#i just wish he got a happy ending because he did not deserve all that | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bejeweledinterludes · 2 months ago

Text

givin’ it all.

OR touch starved ! dean, part 2. you ask, i answer <3

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read part 1 here!

「 pairing 」 : touch starved ! dean x fem ! reader

「 word count 」 : 5.9k

「 content / warnings 」 : late seasons sad n soft!dean, vulnerability to da max (again), emotions, emotions, EMOTIONS, past trauma, confessions?

you have one ( 1 ) new message from the author ! ↓

surprise! here is a lovely part 2 for the people that asked and in honor of my bday month starting! BUTTTT most importantly, this is a thank you for 600+ followers !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i hope all of you know that i appreciate every single one of you that enjoys and interacts with my writing! it means the world, truly. once again, thank you all so much for the continued and ongoing support + love! i hope you all enjoy this one! and special thanks to @emeraldcrs + @maddie0101 (even though i ended up not doing what i said i was going to LMFAO <3)

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dean winchester’s touch problem was getting out of hand.

again.

ever since that night in your bedroom, he’s wished he could be there again, laying next to you every night— he’d even actually got the courage to get out of his bed one night when he couldn’t sleep to go to your room, but he never knocked on your door.

he did, however, sit down next to it in the hallway until he got tired enough that he had to fight to keep his eyes open, then went back to his own room.

you hadn’t even treated him any differently, either. you had still smiled at him when he walked into the kitchen that morning when you were already sitting with sam, like you always did— and you hadn’t said a word about the night before, when you held him like he’d always wanted to be held.

and god, did he want more.

dean wanted everything, actually. anything you had to offer. he’d take a squeeze on his shoulder, a ruffle of his hair— but hell, you did that pretty regularly already. and who was he to just ask for more?

dean winchester did not ask for things. he wasn’t allowed. he’s done just fine up until now without the touch of another human being, so why couldn’t the ache in his chest go away after your fingers left his skin? after that night?

it felt pathetic, wanting to need it. and to make matters worse, dean wanted all of you. it was selfish. you didn’t deserve someone like him, he knew it. but then again, you never flirted with anyone at the bars, ever. even when you all first started hunting together. and when he’d asked you about it (not so casually), you shrugged and told him the truth, because you always did— that as crazy and stupid as it sounded, you’d wanted something, someone real.

and dean?

he wanted to be the one to give that to you.

that’s when he knew he was in trouble.

because of too many things, really— what if you died, again? what if he died, again? and what happens when you ultimately rejected him, because if dean winchester was anything, it was unloveable.

but charlie said she loved him. sam told him once in a while, too— and you’d said it the first time you ‘died’, then came back. he never brought that up. neither did you. but he just wanted to hear you say it again.

so he could say it back this time.

dean hated the way he felt when the people he loved actually showed him that they maybe cared about him, too— like the way a person feels when an entire room is singing ‘happy birthday’ to them and they don’t know what to do with themselves.

and yet, time and time again, dean found himself desperate for it. and he didn’t even know what ‘it’ was half the time.

but being around you when he felt like that helped. a lot.

dean didn’t know what it was, or when it even started, but he always gravitated towards you. always had to be around you, be near you. and you never once pointed it out. you just let him into your space, your bubble, even your hobbies— and sometimes, doing literally nothing at all.

it was one of the reasons dean loved you. yeah, yeah, he said it, whatever. leave him alone. it seemed like any time you were near, he was more relaxed. not fully, of course— but his shoulders felt less tight and his jaw wasn’t sore from clenching it so hard.

he breathed easier. without realizing it, you helped dean take his mind off things (but of course you damn well knew that. why else would you have invited him to go to the post office with you?).

and he craved it.

if dean got captured by a jinn right now, you’d be there. you’re all he’s wanted. you, maybe a house— screw anything else, honestly. if you were there, so was he. but he’d definitely prefer you sitting on the hood of baby— yeah, his two girls. that was a little strange analogy though, because he’s thought about fucking you right on top of baby. or inside, on the seats. maybe even under—?

this djinn-fantasy thing was starting to sound a lot like just a sex dream.

wouldn’t be the first time dean had one about you, though.

besides. you were all he dreamed about, anyway.

but this night, he was wishing he had a dream like that. no. tonight, he was having yet another goddamn nightmare.

the barely-lit light on dean’s desk (he says he ‘accidentally’ leaves it on once in a while, but he really uses it as a makeshift night light. don’t tell anyone i told you that) cast soft dim glow on the concrete walls of his bedroom. the room was quiet, except for the occasional hum of machinery coming from somewhere in the bunker.

yet dean's mind? anything but peaceful. images, smells, sounds, and memories were piercing his mind— hell, purgatory, failed hunts, you name it. and the faces of people he’d lost, people he’d tortured were clear as day— the pain, the hurt, it was all there, as usual; but ten times worse tonight, it seemed. screams, snarls, gunshots, and his father’s voice echoed off of the traumas he was reliving.

he doesn’t know when his eyes had snapped open. but now dean was sitting up pin-straight in his bed, his breathing more like choppy gasps as he held and pointed his gun at— nothing. and his throat hurt, why did his throat hurt—?

oh.

it wasn’t just screams of other people.

it was his own this time. dean had screamed out loud.

a few rooms away, you were also jolted awake by dean's scream. it was so loud that it had even carried through the thick concrete walls of the bunker that were separating you both. you shot up from your bed, years of instincts kicking in and legs moving before your sleepy mind could catch up— or think twice.

because the only thing that was going through your freshly-awoken mind?

the absolute worst.

you made it to dean’s door in record time, swinging it wide open with your own gun at the ready to fight something— but the sight you were met with was not the one you had been expecting.

at all.

dean was still sitting up straight, but now barely-relaxed, rapidly blinking his eyes with his trembling hand still holding his gun, adjusting to the still-dim but brighter light flooding his room, to feeling damp in his clothes instead of all bloody and broken, to the echoes of screams being replaced with the white noise of the bunker–

and to… you.

yeah, you. standing in his doorway, hand on the edge of his door (you’d caught it as it bounced back from you essentially tearing it open), your own gun now at your side instead of drawn. your hair was all messy, clothes a little bunched up in places, breathing a little unevenly, yet not as much as him— but you still looked breathtaking, nightmare aside.

dean didn’t know what the hell kind of water you were drinking to make you look like that. even being freshy pulled from sleep like him, you looked beautiful. pretty, gorgeous, stunning? dean couldn’t find a word, and he doesn’t think he ever will.

and him.

oh, him.

dean always looked good— to the point where it bordered on you wanting to rip your hair out, most days. and despite what de’d just gone through, he still looked good. kidding aside, you craved the times you were able to see him like this more than you cared to admit to yourself.

not because he was in pain, or suffering the traumas of his less-than-peaceful life— but because it reminded you that even dean, for as everything that he was: a hero, larger than life, better than any hunter, still had moments like… this. when the memories became real life again. when the thoughts and his past actions echoed in his mind like taunts.

when you saw him like this: sweat all over, hair sticking up, eyes like they didn’t know what was real, you saw a piece of dean that few— or none at all had seen. most times, it felt like you were intruding on something private, sacred. and every realistically-thinking cell in your body screamed that you shouldn’t be here, seeing this. seeing dean.

but that little voice in your head just wouldn’t listen.

it never did. not when it told you that maybe dean didn’t touch you like he did everyone else— because hell.

he never touched anyone else. only you.

he’d do it all the time, so frequently and without a word that you weren’t sure he was aware he was actually doing it. dean sat so close to you what seemed like 24/7, like a magnet. in a booth, at a bar, wherever. you’d gotten so used to it, it had been unusual not to have the solid warmth of dean next to you when you’d gone off on your own to interview witnesses on a case.

and you would catch him playing with your hair on more than one occasion. and while dean got all embarrassed, you just smiled a little, then went back to reading the old-ass book you’d been poured over (but not without first nonchalantly adjusting yourself so he got more access to your hair).

dean would never forget it.

because that’s who you were, essentially. taking all the pieces of him in tow with you. all the dirty, messed up, strewn-about shards of him, scattered like a discarded shattered vase on the floor— and just accepting it.

and you never tried to ‘fix’ him, but in some way, you still somehow were. without really ever talking about it, or maybe even knowing. but when those times that only occurred on a rare occasion that dean would talk, the words spilling out and overflowing— but you never judged him. only listened. spoke when it was needed from you.

it meant everything.

and more.

dean would hug you almost every five minutes when he was too drunk to stand straight, you had learned one night early on in your friendship. when his ‘hey, maybe we shouldn’t do that’ voice in his head was silenced, he was kinda (a lot) all over you. because yes, he was much touchier when he was drunk, especially around you.

even now, after years since it happened, you still remembered the way his broad, loose frame had crumpled against you— and you caught him.

just like now.

you’d snapped over whatever the hell just came over you— and you weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there, but you hoped it wasn’t as long as you thought it to be, then slowly shut dean’s door behind you with a click, enveloping you both in the dim light this time.

because no way in any world were you about to leave dean alone after seeing him like this.

you pad across his room like you’d done a million times before— but never in this way. this late in the night? sure, but not like now.

you weren’t really thinking. because let’s be honest here: for every critical and rational thought you had, dean seemed to just… make them all disappear from your mind.

not in the survival sense, but in the ‘really, what’s stopping me from just kissing him’ viewpoint. so much so that you had to literally force yourself to not do anything. to not cross that line. you weren’t sure if he even knew that he was aware he was doing it to you, yet it still happened. a lot.

but back to now. back to dean’s room, to the light being returned to normal, and dean’s wondering why the hell is it so cold? he was still just a complete mess, his frayed and raw nerves only being held together by skin, blood and bones. he shut his eyes and kept them like that, trying to banish the memories from his mind, to just snap the hell out of it. he could hear this ringing in his ears, and it was so loud, he just wanted it to stop—

and suddenly, it did.

dean didn’t even realize you’d started holding him until the scent of you finally flooded his senses. until he felt how warm you were. until he felt your hair on the side of his face. until he felt and heard your breathing.

during the aftermath, you’d somehow managed to gently pry dean’s gun out of his hand, setting yours and his on his desk before you’d gotten on his bed and sat with him, hugged him.

when his eyes finally opened, just for a split-second— the only sight he was met with wasn’t the pit, or purgatory, just the guns. the metal had glinted off of his desk light, his vision only slightly impaired by your hair.

your hair. why did it smell so good. and why was it so soft. the world may never know, dean thinks. well, he does know. you’d told him one night while putting something in your hair, and he had been walking past the doorway. he’d teased you about your ‘girly stuff’, but you didn’t even bat an eye.

that was another thing he’d noticed about you. you didn’t change yourself based on other’s opinions. you were secure in who you were, and didn’t need approval from anyone else to feel your best. it was one of the things dean wished he could do for real and not just as a front, as a defense.

you were confident, but you still asked him once in a while if you looked okay, more so in the most recent years.

and dean could never lie to you. he always said “‘course y’do”.

but that night, you’d shrugged, then just told him about whatever the hell you were putting on your head, explaining it in a way he’d understand if he’d been listening— but dean had been a little to focused on your lips moving and not enough on the words actually coming out of them.

dean found himself burying his face into your hair now, half into your neck and chest, his breath coming out uneven and in short pants against your skin. he allowed his eyes to flutter shut again as he just let himself sink into you, resting his head on your shoulder, arms finding your waist. he felt the adrenaline wearing off, but his heart was still pounding in his chest, and he felt his shoulders trembling. his mind was starting to adjust, but he felt like he’d just gotten off a treadmill after running on it too fast.

and dean felt so weak. even more so now than he ever had. a shell of himself, a whole grown-ass man crumpled into you like he was a little kid again, scared of the dark.

if his dad could see him now.

if sam saw him right now. oh, sam would finally see that his brother wasn’t the tower of light, safety he’d always viewed him as. he’d treat him differently, for sure. dean was no longer the protector, the one who watched over everyone and everything. too much had happened to sam, to the people he loved for that to be even a fraction of true anymore.

what was true, though?

dean was a failure.

in every sense of the word. he’d failed innocent people, family, friends— everyone more times than he could count.

but his mind remembered.

and it reminded him every night.

dean used to have the sense that he was at least doing something right, but as of late, everything he’d done so far was nothing short of one disappointment after the other. it was pitiful, really— he was a freakin’ hunter, for god’s sakes. you’d think he’d get a goddamn win once in a while. but not for a long time, it seemed.

and this was just yet another failure, another thing he absolutely sucked at. dean couldn’t even get back to normal after a nightmare without someone being there to hold him. it was pathetic, humiliating— but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of you.

somehow, that was his breaking point. the last straw.

dean finally just… broke.

you didn’t even realize what was happening until you heard the smallest strangled, trapped noise came out from the man you were essentially holding together, muffled against you— but you still heard it.

all it took for dean winchester to cry these days?

a hug, apparently.

the tears had been welling up in dean’s eyes faster than he could will them away— and he just couldn’t do it anymore. couldn’t put up the front he’d always been able to. he tried, god he tried so hard, but he was still shaking, for christ’s sakes— and he’d just woken up.

the more dean thought about it, the more your arms seemed like a good place to finally let it all out. you’d always treated him with kindness he didn’t deserve, so he just prayed that you wouldn’t push him away. that you would just let him have this. he doesn't think he could handle you rejecting him in this way right now.

and when you hear a slight sniff against you, you almost couldn’t believe it. dean didn’t cry. he got angry, upset, went non-verbal– but the one thing you hadn’t seen him do (at least in front of you) in all the years you’d known him, is cry.

but you weren’t leaving.

no, you just held him tighter, adjusting your grip and the way you were sitting so dean was more comfortable. you didn’t lay down, but you pulled him closer to you, running a hand up and down his back.

it’s not like you could say anything. what the hell could you say?

well.

one thing did come to mind.

so with your hand still gently rubbing dean’s back, you moved your head just a fraction so it could rest on his, whispering close to his ear.

“i got you.”

and that was it.

dean’s eyes screwed further shut, lip wobbling as he gripped way harder onto you, like you were the only lifeboat left in a choppy sea. like you were going to keep him here, like he’d suddenly fall apart, die if he let go.

and he let go—

figuratively.

you’d never heard a sob come out of dean before, but that night, you decided you never wanted to hear it after this. because it was physically hurting you to hear dean right now.

but you didn’t dare let him go. you held dean in your arms, still running a hand on his back, and he cried into your chest like he was four years old again, his entire body trembling against yours with the force of how much his sobs were wracking through his form.

this wasn’t just about dean’s nightmare. this was everything. the decades of holding things in, pushing them down, then moving on without ever unpacking it— it was all bursting through the floodgates, roaring in his ears, his senses.

broken sounds left his throat, almost choking on them. they were coming straight from the place dean dared not to ever touch in his heart. but he didn’t care how loud he was anymore, or how embarrassing this must be, how humiliating—

because you said that you had him.

and you wanted nothing more than to take every ounce, every inch of pain, heartbreak, suffering, and loss that made up the man you loved away from him so he didn’t have to deal with it.

dean didn’t deserve any of it. he deserved to be normal.

to have a life.

and damn you wanted to give that to him, so badly.

but for now, you’d just hold him. give him a place to rest. to let everything go.

to be the solace he needed, he deserved.

neither you or dean knew how long he’d stayed like that, but you both didn’t say a word the entire time you held him— the only sounds that filled his room were his less-than-quiet sobs (god he hoped sam hadn’t made it home from elieen’s yet) and the faint rustle of his sheets.

but at some point, with a final sniff, dean lifted his head from your shoulder, but didn’t meet your eyes. couldn’t.

he was so ashamed of himself, his actions. it didn’t matter that you guys had been friends however long, this was not supposed to be the side of him you saw. he’d seen you comfort dozens, maybe even hundreds of crying people on cases— because of lost loved ones, or because they had seen something too scary.

dean just never thought he’d be one of them.

you didn’t say anything at first. dean, eyes and face still wet with tears, was looking down between you both, eyes fixed on your pyjama pants’ pattern. he was avoiding the obvious, the pill he had to swallow. he’d just cried like a baby into you.

he could see the wetness on your shirt from the corner of his eye, but he dared not look up all the way. god, this was humiliating. you’d probably move out of the bunker after this.

because no way does dean come back from a stunt like he just pulled. staying in your bed is one thing, but the fact that he just broke down in front of you? you’d never see him the same, never look at him the same– and even if there was any chance of it before, no way in hell were you ever going to look at him in the way he wanted you to look at him.

he’d messed up big-time— again. the only thing he swore to never ruin, to never take away from himself, it all just unraveled because he was a goddamn crybaby. an idiot. why did he do that? just let himself? was he seriously that braindead that he couldn’t—

dean’s pulled out of the spiral of thoughts he’d conjured up for himself when he feels a hand under his jaw.

your hand.

dean’s breath was all out of whack, courtesy of crying— but his next inhale literally gets stuck somewhere when your free hand uses your fingers to wipe the tears off his face.

you hadn’t really registered the fact that you’d even started doing that until you see dean’s glassy and red-rimmed eyes meet yours in his barley-lit room. all you’d been thinking was that you wanted to see him. and when you saw all the wetness on his face, how ashamed he looked, you didn’t think.

case in point: you never did.

not when it came to dean.

and dean just melts all over again. you could’ve teased him, poked fun, even just got up and left— but instead, your arms are still halfway around him. you’re leaning over by his nightstand, grabbing a tissue for the snot and larger tear tracks.

he should feel embarrassed. at least a little gross.

but he didn’t.

he just felt you.

dean let his eyes flutter shut, because this had to be a dream now. he wasn’t expecting this from you, but damn if he didn’t need it. every gentle brush of your fingers on his face felt like pure gold. like you were putting him back together.

dean’s still trembling under your gaze, under your touch. but seeing him react the way he did stirs at that feeling inside your tummy that always seemed to spike when dean was around. you toss that urge away, along with the tissue you’d used on his face.

but you don’t take your hand away.

your hand was so warm, so soft was all dean could think, feel. you weren’t taking your hand away, so dean just melted like a pad of butter in a pan into your fingers that were cupping the side of his face, his eyes still shut. he could feel the slight burn of them from crying, along with the pressure in his face so high— but your thumb absentmindedly brushing on his cheek was starting to make him feel like he was floating instead.

and because he’s greedy, because he’s weak, dean’s own hand releases its hold from your shirt and finds your wrist, keeping your hand on his face. the one that used to be under his jaw had dropped when you knew that he wasn’t going to look down again.

no one’s shown dean care like this. your presence was like a blanket, like the warm, soft light of a candle. he couldn’t get enough. he never wanted it to end.

dean doesn’t know how long he stays like that— could’ve been seconds or hours. but he finally breaks the silence with a quiet, raspy “thank you”. he doesn’t open his eyes yet.

because he’s afraid that you’ll be gone when he opens them.

but you weren’t.

no, in fact? you did something much stupider.

you leaned forward and kissed dean on the cheek that your hand wasn’t currently holding.

dean’s eyes snap open in surprise at the contact if your soft lips on his skin, his trembling breaths getting stuck in his throat again— because holy hell. whatever he’d been guessing you’d do, it wasn’t even close to that.

like everyone knows now: you weren’t thinking.you just wanted him to feel better. you just didn’t know how to do that for him.

dean’s red-rimmed eyes were still wide as you leaned back, your hand on his face faltering when you see his expression, because that didn’t seem like he enjoyed it— but he didn’t drop his hand from your wrist. he wasn’t going to let you let go. the last time you kissed him on the cheek was when he was dying for the third, maybe fourth time? or was it when you left for that hunt in washington? it was too long ago for him to remember, but honestly, he had been happy just dying like that, too. you’d kissed him, and that was what he needed. he didn’t want anything else from this world.

and you just did it again.

the only thing he said?

“do that again.”

now it was your turn for your breathing to stop working.

but you didn’t hesitate.

you leaned forwards once more and pressed your lips on dean’s cheek again, lingering for a second too long before you reluctantly pulled away. because you wanted more. you wanted everything, honestly. but you’d never ask that of him.

you don’t know how you’ve lasted this long, pretending not to want one of your closest friends for as long as you can remember. you can recall a time when you didn’t feel like this— back when dean winchester was just some hunter with his brother. you helped them out once in a while, since they were your age and seemed nice enough, but somewhere along the way, after an apocalypse or two, sam and dean were always kind of just… there. it was like you were on parallel paths, going in the same direction— and both had intersected at some point.

now here you were.

it was times like these you wished that dean would just pick a damn side. he never truly hit on you, only for a case once in a while— and he couldn’t even look at you after he did that. he never made a move, and honestly, you were fine with that, for a really long time. you’d deemed dean much too out of your league anyway, since he didn’t really flirt with you like he did every other woman that came across his path— and that was odd to you, because dean flirted with everyone.

just not…

you.

and while it stung, you just pushed through it. i mean, it’s not like you haven’t been let down before— but you couldn’t place why your heart felt like it was being shredded up in your chest when you’d met lisa for the first time.

but you knew.

deep down, you knew exactly why.

you knew why your gut twisted whenever he chatted up a waitress, or a witness. you knew why your friends gave up on talking to you about him, because you were a lost cause.

because you were so stupidly in love with dean, it was almost humiliating.

every single person, even monsters you were literally hunting down had called you out on it.

and you didn’t know what the hell to do.

there were too many variables, too many outliers, and certainly not enough confidence to even consider the fact of telling him. of manning up and just taking what you wanted. because what would you even say? do? what happens after he rejects you? and what if—

your thoughts are interrupted by a warm hand on your face.

dean’s hand.

your hand was still on his cheek, one of his own still holding your wrist— but the other was now brushing a strand of hair out of your face.

and then it just… stayed there. on the side of your face.

just like you were doing to him.

you’re gonna die, you think.

once again, you found yourself wanting dean to just do something. he’d been blurring the invisible line you’d drawn for yourself, the one you swore to never cross—

unless dean wanted you to.

it was getting much harder to tell if he wanted you to or not, especially in the most recent months.

and it was killing you. slowly but surely.

“what’re you thinkin’ about?”

the words leave your mouth before you even have time to think, because dean’s hand is so warm, so big against your face and it’s really hard to focus when his own thumb is brushing on your cheek—

“you.”

the answer leaves dean’s mouth without hesitation, without another thought. it wasn’t a lie— because you were all he thought about.

dean didn’t deserve this. you. any of this. and yet, he couldn’t refuse it right now. not when you were so close to him, and your skin was so soft—

“are you—” the words get caught in dean’s throat. “are y’thinkin’ about me?”

oh, why did dean just say that. why on chuck’s green earth did he ever say that. how did he even sound more pathetic than he’d just been when he was crying in your arms? and his voice was so small, so unlike him— plus it was still raspy from his stunt he’d pulled earlier. he was an idiot. a fool. he sounded like an insecure freakin’ teenager. it was pathetic. he was pathetic—

“yeah.”

dean’s eyes flicked back up to yours— and that was a mistake, because your hand was still mirroring his own on his face, and you were looking at him like you meant what you’d just said. like he meant something.

“yeah?” the breath left dean’s mouth before he could stop it, and he hated how hopeful he sounded. he’d moved a fraction closer to you, but it felt like he just traveled a mile.

“yeah,” you nodded, a little dazed, voice barely above a whisper. because dean was so close to you now, you could feel his breath on your face. you could barely think straight, because all you wanted to do was just lean in a little further— “i don’t really, uh… stop. thinkin’ about you.”

and dean’s gonna die.

he is going to die, because you said that and you were looking down at his lips and you smelled so good and your hand was still on his face—

dean was a simple man. that’s all he’ll ever be. he’d never ask you to do something you didn’t want.

but god, he wanted you.

so the words fell out of his mouth in another exhale—

“me, either.”

oh.

the way you were looking at him right now? after he said that in response?

you wanted him, too.

you’re both not sure who moved first, but your lips were on dean’s after you leaned in and he used his hand on your face to tug you to him, closing the remaining space between you both on his bed.

the first thing you noticed?

dean tasted like home.

you didn’t kiss him too fast. neither he with you. because you wanted to map out every inch you could, and because you were half-sure that this was some fantasy your mind had cooked up out of a state of delusion. your hand on dean’s face snaked deeper back, burying into his hair, and he groaned into your mouth at the action.

that did something to you. the same thing happened when dean’s hand went into your hair, too— you made this little noise on his lips.

that did something to him.

kissing dean was actually gentle at first. not hesitant, but like you already knew how. but then after you’d both made those noises, it’s like a switch flipped. suddenly, there was way too much space in between you both— and you gripped onto the front of his shirt, tugging him towards you as you let your back hit his sheets, taking him down with you.

this wasn’t like anything you’d ever felt. no, this was going on a decade of wishing, wanting, hoping for something, anything to come of you and dean besides friendship.

and dean? dean pressed right into you, one of his hands and barely bothered to keep himself upright. he needed to touch you, feel you. another groan escapes you and him involuntarily at the friction between you both— because you’d spread your thighs, his torso fitting right between you.

and it felt good.

you couldn’t take a full breath anymore, but you didn’t dare take your lips off of dean’s. you just tugged him closer, hand still in his hair, the other on the back of one of his shoulders.

both your lips broke with a pop, you and dean taking in the same breath of air, his nose brushing against yours and eyes fluttering, because wow.

dean didn’t know he’d said that aloud until a smile tugged on your lips, eyes looking up at him like he still wasn’t real. like this wasn’t real.

“you know how long i’ve been waitin’ to do that?” dean breathes against your lips, eyes threatening to shut again.

your smile gets wider as your own eyelashes flutter at the closeness, relishing in the contact of feeling dean on top of you before you respond:

“you know how long i’ve been waiting for you to do that?”

──────────────────────── 𖤐

tags: @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @sunsbaby @emeraldcrs @h8aaz @honeyryewhiskey @supernotnatural2005 @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @bruisedfig @mostlymarvelgirl @amaris444 @kaz-2y5-spn @littlesoulshine @starzify @velvetparkerx @eggggggggggggggggggggsblog @fuckedupfate @liiiilsss @angelblqde @vmiina @mahi-wayy @viarasvogue @tinas111 @0ccvltism @plasticflowersinahistorycemetery @lunaleah @saintfaux @kimxwinchester @bettystonewell @honeyyxxbee @harlekin705 + if i missed anyone OR if you want to be added/taken off, please let me know! <3

#faith’s works . . . @bejeweledinterludes!#supernatural #dean winchester #spn #dean winchester headcanon #dean winchester x you #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester one shot #touch starved #part 2

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captivating-flavors · 4 months ago

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away | sylus

pairing: sylus x non mc reader

prompt: -

summary: the closure you both needed after the break. loosely a part two of enough

words: 1,605

warning(s): angst but ended on a happy note sort of, mentions of death, mentions of an unhealthy relationship

a/n: i was in the mood to finish something angsty again soooo.... enjoy?? (anyways some fluffy-ish sylus and caleb might be next) reblogs, comments and feedbacks are much appreciated <3

masterlist

Sylus sat on one of the booths at the far end of the café, occasionally glancing at his watch. He opened his message thread with you, where the last message had been the one he sent to you a week ago asking you to meet him here. You never responded, despite the small read under his speech bubble.

It had been nearly a year since he last saw you. That night being the last. The night of the anniversary of her death. It would be a lie to say that he did not drink himself to a stupor, because it was what he usually did. You had confiscated his keys to prevent him from going to her grave in his drunken state and he lashed out.

He barely remembered how it all started, just bits and pieces. What he remembered clearly was that he sobered up by a little midway through the argument and used the Aether Core in his eye to look into what it was you wanted from him for the first time.

Love.

He knew, somewhat. He’d heard you say it multiple times, thinking he was already asleep. But he couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

You loved him? Why? What was it that he had ever done to you to warrant such profound feelings from you? Surely, he doesn’t deserve it. Least of all from you. The one person he took for granted at every turn but always decided to stay with him time and time again, despite everything. He knew that how he treated you wasn’t ideal and was far from what you deserved but he thought that if he kept treating you the way he did, you would leave of your own accord.

“Love? Don’t be ridiculous. You knew from the start you’re never going to get that from me.”

He could see your expression slowly falling onto one of hurt as you took his hand to drive him away from the door and to his room, “I know, Sylus. Let’s get you into your room, okay?”

“You knew from the start that I was only keeping you around because you reminded me of her.”

“I know.” You let a single teardrop fall out of the pool welled up on your eyes.

“No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to act like I hurt you by breaking your heart when you know what you signed up for right from the start.”

“I know.” You said as you tugged him by the arm to his room and got him onto his bed.

