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zae-heeyyy · 3 months ago

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Evanesce

Summary: You try to runway. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word count: 3,673 Tags: angst, smut, mid-low honor Arthur, handjob, unprotected p in v, oral, breeding kink, tb? Don’t know her. Warnings: 18+ MDNI, toxic relationship

An: I feel like I ran a never ending marathon with this one. Drafted it a month ago, but I never really vibed with it. Challenged myself to just get it done and make sure I was proud of it. Once again, I'm trying to step out of my comfort zone. Shout out to @googoolies for the note idea! As always, I hope you enjoy and thanks for reading!

Tagging @hihomeghere because you asked ❤️

Evanesce: to dissipate like vapor

Worn floorboards of Shady Bell wailed under Arthur’s weight as songbirds began their morning melodies. The gunslinger scoped the eerily empty, quiet camp for traces of you, but all he found was a folded letter on his pillow.

Echoes of your last conversation flashed in his mind as he tramped across the narrow room to retrieve the note. Two nights ago, The Old Guard overlooked their kingdom from the second-floor balcony as they discussed their plans to wage war against Angelo Bronte. Bile stung the back of your throat as two-thirds of the trio outruled the other. Hosea’s final words to Dutch and Arthur, “You’ll damn us all,” filled you with dread and the overwhelming feeling of impending doom.

Arthur avoided your shadowed eyes as he reloaded his weapons and ignored your outcry against Dutch’s plan. Your desperation had turned swiftly to indignation, and an argument commenced, your voices clashing like swords. You begged him not to go, pleading with the enforcer to listen to reason for once, to listen to you. But he pushed back with the shield of obstinance he had long forged for survival.

“I don’t take orders from you, woman, and keep your goddamn voice down.”

Thousands of tiny needles pricked at the backs of your eyes at the harsh directive, but you held firm.

“Arthur, if you go I’ll–”

“Don’t,” he warned dismissively, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and ambling to the door. He didn’t even bother saying goodbye as he twisted the knob. Your last words fell on ears deafened from years of gunfire.

“If you leave, I won’t be here when you come back.”

Two days later, Arthur masked his guilt with anger as he skimmed over the last piece of you left in the room. Four words in the polite loops of your handwriting taunted him: Saint Denis. Train. Running.

After a quick check of the cinch, he found himself begrudgingly engulfed in the city of smog and greed he’d come to hate so much. Riding through the maze of cobblestone, brick, and vermin was like laying under a guillotine, staring up at the blade and waiting for it to drop. Law on every corner, people jammed together, and now, Bronte’s men out for revenge–none of it felt right.

Taking in a breath that didn’t reach deep enough, he started his search for you in this hornets’ nest of a city. Most of the hotels and saloons served him with nothing but a heavy dose of adrenaline and dead ends. As he approached Doyle’s Tavern, his last stop, he dug his nails into his trembling palm, savoring the sting of apathy that came with the pain.

Arthur made a beeline to Gabe Doyle, reciting his rehearsed description of you. A woman standing beside him, whose garments had seen cleaner days, tapped him on the shoulder. The outlaw didn’t even look at her, didn’t give her time to speak before he rejected her with razor-edge disdain. When Arthur finished, Gabe only shrugged his shoulders, but the woman, still standing close by, let out a derisive giggle.

“He won’t be of no help, mista’. Coulda’ told ya’ for free, but it’ll cost ya’ now.”

Ire made his ears ring, drowning out all the other sounds in the slum’s saloon. He drummed his fingers hard on the worn wooden bar, the taste of pride sour on his tongue.

“How much?”

Cleavage spilled over her top as she leaned towards him and twiddled brazenly with the collar of his shirt.

“Well, for clients that play nice, seven dollars, but for you, rotten dirty bastard––times it by ten.”

A minute later, he exited Doyle’s Tavern not a cent lighter, heavy with an indefinite ban, but finally, a real lead on you. Four new mocking words overshadowed ones from the letter: Whore house; Courtenay Street.

A brothel—a goddamn brothel.

Instinct lured him to the debauched inn, and your name frothed from his muzzle in more of a growl than speech. Like a rabid dog, he snapped and barked orders at the women unlucky enough to be trapped with the beast on the arena floor.

They tried futilely to stop his march down the hall, tried to keep him from getting to you, but the chaos drew you into the colosseum and into the lion’s direct line of sight. You yanked the man-turned-animal by the sleeve and sealed yourselves away before he could do any more damage.

More tame now, sea storm orbs surveyed you in a quick but covert once over, then he spun on his heel, searching for anything else to focus on.

“Christ, been looking for you all day, woman,” he bit out through clenched teeth.

The lone wolf prowled the new territory for a threat but was only met with a vacant cave and the empty feeling of shame. Deflecting, he found your luggage, lifting the bags with the practiced ease of carrying buckets of water to and fro. His biceps flexed with the weight of your whole life in one bag, but he nodded at you, matter of fact.

“C’mon. M’taking you home.”

Home. You could’ve laughed if it didn’t hurt so much. None of these places had ever been home.

“I ain’t going nowhere with you,” you fired back, grabbing for the suitcase in his hand. A brief game of tug-of-war ensued, your grip relentless, Arthur’s unwavering, until he finally let you pull one of the bags free. He dropped the other and exhaled with the sharpness of a saber but stayed silent at the conclusion of your weaponless duel. He’d fallen in love with that gnawing defiance, but now it was tearing him to pieces, bit by bit until it exposed the marrow of pure anger.

“Runnin’ off is one thing.” His nostrils flared, and the timbre of his voice deepened as he carried on, “But running off t’here–– selling yourself?” He shook his head and blew air through his teeth, “Yer crazier than I thought.”

You whirled away from him, swatting your hand like he was as insignificant as a fly.

“And you’re a bigger idiot than I thought. Ain’t selling myself, you damn fool! And I’ll do whatever the hell I please. Right now, I want to get far away from this shit city and you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said, dragging out the words. “I know you just as well as you think you know me. If you wanted away–really wanted away–you wouldn’t’ve left this pretty little letter, and sure as hell wouldn’t’ve told me where to find ya’.” He retrieved the letter from his satchel, held it up just long enough for you to see, and crushed it in his fist before discarding it on the floor.

“That’s what I think of your pretty little letter.”

You had started a slow involuntary backtrack during his monologue, the flight response pushing back against the fight. He followed, sandwiching you between himself and the door.

“Screw you.” Scorn was hot on your breath.

Just as you thought to turn the knob, to free yourself from the prison of flesh and wood, the iron teeth of a bear trap, his fingers, clamped around your wrist, bringing your hand to eye level.

“And you still got something of mine.”

Both pairs of eyes landed on a small round sparkling opal set in a gold band on your left ring finger.

You’d never forget finding it on your pillow along with a letter from Arthur that just said, “One day…”

He had made promises he didn’t keep. First, you just had to wait for the Ferry Job. Next, you needed to survive Colter. Then you had to get far away from the Pinkertons, and most recently, all you needed to do was help case the Lemoyne National Bank. One last job, he’d told you. It was the same thing he said before leaving for that boat in Blackwater.

Contempt flowed through your veins as you tried to wrench free. God, you hated him right now, but you hated yourself more for letting him fool you.

“Let go.” You hissed, seething.

Your hand throbbed as he gave your wrist another squeeze.

“You first.” Then he nodded towards the stone on your finger. “My ring,” he demanded.

Your knuckles collided with the wood of the door with a hard knock as you freed your hand. You flattened your palm against the wood behind your back, guarding the ring from the career thief’s piercing gaze.

“No,” you shot back, sinking into yourself. “It’s mine.”

Your finger throbbed around the ring you’d seldom taken off. It had become part of you, melded to your skin like a vine coiled around a tree in a beautiful and deadly embrace.

“Yours?” he huffed incredulously, shaking his head, trying to form your words into something he could understand. For a short beat, the heavy huff and puff of his breath was the only thing you could register.

You had mined forever to find something other than cold coals of anger within him. You thought you’d found it—thought you’d finally struck gold when he confessed his feelings for you somewhere out west all that time ago. Now, you were left wondering if it was only fool’s gold you had stumbled upon. The cowardly knight was far too proud and far too afraid of getting stabbed to lay down his armor. But you were having a silent conversation with those sad eyes, reading words he’d never speak or ask aloud. What does that make me, then?

“Yours.” He answered his inner thoughts without hesitation.

Mine. You thought back but only stared at him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of cracking under his scrutiny.

“Yours.” He repeated assuredly, final.

It was your turn to shake your head now; you could hear his vocal cords vibrating, generating sounds you were supposed to understand, but he may as well have been speaking another language because what the hell did he know about being anybody else’s? You repeated your thoughts bluntly.

For a moment, he looked stunned, but then his hand shot out, cupping your jaw and tilting your face toward his. He was so close, you could smell him now. The scents of liquor on his breath and leather in his hat permeated your whole being.

“You don’t think–” His voice was low and trembling with fury. “I been yours since the goddamn day I laid eyes on you, and you know it.”

Fight, flight, freeze, and now fawn all warred for dominance. Twin mirrors of blue cosmos peered into your soul, but you didn’t look back, knowing that black holes of destruction ruled in the center and could swallow you in the blink of an eye.

“You have to go, Arthur.”

You tried to reach for the knob again, but Arthur imposed on you further, his chest brushing against yours.

“No,” he said. “I ain’t going nowhere without you, and you ain’t going nowhere without me. M’done talking about it.”

It’s like he couldn’t listen, couldn’t hear you, couldn’t respect what you wanted. He only ever responded to shouting and violence. So you dipped down to his level, anything to get him to understand. Your open hand pushed full force against his chest, knocking the wind from him and making him stumble backward.

“You don’t own me, Arthur Morgan!”

But the shouting was no use. He closed in on you again, and you reached out, clenching your fists in his shirt to stop his advance. If he noticed, he didn’t let on, talking with a tight jaw.

“No, dammit, cause you own me.”

You balled your fists around cotton fabric and pulled him down into you, inhaling like you were bracing for the worst. This game, Predator and Prey, had become second nature to you. You would always be his fawn, thrashing and wailing, yet never escaping the salivating jaws of the coyote. And it always ended the same: a clash of heavy breathing and snarls before you surrendered.

Tobacco and whiskey never tasted so good, and they were just as addictive as him. Your teeth clashed together, and his left hand fell to your hip while his right twisted the lock on the knob.

He was never gentle, but now, he was almost crazed. Rough hands that were trembling only an hour ago were all over you, gripping your jaw, sliding under your blouse, pushing and pulling you to his whim.

“Falling in love with you was the dumbest thing I ever did,” you confessed as he removed his hat and set it aside; he had better access to you without it. Heat surged through you as his hands bit into your hips, pinning you in place against the locked door.

You mumble under your breath, “Bastard.”

So far, he was ignoring your attempts to rouse him; you were his pretty little doe, caught in his chops, and a few barbs wouldn’t keep him from utterly devouring you. Dipping his head into your neck, he fixated on that pulsing artery, taking no time to roll the flesh between his teeth.

“Goddamn asshole,” you huffed but cradled his head as he claimed you.

He brushed over the ruptured blood vessels with his knuckles, and the bastard was smiling, eyes glazed over with lust and self-indulgence. Electricity sparked down your legs as he looped his fingers in the waistband of your skirt.

You swore to yourself two nights ago that it was all over, that you wouldn’t let him slither back, yet here you were, Eve, being tempted by the serpent. Teeth sank into the forbidden fruit with the lift of your hips off the door, giving him permission to snatch both your skirt and bloomers down in a swift pull. Arthur didn’t need much persuasion to eat from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil; a man like him could have never lived for eternity in The Garden of Eden.

The pair of you wore pride like heraldry, but neither of you was as honorable as you’d led the other to believe. You, provoking him with the threat of leaving, knowing you’d let this happen as you always did, and him never changing and never stopping the cycle of broken promises.

Your scent was intoxicating, but he held off from relishing it, studying your face like he’d done many times before. Something was different this time, though. Only for a heartbeat, you saw something in his eye, a minuscule hint of vulnerability. You blinked, and it was gone like it was never there, replaced by an unabashed smirk. You kept the insults flying.

“Jerk.”

Hearing the laugh rumble in his chest made your skin prick up the same way it did when a thunderstorm was brewing on the horizon. The cowboy braced his hands against your thighs and peeked up at you, his lips still curved in the corners.

He lifted his eyebrow in question, “You done?”

“Shut up,” you responded, tangling your fingers in his hair and guiding him, not so gracefully, to the heat between your legs.

Obeying, he flicked his tongue out to lap at you, drawing you closer in a hug, his palms resting on the curve of your ass cheeks. Steadying yourself against the door, you tugged on his hair like reins, but fuck, you didn’t want him to stop. You grunted and cursed under your breath as that gluttonous, greedy grifter feasted on you.

Blasphemous sounds rose up from your chest as you rocked your hips feverishly with every swipe of his warm wet tongue against your clit. Every tug of his locs and bump of your mound into his nose sent blood pulsing full speed to the bulge in his pants. He knew you were dancing dangerously close to the cliff’s overhang by the way you were keeping him in place, right where you wanted him. But the brute stopped and locked eyes with you, lips curved downward. That slight glimpse of vulnerability you thought you’d seen earlier was now on full display.

“Say you won’t go,” he choked out.

Down on his knees, looking up at you with genuine sincerity was the closest he’d ever get to prayer or penance. You swallowed the lump forming in your throat but didn’t answer him.

Instead, you ushered him back to his feet and crashed your lips into his again, tangling your tongue with his.

In a swift motion, you popped his suspenders loose while you walked him backward. The backs of his knees hit the bed, and he shimmied off his multiple layers just as quick as you unfastened the buttons on your blouse. You stood before him, a goddess, determining his eternal fate. And he waited, fixated on you, languidly stroking his engorged cock while you decided.

You replaced his fisted grip with yours, bending to meet his eye. The almost frown on his face made you wonder what he was seeing staring back at him. You imagined your pupils blown out, your lips swollen, and your hair disheveled. Arthur was the only man in the world who could turn you into a vixen.

“You’re a fool, Arthur Morgan.” Your noses were almost touching as you tightened your grip and stroked him painfully slowly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded, his face downright solemn.

“Mhm,” you went on, rubbing circles atop his hot, leaking pink tip. Your pace quickened as your cheek grazed his. A shiver ran through him as the vibrations of your voice tickled his ear.

“No good, thieving, murderous bastard.”

“I know.” He drew out, tightly clutching the sheets. With a firm nudge, you urged him onto his back.

“You don’t deserve me. Never did,” you continued. His hips jutted in time with your wrist, his climax sitting low in his balls.

“I–dammit–I–kn–know.”

The muscles of his stomach constricted as he fought for breath, damn near suffocating under your touch.

“I’ll change.” He gasped, eyes closed, and brow furrowed. “I’ll change. But–ahh–I ain’t ever gonna be good enough for you, woman–nghh–no matter how much changin’ I do.”

Air finally flowed back through with the halt of your pumping. The mattress sunk with your added weight as you slung your legs on either side of him. Neither party stalled. You gave him a quick nod before he could even ask, and he sank his length into your warm, wet pussy. There were no hushing kisses, no waiting for you to adjust, no cajoling, just the smacking of skin and the aroma of sex in the room as he molded you to his girth. Bashfulness had never even crossed your mind. You rode him tirelessly, whimpering, gasping, and filling the air with his name.

The roles reversed; you were the animal now, a lioness pursuing a buck. Chasing the high, you galloped hard and fast and grinding your hips against his to relieve the throbbing ache in your clit. You massaged the sensitive nub between your thighs, indulging in the pleasure you were giving yourself and receiving from him. The tip of his cock bumped that sweet spot inside of you, the one that made you tense and cry out over and over again.

You didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want him to know what he was doing to you or how he was making you feel–how he always made you feel when he was burrowed deep inside of you. You couldn’t hide from him, though. He knew you–knew the faces and sounds you made, knew the way you tightened around him, knew how you stiffened, knew how your breathing shallowed when you were on the edge. He knew the control he’d have over you forever.

“You ain’t going nowhere.” He grunted as he pounded up into you, the knot in his stomach tightening with his own upcoming release.

“Fucker,” you said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, and you love it.”

You couldn’t deny it.

He took your hand in his and felt for the ring on your finger, stroking it, all while keeping eye contact and hammering relentlessly into your velvety walls. Four more thrusts and your eyes rolled back as the lightbulb of tension burst.

“That’s right, let it go, there it is.” Muttering, his upward ruts got sloppier as you rode out your body-spasming orgasm. Then he started babbling, lost in your sweet heat,

“Shit, I’m–bout t–m’close.”

The cowboy tried to lift you up, tried not to spill inside of you, but you buried your head in the crook of his neck and lowered yourself back down, taking him balls deep.

“Goddamnit,” he growled, hugging you to his chest, “the hell you doing, t’me, woman?” He panted and stared up at the ceiling like a man condemned.

“Ain’t going nowhere,” you echoed breathlessly, still bouncing, before adding, “Yours.”

In a few more strokes, he filled you up, grunting through his teeth and cursing up a storm that’d make even the most seasoned sailors look on timidly.

Outside noises of the establishment and the streets of Saint Denis droned back in as both of you came back to your senses. An ocean of things was left unsaid as you redressed and let Arthur lead you out of the room and to a proper hotel for the night. The next morning, you took Arthur up on his offer to get away for a few days. As the train you had boarded for your trip chugged on, something in the distance piqued your interest, a small homestead. You could vaguely make out a woman sitting on the porch and a man, presumably her husband, tending to a horse nearby. Of course, you didn’t know their life or their struggles, but if you could write your own happily ever after, it would be that. Arthur nudged you with his elbow, interrupting your daydream.

“M’sorry...about everything,” he said, low, barely audible. The perpetual ache in your chest had almost gone numb after so long. Almost.

“I know.” You replied and turned back to the window. The house was out of sight now, and you had a feeling your fairy tale ending had vanished with it.

#red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #rdr2 community #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 photography #read dead redemption 2 photography #arthur morgan fic #arthur morgan smut #arthur morgan x female reader #arthur morgan x you #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan fanfiction #zaefic #amje #arthur morgan angst #smut #angst #low honor arthur morgan

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gr4cier4cie · 26 days ago

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♡ breaking point (lucky number nine) ♡

or: you're young. smart. spunky. fresh blood on the track. scarily, devastatingly fast. you grew up idolizing lewis, but now? you're racing him. taking risks he used to take. doing things he used to do. pole position might be yours now, but it won't always be. fem!rookie!reader x lewis hamilton pt 2

warnings: oh man this age gap is me appeasing me (reader is ~23, lewis is 41), slight sexual undertones, a lil angst, i do not know when this idea came into my mind but suddenly it was there and it would not leave i needed to write this before i lost my shit

♡

press conferences were always the same.

blinding lights. cameras trained on the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the the commanding, deep-set brown of his eyes. the color of the earth, his father liked to chuckle. it is where we begin, and where we will end. lewis had done this dance a thousand times before. (maybe more. he'd stopped counting somewhere between his fourth and fifth championship.) the routine was damn-near muscle memory. deflect, smile, rinse, repeat. deflect, smile, rinse, repeat.

"ladies and gentlemen," fred's voice cut through the rampant cacophony of whispers. "ferrari is proud to announce..."

lewis tuned his team principal out. focused instead on the way you - you, with ferrari-red painted across your chest like a second skin, you, trained for the camera, for the voices, for the endless void that formula one tended to become- drummed your fingers restlessly against the wooden surface of the podium. once. twice. three times. (nervous tell, that. he wondered what other secrets lingered beneath the pristine surface of your skin. untouched. pure. young.)

the questions were bullets. loaded guns. "first female driver-" "time at the f1 academy-" "are you prepared for the-" "working with lewis hamilton-"

your eyes landing on him like a physical blow. recognition flickered across your features, electricity sparkling in the depths of your irises. (oh, you'd studied him, hadn't you? watched his races. memorized his race radios. you probably knew his lap times better than he did.) lewis watched your throat work as you swallowed. your fingers had stilled. good.

"thank you," you spoke into the microphone, rendering the room silent, if only momentarily. you kept your tone controlled. stable. so much different from how he'd been back in the day. "and to blanket your questions, i know what everyone's thinking. i admit i'm young. i admit i'm inexperienced compared to other drivers on the grid. i admit i'm female." your laughter was tight. "a shocker, i know."

lewis felt something in his chest tighten. sear.

"but with all due respect," you continued, "i didn't come here to make history as formula one's first female driver, because that history has already been made. i came here to win." your eyes found his again. held. burned.

"oh, and about working with lewis hamilton?" a pause. practiced, deliberate. (he wondered how many times you'd rehearsed this in the mirror.) "well. i grew up watching him break records. guess it's my turn, now."

the room erupted as lewis uncrossed his arms. you'd done it, hadn't you? fred had no idea what he'd done by bringing you here. putting you in that goddamn red suit. giving you that seat. making you his teammate. it was akin to striking a match in a garage full of gasoline.

fred was saying something. questions, protocol, new team dynamics. lewis found himself unable to focus, not with the way you kept glancing at him in your periphery, a sharp thing that seemed to search under his skin for acid. resentment. it found none. oh, the italian press would have a field day with this. the way you looked at him. dangerous, and steely, and real.

but that was tomorrow's problem.

"lewis?" fred was staring, now. a knowing look met lewis' apprehensive one. "would you like to comment on working with our newest driver?"

lewis wondered how your number - lucky number 9 - would look in his side mirror as he left you in the dust. (or maybe how it would look pressed against the paddock wall, your breath heavy in his ear, his name on your lips like a prayer. he would grant your wishes, sweetheart. all you'd have to do is ask.)

"welcome to ferrari," lewis said, the weight of every camera trained on his lips as they formed the words. "hope you're ready for what comes next."

your smile widened. sharpened. "oh, i am." you tilted your head, challenge written in your heavy gaze. "question is, are you?"

god, he was fucked.

♡

lewis had always tried to admit when he was wrong. had always tried to take the hits when he deserved them. but suzuka was different. suzuka was you, dancing on the edge of disaster for forty-seven minutes, your car a blur of red in his mirrors, on his tail, that just wouldn't. back. down. relentless. (aggressive. angry.)

he had always tried to admit he was wrong. but he wasn't. not when you'd been the one to clip his rear wing going into turn thirteen. not when he'd requested you on comm only to get radio fucking silence. not when he simply watched - helpless, furious beyond plain, good common sense - as you barely missed the wall.

the garage echoed a tomb when he stormed in, mechanics scattering hastily like startled birds. they, too, taste the tension in his jaw that begged for something to wrap itself around, a fury that tasted like fear on his tongue. you were already there, helmet discarded on the workbench, hair wild from the way you'd torn it free. you'd unzipped your race suit to your waist, revealing the black fireproof beneath. sweat glistened like elixir on your collarbone, a drop following the column of your neck to settle in the curve.

"what the fuck were you thinking?" his voice was low. lethal. you didn't flinch. (you never did. and lewis never got angry. he was composed, he prided himself on it. but you were something else, weren't you? something else entirely.)

"it's racing, lewis," you shot back, chin lifting in that utter defiance he'd sworn he'd someday grow to resent. "forgotten what it looks like already?"

"racing? really?" lewis' step closer had your breath catching. (a tell. another to add to his list.) "that wasn't racing. that was suicide."

"it was calculated-"

"calculated?" his laugh cut through skin. through bone. "you nearly put us both in the fucking wall."

"i had the line-"

"you had jack. shit." another step. another. another. he'd backed you against the workbench, your hands grappling for purchase on the edge. "you're trying to prove something. trying to show everyone you deserve to be here, yeah?" his voice dropped an octave. "trying to show me."

your eyes flashed red. "don't treat me like a fucking child."

"don't drive like you've got something to prove."

"didn't you?" your words cracked. splintered. the silence between you stretched like a live wear. (you were... right. he remembered it. being young, once. he remembered that hunger, that need to prove, to show, to stay. he saw it in you. saw it in the way you raced like you were running out of seconds on a ticking time bomb, like every lap might just be your last chance to show them - to show him - what you were made of.) god, you were close enough now that he could count your eyelashes, could see the way your pulse jumped in your throat.

"that's different," he managed, but it felt hollow. fake.

"bullshit. i've watched every race you've ever driven, every risk you've ever taken, and-"

"how many of those ended with me in a wall?"

"how many of them made you a champion?"

lewis stepped back. had to. needed air that didn't taste like adrenaline and defiance and you. (always you.) "be careful what you wish for," he said finally, voice soft enough that only you could hear. dangerous enough that you shivered.

"you can win all you want. you only get one life."

♡

[YOUTUBE: Post-Race with Lewis Hamilton]

♡

note: is this a thing???? i will defff make a part two if this is something you guys wanna see HEHEHE I NEEDED TO GET THIS OUT THE WRITING GODS GUIDED ME IM SO SORRY ITS NOT PROOFREAD OR ANYTHING LFMAO love always from gracie thank you thank you thank you!!!

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d0llcuries · 6 months ago

Note

HIIII 🫶 i wanted to ask if i could request a neteyam x omatikaya readerrr where she’s caring for him while he’s healing from the bullet so it’s like just a bit after the war (bc in my head he didn’t die 😔😔😔) and she’s checking up on him making sure he’s okay distracting him from pain/the situation hopefully that makes some sense just some cute stuff like that hehe. (im delusional 💓)

THANKS BABE

KISS YOU BETTER

pairing(s): neteyam x fem!na'vi reader

summary: healing is a process. a slow, lonely and frightful one. you do what you can to be there for him, forever thankful to eywa that he still has breath in his lungs.

author's note: i am the world's fattest dillydallyer, i fear. bear with me folks please and thankss!!

neteyam’s chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, his skin too warm under your palm where his heartbeat drums, faint, beneath layers of gauze and healing paste. the evening light, watery and red through the fibers of the marui pod, filters down over him, casting a glow that makes his blue skin look brighter.

a faint lustre of sweat lies at his temples. you can’t tell if it is the heat or the strain of healing that makes him look fragile, but it is unsettling. it feels like months have passed since that day. the bullet. the blood. the scream that ripped from your throat like you could tear the world in half with it.

he's been in and out of it for days. sometimes, he wakes with a shudder, his fingers twitching as if he’s reaching for his knife or his bow or something to hold onto before his muscles relax and he lays dormant once again. you wonder, not for the first time, what he dreams of now. if he’s still out there, somewhere between life and death, between the stars and the ground, or if he’s here, with you, feeling the soft pressure of your fingers on his skin, the warmth of your breath on his neck. you wonder if he feels the way your hands shake, if he knows how scared you are, even though you don’t say it.

“yawne,” he murmurs, voice raspy, cracking around the edges. it’s the only word he seems to have the strength for lately. my love. you could hear it a thousand times, and still, it would twist your insides in knots, the feeling churning beneath your ribs like roots digging into soil that’s too dry to give way. he says it like it is his only bind to the world.

the air inside the tent is sticky, thick, a little too sweet with the musk of old herbs and the iron tang of blood. you can taste it on your tongue as you breathe, cloying, like when you bite too hard into a mango and the juice drips down your chin, half-spoiled, but still too good to stop. the world is settling outside the night drawing in like a slow breath and inside, the hush of it, the weight of it, sinks into your skin, pools behind your eyes, heavy and aching.

his lashes cast long shadows across his cheeks, his lips chapped and parted as he pulls in uneven breaths. you move carefully, your hands trembling just a little as they skim over his ribs, up to his face, cradling his jaw in your palms. he feels fragile. your body aches in ways you can’t describe, the knots in your muscles from sleeping beside him, always curled up in awkward positions, always watchful. your knees are sore from kneeling too long, your neck stiff from leaning against the wooden posts of the tent. but all that discomfort it feels so small, so inconsequential, in the face of his suffering.

you stroke his hair back, letting the braids slip through your fingers one by one. the roots are damp, curls matted against his scalp. you hum a little under your breath, some half-forgotten melody your mother used to sing when you were small, when the days felt longer and the nights less lonely. the sound barely reaches your ears, swallowed by the thick air, but neteyam stirs, just a fraction, his lips twitching like he's trying to smile, trying to remember how.

dried blood like rust staining the fresh bandages you’ve wrapped around him. your hands know the routine now. the careful unraveling of cloth, the soft hiss of his breath when the cool air touches the wound, the gentle pat of the herbs pressed to his skin. you move like you’re in a trance, like this is a dream, and maybe it is. maybe none of this is real.

you press another kiss to his lips this time, barely more than a whisper of touch, but it feels like a promise. i’m here. i’m staying.

you trace the lines of his collarbone, the curve of his jaw, your touch light, as if you’re afraid he’ll shatter under your hands. you won’t leave me, you think, pressing your lips to the hollow of his throat, you can’t.

you kiss him again, soft, featherlight kisses that brush his skin like a promise, like a prayer. and with each one, you hope—this one will heal him. this one will be enough. but hope is like the wind, you think. it slips through your fingers no matter how tightly you hold on.

so you lie there, listening to the sound of his breathing, the faint rustle of the tent, the hum of the forest, and you wonder how many more kisses it will take before he’s whole again.

his presence is a tether, thin as it may be, binding you here. holding you together, even though the world outside feels as though it has unraveled completely. you sit beside him, legs curled under you, skin tingling with exhaustion. your bones feel like they might fold in on themselves, but none of that matters. wake up.

a sound escapes him. his lips move—just the faintest twitch, but it is something. he is here.

