybear17 @zoeybennett @mrspeacem1nusone

Eddie Diaz Masterlist

Summary: While (Y/n) pops by the station, her and Eddie both end up getting shot. And the team race to get them both to the hospital before they lose them.

Enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"So, lunch on Tuesday?"

A grin broke out on (Y/n)'s face and she turned to the right, looking over at her big sister with a smile.

"Yep. You know we'll have to invite Buck though, right?" (Y/n) laughed at the way Maddie rolled her eyes.

They had gone out today on a girl's day while Evan, Eddie and Chimney were all on shift. That was all well and good, but it made Evan feel left out. Whenever they went out together on a girl's day, they ended up going to the movies or going out for lunch another day with Evan. The three of them were a close-knit sibling unit and Evan seemed to think girl's day should also include him.

"Hm, I know." She cast a sly grin across at (Y/n) before she looked ahead and turned the next corner.

"You can just drop me at the station, you know. Eddie will be finished by now and he said he'd give me a lift home." They were only three minutes away from the station and it saved Maddie having to go past her flat to get to (Y/n) and Eddie's place.

It meant she could just drop (Y/n) here and make the short trip home and (Y/n) would go home with Eddie. As long as he wasn't currently out on a call but even if he was, (Y/n) would just wait at the station for him.

"Don't forget to ask Eddie and Buck about getting that night off next month."

(Y/n) groaned and pressed her temple against the window at the mere mention of what was going to happen next month. She could feel a headache forming behind her eyes at the thought.

"If they don't get it off, I'll be down at the station with them." (Y/n) could hear her sister laughing, but she wasn't joking. She was being serious. If neither of the boys got that night off, (Y/n) would be joining them and hanging out at the station for the night.

There was no way (Y/n) and Maddie could get through dinner with their parents without Eddie and Evan there with them. It wasn't often that they saw their parents nowadays and that was how the three siblings liked it.

But (Y/n) knew when she told them she was pregnant, they would want to come down and see them all. She had been surprised they hadn't come down sooner, but they were finally coming down for three days next week and (Y/n) was dreading it.

"At least they're happy this time… they're excited." Leaning across the console, Maddie rested her hand on (Y/n)'s leg and gave her a little shake to make her smile.

"Yeah, after they said I wasn't old or mature enough to be Chris's mum. Now this is 'their grandchild' they've changed their tune."

(Y/n) kept her head against the cold glass that felt soothing to her skin. She dared to glance her eyes down and her expression softened when she looked at her bump. Her fingers danced over her abdomen and she started drawing aimless patterns like Eddie had started to do recently. (Y/n) didn't realise how attached to her stomach Eddie would be until she finally started to show.

Not long before she and Eddie got married last year, her parents had tried telling her- in front of Eddie- that she wasn't mature enough to be a mother to Chris. And she had seen the conflict in their eyes when Chris called her mum. They didn't see how much it meant to (Y/n) that Chris thought of her as his mother.

Because she was the youngest sibling, they thought she was somehow incompetent at doing anything.

Only now it was different because (Y/n) was the first one out of the three of them to have a child. Her parents had changed their minds because they could see (Y/n) was the happiest she had ever been with Eddie and she was settling down. They were going to be grandparents and it sparked a small change in them.

Although (Y/n) knew if they dared say anything when they came down, Eddie would blow a fuse.

"So… have you thought of any names yet? I think-"

"We are not calling her Maddie." (Y/n) shook her head and shot a glare across at her sister who was just about to turn into the station car park.

"Why not?"

"Because it's your name. It's bad enough Buck's trying to hustle in and pitch Evelyn for a name. We're not naming her after anybody."

(Y/n) had seen Eddie's eyes light up when they went to their scan two weeks ago and found out they were having a girl. She knew he had been hoping for a girl and she could already tell their daughter would have Eddie wrapped around her little finger.

But the couple were starting to regret telling people because they were all coming up with names and ideas left, right and centre. Evan had been bummed they couldn't name the baby after him, until he realised Evelyn was close to his name and kept pestering Eddie to pick that name. And even though Maddie was joking, she had pitched Madeline to them a few times.

God knows there wasn't anyone on (Y/n)'s side of the family she would want to name her daughter after- except for her big sister. But (Y/n) couldn't handle two Maddie's and getting confused and having to come up with nicknames for each of them.

And she had asked Eddie if he had anyone on his side that he thought about naming their daughter after, but he wasn't keen on the idea. They wanted something original. A name no one else in their friendship circle had.

"Fine," Maddie huffed with a roll of her eyes as she parked up and whipped off her seatbelt. She turned to the left and looked over at (Y/n) with a tender smile before she danced her fingertips across (Y/n)'s stomach. And her smile brightened when (Y/n) moved her hand down so she could feel the baby wriggling. "Well what about Dolly, because she'll be as cute as a little doll."

"I'll think about it." (Y/n) would admit that it would be sweet to call her Doll or Dolly, especially if she was small and delicate. But knowing their luck, they would agree on that name and then either their daughter wouldn't suit the name when she was born or she wouldn't be a small baby.

She gave Maddie's hand a squeeze and grinned, but just as she took off her belt and looked to the left, a pair of hands slammed against the window.

(Y/n) screamed as Maddie gasped and reeled back in her seat with a frown when they both realised it was only Eddie.

He had a wolfish grin on his lips while he crouched down to look through the window. He seemed to make it his mission to give (Y/n) a fright recently and she was sure it was because he loved to make her scream and liven up the baby.

"Eddie!" (Y/n) hissed and slammed her hand down on the window before she moved her hand to her chest, trying to regain back her breath.

Her brows furrowed into a deep frown as Eddie opened the door and when he held his hand out for her, she batted it away and climbed out. "Don't do that! Do you want me to have a heart attack?"

She gave his shoulder a shove and tried to glare at him, but it was hard when he grinned down at her with such a wide smile that his cheeks and eyes creased. And when he leaned over and wormed his arms around her waist and reeled her into his chest, (Y/n) didn't have the effort to push him away.

"No, just keepin' you on your toes, baby."

His palms pressed flush against her back and he pulled her into him until their chests were touching and (Y/n) had to hold onto his shoulders to steady herself. She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes on him when his lips attached to the side of her neck "Look what you've done," She muttered quietly, reaching behind her to hold Eddie's wrist and move his hand from her back until his palm was pressed into the side of her stomach.

"She's happy to see me." He grinned against her neck and bared his teeth, lightly grazing against her neck until (Y/n) gave his shoulders a squeeze and started to squirm in his arms.

He lifted his head up so he could kiss the side of (Y/n)'s temple and his arms curved back around her. Keeping her pinned into his chest and when she curled her arms around his neck to hug him, he started to sway them both from side to side. And Eddie turned his head to the left, grinning over at Maddie as she got out the car and leaned against the door with a grin and raised brows.

"Did you two have fun?"

"We went for lunch, then we saw a movie."

They hadn't made any plans today, they had decided to have a girls day but see what they felt like doing when they went out. Both of them had been hungry, so they tried a new restaurant for lunch and then decided to go to the movies. It had been a while since they had gone out together and seen a movie and it was something they used to do every weekend when (Y/n) was younger.

"Someone had to leave the screen twice for a drink refill. Little miss lemonade with lime cordial."

(Y/n) rolled her lips together and looked up at Eddie through her lashes when he scrunched his nose in distaste and gave her an odd look.

"You don't like lime juice." That wasn't something Eddie had ever known (Y/n) to drink and it was an odd combination. And it wasn't like (Y/n) to go and get a refill drink either, she barely drank enough during the day to keep her going so it was a nice surprise to hear she kept getting another drink.

"Hm, your daughter does," Maddie chirped with a wide grin before she looked down at her watch. "Right, I'd better love you and leave you, I'll see you both at the weekend for games night. Tell Buck I said hi."

When Maddie climbed back in the car and blew a few kisses their way, they stood back and waved her off.

"Is your shift over?" (Y/n) dragged her eyes up and down Eddie's frame, only just realising that he was still in his starched navy trousers and button up shirt. Her fingers dug down into his shoulders and she tilted back a little when Eddie leaned his chest against hers and stole a deep kiss from her lips.

"Hm, just gotta get changed, then we can go home." He could see that was music to (Y/n)'s ears.

Sitting down in a movie theatre was all well and good, but (Y/n) was starting to feel tired already and she hadn't done that much today. She wanted to go home, make tea and slump on the sofa with her boys.

"So, was the movie any good?" Eddie curved his left arm around (Y/n)'s waist to keep her tucked up into his side as they walked round to the front of the station. He stuffed his other hand into his pocket and pressed his lips to the top of (Y/n)'s head when she leaned her cheek against his shoulder.

"Yeah, but I missed the ending queuing for the toilet." In all honesty (Y/n) had missed a few crutial parts of the film when she went to go get another drink, twice. And then she had to hurry out twice for the toilet and the queue had been horrendous at the end. It was lucky she was only five months along with the baby or she wasn't sure she would of been able to wait as long as she did for the queue to go down.

She could feel Eddie laughing into her hair as both their steps came to a halt when they noticed Hen, Chimney and Evan all gathered in a little circle just outside the station doors.

"What kind of meeting is this?" (Y/n) quipped with a grin and she leaned over when Evan looped his arm around her shoulders and reeled her under his wing for a hug.

"Shift change-over. Me and your hubby are leaving, these two are staying for the next four hours." Hen hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and smiled triumphantly as if she had just won a game.

They were all out here because the trucks were being restocked and the ambulance was out on a call. It was quieter out here than inside where everyone was hustling and bustling to stock up and clatter and change over. And Hen was getting ready to leave whereas Chimney and Evan were taking a breather before they went back in for the rest of their shifts.

"So, how's Evelyn?"

(Y/n) rolled her eyes and unhooked her brother's arm from her shoulders before she crossed her arms over her chest. But she smiled when Eddie reached behind her to give Evan a light shove.

"I've told you, we're not naming her after you." He gave Evan a pointed look before he moved his hands to his hips and leaned his head to one side. It didn't matter how many times Evan tried or how much he pestered. Eddie's first daughter was not going to be named after his brother-in-law.

(Y/n) leaned into Eddie's left side, trying to hide her grin when Chimney started to laugh.

