#its like grieving a loved one almost | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

saetoru · 1 year ago

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oh shit i ran out of tags read this part AFTER TAGS 🔫

but the prose and the descriptions were so good omg i almost felt like she died twice. once while alive and once when she actually died. the way she came to terms and told him to move on 🥹 how she accepted it and he was still holding on desperately 🥹 when he woke up to her cold skin 🥹

she was gone by dawn the next morning KILLED ME.

the way he didn’t even realize until he kissed her. the way he thought he still had her 🥹

emo so fucking emo i wish u misery for this one. misery for being mean and gross for this one. idc if the anons get mad at this one: kys 😒

JOKES ASIDE THIS WAS RLY RLY GOOD CASP. IM SO PROUD OF YOU and this fic is GORGEOUS

— 𝐢 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐲 ; 𝐣. 𝐤𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧.

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: more than anything, he just wants her to be happy.

𝐟𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦: attack on titan | 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: jean kirstein/f!reader, former eren jaeger/f!reader, mentioned background eren jaeger/jean kirstein | 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: nsfw ; minors dni | 𝐰/𝐜: 17.94k.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: canonverse, spoilers for chapters 131-139, angst, character death, previously established relationship ( eren jaeger/reader), smut, slow burn?? maybe kinda, jean has ptsd, formerly unrequited love, terminal illness, lovemaking, gentle sex, kissing, hand holding, slight scratching, missionary, mention of animal death.

— 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐦𝐞 !!

𝐅��𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄 in what felt like a long time, Jean didn’t know what to do.

It had been a few months since their hellish lives had come to a head, and while the remaining members of the secondary Levi Squad and their Captain were happy it was all over, the realization that Y/N knew Eren’s plan months before he went through with it was crushing to them.

Armin and Mikasa had suspected, of course — they all had, if they were honest, she and Eren had been so serious that they were more than willing to murmur back and forth about wedding plans when everyone else was around, and every time they did it warmed their friend’s hearts ( and made another’s hurt, but he was too content with the fact that Y/N would be happy to even think about fighting for her now ). In hindsight now, though, Jean guessed, it was all a mask for them to keep Eren’s plans all hush-hush. He knew that if he’d found out, even he would have definitely fought to keep Eren on their island where it was safe regardless of how often they’d bickered back and forth, because whether he admitted it or not, Jean did care about Eren and he wanted him to live.

“You’re all leaving?” Her voice is shaky and quiet, a stark difference when compared to how she’d been hoarse for two weeks from the way she’d screamed when Eren’s Founder had collapsed.

The Captain scoffs, and Jean winces at the sound. He’d always been more than tolerant of Y/N, more so than he’d ever been of the rest of them even, but ever since she’d admitted that she knew what Eren was going to do before he did he’d held her at an arms’ length just like the rest of them had. He doesn’t say anything, of course, because he hadn’t spoken to Y/N even once in the months following her confession, and every time he avoided talking with her Jean could see how much it hurt her — he’d even say with confidence that she’d prefer being struck by him than ignored, but the Captain didn’t even look at her anymore unless he absolutely had to, so that wouldn’t happen any time soon either ( and honestly Jean had a strong feeling in his gut that their Captain was hurting far more than he wanted to admit, not only about her confession but about both Eren and Commander Hange as well; everyone knew that the Captain had a soft spot for them both regardless of how he spoke to them ).

Jean could admit that he understood how betrayed the Captain felt if he was honest.

“We don’t belong in Marley, Y/N,” Conny mutters, refusing to look at her. He’d avoided her completely since they’d found out, almost as much as the Captain, even; Jean immediately looks down at his shoes when he sees the way her face falls. It hurt him to look at her, hurt to see the way she was desperately searching all of their faces for some hint that it was a cruel joke as a means of some sort of revenge on her for holding her tongue while remembering how she’d blurted out a confession to being aware of Eren’s plan for mass genocide. “There’s no way we’d ever stay. We’re going back to Paradis.”

“But the peace treaty—!“ Y/N argues softly, mentioning the treaty that had come about thanks to Eren’s actions coupled with their own, but no one there really gives half a shit about the treaty but her at that point. they’re all far too impatient to get on the boat and leave Marley for good.

“Deal with that yourself if it’s so important to you,” Mikasa says through gritted teeth, interrupting the other woman. “We have to get back, Historia’s still on bed rest from giving birth so Armin’s holding down the entire island right now.”

As Jean boarded the boat, he remembered the look on Y/N’s face when she found out Armin had left without saying goodbye to her specifically, and he recognizes that same look on her face as she watches Conny push the Captain’s wheelchair over the onramp to board the boat. “I’ll wait here for all of you,” she whispers, her eyes never straying from the Captain’s back, “even if it takes a whole ten years, I’ll wait—“

“You’ll be waiting a hell of a lot longer than that,” Conny grumbles under his breath, not intending for her to hear it but her hearing it all the same. Jean’s heart plummets in his chest when he sees the look in her eyes shatter and a barely visible veil wash over them.

The same walls she’d lowered with them one by one back in their cadet days had just gone back up.

She whispers gentle goodbyes to all of them, getting huffs from the majority of the group, a single muttered complaint from Mikasa, and a quiet “Goodbye,” from Jean himself, but the last person she looks at still won’t look at her. Regardless, she bids him farewell in the only way she can now even though she knows he won’t answer.

“Goodbye, Captain,” she whispers softly, a heavy silence filling the space between them all, and as the boat pulls away from where it was onced docked at the pier Jean sees the tears form in her eyes; they’d all hurt her by leaving this way, he knew that they had, but what were they supposed to do? She could have talked Eren down, she was always able to talk him down, but she didn’t — instead she ran off with him to Marley and helped him trick Falco before starting the Rumbling and a mass march for genocide.

Regardless of this, though, Jean still has an aching feeling in his chest telling him that he wasn’t making the right choice.

He looks up at her again, the breeze making her hair move ever so slightly with each soft burst and her skirts dancing around her legs as she stood there watching them leave her, her arms hanging limp at her sides as she stood alone for the first time in her life. She wasn’t making a single sound, just watching them go with tears running down her cheeks before she looks down and lifts one scarred hand to wipe them away with the backs of her knuckles, tearing her eyes from them for the first time all day today.

Go.

Jean didn’t know who or what told him to, he just knew he needed to get back to her, and he ignored the strange surge of familiarity that came with the urge.

Go back onto the pier now. Go, before you’re too far. Before it’s too late.

At the last second — and with everyone he’d boarded the boat with shouting for him to come back in clear panic, even the Captain ( something he took a silent pleasure in later, because apparently he did care about them all after all despite the facade he always put on ) — he makes a mad dash for and hops the railing on the deck of the ship then jumps again, barely catching himself on the edge of the pier. Splinters puncture his fingers as he claws at the wood and his feet kick at open air as everything from his shoulders down dangles off the side. He looks up, his hair wild and poking into his eyes, and sees that she’s still not noticed thanks to the bustle on the rebuilt pier. The voices of his friends echo behind him as he finally finds a foothold and pushes himself up and onto the pier, resting on his hands and knees for just a second to catch his breath before looking up so quickly his hair flips out of his eyes and then pushing himself up.

He’s running to her now, pushing his way through the crowd in his desperation, and Y/N looks up just as he throws his arms around her, cradling her close to himself and whispering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry — I won’t leave you too, Y/N, I promise…”

He feels her hug him back tightly and start crying into his chest, and he just holds her and repeats himself while petting her hair gently, neither of them looking back to the boat that was still ever so steadily getting further and further away from both of them, and for the time being they don’t care at all. They just hold one another, taking comfort in the familiar warmth they both gave off even as it began to rain and people around them started pulling out umbrellas. Jean carefully pulls her over to a stand and buys one, opening it up while letting her keep her arms around his waist before offering his arm.

“Let’s go back to the apartments, Y/N,” Jean whispers, referring to the apartment set gifted to them by the Marleyan government as reparations, and she just nods tiredly before linking her arm through his and resting her head on his bicep.

I hope this makes you happy, runs unspoken in his mind, but he shakes it away and they walk away from the pier in the rain together, their backs to the ocean in a way they both wished Eren had chosen all those years ago.

It had been so long since he’d had the time or privilege to notice, but Y/N was an exceptionally hard worker.

Maybe that was why Commander Smith was so fond of letting her help him in his office with his paperwork that he’d send into the Capitol in Sina; she wasn’t one to make mistakes, and it showed as she worked hard in her government issued office in Marley as she worked tediously going over the peace treaty offered to Paradis by all of the major nations that had formerly condemned it and it’s residents’ existences. It took hours of the day away from her, forced a worrisome amount of exhaustion to overtake her normally breathtaking features, and in between every little fix to the documents she made, she had what felt like endless visitors from hizuru and other countries popping in to add their own pieces and request slots to sign the treaty at the upcoming celebration of three years’s peace that Marley was hosting. Marleyan officers were, of course, also among the foot traffic that made its way in and out of Y/N’s office, only the majority of them now had a different respect for her in a way Jean hadn’t experienced in his years in Marley undercover.

“She’s beautiful for a devil,” one had muttered, his friend chastising him immediately for calling her such a name after three years of such easy, unparalleled peace, and then his eyes had widened in shock when he rounded the corner and realized Jean had heard what he’d said and was staring him down in an anger he’d not been on the receiving end of in years.

“She’s so kind! She’s nowhere near being the devil we were told they’d all be, and you know it,” his friend had hissed, bowing to Jean immediately. “I apologize for what he said, please forgive us both.”

Jean had looked at him half in disgust and half in hesitance; this was the first time a soldier from Marley had bowed to him despite the three years of peace their nations had shared, and he didn’t really know what to do. On the one hand he was grateful that the soldier spoke up for her, but on the other he didn’t know whether or not this was all a front to save face since he’d overheard them. What to do?

He was about to answer when his attention is caught by someone else. “Oh, let them alone, Jean,” Y/N’s voice had called from the doorway to her office, and everyone turned to look at her. She was leaning against the doorframe, and the brightness in her voice and the way she looked hadn’t managed to betray the exhaustion Jean saw clearly in her eyes. Absently he wondered if Armin was half as tired running the military back home in Paradis, but he shook it off in favor of quietly huffing towards the two soldiers then striding past them to join Y/N at the doorway to her office. She smiles at him once he reaches her, and says, “Thank you,” before ushering him inside her office and closing the door behind them both.

Sighing heavily, she tiredly walked towards the chair that stood behind her desk and then practically collapsed into it, her head in her hands, which was where they were now. “I’m so tired, Jean — I don’t know what to do anymore,” she admits, “Why did they have to choose me as the standing foreign ambassador for Paradis? I’m going to make a mess of everything.”

Jean sends her a soft smile and strides over to her, leaning against her neatly put together desk. “No, you won’t — you’re doing a great job, I promise. You’re just tired is all, because frankly you haven’t been sleeping enough.” It was true; most nights after he forced her to go home and to bed he’d hear her walking around downstairs absentmindedly even at the wildest hours possible, whether he’d woken from some nightmare of the past or he himself had stayed up working.

“You think so?” she asks softly, looking up at him with slightly widened eyes. He nods, and she sends him a fond smile. “What would I do without you here with me?” she asks sweetly, squeezing his hand, and he practically melts.

“I — I — I have no idea,” he murmurs, looking down at her and how she held the back of his hand to her cheek with his own burning in an almost violent blush. She chuckles softly, a smile curling the corners of her lips upwards ever so slightly.

“I think I’d be a wreck,” she whispers, squeezing his hand again one last time before letting go and standing from her seat. She strides back to the door and opens it, popping her head out and politely asking a maid, “Would you mind readying a pot of tea and a cup of coffee for my office?” Jean hears the other woman ( she was much older than Y/N, he knew, and she’d worked in the building for years before the Rumbling had reached Marley’s shores — despite that, though, he’d heard her telling the other maids that she’d never been treated as kindly by anyone else as she was when she worked under someone dubbed ‘a devil’ by the government ) give a swift affirmative and take off as fast as her middle aged knees would allow her.

“That woman’s a saint,” he mutters, sitting down in one of the comfy leather chairs in front of Y/N’s desk. “I’m only twenty-two and my knees and hips seem to want me dead for what I've put them through — and don’t even get me started on the pain from my back!”

“That’s because of our use of the 3DM gear,” Y/N replies from the door, closing it gently and striding back over; Jean hears the heels she insisted on wearing to work ( no matter how many times he told her they were impractical and she’d agreed ) clicking against the dark hardwood floors as she approached him. She slips in front of him and sits on the lip of the desk with a soft smile on her face. “They’ve always caused physical issues with the bodies of Scouts, retired or otherwise, due to their prolonged use in the field. Captain Miche used to complain of it often.” She smiles wistfully, and Jean remembers that before she was on the Levi Squad with Eren and himself she fought under Captain Miche Zacharias — at least she did until her own squad was wiped out thanks to the Beast Titan, and starting with Captain Zacharias himself. Jean frowns as he also remembers that Y/N had witnessed the entire thing, the Beast Titan letting her go after recognizing her as ( unbeknownst to them at the time ) ‘the girl his little brother was smitten over’. She’d been forced to watch from the back of her horse in horror as he was ripped to pieces by titans right in front of her; she’d told Commander Smith in front of everyone that Zacharias’ last words to her were for her to save herself and warn the others of what they’d seen, and she’d not spoken of him since.

“So you’re still as smart as Hange said you were,” Jean says through a tired grin of his own instead of what else he was thinking of, and he places a hand on Y/N’s knee as she looks away from him seemingly to hide the look on her face; unbeknownst to him her face is burning from embarrassment, but regardless of whether or not he’d ever notice ( would he feel the heat she could swear was emanating from her cheeks? Y/N had no idea, therefore the safest bet was to look away while she regained her composure ) she looks away and out the window, watching the bird that always seemed to be nearby fly past.

“Being good at making observations doesn’t make one smart,” she mutters quietly, and Jean just laughs.

“Well, I think you’re smart, and you can’t change my mind — if you weren’t smart, how would you keep all the old politicians in line as well as you do?” he asks, raising an eyebrow, and she scoffs playfully.

The sound of a knock on the door rings through the room, the sound of the maid just sent off for tea and coffee having come back with it coming through it, though her voice was muffled. Y/N stands back up and walks to the door, replying teasingly as she does, “Those old men aren’t exactly focusing on my smarts as much as they are my physical attributes.”

Jean stews over this information with a pout on his face and his arms crossed as Y/N takes the heavy tea tray and thanks the maid, who closes the door for her since her hands were full, then carefully walks back with it to her desk. She picks out the dish filled with fresh chamomile leaves and flowers and sprinkles equal amounts in one of the pyramid shaped teabags before carefully placing it in the teacup the maid had brought for him. Noticing that Jean’s been quiet, she decides to mention it. “Something on your mind?” she asks lightly, focusing on pouring the steaming water into Jean’s cup, and he sighs.

“I just… just thought that thinking all those old political codgers staring at you was just me,” he admits, and she just chuckles in response and begins adding the perfect amount of honey and milk to his tea with a small shake of her head.

“They don’t actually look to me as a figure of authority, Jean,” she says quietly, “And they never will. They just know that if they hand me more paperwork that they don’t want to do, I'll do it — and before you say it, yes I’m going to continue to do it.” She’d interrupted him before he even managed to get his protests for her to tell them all to do their own, and he just silently takes his cup and stews over this information as well while she begins to sip at her coffee.

It wasn’t fair. She was amazing, her work ethic unparalleled, and as a reward they objectified her like she was nothing but a slab of meat and they treated her like horse shit. It made him want to burn everything to the ground in her name, just so the bastards would realize that she deserved better.

Is this how you felt, Eren? he thinks, sipping the honey chamomile tea in his hand. Is this how it feels to want to burn everything to the ground for the one you love when you know their life will be a hard one?

Jean finds the celebratory banquet following the peace negotiation beyond extravagant.

Several large tables stood in front of the walls of the dining hall in the capital, an almost endless line of chairs ( but really only a few hundred — seven, maybe? ) and candles filled golden sconces along the walks and a series of thirty candelabras or so per table, and the food was more than anything Jean had ever experienced before. The men and women around him were dressed their absolute best in silks and velvets and fabrics he’d never even seen before — but that was only after everyone had joined him downstairs. The night had initially started off seriously with around three hundred and seventy or so politicians, ambassadors, and rulers of various nations gathering in a large meeting room and taking a seat at one of four tables along each wall so that they could face everyone in the room. Jean had not been one of these people unfortunately, considering he had no political power and no longer was a member of the Paradisian military, and because of this he’d been forced to follow a few members of staff downstairs to wait in the dining hall with the delegations that had come with each person who did go inside.

As the long hours passed by with no sound coming through the doors of the room upstairs, waiters went around the room, offering wine to the waiting companies, and Jean’s hand shook without him intending it to as he took a glass from one man and accepted a rather generous pour of the red liquid into it. He hesitated to drink it, memories of past allies turned beasts because of poisoned wine flickering in his mind like one of those novel motion pictures that had started becoming popular in the last few months ( Jean himself wasn’t much of a fan of them, but his heart twinged every time he saw a flyer for them and he thought about how much Conny or Sasha would have loved them ). He still remembered staring down at a monstrous Pixis, damned to a hunger that even Jean knew after what had happened in The Battle of Heaven and Hell ( as people who weren’t there had dubbed it; Jean supposed it fit, seeing as Eren’s name had morphed from what it was to whispers of ‘The True Devil of Paradis’ once they’d been saved and the rebuilding had started ), a hunger that couldn’t ever be sated.

Eventually loud crashes had sounded as the doors above them closed, and footsteps echoed overhead as everyone in the meeting hall began making their way downstairs and to the dining hall. Y/N was one of the last to enter the room, taking her place by the leaders of Marley, Hizuru, and a handful of other primary nations as they announced with bright, fake smiles that the peace plan was a success and that starting from that moment all gathered nations had allied themselves with one another. Cheers had filled the room, and Jean had seen Y/N’s sigh with relief before taking a glass of wine for herself ( also with a hesitation, he’d noticed ) before he made the decision to make his way through the celebrating throngs to stand by her side.

“So I’m guessing everything went well?” he asks after finally sidling up to her, motioning to imply his intentions to tip some of his wine into her glass to refill it once he saw she was getting low ( despite holding it for only a few minutes as Jean struggled to get to her through the crowd ) then just shrugging and swapping glasses with her. She chuckles and nods her thanks to him, taking a sip.

Swallowing the wine in her mouth, Y/N licks her lips slightly. “Yes, thank Ymir,” she replies, leaning against him slightly. She sounded absolutely exhausted, but she continued so she could bring him up to speed. “Signatures from every person present in the room were laid on the document I wrote; no one had any issues with the wording or anything.”

Jean’s eyes widen, and he lets out a shocked bark of a laugh, “That’s amazing! I’m so proud of you.”

She smiles at him softly but doesn’t say anything, sipping at her ( his ) wine quietly after tearing her eyes from his and looking out over the raucous crowd. He stands closer to her, careful to not let himself get bumped by the people rushing past, which is how they spend the next two or so hours ( in between visiting dignitaries rushing up to speak to Y/N and congratulate her on a wonderfully written treaty ).

By Ymir, I hope you’re happy, he thinks, sipping at a glass of champagne and watching Y/N flit sociably around the room. He could tell by the way that she smiled at each person that came up to her and vice versa that she was uncomfortable, and that the look in her eyes wasn’t excitement like everyone else clearly thought but anxiety. Y/N hated large crowds of people, but somehow she always managed to work her way through them better than any extrovert he’d ever met; it had always been something Jean admired about her, if he was honest.

Another hour passes of Jean in a corner and Y/N speaking with various men and women before it’s announced that they’ll be moving again. Jean looks for Y/N in the crowd and notices once he spots her that, despite being dressed just as prettily as the other women ( more so, in Jean’s opinion, but this was a celebration of a peace treaty being signed so he couldn’t very well insult the citizens of visiting nations ), she’s obediently following the people who’d signed the treaty without hesitation. She doesn’t look back for him, not even once, and it makes something ugly-feeling twist in his belly as he sullenly follows her as well as the rest of the crowd.

He’s led into a massive ballroom, and above them all hung an enormous chandelier made of crystal and gold that lit up the room; Jean remembered Y/N complaining that it would take months to be handmade because she was given a specific deadline before the time that the chandelier would be done, but the artists who had made it had forgone all other projects in order to focus on it when Y/N had offered them extra payment if they could please get it there even a half hour before the following dining began. They’d gotten it finished a week early, and Y/N had gone out of her way to praise their work and time efficiency, and they’d smiled as Y/N gave them payment even more than what they’d been promised ( they’d argued at first, but Y/N insisted that they keep it and after a lot of pleading from both sides they had ).

As all of this runs through his mind, he’s startled by a hand being placed on his arm. It’s touch is instantly familiar and as soon as he locks eyes with Y/N he relaxes, calmed by her presence alone.

“Dance with me?” she offers quietly, holding her other hand out to him. He takes it up immediately and leads them both to the dance floor amongst the other pairs that had settled together. Resting one hand on her waist and holding one of her hands in his other, they gently sway and swirl around the room to the crooning music that quickly becomes an afterthought.

“You didn’t wait for me,” Jean mutters, still a bit hurt that she’d not even bothered to make sure he’d been able to keep up. Y/N just smiles almost coyly and shrugs.

“I knew that you’d follow me,” she replies with ease, allowing Jean to spin her to the beat of the song the musicians were playing.

Jean’s eyebrows furrow at her words. “You knew I would?”

Y/N nods, a pleased look on her face as they move around the dance floor as one. “Mhmm; you never left me alone longer than an hour unless we were sleeping when we were cadets you know, and nothing changed once we were full fledged soldiers.” Jean’s cheeks heat up in a blush, slight embarrassment filling him once it hits him that she’d noticed all these years.

“Sorry,” he mutters, looking down at their feet and only making his cheeks burn hotter when he accidentally looks down the front of her dress instead of at his shoes like he’d honestly intended.

“Don’t apologize, I thought it was cute!” Y/N says soothingly, and he looks up at her just as their dance finishes. They bow to one another, and Y/N sends him a gentle smile. “I have to go — more people to speak with,” she explains, backing away. She pauses before she disappears into the crowd, though, and looks back at him with a gentle look on her face. “Wait for me?” she asks through a genuine smile, and he nods.

“Always,” he whispers as she hurries away, taking her place beside the leader of Marley and joining their conversation as easily as a duck swam in water.

After a few more hours ( and well into the night ) she finally makes her way back to him again and, leaning so close it made his heart race, whispers in his ear, “Let’s get out of here — there’re too many people in here for either of us to really be comfortable.”

Placing his and her empty glasses on a nearby table, he allows her to take his hand in hers and lead him out of the room, rushing down the stairs and out the doors behind her, helping her over puddles in the streets so she didn’t ruin her dress, wandering around outside and finding citizens of Marley, Eldian and otherwise, celebrating loudly.

It appeared the news of the peace treaty had reached them as well.

They made their way through the celebrating throngs and finally they stopped in front of an old coffee shop that ran all day and all night. Choksing it to take shelter in for the time being, they go in quickly and order two coffees with a breathless smile before rushing off to sit at the windows. Fireworks crackle, pop, and light up the sky through the window and they both watch in rapt attention — Y/N the fireworks through the window, and Jean the colors of the bursting fireworks in her eyes. A warmth fills his heart as it usually did when he gazed at her, and the only thing that shook him from his stare was a waitress placing their coffees down.

After a while the celebration continues on and Y/N and Jean just decide to bite the bullet, paying for their coffee and rushing out the door and home, each of them talking avidly about how much they liked the coffeeshop. It was fashioned on the inside after the ones in Trost, after all, and run by an older Paradisian woman that Y/N mentioned was married to Pixis before he’d died; her name was Dolores, and she laughed as she remembered how gleefully Pixis had laughed about it with her when Y/N had made the joke that he’d ‘connected the Dots’. They both start laughing, and still are by the time they’ve reached the house they’d bought after leaving the apartments. They dance around gleefully for a bit, drunk on life itself, before they both finally call it a night.

