#it was like carving a really soft wood??

[thelemonsnek]

[id: a turnaround video of an abstract sculpture. It is of a creature walking, with fin-like tendrils coming off of its back. Each of the images is a photo of the sculpture, showing off different angles of it. The sculpture is made from paper and masking tape, and is very smooth and organic looking. End id]

FINALLY DONE WITH THIS STAGE LETS GOOOOOOOO FUCK YOUUUUUU

This thing has taken well over 24 hours at this point broken up over several weeks, I am not exaggerating and I wish I'd kept track. It has eaten at least seven rolls of masking tape and at one point my fingers were deadass bruised from how much I was working on this thing

Wips under the cut :)

[id: three progress photos of the sculpture from above. In the first photo, the body is starting to be filled in, though lots of wire is still showing and the paper is very crumpled and scraggly. In the second photo, the body is more filled in, though the paper makes it appear thin and stretched. The final photo shows the body completed, with the tendrils starting to be filled in with paper as well. End id]

[id: a photo of the sculpture being flipped off by the artist. An explosion gif has been edited over it. End id]

[murphysiblings]

i really want to learn how to wood carve but my parents dont trust me around sharp objects

[isekyaaa]

Wriothesley and Neuvillette have nothing wrong with them at all. No red flags. I have no story ideas for them whatsoever. :/

[writersdrug]

I fully believe that Simon "Ghost" Riley wouldn't want an expensive, lavish honeymoon after your wedding. Of course, if that's what you dream of, he'll do it for you. He'd do anything for the person who loved him enough to marry him, scars and all. You want a beach-front, warm getaway in Costa Rica, filled with sunsets and quiet time by the waves? Say no more, he's looking for first class tickets already. You like the sound of a ski resort, surrounded by snowy alpines and hot chocolates, holding hands on the ski lifts and racing down the hills (you'd beat him every time, he's not one for winter sports)? He's asking if you'd prefer Smuggler's Notch in Vermont, or Vail Ski in Colorado. He'll do it if it's with you. He'll do anything for you.

But ask Simon what he wants, and he'll give you such a domestic answer: two or three weeks, somewhere in the United Kingdom, in a cottage backed up against the woods - preferably in autumn, when the leaves will be orange, the air will be misty, and the soft rain will be just enough to drown out his anxieties. Sure, he'd love to go hiking with you in Lake District, finding a good spot under the cover of the dense trees, listening to the sound of the babbling river and showing off his camping skills - harmlessly bickering with you about how it's not considered camping if you're in a cabin with electricity and running water. He rents an SUV and folds the seats down, throwing a mattress, blankets, and pillows in the back so the both of you can cuddle together while watching the stars.

But really, he just wants to exist with you for a while - as a married couple. He wants to wake up next to you without having anywhere to be at the ass crack of dawn, taking his time to watch the way you breathe so softly, the way you're always holding onto some part of him while you sleep, whether that's your arm wrapped around his bicep, your hand fisting his shirt, or your being wrapped tightly around his soul. He wants to cook meals with you, watch as you sway to whatever music you put on the telly, butt-bumping him as you chop vegetables and he stirs the pot on the stove. He wants to be next to you as you drag him around the rainy streets of Manchester, stepping into every bookstore or plant nursery you pass, eventually landing in a coffee shop and sitting close to each other, talking over a vanilla latte and a black coffee about how wainscoting is a gorgeous addition to homes, and how it's a crime that people tend to tear it down in modern decor. He promises to install some himself just for you, wherever you want it.

He wants to spend quiet nights at home, curled under the blanket on the couch, some random movie playing on the telly and the space heater blowing warm air on the both of you - he's too mesmerized at the way you're twirling the golden wedding band around your ring finger, biting back a smile every time you glance down at it (he has a wedding band too - but he'd never take it on missions. Instead, he has a simple line tattooed around his ring finger for when he has to leave the ring behind). He wants to make love to you, leaving soft kisses and nips along your skin, rolling his hips into you slowly and sensually, losing himself in the quiet moans, whispered I love you's, and the feeling of your nails carving the memory into the skin of his back. He wants to rest with himself inside of you, cradling you to his chest as he mumbles sleepily, "I love you, want to marry you every day of my life..." his rough hand tracing your skin, committing every bump, every curve, every vein to his memory. He wants to fall asleep there, letting go of his anxieties, any thoughts of doubt rolling off of his shoulders when he presses kisses to the back of your neck, his fingers slowly fiddling with the ring on your finger.

You're his quiet. His peace. You're soft sweaters, the sugar cube he drops into a warm mug of tea in his hands, the raindrops gently landing on his face, the smell of earth and pine at the edge of the woods, the sound of wood crackling in a warm fire. You're gentle, even when you're excited and bouncy, smothering him in kisses or forcing him to dance with you on the back patio. He knows you'll both have to leave this solace soon, returning to work like the wedding had never happened, forced to be cogs in the machine of society. But to Simon, each day after this will be a day he's married to you - each day will be a blessing, a reason to thank the universe, a reason to smile as he crosses the threshold of your shared home, a reason to crack his dad jokes outside of missions, a reason to join you on your weekly grocery runs, a reason to buy flowers once a week to replace the previous ones.

You're his peace.

[notjustjavierpena]

(Mid)summer Loving

Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: Yes, based on that new picture. I’ll call this my first contribution to getting railed in a sundress season. 

Summary: The last two years of being with Joel has transformed the both of you. Mostly him. For the better. 

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Tags: +18 smut, joel’s kink is being loved and appreciated, long haired joel!!!, healthy joel, established relationship, piv sex, size kink (it's big), rough, loud and desperate sex, dirty talk, praise kink, creampie, railed in a sundress season contribution, they are so soft for each other, bit of aftercare. 

Word count: 3.1k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55988128

(Mid)summer Loving

It happens when you hear him through the crowd of people in the community center. Your head whips in his direction, your eyes settling on the crinkles around his eyes as he laughs at something Tommy has said to him. He swirls the whiskey in his glass and downs it with slight difficulty because he is still smiling. 

You are only a table away, sitting with some of the women from your patrol group who gossip about potential suitors in the room, especially amongst the newcomers. However, you don’t really pay attention to what is being said because the love of your life sits across from you. It makes you able to admire him, struck by his transformation since he first came to Jackson and barged into your life. Your heart is so soft for him. 

The most obvious change is the hair. It’s gotten longer, the ends curling slightly in a way that softens his otherwise rugged appearance of big leather boots and tripled layered clothing. He used to have it shorter, and while you loved its fluffy bounce on top of his head whenever it was caught in the wind, it doesn’t compare to how it now frames his face by just brushing his collar in the back. It may be a subtle shift to others but to you, it means that Joel is more at ease with who and where he is, and that he has allowed change to find him.

His beard, too, has filled out. It is now thick and even, not at all the patchy scruff that you noticed the first time he talked to you by the rag pile in the trading center. He’d searched for fabric that could be used for shining the creations that he makes when seeking respite in wood carving. You had noticed the patch that resembled a heart first, your own heart skipping a beat as you forced yourself not to point it out to him immediately. That patch is gone but you’ll spend no time mourning it when the result is Joel looking healthier than ever, almost as if his body has responded to happiness with you by filling in all the gaps that heartbreak had left. 

Then there’s his face. It glows, despite his age, with a newfound youth, the signs of weariness and stress of years lived too hard it once bore completely wiped away. When you first met him, your heart had ached for his tired eyes, bags underneath them revealing all the sleepless nights and the burdens that he carried. The way they shine when they look into yours has your heart at ease and you can only hope he feels the same. 

Around you, the women keep chatting, talking animatedly and giggling while you sip your drink and stay silent until they are nothing but a low hum in the background. 

You only snap out of it when your name is said out loud. You furrow your brow, “Sorry?”

“I said that you don’t have to worry about things like this,” one of them chirps happily, “You already got your man.”

“Guess not, guess you’re right,” you chuckle softly and start to feel shy. You have never been one to be glaringly obvious in your happiness to the point where you display it at every opportunity but then Joel came along. He may worry about the gap of years between the two of you, often feeling undeserving of your love and attention but you only wish that he could see himself from your point of view. To you, he is everything. He doesn’t see how his presence calms and grounds you, how he makes you feel safe even in a world beyond repair. In his embrace, you feel even the biggest of anxieties and the worst of your challenges shrink into nothing. All he has to do is put his gentle, calloused hands on you and talk to you in that familiar southern drawl, and then your mind quiets down instantaneously.

However, if not his hands or his voice, his loving gaze also seems to do the trick. He suddenly turns his head in your direction, catching your eyes, and the sound of the lively conversations from each table mutes to nothing. He smiles at you and mouths a ‘you okay?’ at you. 

‘Save me’ you decide to mouth back at him, making a face to see him smile with amusement. He slaps his brother’s back before putting both hands on the table to push himself to stand. You didn’t think he would take it seriously but just the sight of seeing him approach you makes you want to go home with him. 

“Ready to go, honey?” He asks when he reaches your table, placing a hand on your shoulder and gently squeezing. 

“Hi Joel,” your friend group says in unison.

“Ladies,” he nods and they giggle like schoolgirls, “Gotta get this one home.”

You shake your head with a little smile at their reaction. Then you swing your legs over the side of the chair. Joel helps you up and a moment after having said your goodnights, you leave together like you’ve done for a few years now. 

Outside, people are scattered across the town square where a huge bonfire has been erected in the spot where the Christmas tree usually stands. Today is the annual midsummer celebration. Jackson is decorated with bundles of flowers that have replaced the painted eggs that tell people it is Easter. You smile at the memory of Ellie having been forced to join in on getting people in the spirit of Easter which had resulted in you trying to guess which of the eggs hanging from the sky had been crafted by the angry teen. You had decided that it might’ve been the one painted completely black.

Now, bright colors from nature hover above your head instead as you make your way down the main road. Joel holds your hand all the way home. He strokes the back of it with his thumb, feeling no pressure to fill up the silence between you as it has reached a point where it is comfortable. 

When you reach your shared house, Joel stops you by the front door instead of opening it for you in the gentlemanly way he always does. He stands in front of you, the porch light softening his features as he gazes at you.

“You seemed a bit distracted with your friends tonight,” he notes, “Is everythin’ alright?” 

“Just thinking about how lucky I am,” you answer with a smile, your voice sincere, “To have you.”

“I’m the lucky one, baby,” Joel huffs out a little laugh of disbelief, trying to brush off how flattered he always feels each time you say things like this. He gathers your hand in both of his, lifting it to kiss the back of it a few times, “Best fuckin’ thing that ever happened after the world ended.” 

“Don’t let Ellie hear that,” you tease gently. In your chest, your heart hammers against your ribs from being loved by him. 

“I’d never dream of it,” he steps closer with his eyes burning to get closer to you. You see them darken slightly as desire fills them and your heart jumps into your throat at the realization of what he wants. 

You. 

He wants you. 

That’s the one thing that has also changed since you met him; he has become much more untameable when he has you around. Who knew that his stamina was so impressive? Who knew that Joel Miller getting a confession of love - whether it consisted of the actual words or simply was said in your actions - would have him dragging you to somewhere private as soon as possible? 

“I love you, Joel Miller,” you say dreamily, pulling the trigger, “To the day that I die.”

And then suddenly Joel rips the door open so roughly that you’re afraid it might come off its hinges, pulls you inside along with him and slams it shut behind the both of you afterward. He locks it without hesitation, not about to be interrupted by any of your neighbors even if it’s most likely that everyone is out and about the town to be social. 

You are pressed up against the door next, his broad hands resting on your hips as he holds you against it. He bunches up the skirt of your sundress, groping your sides on top of the fabric, and you sling an arm around his back. Your other arm reaches up so you can cup the back of his head, your fingers sliding into the hair there. He has the perfect length for pulling these days - you should know - but you’ll wait for the right moment. 

His lips nearly bruise yours with how hard he kisses you, beard scratching your skin as he practically eats at your mouth to the point where your head swims and your belly swirls with hours of suppressed desire. You need him now, already soaked through your underwear and ready for him to be inside of you.

“Fuck me,” you whine against his lips, heart beating rapidly in your chest. So much that your breathing is already uneven, “Please, Joel, please.”

“S’alright, baby, I know whatcha need,” he rasps as his lips messily start descending on your chin, all the way across your jaw until his mouth attaches to your throat. You let your head bump against the door with a breathy moan, giving him access to bruise your neck too. He creates a purple mark that you will try to hide tomorrow during patrol to avoid interrogation on how Joel Miller is in bed. Only you can know. 

Your skirt falls down the slight amount it has been pulled up when Joel goes to unbuckle his leather belt. The noise of the metal sends a shiver through you, anticipation rising to your cheeks by heating them up underneath no touch. You look down to see the belt hanging open, him shoving the denim down around his thighs afterward and following up with his briefs too. 

The sight of his cock makes your mouth water. He is fully hard already, standing into the air at full attention and threatening to smear your pretty dress with his precome by poking into your belly if he dares get closer. You moan pathetically and he shushes you gently. 

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” he soothes you like he would a child that has scraped their knee. He curls his fingers in the fabric of your dress once more before hiking it up along your thighs until he can stuff the bottom of the skirt into the top of your dress, effectively holding it up so it doesn’t fall down over your soaked panties again. 

You grab at the sides of your underwear to shimmy out of them but Joel doesn’t exercise enough patience to wait for you to step out of them, so he hooks his fingers into the front. He finds your eyes when he feels how wet the cotton fabric is, doesn’t directly say anything about it but just shows you how full-blown his pupils are at the realization. Without warning, he yanks your panties to the side. 

Satisfied with his work, he makes you gasp as he bends his knees to reach down and splay his strong hands on the back of your thighs. He lifts you off the ground and wraps you around him, pressing his knee into the door to hold you up while guiding his throbbing cock into you. You moan desperately at the initial sting, brows furrowing with slight pain as he sheaths himself inside of you to the hilt. 

“Oh my God,” you whimper, letting his name fall from your lips in a helpless chant as he pulses from how your walls choke him as you strain to take him like you always do in the beginning. He might just split you open right here in the hallway when he starts fucking you. 

“Shh, you can take it,” he whispers with the most brutally gentle peck on your zipped lips, “It’s okay. She knows it’s big, baby, but she can take it. I always fuck ya real good, don’t I?” 

You nod helplessly, and fuck you, he does. It’s fast and hard and dirty. The poor wooden door rattles alongside the jingle of his belt buckle with each slam of his hips, the doorknob painfully gnawing into your lower back, and you fear the fabric of your underwear will snap from the strain that is put on it as it sits to the side. Sometimes you think you might even cut a hole in some of your pairs with how often Joel, still two years later, rushes to get his cock into you. There’s something oddly satisfying and offensive about just being able to bend over and let him see that all he has to do is push in. 

“That’s it, look at me, baby, such a good girl f’me,” he praises to get you back to him, not here to lose your attention to the way his cock feels inside of your tight heat. Your eyes settle on him again, your mouth hanging open to elicit pathetic gasps each time he knocks the wind out of you by driving his hips up into you and effectively pounding your g-spot. His face is so close to you; you can feel his breath and share it with him, can study every little imperfection in the form of tiny scars and dark lines that you hadn’t been able to see earlier from your seat a few tables over. 

“Joel,” you pant, digging your heels into the small of his back, clinging on desperately and angling your hips as he has his way with you. The slight adjustment has him going deeper, touching something inside of you that ignites the first sparks of an orgasm. Your nails claw, dig and scratch at his back in ways that would have been enough to draw blood if he wasn’t wearing a shirt, “Fuck, baby! Don’t— ngh, don’t stop.”

“You feel so good,” he replies with a groan, most likely powering through the exhaustion and strain on his body to make you feel even better. He is everywhere on you, his hands on your thighs, gripping and squeezing. He is everywhere in you too, his cock twitching inside of you each time you cry his name.

“I’m—“ you sob.

“Let go, baby, I can feel ya,” he growls when you dance around the edge of your orgasm because your fingers on both hands tangle into his beautifully chocolate hair, yanking harshly as impending pleasure knocks the breath out of your lungs. Your skin burns, your whole system halts and goes into overdrive at the same time until all you can do is shout silently at the ceiling. Your walls clench in mind-altering ecstasy then and your quietness is over, replaced by a relieved whine as you come on his dick. It is intense from how fast you’ve gotten there since he entered you, your body writhing as it is held against the wall. He fucks you through it, has you wailing as he chases his own high. 

You cradle his head during his last few thrusts, feeling his damp breath against your shoulder as he buries himself inside of your spent cunt and comes hard. It feels so good when he groans as he fills you up, the sound vibrating through his entire body. You whimper at the ceiling with the way he pulses deliciously with each breathy moan until he has no more to give you. 

He leans all his weight into you as he comes down again, holding you in place with his chest against yours to make sure that you won’t fall down and drag him with you. He gives you a moment and places a string of lazy kisses on your lips until he slips out of you with a soft sound. 

Carefully, he places you back down on the floor and eyes you as he does it to be certain you won’t collapse. He moves off of you when it feels safe to do so. 

“I say it back?” He asks as he leans against the door with you. Automatically, you tilt your head towards him. He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, turning his head a second later to fully look at your disheveled state. You have a hand on your chest to calm your breathing but it still matches your fluttering heartbeat. He still aches between your legs.

You look back at him, awaiting his words with short breaths, “Say what?”

He makes a gesture to the both of you, “Before what we just did happened. I tell ya that I love you too?” 

“No?” Your reply is almost a question. 

“Shame on me,” he smiles and turns his whole body so that he faces you completely, shoulder against the door. His eyes soften as he reaches out, his hand gently cupping your cheek. The warmth of his touch is nice when the sweat has started to cool you down, and you lean into his palm, feeling the roughness of his calloused skin against you. 

“Shame on me, indeed,” he murmurs, eyes on your slightly open mouth, “Because I do love ya. More than I can understand sometimes.”

“You don’t have to say it back every time, Joel. I know,” you try to brush off how much your body and mind buzz at the same time. 

He shakes his head slightly, his eyes never leaving your mouth, “No, I do needa say it. You deserve to hear it. I love you.”

You nod and reach to hold his wrist when he leans in to press a gentle kiss to your open mouth. Just a few minutes ago, the now-careful hands had been rough on your skin and his words had dripped with sin.

“Now, how ‘bout I take you to bed?” He asks and pulls your dress’ skirt out of the top, watching it tumble down and fall back into place around your knees. 

While you wait for him to get dressed again, fatigue seems to finally have caught up with you because you feel like you might collapse in your hallway at that suggestion. When it’s safe to do so, you let yourself fall into his arms and he catches you without hesitation. 

He scoops you up, goes upstairs with you in his arms, undresses you, washes you down with a warm flannel, and gets you into bed. You curl up on your side and after a while, after hearing his boots come off and the shuffling of clothes, the bed dips from his weight. 

The warmth of his body against your back lulls you to sleep. Oh, how simply he loves you. Forever doesn’t seem like a lot to ask for.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[zorosunwashedleftcheek]

Death and Domesticity

Pairing: Law x Reader

Summary: Law patches you up.

cw: F!Reader, Sfw, fluff, kinda suggestive?, blood, injuries, nongraphic, established relationship

a/n: I’m watching Dressrosa right now and I keep getting blinded by Law’s lethal face card. I whipped this up in like an hour so it’s not my problem if it’s cheeks 🙏

~

Law glares at you as you slowly crack open the door to the medbay.  You have that look on your face, like you’d been caught with your hand in a cookie jar.  Spotting the sour look on your boyfriend’s face, you give a sweet smile, pulling up a chair right in front of him and shoving your hand out for him to inspect.

“What did you do?” There’s a gash on your hand, deep and long, right across your palm.  You pout at his annoyed expression. 

“I was carving Bepo.  From wood.  It was harder than I thought it would be.” You pull your thighs up to your chest and rest your cheek against your knees.  “Can you bandage it?”

“That was a stupid idea.” Law grumbles but he grabs a small medkit from his desk regardless.  The wound is just barely shallow enough to avoid stitches and Law wrinkles his nose as he watches blood steadily gush from the gash.

It didn’t matter the situation, Law hated seeing his crew’s blood. Including yours. Especially yours.

Whether it’s a paper cut on Shachi’s hand or a scratch on Bepo’s snout, it made Law irrevocably uncomfortable, nauseous even.

Law sighs softly as he wipes off the excess blood with gauze, his eyes slide up to catch you staring at him.  When your eyes catch his, you smile warmly again.  It makes Law’s heart beat just a bit faster and blood rush to his ears.

You so freely gave your smile to anyone that asked for it.  Sometimes it made Law a bit jealous.  He was supposed to have you all to himself now that he professed his love for you, so that should include your pretty grin, right?

Law clears his throat and turns back to your hand, soaking a cotton ball in antiseptic.  His thumb absentmindedly strokes your wrist, the ‘H’ moving back and forth.

“Ready?”

“Mm.” Law swipes and dots at your wound, pausing as he hears your sharp intake.  He glances at you from beneath his brow before quickly averting his gaze.  Your cheeks are slightly flushed and your bottom lip is caught between your teeth.  It looks just a little bit too much like when he…

Since the two of you had begun dating, Law had become much more of a… sexual man.  Of course he had experienced sexual urges before he met you, he was still a man after all.  But it changed when you boarded his ship.  

He became more conscious of what women wore, imagining what you would look like in them instead… and then what you would look like out of them.  Law used to scoff when he heard men talking about how hot it was when girls sucked on lollipops and popsicles.

Really? Get their dick wet from candy? That’s hilarious.

And then he had seen you unwrap a little heart shaped lollipop that you had stolen from penguin and stuck it in your mouth.  Those next few minutes were some of the most horrifying moments of Law’s life.  He couldn’t focus on anything as his eyes darted between his documents and the sight of your lips and tongue twirling the piece of candy around in your mouth.  He had just barely managed to grumble an excuse before scurrying out the door, his face as red an a tomato.

Everything you did was able to fluster Law.

Law glared down at your taped up palm, the wound expertly bandaged.  You had really ruined Law’s heart and mind, hadn’t you?

Ducking down, Law presses a soft kiss to the white cloth before pulling back to look at you sternly.  “I’ve briefed the crew numerous times on how to properly handle a knife, haven’t I?”

You grimace and nod, “Yes, I remember your lectures clearly.”

Not only is Law’s doctor mode activated, but also his captain mode.  He crosses his arms over his chest, his hat casting a shadow over his eyes.  And although you’ve seen Law be stern many times before, it never stopped intimidating you.

You lean forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling yourself into his lap.  He scoffs but doesn’t push you off, tucking your face against his shoulder, you press a kiss to his jaw and peek up at him, waiting for his face to relax and for him to forgive your careless mistake. “It was just an accident, I promise it won’t happen again.”

Law purses his lips, god you were pretty.  You must be able to hear his heart beating in his chest.

“I bet it won’t.  We’ll be spending the next few days talking about knife safety and critical thinking.” 

You smack his chest with your uninjured hand and pull back, your lip curled in disgust.  “Can’t you make me clean the toilets or something?  I love you, but your lectures are horrible.”

“They’re not that bad.  And besides, I don’t want you doing any hard work until that thing is closed, I don’t want it getting infected.”

“You’re giving me preferential treatment again,” You hum, tapping his bottom lip, “You wouldn’t make Bepo and the others wait that long.”

“Stop questioning your captain.” Law huffs, swiveling his chair to face his desk once again.  “Now stop talking, you interrupted my reading.”

Your nose wrinkles, you really want to argue… it’s one of your favorite things to do, watch him get flustered and frustrated with you. 

But he seemed very engrossed in the comic he’s reading, it’s laying upon an opened medical book so that he’s able to snap the book shut at a moments notice and make it look as though he wasn’t a giant nerd.

Despite Law’s harsh words, one hand moves to circle your waist, and toy with your uninjured hand, his fingers sliding up and down the inside of your wrist and pressing against your pulse point to feel your blood pump.

It’s not long before you doze off in Law’s lap, and he takes a moment to admire you, the slope of your brow and the curve of your lip.  It made Law want to hand you his heart… literally.

He’d tried to do it a few times before; he would prepare a long, fancy speech, stutter and grumble his way through about half of it before giving up and holding his beating heart out to you.

