#it was impossible for me to fall in love with | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

joemama-2 · 3 days ago

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"are you the fairy?"

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: You meet Gojo Satoru in a place untouched by time, where his laughter rings through empty streets and his hands chase yours like a promise he fully intends to keep. He is younger, reckless with his love, blind to the weight of the years that separate you—years that have taught you that love is not always meant to be kept. You let yourself have him anyway, knowing all the while that his future is stretching toward a horizon you cannot follow. When the time comes, you do what must be done—let him free.

wc: 7.3k

tags/warnings: angst, eventual comfort, suggestive content, older! reader, dividers by @/cafekitsune, HOPEFULLY PROOFREAD ENOUGH :(

Aging. A fear most people have. The fear of growing old, growing weaker, needing others to rely on for simple tasks, no longer being in your ‘prime’, and of course—the grey hairs. While it can be argued that aging is a natural, human process; it can also be argued that no one ever really wants to grow old. No one wants to see everything they knew and loved vanish before their own two deteriorating eyes, no one wants to become just a distant memory. But no one wants to be immortal either. It’s a weird push and pull, leaving humans with only one choice: enjoy it while it lasts, and make the most of your life.

And so, that’s what you have been doing.

Graduating, getting a nice paying job, having a good place, traveling the world, making a name for yourself, being…happy. Sure, you’ve made friends and connections, but none of those amount to being in the peaceful solitude of your lonesome. You’ve faced adversaries in your life, and you’ve overcome them—that’s what making the most out of your life means. But you know what doesn’t fall under that category?

Allowing yourself to fall in love with a man almost two decades younger than you.

But with life comes spontaneous events, debating the pros and cons and wondering the ‘what ifs’.

And what if—against all logic, against every carefully laid plan—you let yourself have him? What if you ignore the whispers in your mind that warn of fleeting youth, of inevitable goodbyes, of the cruel march of time that will leave you grasping at something you were never meant to keep? Gojo Satoru is reckless in his affection, undeterred by the years between you, pressing himself into your life with an audacity that makes it impossible to push him away. He tells you that love doesn’t care for numbers, that age is nothing more than an arbitrary construct, and when he looks at you with that unwavering gaze, you almost believe him.

Almost.

You’re forty-five when you meet him, he’s nothing but a young and adventurous thirty-year-old. You remember being thirty.

“Are you from here?” you asked, resting your palm against your cheek. The coldness of the bar’s countertop sits underneath your elbow—you regard him with a curious gaze. The first thing you noticed was the pretty eyes he had. The next was his smile—that handsome smile that was doing weird things to your heart. You remember your late husband smiling at you like that every day, every chance he got. Your lip quirks up.

“No, I’m from Japan,” he replies smoothly, jutting his chin in your direction. “And you?”

You tell him.

“Oh, that’s nice. So, what are you doing all the way here?”

“Vacation.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Pretty well. Italy is beautiful.”

“Almost as beautiful as you.”

A cheesy pick-up line you’re more than accustomed to. You save his awkwardness with a small laugh, eyebrow raising. “Thank you,” you glance down at the dark liquid in your cup, swirling its contents. “Though you aren’t the first to tell me that.”

The words hang in the air between you, thick with the weight of history you’ve long since buried. It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? To be flattered but not fooled, to hear compliments that once would have made your heart race but now only bring a faint ache, like a ghost brushing past your skin. You didn’t expect to be here, sitting in this foreign bar, in this foreign city, drinking away the remnants of a life you thought you’d left behind—no more waiting for a man to come home, no more running on borrowed time. And yet, here he is, his smile still holding the weight of something undeniably fresh, something he hasn’t yet had time to tarnish with the passing years.

He chuckles, and it’s sincere. Like he knows how to handle this situation and like he’s done it a hundred times before—charming the older woman, never realizing the danger he’s flirting with. You can’t help but notice how easily he fits into this moment, how the energy between you feels almost too comfortable for something so unexpected. His youth, his vitality—it’s intoxicating, and yet, you know it’s only a matter of time before you have to draw the line, to remind yourself that he’s playing with something far more fragile than he understands.

You meet his eyes again, and for a second, you let yourself indulge. He’s not just handsome; he’s magnetic. And though you’ve seen his type before—young, reckless, full of life—there’s something different about him. It’s that smile, that easy confidence as if the world is nothing but a playground for him to conquer. Your heart stirs involuntarily, the edges of something you thought was long gone starting to flutter back to life.

"So, do you always travel alone?" you ask, your voice a little softer now, more curious than before.

His grin widens, pleased by the shift in your tone. “Not usually, but this time I decided to take some time for myself. I needed a change of scenery.” He leans in a little, dropping his voice to something almost conspiratorial. "It's nice to get away from it all, you know? To meet people who don't know your story."

The irony of his words doesn’t escape you. Here you are, a stranger in a new city, with a lifetime of stories you no longer tell, and yet, his openness makes you feel like you’re both speaking the same unspoken language. You could tell him everything, share the years of love and loss, of heartache and healing, but you don’t. You keep it hidden, tucked away where only time and memory can touch it.

“That sounds familiar,” you say quietly, glancing down at your glass again. Your fingers trace the rim absently. “Sometimes it's the only way to find peace." You don’t know why you’re telling him this. It’s not as though you’ve shared your soul with a stranger in a bar before. But there’s something about the way he looks at you, something open and unafraid, that makes you think—just for a moment—that maybe this conversation, this meeting, isn’t entirely by chance. Something you haven’t felt in…a long time.

“Do you usually travel alone?”

You hum. “I do now.”

“Why now?”

“Because my husband doesn’t come along with me anymore.”

“Oh, yeah? And why’s that?” He sips from his own cup, but when he puts it back down, its fizziness tells you it’s just coke.

You take a moment to reply, unsure if you should trauma dump on a stranger. But he did ask. “Because he’s dead,” you simply comment, leaning back in your stool and gauging his reaction.

But he doesn’t show a face of surprise or a face of regret. He doesn’t offer his unwanted apology. He nods, humming softly in thought. But his eyes change—and you think for a second that it looks like a silent sense of understanding—like he’s lost someone too before. “And what was his name?”

Your cheeks pinch up, smile widening in fondness. Looking down at your left hand that once housed a beautiful, golden ring. “Masamichi.”

There’s a stillness in the air for a second, the kind that doesn’t feel heavy but rather reverent, as if time itself paused to acknowledge the weight of your words. You look at him through the corner of your eye, seeing how his gaze softens—not with pity, but with something deeper, something far more intimate. It’s the kind of understanding that doesn’t come from words, but from shared experiences, and you’re struck by the thought that perhaps, in some quiet corner of his heart, he knows what it’s like to lose the love of your life.

He doesn’t speak for a while, but there’s something in the way he leans forward that tells you he’s listening in a way that feels different than the usual casual conversations you’ve had with strangers. His eyes are fixed on you, almost as though he’s waiting for you to continue, to say something more, but he doesn’t push. He waits—patiently, and respectfully. "Masamichi," he repeats the name softly, as if he’s testing it on his tongue as if it’s a secret he’s now been entrusted with. “That’s a really cool name, sounds like he was a hardass.”

You chuckle lightly and nod, not trusting yourself to speak again for a moment, swallowing the lump in your throat. “He was, but he had his moments.”

“When were those?”

“When he’d call me pretty names.”

“Like?”

You bite your lip, smile wavering a bit as you recount ever beautiful name he used to call you. One always stuck out. “Well, he used to call me a fairy.”

He chuffs. “Why a fairy?”

"He told me I was delicate, elusive, like something too beautiful to be real. He used to say I’d flown in from some distant place, where the sky was always clear and the air was always fresh." The words feel like they’ve drifted in from a different lifetime, a time when love was a constant companion, not a faint, distant echo. You tilt your head, the corners of your mouth turning up. "I think he liked that idea, that I wasn’t tied down to anything—just... floating through life, free. He said I made him believe in things he never thought possible."

His gaze softens as he watches you, leaning a little closer now as if drawn into the quiet weight of your story. "That’s beautiful," he says, his voice low, almost reverent. "It sounds like he saw you in a way no one else could."

You nod, the memory of his warm words filling the space between you. "He did. And sometimes... sometimes I felt like I was a fairy, too. Like I didn’t really belong to this world. But when he called me that, it made me feel like I was meant to be somewhere, meant to be his." A quiet moment hangs between you, the air heavy with the soft intimacy of shared vulnerability. You meet his eyes, feeling an unexpected connection—the kind of unspoken understanding that can only exist between people who have known the depths of love and loss.

Then, just as you’re about to pull back, he asks, with a gentle curiosity, “Do you still believe in fairies?”

You blink at him, a little taken aback. The question seems simple enough. You shrug, half in amusement, half in disbelief. "I don't know if I believe in them, but... I like to think that maybe they’re real, in some way. In the things we can’t see, in the moments that take our breath away."

His eyes seem to light up, almost as if he’s surprised by your answer. There’s a long beat of silence before his lips curl into a smile that reaches his eyes. "Maybe you’re still a fairy, then," he says, voice warm with something like wonder.

You shake your head. "Yeah, maybe."

The words hang between you, filled with something gentle, something fleeting but real. You feel the stirrings of a connection, fragile and unexpected, like the wingbeats of a fairy. There’s a hollow space in your chest where his memory used to sit, and it takes everything in you not to let it show, not to let the quiet ache spill over. The ring on your finger is long gone, but the phantom of it lingers—an unspoken promise that can never be fulfilled, a history you no longer share with anyone. “What about you?” You shift the conversation, trying to keep the tears at bay, trying to pull yourself back from the edge of vulnerability you’re teetering on. “Do you have someone, someone you’ve loved the way you were loved?”

His smile falters a tad, a flash of something—pain, perhaps, or nostalgia—passing through his eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the easy grin you’ve already grown accustomed to—the one that doesn’t let anyone get too close. But the silence that follows speaks volumes, and you almost feel like you’ve crossed some invisible line. Fearing that you’ve peeked into a part of him he didn’t mean nor want to reveal. "I did," he says quietly, almost to himself, the words hanging between you both like a secret. “But sometimes, we love people in ways they can’t love us back.”

The weight of his words sits heavily in the space between you. It’s raw, vulnerable in a way that contradicts his earlier bravado, and you find yourself wondering how much more of him there is behind that smile, behind the charming facade. In that moment, you see something that mirrors your own grief, your own loneliness, and it’s unsettling. “Is she still around?”

“He’s not,” he shakes his head.

You take a sip from your glass, the sharp bitterness of the alcohol grounding you, and give him a small, knowing smile. “Well, I suppose we all have our stories.”

His eyes lock onto yours for a long, unspoken moment. You wonder if this is one of those rare moments in life where people truly see each other—not just for the faces they wear, but for what’s buried beneath. What they carry in the silence. “I think you’re right,” he finally says, his voice soft, but there’s an edge to it now, a quiet tenderness that wasn’t there before. "But not everyone’s story is meant to be told in one night."

Your heart flutters for a reason you can’t quite place, and for the first time in a long while, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, fate isn’t as cruel as it’s always seemed. Maybe, in this strange twist of events, you weren’t meant to run away from the past after all—but to face it, alongside someone who understands what it’s like to love and lose.

“I’m too old for you,” you laugh off his subtle suggestion, looking over to the opposite corner of the small, dim-lit bar. There are two girls sitting at the booth with obviously wandering eyes toward your new, unexpected companion. “Maybe them.”

He follows your gaze, his eyes flickering briefly to the two girls in the corner, before turning back to you with that signature, easy grin—unchanged, unaffected. The playfulness in his smile doesn’t reach the depths of his eyes, though. You wonder if he’s seeing something entirely different than the charming stranger you’ve made him out to be. You can feel the shift, subtle but undeniable, as if he’s testing the waters of your words, gauging how much of this is just casual banter and how much of it has an undercurrent you aren’t ready to acknowledge.

"Maybe," he replies, leaning back slightly, but there’s a glint of something else in his expression now, something that makes the air between you feel heavier. "But you know, I’m kind of having some fun with you right now." His voice drops, a playful edge softening into something more serious, and it makes you wonder if he’s teasing or if there’s something deeper in his intentions that hasn’t fully revealed itself yet.

“I don’t think we’re having fun.”

“Then what are we having.”

“A simple conversation, nothing more, nothing less.”

He chuckles, leaning closer and tilting his head towards you. “Just how old do you think I am?”

You meet his gaze, noticing a small twinkle. Your eyes move down, analyzing his features. He lets you do so in an untimely manner and when he sees that you’re looking lower at his arms, he playfully flexes. An amused snort that almost sounds like a scoff leaves your lips. “Young enough to be my son.”

“Do you have children?”

“And if I do?”

“Then that’s even better because I love MILFS.”

You scoff for real this time, eyes narrowing at him. “I don’t, but what you just said further proves my point.”

The air between you both shifts, like a quiet storm brewing, though neither of you is quite ready to acknowledge it. His words hang there, an almost careless suggestion laced with mischief, but they are impossible to ignore. You try to brush it off, laugh it off, but something about the way he leans in—his proximity, the way his gaze never wavers from yours—makes it harder than it should be. There’s something in his demeanor that says he’s not just playing, not just following the familiar rhythm of flirty banter. It feels like he’s pushing against the boundaries you’ve set, testing them in a way that catches you off guard.

He watches your every reaction carefully, his smile just a little too knowing, a little too calculated for someone so young. You can feel the heat of his gaze as it lingers, catching you off guard in a way that leaves your words hanging in your throat. His comment about MILFs—joking or not—makes your skin prickle uncomfortably, and for a second, you wonder if he’s being more sincere than you care to admit. But you can’t show it, not when you’ve already drawn the line, already told yourself this was just a fleeting moment in an unfamiliar place.

You clear your throat, trying to bring the conversation back to familiar ground, but the awkwardness lingers. “I’m sure you have better things to do than sit here with a woman who could be your mother.”

“Maybe I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be,” he says, the playful edge in his voice softened by something deeper. There’s a sudden, subtle weight to his words, as though he’s no longer speaking just to entertain or to flirt, but to convey something more. It’s fleeting, but it’s there, and it catches you off guard. His eyes meet yours, steady and unwavering. The playful front cracks, revealing a hint of something you can’t quite name.

You shift uncomfortably, your thoughts creeping in again. "Well, you’ll find plenty of people who can keep you entertained around here." You gesture vaguely to the bar, the people milling about, the noise, the chatter. "I’m not the one you’re looking for."

His expression dampens. “Maybe you’re right. But maybe I’m just looking for someone who sees me, you know?”

The words hit you harder than they should, a soft pressure in your chest that you quickly try to dismiss. What is he saying? He doesn’t know you, yet he’s almost acting like he does. "I see you," you respond, your voice quieter than before, the weight of the statement hanging between you both like a truth neither of you is willing to face.

He doesn’t say anything right away, but his eyes darken, the smile fading into something more thoughtful, more introspective. You begin to think he might say something that cuts through all the barriers you’ve put up, something that challenges the notion that this is just a casual encounter between strangers. But instead, he shifts in his seat, taking another long sip of his drink. “I don’t know if you do,” he finally says, his voice lower now, the playful lilt gone.

When he puts his drink down, you blame it on the alcohol from the way your skin flushes in a girlish way as he leans in—his breath fanning your ear. You also blame it on the alcohol when you’re reciprocating his advances, meeting his stare with an equally heated one of your own. And finally, you blame it on the alcohol when you tilt your head to whisper something in his ear.

“Do you want me to look harder?”

That was the first night you went home with him—the first night you indulged in the warmth and pleasure a man—Satoru—can bring you. And even after sharing your ages, that never stopped. It somehow…never stopped you either. You found yourself giving in—almost craving the way his hands grip your hips, the way his slim and long fingers dance along your ribs in a soft manner.

You didn’t expect yourself to be falling over the edge, finishing on just the tongue of a man younger than you. You always prided yourself on wanting—needing—an older man. And god, you were really missing out, weren’t you?

But it wasn’t just the way he touched you, the way his mouth knew exactly how to undo you piece by piece—it was the way he looked at you. Like you were something untouchable, yet here he was, holding you, ruining you, worshipping you in ways you hadn’t let anyone do in years.

It was intoxicating.

You told yourself it was just a fling, something fleeting, something fun. A vacation romance, a secret indulgence that you’d tuck away once you boarded your plane back home. But Satoru wasn’t the kind of man you could forget easily. His touch lingered, his voice echoed, and before you even realized it, you were answering his calls. Responding to his texts. Finding yourself in his arms again, even when you swore it would be the last time. You found yourself smiling at him when you believed he wasn’t looking, stifling a peal of laughter at his stupid jokes that he only said so he could see the way your eyes crinkle at the edges—you were finding comfort in him.

A warm, tentative comfort that only one other man had brought you before.

There were times you felt guilty, believing you were still bound to your late husband even in death, and at times—you almost compared the two. However, you know Masamichi would’ve wanted you to move on and care for yourself in ways he couldn’t do anymore. He would’ve smiled and encouraged you to find pleasure in your life.

And you did.

Because somewhere between those nights tangled in silk sheets and the hushed laughter over shared meals, you forgot to remind yourself of the one thing that mattered most: this was never meant to last.