“Goodnight!” Y/N calls softly, kissing his cheek gently before disappearing into her room while humming, and Jean sighs and staggers into his room, drunk on the feelings that had bubbled up all night and the way she’d kissed his cheek. He closes his own door before wobbling over to his bed and collapsing on it with a light laugh.

“Goodnight…” he whispers, closing his eyes and falling into a much deserved sleep.

That night, despite the fun he’d had, Jean’s head is filled with the worst kinds of nightmares.

It wasn’t as if it was anything new, of course; nightmares are a nightly occurrence for Jean, and he’d learned to live with them over the past few years.

He dreams of Sasha often.

His mind frequently reminds him as he sleeps of the face she’d made after she was shot, and the way she’d looked at him once she realized what had happened. How a mixture of shock and fear and also… of apology had flashed through her eyes all at once, and all within a few seconds. He’s plagued with the sounds she’d made as blood bubbled up in her throat, of the way she’d attempted to gurgle out some string of words that none of them had ever managed to translate.

He still wonders what she was trying to say. Who was she speaking to? What was she thinking? He knew she was scared, he’d seen the raw terror in her eyes, saw when she realized that she was going to die.

Other times he dreams of the brief time he was a titan, of being a mindless beast with no self control— just hunger. Those dreams give him a more out of body experience, and he watches himself attack everyone he loved that was still with them. He has more fictionalized nightmares of being unable to stop himself from devouring Y/N, or the Captain, or Mikasa, or Conny ( despite the fact that Conny was turned with him ). The thoughts that come afterwards once he wakes up always include the phrase ‘what if?’. What if he’d actually attacked Mikasa? What if he’d eaten the Captain, bitten and chewed and swallowed him up? What if he’d trampled Y/N as she begged for Eren to let everything go?

He also dreams of the Rumbling. Of the sounds of thousands of giant feet stomping across the ground. Of the screams of enemy soldiers and the sounds made by the colossal titans’ feet as they stepped on and crushed them, ending the screaming. Jean dreams of the devastation that the Rumbling had caused, of all the lives that had been stolen — innocent men, women, and children, of all ages. Infants. Sometimes Jean would hear a baby’s cry echoing to him from somewhere out in the burning devastation, a cry that — no matter how fast he ran to it, trying to find the source — would always be snuffed out.

He hated that one. He always ended up waking up sobbing inconsolably, and primarily because he knew it had happened. Children had died — little kids. small, pure, humanity’s future. Their lives had been snuffed out like a freshly lit candle, and it killed him inside.

Then there are the nights he dreams of Eren.

Those are some of the most difficult. he’d grown up with him, had known he had anger issues, but he’d never actually expected the other man to take things as far as he did, had never expected him to murder so many people, and a part of him — ugly and poisonous — wonders if maybe he’d not been such an obnoxious ass to him, would things have turned out different? If he was just a better friend — or a friend to him at all, really — would any of the results of that changed his mind about the genocide? Would he have listened when they begged him to stop?

Whether Jean ever wanted to admit it out loud or not, he knew he’d loved Eren. The other man was a part of his life for so long, regardless of however much the two of them bickered back and forth. He was his family. He loved him dearly, loved him as much as he did Conny, as he did Sasha, as he did Y/N ( although in vastly different ways, and if he had the tiniest crush on him back in their cadet days that was his fucking business and he’d take it to his grave ) and Mikasa and Armin, the Captain and both Commanders Hange and Erwin, Historia and ( begrudgingly ) Reiner and Annie, and Marco—

God. Marco.

After all these years, he couldn’t even remember what Marco looked like anymore. He had freckles, didn’t he? Jean wasn’t sure. All he could remember of him now was the mixture of scattered, burned bones and ash. He couldn’t remember any of his features anymore, or how tall he was, or what his voice sounded like, and it killed him. Yes, he’d forgiven Reiner for what had happened, but that didn’t change how much the memory of him hurt, or how the knowledge of how he’d been murdered felt like a knife to the gut whenever he thought about it.

Back to the initial point, though. Eren. Jean had mourned alongside Y/N when Eren died, albeit silently, unlike the rest of his comrades. They’d pushed Eren’s existence to the backs of their minds, the series of events that they’d just gone through just being way too much for them to handle… so they didn’t think about him. Didn’t speak for him. They just declared him dead to Paradis and the rest of the world, and that was the end of it to everyone else, but Jean remembered how Y/N had cried when she’d finished listening to the announcement. She’d been an absolute wreck, speaking to everyone and no one all at once asking why they’d had to say that, apologizing to her dead boyfriend for not being able to stop them, and no amount of comfort had been able to console her, not even from Armin or Mikasa or the Captain.

That was the night she’d confessed that she’d known, and they’d all withdrawn from her at once. The night she’d been reminded yet again of her dead lover, she’d lost everyone she loved most in one fell swoop. It was horrible… but time passed, everyone but Jean left, and over the three years that had passed since the two of them grew closer because of it. Jean learned things about her that he’d not known before, things that she’d only reserved for Eren’s ears, and he felt proud.

Of course, there were a few things she refused to speak about, and her dead boyfriend was one of them. Y/N told him that he wasn’t the issue when it came to Eren, she swore it, and Jean understood and didn’t blame her. He knew that even thinking his name hurt her, much less openly talking about him. After all, the scream Y/N had let out as the Founder had fallen rang through his ears every time he closed his eyes and was transported back to their final battle. He remembered the way she’d looked, soaked in blood ( hers and that of others ) and half dead, wailing like a dying dog.

Jean didn’t think she’d actually said his name out loud since he died, even after all these years — four whole years, she’d not said his name, not even once, after devoting nearly her whole entire life to loving him more than her own life.

Memories and thoughts of Eren aside, by far the worst nights are when his brain won’t let him even have a second’s rest and he dreams of all of them. Sasha. The Rumbling. Eren. Y/N.

All of these nights end with him screaming in his sleep and Y/N coming into his room and carefully waking him. She never asks him what he had dreamt about that made him act that way, and he never tells her. He doesn’t have to. He knows she has the same dreams. No, she just holds him, and she rocks him. She hums soft lullabies she’d been sung as a child in Shiganshina. She tells him of the trouble she and Mikasa and Armin and Eren had gotten into as children, as cadets, and everything after.

Most nights it was easy for her to wake him, but others weren’t, and he’d struck her before. Once he was fully awake and she’d calmed him down fully she excused herself and he went back to a fitful sleep, none the wiser because she’d acted like usual. She’d cleaned herself up and tended to the area so it only bruised minimally, but Jean still felt guilty for it the next morning regardless and cried and cried until she miraculously managed to calm him down again.

Tonight was one of the harder nights, and Jean had nearly punched her while panicking ( she didn’t tell him this, just ushered him out of his stuffy room ). Afterwards, once she’d managed to get him breathing fine again, she’d poured them both a hefty glass of wine and they’d huddled together in the kitchen quietly. Jean had pulled out a chair and sat himself down by the table and she had leaned against the kitchen counter just over the sink in front of a window. Both had a death grip on their overfilled wine glasses, and after a long silence filled only with the sounds of their breathing, Jean speaks.

“Tell me a secret,” he says simply, taking another drink of his wine. Y/N quirks an eyebrow up at him.

“A secret?”

“Yeah. Something you’ve never told anyone else,” he replies, swallowing a big gulp of wine and shivering slightly. “Anything to take my mind off… that.” He spoke, of course, of the memory of Eren’s decapitated head in Mikasa’s arms and the screams Y/N had let out at the sight of it, and of the way she’d pulled it from Mikasa’s hands and cradled it close then fallen to her knees in absolute hysterics as the other woman stood over her crying. Armin had come running and had collapsed next to her, throwing his arms around her and holding her tight while sobbing himself, and Mikasa’s legs had given out beneath her and she’d succumbed to her own pain, weakly crawling over to her remaining two friends and allowing Armin to hold her as close as he was Y/N. Y/N wouldn’t let her touch her, and Jean remembered how, when this actually went down, it ushered a sudden surge of fresh tears and hiccuped sobs because Y/N was pushing her away. This time, though, Y/N had woken him before it had gotten there, so he’d not had to watch Mikasa crumble all over again.

He refused to tell her what that night’s dream was about.

Y/N looks out the window, seemingly thinking until a sad smile twists her lips and she takes another sip of her own wine, tears slowly welling up in her eyes and glittering like pain-filled diamonds. “Eren and I got married before he decided to destroy Marley,” she admits, not seeing how big Jean’s eyes got at her confession. How ironic was it that he was learning something about her relationship with Eren when he’d just had a nightmare involving the both of them?

“Married?! When?!” he sputters, drops of wine sliding down his chin until he uncaringly wipes them away with his shirtsleeve; he knew that it would stain, but that was the last thing on his mind at the moment.

“Before he decided to destroy Marley,” she says, repeating herself, and Jean mentally kicks himself for such a stupid question. His attention is brought back when she continues speaking. “It was a really small thing — no one we really knew was there. An Eldian licensed to marry other Eldians was in the refugee camps, and Eren and I met with him that night we all drank together and had fun… we got married that night while the rest of you were drunk and came back before Hange and the Captain came back and found us all asleep. The man who married us was killed in the Rumbling, along with our two witnesses, so I can’t really do anything about it anyways; I suppose his name isn’t mine to claim now.”

In the back of his mind Jean notes that Y/N’s just said Eren’s name not once but twice for the first time in four years, and that she’s still avoiding saying Captain Levi’s. He’d never really noticed it before, but just as she’d never said Eren’s name she’d not said Captain Levi’s in a long time either. Levi avoiding her after she admitted to knowing Eren’s plans must have hurt her more than she’d admitted. Maybe she’d tell him about that another time.

He never gets to ask more questions, instead being prompted by Y/N to give her a secret in return.“I — I— I-“ he stutters, then shakes his head, “I only have one, and I don’t think that it’s appropriate.”

“Tell me,” she murmurs, still not looking at him.

“Y/N—“

“C'mon, Jean, I promise it’s okay,” she murmurs, her eyes locked on something outside the window — was it a bird?

Something in her tone of voice made him relax, and he sighed heavily before tossing back the rest of his wine and groaning. “Hmm. Okay — um…” he rubs the back of his neck, beyond nervous. After her confession about marrying Eren, was this really okay?

He jumps when the feeling of something covering his hand reaches him, and he looks down to see that it’s Y/N’s. He looks up at her with wide eyes, but she’s still not looking at him — she’s just staring out the window with tiny tears in her eyes from talking about her dead boyfriend ( husband, Jean corrects himself, still somewhat reeling from this; was he really the only person that knew? ) and holding his hand. He takes another deep breath, then just decides to spit it out.

“I’ve been in love with you since I met you in the 104th,” he says quickly, squeezing his eyes shut. Hetenses up when she pulls her hand back from where she was holding his and he tries not to cry, just knowing in his gut that he’s an idiot and he’s ruined everything. His mind begins to race as he desperately tries to think up ways to save face, to fix what he’d just colossally fucked up, but he can’t think of anything.

While Jean’s going through this mental turmoil, Y/N has never looked away from the window. She’s watching the bird fly back and forth, tipping its body this way and that before finally going towards the window. It flies by slowly, tilts its body up and down once ( almost in a waving motion ), then turns and flies off and away from her. Y/N lets out a shaky breath, her heart racing, and she places her wine glass on the counter in favor of using the hand to cover her heart. The tears start falling now, and she can’t stop them; she couldn’t even if she wanted to.

“Goodbye… Eren,” she breathes through her tears, and the second his name leaves her lips the figure of the bird disappears into the sun.

They stand together in silence for a while after that, Jean numb to the world around himself as he panics, but her laying her hand on his face brings him out of his mental ramblings, and his eyes shoot open and lock on her. She’s standing in front of him, a soft look on her face that Jean had only ever seen her wear around Eren himself.

“I know,” she whispers, looking not quite into his eyes with the sad smile she’d worn speaking about her dead husband still on her face — only this time it’s different.

“You… know?” he whispers, his eyes wide as he swallows hard.

Y/N nods. ��Mhmm, always have,” she admits quietly, rubbing along his cheekbone with her thumb. They stand together in silence for a long moment, the only change being Jean leaning into her touch and one of his hands coming up to gently cup the one Y/N had on his face. He closes his eyes and just basks in the moment, not knowing if he’ll ever get her touch this way again, and is promptly startled when she says his name after a long while of the two of them standing there. “Jean…” she breathes lightly, and his eyes open to see hers shining with something he didn’t recognize.

“Yeah?” he asks in a whisper just as quiet as how she’d breathed his name.

“Kiss me,” Y/N replies, and his eyes widen. She, the woman he’d been in love with for over a decade, wanted him to kiss her? And after everything they’d just talked about?

“Are — Are you sure?!” he asks in a strangled voice, and she smiles softly and nods, placing both hands against his cheeks so she can cup his face. She tilts her head to the side ever so slightly and a fond looks overtakes the sadness in her eyes as she smiles up at him.

“I’m completely sure,” she murmurs, running one thumb along one of his cheekbones like she’d done before, and with that final piece of permission. Jean slowly, gently, leans down and captures her lips with his own.

Her lips are soft and she tastes sweet, a sweetness that came partially from the wine they’d both been drinking but that also just came from her, a taste singular to herself, and he relished it. All his life since he’d joined the military back on their home island he’d been desperate for even a scrap of the romantic attention she showed Eren, for some sliver of love that was different from the love she showed their other friends, and now he had her completely. She was, for all intents and purposes in this moment, his and his alone.

He pulls back from her lips with a gasp, his chest heaving from the lack of oxygen, and she takes the initiative and begins peppering kisses across his revealed chest and neck. “Take us to bed,” she whispers pleadingly, and he only has to look down into her eyes for a second to make the decision they both desired.

They stumble into his room in a mess of wandering hands and desperate kisses, Jean’s shirt long forgotten on the kitchen floor and Y/N’s shorts kicked off somewhere in the hallway. After struggling for a few minutes with the buttons of her shirt, Jean just lets out an annoyed growl and rips it down the middle, buttons popping off of the cloth and scattering everywhere as Y/N unties the string to his pajama bottoms and giggles when the buttons go flying. Once they’re both in nothing but a pair of panties and boxers they back up until the side of the bed catches at Y/N’s thighs and she falls back, taking Jean with her. He’s got her pinned to the bed, holding himself up with his elbows and with her body between them. Her legs are spread and his own rest between them, and he just stares at her for a moment before her face lights up with a radiant smile.

“Hi,” he whispers, and she giggles breathlessly.

“Hi!” she replies, a genuine smile on her face, and Jean grins and begins kissing her again. They gaze at one another for a minute before Jean asks her again, sounding concerned, if she was sure that she wanted to do this, and she just smiles softly and nods. “I am,” she whispers softly. “Please, Jean… I promise, I want this. I want you.”

To hide the sudden rush of euphoric tears that fill his eyes at the words he’d waited to hear her say for what felt like his entire life he drops to his knees so his head is between her thighs. She sits up on her elbows on the bed and looks down at him in curiosity as he slowly traces the hem of her panties with one long finger before slowly letting her head fall back as he covered her clothed warmth with his own mouth and licked gently at her through the fabric of her panties. His tongue caresses the fabric, his saliva seeping into the cloth and mixing with what wetness she’d left on them already as her body instinctively prepared itself for him. Her thighs tremble on either side of his head as he carefully sucks at her clit through the fabric, and she lets out a cry that has him stopping instantly and looking up at her in alarm amd in fear that he’d somehow hurt her.

“O-Off,” she whispers shakily, pushing at the top hem of her panties. “Want ‘em off — please!”

Jean obliges easily, wanting this moment to be as perfect for her as possible, before pressing back against her slick cunt. His tongue gently parts her lower lips and draws a line up the length of her heat until he reaches her clit, and he begins drawing various shapes and writing out several different words to see what she liked best ( Jean found that she most enjoyed stars, circles, and, oddly enough, the word ‘cantaloupe’ ). Like a seasoned musician he plays her like a finely polished instrument, and her body sings underneath his touch. “Oh—by Ymir, please!” Y/N wails, her hands grabbing desperately at his hair. She tugs at it gently, pulling his face deeper into her core as his tongue toys with her dripping entrance and rolling her hips up into his face to get some sort of friction against her needy clit. She lets out a short, sudden scream and clamps her legs around his head as she cums hard in his mouth, Jean making a clear effort to take in whatever she gave him. He gives her a moment to rest, watching her breasts heave and almost hearing the way her heart races, before delving back into her, his tongue swirling expertly around her clit and dipping teasingly into her hole. Before long, though, her want for his cock supersedes the feeling of his mouth on her pussy and she wants him covering her again.

“Fuck — up here, Jean, come back to me!” she pleads softly, and he’s back on top of her in a second. His face glistens with her juices, and she tangles her fingers in his hair before pulling his face towards hers so they can kiss again. It’s slow and sweet and gentle, and Y/N melts happily into the mattress as his lips meld against hers.

When they break away for a moment, both of them breathless, Hean speaks to her. “What do you mean?” he asks quietly, rubbing his nose against hers affectionately, “I never left you.” She whimpers softly in a wordless request, and Jean obliges by carefully easing her panties off as her arms drift down from his hair to rest around his back then creep under the waistline of his boxers, her nails slightly scratching at the skin of his ass as she pushes them down. His hard cock slaps softly against her belly, soft and warm and the weight of it more than pleasing; the soft pink head was leaking an almost endless stream of precum that quickly made its way to pooling just above her navel.

“I-In — fuck, please, put it in!” Y/N begs, and he kisses her again in response before taking himself into his own hand then pressing the tip of his cock against her entrance and pushing in, gritting his teeth as her slick heat envelopes his length. Both of their eyes roll back as they slot together almost perfectly, Y/N’s nails digging into his back slightly and Jean’s hands fisting in the sheets as they rest together there, basking in the feeling. After a moment, though, one of them breaks the pleasant silence that was once punctuated only by their shaky breaking.

“Move. Please,” Y/N asks quietly, and Jean withdraws for a second, hissing as the cool air hits his wet dick, before pressing back inside slowly. He watches Y/N’s eyes widen and her pupils grow even larger than they were before as she’s filled, and a shaky smile makes its way onto her face. He smiles back at her, his smile morphing into a blissful half grin as their shared pleasure builds and he creeps closer and closer to orgasm himself — then he notices it.

She’s crying. Crying and smiling and even laughing a little.

“What is it? Are you okay?” Jean asks, alarmed yet again. She shakes her head and lifts her hand so she can press it against his cheek like she’d done in the kitchen. His movements slow to a stop and he starts to get off of her when he sees her shake her head, his eyes widening in a panic, but she throws her other arm around him and holds him as close to her as she possibly can.

“N-No! Don’t stop!” she cries, then sniffs a little and lets out a single, short laugh. “It’s just… This. It’s so good, it feels so perfect.”

“So… So you’re okay?” Jean asks, unconvinced, and she nods.

“I’m more than okay,” she says quietly, and she smiles up at him. “I love you, Jean.” It takes a second, but then the words hit him, and his world stops all at once in the best way.

She loves him. She loves him. Him, Jean Kirstein. Love. This… he’d been waiting for it since he was thirteen, and now she’d just told him the words he’d wanted to hear for so long. This was beyond better than her telling him that she wanted him, this would be a moment he never forgot — because how could he? The woman he’d been in love with for over a decade had confessed that she loves him — and just as he’d known when he was fifteen and she’d saved him from a titan during a recon mission and again when he was nineteen and leaping from a boat to rejoin her on the docks, Jean knew that nothing could ever change the way this woman made him feel.

The two of them start up again, Jean’s hips rolling against hers and his balls slapping against her ass in a perfect rhythm that had them both letting out cries of pleasure. Endlessly the same thoughts ran through Jean’s head as he pleasured the love of his life, never changing: He loved her, and she loved him. They loved each other.

And later that night, once everything was done and while she sleeps, he watches the way her chest rises and falls while she sleeps comfortably next to him, and he absentmindedly rubs his thumb over her upper arm and whispers, I hope you’re happy.

A soft hum and Y/N pressing closer to his warmth is the only response he gets, and once the darkness that came with sleep overtakes him he doesn’t have a single nightmare.

After that night, Jean moves all of his things into Y/N’s room; he’d forced her into taking the master bedroom when they’d gotten the house, and since they were together now she’d insisted he sleep with her from then on. He was more than willing to move his things, and now he got to spend every night in a peaceful rest and every morning he got to wake up to the sight of her either still sleeping or dressing quietly so she could go downstairs to make breakfast. His favorite ways to start the day were when he woke up first and got to see her sleeping for a little bit or when he woke up to the feeling of her lips peppering soft kisses across his face. The years pass this way, and he loves every minute of it

During all of this time together, the same thought that he’d had as they drifted off races through his mind as they spend time together more often than even before. They frequent the coffeeshop they’d stumbled upon after the signing, and discover that it’s a great place to pass the time and enjoy each other’s company while dozens of people mill around happily outside. They spend hours of their lives there, just talking and watching and embracing the feeling of having one another, and it’s absolutely perfect.

They board trains to visit Annie and Reiner where they live alone together out in the middle of nowhere in a farmhouse ( the two were desperate for quiet after everything ended, and with Annie’s father having died around ten months ago she and Reiner had packed up and moved out ). Days are spent with the two blondes, reminiscing over the good times they’d had in the past or memories they’d made since then. Jean didn’t forget about what they had done to Marco, but after all this time of knowing, he’d made some headway into forgiving, so after Y/N visited them about a dozen or so times on her own he’d joined her, and he’d been more grateful to see familiar faces than he’d expected. Now they went by train to see them around once a month and had the greatest time.

He’s annoyed when they’re invited to a hero’s banquet hosted by Marley and funded by Hizuru because it’s to be held on a night he’d promised to take her out on a date, but she just laughs and tells him that it could still count, and that maybe even the others would be there considering they were a part of the group of ‘heroes’ that had saved the world from the Devil of Paradis. They meet Reiner and Annie at the doors and the four of them stay close to one another, Y/N dancing the night away with all three of them and drinking her fill of the wine supplied by their hosts. Watching her dance so happily while completely unaware or uncaring of the world around her other than Annie laughing as they spin together makes him smile sadly, and he doesn’t have the heart to tell her that their Paradisian friends aren’t there, and he carefully carts her home once she’s tipsy enough to persuade into bed to sleep.

During all of these little excursions, he hopes desperately in his mind that she’s happy, and thinks likewise when she’s scrawling out letter after letter to Armin and the others telling them about her week, what she’d seen or heard on the streets, new recipes she’d tried, how her work was going, and then she’d move on into asking about their own lives, wanting to know what they were getting up to or if they’d gotten married in the years that had passed.

She never got any letters in return, but she didn’t stop writing �� at least, until the mail carrier told her that all of her letters were being burned by the recipients, sometimes right on the spot as they received them. He could tell how much it crushed her, but discovering that even their former Captain himself was letting her unopened letters hover over an active candle flame until they were nothing but ash falling from his fingers had her in tears. Jean knew why, of course; she’d told him all about her late night rendezvous with the Captain to drink tea and speak of their days, pasts, or whatever else piqued their interest of conversation that day, how they’d started around seven or eight months before the attack on Trost District after she’d quietly gone to comfort him after a member of his original team had died regardless of his snarls for her to leave and how she’d known that he cared for her in return when her own squad leader, Zacharias, had been killed and he’d purposefully sought her out and looked for her until he found her quietly crying on the roof where she’d hidden away from even Eren, who’d been searching the compound for her himself. He’d just… sat there, she’d told him, in a silence that wasn’t so awkward as it was equally mournful before he hesitantly pressed their shoulders together and let her lay her head on his right one to cry.