“neteyam,” you whisper. saying his name and it aches to let it out.

his lips part, a dry rasp of breath slipping through, and you reach for the gourd beside you, lifting it to his mouth. the water pools in the curve of his lips, slow and steady.

“drink,” you murmur, your voice catching on the word.

he drinks, the water moving down his throat in quiet gulps, each one easing the tightness there, smoothing the lines of strain from his face. you watch the way his throat moves, the tension softening just a little. when he is done, you lower the gourd, your thumb brushing against his lips, catching the drops that linger there.

your breath catches in your throat as neteyam’s eyes flutter open, the softest sliver of gold peeking through the lashes you have been watching so closely, day after day. your heart leaps before you can even stop it, a wild, untamed thing in your chest, and you do not know whether to laugh, cry, or scream. your hands hover above him, trembling with the need to touch him, to pull him into you, but you stop yourself, knowing how fragile he still is. every fiber of your being is vibrating with joy, your body a live wire of emotions, but you hold yourself back, afraid of overwhelming him, of hurting him.

“nete!” you breathe, the word coming out as half-laughter, half-sob, and you are trembling with the effort it takes not to throw yourself into his arms. your fingers brush his cheek, feather-light, as if he might disappear if you press too hard. the ache in your chest is too much, too bright, and all you can do is smile down at him, wide and breathless, blinking back the tears that blur your vision. he is here, really here, and you do not know how to contain it, how to quiet the storm of happiness that surges through you. you lean down, your forehead just barely touching his, and whisper, “you are awake!” your voice shaking with the weight of all the things you cannot say, all the joy you cannot express without breaking apart.

“you should be resting,” he says, and the sound of it makes your breath catch again. you have heard this voice so many times, but now it feels new, fragile.

you let out a soft laugh, half surprise, half relief, your fingers drifting through his hair, catching the strands that have come loose from his braids. “so should you,” you whisper, feeling the way his body hums beneath your touch, the way his presence pulls you in like the tide, slow and unrelenting.

he makes a small sound, something between a sigh and a hum, and it vibrates through your bones, quiet and deep. his hand tightens on yours, just a little, but enough. enough to remind you that he is here, that you are tethered to him still.

“i missed you,” you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them, too heavy with meaning. it is not just the missing of these last few days, these long, aching hours. it is the missing of something bigger, something that stretches across time. something that you cannot name.

he hums again, and you feel it in the space between your ribs, that soft agreement. you missed him too, even though you were never really gone. his breathing slows, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there is peace on his face.

“you are going to get better,” you whisper, as if saying it out loud might make it true. as if the words might stitch him back together, might pull him from the edge of whatever dark place he has been hovering near. you press your lips to his brow, kissing the smooth skin there, untouched by the pain that has tried to claim him.

another kiss, this one softer, to the tip of his nose, then his jaw, your lips trailing down to the place where his pulse beats steadily beneath the surface of his skin. he is still here.

you press your mouth to that spot, feeling the rhythm of his life under your lips, and you think, “you know,” you murmur against his skin, “if kissing you could heal you faster, you would be running by now.”

his chest moves with a low sound, something between a chuckle and a breath, and it fills the space between you like music. it makes you smile, makes your heart stutter and swell, and you nuzzle into him, your face pressed against the warmth of his neck, your hand splayed over his chest, trying to anchor yourself in this moment.

“you are doing a good job, then,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, but it is full of something light, something playful.

your heart leaps at the sound, and you lift your head to look at him, to see the faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. his eyes are still closed, but there is life in him now, a flicker of the boy you know—the boy who makes you laugh, the one who makes you feel like the world is not such a terrible place after all.

“then i will keep doing it,” you say, pressing another kiss to his cheek, your smile wide and soft, full of too much feeling.

“do not stop,” he murmurs, and it is almost playful, almost light, and you can feel your heart swelling again, pushing against your chest like it might burst.

you press your forehead to his, your body melting into his warmth, and the world outside feels so far away now, like it cannot reach you here.

“i will not,” you promise, the words slipping from your lips like a vow, like something sacred.

the silence returns, but it is full now, heavy with the weight of everything you have not said, everything you do not need to say. his breathing steadies, slow and rhythmic, and your body sinks into his, your exhaustion finally easing, replaced by something softer. something that feels like peace.

and in this quiet, in this small, fragile moment, you feel it—the hope that has been hiding in the corners of your heart. you feel it blooming, slow and tentative, but there, growing in the space between you.

because he is still here. and you are still here. and that, somehow, is enough.

the sun was unforgiving, but you dug your fingers into the sand anyway, letting it gather beneath your nails, small grains cool against the heat that pressed down on your skin. the ocean sang before you, waves rolling softly toward the shore, brushing against your toes before retreating, almost shy in their touch. you tilted your face up toward the sky, letting the light cascade over you, trying to soak in its warmth, trying to let it chase away the heavy ache in your chest.

you didn’t know how long you’d been sitting there, but it didn’t matter. you came here often now, to this spot just beyond the village, where you could hear the water breathing, feel the sand shift beneath you, and pretend, for a moment, that everything was right. you dug your fingers in deeper, the sensation grounding you, pulling you back from the thoughts that threatened to drag you under.

neteyam was healing. slowly, carefully, but the wounds were still fresh, the memory of his blood staining your hands still too sharp. there were nights you woke with that same metallic scent in your nose, the image of him falling, so still and quiet, burned behind your eyelids. even now, as the sun beat down on you, your mind circled back to it—over and over.

you curled your fingers into fists, the sand slipping through them, leaving nothing but the feel of it sticking to your palms. you hated this. this waiting, this stillness. but you hated it more for him. neteyam wasn’t made to lie still. he was built for movement, for the hunt, for the wild freedom of the forest and sky. now, he was trapped. and in a way, so were you.

your eyes flickered toward the horizon, where the sea stretched out in endless blue. there was a celebration tonight—the metkayina’s way of welcoming a new season. you remembered the last one, how the village had come alive, vibrant and wild. you’d danced with neteyam then, under the stars, laughing as the ocean crashed around your feet. everything had felt light, easy. before.

now, the thought of going felt… wrong. how could you join in their joy when so much of yours was tethered to him, back in that marui, lying still and quiet? how could you celebrate without him by your side?

you pushed yourself up slowly, your body resisting the movement, as if it too was reluctant to leave this spot. you wiped the sand from your hands, shaking your head at your own thoughts. no neteyam, no joy. it was simple, really. without him, nothing felt complete.

the marui was bathed in soft light when you returned, the warm glow of the afternoon filtering in through the slats. it was quieter now, the village settling into the rhythm of evening. inside, neteyam lay where you left him, though his eyes fluttered open as you stepped closer. kiri and tuk were still there, but kiri shot you a small, tired smile, relief evident in the way her shoulders sagged.

“thank you,” she murmured, barely audible, as she stood, tugging tuk up gently. tuk looked up at you, her eyes bright as she offered a tiny smile, her fingers brushing your leg as she passed by. “he’s all yours.”

you nodded, giving her a grateful look before she slipped out of the marui, tuk trailing behind her, the sound of their soft footsteps disappearing into the distance. and then there was only the quiet. the kind of quiet that settled easily between you and neteyam, comfortable, familiar, as if it had always been this way.

you knelt beside him, your eyes tracing the lines of his face, studying the way the light played over his skin. his breathing was slow, steady, and for a moment, all you could do was watch the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers twitched slightly as if he was reaching for something just out of grasp.

“they are gone?” his voice broke the silence, soft and low, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“they are gone,” you confirmed, your hand instinctively reaching for his cheek, fingers brushing over the warmth of his skin. it was a simple touch, one you found yourself craving more and more, needing the reassurance of his presence, of his life beneath your fingertips.

he leaned into your touch, his smile widening just a fraction, though it didn’t quite chase away the exhaustion that lingered in his eyes. “good.”

for a moment, you just sat there, letting the quiet stretch between you, not needing to fill it with words. you had said everything already, in the days following his injury, in the long hours spent by his side, watching over him while he healed. the words weren’t important. this was. being here. being with him.

the soft hum of the village outside broke the stillness, the faint sounds of preparation for the celebration beginning to drift into the marui. laughter echoed from somewhere far off, the rhythm of drums picking up in the distance, the promise of festivity hanging in the air. but you didn’t care for it, not tonight. not when neteyam was still here, still recovering. the idea of leaving him behind, of being anywhere without him, felt impossible.

“the festival,” he murmured suddenly, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. his eyes opened fully now, locking onto yours with a quiet intensity. “you should go.”

your brow furrowed in confusion, tilting your head slightly as you searched his face. “why?”

“because you should,” he replied, as though the answer was obvious, his gaze flickering with something you couldn’t quite name. “you have not been out… you have not done anything in forever.”

“i do not need to,” you said simply, shrugging as though the thought had never occurred to you. because it hadn’t.

he shifted slightly, discomfort flashing briefly across his face, though he hid it well. “you should nkt miss out because of me. it is not fair.”

you blinked, the frustration flaring just beneath the surface. how could he think that? how could he even suggest that any of this was his fault, or that you were missing out on anything at all? he was here. and that was enough.

“neteyam,” you began softly, your fingers brushing over the curve of his cheekbone, trying to soothe the tension you saw building there. “i have fun wherever you are. it does not matter what is happening outside.”

his frown deepened, like he didn’t quite believe you, like he was still carrying the weight of guilt for everything that had happened—for being hurt, for making you stay. but you didn’t press him further. you knew he needed time to understand. you weren’t missing anything. the world could celebrate all it wanted outside; you’d remain here, tethered to him, with him.

the rest of the day unfolded in small moments. the kind that didn’t need words to fill them. you stayed by his side, sometimes talking, other times letting the soft sounds of the village drift in from outside, the lull of the ocean a constant, gentle presence. he watched you in those quiet moments, his eyes following you as you moved around the marui, his gaze lingering as though he needed the reassurance that you were still there, still with him.

the sun was low in the sky now, casting everything in hues of gold and pink. the sounds of the festival had grown louder, laughter mingling with the rhythmic beat of drums, the clinking of shells as decorations were strung along the walkways. the energy outside was palpable, the village alive with celebration, but inside your marui, the quiet remained.

neteyam shifted again, his body protesting the movement, though he masked the discomfort as best he could. his eyes flickered toward the entrance of the marui, the faintest trace of music filtering through the air.

he turned back to you, his gaze more focused this time, more determined. “go get something to eat.”

you blinked, your brows knitting together as you stared at him. “what?”

“food,” he repeated, his tone light but insistent. “from the festival. go grab some.”

narrowing your eyes, you studied his face. he hadn’t let you out of his sight for more than a few minutes in the past days, and now he was practically urging you to leave. “what are you planning?”

“nothing,” he replied. “i am hungry. go. please?”

your lips pressed into a thin line, clearly unconvinced, but you rose to your feet anyway, giving him one last look before slipping out of the marui. the air outside was cooler now, the night settling in around you, and you could feel the pulse of the village as you made your way toward the center, where the celebration was in full swing. your mind already drifted back to neteyam, wondering what he was up to, why he was so adamant about sending you away. it wasn’t like him. not now, not when he needed you.

the food spread along the long, low tables is almost too much to look at, piles of bright fruits and roasted fish, grains and herbs twisted into fragrant shapes, everything vibrant and rich, as though the night itself has bloomed into this feast. your fingers brush over the cool surface of a carved bowl, feeling the delicate grooves, the weight of the work that went into every small detail. you carefully fill your basket, trying not to disturb too much of the display, slipping a few extra pieces of fruit between the flatbread and smoked meats, thinking of tuk’s bright eyes when she sees what you have brought back. the thought brings a smile to your lips, but it is fleeting, tempered by the pull of responsibility that sits low in your stomach. neteyam is still weak, and you know he will not eat unless you bring him something.

“you are not staying?” tsireya’s voice is soft but lilting, a note of surprise carried by the night air as she steps toward you, her hair catching in the lantern light, strands of it glowing like spun copper. her eyes are wide and kind, her arms laden with shells strung together on thin threads, swaying with the easy grace of the ocean. she leans in, “you are always leaving so quickly. you should enjoy yourself tonight.”

you smile at her, tucking the basket closer to your side. “i wish i could,” you say, and it is the truth, though it feels like a half-formed thing on your tongue, like something left out in the sun too long. even as you speak, you feel the quiet distance between you and the festival, like you are watching it all from the other side of a glass wall. tsireya’s face softens, a flicker of understanding passing through her eyes, but before she can say anything else, tuk comes bounding up, her small hands tugging at the hem of your skirt, her face lit up with excitement.

“you have to stay for the dancing!” tuk’s voice is bright, her breath coming quick from her running. she looks up at you with such earnestness that it tugs at something in your chest, the way only a child can, her wide eyes reflecting the shimmering lights around you like she is holding the stars themselves. tsireya gives you a look, one that is all gentle encouragement, a soft nudge in the direction of the night’s festivities, and for a moment, just a moment, you consider it. staying. letting the music and laughter carry you for just a little while, letting the world slip away for a few hours. but then the weight of the basket shifts in your hands again, grounding you back to reality, and you know you cannot. not tonight.

“another time,” you say, your voice softer now, tinged with a quiet apology you hope they will understand. you brush a hand over tuk's cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin. “i promise.”

you returned as quickly as you could, stepping back into the marui with the scent of roasted fish and fruit clinging to the air. but the moment you walked inside, the food forgotten in your hands, you froze.

neteyam was standing.

his body was trembling slightly, one hand gripping the wall for support, but he was standing, his eyes bright with determination, his grin wide and boyish as he watched your stunned reaction.

“neteyam,” you whispered, barely able to speak, the shock freezing you in place. “what are you doing?”

“we are dancing,” he said simply, his voice soft but firm, as though this was the most natural thing in the world. as though this wasn’t a miracle.

you shook your head, taking a hesitant step forward, torn between wanting to scold him for pushing himself too far and being so overwhelmed with love for him you thought you might burst. “you should not be standing. you—”

but before you could finish, he reached for you, his hand catching yours gently, pulling you closer. “come on. just for a while.”

the music from the festival floated through the air, the soft, distant beat of the drums like a heartbeat, slow and steady. you let him guide you, your hands finding their way to his waist, careful not to press too hard, not to disturb the bandages still wrapped around his middle.

he moved slowly, his steps tentative but deliberate, and you moved with him, letting the rhythm carry you both, swaying gently in the small space of the marui. his breath was warm against your skin, his forehead resting against yours as you danced together, the world outside falling away.

“this is all i need,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. “just you.”

you pressed your face into his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him, the warmth of his skin against yours. your heart swelled in your chest, the love you felt for him spilling over, too big to contain.

“you are all i need too,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, your arms tightening around him.

and as the faint music played on, you stayed there, swaying together in the dim light of the marui, the world outside forgotten, everything you needed right here, in this moment, in each other.

435 notes · View notes

purplereina11 · 12 days ago

Text

In a match where the scoreboard tells only half the story, a fierce on-pitch rivalry between you and football royalty, Alexia Putellas, evolves into something electric — something unspoken, but deeply felt. Between the lines two players lock eyes, trade touches, and blur the line between competition and connection. What begins as a game becomes a gravity neither can resist.

Part 3: 36 hours in Munich Other Parts

Word Count: 8k

⚽️

You’re in the locker room, post-session. Freshly changed but, pulse still settling, water bottle half-drunk and rolling somewhere near your bench. Everyone’s moving slow — stretches, recovery gear, shower queues. Typical post-training lull.

But you’re pacing already packing away, quicker than normal, you normally linger for longer. You sit finally. Jacket half-zipped. Legs twitchy, breath short, heart doing sprints while your teammates are winding down.

You check your phone for the sixth time in two minutes. Still nothing. Still soon.

“Alright,” a voice cuts through behind you. “Who is it?”

You look toward the voice. Georgia. Leaning against the wall, towel over her shoulder, one brow cocked. You blink. “What?”

“You’re all… shifty.” She waves a vague circle around you. “Nicely-dressed, hair down. You keep checking your phone like it's gonna grow lips.”

You try to brush it off. “It’s nothing.”

Georgia doesn’t even flinch. “Liar. Spill it.”

You stare at her for a second. You weren’t going to tell anyone. But something about her tone — casual but not cruel — makes your chest loosen. And you need to say it out loud. Just once.

You sigh, grab your other boot, and sit. “She’s flying in.”

Georgia pauses. “She?” You assumed Beth would of blabbed by now.

You swallow. “Alexia.”

That name lands like a stone in a calm pool. Georgia blinks once. “Putellas?”

“Yeah.”

She’s staring now. Like full-body-turn, jaw-slightly-dropped, towel-falling-off-the-shoulder staring. “For… ?” she tries.

You sigh a hand going through your freshly washed hair. “For a day.”

Her mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “As in…”

You shrug, but you can’t help the way your face warms. “Yeah. As in that. She followed me after the home game against Barca, after the away game, that's when she first started DM'ing me" You smile at Georgia's mouth hanging open.

"Saying what?"

"Football stuff mainly, about the games, but after the last game at Wembley, she asked if she could come here to see me. I said yes.”

Georgia whistles low. “Bloody hell. You’re actually—” she stops herself. “Wait. Are you nervous?”

You nod, fast and helpless. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

She laughs, loud and bright. “You scored a free kick at Wembley in front of ninety thousand, but you’re sweating because the Queen of Barcelona herself is flying in for a sleepover?”

You put your hand out, "You say it like they're not both just as equally massive" You groan, head in hands. “Why did I tell you.”

Georgia grins. “Because you needed to.” She slaps your back once, warm and steady. “She’ll have a nice time I'm sure. And you're interesting when your social battery is full. Just don’t overthink it.” You look up. Georgia’s still smiling — not teasing now. Just sure. “Go get the girl from the airport,” she says. “Don't over think it, just take it for what it is, it's her idea to come here so let her lead what it is"

You roll your eyes. But you’re nodding too. Because yeah — it’s real now. She’s coming. And you have to be ready.

“Meado knows about mine and Alexia’s conversations, she doesn’t know about her coming. If you know, you need to freak out about this when I’m gone”

⚽️

The car is parked just beyond the pickup loop, engine idling low. Your hoodie’s half-zipped, one hand gripping the steering wheel, the other drumming nervously against your thigh. You’ve been here twenty minutes early, but you’d never admit it.

Your phone lights up with a text.

Alexia: Just got my bag. Coming out now.

You swallow hard.

You glance in the rearview mirror, tug at your hair, check your reflection. You don’t even know why — it’s her, you’ve already been through matches and mud and bruises together — but somehow, this is different.

It’s real. And quiet. And outside the lines. The terminal doors slide open again. A few people walk out. Not her. Another group. Still not. Your fingers tap faster.

Then there she is. Alexia. Dressed in all black, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, duffel bag over her shoulder. She walks out calm, casual, that familiar captain’s posture in every step. But her eyes are already searching.

And the second she sees you, they soften. You watch her approach through the windshield, heart thudding so hard you’re sure she’ll hear it before she even opens the door.

She pulls it open and slides into the passenger seat with that impossible grace, dropping her bag between her feet. You look at her.

She looks at you. And for a second, neither of you says a thing.

“Hey,” you breathe, voice barely above the hum of the engine.

“Hey,” she says back, softer.

You both smile. It’s awkward and perfect and so much. “I can’t believe you’re actually here,” you say as you pull out into traffic.

She leans back in the seat, eyes still on you. “I told you,” she murmurs. “I didn’t want to miss you.”

The city rolls past in a blur of grey and gold. Low sunlight spills across the dashboard, and the soft thrum of music — something wordless and warm — fills the quiet between you.

You’re both a little awkward. Not painfully so. Just… cautiously new.

It’s strange, this version of her — in your passenger seat, seatbelt clicking into place, fingers drumming lightly on her thigh. She’s looking out the window, but keeps glancing at you when she thinks you won’t notice.

You notice. “Airport was easy, then?” you ask, just to fill the silence.

She nods. “Very. One person tried to sneak a photo. But I gave them the look.”

You smirk. “The full ‘Putellas Death Glare’?”

“Level three only,” she says, mock serious. “Mild warning.”

You laugh under your breath, relaxing a little. Her accent’s thicker in person, softer in a car. You don’t know why that makes your stomach twist the way it does.

She glances at you again, a little longer this time. “It’s weird,” she murmurs. “Hearing you talk without a crowd around us.”

You smile. “You’ll get used to it.”

You make it through another light, and the silence stretches — still easy, but expectant.

Then suddenly — you freeze. “Oh shit.”

Alexia blinks. “What?”

You wince. “I forgot to tell you something kind of… important.”

She turns in her seat, curious. “What did you forget?”

You drum your fingers on the wheel. “I have a dog.”

Alexia blinks again. Then a slow smile tugs at her lips. “That’s what you forgot?”

“Well, yeah,” you say, already cringing. “I just—I meant to tell you. I’m not one of those people who spring dogs on people. He’s sweet. I swear.”

She’s laughing now — full, rich, effortless. “You make it sound like you’ve got a bear waiting at the door.”

“He’s just… enthusiastic,” you say, biting your lip. “His name’s Teddy.”

Alexia tilts her head, teasing. “Named after?”

“Teddy bear. Don’t judge me.”

She holds up both hands. “No judgment. But I can’t believe you didn’t lead with that.”

You glance at her. “Still time to turn around, you know.”

She smiles wider, looking straight ahead again. “I came here to see you,” she says softly. “Teddy’s just a bonus.”

And just like that, the nerves quiet. Just a little.

⚽️

You pull into the parking spot in the street, heart suddenly faster than it was on the pitch at Wembley.

Alexia’s quiet beside you, seatbelt undone, hands folded in her lap. But you feel her eyes on you as you kill the engine and sit for a second longer than necessary.

“This is it,” you say, finally, looking up at your loft apartment on the third floor

She nods. “Cute street.”

You grin. “Cute flat.”

She smirks. “Cute dog?”

You shoot her a look. “He’s trying his best.”

You both laugh as you get out. The early evening air is cool, the sky dipping into that soft lilac blue. You grab her small bag from the boot, and as you unlock the door, you hesitate.

“He might bark.”

“I can handle it,” she says, smiling.

You push the door open. It takes exactly one second.

Teddy barrels around the corner, all paws and excitement, nails tapping on the floor like a drumroll. His tail is going wild, and he’s already launching toward you when he spots the new presence behind you.

Alexia steps in, closing the door behind her. Teddy freezes. Then bolts straight for her.

You open your mouth to intervene—“Teddy, no!”—but before you can, Alexia’s already crouching down, calm and soft.

“Hola, precioso,” she murmurs, holding out a hand. And Teddy melts.

Tail wagging, head pressing into her palm, tongue ready for her cheek like she’s his long-lost soulmate.

You blink. “Well,” you mutter, “traitor.”

Alexia looks up at you, grinning as she scratches behind his ears. “He has taste,” she says. “Clearly.”

You lean against the doorframe, watching her — hair falling into her face, Teddy now rolling onto his back like he’s never known loyalty — and something in your chest settles. Warms.

Alexia stands, finally, brushing dog fur from her knees.

“Welcome to Germany,” you say, quieter now.

She doesn’t look away when she answers. “Thanks,” she says. “It already feels like a good idea.”

And for the first time all day, you believe you can relax. Because she’s here. This is just the beginning.

You toe off your shoes by the door, glance back to find Alexia standing just inside, Teddy still sniffing reverently at her shoes like he’s found royalty. Her bag’s at her feet, her jacket draped over her arm.

You clear your throat. “Right—um. Tour.”

She smiles like she’s already charmed. “I’m ready.”

You lead her into the main space — open-plan living room and kitchen. The walls are clean, but lived-in. A few photos on a shelf — one of the squad after a cup match, another of you and Beth pulling stupid faces at the camera. A soft throw blanket is half-fallen off the back of the couch. A candle you forgot you lit earlier is still flickering on the coffee table.

“This is the, uh—living-slash-existing space,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “Teddy thinks it belongs to him.”

Teddy immediately hops onto the couch, circles twice, and settles like you’ve just proven his point. Alexia grins.

You lead her into the kitchen, flicking on the under-counter light. “I don’t cook much, but the kettle works. Coffee pods are in here.” You tap a cupboard. “Mugs — there.”

She opens it, scans the shelves. “All mismatched.”

You shrug. “I collect them. Kind of.”

“I like it,” she says, softly. “It feels like someone lives here.”

You duck your head, smiling.

You show her the bathroom next — small, clean, stocked with too many hair ties and one towel you warn her not to use because it’s definitely Teddy’s now.

And then the hallway. Two doors.

“That one’s mine,” you say, thumb over your shoulder. “The other’s yours while you’re here.”

She doesn’t hesitate. Just peeks inside. A double bed, made neatly. Fresh towels folded at the foot.

She steps inside. Smiles softly looking around more.

You clear your throat. “I didn’t want it to feel weird.”

“It doesn’t,” she says. “It feels like you thought about it.”

“I did,” you admit.

It slips out quieter than you mean it to, but you don’t take it back.

Alexia meets your eyes. “Thank you. For having me.”

You nod toward the room. “Make yourself at home, yeah? My place is your place.”

She steps a little closer. Not much. Just enough that you feel her presence like a hum. “I already feel at home,” she says.

And the way she says it. It makes your chest ache. In the best way. You raise your eyes when they moved away from hers, "I'll um, leave you to unpack" you take a step back, "Teddy" you call, he appears around the foot of the bed, "Come" you give Alexia one final look and you walk back down the hallway.

She smiled opening her bag as she heard you chatting away to Teddy about getting him some treats, asking for various tricks from him.

⚽️

You tried to cook. You really did. But somewhere between boiling the pasta and burning the garlic, you gave up and ordered takeaway. Alexia didn’t mind. In fact, she looked almost relieved.

Now you’re both curled up on the couch, watching a show on a streaming app neither of you are paying attention to, warm plates in your laps and the soft, flickering glow of your fairy lights stretching across the ceiling.

She’s in one of your hoodies now. You hadn’t meant to offer it — just handed it over without thinking when she mentioned how cold planes make her feel.

It swallows her in all the right ways.

Teddy’s curled at your feet. Loyal again. For now.

“Okay,” she says mid-bite, glancing at you. “I need to know something.”

You look over, wiping your fingers on a napkin. “What?”

She gestures with her fork. “Do you actually like this pasta place, or is it just close?”

You fake a gasp. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that,” she says, trying to hide her smile. “I just—your face when you handed it to me said, ‘This is the best I’ve got, but I know it’s not the best in the world.’”

You laugh. “Alright, yeah. It’s proximity-based love.”

She hums thoughtfully. “Respect.”

The TV plays something forgettable in the background — neither of you are really watching it. The kind of background noise that just fills in the edges of something far more focused. Like the way she’s sitting. One leg folded beneath her, turned just slightly toward you. Or the way you’re watching her mouth more than listening to her words.