But at the same time, you almost didn’t want it to end. You enjoyed the way he kissed your knuckles, moved strands of hair out your face, and complimented you when you felt at your lowest. He was seeing every part of you—the good and the bad, the pretty and the ugly. You were letting him.

One night, after a particularly passionate session, he’s running his fingers along the curve of your spine. Naked bodies huddled next to one another, and the sheets offer a nice little coverup. The moonlight peeks through his blinds, the plush mattress sinking further underneath your weights. He kisses the top of your head softly before moving to your temple. Once again, you’re smiling. Tracing mindless circles on his bare chest, your foot rubbing up and down his calf. No words are spoken, there usually aren’t. But the silence doesn’t feel deafening; it feels comfortable. You found yourself snuggling closer to him. “Satoru?”

“Mhm?” he hummed back, sighing lightly, his smile never wavering.

“Where do you…see yourself in ten years?”

He hums again, this time in thought, his fingers never ceasing their lazy tracing along your spine. You feel the way his chest rises and falls beneath your palm, steady and unhurried. You wonder if he’s really thinking about your question, or if he’s simply enjoying the feel of you against him. “In ten years?” he finally repeats, voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might break the fragile moment. “I don’t know…Happy, I guess. Settled down; I’d like to have kids by then.”

Your fingers pause against his chest. You don’t know why, but his answer catches you off guard. Not because it’s shocking—he’s young, full of life, full of potential—but because it’s something you’ve stopped thinking about for yourself. “Kids?” you echo, tilting your head up to look at him. His pale lashes flutter slightly as he meets your gaze, and there’s something soft in his expression, something almost wistful.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, a small chuckle escaping him. “A couple of ‘em, maybe. A little girl who’s just as stubborn as me, a boy who’s just as curious. Someone to pass everything down to, y’know?” His hand moves from your back, up to your hair, fingers threading through the strands as he exhales. “I think I’d be a good dad.”

You don’t doubt that. Satoru is many things—annoying, arrogant, childish at times—but he’s also deeply caring. He loves with his whole heart, even when he pretends he doesn’t. You can see him being the kind of father who carries his child on his shoulders, who spoils them with sweets, who makes bad dad jokes just to hear their laughter.

And yet, you can’t bring yourself to say that out loud. Instead, you settle for a noncommittal hum, lowering your head back onto his chest, letting the weight of his words settle between you. Ten years from now, he’ll have a family. He’ll have everything he wants. And you won’t be part of it.

That’s when reality hit for you. You’re holding him back. You can’t give him what he wants, what he longs for. It’s a bittersweet, brutal reminder that this little world you’ve built was only meant to be temporary. That the laughs, touches, kisses, the sex, it’s fickle. You’ve blinded yourself and let yourself sink too far deep to understand that what Satoru wants…he can’t experience with you.

And so, it started small. Days spent out with him, your eyes would flicker around, moving from one woman to the next. Pointing them out to him in an encouraging way.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” “Maybe you should go ask for her number.”

“You’re both tall, you would go well together.”

It honestly hurt to push him away—to open his eyes to the other fish in the sea while a small part of you wished he could only be yours. But you’d never ask him to stop following his dreams of becoming a family man for your own selfish desires.

At the start, he humors you. Rolls his eyes, scoffs, plays along like it’s just another one of your little jokes. “She’s alright, I guess,” he shrugs when you point out a woman at the café, her long legs crossed elegantly as she sips on a cappuccino. “But I prefer my women a little more…experienced.” He flashes you that cocky grin, the one that always makes your stomach flutter.

You laugh, but it’s forced. You ignore the way your chest tightens, the way your fingers twitch with the urge to reach for him. But then you do it again. And again. And again.

It doesn’t take him long to catch on.

One evening, when you offhandedly comment on the cute waitress who just served your drinks, something shifts in his expression. His smile dims, his fingers drum idly against the table. “Y’know,” he says, tone too casual, too light. “You’ve been doing this a lot lately.”

You feign ignorance, sipping your wine. “Doing what?”

“Trying to set me up like some kind of matchmaking service.” He leans forward, elbows on the table, gaze sharp. “You got tired of me already?”

You force back a sigh. The way he says it—half-joking, half-serious—makes your stomach twist. “Satoru—”

“No, really,” he cuts in smoothly, tilting his head. “Is that what this is? You pushing me away? Guilt-tripping me into realizing you’re too old for me or whatever bullshit you’ve been telling yourself?”

Your fingers clench around the stem of your glass. He sees right through you. You swallow, trying to keep your voice even. “I’m just trying to look out for you.”

His laugh is sharp, humorless. “Looking out for me?” He leans back, stretching his arms along the booth. “Or making decisions for me?”

You hate how much that stings. You hate how right he is.

“I just…” You exhale, setting your glass down. “I just don’t want to hold you back, Satoru.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes search yours, and for a moment, you think he’s going to argue. You think he’s going to tell you you’re being ridiculous, that he wants you, that he doesn’t care about the future you keep running from.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re really that convinced this can’t work, huh?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

His lips press into a thin line. He nods once, slow and deliberate. “Alright,” he mutters, reaching for his drink. “Message received.”

And just like that, the air between you shifts.

Colder.

More distant.

Like the beginning of the end.

Your heart drops, looking back down at your wine. For a second, you felt like you ruined things. But it’s better to nip things in the bud than let them bloom, is it not?

Even after that, he was still adamant about seeing you. You let him, deciding to relish in these last few tender moments you may have with him. The sun was shining and beaming down on you two as you ate your brunch. It was a pleasant day. She was beautiful—the kind of beautiful that made you wonder how someone like her could even exist in this world. The type of beautiful that turned heads and left impressions. The type that had Satoru slowly following her with his eyes. You tell yourself this is a good thing. That this is what you wanted. That you should feel relieved that, finally, he’s looking at someone else the way he shouldn’t be looking at you.

But it doesn’t feel like a relief. It feels like a knife twisting in your gut.

You lift your mimosa to your lips, taking a slow sip, pretending you don’t notice the way his gaze lingers on her. She’s stunning—long legs, flawless skin, a radiant smile that could stop anyone in their tracks, and long black hair. She looks like she belongs in a magazine, not in a small café, laughing at something her friend just said.

You force yourself to smile. “She’s exactly your type.”

Satoru’s attention snaps back to you, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. He blinks, then exhales a laugh, shaking his head. “You really don’t quit, do you?”

You tilt your head, feigning confusion. “I’m just saying, you should talk to her.”

He scoffs, pushing his fork around his plate. “Yeah? And then what?”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

Satoru sets his silverware down with a quiet clink, resting his arms on the table. “Let’s say I go up to her. Get her number. Take her on a date.” He shrugs, giving you a half-smile. “Then what? I sleep with her? Take her on more dates? Marry her?”

You stare at him, not sure where this is going.

“And then we have kids,” he continues, his tone light, but his eyes—his eyes are sharp, cutting right through you. “That’s what you want, right? For me to find someone younger, someone who can give me the future I want.”

Your throat tightens.

He leans forward, resting his chin on his palm. “So, tell me something.” His voice drops, softer now, almost vulnerable. “If I wanted all of that with someone else, don’t you think I’d already be doing it?”

Your breath catches.

He waits.

But you don’t have an answer.

All you can do is encourage him to go up to her.

And he did.

He was reluctant, of course. Only doing it to shut you up.

But you saw the way his expression softened, the way his dimples poked out when he’d talk about her. You were there on the side, watching what he once thought would be a simple meeting, to finding a woman he’d started to fall for.

It was like watching a slow-moving car crash—one you orchestrated with your own hands. You had done this. You had led him to her, pushed him in her direction, knowing full well what it would mean. And yet, knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.

The texts started. Little mentions of her here and there. You caught the way his face lit up in a way you hadn’t seen before, the way he spoke about her with that quiet sort of wonder like he was trying to piece together a puzzle he never expected to solve. You were still a part of his life, still, someone he made time for, but something between you had shifted irreversibly. The stolen moments, the lingering touches, the whispered confessions under moonlit sheets—they grew fewer and further between, replaced by something… distant.

She was such a kind and lovely woman, her voice made of butter when she spoke to you about him. And when you caught him smiling at his phone one evening, thumb idly tapping out a message to her, you knew.

He had found what you wanted for him. What he deserved. What you couldn’t give him.

So why did it feel like you were the one being left behind?

“Are you happy?” you had whispered, holding him tight in a hug, eyes beginning to water.

He held you back, arms secure around your waist. His icy hair tickled your skin, and he planted a soft, reverent kiss on your cheek. Pulling back to look at you, he didn’t have that fiery, teasing sparkle in his eyes like usual. No, this time, all that was there was just…him. Just Satoru.

“I am,” he had said with a genuine finality.

The trickle of warm tears slid down your cheeks, his thumbs swiping softly at the skin. “Good, I’m…I’m happy too.”

Truthfully, you were. Because if you had to let Satoru go, if you had to let him be the man he should be, you knew he was doing it beside a woman that was worth it. She was worth it. And you were beginning to be okay with the fact of being a memory to him, as long as it meant his wishes came true.

You left him, never once looking back, answering his texts or his calls.

You don’t know how you had the strength to do it, how you managed to pull yourself away from the man you’d poured so much of yourself into. There was a time when you thought you’d never be able to let go—when you believed you’d somehow convince him that the life he envisioned with someone else wasn’t worth pursuing. But the truth was, you couldn’t keep holding onto him, not when the weight of your love was slowly suffocating him, not when you knew that he needed to step into a future that wasn’t tied to a past that could never fully be his. You didn’t want to be the one who held him back, no matter how much it hurt.

The hardest part was the silence that came after. You told yourself it was for the best, that you were doing him a favor, letting him breathe, letting him live without your shadow hanging over him. But the quiet was unbearable. Slowly, the hole he left inside you grew wider, the void left by his absence swallowing you whole. It felt like a slow, silent death—a death that had to happen for him to thrive, even if you weren’t ready for it.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months.

But somehow, that was for the best. He was with her now—his beautiful, young, hopeful future. And you? You were learning to accept the peace that came with being the past. The bittersweet relief of knowing that you had let him go, even when it felt like a piece of you was missing forever. You were learning to find happiness and acceptance with that. But you knew deep down, a part of you would always love him. And that part would remain tucked away, hidden, safe in the quiet recesses of your heart where no one could touch it. Because, no matter how much time passed, no matter how much life moved on, Satoru would always be the one who made you believe in the fleeting beauty of something that could never truly last.

Seven years had passed, and time had etched its marks on both of you. You were different now—wiser, perhaps. Life had moved on, as it always did, carrying you forward in unexpected ways. You found a home in Japan, a little place tucked away in a quiet neighborhood, a perfect reflection of the peace you had slowly cultivated within yourself. It was the kind of home you never thought you'd need after him, but somehow, it filled the emptiness that had lingered for so long.

When you saw him again, it felt like a thousand memories rushed back to you in a single moment. His shock was palpable—eyes wide with disbelief, brows furrowed as if trying to make sense of the woman standing before him. The same Satoru, yet different in small, subtle ways. His features had softened, a few lines around his eyes that spoke of time passing, of laughter shared, of a life fully lived. He was healthy, vibrant, the man you’d once known and the one who had continued his journey without you. "Y/N?" His voice was quiet at first, unsure if this was real or just a figment of his mind. His gaze swept over you as if trying to understand how you could still exist in his life after everything.

And then, he smiled. It wasn’t the same playful grin that had always been there, the one that had once made your heart race. This one was softer, warmer—gentler. It carried the weight of the years apart, but also the familiarity of someone who had once been an integral part of your soul.

And you smiled back again.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, the embrace as natural as it was unexpected. It wasn’t just a hug; it was a reunion, a silent acknowledgment of everything that had passed between you both. For a moment, you let yourself lean into him, feeling the comforting strength of his hold, the warmth of his body that you once thought you'd never feel again. There was no awkwardness, no hesitation, just the undeniable connection that had never truly disappeared. It was as though time had been kind to you both, erasing the pain and replacing it with something softer, something more peaceful.

“Satoru,” you muttered softly, almost in relief.

"You look good," he said softly, pulling away just enough to look at you, his hands lingering on your arms as if testing the reality of this moment.

You feel something cold pressed against your arm, looking down…there’s a golden ring on his left ring finger. Your lips parted with mild surprise before looking up at him with a sense of blitheness. You couldn’t help but chuckle, eyes crinkling in the way he loved—loves. “...is it her?”

He nods, glancing down at your own hand. And look at that; he’s not the only one with a gold ring. “And what about you?’ he asked, a softness in his voice.

Your cheeks flushed slightly, bringing your hand up and admiring the band around your finger, the diamond saying hello once more. Memories of your husband’s gruff voice, his frown that he tried so hard to keep etched on his face, the spiky black hair you loved to comb your fingers through, the scar on the corner of his mouth that you loved to kiss. “His name is Toji.”

He nodded with a wave of approval. “How long?”

“Three years. And you?”

“Four.”

You guys laughed simultaneously. The sound of your shared laughter fills the quiet space between you two, and for a moment, it feels like no time has passed at all. There’s an ease to it, an old familiarity that you never quite lost, even with the years between you. The weight of everything that had happened—your separation, his journey, your own—seems to melt away, leaving only the lightness of the present moment. It feels almost surreal, standing there with him, both of you changed yet still the same in many ways.

You glance down at your left hand again, the ring catching the sunlight that spills through the window. The cool metal seems to hum with its own kind of quiet significance. Toji.

But now, standing here with Satoru, there’s a strange sense of nostalgia mixed with contentment. You never imagined this—standing side by side with him, sharing your worlds as they are now. When you look up at Satoru, you see the same softness in his eyes that’s always been there, but now it carries with it the weight of time. He has a family, a future that doesn’t include you, and that’s okay. There’s peace in that. He’s found what he was always meant to have, the thing that once felt like an impossibility between you two.

“Four years,” you repeat, your voice soft, taking in the new ring on his finger. “That’s beautiful, Satoru. I’m…I’m so happy for you.”

He grins, that same playful glint in his eyes, but this time it feels like it’s tempered by something deeper, something more sincere. “Yeah,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “She’s incredible. I’m really lucky.”

The warmth that spreads through you isn’t jealousy, or bitterness, or anything like that. It’s something else entirely—pride, maybe. Or relief. You always knew that Satoru was meant for something bigger than what you two could have together, but seeing him happy now, seeing him settled with someone who makes his eyes light up the way they used to with you, it’s the closure you never thought you needed.

“You?” he asks again, as though sensing the unspoken question between you two. His gaze shifts to your hand again, then back up to your face.

The words come out easily now. “He’s my rock,” you say simply, the affection in your voice unguarded. “He makes me better, makes me whole.”

Satoru’s expression softens, and you see the flicker of that old tenderness—the way he used to look at you before everything got complicated. But it’s not painful, this time. It’s not heavy. It’s just… understanding. Like he’s happy that you’ve found that kind of peace. The kind of peace he’s found with her. “You both deserve it,” he says with a nod, as though sealing the quiet approval between you two. “You deserve everything good that comes your way.��

It’s a simple statement, but it carries so much weight. The unspoken acknowledgment that the two of you, after all this time, have moved on, and have created lives for yourselves that reflect who you’ve become. And for all that has happened, all the loss and the love that came and went, there’s something beautiful in knowing that this chapter—this shared history—is now something you both cherish without needing to hold on to.

He invited you over that day and you accepted.

His wife runs up to you, hugging you like you’re an old friend. “Oh my god!” she exclaims in a gasp, her red-tinted lips curved up into a wide smile. You hugged her back, mirroring his reactions. “It’s so great to see you again, Miss. Satoru and I have never forgotten you.”

“Utahime…” he mutters with slight embarrassment.

You chortled and patted her back. “I haven’t forgotten about you too either.”

She pulls back, removing her arms from you. Satoru places a warm arm around her waist and brings her to his side. The display of affection has you melting on the inside, head tilting in fondness. Satoru looks at you. “So, there’s someone we want you to—”

The sound of little pitter-patter against the hardwood cuts him off, all of your attention being dragged to the little girl with white hair and auburn eyes like her moth bounding up to you in excited familiarity. Her tiny gasp as she looks up at you with wide, innocent, twinkling eyes. She looked up at you as if she had known you her whole life, bubbling with a sense of jitteriness, cheeks glowing with a youthful flush. You couldn’t help but crouch down to her height, head tilting. Your eyes glazed over with tears, holding a hand to your mouth to hold back the broken laugh you almost let out at the question she asked you.

“Are you the fairy?”

a/n: this story is inspired by "a love not made for me" by aryana rose. please go hear her speak it, she tells it so beautifully :(((. anywho, thank u guys for 2k really. i love u all and I'm incredibly grateful for all the support and love and patience :))

i couldn't do it without yall. <3

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bueckets · 2 days ago

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thank you for taking the time to read my works. below you'll find a collection of my series and standalone stories organized for easy browsing. i hope you find something that gets you onto santas naughty list.

Series

The Prophecy | Finished

Description: They call her The Prophecy—basketball’s impossible phenomenon, rewriting what it means to be perfect on the court. With a near-flawless shooting record and a mind just as sharp in aerospace engineering as it is in breaking down defenses, her name sparks awe, envy, and relentless scrutiny. But perfection has its cost.