He sat up against his headboard as you went to grab him a glass of water before sitting on the edge of the bed, “The answer is: It will never be.”

You looked at him, confused, “What?”

“What you said. When you thought I was asleep. You wished how your love was enough to help me. The answer is: It will never be.”

“I know. But would that be enough for you to want to try? For me?”

“No.”

You exhaled before softly saying, “I understand that you love her. But she’s dead, Sylus. Until when are you going to keep clinging on to her memory?”

“You don’t get to say that. You knew how much I love her.”

“That, I do.” You said, your words had a tinge of sadness to it.

“Then why are you asking it of me?”

“Because I thought, maybe one day you’d be willing to love me too.” You said as you stood up to leave the room.

He let out a small scoff, “Well, you thought wrong.”

“Good night, Sylus.” You said before closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Little did he know, those would be the last thing you said before you packed your bags and left the Onichynus Base that night. He understood why you left. There was no doubt his words had hurt you, after all that was why he’d said them in the first place. Whilst some of him wanted to push you away because you deserved better, another selfish part that wanted to keep you by his side hated that that was how things ended between the two of you.

He snapped out of his thoughts and looked up for the umpteenth time as the bell above the door chimed, but still no sign of you. Sylus became more convinced that you weren’t going to show up but decided to wait for another half an hour before leaving.

Another ten minutes passed as he stared at the same message thread. He contemplated on sending you another message, but he didn’t want to seem pushy.

“Hey.”

He looked up at the sound of your voice, visibly surprised before letting out a greeting as well, “Y/N, Hi.”

You took off your coat and draped it over the back of the chair before taking a seat, “You look well.” He added and he meant it. You looked happier.

“You do, too.” You said with a small smile.

“I’m sorry I reached out to you out of the blue like this. I had to… uh… get my shit together first before reaching out to you again.”

“It’s fine. I knew we were bound to have this conversation sooner or later.”

“Yeah, me too. I’m just going to cut to the chase. I’m sorry for everything. I was not in my right mind, not that it excuses anything. But I’m sorry about what I said. I’m sorry for how I treated you.” He said, sincerity etched to his voice as his head hung low.

You reached out and placed your hand on top of his clasped ones, “I forgive you, Sylus.”

“No, you shouldn’t. You should hate me.”

“But I don’t. And honestly, it’s fine. It’s all in the past.” You gave him a small smile.

“No, it’s not. The way I treated you… I took you for granted at every turn and was ungrateful for everything you did to and for me. You don’t deserve that.”

“Really. It’s fine. I won’t lie to you and say that it didn’t hurt me because it did, but like I said, it’s all in the past. I forgive you.”

“No, you shouldn’t. I’d much prefer it if you’d be angry at me.”

“I’m not.”

“Why?”

You inhaled, “Because I still love you.”

“What…?”

“As it turns out, leaving doesn’t get rid of my feelings that easily.” You let out a small chuckle before adding, “You heard me. I still love you, Sylus. And that is why I have chosen to forgive you.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but you continued, “That is also why I decided to let you go. I love you but I’m smart enough to know that what we have wasn’t sustainable nor was it healthy, and that what you had with her was… magic and nothing that comes after will ever compare to that great first love you had. I know I deserved better and so did you, so I’m also sorry for that.”

“No, you have nothing to apologize for, Y/N.”

“I do. You deserve more than someone who begs and forces you to love them back when you weren’t ready and willing to do so.” You squeezed his hands, reaffirming your words.

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize for not loving me back. Just promise me that you’ll take better care of yourself from now on.”

The two of you stayed in silent for several minutes, still holding each other’s gazes before he decided to break the silence, “So, are you ever coming back to the N109 Zone?”

You chuckled, “Yeah, probably not. I decided to leave that life behind the day I moved here.”

“The twins missed you.” I missed you, but he opted to leave the last part out.

“I’ll come visit, some time.”

“That’s good to hear, I–” You saw the excitement beam in his eyes, and it gutted you to have to crush it.

“But I think we shouldn’t see or talk to each other anymore. That was what I came here to say.”

“What…?” He blinked, surprised.

“As much as I’d love be friends with you again, I don’t think it’ll be good for the two of us. I’ll subconsciously keep hanging onto the what-ifs and I’ll always remind you of her.”

“So, are we just never going to see each other ever again? Because I hate thought of that.”

“Maybe we can rekindle our friendship sometime in the future, but not now. A year has passed, but everything still feels fresh.”

He exhaled, “If that is what you want, I’ll respect your wishes.”

“Thank you, Sylus. I should probably go. My boyfriend is waiting for me outside.” You stood and grabbed your coat, ready to leave. You contemplated for a bit before adding, “But if you want someone to accompany you to visit her grave, I’ll be one call away. I’ll be sure to get her favorite daisies from that flower shop she loved.”

“Alright. I’ll see you when I see you, I suppose.”

“You, too. Take care of yourself, Sylus.”

As Sylus looked at your retreating form, he couldn’t help the pang in his chest. The pang intensified when he saw you through the glass windows of the café as you stood on your tippy toes to give your boyfriend a kiss. Maybe this was for the best, after all you were visibly happier and for the most part you’ve moved on from everything that happened between the two of you. Maybe you’ll always be the one who got away.

taglist: @mayooness

#sylus #lnds x you #lnds x reader #lads sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #l&ds sylus #qin che #sylus qin #sylus love and deepspace #sylus x reader #sylus x you #sylus x y/n #sylus x non mc #sylus angst #rae ((attempts to)) write things

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zarameraki · 8 months ago

Text

🖊️💌 𝘀𝘂𝗸𝘂𝗻𝗮'𝘀 𝗳𝗮𝘃𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗼𝗻 𝗽𝗲𝗻-𝗽𝗮𝗹 🖊️💌

: ̗̀➛ tropes: fem! reader 𖥔 minors do not interact 𖥔 prisoner sukuna x his penpal 𖥔 just plot with porn 𖥔 mentions of abuse 𖥔 mentions of sexual assault 𖥔 pussayy eating rawr but also u suck his dick so 𖥔 uraume and toji found family 𖥔 he would kill for you 𖥔 alternate universe 𖥔 nsfw

: ̗̀➛ words: 10k?? idfk it's long (read on a03 here)

: ̗̀➛ notes: happy halloween, mamas! 🎃 i know ive been MIA for a while but thats because i wasnt feeling creative. but now ive dumped a 10k sukuna fic on you for you to read at 3 in the morning. this one's got a kick to it yall. its long but give the bitch a chance, shes good. if you have any requests, don’t hesitate to send them. pls follow, reblog, like, comment—whatever you want! okay love you and enjoy.

So, this was where you’d ended up—on a site for writing to prisoners. A pen-pal with an inmate.

How lonely did you have to be to fill out your info, pay a yearly fee, and do this? The answer: really, really lonely. Orphaned, friendless, and scarred from a relationship that had left you with broken ribs and a blind eye. And as if to top it all off, you wanted to reach out to a criminal. I guess you deserved at least that small bit of connection.

You scrolled through inmate profiles, noting their crimes—arson, theft, cybercrime, drug trafficking, money embezzlement, and so on. None of them were charged with homicides or serious offences.

One profile did catch your eye. The smirk in his mugshot suggested he’d probably killed someone and managed to evade the cops before they could pin anything on him.

“Sukuna Ryomen,” you whispered, clicking on his profile and staring at a laundry list of crimes. “Aggravated assault, drug manufacturing and distribution, kidnapping—Jesus—extortion, cybercrime, Satanism . . . what the hell?” You chuckled as you scrolled further. “Bank burglary, vandalism of religious properties—so that’s the Satanism part—illegal possession of firearms, stalking?”

Why was this man even on this website, given his long list of crimes?

You zoomed in on his mugshot. Was it wrong to find him attractive despite his record? He truly embodied the term “bad boy,” though he didn’t look like a boy at all. He was ruggedly handsome with hollowed eyes. His light-mink hair was swept back, with a few strands falling over his forehead, and he wore a single hoop earring in his left ear. Black tattoos marked his nose bridge, jaw, and the centre of his forehead, while narrow-eyed designs were inked on his cheekbones.

You wondered if he’d get any letters, given his long rap sheet. Maybe delusional women like you, who’s pussies sang for high-profile criminals, sure.

Licking your lower lip, you picked up a piece of paper and a pen, tapping the end against the sheet as you continued to study his face.

Then you started writing.

Hello, Sukuna Ryomen,

My name is Y/N.

You thought it over. For now, you'd keep it light before diving into your deeper issues. It felt easier to share your thoughts with someone you’d never meet face-to-face than with a stranger in a bar whose only interest was getting into your pants.

You kept writing.

Dear Sukuna Ryomen,

I’m currently living in an apartment complex that’s in desperate need of renovation. I’m harvesting cockroaches—no, I’m not eating them; the fuckers just won’t stop nesting in my kitchen cabinets, and I’m tired of spending money on pest sprays. On top of that, I’m pretty broke, barely managing to keep a roof over my head. I’ve even considered trying to seduce the landlord into reducing my rent, though I doubt any man would find a woman with one working eye appealing. I noticed you have an extra beneath your real eyes. Care to share?

Anyway, this is my first time writing to someone like you, so apologies if it’s a bit awkward. I wish I could send a nude, but I’m pretty sure you’d wish you were blind after that. I feel like I’m rambling like this is my diary, so I should probably wrap it up. If you want to write back, feel free. I don’t mean to sound privileged, but I’m lonely as fuck.

Thank you (?),

Y/N

P.S. About the Satanism—care to explain?

You didn’t bother proof-reading and folded the letter into an envelope, sealing it with a lick. From your drawer, you pulled out a pack of old stickers—remnants of your childhood—and placed one where the envelope met. You wrote the prison address provided on the website and added the stamps you’d bought during your walk, which was your final push into becoming a prison pen-pal. After selecting Sukuna Ryomen on the site and uploading your ID and other required documents, you waited for your profile to be approved.

After three days of waiting, you sent out the letter first thing in the morning and anxiously awaited a response.

Sukuna’s fists collided with the inmate’s face, each strike more brutal than the last. Blood splattered across his knuckles as the crowd of orange-clad convicts roared with twisted delight, their voices a chorus of vile encouragement. “Finish him!” they taunted, while others jeered at the barely conscious man, urging him to get up and fight back, to aim a desperate kick at Sukuna’s balls.

“Sukuna!” A guard’s voice cut through the chaos, and soon the officers were pushing through the throng, shutting the prisoners who dared resist their authority. “Get up, now!”

“Fuck off!” Sukuna snarled, his lips curling into a sneer as he shoved the guard aside. He watched with cold satisfaction as the man lay still, blood pooling beneath him. All this because the idiot had the nerve to laugh when Sukuna missed a three-pointer. Now, the bald bastard had paid the price for his arrogance, and Sukuna breathed in the aftermath—his own dark victory painted in blood and broken bones.

Officer Gojo Satoru strode into the circle, handcuffs gleaming in his hand.

Sukuna's eyes narrowed at the sight of the blue-eyed bastard, a wave of hatred surging through him so fierce he could almost feel his fingers tightening around Satoru's throat. The very thought of choking the life out of him fueled his dark desires.

Satoru’s father—the man responsible for dragging Sukuna down, catching him red-handed with crates of cocaine at the border, and sealing his fate with a fifty-year sentence. If Sukuna had known the old man’s spawn would end up as a deputy officer here, watching his every move with those piercing eyes, he would have never shown up to that cursed delivery. But no—he had wanted to play the good boss, personally seeing his precious cargo off. Now, every day behind bars was a constant reminder of that one fatal mistake, and Sukuna’s rage festered as he thought of the traitor, Yuji. The little fuck who sold him out would pay dearly, and Sukuna was already plotting the perfect revenge.

His own fucking nephew sold him off. Motherfucker wanted the throne for himself—an empire Sukuna built with his bare hands.

“Throw him in the ice box,” Satoru commanded, his voice dripping with that infuriating smugness. The officer roughly cuffed Sukuna’s wrists, shoving him forward. “Cool down, Big Guy. You’re not going any—”

Before he could finish, Sukuna rammed his forehead into Gojo’s nose, relishing the satisfying crunch as the lanky bastard staggered back. The inmates roared with approval from where they were restrained by the other officers.

Gojo chuckled, dabbing at his bleeding nose with a pristine handkerchief, the kind only a spoiled little bitch like him would carry. “You think that’s funny?” he asked, his tone laced with condescension.

“Hilarious,” Sukuna whispered, a dark grin curling at his lips.

“Okay,” Gojo replied with a casual shrug. Without warning, his fist slammed into Sukuna’s jaw.

Once.

Twice.

Three fucking times.

The officers stood by, indifferent, as their captain unleashed his fury. For them, it was just another case of self-defence.

Sukuna finally collapsed to the ground, his vision swimming. Gojo leaned over him, his voice a venomous hiss. “Who’s laughing now?” A final, vicious kick to Sukuna’s chest left him gasping for breath. “Keep him in that freezer until he’s begging to be let out. No meals for a week.”

Sukuna’s vision blurred as he glared at Satoru’s retreating figure, the ringing in his ears barely drowning out the disappointed murmurs of his fellow inmates. His body, battered and beaten, finally surrendered to the encroaching darkness.

When he came to, he found himself in the prison’s infirmary, cocooned in three heated blankets. Yet the warmth did little to pierce the deep, bone-chilling cold that gripped him. The need to piss gnawed at him, but even that seemed distant compared to the icy numbness that had taken hold.

“Welcome back to hell.”

Sukuna raised his head from the pillows to find Uraume, the prison’s doctor. They were also the only person he tolerated, and somewhat close to since he ended up in the infirmary more than once. He hoped they considered him a ‘something’ after he killed a two-hundred pound guy for groping their ass in the cafeteria. How did he do it? He knew Uraume kept a pocket knife in their doctor’s coat and quickly swept it out and stuck it in the dick’s jugular.

“How long have I been out for?” he asked, squirming his arm out of the blanket to rub his eyes.

“A day.”

“What?” Sukuna pulled himself out of the blanket by wiggling around like the fucking worms his cell mate Toji liked to collect every time they went in the courtyard to play. They’re better company than your grouchy ass, he said once. “How long was I in the ice box?”

“Barely an hour.” Well, that’s just pussy behaviour from him. “They pulled you out before hypothermia killed you. What a way to die, am I right?” They chuckled, preparing some pills in a small disposable cup. “Here, take these. They’re nutrients.”

“I could use actual food.” Sukuna downed them like a shot. God, he missed alcohol. “That blue-eyed bitch restricted my meals for a week.”

“Fuck him.” Uraume took out a sandwich from their bag and threw it in Sukuna’s direction. “Just fake illness when you’re hungry. I’m always here to feed my favourite dog.”

Sukuna snorted. “Go to hell.”

“Already here.” Uraume clipped back their white hair with the back dyed red. Like someone smashed their head into the wall and the colour just bled to the sides. “Oh, this came for you.”

Sukuna shoved the sandwich in his mouth and stretched his muscles before walking over, snatching the letter. It was already opened, a flimsy teddy-bear sticker hanging from the paper. “What the fuck is this?”

“A letter.”

“A letter? For me?”

Uraume broke their attention from the computer to look at him. “Remember when you had me register you on that prison pen-pal bullshit after Toji received a pile of fan letters?”

Sukuna blinked.

He definitely remembered being jealous when Toji got a letter from an artist who drew herself naked on paper for him, and a shit ton more asking for his dick size or when he’ll be out. Of course, Sukuna was envious of the attention. Plus, no one in prison made good company. He just wanted the taste of the outside world again after being locked in for five years now. Even if it was through ink on paper.

But then Sukuna looked down at his first ever letter torn open. “Why is this open? Who read it?” If it was Satoru, he was going to rip his eyeballs from his sockets and feed it to Toji’s pet worm.

“Relax. They’ve got to identify if there’s any substances attached to the paper, or any other shady shit. Whoever wrote to you is just a harmless nobody.”

Sukuna frowned, bringing the letter up to his nose. It smelled like a plain envelope. No drugs, nothing.

He found purchase on the bed again, pulling out the folded paper and ironing the creases out on his leg. Here we go.

He began reading each word carefully.

A week went by since you’d mailed your letter to Sukuna Ryomen. A week of pure torture to hear something back from the criminal. You’d relaxed on Sunday because the post offices are closed, but on Monday, you were at your mailbox, watching the mailman sort out letters and slip them through the boxes.

Once he left, you dashed to your box and flipped through the coupons, flyers, newsletters—

Your breath hitched.

Everything dropped from your hand except the cream envelope with an address from the prison. You didn’t care about reading it upstairs and quickly, yet carefully, tore it open from the side, reading the writing.

Trying to read it.

Sukuna had terrible handwriting. It made you giggle.

You leaned against the mailboxes and murmured the words written under your breath.

Hey, Y/N

I don’t know how to start a letter since I’ve never written one so don’t mind if I hurt your little feelings. Don’t know if you’re aiming to entertain me or bore me to death with this “dear diary” bullshit. I thought I’d get a nude, at the very least. Hell, Toji over here—yeah, the bastard who was on the news last year with a thing for setting houses on fire—gets way better fan mail every week. Pictures, drawings, mostly nudes. And I get your whining about rent and cockroaches?

Look, I may be locked up, but I’m giving you some advice here. Don’t fuck your landlord. You’ve got one eye? Good—use it. Hell, that’s already intimidating enough. Threaten the prick to call pest control, or better yet, trap those damn cockroaches and give him a taste. Stuff a few down his throat if he still doesn’t take you seriously. People respect action, not whining.

Speaking of. One eye? Really? Now, how’d it happen? Was it torn out? Still got some sight in it, or is it just gone? That’s gangster. Hot, even. I’d fuck a one-eyed chick. Maybe when I’m out we can cross that off my bucket list. Nah, I’m just playing with you.

Or maybe I’m not.

Think on it.

Hate (in a friendly way),

Sukuna.

P.S. Yeah, I took out some satanist scum who tried kidnapping one of my people’s kids. But don’t go thinking I’m in with those freaks. I’m just the Devil they wish they could be.

“Woah,” you breathed out, hugging the letter to your chest. This was it. This was what you were waiting for. A pull towards something real, something thrilling. It’s all you’ve been craving for eons now.

“Whatcha got there, sweetie?” The voice snapped you back, harsh as nails against glass. Your landlord had wandered out of his door on the first floor, wrapped in a faded bathrobe and gripping his mug like some king holding court. “Made a mess on my floor with your papers.”

“Sorry,” you muttered, quickly tucking Sukuna’s letter back into its envelope and reaching down to gather the stray papers scattered on the floor. When you straightened, he was already in your space, close enough that the coffee on his breath made you flinch.

“Excuse me—”

“You’re excused.” His smirk widened as he leaned in, his nose grazing your neck. The greasy warmth of his breath made bile rise to the back of your throat. “Just wanna take a little bite out of you.”

Sukuna’s advice echoed in your mind. You’d never—never—think of following through with his revolting insinuation. But letting this sleaze get away with treating you like this? No. Not anymore.

“Step away,” you commanded. “Now.”

He blinked, then chuckled, dismissive. “Feisty today, huh? Got a letter from your boyfriend in prison, sweetie?” How did he know that? Fuck. Did he go through your mail before it was deposited? “Let me guess—you think he’s got your back now?” He leaned even closer, the stench of his laugh wafting in the air. “Come on, where's that one eye of yours aiming, sweetheart?”

“Next person who mentions my eye eats the dirt,” you snapped, every ounce of your resolve boiling up. “And as for what I’ve got—it’s something way out of your league, old geezer. So get the hell back to your apartment, and call pest control now.”

For a second, he was stunned, face going pale as your words sank in. But you could feel Sukuna’s thrill, his twisted approval in the back of your mind. You’d tapped into something that wouldn’t settle. But then, “Well, I’ll be damned. Someone put on their big girl panties.”

Your jaw tightened as you held your ground, taking small breaths. You’d rehearsed this moment in your head, picturing a confrontation that ended with him backing down. But things never went as planned with him.

“I’m not here to beg,” you said evenly. “But I’m not gonna let you walk all over me, either. I pay rent. It’s your responsibility to keep this place livable.”

He snorted, raising his coffee mug and giving you a once-over that made your skin crawl.

“Not for free, sweetheart. You’ve gotta give me something worth my time.” His eyes travelled down your body.

Your pulse throbbed in your ears, but you squared your shoulders. “I’m already paying rent. It’s your right to ensure your tenant's safety.”

His face darkened, lips curling into a bitter smile. “Not when that tenant’s acting like a spoiled little bitch.” And then, with a flick of his wrist, he launched the mug’s contents right at you.

You dodged, but a few hot droplets scorched your arm, leaving a raw sting that only fueled your anger. He laughed, shaking his head with a mocking scowl. “Get the fuck out of my sight before I kick you out on the streets.”

You didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry. You turned on your heel, heading back upstairs with quick steps, forcing the tears back until you could lock the door behind you. Once inside, you slumped to the floor, breathing hard. The letter from Sukuna crackled beneath your hands, and you clutched it close to your chest, feeling the heat of humiliation turn into something fiercer, darker.

“Damn it,” you whispered to yourself, pushing back to your feet with renewed energy. You marched to your desk, grabbed your notebook and pen, and let the words pour out, hurried and jagged. If anyone would understand this kind of anger, it was him—the one man whose entire life was carved from rage.

And this time, you wouldn’t hold anything back.

“Letter for you, Ryomen.”

Sukuna dropped down from his top bunk, snatching the letter right out of the guard’s hand.

“From your girl?” Toji asked from across the table, flipping a card, halfway to beating Sukuna in Blackjack.

“Not my girl,” Sukuna grunted, tearing into the envelope. But still, he smirked as he unfolded your letter.

Hey, Sukuna.

Fuck my landlord to hell and back. I need you to know I’d kill him if I could get away with it. I’m trying to keep this “ethical” so they don’t cut off my letters, but let’s just, I hate the elderly. They should be rotting in retirement houses instead of owning properties and doing a shit job running them. That senile asshole threw hot coffee at me this morning. Burning. I nearly shattered the damn mug over his skull.

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, his fingers squeezing the letter hard enough to crumple the edges.

And now he’s saying he’ll kick me out, as if I have anything to pay him with. This place is a dump, anyway. I might hit up one of those shelters for women, maybe hop from couch to couch for a bit. My job at corner store’s giving me scraps; it’s not nearly enough to get by. So yeah, you could say I’m screwed.

And to answer your question about my eye—yeah, I’m blind in it. Got it from a real piece of work I used to call a boyfriend. He decided my face was fair game, and thought I could just live with it. But he's dead now. Overdosed last I heard from his brother. Good riddance, am I right?

Oh, and for that kink of yours you mentioned—sending my picture along with a little extra treat.

Hate (because I’m about to go crazy here), Y/N

P.S. For all the things you’ve done, I can’t lie—the world you talk about sounds safer than this one. Well, except for you committing the most heinous crimes.

Toji clicked his tongue. “Look at that dumbass grin on your face.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sukuna muttered, flipping the letter over—and there it was: a stick drawing of a woman lying on a bed, two messy circles for her chest, legs spread wide, and what looked like . . . well, he didn’t need to guess. Sukuna went from grinning to outright laughing. “She’s hilarious.”

“Not just that. She’s sexy as fuck,” Toji said, holding up a photo, ripped clean in half.

Sukuna’s eyes flashed. He swiped the photo and pieced it back together, cursing himself for tearing through the envelope like a brute. But as the two halves reconnected, he felt his pulse kick up, hard.

“Well, shit.” You were more than just beautiful. The way your hair fell, the curves of your body wrapped in that short black dress, standing under a streetlamp with the city lights glinting around you . . . But it was the smile—the easy, teasing grin—that really did it for him. “I’m definitely jerking off tonight.” Respectfully, of course.

“Can we get back to the game now, or—”

“Fuck the game. I’ve got a letter to write.” And a plan brewing to get you out of that dump and right where he wanted you.

Your landlord was pronounced dead.

An ambulance had arrived early in the morning, around nine, waking up every tenant. You were one of them, groggy from your sleep, and all the crying you’d done from realising how high rent was these days.

Apparently, he had a heart-attack, said one of the residents.

He was eighty, said another.

You stuck to the back of the crowd as his body was wheeled out on the stretcher. How could he have died just five days after you sent your last letter to Sukuna? It couldn’t have been him, could it? Maybe one of his associates? Given the man’s extensive criminal history, you suspected he had some serious connections.

As the crowd began to disperse a few minutes later, you joined them but didn’t head upstairs. Instead, you made your way to the mailroom.

And luckily, Sukuna’s letter was present.

All he wrote was:

You’re welcome.

Neutral,

Sukuna.

You broke out laughing, or crying. Whatever it was, it felt good. So good.

Hey, Sukuna!

These days, I’m feeling calm. Really calm. I’m sleeping well, eating better, even starting to enjoy work. Sometimes, I’m scared it’ll all get snatched away. By who? I don’t know. Life’s been that way, though. I’ve lost so much—my parents, my friends, even my left eyesight. At one point, I lost my will to keep going. But I guess some part of me held on, believing a better day would come.

Turns out, those days are here. Who would’ve thought a felon could make me feel less alone? I know it sounds crazy, but my life’s been full of surprises lately.

If you think you can’t bring happiness to someone, I’m here to tell you you’re wrong. I’m genuinely happy, and it’s thanks to you. I already think of you as a friend—and I hope you think of me the same way. You don’t get a choice in that, by the way.

Love (genuinely), Y/N

P.S. I’d like to come visit you sometime soon.

Sukuna lowered the letter, his eyes settling on the wall where he’d pinned up your picture. “Toji?” he called out, still staring at the photo.

Toji paused mid-pushup, raising an eyebrow. “What, bitch?”

Sukuna let out a low laugh, barely shaking his head as he spoke. “I think I’m in love.”

Hello, Y/N.

When I’m out in fifty years, I’ll give you a real surprise. And don’t write me any more of that sentimental crap, alright? Save it for when you visit. I’d rather hear it in person.

Hate (but maybe not so much), Sukuna

P.S. You’re beautiful.

You pressed the letter to your chest, biting your lip as warmth spread across your cheeks, your face aching from how much you were smiling. It was official—you were falling for Sukuna Ryomen. You’d have to look your absolute best for your visit. Just the thought of seeing him, hearing his voice, maybe even feeling his hand brush yours, made your heart race. You’d kiss him if they’d let you. And if they didn’t? What could the guards do? Throw you in jail? Now that would be ironic.

But fifty years . . . Would you really wait fifty years for Sukuna to be released? How high was his bail, anyway, that even his hidden cash stash wasn’t enough to cover it? He had to have some kind of pull with the right people, didn’t he?

With a sigh, you grabbed a piece of paper and began to write your reply.

Sukuna,

Fifty years is a lifetime, don’t you think?

Love, Y/N

Sukuna read the short note you’d sent, surprised by how much you’d poured into just a few lines. He noticed small, faded dots on the paper—tears, unmistakably yours. You’d been crying, and it didn’t sit right with him. His stomach tightened, but thankfully, he’d already secured your visit through Uraume, who handled it while Gojo was away.

Now, all that was left was seeing you.

He wondered how he’d keep his hands to himself after all the nights he’d spent memorising your picture, losing himself in thoughts of you. Every night before sleep, every morning when he woke, every time Toji was out cold and couldn’t hear Sukuna’s barely-stifled groans as he imagined you were there. God, he wanted to steal you away.

The day of your visit finally came. Sukuna was led to the visitor room, wrists cuffed, flanked by two guards. He hadn’t set foot in this room since a couple of his associates had visited months back with updates on the family business and Yuji’s latest fiascos. They’d kept everything running despite his brother’s mess-ups, and Sukuna owed them.

He glanced down at his hands. Fifty years. He’d been scheming for a way out since he first set foot in here, but now, with you in the picture, the urge to escape was relentless. Bail was twenty million. Even if he could scrounge it up, he doubted he could get it done without tipping off the wrong people. No, his only real option was breaking out.

“Sukuna.”

A soft voice pulled his head up slowly. He couldn’t remember the last time his name was spoken with such warmth.

“Y/N.”

He shot up from his seat, his eyes flicking to the guards stationed in the corner before letting himself drink you in. You looked stunning—a soft sundress, hair delicately curled, makeup enhancing every curve and angle of your face. His gaze lingered on your eyes, marvelling at the contrast: one foggy, hazy, while the other was bright and striking. A smirk pulled at his mouth, but he softened it for you.

“Hey,” he whispered, the one word holding more emotion than he’d ever admit, especially with witnesses around.