“We were close,” she told him through small tears in bed that night, “I swear that we were… but some things can’t be forgiven, I suppose.” Jean didn’t have the relationship she did with the Captain and before she’d told him he’d been completely oblivious to it, but regardless his heart hurt at the blatant heartache in her voice. He’d held her after she said that, and she’d cried into the crook of his neck until she fell asleep.

She didn’t send any more letters after that, and she didn’t write for what felt like forever after Jean would come home every day to her writing. She would sit quietly at her desk and look down at a piece of paper before eventually getting up and abandoning it, unable to find anything that brought her enough joy to write about it.

One day he comes home, expecting to find her sitting silently at her writing desk, unmoving, only to find a trail of mud from the front door to the guest bathroom, and he goes inside to see he washing dirt from this absolutely massive ( and clearly old ) street dog who’s just panting happily as she cooes to him that he’s handsome while sitting in the tub with him and washing him off, and when he laughs and she sees he’s there she just grins at him and tells him that she’s ‘named him Gerolf, so they definitely have to keep him now’, and with life in her eyes and smile finally on her face again Jean couldn’t bear to tell her no, so he didn’t.

The days from then on out pass with ease as he watches her dance and sing happily around the living room with the dog, the huge thing’s paws on her shoulders as she laughs and sways with him before kissing his nose. He would have joined her, but the sight of her enjoying life so fully was something he couldn’t bear to tear his eyes from, much less interrupt.

A few months or so after they took in Gerolf, Y/N began to write their former comrades again, but now she chose instead to put the letters away in the closet in the room with her writing desk in it, clearing it all out just for the purpose of storing the letters there. She never really answered Jean when he asked why she didn’t send them, instead skirting around the questions and changing the subject. Jean never pushed, because not only was it not his place since she didn’t want to tell him but because he also knew she’d tell him in her own time should she ever desire to do so.

Their lives for the next three years or so ran smoothly aside from a small handful of minor bumps ( dips in work, some new furniture being lost during shipping, Jean breaking Y/N’s favorite cup, the small cake they’d ordered falling when they got married in private ), and they were happy. They’d made their home in Marley and in each other and they fell asleep in one another’s arm’s with Gerolf, as old as the hulking monstrosity was, in the bed at their feet.

Throughout the years, Y/N opened up more about her relationships with her first husband and the Captain, and Jean made sure to listen attentively as she did so. He listened closely when she described nights she’d shared with Eren, curled together in front of fireplaces and under covers, of kisses stolen in passing and quick ruts in abandoned corridors, and of confessions of love given daily that always felt like the first. She spoke of her time shared staring up at the night sky with the Captain on the roof of the Scout Corps. headquarters, of the times he let himself rear his head back and genuinely laugh with her on horseback as they raced through the open plains within the walls, of the endless stories shared between them over tea drank at midnight and the warmth between them when they leaned together on cold nights spent outside while on the run from the Military Police.

It didn’t take much for Jean to finally realize just how much the Captain shutting her out hurt her even before she’d told him this, and now after having peered at least a little into the deep extent of their private relationship his heart stung for her. She’d just lost Eren, and then she’d lost her closest friend as well as the rest of her family only a few weeks later.

“Armin and Mikasa were more Eren’s friends than mine,” she’d admitted while cooking once. It had been sudden and had surprised him into turning around from his place chopping vegetables at another counter, but she’d just sighed and continued. “I love them dearly, really I do, but our relationship just wasn’t the same. It felt wrong to complain of my troubles to them when they had their own, so I just tried making money every way I could to support the four of us while we were more or less on the streets after the fall of Wall Maria. It wasn’t until I was drafted a year before the rest of you that I met the Captain, and you’ve heard the majority of how our relationship started.” Of course he had, she’d told him that what felt like forever ago; how she’d found Captain Levi after a member of his squad had died around seven months before Trost had fallen and she’d comforted him even though he’d yelled and screamed until his throat was raw, and then held him after he fell to his knees crying because the soldier had been a long-time comrade and he couldn’t take any more death and hold it in. She’d told him how Captain Levi had tried to weakly push her away before just melting into her hold and sobbing into her shoulder because it was just all too much, and she’d told him how they’d spent the night together on their knees on the floor mourning — and then, come morning, how she’d said nothing about what had happened even though the Captain had wept himself into exhaustion in her arms and had slept there for hours. Her knees had ached for a week, she’d remembered, but it had been worth it. All of this was said with a fond but wistful smile on her face, a look she usually had when thinking about Captain Levi. She laughed a little when speaking about the looks he’d sent her way when he’d thought she’d tell others about his sudden show of emotion, then her eyes had softened when she said that that, once he realized she wouldn’t utter a word of it, was when she’d earned his trust.

Her eyes always grew sad when speaking of the Captain’s trust in her, and Jean always felt bad for her when he noticed she was missing the man. She’d been his right hand for what felt to Jean like their entire time in the Scouts, always seeming to know something about him that no one else did that got her an in on his life — and he supposed that she did.

It also made sense now, why Armin and Mikasa were unable to console her after Eren’s death, Jean realized in silence, but he still didn’t understand why the Captain’s soft words and even gentler touches hadn’t worked either. She later voiced that the guilt from the knowledge of what she’d done to contribute to Eren’s assault kept her from accepting his comfort, because she felt she didn’t deserve it. She still hadn’t said his name. It had been around seven years at that point.

Jean didn’t push it.

After that, she didn’t speak of the Captain again for a long, long time and avoided Jean’s questions about him, but she was more than willing to answer those he had about Eren. It made Jean feel accomplished, knowing he was helping her heal from the loss of her first husband, and honestly learning more about Eren made him heal too — but it also made him realize that, despite all of the teasing and time spent with him, the majority of what he thought he knew about his character were nothing more than childish ideations of a crush he believed unrequited; when Y/N had told him over coffee ( she hadn’t drank tea since her fallout with the Captain, she’d mentioned once that the reminder hurt her heart too much and he’d never offered her tea again ) in the living room while sitting in her favorite chair that Eren had actually returned his little ‘crush’ for around two and a half years, starting sometime in the middle of when they’d been knee deep in their military training. Jean had turned bright red and tried to argue that he didn’t have a crush, but she’d just giggled into her drink and gotten comfier in her chair to the sounds of him sputtering out protests.

The nights spent with warm drinks in front of the fire with Gerolf at their feet and the radio softly crooning behind them were his favorite, if he was honest. He’d never felt more loved or at home than he did with a cup of coffee ( he’d sworn off tea for his wife’s sake ) in one hand and one of Y/N’s clasped in the other, his toes buried under the warmth of Gerolf’s furry stomach and the sound of one of Y/N’s wild stories from her days under Captain Miche’s command reaching his ears. Every night spent this way ended with a smile on his face and warmth in his heart, and he knew that he never could have possibly been happier than he was in these moments and with the life he’d chosen the day he’d leapt from that damned boat.

Of course, everything changed for them when Y/N got sick.

They didn’t know what it was, and she’d brushed his worries off at first when he’d mentioned how he didn’t like the persistent cough she’d had for two or so weeks. He tried to relax, to accept that it was just a stubborn cough, but after two months of worrying when he’d come home from getting groceries one day to Gerolf barking in panic and her unconscious in a lump on the floor he’d had enough and taken her to a doctor. That’s when they found out she was sick — and it was also when they found out that Marleyan doctor’s didn’t know what the hell she had. Jean had, despite Y/N’s insistence that she was okay, taken her to every doctor feasible and had called upon doctors he couldn’t take her to, hosting them in their home as they checked Y/N over.

They all came to the same conclusion in the end though: they had no idea what sickness she had, just that she was terribly ill and that the outlook was grim. After the thirty-ninth doctor came to them, then reached the same realization and shared his findings, Jean had stopped calling doctors to the house. Y/N tried comforting him, tried telling him that she was grateful for how much he’d tried, but nothing she said worked and he grew depressed as things got more and more difficult for her.

The winter and summer months were always especially rough, when the cold practically seeped into her bones or the heat made her sweat the flesh wrapped around them off. The cold air made it difficult for her to breathe and made her lungs ache, and the heat did the same but even worse. They couldn’t go on long walks with Gerolf together anymore, and their visits to the coffee shop they both loved so much grew fewer and farther apart. She didn’t take the train to visit Annie and Reiner any more, and they’d written their worries to them when the second meeting was missed, but Y/N had eased them with mentions of being tight on money; it wasn’t exactly a lie, as Jean had used up the money she’d put away for travel expenses for her doctor’s appointments and other medical expenses of hers, and she couldn’t travel anyway so what use did they have for a travel fund at the moment? However, where it wasn’t exactly a lie, it wasn’t true either. They weren’t low on money in the slightest, not with all of their funding from their years in the military back on Paradis that they’d saved and the money that the Marleyan government had given them along with properties as reparations and then more money they’d earned through their jobs here, but neither Y/N nor Jean told them that and allowed them to take comfort in the belief that money was the sole reason Y/N didn’t come to see them anymore.

Two years pass this way, with Y/N ill and the doctors with no clue as to what was wrong with her. Jean didn’t want to tell anyone about Y/N’s illness, no one but doctors, because he wouldn’t have to, not since she would get better — why worry them when Jean could handle it? He would take care of her on his own just as he had for the past nine years, it was his job. And if the handful of years that followed were spent with her still sick, what of it? Things had to get worse before they got better, Jean of all people knew that.

Eventually he does admit that Y/N’s not feeling her best to Reiner and Annie, but he doesn’t tell them the full extent of her medical issues — but after the three and a half year mark, however, he was forced to tell them everything. They’d come to visit Jean and Y/N instead of the other way around and when Jean had run out to grab food Y/N had fainted into Reiner’s arms when trying to make coffee for everyone. When he’d caught her and seen her eyes rolled back in her head with only the bottom of her irises showing and Gerolf barking worriedly they’d panicked, and Reiner and Annie’s panic had only gotten worse when she wouldn’t wake up. Jean had returned home right as they were about to rush to the hospital, and he’d stopped them and taken Y/N from Reiner’s arms despite the protests of both blondes, carefully lowering her to the floor and cradling her close to himself, quietly murmuring requests for her to come back to him before quietly admitting that her illness was much worse than the little chest cold he’d written them about.

They move back to the city after that, intent on helping where they can. Annie cooks for the four of them, and Reiner does some extra shifts at a bar in town. Jean works just as hard, trying so desperately to make extra money for just… more time — even if Y/N didn’t expect much more.

In the year that had passed where she was her illest she’d written three more letters: the first telling them that things had taken a turn for the worst, the second when they’d hit that bright spot that made them think she was getting better, and finally the third when she’d realized that no, things weren’t getting better, and that it was most definitely her final run, which she’d separated into several split letters for each of their former friends. Those she’d put in the top drawer of her bedside table, still unable to make the walk to her desk.

It had taken her an entire week to finish them, and when Jean had asked what was in the last letters and she’d told him that it was full of her goodbyes to everyone they loved on Paradis he’d nodded understandingly then excused himself to shower, where he’d sat beneath the hot spray and just cried for what felt like only a few minutes but what was really hours, because it had finally hit him: no miracle was going to happen for them. After nearly twenty years of living in close quarters together every day, Y/N was going to die. He was actually going to lose her. This wasn’t like when she took those few week and a half long trips alone ( at her own insistence ) to visit with Reiner and Annie in the country where they’d moved to escape everything before they’d moved back, this time she wouldn’t be coming back to him. He would really be alone. For good.

When he’d finally gotten out, she’d not said anything to him. She could see how puffy and pink his eyes were after crying for so long, and she’d heard one mournful cry before he was able to cover his mouth properly, but she never mentioned it.

Jean had appreciated it, even if he’d never said so.

Life carried on regardless of the way Jean felt about Y/N’s illness. On the Days he didn’t have extra work, Jean did whatever he could around the house to keep his mind off of the impending hell he would be forced to face. He’d eye Gerolf, and the way the mutt kept constant contact with her, or spend hours cooking special meals he knew Y/N would enjoy. Other times he would stand at one of their bookshelves in the living room for hours, perusing his options but never making a decision on what to read.

“I want you to know that it’s okay for you to move on,” Y/N says one day from her place on the couch while he stood at the bookshelf; she’d been crocheting a blanket despite the shakiness in her hands. “Once I’m gone, you know. It won’t hurt me for you to love again and remarry.” Jean, once pacing while deep in thought over his next move, freezes once the words register in his mind, and his heart burns. Despite being the one in agony daily, according to the endless doctors, still Y/N thought of him first; how was it that she managed to love so selflessly? Jean knew by this point that he was being greedy and selfish, doing all of this when the outcome had already been made clear; Y/N had taken the diagnoses with ease, almost welcoming death in a way Jean hadn’t understood. He’d been angry about it at first, before she’d explained that she’d already lived a life better than she thought she deserved, followed by admittance that she wasn’t surprised that she was dying young and rather had been expecting the universe to cut her life short; “It’s only what I deserve,” she’d said, “for the horrific atrocities I assisted Eren in creating.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’re okay with it or not,” he whispers, his chin shaking and tears filling his eyes as he looks down at his shoes. He hears her make a questioning noise from the couch, and a clink as her crochet needles clack against one another, and he continues, knowing she wasn’t offended. “They don’t compare — I couldn’t — it wouldn’t be…” The words won’t come out alongside his shaky breathing; he watches through blurry vision as the wooden floorboards between his black shoes darken with teardrops he couldn’t keep from falling. It takes him a long moment to get his breathing back in check, but he eventually manages it.

“They wouldn’t be you,” he finally grits out, new tears joining the old on the wood flooring. His fisted hands shake, and his heart twists when he hears her sigh; it isn’t mocking, or ill-intended, but the way she’s resigned herself to her death hurts him.

“I said the same about Eren,” she whispers after a long, near-silent pause that had been filled only by Gerolf’s snores and the crackling fire. A sound of pain leaves Jean’s throat without him meaning to, and he turns to her with tears streaming down his face. She’s placed her unfinished blanket to the side and is just… looking at him, and it breaks him. Her eyes are soft and kind, and he can see that she’s unafraid — nothing like him.

“But I — I can’t,” he whispers, the words coming out in a breathy sob in time with fresh tears. He staggers over to her weakly before falling to his knees before her, clutching her skirts tightly in his hands and burying his face in her lap before collapsing into his grief. She wasn't even dead, and yet there he was, crumpled on the floor at her feet and sobbing into her dress like a mere child. He was a soldier, he’d fought in and helped end a war, he’d battled immeasurable monsters and demons, but he still mourned, and before she was gone — and through it all she runs her fingers through his greying hair and whispers softly that everything would be fine.

One evening, months after he’d dissolved into tears and after a day spent with her unable to leave the bed for how weak she is and how painful it is for her to walk, when she’s at what feels like her healthiest yet and Jean feels safe sleeping in bed with her rather than in a cot by their bed, she begins speaking to him.

He’s not actually asleep. He's taking the time to bask in what life she had in her still, to spend as much time with her as he could even if it meant exhausting himself. The feeling of her heart beating against him and the sound of her breathing in his ears keeps him from losing himself in the fear of what was to come.

He felt himself a coward.

One of her hands gently combs through his hair, spotting a few greys here and there as she does so; he can’t see it, but they make her smile weakly. He'd survived long enough for grey hairs to settle in, albeit at thirty-one. she swallows hard, sudden tears popping up in her eyes and threatening to fall. “I hope you’re happy,” she whispers softly, holding his hand with the one not petting him as she lays almost uselessly in bed.

She jolts slightly in surprise, the sudden movement making her very bones ache, when he starts crying as soon as the words register in his mind, Jean lifting his head as the salty fluid treks down his cheeks and leaves slick lines in its wake. “I could have never been happier than I have been with you,” Jean whispers back, smiling lovingly down at her through the tears in his eyes that made his vision beyond blurry. She smiles, squeezes his hand, and weakly tugs him on top of her where she lay on the bed to carefully balance himself on his elbows above her.

“Make love to me,” she whispers to him, small tears in her own eyes as she clutches at one of his shirt sleeves desperately. He’s not seen her cry since before she’d been given the initial diagnosis, so it stuns him for a moment. The unspoken ‘one last time’ echoes through both of their minds, but both refuse to say it and ignore it in favor of slowly getting undressed one Jean regains his wits — because moving too fast would hurt her, despite today being one of her best days in years, and neither of them wanted that.

Jean rests his forehead against hers, fresh tears welling up in his eyes as he smiles softly. “You’re the most beautiful creature I’ve ever been blessed enough to see,” he breathes, and he hears her breath hitch in response.

“I love you,” is her only reply, and that’s when he presses inside. Jean’s hips slowly rolled into hers, ever so careful to not jostle her and keep it feeling good for them both. It had been so long since they were together like this; her body was just too weak to handle it, but now they were trying — Jean could hardly believe it.

“O-Oh my God,” Y/N whimpers, swallowing the spit that had accumulated in her mouth as pulses of pleasure filled her body, “Oh — oh, oh, J-Jean-!”

“Shhh, I’ve got you,” Jean whispers, reaching a hand up to gently cup her chin before leaning down to kiss her softly. Her arms come up and wrap around his neck as he slowly fucks into her, her tiny gasps and his low grunts filling the room. Gone were the days of the headboard banging against the wall so hard that paintings and photographs fell off of it, but present still was the love shared between them.

Before long both reach orgasm, moaning out declarations of love and utterances of one another’s names as they do. The rest of the night is spent silently shared between the two of them, naked and intertwined in a warm, perfect mess.

Happily.

She was gone by dawn the next morning.

Jean hadn’t woken when she’d passed, he’d only woken to her body in his arms. He’d not known at first, not until he’d kissed her forehead and discovered how cool her skin was; she’d been so beautiful at the time, soft and sweet and peaceful looking — but then he’d realized, and he’d screamed. The neighbors had woken to the sound of his raw, agonized yelling, and they’d broken the door down getting in before realizing what had happened once they saw how he clutched her to his chest, her arm limp against the bed as he did.

There had been no consoling him, this they knew. They just alerted medics and the police and quietly went to mourn as well, already missing the woman that often offered parts of the meals she made to them, even going so far as to cook them both entire portions while the woman had been pregnant and her husband overworked leaving both exhausted.

Many good memories were had of the Kirsteins; the two would miss Mr. Kirstein’s wife.

It had taken nearly an hour for the medics to convince Jean to let them take Y/N’s body, and both before and after he was an absolute wreck. She’d been fine only a few hours ago, she’d been so warm and happy and alive — and suddenly he wakes up and she’s gone? Just like that? It’s not fair.

For the first time in seventeen years — ten at her side as a friend, and seven as a husband — he’s without her. He’s lost.

In an almost cruel act of irony, the owner of the coffee shop they went to every morning put it up for sale the day after her funeral. Apparently the only funds they’d been getting recently were from the Kirsteins themselves as well as about four other regulars, so slowly but surely the funding had just… run out. Before long the place was dark and quiet, and looking at it hurt him. All it helped him remember was Y/N, when all he wanted to do was forget.

He locks himself up in their home for months, his only company being an also-mournful Gerolf, who whined whenever he was near something she favored. Most nights are spent sleeping in his chair in the living room as well; how could he possibly sleep in the place where she had died? And he couldn’t just sleep on the couch either, her blanket was laying there — she’d not finished crocheting it, so he couldn’t touch it. Instead, he just slept in his chair with his hand in Gerolf’s fur, lazily scratching at it where he knew it would please the also depressed dog.

Just before the sixth month passes, Jean quietly creeps back into the bedroom he shared with Y/N, and promptly bursts into tears. He sits on the floor with his back to his side of the bed and his face to the doorway and sobs into his hands. He must be loud, because Gerolf is roused from the deep sleep he’d been in and the old dog brings himself into the bedroom before pressing his way between Jean’s legs then slumping against him, massive and warm and so comforting that Jean can’t help but throw his arms around him and sob into his fur, whimpering about how he misses her and wants her back. Gerolf remained silent, of course, unable to speak in anything but barks and grumbles, but his presence alone is enough to comfort Jean.

They slept in Jean and Y/N’s bed for the first time since her death that night.

After that, Jean begins to acclimate to life without her. Clinging to their dog like a lifeline, he rebuilds his own mental strength and gets back to everyday life. He begins cooking again, and he stops being so timid around Y/N’s usual areas of the house. He carefully folds the unfinished crocheted blanket and puts it on Y/N’s pillow, and he never allows anyone or anything to sit in her chair, but other than that? He begins to live in the house again.

And then comes his newest problem.

Jean doesn’t know whether or not he wants to visit Paradis or send letters to the others who’ve been burning the ones Y/N had been sending all these years, informing them of her death and burial, because regardless of whether or not he’s happy with the fact that they’d ignored her for years ( he’s not ), they still grew up with her, fought beside her, lived, ate, and slept alongside her. They should know, he thought to himself, and, leaning back in the chair at Y/N’s writing desk that had now become one of his favorite seats since her passing ( since she’d loved it so much before ), Jean eyes the closet that Y/N had kept locked since she’d become too frail to even walk to the aforementioned writing desk. Swallowing hard, he blinks away sudden, unexpected tears. More letters were in there, he knew that there were, because she’d started storing them there when she found out the others were burning hers upon receiving them.

He began thinking back on all the times he’d seen her sealing letters, and begins doing the math, only getting angrier as he does. Once he adds up all the letters in his head that they’d burnt that Y/N had sent ( one hundred and sixty-eight of them ) that led to her just writing them and filing them away in her closet, it was a lot easier for Jean to decide not to visit Paradis to tell them, or to even write a letter.

Then three months pass, and Jean’s thirty-two.

He’d never expected to make it this far when he started his life in the Scouts, but he’d made it out. Then, when he’d married Y/N, he’d thought they’d die old and happy together — but then she was gone, just like Marco and their other friends, leaving just him and Gerolf.

And now Gerolf was gone.

Jean and Y/N had both been expecting it, even before she was gone, especially since the old street mutt was at least fourteen when they’d found him. Regardless, the loss of his last living domestic link to his wife sends him into a spiral, and he locks himself away again. Reiner and Annie, who had tried endlessly to get him to let them in so they could comfort him, are shut out again with no means of getting him to talk to them. Why would he make the effort? The world had taken everything he loved most from him. He had no reason to make an effort anymore.

Then, after another two months, Jean goes out and buys the coffee shop.

They reappear in Jean’s life and ask for her a year later.

He’d turned to greet whoever had come into the coffee shop, and once his gaze locked on their easily recognizable figures he couldn’t believe his eyes. Almost immediately as the disbelief came anger, and he forced himself to turn away with the greeting dying on his tongue. He snatches a dirty glass, almost breaking it against the side of the wide sink, and begins to wash it. He’d heard through the grapevine that they’d come to the mainland, but he’d steadfastly refused to seek them out, still angry on Y/N’s behalf.

He can hear them all chattering brightly behind him, two of them ( which sounded like Mikasa and Armin ) asking where Y/N was so happily that it made Jean’s heart twist in an ugly way inside his chest and he barely could resist the urge to throw the glass he was rinsing at their heads wherever they stood behind him.

No ‘hello’? No ‘sorry for ditching you and then burning your only sources of communication because we were mad and refused to let go of a grudge, do you think you can forgive us’? Alright. Fine. Two could play at that game.

“She’s been dead a year,” Jean answers without turning around instead, a swift twinge of cruel satisfaction striking through him as a sudden quiet falls over the familiar voices behind him. He doesn’t bother looking after that either, choosing instead to continue cleaning the glass in his hand as a shaky ‘W-What?’ reaches his ears, coming from behind him in an aged rendition of Conny’s voice ( a voice that, despite his own internalized fury, he finds that he’s missed ). He doesn’t answer right away, just like last time, and finishes cleaning that glass then puts it away before reaching for another and speaking again. “She died. Two years ago almost to the day, now — four more weeks and it will have been,” he laughs bitterly. “What a morbid turn of events that would have been, had you come then, wouldn’t it?”