You denied him each time, and it stung.  But you reasoned that it made you feel as though you were holding him hostage.  So you would wait until he begrudgingly put his heart back where it was meant to be before you would take him in your arms and pepper him with so many kisses that he felt as though he would die from embarrassment. 

Law wraps his other arm around you and tugs your back firmly against his chest, his forehead dropped against your shoulder.  Law wondered if you loved him as much as he loved you.  If your heart sped up every time he entered the room.  If you could never quite find the words when he tried to explain his feeling for you.

Law sometimes hopes you do

Other times he prays you don’t.

With a quiet groan, Law buries his face in your hair and listens to your quiet breathing.  His heart was yours, whether it was figuratively or literally. 

 You owned his heart, even if you didn’t want to.

~

[lavenderspence]

Missing the happy hormone | S.R.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Content warning: emotional reader, period mention, fluff

Word Count: 1.8K

Summary: Apparently Spencer Reid could make anything better - even the emotional disaster of being on your period

A/N: First, huge thank you to the cutie that sent in this request, you literally caught me while on my period so this was born. Also, here’s to my inability to write short fics, this is your only warning that i can make and will make anything long, lol. Also, my titles suck omg. And shoutout to my crazy bestie for making me a Mamma Mia girly, she rocks.

But also, happy one month to this blog! When I carved out this little space for myself a month ago I wasn’t really sure how I’d feel being back here and writing again, but so far it’s been a treat. A huge thank you for all of your support and love and thank you to my mutuals and everyone that interacted with my blog. 💕 Here’s to many more months to come!

Request: spencer x fem!reader on her period/ovulating and shes in tears all the time?? Im ovulating and have been crying for hours and keep calling my mom lmaoo he’d been so lovely and sweet I know it I can feel it in my bones

masterlist

It was a slow day at the BAU. The most exciting thing in the 6 hours Spencer had spent at work was Rossi’s invitation to dinner the following weekend. 

Paperwork had piled high after their last 2 cases, so every team member was hunched over their desk, writing and revising reports. It was a never-ending cycle - finish a report, close the file, open a new one, and start all over again.

His eyes had started getting tired after four and a half hours, his hand had started cramping and he was down two pens so far, yet there was still a prominent pile on his desk.

He suspected Morgan and Emily might have pushed a file or two from theirs onto his load, seeing as he was getting done the fastest. Regardless, every few hours JJ was bringing even more to pile on top of everything that wasn’t finished, so buried in paperwork they stayed - no matter how fast he wrote or read, or how used to the load he was.

He was just thinking about getting up to prepare a fresh pot of coffee so he could function properly for a few more hours when his phone started ringing. He felt around the pockets of his suit jacket, where it sat draped on his chair, and then pulled it free. 

His display showed an incoming call, a picture of you as he hugged you, hands around your middle and face almost buried into your neck, a soft smile gracing both your faces. A scenery rich with reds, browns, and yellows stood behind you, the beauty of fall was nothing short of spectacular. 

The picture you’d taken last year when the team spent a weekend at Rossi’s cabin in the woods, surrounded by the beauty of landscapes and leaves, nature for miles. 

He accepted the call right away, a small smile on his face. 

“Hey sweetheart.” His voice was gentle, if a little raspy from misuse. He hadn’t talked much in the last few hours - just a distracted short answer here or a hum there. He was happy you were calling, though, welcoming the reprieve from the most recent report. 

It was silent for a few seconds, and he wondered absentmindedly if maybe you hadn’t called him on accident, and then there came a tiny little sniffle from your side. 

“Sweetheart?” He prompted, “Are you there? What’s going on?” Worry was starting to creep into the base of his spine, but he still remained calm and kept his voice gentle. 

“I’m here. Hi.” Another small sniffle, “All’s good. Just…I was just wondering how much longer you’d be gone.” Your voice was small,like you thought you might upset him by asking, and a little crackly, like you yourself were upset about something. 

His eyebrows furrowed, and he checked the time quickly - 3:57 pm. 

“Probably about two more hours, there’s a lot of paperwork we need to go through.” His eyes met Emily’s as she sent him a curious, questioning look. 

“Oh, okay.” The resignation was clear in your voice, “I’ll see you later then.” The call ended abruptly, and it took him a second to catch up.

He couldn’t help but feel like not everything was as good as you claimed it was. For one, you rarely called to ask when he’d be home - you knew his work could span into the late hours, or even stretch for days. You let him update you on any changes in his work schedule. 

In your interactions, your voice was usually upbeat and teasing - especially on the phone. Your kindness was always evident in your voice, as was your mood. You were a sunshine person, if he ever met one, that’s probably why you and Penelope formed such a close bond upon meeting. 

There was something that nagged him - a change in your mood he could pick up on just by your voice - too low, too small, and the cracks that he could now identify as he replayed your conversation in his head. You were keeping yourself from crying out, and yet there was nothing more apparent than the tears in your voice. And that made him worry. 

“Reid, are you okay?” Emily’s voice snapped him from the hard stare he’d been giving his phone in the last several minutes since the call ended. 

“I…I don’t know.” His eye twitched, and he cleared his throat before he tried and failed to articulate exactly what was happening - he himself had a hard time understanding. One thing he knew was that he needed to get home. “I..um, I need to go. Can you, please?” He asked, gusting at the remaining three files on his desk before he pulled his suit jacket on and grabbed his satchel. 

Morgan and Emily shared a mildly concerned look before they both nodded their heads, “Yeah, go. Text to let us know if everything is okay.” Morgan reminded him before he exited the bullpen with a fast step and tried to keep calm.

He was aware the situation wasn’t anything that he needed to be incredibly worried over - if something was really wrong, he knew you would have let him know. Yet, he couldn’t help the way his heart constricted by the sound of your voice, or the overwhelming desire to come home and gently hold you, see what could have caused this behavior. 

You were curled up on the couch, watching as Donna helped Sophie get ready for her wedding, the gentle melody of “Slipping through my fingers” filling the empty apartment. Your eyes were watering, to the point that everything was starting to get blurry. A shaky exhale left your lips.

Today has simply been a rollercoaster. Kissing Spencer goodbye this morning was the highlight of the day. What followed was nothing short of an emotional disaster. 

You’d teared up during breakfast, images of picking berries with Spencer flying through your mind. The desire to make it a reality was strong. 

Following that had come the overwhelming urge to bawl your eyes out, for no apparent reason whatsoever. Just cry and cry until you had it all emptied out and you could take a deep breath and continue with your day. So, cry you did, and then you’d finished with your chores for the day. 

Apparently letting it all out and emptying your tear supply hadn’t happened. Seeing as around 3:30 you’d started missing your boyfriend so much, the need to hear his voice had won out, so you’d called him. You felt the need to have him home to hold you because this month’s visit from mother flow was making you feel like a crybaby.

But then there was disappointment at the notion that you needed to wait close to 3 hours before that could happen. So you quickly ended the call before he could pick up on the tone of your voice, and then you shed a few tears. 

Now here you were, rewatching Mamma Mia because you really needed a pick me up, and once again, eyes shining as the tears started falling. At this point, it was a losing battle, so you let them fall, humming to the song with a broken voice. 

That’s exactly how Spencer found you, not a minute later. His keys were in his hand, the satchel on his shoulder, and he was just a little bit out of breath. 

The moment his eyes met you, they softened as he dropped everything and sat down next to you. His hand reached up and he cradled the side of your face, wiping your tears away. 

“Hey, sweetheart. What’s wrong?” He asked in a whisper.

“Look at Donna painting Sophie’s nails, it’s...” You hiccuped, another wave of tears washing over you. “And you’re home, why are you home?” Your question was met with a furrow in his brow, as his thumbs continued wiping underneath your eyes. 

“You called.” He answered simply. 

“But you said-” He stopped you before you could finish your sentence.

“I did, yes. But you sounded off and sad, so. Want to tell me what’s going on?” He prompted you gently as he pushed your hair back and pulled you into his lap after, feeling like you needed the physical contact. 

You weren’t ashamed to admit it, per se, but you were ashamed that your hormones had caused him to leave work and race home to be with you. 

“It’s my period,” you mumbled, hands wrapping around his neck as you hid your face in his chest, too tired to prevent your eyes from watering again. “It’s been going on all day. Randomly, I’d just get so emotional, and the tears would start. I was missing you so much too, and then hearing the song, bam, tears again. I’m so done with this Spence.” You sounded barely coherent, with your face pushed as close to him as possible. 

It all made sense now, you’d been cranky a few days ago, and then you’d told him last night your cramps were unbearable, so he knew you were on your period, but right now he felt like an idiot for not figuring it out himself. 

“It’s okay, everything is fine. The drop in estrogen and progesterone, following your ovulation triggered this. This in turn reduced the production of serotonin, your happy hormone. So, we just need to boost it a bit.” He whispered into your ear as you played with the hairs at the nape of his neck. 

“How?” You sighed into his chest, almost being able to pick up on the sound of his heartbeat.

He got deep in thought for a few seconds as you breathed in his scent, and a sense of calmness slowly overtook you now that he was home and holding you. One of his hands was running soothing circles on your back as the other held your hand, fingers interlocked. 

“How about we take a trip to the store and get you some snacks? We’ll pick up dinner on the way home and then I'll hold you some more and you'll pick a movie for us to watch.” He suggested, kissing the crown of your head once, twice, and many more times until you gave him an answer. 

“Yeah, yeah, I think that would help, but just having you here has done wonders.” You finally laid your head against his chest, looking up to meet his eyes. He smiled, and so did you. Having him here really had helped immensely, and when had it not? He was your other half, your rock, and even when your emotions ran rampant or you were feeling down, just his presence, his touch, and his understanding were enough to make it all okay. 

Later in the evening, Penelope sent you a photo of Sergio sleep-hugging a little plushy you’d gotten him, and the waterworks started all over again. Luckily, Spencer was there, wiping your tears and kissing your head, saying a thousand things without actually speaking a word.

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

Requests are open for both Spencer and Hotch if you want to send any!

[drgnflyteabox]

red ochre [5]

series masterlist previous || part five -> kermes || part six -> madder

> summary: big nun, little nun > tags/warnings: guilt, religious / moral turmoil, stockholm syndrome, child abuse (past), scars, simon returns, corruption (past), misogyny (past), whipping (past), blood, suffering (past mostly), power imbalance, freeze response (past), guilt, dissociation, dom/sub dynamics, we're learning consent (kinda? eeh), violent imagery, dubcon/noncon, vaginal fingering, choking, throat grab

When Johnny asks how it felt to go from there – the convent, you think he means – to here, you can only describe it as dunking your hands into ice water. 

Shocking, painful, and prickling all over.

He only says hm, and moves on. His face is pensive. You don’t tell him that sometimes, you wake up and aren’t in the water anymore.

Even in prayer, you hadn’t thought as much as you had since you’d been taken. Hadn’t worried as much. Teachings from adults since youth had told you that everybody was inherently sinful, even children.

So why is the community around you so happy without God? They have their own, you know this, but the multitude of them and their roles in divine hierarchy aren’t necessarily about absolute power.

There are woman-Gods, Gods without designations, Gods for the earth and the children and unions between people. You find it hard to continue calling them heretics, devils, when they’re really just people. Different, yes, strange and incomprehensible, but people nonetheless.

Heathens, you try to think. Heathens, devils. They took you

You wonder when the last time you thought of yourself as just a person was, when you weren’t a thing set within a rigid mold, beaten down in more ways than one.

On the eve of Simon's return you catch Johnny doing something secretive. He's hunched over the table, the tip of his tongue stuck out of his mouth in concentration. The soft sound of scraping, of wood gently knocking is all you can hear over the fire.

“What's that?” you ask, when your curiosity gets the best of you.

Johnny turns, one eye squinted, the every picture of concentration. He holds up a carved figure – a woman, it looks like. Ah, it’s you. Though hard to tell, the woman wears a veil and sits on a chair, hunched.

Your veil. You’d nearly forgotten what it felt like. It used to be a weight, heavy and pressing, a shackle. Now you miss the safety of not feeling so exposed all the time.

Somewhere in the journey here it had been lost, or maybe thrown overboard. Your habit, too, replaced for the woolen Viking-style dresses bought and bartered for by Simon and Johnny. Even you have to admit you enjoy the colours more, even if the conformity of the convent felt safe.

“How long were you watching me?” you breathe, eyes wide and still staring.

“Not long, lamb,” he smiles disarmingly. “Ah just remember ye, sittin’ pretty.”

“Working on the tapestry,” you correct him, though it doesn’t really matter.

He looks back down to his little figure, pensive.

“Ah guess so,” he says jovially.

“It was my punishment,” you add. This probably matters even less, but the clash of worlds has thrown you off balance. You feel unbearably present, unbearably lucid.

I was a nun, you think. Am I still a nun?

“Punishment?” he frowns. “Ah thought they struck ye?”

“Sometimes. But sometimes I had to work extra hard.”

“Like a bairn?”

“A what?”

“A child, lamb,” he smiles again.

You look into the fire, thinking. Punishment applied to everyone, not just children, no? Even Simon and Johnny had punished you. But who had given them the right? Had you, with your secret want? Your secret lustful sin?

“You punished me,” you settle on.

“Aye, we did,” he nods. “Ye needed it.”

“Then why do you… ah, disparage the church for doing the same?”

He turns to you.

“Ah think ye got it all wrong,” he says simply. “We don’t give it to ye to make ye hurt. Aren’t ye better after? Righted?”

Righted. That’s a word worth its weight in gold. As is the truth of his words, but you stay quiet and look into the fire instead of responding.

You take up Johnny’s offer to spend time with Kari. Johnny walks you there, holds your hand in the cold and blows hot air on them as you wait together outside their door.

When Gaz opens it, he hoots and hollers as if the frigid air outside has no effect on him, as if his inner warmth and naturally excitable disposition is no match for the cold.

You have to admire that. At least a little.

“Hi there,” Gaz says to you, a greeting softer than the one he gave Johnny.

“Hello,” you try to subtly peek inside, “it’s… nice to see you.”

He doesn’t take offence to your awkward, stilted attempt at politeness. Maybe he knows you’re not quite comfortable here, to put it lightly, and only claps your shoulder gently to pull you in.

“Have fun!” Johnny shouts, already leaving, “and give me my wife back in one piece!”

That makes you sheepish, but you try to ignore your feelings in favour of moving towards Kari and the little baby, Tyra.

“Hello again,” she greets, smiling. The baby stares at you, babbles ceasing as if she’s seeing you for the first time. Her little head swings towards her mother, hiding despite her clear curiosity.

“You’ve met me before,” you say softly, trying valiantly not to frighten her as you take a seat opposite to Kari.

“She’s feeling shy lately,” Kari looks down and tuts, swiping a thumb over Tyra’s chubby cheek, “needs her mama.”

Weaving here is not much different than weaving at the convent. Once you get the basics down, you’re threading dyed wool into cloth astride Kari.

Some spirit of confidence grips you.

“Will you tell me anything about Simon and Johnny?”

“About-” she lifts her head, “Simon and Johnny? Don’t they speak to you?”

“They - do,” you rush to assure her, though your voice maintains a weary unsureness.

Luckily for you, she gives you a small but comforting smile over the wool.

“You’re looking for an outside opinion? That’s okay, lovely girl, I just might not know as much about them as my husband does,” she gestures with her chin towards Gaz, who walks towards you both.

“What d’you need to know?” he asks casually, sidling up to Kari affectionately, “think they’ll be able to answer better than me.”

“I only really know… what I’ve seen. I haven’t…” your mouth twists as you trail off, frustration germinating as you struggle. Right, you can commit sins of the flesh but you can’t ask a question to sate curiosity — one which might be the difference between surviving and not surviving.

Knowledge is important, after all. Powerful. You think of Eve, who doomed humanity for it, naked as the day she was born and as clueless as Adam yet ate the apple anyway.

“I know they’re… warriors,” you pause, “since they’re all scarred, but—“

“Well, not necessarily—” Kari starts, until Gaz puts a palm on her thigh and gives her a look you can’t discern. 

“That’s not something we should share,” Gaz says tightly, but kindly.

“How else..?” you frown.

Tyra stirs, and Kari gives Gaz another look.

“Simon’s father used to be chief,” she lifts the babe back into her lap, patting, cooing, “it’s not a nice story, but if you need it to understand them better then I don’t mind telling it.”

“I want to know about them,” you insist, trying to push past the sense of danger, the sense that you’ll be hurt or killed for toeing out of line.

Testing the elasticity of safety here perhaps isn’t wise, but testing it might be what you need to settle. Knowing where the boundaries are, what’s expected, where they come from… you wonder if you’ll doom everybody, like Eve.

“Believe it or don’t, but we’ve only just rekindled the hunts, the raids. How it should be,” she starts.

Gaz sighs, leaning back where he’s sitting. You assume his hesitance is out of loyalty for his comrades, but you choose tentatively to ignore him in favour of his wife.

“We had a lazy, drunken leader,” Kari continues, “Simon’s father inherited the title through lineage, not through prowess as is… more natural to us.”

You nod slowly, trying to imagine. In the church, such things were often gained with corruption: any wealthy lords’ son could rise high in the ranks, if he had the money and means.

The convent had somewhat of a similar issue, though the women were ‘married’ into the church and the power rested in the hands of their families. 

Such was the world.

Not always, but you’d heard of it often enough. One of the abbots of the monastery in the closest town had been the son of an affluent donator, and thus received power of authority over the other monks.

“To make a long story short, and more respectful to Simon—” Gaz looks at her then “—his father was needlessly cruel both to his own children, his wife, and to those he was responsible for.”

“So, those scars…?”

“Some are from fighting, of course. But usually, no one’s getting close enough to those two to land that kind of damage. I’m sure you can fill in the rest.”

Gaz butts in here,  “or, you can ask him yourself.”

“How did that woman, I forgot her name, come to be chief?” you frown in thought.

Gaz takes over again, his hand dragging up from the small of his wife's back and squeezing her nape. It’s as much of a warning as you’ve seen, though it’s quiet and Kari looks sheepish, not afraid, “Kate challenged him.”

“A challenge?” you frown, “such as?”

“A fight to the death.”

“Oh,” your lips close, and thin, and your eyebrows fly up. “I didn’t realize… I mean, violence is…”

They don’t do you the courtesy of filling in for you, so you go silent and the air settles.

Johnny picks you up later, when you’ve helped Kari with a big portion of her weaving. You love the threads, the dyeing process. It’s meditative.

“Good ?” Johnny nudges your side, slipping a hand to just above your waist, fingers tickling the side of your breast.

“Yes,” and it’s honest.

He walks you home, hand in hand, and cannot stop talking about Simon's return.

“Ah’ve never been without him this long,” he rambles over the fire, stirring a potato soup, “think yer gonnae be witness to something dirty. Sorry, lamb.”

Only he’s grinning, and he’s not sorry, and you can see the front of his pants begin to tent.

Johnny later offers you that very same sin, tilting his hips towards you and swinging his cock obscenely, cheekily. You do not take him up on it despite the smolder that begins between your legs – you simply turn, and try to sleep through the sounds of his self-abuse.

Simon returns without much fanfare, slipping into the house with a seemingly practiced silence. He moves like a ghost.

Johnny doesn't wake yet, sleeping like an affectionate log behind you.

His gaze meets yours, as impassive as always, framed in a halo of white winter light. He looks handsome this way, though it also has the effect of making his scars look deeper – crevasses on his face for shadows to lay in.

You watch as he strips his winter garments, slipping then beside you, evening out the weight on the bed.

“How did it go?” you whisper. If he's surprised that you spoke he doesn't show it, staring up at the ceiling, muscles decompressing. Sighing like a big dog.

In lieu of speaking, he lifts something into your focus. Oh, it's a tooth, sharp and white. A predator's tooth.

“The rest tomorrow,” he says quietly.

You can tell he's tired. His face looks weary. How far do they travel for these hunts? You assume quite far, as it’s enough to tire even a seasoned warrior.

So, rather than speaking, asking him from which creature he took this tooth, you tentatively reach your hand up to press your fingers against his thick scars.

Simon freezes, as do you. Then, as he relaxes, you trace the grooves on his face with your fingers tightly. Very lightly.

A delicate moment is born then. Johnny's deep, sleepy breathing behind you, Simon's acquiescence – it's a tranquil thing. As thin as lace, as sweet as a crisp apple.

After some time, when you've traced his face twice over and his eyes are half-lidded, you speak softly.

“Why me?”

“You're beautiful,” he says simply, sighing again, “we wanted to.”

It becomes harder, again, to hold the belief of them as devils. That they smelled the sin on you and picked you that way.

“Don't you think it's cruel?”

“No,” finally, he turns to you.

“It was,” you assert recklessly. Fear twists in your gut, poisonous.

“You were scared.”

“Yes.”

“Are you still scared?”

“I feel like you can see right through me. That scares me.”

“Not at first.”

“Then when?”

His hand finds the dip of your waist. Squeezes.

“On the boat, when you pushed up against me like a wet kitten. Even scared, you needed it.”

“You were cruel to me then, too.”

“I’m a cruel man.”

There's a stray thought that wiggles to life in the back of your head that suggests sympathy for him despite his statement. That you can begin seeing the path of his life and understand how he came to be.

You think of punishment again; about parents and children, husband's and wives, about Simon and his father. That wasn't punishment, if you're understanding it the way Kari implied.

A memory strikes you, unbidden and unwelcome. 

Salt blows in the air,  metallic and thick in your nose. Not sea salt, not the wind you love so much, but from blood spraying. 

The man brought his son to the convent, citing his bad behaviour as ungodly. Sister Margret was pleading with him, hands clasped in desperate prayer and voice high, reedy, as she begged him to just stop hitting him – please, just stop hitting him!

The boy cowered. Not a child, but a boy nonetheless. Young enough to make an impression, round-cheeked, on the cusp of manhood. Stained with blood.

He lifted the rope, again and again and again, even as Margret leapt for his arm and tried to stop him, pulling, shouting.

You were stock still, frozen, not even a tremble in your body. Your eyes had widened when he first struck the boy and you’d been stuck since.

Simon takes your hand, peels it away from your dress, pulling you bodily towards him and out of the memory.

With your cheek pressed close to his bare shoulder, you murmur, “did you take me to hurt me?”

“No,” he says, sounding for once like he isn’t hiding anything.

“Did you hit me to really hurt me?”

“No,” he repeats, then, “I hit you because you needed it, because you liked it.”

“I’ve seen…” you don’t continue.

“I know.”

“We’ve both been hurt,” your voice is a whisper.

“Mm,” Simon confirms.

You think of the boy. Of his father. Of his terrified, deer-like eyes, blood splattered on his back and on the ground and soaked into the rope – about how four townsmen had to pull his father away for fear of killing the boy.

How you felt when you hit yourself, when the abbess hit you, how different they were to when Simon took his palm to your ass.

Shame. That had been in the boy's eyes that day. He had hid his face in his arms, cowering not only from fear but from being seen.

You’d felt that same shame each time you’d been punished, intensifying, twisting together until you’d learned to turn the same pain inwards.

 “Are you afraid of being seen?” you murmur to Simon.

“No.”

You don’t have to say the silent part; that you’re the afraid one. That Simon correctly interpreting your need for a different kind of control, one that let you lose yourself, felt like you’d been flayed for all to see.

Simon moves his hand lower, cupping the soft curve of your behind, staring at you, testing the waters. You know that if you said no, he might anyways, but you stay quiet as his fingers lift the hem of your dress.

The fabric slides over your skin, a whisper in the air, tickling you. He rubs his rough, hairy knuckles against your thigh close to where it meets your leg.

He pauses there, breathing slowly, before he slides a finger up your slit and through the thatch of hair above it.

“If I made a request,” you murmured, “would you grant it?”

“Make it, and I’ll tell you.”

He slips a finger to rub your hole, just outside, teasing, while his thumb finds your clit.

“I don’t want you to take me until we’re man and wife… men and wife.”

Simon hums, rubs gently, makes your hips undulate.

“Do you think you’re in a place to be making requests like that, love?”

“I haven’t asked for anything else.”

He raises a brow, sliding his finger inside you to the knuckle when you’re wet enough.

“Haven’t you?”

Your breathing deepens, hands coming down to hold his thick wrist, pulling almost subconsciously. Even now, you can’t totally let go, leaning away from him and the pleasure.