“Hi,” you whispered back, eyes lowering down his muscled body, the pattern tattoos like rings around his wrist and with the first three buttons of his jumpsuit unbuttoned, you found the top of the rings on his pecs as well. His light-pink hair was brushed down, the tendrils poking his reddish-brown eyes. A peculiar colour. “Hi.”

He smiled. “You already said that, baby.”

Baby. Gosh, you were even more nervous now.

“They said I can’t shake your hand.” You looked at the cuffs on his wrists and tossed a glare at the guards. “Or hands.”

“Fuck them.” Sukuna sat down and you followed. “You’re stunning.”

You blushed. “Thank you.”

“Not gonna compliment me back?” His deep voice was cocky, smug. You loved it.

“You’re handsome and you know it.”

“I sure do.”

You chuckled and Sukuna watched you with a soft expression. “Thanks for . . . you know.”

He understood the words you mouthed and smiled. “A little Ricin never hurt anyone.”

“How did you pull it off?”

His eyebrow arched in surprise. “Just because I’m stuck in this hellhole doesn’t mean I’ve lost everyone’s respect out there. Blood is thicker than water in my clan—except when it comes to my nephew. I just want to drain it out of him.”

Your own smile faltered. “Well . . . I’d like to have coffee with you. But fifty years, Sukuna, is too long.”

He sighed. “I know.”

“Isn’t there any way to get you out?”

Sukuna saw the longing on your face and wanted nothing more than to hold it in his hands and stare at you for hours. He just couldn’t believe you were real. He would’ve killed you if you were cat-fishing him. “I really want to touch you,” he whispered instead. He did. He really fucking did.

You pinched your lips in a smile. “Me, too.”

Sukuna placed his hands on the table and grabbed both of yours. They were so soft and small. He wanted to kiss each finger. Knuckle. Vein.

“Hands off, Ryomen,” the guard warned. He didn’t relent, and simply winked at you. “I said hands off.”

“Fuck you,” Sukuna spat back.

“Visit’s over.” The pair of guards pried Sukuna away, making you reach out for him with a protest.

“I’ll see you this weekend.” Sukuna winked and let the guards drag him away.

You sat stunned before the officers escorted you out of the visiting room and apologised on his behalf.

When the weekend finally rolled around, you found yourself standing at the prison gates once more, entering alongside a pair of guards.

Waiting by the visitor room was a towering figure with straight silver hair and striking blue-eyes. You got a closer look at the badge—Satoru Gojo. You’ve read the name in one of Sukuna’s letters complaining about him.

“Y/N. What a pleasant surprise,” he greeted, waving away the guards and pressing a hand on your back, leading you down the opposite direction.

“We can chat another time, officer. I’ve got to meet Suku—”

“He can wait. Prison teaches a man patience. He’s got fifty more years left. Plenty to visit then.” Gojo opened the door and guided you inside. The shutting made your shoulders flinch. The lock clicking had dread pooling in your stomach. “Sit. Would you like anything to drink?”

You eyed the dark setting bathed in a golden light from a corner lamp. There was a cart with a decanter set and a mini-fridge to the right. A bookshelf and a wardrobe on the left. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Gojo shrugged and poured himself whiskey before taking his seat behind his table. You sat opposite him. “So, what’s your relationship with my favourite prisoner?”

You blinked. “Uh, we’re just pen-pals.”

“Lying to a police officer is a serious offence.”

“I’m telling the truth,” you said. “We’re strictly pen-pals.”

“I’ve read your letters to know that isn’t true, Princess. So unless you want to sit there and lie to my fucking face, I suggest you start using that mouth for good and tell me the goddamn truth.” He slammed his glass down, but his face remained smiling with false politeness.

You felt suffocated in the office, eyes darting left and right for anything sharp in case he tried some other method to get you to talk.

“I’ve been in this field for a decade now to know when someone is hiding something from me,” Gojo continued, taking a leisure sip from his drink. “I have a file on you, Y/N. You’re an only child, with no proper education or a stable job. You’re one bad decision away from being trafficked. You’re submissive, a follower, who if went missing, no one would look for.” Tears welled your eyes at his words. “And I know that bastard’s the reason you’re still living in that dump you call home.”

That was the last nail in the coffin.

“I’ve been following you since your first letter,” he said quietly. “You think I don’t know what you’re up to? Oh, Princess, you couldn’t be any more wrong.” He stood up and rounded his way to you.

You quickly scrambled out of your seat. “Please. I don’t know anything. I—I don’t—Sukuna’s a friend, yes, but I’m not involved in any of his criminal activities.”

“Friend?” Gojo spat out. “That man is the last person you’d ever want as your friend.” He stalked forward and you retracted. “He’s committed more crimes in his lifetime than any other man. He’s killed half the people in this country, extorted money from politicians, burned down houses for fun, and killed my father!” He grabbed the collars of your dress and slammed you back into his wardrobe door. A cry ripped from your throat. “And you, a nobody, has the audacity to call that fucker a friend? Sweetheart, you’re just a ploy, a pawn, a time-pass for him. A hole to warm his cock in.” A sardonic chuckle. “That’ll never happen since he isn’t getting out anytime soon. But, hey, maybe I can prepare you for him.”

Your breath quickened, a whimper slipping past your lips. “How does that make you any better than him?”

Gojo smiled and brushed his lips over your ears. “Because I have the power to get away with it.”

Your eyes, frightened and flickering, dragged up to his blue-ones.

In the blink of an eye, you slapped him across the face, taking him by complete surprise and broke free from his hands. He leaped towards you as you unlocked the door and ran out and down the hall, shouting for help.

A pair of officers turned the corner.

“Help, please!” You fell into the arms of one of them. “Please, he’s going to hurt me!”

“Who?” one asked with concern.

“Satoru Gojo!”

They exchanged a look and briskly turned away, leaving you standing. Their spines straightened as Gojo walked down the hallway, flattening a hand down his chest. The duo saluted him and walked away with their heads down.

Your heart sank.

You had no power here.

“I told you, Princess,” Gojo purred, prowling towards you, “this is my domain.”

You cried out and ran towards the visitor’s room. The door knob was locked and could only be opened with a keycard. “Help!” You slammed your palms on the surface. “Please, someone! Help—ah!”

Gojo gripped the back of your hair and pulled you from the door. “Perfect timing, actually. I’d like to see the look on Ryomen’s face before I split his woman on my cock.” He swiped the card and opened the door, pushing you inside but controlling you with the grip he had on your head.

Sukuna was already standing and enraged, held back by two guards who struggled. He must’ve heard your helpless cries. You wish he didn’t have to. “Let her go, Gojo!”

“Oh, I will,” said Gojo, “as soon as I’m done with her.”

Sukuna growled, thrashing against his restraints. “You fucking prick, I’m gonna tear you in half if you touch her!”

“Like this?” Gojo squeezed your left breast and laughed.

Sukuna elbowed one of the guards in his nose, momentarily seeking freedom to hit the other. Hope blossomed in your chest as he fought them off and made his way towards you.

Gojo chuckled and pulled out his gun, shooting Sukuna in the leg. You jumped with a scream as he fell to the floor, clutching his thigh. “All this chaos for a common whore,” he muttered. “Come on, Princess. Let’s put you to good use.”

“No, please!” You shouted as he dragged you away. “Sukuna, no! Sukuna!”

“Y/N.” Sukuna reached his arm out, his hand curling into a fist and falling defeatedly onto the floor. “Don’t hurt her, please.” His face was squeezed in pain, as the guards kept him pinned to the floor. “Please! Don’t fucking hurt her—”

The door closed shut, and the last sight before your eyes was Sukuna crying.

Sukuna hadn’t heard from you in over a month.

He’d also spend the month in the infirmary after Uraume did an extensive surgery on his leg. It hadn’t hit a vital artery. He believed Satoru’s aim was calculated to keep him alive. To continue letting him suffer.

Sukuna also went quiet. He hadn’t spoken a single word to anyone except murmuring to himself. He read back on your letters, slept with the papers under his pillow, if he slept at all.

Every morning, afternoon, night, in and out of his dry sleep, he was plotting a way to get out of this hell and find you. Would you even want to see him? Would you even care? Were you even alive? He’d dragged you into his mess, put you in danger, and fell into Satoru’s disgusting trap.

“You need to eat something, Sukuna,” Uraume advised as they have been since his injury. They placed the tray in front of him. “At least eat the yogurt.”

Were you eating? Were you still living in his house? Were you alive? That question rang in his head again.

“For fucks sake.” Uraume brought forth a stool and sat next to his bed, staring at the side of his face. “What the hell do you want to do?”

He wanted to kill Satoru first. Then escape with Toji since he was the only bastard he trusted in this place. Then find you and run away from the law as far as possible. It was a simple plan that required efficiency.

“Are you gonna talk—”

Sukuna shoved the tray aside, the food falling onto the floor. He was irritated by the questions outside and inside of his head. “I need to find her,” he mumbled to himself. “I need to know if she’s alive.” Please, baby, please be alive.

“Everything all right in here, doc?” One of the guards stationed outside the door asked with his head peering through the door.

Sukuna stared at him, then went back to Uraume. They met his eyes with their blank stare. They scanned down his body, to his injured leg, then back to his head.

A sigh left them. “No,” they replied. “Do you mind helping me clean up the mess?”

Sukuna gritted his jaw as the guard walked in, closing the door and crouching down, grumbling curses at Sukuna. Uraume stood from their stool and made their way to the cabinet, pulling out a syringe and a small vial.

Sukuna's eyes lightened, spine straightening. A smile curved at his lip as they flicked the droplets from the tip of the injection and walked over, making small-talk about the weather.

Suddenly, Uraume jabbed the needle into the officer’s neck and pushed down the plunger. He fell to his side, clutching his neck and staring up at them as they shrugged. Sukuna watched with pure delight as his body began to convulse, foam gathering at this mouth and dripping from the side.

Then he stopped.

“He’s dead,” Uraume said before Sukuna could ask. “Works the night shift so you won’t have a problem running into anyone else. Change into his clothes. I’ll drive.” They walked away to grab a face mask.

“Why?” asked Sukuna.

Uraume sighed, head dropping. “Because I fucking hate it here.”

Sukuna was definitely going to hire them once he killed his Gojo, and his nephew.

He quickly changed into the officer’s clothes, giving him a hard kick in the stomach that had Uraume rolling their eyes.

Sukuna followed behind as they led the way. “Let’s take Toji.”

“Why?” they asked. “That’s a hassle.”

“Just feel bad.”

“And when did you start feeling guilt?” Uraume easily slipped past the security gate, waving to the officer who was busy on his phone.

“I don’t know,” he said, smiling because he knew. Sure, you’d only touched him once, but your letters were what truly began to change him. Just the other day, he’d lost a round of blackjack, stacking his debt to Toji by a million, and instead of knocking the guy out cold, Sukuna shook hands and called it a ‘good game.’ “On second thought, let’s leave him here for the time being.” Until he got his money in check.

Once they settled into Uraume’s car, Sukuna quickly discarded the officer's cap, tie, and badges. Uraume entered your address from the letters, and they drove in silence for the next thirty minutes.

When they arrived, the building matched your description: shitty.

Uraume stopped Sukuna before he could leap out of the car. They scanned the street for any signs of police presence. “Go. I’ll wait here.”

Sukuna nodded and dashed out of the car, walking inside the apartment. There was no buzzer system, which meant anyone could stroll in, armed and dangerous. This was a problem. He needed to get you out of here and into one of his safe houses—a hidden place even his bastard nephew didn’t know about.

He hurried up the emergency stairwell to the tenth floor, slightly winded by the time he reached door 1090.

This was it.

With his hands gripping the edges of the door, he hunched forward, heart racing. Please, be alive.

Finally, he knocked.

He chewed the shit out of his bottom lip, hissing impatiently through his teeth. “Come on, Y/N.” He knocked again, his impatience boiling over. “It’s me, Sukuna! Please, open the door.” He pounded harder, fear creeping in with each passing second. The Sukuna Ryomen was . . . scared. “Goddammit!”

“Sukuna . . .?”

He halted mid-breakdown and turned slowly, his heart dropping at the sight of you standing there with two bags of groceries. You looked so fragile, your complexion pale, and the radiance he remembered from your visit had completely vanished.

The grocery bags slipped from your hands and fell to the ground.

In an instant, you both rushed toward each other, and he lifted you off the ground effortlessly. You wrapped your arms around him, sobbing uncontrollably as he buried his hand in the back of your hair, inhaling the comforting scent of your body wash.

“It’s okay, baby,” he whispered. “It’s okay, I’m here.” His eyes were directed straight ahead, and he was shaking. Terribly. “I’m here, sweetheart.”

You pulled back, cradling his face in your small hands. Gently, you brushed aside his dark, mink-like hair, tracing the tattoos on his skin with your fingertips. “You’re alive,” you whispered, overwhelmed by relief. You couldn’t help but touch him, and he simply smiled, allowing you the closeness. “God, you’re alive. Sukuna—you’re really alive. How?”

“Of course, I am. I just needed to know you were alive,” he replied, his hands enveloping your cheeks. “Where did you go? Why did you stop writing to me?”

Your face went blank. “What do you mean?”

“Your letters. You stopped writing to me.”

“They . . .” Your voice cracked. “They told me you were sentenced to death.”

He was taken back. “What the fuck?”

Realisation dawned upon you. The second time you visited Sukuna, Satoru had literally dragged you out of the station, kicking you out the doors. He’d threatened to take you to his office next time, but since he had a meeting with officials that day, he’d reluctantly let you go. That didn’t stop you from sending countless letters, pouring your heart out until, two weeks later, you finally received a notification from the police station. Sukuna had been sentenced to death by lethal injection and was no longer alive. You’d cried for days on end. You imagined he had been cremated and reduced to ashes, stored away somewhere. The thought shattered you. For an entire month, you couldn’t bring yourself to leave your house.

Until tonight.

And he was here. Sukuna was here. He was alive.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his thumb gently brushing the area below your sightless eye. “Let’s head inside, alright?”

You nodded, pressing a soft kiss to the underside of his wrist. He held your hand tightly while using his other arm to carry your grocery bags. Once you reached your apartment, you opened the door and locked it securely. The deadbolt you had installed was a precaution against Satoru, just in case he showed up.

“I’m so happy you’re al—”

Sukuna kissed you before the words could leave your mouth. You wrapped your arms around his neck, moaning from the taste of his lips, the taste you’d been craving for months now. He didn’t allow you to breathe, didn’t pull away. You both stood there in the alcove, kissing for minutes, clinging to each other. He cupped the back of your head and drew apart from your lips, peppering kisses over your face, especially your foggy eye.

“I don’t want to fuck you, baby,” he whispered in your ear. “I want to make love to you. For hours.” Your grip tightened in his shirt. “Then I need you to pack everything in a bag and run away with me.”

“Run away?” You searched his dark-reddish eyes. “Run away where?”

His knuckles grazed your wet cheek. “Somewhere not even God can find us.”

You swallowed hard. “They’ll send out a manhunt, Sukuna. What if we get caught? What if they take you—”

He cut you off with a kiss. “No one is going to take me away from you. Do you get that?” His strong fingers moved through your hair. “I’d turn this world to dust before that happens.”

Your insides melted from the threat. “Take me,” you murmured over his lips. He kissed you. “Take me everywhere, anywhere, wherever, as long as it’s with you.”

Sukuna lifted you effortlessly, carrying you like a bride as he kicked open your bedroom door. He set you down on the bed, then began stripping off his clothes, revealing the geometric tattoos that marked his thighs and torso. You were caught off guard by how quickly he moved, fumbling to take off your sweater and jeans. By the time you looked back at him, he was already naked, and your gaze dropped to what you could only describe as a gloriously, long erection.

“Woah,” you whispered, feeling your mouth go dry. “You’re abnormally big.”

“You can take it.” He leaned over you, tearing your panties without a second thought. Before you could protest about them being your favorite pair, he spread your legs and went down on you. “Oh, my god—Sukuna—wait—”

“Waited too long,” he growled, his mouth finding your clit as he buried his nose between your wet folds. He nipped, licked, and bit, his tongue plunging deep into you, creating messy sounds that filled the air. You couldn't form words or catch your breath, gripping the roots of his hair tightly.

When you came like a flood, Sukuna lifted your hips, making sure not a single drop of you was lost to the sheets. He let out loud, deep moans as he sloppily lapped at your sensitive cunt.

He wiped his glistening mouth with his fingers and then pressed them against your lips. You eagerly sucked on his warm, thick digits, noting the lustrous glint in his eyes. He pulled his fingers out abruptly. “Suck my cock.”

Suck his what?

You looked down and saw him leaking at the tip. You clenched your legs, unsure. He wanted you to take that into your mouth?

You licked your lips, managing to kneel while he stood before you. He took hold of himself, rubbing the tip against your lips. You instinctively flicked your tongue out to taste him, causing him to flinch. “Sorry—”

“Don’t apologize.” He seemed to enjoy it. “Just take it in your mouth.”

You nodded, wrapping your fingers around his hot, veiny length. You opened your jaw as wide as you could and slowly took him in. His head fell back, and he engulfed your face with his palms. Your performance was mediocre, and yet he was entertained.

His tip pressed against the back of your throat, making you pull back to cough. He laughed softly, brushing your cheek with his hand.

“Come on, baby. You need to get used to it.”

“I’ve never done this before,” you replied, your voice shaky as you reached for him again.

“Stick your tongue out.”

You took a deep breath and extended your tongue. He rested the head of his cock on it and started to move his hips slowly.

Slowly, you took him in, feeling his satisfaction as he gently rocked his hips back and forth. He tasted warm and a little salty, and you found your hand wandering between your legs, seeking some relief.

“I’m going to pick up the pace, alright, baby?”

You nodded in response.

“Don’t be embarrassed if you choke,” he said, hooking a stray lock behind your ear. “It’ll just make me come faster.”

With that, he thrust deeper, and you gripped his hips tightly, struggling to catch your breath. He noticed and pulled back slightly to give you a moment, but it was brief before he pushed back in again. “You’re taking me so well, baby. Fuck.” His movements became more feverish, and you felt the pressure building as you choked and gagged, saliva escaping at the corners of your mouth. “Fuck, I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come down your throat.”

You tapped his leg, shaking your head.

“No?” He smirked. “You don’t want me to come down your throat?”

You shook your head again and pointed between your legs.

In an instant, Sukuna pulled out. He flipped you onto your chest, lifting your ass up in the air. Without a second thought, he thrust himself deep inside you, and you cried out his name into the pillow.

He felt so full, so thick, pushing into you with a force that made your breath hitch. It was everything you needed—so good, so fucking good. “Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned. He filled you completely, driving into you with a fast rhythm that left you moaning, completely lost in the pleasure.

Your nails clawed at the sheets as his thick tip pressed against your womb, punctuated by the stinging slaps of his hands against your ass. He showered you with a blend of sweet and dirty words—“good fucking girl,” “cock slut,” “so perfect and tight,” “little whore”—and you pushed back, needing him deeper and deeper.

Sukuna released a torrent of warm cum inside you, still driving his hips against you, holding you securely by the waist. The sensation sent waves of pleasure through you, and he pulled out, flipping you onto your back. He bent your knees, driving himself back inside without hesitation. How was he still so hard?

Your hands cupped his flushed, beautiful face, a lazy smile stretching across both your lips. Sukuna leaned in, kissing you deeply before trailing his lips down to your neck while his hand found its way to your breast. “I’m not on birth control anymore, you know?”

“Good.” He pulled back to meet your gaze. “And don’t even think about getting back on it.”

“But we can’t afford the risk, Suku—”

“I love you,” he said, his grip firm on your jaw. Everything inside you exploded. “I love you, baby. I love you so fucking much that I’ll take every fucking risk.”

You moaned softly as he came again, your trembling fingers brushing against his lips. “I love you, too.” He kissed your fingertips, a promise in every touch. “I’ll take every risk with you.”

“Fuck yeah you will.” He didn’t pull out, his eyes locked on yours. “Starting with putting a baby in you.”

You happily accepted your fate.

Sukuna pulled the trigger, shooting another police officer in the back of his head. The sound of the gunfire mixed with the blaring sirens, echoing through the flickering lights of the corridors—a devious melody composed just for him. He chuckled low, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a grin as another officer lunged out, attempting to stop him—pathetic. A single shot rang out, and the man crumpled like paper.

The path to Satoru’s office was a long one, and the bodies he left sprawled out in his wake were only a brief distraction from the task at hand. He had things to do today, after all.

Another officer stumbled into view, eyes wide, panic evident. He didn’t stand a chance. Sukuna barely glanced at him as he fired, stepping over the man as he slumped against the wall. Blood splattered his shoes, but it was hardly the worst stain on his day.

You were going to be pissed. He could practically hear the biting tone, the disappointed scowl that’d meet him the moment he finally made it to Mai’s first birthday party. Sukuna scoffed as he shot a bullet straight through a door that dared open near him, knocking down yet another obstacle.

But this was necessary. He needed to do this.

Free Toji. Kill Gojo. And then, eventually, deal with his meddling nephew. Everything would finally align, and maybe—just maybe—he could stop all this. For you. For your daughter.

Satoru’s office was close now. He could smell the antiseptic scent of the door, the false air of authority that seemed to reek from it. He cocked his gun, steeling himself. Because when he was done here—when he’d finally finished what he’d started—he’d make it up to you.

Or so he told himself, as another officer charged and met the floor with a hole in his skull.

Sukuna didn’t bother with the doorknob. He slammed his boot into the door, sending it splintering inward with a loud crack. The office was stripped bare; Satoru’s usual pile of clutter, the irritating stench of his cologne—gone. Only the dust of where things once sat remained on the shelves and desk.

The bastard had fled.

Sukuna’s jaw clenched as he surveyed the room. Gojo knew he was coming and had bolted like a coward hours ago. He pulled his lighter from his pocket, flipping it open with a flick of his thumb, the small flame dancing aglow. Without a second thought, he stepped to the heavy, pretentious curtains Gojo insisted on, pressing the flame to the thick fabric. It caught quickly, embers licking up and curling black around the edges as the fire took hold, consuming Satoru’s last pathetic hold on this place.

He turned and walked out, ignoring the smoke that was already billowing into the hall. The prison alarm was still blaring, red lights flashing down the cold corridors as he made his way to the cells. Every so often, he’d pause, assessing the prisoner cowering behind bars. Rapists, pedophiles, molesters, abusers, killers of innocent lives—he moved on from them. But when he found those who didn’t quite repulse him, he took a single shot at their lock, releasing them in a stream of confused, wary freedom.

As he approached the far end of the corridor, a familiar sight greeted him—his old cell. And standing behind those hard, metal bars, arms crossed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, was Toji.

“Didn’t think you’d come back to this hellhole,” Toji remarked.

“Not for long,” Sukuna replied, levelling his gun at the lock. He fired once, the lock shattering as the cell door swung open.

Toji stepped out of his cell, took one look around, then paused. “Hold up.”

Sukuna raised an eyebrow, watching as the man crouched beside a loose brick in the wall. With a wry smile, he pulled out an old, scratched-up plastic bottle with a wriggling, sickly-looking worm inside. He tapped the side of the bottle, making the creature twist and writhe. “Almost forgot my little friend here.”

Sukuna barked a short laugh. “You’re out of your damn mind.”

Alarms blared louder as they navigated the winding corridors and ran past prisoners surging toward freedom. Some guards tried to block the path, but they were quickly swept aside by Sukuna’s bullets and Toji’s fists. By the time they hit the outer gates, the entire prison was pandemonium, prisoners scattering into the open like ants from a burning nest.

Outside, a sleek, black car idled just past the gate. Uraume sat coolly behind the wheel, watching the stampede of convicts with bored detachment. As they approached, Uraume rolled down the window, glancing at them with their nose slightly crinkled.

“I could smell you two from a mile away,” they said dryly, eyes flicking to the stains of blood on their clothes. “Maybe next time, schedule a prison massacre that doesn’t fall on your daughter’s birthday?”

“Just drive,” Sukuna replied, sliding into the backseat with Toji following. Toji glanced at Uraume with a quick nod, still keeping a light hold on his bottle, the worm twisting inside.

“Welcome back to the real world, Fushiguro,” they said, starting the car as they drove off into the night.

The road stretched long and dark, winding into the depths of a thick forest. The further they drove, the thicker the trees became, their branches curving overhead to cast everything in shadows. The road narrowed into a rugged trail, overgrown and wild. Uraume navigated it deftly, until at last, the forest opened up, and they could see the soft glimmer of moonlight on the water beyond.

Perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the ocean stood their safe house—a dark brick estate against the endless stretch of water. Waves crashed against the rocks far below, the scent of salt and sea heavy in the air.

Sukuna looked at the house, then at Toji’s surprised face.

“This is where you’ve been hiding for the two years?” he asked as soon as they were out of the car.

“Not for long if I fuck this up.” Sukuna slipped in through the garage, keeping his steps light. He had just one goal at this moment: reach the shower before you spotted the blood streaked on his clothes and the smell of gunpowder clinging to him.

But as he shut the door, there you were, arms crossed, eyes sharp as they landed on him.

“Sukuna,” you started, an edge in your tone that he recognized all too well. “Do you have any idea what day it is? Look at you; you're a mess!” You gestured at the dark stains on his shirt and his unmistakable smirk.

Instead of trying to dodge the lecture, he listened, that faint smile tugging at his lips as he watched you, soaking in each scolding word. You were the one person who never held back with him, and it made something dangerous in him soften, something in him settle. “I know, baby,” he replied, pecking your cheek. “But I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Barely,” you replied, sighing, though you couldn’t quite hide the relief in your voice. You glanced over his shoulder. “Toji, Uraume—it’s good to see you both.”

Uraume gave a slight bow, a wry smile still tugging at their lips, while Toji just gave you a quick nod.

You waved a hand, turning back to the kitchen. “Both of you boys—shower, now. I won’t have the two of you smelling like a prison while I’m trying to decorate my daughter’s cake. Go on!”

Toji gave Sukuna a knowing look and shrugged, as if to say, She’s right. Sukuna shot him a warning look, then followed up the stairs, chuckling under his breath as he imagined how you’d cornered him like this.

Fifteen minutes later, he stepped out of the shower, cleaned up, feeling far lighter as he tugged on a fresh shirt and came downstairs, catching the scent of the dinner you’d prepared.

He walked over to you, wrapping his arms around you and pressing a kiss to your temple. You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile that melted your anger as he pulled you close.

“Gojo got away,” he murmured. “He knew I was coming, and he ran like the coward he is. But I’ll find him. And I’ll make him pay for what he did to you. I swear it.”

You paused, looking up into his eyes, your hand settling on his cheek. “I know you will, Sukuna. But don’t miss the important things here. We’re what’s important now, not just revenge.”

The words took root in him, grounding him, but that flicker of rage still danced in his eyes. He pulled you close, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll never let him touch us again. I promise you that.”

Just as you leaned in for another kiss, Sukuna heard the faint sound of your daughter stirring awake from her nap on the living room floor. Mai’s soft little whimpers broke the room’s quiet. Instinctively, he abandoned your kiss, his attention snapping to her as he practically floated over to where she was squirming in her pink dress, rubbing her tiny fists over her eyes.

“There’s my girl,” he murmured, scooping her up with all the gentleness he could muster. Her sleepy eyes blinked open, and he was rewarded with that toothy little grin she’d recently mastered, one that brought an uncharacteristic softness to his entire face. He pressed a cascade of kisses on her cheeks, nose, forehead—anywhere he could reach. “Look at you, sweetheart. All dressed up for your birthday, huh? The prettiest girl in the world.”

You laughed softly from the kitchen, watching as Sukuna held her close, stepping into an impromptu waltz around the living room, his steps surprisingly skilled. She squealed in delight, her small hands reaching up to his face as he spun her around. Even Toji, who had just come down from the shower, stopped in his tracks at the sight, a rare, amused smile tugging at his mouth.

Sukuna glanced up, catching Toji’s presence, and with a proud smirk said, “Toji, meet my daughter, Mai. She’s already got more spirit than most of the people you and I have met.”

Toji stepped forward, studying your daughter. He reached out a hand, and she looked at him with wide eyes, inspecting him with her natural, innocent curiosity. “She looks like trouble. Must take after her old man.”

“Her mother, mostly,” Sukuna said in your direction, bouncing her lightly. “She’s going to have a whole world to handle, with us around.”

