#its to be expected with what it is. i just hope it gets easier. because its certainly gotten more complicated.

[trainingdummyrabbit]

hmm. looking back for art summary purposes and. man i was Really Good at Just Fuckig Vanishing Sometimes huh .

[arolesbianism]

Tiphereth suppression finally complete babeyyyy

[beloveds-embrace]

Human!Reader being traded to Fae!Price to keep the peace. Like I heard once in ancient China, actual royal daughters wouldn't be married off, other girls would be married in their place, so maybe reader's parents volunteered her to be married instead of the king's beloved daughter?

see you perfectly get me 😩😩 i hope you don’t mind me using this as a chance to yap <3

Masterlist

The fae had no love for you.

You had known this from the moment you stepped into the obsidian palace, its towering spires slicing through the mist-laden sky like blades. You had been dressed in human silks then- pale, delicate, and utterly wrong in a court where darkness was beauty, where even the air shimmered with otherworldly grace. The moment you crossed the threshold, every gaze in the room had cut into you, assessing and dismissing in the same breath because not a single one of them wanted a human amongst them- least of all as their queen.

The words had not been spoken aloud, but you had felt them all the same, woven into the murmurs that rippled through the court. They had expected the human king’s beloved daughter (even if they would have hated her all the same), a princess groomed for diplomacy, raised in luxury. Instead, they had been given you- the daughter of an unimportant noble, a substitute barely trained in courtly graces but more than capable with ink and parchment, a woman who had spent years buried under the work the princess refused to do.

They had not wanted you.

And neither, it seemed, had your husbands.

King John Price, your husband, had barely acknowledged you beyond what duty required. He had spoken the vows in the old tongue, words and sounds you could never hope to replicate with a human tongue, and sealed the marriage with a kiss so fleeting it barely brushed your lips, then turned away to his own husbands- also yours, but they weren’t kings, so no kiss was required between you and them.

(The concept was still so strange to you. Humans practiced monogamy at the very least, in public- yet you had learned fae cared very little for such things.)

They were his advisors; Johnny, Simon, Kyle, and they were no different. They were powerful men, sharp as the wind over the mountains, and just as untouchable.

You were an outsider, a human intruder in a world where every glance from you was considered an insult, every word a nuisance.

They did not mistreat you, no. They simply ignored you, and you told yourself that it was worlds better than being hurt anyways… even if the loneliness hurt.

And so you threw yourself into the work. The human princess had forced all her duties on you for years, and it was no different here- except now it was fae treaties, fae disputes, fae taxes, all of which they happily let you drown in. You handled it all without complaint. The paperwork was easier to deal with than the loneliness. And if they noticed the way you handled the endless the endless paperwork that the court so conveniently let pile up on your desk, they gave no indication.

You were a human among fae. And in their eyes, that made you insignificant.

Your days blurred together in a haze of ink-stained fingers and stiff-backed chairs, the weight of the crown heavier than you had ever imagined. It might have continued that way- silent, distant, suffocating- if not for the day the Queen Mother descended upon you.

She despised humans. You could see it in the way she sneered at you, the way she spoke as if addressing something beneath her. But she was old, cunning, and- unlike her son- unwilling to let a political marriage go to waste. She had entered your chambers one evening without announcement, her presence crackling in the air like a brewing storm.

For a long moment, she had said nothing. And then:

"You look human."

You had stiffened at her tone. It was not a compliment.

"That is your first mistake."

She had circled you then, her gaze stripping you bare. "The court despises you. My son ignores you, as do his husbands- they do not even see you. Why?"

You had swallowed, resisting the urge to drop your gaze. "… Because I am human."

A flicker of a smile, cold and knowing. "No, child. Because you make no effort to be anything else. You are no longer within humans.���

That night, your wardrobe was stripped away- every pale gown, every soft fabric, every piece of jewelry that marked you as human. In their place, the Queen Mother had garments brought in that dripped with fae elegance.

Your dresses were no longer delicate, but sharp—cut to flatter the lines of your body, corseted to perfection, woven with fabrics darker than midnight and embroidered with silver-threaded fae flowers that shimmered when they caught the light. Your silks no longer billowed, but clung, whispering around you like shadows given form.

Your jewelry transformed you further. Earrings that mimicked the elongated points of fae ears, tapering into elegant curves. Rings shaped into sharp, clawed talons that gleamed when your fingers moved. Tiaras twisted into the illusion of horns, their dark metal twining like the antlers of the fae lords. Even your hair was adorned with woven fae flora, petals shifting as though alive.

When you stepped before the mirror, you barely recognized yourself.

You were still human. But you no longer looked like prey.

The court noticed first. The whispered mockery did not cease, but it changed- less scornful, more wary. Some sneered that you were playing dress-up, but others looked twice, their gazes lingering in ways they never had before.

Your husbands were slower to react, but when they did, it was irreversible. It was the point of no return- even if you did not know it at the time. Did not once suspect this had been the Queen Mother’s plan from the start.

Johnny cracked first.

One evening during another dinner where you were supposed to be ignored once more, as you reached for a goblet, he caught your hand- his calloused fingers brushing the rings now shaped like talons. His thumb grazed over the curved metal, blue eyes flicking up to yours with something thoughtful, something curious.

“…This suits you, lass."

A simple statement. But his touch lingered a moment longer than necessary. You did not allow yourself to think more of it, as he eventually turned away from you and returned to ignoring you.

Kyle was next. It was not the rings he noticed, but the way the darker fabrics shaped you, the way the fae silks whispered around your form when you moved. His sharp gaze assessed you, and when you met his eyes, he hummed- low and appreciative.

"Fascinating."

Simon was the hardest to read, but you caught the way his head tilted slightly when you walked past him, the way his gaze lingered on the flowers adorning you, unreadable but lingering. He did not speak on it. He never did speak to you, not eveb now. But he watched.

And for the first time since your marriage to John, he truly looked at you; not past you. Not through you. But at you.

The next time you stood before him, spine straight, chin lifted, cloaked in the elegance of the fae, John leaned back in his seat, exhaling slowly. His eyes raked over you in quiet thoughts, but there was something different this time- something sharper, darker.

You had changed.

And the court had noticed.

He had seen the way the nobles looked at you now- the way their gazes lingered too long on the curve of your throat, the bare skin exposed by the daring cut of your gown. The way their admiration had shifted, no longer dismissive but hungry. Once, they had sneered at your presence, insulted by the mere thought of a human in their midst. Now, they sought your attention, vying for your favor with soft smiles and murmured compliments.

It soured something in him.

His fingers curled against the armrest of his throne, a slow, thoughtful movement. He knew he had no right to feel this way. He had ignored you first. Had dismissed you, had treated you as a necessity rather than a wife. And yet-

He did not like the way they looked at you.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the way the others reacted as well. Kyle’s jaw was tight, his gaze sharp whenever a noble leaned too close. Johnny had grown restless, the usual brightness in his eyes dimming whenever he caught another fae whispering to you, their voices dipped too low. And Simon was a shadow at the edge of the room, silent, unmoving, but his cold stare was a warning, his claws tapping idly against the hilt of the dagger at his belt.

They saw it, too.

You were theirs.

And now, far too many in this court seemed to be forgetting that.

John’s grip on the chair tightened before he forced himself to relax, schooling his expression back into something unreadable.

Well, he may have been a neglectful husband to you in the beginning… but no time better than the present to fix his mistake.

Part two

[tobeholyistobeempty]

the wreckage of ruination. | simon ghost riley

the one where simon comes home from deployment.

“Does this,” he sucks at your throat again, all teeth and tongue and it’s violent just like every breath he manages. “Feel gentle to you, love?”

WARNINGS - 18+ smut mdni. reader afab. simon essentially finding therapy in your pussy. heavy topics. rough sex. size kink. denied orgasm. a whole lot of simon riley psychoanalysis. a few sleep token references. a ton of religious undertones. piv. fingering. im gonna be honest chat idk if im horny or sobbing after this one.

It’s quarter past one when the front door swings open, and you pause with a dish towel in hand — listening as it slams closed again with enough force you half expected to hear the sound of shattered glass following it. Next comes the footsteps, though you already felt those, the dull thud of boots dragging across carpeted floorboards with the type of heavy set gait you could detect with your eyes closed. And then, there’s the rustling —the faint sound of a belt buckle unfastening.

Fuck.

It’s all you can think as he rounds the corner with a slow exhale, standing there in all the shadows of the early morning hour. Your eyes meet, and you see it there in all of its familiarity — the hunger.

It’s a languid look that he gives you, but one you know all too well. The kind that burns with intention backing it. The kind that turns the usual brown of his irises to something molten. A bonfire raging amidst the ashes. Inspiring the familiar sensation low in your gut that spreads through your nervous system like an infection. Sickly. You’d think it was a perfect description — because the next symptom is a tightness in your chest, one that comes robbing your lungs as you rake your eyes over him.

And it’s his hands, of all things, that really get you. The raw, crimson knuckles. Split from months of use. Battered by the wreckage of ruination — remnants of violence still fresh on his skin.

You wonder, stupidly, if he even notices the way you stare. Soaking in the lean lines of his torso. Studying the way his muscles shift beneath his skin with each inhale and ex. The way his dog tags sit against the hollow of his collarbones. The way his shirt sleeves are taut around the sinew bulging against his biceps. You wonder if he knows you can see the aftermath of the past few months in his eyes, the adrenaline still thrumming through him so violently it makes your bones ache.

When he steps forward, you know you have your answer.

“Nightgown.” His voice is a rasp. Gaze busy pinning silk to your skin. “Y’making this easier n’ easier f’me.”

You swallow the shock factor and smile while digesting it. He’s in front of you now. Close enough to feel the heat of him.

“Missing the chase, Si?” A tilt of your head, a tease in your tone. “I could run if you’d like.”

“Y’wouldn’t dare.” He all but hisses — two massive paws grasping your hips to tug you into him. There’s a breath as his mouth finds your hair, and then he inhales. “Much prefer y’right here. Like this.”

And it’s that simple admission, the one tucked behind the few extra syllables and whispered into the strands of your hair that has you leaping for a breath all over again. That has you forcing your sight to meet his with something a little too close to hope blinking in your chest.

“You feeling gentle?” You ask, and immediately wish you hadn’t.

Because his reaction is immediate. An answer in itself. And you’re not sure if it was the question on its own or the way you sounded asking it — but he’s catching your jaw in a grip just shy of bruising, forcing your eyes to hold the darkness in his. Then, he’s leaning in, breath brushing against your cheek, jaw, throat — growing back his sharpest teeth as he nips, tongue lavving out to soothe the sting in what you know is his crafted offering of mercy in a moment where he’s unable to provide much else.

“Does this,” he sucks at your throat again, all teeth and tongue and it’s violent just like every breath he manages. “Feel gentle to you, love?”

It doesn’t. It never has been on the nights he returns and you know this. So you take it for the warning sign it is and inhale the adrenaline permeating the air around you — offering him the closest thing to an answer you know he’ll ever need. Within seconds he’s crashing his mouth to yours with force nothing shy of feral. Wild and demanding, unhinged in the way you know he needs right now because this is how it goes on the night of his return. The beginning of his resurgence — ascension from the depths of the hollow he’d carved himself to be.

After all the war and destruction and damage he inflicts, you are his redoing. So you let him take, in whatever form he needs to, as he swallows everything you give and uses it to feel whole again.

You’re crushed against the counter next, and then he’s lifting you onto it — thick fingers fumbling for the edge of your nightgown as he presses between your thighs, kissing you hard all the while. You can all but taste the desperation on his tongue, the kind fuelled by lust and violence and everything else he needs to draw on just to find himself buried inside you in some capacity. It doesn’t matter to you much which way he chooses. You’ll take it all the same. And that, to him, means the world. The kind of catharsis he can’t get anywhere else.

He fists your hair, jerking your neck back as another hand trails up the heat of your thigh. You squirm and he bites your bottom lip for it, enough to make you squeak. You wonder then, as he drags his tongue along the hurt, how it can be as brutal and rough as it is while still feeling like something you can’t quite name. Something that makes you burn with the very same need.

When he kisses you, it’s like he’s trying to break you. When you kiss him back, it’s like you’re trying to mend him.

He pulls back then, just long enough to shrug out of his shirt — the muscles of his tatted chest gleaming under the low light of the overheads. He’s scarred. Bruised. A little bloodied. But he’s a beautiful mess. One you can’t force yourself to look away from because it’s here that he’s his most vulnerable — it’s here that he’s as beautiful and as dangerous as he will ever allow you to see.

The only time you catch glimpses of the ghosts etched into his irises.

“Never gets easier.” He mutters, both hands smoothing up your thighs now. “Gets harder each time.”

You know he’s talking about this. The way he comes home with the weight of the world on his shoulders, the bloodshed and horrors of what he’s seen still too fresh to call memories. You know. But still—

“Harder how, baby.” You breathe against his lips as he tugs your nightgown up around your waist.

It takes him a moment to speak, and you allow him all of it. In your time together, you’ve come to realize Simon Riley isn’t a man of many words. But when he does speak, you memorize every breath and syllable.

“Harder t’leave.” He admits, and you shiver at the words — or maybe at the fact his fingers are reaching up your thighs now, in search of the heat between them. “Harder t’come home. Harder t’be gentle like y’deserve.”

You close your eyes at that, wrapping your arms around his neck as those same thick fingers find your slit, and soak in the slick there. You let out a whimper, and he brings his lips to your temple, all while you turn those words over in your mind in search of their frontfaced meaning.

To anyone else, that might sound conflicting. But you’re not anyone else. You knew Simon before you knew Ghost — though in learning about him, many unanswered things made sense. You knew that there was always something stuck in the back of Simon’s throat that he could never quite swallow. Something thick. Something unmoving like grief. And you think, rather aimlessly through the pleasure he starts pouring into you, that after all the days and weeks and months he spends going through hell — for him, coming home has always been the harder part.

And there’s something poetic about that, beneath it all. The fact that even after all of it, he can still find it in himself to give you the remnants — the fractured remains of himself that are still in their infancy.

That he can be honest with you, in this way of his making. Letting you into the space beneath his mask.

So you moan. A sound of reward as he teases your clit. “S’good, Si.”

“No,” he whispers, swirling in easy strokes. “M’not good, love. Never have been.”

And that, you know he believes.

He’s a man made by violence. A weapon forged by war, by destruction, by the world that tried to break him just to turn him into the thing it fears most. To them, he’s destruction made flesh. But to you, he’s your salvation made in ink. And despite his best efforts, despite what he’ll always think, your Simon is so much more than he thinks he is. So much more than he’s ever been given credit for.

And you’ll tell him that. Over and over and over again if he wants you to.

“You are so good, Si.” You whinge, hips jerking to his touch. “You are so fucking good.”

There’s a moment, until there’s a hum. “Just as well. It’s not the good in men that keeps em’ aimin’ straight.”

He murmurs, almost to himself, and you know he’s not looking for a response. He’s unloading. Because it’s his truth. And everyone has a truth of their own. You try not to let him see how much his hurts you — the way he thinks his worth is based solely on the man he is behind the mask.

“It’s the men who try,” you mutter against his lips. “And despite your best efforts, sweetheart, you try so damn hard.”

His finger slips inside of you, slow. Like he’s making a point to prove you right. Like he’s showing you he can be good and gentle and patient. All the things he thinks you need him to be.

When you hiss at the stretch, his lips twitch and he pushes in another. “F-fuck, Si.”

You clench around him, and he exhales. “S’fucken’ tight f’me.”

You nod against his forehead, with barely a lung of breath.

“I missed this, you know. This feeling.” You roll your hips against his hand, taking his digits deeper, revelling in the way his cock throbs against your stomach. “This feeling I get when you come home with that wild look in your eyes. Like you’re too dangerous to be around if you’re not inside me.”

He nods, lips twitching again as he pulls back slightly to watch you. Watch his hand work you open with a crease in his brow — with a clench in his jaw that only intensifies as his other hand grips your hair too tight to be soft. You know he thinks you need this — the preamble. You know it’s taking every fucking bloody shred of his sanity to give it. But you don’t want him to be thinking about you right now.

This night, above all else, is about him.

“You’re breaking.” You choke with a smile — just to needle him — and that’s all it takes for his patience to crack.

Your nails drag against his shoulders when he pulls you off the counter — arms winding around his neck as he maneuvers you through the darkness of your living room. And it’s then that you realize you forgot just how strong he is. How the walk from the kitchen to the sofa only seems to take a few steps because he’s carrying you over his shoulder like you weigh less than the bag he left at the door.

He tosses you down onto the couch with a force that knocks the air from your lungs — not giving you a chance to gasp for a replacement before he’s rucking your nightgown up and spreading your legs wide as he settles between them. You watch as he works at his zipper, tugging down his pants just enough to free himself — cock all twitching and glistening with the same need that’s blaring through the rest of him. He strokes it a few times, watching you watch him — watching your hunger meet his in the middle.

“M’breaking, sweet’eart.” He’s growling, that’s the only way to describe it. Deep inflection rolling over you like rain. “But so are you.”

And then, he’s pushing in — burying himself inside the struggling wet walls of your cunt with a force that makes you cry out, back arching toward his chest as he leans over you — caging you under him with two strong forearms on either side of your head. The feeling is rendering. Euphoric in its agony. Thick head working you back open after months of thinking your own small fingers sufficed. But nothing compares to this. Each time a little like the first time — the only difference is back then he let you adjust, gave you all the time in the world to whine and cry about it.

You know that’s not the case now.

He’s selfish, like this. A thing of beauty. This man made from the earth you’ve claimed. A brutal kind of beautiful that most admire from a distance. Wolfish. Best to be kept at arms length — so rough and rabid he could eat you whole if he let himself. But instead, all he wants is this.

“Fuck.” He grunts into your hair as he bottoms out, snug against your cervix. “Gets tighter every fucken’ time.”

It’s a compliment, unspoken in the way he threads his fingers through your strands — because it’s the only way he knows how to handle everything he is. Because violence is second nature when being kind is so hard to come by. Because he’s learned that the only way he can exist is in the middle ground of it.

And fuck, if you don’t love him for it. The trying.

“N’you—ah—g-get bigger—“ you mumble, all exasperation and lust.

“Y’like that, yeah, pretty girl?” His voice is a deep rasp in your ear, a hint of the beast in his tone as he grinds deep. “Like how it feels when I fill you, s’fuckin deep.”

He bites down on your throat when you try to answer him and whatever you were going to say becomes a moan instead. Breathing. It’s all you can focus on as he draws out and then slides home — stretching you to an almost painful point as he pulls his hips back to do it again, his grip tight enough that it makes you wonder if his fingertips will bruise your skin the same way they do everything else he touches.

“Mmmfuck, Si—“ you hiss as he sets a desperate pace, each devastating thrust making you see all the stars in the heavens and then some. “G-god—“

He nods, even though mumbling the name of god right now is ironic at best. There’s no god for men like Simon. Something he’s long come to terms with and knows he no longer needs because you — you are his salvation. His safe haven. And you’ll help him rebuild himself, placing each of those broken pieces back together with all the benevolence of the most graceful god — even if it burns your hands to cinder in the process.

It’s an addiction — your addiction, his addiction, a feverish kind of thing made of violence and love in the same breath. Something that somedays you know you’d die for. You’d die for the fire he brings to life inside your soul. And you can tell by the way he holds you that he knows it, too. Your name a broken incantation on his lips like you’re a prayer. Like you’re his deity — the only one who ever made him believe in something greater than himself.

“Fucken’ missed you.” He buries his face in your hair as he says it, pace slowing, two digits searching for the mess between your legs and swirling. “Oh yeah. Missed y’so fucken’ much.”

It almost hurts, how your breath stutters in your chest — how you hips jerk up to meet where his fingers bully your clit.

“I—fuck. I missed you too.” You wail, climax dragged to the edge of your consciousness as he thrusts in slow and deep. “Ohfuck. Si m’gonna—c-cum—“

He grunts in your ear, the way he only does when he’s trying to regain control — and you know without words that he isn’t going to give you what you need just yet.

Instead, he pulls back — his tip just barely nudging at your entrance a moment before he’s tugging your knees to your chest and slamming back into you deeper than you’d thought possible. It’s so much, and it’s almost too much when he stills. You cling to him, whimpering like he’s stolen a limb with how he takes a second to just wait before he leans back over you — forcing himself that much deeper, lips going to the tip of your ear where the shell meets the edge of the cartilage.

“Not yet.” He mutters. “You’ll end me.”

It’s all a haze then, your consciousness a fragmented thing as he uses you to rebuild. As he uses you to heal the invisible wounds that war has left on his body and on his soul. Every thrust of his hips is an effort to force out the rage and replace it with something that can be good. That can hold you with open palms rather than crush you with clenched fists.

And you know, for all that he is — it’s a miracle then, to love him so freely.

“S-simon—“ you’re babbling, shins tucked to your chin as he ruts deep into you. Every thrust shoving you that much closer. “C-can’t—n-need to—“

“Go on then,” he grunts, reaching up to grasp your hair again. “Y’can—“

And he’s leaning closer still, until there’s not a single inch between you and your lips are brushing — frenzied breaths mingling hot in your mouth.

“But m’gonna right after you.” He punctuates it with a devastating punch to your cervix. “Got months t’give you, sweet’eart.”

You almost scream then, the sound echoing in the dark of the room and it seems to ignite something in him. A match to a kindling. His hand tightening in your hair as he thrusts in hard to the hilt over and over and over again. You’ve never seen him shake this hard. Never seen the way his eyes search yours like he’s memorizing everything you could mean. The way they hold you in yours, making you feel seen in ways you’ve never fathomed. And you think, then, even while the pace at which he drives into you is frenzied, vicious — not even giving you time to draw a breath before he’s slamming back inside — you’ve never been so fucking inlove with the entirety of him. All his broken and all his beautiful. His raw and his vulnerable. His spoken and his unspoken.

And it’s with that thought, that your orgasm bludgeons you across the chest — and you’re clenching and cumming around him, coming face to face with the stars you know he’d dragged down for you.

“S-si! Ohfuck—ohyes—“

He groans. “Mm. That’s it. S’good. S’fucken’ good f’me.”

And when he follows you down to the depths of them, it’s your name that he breathes — a ragged thing that sounds so sweet coming off his tongue you’d think it was sugar — spilling the months of pent up need deep into your bullied cunt, teeth barring against the edge of his lip as it’s ripped from him by the sheer force of yours.

And then, it’s quiet again. Nothing but your heavy breaths to mark the stillness. Your eyes find his in the low light — and you know then, that the storm has passed. He shifts so your legs can wrap around his waist before he cages you under him again — forearms under your neck as he holds you there, softening inside you.

“Fuck.” The exhale. The emergence.

“Welcome home.” You whisper it, and it holds every word you could ever manage.

It’s a while before he speaks. And when he does, it’s rough. The word he gives you is simple, but it means everything — the weight of his soul beneath it like an ancient thing.

“Home.”

[malewifesband]

EDIT: if this post has made you think about whether or not you are autistic, im really glad! i hope you get some better understanding of yourself and are able to find community and support

however before you go and tell a therapist and seek an official diagnosis please read this thread and consider the points made therein:

autism is highly stigmatized. be fully informed about what you gain and what you lose from having an official diagnosis before seeking one.

EDIT OVER ENJOY THE POST

people do correctly identify that laios is autistic fairly often but a lot of the reasoning begins and ends with his special interest and social difficulties, but honestly it goes far deeper into the build of his character than just those two things

his pain tolerance is wildly inconsistent, unable to tolerate a drop of hot oil (or any heat) but able to shrug off both his leg being bitten off and it being reattached

hes sensory seeking in the extreme. he rubs the bat bones against his face, pets and fluffs the shapeshifter tail.

his desire to eat monsters comes from three very autistic places. 1) the rules for why monsters are not okay to eat but animals are are arbitrary to him so he cannot follow them easily: he cannot understand the 'feelings' argument others make. 2) this too is a sensory seeking behavior. he wants to experience these new things, new flavors and new textures. 3) it completes his knowledge of the monster in question to also have data on its edibility. because he cannot draw that arbitrary line around all monsters, he wants to evaluate them case-by-case and see if real patterns emerge. butchering and eating the monsters improves his knowledge of them greatly and highlights their importance in their ecosystem, as well as making him a part of that same ecosystem

he cannot emote the way others expect him to. he compartmentalizes his feelings (to an unhealthy degree) because he needs a pragmatic solution. so as long as there is a problem to solve, that matters far more than evaluating his emotions and allowing himself to experience them. while this is also a coping mechanism for ptsd, it is a trait found in many autistic people regardless of trauma, as we have trouble sorting the feelings we have and often need time to think about what we feel, so it becomes easier to simply not do it and pretend we dont need to. laios emotions certainly affect him, with or without his processing them, but others do not see what they expect to see and thus dismiss that he is feeling what they would feel

he is incredibly gifted with pattern recognition, observation, and analysis within realms he understands. to understand subjects that dont come easily to him, he must filter them through his established schema (his special interest--this is why they are so special! they help us sort the world). when he isnt sure about the social cues and details hes observed in the shapeshifter arc, he filters it through the lens he understands best: monsters. he was making correct observations about his friends all along, but he could not be confident in that the way he was about their behavior when it came to his interest (chilchucks caution, senshis passions, and marcilles carelessness)

[ponderingmoonlight]

Seeing kny men shirtless for the first time

Pairings: Rengoku x fem!reader; Gyomei x fem!reader; Sanemi x fem!reader (bonus: all hashira men x fem!reader)

Word Count: 3,2k

Warnings: this might be a little shitty so be nice pls, this is actually the first time I ever wrote for Gyomei so please please please let me know what you think! not 100% proofread 🥹🤍

Rengoku Kyojuro

“Have you seen Rengoku-san? There’s something I want to ask him about our upcoming mission.”

Tengen tilts his head to the side ever so slightly, lips unable to keep that dirty grin off his face. Yeah, surely you’re asking for a mission and not because you’re having a crush on the flame hashira since joining the pillars.

“He went outside in the gardens to view the blooming roses”, he lies oh so innocently.

A bright smile creeps up your face, heart already skipping a beat in excitement. If you were only brave enough to finally ask Kyojuro out, how easier your life would be if you’d just keep your distance to him. But the prospect of seeing him alone is enough for your mind to go blank. Hopefully, the others don’t notice.

“Thank you so much, Tengen”, you blurt out with a hasty bow before yanking out of the room.

“Didn’t he say he wanted to change since he sweated so much during training?”, Shinobu thinks out loud.

“Yeah, that’s going to be a lot of fun”, Tengen replies with a smirk plastered onto his face.

Your mind races back and forth as you make your way to the gardens. What will you even ask him? Maybe what he has planned, if he already knows something? What if you mess up? This is actually the first time you and Kyojuro got assigned a mission together. You have to make a good impression or otherwise, he won’t take you with him again.

“Rengoku-san, I don’t mean to disturb you, but I have a few questions regarding the ne-“

Your breath gets stuck in your throat immediately, feet coming to a rapid stand.

There he is, the flame hashira.

Shirtless, his upper body soaking wet while he empties a bucket of water over his head.

“Oh, (y/n)! I didn’t expect you here!”, he announces with his eyes widened.

You can’t even blink, mind going dull. You always secretly imagined what Kyojuro might look like underneath that uniform, if his muscles look as buff as they feel underneath your touch while training.

And they do.

Oh god, they definitely do.

“I-I…Tengen told me that…You’re here to see…the roses”, you blurt out, still unable to look away.

“Indeed! But before that, I really needed to change my uniform since I sweated a lot during training.”

“Yeah, I can see that”, you mumble.

“(y/n), are you not feeling well? You look quite red from afar. Allow me to check on you.”

When he suddenly starts walking towards you with his chest muscles tensing with each and every step, you feel like fainting. Of course you never doubted that this man looks good underneath that uniform, but this?

“Your cheeks are really hot”, he comments while running his wet hand up and down your cheek.

“I…I…”

Your mind is a mess, not a single thought is making sense right now. Are you dreaming? Is that really Rengoku Kyojuro standing in front of you with his abs glittering in the heat of the sun, so close that you’d be able to touch him.

“Maybe you should go and see Shinobu-“

“I’m flustered!”, you finally cry out like an idiot.

Only to regret your words immediately.

His hand stops right in its tracks, the piercing presence of his orbs forcing you to look up at him.

“Why would you be flustered, (y/n)?”, he questions innocently.

May the ground swallow you whole in hope you’ll never return. God, why does this have to be so embarrassing? You’ll definitely have a word with Tengen when this is over.

“Because I…I have a crush on you, Kyojuro.”

The words you never dared to say out loud, that lingered through your mind each and every time you saw him. Like a rock, they fall off your chest while a wave of pure panic starts rushing over you.

You just confessed your feelings to him.

Him, Rengoku Kyojuro.

“I think I need to go now”, you blurt out, already starting to turn away when Kyojuro grabs your wrist gently.