"Debatable." Evan remarked with narrowed eyes before he looked back down at his little sister. He wasn't giving up just yet; he could pester them for a lot longer to see if they would give in and go along with the name he had chosen. "So, how is she?"

"She's fine."

"So, are you two-"

Whatever Hen was about to say tapered off when a sharp, shrill noise cut through the air and shifted the atmosphere around them.

A gunshot.

Nobody knew where it came from. They didn't know who fired, where they were standing, what kind of shot it was that was directed at them. Or who the shot was aimed for.

Terror dug its claws into (Y/n)'s chest and ripped out her lungs when her head turned to the right.

It was Eddie. Eddie was the one who got shot. She didn't see the bullet hit him, but (Y/n) knew the moment he had been hurt; his left hand clawed into her back and made her wince. She knew by the way his fingertips punctured into her hip and how his hand fisted her flesh like he was trying to tear a chunk off that the pain hit him instantly.

She didn't see the shot, it happened far too quick to see the bullet fly through the air or see it hit her husband. But when Eddie's shirt around his right shoulder started to turn berry-red, it ignited (Y/n)'s heart until she was matching the pulse rate of a hummingbird.

Her hands grappled for Eddie, holding his back and scrunching her other hand up in his shirt over his chest to try and keep him upright, but she couldn't.

His name passed her lips like a whisper in the wind and when Eddie's lips parted, (Y/n) could hear the quiet breath he huffed.

There was no expression on his face, his eyes weren't in focus, they were dazed and staring ahead into the distance. His lips parted but he wasn't saying anything and he was barely breathing. It was like someone had refreshed his system and he was completely blank.

But he couldn't stay upright. It felt like hours had passed when barely a second ticked by from the bullet entering his shoulder to Eddie's body tilting backwards.

"Eddie-" (Y/n) curled her hands into fists around his shirt but she couldn't hold him up. He fell too swiftly and with too much weight for (Y/n) to try and keep him on his feet. Her body shuddered and she winced when his fingers stayed puncturing into her back where she knew she would have bruises later.

He crashed down on his back on the pavement, his head bouncing against the concrete slabs harsh enough that it should have cracked his head open.

(Y/n) snapped her eyes closed on instinct when she started to fall with him but a scream burned at the back of her throat when it felt like the back of her right thigh had suddenly been torn apart or bitten by a rabid dog.

Her knees crashed into the floor and her hands shook against Eddie's chest as she landed with a crash so forceful it sent all the blood down to her legs and her head started to spin. Black and white spots danced in front of her eyes and she let her head bash down into Eddie's chest, gasping to try and keep herself awake and alert, but everything was on fire.

(Y/n) could feel every pounding beat her heart thrashed out. She could feel her heartbeat beneath every inch of her skin and her pulse throbbing in her ears. She felt like her head was going to explode. Bells were ringing in her ears along with her heartbeat. Hot coals surrounded her body that felt like it was melting and scorching hot.

Her knees were aching- her right thigh felt like it had been shredded to ribbons.

"Eddie… Eddie, baby," Words dripped past (Y/n)'s lips but she barely heard her own voice.

She tried to focus herself and move but everything began to shake. Her hands were trembling up and down like she was doing some odd kind of dance but she managed to cradle Eddie's face between her trembling palms. Her thumbs swiped across his face and she tried to tilt his head in her direction.

His eyes were still open but they weren't focusing properly, he was looking through (Y/n) rather than at her. But he was awake. (Y/n) needed him to stay awake.

It was only then that (Y/n) managed to get her ears into focus and she realised she could hear voices around them. She remembered it wasn't just her and Eddie in this situation. Her brother and their team were here too.

"Cap we've got a shooter!"

"Get inside-"

"Eddie's been hit!"

"Get inside- get them inside now."

Hands grappled with (Y/n)'s shoulders and a quiet "No," tumbled past her lips when she felt a chest pressing down into her back and whoever it was nudged her to the side.

She wasn't sure who was holding her back but she began to cry. She had to stay with Eddie. Why weren't they letting her hold Eddie? She had to make sure he was okay and somehow get him inside. (Y/n) had to stay with him; they couldn't try and tear them apart like this.

His name tore past (Y/n)'s lips again and her hands tried to latch around her brother's bicep when Evan crouched in between her and Eddie.

He was working on overdrive. Evan could barely move from the amount of adrenaline that was shooting through his system and it made him feel sick. His thighs burned from how he was crouched, balancing on the heel of his boots while his trembling arms grabbed his brother in law. He looped Eddie's arm around the back of his neck and dug his fingers into Eddie's good shoulder like tallons.

His left hand grabbed Eddie's hip and with some effort, Evan hoisted his brother up onto his shoulder.

"Go!" He all but roared, waving his arm out for Hen and Chimney to get inside with (Y/n). He needed his sister inside with them. She had been hurt too and Evan wasn't sure where she had been hit. He could see the blood soaking down both her legs and pooling on the floor and he dreaded to think where it was coming from.

His legs shook as he bolted through the open doors, trying to stay hunkered down low so he and Eddie were less of a target for anymore bullets. But he heard another gunshot ricochet against the shutters and it made Evan cower.

Why was someone shooting at them? What had they done? They were emergency responders, they saved lives, they didn't take them. There was no reason for someone to be taking revenge out on them.

Why had they shot Evan's family?

"Eddie-" (Y/n) felt a pair of hands on each of her arms and she let them lift her up but as soon as she was on her feet, she screamed.

A banshee howl left her lips and she coiled her right leg up off the floor. Standing on both feet felt like a knife was slicing down from her hip to her toes. Someone was cutting her in two. Someone had taken her husband away from her. She needed to get him back.

Her foot bent at an awkward angle beneath her and she tried to hop on her left foot, dragging her right leg behind her like it was a third, useless limb she didn't need. Her head flopped forward, gluing her eyes to the floor that was littered with tiny flecks of blood like someone had walked by eating strawberries.

Her hands dug into Chimney's arm and shoulder and if she had the energy, (Y/n) would have tried to tell him she could walk. She would of tried to hold herself up if she wasn't drowning in panic.

She barely felt Hen run past her to open the truck doors.

Hen climbed in the back of the truck. Bobby climbed in the driver's seat. Evan and Chimney dragged their family towards the truck. It was their only mode of transport to get out of here and make their way down to the hospital when the ambulance was already out on a call and was far too small to transport them all.

(Y/n) could hear Bobby shouting orders, but his voice sounded quiet and distant like he was shouting from the other side of a lake.

"Lockdown the station when we leave! Nobody in, nobody out!"

A groan rumbled through Eddie's chest and vibrated against the back of his throat when he felt himself suddenly being tilted backwards.

He could barely comprehend why he was suddenly being lifted up by Evan or where he was being taken. The view of the station was blurred. Everything looked like a watercolour painting but the paints were too runny and blending together. Eddie couldn't make sense of anything.

His lungs stuttered and clenched when he was hoisted off of Evan's shoulder and he was held up on his feet by someone behind him and Evan in front of him, gripping his wrists so tightly he was going to snap them.

Evan climbed up the steps, leaning backwards to keep Eddie's weight and keep him stood up. And when he was up, Evan carefully twisted Eddie to the left and laid him down over the seats. He could see the movement sent Eddie's whole body convulsing and he gasped for breath at the feeling of his shoulder coming into contact with the chairs.

"Okay come here; I gotcha." Spinning on his heels, Evan reached his hands down and held onto (Y/n)'s forearms while Chimney stood behind her. She was much easier to manouevre than Eddie, she was alert and responsive and somewhat helpful.

Her nails scratched into Evan's forearms and a choked sound rumbled past her lips when he pulled her up. When her foot caught on the top step, waves of electricity flowed through (Y/n)'s leg and spots danced in front of her eyes as her head fell forward into her brother's shoulder.

"Cap, go, go!" Hen bashed her fist on the roof before the truck came to life and they all jostled forward as Bobby shifted into gear.

(Y/n) thrashed her arms out until her hands planted down on the seats and she let her weight fall down until she was on her knees in the footwell. She stretched her right leg out behind her, trying to ignore the throbbing pain that felt like her whole leg was vibrating with her heartbeat.

It was as if her leg was hanging on by a thread that was about to snap. (Y/n) wished it would. If that thread tore, it might take away the pain. She just wanted it to stop so she could focus on Eddie. He was her priority.

Her chin pressed down on Eddie's good shoulder and her trembling hands clutched his shirt so tightly she popped the first three buttons open.

Her head was pounding. Her eyes couldn't see anything more than Eddie, blurs and stars twinkled all around him like he was an angel or a vision from Heaven. She leaned closer to him when Evan hovered beside her. Evan held onto the headrest to hold himself up while he leaned over Eddie's chest and pressed a large pack of gauze down on the bullet wound.

He winced when Eddie coughed and groaned and his eyes almost popped out of their sockets. Eddie's head lifted up when pressure pushed down on his shoulder and felt like a hand was physically breaking through the muscle to touch the most sensitive nerves around his bone.

The pressure set something off inside Eddie's body; an extra dose of adrenaline coursed through him and made him a little more alert.

"Are you hurt?" Eddie's voice was gruff as he grunted and managed to flop his head to the left to look over at (Y/n).

He blinked slowly and tried to prize his eyes open wide so he could look her up and down but his vision was going blurry. He was glad his good arm was closest to (Y/n). He flopped his arm off the chair and slumped his hand onto her arm so he could trail his tremoring fingertips over her body.

She had blood smears on her shirt, but he couldn't find an entry wound. She had blood on her face but he couldn't see any cuts. Her breaths were shallow and her body was trembling but Eddie didn't know where she had been hurt.

His fingertips moved down until his hand touched her abdomen and he kept his unfocused eyes on (Y/n) to watch any change in her expression. He moved his hand from left to right, becoming more frantic with each second when she didn't say anything and no one told him if she was hurt or not.

"S-she okay?" Eddie tipped his head back into the seat and coughed when Evan applied more pressure. He was going to bust his shoulder if he pressed down any more than this.

But he tried to look back at (Y/n) when he realised she was only clutching his shirt with one hand. He felt her other hand hold his wrist and press his hand down on her stomach to make him stop checking frantically.

"She's okay."

(Y/n) did her best to smile, despite the tears that were pouring down her face and each breath she took which hitched higher and higher than the last.