But he understands, leaning over you, using his other hand to pin you to the mattress by your throat. It’s not the nicest hold, but the burning of your lungs heightens the pulsing in your cunt.

“Think you just made a few requests right now,” he grunts, using your leg to rub his hard, clothed cock.

There’s a stirring beside you. Johnny groans as he wakes up, then laughs sleepily.

“Ah woke up just in time,” his voice is rough with sleep.

Simon hums, mmm, in that deep rumble of his. He slips another finger inside you, crooking them, making you gasp raggedly. Your hands still clutch his wrist, weaker now, but it’s half resistance half comfort.

“Mm, good girl,” Johnny murmurs. He curls into your side, cock growing against your hip, wrapping a leg around you while his hand climbs beneath your pulled up dress and palms your tit.

God, you could die just like this: fighting for breath, touched all over, held down and made free. The hate you had for them feels irrelevant, the fear, the brutal way in which they stole you.

You can’t even think about if Simon will disregard your request – your last frontier against them, the treasure between your legs for a husband only.

Simon’s knuckle deep in it, but still, you can’t let go of that final tether. Not yet, not without any other internal pillars to hold you up.

Everything else has been wiped away. Drawings in the sand on a beach swept by foamy white waves.

Johnny leans in and bites your shoulder, gnawing, hips moving against you. You can’t arch like you want to, but you try.

Wet, sinful sounds grow as you gush around Simon’s fingers, as they use you to get off.

When you peak, white spots dance in your vision, mouth open in a silent scream choked away by Simon's heavy palm.

It’s like flying.

In the afternoon, when you’ve all slept, Simon leaves to speak with John and you prepare lunch with Johnny.

More fish, more potatoes. It’s growing on you.

When Simon returns, he has in his arms a rolled up fur. Though unprocessed and still wet underneath, it’s beautiful, pale, spotted.

He takes a heavy seat in front of you, laying the skin over his knees, taking your hand in his and bringing it to the fur.

Soft. Dense. Your fingers move through the pelt.

“For you,” Simon says.

You look up at him, heart dancing.

His gifts. The apple, the orgasms, this– you don’t know what to make of it. Yes, it’s a kindness, but he’s a cruel man. He’d said so himself, and you’d felt the brunt of it.

Leaning into that cruelty has given you a strange power, a strange solidity. You’d so begun to familiarize yourself with his harshness that you’d forgotten this complexity.

You pinch the fur, feeling it between your fingers, breathing slowly. Your neck ached, but it wasn’t a bad ache; it felt like a phantom hand.

“For me?”

Johnny slides three bowls on the table, grinning.

“Yer first wedding gift,” he says jovially.

 “Oh, I see,” you murmur, but it isn’t a disappointed oh.

Simon leaves later again, full of soup, to process the rest of the hunt’s boon with John. He takes the pelt with him, a snowcat pelt you’ve learned.

Yet, he’d returned with not much more than scratches on him from travel. Tired, yes, but a few hours of sleep and splattering his spend on your belly had fixed that earlier.

You’d bathed, since, though the feeling was hard to shake.

Johnny putters about again, returning to his carving of the little mini you. A peek into the past, one you no longer embodied.

“Can I see when you’re done?” you ask, slipping your favourite wool dress on. The red, well worn one. Soft, comforting. 

“Course,” he mumbles, concentrating. Then, his head shoots up.

“Ye want one o’ Simon ‘n’ I, lamb? Carry us around?” Only it sounds like aroond.

You nod, walking on socked feet to where he’s carving.

“Yes.”

[nomie-11]

Liam Mairi x Reader - The Artist and his Muse

masterlist!

Never once did Liam have the desire to learn how to draw, or learn how to paint, but as he whittled her dragon into another blank piece of wood, he was beginning to understand. He had no clue how to carve a mini figurine of her and her beautiful face, so he would need to learn how to draw. 

The idea had struck him like a bolt of Violet’s lightning—a restless itch that wouldn’t fade no matter how many times he told himself it was impossible or unreasonable. He was Liam Mairi, a warrior, soldier, protector, he had no business picking up a pencil to sketch her delicate lines or smoothing the curves of her figure with tender care. It was already somewhat unreasonable that he spent nearly all of his free time carving small figures of dragons. But when he glances at her, Y/n, laughing softly as her dragon swished his tail protectively behind her, he realized no battlefield could ever compare to the challenging art of capturing her essence. 

The unfinished wooden carving sat in his hands, its shape rough and unrefined, and he really couldn’t even tell that it was supposed to be a human, let alone Y/n. It wasn’t enough. The wood was too rigid to hold her warmth, her fire, her unmistakable spirit. He needed to bring her to life on paper before he could even think about turning that vision into something real. 

So that evening, after drills, Liam approached Violet. 

“I really, really need your help,” He pleaded as they walked towards the dining hall. “I need you to ask Jesinia to get me a book on how to draw from the archives. Please Violet.”

She snorted, suppressing a giggle as they grabbed their trays of food and sat down at their normal table. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” she replied lightly, waving to Rhiannon and Y/n, who sat talking animatedly over something. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow during archive duty before breakfast.” 

“Thank you so much,” He sighed, taking his seat next to Violet and across from Y/n. “You’re a lifesaver.” 

“Why is Violet a lifesaver?” Y/n asked, tilting her head curiously. 

“No reason!” He replied, just a touch too quickly, hiding his red ears behind his hands in a way too obvious manner. 

—————————————-

Over the next week, Liam carried the drawing book everywhere he went, his new codex of sorts, tucked between his journals and Xaden’s training regimens. The first sketches were more than rough, messy lines that bore no real resemblance to Y/n or anything remotely human. He tore out the worst of them in frustration, crumpling the paper into tight balls that littered the floor of his quarters. But he persisted, staying up late in the quiet glow of candlelight, pencil in hand, practicing strokes, shading, and proportions as if his life depended on it. 

It was her smile that always tripped him up. How could something so effortless on her part feel so impossible to replicate? When she smiled, it was never just her lips; it was the way her eyes crinkled at the corners, the way her nose scrunched slightly when she laughed, the warmth it brought to her entire face. He could picture it so vividly in his mind that it hurt to see the flat, lifeless doodles staring back at him. 

Still, he refused to give up. He filled the pages of the makeshift sketchbook Xaden had scrapped up for him, painstakingly sketching her in every moment of silence they had. The way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear while reading; the intensity in her gaze when she strategized during training; the rare softness of her expression when her large blue dragon nudged her shoulder, her hand resting gently on his scales. 

He began stealing glances whenever he could, noting the curve of her jawline or the way the sunlight caught the strands in her hair, a mesmerizing mix of highlights he couldn’t quite replicate. 

“Are you drawing her again?” Violet teased one afternoon, leaning over his shoulder as they sat by the edge of the sparring grounds, Y/n and Rhiannon going at each other just in front of them. He quickly closed the sketchbook, shooting her a warning glare. 

“Shut up,” he mumbled, his ears turning a bright crimson. 

“She’s going to figure it out eventually, you know,” Violet grinned, nudging him playfully. “You’re not exactly subtle.” 

Liam groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I just… I can’t get it right. She’s—she’s so—”

”Complicated?” Violet offered with a smirk. 

“Perfect,” he corrected softly, almost too low for Violet to hear. 

Later that week, as they gathered in the common area to relax after a long day, Y/n sat down beside him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his. Liam’s heart hammered against his ribs, and he clutched the sketchbook tighter, praying she wouldn’t notice it. 

“What’s that?” She asked, her tone curious, eyes flicking to the edge of the leather cover sticking out from under his arm. 

“Nothing!” He replied quickly. A little too quickly. 

Her eyebrows rose, a playful grin tugging at her lips. “Oh, it’s definitely something. Let me see.” 

Before he could react, she reached over, snatching the sketchbook from his hands with an ease that came from years of training together. 

“Y/n, wait!” Liam practically lunged after her, but it was too late. She flipped the book open, her eyes scanning the page in silence. 

At first, she didn’t speak, her expression unreadable. She turned page after page—her laughing, her dragon mid-flight, her leaning against a tree in a rare quiet moment. Some sketches were crude, others more refined, and some heartbreakingly detailed, especially the ones of her smiling. 

“You… you drew all these?” she asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper. 

“I—uh—yeah.” He scratched the back of his neck, feeling like his heart might give out. “I know they’re not great, but—” 

“Are you kidding?” she interrupted, looking up at him with wide eyes, “These are… Liam, they’re beautiful.”

“You think so?” he asked, his voice hesitant, vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. 

She nodded, her gaze softening as she held the sketchbook closer to her chest. “But… Why me?” 

The question hung in the air between them, heavy with meaning. 

Liam swallowed hard, his hands fidgeting in his lap as his ears turned a bright red. “Because… because you’re everything, Y/n. You’re fierce and kind and smart… and gods, you're just you. And I guess I wanted to try and hold onto that somehow. To show you what I see.” 

Her cheeks flushed, and for a moment, the ever-confident Y/n seemed at a loss for words. “Liam, I… I don’t even know what to say.” 

“You don’t have to say anything,” he added quickly, his voice shaky. “Just… don’t laugh, okay?” 

“Laugh?” she said, a smile tugging at her lips. “Why would I laugh? No one’s ever done anything like this for me before.” 

He couldn’t quite meet her eyes, the vulnerability in his chest almost too much to bear. The air between them felt charged, her fingers still clutching the sketchbook close to her heart as if tethering him in place. His mind screamed at him to say more, to do something, but for once, the fearless Liam Mairi felt fear clamp down hard, rooting him in place. He wanted so badly to close the gap between them, to taste the words that lingered on her lips, but he couldn’t move. 

And then she did. 

Her hand reached out, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, and before he could process what was happening, she tugged him down, her lips meeting his in a rush of warmth and fire. It was soft at first, tentative, like testing the waters, but when he didn’t pull away, she leaned in deeper, her other hand dropping the sketchbook to the floor as it rested on the curve of his jaw. 

Liam’s breath hitched, his heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum as he surrendered to her touch, kissing her back harder than before. His hands hovered for a moment before settling gently on her waist, like he was afraid she might slip away if he held on too tightly. 

When they finally pulled apart, her face was flushed, and her eyes sparkled with something he couldn’t quite name. 

“Well,” she said, a teasing smile curling her lips. “That’s one way to say thank you.” 

Liam let out a breathless laugh, his hand lifting to rub the back of his neck. “I—uh—yeah, I guess it is.” 

She grinned, leaning in close, her voice dropping to a whisper. “And for the record, I think you captured me perfectly, Liam.” 

And with that, she kissed him again, and this time, he didn’t hesitate to kiss her back.

-------

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

Taglist: @awkardnerd , @hannraumari , @minjix , @glaciuswduo , @wolfbc97 , @heeseungthel0ml , @acourtofsmutandstarlight , @kylaisra

[ceilidho]

take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (part 8)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

-

Now a nocturnal animal emerges into the daylight hours.

A week becomes two and your shoulders untense. It’s not something you notice at first because you’re used to an ever present strain between your shoulder blades and an ache in your jaw from grinding your teeth at night. Then a fortnight goes by without so much as a missive with your name on it floating across John’s desk or a stranger appearing in town after tracking you down, and you wonder if maybe the world really is big enough to hide in. 

It sure feels that way at times. The woods beyond the bounds of John’s property stretch out farther than the eye can see and even walking it feels like you could disappear into another realm. Old spruces shoot up high into the clouds, and deeper into the woods, huge rock formations grow more and more prominent as you near the mountains. John takes you through the woods on horseback, following the rough trails carved into the dirt by a century of wagons and carts using the same path. The footprints of a different time. 

Up in the trees, birds warble and chirp, talking to one another in songs that you’ve never heard before. A woodpecker drills into the side of a tree. Pinecones snap out of the upper branches and drop to the forest floor. 

There is only a single trail and it’s easy to lose. You grow a bit nervous when John takes you off the trail and deeper into the woods, but he does so with the confidence of a man that knows these woods like the back of his hand. You go quiet when he stops Buttercup to let a herd of deer wander by, the stragglers hurrying to catch up with the group, throwing the two of you nervous glances before they disappear into the thicket. 

“Should we be out this far?” you ask in a whisper, reluctant to disturb the silence. Though the woods are full of animals that bleat, chirp, chatter, and hoot, the sound of your own voice feels preternaturally loud and shrill. 

“We won’t get lost, darlin’. I know my way around,” John reassures you, curling an arm around your waist to hold you to him. These days, you hardly worry about tumbling off the horse. Not with him at your back anyway. 

“That wasn’t really my worry,” you mumble, trailing off.

“Then what’re you getting all worked up about?”

“Aren’t there wolves out here? Or bears?”

He snorts, the sound making you jolt. You don’t topple over because he has such a firm hold around your waist. “They don’t usually come this close to town. They’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

“That sounds like something mothers tell their children to stop them crying,” you say flatly. You draw your legs up automatically when John directs Buttercup through a shallow basin, a shortcut back home. It makes you anxious for a moment, but the water barely goes up to her ankles, so you relax when you realize that you’re in no danger of being swept away by the current.

“That doesn’t mean a bear or wolf can’t wander by, but it’s rare.”

“And there it is.”

You can feel the heat of his glower on the back of your head. “We could spend the night out here if you want to see for yourself.”

At that, you shut your mouth. Even if he were to prove his point, you have no interest in camping out in the woods now that you’ve become accustomed to the luxury of a soft bed. Granted that you’re forced to share that same bed, still you’ve never slept half as well as you do these days. You wake up rested after nine hours of blissful shut eye, a sleep so deep that your dreams only come in half-remembered flashes. Often they involve the man you wake up wrapped around, and for that you’re grateful that they remain submerged. 

A new desire has started to burrow its way into the back of your mind in recent days. It starts out as a thought so brief that you hardly notice it before it skitters away. 

And then it lingers. 

You wake up in the middle of the night hot, sweat dripping down the nape of your neck and a fire burning in your loins, a red-hot coil wound around itself, fit to burst. Pulsating. At some point throughout the night, you must have thrown a leg around John’s waist because it rests there now, your hand planted in the middle of his chest and your sex all but rubbing up against his thigh. Under your hand, you can feel his heart pump strong and steady.

You hold very, very still, waiting for him to wake. But John sleeps on, his palm loose where it rests along the curve of your hip, fingers curling into the flesh of your backside. 

You can hardly look at him these days without shaking. You’ve come to fixate on the sway of his hips when he walks and the flecks of silver in his beard. The grooves in his weathered hands. The way your head fits in the palm of his hand when he cradles it to his chest. The fond glimmer in his eyes that shines the brightest when he puts his hat on your head and it slips past your eyes, too big for your head. 

When you tip it up in order to see, the folds around his eyes become more pronounced with the force of his smile.

“There you are, bug,” he says, taking the hat off your head to set it back on his and reeling you in for a kiss. 

Bug, love, honey, darling. The constant flux of endearments makes your head spin. John never calls you by the name on your marriage license. It’s like that name means nothing to him, cast away at the first opportunity and replaced by an endless stream of pet names.  

He hasn’t touched your sex since making you come on the porch swing the week before. He pulls you into a chaste embrace at night, the only evidence of his own desire being the stiff shaft nestled against the small of your back in the early morning hours, which he takes care of on his own in the bathroom downstairs after pressing a kiss to your cheek. You feel robbed of something, though you don’t know quite what. 

You’re tempted to offer your help, but you don’t know exactly what that would entail. Inexperience and fear of rejection hold you back, stay your tongue. In the two weeks you’ve been married, he hasn’t once tried to pin you down and rut between your thighs like you expected and dreaded that very first night. 

Now that that time has passed, you don’t know how to initiate that moment again. 

John promises to teach you how to ride a horse. You can’t see a reason to protest, much to your chagrin. Despite your apprehensions, even you can’t deny that it would be a helpful skill. A train only goes one way after all, confined to a single track. A horse has no such laws to obey.

The thought stays nestled at the back of your mind as the days continue on.

You flounder around in the kitchen on the day that John invites his deputies over for supper. You’ve met the big one—Simon—now a small handful of times, each encounter marked by a silence that sucks the air out of the room when he turns his gaze on you and holds it. Perhaps you’ve simply ascribed too much importance to his person, given that every time you’ve seen him, your life has changed irrevocably. His presence is always followed by revelation it seems. The archangel of vicissitude. A harbinger of uncertain times.

The other two are new. John introduces you to them when you bring out the cutlery and crockery to set the table, and you nearly go cross-eyed when they reach across the table at the same time to offer their hands. You go to meet them halfway, but flinch when John brings his hand down on the table with enough force to make the silverware jump.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he apologizes to you first before turning his glare on the other two. “That ain’t proper, boys. You wait for the lady to offer her hand first—you don’t treat a woman like she’s a mutt you’re teaching to shake.”

“Ah, sorry, hen,” the one on the left says, his voice a thick Scottish brogue like a purr. He’s possibly the handsomest man you’ve ever met, but there’s something dangerous and wild in his eyes. When he smiles, it curls up in a roguish sort of way that makes you falter, like he’s in on a joke that you aren’t. “Dinnae mean to offend. No’ often we get ta meet such a pretty lady.” 

“Sorry—” the one on the right apologizes in a voice far more earnest than his counterpart’s. “And sorry for him. We think he was raised by wolves.”

“What’s yer excuse then?” the Scot sneers, knocking his knee into the other man’s under the table. “Dinnae see ye waitin’ for her fuckin’ hand like a gentleman—apologies, hen.”

“Christ,” John sighs, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling. 

Simon stays silent at the other end of the table, but the whole table jumps when he aims a kick at the Scott’s leg. He hisses and blurts out a word in a language you’ve never heard before, the word unmistakably vitriolic. He clutches at his shin and shoots a nasty look at Simon, though he doesn’t make a move to retaliate. 

“Name’s Kyle. Kyle Garrick,” the other introduces himself, and you finally reach across the table to offer your hand. His hand is warm against yours when he takes it, dark skin burnished in the candlelight. There’s something inviting about him; something about his eyes, so dark that you almost fall into them. Thick lips curl up into a smile. “And this here is Soap.”

You frown. “Soap?”

The man in question runs a hand down his front, emphasizing the cut of his shirt and the way it clings to the muscle of his chest. “‘Cause of how well I clean up.”

Simon barks out a laugh at that. The sound comes so sudden and sharp that it startles you. “You got it ‘cause your mum had to wash out your mouth with soap.”

It’s the most you’ve ever heard out of him and you can only stare wide-eyed at the lot of them as they dissolve into bickering and squabbling after that. It’s almost a relief to head back into the kitchen to finish cooking. 

Dinner is a similar messy affair, punctuated by the sound of Soap practically gnawing the meat off the bone. He only apologizes when John barks at him for making a mess, more food on the floor around him than on his plate, but his table manners don’t last very long. John doesn’t seem so much embarrassed on their behalf as annoyed, but it’s an annoyance that comes with an aftertaste of warmth. You can tell without asking that they’ve known each other for years. 

There’s room enough in you for food and envy. Back home you had friends. Never close friends, but acquaintances at least. Maids you could recognize by face. Small talk while ascending single-file up the servants’ staircase. Perhaps little more than that. You’d never been particularly close to any of them, but how could you? You worked from morning ‘till night, up and down the stairs, moving in the shadows. Never making too much noise lest your employers take notice of you. 

Like he did.

You shake it off. That’s no matter now. You’re hundreds of miles away and living under a new name. A married woman, to the county sheriff no less. It only sometimes hurts your heart to think of how lonely you’d been. 

When they leave, you stand at the window and watch as they disappear into the black of the night, Simon at the front of the pack, his torchlight leading the way. The sound of horse hooves beating against the dirt recedes the farther they get. 

His hands warm your shoulders. You don’t know how long he’s been there, standing behind you while you stared out the window after the boys. All you know is that his hands are warm, and the kiss he presses to the back of your head makes you arch back into him, unconsciously gravitating closer to him. Needing to be near. 

In bed, you curl your fingers against his chest. On a rough exhale, you wake. You dream still of something terrible that happens somewhere else, in another city, in an old life. His heartbeat lulls you back to sleep.

John takes you to the local seamstress to have you fitted for a pair of pants and suddenly you’re out of excuses. They fit you comfortably, like a second skin, and you find yourself pulling at the legs at your final fitting as if to stretch out the material. The seamstress nearly jabs you with a pin and glares up at you until you stop fidgeting. 

You come to terms with it when he brings you into the stables and makes you fetch the saddle from where it rests on its stand. It’s heavier than you expected. You stumble back over to where John now has Buttercup standing in the middle of the stable, holding her by the lead fixed to her bridle. 

“I don’t know if—” you start, trepidation climbing up your chest until it grips you by the throat. For as many times as you’ve ridden her, you’ve never done it alone. 

John fixes her lead to a post and walks over to you, taking the saddle from your hands and letting it drop to the ground. He cups your face in both hands to tilt your head up. “Hey, honey. We’re not doing much of anything today, alright? Just a walk around the paddock so you get used to sitting on Buttercup on your own. I’m not gonna smack her ass and send you down the trail at full tilt..”

That gets a laugh out of you. “You promise?”

He smiles. “Promise, darlin’.”

And he keeps it. The only thing you do that day is learn how to tack a horse and how to properly mount and dismount her. The latter part of the lesson is devoted to you trying to find your balance while John leads the two of you around the pen at a leisurely pace. He calms you down when he sees you grow too stiff, stopping to coo and rub your thigh until you gradually relax. It’s heartwarming until Buttercup begins to tense up too for a reason unbeknownst to you and you watch in righteous fury as John calms her down the same way.

John gets you a hat to keep the sun from beating down on you, but there’s little he can do about the soreness between your thighs and the stiffness in your legs the next day. All you can do is hiss and moan in pain, hobbling around the house until he forces you down into a chair and hikes up your dress in order to apply an arnica salve to your inner thighs. 

It’s a relief and an affront at the same time. The duality of man. The salve soothes much of the ache, but you twitch nervously around John for the rest of the day, the memory of him pinning you to the chair and forcibly spreading your thighs haunting you. The lingering ache in your core is just the salt in the wound. 

It rains another day. A light drizzle while the sun is still out.

Every day you sit and you think, will it be today? And then the wash basins are emptied out in the field, the horses are taken out to the paddock, you pin the laundry up on the line to dry, and John presses a farewell kiss to your forehead when he leaves you with Kate and nothing happens. Every inch of you waits for more, anticipates more. Throbs when he leaves you wanting, only a chaste kiss and a squeeze around your waist before he’s off. 

You can feel it coming to a head. An itch you can’t shake. 

That day comes with another ache you can’t shake. 

“Please,” you beg, clasping your hands in front of you. “One day of rest. That’s all I’m asking. I can’t do this anymore, John.”

John snaps the lead in his hands. “Let’s get a move on. We’re burning daylight.”

You hang your head low on the march over to the stables, John taking up the rear like he expects you to bolt. An executioner’s walk. The thought of escape has never seemed further away—not even because of its feasibility, but because all you want to do is lie down and rest.

“You can quit your moping,” he says as you tack up Buttercup, a pout on your lips. “Got something special for you today.”

That makes you perk up, regardless of the fact that he doesn’t specify what that is. Anticipation mounts in you when he helps you up onto Buttercup and then climbs up behind you himself. He steers her away from the paddock and towards the trail leading into the woods, the sun at its zenith now, illuminating everything as far as the eye can see.

You’ve ridden this trail before. A week ago, with John at your back as he is now. Through the fields and over the hills until the trees start to number in the tens and then the hundreds, no clear delineation between plain and forest. Simply there and then everywhere.

By now, after hours of sun beating down on the path, the trail is mostly dry, yesterday’s rain long since having sunk into the earth. You think it’d still be a tough hike on foot, but on horseback you cover acres of land at a brisk pace, Buttercup hardly breaking a sweat. You cross paths with a small group traveling by horse and wagon, but John breaks off from the path not too long after that, steering Buttercup deeper into the wilderness, where the only gullies are the ones carved out by years and years of rainfall. 

You only see it when the land begins to dip and you’re forced to hold onto the horn and tighten your thighs around the fenders to keep steady. At the bottom of a hill, a small stream opens up into a larger river, narrowing out at the other end where the land rises again and the water can only trickle over the pebbly riverbed. On the other side, a rocky outcropping cuts the stream off from view.