“Please don’t go, (y/n). Actually, I feel the same way about you.”

He sweeps you around so rapidly that you are forced against something as hard as a wall. Did he accidentally throw you against a wall, the nearby tree?

The second you open your eyes again, you stare at his bare chest, only millimetres away from your face.

That wasn’t a wall.

“I had an eye on you since the first time I saw you. You are just…so amazing!”, he confesses with a passion that is even unusual for him.

“Kyojuro, I…”

Your bare face touched his naked chest.

“I…”

And don’t get started on his sight, his broad chest, the muscles that flex when he grabs your shoulders passionately.

“I…I can’t…”

“What’s wrong, (y/n)? A cat got your tongue?”, Tengen jeers from behind.

All your senses seem to come back to you in the split of a second when a wave of anger washes over you.

“You little…Why did you do that!?”, you cry out while storming towards the much taller man.

“Because your face looks very flashy when it’s this red.”  

 Gyomei Himejima

To say that you are exhausted would be the understatement of a century. Being out in the scorching sun all day really took its toll on your already bruised body.

Not to mention the training methods of none other than the stone hashira himself.

Gyomei is not a stranger to you. You’ve known each other for quite some time by now, joining the demon slayer corps almost simultaneously. And that force of a man never failed to impress you.

You wrench your sweat-soaked clothes in the river while staring at your own reflection. Why are you even here, though? You might not be a hashira yet, but you trained with Gyomei countless times before. Over and over, you shoved rocks around and almost drowning in that exact river. At this point, the basic training of the corps members isn’t even enough for you to break a sweat. You find yourself shoving that rock 10 cho by now while carrying tree trunks on your back.

You furrow your eyebrows. Now that you think of it, you didn’t even catch a glimpse at Gyomei himself since being here. Apparently, the hashira training does keep him busy.

That sting of agony that pierces through your heart can’t be stopped, though. Over the span of those last years, you got to know the stone hashira better. Despite his tall and threatening appearance, he is the softest man you’ve ever known. So kind that he brought tears to your eyes more than once, so considerate that it’s hard to believe that this man lives alone.

It was inescapable for you to fall from him head over heels. And now you find yourself longing for his presence even though you know all too well that he is busy training the corps members.

“I didn’t expect to greet you here at this late hour.”

You almost trip over head-first into the water, caught by a strong hand last-minute before you take another dive into the river.

“I’m beyond sorry for scaring you like this, (y/n)”, an all too familiar voice continues while pushing you back on your feet.

Normally, the first thing you see is his demon slayer uniform and cloak draped around him in a somehow elegant way.

But not today.

You swallow hard, widened eyes blankly staring at his naked chest. This man standing in front of you…Gyomei wears nothing but his uniform pants.

“I…uh…don’t w-worry”, you stutter like an idiot, his arms still holding you in place gently.

“Did I interrupt you? I didn’t know that you were taking a bath.”

His soft voice paired with that sight in front of you. You’ve never seen him shirtless, never witnessed the way his veins pop out of his arms and how well formed he is underneath that uniform. It would be so easy to allow your fingertips a taste and let yourself discover his muscles even better, to just stretch out your hand and-

“Does it bother you that I am shirtless? I came here to take a bath myself.”

“Bother?”, you press out.

“I…I’m not bothered at all!”

“I guess I’m just a little…flustered…”

“Flustered?”, he repeats in confusion.

“If I make you feel uncomfortable, I’ll cover myself of course. I just noticed you were here and we haven’t seen each other for a long time by now.”

“I missed you”, he adds, forcing your world upside down for a minute.

Since you’ve got to know him, there was never more than friendly words between Gyomei and you. Not more than a shoulder rub, not more than motivating words from time to time. You never allowed yourself to compliment him or talk about anything apart from missions.

Until now. Until Gyomei confessed out of nowhere that he missed you.

While being shirtless

“I…missed you too”, you finally give in.

You allow your eyes a little glimpse at him. Just a little taste of his broad shoulders and how his veins stand out. Just a little something of his rock-hard abs, his enormous upper body that is usually covered by his uniform. Just one look at-

“I thought about you all the time, to be exact”, you breathe out before you even realize what you’re talking about.

“I’m feeling the same way, (y/n). Let me assure you that my heart beats just as fast as yours at the moment.”

Gently, he cups your hand with his and presses your palm against his bare chest, straight against his racing heart that pulsates against your skin.

Oh god. You feel like fainting any given minute, your very own heart pounding so hard that you might get a heart attack.

“Now, allow me to put on my uniform again so that we can have a proper-“

“Wait!”, you blurt out.

“Let’s just stay like this for uh…a little longer…”

Sanemi Shinazugawa

It’s hard to keep your palms from sweating when you know exactly where you’re going. To him, the wind hashira. The man who swept you off your feet without even trying, the man you haven’t seen in such a long time by now.

While Sanemi always kept himself busy with missions, you were assigned to a mission far away from home. It took you over a month to finally find the demon who was responsible for this mess. And eventually, Sanemi just stopped writing you letters or replying to your messages. Even though you were so sure that he might feel the same way about you, he proved you wrong.

In the most painful way.

“I can’t go any further, that’s exactly where he is”, you complain while following your crow around.

You know this path uncomfortably well, the way it leads you next to a river, through a field of strawberries. Straight into the wind hashira estate.

“Direct orders from Kagaya-sama! You need to undergo the hashira training!”

“I just returned from an exhausting mission, did you tell him that?”, you bark back only to get attacked by your stinky crow.

“So cheeky! Watch how you talk to me!”, it cries out, literally dragging you along with it while its beak bursts the skin of your cheek.

Your heart almost stops beating, pounding rougher and rougher against your ribcage with every step you take towards the wind hashira estate.

What if the man you still love rejects you? What if he breaks your heart in front of everyone else, if he speaks out those words you imagined when you waited another day for his reply?

You want to escape, want to get as far away from here as possible. But your unforgiving crow drags you with it until you find yourself at the front doors of his estate.

“Get yourself together, dumbass! Go inside and talk to him! GO!”

With one last bite it finally leaves you alone, right at the opened front door.

There’s nothing you’d like more than vanishing from this earth, to get swallowed whole. Why on earth does it have to be him first? Why aren’t you allowed to train with Tengen, Giyu, basically everyone else? Your heart races so hard inside your ribcage that it takes your breath away, eyes staring into the dark estate.

Is he even home?

You allow yourself to take a few steps into the building, to look around. No cries, no voices? Maybe he isn’t even home. Are they training somewhere else, in the nearby woods, maybe?

“Fuck!”

His voice almost sends you over the edge, forces your eyes to dart around in sheer horror. That was Sanemi, without any doubt. But is he alone?

What if he’s not?

What if he’s with a girl?

You swallow hard, the ugliest thoughts taking over your head when you hear water splashing from a room nearby.

You can’t help it. As quiet as possible, you make your way towards the room the sounds originate from, ready to find literally everything. What if that’s the reason he didn’t write you back? What if he fell in love with another woman and simply forgot about you?

Your eyes peek through the ever so slightly opened door.

And your jaw drops to the floor in an instant.

There he stands, nothing but a towel covering his private parts while droplets of water run down his naked back. Sanemi just washed himself.

But oh…

You can feel your mouth watering just by looking at the scars that cover his back, how delicious the water than runs down his neck seems.  You’re only a few steps away from that force of a man, only a few steps in order to touch him. You always wondered what his skin feels like, if his outside is as rough as his inside. And what does he smell like straight out of the shower? Does he still smell like himself? And what about his abs-

All air drains from your compressed lungs as you suddenly find yourself pinned against the wall straight in Sanemi’s bathroom.

“Why the hell are you spying on me like some little freak?”, he hisses through gritted teeth.

“I…wasn’t spying”, you press out, his distressed orbs meeting yours.

Fuck, you’re screwed.

“Oh yeah? Why were you standing outside my bathroom then? I didn’t even know you were back!”

“Because you never fucking asked”, you finally bark back.

He draws even closer, lingers over you like an unpromising shadow with his naked upper body still dripping. No, you have to concentrate on the fact that you’re mad as hell right now, there’s no room for inspecting his upper body.

But his abs definitely look as good as they feel.

“You were out on a mission, how the hell was I supposed to ask? I thought you’d just let me know when you’re back”, he bites back.

“Oh, could have tried answering my damn messages, maybe? Did you ever think about that!?”

“Me answering your messages? You never replied to me!”

You furrow your eyebrows.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“What I’m talking about? I sent you countless messages and you never answered. I even asked Kagaya-sama if you died or something! I…I was so fucking worried…”

His heavy breath mixes with yours, caresses your oversensitive skin.

“But Sanemi…I did the same”, you finally mutter.

Sanemi’s chest rises and falls rapidly, a few water drops escaping the force of his skin. His oh so glowy skin. Of course you knew that this man would look good shirtless. But this? How are you supposed to stay focused when his skin turns pink ever so slightly, when his muscular chest moves like that?

“Can you stop staring at my abs and focus on me for one minute?”, he barks while flicking in front of your way too focused eyes.

You feel your cheeks heat up in an instant, glossy eyes staring at him like a caught deer. If there’s one thing that’s worse than checking Sanemi out, it’s definitely getting caught.

“Sorry, I have to go”, you mumble while pulling yourself away from him.

Only to find yourself wrapped in his naked arms even tighter.

“You’re not going anywhere. I just asked you something”, he warns you.

“Let go of me!”

“Did you…miss me?”

Your arms stop right in their tracks, widened eyes staring at his flustered face in sheer disbelief. There he stands, Sanemi Shinazugawa, straight out of the shower while asking you if you missed him?

“Yeah, always”, you reply out of instinct.

“Good. Because same.”

He doesn’t even give you the chance to second-guess your answer. In the split of a second, you get devoured by his muscular arms, your very own kimono soaking wet in an instant.

Are you dreaming?

“Wait, what?”, you breathe out.

“And you totally checked me out”, he adds proudly.

“I didn’t check you out-“

“Oh yeah?”

He lets go of you just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his delicious upper body again.

“Maybe a little bit…”

-Bonus-

You huff out in exhaustion. What the actual fuck were you thinking when you agreed on training with all hashira? Well, apparently not that you’d literally vomit all over yourself after getting hit without any mercy by all of them.

“That little fucker Shinazugawa”, you curse under your breath while stomping towards the wind hashira estate.

“I’ll kick your puny ass next time.”

Your feet drag you back to them with last strength. Rengoku, Tengen, Obanai, Shinazugawa, Tomioka…why on earth are all of them so damn strong? Super unfair.

“Have you seen how I beat the shit out of her?”, you hear Sanemi jeer from afar as well as the constant mumbling of the others.

“It wasn’t necessary to hit her this hard”, Giyu comments.

“Hell yes it was. Now that brat knows what she’s dealing with!”

All you see is red. Even though your body begs you to stop, you storm towards their voices.

“Listen up, you little shit-“

Your breath gets stuck in your throat, eyes darting around without a real aim.

There they stand. Shirtless. Every single one of them.

Oh.

“Don’t worry, it’s not your fault that you’re a loser-“

Just this once, you’re actually able to ignore Sanemi’s shitty words. That toned abs Rengoku has, Tengen’s veiny arms, Obanai’s athletic build, the scars that compliment Sanemi’s muscles so well-

Why is it suddenly so hot?

“Are you okay, (y/n)?”, Giyu questions while rubbing the back of his head with a towel.

How is it possible that he looks this good underneath that loose uniform? You always expected Giyu to be rather athletic that muscular given his fast movements. But that mountain of a biceps definitely doesn’t lie.

“I…”

Not a single logical thought is left in your blank mind, eyes roaming back and forth between them.

“I need to go.”

In the matter of seconds, you disappear inside the wind hashira estate without a trace.

“Is (y/n) alright? She looked rather pale”, Rengoku thinks out loud, still staring at where you last stood.

“She was definitely checking me out”, Tengen announces proudly.

“You? Bet she was looking at me”, Sanemi jeers at the tall man.

“How are they so hot?”, you mumble to yourself while inspecting them through the window.

Tags: @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix  @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @beatrexworld

@froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso  @poketrainer2270 @chaoticwinnercupcake

@lees-chaotic-brain @wordskeeper @polarbvnny @sugu-love @ryva @baku2345

@komelrebi-san @kentocalls @barbuse @sunshine7queen @lavenderdrxp

@yaninnaacu @hopefulbelievertimemachine @laurencrsnt

[midday-clouds]

Yandere Batfamily x Neglected & "Immortal" Reader 》 II

Part I Part III Part IV Part V

Thank you so much for the love for the first one! 💞 There are so many ways I can imagine how this story can go and it's hard to pick one or try merging all the ideas. Nonetheless, I hope this meets your expectations!

CW: Stalking, Breaking and entering, Violence(Being stabbed, beating up a thief), Blood, (Menstion of past) Kidnapping

You had officially moved into your apartment in Bludhaven

Everything has moved so quickly and now you can finally relax

You gave up connecting with your family, got kidnapped, died, came back to life and moved out

It may be a bit much to pick the farthest college from the manor but you’re clearly unwanted there

Your family has neglected you and didn't do anything when you were kidnapped, so you have every right to be as far away from them as possible

It was honestly quite lucky that you were already accepted into a college in Bludhaven during your senior year. If you had applied after your kidnapping, the chances of you getting in would have been low.

But you’re here now and can finally feel happy. Well, if you don't count some of the nightmares you get from when you “died”.

Sometimes you do wonder how you survived that gunshot. Were you not hit somewhere vital? But then, where was the hole?

A part of you was curious and wanted to replicate the injury but that would be painful. You surviving the gunshot also could have been a one-time thing

You never ended up going to the police or the hospital because what were they going to do? You don’t have any proof that it even happened because your injury is gone, the blood left at the abandoned building is likely dried up and doesn’t look fresh, and Bruce probably threw away the ransom letter. 

The only proof you have that it even happened is your memories and you telling your friends. But the police or doctors would just look at you and say “You look fine now, no need to look into the situation anymore.” 

But enough about that though, you’ve got a few more hours before it gets dark and you want to get to know about the area.

It is still the middle of summer so your college classes haven't started yet. You could have waited until class started to move but you wanted to be out before Alfred returned from his vacation.

Alfred was the closest thing to family in the manor. But he and Bruce have never felt like safe adults to share your problems with. 

He should be back from his vacation now, has he found out about your kidnapping or did Bruce cover it up? He probably did to avoid getting news out. You should probably look into how you can change your surname.

Just as you finish your thoughts about the manor, you use your laptop to find interesting places in the area before heading out the door with directions in a notebook

Bruce and the rest of the family may know where you are currently, but bringing you back home was the hard part. Alfred had to convince Bruce that if he wanted you back, he shouldn’t just barge in all of a sudden. 

You’ve been hurt by the family's actions and won't return without a fight. 

But even then, Bruce has to see you. The entire family needs to see you with their own eyes at least once.

With this in mind, the whole family decides to take a small road trip to Bludhaven. They’d find you and figure out the best way to approach you without scaring you off. 

It was almost sundown when the family got to Bludhaven. They change into their vigilante gear so it’d be easier to hide in the shadows

Tim loads up the tracker on your phone and leads the way. It seems the tracker you have isn't the best because once the family gets close to your apartment, your phone just says your laptop is nearby instead of its exact location. 

No problem though, Tim can easily hack into the computer system for the apartment and find which room is yours.

Once your room is found, the family takes a peek inside. You’re nowhere to be found, which is a little worrying.

The locks on your windows are broken as the family opens them and sneaks inside. Your living room and kitchen are littered with boxes but that’s it. They each take a look around to find you but come out empty-handed. If you were here, they may do exactly what Alfred discouraged and just take you home. However, because you aren’t home, the only other place you could be is outside. Where it’s dark out and you’re alone.

Worried for your safety, the family immediately goes on another search for your

Because you could be anywhere, the family decides to split up to find you

You look around as you walk back to your apartment, a few small bags of food and snacks in your hands. Because it’s getting dark, you do begin to pick up the pace. You’re so focused on not getting home that you don’t notice when a person peeks over at you from a rooftop.

You’re just about to pass a convenience store when someone runs out and knocks into you. The person curses as they quickly get up and reach for their bag of stolen goods. Filled with adrenaline, the thief takes out a knife and stabs you. They were aiming to kill you so there weren’t any witnesses but ended up putting the knife in your shoulder. As the thief makes a run for it, a certain vigilante quickly blocks their path

Nightwing goes full force on the thief. How dare they hurt his baby bird. He refuses to make the same mistake of leaving you alone and hurt.

Your heart is racing as you attempt to pull the knife out of your shoulder. Your eyelids feel weak but you refuse to fall asleep. Unlike before, you aren’t restrained and can still escape.

You pull the knife out and let it fall on the ground next to you. After a few breaths, you do your best to stand up. You take a small glance at Nightwing before quickly running back to your apartment. 

Once inside, you almost collapse on the floor but try to get your first aid kit.

Your bandaging may not be that good but the best but it’s enough for you to feel comfortable sleeping for the night

Nightwing got a few swings in before he heard the sound of something falling onto the ground

He looks up to see that you've pulled the knife out of you and about to stand up

Before Nightwing could help you, his opponent throws a punch while he was distracted.

The vigilante shifts his attention to the thief when you suddenly make an escape. Night wing attempts to call out to you but it appears you didn't notice.

He sighs as he handcuffs the thief. This guy was such a hassle that Nightwing almost forgot why he was in such a hurry to wrap up the whole situation

The vigilante turns to where you were but only finds a bloodied knife and the bags you left behind. He carefully picks up the bags and knife while he considers where you have gone.

Spotting a trail of blood, Nightwing quickly follows it, contacting the rest of the family as well

The family gathers at the same spot near your apartment and finds you sleeping in your bed. Wanting to help you, Nightwing comes up with an idea

You lay on your bed, waiting for sleep to consume you when a knock comes from your door. You try to ignore it but the knocking continues. The only thing that gets you up is the realization that the knocking is too loud to be from your door. Opening your eyes, you realize that someone is at your window. 

Getting up, you pick up your pepper spray as you slowly walk towards the window. You have your curtains closed so you try to peek past them to see who is there

Who you see is Nightwing and it gets you worried. Does he think you were involved with that other person? He must have seen that the thief stabbed you at least

Not wanting to make the vigilant wait, you open your window slightly. Only enough so you can hear what Nightwing has to say

Nightwing happily greets you and shows you the bag of items that you left behind when leaving the scene.

Surprised, you thank Nightwing and open the window. Making sure to not open the window more than necessary, just enough to collect the bags

Just as you reach for it, the vigilante points out your bandaged shoulder. He goes on to say the importance of properly handling injuries and offers to rebandage your arm.

It takes you a couple of moments before you agree to his help.

Like a big brother, he sits you down and redoes the bandages. Honestly, it makes you wish your actual big brothers would care for you in this way. Even though one of them is right in front of you

Once your shoulder has properly been bandaged, you thank Nightwing for his help. He offers to stay the night but you tell him that you’d be fine. Plus, doesn’t he still have to take care of Bludhaven

You make sure to close and lock your window once Nightwing leaves before going back to bed.  As sleep consumes you, your whole family watches from a distance. You didn’t seem to recognize Dick as Nightwing so it may be possible to get you to trust them before taking you home

[mattybsgroupie]

— MOVIES

— established relationship; handjob (m receiving); boob sucking/nipple play (f receiving); semi-public; sub!matt

— NOTES: hello my darlings!!! SUB MATT IS BACK!!! nothing much to tell about this one, it's super short and super simple, just jerking him off at the movies lmao. not proofread but hope you enjoy anyways! thank you for almost 1,7K i dont deserve all of this love, yall are just fantastic.

when matt and i first started dating, the movie theater was our favorite place. it was dark, comfortable, and no one would disturb us. as we grew into our relationship, date nights were no longer a priority, but we both knew how much we missed it. the innocence, the butterflies in my stomach, the nervousness about holding his hand, the giggly kisses and the awkward confessions.

“are we really doing this again?” matt asked me with the biggest smile on his face, adjusting his sweater. i nodded, glad that i was able to convince him to go out.

“we want… whatever’s next” he said to the cashier as he interlocked his fingers with mine, raising his free hand to his pockets, looking for his wallet. “yeah, this one” he nodded and grabbed the tickets, leading us to our assigned seats.

i didn’t know how long it had been since the movie started. i would often lose myself on matt’s blue eyes, his skin reflecting the red colors of the big screen, his poorly done beard emphasizing his sharp features. i couldn’t resist placing a few kisses on his jaw, receiving chuckles and a squeeze on my hand, almost as if he was warning me to behave because he was actually interested in whatever we were watching. 

until the scenery changed. the lights turned warmer, the music slower and suddenly it was hard to breathe. i felt my chest raising on its own as the sensual atmosphere took over the room, matt’s grip on my hands tightening, silently asking me to take my eyes off of him and pay attention to the erotic scene in front of me. 

we didn’t expect such an explicit act. the actress had removed her bra, flashing her bare breasts to the few people at the movie theater. matt’s mouth fell open in surprise and i audibly gasped, quickly raising my palm to cover my sudden noise.

both of us turned our heads to each other, widening our eyes as we tried to hold back our laughs. “i promise i’m not looking” matt joked, pretending to block his view.

“you can look” i giggled, adjusting myself on the chair and getting closer to matt, letting my hand rest on his thigh. “i know how much you like boobs”

“well” he stopped for a second. “you’re right, but i’d rather look at yours” matt checked me out from head to toe, a grin appearing on his face as if i was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

i decided to be bold. my free hand moved to the hem of my sweater, pulling the cloth upwards and revealing just a bit of skin - enough to get him excited. i mentally thanked him for always choosing the back row, giving us privacy to our heated makeout sessions back then.

“please?” matt whispered, his digits reaching for my exposed tummy. “wanna see your boobs, please”. 

it was definitely risky, but i couldn’t resist his pleading blue eyes, the way his top teeth bit his bottom lip, how his fingers caressed my belly. what seemed like nothing to others was already too much for us, along with the adrenaline of doing the same silly things we did years ago as teenagers in love. i had blew him at that same seat several times, but it was different now. as if we weren’t supposed to be acting that way. and it felt too fucking good to ignore.

i finally gave in, pulling my sweater and revealing my breasts. i wasn’t wearing a bra, making this way easier for matt, who immediately shoved his face in between them, muffling a “thank you” i was only able to hear because it was a habit. he would always thank me for anything i gave, even my boobs. 

his beard tickled my skin as he moved downwards, resting his cheek just above my left tit. he wasn’t going to speak, too busy sticking his tongue out to tease my nipple before latching his lips around it. matt sucked so hard i left out a sigh, bringing my fingers to his hair, caressing his brown locks as i whispered how much of a good boy he was, which certainly didn’t help his impatient self. matt squirmed around on his chair, trying to get comfortable and ignore the growing tent inside his pants.

“need help, baby?” i asked, brushing my digits over his boner. matt nodded desperately, not letting go of boobs until i wrapped my knuckles around his covered length, making him gasp from the sudden contact. “what’s got you like that, hm? was it the movie or me?”

“you” he said, hiding his face on the crook of my neck. “always you”.

“such a good boy for me” i praised, receiving a muffled whine in response.  “nuh uh, keep it down. you don’t want them to hear us, do you?” matt denied with his head, jointing his hips forward, silently asking for me to actually jerk him off. i knew it had hit him too. the nostalgia, the excitement, the risk of doing something we shouldn’t. 

matt dragged his lips across my chest as i finally got a grip of his cock, placing my hand inside his pants and slowly pumping his shaft. he placed his tongue on my nipple once again, sucking it at the same pace i would stroke him. with long minutes of a lazy and steady handjob, matt was far gone — he couldn’t care less about the movie, frantically chasing for his orgasm.

i could feel his chest panting as i heard the heavy sighs coming from the back of his throat. matt was trying so hard to stay quiet and yet, he failed, letting out a cracked moan when i brought my thumb to his leaking tip, rubbing his slit as i tightened the grip on his throbbing cock.

“cum” he whispered to me, not opening his eyes. i pretended i didn’t hear it, my eyes glued to the big screen in front of me. “please, wan’ cum” matt spoke again, replacing the lips on my boobs with his hands, massaging my flesh.

he wasn’t getting what he wanted — my attention and permission. “princess, please” he pleaded, now covering my neck in kisses as he mimicked on my nipples the same movements i did on his slit. i savored the moment for a bit, hanging my mouth open as his kisses turned into love bites.

“hold it” i said, loosening my fist. matt whined at the loss of contact, throwing his head back in frustration. “you look so pathetic, baby” i cooed, running my fingers through his hair before cupping his cheeks. he looked so, so fucked out. “such a needy boy, aren’t you?”

“no” he pouted, blue eyes covered in desperation. “i’m good, i promise i’m your good boy!” matt said, moving his hips upwards, trying to get some relief to his aching cock.

“you’re gonna have to wait until a really loud scene comes up” i told him. “we don’t want anyone to hear this good boy cumming all over himself hm?” i asked with faux sympathy, feeling his length twitching against my hand. he wasn’t gonna be able to hold much longer.

“boobs” matt practically begged. “i will keep my mouth on them and i won’t make any noises” he said, more to himself than to me.

“yeah? you wanna cum sucking my boobs?” i teased matt, who vigorously nodded while adjusting himself one last time. he spread his legs open, waiting for my cue. “go ahead” i encouraged him and he immediately latched his lips around my nipple again, muffling his needy sounds as i jerked him off, my fingers pumping his swollen length rapidly enough for matt to cum seconds later.

matt’s whines turned to whimpers as he reached his high, releasing the sticky spurt over my hand. i couldn’t see it, but i knew the inside of his pants looked like a mess. he panted heavily as he slowly came back from his orgasm, thighs still trembling after holding it for so long.

i kissed the top of his head as i finally removed my palm from him, raising it near my mouth and licking his cum. “don’t do this to me” he said as he watched me, pulling my sweater down. “i’m gonna get hard again”

“good thing we have the whole movie left” i smirked before sealing our lips together in a passionate, hungry kiss. 

after all these years, we were still the same kids who started dating at the back row of the movie theater.

[l-starsz]

please more sex with getting caught its so hot maybe billie pounding reader from behind and they get caught

a/n: i stayed up extra late to finish writing this so i really hope its good🥲 i’m so tired that my eyes are slowly closing rn, it’s almost 5am, if there are any mistakes please please ignore them because i’m not awake enough to notice🙏 this request was so good though oh my goshhh

billie and i had been preparing for the last hour to go see her family. it always took me a while to get ready, hence why we were getting ready over an hour in advance. when it was almost time to leave, billie walked in the room. she was wearing a baggy shirt, along with baggy jeans, and she looked perfect. i groaned and reached out towards her, wrapping my arms around her waist and pulling her against me.

"you look so beautiful, baby." i whispered.

i saw her smile as she pressed a kiss on top of my head, before speaking, "you look even more beautiful, my love. my pretty baby."

finneas and claudia were going to be there, along with some close family friends. i was really looking forward to catching up with everyone, and getting to spend time with them. i looked up at billie and smiled, until she spoke again.

"we have to leave in a minute, okay? otherwise we'll be late."

i nodded and let go of her waist, quickly finishing what i was doing before getting up to put my shoes on. it wasn't too long before we left the house. the drive wasn't too long since they lived pretty close, but the entire way there, billies hand stayed firm against my thigh. we had quiet music playing, but after around fifteen minutes, we were there.

as soon as she'd parked up, we walked straight inside and i immediately greeted everyone with quick hugs. whilst some of the people there were helping with dinner, me and billie were sat next to eachother on the sofa catching up with everyone. we had offered to help but maggie convinced us to sit down. it’d been a while since we’d seen them. the tv was playing quietly, but nobody was really paying attention to it, more interested in their own conversations.

it wasn’t too long before dinner was ready, and everyone sat around the table, many different conversations surrounding me as i joined in with a few of them every so often. the night went by super quick, and once everyone had left except for us, still talking to her parents, we realised how late it was. i stretched before nudging billie.

“we should probably head home, it’s getting kind of late.” i mumbled.

“shittt,” she groaned as she checked the time, “ugh I don’t wanna drive, i’m tired.” she rolled her eyes and shuffled closer to me, resting her head on my shoulder.

her parents must’ve overheard the conversation between us, because maggie suggested something that wasn’t a bad idea at all.

“why don’t you both just stay here for the night? it’s no bother for us, we love when you guys stay over.”

i glanced at billie at the same time she’d looked over at me. i gave her a questioning look as she nodded at me.

“that’d be great, thank you both so much! are you sure?” i just wanted to confirm, although they said it was fine, i wanted to be sure.

maggie and patrick both nodded, as me and billie thanked them. after the movie that’d been playing on tv came to an end, we went to billies old room, changing into clothes that were still in her wardrobe. what i didn’t expect to see was billie turning around to face me, with the strap attached around her hips.

“what the fuck is that doing around your waist baby?” i giggled as a smile came to her face.