“H-How — Why?!” It’s Mikasa’s voice, shaky and startled and hurting, and Jean takes a wicked satisfaction in it. It was good; they deserved to hurt like he’d hurt since she’d died, deserved to feel pain after abandoning their friend for years. It was nothing short of karma.

“Sick,” is all he replies with, and he can almost hear their heart’s plummet. Everyone present knew that Y/N’s mother died of a hereditary sickness a few years before Maria fell to the titans — hell, Armin and Mikasa themselves helped Eren comfort her as she cried over her at her mother’s funeral. Jean even knew for a fact that she’d gone into more detail about her mother’s death with the Captain, who hadn’t said a word but who Jean knew was shaking ( which he could see in the reflection of the metal shaker he was washing now ). The sickness Y/N had died from was something that commonly ran in families from the Underground where the Captain had come from, and considering Y/N only saw the sun for the first time a week after she turned six and her mother dropped dead from the illness two years later, Jean wasn’t surprised that it had startled him — and he didn’t feel sorry for him, either.

Like with Mikasa, he considered the Captain’s current feelings deserved.

He throws the rag down and gingerly places Y/N’s favorite glass on a shelf of it’s own, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath before letting it out all at once. “I’m done here,” he mutters. “Follow me — or don’t. I don’t really care.”

He leaves after that, the group following single file and waiting patiently as he locks up the building early, and the sounds of their footsteps against the sidewalk have him fighting of the urge to whirl around and yell at them to just fuck off. This was all Y/N had ever wanted, to see them again, and now they were here — almost two years too late, but here nonetheless.

The group stop outside of the house Y/N and Jean had ended up living in, having desperately needing to escape the damned reparation apartments that only held bad memories, and they wait in silence as Jean unlocks the door and goes inside. He leaves the door behind himself open, and after a moment’s hesitation Levi is the first to enter, the others following like faithful but hesitant hounds in his wake.

It’s dark inside the house, and Jean’s thrown his overcoat onto one of the stylish but comfortable-looking black couches in the living room and is sitting in an armchair. It looks like he’s not paying them any mind, but Levi can feel the younger man’s eyes on him as he moves to sit down in a chair that looked unused, as he didn’t want to appropriate anything Jean preferred, especially in the man’s own home; he owed him that much.

“No!” Jean snaps suddenly, making everyone jump and Levi freeze in place. Jean sighs, but doesn’t tear his eyes from his former Captain and the chair he was touching. “Not that chair. That — That was Y/N’s favorite chair.”

His explanation was enough for Levi at ‘that was Y/N’s’ to make him jolt away from it as if it were on fire; he carefully makes his way over to the couch and grunts as he sits down next to Armin, who takes his cane from him helpfully and leans it against a side table. Y/N’s chair is given a wide berth by everyone else who takes a seat or stands in the living room.

The room is silent for a long time, no one saying a word. The tension filling the spaces between them was almost thick enough to bite without being able to break through.

“She never stopped writing them,” Jean says suddenly, his words spoken in a low tone and volume as the people in the room listen silently, “She kept going up until the last year; couldn’t — she couldn’t make the walk to her desk…” he stumbles over his own words when he remembers the last day she’d tried, the day she’d fallen to the ground and hadn’t gotten back up. She’d never walked again after that, and she’d hated it.

“I… Jean I’m so sorry. It must have been so difficult losing a friend you’d known for so long and dealing with all of this by yourself,” Armin says softly, his voice shaking. He was hurting too — all these years he’d wasted being angry, and for what? A woman loyal to her lover? A close friend loyal to another close friend? He was a fool.

The previous silence overtakes the room once again, but this time it’s different, an unexplainable anger filling Jean’s body at the mention of the word ‘friend’ then disappearing just as suddenly only to be replaced with something that couldn’t be explained as anything short of exhaustion for life.“Wife,” he corrects quietly, making them all freeze and go silent again, “I married her seven years ago.”

No one seems to know what to say.

Getting up, he disappears into the bedroom and quietly walks over to said desk, gingerly taking the key hanging from the crooked nail he’d messed up accidentally that she’d begged to keep just because she wanted to remember his wild cursing before going to unlock the closet holding the letters. Picking up the case she’d asked him to put them in a month before she’d passed, he lugs them into the living room before dropping them on the table with a loud thud.

“Take the box and get out,” he mutters venomously, leaving no room for argument as he retreats to his and Y/N’s bedroom and locks the door; his own letters had been placed on Y/N’s writing desk, left untouched all these months — but maybe it was time for him to read them.

As he unties the brown twine holding them together, he hears everyone in the living room leave, the door shutting ominously behind them as they do, and Jean’s surprised at first that it doesn’t hurt as much as he’d expected it to — then again, he’s pretty much dead already without Y/N, so what did it matter?

Shaking as he holds the first letter Y/N had written to him tightly enough to strain the paper but not crinkle it, he begins to read, but he only makes it to the third before he finally breaks.

“‘Think of me fondly’,” he reads aloud, laughing breathlessly in a way that slowly and painfully turns into heavy sobbing. “How couldn’t I?” he asks pleadingly to the letter, almost as if he thought it would be able to answer him. It, of course, didn’t, and he cast it across the desk and away from himself in favor of leaning on his elbows against the top of the desk and burying his face in his hands to cry longer, his tears falling and landing on the smooth wood of the desk top, slowly but surely forming small puddles that seeped into the pores of the wood and disappeared, just like she had all those weeks ago.

Y/N was gone.

Gerolf was gone.

His comrades? They’d not been a part of his life in years.

Jean was alone. Just like he’d feared for years. He’d told Y/N that years ago, even before she got sick, and she’d still left.

He pushes himself up and staggers away from the desk, one of her letters clutched in his fest while the other wipes furiously at his face as he wails like a child. “It’s not fair,” he whispers, his entire body wracked with sobs. “IT’S NOT FAIR!”

He shakily collapses to the floor and falls against the bed again, just as he had a year ago — only this time, Gerolf wasn’t there to comfort him. This time, he was alone with his pain and fear, and it showed in his tears and words. All night long, he screams and cries and mourns his losses — Marco, Sasha, Eren, Y/N, and he mourns his comrades, the people who had abandoned him just as surely as they’d abandoned his wife.

After the sun rises and shines through a window, he blearily looks outside. A sparrow sits on the windowsill, a large bird he faintly remembers seeing years ago ( but that he’s unsure of where he saw it ) at the sparrow’s side, both looking through the window at him inquisitively. He stares at them, unsure of what to say and afraid to move should he scare them off, when the larger bird takes off, circling around the house judging by the fact that it keeps flying by the window. For three loops of the larger bird’s flight, the sparrow stays on the windowsill, just staring at him, before finally pecking at it and taking off to join the larger bird. They disappear into the light of the rising sun, and suddenly Jean doesn’t feel the urge to cry anymore. Instead, he gets to his feet and pulls out a suitcase before beginning to pack his things, ready for a trip out to see Annie and Reiner.

It was time to start over — even if that didn’t mean falling in love with someone else again.

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 © { 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 } 𝐛𝐲 𝟒𝐈𝐙𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐒. 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐟𝐲, 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞, 𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭.

#goodbye.#i’m numb #I DIDNT REALIZE READER WOULD BE DYING ?????#how evil 😭#jean >>>>#men who love u like jean 🥹#but god the part where she was like #it’s ok to move on #FUCK.#i hate u for that one byw #when you have to grieve urself as u live over time #and come to terms with ur inevitable departure #and u come to peace with ppl moving on from you 🥹#that shit STINGS #the way u described everything kys im in tears i bawl like a baby #when main character deaths happen #‘three months pass and jean is 32’#this line is so pretty #it’s like not even that much time has passed but #he’s almost aged too much in that time #how devastating 🥹#bruh when everyone came #when he was satisfied in mikasas voice shaking #WHEN HE SAID NOT TO SIT ON THE CHAIR #THATS HER FAV CHAIR #ITS UR TURN TL DIE WHY DO THIS #i am sad over a CHAIR #bruh i’m not happy #fuck u mean i hope ur happy #BUT ALL DEPRESSION ASIDE

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seven-gill · 20 days ago

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Evolution of my sketches and doodles for Indigo. Still haven’t settled on something I like. She feels too similar to my Listener design, mainly in the face, so I’m working on giving her a distinct look. Bonus Fathom sprinkled here and there.

Minor content warning for blood in image 3.

1. The most recent concept, comparing Indigo before and after the massacre. I know Fathom completely healed her following her tussle with Albatross, but I like the idea of her still carrying the scars of that fateful night. I’m not a fan of her color palette or horns, but I’m happy with the freckles and triangle motif.

2. Early version of the previous image with more vibrant purples and white compliments. Post massacre Indigo is almost meant to look like a completely different character. I wanted her sail to be a prominent part of her person, something vibrant and playful before its completely shredded.

3. Fathom grieving over a dying Indigo. Very happy with these colors and the shape of her wings and tail. Maybe I’ll revisit this sketch and make a full drawing of it.

4. Color exploration. I really don’t like working with the color purple. I mean, I love it on its own, but I’m awful at coming up with pleasing palettes, and purple- for whatever reason, is one of those colors I can’t seem to get right, I tried purple and oranges, purple and white, and so on and so forth. I looked at some purple fish for reference and decided that the Purple Tang was a decent muse. Deep blues and purples paired with spots and stripes. Also tried incorporating yellow/orange again…

5. Fathom and the “Animus Slayer”. Fathom has remained relatively unchanged in his appearance. He’s meant to look like a wearier Turtle, while also borrowing some of his grandfather’s traits. The Albatross similarities will make more sense if I ever get around to posting my design for him. (They’re supposed to have similar beaked snouts, eyebrows, horns, and forked barbels).

6. My OLDEST concepts for Indigo. These were my attempts to get a feel for color and shape, and it’s where I decided I wanted Indigo to be heavily scarred.

7. Indigo and Fathom as young dragonets | Another armored Indigo doodle | The Pickles meme but with Indigo and Fathom.

I’ll probably finish Indigo eventually, but I’m sorta at a loss on where to take her. Maybe I’ll move my focus to Albatross and Fathom since I have a much clearer vision for them.

#wings of fire #wof art #wings of fire art #wingsoffire #wof fanart #indigo wof #wings of fire indigo #fathom wof #fathom wings of fire #seawings #wings of fire seawing

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marvelwitchergilmore · 3 months ago

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Let Me Prove It

Summary: Logan x Fe!Reader -> After months of grieving for Logan, he proves to you he's not going anywhere.

Disclaimer: Descriptions of death, blood, reader goes through grief of losing Logan. Angst, sadness, some fluff. There is a happy ending. Illusions to smut towards the end. Not Proof Read.

You could remember the day you fell in love with Logan Howlett.

It had been a rainy afternoon. Nothing grand had happened that day. The kids had been in classes all day, most exams were happening all week but by Friday, they’d all be over for the semester. There was stew, heating up on the stove, and you had been reading your book.

At least, you’d been trying to.

Often, your mind would wander off on its own and only half way through your train of thought would you realise you had boarded the wrong train and it was already moving. And just like a flash of a meadow, snapping past one of the compartment windows, you discovered you had feelings for Logan.

And watching him walk through the backdoor only a moment later, confirmed your thoughts.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Your train came to a halt and you snapped up, focusing on reality. “What?”

Logan grumbled. “Nothing. Dinner ready?”

“Almost. Storm’s looking for you, by the way. She wants to know if you can cover her class next week. She’s got a doctor's appointment and no one’s available.”

Logan still had his back turned as he looked in the cupboard for something. “Sure. What class?”

“History. What are you looking for?”

Logan didn’t fully answer you. He just mumbled a noise before pulling a small box out from the back and closing the door. Turning around he opened it up, took a cookie out before offering it to you.

“She got a lesson plan?”

Looking down at your book, you dog-eared the page. Sometimes, you’d use a bookmark but considering most of them would disappear without a trace and leave you fending for yourself to find your page again, hours after you’d read it, you gave up on them.

“Yeah, she’s already left it in your room.”

“Of course she has.” Logan took another bite of his cookie and rounded the kitchen island.

Your gaze followed him. Mostly out of curiosity. You and Logan were friends. Not best friends. But good friends. Well…

Good enough friends.

Could you really be in love with him?

Reaching up into the top cupboard, he brought down the set of bowls and took half from the top.

“You take the rest.”

And for the next ten minutes, you both laid out the table in time for dinner.

Then you watched as he helped some of the younger kids with their hot meals. Despite all of his grumbling and his small protests when it came to calling him the best baby-sitter.

Logan was good with kids.

Yep.

You were in love with Logan.

And just like how you could remember the day you fell in love with Logan, you could also remember the day he died.

It had torn you to pieces.

It still did.

It had been on a mission. You’d all faced worse before. And yet, somehow, nobody was prepared for what was about to happen. Everything blew up. Quite literally. You had been helping some of the kids to safety with Storm and Scott. Scott had left half way through, running to find Jean and help her. Storm had given him cover, as well as the kids.

And once you knew the kids were in safe hands on the jet, you ran back.

Only, when you got to the top of the hill, having skidded to a halt only to catch yourself on a rotting tree, you looked down to see for the first time, the image that would be forever imprinted in your mind.

Logan and Jean were at the bottom. Scott had made it just in time to hold his girlfriend back when Logan took the brunt of the attack. It sent him flying and when he fell to the floor, your gut twisted.

Usually, he’d get up.

But something was off.

He wasn’t getting up. Not as quickly, anyway.

And when he did, an attack came sooner than anyone else had expected.

Straight through his stomach and a second through his side, Logan was impaled to the tree before being torn from it, sent flying forward with the tentacle branches before being pulled off and sent flying to the ground.

You remembered screaming his name along with the others before running forward. Storm had made it there before you, but you were the first on your knees beside him, trying to check for any healing that was starting.

It wasn’t.

You heard the muffled voices of the rest of the team in your ears, fighting against your own heartbeat as you looked down at Logan. He was bleeding out and fast.

The bodies beside you disappeared and followed after the attacker and soon everything became…

Silent.

The ringing in your ears had stopped, your ears had gotten used to your own heartbeat, and you tried your best to focus on Logan.

His eyes were closed. Begging him through your own tears for him to open his, you took his hand. Feeling for his pulse, it was weak. And getting weaker.

“Logan…please. Please don’t do this.”

Then your hearing focused on his heartbeat. Each beat took longer to come after the other until finally, with one weak squeeze of goodbye to your hand, Logan died.

The hours that followed after that became a blur.

The man you loved but had never told had died in front of you. You had heard his heartbeat stop. You had felt his last goodbye. He never got any last words. Just one last touch.

And every night that followed after that, you re-lived it. Over and over and over again. Each night, the same. Logan. The branches. The blood. The pulse. The heartbeat. The touch. The silence.

Sometimes you’d wake just as he touched your hand, the ghost of a feeling left on your palm as you woke.

The others never bothered to ask. At least, not after the first time you had told them. The Professor had gathered you all in his office after everything had happened. And all you could think of was that Logan’s body was lay, lifeless, underneath the school.

He had asked you what had happened and, with your arms folded and your eyes on the ground, you answered him.

“He wasn’t healing. There wasn’t anything I could do. He died,” you explained before looking up at the Professor and giving him Logan’s time of death. “May I go now? I want to make sure the kids are okay.”

The Professor excused you and you left as quickly as you could, the door slamming a little louder than you had meant.

And for the next two months, you…kept yourself busy.

People talked about Logan, they were determined to keep his memory alive. But they didn’t have to go to bed at night, just for his memory to die again. Each morning, you seemed to wake up earlier than usual. And with the feeling of Logan’s hand against yours, you busied yourself as best as you could.

Grading papers, alphabetising the library, cleaning every possible surface including the ceilings, constantly doing the laundry. Weeding out the garden, planting some new flower beds. Fixing the creaky wooden board in the hallway, painting the doors and wooden boards between the windows. Trimming the bushes, scrubbing the pots (even the old ones that weren’t in use anymore).

You did anything and everything you could. Mostly to keep your mind busy but party because you hoped, if you tired yourself out enough, you might have caught a break. Made it one night through without re-living Logan’s death.

But all of that changed one afternoon when you were called to the Professor’s study.

Where you came face to face with…

Logan.

Everyone was confused.

Apart from the Professor.

And throughout the meeting you remained quiet. Obviously, everyone was angry at the fact the Professor had kept such a big secret.

“We didn’t know if it would work and we didn’t want anyone to have to re-live their grief.” The Professor explained. “It was a shot in the dark.”

“How is this even possible?” Storm asked as she sat down.

“It seems Logan’s healing abilities were simply weakened. He needed help to heal. Medical help that not I, nor I’m afraid even you, Jean, could give him. There is a doctor I know, based in Alberta. She helped boost Logan’s healing factor and made sure that whatever had weakened him was no longer in his system.”

There was a little more explaining to do, but you could feel yourself drifting from the conversation. You just kept looking at Logan as he stood by the window and the Professor’s desk.

He had his back turned when you had walked inside, the others all looking confused and annoyed, having to wait for you before they got their explanation.

He had died.

You had seen him die.

You had felt him die.

And yet, there he stood. His hands in his pockets, looking around the room, breathing and living as if nothing had even happened.

Not long after all the explanations, everyone got to voice their opinion and you came last. Everyone looked at you, including Logan.

And all you wanted to do was run.

To him or away from him, you couldn’t quite tell.

So, with a breath, you forced a half smile and nodded. “It’s good to have you back. Professor, may I go? I’ve got a class that’s about to start.”

“Of…of course. I would have thought-”

Reaching for the door, you looked back. “See you round, Logan.”

Just before you closed the door, you heard Storm announce her way to Logan to give him a hug. But even the Professor couldn’t concentrate on that because he couldn’t help but notice there was something different about you.

Of course, he’d noticed you’d been keeping yourself busy. Missing out on family dinners, eating yours when you found the time later on in the evening, cleaning up the classrooms after hours, doing a little touch ups here and there with a smaller paint can and paintbrush.

Little did he know, you had just been filling in the spots you had missed the day before.

But he had figured you had been like the others. Itching to hug Logan. Being glad he was alive and breathing.

Instead…

You had barely said two words and had left as soon as you could.

“Are you okay?” Storm asked you later that night when you were cooking dinner.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Storm lifted herself onto a stool opposite you. “I don’t know. You just didn’t seem…excited about Logan being back.”

“Of course I’m excited he’s back.”

“Then would it kill you to show it?” Storm asked, half jokingly. “Here, let me help.”

You shook your head. “It’s okay, I’m almost done.”

Storm moved her hands away from your chopping board slowly. “Okay. Are you sure you’re okay?”

You smiled. “Ororo, I’m fine. Scouts honour. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

You shrugged, forcing your mind back to reality. “Nothing. It’s just been a long day, s’all.”

Later that evening, you found yourself alone in your classroom. The others were down the hall having dinner but you had found yourself something to do. You could have gone down but whether out of habit of the last two months or fear, you didn’t wish to join them.

Your appetite had already been worse for wear over the last couple of weeks. If you were sat at the table, across from Logan, you wouldn’t have been able to even think about eating.

So, taking another bite of your sandwich, you turned back to your essays.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Logan looked around the table. You were missing.

“Whose turn was it to cook tonight?” Logan asked.

“Y/n’s.” Jean told him. “She’s been making most of the meals lately. Guess she just got the cooking bug.”

“But she’s not here.”

Jean shrugged it off. “She’ll probably get some later.”

“Where is she?” He asked as he went to stand. But Jean stopped him.

“Oh, no. Stay. Come on, Everyone needs to catch up.”

“Catch up on what?” Logan asked. “I’ve been in a hospital in Alberta for two months.”

“Please, just…stay. Besides, Y/n’ll appear when she wants. She’s probably busy.”

And after a little bit more convincing, Logan stayed. You’d left so abruptly that morning, he questioned if you even wanted to see him at all.

It continued like that for a week.

At first, Logan tried to convince himself you weren’t avoiding him. But as the week went on and he began to see less of you inside his routine, he knew you had to be.

And then he began to notice things.

Everything seemed cleaner than when he had left. And brighter. Fresher, even. The doors had been given a paint job. Despite it being dry, he could still smell the aroma of fresh paint in the air. The halls were less creaky when he walked down them. The cupboards were tidier. He could find his cookies with ease now.

And despite the fact he didn’t read all that much, he knew the library had changed. Even the books that no-one ever touched. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen near them. And one of his personal favourites – a book he tended to read around winter, where the cover was falling off and the pages were falling apart – had been binded to look like new.

So, taking action into his own hands, he went to look for you.

And it wasn’t long before he found you.

You had escaped him when he saw you planting fresh flowers in the garden, and you had escaped him when you had brought in the groceries having used Storm as a distraction for you to slip out of the kitchen once everything was away.

But he had found you in the library.

Once again, you hadn’t come to dinner, making up an excuse that you needed to work. And Logan knew for a fact you hadn’t left to come and get your dinner yet so, he brought it to you.

“Thought you might be hungry.”

You looked up but Logan had already heard the change in your pulse.

“Oh…thanks. You can just leave it there.”

And he did.

“You’ve got to eat at some point.”

“I will,” you looked back up at him. “Soon. I promise.”

This was the longest conversation you’d both had since he got back. So, he took a seat across from you.

“What are you working on?”

“Work.”

Logan smiled. “Funny.”

Then the silence washed over you both. But he didn’t want it to stick. “Y/n?”

You hummed a response.

“Can you look at me?”

Your heartbeat seemed to jump and you took in a discrete breath. Finally seeing your face, Logan smiled.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve not been avoiding you.” You looked back at your work.

“Yes, you have.”

“What makes you say that?”

Logan gave you a list. “The constant work, the avoidance of dinners, the silent treatment. Did I do something?”

You shook your head. “You haven’t done anything, Logan.”

“Then can you look at me when you tell me that so I might believe you.”

Finally, you looked at him.

“Tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

Logan asked again. “What’s going on?”

You laughed, nervously. “Nothing’s going on. Logan, I’m fine.”

“Are you? Because you’ve been avoiding me since I got back and- what? What is it?”

You laughed again, except this time you didn’t know how you’d describe it.

“‘Got back’ you repeated his words. “You say that as if you left for a vacation. You died, Logan. Or did you forget that?”

“No. Y/n. What’s going on?”

You shook your head and packed away your things as quickly as you could. “Forget I said anything. Thanks for dinner.”

“You didn’t even eat-” Logan watched you walk away from him again.

He’d rather have you fight him than avoid him, so he pressed on.

“Talk to me.” Logan followed after you. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. It’s late, Logan. Go to bed.”

“Only when you do.”

“What?” You asked.

“Your bedroom, it’s upstairs, down the hall from mine. In the opposite direction. The only thing this way is your classroom.”

“I’ve got to finish grading.”

“It’s almost midnight.”

You shrugged. “What teacher doesn’t get enough sleep?”

“Something is going on. Something has been going on. For a while. Please,” Logan begged. “Just tell me what it is.”

You stopped in your tracks. “Do you really want to know what it is?”

“Yes.” Logan nodded, stopping in front of you.

“Okay then, I’ll tell you.”

And you did.

“I watched you die, Logan. I heard your heart stop. I watched as blood pooled out of your body with no way for me to stop it. Even after three scalding hot showers, I still had your bloodstains on my skin, under my nails and on my clothes. Every night when I close my eyes, I re-live it. Everything. Every tiny detail. And the silence afterwards…it’s deafening. Sometimes I wake up, still feeling the pressure you put into my hand. Sometimes it’s still there hours after I wake up. I had spent every single day keeping myself busy, finding extra work for myself, just to make sure that I don’t start daydreaming about the waking nightmare I had to watch you go through. I had spent the last two months going over and over in my head what I would say to you if I ever saw you again. But I could never bring myself to do it, because I had watched you die. I had felt you die. So, please. Forgive me if I’m not jumping with joy because I can miraculously forget what happened, like everyone else.”