But even legends have weak spots. When a high-stakes matchup against LSU draws the attention of Paige Bueckers—the golden face of college basketball—The Prophecy’s flawless world starts to crack. On the court, they’re rivals, locked in a battle for supremacy. Off the court, late-night texts and shared moments blur the lines between competition and something much harder to define.

Word Count: 30K

Part: Start Here

The Hit List | In Progress

Description: When an overworked engineering student's late-night CAD project gets interrupted by a very drunk, very lost basketball star stumbling into the wrong dorm room, she learns that some defensive plays work better in love than on the court.

What starts as a case of mistaken identity turns into an unexpected game of cat and mouse when UConn's golden girl, Paige Bueckers, can't seem to take a hint– or maybe just doesn't want to. Armed with nothing but sarcasm, an overprotective stuffed bear named Mr. Gummy, and a borrowed team jacket that definitely isn't helping the situation, our engineering hero finds herself drawing up plays to defend her heart against college basketball's most persistent point guard.

They say offense wins games, but defense wins championships. When you're trying not to fall for a girl who treats the court like her kingdom and your personal space like a suggestion, maybe it's time to admit some battles aren't meant to be won.

Word Count: 34k

Part: Start Here

One Shots

Thin Walls

Description: When a sleep-deprived biomed student moves in with UConn’s most notorious heartbreaker, you expect late-night film study, protein shake graveyards, and an apartment perpetually scented like sweat and victory. What you don’t expect? Thin walls. And Paige Bueckers making absolutely no effort to keep her extracurricular activities quiet.

What starts as a battle for basic human decency turns into something far messier—petty revenge plots, mind games laced with innuendo, and an unspoken tension that neither of you is willing to name. Paige plays like she owns the court, like she owns the world, and maybe—just maybe—like she wants to own you, too.

They say pressure makes diamonds, but when it comes to Paige Bueckers, it just might make a disaster.

WC: 8.4k

Read Me

Going UP?

Description: From missed alarms to broken elevators, your Tuesday couldn’t get worse, well, until it gets better. When a late-running grad student’s desperate dash to save her thesis turns into an unexpected elevator encounter with UConn basketball sensation Paige Bueckers, she learns that sometimes the best assists come from broken machinery.

Armed with nothing but coffee-fueled anxiety and an encyclopedic knowledge of basketball analytics, you find yourself trading quips with college basketball’s golden girl in a stalled elevator. What starts as a disaster turns into something else entirely when basketball theory meets practice, terrible jokes meet dangerous grins, and hot chocolate meets, well, everywhere except the mug.

They say love is a game of chances. But when you’re trapped between floors with a girl who can bend physics on the court and make your heart run suicides off it, maybe it’s worth taking the shot.

Sometimes cupid doesn’t use arrows. Sometimes he just breaks the elevator.

Word Count: 8.1K

Part: Start Here

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whosashan · 14 hours ago

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I've got my eyes on you

In which - How did you and the LaDS men start dating? Reader is not mc - except in Caleb's section.

Xavier

The moment you laid eyes on Xavier, you knew you had to have him. How could you not? That strikingly handsome face, those curious blue eyes, and an effortlessly captivating presence—it was impossible to resist.

The first time you approached him was at a grocery store. Your heart pounded against your ribs, threatening to break free from your chest, but you forced yourself to remain composed. Summoning your courage, you struck up a conversation.

He didn’t seem particularly interested, responding with brief, lackluster answers.

‘It’s fine, he’ll warm up to me,’ you assured yourself, determination flickering in your gaze. You had never pursued a man before, but this time was different. There was something about him—something magnetic—that refused to let you walk away.

Somehow, you managed to secure his phone number, and you wasted no time texting him, attempting to revive the conversation from earlier.

With persistence, you chipped away at his guarded demeanor, gradually uncovering bits and pieces of who he was. One particularly useful detail you learned? He lived close by. Another? His cooking skills were, to put it lightly, atrocious.

‘Perfect,’ you mused, making a beeline for your kitchen. It was time to put those cooking classes to good use.

Weeks turned into months, and an unspoken routine formed between the two of you—you would cook, and he would eat. As cliché as it was, the old saying held true: the way to a man’s heart really was through his stomach. Your bond deepened, not in a whirlwind of passion, but in slow, comfortable moments. And you didn’t mind one bit.

Late-night arcade outings, spontaneous hangouts, and occasional movie nights became the norm. And every time he fell asleep beside you, his face soft, his messy hair falling over his slightly flushed cheeks, your heart stuttered in your chest.

But with familiarity came a new problem: you had started to care, truly care, and with that realization, your once-unshakable confidence wavered. Flirting had been easy before, playful and teasing, but now? Now, every word felt heavier, every glance more meaningful. And the worst part? You were sure he didn’t even notice.

The final straw came when you noticed a certain colleague of his getting too close for your liking. That was it. You couldn’t put this off any longer.

“Hey, Xayxay, can you meet up? I want to talk to you about something,” you texted, before promptly throwing your phone onto your bed as if that would somehow lessen the weight of your nerves.

You waited. And waited.

It felt like an eternity.

Then, a sudden knock at your door.

You nearly tripped over yourself in your rush to open it. And there he was—Xavier, slightly breathless, eyes laced with concern, like he had practically run to get here.

“Did something happen?” he asked, stepping inside with the ease of someone who had long since made themselves at home in your space. And you loved that.

You sighed, wringing your hands together.

“Look, I don’t want to put this off any longer…” You hesitated, biting your lip. “Xavier, I like you. More than a friend.”

You braced yourself for rejection. But instead, you were met with his puzzled stare.

“…Aren’t we dating?”

“…What?”

So, it turned out you had nothing to worry about after all.

Zayne

On your way home, you stepped into a charming little pastry shop near the hospital. The aroma of freshly baked goods filled the air, making your mouth water in anticipation. You could already picture yourself sinking your teeth into a rich, decadent cake.

As you stood in line, your gaze landed on a man whose face was so strikingly handsome it felt almost unfair. There was an air of quiet composure about him, an effortless grace that made it nearly impossible to look away. You found yourself studying him, mind racing with ways to strike up a conversation. How often did you come across someone this captivating?

"Excuse me, sir." Your voice took on a honeyed sweetness that made you cringe internally, but desperate times called for desperate measures. "You seem like quite the pastry connoisseur. I don’t come here often, so I’d love a recommendation." A harmless lie.

He turned his gaze toward you, expression unreadable. Crossing his arms, he seemed to consider your question carefully before responding.

"If you’re looking for something light, the macarons are an excellent choice. If you prefer something more substantial, the caramel cheesecake is exquisite." His tone was smooth, assured—like a man who always knew the right answer.

At least he had good taste.

"Ahh, thank you! I’ll definitely try both," you said, flashing him a bright smile. Then, before you could lose your nerve, you added, "If you’re not busy, maybe we could enjoy them together here?"

Where had this sudden boldness come from?

He studied you for a moment, as if weighing his options. Then, with a small nod, he answered, "I do have a break from work right now. Alright."

You nearly leapt with joy, but just as you were about to celebrate internally—

"Ahh, Y/N! My favorite customer! What can I get for you today?" the cashier called out cheerfully.

You froze. Busted.

Despite the momentary embarrassment, the interaction led to an exchange of phone numbers. You didn’t get to see Zayne often due to his demanding career as a doctor, but he always found time to text back, even indulging your occasional rants. Sometimes, he even called. The slow progression of your relationship was something you treasured, a delicate dance of growing affection.

Time passed, and though you longed to ask Zayne out, you hesitated. He almost seemed too good to be true. Would he ever truly be interested in you?

Then, there were the little things—how his gaze lingered a second too long, how his hand seemed to hover over yours before pulling away, how, despite his overwhelming schedule, he always carved out time for you. Were those hints? Or were you reading too much into it?

Your thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the soft ping of a notification. Your heart jumped as you picked up your phone. A message from Zayne.

"Are you free tonight?"

Such a simple text, yet it sent heat rushing through your body.

"For sure! What do you want to do?" you replied, fingers trembling slightly as you awaited his response.

"I’d love to take you out."

Your breath hitched. Take you out. As in… a date?

You stared at the message, searching for any alternate meaning, but there was none.

"I would love that, Zayne," you finally typed, hands shaking.

"Lovely. I’ll pick you up at 7."

You practically sprinted to your room to get ready.

The evening was nothing short of perfect. He took you to a refined restaurant, surprising you with a bouquet of your favorite flowers—proof that he had been listening all along. The air between you was charged with something different, something new yet thrilling.

After dinner, the two of you strolled beneath a sky blanketed with stars, the crisp night air adding an almost cinematic touch to the moment.

"You’re shivering," he observed, his voice as calm and measured as ever. Without hesitation, he slipped off his coat and draped it over your shoulders, the warmth of the fabric—and of him—enveloping you.

"Thank you…" you murmured, smiling softly but avoiding his gaze, afraid he’d see just how deeply he affected you.

"Y/N." He came to a halt, prompting you to stop as well. His tone was composed, yet there was an unfamiliar weight behind it.

"I would love to take you out more… What I mean is, would you do me the honor of being my girlfriend?" His face remained impassive, but you swore you caught the faintest hint of a blush gracing his cheeks.

Your heart nearly exploded.

"I would love nothing more, Zayne."

Rafayel

Being an art enthusiast, you often found yourself wandering through exhibitions, losing yourself in the beauty of each piece. Tonight, however, felt different. This was Rafayel’s exhibition—a name that had long held a certain power over you. His art possessed an almost hypnotic quality, evoking emotions so profound that you struggled to put them into words.

As you moved through the gallery, your gaze inevitably found him. Rafayel stood amidst a small group of admirers, answering their questions with an effortless confidence. His voice was smooth, steady, rich with an underlying intensity that made it impossible to ignore.

But it wasn’t just his voice that captivated you. He was a masterpiece himself—dressed in a crisp white blouse, his dark hair slightly tousled, his sharp eyes carrying a quiet depth. There was something about the way he carried himself, as if knowing the effect he had on people.

You didn't want to appear as just another admirer swooning over the artist. Your fascination went beyond that—you were genuinely intrigued by his mind, his process. So, when the crowd around him began to disperse, leaving him momentarily alone, you took a steadying breath and approached him. He stood before one of his paintings, his gaze heavy with contemplation.

"You truly know how to capture a moment," you mused, your voice steady but tinged with admiration. "This piece in particular—it feels almost melancholic, like someone longing for something just out of reach."

Rafayel’s eyes flicked toward you, scanning your face, weighing your words. For a brief moment, you feared he might dismiss you with the same aloofness he granted others, but instead, his lips curved into something almost thoughtful. And just like that, an unspoken understanding passed between you, giving way to a conversation that carried on far longer than you had expected.

That first meeting was the spark. You found yourself returning to his exhibitions more often, drawn not just to his art but to him. It became a quiet routine—the two of you engaging in deep discussions, learning the intricacies of each other's thoughts and mannerisms. At first, Rafayel maintained his usual air of arrogance, teasing and enigmatic, but with time, you glimpsed something more—something raw and unguarded beneath the facade.

It wasn’t long before your admiration deepened into something more. You had fallen for him, hopelessly so. And you liked to think, in stolen moments of lingering glances and fleeting touches, that perhaps he felt the same.

One evening, you found yourself in his studio, sitting on the floor as he worked, the only sounds being the occasional stroke of his brush against canvas. The atmosphere was comforting, intimate in a way words couldn’t quite capture.

“You’re unusually quiet,” he remarked, his tone laced with amusement. You rolled your eyes, looking up at him from your spot on the floor.

“And you’re talkative, as always.” A soft smile played on your lips as you stood and walked toward him.

“Rafayel, can I ask you something?” The hesitation in your voice made him pause. He turned to face you, one brow arched in curiosity.

“Why so serious?” he asked, studying you intently.

You scoffed lightly. “Never mind, then.”

He let out a small sigh. "You’ve already started. Might as well finish."

You hesitated for a beat before finally speaking. “Do you… have someone you like? More than a friend, I mean.”

For a fleeting second, something unreadable passed through his gaze. Then, a slow smirk tugged at his lips. “Curious, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

He exhaled a quiet chuckle before answering, “There is someone. She’s insufferably stubborn, a little reckless, and quite possibly the clumsiest person I’ve ever met.” His gaze softened, a rare warmth creeping into his tone. “And yet, she’s also the most endearing.”

Your heart pounded against your ribs. “You need to be more specific.”

He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “If you weren’t so oblivious, you’d figure it out.”

A teasing smile spread across your lips. “Wait—are you talking about me?” You nudged him playfully.

He said nothing, his focus returning to his painting.

Oh.

“YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT ME?” you blurted, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s just a small crush,” he scoffed, though the faint pink dusting his ears betrayed him.

A laugh bubbled out of you, pure and unrestrained. “Aww, Rafayel! I like you too.”

His expression flickered with surprise before he quickly masked it with his usual confidence. “Of course you do. Who wouldn’t?”

Despite his words, his actions spoke differently—pulling you into his arms, he pressed a tender kiss to your temple, lingering for just a moment longer than necessary.

Perhaps, just this once, he didn’t mind wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Sylus

Sleep had eluded you, leaving you restless and craving the crisp night air. The city was bathed in the gentle glow of streetlights, the sky an endless expanse of inky black adorned with shimmering stars. Their quiet brilliance was captivating, an ethereal distraction that kept your gaze skyward as you wandered aimlessly through the quiet streets.

Lost in thought, you didn’t notice the figure in your path until you collided with him.

“Oh! I’m so sorry—” you started, but your words caught in your throat as you looked up at him.

The man before you was striking. Towering in stature, his silver hair gleamed beneath the moonlight, tousled in a way that made it appear effortlessly elegant. But it was his eyes that truly seized your breath—deep crimson, piercing and intense, as if they could unravel every secret hidden within you. His features were sharp, sculpted to perfection, and his presence exuded an air of undeniable dominance.

He regarded you with a smirk, his amusement evident.

“Worry not, sweet thing,” he murmured, his voice a velvety caress against your senses. The smoothness of his tone sent a shiver down your spine, deepening the warmth blooming in your cheeks. His gaze flickered over your face, noting your reaction, and his smirk grew ever so slightly.

Only then did you realize what else you had stumbled upon. A few feet away, a man knelt on the pavement, head bowed, his entire posture trembling before the silver-haired stranger. The sight sent unease prickling up your spine.

What exactly had you just walked into?

The silver-haired man followed your gaze before exhaling softly. “Ah,” he mused, as if debating what to say. “A young lady like you shouldn’t be wandering alone at this hour. The night is filled with monsters, after all.”

The way he said it, with that knowing glint in his crimson eyes, sent a fresh wave of unease through you. Somehow, you knew he wasn’t speaking metaphorically. But instead of pressing for answers, something in you decided it was best not to ask.

“I was just out for some air. I should…probably head home now.” You forced a steady voice, willing your body not to betray the apprehension creeping into your bones. Every instinct in you screamed to run, yet your legs remained locked in place, unwilling to reveal your fear.

He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Allow me to escort you.”

Your breath hitched. “You seem more dangerous than whatever else is lurking out here.”

A rich chuckle escaped him, dark and amused. “A fair observation.” He leaned in slightly, his gaze never wavering. “But that decision, my dear, is entirely yours.”

Despite every warning sign flashing in your mind, you hesitated. There was something about him—his presence was undeniably commanding, yet oddly reassuring. And then, there was the nagging feeling that he was familiar, though you couldn't place why.

Eventually, you gave a small nod, curiosity overpowering reason.

And so began your entanglement with Sylus. The enigmatic man came and went like a shadow, slipping in and out of your life at his whim. Some nights, he would appear unexpectedly, gifting you your favorite sweets or leaving a new dress draped across your doorstep with no explanation. Tickets to your favorite concerts would mysteriously find their way into your mailbox, the sender unstated but obvious.

It was infuriating. It was intoxicating. He was impossible to understand, yet he made you feel desired—seen in a way no one else ever had.

But after monthsof his unpredictable vanishing acts, your patience wore thin. So when he strolled into your apartment one evening, pouring himself a glass of the wine you had bought earlier, you finally snapped.

“You’re confusing me,” you blurted, frustration lacing your tone. “What am I to you, Sylus?”

He glanced at you, his expression unreadable. He raised the glass to his lips but paused, considering your words. Slowly, he set the drink down and approached you, his crimson eyes locking onto yours. When he reached out to cup your cheek, you instinctively pushed his hand away, resolve burning in your gaze.

He sighed. Vulnerability did not come easily to him; that much was clear. But you were different. You had made him a little softer, a little weaker in ways he didn’t quite understand.

“I can’t keep living in uncertainty,” you continued, voice steadier now. “Either tell me what you want, or leave me alone.”

A beat of silence stretched between you before he spoke, his voice low, certain.

“I want you.”

The simplicity of the statement sent your heart racing. You hadn’t expected him to be so direct, nor for his words to carry such weight.

Your face grew hot. “You’re an idiot.”

A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest as you sighed, resting your head against him, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He smelled of something rich and warm, a scent you couldn’t quite place but already found comforting.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you mumbled, a small smile tugging at your lips.

Sylus merely hummed in amusement, his arms wrapping around you with the quiet possessiveness of a man who had no intention of letting go.

Caleb

After your reunion with Caleb, an unfamiliar feeling took root in your chest—no, not unfamiliar. It had always been there, buried beneath layers of friendship and denial. But now, it was impossible to ignore. Suddenly, you were hyper-aware of just how much of a man he had become.