“well uh- funny story.. i wanted to use it on you when we got home, so i decided it would be easier to have it on so that it was ready, but that can’t happen now.” she laughed, looking down at the ground as her cheeks turned pink.

i shook my head, still laughing as i reached over to help her take it off, whilst her hands made their way to my waist.

when we finally got into bed, we spent a bit of time talking to eachother obviously, and went on our phones. i was practically falling asleep when billie decided it was time to get up and properly get ready for bed. we did a little bit of skincare since we didn’t have our usual stuff with us, and we plaited eachothers hair so that it was out of the way while we slept, then brushed our teeth. when we finally got back in bed, we were both asleep almost immediately.

i woke up pretty early, in billies arms, my head resting on her chest whilst one of her arms was wrapped gently around me. her free hand was holding her phone, scrolling through different apps while she waited for me to wake up. i mumbled a good morning to her to catch her attention, as i buried my face into the crook of her neck.

“good morning angel, did you sleep good?” her fingers traced little patterns on my back underneath the oversized shirt i was wearing.

i nodded against her and held her tighter, before replying quietly.

“did you sleep okay?”

“i did, thank you, love. missed you though when i was waiting for you to wake up.” she almost whispered the last part.

“oh really? and what were you thinking about when i was still sleeping, hm?” i smirked, knowing exactly what she was hinting at.

“oh you knowww.. i was just thinking about the strap that you took off me last night, i mean its just laying on the floor doing nothing, just wondering if maybe we could put it to use?” she smiled, looking into my eyes as she spoke.

“right now? here? can’t you wait until we’re home bil?” i whispered, lifting my head from her neck and looking up at her.

“we can be quick baby. pleaseee, i’ve been desperate since yesterday when i put it on. you just need to be quiet for me.”

as much as i was worried about getting caught, we both knew that i needed it too. i was just as desperate as her, if not more. i thought about it for a few seconds, wondering if it was really a good idea, but i couldn’t fight the feeling. we both would’ve been unbearably horny if we didn’t do anything about in right in that moment, and that would’ve ended bad. i knew that if we waited, billie would’ve been teasing me all day until we were home, leaving me more needy.

“okay bil. but if i get too loud you need to tell me to shut up, i don’t want your parents hearing us. that’d be so awkward.” i giggled, rolling off her body and letting her get up to grab the strap, which had been discarded on the floor.

“okay, angel.” she laughed.

when she’d grabbed the strap, and walked back over to the bed, her lips almost immediately found mine. as we were making out, she slowly sat on the bed next to me, one of her hands on my cheek, whilst the other one made its way down my body, and tugged at the waistband of my shorts. her fingers snuck underneath, grazing the top of my underwear before moving back up to my stomach. i arched my back closer to her, trying to convince her to move her fingers lower again so that she could feel how wet she’d made me in such a short amount of time. it was no use though, her hand only moved higher up, moving under my shirt and reaching my boobs. she grasped at them for a few short minutes, before we were pulling away from eachother for air, and that was when it fully started.

when she looked into my eyes, her hands reached for the bottom of my shirt, pulling it up so that my boobs were on display for her. my nipples hardened as the cool air hit them, which just enticed her more. her lips wrapped around one of my nipples, sucking and slightly biting as her fingers found the other one. this continued for a minute or so before she switched sides, making sure both of my tits got equal attention.

it wasn't long before her fingers were pulling the waistband of my shorts again whilst she marked my chest. she pulled away from me to pull my shorts and underwear off in one swift motion, leaving me almost completely naked for her, the only thing left on my body was my shirt (her shirt) but that was pulled up. i was completely exposed. my cheeks heated up as i realised she could literally see all of me.

i whined and reached out for her, trying to pull at the clothes she was wearing.

“you want me to take these off, baby?”

i nodded at her, a desperate whine falling from my lips as she smirked at how needy i was becoming, all for her. she stood up momentarily, pulling her clothes off and dropping them on the floor with my shorts, forming a small pile of discarded clothes. as she sat back down on the bed, she started trailing her kisses down my body, starting at my lips, working her way down until she reached my clit. she placed a small gentle kiss against it before two of her fingers ran through my soaked folds. she moved my wetness around, spreading it everywhere until it coated my entire pussy, and my inner thighs.

when she was finally satisfied, her fingers pushed into her mouth, sucking my arousal off them, before reaching over for the strap. she took her time making sure it was attached properly, but i knew she was just trying to make me wait as long as possible. she knew the longer she teased, the wetter i’d be. while i was waiting for her, i squeezed my thighs together at the sight of her, trying to create a little bit of friction between them. as soon as she noticed this, she hurried up, rushing back over to spread my legs open as wide as possible, taking in the sight.

she carefully ran the tip through my folds, all of a sudden wasting no time. it wasn’t long at all before the strap was breaking through my walls, resulting in a loud, long moan coming from my mouth.

“sh shh, pretty girl. quiet for me, remember? don’t want anybody hearing.”

i covered my mouth with my hand, feeling billie speed up her thrusts inside me as i tightened around her. it was so obvious that i’d been so needy for her, even though i hadn’t said anything, because i was close already, and it had only been around ten minutes. her hands found my waist as she fucked me harder and harder, but right as i was ready to cum, billie must’ve realised because she very quickly pulled out. i let a whine slip past my lips, before realising it was a little too loud and slapped my hand over my mouth once again.

however, i didn’t even have time to complain because she was quick to flip me over onto my stomach, my breasts pressing against the soft, cool sheets. she grabbed my hips and yanked me up so that my back was arched for her, my pussy perfectly on display for her to see. i heard her groan as my wetness dripped down onto the bed, running her fingers through it once again before slamming the strap back into me all in one thrust. i practically sobbed out, but luckily it was muffled by the pillows and blankets beneath me. my hands grasped at them, and held them tight as she immediately settled on a fast pace, not even giving me time to adjust. all i could hear was my moans, and the wet noise of my pussy, echoing through my mind, not being able to focus on anything else at all. i couldn’t even think straight, too focused on cumming, so it wasn’t a shock when i let out a loud whine when billie abruptly stopped her movements.

i had no idea why she’d stopped. and maybe it should’ve stayed that way.

“why’d you stop againnnn?” i whimpered, moving my hips slightly to encourage her to move again since she was still inside me, but it was almost as if she was frozen.

“uh.. don’t worry about it, angel. let me finish you off first, yeah? is that what you want? then i can tell you after, how does that sound, hm?”

“is it something bad?” i mumbled, my eyebrows furrowing in confusion and worry as i felt her hand lightly glide along my back.

“of course not, baby. you don’t need to worry your pretty mind about it just yet, just let yourself cum first, alright?”

i nodded in response, the needy part of my brain taking over the worry, i was so close that i knew it’d only take five more minutes at most before i was cumming for her, then she could tell me. and i wasn’t wrong. three minutes later i was cumming over her strap with a loud moan into the sheets, drooling all over as i was back in that desperate state of mind.

“good girl. my good girl. so perfect for me.” i heard her speak in a soft tone as she pulled the strap out of me, helping me lay on my back while a small whine came from me. she walked out of the room quickly to get a damp washcloth, returning to the room as quick as she could. as she cleaned me up, my thoughts filled with what had previously happened. why had she stopped out of nowhere? worry clouded my thoughts as i was thinking so much clearer than i had been before.

when she clambered into bed beside me and gently pulled me into her arms with my head resting on her chest and fluffy blankets covering our naked bodies, i looked up with her with big eyes, as she was already looking down at me with a look of pure love and adoration.

“bil?” i whispered, carefully brushing some hair back from her face.

“everything okay, love?” she answered in the most caring tone.

“i was just wondering what happened when you stopped.. did i do something? was it me?” my voice was just above a whisper.

i noticed her laugh slightly and shake her head, “it wasn’t you, angel. you’re probably gonna kill me for not telling you when it happened but uhm.. my mom opened the door and saw everything.. you were just too fucked out though, huh? didn’t even hear her walk in then slam the door?”

my eyes widened and my jaw was practically on the floor as she giggled at my reaction.

“why didn’t you tell me before?!” i groaned and slapped her arm as she continued to laugh.

“i’m sorry! i’m sorry! it’s just that i knew how bad we both wanted it and i wanted to make sure you got to finish before you found out. i could tell how close you were.” she smiled as my face turned red out of embarrassment.

“why did she walk in?” i mumbled, “was i being too loud?”

“oh, no baby. in fact you did a really good job at staying quiet for me, she just walked in to ask if we wanted any breakfast, but she soon walked out again..”

i groaned once again, hiding my red face in her neck as she gently scratched my scalp. i’d never felt so embarrassed in my life. and knowing that we had to  go out there at some point made it even worse. i had to face maggie after she’d just walked in the room to see me with my ass in the air whilst billie fucked me. i wished i could just teleport home so i didn’t have to face her, or maybe rewind time and make it so that she never saw anything. that’d be even better.. but obviously, none of that was going to happen, and we would have to get up at some point to get breakfast, and go through the awkward encounter i was absolutely dreading.

[xazse]

please can i request hybrid kitten reader being taken in by snow leopard Satoru and panther Suguru. could be something like they both assimilated into regular society while living together and they found reader fending for themselves on the street after being abandoned and kicked out by their owner for misbehaving and being mischievous (she's just playful and needs company it was the owner's fault for leaving her alone at home all the time). could you include brat taming and a threesome between them?

its my first time requesting i love your hybrid works sm 🫶🏻 it scratches an itch i didnt know i had and i even read the ones im not into

Warnings: Hybrids + BratTaming + threesome + smut + manhandling + pussy-spanking + crying + orgasm denial + cumming inside + mentions of pregnancy + SatoSugu are a bit mean in this one. + hybrids

Pairings: CatHybrid!Reader x SnowLeopard!Satoru x PantherHybrid!Suguru

Notes: I hope you enjoy! I apologize for this taking so long! I had fun writing this 😈 I’m so happy to be your first request I really do hope you see this! Please give me a message or something if you do!!

You didn’t expect to be picked up one day, showered, clothed and fed till it looked like your stomach could pop out but it had happened. You went from trudging down the street in dirty garments garnering dirty looks from humans who didn’t understand your predicament, you hated the way they looked at you like you were gum on their shoe. A disgusting spec on the world.

It wasn’t until you met Suguru who found you digging through a trash can in some random alleyway, it was like an angel extending its hand, A very beautiful one, one who probably knew the hardships you had suffered though.

He had listened to your story in that alleyway, spared you his ear and eyes with not a hint of malice or some ulterior motive.

He also shared his story of being a “predator” in this unfair unbalanced world, Suguru held himself in such a way that you couldn’t believe people had even thought he was anything but the kindest man to grace this earth.

Satoru you learn, has his ups and downs but besides he also treated with the utmost respect and care, taking care of you in his own funny ways. Satoru being a Leopard made things easier for you they’re usually upbeat in some way so it wasn’t hard for you to get comfortable in their warm home.

You adjusted very well to the both of them, adapted to their lives and sunk into their company. They think it worked a little too well.

Suguru had asked you to do something very simple, something small, he never really asks you to do much around the house so he doesn’t think anything of it, what he doesn’t expect is you huffing under your breath and waving him off, simply telling him to “get Satoru to do it.” He’s stunned where he stands in the kitchen.

The next issue arises when you’re playing with Satoru, something you do on the regular because you know how much he loves the chase. When he pins you down you take the opportunity to bite him, you’ve already had Suguru and Satoru talk to you about your biting habits, so you know you’re not meant to do that, Satoru is the one left staring at the glaring mark on his arm and when he tries to scold you, you’re already walking into your shared bedroom and plopping on that game. Not even bothering with an apology.

You destroy expensive vases, plates all in the name of fun, scolding you and telling you to stop doesn’t work anymore. It just seems to make your behavior even more annoying.

Suguru is the more calmer one between him and Satoru, he had let the biting incident go rather easily, but Suguru hadn’t, he thinks he’s the calm and level headed one but apparently not. He comes home from a stressful exhausting day he wants to do nothing more than cuddle up with you and Satoru in bed.

When hes a few steps into the apartment, he’s greeted by his couches, his expensive personally manufactured couches scratched up, not light scratches either those were made there with a bad intent, and he sees you laying on that same couch, facing the ceiling, sleeping without a care in the world, he’s fucking livid.

He drops his office gear and beelines straight for the couch, straight for you, he yanks you off of his couch and a sleepy you is extremely confused.

He doesn’t spare you any words, all you see is his broad back dragging you to your shared bedroom, he throws you down in the middle of the bed with a thud and now do you get to see his angry expression, there’s not an ounce of forgiveness in there, it burns red. You know what you’ve done and yet all you want to do is push him further.

You tiptoe over that already small line and innocently ask him what’s got him so worked up.

Satoru unlocks the door and is greeted by noises, noises he can’t quite makeout yet but stepping his clothed foot further into the home he senses it’s you, he makes his way to the bedroom and slowly opens the door.

It’s like it’s straight from a porno, you’re spread out on the bed in all your glory: naked and covered in a light sheen of sweat. Suguru is sat leaned against the headboard as he abuses your poor cunt with a dildo, you’re holding onto his thick arm begging him to slow down just a little, your eyes are filled to the brim with tears and tears that are already dried up on your face.

“s’too much guru… ple-“ you can’t even finish your plead for release because Suguru is slamming the dildo right against your spot directly. Satoru can see bite marks decorating Suguru’s arms, you’ve been uselessly doing that to no avail. Still acting so bratty even during your punishment.

You see Satoru and try to call out for him in the sweetest voice you can muster, you know the leopard has a soft spot for you but in this moment it goes in one ear and out the other. Suguru spanks your swollen clit and scolds you for even thinking Satoru could help you.

Suguru doesn’t notice but Satoru sees the way your cute hole clenches, oh?

You’ve clearly been waiting for one of them to break and Suguru was the first to fold.

Satoru can no longer stare, he’s been grabbing and pawing with his cock ever since he’d seen the way your pussy swallows the dildo with not much fight. The way your wet cunt is practically soaking and dripping onto the bed.

He makes his way towards the bed, discarding his clothes on the way till he’s only in his boxers, his ears stand at full attention, listening to every squelch and nasty noise you and your pussy make.

He knows in the end you probably want cock but looking at an ever so serious Suguru he knows that’s not what you will be getting tonight, so Satoru latches onto your nipples, swirling the buds in his mouth, popping off of them just to slurp them right back into his mouth.

He swirls his long fingers around your clit, furthering your torture.

It’s not until about three hours later, you cockdrunk on the two cocks that sit nicely in your pussy, it wasn’t easy but you’d find it, you’d expected to be praised for such an achievement but nothing from either man had come out, their poor kitty left mewling in pleasure but no release just yet.

You beg to just cum once, just once but they ignore you, they chase their orgasms multiple times that night, filling your already full cunt with more of them, potentially even their little babies, that should settle you down for a while.

[mononijikayu]

killing me softly (with his song, telling my whole life with his words) — nanami kento and gojo satoru.

“You think this is relief, don’t you?” you murmured, watching the way his breath hitched at your words. “You think I’m staying because I still have hope for us.” He lifted his head slightly, blinking at you with bloodshot eyes, as if he didn’t want to admit it but couldn’t deny it either. “I….I do.” You took another drag of your cigarette, the tip glowing in the dim light of the kitchen. “But that’s not it, Kento. That’s not it at all.” “Then why?” His voice was desperate, strained, like he was afraid to hear the answer. You exhaled slowly, watching the smoke disappear into the air. “Because I don’t know how to leave. Not anymore……Isn’t that a tragedy?”

GENRE: alternate universe - actor/s au!;

WARNING/S: afab! reader, use of she/her pronouns, romance, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, hurt, love, fluff, humor, light-hearted, long-term relationship, marriage, loss, emotional distress, hatred, resentment, domestic, confessions, slice of life, distress, cheating, falling out of love, toxic relationship, drama, depression, bitterness, grief, trauma, illness, post-partum depression trauma, children, mention of blood, mention of birthing, mentions of pregnancy, mention of miscarriage, mention of bodily fluids, mention of depression, actor! nanami, actor! gojo, housewife! reader;

WORD COUNT: 15k words

NOTE: i know there's going to be other parts of nanami's part of this series, but the next chapter is going to introduce gojo satoru, since he's going to be part of this story and he has his own stuff going in, its best to go and understand his side of the story!!! i also wrote this while i was going through the heights of a friendship break up and a lot of depression. but anyway enjoy this one, i love you all <3

masterlist

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the good life ― masterlist.

YOU WERE EXPECTING IT, BUT YOU THOUGHT IT WOULDN’T HAPPEN YET. You were foolish to think that the paparazzi care about your feelings or your privacy. It happened on a Sunday. You hadn’t expected anything out of the ordinary for today, as after all, this was just downtime. And you weren’t that famous for people to flock to you like birds. 

It was just a simple brunch with your kids, something you tried to do every other weekend now that your daughter Keiko was twenty-three and in university, and your son Kenshin was eighteen and practically living his own life. You had missed them, most days. The house was quieter these days to be sure, and you tried to hold onto these moments, no matter how brief.

But you realized it was better for them not to be around the house.

Especially with what has been happening lately, you didn’t want them to see.

It’s quite a blessing that your children were happy to stay off the grid in their day to day.

The three of you were seated in a cozy corner of a well-known café. It was one you had been coming to for years, where the baristas knew your usual orders and the scent of freshly brewed coffee always felt like a warm embrace. And it’s one you’ve come and met your children in for years now, at every little afternoon get together after school and sometimes your little bonding sessions during the weekends. 

No one recognized you here, you were sure. If anything, it was because these parts of the city were not ones which many tourists come by. So you and your children were quite comfortable. You didn’t have to deal with the repercussions of being someone’s famous relative. 

The dim lighting cast a soft glow over the wooden tables, and the gentle hum of conversations and clinking cups created a soothing background noise. Today was a rather slow day for the cafe, one which of course made it easier to enjoy the skies above and the conversations being heard.

Keiko leaned forward, her fingers wrapped around a steaming mug, bright caramel eyes alight with both excitement and exhaustion. “I swear, if I have to memorize one more obscure medical term, my brain is going to quit on me.” 

She let out a dramatic sigh before taking a sip of her coffee, before looking at you. “I don’t know why you allowed me to go into medicine, mom.”

“You always say that before exams, and yet you still ace them, darling.” you pointed out with a small smirk. “Don’t worry too much. You’ll be fine!”

Keiko groaned. “That’s because I have no choice! Do you know how terrifying my professor is? He once failed half the class just because we didn’t label a diagram properly.”

Kenshin, sitting across from you with his arms lazily draped over the back of his chair, scoffed. “Oh, please. That’s nothing compared to the nonsense I have to deal with on campus. Just today, there was a full-blown argument in the student lounge over whose turn it was to clean the microwave. People were picking sides like it was a war.” 

“You’re not serious, are you?” Keiko raises a brow.

“I’m not.” He rolled his eyes and took a sip of his iced coffee. “Honestly, some people have way too much free time.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Sounds like college politics at its finest.”

Kenshin smirked. “You have no idea. Someone even made a PowerPoint presentation about it.”

Keiko nearly choked on her drink. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.”

As they continued bickering, you could only stare at your children warmly. They were just the same as when they were children. Keiko berating Kenshin for not stepping up as a responsible adult and Kenshin arguing that getting involved in petty campus feuds was beneath him. 

You let out a small soundless chuckle as you leaned back in your chair, letting the warmth of the café and their familiar voices wash over you. For the first time in a long time, you felt something resembling peace.

And then you heard it.

The click of a camera. 

The murmur of a voice. 

And when you glanced over your shoulder — there they were. 

You knew who they were, their faces, those paparazzi.

You froze, your heart plummeting into your stomach. They hadn’t approached yet. Still, you could see them as they linger by the wide entrance, but you could already feel it coming. The tension, the invasion, the violation of privacy. You turned back to your kids, forcing a smile.

“It’s fine, don’t worry.” you muttered. “Let’s just finish our food.”

But it wasn’t fine. Because not two minutes later, one of them got bold enough to approach your table. A man, mid-thirties, camera slung around his neck, his phone already recording. And the second he opened his mouth, you knew.

“Excuse me, ma’am—”

You could see Kenshin’s jaw tensed. 

Keiko’s entire jubilation just harshly fell.

You swallowed the bile down your throat.

“—Any comments about your husband, veteran actor Kento Nanami’s alleged affair? How do you feel about the reports claiming he’s been seeing another woman?”

Your heart stopped at the sudden question. You felt as though you could not move, your mouth open and shaking. And before you could even process what was happening, another reporter swooped in around you. Only this time a woman, shoving her phone practically in your face, making you uncomfortable and disturbed.

“Is it true you’ve known about his infidelity for years?” she pressed. “Is that why you’ve been absent from events lately? Have you separated from him, mam?”

Your daughter’s hand shot out. “Back off, already!” she snapped, her voice shaking. “She’s with her kids, leave her alone.”

But they didn’t care about all that.

“Ma’am, are you considering divorce?”

“Do your kids know about their father’s alleged mistress?”

“Is it true he cheated on you after you had your second child?”

Your breath was strangled in your throat. Your ears were ringing. It felt like the ground was collapsing beneath your feet. And the worst part was that your kids were right there, helplessly fending off all these people. 

Kenshin was still so young but he was already dealing with the weight of being Kento Nanami’s son ever since he was announced to the world. And now, he was dealing with worse than that as he was staring hard at the table,.

His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were turning white. Keiko, who was barely an adult herself, looked seconds away from either crying or throwing her drink in one of their faces.

And you, well you always did what you did.

You faced your children well and fully smiled.

Like you always did, you wore the mask.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it, about me.” you said softly, reaching out to squeeze your son’s wrist. “Let’s just go home, alright?”

You stood up, taking your things as you continued hearing all the flurry of shutters and the murmurs of there she goes, she’s not denying it, she’s making it easy for us—but you didn’t flinch at what they were saying, no. Not one bit. You didn’t break. You kept your head high, your hands steady, your expression calm.

And as you pushed through the crowd of photographers with your two kids at your side, you heard one of them call out to you: “Mrs. Nanami, if you really don’t care, why haven’t you left him yet?”

That was the question that stayed with you all day. You didn’t answer. You didn’t turn around, didn’t spare them a glance. Instead, you just gripped your son’s wrist, wrapped an arm around your daughter’s shoulder, and walked straight to your car. The cameras were still flashing. The questions were still being thrown.

"Mrs. Nanami, can you confirm if the affair has been going on for years?"

"Are you planning to divorce him now that it’s public?"

"Do you have anything to say to the other woman?"

Keiko suddenly cursed under her breath and huffed, “Fucking vultures, the lot of them.” 

“How the fuck did they find this place? We’re out of the Tokyo Metro!” Kenshin screeched, agitation all over his face. “Have they no shame?”

You purse your lips into a flat line. “.....Language.”

“Mom, this is not the time to correct us.” Keiko says in reply to you. “I’m sorry, but I just….”

You just let your eyes stray somewhere else as you watched as she practically shoved her brother into the backseat and slammed the door shut. You took a breath before you opened the door and slowly slid into the driver’s seat, your fingers trembling so hard it took you three tries to get the key in the ignition.

All the sudden, there it was — that silence. No one wanted to speak, not you or your kids. Nothing was left but painfully, deafeningly silent. You didn’t want this for them, not one bit.But the deluge was here and there was nothing that could be done about it.

And when you finally pulled out of the parking lot and onto the street, your son broke the silence. “…Is it true?”

Your stomach turned. “What?”

“What they said, about dad.” his voice cracked. “Did he cheat on you?”

You froze. In the rearview mirror, you could see the contortion on your son’s face. His jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking, his fists curled in his lap like he was trying to hold himself together. 

And your daughter Keiko, she was already looking at you, hot tears burning those furiously passionate eyes. It was as if she had already put the pieces together, even without you saying anything. As if they already both know what was going on, just by looking you in the eyes.

It was hard to look at your children at times, even when they were babies. It was hard to see the features of the man you loved, the man who hurt you, the man who had ruined you — in such innocent faces you had brought into this world. You knew Kento would say something different, he would say that the kids took after you more than him. 

Yet you knew your children. Perhaps even better than he did. You had carried them in the depths of your body, endured the endless toil of raising them, and nearly died bringing them into the world. You knew them in ways he never could. And yet, they looked so much like him. Too much like him.

The memories were as vivid as if they had happened just yesterday. You remembered lying there on the hospital bed, blood pooling beneath you, the echoes of voices rising and falling in through the wide expanse of the room.

Remove it. No, don’t do it—she’ll die. Over and over again, a fevered haze of desperation. You understood what they meant. And in that moment, you wished they had done it. That they had let you go. That they had spared you from this suffering.

But they didn’t. You lived. And Kento was relieved. You knew that much.

Three pregnancies in twenty-five years. And yet, Kento had only been there for Keiko’s birth. He had wanted to be there, perhaps, but he couldn’t. Work had taken him out of the country.

It left you alone in that sterile hospital room, your five-year old daughter by your side, holding your hand with small, trembling fingers. And then the third, you were with your grown children, making sure you were alright as you sat there, finally losing the ability to bear the children.

Maybe that was why this was unbearable. You suffered quite a lot. Loving your children, loving your husband. This is why the weight of it threatens to crush you now. You held it in for so long. And you had lost all ability to let it stay here, dwelling contentment. 

You wanted to break down, to tell the truth, to let the words spill free. But you couldn’t. You weren’t ready. You wanted to cling to the lie just a little longer. To lose yourself in the illusion, to drown in it, and never face reality.

God knows, you wanted to say no to them right at this moment. You wanted to tell them that it was all a fabrication, that their father, the man they had loved and looked up to their whole lives, was not the man the media was painting him out to be. He was not the person they had long loved for all their lives. Yet you wanted to protect them, the same way you always had. But you couldn’t.

Because the truth sat there like a bitter pill in your throat and you had already swallowed it once. You had long swallowed it and dealt with it. And that truth was crawling out of your throat, brutishly, wantonly, eagerly. You cannot keep it deep inside for much longer. You fixed the rear view mirror and finally met their eyes. You took a sharp breath.

“…Yes.” You finally say to them. “It’s true.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

The way their eyes surged with such devastation.

You didn’t want to ever see it again like that.

But god only knows that this will be all there is in their eyes.

Keiko’s face crumpled, like she had just been punched in the gut. “Oh my god…mom, you….”

Kenshin let out this strangled, bitter laugh — like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “So it’s true, then. Those blind items from the past few years.” he muttered. “Dad’s a fucking cheater. A constant one at that.”

“Watch your mouth, Kenshin.” you tried to say — but your voice cracked. “You can’t just keep—”

“No, seriously, mom.” he scoffed, his voice laced with something ugly. “How long? Huh? How long has he been screwing around and doing this to you?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “…I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie.” Keiko says, her voice cracking. “Just….tell us the truth mom.”

“I’m not lying,” you snapped, finally turning around in your seat to look at him. “I don’t know how long it’s been, okay? I found out years ago and—”

“Years?”

Kenshin’s face twisted at your slip up. It was like you had just physically slapped him across the face. Keiko gasped out loud, breathing out like she had no air in her lungs. You rested your head on the leatherbound headrest, closing your eyes. 

“You mean he’s been doing this since we were kids?”

Keiko covered her mouth with her hand, tears already falling as she looked out the window, trying to keep a grip on reality. “Oh my god, what…..” she whispered again. “Mom, why didn’t you leave him? Why didn’t you tell us?”

And that…. that was the question that cut through you the deepest. Why hadn’t you left him? Why did you stay when you found that first message? Why did you stay when he came home smelling like perfume that wasn’t yours? 

Why did you stay when you’d hear him in the bathroom, late at night, whispering to someone who wasn’t you? Why did you stay when every kiss, every touch, every moment of intimacy started to feel manufactured?

Yet, you already knew the answer.

And your kids probably also knew.

Because you still loved the bastard.

Even now, even after everything — you still loved Nanami Kento. How can you just erase such a love that has festered for almost all of your life in an instant? How do you undo every bit of your emotions and your laughter and your memories in that moment of grief? 

As much as you hated him for what he did, you still loved him. Even if it was bitterly so, you loved him. It was the two sides of the same coin. Love and hatred, bleeding into one another until you couldn’t tell them apart. 

They’ve become the same thing to you over time. They’ve become inseparable, untainted and dirty all at once. And the thought of walking away, of destroying your family, of breaking your kids' hearts — all of it just felt like an agony you weren’t sure you could bear.

“…I stayed because I loved him, you know that.” you finally whispered, tears spilling down your cheeks. “And because I thought… I thought it would get better. I thought if I loved him hard enough, if I forgave him, he’d come back to me. I thought……” Your voice cracked. “…I thought he still loved me the way he used to.”

Silence.

And then, your son let out the bitterest laugh you’d ever heard in your life.

Keiko narrowed her tearful face at her brother. “Kenshin, stop. Mom’s upset!”