“Is this where you used to come to bathe?” you ask, recalling an earlier conversation.

John sighs. “Thought I’d take you for a swim as a treat, but if you’d rather just tease me—”

“Well now, let’s not be hasty,” you say, already trying to dismount on your own, eyes glued on the stream glimmering in the sunlight. John chuckles, keeping you pressed to him until he guides Buttercup under a tree for shade and dismounts first, helping you down after him. 

All you want to do is wade in the stream up to your ankles, so that’s what you do. Boots kicked off, Buttercup relaxing in the shade of a tree, John standing by the water’s edge with his hands on his hips and watching you tiptoe over the smooth rocks below. You roll up your pant legs, but eventually you feel the ends grow damp as you venture farther out. At its deepest, you would probably sink up to your waist.

“Don’t you want to swim?” John asks from somewhere behind you.

You splash around a bit, kicking your feet through the water. “Hard to do that with clothes—”

When you turn back around to face him, your eyes dart down momentarily at the sight of skin before you squeak and whirl back around, sending up an arc of water. Twice now you’ve seen him naked. 

“You’ve no clothes on,” you state, bluntly enough that it almost sounds stupid. 

You hear the water splash and ripple when he takes his first step in. “Right—you better think about doing the same if you don’t want to ride home soaking wet.”

“I was perfectly fine just getting my feet wet,” you say indignantly.  

“We came out here to swim, not get your feet wet,” John laughs. You stiffen when his hand comes down on your shoulder, conscious of the fact that your husband is standing right behind you, entirely divested of his clothes. “So best get to steppin’.”

“You can’t make me.”

“Oh, honey,” he says pityingly. “Yes, I can.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as you make your way back to shore, careful not to allow yourself a glimpse of him. Your boots are stacked beneath the shade of another tree, John’s clothes folded neatly beside them. You strip slowly, attentive to the world around you; though unlikely, it’s not impossible that someone might wander by. Your only consolation is that John is still within sight, though you keep your back to him because in recent days, you’ve developed a hunger for him that even now makes your stomach hurt.  

Though the air is warm, you shiver. When you turn around with your arms crossed over your breasts to hide them from sight, you find John wading in the river up to his waist. You’ve seen him like this once before, the hearty body of a man in his prime. Sturdy and strong. The hair on his chest is darker than that on his head, wet too from the dip he must have taken when your back was turned. His hair is slicked back too, a wet hand combing it back. 

“Come on, darlin’,” he calls, beckoning you forward with his hand.

The water is a cold shock when you step in past your ankles. Ice cold tendrils wrap up your legs, sucking the warmth from you. 

You suck in a soft breath when he pulls you into his arms and heaves you up, big hands gripping under your thighs. Your breasts press against the wet skin of his chest, nipples already pebbled. The river is deeper than you assumed; John pulls you deeper in until it pools around your waist and then your chest. Cold enough that you shiver until John dips his head down and the kiss he presses to your lips melts you from the inside out. 

You can’t escape the intimacy of water-slick skin. When John drags you up his chest, your nipples brush over his and the shudder that passes through you is violent, toe-curling. You know that he can feel the heat of your core even underwater. With your legs wound around his waist, every inch of you is plastered to his front. Even your fingers play with the ends of his hair, arms draped over his shoulders. You can’t look away.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, breath hot on your face. “Eyes on me.”

As if you could look anywhere else. 

He reaches down under the water to readjust himself and you gasp when his shaft is suddenly right there, trapped between his belly and your heat. It’s the closest you’ve ever gotten to coitus, his glans nestled between your folds. You’d only have to shift slightly for him to slip right in. The thought makes your breath quicken. 

He doesn’t make a move to take you though, even knowing that he could. How easy it would be. How it’s due to him. Your husband that’s waited a fortnight to take you as his own. John kisses you until each slick pass of his lips grows sloppier, clumsier—his lips barely parting from yours before they’re on you again, rendering you a creature of base needs. 

But his hands don’t shift from your backside where he holds you in place. His fingers dig into the flesh hard enough to bruise, but they don’t move to part your folds to make room for his manhood. You expect him to—practically yearn for it and squeeze him around the neck all the harder when he subverts your expectations, doing no more than letting you grind your heat against the base of his shaft. 

“John—John, please,” you beg, mindless for what. You don’t know what you’re asking for. 

“What d’ya need, darlin’?” he asks into your mouth, stealing your answer with another kiss. 

You fall under the swell of another wave. When the root of his cock glides over your clit, your core clenches on nothing, a sob half-bitten off in your mouth, ripped from your chest. 

It doesn’t matter how close to him you get—he gives you nothing. The heat could very well burn you from the inside out. Cold water caresses your skin as it flows past, but the center of you runs so hot that you hardly notice it. 

When he hikes you higher up against his chest, you clench your fingers in his hair, whining when he takes your nipple into his mouth. Your gasp comes out sharp and hurt when the coarse bristles of his beard rub rough against your breast. He sucks at your breast tender at first, gentle, eyes half-lidded like his mind has gone somewhere else, but there’s a glint in his eye that grows wild and dark, that turns him rough. You don’t know what to do except shake and let him use you how he wants. 

Desperation nips at your heels, urging you up the length of him. If you had more nerve, you’d reach down and grasp him under the water, notch the head of his member against your sex and sink right down on him. You need him like you've never needed anything before. Every part of you aflame, searing hot under the sun at its highest point; right overhead, right on top of you. 

His teeth sink delicately into your areola, tongue lapping over your nipple to soothe the hurt, and suddenly, you break.

“Please—” you gasp, wrenching his mouth away from your breast and whimpering when he resists at first, glaring up at you like he might bite. “Please, John—I can’t take it. I need you.”

His eyes darken, the pupil swallowing everything up. “Need me where, wife? Here?”

A hand dips between your thighs, pointer finger gliding over your sex, plump with blood. So tender that your mouth hangs open on a whine when he touches you. 

“Y-yes,” you whimper, gaze swimming. 

John’s breath comes out in a harsh, ragged pant. Completely undone in a way you’ve never seen before. “Get out, darlin’. I’m taking you home. Gonna give you what you need.”

[theonottsbxtch]

FOR YOU, ALWAYS | CL16

an: this was a request! i loved wiritng it and now i love the idea of historical romance prince!charles, thank you for requesting it 💞 also i listened to experience by ludovico einaudi the entire time i wrote this

summary: charles has always hated his life, he thinks, he doesn’t know really. but then he meets someone, she challenges him, she makes him try and all of a sudden he knows what he wants.

wc: 12k

The grand dining hall of the Château de Monte Carlo was bathed in the soft glow of the morning sun filtering through its ornate windows. Prince Charles of Monaco sat at the long mahogany table, his jaw tight as his parents, the Sovereign Prince and Princess, laid out their expectations with the weight of unshakable certainty.

"You must understand, Charles," his mother said, her voice poised yet firm, "a union with Princess Evelyn of England is not merely desirable—it is necessary. The alliance could strengthen our position in ways you cannot yet fully grasp."

His father leaned forward, his imposing figure casting a shadow over the table. "This is not a matter of choice. You are the crown prince. Your duty outweighs any personal hesitation."

Charles’s fingers tightened around the stem of his untouched glass. “And what of my life? Am I to simply be a pawn in your political games?” His voice was calm, but a sharp edge lay beneath the surface.

His mother’s gaze softened slightly, though not enough to dissuade her resolve. “You are the oldest, my son. The weight of the crown has always been yours to bear. This... is part of that burden.”

He didn’t argue further, though every fibre of his being resisted. Instead, he rose, offering a clipped bow. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Moments later, Charles pushed open the heavy doors to his private chambers, stepping into the quiet sanctuary of his room. His temples throbbed with the remnants of the conversation, and he felt the weight of his parents’ expectations settling heavier than the crown he would one day wear.

Inside, the faint rustle of fabric caught his attention. The servant girl—her name unknown to him, as it was meant to be—was smoothing the fresh sheets over his bed. She froze upon seeing him, her hands faltering mid-motion.

“Your Highness,” she said quickly, dipping into a small, practised curtsey. “I didn’t realise you were returning so soon. Shall I leave and return later?”

He waved a hand absently, stepping toward the settee by the window. “No. Stay. Finish your work.”

She hesitated, her eyes flickering to his face, then back to the task at hand. He sank into the settee, his head tilting back against the carved wood as he let out a heavy sigh.

“Do you ever wonder,” he began, his voice soft yet tinged with frustration, “why some of us are given so much freedom, yet chained in ways that others cannot see?”

She paused, her hands gripping the edges of the linen she had just tucked in, unsure if the question was meant for her.

When she did not answer, he looked at her—truly looked at her—for the first time in a long while. Her expression was guarded, her posture poised, as though expecting reproach. “You can speak freely,” he said, a rare hint of gentleness colouring his tone.

Her lips parted slightly, then closed again before she carefully responded, “I think, Your Highness, that even those with freedom often long for something else.”

He smiled faintly, though there was no humour in it. “Something else,” he echoed, the words hanging between them like a challenge to a fate he could not escape.

She quickly turned her attention back to the task at hand, smoothing the sheets in swift, precise movements, as if afraid that lingering would invite trouble. Charles, however, was not done with the conversation.

“And what would you long for?” he asked, his voice quieter now but laced with curiosity. “If you could have… anything?”

Her hands stilled, though she didn’t lift her gaze. “It doesn’t matter, Your Highness. People like me don’t waste time with such thoughts.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The firmness in his tone made her look up briefly, her eyes meeting his for the first time. They were dark, unyielding, yet not unkind. She hesitated, as though weighing the consequences of speaking too openly.

Finally, she murmured, “I suppose… I’d long for choice. To decide my own path, no matter how humble.”

Charles leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he regarded her with an intensity that made her shift slightly under his gaze. “Choice,” he repeated, almost to himself. “The one thing I’ve never had.”

She blinked at his words, her brow furrowing in confusion. He noticed the look and gave a soft, bitter laugh.

“You think I have everything, don’t you?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at the opulence surrounding them. “All this, and yet I’m to marry a woman I’ve never met. Smile on command. Produce heirs like some stud horse for the dynasty.”

“Your Highness—”

“Spare me,” he interrupted, raising a hand. “I’m aware I sound insufferable. Poor me, the prince in his gilded cage.”

The corners of her mouth twitched, the faintest shadow of a smile threatening to appear, though she suppressed it quickly. “I wouldn’t dare say so, Your Highness.”

“And yet you’re thinking it,” he said, leaning back against the settee, a faint smirk tugging at his lips now. “Go on. You’ve already said more than most would dare. Speak freely.”

She hesitated, then, emboldened by his unusual mood, offered carefully, “I think… it’s easier to envy a cage when it’s lined with silk.”

Charles let out a bark of laughter, surprising them both. For a moment, the tension in the room seemed to dissipate, replaced by something lighter.

“Touché,” he said, shaking his head. “Perhaps I deserve that.”

She resumed her work in silence, and he watched her, his mind turning over her words. There was a simplicity in her presence, a quiet sense of purpose that felt like a reprieve from the endless demands of court life.

As she moved to leave, her task completed, she paused by the door. “Your Highness,” she said, her voice tentative.

He glanced up, his expression expectant.

“Sometimes… cages are only as strong as we believe them to be.”

Before he could respond, she slipped out, leaving him alone with his thoughts—and the echo of her words, which refused to leave him in peace.

The words haunted Charles for days. Cages are only as strong as we believe them to be. They played on a loop in his mind, following him from morning meetings with ministers to the hollow dinners with his parents, where talk of his engagement to Princess Evelyn consumed every conversation.

By the third day, he relented. Not to the sentiment behind her words, but to the reality of his life. Duty, it seemed, would always triumph over desire. He formally agreed to the arrangement in a cold meeting with his father, his voice devoid of emotion as he signed the papers that would announce his betrothal to the world.

That evening, restless and seeking solace, he ventured into the royal gardens. The roses were in full bloom, their scent heavy in the warm air, yet they brought him no comfort. The paths, so meticulously maintained, felt as constricting as the marble walls of the palace.

The crisp evening air offered a solace the grand halls could not. He strolled along the manicured paths, his mind still heavy with the decision he had made, when movement near the servant’s entrance caught his eye.

It was her.

She was dressed simply, carrying a basket as she slipped through the narrow door at the edge of the palace walls. For a moment, he simply watched her, a sudden curiosity flaring to life. Then, before reason could temper him, he followed.

She moved with purpose, her steps quick as she crossed the gravel path leading to the servants’ gate. Charles kept his distance, careful to stay within the shadows. The sound of the gate creaking open carried through the still night, and he quickened his pace.

“Wait,” he called softly as the gate began to swing shut behind her.

She spun, startled, her hand flying to her chest when she saw him. “Your Highness!” she whispered, her tone panicked. She glanced around quickly, as though expecting someone to appear from the darkness. “What are you doing out here?”

“I saw you,” he said simply, his voice low, “and I followed.”

Her expression shifted from shock to alarm. “You shouldn’t have. If anyone sees you out here with me—”

“They won’t,” he said firmly, stepping closer.

“But if they do…” Her voice dropped further, almost a plea. “I’ll be dismissed—worse. Do you know what they’d do to me for leaving the palace grounds with the prince?”

He stared at her, and for the first time in days, he felt a flicker of something other than despair. “Please,” he said, the word escaping him softly but with undeniable weight.

Her eyes widened at his uncharacteristic vulnerability. She shook her head, taking a step back. “No. I can’t. I won’t.”

“I’m not ordering you,” he said quickly. “I’m asking.”

For a moment, she stood frozen, her mind clearly racing. Then, with a frustrated sigh, she pulled the cloak from her shoulders and thrust it toward him.

“Fine,” she said, her tone sharp but her movements careful as she draped it around him. “If anyone asks, you’re my cousin visiting from the countryside. Keep your head down and your mouth shut.”

Charles nodded, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Understood.”

She turned and began walking quickly down the narrow dirt path beyond the gate. He followed, cloaked in her simple, worn garment, the scent of lavender lingering faintly in the fabric.

They walked in silence for what felt like an eternity before the lights of a small village came into view. She turned onto a side lane, leading him to a tiny house at the edge of town, its thatched roof weathered but charming.

“This is it,” she said, her voice clipped as she gestured to the modest dwelling.

He stared at the house, a stark contrast to the palace he called home. “You live here?”

“Yes,” she said, clearly defensive. “It’s small, but it’s mine. No one tells me what to do when I’m here.”

He didn’t respond, too busy taking in the details: the flower boxes beneath the windows, the faint glow of a single candle in the window.

“Now you’ve seen it,” she said, her tone impatient. “You should go back before someone notices you’re missing.”

But Charles shook his head. “No,” he said softly, his eyes still fixed on the little house. “Not yet.”

Her brow furrowed as she crossed her arms. “You shouldn’t have come in the first place.”

“Perhaps not,” he admitted, finally looking at her. “But now that I’m here… I can’t imagine wanting to leave.”

She stared at him, her expression unreadable. The quiet stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, she sighed again, softer this time.

“Fine,” she said, stepping toward the door. “But if anyone asks, I don’t know why you’re here, and I definitely didn’t bring you.”

She pushed the door open, stepping inside with a cautious glance behind her. Charles followed, ducking slightly to avoid the low wooden beam over the doorway. Before she could say a word, a voice called from inside.

“Back already? I thought you—”

The voice cut off as a man, younger than Charles but older than the servant girl, appeared from the far corner of the small room. He froze, his sharp blue eyes flicking between her and the prince. “What in God’s name…”

“Damn it!” she hissed, pressing a hand to her forehead. “I thought you were working the late shift at the docks tonight!”

“I was,” her brother said, stepping forward and squaring his shoulders. His rough shirt and patched trousers bore the telltale marks of dock work—salt stains and grime clung to the fabric. “But the shipment was cancelled. Now you tell me why the bloody prince of Monaco is in our house. Did you kidnap him?”

“Kidnap him?” she snapped, throwing her hands in the air. “Don’t be ridiculous. He followed me!”

Charles, for his part, seemed utterly unconcerned by the commotion. His gaze wandered over the small room with childlike fascination, taking in the chipped table, the cracked ceramic plates stacked neatly in the corner, and the patchwork curtain separating the single sleeping area. He paused to admire a string of dried herbs hanging near the hearth, as though he’d never seen anything so fascinating.

“Your Highness,” the brother said, stepping in front of him with an awkward, hesitant bow. “I mean no disrespect, but do you… do you need me to call someone? Or are you in danger?” He looked over his shoulder at his sister. “Are we in danger?”

“No one is in danger,” Charles replied, his voice calm. He turned to her brother with a polite nod. “Thank you for your concern. I’m here of my own accord.”

The girl pinched the bridge of her nose, muttering under her breath. Meanwhile, Charles’ eyes landed on a wooden crate near the wall, and before either sibling could stop him, he lowered himself onto it. The crate creaked but held, and he leaned back with a sigh, a serene smile spreading across his face.

The girl spun on him, her exasperation bubbling over. “What are you smiling about?”

He looked up at her, his expression earnest, almost boyish. “It’s beautiful.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Here,” he said, gesturing around the room. “It’s so cosy. Everything has its place. It’s warm, lived-in… peaceful.”

Her brother raised an eyebrow, clearly sceptical. “You call this beautiful? Your palace is five hundred times the size, and you think this is—”

“I know what my palace is,” Charles interrupted, though his tone held no irritation. “Cold. Grand. Silent. This… this feels alive.”

She crossed her arms, her brow furrowing as she stared at him. For a moment, she didn’t know whether to laugh or scold him. “It’s a shack,” she said finally, her voice softer but still tinged with disbelief.

“Maybe,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. “But it’s your shack. And it’s more honest than anything I’ve ever known.”

Her brother exchanged a glance with her, his expression suggesting that he thought the prince might have lost his mind. She only shook her head, sighing heavily as she walked to the table and placed her basket down.

“This is a mistake,” she muttered to herself.

“Perhaps,” Charles said, still smiling, “but it’s the best mistake I’ve made in a long time.”

She busied herself unpacking the basket, placing a few withered carrots, a handful of potatoes, and some crusty bread onto the table. Her brother leaned against the wall, arms crossed, still watching Charles with wary eyes.

“If you’re staying, Your Highness,” she said, her tone clipped as she focused on the food, “I hope you don’t mind scraps.” She hesitated, then glanced at him. “And you can’t tell anyone at the palace that I take the extras. They’d—”

“Dismiss you,” Charles finished, his voice soft. “I won’t tell. You have my word.”

She gave a small nod, her shoulders relaxing slightly, and began peeling the potatoes. Her hands moved deftly, her brother stepping in to fetch water from the small barrel near the door. Charles sat quietly on his makeshift chair, watching the two of them work in a rhythm.

“Do you need help?” he asked after a moment.

Her brother let out a short laugh, but she only shook her head without looking up. “No, Your Highness, but thank you for the offer. I imagine peeling potatoes is beneath you.”

“Not everything is beneath me,” he replied, and while his voice was carrying a hint of dry humour, there was some seriousness to it.

She didn’t respond, but a faint smile tugged at her lips as she chopped the vegetables and tossed them into a battered pot over the small fire. Soon, the room filled with the simple, comforting aroma of soup.

When the meal was ready, she placed three mismatched bowls on the table and ladled out the steaming broth. She set one in front of Charles without ceremony, then handed one to her brother before sitting down herself.

Charles took a tentative sip, and his eyes widened slightly. “This is excellent.”

Her brother snorted. “It’s boiled scraps, mate. You must really have it rough if you think this is fine dining.”

“Max,” she warned, shooting her brother a glare.

Charles chuckled, dipping a chunk of the crusty bread into the soup. “Maybe it’s not fine dining,” he admitted, “but it tastes real. Honest.”

Her brother rolled his eyes but said nothing more, focusing on his meal. The three of them ate in relative silence, the tension in the room easing slightly as the warmth of the food spread through them.

When the bowls were empty, she cleared the table, stacking the dishes neatly on a small shelf. Charles leaned back, his contented smile returning as he watched her move about the room.

“You should go,” she said finally, her voice breaking the quiet. She didn’t turn to face him.

His smile faltered. “I don’t want to.”

Her hands paused for a moment before she resumed tidying the table. “You’ve seen what you wanted to see. This is my life. And you… you have your own life waiting for you back there.”

Charles stood slowly, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. “I suppose you’re right,” he said softly.

She walked toward the door, not meeting his eyes as she grabbed her cloak and gestured for him to follow. Her brother gave Charles a long, unreadable look as he rose to leave, but he said nothing, only shaking his head as the prince ducked back out into the cool night air.

They walked in silence down the dirt path, the lights of the palace glowing faintly in the distance. When they reached the servants’ gate, she stopped and turned to him, keeping her eyes on the ground.

“This is where we part ways,” she said firmly.

He took a step closer, and when she looked up, she saw something in his expression—gratitude, yes, but something deeper, too. Without a word, he reached for her hand, his touch gentle. He held it for a moment, his thumb brushing lightly over her calloused fingers.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice low and filled with sincerity. “For the soup. For everything.”

Before she could respond, he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles. The gesture was brief, but it sent a wave of warmth up her arm, leaving her stunned.

He stepped back, releasing her hand, and gave her one last look before slipping through the gate and disappearing into the shadows.

She stood there for a long time, staring at the empty path, her heart racing for reasons she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—name.

The next few days at the palace dragged on in a monotonous blur for Charles. His mornings were filled with tiresome meetings about the engagement, his afternoons with rigid etiquette lessons to prepare for public appearances with Princess Evelyn. Every second felt like a tightening noose around his neck.

Finally, the day came for him to meet her. Princess Evelyn of England arrived with her entourage in an ornate carriage, her entrance every bit as grand as expected. She was perfectly polite, perfectly poised—and, to Charles, perfectly insipid.

They sat across from each other in one of the palace’s many drawing rooms, chaperoned by a small battalion of attendants and his ever-watchful parents. She spoke at length about her family lineage, her charity work, and her plans to modernise court life, but her words washed over him like a stream of lukewarm water.

When it was his turn to speak, he managed only the barest pleasantries. He was certain she noticed his lack of enthusiasm, but if it bothered her, she gave no indication.

By the end of the meeting, he felt more drained than he had in years. As she curtsied and left the room, he caught his mother’s pointed glare, but he ignored it.

Before she could say anything to him, he glanced at the ornate clock on his wall. It was nearly the same time as the day she would be fluffing the pillows on his settee. A peculiar sense of anticipation stirred in his chest.

Without a second thought, he made his way to his bedroom. As he opened the door, his eyes immediately fell on her.

She was there, as if summoned by some unspoken wish. She was standing by the settee, her back to him as she carefully fluffed the pillows. Her movements were deliberate, methodical, and entirely unlike the flurry of maids bustling about elsewhere in the palace.

A slow smile spread across his face.

“Perfect timing,” he said loudly, causing her to jump slightly.

She turned, clutching the pillow to her chest. “Your Highness!” she said, startled. “I— I can come back later if—”

“Don’t bother,” he interrupted dramatically, throwing himself onto the bed with a theatrical sigh.

She froze, unsure whether to be amused or annoyed, as he sprawled across the silk covers, one arm flung over his face.

“Let me tell you about the most dreadful afternoon of my life,” he groaned.

Her brow furrowed as she set the pillow back in place. “The dreadful afternoon where you met the woman you’re going to marry?”

“Precisely,” he said, sitting up slightly to gesture at her. “You understand my plight already.”

“I understand you’re being ridiculous,” she replied, smoothing the cushions on the settee.

“Ridiculous?!” he exclaimed, placing a hand over his heart. “Do you know what she said when I asked her about her favourite pastime?”

“I don’t,” she said flatly, clearly trying to stay focused on her task.

“She said,” he continued, his voice dripping with mock enthusiasm, “Oh, I do adore embroidery. There’s something so meditative about it.”

She stared at him. “That… doesn’t sound terrible.”

He sat up fully now, gesturing emphatically. “Doesn’t sound terrible? It’s horrific! What am I to do with someone who finds stitching flowers onto fabric the height of excitement?”

“You could try embroidery yourself,” she suggested dryly, unable to resist a small smirk.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Very funny. No, what I need is someone who… who challenges me. Someone with fire.”

She arched an eyebrow but said nothing, turning back to the pillows.

