#lantern light lantern bright first lantern I see tonight

[littleblueberryartist]

REJOICE!!! BIRTHDAY UPON YE @lanternlightss

sdgdsf you can tell how long this took by how fast the speedpaint is going-

[littleblueberryartist]

S C R E A M S

LANTERN ILYYYYYYYYYYYYY

happy birth @littleblueberryartist :]

bonus’ under the cut:

[dark-fanfics-moon]

THE PET Remmick X Reader

WARNING: POSSESSIVE BEHAVIOUR AND DEATH OF MINOR CHARACTERS IN THIS CHAPTER ! BLOOD ! NOT FOR MINORS OR SENSITIVE SOULS ! Synopsis: You let him in ? Now, face the consequences.

(This is my first Sinners fanfic. I hope you will enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Also, you have French ancestry here.)

The scent of roasted meat and sweet cinnamon filled the air, wrapping itself around laughter and the lively sound of fiddles. The neighboring village’s festival was in full swing, spilling over with cheer. String lights crisscrossed above, glowing amber against the twilight sky. People danced in pairs, whirling and stomping to the beat, while children darted between tables with sticky fingers and half-eaten pies.

You were seated on a bench near the firepit, a flaky pastry cradled in your hand. It was warm and sweet, filled with something jammy that stuck to your lips. You had just taken a bite when the knock came.

Knock-knock.

You blinked, brushing crumbs from your mouth as you rose. You made your way towards the wooden gate that separated the garden from the winding road, the music slightly muffled behind you.

When you opened it, you saw him.

A man with bright eyes and windswept dark hair grinned at you. A banjo was strapped across his back, and his shirt was rolled to the elbows, streaked faintly with road dust. He stood with the ease of someone who traveled often, who’d seen a dozen roads and made friends in every town he passed. Behind him stood two others—one, a quiet woman with dark hair, a blue dress and a tambourine at her hip, the other a man holding a lantern and wearing a wary sort of smile.

“Hey there !” the first man greeted, his voice thick with a warm Irish lilt. “Me name is Remmick. These two next to me are called Bert and Joan. And me friends and I are travelin’ musicians. We heard music and thought we could maybe join ye happy bunch ?”

His smile was so bright, so full of good cheer, you couldn’t help but mirror it.

“Where are you all from, friends ?” you asked, tilting your head.

Remmick chuckled, eyes dancing. “Ah, here and there. Wherever the music leads, really. But most recently ? A little place past the Ridgefolk Hills—though I reckon that name means nothin’ unless you’ve lost a boot in its bog.”

You laughed softly.

The woman beside him added, “We’ve played in towns where the lanterns don’t go out ‘til dawn. Thought we’d see if this one keeps the same rhythm.”

Remmick tilted his head, still grinning. “Ah, we’re from all over, really. Bits o’ the Isles, some time in the south…but right now ?” He winked at you. “We’re from wherever the road takes us—and tonight, I’m hopin’ that’s here.”

You glanced back at the flickering lights, the sounds of joy and clinking glasses behind you, and then to the trio at your gate.

“Well,” you said, stepping aside with a smile, “no reason to keep music waiting. Come on in.”

Remmick’s grin stretched even wider—wolfish and warm all at once—as he tipped an invisible hat. “Much obliged.”

The woman beside him gave you a grateful nod, her long fingers tightening on the neck of her instrument. She had sharp eyes that missed nothing, and you got the sense she was the one who made sure the group didn’t starve or freeze when the road got cruel. The tall man murmured a thank you under his breath as he stepped inside, looking a little like he’d never seen so many lights in one place.

The moment their boots hit the flagstone courtyard, the party seemed to notice them—people turned, curious, expectant, drawn by the presence of strangers like moths to a new flame. A hush fell, not of suspicion, but of curiosity. Somewhere, the fiddle player slowed, notes trailing into the night like a question waiting to be answered.

Remmick cleared his throat, lifting a banjo hidden behind his back. “Evenin’ folks,” he called out cheerfully, “I hope ye don’t mind us joinin’. We come bearing songs and no shortage of cheer.”

Someone—probably Maris, already flushed with too much elderflower wine—clapped and shouted, “Only if ya play somethin’ worth dancin’ to !”

That seemed to relax the atmosphere as some people started laughing around the garden.

Remmick gave a mock bow. “Challenge accepted, milady.”

Then the music began—low and playful at first, the woman’s strange instrument thrumming like the heartbeat of the earth itself. Remmick’s banjo played wonderfully, light and bright, and the tall man took out a pair of small drums, tapping out a rhythm that felt like feet hitting the road.

It was a sound that didn’t ask to be heard—it insisted.

And just like that, the courtyard was alight again, laughter rising like sparks from a fire, the party folding them into its rhythm as though they’d always been meant to arrive at your little party tonight.

And you—well, you stood at the edge, pastry forgotten, watching Remmick play and sing, wondering just how far these travelers had come from and how long they were planning to stay. His eyes met yours at times and you couldn’t deny that his smile did make your heart skip a beat. He seemed to be around your age. Perhaps a few years older—but attractive nonetheless.

As the final twang of Remmick’s banjo danced into the air, the crowd erupted into cheers and clapping, the kind that rattled tankards and lifted spirits higher than the smoke curling into the stars. You found yourself smiling without even meaning to, hands coming together in a steady, appreciative rhythm.

Remmick caught your eye once more and gave you a sly wink, still catching his breath, curls damp at the edges from the firelight’s heat. You were about to turn and fetch him something to drink when your father’s booming voice cut through the air like a blade through butter.

“Well now,” he said, too loudly and a little too proud. “That was fine, lad, real fine—but it’s my daughter who’s got the voice that’ll stop a room dead.”

Your heart stopped right along with the hum of the party.

“Pa,” you hissed under your breath, stepping towards him with your cheeks burning. “Manners. They’re guests.”

But he was already clapping a firm hand on Remmick’s shoulder, all hearty laughter and puffed-up pride. “You wouldn’t believe the songs she can sing. Clear as a bell, that one. Got it from her mother. Girl’s too shy to show off, but get her goin’ and you’ll swear the gods themselves hush just to listen.”

Remmick turned to you slowly, that grin of his curling again—but now with something softer at the edges. “Is that so, lassie ? Ye can sing ?”

You blinked, trying not to glare at your father, who now looked immensely pleased with himself and entirely unaware of the way your stomach had dropped.

“Well, sometimes,” you murmured, suddenly very interested in your shoes.

But Remmick only stepped forward, banjo cradled in one arm like a sleeping child. “Well, if ya ever feel like sharin’, I’d count meself lucky to hear it,” he encouraged you gently. “But only if it’s your idea, not yer Pa’s. I wouldn’t want to sound too pushy now…a’right ?”

He glanced at your father with a crooked grin. “Though I do appreciate a proud father. That’s a rare sort of music, too.”

The party had fallen into a hush again, but this time it was not out of curiosity—it was anticipation. You hadn’t stood in the middle of a crowd like this in years, not since you were a child humming lullabies in your mother’s sun-drenched kitchen, her flour-dusted hands clapping quietly along. But now, under the heavy dusk sky and the golden festival lights strung like constellations, you took a breath and let it catch deep in your chest.

Then you began to sing.

Soft at first, almost trembling, the words laced in French. But as the melody poured out—dark, rich, and aching with something deeper than memory—your voice steadied, growing bolder.

“J’avais un amant

Depuis quelques mois

Je l’aimais de toute mon âme

Mais il m'a quitté

Sans savoir pourquoi Il a brisé mon cœur de femme…”

People began to stop where they stood. The clinking of mugs faded, the footsteps slowed. Even the children paused their games. The music of the words—foreign to many—was understood nonetheless. A woman scorned. Champagne-laced laughter masking the ache of a broken heart. Madness blooming like roses from betrayal.

“Et moi sur la table, j’ai pris un couteau

Et ma vengeance fut cruelle…”

Your voice rose, fearless now, resonating with the power of grief turned to fury, sweetness turned to steel. Some stared. Others closed their eyes, swaying. Your father had gone still, his pride now touched with something more reverent.

Remmick didn’t take his eyes off you. Not once. A smile graced his features as he heard your voice and his eyes glistening slightly. You thought it was because the song was rather melancholic, but his smile made you understand that he was admiring you and it made your heart race in your chest. Your voice became louder and trembling slightly under such a heavy look. It made your cheeks burn with heat—not only because of the effort.

“Oui, j'étais grise

J'ai fais une bêtise

J'ai tué mon gigolo !”

When you reached the final note, your voice trembling on the edge of that last, heart-wrenched word—

“Mon amant d’coeur

M’a rendu folle…”

—there was a moment of utter stillness following your performance.

Then came the applause.

It started slow, as if people were unsure if they’d been witness to art or a confession. But then it built, wave upon wave of clapping, cheering, even whistling from the back of the courtyard. People stomped their feet, raised their drinks, and called your name with giddy disbelief.

Remmick stepped forward, banjo hanging forgotten at his side. He looked at you with something unreadable in his eyes. His unmistakable smile making your brain forget all caution as he bowed slightly.

“Christ above,” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear. “And here I thought I knew how to tell a story. Your Pa was right. Such a beautiful voice is meant to be heard.”

You looked at him and smiled, breath still coming in soft waves from the song, your voice quiet but steady.

“You are just as impressive, sir.”

Remmick blinked, like he hadn’t expected you to say that. Then that boyish grin returned—slower this time, softer around the edges.

“Careful,” he murmured, with a playful tilt of his head. “Flatterin’ a musician’s a dangerous game. We’re known t’follow compliments like hounds on a scent.”

He stepped a little closer, not enough to make it obvious, but just enough that you could smell the road-dust and campfire smoke clinging to his shirt. “But I mean it, lass,” he added, voice lowering a touch. “That wasn’t just singin’. That was…somethin’ else. Like ya sang straight through the air and stitched it shut behind ye.”

Before you could answer, a loud cheer broke out to your left.

“Oi !” shouted Maris again, already climbing up onto a barrel. “Someone get this lass a drink—and this poor fella too, he looks like he’s been struck dumb !”

More laughter followed. You felt so embarrassed at Maris’ words, the moment scattering like sparks in the wind.

Remmick chuckled, shaking his head. “Your people are wild.”

You raised a brow, lifting your skirt slightly in mock formality. “You’re not goin’ to run away now, are you sir ?”

“Not a chance.” He offered you his arm like a gentleman—albeit one with dusty sleeves and banjo-calloused fingers. “Now come on. I believe we’ve both earned a drink. And maybe, if I’m lucky, another song ?”

You stepped away with the Irish musician and smiled at your father who gave you a supportive thumbs up. He still hoped for grandchildren and he wouldn’t get mad if you married as soon as possible. You had tried to approach men before, but it was the first time you had felt such a connection with one of them. You liked him and he seemed to like you.

Once far away enough, Remmick stepped a little closer, still giving you that look—not of a man who saw a pretty girl, but of someone who had just stumbled across a secret, a buried treasure sung into the open. “That song…I’ve never heard anything like it. Who taught you that ?”

You glanced toward the edge of the festival, where the shadows had softened into the dark, and the music had shifted to something lighter now—something meant for dancing again. “My mother,” you admitted softly. “She used to sing it when she’d had a little too much wine. Always said French songs were the best for heartbreak. And she had had her fair share before meeting my father.”

Remmick nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth still curved. “Then I owe her a great deal…for passin’ that down.”

You smiled before you heard your father shout from behind you: “Young lad ! How about you invite my daughter for a dance before you both take roots, yeah ?!"

You shot a warning glance at your father who seemed unable to hold his tongue after the number of shots in his bloodstream.

Remmick chuckled awkwardly and hesitated, then offered his hand, with that charming, exaggerated flourish of a troubadour in a tale. “Would the lady do me the honor of a dance ?”

You looked at him for a moment—really looked.

In the golden spill of lantern-light, Remmick didn’t seem like the sort of man who belonged to one place. He looked like the wind—here for a moment, then off to some far corner of the world where the roads were still dirt and the stars still sang. And yet, right now, he stood still. Waiting. Just for you.

With a smile you couldn’t quite hide, you slid your hand into the crook of his arm.

“I suppose the lady would.”

His grin could’ve lit the road back to the mountains. “Careful,” he said, leading you gently back toward the music. “You keep sayin’ yes to me, and I’ll start thinkin’ I’ve got a chance with such a sweet girl.”

You laughed, low and warm. “I think you already do.”

He seemed surprised for a moment before smiling brightly at you. The music picked up—fiddles and tambourines and clapping hands—and the people had started to twirl again, skirts brushing the cobblestones, boots thudding to the beat. No one stared now; the spotlight had moved, the night embracing you like just another part of the song.

Remmick took your hand, one at your waist, light as a secret.

“A’right now,” he murmured, his Irish lilt softening with the moment, “don’t worry if you’re not good at dancin’. Just follow me.”

You did. And the night carried on—spinning, laughing, warm as firelight on your skin—and for just a little while, you forgot the difference between music and magic. The world around you blurred into rhythm and laughter—faces twirling, skirts flaring, the scent of honeyed pastries and woodsmoke curling through the air. Remmick guided you gently, never pulling, just offering. His hand was secure at your waist, fingers light on your skin, like he’d learned to hold fragile things without breaking them.

…You should have probably seen that something was not exactly normal with that man at that moment. But you were dancing and having fun. He was charming and you had had quite the exciting night. So you didn’t notice anything wrong with your dancing companion.

As the music slowed—just a little, just enough to let hearts breathe—he leaned in close, breath brushing the shell of your ear.

“I always wanted to dance with a pretty lady under the moonlight,” he whispered.

The words weren’t rehearsed. They didn’t tumble out with the smoothness of a practiced charmer. No, they were quiet, like something he’d kept tucked deep in his chest for a long, long time. You turned your face just slightly, close enough to catch the earnest gleam in his eyes—lit not by the lanterns but by the silver light drifting down from the night sky.

“And now ?” you asked, voice soft as lace.

He smiled, a little crooked, a little shy.

“Now I don’t know if I’m dreamin’…or just lucky as sin.”

The last note of the dance faded, swallowed into the soft hum of crickets and the murmur of full-bellied laughter. As people began to break off in pairs and groups, drifting back towards food and drinks, your father clapped his hands together with a booming cheer.

“Well now ! No one’s travelin’ tonight, that’s certain !” he declared, lifting a mug high. “We’ve got room in the village—and hearts enough to share it. These fine travelers stay the night, aye ?”

A chorus of agreement answered him. A few of the younger villagers, wide-eyed and rosy-cheeked from drink and music, eagerly stepped forward.

“They can stay at mine !”

“No, no—my place, I’ve got room by the fire !”

Remmick chuckled beside you, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly flattered but looking a little overwhelmed. “Saints, you lot are generous.”

Before any more offers could pile on, you moved without thinking—wrapping your arm around his. You felt him go still, just for a moment. His arm, solid beneath yours, warmed under your touch.

“Father,” you said, your voice clear, though not loud. “Would it be alright if Remmick stayed at our home tonight ?”

The words fell like a stone into the center of the crowd. Your father blinked, brows lifting high. Then slowly—so slowly—you saw the corner of his mouth tug upward.

“Is that so ?” he asked you, eyeing the two of you with the careful amusement only a father could muster. “Well, if that’s what you want, daughter.”

He glanced at Remmick, narrowing his eyes just slightly. “You’re under my roof, boy. Not just hers. You understand ?”

Remmick, to his credit, nodded solemnly—even as his eyes danced with that same crooked smile. “Aye, sir. Wouldn’t dream of disrespectin’ your hospitality.”

Your father huffed and turned away, but not before you saw the rare ghost of a grin flicker beneath his mustache. Still holding Remmick’s arm, you felt him lean a little closer, his voice warm by your ear.

“Didn’t realize I’d wandered into heaven,” he murmured and lifted a hand above his heart with a smile. “And right into an angel’s kind arms…I am deeply grateful.”

You tried not to smile too wide. It was foolish to feel so warm so quickly—but god, it was hard not to.

That night:

The table was lit by the soft golden glow of oil lamps, flickering shadows dancing across the worn wood and the carved plates. Your father ate with gusto, exchanging the occasional gruff comment with Remmick, while your younger cousin babbled sleepily about his favorite song of the night.

You had spent the better part of an hour preparing the meal—stew with root vegetables, herb butter on dark bread, and a honey pastry just like the ones your mother used to make. A small way to say thank you, maybe. Or maybe just a quiet offering, hoping he’d stay longer than a single night.

But now…Now your eyes flicked to the spot in front of Remmick. The food sat there, barely touched. His spoon stirred idly, but never lifted. The bread remained untouched on the edge of the plate. He’d taken one bite, maybe two—and then nothing.

A pang bloomed in your chest.

You looked away quickly, busying your hands with clearing crumbs, adjusting a napkin that didn’t need fixing. Maybe it wasn’t to his taste. Maybe travelers had finer food on the road. Or maybe…maybe you’d tried too hard. You bit your lip, forcing a smile when your father laughed at something Remmick said.

Then, from the corner of your eye, you saw him glance down at the untouched food again—then at you.

His smile faltered. And he leaned in, voice pitched low enough only for you to hear.

“Lass,” he whispered softly, “I need you to know… your cookin’ smells like a blessing. Truly.”

You blinked, surprised.

He gave a sheepish, almost guilty smile. “It’s not the food. It’s…me. I get…nervous, when I’m somewhere new. Stomach tightens up like a drumskin.” He looked away for a beat. “It’s stupid, I know. But I didn’t want ye to think I didn’t notice the care ye put in. Or that I am bein’ rude on purpose.”

He looked at you again, earnest and apologetic.

“Wouldn’t trade this meal for all the gold in the west.”

You smiled and nodded.

“Of course. No worries.”

Later, when the dishes were washed and the house had fallen quiet—save for the distant murmur of your father’s voice in the next room—you picked up the lantern and motioned for Remmick to follow.

“This way,” you said gently, your voice softer now in the hush of the hour.

He walked behind you through the narrow hallway, his boots light on the old wooden floor. You paused at a small door near the end, nudging it open. The room inside was simple—just a bed with a woolen blanket, a small washbasin, and a shuttered window that let in a sliver of moonlight.

“I hope it’s alright,” you said, setting the lantern down. “This was my brother’s room before he married and moved out. It’s not much, but it’s warm. And quiet.”

Remmick stepped in slowly, his eyes scanning the space, taking in the old books still stacked on the shelf, the carved initials in the wooden bedframe, the lopsided rug by the hearth. He smiled.

“It’s perfect,” he assured you, with that same soft sincerity he’d spoken with at dinner. “Better than a hundred inns with feather beds.”

You nodded, lingering for a moment, unsure whether to say goodnight or just walk away. There was something weighty in the stillness—like the hush after a song, when no one quite knew if it was truly over.

Remmick looked at you, one hand still resting lightly on the doorframe.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “Fer the song. Fer the food. Fer…all o’ this.”

You looked down, trying to keep your excuses from showing too obviously, though the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you.

“I should thank you,” you replied, fingers brushing the edge of your sleeve. “For sharing your music…and your charming company.”

He let out a quiet breath of a laugh, one hand settling on the back of his neck as though unsure what to do with such a compliment. “Ah, now you’ve gone and made me blush,” he murmured, and his voice had that low, rough Irish accent that wrapped around the quiet like a blanket. “That’s not fair.”

You met his eyes again, and something warm passed between you—unspoken, still new, still fragile.

“I’ll let you rest,” you announced, stepping back just slightly. “It’s been a long day.”

Remmick nodded, though he didn’t move to close the door right away. “Sleep well, lass.”

And just before the door shut, barely a breath between it and the frame, he added, soft as a hum: “I hope I get to see you in my dreams tonight.”

You smiled happily at his words. You looked at Remmick as he stood there, the door now half-closed between you. But something caught your eye—something small, a glimmer in the soft light of the room. A simple band around his ring finger. Silver, unadorned, but it was enough to make your smile falter just slightly, just for a moment.

Your heart skipped. A wedding ring. Of course. You hadn’t thought about it before. You hadn’t even considered it. A band on his finger. A reminder that, despite the charm in his words and the way his laughter made the air around you feel lighter, he belonged to someone else.

“R-Right,” you stammered, feeling a strange warmth in your chest, trying to swallow the feeling that seemed to come from nowhere. “Goodnight then.”

Your voice wasn’t as steady as it had been moments before. You forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes, not now. And before he could notice the flicker of hesitation, you stepped back, retreating into the hallway.

The door of your bedroom clicked softly behind you, and you leaned against the cool wall of the corridor, taking a breath that didn’t quite settle.

…Right. He was too good to be true anyway.

You went to bed.

A few hours later:

The moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting long shadows on the floor as you awoke in the dead silence of the night. The weight of sleep still clung to your eyelids, but a dry thirst tugged at your throat, urging you out of bed. You moved quietly, the cool wooden floor creaking underfoot as you tiptoed to the door. The house was still—too still. You padded softly down the dark hall, a faint shiver crawling up your spine as you neared the kitchen. Perhaps it was nothing. Just the wind, or the house settling. But when you reached the door, something—a noise—caught your attention. It was faint at first, like the scuff of shoes against the floor, and then a low, disturbing sound.

Curiosity got the better of you, and with a deep breath, you slowly opened the door.

What you saw made your breath catch, your heart slamming against your ribcage in a panic-stricken beat.

There, in the dim light of the kitchen, Remmick was hovering over your father. His hands were pressing down on your father’s shoulders with unnatural force, his face—his eyes—were different. Yellow. Glowing with an eerie, otherworldly hue. His chin was smeared in blood, and your father’s body lay limp beneath him, lifeless or unconscious—there was no telling which.

A guttural sound escaped your father’s throat, a noise that wasn’t quite a scream, but something worse, something terrible. You couldn’t even move. The sight of him like this—of Remmick—made your blood freeze in your veins.

Then, just as quickly as the horror settled in, a scream echoed from a neighboring house. It was loud, panicked, and unmistakably human. Remmick looked up sharply, his eyes flashing toward the source of the noise. The blood on his chin gleamed in the dim light, and he screeched.

In that instant, you locked eyes with him. And what you saw in his gaze was nothing short of predatory, feral even. His smile twisted, a dark amusement in the curve of his lips, and he wiped his chin with the back of his hand, as if it were nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

Tears blurred your vision, but you couldn’t stop them. You didn’t understand—how could you understand ? Remmick wasn’t who he had seemed. He wasn’t the charming troubadour or the gentleman who had danced with you in the moonlight. He was something else entirely.

With your heart pounding in your throat, you turned and ran. You didn’t think—just instinct. You bolted back to your room, the door slamming behind you as you locked it, every nerve on edge. You sank against the door, gasping for air, tears streaming down your face. What was happening ? What was Remmick ? Who was he really ?

You had seen the horror with your own eyes, but it didn’t make sense. It couldn’t.

The sound of the knock at your bedroom door sliced through the heavy silence that had enveloped you. Your pulse raced in your ears, your breath shallow and panicked. You pressed your back against the door, as though trying to melt into the wood, to make yourself invisible to whatever nightmare lurked outside.

Then, the voice. A soft chuckle, too familiar, too unsettling.

“Lil’ lassie. Open this door. I promise not to hurt ye.”

Remmick. The warmth, the charm, the music—it all felt like a lie now. His voice, once smooth and comforting, now held a twisted edge, like the calm before a storm. His words were like honey, but they dripped with something darker beneath. Your fingers trembled on the edge of the door, heart pounding in your chest as your thoughts spiraled. What was he ? What had happened to him ? What had you just witnessed ?

You wanted to scream, to yell at him to leave, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you held your breath, hoping the silence would swallow his presence whole. You locked the door and took a few steps back. However, the sound of the door splintering under the force of Remmick’s strength made your heart stop. You barely had time to react before he was in the room, his smirk dark and unnerving, like a predator who had caught sight of its prey.

“Dolly now…Don’t worry. Me thinks your voice’s simply beautiful. So, no harm will come to ye.”

His words dripped with a twisted calmness, but the underlying menace was unmistakable. He wasn’t here to comfort or protect; he was here to toy with you, to watch as you squirmed under his gaze.