His kind yet brooding eyes, that boyish grin, the intoxicating scent that lingered on his clothes—had he always smelled this good? Broad shoulders, strong arms, hands that had always handled you with ease, lifting you effortlessly whenever. The thought alone sent heat creeping up your cheeks, and the man sitting across from you clearly took notice.

“What’s got you all blushy-blushy, pipsqueak?” he teased, pinching your cheek with that infuriatingly smug smirk.

You scoffed, turning your face away. “Don’t touch my face, Caleb! I have makeup on.”

Lately, you’d found yourself caring more about your appearance around him. It was absurd. He’d seen you at your absolute worst—bedhead, tears, even the aftermath of too much liquor. Yet now, every glance he sent your way made you feel… shy? What was happening to you?

He only chuckled in response, leaning back against his chair.

The two of you had met up at a café to play Kitty Cards, an old favorite. He always let you win, though he never admitted it. You pretended not to notice, but every time you did, it made you smile—just a little.

“Alright, come on. The movie’s gonna start soon.” He stood, extending his hand toward you. Without hesitation, you took it, savoring the warmth of his rough palm against yours.

The movie of choice was a horror film—Caleb’s idea, of course. You had agreed, partly to humor him and partly because any excuse to spend more time with him was welcome.

Inside the theater, you sat beside him, the glow of the screen illuminating his sharp features. The flickering light made his eyes glimmer, and for a moment, you were caught staring. You quickly looked away, but not before he noticed. Of course he noticed.

“You’re acting weird.” His gaze lingered on you, his voice laced with curiosity.

“I—uh—I’m on my period,” you blurted, grasping for an excuse. “That’s all. I just feel a little unwell.”

His expression softened instantly. “You should’ve told me. Do you want to go home? I’ll cook you some soup, and we can watch something there instead.”

There he was again—always caring, always thinking of you. It made your heart race, and you hated how easily he could do that to you.

“No, it’s fine. Let’s just watch the movie.”

As the film progressed, it proved to be far scarier than you’d anticipated. Without realizing it, you had latched onto Caleb’s hand. He chuckled at your reaction but didn’t pull away.

Then came the jump scare.

Out of reflex, you turned toward him, seeking comfort. But at the same moment, he turned toward you.

Peck.

Your lips brushed against his.

Your breath hitched. His eyes widened slightly, and for a few heart-stopping seconds, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. Just stared.

“I’m so sorry!” you yelped, whipping your head away in mortification.

“Hey, it’s fine, pipsqueak.” He gave you a reassuring smile. “It was an accident.”

You didn’t know why, but his words stung a little.

“…Yeah.”

By the time you returned home, your shoulders were weighed down with something heavy, something unspoken. It gnawed at you, clawed at your chest.

Caleb, as if sensing your turmoil, placed his hands on your shoulders, turning you to face him. “Alright, that’s enough. Tell me what’s wrong.”

You swallowed hard, your gaze dropping to the floor before gathering the courage to meet his eyes.

“Caleb… would it be selfish of me if I said I want to kiss you again?”

Silence. A single, tense moment stretched between you, thick enough to drown in. Then, without a word, he reached for you. His hands cupped your face, disregarding your earlier complaint about ruining your makeup, and with a quiet exhale, he pressed his lips to yours.

The kiss was brief, tender—yet it held the weight of something long overdue. In that moment, you knew he was no longer only your best friend.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #caleb x reader #caleb love and deepspace #lads caleb #lads rafayel #lads xavier #xavier love and deepspace #lads sylus #loveanddeepspace #lads zayne #lads x reader #lads fluff #rafayel love and deepspace #xavier x reader #zayne love and deepspace

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thebramblewood · 2 days ago

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Who knew window shopping could lead to so many revelations?

Previous / Next

All credit to @moonwoodhollow for Exerzierplatz, where you can find the bookstore, and @its-opheliasgarden for Umbra Boulevard, where you can find the antique shop, both of which are only one small part of these incredible builds!

Caleb: You’ve grown awfully comfortable with her.

Helena: First of all, you have no room to judge. [mockingly] Oh, she’s my sister and I loathe her! But I’m too much of a coward to move out.

Caleb: I’ve certainly never uttered those-

Helena: Secondly, being angry is exhausting. Holding an eternal grudge requires too much energy. And she can be fun — in her own way.

Caleb: You mean the way that’s fun until it isn’t? Not long ago, she had you on the verge of murder. Your memory can’t be that short.

Helena: We have our differences. But she respects my limits now.

Caleb: She’s being careful, but I know her too well to believe it’s for anyone’s benefit but her own. She’s only biding her time until you let your guard down.

Helena: God, you’re cynical.

Caleb: I’m realistic. For a long time, I held out hope she would turn back into the Lilith I knew. But there’s a point of no return, and she’s far past it. I just think you should tread carefully.

Helena: Why do you really stay? Is she holding something over you? Are you a masochist?

Caleb: I’ve told you. It’s complicated.

Helena: Have you ever even tried to leave?

Caleb: Helena-

Helena: Who’s Morgyn?

Caleb: [uncomfortably abrupt silent]

Helena: I heard that name in your head just now, not for the first time. I didn’t want to pry, but it must be someone who means a lot to you.

Caleb: Meant.

Helena: Did you have a falling out or-

Caleb: [flatly] They’re dead.

Helena: Oh. I’m sorry. [softly] Caleb, were you in love with them?

Caleb: Something like that.

Helena: What happened? Don’t tell me Lilith-

Caleb: [insistently] It had nothing to do with her. They were a spellcaster, a very powerful one. They wielded influence. They had detractors. One of those detractors killed them.

Helena: Oh my god. That’s awful. Could you tell me what they were like sometime — when you’re ready?

Caleb: [faintly] I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

Helena: Caleb, look! I haven’t used one of these since I was a kid. Do you think they’ve got film for it?

Caleb: Come on. Don’t waste it on a picture that won’t even turn out.

Helena: What’s the deal with that anyway? I saw something about silver online, but-

Caleb: Anything you read on the Internet is conjecture and myth.

Helena: Is it because we don’t have souls?

Caleb: [bemused] What does that even mean? Do you feel as though you’ve lost yours?

Helena: Yes. No. I don’t know. I guess I feel the same… mostly.

Caleb: Countess Flores has a theory that we innately shroud our physical selves in images, just as we veil human minds, that we could appear if we willed it. But that remains pure hypothesis as far as I know.

Helena: I think I’ve attempted enough desperate selfies to safely debunk that one. You know, I wonder… [trails off distractedly]

Caleb: Helena?

Helena: Maybe it’s not such a bad thing. I used to want to capture every moment, but now the pictures make it impossible to forget.

Caleb: We both know it’s not the pictures that keep the memories alive.

#ts4 #sims 4 #ts4 story #sims 4 story #story: hzid #ulrike faust #caleb vatore #maaike haas #helena zhao #they're lesbians harold #they even cut each other's bangs #anyway there are some clues here to the next scene...

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777bae · 2 days ago

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SAFE IN YOUR ARMS MACKLIN CELEBRINI

Summary :: Wrapped in Macklin’s warmth, sleep slowly pulls you under as his gentle touch soothes you. In this quiet, intimate moment, everything feels still, and you realize—this is exactly where you’re meant to be. (REQUESTED :: prompt 20)

Warnings :: none

Word count :: 1.0k

The soft glow of the lamp casts golden light across the room, painting everything in warm, muted hues. The world outside feels distant, muffled by the thick curtains drawn across the windows, shutting out the city’s restless hum. The quiet is a kind of comfort, a protective cocoon that keeps the chaos at bay. Inside, the air is warm and still, the only sounds coming from the low hum of music drifting lazily from the speakers and the occasional rustle of fabric as you shift.

It’s peaceful. Safe. A sanctuary carved out of the unpredictability beyond these walls.

You’re curled up against Macklin, your body tucked neatly into his side, fitting against him like a missing piece. His arm is wrapped loosely around you, his fingertips tracing slow, absentminded circles against your back, the motion lulling you into an almost dreamlike state. It’s such a simple touch—one you’ve felt countless times before—but there’s something about it tonight that feels different, like he’s anchoring you to the moment, keeping you close, as if he never wants to let you go.

Your book sits forgotten on the coffee table, pages splayed open where you left off, a story abandoned in favor of something much sweeter. You had been determined to finish it tonight, had stubbornly insisted that you weren’t tired, that you just needed “five more minutes.” But now, exhaustion has settled into your bones, turning your limbs heavy, your body slow and unresponsive to the world around you. Each blink lasts a little longer than the last, your lashes brushing softly against your cheeks, your mind slipping further and further into the pull of sleep.

Macklin shifts slightly, just enough to press his cheek against the top of your head. He’s warm—comfortingly so. The kind of warmth that seeps into your skin, that soothes something deep within you, making it nearly impossible to fight off the exhaustion pressing in from all sides. You breathe him in, the familiar scent of his cologne lingering on his hoodie, mixed with the faint, sweet hint of vanilla from the candle burning on the bookshelf. It smells like home.

Your body melts further into him, and you feel it the moment he notices. There’s a brief pause in the lazy motion of his fingers, a subtle change in his breathing, as if he’s savoring the way you instinctively lean into him, trusting him to keep you safe.

Then, his voice, soft and amused, breaks the quiet.

“You’re falling asleep on me, love.”

The words barely register, brushing against your skin like a whisper. Warm and low, laced with quiet affection. You want to respond—to insist that you’re still awake, that you’re listening, that you were just resting your eyes for a second—but the effort feels monumental. Even forming words feels like too much.

Instead, you manage a small hum of protest, nuzzling deeper into his chest, as if that alone will prove him wrong.

“I’m not asleep,” you mumble, but your voice betrays you, thick and slurred with exhaustion, barely above a whisper.

Macklin chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest, vibrating beneath your cheek. You feel it more than you hear it—the quiet amusement in the way his body moves, the way his hand slows against your back before resuming its gentle motions. His fingers move upward, threading lazily through your hair, his touch featherlight as his thumb brushes against your temple in slow, soothing strokes.

“You are,” he murmurs, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “But that’s okay. You’re safe here.”

That simple reassurance sends another wave of warmth through you, melting away the last remnants of tension in your body. You hum again, softer this time, a barely-there sound of agreement, of trust.

His touch remains steady, tracing patterns against your skin—thoughtless, effortless, as if it’s second nature. As if holding you like this is as easy as breathing.

Your breathing slows, syncing with his, your body instinctively matching the steady rise and fall of his chest. You’re caught in that hazy space between wakefulness and sleep, where the world feels distant and soft, where thoughts slip through your fingers like grains of sand. Time seems to slow, stretching out indefinitely, turning each second into something languid and unhurried.

There is no rush. No urgency. Just the quiet rhythm of your breaths intertwining, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, the warmth of his body pressed against yours.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, wrapped in each other, in the stillness, in the kind of peace that only comes with knowing you are exactly where you belong.

After a while, Macklin shifts just enough to press a kiss to the top of your head. It’s soft, barely there, the lightest brush of his lips against your hair—but it sends a quiet shiver down your spine. His voice is even softer when he speaks again, his breath warm against your skin.

“You’re always so sweet when you fall asleep,” he murmurs. “You know that?”

You want to respond, but sleep is pulling you under now, heavier and more insistent, wrapping around you like a thick, cozy blanket. You manage a small, lazy smile, barely-there, but enough that he notices. His fingers continue their slow, lazy strokes against your skin, lulling you deeper and deeper.

Macklin exhales, a slow, contented sound, as if he’s drinking in the moment. His hand moves to rest over yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a steady, lazy rhythm. A silent promise. A wordless reminder that he’s still here, that he’s not going anywhere.

There is something so intimate about this—about the quiet trust that lingers between you, the way neither of you feels the need to fill the silence with words. You love this about him. How comfortable he is in the stillness, how effortlessly he makes you feel safe, without ever having to try.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, you recognize the feeling curling deep in your chest—the quiet, unshakable certainty that you could stay like this forever.

Macklin lets out a breath, his hold on you tightening ever so slightly, as if he, too, is realizing the same thing.

“Sleep well, love. I’m right here.”

And as the world fades away, as sleep finally pulls you under, you believe him.

#nhl #nhl imagine #nhl x reader #nhl x you #macklin celebrini x you #macklin celebrini imagine #macklin celebrini x reader #macklin celebrini #mc71 #mc71 imagine #mc71 x reader #san jose sharks x reader #san jose sharks imagine #san jose sharks

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paetalks · 23 hours ago

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the first time sukuna ryomen hears 212 by azealia banks it’s through the walls of his room that he shares directly with your bathroom. your voice sounds muffled over the loud bass base that is pounding a hole in his head while he’s trying to focus on his pc. he’s trying to write a paper for college and it’s almost impossible with all the noise you have been making. you weren’t a bad neighbor overall - i mean, he has never seen you in person - but the music you would blast while showering was absolutely insufferable to him. you always kept quiet, day and night, never run around or moved furniture. sukuna has been living there for well over a month and everything was going well, apart from the fact that you loved singing in the shower. it was okay the first times, really, but lately the songs kept getting louder and louder. and it was all annoying, girly club music. the one he couldn’t really stomach.

so when he hears the first notes of yet another kim petras’ song he gets up from his chair and bolts out the apartment, ringing at your doorbell. it takes a while for the volume to be turned down, and ever more for you to reach the door. when you crack it slightly open, you see a tall, tattooed, attractive, muscular man looking down at you with pure hatred in his eyes. your brain goes blank and you let the door slip from your hands, opening fully only to reveal your towel-covered body and damp hair. his eyes widen, but never leave your frame or seem to be less angry. “hi?” you say, confused.

“hi.” his voice is deep, his sentences short and cutting “would you mind turning the damn music down?”

“oh” you frown, looking at him from head to toe. you notice how he’s wearing grey sweat pants and a black sabbath’s t-shirt that looks like it has seen better days. his hair is all over the place. a smirk makes its way to your face. “yeah, i would actually mind. i was kinda in the middle of something…” you gesture back to the direction in which the music is still coming from and your towel falls slightly lower.

the stranger’s eyes follow your hands as you pull it up again, rolling them afterwards. “i’m trying to work here.” he gestures (mocking you) at his front door, right next to yours.

“okay?” you purse your lips. “i don’t think that’s any of my business really. i’m just playing some good music.”

“good?” his eyebrows furrow. “you don’t even know what good music is.”

you roll your eyes. “okay, stranger. go ahead and insult me right in my house.” you chuckle ironically, meanwhile ayesha erotica starts playing in the background. “oooh, i love this song!” you squeal, and his eyes dart quickly between the direction in which the music is coming from and your body. your frame hugged by that towel is making him rethink being mad at you.

before he can say anything else, you smile forcefully. “gotta go back in there. byeeee!” and you close the door right in front of his face.

he stands there for a while, eyes widened and twitching. how can you be so hot and yet so annoying? he starts asking himself while walking back to his room. he sits back in his chair and as soon as he decides to surrender for the day and give up on his work, the music finally stops. sighting in relief, he opens his laptop again, still thinking about you and how that little towel wasn’t even covering all that much.

you definitely will be a problem, he thinks, taking a deep breath finally in silence.

or so he thinks, because not even a second later the first notes of paranoid from black sabbath start playing at full volume on your speaker. he laughs with himself. “she’s funny” he mumbles, shaking his head, secretly hoping to bump in you again soon.

sorry guys just had a shower and thought aboyt this. also i love music bye <3 hope you get all my songs references i’m sorry

#sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #jjk sukuna #sukuna jjk #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #sukuna #sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #sukuna ryoumen x reader #sukuna ryoumen x you #sukuna ryomen

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causeimhappinesss · 3 days ago

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Rome's Devotion (part 2)

Warnings: Emperors Geta & Caracalla are warnings themselves, (slight?) blasphemy, non-con/dub-con, misogyny (Ancient Rome, so…)

Pairing: Geta x Christian!reader x Caracalla

Words: 4,8k

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

Part 1 - Part 3

The morning light spills through the high windows, soft but cold against the stone walls. The scent of crushed lavender lingers in the air, mingling with the faint musk of oil and damp linen. Servants move in the chamber in quiet efficiency, dressing one another, fastening belts, securing hair. Their hushed voices weave together, rising and falling like the tide. Claudia stands beside me, her hands swift as she smooths the folds of my tunic. She pauses, eyes narrowing as she studies my face.

“You looked shaken last night. Did your task with the emperors go better?” she murmurs.

Better. The word curls in my mind, bitter and hollow.

I force my expression to remain composed. “I did as I was told,” I say.

Claudia exhales through her nose, fingers tightening briefly on my sleeve.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

I hesitate, glancing at the other servants. Most are preoccupied with their own tasks, paying me little mind. Still, my voice drops lower.

“They like to watch me squirm,” I admit. My throat feels tight. “They enjoy it.”

Claudia presses her lips together. “They always do,” she says after a moment. “Especially when the servant is new.”

I glance down, my fingers rising to my collarbone. The gesture is instinctive, an attempt to grasp something familiar, something safe. But my necklace is gone. The Emperor Caracalla still has it. A hollow ache spreads through my chest.