Her eyes stayed focused on Eddie, but when she felt Hen applying pressure to the wound on the back of her right leg, (Y/n) couldn't help but cry out. A scream cut past her lips and her eyes snapped closed as she smothered her face down against Eddie's shoulder to try and stay awake when it felt like she was going to pass out.

"Where's she hurt?" Evan took the words right out of Eddie's mouth while he leaned over to try and look his sister up and down. He had seen her fall and heard her cry out, but he didn't see a bullet hit her. Evan had to assume she was hit from the pain she was in and the way she was starting to deteriorate the same as Eddie.

"Right thigh, just above her knee. Someone give me their belt, I need to stop the bleeding."

Chimney leaned back on his heels and yanked his belt free from his trouser loops and handed it over. He moved his hands to (Y/n)'s shoulders and tried to comfort her and keep her still as he moved to press his fingers against her neck to check her pulse.

Another scream mixed with a tepid cry coursed through the air when the belt sank into (Y/n)'s leg like teeth chomping down on her flesh. She could feel her leg and her foot pulsing and throbbing and vibrating like she was a boombox screaming out a beat.

But when (Y/n) lifted her head from Eddie's shoulder, she could see his eyes rolling near the back of his head and his breaths started to pick up and become fast and shallow.

"Just hang in there, two minutes, okay? Stay with us, Eddie." Evan gave Eddie's neck a jostle and tilted his head from side to side to try and keep him conscious. He couldn't fall asleep on them, he had to stay awake and conscious until they got him to the hospital. Why couldn't he stay awake like (Y/n)? He needed to stay alert with them.

"You're gonna be okay, baby." (Y/n) couldn't keep her voice level and she hiccupped through her words as she tried to push closer into the chairs to be next to Eddie.

She swiped her eyes and nose against her sleeve but she could feel her head filling up with air like a balloon. She wanted to go to sleep. She wanted everything to stop. She wanted Eddie to wake up properly and be okay. (Y/n) wanted to rewind time and usher them all inside so nobody got hurt.

Why did it have to be Eddie?

Her hand moved to cup the side of his face and she swiped her thumb across his jaw while her other hand dragged through his hair, brushing the curls away from his eyes. She knew he loved it when she carded her fingers through his hair. Maybe this would keep him awake with her.

"We're here! Eddie, come on let's go. Don't you fall asleep on me."

Eddie's head tilted back and he choked, barely able to breathe when he found himself laid back over Evan's shoulder once again. His left hand tried to reach out, but Evan was moving too fast for Eddie to comprehend. He could taste (Y/n)'s name on his lips and feel the way his nerves tingled when he tried to say her name, but it didn't make a difference. He couldn't see her anymore.

Bobby pressed his hand to the back of Eddie's neck and helped Evan carefully lower him down onto the stretcher that was already waiting for them to arrive. Two nurses and a doctor smothered Eddie with an oxygen mask and a pulse monitor on his finger before they began to move him.

A frown pulled on Evan's lips when Eddie gripped his wrist weakly and gave a sharp tug. "What? What?"

Evan tried to move with him but they moved Eddie too fast and his grip wasn't strong enough to pull Evan along with them. But he heard that one word that spluttered past Eddie's lips.

"(Y/n)."

Leaning down, Hen curled her arms around (Y/n) and pulled her back when she tried to crawl forwards after Eddie. Shallow, gasping breaths left (Y/n)'s lips and her hands scratched against the metal floor as she tried to drag herself to the door.

"Eddie-"

"He's with a doctor, which is where we need to take you. He'll be okay, you're both gonna be okay." Chimney reached down for (Y/n)'s left arm and looped it around the back of his neck before he carefully stood up and the pair of them lifted (Y/n) up between them.

Each gasping, startling cry she let out made them wince and they could feel her shaking back and forth between them like she was hypothermic.

Chimney slowly climbed down the steps but he paused when Evan appeared in front of them like an omen. He held his arms out and reached up for (Y/n), taking her weight for her to help her down from the truck.

"We need another stretcher over here! Pregnant lady with a gunshot wound!"

Both (Y/n)'s hands moved to grip Evan's biceps and she tried tilting her head back to look up at him but it only made spots flash in front of her eyes. She could feel her knees buckling and giving in and she was sure she would be laid out on the floor at any given moment.

"Eddie… I w- wh- where's Eddie?"

"It's okay, you'll see him soon. Let's g-"

That was all she needed to hear. Those words acted as a switch in (Y/n)'s brain and everything started to shut down.

Panic sparked through Evan's body like a wildfire when (Y/n)'s head slumped onto his arm and her body went down. He deadlocked his arms around her waist and lifted her up, pinning her chest against his to stop her from hitting the floor while they waited for another stretcher to be rushed over to them.

Evan leaned down and looped his right arm beneath (Y/n)'s legs, cringing and gagging when he felt the blood instantly soak onto his skin and drip down between his fingers.

Oh God.

***

I'm not staying here.

With that thought in mind, (Y/n) tiredly looked around the room she was in and pursed her lips.

She didn't want to be here.

She didn't want to stay here on her own.

The only reason (Y/n) had managed to stay here last night was because she had been dosed up on morphine which knocked her off her senses. She had become coherent enough this morning to realise she was in the hospital.

She was in a small room on her own. Eddie wasn't here. He was somewhere on this floor, in this ward, but he wasn't here. (Y/n) couldn't sleep on her own. She couldn't stand being anywhere on her own and right now, she was alone at night. Evan and Maddie had visited her and stayed with her until the nurses told them they had to leave and come back in the morning.

None of the nurses listened when Maddie told them (Y/n) was liable to try and leave. They thought she was too hyped up on morphine to try and leave, but that was what she was going to do.

Everyone who had been to visit her today had told her Eddie was okay. He had recovered from surgery, his shoulder joint hadn't been hit by the sniper, it was just the muscle that got damaged. Eddie was awake and on the same pain meds as she was and (Y/n) knew Chris was safe at home. And Evan was staying at their house so Chris didn't have to leave the comfort of home so he would feel better without his parents there.

Her hands moved to her face and she brushed away the tears she had been shedding for the last half an hour. All (Y/n) had done since her siblings left was cry. She hated being alone. She couldn't sleep alone at night. The only reason she slept at home when Eddie was on a night shift was knowing that Chris was in the next room.

"I want Eddie."

If she didn't see him, she was going to go insane.

All (Y/n) could see when she closed her eyes was the image of Eddie on the floor with a mixture of their combined blood mingling together against the concrete. How would she know if he was truly okay if she didn't see him with her own eyes?

How did she know her friends and family weren't just lying to her to keep her calm?

Sitting herself up, (Y/n) looked down at the IV line capped into her left hand as she took deep breaths to stop herself from crying. With minimal effort, she paused the IV machine and twisted the cap until it disconnected from the needle in her wrist. She could easily reattach it whenever she decided to come back to this room later.

It took some effort for her to swing her legs over the side of the bed and (Y/n) grimaced at the hospital gown she was wearing.

Maddie promised to bring her and Eddie some of their own clothes tomorrow when she came down to visit them.

The moment her feet touched the floor, (Y/n) grimaced. The morphine didn't take all the pain away. Granted, it had done yesterday, but recovering from the anaesthetic probably helped numb everything else.

When she was up on her feet, (Y/n) stretched both arms out and hobbled over to the wall. She planted her hands down on the wall, lifted her right leg until her toes barely scraped the floor, and started to hop. It was a lot of effort and her stomach churned and twisted, but she had to persevere.

She had to find Eddie.

More tears stained her face as she quietly opened the door and hobbled out. It felt like she was a cripple with only one leg. Her right leg was practically useless in this state anyway and the nurses hadn't found her a walker or any crutches yet. They were supposed to be trying to get (Y/n) up and out of bed tomorrow, but she needed to move around now so she could find her husband.

(Y/n) crossed to the other side of the corridor so she was leaning on the wall on her right. Her shoulder and arm pinned into the wall as if she was about to slouch down to the floor and she hopped and shuffled along, trying not to make a sound so no one noticed. She could always say she was going to the bathroom if anyone asked.

Her eyes squinted in the dim light to read the names written in whiteboard marker outside each room.

She scanned along them and passed about five different rooms until her heart jumped into her throat and her eyes locked on a familiar name.

Diaz.

Here he was. She'd found him.

Her teeth sank down in her lower lip as she dragged her limp, useless leg behind her and crossed to the room opposite. She was relieved Eddie wasn't on a ward. It wouldn't do her any favours to be sneaking into the men's ward in the middle of the night when she didn't know who else would be in there.

She opened the door as quietly as she could and peeked her head round. (Y/n) wasn't sure what she thought she was going to see. Maybe she thought Eddie would somehow get visitors to stay through the night with him whereas she wouldn't. Or maybe she thought he wouldn't actually be in here, that this was a mistake and something had happened to him like she dreaded.

But when she hobbled over the threshold and looked ahead, her stomach started to flutter with adrenaline and she scratched her hand across her neck to remind herself to breathe.

There he was. He didn't look comfy. It wasn't like Eddie to sleep on his back, it wasn't something he did. When they were at home (Y/n) was used to him laying in funny positions with one leg hanging off the bed or she would wake in the morning to have him wrapped around her like a second blanket.

But here Eddie was, laid uncomfortably on his back with his right arm pinned to his chest in a sling. He had pushed the cover down so it barely covered his knees and he had his good arm flopped above his head on the pillow.

(Y/n) knew he was a light sleeper so she turned and shut the door with a little pressure to wake him rather than stand beside him and frighten him awake.

His head snapped forward within a second and he groaned, clicking his neck from left to right while his eyes adjusted to the dim light seeping in from the corridor.

"Baby?" Eddie's voice was gruff and deep. He lifted his arm from the pillow and dragged his hand across his eyes to make sure he wasn't dreaming. Before he moved to look at his left arm. He wasn't connected to an IV; they took him off it just before he went to sleep and said they would start him on another one in the morning.

He wasn't dosed on morphine anymore, conjuring up the image of his wife in front of him to make himself feel better. So why was she here? She should be back in her own room. Resting. Safe and sound until one of the nurses finally listened to Eddie's beligerent badgering about taking him down to see his wife.

"Baby… what are you doing?"

He pushed himself up so he was sitting up in bed, rubbing at his stiff neck before he squinted at her through his lashes. He watched her drag her fingers across her neck and over her chest; something he recognised as a nervous habit.