In the background, Uraume was setting the table, their usual precision in each movement. They threw Sukuna a blank look, brushing off their hands. “Now that the table’s set, if you’d all just take your seats, maybe we can have a peaceful birthday dinner without the talk of blood and violence for once.”

Sukuna chuckled, shooting them a dry look before turning back to his daughter. Holding Mai close, he took a seat at the head of the table with you beside him. He looked around, taking in the sight—the cake you’d just set down, the quiet chatter as Uraume and Toji exchanged comments, and his daughter babbling in his lap, still pawing at his face with sticky fingers.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt peace.

The “Happy Birthday” song had been sung, candles blown out, cake shared, and Toji had crashed in the guest room, completely knocked out. Uraume, too, was resting in another room, finally allowing herself a few hours of sleep.

In your bed, the soft rise and fall of your daughter’s tiny breaths filled the space between you and Sukuna. She slept peacefully between you both, tiny fingers curled into fists as she dreamed. But you and Sukuna were both wide awake, eyes locked on each other in the moonlight. His hand drifted up, fingertips brushing your cheek.

“Do you remember my first letter?” you asked.

A smirk began at his lips. “You mean the diary entry about the cockroaches in your kitchen and how you thought seducing your landlord was a better solution than paying rent?”

You laughed, covering your mouth to keep quiet, not wanting to wake your baby. He loved that laugh—the way it sounded like music only he got to hear.

“Or how no one with one functioning eye could ever be taken seriously romantically,” he added. “Debunked, by the way.”

Your laugh softened, and you looked at him with a smile that held a thousand memories. “Do you remember the last thing I wrote?”

“The part about Satanism?”

You laughed again, the sound bubbling up and melting into the dark. And as he listened, he couldn’t help but chuckle alongside, his thumb tracing along your cheek, taking in the moment like he was trying to memorise it.

You took a breath, glancing down before meeting his eyes again. “I said I was lonely as hell, remember?” Sadness wove into your words. “And . . . I was. Back then, I thought no one could ever really understand me. Until you did.”

Sukuna shook his head. “You were never meant to be alone, baby,” he murmured. “Not then, not ever. Not while I’m here.”

You swallowed, heart catching as you looked at the life you’d built, the fragile happiness that now lay nestled between you both. “I’m just . . . scared sometimes,” you admitted. “I’m scared of losing this. Of losing you. I don’t know if I could protect what we have.”

“We’ll protect it together,” Sukuna affirmed. “Nothing will take this from us. Not while I’m still breathing.” He leaned forward, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was deep, reassuring, exactly like the one he’d give you when you’d sealed your vows. When he pulled back, you met his eyes, a soft smile tugging at your mouth.

“I love you, Sukuna,” you whispered, fingers brushing his sharp jaw. “Genuinely, your wife.”

He took them and gave a kiss to the tips. “And I love you most, baby. Genuinely, your husband.”

Moments later, your eyes drifted shut, your breathing evening out as you finally slipped into sleep. But Sukuna stayed awake, his gaze never leaving you, or your daughter.

This was the family he’d fought and bled for, the life he’d killed to create. And yet, an unsettling undercurrent of unfinished business tugged at his nerves. But tonight, he forced it away, just for a while.

For now, there was no room for anything but the second chance he’d been given.

Genuinely, by you.

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bontentrio · 8 months ago

Text

ATEEZ and ALMOST BREAKING UP

ot8 x gn reader

summary: you’re in a relationship and one of you (or both) want to break up.

tw: angst (insecurities, arguments, reader flinches sometimes but it’s not violence) but with happy endings because i am weak + fluff + slight nsfw in mingi’s + alcohol in jongho’s.

a/n: i got carried away with yeosang’s and jongho’s my apologies 🙏 rqs are open btw! (also i promise i’m working on ateez stuck in the friendzone part 2 but i have this scheduled for today)

HONGJOONG

you stared at hongjoong in bewilderment. he was sitting down in front of you, with tears in his eyes that threatened to spill if he blinked. he looked so… fragile. as if one single word or touch from you could break him. yet you sat there, with confusion painted all over your face.

“i’m sorry, what?” you asked.

“i think we need to break up” he whispered, as a tear rolled down his cheek and looked away. so you didn’t hear wrong.

“i don’t agree” you said, taking his hand in yours. “what brought you this thought?” you asked, making him look down. you waited a few moments, not wanting to pressure him into talking. then, hongjoong lifted your hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it.

“i’m always busy, we haven’t seen each other in a while and i take too long to reply to your texts” he explained. “you deserve someone who is always there for you”

“but don’t i get a say in this? i knew what i was getting into when we started seeing each other” you started saying as you scooted closer to him, in order to lift up his face to look at you. once your eyes interlocked, you cradled his face and continued: “yeah it sucks not being able to see you as much as i wished to, but also it’s not like i’m unhappy. i cherish the small moments we spend together, it makes me eager for the next one”

“but-“ he started saying, but you interrupted him with a kiss. at first, hongjoong sat still, surprised by your sudden actions, but then he kissed you right back. “no buts joong, we are not breaking up. i love you and i still want this. i still want you” you whispered against his lips, reassuringly.

he nodded in response, believing you.

SEONGHWA

“can we talk for a moment?” you asked seonghwa, who immediately felt his blood run cold at the question. he dropped his phone and studied your face: you looked sad, tired even.

realization struck him as quick as alighting: you’ve been avoiding his kisses for at least two days now, and he’s been brushing it off thinking you were just in a weird mood. i mean, yes it bothered him, but he also loved you too much to not give you space if you needed it. he always wanted you to be as comfortable as possible. but maybe he was wrong about that?

“is something wrong, my love?” he asked with a shaky voice as he took your hand in his. he chose to ignore the way you slightly flinched at his touch, or else his heart would break even more.

“i think-“ you started saying, looking down at your intertwined hands. his hold was gentle, as he always has been. kind, gentle, beautiful, all things you were not. “i think we should take a break”.

you looked up to him, and immediately regretted it: tears formed in his eyes, threatening to spill, while his lips were parted, probably trying to think of what to say. the scene completely broke you, and further proved your point about your insecurities.

“did i do something wrong?” he whispered, not trusting his voice to speak louder without breaking. your eyebrows furrowed, how could he think that when he’s been nothing but perfect in every way? “if i did i’m sorry y/n, i’ll change, but please don’t leave me”

you hugged him tightly, hiding his face on your neck as he sobbed. you didn’t realize you started crying too. “i’m sorry baby, you didn’t do anything wrong” you started saying after a while, pulling him back and cradling his face “it’s me, it’s all me and it has always been me. i’m the problem and i’m always holding you back, i’m sorry hwa”

“holding me back? what do you mean? baby you’re my motivation” seonghwa said, wiping away your tear with his thumbs. “but-“ you started saying, only to be interrupted by him:

“no, don’t ever say that again. you’re my star, y/n”.

YUNHO

normally, you would find yunho’s angry face hot, but now that it’s directed at you? not so much. not when he’s staring at you like you’re a waste of time and space, which only made your anger bubble up more.

“don’t just sit and stare at me! can you please give me a response? it’s not hard yunho” you exclaimed, earning a big eye roll from him “it’s a simple yes or no question: were you flirting with them?”

“god y/n you can be so annoying! no i wasn’t flirting, but now i wish i was so i could have a valid excuse to not see you again!” yunho yelled, standing up abruptly from his seat, making you take a step back unconsciously. this action didn’t go unnoticed by him, quickly realizing that surprise took over your face for a moment, before turning back to anger.

“if you don’t want to see me again then let’s just break up. i’m setting you free yunho” you said in anger, contrasting the way your eyes started watering.

you turned around in order to leave, not wanting him to see you cry, but he grabbed your hand, stopping you. when you turned around, you saw that his hard expression had softened, anger slowly dissipating.

“wait, don’t leave” he started saying “i’m sorry, i wasn’t thinking straight when i said what i said. i love you, i didn’t flirt with them and i don’t want you to leave”

yunho’s eyes silently begged you to forgive him, as he brought you closer to him slowly, testing the waters. when he realized you weren’t going to move away, he wrapped his arms around you. “i’m truly sorry baby, please don’t leave. i love you”.

you cried softly on his chest, as he thought of ways to make you forgive him completely. he refused to let you go.

YEOSANG

“i think this should end, y/n” he said suddenly, making you turn around in your spot at the kitchen. you looked at him confused, tea cups still on your hand.

“you mean the habit of us having tea together before bed?” you asked, eyebrows furrowed. yeosang stood up from the coach, and approached you slowly as you took notice of his sad face. “you know what i mean” he whispered once he reached you.

you shook your head “no, actually i don’t. is this about the argument earlier? i forgave you already, it’s all good yeo i promise” you replied quickly, setting the tea cups aside and proceeding to hold his arms. yeosang stared at you, it seems like he was about to cry as well, becoming all too real.

it’s rare for you to argue honestly, often choosing to just talk things out calmly. but earlier that day, ‘talking’ seemed impossible, as constant yelling filled the room. yeosang had promised, once again, to take you out on a date to celebrate your anniversary (two weeks and a half ago), but due to his idol duties he cancelled again. you have had enough, so things escalated rather quickly, making him leave your shared home with a loud shut of the door.

thing is, hours later yeosang showed up with a small bouquet of flowers and asked for forgiveness. he also explained to you how overwhelmed he felt at the moment with all the upcoming comeback preparations. you understood him obviously, and decided it would be better to just move the date until after promotions.

so everything was fine, all forgiven. what brought this now? “baby we barely see each other, except late at night like right now” he started saying, biting his lip so he could stop the tears from spilling out “you deserve someone better”.

“yeosang you are the ‘better’ you’re refereing to! i don’t want anyone else” you answered, hugging him. “i just want you, all of you, even with your weird and long schedules. i still want to feel your kiss on my cheek every time you leave and i still want to have tea with you late at night”

yeosang kissed you, pouring his whole soul and love in it as he held you impossibly closer than before. after a while, he reluctantly broke it, face still close to yours.

“i’m sorry, i love you” he whispered.

SAN

“no” he said, shaking his head as he looked at you with an unreadable expression “no, we’re not breaking up”

“but-“ you started to argue, kind of getting annoyed at the way he dismissed your previous statement. it’s been a week since fans started suspecting of your relationship, after a sasaeng had caught you at a restaurant celebrating your first anniversary. the media was going wild, even going as far as searching up your socials and sending malicious messages, all telling you to break up with san and that you’re harming his idol image.

“i said no, baby” he said, kissing your cheek and taking your hand, leading you to the bedroom “let’s go to bed”

“san! i’m about to ruin your career, i can’t just brush it off like it’s nothing! we need to break up, or at least take a break until everything calms down” you exclaimed, taking your hand back. san stared at you, face still unreadable but with some traces of hurt evident in his eyes. he took your hands again.

“you’re not going to ruin my career, love” he started saying, holding your hands tighter as if he was scared of letting go “kq’s management is handling it, they assured me everything will be fine because the angle of the photo didn’t show my face, and the couple behind us hid my body as well, so it’s not noticeable that it’s me”

you thought for a moment. truth is, you love san way too much to bring him harm, as small as possible it may be. he knew this, but his reasoning made sense. for all the media knows, the guy in the picture could be a lookalike.

“please” he said, barely above a whisper. you nodded, kissing his lips reassuringly. it’s going to be okay.

MINGI

the room felt heated, despite the different pieces of clothing that have been mindlessly discarded all over the place. mingi’s mouth never left yours, tongue entering your mouth as if it was it’s second home. his hands were everywhere: massaging your chest, holding your waist, playing with your ass, caressing your thighs. you felt him everywhere, all at once.

“we should really break things off” he said, in between kisses. you nodded, letting out a small moan when his lips found your neck. “definitely” you managed to say.

you and mingi have been arguing a lot recently, sometimes over silly small things like laundry or house chores, and other times the argument would revolve around hin forgetting important dates or your stubbornness to remember that he is an idol and is, of course, busy.

mingi’s hands went back to your ass, slapping it lightly and making you jump. he proceeded to hold your thighs, pulling you up to his height as he pressed you against the wall. he kissed you again, desperately and deeply.

“min-“ you started saying, or attempted to say since his lips made it near impossible. he bit your lip in response. “mingi”

he hummed against your lips. “this is not what breaking up means” you managed to say, pulling the back of his hair lightly but enough to make hin groan. “i know, but what if it is for us? i know you’ll miss this, miss me. now hold tight” he answered, unbucking his belt as you held on him tightly to not fall while he maneuvered with his pants.

once he was done, and pressed you harder against the wall, your trail of thought immediately disappeared. if it was a good or bad decision, or something that would become cyclical, that would be a problem for the future.

WOOYOUNG

“we should break up” you said, as a matter of fact. you stood in front of him, arms crossed as a serious expression adorned your face. wooyoung, in contrast, was sitting on your shared bed, mindlessly scrolling through social media. he didn’t even bother to look up.

“and why do you think that, baby?” he asked, still not looking at you, which caused your eye to twitch slightly. “exactly because of things like this wooyoung! i’m trying to break up with you and you don’t even care!” you exclaimed, throwing your arms in the air dramatically.

wooyoung blocked his phone and set it aside, sitting up straight in the process. his eyes found yours, probably trying to decipher how you were feeling. “are there any other reasons?”

“you don’t have time for me-“ you replied. “i still see you every night unless i’m on tour, and even in that circumstance i call every day” he interrupted. “okay, but you also never help me around the house” you argued. “baby, i literally cook half of your meals”.

“but-“ you started saying, only to be interrupted once again by wooyoung: “see? no reasons, no break up” he said, patting your head and returning to his phone.

“you’re impossible” you said, sitting beside him with your arms still crossed against your chest. wooyoung kissed your cheek “i know, but you love me nonetheless. plus i know this was an attempt to prank me as revenge for last time”

your eyes widened in surprise.

“HOW?!”

JONGHO

you might have taken a few too many drinks at tonight’s night out with your friends, so they had to call your boyfriend jongho to come and pick you up. thankfully, he answered quickly and said he would be there in 10.

“noooo you called jongho?” you asked, tipsily as you grabbed your friend’s hand that was holding your phone. “he has to wake up early tomorrow! he shouldn’t be driving around, he has to rest!”

“someone has to get you home, babe! plus he seemed fine, i promise” your friend answered in between giggles watching you pout.

once you spot jongho, your whole face lit up involuntarily, as if it was a reflex. once he reached your table, he hugged you from behind, pecking your cheek. “thanks for calling me and taking care of her” he told your friends. you clumsily bid your goodbyes to your friends and turned to jongho, ready to go.

“you shouldn’t have come, jongs” you started saying as he buckled up your belt in the passenger seat. “you have a long day tomorrow”

“it’s no problem baby, i couldn’t sleep anyways” he said, jogging back to the driver’s seat. you looked at him, thoughtful expression on your face for a few moments. “what?” he asked, chuckling as he drove the car out of the parking lot.

“you weren’t able to sleep because i was out? or because you weren’t feeling tired?” you asked, curiously. for someone who was terribly drunk, you sure got philosophical. add that to the long list of things jongho finds endearing about you.

“little bit of both i guess” he answered, stopping at a red light. you stayed quiet, strangely so, which caused jongho to turn his face to you to check if you fell asleep. but you weren’t. instead, you looked at him with tears in your eyes. “baby? what’s wrong?” he said, slightly panicking, not caring that the light turned green. since it was late at night, his car was the only one there at the moment.

“i’m a burden to you” you concluded, tears rolling down your cheeks “i’m holding you back and you should leave me”. huh?!?!

“baby, what are you talking about?” he asked in confusion, before frantically holding your face and wiping your tears away with kisses. “you always appear to save the day jongs, and i do nothing in return” you whispered, looking deeply into his eyes.

“you do more than you realize, y/n” he said, kissing you once more. “but you’re drunk, and i know nothing i’ll say will stick in this state. so let’s talk about it tomorrow, yes?”

“promise?” you asked, in a tiny voice. “i promise” he reassured.

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multific · 1 year ago

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Two Sides of The Same Coin

Hannibal Lecter x Wife!Reader

Warnings: Cannibalism, Smut, Murder +18!!!

Summary: You two were so different, yet still the same.

"Mrs Lecter?"

You turned and smiled at the woman. "Yes?" you asked with a soft tone when in reality you were fuming.

How dare she just come up to you out of the blue?!

How dare she interrupt your perfect evening?!

"Hi, My name is Lucy, and I'm a huge fan of your books." of course she was, your books are brilliant. "I truly believe you are a pioneer in the genre of horror-romance."

"Thank you very much." Of course you were, no one was as good as you.

"I was wondering if you could sign my book please?"

"No problem at all." you smiled so sweetly. Why would she even have the book with her?! You are in a restaurant! You quickly signed her book and she thanked you, with your smile still present you turned back and lifted your glass to your lips.

"No need to be angry, Darling." your husband chuckled as you looked into his eyes.

Reading the other as if you were open books was something that came to both of you naturally.

"I'm here to celebrate our anniversary. Not at a meet and greet."

"Of course, but you have to indulge them a little. Make them think they are important so they keep coming back. You mastered that one, My Love."

"I believe it was you rubbing off on me. After all, it is 30 years we have known one another."

"And I knew you were trouble from the second I saw you. Cunning, manipulative, narcissistic, egoistic, psychotic. And yet you are stunning and mine." Hannibal lifted his glass as you clicked yours against his.

"Only yours." you smiled at him, this one, was not fake but a genuine one for your husband.

On your way home from the restaurant, it began to rain, you let out a long sigh as Hannibal was driving.

"Rain always makes me nostalgic," you said as he grabbed your hand and kissed the back of it. He stopped at a red light and you looked at him. "When you killed my stepfather... for me. It was also raining."

"He had it coming, he abused you and murdered your mother. I gave him a merciful end. One he didn't deserve."

"He deserved to suffer like I did, but it was not what I meant, Hannibal."

"Please, elaborate then."

"You killed him because he was about to kill me, you became my saviour, but it is not only that. I remember you tore him apart, you kept on cutting and breaking his bones. I should have been disgusted, yet all I could think about was the way your muscles tensed and the grunts you let out."

"So, I turned you on." he spoke as he turned a corner. "I figured, from the way you acted after."

"I never got naked so fast in my life. We made love in that pool of blood in front of the fireplace. I remember we were young and unsure. It was so hot, I could taste blood on your lips." you could recall the way he moved his hips, so amazing, he reached such depths inside you that you weren't even sure existed.

But he could also recall the way you completely submit to him. You only ever done that to him, no one else gets to have control over you, but him.

"Why are you bringing this up now? It has been a very long time ago."

"Because I want you to do the same tonight. As my gift for our wedding anniversary, I wish to watch you hunt, break and cut and then, I want you to fuck me in the blood."

"We are very similar, My Love." he stopped the car, your eyes never leaving him. "I was thinking almost the same." he smiled as the window behind you rolled down.

"Hi there, I like a three-way, 500 for an hour." the woman behind you talked and you finally turned to look at her.

Prostitutes disgusted you, the way they looked at your husband made your blood boil, but you smiled at her.

"How about a thousand and I get to watch?" Hannibal replied and you smirked.

The woman agreed and got into the backseat, having no idea what she was in for.

"Happy anniversary."

"I love you." you said as he began to drive again.

---

The next morning you wake up in your bed, under the warm sheets with the smell of food filling the air.

You slowly woke up as the blanket fell down your naked body.

You rolled out of bed, and got dressed in one of Hannibal's shirts before heading to the kitchen.

"Good morning." you said as he had his back turned towards you. You rounded the kitchen island and hugged him.

"Morning. I made your favourite for breakfast. Bacon with eggs."

You looked at the meat sizzling in the pan before looking up at Hannibal as he leaned down to kiss you.

"She truly was a pig."

Taglist: @castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou @mandoloriancookie @il0vebeingdelulu @deliciousfestsalad @groovyqueer @lilliumrorum

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE OR REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

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photo1030 · 1 month ago

Text

A Cup of Coffee

Summary: What do you do when the love of your life doesn’t feel the same for you?

Word Count - Just over 10K

A/N - This is inspired by the song by Garbage. I got this idea after reading all the amazing mini prompts by @pinescent-and-gingerbread.

Supposed to be a short, one-shot but, as usual it got away from me. I hope you can stick it out to the end. A lot of emotions going on here and it is not a happy one, just be warned. I cried quite a bit writing this one.

Masterlist

*This beautiful image is from @rdr2gifs

You sit with your back against the old gnarled walnut tree, picking at your nails in nervous frustration, your head clearly somewhere else. This is “your spot” where you always go when you need a moment to yourself. The giant tree is like an old friend, its massive branches like arms providing you shelter, shade, and a quiet place to reflect. It’s damn near a pet to you.

“Why you actin’ all pissy lately.” Arthur kicks your boot to garner your attention, his face turned down into an annoyed scowl.

“No reason,” you reply dismissively, maintaining your averted stare out into the forest that rings the camp.

“Bull shit.” Arthur rounds to the other side of you, filling your view with his massive trunk of a body so that you’re forced to look at him. “You’ve been moping around like a goddamn wet rag. What’s your problem?”

“I said it's nothing!” you snap back, making you instantly cringe as your response has more venom that you intended.

“Yeah, whatever, fine. Don’t tell me, then,” he pouts, waving his hand in the air in surrender.

Your legs instinctively curl in towards your body, a vacant look settled upon your stormy face while you stare off into space again. “You wouldn’t understand anyway.”

A slight head shake tosses his honey-brown locks as his mouth opens to say something, but no argument comes out. A gloved hand scratches the back of his neck in confusion as to what could possibly be so bad that you won’t talk to him. “Is this a ‘lady thing’?”

But the moment your eyes shoot wide open, Arthur knows he’s guessed wrong. “What?! Jesus, Arthur, no it's not a ‘lady thing’!”

‘“Then why can’t you tell me!”

“Because!”

“Because why? You tell me everything else!” he pushes.

“Because it's about you, jackass!” And your eyes go wide as the full moon at the realization that you just opened Pandora's box to your deepest secret: you are hopelessly in love with your best friend, one Mr. Arthur Morgan.

But the problem is, not only is he oblivious to it, he is in love with someone else: Mary Gillis, now Mary Linton. And despite her having broken Arthur’s heart and married someone else, the man is still carrying a smoldering torch for the woman, the flames fanned back to life ten-fold when a letter from this ghost from his past showed up for him a few weeks ago.

Arthur’s large body flinches back slightly at your vague revelation, his arms folding across his broad, rigid chest. “What the hell did I do?”

“Nothing, forget I said anything,” you mutter, your mouth suddenly as dry as the desert, your stomach twisting into knots and wishing with every fiber of your being that this conversation wasn’t happening right now.

“Now, hold on!” His azure eyes flash at you, and it's obvious he’s not going to let this go. “If you’re pissed at me, I deserve to know why.” He looms over you now, his thumb jutting back into his chest at his demand.

You take a deep sigh and rub your temples with your thumb and forefinger, trying to reel your swirling emotions in before you say or do something you’ll regret. “I’m not pissed at you, Arthur.”

He raises a taunting eyebrow at you. “You sure about that?”

Your much smaller frame draws up defensively, your chin dropping in warning. “I said I’m not mad, Arthur,” you caution, the words slow and careful, “but I’m gonna be if you don’t stop flappin’ your damn mouth.”

Finally, Arthur recognizes your encroaching breaking point with each twitch of your lips and makes one last attempt, extending his hand to you to find out what has got you wound up like a hornet. “Oh, come on, Y/N. What’s going on?”

“I said drop it!” Your cheeks flush red-hot and you storm off, brushing past his shoulder, leaving him staring after you in confusion.

—----------------------------------

Your tantrum with Arthur leaves you feeling like a boulder sits in your gut. Trying to hide away from facing the inevitable, you spend the rest of the afternoon out riding your horse. You take to the open fields, letting the warm summer winds engulf you. You push your horse at full speed as if you could outrun your feelings for Arthur. But all this does is make you realize that there is no going back now. You’ll have to confront this sooner or later.

Slinking back to camp, you find the one person who knows your little secret. You talk to Abigail about it and, of course, she encourages you to tell Arthur how you feel. “Everyone wants to know they are loved,” she rationalizes.

But the idea of exposing your heart terrifies you, even if it is to Arthur. Your hands clench open and closed, your breathing becoming short. “What if he don’t feel the same?” you ask, your voice sounding pathetic and small. “He’s still hung up on Mary.”

But your answer does not deter Abigail’s opinion. “Maybe he’s still hung up because he doesn’t know he has options.” She leans forward to catch your eye, her gaze burning into yours. “You’ll never know until you tell him.”

Your eyes glisten as you close them and pull in an expansive breath, holding it before slowly pushing it out between trembling lips. Abigail is right. You can’t win anything if you’re not willing to risk for it. What if he says ‘no’? But, what if he says ‘yes’? And you sweep her into a tight hug which she gladly reciprocates.

—------------------------------------

The next morning, you find Arthur sitting quiet and content outside his tent writing in his journal. You stop to admire how his brows knit slightly, consumed with whatever he is committing to those pages.

Your mind skips back to when he handed you a journal of your own after you inquired about his. It was a gesture that meant the world to you, because not only did someone bring you a gift, but he was extending to you a glimpse into his own world. He was offering you the same opportunity that he had, sharing his passion with you. This was something that he has not done for anyone else, making this a singular thing that he only shares with you and no one else. The thought makes your heart flutter, honored at this trust, and you take a deep and steadying breath to propel yourself forward.

“Hey, can I talk to you a second?”

Arthur looks up from the worn leather book on his lap, surprised to see your timidly smiling face greeting him.

A small grin of relief tugs at the corner of his lips when he realizes you aren’t snapping at him anymore. “Hey… yeah, sure.”

You sit down next to him, the morning sun kissing his profile, gently heating the worn wooden chair as if it is waiting for you. You hand him a steaming-hot cup of coffee as a peace offering. His tired eyes instantly brighten as he catches the hints of cinnamon mingling with the strong, smoky aroma of the freshly ground coffee beans.

No one makes coffee like you do. Arthur has no idea what you do or how you do it. It could be witchcraft for all he knows. And he doesn't care so long as you share your efforts with him. He takes a deep sip, the almost-scalding liquid cascading over his tongue, savoring the caramelized, earthy notes and humming in contentment. “Now, that’s a good cup of coffee.”

His compliment makes you smile despite the butterflies in your stomach as you partake from your own cup to quench your parched throat.

“Look, Arthur, I’m sorry I’ve been a crab-ass lately. It’s just that…” Your eyes cast down to the dark brown liquid, as if trying to find the courage to continue in the steam that gently dances in the air under your nose.

Arthur is quick to pick up on your fidgeting again. “Just what? Y/N, are you ok?” His face turns down in concern. You are never one to show weakness, so this sudden display of odd behavior doesn’t sit well with him. And worse yet, the fact that you can’t talk to him about it is unsettling. ”If something’s wrong, you know you can tell me.“

You finally tear your gaze from the cup in your slightly shaking hands to meet his. Why does he have to be so sweet? Maybe this is a good sign? Maybe he does feel the same?

“No, nothing’s wrong. At least, I don’t think so.” Your lips get pulled into your teeth.

“Then what in the hell is eatin’ at you?” Despite the harshness of the words themselves, they are delivered with a softness that echoes concern.

“Arthur,” You swallow hard and close your eyes for a moment. Just say it!, your mind screams. Quit dicking around and do it, for Christ’s sake!

Arthur’s whole body is rigid as he leans forward on his knees, nervously waiting for whatever bad news it is that you are about to tell him. But what you say next is NOT what he is expecting to come out of your mouth.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your proclamation is met with stinging silence. And you anxiously wait in anticipation for his answer. And when it doesn’t come, your breathing stops, your knee bouncing slightly as your heartbeat thunders in your ears.

“Wait…what?” His face screws up, trying to decipher what you’ve just said.

“I’m in love with you, Arthur, have been for awhile.” You nod in acknowledgement, the sentiment hangs soft and vulnerable in the air like the summer fireflies.

The outlaw shifts uncomfortably, rubbing his hand along his jawline as he finally comprehends what you’re telling him. And then, the reality of it really sets in. “Shit.”

Your mouth falls open as you clutch the coffee mug in your hand as if it were a lifeline. “What's wrong? Is that a bad thing?”

But Arthur won’t look you in the eye at first, searching for the words that struggle to come. “I just…I just didn’t think I’d ever have to worry about that sort of thing with you.”

“What do you mean by that?” Your eyes begin to sting, causing you to start blinking rapidly as you try to figure out the meaning behind his statement.