“Well mom, congratulations.” he said hollowly, staring out the window. “Guess you were wrong about it all. Because if dad loved you, loved us, he wouldn’t have done this.”

His words cut deep through you. They hurt more than anything. Because you knew that was the truth. And you had been avoiding it for so long, that you were a fool. A girl was a foolish little child, but the woman is even more of a beautiful little fool, even more than a child, truly. Because when she continues to love a man who doesn’t love her truly, she is just never going to learn.

Later that night, your kids didn’t talk to Kento. Not once. They just refused to. When he got home from work, exhausted and carrying the same tension he always did, he expected the usual — a quiet dinner, maybe some small talk before you both retreated to your separate corners of the house. 

Instead, your son walked right past him without a word. Your daughter didn’t even look at him.

You just stood in the kitchen, pretending to wash dishes like you hadn’t just destroyed your children’s entire worldview of the life they had known that morning.

Kento frowned, setting his keys down. “…Did something happen?”

You didn’t even turn around. “No.”

But your voice was hollow. Detached. And Kento could feel it. He was perceptive, so he knew. He knew that there was a shift, that there is a heavy weight, the unspoken heaviness that settled over the house like a death sentence.

When the kids had gone to bed and Kento finally pulled you aside, his voice strained  “What’s going on?” he demanded softly. “Why won’t they talk to me?”

You smiled bitterly. “They know, Kento.”

You could sense that in that moment, his blood froze. “…What?”

You finally turned to face him and for the first time in years, you didn’t hide the devastation in your face. “Your cheatin’ heart, Kento.” you said quietly. “They know.”

Kento’s face was completely drained of color. “…How?”

You scoffed. “The paparazzi followed us all day and showed up at the cafe we go to, the one outside Tokyo Metro. They started asking questions and the kids….they just figured it out.”

Nanami Kento just stood there, all too pale like a sheet and all too silent like a devious saint. Like the weight of his own sins had finally come crashing down on him. And for the first time in twenty five years, you saw something in his caramel eyes you had never seen before.

Fear. Because now, it wasn’t just you who knew about his infidelity. It was his kids, the kids who viewed him for so long to be their beloved father, the man who could do no wrong in their eyes. And they wanted nothing to do with him.

YOU HAD DONE ALL YOU COULD, YOU HAD TRIED. You tried to do what you could to deescalate the situation burning into disaster in your once peaceful home. Your hands trembled as you set down the untouched cup of tea, its warmth doing nothing to ease the cold creeping into your bones. The air between you and Kento was thick with unspoken words, tension stretching like a wire on the verge of snapping.

Despite the suffocating ache in your chest, despite the bile that burned your throat every time you looked at him, despite the way your children couldn't even stand to be in the same room as their father. You wanted to do what you could to settle this properly.

“Kento.” you finally said, voice hoarse from too many nights spent crying in silence. “We can’t keep doing this.”

He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as if you were just another problem on his never-ending list. “Then what do you suggest?” His tone was controlled, but you could hear the exhaustion beneath it.

You glanced toward the staircase, where you knew your children were hiding just out of sight, pretending not to hear. You couldn’t blame them. How could they bear to watch the man they once admired turn into someone they no longer recognized?

“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice cracking. “But this... this isn’t working. We’re tearing everything apart.”

Kento’s gaze flickered toward the family portrait still hanging on the wall, the one taken before everything fell apart. He scoffed, a bitter smile playing at his lips. “You say that, but we both know the truth.”

Your fingers curled into fists on your lap. “And what truth is that?”

“That you’re never going to leave me.”

A shiver ran down your spine, not because his words were untrue—but because they were devastatingly accurate. He knew it all too well. No matter how unbearable things had become, no matter how deep the wounds ran, you couldn’t bring yourself to walk away. And that was exactly why you were both still stuck in this. A war neither of you had the strength to end.

The next few days were even more unbearable than the other days that had come to pass. Your son Kenshin didn’t even come down for breakfast, he refused to do so. Meanwhile Keiko, your daughter sat at the table, silently scrolling through her phone, pretending like her father didn’t exist. 

Kento looked wrecked about all of it. He was pale, sleepless, disheveled. A far cry from the man who once carried the aura of effortless grace and unwavering composure on stage and on film, now looked like a ghost in his own home, a ghost no one wanted to interact with.

“…Good morning.” he tried to say to her.

Silence. “…Did you sleep well?”

Your daughter didn’t even glance up.

Kento looked desperate to have an interaction with your only daughter. He looked like a drowning man gasping for air. His hands were practically trembling as he tried to pour himself a cup of coffee, his voice cracking as he spoke.

“…I’m heading to the studio later. Filming should wrap early so maybe I can pick you up—”

“Dad, please stop.” your daughter interrupted, cold and bitter. “You don’t have to tell us where you’re going. We don’t care.”

Kento pursed his lips in a flat line. “.....I see.”

You saw it. The way his face crumpled, the way his jaw clenched like he was trying so hard not to break in front of his own daughter. And despite everything, despite the betrayal, despite the infidelity, despite the years of suffering — your heart still aches for him. So you did the only thing you could.

“…Honey, not right now.” you said softly, giving your daughter a pointed look. “Don’t be rude at the breakfast table.”

“Are you kidding me right now?” she laughed bitterly, snapping as she slammed her phone down on the table. “I’m being rude? To him?”

“Watch your tone—”

“No! No, I’m not watching my tone!” she spat. “You’re really just gonna sit here and pretend like everything’s fine? Like he didn’t cheat on you for years and years and that we’re all just gonna move on and are just supposed to have breakfast like normal?”

You flinched. “Keiko, look….”

“I don’t want you to keep making excuses for him, mom! Goddamn it!”

Kento’s breath hitched. “…Sweetheart, don’t scream at your mother—”

“Don’t call me that, you damn cheater.” she bit out, her voice shaking. “You don’t get to call me that. Not after what you did to Mom. Not after you lied to all of us for years—”

“I never—”

“Yes, you did!” she shouted, rising to her feet. “You cheated on her, Dad! Over and over again, and you let her suffer in silence, and you thought we wouldn’t find out! After all, you put her through? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Enough, stop. Please.” you finally snapped, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “That’s enough, both of you.”

Your daughter turned on you, her face twisted in disbelief. “Are you seriously defending him right now, mom?”

“No, darling, I’m not.” you whispered, your voice hollow. “Believe me, I’m not. I’m just trying to keep this family from completely falling apart.”

Kento looked at you like you had just thrown him a lifeline. Despite it all, you were still to keep his relationship with your children amiable. Even now — after everything — you were still trying to hold everything together. Trying to keep your family intact. Trying to keep the peace. Trying to keep your kids from completely hating their father.

And you hated yourself for it.

He knew you hated yourself for it.

But you hated separation more.

That, you hate about yourself too.

“…I’m going to my room and pack. I can’t do this.” your daughter spat bitterly, grabbing her phone. “I’m going back to my apartment.”

And just like that, she was gone. The silence that followed was suffocating. Kento’s hands were trembling. His throat was visibly working, his face practically drained of color. And your son, he still hadn’t come downstairs. He probably wouldn’t. He would probably go back to his dorms tonight too. You already knew. Kento already knew.

Your heart clenched as you watched your daughter storm up the stairs, her hurried footsteps echoing through the house. You wanted to call her back, to say something, anything, that might make her stay. But what was left to say? You could feel her slipping away, just like everything else. The silence that followed was suffocating.

Kento exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “You shouldn’t have stopped her.”

You turned to him sharply, eyes flashing with something dangerously close to resentment. “Don’t.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m just saying—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Kento.” You swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in your throat. “I don’t want to hear anything from you right now.”

A flicker of something that crossed his face. You tried to name it. Regret, guilt, or maybe just exhaustion, but you couldn’t. After that, your husband didn’t argue. He only nodded, rubbing at his temple as if the weight of this entire mess sat squarely on his shoulders alone. As if you weren’t both drowning in it.

The sound of a suitcase zipping shut upstairs made you flinch. A part of you wanted to chase after her, to beg her to stay. But another part, the part that was just so damn tired, knew that maybe this was for the best for your children for now. 

“I’ll drive her back, mom.” your son said quietly, standing near the doorway. You hadn’t even realized he was there. “....We’ll talk to you when we get back to Bunkyo.”

Your gaze softened. “You don’t have to.”

He shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets, as he disappeared towards the steps of your massive stairway. “Yeah, I do. Please don’t worry about us, okay? Just give us space for now.”

You let out a slow, shuddering breath, your hands shaking as you rubbed at your face. “This isn’t how it was supposed to be.”

Kento sighed. “I know.”

You finally looked at him, your voice barely above a whisper. “Do you?”

Because if he truly did, then why were you still here? Why were you still trying to stitch together something that had long since been torn apart? Why were you still afraid to let go? What do you seek to gain about staying here?

“…I’m sorry. I just…..” Kento finally choked out, his voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry.”

You hated how your body still responded to his pain. You hated how, even now, you could feel your heart ache for him, even after everything. But you do, you feel compassion for the man who had ruined you. 

“…I know,” you finally whispered.

Kento swallowed hard, his voice cracking. “Do you… do you want me to leave?”

And that — that was the worst part. Because the answer was yes. You wanted him to leave. You wanted him out of your house, out of your life, out of the gaping wound he had carved into your chest. You wanted to be free of him, free of the suffocating burden of being the wife he had repeatedly betrayed.

But you couldn’t say it at all.

Because you still loved him.

And you hated yourself for it.

“…No.” you rasped, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Nanami Kento completely broke. He surged toward you, his hands clutching your face like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. Like you were the only thing keeping him from giving up and letting all the punishments come without hope.

“I’ll fix it.” he choked out, his voice wrecked with desperation. “I’ll fix everything. I swear to god, I’ll spend the rest of my life making this right. Just — please don’t give up on me. Please don’t leave me.”

You just stood there, embraced by this touch, unmoving as his heat continued to permeate your skin, the very skin you didn’t want him to burn even more. Still so empty, so hollow. Trying so hard not to collapse beneath the weight of it all. You stared at him for a good moment.

“…I already gave up on trying to let you fix things, Kento.” you whispered. “A long time ago. Because not even gold can fix these broken pieces and continue to be beautiful.”

You saw it in his eyes.

He knew those words to be true.

And he still wasn’t letting you go.

Kento’s grip on you tightened.

“No.” he croaked, his voice cracking with raw, desperate agony. “No, you didn’t. You didn’t give up on me. You wouldn’t still be here if you did.”

And fuck, you hated how his words still held power over you. You hated how he could still reach into the hollowed-out pit of your chest and stir something. Because he was right. You hadn’t left. You should have. But you didn’t.

“…I didn’t leave because of our kids.” you tell him almost too bitterly, your voice shaking. “Not because of you. Just because I still love you doesn’t mean I was willing to stay because of it. I stayed because you are still their father. That is all.”

Kento flinched. His face crumpled. His hands trembled as they cupped your face even closer to his, like he was desperately trying to ground himself in your presence. You tried to move away from him, but you knew you couldn’t.

You try and avoid his gaze instead, yet even in that you failed. He wanted to see you, all of you. In that brokenness, in that emptiness, in that hatred, in that toxic love. He wanted it all, until nothing was left.

“But you still love me.” he rasped, his voice raw. “I know you do.”

 “…Don’t.” you choked, trying to pull away. You hated him for saying it out loud. “Don’t do this to me.”

But he wouldn’t let you, not now when this is the only time he could truly hold something so tangible of you. His hands tightened, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones like he was trying to memorize you. His breath was shallow, his face devastated.

“You do.” he whispered. “I can see it. Every day. You still look at me like you love me. You still stay—”

“Because I’m stupid, Kento!” you snapped, finally ripping yourself out of his grasp. “Because I’m a fucking idiot who doesn’t know how to walk away! You think that means anything?”

The look on his face, it absolutely destroyed you. Because for the first time — Nanami Kento really looked at you. Not like his wife. Not like the mother of his children. Not like the woman he had shared twenty years of his life with. But like a woman he had broken beyond repair.

“…I never stopped loving you, you know that.” he rasped, his voice wrecked. “Not once. Not even when I was being a piece of shit and — and sleeping with other women. I swear to god, baby, it was never because I didn’t love you. It was because I was drowning and I didn’t know how to—”

“Oh my god.” you laughed bitterly, actually laughing. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare make this about you, Kento. Don’t even….”

“I’m not.” he choked, his voice cracking. “I swear to god, I’m not. I just….I need you to understand. I was never looking for love. I was just….” his voice faltered, tears visibly burning his eyes.

“I was lonely, baby. You hated me. You didn’t touch me. You didn’t look at me like you loved me anymore. And I….I was so fucking weak. I was weak and I hurt you, and I hate myself every day for it—”

“Stop it. Not another word, you stupid fuck.” you spat, your voice shaking. “Stop talking.”

But he didn’t stop there.

“I love you, you know that.” he begged, his voice cracking. “I still love you. I never stopped. Please don’t let this be the end of us, baby. Please — please fight for us—”

And you lost it.

“Fight for us?” you screamed, your entire body shaking with rage. “What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing for the past twenty five fucking years, Kento? I fought for us when you left me alone with a newborn! Twice!"

You were so clear to his face now. "I nearly fucking died giving birth to your children. They nearly removed my uterus three times, including with the last miscarriage I had. And even with that, I was fucking alone!”

You stopped for a moment to try and steady yourself, but you were so exasperated. You gripped your hair, your face, your neck like you were possessed, like you had become a maddened woman who had lost all sense of reality. And then you screamed, and screamed. With the agony of a woman who has nothing left to give, nothing left to have.

“I could have been someone, Kento. I could have been more than someone’s fucking wife.” You started to say, breathless and anguished, hitching your breath at each word.

“I could have been a world famous chemist, saving someone’s life with my work. I could have been travelling around the world and enjoying my life. But no, I loved you too much. And I loved you so much, I fucking let myself be a footnote so you could have a fucking life!”

“Babe, please—”

“I fought for us when I had to pick myself up from postpartum depression alone! I fought for us when you cheated on me the first time — and the second time — and the third time! So don’t you dare stand here and ask me to keep fighting when I’ve been fighting alone for this fucking marriage for the past twenty five fucking years!”

Kento stood frozen, his mouth slightly open, his breathing ragged. His hands twitched at his sides like he wanted to reach for you, to pull you into his arms like he used to, back when love still felt like something tangible between you. But you weren’t that woman anymore. You weren’t the one who softened at his touch, who forgave with nothing more than a tired sigh and an aching heart. Not this time.

“You don’t get to beg now,” you seethed, voice still trembling. “You don’t get to cry now, Kento.”

The room felt too small, too suffocating, as if the weight of all the years, all the pain, all the silent suffering had condensed into this moment, crushing you from the inside out. Your nails dug into your scalp as you tried to steady yourself, but it was useless. 

The rage, the grief, the betrayal—it was a storm that had been brewing for years, and now it was here, tearing through you without mercy. Kento took a hesitant step forward, his hand reaching for you, but you recoiled violently, like his touch would burn you alive. 

“Don’t.” you spat, your voice raw. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

His shoulders slumped, his face crumpling with something akin to regret, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough to fix everything that had been broken. Not after everything. Not after all he had done to you. 

“I—I know I failed you.” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know I let you down. But I swear, I never wanted—”

“You never wanted what?” You laughed then, a hollow, broken sound that sent a chill through the room. “You never wanted to hurt me? To break me? To leave me alone while I bled, while I begged for you to just be there?”

He flinched like you had slapped him, but you weren’t done. Not even close.

“Do you know what it’s like, Kento?” you continued, voice trembling with emotion. “To cry alone in a hospital room after losing a baby we created? To be told I might never have another child while you were off doing god knows what in your movie sets? Do you know what it’s like to sit across from your husband at the dinner table, knowing he’s slept with someone else but still pretending like everything is fine—for the sake of your kids?”

You let out a sharp breath, shaking your head. “No. You don’t. Because you never had to. You had the privilege of being the one who could walk away whenever it got too hard. And I was the idiot who stayed.”

Nanami Kento paled, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came out. He couldn’t help but flinch, his jaw tightening, but he didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. Your vision blurred with tears, but you refused to let them fall. Not now. Not in front of him.

What could he say? What excuse could possibly justify the years of neglect, the betrayals, the loneliness he had forced upon you while expecting you to bear the weight of it all? Your chest heaved as you stared at him, your vision blurred with rage and grief. 

Your fingers dug into your scalp, your nails pressing against your skin as if you were trying to physically hold yourself together. The room felt too small, the air too thick, like it was suffocating you over and over.

“You say you love me. Over and over.” you whispered, voice barely above a breath. “But love isn’t fucking leaving. Love isn’t lying. Love isn’t cheating. Love isn’t making me feel like I was never enough.”

You inhaled sharply, chest rising and falling with the force of your fury. “And I was enough, Kento. I was enough. You just never fucking saw it.”

Kento’s breath hitched, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I do see it, baby.” he murmured, his voice raw. “I see it now.”

You shook your head, a sad, broken smile tugging at your lips. “Too fucking late.”

The look in your face killed you. He saw that agony for the first time in your long marriage together. The mask had all but slipped off. Nothing was left to pretense now. He has to understand now, and he does. He looks like he does. 

You had given him everything. Your body. Your youth. Your dream. Your career. Your life. And in return, he had given you nothing that had made you feel like this reality he had given you. Because with all those promises given and broken, all he had given you in the end was nothing but heartbreak.

“…I’m sorry.” he finally rasped, his voice shattered. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

And you just laughed. Bitterly. “Sorry doesn’t fix twenty years of betrayal, Kento. You’ve already killed me, long ago. You can’t fix what has already been slaughtered.”

“I know that.” he choked, his breath hitching. “I know it doesn’t. But please — please don’t leave me. Please don’t take our family away from me. I need you.”

You just broke down right in front of him then and there. This was the worst part. This outburst, this breakdown, this long awaited grief exploding right in front of him still means nothing at all. Because you still loved him. 

You still loved him like you did when you were twenty and pregnant and terrified. You still loved him like you did when he kneeled beside you and begged you to apply to university. You still loved him like you did when he promised to give you a beautiful life before he destroyed it. And you hated yourself for it.

“…I’m not leaving, I already told you that.” you finally rasped, your voice hollow.

Kento’s entire body visibly crumpled with relief. He sagged forward, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as his entire body trembled. “Oh my god, thank god—”

You moved to the cabinet, trying to search for the cigarette. When you found it and took it, you could feel your hands shaking so badly that the flame flickered unsteadily, barely catching the end of the cigarette. You inhaled deeply, letting the acrid smoke burn your lungs, anything to distract you from the suffocating weight in your chest.

Kento watched you, still hunched over, his breath uneven, his hands gripping his knees like they were the only things holding him together. His body trembled, wracked with relief, but his relief was nothing compared to the exhaustion pressing down on your shoulders.

You had given him what he wanted, his dream.

Not love. Not forgiveness. But the simple fact that you were still here.

The cigarette bobbed between your lips as you exhaled, the smoke curling around you like ghosts of all the words you wanted to say but never would. You stared at him, your expression unreadable, and for the first time, Nanami Kento looked small.

He was so much smaller than the man you had once adored, the man who used to tower over you with quiet strength. Now, he was nothing more than a man drowning in the mess he made, clinging to you like you were a life raft in the middle of a raging sea. And maybe you were. Maybe that was the most tragic part of it all.

“You think this is relief, don’t you?” you murmured, watching the way his breath hitched at your words. “You think I’m staying because I still have hope for us.”

He lifted his head slightly, blinking at you with bloodshot eyes, as if he didn’t want to admit it but couldn’t deny it either. “I….I do.”

You took another drag of your cigarette, the tip glowing in the dim light of the kitchen. “But that’s not it, Kento. That’s not it at all.”

 “Then why?” His voice was desperate, strained, like he was afraid to hear the answer.

You exhaled slowly, watching the smoke disappear into the air. “Because I don’t know how to leave. Not anymore……Isn’t that a tragedy?”

Silence. Perhaps with all the things you have said just now, it was the most honest thing you had said to him in years. Kento inhaled sharply, his hands gripping his knees even tighter, his knuckles turning white. 

You could see the pain in his face, the way your words hit him like a physical blow. But he didn’t argue. He didn’t try to convince you otherwise. Because deep down, he knew it too. You weren’t staying out of love. You were staying because you had forgotten what life looked like without him.

YOU WILL NEVER GET USED TO THIS LIFE HE HAD FORCED ON YOU. The flashing lights had long since stopped making you flinch. The murmurs, the whispers, the hushed speculations that followed you wherever you went, those had become background noise. You were used to the weight of their stares, the scrutiny that came with your name, your existence.

But that didn’t mean you liked it. You had never wanted this. You had never asked to be someone the world felt entitled to watch, to judge, to pick apart piece by piece. Your name wasn’t just yours anymore, it was something the media used for headlines, something the public devoured like vultures picking at a fresh carcass.

And yet, this was your reality. This was the life you had been forced into, no matter how much you resented it. It didn’t matter if you stayed or if you left—your story would never truly be yours again. You would always be his wife, his scandal, his mistake. But perhaps that was where your power lay.

If the world insisted on keeping you in its grasp, then fine. You would let them have you, but only on your terms. Perhaps it was cruel, but Kento had given you this power the moment he destroyed you and your entire marriage in front of the world to see.

The moment he had made you a household name not for your accomplishments, but for your suffering and your grief, he had no other choice but to surrender. He had taken everything from you. Your peace, your privacy, your dignity and now, it was only fair that you took something in return.

His control.

So when the cameras flashed and reporters screamed your name, you stood taller. When the world speculated about the state of your marriage, you gave them only what you wanted them to see. When Nanami Kento stood beside you, silent and obedient, you made sure it was clear to everyone, he was the one following your lead now.

This was the price of his betrayal.

And he had no choice but to pay it.

That was your quid pro quo after all.

The award show was about to start and it was already damned and brutal, suffocating you whole. You were swallowed by all these smiling faces under the bright lights, overwhelmed by the cameras flashing as their loud voices asked you to pose. 

Hundreds of people dressed in their finest, smiling like their lives were perfect. 

Like nothing in this despotic life had fallen apart behind closed doors. 

You were draped in a designer dress Kento’s stylist had picked for you. Something black, sleek, elegant, like you had asked. It was a beautiful dress, it looked well on you as it expressed the boldness of your assets, still unchanged from the moment Kento had introduced you to this world. 

Yet, people whispered too well as they moved away from you. They think it was some sort of funeral dress, and in some ways they were right. You were mourning a death, you were mourning multiple, if you were being honest. Yet, you did not say a word. Instead, you smiled like your life depended on it.

On your arm was your husband, Nanami Kento, a veteran actor of thirty odd years, who was about to receive one of the highest honors of the night. And everyone was watching you. Because this was your first public appearance since the scandal broke.

You could feel it all coming down on you. The stares, the whispers, the flashing cameras catching every angle of your face. Your fingers curled around Kento’s arm, but it wasn’t out of affection. It was out of necessity. Because if you let go, you weren’t sure if your legs would carry you anymore.

Kento’s hand covered yours, his grip desperately tight. Like he knew — he fucking knew — you didn’t want to be here. But he asked you to come over and over again, even when you said no. It got to the point that he was begging on his knees as you stood before him.

“Please.” he’d whispered last night, his voice cracking. “I know you hate me. I know you don’t want to be seen with me, but please… please just come. Let them see that you’re still here. I can’t do this alone.”

Still, you had stood there, unmoving, arms crossed over your chest as you stared down at the man who had once sworn to protect you but had done nothing but destroy you. His hands gripped your waist like you were the only thing anchoring him, his forehead pressing against your stomach as he whispered broken apologies into the fabric of your shirt.

“I know I don’t deserve to ask this of you,  baby.” he had murmured, voice hoarse from exhaustion, from guilt, from the weight of all the ways he had failed you. “But I—I need you.”

You had inhaled sharply, closing your eyes as the familiar ache in your chest grew heavier. “You need me?” The bitterness in your voice was sharp enough to cut. “Where was that need when I was begging you to come home? When I was drowning in loneliness, in grief, in everything you left me with?”

Kento had squeezed his eyes shut, his grip tightening as if he was afraid you would slip through his fingers. “I know.” he whispered. “I know, and I’ll never forgive myself for it. But please… just this once, please help me.”

And fuck, maybe you were still too weak to say no to him. You had wanted to say no. God, you had wanted to let him suffer, to let him face the mess he created on his own. But deep down, you knew the truth. So here you were. Standing beside him like the perfect wife.

And then you saw her.

Fushiguro Toji’s wife.

And she was staring back at you.

A very prominent and established veteran actress, someone who’s won award after award. Just like that husband of hers, who stood beside her. She was gorgeous, vivacious and vibrant. She was the kind of woman who naturally commanded the attention of a room. 

Your husband worked with her a long while ago, well multiple times. The most prominent was that film they did in Paris, that film which encapsulated your marriage to bits. When you watched it the first time, you tried to imagine yourself as her, as that actress. And honestly, you cried. For a long while, you did.

But you know her more than that, you like to think. You knew her as someone who without a doubt had an affair with your husband for a long while. It was so obvious to you. She was bright as a starlight and she was incredible, everything you had been so long ago. 

Perhaps that was what attracted your husband to her in the first place. She was an escape from the misery you were. She represented the spirit of the woman you used to be. You and her all the same, were the other woman. 

You had already known and yet, she had come to you and told you. It was the first time you had ever found yourself in contact with her.  She had messaged you, five years ago. Over text, and what she wrote was a one line apology.

“I’m sorry. I broke it off with him. It will never happen again.”

And you never forgot her because of that.

She was the only one who had ever apologized.

She was the only one who truly meant it.

So when her eyes finally caught yours across the room, you quickly felt it. The sharp, sudden guilt that flashed through her expression. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something to you but you didn’t give her the chance. 

Instead, you smiled. You smiled, let go of Kento’s arm, not replying to Kento as he asked you where you were going. You merely walked straight toward her, not caring for anything else. And her face visibly crumpled at the sight of you getting closer.

“…I’m sorry, I am so…I am so sorry, Mrs. Kento.” she blurted, the second you were within earshot. Her voice cracked. “God…. I’m so sorry. I never….I never wanted to be a part of your misery. I swear. I didn’t know—”

And you just stared at her. You could feel Kento’s burning gaze from behind you. There was panic, desperation, guilt blending in his eyes. But you ignored him. Instead, you tilted your head slightly, your voice cold and unwavering.

“…It’s not your fault.”

The woman froze. “…What?”

The silence stretched between you like an open wound. It was obviously still raw, gaping, impossible to ignore. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t need to. The way her breath hitched, the way her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides, the way her entire body seemed to shrink under the weight of your words. It was enough.

You knew that silence. You had lived in that silence. You had spent years drowning in it, in the unspoken guilt that was never yours to carry, in the suffocating weight of a love that had never been real to begin with.

“…Yeah.” You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Same here.”

She exhaled sharply, like your words had knocked the air right out of her lungs. You could see the cracks forming in her carefully constructed composure, in the way her lips trembled, in the way she refused to look at her husband.

Fushiguro Toji—her wonderful husband, her loyal partner—was still laughing with Kento, pretending this wasn’t happening between the two of you. Still pretending he wasn’t the reason his wife was standing here, breaking apart in real-time.

You followed her gaze as it flickered towards her own husband, watched as her face twisted into something painful, something angry, something exhausted. And suddenly, you recognize yourself in her.

You knew what it was like to stand on that edge, to realize that the life you thought you had was nothing but an illusion. To realize that the man you had built your world around had done nothing but use you, lie to you, break you.

The only difference between you and her was simple.

You weren’t that woman anymore.

You had already been shattered. 

You had already lived through the aftermath.

But her?

She was just beginning to fall apart.

And when her eyes finally met yours again, glossy with unshed tears, you did something you never thought you’d do. You reached out and took her hand. She stiffened at first, startled, but then slowly, her fingers curled around yours.

Because in this moment, in this mess of betrayal and grief, there was only one person who understood what she was feeling. And it was you. Only a miserable woman like you would understand what it was like to feel this misery.

Tears visibly welled in her eyes, and she opened her mouth like she wanted to say something — but she didn’t. Instead, she just stood there, swallowing her apology over and over again like it would fix the past.

But it wouldn’t. And so, instead of dragging this conversation out, you simply leaned in — your voice so low, so sharp, it cut her to the bone. “…Do you still love him?” you asked quietly.

And her face was completely crumpled. 

Tears burned her eyes, and her bottom lip trembled.

Still, she opted to not say anything, she couldn’t.

She didn’t have to. Because you already knew. 

“…Yeah….” you exhaled bitterly, pulling away. “I get it.”

And before she could say another word, you turned around and walked straight back to Kento, your head high, your smile poised. Like you were completely unaffected. But you weren’t. And when Kento grabbed your waist. You looked up to him.

His voice was low and frantic as he asked, “What did she say to you?” 

