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zyafics · 20 days ago

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ANGRY GOD | 02

MASTERLIST (Series)

Pairing — S2!Rafe Cameron x (F)Reader

Summary — Rafe always struggled with being the only person in his head. When he meets you on the balcony of Tannyhill, everything changes. As sweet and kind as you appear to be, you turn out to be a reflection of Rafe and his dark thoughts. A burnt soul. A perfect companion. But as much as he wants you, as much as you deserve each other, something stands in the way: your relationship with JJ.

Content — angst, suggestive themes, cheating (not on each other), minor blood kink, rafe does coke, reader smokes cigarettes, toxic dynamic, obsessive and psychopathic behavior, and subtle dubcon.

Word Count — 3.9K

lıllılı Deja Vu and She's Mine Pt. 1 by J Cole

Dedication — to @cybersunnie who read it first and gave me lovely feedback, ily my southeast asian bestie <3

Rafe looks for you everywhere.

Ever since that fateful night, he had searched every room and crowd for a glimpse of your face. Most times, he doesn't find what he's looking for, and a lump of frustration curls up his throat. A wasted effort, he tells himself, to look for someone who isn't his, but he does it anyway.

He's never been good at letting go of things that belonged to him.

Tonight's bonfire is on the beach. The firepit is surrounded by keggers lined neatly along the edges, and the salty tang of driftwood smoke hangs in the air. Flickering embers roared to the sky, while the drunken crowd moved in scattered clusters, their laughter coalescing with the music as they stumble over their steps. Rafe can't help but scoff at the very sight.

He had snorted a couple of lines before his arrival. Nothing calms him down quicker than strips of white powder that substitute for dopamine, but it still isn't quite the replacement he's looking for. It may make him feel lighter, unable to feel the depth of his soul sinking like an anchor to the bottom of the ocean floor, but it's ineffective. Riffled with the knowledge that there's something better for him out in the world, something that mirrors the use of a drug, something that can save him.

You.

Rafe sips on the beer he's been nursing for the past half-hour—coke and liquor are a hangover's bitch—and his eyes survey the mass of people in futile efforts. Everyone has arrived, including those Pogue friends of yours, but there are still no traces of you. Once again, Rafe believes that you've decided to forgo the invite to forget him.

Until he finds you off in the distance.

In the corner of the world, sitting on the shore and counting waves, with your legs drawn to your chest and your arms draped across your knees. Parties have always been a troublesome endeavor for you, rekindling old memories you want nothing more than to forget, but you always find yourself succumbing to one. It's a nasty habit you're unable to break.

You had slipped away—from the masses, from your friends, from JJ—for some peace on the edge of the earth. No one seems to have noticed your missing presence. At least, that's what you believe.

Something settles at your side, darkening your solace with its thick presence, and you turn to discover Rafe. He sinks into the empty space beside you, cold brew in hand, and refuses to meet your gaze. Your heartbeat skips, alarm bells activating and cautioning you to leave, but you choose to stay.

Silence engulfs the air and despite the heavy bass reverberating through the air and the flurries of chatters from Kooks and Pogues alike, none of that seems to matter. As always, with Rafe, it feels like you two are the only people remaining on Earth, spinning on its axis, waiting.

It isn't like this with anyone else.

"You've been ignoring me," Rafe announces flatly. His stare set to the horizon of the coastline, watching waves flatten into the salt-soaked sand inches away from his feet.

"I haven't," you defend, a little too quickly, wincing at the projection of your voice. "We just haven't been going to the same places."

He scoffs dryly, "Because you've been ignoring me."

You shake your head softly, but Rafe doesn't acknowledge the gesture. You doubt he cares. It mirrors you in that aspect, knowing exactly how his mind behaves—believing his version of events to be the only correct reality. Nothing you do, or say, will change it.

It's hard to talk to someone who's stubborn.

It's worse when the person knows you too well.

Because in some ways, he's right. Several invitations to various functions have been sent, but you've opted out of attending any of them. Partly because you don't want to be in that environment. Mostly because you're afraid of facing Rafe. You had assumed it'd be an easy facade to maintain—just as the rest of your friends suspected you simply weren't into parties—but Rafe sees directly through you, like glass.