When she tried to step forward, she noted the way Eddie took a sharp breath. She could barely walk. She was limping and she had to reach out and grab the bed frame to hold herself up.

"I got lonely," (Y/n)'s voice was meek and timid but she tried to smile. She didn't want to be in that room on her own any longer. Why couldn't she be in the same room as Eddie? They were both patients with similar injuries. And they were both more liable to stay and listen to the doctor's orders if they were together and comfortable instead of separated and panicked.

She watched Eddie's eyes rake up and down her frame, but it was the way his lips pulled into a deep frown and his eyes narrowed on her that made (Y/n) shrink in on herself and wince.

"Jesus baby, you shouldn't be walking about! You could hurt yourself, you know that?"

"I can't sleep on my own." She tried to keep her tone light and force herself to smile, but Eddie's stern expression and his demanding voice made her stomach twist.

"You could tear your stitches or burst a blood vessel if you're not careful. Baby you can't-"

"I'm scared."

A tremor rattled through Eddie's chest and caused a sharp pain to strike his heart when he realised (Y/n)'s eyes were watering. He could feel his lungs shrivelling up in his chest and his shoulders sagged, despite the pain it caused.

She didn't want to be on her own. Not when being apart from Eddie meant she had nightmares that he didn't get here in time. She had to see him, touch him, be with him to convince herself that he was okay. Being on her own left her mind free to torment her. To see Eddie drop down in a pool of blood. To feel her leg ache and pound like it was going to fall off. To have her hands cradling her stomach, fretting that she was going to lose their baby.

It was too scary to be alone. (Y/n) wanted company; she wanted Eddie.

(Y/n) was torn between wanting to run forward and wanting to leave if Eddie was going to be mad with her. But her watering eyes widened when Eddie threw the cover to one side and waved his good hand towards her.

"Get in here."

As soon as she was within reach, Eddie curled his good arm around (Y/n)'s waist and helped her ease down onto the bed. He laid down and pulled her with him, suddenly feeling his own sense of peace when they laid down together. This was why he couldn't settle early in the morning when the drugs wore off. This was why Eddie felt uncomfortable all day and got irritable when any visitor walked through the door. They weren't (Y/n). He wasn't whole without her.

He turned his head to the left and smothered his nose and lips against the top of her head, breathing in her scent like it was the most addictive drug in the hospital.

He felt her head snuggle down into his chest and she bound her arm around his torso, clinging to him like someone was suddenly going to walk in and tear her out of his arms. He wouldn't let them. He wouldn't let anyone take her away from him; especially not if she was frightened.

"Do you feel okay? All I got off Buck was 'she's fine, she's fine' and that didn't really wash well with me."

They had run Eddie through what had happened and told him where (Y/n) had been shot because he remembered she was hurt, but he didn't remember where. It was a relief to know the bullet went in her leg. Any higher and it could have hit a vital organ. Any higher and it would have hit the baby.

But no one would tell Eddie much because at first he wasn't lucid enough and then he tried to leave the room when he wasn't allowed. He was promised he could see her tomorrow, but holding her tonight was so much better.

"Just achy… my thigh stings a bit, but it's okay. How about you?" (Y/n) tilted her head up and nuzzled her face into Eddie's neck so she could be closer to him.

Her lips attached to his neck and she pressed a tender kiss there just beneath the stubble that was starting to grow in.

"It's familiar, being used to it helps. And it didn't hit the bone, thank God." It was strange to think that he was used to the feeling of being shot. Eddie didn't think it was a feeling he would ever have to have again after he left the army.

But having some experience with this feeling definitely helped. He knew how to avoid the pain and how to push through it, and he thanked God that his shoulder joint had been missed. He couldn't be dealing with more operations or physio and time off work to try and patch it back together. And he had to recover so he could hold his baby girl without a struggle when she arrived.

With that thought in mind, Eddie carefully slid his hand over from (Y/n)'s hip until his fingers grazed along her stomach. His touch was light and delicate at first, but when (Y/n) didn't wince or groan or pull away, he pressed his palm down over her gown so he could cup her stomach.

"How's she doing?"

"Her heartbeat settled down this afternoon after the shock wore off… I haven't lost any fluid, and she keeps kicking me. They think she's gonna be fine."

Maddie had made her smile when she said (Y/n) was now special. Rather than bi-weekly checks, for the past two days (Y/n) had been getting almost hourly checks on the baby. When her heartbeat evened out this afternoon, they made a note of it.

Since the placenta and baby were still in place and her vitals were fine and (Y/n) hadn't lost any fluid, they were confident the baby was going to be just fine. But (Y/n) could still have checks throughout the day until she left, and she would be on close monitoring when she was discharged.

"Good, you had me worried."

"Me? What about you, you scared me Eddie. I thought- I thought…" (Y/n) knew exactly what she thought, but she didn't have the willpower to voice it.

She didn't want to say it outloud. It was hard enough to admit to herself that she thought Eddie wasn't going to make it to the hospital. The thought of having to go through life without Eddie wasn't something (Y/n) could contemplate.

She couldn't bring up Chris on her own. She couldn't go through labour and have this baby without him. (Y/n) couldn't do any of that without Eddie by her side.

Her lips rolled together tightly to stop herself from crying and she smothered her face in the side of his neck when his arm tightened around her waist. She could feel his fingers feathering up and down her stomach and he tilted his head to the side so he could kiss the top of her head.

"It's gonna take more than a bullet to take me away from you."

#eddie diaz x reader #911 imagine #imagine #evan buckley #pregnant! reader #eddie diaz imagine #eddie x reader #eddie diaz #bobby nash #maddie buckley

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shuastar · 10 months ago

Text

old money!wonwoo

genre/warnings: regency!au, old money!wonwoo, old money!reader, family name is yoon but nothing else is stated (korean is implied but never mentioned), suggestive (??? not really but..), implied past relationship

word count: 1783

a/n: ik the personalities kinda change in the middle but in my defense i wrote this at like 2am on 2 different days....wonwoo is still as hot so.. idk if i should turn this into a full-blown fic either [tumblr runs on reblogs!!]

“Are you even hearing yourself right now?” Your incredulous voice rings through the empty study.

Wonwoo nods, bangs brushing into his eyes. “It can be contractual,” he pushes, quietly stepping forward.

The two of you stare at each other, the only sound in the room being the echoing ticking of the grandfather clock in the back of the room. You feel your confidence wavering as Wonwoo seems to not let up on his gaze, sinking deeper and deeper into what feels like your soul. Briefly, just briefly, you wonder how you two even came to this position at all.

“Like a contractual marriage.” The words feel familiar on your tongue from the time you spent arguing with your parents on that very topic. The promise you made your fifteen-year-old self to marry for love, for your soulmate, for the one who would dance with you under the dim chandelier lights of your condo. So why did your stupid delusional heart catch on an erratic beat at the thought?

Wonwoo’s lips tug upwards at those words and you can’t help but notice how the remnants of his childhood dimples are still there. “Exactly. Like a contractual marriage.” His words are soft, uncharacteristic of the indifferent man you are used to.

He dares to take another step forward, his fingers brushing your arms. You can almost breathe in his Armani cologne from how close you were. It makes your head spin – the scent of the cologne with a hint of his minty shampoo and aftershave. It threatens to break down all of your walls – the walls it took you years to build up.

When your eyes lift from the carpeted ground, you meet his eyes from behind his horn-rimmed glasses. They have an unfamiliar emotion swimming in the surface. It’s something that pulls you closer to him, unconsciously leaning in to gaze into his eyes. Almost as if your body wanted to memorize this effect on him.

“Think about it,” he starts, “you don’t want to marry any of,” a pause, almost as if he adds it in for dramatic effect, “them,” he sneers. His eyebrows furrow and the perfect harmony of his stupid face crumples into one of bitter distaste. If he wasn’t standing as close, if his cologne wasn’t invading your senses, if he wasn’t staring at you with some unplaceable carnal expression in his eyes, you would have reached up and smoothed out the wrinkle on his forehead. Smoothed out the wrinkles on his perfect, pale, porcelain face. You would have reached a hand up to his jaw, trailing your fingers along his jawline and-

“Y/N,” Wonwoo’s voice cuts through your daydreams. He goes to push up his glasses, and you can’t help but notice the singular bracelet that adorns his wrist — woven tightly into an uncharacteristically messy pattern of blue and white waves. “If you don’t want this, you can tell me.”

I can’t, you want to say. I can’t when you’re looking at me like that. With your stupidly pretty brown eyes and your stupidly gorgeous face. How could I ever say no?

He stares down at you, the corners of his lips pulled down into a hint of a frown. From this angle, the moon that shines through his study’s gigantic wood-framed windows, frames his body perfectly. His hair is tousled, in the way you remember only he can pull off. There is a faint giggling memory of watching your brother Jeonghan try to tousle his own hair like Wonwoo does, only to end up with blonde strands sticking up everywhere.

You know you’re stringing it out for too long — you should’ve said something 10 seconds ago. BUt still, Wonwoo waits patiently, allowing your misted eyes to gaze over his body — from the tops of his hair to his expensive Thom Brown dress shoes.

Your eyes land at the bracelet.

“You can take it off, you know?” you whisper. It feels like a secret — the fact that Wonwoo still wears it; the fact that Wonwoo still remembers; the fact that the idea of you and Wonwoo once existed.

Wonwoo is now the one silent, eyes fluttering to his bracelet. His fingers pick at the loose strands. The wave patterns move with every tug. For some reason, it makes your heart clench.

“We’re done,” you say, “Remember?” Your words are harsh, almost forced out of your throat. It hangs uncomfortably in the air: an added tension in the thick, unbreathable air.

”Not for me.” Wonwoo’s head rises, dark chocolate brown eyes meeting yours.

Any words die in your throat. The three-word sentence Wonwoo uttered forces your lungs into a stop. Not for me. ‘Not for me’ your ass. Not done your ass. Because you remember sobbing in the hallways and him not giving a fuck. Because you remember hugging, begging, whining for him to stay. All for him to just say “no, it’s better this way,” and walk down the hallways. Not done your ass.

But you can’t bring yourself to say that. Not when his eyes blink slowly, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks.

They stare directly into yours, before moving down your body. His fingers still tug on the bracelet. “It was never done for me. For you, maybe. But never for me,” he states. Confidence is laced in every syllable he utters.