You didn’t answer him.

You just smiled for the cameras.

And he didn’t force you anymore.

Instead, he smiled right beside you.

Because this was the life you chose to stay in. This is the life he chose to continue to live, even if there was nothing but bitterness left in it. This life is full of betrayal, broken promises, and a love that you couldn’t let go of, no matter how much it destroyed you.

The award show dragged on. You sat beside Kento, your fingers laced with his, as the ceremony went on like nothing had ever happened. Like you weren’t the wife of the man who humiliated you in front of the entire world. Like you hadn’t just spoken to one of the women he fucked. Like you weren’t suffocating under the weight of it all.

Kento wouldn’t stop looking at you. You could feel it, his gaze burning into the side of your face, his thumb nervously stroking the back of your hand, like he was trying to gauge if you were okay. Like he was praying you wouldn’t get up and walk out.

But you wouldn’t. You never did. And when they finally announced Kento’s name. They were honoring him with the Lifetime Achievement Award, for his influence in the industry after thirty years in the industry.

The entire room exploded in applause, like he wasn’t the current eye of criticism and controversy. You stood up with him, as you always did and you clapped. You continued to smile for the cameras like the perfect wife. 

Kento’s hand clutched yours, ever so desperately, so painfully tight like he was terrified of letting you go. And the moment he turned to you, full of emotion as he memorized your face. He could feel himself shaking, his voice cracking.

“I love you, baby.” he whispered, his eyes wild with emotion. “I mean that. I know I don’t deserve you. But I love you. Please believe me.”

And you smiled. The same cold, practiced smile you’d been perfecting for the last decade. “…Go get your award, Kento.”

And you swore for a brief, fleeting moment, you just watched how his face shattered at your words, full of utter devastation. But then the cameras were on him, and he had no choice but to let you go. So he did.

You watched him walk up the stage. Watched as the applause roared, watched as he smiled for the cameras, watched as they played a heartfelt montage of his three-decade career. And somewhere in the middle of it, you saw her once again.

Fushiguro Toji’s wife. No, no, she was more than that. She was herself an actress. You corrected it in your head. You didn’t want to treat her as just his wife. You shouldn’t treat her the way the rest of the world had treated you.

She was seated in the same row, just across from you. And she wasn’t watching Kento. She was watching you. Her eyes were still wet. Her face still crumpled with guilt after all this time, after you had already made peace with ehr. And when your gazes met — she mouthed it again.

“I’m sorry.”

And you didn’t respond. Because what was the point? She wasn’t the one you were married to. She wasn’t the one who destroyed you. She wasn’t the one who kissed you every morning and fucked other women at night.

Nanami Kento was.

And when his speech finally started, you couldn’t even hear it. His voice which was once so warm and electrifying was now just white noise to you. But then you caught the tail end of it, which you could hardly care for.

“…And lastly, to end this speech.” Kento’s voice cracked. “I… I need to thank my wife.”

The cameras immediately cut to you And you smiled for the camera, almost like an actress yourself. God, you smiled so beautifully. Like you weren’t dying inside.

“I know I’ve thanked my kids but this woman, right in front of you all, she’s the reason I’m here today.” Kento’s voice trembled. “Nearly twenty five years ago, she gave up her entire life for me. She put her dreams on hold, sacrificed her future, and stayed by my side, even when I didn’t deserve it.” 

His eyes burned as he looked right at you. “I caused her quite a lot of grief, with how long I was working and going on so many work trips over the years. She had to take care of everything, take care of our children, and me. And every single day… she still chooses to stay and continue to be the best of wives and the best of women.”

The crowd awed. 

That had irked you.

But you still smiled.

Kento’s voice cracked. “I don’t deserve her. I never did. But she’s the love of my life. And for as long as she’ll have me… I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to her.”

The applause was thunderous. People around you stood. Clapped. Smiled. Because how beautiful this was. A broken marriage, no, the media’s framing it to be a tough road in the marriage, courtesy of Kento’s PR team. 

Somehow it’s working. He was standing before everyone else, a man still fighting to earn his wife’s love back. The cameras stayed on you longer than they should’ve, capturing the delicate tremble of your lips, the soft glassiness of your eyes.

Because they thought you were emotional.

But you weren’t, you really were not.

You were fucking numb, to all of it.

And the second Kento stepped off the stage, the award clutched tightly in his hands, he went straight to you. Dropped to his knees in front of you, in front of the entire goddamn audience, and clutched your waist like a dying man.

“I love you, so so much.” he choked, his voice desperate. “I mean it. I swear to god, I mean it.”

You just smiled. “…You did great, baby.” you whispered softly. 

Then you leaned down, kissed his forehead, and smiled for the cameras again. Because what else were you supposed to do? Expose him in front of millions of people? Walk out and confirm the rumors? Ruin the perfect facade he so carefully crafted for himself?

No. You did what you always did. You smiled. Stayed. Supported him. Because you were too far gone to leave. Because you wanted him to be eaten by that guilt. You wanted him to suffer. You wanted the world to know you loved him and how you were good, you were far too good for him. That you deserve so much better than him.

And Kento fucking knew it.

So when the show finally ended and you were walking hand-in-hand toward the exit — he kept glancing at you, like you were the only one in his world. Kept searching your face, like he was hoping for something. Forgiveness, maybe.

But you didn’t give it to him. That would be too easy. That would be too perfect. You didn’t want to give it and he knew that. Still, that was just how it was. You will remain married, he will remain miserable. So long as he has you by his side, so long as he can still be your husband.

And when you finally got in the car, the silence thick and suffocating, your husband Kento completely broke. He looked like he was losing it, feeling overwhelmed by everything that happened. Most especially because of her.

“…What did she say to you?” he asked hoarsely. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “Toji’s wife. What did she say?”

You laughed. Actually laughed. “She said she was sorry.”

Kento’s jaw clenched. “For what?”

Your smile was cold. “For being a part of my misery.”

Silence.

Kento’s breathing visibly picked up. “…And what did you say?”

That was when you finally turned to him, your voice low, cold, dead. “I told her it wasn’t her fault,. you whispered. “I told her it was yours. It was her husband’s fault.”

Kento looked like you stabbed him in the throat. His knuckles cracked around the steering wheel, his throat working on nothing. “…Baby, please don’t—”

“Don’t what?” you laughed bitterly. “Don’t tell the truth? Don’t say that you’re the reason I lost everything? That he’s the reason she lost everything?”

Kento completely broke. “Baby…..”

“No, no, you shut up.” you snapped, tears burning your throat. “You don’t get to tell me to stop. You don’t get to act like your little speech on stage fixes anything. You broke me, Kento. You fucking broke me. And the worst part? I’m still here.” Your voice cracked. “I’m still here. I never left. I’m too weak. Because I’m a fool.”

The silence in the car was suffocating. 

Kento didn’t speak.

You didn’t either.

Maybe that was for the best.

IT WAS ABOUT AN HOUR WHEN YOU GET TO THE AFTER PARTY VENUE. When you and Kento got out of the car, you were greeted with a warm welcome from the media, who continued to ask both of you for poses and pictures.

The flashing lights were blinding, the roar of the media an unrelenting tide of questions, camera shutters, and eager voices calling out your name.

"Over here!"

"You look stunning tonight!"

"Is it true you and Kento are working things out?"

"Can we get a shot of you both together?"

You plastered on a practiced smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes, and let them have their pictures. Kento, ever the professional, played his part seamlessly, still posing, signing autographs, offering polite nods and charming remarks while his hand remained firmly at the small of your back. His touch was warm, steady, familiar.

You hated it.

When it was finally time to go inside, you barely muttered a farewell to the crowd before stepping into the grand venue, the heavy doors closing behind you like a seal trapping you in a world you wanted no part of.

The afterparty was an explosion of extravagance. A crystal chandelier dripped from the ceiling like frozen diamonds, casting a golden glow over the room. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooked the glittering Tokyo skyline, a breathtaking view wasted on you. 

Champagne flowed like water, clinking in the hands of celebrities who moved with an air of effortless luxury. The music pulsed, a deep bass vibrating through the very foundation of the building, weaving through the sound of laughter and conversation.

It was a world you had long grown accustomed to. And yet, you had never felt more out of place. You could barely register the greetings thrown your way, barely mustered the energy to return the air kisses and polite pleasantries. Your smile was mechanical, your laughter nonexistent.

Kento kept his hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd as if you were still the couple everyone thought you were. As if nothing had changed. As if you weren’t suffocating in the very life he had built for you.

And that was the worst part, because nothing had changed. You were still here. Still standing beside him. Still pretending. Your throat tightened as you caught sight of the countless eyes on you. Some admiring, some curious, some scrutinizing, as if they could peel back the layers of your marriage with just a glance.

You inhaled deeply, trying to keep yourself from unraveling.

You just wanted to go home.

Kento turned to you, his face still shattered. “…Please don’t go far, baby.” His voice cracked. “Stay close to me tonight. Please.”

You didn’t even look at him. “…I’ll do what I want, Kento.”

But then you heard it.

“…She’s even prettier in person, isn’t she?” someone murmured. “Jesus, even with her age, she looks so good!”

“Oh my god, that’s her, isn’t it? Nanami Kento’s wife?”

“She still stayed after everything? Jesus.”

Your throat closed. 

“…I’d leave him. No fucking way I’d stick around after that.”

Your hands shook.

“Poor thing. You can see the misery on her face.”

That was when you broke. 

You turned sharply to Kento, your voice tight. “I need a minute.”

“Baby, please don’t—”

“I need a minute, Kento.”

And you walked off.

You weren’t even sure where you were going. And you didn’t care. All you needed was some fresh air right this instant.You needed to be somewhere that wasn’t suffocated by pitying eyes. You eventually found your way to a quiet balcony and you were two seconds away from crying again.

“…Hello?”

Your head snapped up.

And there he was.

Gojo Satoru.

One of the successful, most in-demand actors in the industry. Tall. Devastatingly handsome. A smile so sharp it could cut glass. You’d seen his face plastered across billboards, heard his name endlessly repeated on award circuits — but you’d never met him in person. You haven’t been introduced to him by Kento.

“…Yes?” you managed, still dazed.

“Sorry, I just—” He smirked as he gave you a once-over, like he was memorizing you. “I recognized you. And I figured it’d be rude not to say hello.”

You blinked. “You… recognized me?”

His smile widened. “Of course. You’re [last name] [name], aren’t you? And also Nanami Kento’s wife?” His head tilted, his voice dropping into something softer. “But  you know — I’ve actually known about you long before the scandal.”

Your stomach turned. “…What?”

Gojo’s gaze burned into you. “You went to Tokyo University, right? Studied chemistry?”

Your blood ran cold. “…How do you know that?”

The blue eyed man merely smiled at you. It was almost one which pretended to not be sly. And all at once genuine in its amusement. Like he was in on something you weren’t.You blinked at his reaction, as though you were trying to make sure it wasn’t just a haze of the moment. 

“…I have my sources.” He tells you, lowering his glasses, meeting his bright eyes. “Well, I doubt that matters, no?”

You stared. “I should like to hope it does, Mr. Gojo.”

“Oh, please, don’t call me Mr. Gojo. That’s my father! And I don't like that! Call me casually instead, like Satoru–kun or something!” He waves his hand at you, laughing. “And don’t worry. It’s not like I’m a stalker or anything.” 

“Isn’t that what a stalker would say…..Satoru–kun?” You say, your eyes narrowed at him suspiciously. “This feels unreal.”

He chuckled. “I just… heard a lot about you. Back then. Everyone did.”

Your stomach tightened. “…Why?”

All of a sudden, Gojo Satoru’s face shifted at your question. Just a little, as though he was a little sad. As though, he was upset that you would ask that question. All the sudden, he was carefully choosing his next words, still looking at you.

“…Because you were brilliant.” His voice was quieter now, less playful. “Top of your class. Always ahead in labs, in every recital, every presentation. Polished and precise. No one could keep up.” 

“That’s—”

“Everyone said you were gonna do something big in chemistry. Something revolutionary.” His eyes burned. “And then you became his stay at home wife, mother of his children. And you disappeared.”

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. For a moment, the party, the music, the laughter. All of it had gone and faded into static. The weight of Gojo Satoru’s words settled heavily on your chest, pressing down like an invisible force, one you had spent years trying to ignore.

And yet, here it was.

Here he was.

Dragging it all back to the surface. Your fingers curled at your sides as you studied him, trying to gauge his expression. He wasn’t mocking you. If anything, there was something almost… regretful in his gaze, something unbearably knowing.

You licked your lips, voice barely above a whisper. “…And what did they say after that?”

Satoru tilted his head slightly, a wry, almost sad smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing that matters.”

“Everything else matters.”

“It doesn’t if it’s not praising the woman you are.” He says to you, smiling wider. “You deserve better than that, don’t you, [last name]-san.”

Your breath hitched. Gojo Satoru stood before you, watching you with an intensity that made your chest feel too tight, like he could see right through you. Like he wasn’t just looking at the woman you were now, but the woman you used to be. The woman you were supposed to have become.

Your fingers twitched at your sides, nails digging into your palm. Everything else matters. That was what you had told him. That was what you had always believed. Because even the whispers, the pitying murmurs of what a waste and she had so much potential. 

They mattered too. They had cut into you like tiny, invisible blades over the years, leaving scars that no one could see. And now, here was Gojo Satoru, brushing them off like they were nothing. Like the only thing that should matter was you.

Your mouth felt dry. “That’s easy for you to say.”

He let out a small chuckle, but it was humorless. “Yeah. It is.” His voice was quieter now, but no less firm. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong. I never am.”

You blinked, searching his face for something. For mockery, pity, some sign that this was just another conversation to him. But all you saw was sincerity. A quiet, unwavering belief in his own words. A belief in you. 

You didn’t know what to do with that.

So you looked away. “Well… It doesn’t change anything.”

Satoru hummed, tilting his head. “Maybe not.” 

“But–”

Then, after a pause, he added, “But it should.”

You swallowed, a bitter taste lingering at the back of your throat. “What do you mean by that?”

“It means exactly what it does. It should change.”

"It should?" you echoed, forcing out a dry laugh. "What exactly should it change, Satoru–kun?"

His bright eyes flickered, studying you carefully. “You tell me.”

Your jaw clenched. You didn’t have an answer. Or rather, you did. Perhaps you just didn’t want to say it out loud. That maybe, for the first time in years, you were realizing how much you had truly actually lost. 

That maybe, for the first time in years, you were questioning if it was all worth it. Your silence stretched between you like a fragile thread, tension humming in the air. And then, as if sensing your reluctance, Satoru leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

"You could still change things, you know." he murmured, his tone almost coaxing. "You don’t have to stay where you are just because it’s where you ended up."

Your stomach twisted. You hated how much his words affected you. You hated how a part of you—some deep, hidden part you had spent years ignoring, wanted to truly believe him. But reality had a way of crushing dreams before they could even take shape.

"You don’t understand at all." you muttered, shaking your head. "It’s not that simple."

Satoru clicked his tongue, exhaling sharply through his nose. "It is, though." he said, unwavering. "You just don’t want to believe it."

His words settled over you like a heavy weight, pressing down on something you weren’t ready to confront. And so, like always, you pushed it away. You didn’t want to think about it. Because if you do, if you take it seriously — what would that do? What would you do?

"You’re awfully invested in my life for someone I just met, Satoru–kun." you said, crossing your arms over your chest.

Satoru smirked, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. “Like I said, I heard a lot about you.” He paused. “And maybe I just don’t like seeing something brilliant go to waste.”

Your breath hitched again, but this time, you didn’t let him see it. Instead, you forced a smirk onto your lips, tilting your head slightly. "Sounds a lot like pity, Satoru-kun."

His smirk widened, but his eyes burned. "Not at all, [last name]-san." he murmured. "It's not a pity party. I would never do that to you.”

You raised a brow at him. “Oh? And what is it truly?”

 “It's frustration."

You felt your pulse quicken. "Frustration?"

Satoru leaned in, his voice dropping just above a whisper. “It’s only right, no?”

“And you feel that for me, more than I do?”

"Yeah." he said, and for the first time, there was no teasing, no playfulness in his tone. Just raw, unfiltered honesty. “I have a big heart for it, you know?”

You snicker. “And why is that?”

"Because the woman they all used to talk about, a trailblazer of a woman, someone they thought would revolutionize everything, the woman who was going to change the world is still standing right in front of me. And she doesn’t even realize it."

You inhaled sharply. And just like that, the fragile wall you had built around yourself cracked. Maybe just a little. You wanted to laugh. Or maybe scream. Or maybe both. Because for the first time in years, in decades, someone had looked at you and seen more than just a wife, a mother, a woman standing in the shadow of her husband’s legacy.

Gojo Satoru saw you.

He saw the truth of you.

He saw nothing but you.

Not as you were now. Not the exhausted, bitter, drained of everything you once held dear. But as you had been. As you could be. And you hated that. Hated the way his words dug under your skin, the way they cracked open a part of you that you had buried so deep you had convinced yourself it didn’t exist anymore.

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head, shoving down the emotion clawing at your chest. "That woman is gone, Satoru–kun." you muttered, voice hollow. “She’s not here anymore.”

But he only tilted his head, a small, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "Is she?"

You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "Yeah, I think so." you whispered. "I think she is."

Satoru studied you for a long moment, then hummed softly, like he didn’t quite believe you. Like he was waiting for you to prove yourself wrong. Before you could say anything else, a voice called your name from across the room.

Your husband Kento.

You stiffened, the moment shattering instantly as reality came crashing back in. Gojo Satoru saw the way your expression closed off, how your shoulders tensed as you turned toward your husband. How you were suddenly back in that gilded cage.

And he hated it.

But he didn’t say anything.

He really shouldn’t.

Even if he wants to.

He only smiled, stepping back, giving you space. “Well…..” he murmured, his tone lighter now, but no less sharp. “It was nice seeing you again.”

You hesitated. Then, before you could stop yourself, you asked, "Again?"

Satoru’s smirk widened slightly, and there was something unreadable in his gaze.

“Of course.” His voice was almost teasing, but something about it sent a shiver down your spine. "You just don’t remember yet."

“Shouldn’t you make me remember this?”

He laughs for a moment, heartily so. “But where would be the fun in that, [last name]-san?”

“Satoru–kun—”

“Spoilers!” He says to you, smiling brightly. “See you around, [last name]-san. Say greetings to your husband for me.”

And with that, he turned, disappearing into the crowd, leaving you standing there. With your heart pounding, mind racing, a strange sense of unease settling in your chest.Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms.

"Again?" The word echoed in your mind, unsettling and insistent.

You didn’t remember ever meeting Gojo Satoru before tonight. You would have remembered. How could you not? He wasn’t the kind of man who blended into the background. He wasn’t the kind of man anyone forgot. And yet, he spoke with certainty. Like he knew you. Like he had always known you.

Your stomach twisted uncomfortably. Before you could even begin to process it, Kento’s hand was on your arm, his touch firm, grounding—possessive. “What were you two talking about? What did Gojo say?” His voice was low, casual to anyone who might be listening, but you heard the tightness beneath it.

You turned to him, meeting his gaze. “Nothing important.” you murmured.

And maybe that was a lie. Or maybe it wasn’t. Your husband Kento studied you, his caramel eyes searching, but whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it. He smells like alcohol, you think. You were just gone for a little while. But it seems he’s already drunk.

“I see.” he finally said, his grip loosening just slightly. “Come on. We have people to talk to.”

You let him guide you forward, through the glittering crowd of Tokyo’s most elite, through the flashing lights and murmuring voices. You played your part, smiling when necessary, nodding politely, keeping your posture perfect.

But your mind was elsewhere.

Because even as you moved through the party, even as Nanami Kento introduced you to people whose names you barely caught, even as you answered questions with the same rehearsed ease you had perfected over the years.

You could still feel Gojo Satoru’s gaze on you. Like he was still watching you like a hawk. Like he knew something you didn’t. And it made your skin crawl. You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to focus. This wasn’t the time to entertain strange riddles or cryptic men with piercing blue eyes. This was your life. This was the reality you had chosen.

So why did it feel like, for the first time, you weren’t sure if you had chosen correctly?

THE AFTERPARTY WAS GOING TO LAST FOR A WHILE, BUT THEY’RE NOT STAYING. There were still work schedules in the morning, after all. The night seemed to just stretch on forever, like this would never come to an end.

Gojo Satoru watched the city still alive with distant laughter and the soft hum of passing cars, smoke against his lips and his hands on his pockets. Standing beside him was Geto Suguru, way too exhausted about having to socialize with people than he was with presenting the main awards tonight.

The afterparty had been far too suffocating for their liking, it’s really not their type of scene. Even with their reputation, everything about the awards afterparty just didn’t seem to vibe with them at all. There were too many people, too many flashing lights, too much performance. Out here, in the cool air, it was quieter. More honest.

Suguru flicked the ash from his cigarette, his sharp gaze never leaving Satoru. He knew that look on his friend’s face all too well. It was troublesome, not the type of thing that Satoru just easily lets slip, given his ability to mask his truest of emotions very well.

“You disappeared for a while, you know that? Your manager was asking about where you were.” he said, voice casual but laced with curiosity. “Where did you end up, anyway?”

Satoru took his time answering. He leaned back against the sleek black car behind him, his frame relaxed, but there was something calculated in the way he dragged out the moment, taking a slow inhale from his cigarette before finally exhaling. A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“I saw her. She was here tonight.”

Suguru’s brows lifted slightly. His fingers stilled mid-motion, cigarette hovering near his lips. “…Her?”

Satoru’s smirk widened. “Her.”

Suguru exhaled through his nose, shoulders tensing just slightly. “Don’t tell me—”

“What?” Satoru cut him off smoothly, feigning innocence. “I like keeping tabs on her.”

Suguru let out a slow, measured breath, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already exhausted by the conversation. “Satoru….”

The blue eyed man raised a brow. “What?”

“Satoru, you shouldn’t meddle too much. Especially with what you know she’s dealing with, privately and publicly.” he said, his voice tinged with exasperation. “Let her realize on her own.”

Satoru scoffed, rolling his eyes as he took another drag. “I waited long enough.”

“And what if she never does?” Suguru’s voice was quieter now, edged with something resembling a warning.

For a split second, Gojo Satoru didn’t answer. He simply stared at the glowing ember of his cigarette, watching it burn down, watching as the smoke curled into the cold air, twisting into nothing. Then, he jovially chuckled back at his friend. 

“Then I’ll just have to remind her.”

Suguru closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head. “You’re insane.”

Gojo Satoru exhaled, his expression unreadable behind the haze of smoke. 

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t upset. He was sure of all of this.

He had never been more sure about anything in his life than her.

“No,” he murmured, his voice slow, deliberate. “I’m just a devoted man.”

And the worst part?

Geto Suguru knew he meant it.

That’s what’s worrying him.

Suguru didn’t respond right away. Instead, he took another slow drag from his cigarette, watching the way the smoke curled up into the night sky, dissipating into the city lights. He knew better than to argue with Satoru when he got like this, when his mind was set on something, when he wore that smug yet unsettlingly determined expression.

Still, it didn’t stop the uneasy feeling twisting in his gut.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, aren’t you?” Suguru finally muttered, flicking the ash off his cigarette.

Satoru grinned, tilting his head slightly. “Isn’t that what makes it fun?”

Suguru shot him a dry look. “For you, maybe. For her? Not so much.”

At that, Gojo Satoru’s expression flickered. It was barely noticeable, just a fraction of a second where his smirk wavered, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

“She’s not stupid, Suguru. She’s the smartest person I know.” he said, voice softer now, but still laced with confidence. “She’ll figure it out eventually.”

Suguru sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “And if she doesn’t?”

Satoru took another drag, exhaling as he leaned back against the car. He looked up at the sky, watching the stars barely visible past the city lights. “…Then I’ll wait a little longer.”

Suguru shook his head, muttering something under his breath. “You’re unbelievable.”

Satoru chuckled. “No, I’m just patient. And a patient man always wins, no?”

There was a brief silence between them. The distant sounds of Tokyo buzzed in the background. There was the occasional honk of a car, the occasional muffled bass of music from the afterparty, the distantly quiet chatter of passing strangers. 

Then, Geto Suguru spoke again, voice low. “You really think you’ll succeed with this?”

Satoru didn’t answer right away. He stared at the cigarette between his fingers, watching the ember slowly burn down, watching as the ashes crumbled and fell. He smiles at his friend, warmth all over his face. He only gets like this when he’s thinking of you. At least, that’s what Geto thinks.

“…She knew of me once.” He says almost too wistfully, almost to wishful-thinking. “She will again, no doubt.”

Suguru frowned, but Satoru wasn’t looking at him anymore. He was lost in thought, his expression unreadable. And for the first time that night, Geto Suguru wondered—was this really about winning? Or was this about something else entirely?

The purple eyed man studied his friend for a long moment, cigarette dangling between his fingers. Gojo Satoru’s cryptic words, the unwavering certainty in his tone—it was starting to make sense now.

“You’re really not going to give up, huh?” Suguru exhaled, shaking his head.

Satoru just grinned, tapping the ash off his cigarette. “What can I say? I’ve got persistence. Lived with that all my life, hm?”

Suguru hummed, eyeing him. “And where did all this persistence even come from?” He narrowed his gaze slightly. “How the hell did you even meet her?”

At that, Satoru’s grin widened. It wasn’t his usual type of smug, teasing one, but something quieter, almost reminiscent. His fingers toyed with the cigarette, rolling it between them as if considering his answer. Then, he simply chuckled.

“Spoilers.” he murmured.

Suguru let out an unimpressed sigh. “You’re insufferable.”

“Hey, patience is a virtue, Geto Suguru.” Satoru smirked, tapping a finger to his temple. “You’ll find out when you’re meant to.”

“Or, you could just tell me now and save me the headache.”

“But where’s the fun in that?”

Suguru shot him a deadpan look before exhaling another cloud of smoke. “So, in other words, you’re full of shit.”

Satoru only laughed. “That, and a deep, undying devotion. ‘specially if you love someone.”

Suguru rolled his eyes. “If this turns into a full-blown love story, I’m out.”

Gojo Satoru flicked his cigarette to the ground, stomping it out with his shoe before shoving his hands in his pockets. He turned his gaze toward the night sky again, the city’s glow reflecting in his pale blue eyes.

“Who said it wasn’t one already?” he murmured.

Geto Suguru didn’t have a response for that. And when their managers’ cars finally pulled up, he realized that maybe Satoru really had been waiting long enough. And just maybe, he’ll finally win in the end.

Well, once you realize that you deserve something better than Nanami Kento.

[moonstruckme]

Hey so i have a request and you can totally say no if this makes you uncomfortable but would you consider writing a poly marauders x reader where the readers depressed and can’t get anything done im asking cause I’ve been. Going through something and i thought id be okay by now but I’ve kinda regressed idk and now im depressed idk pls don’t write this if its to hard or upsetting

Thank you for your request lovely, I really hope things are getting easier for you or that they do soon <3

cw: depression

poly!marauders x fem!reader ♡ 984 words

You realize the boys must be home when Remus crouches in front of you. You hadn’t heard the car come up the driveway, nor the door opening. You were too deep inside your own head. Or maybe you’d drifted off into another of your light, unsatisfying sleeps. 

“Hi.” He offers you a little smile, putting out his hand. You worm yours out from under your blanket to give it to him, and he rubs his thumb across your knuckles fondly. “How was your day, lovely?” 

“Fine,” you say. Your voice rasps a bit from disuse. 

“I’m opening the curtains,” James warns from somewhere behind you. “Here, take these.” 

Sirius’ grunt sounds surprised. “Since when is carrying in the groceries a relay sport?” he complains. 

True to James’ word, light floods the living room a moment later. It illuminates Remus’ face in front of you, letting you see the gentle concern in his eyes. His gaze moves up above your head just before strong hands grasp you by the shoulders. 

“I missed you,” says James, hugging downwards at you until he gives up and lets his body flop over the back of the couch, “so much, today.” 

You pet down the hair at his nape, love like a bubble in your chest that’s always on the brink of popping. You love the way James hugs; it’s like he really is trying to feel as close to you as he can be, with his face bent towards your neck and one hand splayed behind your heart. You let yourself meld to him. Remus starts collecting your little mess from the coffee table, taking things into the kitchen.

“It was only a few hours,” you say. 

James makes a jokey harrumphing sound. “A few hours too many.” He lets you go to plant a smacking kiss on your cheek. “If you could have one thing for dinner tonight, what would it be?” 

“I thought we agreed to stop playing that game,” says Sirius, coming back in to sit down on the armrest of the couch. He sees where you’re toying with James’ hair and takes a lock between his own fingers. “You need a haircut, Jamie.” 

“You’re one to talk,” James quips, though he leans into the touch, always more than happy to have his hair played with. “And we only agreed to stop playing with you, because your expectations were too high.” 

“They were not.” 