She puts her plate down on the coffee table, wipes her hands, then leans back. “You were nervous,” she says suddenly.

You blink. “When?”

“Earlier. At the airport. In the car.”

You roll your eyes. “Was it that obvious?”

She smiles, soft and real. “A little.”

You look down at your plate, then back at her. “I just… didn’t want it to feel weird.”

Alexia tilts her head slightly. “It doesn’t. You make it easy.”

That catches you off guard. You blink once, then set your plate down too. The silence stretches. But it’s not awkward. It’s warm. “I’m glad you came,” you say.

She leans her head back against the couch, eyes on you now in that slow, deliberate way she does everything. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” she says.

Alexia is fiddling with the sleeve of your hoodie — pulling at the hem with her thumb like she doesn’t realise she’s doing it. She’s not really looking at you. Not often. Just quick glances. Then back down. Then away.

You’re talking about random things. Easy things. Football. Training. Travel. Things you are confident you have in common.

She tells you about a weird airport coffee she had in Zurich. You tell her about the time Teddy accidentally got locked in your bathroom for 20 minutes and emerged looking personally betrayed.

And every now and then, there’s a pause that lasts a little longer than it should. But neither of you fill it. You just let it be. Eventually, you nudge your leg gently against hers. “You’re quiet.”

Alexia shifts. “Am I?”

You smile. “A little. For someone who just flew here to hang out with me.”

She huffs a quiet laugh. It’s barely there. “I’m just…” She trails off. Shrugs. “I’m not good at this part.”

You tilt your head. “What part?”

She stares at the coffee table like it’s got answers. “The talking part.” You wait. She finally looks at you — really looks. “I know how to show up to a match,” she says, voice low. “How to lead. How to win. That makes sense to me. But this?” She gestures between you. “This is…” She doesn’t finish.

You finish it for her. “New.”

She nods. And for a second, you think maybe she’s going to stand up, shift away, hide behind something safe. But she doesn’t. She just sits there. Awkward. Present. Willing.

You offer a small, understanding smile. “We don’t have to figure it all out tonight.”

She exhales, a little lighter now. “Good. Because I didn’t bring a tactics board.”

You both laugh. Softly. Easily. She doesn’t say anything else for a while — just leans back again, arms crossed over her chest now, head tilted slightly in your direction.

Eventually, she mumbles, almost like it’s for herself, “I’m glad I came too.” You nudge her foot with yours, with a gentle smile.

Alexia’s sitting sideways on the couch, one leg tucked under her, the other stretched out slightly, your hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up her forearms. You’re close, but not quite touching.

The conversation’s slowed to a hum — soft music talk, playlists, half-confessions about guilty pleasure songs. She mentions a Catalan band you’ve never heard of, and while she’s scrolling through her phone to find a song, your eyes drift downward.

And then you see it. A couple of faint lines on her knee. Pale, clean, but unmistakable. The scar. You pause. Not out of shock — you knew. You remember the coverage, the months out, the comeback.

But seeing it? That’s different. It’s not just a story now. It’s her. She notices your eyes drop. And for the first time all night, she goes still.

“Yeah,” she says softly, not quite looking at you. “That’s… that.”

You meet her eyes again. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hide. But there’s something guarded in her voice. Like she’s used to people staring at it, asking about it, expecting something from it. You don’t ask. You just nod once, gentle. “Looks like strength,” you say, matter-of-fact.

Alexia’s brow furrows, unsure if you’re serious. But you are. She shifts slightly — not closer, but more open somehow. Her hand moves instinctively toward her knee, fingers grazing the scar once, like she’s reminding herself it’s still there.

“Sometimes it feels like I left a part of myself in there,” she murmurs. “The version of me from before.”

You let that hang. Then, quietly, “The version of you now scored against me. Twice.”

She huffs a breath. “Only one actually went in.”

“Still counts.”

She glances at you — and her smile is tired, genuine, laced with something like gratitude. Not for the words. For the way you didn’t try to fix it. Just saw it. And stayed.

The playlist she queued has faded into a quiet acoustic hum — soft, wordless, like it knows it shouldn’t interrupt. The light in the room has gone warm and low, one lamp casting golden arcs over her face as she leans back into the couch, knee still bent, hand still ghosting near the scar.

You don’t speak. You wait. And eventually — slowly — she does.

“I didn’t think I’d come back,” she says, voice low, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it’s easier not to look at you. “Not really.”

You blink, still, letting her keep control of it.

“Everyone kept saying I would. That I’d be fine. That I was strong, that I’d be back in a year. But inside…” She swallows. “I didn’t feel strong. I didn’t even feel whole. I felt… like I’d been cut out of myself.”

You shift just slightly. Not closer — not yet. But enough to let her know, I’m here. She breathes, slow.

“I’d watch games and feel like I didn’t belong anymore. Like I’d already been replaced. And I didn’t want anyone to know how scared I was because… I’m not supposed to be scared. I’m her, you know?” She finally looks at you now. “La Reina” You meet her eyes, steady. She adds, barely audible, “But I felt like glass.”

The words hang in the room — fragile, but not broken. You nod once. Then say the only thing you really believe in this moment. “I think you’re better now.”

Her brow pulls, confused. “What?”

You lean back, resting your head on the couch, looking up like she did. “You’re smarter. Sharper. Your passes don’t just thread — they cut. You’ve got control most people don’t even understand. And there’s a weight to the way you move now, like you know exactly what it costs to step back onto the pitch.”

You turn your head to her again.

“I’ve watched you before. Really watched you. You were always brilliant. But now?” You shrug. “You’re something else.”

Alexia stares at you, mouth parted slightly — like no one’s ever said it that way. Not like that. Not to her. She doesn’t say thank you. She just shifts — this time closer. Not dramatic. Just enough. Her shoulder brushes yours. Her knee bumps your thigh. And she lets out a breath that sounds a little like relief. “Thank you,” she murmurs eventually, eyes back on the scar. And then, softer: “I’ve never said that stuff out loud.”

You nod. “I know.” The quiet returns — not heavy this time. Comfortable. Like something sacred just happened, and you both know it.

She’s close now. Arm resting lightly against yours. Your hoodie sleeves bunching at her wrists. The scar still visible — but no longer raw. You glance down at her, the way her gaze has softened since she spoke, how her edges feel less guarded, like your living room gave her permission she didn’t even know she needed.

You swallow once. Think. Then speak. “You know… when I moved to Germany, people said it was career suicide.”

Alexia turns her head slightly, brows faintly drawn. Listening now. Not out of politeness. Intention. You stare ahead.

“Agents stopped calling. Interviews dried up. One coach — someone I used to really trust — told me I’d disappear. That I’d ‘fade out quietly.’” You huff a laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “I hadn’t even unpacked yet.”

Alexia is silent. Not interrupting. Just there.

“I’d scroll through social media and see all the squad updates, the camps, the conversations I wasn’t in anymore. And I thought… maybe they’re right. Maybe I peaked.”

You pause. Swallow.

“I started believing it. Like I was a mistake that was just waiting to happen.”

Alexia shifts slightly, her arm pressing into yours, grounding you.

“But then,” you continue, voice quieter now, “I played. I worked. And I kept showing up. And slowly… something changed. Not in them. In me.”

Alexia tilts her head. You glance at her.

“I stopped playing to prove people wrong,” you say. “And I started playing like they didn’t get a say.”

There’s a pause. And then—so soft you almost miss it—she says, “I noticed.”

You look at her. She’s watching you now — full on. Not blinking. Not shrinking. And when she speaks again, it’s steady.

“You didn’t disappear. You became better.”

You smile, but there’s a knot in your throat. Because you know she means it. And you never expected to hear it from her. Alexia leans her head back against the couch, her body still relaxed but her voice dipped low again.

“I know what that doubt feels like,” she says. “And I know how heavy it is to prove yourself to people who already made up their minds.”

You nod. “It’s exhausting.”

She murmurs, “And lonely.”

The room goes quiet again. But this time? Not lonely. Just two people sitting in a space neither of you were sure existed — honest, open, real. No spotlight. No pressure. Just you and her. And the ache you’ve both come back from.

⚽️

It’s late.

So late the playlist stopped a while ago. So late the city outside your windows feels like it’s on mute. You both stretch at almost the same time — that lazy, reluctant movement that means okay, maybe we should sleep but neither of you want to break the quiet just yet.

You stand first. Alexia follows. She’s still in your hoodie, tugging it down slightly, bare feet padding across the floor as you walk her to the guest room — side by side in a hush that feels warmer than anything words could’ve done.

You pause at the door.

She turns to face you, one hand on the doorframe. Her hair’s a little messy now, eyes slightly glassy with exhaustion. Her voice, when it comes, is soft and almost shy.

“Thanks for tonight.”

You smile, slow. “Thanks for coming.”

She nods, then looks down like she might say something else. But she doesn’t. You step back slightly, hands in your hoodie pockets, eyes flicking to hers.

“Goodnight, Alexia.”

She looks up at that. And for a second — just one second — the look on her face says everything else she didn’t say. Then she nods, once. Barely a smile. But it reaches her eyes. “Goodnight.”

She slips into the room. You don’t linger. Just turn toward your own — quiet footsteps down the short hall. You push the door open and Teddy. Right there, already curled up in the middle of your bed. One eye open, tail thumping lazily against the duvet like, about time.

You smile, rubbing the back of your neck as you sit on the edge of the bed. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You pick it up.

Alexia: Sleep well. You talk less than I thought you would. I liked it.

You stare at the message for a second, then type back:

You: You talk more than I thought you would. I liked it too.

Teddy sighs dramatically. You laugh under your breath. Then switch off the light. And for the first time in a long time, you fall asleep not needing to prove anything. Because she’s here. And you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

⚽️

You wake to the smell of coffee. And the distinct sound of Teddy betraying you. You roll out of bed, hair a mess, hoodie tugged low over your hands, padding barefoot into the kitchen where—There she is.

Alexia.

Still in your hoodie. One sock on, one foot bare. Mug in hand, eyes still puffy with sleep, standing at your counter while Teddy leans against her legs like he’s never loved anyone else.

She glances up when you walk in, and her smile is soft. Unbrushed. Unfiltered. Real.

“Morning,” she says, voice husky.

You squint. “How’d you find the biscuits?”

She holds up the mug in salute. “I’m elite. And you left a post-it that said ‘left cupboard, top shelf, if teddy won't leave you alone'.”

You grin. “I knew past-me had potential.”

She turns back to the counter, pouring more water into the kettle, while Teddy attempts to wedge himself between her and the cabinets, tail sweeping the floor like a metronome.

“You realise he’s using you,” you say, grabbing a clean mug.

“He can use me all he wants,” she says, reaching down to scratch his ears. “He’s warm.”

You watch her — the way her fingers slide under Teddy’s collar, the way her mouth twitches when he tries to climb into her actual lap. It’s not a moment. Not a capital-letter Event. But something in your chest aches anyway.

Because she looks right here.

You grab the eggs, start cracking them into the pan. She pulls down two plates without being asked. Neither of you talks much. Just a few sleepy comments, heads bumping once as you both reach for the cutlery drawer.

When you sit across from her at the little kitchen table — plates steaming, dog underfoot — she catches your eye as you tuck your leg up under you. She doesn’t look away. Not for a while.

You hold it. You hold her. And the smile she gives you. It says I see this. I feel it. I’m here.

After breakfast, you throw a hoodie over your tee, pull on your trainers, and rattle Teddy’s lead. He loses his mind, of course — spinning, barking, pawing at the door like it personally wronged him.

“You wanna come?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder at Alexia.

She shrugs. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

She throws on a coat of yours on hook, slips into her trainers, and follows you out the door — hair tied up, sleeves rolled down, sunglasses perched on her head like she forgot the sun lives here too despite the cold.

You walk through quiet neighbourhood streets, Teddy darting side to side, nose in every hedge. You and her? Side by side. Not touching. Not saying much. But every now and then, you catch her watching you. And when you glance back— She doesn’t look away.

You loop around the quiet end of the park, the noise of the street fading behind you, and find your bench — tucked under a tree just starting to bloom, a little weathered, sun-warmed. Teddy bounds ahead, lead dropped loose in your hand, tail sweeping in wide arcs like a painter’s brush.

Alexia sits first, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying not to take up space but still wants to stay close. You drop beside her, leg stretched long, hands resting over your thighs.

For a while, you both just sit. Watching Teddy. Letting the quiet settle.

Then Alexia speaks, voice dry. “You really weren’t kidding about him being enthusiastic.”

You glance at her. She’s staring at Teddy, who’s currently rolling in something deeply questionable on the grass. You sigh.

“Yeah but he’s loyal.. until someone has better snacks anyway.”

She snorts. “I didn’t even have snacks.”

“Exactly,” you say, nudging her foot with yours. “He’s just shallow.”

She smirks, then leans back a little, adjusting the sleeves of your coat again. “He’s got taste, though. He likes me.”

You raise a brow. “Are you calling yourself a snack?”

“I’m not denying it.”

You laugh — sharp, sudden, surprised. And it makes her smile wider “You’ve got this whole mysterious captain thing,” you say, squinting at her. “But secretly, you’re kind of cocky.”

She tilts her head, smug. “Only when I’m right.” You roll your eyes, but your grin’s too soft to mean it. There’s a pause. Then, more gently “I like this,” she says, not looking at you now — just forward, at the dog, at the path.

You shift, the warmth of her words settling low in your ribs. “This?” you echo.

She nods. “The quiet. You. Teddy. This bench.” She pauses, then smirks again. “Even your coat.”

You laugh, quieter this time. “You make it look better than I do.”

“I know.” She meets your eyes then. And the silence that follows doesn't last long until you're leaning into each other laughing about it.

You clear your throat, picking at a thread on your sleeve, when the little old lady that you see everyday was eyeing you with annoyance, "So, um… are you always like this when you’re off the pitch?”

Alexia blinks. “Like what?”

You shrug. “A bit smug. Surprisingly funny. Secretly soft.”

She narrows her eyes, mock offended. “Secretly?”

You smirk. “I mean, the brand is very serious captain with cheekbones that could cut glass.”

Alexia hums. “Cheekbones and a scar. Very dramatic.”

“Oh, absolutely. You’re one trench coat away from being a Bond villain.” That gets a real laugh — full-bodied and sudden. She leans her head back against the bench, still smiling.

Then, “You make this easy,” she says, softer now. “Being here.”

You glance at her. And for a second, it’s all there again — the pitch, the free kick, the weight of it all.

But here, it’s light. You bump your knee gently against hers. “I’m glad you came, Alexia.” She doesn’t look away this time.

“I am too.”

You stretch your legs out in front of you, glancing sideways at her — Alexia, sitting there so casually now, one foot tucked beneath her, face tilted toward the sun like she’s been here a dozen times instead of just once.

You reach down to pat Teddy’s back as he wanders close.

Then glance at her.

“Do you like clichés?”

She lifts a brow. “What kind of question is that?”

You shrug, casual. “Like, romantic comedies. Grand gestures. Saying the same dumb things everyone else does. Standing on famous streets pretending you’re having an authentic experience.”

Alexia leans back, lips twitching. “You’re stalling.”

You grin. “Maybe.”

She squints at you now, playful. “Okay. Ask me properly.”

You turn toward her fully, arms folded over your chest like you’re about to deliver something serious.

“Would you like to do all the ridiculously cliché tourist things in Munich with me today?”

Alexia’s head tips slightly to the side, considering.

You keep going.

“I mean the whole deal — the Marienplatz selfie. Pretending to care about the Glockenspiel. Giant pretzels. A walk through the Englischer Garten where I’ll tell you lies about German history I definitely make up.”

Her smile creeps in slowly — then fully.

“I want lederhosen photos.”

You gasp, dramatically. “That’s advanced cliché.”

“I’m committed.”

You laugh. “God help us.”

She leans in slightly. “Only if you wear them too.”

You groan. “I’ve made a mistake.”

“You offered.”

You hold her gaze for a second, heart kicking a little louder now beneath all the lightness.

And she’s still smiling.

But there’s something genuine behind it.

Like maybe, for the first time in a long time, she’s just saying yes to a day that doesn’t come with pressure, or cameras, or expectations.

Just you.

She nudges your knee with hers. “So? We going or what?”

You whistle for Teddy. “Marienplatz, prepare yourself.”

⚽️

You start with Marienplatz. Because of course you do.

The crowds are already gathering under the watchful clock of the Neues Rathaus, phones out and necks craning toward the tower. You know the Glockenspiel starts at eleven. You’ve seen it a dozen times. It’s slow. It’s slightly underwhelming. But you still pretend like it’s sacred.

“People clap after this?” Alexia murmurs beside you, watching a small bronze knight rotate in a slow, juddering circle.

“Every time,” you whisper back. “It’s powerful.”

She gives you the driest look you’ve ever seen and it almost takes you out.

You snap a selfie right there — her unimpressed expression next to your exaggerated awe. It’s perfect. You don't even check it before saving.

From there it’s Viktualienmarkt — where you insist on finding the most absurdly oversized pretzel possible. Alexia watches you barter with a vendor and somehow ends up paying instead. She splits it with you anyway. You walk through the stalls like locals, even though you're both definitely not.

You buy her a little pin shaped like a beer stein. You stick it to her jacket pocket. “Souvenir,” she says.

You end up in the Englischer Garten by early afternoon, the kind of place where the trees stretch wide and people picnic like they’ve got nowhere else to be. Teddy loses his mind over a pigeon and nearly pulls Alexia into a fountain.

You don’t let that one go quietly. “Two time Ballon D'or, and you still couldn’t hold the line.”

“It was a very fast pigeon.”

You laugh until you’re leaning against her, shoulder to shoulder, catching your breath while Teddy runs victory laps around you both.

At the beer garden, you sit under the shade of chestnut trees, and Alexia orders something she can’t pronounce while you pretend to translate and definitely make it worse.

She tries white sausage and doesn’t hide her reaction.

You raise a brow. “Too real?”

“I can mark out midfielders. I can’t defend this texture.”

You toast anyway.

Later, you wander without purpose — through side streets with painted shutters and ivy-streaked balconies, past musicians playing under archways and little kids holding balloon strings tight to their wrists. Alexia keeps her sunglasses low on her nose, watching it all.

“I get why you like it here,” she says.

You glance over. “Yeah?”

She nods, then adds softly, “You fit here.”

It sticks.

You end up near the river as golden hour starts to take the edge off the buildings. There’s a stone ledge overlooking the water. You sit. She leans back on her hands, face turned to the sky.

“Okay,” she says finally. “This was... fun.”

You grin. “You sound surprised.”

“I am. I didn’t think cliché could feel like this.”

“Like what?”

She glances at you. Her expression doesn’t change much — but her voice does. “Easy.”

You don’t say anything for a second. Just smile. Then bump her knee gently with yours. “Think we earned ice cream?”

She tilts her head. “Is that part of the cliché package?”

“Obviously.”

You walk back into the city with cones in hand, Teddy leading the way again, tail wagging like a metronome keeping time with your steps.

And somewhere along that walk — maybe crossing a street, or brushing hands as you trade bites of each other’s flavours — something soft settles between you.

Not tension. Not expectation. Just understanding.

⚽️

You swing by the flat first — the front door barely closed before Teddy flops dramatically across the hallway floor like he’s survived something immense.

Alexia kneels down beside him, ruffles behind his ears, and says, “You’ll be alright without us.”

He sighs like he won’t.

You both change quickly — nothing fancy, just different hoodies, fresh faces, the kind of casual that looks better on her than it has any right to.

The bar you pick is a local one — tucked into a side street off the main square, part wine bar, part café, part 'we might have regulars but we won’t pretend to know your name unless you want us to.'

You take the corner table. The lights are soft and golden, the walls cluttered with mismatched frames and shelves of wine bottles. You order a bottle of white you’ve had before — one you hope she’ll like — and a snack board that arrives faster than expected: warm bread, cheese, olives, salted almonds.

She looks around, impressed. “You bring all your international friends here?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Only the ones who knock me out the champions league.”

“Fair,” she says, hiding a smile behind her glass.

You’ve barely had a sip before you reach into your bag and pull out a battered Uno deck.

Alexia blinks. “You brought cards?”

“They have them as you walk in. I’m competitive,” you say, shrugging. “And brave.”

She laughs once, short and sharp. “You’re going to regret this.”

“I’ve already accepted that.” You deal. And it begins.

It starts civil. Friendly. Smirks over skips. Light jabs when she stacks draw twos. You both pick at the snack board between plays, hands brushing occasionally as you reach for the same olive.

But by the second game, It’s personal.

She slams down a reverse like it’s a tactical sub in a final. You pull a draw four from your hoodie pocket like a weapon of war. She narrows her eyes. You lift your brows, mock-innocent.

It’s deadly serious. It’s ridiculous. And you’re both grinning like you haven’t stopped since this morning.

The bar starts to fill in slowly, but your little corner stays quiet — like a bubble you haven’t noticed growing around you. Just you, her, your wine glasses catching the light, and a stack of discarded cards that tells a very messy, very entertaining story.

Somewhere between games, you pause — mid-sip, watching her draw her hand.

“Are you always like this?” you ask. “Lowkey evil under all that calm?”

She looks up, unbothered. “Only when provoked.”

You laugh, leaning back. “Remind me not to cross you again.”

She smirks, eyes flicking up at you over her cards. “You already did,” she says, laying down a wild card.

The round ends. She wins.

You groan dramatically and throw your cards onto the table. She raises her hands in mock celebration, then quietly steals another piece of cheese from your side of the board.

“You know,” she says casually, chewing, “This might be the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

You blink. She doesn’t look up right away — just flips the deck over and starts reshuffling it absentmindedly.

But you’re watching her. And there’s no doubt in your mind. She means it.

⚽️

The walk home from the bar is slow. No rush. No real conversation either. Just a lot of little smiles. Shoulders brushing sometimes. The city quieter now — streetlights pooling in soft circles at your feet.

When you reach your building, you both slip inside quietly, Teddy greeting you at the door with a sleepy grumble and a thump of his tail.

You toe off your shoes, hang your jacket, glance over at her — and then, impulsively:

“Wanna see something stupid?”

Alexia blinks. “Not usually the way someone convinces me to follow them, but… sure.”

You grin.

You lead her through the flat — past the living room, into your bedroom. Teddy hops onto the bed like he’s reclaiming his kingdom. You move to the window — the one you always leave cracked just a little — and unlatch it the rest of the way.

You glance back at her.

She’s standing with her arms folded, watching you like she’s bracing for something truly ridiculous.

You duck out first — onto the sloped bit of roofing just beyond the window, socks scraping softly against the tiles. You crouch low, then stand carefully, balancing with practiced ease.

You turn and beckon. Alexia just stares. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

She steps closer, looks out.

The drop’s not that bad. 22 feet, maybe. But the tiles are slick with dew, and there’s no railing, no barrier, no sensible adult supervision.

“This is wildly unsafe,” she mutters.

You just smile. “Come on. I’m not gonna let you fall.”

She glares at you, muttering something in Catalan that sounds very judgmental. But you can see it — the twitch at the corner of her mouth. She’s not really mad.

She’s just concerned. Which somehow only makes it better.

After a few more seconds of muttering under her breath, she sighs dramatically, steps up onto the ledge, and eases herself through the window with surprising grace — a little unsteady at first, reaching for your hand instinctively.

You catch it. Steady her. “See?” you say, squeezing her fingers lightly. “Easy.”

“Still stupid,” she mutters.

But she doesn’t pull away. You lead her a few steps up — careful, slow — until you both settle onto the slightly flatter part of the roof, side by side, legs pulled up to your chest..

She finally looks up the whole city stretches out in front of her.

The rooftops curve into the skyline, lights twinkling like fallen stars. The dark river cuts a lazy path through the buildings. A few stray sirens whine in the distance, but mostly it’s just quiet. Wide and open and impossibly still.

Alexia exhales — a soft, almost disbelieving sound. The corners of her mouth lift. And whatever worry she had before melts off her shoulders.

“Okay,” she says, voice lighter now. “Maybe it’s worth the risk.”

You bump your knee against hers. “Told you.”

You sit like that for a long time — no rush, no plan. Just the two of you, the city breathing around you, your hands close enough to touch if you dared.

Every now and then, you glance over and catch her watching the lights, the horizon, the night itself like she’s letting herself believe she could belong to something this simple.

The climb back in through the window is quieter than the climb out.

Alexia moves slower now, heavy with the kind of tired that comes after a day full of laughter and nowhere to be but here. She drops softly into your bedroom, feet padding across the floor, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands again.

You follow behind, closing the window gently behind you.

Teddy’s already curled up on the bed, barely lifting his head to acknowledge your return. He gives Alexia one approving thump of the tail. You’re not sure if it’s for coming back safely or for still being here.

You rub at the back of your neck, eyes a little hazy, wine long gone.

Alexia stands in the doorway to the guest room now, hand on the frame. Her expression is soft — not sleepy exactly, just settled.

She looks at you. And it hits again — this moment. How simple it is. How much it means. You lean against the wall across from her, arms crossed loosely, smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“I’ll make sure you don’t miss your flight in the morning,” you say.

She smirks faintly. “You better.”

“I’ll set three alarms.”

She lifts an eyebrow. “Four.”

You laugh, quiet and tired. “Pushy.”

She shrugs. “Punctual.”

The pause that follows isn’t awkward. It’s full. Of all the things neither of you are saying right now. But it’s okay. You already said so much.

She shifts slightly, head tilting. “Today was…”

You nod. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to.

You step forward, and without thinking, you pull her into a light hug — not long, not heavy, but enough. Enough to feel the warmth of her hoodie, the steady beat of her breath, the soft slide of her hand as it rests briefly on the back of your head.

You pull back just a little. She’s still close. “Goodnight, Alexia.”

Her eyes flicker — tired and unreadable, but warmer now “Goodnight.”

She steps into the guest room and closes the door behind her with a gentle click. You exhale.

Teddy stretches across your bed with a groan like he just ran the city.

You flick off the hallway light, pad back into your room, and crawl beneath the covers.

The room is dark now. But your chest is full. And your alarms are definitely set. Tomorrow she leaves.

⚽️

The alarms buzz you awake just after six.

Teddy barely lifts his head as you stumble into the kitchen, yawning, the world outside still caught between night and day.

Alexia’s already up. You find her sitting on the edge of the couch, tying her sneakers — hair messy, hoodie slung loose over her frame, backpack by her feet.

She looks up when you walk in, and there’s a small, tired smile waiting for you. “Morning,” she says, voice thick with sleep.

You hum a reply, rubbing your eyes. Neither of you rush.

You load Teddy into the backseat. He whines a little, sensing something is different. The drive to the airport is quiet — warm coffee cups in the holders, the radio playing something soft neither of you bother to change.

She leans her forehead against the window once, watching the fields blur into concrete. When you pull up to Departures, you leave the car idling, glancing over at her.

She’s already unbuckling her seatbelt, but neither of you move right away.

The city is waking up outside. You’re wide awake here. Alexia shifts in her seat to face you. “This was…” She trails off, the words sticking again.

You smile, small. “Yeah. It was.”

She fiddles with the ring on her finger.

You grip the steering wheel lightly. “You’ll make your flight.”

She nods. “Thanks for not letting me oversleep.”

You bump your shoulder against hers gently. “Thanks for making it hard to say goodbye.”

That gets a real smile — tired, fond, a little crooked. She opens the door, stepping out into the sharp morning air. You get out too.

You meet her around the back of the car — not rushed, not dramatic. Just standing there, with a sea of taxis and early travelers moving around you like another current you’re not ready to step into yet.

She shoulders her bag. You jam your hands into your hoodie pockets.

Then — simply — she steps closer. You think she might hug you. You think you might need her to.

But instead, she reaches up — slow, careful — and hooks one finger lightly around your hoodie drawstring. Tugs it once. Soft. Playful.

“Text me when you get home,” you say, even though you’re already sure she will.

Alexia nods. “You too.”

And then — because she knows when to let things stay perfect — she turns and walks toward the entrance. You watch her weave through the doors. She doesn’t look back. Not until she’s just inside, bag slung over one shoulder, ticket in hand. Then she does. Just once.