Before you could even think to protest, Remmick casually walked over to one of your chairs, picked up one of your old teddy bears, and held it in his hands with an eerie fondness. He chuckled lowly, his eyes glowing a dark red, and you felt the hairs on your neck stand up in terror.

“He’s a cutie. Just like his missy…”

His gaze lingered on you, a cold smile spreading across his face, and you felt the overwhelming weight of his presence in the room. The teddy bear seemed so out of place in his hands, the innocence of it clashing with the dark intensity of his eyes and the blood still on his chin.

Tears stung the back of your throat, but you forced yourself to stay still. Fear gnawed at you, but you refused to show it. Not now. Not to him.

“Wh-What are you ?” you managed, voice trembling despite yourself.

He leaned back in the chair, his smile widening as he casually twirled the bear in his fingers, almost as if he were savoring your terror.

“Ahh, the questions you’re askin’,” he mused, his voice still that smooth Irish drawl. “I’m just a man, dolly. But sometimes…a man needs to be more than that, don’t ye think ?”

His words hung in the air like a promise—or a threat. You didn’t know which was worse.

Your voice cracked as you spoke, barely above a whisper, and yet it carried through the heavy silence of the room like thunder.

“My father…Is he dead ?”

Remmick’s fingers paused their idle play with the teddy bear. For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His red eyes studied you, as if weighing the cost of a truth—or the benefit of a lie. The smile faded from his face, replaced with something else…something that almost resembled regret.

He leaned forward slightly in the chair, elbows on his knees, his voice softer now.

“He…put up a good fight. Brave man. Loved his little girl sooo fiercely—he truly did. I did like him—a lot. But…the hunger was just too strong. Haven’t eaten in quite some time…It was almost a miracle me and me friends found yer village when we did—or else we would have starved to death.”

That was all he said.

But he didn’t need to say more.

Your breath hitched, your knees buckling slightly beneath the weight of his answer. You brought a hand to your mouth again, as though you could push back the sob clawing its way up your throat.

“I’m sorry, lassie,” he said quietly, but it didn’t sound quite like he meant it.

Your sobs broke free, trembling and quiet at first, then louder—like something in you had finally cracked. The room spun with the weight of it all: the music, the dancing, the charm in his voice, your father’s proud smile just hours ago. Gone. All gone.

Remmick giggled softly. That same sweet, lyrical sound he’d given you at the door, when he was just a traveling musician with a banjo and a charming grin.

But now—now it sent chills down your spine.

He leaned forward, still cradling the teddy bear with gentle care, and slowly reached towards you. With a strange, almost playful tenderness, he brought the soft arm of the bear to your cheek and dabbed away a few tears with the fabric.

“Now now, shhh…Dolly. No cryin’. Please. I didn’t mean to,” he murmured, almost singsong, like a lullaby meant to soothe a child. Then his gaze sharpened. His eyes glowed again—deep, hellish red—and the corner of his mouth twitched as he tilted his head slightly.

“But remember…” he whispered, voice curling into your ear like smoke, “you invited me in.”

The truth of it made your stomach twist. You had. You’d opened the door with a smile and let the devil step through.

And now ?

Now the devil was in your room…your home.

Your tears burned hot as they rolled down your cheeks, but you didn’t let them fall quietly anymore. You locked eyes with him—those glowing, inhuman eyes—and your trembling hand balled into a fist at your side.

You glared, voice tight and low, laced with grief and fury.

“Demon.”

The word hung in the air like smoke after a fire, and for a moment, Remmick said nothing. His smirk faded.

Then—he laughed.

Not loud. Not mad. Just a quiet, knowing chuckle, like you’d finally solved the riddle he’d been waiting for.

“Aye,” he said, setting the bear gently down on your bed. “That’s one word for it.”

He rose to his feet slowly, every movement deliberate, graceful—inhuman. His eyes never left yours. “But I’ve been called many things over the centuries, dolly. Demon’s just…one of the more honest ones.”

He took a step forward. Then another.

“But you—ah, you,” he said with a curl of his tongue, “you called me in with a smile. Sang your pain like a siren. And god forgive me—I listened.”

You stood your ground, though your legs trembled and your breath shook. Gritting your teeth, you summoned every last thread of strength left in your aching chest and hissed:

“Get out of my house, demon.”

Remmick stilled. The playful glint in his eye dulled. The smile slipped from his face, replaced with something cold—ancient. His head tilted back slightly, as if tasting your defiance in the air. The room felt colder now. As though your words had summoned something deeper from within him.

He stepped closer—just once. Just enough for his shadow to brush your feet. Then, in a voice far older than his grin, far darker than his song, he murmured,

“This house…was so full of light. Music, love, laughter. But now it’s soaked in blood.” He leaned in just slightly, eyes burning into yours. “You made it mine the moment you let me cross your threshold.”

And then—he stepped back. Just a bit.

His smirk returned, gentler this time, but mocking all the same.

“But if the lady insists…” he said with a low bow, like a twisted gentleman from a ballroom long buried. “I’ll go. For now.”

He turned toward the shattered door.

“But don’t forget, dolly…” he called to you, glancing back over his shoulder with one last flicker of red, “…I never leave without takin’ something with me. And if ye find yerself in trouble ? Call me.”

And with that—he disappeared into the dark.

With shaky legs, you stood up and ran into your cousin’s room and let out a sigh of relief as you found his asleep in his bed. You stepped closer and held him in your arms. He woke up and blinked several times before looking up at you with curiosity.

“Y/N ? Why are you crying ?”

You didn’t answer. You just held him closer and kissed his forehead.

“Nothing, little one. Just…return to sleep. I will be bringing you to the train station tomorrow to return to your Ma and Pa, okay ?”

He frowned in confusion. “What ?! No ! But I just arrived ! I don’t wanna go !”

He then stood up and ran. You ran after him. “No ! Come back !”

He went into the kitchen and slipped on something warm and liquid. He lifted a trembling hand and stared at the red substance and his eyes glassed over.

“W-What ?”

Suddenly, he heard a low growl and slowly turned around to find your father standing there. You stopped dead in your tracks and as your father lunged at the boy, you had no other choice but to grab your father’s pistol and shoot your own father in the head. Your little cousin was frozen in shock and fear and you quickly grabbed him before running outside to the shelter. You held the child against your bosom all night as you heard your own father growl and call for you outside. But you knew. This wasn’t your father anymore. He clawed and roared as you started praying and rocking your cousin back and forth to soothe him as he burst into tears.

The sun barely broke through the clouds the next morning, casting a dim, pale light over the village that your father started screeching in pain. You took a look outside and saw him burst into flames. He tried to get back in the house, but wasn’t fast enough. He dropped to the ground in a pile of rotten flesh and bones. You stayed immobile for a moment before slowly and carefully stepping out. You then gestured for your cousin to follow. He took your hand and once you were sure that danger had passed, you ran to the car and drove away.

You stopped at the train station and took two tickets. You gave one to your little cousin and he quickly got onboard…but you hesitated. You hadn’t buried your father, and who would protect the village once that your father was gone ? Your little cousin begged you to stay with him, but you only kissed his forehead and promised you would take the next one. The train left and you took a few steps back from the window. You followed the train with your eyes until it was out of sight and returned home.

…

The scent of damp earth filled the air as you stood alone, the weight of the shovel in your hand a stark reminder of the hollow emptiness that now defined your life.

Your father’s body lay beneath the earth, buried with the dignity he had deserved. But the ground felt so much heavier than it had the night before. You could still hear the faint echo of your father’s voice, feel his arms around you, the comfort of home—now shattered beyond repair.

But as you buried him, the village began to notice the emptiness of the houses nearby. The once-lively homes that had welcomed the travelers—now cold and silent. A dark curiosity swept through the air, a sick sense of unease that soon turned to whispers. It didn’t take long for those whispers to swell into something darker.

They came for you, as expected.

Whispers of witches and curses circled the village like a ravenous flock. Those who had once welcomed you with smiles now looked upon you with suspicion, their eyes narrowed, as if the very air you breathed was tainted. A man from the town square approached, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Demon’s daughter,” he muttered under his breath. “Witch…”

The rumors spread quickly. It wasn’t long before you heard them say you had brought this horror upon them, that your strange songs and otherworldly visitors were the cause of the deaths. They even claimed you had some unholy connection to the darkness that had claimed the others.

You tried to explain—tried to tell them that it wasn’t you, that it was him. But they didn’t believe you. To them, your grief, your silence, your sorrow—it all seemed like a cover. They looked at you like you had something to hide, like your very existence was cursed.

A few of the braver villagers called for you to be driven out. Others, more cautious, said you should be locked away. The older women whispered in hushed tones about curses passed down through bloodlines.

And through it all, you heard nothing but the distant, haunting echo of Remmick’s words:

“I never leave without takin’ something with me.”

And as much as you wanted to scream, to deny it, a part of you knew. You weren’t just a survivor. You were a target. Your father was dead and no doubt he had been meant to survive and join his legion of doom. But you had killed him…Remmick would come back to collect his due.

You were alone in the world now. Even your own people had turned against you.

The village had descended into madness. Your name, once uttered with kindness, had become a curse on their lips. You no longer had any allies—just a sea of fearful faces staring at you from every corner. Every day had been a battle to keep the worst of it at bay. But tonight…tonight it seemed as if the shadows had finally caught up with you.

The air outside was thick with the weight of impending violence, and you could feel it. It had started with murmurs at the market, then stares of contempt as you walked past the villagers. Now, as the moon rose high in the sky, the line between the world you knew and the nightmare you had tried to escape had blurred completely.

The door to your house—once a place of warmth—was torn open, splintering as angry hands and vengeful fists battered it down. Your heart raced as you stumbled backward, desperate, trembling. They were coming for you. The weight of their fear, their hatred, the burning need for retribution pressed in from all sides.

With nowhere else to turn, panic rose in your chest, squeezing the breath from your lungs. You ran to the small room that had once been a place of comfort. The walls felt like they were closing in, suffocating you. You were cornered. There was no escape.

And then, through the fog of terror, one name surged: Remmick. You didn’t think. You didn’t question. You just needed to survive.

You sank to your knees, the cold stone of the floor pressing into your palms as you whispered the words that had haunted you for so long—words of desperation, words you never thought you would say.

“Remmick…please…help me.”

A chill filled the air, so intense that it felt as though the very bones of your house had frozen over. The shadows in the room deepened, stretching unnaturally as the sound of the world outside—the pounding at the door, the shouts of the villagers—faded into a muted silence.

And then, with a slow, deliberate step, he appeared.

Remmick.

His presence flooded the room like a storm as he strutted in with a happy grin. His red eyes glowed in the darkness, his smile stretched wide across his face, sharp and knowing.

“Well, dolly…” His voice was a low, dark purr, full of amusement. “Seems ye’ve finally decided to call me.”

His eyes flicked toward the door, which rattled under the force of the villagers’ assault, then back to you.

“They’ll be at yer door any minute now… Would ye like me to let them in first, or shall I deal with ‘em right away ?”

A cold shiver ran down your spine as you looked at him. Your heart ached—not just from fear, but from the twisted mix of relief and terror that filled you. You had no choice. You had summoned him.

“Please…just stop them,” you whispered, barely able to breathe, still kneeling before him.

Remmick chuckled, the sound like the crackling of fire, dark and dangerous. “Stop them ? Oh, me dolly…” He crouched down to your level, his fingers brushing against your cheek with unsettling tenderness. “You called me, didn’t ye ? And I’m always here when someone needs me. Don’t ye worry. Nothin’ will happen to yer pretty face.”

He stood, moving to the door. With a flick of his wrist, the wood splintered. The villagers froze, their eyes wide with terror as they looked into the room.

“Now,” Remmick said with a grin, “Who dares to harm me sweet lil’ doll ?”

The room darkened further as he stepped into the doorway, his presence swallowing up the light. A low, guttural growl escaped him, vibrating the very air. The villagers stammered, fear clawing at their throats.

“W-Who…are you ?” one of them stuttered, backing away.

Remmick laughed darkly, his voice dripping with venom. “I’m the one who’ll be leaving with what’s mine…and trust me, nothing is more mine than this one right there.” He pointed a finger at you.

A wave of energy rippled outward from him, and you felt it wash over you—cold, powerful, as though his very presence was reshaping the room, reshaping the world. The villagers were frozen, paralyzed by fear, unable to move.

“Now,” Remmick said, his tone suddenly cold but his smile was still on his face, “Who’s gonna be first ? And please. Make it interestin’.”

The villagers stood frozen, terror paralyzing them as Remmick’s grin spread wider. The air was thick with the stench of fear, the kind that clung to the skin and made the heart race with helplessness. But a few of them, their desperation pushing them beyond reason, tried to fight. They lunged forward, weapons in hand—wooden clubs, pitchforks, anything they could grab in their panic.

One man, his face twisted with rage, swung a rusty iron rod at Remmick’s head. But the moment the rod touched the air near him, it was as if the world itself slowed down. Remmick didn’t even flinch. His eyes, glowing bright like two burning embers in the night, never left the man.

“Is that all ye’ve got, lad ?” Remmick purred, his voice dripping with amusement. Before the man could take another swing, Remmick moved, faster than a blink. With a sharp crack, he twisted the man’s arm, pulling him in close until their faces were mere inches apart. The man’s breath hitched in terror, and the scent of his sweat and panic flooded the room.

“Ye should’ve stayed away, boy,” Remmick whispered, his voice sweet like poison. His smile widened even further, his teeth glinting in the dim light. Then, with a swift motion, he wrenched the man’s arm completely from its socket, the sound of bone snapping echoing through the air like thunder.

The man screamed, a blood-curdling shriek that sent a jolt through the others, but Remmick didn’t let him suffer long. With a cruel laugh, he plunged his other hand deep into the man’s chest, tearing through skin, flesh, and bone as though it were paper. The villagers watched in stunned silence, unable to comprehend the brutality of it. The man’s blood sprayed out, staining the floor and walls as Remmick threw his lifeless body aside like a ragdoll. The body hit the ground with a sickening thud, blood pooling around it.

“Who’s next ?” Remmick’s voice was low, dark, and thick with pleasure, like a predator toying with its prey. He wiped his hand on the man’s clothing, dragging the blood over his fingers with a languid motion. “Come on then, let’s see who’s brave enough to join him.”

The villagers recoiled, their faces a mixture of disbelief, horror, and abject terror. But one woman, a brave fool, stepped forward. Her hands trembled, her voice cracked as she shouted, “Die ! Demon !”

Remmick turned his gaze toward her, his eyes gleaming. “Is that so ?”

Before she could even react, he was upon her.

With a flick of his wrist, he grabbed her by the throat, lifting her off the ground with one hand. She kicked and struggled, her legs flailing uselessly as she gasped for air, but it was no use. His grip was unyielding, cold as ice, and she couldn’t escape.

The other villagers screamed in terror, trying to run, but they were trapped. The door had been shattered, and the windows were too far away to escape through. It was too late.

Remmick slowly squeezed the woman’s throat, his grin widening with sadistic glee. Her eyes bulged, desperate for air, and her hands clawed at his wrist, but he didn’t let go. His eyes never left hers, savoring every moment of her struggle. With one final, brutal motion, he snapped her neck, the sickening crack of bone filling the room. Her body went limp, and he let her fall, her blood splattering on the floor with a wet thud.

“Not much of a challenge, were they ?” Remmick chuckled darkly, before licking and drinking from the blood that had escaped from the broken woman’s neck on his arm. He then took a slow, deliberate step forward, eyes never leaving the remaining villagers. The fear in their eyes was palpable, suffocating, and he reveled in it.

One by one, they tried to flee, but Remmick was faster, always faster. A man attempted to run for the door, but Remmick grabbed him by the back of the neck, lifting him off the ground and slamming him into the wall with bone-crushing force. The man’s spine cracked, his body going limp as he slid to the floor, a pool of blood quickly spreading around him. Once he was dead, Remmick drank straight from his shattered neck.

Another villager tried to tackle him, but Remmick effortlessly sidestepped the attack, kicking the man in the chest so hard that the air whooshed out of his lungs. The man crumpled to the ground, gasping, unable to breathe as Remmick loomed over him.

“Is this all ye’ve got, then ? A few desperate fools ?” Remmick purred, clearly enjoying the terror in their eyes. “Pathetic.”

The remaining villagers were paralyzed with fear, unable to make a sound. They had seen what he could do, and there was nothing left for them but to wait for their inevitable end.

“Now,” Remmick said, his tone casual as he wiped his hands on his bloody clothes. “Ye’ve all had a front-row seat. Time to meet yer maker.”

Without warning, he moved again, faster than the eye could follow. His hands flashed out, and the final villagers were torn apart in a flurry of blood and gore, their bodies falling to the floor in lifeless heaps.

…

The room was silent now, save for the heavy, uneven breathing of the demon. The stench of blood and death hung thick in the air, and the once-strong walls now felt like a tomb, closing in with the weight of what had just transpired.

Remmick turned to you, his red eyes gleaming in the dark. His smile was wide, almost too wide, as if the act of violence had only made him hungrier.

“Well,” he finally said, his voice filled with satisfaction, “That was fun, wasn’t it ?”

You could barely move, the shock of the scene still coursing through your veins. Your body trembled, but you weren’t sure if it was from fear or something else—something darker that you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You stood, staring at Remmick, your body trembling, heart still racing.

“You saved me,” you whispered, the words barely leaving your mouth.

Remmick chuckled.

“I always keep my promises, dolly,” he said softly, his voice smooth as velvet, but laced with something darker. “But remember…” He leaned in close, his breath warm on your skin, “I always get meself somethin’ fer everythin’ I do. And the cost fer yer life will be mighty expensive.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

His eyes lit up in the dark.

“Now, c’mere.” He swept you up in one smooth motion, arms like iron under your back and knees, and before you could even gasp, you felt the world tilt beneath you. His grin was wide, predatory—and for a breathless moment you wondered if you’d fallen into some nightmare you couldn’t wake from.

“Let’s fly, lassie,” he murmured, voice low and daydream-soft, though every word tasted like brimstone.

You felt the cool night air rush in as he burst through the window and out into the courtyard. One powerful leap, and the ground fell away beneath you both. Your heart slammed against your ribs as the wind tore at your hair and clothes; moonlight skittered across Remmick’s twisted smile, his eyes shining like polished amber.

Below, the village was a scattering of torches and panicked figures—tiny, scrambling things you could barely make out. Their screams rose to you in a distant chorus, but the air around you was so thin, so cold, that it almost felt peaceful.

Remmick’s grip never wavered. You pressed yourself against him, trying to anchor yourself to something real. Was he though ? You weren’t sure anymore…

Higher and higher you flew, the thatch-roofed houses shrinking, the forests beyond the fields dark and endless. He flew with a grace that mocked gravity itself, as though the stars were his to command. Every so often he glanced back at you, that same chilling smirk on his lips.

“Quite the view, innit lassie ?” he asked with a smirk on his face that made you want to fall and hopefully—the fall would be lethal. Yet even as your mind screamed to fight, a strange awe filled your chest: this creature had saved you and now carried you beyond the only home you’d ever known.

Soon, you reached a clearing, and what you saw made your breath catch in your throat. A ring of carriages stood like silent sentinels around a roaring bonfire that reached toward the sky, flickering with eerie red and gold flames. Figures danced in the firelight—figures who moved with an unsettling grace, their eyes glowing with hunger, their movements fluid and predatory. Vampires.

They twirled and spun in the heat of the blaze, their laughter high-pitched, echoing through the woods like the sound of birds in an endless night. The fire crackled and popped, sending embers spiraling into the dark sky, where the moon was nothing but a distant, cold witness to this dance of the damned.

Remmick led you into the center, where the vampires paused their dancing and turned their predatory eyes on you. Their gazes flickered between curiosity and hunger, but Remmick raised his hand, his grin wide and confident.

“Lads and lasses,” he called, his voice booming in the night, “this here’s our newest lil’ treasure. Meet her properly, eh ?”

A low murmur spread through the group, and several of them stepped closer, their eyes scanning you with hunger and amusement. They weren’t human, not by a long shot. But they looked…beautiful, in an eerie, dangerous way. Their skin shimmered under the firelight, and their lips curled into smiles that promised either death or delight—depending on their whims.

You felt a cold shiver run down your spine as their gazes focused on you, but Remmick’s hand was still firm on yours. You didn’t know what this place was, or what they expected of you, but you felt an undeniable pull to the night, to the fire, to Remmick. He chuckled and rested both hands on your shoulders and nuzzled the back of your ear playfully.

“Aww…see ? Ye already adopted. I was sure they’d love ye,” he whispered with that same wicked grin. “Welcome to yer new home, me pet.”

You closed your eyes as one of his hands wrapped itself around your throat from behind and you felt his already long fingers stretch into sharp claws.

…Christ. What did you do ?

[mononijikayu]

triassic love song — gojo satoru.

“They were together until the very end.” you said softly, your voice carried by the gentle wind. “I hope they’re still together, wherever they are.” The tall man took a deep breath, turning his head to look at you. For a moment, his blue gaze seemed distant, as though he were seeing something—or someone—far beyond the present. But then his lips curled into a small, sad smile.  “They will be, you know?” he replied quietly, his voice deep and filled with a quiet conviction. “Some loves are strong enough to last forever. They…they transcend, even time.”

GENRE: alternate universe - reincarnation au!;

WARNING/S: edo japan era, nsfw, angst, fluff, romance, hurt/comfort, engagement, hurt, physical touch, implied character death(s), natural disaster(s), mourning, pain, grief, happy ending, depiction of natural disaster(s), depiction of suffering, depiction of character death(s), depiction of violent destruction, depiction of grief, depiction of suffering, mention of implied character death(s), mention of death(s), mention of suffering, mention of destruction, mention of earthquake-related destruction, fiance! gojo, fiance! reader, reincarnated! gojo, reincarnated! reader;

WORD COUNT: 8.6k words

NOTE: this song has ruined me beyond understanding. paris paloma, your album was just insane like im sorry. the fact that she wrote a song about the triassic cuddle inspired me to write something similar and i just??? i can't help myself. ive been so crazy about this song that i just decided, you know what. this is great. this is just something i would in fact like to bawl my eyes out writing. and i did. i did that. and i hope you cry with me and enjoy it. anyway, i love you all so much <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

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IT WAS ENJOYABLE TO BE TOGETHER. IIt was forbidden to be together at this time, with the curfew in place, but you couldn’t help yourself. Not when it came to him. The world outside was still, bound by rules meant to keep order, but within the quiet sanctuary of your family estate, the constraints of the outside world seemed distant and unimportant. Inside, warmth and anticipation filled the air, thick as the lingering scent of incense that wafted through the halls. The soft glow of lanterns bathed the room in a warm light, casting shadows across the delicate shoji screens, and reflecting off the polished wooden beams and traditional tatami mats beneath you.

Gojo Satoru sat beside you, his presence magnetic as always, but tonight, something was different. His signature smirk still played at the corners of his lips, and his bright, sparkling eyes glimmered with mischief. But beneath that playfulness was an undeniable depth, a new layer of emotion that wasn’t there before—an unspoken excitement, a shared understanding that you were no longer just childhood friends.

You were now betrothed.

Bound by the ties of engagement that your noble families had arranged, it felt as though a long-awaited dream had finally come true. And though you had known each other all your lives, this new bond between you carried a weight of its own, something that made your heart race in a way you hadn’t expected. The happiness you felt was undeniable, shared in the way Satoru’s hand occasionally brushed against yours, in the subtle glances that said everything words couldn’t.

“You’re quieter than usual, don't you think?" Satoru remarked with a teasing lilt, his voice soft but carrying an undercurrent of something more serious. He leaned in slightly, his gaze locking onto yours, as if daring you to speak first.

You smiled, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks under his intense scrutiny. “I could say the same about you, hm?” you replied, trying to match his teasing tone, though your voice betrayed the flurry of emotions swirling within you.

Satoru chuckled softly, leaning back on his hands, eyes never leaving yours. “Well, it’s not every day you get engaged to your best friend!” he said, his tone light, but his expression softened as his usual bravado gave way to sincerity.

That sincerity took your breath away, and for a moment, the reality of the moment hit you fully. You weren’t just sneaking out to spend time with him as you had countless times before. This was different. This was a promise, one sealed by the love you’d always shared but never fully acknowledged until now.