He resists the urge to look at you. Fearing if he does, he'll never stop. It isn't enough for him to be within your proximity, he wants to have you, and it's a debilitating feeling to know he can't. Blood coats his senses, and he realizes he bite his tongue too hard.

Yet, he feels the heat of your stare on his profile. Your eyes sweep over every feature, every twitch of muscle as if you're committing to memory the days you haven't seen him. Pride finds him in that regard—to know he consumes your thoughts as much as you consumed him.

He begs to be wanted.

He wants you to beg for him.

"Your bruises are healing nicely," you say softly, admiring the faded damning colors of his assault to the healing yellows that smother his skin. "That's good."

His resolve breaks and Rafe turns. The corner of his lips lifts. "You would care, wouldn't you?"

You blink in surprise, but Rafe takes it as some protest of resilience. You won't admit it, as much as you want him, as much as you need him, and the anguish seeps into his bones. unable to detangle itself from skin. "Of course I do," you stutter a reply, "I patched you up."

"But it isn't the only reason," he presses, "Is it?"

His eyes meet yours, and it rivals the first look he's ever given you. Full of scorn and disdain, Rafe had once wanted nothing more than you to be out of his sight. Now, he can't have enough of it.

It evokes honesty in you. "It isn't."

Rafe grins, taking any small victory as a celebration.

You can't take it, deciding to break contact to reach into the pockets of your shorts. You fish out the lighter and a small box of cigarettes before torching the end of the stick and inhaling a sharp breath. Nicotine slithers into your system, calming your raging nerves.

Rafe watches with amusement. He had always hated a woman who smokes. It was unorthodox, dirty, and not someone he sees himself with. But when he watches the way the puff of smoke exits your lips, the calamity smoothening your features, he's never wanted to kiss you more.

“You smoke?” Rafe asks as you lower the cigarette to your side. The butt of the blunt brushes against the grains of sand.

“Yeah.” You say timidly. “It’s a bad habit I can’t break.”

"Interesting."

"What?"

"Didn't take you as a smoker," Rafe confesses, but something in his statement reeks of judgment. As much as you hate the need to be validated by others, something about Rafe leaves you desiring acceptance.

You scramble to form an excuse. “I only do it when I’m nervous.”

“I make you nervous?”

You don't respond, but you're sure the split-second expression on your face revealed it all. Pressing your lips together, you rip your gaze from Rafe to look back to the ocean currents, raging and coursing through the tides as if a storm is brewing. You hoped this respite would dissolve the tension in the air, but it doesn't.

Thick and hot, you can't decide if it's the heat of the firepit against your backside or the idea of Rafe's close—too close—proximity to you. Your truth. The persona you've carefully crafted on the verge of collapsing.

Rafe finally understands why you don't go to parties. Even if you don't explicitly state it; it's him. The way he can read you, understand you, and make you feel. A parallel of himself in you that feels like a reflection against a pond. It scares you. It terrifies him. Yet he can't get enough of it.

You clear your throat, taking another puff of your cigarette, before returning your gaze back to him. "You left your own party again."

Is this what you want to talk about? Rafe would rather push past the small talk, but he entertains it nonetheless. At least it's something to keep you close. "It's not my party."

"Right." You hum, inhaling a nicotine-saturated breath that hisses and chars the end of the blunt. "But you left it all the same. Shouldn't you be with your friends?"

"I could ask the same about you."

"I asked you first."

"Is that how you want to play it?"

Rafe cocks his head in challenge, armed with the mockery and condescension of his dripping tone. But it's not aimed at you, but rather for you. A provocation that asks: one of us is lying here, who will it be?

"You're baiting me," you announce, digging the burnt end of the cigarette into the sand to extinguish it. "It's not going to work."

Rather than take offense from your blatant callout, he scoffs out a smirk. His perfect teeth glistened underneath the moonlight, which can almost be read as fangs.

"Smart girl too," he muses, more to himself than you, before taking a swing of his beer. Directing his line of vision towards the darkened horizon, you watch him swallow with a bob of his Adam's apple. "I was looking for you."

"Me?" You repeat. "Why would you be looking for me?"

"Don't act dumb, princess. It's not cute."