She finds you through the glass — through the crowd and the noise and the press of the world. She smiles. Small. Sure. Enough.

You lift a hand. She does too. Then she’s gone, swallowed into the current of the airport.

You stand there a moment longer, breath fogging in the chill, Teddy’s nose nudging your hand.

You pat his head. Then you climb back into the car. And drive home, to grab a few more hours of sleep before training.

#alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #woso fanfics #alexia putellas #woso #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas one shot #fcb femeni

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smellysluna · 14 days ago

Text

Chapter Two | Again, And Again, And You

Chapter Two: A Fresh Start

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo x Reader

Word Count: 5,5k

Summary:

You've lived through countless timelines—each one shaped by monsters, magic, and the unbearable weight of knowing too much. Until you wake up in a version of reality where none of that ever happened. No dungeons. No deaths. Just high school… and him. Sung Jinwoo—quiet, intense, and impossibly familiar—is here too, and maybe this time, it'll be you who changes his world.

Notes:

I— I think I went overboard with the length of this chapter I mean like— ... just enjoy

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The world felt different when you woke up.

Not in a way you could explain—everything was where it should be, everything looked the same. The sun rose like it always had, painting gold across the ceiling of your room.

And yet, your chest felt hollow. As if you'd just surfaced from drowning.

You sat up in bed, a sharp inhale cutting through your lungs. Your hands trembled slightly as you touched your face, half-expecting to see blood, ash, or time etched into your skin. But you were young.

You were… young.

You stumbled to the mirror and stared.

The person staring back at you was barely seventeen. No shadows under her eyes. No scars on her neck. No weight of a thousand lives hanging from her shoulders.

You blinked rapidly, as if to wake up again. But this was the dream. Or rather, the end of it.

The world had been reset.

He’d done it.

Sung Jinwoo had done it.

You didn’t cry—not right away. But your knees gave out slowly, and you sat there on the floor, heart pounding like a drum, repeating one truth over and over:

You’re free.

At first, you didn’t try to find him.

You told yourself he wouldn’t remember. That this life was his reward. That he deserved peace without the weight of old memories.

But still… a part of you wanted to see him. Just once. To confirm that he was okay. That he still existed. That it hadn’t all been a dream you made up in the space between lifetimes.

So, you enrolled in the same middle school.

Sliding into the role of a transfer student wasn’t new to you. A few forged documents, a timely uniform delivery, and voilà—new student, perfectly ordinary. You’d even knocked your age down to fifteen on paper. Technically, you were almost seventeen, but what were a couple of years between friends? It wasn’t like anyone was going to card you in homeroom.

Besides, you were already ancient compared to everyone else. Maybe not in body, but mentally? Please. After a few dozen lifetimes, you were basically the wise old sage in a room full of toddlers. If anyone asked, you just had an “old soul.” They didn’t need to know it came with the emotional baggage of a thousand respawns and a suspiciously encyclopedic knowledge of stock market crashes.

Enrolling in middle school felt like sitting through an onboarding presentation for a company you'd already secretly run twice. You knew the rhythm, the roles, the script—even if everyone else thought this was your first day on the job.

A crisp uniform, a clean transcript, and your real name on the roster—check, check, and check.

Sung Jinwoo had already sparked a school-wide glow-up rumor before you stepped foot in class.

He used to be awkward, they said. Kind of forgettable, quiet in a way that made people skim past him in the hallway. But something had shifted.

He came back after summer with cleaner hair, straighter posture.

Suddenly, people realized he was hot.

Like, surprise lead-role-in-a-drama hot.

His smile was easy now. His voice low and warm. Rolled-up sleeves. That thing guys do where they lean back in chairs just enough to look effortlessly cool without actually falling.

He helped teachers carry supplies. He saved a bee from a classroom once, apparently. People said he smelled like clean laundry and citrus and the sun.

Even the guys loved him.

“Bro, I’m not gonna lie,” one classmate had said loudly once, voice carrying across the lunch tables, “we thought you were just, like… a weird shut-in last year. We were so wrong. I’m sorry.”

Jinwoo had just laughed, easy and warm, and clapped him on the back like it really wasn’t a big deal.

It made him even more likable.

Because that was the thing—he didn’t act like someone who’d suddenly realized he was hot. He just was. And somehow, that made people fall even harder.

Girls confessed to him. Often.

Sometimes it was a letter slipped into his locker, folded with trembling care. Sometimes it was a bento left on his desk, wrapped in pastel cloth with a note tucked beneath. A few were bold enough to ask him face-to-face—he always looked surprised when they did. Not because he didn’t expect it, maybe, but because he genuinely didn’t know how to react.

He wasn’t cold. Just… unreadable. He’d thank them, bow slightly, offer a soft smile that somehow didn’t give anything away. And then he’d return to whatever he was doing—scribbling in the margins of his notebook, sipping his strawberry milk, or talking to the guys. Sometimes they’d walk away giggling. Sometimes in tears. It wasn’t clear if he was just oblivious or expertly polite, but either way, nothing stuck.

Until the day you walked in.

It was morning—barely past 9:00.

A math class in full swing, the room draped in fluorescent chill and the quiet scratch of pencils. The teacher’s voice filled the space in low, practiced rhythm, chalk tapping steadily against the board. Outside, the sunlight was pale and clear, leaking through the windows in sharp, angled beams.

And then the door clicked open.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t nervous.

Just… smooth. Deliberate. The kind of entrance that didn’t need permission. You stepped in with a quiet sort of confidence, your bag slung over one shoulder, uniform crisp, expression unreadable. Composed in a way teenagers rarely were.

You didn’t look around for approval.

You just scanned the room once, calm and quiet, the kind of quiet that made people straighten up without knowing why. You nodded when the teacher finally noticed you standing there—a slight tilt of the head, perfectly polite—and stepped aside like you hadn’t just walked into the middle of a math lesson, like this wasn’t two months too late for transfers.

The chalk stuttered on the board. The teacher cleared his throat. “Ah—yes.” A pause. “Everyone, please welcome our new student, (y/n).”

Chairs creaked. Neck cranes followed you. A ripple of whispers. Half-curious, half-nervous energy filled the air.

“Please find a seat.”

And across the room, Jinwoo—half-slouched in his seat, pen resting against his lower lip—looked up.

He blinked.

Like something inside him had missed a step.

For a second, just a second, something flickered across his face. Not surprise. Not interest. Just… confusion. That sharp, uncanny déjà vu with no image attached—only a feeling. A breath held in the dark.

He’d never seen you before.

And yet—something about you tugged at him.

A flicker. A scent of familiarity buried deep under layers of time and dust and forgotten things. He shoved the thought down immediately. It was impossible.

You walked past him—two rows back, your steps soft, unhurried.

He followed the sound without meaning to.

Jinwoo blinked again.

Then, very carefully, leaned back in his chair, tapped his pen twice against his notebook, and muttered under his breath:

“…No way.”

He caught himself a second later, eyes darting to check if anyone had heard.

Then—quick recovery.

He straightened slightly. Pushed his bangs back. Sat there like the embodiment of casual disinterest, the boy too cool to be caught off guard.

Too cool.

Like someone who’d practiced smoldering in the mirror but was now deeply unsure what to do with his hands.

You caught his eye, just briefly, as you scanned the room for a seat.

He looked away immediately. Not too fast. Just… mildly interested in the far wall, apparently.

But after that—

You felt it.

His gaze, brushing over you more than once. Lingering when you weren’t looking.

Not with curiosity.

With confusion.

Recognition.

Like a name that danced just out of reach.

Like a face he should know, but couldn't place—a phantom glimpse from the past. Every time his eyes lingered on you, that sensation crept back. Stronger. More insistent. Unsettling.

You didn’t expect to cause a stir.

At least, that was the plan.

But apparently, mastering the art of not trying was the secret to suddenly becoming the main character.

First, the grades.

Then, the moment you effortlessly corrected a teacher. Graceful. Polite. A tilt of the head, a glint in your eye that said, I’m right—and I’m not even trying to be smug about it.

It started off harmless enough.

Third-period history. The room hummed with the familiar buzz of the late morning sun spilling across desks. The air was warm, thick with the chatter of half-listening students and the teacher’s monotone lecture on post-war reforms.

You were taking notes quietly—head down, pen gliding smoothly—until he said it:

“And of course, women didn’t really play a role in those reforms. Most of them stayed at home. The important decisions were all made by men.”

The words hung in the air for a second. Just long enough.

You blinked. Looked up.

A soft click of your pen stopping. No drama. No raised voice. Just a slight shift in your posture as you lowered your hand and spoke up.

“Excuse me, sir,” you said, calm and even. Not rude. Just… precise. “I think that’s not entirely accurate.”

The room stilled.

Mr. Han blinked over his glasses, clearly surprised that anyone had spoken—especially the new girl.

You tilted your head, like you were still weighing how best to phrase it, before speaking with calm certainty:

“Several female activists were instrumental in shaping the educational reforms and labor policies during that time. Especially in Seoul and Busan. Kim Bok-dong, for example, continued her advocacy even post-war. Also, the Women’s Union had seats at the negotiating table in 1946.”

You didn’t smile exactly—but there was something in your expression. A light behind your eyes. Confident, without needing to flex it. Like this was just a fact, not a fight.

There was a pause.

A long one.

A pencil rolled off someone’s desk. A chair creaked. Somewhere in the back, a girl made a sound like she’d just witnessed a plot twist in a drama.

Mr. Han cleared his throat.

“Yes. That’s… a good point,” he said slowly, adjusting his collar. “I stand corrected.”

You nodded, jotting something else down in your notes like nothing had happened.

But something had.

Two rows ahead, Sung Jinwoo blinked slowly, the faint scratch of his pencil stopping mid-word.

He hadn’t been paying full attention—his gaze had been half out the window, half on the margin doodles in his notebook—but your voice had cut clean through the hum of classroom monotony. Calm. Precise. Just a little sharp at the edges, like the glint of a blade in sunlight.

New girl. Hair tucked behind one ear, eyes still focused on your notebook. As if none of it had mattered. As if a whole classroom hadn’t just silently re-evaluated you in real time. The girl next to you was staring. Someone two seats down had actually scooted closer.

But you? Unbothered.

Jinwoo’s gaze lingered.

There was… something.

Not familiarity exactly. But weight. Like gravity in reverse. The kind that pulls at memory, tugging on something buried under centuries of silence and blood and shadows.

The way you’d held the room just now—it reminded him of her.

The Founder.

The one who'd stood tall even when monarchs threatened war. The one who'd never bowed.

The one he’d never figured out.

But that was impossible.

She was gone. Had to be.

He was the only one cursed to remember.

He shook the thought from his head like mist from his shoulders, turning back to his notes.

It didn’t make sense.

Just another strange feeling in a life full of them.

Still…

His pen tapped against the margin once. Twice.

Then he scribbled something down that wasn’t related to history at all.

Your name.

He wasn’t even sure he’d meant to write it.

But there it was.

And the smallest crease formed between his brows.

What had started as a quiet correction soon spread like wildfire.

You hadn’t raised your voice. You hadn’t even looked smug.

But you’d dismantled a teacher’s outdated view with the elegance of someone flipping a chess piece onto a checkmate square. And you did it with a grace that made the girls around you swoon.

“I think I stopped breathing,” someone whispered to her friend outside the classroom. “She didn’t even flinch.”

From there, it snowballed.

People admired your calm. The way you carried yourself like you knew exactly who you were. Your quiet confidence, the way you listened—actually listened—and spoke like your words mattered. Like theirs did too.

Before long, you started noticing a shift. Girls who usually stuck to their own groups were suddenly finding excuses to hang around, like they were magnetically drawn to whatever vibe you were giving off. No one was trying too hard—they just wanted a bit of your coolness to rub off.

The whole thing still felt a little surreal. A few weeks ago, you’d just been the new girl—the one slipping into class unnoticed, blending into the background. Now, you had a group of girls who were, for lack of a better word, attached to you. They weren’t bad, though. In fact, they were kind of fun. They’d drag you along to lunch, chat about the latest drama, and occasionally ask for your opinion on the most important issues, like which lip gloss had the best scent or whether the cafeteria’s pizza was worth the risk of food poisoning.

Today, they were gathered around your desk, laughing about something one of them had said—some story about a teacher who accidentally wore mismatched socks to class. You found yourself grinning without even thinking about it. There was something so effortlessly easy about the way they included you, like you’d always belonged here.

“You know,” one of them said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “I don’t know how you do it. You’re so chill. I mean, way chill. It’s like you’re just, I dunno, above all the drama, you know?”

You laughed, half-embarrassed, half-flattered. “I wouldn’t say above it. Just… trying to survive it.”

“Survive? Girl, you’ve mastered it,” another chimed in, nudging you playfully. “I swear, you’ve got this whole ‘cool, collected vibe’ going on. It’s like you’re a movie star or something.”

You blinked, unsure how to respond. It had been a while since anyone said something like that to you, especially not with such earnestness. Was it really that obvious? You’d always figured you were just… trying not to screw things up. In some strange way, you were almost relieved. You were just so tired of being the outsider.

"I don't know," you said, glancing out the window for a second, a little too aware of how your words sounded. "I guess... I’m just happy I can finally be, I don’t know, normal for once."

They all stared at you for a second, as if the idea was so foreign that they didn’t know how to respond. And then they laughed. Not in a mean way, just a soft, understanding laugh.

"Girl, you’re like way past normal," one of them teased, and you swatted her arm lightly, laughing along.

But there was something warm about hearing it. Maybe you didn’t need to be anything extraordinary. Maybe, for the first time in a long time, you could just be yourself.

It wasn’t a bad way to be.

The bell rang for the end of lunch, a mix of relief and slight reluctance hanging in the air as everyone packed up their things. You, however, were still caught in a bubble of conversation, a few girls chatting animatedly around you as you all made your way to your next class.

For a moment, it felt almost like before—like you were part of the group but still slightly outside it. You could feel their eyes on you sometimes, the way they’d smile at you like you were a little secret they were all proud to keep. But there was something different about it now. You weren’t just the new girl anymore. You were... someone they all wanted to be near.

It wasn’t a bad thing.

And yet, as the laughter died down and the group started to disperse, you caught a glimpse of someone at the edge of the hallway, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. Jinwoo. His presence, always so quiet, still seemed to draw attention.

He wasn’t quite looking at you, but you could feel it—a pull, like his gaze was hovering just on the edge of your peripheral. His eyes flicked to you briefly, but then he quickly turned away, scribbling something in his notebook as if it was the most important thing in the world.

You weren’t sure why it made your stomach tighten, or why your pulse seemed to quicken as you walked past him.

It wasn’t that you hadn’t seen him around before. He was the school’s “heartthrob,” after all. Everyone knew who he was. But this? The strange tension that seemed to hang between you and him whenever your paths crossed—this was new.

You stepped around him, almost brushing past him, the faint scent of his cologne mingling with the hallway’s stale air.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The world continued on around you—students chatting, shoes scuffing against the linoleum—but it felt like everything slowed down.

He shifted, turning slightly, as if deciding whether or not to speak. And then, just as you were about to move on, you heard his voice.

“Hey,” he said, the single syllable low and almost hesitant.

You stopped, caught off guard by the sound of his voice. It was strange—almost like he'd been practicing saying it to you in his head, over and over, before actually letting the word slip out.

You turned, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Yeah?"

There was a beat of silence. Jinwoo seemed like he wanted to say more—something else was on the tip of his tongue—but instead, he just gave a small shrug. "Never mind," he muttered, and with that, he turned back toward the hallway, his shoulders tense as if he’d said something he wasn’t ready to say.

You stood there for a second, blinking in the sudden awkwardness of it all. His footsteps echoed as he walked away, and you couldn’t help but wonder what had almost spilled out.

But before you could dwell too long on the thought, you were pulled into another conversation by one of the girls from your group, and Jinwoo’s strange, brief interaction was lost in the noise of the crowd.

Because while Jinwoo had become the school’s heartthrob, you had become something else entirely—mysterious, magnetic, untouchable.

The girls didn’t leave you alone.

You were always surrounded. Walking anywhere alone required a strategy.

And Jinwoo?

He looked like he wanted to say something.

He’d lean forward, hesitate. Start to stand. Then pause as someone asked you a question or grabbed your sleeve to drag you to lunch.

He’d sit back like nothing happened. Scribble something in his notebook that wasn’t schoolwork. Bite the inside of his cheek like he was annoyed with himself.

Like he knew you.

Like he’d met you in a dream, once, and the memory had just now caught up.

And still… nothing happened.

Until one afternoon during break—

It wasn’t a dramatic escape. Just you, slipping away while the girls weren’t paying attention.

The school rooftop had always been… yours. Not officially, of course. Just in that quiet, unspoken way places become sacred. It was where the noise below couldn't reach. Where people weren’t buzzing around you with expectations or praise.

Where you could breathe.

You leaned against the railing, arms resting atop it, eyes cast over the schoolyard far below. The spring breeze was light, brushing against your skin with a gentle sway.

You let yourself just be.

No running. No fighting. No pretending.

You were starting to get used to the feeling.

Just the faint sound of distant laughter from the classrooms below, the wind rustling through the trees, the gentle hum of life continuing like the world hadn't ended again and again.

You closed your eyes for a second. Felt the sun warm your face.

This was something you never got to enjoy before. Not really. Not with everything you had to become.

Unknowing to you somewhere from the courtyard, he saw you.

He’d been laughing at some dumb joke Sungil cracked—something about the cafeteria milk again—and his eyes drifted lazily toward the sky.

And there you were.

On the rooftop.

At first, he didn’t think much of it.

You were always slipping away lately, weren’t you?

But there was something about the way you stood. The stillness in your shoulders. The calm. Like someone who’d earned it.

His mind flickered to that moment in class.

The way you spoke to the teacher—controlled, sharp, like you’d negotiated boardroom wars before.

The confidence. The dry wit.

Your name.

It had nagged him when he first heard it. Felt oddly familiar. But he’d brushed it off.

Coincidence, he’d told himself.

But now, watching you from below, everything clicked.

You weren’t a classmate he remembered having in high school.

He knew this place. Knew the names. Knew who lived and who died.

But you? You didn’t belong here.

And yet… you were here.

His chest tightened.

No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

He was supposed to be the only one. That was the price to pay.

But those eyes...

Those familiar knowing eyes. The ones that used to make him hesitate even when he was the strongest hunter alive. Like you were seeing something he hadn’t caught up to yet.

He stood so abruptly that the contents of his lunchbox went everywhere.

“I—uh, bathroom,” he said quickly, already turning.

“Again?” Sungil snorted. “You good, man?”

Jinwoo didn’t answer. He was halfway to the stairwell already.

He didn’t know how fast he was going—only that his legs carried him up two flights of stairs like muscle memory had kicked in from another life. The closer he got, the more erratic his heart pounded, not from the run, but from the what if.

What if it’s really her? What if I’m not the only one anymore?

His hand hit the door before he could slow down.

Your eyes flicked to the door before he could even burst through it.

He looked out of breath. Wild-eyed. Like he’d run from something—or toward something—he couldn’t quite believe.

And you just smiled.

The same calm smile you’d given him a lifetime ago, back when everything had been louder, heavier, soaked in shadows.

“I was starting to think you’d never notice,” you said softly.

Jinwoo froze.

His mouth opened like he was going to say something—but nothing came out. Just stunned silence. The kind where the world shifts under your feet.

There you were.

The queen of that former world.

The founder of the most powerful guild in Korea.

The girl who protected him in ways he didn’t understand during the war.

The woman who stayed when everyone else turned their backs.

Now here, in a school uniform and wind in your hair, looking at him like no time had passed at all.

He laughed—but it came out hollow, overwhelmed.

“How...?” he finally managed, voice rough.

“How are you—why do you—?”

But he couldn’t even finish the questions. Because how does anyone ask something like that?

How does he ask the past why it followed you here?

And how were you supposed to answer?

You exhaled, softly. Not as if you’d been holding your breath, but like your lungs didn’t quite know how to fill themselves properly. Like you were learning again. Like the weight in your chest was finally being seen by someone else.

You didn’t answer right away. Just looked past him, eyes settling somewhere in the distance—on the soft sprawl of the city below, or maybe a memory that lived just above the skyline.

“It’s hard to explain,” you said after a long moment. “And I’ve never... I’ve never said it out loud before.”

Jinwoo didn’t interrupt. Didn’t press.

He just waited, steady as stone, and softer than anyone else had ever been.

Your hands tightened on the railing, knuckles pale. “I don’t know about you. But to me… Time just… reset. Over and over again. I always woke up in my bedroom. Same ceiling. Same air. Same parents calling me down for breakfast like nothing had changed.”

You smiled, but it was hollow. It ghosted across your lips like something you didn’t believe in anymore.

“The first few times, I thought I was crazy. I mean, who wouldn't? One moment I’m dead, and then it’s morning again. The same morning. The same goddamn birds chirping outside my window.”

Jinwoo’s fingers curled into his palms.

You looked at him, something quiet flickering behind your eyes. “And it didn’t stop. No matter what I did. No matter how far I ran or who I saved or who I lost. Time just... snapped back. Like it was mocking me. Like I wasn’t enough.”

Your voice began to tremble at the edges, like a surface cracking.

“At first, I thought maybe I could fix it. That there was a point. That if I just made the right choices…”

You laughed—but it broke halfway out of you. Became something else. Something brittle and wet.

“But then… it just kept getting worse. The gates opened sooner. The monsters got stronger. And then—” You shook your head.

“And then Jeju happened,” you said softly, your words barely above a whisper.

Jinwoo felt his breath catch.

He remembered the insistence you had on him joining the force. “Just a hunch”, you had said.

“I don’t… I don’t really talk about it,” you murmured. “I haven’t. Not in any of my lives. Not once. I just—” You laughed a little, but it broke into a sharp inhale. “I thought maybe if I ignored it hard enough, it would stop existing.”

You leaned your weight forward against the railing, your shoulders trembling.

“I told myself it didn’t matter. That I’d moved past it. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.”

Jinwoo stepped forward, slowly—carefully. The rooftop wind moved around him like it knew not to interrupt.

You didn’t look at him.

“I remember the smell first. That’s always how it starts. Rot. Blood. Salt in the air. Like the sea was crying too.”

A pause.

“And then the screaming. I can’t forget the screaming. I still hear it when I sleep.”

His hands hovered near your back, unsure. Like he wanted to touch but didn’t want to break the moment.

“I wasn’t even on Jeju,” you whispered, turning slightly toward him now, eyes wide and far away. “I wasn’t one of the hunters. I was just… in a boardroom. Watching.”

Jinwoo’s throat tightened. He just stood there, arms stiff at his sides as the wind swept the rooftop.

“I saw it all. Every feed. Every scream. I watched the lines go dead. I watched people I knew blink out like they were nothing.”

Your eyes met his. Wet. Unflinching.

“And then they came for us.”

You tried to keep the tears back, but your shoulders betrayed you, trembling like a glass that had held too much for too long.

“They weren’t supposed to make it off the island. That’s what we thought. But they did. They crossed the sea like it was nothing. The cities weren’t ready. I wasn’t ready.”

Your knees gave out—but he caught you. Instinctively. Easily.

Your body stiffened for a second—but then you sagged into him. Gave in. His arms wrapped around you tightly, like he could hold you together with sheer will. Your face pressed to his chest, and your hands clutched at his sleeves like lifelines.

You clutched at the fabric of his uniform. “I didn’t even try to run. I froze. I just—stood there, staring out the window, watching people screaming in the streets. And when I saw it… when I saw it coming for me…”

Your body jolted as you broke. Sharp, silent sobs racking through your chest.

Jinwoo tightened his hold. One hand on your back. One cradling the back of your head. Steady. Anchoring.

He felt the tremble of your breath. The way you tried to be quiet, like your pain was an inconvenience. Like you were used to being alone with it.

“It was so fast,” you gasped. “But I still remember every second. I remember the glass shattering. I remember its claws. I remember thinking—this can’t be how it ends. Not again. Not like this.”

Jinwoo’s heart shattered.

And then you collapsed fully into him, and the weight of it spilled out.

Tears soaked his shirt. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

He just held you. Like the world had ended in your arms, and he was the only piece left holding you to it.

He held you tighter.

“And Kamish,” you choked. “Kamish destroyed the world once. Not just a city, not just a squad—the world. I watched from behind screens, from underground shelters, from bunkers that were supposed to be safe. And every time, we thought we were prepared. We never were.”

You looked up, eyes red, voice barely audible. “I tried, Jinwoo. In some lives, I became a hunter. I thought maybe if I just… knew enough, trained enough, I could do something. Anything. But I wasn’t strong. I didn’t make a difference. I just kept watching the world end.”

Your legs folded beneath you, but this time Jinwoo followed you down, holding you even as the rooftop's cold bit through your skin. You cried harder now, like something ancient inside you was finally breaking open.

He didn’t speak. His jaw was tight. His eyes burned.

Because this—

This wasn’t a pain he could fight.

Not with blades. Not with power.

You had been alone. You had carried it all with you.

And now, shaking in his arms, you were finally letting someone see it.

He held you tighter, tucked your shaking frame into his arms like a vow.

“I’m here,” he murmured, so quietly it almost got lost in the wind. “I’m here.”

He pulled back only slightly, enough to look at you, to study the tear-streaked lines of your face. Even now—eyes red, shoulders trembling—you looked so… innocent. So light. How could someone so weighed down still look like freedom?

“I’m not going anywhere.”

You shattered again.

Sobs that cracked something in the air.

Sobs that sounded like a locked door finally being opened from the inside.

Jinwoo kept his jaw tight, eyes burning. He’d thought he was alone. That he was the only one cursed to remember the horrors of what came before. But you—god, you had remembered everything. And you hadn’t even asked for it.

He’d never understood it before, not fully. Not even when he met you the first time. Why you looked at him the way you did. Why you spoke like someone who had nothing left to fear.

But now he knew.

And something inside him shifted.

No more.

Not ever again.

Not if he could help it.

Then—

Ding.

The shrill chime of the school bell rang through the rooftop silence, jarring against the stillness that had wrapped itself around you both like a fragile cocoon. You pulled back slowly, your hands unclenching from his sleeves, your breath still trembling against the place where your face had been buried in his chest.

“I… I need to go to the bathroom,” you said quietly, not quite meeting his eyes.

Jinwoo nodded, though his throat was too tight to speak. He watched as you walked away, your steps still a little unsteady, the wind tugging gently at your sleeves like it didn’t want to let you go.

And then you were gone.

He made it to class a few minutes later, the teacher already speaking, his voice a dull drone against Jinwoo’s pulse still thrumming in his ears.

You came in shortly after.

Eyes dry. No trace of red.

No puffiness, no shine. Nothing.

Your face was calm.

Your smile soft, easy—like you hadn’t just shattered in his arms minutes ago. Like you hadn’t cracked open and bled every secret from behind your ribs.

For a second, he wondered if he had imagined it. If somehow, he had projected the weight he felt onto you.

But then—he looked down.

There, on his uniform. The faint but unmistakable mark.

Tear stains, darkened into the fabric over his heart.

You had cried.

And the evidence of it was his to carry now.

He stared at the mark, and looked over his shoulder. You shot him an easy smile across the room, and something inside him twisted.

How many times had you done this before?

How many lifetimes had you broken like that, in silence?

How many tears had fallen that no one ever saw, because you wiped them away before they reached the surface?

His chest felt heavy. Drenched in a grief that wasn’t just his own.

You had been alone for so long.

Too long.

And if he wanted to restore what the world had taken from you—

That light, that freedom in your smile—

He knew he’d have to leave you alone again.

Just for a little while.

But he promised himself—

He wouldn’t take long.

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Taglist: #open

@snowy-violet @minh907 @o-qi-shisme @shineinouzen15 @awwwia @hannya-writes @tanspostsblog @lovelyevil @misakicchi @gina239 @livelaughlovekuni

#solo leveling #solo leveling spoilers #sung jinwoo x you #solo leveling x reader #solo leveling jinwoo #sung jin woo #sung jinwoo #jinwoo sung x reader #sung jinwoo x y/n #only i level up #solo leveling fanfiction #jinwoo x you #jinwoo x reader

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gaybitchfx · 4 months ago

Note

Could I ask for an adult Sasuke x Naruto's twin brother? Like while Naruto has his dad's looks but his mom's personality, his twin brother has their mom's look and their dad's personality?