“I’ve been waiting for this, you know?” you admitted quietly, your eyes meeting his. “For us to be more than just... childhood friends.”

Satoru’s playful demeanor softened even more, a rare seriousness taking over his expression as he reached out to take your hand in his. His fingers were warm, and the simple gesture sent a shiver down your spine.

“Me too.” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “For a long time.”

For a few moments, neither of you spoke. The world outside was still and silent, but inside this room, the air seemed alive with the energy between you. The gravity of the situation settled in—this wasn’t just a fleeting moment. It was the beginning of something much bigger, something that both excited and terrified you.

“You always did like breaking the rules.” you teased lightly, trying to ease the tension, though your heart pounded in your chest. “Staying out past curfew, sneaking into my room like this...”

Satoru grinned, his usual confidence returning. “I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t, right?” he quipped, though the softness in his gaze lingered. “Besides, how could I stay away from you tonight? Our first night as an engaged couple... I had to be here.”

You laughed, but it was a soft, breathless sound, the kind that came when words failed to fully capture the emotions coursing through you. “I’m glad you’re here, Satoru.” you whispered.

He smiled, that warm, heart-melting smile that was reserved just for you, and for a moment, it felt like nothing else in the world mattered. Not the rules, not the expectations placed on you by your families, not even the looming responsibilities of your engagement. It was just you and him, sharing a quiet, intimate moment that you knew you would cherish forever.

“I brought something for you.” Satoru said after a brief pause, reaching into his sleeve and pulling out a small bundle of paper. “I wrote these for you.”

You blinked in surprise, watching as he carefully unfolded the papers. “Poems?”

He nodded, the tiniest hint of embarrassment coloring his cheeks, something you rarely saw from him. “Yeah, don’t laugh!” he added quickly, though the look in his eyes told you he trusted you completely. “I’ve been working on them for a while...”

You took the papers from him, your fingers brushing his as you did. The sheets were neatly folded, each one carefully written in his distinct handwriting. It touched you deeply to know that he had taken the time to craft these for you, that he had poured his heart into something so personal. Something for you, with all his love.

You looked up at him, your heart swelling with affection. “I could never laugh, my dearest.” you said softly, your voice sincere. “Thank you, Satoru.”

"I made these for you, my beloved." he whispered, pulling out one of the carefully folded parchment from your grasp and unfolded it. "Listen to me, alright?"

His slender fingers traced the delicate paper before he began to read softly, his voice like a gentle breeze:

"Beneath the cherry bloom, I wait  

for you, a light that never fades.  

In silence, your name takes root in my soul—  

a promise written long before time."

His tender words wove into your heart, each syllable filled with the love he had always held for you, now finally given shape. You leaned against him, feeling the warmth of his body seep into yours, comforted by the sound of his heartbeat that matched your own excitement. The future felt certain, and the night was perfect. You kept listening to his voice, letting it guide you into the tender slumber of the night.

Satoru leaned closer to you, watching your expression, his bright blue eyes filled with a mix of anticipation and affection. Your orbs gazed at the tender strokes of his writing.

His calligraphy had always been so beautiful, but to form such words in order to capture not just the feelings he had for you, it was even more beautiful. And to have him read it with such affection, such love — for you and only you…..what could be more beautiful? What could be more perfect, more delightful?

But then, the ground beneath you shifted, a low rumble reverberating through the tatami mats. At first, it was subtle, almost imperceptible, but within seconds, the shaking intensified. It was subtle at first, a low rumble that made the lanterns flicker.

Satoru paused, his brow furrowing. Before you could ask, the ground shook violently, and the delicate house groaned under the pressure. Screams erupted from other rooms, echoing through the halls as the tremor grew stronger.

"Satoru?" you whispered, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest, not from love, but from fear.

He was already moving, his hand gripping yours tightly. “Stay with me, my beloved.” he commanded, his voice steady, though his eyes flashed with a seriousness you had never seen before. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

The room shuddered violently as the earthquake hit full force, and you could hear the distant crashing of objects falling in other parts of the house. Screams erupted outside even louder—voices of your family, the servants, all caught in the chaos of the sudden disaster. And then all the sudden, it was eerily quiet. And that made your heart drop to your stomach 

For a moment, you thought that it would finally be over. But then, the earth beneath you trembled once more. You squealed as Satoru let his body encompass your own with the enveloping of his whole body on yours as the world crashed against you both. The walls were swaying left and right, the roof tiles were shattering one after another. It was chaos.

"Hold on to me. Don’t lift your eyes." he said, his voice calm but firm, even as the world quaked around you. “I’ll protect you.”

You clung to him, your heart pounding in fear as the floor shifted beneath your feet. His grip was unyielding, pulling you closer until there was no space between your bodies, shielding you from falling debris as the shaking intensified.

“I’ve got you, my beloved.” he murmured into your hair, his voice steady despite the chaos around you. “D–don’t worry.”

You feared when he stuttered, that he had gotten hurt. But he did not falter. His fingers gently stroked your back, trying to calm your trembling as the earthquake raged on. You could hear the distant crashing of porcelain and wood, your ears ringing from the harsh sounds of the destruction. But in his arms, you felt an odd sense of safety amidst the destruction. Because it was your Satoru holding you, protecting you. Because you’re together. 

As the tremors finally subsided, Satoru’s grip on you loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go. His breath was shaky, and when you looked up at him, you saw a rare flicker of fear in his usually carefree eyes. He swallowed hard before giving you a small, reassuring smile. You were still stunned, your head shaking as you tried to make sense of the world.

"Seems like the earth itself wanted to remind us of its power." he joked softly, though the tension in his voice betrayed him. He was just as afraid, perhaps even pained by some injury he would never show you. “We’re….we’re alright, my beloved. Don’t worry.”

You let out a breathless laugh, still clutching his robes as you pressed your forehead against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The night was no longer perfect, but in that moment, with Satoru holding you close, it felt like nothing could tear the two of you apart—not even the earth itself.

The earth, which had momentarily stilled, seemed to shift again beneath you, this time more violently.More catastrophic, more angry and volatile. You screamed as you held tightly to him, his body wrapping itself against you once more. The walls of your room groaned, beams creaking as the tremors returned with a vengeance, fiercer than before. The floor shook so hard you could barely keep your balance, even in Satoru's arms.

He pulled you even tighter against him, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, “Stay with me. Don’t let go.”

You could feel his muscles tensing beneath his robes, his usually easy going demeanor replaced by something more protective, almost desperate as his entire body forced itself to become a shield against anything against you. What remained standing of your ancestral home rattled more easily around you, dust falling from the ceiling in thick clouds. Outside, the screams grew louder, more frantic as the destruction worsened. Perhaps, it wasn’t even your family any longer. Perhaps it was the town, perhaps it was a neighboring village. You do not know anymore. And that’s what frightened you even more.

You could hear the unmistakable crash of something heavy—perhaps a roof beam—collapsing nearby. Suddenly, a deafening crack split the air. The wide, elaborate shoji doors rattled on their frames before they were blown open by the force of the quake. Your own room felt like it was being torn apart piece by piece. One of the wooden beams above groaned under the strain and, without warning, splintered and fell, hurtling toward the two of you.

Your beloved Gojo Satoru reacted in an instant, pushing you down and covering you with his body just as the beam crashed into the floor where you’d been trying to stand. The air was thick with dust, and the scent of earth and shattered wood filled your lungs, choking you. You shook as your eyes slowly opened to see your fiance pinning you down with his body shielding you.

“Satoru!” you gasped, your hands gripping the front of his robe, desperate to make sure he was unharmed.

“I’m fine, my beloved.” he muttered, though you could hear the strain in his voice. His arm was still braced above you, shielding you from any further debris. His other hand cupped the back of your head, pressing you into the crook of his neck. “We need to move. The house isn’t going to hold.”

You nodded against him, heart pounding in terror. Everything felt surreal, like a nightmare you couldn’t wake from. The childhood home that had always felt so safe, so untouchable, was crumbling around you, and the only solid thing left was Satoru. He was all you had, you think. Everything…Everything was gone. Your body was shaking. 

He pulled you to your feet, guiding you toward the door, but just as you reached it, another powerful tremor sent the ground pitching beneath you. You fell forward, and Satoru caught you, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close as the floor buckled and cracked beneath your feet. You could feel the splintering wood beneath your sandals, the whole structure of the house breaking apart beneath the relentless force of the earthquake.

“Satoru, we need to get out—” you started, but your voice was drowned out by the sound of another beam collapsing behind you, followed by a sickening crash from outside the room.

“I know, I know.” he said, his voice tight with focus as he scanned the surroundings. "We’ll find a way out. I promise."

He led you toward the door again, but just as you stepped forward, the entire room seemed to tilt. The floor caved in with a horrific crack, and suddenly, you were falling. Satoru’s grip tightened as you both plummeted into darkness, the floorboards and debris collapsing into the space below.

“Are you hurt?” Satoru’s voice cut through the chaos, his hand cupping your face gently as he pulled you close, checking for injuries in the dim light. His fingers trembled slightly, betraying the fear he usually kept hidden so well.

“I’m okay,” you gasped, though your body felt battered and sore.

He exhaled in relief, his forehead pressing against yours for a moment, his breath shaky. “We need to get out of here. Stay close to me.”

Even now, with the world collapsing around you, his determination didn’t waver. He pulled you to your feet once more, and together, you began to make your way through the rubble. The house was a maze of fallen beams, shattered walls, and debris, the once-beautiful estate reduced to ruins in a matter of minutes.

The aftershocks still rumbled beneath your feet, making every step treacherous, but Satoru kept you steady, his arm around your waist, guiding you through the wreckage. The air was thick with dust, and the distant screams of those outside continued, filling you with dread for what might await you once you escaped.

As you neared what used to be the outer courtyard, the quake hit again, this time more violent than any before. The very ground seemed to split open beneath you, and with a loud, earth-shattering roar, the outer wall of the estate gave way. You barely had time to scream before the floor cracked beneath your feet, and you fell into darkness once more.

This time, Satoru’s grip on you tightened, and you felt his body pull you against him, sheltering you as the ground gave way entirely. You hit the ground hard, the pain radiating through your body, but before you could react, you felt the warmth of Satoru’s arms around you, shielding you from the worst of it.

“Don’t leave me.” he whispered, his voice trembling as he held you tighter than ever. “I won’t let anything take you from me—not this, not anything.”

In that moment, as the world continued to crumble around you, his words were the only thing that kept you grounded. No matter what happened next, as long as you were with him, there was still hope. You clung to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his robes, as the tremors finally began to subside, leaving the two of you alone in the wreckage, but together.

You landed hard, the wind knocked out of you as your back hit the ground. The tatami beneath you was torn, and debris scattered everywhere, yet Satoru still held onto you, his arms wrapped tightly around your body, as though his grip alone could shield you from the crumbling world. The force of his embrace had absorbed much of the fall, but the impact still left you breathless. For a moment, everything was a blur—dust and darkness clouded your vision, and the deafening roar of collapsing beams filled the air.

Your body throbbed with pain, and panic surged in your chest, but even through the chaos, the warmth of Satoru’s body against yours anchored you. His presence, solid and unyielding, kept you grounded in the midst of the chaos.

"Satoru..." you gasped, your voice barely audible, but he heard you.

“I’m here,” he whispered fiercely, his voice steady despite the tremors still shaking the earth beneath you. His breath was ragged, but his grip on you didn’t falter. His white hair, now disheveled and covered in dust, clung to his forehead, but his eyes—those impossibly blue eyes—remained focused on you. “Are you hurt?”

You tried to shake your head, but your mind was still reeling, struggling to catch up with what had just happened. The earthquake raged on, though the initial violence of it had passed. The ground trembled beneath you like a sleeping beast disturbed from its rest.

Satoru shifted, pulling you up as carefully as he could. The house around you was nearly unrecognizable—wooden beams had collapsed, shoji screens were shredded, and parts of the roof had caved in. The once peaceful and warm room where you had shared your engagement was now in ruins, littered with broken objects and torn memories.

The sound of screams echoed from outside, faint but piercing. Servants. Family. It was hard to tell who, but the urgency in their voices cut through the haze of shock that clouded your mind. Your breath caught in your throat, panic gripping you once more.

“My family... my parents.” you muttered, scrambling to get up, but Satoru stopped you, his hand on your shoulder, firm yet gentle. “Satoru—”

"Wait," he said softly, though his voice carried the weight of authority. "We need to get out of here first. It’s not safe."

He tried to keep you calm, his steady hands guiding you through the debris, but you could see the tension in his posture. He was on high alert, his senses sharp as he glanced at every unstable beam, every shifting pile of rubble. He was scanning for danger, but more than that, he was trying to protect you from seeing the worst of it—the destruction, the death.

But as you stumbled through the wreckage of what had once been your home, you couldn’t avoid the horrors that surrounded you. Bodies. Littered through the halls, some crushed beneath fallen beams, others lying still in the open. Your breath hitched, and for a moment, the world spun around you.

"Satoru..." you whispered, your voice trembling as you pulled away from his protective hold. "Where are they? My parents... my siblings?"

He didn’t answer immediately, his eyes darting around, trying to keep you moving forward, away from the bodies, away from the worst of it. But you knew. The silence was louder than any scream. You could feel tears fall from your face and that broke his heart to see.

"Satoru!" you cried, your voice breaking as your legs buckled beneath you. "Where are they?"

He knelt beside you, his hands cupping your face as he gently forced you to look at him. His bright blue eyes were filled with an overwhelming sadness, but he tried to hide it, to be strong for you. He had to be strong. He had to. He can’t be weak, not right now.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “But we have to go. We need to find shelter. I’ll take you to my family home. They’ll know what to do.”

You nodded, though the words didn’t fully sink in. Your body was moving on autopilot now, your mind numb to the world as Satoru pulled you back to your feet. With every step, the destruction around you became more apparent, more real. The walls were crumbling, the air thick with dust and smoke, and the scent of burning wood filled your nostrils.

Together, you navigated the ruins of your estate, stepping over debris and through the remains of lives that had been lost in the quake. GojoSatoru kept a firm grip on your hand, leading you with a determination that seemed almost impossible given the circumstances.

But even he couldn’t hide the way his shoulders tensed, the way his jaw clenched when another body appeared in your path, forcing him to shield you from the sight.

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IT WAS A CHALLENGE, TO GO AND LEAVE THE DESTRUCTION BEHIND. The sky deepened into a somber shade of dusk as you and Satoru finally reached the estate’s edge. The once proud gates, symbols of security and honor, now stood twisted and mangled, crumpled by the sheer force of nature’s wrath.

Beyond the gates, the town stretched out in a nightmare of ruin—buildings reduced to heaps of rubble, streets fractured and littered with debris, and the air thick with the lingering scent of smoke and dust. The cries of the wounded and the wails of those searching for lost loved ones echoed through the broken streets, a chorus of despair that filled the silence left in the wake of destruction.

“Keep your head high,” Satoru urged, his voice low but firm as he tightened his grip on your hand. “Don’t look. Just… don’t.”

But it was impossible not to look. How could you not see the devastation, shared by all? Every corner of the town had been touched by this catastrophe, and every person who remained alive carried the weight of loss. It was a destruction understood by all, but none more deeply than you at that moment.

The memory of your home—once filled with laughter, warmth, and the presence of family—now lay in ruins. Your parents, your siblings… their fates were unknown, swallowed by the chaos. You hadn’t seen them, and the hope of finding them alive was growing fainter with every passing moment. Satoru’s words rang hollow in your ears, even as you clung to his hand for strength.

He guided you through the crumbling streets with a fierce determination, always positioning himself between you and the worst of the wreckage. The buildings, once grand and vibrant, had become tombs of stone and wood, each step revealing more of the town’s shattered soul. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, some half-buried in rubble, others left untouched by the debris but claimed by the quake nonetheless. It was too much, too overwhelming.

Every time you stumbled, your legs trembling with fatigue and grief, Satoru was there, catching you before you could fall. His presence was like an anchor, keeping you steady amid the storm of devastation that swirled around you. His hand never left yours, his touch a silent promise that you weren’t alone in this. You didn’t have to face it all by yourself.

The survivors—those who had managed to escape the collapse of buildings or who had emerged from the wreckage—followed behind you, a somber procession of hollow eyes and ashen faces. Their steps were slow, heavy with the weight of shock. No words passed between them, no cries for help—only silence and the occasional sob as they moved like ghosts through the streets, trying to find some semblance of safety, of life, in this broken world.

Your heart ached for them, for their pain, but your own grief consumed you. The memory of your family’s voices, the warmth of your home, felt so distant now, like a dream you had just woken from. And yet, with each step you took beside Satoru, you realized that this nightmare was real, and there was no waking from it.

The earth beneath your feet still trembled occasionally, aftershocks reminding you that the worst might not yet be over. Each tremor sent a fresh wave of fear through your body, your grip tightening around Satoru’s hand. He responded in kind, his hand strong and reassuring, though you could sense the turmoil roiling beneath his calm exterior. His family, too, was somewhere in this mess. Their fate hung in the balance just as much as yours.

As you made your way through the gates, leaving behind the wreckage of your estate, you couldn’t help but glance back one final time. The place where you had grown up, where you had shared laughter, joy, and the news of your engagement just hours ago, was now unrecognizable. In the span of mere moments, everything you had known had been reduced to rubble, leaving behind only echoes of the life you had once cherished.

“Satoru…” your voice cracked as you spoke his name, the words barely audible over the distant cries. He stopped, turning to look at you, his eyes softening with concern.

“I know,” he whispered, his hand brushing against your cheek, wiping away the tears that had begun to fall unnoticed. “I know it’s hard. But we’ll make it through this. We have to.”

His resolve was unshakable, but you could see the grief hidden behind his determination. He was trying to be strong, not just for himself, but for you. His family’s estate lay ahead, yet you both feared what you would find when you arrived.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the land in shadow, you continued onward, the fire of Satoru’s presence the only thing keeping you from sinking into despair. The path was treacherous, littered with fallen beams and shattered stone, but Satoru led the way with careful, deliberate steps. He kept you close, his arm around your waist now, guiding you over the broken streets as you navigated what felt like the remains of the world.

Every glance revealed more heartache—broken homes, toppled lanterns, and the pale, lifeless faces of those who hadn’t made it. But Satoru never let you linger, gently urging you forward each time your gaze began to drift toward the horror around you.

Finally, you reached his family’s estate. Or what remained of it. The grand structure that had once stood proud and formidable was now a heap of collapsed roofs and shattered walls. The once beautiful garden, where you had shared many moments of happiness, was now a twisted, chaotic mess of uprooted trees and scorched earth.

Satoru stood still for a moment, his eyes scanning the destruction with a silent, composed fury. The pain was etched into his expression, though he quickly masked it as he turned to you, his voice low but firm.

"We’ll make it through tonight," he said. "We have to survive, no matter what."

In that moment, even as the world crumbled around you, there was no fear in his eyes—only determination. For now, all you could do was follow him. Follow him through the darkness, trusting that somewhere, beyond the destruction, hope still lingered. 

As you finally reached the outskirts of the Gojo estate, the enormity of the destruction hit you again. The town below had not been spared either. Smoke rose in the distance, and the ground was littered with rubble, buildings half-collapsed, and people wandering aimlessly, searching for loved ones.

Satoru didn’t hesitate. He pulled you forward, his grip never loosening as he led you through the streets toward his family’s home. But when you arrived, the sight that greeted you was even more devastating.

His family estate, much like your own, had been reduced to little more than a broken shell. The grand gates had collapsed, and the once beautiful gardens were torn apart, now little more than mounds of earth and stone. The house itself had fared no better, with parts of the roof caved in and walls shattered.

Satoru’s face paled as he took it all in, his hand tightening around yours in a desperate attempt to remain calm. But you could see it in his eyes—the grief, the disbelief. This was his home. His family. And now, it is gone.

For a long moment, he stood still, his gaze fixed on the destruction before him. His breathing was shallow, his grip on your hand tightening almost painfully. But then, with a sharp breath, he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you protectively.

As you both began your journey toward the Gojo family estate, the weight of the day settled heavily on your shoulders. But Satoru’s hand never let go of yours, a silent promise that even in the face of unimaginable loss, you would survive this—together.

When you and Satoru finally reached the outskirts of his family estate, the sinking feeling in your chest returned with full force. What should have been a place of refuge, a sanctuary from the horrors you had just fled, was nothing but devastation. The Gojo estate, once majestic and proud, had fallen to the same fate as your home.

The gates were twisted and mangled, barely hanging from their hinges, and the walls that had once stood tall now lay in heaps of rubble. Smoke rose from what remained of the manor, a bitter scent of burning wood and stone hanging in the air. The destruction was so complete, so absolute, that it felt like the very earth had swallowed everything whole. The silence was deafening.

Gojo Satoru froze at the sight, his grip on your hand tightening until it almost hurt. You looked up at him, but his expression was unreadable, his usual brightness dulled to a vacant stare. His family, his home....everything he had known, everything he had grown up with. All was gone. Nothing was left but the earth where it all once stood.

You tried to say something, to offer words of comfort, but the lump in your throat made it impossible to speak. More tears could only pour out of your eyes from then on. All you could do was squeeze his hand, hoping he would feel your silent support. He didn't need to hear your words right now; he just needed to know you were there.

For a moment, he stood motionless, his blue eyes scanning the destruction as if trying to comprehend it, trying to find any sign of life among the wreckage. But there was nothing. Just like at your estate, the earthquake had consumed everything.

Finally, Satoru exhaled a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. But even in his grief, he didn’t break. He couldn’t—not with you depending on him. He glanced down at you, his eyes softening with a kind of sadness you had never seen in him before. 

Satoru stopped for a moment, turning to you with a look of determination in his eyes. “We’ll make it through this,” he promised, his voice steady, though his eyes betrayed the fear he was trying so hard to hide. “We’ll get some place safe here, and I’ll make sure nothing ever hurts you again. You hear me?”

You nodded, though the world felt unsteady beneath you. The future that once seemed so bright, the engagement that had filled your heart with hope, now felt overshadowed by the tragedy that had befallen your lives. Still, with Satoru’s hand wrapped securely around yours, you knew one thing for certain—no matter what came next, you wouldn’t face it alone.

“We need to stay warm tonight.” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s not safe to wander around in the dark. We’ll make a fire here, and then tomorrow, we’ll figure out what to do.”

He led you to a relatively clear patch of ground, away from the worst of the rubble. The sky was darkening, and the air had grown cold, a biting wind cutting through your torn clothes. Satoru quickly set to work, gathering what dry wood he could find, his movements steady and focused despite the grief that must have been tearing him apart inside.

You watched him in silence, too exhausted to help, too numb from everything that had happened. When the fire finally sparked to life, its warmth was a welcome reprieve from the cold that had settled deep into your bones. You sat beside him, huddled close to the flickering flames, the only source of light in the endless night.

Your Satoru didn’t speak for a long time. He simply stared into the fire, his expression distant, lost in thoughts you couldn’t fathom. His hands, usually so relaxed and playful, were tense, gripping his knees as if he were holding himself together by sheer force of will.

But then he turned to you, his gaze softening when he saw the exhaustion written on your face. Without a word, he pulled his outer robe from his shoulders and wrapped it around you, tucking it gently against your chin. He tried to do it, smiling like nothing happened. As though to comfort you even in all this suffering. And yet, you could see it all in his eyes. He was exhausted, he was in pain. And he didn’t know what to do.

“Sleep, my beloved.” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “I’ll keep watch.”

You wanted to protest, to tell him that he needed rest just as much as you did, but your body betrayed you. The exhaustion, the grief, the sheer weight of everything you had been through—it was too much. You nodded weakly, laying your head against his shoulder as you curled into the warmth of the robe.

Satoru shifted slightly, easing you into a more comfortable position so you could lie down near the fire. His hand rested on your arm, a protective gesture that reminded you of his earlier promise. Even as the world fell apart around you, Satoru Gojo was still there, watching over you.

As you drifted off to sleep, lulled by the crackling of the fire and the steady rise and fall of his breathing, Satoru leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. His lips lingered there for a moment, as if he were afraid to pull away, afraid that something might take you from him if he let go.

“I’ll keep you safe, my beloved.” he whispered against your hair, his voice trembling with the weight of his vow. “No matter what happens. I won’t let anything hurt you.”