Silence stretches among you, and the only soothing sound of this moment is the cascades of water meeting sand. Your heart doubles its tempo, reconciling with Rafe's words before he pierces the quietude with another confession. "They don't care."

This time, you don't play dumb. You know exactly what he's referring to. Rafe made a bold accusation that his friends don't care about him, and you have a sneaking suspicion that he is right.

From what you heard from your own group, no one is friends with Rafe. Not really. All they want is to get out of his way, to avoid being the receiving end of his wrath. Rapport is the closest method towards that settlement. A falsehood for security. He had come to the bitter realization on his own; that no one is real with him except you.

You don't take the time to be frivolous and reassure him with meaningless consolation. You cut straight to the chase.

"Then why come?" You ask, not knowing if he'll respond. But what you don't know is Rafe would answer almost anything if it came from you. "Why attend something when none of these people care about you?"

The instantaneous reply is a howling wind from the ocean, breezing over your skin and raising goosebumps on your arms. But you remain still. Unsure if Rafe will answer, you wait until he admits, "It's better than being alone."

All the air leaves your lungs.

Your heart pumps like it's about to burst.

Because Rafe confirms what you’re thinking.

And you feel the same way.

You're certain you're in an exact predicament but you don't have the courage to voice it. The Pogues only tolerate you because you're in this relationship with JJ, but you have a sinking feeling that it's just the novelty. Something short and fleeting. Something false.

You entered it under the assumption that JJ understood you—a burnt soul recognizing a companion. But that's proven to be completely untrue. JJ may have faced hardships, but his entire network is built on camaraderie. You never had that. Neither did Rafe.

Maybe that's why you gravitate towards him.

Maybe that's why you're afraid.

"Why are you here?" Rafe prompts, turning the spotlight back onto you.

You lick your lips, suddenly dry. "The Pogues invited—"

"No, don't give me that bullshit," he snaps, but his tone lacks the bite. All it demands is truth. "I mean, why did you come this time? You've been avoiding me for a reason."

You scoff. "You know."

A cruel smirk carves the corner of his mouth, framed with an innocent dimple. "I want to hear you say it."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you're a liar, princess. Just like all of them."

Fire ignites in your chest by his accusation, reminding you closely of that night at Tannyhill, and your hands squeeze into tight fists. Sucking on the inside of your cheek, and licking the residual nicotine sticking to your gums, give you a minor boost of confidence. "I thought if I didn't, they'd stop inviting me."

You exhale a blow of air, similar to your cigarette, but a heavy weight lifts off your chest. You don't turn to meet Rafe's eyes, but you feel the heat of his stare.

Rafe grins, self-satisfaction ripples through his features in unparalleled triumph. "Just like me."

"Don't be a dick," you declare.

"I'm not trying to." He says. "It's just ironic."

"Ironic how?"

He takes a second to answer, lingering on the moment by sipping on the rim of his beer, letting a slow, singular drop fall from the corner of his mouth. "Because every party I've seen you at, you're always escaping it."

You shrink under this observation, nails buried into the sand to find grounding. "I needed a break."

"All the time?" He taunts.

You say absolutely nothing. And Rafe chuckles dryly. "The girl who always leaves the party. The boy who needs it. We'll make a good couple."

You lift your head. "Is that your criteria for a relationship?"

"No. But I'll take any excuse to have you."

Your breath stutters in your throat. From your previous interaction with Rafe, you concluded that he cuts through the drivel. But it's different this time around. Now, it riffled with the knowledge of knowing you, of wanting you.

Rafe always had a single-minded ambition, the type to chase after his goal until he captured it within the palm of his hand. That's you to him.

Morals be damned. As long as he has you.

To be wanted like that terrifies you. With your heart palpitating in your chest, you feel the urge to rebuild your walls. To add that familiar and safe space between you and him. "Rafe..." You trail off in warning.

Instantaneously, as if he can read you, he knows why.

Frowning, Rafe says, "Hm. Forget you're with Maybank."

You don't think that's entirely true.

"I should get back," to him, but that part remains unspoken.

Rising from your seat, you dust off the sheen coat of sand under your thighs before motioning to leave. But Rafe snatches your wrist. His grip is firm but loose enough for you to slip out, only begging you not to.