Welcome back to tumblr writing! I missed your writing - 🩶 (I'm so sorry if this anon is taken. It's my first time using an anon 😅)

✰𝓤. 𝓢𝓐𝓢𝓤𝓚𝓔✰

dios sabe que tienes que cambiar, cariño —★

oye como va mi ritmo bueno pa’ gosar mulata

★—oye como va mi ritmo bueno pa’ gosar mulata

got a black magic woman got a black magic woman —type o negative

𝓣𝓦: none!

SOMETIMES it was hard to tell how you and naruto were related besides in semi looks. you were more like your father, humble and collective as well as kind. and naruto was just..well, he was naruto. compared to naruto, sasuke didn’t mind how you clung to him whenever you had the chance but of course sakura hated it but oh well, she couldn’t do much but sulk in some corner.

AS the two of you grew up, sasuke had gradually grown an attraction to you but it wasn’t too obvious of course so you never entirely knew though he was pretty protective over you and would always insist on going places with you just to make sure you were safe. this allowed kakashi to already get a little hint he liked you, but he wanted you to figure it out on your own rather than someone telling you. it would be all the more romantic anyways.

AND so here the two of you were, both grown adults and living out their own lives. sasuke’s crush for you hadn’t wilted not once in those years and today was the day he was going to confess to you in hopes you would reciprocate his fillings. “hello.” sasuke said with a small smile as he took a seat next to you causing you to smile, your usual bright smile. “hey sasuke, how’re you? how was that mission kakashi sent you on?” you asked as you rested your elbow against the table you sat at allowing your cheek to rest on the palm of your hand. “it was alright, not much happened but i’ve been thinking for some time now..” mumbled sasuke as he didn’t break eye contact with you.

YOUR beautiful gray eyes were always so calming to him after all you did inherit it from your mother as well as your red hair. “and what have you been thinking about?” you asked him with a raised brow, ever so curious as to what has been on your friends mind for the longest now. “not much, just thinking about how we’ve been throughout all these years. and how i’ve liked you a lot for said years, more than a ‘friend’ really should.” he hummed softly causing your eyes to widen and cheeks to flush rather quickly as you blinked a couple times. “..really?” you asked him, your voice softer now as your heart beater in your chest like a drum, its pounding sound loud in your ears. sasuke nodded his head a little as he looked off to the side a bit, his pale cheeks flushed a tad bit though it was noticeable. “i want to spend to rest of my life with you only if you’re alri—” “YES YES! A THOUSAND TIMES YES!” you practically screamed out and hugged sasuke ever so tightly, probably squeezing the daylight out of him in the process.

SASUKE let out a breathy chuckle as he hugged you back, liking the warmth your body brought and hearing how happy you sounded. “i’m glad you like me just as much as i like you.” you sighed out and placed a small kiss to the other man’s cheek causing his cheeks to flush a lot more than before. “i can’t wait to spend my life with you, my god, i need to go tell naruto and kakashi! those two were betting if you liked me or not.” you exclaimed and quickly sat up before placing another kiss to sasuke’s cheek and quickly left leaving him in cloud 9.

#🩶anon #male reader #x male reader #male y/n #male reader insert #naruto x male reader #naruto x reader #naruto x you #sasuke uchiha #naruto sasuke #sasuke x male reader #sasuke x reader #sasuke x you #sasuke x y/n #fluff #anime fluff #fiction #anime

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moonmaiden1996 · 22 days ago

Text

The Monster Maomao Created Part 3

These things took time. Time to orchestrate, to implement, to get right. Time you, unfortunately, did not have.

Your father had not returned that night.

In truth, you had seen him only in passing for weeks now. One glimpse from a corridor, another when he handed off urgent reports to aides as he rode through the outer gates. Between strategy councils and leading drills with the troops, he seemed more like a ghost than man lately. The latest dispatches from the northern border had stripped away ambiguity—rumors turned to warnings, warnings into facts. War no longer loomed like a distant shadow. It advanced—quiet, steady, inevitable.

And with it, your father had vanished into his duties, leaving you alone in the palace with your own battle to wage.

This was not the battlefield he knew—no clash of swords, no banners raised to the wind. This war wore rouge and whispered behind fans. It traded in glances, not arrows. And you had to fight it without him.

Which is why you had done the unthinkable: stepped directly into the lair of one of the most powerful women in the palace—alone.

The private chambers of Empress Gyokuyou were a place of cultivated tranquility, where even silence felt intentional. Amber light spilled through silk-paneled screens painted with cranes in mid-flight and branches of plum blossom that never faded. The delicate scent of camellia oil lingered in the air, subtle and clinging. Toys rested in artful corners—a carved rabbit, a painted drum, a silken ball—placed not haphazardly, but with care. Even innocence was curated here.

The Empress sat before you on a raised cushion of brocade, her robes a symphony of reds and pinks, her posture as precise as calligraphy. Her face was unreadable, carved with years of composure. She watched you with jade-colored eyes. Her lips curved into a faint smile—not cold, but not warm. Perfectly balanced.

"I do not want us to be enemies," you said softly, voice clear despite the weight of the moment. "My path seems already set. I must walk it, whether I would or not."

She lifted her cup and sipped slowly. The soft sound of liquid moving was the only reply for a long moment.

"I have always admired your father. He is an honorable man. Loyal beyond question. He has supported the Emperor since the beginning of his reign."

"It is true," you said, nodding. "My father respects and loves the Emperor deeply. And he holds equal respect for you, and for your children."

Her gaze lingered, searching, as though peeling layers you had thought well hidden.

"And you?"

You bowed your head, the jeweled hairpin in your crown catching the midday sun. Light glanced off it, a deliberate gleam—subtle, but unmistakable. A token from him.

Everyone knew what the pin meant. The pin had been given months before, hidden away in your dressing box, ignored. It was beautiful—carved of white jade and inlaid with white gold—a design too fine, too significant to be random. The Moon Prince's pin. In the court, such a gift was no mere ornament. It marked imperial interest. You were being chosen. Endorsed. And by wearing it now, you stated the choice you had made to the Empress herself.

"I came here because I wish to affirm my devotion to my empress. If this marriage… if it comes to fruition might cause some upset. I wish to ensure that doesn't happen" You straightened your posture as you met her gaze.

She paused. The silence was long, but not empty. Her eyes flicked once to the toddler nestled against her side, to the baby in her arms, before she turned her gaze back to you.

"Would you care for more tea?"

You had not been dismissed. That was something. A small victory, in a place where such things mattered. If you made an enemy of her now, you could very well be suffering the death by a thousand cuts.

"Yes, please." You smiled, demure and serene. A smile shaped not for affection, but diplomacy. You had long ago learned how to wield your expressions like weapons, same as the Empress in this you were equal.

At her signal, her ladies-in-waiting quietly stepped forward, bowed, and disappeared through a side door, their silk robes whispering as they moved. The hush that followed was deeper now, the room emptier. Just the two of you—and the Empress’s children, her preoccupied daughter and son, tucked against her side.

The children were the reason for everything. The reason for Jinshi—or whatever his name was to be in the rear palace, the reason for you needed to be here. Children were always sources of trouble—the need to secure their future, to keep them safe, to even have them. You did not know the Empress well, but you knew she was a good mother, and despite her kindness she would be as savage as any bear to protect her children. You appreciated that. You would be the same. But it made this even more difficult.

Then, without warning she spoke again.

"Could you love him? Truly?"

Your fingers hesitated on the rim of your cup. The question hung in the air. Did you? No. Could you? Maybe. As a young girl you might have been giddy, gushed around the Prince—but as a women you know how truly dangerous it was .

"I think… I could." You pondered. "I know I will be a good wife."

She looked down into her tea. "Jin... Ka Zuigetsu is shy after being isolated from much of court life due to his...illness. He... lacks confidence, even despite the front he wears. He is dear to me… I owe him much. I only want him to be cherished, as I cherish the Emperor."

"I can only try." You offered the words carefully, letting your tone soften just enough. A small show of sincerity—but never vulnerability.

She studied you again, not with suspicion, but with calculation—the kind that had become second nature to women like her. "You would be a fierce wife. Sharp. Loyal. Intelligent. The court would do well to fear you. And you would make a strong mother, no doubt."

Her hand moved gently, almost absently, to brush a lock of hair from her son’s face. He shifted slightly but didn’t wake, safe and warm beneath his mother’s arm. "This war comes too soon, when everything is unsettled.,. It gives people ideas," she said quietly.

You shifted slightly on your cushion. The Empress rarely spoke carelessly. But she was right, the prince was still a babe and with the war, it meant power struggles . And "ideas" could be the most dangerous thing of all in a place like this.

"They wouldn’t dare," you said, voice firmer now. You leaned forward, ever so slightly. "Your son is the only rightful choice."

Her gaze narrowed, not with anger, but with testing intent. "He is young. And there is no guarantee…"

"You will be blessed with more sons. All destined for greatness," you said quickly. It was true the young prince was young, and there were many dangers in the palace.

"And you? You want children, do you not?" Her eyes lifted sharply to yours.

Here it was—the threat. If you bore Jinshi children, they would not be minor princes to be married off to distant provinces. They would be born of imperial blood and martial lineage, noble on both sides. Children with your father's steel in their veins and your mothers connections to the western world, and Jinshi's royal blood, court-born charm and beauty and in anyone's eyes a dangerous weapon. Any child would be a threat that no amount of diplomacy could ignore.

Even now, the Empress must have seen it. How could she not? She was no fool. Her smile had been warm, but beneath it there had been calculation. The measured look of a woman who understood all too well how easily people turn.

You were not the enemy today. Not yet. But if you could establish a truce or an understanding, you and your family might just survive.

"I do." You held her gaze. No point lying. "But… these things take time. I doubt I will be blessed until there is a strong second born to bare the weight of the Emperors legacy."

You hated these layered words, this careful game of hint and half-meaning. Even if you did have a whole brood of strong boys, you would never let them near the court. It was too dangerous. You wanted a safe and happy family. Give them a childhood like you had. But that was not the game. No one would believe you. Why should they? So you played the game anyway, as all women at court did.

"You cannot know that," she said, though her voice softened around the edges. Her daughter toddled past the table, chubby legs wobbling slightly as she made her way toward her mother, giggling.

"There are ways," you replied. "Women have known them for centuries."

She understood. The knowledge passed between you, wordless but potent. Until the heir was secure—until a second son was born—you were not to conceive. It was easy enough to do. The safest thing you could do.

"It would be safer not to have children," she murmured, almost to herself.

A ripple of chill traveled down your spine, though you didn’t let it reach your face.

"I am still young. I have time to take a more leisurely approach," you said, still smiling, lifting the teacup with steady hands. "Though you do tempted me, especially when you show me your beautiful children to sway me into motherhood.'' You smiled the toddler as it chased a rather bashful cat across the room. ''Besides, I do not think you are cruel. You would not ask me such a thing."

"I would never ask that of a woman." Her voice shifted, and then, unexpectedly, laughter slipped from her lips. Not sharp, not mocking. Laughter that came too freely to be false. "I suppose that means you’ve thought about your future with the Prince… He is pleasing to the eye and kind… so kind… If he’s anything like his brother, he’ll certainly enjoy the act of making children." she teased.

Heat crept up your neck, though your smile remained composed.

"I’ll do my best."

"I'm sure you will—if the apothecary has anything to do with it. She has taught me more in keeping the Emperor happy than any other." More laughter, lighter this time. ''I am sure he wont know where or what to do with himself when he finally has you all to himself.''

You paled. For now you did not want to think about what or where he would put himself. Instead you would return home to your home. A tantrically retreat to regroup and plan your next steps. The hairpin shimmered again as you lowered your head, rising to stand.

"Then I think we understand each other. I look forward to our friendship. I will take my leave of you." You smiled and left.

Moments later, the lady-in-waiting returned with a steaming porcelain pot, blinking at the now empty spot.

"Your guest has gone, my lady. Is everything all right?" Hongniang whispered as she poured her lady a fresh cup of tea.

The Empress didn’t answer right away. She watched the steam curl from the teacup in her hand.

"I think so," she said quietly. "I hope so." Brushing her fingertips across her son’s soft cheek.

Xxxxxxxxxx

For now, you had the Empress on your side—tentative though her support might be. Still, it was something. In a court built on hidden knives and folded fans, the smallest alliance could mean survival.

Outside, the sun filtered through the latticework of the garden pavilion, tracing delicate patterns on the polished floor. The boys played among the chrysanthemums and peony bushes, their laughter echoing across the stone paths as they chased each other. When the food was laid out on the low lacquered table, the children rushed over like hungry foxes, settling onto the woven mats with eager hands.

Then—

“My lady, are you well?!”

Jinshi, his cheeks flushed the color of plum wine, his voice rising in panic. You really hoped none of the younger servants were nearby. The last thing you needed was a chorus of swooning girls gossiping about a blushing eunuch fluttering over your well-being or in his current state of dishevel. If one gushing girl saw the sight of his flushed skins you might have a riot on your hands.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he said, kneeling beside you, eyes darting over your form like a physician’s apprentice. “Should you be out of bed? Where is the physician? I—I’ll get you some congee, or ginger tea while you wait. You’re pale—too pale.”

Your brothers froze mid-bite, dumplings still in their mouths. A moment passed—then they burst into peals of laughter, delighted by the spectacle of the flustered young man circling you like a worried crane.

“I…” You blinked up at him, unsure whether to laugh or scold.

“Let me carry you to your chambers,” he continued, voice thick with concern. “The apothecary was right behind me. Apothecary! Where is she? Does your sister have a fever? I’ll send for herbs—a hot bath— maybe your father should be called he —”

Maomao entered just then, a little breathless and very irritated. “I told him not to come,” she muttered with a bow, “but he wouldn’t hear a word of it.”

“How can you say that right now? Tend to her!” Jinshi snapped, hovering so closely you could smell the faint trace of floral incense on his robes.

You sat still, trying not to laugh, as your brothers giggled behind their sleeves.

“Master Jinshi,” you said calmly, placing a steady hand on his arm. “Please calm yourself. I fear your concern is misplaced. I’m quite well.”

His eye twitched at your words. Something like frustration—or maybe embarrassment—flashed across his face.

“If you’re well… then why did you call for my apothecary?” His voice dropped. Behind him, Maomao tensed, her eyes fixed politely to the floor.

You hesitated, realizing your simple request for her to join you had been intercepted by a very nosy eunuch which could unravel far more than you intended. Damn him. You could not tell him your real desire to see his servant.

“I… I have been having trouble sleeping,” you said gently. Not a lie, but not the truth “Yes… And I thought your apothecary might have a remedy to ease my rest. I didn't mean to trouble you… I didn’t think you would get the message.” You eyed him as he blushed bashfully at you. “Please forgive me. That was not my intention.”

You bowed deeply, and when you lifted your gaze, Jinshi’s expression had softened.

“My lady… you need not apologize. I’m only glad you’re well.”

“I’ll prepare a medicine for My Lady,” Maomao added quickly, already making her exit with swift, efficient steps.

Coward, you thought, glaring at her back.

Jinshi, meanwhile, was staring at you again—moonstruck, dazed. His beauty was… unfortunate. Smooth skin, lashes long enough to shame a courtesan, the gentle slope of his nose too perfect for a man. Even his robes did nothing to hide his physique. Too perfect for your peace of mind.

Handsome husbands cause problems. But perhaps, you considered, they were at least easier to bed—easier to maneuver once there. You had heard tales and tricks from women in the bathhouse of all the methods and positions they used to avoid looking at their husbands while they gave them pleasure. At least you would not have to deal with that. It would make taking him to your bed as a husband and a lover easier. You wondered how he would be as a husband. Would he even be interested in that? Perhaps only one way to find out.

“Please,” you said, composing your features into something soft and sincere, “won’t you join us?”

“I… I couldn’t possibly—”

“Please, Master Jinshi,” you interrupted, leaning closer. “As an apology. For troubling you.”

You smiled—not a practiced court smile, but a coy smile, not seductive, but warmer than you had given him before. You regretted it immediately.

Jinshi blushed violently and seemed to melt into his own shadow. “It would be… my pleasure,” he managed.

“Then please,” you said, bowing your head slightly, “sit beside me. Let me serve you.”

xxxxx

The food was a masterpiece of imperial luxury. Steamed buns puffed like clouds, glossy with sweet glaze. Thin slices of roast duck curled atop a bed of lotus root. Tofu steeped in a spicy sauce shimmered beside bowls of pickled cucumber, delicate and pale green. Long platters bore fish dressed in ginger and spring onion, while bamboo baskets steamed with dumplings stuffed with shrimp, pork, and wild chives. Fragrant jasmine rice steamed beside braised mushrooms glistening with soy and sesame oil.

Jinshi writhed—visibly—when you plated his meal with your own hands. He peered down into the soup you poured him with hesitant suspicion.

“I assure you,” you said with a sly smile, “the food is quite safe. All prepared by the palace kitchens, and my servants are thoroughly trustworthy.”

Your eyes flicked toward the silk screen, behind which a couple of blushing maids giggled uncontrollably.

“I… I’m sure,” he said weakly.

You lifted your spoon, plucked a glistening slice of mushroom and broth from his bowl, and slipped it into your mouth. Chewing slowly, you stared directly at him.

“I promise,” you murmured, “you are safe here. No women will chase you.”

You plucked another bite—tender chicken, still steaming—and held it to his lips.

He stared at you, eyes wide, wild, and a little glassy allowing you to bring the spoon to his lips— directly to where you put your lips. His eyes never left yours as he drank greedily, lips lingering too long on the spoon. You might have giggled had it not been so thoroughly satisfying. It would seem he was very interested in you.

The meal continued in lively spirits. Jinshi proved himself surprisingly charming, if a bit overly fawning. But he was attentive to your brothers, which you rather enjoyed. He was good with them, he might be a good father, if the time came, if not a bit of a pushover.

“I want sesame buns!” your youngest brother pouted, lower lip wobbling, while the elder had already begun to sniffle.

“I—I will ask the kitchen!” Jinshi blurted, starting to rise from his seat in panic.

“You will get sesame buns when you finish your vegetables,” you said, voice calm but cutting. “And don’t even think about hiding them in the plant pots again like you do with Father.”

Your brothers flinched, wilting a little under your stern gaze and they weren’t the only ones.

Jinshi went scarlet—and then pale. A thin stream of blood trickled from his nose. It would seem Maomao was right—he did like to be told off.

“Master Jinshi—are you well?” you asked, arching a brow.

“A-ah! Yes!” he coughed, dabbing at his face with his sleeve. “A piece of sweet potato went the wrong way…”

He tried to compose himself with a cough and a dazzling smile, but his eyes flicked up—locked on your hairpin.

“That pin…” he said quietly.

You were surprised it took him this long to recognize it, but glad. If he was to interrupt the evening and spoil a chance at speaking with the indebted apothecary, you were going to make the most of it.

“It was a gift,” you replied, lowering your gaze modestly.

From the corner of your eye, you saw the bob of his throat as he swallowed.

“…It suits you,” he murmured, eye transfixed on you.

You smiled. Yes. Handsome husbands were trouble. But trouble could be useful.

So let me know what you think of this chapter and the concept in general. The reader is going to play hard and dirty but she has a way to go. I would love to know your thoughts on the reader or Jinshi

LIKE> COMMENT> REQUEST

More to come soon

@one-piecelover

#jinshi apothecary diaries #jinshi x reader #jinshi #apothecary diaries #the apothecary diaries

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fidesvirtusobsession · 3 months ago

Text

Echoes of a Thousand Nights

Yandere Vampire x AFAB reader

Prologue || Chapter 1 || Chapter 2

Description: For centuries, Alaric has walked the earth, bound by the cruel hand of fate. A vampire of old blood, he has seen empires fall, lovers turn to dust, and the world reshape itself around him. Yet, through the endless nights, one thing remains constant—her. The woman who haunts his past lives, slipping through his fingers with every rebirth. She never remembers, never knows who he is, yet he finds her, lifetime after lifetime, only to lose her again.Now, in the present day, her scent resurfaces in the most unlikely of places—an underground auction house where humans are sold like cattle. But Alaric will not let fate steal her away this time. This time, he will keep her.

The sleek black car moved through the city streets like a shadow, silent and unyielding. The world outside was alive with its usual sins—dimly lit alleyways where deals were made in whispers, neon lights flickering over clubs that never closed, the distant wail of sirens swallowed by the hum of the city. Yet, within the confines of the vehicle, there was only silence.

Alaric sat in the backseat, his posture relaxed but his presence anything but. The dim glow of passing streetlights cut across his sharp features, briefly illuminating the golden glint in his eyes before it was swallowed by darkness once more. Across from him, one of his most trusted servants, Elias, sat stiffly, his breath still uneven from the hurried message he had delivered.

"You’re certain?" Alaric's voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it—a warning.

Elias swallowed before nodding. "I am, my Lord. I caught her scent the moment I stepped inside. It’s faint, but unmistakable."

Alaric turned his gaze to the window, watching as the city blurred past. His fingers, long and elegant, drummed once against his knee. Her scent. A phantom sensation crawled through his chest, something raw, something restless. It had been so long.

The driver maneuvered through the streets with precision, taking them deeper into the underbelly of the city where no human dared venture willingly. The auction house was hidden beneath layers of secrecy, its existence only whispered about in dark corners.

Alaric had known about these places. He had never cared. They were beneath him—crude and barbaric, a playground for lesser creatures who had no control over their hunger. He had no interest in slaves or playthings. He had no need for them.

So why was he here now?

Because she was here.

A cruel twist of fate had led her to this place, and the thought of it—of her being displayed, sold, touched—made something dark coil in his chest. His fingers curled into a fist, nails biting into his palm.

“Do we know who’s running the auction tonight?” he asked, his voice even.

Elias nodded. “The usual filth. Vampires who don’t know their place, desperate enough to make a business of selling humans. But there are others attending. Some names even you might recognize.”

Alaric exhaled sharply, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Then I suppose I’ll have to remind them who they’re dealing with.”

The car slowed as they approached a nondescript building, its exterior blending seamlessly with the rest of the city’s forgotten ruins. To a human, it was nothing but a derelict warehouse. To those who knew better, it was a market of flesh and blood.

The driver came to a stop, stepping out to open the door.

Alaric didn’t move immediately. He sat there for a second longer, staring at the building as if he could already see the ghosts waiting inside. Would she recognize him? Would she remember?

He didn’t have the luxury of doubt.

With a fluid motion, he stepped out of the car, his polished boots hitting the pavement with purpose. The night air was thick with the scent of humans—fear, sweat, desperation. But beneath it all, like a whisper meant only for him, was her.

Alaric inhaled deeply.

And then he walked inside.

The dim candle light flickered against the stone walls of his study as Alaric leaned back in his chair, fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass. The blood within it had long gone cold, untouched. His mind was elsewhere—far from the luxury of his manor, far from the present.

It had been centuries, yet he still remembered the first time he had laid eyes on her.

England, 16700s. The air was damp with the scent of earth and herbs, the sharp tang of remedies brewing in clay pots over low fires. The townspeople feared the plague, feared illness, but they feared her just as much.

The witch.

The scent of earth after rain filled the air as Alaric stepped onto the narrow, winding path leading to a small cottage on the outskirts of the village. The place was unremarkable—simple, humble, tucked against the edge of the forest where the trees whispered secrets to those willing to listen.

Yet, the aura of magic was undeniable.

He had heard rumors, spoken in hushed voices—of a woman who lived beyond the reach of the town, a healer shrouded in mystery. The villagers feared her, yet when desperation struck, they sought her out under the cover of darkness.

Alaric had heard whispers of her long before he ever sought her out. A woman who healed when others would not. A woman whose hands could coax the fever from a dying child, whose presence turned away the reaper itself. They called her many things—blessed, cursed, dangerous.

He had called her his last hope.

His footsteps were silent against the uneven path leading to her cottage, hidden deep within the woods where only the desperate dared to tread. The night was thick with mist, curling around the trees like spirits watching, waiting. And then—there she was.

The door swung open before he even touched it.

And there she stood.

Dressed in a modest, earth-stained dress, her sleeves rolled up as if she had been working mere moments ago, she looked nothing like the fearful, whispered tales. There was no hunched posture, no wary glance—only an inquisitive gaze that locked onto his.

She had been tending to a child, her hands gentle as she placed a damp cloth over his fevered forehead. Her hair fell around her face in loose waves, strands catching in the dim firelight. He had expected someone older, someone bent with the weight of unnatural knowledge. Instead, she was young. Young, but with eyes that carried centuries of wisdom, as if she had seen too much, known too much.

“You’re not from this village,” she had said, her voice calm, knowing.

Alaric had stepped forward, hesitant in a way he had not been for years. “No.”

She didn’t look at him then, only continued her work, grinding herbs with precision. “Yet you came here for something.”

He had never known how to beg. He had been a nobleman in life, a monster in death. Yet, in her presence, he had felt small.

“I need your help,” he had admitted.

Finally, she looked at him. Her gaze flickered over him—not with fear, but with understanding. As if she could see what he was.

The air in the small cottage was thick with the scent of burning herbs, damp earth, and something faintly metallic—blood. Alaric stood just inside the doorway, the low flames from the hearth casting flickering shadows across his face. He had been invited in, yet he felt like an intruder.

She had been tending to a wounded traveler when he arrived, hands steady, voice calm as she whispered reassurances to the half-conscious man. It wasn’t until she finished—until the man was resting peacefully in the corner—that she turned her full attention to him.

And oh, how it startled him.

She stepped closer, eyes bright with something that made his stomach twist. Excitement.

“You’re a vampire.” Her voice held no fear—only fascination.

Alaric stiffened. “You say that as if I am some curiosity.”

Her lips curled into a small, knowing smile. “Because you are.”

Before he could respond, she moved. Fast. Too fast.

Suddenly, she was circling him, inspecting him like a scholar studying a rare specimen.

“You’re paler than I imagined,” she murmured, her fingers hovering just shy of his forearm. He could feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

His muscles tensed. “Most vampires are.”

She hummed, completely unfazed. “And your eyes—they shift colors, don’t they? Depending on hunger.”

Alaric said nothing. He didn’t need to.

She took another step, tilting her head. “I always thought vampires had a sickly look to them, but you…” She trailed off, frowning slightly. “You don’t look like a corpse at all.”

Alaric let out a sharp exhale, his patience fraying. “Is there a point to this examination?”

"You’re the first vampire I’ve ever met," she admitted, her voice tinged with genuine curiosity. "I have so many questions.”

“And you are surprisingly comfortable in my presence,” he muttered, gazing darkly.

She shrugged. “I’ve spent my life tending to those the world fears. The sick, the dying, the cursed.” She finally stopped pacing, standing just before him, arms crossed. “You’re no different.”

Alaric’s lips parted—no different? Did she not understand what he was?

“Tell me,” she said suddenly, her voice softer now. “Is it true that your kind feel no warmth?”

He hesitated. “We do not.”

A flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes. Then, before he could react, her hand touched his.

Alaric stiffened, every muscle in his body locking in place. Her fingers were warm—too warm.

She let out a small gasp. “You’re like stone.”

Alaric forced himself to pull away, his voice lower now. “And you are far too bold for your own good.”

She only smiled at him, as if she had won some sort of unspoken challenge.

“There is no cure for what you are,” she had whispered.

A cold truth. One he had refused to accept then.

“I don’t believe that,” he had said. “There must be something—anything.”

She sighed, wiping her hands clean. “You vampires. You fear eternity just as much as mortals fear death.”

Alaric clenched his jaw. “Wouldn’t you?”

She had met his gaze then, something unreadable in her expression. And for a brief moment, he thought he saw sadness.

“I don’t fear death,” she had said softly. “But I fear being forgotten.”