Logan let your words wash over him. No one had told him. He had a sneaking suspicion they hadn’t because even they didn’t know. Maybe they never asked. Maybe they just hadn’t noticed.

Gaining back your breath, you went to turn away.

“Goodnight, Logan.”

Closing your classroom door behind you, you silently locked it and pressed your back against it feeling your entire body start to shake. Slowly, your legs went from underneath you and you lowered yourself to the ground by sliding down the door. You tried your best to squeeze your tears back into your eyes with the heels of your hands, but nothing could stop them.

Not now.

Not when you had just admitted the truth to the one man you never thought you would see again.

Three times Logan turned back to your classroom door, ready to walk inside. But he didn’t know what he would say.

So he waited.

Back in his room, he waited to hear the door to your room close.

And after two hours, he finally did.

And before he knew it, his feet were carrying him towards your door. Only, he stood there for ten minutes, unsure of what to do with himself.

At some point, he finally knocked.

Turning off the tap by the sink, you hung up your flannel onto the radiator bar and dried off your face when you heard the soft knock at your door.

There was only one person who could have been up so late.

He knocked again after a minute or two.

And you opened up the door.

Whatever Logan had just semi-prepared in his mind, slipped away. He was going to say something. But looking at you, standing in front of him…all words failed him.

And the longer he stood in front of you, the louder the reminder came to you that he wasn’t dead. He was alive. He could be shot with twelve live rounds and the bullets would pop right back out of his skin. His claws would flare out and he’d be Wolverine. They’d retract and his skin would heal instantly. There would be no evidence that anything had ever happened.

Then six words slipped from your mouth before you could stop them. Before even your brain could register the thought.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

Logan felt his chest crack and his heart impale with pain.

Pushing the door open a little wider, his arms engulfed you in an embrace that would forever be imprinted on your soul. Your own arms wrapped around him, trying to remember the feel of him both physically and spiritually in case the day ever came where you truly would never see him again.

That if this was going to be your only memory of him, you could never, ever forget it.

Lifting you up in his embrace for a moment, Logan walked further inside your room, kicking the door shut with his foot. Even if no one else was awake, he didn’t want to risk anyone walking by. Clearly, no-one else knew what you had been living through in your nightmares. And he didn’t want anyone else to share this moment between himself and you.

“You spared me the pain of being alone.” Logan whispered into your hair. “I was less scared because you were there.”

“I couldn’t have left you.”

Your tears were back to rolling down your cheeks. “I’m sorry about everything you had to go through.”

Logan softly kissed away your tears, wiping the others away.

You took in a shaky breath. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.”

Logan shook his head. “You saved me. You stayed with me.”

“But-”

With both your eyes closed, and Logan’s, you felt his forehead touch yours as his hands cradled your cheeks. “I’m real, Y/n. I’m alive.”

You felt Logan take your hand and press it to his chest, over his heart. His heartbeat was mostly steady, if a little quick. Spreading your fingers across his chest, you felt it rise and fall with his breathing.

“I’m alive,” he kept repeating. “I’m alive.”

Logan’s breath was drawing closer to yours. “Logan…”

“Let me prove it to you.”

And you let him.

Capturing your breath in a kiss, Logan remained soft at first. He didn’t want to scare you. He didn’t want you to jump and run away from him like you had done only a few hours before in the library.

But then you kissed back.

So he moved his hands through your hair and over your body until you were pressed against him as close as you possibly could be.

Your own hands pulled him in closer by his neck whilst the hand he’d placed over his heart remained fixed in its position.

Logan was proving to every sense in your body he was real. That he was alive. Almost counteracting the memory that had been drawn from a waking nightmare.

And as he lifted you up, your back soon pressing against the wall, you and Logan knew he would be spending the rest of the night doing exactly what he told you he wanted to do.

Prove it to you.

As morning rolled around, you felt a warm body next to you, tangled not only in you but also your sheets.

Logan.

His arms practically caged around you, you recalled every single detail from the night before. Your argument in the hallways, the classroom, the knock at the door, the hug, the kiss, the proof.

And then, you felt yourself, for the first time in months, give a real smile.

Lowering your head, you buried yourself in between Logan’s chest and your bedsheets, feeling his arms tense at your movement, holding you in the bed without a way of escape.

And as your body reacted to his touch you realised something.

For the first time since his death, you hadn’t had a nightmare. You hadn’t seen his death play on repeat inside your head. And the touch you were feeling wasn’t in your hand but rather all across your body.

Parts were aching with a soreness you never quite knew was possible and later when you would look in the mirror, you would find fingertip bruises by your hips, love bites leading down your hip bone and on your inner thigh. Smaller ones were also dotted around your collar and neck, but a rather prominent one was yet to be left by the crook of your neck from behind where Logan’s lips would find themselves before you got into a fresh shower, Logan joining almost immediately.

But until then, you’d revel in the feeling of Logan’s constant heartbeat against your hand, and for a moment your lips as you kissed his skin. Before he woke up and proved to you time and time again how real he was and how much the memory that had plagued you for two months was something that, although wasn’t easy to forget about, could become something of a distant memory.

And for the rest of your lives, he would make sure to do exactly that.

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mooishbeam · 1 year ago

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『♡』 In the Ring

♡ featuring: boxer!wriothesley x manager!reader

♡ summary: its hard managing a boxer full time. maybe it's time you relieve that stress. wc: 6.8k+ (???>":>?)

♡ cw/tw: mentions of trauma, mentions of violence, rough sex, overstim, face-sitting, size kink, unintentional edging, hair pulling, mentions of choking, argument, confessed feelings, slow burn, kinda toxic?

notes: can u tell how down bad i am for wriothesley. also do yall like the smaller text cause I do. jing yuan fluff next :)) art by sxnalien on twitter! <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

For a second, the crowd stills. Bright intense lamps illuminate the sweltering squared circle, buoyant under the nimble movement of the boxers. They trade blows, bobbing and throwing each devastating hook with an even deadlier counter. No one took a hit for the past minutes, and the audience scoots to the edge of their seats at the sheer stamina of the two. Both dripping sweat, barely holding on between the merciless clock and their steadfast opponent. You can almost hear the breeze of swift jabs cutting wind against their jaws. The one with blue gloves can barely manage to guard himself, with a swollen face and wobbly legs, while the crimson gloves deal relentless punches. The crowd shouts. Unintelligible echoes, some that pray for the win, others grieving the money they’re about to lose. He’s caught on the ropes, and attempts a wild swing to save himself, to save his career. Red gloves weaves effortlessly and delivers a brutal crush to his bloodied nose and possibly busted mouthpiece. The crack is resounding, it makes the commentators cringe. His skull flies back, and he comes crashing down from his dizzying tower. The head-first fall vibrates beneath the feet of investors in proximity.

DING DING DING

Mass uproar ensues. They jump out of their seats, flailing their arms, joy and pain in equilibrium.

“And he is out! It’s all over!” the commentator yells. Confetti floats golden dust from the ceiling. The victor stalks the ropes before hopping on them, his gloves raised in the air. Glistening, high off elation, but somehow composed in his attitude, akin to a wolf.

“A savage knockout from the untouchable world champion, the king of the ring, Wriooothesley!”

“Wrio, Wrio, Wrio!” they chant. You’re standing near the ropes, already identifying which joints you’ll need to observe after his victory lap. It’s hectic, and you’re jotting down the state of his figure. Past experiences sew through each deep scar carving his rugged biceps and abs, the bruises display early signs of discoloration. He’s tall on the unseen throne, it feels like you’re there with him. A million eyes in that vast stadium, and yet, those midwinter eyes ebbed in silver only look at you.

Your beginnings as a manager were tumultuous. You could barely comprehend how out of your league you were working for a renowned agency fresh out of college. Though you found quick success in your ability to grab the attention of investors through public relations, you weren’t equipped just yet with the hindsight in preparing for scandals. The other athletes you worked with served no problem, and so you never had to worry about their appeal. Higher ups praised your extensive portfolio, and at such a young age, it was even more commendable. You earned it, fame and respect, interviews and gossip—a delicate dance. You were always busy, assisting your clients throughout the day and maintaining their presence while they slept. It was hard work, but you loved doing it.

That was until you worked with amateur boxer, Childe.

A snappy, overconfident lightweight fighter with no regard for anything or anyone. He had an unmistakable void in his eyes, but you fought for him ceaselessly, to prove that he wasn’t the cold person he portrayed himself as. You bore with his flirtatious compliments and innuendos, the need to focus him whenever you documented his afflictions, and he’d not-so-subtly flex his biceps. Childe was unnecessarily violent with underhanded tactics. The media knew this and did everything to amplify that bellicose story. You’d combat it, negate it, but he only fed the flames with threats of retaliation. Taking his phone wasn’t enough, and you couldn’t get through to him. It was only a matter of time before he went off the deep end.

The day you slept, you discovered a restlessness you’d endure indefinitely. The flickering glow of your device woke you at midnight as hundreds of notifications congested your screen. 128 missed calls from your agency, 50 from news sources, and none from Childe. When you processed the damage from his deplorable stunt, you nearly hurled your phone out the window. He posted revenge porn, and evidently turned off his phone. Surely, there’d be a way to fix this. The chances seemed to dissolve with each text turning green. You started pacing, battling with morality and loyalty and anger. What he did was disgusting, but it’s your job to save him, right? Is he worth saving? You spoke with 4 managers at once, switching through motives and bickering until morning. As you flipped through the television, another emotion struck you.

There he was, on a tasteless gossip channel. An interview you didn’t arrange, with a man you’ve never seen before. And he was...crying? The sob story emitting from his deceitful lips was almost impressive. Childe went on about how “demanding and horrible” you were backstage. The crocodile tears dried up through dodgy anecdotes, but it was enough to have people hooked. You were allegedly physically and emotionally abusive. He was too scared to speak up due to your position and he just couldn’t bear it any longer. Then he dropped the bomb; he blamed you for his post. You forced him to do it, jealous of his previous partners, emphasizing how enamored you were of him. The questionable tears began to fall again, but this time he covered his mouth, withholding the duping smile crawling on his face.

You were filled with blinding rage, unable to control the fury at which your remote connected with the screen. It was everywhere now, social media websites booming with live opinions. He had no reason to slander you, and you couldn’t pinpoint why he chose to hurt you like this. You cried for him, shared stories of childhood and family. The knife you used to protect him was firm in your back, twisting and digging with each disgusting message in your inbox. You had no game plan to conduct, and no tears left to cry.

Within a week, you finally understood how cruel this industry could be. Within a week, you were no longer on top. You lost clients fast. It spread like wildfire and not a single outlet spared an ear for your side. People you called friends, coworkers, hadn’t replied to your messages. When you got back to work, the rooms were silent as you passed. You could feel their judgement, whispers rattled with rumors and accusations. They waited for the tiniest slip-up and pounced like hyenas—you were eaten alive by their pitiful stares. You attempted to tell your truth multiple times throughout the week, but it was consistently rejected. The headlines were eye-catching:

“Manager From Hell: Childe Tells All!”

“He Cries: A Story of Love and Jealousy”

Your stomach churned to the magazines being shown. Despite the great amount of loss you suffered, you were thankful for the one person that believed you, your boss.

“Childe is a lying little snake. The media knows that, too.”

“Then why is this happening?”

“Money. That story is making bank right now. But I know for a fact you wouldn’t do this” he reassured.

“Thank you, sir. But...I lost everything; I just don’t know what to do.” The weariness was heavy in your voice.

“I have someone you can manage. It won’t be easy, but if anyone can do it, it’s you.” You were unsure of yourself now, and he continued.

“You’re one of my best. If you want to climb out of this, now’s your chance.” Yes, you were unsure, drowning in doubt. But if the only way to get above water was to keep swimming, you wouldn’t give up so easily.

Wriothesley wasn’t exactly known for his kindness. Crude, cocky, maybe even spoiled were descriptions that circulated in the tabloids. He had a knack for pissing reporters off by not answering questions or humming over their voice with a shit-eating grin on his face. Women loved him, however, throwing bras and phone numbers written on scrap as the condemned “bad boy” departed post-game. They screamed his name at once, and he’d done nothing to deserve it. He relished infamy—that way, it was much harder to pry into his private life.

It had to be a coincidence that it was someone you fangirled over. In college, your eyes were glued to the screen every Sunday, waiting for Wriothesely’s post-conference and behind the scenes interviews. He didn’t speak often, but just the sight of those inky strands streaked with ash made your heart flutter featherlight in your chest.

When you first approached him, he was just as arrogant as you’d expect.

“Good evening!” you beamed. You caught him outside the gym, and he still had his headphones in. Full volume and blankly staring as you went on about the opportunity, silent under the blaring music. He took one earbud out when you finished.

“Hm? Who’re you?”

You were slightly annoyed. “Let me reintroduce myself, I’m (Y/N). Your new manager.”

“No. Bye.” He began to walk past you without an ounce of care. You couldn’t lose it like this.

“Ah, wait!” He turned half-heartedly.

“Listen, I get it. You don’t want to be bossed around. But honestly, your reputation is shit. That can’t be good for business.” you persuaded. He towered over you, the figure of a Greek giant peeked through the compression top as he lazily watched you.

“So? Why do you care?” he remarked.

“I’ll help you. Sponsors, advertisements, whatever you want. You’re good, but you can be so much better. Let’s make money together.” You held your hand out, awaiting a handshake of approval. He merely glanced at your limp wrist.

“Help? You’re obviously not doing this for free.”

“Of course not. Give a little, take a little. I don’t do charity cases” you shrugged.

He groaned, raking his fingers through his thick mane. At the very least, he hadn’t walked away yet. “I'd prefer for my life to be private.”

“Then I’ll guarantee your privacy.”

“Really?” he scoffed. “What can you give me besides empty promises?”

“Anything you desire. Work with me, and I’ll make it happen.” That offer enticed him. No one had been this persistent with him yet, he scared off any manager that dared succor him. It was slightly entertaining, the way you burned ambition in your eyes, you were so easy to read. Most people wouldn’t look directly at him, and here you were, ready to follow him home if that’s what it took. He chuckled, and his massive hand reached for yours.

You shook hands, and your fates were sealed.

That was a year ago, and ever since then he’s been a thorn in your side. Nonstop drama and rectifying consumed your life. You didn’t think a man who spoke so little in public could talk so much around you. Whenever you argue—which is a frequent occurrence—his smirk grew wider at your frustration. You weren’t sure why you ever liked him in the first place. He only puts in effort when it comes to sparring, but you’re determined to ameliorate his standing, and in turn, yours.

The minute you open the doors to the hall, the sound of pummeled sandbags, clanking metal, and sneakers skidding across the floor roars in your ears. Some men are dialed in on abusing the inanimate objects, the rest tense through repetitions of dumbbell curls with a hiss. You're in quick strides, the phone arm's length away from you as the sponsor on the other end screams. Another petty drama surrounding Wriothesley grabs the attention of the internet. Luckily, you have thorough experience remedying this.

“What are you going to do? You’re fucking with my money!” you hear the faint voice. You bring the phone back to your ear.

“Don’t I always deal with it? He fights, I make up for the other half. Give me a few hours.”

“I’m not going to wa-” You hang up at the response.

You propel the double doors free into a large room with a boxing ring in the center. A group of trainers swarm the perimeter, you can barely see through.

“Don’t be scared!” one of them taunt towards the sparring partner, who has an unthinkable panic creeping in goosebumps dotting his skin. Each sloppy dodge tilts him more and more off balance against the strikes. Wriothesley has a powerful stature, with his back curving in a way that accentuates the rough muscle shaping his spine. You drone an annoyed sigh at the commotion and push yourself through them.

“Move it, move!” you yell, before jostling your way to the front of the ring.

“Wriothesley! Times up.” He turns his head to the side, unintentionally sparing his partner and glares at you.

“Two minutes.”

“No. Now.” you command. He looks up at nothing, as if considering his options if he cusses you out. Then he begrudgingly drops the gloves and pulls himself under the ropes. The group disperses from the lack of action and he’s mere inches from you now. Sometimes you forget how to breathe in his half-naked presence.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He mumbles while drying his head with a towel. His colossal forearms are raised over his head, highlighting the happy trail thick down his abdomen and tufts of hair on his armpits.

“You. How many times do I have to tell you not to train during recovery?” you seethe.

“Damn. Must’ve slipped my mind.” He doesn’t sound convincing in the slightest.

“Well then, I’ll be sure to remind you hourly.”

“Nah, I’m good. Hearing you once a day is enough.” He tosses the towel to you like his dutiful servant and grabs his water bottle. The liquid drips down his chin and on his shorts, hanging below his v-line.

Your eyebrow twitches from withheld vexation. “If you don’t want to hear me twice, I suggest you do what I tell you. We need to talk.” A heavy sigh leaves him as he stretches, and he passes you the water bottle. If you had the strength to collapse the bottle with one hand, you would. “Lead the way” he goads.

Wriothesley follows you through the backdoor of the gym to a secluded alleyway. When you get there, he immediately pulls out a cigarette you didn’t know he had. You were aware he smokes occasionally, but seeing it physically coaxed a strange worry in your gut. You twist your phone to him, to display evidence of him instigating an argument with Childe on social media. He reads in silence, briefly laughing at the recollection of his own comebacks, then lights the cigarette.

“What’s this? Didn’t I say keep a low profile?” you reprimand.

He drags in a deep breath of nicotine, and you eye the foul scent with distaste. He blows it above your unhappy face. “Calm down. Once a month thing. That fucker's testing me.”

“This can’t happen again, Wriothesley.” He ignores you to continue his mumbling. “I should break his neck like a twig. He’s lucky he didn’t say that shit to my face, fucking punk.” he grouses. You're struggling to gather your thoughts, the cigarette compacted between his thick fingers irritates you.

“We all appreciate your restraint, however-” you get closer, and yank the stick out his hand.

“No-!” Before he can finish, you promptly smudge it underneath your shoe. You aren’t sure how he’d react, but you didn’t expect him to sulk like a puppy.

“You aren’t doing this shit while I’m here.”

“Oh my god” he pouts, throwing his hands into his face and pulling them down.

“You’re lucky I don’t report it to the doctor. None of this, ever again.”

“Fuck, alright just...” he lets out a defeated sigh. “What do you want me to do about it? Apologize publicly?” You need him to do nothing; neither agency wants controversy, and it’d most likely be swept under the rug in just a couple days. You point his water bottle to him.

“Nope, I’ll handle it. Just sit there and be pretty.” you reassure. He leans down to your height with a sweet smile and even sweeter gaze.

“I do that well, don’t I?” he quips.

“You manage.” He latches onto the water bottle, and drinks from it in your hand while looking at you. A soft heat envelops you beyond words that never reach your lips.

“Listen to what I’m saying. Low. Profile.” Wriothesley comes up from thirst, dragging his tongue along the straw to the top, and licks his blushed lips. He delights in your flustered reaction.

“Low. Profile.” he repeats in a sarcastic drawl.

Later in the week, you receive a call in your office. It was fairly busy today, with coworkers constantly “checking in”, more so to see Wriothesley sitting across from you. He had no reason to be here, and you were surprised at his arrival. Be it boredom or a certain longing, a dull swell pulsed in his chest once he saw your overworked smile.

“Hello, this is (Y/N) of Boxe Association. May I know who I’m speaking with?” Wriothesley’s ears perk up at your sudden professionalism, and he mimics your cadence.

“Good afternoon, it’s Isadora.” Isadora was an event coordinator you previously worked with before your controversy. You understood that she stopped communicating to protect her business, but the pain lingered. You twirl the phone cord around your fingers, and meet eyes with Wriothesley, who’s laid back in the chair, his arms behind his head.

“Oh. Hey, it’s been a while.” you say. You turn your swivel chair away from him to continue the conversation. His eyebrow twitches slightly with an unconscious scowl, and he walks towards your chair.

“It has. I’m calling because I have a proposition that might interest you. I believe a meet and greet would be appropriate for your client. A large chunk of his fanbase are young adult women, however, he’s also popular with children.” He spins the chair around with a firm hand and presses his cheek against the phone.

“That’s true.” You side eye him, and without skipping a beat, mush his nosey face away. His hot breath on your digits makes your skin tingle.

“Who is that” he mumbles. You'd never seen Wriothesley interact with children, and you have every reason to be hesitant.

“Hmm...any positive activity with children is good publicity. I’ll consider it. I’ll let you know by tonight.” The second you hang up, you release his face.

“Why are you being annoying-”

“Who were you talking to” he chides.

“Isadora. She’s an event coordinator.” His clenched jaw unwinds. “She wants to do a meet and greet with you and a few kids. If we go through with this, I’ll have a camera crew and some reporters there. It’ll be good for your image.”

“Okay.” he agrees. That was quick.

“...Are you sure? Kids are loud and obnoxious a lot of the time.”

“So? Fine by me. I can teach them how to fight.” Your skin crawls at the thought of Wriothesley launching a child through a wall. “That won’t be necessary.”

“It’ll be fun.” The more he assures you, the more uneasy you feel.

“Wriothesley, I’m serious. Don’t screw this up” you plead. He holds his pinky out. “I won't.” His loose interpretation of promises was dubious at best, but you had no other options, and this might be your only opening. You curl to his word.

After parleying the finer details, you broadcast a raffle for young fans to meet Wriothesley. The traffic to the website was overwhelming, and you quickly began sorting out tickets for the favored winners.

Fortunately, the next couple of weeks were par for the course.

It’s the night before the event, and you’re getting ready for bed. You sit at your desk in a big T-shirt and do your daily review of personal data. As you're scrolling through and identifying what needs improvement, you get a notification on your phone.

“Breaking News: Boxer Bar Fight!” Curious, you open the tab to a video. It makes your breath stall, sweating frantically. You can’t think clearly, and your shaky hands can barely increase the volume. Unidentifiable noises and wobbly camerawork made it impossible to catch anything besides those familiar inky black strands, throwing punches in a drunken stupor at a defenseless man. Your previous conundrum flashes through your memory in a horrific stop-motion; the duping smile on his face.

No. It’s happening all over again. Why is he at a bar? You messaged him before he went to bed. He never goes to bars. Why now, the night before the event? It’s late, he doesn’t go anywhere without telling you.

He promised.

None of it made sense as you threw on any sweatpants in your drawer and ran out the door. You can’t wait until morning. Disaster punctures and tears any rational decision you contemplate. Shouting silently within your mind, a crashing rage—or sadness—boils in your nervous stomach. You’re tunnel vision in a taxi on the way to his address.

When you get there, you bang on the door with a fury that vibrates throughout the archway. His home is extravagant, with two cars and an expansive driveway. You bang again.

“Wriothesley!” He finally opens the door. He’s still half asleep, pajama pants low on his waist, groggily leaning against the arch.

“(Y/N)? Uh, what’s up?” He slurs in a deep slumbering voice through heavy eyelids. You barge in without saying anything. “Make yourself at home, I guess.”

The interior is just as opulent as the exterior, it almost looks untouched. Every corner has a case or shelf stacked with ornate trophies and medals of excellence. It was the home of someone who achieved peak perfection and reveled in it. He follows you to his living room, bewildered at your furious expression. You play the video in front of him, and he watches with that same puzzled attitude that makes you angrier. You try taking deep breaths to compose yourself, but they halt shallowly.

“What the fuck is this?” you accuse.

“What? I don’t know.” “Like hell you don’t know, this shit is on every homepage. Are you serious?”

The cranky boxer pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. You show up at his house, and it’s to badger him about a rumor. Your temperament only heats the smoldering ember fueled by incessant claims. He covers his mouth, physically stopping the involuntary response.