You look down, however Rafe refuses to meet your gaze. In fact, he avoids it, opting for the dark coastline that rivals the turbulent feeling in his chest. "Why are you with him?" He whispers against the wind, his tone seeping with vulnerability. "Why are you with him when you can be with me?"

You don't know how to answer that. "He was nice to me."

"I can be nice to you."

You shake your head. "It's not the same."

"Why not?" Rafe asks wretchedly, lifting his head to finally meet your gaze and you read how broken he truly is. Your chest tightens. His icy blue eyes warmed with desperation, and his grip around your wrist tightens, like a beggar seeking approval.

For a moment, you considered lying. It's the easiest way out. But there's no one here but the two of you. No one to perform to. No one but an audience who knows you soul-deep. How do you lie out of this one?

"I think you need me," you whisper. "I don't know how to be needed like that."

If you were anyone else, he'd feel insulted. To insinuate he needs someone—anyone—to function implies he's weak. That he's dependent on another. But Rafe hasn't felt this sense of gratification in years. A kinship that emerges from a soul recognizing a burnt soul. He can't lose that.

"Neither do I," he answers, almost pleading. "Let's try it out."

"Try what?"

"Us." He urges. "You and me."

You shouldn't, but you can't help but consider the proposal. It's awful, especially knowing you're in a committed relationship—as committed as you can be—and you try to build excuses and logic on why this couldn't work. Why it shouldn't work. But all of them fell flat.

"You hate me."

"I didn't know you."

"You called me a bitch."

"I'm sorry," he says sincerely.

"You called me a liar," you accuse, unmasking the sting from the label.

"You are," Rafe insists without missing a beat. "But I'll take it."

You chew on your bottom lip, gnawing on the raw, broken skin until you taste iron. "I don't know," you admit, voice low, chest heavy. "I don't know if I can save you, Rafe."

This time, he doesn't have a response. This time, he's rendered speechless. It's a confessional—what he truly desires from you is redemption. To possess a mirror that resolves him of his own sins.

His fingers loosen around your wrist.

"I have to go," you say softly, taking a step towards the exit.

But it isn't quick enough.

Rafe grabs you again and gives you one last tug, forcing you to land on his lap. Before you can move, he grabs the nape of your neck and pulls you close, forehead pressed against his, chest meeting the other.

You feel the rapid thumping of his own heartbeats.

"One taste," Rafe murmurs, his eyes on yours and they're pitch-black, all dissolved of his color. "Just one taste and I'll let you go."

"One?" You ask meekly, your heart threatening to spill.

"One." He confirms, reeking of the same desperation he's always been ashamed of revealing. But he doesn't care anymore. "And you can go back to Maybank and do whatever the fuck you want."

You search his face, trying to read him, but nothing but pure primal instinct coats his rugged features. He wants you—in a way that's so animalistic, he's actively holding himself back from taking more. A sick satisfaction curves up your throat at being desired by such capacity.

"Okay."

Rafe doesn't give you a moment to retract your consent before he drags your mouth down to his, silencing every pounding thought with a kiss.

Instinctively, you steel your spine from the assault before slowly unwinding. From all the venom and vile words spilled from Rafe's tongue, his mouth is surprisingly soft and tender. His kiss is rich with desire, gripped with desperation, and it pours all his silent confessions into one. Your heart has never raced so frantically but has never been this calm.

You want this.

Logic and reason chip away when you feel how warm Rafe is. How he laps over the broken piece of your bottom lip like worship, how he craves you with the depravity of a man receiving his last meal, licking you clean until you're nothing but bones.

It's intoxicating. Where has Rafe been all your life? Why haven't you done this sooner? Your mind can't find a proper answer until a slow, nauseating reminder strikes your drunken and lustful state. It's because you're taken. It answers. You're committed to someone who isn't him.

Pulling away, you breathe, "Rafe—"

"Not enough," he declares roughly, dragging your back and stealing another kiss. It's as if it's the only air he's willing to take. He demands it—it's his.

And yet, for all your stream of moral consciousness, there's little resistance.

You allow him to take you. Devour you. To suck on your bottom lip until a metallic tang is shared between you, and to feel the warm liquid ooze onto your tongue like sacred waters. He tastes so good, and Rafe's hands fall from your arm to your waist, tugging you along until you're centered on his lap. With an automatic roll of your hips, he groans, and you feel the growing erection form in his jeans demonstrating his obsession with you.