The fire flickered, casting shadows across his face, but his resolve was unshakable. He couldn’t save everything—his home, his family—but he would save you. That much, he was certain of.

As you slept, Gojo Satoru remained awake, his eyes scanning the horizon, alert for any sign of danger. The devastation around him was complete, but his focus never wavered from you. You were his world now, the one thing he had left in the midst of the ruin.

The night stretched on, cold and unforgiving, but Satoru didn’t move from his spot by your side. Even as the grief gnawed at him, even as the weight of everything he had lost threatened to crush him, he stayed strong. For you. Because no matter what came next, no matter how uncertain the future had become, Gojo Satoru had made a promise—and he would keep it.

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THE YEAR 2018 WAS AN INTERESTING YEAR FOR DISCOVERIES. You remember reading about it in the newspaper on your way to university—the discovery of two lovers found in an eternal embrace, huddled together in a shoreline cave, their bodies preserved for three hundred years by the elements that had claimed their lives. 

The volcanic eruption, the earthquake, and the tsunami that had ravaged Japan centuries ago were some of the worst disasters the country had ever known, obliterating entire villages and swallowing countless lives in an instant. And yet, even in the face of such unimaginable destruction, these two had remained together, their bond undisturbed by the passage of time.

Standing quietly in front of the memorial, you felt the weight of their story settle around you. The air was still and somber, carrying with it the distant hum of waves crashing along the shore. The stone monument before you was simple yet profound—a silent marker of the love these two souls had shared, a love that had endured in the most unimaginable of circumstances. Their bodies had been found in the ruins of a household long buried by the mud and debris, a household much like the ones surrounding this coastline, now reduced to scattered memories.

You had followed the story from the beginning—the day the archaeologists uncovered them from the earth, the painstaking care they took in revealing the remains. The headlines had drawn attention, not because of the tragedy alone, but because of the story those two bodies told.

There were no names. No clues as to who they had been, what their lives had looked like before the disaster struck, or even how they had ended up in each other’s arms when the end came. But it didn’t matter. Their identities weren’t needed to understand the significance of what had been found. What mattered was that they had faced their final moments without fear. They had faced the end together, with love.

It was that thought—the resilience of love in the face of overwhelming disaster—that had touched you most deeply. In a world where so much is fragile and fleeting, the strength of their connection had remained, even after centuries had passed. It was as if their love had transcended the destruction, as if they had chosen to defy the disaster by holding on to one another in their last breath.

You stepped forward, placing your hands together in silent prayer. You wished them peace, a kind of peace that transcended the tragedy of their death, that honored the love they had shared.

You prayed that their spirits had found rest, and that wherever they were now, they were still together, watching over the place where they had once stood. The offering you placed at the memorial was simple, a bouquet of white chrysanthemums, symbolizing purity and remembrance.

"I pray that you'll always be together, the two of you." you murmured, your voice soft, barely louder than the breeze that rustled through the trees around the monument. "Wherever you are, I hope you’ve found peace, and that your love is still as strong as it was in those last moments."

You stayed there for a while, the silence of the memorial surrounding you, offering its quiet comfort. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm glow over the scene, a contrast to the deep sense of loss the place carried. But you didn’t feel sadness. Instead, there was something almost beautiful about it—knowing that even in the face of disaster, these two had been together, and their love had transcended time. As you prepared to leave, footsteps approached from behind. You turned slightly, curious to see who else had come to visit this quiet, forgotten place.

A man with striking white hair and bright blue eyes under the rim of his glasses stood at the edge of the memorial, his head bowed in silent prayer. He was tall, his presence commanding even though he moved with a quiet grace. His features were sharp, but softened by a kind of deep, unspoken sorrow. He knelt down beside the monument, laying a single white flower on the stone, his fingers brushing the surface with reverence.

You watched him for a moment, feeling an inexplicable sense of familiarity, though you couldn’t quite place it. The way he stood there—tall and composed, with an air of quiet reverence that just seemed to draw you in.

There was something almost ethereal about him, as if he was intrinsically linked to the story of the lovers you had come to honor. The connection felt deeper than mere coincidence, as though his presence was a significant part of the narrative that had touched you so profoundly.

His white hair glowed softly in the fading light, and his posture was relaxed yet dignified, embodying a calmness that contrasted sharply with the turmoil you had felt as you reflected on the lovers’ fate.

His eyes were closed in prayer, his face serene, as if he was offering a deeply personal tribute to the souls who had been found together in their final moments. The sense of connection was so strong that you could almost feel it emanating from him, a silent bridge spanning the centuries between his presence and the lovers' tragic end.

You hesitated, not wanting to intrude on his moment of solitude. Yet, there was something compelling about the situation—an unspoken invitation to acknowledge the shared significance of this place and the story that bound them all together. Your curiosity and empathy drove you to speak, despite the quietude that hung between you.

“Excuse me.” you began softly, breaking the stillness of the memorial. Your voice was gentle, barely a whisper against the backdrop of the crashing waves. “I couldn’t help but notice… There's something about you that feels so familiar, so connected to this place. I… I’ve been deeply moved by the story of the lovers found here, and I can’t shake the feeling that you share a connection with them.”

The man turned toward you, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of surprise and understanding. He seemed to consider your words for a moment, his expression thoughtful and measured. There was a softness in his gaze, as if he had been waiting for this moment, this conversation, even if he didn’t quite know why.

“Oh.” Gojo Satoru whispered back, his cheeks tinged with a flush of surprise, as if your words had caught him off guard. He seemed momentarily at a loss, his usual confidence replaced with a bashful vulnerability. “Yeah, I… I saw the news, and I thought, I just had to come. It felt… it just felt right, you know? To come here and see them off, to wish them well.”

There was a sincerity in his voice, a raw honesty that struck a chord. You could see that this wasn’t just a casual visit for him; it was something deeply personal, a moment of reflection and respect that went beyond mere curiosity.

“I see…” you mumbled, your gaze softening as you looked at him. A smile slowly spread across your face, touched by his heartfelt gesture. “That’s kind of you to do.”

Gojo Satoru shook his head slightly, a rueful smile on his lips. “Ah, not… not really,” he said with a sigh, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. “If anything, I think you were more kind. You brought them white chrysanthemums and everything. You probably had more of a proper prayer for them than I did.”

You waved off his comment with a small laugh, the sound light and airy in the quiet of the memorial. “Oh, not at all. I think… I think your intention was purer than mine. You came here just on a feeling, an instinct that something was right about being here. I was… I was interested historically before I was here emotionally, you know?”

His eyes met yours, a flicker of understanding passing between you. “I guess we both had our reasons,” he said softly. “But in the end, it’s the connection that matters. Whether we came here out of personal feelings or historical interest, it’s our respect and acknowledgement that count.”

You nodded, feeling a shared sense of purpose in your conversation. There was something profoundly meaningful about how your paths had crossed at this place, driven by a mutual respect for the story of the lovers and a desire to honor their memory. The distinction between your reasons for being here seemed to dissolve in the face of a greater truth—that both of you were here because of a deep-seated respect and a wish to pay tribute to the enduring power of love.

“So……” Gojo continued, a slight smile returning to his lips, “I’m glad we met here. It feels like the right place for this kind of encounter, don’t you think?”

You agreed, feeling a warmth in his words. “Yes, it does. It’s like the universe brought us together in this moment to remind us of something important.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Yeah, something like that. It’s nice to know that even after so much time, and despite all the changes and challenges we face, there are still moments that can bring people together in such a profound way.”

You stood together in silence for a moment, the weight of your shared understanding settling around you. The memorial continued to stand as homage to the lovers’ eternal bond, and in that quiet, sacred space, you felt a connection that transcended all the limits given by the bountiful universe.

“They were together until the very end.” you said softly, your voice carried by the gentle wind. “I hope they’re still together, wherever they are.”

The tall man took a deep breath, turning his head to look at you. For a moment, his blue gaze seemed distant, as though he were seeing something—or someone—far beyond the present. But then his lips curled into a small, sad smile. 

“They will be, you know?” he replied quietly, his voice deep and filled with a quiet conviction. “Some loves are strong enough to last forever. They…they transcend, even time.”

There was something in his tone, a weight to his words, that made you wonder if he was speaking from experience. You gave him a respectful nod, choosing not to pry into the emotions that seemed to flicker beneath his calm exterior.

The two of you stood there in silence for a while longer, both paying your respects to the nameless lovers who had defied death with their love. The sun continued to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the memorial. Finally, the man rose to his feet, brushing the dust from his clothes before turning to you.

“Take care, stranger.” he said softly, his voice carrying a warmth that contrasted with the sorrow that had lingered moments before. Then, with one last look at the monument, he began to walk away, his white hair catching the fading light like a beacon.

As you watched him go, something tugged at your heart. You didn’t know who he was, but in that moment, you felt as though you had shared something important with him—an unspoken understanding of love and loss, of holding on to someone even when the world falls apart around you. 

Somehow, there was something stirring within you—a feeling that you couldn’t let him just walk away, not without knowing more. There was something about him, an invisible thread connecting you, as if fate had brought you both to this quiet place for a reason.

"Wait! Hey, mister!" you called out softly, taking a few steps toward him. The man paused, turning back to face you, his expression curious but calm.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say. But then, with a gentle smile, you extended your hand. "I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself. My name is……"

He looked at you for a moment, as if weighing whether to reciprocate. Then, with a small, almost teasing smile, he took your hand in his. His grip was warm, steady, and comforting in a way that felt strangely familiar.

"I'm Gojo Satoru." he said, his voice smooth, yet laced with something deeper, as if his name carried a history he didn’t fully reveal.

The name hung in the air between you, and for a brief moment, you felt a flicker of recognition. But it was fleeting, gone as quickly as it had come. You smiled politely, though something about the way he said it, the way his gaze softened as he looked at you, made you feel like there was more to his introduction than simple formality.

"It's nice to meet you, Satoru." you replied, feeling a strange sense of ease as you spoke his name. There was something about the way it rolled off your tongue, as if you'd said it a thousand times before.

He tilted his head slightly, his sharp, crystal-blue eyes studying you with an intensity that was both disarming and oddly reassuring. It was as if he could see beneath the surface, understanding more than what was immediately apparent. Yet, instead of feeling exposed, you felt a sense of comfort, a silent acknowledgment that he grasped the depths of your emotions and thoughts.

With a gentle, almost shy smile, Gojo Satoru reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, extending it toward you. “Put your number in,” he said, his voice tender and inviting. “I think… I think you know more about this story than I do. I’d like to know more, if you’re willing to share.”

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by the request, but the sincerity in his voice and the warmth of his smile compelled you to act. With a nod, you took his phone from him and began to enter your contact information, a small flutter of excitement rising in your chest. There was something intriguing about the prospect of continuing this conversation, of sharing more about the story that had brought you both here.

When you handed his phone back to him, a playful grin appeared on your face. “It’s your turn,” you said, taking out your own phone and extending it toward him.

Gojo Satoru chuckled softly, his eyes lighting up with amusement as he looked at your phone. “Well, alright.” he said, taking it with a mock sigh of resignation. “If you insist.”

As he entered his number into your phone, the atmosphere between you shifted from one of solemn reflection to one of friendly connection. The small act of exchanging numbers felt like a bridge, linking your shared experience at the memorial with the potential for future conversations and deeper understanding. Maybe, just maybe — you’ll understand life the way these two in front of you did. Just maybe.

When he handed your phone back to you, he looked at you with a genuine smile. “Thanks for sharing this moment with me. It’s been… meaningful. I’m glad we crossed paths today.”

You smiled back, feeling a warmth in your chest that came from more than just the shared experience. “I’m glad too. It’s not every day you meet someone who understands the significance of something like this so deeply.”

Finally, Satoru spoke again, his tone lightening slightly. "Well, I should be going. The train is leaving soon. But... It was nice meeting you." He paused, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer than necessary. "Maybe we’ll see each other again."

You smiled, feeling the same unspoken connection. "I’d like that."

With one last look at the memorial, Satoru turned and began to walk away, his white hair catching the fading light of the day. You watched him go, a strange sense of calm settling over you.

As you stood there, the weight of the lovers' story still fresh in your heart, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t the last time you would see Gojo Satoru. Something told you that your paths would cross again, in ways you couldn’t yet predict.

And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the memorial, you whispered one final prayer—not just for the nameless lovers, but for yourself, and perhaps for Satoru too.

"May we all find each other, in every lifetime."

[cece693]

YOU REMIND ME OF SOMEONE DEARLY PT. 1

pairing: platonic! male child reader x hannigram synopsis: Hannibal isn't taken aback by anything anymore—his life has been filled with experiences that built him into the man he is today—but during a hospital shift, he's stunned to encounter Mischa again. While the child is of the opposite gender, everything down to their smile is reminiscent of his beloved sister. A parental instinct immediately engulfs the doctor, more so, when he realizes the child doesn't have the best life.

The hospital’s after-hours hush always soothed Hannibal Lecter—pneumatic doors sighing like well-trained lungs, anesthesia drifting faintly above polished tile. Tonight, however, the stillness tore at him with anxious claws. “Dr. Lecter, trauma bay three,” a scrub nurse called. “Pediatric transfer from Frederick County."

Hannibal nodded, letting the masque of urbane calm settle over his features. The fluorescent lamps above Trauma Three were a pitiless white, but Hannibal had lived inside harsher lights. He crossed the threshold prepared for gore, for the usual cloying perfume of antiseptic mixed with the metallic ozone of blood. What he was not prepared for was the instant, violent dislocation of time.

The harsh lighting revealed a body far too small for the adult gurney. Eleven, perhaps twelve. Golden-straw hair, clumped by plasma, framed the child’s face. Under the glare it looked exactly the shade Mischa’s curls adopted in midwinter sunlight—just before she’d scamper back inside smelling of snow and woodsmoke. The resemblance struck so hard Hannibal’s lungs forgot their task, forcing a shallow, ragged breath past perfect teeth. His fingertips twitched for the memory of her weight in his arms, for the warmth that had been ripped away and devoured by wolves wearing human skin.

Then clinical habit re-asserted itself: assess, catalog, plan. Radius with spiral fracture—yanked, not fallen. Cigarette burns in varying stages of healing. A deep purple boot bruise where a child’s liver nestled beneath brittle ribs.

The scalpel of rage glinted behind Hannibal’s eyes, but his hands remained steady as metronomes. He repaired a splenic laceration, plated the shattered forearm, irrigated and closed. When the ventilator finally clicked into a gentle rhythm, Hannibal allowed himself a single stroke of knuckles across the child’s hair—an unheard benediction.

When the boy surfaced from anesthesia, his lashes fluttered, revealing irises the soft caramel of birch sap. They lacked the worldly exhaustion Hannibal had carried since childhood; they were absent of judgment, of fear—even of the instinct to flinch. Instead, they carried something impossibly forgiving and looked at Hannibal with utter gentleness.

“Are…are you my guardian angel?” he whispered, throat rasped raw.

The words struck like a scalpel finding unfinished suture—precise, unbidden, opening Hannibal along a seam he had sworn would never gape again. Guardian angel. In Mischa’s nursery there had hung a watercolor cherub, all pastel wings and candle-bright eyes, painted by a governess who believed children slept safer beneath pretty lies. Hannibal had scoffed at it, even then. Angels had never answered Mischa’s screams.

Yet here was a boy who could have been carved from the same early-spring light, asking shyly if the butcher at his bedside might be Heaven-sent.

“No, little one,” he said in Lithuanian first—reflex, because the timbre of those vowels belonged to Mischa—then translated softly. “Angels are creatures of heaven. I am simply a man who could not endure seeing you harmed.”

The boy’s lips curved. A faint dimple ghosted his right cheek—Mischa’s dimple. “Thank you simply-a-man.”

Delight stirred; it felt like thawing ice. Hannibal leaned closer, matching the child’s hushed cadence. “My name is Hannibal Lecter. May I know yours?”

“Y/N,” he breathed. “Y/N Anatole.”

Light, Hannibal noted—the name of a lantern-bearer in Old Greek. Prophetic. “Y/N,” he repeated, tasting the syllables. “Y/N, do you know why you’re here?”

A flicker—too knowing for innocence, too resigned for twelve. “I got clumsy again,” he said, parroting an excuse beaten into him until it sounded like fact. The quiver at the edge of his mouth told the true story.

Hannibal’s anger flared, hot enough to bleach memory.  Clumsy. The word echoed like a joke told at a funeral. He imagined the father’s boot slamming into a ribcage the size of a violin case, the mother’s ringed hand snapping ulna like kindling. A swan-neck clamp in Hannibal’s mind clicked shut on their carotids—a fantasy so vivid he felt the spray warm his cheeks.

But before the rage could overflow, Y/N touched his sleeve—small, trusting. “It’s okay. I always get better.” The boy’s words, so matter-of-fact, sliced deeper than any scalpel. I always get better. Anemic optimism forged in bruised bone and narcotic drip—a child’s version of this is normal.

“Getting better is not the same as being safe, Y/N. And you deserve safety more than you can yet imagine.”

The boy blinked, surprise widening those birch-sap eyes. “Dad says accidents make me tough.”

Hannibal’s jaw flexed. Tough, yes—like rawhide soaked, stretched, beaten until it could no longer feel. Exactly the kind of “strength” a cowardly man could admire from a barstool. However, before Hannibal could refute that absurd claim, the door was nearly ripped from its hinges as two adults barged in, reeking of liquor and stale resentment.

“We want him discharged tonight,” the father snapped, the words slurring just enough to betray a companion flask. “We’re missing shifts because the kid’s accident-prone.”

Y/N shrank against the rail, analgesic haze not quite dimming the reflexive fear. Hannibal heard the flutter of the boy’s heart trip into tachycardia—an SOS tapped in flesh.

“Your son sustained a splenic laceration, four displaced fractures, and a pneumothorax,” Hannibal replied, voice quiet but diamond-edged. “Moving him now would almost certainly kill him.”

The mother rolled her eyes. “Doctors love drama. He’s been worse.”

“No, madam,” Hannibal corrected, “He has never been worse.”

The father stepped closer, posture puffed with ritualized dominance. “Listen, doc, you patch ’em up, we take ’em home. That’s the deal. Sign the papers.”

Hannibal inhaled slowly, bottling wrath the way chemists bottle acid—tight-sealed, for later use. “Hospital policy requires a 48-hour observation. If you object, you may sign an AMA discharge—Against Medical Advice. However, child-protective services will be notified immediately.”

“You can’t do such thing!” the father bellowed, voice wobbling between outrage and incipient panic.

Hannibal did not so much as blink. He let silence hang between them long enough for the father to taste his own heartbeat. Then, with the unhurried diction of a professor correcting an imbecile, he replied: “I can. And I will. Federal statute 42 U.S.C. § 5106a requires me to report any suspicion of abuse. Your son’s injuries are not suspicious; they are conclusive.”

A purple vein jumped in the man’s temple. “You smug—”

Hannibal pivoted slightly, granting the father a clear view of the ceiling-mounted camera whose red LED winked like a judgmental eye. “This encounter,” Hannibal added, “is being recorded. Any further obstruction will be appended to the CPS report—under violent interference with medical care.”

The mother’s mascaraed eyes darted upward, saw the lens, and a tremor seized her bravado. “Honey,” she hissed, tugging at her husband’s sleeve, “let’s just—”

“Shut up!” he snarled, jerking free. Rage overrode tactical thought; he lunged, thick fingers closing on Hannibal’s coat lapels.

Hannibal allowed the grasp, studying the meaty hands as a pathologist examines a specimen: interesting only in the theoretical. Then he spoke, voice so low the syllables vibrated directly through the father’s bones. “Remove your hands, sir, or I will remove them for you.”

For one breathless second the man froze—primitive brain parsing predator signals too primal for language. The spell shattered when two security officers strode in, summoned by Hannibal’s silent badge-tap moments earlier.

“Sir, step back and release the doctor,” the lead guard ordered. Tasers, bright as dragonfly wings, hung at their belts—a rehearsal that would not be needed if Hannibal chose less public methods.

The father’s grip slackened. Hannibal smoothed his coat as though brushing off lint, eyes never leaving the man’s. “Please escort Mr. and Mrs. Anatole to the family waiting area” he told security, “and remain until social services arrives. They are not to see the patient unsupervised.”

The woman wilted; the father sputtered threats—lawsuits, politicians, a brother on the county board—but the guards’ practiced grips shepherded them into the hallway, their protests fading beneath the hiss of automated doors.

Silence settled over the recovery bay like a fresh layer of sterile gauze—light, immaculate, strangely heavy with the residue of violence just expelled. Hannibal let the hush seep all the way to his pulse; only when his own heartbeat slowed to a deliberate metronome did he turn back to the gurney.

Y/N’s heart rate spiked the monitor in bright green peaks. He lay stiff against the pillows, IV line trembling where it vanished beneath his taped wrist. “They’re gone?” Y/N asked, voice a rasp of timid hope.

“For now,” Hannibal answered, lowering himself to the bedside with a grace that conceded nothing to exhaustion. He kept his tone level, its sotto voce cadences meant to reassure prey—but here repurposed to soothe a child. “Others will speak with them before they return. Very serious people.”

And if those people fail, he told himself, I will speak with them in a language bone understands—syllables of fracture and finality.

A pulse of uncertainty flickered across Y/N's face. His gaze darted toward the door, half-expecting those familiar silhouettes to charge back through. Hannibal sensed the boy’s muscles coil, the primal readiness to make himself small or flee despite the drain in his flank and the plate in his arm.

Deliberately, he slipped a gloved hand beneath the rail and pressed the bed’s control, tilting the headrest until Y/N reclined more comfortably. Monitors adjusted, beeping a fraction slower. Then he placed two fingers beneath the boy’s chin—light, paternal, non-threatening—and guided that birch-sap gaze back to his.

“Look at me,” he murmured. Midnight OR fluorescents painted silvered halos on their foreheads. “You are safe here. Do you understand?”

Y/N swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing against bruised cartilage. “The nurses said that, too. But Dad usually finds a way.”

There it was—the surrendered certainty of an eleven-year-old who has seen every promise collapsed into apology. Hannibal’s jaw tensed hard enough to click. He forced the muscle benign, then brushed his thumb across the bruise shadowing Y/N's cheekbone in a gesture more diagnostic than affectionate, though it felt like both.

“Your father will find many things tonight: a police report, a social-worker’s interview. But he will not find you.” Hannibal murmured, adjusting the blanket so it draped in perfect hospital folds, the way he once tucked Mischa under goose-down quilts during Baltic winters. “Sleep. That is the prescription now.”

“But what if—”

“No ‘what ifs’ tonight. I will remain until you’re dreaming. And outside that door stands a nurse who would tackle an army for her patients.” Hannibal leaned closer, voice dipping into conspiratorial warmth. “She doesn’t look it, but she played varsity rugby.”

A ghost of a smile appeared; the tachycardic beeping eased toward normal sinus rhythm. Hannibal reached for the IV pump, dialing the rate to deliver two milligrams of morphine and a micro dose of midazolam—enough to usher pain into the background and coax the boy gently over the rim of consciousness. As lashes sagged under the twin lullabies of medication and safety, Y/N fought to keep them open. “You promise?”

“Yes.” Hannibal vowed, fingers brushing the child’s knuckles. "Sweet dreams."

[enticingmelanin]

The Best Man: Aaron Pierre x Reader Fic

The Best Man || Aaron Pierre x Reader

Rating: E for Erotic.

Warnings: NSFW, Smut, and Explicit Language. 18+ Only.

Word Count: 2k+

Summary: Things get hot and heavy between you—the maid of honor—and Aaron, the best man. And let’s just say, he’s living up to that title in every possible way.

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Drinks were flowing, music was pumping, great conversations were being had, and romance was in the air.

You were filled with joy watching your best friend since the 9th grade, Sophia, get married to her now-husband, Kelvin. You weren't just honored to witness it—you were her maid of honor. The entire day had been a whirlwind of nerves, happy tears, laughter, and utter bliss. You loved a good wedding, and it wasn’t every day you got to attend one, let alone be part of something so beautiful. So you were soaking it all in—every moment, every detail.