A lump forms in my throat, thick and unbearable, since I doubt he will return it. Why would he, after all? The thought alone makes my stomach churn. That small piece of silver—so delicate, so personal—now rests in his hands, and there is nothing I can do. But God will forgive me. He must. He knows it’s not my fault.

“They test all of us. They enjoy taunting new servants, especially when they are young.” Claudia continues, her voice softer now. “It’s a game to them.”

“A cruel one.” I whisper.

A scoff cuts through the air. “That’s nothing new.”

I turn. Antonella stands behind us, tying a sash around her waist. Her hands move with the ease of habit, her expression unreadable. She’s at least twice my age, her years of service written in the sharp lines of her face, but also with her dark circles. She gives me a long, measured look.

“You remind me of another girl,” she mutters.

A strange unease prickles at the base of my spine and I frown. “Who? Tell me more, please.”

Antonella secures the knot at her hip with expert gestures. “The one who used to care for the emperors when they were boys. They adored her.”

My brow furrows. “Where is she now?”

Claudia shifts beside me, silent, obviously as interest as me in this story. It’s not like we have a lot of distraction here, we work, eat and sleep. Again and again, each day. Only the gossips and prayers keep us distracted.

Antonella meets my gaze and licks her cracked lips, before she shrugged.

“Dead.”

The word lands like a stone in my stomach. I struggle to swallow my spit and my eyes flutter.

“How?” I ask, probably too curious for my own good.

“She belonged to their father.” Antonella’s voice is calm, but there is something dark beneath it, something heavy. “She warmed his bed.”

The chamber feels smaller, the air thick, suffocating. My skin prickles.

“And the emperors…?” I stop myself, uncertain if I want to hear the answer.

“They were in love with her,” Antonella finishes.

A cold shiver runs through me. The two brothers—young then, but still cruel, still dangerous—longing for a woman who gave herself to their father. I picture it too clearly: their jealous glances, their whispered confessions, the unbearable weight of desire and resentment tangled into something impossible to untangle. They were too young to catch her attention and their father too present, dangerous, powerful, to try something.

“They lost her,” Antonella says.

A slow dread seeps into my bones. Claudia clears her throat. “Julia Domna, the mother, plotted the girl’s assassination.”

The emperor’s mother. The Augusta. A women known to be sweet, to love her sons… I blink and tilted my head on the side.

“Why?”

“She saw what was happening,” Antonella says simply. “And she didn’t like it. She was jealous. To Septimus Severius, the young woman wasn’t just a whore and the Augusta refused to be in the shadow of a peasant. End of the story.”

A sharp chill licks up my spine. I know little of Julia Domna, only whispers and half-truths exchanged in hushed voices among the servants. But this… This is something else. My blood runs cold and I finish dressing, rubbing my arms, as I shiver without being able to stop it.

“Then they lost their father.” She tightens the sash at her waist, her fingers lingering over the fabric. “Both in the span of a few years.”

I try to swallow the unease rising in my throat.

“And where is Julia Domna now? I don’t think I ever saw her in two months.”

Claudia shifts uncomfortably and replies in a sigh: “Still here.”

“In the shadows of her sons,” Antonella adds. “Ruling with them, even if we don’t see her often.”

The weight in my chest tightens. That story is terrible and the fact I look like this young woman twist my guts so harshly that I might feel nauseous. I almost how sick powerful and rich people could become… When Claudia touches my arm, in a silent warning, I shake off those thoughts. The message is clear. Speak carefully. Move carefully. The emperors may be the ones who play their games, but the woman who raised them is always watching.

A cold realization settles over me. I am a new piece on the board. And I have no idea whose hands will move me next.

The chamber hums with the quiet sounds of morning preparation: cloth rustling, sandals scuffing against stone, the occasional murmur of conversation. Claudia left my clothes and turns her back to me, so I can help her too.

“Were they always like this?” she questions softly, in a measuring tone.

Antonella chuckles, shaking out a linen cloth before folding it with precise movements. “Like what?”

Claudia purses her lips. Probably just like hers, my heart is beating hard in my chest, not because the rumors are always interesting… Far from it. I just know I have to stay on my guard. Rome is dangerous. Rome is perilous. Rome is bloodthirsty.

“Mischievous. Cruel.” replies my friend.

Antonella’s laugh is low, almost fond.

“Oh, they always had mischief in them. Even as boys, you could see it with their sharp eyes, sharp tongues, but they were children. Their games had little consequence back then.”

I sit on the edge of the wooden bench, adjusting the folds of my tunic. The thought of them as children, smaller, softer, without crowns or power, feels strange. I cannot picture them as anything but the men I stood before last night, eyes gleaming with amusement at my discomfort.

“They rule as they were taught to. Their father was a difficult man. A politician, but a soldier in his soul, before becoming an emperor. Harsh. After all, he killed every people needed before he took the power. And their mother…”

She lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug.

“She made sure they had ambition. No boy raised in that house could have turned out gentle.” she explained with a neutral voice.

I trace the grain of the bench beneath my fingers. “But something changed, right?”

Antonella nods. “After their servant died. After their father died. That’s when the cruelty deepened. Unfortunately, it runs in the family, it taints their blood, it rushes in their veins.”

The room is silent for a moment, except for the sounds of clothes and sandals on the floor as we all leaves our rooms to the kitchen, in which clangs fills the air with many voices.

“Losing people does that,” Claudia murmurs in the corridor.

Antonella exhales through her nose. “It does. But not everyone reacts the same way.” She glances at me, gaze steady. “You should hope they never see you as anything more than a servant.”

A shiver runs through me, though I force myself to keep still.

The conversation fades as we finish dressing, smoothing wrinkles from fabric, fastening belts. The scent of warm bread and honey drifts in from the corridor, signaling breakfast.

We eat quickly, standing by the long wooden table in the servants’ quarters. The bread is coarse but filling, the figs soft and sweet. I chew in silence, thoughts heavy in my mind.

I cannot spend another evening like last night. I will scrub floors, wash linen, even butcher meat in the kitchens, anything to avoid serving the emperors again.

Claudia nudges my arm. “Come,” she says. “Work awaits.”

I swallow my last bite and follow her out.

Days later

The Praetorian’s grip is firm on my arm as he leads me through the dim corridors. He told me I needed to clean some things for the Emperors. My stomach knots tighter with every step. I haven’t seen them in days, not since the other servant recovered, and I had hoped, even prayed, that I wouldn’t have to serve them again. Unfortunately, tonight, I have no choice. The guard stops before a heavy wooden door, knocking twice before, wait for a male voice to scream we can get it and then, the man pushed the door open. A wave of cloying perfume and sweat-drenched air crashes over me. The scent of wine, honey, and something more acrid lingers in the space beyond. Women slip past me as they leave the room, bare shoulders, mussed hair, half naked, breasts not even covered, the lingering sound of laughter on their lips. Some glance my way, eyes heavy-lidded with wine and exhaustion. Others don’t bother. I stand frozen for a breath, my skin burning. I know what this was: a sinful moment of pleasure… an orgy. I don’t need to see the rumpled cushions strewn across the floor or the overturned goblets to understand.

Swallowing hard, I step inside. The floor is a polished stone, streaked with the faint remnants of spilled wine and scattered remnants of food. Rich tapestries hang from the walls, their once-vibrant colors now dulled by time, fluttering lightly in the evening breeze. Lush cushions and pillows are strewn across the room in no particular order, their velvety fabrics soft but marred by the weight of too many bodies pressing down on them. In one corner, an ornate silver goblet rests on the edge of a low marble table, still half-full with wine, though the surrounding surface is cluttered with discarded fruits and the occasional forgotten piece of bread.

Caracalla lounges on a couch, a sheet slung low over his hips. His ginger curls are tousled, his bare chest marked with faint red scratches, between the light brown hairs. He watches me enter, lips curving. Geta sits near him, draped in a deep-red gown. His fingers tap lazily against the rim of a silver cup. He smirks as I lower my gaze and press my hands together in greeting.

“Augustus,” I say softly, bowing my head to both of them.

Geta chuckles. “So polite.”

I move quickly, gathering discarded plates, half-eaten figs, a roasted quail picked apart and abandoned. My hands tremble as I stack golden dishes smeared with honey and oil. The waste turns my stomach. Outside these walls, in Rome’s streets and in the whole Empire, people starve. I have known hunger, true hunger, but here, food is nothing more than another indulgence, easily discarded when appetites turn elsewhere. The brothers speak as I work, their voices thick with amusement.

“She fainted after two rounds,” Caracalla says, stretching his arms behind his head. “Weak.”

“She shouldn’t have begged for more if she couldn’t take it,” Geta replies, swirling the wine in his cup. “Ridiculous.”

Caracalla scoffs and I hear him making himself more comfortable, shifting around his sheets.

“You enjoyed it, though.”

Geta hums, taking a slow sip.

“I enjoy watching them realize they’ve miscalculated.”

Caracalla chuckles. “Like the one last week? The Hispanic girl?”

“She cried before we even touched her.” Geta clicks his tongue. “Disappointing.”

My hands clench around a goblet, breath shallow. I keep my gaze down, swallowing the nausea rising in my throat. Men are utterly disgusting, even worse when they can have everything they desire.

Caracalla shifts on the couch, exhaling in satisfaction. “What do you think, little one?”

I freeze, hesitating, and I clear my throat. Why are they even talking to me? Now, I can even feel their burning gaze on me… I could feel myself melting.

“It is not my place to speak, my Emperor.”

Geta grins. “It never is.”

Without a word, I carefully pick up the broken glass, the sharp edges pressing into my fingers as I try to gather the pieces without cutting myself. The room feels heavier now. I can feel their eyes on me ; the emperor’s presence weighs on me like a storm just before it hits.

Then, I hear it. The soft shuffle of footsteps behind me. Geta.

My heart skips. It’s as though the floor beneath me shifts, a deep, gnawing sensation of dread twisting in my stomach. I focus on the shards in my hands, on the task, trying to block out the fact that he’s coming closer.

Please, don’t come for me… Please, just leave the room with your brother… Let me work alone… I think.

But it happens too quickly. In my rush, I misjudge the glass. A sharp pain flares through my palm. A gasp escapes my lips, and I jerk back. Blood wells from the cut, hot and quick, dripping onto the floor.

Before I can react, I grasp one of the clothes I brought, a clean one, and press it hard against the wound. It’s an instinct, the only thing I can do to stop the bleeding. My fingers tremble as I hold the fabric tight.

“Stand up,” Geta’s voice commands, low and calm.

Dear Lord, stay with me.

My legs feel like stone as I force myself to rise, the pressure in my hand only making the nausea worse. I don’t dare look at him as I stand, my heart thumping erratically. Suddenly, Geta’s hand takes my wrist. His fingers curl around mine, his grip sure and unrelenting. I swallow hard, forcing my gaze down. I can’t seem to pull away from him, his presence overwhelming, suffocating, poisoning.

He lifts the cloth from my hand, studying the wound with an unsettling calm. I barely feel the sting of the alcohol as he pours it over the cut, but it burns, a cold, biting sensation. My body flinches, a breathless gasp escaping me.

“Sensitive,” Geta says, his voice light, a teasing lilt to it. He presses the cloth back against my hand, and my breath hitches.

“Brother,” he calls, his voice smooth and dismissive, “get me one of your ointments.”

Caracalla moves lazily, the sound of the jar opening sharp against the stillness. He steps forward, and for a moment, I feel like I’m trapped in the space between them. My heartbeat echoes in my ears as he takes my wrist, his touch like fire against my skin.

His fingers are warm as he applies the balm, slow and deliberate. Each stroke across my skin sends a new wave of heat rushing to my cheeks, my pulse pounding in my throat. The balm is soothing, but it’s hard to focus on the sensation when his touch feels so intimate, so invasive.

Why is my body reacting like this? Because they are monster? Yes… Yes, it must be the reason.

“Look at her,” Caracalla comments, the smirk in his voice evident even without seeing his face as I avoid looking at their faces. “Like a lamb, trembling and offered to the gods.”

I can’t hold back the blush that floods my cheeks. The words feel like a cruel mark on my skin, a reminder of how small I am in this room, how exposed I am. My throat tightens. I look down at the floor, my breath shallow, heart hammering in my chest. I wish I could disappear and take my hand back, slip out of their grasp, then escape from the weight of their gazes. But I can’t. I’m trapped in the moment, in their eyes, in this feeling of powerlessness. The blood is still there, but it feels like the least of my worries now.

I stand still, feeling the weight of the room press down on me. The smell of wine and incense still lingers in the air, remnants of the orgy that took place not long ago. My pulse quickens as I focus on the task at hand: cleaning, quietly, as if I could somehow fade into the shadows.

“Speaking of gods… ” Geta’s voice drifts over me, smooth and casual. He steps closer, his presence filling the space between us. I try not to flinch as his fingers brush against my hips. The touch is soft, deliberate, as if he’s testing my reaction. A chill runs through me, but I do my best to steady my breathing.

I can feel the blood rush to my face, my heart pounding harder with every passing second. I swallow, praying to God that nothing more will happen.

Lord God,

In this moment of darkness, I seek Your light.

Shield me from harm, from the hands of the wicked,

Guide my steps and protect my soul.

Grant me strength to endure,

And may Your Holy Spirit surround me always.

May Your angels watch over me,

In this life and beyond.

Amen.

The thought of them turning their cruelty into something more unbearable makes my guts twist. My hand instinctively reaches for my neck, but the chain is still gone. Caracalla has it, my necklace, one of my rare possessions, the only thing that made me feel connected to something beyond this place.

I’m about to look down when I hear Caracalla’s voice, a mocking chuckle.

“I believe you’re looking for this,” he says, stepping away, looking in a drawer, before he came back with the necklace dangling from his fingers. The sight of it makes my throat tighten, but I don’t dare reach for it yet. I meet his icy eyes, trying to hide the desperation that swells inside me.

He raises an eyebrow, so light, blond. “Is this what you want, little servant?” His words drip with amusement.

I nod, barely able to whisper, “Yes, please, Augustus.”

A sly smile creeps across Caracalla’s face as he turns and walks toward one of the couches, where he probably had sex with a prostitute. The sheets are still tangled, faintly stained, but they are barely distinguishable from the chaos of the night before.

“You can take it back,” he says, holding the necklace out in front of him. My heart sinks when I see what he does next. He places it on the thin sheets draped over his hips, the chain resting against his loins, hidden from view. His eyes flicker with amusement as he watches me, waiting for my reaction, while a hot blush creeps across my face. I feel the familiar sense of humiliation spread through me. The tension in my chest tightens as I hesitate, standing frozen in place. My throat is dry, my breath shallow. I’m stuck, so stuck in this power play between them.

The silence stretches on, and I feel myself shrinking under their gaze, my self-respect slipping further out of reach. It’s not just the necklace. It’s the fact that they know they can toy with me, pull my strings, make me feel smaller than I already do.

I wish I could run away, but I can’t. I stand there, waiting for their next move.

I stand frozen, my heart hammering in my chest, eyes focused on the necklace resting on the thin sheets. Caracalla’s gaze never leaves me as he watches my every movement, waiting for something. His voice breaks the silence, low and threatening.

“Take it!” he commands, the sharpness in his tone sending a chill down my spine.

At first, I don’t move, the weight of his words pressing on me like a physical force. Alas, I know better than to disobey. Slowly, I take a breath, my hands trembling as I take a cautious step forward. I force myself not to look directly at him, focusing on the necklace instead, even if it feels like his eyes are burning into me. I reach for it, but as my fingers brush the chain, Caracalla grabs my wrist, the grip firm and unyielding. His voice drips with authority.

“Not so fast,” he sneers, forcing my hand to move slower, making me feel every second of this humiliation. I finally close my fingers around the cool metal, as I can feel his manhood hardening, and I pull it toward me, feeling the weight of the object in my palm. He releases my wrist with a slight smirk, as if this is some victory for him.

This is disgusting, a twisted game… Antonella was right. So right. I’m in deep troubles now. Why couldn’t I play sick when the Pretorian guard went to fetch me?

I quickly step back, my mind racing with conflicting thoughts. I want to leave, to escape this room, but I can’t. And then, before I can move further, my back collides with something solid. I gasp, my heart skipping a beat as I realize it’s Emperor Geta.

He stands behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His fingers graze my shoulder, light, almost mocking, before they move upward, brushing through my hair. I don’t dare move, my body stiffening under his touch. In my mind, I’m pleading for God to help me, to give me the strength to endure this.

Geta leans in slightly, inhaling deeply, as if savoring the scent of my hair. I shudder but stay still.

“You should be ashamed,” he says softly, his voice full of something I can’t quite place. Amusement? Disdain? “A filthy Christian, when you look like the Goddess Flora herself.”

I bite my lip, my chest tight with the weight of his words. I don’t respond. What could I say? What would be the point? I simply stand there, praying silently in my head. His hand shifts, a single finger slipping beneath my chin, tilting my face upward.

“Look at my brother, little lamb,” he murmurs, his finger still pressing gently on my chin, guiding me to face Caracalla.

I want to look away, but I can’t. I try to avoid his brother’s eyes, instead focusing on his lower face, but his gaze is insistent, drawing me in despite myself.

I stand in silence as they watch me, their eyes sharp and calculating, waiting for me to respond. The tension in the room is thick, suffocating. Caracalla’s voice breaks through first, smooth and mocking, the edges laced with amusement.