It's just one. But one kiss turns into two and three, and suddenly you can't stop. Nothing has ever felt as right as this moment with Rafe.

Pulling back a second time, your murmur against his swollen lips. "This is a bad idea."

"This is the best goddamn idea I've ever had," he breathes into your mouth, his hand straying to cup a handful of your ass under your shorts. "You taste better than I imagined."

"What do I taste like?"

"Mine," Rafe answers breathily, before cupping the back of your neck once again and aligning your mouth to his.

Addiction. Rafe is certain that's what this is. The way you rock against him, the way your body molds into his—like a perfect puzzle finding its match—he can't help but believe in fate. It infuriates him that it took him this long.

But even in a perfect moment, the illusion quickly shatters by a grating voice from the distance. Rafe wants nothing more than to ignore its bugging nuisance, but you can't seem to.

Because it's your boyfriend.

You rip away from Rafe to discover JJ's silhouette approaching the shore, searching for you. Panic zigzags through your chest and you swiftly leave Rafe's lap, brushing away any criminalizing evidence of your infidelity.

"That's one. We're done."

When JJ arrives, Rafe doesn't move. He doesn't even make a gesture to conceal the situation as JJ's eyes dart between the two of you, trying to piece together what you were doing with the Kook in the first place.

But no one reveals a thing. Not even you. You quickly apologize for leaving the party and fumble a flimsy excuse for Rafe's presence. And JJ's birdbrain accepts it, causing Rafe to scoff at the fool you're with.

When he takes your hand, leading you back to the party, you quickly accept—dragging yourself into the same space you beg to break from. And doing nothing but leaving Rafe behind.

He could leave now. After all, he came out to the shores searching for you. But there's a calamity that comes from being out here. Seeing the waters, watching the crashing of the waves. It allows him to truly think—away from the noises, away from the people, away from all the meaningless distractions.

Rafe swipes his thumb across his bottom lip, feeling the buzzing sensation left behind from your kiss, and collects a single droplet of blood. It must've spilled from you, or his bitten tongue, he doesn't know for sure. All he does is slip it right back into his mouth.

And for the first time throughout this entire night, Rafe grins. A real one. A devious one. Because he's coming to a familiar conclusion.

You parade among the people who don't give a damn about you, who don't know a single truth, and pretend you fit in their world. But you don't. You're a liar.

But as Rafe remembers the taste of your hot lips on his, the way your body fits in with his, the taste of your blood on his tongue—he realizes, so is he.

Because there's no way that is the last time he'll kiss you. That he has you. No. He had one taste and it wasn't enough.

Rafe is coming back for more.

Whether you like it or not.

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Navigation — Part 01 | Part 02 | Part 03 / End

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fr0stf4ll · 1 month ago

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A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 1

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 4k

notes; Yo everyone, I'm back with another fanfiction featuring our lovely Shadow Singer. Hope you all like it <3 Just a small reminder: English isn’t my first language, so I’ve tried my best. Enjoy the first chapter!

Part 2

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The dusk sky draped the House of Wind in soft shades of lavender and rose, its tall windows open to the gentle, jasmine-scented breeze of Velaris below. Rhysand’s office, spacious but not ostentatious, offered a panoramic view of the starlit city, where lanterns were beginning to glow and laughter drifted upward like a distant, cheerful hum. The high shelves, carved of dark wood, were lined with neat rows of books and rolled charts, their parchment edges softened by centuries of use. A low-burning lamp cast warm light over a desk scattered with papers, quills, and a half-filled inkpot.

Madja stood near the window with Rhys, both of them watching as wings and shadows moved quietly through the city’s streets below. The old healer’s posture was poised despite her age; her long, silver-streaked hair was bound in a simple braid. Time had etched fine lines around her eyes and mouth—soft marks of the centuries she’d spent mending flesh and bone, soothing pain, and whispering encouragement into the darkest hours of countless lives.

Rhysand kept his gaze on the vista beyond the glass, arms folded casually, the glow of faelight catching in his violet eyes. He knew Madja had come here for something particular. She wasn’t one to linger unnecessarily, nor did she shy from speaking her mind. The hush in the room was comfortable, respectful of the weight of the moment.