Something else you wanted to soak in—or rather, someone—was Kelvin’s best friend and best man, Aaron Pierre.

He looked unfairly good tonight in that black tux, just a little loosened at the collar now, his smile as sharp as it was warm. You’d felt his stare more than once across the candlelit table, both of you trying to play it cool as you mingled with guests, danced with cousins and aunties, and stayed just enough apart. But there was no mistaking it: the magnetic pull was there.

You and Aaron had been quietly, delicately dating long distance for about 2 months now. Not because you weren’t proud of him, or because he didn’t want to shout it from rooftops—but because the timing, the spotlight, his HBO series Lanterns filming between LA, London, and Atlanta... all of it called for care. And you both valued your privacy. He still managed to stay consistent—FaceTime dates, good morning texts, long calls after wrap days. And now, with filming wrapped, this wedding weekend had been your first chance to physically be in the same place with a moment to breathe.

You reached for your glass of champagne, your black gown catching the light—the jeweled corseted top glittering like stars. The fabric hugged you perfectly, making you feel regal, powerful, and just a little dangerous. A server passed by. You took a breath. Then, tapping your fork gently against your glass, you stood.

The room slowly quieted. All eyes turned. And though you were used to speaking in front of crowds, this one made your heartbeat drum against your ribs—because your voice, tonight, was for love.

“I wasn’t planning to give a big speech. I'm shy,” you began, catching Sophia’s eye at the head of the table, her smile bright through the flicker of candlelight. “But this day… this day has been too beautiful not to say something.”

A soft hush settled around the room. Aaron’s gaze found you again. Steady. Warm. Unwavering.

“When I think about love,” you said, “I think about my best friend since the 9th grade. I think about the long nights we stayed up dreaming about our futures, what kind of men we’d fall for, who would make us laugh, protect our peace, and dance with us in kitchens when no one was watching.”

You paused, your voice catching slightly before you smiled.

“And today, I watched her live it. I watched her marry the man who sees her exactly as she is and loves her for all of it. Kelvin, you are everything I hoped she’d find. And Sophia… you’ve always been the heart in any room.”

A few guests dabbed their eyes. You glanced down at your glass, then back up again.

“This day has been magic—nerves, happy tears, laughter… utter bliss. And I just want to raise a glass to that kind of love. The kind you grow into, the kind you choose, the kind that makes even the hard days worth it.”

You lifted your glass, your voice gentle but sure. “To Sophia and Kelvin—may your love be bold like red roses, steady like white ones, and may it always feel like coming home.”

Applause broke around you. You made your way over to Sophia and pulled her into a warm embrace, the two of you whispering soft I love yous through the emotion. Kelvin soon wrapped his arms around you both, completing the heartfelt group hug. Back at your seat to sit back down, heart still fluttering, and about to glance in Aaron’s direction, he was already there—pulling out the chair beside you.

His hand brushed yours under the table, a silent promise, a quiet fire.

And as the music picked back up, and Sophia laughed into her new husband’s shoulder, you leaned into the moment, letting yourself feel everything. Joy. Love. Anticipation. And the electric thrill of something just beginning.

The melody of Alicia Keys’ “Un-thinkable” began to play, sending butterflies fluttering in your stomach. The DJ extended the beat, giving people time to join the dance floor. Instantly, Sophia and Kelvin made their way to the center, wrapped in each other’s arms, swaying slowly to the rhythm.

“Can I have this dance?” a deep voice with that dangerously enticing London accent murmured in your ear.

You turned, meeting Aaron’s beautiful turquoise-and-gray eyes. Blushing, you nodded, letting him take your hand and lead you onto the floor. Nestled between other couples, his arm slid around your waist, pulling you close, your bodies moving in sync with the music.

“I was wonderin’, maybe, could I make you my baby? If we do the unthinkable, would it make us look crazy? If you ask me, I'm ready…”

As the lyrics floated around you and your eyes locked with his, the truth between you settled like a secret only your bodies could confess. You were thinking the same thing—ready to claim and be claimed in every way. If he asked, you were more than willing to be his woman.

“That was a beautiful speech,” Aaron murmured, his voice low and intimate, meant only for you. “I hope I fit the man you dreamed of falling for.”

You smiled, emotion catching in your throat as you held back tears. “You exceed those dreams.”

A slow smirk curved his lips as he lifted your hand, placing a soft kiss to the back of it. “If I asked you to meet me upstairs once this song is over... would you?” he asked, a mischievous twinkle lighting his eyes.

Your breath caught, but you didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” you breathed, biting your lip.

He gave a small nod, then leaned his forehead gently against yours as the two of you melted into the rest of the song. Across the room, Sophia caught your eye over Kelvin’s shoulder and mouthed, I knew it. You giggled and stuck your tongue out playfully.

As the final chords faded, Aaron pulled back slightly, eyes steady on yours. “Meet me upstairs in five. Room 306,” he said, then slipped away into the crowd.

You played it cool, walking back to your table. You finished the last sip of your champagne, letting the bubbles settle your nerves, then grabbed your clutch and made your way to the elevators.

Ding!

You stepped off and followed the gold-plated signs. Just as you raised your hand to knock, the door flew open. Aaron pulled you inside, swept you off your feet, and kissed you with the kind of hunger that said he’d been waiting all night.

Your clutch hit the floor as your arms wrapped around his neck, matching his intensity. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you opened for him without hesitation. You melted into the kiss, savoring the plush feel of his lips, the solid strength of his embrace. He nipped your bottom lip gently, then paused to catch his breath.

“I’ve been wanting to do that all day,” he said, voice husky. “Well... really every day since we started seeing each other. Life’s been crazy and exciting, but you’ve been that extra anchor—my peace. I know it hasn’t been easy, but your patience... it’s meant everything to me.”

His eyes burned into yours as he continued. “I know I’ve got what it takes to give you everything you deserve. And if you’ll let me, I’d love to be your man. I’m all in, baby.”

You kissed him slow and sweet, sealing the moment. “I’m all in too. All yours, Mr. Pierre.”

His grin stretched wide, all 32 teeth on display, full of joy and promise. “I think that calls for a celebration..” he said, his gaze dropping to your jeweled corset. “Think we can manage getting this dress off safely? You look stunning, but I’ve been fantasizing about you out of it all night.”

You moaned as his lips found your neck, your nipples tightening against the fabric, your thong growing damp with anticipation.

“I think... we’ll manage,” you purred between gasps. “Take it off.”

Aaron moved behind you and loosened the strings of your dress. Once it no longer hugged your body like a glove, he slowly pulled it down, and you carefully stepped out. As you bent over to undo the straps of your heels, a firm smack met your ass, making you gasp.

“Keep them on, princess. Go sit on the sofa,” he commanded—gentle, but firm.

You obeyed, settling onto the plush couch as he stood in front of you. His eyes roamed your body, drinking in the sight. He slowly undid his tuxedo jacket and removed his shoes before slipping it off completely. Your pussy clenched at the sight of him—golden skin, muscular build, pronounced six-pack. His dick was thick, hard, long, and slightly curved. He looked handcrafted by the heavens, and you couldn’t help but trail a hand down to your covered pussy, slowly rubbing as the ache for him grew.

He bit his lip, eyes locked on the growing wet spot between your legs. Draping his tux and your gown over the armchair, he pulled a gold foil packet from his pocket and made his way over to you, eyes intense—like a predator stalking its prey. Kneeling between your legs, he gently moved your hand out of the way and slid your thong off with your help, your hips lifting in anticipation.

“Damn,” he murmured, staring at your glistening pussy. “I know we have to be quick, but I have to taste you,” he said, then began kissing the inside of your thighs.

His eyes found yours just before his lips met your center. You gasped as his tongue began circling your clit, slow and deliberate. Your breath hitched, back arching, but Aaron gripped your thighs, pulling you closer to his mouth.

He French kissed your lower lips, then gently sucked your clit while watching your body unravel. “Oh, baby…” you moaned, fingers threading through his soft, thick curls. Aaron groaned, sending light vibrations through you, before plunging his tongue deep inside. Your hips writhed, your stomach caved—all your nerves lit up between your thighs. Your moans grew louder as his thumb joined in, rubbing slow circles over your clit while his tongue fucked you faster.

“Oh my God… mmm! Baby, you’re gonna make me cum,” you whimpered, head tilting back.

Aaron hummed in satisfaction, then traded his tongue for two fingers, flicking and sucking your clit while pumping inside you.

“Uuunhhh! Shit, shit… mmm,” you cried out as your release spilled onto his fingers. He slid them out and brought them to your lips, licking up every drop of you. You eagerly accepted his fingers into your mouth, muffling your moans as you tasted yourself.*

Satisfied with his cleanup, his lips trailed kisses up your stomach to your chest, stopping briefly to suck your nipples before capturing your mouth in a sensual kiss. You moaned softly, tasting your own essence on his tongue.

The tearing of foil filled the air, and moments later you felt the thick tip of him at your entrance. As he pushed forward, you gasped against his lips.

“Mmm... you feel me, baby?” he moaned, straightening up as he slowly filled you.

“Unh... yes, Daddy. You’re so big…”

“You can take it, princess. Just breathe. Feel me,” he instructed, setting a slow, deliberate pace. He fed your clenching pussy inch by inch. You reached for his forearms as he gripped your waist. You tried not to dig your nails into his skin, but with every deep, intoxicating stroke, he made it nearly impossible.

The rhythmic slap of your thighs and ass meeting his pelvis filled the room, harmonizing with the moans and groans between you. His strokes quickened as you stretched around him perfectly. His smoldering gaze drifted down to where your bodies connected, and a deep growl rumbled from his chest.

“Mmm... look at you takin’ me so well,” he moaned, watching you coat his length. His hand slid down your torso as he lifted one of your legs onto his shoulder. The moment his eyes locked back on yours, his thumb found your clit and began to rub, just as he drove into you harder.

“Oh, fuuuuck,” you cried out at the added stimulation, your hand flying to press against his flexing abs. Feeling the power of him beneath your palm stirred the orgasm building deep inside you.

“You can push all you want... mmm. I’m not going anywhere, baby. Not until you cum on this dick,” he groaned, voice thick with emotion. “I missed you so fuckin’ much,” he breathed as he began to pound into you deeper, his hefty balls smacking against your ass with every thrust.

You wanted to tell him how much you missed him too, but the way he hit every spot just right—and the way his thumb kept working your clit—made it nearly impossible to form words. Instead, you reached for his face and pulled him into a deep, needy kiss. Everything you couldn’t say poured out through that kiss, and he felt it—knew the longing was mutual. The clench of your walls, your whimpers and cries, and the arch of your back told him everything he needed to know.

“Cum for me, beautiful... Ooh, shit. Look at me,” he growled against your lips, pressing his forehead to yours. Your eyes fluttered open, locking onto his—and that was all it took to ignite the fire burning inside you.

“Cum on your dick, baby.”

Your dick…

Something about the way it rolled off his tongue—how he claimed you as his—pushed you over the edge. The fire within you erupted, and you came with his name on your lips. Watching you writhe and fall apart sent him spiraling right after. His dick throbbed as he came deep inside you, lips latching onto your neck to muffle his guttural moan.

The rhythmic slaps slowed, then stilled with his final thrust. Both of you worked to catch your breath. He peppered your neck with soft, tender kisses, trailing up to your lips. You shared a slow, deep kiss, then whispered against his mouth, “I missed you too.”

After freshening up and getting redressed, you both made your way to the elevators, hand in hand.

“You catch the first one, and I’ll wait for the next—space us out a lil,” he said with a grin.

You nodded and giggled softly, hoping no one caught on to what just happened.

“I hope you know that was just a preview of what’s to come tonight. I’m not done with you,” he growled in your ear, his hand warm at your waist as you waited.

A chill ran up your spine.

“I’m counting on it, Daddy,” you purred just as the elevator doors opened. You placed a quick kiss on his lips before stepping inside, descending to the main floor.

You reentered the reception just in time for your bestie and bestie-in-law to cut their cake. Standing by your seat, you pulled out your phone to snap photos of the beautiful couple. As you watched Sophia feed Kelvin a bite of fluffy red velvet cake, a quiet thought crept in—maybe you were on a similar path.

Almost as if answering that thought, Aaron appeared beside you and handed you a fresh glass of champagne. He winked, and you returned it with a soft smile.

Looks like the best man just might be the best man for you…

The End.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚

Just a lil smutty romantic moment for my babes. I hope you enjoyed it. Masterlist coming soon! My taglist is always open, feel free to join the gang. xoxo

Taglist:

@slvt4her @wanderingreigns @avoidthings @xjjawsomex @that-one-anxious-mango @wabi-sabi1090 @nubiawrites @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @kianaleani @slutsareteacherstoo @slyy-foxx @dxddykenn @moujg @naughtynolly @wildcardmelaninfreak @pocketsizedpanther @wanderingreigns @wabi-sabi1090 @styleismyaddiction @novahreign @transparentphantomface

[chimielie]

pretty damn close

summary: Suna x F!Reader. he picks you up.

wc: 1.3k

cw: none. reader is having a bad night for unspecified reasons and suna makes her feel better by being his weird aquarius self

a/n: i think i may be more attracted to suna’s car than i am to suna because i feature it so often

It’s a bad night. The stars are hidden behind a thick haze of city smog, the honking of cars is obscured by the thick ringing in your ears. Your knees touch through the rips in your jeans as you shiver, trying not to think about the germs on the sidewalk.

The scent of a cigarette floats through the air. You don’t smoke, but you could.

Before you ask the stranger for a light, a car pulls up in front of you, braking loudly through the miasma.

You put a hand on the door handle and pull yourself up, waiting for the click of the lock’s release before you pull it open and slide inside.

“Hey,” Suna says, and you chatter your teeth together in response.

He reaches over and turns up the heat in his car three notches. You sigh and drop your shoulders at the rush of warm air that comes through the vents, tucking your legs up as he speeds away from the potential of a nicotine buzz.

“Can we go to your place tonight?”

You expect a side glance or a questioning tone. You have a defensive answer prepared, brushing off your growing discomfort with your roommates, the way their eyes track you as you lead him through the common area to your bedroom. You don’t want to field their assumptions tonight, the ones you know they make because of the smudged eyeliner around his waterline, the black swoop of his hair, the careless way he walks, his center of gravity pulled back toward wherever it is he wants to be that is never, ever where he is.

“Sure,” he says, like it’s nothing. Maybe it is. Maybe the little world you occupy, your mini-lanterns dangling from the ceiling and tchotchkes lining the windowsill, can expand outside its limits.

The lines of Shizuoka’s road shine bright white under his headlights, toothpaste and baking soda strips against the asphalt. You twist your head so you can see the sky out the window and try to take a deep sniff of his car door’s lining without his noticing. Teak and gasoline, you like this smell so much you imagine it when you’re at work, when you’re walking to the grocery.

“This was our first time calling, you know,” you say to the stars.

“Was it?” There’s a little frown in his voice. “No way, we’ve gotta have called before.”

You shake your head.

“I checked my call log, and I never clear it.”

“Huh.”

“Huh,” you echo. “And I don’t like calling, so that’s probably why. I feel so awkward.”

“You’re always awkward,” he says.

“Not true!” You try to punch his arm, but you’re still pressed up against the window so now you’re lying across his passenger seat, twisted into a bow. You graze his sleeve. “I’m whimsical. On the phone, I feel like I’m in a business meeting.”

“I am not a business-y person,” he says.

“No, you’re really matter-of-fact,” you respond. Your punching hand is limp at your side now and he reaches over, picks it up and shakes it side to side like it’s something dead. He folds his fingers over yours and you stay carefully still. “I can see it in another universe.”

“Then in that universe you must be an heiress,” he says. “I’ll seduce you for your money.”

“I hope you’re not doing that now,” you say, wrinkling your nose. “I don’t make half as much as you, with tips.”

“But you’re so high-class,” he says, in a terrible tone that makes you suspicious that he’s making fun of you. You stick your tongue out and blow a raspberry, ladylike. “And I’m not seducing you.”

It’s true. Suna comes over, toes off his big boots made bigger by their chunky soles, sits on your bed and plays games with you. He eats all your snacks and he puts his hands up under your shirt, but just to trace his fingers over your skin in patterns to feel your stomach flip. He calls you a masochist but he never does anything about it.

“But you told ‘Samu I was your girlfriend,” you say, a whine that’s really a needle, sliding into his pressure points.

He throws the car into reverse and you cling to his hand, startled. Suna parallel parks in one try, showboating bastard, and gets out of the car and opens your door before you’re finished putting everything that spilled out of your purse on his floorboard back into it. You get out and he finds your hand again, but changes his mind and exchanges it to flatten his palm against the small of your back, burning a hole through your thin t-shirt.

You cross your arms and let him guide you into the building. His doorman is a blinking red button on a keypad that needs, counterintuitively, to be pressed if you want it to open. You poke his side, but he’s too well-trained by your boss and his twin brother, too hard to provoke. You don’t try very hard; you don’t like bothering Suna, you just want him to get tired of not telling you his secrets.

Suna’s apartment is enclosed behind a grey door marked 221. There’s no welcome mat, and inside isn’t welcoming either. He has nondescript dark grey furniture facing a big TV you can see your reflection in, sucking in your cheeks and pursing your lips. Behind you, he’s miming clawed hands and a snarling bite into your neck. When you turn to him, he’s very busy adjusting the way his keys hang on their hook.

“I didn’t say that,” Suna says, leading you to the kitchen, which has a butcher block island you’d like to kill him for. He opens his fridge and hands you a chilled bottle of water, a bar of dark chocolate with a bite taken out of it. You don’t like the texture but you take it to be polite. “I told ‘Samu you were my soulmate.”

“I just don’t feel like those two things are distinct,” you say. “I also really like being made aware of it when I’m in a relationship.”

“We’re not in a relationship,” he says, putting his hands on your hips and hoisting you up onto the counter, you bending your knees and pushing to help him out a little. “I’m still working on that.”

“When’re you gonna be done?”

He puts his face in your chest, cheek against your heartbeat. You flush, lean your head on top of his, slide a hand into the gap between the collar of his shirt and his neck, your cold fingers raising goosebumps but garnering no other reaction. Annoying, annoying, annoying.

“When you’re not having a bad night,” his voice is muffled by your shirt. “But soon. Just be patient with me.”

“I’m not having a bad night anymore,” your face, twisting into a scowl, says otherwise. “And I’ve waited a bunch of lifetimes. How soon is soon?”

“When I’ve cleaned my bedroom,” he says. You can see into the room if you look left, a sliver of spare, clean space just like the rest of the apartment. “And when I stop being scared that I’m gonna screw it up.”

“I see,” you say thoughtfully, tapping your fingers against his neck in a staccato beat. “The relationship or the asking?”

“Asking,” he says, and then, very quiet, “you make me nervous.”

“That’s silly,” you laugh, “I’m half as scary as you are. You’re like a black hole. I’m just, like, a rock or something that got pulled in.”

When he pulls back to look at you, Suna’s eyes are haloed with a bright ring of yellow-grey lustre, a pinprick of pupil expanding to swallow the universe. There’s something crackling all around you, the buzz of atoms getting closer to combustion. He’s not actually touching you, but you can still feel it.

“Nah,” he says. “If you were anything, you’d be stars.”

[lightleak007]

~ The Legend of How You Disappeared ~

Storyline: Kokushibo thought that people with rare blood are the only ones who can make him feel the excitement of consuming them. But you—you are awakening his humanistic urge that is supposed to be long forgotten.

!! SMUT ALERT !!

!! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK !!

PS. Hi, reader! I'm making my tumblr debut with one of my favorite Demon Slayer Character x Reader stories that I made. Hope you enjoy reading~

During the Taisho period, it is part of the culture to be married at a young age. The age of sixteen is the appropriate age to have a husband through an arranged marriage. That’s why learning how to be a good wife is much more important than learning how to be intellectual.

You had prepared yourself for the day to be chosen as a bride, but your life wasn’t the same as everybody else—no one wanted you.

If only you were chosen and got married by the age of sixteen, you wouldn’t be seen as bad luck by your own family and everybody else in town.

As you live your life for two decades, you are seen as a disgrace, and everyone who knew you always looked at you with pity in their eyes. Even work does not come easy since everyone believes you’ll only attract misfortune to their business. It got you thinking that maybe life isn’t hard, it’s just you finding it hard to live because the people around you make it so.

It feels like you’re just breathing, but not living—you feel empty and unwanted. The only thing that gives you peace of mind is an evening walk, and you developed a habit of doing it every night without a miss.

Even with the rumors about a demon who hunts humans for food being the only talk in your town lately, it doesn’t stop you to take a late-night walk. More like, you don’t care if you encounter the demon and he puts an end to your life—or maybe the demon won’t even choose you to be their prey in the first place.

You scoffed at the thought of encountering a picky demon as you continue to walk towards the riverside. When you got to your usual spot, you put down your lantern on the grass before sitting beside it. The moon is unusually bright tonight and its light is reflecting on the calm water that is flowing in the river in front of you.

“Ah~ It feels a little chilly tonight,” you said to yourself as you felt the night breeze, and put on your haori that you brought with you. Nighttime is the only time you are free—from judgments and the pitiful stare of everyone you know. It feels nice to have solitude and the gentle flow of wind against you is adding to your relaxation.

The cold air of the night keeps brushing against your skin and as the wind blows, your scent is being flown with it—reaching the nostrils of the rumored demon in the area. He can feel his senses tingle upon smelling a human nearby.

Kokushibo moves swiftly to your location, his hunger beginning to rise within him. Just by your scent, he could tell you are a woman in her younger years, and the closer he gets to where you are… his sixth sense revealed much more.

Without you noticing him, Kokushibo stands a few feet away behind you. He couldn’t believe what he could see with his sixth sense, but he knows that his eyes are not lying to him.

Kokushibo can tell without a doubt that you are a virgin.

A thrill runs in his veins and an unfamiliar urge is igniting within him upon knowing this. Kokushibo thought that people with rare blood are the only ones who can make him feel the excitement of consuming them. But you—you are awakening his humanistic urge that is supposed to be long forgotten.

Being a demon, Kokushibo did not think that it was possible for him to feel any sexual urge, especially, toward a human. For demons, humans are nothing but food and power source. Yet when your scent penetrated his nostrils, a tingling sensation runs through under his skin, and his instincts told him to have you.

Kokushibo unsheaths his fleshy sword from his side. Thinking to himself that after he absorbs you, he'll be back to his usual self—being composed and reserved. In just one slash, he knew he could end your life and he won’t be bothered by his humanistic feelings anymore.

You only became aware of someone else’s presence behind you when you felt a sharp tip pressing at your back. A gasp left your lips and your mind wondered who could it be. Your heart races its beat as you slowly turn your head to see who it is.

A louder gasp escapes from you upon realizing that the person who pointed his sword at you, is in fact, a demon. You tilt your face away to see him, he has three pairs of eyes that can’t go unnoticed by someone. His face has flame markings on the left side of his forehead and on the right side of his chin. He stands tall in front of you and his spiky hair is tied in a ponytail behind his head. He’s wearing a purple kimono with beehive patterns on it and partnered it with black hakama pants that are tied with a white cloth belt on his waist. Somehow, you felt admiration for his majestic features.

“W-Who are you…?” You asked as he pointed his fleshy sword at your face this time. Well, you guess this is where your miserable life ends.

Even as a demon, he’s polite enough to answer your question. “Upper Moon Rank One of Twelve Kizuki,” he saw how your face looks puzzled at what he said, “Kokushibo.” He was a little surprised that you did not run away screaming.

As someone who’s tired of living, you don’t feel scared anymore of getting killed by him. It’s not your wish to spend your time growing old in a world that only gives unfairness to you.

“Don’t worry, I won’t run away,” you said as you get up on your feet, “You can do anything to me. I’ve been ready to throw my life away anyway, Kokushibo.” You flashed him a genuine smile—something you haven’t done in a long time.

Kokushibo’s eyebrows twitch, “Do…anything to her?” He thought as he felt the shivers that run through his body, and the smile that you gave him only made his heart fall. He pointed his sword to your chest and he watches as you anticipated the slash.

You waited with eyes-closed, heartbeat racing but there’s no regret creeping into your chest. Then, you felt the sword swing across your body and the breeze of the night penetrated your skin. Slowly, you opened one eye to see what happened—only to see Kokushibo sheathing his sword back to his side.