That had been the first night of many. He had returned, over and over, desperate for a cure that did not exist, and yet—he had found her. Found something he hadn’t known he was searching for.

"You have an interesting reputation," he murmured instead.

A flicker of amusement danced across her lips. "Do I? And what have they told you?"

"That you’re a witch."

She laughed. A genuine, light sound, as if the idea was amusing rather than insulting. "And do you believe them?"

Alaric studied her. Most would have shrunk under his gaze. She didn’t.

"I believe people fear what they do not understand."

The warmth of her hands as she tended to wounds, the fire in her eyes when she argued with him, the softness in her voice when she spoke to the sick. She had been kind when the world was cruel.

And then—she had been taken.

That life had been stolen from her. Burned at the stake as a witch, her screams swallowed by roaring flames. He had found the men responsible, but vengeance had never been enough.

And now—now, she is here again.

Another life. Another chance.

But at what cost?

Alaric exhaled slowly, the weight of centuries pressing down on him. He pushed himself up from his chair, shaking the blood from his fingers. There was no time to dwell.

Tonight, he would bring her back.

This time, he would not be too late.

The stench of blood was the first thing to hit him.

Thick. Metallic. Rotting.

Alaric barely concealed his disgust as he stepped inside the auction house, his expression impassive. The underground was always like this—filthy, indulgent, monstrous. He had seen it before, many times over, and yet it never failed to remind him of how low creatures of the night could sink.

The dimly lit hall was filled with murmuring voices, hushed yet buzzing with anticipation. Vampires, draped in wealth and arrogance, lounged in private booths or leaned lazily against the iron railings above, waiting for their chance to bid.

Below, the stage was slick with old stains.

Alaric’s gloved hand curled into a fist at his side. The humans on display—pale, hollow-eyed, trembling—were nothing but cattle to the beasts surrounding him. Chained. Branded. Some are barely able to stand.

Savages.

He had seen vampires reduced to little more than predators, but the reality of it still sickened him.

A human was dragged onto the stage, her muffled sobs barely carrying over the laughter in the crowd. The auctioneer grinned, dragging a hand beneath the girl’s chin, forcing her to look up.

“Fresh stock,” he purred. “Still untouched. Who’ll start the bidding?”

A ripple of excitement spread through the room.

Alaric barely heard it.

Because that’s when he smelled it.

Faint. Hidden beneath the overwhelming stench of suffering—but undeniable.

Her.

It slammed into him so suddenly his vision blurred.

The scent was the same, yet different. Time had changed her, reshaped her, but it was hers—he was sure of it.

He inhaled sharply, and the sound of the crowd dulled into a distant, meaningless hum.

She was here.

His servant, standing at his side, noticed the shift in his demeanor. “My Lord?”

Alaric didn’t answer.

His mind was already racing.

Was she hurt? Was she among them?

Or was he too late?

Alaric moved before he could think.

His stride was swift, purposeful—dangerous. The scent grew stronger with each step, guiding him through the dim corridors of the auction house like a predator honing in on its prey. But she was not prey.

She was his.

His shoulder slammed into the heavy iron door, sending it flying open with a deafening crash. The vampires inside startled, their hushed conversation cut off mid-sentence. They turned sharply, eyes glowing in the low light, irritated by the sudden intrusion.

But Alaric didn’t care.

His gaze swept the room, searching— and then he saw her.

Slumped on the cold stone floor. Shackled.

The sight burned.

She sat hunched against the wall, her wrists bound in iron, the heavy chains pooling around her like some cruel mockery of a throne. Her clothes—**thin, tattered—**did nothing to shield her from the chill that seeped from the damp walls.

And yet… her eyes were still bright.

Wide with shock, staring up at him—**him—**as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

He exhaled slowly, forcing down the violent rage curling in his chest. He needed to get to her. Now.

A vampire stepped forward, clearly unamused. “This room is reserved—”

Alaric’s glare silenced him instantly.

Cold. Unforgiving.

The air shifted.

A slow, creeping dread slithered into the room, pressing down with the weight of something ancient, something unstoppable.

They felt it.

One took an instinctive step back. Another’s throat bobbed as he swallowed nervously.

They knew.

They were standing in the presence of something far more dangerous than they had anticipated.

Alaric took a slow, deliberate step forward, his voice deathly quiet.

“Unchain her. Now.”

Taglist: @yune1337 @mybones537

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iamyourdailydoseofbi · 11 months ago

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OH, WHO IS SHE? ( HOTD x Reader )

author notes: thanks so much for the love! stay happy and safe! pairing: King Aegon ii Targaryen x Death! Reader key words: h/c = hair color, e/c = eye color prompt: You've been haunting Aegon since Rook's Rest. word count: 600+ words

Aegon did not know who or what you were. You always came at the same time, wearing the small hooded cloak that hid your face, a soft linen with little gold embroidery on the trim. You are always whispering to him, most of the time he did not hear what you were saying, your words coming out like a gust of wind. Too fast and too gentle for him to cling onto until it was too late.

Sometimes you did not speak at all, just standing like a ghost at the foot of his bed, the dark shadows of the room keeping your face hidden. He craved to know more. To even get a glimpse of your features, like a hint of your hair color or just the outline of your face. What were you? Who were you? Were you a part of the staff? Someone that he had never met before? Or were you just a figment of his imagination, fueled by the heavy doses of milk of the poppy?

Tonight, he would get an answer.

Staring droopy eyed at the foot of his bed, he waited for you to appear, the heavy dose of milk of the poppy keeping his injuries numb and stated. He was still forced on bed rest, the left side of his body tender and healing from the burns of dragonfire of Meleys. Hearing a gust of wind slam against the window, he tilts his head to the side, watching the curtains blow and rattle.

Licking his chapped bottom lip, he catches a soft whisper filling the room, his head turning back to look at the foot of his bed. Seeing you stand there, he slightly perks up as much as he could with his injuries, his eyes no longer as droopy as before. His fingers twitch, brushing against the soft linen bed sheet, longing to reach out for you. Inspecting you, you looked the same as always.

“It’s you.” He croaks out, his throat dry.

“Upsurger King, chokes on wine.” You whisper nonsense, “Dies like a rat, oh, so divine.”

“Won’t you come closer?” He croaks out, licking his lip with his tongue.

“No.”

Watching you turn your head to the side, he catches a glimpse of wispy strands of hair peeking out, his eyes fixating on the strands of ( h/c ). It would be something that he clings onto for the rest of his days. Your hair was ( h/c ). You had ( h/c ) hair. His mind reeling with a new thousand questions, was your hair curly? Or straight? Or wavy? Was it long? Or short? Did you style it like other Ladies in the Court, with jewels and braids? Or were you more simple and let it flow loose and freely? Seeing you take a step back from the foot of his bed, he cursed his injuries, wanting to reach out and stop you from leaving.

“No? Please, come to me.” He begs, his voice trembling as tears build up.

“You will die.” You babble on nonsense, “Wine. Fall. Sword. Fire. Four children with Hightower blood, yes, yes, shall die.”

“No, no, just come to me. Please, do not leave me alone.” He whimpers, hoping to get you closer.

Surprisingly, you obey and saunter over to him. Watching you slowly stalk towards him like a predator stalking its prey, you pull down the hood of your cloak, the shadows hiding most of your features. The only thing he could see as clear as day was two ( e/ c ) eyes staring deep into his soul. He shivers in his place on the bed, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum.

He was sure now, that this had to be a dream of some kind. There was no other reason for your strange babbles and the darkness perfectly hiding your face from his view, even though the moonlight filled his chambers. If you were nothing but a dream? Why did you feel so real? Like if he reached out, he would be able to touch you.

“You came.” He whimpered out, his bottom lip trembling.

“I must.” You breathe out, “I must come to you. Tis’ my duty to do so.”

“Who are you?” He breathes out, his fingers twitching against the bedsheet.

“You walked with me once, twas’ in a dream. You danced with dragon flames.” You whisper, “You called for me as they took you from Rook’s Rest.”

Shivering at you, raising your voice more clearly, there was something so soothing about it, like honey dripping down his throat. He faintly remembered his Mother had mentioned that the Stranger would be like this, so mysterious and soothing, meant to guide those to eternal rest. Is that what you were doing? Had you come to take him to a peaceful eternal rest?

“Are you the Stranger?” He whispers, “Have you come to take me?”

“No.” You state, no longer whispering.

“No?”

“When the sun rises, on the sixth moon of 131, your line shall end.” You state, vanishing into thin air.

---

@lovelykhaleesiii

@fragileheartbeats

@nightvers

@zaldritzosrose

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yunaversalluv · 4 days ago

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⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull

ᴀ ɪɴᴅɪᴇ ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄɪᴀɴ!ᴇʟʟɪᴇ x ᴄᴏɴᴄᴇʀɴᴛ ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜᴇʀ!ꜰᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull m.list

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱʏɴᴏᴘꜱɪꜱ `౨ৎ~

What starts as another routine gig behind the camera turns into something electric. One photo. One look. And suddenly, nothing feels ordinary anymore.

cw for this chapter// mild language, alcohol references, sensual/intense gaze, emotional intensity, brief implied violence/grunge imagery

taglist - @miajooz @talyaisvalslutsoldier @lesoulew @elliespotion @valeisaslut @mariesmagix

CHAPTER ONE - THROUGH THE LENSE

The green room isn’t green.

It’s beige in a tired, industrial way, with mismatched chairs and a futon that looks like it’s seen war. A string of dead fairy lights droops from the ceiling. Someone left half a burrito on the amp case in the corner, and it’s been there long enough to look philosophical about it. You’ve been to worse places.

You’re early — earlier than usual — half-hoping to catch some candids of the band before they hit the stage. The kind of shots that feel more like moments than marketing. Sweatshirts slung over shoulders. Smudged eyeliner. Fingers dancing across strings like nervous habits. You knock once and step inside.

Three heads turn.

Jesse is the first to speak. “You the photo girl?”

“Photographer,” Dina corrects from where she’s sprawled on the futon, boots up on the edge of a milk crate. “God, Jesse, you make it sound like she’s here to do yearbook headshots.”

You raise your hands in a peace gesture. “Photo girl works. I’ve been called worse.”

Jesse laughs, friendly, already leaning back in his chair with an energy that says he’s been in a thousand of these rooms and somehow made peace with all of them. “I’m Jesse. Drums. The adult supervision.”

Dina snorts. “You once tried to mic a floor tom with a karaoke mic you found in the parking lot.”

“Resourcefulness is a virtue.”

She extends a hand toward you. Rings. Black nail polish chipped to hell. “Dina. Bassist. Co-leader of this circus.”

You shake her hand, and your camera strap swings forward. Jesse eyes it.

“Digital?” he asks, pretending to be disappointed.

“Film on weekends,” you reply.

“Respect.”

And then there’s a pause. A hitch in the rhythm.

Ellie’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, tuning a battered guitar that looks like it’s held together by tape, history, and spite. She hasn’t said a word. Just flicks her gaze up toward you — brief, impassive — then back to the strings.

You’re about to introduce yourself when Dina gestures vaguely at her.

“That’s Ellie.”

Ellie doesn’t look up. “Vocals, guitar, grump,” Dina adds helpfully.

“Cool,” you say, unsure if you're supposed to say more.

“She’s not being rude,” Jesse says, drumming his fingers on the edge of a case. “She’s just in pre-show mode. She gets quiet. Wound tight like a snare.”

“She’ll talk once we’re two songs deep,” Dina mutters. “Or once she forgets you’re new.”

Ellie glances up at that. Her eyes meet yours, fleeting but sharp — and something clicks there, not recognition exactly, but curiosity that cuts a little too close to the bone.

She nods, just once, then goes back to her guitar.

You hover near the edge of the room, uncertain if you’re intruding or observing, until Jesse kicks a stool toward you with his boot.

“You here for the whole set?” he asks.

You nod. “Zine sent me. Said you were good.”

“We are,” Dina says without a shred of irony, cracking open a can of something neon and carbonated. “At least when the mics work and Ellie doesn’t blow her voice screaming on the first chorus.”

Ellie, still looking down, mutters, “Maybe if someone would stop trying to play harmonies off key.”

“One time!” Dina groans.

Jesse just shakes his head, amused. “Don’t let them scare you off. We’re barely dysfunctional.”

You smile and settle in, camera resting in your lap. The band goes back to their routine — adjusting straps, double-checking cords, bantering with the tired ease of people who’ve seen each other at their best and worst and still show up.

You lift the lens once — just a test shot of the space, the light, the tension in the air.

Ellie doesn’t look up.

But her fingers still for a second.

Just long enough to make you wonder if she felt the shutter click — or if she’s just always listening that closely.

The venue is a mess — the kind of mess that wears its history like a badge of honor. There were peeling posters clinging to the walls in half-torn layers, each one a ghost of a night long gone: punk shows, underground rap battles, someone’s embarrassing, regrettable birthday gig. They stack like tree rings, proof that time has passed and no one’s bothered to clean it up. The floor was slightly stuck in places, and stained in others. The smile of warm beer, spilled whiskey, old wood, and something metallic — sweat, maybe. Or blood. Or the memory of both fill the air.

The stage isn’t a stage, not really.

Just a platform — barely a foot off the ground — edged with duct tape and scuffer where amps have been dragged across one too many times. A few sad lights are packed in tight, shoulder to shoulder, everybody humming with the kind of restless tension that had-conversation, half-anticipation — rising like steam in the humid air.

This is currently your third local show this week. Same kind of venue. Same kind of crowd.

You didn’t really expect anything different tonight. The zine gave you the name of the band — Violet Thorns — and a promise of gas money.

No bio. No soundcheck. No idea what kind of music they even play. Y

You’re only here for the paycheck and the byline. Get a few wide shots. Some gritty close-ups. Maybe a backstage candid or two. Only if they’re feeling generous. Then home to edit until your eyes blur and your coffee goes cold.

You’re adjusting your gear in the corner when the band walks on, casual and barely noticed — just shapes and moving through haze. But then she appears.

Ellie

She steps into the low light like it owes her its life. Not strutting. Not shy. Just there. Present in a way most people aren’t. Like she's been dropped into the room from a height and hasn’t quite landed yet.

She’s dressed like she didn’t try, which means she absolutely did — loose gray tee hanging just right, clinging to the sharp angles of her shoulders. Worn black jeans, frayed at the knees, snug at the hips. Guitar slung low on a battered and old strap, body of it dulled with use. Her hair’s pulled back in a messy half-knot, strands escaping to curl against her cheek and the nape of her neck.

You can already tell they’ll be soaked through with sweat before the second song.

Behind her, Jesse’s fiddling with his kit, tapping each snare and cymbal like he’s having a conversation with them. “Tell me you tuned this thing for real this time,” he mutters to no one in particular, voice half-lost in the reverb of the room.

“Relax, Jess,” Dina says from across the stage, her bass slung low, a patchwork of duct tape and sticker scars covering its body. She’s already chewing gum, rolling it between her teeth like she’s bored, “It’s not your precious open mic night. No one’s here to judge your rim shots.”

Jesse snorts, spinning a stick in his hand. “I’m just saying. Some of us care about tone.”

Ellie just huffs a laugh — the kinda that’s more breath than sound — and crutches to check her pedals. “You two done flirting or should we wait until the second set?”

“Don’t be jealous,” Dina throws back, smirking. “You’ll get your turn.”

You catch it. The exchange. The ease. The way they move around each other like this isn’t a stage but a living room they’ve rehearsed in a hundred times. Ellie doesn’t talk much, but when Jesse gives a lazy four-count with his sticks, she steps to the mic like she’s done it in her sleep.

The light hits her unevenly — a harsh red from the side, a gold hue from behind, and a single white strobe that flickers across her jaw like lightning.

The effect is strange. Disjointed. She looks like someone caught between scenes: half-dream, half-warning.

She doesn’t say much before they start. Just a glance toward the mic, a shift of weight, one sharp breath pulled into her ribs like she’s bracing for impact.

Then sound.

It starts with the guitar — distorted, tense, like a fight you can’t look away from. The first chords cut through the room like they’re trying to slice it open. Her voice follows, rough, and raw, imperfect in the best way. There’s no polish. No filter. Just this unvarnished ache in ever note, like shes trying to claw something out from under her skin and throw it at the crowd.

She doesn’t perform so much as bleed.

And everyone watches.

But she doesn’t watch them.

She doesn’t need to.

You’re shooting on instinct now, moving through the space like you’ve done a hundred times before. The lighting’s unpredictable, ISO climbing too high, shutter struggling to catch the motion. You frame wide. Pull in close. Try to get something usable through the chaos. You’re focusing on the mechanics, not the meaning.

Until she steps forward.

It's not much. Just a half-step. But it’s more than enough. Her fingers tighten around the mic stand like it’s the only thing tethering her to this world, and when the chorus crests — sound crashing into a wave of desperate melody — she lifts her gaze.

And stares straight down the lens.

You freeze.

The crowd, the noise, the movement — all of it falls away in that one second.

Her expression doesn’t shift. She’s not smiling. Not posing. Her jaw is tight, a muscle jumping just under the skin. There’s sweat shining at her temple, catching in the collar of her shirt. But her eyes — god her eyes — are locked on yours. And there’s something in them that burns.

Not anger.

Not exactly

Intensity. Recognition, maybe. Or a challenge

You take the shot

Click.

You don’t remember adjusting the focus. Don’t remember breathing. You just know — somehow — that it’s right. The lighting is too harsh, the composition almost accidental, but it doesn’t matter. One half of her face is too harsh, the composition almost accidental, but it doesn’t matter. Her sartre pinned to the glas slike she sees something she wasn’t supposed to find, Like she's seeing you.

And it's not pretty.

But it’s honest.

It’s the kind of photo you don’t take twice.

Later, you retreat to the back of the room, gear slung over your shoulder, adrenaline tapering off into exhaustion. The band crashes into their final chorus, and the crowd moves as one body — sweaty, screaming, vibrating with borrowed emotion.

“Drinks after?” Jesse asks, tossing his sticks into a canvas bag backstage.

“God, no,” Dina gorans, stripping off her bass.”I need to un-peel my jeans and die for like, eight hours.”

“You were off during the bridge,” Ellie says quietly, wiping sweat from the back of her neck.

“I was improvising,” Dina shoots back with a grin. “You’re welcome.”

Ellie just gives a one-shoulder shrug, too tired to argue, but something like a smirk tugs at her lips.

You open your camera. Scroll past the noise.

And there it is.

The shot.

Your stomach flips. Something tightens behind your ribs.

She looks electric.

Unreachable.

Like the camera fell in love and didn’t bother to tell you.

You should delete it. You know that. It feels too raw. Too invasive. Like you caught someone in the middle of a confession they didn’t mean to make. But your fingers hover — hesitate — and instead, you flag it. Mark it for export. Tell yours it's just part of the job.

Another face in your portfolio

@lowlightarchive (you) [photo attached]

📸 Violet Thorns at Saint Monday — one of those sets that hits harder in the dark. 🕷️ #violetthorns #grungeaesthetic #concertphotography #indiescene #shotoncanon

♡ 12.5k 🗨️5.5k

💬 @cassettepunk

This is giving 90s riot girl energy. Who is she and why do I want her to ruin my life???

💬 @undergrounddaily This is the photo that will be in future music docs about the revival of raw-stage grunge. Bookmark this.

💬 @lesbianpit420 she’s either about to kiss the photographer or kill them, and either way I support her

💬 @sixstringtheory been in the scene for years — haven’t seen a photo hit like this since early Yeah Yeah Yeahs. lightning in a lens.

💬 @ellieislord IS SHE LOOKING AT THE CAMERA LIKE THAT ON PURPOSE?????

💬 @lesbianbandcamp the camera didn’t catch her. it unlocked her.

💬 @mossandmurcury caption this: “I want you to see me, but only how I say.”

💬 @zinebite Need a name. Need a source. Need a fucking interview. Where is the band’s PR?

You don’t know yet that it’s already started.

That the photo will spread like wildfire — viral in a way you’ve never experienced. That people will see what you saw and twist it into a thousand meanings. That Ellie will find it. That she’ll send you a message, hours later, in the deep end of the night.

No greeting.

No context.

Just one question:

“Why were you staring so long?”

#⋆.˚ ★— Focus Pull #ellie x fem reader #ellie x reader #ellie williams x reader #slow burn #x reader #reader insert

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erosmutt · 4 months ago

Text

　★　Captain Save A Hoe　⨟　H. Solo

PART ONE

﹙characters﹚︰Han Solo, Darth Vader, Wilhuff Tarkin, Thrawn

﹙pairing﹚︰Han x DARTH VADER'S APPRENTICE!reader

﹙synopsis﹚︰Master let his little apprentice go on a mission all by herself. It took some convincing from the Admirals, but she soon found herself on Tatooine, searching for a certain smuggler, and their run-in is far different than what she anticipated.

﹙content warnings﹚︰semi-public sex, bathroom sex, quickie, blowjob, face-fucking

﹙word count﹚︰2.0k

⠀★⠀⠀─⠀⠀WRITTEN BY EROSMUTT 25.01.14

Every time you step into the conference room, you absolutely dread what's to come.

Rebels this, rebels that. Stationed here, stationed there.

The only plus to this specific meeting was that for once, Tarkin was not the one doing the talking. It was Thrawn.

"This man is not to be underestimated."

You sit at the table, fingers drumming on the surface in a steady rhythm, the only sound other than the soft beeps and boops of the control module as Thrawn navigates it, although both are being drowned out by your Master's obnoxiously loud breathing.

Nobody is really paying attention, for that matter. Except Tarkin, as always, kissing the Empire's ass.

Your eyes, previously clouded and distant, suddenly focus as the Admiral's words lift your veil of contemplation. You look up at the flickering screen displaying a mugshot of a man who, at first glance, seems unremarkable. "The man in question," Thrawn begins, his voice echoing through the conference room, "is Han Solo."

An involuntary scoff leaves you, drawing the attention of every high-ranking officer present. You lean forward slightly, your demeanor a mix of curiosity and skepticism. "Pardon the intrusion," you interject, your tone measured. "but, what exactly makes him so perilous? He looks utterly unexceptional."

Unfortunately, Tarkin is the one to speak this time. He scrutinizes you with an intensity in his narrowed eyes that can only be perceived as disapproval, which it is, because he does not approve of you. However, he tolerates you.

"His danger lies not in his outward appearance, but in the information he possesses, and the circles he keeps. He's a smuggler, one with a network of contacts that stretches across the Outer Rim and beyond." He takes a breath before continuing, eyes never leaving your face. "Solo has been known to associate with the likes of the Rebel Alliance's top leader. His ship, the Millennium Falcon, is used to ferry critical information and supplies to the Rebellion's strongholds."

Maker, what an earful.

Tarkin's gaze turns back to the mugshot, distaste clear on his face and in his voice. "Furthermore, he's been a thorn in the side of the Empire. He's evaded us for years, always slipping through our grasp at the last moment. In doing so, he's become a symbol of defiance, a beacon of hope for the discontented masses."

Is he done yet?

"Perhaps you'd like to aid in his capture, since you have such curiosity."

Of course not.

"Excuse me?"

The pale blue of Tarkin's eyes fall back on you, studying your expression. "I recommend you take personal charge of this mission to apprehend Solo. Your... unique skills and background may prove invaluable in navigating the underworld he inhabits."

A sound akin to a garbled scoff is heard from beside you. It's clear that Vader isn't happy with this new development. The Grand Moff, ever the antagonist, raises an eyebrow. "Do you disagree, Lord Vader?"

Yes, he does disagree. One thousand times over, absolutely. Yet for some reason, he can't find it in himself to argue with the Admiral today. A few moments of silence pass before Vader speaks.

"Very well."

That's how you found yourself on Tatooine.

Fate decided you would be dropped onto this podunk, backwater planet, and so here you are, feeling stranded on the desolate sands of Tatooine. The scorching heat of the binary suns above bears down upon you, your skimpy clothes given to you for the mission doing little to shield you from the temperature.

Vader had told you he had an inkling that the rogue would be lurking in one of the planet's countless cantinas. Sure enough, as you make your way inside of a particular dive bar, his intuition proved correct.

It's loud. Too loud.

The raucous noise of the patrons and music combined is an unwelcome and very stark contrast to the usual eerie, dead silence you've grown accustomed to in Imperial dwellings. It all grates on your ears, overwhelming you. As your eyes adjust to the dim lighting, they fall upon a familiar face across the room.

Han Solo. Just the man you want to see.

A warmth pools in your tummy as Han's piercing brown eyes meet yours, a cocky, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. Despite there being three girls at the table looking up at him like he hung the moon and stars just for them, you feel an inexplicable pull, a magnetic attraction drawing you towards him. Straightening your short skirt, the leather of it creaking a bit, you take a deep breath and make your way across the crowded cantina, weaving between the tables and assortment of patrons.

He sits at a sabacc table, boots kicked up onto it making no difference on the scratched up surface, his lips now fixed into a lazy smirk on the death stick between them as he plays the game with the ease of a seasoned gambler. As you approach the table, Han's eyes rake over your curves, a flicker of interest in his eyes. He leans back in his chair, one arm draped casually over the back of the seat beside him, a silent invitation. The others present, a mix of humans, humanoids, and aliens, eye you warily, sensing your potential competition.

"Well well," Han drawls around the stick in his mouth, his voice like velvet and sin. "Join us, darlin'." He gestures to the seat beside him.

As you settle in, your hand finds his arm, once again making a heat pool in your stomach. You can feel the warmth of his skin beneath the thin fabric of his sleeve, the firmness of his bicep beneath your fingertips. You lean forward slightly, looking at his hand.

Leaning forward, you watch as Han takes a long drag of his death stick, the embers glowing bright in the dim light of the cantina. He exhales a plume of smoke, his eyes never leaving yours. There's a challenge in his gaze, a dare to match his audacity.

The cards laid out before him are just a jumble of patterns and numbers to your untrained eyes. You have zero idea who has the advantage, but you're not here to play sabacc. You're here for him.

You hesitate for a moment, your stomach fluttering nervously as you glance towards the cantina's entrance. The noise of the crowd fades into a distant murmur. Han's presence, his raw charisma, is utterly consuming.

Suddenly, you remember the reason you came here. To apprehend him. Why does he have your body warming with attraction? You stand up a bit abruptly. "Excuse me," you murmur, hoping he doesn't notice the slight tremor in your voice. "I'll be right back."

Once again, you weave your way through the ridiculously crowded cantina, your heart pounding in your chest as you make your way to the refresher. It's a welcome respite from the chaos, the air slightly cooler and less smoky. You stand at the sink, staring at your reflection. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes wide and bright. You look... excited, almost manic. You turn on the sink and splash some cool water on your face, trying to snap out of it and compose yourself.

As you dry your hands, another woman steps out of one of the stalls, approaching the sink and turning the water on. "Watch yourself with that one, sweetheart." She warns, tilting her head to the door, referring to Han. "He's trouble." She takes the towel from you, drying her hands. Just like that, she's gone.

The door swings right back open, revealing Han's imposing figure, the smell of smoke and whiskey brought with him. He strides in, each step eating up the distance between the two of you. At 6'2", his tall, muscular frame seems to dwarf the small bathroom, making you feel small and insignificant. Han leans against the sink, looming over you, his gaze boring into yours. A wolfish grin spreads across his face, and it takes every ounce of your willpower to not let out a whimper.

"You said 'right back,' didn't you?" His deep voice asks, sending a shiver down your spine. He hits a fresh pack of death sticks against his palm before tearing it open, tossing the paper onto the floor, and extracting one. With fluid motions he places the death stick between his lip and flicks open his lighter. Shielding the flame with his large hand, he ignites it, the embers glowing.

"Looks like the party's here now," Han sighs, flicking the lighter closed and setting it beside the pack on the counter. His eyes never leave your face. The air is growing thick with tension, the scent of smoke mingling with the lingering floral aroma of the hand soap and your own fear. You swallow, mouth suddenly dry, realizing the precarious situation you've gotten yourself in.

Thrawn was right. He is not to be underestimated.