“Why would you think we’d be able to get what we needed for escargot at our corner shop?” 

“If you didn’t want to know what I actually wanted, you shouldn’t have asked.” 

“Anyway,” James turns back to you, “what would you have, lovie?” 

“And before you say,” says Sirius, “the correct answer is tomato basil soup with a cheese toastie.”

James sulks, thwarted, and you stroke your thumb over his nape consolingly. “That sounds really lovely,” you say earnestly. “Was I really supposed to guess that on my own, though?” 

“You might’ve,” he mumbles. “Anyway, I was thinking you could be my soup stirrer. If you’re up for the task.” 

It’s an odd feeling, affection and guilt intertwined so well you can’t fully tell which is which. You know James is making a point of asking you so that you might come to the kitchen, be among them for a bit instead of staying off in your own world, do a task that makes you feel productive even if it’s small. You appreciate that he does it, and you loathe yourself for making him feel the need to. You wish your boyfriends wouldn’t coddle you not because you don’t like it but because you like it too much. You don’t deserve it. 

“Hey.” Sirius’ voice draws you back out from inside your head again. It’s become such a frequent haunt you don’t always realize you’re going anymore. He’s studying you. “You okay?” 

You hum as Remus comes back in, sitting on the now clean coffee table. “Thanks for doing that,” you murmur. His eyebrows lift slightly when he realizes you’re talking to him. “Sorry I left a mess.” 

Remus tsks, reaching forward to brush a piece of hair from your forehead. “It wasn’t really a mess,” he says. “I don’t mind. Are you going to help us with dinner?” 

“Yeah.” It’s not so much a decision as a yielding, but James beams like you’ve made his day. It makes you want to cry. 

Sirius wraps an arm around your waist when you get up to go to the kitchen, squeezing the fat of your hip lovingly. “Think I’ll take up the duty of stirring the soup, too,” he says to you. “Seems like a two-person job.” 

“Probably, yeah.” You let yourself lean into his side. He takes your weight happily, mushing a kiss into your hair. “Sorry I’m so lame lately,” you tell him quietly. “You guys don’t need to coddle me so much.” 

“You’re not lame, who said that?” Sirius jostles you a little bit. When you don’t laugh, he changes his approach, leaning his head against yours. “We’re not coddling you, sweetheart. You’re just in a rut right now, yeah? And we’re meeting you where you’re at.” 

He makes it sound so simple, but your throat clogs with the true difficulty of it all. When you reply your voice is thick. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to get out.” 

“You will,” he promises surely. “I don’t know how long it might take, but it’ll happen. And if whatever we’re doing isn’t working for you, we can figure something else out, okay? We’re with you.” 

When James says it’s your time to stir, Sirius insists on standing behind you and holding your hand that’s holding the spoon. Remus rolls his eyes at the idea of it being a two-person job, but you don’t know. You think maybe it takes all four of you to make it work.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Whumpcember (day 15)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompt: Broken glass

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: slight mentions of panic attacks; crying; slight injury and blood; Bucky being a sweetheart because I love him so much

Author’s note: This got unnecessarily long somehow. Again, this was meant to be a shorty. Also, I was in my feels when I wrote this. Anyway, thank you for reading!

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

The final box of Christmas decorations thuds to the ground as you let it down with a heavy huff. You straighten up your back with a grimace, rolling your shoulders.

You might think as an Avenger, carrying a few boxes, would be an easy task. After all, you are trained to thrive under the most punishing conditions, with sharp skills and boundless stamina. But after hauling all those cartons stuffed with tinsel, garlands, and ornaments up from the storage room to the towering Christmas tree in the compound’s common area, you are left panting like you’ve just run a marathon.

It’s almost laughable. Thankfully, you are alone for now. Sam would have a field day, smug grin plastered across his face at the state you’re in.

Wanda, Natasha, and Clint meant to help you with this but they were all still glued to the desk, writing reports, but Bucky is supposed to be back from his latest mission any minute now and you wanted to do this nice thing for him at least. He did sound a little worn out on the phone earlier when he called you to tell you they were on their way back.

So perhaps decorating the Christmas tree would lift his spirit a tiny bit. It’s the first step in what you hope will be a cozy and inviting scene - something Bucky might walk into and, for once, not feel like a soldier returning from a war zone but a man coming home.

The tree is a statement, of course. Tony insisted on it. It’s so tall, it might even brush the high ceiling of the room and there is no way you’ll get some ornaments all the way up without risking your life. And Bucky would definitely not brighten up if you tried it out.

So you’ll absolutely be needing Wanda’s help sooner or later. With a flick of her wrist, she could make this whole thing a hell of a lot easier but you don’t have the time to wait until she is done writing her report.

You let your eyes roam over the many ornaments lying neatly in the box before you and one of them immediately sparks your attention. Your fingers brush against the delicate surface of the red ornament placed almost carefully beside the others.

Its glass is smooth and cool, the color a deep crimson so much more in depth than all the others. You hold it up to the light, turning it slowly, marveling at how the glow from the tree’s string lights catches on its curves and the unique and detailed pattern all across.

It’s heavier than expected, the weight surprising for something so fragile. The gold clasp at the top gleams faintly, tarnished just a little with age. A thin ribbon dangles from it, curling at the end like it has been tied and untied countless times.

There is something about it, some intangible quality that draws you in - a sense of history, of significance.

And then it happens.

The ribbon slips from your grasp, too quick for your fingers to snatch it back. If you weren’t so enamored with the beautiful piece, you would have gotten access to your reflexes a little earlier.

It’s too late now though, and you can only watch in stunned silence as the ornament tumbles to the ground, the crimson surface catching flashes of light as it falls.

It hits the hardwood floor with a sound that is both sharp and final - a crack, then a splintering.

Disappointed in yourself, you crouch down to the shattered remains. Tiny shards of glass fan out like a constellation, glinting under the glow of the tree. The ornament is no longer whole, splintered into different-sized fragments.

Annoyed that you were so stupid and careless to let this special ornament fall to its devastation, you begin to pick up the many red pieces into your palm.

It really was unique. It would have looked great on the tree-

Your movements freeze. Your heart leaps to your throat. A rush of panic claws at your chest and rises up to your ears where it floods and pounds tremendously.

Rebecca B.

It’s a name ingrained into the largest surviving piece of the glass - a faint, looping scrawl. Clearly written by hand.

Rebecca Barnes. The realization makes you weak in the knees and you fall back onto your heels, your ass hitting the floor with a thump.

This isn’t just some random ornament. This isn’t another piece of holiday cheer to hang on a tree and forget about for the rest of the year after packing it back into boxes to store it in a corner of the storage room.

This ornament belonged to Rebecca Barnes. Bucky’s sister. Something Bucky kept all these years, hidden among the other decorations like a relic of a life he’d lost long before his own had been ripped apart.

The air around you feels heavy. The smell of pine from the tree now stings in your nose. Your heart might actually have fallen along with the ornament because it too is shattered in pieces.

The shards tremble in your palm and you stare at them along with the rest still lying helplessly on the ground, as if there is actually something you can do right now to go back in time and not pick it up ever again, just to make sure.

But there is nothing you can do.

Your heart breaks even further at the thought that Bucky might have put it here deliberately. Maybe it was an attempt to move forward, to share the memory of his sister. Maybe he thought the ornament didn’t belong in some dusty package hidden away, but out in the open, a part of the holiday warmth he’s been so hesitant to feel. Maybe it was his thought of remembering her with someone else this time, instead of alone.

This would be such a huge step for him. And you would feel so proud if you weren’t on the verge of a panic attack.

Because it’s broken, divided into so many pieces. You just dropped something so carelessly that probably meant the world to Bucky. And, god, did he deserve the world. But you took it. You contorted the precious memories of his little sister. Unwillingly, of course. But that doesn’t make you feel any better right now.

You have known Bucky for a few years now. Though knowing him feels like a word too shallow for what you share. You never labeled it, both of you walking the fine line, and never crossing it.

But you see that Bucky trusts you - the kind of trust he doesn’t hand out freely. And for good reason, after all. In fact, you’re not even sure he’s ever given it to anyone else in quite the same way, not even Steve. And that’s saying something.

You see it in the small things, in the way his guarded demeanor softens when it’s just the two of you, the soft smiles that seem to be reserved for you. It’s the kind of friendship where silence doesn’t have to be filled, and words don’t have to be spoken to be understood.

He lets you sit with him on the couch in the living room on nights when his past pulls him under and doesn’t allow for him to get some shut-eye. You are usually awake yourself, sometimes just running on adrenaline after coming home from a mission and accompanying him silently. He always seems to linger out here when you are away on a mission anyway, so you usually meet him here after getting home, watching his shoulders slowly droop and his back rest more comfortably against the back of the couch.

You are the first at his bedside when his nightmares claw at his mind. You’ve seen him at his most vulnerable - shirt clinging to his sweat-soaked chest, hair plastered to his face, his breaths coming in uneven gasps as you help him fight to pull himself out of his memories.

Those nights, you never push him to talk. You don’t ask him to explain or tell you what he saw. Without a word, you would hand him a glass of water and wait while he drinks, his hands trembling so slightly it makes your stomach feel heavy every time. Sometimes you tell him to breathe with you, in and out, until the panic subsided and his shoulders stopped shaking.

You were never sure how much touch he needs in those moments so you usually stay at a small distance from him, but it seems your presence alone does wonders.

When he would be ready, he always searched your face so long and intensely, before croaking out a heavy but meaningful “Thank you.”

And his small acts of kindness always fill you with a jittery feeling that makes your knees weak and unfortunately doesn’t help at all when fighting against Natasha in the ring.

Just a few weeks ago, Bucky spent an entire Saturday afternoon fixing the squeaky hinge on your bedroom door because he heard you muttering to Wanda about how annoying it was.

He never even told you he was going to do it. You just came back to your room later that evening to find the door silent as a ghost. It took a whole week for you to find out how this happened. And it wasn’t him, who told you. It was Clint, who saw him walk around with a toolbox and a satisfied smile on his face that Clint, as he told you found a little terrifying.

Additionally, he always seems to know when you need a break during training sessions, tossing you a water bottle before you even realize how tired you are. Or he would plant himself wordlessly between you and your opponent for the day, with his arms crossed and a chastising glance at you when you’ve been fighting for hours without acknowledging the way your movements already grew sluggish and wobbly.

You are always aware when his hands linger on your shoulder a second longer after a sparring match, his metal fingers cold but careful, as if he’s memorizing the feel of you there. Or the way your stomach twists when he catches your eye across the room, and for just a moment, it’s like the rest of the world falls away. And the way he talks to you, even when people are around, his voice lower, softer, words chosen with an almost uncharacteristic care, makes you feel like you’re the only person he truly is interested in talking to. You also love the nights he shows up at your door with takeout, wordlessly handing you your favorite meal, and striding into your room to settle at the foot of your bed with a contented sigh.

Through it all, however, was always this persistent question you had. The one that molded into an ache inside your chest. Because what if? What if you took one step closer and stopped holding back? What if you risk everything you have with him now for something more?

But right now you feel like those questions don’t hold the same energy anymore. The same weight. No, they just got weightless. Pointless. Because you just ruined everything without even risking it.

You just destroyed something that can’t be fixed with glue and an apology. It can’t be fixed with you sitting with him and comforting him in the dark while his mind goes to the same cruel place like many times before.

This feels like you’ve crossed a line you can’t uncross.

The wrong line.

Shaking hands pick up the largest fragment, the soft loops of her name still visible through the fractures. The sharp ends bite into your palm like the memory of something sacred that’s been lost. You don’t feel the sting. You don’t feel the sensation of the few droplets of blood sliding over your palm where the ends nicked your skin.

The only thing you register is that this foolish mistake might actually unravel everything you’ve built with him.

He let you in, further than anyone, but that doesn’t mean he won’t push you back out if you give him a reason. And this definitely feels like a reason.

Your mind presents you with his reaction when he comes walking in here and sees what happened.

At first, there’d be nothing - just the stoic silence he uses to sink into, the kind that makes it impossible to tell what he’s thinking. But you’d see it in the smallest of things - the way his jaw tightens just enough to be noticeable, the flicker in his eyes that he’ll try to hide but won’t be able to, the stiffening of his shoulders. And then the desolation, like a tide pulling back just before it crashes. You wonder if he would say anything at all, or if the silence would hang heavy.

You swallow hard, begin to feel the sting behind your eyes, and try to force the lump in your throat down.

You’ve worked so hard to be someone he could rely on, someone he could trust in ways he hasn’t trusted anyone else in decades. You’ve sat with him, listened to him, stayed silent with him. Learned to know him so well, you even memorized the subtle shifts in his expressions, the things he won’t say but still lets you feel.

And now, here you are with broken glass in your hands and a painful feeling in your chest, terrified that this could be the moment that shatters the thing between you.

He might pull away, retreat behind those walls he’s spent years building. What if he doesn’t let you sit with him anymore. Or what if he does, but his shoulder would only grow more tense. What if he starts holding back, measuring his words, locking the parts of himself away that he once entrusted to you?

The idea of losing him - not just losing him, but losing this connection, this unspoken, almost-more-than-friendship thing that you’ve both been too afraid to name - makes your breath catch and something rise in your chest that might be bile.

A sob comes out instead.

It comes out like a wound ripped open before it could begin to heal. You press a quivering hand to your mouth, in hopes of muffling the sound, but it’s no use. More broken sobs come anyway.

You try to pull yourself together, to force the tears back, but your body feels so weak under the guilt and shame.

More parts of the broken ornament bite into your skin, red droplets welling up and sliding down your skin, pooling at the curve of your wrist, before falling soundlessly to the floor.

Pain should ground you. It should pull you out of this spiral, force you to snap back to some semblance of control. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t do anything at all.

Instinctively, your hand gives way, the pieces tumbling from your fingers and scattering across the hardwood once more.

You only sit there, frozen, your breath hitching and catching in your throat as tears streak down your face, warm and unwelcome. You can’t stop them.

You’re not supposed to be this weak. You’re not supposed to break down like this, over something so small. And yet that makes the sobs only harder to contain. Because this isn’t small - not to Bucky. And that’s the part that leaves you as shattered as the crimson glass. Perhaps as shattered as your relationship with the person you fell for as hard as the ornament fell to the ground.

It’s Rebecca. His sister. His past. His grief. It’s a tiny piece of his life that he trusted enough to bring out of hiding, to put here with the rest of the world, in the open where it could be seen. Where it could be touched. And you touched it, only to let it fall. Only to ruin it.

Shame knocks down on you so hard, you draw your knees up to your chest, curling into yourself as though you could make yourself smaller, invisible, anything but this.

You don’t even know what to do with your blood-streaked palm, only letting it hover in the air, the shallow cuts glistening under the still-glowing lights of the tree. It’s a mess. You are a mess. Curling your fingers into a fist, you wince in pain at the stinging of the cuts but you leave it like that.

Perhaps you are overreacting, sitting here on the floor in the common area of the compound with a bleeding hand and the shattered remains of Rebecca Barnes's memory, but you feel so helpless and remorseful, you can’t really think straight at the moment.

The sound of the elevator is faint, but it’s enough to reach your ears. You freeze. You just sit there, knees drawn to your chest, blood smeared across your palm, the shattered glass of the ornament glittering like broken stars on the floor.

You are tear-streaked, trembling, your chest still hitching with uneven breaths and Bucky just got home.

Those approaching footsteps are so familiar to you, you would always recognize his gate. Usually, it’s comforting, grounding to know he got home and would leave you with relief in your chest.

But there is no place for relief in your chest right now.

His footsteps sound normal, steady, perhaps a little hurried but he hasn’t reached this room yet.

You don’t look up. Instead, you bite your lip to stop the sob that threatens to escape. The shame is too sharp, cutting deeper than any piece of the ornament and making your heart bleed as well.

Maybe if you stay still, if you stay quiet, he’ll miss you somehow.

But then his steps come to an abrupt halt and you know you are screwed.

Burning tears spike once more and the sob breaks free.

“Woah, hey-” he calls out, so urgent, so worried.

Bucky is across the room in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees in front of you with a speed that catches you off guard.

“Sweetheart, hey.” It falls from his lips so softly, so worried, it nearly breaks you all over again.

Tears fall more freely at the kind of tenderness in his tone and suddenly his hand is cupping your face, thumb, and knuckles brushing the streaks of wetness from your cheeks.

But they keep coming.

“Look at me, please! Doll, look at me,” he murmurs, his voice impossibly gentle, but dripping with so much concern. His metal hand is on your face as well and he tilts it upward, guiding your gaze toward his.

His brows are drawn so deeply, lips parting slightly as he studies your face - the tear tracks, the desolation in your eyes, the shame and guilt, the trembling of your shoulders.

You can’t look at him. Can’t bear to see it. So you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping you’ll ever be able to forget that look on his face. Not when you know what’s coming. Not when you know what you have caused.

Just wait until he sees it, you think. That look will change.

“No,” he whispers, his voice so soft again, but there is a firmness in it. The pad of his flesh thumb smooths gently across your cheek again, while his metal fingers move to your hair. “Hey, no, don’t do that. It’s okay. Y/n, it’s okay!”

You shake your head quickly and try to say something, anything, but all that comes out is a choked sound, half-sob, half-breath. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He doesn’t know what this is about.

You want to stay hidden behind the veil of your closed eyes, safe from not seeing what you know will be there in perhaps seconds when he figures it out - disappointment, maybe anger, the grief of what you’ve broken.

“Open your eyes, sweetheart, please.”

There is something in his voice you can’t ignore. It sounds unshakable and steady, yet fragile and thick.

Slowly, reluctantly, your eyes flutter open to meet his, but when you do, you freeze.

Because he already knows.

He looks at you. Just looks, but you see he already put the pieces together. He saw the shards scattering around your knees. His expression is softer than you’ve ever seen it but he looks at you with an intensity that is new to you. There is that understanding in his eyes. But it’s so soft. So gentle.

There is no anger, no frustration, no disappointment.

There is nothing of the reaction you had feared for.

Yes, there is pain in his eyes as well. It’s unmistakable, flickering in the soft blue of his irises. But it’s not the pain you expected.

It’s not for the ornament. It’s not for what it meant.

It’s for you.

You can see it in the way his brows crease, the frown that tugs at his mouth. And the way he never once lets his gaze stray to the shards on the floor. All he looks at is you.

Bucky keeps his hands on your face, continuing to swipe over your cheeks like he’s afraid you’ll crumble if he lets go. Then, his thumbs still, resting against your cheekbones, his touch so achingly gentle that it only makes more tears fall.

“Sweetheart,” he says again, and the word cracks, quiet and uneven. He still doesn’t look angry. He still doesn’t look disappointed. He looks devastated - not for what you’ve done, but for what it’s done to you.

Your lips tremble, barely able to form words.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay. Come here.”

Baby definitely is a new one. It’s something he’s never called you before. But there is no time to linger on it, no chance to unpack the flutter it sparks in your stomach because he’s already pulling you toward him.

His flesh arm wraps around your body, tugging you against his chest, while his metal hand finds its place at the back of your head, cold but reassuring fingers threading through your hair.

He lets you cry against his chest. Cradles you so tightly to him, you might actually get worried about your ribs, but it feels so good. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, his heart is pounding. The fabric of his tactical suit presses against your skin, rough and worn from the mission he just came back from, but it grounds you to some extent.

“It’s okay. Just breathe, alright? Breathe,” he keeps whispering, exaggerating his breaths against your body to invite you to follow his lead. You try.

“I’m so sorry,” you sob, the words spilling out in a choked, broken rush as you bury your face in his chest. The tears won’t stop, soaking into the dark fabric of his suit.

“Shh,” he keeps on with his soft voice. His arm around you tightens, holding you closer, while his metal hand stays solidly at the back of your head. His fingers brush through your hair in slow, soothing motions. “Don’t be. Don’t you dare be.”

He continues murmuring to you when you try to apologize again, his voice low and warm. He talks so calmly and sure, you feel something inside of you churn.

Bucky tilts his head slightly, resting his cheek against your hair, and you feel the warmth of his breath as he talks to you.

And yet, biting guilt gnaws its way through your ribs. You feel terrible - worse than terrible - because it should be you comforting him, not the other way around.

It’s him who lost something precious, something you had broken. And here he is, holding you, brushing tears from your face, whispering words meant to stitch you back together.

But somehow, he doesn’t even seem to care. He holds you like you are the only thing that matters right now.

Remorse burrows deep, heavy, and shaming, until it pulls you back to yourself - slowly, shakily, but enough to loosen the sobs caught in your throat.

You sniff and take a breath, a real one this time, ragged but yours.

Then, you shift in his arms, gently pressing against his chest to put space between you. His hold loosens, slowly, with a hesitation that tugs at something in you. As if he is reluctant to let you go. Still, he relents.

His flesh hand slides away first, but his metal one lingers, brushing through your hair one last time before settling on your shoulder. He keeps you close, his thumb brushing absentminded sweeps across your sweater.

His gaze never strays and it’s heavy. You can’t meet his eyes for long. They’re too full of that care you don’t deserve, the care he shows you in so many small gestures all the time.

So your gaze falls to the floor, but then you freeze again.

The broken shards that had glinted so mockingly against the floor just moments ago are gone. Instead, settled carefully on the coffee table as though it had never fallen at all, is the ornament.

Whole.

It takes you a moment to process it, to trust what you’re seeing. The cracks are gone, smoothed over seamlessly. The gleaming red glass catches the light of the Christmas tree, its golden little details shining like something out of a memory, timeless and unbroken. As beautiful and aesthetic as before.

For a moment, you even wonder if your eyes are playing tricks on you, but then you notice Wanda standing at the far side of the room. Her hands lower slowly, the telltale red glow of her magic fading from her fingertips.

She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t step closer - just tilts her head slightly, offering you the faintest, knowing smile. Her eyes are warm.

God, of course. You should have thought of that. It even makes you feel a little ridiculous. You live together with people who possess supernatural abilities, powers beyond comprehension. You should have thought of Wanda. How her hands could have mended it back together in seconds.

A choked breath stumbles out of you, somewhere between relief and disbelief. Bucky follows your gaze, his brows furrowing, only to soften when he sees the ornament resting perfectly intact on the table. He stares at it for a moment.

But then he looks back at you and his sweet smile could melt any ice this winter has to offer.

His flesh hand moves a few strands of hair out of your face and tugs them tenderly behind your ear. His hand stays on your cheek. “Told you it’s okay.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I still broke it,” you say, words slipping out quietly, somberly. Your gaze remains fixed on it. Wanda seems to have slipped out again.

“Stop,” Bucky cuts in, his voice more firm than before but still gentle as always. He shakes his head, moving closer to you again, gaze fixed on you.

You feel his hand brush against yours, but then his shoulders stiffen up. He stops. His eyes catch on something and his expression shifts in an instant.

“Jesus-” His frown deepens, something like a shadow crosses his eyes. Sharp eyes lock onto the red streaks lining your palm, the cuts where the shattered glass had broken your skin.

You hadn’t even realized you were still holding onto the pain - too caught up in everything else to notice the dull throb of your hand or the sting of the scratches.

“You’re bleeding. Why didn’t you say anything?” The words are a quiet exhale, soft but weighted. There is no reprimand in his voice, no anger - only concern coloring every syllable.

His thumb ghosts over your wrist, careful not to brush against the cuts. His intense gaze flickers from your injured hand to your face, searching your expression.

“It’s not a big deal-”

“Don’t.”

Bucky shakes his head. His jaw tightens and he exhales sharply through his nose. It’s not frustration - not with you, anyway. It’s something deeper, something that seems to pain him in his chest as he studies the scratches like they’re a personal failing.

“Bucky,” you say while trying to pull your hand back from his grasp when he tilts it more toward the light to get a better look. As if he hasn’t the eyesight of a super soldier.

“Doll. Let me see.” His lips press into a thin line, the faintest hint of exasperation ghosting across his face.

The sigh you let out drags down your chest and you don’t resist when Bucky keeps cradling your bleeding hand and studies the scratches. His brow is furrowed in concentration that feels too much for something so small.

You want to tell him it’s fine, that this is nothing, but the words die before they reach your tongue.

“Let’s get you fixed up,” he says tightly, the tone of his voice all business and leaving no room for argument.

But you shake your head. It’s your fault the ornament broke in the first place. You’re aware it’s whole again, but it was in shambles just moments earlier and you cut yourself thanks to your own stupidity.

“Bucky, you just got back from a mission-” you protest, your voice quieter than you’d like.

“Not too worried about myself right now, doll,” he interrupts, his voice insistent but warm. The hint of steel beneath his words not directed at you but at the way your guilt is still in control, trying to downplay yourself.

“Come on.” He says it softer now, but before you can argue any further, he’s already moving.

Without so much as a pause, Bucky stands and scoops you up into his arms as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You barely have a second to process the shift, before you’re pressed securely against his chest.

“Bucky!” you exclaim, startled, your uninjured hand reaching for his shoulder to steady yourself.

“Relax, doll. I’ve got you,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost amused, though his expression remains calm, focused.

You sigh again, but there is a laugh on your breath. “Buck, I can walk. You don’t have to-”

“Not hearing it,” he says simply, almost flatly. He just continues striding along the halls with you in his arms. His steps are heavier, but you know it’s not because of your weight. He holds you like you weigh nothing at all. “You’re hurt.”

That doesn’t sound like a plausible explanation to you, since you’ve come home with way worse injuries from missions over the last months alone. But the gruffness of his voice, the one that always accompanies him when you’re injured, no matter how small - the seriousness, the concern - it shuts you up for the time being.

You let your head rest against his shoulder. He smells a little like gunpowder and dust, but you only latch onto the parts that are him and breathe them in.

“I didn’t mean to break it, Bucky,” to whisper, gaze dropping to the tightly pressed ball that is your bloody fist. “I’m so sorry.”

You feel the intake of Bucky’s breath against your body and his eyes warmly falling down on you. You don’t meet his gaze.

“You didn’t break anything, sweetheart.” His voice is like velvet, brushing so softly against your skin. So reassuringly. So profoundly gentle. “You’re okay, doll. We’re okay. I promise.” His hands curl tighter around you.

You blink, your head tilting to glance up at him, and your breath catches when you meet his gaze.

It is intense. His brows are pulled together - not with anger, but with concern. Like the only things he cares about right now are the tears that linger in your eyes and the way you’re still trying to curl in on yourself, still letting your body slightly shake with the guilt that he refuses to let you carry.

Something stirs in your belly. Something flutters, as if thousands of tiny wings brush against the walls of you, demanding to be seen. To be felt.

Because you let your mind spiral so much earlier, bracing yourself for a reaction of disappointment, frustration - that flicker of something unnameable that might pull the two of you apart.

But it still isn’t there.

Not even close.

It’s the opposite, really.

[deepestnightcolor]

☾ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜱᴇᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ɢᴜʏ ☽

ᴀ/ɴ: HERE I AM WITH ANOTHER SAM SMUT! I seriously don't know what happened here, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless. Just a small disclaimer: don't go around hitting people, kids. Use your big words for big emotions!

Thank you for your time and all your love!~

PS: bonus points to whoever finds the tiny easter egg.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: Sam (SDV) x afab!Reader

ᴡᴄ: 4045 words.

ᴍᴅɴɪ ✧ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: weird, drunk guy hitting on the reader. Sam getting protective and physical. Guard dog Sammy. Mentions of blood, the taste of blood, and bruises.

Cowgirl position, making love bites, dirty talk, cream pie, Sam is a little obsessed in his fuck-drunken mind, cock-piercing, pierced tongue.

Believing in Sam had always come naturally to you. The moment he showed you his guitar and the way he could handle it, you knew he had potential. That is why you never minded coming to his band practice; you enjoyed cheering him on, giving his cheek a kiss after each session and smiling at him, praising him in a gentle voice.

Sam loved having you as an audience. Everything about you made him want to be better. He taught himself your favourite songs, just so he was able to see your face light up when you recognized the melody. Sharing his passion with you was easier for him than with anyone else. At first, he had thought your personality was the reason for that, but when you kissed his cheek after one of his practices and the first thing he had felt was the wish that you would kiss his lips instead, he began to consider that there perhaps was more than just the trust he showed you.

After all, whenever Sam had doubts, he would come to you.

Whenever he didn’t know what to play, he would come to you.

Whenever he felt like he had to show someone a new song he taught himself, he would come to you.

That is why no one was surprised that he would come to you once his band had landed its first gig in Zuzu City. Blue eyes glistening with excitement, his whole body trembling while he tried to refrain from jumping up and down as he relayed the news. You laughed with him, hugging the blond tightly to your chest. “I knew it was only a matter of time,” you told him. And he believed it.