WOnwoo suddenly takes a step forward. You take a step backwards. Wonwoo. You. WOnwoo. You. Wonwoo. Yo- Wall. Your back slams against Wonwoo’s polished marble wall. The chilled marble sends shivers up your bare spine. A staggered gasp is ripped from the confines of your chest and your hands fly out and land on Wonwoo’s chest, stabilizing yourself.

You tense, head tilted up against the wall, lips parted. You can feel the surge of heat against your cheeks. Your heart beats furiously in its cage, threatening to pound through your dress and spill onto the carpeted floor. Your hands suddenly feel embarrassingly sweaty and your fingers unconsciously clench Wonwoo’s black dress shirt.

“Sorry,” you murmur, head bowing almost naturally, “Sorry, I don’t know what-“ you’re interrupted by your own muffled noise — something in between a gasp, whine, and murmur of protest.

Wonwoo’s fingers now interlace with your own, against his own chest. There isn’t a speck of hesitation in his deep eyes when he slowly moves your intertwined hands to rest just above his left pec (which you conveniently chose to ignore how defined it was).

WOnwoo raises a brow, when you move to pull away. “I’m not gonna bite, sweets.”

You blush at the nickname, pressing yourself further into the wall, trying your best to sink into the marble behind you. “What are you doing?” you ask, hands still pressed up against WOnwoo’s chest.

”I don’t think you believe me.” Wonwoo splays your hands out. His eyes waver when his fingers cover yours entirely. They close for a split second, and you can see his Adam’s apple bob up and down. When his eyes flutter open again, they’re noticeably darker, more hooded. He swallows thickly when you turn your own eyes up to him “Fuck,” he whispers, forehead lowering towards yours. His hold on your hand tightens, pressing your fingertips into his pecs.

You blink, pretending to ignore everything else. “Believe what?” Your lips lift up in a cheeky grin. “That you have man boobs? It’s okay, sweets, I think moobies are hot.” Your words barely even leave your mouth and you have the strongest urge to slap a hand over your mouth. Seriously. What the fuck were you saying?

HOwever, as you blush out of scarce embarrassment, Wonwoo’s ears turn bright red and he groans. A deep gutteral groan leaves his parted mouth, followed by a shaky mutter of your name. His forehead lands on your shoulder, breath hot against your neck. One hand releases your hand and trails against your hips. It falters when it reaches your waist, before it snakes around and pulls you against him.

“Fuck, you feel that?” Wonwoo’s voice is deep near your ear. It almost pisses you off, how hard you need to prevent a whine from falling from your lips.

You’re about to say “Feel what?” when you actually do feel it. From the tips of your fingers, you can feel Wonwoo’s heartbeat. The muscle pounds a horse race against your fingers, going a mile a minute.

You can’t help but let out a breathy laugh. “You’re gonna pass out at this rate.”

You can feel a grin against your neck. Wonwoo’s hand — the one around your waist — roams a little lower. “You’re gonna tuck me in and kiss me goodnight if I do?” he teases, sharp canines nipping your delicate skin, punching out a gasp.

“Wonwoo!” You gasp, hand lightly pushing his head away. “I have to go back down! Do not give me a hickey,” you huff, wiggling in his loosening grasp.

Wonwoo pulls away at your words. “Y’ needa go down?” A shadow of a pout appears on his lips. “Didn’t even bite you that hard, sweets,” he argues. His words sound slightly slurred, almost forced as he stares at you. No. Not at you. Rather, at your lips.

Either that or your chin.

You would prefer lips.

At least then you wouldn’t be the only one desperately wanting his worry-bitten lips on yours.

You sigh, slipping your hands out of his. You can only offer a second of hesitation before you wrap your arms around his neck, nails lightly scratching his undercut. There is a small smile that plays aganst your lips as you rest your cheek on his chest (but not before you leave a fleeting kiss against the junction between his neck and shoulder). You can still hear his erratic heartbeat, stuttering in your grasp.

“Wish you did,” you murmur, leaning some of your weight against him, trusting he’ll lift you up.

Wonwoo’s arms circle your waist – lower than what you would’ve allowed before all of this. His hands splay across your back and lift you up, walking himself to the nearest surface, which happened to be his desk.

“What?”

You hum, now smiling as he places you carefully on the edge of his desk, inserting himself between your parted legs. His fingers paw at your waist. “Wish you did,” you repeat, your own fingers reaching up to brush strands of his hair out of his eyes.

Wonwoo tilts his head dumbly. As if your words made all of his own words disappear. “Did what?”

You coo, pulling him closer to you by his tie. Your cheeks are hot, you know, but it still doesn’t stop the words from falling out of your mouth:

“Wish you bit me.”

#wonwoo #jeon wonwoo #seventeen #svt #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo angst #wonwoo smut #wonwoo fic #seventeen fluff #seventeen angst #seventeen smut #i literally cannot wait for this new comeback holy shit #jeon wonwoo my 엄친아 love #i love you smsmsmsm wish i could be in an arranged marriage w him fr #old money!wonwoo #wonwoo x reader

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hungry-hungry-reader · 8 months ago

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Little Nulla adoration snippet to celebrate Halloween with :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“…Beautiful.”

“Sorry?” Nulla’s void form started to shift before your eyes as he recalled his old face.

“You are beautiful, Nulla.”

You spoke with the reverence he had only heard in prayers — none of which were directed at him before. Your gaze followed the swirling patterns the void drew out in the air like smoke which was picked up by a gust of air. Nulla froze in place as you took a couple of steps, closing the short stretch between the two of you.

If he needed to breathe, he would have forgotten how to.

If you had to describe your lover now, you would recall Van Gogh’s Starry Night or Rembrandt’s Night Watch.

And then you would throw all these comparisons away because no work of art could truly encapsulate the vision of picturesque idyll himself who stood right before you. You watched with trepidation as his darker than night itself features shifted, changed hue, giving way to the opaline blues and purples. You watched the dance colors on the canvas of his flustered face as Nulla found himself not simply lost for words, but utterly stunned by your display of adoration towards the form he perceived less desirable.

You reached out your hand in an attempt to grasp at the ethereal form of the one whom you love most dearly.

He didn’t dare move, afraid of scaring you away.

Yet, when the tips of your fingers finally reached featureless void, Nulla grabbed your wrist and leaned into your touch. The crushing weight of this wretched world felt like nothing more than a tiny spec of dust on the shoulder pad of his vest. Your sincere smile took away the years of torment. Your loving gaze made him forget the hatred he felt towards those who wronged him. Your warmth melted away the ice within the gazes he threw at this universe.

Your love gave him the point for existing.

“Thank you.”

#to eat a god #teag #nulla #teag reader #nulla x reader #teag nulla #uhuh #Nulla void form……#prety….#patoka writes

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hishumanbellestories · 5 months ago

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VALENTINE'S DAY.

| Valentine's day. Alastor breed you. +18. |

Hell’s version of Valentine’s Day was, unsurprisingly, a twisted and chaotic spectacle. Demons bartered souls for affection, cursed bouquets dripped with something suspiciously crimson, and love songs were more like haunting hymns. And yet, amidst all the madness, Alastor had his own plans—plans that revolved entirely around you.

It started early in the day. A neatly wrapped box appeared at your bedside, sealed with a ribbon that seemed to writhe on its own, almost as if it had a pulse. Inside? Rich, decadent chocolates, each infused with a peculiar warmth, as if Alastor had crafted them himself with something more than just culinary skill—perhaps a trace of his very essence. A note accompanied them, the ink swirling and shifting like it had a mind of its own, whispering faintly as if murmuring secrets only you could hear:

My dear, do indulge. It would be a shame if your lips tasted of anything other than sweetness tonight.

Beneath the box lay a letter, folded with an eerie elegance, the edges slightly charred as if kissed by fire. The handwriting—beautiful, old-fashioned—spoke in Alastor’s unmistakable voice:

My dearest heart,

Oh, how the very thought of you sets my soul alight! Or, what remains of it, at least. You have bewitched me in ways I never imagined possible, ensnaring me in a melody so divine, I dare not change the tune. Every glance, every word, every heartbeat of yours is a symphony, and I would conduct it for eternity if you’d allow me.

Tonight is ours, and I intend to make it one you shall never forget. No force in Hell, nor Heaven if they dared, could pull me from your side. You are mine, my darling—heart, soul, and every sweet breath you take. And I? I am yours, in the only way a monster like me knows how to be—entirely, obsessively, and forever.

Dress beautifully, my love, for I have prepared a night worthy of your radiance.

Yours, always and only,

Alastor

The message sent a shiver down your spine—anticipation or unease, you weren’t sure.

And then there was Alastor himself.

He was unusually clingy today. Not that he wasn’t always somewhere near, but this time, it was different. His arm found its way around your waist at every turn, his voice laced with an almost unnerving warmth, and his eyes never left you. When you so much as looked at another demon—out of politeness, curiosity, or just by chance—his grip would tighten, and his smile would stretch just a little too wide.

“I do hope no one’s been trying to distract you, my dear,” he murmured into your ear, his voice a sing-song whisper as he led you through the streets of Hell’s twisted version of a Valentine’s festival. His fingers traced gentle, possessive patterns along your wrist. “After all, tonight is our night, isn’t it?”

But, of course, Hell never made things easy.

A demon, bold or foolish, tried to test the waters. A smirking incubus slid into your path, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Didn’t think someone like you would be tied down,” he mused, daring to brush a finger along your arm. “What do you say, sweetheart? Ever get tired of the same old radio static?”

The moment stretched long and cold.

Alastor’s chuckle was light, airy—deceptively amused. His fingers, however, curled ever so slightly, a crackling hum of energy vibrating beneath his touch. “Oh-ho, my dear!”, his voice was sickeningly sweet, but something dark pulsed beneath it. “Do be careful who you toy with. You might find yourself... out of tune sooner than you think.”

The incubus’ smirk faltered, but before he could react, shadows stretched unnaturally, curling at his feet like hungry tendrils. One blink, and he was gone—vanished into the abyss of Hell’s undercurrents, where Alastor sent things that annoyed him.

And just like that, the Radio Demon turned back to you, all smiles once more. “Now, where were we, my dear? Ah, yes! Our date!”, he spun you into his arms, dipping you dramatically before pressing a gloved hand to your cheek. “I do believe I owe you a most unforgettable evening.”