“Instead,” he muttered, flopping back onto the bed, “I’m shackled to a walking lesson in decorum.”

The room fell silent for a moment, save for the soft rustle of fabric as she adjusted the settee. Finally, she turned to face him fully, her expression unreadable.

“Maybe,” she said carefully, “you should spend less time thinking about what you don’t like about her and more time figuring out what you’re looking for.”

Charles opened one eye to glance at her. “And if what I’m looking for isn’t an option?”

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment, something unspoken passing between them. Then, she shook her head and turned back to her work.

“Then you make do,” she said simply.

He watched her for a long moment, his chest tightening inexplicably.

“Is that what you do?” he asked softly.

She paused but didn’t turn around. “Every day, Your Highness.”

Without another word, she grabbed her items and walked out, softly closing the door behind her.

Charles had barely settled back on the bed, still pondering her cryptic answer, when the door to his chambers burst open.

His younger brother, Arthur, strode in, his golden hair slightly dishevelled and a boyish grin plastered across his face. “Charles! I just saw her—the princess of England. She’s… stunning. Gorgeous. A masterpiece, really. You lucky bastard.”

Charles groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Arthur, must you always barge in uninvited?”

Arthur ignored him, plopping himself unceremoniously into one of the velvet chairs near the fireplace. “I mean it. If I were you, I’d have proposed on the spot. Did you see her eyes? Like polished emeralds.”

“She’s… fine,” Charles muttered, his tone flat.

“Fine?” Arthur’s voice rose in mock indignation. “Brother, I’d trade places with you in an instant.” He leaned forward, his grin widening. “What is it? Not enough excitement for you? Too… proper?”

Charles sat up, his expression exasperated. “If you find her so attractive, Arthur, marry her yourself.”

Arthur laughed, clearly amused by the suggestion. “Oh, if only it worked that way. But alas, you are the crown prince. The heir. The one who gets the girl and the throne, while I’m left to look charming at parties.”

Charles shook his head, his frustration bubbling beneath the surface. He couldn’t help but wonder how different his life might be if the roles were reversed. Could Arthur really be happy living a life of obligation, of gilded cages and loveless arrangements?

His thoughts drifted, unbidden, back to the servant girl. Her small house, her laughter with her brother over bowls of soup, the way she moved through life with an independence he’d never known.

“What would it be like,” he murmured, almost to himself, “to marry someone who isn’t royalty? Someone who isn’t bound by these ridiculous rules?”

Arthur blinked at him, momentarily caught off guard. Then he laughed, loud and incredulous. “Are you out of your mind?”

Charles turned his head sharply, fixing his brother with a challenging look. “I’m serious. What would it be like to marry a commoner? To live a life free of all this… pomp and pretence?”

Arthur’s laughter faded, replaced by a look of disbelief. “You are mad. Do you have any idea what that would mean? The scandal? The uproar? Father would have a fit. Mother would faint on the spot. And the people? They’d riot.”

“Would they?” Charles asked, his tone calm but insistent. “Or would they understand? Would they respect a prince who chose love over duty?”

Arthur shook his head, a faint sneer creeping into his expression. “You don’t know what you’re saying. A prince doesn’t marry a milkmaid or a seamstress. It’s not a fairytale, Charles. We’re not… like them.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

“Not like them,” Charles repeated softly, his voice carrying a hint of disdain. “And what exactly does that mean?”

Arthur hesitated, then shrugged, as if the answer were obvious. “It means we have a responsibility. A legacy to uphold. Marrying into royalty isn’t just tradition—it’s survival. You think Father and Mother arranged your engagement for fun?”

Charles didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back against the headboard, his mind churning. Arthur’s words grated against something deep within him, something that longed to push back against the boundaries of their carefully constructed world.

“Maybe,” he said finally, his voice low, “the legacy isn’t worth the cost.”

Arthur stared at him, his disbelief giving way to concern. “Charles… you’ve been spending too much time alone. Or worse—reading poetry again. Get your head out of the clouds, brother. This is your life. Learn to accept it.”

With that, Arthur rose, clapping Charles on the shoulder before striding toward the door. “And if you won’t,” he added with a grin, “I’ll gladly keep the princess company. You’re a fool not to appreciate her.”

The door closed behind him, leaving Charles alone in the echoing silence of his chambers.

But his mind wasn’t silent.

It churned, restless and defiant, filled with images of a life he might never know.

The chill of the autumn night bit at Charles’s skin as he hurried along the winding path toward the small house. A week had passed, and though he told himself repeatedly that it was improper—foolish, even—he couldn’t shake the gnawing thought of her.

He hadn’t seen her since their last conversation in his chambers. Every day without her had stretched longer than the last. No wry comments while she smoothed the wrinkles from his sheets, no gentle jabs at his dramatics.

The house appeared before him, small and humble against the starlit sky. Light peeked through the cracks in the shutters.

He hesitated, his heart pounding. Then, before he could talk himself out of it, he knocked.

The door opened a crack, her face appearing in the dim light. The moment she recognised him, her eyes widened in alarm, and she yanked him inside, shutting the door firmly behind him.

“Your Highness!” she whispered fiercely, pressing her back against the door as though to block the outside world. “Are you out of your mind? I’ll be hung if they find you at my door!”

He tried to smile, though he knew she was right. “I haven’t seen you all week.”

Her expression turned exasperated. “That’s not a valid reason to sneak out of the palace, Prince Charles.”

“Isn’t it?” he countered lightly, though the heat rising in his cheeks betrayed the truth of how much he’d missed her.

Her sigh was heavy with frustration, but something softened in her gaze. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said again, though her voice lacked its earlier sharpness. She moved away from the door, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders.

It was then that he noticed the redness around her nose, the slight rasp in her voice.

“You’ve been ill,” he said, stepping closer.

“It’s nothing,” she replied, waving him off as she moved toward the small kitchen space. “A cold. Happens every year when the weather turns. I’ll survive.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he said quietly, glancing around the room.

“Life doesn’t wait for the sniffles,” she said with a faint smirk, though her movements were slower than usual as she reached for a bowl.

“Then let me help,” he said, surprising both of them.

She turned, raising an eyebrow. “You? Help? What do you know about cooking?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he admitted, grinning. “But I’m an excellent student.”

She stared at him for a moment, as though deciding whether to humour him. Finally, she handed him a knife and motioned toward a small pile of vegetables. “Fine. Peel those. Try not to cut yourself.”

He took the knife gingerly, studying the carrot as if it were a puzzle. She chuckled softly, the sound warming the small space, and stepped beside him to show him the proper angle for peeling.

The next hour passed in a flurry of quiet laughter and careful instructions. He fumbled with the knife, his first attempts earning teasing remarks from her, but he improved quickly under her guidance. Together, they chopped, stirred, and seasoned until the small pot on the stove began to bubble with a fragrant stew.

As they worked, the conversation drifted.

“You’re better at this than I expected,” she said, handing him a spoon to stir.

He smiled. “Careful. If you keep complimenting me, I might come back for more lessons.”

She shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “Cooking isn’t glamorous work, Your Highness. It’s just… survival.”

“Maybe,” he said, his tone thoughtful, “but there’s something… grounding about it. It feels real.”

She looked at him, her brow furrowing slightly. “You really hate that palace life, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer right away, instead focusing on the steady motion of the spoon in the pot. “I don’t hate it,” he said eventually. “It’s just… hollow. Every decision is made for me. Every word is calculated. I don’t know who I’m supposed to be in all of it.”

She nodded slowly, her gaze distant. “You’re lucky, though,” she said softly. “Even if it’s hollow, you have a place. A name. People like me… we’re just the shadows keeping the fire alive.”

He stopped stirring, her words settling heavily in the space between them. “I don’t think that’s true,” he said after a moment.

She tilted her head, her expression sceptical. “No?”

“No,” he said firmly. “You’re more than that. You’re clever. Strong. Independent. You see things I never could.”

She blinked, taken aback by the conviction in his voice.

“That’s what I like about you,” he added softly, almost without thinking.

The words hung in the air, and he froze, realising too late what he’d said.

Her cheeks flushed a deep pink, and she turned away quickly, pretending to adjust the pot on the stove.

His own face burned as he fumbled for something to say, but nothing came. The silence stretched on, heavy and charged, until she finally spoke, her voice quieter than before.

“You should taste the stew,” she said, not looking at him.

He stepped forward, dipping the spoon into the pot and taking a tentative sip.

“It’s perfect,” he said, his voice softer now.

Her lips curved into the faintest smile, though she still didn’t meet his gaze.

The evening deepened, the chill of the autumn air seeping through the thin walls of the small house. Charles noticed her slight shiver as she ladled the stew into two mismatched bowls, the threadbare shawl around her shoulders doing little to shield her from the cold.

He stood abruptly, unfastening the clasp of his heavy cloak. She turned to look at him, startled, as he stepped behind her and draped it gently over her shoulders.

“What are you doing?” she asked, pulling the thick fabric around herself instinctively.

“You’re cold,” he said simply, sitting back down and picking up his bowl.

She hesitated, looking at him with a mix of gratitude and uncertainty. “But you’ll freeze without it.”

“I’ll be fine,” he replied with a small smile. “I’ve survived colder nights, army and all of that.”

The warmth of the cloak seemed to envelop her, and she relaxed slightly, sitting down across from him. For a moment, they ate in silence, the quiet clinking of their spoons the only sound.

When their bowls were empty, Charles glanced around the modest room, noticing for the first time the lack of a hearthfire.

“Do you light a fire at night?” he asked, though he already suspected the answer.

She shook her head. “Can’t afford firewood,” she said matter-of-factly, collecting their bowls. “It’s not so bad. We manage.”

“Oh,” was all he managed to say, though the thought of her and her brother enduring nights in such cold unsettled him deeply.

She didn’t seem to notice his reaction, busying herself with tidying up.

Later, as he prepared to leave, she hesitated by the door, holding his cloak out to him.

“Take this back,” she said softly.

He pushed her hand gently back toward her. “Keep it,” he insisted. “For tonight.”

She opened her mouth to argue but stopped, the words faltering. Finally, she nodded, her fingers tightening around the fabric.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

He smiled at her one last time before stepping out into the night, the chill biting at him instantly as he made his way back to the palace.

She played with the royal clasp of his cloak as he left and wondered what her life would be like if she wasn’t just a servant and he wasn’t the Crown Prince of Monaco.

No less than a few days later, her brother barged into the small house, his footsteps heavy against the creaking floorboards.

“Why,” he began, his voice loud and incredulous, “is there months’ worth of firewood outside the house?”

She looked up from where she was patching a worn-out scarf, distracted. “What are you talking about?”

“The firewood,” he repeated, gesturing wildly toward the door. “There’s a mountain of it, just sitting there! Did you rob a lumberyard?”

She frowned, setting down her work and walking to the door. When she stepped outside, her eyes widened at the sight of the neatly stacked pile of firewood by the side of the house.

“I… I don’t know,” she stammered, completely bewildered.

It was then that she noticed a small slip of paper tucked into the top of the stack. Pulling it free, she unfolded it to reveal a note written in a familiar, elegant hand.

Keep warm – C

Her cheeks flushed, and a small smile tugged at her lips despite herself.

Her brother leaned over her shoulder, reading the note. “C?” he asked suspiciously. “Who’s C?”

She folded the note quickly, tucking it into her apron pocket. “No one,” she said, avoiding his gaze.

Her brother narrowed his eyes but didn’t press further, shaking his head as he muttered something about princes and their peculiarities.

She was fluffing the pillows on the freshly made bed when the door to the prince’s chambers swung open. Charles strode in, his expression lighting up the moment he saw her. Without hesitation, he leapt onto the bed, landing with a dramatic bounce that sent a pillow tumbling to the floor.

“You’re back!” he exclaimed, grinning. “And you’re better!”

“And you just ruined the bed I made.” she chided but then moved on to adjusting a vase on the side table. “Well I must say, a lit fire at night changes a whole lot.”

He froze for a fraction of a second, then sat up, feigning ignorance with an exaggerated shrug. “Oh? A fire, you say? That’s… good to hear. Fires are quite helpful, I’m told.”

Her smirk widened. “I’m sure someone told you that.”

“Perhaps,” he said, swinging his legs off the bed and leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But we’re not here to discuss firewood logistics, are we?”

She rolled her eyes, walking around the room to dust the mantel. “Then what would you like to discuss, Your Highness?”

He sighed heavily, flopping back onto the bed and throwing an arm over his face. “The princess of England.”

She raised an eyebrow, glancing over at him. “Oh?”

“I have to meet her again,” he groaned. “Another tea, another tedious conversation about fabrics or her needlework or some other mind-numbing topic. I swear, I’d rather duel blindfolded than sit through it.”

She snorted, biting back a laugh. “Blindfolded? That’s a bit much, don’t you think?”

“No,” he said, peeking at her from under his arm. “It’s perfectly reasonable.”

“Of course it is,” she said, her tone dripping with mock sincerity. “Because what’s more reasonable than a prince skewering himself just to avoid small talk?”

He sat up, clutching his chest theatrically. “You wound me, madam. Truly, your lack of sympathy is cruel.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, shaking her head as she set the duster aside. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” he replied, grinning.

She turned back to the mantel, but when the silence stretched, she glanced over her shoulder. He was watching her, his expression soft, his eyes warm and intent.

Her brow furrowed. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He blinked, snapping out of his reverie, and quickly looked away, running a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t looking at you.”

“You absolutely were,” she said, crossing her arms and giving him a suspicious look.

“No, I was… thinking,” he said, his voice a touch too casual.

She arched an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Thinking about what?”

“About…” He scrambled for an answer, then pointed toward the bed. “About how well you made this bed. Truly impressive. Best I’ve ever seen.”

She rolled her eyes again, but a faint blush crept into her cheeks. “Right,” she said, picking up her duster. “Well, I’ll leave you to your very important thinking, then.”

He watched her go, his chest tightening as the door clicked softly shut behind her.

Over the next few days, Charles found himself increasingly distracted. Whether strolling through the palace gardens or enduring another tiresome tea with the princess, his thoughts invariably drifted to her. The way her wit kept him on his toes. The quiet determination in her movements. The occasional flicker of softness beneath her sharp remarks.

It was maddening.

When he was near her, he found excuses to linger. When she wasn’t around, he searched for her without realising it. And as much as he tried to push the growing ache in his chest aside, he couldn’t deny what was happening.

He’d fallen for her.

It was late afternoon when he returned to his chambers after a gruelling diplomatic meeting. To his delight, she was there, dusting the intricate carvings on the wooden frame of his bed. She didn’t notice him enter, humming softly to herself as she worked.

He leaned casually against the doorframe, watching her for a moment before clearing his throat.

She jumped, spinning around to face him, clutching her duster like a weapon. “Do you have to sneak up on me?”

“It’s my room,” he said, smirking. “I can hardly sneak into my own space.”

She scowled, turning back to her work. “You’re insufferable.”

“So you’ve said,” he replied, stepping further into the room. “But you keep coming back. Perhaps I’m growing on you.”

“I come back because it’s my job,” she retorted, moving to dust a nearby shelf.

He followed her, leaning lazily against the furniture. “A job you seem to excel at. Though I wonder… do you enjoy tormenting me as much as I enjoy tormenting you?”

She shot him a sharp glance, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “Someone has to keep your ego in check, Your Highness.”

He chuckled, reaching out to pluck the duster from her hand. “You do it so well,” he murmured, his voice low.

Her breath hitched slightly as he leaned closer, her eyes darting to his before flicking away. “You should stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” he asked, his voice soft and teasing as he leaned closer still, his face mere inches from hers.

“Whatever it is you’re doing,” she said, stepping back slightly, only to find herself against the edge of the shelf.

The tension in the air was palpable, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. His gaze was locked on hers, and for a moment, the world outside the room seemed to vanish.

A sharp knock on the door shattered the moment.

“Charles?” his brother’s voice called from the hallway.

Panic flared in her eyes, and Charles acted on instinct, grabbing her wrist and pulling her toward the large wardrobe at the side of the room.

“What are you—” she began, but he pressed a finger to her lips as he opened the wardrobe door and ushered her inside.

The space was small, barely enough for the two of them. She pressed herself against the back wall as he stepped in, closing the door behind them.

The darkness was absolute, and the only sound was the quiet shuffle of their breaths.

“Stay quiet,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear.

A beat passed, and she whispered back, her voice laced with frustration, “If we get caught, it’ll be my neck, not yours.”

“No one’s getting caught,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

In the confined space, his hand brushed against hers, and he froze. Slowly, almost hesitantly, his fingers moved to her face. His touch was light, tentative, as though he feared she might vanish at any moment.

His thumb traced the curve of her cheek, brushing against her skin with agonising slowness. Her breath hitched, and in the silence, it felt deafening.

“Why are you…” she began, but her voice faltered as his fingers brushed the line of her jaw, lingering there for a moment before sliding to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re trembling,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

“You’re too close,” she replied, though her tone lacked conviction.

The faintest smile curved his lips, though she couldn’t see it in the dark. “You’re not stopping me,” he said softly.

Before she could respond, his brother’s voice echoed from the other side of the room. “Charles, where are you?”

He leaned closer, his forehead nearly brushing hers. “Stay still,” he murmured, his hand still cradling her cheek.

She closed her eyes, the tension in the small space suffocating and electric all at once.

Footsteps receded as his brother left the room, grumbling something about missing him.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, Charles let out a slow breath, his hand dropping from her face. He opened the wardrobe door slightly, letting in the dim light of the room.

“Safe,” he said quietly, stepping back to let her out.

She stepped past him, her cheeks flushed and her breaths uneven. “You’re reckless,” she muttered, avoiding his gaze as she hurried to gather her duster.

He smirked, leaning against the wardrobe door. “And you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

She shot him a glare over her shoulder, but the pink in her cheeks betrayed her.

“Get back to work, Your Highness,” she said, her tone sharp but her voice unsteady.

He chuckled softly, watching her go.

The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall windows of Charles’s chambers, painting golden streaks across the plush rug. She was there again, this time at his desk, meticulously polishing the brass handles of the drawers. She worked with the same quiet efficiency she always did, her movements steady, purposeful.

Charles, reclining lazily on the settee, had been pretending to read a book for the past ten minutes. In truth, he’d barely turned a page. His attention was drawn, as it so often was these days, to her.

He cleared his throat, drawing her attention. “Have you ever taken a moment to rest?”

She glanced at him briefly before returning to her task. “I rest when my work is done.”

“And when is it done?” he pressed, setting the book down and rising to his feet.

She didn’t answer immediately, her focus still on the brass handle in her hand. “When your chambers sparkle, Your Highness.”

He chuckled, stepping closer. “It already sparkles. You’ve polished this desk so many times I can see my reflection.”

She huffed softly, clearly unimpressed. “There’s still dust.”

He reached out, his hand gently brushing hers as she gripped the cloth. She stilled, her breath catching as his fingers lingered over hers.

“You’re relentless,” he murmured, his voice low.

Her eyes flicked to his, wide and uncertain. “And you’re in my way.”

He smiled, his expression teasing but his gaze intent. “I’m rarely in anyone’s way. It’s a novelty.”

She tried to step back, but he moved with her, closing the distance between them. “What are you doing?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Observing,” he said, his voice soft, warm, as if he were sharing a secret. “You’re endlessly fascinating to watch, you know.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away, but he reached out, gently tilting her chin so she’d meet his eyes again.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she said, her voice shaky.

“Why not?”

“Because…” She faltered, her lips parting as she searched for words. “Because you shouldn’t.”

He leaned in slightly, his hand still holding her chin. The air between them was heavy, charged with something neither of them dared name.

“You’re trembling again,” he said softly, the corner of his mouth lifting in the faintest of smiles.

“I’m not,” she said quickly, but her voice betrayed her.

“You are,” he whispered, his thumb brushing her jaw in the lightest of touches.

Her breath hitched, and her hands tightened around the cloth she still held. “This is dangerous,” she managed, though her tone was weak.

“For you?” he asked, tilting his head slightly. “Or for me?”

She couldn’t answer, her heart pounding so loudly she was certain he could hear it.

His hand moved, the backs of his fingers tracing the curve of her cheek, then down to her neck, where his thumb rested lightly against her pulse. He felt it hammering beneath his touch and smiled softly, almost as if he were marvelling at it.

“You feel it too,” he said, his voice low and intimate, as if the world beyond this moment didn’t exist.

She swallowed hard, her hands trembling as she finally pushed lightly at his chest. “You… need to stop.”

For a moment, he didn’t move, his gaze locked on hers. Then, slowly, he stepped back, though the tension in the air lingered like a storm about to break.

She turned away quickly, grabbing her cloth and pretending to busy herself with the desk again, though her hands shook so much she nearly dropped it.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, the sincerity in his voice stopping her in her tracks.

She didn’t turn back to him, but she nodded slightly, her voice quiet. “Don’t do it again.”

But neither of them believed that.

That night the crackle of the fire in the grand drawing room filled the silence as Charles poured himself another glass of brandy. His younger brother lounged in the chair across from him, a glass already in hand.

“You’ve been distracted lately,” Arthur said, swirling his drink. “Even more so than usual.”

Charles leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. “Have I?”

Arthur arched an eyebrow. “You spent half of tea with the English delegation yesterday staring at the window. I’m pretty sure they could have declared war, and you wouldn’t have noticed.”

Charles chuckled, though it lacked his usual mirth. He stared into his glass, the amber liquid catching the firelight.

“Arthur,” he began, his voice uncharacteristically quiet.

His brother tilted his head, curious. “What?”

“What would you think of… being the next heir to the throne?”

Arthur blinked, then laughed, loud and incredulous. “What, you’re not planning on dying anytime soon, are you?”

“No,” Charles said, shaking his head, his lips twitching into a faint smile.

Arthur leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “Then why would you ask that?”

Charles swirled his drink, his gaze distant. “Just… wondering.”

Arthur snorted, leaning back again. “Abdicating is social suicide. If you’re even entertaining the thought, I’d advise you to stop immediately.”

Charles stayed silent, his thumb brushing idly along the rim of his glass.

The quiet stretched, and Arthur froze mid-drink, lowering his glass to the table with a sharp clink. His eyes widened, and his voice dropped. “You’re not thinking of abdicating… are you?”

Charles didn’t respond right away, his jaw tightening as he stared into the fire.

“Cha,” Arthur pressed, his voice rising slightly. “What the hell is going on with you? Who’s put this absurd idea in your head?”

Charles glanced at him, his expression inscrutable. “It’s not absurd.”

“It is when you’re the crown prince of Monaco,” Arthur snapped, sitting up straighter. “You’d give up everything—power, privilege, our family’s legacy—for what? A whim? A fleeting fancy?”

“It’s not a fancy,” Charles said sharply, his voice cutting through the room.

Arthur blinked, taken aback by his brother’s rare flash of anger. “Then what is it?”

Charles leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and staring hard at his brother. “What if I told you it’s something real? That I’ve found something—someone—who makes me feel more alive than anything this throne ever could?”

Arthur’s jaw dropped slightly, his expression caught between shock and disbelief. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly serious,” Charles said, his tone firm.

Arthur exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “This isn’t just about a servant, is it?”

Charles’s head shot up, his eyes narrowing. “How—”

“Please,” Arthur said, waving a hand. “You think I haven’t noticed? The way you’ve been sneaking out, the looks you give when you think no one’s watching? The firewood? You’re an open book.”

Charles leaned back, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I underestimated you.”

“And you’re underestimating the chaos you’d cause,” Arthur shot back. “Do you have any idea what this would mean for the family? For Monaco?”

Charles’s expression hardened. “For once, I’m thinking about what it would mean for me.”

Arthur stared at him, the firelight casting shadows across his face. “You’d walk away from all of this?”

“If it meant being with her?” Charles said, his voice soft but resolute. “Yes. I would.”

The weight of his words settled over them, and for once, Arthur didn’t have a quick retort.

The next few days were torturous for Charles. Each moment stretched longer than the last, his thoughts dominated by her. Every step he took through the palace halls felt meaningless without catching sight of her—her quick smile, her quiet resolve, the way she challenged him without fear.

He thought of her words, her laughter, the way her cheeks flushed when he teased her. More than that, he thought of the way she made him feel—seen, understood, even cherished in a way that no title or crown could replicate.