Madja cleared her throat softly, her voice as calm and steady as it had been through all the emergencies and late-night visits to the healing rooms. “Rhysand,” she began, her tone gentle yet determined, “I need to speak with you about a matter of some importance to me.”

Rhys turned his head slightly, giving her his full attention. “Of course,” he said, voice low and reassuring. “What’s on your mind?”

She inhaled and exhaled slowly, as though considering each word carefully. “I’ve served this court for a very long time. Longer than many remember—tending to soldiers, midwives, children, courtiers, High Lords and Ladies alike.” Her gaze drifted toward the city lights, as if recalling memories that danced among those glowing streets. “It’s been my honor and my purpose.”

Rhysand inclined his head, respect and gratitude shining in his eyes. “We owe you more than can ever be repaid, Madja. Your skill, your kindness... You’ve saved so many of us in ways we cannot count.”

She offered a small, affectionate smile. “I know my role has mattered. But Rhys,” she paused, and the name alone carried a lifetime of familiarity that few could claim with him, “I find that my hands are not as steady as they once were. My eyes grow weary by candlelight. My back aches after hours bent over the injured.”

A slight breeze stirred the curtains, and the scent of night-blooming flowers drifted in, a gentle reminder of how time moved ever forward. Rhysand said nothing yet, allowing her the space to say what she must.

Madja continued softly, “I believe it’s time for me to step back. To retire from my duties as the court’s primary healer.” She turned to face him fully, shoulders squared, but her gaze kind and open. “I’ve trained many capable healers over the years. The work will continue. The Night Court does not lack for talent or compassion.”

Rhysand exhaled quietly, pressing his lips into a thoughtful line. The notion of Madja not being there—her swift and sure presence absent from their healing wards—seemed strange. She had always been a constant, a quiet pillar in the court’s foundation. But he would not deny her what she deserved.

“Are you certain?” he asked gently, voice low enough that it felt like they were confiding secrets rather than discussing court affairs. “If you wish fewer hours, or only to train the younger healers, we can arrange that.”

Madja shook her head, a decisive yet kind gesture. “No, Rhys. I’ve thought this through. I’m old, my friend. Old, even by our standards.” A hint of dry humor touched her tone. “My future lies in rest, in tending a garden rather than wounded flesh. I wish to spend whatever years remain in quiet peace, perhaps in a small cottage overlooking a meadow or stream.”

In the quiet that followed, Rhysand reached out to gently clasp her hand, the gesture sincere. “We’ll ensure you have all you need. A place of comfort, security—whatever you desire. And know that you will always be welcome in these halls, never forgotten.”

Madja squeezed his hand, gratitude and affection shining in her eyes. “I expected nothing less. You have all grown into fine leaders, fine friends. It eases my heart to know I leave the court in good hands.”

Rhysand released Madja’s hand gently, taking in her decision with thoughtful acceptance. The room felt quieter, a hush that allowed them both to measure the weight of this change. He crossed his arms and leaned slightly against the desk, considering how best to carry out her retirement. There would need to be someone to fill her role—someone skilled, empathetic, and unshakably capable of handling whatever the Night Court might face.

“Have you thought about who might take your place?” Rhys asked softly, meeting her steady gaze. “I can’t imagine you leaving us without a successor in mind.”

A hint of pride lit Madja’s eyes, a spark of confidence in the future she was preparing to leave behind. “Of course I have. You know me better than that, Rhys. I would never abandon my post without ensuring someone could step into it seamlessly.”

Rhys inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips, as if he had expected nothing less. “And who have you chosen?”

Madja’s grip on the windowsill tightened slightly, not in apprehension, but in anticipation of sharing something long-cherished. “I have someone perfect in mind. A child of the Night Court—an orphan of the first war against Hybern, in fact. I took her under my wing when she was very young, taught her the basics of healing and care.”

Rhysand’s brows rose, curiosity piqued. He could not recall all the children Madja had trained personally, centuries and centuries blending faces and names into a kind tapestry of service. “Who might this be?”