“I don’t know.” He shrugs haplessly. “I just never thought of you as a woman like that, I guess.”

Shit, he may as well have slapped you across the face. It would have stung much less. A huff of exasperation expels from your nose as your head quickly draws back. The anger from yesterday begins to surge within your belly again. You feel stupid, embarrassed.

“Unbelievable.” You shake your head and abruptly stand, ready to storm off again before he sees the tears rimming in your eyes.

“Wait, I didn’t mean it like that!”

You spin on him, then, the frustration displayed all over your features. “Then what did you mean, Arthur? Huh? What, that you don’t even see me as a woman?!”

“No, that’s not-”

“That's exactly what you said!” you bite back, cutting him off.

Arthur is quick to his feet to explain himself. “You and me, we’re friends. Best friends.” He motions emphatically between you two. ”No bull shit, no games. And I always liked that, relied on it. Respected that, even. I’ve never had to watch myself around you.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” you challenge back. “Why does any of that have to change?” You step closer to Arthur now and look up into his face, desperate for an explanation that makes sense to your rapidly- breaking heart.

“Because! I’m not good at that sort of thing,” he says sheepishly, hand coming up behind his neck.

“I’m not either. But that’s why it could be so good for us.” You reach over and gently take his hand in both of yours. Your voice softens to a level Arthur has never heard from you before. “Regardless of how we got here, Arthur, the fact of the matter is, I love you. So, I’m askin’ you, is there a chance that you love me too?”

He stares into your expectant face, your eyes wide with adoration and anticipation. And Arthur knows that what he has to say next will be the hardest thing he’s ever had to do.

“I’m sorry, but…I don’t….I don’t feel that way.”

Despite the softness of his voice, the words are deafening. Your chest feels like a thousand daggers have been plunged into your flesh, wedged between your ribs as it knocks the breath out of your lungs just the same. Your skin flashes burning hot before turning ice cold.

But the look of sheer pain in your eyes cuts him. Arthur has fought alongside of you for years. You’ve been through hell and back together, and never has he seen that look of pain and devastation on your face. And to know he’s the cause of it makes Arthur want to die.

You stand motionless, numb and not sure what to say or do. Exposed and vulnerable, you took a chance and gave yourself to him. And he denied you.

As if struck by lightning, you turn on your heel to bolt away, to find a shadowy corner of the world to hide, but Arthur is too quick and his arm shoots out from his side and grabs your wrist. “Y/N, wait, don’t go like this.”

Like a wounded animal caught in a trap, you yank your arm from his grasp, bristling at the feeling of his dry, calloused hand on your skin. ”You’re a goddamn fool, Morgan,” you seethe at him. “You’re still going to hold out that she’ll come back to you, aren’t you?”

But you instantly regret bringing up Mary. You shouldn't have done that. Despite your devastation, it is a low-blow and you know it. A tidal wave of apprehension fills your body head to toe when shock darkly scatters across Arthur’s features. The fact that you’d throw his greatest weakness back in his face in retaliation suddenly sets him to anger as well.

“What do you want from me, Y/N?” he growls out defensively, eyes narrowing at you.

“Tell me you want me. I want you to tell me you want me, Arthur. Tell me you feel the same for me that I feel for you,” you cry desperately, eyes now red as the tears begin their descent down your cheeks.

A sigh of resignation ripples through Arthur’s lungs. “But I don’t,” he breathes. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I can’t lie to you like that. Not about this.”

Your palm comes up to cover your mouth before you get sick in the grass. Your eyes screw shut as you back away from him, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole. “I’m such an idiot,” you whisper with a broken voice. “I should have known I wasn’t good enough.”

“It’s not about that, Y/N.”

“Then what in the world could it be, Arthur? I’ve never been beautiful. Never been ‘dainty’. Never been sugar and sweetness. I’m covered in dirt and smell like my horse. But I had hoped that you, of all people, could see past all that.” Your hand floats up to land over your heaving chest. “To see my heart. And see what I could give to you.”

But as you stare into Arthur’s ocean-colored eyes, you realize now what his answer to your confession is and that he has no intention of changing it. The tears stream freely down your face, and he watches as they drop one by one off the edge of your trembling chin. “But you don’t want it, do you?”

“Ah hell, Y/N. I don’t know what to say,” he mutters. You can see the look of guilt and remorse in his eyes. And you know that he is not trying to be mean or cruel. Arthur would never intentionally hurt you. And that is what makes this even harder to endure.

“Don’t. It's okay.” You hold your quivering hands up to hush him from saying anything else, as one more word from his perfect lips may push you over the edge of your sanity. “I shouldn’t have said anything. ‘Cause now I’ve ruined everything.”

“You haven’t ruined anything.” He reaches out to try to reassure you, but you are quick to step out of his grasp and he smartly doesn’t pursue it.

“Oh, but I have, Arthur. Because how can we even be friends with this oddness between us, now?”

With a heavy heart, you walk away from your friend, all motivation evaporated from your soul. This magnificent thing between you and Arthur took years to build and only moments to destroy.

As you head to your horse, desperate to get the hell out of camp, you halt and make a bee-line for Abigail who is hanging the morning laundry.

“Thanks for your stupid advice!” you holler at her.

Abigail startles at your outburst, eyes wide with confusion. “Y/N, are you alright? What happened?”

“What do you think happened? Now everything has gone to shit. I should have just left things as they were!”

And before Abigail can protest, you are out of earshot and on your horse, headed out of camp.

—------------------------------------------

The days that follow are awkward and ugly, to say the least. You avoid Arthur at all costs and won’t even speak to Abigail. But even worse, you become withdrawn and depressed, a shadow drifting through the camp rather than interacting with it. Gone are feelings of camaraderie between you and the gang, for Arthur IS the gang. His presence is known and felt everywhere within it. And Arthur is the last person you want to be around right now.

But it doesn’t just stop with the camp interactions. After Arthur’s rejection, something within you breaks and you quickly become less like yourself and more of a ghost, a shell of what you once were. Or maybe you’ve just learned to channel your pain and anger to become someone else altogether.

You become reckless, taking chances that you would normally never have in the past. You hang out in the bars and saloons, rather than coming back to camp at night. You’ve even started going upstairs with strange men on the nights where you’re too drunk or too heartbroken to care. You do jobs with Bill and Sean instead of Arthur, wanting nothing to do with him. When Arthur returns to camp from his own jobs, you’ll immediately leave. You can’t stand to be in the same place at the same time anymore. And, of course, he notices. So eventually Arthur avoids you altogether, as well. What was once a strong, unrelenting friendship has become nothing more than passing strangers. And when you two are in camp at the same time, you both keep your eyes averted, never looking at each other. Because of course you can’t be friends when you still feel like this.

Dutch, on the other hand, loves it. You become another “Arthur”, hard and fearless. A force to be reckoned with. And now that you and Arthur are not speaking, there is no more distraction and he can split the two of you up to be more efficient, two alpha leads to be sent out on jobs. But you have little-to-no regard for your own safety. Every time you return to camp, there’s another wound, another bruise. Your clothing becomes more and more tattered. The more dangerous the job, the better as far as you’re concerned. You’ll take any job Dutch hands you without question.

While some in camp consider this bravery, others begin to see it as suicidal.

The self loathing takes its toll on you in a most nasty way. You’ve always had self doubt and low self esteem. But you feel in your bones that no one could ever love you the way that you yearn for. You’re hot tempered and ill mannered. You are far from what most men consider beautiful. But despite that, you and Arthur have always had a connection. He’s never judged you, never made you feel less than what you are. If anything, Arthur makes you feel better about yourself than you ever could on your own. He has always accepted you just as you are, embraced it, even. And he was your only chance, your only chance, at being loved. But if even he can’t bring himself to see you in that tender, loving light, what hope do you have to find love anywhere else?

It isn’t long before everyone in camp avoids you and your toxic attitude. You constantly get into harsh arguments with Grimshaw, standing nose to nose and shouting at the top of your lungs. During one altercation, she slaps you when you won’t back down, to which you immediately respond with an equally hard and fast slap of your own, causing her to reel back at the audacity of your actions. “Don’t you ever raise your hand to me again.” You point your finger in her face, inches from her nose. “Or I will put a bullet in you. Do you understand me, you old crone?!”

But it doesn’t stop there. At some point, Sean ends up with a black eye when he makes a joke at your expense. You even pull a gun on Micah in camp when you’ve hit your limit. Hosea tries to pull you aside to talk to you about your reckless behavior, but all it does is throw you into a rage, like a cat that’s had its tail stepped on.

And then one day, it all comes to a head. You end up getting caught in town and are set to be hung.

You are drowning your sorrows at the end of a bottle as usual in the saloon and one of the patrons gets too rough with one of the working girls, smacking her around. Watching the young woman’s head snap violently to the side with a sharp cracking sound causes something to fracture in your brain. Time stands still, all color draining from your vision except red.

The woman barely has time to stand up straight again before the sound of gunfire ricochets within the small room. Without a moment’s hesitation, you pull your gun and shoot her attacker between the eyes, no questions, no remorse, nothing but a look of emotionless disgust plastered on your face.

When others try to intervene, you shoot them too. No one is spared from your blind wrath. It is as if you have no control over what you are doing, your body moving of its own destructive accord. You launch your fists into faces that you don’t even take a second look at, and break chairs over anyone who dares to get in your way. It isn’t until you feel something hard shatter against the back of your skull that you stop. The whiskey bottle knocks you off balance just long enough for two men to take advantage of your weakness, each grabbing a dangerous arm.

It eventually takes five men to bring you down. They beat you into submission, kicking you in the ribs once they have you on the filthy wooden floor of the saloon. Angry faces look down over you and spit on you, jeering and taunting you relentlessly. You are only half conscious by the time they drag you down the steps of the saloon.

————————————-

Arthur is making his way back to camp and decides to stop for a drink, when he catches the tail-end of the brawl. Before he can even enter the saloon, he can hear the hollering and commotion of broken furniture from the street.

At first he keeps his head down, not wanting to get involved, as whatever is happening inside sounds bad. But his stomach drops when he sees two men dragging someone one out of the saloon, and instantly recognizes it’s you as you continue to hurl insults despite being dragged through the mud. Hand on his revolver, Arthur is about to intervene, but a mob has quickly formed around you. Arthur can’t do anything by himself right now, so he decides to wait until nightfall to break you out and get you out of town. “Goddamn it, Y/N,” he sharply mutters under his breath.

The outlaw gives it a few hours before he creeps along the building walls, keeping to the shadows to avoid being seen. It’s quiet out, no one walking about as the moon sits high, casting its silvery shadows along the world below. It doesn’t take long for him to scout the jailhouse where you are being held.

Cautiously approaching the premises, Arthur peers through the barred window to find you leaning out on your elbows onto your knees, head hanging. Your face is bruised from where they beat you and your clothing filthy and torn from where they drug you through the street to the jail house.

“Jesus,” he whispers sadly, the word escaping his lips without him even knowing it.

You lift your head at the sound of his voice outside your window. It is a siren song that always sits in your ears just so. Even in your darkest hour, after everything that has happened between you two, Arthur’s voice still makes your heart beat a little faster.

He is relieved to see your eyes are still surprisingly bright, still burning with that fire that no one could ever extinguish. He holds your gaze as you slowly blink at him, your left eye swollen and red from the broken blood vessels. He can’t believe it’s come to this.

“What are you doin’ here, Arthur?” you asked tiredly.

Arthur swallows thickly, resolve settling into his veins. “I gotta get you out of here.”

“Don’t bother.” You shake your head, leaning back against the wall.

“What? Quit being ridiculous. Now, help me figure out a way to get you out of this mess”, he hisses sharply.

You do your best to hide a painful wince that radiates from what is most likely a broken rib as you shift your weight on the hard bench. “I said don‘t bother. I’m not your mess to clean up. I deserve to be here, Arthur.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” you nod slowly. ”I shot that man. I caused that ruckus in town. And I deserve to hang for it.”

“Y/N, quit screwing around!” Arthur punches the wall with his palm in frustration. “This is serious!”

“I know it is. And that’s why I’m in here. Hell, I’m just as bad as Micah Bell.”

Hearing such a thing cross your bruised lips crushes Arthur’s heart. “You are not seriously thinking you need to be cast with his lot?”

“Why not? I have no shame for what I did. I’d do it again in a heartbeat, too. Besides, they ain’t gonna let a crazy woman like me just walk out of here. The men in this town like to keep their women in line. They plan to make an example of me.”

Arthur’s mouth pulls into a tight, thin-lipped frown. “I asked around. You were protecting that woman.”

“Nah. That was just the catalyst, I’m afraid.“ You wave him off with that smirky grin of yours. “And, besides, I’m done, Arthur. I’m at the end of my rope. Literally“, you chuckle.

Your comment lands like a gut-punch to the seasoned outlaw. “That ain‘t funny.”

“Wasn't meant to be.“ You tilt your head slightly as you take in the sight of him, committing to memory all of the details of his handsome face, every little mole and freckle, the crow’s feet along his beautiful eyes, every little thing that you have dreamed of in the privacy of your tent. For you know that this will most likely be the last time you set your tired eyes on him.

A ragged, exhausted sigh of resignation escapes your battered frame. “But go on, Arthur. Go back to Dutch. Go back to Mary.”

A spark of anger ignites Arthur’s weathered face. “Is that what this is about? Jesus, I can’t believe we’re still on this.”

“No,” you answer him calmly. “This is about me being sick and tired of being ‘sick and tired’. Tired of fighting. Tired of fighting what I can’t change.”

“So you’d rather die if you can’t be my woman? Is that it?”

“I guess so,” you shrug, acting as if this was nothing more than you losing a game of dominoes to Hosea.

Suddenly Arthur’s tone changes from authoritative to panic as he realizes he’s not getting anywhere and you’re not going to cooperate. Intimidation is his specialty, what he’s known for, was bred for. But it is a tactic that has never worked on you. And all of the anger and resentment of the last few weeks melts away as Arthur realizes he’s going to lose you. And there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

”Y/N, please,” his voice cracks in desperation. “I’m begging ya. Don’t do this to me. I can’t stand to see you swing.”

But all you can offer him is a sad smile. “Then don’t watch.”

“Goddamn it, Y/N! Will you stop this?!”

Gathering what little energy you have left, you slowly pull yourself from the hard metal bench, taking a moment to get your balance, and walk to the window, standing just a few inches from him now. You can smell the cigarettes and leather on him, filling your nostrils and intoxicating your broken mind.

Arthur is overcome with unease as he gazes into your haunted face. “Look, I know things ain’t been good with us lately. But now’s not the time to be worryin’ about that,” he pleads.

“It's too late for me, Arthur. But I’m okay with it. Really. I’ve made my peace.” Your unsettling calmness makes him shift his weight, his palms turning clammy and numb.

“So that’s it? You’re just giving up?” Arthur desperately searches your face for any signs of hesitation, any inclination that you will concede to let him help you.

“Like I said, I’m tired. And I can’t keep watching you from afar, Arthur. That’s not fair to you or me.”

Arthur rushes forward, reaching to grab your hands through the bars. “Please, Y/N. Come back with me. We can talk about this.”

Your gaze falls to your entwined hands, startled at this show of tenderness. Your fingers flex slightly under his, relishing the feeling of them and burning the sensation of it into your memory. Arthur’s hands are warm, always so warm.

After a brief indulged moment, you pull your hand out from under his and raise it to float up to cup his bleak face. Arthur’s bearded skin sits in your palm, your thumb hovering slightly over his plump bottom lip. God, how you’ve dreamed to hold him as tenderly as this. But you know in your heart there’s nothing to talk about. You only want one thing and it's the one thing that he cannot give you. You’ll never be happy without it. So what’s the point to all of this?

Another wistful grin ghosts across your lips. “I’m sorry, Arthur.” And before he knows what’s happening, you lift your chin over your shoulder. “Guards! There’s a man at my window!”

Panic makes Arthur’s blood cold as he gasps, clamping down on your hand even tighter as if you are about to be taken from him. “What are you doing?!”

“You better go, Arthur, and fast, lest they catch you, too.”

“Shut it in there!” rings a voice from the front of the jail.

“There’s a man at my window!” you yell again with more urgency, but never taking your eyes off Arthur’s. “You better get in here!”

Arthur’s fearful eyes quickly dart from you, to the door and back, his mind scrambling to grasp at straws on how to get you out of here. But he’s out of time.

“Damn you,” he whimpers brokenly, a slight tremble to that chiseled, scarred chin of his.

Your eyes. Arthur never realized just how striking and beguiling they are, until he watches them flutter like fairy wings for just a fraction of a second at his statement.

“Yep. Damn me, alright.” And you gently pull your hands back from him entirely and walk backwards back into the darkness of the cell like a stone being dropped into the lake.

He can hear the rustling of feet and the jingle of spurs along the floor just on the other side of your wall. And reluctantly Arthur takes off before the guards can catch him.

With his heart racing like a wild mustang, Arthur ducks into an alley, trying to think. He throws himself back up against a brick wall, his mind swirling to try to come up with a plan. He can’t let this happen. He has to get you the hell out of here. If only Hosea was here, he’d know what to do. But Arthur doesn’t have time to race back to camp for reinforcements to free you as you are due to be hung at sunrise. And the town is crawling with lawmen and mob mentality. He won’t be able to spring you on his own.

For once, Arthur Morgan is helpless.

———————-

The next morning, the crowd gathers at the gallows, the fractured sunlight catching the wooden platform, making it glow like an ominous sentinel looming over the town. You squint slightly as they drag you out into the street, vaguely aware of the rope that bites into your wrists that are bound behind you. You close your eyes and inhale deeply, a bizarre calm settling over you as you take comfort that this will all be over soon. But as you shuffle through the mob, you don’t look up. You know he’s out there somewhere. And you can’t even begin to think of what your heart will do if you see him. You just need to get to the end and your suffering will finally be over.

Arthur stands in the middle of the crowd, watching as they march you from the jailhouse to the platform. “C’mon, girl. Look at me. Look at me,” he mutters, willing you to acknowledge him. His heart beats fiercely within his chest and his palms sweat. Guilt begins to ravage him. Did he make a mistake? He doesn’t feel that same way about you, but he can’t stand idly by and let you get hung for it. But what happens if he rescues you? For what? More unhappiness and loneliness for you?

You are now set in place upon the gallows for all in attendance to see. A slight breeze whistles past your ear, lifting the wisps of hair from your neck. The damp smell of mud and horse shit carries in the air. There is a strange silence hanging in the crowd, as if everyone is waiting with baited breath to see if you’ll beg for your life, try to escape, anything relating to the fire you have shown them. But you won’t give them that satisfaction. You meant what you said to Arthur: you’re tired. You’re ready to go.

The sheriff asks if you have anything left to say.

“No,” you say calmly. ”Not that anyone cares to hear.”

You step forward, your boots scraping softly on the sun-dried wood. The sheriff places the worn noose around your neck, pulling your hair back and away from your face.

As the slightly-frayed rope tightens around your neck, you steal a glance upward. And like a magnet to steel, you find those blue eyes amongst an ocean of indifference in the crowd. They are filled with fear and long-standing friendship. You can see his heartache in those eyes. The heavy, worrisome crease in his forehead bearing the weight of your actions in his shoulders.

Your lip quivers slightly, eyes turning glossy knowing that the last thing you will see in this life is Arthur’s face. He looks scared, hurt. You suddenly feel a sharp pang of guilt for causing him this pain. You’ve never wanted to hurt him. You always protected him. Protected him from the harshness of your world, protected him from those who would hurt him. Even protected him from himself at times. But you can’t protect him from this. And you are the one to inflict that pain.

Maybe you’ve been too selfish in your own misery. But you didn’t want Arthur to see this, to see you dangling from a rope like a fish. Everyone in the gang knows this is a reality of your lifestyle. But still, it's not an easy thing to see. And Arthur sees the apology in your gaze.

“Wait…” you suddenly whisper, your wilted plea hanging on the soft breeze for a fraction of a moment as all goes quiet. A sharp ache pierces through Arthur’s ribcage when he sees your attempt, your eyes going wide with an acknowledgement that you truly know what’s happening to you, now. But it's too late. The sheriff throws his weight into the lever and the floor creaks as the door drops beneath you.

“NO!!” Arthur reaches out for you, but the weight of the crowd in front of him swallows his effort.

The sickening crack of your neck is drowned out by the collective gasp of the crowd. Arthur watches in horror as your body comes to an abrupt halt, harshly jolting in an unnatural movement, before swaying gently back and forth. Thankfully, your neck breaks instantly from the force and you don’t have to hang there, lingering and choking. A quick, violent spasm of your small frame and it's over.

“No”, Arthur whispers brokenly. His gloved hand comes up over his mouth. This can’t be happening. This cannot be happening! Your face goes slack, eyes bulging slightly and almost closed. One could see the color of your eyes should they care to look. Your proud shoulders hang limply, your head tilted at an abnormal angle to the side. And it's almost like a smile sits lightly on your face. A smile of relief.

Suddenly, you don’t look so terrifying. You look small, fragile. Gone is that hellcat that the law had to cage to contain. You look just like anyone else. Funny how death is the great equalizer of us all.

This whole thing is just so surreal to Arthur. His mind is screaming and yet void of any coherent thought all at once. You’ve always been like a fox, always able to talk your way out of anything or squirm your way through a crowd. But either way, never have you been caught before. It never ceased to amaze Arthur how you could do that. And a thought suddenly cracks through his thoughts, shattering Arthur’s collective reasoning: what if you let yourself get caught on purpose? What if this was part of your plan all along?

Arthur tries to swallow the churning of his stomach. He’s failed you. You were the one person that he could always count on and he couldn’t even offer the same to you in return. The one person who was always unquestioningly at his side. His partner, his trusted gun, his confidant.

His one true friend.

And now you are gone. What will he ever do without you?

When the crowd disperses, Arthur gathers his wits and slowly staggers towards the platform. Despite the gruesome sight, he can’t take his eyes off your lifeless body. He stands before you, eyes casting up and down over you, taking in your bluing skin, before bringing his trembling hands up to rest on your boots.

“I'm so sorry, Y/N.” But the words ring hollow in his chest as he knows full well that it’s too little, too late.

“Do you know her?”

The nasally drawl of the local sheriff cuts into Arthur’s thoughts, bringing him back to the waking world. “Yeah.”

Thankfully, the sheriff recognizes the emotional toll overtaking the man standing before him and wisely chooses a respectable tone. Truth be told, he wasn't all that sorry you took care of those idiots back at the saloon last night. “You family?” he gently asks.

‘You family?’ A simple question in of itself, yet laden with so much meaning behind it. “Closest she’s got,” Arthur manages to mumble out.

“You want the body, then? For burial, I mean?”

Just the slightest movement to be considered a nod comes from Arthur. “Sure. Yeah, let me take her home.”

————————-

Never has Arthur been so reluctant to return to camp. He sits listlessly in his saddle, shoulders hunched to his ears. Despite being summer, the air carries an unnatural chill to it, the wind snapping at the nape of his neck and sending shivers down his spine. Never once does he turn back to look at the burden atop of your horse that he leads behind him. That would make it all too real, and it’s a long ride home.

It’s late afternoon by the time he crests the hilltop, sighing heavily and preparing for the onslaught of questions and shock that he does not want to deal with.

“Took you long enough!” The deep baritone of Dutch’s voice is first to reach Arthur’s ears. “Where have you b-” but Dutch’s admonishment is cut short when he sees Arthur’s face and then the wrapped body on the back of your horse.

The gang leader's dark eyes widen in confusion. “What the hell happened?” he says in hushed shock. “You were supposed to go get her.”

Arthur pours himself out of his saddle, keeping his eyes forward and careful not to look back towards your horse. “Yeah, well, I did. And I brought her home where she belongs.”

The next few hours are a blur as the gang prepares to bury you. It didn’t take much discussion of where to lay you to rest, either: under your walnut tree, of course. Everyone is distraught. Tilly and Mary Beth cry. Karen turns to drinking. Abigail is angry. She doesn't want to blame Arthur, but it is his fault, as far as she’s concerned. If he wasn’t so damn hung up on that other woman who wants nothing to do with him…

After the men help fill in the grave, they quietly meander back to the fire and raise a toast to your memory. It is a solemn sight, a few shared stories, but mostly discreet eye rubs and the occasional mournful sniffle fills the atmosphere. Javier strums a sad, gentle melody that reminds him of you on his guitar. The soothing melody helps to calm his grief-stricken friends. You could be a total pain in the ass, smart-mouthed and obstinate, but you were always one of them, through and through.

But Arthur remains at your grave, refusing to join the others. The bottle he grabbed from the provisions wagon quickly empties, as gulp after gulp pours down his throat, burning its way down, hoping to chase away the pain until he feels nothing at all.

Regret hangs heavy on his soul as he stares at the mound of dirt before him. Flashes of your lives together dance in his mind like someone flipping pages of a book. How the morning sun speckled across your face when you drank your coveted morning coffee. How you hated getting wet in the rain. How you bit through Arthur’s belt when he had to pull a knife out of your thigh after a job. How you’d stand back to back with Arthur in a gunfight, a whirlwind of controlled chaos. How he’d bring you tea when your stomach would knot up at your time of the month. How you tended to his bruises when he’d get into bar fights. And, of course, how you held him when he sobbed on your shoulder when Eliza and Isaac were taken from him. Seems like a lifetime ago and yet, at the same time, like it only happened yesterday. So much has happened in your brief time together on this earth. And now, Arthur can’t even fathom one second without you in it

Hosea knows his son well. He quietly watches from afar and can see Arthur’s heart breaking as he sits motionless under the walnut tree just as you used to do, the guilt eating him alive the way scavengers pick apart a carcass. No one dares approach Arthur in this state. But the old man won’t let him wallow like this for too long. He quietly makes his way back to your grave-site, placing a comforting hand on Arthur’s shoulder as he lowers himself to the ground next to him.

The two sit in silence for a bit, the birds chirping overhead, the occasional nickering from the horses off in the distance.

“She was my best friend, Hosea.” The broken sound of Arthur’s voice hangs in the air without him looking away from your grave. “And I couldn’t give her the one thing she really needed. How could I do that to her?”

This whole thing is harder than Hosea thought it would be. And that’s saying a lot. He draws a quick sniff to collect himself before he even tries to speak, swallowing the painful knot lodged in his throat from his own grief.

“I’ll admit, I didn’t understand it myself, sometimes, how you two couldn't find your way to each other. You and Y/N were two peas in a pod, two halves of an apple.” A lamenting smile graces the older man’s weathered lips. “She understood you better than you understood yourself.”

“She was the only one who could hear all the things I never said,” agrees Arthur.

“But she wasn’t ’the one’, was she?”, Hosea asks gently.

“She shoulda been,” Arthur spits out bitterly. ”If I wasn’t so damn stupid! So damn selfish!”

“You can’t do that, son. The heart don’t work that way. It just wasn’t meant to be. And Y/N got caught in the fire.”

“Just like everyone else who gets caught up in my life.” Arthur just sits, eyes stinging with unshed tears.

Hosea’s grey eyes settle upon his son. “Were you in love with her, Arthur?”

He sniffles, thinking on the question. “I cared for her.”

“That's not what I asked you.”

“What the hell difference does it make now?” Arthur finally breaks his dazed trance to look at Hosea.

The anguish in Arthur’s eyes almost breaks Hosea. “It made a big difference. To her, at least.” Hosea points an arthritic finger at your final resting place.

“I could’ve tried harder,” croaks Arthur. “Maybe she’d be alive if I would’ve just…”

“Just what? Pretended to be in love with her? Now, you and I both know Y/N was too smart for that. In fact, that would’ve been worse.”

“Worse than her being dead?”

Hosea lets out a deep sigh and brushes off the imaginary dust on his pants. “She made her choice, Arthur. You’re going to have to accept it, no matter how hard it is.”

Arthur’s only answer is an unsatisfied scowl as he turns back to you. With a heavy heart, Hosea pats his shoulder once more before standing to give leave and let his son grieve in peace.

——————

The girls carefully sort through your things, no sense wasting anything. Arthur can hear them talking in hushed tones as they reminisce, sometimes sweet, often sad.

It’s been two days since Arthur brought you home. And he’s been sitting under that damn tree ever since. At first, everyone just let him be, let him mourn for you in peace and quiet. Then, it became more of a “don’t poke the bear” situation. But when he refused to eat, Ms. Grimshaw made it a point to bring him food. But no amount of coaxing would pull Arthur from your graveside.