That was also the reason you stood in front of a stage in Zuzu city, wearing your most adorable outfit you knew was one of Sam’s favourites, given the way his gaze lingered whenever you had it on. In fact, he had given you the expected reaction when you had stepped up to the bus; first squishing you to his toned chest, just to stare once you had pulled away. His voice had been hoarse as he complimented you, telling you that you were an absolute beauty tonight. You had smiled at him, your fingers running through your hair as you leaned towards his ear just to whisper some words that would spin around Sam’s head for the whole ride. “You look deliciously hot as well, Sammy.” 

Deliciously hot, huh? He had never heard you call anyone else like that. Did that mean something? That was entirely possible, wasn’t it?

The way you stared up at him while he was on stage definitely made him wonder. But he was not innocent, either, because he stared right back. Each song he announced, he announced for you. Each special solo was dedicated to you. Each look with hooded “fuck me”-eyes that seemingly danced over the crowd was dedicated to you. To Sam, this whole fucking show was for you. And you drank it all up.

In fact, you were enthralled enough you didn’t even notice the guy who pushed up to you as Sam thanked the crowd. All that mattered was Sam, and his voice whispering a good night to the crowd. His blue eyes landed on you again, and you took the chance to smile at him, blowing him a kiss.

“You alone here?” a voice next to you suddenly slurred over the noise of the crowd, which meant that its owner must have been incredibly close. You turned your head slowly, meeting a guy’s face. He seemed drunk already, and the grin he gave you certainly wasn’t one of good intentions. You cleared your throat and took a step back, scratching your neck. “No, no really.”

“Huh, that’s smart for a pretty girl like you.”

 You gave an awkward smile, not wanting to tempt the stranger into attempting any further conversation as you turned around, trying to make your way to the bar. You had exchanged two sentences, and you were already desperate to escape the situation.

You were able to make it to the bar and ordered a drink that you could down before finding Sam, when suddenly, a hand landed on your hip, using the leverage to spin you around. A gasp left your lips, your muscles tensing when you saw the drunken man again.

“Hey, I wasn’t done talking to you. Somebody should teach you manners.”

You grit your teeth, trying to squirm free of his grasp. His hands were sweaty and felt uncomfortable – disgusting - even through the fabric of your clothes.

You had never been in a situation like this, not in all the years you had lived in Zuzu. Your eyes trailed to the stage automatically, trying to make out the blond hair. Maybe he would catch your gaze and-

“I am talking to you,” the voice snarled, making your attention snap back to him. His hand was still on you, and you wanted to get it away from you.

“Fuck off,” you hissed, squirming again and finally being able to get rid of his hand.

“That is no way to talk to someone. Especially for a pretty girl like you. Maybe I should take you home and-“

“Didn’t you fucking hear? She told you to fuck off.” A familiar voice, a voice that felt safe.  Sam had emerged from the crowd, pushing past the guy to stand next to you.

“And who are you?”

“Her fucking boyfriend. Also telling you to fuck. Off.”

One of the blond’s arms was quick to snake around your waist, pulling you into his side with a quick tug. Again, a hand was on your hip, but this time you felt much more comfortable. Much better.

The happy glint that had been in his eyes while he was on stage had vanished and was replaced by something dark. Something you had never seen cloud those pretty blue eyes before. It almost seemed possessive.

The stranger cleared his throat, and for a moment, it seemed like he would retreat without any other word.

But then, everything went down fast.

“Fine. No one wants a cheap slut like you, anyways.” The drunk man hadn’t even finished spitting on the ground in front of his feet before a fist connected with his jaw. Sam, the man who played the SpongeBob theme song when bored and loved the minions had thrown the first punch, and a good one at that. The sheer power behind it made his opponent stumble backward, the blond using the opportunity to now step in front of you.

“Don’t. You. Call. Her. That!” he growled, his fist already lifted for the next hit. The guy, despite the level of alcohol that he probably had in his system, was fast, though. He shot back up and allowed his knuckles to meet Sam’s face, but his aim was off. His head knocked with a light cracking sound to the side. You let out a loud gasp, and desperately tugged on the man’s shirt, trying to get him away from your harasser. “Sam. Come on. Let’s go.”

But Sam had started something. And he would finish it. You were absolutely shocked as he aggressively shoved the guy, who now had blood on his knuckle. He used the distraction he had created to hit his face again, this time sending him to the ground with a grunting sound. Trying to defend himself while falling he scratched Sam, but it seemed the guitarist didn’t even mind. Instead, he straddled him and gripped him by the collar of his shirt, staring right into his eyes.

“Never. And I mean fucking never touch her again. I will find you. I will break your hands and shove them so far down your throat they will come out of your ass again.”

“Sam!” You cried, which finally got his attention. He let go of the shirt, dropping him in his own spit, giving the pathetic figure a snarl. Without another word, Sam gently took your wrist, leading you toward the backstage area where he had gotten ready. Once he finally turned around to settle you on one of the chairs, knelt down in front of you to make sure you were okay, you could see what the impact had done to him. His carefully styled hair was a mess; there were scratches on his cheek, and his pretty pink lips were busted open. You found it pretty unfair that he had just gotten into a fight and still looked hot. Maybe even hotter.

“Are you okay? What a disgusting-“

You couldn’t help but stare at his lips. They were so pretty. And he had gone all out just to protect you. You just had to kiss him, didn’t you?

You couldn’t resist anymore, your hands grabbed at the back of his neck and pulled him in. The blond winced at the sting when your lips collided, but by Yoba, did your hands feel good against the heated-up skin of his neck. He would have been stupid if he hadn’t kissed back; and who was he to deny your tongue entrance to his mouth, anyway?

It would have been a shame if he didn’t suck on your tongue like a desperate man, and fuck did your lips taste good.

Blood and saliva mixed together, but you didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you let your hands trace through his hair, giving a few blond strands a soft tug. Sam grunted, getting on his long legs without breaking the kiss, allowing himself to drop down on the sofa while pulling you towards him. You took the chance and straddled him, only pulling away to kiss down his jawline.

“You know how long I have wanted to kiss you?” The guitarist murmured, allowing his head to dip to the side to give you more access. “Ever since you first played that stupid song to annoy Sebastian and Abigail,” you answered bluntly, kissing down his neck. You knew Sam’s face would bruise up tomorrow, so what were a few more? You wanted this fucking man.

Fangs sinking in the flesh of his neck, you sucked on the newfound redness, shiver running down your spine when you heard the deep groan rumble through his chest. Feeling you react to the sound he made gave him a sudden boost of confidence, large hands trailing down your back just to grip the flesh of your ass with both of his hands. He gave it a good squeeze, not being able to help himself but moan. You felt so good already, and you weren’t even undressed.Yet.

“Sam…I…Fuck, I want you.”

That certainly was an understatement by now. You needed Sam. Given the pulsing you felt beneath you, you were pretty sure you would get what you needed, though.

His fingers were now clawing at your butt as he pulled you in closer, his busted lips smashing into yours again. This time he didn’t even flinch at the feeling; this time he was nothing short of greedy. Shoving his tongue past your pearly whites, he explored your mouth, trying to get to taste more of you. You moaned for him when he sucked on your tongue again, his piercing rubbing against the muscle. The heat that had begun pooling between your legs made you shift around his lap, only to be rewarded by the blond bucking up his hips in an attempt to chase the feeling. Both of you moaned into one another’s mouths, and you were sure you had never craved something this much in life. Sam’s hands had left your butt now, fingers working on unbuttoning your pants. His fingers were skilled, so the small button keeping the shorts together definitely wasn’t much of an obstacle. In fact, you could feel his fingers toying with the waistband of your panties faster than you could blink. Not that you minded. Quite the opposite; while still enjoying Sam’s tongue dominating yours, you lifted your hips so he could pull down the fabric that separated his slender fingers from your heat.

“That’s a good girl,” Sam cooed in your mouth, making you moan quietly. How could a man have you so wrapped around his finger without even touching your pussy yet?

That quickly changed when the calloused pad of his index finger found your clit, gently nudging the hardening bundle of nerves. “So wet for me already, aren’t you?”

You nodded, your brain not able to produce words that would even come close to explaining that he would be able to make you just as wet by only getting naked.

Your hips rutted against his finger, and in turn, his hardening cock. The blond sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, the need to get you naked and feel you against, scratch that, around his drooling dick growing in the pit of his stomach. But Sam, ever the gentleman, instead allowed his finger to slip through your folds, circling your needy little entrance with ease before dipping in just the tip.

Your reaction was immediate. You arched in your back and tried to press down your hips to coax him in a little more, but Sam, staring at you in absolute awe, removed his finger whenever you attempted. How could one person be so hot? How the hell could he have gone so long without touching you?

“Sam, please. Give me something,” you begged, licking your lips as you looked down at him. Sam, giving you a toothy grin, finally gave in and pushed a single finger inside of you, enjoying your lip being dragged in between your teeth to keep yourself from moaning his name out loud. His finger thrusted up inside of you, and just to give you a better idea of what was awaiting you he bucked up his hips.

The blond took his time, only adding a second finger after you begged him to, scissoring them within you to coax out more of the moans that sounded like music to his ear. He himself had to dig the nails of his other hand inside of the couch to ground himself enough as to not whimper and moan just from touching you. However, when your hands set into motion to remove your shirt and bra, allowing those fucking pretty tits to bounce free, it was game over. A low moan left his swollen lips as he stared at your chest, shamelessly ogling them. You could have sworn you saw his tongue loll out of his mouth, some drool dripping from the muscle, but a third finger stretching your drooling cunt distracted you.

“Sam, please. Can I ride you? Pretty please.”

He was dreaming, probably. Or he had smoked too much weed and was imagining this; how else could this be happening? But your hips rutting against his fingers that were coated in your slick were telling a different story. And even if all of this wasn’t real, he would enjoy it while it lasted.

“Sam? Please, baby. Please let me ride this cock…Fuck, you are so hard already. I can feel it through your pants…”

The whine that left you when he removed his fingers from you absolutely tore his heart into shreds, but he needed to free his dick. Otherwise, it would have ripped his pants apart, given that pretty begs that left your sweet mouth oh so easily.

He shifted you around in his lap, pulling down his pants and boxers just enough for his erection to spring free. The skin was hot, and you just had to gawk at him. Sam was big and girthy. And at that-

“You got your dick pierced?” You whispered, but it pretty much sounded like a whimpered moan. The blond grinned a little, tongue trailing over his teeth.

“Mhhhm…You like it?”

Fuck. You could have had an orgasm on the spot, by doing nothing else but imagining the pierced tip to bully into you.

Sam opened his mouth to tease you just a little more when he suddenly felt your fingers wrap around his shaft, guiding his drooling tip to your entrance. He was absolutely hypnotized, watching his tip kiss your sloppy hole and the way your thighs twitched. “Fuuuuck…” he breathed as you allowed the tip to enter you. You were insanely wet, and your cunt greeted him with another gush of juices.

The blond decided he could have died right then and there and his life would have been complete; that was at least what he thought until you pushed and pushed and pushed. He just couldn’t take his eyes away from his dick vanishing in your desperate pussy, centimetre by centimetre. His mouth was hanging open, and now you definitely could see his tongue hanging out, his chest heaving and falling quickly as the man who had fearlessly thrown punches before was now whimpering for you.

You yourself weren’t in much better shape.

The metal pushing against your wall the more you sat down on him; his sheer length splitting you open, it all had you a babbling mess. Telling him how good he felt, how big he was, how much you had wanted this. Sam’s hands were pawing at your hips, visibly straining himself from not just fucking into you, fucking everything he couldn’t say right up your cunt. But you needed a moment, he knew by the way your walls clung to him, the way you shifted around. You were so fucking precious, and he wanted you to know. His lips trailed along your neck, sucking onto your skin once he found your collarbones. His finger had taken its place on your clit again, flicking the bud gently as his blue eyes peered at you again. His eyes had the same look in them as they had before, just this time they were also filled with silent worship. This look alone gave you to strength to lift your hips, just to drop them down, allowing him to bottom out inside of you again. The two of you moaned in unison, and for some reason, you couldn’t imagine a life without this dick anymore.

Your hips rutted back and forth as your lips found Sam’s again, the kiss you shared desperate and wet. But neither of you cared as moans spilled from your connected lips. His pre-cum was mixing with your wetness, causing sloppy sounds whenever your walls completely wrapped around him. “You are so fucking pretty on my cock like this, baby. Does it feel good, huh? Like me filling you up? Like bein’ my good girl?”

You wanted to answer, you really did. But your open mouth only let moans of his name pass, so you resorted to a quick nod. You placed your hands on his arms, nails digging into the flesh as waves of pleasure hit you with every single movement of your hips.

“S…Sam,” you rambled, head thrown back. You started to full on bounce on his lap again, your tilted back position allowing him a full view of those jumping tits of yours. They were simply too hard to resist; his head dipped down and placed kisses all over the heated-up skin until his lips finally caught on of your nipples. He eagerly sucked on it, his hand carefully squeezing the other. Couldn’t let one of these pretty tits go without attention now, could he?

The breathless moan that entered his ears stimulated his brain in a way he couldn’t describe. Something feral was awoken within him; the events of the night flashing in front of his inner eye. You were his now, right? His pretty girl, and he needed to show you just that. His hips snapped up quite automatically, while his mouth switched to the other nipple. His finger was still massaging circles into your clit, making your vision go blurry.

Sam and you hadn’t ever done as much as hug, and still, he knew exactly how to touch you. Your nails this time found his chest through his shirt as you tried to keep up with the fast pace he had immediately picked up, your whole body bouncing with his tip bullying up into you whenever you sat down on him. His piercing was rubbing against your walls, massaging them just like they were sucking off his dick. You were pretty sure you had never been this wet before, and you were even more sure that Sam’s crotch was drenched by now.

Sam apparently tried to break you apart as his hips kept snapping up at a rough pace, neither caring about the droplets of wetness falling from your cunt, nor about the way he was whimpering and begging for you with his voice.

The sounds that his vocal chords produced became more high-pitched as his dick twitched and pulsed inside of you. His cock abused your cunt, and you were all for it. Honestly, you would have cried if he wasn’t fucking you like his name was written all over you.

Your orgasm was nearing, you could feel it tickling every nerve of your body, giving you the feeling you had to pull away. But he just felt so perfect. So right.

Trying to voice your nearing orgasm was definitely harder than you had expected. All that you could come up with was his name again. Your tongue felt heavy, like you were drunk. And in some way, you were. Drunk on his dick, his smell, the feeling of his tongue and mouth messing with your tits, him.

Sam didn’t feel much different. He could have sworn that he was about to burst at the seams. You felt heavenly, delicate, and yet like you needed to be pounded into oblivion. He just couldn’t get enough of your tits in his face, of the way you sounded. You were his favourite song now.

“Gonna cum, princess,” he breathed in the valley of your breasts, holding onto your waist to help you pick up your pace. You were sobbing his name as you felt your orgasm tearing at your insides. You wanted to warn him, you really did, but the cry that left you reached your tongue faster than any words – it was unholy. Lewd, and desperate, full of arousal as your orgasm made your body quake.

Your body was shaking on him, the release you felt paralyzing you, and yet it only turned Sam on more. His hips fucked into you ruthlessly, metal of his cock piercing bumping along you as his tip kissed your cervix.

“FUCK!” He snapped, teeth sinking into your tit as a violent orgasm made his cock twitch, spurts of cum painting your walls white.

But that wasn’t enough for Sam. He needed it deeper. He needed you to feel it on your way home. In bed. With heavy breathing, he put his feet on the couch and while holding you down, fucked up into you.

Strained sobs left your lips as your sensitive cunt was abused so mercilessly, but those whimpers that filled the room and came from those beautiful lips; they almost made you beg for more.

The blond only stopped when his hands on your waist began to shake, just like his legs. His thrusts became sloppy and less precise, hips stuttering and losing force until they completely halted. The two of you sat in silence, your head on his shoulder while his arms held you close and secure.

It took you several moments before you shared a silent gaze, your lips meeting in another kiss. This one was much slower, sweeter, even. You still could taste the blood on his tongue, and you still didn’t mind.

When you pulled away, you could see that Sam looked even more beaten now. The scratches had swollen just like his lips, and a bruise was starting to form on his jaw. His neck just looked as bad; love bites scattered all around the pale skin.

The blond’s hand reached out to gently tuck a strand of your hair back, a smile tugging on the corners of his mouth.

You gave a shy smile back, sighing slowly.

“You shouldn’t have fought with someone because of me.”

Sam snorted, shaking his head.

“For you? I’d happily get beat to smithereens.”

[infin1ty-garden]

can you write something with cregan and targ reader about her and his direwolf?

WINTER WALK

✧. ┊ summary: [ in request ] ✧. ┊ pairing: cregan stark x targaryen! fem! reader ✧. ┊ warnings: none ✧. ┊ word count: 477 ✧. ┊ author note: i never finished reading blood and fire. is probably ooc & not how people talk in the got universe. takes place before s2

masterlist.

Even as a Targaryen you gravitate to the north. Might be because your hand was promised to Cregan Stark and getting to know your betrothed before your marriage, was a privilege not many have. Dragons have made it easier to travel. A raven has been sent to announce you'll be heading to Winterfell.

Cregan was waiting for you upon your arrival. Your dragon wasn't full grown yet and a lot easier to take care of. "How was your journey?" He asked once you landed. "Tiring," a cloak was draped around your shoulders. In a conversation you'd said that due to flying from the red keep to Winterfell, changing clothes on a dragon is impossible.

You hadn't thought Cregan inquiring about your dragon, would result in this. You thanked him as the two of you made your way to Winterfell. A few dragon keepers had made their way to the north in order to take care of your dragon. You decided to retire for the day as the ride exhausted you. What you didn't expect was on a late night stroll to encounter a direwolf.

You had no idea how to treat the beast. You kept a clear mind. Not wanting to show fear. You didn't know how similar dragons are to direwolves. The wolf didn't snarl or get in a position to attack. You didn't move, hoping it would just walk past but the opposite happened. You were so focused on not getting killed, you didn't hear Cregan approaching you.

He slowly took your hand. The wolf sniffed it and turned away. Cregan raised your hand and kissed it lightly. "You shouldn't be out here in this late hour," he started walking back to Winterfell. The wolf follows behind. The next time you say it again. You'd gone out hunting with Cregan when everything went wrong. You were attacked by some thugs.

Cregan stood in front of you, hoping that any arrow would hit him instead of you. His party hid, you two soon following. Not his direwolf, it attacked the thugs. You heard their screams as his men protected you. Cregan leaving your side. Once the fight was over the wolf came over to you. Lightly talking your dress between its teeth as it pulled you out of your hiding spot.

Cregan checks if you were hurt and confirms you weren't leading you back to the castle. The wolf refuses to leave your side for the remainder of the day. You made your way to your chambers, trailing behind you. "You can't follow me there." You pointed to the door of your chambers. It followed in any way. Making itself comfortable on the bed. "What are you doing?"

It wouldn't listen to you no matter what and was too big for you to move it on your own. So, you just had to deal with it.

Thanks for reading & requesting!

[xoxo-surfergirl]

the lady, the prince, & the sword

[in honor of spooky season]

aemond targaryen x fem!reader

abstract: over one hundred years after the dance, you grow up as a lady in the ruins of Harrenhal. One day, you get a little too curious about the prince and his dragon rumored to be rotting at the bottom of the lake, and awaken something beyond your understanding. 🕯️this fic is inspired by a post from @sapphirevhagar 🕯️ themes: spooky harrenhal, smut, ghost/undead aemond, aemond as a war criminal, forbidden romance if you squint, you are the lady of harrenhal, dark aemond (but like, he's a dark character so I just tried to stay true to who he is), piv & hand stuff

lucy's notes: ao3 link. I tried to make my characterization of aemond as true as I could, but I won't lie it was hard in this scenario!! I don't think he'd be the type to just fuck someone (but maybe he would...who knows), but for the purposes of this spooky halloween fic I tried to make it as realistic as I could. maybe he would if he was pussy starved for a century, so that's what I'm going for. ENJOY!

word count: 8.6k

The sun had struck its highest point in the sky, your very own guiding star to the lake below it. 

From this bluff above God’s Eye, you could see all of what you called home: a boundless land, resilient despite centuries of war that had left each tree as a tombstone watered with spilled blood. And yet, the land was more alive because of it, or perhaps despite it. You weren’t sure which, but you knew just as well as any other riverman that if you listened close enough, you could feel the breath of the land under your feet. 

The rolling evergreens murmured when the winds ran through their branches. Winter was coming, and soon the jeweled blue of God’s Eye would coalesce into bitter sheets of ice. But for now, the first light gusts coaxed the water’s surface into gentle catspaws, still forgiving enough on your skin to welcome you into the lake. There was no barrier between your toes and the grass. Your daily swims were the one time you went without boots, an activity of yours that the Lord of Harrenhal detested. Mud is unbecoming of a lady , your father would say. It was, but so was walking in squelching boots back to your chambers. 

The faint line of sand at your favorite lakeside spot had finally breached your toes. It was better than all of the rest. Much of the lake had no such comfortable entry as this: a large swath of sand perfectly divoted for entry. Silence was a familiar friend here. It was a true silence, unlike the faint drips and echoes that seeped through your walls. 

And so the last thing you were expecting was company. “And what finds my Lady at this cursed corner of God’s Eye?” 

“My good Patrek, I did not expect to see you here.” Hiding your fright was easier said than done. An old family friend of the less noble type, with a face worn by time and a voice weathered by wind. Onlookers were rare here, and you wondered if he had followed you all the way from the keep. 

“You should not be here, my Lady. You know the stories, educated as you are.” 

You did—of how the very burrows of sand that now welcomed your toes were dug by Daemon Targaryen’s dragon Caraxes in a death-crawl to shore after his rider and opponent had perished. Every riverman knew of the tale. 

“I swim here often. If there is a curse, I hope I have been spared it.” Brushing off a stubborn elder was something you were quite familiar with. 

“Then you know the dragon’s blood soaked into the soil, dying where you stand. The very ground you walk on is damned.” His voice gruffed against his throat, but there was no mistaking the concern there. 

It wasn’t that you didn’t believe in the power of such things—as a Lady of Harrenhal you knew very well from your own accord how often things are not always what they seemed. But even some tales were too far-fetched for your own belief.

 Besides, if you heeded every tale and story from your surrounding men, you’d hardly be able to leave your chambers. 

Telling an old riverman what to do was not a task you’d expected to find yourself involved in at this hour. The look in your eye did more talking than your words. “I appreciate your concern, Patrek. But I insist, I am more than alright.” 

With one last stare, he dismissed himself. Thank the gods. 

In front of you, fragile blades of grass dared to peek through the large sand trough. It was a perfect pathway to the water, gently sloping and kinder on your feet than the rocky mud surrounding the rest of the lake was. If this truly was Caraxes’ doing, he had carved such a fine entrance to the water. It had never regrown. Barren, unlike the greater parts of the rest of the lake—perhaps the agony of such a creature reshaping the dirt with its claws, belly dragging and wingless on one side, had scarred the land permanently. You could see it. 

The water lapped at your toes now. Dragons were a far away concept, from a land and world that no longer existed, yet you wondered if their deaths really were something so traitorous to the gods that the land could never fully be right again. 

Stepping further and further inside, the light billow of your dress danced in the water. There were times, like a moonlit night, where you would forgo your dress and let the lake feel you bare. Those moments were rare, and ladies hardly had enough privacy and virtue to spare to allow such brazen activities—but you indulged in them when the moon called. With a final push of your toes, you dove your hands ahead of you and released. For a second, you were flying, letting the water carry you before you pushed against it once more. Smiling came easy here. 

And yet Patrek’s words lingered. None of the information was new. Perhaps it was the graveness of his voice that haunted you. 

Words could melt in the water, and his were no exception. The water held you as your mother might have, or a lover—all over, bringing you a comfort you could find nowhere else. You ran your fingers and toes in the sand below you, feeling it sift in the weightlessness between them. 

The sun had sunk low in the sky when you emerged from the lake, mind and body calm in your daily ritual. 

A new day had brought with it new curiosities—it would be easier to say that getting the tales out of your head was a simple task, but over the course of the previous day, it had proved much more difficult than you’d hoped. 

Sleep had evaded you, and restlessness drew you to the library. Each book was half rotted away from moisture that settled between each page and binding stitch. The candle light in your hand fought a losing battle with the mist, surrendering to a low bruising blue. Even still, you had found what you came there for. 

It was readable despite the poor lighting.  Dragons in the Riverlands were a sore subject—it was not a surprise to find that many, if not all of the manuscripts on dragons were loathsome at best, and near traitorous to your Targaryen overlords at worst. 

Prince Daemon Targaryen and his dragon Caraxes dueled Prince Aemond Targaryen and his dragon Vhagar on the 22nd day of the 5th moon of 130 AC. Dragon shrieks rippled in the wind and dragonfire flamed into the sunset so bright that the sky itself was said to be alight. Prince Daemon is said to have leapt onto Vhagar, plunging the ancestral Targaryen Valyrian steel sword Dark Sister through his nephew’s good eye. Caraxes is believed to have crawled to shore before releasing a dying shriek. Prince Daemon, Prince Aemond and Vhagar’s bones are believed to remain at the bottom of the lake today. 

Portraits of the two men and their dragons had accompanied the passage, with sketches of the battle gathered from the artists and bards surrounding God’s Eye. Long platinum hair framed both men, though Daemon lacked Aemond’s youth and sapphire eye.

  What a peculiar thing, a sapphire eye. Imagining a dragon as large as Vhagar sunk deep beneath your nose was a strange thing, fitting for a strange man with a sapphire in his socket. Trying to imagine a creature, let alone a dragon as big as her, was incomprehensible. If she really was the size of a small keep, how could one command her? 

Aemond Targaryen had—and perhaps that made him one of the most god-like Targaryens of all Targaryens to exist. And now he was damned to spend his eternity bound to the dark blue dungeon that was the depths of God’s Eye. 

Your toes had found the water’s edge once again, among the supposed cursed grounds of Caraxes last breathing place. If one dragon’s death made the land cursed, then surely the death of two doubled it. 

Today was a different venture than you were used to. The sun was even more forgiving than usual, warming your skin before you ever touched the water. It was a compulsion that drew your limbs to swim further from shore, an unexplainable magnetic lord that your limbs gladly obliged. With a hefty suck of air, you submerged your head. The chamber of echoing silence took its hold of your ears as you sank deeper and with a blink, you opened your eyes. The sun rays refracted in planes off of the water’s surface, down to the awaiting bottom. Only on the most clear days were you able to see this far, and yet it still wasn’t far enough to reach its furthest depths. 

Arms and legs tugged on the water. You sank deeper, your hair and dress haloing your floating figure. Long tendrils of curly pondweed and brittle water nymph followed the soft current rippling through the lake. You could feel its light pull, but your limbs were much stronger than the fragile plants that lay there. Swimming forward into deeper territory, large rocks begin to take shape, with their own water thread and algae sprouting from aged cracks. 

It was so faint, you almost missed it. A sparkle or two in the darkness, a trap of sunlight where sunlight didn’t belong anymore, just out of your sight. Another pull of your arms and you were closer: close enough to almost see what could create such a glimmer. Your lungs were calling but you just needed to get one more look—

Despite the near fade to darkness, the shape was unmistakable: a silver pommel, jutting out from beyond the deep. The dragon wings at the hilt were frozen in flight. Realization laid its heavy hand upon your chest and the call of your lungs became too loud to ignore. Frantically swimming to the surface, the bubbles spilled from your lips as the water became warmer as the sun drew closer. Your rift of the surface was punctuated by the loud gasp of your aching chest. Save for your weak disruption, the top of the lake sat as tranquil and undisturbed as you had left it. 

If it’s what you thought it was—

A few more deep breaths later and you were down below the surface once again, heart thrumming with revelation. This time, you knew exactly how deep you needed to go. You don’t know how you didn’t see it before, but the glint was visible even near the surface. It was a distant sparkle in the underworld, as if it was capturing the blue essence of God’s Eye itself. Blood pumped through your ears in the chamber of the deep as your arms tugged, stomach threatening to turn despite your precious conservation of air. 

A sapphire and a sword, each a shining beacon of their own. The skull which held both tilted up towards the heavens. Beyond it, skeletal arms reached forward, nearly upward. Part of you knew that the same buoyancy which allowed you to float was the same that held him, but another part of you wondered if at the time of the prince’s death he was reaching towards the sky in hopeless defiance. His once royal leathers and armor were rusted and torn, ebbing like the eel grass that had taken root. Time submitted all to its will, even princes, leaving only rot behind. 

The incomprehensible became comprehensible with one look downwards: crumpled and black, you realized it was not depth, but dragon bones themselves that seemed to create the darkness of the water that surrounded him. Thick spires of obsidian bone curled around what you could only put together as a rib cage the size of a small keep. Her skull was far from her body, large eye sockets gaping and maw stretched with rows of dagger teeth. The very maw that was the last sight of many in the Riverlands. 