“So, why are you a Christian, then?” he asks, leaning forward slightly, his gaze never leaving mine. “Is it by birth, or did some… conversation with foolish people seep into your mind?”

My heart race, my breath caught in my throat. Their eyes feel like daggers, slicing through me, probing for weaknesses. The words escape me in a stutter, my voice shaky despite myself.

“I… I found God when I… when I expected it the least. His Grace touched me with His Light.” I stutter.

Caracalla chuckles, the sound low and derisive. He shakes his head as if I’ve said something amusing but absurd.

“The Gods will punish you for this, little lamb,” he says, amusement clear in his tone. “They always do for such foolishness.”

I try to steady myself, but the fear only tightens its grip on me. I want to say something, defend my faith, but the words don’t come. I can feel Geta’s presence behind me, close, too close. His breath on my neck makes the hairs on my skin stand on end.

Without warning, I feel his fingers wrap gently around my throat, his touch firm but not harsh, yet it makes my heart skip a beat. I freeze, terror flooding me. My throat constricts under his fingers, and I can’t help but swallow hard, the fear creeping in like a cold wave. I brace myself, expecting them to strike, to end this now. They are the Emperors, after all. They have the power to kill as they want.

“Keep going,” Geta orders, his voice low and strangely soft, yet with an edge of command that makes me shiver.

I can feel his fingers tighten just enough to remind me he’s in control. I choke on my breath for a moment, gathering the strength to speak. My voice shakes as I continue, each word heavier than the last.

“After I lost… everything, my family, my home, everything I knew, I thought I was dying too. I was crying, choking, shaking, unable to think, to talk. I was… doomed. I thought I’d never see the light of day again.”

I pause, swallowing the lump in my throat, trying to push the memory away, but it’s like a weight I can’t shake. The fear, the pain… it all comes flooding back. I take a steadying breath before continuing.

“Then, suddenly, a warmth spread through my chest. Not the kind that consumed me, but one that soothed me, comforted me. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever felt before.”

I close my eyes briefly, remembering that night, the strange sensation of it.

“It was winter,” I kept explaining, opening my eyes to look at the oldest brother. “In the middle of the night, a firefly… a bright one, came close to me, but it didn’t touch me. It just hovered there. I knew it was impossible to have one of those in the dead of winter. But I felt it. I knew it wasn’t… normal.”

I swallow again, the memory vivid in my mind. It’s been so long, but it’s as if it happened yesterday.

“The next day, I saw some Christians in the street, preaching the Holy Word. They were arrested, condemned… I watched them suffer. And then, a month later, a woman appeared. She was dressed in white… luminous, like a glow. I couldn’t see her face, but I could feel her warmth, her beauty… until she disappeared.”

My voice breaks at the end, and I find myself staring at my hands, trying to steady my trembling.

“That’s how God found me,” I finish quietly, almost to myself.

I expect silence, but Caracalla’s laugh rings out, sharp and mocking. “A woman dressed in white, you say? A nice tale, but that’s all it is, isn’t it? A tale.”

Geta’s hand leaves my throat, but I can still feel his presence behind me, a looming shadow.

“She believes it,” Geta whispers, his voice thoughtful, almost teasing. “I think that makes it all the more interesting, don’t you, brother?”

Caracalla’s smirk widens, and I feel smaller than ever, caught between their taunting and my truth.

I stand frozen, my heart hammering in my chest. Geta’s hand moves too close to me, his fingers brushing against my side as he whispers something I can’t fully understand, but it doesn’t matter. I know enough. His words drip with mockery, like poison in my ears, and every fiber of my being tells me to pull away, but I don’t dare. Suddenly, his hands slide over my breasts and grab them. My eyes widen, I gasp for breath and a wave of heat surges through me. The fear weighs heavily on me, making my chest tighten. I feel his gaze on me, hot and uncomfortable, and I try not to flinch. Every instinct screams at me to move, to run, but my feet refuse to move. I know very well the consequences of this.

I try to steady my breath, reminding myself that the only thing keeping me alive is compliance.

God help me! Please!

��Gods told me you’re wrong,” Geta murmurs close to my ear, his voice low and mocking. “Maybe you need a lesson.”

I feel sick. My stomach churns as anxiety builds up, but before I can process the thought, there’s a knock at the door. The interruption is sharp, and it cuts through the heavy air like a knife. A Pretorian guard steps in, his presence like a sudden gust of wind.

“Apologies, my Emperors, but there’s been an incident.”

Geta releases me without a second glance, and I stagger back, heart still racing.

“Leave.” he orders coldly, and I don’t need to be told twice.

I hurry out of the room, my legs unsteady beneath me. As soon as I step into the corridor, I allow myself a moment to breathe, though my heart is still pounding. I wipe a tear from my cheek, feeling the sting of humiliation and helplessness claw at my chest.

I don’t know what will happen now.

But for now, I just keep walking.

- - -

PART 3

Do I know where I’m going? Yes and no haha.

Tell me if you enjoy this story, it might help me to keep writing this story.

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

My Instagram: carolinemertz_

#emperor geta #geta x reader #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #geta x you #joseph quinn geta #emperor geta fanfic #emperor geta fanfiction #emperor caracalla #caracalla x reader #caracalla x you #fred hechinger #emperor caracalla fanfiction

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wroetominter · 1 day ago

Text

Three Peaks - George Clarke

Warnings: none, some swearing

Thank you for the request! I have some serious writers block right now so bear with as the time between posts may be a little longer. I appreciate you!

———

"I don't know how I got roped into this one" I adjusted the microphone I was securing to Chris' t-shirt. He chuckled, patting my shoulder as I finished.

"Well, there aren't many of you fit enough to actually climb three mountains so it was quite the easy choice." Chris said. I sighed, shaking my head. Mentally slapping myself for telling Chris casually that I enjoyed a good hike.

Chris had the thought for a video that honestly, I couldn't even make fun of. It was a really well thought out idea. A group of his friends and crew tackling the three peaks challenge. Which is essentially just climbing three mountains in 24 hours. Seems damn near impossible, especially considering the group he had.

I had been part of Chris' camera crew for almost a year now, and I felt like I had really found a good group of friends in this job. Outside of filming I had been hanging out with Chris and his core group frequently. Many nights spent out at different pubs, or simply hanging out at their flat.

"Let's get going shall we?" Chris began to lead the group. I stuck towards the middle, filming the boys who had taken the lead.

Reev, Chris, and George led the pack as we began the ascent to the top of our first mountain.

"I can already tell this is going to be fucking awful." I heard from behind me. I turned my head to see Arthur Hill beginning the days complaints.

"George you owe me a tenner!" Television shouted from beside him.

"What?" I asked in confusion.

"I placed a bet that Hill would be the first to complain." Television explained. I threw my head back laughing, panning the camera to catch Hills reaction. He deadpanned and just stared at the camera.

"Don't worry Arthur, I'm not looking forward to this either."

Each boy had been given their own special challenge for the video, and I was really enjoying watching Reev attempt to put rocks in the boys shoes.

"What's your challenge?" I asked Chris as I caught up to him.

"I need to get someone to believe a fake fact about each mountain." He whispered to the camera.

"That feels alarmingly easy considering the group we're with." I said. He agreed and told me he was already scheming up his first lie to tell Arthur.

We had been climbing for close to two hours by this point, and we were nearing the peak.

"Enjoying yourself love?" George asked me as he took a seat on the rock next to me.

"It's not nearly as bad as I expected it to be, I'll be honest." I snacked on the apple slices I packed, offering one out to George.

We sat in a comfortable silence, watching the others as they bantered back and forth with each other.

I sat and admired George as he laughed, not being able to help myself from laughing along. He had an infectious laugh. Chris caught me staring at George and raised an eyebrow at me. He was the only one of the group who knew I had somewhat of a crush on George. I had unfortunately admitted it to him accidentally after one drink too many during a pub crawl.

We had all gotten up again to keep our pace going up the mountain. The terrain upwards wasn't too bad. The most annoying part by far was having to continue to film while simultaneously making sure I didn't fall down.

"I never thought this would end!" Arthur Hill screamed as we reached the peak.

"I'm sure you're used to hearing that in bed." Harry joked with him patting him on the back.

We all shared a laugh and took in the nice view. It wasn't long before we realized that 'huh, guess we just go down now' and begin to descend the mountain.

I trailed behind Chris and ArthurTV, catching some of their conversation as Chris tried to convince Arthur that some celebrity had been the first person to complete this challenge. I had to actively hold in a giggle as I knew Chris was having him on with his challenge.

During my distracted state, I felt myself slide to the side as my foot hit a loose rock that sent me falling down. Instinctively deciding to protect my camera, I took the full brunt of the fall to my hip and legs.

"Shit, are you alright?" George asked jogging to catch up to me.

Catching my breath after scaring myself with the fall, I nodded towards him. I turned my camera off and stuck it in its carrying bag beside me, examining my ankle.

It was fairly scraped up, and was slightly throbbing. Nothing that felt it would be too crazy but painful nonetheless.

A few of the others called out to see if I was okay. I gave them a thumbs up.

"I'll stay with her and help her down, you guys can go ahead we'll just be a few minutes." George called back to them.

"Does it hurt?" He asked me, grazing his fingertips over my ankle to assess.

"Not a ton, I think I was more shocked by the fall than anything. I'll be fine George, thank you for staying behind with me." I smiled at him, noting his features contorted with uncertainty at my words.

He stood up, holding his hands out for me to help me up. I happily grabbed them and put pressure on my ankle, feeling a tinge of pain but it was bearable.

I stood upright, George still holding onto my hands to make sure I was steady. He never took his eyes off of mine, scanning my face for any sign of pain.

"I'm good George, I promise." He smiled at me, squeezing my hands.

"I think it's time to reveal my challenge to you." His words took me by surprise as I had no idea where this topic had come from.

He let go of my hands, fishing around in his pocket and pulling out a cue card similar to the other boys. He unfolded it and turned it towards me.

In small, easily recognizable handwriting I read off 'tell Y/n you have feelings for her you dumb twat'. Chris. Of course Chris would write that.

I looked back up to him, his face flushed from either embarrassment or anxiety, I couldn't tell.

"I assume what's written there is true?" I asked George, looking to him for confirmation. He nodded, sliding the paper back into his pocket.

We both stood there a little awkwardly for a moment, neither of us being particularly good at the whole admitting feelings thing.

"Your feelings are mutual." I said, cutting the silence. His eyes widened at me, a smile breaking on his features.

He put an arm around my shoulder, pulling me closer for a hug.

"How about we talk more about this over dinner once we’re done with the next two mountains?” He propositioned.

I groaned, “I forgot we still have two fucking mountains to go.” He laughed as I pouted.

He slid his hand up to my cheek, bringing his face closer to mine and connecting our lips in a short, sweet kiss.

“This should give you something to look forward to” he said as he pulled away. It was my turn for my cheeks to turn pink. Despite how tired and sweaty we already were, he still looked absolutely perfect.

“I suppose I can make it through as long as you promise not to let me fall again.” He laughed.

“I’ll do my best.”

We walked downwards, eventually catching up with the others who had stopped for a water break.

“Finally you two made it! Began to think you two were shacking up up there!” ArthurTV exclaimed.

I rolled my eyes at him, laughing.

“Not quite shacking up, but my challenge is complete.” George bragged, Chris’ head shot towards us at these words.

“No way.” He said, looking to me for confirmation.

“Yes way” I replied, George put his arm over my shoulder once again and we watched as the mental cogs turned in the other boys heads.

“Oh my god he finally got the balls to tell her!” Arthur Hill screamed, jumping around like a fangirl.

I looked to George who just shook his head in embarrassment. “Did everyone know except me?” I asked only loud enough for him to hear.

“Yeah, pretty much.”

I knew then that the next two mountains would likely be sex jokes and embarrassing stories, and I was weirdly looking forward to it.

#imagine #chrismd #george clarke #george clarkeey #george clarkey #george clarke fics #george clarke fluff #arthur hill #arthurtv

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the-uninformed-zennial · 3 days ago

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Okay so I wanna talk about the ecosystem of a fandom space like Fable/Bound SMP and those that extend off of it.

(long post below)

So one of the things that kinda stands out to me is that many of the popular ships are just canon. Like… off the top of my head the only two popular ships that aren’t necessarily canon in Fable are Kaleidoscope (Midas x Malitae) and Prison Duo (Centross x Icarus). But even one of those has been hinted at being canon by Sherbert in a few streams so like???

Looking at this from the outside it’s almost worrying. But the thing is, I think it has to do with three different things that are all unique to the Fable/Mer/Bound (and adjacent) fandom(s) and might actually be the sign of a really warm and welcoming community (as the Fable & adjacent fandoms have always been imo).

Firstly, the medium. If these were not lore-heavy, highly improvisational, live-streamed stories the fandom wouldn’t be able to provide feedback and the creators wouldn’t be able to react to said feedback in time to adjust. Think about Hermitcraft, it’s highly improvisational, yes. But lore-wise it’s not super heavy and thus all ships kinda teeter on the edge of being canon or not canon. Likewise smth like Whitepine where it’s recorded beforehand (and I think scripted??) doesn’t give the creators the flexibility to adjust the content in the same way the fandom is moving as quickly as the fandom moves.

Secondly, the fact that the creators interact with the fandom. Hi, hello, I’m living proof of this cause if I hadn’t gotten picked up by Heyhay and Art I never would’ve gotten to become one of said content creators. But this goes far beyond that. This has to do with the fact that they listen and interact and bounce ideas off of their fan base. Even if it doesn’t always feel like it, the opinions and ideas you guys share out here do influence the story, even if it’s just confirmation that you guys are picking up what the creators are laying down. It still serves as a sounding board to see how well things are coming across, and speaking as a creator myself (albeit a newer one) I find it incredibly helpful.

Thirdly, the size. Obviously if this venn-diagram of fandoms was as large as say Hermitcraft or QSMP the content creators simply wouldn’t be able to keep up with the fandom and many ideas would get lost in the jumble. Even just with how large Fable got at it’s peak, there came a point where it was nearly impossible to keep up with the amount of fan art and theories that were being made. So I think this point kinda feeds back into the second, that having a smaller size helps the content creators keep up with the feedback they receive from their art and lead to the fandom having more influence on the story than anyone really realizes.

These three things work together to create a space where people get to feel heard and seen. One of the most enticing things about being a community member for me was having that ability to influence the story, to talk to the characters themselves, to poke them about things I wanted to know the answer to. And when they responded?? It was so cool! I remember I used to keep a tally of little things in the world that I had affected because of messages that had been sent during live chat. It wasn’t ever anything big, but sometimes it’s the little things that count. That’s why, as a creator now I try really hard to interact with community members. I know I’m obviously not one of the big creators in this space, but I still want to help you guys feel seen and heard, because that’s where so much of the magic of being a part of this fandom space comes from imo. And if I can help recreate what helped me fall in love with this fandom space even a little bit, I’ll do what I can.

Anyway, I’m just super grateful to this community and the fellow creators within it. I have been so lucky to be able to get to experience this fandom from both the community member and creator side and honestly it has just been one of the most overwhelmingly positive experiences of my life, from both sides of the spectrum. I know things like that are fickle. I know fandoms and people are always growing and changing and maybe that won’t always be the case. But I just wanted to say I really appreciate the community that has been built here and all the work that goes into keeping it a positive and safe space. So, thank you guys 💕

#God this is so long #bound smp #fable smp #mcytblr #zenni rambles #siege smp #terramortis smp #mer smp

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delight-angelsbliss · 23 hours ago

Note

Hi there! May I request for your Valentine's one, S1 numbers 23 and 30 with Shadow and reader? Thanks and have a great day/night! ☺️

Prompts: "I wish everyday could be like this" + writing a love letter only to throw it away but they find it

Warnings: none that I know of (^-^)

Notes: depressed gamer you're a genius this is such a cute pair!! I was a bit out of ideas while making this cuz of bad cramps but it'll be fine lol my first laptop should arrive today which makes me really happy<3 guys I love Tommy February6 songs too much I'll never let them go.. Guys I totally didn't think of ratatouille when saying your eyes widened with each word because of that one short chef trust Might make a pt2 to this cuz this is such a cool idea but I kinda rushed this cuz of some things I needed to get ready for</3

Shadow was known as a loner who never engages with people unless he knows them well enough and can trust them with everything. He is an emotionally unavailable person with little to no knowledge on how to successfully comfort someone which makes it hard for his peers to engage with him or make small talk since he always gives dry and short responses that are hard to respond to

Since he's so distant to people it felt near impossible to be friends with him, only a few people successfully cracking through his facade and becoming close friends with him

But you wanted something more than friendship, something more, intimate something more romantic, and something more close now of course that was a hard task to achieve

You were certain that if he did reject your advances he couldn't act nice (hundred percent he'd look at you disgusted and degrade you before leaving) which is why it would be hard to face him directly face to face

What you didn't know was that the hedgehog was in fact quote infatuated with you! Stealing quick glances while you're around, getting quiet when you walk in the door, keeping his hands seen whole you're talking to him

It was quite obvious for most, especially Amy and Sonic, instead of teasing him like he expected (even if sonic did tease him a bit) they were telling him to make a letter and how cute that could be

They referred him to some shops that could have cute things and stickers for the letter, even giving him some pointers how to express his feelings in writing (me next please I need a tip or two) after a while of working on the letter, he decided to stop, thinking it would be stupid

Someone as great as you could never like somebody as brooding as him! Why'd he ever try? He decided to go outside and throw it in that dumpster instead if the one inside so no one finds a trade of the letter

What he didn't realize was that he threw it in the wrong trash. The trash was full and if anything else was in there he'd be certain it would fall out. Doubling down he throws it anyway and leaves, going to go sulk in a corner probably

In this hot day he decided it would he best to sulk inside.. As for you, you decide to go take a walk outside since the weather was so nice, while walking around you spot the letter

Like a good pedestrian you pick up the letter and try to throw it in the trash before realizing it was addressed to you! What could possibly be in it? Curiousity gets the best of you, you decide to open the letter and read it... Your eyes widen slowly with each word as you realize it's a love letter from shadow

"I wish everyday could be like this" you say to yourself in surprise. He really did like you?! This felt like a dream come true as more emotions started spiraling in your mind

Now how do you go about telling him you found the note?