His heart ached with the weight of it, with the need to tell her, to unburden himself of the truth that had taken root so deeply he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

But how? How could he look her in the eye and admit what he was so sure would unravel the tenuous balance between them?

One morning, he found himself wandering aimlessly through the palace gardens. It was the time of day she often brought fresh linens from the storage to the castle, she usually crossed the gardens. He lingered, hoping for a glimpse of her, but she was nowhere to be seen.

Frustrated, he returned to his chambers, pacing the space restlessly, thinking. No, waiting to next see her. When she finally arrived, carrying a tray of fresh tea and biscuits, his breath hitched.

“You’re pacing,” she said, placing the tray on the table. “That’s never a good sign.”

“I’ve been restless,” he admitted, stopping mid-stride. “And you’re late.”

She raised an eyebrow as she set the tea. “Didn’t know I was on your schedule.”

He crossed the room to her, his steps deliberate. “I notice when you’re not here.”

Her hands stilled for a moment before she resumed arranging the tea things. “I’m just a servant, Your Highness. Surely you have better things to notice.”

“That’s not true,” he said, his voice dropping.

She looked up at him, her expression guarded. “It should be.”

He wanted to argue, to say it wasn’t her place to decide what mattered to him, but the vulnerability in her gaze stopped him. Instead, he changed the subject.

“Have you eaten today?”

She frowned, clearly caught off guard. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I’d wager you haven’t,” he said, stepping closer. “You work yourself to the bone.”

She shrugged, turning back to her task. “I’m used to it.”

“That’s not an answer,” he said, his tone softer now. “Come. Sit with me for a moment.”

She hesitated, glancing at the door. “If someone sees—”

“No one will,” he said, moving to pull a chair out for her. “Please.”

Her eyes darted between him and the chair before she sighed, giving in and sitting reluctantly.

He poured her a cup of tea, his movements unhurried. As he handed it to her, their fingers brushed, and he felt the now-familiar spark that always seemed to follow her touch.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said quietly, looking down at the tea.

“Do what?”

“Treat me like I’m someone,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Someone important.”

His chest tightened. “You are.”

She looked up at him then, her eyes wide, filled with a mix of disbelief and something else—something that made his breath catch.

For a moment, he thought about saying it, about laying it all out before her. But the words caught in his throat, weighed down by the fear of what her reaction might be.

The next day, Charles found himself waiting for her in his chambers again, anticipation thrumming through him. When she arrived, her arms full of fresh linens, he immediately noticed the faint circles under her eyes.

“You’re overworking yourself again,” he said, standing from his seat near the window.

“I’m fine,” she replied, her tone brisk as she moved to change the bedding.

“You’re not,” he countered, moving closer.

She straightened, turning to face him. “Why do you care?”

The question hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken truths.

“Because…” He hesitated, his hands flexing at his sides as he struggled to find the right words. “Because you matter to me.”

Her lips parted, her breath catching. “Charles, don’t—”

“I’m not trying to overstep,” he said quickly. “But you should know—I can’t ignore it anymore.”

“Ignore what?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Before he could answer, the sound of footsteps echoed in the hall. She stepped back instinctively, breaking the moment.

Over the next few days, he was quieter, more pensive. He found himself watching her more often, the words he wanted to say always on the tip of his tongue. But every time he opened his mouth, the weight of the risks stopped him.

What if she didn’t feel the same? What if she did, but couldn’t say so?

The questions tormented him, each one drawing him closer to the inevitable conclusion: he had to tell her.

But how could he make her understand the depth of his feelings without ruining everything?

Charles really tried to wait it out, he tried so hard.

But when the rain lashed outside his chambers where he sat in the dimly lit room, the fire crackling softly in the hearth.

He worried.

It was late, far later than when she usually came, but he had waited, a knot of tension in his chest.

When the door finally opened, and she stepped inside with her usual quiet grace, drenched from the rain with his laundry in a covered basket, his heart leapt.

“You’re soaked,” he said, standing quickly. “You shouldn’t be out in this weather.”

She shrugged, setting the basket down by the door. “Work doesn’t stop for a storm, Your Highness.”

He frowned, crossing the room to her. “Take off that cloak; you’ll catch your death.”

“I’m fine,” she said, brushing past him toward the hearth, but her shivering betrayed her words.

He moved closer, pulling her gently toward the warmth of the fire. “Why do you always insist on pretending you’re fine when you’re not?”

She stiffened under his touch. “Because I have no other choice.”

Her words hit him harder than he expected. He reached for her hands, his thumbs brushing over her cold fingers. “You shouldn’t have to live like this.”

She pulled her hands back, looking at him with a mixture of confusion and caution. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” He hesitated, his heart pounding. “I can’t keep pretending. Not anymore.”

“Pretending what?” she asked, her voice quiet but steady.

“That I don’t feel this,” he said, stepping closer. “That I don’t feel everything for you.”

Her eyes widened, her breath catching. “Charles…”

“I love you,” he said, the words tumbling out, raw and unguarded. “I’ve tried to fight it, to ignore it, but I can’t. I don’t want to.”

Before she could even stop them, tears welled in her eyes, and she shook her head, stepping back. “You don’t mean that. You can’t.”

“I do,” he said firmly, closing the distance between them again. “I’d give up everything—this title, this life—if it meant being with you.”

Her tears spilled over then, and she covered her mouth with her hand. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think it.”

“Why not?” he asked, his voice breaking. “If I’m not happy here—if I can’t have the life I want—what good is any of this?”

“Because you don’t know what you’re saying,” she said, her voice rising. “You’ve lived in a palace your entire life, with servants, banquets, comfort. You don’t know what it’s like to live without it. To go to bed on an empty stomach. To wake up not knowing if you’ll have work the next day. I can’t do that to you.”

“You wouldn’t be doing it to me,” he said desperately. “It would be my choice.”

She shook her head again, her tears falling faster now. “And what happens when you realise you can’t live like that? When the reality of it sets in? You’ll resent me. And I’ll lose you.”

“You won’t lose me,” he said, his voice pleading as he reached for her hands again. “I swear to you, you won’t.”

“I don’t have a good life,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I can barely take care of myself. How could I take care of you?”

“I don’t need you to take care of me,” he said, his hands tightening around hers. “I just need you. I don’t care about the rest.”

She looked at him, her eyes searching his, her tears glistening in the firelight. “You’re asking me to believe in something that feels impossible.”

“Then let me prove it to you,” he said, his voice breaking as his own tears threatened to fall. “Please. Give me a chance to show you how much you mean to me. Let me love you the way you deserve.”

Her resolve wavered, her breath hitching as his words sank in. She wanted to believe him—desperately—but the fear of what they would face, of what they would lose, loomed over her.

“Cha…” she began, her voice cracking.

“Please,” he whispered, his forehead resting against hers. “Say yes. Just… say yes.”

For a long, agonising moment, the only sound was the rain pounding against the windows and the crackle of the fire.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she said finally, her voice barely audible.

“Then we’ll figure it out together,” he said, cupping her face gently, his thumbs brushing away her tears. “But don���t push me away. Not now. Not when I know you feel this too.”

Her lips quivered, and she closed her eyes, a fresh tear slipping down her cheek. “You’re impossible,” she whispered.

“And you’re everything,” he replied, his voice trembling with emotion.

After pacing around his room for a few days, thinking of how he was going to tell his father, Charles went to his study.

The atmosphere in the king’s study was heavy with tension, the air almost crackling as Charles stood before his father. The older man sat behind an imposing mahogany desk, his expression dark and unreadable. The storm that had raged days earlier seemed to have shifted inside these walls, centering on the room as if the universe sensed the coming conflict.

“I need to speak with you,” Charles began, his voice steady but tight.

The king set down the pen he had been holding, his gaze sharp. “This sounds serious.”

“It is,” Charles replied, straightening his shoulders. “I’ve made a decision.”

The king leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “I see. Go on, then.”

“I’m going to abdicate.”

For a moment, the words seemed to hang in the air, the weight of them pressing down on the room.

Then, the king’s expression darkened further, his voice sharp and incredulous. “You’re what?”

“I’ve decided I don’t want the throne,” Charles said firmly. “It’s not the life I want anymore.”

The king rose from his chair, his movements slow and deliberate as he loomed over the desk. “Do you even understand what you’re saying? What you’re throwing away?”

“Yes,” Charles said, meeting his father’s gaze without flinching. “I’ve thought about this—more than you know. I don’t want this life. I want…” He hesitated, his voice softening. “I want to live my own life.”

The king scoffed, shaking his head. “And what life would that be? One of obscurity? Of poverty? You’ve never gone a day without comfort, without privilege. You know nothing of what it’s like out there, and you think you can just… give all of this up?”

“I do,” Charles said, his tone resolute.

The king’s eyes narrowed. “This is about her, isn’t it? That servant girl. Your mother mentioned her but I did not believe her.”

Charles’s chest tightened, but he didn’t deny it. “Yes. It’s about her. But it’s also about me. About what I want, who I want to be. And I know I don’t want this.”

“Don’t be a fool,” the king snapped, his voice rising. “You think love is enough to sustain you? That some fantasy of a simpler life will keep you warm when reality sets in? She can’t give you what you need, Charles.”

“She gives me what I want,” Charles shot back, his voice fierce. “And for once, isn’t that enough?”

“No, it isn’t!” the king roared, slamming his hand on the desk. “You’re a prince! You have a duty—to your family, to your people. You can’t just walk away because of some fleeting infatuation.”

“It’s not fleeting,” Charles said, his voice dropping but losing none of its intensity. “I love her. And I’d rather live a life with her—whatever that looks like—than spend one more moment pretending to be happy here.”

The king laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “You’re naïve. You don’t even know how to survive out there.”

“She’ll teach me,” Charles said, surprising even himself with the certainty in his voice. “I want to learn. I want that life—with her.”

The king stared at him, his face a mixture of disbelief and frustration. “You’re throwing away everything you’ve ever known for a life of struggle. For what?”

“For love,” Charles said simply.

The room fell silent, the only sound the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. The king finally sat back down, rubbing a hand over his face. When he looked up again, his expression was weary but no less stern.

“You’re making a mistake,” he said quietly.

“Maybe,” Charles replied. “But it’s my mistake to make.”

The king’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze searching his son’s face as if looking for a crack in his resolve. But Charles stood firm, his decision made.

“You’ll regret this,” the king said finally, his voice heavy with warning.

“Perhaps,” Charles said. “But I’ll never regret choosing her.”

Without another word, he turned and walked out of the study, leaving his father staring after him in silence.

The rumours spread like wildfire. Whispers followed Charles wherever he walked, his every step trailed by servants and courtiers exchanging furtive glances and hushed speculations. The air in the palace buzzed with the shock of his decision, but none of it mattered to him. Not the disapproval etched into his father’s face, nor the incredulous murmurs of the courtiers. His mind was focused solely on her.

He found her in the palace laundry room, folding linens with the quiet efficiency that always seemed to calm her. When he walked in, she froze, her fingers clutching the corner of a sheet.

“You,” she began, her voice a mixture of disbelief and exasperation. “You really went through with it?”

He stepped closer, his hands tucked behind his back, his face calm but his eyes alight with purpose. “I told you I would.”

She stared at him, shaking her head. “I thought—Charles, I thought it was just talk. Something you’d get over once you realised how insane it is.”

“Well, I’m officially insane,” he said with a faint smile, stepping closer.

She dropped the sheet onto the table and turned to face him fully, her arms crossed. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? The crown, the throne, your entire future—it’s gone. All of it. For what?”

“For you,” he said simply.

Her mouth opened, but no words came. Finally, she shook her head, her voice trembling. “You’re impossible. Do you know what this means? I can’t work here anymore, not if you abdicate. The palace won’t keep me.”

“I know,” he said gently. “And I wouldn’t ask you to stay here. We’ll leave—together.”

“Leave?” she echoed, blinking at him.

“Yes,” he said, stepping closer until he was just in front of her. “I’ve been thinking about it. We can go somewhere no one knows us, where we can start fresh.”

She stared at him like he’d grown another head. “Where would we even go?”

“Italy,” he said with a small smile.

“Italy?” she repeated, her brows furrowing.

“Yes, maybe Marenello,” he said, his voice filled with conviction. “It’s beautiful, the weather is perfect, and… I don’t know, it just feels right.”

She let out a soft, incredulous laugh. “Charles, I don’t even speak Italian.”

He tilted his head, his smile widening. “Then, for once, I’ll get to teach you something.”

His words hung in the air, so tender and unexpected that she couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. The corners of his eyes crinkled at her reaction, and before she could say anything else, he stepped even closer and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

She closed her eyes, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver through her. “You’re serious about this,” she whispered.

“Completely,” he murmured against her hair. “I’m not afraid of starting over, not if it’s with you.”

For a moment, she let herself believe it could be possible—this crazy, impossible dream of theirs.

“When?” she asked softly.

“Tomorrow,” he said, his voice full of quiet resolve. “After I sign the abdication papers.”

She pulled back slightly, looking up at him with wide, searching eyes. “And then what?”

He smiled, his expression both calm and full of determination. “And then we start the life we’ve always wanted.”

She didn’t want to be vulgar, she really didn’t but she had to be honest.

She was shitting herself at the thought of being summoned into the King’s office with the entire family.

The office was uncharacteristically quiet, the usual hustle and bustle of the palace muffled by the thick doors. Charles sat at the massive oak desk, the official abdication papers spread out before him. Arthur stood off to the side, his arms crossed, watching the scene with a mix of bewilderment and unease while his parents stood by the desk with a clear look of disdain etched on their faces.

She stood near the doorway, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She looked smaller than usual, her nerves evident in the way her fingers twisted together. Her wide eyes darted between Charles and the papers, the weight of the moment pressing down on all of them.

Arthur broke the silence first. “Are you sure about what you’re doing, Cha?”

Charles’s pen hovered over the signature line, but he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked up at her. She met his gaze, and in that instant, the rest of the room faded away. The worry in her eyes, the way her lips pressed together as if she was holding back words—it was as if he was falling in love all over again.

“You don’t have to do this for me, Cha,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

He smiled at her, then, without hesitation, he bent his head and signed his name in bold strokes across the paper.

The moment was electric, the scratch of the pen on parchment the only sound in the room. When he finally set the pen down, it felt as if the world had shifted, as if something monumental had been set into motion.

Arthur exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “Well, there it is,” he muttered, his voice carrying a mixture of disbelief and resignation. “You’re officially insane.”

Charles stood, his movements deliberate as he turned to face her. “Go back to your house,” he said, his voice steady but laced with an urgency that made her breath hitch. “Pack your things. Tell your brother. We’re leaving at six.”

Her eyes widened, her lips parting as if to protest, but before she could say a word, Arthur muttered something about needing air and slipped out of the room, leaving them alone, his parents following shortly behind.

The silence that followed was thick with tension, their gazes locked as the gravity of what had just happened sank in.

“You…” she began, her voice trembling. “You really did it.”

“I did,” he said, stepping closer to her.

She opened her mouth to speak again, but before she could, he cupped her face gently in his hands. The world seemed to pause, the space between them charged with an intensity that neither of them could deny any longer.

And then he kissed her.

It was soft at first, tentative, as if he was savouring the moment he had dreamed of for so long. But when she leaned into him, her hands clutching his jacket as if to anchor herself, the kiss deepened, becoming a silent promise of everything they were about to face together.

When they finally pulled apart, her cheeks were flushed, her breathing uneven. He rested his forehead against hers, his hands still cradling her face.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice low and full of emotion.

She blinked, her eyes shining as she searched his face. “I love you too,” she said softly, her voice breaking slightly. Because she did, she didn’t know when she exactly fell in love with him. Maybe it was when he first came to her house and looked at it with wonder rather than judgement or maybe it was when they shared that intimate moment in the wardrobe.

He smiled, brushing a thumb across her cheek. “Then go,” he said. “Pack your things. This time tomorrow, we’ll be miles away from here. Together.”

She nodded, her resolve strengthening as she stepped back, her gaze lingering on him for a moment longer before she turned and slipped out of the office.

Charles stood there for a moment, the weight of what he’d just done settling in his chest. But for the first time in his life, he felt truly free.

the end.

[kunareads]

if i believe you | chapter eight

cords of kindness

clan head!satoru x reader

prev / next series masterlist / full masterlist

wc: 2.5k

a/n: one of my favs so far :)

content: there is a jump scare in this chapter and you will know when you see it. mostly fluff! misogyny, clan politics in the background, so much yearning

INTERACT HERE FOR TAGLIST!

18+ please <3

the car rolls to a stop without a sound. you reach for the handle, but the door swings open first.

satoru’s already there, somehow—blindfold in place, white hair catching the light. he offers you his hand, steady and patient, the way he always is with you.

there’s something unreadable about him here—too polished, too still. like he belongs in this world, even though you know he hates it.

your shoes click against stone as you step out, sharp and singular in the too-quiet night. the kamo estate unfolds before you in symmetry: rows of sculpted hedges, every lantern flickering the same way. even the shadows seem rehearsed.

satoru falls into step beside you as you walk toward the entrance. the space around him bends subtly—heat rising off stone, a soft distortion you don’t notice until it’s there. his infinity’s up. you’ve only felt it once, at your wedding.

you slow without meaning to. not from nerves, really. it’s the stillness of this place, how complete it is. like looking at a portrait and realizing the eyes are real.

snap out of it.

you remember what you were taught—back straight, shoulders back, chin tilted—and adjust instinctively. it was all precision. no room for softness or pausing to admire how the light caught on silk or stone. and if you were perfect, you were safe. mostly.

you were raised for this. not this company, but this pageantry. different teeth, same bite.

the doors open before you reach them.

eyes track you as you steps inside. not overtly—no one’s rude enough for that—but you notice it in the way heads tilt, in the ripple of conversation that curls and quiets.

no one greets you directly, but the temperature of the room shifts. satoru is impossible to ignore on his own. but standing beside someone? that’s new in this setting. who stands next to satoru gojo?

and you feel it, warm against your back—the strange awe that trails after him brushing up against you, too.

whatever they’re looking for, they’ll find it.

younger voices murmur toward the middle of the room. not loudly, but loud enough. you catch pieces—”thought he always came alone,” and “—no, it’s her—” like you’ve already been a subject of discussion. like your name arrived before you did.

a man near the far wall—blond hair with dark green roots, a sneer that looks permanent—tilts his head like he’s bored with all this and you, specifically. he lets his gaze sweep over you, flipping a coin, deciding what you’re worth.

you hold his stare, don’t blink. you’ve played this game before.

he looks away first.

the kamos themselves don’t whisper. they don’t need to. their elegance has teeth. one of their elders—a woman with silver hair and posture like it’s been carved into her—steps into your path. her clothes are flawless, her expression unreadable.

“graceful,” she says. “just like your mother.”

you don’t flinch. not outwardly. but your spine pulls a fraction tighter. a reflex.

satoru’s hand finds the small of your back in less than a second—light, just enough pressure to tether. you don’t lean into it, but you don’t move away. it’s nice to have the option, you think.

you’re very familiar with your mother’s specific brand of grace. the rigidity in her posture. the obvious rehearsal of each movement. her way of cutting people down with a glance.

you wonder which part they see. which part you haven’t managed to shake.

you keep walking.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢

the dining hall is quiet in the way you’d expect—soundless, soft-lit, full of things too old to touch. everything smells like wood polish and paper.

you take your seat beside satoru, letting your hands rest lightly in your lap. the porcelain is fine, the glasses crystal-cut, the place cards handwritten. the napkins are folded into perfect thirds.

satoru shifts his chair before he sits. it’s a quiet thing, deliberate, making enough room that your elbows won’t brush accidentally.

an unspoken invitation: take up space.

you wouldn’t normally accept. but tonight, you do. he’s very difficult to say no to.

you smooth the fabric of your skirt, angle your body toward the center of the table, not away. posture open, chin up. you’ve done this before.

there’s a small imperfection in the place setting in front of him—one of his chopsticks half a centimeter out of line. you adjust it absently. he doesn’t say anything, but he turns his head, a near-laugh in the corner of his mouth.

conversation drifts like steam above the table—measured, polite, pointless. the courses arrive one by one, delicate and artful.

you lift a spoonful of something citrus-colored and unidentifiable. you smile when someone two seats down makes a vague comment about the weather—convincing enough that they don’t try again.

across from you, someone sits with his ankle crossed over his knee, his posture arrogant in the way only old money and raw talent can justify.

you recognize him as the same man who stared you down when you arrived. he hasn’t said a word since he sat down, hasn’t needed to. his gaze cuts across the table every so often like he’s collecting weaknesses.

you don’t know his name. you don’t particularly want to. it’s obvious from the way satoru’s looking in his direction, the set of his jaw like a knife held flat, that they know each other. and would prefer not to share oxygen.

his expression is mild, almost bored—but you know better. you’ve seen this look on him before: across from your parents in the sitting room, smile dangerous and performative, tapping his fingers against his knee like he was tired of holding back.

his voice is missing from the room the way silence follows a threat. not out of absence—out of calculation.

you reach for your glass, slow and fluid and ask, just for him, ”how long is this dinner supposed to last?”

his mouth quirks. “longer than you deserve to suffer through.”

“are you saying you don’t come here for the ambiance?”

“i’m saying if i’d known they were serving radish soup, i would’ve brought you snacks.”

you look at him, and it’s there—that slight, stupid warmth in your chest that’s been missing for days.

“i can see the appeal, gojo,” says the man across from you.

his voice is disarmingly normal, something lazy in the cadence. then—

“pretty little thing who knows when to keep her mouth shut.”

it takes a second for the words to register. another for the air to thin.

your mother taught you never to react to cruelty. especially not when others are watching. if you don’t flinch, it’s not real. so you don’t.

the room doesn’t react either. it’s practiced silence—a room full of people pretending they didn’t hear anything.

no one looks at you. no one looks at him. the words settle over the table like ash—fine, fragile, waiting to be disturbed.

you feel it before you see it: satoru goes still. sets down his glass like he’s worried it’ll break between his fingers, leans back in his chair, settling into something familiar.

there’s something dangerous about his composure. the whole table braces for impact.

“try fucking with someone other than my wife, naoya,” he says flatly, with the kind of calm that scares people more than shouting.

“before i forget where we are.”

you hear a chair shift near the end of the table. a cough, awkward and too loud. someone sets down a spoon. an elder looks away—not in disapproval, but understanding.

and the man across from you—naoya, you’ve learned—has the audacity to smirk. but his jaw ticks. his eyes don’t linger.

satoru doesn’t look at you. he just picks up his chopsticks and goes back to eating like nothing happened.

you stay still. stunned, rooted. the words echo. my wife. a line in the sand.

and when small plates of fruit start getting placed for dessert, he doesn’t ask. he picks through his own, sorts out your favorites, and slides them onto your plate.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢

the rest of dinner passes without incident.

later, after the formalities are handled and eyes stop tracking your every move, you step outside with satoru.

the night is cooler than when you arrived. the garden path winds softly ahead, and the lanterns out here glow dimmer, less curated.

you walk in silence for a while, neither of you in a hurry to fill it. it gives you room to think.

no one’s ever stepped in for your sake before. not like that. not at all. and it’s not something you ever thought to want—not until it was already done.

“you didn’t have to say anything,” you murmur.

“i had to defend your honor,” he says, a little too earnestly. “very traditional. very chivalrous.”

you smile—small and surprised. “…thank you”

he nudges your shoulder with his. “you liked it.”

“i did not.”

“you did.”

you shake your head, but the smile stays.

it’s easy, suddenly to fall into this rhythm with him again. to pretend this is just another night. that there wasn’t silence before this, and that there isn’t still silence between you now—softer, but still waiting

you end up near a koi pond—long and quiet, lined in stone. the surface glitters under moonlight. the fish glide in slow, lazy circles, like nothing in the world has ever frightened them.

until satoru stoops to pick up a pebble and tosses it in.

“don’t,” you say, too late. “they don’t like that.”

he blinks at the water, then at you. “well,” he says solemnly. “now i’m embarrassed.”

you glance at him, skeptical.

he smiles. “don’t worry. i’ll write them a formal apology. dear honorable koi, please forgive my momentary lapse in etiquette…”

it’s stupid. so stupid, but a giggle bubbles out before you can stop it.

you haven’t even smiled in days. and somehow, satoru pulls that part of you loose again with half a conversation.