Before long, Abigail tentatively comes over to him with a look that he cannot place. She lingers just out of arm’s reach, her blue eyes darting nervously as she clears her throat.

“We’ve sorted her things. Thought you may want this.” Abigail’s hands reach out, offering him a small book. Your journal. “Since you gave it to her, and you two were best friends and all, I figured you may want it.”

Arthur’s belly somersaults as numb fingers take the leather book from her. He stares at it for a moment, his rough fingers gliding over the smooth leather binding.

“Right, then,” she mutters softly, trying to be careful not to provoke him. Abigail hesitates before walking away, trying to find words of comfort that she knows will fall on deaf ears. “I’m sorry about Y/N. I really liked her.” Abigail sniffs back a rogue tear that threatens to unravel her composure. “I will miss my friend, dearly.”

Arthur tears his vacant eyes from the journal to meet Abigail’s, but she’s already shuffling off, her hand covering her mouth to muffle the sobs wracking her chest.

Arthur sighs deeply, filling his lungs with the humid summer air. His crystalline blue eyes flit to your grave before back to the book in his hands. He hesitates a moment before pulling back the cover and the very sight of your handwriting leaps from the pages and makes his heart clench painfully in his chest. In the journal are your private thoughts and sketches, just like his own.

Arthur proceeds to spend the next few hours reading through your journal. And to his surprise, it brings him a bit of comfort. The pages are filled with your anecdotes and adventures together. He smiles despite himself at the memories, can hear your voice and personality within the words on the page. But then he begins to see the passages where you’ve written about your feelings for him.

He notes how it started out as shy and confused notions that, in time, developed into something so much deeper. And as he continues to read, Arthur realizes just how much he was unaware of your true feelings. He had no idea how intensely you felt for him down in your heart. A brief wave of anger washes over him. God, how he wishes you would have said something sooner.

This was so much more than a crush, more than a love, even. Arthur begins to see how you saw him through your eyes. Words like “artist” and “tender soul” reach his gaze. “Bravest person I’ve ever known”. He sees that you had found parts in him that he didn’t even know existed, things he could never see about himself.

It’s not just what you talk about in your writing, but how. You notice the most ordinary things about Arthur and act as if they are things of wonderment. His eyes, which are mentioned multiple times, are described as “blue as sapphires with flecks of sunset gold”. His hands are written to be “strong and unyielding, large compared to most. And yet can be so tender and careful.” Arthur stops for a moment and looks at his hand, flipping it over, trying to look past the dirty fingernails and slightly bruised knuckles to see what you’re talking about.

But it is your longing that sharply startles him. Passage after passage talks about how lonely you are and how you long for touch, long for that sweetness and devotion that other women seem to find so easily. But most of all, you crave it from Arthur.

You believe you have found the missing piece to yourself in Arthur, and firmly believe that it is him, and only him, that will complete your soul. “I’ve heard tell that you will know if the right hands hold your heart by how it feels. And I can’t imagine anyone else’s hands around mine than Arthur’s. I love him with the fire of a thousand suns. He has found the wildness within my heart. But instead of trying to tame it, he tore open my cage and set me free. And for that, I will be eternally grateful.”

And on and on it goes. Dreams of what your life could be together fill the pages. Everything from simple moments of waking warm and safe in each other's arms, to leaving the gang altogether to start somewhere new, together just the two of you. “Maybe even a family to replace the one he lost years ago. I could only pray I’d be able to provide something so beautiful for him, as he so rightfully deserves.”

Arthur starts to think that maybe he didn't know you as well as he thought, as he is now seeing you in a whole new light. Apparently, you had the ability to look through a lens of shattered dreams and hard realities and still managed to see love.

Just as he sees himself reflected and remade in your written words, he realizes a whole new depth to your soul that he was robbed of and didn't even know it. Here, buried in your journal, Arthur has discovered a love that he never believed anyone could ever feel for the likes of him. It is a love that, like you, he craved for himself but never felt he deserved. And it was you who held the key all along.

But of course, it makes perfect sense, now that you’re gone and your walls are down, exposed for anyone to see. Of course, it would be you. Who else in this world would it ever be?

“Goddamn it, Y/N,” Arthur mutters, sniffling back tears that threaten to reveal the depth of his sadness as the profound realization hits him. He feels like such a fool. How could he be so blind? Everything he has ever wanted was right in front of him all this time.

“Why in the hell didn’t you tell me sooner?” But Arthur knows exactly why. He’s always hung Mary out in front of himself like a carrot in front of a horse. And you had to sit there and watch it, listen to his belly-aching while your own gut twisted with the realization that you’d never feel that sort of love and affection from him for yourself.

Eventually he finds the entry of the day you confessed. “I told Arthur today. Sat him down and told him the truth over a cup of coffee. But sadly, he don’t feel that way about me. I guess deep down I knew that would be his answer, but I still hoped I was wrong. Funny how it took a cup of coffee to prove that he don’t love me. Maybe this will be where our story ends.”

If only he could go back in time. So much time wasted, so many missed opportunities. All gone now.

As Arthur flips to the last few pages, a piece of paper flutters out and into his lap. Arthur picks it up, flipping it over and his breath catches in his throat. It’s a photograph of you and him. God, he forgot all about that day. It was something that he indulged you in after a successful job. A few drinks had encouraged him to sit still long enough to get your portrait taken together. You had pretended to be a couple for the photographer. Maybe that’s why he forgot about it. He thought the idea was ridiculous at the time, which is probably why you’ve kept the photograph tucked away, a guilty pleasure of a daydream you saved for yourself while he went about his business like it was nothing.

Arthur can’t take much more of this. His movements are slow like molasses as he rubs his forehead with numb fingers, shaking his head in utter disbelief. With a deep, shuddering sigh, his gaze falls to the last entry in the journal. He freezes as his stomach roils with a sour, bitter feeling. It’s a letter. A letter you wrote to him.

“Dearest Arthur-“ The words almost cause him to retch into the grass right then and there before he can read another damn word.

“Dearest Arthur

If you’re reading this, it means I’m gone, one way or another. I’m hoping you can make some sense out of all these pages. Lord knows I never could.

I know I could have loved you like no other if you would have just given me half a chance. Maybe we could even have been happy for a bit. But I know now that your heart wasn’t in it, wasn’t mine. It never was and never will be. That’s why I told you I understood how you feel about Mary, to love someone who tries but can’t love you back the same. I know that heartache because that’s how I feel for you.

Silly notion, ain’t it? People like us, trying to find love in this cold world. I wanted so badly to reach out and touch that flame and feel its warmth on my skin. I had hopes once, but I now understand that that is all it is, hopes. And I can’t live on hopes and dreams anymore. Can’t afford to. So I let you go, Arthur, and myself along with you like a dandelion seed on the wind. No hard feelings, I promise.

I know you and you’ll brood and be ugly over this for awhile. But don’t be. I’ll think of you fondly and hope you’ll do the same for me. Remember the good times we had, riding out in the prairies, getting into trouble at the saloons, or even just sitting quietly by the fire.

Take care of the girls for me and make sure John stays in line. Tell Hosea to take his medicine and rest like he should.

I will miss you something terrible, Arthur. But I will carry you in my heart forever, wherever that may be. And I hope you will do the same for me.

Yours always

Y/N

Arthur chokes out a sob, burying his face in his left hand while he clutches your journal to his chest with his right. He didn’t know a heart could be broken so badly. His countenance crumbles like an avalanche, uprooting and tearing apart everything in its wake. His fingernails dig into his scalp as he clutches his hair in anguish. He wants to open up and scream to the heavens, let his agony bellow out into the air, for it is too painful to keep contained in the flesh and bone of his chest. Arthur is about to break, driven to the brink of madness, because right now, he doesn’t want to feel anything. And yet, even in death, you make him feel everything.

“You were so right, Y/N,” Arthur sobs. “I am a goddamn fool.”

———————

When he’s sure the tears have stopped and he’s too exhausted and worn out to suffer it any longer, Arthur tears himself away from your grave. He has to leave you eventually and can’t handle sitting on the hard ground for much longer.

Slowly standing, he brushes the dirt from his pants and places his hat back upon his head, brim pulled way down low to cover his bloodshot eyes. He looks up into the branches of the walnut tree, squinting at the peppered sunlight skipping through the leaves, making them glow warmly. The branches sway gently with the wind as if waving goodbye, thanking him for grieving your loss with it. Arthur’s lips purse in silent acknowledgement before he stumbles his way back into the camp.

“Mr. Morgan!”

The sound of Mr Pearson’s voice cuts into Arthur’s brain like a spike being driven through his temple. He stops, looking briefly at the portly man who rushes over to him.

“I have something for you. Was in town getting supplies and whatnot and this came for you.” The cook hands him an envelope, but quickly shuffles away, lest he get caught in the aftermath of Arthur’s ongoing foul mood.

Arthur flips the letter over in his hands in confusion. And then his breath stops altogether as he realizes who it’s from.

Mary.

The letters of his name blur as angry tears threaten to flood his vision yet again. The sight of her perfect, script handwriting is a sign of Fate’s cruel mockery, ever trying to torture him for his mistakes.

Arthur takes one look at it, then looks back over to the mound of fresh dirt that hides you from him, keeping you safe for all eternity now. His sad eyes linger, heavy with regret and self hatred.

He reaches over and tosses the unopened letter into the fire. The flames quickly wrap around the delicate paper and Arthur watches as the handwriting disappears into the ether, reduced to ashes.

Just like his life.

*This amazing image comes from @papaue00

**If you made it to the end, thank you for reading! I'm kinda proud of this one, actually.

Tagging: @appalachiancowboy99 @rivetingrosie4 @kayleigh--23

#arthur morgan #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan rdr2 #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan angst

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writing-mlm · 8 months ago

Text

Is it real?

Summary: It’s thanksgiving, current plan: ignore your family, backup plan: stay for Alfred’s left overs. Pairing: Damian Wayne x Male reader Wc: 7.1k A/n: I saw comments asking for part 2 so… rushed this out bc Thanksgiving is like… two(??) days away Warning: mentions of homophobic family but they’re silent the whole time, nothing negative is really just it’s just the feeling of knowing that they are

Damian had always known he liked men, there wasn’t one defining moment in his youth where it clicked. He didn’t watch some movie and fall in love with the lead actor, he didn’t have a love-at-first-sight moment that made everything make sense. It’s just something that’s always been. But falling for you had been something that had been gradual.

At first, you were just some intern with a loud laugh and clearly hung out with not the best people. He’d seen you in the hallway of Gotham University, which was a surprise considering how large the campus is and he grew a little suspicious. He’s Robin, of course, he’s going to be suspicious of a coincidence.

But falling for you had been incredibly easy when he looked back at it. He just remembers that one random night, after work and school, on your way back from patrol where he looked at you as you sang along (badly, he’d tease you and you’d say it was on purpose) to your patrolling playlist. It was this warm feeling that washed over him, his stomach tossed up and he was thankful that he got to spend his days next to you. It made him realize he’d been falling for a while now and in that moment, it all just felt right.

Truly Damian had never expected love to be that simple. He had expected it to be something akin to trials of battle. Something he had to defend like he defended himself. How grateful he is that he was wrong about something.

He considers himself lucky in that regard.

He looks at you as the two of you sit in the garden, looking at the fallen white snow cloaking the nearly barren bushes. The cold is nipping at his nose and it’s starting to snow again. His pants are wet and cold, his hands tense with what he thinks are the early signs of frostbite. But you look lovely, you look like everything he wants and more.

A part of him wonders if he deserves this. If his happy ending is something he has been able to get; if he’s atoned for his past. If the blood he’d split has finally dried and he’s able to truly move along. But he tries not to remind himself about his past, focusing on his present or whatever stupid thing Grayson always preaches about.

Sighing, he taps the cold bench with his knuckles before standing up.

“I believe father should be done talking with your family,” He says and you hum, following after him. You walk hand in hand, your bodies begging for warmth. He notes the recent footprints that aren’t his or yours and figures it was Diana. She’d been wearing kitten heels and that’s the print of them. It makes him smile, figuring she probably got the hint.

He glances at you as the two of you walk in tandem; he’s known about your family issues for a while. Sworn to secrecy because you didn’t want the others to pity you or try to somehow make up for your family’s shortcomings. You knew his family; you knew how much they liked you and how if they knew the truth, how your family wouldn’t even be allowed to step foot inside.

He doesn’t know why, honestly he’s tried to imagine it, but you still love them. You still answer their texts, you still wish them a happy birthday even though they rarely do the same, and you haven’t spoken truly ill of them to anyone but him.

You believed you never did anything remarkable; born to live in the middle child’s role for the rest of your life and he cannot imagine that.

Gotham University is comparable to Ivy League in almost every regard. You managed to be one of his father's best interns long before you’d gotten your powers. You had enough self-preservation and drive to uproot your entire life, growing used to the harsh environment of Gotham alone. You’ve been beaten and broken enough times to make a grown man quit and yet, you put on the suit night after night, fighting crime with a joke and a smile. You had literally no one in your corner for years and yet he watches as you smile at the snow falling on your nose.

He knows you’re incredibly strong and he wishes nothing but the best for you; which is why he’ll proudly wear your relationship on his sleeve.

You look at him, feeling his intense gaze and he grins, kissing you again.

“You okay?” You ask when he pulls away. He nods, looking back towards the manor as you exit the maze.

“I’m happy I can kiss you freely.” Is all he says and you playfully roll your eyes. Your siblings are waiting on the porch while Damian’s siblings and further in the snow, talking using sign language when Cassandra waves you both over.

“We have a plan,” She says. “We are going to act like I can’t speak. Only sign language with your family,” They do that every time the family is introduced to someone new, kept it up with Bernard for nearly a year before someone broke. You managed about two months but that’s only because you accidentally walked into a very heated conversation between her and Jason about ballet plays.

“I agree.” Damian nods.

“It’s only natural.” You agree.

“Yo,” Jason suddenly says while smacking your arm. “Is your stepmother the mom of your sister?” You cringe when you think about it and the weird family drama around them.

“No, she’s an affair baby,” You start and scratch your cheek. “She’s my mom's god-sister's daughter. Her and my dad didn’t date, though. It’s complicated.”

“Oh, okay,” Steph sighs. “Because they look so similar.”

“Oh, yeah. They’re cousins.”

“Huh?” They all blink and you glance at Damian. He shakes his head; he’s not going to explain this mess.

“It’s complicated.”

“I’m going to need a full explanation,” Tim shakes his head, arms crossed over his chest while you inhale.

“Okay, her mother is Lupe. Lupe and my dad slept together for about five years before they had my sister. My mom found out because Lupe’s mother told her because she thought my dad would ‘step up’ and marry Lupe; spoiler, he didn’t. My dad's wife is Lupe’s older sister's daughter.” You explain, using your fingers to keep track of people.

“Okay,” Cass nods. “So, how old is everyone and when did they divorce?”

“My sister, Nadia, is twenty-seven, Pat is twenty-four, Diana is eighteen, and Lupe is ten. My parents divorced before Lupe was born.”

“She has her mother's name?” Jason gasps, holding back a laugh.

“Dad tried to change it; but you need both signatures. Everyone just calls her Lulu. My mom doesn’t acknowledge her.”

“Are we done here?” Damian sighs.

“Yes, you can go back to kissing your boyfriend,” Tim rolls his eyes while Jason just shakes his head; still in disbelief that Damian had decided on his own that was in a relationship. He feels like he’s done that in another universe, too.

“So,” Steph starts just before the two of you can walk away. “When’s your anniversary? Or do you celebrate both of them?” She teases and the others laugh.

“I’m not answering that,” He grumbles and grabs your hand, pulling you away.

On the porch, he looks at Nadia and her roommate. They’re holding pinkies, testing the waters while your fingers haven’t left Damian’s in nearly twenty minutes. He feels bad for them; despite his upbringing and hardships, he can confidently say that neither side of his family is homophobic. Not even in the slightest; he’s heard about Ra’s and Bruce’s escapades— although Bruce thankfully reassured him that his grandfather was not on his vast list of people he’d taken to bed.

He goes to remove his hand, fearing you wouldn’t want your family to know but you squeeze his hand, keeping his hand firmly pressed against your skin. He looks at you and you offer a smile, guiding him to a porch bench while you wait for Bruce to let everyone back inside.

He blinks, holding back a smile while you pull out your phone with your free hand. You’re playing some tedious game about placing blocks that he finds himself captivated in. It’s as if he can see your thinking in real time; understanding how your brain works.

“So,” Nadia’s roommate— girlfriend, he corrects himself, Kendall, starts. Her voice feels almost surreal in the soft silence that fills the backyard. He’d nearly forgotten you weren’t alone. Nearly. “Are you two…”

“Dating?” You ask, voice carrying a sort of understanding that Kendall smiles at. She nods and you smile, nudging Damian’s shoulder with your own. “Yeah, we are.”

“Cool,” She says, eyes darting to Nadia’s who just looks down.

“Gross,” Pat says, eyes flickering to Damian’s. “You can do better.” Rolling your eyes, you return to your phone.

“There is no such thing,” Damian answers and you pause, your thumb-stopping as you’re about to place a block. “Your brother is the best thing to happen to me.” Smiling, you lock your phone but pretend you’re still using it. Pat rolls his eyes but he doesn’t say anything further.

From what you’ve told Damian he knows that Pat is an envious man. Envious that Nadia had won the lottery, envious Diana got your parent's love and affection, envious that you were able to escape the suffocating clutches of your parents when no one else could.

He feels bad for Pat. He wanted to be an elementary school teacher but your parents had pushed for a ‘more respectable’ degree. You said after that he lost his spark. Became a shell of himself; not that you liked him before all that. He wasn’t a good brother to you, always thought you were too childish. Too head in the clouds to do anything. It was strange, considering the close ages between the two of you and you remember a time the two of you were close.

The door opens and Damian looks over at his father as he fixes his jacket. His neck is tight but he forces himself to relax and he smiles. It’s the smile he puts on for a crowd, during gala’s, during meetings; whenever he has to put on his Brucie Wayne persona. Because anyone who knew Bruce, really knew him, knew his smile was different.

“Come on, children.” He says, stepping aside as Tim rushes in.

“He’s too anemic to be in the cold for so long,” Jason snickers, stepping in after Tim.

Damian has you walk inside first, watching as his fathers eyes track you with a solemn look. It’s the look he had when you opened up about your family and he looks forward, staring at the back of your head as you enter the room for the third time that day.

Your step-mother is no longer on your father's lap, she’s sat next to him and settles with just holding his hand. Your mother is opposite to them, her expression— Damian hates to admit it, he’s sorry for even making the connection in his head— is nearly identical to yours when you’re annoyed. Your father— again, really, he’s sorry for the connection— has the traits too. It’s the eyebrows and nose flare with your mother, the eyes and lip curl with your father.

He wonders if you realize it and that’s why you don’t like getting upset. The reason why you try to avoid conflict if possible.

Lupe climbs onto your fathers lap, the coldness has only made her more tired and he kisses her head, providing the warmth you’d never gotten from him.

Damian looks at you as you’re holding a recording device between your fingers; a conflicted expression clear on your face before Bruce slyly takes it and crushes it under his finger.

“Bruce-!” You gasp but he shakes his head, hand on your shoulder. “Okay,”

The two of you take your seats again, your head naturally finding a home on his shoulder while his arm wraps around your shoulder; tracing shapes into your arm absentmindedly.

Diana scowls as she enters the room; the two of you sit in the middle because she just knows- oh, she knows you’re doing this on purpose. You’re jealous of her so this is your revenge, you’ve always done things like this. Getting better grades, turning her friends against her (she doesn’t know how for that one yet, despite it being nearly six years ago), countless others and now this. You can’t just be happy for her.

You ignore her, still playing that damn game that Damian doesn’t know why you play.

For some strange reason, Damian remembers back to when you learned Wonder Woman’s identity. How your face had dropped and how he snickered when you muttered; ‘that’s an unfortunate name’ that Diana had raised an eyebrow to. You had quickly apologized, of course, later recounting how embarrassing it was when you were alone with Damian.

You still call her Ms. Prince, though.

His eyes flicker to Nadia and Kendall; Nadia is pressed in between your mother and Kendall, her leg bouncing while Kendall seems almost unfazed being between Nadia and Jason.

He’s probably wondering when the food is going to be done; he’s been preparing for this day. Literally; him and Tim and sometimes even Duke will take on extra patrol shifts the day before and not eat the day of Thanksgiving just to make sure they have enough room in their stomach for the feast Alfred prepares.

While Damian is a little sad that Duke wasn’t able to make it this year, he’s glad he’s able to spend it with his family this year. He says they’re getting better, it’s taken several years but the Joker venom is weaning off of them. He can tell and the doctors confirmed it. They’re good enough that he can have an actual meal with them again.

You check the time; five-sixteen, and almost sigh. Dinner always starts at eight on the dot and man, you’re hungry. Alfred doesn’t let anyone in the kitchen for a nibble on anything; just a glass of water before he kicks them out.

Maybe if you texted Damian he could sneak out and bring some food for the two of you.

“No,” He whispers when you’re hovering over your texts, debating typing it out. Grumbling, you put your phone down and look around.

There’s not much going on, a couple of conversations have broken out but nothing worthy of note. Bruce is almost guarding the door with the way he’s placed his seat, facing over everyone. You wonder what he talked about; you’re not stupid, you know it’s about you, but you want to know exactly what was said. It’s stupid but you worry that Bruce is tired of you, maybe he agrees with your parents that you’re just that kid. Nothing special.

Damian feels your pulse when his hand travels to run across your neck, his fingers ghosting from your elbow up and you shudder. His eyebrows furrow when he feels the beating and he discreetly checks on you, your eyes darting about the carpet as your worry vein starts to show on your forehead.

“Father,” Damian says and Bruce looks over, a quiet hm of acknowledgment coming from the man. “Can we be excused?”

“Of course, Damian,” He nods as a thank you and taps your back, beckoning you up from the couch and you follow him out of the room.

“What’s on your mind?” He asks once you’re a couple of steps away from the room. You shrug, fingernails digging into the rubber phone case. He hates that; hates when you don’t give him a verbal response because how is he supposed to help? He’s great at reading body language, yes, of course he is, but he wants you to talk.

“You’re worried about something,” He says as you’re traveling up the large staircase. The old wood creaks under your footsteps, the banister sharing it when your hand presses down against it.

“Does Bruce like me?” You ask and he blinks over at you.

“My father adores you. He’d adopt you if he could,” He reassures with ease and you smile. “You’re worried about what he spoke to your family about?” Nodding, he looks up the stairs and thinks for a moment.

“I’m going to be honest with you; I have a couple of theories myself. The most likely one is that father invited them here on purpose; he wants to know them because he realized at the tree that your family doesn’t treat you well. He probably played the aloof character he often does and sang your well-deserved praises, watching as your parents squirmed.”

“You really think that?”

“I’d never lie to you,” He promises, kissing your knuckles. “Do you want to take a nap?”

“Yes, please,”

—

Damian had stayed awake at his desk while you napped on his bed, curled up on his blankets and his pillows, Titus happily sharing the space with you. He hates to admit it, but he definitely watched you as you slept; simply admiring you.

The others had checked on the two of you periodically, finding Damian was more often than not simply sitting in the silence of the room. Jason wanted to make a joke, something about day one relationship bliss but he held his tongue, he didn’t know why. Don’t ask him. He totally should’ve made the joke.

When you woke up, he put his book down and waited for you to say something.

“Is the food done?” He laughs and checks his phone. Two minutes until eight.

“It should be once we head downstairs,” You smile this sleepy smile, face still pressed into his pillow and he swears his heart swells. With a quick fixing of your clothes and hair, the two of you head downstairs as Bruce is heading up.

“Good,” He breathes. “I was on my way to get the two of you.” He waits for the two of you to walk past before heading back down himself. Jason and Dick are helping bring the food into the large dining room. Two trays of food in each of their arms while Alfred carts in more trays. You can smell the food from the bottom of the stairs and you’re so glad Damian forced you to go.

You can imagine the leftovers now.

Bruce sits at the head of the table as he’s always had, Damian pulls out a chair, one away from the corner seat where he’d be sitting, and nods with his eyes for you to sit.

“He’s such a gentleman,” Tim cooes from across from you.

“Just because you were raised without class, Drake doesn’t mean the rest of us were.” Damian quickly replies. Bruce wants to smile; he’ll never admit he loves his children’s banter, but he puts on his old man's tired face to save Damian the embarrassment of knowing his father finds his actions cute.

Cassandra takes the seat across from Damian while you find Kori next to you. Dick is next to her, but Mar’i is asleep in a mobile bassinet between the two of them. They promise she’s a heavy sleeper but everyone is ever aware of their volume as she sleeps.

You wonder why more partners aren’t at the dinner. Jason usually invites at least one of the Outlaws, the Kents are almost always there, and maybe one or two of Dick’s Titans show up. You were hoping at least Jon would be there; it’s been a while since you’ve seen him.

Stephanie settles next to Tim, followed by Jason. He likes to be as far as he can from Bruce without being too far because… Bruce and Jason's things.

You don’t care where your family sits, honestly you try to block them out. Between your parents, siblings, aunt, and cousins (plus Kendall and your father's wife), you can’t bring yourself to care.

The last of the food is set and Alfred takes the seat at the other end of the table. Head of household go on the ends, is what Damian had told you when you first questioned it.

“Wanna say what we’re grateful for?” Dick grins the same way he does every single Thanksgiving that the others mouth the words as he’s saying it.

“Sure,” Bruce nods, his eyes scanning over the table. “I suppose I’ll start, then.”

“I’m thankful for my children finding happiness,” He smiles. “Wherever that may be.” He adds, looking at Jason.

“Oh, I need a drink,” Jason mutters and grabs his glass, pouring whiskey out from his flask.

It’s Cassandra’s turn and she looks around before signing

‘I’m thankful for ballet.’ Everyone replies in sign, not because they actually want to reply, but because it’s funny. You catch your family's embarrassed glances at each other when they realize they have no idea what she said and no one is willing to translate for them.

Tim doesn’t realize it’s his turn and returns to staring at his lap, trying to hide the fact that he’s working. Stephanie nudges him and he looks up, not even embarrassed that he’s been caught.

“I’m thankful for the internet in the dining room.”

“I’m thankful for…” Stephanie trails. “Cassandra.”

“I’m thankful for alcohol,” Jason says as he takes another large gulp. He wanted to say guns, he always says guns, but you guess Bruce had told him not to this year.

Kendall is next, her eyes flicker to you for a brief moment as she thinks.

“I’m thankful that I have someone to celebrate with,” Is what she settles on before it’s Nadia’s turn.

“I’m thankful for Kendall,” She smiles, her voice shaking as she says it. Kendall smiles down at the table, hiding her pink face. It continues on, your cousins are thankful for Kai Cenat, your brother says some corporate answer you forgot immediately after, Lupe says her iPad, your father says his wife, his wife says him, your mother said her husband, her husband said her, your aunt said her kids, and then it’s Diana’s turn.

“I’m thankful that Mr. Wayne opened his doors to us,” She says in this sickly sweet voice that makes you inhale and hold your tongue. Thankfully that Kori’s hair mostly blocks you from the others, you shake Damian’s shoulder and he stifles a laugh.

The married couple says sappy married couple answers and suddenly it’s your turn.

“I’m thankful that I have all of my organs,”

“You’re still on that?” Tim glares, looking up from his laptop and you laugh, the others joining in. “It happened one—“

“Kids,” Bruce says and Tim looks back down at his laptop. He looks at you and you sigh.

“I’m thankful for the blue— I’m thankful for the food Alfred cooked so tirelessly,” You say and the family nods to that, even Tim.

“I’m thankful for (Y/n),” Damian says and Jason cheers when Dick slides him a twenty. “You’re childish.”

“And you’re predictable,” He sings, holding up the crisp twenty-dollar bill. Damian goes to say something but Alfred clears his throat and anything he was going to say dies before it reaches his tongue.

“I’m thankful for another year with all of you,” Alfred smiles fondly at everyone, even you.

“Dig in.” Getting food is nearly a free-for-all hell. It’s why Alfred always makes enough that you don’t need to reach too far to get your favorite foods. You pile food onto your plate, fighting Tim with the spoon and ever aware of your family’s bewildered expressions.

It’s strange for them to see; you’re so happy here. Clearly, in your time in Gotham, you’ve been integrated into the family, settling nicely in their bunch. You’re laughing with Jason about something they don’t get, sharing a forkful of food with Damian because he wanted you to try the tofu ham he loves so dearly. You never liked tofu before, your mother tried once, but you love their tofu ham.