When the wind flew again, it felt too cold against your body. Realization slowly sank in you as shredded pieces of clothing swayed in front of your eyes. You look at your body and found yourself…naked.

“I have permission to do anything to you right now,” Kokushibo catches your waist and pulled your naked body closer to his. His face inching closer to your neck and his other hand already caressing one of your breasts.

“A-Aren’t you—hng!” The feeling of his lips kissing lavishly on your neck made you hold off your question. You weren’t aware that a demon like him could be a pervert and would do sexual advances on his prey—this wasn’t what you expected. His sharp nails grazing against your back made you elicit a shuddering breath and caused you to push your chest closer to him.

Kokushibo slathers his tongue from your shoulder blade to your neck and it reaches until the back of your ears. “Your taste is addicting….” He paused upon the realization that he doesn’t know your name.

“Tell me…” Kokushibo pulled your chin to tilt your head and made you look at him, “...your name, human.”

“_______,” you answered without hesitation as you hold onto his shoulders and felt your heart flutter at his compliment. Your naked body presses close to him and you can feel a hard tent poking on your thigh.

“_______,” Kokushibo repeated as if your name is something he won’t ever want to forget. His hands ran all over your body as his mouth started working on your neck again. Your scent and taste against Kokushibo’s senses are enough to make him moan. He ran his fangs on the veins of your neck and the urge to bite you is so strong but his sexual urge for you is stronger.

The feeling of Kokushibo’s lips against your skin is ticklish and sensual, both feelings are something you never had before from someone else. You felt your body being guided to lay down on the grass where your shredded clothes are. As soon as your back hits the ground, Kokushibo hovers on top of you and seizes your lips.

“Hmng!” The sudden kiss caught you off-guard, making it hard to respond as his tongue invades your mouth. You can only release puffs of air and let him eagerly suck on your tongue—the sensation is electrifying.

Kokushibo keeps himself busy as he savors your taste in your mouth, not really minding all the saliva he’s been slurping from you. It has been so long since he ever kissed someone and he’s well aware that not even with his wife from before time, had awakened a such desire he’s been feeling for you. He doesn’t want to stop and his tongue pushes deep into your mouth—nearly reaching your throat.

You almost choked and your eyes filled with tears as you find it hard to breathe. With all the strength that you have, you pushed him away and moaned, “Ko-Kokushibo…”

There’s a trickle of saliva on the side of his mouth as he pulled away and the way you moaned his name made him feel a throb in his aching length. Kokushibo wiped off your stained cheek with his cold hand as gently as he could. He’s feeling too much ache between his legs that his clothing is making him feel more uncomfortable.

You watch as Kokushibo undress between your legs, he has pale skin but a muscular body, and your eyes were interrupted from lowering down your gaze when he hoists your legs in his arms. The dripping of your arousal in between your legs is being reflected by the moonlight, and the embarrassment snaps in you as Kokushibo leans in closer to your wetness.

Kokushibo inhales deep your arousal scent—too inviting for him. He felt your hips squirming away in shyness but he had no problem firming his hold on your thighs. His hands spread your wetness open and his sharp nails dug into your inner thighs at the sight of your tight hole. Every breath that he takes is heavy as he keeps himself in control.

You started to feel more embarrassed and insecure as Kokushibo stay in a daze with your virgin hole. But, every puff of air from his mouth feels too hot against your wetness that it’s taking effect on you too. Your soft hand reaches for his hand that’s holding into your inner thigh, “What’s… wrong?”

“I want to taste what’s dripping from you here,” Kokushibo’s knuckles caresses your folds and gently prod your clit unconsciously.

Before you could answer, you felt his flat tongue lathering on your wetness back and forth. The tip of his tongue rubbed on your clit and licking on your slit—causing your legs to spread further apart. Your hands hold onto his head as Kokushibo let himself drown in your wetness, and your voice sounds high and lewd from the sensation.

Kokushibo’s mouth works with hunger and your arousal coating even his chin as he pushes his tongue inside you. He slurps loudly and sucked on the nub his mouth had found—causing your legs to tremble against his hold.

“Ahhh~!!” You cried out in pleasure as you tug on his hair, “Kokushibo~! Your tongue—haa~!!”

The way you pulled his hair is not having any effect on Kokushibo, it only made him groan against your clit, as his tongue penetrates your insides. He can feel the soft pleats of your insides squeezing around the wet muscle of his mouth.

The further his tongue reaches inside you, the closer you felt yourself convulsing. Your legs shake around his head and your body gave in to the newfound ecstasy. You came undone in his mouth and your insides wetter than ever.

Kokushibo gulped all the secretions left in his mouth and he stare down at your heavily breathing state. He presses his shaft on your abused clit and you flinch away in sensitiveness. He had to hold your hips still as he started penetrating your tight insides.

You whined at the sensation of getting stretched apart, he felt hard inside you, and it feels impossible to take all of him. The brush of his pulsating veins in your slick walls is making your eyes roll in the back of your head.

“I can’t— ‘s too much.”

Kokushibo pulled your body up on his lap, to help you sink on him as he was just halfway in, “Don’t run away from me, _______.”

You felt his hands on your ass and your body swiftly pushed down to his length. You let out a cry of his name and felt a searing pain as you fully take him inside you. Tears freely fell from your eyes as you feel the pain—his length feels too hard and your insides still adjusting from his wide girth.

"Please..." You can feel the sting in your eyes as tears continue to trickle down and stain your cheeks, "Stop... Please, stop."

Unbeknownst to both of you, spots of blood from your torn hymen are freely dripping from your joined bodies together and staining the ground.

"I can't.” Kokushibo started to thrust, “This can't be over now, _______."

You cried out louder and had to bite on his shoulder to distract yourself from the pain. Your teeth sink into his pale skin and your fingertips scratch his back, as Kokushibo keeps your body moving on top of him.

Kokushibo groaned internally as he felt you bit on his skin… and he almost prayed to a god just to keep the mark that you made. But, it wasn’t possible, his healing ability already made your bite vanish.

“Kokushibo,” you sniffled on the crook of his neck.

“It will feel better, _______,” Kokushibo kisses your shoulder blade and continue to gently guide your hips in moving. He couldn’t focus on feeling the pleasure as you cry, but he knew that he couldn’t stay still as your insides grip on his length too hard.

Your insides adjusted fully as he keeps thrusting, soon enough, the pain you were feeling was replaced by a ticklish yet sensual sensation. You can feel that it became easier to take him in as you move above him, and your voice lets out erotic moans.

Kokushibo has his six eyes closed as he lets you move on your own, the pleasure in his body is getting stronger and stronger. His hands squeeze on your soft ass and his sharp nails unconsciously left scratch marks on your skin, due to his eagerness. He’s letting out deep groans and sighs as he lets himself be consumed by the pleasure.

You felt like a knot is getting twisted inside you and the more you move, the tighter it gets. “Kokushibo~ Hnngh!”

Kokushibo caresses your face after hearing his name, your face distorts beautifully for him as the pleasure intoxicates you. He wrapped one arm around your waist and move his hips, taking the lead with speed. He can feel your nipples brushing against his face as he bounces you on top of him.

Your hold on his shoulders tightens and it’s hard to keep yourself steady. You couldn’t think straight as the pleasure gets in your head. You felt your body giving up as another wave of surprise orgasm surged throughout your body.

Kokushibo felt your insides squeeze around him repeatedly—forcing him to pull out. He felt your body falls on him and your ragged breathing is apparent. He took in a deep breath, he had almost reached his high, and he intended to pursue it.

You felt being flipped to your back and Kokushibo from behind is pushing his shaft inside you again. A loud whine escaped your lips as you feel being full again, and he felt bigger in the new position. Your legs already shaking as soon as he started to thrust.

“Kokushibo~!! Unghh!!” Your hands gripping the grass and making marks on the ground as you take in his pounding. This time, he felt forceful and relentless—as if chasing something.

Kokushibo’s mind got clouded by the pleasure that he’s spitting out a proposal near your ear in between his moans, “Let’s live together, ________.” He moaned deliciously again, “Live together with me.”

Without thinking about it, “Yes! Kokushibo, yes~!!”

Maybe it was the pleasure you’re feeling that took your sense of logic away, but you know you won’t regret the choice you made.

Kokushibo dragged his hips once more before unloading thick strings of his warm cum and it painted your narrow insides white. All of his kept seeds bursting out inside you and making you full—literally overwhelming your womb.

You can still feel Kokushibo pumping inside you and your body could only take in all that he gave. Eyes rolling at the back of your head, hands gripping the ground, and your voice sounding lewd can be heard from a far distance.

Kokushibo stared at your limp state, while his desire is barely satiated. He took you in his arms and brushed away the strands of your hair from your face, “Take my blood and I’ll keep you, _______.”

You obliged. Finally, you have found someone who wanted you.

Before sunrise, you and Kokushibo are off to spend the rest of your demon life together. Leaving your shredded clothes on the ground and pieces of evidence of you losing your virginity. The marks on the ground and the spots of blood from where you were last night were founded by a man who’s out to fish in the river.

Since then, a legend of how you disappeared arises in your town based on the traces that you left. People believed that you were eaten by a demon as it was your fate for being unmarriable.

The legend of your disappearance was told to many young girls through generations and they feared having the same fate as you.

[midnightquips]

What We Never Were

Jake Seresin x Reader

Summary: Y/N needs a fake boyfriend for her sister’s wedding. Jake Seresin, her childhood best friend, is all too happy to play the part—until pretending starts to feel dangerously real. One bed. Old feelings. A week of dancing around the truth. She thinks he’s out of reach. He’s just been waiting for her to see him.

Themes: fake dating, bestfriends to lovers, pining, slow burn, fluff

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, eventual smut, dirty talk, praise kink, jealousy, soft aftercare, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, mild praise kink, foreplay

💫 What We Never Were Masterlist 📌 Sign Up for TAGLIST

Chapter 3

Part III - If You Were Mine

The rehearsal dinner is in full swing by the time you and Jake make your way to the garden venue. The soft and romantic ambiance heightened by string lights crisscrossing above long wooden tables, and lanterns flickering along the stone pathway.

 The buzz of conversation filled the gaps in the air. The clink of champagne glasses and distant music from a small band all blur together into the kind of night you knew everyone would remember.

Jake walks beside you, his hand resting low on your back. It’s been there all evening—casual, but not. His fingers graze the fabric of your dress like he’s making sure you’re still close.

You catch glimpses of raised eyebrows from extended family. Smirks. A few nudges and whispers. Jake leans down and murmurs, “I think the aunties are placing bets on how fast I’m gonna propose.”

You snort. “Well, seems you’ve been filling their proposal bingo cards all day. Mimosas all day. Fixing my shoe straps. The proposal is the FREE spot in the middle.”

He grins, shameless. “Maybe I just like taking care of you.”

Careful, Seresin.

Don’t say too much too fast.

Still, you don’t pull away from his touch. You don’t step aside when he brushes your hair off your shoulder, or when he whispers something stupid that makes you laugh during your dad’s toast. It’s a day you’ve let your hair down with Jake, leaning into the pretense and almost forgetting it even was in the first place.

And Jake? He’s soaking it all in like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

It’s all the moments piling up. That despite all the distractions, dancing with your relatives, hugging old family friends, snapping pictures, your eyes keep flicking toward Jake. You always find him. By the bar. By the speakers. Leaning against the railing, beer in hand, looking at you like you’re the only thing in the damn room.

And every time your gaze catches his, he gives you that look. That little assuring smile.

Like he already knows that his presence grounds you.

When the crowd thins out on the dancefloor, and the music softens into something slow and sweet, your cousin calls out, “Jake, get in there and dance with your girl already!”

Jake raises a brow, waiting for you.

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t want to. But because… if you do, something shifts. Something confirms.

Still, your feet move before your brain can second-guess.

Jake meets you halfway, one hand settling on your waist, the other catching your hand in his. You press your palm to his chest.

And try not to melt.

“This might be the only time we’ve ever slow danced,” you murmur.

“And I’ll never forgive myself for that,” he says, voice low. “Hopefully the start of many.”

The world feels quieter in that moment. Like the music has dimmed, and all you can hear is the brush of his thumb against your spine, the rhythm of his breath.

He dips his head, mouth near your ear.

“Don’t know if I told you yet but you look beautiful tonight,” he says, and it’s not the first time he’s said it—but it feels different now.

You don’t reply. You don’t know how. Just stare at him with bright eyes.

Jake pulls you in a little closer.

If she were mine, I’d kiss her right now.

I’d pull her behind the garden wall, push her up against it and taste every inch of her skin.

I’d fuck her so slow and deep she’d never forget my name.

Jesus Christ. Breathe, Jake.

Your hand tightens slightly in his shirt.

Jake tries to stay calm. He tries to focus on the sway of your bodies, the feel of your waist under his palm. The weight of the moment feels heavy between you, drowning everything else around. In a crowded room, it felt like the only two of you. 

“You keep looking at me like that,” he whispers, “and I’m gonna do something that’ll ruin the rest of this party.”

Your breath catches.

“You wouldn’t,” you whisper back.

Jake smiles.

“Try me.”

Before either of you can say anything more, a voice from the patio shouts over the music.

“Come on, Seresin! Kiss her already!”

It’s your cousin. Loud, drunk, and unfortunately drawing everyone’s attention.

You freeze. So does Jake.

Then, before you can react, Jake leans in, as if he didn’t even need a second to think about it.

His hand slips up to your jaw, tilts your face toward his. His thumb strokes your cheek once before his mouth covers yours—warm, confident, lingering. It’s not a showman’s kiss. It’s not a drunken dare. It’s something else entirely.

His lips part just enough to draw in your bottom lip, to make you gasp quietly into him. His other hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, holding you firm, pulling you closer for a second longer than he should.

By the time he pulls back, you’re breathless.

And he knows it.

There’s applause behind you. Whooping. Cheering. But you barely hear any of it.

Jake’s thumb grazes your cheek.

“You okay?” he murmurs, masking his breathlessness with worry instead

You nod, barely. But your mind is spinning.

Why did he kiss me like that?

That wasn’t for them. That felt like… something else.

Jake watches your face, trying to read you.

Shit. I shouldn’t have done that.

Except I’ve wanted to kiss her since the moment she showed up in that damn pink dress.

He steps back slightly, letting you go—but only just.

The dance ends. Someone calls out your name for a photo, and you gently step back. Slipping away from his grasp.

Jake stays behind, pulse thudding, jaw tight.

Get it together, Seresin. You crossed the line.

But even as he watches you walk across the lawn, he knows he’d do it again.

In a fucking heartbeat.

He had to take a breather in the bathroom. Trained to overcome high pressure environments, the overwhelming feeling was foreign to Jake. It was not unwelcomed but the uncertainty it brought shook him. 

He opened the group chat with the Dagger Squad and hit call. Javy picked up first.

“Bagman. You alive?”

“Barely.”

Phoenix joined, her face halfway lit from a lamp. “This better be about Y/N.”

“It’s about Y/N.”

“Yes,” Rooster’s voice echoed as he entered the frame. “I’ve been dying for an update since you threatened my life.”

Jake scrubbed a hand down his face. “I kissed her.”

Silence.

Then three voices at once:

“You what?” — Javy

“You finally grew a pair?” — Phoenix

“Was it hot?” — Rooster

Jake held up a hand. “Shut up. It wasn’t planned. Her cousin yelled at us to kiss and—”

“You folded like a lawn chair,” Phoenix said.

“Bro,” Rooster added, eyes wide. “You threatened me for thinking about taking her to the wedding, and now you’re out here swapping spit and—what—pretending it meant nothing?”

Jake glared. “It wasn’t just a kiss.”

“Then tell her that,” Javy said.

Jake paused.

And didn’t answer.

Phoenix leaned closer to her screen. “Jake. Come on.”

“I don’t want to screw it up,” Jake admitted quietly.

Rooster looked at him for a long beat, then nodded. “Okay. But if you’re not gonna tell her how you feel, don’t stop the rest of us from trying.”

Jake’s jaw ticked.

“Didn’t think so,” Rooster smirked.

Jake hung up.

Taglist: @kvmitchell @mrsevans90 @natureartisian @purplefluffycows @eolsens @lunatygerqueen @deadlybeauty16 @ronniesreverie @anony1080 @vicky199625 @teacupsandtopgun @dizzybee03 @stillinracooncity @7dreambaby @pogueprincesa @jackiehollanderr @cozyjess

[earthlybeam]

I got a request rather funny really so elves wanting to know if reader is single so they ask “are you like seeing anyone?” And reader reply with “like dating? Or hallucinating?” How would the elves react? Im very curious I feel they be very concerned 🤣🤣🤣

the elves Gil-galad, Celebrimbor, Elrond and thranduil

This was so funny! I added a twist at the end—I hope you don’t mind. Gil-Galad, Celebrimbor, Thranduil, Elrond versions below.

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

The night stretches endless above you, a velvet sky adorned with glimmering constellations, their soft light casting a silvery glow upon the balcony where you stand. The waves beyond Lindon’s shores murmur against the cliffs, a rhythmic, steady song beneath the quiet hum of the evening breeze. Lanterns flicker behind you, their golden warmth illuminating the polished stone beneath your feet, but it is nothing compared to the presence beside you—the quiet, undeniable gravity of Gil-galad himself.

He stands poised as always, an effortless command in his bearing, though tonight… something is different. His gaze lingers, measured yet intent, as if searching for something unspoken in the depths of your eyes. His silver circlet gleams beneath the starlight, and the finely embroidered cloak draped over his shoulders shifts slightly as the night wind teases its edges.

Then, finally, he speaks. “Are you… seeing anyone?” There is no hesitation in his voice, only a smooth, deliberate curiosity. Yet beneath the even cadence of his tone, there is something quieter, something unspoken. You blink, tilting your head just slightly, letting your lips curve into a teasing smirk. “Like dating? Or hallucinating?” Silence. A beat. For the first time, you catch him off guard.

A slow blink, a pause, and then—something rare. Gil-galad exhales, and a quiet chuckle escapes him, a rich, warm sound that seems to settle into the night air like a melody. The faintest smile tugs at the corners of his lips, a fleeting break in his ever-composed exterior. “I must confess,” he murmurs, his voice carrying the softest trace of amusement, “I was not expecting that response.” His gaze remains steady upon you, intrigued, waiting, but you are not finished yet. Leaning in just slightly, you let your tone soften, taking on a playful lilt as you murmur,

“Because if it’s hallucinating, then I’d really like to know why the most handsome High King of the Noldor keeps appearing in all my dreams.” This time, he does not laugh. Something shifts in his expression—a flicker of realization, sharp and sudden, as your meaning registers. He does not move, not immediately, but his stillness is telling. His keen, star-bright eyes study you, searching, weighing.

You have answered his question. And you have done so boldly. The corners of his lips press together slightly, his brows lifting just a fraction—not in disbelief, but in something akin to intrigue. His posture, ever so poised, does not falter, yet there is a subtle shift in his stance, a near-imperceptible lean forward, as if drawn closer by the gravity of your words.

“I see,” he murmurs, and this time, his voice is different—lower, smoother, touched with something deeper. He takes a single step forward, and though the distance between you remains proper, you can feel the shift in the air, the weight of his presence impossibly near. “Then, if I am to persist in appearing in your dreams…” A pause. His gaze dips, just briefly, before returning to yours, steady as the sea, “perhaps I should ensure I am making a good impression.”

The space between you hums with something unspoken, something charged, as his words settle between you. “Tell me,” he continues, and there is a distinct shift in his tone now—deliberate, confident, edged with something quiet yet undeniably magnetic, “do I live up to your expectations?” The way he says it—measured, yet laced with that unmistakable challenge—sends a ripple of anticipation through the cool night air. He is waiting. Watching. Your move.

Gil-galad watches you intently, his sharp Elven eyes searching yours, awaiting your answer. There is confidence in his stance, but also curiosity—a rare moment where the High King, so composed and measured, is uncertain of what you will say next. You pause, letting the silence stretch just enough to be playful. Then, you tilt your head and exhale a soft sigh, feigning disappointment. “No.” His brow lifts ever so slightly. His expression remains composed, but you can tell you have his full attention now. His hands remain clasped behind his back, his posture unshaken, but there’s a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

“No?” he repeats, his voice smooth but laced with intrigue. “How unfortunate.” You let the moment hang between you, then, with a smirk, you add, “Well… for my hallucinations, at least.” The slight furrow of his brows deepens, but before he can question you, you lean in just a little, dropping your voice to something almost conspiratorial.

“In my hallucination, you were on your knees…” you let the words trail off, watching his reaction. His expression doesn’t falter, but you notice the slight inhale he takes, the way his sharp mind processes your words in an instant. Then you deliver the final blow. “And I was in your bed.” For a fraction of a second—so brief that most would miss it—Gil-galad stills entirely. No movement, no sound, just the quiet crackle of the torches and the distant rush of the waves beyond Lindon. Then, something shifts. His eyes darken—not with anger, but with something else, something unreadable yet undeniably intense. His lips press together, suppressing a reaction you can’t quite place. Then, after a moment, he exhales, a slow and measured breath.

“Is that so?” His voice is lower now, quieter, deliberate. He tilts his head, studying you as if you were an enigma he has yet to solve. There is no outward fluster, no loss of composure—he is a king, after all, and well-trained in maintaining his regal bearing. But the way his gaze lingers, the way his fingers flex slightly before settling once more behind his back—these are the tells of a man who has just been… affected.

“Then I suppose I must wonder,” he muses, his voice almost teasing but laced with something deeper, “whether I have merely been lacking… or if your imagination is particularly ambitious.” A pause. A flicker of something knowing in his gaze. “Perhaps,” he continues, ever so smoothly, “you would care to elaborate… on what exactly I was doing on my knees?”

💍𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓫𝓸𝓻

The study was warm, illuminated by the golden flicker of the fireplace. The scent of parchment, burning wood, and something faintly metallic lingered in the air—a subtle reminder of the forge not far beyond these walls. Celebrimbor sat across from you, his hands resting on the arms of his intricately carved chair, fingers absently tracing patterns into the wood as though lost in thought. His sharp, silver-gray eyes, however, were focused solely on you.

He had been uncharacteristically quiet for the past few moments, considering something. Then, with an exhale that sounded far too intentional for casual conversation, he finally asked, “Are you… like, seeing anyone?” There it was. Casual on the surface, but his voice held that careful, deliberate tone he used when he was measuring something important. He wasn’t the type to ask pointless questions.

You tilted your head, suppressing a grin. “Like dating? Or hallucinating?” The silence that followed was utterly delicious. Celebrimbor blinked once, then again—his lips parting slightly, as if he needed a moment to process your words. His fingers briefly tensed against the wood, then flexed. He was trying, quite valiantly, to decide if this was some sort of test, an enigma to be solved, or if he had simply lost control of the conversation entirely.

“I… presume you mean dating?” His voice was measured, though the slight furrow in his brow betrayed his effort to parse your words. “Unless… hallucinations are a concern of yours? Should I be worried?” You leaned forward slightly, resting your chin in your palm, letting your gaze linger on him just a moment longer than necessary. “Oh, don’t worry, Lord Celebrimbor,” you mused, “the only vision I see before me is you… and I’d say you look quite real to me.” A pause. A very long pause.

Celebrimbor, the greatest Elven-smith of the Second Age, Lord of Eregion, heir to the House of Fëanor, looked at you as if you had just shattered the very laws of logic before his eyes. His lips parted, then closed. His mind, so keen and analytical, was caught between amusement and sheer bewilderment. Then, to your utter delight, a slow realization dawned over him.

“You…” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to clear it. Then, he laughed. A quiet, breathy chuckle at first, but one that softened his normally intense expression. He tilted his head slightly, gaze flickering with something both intrigued and—dare you say—pleased. “That was…” He paused as if choosing his words carefully. “Astoundingly ridiculous.” You feigned offense, placing a hand over your heart. “You wound me, my lord.”