And unforgettable it was.

The private dinner was nothing short of mesmerizing. A lavish table was set in a dimly lit, secluded part of Hell, where the shadows seemed to dance along to an eerie, yet strangely romantic melody. The air was heavy with the scent of exotic, otherworldly spices. Candles flickered with flames that shimmered in hues unnatural to the mortal world, casting shifting illusions upon the walls.

Alastor insisted on feeding you himself, his crimson eyes watching every movement, every taste, every reaction. He poured dark wine into a goblet, swirling it slowly before pressing it to your lips. “Every sip, every bite… you belong to me, my dear”, his voice was low, almost pleading, but undeniably possessive.

He reached for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours before standing, a mischievous glint in his gaze. “Now, my sweet, what’s a Valentine’s night without a dance?”

Without waiting for an answer, he pulled you into a graceful waltz, guiding you effortlessly despite the haunting tune that played in the background. His hold was firm, his movements fluid, and his smile never faltered. “You’re quite the vision,” he murmured, his lips dangerously close to yours. “I’d say you’ve bewitched me, but, well, we both know who the real devil is.”

The dance slowed, his hand settling on your waist as he gazed into your eyes with something deeper than amusement. His lips hovered just above yours, teasing, waiting. The world around you faded—there was only him, only his touch, his warmth, his intoxicating presence.

And then, at last, he closed the distance.

The kiss was slow, deliberate, filled with an intensity that left you breathless. His gloved fingers cradled your face, pulling you deeper into him as though he wanted to consume you entirely. A growl rumbled low in his throat, vibrating against your skin. When he finally pulled away, his grin was sharper, more dangerous. “Happy Valentine’s Day, my dear,” he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction. “I do hope you’re prepared… because this night is far from over.”

After all, Valentine’s Day was about love. And Alastor’s love was consuming, endless… and just a little... terrifying.

But eventually, the night had to wind down. And so, Alastor led you back home, though his arm never once left your waist, his fingers ever so lightly tracing circles against your skin. The air was thick with something unspoken, an electricity that neither of you wished to break. The moment you stepped inside, he pulled you to him once more, burying his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. “Mine,” he murmured, almost absentmindedly, his voice softer than before. He guided you to his room, and as you both settled in, he curled around you, holding you close as if afraid you’d slip away.

“Did you enjoy our evening, my dear?” he asked, his voice drowsy, yet still laced with amusement.

You hummed, nuzzling into his chest, “I love it!”

A satisfied chuckle rumbled through him, his arms tightening just slightly. “Good… because next year, I’ll have to make it even more unforgettable. But for now… let's think about the present.”

His lips joined yours in a hot kiss. His hands slide over the curves of your soft and candid body, to the point that his teeth grazed your lips and bit them. His hands found their place on your face, grabbing your cheeks and allowing the kiss to advance, to explore your mouth, while his tongue searched for yours in a shocking hunger. He dropped his hands into your hair, pulling your head back delicately to give him access to your throbbing neck, which he began to lick and bite, filling you with hickeys. His left hand slid down your dress, lifting your skirt, brushing the outside of your thigh and moving, very slowly, provocatively, inside. Your body was hot, your breathing already rapid. "Alastor," your voice was shaking, but you wanted more. "Shhh, my little one. Or they'll hear us," he whispered and covered your mouth with his free hand, but you bit it to free yourself. In his eyes a look of mischief and pleasure. Suddenly, two of his fingers ended up inside you. "Ah!", you screamed, and Alastor brought his jaw close to your ear, panting. This was enough to make you completely wet; his voice, naked, his pants for you alone, that no one has and would ever hear but you. He was yours. Only and damn yours. His fingers pushed inside you slowly, delicately, allowing you to enjoy the sensation. When your body relaxed, Alastor pushed deeper, touching your sacred spot and curving his fingers for maximum pleasure. Your moans were sweet and suffocating, intoxicating his mind, and Alastor had never been as hungry as he was now. His head pulled back slightly so he could look at you. Your lips were open and making sweet music just for him, your eyes closed and your expression… divinely, sinfully, lustful. His free hand cupped your cheeks, puffing out your lips. "Look at ME," he said in a firm, sinful tone. And you opened your eyes immediately, finding the two shiny rubies, fixed in yours. Something in Alastor snapped, seeing you like this… completely his. "I thought I could do something romantic, but I can't resist you. I want you, now," he said, sealing his hand on your hip very tightly and leaning into you, rubbing his erection on your thighs, you gasped feeling it. Alastor removed his soaking fingers from you and unbuttoned his pants, without removing them. He pulled out his cock and pushed it in instantly, your legs wrapped around his waist, tightening around his covered ass cheeks. He grabbed your hair with a fistful of his hand and you both gasped at the feeling of him inside you. Your walls surrounded him, tightened, welcomed him after so much waiting, wanted him… Your breaths were a mixture of hot clouds on each other's skin, your gasps echoing in the room. Alastor's grip tightened in your hair while with the other he held you tightly by your hip, pushing himself deeper and deeper. His eyes were still fixed on yours, blinding red, burning with the passion he felt for you. "Mon coeur… ah-, I… I can't hold back any longer," he said panting, his breath short. Her arms wrapped around the back of his upper back, pulling his face closer to the crook of her neck. "Don't," she whispered, huddling his face against her shoulder blade. Alastor clung to her completely, his hips moving faster and deeper, until he shot all his seed deep inside her. "Don't pull out, please," she said, her walls tightening around his cock again. "It feels so good. I feel complete when we're like this," she said, blushing and covering herself. "I didn't mean to," he gasped again, caressing her cheek and smiling lovingly, leaning in to kiss her. After minutes of post-orgasm touches and kisses, Alastor removed himself from her slit, and with one finger pushed his dripping seed inside. "Not a drop wasted, my love. I know it's crazy, but I want to breed you. I need to. I need you," he said, placing his hand on your belly as he kissed you again.

His warmth, his presence, his love—twisted, dark, and wholly consuming—wrapped around you as you drifted into slumber, safe in the embrace of the devil who would never let you go.

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shelleysmary · 9 months ago

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lots of fans have made valid points and written well-thought-out posts about the trop ai drama, so i'm not gonna rehash them, but i do want to bring up something that no one seems to be talking about and it's the impulse that leads people to plug these things into ai generators in the first place.

fandom over the last year especially has become increasingly toxic to the point that actual billion-dollar corporations are afraid it. the result is subpar, pandering films, books, and television shows that break no new ground, recycle old tropes, and sacrifice story integrity to avoid catching heat from the loudest, most entitled people in the room. i'm calling this an issue of entitlement first and foremost because the idea that the audience should have any say over a non-crowd-created media project is preposterous. deciding that the cons outweigh the pros of watching something and choosing to walk away without making a fuss is a lost discipline now because everyone with an internet connection and a social media account believes that their vision reigns supreme. "how dare this show downplay my favorite ship! they were supposed to kiss! that was the whole point! the absence of this one thing i had on my wishlist is a crime against me personally!" so they turn to ai and click some buttons and now these gifs exist and are being circulated with an air of "i've righted a wrong." worse, the use of ai in this way is being conflated with the creation of fanworks???

there are reasons why i don't believe the ai saurondiel kiss is on the same raft as, say, making them kiss in a drawing or a published fanfic, but my main concern is with the spirit behind each. fanworks are made in homage to the source material, even the fix-it fics. there is an acknowledgment, a separation even, between the television show and the fanwork. this separation is necessary and i would say even integral to the nature of fan creation, while ai closes that gap until it no longer exists. the elimination of space between creator and audience also happens on social media, when disgruntled fans who have taken umbrage with a fictional character or creative decision directly harass the writers or the actors involved. more and more, fans are demanding to be in the rooms, in the minds, and to exert control over the people who tell their stories, and it has only ever worked to our collective detriment. now i'm not saying that if you liked and shared the saurondiel ai kiss that you're the same as the internet trolls who harass (mostly) women and people of color online. but i'm begging you to do some self-reflection and ask yourself why you feel entitled to seeing what you want on your screen.

what has changed in the last few years that would make you dissatisfied with, say, reading someone's fic or making your own drawing? is it a matter of "the tool is there, so why not use it?" is it "i believe it should have happened and it didn't and i feel cheated?" or maybe there's been a pattern you've noticed in your recent media "consumption" (god, i hate that word) where, unless a show or television series goes the exact way you want it to, it feels like you've been defrauded somehow? i'm not being facetious. i'm inviting you to notice that what you're feeling is probably discomfort, disappointment, maybe even cognitive dissonance because you imagined it going one way, and now you're at a loss because it didn't. you built it up in your head, you had something to look forward to, you were convinced that it would happen, it was exciting and you were so eager to get to that point, and then.... and then...

we've all been there. and it sucks. but i also want to remind you of how important it is to preserve the separation. this space is ours. the writer's room, the filming set, the editing room, those spaces are theirs. the actors' likenesses are theirs. thinking beyond trop, the separation is how we get creative works that challenge us politically, emotionally, that make us uncomfortable and tell us important truths. writers shouldn't have to - and shouldn't FULL STOP - do what we want them to do. sometimes that means knowing when to walk away, when to say "i no longer enjoy this show, i will no longer support it" or "i will continue to watch but pretend things went differently," the latter of which has been the spark that has moved so many online fans to draw, paint, write, or sew. it's a type of creation that allows "canon" and "fanon" to exist parallel to one another. moreover, the effort it takes to make anything with your own two hands, with your own time, and with your own energy increases your appreciation for the creative impulse. films and books and television stop being "products" for your "consumption" because you're aware of what goes into them, and it becomes easier to look at things you don't like or disagree with and say, "you know what, i'm gonna pass," or "not in my headcanon."

oh, and by the way plugging things into an ai generator? is theft. the same way that it's generally frowned upon for people to use ai to, say, write the rest of an unfinished fic without the express permission of the fanwork creator, using the actors' likenesses to make them kiss goes against everything the actors' union fought for last year. i'll also add that it's incredibly creepy. almost all of us are in agreement that intimacy coordinators are a good thing because they act - again! - as a separation between what's "real" and what isn't, the same way going on ao3 and reading a fic that very clearly says on the tin that it's a fanfic, unaffiliated with the official ip, is a separation. it's another beast entirely to normalize fan-use of ai, to say you support creatives, support actors, support unions, and then do this in your personal life. i repeat the question: what impulse leads anyone to believe that this is okay other than a feeling of misplaced ownership?

tl;dr: ai nonsense does not belong in fandom spaces. (in my home state of california, it is illegal to use digital replicas of an actor's voice or likeness in place of their actual services without their informed consent [which, in spirit, is what you're doing by using ai to make your gifs]). we all just need to mind our own business and go back to writing our fix-it fics and complaining to our friends in relative peace. if you're finding it impossible to do so, ask yourself why. remember that fanart is our longstanding tradition. stop outsourcing it to an unregulated technology just because your two faves didn't kiss.