You have inside jokes with them, even with Bruce. Bruce asks about your classes and they realize they can’t name a single class you take; they don’t even know your major.

But somehow, someway, it’s your fault. You don’t call enough, you don’t text enough, you don’t come home. It’s not because of them; they’ve done nothing wrong.

And you know that’s what they think.

With the initial food free-for-all done, you settle into nice conversations that often have breaks of silence because you’re talking to Cassandra. It’s also the first time Bruce participates in the ongoing gag.

“No, you nearly killed Jerry on his first Thanksgiving,” Damian insists to Jason. “You’re the reason we didn’t have a Turkey for four years.”

“I’m not the one who tried to kill me.”

“Pretty sure you have,” Tim comments, and Jason snorts before covering his face.

“We agreed to no more suicide jokes,” Bruce lazily reminded.

“Was it ever a joke…?” You test the waters and he sighs, holding his face while the others laugh.

“That’s so rude, (Y/n)!” Diana shouts and everyone goes silent. Dead silent. “Don’t joke about suicide!” The others glance at her, unsure of what to do. You blink, pushing food into your mouth and slowly chew.

“It’s harmless banter between friends and siblings,” Damian says. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Oh…” She settles in her seat. “I guess,”

“Anyway,” Stephanie looks away from her, giving you a glance that says ‘seriously, you’re related?’ and you just shrug. “Did Jason try to kill Jerry?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Okay, let’s ask Alfred.” Alfred looks up from his plate, wiping a napkin along his mouth with wide eyes when he sees the children have turned to him for his verdict.

“Oh, well. That was so long ago, I suppose I’ve forgotten what’s happened.”

“Nonsense Pennyworth; your memory is sharp. No need to spare Todd’s feelings.”

“I know the demon spawn can be a bear but you can tell the truth, Alfred.”

Bruce sighs because he knows this topic will never end.

“It wasn’t him.” Bruce blurts before covering his mouth with a napkin. Alfred gives him a thankful look but Damian slowly turns to look at Bruce.

“What?” Damian leans over, eyes wide as he stares at his father. “Who was it, father?”

“It was…” He sighs. “Me.”

Shouting erupts at the table, you and Cassandra sit, shell-shocked as years of a feud had been for nothing— something Bruce could’ve stopped long ago.

‘Wasn’t it you?’ You ask and she nods, serving herself more mashed potatoes. You snicker, reaching over to finish Damian’s glass of wine. He takes the last sip of his father's glass, angrily downing it because the shouting has made his throat dry.

“I cannot believe you let Todd take the blame,” Damian breathes as he settles down. “It’s been nearly ten years, father!”

��Oh heavens,” Alfred shakes his head. “I shall bring out more wine.”

“Bourbon, please, Alfred.” Bruce and Jason grumble.

“Having fun?” Tim grins over at your family. The bunch are shocked; well your cousins are eating this up and Lupe is still playing on her iPad. You didn’t expect anything less from them if you’re being truthful.

“You have a… lively family,” Your father’s wife smiles.

“Hopefully you’ll marry into it, right?” Tim continues to egg them on. “Then we’ll be one big happy family.” He winks at your mother who gawks.

“Yup,” You nod, much to Damian’s shock. “One big, gay, happy wedding, right, Dames.” He quickly collects himself and nods.

“Honeymoon to whatever island you want; after our destination wedding. I’m thinking Istanbul or Cape Town, South Africa.”

“Mhmm, and then we’ll get a big mansion somewhere.”

“A farm, too.”

“That sounds nice,” Kori agrees.

“You’ll be my maid of honor, of course.”

“And Dick will be my best man.”

“He’ll be mine.” You disagree, turning to Damian.

“You cannot have both!”

“Fine, I’m taking Casandra.”

“No! She’ll be my maid of honor. Why don’t you pick Drake or something?”

“I’m busy that day,” Tim responds and Damian squints. “I might be able to squeeze you in.” Tim concedes.

“I’m taking Jon, then.”

“Oh my god,” Bruce puts his head in his hands as Alfred pours him a glass of bourbon. He downs it and Alfred quickly pours another glass. “There won’t be a marriage until you’ve finished college.”

“I didn’t know you moved that fast,” Jason teases.

“It’s not fast if I’m sure he’s the love of my life.”

You pause, staring down at your glass as the room falls silent.

Honestly, this is moving… fast. You’ve never been in love, at least you don’t think you have. You’ve never really known love; your father cheated for five years, your mother married your father's (now former) boss out of spite, your father is currently married to someone the same age as his eldest daughter, and your sister was in a hidden relationship.

Your girlfriends have been nice. You liked them enough, they weren’t bad in any way. You enjoyed being with them but you wouldn’t say you’ve ever loved any of them.

With Damian, you aren’t sure if what you’re feeling is love. Maybe puppy love but… love. You aren’t sure about that; you’d been joking about the marriage stuff. It was a joke to get your family uncomfortable. You weren’t even sure you wanted to get married! Let alone to Damian.

The relationship was literal hours long at this point— sure longer in Damian’s eyes but he’s clearly had romantic feelings for you for longer than you’ve had them for him. Maybe you hadn’t realized before, sure, yes, that’s entirely possible. But you don’t love him just yet.

“I’m gonna… use the bathroom…” Diana excuses herself, her kitten heels clicking against the freshly polished floor.

Your ears are ringing as Damian continues his conversations like normal. You glance around, finding Tim’s eyes in the chaos that’s your current state. He raises his eyebrows and you must’ve made a face because he did a short nod. Damian says something; something about you. He wants your opinion about something but you don’t know what he said. There was just one fact running through your mind.

He was in love with you. Like genuinely.

You must’ve been a horrible gay boyfriend because you smile and ask him to repeat himself.

“Oh, (Y/n),” Tim cuts you off, closing his laptop. “I wanted your opinion on something about… stuff; join me.”

“Can’t it wait?” Bruce asks. He assumes it’s about his case because Bruce was considering asking you some questions about it anyway. It had to deal with your major and why not ask the kid who’s currently studying what he thinks?

“Don’t wanna forget,” Tim shakes his head.

“It’s okay,” You smile. “I’ll be back in the second, yeah?” Damian nods, squeezing your hand as you leave the room with Tim.

“He’s a lot.” Is the first thing Tim says when you’re walking into a nearby room.

“I wouldn’t say that,” You mumble, falling onto a couch with a loud sigh.

“Really? Because he just said you’re the love of his life and you looked sick.”

“I’m just—“ Any reasoning dies before you find it and you look at him. “It was shocking.” You settle on saying.

“Yeah, you’ve been dating for maybe six hours and you were asleep for half of them. Congrats, though. You’ve clearly won him over,” Tim settles across from you, his legs hanging off of the chair while he hangs his head, staring at the dead fireplace.

“I don’t know what love is.” You blurt and he looks up, half interested.

“Considering your family is a weird fucking situation, I figured.”

“Shut up, fucking detective.”

“Ouch,” He teases with a grin. “Put ‘World’s Greatest’ in front of it next time.”

“Can you explain love? Maybe then I'll put the title.”

“You’re great at barging,” Tim sits up, now resting his chin on his fists. You stare at him, waiting and he sits there. Thinking.

“If Jon was to walk through the doors and declare his love for Damian, how would you feel?”

“Upset. Confused.” You shrug.

“How often do you look for him?”

“Not often. We’re never apart.”

“When you are.” He corrects, rolling his eyes.

“Often, I guess. I worry;” You shrug.

“About what?”

“During…” Glancing at the door. “Our side jobs, I worry that he’s been taken. I guess. Maybe worse. During classes I just miss him, I’m used to being around him.”

“Used to or want to?”

“What do you mean?” Your face pinches and Tim tilts his head.

“Are you used to being around Damian or do you want to be around Damian?”

“I want to,” You answer without hesitation. “I miss him when I sleep and he’s not there. I think of him whenever I’m shopping because I often see something he would like. I’ve…” You trail off, rubbing your hands on your legs. “Never told him I’m mildly allergic to dogs because he loves Titus.”

“You’re allergic to dogs?”

“Mhmm, my throat gets itchy for a bit when I touch them or something they’ve come into contact with. I try not to touch them too often. I think I’ve built an immunity, though.”

“I’d say you’re in love. I would never do that,” He laughs. “Maybe baby love and Damian’s full deep-end love, but love.”

“Really?” You smile and he nods, looking you up and down as if he’s judging you. He totally is.

“Yeah, only fools in love would do something that stupid.”

—

When Diana returns to the dining room, you pay her no mind. You're holding your goddaughter as she stares up at you, holding your finger. Her eyes really are green like her mother's. She smiles, cooing when Damian strokes the top of her head.

She’s not old enough to have normal food, but it doesn’t mean she likes it. She tries to grab the fork whenever she can and even tries to remove the tablecloth to get to the delicious food. Against your wishes, Kori takes her upstairs. Dick says she needs to eat and you reluctantly understand, missing her already.

“It’s time for dessert,” Alfred announces as he stands some time after Kori comes back, Mar’i once again fast asleep. Everyone had finished their plates and slumped in their seats, sure they were going to fall into a food coma.

“I’ll help clear the table,” You offer, standing up and grabbing some of the trays. Jason does the same and you stare at each other; silently agreeing you’d split the leftovers evenly if you don’t argue and alert the others.

Alfred takes the trays the two of you don’t and once they’re set on the table, he watches as the two of you rush to grab the tupperware he takes out for Thanksgiving and pile food inside.

“Do leave some for the rest of us,” He comments as he goes back into the dining room to fetch the dirty plates and utensils and you apologize but continue filling the trays. You end up with eight heavy bowls; four for you and four for Damian. It’s not a lot, all things considered. No one else really gets the vegan things so it's always going with Damian. But even with Jason’s filling, there’s more than enough for everyone else.

You put your tubs into your toolbox, preserving them exactly how they are while Jason has to put his in the fridge after slapping several sticky notes and writing on the tubs that the food is his and he will shoot whoever takes them.

You’re nearly tempted.

Alfred returns with the dishes, scraping the bones and scraps into the trash before he places them in the sink to soak.

“Go inside, you will not have first dibs on dessert.” He says, eyeing the two of you while you stand in the kitchen's doorway.

“Aw man,” You frown, dragging your feet as you walk away.

“I assume you stole the leftovers?” Damian grins when you sit back down.

“Absolutely,” You grin back, knocking his leg with yours. “All the favorites, enough for a week.” He nods in approval, once again looking over the table.

Alfred wheels in the desert and you swear it’s like feeding time at the zoo because the right side of the table eye the trays like they’re raw meat and they’re wild animals who hadn’t eaten in ages. Even Bruce.

He sets the left side first; which will have the same things as the right and your mouth waters when you see the knafeh. You know your family won’t love it the same way you do and god, you’re going to take the whole pan home. There’s an elaborate strawberry cheesecake, three pies (apple, pecan, and pumpkin), banana pudding, and crème brûlée donuts.

“I’m gonna cry,” Stephanie whispers, her leg bouncing with anticipation. “It’s so beautiful.”

When Bruce gives the nod to dig in— after Alfred pre-cut slices and gave everyone warning stares—, the dessert free-for-all is more contained. Everyone gets two slices of each pie, two of the cheesecake, enough of the pudding, and three donuts. It’s typically that way but everyone starts trading for their favorite things. You trade your pecan and pumpkin pie slices for: an apple slice, a donut, and two cheesecake slices. Or you don’t. Maybe you made it up; it’s up to your imagination, really.

Your focus is on the knafeh; everyone always gives you one of their slices out of tradition. No need to trade for those bad boys.

Alfred pours eggnog for everyone as well— he even makes special ones for those with diet restrictions.

“This is so good,” Your cousin says, face stuffed with pumpkin pie. “You’re like Gordon Ramsay, dude.”

“Thank you, young man.” Alfred gives him a warm smile that makes your cousin beam.

“I’m a man,” He whispers to his mother, eyes twinkling. She laughs and ruffles his hair.

“So, you two are in a real relationship?” Your father's wife asks, pointing her fork between you and Damian. “Like… actually?”

“Yup,” You nod, licking your spoon clean of the apple pie filling.

“Unfortunately,” Jason teases.

“Just so you know; I’m like totally cool with gay people.” She says, holding her hand in your general direction as if you were going to grab it. “I’m an ally!”

“Nice,” You nod again. She smiles and nods, sipping her spiked eggnog. She spiked it, and everyone saw. She’ll deny it later.

“They’re clearly lying!” Diana shouts. You were waiting for that; she’d been incredibly silent for most of the dinner. It was only a matter of time. “(Y/n) is jealous that me and Damian clearly have a spark! He’s… he’s messing with Damian’s mind! You saw the way he looked at me at the tree and besides— (Y/n) has had girlfriends before!”

“I’m bisexual.”

“As if! You don't even like Ryan Reynolds and I remember when you were eight and you said you’d date Red Hood if he was a girl!”

“I never said that!” You quickly shout, face heating up as the others around you snicker.

“Yes, you did! You made Nadia make you that Red Hood costume for Halloween and made posters of him! You painted our Nerf guns black! And you said you wanted to marry ‘Girl Red Hood’!”

“No, I didn’t! Oh my god, I didn’t!” You swear, shaking your head.

“You did,” Nadia nods and you cover your face, unable to look at the Wayne’s. “It was clear, in hindsight.”

“So,” Jason slowly nods. “Red Hood was your gay awakening?”

“No! I was not into Red Hood!”

“And then he was fixated on Robin for a while. The one with the swords,” Nadia continues and you almost sob, collapsing in your seat. “He wanted swords and he swore his Robin hoodie for almost two months straight; convinced dad to buy Robin bedsheets.”

“They’re lying,” Your voice is muffled under your hands. Damian rubs your shoulder but you can just tell he’s enjoying this.

“It was so much worse than the Red Hood phase,” Pat slowly agrees. “Is that why you moved here?”

“No, because that never happened.”

“It did,” Your mother slowly agrees. “But you stopped because of…” She trails, looking at your father. The conversation dies there and you’re able to breathe.

“Damian’s not even gay!”

“Diana,” You groan.

“Considering there’s a video going around of them kissing; I’d say he’s pretty gay,” Tim says and you look at him.

“You recorded us kissing?”

“Not me; that’s too weird for me.” He shakes his head, flipping his laptop to show you. “Diana was live and someone screen recorded. You’re trending with the hashtag: stuffing.”

“That’s just crazy,” You snicker but try to be serious.

“Hickeys so soon?” Stephanie wiggles her eyebrows at Damian as she watches the video.

“This is unbecoming,” Damian blinks at the video but everyone can see he’s red in the face. “I demand you stop playing the video.”

“I actually sent it to everyone already.”

“Drake!”

“Tim!”

“What?” He grins, looking between the two of you. “All of us have one— it’s a rite of passage for Bruce’s sort of kids to get caught making out and having it posted.”

—

Dinner wraps up, and you’re in the kitchen with Alfred, putting your leftovers into more Tupperware to avoid… all of them really. He’s washing the dishes, insistent that he does it alone and you let him. He won’t budge on his Thanksgiving dish duties for some odd reason.

You’re finishing up when your phone buzzes and you check it.

Diana :

Mom and dad are yelling at each other because of you. I hope you’re happy.

Just stop pretending you weren’t even bisexual yesterday.

It’s actually really sad.

They’re talking about changing custody because of you, now I won’t be able to see mom or dad EVER again.

Nadia:

I can see Diana texting you

it’s not your fault

you know how they are

and i’m proud that you came out, sorry i didn’t say it earlier

Your family had left in a haste, mostly rushed by your mother and father who climbed into a large uber with the kids and spouse. Your aunt and cousins were driven back by Dick.

You:

thanks, you too, btw

Nadia:

LOLLL maybe one day

you two should come visit us one day, see the farm

damian likes animals, right?

You:

yeah

loves them

She sends you some pictures of animals she’s gotten over the course of a couple years and you smile.

You:

oh he’ll definitely want to see them

maybe during spring break?

Nadia:

sounds perfect. stay safe, ill worry about mom and dad

You:

okay love you

Nadia:

love you too

—

Later that night, everyone is doing a late-night patrol when you hear Jason start speaking.

“Girl Red Hood?”

“They were lying!”

“For Hood’s sake, he better pray that is true.”

#x male reader #x reader #damian al ghul x male reader #damian wayne x you #damian wayne x male reader #damian wayne al ghul #robin x reader #robin x male reader #damian wayne x reader

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madwomansapologist · 9 days ago

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HOW (NOT) TO STEAL HIS GIRL! nanami & gojo

ᰔ synopsis ; what a best way to wish happy birthday to an arrogant alpha than by stealing his pretty little omega from right under his wings? oh, if only satoru couldn't see how good it feels to be yours while also being nanami's. or: trying to cuck nanami ends perfectly wrong.

warnings ; omegaverse, fem!reader, heavy on possessiveness, love confessions, explicit sexual content ft. manhandling, cunnilingus, light degradation, praise, dirty talk, overstimulation, pussydrunk, messy eating, anal, scent kink, spit, hair pulling.

[witness in hindsight]

After class at elementary school, Satoru had a question. And his math teacher, a beta so young his mom referred to as pup, didn’t talk down to him. She gave the correct answer, which got Satoru to ask why.

That’s probably it. One of those small moments that define your life, a banality that places your feet on a different path without you realizing it. A question answered, his intelligence not underestimated. Satoru’s still crossing that same path, the one where he realized he wants to know everything there’s to know.

Satoru never decided for it to be his path. And still, he did. In a hundred ways, at a hundred thresholds. Infinite banal choices accumulating each day. Wherever there was knowledge to be seen, Satoru would always chose to see it.

That’s probably why Satoru was the first to realize Nanami had fallen in love with you.

Satoru blamed boredom. He was distracted and happened to stare at the right place at the right time. Satoru used to blame boredom for everything back then. He knows better now. Satoru simply knew too much not to see it coming.

Nanami doesn’t drink his coffee sweetened. Satoru knows that. Nanami makes coffee as if his tongue and stomach deserved to be punished by it. He’s one of those bastards who think tea and coffee should be bitter like absinthe. A waste of water, Satoru could hear his complaints. You paid for that sugar bomb?

You always lose count of the drops of sweetener. Satoru knows that. Not even you enjoy your own coffee, drinking it all in one big gulp. I could offer you a sip but I don’t hate you, Satoru could hear your excuses. Tomorrow I’ll buy a milkshake instead.

“Itadori, take it easy”, you sighed. Moving towards your desk with a teenager following right behind, your short steps were an attempt at not spilling the coffee you just made. “You’re an intern. When no one gives you anything to do, just hope that luck lasts an entire shift.”

“I want to be helpful”, Yuji tried to argue. “Is there anything you need me to do?”

You sat down and sighed. “I’ll send you a few documents to print, alright?”

Phone hidden beneath his desk to watch Digimon, Satoru’s earbuds stopped working just in time to notice Yuji walking away with a self-fulfilled smile on his face. It’s not that Satoru wasn’t working, exactly. His demands were too simple to keep him busy. Trying to focus on the correct screen, a chuckle made his eyes wander on their own.

Between piles of increasing documents thanks to a chaotic team meeting earlier that morning, Nanami had something that almost resembled a smile on his face. No glasses could hide the dark circles around his eyes though. “Do you need anything printed?”

Blowing the coffee, you shrugged. “That boy isn’t paid enough to be helpful.”

“Definitely”, he said. Nanami fixed his posture, fangs glistening as he spoke. “But is he paid enough to battle against the printer for a while?”

“Oh, honey”, your smile beamed. He doesn’t know how Nanami reacted to it, Satoru was too busy staring at you. “No one is paid enough to do that.”

You hesitated when the mug was about to touch your painted lips. You placed it on his desk, resting your hand on the leather bracelet around Nanami’s wrist. He frowned at you, Satoru isn’t sure if it was because of the coffee or because of the way you touched his scent patch casually. Probably both, considering how stern Nanami is about everything.

“You look like you need it more than I do”, you squeezed it lightly. The golden pendants on your bracelets tinkled. “Tuesdays are quite busy for you, aren’t they?”

(Would a distracted Satoru remember the way your bracelets exposed the lack of a scent patch around your wrists? Or how tight the blue shirt got around Nanami’s forearms? Is it possible for Satoru to be distracted and still remember he wished he too was having a busy Tuesday?

He could’ve used some coffee. Even if it was bad. It being yours would’ve been enough.)

Nanami drank your bad coffee without grunting once. Obviously in love.

It wasn’t surprising. For such an easily irritable alpha to fall in love. Everyone talked about it like it was an unfathomable idea. Whispers about the new flowers on your desk, gossip about his scent lingering on your scarf. Satoru couldn’t help but roll his eyes whenever people figured out the obvious.

You’re calming. Satoru learned that. Somehow, the world grows quieter when you’re around. He thought it was a consequence of your scent. Subtly saline, the sort of perfume that makes him think of water parks and summer holidays. It took him a bad allergy to realize that it’s just you.

You two couldn’t differ more. There’s nothing soothing about Satoru and his never unnoticed presence. Others tend to tense up under his scrutiny. That’s his fault, he admits. Satoru never learned how not to observe others.

“Don’t move, Torukun”, you warned. “If you do, you will die.”

Satoru did as you said, resisting the urge to fix his sunglasses. He heard you moving around him slowly, Satoru assumed it to be your attempt at not making much noise. Others passed by you two, the street growing busier as more workers made their way to the subway.

In front of Satoru, with only half of your face affected by his dark lenses, you stared at something on top of his head. Your fingertips brushed against his hair. What a soft touch. Satoru tried not to laugh at the way you bit your tongue, going cross-eyed as you focused on whatever your task was.

“If you wanted to pet my hair you could’ve just said so.”

You brough your hand down, a leafwing butterfly resting on your finger. He missed the weight of your touch. It seems you’re a witch that can read minds, if the way you held his hand is anything to go by.

“She likes you”, you said, waiting for the butterfly to move to his hand. Admiring the blue brushstroke wings, Satoru felt lighter. Staring at your eyes, his heartbeat was almost deafening. “I can see why.”

That’s when Satoru realized. He doesn’t know why, there’s nothing important about that afternoon. He didn’t even had a good time since poorly seasoned food ruined his mood. The only thing precious about that very minute was that Satoru remembered which word could describe how you made him feel.

That’s love, your nails raked his skin lightly. Satoru stepped back, startling the butterfly. Only then did he notice the street was full of noisy people. What a bother for us.

How can it be surprising? Nanami fell in love with you. Some people are like that, Satoru learned. Easy to love.

Satoru ignored the answer. His teacher didn’t sound correct, so he assumed she wasn’t. Satoru was the only student not to believe her explanation, and it showed on his grade. There it was. Another banality, a curve in his path. Satoru wants to know everything. On his own terms, of course.

That’s probably why he was the last person to realize you had fallen in love with Nanami.

He saw it. On your high heel brushing against his leg underneath the desks. Or the scarves you wear matching his ties. Satoru saw it on your smeared lipstick. When his nose couldn’t get to your scent that easily anymore. On every first comment in your photos, on every hand being held, on every beaming smile in the corner of his eyes.

Satoru saw each public way you shaped your love for Nanami. But he didn’t. Satoru saw no signs at all.

Nanami is stern. He doesn’t laugh, doesn’t smile. He’s tense, never moves like another human being would. Satoru never heard him lie. Not about someone’s new haircut, not about what he feels. It doesn’t matter what he feels, Nanami doesn’t lie about it. Satoru can always count on Nanami’s honesty.

There’s not a soothing bone on his body. Nothing sedative about his presence. It’s impossible not to notice he’s there. Nanami can be as silent as he wants to be, but Satoru always sees him. And he doesn’t tenses up when Satoru looks at him. Never did.

After all, Nanami is already tense by default.

“No”, said Nanami. Again. “Sit down.”

The train made a curve, Satoru leaned on the metal bar and observed Nanami trying his best not to fall. Not even that made Nanami change his mind. Satoru rolled his eyes, gesturing at the vacant seat. “Nanamin, you sit down.”

“Don’t call me that”, he groaned. Nanami fixed his glasses with his left hand, a wise choice considering his right arm was broken and immobilized. “Don’t be a pest, Gojo-kun. Sit down.”

“Who would’ve imagine you to be so proud”, he provoked. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those alphas that are ashamed of feeling pain, Nanamin?”

“I’m not”, Nanami stated, categorically.

Satoru could’ve continued to mess around, but he rather knows Nanami won’t fall and break something else. It physically hurt Satoru not to mention this time he said nothing about Nanamin.

“Can’t you see it’s vacant because no one dares to let an invalid, grumpy man stand when he clearly is having a bad time balancing himself? Sit. Down.”

Nanami sighed. “Invalid?”

“And grumpy”, Satoru added. “Don’t forget that part.”

“Alright. I’m an invalid, grumpy man and I want you to rest.” Nanami didn’t look up from his phone, but his ears were had a soft touch of red. “You look tired, omega. I won’t fall on you.”

It made him wonder how Nanami looks like when he’s putting on effort. Instead of asking for it, Satoru started to go home earlier than usual. This will be easier for us.

Satoru shouldn’t be surprised. That someone like you fell for someone like him. It’s Nanami, after all. Is there a better match for your comfort than his honesty? And still, when tinkling pendants on your bracelets made his eyes wander to the deep bond scars on your inner wrists, Satoru felt something shattering inside his chest.

You and Nanami were off limits now and he’s the only one to blame.

[troublemaker]

Drinking isn’t for him. Satoru blames his sweet tooth for that. He always goes straight for the expensive colorful cocktails, those that conceal the alcohol burn with something sweet. Satoru never notices when he’s getting drunk, only when he’s already about to become a problem for a friend to deal with.

Clubs aren’t his thing. Too much to see, smell, hear. Satoru always thought the fun wasn’t worth the immediate headache. Satoru isn’t sure why he’s sat at the bar, waiting for another drink he chose at random and listening to abhorrently loud music. He remembers how he got there. He’s not that drunk. Satoru just doesn’t remember why.

Was it because of the promotion? It could be. He’ll make more money by doing practically the same thing. Or it could be to distress from the week’s routine. Satoru never enjoyed waking up early. He does it daily, there’s no other option.

Or Satoru simply wanted to get drunk. Not vomiting-drunk or crying-for-no-reason-drunk. That moment just before one gets annoying, when the world is lighter and there’s no reason to worry. When all things that worry you fade away and give space to nothingness.

If it was that, then it worked. He was having a good time. The music was loud, every scent there turned into one: the discomfort kept Satoru from thinking. There was not a single thought inside his head, no feeling taking up space inside his frail heart. It worked until Satoru saw him.

His eyes pierced a blonde head, nape marked with a small bite, a tie beneath it with a leopard print. It could’ve been anyone. Satoru knew it was Nanami. He was the only person there with straight shoulders and an upright posture. Sitting alone in a booth, he was as tense as always.

Satoru remembered what he was trying not to think about.

“Happy birthday”, wished Satoru. What a surprise. Satoru hadn’t realized he sat down beside Nanami until he heard his own voice. “I assumed you to be the type to rather a fancy dinner instead of a night out.”

Facing him, Nanami smiled. “And you’d be correct.”

Swallowing his nerves, Satoru gazed at his rosy lips. That’s not something he’s used to see. Nanami doesn’t smile or laugh or look at him so softly. “Were you forced to come here? I can call the police for you.”

He couldn’t hear the response because of the song. Nanami moved closer, lips near Satoru’s ear. “I’m trying new things tonight, Gojo-kun.”

Nanami also had more than a few drinks. Satoru could smell wine on him. He smelled something else, too. A scent that Nanami used to cover with a patch, one strong enough to stand out even amiss all those awful perfumes. Satoru can’t name what makes it so, but Nanami smells like a loved home.

He noticed a guy or two eyeing Nanami. He understands them. There are few alphas like Nanami. Proper in every sense. Drunk on his scent, Satoru wondered if no one made a move because they assumed he is Nanami’s omega. Would you rejoice knowing he’s keeping what’s yours protected?

“Torukun!”

Faster than his tired eyes could make sense, you find yourself a seat on Nanami’s lap. He placed a hand on your waist, pulling you closer to his chest. Crossing your legs, you gave Nanami a drink and took a sip from yours.

Satoru noticed the open buttons on Nanami’s dress shirt. His tie wasn’t as neat as usual, exposing his neck and part of his chest. You fixed your dress, pulling it down, but it didn’t change the fact your thighs were spilling out of the minidress. And his hand was lower now, long fingers rubbing circles on your soft skin.