“Do I?” His voice was smoother now, laced with something dangerously close to teasing. He rested his elbow on the armrest, chin lightly against his knuckles as he regarded you. “Then perhaps I should craft something for you. A token of my sincerest apologies.” You smirked. “Oh? And what would that be?” Celebrimbor leaned forward just slightly, his gaze holding yours in the firelight. “A mirror,” he said, voice as soft as it was knowing. “So you might see the vision you spoke of, every time you look upon it.” Your breath caught for half a second. Clever, clever Elf. The warmth in his expression deepened. He had caught on now. And by the gods, he was enjoying this.

You watched as the realization fully settled in Celebrimbor’s sharp mind, the flicker of amusement in his silver-gray eyes unmistakable now. He had caught on to your game, and the soft curve of his lips told you that he was not above playing along—especially if it meant unraveling the absurdity of your words while keeping you firmly in his focus. So, naturally, you decided to push him further.

With an innocent tilt of your head, you let your fingers lazily trace the rim of your goblet before lifting your gaze back to him. “Well, if we’re speaking of my hallucinations…” you mused, letting your voice drop to something almost contemplative. Celebrimbor raised a brow, waiting. You leaned in just slightly, your expression unreadable save for the unmistakable glint of mischief in your eyes. “In them, you weren’t just standing there.” A pause. A slow, deliberate smile. “You were on your knees.”

The flicker of intrigue in his gaze sharpened, his posture going completely still. You could practically hear the moment his mind whirred into overdrive, calculating exactly what you meant. Before he could formulate a response, you added the finishing touch—leaning back, utterly at ease as you sighed dramatically, just to see what he would do next. “And I,” you continued, with a thoughtful air, “was in your bed.” Celebrimbor.exe has stopped working. 🤣 (yes just imagine his face in this moment) For one glorious moment, the master craftsman—the heir of Fëanor, the most skilled Elven-smith of the Second Age, the Lord of Eregion himself—was completely and utterly speechless.

His fingers twitched ever so slightly where they rested against the arm of his chair, the only betrayal of the sheer mental gymnastics currently taking place inside his brilliant mind. His sharp gaze flickered over your expression, assessing, trying to determine precisely how much of that was meant in jest and how much was something far, far more dangerous.

You swore you could see the exact moment he processed every possible interpretation of your words—his lips parting slightly before pressing into a firm, contemplative line, his fingers momentarily gripping the armrest as if he needed something solid to ground himself. Then—then—he did something that sent a delightful thrill down your spine.

Instead of reacting in flustered outrage or immediate dismissal, Celebrimbor leaned forward, resting his elbow against the arm of his chair, his chin grazing his knuckles as he regarded you in silence. The firelight flickered against the planes of his face, casting shadows that only made his expression more unreadable. “Fascinating,” he finally murmured, voice smooth, thoughtful—and dangerously unreadable. “You must tell me more of these… hallucinations.” You had expected him to be caught off guard. You had not expected him to meet you step for step. Celebrimbor, it seemed, had decided to play your game.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The grand halls of the Woodland Realm shimmered under the ethereal glow of soft lantern light, their golden hues casting rippling reflections across the polished stone floors. The faint scent of pine and aged parchment clung to the air, mingling with the distant whisper of leaves rustling beyond the great pillars.

King Thranduil, ever the picture of poise and regal detachment, stood near his throne, fingers idly resting on the hilt of his ornate sword. His piercing blue eyes, keen as a falcon’s, flickered with something unreadable as he regarded you. There was a hesitation—an anomaly for one so accustomed to control—before he finally inquired, in a tone deliberately casual yet edged with curiosity,

“Are you… seeing anyone?” The question hung in the air, deceptively simple, yet burdened with all the weight of his intent. It was rare for the Elvenking to express interest so plainly. You, ever the opportunist for a little mischief, tilted your head, lips twitching as you met his gaze with a playful glint in your eyes.

“Like dating? Or hallucinating?” The reaction was immediate—Thranduil’s brows lifted, his expression caught somewhere between mild exasperation and intrigue. A slow inhale, controlled and measured, escaped him, as though he were weighing the effort of entertaining your nonsense. His fingers tapped once against the silver guard of his sword, a silent signal of his internal deliberation.

“I was referring to the former,” he replied smoothly, though there was the barest flicker of amusement behind his cool exterior. But before he could press further, you leaned in slightly, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Because, you know, my vision does tend to blur whenever I look at you… must be because you’re absolutely breathtaking.”

A slow blink. His expression remained unreadable for a moment—so unreadable, in fact, that you almost wondered if you had just delivered your cheesiest pick-up line to a brick wall. Then, he exhaled sharply through his nose—a sound that might have been a scoff, had it not been for the unmistakable glimmer of reluctant amusement dancing in his gaze. He turned his head slightly, as if trying to conceal the ghost of a smirk. “Flattery will not sway me,” he murmured, though the way his fingers flexed against the hilt of his blade betrayed his intrigue. But you weren’t done. Oh no. If he wanted to feign indifference, you were more than willing to test his patience.

“Oh, but I’m completely serious,” you continued, stepping just a fraction closer. “In fact, if beauty were time, you’d be eternal.” That did it. His lips pressed together, the corners twitching as if holding back a sigh—perhaps one of exasperation, perhaps one of amusement. His gaze, sharp as ever, settled on you, searching, assessing. Then, in a voice as smooth as honeyed wine yet laced with something undeniably amused, he finally asked,

“So you are saying you are unattached, then?” You grinned, leaning back with an air of mock contemplation. “Well, my heart was up for auction, but it seems a certain Elvenking has already placed a rather compelling bid.” There was a pause. A heartbeat of silence in which the weight of your words fully settled between you.

Then, something unexpected. Thranduil chuckled. Low, quiet, brief—but unmistakably real. His head inclined ever so slightly, as if acknowledging both your wit and your audacity. “You are bold,” he murmured, his voice softer now, though no less amused. He lifted his goblet, taking a slow sip, his gaze never leaving yours. “I shall have to keep a close watch on you.” And from the way his eyes lingered, gleaming like polished silver beneath the torchlight, you had a feeling he already was.

A slow, knowing smile tugged at your lips as you regarded Thranduil, his quiet chuckle still lingering in the air like the last notes of a fading melody. His gaze, sharp and unwavering, remained fixed on you, as if weighing whether you were simply amusing yourself at his expense or playing a far more dangerous game. You took a deliberate step closer, your voice dropping just enough to feign innocent contemplation. “Well… since we’ve established my relationship status,” you mused, tilting your head, “shall we discuss my hallucinations?”

Thranduil arched a single elegant brow, his fingers still curled around the stem of his goblet. “Shall we?” he echoed, his tone smooth as aged Dorwinion, yet laced with wary amusement. “Well, as for my hallucinations…” You let the words hang for a moment, watching as his eyes narrowed slightly—not in irritation, but in intrigue. You had set the bait, and the Elvenking, ever the strategist, was waiting to see where you intended to lead him.

You feigned a thoughtful sigh, tilting your head just so, as if confiding some great secret. “You weren’t just standing before me in those, Thranduil. No, no…” You met his gaze head-on, the glimmer of challenge in your eyes unmistakable. “You were on your knees.”

The reaction was instantaneous—his fingers, previously relaxed against the goblet, tightened ever so slightly. A slow blink, his expression carefully schooled into neutrality, but you saw it—the flicker of something unreadable in those piercing blue eyes. Then, deliberately, he set his goblet down with a soft clink against the carved wood of the throne’s armrest. His movements were slow, calculated, the way a predator shifts just before the hunt.

“Is that so?” His voice was smooth, silk over steel, betraying nothing—but his gaze? His gaze burned, searching your face for any sign of hesitation. You hummed, feigning nonchalance as you took a slow step back, only to add—“Oh, and now that I think of it…” You placed a finger against your chin, as if lost in recollection. “It wasn’t the throne room where I saw you. No, it was somewhere far more private. Somewhere far more… comfortable.”

A beat of silence. Then—his lips parted, just slightly, as if to speak, but instead of answering, he simply regarded you with a look so unreadable, so deliberate, that you almost—almost—thought you had miscalculated. Then, with a slow, measured inhale, he leaned forward. Not by much, just enough to make you aware of the way the space between you had shrunk, of the sudden shift in atmosphere he knows exactly what your gonna say next he give step ahead like always.

“My bed, was it?” His voice was softer now, but no less commanding. His head tilted, silver hair cascading like molten starlight over his shoulder as he regarded you through half-lidded eyes. “How very bold of you.” The way he spoke, the way his words dripped like honeyed wine from his lips, sent a shiver down your spine. You had expected amusement, perhaps mild exasperation. What you hadn’t expected was this—this quiet, simmering intensity.

Thranduil exhaled slowly, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Tell me, then.” He tilted his head, gaze unwavering. “Did I kneel before you, or were you simply hoping I would?” He was playing your game now. And from the way his fingers had once again flexed against the hilt of his blade, you knew he intended to win.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

The night air is crisp, carrying the scent of rain-kissed leaves and the distant murmur of waterfalls. The moonlight spills over the marble pathways of Rivendell, casting long, silvered shadows between the ancient trees. You and Elrond walk side by side, the quiet hum of the evening settling around you like an unspoken understanding.

There is a weight in the way Elrond glances at you, something unspoken yet deliberate, a question forming behind those storm-grey eyes. He walks with his usual composed grace, hands loosely clasped behind his back, but there is something else tonight—an intent just beneath the surface. At last, he speaks, his voice smooth as riverstone, carefully measured yet undeniably curious. “Are you… seeing anyone?” You pause, lips curving into a mischievous smile. There’s a teasing lilt in your voice when you reply, “Like dating? Or hallucinating?”

For a fleeting moment, Elrond simply blinks. His expression is unreadable—composed, elegant, unreadable. Then, ever so subtly, the corner of his mouth twitches in what might be the ghost of a smile. A breath of laughter—soft, quiet, almost imperceptible—escapes him, though his gaze remains steady, watching you with quiet intrigue.

“I would hope your perception of reality remains intact,” he muses, his tone dry yet undeniably amused. “Though, given the unpredictability of mortals, I can never be certain.” You tilt your head, letting the silence stretch just long enough before leaning in slightly, a playful gleam in your eye. “Well, since you asked… My relationship status is like the One Ring.”

Elrond’s brow lifts just slightly, intrigued yet wary. “How so?” Your grin widens. “It doesn’t exist, and people keep trying to claim it.” Elrond exhales a short, surprised chuckle—low, refined, but real. His eyes flicker with something warmer now, the mask of his usual solemnity slipping ever so slightly. “A dangerous thing to admit, then,” he counters smoothly, his voice rich with quiet mirth. “For there are those who would go to great lengths for such a claim.”

You don’t miss the way his gaze lingers a fraction longer than before, the way his head tilts ever so slightly as if considering something deeper. Encouraged, you press on, stepping just a little closer. “And you?” you ask, your voice dipping to something softer, something teasing. “Are you like Rivendell?” Elrond gives you a patient yet knowing look. “I hesitate to ask what you mean by that.” Your grin turns shameless. “Because I feel safest when I’m with you.” This time, Elrond does not answer right away.

He merely watches you, his expression shifting—thoughtful, contemplative. And then, slowly, a small, knowing smile plays at his lips. “A bold sentiment,” he murmurs at last, his voice quiet yet carrying a certain weight. He takes a slow step forward, closing the distance just enough for the warmth of his presence to be undeniable. “But tell me… is it spoken in jest, or does it carry truth?”

The space between you hums with something unspoken, something electric. His gaze is steady, searching—not demanding, but waiting. Your heart beats just a little faster, but you meet his eyes, unflinching, and smile. “What do you think?” Elrond’s expression softens—not quite an answer, but something close. And as the night deepens around you, the question lingers—along with the possibility of something more.

Elrond’s gaze lingers on you, studying your expression with quiet curiosity. The silvered moonlight catches in his dark hair, in the thoughtful crease between his brows. He is waiting—waiting for your answer, for the truth behind your playful words. You exhale softly, your grin deepening as you decide to push just a little further. “Well, for my hallucinations?” you begin, voice lilting with mischief. “You weren’t just standing there like this.” Elrond tilts his head slightly, his patience unwavering. “Oh?”

You nod, letting the tension stretch just long enough before delivering your next words with shameless amusement. “No, you were on your knees.” A single dark brow lifts in response, his expression unreadable but alert. The only reaction at first is the faintest shift of his posture—shoulders drawing back, an imperceptible inhale.

Then, smoothly, calmly, he responds. “On my knees?” His voice is quiet, but there is something in the way he says it—something measured, as if turning over every possible meaning behind your words. Your smile doesn’t waver. “Mhm,” you hum, eyes gleaming. Then, with deliberate slowness, you add, “And I was in your bed.” The silence that follows is absolute.

Elrond does not move at first. His storm-grey eyes flicker with something unreadable—contemplation? Amusement? Perhaps something deeper. The weight of your words settles between you, thick like honey, and for a long moment, he simply watches you. Then, finally, his lips press into something that is not quite a frown, nor quite a smirk.

“How interesting,” he muses, his voice soft yet edged with something keen, something unreadable. “I was unaware your dreams had taken such a turn.” There is a shift in his stance, a subtle step closer, though his composure never falters. His gaze remains steady, piercing, as if he is considering the full weight of your meaning. “And tell me,” he continues, tilting his head ever so slightly, “was I kneeling in reverence… or for another reason entirely?”

The way he says it—so composed, so infuriatingly calm—sends a shiver through you. He is playing along now, but there is a challenge beneath his words, a deliberate test of just how far you are willing to push this game. Your heart beats a little faster, but you meet his eyes with the same unshaken confidence. “That,” you say, voice slow and teasing, “depends on what you think I was asking for.” Elrond studies you for a beat longer, his expression unreadable. And then, at last, he exhales a quiet breath—a laugh? A sigh? It’s impossible to tell.

“You are fortunate I am a patient elf,” he murmurs at last, his voice carrying the barest trace of amusement. “Otherwise, I might demand an explanation… in far greater detail.” His words linger between you, heavy with unspoken promise. And as the night deepens, you realize—with no small amount of thrill—that this game is far from over.

[nomie-11]

I Only Have Eyes for You

masterlist!

synopsis: based on the song 'i only have eyes for you' by the flamingos--vi doesn't need anyone else, she only has eyes for you

pairings: vi x reader

~My love must be a kind of blind love I can’t see anyone but you~

Vi’s favorite song on the jukebox was a song you were very familiar with. On nights that Vander closed early, Powder would put her favorite song on first—a song with an upbeat tilt that reminded her of her mother—and hum to herself as she tinkered on whatever gadget she was working on. And then Vi would put her song on next. 

The song’s familiar slow beat and low harmonies would echo over the empty bar, and Vi would let the sound of her favorite song wash over her, watching as you helped Vander wipe down another table, or polish another glass. 

Vi leaned her shoulder against the corner of the bar, her ever-present smirk softened by the warm, flickering light of the lanterns. As the familiar opening notes of her song played, she let her gaze settle on you. You were in your own world, wiping down tables with practiced ease, your movements smooth and rhythmic, in tune with the music. The sound of the jukebox seemed to draw a small smile from you as you worked, and Vi couldn’t look away. 

She didn’t need to, really—her world had narrowed down to just you. Everything else—the creak of the bar stools, Vander’s heavy footsteps, even the faint metallic clink of Powder’s tools in the corner—blurred into nothing. She didn’t care that the room was still scattered with the remnants of another night at The Last Drop. She couldn’t see the mess or the dimness of the space. All she could see was the way the light caught the curve of your jaw, the focused look in your eyes as you worked, and the soft curl of your lips when the song reached its first crescendo. 

“Do you even know how distracting you are?” Vi teased softly, her voice cutting gently through the swelling melody. 

You glanced over your shoulder at her, the smile now fully formed. The dim, warm lights of the bar caught the glimmer in your eyes, and Vi felt her heart stutter. “You don’t have to watch me so intently, you know.” 

But Vi never stopped. 

~Are the stars out tonight I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright I only have eyes for you dear The moon may be high  But I can’t see a thing in the sky I only have eyes for you~

The streets of Zaun always felt alive, no matter the time of night. Neon signs flickered weakly against the haze of chem-fog, and the distant hum of machinery created an uneven rhythm beneath the bustle of the underground. But the world outside the rooftop above the bar felt distant tonight. 

The two of you sat side by side, legs dangling off the edge of the roof, a threadbare blanket draped over your lap. Your head rested gently on her strong shoulder as you looked out over the skyline. 

Vi wasn’t watching the skyline, though. She wasn’t watching the flickering signs or the faint glow of Piltover’s towering spires in the distance. She was preoccupied with watching you. 

The way your eyelashes fluttered as you blinked, your profile illuminated by the faint shimmer of light reflected in the chem-fog. She didn’t know if the stars were out tonight—they were so rarely visible in Zaun, anyways—but it didn’t matter. You were here, and you were brighter than anything the sky could offer. 

You signed, the sound soft and content as you melted into her side, into the quiet between you. “Do you ever wonder what it would be like up there?” you asked, tilting your head to gesture toward the faintly glowing haze above Piltover. 

Vi hummed, leaning into you just a little. “Sometimes,” she admitted. “But I’d rather be right here.” 

You turned to her, a curious smile tugging at your lips. “Even with all of this?” you gestured vaguely to the city below, its broken beauty a stark contrast to the pristine world above. 

Vi reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Her fingers lingered, warm against your skin, as her gaze softened. “Even with all of this,” she said. “I only need one bright spot to make everything else fade away.” 

The words hung in the air, heavy and warm, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, with a quiet laugh, you snaked your hand around her waist, pulling yourself close in to her side. “You’re such a sap.” 

Vi grinned, her confidence returning. “Maybe. But I’m your kind of sap.” 

The laughter that spilled from your lips was the sweetest sound she’d ever heard. 

~I don’t know if we’re in a garden  Or on a crowded avenue You are here And so am I~

Your lilting laugh filled the quiet night, your arms wrapped around her neck as her arms rested gently on your waist. There was no music playing, and the lights on the dock were dim, but neither of you seemed to care as she spun you in a gentle circle. 

The world beyond the docks disappeared entirely as Vi pulled you closer, her calloused hands steady against the small of your back. Her grin softened into something tender, the flicker of vulnerability in her eyes betraying just how much this moment meant to her. 

“Dancing without music?” you teased, tilting your head as you looked up at her. “That’s a little cliché, don’t you think?” 

Vi chuckled, her low laugh blending into the hum of the night around you. “Maybe, but clichés exist for a reason,” she responded, her voice soft, but still her familiar firm tone. “Besides, who needs music when I’ve got this?” 

She tapped her fingers gently against your side, her touch following the rhythm of the song that played in her mind. The one she couldn’t stop hearing whenever she was near you. 

“You’re imagining that song right now, aren't you?” you guessed, catching the faintest curve of her lips. 

Vi shrugged, her gaze holding yours with an intensity that made your chest ache in the best way. “Maybe I am, or maybe I’m just trying to remember every second of this so I never forget it.” 

You felt your breath hitch, her words settling deep in your heart. The moonlight caught the red in her hair and the softness in her powder blue eyes, and you felt the familiar tug of warmth that always came with her being near. Without thinking, you let your forehead rest gently against hers, your movements slowing until the two of you were barely swaying. 

“I don’t think I ever want to forget this either,” you admitted, your voice barely louder than a whisper. 

Vi’s lips parted slightly, and for a moment, her usual bravado was gone. “Good,” she murmured, her thumb brushing an idle pattern against your side. “I don’t plan on letting it go.” 

The night around you stretched endlessly, the world below quiet and far away, as though it didn’t exist at all. As you danced beneath the moonlight, her favorite song played on repeat in her head. 

She didn’t need stars or music or the pristine towers of Piltover to make the moment perfect. 

She only had eyes for you. 

~Maybe millions of people go by But they all disappear from view And I only have eyes for you.~

i feel like im begging when i say this but if you like my writing please let me know i love validation

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

[littleblueberryartist]

slides into inbox. hands you a blue cupcake

may i ask about any silly grover cor silvam lore or shenanigans :3

Hi yes hello thank you for the blue cupcake :)))

Silly Grover facts!!!

- He and Brock both have a shared special interest in animals (Brock had it first and then dragged Grover down with him) but where Brock loves bugs he loves birds

- ironically he is afraid of heights

- He studies healing magic! It's a tough magic type to master but he is smart and also very determined

- You wouldn't expect it, but he knows a few defensive magic spells because mom got understandably protective over him after his twin vanished

- He's just like me fr and needs reminders to go eat food. In the timeline where Brock never got eebied he uses reminding Brick to eat as his own cue to eat too. In the main timeline he sets alarms and uses school lunchtime as a routine. Cecilia (Mom) also calls him for meals

- Grover is a writer and an artist, though he focuses more on writing. He's kind of anxious and insecure because of his magic, especially without Brock there to support him, and uses writing as a creative outlet. That eventually became a hobby!

Yes this does mean that he partakes in fandom culture (Something something fanfiction about people with no powers bc in CS almost everyone has magic so what if the fiction switched things around lol)

He used to draw a lot with Brock :)

[littleblueberryartist]

AAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!

BORTH UPON ME THANK YOU SM LANTERNNNNNNN 💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞

happy borth @littleblueberryartist :]

[twst-aceofhearts]

For requests, can you do Kalim dragging around a shy reader during a festival or something? To show them all the stalls and have an adventure/fun time?

Spun Sugar and Sunshine

words: 758 a/n: kalim might be ooc at the end..my perception of character is not as good as you think it is taglist: @luxaryllis @thegoldencontracts @waterthatsmoe @oya-oya-okay @writingattemptsxx

The courtyard of Night Raven College had been transformed into a vibrant celebration—an inter-dorm festival Kalim had insisted on helping organize. Paper lanterns swayed overhead, glowing golden and crimson. Music drifted from somewhere near the Savanaclaw stall, and students bustled through in groups, sampling treats and playing games.

You stood quietly near the edge, watching it all with wide eyes. So much noise, so many people. You gripped the hem of your sleeve, half tempted to slip back toward your dorm.

Until a familiar, sunny voice called out your name.

"Hey—there you are!" Kalim beamed as he jogged over, practically sparkling in the warm light. He wore his dorm uniform in a more festive flair today—golden embroidery added to the edges, a few tiny gems braided into his hair.

You blinked. “Kalim…?”

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” He didn’t wait for permission. One of his hands clasped yours—warm and firm and enthusiastic. “Come on, you can’t just watch a festival. You gotta do it!”

“I-I was just…” you began, but your voice got a little lost in the excitement around you.

He grinned, tugging gently. “Nope! No standing still tonight! You’re my adventure buddy!”

Your eyes widened a little. “Adventure… buddy?”

“Yup!” Kalim said proudly. “We’re going to every stall! I made a list!” He pulled a crumpled parchment from his pocket, decorated with little suns and stars in the margins. “We’ve got food, games, rides, and fireworks. I mean, it wouldn’t be fair if I got to have all the fun without you!”

You swallowed, heart fluttering. It was hard to say no to that smile.

“…Okay,” you said quietly.

Kalim’s grin turned absolutely radiant. “Yay!”

The first stall was Octavinelle’s. Their stall sold glowing lemonade that changed color depending on your mood.

You hesitated in front of the table, not quite sure what to say.

But Kalim leaned over with an excited “Two, please!” before nudging you playfully. “Let’s see if yours turns purple. That’d be so cool!”

Yours turned a soft coral pink.

Kalim’s turned bright golden-yellow.

He laughed, holding the two cups together. “Look! We match! Pink and gold!”

You ducked your head, hiding your smile behind the rim of your cup.

Next came the games. Kalim was unstoppable.

He dragged you to ring toss, balloon darts, and even a scavenger hunt being hosted by Heartslabyul.

“You’re so good at this!” he cheered after you scored a prize—a plushie shaped like Grim. “You’ve got the sharpest eyes!”

You flushed. “You… really think so?”

“Of course!” Kalim said without hesitation. “I always knew you had cool hidden talents!”

You clutched the plushie a little tighter, shy but pleased.

Somewhere between trying Pomefiore’s sparkling candied apples and Scarabia’s spicy honey-dusted pastries, you stopped noticing the crowd.

Kalim was too much light to be swallowed by noise. He pulled you into every moment. His laughter was a magnet for your eyes. When you spoke, he always listened, always turned to face you fully. Like you were the only person in the world.

Even when you stumbled over your words, he never interrupted—just waited, smiling.