#the rings of power #trop #long post

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bookished · 1 year ago

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( a collection of magical realism starters. adjust phrasing as necessary.) feel free to make edits to better suit your muse, but please don’t edit or add on to the original post ♡ if you like, please consider supporting me through tips

"Did you notice how the flowers in the garden bloom in patterns that mimic constellations?"

"I swear, the painting in the hallway changes every time I look at it. Yesterday, it was a serene landscape. Today, there's a storm brewing."

"I met a man in the market who claims he can hear the whispers of trees. Do you think he's telling the truth?"

"The old librarian told me she’s been alive for over a hundred years, and she showed me a book that ages backward."

"Every time I play the piano, it feels like the notes are guiding my fingers, as if the music has a mind of its own."

"I have this strange ability to see people's memories when I touch their hands. It's both a gift and a curse."

"This necklace I found seems to glow when the moon is full. I've never seen anything like it."

"Grandma's mirror doesn't just show reflections; it shows glimpses of the past and the future."

"The café at the end of the street only appears when it rains. Have you ever been inside?"

"There's a hidden garden behind the school that only children can see. They say it’s where dreams are planted and grow into reality."

"The new neighbor claims she can brew potions that change your fate. Should we believe her?"

"He says he can read the stars to predict people's destinies, but his predictions are always so eerily accurate."

"The river in the forest runs backward during the full moon. No one knows why."

"Every night at midnight, the streetlights spell out messages in Morse code. Have you ever tried to decode them?"

"Lately, the wind has been carrying whispers, like it's trying to tell us something important."

"I've noticed that the shadows in our town don't quite match their objects. It's like they're alive."

"There's a legend that if you light a candle at the old crossroads at midnight, you'll meet a guardian spirit. Do you dare to try it?"

"In our village, they say that singing to the dawn brings good fortune for the entire day. Have you ever wondered if it really works?"

"I've found a door in my house that leads to different places depending on the time of day. This morning, it opened into a meadow."

"They say time moves differently in the old clock tower. Spend an hour there, and a day could pass in the outside world."

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kumikuzushi-kun · 12 hours ago

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Incorrect Quotes (Telemachus x Fem! reader)

Note: Most of these are within the context from my work "Noctuary" so i recommend you to check it out if u haven't :D

Some quotes are a little intimate but overall it is just crack dkdbdi

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Odysseus : So you're the one my son keeps writing poems about?

Reader : ....He writes poems about me?

Telemachus : FATHER!

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Reader : *Sighs* I have no friends...

Telemachus (Visibly Offended) : AHEM? Woman? What am I? a Roach??

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Telemachus : Oh god you're bleeding!Quick! What's your type??

Reader (hissing in pain) : Ah... Tall.. Dark curls... Sweet.....Adorable....Looks good covered in blood...

Telemachus (blushing) : W-what?!

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" WHO'S THAT MACHUS? (Pokémon) "

Reader : It's Telemachus!

" It's Eurymachus ! "

Reader : FUUUCCCKKK.

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Antinous : Aren't you a little too young to be a handmaiden?

Reader : Aren't you a little too young to be courting the queen?

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Telemachus : I punched Eurymachus in the face today.

Reader : What!? Are you crazy?!

Telemachus : No..? My mother had me tested.

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Nurse Eurycleia : You are bleeding, unarmed, and barefoot in the royal halls!

Odysseus/Telemachus : You can't arrest me, I'm in love!

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Telemachus : Can I try to flirt with you?

Reader : Sure..?

Telamachus : PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.

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Reader : You look good in your chiton

Telemachus : Thank You! You know where else I'd look good on? :3

Reader : On top of me.

Telemachus : By your side— what?

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Reader : I'm not ready to go outside.

Telemachus : That's okay. I'll stay inside with you forever if that's what you want.

" YOU'RE THE CROWN PRINCE YOU CAN'T JUST- "

Telemachus : SHHHHHΗΗΗΗΗ

Reader : 🧍

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Telemachus : I missed you so much.

Reader : I just went to the bathroom.

Telemachus (dramatically) : You don't know pain.

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Reader : Did you lie to the Queen.

Telemachus : ..Define lie?

Reader : Telemachus.

Telemachus : Okay but in my defense.....okay, i don’t have one.

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Telemachus : You're not allowed to say I’m dramatic when YOU are the one who threw a fig at Antinous for looking at me

Reader : Telemachus. He insulted your hair and said you looked like a girl. I was defending your honor.

Telemachus : ..You're so perfect for me.

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Telemachus : Truth or Dare

Reader : hmm truth

Telemachus : How many hours have you slept this week?

Reader : ..I choose dare..

Telemachus : I dare you to go to sleep.

Reader : I don't like this game.

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Reader : Telemachus, you do remember when we agreed we were better off as friends, right?

Telemachus (half naked in bed) : No, I absolutely do not.

Reader (already taking off their clothes) : Damn... Me neither.

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Reader : I don't need to go to bed. I'm not tired, I'll be fine.

Telemachus : But, darling, I'll be so lonely without youu. Come curl up in my arms so I can feel whole again.

Reader : Are you trying to seduce me into healthy sleeping patterns??

Telemachus : Is it working?

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Thirteen year old Reader (trying to flirt) : So... you come around here often?

Thirteen year old Telemachus (confused) : I mean, this is my house, so yeah.

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Reader : I still have no idea how I’m attracted to you...

Telemachus : Yeah, well, you’re stuck with me, and no take backs, honey.

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Reader : Stop doing that.

Telemachus : Stop doing what?

Reader : Saying things that make me wanna kiss the hell out of you.

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Odysseus (talking to Reader and Telemachus) : You two look good together. I'd put you guys in a boat.

Telemachus : You'd put us in a boat?

Odysseus : Yes, a boat. Isn't that what young people say when they think two people would make a good couple?

Reader : You mean you ship us?

Odysseus : Yes. I "ship" you two.

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Reader : Do you ever just see something that changes your life and you're just like, huh.

Telemachus : I saw you.

Reader : Honestly that's so nice and sweet and it makes this really awkward because I was just gonna show you this drawing I made of antinous as an antidepressant pill

I KNOW I SAID THAT WAS MY LAST TELEMACHUS FIC BUT I COULDN'T HELP BUT MOVE ON FROM EPIC AAAAAAA, some of these I got from Tumblr, vines and even some just made up, BEKDBDKD just wanna say thank you for everyone support and love!!! Mwa mwaaa

#telemachus #x reader #telemachus epic the musical #telemachus x reader #epic the musical #incorrect quotes #crack post #ooc #shitpost

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rosesareredrosa · 11 months ago

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Easier to Hate

Theo Nott x fem reader

Summary: Based on this ask thank you anon <33

a/n: Might do a part 2 maybe they end up together???

w/c: 900

The echoing corridors of the Ministry of Magic were a far cry from the stone walls of Hogwarts, yet they held an air of familiarity that you found unsettling. You never imagined that after leaving school, you’d be working in the same department as Theodore Nott—the one person who had managed to make your Hogwarts years both challenging and infuriating.

You had always been at odds. As a Ravenclaw, your pride in your intellect and your drive for success had clashed spectacularly with Theo’s Slytherin cunning and ambition. He was sharp, relentless, and always seemed to find a way to undercut your achievements, often with a smirk that made your blood boil. But beneath the rivalry, there had been something else—a tension that neither of you had ever dared to acknowledge.

Now, years later, you found yourself standing outside your new office, staring at the nameplate next to the door: "Theodore Nott."

Before you could knock, the door swung open, and there he stood, looking as though no time had passed. Tall, with dark hair and piercing eyes that still held that same unsettling intensity. But there was something else there too—a shadow, a heaviness that hadn’t been there before.

“You’re late,” Theo remarked, his tone clipped. There was no smirk this time, just a weariness that surprised you.

You stepped inside, forcing a smile. “Some things never change, do they?”

His lips twitched, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “No, I suppose they don’t.”

The first few weeks were exactly what you expected—tense. You and Theo fell back into your old patterns, arguing over nearly every detail of your work. It was exhausting, but you told yourself it was better this way. It was easier to fight with Theo than to deal with the mess of emotions that had lingered between you since Hogwarts.

One evening, after a particularly heated argument over a case file, you snapped. “Why do you always have to be like this? Why can’t we just work together for once?”

He froze, his expression darkening. “Because working together with you means admitting that I care.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken feelings. Your breath caught in your throat, the weight of his confession pressing down on you.

“What are you talking about?” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

Theo looked away, his jaw clenched. “You don’t get it, do you? All those years at Hogwarts, all those fights—it wasn’t because I hated you. It was because I didn’t know how to deal with what I felt.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding in your chest. “What are you saying?”

He finally met your gaze, and the raw emotion in his eyes made your heart ache. “I’m saying that I was a coward. I was afraid of what you made me feel, so I pushed you away. I thought that if I could beat you, I could ignore it. But I couldn’t.”

The room seemed to close in around you, the weight of his words suffocating. You had spent years convincing yourself that Theo was nothing more than a rival, someone to compete with and defeat. But now, faced with the truth, you realized that the anger, the frustration, had always been masking something deeper—something you had been too afraid to confront.

“Theo…” you began, but your voice broke.

He shook his head, stepping back as if the distance could protect him. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? We’re different people, and this—whatever it was—it’s too late.”

The pain in his voice cut through you like a knife, and you felt your eyes sting with unshed tears. You had always been proud of your ability to stay composed, to never let anyone see how deeply they affected you. But here, in this moment, all those defenses crumbled.

“Maybe it’s not too late,” you said, your voice trembling. “Maybe we just need to stop pretending we hate each other.”