“see?” he says, pleased with himself. “they forgive me already.”

“they’re very tolerant.”

“like you, apparently.”

you smile at him. “you’re lucky they don’t have teeth.”

“are you threatening me on behalf of the fish?”

you don’t answer. he beams at you anyway.

there’s a stone bench tucked beneath the sweep of a willow tree a few feet away. satoru gestures toward it dramatically, like he’s offering you a throne.

the bench is cool under your skirt as he sits beside you, not too close—but close enough that your knees almost touch. the air smells like flowers and clean water.

for a while, there’s only the sound of the pond lapping gently at stone, of distant voices muffled by hedges and formality.

“i missed your voice,” he says quietly.

you turn your head. his tone is lower now, more vulnerable. it feels like a truce.

you don’t answer right away. you reach for his hand, slow and careful, checking if you’re allowed. like if he moved, even a little, you’d pretend you weren’t reaching at all.

he lets you take it. his fingers curl easily around yours, like he’s been waiting for the chance.

you let your thumb graze the line of his knuckles. “i didn’t think you would.”

you’re not sure why you say it out loud. maybe it slipped through a crack in your restraint. but it’s there between you now, naked and irretrievable.

he doesn’t answer. he just tilts his head toward you slightly with a soft smile.

“you’re nothing like your mother.”

that’s what catches. not how he says it—mild, weightless—but that he says it at all.

“do i look like her?” you ask, before you can talk yourself out of it.

he looks at you like he’s weighing the truth against the damage.

then: “no.”

a lie. a kindness. you let it stand.

── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢ ・── ⟢

the car door shuts with a soft thud as you both shift quietly into place, the estate disappearing behind tinted glass. the car is warm. too warm, maybe, but neither of you mentions it.

you’re both quiet. not because there’s nothing to say, but because there’s too much—and none of it would sound right out loud. and that’s fine, you think. the silence that’s been cutting you both open for days is decidedly soft right now.

streetlights pass in blurs. satoru rests his head against the seat. his eyes are still covered, his mouth unreadable.

but he’s here. still beside you. after everything—all that space living between you—it’s enough.

after a few minutes, he shifts toward you and reaches for your hand. you offer it to him instinctively, letting him lace your fingers together like he’s missing the feeling.

he lifts your hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the back of it. it feels like thank you. or maybe sorry. or something heavier he hasn’t found the words for.

your heart stutters. the warmth travels fast—hand to chest, chest to throat, eyes burning before you know it. it shouldn’t undo you this easily, but there’s a thread in you being tied back together.

you slide over on the seat, enough that you don’t have to pull your hand away when he settles it back down in his lap. you let your head tip toward him, and his shoulder meets it without protest.

nothing has been resolved. not really. there are still pieces of the two of you waiting on the floor when you get home. but his hand is in yours, and his shoulder doesn’t flinch when you lean in. so maybe this is how it starts again—not with an apology, but with a reach.

the rhythm of the car, the hum of the tires, the warmth between your palms—eventually, it’s enough to pull you under. and you think, just before sleep takes you, if he stayed like this forever, you’d never ask for more.

you don’t know how long you’re asleep. only that you wake when the car jolts over a bump in the road.

before you can move—before you even lift your head—

“go back to sleep,” satoru murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. “please.”

[aphroditsdaughter]

FRIENDS?

based on this for @fuddaround

paige bueckers x reader

sexual content, language, cheating, (not proofread at all)

hope this did your request justice!!

The cabin sighed with the wind, its creaks soft and rhythmic like the breath of an old house lost in slumber. Outside, the night enfolded everything—cool, still, aching with the scent of pine sap and damp wood, smoke lingering in your clothes and hair. The lake mirrored the sky, black and infinite, and the trees whispered overhead as though they knew too much.

You shouldn’t have come here. A hundred times, you’d told yourself that.

But here you were. Again. Following Paige down the winding dirt path to the dock, heart pounding, a familiar beat that echoed with every step you took toward her. You felt it already—the coil of longing in your gut, the pull curling around your ribs, tight and restless. You tried to blame it on the booze, the summer haze, the sleepless nights. But you knew better.

You had known for weeks.

She walked ahead, her hoodie loose around her frame, sleeves rolled up, the collar stretched from too many nights carelessly tugged off. The moon tangled in her hair, and her hands were buried in her pockets, fingers twitching, as though she had something to say, but wouldn’t.

You’d been noticing things—small details. The way her voice softened when she spoke your name. The way she looked at you when she thought you weren’t watching—slow, steady, patient. The way your skin burned where her hand brushed yours.

For weeks, maybe longer, you’d been consumed by the thought of her. But every time the feeling surfaced, you buried it, told yourself it wasn’t real.

You had a boyfriend. You were straight. You were just drunk. You were just lonely.

But none of those things explained why she was the one you pictured in the quiet moments, why your thighs clenched together under the covers as you thought about the curve of her mouth when she smirked, the way her voice deepened when she grew serious, the way her hands looked wrapped around a bottle or a steering wheel or your wrist.

You sat beside her on the dock, legs swinging over the water, your thigh brushing hers—warm, electric.

And you couldn’t take it anymore.

“I can’t believe we’re still doing this,” you whispered, not even sure what “this” meant.

She turned her head, her face carved in moonlight, silver and sharp.

“Doing what?”

You couldn’t meet her gaze. “Being... us.”

Silence fell between you. The lake lapped gently at the dock. Somewhere distant, a loon called—low, aching.

Then, softly, she asked, “Do you want to stop?”

God, how you wanted to say yes. You wanted to lie, to tell her it didn’t mean anything, that this was all just a strange, messy game. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You turned toward her instead really looked at her and felt everything you had buried come rushing to the surface, breaking free.

And then you kissed her.

Your hands trembled as they cupped her jaw, but her mouth was steady, open, waiting. She kissed you like she had been starving for it, like she had never stopped craving this moment. Her tongue slid against yours with a confidence that made your heart race, that made the heat surge between your legs.

“You don’t have to pretend anymore,” she murmured, her breath hot against your lips. “You don’t have to lie to yourself. I see you. I always have.”

She pulled you into her lap, her hands firm on your hips, guiding you to straddle her. The dock creaked beneath you, but neither of you cared. Her hoodie brushed against your bare legs, her body solid and warm beneath you. Without thinking, you ground against her, and she cursed softly, biting your bottom lip.

“I knew it,” she breathed, voice thick with desire. “I fucking knew you wanted this.”

Her hands slid under your shirt, rough palms mapping the curve of your waist, the line of your spine. She pushed your shirt up and over your head, then stared at your bare skin like she’d discovered something breathtaking.

“You’ve been pretending so hard,” she said, her breath grazing your collarbone. “Trying to be the good girl for your boyfriend back home. But you don’t come like this for him, do you?”

“Paige…”

“Shh,” she whispered, her voice a promise. “I’ve got you.”

And then her mouth was on your chest—hot, open kisses across your skin, her tongue circling your nipples until you gasped, until your hips moved without permission.

She flipped you gently, laying you back against the dock, her body stretched out between your legs.

“Tell me you’ve thought about this,” she said, her voice rough, eyes locked on yours. “Tell me you’ve touched yourself thinking about my mouth.”

You bit your lip, too afraid to speak.

She laughed softly. “I don’t need you to say it. I can feel it.”

And then she was kissing down your stomach, her fingers tugging your shorts and panties down in one slow motion. You should’ve been embarrassed. But the way she looked at you reverent, greedy, sure—made you feel holy.

She settled between your thighs like she belonged there.

“Keep your legs open for me,” she whispered. “Let me taste you.”

And when her tongue slid against you slow, deliberate, devastating you couldn’t hold back the sound that tore from your throat.

Her hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, grounding you as her mouth moved in rhythm—tongue circling, lips sucking, every flick and press sending lightning through your veins.

“God, you’re perfect,” she murmured. “So wet. So sweet. You were made for this.”

You cried out when she added her fingers—two, deep, curling right where you needed them. She fucked you slow, steady, coaxing your body higher and higher.

“Come for me,” she said, voice shaking. “Come on my fingers. I wanna feel you.”

And you did. Your orgasm ripped through you, sharp and sudden, and she didn’t stop. She fucked you through it, her mouth never leaving your skin, whispering your name like it was something precious.

When it was over, she climbed back up, kissed you long and slow, and held your face in her hands.

“I know you’re scared,” she said softly. “But don’t run from this. You don’t have to live halfway anymore.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You just held her.

It didn’t stop after that night on the dock.

It couldn't.

You tried to pull away the next morning, like you always did buttoning your shirt too fast, brushing your hair like you could smooth yourself back into the girl you were before. But Paige didn’t let you go easily this time. Not with her fingers still smelling like you, not with your taste still on her tongue.

She caught your wrist just before you stepped back inside the cabin and kissed the inside of it, eyes dark and full of quiet promise.

“We’re not done,” she said softly. “You know we’re not.”

And you did.

That night, you didn’t even try to resist.

She came to your room once the house was quiet, slipping inside like shadow, her hoodie thrown over a tank top, hair still wet from the lake. You were already half-awake, already burning. She didn’t ask. She just slid beneath the sheets and wrapped her arms around you from behind, her lips pressing into the curve of your shoulder like a prayer.

And it went on like that. Night after night. Mouths and hands and secrets held in the dark. You learned the weight of her body in the hush between midnight and morning. Learned the way she liked to kiss you slow before she fucked you fast. The way she whispered things in your ear that made you soak the sheets.

She never asked you to choose. She just waited. Took what you gave her. Loved you in the spaces you weren’t brave enough to speak into yet.

You still answered your boyfriend’s texts. Still called him, still pretended. But every time you touched yourself, it was Paige’s name in your throat.

And then came the night everything cracked open.

You were in her room. The window open, moonlight spilling across the bed. The air was heavy, thunder threatening far off, wind moving through the trees like a warning.

She had you naked, again, as easily as breath.

You were on your back, thighs parted, her mouth soft against your inner thigh as she bit down gently, marking you.

“Mine,” she said, voice low, voice wrecked. “All fucking mine.”

Your hands were in her hair. You could barely think. Her tongue flicked over you once, slow and devastating, and your head rolled back.

And then

Your phone rang

You didn’t even look.

“Don’t,” you gasped, tugging her closer. “Please, just—keep going.”

But she paused, glancing up at you with a wicked grin.

“No, baby,” she said, crawling up your body until her mouth was at your ear. “Answer it.”

“What?”

“Answer. The. Phone.”

You shook your head, heart racing. “Paige— no he’ll know—”

“He won’t know a thing if you keep that pretty little voice under control.”

Her hand slid back down, fingers parting you, stroking slow and light.

“Or maybe,” she whispered, “you want him to know. Maybe you want him to hear what it sounds like when someone actually makes you come.”

You moaned, breath hitching.

“Answer it,” she said again, licking a slow stripe up your throat. “Be good for me.”

Your hand shook as you grabbed your phone. The screen lit up with his name. Your boyfriend. His contact photo smiling up at you like nothing had changed.

You slid your finger across the screen.

“H-Hey,” you said, voice tight, too high.

Paige smirked and kissed your stomach, dragging her tongue lower.

“Hey, babe,” came his voice, casual, clueless. “You okay? You sound weird.”

“I—yeah,” you said quickly. “Just tired.”

Paige’s mouth closed around your clit.

You nearly dropped the phone.

“Tired, huh?” he laughed. “Long day at the lake?”

Her tongue circled, relentless and slow, fingers easing into you like she knew exactly how to break you apart from the inside out. You bit down on your fist to keep from gasping.

“Mhm,” you choked. “Really… long.”

There were a few seconds of him talking—something about a friend of his, something about plans for when you got back but you couldn’t hear a thing. Not with Paige’s mouth on you like that. Not with her hand gripping your thigh, her fingers curling just right.

She looked up at you as you fought to stay still, your eyes wide, breath shuddering.

“You’re doing so good,” she mouthed. “So fucking sexy like this.”

You whimpered, trying to nod along to whatever your boyfriend was saying, but your body was already too far gone. The heat was rising too fast.

You heard yourself say, “Yeah, I miss you too,” just as Paige moaned into you, the vibrations making your hips buck.

“Fuck,” you whispered just barely catching yourself. “I-I need to go. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Sure,” he said. “Love you.”

You didn’t say it back. You hung up.

The phone hit the floor.

And then you were grabbing Paige by the hair and pulling her deeper.

“No more teasing,” you begged. “Please. Make me come.”

She didn’t answer.

She just did.

Her mouth worked you over until you were writhing under her, biting down on your own wrist to keep from screaming. The orgasm hit you like a storm—wild and consuming, washing away everything that wasn’t her.

When it passed, you lay trembling beneath her, drenched in sweat, heart hammering.

She kissed her way back up to your mouth, her fingers still inside you, keeping you grounded.

“You’re mine”she whispered. “Even if you can’t admit it yet.”

You didn’t argue.

Because it was true.

You were hers

in secret.

In shadow.

In every breathless, dangerous moment you stole.

And with every night that followed, every lie, every whispered name in the dark, you sank deeper.

You didn’t know how long it could last.

You just knew you couldn’t stop.

The lake was a memory now, sunburns fading, dock creaking only in dreams, the air in town heavier, more artificial. But the heat between you and Paige hadn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it had worsened.

You were back home. Back to routines, back to your boyfriend's arm around your shoulder, back to smiling like everything was the same. But Paige was still in town for the summer, crashing on couches, bartending at some place downtown, wearing tank tops that clung to her shoulders like second skin.

And you? You were unraveling.

Every time you saw her across a room, it felt like something electric crawled under your skin. Every time she brushed past you in public, her hand ghosting your waist like an accident, it felt like being burned in the best way.

Your boyfriend suggested the dinner—some bright, cheerful place with outdoor seating, fairy lights strung above the patio like it was trying too hard to be magical.

“I thought it’d be nice,” he said, slinging an arm around your waist. “Us three hanging out, you know? You always talk about Paige. I figured we should all just chill.”

You said yes because it was easier than saying no. Because the idea of being across the table from her, watching her eyes darken as you sipped wine, was too tempting to resist.

So you wore a skirt. Short. Soft. Paired with a top you told yourself was casual but hugged your body just enough to keep Paige's eyes lingering.

And she noticed.

The moment she saw you across the sidewalk, something in her jaw tightened. Her gaze dragged down your body with slow, deliberate heat, and the corner of her mouth lifted like she already had plans.

Your boyfriend didn’t notice. He was talking about the menu, laughing too loud. Paige just leaned back in her chair, legs wide, drink in hand, her gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips like she was remembering the sound you made when she fucked you last.

Conversation was light. Jokes, stories, clinking glasses. You tried to focus on your boyfriend, to smile in the right places. But Paige wasn’t making it easy.

Her foot touched yours under the table once, soft and fleeting.

The second time, it stayed.

You tried to breathe.

And then—when your boyfriend leaned forward to read something off the menu Paige’s hand slipped beneath the tablecloth, slid up your thigh, slow and wicked.

You froze. Your heart thundered so loud you were sure someone would hear it.

Her fingers moved higher. Beneath your skirt. Bare skin. No hesitation.

You glanced at her, wide-eyed. She didn’t even look at you. She just smiled at something your boyfriend was saying, the picture of innocence—except for her fingers curling at the edge of your underwear, teasing the waistband, dragging along the slick heat she found there.

“You’re soaked,” she whispered, so soft only you could hear. “You’ve been thinking about this all night, haven’t you?”

You tried to answer your boyfriend’s question—something about appetizers but Paige’s fingers slipped beneath your panties and brushed your clit, and your voice caught in your throat.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded too fast. “Just warm. Gonna step outside in a minute.”

He smiled, completely oblivious. “I’m gonna run to the bathroom quick. Order me that flatbread?”

He stood, kissed your cheek, walked off.

And the second he was gone, Paige leaned in, her voice molten silk in your ear.

“You look so fucking good today,” she said, fingers now moving in slow, torturous circles over your clit. “And he didn’t even compliment you once.”

You whimpered, quietly. Your legs parted instinctively, thighs trembling.

“If I were him…” Her breath was hot against your neck. “I’d drag you into that bathroom and fuck the shit out of you. Bend you over the sink, make you scream into your own palm.”

Her fingers slid lower, finding your entrance, teasing.

“But he won’t,” she murmured. “He doesn’t even know what he has.”

You bit your lip hard, your hand gripping the edge of the table. A couple beside you clinked glasses. Laughter rippled from the bar. The whole world was spinning normal, and you were coming undone with her fingers inside you.

“Tell me,” Paige whispered, her voice like velvet, dangerous and sweet. “Has he ever even tried to make you feel this good?”

You shook your head before you could stop yourself.

She chuckled darkly, pressed a kiss to your jaw.

“I thought so.”

Then, with one final, devastating stroke of her fingers, she pulled away. Licked her thumb clean. And leaned back like nothing happened, sipping her drink, eyes glinting with victory.

You sat there trembling, ruined, thighs pressed tight together, breath shallow as your boyfriend returned and sat beside you again, touching your leg like nothing had changed.

But everything had.

Because Paige had touched you where no one could see—reminded you what it felt like to be wanted, to be devoured.

[dresshistorynerd]

Sewing mid-16th century Venetian dress in doll scale

My parents moved from my childhood home, so I needed to finally take all my old toys I want to keep to store myself, including my dolls. For a long while I've been thinking it might by fun to sew tiny historical clothing for dolls. I love watching doll customization videos, they are so satisfying, and I just really love it, when there's a normal sized thing and then you make it tiny. Especially if it's still functional and made from correct materials. I can't explain it better than tiny versions of bigger things just make me vibrate on higher level. Now that I have my dolls in my home and a box full of fabric scraps, I have everything I need to just start sewing. So I did. And it was extremely fun. I have already started working on a 1890s doll outfit.

This will show my age (not that it doesn't read in my bio), but my dolls are all mainly My Scenes. I was Team My Scene in the early 2000s Bratz vs. My Scene wars. I did not like the proportions of Bratzes. All my My Scenes are Madison, she was my girl.

Here's all the items I made. I tried to use as much historical methods as was possible on doll scale and hand-sewed everything. I made a shift, hose, dress, necklace, earrings, partlet and shoes. I did almost make detachable sleeves, but I wasn't happy with them and I will need to remake them. It took me so long to finish one sleeve and I was very frustrated when I wasn't happy with the result, so I will need some time to make a second attempt.

Underlayer

I have finer white cotton than linen so I used the cotton for the shift and partlet, even though cotton wasn't really used widely at the time, definitely not in underwear, but it worked better in this scale. I didn't have thin enough wool for the hose, so I used fabric from my old thin stockings. Knitted stockings were not quite yet a thing so that's not very accurate, but that's the best I got. I choose red since red hose seemed to have been pretty common based on Venetian paintings, where the hose are shown. I used tiny beads I had lying around as buttons for the sleeves.

I'm not super happy with the neckline. I couldn't come up with a good way to finish gathered neckline on this scale without making it bulky. In future I will try something else.

Overgarments

Dress

The dress itself is made from the remaining scraps of the lovely Latvian linen I bought many years ago from Riga and have already made several garments from. The skirt is cartridge pleated, though the pleats at places behave a little weirdly due to the scale. I used semi heavy linen as lining and finished the panels separately as was typical in 16th century. I didn't use any boning equivalent, but I use cording to reinforce the laced opening. I of course sewed tiny lacing holes, which was very fun. The cord for the lacing I plaited from heavy thread.

Here's couple of examples from 1550s and 1560s Venice I used as basis for the dress.

Partlet

A Venetian renaissance woman of course needs her boob window partlet. Unfortunately I didn't have any super sheer linen or silk to make the fashionable sheer look.

Shoes

The shoes are chopines, which were very fashionable in Venice at the time. They were platform slippers with wooden base, which were covered with leather or fancy fabrics, like brocade or velvet. I didn't make the heels super tall since I was going for more toned down merchant/artisan class sort of vibe, and the very tall were used by upper class women and courtesans. I carved the heels from soft wood and covered them with sateen.

For reference here's couple of 16th century Venetian chopines.

[hy6erion]

𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝, 𝐁𝐢𝐠 𝐛𝐚𝐝

𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐜𝐞 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

✰⍣..𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐭, 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐮𝐟𝐟, 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐨𝐥𝐟 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐡, 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐦. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠-- 𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐲.

⇢𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 (𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢), 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐝! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐰𝐨����𝐟! 𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐜𝐞, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐲! 𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐜𝐞, 𝐋𝐎𝐓𝐒 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞, 𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞

𝐚/𝐧: @lvlixy I love u for this request (and i’m sorry it took so long (´-ω-`) )

The forest had always been a whispering thing.

Tall, gnarled trees reached to the sky like fingers blackened by ash, their mossy veins twisting along the bark like secrets. The air smelled of damp earth, bark, and pine—thick with the weight of something wild, something watching.

You didn’t mind it, though. You’d walked this path a hundred times. Basket on your arm, hood pulled up to shield your head from the fine misty rain that always lingered in these woods. A bright, soft red—a small, fluttering flame against the cold hues of the forest.

You weren’t supposed to talk to strangers.

You certainly weren’t supposed to speak to men who lurked on the edges of the path, half-shrouded in shadow, with broad shoulders and golden eyes that gleamed like lanterns in the dusk.

But he’d been there last week.

And the week before that.

At first, he’d just watched. One hand braced against a tree trunk, breath slow and even, the thick swell of his chest rising and falling beneath the open laces of his shirt. You thought he might be a hunter—he wore furs over his shoulders, heavy boots, thick leather straps wrapping strong forearms—it made your face warm just thinking about it.

But then he spoke.

Gravel-rough, like a growl beneath a human voice. “You always bring sweets into a forest like this?”

You had paused. Blinked. Clutched your basket a little tighter.

“…They’re for my grandmother” you’d said gently, voice like the first crackle of a fire on a cold day. “She lives past the glen. I always bring her cookies.”

He’d just stared. Expression unreadable. His eyes flicked to the cloth-draped basket on your arm. You had the strange, fluttering urge to offer him one. So you did.

“Would you like one?” you’d asked, lifting the edge of the cloth with delicate fingers.

His brows lifted like he’d never been asked something so innocent in his entire life.

He didn’t take one.

Not that time.

But he watched you walk away. You felt it—burning into the back of your red cloak like a flame trying to crawl into your skin.

⸻

It was raining heavier this time.

The trees shook with the wind, shivering down silver droplets, but you were already halfway to your grandmother’s cottage—boots soft in the loam, heart warm under your cloak.

He was there again.

Leaning against a tree like it was the only thing keeping him upright. A towering silhouette against the blue-gray gloom. Wet hair clung to his brow, curling into his temples, and the water beaded down the sharp line of his jaw before disappearing into his beard. He looked carved from the wild—unkempt, dangerous, beautiful.

You slowed as you approached. He hadn’t spoken this time. Just watched.

“Hello again” you said gently, voice carrying through the soft hiss of rain. Your hand curled around the handle of your basket. “You’re always out here.”

His nostrils flared. He didn’t blink.

“I live here.”

You tilted your head. A drop of rain slid from your hood down your cheek. “In the forest?”

A grunt. “It’s quieter.”

“I suppose it would be.” You smiled. “Would you like a cookie today?”

He looked at you then—really looked. His jaw twitched like he was grinding down a response behind those lips. And then, slow as a storm rolling in, he stepped forward.

His boots sank deep into the mud. His coat of fur shifted on his shoulders. He was so large up close, you had to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. His eyes glowed faintly under his brow—strange, sharp, not quite human.

You held out the cookie with both hands like an offering.

He took it.

Rough fingers, scarred and calloused, brushed over yours as he accepted it—so warm, so big that your hand felt like a doll’s in comparison. You watched him stare at the cookie like it was a foreign object, some strange, alien thing.

You giggled softly. “It’s just sugar and flour. It won’t bite.”

He gave you a look. One brow arched—bemused. “Shame.”

Then he bit it.

Teeth sharp. It cracked between them. You saw the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth—something between amusement and pleasure. He chewed slow. Deliberate. His eyes never left yours.

You swallowed. Your stomach felt like it had butterflies and bees and something heavier. Something… needier.

“…Good?” you asked, shy.

His voice was low when he finally said, “Too sweet.”