You two looked good enough to eat.

“… and congrats for the promotion!”

Satoru hoped his blushing cheeks were concealed by him being a step too far from sobriety. You both smiled, making it harder for him to breathe. How do you two do that?

“What happened to your dress?” Nanami frowned, feeling the fabric on your torso. Satoru blamed him and his hands for being unable to look away from you.

“Someone bumped into me”, you sighed. Moving on his lap, your high heel brushed against Satoru’s leg. “That’s probably beer. Do you think it’ll stain?”

“Don’t worry about it”, said Nanami. His hand didn’t leave your tummy, stroking your skin. Satoru wondered if it was as soft as it looks like. “I’ll wash it for you.”

You kissed his chin. Taking another sip from your drink, you faced Satoru. “Sorry for that”, you leaned towards Satoru to squeeze his hand. He saw the bond marks on your inner wrist again. He wondered how it feels. “I hope I don’t stink.”

Know what. Fuck it. He will only live once, right?

Satoru leaned towards you, shoving his face right into your neck. There are healthier ways to mend his heart. Breathing in, he couldn’t care about any of them. “No, you smell great. Always does.”

Nanami’s grip on waist you got tighter. He didn’t pull you back to him, Satoru noticed. “Don’t tease my omega, Gojo-kun.”

“It’s your birthday, Nanamin”, Satoru smirked. “I thought you wanted to try something new.”

You chuckled. As you and Nanami looked at one another, Satoru felt like you two knew something he didn’t.

You tossed your clutch on the floor. All lights off, the apartment felt darker once Nanami closed the entrance door. Satoru heard your earrings tinkling, his heavy steps as Nanami took off his shoes. He was about to drown in the silence.

A hand found home on his hips. Pulling him by the belt, you made Satoru follow you. Nanami was right behind.

“Have you changed your mind, Torukun?”, you purred.

Satoru held your wrist, pulling you towards him. He couldn’t see anything, but he knew where your chin would be. Fuck. He really pays too much attention to you. “Don’t play with me, pretty girl”, he mumbled. “You’ll hurt my feelings.”

The lights went on. Satoru blinked, realizing he was in your shared bedroom. An open wardrobe showing your clothes organized, a briefcase right beside a purple sneaker. Most of all, he saw you. Eyes locked on his, a gaze too soft for his heart to deal with.

Satoru leaned on, thumb brushing against your painted lips, and something good hit him when he saw your eyes closing. Instead of knowing what you taste like, his scalp burned when Nanami pulled his hair.

“Be polite”, he groaned. “Ask permission.”

Looking at Nanami, he grinned. “Can I fuck your girl, Nanamin?”

Nanami chuckled. He petted Satoru’s head. “Let’s see how that goes.”

He didn’t wait another second to finally devour you. A rough kiss that made you lean on Satoru as he cradled you closer. Your lips were warm, he could taste tequila and lemon. Your touch was warmer, burning through his clothes.

Satoru groped your thighs, lifting you up with no effort. You held onto him and locked your legs around his hips. Satoru moved to your jaw, feeling you painting against his cheeks. What a cute thing he had on his arms. He dropped you on your bed and kneeled on the floor.

“Look at me, angel.” Satoru bit your thigh, mouth full of you. You propped on your elbows, looking at him with a smug smile. He knew Nanami was behind him, watching everything in the armchair at the end of the room. “We both want to see your face. Don’t be shy.”

“Satoru, your voice is annoying me.” You tilted your head, opening the zipper on the side of your minidress. You got out of your dress, placing your legs on his shoulders and pulling him closer. “Give me a reason to look at you.”

Staring at your eyes, Satoru licked you through your blue panties. He spat on it, thumbs rubbing on your clit with little tenderness. He went back at biting your tights, sucking on the skin and licking it better. You squirmed under him, taking deep breaths.

The marks his teeth left on you would take a good while to disappear. Good. Then you both will remember this for longer.

He kissed your panties. Sniffing at it, he winked at you. That made you roll your eyes, though he saw that smile on your lips. Pretty. He sucked on the fabric, drooling all over you. You whined.

“Gojo-kun”, warned Nanami. “Don’t waste her time.”

Satoru turned around to look into his eyes. “Fuck off, Nanamin.”

His lips were on you once more. At every lick you got more desperate. You didn’t ask him to do anything, he figured you wouldn’t want to choose between feeling something good and feeling something better.

Satoru isn’t patient, but sometimes he can pretend to be. He waited until you rolled your hips to give you what you truly wanted. Satoru slide the damp fabric down your legs, forcing your thighs apart. Spreading your pussy with his lips, he smiled.

“Hello, pretty thing. Did I kept you waiting?”

“You’re such an asshole”, you suppressed a moan. Satoru focused on your clit, giving you not a moment to think. He was relentless. His tongue focused on the same place, so fast you had a bad time forming words.

Fingers locked in Satoru’s white strands. It startled him. Satoru didn’t heard Nanami moving or getting closer. He looked up at a hand cupping your cheek, so gentle it made no sense they both belonged to the same person.

“Want me to show him how to treat you better?” Nanami scented the room. It made Satoru feel something weird on his stomach.

Nodding, your eyes were tearing up. “Can you taught him, Kento? Please?”

“My omega doesn’t need to ask for what she wants”, Kento kissed your raw lips. It was deep, intense in a way only intimacy can grant. You stroke his blonde hair, going limp at the way he held you. “Lay down.”

Nanami forced his head towards you. Satoru had no reaction time, all your wetness right on his face. Your slick stained the sheets beneath you. Nanami gave him no time to adjust, moving his head up and down. Satoru held your waist, trying to find some support.

Satoru doesn’t know for how long he was kept like that. A tool for Nanami to handle, a toy for you to get your pleasure. Unable to breathe, his head got lighter as his cock throbbed inside his underwear. He could feel himself leaking on it.

“Ken… F-fuck, love”, you cried out loud. Satoru flinched, your voice going straight to his cock. The legs around his head couldn’t stop shaking. “Shit. Torukun, you learn fast.”

Nanami let go of his hair. All he did was inhale. Licking his lips, Satoru noticed the tears rolling down his face. You crawled on the bed, tapping it to welcome them both.

“See how spoiled she is?” Nanami helped him get up from the floor. His voice wasn’t hasty, touch wasn’t rough. Satoru earned to be treated better. He laid beside you, head still clouded from the lack of air. “That’s how I treat what’s mine. Right, love?”

“You make me so happy, Ken.” Leaving kissed on his neck, you worked on the buttons of Satoru’s shirt. You didn’t had enough patience to help him get out of it, only opened it enough for his skin to be exposed. Caressing his skin, you licked the scent glands on his neck. “Do I make you happy?”

“You made everything that let me to you worth it.”

His face burned. It didn’t felt right. To hear those things, to see the way you two looked at one another. It felt like he was invading something private. Weren’t you two being so mean? Why all that romantic shit just when Satoru was about to forget that’s the first and last time he has you both like that?

You raked your nails on his cock. It barely touched him, but it was enough to get Satoru shaking. “Don’t you want to be loved like this, Torukun?”

Nanami positioned himself between his legs. Satoru spread his ass cheeks, moaning as cold fingers touched his slick. Why is he so sensitive? Why can’t he think like he normally does?

“What about have someone knowing your body that well, huh?” You bit his scent gland. Lightly, just to tease. Satoru whined. He closed his eyes as Nanami prepared him, a finger making him moan like a whore. “To have a lover taking care of you?”

You jerked him off. Soft palm going up and down on his trembling cock. “Can you imagine? Being loved like that?”

“T-that’s mean”, Satoru whispered. “You’re a devil in disguise.”

Nanami opened the zipper of his pants. You bent down, kissing the tip but coming back to focus on Satoru. Comforting? Your smile brings him shivers. “Answer her.”

“I do! I do!” Satoru closed his eyes. Things were happening too fast for him to understand. Your tongue was all over him, but he also tasted wine as it kissed him. He reciprocated the kiss, so intensely he could barely think. “Shit, I do, I do.”

“Will you stop pushing us away?” Nanami whispered against his lips. “You’re not good at hiding your intention. Or your stares. Your touches. The way you breathe in when we’re close.”

“No, I don’t, I wasn’t…”

“No point in lying”, you bit his neck again. Still not hard enough for you two to bond, but enough to get him whining. “That’s your last chance, Satoru. I want you, more than I ever thought I would, but I won’t let you play with my alpha’s feelings. Open your eyes. Look at him. Do you think this handsome man deserves to hear the truth or not?”

Satoru opened his eyes just in time to see Nanami’s cock filling his hole. Nanami was… the prettiest thing he could imagine. Cheeks rosy, eyes feverish, hair a mess and because of his hands. Lips marked because of him. Cock throbbing inside of him.

“I want you”, he admitted. A weight was lifted off his shoulders. For once, he felt like he could breathe in. “I want you both. For so long. I want to belong with you both. I want to have you both.”

You kissed one the right side of his neck, fangs scratching his glands. “Then be polite, Toru. What should you say to him?”

“H-happy birthday”, Satoru blinked a tear away. Fangs grazed over the left side of his neck, too. He smiled. “Happy birthday, Nanamin.”

my promise of smut trapped you into a character study muahahahahaha thanks for reading :3 comments get motivated, so feel free to share your thoughts

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heartyluv · 2 months ago

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Note: As requested, here you go! I hope I’ve done their ending justice in your eyes. The song I’ve attached…literally made my heart hurt in such a good way. Zayne just loves you so much. Have fun!

Creds to @/sweetmelodygraphics for the dividers!

Rating: Explicit - !!Minors DO NOT Interact!!

Warning: Smut, Zayne is still cheating on his wife with you, Mentions of threatening to kill.

Word Count: 4,270

Summary: The happily ever after you and Zayne deserve.

Link to Part One ♡︎

King!Zayne/Servant!Reader - Part 2

Zayne’s strong hands trail up and down your back as you ride him. You grind your hips back and forth to please your aching clit, pulling at his hair as your peak grows closer and closer. With the urge to come, you make him lay back, watching the soft expression of pure pleasure on his face as your hips rise and fall to feel his cock against your fluttering walls.

The soft light of the early morning sun welcomes itself into the room, casting you both in a gentle glow beside the current one you’re naturally producing because of the bliss you’re giving one another. It’s romantic, really. The birds chirp, a gentle breeze flows into the room, and even with a heavy dresser blocking the door to keep anyone from coming into where he and you snuck off after the sun had set last night setting the atmosphere off just a tad, it doesn’t take away from the way you’re feeling.

Alive. How else could one describe this happiness that you haven’t had in so long?

No, you still haven’t left. It’s been almost four months since that night you and the man whimpering your name shared in the dark library. He’s been assuring you for weeks that he’s close to finding a solution, close to giving you and him the life you’ve always wanted together. While you should be ecstatic, you’re nervous. Terrified. Because he won’t share anything with you.

“Just trust me, my love. I’m handling it.”

In all those weeks, you’ve shared secret times together. He’ll pull you into random rooms to ravish you, to bend you over and make you take his load before you leave to carry it in your panties all day. You can’t even begin to count all the times he’s kissed you so desperately when no one was looking, the eyes he gave you when you set his plate down before him, his mother, and his wretched wife.

Even if the sneaking unnerved you, it thrilled you just the same.

“I’m so close…” you breathe as he rests a hand on your hip, feeling his thumb caress your skin. With tinged cheeks, he tugs his bottom lip with his teeth before releasing the soft flesh.

“Come for me, pretty. I’m right behind you,” he moans.

Sex with Zayne has never been something you just do. It’s an otherworldly experience and you’re convinced it’s because of the history you share. You have to bury your face in his neck to suppress your sounds since you’re incapable of keeping them low. So he welcomes you with open arms when you start to kiss his neck, wishing you could suck on his skin to leave your mark.

He holds you tight as you start to shudder against him, your movement slowing as your orgasm rips through you like a monsoon. You nearly drool as you shiver, feeling his cum paint your walls. He pulses within you, kissing your shoulders with so much love while you both settle.

“Mm,” he smooches your chest. “Good morning, isn’t it?”

“Indeed it is,” you hum as you smile. “We did forget our proper greetings earlier, didn’t we?”

“Can you fault us?” he smirks. “We’ll have to be more careful since she returns today. Its best that we satiate this desire as best as we can.”

Zayne’s wife, Hildegard, has been visiting her family for the week. With the excuse that he had dire matters to attend to and since she pays little attention to anything that wasn’t gold or a new dress, she didn’t bat an eye when she got on the carriage and bid him farewell. It works just fine for you. Her lack of care shows she has zero suspicion.

You and Zayne have been having sex like rabbits, unable to stop sneaking off to this one room when the day is done to be with one another. Since she’ll be back, you won’t be able to do this for however long.

“Will you and her still.. you know..?” you ask with uncertainty, afraid of the answer.

He kisses your lips, trailing your cheek with his thumb. “Absolutely not. No one touches your cock, not ever again.”

Your breath hitches at the way he gives you ownership of him. “You do belong to me, hm?” you start to kiss him tenderly, your tongues dancing as he follows your lead, adding intensity.

“Always. Just as much as you are mine.”

Your hips start to gyrate and Zayne uses his strength to flip you over. You still feel the slick between your legs, a mix of his cum and yours in your pussy making you feel like you need him to please you once more. You can’t stop squeezing him, leaving your legs open wide for the only man who will ever be able to see you like this.

“We need to get ready for the day, Zayne” you meekly protest, using his name to make him weak.

“We do,” he agrees. “But I don’t know when I’ll get you like this again. Please your king and let me fill you up again.”

“As you wish,” you whine when you feel him slip out all the way to the tip before gently sinking back in. “Your majesty.”

When you’re finally out of bed and dressed, everything progresses as it typically does. All the royals sit at the table as breakfast is brought out for them to eat after their feast is dished to perfection.

Zayne’s mother, Alice, gives you a warm smile as you set her meal before her. You talked to her briefly a few days after your encounter with her son, to which she admitted that she had a hand in him confronting you. It made you feel good inside to know that she cares about you, even if you’re a servant. You admire her and the respect she has for your mother who dedicated her whole life to serving them.

She never told you how much of yours and Zayne’s relationship that she’s aware of, but all that you understood was that she knew there was something. The fact that she didn’t send you to death for it startled you even more. A servant sleeping with a married royal should’ve had you killed faster than you could blink. But she assured you that she vowed to care for you and that she loved you as if you were her own. To know that she approved of you more than Hildegard was a discovery you never expected. It shook your entire world, and you wondered if you could still end up staying even if Zayne’s attempt to bring you two together, failed.

When you give Zayne his food, you have to behave yourself and not think about the way he made you feel just a few hours ago. You can’t bite your lip, can’t smile, can’t look at him for too long, or your cover will be blown. But when he huffs out a laugh through his nose because of your swiftness, it became nearly impossible to hold yourself together.

Finally, getting ready to give Hildegard her food, you feel the sudden urge to vomit erupt in your throat. But you keep it down, doing your best to rid yourself of the random nauseating coil in your gut. The other servant who works beside you seems to notice you slow down in your efforts, quickly rushing to cover for you and handing Hildegard her dish. But just as quick as she noticed, so did Zayne.

His eyes narrow in concern, watching you without a care about who could be looking at his eyes on you.

“Dear?” Alice voices, her face contorting with worry as she looks over you rapidly. “Are you alright? You suddenly seem to have fallen ill.”

“I’m alright,” you mutter, feeling an increase in your body temperature.

“You are not allowed to get me sick,” Zayne’s wife shoos at you with a hand as if you’re nothing. “Whatever the matter is with you, find somewhere else to experience it.”

“Watch your mouth,” Zayne snaps, anger darkening his irises.

“It’s your wife’s first day of return, and you talk to me that way?” she scoffs, shaking her head. “As your queen, you’d think to treat me with more respect more than you do the help.”

Zayne slams the table, making the cutlery and everyone else in the room jump. “And as king of the entirety of this land, if I command you to mind your tongue, then there should be no further discussion or nonsense falling from your lips. You’ve been told what to do. It’s in your best interest to accept this command, should you wish for me to speak to you with even an ounce of respect.”

That shuts Hildegard up instantly and Zayne and his mother put their attention back on you. Before either of them can utter another word, the dizziness in your mind is stronger than your will to remain upright, and you find yourself collapsing to the floor as it all becomes too incoherent and blurry to understand.

You don’t know when you fell unconscious, but in the time that you did, you’ve been brought to the medical room from the dining hall. You blink away the fuzziness, trying to understand what brought on the dreadful feeling you had.

When you turn your head to the left in the simple bed you lay in, you see Zayne. You’re surprised that he’s here, that as king he’d show such care for a servant girl so publically. He catches your movement, looking swiftly in your direction after staring at the wall for however long.

“You’re awake,” he sighs in relief, running a hand across your hair. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” you answer truthfully this time. “I don’t know what caused this.”

Zayne just stares at you, pressing his lips together. The atmosphere in the room seems to have shifted in a way that concerns you. Your eyes study his body language, trying to understand what’s the matter.

“Zayne?” you call to him gently. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

The way the corner of his mouth tips up gives you hope that everything is fine. His eyes dance with yours before he takes hold of your hand. He brings it to his face, making your soft palm glide against his chiseled jaw. You run your thumb across his bottom lip, a habit you’ve always done that he’ll forever love. It’s silent for a few moments as you give him time, despite your nerves.

“You’re pregnant,” he whispers. “We’re having a baby, love.”

You’re frozen. Everything that could go wrong plays in your mind. You could be shunned for having a child with a king, your child would never know what it feels like to have a purposeful life because of the shame, and worst of all? They’d never have access to their father in the way that they should because there’s no way he’d be able to be present in their life under the circumstances.

You’re not necessarily surprised that you’re pregnant. Zayne has finished inside you several times, but he’s pulled out more than he’s filled your womb with his seed. But all it takes is that one time. You start to think about the fact that you’ve missed your menstrual in the last two months, but you had chalked it up to stress, only because it’s happened before. When Zayne got married, you were so overwhelmed with negative emotions that you were irregular for a whole year.

Dealing with the uncertainty of your relationship, the sneaking around, the worrying—it’s taken its toll on you in these few months. It never came to your mind that you were pregnant.

“Say something,” he begs. “Are you not happy?”

“You are?” you ask with mixed feelings of hope and dreadful doom.

“I am. The only woman I’ve ever wanted carrying my child? A man couldn’t be given a more perfect gift.”

“I want to be happy,” your voice cracks. “But Zayne… you haven’t even figured out how we can stay together. How can you make it so that it is us and this baby? I can’t do this without you…” The tightness in your chest grows.

“You won’t,” he vows, kissing your palm that has now fallen slack against his face, but he still holds you firmly. “This newfound joy has only solidified my decision in what I’ve been contemplating for a while now.”

“Tell me,” you urge, needing some sort of comfort.

“I can’t…But in due time, my sweet. You’ll know. And you may not like it, but it’s the only way. Give me the week and it’ll all be fixed.”

And you had no choice but to listen to him. For an entire week that felt like years, you were put on rest. Zayne would not have you working and neither would his mother. You made Zayne promise not to tell Alice about the baby just yet, not wanting to make her think that there would be a chance at a happy ending or an heir to the throne, as the thought alone was simply foolish.

You were readying yourself in your chambers when a soft knock rapt against the door.

“Come in,” you respond. In enters Alice, smiling at you softly as she shuts the door.

“How have you been, dear?” She takes your hand, holding it between hers.

“I’m much better, your majesty. Thank your for checking.”

She hums, releasing your hand and placing her palm on your belly. “And the baby?”

Your eyes widen. You told Zayne—

“I see that frustration in your eyes,” she chuckles. “My son didn’t tell me, but a mother knows. I presume you’re what, almost three months if you’re not past that already?”

“I’m so sorry…”

“Nonsense,” she shushes you. “You are the greatest gift to my Zayne, making you even more precious to me. And you’re giving me my first grandchild... You’re sacred, young lady.”

“You accept this?”

“You must understand. I am a mother before I am queen. Many people would disagree with that, would say that I should put my royal duties above all personal matters, but even Zayne’s father knew that this kingdom could crumble and it didn’t matter to me, so long as I had my family.” She sighs as she looks into your eyes, her prestigious jewelry glistening in the light with each minor movement.

“I know that this kingdom is more than buildings and gold. It’s people with lives and they depend on people like Zayne to keep it all together. But family is who we have when the day ends, when the sun is set, when the weight of the world feels a little too much. At least, that’s what it should be. My reasoning in saying all of this to you is because I need you to grasp that you, Zayne, and this child… you are my family, you are my reasoning. Just like you and Zayne are each other’s purpose. We stick toghether, no matter what. Is that alright with you?”

Your nose burns as tears prickle in your eyes. You can’t help yourself and wrap your arms around her tightly, inhaling her familiar scent that has brought you so much comfort as long as you’ve been here. She’s always been like a second mother to you, and now she’s you’re only. You won’t take that for granted.

“Thank you so much,” you mumble. “It’s more than alright.”

“Perfect,” she runs her hand down your back. “And you must get ready. Zayne is giving an announcement to the kingdom today. He’ll deliver his speech above the courtyard on the grand balcony.”

You pull back with a raised brow, wiping away the stray tears. “Is everything alright?”

She gently holds your face in her hands. “It will be.”

When you make your way to the balcony, you watch with unbridled nerves as the servants help make sure Zayne and Hildegard are ready to be seen. He looks at you once, winking briefly. You smile, but you wonder why he didn’t tell you that he was announcing anything today.

Still, of course you trust him. You stand in the back along with other servants and Zayne’s mother as the steward announces the “couple” before they step forward.

Everyone erupts in excitement, curious about what the king has to say since he’s only done announcements like this twice.

“It is delightful to see every single one of you, and I sincerely thank you all for making it a point to be present for this important day in history,” Zayne says with a raised voice so that he is heard.

“When I became king, the only thing I wanted to ensure was that I gave you all the same level of leadership that my father, his father, and all before him, gave you and your offspring during their reign. And it’s because of the level of respect and loyalty you’ve all shown me, that I believe I’ve succeeded in doing my part. But,” he grows silent for a few seconds. “It is with a heavy heart that I make it known that I am stepping down from the throne and as your ruler.”

Everyone collectively gasps. Hildegard snaps her head toward Zayne as if this is new information to her and when you look at Zayne‘s mother, she’s unfazed.

“The woman that I love is pregnant with my child. And no, she is not Lady Hildegard,” Zayne adds, and chills run down your spine. What is he doing?

“The woman I want to spend my life with has been apart of it since I was a child. I married Hildegard to create something that would benefit you all and your family for generations to come, but all it has done is destroy me. What good of a king can I be if I lose myself?”

“She is not of royal blood at all, and I have no shame in that. But in order to keep the alliance, it is best to merge the north and this kingdom together. In order to do that, there will be a proper transition of power between Hildegard and myself.”

Zayne could’ve simply divorced his wife whenever he pleased, but because he wanted to keep a promising future for his land and its people, he couldn’t dissolve the bond he married into. Even if he wanted you, till the end, he’d always be a worthy king.

“No!” shouts someone from the crowd.

“We object your ruling, sire!”

“We do not want an outsider ruling our land!”

Zayne’s eyebrows furrow with confusion. What are they saying?

One of the blacksmiths, a burly man, steps forward so that he’s seen and heard. “The people do not care about your marital affairs! We clearly understand that you wed Lady Hildegard for us, but your majesty, we have thrived as long as we have because of you and the rule of your family! Not because of some other kingdom we have no interest.”

An elderly lady steps forward next, her voice powerful. “We were well before the alliance was made with the north and we’ll be fine without it! You, the woman you want, and even your mother, have decades to lead us until we find the right solution! We want you as our king!”

Zayne’s mother looks at you with shock at the disapproval of her son stepping down from the throne. You can only think that the reason she spoke to you before this was because Zayne discussed his plan with her before he delivered it, but she’s thrown off by the response, not expecting such a thing.

“Have you gone mad!?” Hildegard shouts. “You’ve violated our marriage and you dare to try and get rid of me? Embarrass me in front of everyone?!”

She roughly turns around, her eyes finding you.

“It’s her, isn’t it? This pitiful excuse of a human!? The one you shouted at me over? I’ll kill her. I’ll kill her and that bastard child!” She goes to charge at you, but Zayne’s mother steps in front of you, making Hildegard halt.

“Remove her,” Zayne’s mother speaks, making guards move swiftly to grab the woman throwing a tantrum.

“Your land is nothing without the north! You and these people will suffer!” she shouts as she’s dragged away.

Zayne is so stunned by the loyalty of the people, of the events occurring in front of him, that he looks to you for comfort—like when you were kids. You can’t care anymore, rushing to him, to hold him in your arms. Behind you, everyone cheers as he swoops you up.

“You were going to dethrone yourself for me..?”

“For us,” he clarifies. “No title is worth being without you or my family. It never will be. But it seems I don’t have to choose.”

“This was your solution.”

He nods. “It was the best way for us to get what we want while I still uphold my anticipated final duties.”

“Marry her already so we can get back to work!” shouts someone else, making everyone laugh and eases the tension.

“Will you, my love?” He kisses your lips, happy to be able to now love you so openly. “Will you marry me?”

“Oh, Zayne,” your lip quivers. “I couldn’t dream of doing anything else. Yes, yes I’ll marry you!”

He slams his lips onto yours, holding you as close as he can while everyone claps in excitement. He never expected them to have his back the way they did, but now that he understands the bond, he’ll never do anything to break it. They value him and he intends to show them how mutual it is.

Six Years Later

“Papa, mama, look! It’s another butterfly!” your daughter Leila exclaims as you all sit on a large quilt in the kingdom’s garden. It’s her birthday today and before you brought her into town for her annual shopping event, she said she wanted a pretty picnic.

Be careful, love,” you frown when she stumbles over her little feet, determined to get the white butterfly to land on her nose like one had done earlier. Her ponytail swings back and forth as she runs, her dress trying to catch up with her as it catches the wind.

Zayne chuckles, watching his little girl that’s a perfect mix of you both. He runs his hand across your belly gently, admiring how it grows your second child. You look over at him, leaning in to kiss his lips tenderly. He slides his hand behind your neck, intensifying the exchange.

After that day, Zayne divorced Hildegard immediately. He married you a week later, celebrating in town with all the people. You were their queen now, so it was a lot of joy to go around. Their loyalty made him realize that they are just as much of a family to him as the one he’s created with you. It’s become more of a habit for him to celebrate things with them, something they were more than happy to see.

Surprisingly enough, Hildegard’s father who ruled with an iron fist, still wanted to maintain the alliance despite Zayne divorcing his daughter and his infidelity. He admitted that he’s seen too much growth within his land and pockets to let go of it. He’s an example of a king who put his kingdom above personal things, something that could be admirable and distasteful all at once.

Everything just worked out so well, and you always feel like it’s a daydream, a miracle you never thought you’d be granted.

“Ew, papa!” Leila covers her eyes, making you smile as Zayne continues to kiss you for just a little more before he pulls back.

“Papa is ew, isn’t he?” you joke, making Zayne do nothing but admire you.

“Mama, can I hear my baby brother?” your daughter pouts cutely, something she’s grown to use to get what she wants.

“Of course, princess.” You open your arms as she kneels before you to rest her head softly on your stomach. Her and Zayne are convinced it’s a boy.

“He’s getting big, isn’t he?” Zayne adds as he runs his hand down Leila’s hair.

You nod as she sings a little song and tells the baby in your stomach that it’s her birthday today. Soon, Alice appears, walking toward you all.

“Grandma! Shhh, my brother is sleeping!”

Alice simply shakes her head with a smile. “The carriage is ready for us to make our way when you’re ready.”

“Go with your grandmother, sweetie. Let me help your mother,” Zayne asks. Leila rushes up, but not before kissing your belly. She takes Alice’s hand and you both watch them walk away.

“Wanted you for myself for a minute,” he whispers, kissing your neck. “I love you, terribly. You know that?”

“I do,” you bite your lip when he licks your skin. “We share the same notion, your majesty,” you tease.

He smirks. “I’ll shall see how true that is tonight. If you can take me.”

Your cunt clenches around nothing, wishing you were full of him right now. “I’ll never turn down something so delightful.”

“Good.” He stands, helping you up before folding the quilt and gathering everything else. “Shall we?”

You take his outstretched hand and you both make your way to continue the life you’ve been graced with. You’ve never been so happy in your life and you know that as long as you have your family, nothing could ever strip you from it. With them beside you, you’ll always be complete.

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@alyssac9 @dramaticalsachan

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