“Hey,” Kalim said, tugging you toward a hill on the far side of campus. “Fireworks’ll start soon! C’mon, best view’s up there!”

You followed without question now. Your legs were a little tired, your hands sticky from sweets, but your heart was warm and glowing.

At the top of the hill, Kalim flopped onto the grass and patted the spot beside him.

You sat, careful, the wind ruffling your hair.

The stars had just started peeking out when the first firework exploded in the sky—scarlet and gold.

You gasped quietly.

“Pretty, right?” Kalim turned to look at you instead of the sky.

“Yeah,” you said. “Very…”

You trailed off as your eyes met his.

He looked so bright against the night, eyes reflecting every color that burst above.

You felt your cheeks grow warm.

Kalim smiled gently this time. Not the usual party-wide grin, but something soft. “Thanks for coming with me,” he said. “You were amazing tonight.”

“I didn’t do much…”

“What? No way!” Kalim laughed. “You tried everything, even the spicy stuff! And you were brave, even if the crowd made you nervous. That takes guts.”

You bit your lip. “…I wouldn’t have done it without you.”

“Well,” Kalim said, scooting just a little closer. “I’ll be your partner any day.”

The fireworks reflected in your eyes, your hand brushing against his. He didn’t move it.

You didn’t either.

And maybe—just maybe—the next adventure wouldn’t feel so scary after all.

[dephoraowo]

The Wen Remnants were Wei Wuxian's Family

Wei Wuxian had multiple families before. He had his parents, but they died. He had the Jiangs, but they weren't really his family to begin with. He was never treated like a family member in the household, and he never belonged in the family either.

I feel like the real family that he had in his first life were the Wen remnants.

“…Who cares about the broad and bustling highway?” He humphed. “I prefer to follow the single-plank bridge into the darkness… Into! The! …Into the darkness?”

When he sang out the word “darkness,” he suddenly noticed that it wasn’t dark at all. The black summit he always returned to was vastly different tonight.

The area around the few little huts had been swept clean; even the weeds had been pulled. Several round, vibrantly red lanterns hung in the nearby woods, dangling from branches. The lanterns were all handmade. While they were simple and crude, they emitted a warm light that illuminated the pitch-black forest.

The fifty-odd people would usually have finished their meals and holed up in their run-down shacks by now, with the lights extinguished. But tonight, they were all gathered in the most spacious hut. That hut, which consisted of a rooftop held up by eight wooden stakes, could accommodate everyone. The small structure next to it was the “kitchen,” so this had become the dining hall.

He saved them when they were slowly being killed. He did it because it was the right thing to do. And he was the only one who willingly laid down his life for them.

Life may be cruel for them, but they made the most of it with each other.

Wei Wuxian, finding the sight strange, walked over with Wen Yuan under his arm. “Why is everyone here today? Not heading off to bed? It’s so bright with all those lanterns.”

Wen Qing walked out of the kitchen, carrying a plate. “The lanterns were hung for your sake, oh elder one. Let’s make more tomorrow and hang them on the mountain path. It’s not easy to find your way around in the dark. You’ll trip and break a bone one of these days.”

“Come now, even if I break a bone, don’t we have you?” Wei Wuxian said.

“I certainly don’t want to do extra work. It’s not like I get paid for it,” Wen Qing shot back. “If you do break a limb, don’t blame me for bruising you when I set it.”

...

“What, you guys haven’t eaten yet?” Wei Wuxian asked. “Nah. We were waiting for you,” Wen Qing answered.

“Why are you waiting for me? I already ate,” Wei Wuxian said.

As soon as he spoke, he realized he’d made a mistake. Sure enough, Wen Qing slammed a plate onto the table, and the red chili peppers sprinkled over the vegetables bounced with the impact.

“No wonder you didn’t buy anything. You spent everything at a restaurant, didn’t you?” Wen Qing raged. “I’ve only got so much money, and I gave it all to you. Look at how carefree you are with your spending!”

“No! I didn’t…” Wei Wuxian tried explaining himself.

Look at Wen Qing and Wei Wuxian's cute little banter 😆. To me, they are the most iconic duo. The way he trusts Wen Qing to help him out with his injuries is so natural! I bet they were really close to each other. Maybe even as close as siblings!

The other cultivators busied themselves with setting out chopsticks and pouring tea, saving the head seat for Wei Wuxian. Seeing them like this made him feel uncomfortable about accepting the gesture.

Over the past few months, he had been fully aware that the Wens were somewhat afraid of him. These people had heard of his vicious name and his insane deeds during the Sunshot Campaign. They had heard the widespread rumors of the savage, evil ways he took his anger out on people. With their own eyes, they had seen him order corpses to murder the living. In the beginning, old Granny Wen’s legs would shudder nonstop whenever she saw him, and Wen Yuan would hide behind her. It was many days before he dared to slowly approach him.

Although he saved the Wen remnants, they were still terrified of him XD. Guess Wei Wuxian really made a name for himself during the war. But Wei Wuxian didn't hold it against them. He was still kind and gentle towards them, and after some time, they started to warm up to him, to see him as their own, as their family.

But now, those same fifty pairs of eyes were watching him. Although there was still some fear in their gazes, it was the sort of fear attached to respect and reverence. Their eyes also carried a trace of cautiousness, and some intent to ingratiate themselves. However, it was by and large the same gratitude and goodwill that shone in the eyes of the Wen siblings. “Thank you for everything you’ve done, all this time,” Wen Qing said quietly.

They appreciate what Wei Wuxian had done for them and decided to host a feast for him TwT.

“You…are suddenly being nice to me. I’m kind of scared?” Wei Wuxian said.

Wen Qing’s knuckles seemed to briefly crack, and Wei Wuxian immediately shut up. However, she continued her quiet speech.

LOL 🤣🤣🤣. Wen Qing just wants to keep the somber atmosphere and Wei Wuxian can't help but tease her.

“…They’ve always wanted to have a meal with you, and to thank you. But you’re always busy running around or locking yourself up in the Demon-Quelling Cave for days and telling everyone you’re not to be disturbed. They were afraid they would distract you from your work or bother you. They thought you didn’t like to mingle with people and that you didn’t want to talk to them, so they didn’t want to pester you with any attempts at conversation. When A-Ning woke up today, Si-shu said we had to make you sit down for a feast, no matter what… So just sit down, even if you stuffed yourself to bursting earlier today. It’s fine even if you don’t eat. Just sit and chat, have a drink, and that’ll be enough.”

Wei Wuxian was struck silent. Then his eyes lit up. “Drink? There’s booze up here?”

The elder Wens had been watching them nervously, but as soon as they heard him say that, one immediately responded.

“Yeah, yeah. There’s drink.” He passed Wei Wuxian several tightly sealed jugs that had been sitting on the table. “It’s fruit wine. Made from wild fruits picked on the mountain. It’s got some real body to it!”

“Si-shu also loves to drink,” Wen Ning said from where he was crouching by the table. “He knows how to make wine and made those specially for tonight’s dinner. He tried for many days.”

Because he now spoke so slowly, one word at a time, he did not stutter. Si-shu gave an abashed smile but continued to nervously stare at Wei Wuxian.

“Is that so?” Wei Wuxian said. “Then I gotta give it a try!”

He sat down at the table, and Si-shu immediately opened a sealed jug and passed it to him with both hands. Wei Wuxian sniffed it and smiled.

“It does have a pretty nice body!”

The others sat down along with him. After hearing his praise, smiles split their faces as if they had been greatly commended, and they dug in with their chopsticks.

🥹🥹🥹. Such a heartwarming family dinner. I wonder if this is Wei Wuxian's first time having such a dinner. He certainly didn't enjoy the meal whenever a certain Madame was around.

For the very first time, Wei Wuxian paid no attention to the wine’s flavor.

He thought to himself, Follow the path into the darkness…huh?

It wasn’t all that dark.

Suddenly, he felt refreshed and alive.

This act of kindness by the Wens might not seem much to us. But it meant so much to Wei Wuxian. It showed him that even though the road to righteousness is dark, there's always a tiny beam of light shining through. It showed him that there's always hope in the darkest times. And that this time, he's not alone in it anymore. He's got his new family, and that is what's most important.

[hannahssimblr]

The air is burning rubber and grill smoke. Hot, like a damp blanket wrapped around us. Wet, if not from the rains, then the air itself. We bike along the black veins of Bangkok. Loud and fragrant, bright with lanterns glowing through the night. An entire world, a million lives under the awnings, darting across the street in random leaps of courage. Tuk Tuks and cars and bicycles weaving in anarchic sequences. As it rains, wet umbrellas catch the lights. Red, yellow, purple, green.

The bike is hot, purring beneath me, slick tarmac and the splash of dirty water over my shoes, as Jonas, behind, curses in English. He is diligent about using my language around me, including when getting hit by a van. His bike slides and crashes to the ground underneath him. I pull my brakes and wait until he’s up again while the traffic weaves around me. He’s fine, as always, only for another scratch on his leg, bleeding, but hardly. His blood is washed thin, then yellow, then away. We say something to each other about how he should have seen it coming, moved quicker. There are no rules here but one: the biggest will go first. We, and our dinged up hired motorbikes, are far from the biggest, and so, as they say, we must get the fuck out of the way. 

It’s Brandon, the American from the hostel we arrange to meet at a tiny bar at Khao San Road, a circus of neon I wish I could paint. “Mathematics at Oberlin,” he said when he introduced himself, as though defined by the supposed prestige of his degree. He was visibly disappointed, then, when neither of us had heard of Oberlin, and pivoted to defining himself by his Adderall habit. It isn’t a genuine medical need. He just likes it.  

“I’m going to out-drink the Irishman tonight,” he announces to the crowd we’ve gathered amongst. Twelve or more of us, with varying English abilities, huddled under an awning and dodging sheets of rain that spill over the edge. 

“Best of luck,” I say, though he will out-drink me, no doubt. My half-Irishness has done nothing to aid my ability to drink without being violently ill. Like the time I tried a pint of Guinness in the smoking area and promptly regurgitated foam down the front of my sweatshirt. I try anyway, drinking things put in front of me with abandon, like a man who doesn’t fear death.

A few hours of this, then several of us do shots of something mysterious served from an old three litre water bottle that is so incredibly strong it instantly activates my gag reflex. 

“Deep breaths,” Jonas tells me, his hand on my shoulder out the front of the bar as I fist the back of my hair and suck in lungfuls of air that is too humid to be satisfying. 

“I think I’ll probably get sick every single day we’re in Thailand,” I say, quivering with despair over a puddle with my own distorted reflection.

“Maybe you should take a night off, then.”

“I don’t want to.”

He pushes his fringe away from his forehead. It is milk white against his tanned face. “Just because everyone else is doing something doesn’t mean you have to. You’re no less of a man because-”

“I’m not the kind of person that gets peer pressured. I can say no.”

A pause. “Well, yes, I can see that.”

“We’re here to have fun, not to be tucked up in the hostel bunks by ten every night. We’re just-” I fight back a wave of nausea. “-making the most of it.”

“I see. You are enjoying vomiting on the streets every night.”

“Please don’t say that word to me.”

“Okay. You should take a break. Maybe no more drinking tonight.”

I shrug him away, irritated. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”

“Sorry,” he says, and leaves me to gag on my own, though I’m lonely without him there.

I am actually fine after a few minutes, and hours later as the night continues, I find myself with Brandon as he is going on about something, talking at me in a way that is not exactly annoying, yet persistent and unending. I let his words wash over me, that familiar manic cocaine cadence. 

We do bumps with him, Jonas and I, every twenty minutes, trips to the bathroom, and then eventually when the bar is so full, and we are squeezed into our corner by dozens of bodies, we do bumps off the hostel key cards and the tips of our fingers. Then I’m talking at Jonas, and Jonas is talking at me, and Brandon at us both while we all pretend to listen, and enjoy so much the feeling of it, the fleeting flames in our blood, the world better and brighter for the few minutes before it fades, and we start all over again. 

“What’s better, coke or sex?” Says Brandon, and I get what he’s going for, but this is a stupid question. 

“You have an addiction if you’re asking me that.” I remember it is time to call Astrid. I need to tell her something. Slipping my phone from my pocket, I go to outside the bar among the percussive hammer of the rain.

“Hello?” Her voice is sharp and sober. 

“Astrid. I’m just calling because I was thinking of you, and I need to let you know how much I love you. Like, seriously love you and I’m so lucky that your my girlfriend, and that you’ve decided to be with me. I miss you so much when I’m here and I can’t wait to come home and be with you again, and I just-”

“Jude, you phoned me an hour ago to say this.”

I rear back, offended. “No, I didn’t.”

“You did. We had this exact conversation.”

I don’t think Astrid really understands the weight of what I’m trying to tell her. I love her. She’s so special to me, and has to know the way I feel about her right now, or I think I might explode. 

“I miss you.”

“I know you do, but it’s seven in the evening in Germany, okay? This is not a conversation I want to have with you now. I’m on the way to have dinner with Elias. We discussed this earlier, remember? You called me as I was getting dressed and ready to go out.”

I chuckle and lean my weight against the wall. “Oh. So, what are you wearing?”

“A dress and some sandals.”

“Which dress?”

“It’s green.”

“Hm. Do I know that one?”

“I doubt. It’s from my summer wardrobe, and I just unpacked it.”

“You think I’d like it? Can you describe it?”

A sigh then. “I’m about to go into the station, so I can’t really talk like this with you with so many people around.”

“Astrid,” I whine. “I just feel-”

“You feel the way you always do when you are on drugs. You’ll call me tomorrow and we’ll have this conversation again, I’m sure, but now is not the right time.”

“No, I need to tell you now-”

“That you love me. I know. I love you too.”

“You do?”

“Of course. Let me hang up now.”

“Okay, have fun with Elias.”

“I will. Be good.”

“I promise,” I say, but she’s already gone. I rest my head against the wall, then, and think about Astrid and the way she is, and the sort of complex torture it is to be with her. Her, someone so completely unromantic and sharp and blunt and then me, her polar opposite, and how we still actually love each other despite our differences, and even though it was hard at various times at the start of our relationship — a car drives by beeping its horn very loudly which is quite obnoxious, actually, and I wonder was he beeping at me, like, for a joke, or if there was some traffic situation I am not aware of — we overcame it together and actually learned how to make things work, which is probably the most adult thing I have ever done, if I really think about it.

I think I’ve left a pretty grotesque path of destruction in my wake in the past, in terms of girls and relationships especially, but being with Astrid now proves that I’m able to grow and learn and be a better person, and actually a proper man who acts in ways he could genuinely be proud of, and these are things I would be saying into Jonas’ face right now if he was unlucky enough to be standing here. He wouldn’t like it but he’d probably take it, waiting for his turn to say something long and rambling into my face, too, like, about hiking trails or the deep fried scorpions he saw at that market that we didn’t try because I insisted they were too disgusting for humans to ingest, but he regrets not tasting so he’ll probably go back and get one if they’re still there, even though he can’t remember exactly where the market was anymore because Bangkok is so big and everything is unfamiliar and completely at odds with what we are used to.

Someone rolls down the window of a taxi and takes a picture of me on a phone, which is one of the regular happenings I meant to tell Astrid about before I was overcome with my love for her and went off on that deranged tangent about her dress, and as I watch the taxi tearing away, I wonder if I already told her about all the people who take pictures of me during the blank spot that is our phone call an hour ago, and that today this random woman got me to hold her baby at a temple and took a picture of us together, like I was its dad, or uncle or something, and it was so weird that she trusted me to just hold him and, I don’t know, not run away revealing myself to be a kidnapper of babies, not that I would do that, but anyway, once I agreed to take that one shot like a dozen others came up to me and Jonas and forming a queue and asking for pictures, and it was this weird feeling that I was a celebrity against my will, like I got a taste of what that would feel like, and honestly it was torturous and I hated it so much and I genuinely think if I was famous I’d be one of those that killed themselves or went mad and bought a big castle to live in on my own, like Enya.

Jonas and I eventually fled the gathering crowds, and they took pictures of us doing that too, which was pretty hilarious, to be honest. I wonder if they will put them up on Facebook like, “and lastly, here are the tall men running from us!” Jonas has come out of the bar now, ready, I’m sure to share more regrets and lament about the deep fried scorpions, but his face is stricken, like, in such a way that I understand the topic is more important, and not about scorpions at all, but I’m so busy thinking that I don’t hear his first sentence when he says it to m-

“What? Sorry.”

“A girl. She wants me to go home with her.”

“Oh. Well, you should go if you like her.”

He lets out a shuddering exhalation, standing there in the middle of the dry patch beneath the awning, the knee length khaki shorts, the scabs on his legs. “I’ve never done that kind of thing before.”

“Had sex?”

“No, of course I have. I mean go home with a girl on a one-night stand kind of thing. None have ever asked me to do that.”

“Well, they usually don’t. She obviously fancies you. What are you out here talking to me for?”

“I thought you might have advice.”

“About one-night stands?”

He nods, and I feel a surge of sympathy toward him, this protective emotion that is likely a chemical affliction. The image of him running away from that poor woman without saying a word to come outside and strategise with me is adorable. The urge comes to hug him, but I resist it.  

“I’m flattered you think I know a lot about one-night stands, but it’s not like I’ve really done that kind of thing either. I’m a long-term relationship kind of person as a general rule.”

“I sense you know what you are doing more than I do. Even if it is many times with the same woman, you know? At least you know in some way how to–” he breaks off, and I nod, because yes, I know how to– but stand there deliberating over how I can explain to him that nothing about the sex I have with Astrid is normal or replicable in ordinary environments. Not the kind you have with a girl you just met in the bar. Imagine that, like, “yeah, nice gaff. Here, just wondering, when we get into it d’you mind if I spit in your mouth?” 

“Ask her what she likes, and do that,” I tell him. “Worst thing you can do is guess.”

Nodding, he says. “Okay.”

“And just be nice. You’re a nice person. Try to, um, project that. Which one is she?”

He directs my attention through the window to the lively scene around the bar, and points out a short brunette in a pair of denim shorts. A non-intimidating presence, a pleasant face. I would probably sleep with her too, not that it indicates something exceedingly wonderful or unique about her, because I would sleep with most women under the right circumstances. 

I miss Astrid. I hope she takes a photograph of her green dress and sends it to me, as she sometimes does. “OOTD” she’ll type. As in, “outfit of the day”, and attach a picture of her in a mirror, or the reflection of the U-Bahn door, standing with her knees turned inward in such a way that makes the gap between her thighs appear large. Allegedly a desirable feature. 

Maybe later, when I’m alone in the hostel and Jonas is off gently making love to this brunette somewhere, I will succumb to my worst and most desperate version and send Astrid about four messages one after another begging for more pictures, minus clothes this time, and she’ll say no, because it’s still too civilised an hour in Berlin to send nudes to her boyfriend, coked up and wired sleepless for the fourth night in a row in a Thai hostel bed. 

Jonas enters the window scene. Under the warm lights, he speaks to her. There is nodding, smiling, shy laughter. She puts her drink onto a table and slings her bag over her shoulder. And I feel like I am watching someone collect a person they barely know at the airport. 

The door swings open and noise from within spills onto the streets as they emerge together. Jonas’ hand hovering near her, unsure of whether he should touch her, and then for one moment we meet eyes, and nod, and then he huddles under her umbrella, disappearing into the night. 

It only strikes me afterwards that I should have asked him where they were going, in case the girl, whose name I didn’t even ask for, turns out to be some sort of deranged killer. Jen would be aghast at my carelessness, but anyway. He’ll come back in some shape or form. Good for him, really.

Pummelled by rain, the walk home is a slog. My hair, far too long now, shaggy well past the collar of my shirt, sticks to my face and sends rivulets down my cheeks. There is so much water I am constantly blinking it away. Somewhere, in the seedy part of town with the boarded up businesses, red light pours from a doorway. A woman calls to me, knowing by the look of me I speak English. 

“Hello, baby, you’re all wet,” she says. “Come inside. I can make you happy.”

I’m happy already, actually. A deeply, sincerely happy man. I round a corner and get sick onto a pile of loose rubbish, watching the semi-digested remnants of my noodle dinner rinse away in a stream of rainwater. 

I am soaked to the skin, my socks wet inside my shoes, my t-shirt stuck to my body and heavy with the bulk of the rain. This is rain, I think madly. Real rain. Back in Ireland, it was never like this. It pissed rain, or you’d get that little misty spit, pretending to be rain but refusing to commit. No, this is catharsis. It’s what the Irish weather wishes it had the stones to be. 

As I check my phone, no messages. The clock has turned over to tomorrow. June the twenty-first. Midsummer’s day. God, I think, sloshing indiscriminately through a wide, ankle deep puddle. This day last year it rained, too. That day on the beach, when the heavens opened and unleashed a mighty torrent over the coast. Pock marks in the sand. It drove in sideways and washed the beach house windows with salty water that left residue for the entire summer. That boy, the Jude lazing on the sofa watching it, in dry socks and those tracksuit shorts his mother loathed, barely feels like me anymore. I wonder what he’d think if he could see the future, exactly one year from then. Here, man. I’m in Asia. I turned out mostly fine. Life is a journey of discovery and I am… discovering myself.

And I think of her, then, too. That inevitable thought. It’s been nearly a year now since we’ve seen each other, and eight months since I stopped emailing. I forget her sometimes, but then alone on nights like this, she floats into my mind, drifting by on the surface of the sea. The blue of the sky, and her light brown hair floating hypnotically beneath the waves as she laughs, silvery and joyful with the seagulls' caw. A yearning grips me, a sort of gasping desperation to return to that place again, to the simplicity of CDs whirring in the stereo, murmuring together in the sunlight, the crunch of gravel beneath bicycle tyres and sand in the lines of our hands. 

That was it. The most romantic time of my life. Nothing complex, only the things I made that way in my head. It was the electricity of my leg touching hers, the intense, whole body sensation of just looking at her, turning to jelly when she looked back. The soft curves of her face in my hands, how just kissing her lit my blood on fire. Then, when kissing meant something to me. In Berlin, I did it just to do it. A thing I did with my lips, a preamble, but it was never a preamble with her. It was the apex. I would have died kissing her.

I shoulder through the hostel door and leave a puddle on the tiles. There is nobody to apologise to, and nothing dry to clean it with, so I leave it there and trudge upwards to the room, where the Nepalese backpackers are snoring in their bunks. They do it so loudly that sleep would be impossible even if I were capable. Luckily, it is not my priority. I strip my clothes off and lie in my bunk. I find my phone and type a message to Astrid. 

Outfit pics? 

A fruitless endeavour. She’s probably cracking into a crème brûlée with Elias and talking about something intelligent. I go back to my messages and scroll, scroll mindlessly, doing at least a decent job of pretending I am. I go back through the months, dozens of chats, friends, arrangements, happy birthday messages. Back to territory I have never revisited for dread of what I might encounter. Stop. 

Evie. 

One tap, and my thumb trembles.

17th August 2010  Yeah, so basically you just get the bus to Clontarf. I live on Vernon Ave so you can either get off near the shops or Seafield road.  Okay, sounds fine. I’ll probably leave soon.   Text me if you have any problems.  See you in a few hours. 

Weird. I thought we might have said something else, showcased more personality, or given more away about our feelings, but I have discovered an uninspiring chat, revealing nothing about us and who we were. Another tap then, on the text box, like adding a chapter to an unfinished novel.

Hey, do you still think about last summer? 

Paragraph. 

Because I do, to be honest. Been thinking about it tonight. How are you?

Tap. I send it, and my nose runs. I wipe it with my finger and it comes away dark, thick. The back of my throat tastes like iron now. I curse under my breath and sit up. Blood drips on the sheets and I quickly block my nostril with my thumb. It’s fine. This happens sometimes. I go to the bathroom and stuff a wad of toilet paper up my nose, pinching the bridge for a while until it slows. My face in the mirror is insane, my hair curly and half-dry, blood crusted around my nostril. I wet the toilet paper and clean it away, then flush it down the toilet, brilliant red, circling, circling, then gone. 

Back in the bunk, my phone glows. A red exclamation mark beside my last text. 

! Not Delivered

I stare at it. I hit the power button. Fuck it. For the best, I think, then roll over and try to sleep.

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