"Loth-cat got your tongue, sweetheart?" He asks, growing agitated with your silence. "C'mon, darlin'. A pretty little thing like you, comin' here for a good time then runnin' away?" Han pushes off the sink, beginning to circle you. As he stops behind you, he stares with a heavy gaze, taking a long drag of his death stick. The smoke curls around his head like a sinister halo. "You know sweetheart," he taps the ash off the stick into the sink. His hand comes to rest on your hip, pulling you towards him, your back hitting his chest. "I could show you a real good time."

"A good time?" You question, laying your head back against his chest. "Mhm," he leans down and presses a kiss to your jawline, then to your neck, giving your pulse point a teasing flick with his tongue. "Turn back around f'me, sweet thing, face me." He murmurs, and you comply, now facing him. "On your knees."

"Yes Captain." Your voice in your ears is barely audible over the sound of your heart pounding in against your chest as you drop down to your knees. "You know what to do, sweetheart." Your hands find and undo his belt, the metal clasp falling open with a soft clink. Dragging down his zipper, you tug at the waistband of his pants, freeing his hardening cock. It springs out, thick and heavy, the musky scent filling your nostrils.

Tentatively, you wrap a hand around his velvety shaft, stroking it with a light touch. Han inhales sharply, his hips jerking forward slightly, seeking more contact. You lean in, flicking your tongue out to taste the pearlescent bead of precum glistening at the tip. The flavor spreads across your taste buds, salty and slightly bitter, but bearable.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself, before taking Han's cock into your mouth. Inch by inch, you sink down, lips stretching around his girth. The head of it bumps against the back of your throat, making you gag reflexively. You fight the urge, determined to please him, to get him in Imperial custody as quick as possible.

Han groans, tangling a hand in your hair. "Kriff, hold still dollface," he mutters around the death stick before tangling his other hand in your hair, beginning to guide your movements. He sets a relentless pace, fucking your mouth with short, hard thrusts. Drool leaks from the corners of your mouth, hands on his hairy thighs. Your jaw aches, your neck strains, but still, you take him deeper, until the tip of his cock nestles in the tight clutch of your throat.

He grunts, grip tightening in your hair, holding you in place as he hilts inside your mouth. You shut your eyes, the tears that welled up in them finally spilling down your cheeks. With a deep, guttural moan, Han empties his balls down your throat. "Ohh, Maker," he drawls. "Swallow," he whispers hoarsely. You swallow, the hot, salty essence of his cum making you gag.

Finally, Han pulls out, his softening cock slipping from your used mouth with a wet pop. You gasp for air, strands of drool and semen connecting your lips to his crotch before they snap, decorating your chin with a sheen. You look up at him, eyes pleading and desperate. For what, exactly? You have no idea. Your dignity, perhaps.

Wait a minute. Aren't you on a mission right now?

@102hannah @addictedtohobi @literally-izzy @brooklynb8by @indyswife

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@vrby9 @zapernz @jediavengers @enchant5d @trippyhippywitch

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@urmomsgirlfriend1 @hayden-christensen-verse @ysrjune @dreamygirli3 @awhhayden

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m4rv3l-girl · 25 days ago

Text

Hi - Part 2

Warnings: lots of fluff. Some kisses..? 🤭

Y/N stood outside the small Italian restaurant, one hand gripping her purse strap a little too tightly, the other resting on Leo’s shoulder. He was squinting up at the lights in the window, a stuffed dinosaur clutched in his arms, and she could already hear his stomach grumbling.

“Do you think he’ll be mad?” She thought.

Leo blinked up at you. “Is Mr. Bucky still coming?”

“Yeah,” you smiled, though your heart twisted a little. “He’s… He’s coming.”

The truth was, she didn’t want to cancel. After all this time, after the slow, shy messages that turned warm and steady. After the phone calls that started awkward and ended with her laughing so hard she nearly cried. Bucky had asked her to dinner, and she’d been ready -until the sitter cancelled last-minute.

She texted Bucky, apologizing and saying she’d understand if he wanted to reschedule. But instead of brushing it off, he’d replied: Bring him. I'd love to see him again.

Her chest had swelled with emotion when she read it. And now, standing outside, nerves fluttered again.

Inside the restaurant, warm golden lighting made everything feel soft and intimate. She spotted Bucky right away, back corner booth, dark henley shirt stretched across his shoulders, fingers drumming nervously against his water glass. He looked up, caught her eye - and stood immediately.

“There they are,” he said, grinning wide.

Leo hesitated behind her leg for a short moment, until Bucky crouched a little and held out his flesh hand, like they were just two old friends meeting up again.

“Hey, pal,” Bucky said. “I missed you.”

Leo lit up like a firework, running toward him without hesitation. “I brought Dino!”

“That’s awesome,” Bucky laughed, sweeping him up in a one-armed hug before setting him gently down in the seat beside him. “Hope you’re hungry. I already asked if they had chicken nuggets for superheroes.”

Y/N stepped closer, heart in her throat, not quite sure what she expected, but certainly not this. Not the ease in which Bucky greeted her son. Not the way he looked up at her with warm eyes and said, “You okay, sweetheart?”

She nodded slowly, slipping into the booth across from them, watching as Bucky pulled an extra chair over so Leo could sit comfortably beside him. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Dinner was… easy.

Leo told him all about his dinosaur collection, the Lego tower he built last week, and his big plans to be a superhero, an astronaut and a “dinosaur doctor,” depending on the day. Bucky listened intently, nodding along like every word was gold. Y/N caught him smiling at her more than once - especially when Leo got sauce on his nose and Bucky gently wiped it off like he'd done it a thousand times before.

When the waitress came by to ask about dessert, Bucky raised his hand before Y/N could even brush it off. “Two bowls of vanilla with chocolate chips, please. And whatever Mom wants.”

She blinked. “Bucky, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said gently. “I missed you both.”

Her heart squeezed, and she reached across the table, fingertips brushing against his. His hand turned to hold hers, calloused and warm.

“Bucky!” Leo interrupted, bouncing in his seat. “Can you come to our house and see my Lego collection? It’s so big! Bigger than a T-Rex!”

Y/N’s eyes widened, her grip on the menu tightening. She hadn’t prepared for this. But she watched as Bucky’s eyes lit up, his smile genuine. “I’d love to, buddy. Maybe after dessert, we could swing by, just for a little bit, if it’s okay with your mom?”

Leo’s grin was so wide it could have split the earth in two. “Yes! Mommy, can we?”

Y/N took a deep breath, trying to keep the surprise from her voice. Her mind racing back to the state her home was in currently… “Well, it is getting late, and you have school tomorrow, but if Mr. Bucky doesn’t mind a messy house, sure. Just for a bit.”

Bucky’s eyes never left hers as he nodded. “I don’t mind messes, not at all. Besides, I can help clean up, if you want.”

The kindness in his voice made her want to melt into the plush seat. She’d never had a partner who was so eager to be a part of Leo’s life. Some of the men she’d dated had looked at Leo as a burden, an inconvenience. Baggage. But not Bucky. He treated Leo as if he were the most important person in the world.

The dessert arrived, and Bucky made a show of sharing bites of his ice cream with Leo, making exaggerated yummy sounds that had the boy giggling. Y/N couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this at ease in public with someone other than Leo. Bucky’s presence was like a warm blanket she hadn’t realized she’d been missing.

As they stepped outside into the cool night air, Leo’s hand reached up and nudged Bucky’s. He was just testing the waters…seeing what would happen.

Bucky looked over, meeting Y/N’s gaze for permission, and then took Leo’s small hand in his. The gesture was so simple, so unassuming, yet it felt monumental to Y/N. “You okay, kiddo?” he asked, and the affection in his voice made something inside her crack open a little wider.

“Yup, I’m just really happy, Bucky.” Leo beamed, swinging their joined hands.

The walk to her apartment was short, but it felt like a mile as the gravity of the moment settled over them. Bucky talked to Leo about his favorite superheroes, the conversation a gentle reminder of how much he’d integrated himself into her world. His questions about Leo’s life weren’t probing but genuinely curious, and she felt a warmth spread through her chest that had nothing to do with the caffeine from her espresso.

When they reached the apartment building, she took a deep breath. "So, the apartment is a bit.. chaotic."

Bucky just chuckled. "I've seen worse," he assured her. "Remember, I've lived through two world wars and fought aliens. I can handle a few Legos."

The apartment was indeed a whirlwind of toys and art projects, but it was a lived-in warmth that greeted them rather than chaos. Bucky stepped in, eyes scanning the room before landing on a particularly impressive Lego structure. "Wow, Leo, this is like a castle for ants!"

Leo looked up from where he was rummaging through a bin, his cheeks red from the cold. "It's for my mini figures!"

Y/N felt a blush creep up her neck at the clutter. "He's got quite the imagination," she said, trying to sound nonchalant.

Bucky crouched down to examine the castle closer. "It's incredible," he said, looking up at Leo with admiration. "You're a real architect, pal."

Leo beamed with pride, and Y/N felt a lump form in her throat. This was what she had hoped for, someone who could see the joy in her son’s creativity instead of just the mess it sometimes created.

“What’s an arpichect?”

Y/N looked up from the kitchen where she was putting the kettle on for tea. Leo’s question echoed through the hallway, a mix of curiosity and wonder. She watched as Bucky’s eyebrows shot up and he chuckled. “Architect, buddy. It means you design and make buildings.”

Leo nodded, his eyes wide. “Oh! Like Tony Stark!”

“Exactly like Tony Stark,” Bucky said, ruffling his hair. “But instead of iron suits, you build Lego cities. Which is much cooler.”

Leo’s eyes lit up even more, and Y/N couldn’t help but laugh. She hadn’t seen him this excited to show off his toys in a long time. As they moved into the living room, she saw the pile of laundry she hadn’t had time to fold and the books scattered on the floor. The place wasn’t a disaster, but it certainly wasn’t showroom ready.

“Buck, I’m sorry about the..mess,” she said, gesturing to the pile.

He waved a dismissive hand. “Life is messy, doll.”

They sat on the floor, the three of them, while Bucky listened to Leo’s elaborate narratives about the battles his mini figures faced every day in their Lego fortress. He nodded along, asking questions about the characters and the rules of their world, his genuine interest lighting up the room. Y/N found herself relaxing into the couch cushions.

“Okay, Honey, time to say goodnight to Bucky. It’s bedtime.” She picked Leo up into her arms. She turned to Bucky. “Do you, uh..mind waiting here for a minute while I put him down..?”

“Of course not,” Bucky said, his smile not wavering. “I’ll just keep an eye on the fortress, make sure the aliens don’t attack while the king is asleep.” Leo giggled, snuggling into his mother’s neck. “You’re the best, Bucky!”

Once Leo was tucked in, his eyes drooping with exhaustion from the excitement of the evening, Y/N stepped out of the bedroom and leaned against the doorframe, watching Bucky picking up stray Legos and placing them back into their respective containers. He glanced up at her, a question in his eyes.

“‘Thank you…” She hummed.

Bucky looked over his shoulder, his smile never fading. “For what?”

“For making him feel so special, for making me feel… seen. For not being bothered by the mess or the bedtime routines. For just being you,” she said, her voice thick with unshed emotion.

Bucky paused, his metal hand hovering over a half-constructed Lego spaceship. He turned to look at her, his eyes softening. “You and Leo, you’re special. Nothing to thank me for, I just want to be here for both of you.”

Her heart skipped a beat. In the quiet of the dimly lit hallway, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a very long time. Gratitude, yes, but also something deeper, something that whispered of hope.

"You know," she began, "I wasn’t sure how this would go. I mean, dinner with a kiddo and all."

Bucky shrugged, his movements deliberate and gentle as he put the last of the Legos away. "I’ve had worse dinner dates," he quipped, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

Y/N rolled her eyes, a laugh bubbling from her chest. "You’re not so bad at this wooing thing, Bucky.”

He looked up, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s all just playing to the audience, doll,” he said, gesturing to the now organized Lego city.

The two of them sat in the quiet living room, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background. She studied him as he leaned against the couch, his legs sprawled out in front of him. There was something about his ease in her space, his willingness to engage with Leo that made her feel like she’d known him forever.

“So, tell me about your day,” he said, changing the subject. “What’s new in the life of a superhero mom?”

Y/N couldn’t help but laugh at his teasing. “Well, it’s been full of snacks and cartoons, mostly.” She sat down next to him on the floor, her legs folding under her. “But nothing compared to fighting bad guys, I’m sure,” she added with a playful nudge.

Bucky chuckled, setting aside the last of the Legos. “You’d be surprised. Some parenting battles seem just as fierce, just with more spit-ups and bedtime stories.”

They shared a quiet moment, the weight of the world outside their door seemingly forgotten as they talked about the mundane and magical parts of her day. Bucky’s curiosity about her life was refreshing, and she found herself opening up more than she had with anyone in a long time. As the conversation flowed, she realized how much she enjoyed his company, not just because of the joy he brought to Leo, but because of the comfort he brought to her.

“You know, Bucky, I never thought I’d be here, doing this. Being a mom, I mean,” she said, her voice soft. “I always thought I’d have someone to share it with.”

He turned to her, his gaze earnest. “You’re doing an amazing job, Y/N. And Leo’s a lucky kid to have you. But maybe, you weren’t meant to do it alone.”

Her eyes searched his, looking for any hint of pity or condescension, but all she found was sincerity. She took a deep breath, letting the words wash over her like a gentle wave. It was the kind of thing people said all the time, but from Bucky, it felt like a declaration.

The silence grew, and she knew she had to respond, to tell him that she appreciated his words, but she was afraid of what admitting her feelings would mean. Before she could speak, Bucky leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know it’s not easy, raising a kid on your own. But you're not alone, not anymore." His hand reached out and took hers, the warmth from his touch seeping through the cold metal of his prosthetic.

Her heart thudded in her chest, and she swallowed hard, trying to find the right words. "Bucky, I don’t know what to say."

He squeezed her hand gently. "You don’t have to say anything. I just want you to know that I’m here for you. For both of you." For the first time in a long time, Bucky felt like had purpose, had a life had..people.

Y/N felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and she blinked them back, not wanting to ruin the moment. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her voice. "Bucky, I…I don't know if I can do this."

He leaned closer, his grip on her hand tightening. "Do what, doll?"

"This," she whispered, gesturing between them. "Letting someone in, letting them love me and Leo. It's…it's been a long time since I've let anyone get this close."

Bucky nodded. "I understand," he said softly. "But I…I’m feeling things for you that I’ve never felt before. And Leo..I..he’s awesome.”

The words hung in the air, a declaration that seemed to fill the small room with warmth and promise. Y/N looked down at their joined hands, his metal thumb rubbing soothing circles on her knuckles. She felt the weight of his gaze, the quiet understanding in his eyes.

“I’m not saying it’s going to be perfect, but I want to try. For you, for him. For us, if…if you’ll have me,” he added, his voice barely audible.

Y/N took a shaky breath, feeling the gravity of the moment. This was the first time in years that she’d allowed someone to get this close to her and Leo. But with Bucky, it felt different. It felt right.

“I want that too,” she said, finally meetinghis gaze. “But I’m scared, Bucky. What if I mess it up?”

He reached over and placed a comforting hand on her knee. “We’ll figure it out together, sweetheart. I’ve got your back, no matter what.”

The sincerity in his eyes was like a beacon in the dark, guiding her through her fear. She leaned into his touch, feeling the warmth spread through her, melting the ice that had formed around her heart.

“Okay,” she murmured, taking another deep breath. “Let’s take it one day at a time. For Leo.”

Bucky nodded, his expression serious. “For Leo, and for us, if that’s what you want.”

The conversation lulled for a moment, the air thick with the promise of what might be. Y/N took a sip of her now lukewarm tea, the comforting warmth seeping into her chest. She watched as Bucky’s eyes searched hers, looking for any sign that she’d changed her mind.

“I want that,” she said, her voice a little stronger this time. “But I need you to be patient with us. Leo’s been through a lot, and I…I don’t want to rush into anything that might confuse or hurt him.”

Bucky’s thumb stroked her knuckles again, the gentle touch reassuring. “I understand. I’ve had a bit of experience with that myself.” His smile was sad, but it didn’t take away from the warmth in his eyes. “We’ll move at whatever pace you want to, Doll.”

The silence between them grew again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was like they were both standing at the edge of something big, something life-changing, and they were just taking a moment to appreciate the view before taking the leap.

Y/N leaned in, her heart racing as she placed her free hand on Bucky’s cheek. His skin was cool to the touch, a stark contrast to the heat of his hand. She studied the lines of his face, the way his eyes crinkled when he talked about her son, the gentle curve of his mouth when he talked about the future.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and she kissed him. It was soft and tentative at first, a question and an answer all in one.

Bucky’s hand slid around the back of her neck, his touch firm but gentle, guiding her closer. He kissed her back, his lips moving against hers with a kind of tender desperation that made her toes curl. It was a promise and a plea, a declaration that he’d be here, that he wouldn’t leave. When they parted, she felt a little dizzy, the world tilting on its axis.

“I won’t rush you, Y/N. I’ll be here, as much or as little as you need me to be,” he murmured, his eyes searching hers. “But I’ve waited a long time for this, for you and Leo. And I’m not going anywhere.”

A small smile played on her lips, her heart fluttering in her chest. “Good to know,” she whispered, leaning her forehead against his.

They sat there for a few moments, just breathing together, their hands still intertwined. Then she pulled back, her gaze flicking towards the clock on the wall. It was later than she realized, the hands pointing almost accusingly at the time they’d lost in the warm cocoon of their conversation.

“I should probably get to bed, too,” she said, her voice a little shaky. “It’s been a big day for all of us.”

Bucky nodded, reluctantly letting her hand go. He stood up and offered her a hand to help her up from the floor. As they walked to the door, she couldn’t help but feel a little lightheaded. The night had taken a turn she hadn’t expected, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready for what might come next.

When she turned the lock, he stepped closer, his eyes searching hers one last time before he leaned in and kissed her cheek, a soft brush of warmth that made her eyelids flutter closed for a brief moment. "Thank you for tonight," he whispered.

"Thank you," she murmured back, the words feeling inadequate for what he had brought into her world. The warmth of his body lingered even after he’d stepped away, leaving a space she hadn’t noticed before. She watched him go, his form shrinking into the night until he was just a memory.

As the door clicked shut, she leaned against it, her breathing a little too fast. A massive smile painted on her face.

——————————————————————————————————

We’re just giving Bucky a fresh start and ignoring any spelling mistakes 😌

#bucky x reader #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes #marvel #bucky fluff #fluffy #soft bucky #Give Bucky a fresh start #Bucky would make such a good dad

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theyluvangel · 3 months ago

Note

HIII!! Can i request yeonjun being VERRY hard and needy that he starts crying but reader wont let him fuck her bec he was bratty all day.

((Btw English is not my first language))

Needy - Yeonjun x f!reader

a/n: Thanks for the request, I hope you enjoy it! The beginning is quite a bit longer with some smut at the end, but hopefully, I followed your request :)

warnings: Yeonjun cries, alcohol consumption, long beginning, small smut at the end, sub! Yeonjun, kinda unknown relationship dynamic, likely spelling/grammatical errors

wc: 400ish

MDNI

The evening air was thick with tension as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep hues of orange and violet. Yeonjun leaned against the wall of the dimly lit apartment, his eyes fixated on you as you moved gracefully about the room, pouring yourself a glass of wine. For weeks, he had been consumed by his yearning for you. It was no secret that your chemistry crackled in the air, a silent agreement that lingered between you both, begging to be acknowledged. But with each spellbinding gaze, with every laugh that danced between you, you held him at bay, and toyed with his emotions like a skilled puppeteer, leaving him desperate and unsatisfied, a puppet with frayed strings.

"You shouldn’t drink alone, you know," he said, his voice low and enticing. He stepped forward, the urge to reach out to you almost overwhelming him.

You glanced back, eyes shimmering like stars as they met his. "Maybe it’s nice to be alone sometimes," you teased, a playful smile curling your lips.

The mere sound of your voice incited a wave of longing within him, tightening the grip of desire that coiled around his heart. "Come on, Y/n. You know I want to be with you. Just admit it."

Your laughter rang out, but it was laced with something else—mischief, frustration? "Wanting is not enough, Junnie. You need to learn patience. Plus, you've been a brat all day. Why would I give in to you now?"

Your words echoed in his mind, slicing through the fog of lust that blanketed him. He had been patient for weeks, but maybe not patient enough. Had he been a brat? He supposed so, even he could admit he had been whining for you to pay attention to him all day. Yet here he was, still on the outside, watching you through the glass wall you had constructed.

"Please," he begged, his voice cracking. "I can’t take this anymore. It’s driving me mad. Just please, give me a sign, use me, touch me where I need you most."

You positioned yourself at the edge of the sofa, a sly smile playing on your lips as you took a slow sip of your drink. The power you held was intoxicating, and it made his pulse thunder like a thousand drums.

"What if I enjoy watching you squirm a little longer?" you retorted, the sparkle in your eyes a taunt that ignited his frustration.

Desperation clawed at his insides. He stepped closer, the heat radiating from his body echoing the fire in his gaze. "Y/n, please. I’m begging you. I can't fight this any longer. You're all I think about. Just one moment, one kiss. That's all I want."

The air between you crackled like electricity. Your smile faltered for a mere second, flickering with uncertainty. Beneath your playful exterior was a yearning of your own that you had carefully concealed. But the mask returned, and you shrugged defiantly.

"I can’t just give it to you, Junnie. You need to earn it. Waiting is part of the game."

Pain twisted in his chest, and all at once, he felt the floodgates of his emotions unleash. "I am trying! Please, Y/n, I can’t help but want you so desperately!" Tears pricked at his eyes, his voice breaking as he spoke those words. "Please, just touch me. The sight of you turns me on so much, I need you."

Your expression shifted—sympathy mixed with something darker. It was as if his vulnerability stripped away your armor, revealing a flicker of desire that mirrored his own in the depths of your gaze.

"You’re crying, Junnie. Don’t make it harder for me," you whispered, your voice softening. But rather than retreating, he allowed himself to pour his soul into his plea.

"I need you. Please, Y/n. I’m aching for you. I can’t keep waiting like this. It’s unbearable. I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t shut me out like this."

Your facade of control began to crumble as the weight of his words seeped into your heart. You took a step forward, the distance between you both dissolving as you captured his gaze with impeccable intensity. "Just this once, Yeonjun. But I am not letting you fuck me."

With a deep breath, you approached him, breaths mingling as the world around you both faded. At that moment, you both understood a shift had taken place.

And as your lips finally collided, the wait came to an end, leaving nothing but the beautiful chaos of longing and release in its wake.

Your hands slide from Yeonjuns face down to his waist while your lips remain against each other. Yeonjuns hands wander your body, frantically trying to memorize your every curve. His mouth moves against yours, muffling his needy whines.

Grabbing him by the wrist, you pull Yeonjun down into your large armchair. You smirked as you looked down at Yeonjun, who was squirming uncomfortably in the chair you had him sitting in. His pleading eyes met yours as you slowly circled him, drinking in the sight of his quivering form. "Please, Y/n," He whimpered. "I can't take it anymore. I need you to touch so badly."

You chuckled, your fingers trailing along his shoulders. "Oh, you poor thing. You're just desperate for my touch, aren't you?"

He nodded frantically, his hips shifting restlessly. You moved to stand in front of him, your hand hovering teasingly close to the obvious bulge in his pants. "Well, I suppose I could give you some relief," you purred. "But only because I enjoy seeing you squirm."

With deft movements, you unzipped his fly and freed his straining erection. Yeonjun gasped as your cool fingers wrapped around his heated flesh. "There we go," You cooed, beginning to stroke him with slow, torturous movements.

The sight of Yeonjun squirming in the chair was a dream come true. Strands of his dark hair stuck to his forehead, beads of sweat dripping from his brow, blending in with the tears he had shed earlier.

"Please.. please, I need to cum," his voice breaks you out of your trance. Breathy moans escape his puffy lips as he continues to beg you. "Please, please I need more,"

His pleas are all you need to hear before picking up your pace. Speeding up your motions, you swipe your thumb over his flushed tip, causing his hips to jerk in sensitivity. His whimpers fill the room as he gets closer and closer to his release.

All it takes is you bringing your hand down to rub his balls before he's begging you again. "Please Y/n, please can I cum?" He begs, his thighs quivering as he struggles to hold his orgasm back.

"I don't know Junnie, maybe you should wait a little longer." You whisper, tightening your fist around him. From where you were positioned, kneeling below Yeonjun on the floor, the sight of him above you was almost ethereal. More tears had begun rolling down his flushed cheeks, his lips quivering as he tries to hold back a sob.

"Please, please Y/n, it hurts, I need to cum, please." He begs while bucking his hips up to try and meet your fist. "Please, I'm sorry I was bratty today, but I can't wait any longer."

As much as you wish you could keep denying him, his pleading was wearing your facade down. "Since you've asked so nicely, I suppose you can cum now," you tell him.

All it takes is a few more strokes from you before his hips are lifting off the chair to meet your hand and his thighs are shaking as his orgasm washes over him. Cum spurts onto his stomach and drips down onto your fist as you continue to stroke him through his orgasm, stopping once he begins to writhe in sensitivity.

Pulling your hand away from him, you grab a tissue on the table next to you to clean his cum off of him and your hand. As his breathing begins to slow, and his body relaxes, you can't help yourself from wanting to see him like this again.

#kpop smut #yeonjun #txt #txt smut #sub idol #sub txt #yeonjun smut #yeonjun x reader #txt hard hours

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hrizantemy · 3 months ago

Text

Nesta stood in the kitchen of the House of Wind, her fingers curled around the edge of the wooden counter, the warmth of the hearth doing nothing to touch the cold sinking into her bones. Across from her, Elain stood stiff, her hands clasped together as if holding herself in place, as if forcing herself not to tremble.

They stared at each other.

Elain’s voice had been quiet when she first spoke, but it had not been soft. The words had been honed, sharp, and they cut Nesta clean through.

“You pushed us away. Pushed everyone away. And then one day, you just… came back. And you didn’t need us anymore.”

Nesta didn’t say anything.

Elain’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, as she let out a breath too heavy for her slight frame.

“You healed without us. It was easy for you. So why—” Elain’s voice cracked, but she forced herself to keep going, her brown eyes burning with something raw, something that had been simmering in her for so long Nesta had never even noticed. “Why couldn’t you do it with us?”

Nesta’s fingers tightened on the counter, the wood biting into her skin.

She could have said a thousand things. That it hadn’t been easy. That she had burned and broken and clawed her way back from the darkness with bloodied hands. That she had not healed so much as survived.

But none of that would matter, not to Elain.

Because Elain had not been looking for an explanation.

She had been looking for an answer.

Then the fire started in her chest, blazing hot and all-consuming. It roared through her veins, searing through every tender, fragile thing that had been built inside her over these past months. Nesta wanted to rage. She wanted to burn.

How dare Elain say that?

How dare she stand there, in this too-warm kitchen that had never felt so unbearably cold, and say those things as if Nesta had chosen to carve herself apart? As if she had wanted to drown alone?

A thousand cruel words clawed their way up Nesta’s throat, sharp as glass, aching to be thrown. She could have torn Elain apart, piece by delicate piece. She could have reminded her that she had been the one to stand idle as Nesta fell apart, that she had done nothing while their world collapsed. That she had been too soft, too sweet, too wrapped up in her own grief to fight for anything.

Nesta could have said it. She wanted to say it.

But she didn’t.

Because beneath Elain’s sharp words, beneath the rare anger in those doe-brown eyes, was something else.

Hurt.

Nesta exhaled sharply, fists clenched so tight her nails bit into her palms.

Elain had never known how to be angry. Not like Nesta. Not like Feyre. But now, standing there, her voice shaking, her hands trembling—Elain was furious in the only way she knew how.

And for once, Nesta did not fight back.

She swallowed down the fire, let it sear her from the inside, let it settle into something bitter and burning. Because Elain had spoken with resentment, yes. But beneath it, Nesta realized, was something worse.

A plea.

And Nesta let out a sharp, bitter laugh, though there was nothing funny about any of this. She could still taste the fire on her tongue, still feel the venomous words she wanted to spit out, but she swallowed them down. Instead, her voice came out like steel wrapped in smoke—steady, but edged with something dangerous.