“Okay” he says, and blurts a facetious chuckle. Your heart thumps in your chest and ears.

“Oh, It’s a fucking joke? I bust my ass to save your career and you’re laughing?” you snap, voice increasing in volume until it reaches a broken peak. He returns with the same energy.

“When did I ask you to fix anything? Did you ever think that maybe I don’t fucking need you-”

“You can barely control your smoking habits you pompous ass-”

“I would if you didn’t nag me all the time. Whining and complaining, it’s fucking annoying!” he yells. Neither of you meant the words spilling out the bubbling surface, but your tongues were solely seasoned with the next spiteful jab.

“Yes, whining! Because all you need to do is be on the straight and narrow, but you take nothing seriously, Wriothesley, and that’s exactly why-”

“Exactly why what? Why your career went to shit so you’re piggybacking off mine?”

Your battle stops. You can’t find the words to rebuttal. All the opinions of your colleagues, the media, Wriothesley, and yourself coagulate into a lump that fills the tightening throat. Pride comforts tears brimming your eyes.

He pauses, as though he came to reality. An apology attempts to form on his lips, but it never manifests. “(Y/N), I didn’t-”

“See you in the morning” you choked. You walk to the door, and he reaches out to the infinite space thick between you two.

You didn’t sleep the entire night. It’s morning, and you’re exhausted. You consistently replayed the quarrel in your head through the taxi ride home, and when you strived for rest, it plagued your mind. Your coffee is untouched during your morning routine, a movement comparable to zombies. You don’t bother to confirm if Wriothesely is at the building—either way you owe it to the event holders to be there.

You arrive just before the children file into the training room. Thankfully, Wriothesley is there in the center. Live cameras from reporters and parents border the walls; if something were to occur, it would be irreversible. Your head suddenly hurts.

Perhaps playing it up for his reputation, the smile stretched across his face is a sunny warmth you’ve never seen from him. He waves to them, and they erupt with screams. To your astonishment, he gets on his knees to be eye level with them. They all jump into his arms at once, and he topples over onto the mat.

And he’s laughing. This grumpy asshole fighter is laughing. A hearty, genuine laugh as he wraps his sturdy arms around all of them and picks them up at once. He whirls them around and they orchestrate high-pitched giggles. “Ready to have some fun?” he chortles. They say yes to varying degrees of excitement, and the meet and greet proceeds.

You can’t help but smile when he frolics with the kids. They chase him with boxing gloves, he pretends to fall dramatically. Dogpiling him, he lets out a shrill scream of defeat. He manages to work in proper defense techniques while they jump him like a test dummy. He tosses each kid in the air whenever they ask, and never tells them no. You receive another call from Isadora amid your admiration, and you step outside.

“Hey! Good news, these views are off the charts and the internet is really in his favor right now” she congratulates.

“That’s great...what about the video from last night? Did you see it?” you ask.

“Video...oh, that! Don’t worry, it’s confirmed fake.” What? Oh no. Immediate regret stirs in your blood, and you force the phone away to catch your breath. You feel utterly stupid.

“Hello?” You quickly bring the phone back to your ear. “Yea, sorry. I have to go; I’ll call you later.” you insist. You can’t facepalm any harder. You make your way back to the training room, where the kids decorate his gloves with iridescent stickers. Wriothesley occasionally looks at you, but you can’t bear to show your guilty face.

When the event is over, you both make sure to hug every child on the way out and thank the parent for coming. You’re sorting through mountains of requests people made to see Wriothesley again, and you mute your phone over the influx of emails. Peeking at the broadcast, under the footage in bold letters:

“(Y/N) Back from the Dead?”

It wasn’t the most flattering title, but it proved that public perception was salvageable. You emit a sigh of relief, for you and Wriothesley. As you’re packing your things to exit, he blocks the door with his body.

“Can we talk?” You were dreading this discussion, but agreed, nonetheless. The ride to his home is silent, you grapple with a proper apology.

You lean against the kitchen bar, while he’s laxing on the couch. Sleep deprivation torments you, causes you to wander as you fill in papers from sponsors. You can’t see the way Wriothesley steals glances at your slack figure curving to the marble. He eventually spoke.

“So, um.”

“I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. You did a good job today Wriothesley, you should be proud.” You flash a meek smile. He fumbles with his thumbs uncomfortably.

“I am. Aren’t I the best?” he boasts.

“You are” you say. The lack of sleep beckons you to a spur of honesty as you scribble. “You have stunning form, perfect accuracy, and immeasurable talent. Not just anyone can do that.” you return. He gazes at you, that dull swell pumping in his veins again. The cozy radiance of lights brightens your tired eyes.

“You’re a big fan, huh?” he chuckles.

“Of course, I used to watch you in college. I had a major crush on you” you snort. “Everything you are is amazing, but you know this. So cut it out.” He sits on the armrest, swallowing your confessions. The room is entirely too hot, he needs alleviation—he needs you.

“Sorry. For what I said.”

“Forget it. It's my fault, I was careless. I apologize.” you admit.

“You know I didn’t do it, right?”

“I know.”

“I didn’t.”

“I know.” you reassure.

“What if some other bullshit controversy comes out. Then what?” You stop writing to give him your full attention.

“Then, I’ll trust you. We’ve gotten this far. Even if no one else does, even if for some reason I lose my job and I’m not your manager anymore, I’ll trust you, Wriothesley.” you reveal. He doesn’t move. Wriothesley knew he wasn’t deserving of trust, and he’d made a plethora of mistakes throughout your arrangement. You had every right to leave him long ago. Nobody gave him the time of day or cared for his wellbeing like you did, but he couldn’t reciprocate. Even so, here he kneels, at the feet of an angel that shows him undying mercy.

Wriothesley stalks at you, but you remain. He looms over you, pinning you to the counter with both arms, inches from your face. It isn’t a threatening force, but one that begs for confirmation. That slated storm searches for a specific craving, you feel his chest rising and falling laden with yours.

“You’re too close” you quiver. The bitter musk and vanilla enveloping your senses makes you foggy, it lingers through the whole house.

“Tell me to leave.” His mouth slants to you, and he waits expectingly. You ogle his features, the scratches of a warrior celebrated across his hardy torso. His hair brushes against your forehead, imperfect and uniquely beautiful. Why were you mad, again?

“Tell me to back off, (Y/N)” he pleads. The pads of your fingers lightly caress his ear, then his jaw.

“Please” he whispers. Your thumb grazes his bottom lip, and he succumbs to the urge.

You collide fervently, lips coated in definitive desire. Dancing with rough, bruising kisses that don’t make space for air. It smears on your face, dips down your neck and swiftly returns to your lonely mouth. The pressure of the counter bar burns across your lower back from his weight, but those mind-numbing kisses soften any injury. You bite his lip when he pulls away, and he groans. Suddenly, he lifts you effortlessly with his hands on your ass, and you clash teeth and tongue in a passionate challenge. He demands entry, and you moan into the wet mass intertwining through sloppy kisses. It explores your mouth, sending throbs to your nerves and subdues any control you have left. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, but you yearn for deeper contact. He licks up the organ, and spots moist, hungry kisses on your jaw. You both take a fleeting breath before converging again. You find passage in his hair and suck staining rose-colored marks on his neck while he carries you to the bedroom.

“You’ve been waiting for this, hm? Slutty groupie” Wriothesley moans. You drag kisses along the shell of his ear. He tosses you onto the fluffy bedding and haphazardly strips to his underwear. The wide mirror opposite his bed gives you a glimpse of his thighs and shapely bottom hugging the briefs. You’re supposed to be undressing, but that thronging bulge made for a titan makes you nervous for what’s to come. He palms the erection to soothe the ache and climbs over you. He’s somewhat gentle, careful with the bulk of his body as he cradles your face for more kisses. The way he looks at you, a covet softness or misted lust tantalizing the wetness pooling in your panties. He moves to your neck, French kissing down your throat and on your collarbone. You feel like a virgin again, heart racing from every graze of his fingers and lips. His calloused digits grope the plush fat of your thighs, and gradually reach the hem of your skirt. You snake your hands over his pecs and abs and read the muscles. Moaning into each other's mouths, indulging every part of your bodies as you’ve wanted to do for months. He pulls your skirt off and you hold your button-down over your exposed panties. Heat spreads in your body, and he amuses at your sudden bashfulness.

“Oh…you’re shy?” he teases, before popping the buttons off with a brutal rip. “Wrio!” you yelp. That’s the first time you called Wriothesley a nickname; he must’ve died and went to heaven. The lace gift wrapped around your breasts taunts him, and he buries his face immediately. He nips the sensitive skin and snaps the clasp off. “Cute. Need to feel you” he husks. He twirls the bud in his mouth, while manipulating the other between his girthy fingers. Alternating among loving hickies and harsh tugs of his teeth on your nipple. You whine, and his laugh tickles your raw skin. He flips over on his back and steadies you on top of him. Discards the rest of your top, and let’s out a shaky groan.

“You’ve never been this speechless” he says. You smile and kiss his puffy lips, your hands kneading his chest. “You’re so pretty” you coo. He huffs while rubbing circles on your waist, eyeing your inner thighs covered in juices.

“Then come fuck my pretty face.” He slips under the waistband and tweaks the fabric, but you grip his wrists. “Wait! Let me shower first- “

“You said you'd give me anything I desire, remember that? Keep your promise." He yanks the thin material down your legs in your weak clutches, trailing a string of drool that sticks to your labia. “C’mere” he grunts and lifts you towards his face. Your thighs are soft on either side of him, and you still in his grasp. He lolls his tongue out, but you’re reluctant to fully sit. “I’m heavy” you murmur.

“Shut up.” He embraces your body, and you have no choice but to settle in his warmth. He keeps you flush with his flat tongue, swiping up and down the squishy flesh molding to his mouth. You writhe in his grasp, but he continues to lap at your clit with a starving lust. Wriothesely soaks in your velvet skin and perfumed essence dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t come up for air, and your brain is mush over him, his lips slurping your quivering cunt. A buzzing intensity courses through your twitching stomach. You rut your hips against his mouth, and he maintains his position while you use him. You’re grinding on his tongue, absent-mindedly biting your lips and mewling endlessly as you bring yourself closer to climax. He hums while sucking the nub and the vibrations make you cry out.

“Wrio, ‘m coming” you whine. You hump his mouth until you come undone in a pulsating finish. His hands restrain you, greedily devouring the newly found honey as it pours out. You ride it through while he curls the tip of his tongue at your opening. Without warning, you feel the pink muscle push in your recovering vulva. “S-Shit, Wrio” you whimper, trembling on him as he drives inside. He seizes the back of your thighs and begins to bounce you up and down the mushy appendage slowly stretching you. The sensation is overwhelming, his nose skims your oversensitive clit each time you drop, and you sob. Wriothesley moves faster, your hands entangle in his hair. You babble please’s repeatedly, gazing sensually at each other as the coil winds in your gut. More, more. Then it snaps, an abrupt shock, clenching on his tongue as you cream. He raises your lower half; the wetness collecting in your convulsing heat makes his cock strain more than it already suffered.

“Such a cute slut” Wriothesley husks. Your numb legs can’t navigate on their own, so he places you on your stomach. “We’re not done.” He springs his throbbing length free. The veins are consistent, prominent up his shaft to the angry red crown—9 inches begging to be inside you. Fresh precome trickles down his tip and he sighs at the bloated pain in his hefty balls. You arch your back, presenting yourself to his awaiting size. When he doesn’t enter you turn to him impatiently and he smirks.

“Put it in” you whine. Wriothesley spreads your backside, and watches you clench around the ghost of him. He glazes himself with your slick, and moans from the feeling of your puffy lips cuddling his cock. “It’s not every day a fan gets to sleep with me. Be grateful.” he teases. He pumps through your squashed thighs, the head prodding your nub while he forces your chest flush with the bed. After he thoroughly coats himself, he nudges the bulbous tip to your entrance.

Wriothesley sinks into your sex. You’re gripping him like a vice despite the searing soreness of your body accommodating the scale. The fevered sleeve nearly makes him crash to the hilt, but he stutters gradually to relieve your discomfort. He hits the base and shudders. You feel unbelievably stuffed, as if it’s squirming in your cervix. Then he starts at a savage pace. He’s using you like a flesh-light, balls smacking your overwhelmed tender nub with a carnal impulse. His moans spill uncontrollably as he watches your rippling ass and viscous webs blend together, clinging to his cock and forming a cloudy froth at the base. Your knuckles turn white on the sheets; you can’t think or feel anything that isn’t him, core surging with intense want.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, gonna snap my dick off. Ah- gonna make sure you can’t walk t-tomorrow. Then- hah- then you won’t be able to find anyone who fucks you like this, who makes you come like this.” He’s rambling and stuttering, completely incoherent the closer he gets. He glances at the mirror, then at you. You feel your hair jerked back by his massive hand, and lock eyes with Wriothesley in his drunken haze. “Stop, it’s embarrassing!” you slur. You’re both sheened with sweat, disheveled bodies satiating the hunger in any way you can.

“Shh, you hear that?” The squelching slam of passion echoes in the room, sopping down your leg through his pummeling thrusts. Your back bends unnaturally as though it were folded in half. “You’re so fucking hot, so needy for me.” His veins adorn your walls, you start to tear up from the mixture of pleasure and pain. He notices your tears and holds you up so that your back is flush with his chest.

“It hurts?” he questions, stalling his movement. You feel him twitch. “No, feels s’good Wrio. More” you mewl. He chuckles, and gently wraps his hand around your throat before pumping again.

“Too good? Am I the best you’ve ever had? Say it.” He moves faster, free hand rubbing your clit. Your knees buckle and eyes roll back to your skull, he takes in the scene of your convulsing figure in the mirror. “S’best I’ve ever had, please ‘m so close!” you rasp, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. He chases his high, panting animalistically in your ear.

“Shit- look how desperate you are. Want me to come inside? Y-yea, I bet you fucking do”

“‘M coming!” you babble.

��Good. Make a mess.” he commands. Fire trails up your limbs, and you tighten before falling apart. Fluttering around him, taking him deeper while you come on his sack. Wriothesley pursues his sputtering hips, spurting thick globs that paint you white. He whimpers as you milk his spasming length dry and presses tired kisses along your shoulder blade. When he comes down from his apex, he turns you over on your back. It’s hard for him to not be proud of your boneless existence sprawled on his bed. You’re both breathing hard in silence, and he leaves for a couple minutes. You’re stunned when he returns with a damp rag to clean you up, and some dark substance in a mug.

You find the strength to sit up while he wipes your lower areas. “Where are my clothes?”

“...For what?” he mumbles.

“To leave?” It seemed like common sense to you—boxers usually don’t go for long-term relationships, and so you assumed it to be a one-night stand. You dip over the edge of the bed and locate your skirt, but Wriothesely hops up and snatches it before you can. “I’ll put it in the wash. Relax.”

“I didn’t know you were so hospitable. Do you do this for every girl?” you tease. He gets visibly upset, and shoves the cup from the dresser in your hands. “Don’t piss me off. Now, drink. I’ll order food.”

Multicolored sunset flaking through the sheer curtains frames his stature while he’s on the phone. You sip the tea, it’s a vile grainy taste. For a moment you imagine what life could be like with him by your side—poor quality tea and an awful temper. In your pleasant aftermath, it doesn’t seem bad at all.

#genshin smut #genshin au #wriothesley smut #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley genshin #wriothesley headcanons #wriothesley #fontaine #genshin x reader #genshin impact

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cherrybomb107 · 13 days ago

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I literally wouldn’t have cared if they decided to pull a Cyberpunk Edgerunners and kill off our entire main cast save for one or two characters and let the bad guys(the establishment) win. Tragedy isn’t the problem. The problem is the way they went about it. The show had so many plot threads to tie up, there was never any time to truly reckon with all the tragedies that were occurring.

Ekko losing his tree because of Arcane poisoning would be tragic. Notice I said “would be” because that plot line is literally never addressed again. It gets brought up, and then forgotten about. Vi being hit by her girlfriend after she makes the decision to put on the uniform of her oppressors and contribute to oppressing her own people in pursuit of a little sister who she can’t accept has changed is tragic on multiple levels! That’s some compelling shit! But the show never meaningfully addresses these issues or lets Vi react to them without throwing her into a new situation where she has to fight and lose something again. All Vi has ever done her entire life is try and fail to protect her loved ones. She gets punished for trying. It’s almost like the universe itself is out to get her! But we never see Vi break down and pick herself back up. We never see her make any choices to do what’s best for her. The plot decided for her and that’s the problem!

Vi and Jinx deciding to go their separate ways after all that they’ve been through would’ve been tragic. These two sister who love each other more than anything having to break apart for who knows how long and holding onto the hope that maybe they can reunite and be sisters again is gut wrenching…or at least it WOULD be if they actually decided to separate! Vi didn’t decide to leave her sister, Jinx didn’t decide to leave Vi, the narrative forced them apart! The narrative keeps ripping them away from each other and it’s starting to feel intentional. Trying to tell the audience that the only way Vi can truly be happy and choose herself is by having her baby sister die and being forced to live with her girlfriend in a city that will be extremely discriminatory towards her is not it. I’m not saying that Vi and Jinx have to ride off into the sunset together. But I am saying that if going their separate ways really was for the best, the show wouldn’t spend so much time trying to convince us of that. It would just happen organically. Which, to me, it didn’t

Jinx losing Isha was yet another tragedy! But the show doesn’t really show Jinx grieving and then deciding to fight for what she believes in after Ekko convinces her to try. She tried to kill herself five times. FIVE TIMES!!! How on Earth did she go from that to a badass piloting an airship, dripped out with her new outfit and steeled sense of resolve? We don’t know because it happened offscreen! I understand the show had time constraints, but come on. This plot line deserved more time to shine. Sevika being on the Council is a tragedy. It’s an empty gesture for one, and majority rules for two. That means Sevika will be forced to try to barter for Zaun’s freedom while being surrounded by a bunch of classist Piltie pricks who despise her and everything she stands for. She will be talked over and talked down to. That’s not a happy ending! But the show frames it like it is! And I’m sorry but if you can’t watch interviews of the writers saying their thoughts on the show and you genuinely believe that they have the range to write Sevika being on the Council as thoughtful commentary? No comment😭😭😭

Caitlyn’s corruption arc is yet another tragedy! Both because of what happened to her AND the fact that the arc wasn’t done! Caitlyn’s arc was supposed to show how no matter how “good” and “kind” a privileged person believes them self to be, their unconscious bias and prejudice against the out group will rear its ugly head the second they experience a fraction of what the marginalized group has been experiencing for centuries. It was so easy for Caitlyn to say “I understand now. How easy it is to hate them.” “Those animals!” “I thought you were different, but you’re not. It’s her blood in your veins!” How easy it was for her to weaponize The Gray. How easy it was for her to work with Ambessa and co sign martial law despite knowing better. How easy it was for her to risk killing a child just to get to Jinx. That’s super compelling! But the problem is we never see Caitlyn wrestle with her decisions. Guilt should be eating her ALIVE and all we get is a complete 180 from her after a time skip! Then she does nothing to redeem herself! And once again, no the writers absolutely did not intend that to be commentary on how the privileged are able to get away with things the lower class would be imprisoned/killed for. If they did then Caitlyn could’ve had a confrontation with someone from Zaun, whether that be Sevika, Ekko, Jinx, Vi or someone else, where they call her out on her hypocrisy. Then we would see her wrestle with that and realize the monster that she’s become.

Unfortunately, all these tragedies are not given the proper narrative weight they deserve. Or they’re not treated as tragedies when they so clearly are! THAT’S the problem! It’s not tragedy, it’s the framing! And it’s the way y’all are so condescending whenever someone criticizes the show. Why is every single critique met with “You didn’t watch/understand the show”? Why is it always “What were you expecting?” “You’re just mad it didn’t go your way.” “You’re just a hater.” “You have no idea how hard writing a script is.” “They planned the story from the beginning, this is how it was supposed to be.” And on and on and on. It’s exhausting! Why is it so hard for y’all to understand that it is possible to understand and have love for something but still have gripes with it? It doesn’t mean I love the show any less! It just means I’d love it even more if not for these certain aspects of it. That’s it, that’s all🤷🏾‍♀️🤷🏾‍♀️🤷🏾‍♀️

#arcane #arcane critical #arcane fandom critical #this fandom is insufferable because of its dick riders not because of its critics #arcane season two

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kawaiianimeredhead · 2 years ago

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#my grandpa died and its really a back and forth of feeling #similar to when one of my uncles died #because i wasnt very close in any emotional and physical way #because we live a lot of states apart so i didnt see him often #and i also dont love my mom crying (well i guess who does lol)#but it puts me in a weird mood #but i am hung up on the fact mom was super excited yesterday to mail him this big photo she got done of her dog?#which was silly but funny so she was excited and telling the people around about it #and about how her dad was almost 91 #so the fact that it didnt get done is what keeps making me tear up rip #which like yeah yeah grieving and mouring in whatever way but it does feel a bit #incorrect for that to be the only sorta part im hung up on #well i guess one other sort of unfished thing too #idk #weird vibes today now #which sucks because even tho ive only been up for a couple hours i was already feeling so much better and more recharged than the last #couples days after being so socially exhausted #ughh #dont mind me #tag rambles

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mvth3r · 10 months ago

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thinking about daryl giving you a nickname…

18+, mdni

AN: this was a midnight brain worm while i was working on something else, so just walk with me ok!

daryl wasn't really one for nicknames.

he'd never had one coming up, always just "daryl" or "merle's brother" or something else sneered and distasteful. that was fine with him. to daryl, nicknames were rooted in sarcasm and mean jokes.

it hadn't started any differently with you.

that day in the quarry way back, the morning after the walkers had attacked their people. daryl was already aggravated, sweaty and thinking about merle (alone and hurt and alone), and he didn't much like these fucking people anyway, so when you stood with glenn, insisting on a burial over burning, dried tear tracks on your face (those people were your people too. you were mourning with the rest of them), he didn't hold back, sneering "well ain't you just a fuckin' peach," and watching your face harden in the wake of his words.

daryl didn't mean for it to stick, but he found himself defaulting to the silly name anyway. first when he was annoyed at you. you were soft, unfit for the grime of this new world, then when he was poking fun, and eventually... something else.

in the cdc, with a hangover keeping you slumped over the table, "shoulda stayed out the bottle if ya couldn't handle it, peach."

over the long winter on the road, with barely any food or water, "keep up, peach, i ain’t gon’ carry you.”

in the prison, sharing shifts up in the watchtower (because you were sort of friends now) (because daryl felt almost rewarded when your eyes lit up at your nickname), "don't need to teach you on the bow, peach. you're just fine with a knife."

trapped in the train car in terminus, fussing over his injuries even though you could barely map him out in the dark, "peach. peach. quit it, ‘m alright."

the road to alexandria was long and brutal. 'peach' turned into your name and your name turned into silence. daryl was grieving, you were grieving, and the space between you felt like a chasm, dark and wide. finding that community was a blessing in disguise, not just for the group, but for you and daryl specifically. you came back together behind the walls, both unwilling to acclimate, but knowing you needed to try.

‘peach’ made its way back into circulation slowly and then so frequently that even the alexandrians began to catch on.

when daryl had to leave with aaron for a run, “later, peach. i’ll find ya after your shift.”

laughing over your assigned job, “the hell you know about gardenin’, peach? they shoulda put ya in the tower.”

inevitably your relationship shifted into something more intimate. it wasn’t a secret, hell, the group had seen it coming long ago.