#sonic x reader #x reader #x gender neutral reader #x gn reader #shadow the hedgehog x reader #shadow x reader #shadow the hedgehog #writers on tumblr #fluff headcanons #fluff #headcanons #hcs #x gn!reader #gn reader #headcanon #જ⁀➴ ♡ janahts february

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pascaloverx · 1 day ago

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STARVE

Summary: You lost your husband some time ago while he served as a gladiator for Emperors Geta and Caracalla. General Acacius saved you from becoming an object of pleasure for the emperors. Since then, he has taken you as his mistress. In your free time, you became a disciple of Ravi, the healer, dedicating yourself to tending to wounded gladiators. All seemed to be in perfect harmony until Hanno, a gladiator driven by a thirst for vengeance, crossed your path.

Author's Note: And the gods said: Starve will be a multi-chapter fanfiction (I hope readers will follow it all the way through). Without further ado, the characters belong to Ridley Scott's Gladiator II universe, though there will be significant deviations from the film. Historical accuracy regarding life in the Roman Empire may not always be strictly observed, so I hope you can overlook that. Yes, this story revolves around a love triangle, but I will strive to satisfy everyone. This fanfiction will include adult content, violence, and potentially coarse language. Enjoy!

three

FOUR

You lost consciousness, yet fleeting moments of the struggle to bring you back to life drifted through your mind like a fevered dream. Ravi, frantic, attempting to stitch your wound. Your body burned with searing heat. Someone held your hand, cold lips pressing against your forehead, as you fought to return—to reclaim a life you were no longer certain you deserved. But the thought of never waking again, of being torn from those you held dear, was a nightmare far worse.

Your late husband appeared before you. He spoke no words, only extended his hand, beckoning you to follow him. You embraced him as one does in farewell, knowing it was not yet your time. And then, whether by day or night, you awoke. Pain throbbed low in your abdomen, a grim confirmation that this was no hallucination—you had been wounded. More than that, Hanno had sought your life. Yet your wound was dressed with care, wrapped securely in bandages. Your attire was unfamiliar, the fabric of your tunic impossibly fine—far beyond anything you had ever worn. You had been tended to with great attention, that much was certain.

"It is a relief to see you recovered," came a voice, firm yet measured. Emperor Geta stood at a distance, observing you intently before stepping forward. In that moment, the pieces began to fall into place—the luxurious garments, the richly adorned chamber. Of course. These were his quarters.

"I would not say recovered, Emperor, merely awakened." Your voice was steady, though your body remained weak. "I see that you are safe." Fragments of memory returned—the gladiator revolt, the last moments before your collapse.

"General Acacius managed to quell the disorder among the gladiators," Geta remarked, his voice smooth yet watchful as he moved closer. "I suspect his true aim was to save his beloved mistress from the grasp of death, though that is something you shall have to confirm with him yourself." You pushed yourself upright, adjusting to the ache in your body, making space on the bed for him to sit. After all, these chambers belonged to him.

"I must thank you for your care. I imagine my recovery is due to your efforts," you say, your gaze fixed upon Emperor Geta. Years had passed with the two of you in such close proximity, yet always bound by the same unchanging dynamic—he desiring you, while you belonged to another. If not to your late husband, then to the great General Acacius.

"You saved my life, healer," Geta murmurs, his eyes locked with yours. His hand comes to your face, a gentle yet deliberate touch, urging you to meet his gaze more fully as he draws closer.

"And your act of bravery will not be forgotten. The gladiatorial games shall resume as soon as you are well enough to attend them—at my side, fulfilling your new role in Rome." Something feels amiss. A new role?

"Forgive me if I seem ungrateful, but what new role do you speak of? And I had assumed the gladiators would not be so willing to continue their battles in the arena," you say, your thoughts reeling, trying to piece together what has transpired in your absence.

"I do not wish to overwhelm you, but your actions have made something clear to me," Geta replies smoothly. "A companion willing to sacrifice her life for me, one who possesses both skill and knowledge in tending to wounds, would be of great use. From this moment on, you shall be my attendant before all of Rome. I assure you, you need not spend every moment at my side—but while you do, you shall keep me entertained."

He pauses, his tone sharpening slightly. "And let me make one thing very clear—you need not concern yourself with what the gladiators wish. They will stand in the arena for as long as I decree it. We decree it—my brother and I."

A faint smile lingers on his lips as he rises. "Now, rest and recover. These chambers—and whatever garments you may require—are yours." Then, with deliberate ease, he leans in, pressing a lingering kiss at the corner of your lips before pulling away. The unexpectedness of it leaves you momentarily stunned. And just as swiftly as he came, Geta turns and departs, leaving you in silence.

Not immediately, but moments later, you rise. With some difficulty, you make your way through the palace, recalling the times you accompanied your late husband to his brief meetings with Caracalla. You needed to see Ravi—perhaps the only one truly concerned for you. As you prepare to take the risk of mounting a horse to go to him, General Acacius appears, accompanied by several guards on horseback.

"Where do you think you're going?" Acacius questions the moment his gaze meets yours. You look at him, anger simmering beneath your composure. Years by his side—tending to his wounds, watching over him—and when you were the one struck down, he left you in the hands of Emperor Geta.

"General Acacius, there is a certain recklessness in your question. We are no longer connected, and surely, it is inappropriate for you to question my actions when they matter so little to you," you respond, continuing to ready the horse for your departure.

"Leave us," the general commands his guards, dismounting. "If defiance is your intent, I suggest you try harder," Acacius murmurs behind you, his breath warm against your ear. His hands graze your arms, a slow caress that makes you shut your eyes at the familiarity of his touch.

"Did you even spare a thought for my well-being while I lay dying?" you ask, uncertain now whether your survival is of any importance to him at all.

"If you must ask me that, then you never truly knew me, despite all these years," Acacius says. "I would have faced all of Rome to save your life if it came to that. And indeed, I put an end to a rebellion to ensure that you would stand before me once again, looking at me with that same cold indifference. And here you are." He moves in front of you, seizing the reins of the horse you had been preparing to mount. You avert your gaze, momentarily ashamed.

"I imagine you have punished the gladiator responsible for this," you say, meeting his eyes once more.

"I cannot do that. In the chaos, we were unable to identify who attacked you," Acacius replies. But something in his demeanor shifts—something is not right.

"That will not be an issue. I can identify him," you lie, watching him closely. You need to understand why he is suddenly hesitant. "Do not do this," he says almost immediately.

"And why not?" you demand, struggling to comprehend why Acacius would have any interest in sparing Hanno.

"I cannot tell you. Not yet. Just… don’t," he pleads, his voice softer now, almost desperate.

"Let me guess—it has something to do with Lucilla?" you say, feeling your blood boil. "Your wife comes before any retribution for an attempt on Emperor Geta’s life? Or nearly sending me to my death?" There is no need for him to answer—you already know. Perhaps it is better this way. The sooner you accept that Acacius does not belong to you, the easier it will be to accept the reality that, piece by piece, you are being handed over to Geta. Always belonging to someone—never having someone who belongs to you. Perhaps one day, you will belong to yourself.

"Believe me, it is not easy letting the one who hurt you go unpunished, but there are circumstances that prevent me from—" You do not let him finish. In one swift movement, you mount his horse, the one he had so foolishly left within your reach, since he still blocked the one you had prepared. Yes, you are stealing a general’s horse.

"A word of advice before I leave, General—if you continue placing your wife above all else, you will die. A person blinded by love loses all the instinct for survival," you tell Acacius before spurring the horse forward. But instead of heading toward Ravi, you turn in the direction of the one who owes you the most answers. Hanno.

Your wound threatens to slow you down, but with determination, you press on, each step a test of endurance. At last, you arrive at your destination—the dim, squalid cells where the gladiators are kept like beasts awaiting slaughter. The air is thick with the stench of blood and sweat, the groans of the injured echoing through the narrow corridor.

A guard, stationed at the entrance, swiftly steps forward to block your path, his expression wary. "You are the savior of Emperor Geta, correct?" he asks, scrutinizing you.

"In a way," you reply, your voice steady. "I have come to visit one of the gladiators—I used to tend to his wounds." He studies you for a moment before stepping aside, though his eyes linger on you with mild curiosity.

"You saved our emperor. You may visit whomever you wish. But be warned—none left unscathed. They were punished mercilessly for their part in the rebellion," the guard cautions.

You nod and move forward, your gaze sweeping over the men behind the iron bars. Some are barely conscious, their bodies marred with fresh wounds, while others simply stare blankly ahead, their spirits crushed by suffering. You cannot help but think of Ravi, who must be overwhelmed, desperately trying to mend the broken bodies around him. Then, a sound catches your attention—soft yet urgent. A woman’s voice, one you recognize.

Your steps slow as you follow the sound, until you find yourself before Hanno’s cell. The heavy iron door is ajar, and within, you see him—battered, bruised, barely standing. But he is not alone. Lucilla is there with him, locked in what appears to be a hushed, heated exchange. A strange unease coils in your stomach. Whatever is happening, it is not something they expected to be witnessed. You take another step forward and clear your throat, making your presence known.

"Am I interrupting something?" Both of them freeze, their heads snapping toward you, eyes wide with surprise. And Hanno—Hanno looks utterly ruined.

Your chest tightens at the sight of him. His body bears the cruel marks of battle��wounds torn open, bruises darkening his skin like the aftermath of a storm. It is evident that Ravi has not tended to him, that no gentle hand has sought to mend what was broken. You should feel some measure of satisfaction at his suffering, for he nearly cost you your life. And yet, all you can summon is a strange, unwelcome pity.

"You are alive." Hanno’s voice is urgent, as though the mere sight of you breathes life back into him. He moves toward you, instinctively drawn closer.

But you retreat—a step, then another. His pale blue eyes search yours, and in them, you find sorrow. Perhaps it is for himself, or perhaps for the wariness that now defines the space between you. It matters little. The last time he stood this close, you were left at death’s door.

"Yes, I live." Your tone is measured, though not without bite. "And I see you have already sought comfort elsewhere." Your gaze flickers toward Lucilla, her presence beside him casting shadows of suspicion. The truth strikes swiftly—this is why she so fervently opposes Acacius bringing Hanno to justice. Lucilla stiffens, her face drained of color.

"It is not what you think, Y/N!" she exclaims, a thread of panic woven through her voice. She steps away from Hanno, as though distance might absolve her. You do not reply, merely observing as she turns toward him, her voice lowering to something just above a whisper. "I cannot explain why I am here. I shall leave that task to you."

Then, with a fleeting touch to his arm, she murmurs, "Stay safe." And with that, she departs, leaving you and Hanno alone. There is hesitation in both of you, a guarded uncertainty. And yet, beneath it, something else lingers—a strange, unspoken pull, as if despite all reason, some part of you still longs to close the distance.

"Was it for her that you tried to kill Emperor Geta? He was not even the intended target, was he? Or would you have slain him first, then Acacius, so the two of you could be together? What kind of reckless fool are you, Hanno?" Your voice rises, edged with fury, the mere thought of it setting your blood aflame. Had he truly risked everything—had he risked you—for Lucilla? Acacius had always belonged to her, but Hanno had not.

Before you even realize it, your hands are upon him, shoving his body against the iron bars of his cell. He grunts in pain but does not resist, allowing you to press him further into the cold metal. And then—he smiles. As though your rage amuses him, as though he welcomes it.

His rough hands close over yours, steadying them, though he does not force you away. And then, with a swift motion, he pulls you into his cell. Before you can utter a word, his palm is over your lips, silencing you.

"I will explain everything," he murmurs, his voice low, commanding, "but not if you refuse to listen. Be a good girl and keep still for a moment." Your eyes flash in warning before you sink your teeth into his hand. Hard.

He curses, releasing you with a sharp intake of breath, shaking his hand as if to rid himself of the pain. The faint taste of blood lingers on your tongue.

"I shall remain silent for your explanation," you say coldly, "but do not lay a hand on me unless I grant you leave to do so."

Hanno huffs out a soft chuckle, flexing his fingers as though to ease the sting. He is still smiling—perhaps at your audacity, or perhaps at the sting of your defiance. Then, his expression darkens.

"Lucilla is not my lover," he says at last. "She claims to be my mother, though the fact that she brought me into this world does not necessarily make her one." His words strike you like a blow.

You take a step closer, your mind racing. "That would mean…" The realization unfurls within you, pieces of an old tale assembling into a truth long buried. The missing child. The son of Lucilla, lost to the world. "Lucius." Your voice is scarcely above a whisper. "Lucius Verus Aurelius."

Hanno—or rather, Lucius—gives a slow nod. "I had no wish to reveal it, but I could not allow you to believe there was something between us." There is something oddly hesitant in his gaze, something almost vulnerable.

"Were you afraid I would tell Acacius?" you ask, searching his face for an answer. "Though if he spared your life, it means he already knows."

Lucius exhales, his lips pressing into a thin line. "I care not if you tell Acacius or Geta what I have done or who I am. My only concern was that you might believe I meant to harm you." His voice wavers, and for the first time, you see the torment behind his eyes. "I wished the gods had taken me instead of you. Believe me, it was never my intention to wound you. I have suffered for it every day since, for I wounded the only person who made me feel alive since the death of my Arishat." His voice is thick with emotion, his eyes dangerously close to tears. You stare at him, your chest tightening, before your hand flies across his face in a sharp slap. His head turns with the force of it, his cheek reddening, but he does not flinch. He merely watches you, unreadable.

"Nothing you say will undo what you have done," you say, your voice trembling with anger. "The sheer folly of striking against an emperor! And worse—of keeping this from me."

You push him back against the stone wall of his cell, your gaze flickering over him—his bare chest, the rise and fall of his breath, the defiant set of his jaw. His lips.

Lucius tilts his head slightly, his breath warm against your skin. "Strike me again if it pleases you," he murmurs, his voice nearly brushing your lips. "If pain is what you wish to inflict upon me, then I shall welcome it." His words send something hot and wretched through you, something you refuse to name.

Your hands tighten at your sides, your anger warring with something far more dangerous. "How could you do this to me?" The words spill from you in a whisper, your strength faltering as tears well in your eyes. "Do I mean so little to you?" For the briefest moment, you let yourself break.

"No—do not doubt what I feel for you simply because I was reckless," Hanno says, his voice strained yet firm. "I sought vengeance for Arishat’s death. I thought that if my target were Acacius, it would create a rift between us. If only I had realized sooner that it was vengeance itself I should have abandoned, not merely my aim."

He steps closer, his fingers brushing against your cheek as he wipes away your tears. Your voice trembles with emotion as you ask, "You abandoned your attack on Acacius… for me?"

His jaw tightens. "And it nearly cost me your life. I shall never be so foolish again." His hand rises to your chin, tilting your face up toward his.

His lips hover just above yours, his breath warm against your skin, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

"I have not forgiven you yet," you murmur against his mouth, your words barely above a whisper, "but listen well—tend to your wounds with Ravi, and next time, think before you act. Strength without strategy is a wasted effort." Your lips are so close that it is almost a kiss, a ghost of what could be.

The hunger in his eyes is unmistakable, mirroring the heat pooling in your chest. Your body aches to close the distance, to surrender to the pull between you. But you cannot. Not yet. Without another word, you step away, turning swiftly on your heel. You do not dare look back as you slip from his cell, leaving him behind.