You shrank back a little. “Oh. I’m sorry—”

“But I don’t mind” he added, almost like a confession. He licked a crumb from his lower lip, and your eyes followed the motion without meaning to. His tongue was wide. Slow. Almost… animalistic.

You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know why your thighs pressed together under your skirt, or why the rain suddenly felt hotter against your skin.

His head tilted. “You’re not afraid of me?”

You blinked up at him. “Should I be?”

“…Most people are.”

You smiled at that. “You’ve never given me a reason to be.”

He stepped closer. So close you could feel the heat of him now—radiating off his chest, his arms, his broad frame. You had to crane your neck just to keep his face in view.

He looked at you like he didn’t understand you. Like you were something soft and sacred and very stupid for wandering into a wolf’s den.

He didn’t say another word.

He turned and walked away.

But his scent lingered—woodsmoke, pine, and something feral. Something male. It stuck in your throat like a taste.

And you knew—next week, when you walked this path again, he’d be there.

Waiting.

⸻

You weren’t supposed to go into the woods after sundown.

Not even with your red cloak pulled tight around your shoulders, not even when you knew the trail like the veins of your own hand. But tonight felt different. The wind was wrong—too sharp, slicing through the trees like a whisper with teeth. The birds had gone silent. Even the squirrels and rabbits had disappeared into their dens.

You should’ve listened.

But something pulled you deeper. Something old and instinctual. A strange tug in your chest—tight, trembling, desperate.

You found him by the trees.

At first, you weren’t sure it was him.

There was blood. So much of it. Spattered on the undergrowth, soaked into the ground. His silhouette slumped near the base of a thick pine, half-hidden by its roots and shadows. His coat was torn, hanging from one shoulder like a broken pelt. And his arm—gods, his arm was shredded. Long, brutal gashes ran down from shoulder to elbow, still bleeding, still glistening red and raw in the moonlight.

Your heart stuttered.

“Jayce?” you whispered, breath hitched.

He looked up.

His golden eyes caught the moonlight like a curse. Pain darkened the hollows of his face, but he still growled when he saw you approaching, low and feral. “Go home” he rasped.

You stepped closer.

He bared his teeth. “I said go.”

But you were already dropping to your knees beside him, skirts soaking in the wet earth. “You’re hurt—oh gods, you’re hurt. What happened?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

You pressed your hand to his chest to steady him. His skin was hot. Feverish. The heat of him burned through your palm like a brand. His heart thumped under your touch—fast, too fast.

“It matters to me” you said softly.

His head tilted, face twisted in something unreadable. Like he didn’t know what to do with that kind of softness. Not from a girl in a red cloak with hands too gentle for this world.

You didn’t give him time to argue.

You hooked your arm under his—ignoring how massive and heavy he was—and with some miraculous combination of coaxing, pulling, and sheer stubbornness, you got him to his feet.

And then you took him home.

⸻

Your cottage wasn’t far. A cozy thing, tucked behind a thicket of trees, hidden from the main path. A crooked chimney, ivy-covered stone, soft yellow light spilling from the windows like a warm sigh.

You dragged him inside. He was breathing hard, jaw clenched, trying to hide the way his legs buckled under him. You led him straight to your little table and helped him sit, his blood leaving smears on the wooden floor as you did.

“Stay” you said firmly. “I’ll get water.”

He scoffed under his breath. “Not going anywhere.”

When you returned with a bowl and cloth, your breath caught.

He had shrugged off what was left of his coat and shirt.

And gods, he looked like something carved from earth and war.

His shoulders were massive, covered in a latticework of old scars—some deep, some shallow, all of them a story. His chest rose and fell with sharp, pained breaths, slick with sweat and dirt and blood. The gashes on his arm were the worst—red and swollen, torn open by something with claws.

“Another wolf did this?” you whispered, dipping the cloth into the water.

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you under those dark lashes, golden eyes unreadable.

You started cleaning the wound carefully.

He flinched when the cloth touched raw skin.

“Sorry” you murmured, “I’ll be gentle…”

He huffed through his nose. “You always are.”

You paused. Looked up at him.

He was watching you.

And not like before—not like the quiet, curious glances he gave in the woods. This was different. Hungrier. Like he couldn’t understand why your hands weren’t shaking. Why you weren’t running.

He looked at you like a man who’d forgotten what tenderness felt like.

You said nothing.

You just kept going—slow, careful, brushing away blood, revealing skin beneath. You reached for the jar of balm you’d made with your grandmother’s old recipe—wild herbs and crushed petals, thick and fragrant. You dabbed some onto your fingers and gently worked it into the torn flesh.

He growled softly—more like a pained exhale than a threat.

Your eyes flicked up. “Does that hurt?”

His voice came out rough. “No. Just… you’re warm.”

You blinked.

His gaze dropped to your hands, still smoothing salve into his arm. His brows drew together like he was trying to solve you. You could feel the heat in the air now—not just from the fire, but from him. From the way he sat shirtless in your little kitchen, bleeding and scarred, looking like he wanted to devour something and didn’t know if it was you or the softness you offered.

“You didn’t have to bring me here” he said finally, voice low.

You smiled. “I know.”

“Why did you?”

You paused. Looked up. Your hand hovered at the edge of one healing gash.

“Because no one else would.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t move, either—except for the faint quiver in his jaw, the way his fingers curled into the table edge. You could see the effort it took to hold himself back, to stay still under your touch.

You brushed a strand of hair out of his face. Your fingers ghosted over his brow, the curve of his temple. You didn’t know why you did it. You just… wanted to.

Jayce inhaled sharply.

You pulled back. “I should run a bath for you. You’re still covered in blood.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I do.”

He blinked as you stood, crossing the room to the little tin tub near the fireplace. You poured warm water from the kettle, stoking the fire beneath it, until steam curled from the surface like mist.

He watched you.

Watched as you gathered clean towels, fresh bandages, everything he might need.

When you turned back to him, he was still shirtless. Still bleeding. Still enormous and tense and quiet.

“You’ll feel better once you’re clean” you said gently, nodding toward the tub.

He didn’t move.

“…Do you need help getting in?”

His eyes burned into yours.

You realized what you’d just said. Heat rushed to your face, embarrassment flooding you. “I—I didn’t mean—! I meant if you need to steady yourself, or if your arm hurts, I could—”

He stood up.

The chair creaked behind him. And then he was walking toward you, massive frame moving like a beast restrained. Every step closer made your heart beat louder, faster.

He stood over you, his chest inches from yours, and the scent of pine, smoke, and blood enveloped you.

“You really don’t know what I am, do you?”

You looked up. Swallowed.

His face was close enough to kiss. Close enough to feel the heat of his breath. His eyes flicked to your mouth and back again.

“I don’t care” you whispered.

That stopped him.

Something shifted in his expression—something soft and wounded and wild.

You reached for his hand.

And to your surprise… he let you take it.

You led him to the tub.

The bath steamed gently in the corner of the cottage, curls of mist dancing into the air like ghosts. You tested the water with your hand—warm, almost too warm—but you figured he needed it. The rain had soaked into his skin, and his muscles were stiff with blood and tension. A deep, guttural kind of tension that came from pain… and from something else he refused to name.

Behind you, Jayce stood still. Towering. Silent.

He hadn’t moved since you led him to the edge of the tub, hadn’t said a word. You could feel his eyes on you, heavy and constant. The air between you hummed with something taut and unspoken—something that made your fingers tremble where they hovered above the water.

You turned slowly.

And there he was.

Golden eyes low beneath thick lashes, broad chest rising and falling as he watched you. His massive frame filled the space like a beast barely contained—scarred, wounded, yet still undeniably powerful. He looked… unsure. Like he was waiting for you to change your mind. To finally realize what he was and run.

But you didn’t.

You stepped toward him again, your voice soft. “You can take off the rest of your clothes now… I’ll look away if you’d like.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared down at you for a long moment.

Then his hands went to his waistband.

Your breath caught.

You turned your back—respectful, heart hammering. You heard the shift of leather. The quiet, wet drag of fabric pulled down. A grunt of pain as he moved too fast. The dull sound of his boots hitting the floor.

Your fingers clenched into your skirt.

Then… water.

The soft splash of it. The way it lapped gently at the sides of the tub as his heavy body lowered into it. You imagined it—how his thick thighs would stretch against the edges, how the water would bead on his chest, trickling between muscles and over scars.

You waited a moment before glancing over your shoulder.

Jayce was sunk deep into the tub, arms braced on either side, head tipped back against the wall. His eyes were closed. Drops of water clung to his lashes. His hair, darker now from the damp, curled along his temples and jaw. His chest was still rising a bit too fast, like the heat of the bath wasn’t enough to melt the tension from his body.

You hesitated, then stepped closer with a soft cloth and a clean bowl of water.

“I’m going to clean the rest of your wounds” you said gently. “Just relax. Let me help you.”

His eyes opened. Heavy-lidded. Watching.

“You don’t have to” he said, voice low.

“I want to.”

That made something flicker behind his gaze.

You knelt beside the tub.

His shoulders were so broad your cloth barely covered a third of them at a time. You dipped it into the warm water, wrung it out, and pressed it to his skin. He inhaled sharply.

“Too hot?” you asked, instantly worried.

“No” he muttered. “Just… you.”

You paused.

But then, slowly, you continued—dragging the cloth down over the planes of his shoulder. Over the thick muscle of his arm, his collarbone, the side of his throat. He tilted his head just slightly, exposing his neck to your touch, his jaw tense like he was grinding down something dangerous behind his teeth.

His skin was littered with old wounds—some faded and silver, others fresh and pink. You treated each one with tender care, as if your touch could erase the pain written into them. Your fingers moved with delicate purpose, smoothing balm here, washing blood there. You avoided the waterline of the tub, not daring to glance down too far—though your curiosity itched at you.

You focused on his chest instead.

So strong. So scarred. The water licked at his ribcage, and you trailed your cloth just beneath it, brushing the ridges of hard muscle. His abdomen clenched beneath your touch. You didn’t miss it. You didn’t mention it either.

“You’ve fought a lot” you whispered, wiping along the curve of his shoulder.

“Had to.”

You rinsed the cloth again. Dipped it gently, wringing it out with both hands. “What happened? Tonight.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Another wolf. Bigger. Stronger. He came too close to the edge of my territory. I didn’t like that.”

You stilled.

He hadn’t said it out loud before.

Wolf.

You knew. Of course you knew. The golden eyes, the strength, the scars, the scent—wild and primal and male. But hearing it… confirmed… made your breath come faster.

He turned his head. Watched your reaction.

But you only looked up at him with wide, soft eyes.

“…Does it hurt when you change?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Jayce blinked.

His throat bobbed with a swallow. “Sometimes.”

You touched your hand to the edge of his neck, brushing your thumb along a scratch there. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes darkened.

“You’re not afraid of me” he said, voice a little rougher.

“No.”

“You should be.”

You leaned in, almost without thinking. Your palm was flat against his chest now, just above his heart.

“You keep saying that” you murmured, “but I’ve only ever seen you hurt… tired… kind.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked.

“I could tear you in half.”

You smiled. “But you won’t.”

He stared at you.

The only sound in the cottage was the slow drip of water from the cloth, the soft hiss of the fire. Your hand stayed on his chest, and his stayed at the edges of the tub—clenched, white-knuckled, like he was holding himself back from doing something stupid.

“You don’t understand” he growled, voice barely contained. “The way you smell… the way you look at me. It—it messes with my head. You’re so sweet.”

Your cheeks flushed. “Is that… bad?”

He shut his eyes tightly. “It’s dangerous.”

You pulled your hand back, slowly, fingers trembling. But not from fear.

From want.

“Then tell me to stop” you said softly.

He opened his eyes again. And you saw it—the conflict, the need, the ache swimming there. Like he wanted you so badly it hurt. But still, he said nothing.

So you dipped the cloth again, and continued your soft ministrations.

Because he didn’t tell you to stop.

And somewhere deep down, you knew—

He didn’t want to.

⸻

Jayce hadn’t intended to come back.

At least, not that day.

He told himself he was fine. Told himself that the lingering warmth in his chest would fade, that the memory of your hands on his skin, your soft voice in his ear, would eventually stop haunting him. He wasn’t some lovesick fool. He was a wolf. A creature of instinct and survival. He didn’t need comfort. Didn’t need softness. Didn’t need… you.

But the forest felt empty without you in it.

The birdsong grated against his ears. The river sounded too loud. The wind too quiet. He tried patrolling the edges of his territory like always, but every rustle in the trees made him turn his head, hoping—expecting—you to be there. That stupid red cloak flashing between the trees. That voice calling his name, like you weren’t afraid of what he was. Like you were calling him home.

But you weren’t there.

And gods, it hurt.

By the third day, something in him snapped.

He shifted before he even realized it—skin giving way to fur, spine snapping, hands warping into paws. It wasn’t violent, not like usual. It rolled over him like a wave. Fast. Desperate. Directionless.

And then… he ran.

⸻

You were in the garden when you heard it.

The scratching.

Soft at first. Then harder. Urgent. You looked up from your basket of wildflowers, heart skipping. The sun had just begun to dip behind the trees, painting the sky in swirls of rose and gold. Birds chirped overhead. Wind rustled through the tall grass.

But the sound came again—clawing, just beneath the door.

You knew it was him before you even stood.

You dropped the basket and ran barefoot across the grass, skirts lifted just enough to keep from tripping. Your door trembled on its hinges as the weight behind it grew more insistent—thud, thud, scratch—and when you opened it, heart in your throat, there he was.

Jayce.

In wolf form.

But not the towering, snarling beast you imagined from stories. Not the predator you were warned about as a child. No. He was massive, yes—easily taller than your hip at the shoulder, fur thick and dark, eyes gold and gleaming—but he looked…

Devastated.

His ears were low. His tail tucked. His huge body sagged like every limb weighed a thousand pounds. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

Your breath caught. “Jayce…?”

He made a noise in his throat—soft, low, miserable.

Then, he stepped forward and collapsed.

Right there on your threshold.

You dropped to your knees beside him, hands flying to his fur. “Oh gods—what happened? Are you hurt? Are you—?”

He whimpered.

Not from pain.

From something else.

You stroked his head, gentle, soothing. “It’s okay… you’re okay now. You came back…”

His fur was thick and coarse in some places, soft and downy in others. He pressed his snout against your thigh and whined, a sound so pitiful it made your heart ache. You leaned over him, arms wrapped gently around his neck, burying your fingers into the dense fur there.

“You missed me, didn’t you?” you whispered.

He huffed against your leg. Then nodded.

It was barely a movement. Barely even human. But you felt it. The confession. The truth of it.

You smiled softly. “Come in, then. You need rest.”

He let you guide him inside—slowly, limping with exhaustion. He shifted back once the door shut behind you, stumbling into himself, bare and breathless, muscles trembling as he dropped onto your rug. His human form was flushed, damp with sweat, and his eyes… his eyes looked starved.

Not for food. Not even for touch.

But for you.

You knelt beside him once more, reaching up to brush the hair from his forehead. “You came all this way for me?”

His lashes fluttered. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

“Oh, Jayce…”

He looked up at you then, gaze heavy with something he couldn’t say. His whole body seemed to sag under it—this crushing weight of longing and confusion and loneliness he didn’t know how to carry.

You leaned in without thinking, wrapping your arms around him, drawing his big, trembling frame into your lap. He went boneless, head pressed to your chest, the furrow in his brow softening just slightly.

And then you started brushing his hair.

Slow. Repetitive. Gentle.

He shuddered. Not from cold. From the intimacy.

“Good boy” you whispered, stroking through his dark curls.

Jayce whined.

His arms twitched, clutched at the hem of your dress. His cheek pressed harder into your chest. His breath stuttered, unsteady.

“You’re safe here. You’re always safe here” you murmured, still brushing. “You’re so strong… so brave… but you don’t have to be, not with me.”

He whimpered.

You smiled and dragged your fingers down his shoulder blades, over his broad back. The old wounds there were tight with scar tissue, but your touch was featherlight. Comforting. Loving. He trembled again—one big shiver rolling down his spine.

“I like when you come to see me” you continued, your voice soft and playful now. “You act so mean and scary in the woods, but I think you just want to be loved.”

He made a broken noise. Something halfway between a growl and a groan.

Your fingers slid to his shoulders, kneading softly into the muscles there. “You hold so much tension here,” you murmured. “Poor thing…”

“Please…” he rasped suddenly.

You paused. “Jayce?”

His head lifted from your lap, eyes wild, burning.

“Please. I need to—I need you.”

Your heart stopped.

He reached for you, hands trembling, cupping your face with almost reverent care. Like you were something holy. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, and his voice broke.

“I can’t take it anymore” he whispered. “The way you talk to me. The way you touch me. You’re so kind it hurts. I ache for you. I don’t know how to stop.”

You stared at him, stunned, lips parted.

“I don’t want to scare you” he choked out. “I don’t want to ruin you. But I need to feel you. Please.”

Your hands gently moved to cover his. You leaned into his touch.

And you smiled.

“Okay” you said sweetly. “You can.”

He blinked. “Wh-what?”

“I said yes” you whispered, your fingers sliding up into his hair. “You don’t have to beg. I want you, too.”

Jayce groaned, head bowing against your chest again like the strength had left him entirely.

You held him there, stroking his back, whispering his name like a balm, like a spell. The fire cracked softly in the hearth. Your breath mingled in the warmth between you.

And he whispered, “Thank you” like it was a prayer.

⸻

It happened right there on the rug.

The air was warm from the fire, golden light flickering across Jayce’s broad back, catching on the sheen of sweat starting to gather at the nape of his neck. He was on top of you, arms braced on either side of your head, breath hot and shaky as he looked down at you like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

Like you weren’t real.

His knees were spread wide on either side of your hips, thighs flexed and trembling, and he was barely managing to hold himself back. His cock was hard and heavy, brushing your thigh—twitching whenever you whispered something sweet.

And you… you were looking up at him like he was something sacred.

You cupped his face with both hands, your thumbs brushing the curve of his jaw, the slope of his cheekbones. “You’re so beautiful like this,” you whispered, kissing the bridge of his nose. “So strong. So good.”

Jayce whined.

The sound tore from his throat—unrestrained, needy, like a pup being cradled too gently. His golden eyes fluttered closed, and his chest shuddered as you kissed him again—his cheek, his jaw, the soft spot just beneath his ear.

“Such a good boy” you whispered. “You came all this way to be close to me…”

“I couldn’t help it” he rasped, his voice thick and ruined. “I tried. I tried to stay away. But you’re in my head—I dream about your voice. About your touch.”

“You don’t have to dream anymore,” you breathed. “I’m right here. I want this. I want you.”

His hips rolled forward, just barely, and the head of his cock dragged over your entrance. He groaned—deep and low and guttural—and dropped his forehead to your shoulder, panting like he’d just run through the forest on all fours.

“You’re shaking” you murmured sweetly.

“I’m trying not to lose it” he growled. “I want to take my time—but you’re so warm, so soft—gods, I can smell you—”

You kissed the side of his face, hands stroking through his hair. “Then go slow. I’ll help you.”

And he did.

Jayce sat up, planting his feet wide and low so he could squat over you, hands gripping your thighs to steady himself. His thighs were huge, quivering with restraint, the muscles carved and flexing as he held himself above you like some desperate, starving beast who’d finally been offered something sacred. His cock bobbed between you—thick, flushed, leaking—and you whimpered as he dragged the tip through your slick folds, teasing himself, trembling.

You reached up and stroked his face again.

“Jayce” you whispered, “I want you inside me. Please.”

He whined again.

Then he pushed forward—slowly, carefully, like he was terrified you’d shatter beneath him. His length stretched you inch by inch, the thick head breaching you with a delicious burn. He let out a choked, broken sob of a breath, his mouth falling open, and his hands tightened on your thighs.

“Fuck— you’re so tight”

You held his gaze, breathless. “You’re doing so good, baby. You’re being so gentle. I’m so proud of you…”

His hips bucked sharply at that.

He bottomed out with a guttural moan, the position letting him sink deep, his pelvis flush against yours, chest heaving like he’d just survived something dangerous.

You reached up and kissed his temple, then the corner of his mouth. “See? That wasn’t so scary.”

His eyes rolled back.

“You keep saying things like that,” he panted, “and I’m gonna lose it. I—fuck—I can’t—”

“You can” you whispered. “I want you to.”

And that was it.

Jayce started to move.

Slow at first—his thighs straining as he lifted himself up and sank back down again, groaning as his cock dragged through your walls with aching precision. You moaned beneath him, hands exploring every inch of him you could reach—his chest, his waist, the trembling muscles of his thighs as he squatted low, grinding into you on every downstroke.

“Oh gods, you’re perfect” he gasped. “You feel so good, I—fuck, I can’t believe you let me—”

You ran your hands over his arms, dragging your nails lightly down his biceps, then leaned up and kissed his chest—soft, open-mouthed, reverent. “Of course I did. Look at you… so big and strong. And you’re being so good for me.”

Jayce’s head dropped back and he whined again—softer this time, more helpless. Like he didn’t know what to do with the affection. Like he’d never been praised in bed. Like no one had ever called him good before.

You kissed up the line of his throat. “I love when you whine for me…”

His hips faltered—grinding down instead of thrusting, his cock rubbing perfectly against your sweet spot. He trembled so hard it nearly knocked him off balance.

“I’m close,” he choked. “Already—I—I can’t hold—”

“It’s okay” you cooed. “Let go, Jayce. Let me take care of you.”

His movements stuttered. Then sped up—sloppy, frantic, messy. His thighs burned from holding himself up, and his hands moved to cradle your head, your waist, like he couldn’t decide where to hold on while he came apart.

You pulled his face down to yours and kissed him—tender, wet, slow. Your tongue brushed his, and he shuddered with a moan, spilling inside you with a long, low groan that shook his whole body.

He didn’t pull out.

Just collapsed forward—carefully, shaking, chest pressed to yours, panting into your neck like he couldn’t catch his breath.

You wrapped your arms around him, stroking his hair, humming softly against his cheek.

“You did so good” you whispered, smiling. “So, so good for me.”

[returnofeternity]

Ok shuana is a murderous traumatized girl, who in the gang isn't? I am desperate for some soft gf x shauna stories. Yes she can bite people's arms but who is gonna gently wipe the blood off her face? Who is gonna take her scratched up knuckles and sooth them? Who gonna give her the hug she really fucking needed every five minutes they were out in the woods?

soft gf who encourages shauna's craziness <3 watching her release her anger because of her trauma and also because she's just batshit insane <3 shrugging and smiling when one of the girls tells you that shauna bit someone again. you love being the only one able to cool her down and take care of her. being the only one she'll let her guard down with.

sometimes she just really needs a hug but is too bitter to ask for one. you really just gotta hug her and hold her in place while she grumbles about how she doesn't need this right now while trying to get out of your grip, but she's melting into your touch within 10 seconds.

wiping the blood off her face after her butchering duties with some water you heated up for her to show her you care, being so gentle and loving. her brown eyes get even bigger somehow as she looks at you with so much love. she scrunches up her face so cutely when you place a kiss on her nose. "not in front of them," she'd mumble-whine, not wanting to lose her reputation as a tuff guy, like anyone would be less scared of her ass because you kissed her nose.

trying to get it into her head that she deserves to feel loved and happy when she tries to sabotage what she has and when she's in her self-destructive mode. telling her that you love all of her while kissing her bruised knuckles, rubbing them softly. and even if she doesn't quite believe it in the moment, she's so lucky to have you. she loves you so much.

soft gf who helps shauna carve the wooden stakes for future pit girl <3 sighing deeply in love when she tells you that she hopes mari falls in there. kissing her hands after you're done carving because she worked so hard! she loves the worship.

taking her out to the lake to wash off, running your fingers through her hair and scratching her scalp while she floats and relaxes. also definitely washing off some dried blood because she probably got into another fight... she loves when you press your thumb into her bruises before kissing it also :-) helping her dry off, ruffling her hair and tying her blue ribbon in her ponytail. getting her dressed and walking back to the huts with your arm wrapped around hers!!

shauna x soft gf where she loves it when you wear her clothes.... they all wear each others clothes out there but when you wear one of her plaid sweaters she feels like she's claiming you and she goes a lil crazy. she gets more touchy than usual. and soft.