“How?” she demanded, the word snapping through the cold kitchen. “How was I supposed to heal with you? With any of you? You didn’t know how. None of you knew how.”

Elain flinched, but Nesta didn’t stop.

“You wanted me to be better, but none of you actually knew what that meant. You just wanted me to stop being a problem. Stop making things ugly and difficult. You wanted me to sit in that damn house, wasting away, pretending everything was fine just because it made you feel better.”

Her breath was ragged, her heart pounding like war drums in her chest.

Elain shook her head, her arms wrapping around herself like she was holding something in. “That’s not fair,” she whispered, but Nesta just laughed again, harsher this time.

“It’s the truth.”

Elain’s eyes were shining now, but Nesta refused to feel guilty for it. Not when her sister had thrown the first stone.

“We had a plan,” Elain finally said, her voice wavering, but there was an edge to it now. A quiet sort of desperation, like she was trying to make Nesta understand. “Rhysand and Feyre… they had a plan. They were going to help you, Nesta.”

Nesta went still.

Her rage flickered, turned to something colder, something more dangerous.

“A plan,” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper.

Elain nodded quickly, her hands tightening where they gripped her arms. “They just—” She hesitated, her mouth pressing into a thin line before she finally forced out, “They didn’t know how to help. But they were trying.”

Nesta stared at her sister.

And then she let out a breath, slow and sharp, like the edge of a blade.

“Trying.”

A bitter smile curled at her lips, but there was no humor in it.

Nesta let the silence stretch between them, let it grow thick and heavy, suffocating.

Then, slowly, she tilted her head and said, “What was it, then?”

Elain blinked. “What?”

Nesta took a step forward, voice quiet but sharp as a blade. “This plan you keep talking about. What was it? What was your version of trying?”

Elain opened her mouth, but no words came out. She swallowed, glancing away for a moment before she forced herself to meet Nesta’s gaze again.

“You… you could have come here,” she said finally, voice wavering. “You could have trained with Cassian, worked in the library with the priestesses—”

Nesta let out a breath of disbelief, shaking her head with a laugh that had no real amusement in it.

“That was your plan?” she asked, her voice like ice. “That was how you were going to help me? Just send me away, let someone else deal with me?”

Elain flinched, and for the first time, guilt flashed across her face. But she squared her shoulders, lifting her chin in that quiet, stubborn way of hers. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Then what was it like?” Nesta demanded.

Elain didn’t answer.

Because they both knew.

Nesta let out a sharp breath, shaking her head as the pieces fell into place, as the truth settled over her like a suffocating weight.

“You were going to lock me in a tower,” she said, voice flat. “Trap me up here with no way out and call it helping.”

Elain’s eyes went wide, her lips parting as she rushed to shake her head. “That’s not true! You—you could have gone down the stairs, Nesta. You could have left anytime you wanted.”

Nesta laughed, low and bitter. “Is that what you tell yourself? That I could have just walked down those ten thousand fucking steps and everything would’ve been fine?” She took a step closer, her voice cutting through the cold air. “You never intended for me to go down those stairs. None of you did. You would have sent me up here because you wanted me gone. You wanted to dump me with Cassian—the one person I told you, over and over, that I didn’t want to be around—and just hope for the best.”

Elain flinched, but Nesta didn’t stop. “That was your great plan. Your version of helping. Throw me in a cage, leave me with someone I didn’t want to see, and if I didn’t fix myself—if I didn’t magically become someone more palatable for you all—then what?”

Elain swallowed hard, her fingers trembling where they gripped her arms. But she had nothing to say to that.

Because Nesta was right.

Nesta leaned forward, her gaze sharp and cold as she pinned Elain with a look.

“So tell me, Elain,” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, “What would’ve happened if I didn’t fix myself? If I didn’t magically heal in the way you all thought I should? What was the real plan?”

To her surprise, Elain didn’t flinch. Instead, her chin lifted, her gaze firm and resolute, as if she truly believed in what she was about to say. “Then you would have gone back to the human lands.”

Nesta’s heart stuttered for a moment, and she blinked. “What?”

Elain’s voice didn’t waver. “That was the ultimatum. Fix yourself, or go back. Back to the human lands. To that place where you didn’t have to face any of us.”

The words hit Nesta like a slap, and she scoffed. “Really?” she sneered. “Fix myself, or be sent back to be hunted like a beast for sport?”

Elain’s eyes hardened, but there was no anger in them, just a quiet certainty.

Nesta stared at her, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She had never been so disgusted in her life.

Nesta stood there, frozen for a moment, as the weight of Elain’s words settled around her. The calmness of the room, the steady crackling of the fire in the hearth—it should have been comforting. But all she could feel now was the raw burn of it, the familiar sting of flames licking at her skin, crawling through her veins, trying to claw their way out.

Her heart hammered in her chest, and for a moment, the world felt unbearably small, suffocating. The flames were rising again—raging inside her, hot and furious, and the power that she had once resented, that she had fought with every fiber of her being, was surging within her now. The same fury, the same destruction.

It was always there.

The flames had always been there, buried deep inside her, waiting. Always ready to consume. Always ready to burn the world down.

But not now.

Nesta closed her eyes, her breath coming in sharp, shaky inhales. She could feel it—the heat, the strength—and for the first time, she didn’t want to give in. She didn’t want to let it take over.

With every ounce of willpower she had left, she shoved it down, pushed it back into herself, into the deep, empty spaces where it had always hidden. She crammed it all into those holes, locking it in, forcing it back behind the walls she had spent so long building.

Not this time, she told herself. Not again.

Her chest ached with the weight of it—the suffocating pressure of holding it all back, of keeping those flames from consuming everything around her. She felt the burn in her throat, the taste of fire on her tongue, but she clenched her teeth and forced it down. She wouldn’t let it out. Not here. Not now.

Not with Elain watching.

Nesta exhaled sharply, the effort of holding everything in making her chest feel tight, suffocating. She blinked, looking at Elain, and it should have felt like betrayal. Her sister—her sweet sister—had agreed to this. Had backed this plan, this cold, heartless ultimatum. It should have stung, should have burned like the flames that were still coiling through her veins. But instead, all she felt was… numbness.

The fire was still there, just beneath the surface, but now it was distant. Fading into the background of her thoughts, leaving nothing but the weight of her sister’s silence.

Nesta shook her head slowly.

“You, of all people,” she murmured, her voice hoarse from holding back everything she wanted to say. “You agreed to this?”

Elain’s expression faltered for just a moment, before she squared her shoulders, trying to hold onto the same resolve she had moments before. But Nesta saw it—saw the hesitation there, the guilt lurking behind her eyes.

“Did you think I would just—fix myself? That I’d become this… this thing you wanted me to be?”

Elain’s lips trembled, but she didn’t answer.

As Nesta stared at Elain, something shifted in her sister’s eyes. It wasn’t guilt about the plan—no, Elain still believed in it, still thought it had been the right thing to do. But there was something else now, something deeper, something more raw. Regret. It flashed in her gaze, quick and sharp, but it wasn’t for what Nesta had expected.

It wasn’t for the plan. It wasn’t for the cold decision to send her away, to lock her in a tower with no escape.

It was for the words she had said. The truths she had revealed.

And as that realization settled on Nesta, she felt a flicker of the same regret within herself. What had it been for? What was the point of this? Of tearing at each other, exposing these old, festering wounds? Would it even make a difference?

She closed her eyes for a moment, the ache in her chest growing.

It wasn’t the plan that hurt the most. It was the feeling of seeing Elain—her sister, her blood—stripped of the softness she had always worn like a shield. The way she looked now, so broken, so exposed, made something twist inside Nesta. It made her wonder if the cost of honesty—of telling her what she really thought—was worth what came next.

The silence between them was heavy, suffocating. And Nesta hated it. She hated the way Elain was looking at her, the way she could feel the shift, the regret both of them were carrying but had no idea how to express.

Finally, Nesta spoke, her voice quieter now.

“You shouldn’t have told me,” she said, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. “I shouldn’t have heard it.”

And with that, she turned away, unable to look at her sister anymore.

Nesta walked away without looking back, her steps slow but deliberate. The weight of the conversation still pressed on her chest, and she could feel the bitter taste of it lingering on her tongue. She had to escape. The suffocating silence between her and Elain was too much. She needed space, air—anything but that thick, stifling tension.

As she entered the common room, the atmosphere didn’t offer the reprieve she had hoped for. It was just as tense, just as loaded as the kitchen had been. The soft flicker of the fire in the hearth did little to ease the heaviness in the room. Feyre, sitting on one of the couches, glanced up at Nesta with a strained smile, but it was clear no one had spoken much since she’d left.

None of them had.

Feyre had likely tried to fill the silence with small talk—awkward, disjointed attempts at conversation that fell flat, like throwing pebbles into an empty well. Nesta could see the strain on her sister’s face. Feyre never liked this kind of tension.

But Nesta didn’t care. She didn’t care about their awkward attempts to bridge the gap between them.

Her eyes flicked to Taryn, sitting quietly on the far side of the room, her expression unreadable. For a moment, there was no need for words between them.

Nesta took a deep breath and said, “Let’s go.”

Taryn didn’t hesitate. She met Nesta’s gaze for a beat, then stood without a word, the silence between them stretching but not breaking.

There was no argument. There was no protest. Just a shared understanding.

As Nesta reached the door, she heard Feyre’s voice, clear and tight with concern. “Where are you going?”

She paused, not turning immediately. She could feel Feyre’s eyes on her, could hear the unspoken plea in her voice. “You’ve only just gotten here,” Feyre added, the words almost a whisper.

It was enough to make Nesta stop. Enough to make her look back, though the anger that flared in her chest made her want to walk out without a word.

She turned slowly, meeting her sister’s eyes. The weight of what had been said earlier—the anger, the resentments, the truths spilled out in the heat of the moment—pressed on her, and for a brief, sharp second, Nesta felt a bitter sting of betrayal.

But it wasn’t just anger she felt. There was something else, something darker and more sorrowful. Pity.

Because she could see it now. Feyre wasn’t trying to trap her, not really. She wasn’t trying to break her down. Feyre had seen the way Nesta had crumbled before, the way she had spiraled after the war. She had watched her drown in men and drink, in rage and loneliness, and it must have felt like the only way to save her was to lock her away, or to send her off to the farthest reaches where she wouldn’t have to watch it anymore.

She took a deep breath before speaking, her voice raw, trembling slightly with emotion.

“Elain told me about the plan,” she said, her gaze flicking to each of them, one by one. “About how you were going to help me heal. How you thought sending me away with Cassian and locking me in some damn tower would fix me.”

Her words hung in the air like a punch, and she could see the shock on their faces. Feyre’s eyes widened, guilt flickering across her features. But it was too late for apologies, too late for anything but the truth.

Cassian, to his credit, looked just as stunned. He opened his mouth to speak, but Nesta cut him off, her voice barely more than a whisper now.

“So, that was it? That was the great plan you thought would heal me? The great solution? You just thought you’d throw me at Cassian, leave me to figure it out, and everything would magically fall into place?”

Her eyes flicked over to Rhysand, who had remained silent until now. He didn’t look apologetic at all. Instead, his gaze was steady, unwavering, as he put a hand on Feyre’s shoulder in a way that seemed more like comfort than guilt.

And then he spoke, his tone calm but firm, answering for Feyre without hesitation.

“We thought it was the only way,” he said. “But it hadn’t come to that, Nesta.”

It hadn’t come to that.

The words cut through her, and for a moment, she didn’t know whether to scream or collapse under the weight of it all. The coldness, the distance, the feeling of being reduced to a problem to be solved instead of a person who needed help.

Feyre stumbled back a step, her hand instinctively reaching for Rhysand’s as if grounding herself in him could somehow steady her racing thoughts. Her voice wavered when she spoke, the weight of the situation pressing down on her shoulders.

“I… I thought it would help,” she said, the words coming out strained, as if she were trying to convince herself as much as Nesta. “You were spiraling, Nesta. I thought—”

Her voice caught, and for a moment, it felt like she was fighting something back. She cast a glance at Cassian, but her words faltered. She cleared her throat, almost too quickly, and turned her gaze to Taryn, who stood silent, watching the entire exchange.

Feyre’s lips parted again, but she stopped herself, a brief hesitation making her breath catch in her throat. She didn’t need to say it.

Nesta could feel the air shift between them. She could already guess what Feyre was about to say, the words that would break through the tension. But Feyre never spoke them. She looked at Taryn, and Nesta saw the subtle shift in her sister’s expression—the way her eyes lingered, how she held her breath for just a heartbeat too long.

Cassian was her… mate.

But Feyre didn’t say it. Instead, she swallowed, the words catching in her throat, unsaid. There was something in the way she looked at Taryn, something vulnerable, something Nesta had never seen before, but she knew what it meant.

She’d been so desperate to fix her, so desperate to save her from herself, but in the process, she’d nearly lost her sister. And the bond that connected them all had never seemed more fragile.

Before Nesta could respond to Feyre, the sharp, biting voice of Amren cut through the tension in the room like a blade.

“Girl, enough,” Amren snapped, her eyes narrowing as she looked at Nesta, unblinking. Her words weren’t soft, weren’t filled with pity—they were a direct hit, aimed straight for the heart of what Nesta had been avoiding. “You were drinking yourself into oblivion, sleeping with anyone who would have you, and pretending you didn’t need help.”

Her voice rang out, biting and clear, and Nesta felt the sting of truth in each syllable. There was no sugarcoating, no softening the harsh reality of what she had become. Amren didn’t flinch, didn’t even soften when she spoke.

“You needed help, Nesta,” Amren continued, her tone cold and direct. “You needed it. And you pushed it away. You pushed them away. You pushed us away.”

Amren’s gaze flicked over to Feyre and then back to Nesta, a touch of disdain in her eyes. “It’s easy to burn everything down and blame everyone else, but the truth is—you needed to face yourself, to face what you’ve done. It’s over now, but don’t pretend like it wasn’t you who kept yourself trapped in the past.”

Her words rang in the heavy silence, and Nesta flinched, the sharpness of them cutting deeper than she expected. There was no warmth in Amren’s reprimand, but there was no question either—Amren wasn’t wrong.

Nesta didn’t know how to respond, her mouth dry, her chest tightening under the weight of everything she’d been avoiding. She had never wanted to hear the truth in such brutal terms, but now that it was out, she couldn’t ignore it. She couldn’t escape it.

The fire inside her seemed to dim, and for the first time in a long while, she felt a sliver of what might be shame creeping in.

Amren didn’t pause, her gaze cold and piercing as she took another step toward Nesta, her words laced with contempt.

“You think you’ve suffered?” Amren sneered, her voice cutting through the room. “You think you’re the only one who’s been broken? The only one who’s been through hell? You have power, Nesta. But what have you done with it?”

Nesta stood frozen, her hands clenched at her sides, every word like a weight being thrown on her chest. She could feel the shame rising in her throat, but Amren wasn’t finished.

“You have power,” Amren continued, her voice harsh, “Yet you’ve done nothing with it. All this time, all this potential, and you’ve squandered it. You’ve locked yourself away, burned everything down around you, and for what? To hide from what you truly are?”

Her words struck like a whip, every sentence aimed to break her further. There was no kindness, no hint of understanding. Just cruelty, plain and simple.

“You haven’t made yourself useful to anyone. Not your sisters, not your people, not anyone.” Amren’s words were as unforgiving as ever. “You could be a force. You could do something, anything—anything—but you’ve chosen to wallow in self-pity instead.”

Nesta’s chest tightened, her breath coming short. She wanted to retort, to push back against the accusations, but a part of her knew Amren was right. Every word cut deep, sharper than anything she could’ve imagined. She had power. She had a gift—and yet, here she was, useless, hiding from it all.

“Is this what you wanted?” Amren’s voice was almost mocking now, as if it were all so obvious to her. “To waste your life like this? To be nothing but a shadow of what you could be? You’ve done nothing but take and take. You think you’re special? You think your suffering makes you exempt from responsibility?”

Nesta felt the heat rise in her chest, the flames within her flickering to life. But she didn’t give in. Instead, she stood, staring at the floor, trying to hold onto whatever shred of composure she had left.

But Amren’s words were relentless. They echoed in her mind like a drumbeat, a reminder of every failure she had ever hidden from.

The worst part—the absolute worst part—was that no one said anything. Not Feyre, who usually couldn’t stand the weight of silence like this. Not Elain, who had peeked her head out from the kitchen, her wide eyes searching the room, but still, she said nothing. They all just stood there, letting Amren tear into her, standing in the quiet of their own guilt, their own discomfort.

It was as if Nesta’s pain, her failure, was something they could all agree on but never speak about aloud—like the invisible thing that hovered between them all but never had a name.

And that was the truth that hit her like a punch to the gut. This was what they all thought of her. Every single one of them. They saw her as broken, as a problem that couldn’t be fixed, as a source of shame.

She felt it then, the weight of their collective judgment. It was suffocating. It pressed against her chest, wrapped around her throat like a vice, and she couldn’t breathe.

Feyre had always tried to be the protector, the one who fixed everything. But she had failed, and in that failure, Nesta had become something ugly to them all. Something that needed to be locked away, something to be handled at arm’s length.

Elain, sweet Elain, who had once shared her pain, now stood in the doorway and said nothing. Nesta could see the pity in her eyes, the distance between them that hadn’t been there before.

And Amren, cold as always, only saw a mess to be cleaned up, a task to be finished, and she didn’t care how she got there, as long as it was done.

There was nothing left but the bitter taste of betrayal—this time, from everyone she had ever trusted.

The silence was so loud, so suffocating, that Nesta thought she might crumble under its weight. It was as if the entire room was pressing down on her, suffocating her with the unspoken truths and judgments that had been building for so long. It felt like a dam had broken inside of her—everything she had held back, all the rage, the hurt, the confusion—flooding to the surface, threatening to drown her.

And then, just as she thought she might implode from the crushing pressure, someone spoke.

It was Taryn.

Taryn, who had been standing quietly beside her, eyes wide and still, like a ghost in the shadows, suddenly broke the silence with her soft voice.

Taryn cocked her head to the side, her eyes sharp as she looked around at the room of people who had let the silence drag on for so long. She let out a breath, the calmness in her tone holding a quiet but cutting weight.

“Wasn’t it Nesta who fought in the war?” Taryn’s words were slow, deliberate, as if she were dissecting the conversation piece by piece, each word aimed to challenge everything they had assumed about her. “Wasn’t it Nesta who helped kill the King of Hybern? Who was on the frontlines with your General, fighting beside him, bloodied and broken? Who helped take care of the wounded soldiers, running back and forth through the battlefield, something even their High Lady didn’t do?”

She paused, letting her words hang in the air, like an accusation they hadn’t expected.

Taryn’s eyes burned with a fierceness that made Nesta’s chest tighten. The tension in the room shifted, and Taryn didn’t hesitate to press further, her voice dripping with biting sarcasm as she cut into them with unflinching precision.

“What have any of you done?” Taryn’s words were like a slap, sharp and unforgiving. “If I remember correctly, your High Lady—” she let the words hang in the air like a challenge, “released two death gods and a monster, the latter of which still somehow managed to disappear, didn’t it?”

She didn’t wait for anyone to respond, her gaze moving over the room like a judge passing sentence.

“And let’s not forget,” Taryn continued, her tone colder now, as her eyes narrowed on Feyre, “your High Lady destroyed Spring. Destroyed it. Sending countless refugees fleeing—many of them even came here, to this city, because of the chaos she caused.”

Rhysand’s voice cut through the air, a low, commanding presence that instantly demanded attention. His gaze was cold, sharp as he met Taryn’s defiant stare.

“You will show respect to your High Lady,” Rhysand said, his tone clipped and controlled, the weight of authority in his words unmistakable. “You are a citizen of this court, and you will follow its laws and respect its leadership.”

His eyes flicked briefly toward Feyre, whose face had paled under the pressure of Taryn’s words, but Rhysand didn’t let the brief hesitation in his High Lady’s gaze sway him. His focus remained squarely on Taryn.

“I understand your frustration,” he went on, his voice now tinged with something darker, “but this—” he gestured to the tension in the room, the growing rift between them all, “is not the way to speak. You may not agree with every decision made, but respect is not optional. You will not undermine her in front of everyone.”

Nesta could feel the tension in the air, the invisible barrier between them as Rhysand’s words hung like a sword above the conversation.

Taryn didn’t flinch, though. She stood tall, unwavering, her gaze steady on Rhysand.

“I don’t need to undermine her, High Lord,” Taryn responded, her voice still laced with defiance. “You both have done that yourselves.”

The room seemed to freeze, the words sinking in, and even Rhysand’s expression shifted, just slightly, as he registered the weight of Taryn’s response. But he said nothing more. He knew better than to engage further. His silence only made the unspoken tension in the room more palpable.

For a moment, it felt as though everything was on the edge of breaking—like the cracks in their foundation were finally too big to ignore.

Taryn turned her gaze sharply toward Amren, her expression shifting into something darkly amused. She let her words hang in the air like a poison, sharp and pointed.

“You know,” Taryn said, her voice low and deliberate, “they whisper about you. The citizens, I mean. They call you the Angel of Death. How you destroyed the rest of Hybern’s armies, how you tore through the battlefield with ease. And now…”

Taryn’s lips curled into a slight smile, her eyes never leaving Amren’s face, watching for the reaction she knew would come. The tension in the room grew as Amren’s expression shifted into something dark, her eyes flashing with a snarl, teeth bared as her temper began to rise.

“Watch your tongue, girl,” Amren hissed, her voice a low, venomous growl, but Taryn didn’t flinch. She didn’t even look remotely intimidated.

“You want to talk about uselessness?” Taryn continued, her smile never faltering. “Look at what you’ve become.”

The room was silent, the only sound the shallow breaths of everyone standing there. No one dared to speak, watching the confrontation unfold. Amren’s eyes were narrowed, fury etched on her face, but Taryn’s words had landed, and there was no taking them back.

As Taryn’s words landed, sharp and unforgiving, Nesta’s instinct was to reach out, to stop her. To tell her to back off, to avoid making things worse. After all, Amren’s fury was a force to be reckoned with, and the room was already thick with tension. But as Nesta’s gaze flickered between the two women, she didn’t move. She didn’t speak.

Taryn—Taryn—was standing up for her, and in a way, it was more than Nesta had ever gotten from any of them. Every word from Taryn, though sharp, felt like a shield. She wasn’t just defending Nesta against Amren’s cruel accusations; she was standing up for everything Nesta had been forced to endure. Everything she had tried so desperately to bury.

For the first time in a long while, Nesta felt like someone saw her—really saw her. Not as a broken, useless thing to be fixed or a problem to be solved, but as a person who had a right to her pain, her struggle, her flaws.

And though the instinct to protect Taryn from Amren’s wrath whispered at the edge of her mind, Nesta knew—knew—that this wasn’t about stopping Taryn.

Taryn was speaking up for her when no one else had the courage. And that, in a twisted way, made it all worth it.

So, Nesta stood there, quiet, still. She let Taryn continue, even as Amren’s fury brewed like a storm about to break. She let the words settle over her, felt them, for the first time, lift something inside of her that had been heavy for too long.

Taryn’s voice was a lifeline, no matter how sharp the edges were. And for that, Nesta couldn’t bring herself to stop her.

Taryn’s gaze hardened as she took a step back, her voice cutting through the thick tension like a blade.

“For the hundreds of years you’ve all been alive,” she said, her eyes sweeping over the room with a sharpness that seemed to pierce each one of them, “everyone knows how you and your inner circle made your way through Velaris. Through the bars and the brothels. Drinking, fucking, living like there were no consequences for your actions.”

Her words hung in the air like a toxic fog, and Taryn’s eyes never wavered as she continued.

“And some of you still do,” she added, her tone dropping lower, heavier. She turned her head slightly, deliberately locking eyes with Morrigan, who had been standing quietly, watching the exchange, her expression unreadable.

The pointed look Taryn gave her wasn’t subtle. Morrigan stiffened, her jaw tightening, and though she didn’t say anything, the weight of the accusation was undeniable.

Taryn’s voice was no longer just sharp—it was loaded with years of bitterness, of watching, of knowing. She had seen it all—the reckless behavior, the ways the High Lord and his inner circle had lived, and the damage they’d caused. And now, it was being thrown in their faces, laid bare for them all to acknowledge.

There was no denying the truth of her words.

Taryn let the silence settle, let them feel the weight of her words before she tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable.

“But when Nesta did it—” her voice was softer now, laced with something almost mocking, “when she drank, when she fucked, when she tried to drown herself in everything that you all have indulged in for centuries—suddenly, it was different.”

Her gaze swept over them again, daring them to refute her.

“That doesn’t sound right, does it?”

Her words were deceptively light, but the truth behind them was heavy. They all knew it.

Rhysand’s expression darkened, but he said nothing. Feyre’s lips parted as if she wanted to argue, but no words came out. Morrigan’s jaw was clenched tight, her golden eyes flashing with something unreadable.

Taryn gave a small, humorless smile.

“Funny how that works.”

Taryn let out a slow, measured sigh, as if she had finally grown tired of the conversation, of the weight of all these people who thought they had the right to judge. Then she turned to Nesta, her sharpness softening just a fraction.

“Elia will be waiting for us,” Taryn said, her tone casual, as if nothing had happened, as if she hadn’t just carved through them all with nothing but her words. “We should hurry.”

Nesta knew it was a lie. A flimsy, obvious lie. But it was a lie she agreed upon. A lifeline she was willing to take.

So she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and turned back to face them all—Feyre, Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, Amren, Elain, Morrigan—every single one of them who had sat in silence, who had judged, who had only spoken when it suited them.

Her voice was steady when she spoke.

“Is someone going to winnow us, or are we walking the ten thousand steps?”

The room was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of everything that had been said. Rhysand’s face was carefully blank, but his displeasure was obvious, his fingers still curled tightly around Feyre’s shoulder, as if willing her to stay silent.

But it was Feyre who answered.

“I’ll winnow you.”

Nesta could hear the guilt in her sister’s voice, the unsteadiness of it. Could see the way her hands tensed at her sides, the way she couldn’t quite meet Nesta’s gaze. And she knew that was the only reason Feyre had spoken first—because guilt had finally sunk its claws into her.

Nesta flicked her eyes to Rhysand, saw the way his jaw clenched, how his lips pressed into a thin, displeased line. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want Feyre to do it. But even he knew that stopping her now, after everything, would only make it worse.

Rhysand’s rage was barely contained, a storm just waiting to break. Nesta could see it in the way his violet eyes darkened, in the way his fingers twitched at his sides, like he was restraining himself from doing something rash. Like he might mist her and Taryn both if Feyre weren’t standing right there.

His power crackled in the air, unseen but felt, pressing against the room like a silent warning. He had always been careful with his control, always prided himself on his restraint—but now, now Nesta could see the cracks in it. Could see how close he was to snapping.

Taryn, to her credit, didn’t so much as flinch under his stare. If anything, she seemed amused by the fury radiating from him. She met his gaze head-on, her chin tilting ever so slightly, as if daring him to act on his rage.

Nesta wasn’t stupid. She knew Rhysand wouldn’t, couldn’t, harm them—not with Feyre standing between them. Not with the eyes of his court watching. But the thought had crossed his mind. She knew it had. And that knowledge sent something cold curling through her spine.

Nesta only smiled, slow and sharp, as if she had seen something she wasn’t supposed to.

“Whenever you’re ready,” she said, looking at Feyre but meaning it for Rhysand.

Feyre stepped forward, jaw tight, and reached for them. And just before the world vanished in shadow, Nesta caught one last glimpse of Rhysand—his hands clenched, his teeth bared ever so slightly.

And, for the first time in a long while, Nesta felt satisfied.

Tag list: @litnerdwrites @viajandopelomar

#anti acosf #anti acotar #anti feysand #anti inner circle #anti rhysand #nesta archeron deserves better #pro nesta #anti azriel #anti cassian #anti amren #anti nessian #anti morrigan #sapphic nesta #more sapphic nesta

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