‘peach’ stopped being a nickname and became a term of endearment. something daryl reserved for tender moments.

startling awake when daryl joined you in bed, late after a long run, “just me, peach, go back to sleep.”

when you came back from a run that turned dicey, a little worse for wear, “lemme see it, peach, i got ya.”

and in… other moments as well.

your body pressed firmly against daryl's, his lips a breath from yours, whispering, “tell me what ya need, peach. you know i’ll give it to ya.”

daryl laid between your legs, two fingers curling cruelly against your g-spot while you rode out your orgasm above him, “there ya go, peach, so fuckin’ good.”

daryl had never been one for nicknames, this fact held up even after the world ended. your own family was rarely on the receiving end of a playful moniker. but to him, ‘peach’ was easy as breathing and, to you, it sounded like “i love you” every time.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon imagine #daryl x reader #twd imagine

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sea-lanterns · 2 months ago

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SILENT HILL

synopsis: (slasher! AU) you travel to an old town to find your missing wife.

featuring: dehya

rating: 18+ smut (men and minors dni)

warnings: sub! afab fem reader (though she becomes more bold later on), dom! character who gets more subby later on, mentions of blood, reader is grieving, reader gets chased, transfem! dehya (she has a di.ck), fing.ering, unprotected se.x, cream.pie, masked se.x, size difference, size ki.nk, lap se.x, reader passes out, probably ooc, heavy pwp.

art credits: gokurakugai

It had been a while since you last came to this town. Through the thick fog and semi-chilly air, you took a deep breath and let your body relax after the long car ride. You had finally arrived at the small town that plagued your thoughts for months; Silent Hill…a quiet and eerie town that was the root cause of your recent sleepless nights, after you had mysteriously received a letter from your long deceased wife telling you to come here.

You looked down at the faded envelope in your hand, the handwriting of your wife; Dehya, was unmistakable to a grieving widow such as yourself. Though it had been three years since she disappeared and “died” of unknown causes, you knew you had to come here. If your wife was still out there, still alive somehow and living in this rickety old town, then you would drive any distance just to see her again.

Slamming your car door shut, you began making your way towards the town on a dimly lit path. Whether this was a hoax or not, you were clinging onto that string of hope that it was somehow real. After all, this town was known for its conspiracy theories and stories of cults and rituals. If any place were to have things that defied death and logic, it would be here.

The town of Silent Hill was an ugly one. It was hard to feel any semblance of hope when everything was cloaked in a blurry gray. You had forgotten how mundane it was to live here, the residents of Silent Hill always appearing depressed or anxious. You felt a shiver go down your spine when a possum scurried across the road, so close to your feet and making you stumble.

“Dehya–!” you stopped yourself before you could finish your sentence, shock coursing through your body when you remembered Dehya wasn’t with you anymore. Whenever the slightest of things scared you, you would always call her name and she’d come running to comfort you and defend you from anything. But now she isn't here by your side…

‘Oh…’ Your shock disappeared and replaced itself with grief, wanting nothing more than to run into your wife’s arms again and have her hold you close. You closed your eyes and remembered how bright her smile was, a motivator to why you were here in the first place, before carrying on towards the gloomy motel where you’d be staying for the foreseeable future.

After checking in with the motel clerk and moving your bags in with you, you settled down in your room and plopped down on the bed. This motel was severely outdated, the hideously patterned wallpaper peeling off the walls, the ceilings stained with something yellow and questionable, if your wife were here, she’d tell you “at the very least I’m here with you!”

You felt yourself crack a small smile at the memory, loving how positive she was no matter the circumstance.

“I might get mold poisoning staying here,” You said to no one in particular, almost like you were trying to talk to Dehya beside you.

“No you won’t! I won’t let my princess get sick on my watch.”

You could almost hear her laugh as she said that, her chivalrous attitude making you swoon even after all these years. No matter how much time had passed, you would always love how she treated you like a princess.

“...I’ll save you this time, Dehya.” You said to yourself again, hugging one of the pillows to your chest and snuggling into it. It was far from the softest pillow you’ve ever felt, but during this time of vulnerability, it felt like the most comforting thing in the world. “You don’t have to save me this time. I’m going to find you.”

With all those years of regret and guilt building up, you let it shrivel away and burn into motivation. This was a lead. One step closer to finding out what happened to your wife, and possibly finding her.

You closed your eyes and went to bed, exhausted after spending several hours on the road.

You got up earlier than usual. Usually you would sleep in late on days like these, too depressed to even crawl out of bed, but this time you had a purpose to get up. Your body was already awake before your alarm went off, sliding out of bed and getting dressed to find some answers.

Even in the mornings, Silent Hill was a town of misery. The sky was still a dull, muted gray, and the air was even chillier than before. You pulled your coat even tighter around your figure, your nose letting out a small sneeze as you stepped into the outside world.

You would spend the entire day just walking around, asking locals about the whereabouts of your wife, if they’d seen her or even heard of her. You would always be met with a dead end answer, but you wouldn’t give up. That letter was sent to you for a reason, and you were determined to get some closure on your wife if that was the last thing you did.

The sky began to grow darker the longer you stayed out. Your fingers and your toes were stinging from the pain, almost numb from how cold you were. Your heart felt heavy, your body leaning against a nearby wall to catch your breath from running around town. You were exhausted, but you couldn’t give up. Not now, you still weren’t done.

Deeper within the alleyway, you heard heavy footsteps, causing you to perk up and immediately regain some stamina. Maybe there was somewhere in there who could help you? You pushed yourself off the wall and began making your way deeper within the alleyway, the street lights turning on and casting the area in a cold, white glow.

“Uhm…excuse me,” you turned a corner and saw a tall, muscular figure facing away from you, wearing something odd on top of their head. “Can I just have a moment of your time? I am looking for my wife, and…”

You trailed off when the figure slowly turned towards you, wielding what appeared to be a giant blade in their hand, and dressed in a beige, tattered up cloth that revealed most of their muscular figure. The figure had no face, or rather, their face was obscured by a strange, pyramid-looking helmet that sat on their head, looming over you like a great executioner of death.

“Ah…” You had no idea what you were feeling right now. Shock, fear, confusion? You had no idea who you were looking at either, but at the very least you could discern that they had the figure of a woman. “S-Sorry…I didn’t mean to bother you…”

What the fuck was that.

Your eyes glanced at the blade in their hand, the light from the streetlight shimmering across it and showing the faint splatters of crimson on the edge. Blood. You gulped and took a step back, the pyramid head figure tilting their head and taking a step forward.

“I…I will leave now. Goodnight!” You whimpered and immediately began walking away, but your fears quickly caught up to you when the figure started walking towards you as well.

You continued moving away but she kept getting closer, taking long strides towards you with her long legs. Immediately, you began getting nervous, walking a bit faster before breaking out into a run.

Well, that was a mistake. Because now the Pyramid Head woman began running after you as well, her heavy footsteps thudding through the street and dragging her rusty blade across the ground. The noise was horrible, a grating sound that made the hairs on your skin prick like needles. You just wanted to find your wife! What were the chances that you’d run into a deranged, monstrous serial killer?!

As you continued running, you let out a shout for help, looking around desperately to see if there was anyone out tonight. Unfortunately for you, it seemed everyone had decided to go home early, all the porch lights turned off and leaving you the only one alive with the woman.

The grating noise of her blade met your ears again, causing your heart rate to spike like crazy. You began to run your way back to your motel room, but it was on the other side of town and at this point your body began to exhaust. There was a sharp burning sensation in your lungs, the cold air not helping you breathe whatsoever as you felt yourself lose steam. Damn, it had been a while since you ran like you meant it, Dehya did always say you should workout at the gym with her to build some stamina, but you never really took her seriously.

You definitely regret it now. Your legs buckled and you found yourself collapsing in the midst of another dark alleyway, the pavement scratching up your knees and making you grunt in pain. No matter how hard you tried, your body was tired, cold, and weak. After spending the entire day outside and begging for help, this was your limit.

You stumbled on your footing and found yourself at the dead end of the alleyway. A large, rusted gate towering over you and cornering you with nowhere else to run. The grating noise of the killer’s blade drew closer and closer, trapping you in the box you’ve locked yourself in.

“Dehya…” you whimpered, feeling all hope drain away as you scuffled to the edge of the gate, too weak to stand or even attempt to climb the gate for your survival. Was this it? So this was how you’d find your wife, by dying at the hands of a killer and joining her in the afterlife.

You sniffled and looked up to see the looming Pyramid Head staring down at you, rusted blade in hand and tattered clothing blowing hauntingly in the wind. She looked almost like a ghost, like someone that was not meant to be here but was. The wind continued to howl, the silence between you two almost deafening.

“...I’m sorry. I just want to find my wife.” You whimpered, still gazing at the Pyramid Head woman. “Is this my punishment for that?”

You were spewing random nonsense at this point. You were so tired and cold, your body shivering and looking like a frail little bunny in the eyes of the Pyramid Head. She tilted her head, almost conveying a unique kind of communication despite her gristley appearance.

“...”

Neither of you spoke for a few seconds after that, your head starting to throb and making you wince in pain. You felt so dead at this point, your head feeling heavy as you lowered yourself closer to the ground, looking like a kicked dog. “Dehya…I really wish you were here right now.” You would imagine her protecting you, fiercely telling you to run or standing her ground and being your knight in shining armor.

“Run baby! I'll protect you!”

You can’t, and you felt the bitter coldness swallow you in. Were you going to die from the killer or hypothermia? You didn’t know anymore at this point.

Your eyes began to droop, watching as the Pyramid Head walked closer and closer to you. She swung the rusted blade over her shoulder, her hand reaching for your head before your vision blurred and you dropped limp to the ground.

I’m sorry I couldn’t find you, Dehya.

Your body felt very, very warm. Was this what heaven felt like? It felt like Dehya cuddling you from behind again, spooning you in her muscular arms and running her hands all over your tummy. You missed this, the feeling of laying with someone so warm and gentle. Perhaps you really were dead and this was your eternal fate, to be cuddled by your lover for the end of time.

You wouldn’t mind that. However, your other senses began to awaken, telling you that you were merely asleep. Your touch began to come back, the feeling of a soft bed and warmth beneath you. Your hearing began to come back, the sounds of a soft fire crackling in the distance. Taste, smell, you tasted the dryness in your mouth, and inhaled the smell of burning wood and ash.

Finally, your sight. Though you were initially reluctant to open your eyes, your body did so anyway, letting your eyes land on the rotting ceiling above. Well…this was a sharp contrast to the other sensations you’ve experienced.

Your neck craned to look at the side, your vision still somewhat blurry before focusing on the figure beside you.

Dehya…?

You could vaguely make out her long, brown hair and warm smile, joy filling your chest at the familiar sight.

Dehya…? Dehya…!

You closed your eyes for a brief moment and opened them again, expecting to see your wife more clearly, but instead being greeted with the Pyramid Head woman that chased you before. Instantly, all that joy vanished as quickly as it came, fear and shock filling you and making you hyperventilate.

“Wha…Wha…!” Your eyes went wide as you gasped for air, the panic settling in that the sight of your wife was a mere hallucination. A delusion.

The Pyramid Head loomed over you, her height absolutely intimidating and making you nearly whimper upon instinct. She was even taller up close, her muscles defined and scars exposed, looking like a modern day Amazonian if you had to describe her…

You scrambled on the bed you were on, backing up against the headboard and looking at the woman in disbelief. Were you going insane? You saw your wife! Why was she here? Why hasn’t she killed you yet? You gasped when she suddenly dropped the blade she was holding, the metal hitting the floor and causing it to echo across the walls. The sound made you flinch, and upon seeing how afraid you were, the Pyramid Head reached her hand over to touch you.

“No–!” You flinched, but she didn’t move away, a warm, heavy hand cupping your face and holding it firmly. It was quite shocking actually, to see just how large her hands were in comparison to your face, squishing it with ease and making your lips form a cute pout up at her. The Pyramid Head tilted her head to the side, almost as if she was thinking underneath that behemoth of a helmet.

‘Soft.’

Though the Pyramid Head was a quiet one, she couldn’t help but enjoy squishing your face. Despite the biting cold of October, your face held a familiar warmth that the figure could not put her finger on. Strange…she should’ve slaughtered you by now, but it seems like you were the one person that came here to not be punished for their sins.

Perhaps, it was your desperate attachment for your wife that made the Pyramid Head manifest in a more…loving form.

“Mmpf…” You attempted to speak, but she held your face in such a grip that your words came out muffled. Upon seeing that you were trying to communicate, she let go, but not before using one of her thumbs to prod at your lips, forcibly making you open your mouth.

Well, this is very awkward.

You let out a yelp when she suddenly pushed her thumb into your mouth, brushing over your tongue and seemingly admiring how small it was. Compared to her, everything about you was so much smaller, something that the Pyramid Head seemed to love. She was so confused, tilting her head as she continued sticking her fingers in your mouth, feeling the soft muscle of your inner cheek.

“Hey–pffck–” You had enough, pushing her hands away and coughing as you wiped the spit from your lips. “You can’t just stick your fingers in someone’s mouth without their consent! That’s weird!”

You hadn’t expected to raise your voice at this gristly-looking killer, but to your surprise, instead of getting angry and chopping you to bits, the Pyramid Head looked surprised and jostled back, her hands raising in the air as if to prove their innocence.

That…motion.

Your eyes widened as a flash of recognition triggered in your memory. Dehya. Now why was that appearing again? There’s no way that this completely coincidental motion would remind you of your wife. Surely not…

But still, there was a gut feeling in your chest, telling you to try again. You looked up at the Pyramid Head with curiosity, before uttering her name hesitantly on your lips. “D…Dehya?” You didn’t expect any results to be honest, but your breath hitched when she tilted her head, almost like she recognized it. “...No, it can’t be.”

You felt your heart start to thump wildly in your chest, before you had an idea. If this truly was your Dehya, then she would always wear her wedding band on her left hand, engraved with your initials. “Can I see your left hand?” you asked softly, causing the Pyramid Head to oblige almost immediately. Cute, she was almost like an obedient dog.

She gave you her left hand, shock coursing through your face when you actually saw the wedding band on her finger. Though a bit discolored and dirtied from being in a grim state, you could make out your initials on the front of the band.

“Oh…my god.” You whispered out, excitement and shock coursing through your veins. “It really is you.” At this point, you didn’t care that your wife appeared as a horrifying killer, as your mind began to close the gaps and find other similarities in the Pyramid Head. Your fear must’ve blocked out all the clues, because as your eyes trailed over most closely, the resemblance –besides her face which was still hidden– was clear.

You hugged her, your smaller frame clinging to her like a leech while you buried your face in her chest. The Pyramid Head –or rather, Dehya– let out a grunt when you suddenly engulfed her, her large arms instinctively coming around to wrap around your figure. Immediately, warmth and familiarity raised in your senses, her taut muscles flexing around you and making you break down into tears at being in her embrace again. “Dehya…I’ve missed you.”

Dehya grumbled and looked down at you, running a calloused palm over your cheek. Even though she didn’t speak much, it was clear that she (or this manifestation of her) felt a deep connection with you and couldn’t bear the thought of hurting you. Almost like instinct, she pulled you closer to her, your body straddling her thighs and making you yelp in surprise.

“Mmmm…Mine…” She croaked under the mask, her voice raspy yet very much like your Dehya. Her voice sent so many shivers down your spine, a sound that you’ve missed after all these years of being alone. “I’m yours, Dehya. All yours. I’m not leaving.”

She seemed pleased by the response, her arms scooping you up by the thighs and pushing you down on the bed. You gasped when you felt your back plummet into the mattress, her tall figure looming over you and trapping you under her large frame. “I..I see you’ve missed me too.”

She nodded and let out an almost primal growl, wanting to get closer to you if not for her helmet blocking the way. She seemed frustrated at the fact and pawed at your clothes, her blunt fingers wanting to tear off every pesky cloth you wore. “Off…” She grunted, the sound muffled but command clear. “Take it off…”

You let out a small giggle at how eager she was being. After three years of not seeing each other, it seems that she was very touch starved. “Sure baby, I’ll take them off for you.”

Though you weren’t sure if she could see clearly, she was definitely keeping her eyes on you as you removed each article of clothing. Everything felt so sudden but so comforting, your nudity being revealed by the second as Dehya resisted the urge to just pounce on you right there.

Finally, you laid there in your nude glory, sliding your panties off and dropping them before Dehya couldn’t hold back anymore. She grabbed you by the waist and easily hoisted you upwards, plopping you on her lap and making your bare entrance sit atop her clothed member. Though it was limp before, it seems that just watching you strip was enough to get her hard, stiffening under your touch and rising to life.

She let out a soft groan and moved her palm to rest on your ass, clearly aroused and wanting you now. But, since this was Dehya we were talking about, she held back and gently swirled her thumb over your clit, wanting you to be wet enough first before taking her. After all, Dehya knew more than anyone how big she actually was…

“I’m already wet…” you pouted, wanting her to fuck you right away. Yet despite your needy pleas, Dehya shook her head, letting out a grunt of disapproval and continuing to finger your pussy. She knew better than to cave into your whines, and you wanted to comment playfully on that, if not for your lewd whimpers leaving your throat. “Dehya…!”

Her fingers were quite wide and thick, pushing past your folds and thrusting at a gentle pace. She really was a gentle woman, even in this new form of hers, waiting for you to become wet enough so she wouldn’t hurt you. God, this felt so nostalgic, your wife’s fingers burying them all the way down to her palm, before adding a finger or two to stretch you to her liking.

You threw your head back at the sensation, your moans echoing through the room and making you arch your back in pleasure. She continued fingering you, admiring your lovely form and keeping a rough hand on your ass. “Good…?” she asked softly, sliding her fingers out before shoving them back in. “Good.” You repeated, eyes fluttering shut in bliss while she plunged in repeatedly, filling you up on just her fingers alone.

If you felt this full from just her fingers, you could only imagine how full you’d feel with her actual cock inside you.

Finally gauging that you were wet enough, Dehya slid her slimy fingers out of you and seemed satisfied at the aftermath. By now, she was already rock hard, her member straining against her dress and forming a tent under your lap. She was so cute…you’d remember how desperate yet controlled Dehya was whenever she was horny for you, wanting to wreck you into an incomprehensible mess but restraining herself because you were simply too delicate for her. She’s always treated you like a princess, and even now she was your knight in shining armor. Albeit, she wore less of a metal plate and more of a metal…pyramid head.

“You look so pent up.” You commented suddenly, causing her to look up at you. You smiled and gently ran a hand across her dress, feeling her muscles tense up before relaxing when you trailed lower. “Don’t you want to get there already?”

“...So small.” Dehya comments softly, her hand cupping your needy pussy and brushing over it. “Need to be patient.”

You huffed and cupped her stiffie under her dress, causing her to gasp. If she wasn’t wearing that metal helmet you were one hundred percent confident that she was blushing like mad right now. “I have been patient…! I’ve waited three years to be with you again, Dehya. I need you inside me nowww…”

Your whines struck a chord within her, Dehya grumbling to herself and shifting you on her lap. She was getting antsy, the feeling of your soft hand on her shaft making her lose control of her lust for you. She let out another grumble and complied with your demands, lifting up her dress and allowing you to see just how turned on she was for you. Wow, now that was a sight you’ve certainly missed.

Though it had been a few years since you’ve last had sex with Dehya, you remembered her very vividly. She was quite large, mostly girthy but it was nothing that a bunch of lube and slick can’t fix. No wonder Dehya took so much time in prepping for you, though you knew she was always big, you always overestimated yourself and needed Dehya to wait like five minutes for you to adjust to her size.

“...I’ve certainly missed this too.” You chuckled, gently running your hand up her shaft and feeling it twitch under your hold. Dehya groaned, getting needy as she wrapped a hand over your wrist and made a subtle nudge for you to hurry. You gave her a few steady pumps, a few beads of precum starting to form at her tip, before you guided her cock to your awaiting entrance.

Dehya’s breath hitched under the heavy metal of her helmet, her head leaning backwards and letting you take over. You guided her tip to nestle sweetly against your folds, gently sliding it back and forth through your wetness before easing yourself downward. Though you were already quite wet, you definitely felt the tight stretch as Dehya’s girth split you open on her cock and made you stop halfway.

You were already breathing quite heavily, sweat trickling down your brow as you struggled to accommodate her size. Dehya noticed you stopping, tilting her head when she realized that you were struggling quite a bit to go down the other half of her. “Sorry…” She whispered softly, holding onto your waist and gently massaging your skin. “I…I will try to be smaller.”

“Sweetie, that’s kind of impossible right now.” You whimpered, but appreciated her attempts at comforting you. You placed a small kiss on the edge of her pyramid-shaped helmet, causing her to jolt in surprise before giving yourself a few bounces to continue easing down. With each small bounce, Dehya grunted and resisted the urge to slam your hips down to her lap, steadying you in her arms while you slowly took in more inches.

Down…Down… Finally, you found yourself sitting right on her lap, your pussy feeling so full and hot from how deep Dehya was inside you. Now that she was buried to the hilt, Dehya grumbled and gently squeezed your hips as if silently asking for permission to move you. You had planned on just riding her and letting her sit back and watch, but it appeared that your wife wanted to be more active than you thought.

“You can move me,” You responded, “Just…be gentle. You’re still quite big.”

She nodded and slowly lifted you up in her lap, sliding out until only her tip was in you before softly pushing you back down. Her strength, plus the external force of gravity allowed for a very hard (and very pleasant) thrust, causing you to moan loudly and cling to her shoulders.

Dehya growled and seemed to enjoy the feeling of your tight pussy around her, moving you up and down with ease as she wanted to feel more. She gripped your hips with a certain air of possessiveness, wanting to claim you and keep you all to herself, her blunt nails leaving small crescent moon shapes in the plushness of your thighs. “Mine…” She growled again, beginning to up the pace the more she grew addicted to your pussy. “My wife…”

She slammed you down on her hips a bit harder, her fat tip smashing against a rather sensitive spot inside you and making you arch your back. Dehya picked up on that easily, lifting you so that she could realign her cock to hit deeper.

At this new angle, Dehya could move further, starting to thrust into you at a hotter rhythm than before. You had forgotten how rough Dehya could be when she wasn’t being your doting knight, grunting and panting while she pushed you down to the hilt. You didn’t even have to move or anything during your sessions with Dehya, as she would always serve you with the utmost devotion.

“D-Dehya– Dehya…!” Your words came out all choppy and disorganized, her rough thrusts pushing each syllable out of you before you were ready. “B-Baby slow down…!”

She whimpered and hugged your waist tighter, resisting the urge to continue her brutal pace and obeying your command. She dragged her hips more languidly across your walls, making you feel every twitch and vein while your pussy grew more sensitive around her. “Dehya…I think I’m close…”

She let out another pleased moan at your words and you felt her cock twitch more inside. It appeared you also weren’t the only one getting close, as Dehya was getting close to release herself. “Can I…nngh, come?” She whispered raspily, panting in desperation. “Inside? I want to come inside you.”

Your cheeks grew hot at her ask, but you couldn’t deny her. Not after you’ve just found her again. “You…You wanna do it inside?” you whimpered, a small smile spreading across your face. “Alright then…Just try not to make too much of a mess.”

Dehya seemed quite happy at that, ramming herself faster until she felt her impending climax come. She thrusted once, twice, three times, until finally she felt herself tense up and release hot spurts of cum, triggering your own climax simultaneously while you were filled to the brim.

Your womb felt so full. All hot and filled by Dehya while she continued thrusting to ride out both your orgasms. She definitely did not fulfill your request of not making too much of a mess, but that was okay. You were quite pleased with being filled with your wife’s seed, and being by her side again was all that mattered to you at this moment.

Her thrusts soon slowed to a halt, but she didn’t pull out yet. Instead, she kept her cock still firmly deep within you, and simply readjusted your position so that you were lying more comfortably against her chest. “Did I do good?” she whispered, looking down at you through the small holes of her helmet.

“Very good…” You whispered back sleepily, your body succumbing to exhaustion as you laid atop your wife’s body, her cock keeping you nice and warm inside. “I’m so glad I found you again.”

“Mmm.”