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binisbun · 3 days ago

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older and more experienced bf jiwoong with a corruption kink but in a kinda soft way?? u told him he's ur first proper boyfriend n the tension since then finally hit its breaking point. he thinks ur the cutest when ur underneath him. he's so high off the power imbalance, roughly grabbing ur face in one hand telling u to keep ur eyes on him n maneuvering ur body around so he can be impossibly deeper inside of u. his grip on ur jaw is too tight and u whine that it hurts. he smiles n softens his grip to slowly run his thumb along ur tear stained cheek and whispers "i'm sorry, baby," pressing soft kisses to ur face n slows his thrusts. "promise i'm gonna take such good care of u" and rubs ur clit as u whimper into his neck n he kisses ur temple. "my pretty girl. don't have to worry about a thing as long as i'm here." u grab the collar of his t-shirt to bring his lips to urs as a couple tears slip from ur eyes, so overwhelmed by all the sensations but still wanting more of him.

i feel like he'd love someone younger n clingy who he could dote on like a daddy dom type of thing🧎🏻‍♀️ not even woong biased but i need him badly oml

i’m so sorry it’s taken me ages to reply to this but i’m honestly blown away… pls consider becoming a writer <3 and i 100% agree with you

“da-daddy,” you cried. “so deep!” he loved the way you cried for him, clinging onto him for dear life. he angled his thrusts to reach your sweetest spots, assuming that you’d never been able to reach them. “does that feel good, babygirl? daddy’s being so good to you, right?” he whispered softly, punctuating his words with those deep thrusts, making you whimper louder and louder. “i love it daddy, thank you, thank you, thank you,” you’d babble in response, loving everything he had to give you.

his heart would melt at the sight of you slowly falling apart underneath him, how you cried so sweetly for him :( he’d bury his face into your hair, deeply inhaling your sweet scent as he continues to move inside you, determined to make your first time everything you’d ever dreamt of. “you’re so perfect, my little princess,” he’d groan, snapping his hips faster as he felt your orgasm approaching. “just let go, babygirl. daddy’s got you, i promise.” he’d capture your lips in a kiss, swallowing your every whimper and moan as he gets you closer and closer. you cried out once more as you came for him for the first time, your walls clenching around his cock.

he’d bury himself deep, spilling his seed inside you as your legs shook from your recent orgasm. his body trembled, continuing to give you every last drop of his cum. “it’s all yours, my sweet girl, all yours.” he would gasp, collapsing as he cradled your form against his chest as you rode out the aftershocks of your orgasm together. he’d pepper your and neck with soft, gentle and adoring kisses, whispering words of praise and affection. “my perfect girl, daddy’s so honoured to be your first,” he’d whisper, smiling as you gazed at each other, so happy to be sharing this intimate moment together.

#cee chats 💬#zb1 hard hours #zerobaseone hard hours #zerobaseone smut #zb1 smut #zerobaseone x reader #zb1 x reader #kim jiwoong hard hours #kim jiwoong x reader #kim jiwoong smut #cee k.jw

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cloudyluun · 2 days ago

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Office Hours (p.3) | professor!harry

Summary: The morning after brings new complications as boundaries are tested, feelings deepen, and secrecy becomes harder to maintain. As the reality of their forbidden relationship sets in, tensions rise—both in and out of the classroom. When an unexpected encounter at the university forces them to confront the risks they’re taking, you’re left wondering if desire is worth the cost.

A/N: Back with part 3 of Office Hours! Thank you so much for all the love on the last chapter—your support means everything to me. This part raises the stakes even higher, blending tension, passion, and the ever-growing risk of their dangerous connection. Let me know your thoughts, and as always, if you want to be on the taglist, click here!

Word Count: 3,7k

Warnings: Smut (morning-after sex, desk sex, possessiveness, power dynamic, praise kink, slight jealousy), forbidden romance, angst, emotional tension, secrecy.

[Part 1] [Part 2]

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

The morning light filters through the blinds, soft and golden, casting long streaks across the room. The warmth of the sheets, the steady rise and fall of the chest beneath your cheek, the scent of skin and faded cologne—it’s all grounding and disorienting at once. For a moment, reality is distant, replaced by the slow hum of contentment curling through your limbs.

Then, it settles in. Where you are. Who you’re with. What happened last night.

Your breath hitches as you shift slightly, your bare legs tangling further with his. The movement stirs him, and before you can pull away, a strong arm tightens around your waist, holding you in place. A deep sigh rumbles through his chest, followed by the husky rasp of his voice against your temple.

“Morning, love.”

Your body betrays you before your mind can catch up, warmth blooming across your skin at the endearment, at the way his lips brush lazily against your hair. You tilt your head just enough to meet his gaze, and the tenderness there makes your chest tighten. This is dangerous. This is something you shouldn’t be allowing yourself to enjoy.

But in this moment, wrapped up in him, it’s impossible to care.

“Morning,” you whisper, voice laced with sleep.

His fingers trace slow circles against your back, absentminded and soothing. “Sleep well?”

You nod, but the words stay lodged in your throat. How are you supposed to respond when last night is still imprinted on your skin, when your body still remembers the way he held you, touched you, ruined you in ways you didn’t know you needed?

He watches you closely, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes before he shifts, rolling onto his side so you’re facing each other. A hand tucks beneath his head, the other still resting low on your back. The intimacy of it all is overwhelming, but you can’t bring yourself to pull away.

“What happens now?” you ask softly, barely brave enough to voice the thought.

His jaw tightens slightly, like he’s considering his words carefully. “We figure it out.”

It’s not a real answer, but it’s something.

The silence stretches, filled only by the rustling of sheets and the quiet rhythm of your breaths. Then, Harry exhales sharply, rolling onto his back and running a hand through his hair. “You hungry?”

The shift in conversation is abrupt, but not unwelcome. You nod, and that’s all it takes for him to slide out of bed, stretching his arms above his head before reaching for a pair of sweatpants. Your gaze flickers downward, betraying you, and he smirks when he catches you staring.

“Like what you see?”

You huff, throwing a pillow at him. He dodges it with ease, laughing as he pulls the sweats over his hips. “Come on, I make a mean omelet.”

You hesitate, suddenly aware of your lack of clothing. Before you can ask, he’s already tossing a hoodie your way—his hoodie, soft and oversized. The sight of you in it does something to him, you can tell by the way his throat bobs as he swallows, the way his fingers flex at his sides before he clenches them into fists.

“Looks better on you,” he mutters, almost to himself, before turning toward the kitchen.

Breakfast is… oddly normal. Domestic. The kind of thing couples do on lazy Sunday mornings. He stands at the stove, spatula in hand, while you sit on the counter, legs swinging idly. The scent of coffee fills the air, mingling with the warmth of the kitchen and the quiet hum of conversation. It’s easy, natural, like slipping into a life you shouldn’t be indulging in.

And yet, as he slides a plate in front of you, his fingers brushing yours, you can’t help but think—

Maybe this doesn’t have to end.

After breakfast, the sight of you in his hoodie is too much Harry pulls you onto his lap at the kitchen table. His hands settle on your thighs, fingers tracing slow, teasing circles against your bare skin beneath the fabric. The breath you take is sharp, shaky, his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Do you know how fucking good you looked last night?” he murmurs, lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

Your hands brace against his shoulders, trying to steady yourself as his grip tightens around your waist. Heat coils low in your stomach, spreading like wildfire when he tilts his head to press a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the column of your throat.

“Harry,” you whisper, a soft plea that only seems to spur him on.

He shifts, standing effortlessly with you wrapped around him, your legs locking around his waist. He walks you back until your spine meets the cool edge of the kitchen counter, his body pressing flush against yours. His mouth moves hungrily against your jaw, your pulse, your lips, until you’re gasping his name like a prayer.

His hands slide beneath the hem of his hoodie, pushing it up and over your head, baring you completely to him. His gaze darkens, eyes raking over you like you’re something to be worshipped. “So fucking perfect for me, love.”

There’s nothing slow about it—he tugs his sweats low enough to free himself, lifting you onto the counter in the same breath. He doesn’t waste time, sliding inside you in one slow, deep thrust that has you arching into him, your fingers clutching his biceps.

His pace is steady but firm, each thrust pulling a broken moan from your lips. His hands grip your waist, holding you in place as he fills you over and over, his breath hot against your ear.

“Mine,” he mutters, his fingers digging into your skin. “You’re fucking mine.”

You can’t do anything but nod, whimpering as his lips claim yours again, swallowing every sound you make. The tension builds too fast, too overwhelming, and when he presses his forehead to yours, whispering how good you feel, how perfect you are, you shatter around him.

He follows moments later, his release sending another wave of pleasure through you as he buries himself to the hilt, groaning into your mouth. He doesn’t pull out immediately, keeping you close, his arms caging you against him as you both come down from the high.

His lips ghost over your temple, his breathing still uneven. “Fuck, love…”

Reality crashes down like a cold wave. The warmth of the morning, the intimacy, the way his arms still cage you against him—it all feels like a fragile illusion as your eyes flicker to the clock on the wall.

“Shit,” you breathe, jolting upright. “I’m late.”

Harry barely has time to react before you’re scrambling off the counter, your legs still wobbly as you rush to find your clothes. He watches, half amused, half conflicted, leaning against the counter as you pull his hoodie back over your head, smoothing the fabric down over your thighs.

“You could just stay,” he offers, voice laced with something unreadable.

You shoot him a look. “And let everyone figure out exactly where I was all night? Not happening.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, but there’s something else in his expression, something quieter. As you move past him, he catches your wrist, thumb brushing over your pulse. The air shifts.

“Be careful,” he murmurs, his gaze searching yours.

Your breath catches, but you nod, squeezing his hand briefly before pulling away.

The ride to campus is filled with static energy, your nerves thrumming beneath your skin. Every shadow feels like a threat, every passing glance a question you don’t want to answer. Your mind replays the morning in his apartment, the heat of his body against yours, the way he called you his. The thought sends another rush of adrenaline through you, but not in the way it did before.

What if someone notices? What if they already know?

By the time you step into the lecture hall, your heart is pounding for all the wrong reasons. Olivia spots you immediately, her eyes narrowing as she leans in, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips.

“Well, well,” she teases, crossing her arms. “Someone had a busy night.”

You force a casual laugh, dropping into the seat beside her. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She raises a brow. “Oh, please. You disappeared, didn’t answer my texts, and now you’re showing up late looking—” Her eyes flick over you, taking in the oversized hoodie, the flushed cheeks, the slight daze still lingering in your expression. “—thoroughly wrecked.”

Your stomach flips. You roll your eyes, nudging her with your elbow. “I was working on my essay. You know, the thing that’s actually due today?”

“Mhm,” she hums, unconvinced, but thankfully, she doesn’t push.

As class begins, you try to focus, but your mind keeps drifting—back to the morning, back to the way Harry looked at you when he told you to be careful.

Like he already knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

The rest of the day drags, every moment stretched thin with tension. Your last class is with Harry, and by the time you step into the lecture hall, exhaustion clings to you. He’s already there, sitting at his desk, composed and unreadable as ever. There’s no flicker of recognition, no lingering glance to betray what had happened that morning. Just Professor Styles, collected and indifferent.

You take your usual seat, trying not to let disappointment sink too deep.

The class passes in a blur. You take notes, nod at the appropriate moments, but your focus splinters under the weight of unspoken words. It isn’t until after class, when you linger to gather your things, that something shifts.

Another professor, someone you vaguely recognize from the faculty meetings you’ve overheard Harry mention, approaches. He’s older, charming in an effortless way, and the way he leans in slightly as he speaks sends a spark of unease through you.

“So,” he says, his voice warm, easy, “how’s the semester treating you?”

You offer a polite smile. “Busy, but good.”

“Styles keeping you on your toes?” he teases, chuckling. “He has a reputation for being… demanding.”

Your pulse jumps, but you force a laugh. “Something like that.”

The professor’s smile lingers, his gaze flicking over you in a way that feels a little too knowing. “Well, if you ever need a second opinion on anything—academic or otherwise—my office is always open.”

You don’t get the chance to respond.

From across the room, a sharp click echoes, Harry’s pen snapping between his fingers. Your breath catches as you glance toward his desk. His jaw is tight, his knuckles white where they grip the remnants of the pen. His expression is carefully blank, but you can see the storm brewing in his eyes.

The moment the other professor steps away, you grab your bag, prepared to make a quick exit, but Harry’s voice cuts through the air.

“A word, please.”

It’s not a request.

The classroom is nearly empty now, only a few stragglers lingering near the exit. You swallow hard, nodding once before trailing after him. His office door shuts with a firm click, the silence between you stretching thick and taut.

He leans against the desk, arms crossed, studying you with a gaze so intense it makes your skin prickle. “Didn’t realize you were so friendly with Dr. Calloway.”

Your brows furrow. “I wouldn’t call it friendly. He was just—”

“Flirting,” Harry interjects, his voice dangerously low.

You blink. “I…he was just being nice.”

Harry exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t know him like I do.”

Something in his tone makes you hesitate. “Harry, it was nothing.”

His jaw tenses. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Your heart pounds as he pushes off the desk, closing the space between you. His hands come to rest on your hips, fingers pressing in just enough to make you shiver.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough with possession. His hands slide down, gripping your waist as he presses you against the desk. “Don’t forget that.”

Your breath stutters as you place your hands on his chest. “I won’t. But you can’t—”

His lips crash against yours before you can finish, stealing whatever protest you were about to make. It’s all-consuming, the heat between you reigniting in an instant. He kisses you like he’s proving a point, like he’s branding the words onto your skin.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, breath ragged. “I don’t share.”

A slow smirk tugs at the corner of your lips. “Jealousy looks good on you.”

His fingers flex against your hips, and his next kiss is slower, more deliberate. “Careful, love. You might enjoy it too much.”

Something in the way he says it makes your stomach twist, heat pooling low as his lips move to your jaw, your throat. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate for more.

The tension is unbearable, the weight of unsaid words pressing down on both of you. He exhales sharply against your skin before stepping back, his gaze dark and heavy.

“Get on the desk.”

You don’t hesitate. Papers scatter as he lifts you onto the polished wood, stepping between your thighs, hands sliding beneath your skirt to grip your thighs. His kisses grow hungrier, teeth grazing your bottom lip, his control unraveling by the second.

“This is a bad idea,” you murmur, even as you tilt your head to give him better access.

“The worst,” he agrees, dragging his mouth down your throat. “But I don’t care.”

Neither do you.

His hands push your skirt higher, fingers sliding beneath the waistband of your underwear, yanking them down in one swift movement. Your breath catches as he spreads your thighs wider, his touch firm, possessive.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters, voice thick with desire. “Did that little conversation out there get you worked up?”

You don’t answer—can’t answer—because he’s already pushing inside you, stretching you open with a single, deliberate thrust that knocks the air from your lungs.

“Fuck, Harry—”

He grips your hips tighter, pulling you flush against him as he sets a punishing pace, the edge of the desk digging into your skin. The risk of getting caught only fuels the fire burning between you, the sharp slap of skin against skin filling the room.

His hand finds the back of your neck, pressing you down against the desk, his body crowding yours as he thrusts harder, deeper.

“So fucking reckless,” he growls, his voice strained with effort, with need. “Letting me have you here, like this.”

You whimper, nails clawing at the desk as pleasure coils tight in your stomach.

“Anyone could walk in,” he continues, his grip tightening. “They could hear you, see how fucking good you take me.”

The thought sends you spiraling, your release barreling toward you at a dizzying pace. Harry feels it, too, he reaches between you, his fingers finding your clit, circling in time with his thrusts.

“Come for me,” he demands, and it’s not a request.

You shatter around him, a strangled moan escaping your lips as pleasure crashes through you. He follows seconds later, burying himself deep with a guttural groan, his fingers digging into your hips as he spills inside you.

The only sound left in the room is your uneven breathing, the ticking of the clock on the wall reminding you both of the risk you just took.

Harry presses a lingering kiss to your shoulder before pulling back, his hands smoothing over your thighs, as if grounding himself.

“This,” you whisper, still breathless. “It’s dangerous.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his gaze dark, unreadable. “I know.”

The risk is undeniable. But neither of you are willing to stop.

Just as you fix your clothes, smoothing down your skirt with shaky hands, a sharp knock at the door shatters the silence.

Your heart stops.

Harry’s head snaps up, his body instantly rigid, eyes flickering between you and the door. His jaw tightens, the afterglow of your moment already dissolving into something else entirely—urgency, fear, the sharp sting of reality crashing back in.

Another knock, firmer this time.

“Professor Styles?” A voice. Female. Familiar.

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, grasping your wrist with a grip just shy of bruising, his voice low and urgent. “You need to go. Now.”

Your pulse spikes. “Who—”

He doesn’t let you finish. He moves swiftly, guiding you toward the side door that leads to the back hallway. His fingers press into your lower back as he all but pushes you through, barely giving you a moment to catch your breath.

“Don’t look back,” he murmurs, and then the door is closing behind you, sealing you off from him, from whatever is about to unfold on the other side.

You don’t wait around to see who’s waiting for him. You can’t. Your legs carry you forward on autopilot, your breath coming in short, uneven bursts as you weave through the empty corridor, toward the nearest exit.

Your skin is still burning from his touch.

The cold air outside does little to ground you. Your mind is racing, spiraling. The thrill of what just happened still lingers in your veins, but beneath it, something else begins to creep in.

Doubt.

Fear.

Paranoia.

Who was at that door? How much had they heard? How much did they know?

You shove the thoughts aside and keep walking, forcing your breathing to slow, forcing yourself to look normal, to act normal. But your fingers are trembling as you pull out your phone, as you glance at your reflection in the dark screen—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, eyes that look far too wild.

You can still feel him.

By the time you make it back to your apartment, your stomach is in knots. Olivia is there, sprawled on the couch, but you barely register her presence as you drop your bag onto the floor and collapse onto your bed, your head spinning.

Your phone buzzes.

You jolt, heart hammering as you grab it.

A message.

From him.

Harry: We need to talk. This is getting dangerous.

You stare at the screen, a thousand thoughts colliding in your mind at once.

Dangerous.

Your stomach twists. He’s right. This was never going to be simple, never going to be easy. But now it feels like something else entirely.

Something you might not be able to control.

Something that might destroy you both.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

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