“Y/N,” Madja said, voice warm with fondness. “You may remember her. She was quiet but determined, always studying late into the night, always asking how to ease pain more efficiently or mend a broken bone with fewer scars. A true healer’s heart.” She paused, letting the memory breathe life into the silence. “A few centuries ago, she left the Night Court to travel among the other courts and even beyond Prythian’s borders—visiting unknown continents, I believe. All to deepen her knowledge and hone her healing skills.”

Rhysand searched his memories, vague images surfacing: a young, focused individual hovering near Madja’s side, attentive as a student could be. He had been too busy with rebuilding and healing wounds on a much larger scale then, but he remembered the name faintly, the glimpses of a dedicated figure slipping through the halls.

Madja continued, “I reached out to her a few months ago, requested her return. I told her of my plans, that I would soon step down and that I wanted her to take my place. She agreed. She should be arriving any day now, if my calculations are correct.”

Rhysand nodded thoughtfully, pressing his fingertips together. “So Y/N will take on your mantle,” he said quietly, more to himself than Madja. “If you trust her, then I will welcome her home with open arms. I know the court will benefit from such devotion and training.”

Madja’s smile deepened, an affectionate and proud curve of her lips. “She will do well, Rhys. She’s grown into a capable healer—perhaps even more skilled than I. She brings with her new techniques and knowledge from lands we can barely imagine. It is only fitting that someone so dedicated should stand where I once stood.”

Outside, the city’s laughter and murmurs drifted into the room. Rhysand and Madja stood in quiet agreement. As one chapter closed gently, another prepared to open. The Night Court, always at the crossroads of past and future, would soon meet the one who would continue its legacy of healing and mercy.

————

The winter air carried a quiet hush as you approached the gates of Velaris. The land slumbered under a light blanket of snow, crystals glittering like tiny fallen stars beneath the moonlight. It had been centuries since you’d last seen this city, and now each lantern-lit arch, each faint silhouette of distant rooftops, stirred memories long tucked away. The cold breeze nipped at your cheeks, but you were well-prepared: a heavy, fur-lined cape draped over your shoulders, its generous folds keeping out the chill. Beneath it, your traveling garb—leather boots crusted with frost, worn gloves, and trousers meant for long rides—hinted at the countless roads you had trodden in your self-imposed exile.

Your horse’s breath plumed in the crisp air, its dark coat standing out starkly against the snowy ground. Every hoof-fall was muffled by that thin layer of powder, giving the night an even gentler hush. Above you, the eagle circled again, a lone sentinel under a sky brushed with starlight and the faint glow of a crescent moon. It cried softly, its voice echoing in the stillness, as if announcing your return.

Velaris—once the place of your youth, where you learned the first steps of healing under Madja’s patient eye—felt both familiar and strange. You had wandered distant courts, continents with different climates and creatures, honing your craft and expanding your knowledge. Yet here, now, the curve of a familiar street corner, the warm glow of lamplight on old stone, tugged at your heart. It was nostalgia mingled with quiet apprehension, the weight of centuries settling gently on your shoulders. Back then, you had left as a young apprentice, uncertain and hungry for wisdom. Tonight, you returned as a seasoned healer, with secrets and skills gleaned from every corner of Prythian and beyond.

At the gate, a couple of sentries wrapped in thick cloaks watched your approach. The lanterns beside them radiated a comforting warmth against the frosty night. They noted your horse’s slow pace, your cape embroidered subtly with practical patterns, the saddlebags heavy with bandages, tonics, and texts. They glanced upward at the eagle, curious, but found no threat in this silent dance of traveler and guardian.

One guard stepped forward, voice muted yet carried easily through the still air. “Late traveler,” he said, respectful but cautious, “state your name and purpose.”

You drew the reins gently, bringing the horse to a stop, your dark mount stamping once on the snowy ground. A faint smile touched your lips as you pushed back your hood, exposing features sharpened by experience, softened by understanding. Even now, the cold flushed your cheeks slightly, and a strand of white hair slipped free, catching the moonlight.

“I am Y/N,” you said, your voice steady and warm, echoing with an old familiarity. “A healer returning to the Night Court. I believe I am expected.”

The guards exchanged a glance—this name carried weight, a quiet rumor of a healer summoned home by Madja herself. They stepped aside, allowing you entry, no further questions needed. Beyond them lay Velaris, blanketed softly in winter’s hush. You remembered it bustling with life in greener times, but even now, beneath the snow and distant laughter, you felt the city’s heart welcoming you home.