For a moment, you thought he might agree, that the years of bitterness and regret could be washed away by this confession. But then he looked at you, his expression hardening.

“It’s easier to hate you,” he said quietly, and the words felt like a slap. “Because if I don’t, then I have to face the fact that I’ve wasted years fighting against the only person who ever really challenged me, who ever really mattered.”

The silence that followed was unbearable, heavy with all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t find the words for. You wanted to tell him that you felt the same, that you had spent years burying your feelings because it was easier than dealing with the pain of loving someone who seemed to hate you.

But before you could speak, Theo turned away, his voice hollow. “Let’s just get back to work.”

And with that, the moment was gone, the chance for anything more slipping through your fingers like sand. You watched him retreat into the safety of his desk, the familiar walls of professionalism rising up between you once again.

As you sat down to work, the ache in your chest only grew, a reminder of all the things left unsaid and all the years wasted on a rivalry that had been nothing more than a mask for something far more complicated.

You both continued to work together, but the air between you was different now—thicker, tinged with the unspoken regret and the weight of all the missed opportunities. And as much as you tried to focus on your work, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had lost something precious, something that might never be found again.

But as the days turned into weeks, and the tension between you only grew, you found yourself wondering if maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late after all. Maybe there was still a chance to turn things around, to let go of the past and build something new—something real.

The only question was whether Theo was willing to take that chance with you, or if you were destined to remain enemies.

#slytherin x reader #theo nott x reader #theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott imagine #theodore nott x you #slytherin boys #fluff #angst with a happy ending

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r-memberme · 4 months ago

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a reason to move | k.m

⎯⎯“Even the cruelest nights end,” he murmurs, fingers tracing absent patterns along your arm. His touch is warm, a quiet tether to something beyond the emptiness. “You are allowed to wait for the dawn.”

warnings: depression

The room is dark. The kind of dark that feels alive, stretching from the corners like creeping ivy, winding its way into your chest, your limbs, your mind. The curtains have been drawn for days, filtering the world into nothing but a muted, grey haze. Dust floats in the stagnant air, catching in the weak slant of light that dares to intrude. Everything smells like stillness—like sleep and sorrow and the quiet decay of time slipping by unnoticed.

The sheets beneath you are tangled, twisted around your legs in a mess of forgotten movement. You can’t remember the last time you smoothed them out, the last time you cared to. It doesn’t matter. Nothing does, not really. The weight of your own existence presses into the mattress, heavy, immovable. Even breathing feels like a laborious task—something you do only because your body refuses to give in to the numbness swallowing you whole.

And then there’s Klaus.

He stands in the doorway, a silhouette against the dim light of the hall, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. He has been here before, watching from the threshold, gauging when to step in. He knows you too well to force anything. He’s seen you in every state imaginable—fierce, laughing, infuriated, exhausted—but this, this quiet unraveling, makes something tighten in his chest. He hates it, hates the way you shrink under the weight of something he cannot fight for you.

"Love," he murmurs, voice softer than you expected. "How long do you plan on staying buried?"

The words float in the silence, gentle yet pressing, like fingers trailing over an old wound. You don’t answer. It takes too much effort. Even turning your head to look at him feels impossible. You stare at the ceiling instead, at the cracks in the plaster, tracing their jagged lines like they hold some kind of answer.

Klaus exhales slowly, a sound full of something between frustration and understanding. Then, after a moment, he moves. The bed dips under his weight as he settles beside you, his presence a contrast to the cold stillness of the room. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just sits there, close but not intrusive, a steady, solid presence.

You can feel him watching you, feel the quiet way his eyes trace over your form—the sluggish rise and fall of your breath, the way your fingers are curled into the fabric of the sheets like an anchor. But he doesn’t push, doesn’t try to drag you from the depths before you’re ready.

Instead, Klaus simply reaches out, his hand finding yours where it lies limp on the bed. His fingers brush over your knuckles, slow, tentative. A silent reminder that he is here. That you are not alone, no matter how much the darkness might try to convince you otherwise.

And somehow, that touch—warm, grounding—feels like the first breath after drowning.

༊*·˚

The first thing he does is pull the curtains back. Not all the way—just enough for a sliver of daylight to break through the gloom, spilling onto the floor in a soft, golden streak. It is a quiet, unspoken compromise. He does not flood the room with brightness, does not force you to face the world all at once. Instead, he lets the light exist in the space with you, a hesitant guest in the suffocating darkness.

You flinch slightly at the shift, at the way the air seems to change with the presence of something other than shadows. It’s too much, and yet, not enough. A whisper of warmth against the cold numbness pressing in on you.

Then, Klaus disappears. You hear him moving beyond the doorway, the soft rustle of fabric, the faint sound of water running. He is gone just long enough for you to wonder if he will come back, but of course, he does.

When he returns, it is with a damp cloth in hand. Without a word, he sits beside you once more, his movements slow and deliberate. The mattress dips, his weight grounding you in the present.

You make a weak noise of protest as he presses the cloth to your forehead, cool against the feverish heat of your skin. It isn’t just sweat clinging to you—it’s exhaustion, fatigue, the residue of too many days spent drowning in your own mind.

"There we are," Klaus murmurs, brushing a stray hair back from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His touch is careful, reverent, as though afraid you might break beneath it.

You don’t answer. But the coolness feels nice, easing some of the discomfort coiled tightly within you.

His fingers linger for a moment, tracing over your temple with a tenderness you don’t have the strength to acknowledge. Then, he shifts, reaching for something else.

"Drink," he coaxes, bringing a glass of water to your lips. "Just a little."

You stare at it, at the way the condensation beads along the rim, the way his fingers wrap securely around the glass as if he knows you will refuse.

It is ridiculous how something as simple as lifting your head feels like climbing a mountain, how the idea of doing anything at all feels insurmountable. But Klaus does not rush you. He does not sigh in frustration or give you ultimatums. He simply waits, patient as ever, holding the glass steady.

After a long moment, you part your lips.

He tips the glass just enough for a sip, cool water slipping past your lips, running down your throat.

Just one sip.

But it is something.

And in a world where everything feels like too much or too little, something is enough.

༊*·˚

Klaus is not one for soft words or empty reassurances. He has never been the type to offer placating lies, never the sort to whisper false promises just to make the world feel easier to bear. No, he is all action, all quiet devotion, the kind that lingers in the smallest of gestures—the kind that does not demand recognition but offers itself freely.

He combs through your hair with careful fingers, untangling the strands with a patience that seems at odds with the chaos so often stitched into his being. His touch is slow, methodical, fingertips dragging lightly over your scalp, over the nape of your neck. There is something soothing about the way he does it, something steadying, as if he is grounding you through touch alone.

The blankets are a tangled mess around you, twisted from restless nights and too many hours spent lost in the haze of exhaustion. Klaus smooths them out without a word, tucking them back around you as if you are something fragile, something worth protecting. His knuckles ghost over your cheek in a barely-there caress, tracing the shape of you with a reverence that you are not sure you deserve. But he does it anyway. He commits you to memory, as if to remind you that you are here, that you exist.

He stays.

When you don’t feel like speaking, he doesn’t push. He does not fill the silence with questions or expectations. He does not try to fix what cannot be so easily mended.

But he understands that silence can be heavy, that it can press in like a weight upon the chest, suffocating and relentless. And so, when it stretches too long, he fills it—not with demands, but with the sound of his own voice, low and steady, a lull in the storm.

He speaks of the absurdity of the world, of its strange, fickle ways. He tells you about books he has read, words that have lingered in his mind long after the pages were closed. He weaves stories of art and music, of things that once made your eyes light up. There is no expectation for you to respond, no pressure for you to feign interest. He simply reminds you of what exists beyond this room, of what still waits for you beyond the fog.

And then, his voice softens, something distant creeping into the edges of it.

He tells you of the places he’s been, of the centuries he has walked, of the storms he has survived. He speaks of time, of how it wears down even the strongest of things, of how even he has felt the weight of it press against his ribs.

“Even the cruelest nights end,” he murmurs, fingers tracing absent patterns along your arm. His touch is warm, a quiet tether to something beyond the emptiness. “You are allowed to wait for the dawn.”

The words settle deep, pressing into the marrow of you.

And for the first time in a long while, you almost believe him.

༊*·˚

Here’s a much longer and deeper version, filled with more details, emotions, and the weight of the moment:

You don’t know when you sit up.

Maybe it’s when he suggests a bath, his voice carrying that particular lilt of mockery he so often wields as a weapon against your stubbornness. He leans against the bedpost, arms crossed, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he drawls, “You’re positively tragic, love. Even Romeo would think you’re overdoing it.”

You glare at him. It’s weak, half-hearted, but it’s something. And Klaus, ever the perceptive one, catches it instantly.

Or maybe it’s when he presses a warm cup of tea into your hands, the ceramic smooth against your skin, the steam curling softly into the cold air of the room. He doesn’t just give it to you and leave—no, his own hands wrap around yours, steadying them when they tremble ever so slightly. His fingers are warm, his grip firm but careful, as if grounding you in something tangible.

“Just a sip,” he coaxes, his voice softer now. “You needn’t do anything else.”

The warmth seeps into you, into your fingers, into your palms, spreading up your arms like something alive. It’s just tea. Just a simple thing. And yet, the weight of it, the care in the gesture, makes your throat feel tight.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s the way he looks at you.

Not with pity. Not with impatience.

But with quiet understanding.

As if he’s been here, too. As if he knows what it is to feel lost within yourself, to wake up and find that the world has shifted just slightly beyond your grasp. As if he, too, has fought against that crushing, inescapable sense of nothingness.

You wonder, briefly, if he remembers what it was like to claw his way back.

"Come," he says finally, shifting closer. He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t demand. He merely offers his hand, palm up, waiting. "Walk with me. Just to the window."

It’s stupid.

The window is only a few feet away. Just a few steps. Nothing, really. And yet—to you, it is an entire world’s distance. A chasm impossible to cross.

Your breath catches. You hesitate.

Klaus waits.

And yet—

You take his hand.

His fingers tighten around yours, firm and unwavering.

And that, somehow, is enough for now.

thank you to anon for this req! <3 I hope it brings you comfort <3

taglist: @ohapple @myworldrightnow@deactiveblogx@witch-of-letters@xtwistedchaosx@liataylorsversion@pardonmydelayyy

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