If you wanted to reach the surface, you needed to swim now. But for a few more moments, the urge to swim just a bit further was greater than your want for air. You don’t know what possessed you—it could have been the lack of oxygen, or that you were just fond of shiny things on occasion, but you reached for the bright pommel that was nearly offering itself out to you and pulled. The blade was heavier than you were anticipating, as much of a novice as you were, but you persisted. Drawing your arms tight into your chest and using your whole body to swim against it, you did your best to wrack it free from its hold in the prince’s skull. It felt almost wrong to pull so hard, but you persisted. Bubbles jutted from your mouth in the struggle until it wracked free. 

It was now the second time you surfaced, and your gasp was much louder than the last. The sword was heavy in your arms, wanting to drag you back down to the bottom with it and join the prince and his dragon. There was no particular reason for taking it—it was a beautiful thing, untouched by the same rot and ruin as the prince and his dragon below. A sneaky voice in your head reminded you that a relic like this could pay to fill Harrenhal’s coffers for half the year or more if returned to the Targaryens, yet that is not why you sought it. 

In fact, you weren’t sure you wanted anyone to know what you had taken, and made quick work to wrap it in your swimming dress on your way back to the castle. A large object wrapped in cloth was not subtle, but the impossibility of manning such a monstrosity of a castle worked in your favor. Taking careful steps and hiding in the many alcoves to weave your way back to your chambers without spectacle proved a successful effort. 

The afternoon had come and gone with little affair, besides a light dusting of rain. It rained at Harrenhal often. And often, you found it peaceful. The rain was a part of life, and the wetness with it. 

But as the late afternoon carried on to evening, it became no such rain. The sky had darkened hours before sundown, bright colors and pretty horizons forgotten behind the undulating turmoil above you. The thunder went beyond simple sounds to full-bodied vibrations, shaking you from the bottom of your feet through your ears. It was not a storm, but a wroth sky. You were certain that no castle for hundreds of miles was spared. 

The buckets meant to catch runaway leaks in the stones were overflowing from the violent rain. Wind raided every crevice it could weave through, whistling just to force itself through. Servants and your family alike had begun sheltering the most fragile of belongings: books, letters, artifacts, and wood sensitive to rot. The torches fought against the wind, a harsh back-and-forth that flickered all light around you into senselessness. 

Retiring early tended to suit you better in many storms, though you doubted you would be getting any meaningful sleep. Earlier, you had unfurled Dark Sister. A small bead of blood on your finger taught you that valyrian steel was as sharp as they say it is. The sword rested against your desk, tall and lethal, catching every strike of lightning as it came down through your window. 

Between each bout of thunder and battering of lightning, you managed to find moments of rest. Each time a strike would come down threatening to tear down the walls, you sat up, clutching your down quilt in your hands. And each time, Dark Sister was glinting in the corner, winged hilt spread like a pouncing bird of prey. 

And yet the greatest of your fears lay not with the presence of the ancestral Targaryen sword, but came in your winks of sleep: a figure, tall and eerie, in the corner of your chambers. Each time you had awoken, your eyes flashed across your room, fearing that you would find a creature of the night standing there. 

Luckily, it seemed the shadow had made its home in your head and not your chambers. When daybreak began to glow behind the clouds, your relief came with it. 

This day was much the same as the last, yet there were fewer and fewer channels for excess water to pour away from the hearths. There would be no swimming today, that much was certain; making the walk down to the lake alone would be enough to sink you into mud, never to be seen again. All were set to help the effort to keep what was able to be kept dry, lady or servant. 

“An omen, I fear,” said Mathilda, a favored handmaiden of yours, as she threw another bucket of water through the open window to the yard below. 

“An omen of what?” 

“Harrenhal hasn’t seen a storm like this in over a decade. It went against all folk predictions.” she breathed worriedly,  “A bad omen. Something isn’t right.” 

You had tucked the sword under your bed about halfway through the night when you realized that looking at it only made your stomach churn. There it lay still and waiting, inches from your two pairs of feet. 

But there was nothing you could do about it at this very moment. “Is there anything to do to protect against a bad omen?” 

“It depends on what’s happened. But for most of my knowledge, I am afraid not. The damage has already been done.” 

The pit in your stomach stirred. In the same evening, the thunder was just as fierce and lightning just as fiery. Regret compounded with every shake of thunder for the stolen sword. It was better left under the lake where it belonged—you knew that now. 

Purple cracked the sky in two from your chamber window, illuminating everything once more. Folktale or omen, bad tidings or tall whispers, on the morrow you would return it. 

And yet that was exactly what didn’t happen. 

Instead, it had happened like this: servants had been rushing around the keep all morning, doing their best to keep the rush of water from entering the hall of a hundred hearths and touching the rugs. Half soaked and boots trailing water already, you didn’t make it past the tower of dread before the guards crossed their swords and insisted that you shall not pass. Too much water could sweep you off your feet and carry you away, they had said, pushing you back to your chambers while you discreetly held a covered Dark Sister to your side. 

Tomorrow it was, then. Insistence would get you nowhere. A lady’s requests were either dutifully followed or carelessly ignored. It was imperative that the torrent stopped, or that you were able to more discreetly make your way to the lake. 

The sword could not be by your side any longer. Perhaps you could leak your secret to septa Scully—you knew her folkwoman heart still beat inside her somewhere, and it could drive her to help you. 

This night was no different from the last. Harrenhal and its eerie passageways and mangey essence had managed to frighten you as a girl, the darkest storms holding your fear hostage. It had been years since you had faced the same fear that licked at your erratic heart as it did now, tucked under your quilted down, thunder wracking itself outside. 

It was in your head—the uncontrolled storm, the tales in your ear—they had simply wormed their way deep in your mind. It was a weak consolation, but your heart finally began its slowing. 

A footstep in the darkness, outside your chambers, was enough to jolt it right back. 

Any sense of sleep had left you now, and all of your focus rushed to your ears. Digging yourself deeper in the covers, you exhaled as quietly as you could in wait. 

Just as you feared, there was another, and then another. 

No matter how hard your forced your eyes shut, the fright remained, each boot knocking on the stone outside, coming closer, and closer, until, 

The door creaked open softly, a rumble of storm to accompany it. Each finger, limb, and blink was frozen over. If you were still enough, perhaps whoever had opened the door would leave you behind. Each of your heart beats felt so loud it would give away your very existence. 

The cold voice that met you instead was nearly enough to get your heart to stop beating all together. “You have something of mine.” 

You dared not move, not even at the direct notice of your presence. 

Squelching wet footsteps punctuated in between his words, each one slowly creeping closer to your bedside. “I know you’re here, little lady of Harrenhal. No amount of stillness in the world would hide you from me.” 

With a swallow of fear, you scurried off of your bed to your night side table, hoping to distance yourself from the intruder. Sitting or laying felt too vulnerable for you to stay put. 

“I don’t understand.” Were the only words you managed to choke out to the shadowed figure in front of you. There was no weapon for you to reach, unless you reached under the bed and grabbed—

“How do you not know? You took it from me.” 

He lowered the hood of his cape. Platinum hair spilled down his shoulders over the black leather of his doublet that shined as if made from metal itself. His skin was pale as a soft moon, and a sapphire eye with a dash through his face—it was almost holy in nature, the beam of a celestial spell. Any thoughts of a common thief or crook left your mind. Even still, it did almost nothing to alleviate your fear, for you had recognized him. 

The pages in your books didn’t do him justice. Any gasp that may or may not have left your lips was drowned out by a whip of lightning.  “H-how?” 

“Give me back my sword.” He answered plainly. 

Shaky hands reached under the bed, eyes locked onto his fierce gaze as you gingerly felt for the hilt. Once in your grasp, you dragged it out, the weight even heavier in your arms than it had when you had pulled it to the surface. Your arm, lightly shaking, extended to his, the pommel and blade gleaming menacingly. His own palm lay over yours to reclaim the hilt. It was made of flesh, and warm—a mystery that evaded you. 

You figured he might strap the sword to whatever sheath was on his side and go back to wherever he had come from, but instead, he set it aside. In yet another movement of unpredictability, he stepped closer. 

“You must dive again and put it back yourself, I cannot do it for you.” His flesh eye studied you carefully, stepping forward to circle you. “But, you have given me reason to finally meet you.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’ve had no one but you to keep me company for one hundred years” Now, he was at a distance where there was more familiarity and the details of his face became more prominent out of the shadows. “You swim in the lake almost every day.” 

You watched him attentively, attempting to understand what it was you were seeing. The fear of the unknown and absurd frightened you. It could be another dream, just like the one you had last night—but you were certain you were awake. 

He stepped even closer, daring to reach out his hand and brush it over your cheek, as if feeling the lifeblood that beat beneath it. “Who are you, one that swims in God’s Eye?” 

“I am a lady of Harrenhal” you paused, still trying to gauge his danger with your disbelief. “Who are you?” 

“You know who I am.” His sapphire was a burning blue ember in the night. 

Denial reared its unforgiving head into yours. Backing away, you tried to reason with yourself. “It’s a trick. Harrenhal plays tricks—I know this.” 

“I assure you, I am no illusion. Stop fighting it.” 

“I—” You let it sit for a moment. He stood in front of you, tall and enshadowed even in the faint candlelight. 

A deep exhale was all you could manage, closing your eyes in resignation. “Yes, my prince. Are you going to kill me?” 

“No, my lady. I’m not going to hurt you.” Watching the ground, you could see his black boots stepping towards you once more. “You did take my sword, but more than that, I simply wanted to meet the only one who dared swim down to me and Vhagar.” 

He tilted your chin up to meet his own eye. There was something curious there, almost soft. Aemond’s hand was so gentle it soothed your rabbit’s heart. “Now you see me, made of flesh.” 

Fear, though not absent, was no longer the only feeling that sent your blood pumping. The feeling of being wanted was something that you had coveted, yet always remained outside of your grasp. You imagined every movement of yours in the lake, how you had never been truly alone on your visits, even the ones in the deepest of summer where you shed your dress and embraced the lake with all of your bareness. 

Crafted in the image of the gods themselves or not, you knew it was impossible for every Targaryen to look the way he did; the beauty of him was something unique, you knew it. Another bolt fractured the sky outside, its flash illuminating both of you. It played a trick on your eyes, almost closing some of the distance between you with blinding light. 

“Are you scared of the storm?” Aemond loomed above you. 

“I’m of this land. Storms do not scare me.” 

“Did I frighten you?” 

He had to have known your answer, but you indulged him. “Yes, you did, my prince.” 

“You don’t need to be scared of me, my lady of God’s Eye.” He stepped closer, resting his left hand on your arm. His hair hung above your face now, a tilt of his head altering its course. “Does this frighten you?” 

You felt the soft weight of his palm, fearing breathing for the simple movement of it. “No, my prince.” With a careful pause, you continued. “My apologies for taking your sword. I didn’t know—” 

“You can repay me.” Aemond replied, his voice assured yet tender for your ears. “You have been tempting me in the lake for long enough.” 

You nodded lightly, delicately reaching out for your palm to meet his chest. There was a warmth coming from within, not cold like an undead body might be. The prince, real or not, was closer to you than any other man had ever been. He reached down, gently tugging you into a soft kiss. 

He was warm here too, and wet, much to your pleasure. Your lips opened to his own, mouths deftly sliding against one another. Aemond’s hand smoothed over your cheek, his palm nearly swallowing it whole. You moved together in a gentle sway, mouths delicately pressed together. In an act of boldness, you pressed your own body closer to his, your palm holding his side to steady yourself. 

The tempest outside your windows beat on. Your hands moved to crook in his neck. The skin there was soft like his mouth, and you wondered if the rest of him was just as welcoming. Aemond began walking forward, holding and kissing you through his guidance. Your lower back bumped against your mattress, and you broke your lips apart. 

It was perfection: the softness of this moment and the synergy of your movements against one another. 

Until it wasn’t. Perhaps it was the way the lightning had framed him, thunder dividing you two.  Within its roar came the cries of those he had forced to their knees in this very castle. The fall of wood as the huts of innocents burned to ash, Vhagar’s fire hot enough to meld armor and flesh to one. The scar he ripped across the belly of your homeland still hadn’t healed hundreds of years later, and you laid your lips on the man, or the entity of him, who had done it all. 

Your eyes must have given you away. 

“So you are frightened of me?” His subtle sultriness didn’t evade him, even in the light of the hell he had brought upon the earth. 

“You, Aemond Targaryen—reigned terror on this land,” you recoiled slightly, lifting yourself up onto your bed to inch away from him. 

He looked down, but any semblance of remorse was absent from his face. “I did. The fire that raged could be seen from the wall to Dorne.” 

History was a funny thing—something that becomes more intangible the longer it’s dead, fresh marks haunting only those who lived through it. But Aemond was tangible, here in front of you somehow. To him, did it happen yesterday or did it feel like a lifetime away?

Aemond paused, lifting his eye to meet yours, kneeling onto the floor, holding your gaze. “Let me atone for my sins then, my lady of Harrenhal.” 

Your breath hitched in your chest at the slight of his hands lifting your nightdress. 

Sitting up, you slowly pulled yourself away. “This is wrong. You’re—” 

“A monster?” 

Your lack of response was as much of an answer as anything else. 

“I am much more than that, I assure you.” You tried to pretend like the smoothing of his palm against your calf didn’t feel good. It was even harder to pretend that the man doing so wasn’t the most dashing man you’d ever seen, cursed by the gods or not. 

A lip bite was all he would get from you, uncertain of how to navigate your desire with your morality. 

“I can show you many things.” he hummed against your calf. 

You fell back onto the bed, whining lightly in frustration of the sexual kind. 

“If you only let me.” 

You closed your eyes. 

“Which would you rather do?” His princely voice was a seductor’s poison. 

“I can show you how deeply sorry I am for what I did to your home,” he said with a mocking sorrow as the featherlight warmth of his lips and tongue kissed the inside of your legs, up to the inside of your knee, and to the most sensitive skin on the inside of the meat of your thigh. Any resolve that you had was wafted away by the trace of his fingers. 

He pulled away, watching you carefully. “Or, you can show me how sorry you are for stealing my family’s sword. Which would you have it be?” 

Gods bless your ancestors. You prayed that they were not unlucky enough to bear witness to what you were about to say—the closest thing to treason you could commit. 

“I want to see your forgiveness, my prince.” You said, unsure of his next move but knowing somewhere within you that you would only indulge yourself further. 

Aemond smiled smugly. It suited him. “How about you feel it instead?” 

Hooking his fingers under your smallclothes, he rustled them off of you smoothly. You were exposed, cunt glistening and pooling wetness before him. Yes, definitely treason. 

You wondered what sins those long dead and buried beneath would have had to commit to be forced to hear your moan as one of his fingers entered your hole, ready and wanting. Aemond leaned over you, silver and knowing smile once more falling around your face. Using his thumb, he found your pearl so neatly in between your pillowy lips, touching you there lightly. 

“All wet, for me?” his smirk hung over you once more, satisfied by how quickly you dissolved under his hand. And what a joy it was to dissipate into a syrupy essence soaked mess. 

“Have you ever touched yourself?” he asked, eye observing every rise and fall of your breasts. 

“Well—yes, but,” you whimpered, shame in your gaze. “I’ve never been touched by anyone else.” 

“A good, pretty maiden then.” He added another finger, your body sucking him in and oozing wetness in its own craving. Every brush of his thumb and curl of his digits left your mouth hanging open and eyes pleading at the man above you for more. 

Aemond could act as in control as he wanted, but you saw the embers of greed in his eye and felt his hardness at your hip. 

“I am so terribly sorry,” Aemond started in your ear, his fingers working their way inside of your honey soaked walls and thumb expertly toying with your swollen bud, “for absolutely nothing.” 

The words fell on ears too consumed by the talent of his hands to give a damn. Warmth in your belly bloomed as if he had planted the sun in there himself, your shining juices dripping the length of his palm. You had never been brought to the point of near blindness and incapacity by pleasure before, your own fingers too untrained. 

When the peak of your pleasure came, your arms wrapped around Aemond’s shoulders, moans breathy and full. Your walls throbbed and dripped around his fingers and your body flexed underneath his. Thunder was your friend, drowning out every noise that bubbled from your lips. 

Aemond Targaryen, or whatever was left of him, had been starved of a woman’s taste for over one hundred years. He savored every bead of syrupy sex that dripped from your cunt onto his hands while you panted in the final glimmers of ecstasy. 

It was difficult to help your eyelids from closing—the man had sent you to the hands of the gods and back. All you could do was savor the feel of him under your fingertips, rubbing lightly, until your sleep claimed you without your will or knowledge. 

The dawn broke and you were alone once more, nothing but disorder in your head and gleaming sword under your bed. 

Light thunder beat through the clouds, a solemn sun hidden behind them. The rain had eased a touch, but there had not been enough reprieve to make it any easier for the servants to clean up what was becoming a half-drowned castle. 

Yet the water navigating through the crack in the stones over your head took up the least amount of room in your head. It was real. You knew it was from the echoes of ease in your limbs from the pleasure he played you to. If that wasn’t evidence enough, your slippery juices coated the nestle of your thighs.  

It was wrong—you knew it. What had materialized between you and the prince was highly improper, not only as a lady, but as a lady of Harrenhal, the very castle in which he was partially responsible for the large number of roaming ghosts and of the land which he brought to ash out of his own anger. 

Aemond had said that you needed to return the sword to the God’s Eye yourself. Perhaps you had tampered with something greatly out of your knowledge, and restoration was imperative for your own good and the good of the castle. 

And yet the sword never moved from under your bed. Perhaps you had forgotten, or perhaps, you had conveniently discovered a hundred and one other tasks that needed your attention. And perhaps, the prince would come again. 

You could pray for forgiveness from the river people later. It was your own secret shame to have and to hold, for no one else’s eyes or ears. 

It was last light. Mathilda swept a dollop of water that landed on her forehead. “This storm won’t break.” 

“I was a girl the last time one like this hit.” Of all the many storms that wracked this land, few had the same unbroken rainfall and loud slaughter of thunder. 

There was apprehension and fright in her eyes. Mathilda’s movements were unnatural to anything you had seen her, to the point that it struck its own fear in you . 

“What is it, Mathilda?” 

“There’s only one storm I remember like this,” she started, worrying her hands with another bucket of water. “I didn't want to believe it yesterday. You were a girl, yes.” 

“And what of it?” 

“This land is old. A mass graveyard is what it is. Someone had tampered with something they shouldn’t have.” 

Your stomach sank, and your secret with it. “What happened?” 

“The man was never seen again. And there’s only one place around here people disappear to.” 

The lake. You remembered him, a guard in your father’s command, the storm that tore on, and his disappearance marking the end of it. Everyone had figured he got swept away in the storm, but it seemed that Mathilda, among others, believed something different. Still—there were plenty of cursed objects lying around, perhaps you had gotten a touch more lucky with your object of choosing. 

But perhaps it wasn’t such a dismissive endeavor, and you were more than a halfwit for thinking so. And yet, the night had fallen once more—leaving you with no other choice but to wait and see. 

The blade seemed to find a light of its own even in the blackness of the storm ridden night, peaking just under your bed. Finding a rhythm in between the bolts of lightning and thunder happened over time, but the past few nights had begun to give you practice. Your apprehension kept you from your sleep nonetheless. 

There was always something more beyond the surface, that much you knew was true, and life was no exception. Gods existed, you were sure of it, you just didn’t know how, or why, or where—but there was something about the thread of actions over the past handful of days that connected pieces together in a visceral way you had never fully encountered.

Through each beat of lightning, the truth of every tale that you had ever heard came into question: the cook turned white rat, forced to eat his own young; the children of the forest and the Green King of the Isle of Faces, Sharra the witch queen and her inability to die. Before now, you had not fully disbelieved, but rather doubted the ability of magic or the whims of the gods to make profound changes in an instant. 

“You did not return my sword.” 

His entrance was silent but interruption swift, or you had been so lost in your own head you failed to notice. There was little shock this time. You had been expecting him. He stood there for a moment in patience, your eyes and finding the details of his trench coat in the shadow. There was much less fright in you now than there had been at his first intrusion, and you swung your legs to sit at the edge of your bed. 

“You disobeyed my request,” Aemond said, “I do not take kindly to those who disobey me. Why didn’t you return it, my lady of God’s Eye?” 

It was a fool’s endeavor, a disregard of any consequences. Eyes wide and waiting, you could do nothing but speak your deepest truth. 

“I did not want to.” 

He crept forward, a creature of the shadows coming to enact its wrath. “Explain yourself.” 

With a swallow of the last inklings of your pride and dignity, you replied. “Because I want more of what you did to me last night.” 

He stood as a relic, everything from his hair and skin and coat shining from within, regarding you with an intensity you had never had anyone offer you before. Time existed nowhere in this room; past and present converged in the tides of thunder that swayed over your heads, and you wondered if the world outside of your door still stood or if there was nothingness. 

“Who would have thought a lady to be so lustful? A lady of the Riverlands, no less.” His boots were off now, making his way to you like an animal preys upon what it desires to snatch in its claws. 

You held your chin in an acceptance of his mockery and all that came with it. Because he was right, and because you didn’t care so long as no one knew of it. Aemond moved to stand in between your legs, and you tilted your head to meet his own eye. 

“I suppose I will make an exception to my usual punishment since you have been so honest,” he reached to hold your face in his hands as if he was holding a holy grail. “Do you promise to make such an exception worth my while?” 

“I promise.” You nodded as well as you could in his soft hold, eyes large and pleading. 

The kiss that followed was soft, just as every other first touch between you had been—but it quickly became emboldened; a drop of satisfaction in a lake of craving. His hands slid down your sides, past the sensitivity of your waist and moving to grip the full flesh that sat on your thighs. 

Chest to chest, you were pressed against him, feeling through every movement and flex of the muscle beneath his flesh. Moving once more, his hand slid down in between your thighs where your smallclothes sat pitifully between your bare skin and his fingers. 

He swallowed your whimper into his mouth as his hand moved once more to play with your bud. Skin holds memory, they say, and you knew yours did of him: his light touch was enough to have you squirming beneath him with little effort. 

“My own little harlot of the Riverlands.” Aemond pulled away, moving to untie the wrap of your nightdress. You watched him carefully, a twing of shyness slowing your movements. 

He took your timid hands into his, holding them to him as he moved his nose to meet yours. “And yet a maiden, all the same.” 

You closed your eyes, savoring the feel of his tenderness. Both your hands moved now to take away what lies between your modesty and bareness. 

“Do I please you?” softly you looked at him, hoping that your shyness was replaced by your attempt to be sultry despite your lack of practice. 

He looked at you as a man starved, deprived of warm fleshy skin to sink into for a century, and there was no pretending in his eye that he hadn’t prayed that you would not return Dark Sister to its rightful place. No matter how powerful the man, beyond swords and war and life and death, the soft skin of a lover would always be a weakness. There was no hiding the membrane of vulnerability and desperation at something so human: the touch and feel of another. 

Leaning down to offer you a kiss, in a near whisper he replied, “Very much so.” 

Hands and lips tenderly felt you everywhere, the blood underneath beating against the glide of his fingers. It was worship of the most holy, or perhaps the indulgence of a sin most foul. The lines blurred and you sank under his want, whether it be worship or sin, you did not care. 

Your hands searched for him, shrugging off his own clothing in the rapture. 

“Whatever it was you did to me yesterday, please, I need to feel it again.” it was more of a breathy whisper in between kisses than an affirmative request. 

“I’ll show you something even better.” Aemond sank to your hips as his right hand did, already weaving slow strokes against your bud. And yet he sank farther, until his head rested between your thighs.

He watched you carefully from there, sliding one finger into your hole. His rubbing continued, and your legs began to weaken once more. You had swung your head to rest your eyes on your ceiling, unexpecting the hot wetness that met your bud. 

It was unlike anything you had felt before—heat on heat, wetness on wetness, his tongue skillfully lapping your clit. 

You fell under his enchantment for him like a man dies gasping underwater: slowly with resistance, until want for release pushes you to frantically search for it all at once. All thoughts of doing anything but taking everything he had to give you had been locked away, perhaps only to be seen again once you had gotten your fill. And you weren’t sure if you could ever be satisfied. 

From this point forward, you would be damned by this memory: Aemond sliding his tongue between your folds, sucking on your sex, and pulling pleasure from you as if he was born a hundred years ago to do it. 

He was determined to feel every drop of your essence sliding down his throat, holding you to him with his hands clasped around your thighs.  Your orgasm came with his lips and tongue never ceasing their worship of you, even as your thighs shook and moans echoed through your walls. 

Even though heavy breaths and dazed eyes of the afterglow, you would not make the mistake of falling asleep so soon, not after the previous night. Your hands lazily reached for him, pulling him closer to you. 

Because you wanted more . There was no clarity and rational thinking bestowed upon your release. If anything, it had driven you further into a wanting animal, a ravenous direwolf seeking to tame its taste for blood. Maiden status be damned, if doing such things with a long dead prince even counted. 

“Eager, are we?” he drawled over you, hands rustling between your bodies. “Shh. Let me take care of you.” 

You felt him on you then, skin to skin, his hard manhood heavy on your stomach. Aemond’s eye met yours as he slid his cock between your folds, gathering the wetness there. 

It was just you two in this moment, one body and another, seeking something buried deep within one another’s skin. 

Face to ear, you whispered about your inexperience and novelty. He did nothing but pull your lips into another kiss, allowing your bodies to slip against each other’s warmth for moments to come. Aemond was a desiring man, or creature—you weren’t sure which, not that it fully mattered to you anymore—and you could feel his own lust for you seeping into each of your kisses and all of his touches, much more wanton than they had yet to be. 

“Let me take you,” he nearly whined in between kisses, “I need to feel you.” 

“I want you. Show me this.” 

Forehead to forehead, Aemond reached between your bodies to guide his leaking cock to your entrance. You knew why maidens and ladies got wet—it would be impossible to carry out the deed without such slipperiness. What hung between a man’s legs was far too large to fit without it. 

Even still, it was always a challenge at first—your own sex squeezing so hard, seemingly wanting to suck his cock deeper inside you and milk it within your walls. As he went to the hilt, moaning was all you had to cope, the noises blending with the creak of the castle. 

“Does it always feel like this?” you choked, more than happy to be full of him but surprised at the feeling.

With his forehead still against yours, his breath fanned in your mouth. “At first, and then it will feel even better.” 

As if to show you, he began long strokes, the head of his cock sliding against the vice of your juicy walls. And you felt it bloom—the deep ember of pleasure at your core, both satisfied and left wanting more by each thrust. 

Your moans and whimpers against his ear were compounded by the thrust of his hips, heavy against your own, pushing his cock to the hilt now in every stroke, the head of it brutally kissing the end of you every time. 

He sat up now, hands firmly on your hips to control the angle of you and the drive of his cock to be right where he wanted them. Moving between your bodies, his thumb danced on your bud again, sending you to reflexively grip him further out of the sheer ecstasy of it. “What would your rivermen think of you like this, moaning like a whore on my cock?” 

It was more of a suffocated squeal than words, chest heaving, not being able to help the way your body was in his hands, moving at the speed he set. “They would think me a traitor.” 

“But you just couldn’t help it, could you? You needed more of me, no matter what I’ve done.” 

Despite you both knowing the truth of it, hardly any shame could touch you now in the throes of your bodies. In between love bites on your ear and kisses on your neck as he took you, there was more than enough praise spilling from his lips: haughty whispers of you take my cock so well and your body is made for me. 

It was as intense as it was pleasurable. Aemond’s platinum tresses locked you into a cage where it was only him: only his body, his cock—nothing else. He was making you into a woman of his own liking, his spell on you binding you to desire and breaking every one of your senses to want nothing but him. 

There was no clarity and rational thinking bestowed upon your release. Reaching the peak of it, your cunt hardly willing to let his cock move inside you and pulsing and pleading for it to be even deeper, you cried out, your own howl into the night. Aemond fucked you through it, seeking his own peak within your walls and finding it in the vice you had him in, milking him for every drop of his own essence to spill in the hot syrupy tightness of your cunt.  

The sedation you felt in your after-pleasure was familiar to the first night—leaving you in a daze, the murky waters difficult to navigate. Fighting it was futile, but you kept yourself awake enough to feel him pull away, save for leaving a kiss on your fingers and hear his final words.

Visit me, my lady of God’s Eye

It would be a selfish thing—you knew—to keep the sword, no matter how badly you wanted to satiate your desire during the night. But the storm raged on, and it was only right to do what had to be done to prevent the entirety of Harrenhal from being consumed by the water raiding every corridor and sieging nearly all chambers and apartments, only the highest of rooms in each tower being spared. 

It was a difficult task, but you had managed. And not hours after the sword was back in the sheath it belonged in, the rain had ceased, to the relief of all in the castle except for one. 

You hadn’t forgotten his last words to you. Sometimes, you swam back to the remains of the dragon prince again, hoping the hallowed skeleton could see you in the angelic light only water could give.  

And sometimes, in the deepest chamber of the lake, you swore you heard whispers in the catches of the currents.