She gently caressed the back of your head with her hand, the other one resting lazily against your thigh, making you feel all safe and secluded. As you were slowly lulled to sleep in the comforting embrace of your lover, your thoughts began to reminisce in the journey that brought you here. The town of Silent Hill was one not known for its warmth and welcoming structure, but in this town of darkness and gray, you found the one thing that would make you stay forever.

You had finally found your wife again, and you were never leaving her side.

#dehya smut #dehya x reader #slasher au #genshin smut #genshin x reader #genshin women smut #genshin women x reader #genshin dehya smut #genshin dehya x reader

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koling2345 · 3 months ago

Text

Haunted

Simon Riley X Fem! Reader

Tw: angst(?), smut, unprotected sex, body descriptions(especially Simon's body🫠), threats mentioned, break up.

Summary: Meeting with your ex after a sudden break-up, what could go wrong?

Wc: 5.4k

A/n:Sorry that this took so long😭 Uni and work are biting my ass recently. Again, sorry for mistakes, it's late, and I'm sleepy but wanted to post. Hope y'all like it.

Simon was a man who always seemed to be grieving, so serious, too stoic, he hardly spoke. But that changed with you, he was gentle, soft, loving, that was just you, just you.

You certainly made a change in his life, in such a good way that Simon wondered if he really deserved someone like you.

But that's Simon Riley's life, where everything he cared about died or left him.

Where nothing he wanted turned out right.And his relationship with you was perfect, you were someone who understood him so well, for some reason you always managed to calm him down when he was in the worst of moods. You were definitely for him.

Everything changed after a mission, it was supposed to be just another terrorist group that he had to stop, but it was different this time. At the time of the mission, everything went smoothly, according to the plan Price had drawn up, almost without a flaw.

The problems began to appear as soon as they got back to base, and after the mission was completed, the team members began to receive threats. Several at once, with no specific address or format.It could be a cell phone message, a piece of paper with something strange written on it, a call that as soon as you answered the phone went silent, just a breath on the other end. Any kind of thing.

Given the kind of job Simon had, this was a fairly normal occurrence, he had enemies left and right, he probably had more enemies than friends at that point. Most of the time these threats were nothing more than bluffs by someone who had been upset by the death of a criminal, friend or family member.

But as every rule has its exception, this time the threats weren't empty.One day at the base, Johnny arrived distressed, saying that his sister had received a threat to her life, and it hadn't been over the phone. The poor girl woke up to a rock being thrown through her window, almost hitting her.

No one knew how they had found Johnny's family, how they had managed to find his confidential information, but they had, and now it wasn't just the boys who were in some kind of danger.

And the situation got worse as the days went by, the next event was with Price, and Gaz soon followed. In the same way, it affected people close to them.Simon was the only one who came out of all this 'unscathed', because before they could find the only important person in his life, you, he made sure to send you as far away from his life as possible.

No matter how painful it was.As much as he hated the decision, there was no way he could go back on it, because that would be putting your safety at risk.

And he certainly couldn't take any chances, he'd seen Johnny's family threatened to be killed, Price's children almost kidnapped, and Kyle's partner stalked. This didn't happen without reason, or by pure coincidence. Simon had been in this line of work for a long time, long enough to know that this was revenge, and there was a good chance that the enemies would only stop when they managed to hurt someone. And he wouldn't risk your life for the world. Not ever.

So it was easier to get away from you, to end the relationship in the most stupid way possible, to make you angry with him, and it was easier to get away from him.Because he knew that if for some reason he told you the real reason for that reaction, there was no way you would agree to break up with him. No way.

In the worst-case scenario, he knew what had to be done, and he did it.He's felt like shit ever since, just remembering the way you started crying and sobbing when he told you he wanted to break up with you was enough to put a lump in his throat.It had been three weeks since he'd done that to you, and even then the feeling didn't go away, if anything, it got worse.

These last few days he'd been drinking more than usual, smoking as many cigarettes a day as Price. It wouldn't be surprising if he had black lung before he was fifty.It was something that eased some of the anguish he was carrying, even if only for a moment.

So today was another Saturday, a day off he'd gotten after working all week, and just like last week, he found himself in the same place, the pub he always came to.He'd already lost count of how many shots he'd had, at which point the bourbon didn't even burn as it went down his throat. Maybe he was a bit tipsy, but not drunk, Simon had a high resistance to such things.

But even the amount of cigarettes and booze he'd consumed that night wasn't enough to inhibit his vision of the silhouette that appeared in the corner of his eye.In any case, at first he thought they had put something strange in his drink, perhaps causing some delirium.But no, it was you, in person.

You looked so beautiful, like a vision of paradise. If he was being honest, seeing you showing off all those curves in a tight dress was enough to make his mind go to dirty places.

Despite this, you didn't seem to see him, too excited about your friends to pay attention to what was around you. Not that he cared, since a small part of him was grateful that you hadn't noticed him, he didn't know if he could bear to see your sad eyes one more time.

So he took on the role of silent observer, standing in the corner as he watched your movements. And, it was eerie, unsubtle, but it was the only way he could see you up close after so long.Simon knew it might be better to leave, because the more time he spent in your presence, the more he wanted to go up to you and grab you, but he controlled himself.

Well, he didn't know until when.

A long time passed, and you still didn't notice him there, until one of your friends whispered something to you, causing you to look at Simon almost immediately. He was without that skull mask that he only wore for work, outside the field the piece of cloth was locked in a drawer.

His eyes were fixed on you, he didn't even bother to disguise it. And you felt like you could map his face just by looking at him, the small scruff of hair growing on his face, the scars he had here and there. One of these was large, running from his cheek to his mouth.But that's what made him unique, the Simon you knew and loved like crazy.

When he broke up with you, it was all so fast, you couldn't understand it. For days you wondered if it was something you had done, because Simon was certainly an enigmatic man, but you knew he would tell you if you had done anything wrong.

The relationship ended with gaps, gaps that you desperately wanted to understand.Simon knew how to avoid you, and he did so over the last few weeks, you went to his apartment several times, you texted him, it was humiliating, but you wanted to understand why he made that decision.

But after a few weeks with no results, you gave up, and now you're here facing him again.Not that you're much of a believer in such things, but you'd like to think that this meeting wasn't in vain, not a coincidence of fate. Maybe this was your last chance to get along with him, and you were going to make it count.

Well, not in the cleanest way in the world, not least because you doubted very much that Simon would talk to you out of sheer will. But that's what friends are for, isn't it? Surely they could help you get the lieutenant's attention.

With that in mind, you and your friend put on a little show, pretending that he'd knocked you down and that you'd hurt your foot in the process. Not that it was difficult, given the heels you were wearing.

After faking the little fall, you saw Simon's expression change for a few seconds, and you knew for sure that he had fallen for your trick. The moment you fell, he almost got up from the stool he was sitting on, almost going to rescue you from the fall.Almost.

And you even said out loud that you were going to the restroom to check, denying your friends' help and pretending to be tough, something Simon hated. Little by little, he fell for your little story.

Maybe you were just a good actress, or Simon was too concerned about everything that involved you. Go on, probably both.

You made your way limply to the restroom, doing your best to pretend you were in pain, as if it were the worst pain you were feeling at the moment. You stayed in the restroom for a good few minutes, hoping and praying that he would come after you.

As you leaned on a stall in the restroom, you didn't hear the door opening, because you were fixated on looking at your cell phone, waiting for a message from him.To your surprise, you only felt strong arms pulling you into the stall, locking you and the person inside.

You were about to scream because you thought it was a stranger, but as soon as you saw those brown eyes you loved so much, all that appeared on your face was a smile.

“You scared me...” You whispered, your voice without any bite or malicious tone, probably all that was in your tone was affection.

He scoffed, looking you up and down, “Apparently your foot is better now.”

You bit your lip, trying to contain the mischievous smile that threatened to appear on your lips.

Even though he treated you like an asshole, you could still feel his love for you in his gaze.

And, oh God, seeing you smile like that made his heart beat faster.When you moved, he looked down and saw that you were back in your high heels, making him frown.

It wasn't long before he put two and two together.

“Little minx.” He mutters, narrowing his eyes at you.

“I think it's sore...” You say, trying to keep up the act that your foot really was hurt. Did you really think you could make a fool of him?

By this point Simon should be used to your antics, or maybe he was playing dumb as an excuse to see you. In any case, he knelt down in front of you, picked up your foot and examined it.

His calloused hands gave you goose bumps, and it didn't get any better when he gently removed your shoe to get a better look at your heel.

And to confirm his suspicion, there was no swelling, it was just you pretending to be hurt.He wrinkled his eyebrows, looking at you, and just when you thought he was going to complain to you, the softest of smiles appeared on his lips, along with a shake of his head.

“Bloody pest...” He said under his breath, his tone betraying the lightness his voice carried, without any bite.

“Ah...Well...I guess I was wrong...” You say back, your voice as weak as that of a child who's just been caught up in something stupid.

Silence fell around you both, the only sound being your breathing in that cramped space.

“Are you all right?” You ask softly, looking at him with nothing but tenderness.It was hard to keep your composure when he was this close, making you sure you were far from getting over him.

And he wasn't too different from you, since it was hard not to remember everything he'd been through with you, all the sweet memories you'd both built up.

“Going.” He murmurs, letting instinct take him as he gently tucks a lock of your hair behind your ear, taking a moment to look at you.

To really look at you.

“I wanted to talk to you...” You begin, seeing his expression change to a stoic one as soon as you've uttered the phrase.

You knew it wouldn't be easy to have this conversation with him. Simon knew how to hide his feelings very well when he wanted to.

“We've talked before... There's no need for that now.” His voice was now more serious, harsh.

“No. You talked! I didn't have a chance to respond!” You protested, gripping his arms tightly, as if you could hold that man down if you wanted to.

He grunted, narrowing his eyes at you as he took a deep breath. He wasn't ready to see you sad again, he couldn't take it this time.Simon was definitely a softie when he was with you.

You had him wrapped around your finger.

"Did I... did I do something?” You asked, your voice shaking from the nervousness you were beginning to feel.

He denied it with his head, not elaborating much on his answer.

“What was it then? Was it something that happened? Or... Or is there someone else?” You ask once again, your voice low and small in the face of the possibilities.

What if he had someone else? What if he broke up with you because of this other person?

Simon almost laughed at the absurdity of your question, he couldn't even think of anyone else, after you, there was no one else. No one.

“Nothing like that.” He retorted, looking at you with a certain estrangement. It wasn't possible that you were thinking so lowly of him.Not that he'd given you the best impression in the world recently.

You even asked him other questions, which honestly fell on deaf ears, as he could only watch the way your lips moved, your gloss gleaming in the dim light of the restroom. You were just as perfect as he remembered, if not more so.

No one was ironclad, and he was no different, so he silenced your chatter by bringing his face close to yours, his nose touching yours, his forehead to yours.

“I... Can you kiss me?” You whisper, giving him the best pleading eyes you can manage.

And fuck, looking at your sly little face, your pouty lips, he can't say no.

He couldn't deny you in a million years.Hearing you say please, in such a sweet voice, was enough to get his blood pumping.

When you felt his lips on yours, it was like a little taste of heaven. As soon as his lips moved against yours, it was as if a lever had turned on the two of you, and something gentle and innocent turned into a hot, languid kiss.His hands soon found their way to your hips, pulling you to him as he deepened the kiss even more.

His tongue almost invaded your mouth, roughly exploring every corner inside your mouth. You knew Simon, when he wanted it, he got it. Just as he could be the kindest man in the world to you, he could also be the devil on earth if he wanted to.

When his lips parted from yours, almost painfully, Simon felt a warmth run through his body as he looked at you.

Lips swollen from the kiss, face reddened, your mouth hanging open as you looked on with the slyest eyes you could muster.

Simon knew full well that he should leave, his mind screaming one thing and his heart another, it would be better if he cut off all contact, but he couldn't force himself to do it.

So since he was going to stay, he decided to make a decision. He turned you around, making your back face him.He pushed you against the door, gluing his body to yours, leaving no space between you.

It was better if he didn't see your face while he was taking you, because if he did, he wouldn't be so sure not to take you home.

Of not picking you up and hugging you while the two of you snuggled in his bed, under his covers. In his house. If he really saw your expressions at that moment, all the strength he had would go down the drain.

You felt your body shiver when he started kissing your neck, his warm breath hitting your sensitive skin.

The feel of his tongue on your skin, the way he nibbled and licked your neck, everything he did was enough to make your knees buckle.

“You smell so good...” He purrs, pressing his nose into the crease of your neck, taking a deep inhale.

“Fucking good...” He adds, his voice gradually getting huskier, making your body hair rise at the sensation of the vibration of his voice on your skin.

He simply loved your smell, it was something uniquely yours, he couldn't find it anywhere else. It made him feel at home, feel alive. It drove him crazy.

By now he was hard, feeling his cock throbbing inside his pants, almost begging Simon to get him out of the confines of his clothes.

And well, he was sure you were already wet by then, he could feel your wet panties brushing against him, not that that little dress did much to hide you, especially when you were leaning over like that.

“Did you miss me?” he asked in a purr, making you roll your eyes at his husky voice in your ear.

" A lot... A lot...” You murmured breathlessly, not caring that you looked like a bitch in heat for him.You heard him chuckle behind you, one of his hands going down to your mound, cupping it in his hand.His other hand went to your breast, feeling your hard nipple against the thin fabric of your dress.

“Lower your dress for me, sweet thing...” He murmured, tugging at the straps of your dress, encouraging you to expose yourself to him.

And you did, pulling your dress down to your waist, then letting it fall to your heels.Behind you, he took a deep breath and stepped back, looking at your naked body, covered only by your panties.

No bra, the sight that made him growl, literally. His hands were quick to go to your breasts, taking them in his hands, squeezing and playing with your nipples.

“Nice tits, eh? You wanted to show off for me? Walking around without a bra like that?” He asked, giving your breasts a firm squeeze that made you moan, feeling pain and pleasure at the same time, just the right amount.

“For you... Just for you...” You said under your breath, your hands hovering over his.

Before you could think of anything to say, he leaned into you, holding you tightly and preventing any way you could come up with to get away from him, not that you were even thinking of doing that.

“Pretty little thing...” He grunted, pressing his erection into the middle of your ass, rubbing against you hard, as if he were some animal in heat, out of control, feral. He kissed your jaw, open-mouthed, his breath on your face, his face so close to yours.

You could already feel your mind fogging up, unable to form anything coherent.

He was so focused on it, he didn't even see that you were wetting his jeans, soaking wet, already making a mess of his pants.

“Fucking hell....” He almost hissed behind you, before you could protest he lowered two fingers to your wet surface, teasing you.In a matter of seconds you had two thick fingers hovering over your entrance.

Simon was such a bastard that he knew what you wanted, so he began to tease you slowly, just putting his fingertips into your entrance, only to withdraw them later.

“Si-” you whimper, turning your head a little to look at him in a sly way.And well done, those little eyes sent a wave of warmth straight to his cock.

With your little moan you managed to get him to start massaging your clit in circles, your pussy getting even wetter.

The next thing you felt were his lips trailing down your back, leaving hot, wet kisses, completely sloppy. His hot, uneven breathing on your skin was enough to make your pussy clench into nothing, you wouldn't doubt that you could cum for him for so little.

“You're so beautiful....So beautiful...” He whispered, leaving a trail of hot kisses all over your back, going down and down, leaving a trail of goosebumps everywhere his lips touched.

He was aching, hard as a rock, but he was damned if he wasn't going to taste you before he did anything else.

From kiss to kiss he made his way to your pussy, kneeling behind you as he stared at your glistening hole.

Your legs trembled as he gave your cunt a lingering kiss, the direct contact of his lips with your bottom lips was enough to make your knees shake.The feeling increased even more when he put his tongue on your clit, caressing the sensitive little bud with his wet muscle.

You arched your hips, whimpering as he began to eat you out, in a way that only he knew how to do, not least because he knew every one of your weak points. He was too observant for that.

He took this as an incentive to continue, he began to lap you up like an animal, an animal that hadn't been dined for months.His hands spread your ass cheeks, opening you up in an obscene way, not that you minded. You were in heaven with his every lick, your cunt clenching around his tongue, your mind going a mile a minute as he pleasured you.

With every stroke he grunted behind you, the sounds coming from the back of his throat vibrating in your folds every time he produced them.Simon was a messy eater, your juices glistening on his chin as he fucked you, he kissed, sucked, licked, his mouth worked untold wonders on you.

He knew well enough when you were close, your tight pussy clenching and you whimpering even more, the sweet little moans that were better than anything he'd ever heard.

When you arched your hips once more, his nose going even deeper into your folds, his tongue darting in and out of your cunt, fucking you deliciously.

“Mh-T-Too close.” You stutter, feeling your legs begin to tremble at the sensation of your approaching orgasm.

“Cum.” He murmurs against your flesh, giving your pussy a long lick, only to start lapping at it again.And you obeyed like a puppy, squirting your juices into his mouth without any shame.

And he, even more shamelessly, swallowed it all, without spilling a drop. He literally licked you clean, keeping you nice and open to lick up everything you had to offer.His slurping sounds echoed in your ears, making you wet once again, as if you were a fucking well full of water, always leaking.

“Nice and clean.” Simon murmured, leaning back a little to see the work he'd done, his lips were all wet with your juices, but for him it was a more than delicious sensation.

Well, yeah, you were clean, just for him to get you dirty one more time. His to mess up.

Behind you, the sound of him undoing his pants echoed in the bathroom, making you shiver in anticipation. In fact, you hadn't even been able to stop your legs from shaking after your orgasm.

The soft 'thump' of his belt made you turn your body back a little, watching him undress.He smiled in a cheeky way, not at all ashamed to show off his big, muscular body.

The bastard was cocky enough to know that he had you salivating.And it was no lie.You got all hot and bothered when his jeans fell down, along with his boxers. It was quite a sight. His defined, muscular thighs, and they were so fucking thick.

Not to mention the sign of his cock, all hard and aroused, already leaking pre-cum. It had a pink tip, it was big, large and veiny. Sometimes you wondered how you could handle it.Simon was a big man in every way.

“Don't make me wait...” You whispered, feeling your cunt tighten just looking at him.

If it were any other man, you'd be disgusted at the sight of a full bush, but with Simon you'd get so wet, just remembering the friction you felt when he rubbed against you.

“Don't worry your pretty little head.” He said, patting your pussy, turning you forward once more.Behind you, you could feel the movements of his hand, the strokes he gave his own member, slowly and lazily, all he wanted to do was sink into you.

After a few strokes, he placed the tip of his cock at your entrance, rubbing against you. His pre-cum mixed with your fluids, making a delicious mess that he loved so much.

“Gonna put in, yeah?” he said softly, wrapping an arm around you, his hand gripping your throat and forcing you backwards.His hand was so big it could cover your entire throat, his fingers lifting your chin and forcing your gaze to his, making you even wetter somehow.

His other hand held his hard length in his hands, gently but surely guiding it into you, the tip of it entering you and stretching you, the delicious stretching you did to accommodate him.He pushed in as far as he could, as deep as he could until he was buried deep inside you.

Once he was all the way inside you, he stopped, giving you time to get used to his size as he always did.But today, you don't know what the hell came over you, you couldn't wait, your body and mind begging and pleading for him to move.

“Si....Please?Please...” You beg like a slut with no self-respect, acting exactly like one.

Fuck. To hell with everything.

When he heard you begging so nicely like that, how could he be capable of saying no?His answer was a sharp thrust, drawing out the sweetest of moans, making your eyes roll into the back of your head as he hit all your sweet spots at once.

“Tight as fuck, never changes.” He growls, using the hand that was previously holding his cock to curl around your hips.

Soon you had his fingers on your clit, making small circles, just the right size for you to see stars every time he thrust and massaged you all at once.Your already jumbled mind couldn't think of anything else, all you knew was that your pussy was being deliciously filled, in a way that only he knew how to do. No one else.

Your mouth was hanging open, letting out the most filthy moans, your arms holding on to the wall of the stall, trying to keep yourself upright as he pounded into you, hard.His balls slamming into you was such a dirty, impure sound.

You didn't even want to think what anyone would think if they heard what was happening in that stall.His cock slipped in and out of you, several times Simon took his entire length out of you, just to shove it in all at once. To have the opportunity to see your pussy swallow his cock in one go.

“You're going to get my cock wet, yeah? Are you going to be a good girl and do that?” He asks in your ear, rubbing his nose against your ear.

You tightened around him, letting out another whimper. He gave you a little grin, pulling your hair with his hand, and as soon as he was face to face with you, he kissed you hard.It was a hot kiss, with everything involved, Simon was a completely different man when he was aroused, and he showed it very well.

With the searing kiss, you felt the familiar excitement building in the pit of your stomach. Simon didn't feel much different, at least not with the sensation of your walls nestling him, keeping him comfortable and warm.

It wouldn't take him long to fill you, but you came first.Then his hand slid down to your clit, not leaving you quiet for a second, massaging hard on your swollen bud, making you go to heaven and hell at the same time.

Your gasps were swallowed up by his mouth, his tongue invading your mouth as he slammed into you. His rhythm was brutal, he moved back and forth with no mercy for you, the sloppy thrusts leaving you without a ground.

His fingers on your clit, the hot fucking kisses he was giving you right now, the way he was fucking you, all of it was leading you down one path. And you couldn't help it, there you were, cumming for him once again.You creamed on his cock, wetting his length as you moaned his name like a prayer.

“Good girl.” He purred into your lips, biting back a moan of his own as you tightened around him.

He followed right behind, cumming inside you without any warning, spurting his seed inside you, filling you up.Your legs went wobbly and you almost lost your balance, but he was quick to hold you up, giving you all the support you needed.

“You did good, sweet girl... So good.” He whispers tenderly, kissing you all over your face.

It was so domestic, him whispering and reassuring you softly, saying sweet nothings to you. It would be cute if you didn't have your cunt dripping with his cum, making his eyes darken every time he looked down.

The minutes seemed to pass slowly as the two of you stood like that, holding each other, relaxing as the high subsided.

And you held back so as not to say anything you'd regret later, and he bit his lip so as not to let out a simple, but true 'I love you'.But nothing lasts forever, and you knew you were going to have to leave.

He didn't want to be a jerk, and he wasn't going to leave you alone after having sex with you. That would be completely stupid. But it caused Simon to change from water to wine.

So he helped you clean up and put your clothes back on, waiting for you to say goodbye to your friends so he could take you home. At this point it was every person for themselves, Simon was clearly trying to keep his distance, and he was succeeding.However much it hurt.

The ride to your apartment was silent, nothing but the sound of his motorcycle going back and forth in the city, it was boring, but at least he was with you.

He was even a gentleman, taking you to the door of your apartment, hoping that you were inside, safe and sound. As you should have been.

“Aren't you coming in?” You ask quietly, looking at him almost shyly.

There was no pride in you that was greater than the desire to spend a night with him. Hugging each other, holding each other as if it were the last time.

He looked at you, those dead eyes that carried so many emotions at that moment. But he wasn't going to weaken, not now, no matter how much his heart begged him to accept the offer.

“I just came to bring you home.” He repeated, his fingers itching to caress your cheeks, cup your face and shower you with kisses.But he couldn't.

And that hurt more than any bullet.

He doesn't give you a chance to say anything, he just walks away and takes one last look at you over his shoulder.In the blink of an eye he was already in the elevator, leaving once again.

After that you knew for sure that Simon was an incognito, but something was wrong. He wouldn't act like that, it wasn't like him.

Maybe he'd really had enough of you, and you're too proud to admit defeat. But if he's got something, you'll find out.Even if it means pestering his work colleagues.

But really, not that Simon has noticed, but you're sure he wouldn't do much without his wallet for long.

Oh, and you kind of took it as an excuse to have something to see him.

He'd probably be on your doorstep the next day.

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