With a gentle press of your heel, you urged your horse onward. The eagle’s shadow passed over the gate, and then it soared above the rooftops, perhaps to find its own perch. A familiar scent drifted through the crisp night air—something like cinnamon and distant hearth fires. You took it in, remembering quiet evenings of study and healing in warm, lamplit rooms.

You had left as a student, eager and uncertain. You returned a master of your craft, ready to shoulder the responsibilities your old mentor had chosen for you. The quiet crunch of hooves in snow was the only sound as you entered Velaris, a place you had not seen in a hundred lifetimes, yet still knew in your bones.

As soon as you passed through the gates, you swung your leg over the horse’s side and dismounted with a practiced ease. The animal, sensing your familiarity, snorted softly, its breath making small clouds in the winter air. The snow crunched beneath your boots as you took the saddle in hand, leading your horse forward at a leisurely pace. A few onlookers spared curious glances—travelers weren’t uncommon in Velaris, but your arrival at this late hour and in these quiet conditions drew subdued interest.

You let your gaze drift, taking in the sights around you. Velaris had always been a jewel among cities, but under the moon and dusting of snow, it gleamed with a serene kind of splendor. Buildings of carved stone and elegant wood bore soft, golden lights that spilled onto cobblestone streets. The scent of fresh bread and distant hearth fires mingled with the crispness of winter. You noted subtle changes—new sculptures in gardens, fresh murals adorning certain walls, the hum of gentle magic woven into everyday corners. It had grown even lovelier with time.

You had heard the tales, even far away on foreign shores: the once-hidden city revealed to the world, the ferocious attack it had endured, and the grand victory that followed. Rumors traveled quickly among healers and traders, and from what you gathered, Velaris had suffered but risen stronger, its spirit unbroken. The idea that your old home, once so secretive, had been thrust onto the world stage still left an odd taste in your mouth. You’d never imagined such an outcome all those centuries ago.

And Rhysand—when you’d left, he’d only just ascended as High Lord after his father’s passing. You remembered him as calm, shrewd, haunted by new responsibilities thrust upon him too young. Now, you’d learned that he had reigned through wars and alliances, reshaping the Night Court into something more open, more formidable. Most astonishing of all was the whisper that a High Lady stood beside him, equal in power and rank. Such a thing had been unthinkable in the old days, when tradition and suspicion ruled the courts.

You ran a hand along the horse’s neck, both reassuring it and steadying yourself. Time had flowed like a great river, carving new courses in this land you once knew. The Night Court wasn’t just shadows and silence anymore—if anything, it hummed with a brighter, more inclusive magic.

A small smile tugged at your lips, though touched by nostalgia. You wondered if you would still recognize old acquaintances, if any remained. Madja, of course, you would know. She was the reason you had returned. But what about the healers who trained alongside you, or the courtiers who once sought your help for quiet fevers and twisted ankles?

Your breath fogged in the cold as you carried your saddle and led the horse onward into the velvety night of Velaris. In that soft hush, surrounded by lamplight and murmuring streets, you acknowledged what had been and what now was. A thousand changes had come to pass while you walked distant roads, yet here you were again—a piece of the past stepping into the present, ready to adapt and serve once more.

With a gentle tug on the reins, you guided your horse through Velaris’ winding streets until you reached a small inn known for accommodating travelers with mounts. The sign outside bore simple script and a painted image of a horse’s head, letting you know this was a place that catered to riders who needed both rest and a safe spot for their companions. A narrow stable area hugged one side of the building, the wooden stalls visible through an open arch, and the soft whicker of other horses drifted out into the cold night.

You tied your horse securely at a hitching post near the stable entrance, giving it a few soft strokes along its neck and murmuring quiet words of reassurance. The inn’s lights glowed warmly through its windows, promising respite from the chill outside. Carrying only what you needed for the night—your saddle and a small bag slung over your shoulder—you stepped up onto the worn threshold.

Inside, the inn’s atmosphere enveloped you like a comforting blanket. The interior was modest yet inviting, with low ceilings supported by dark wooden beams that lent the space a cozy, intimate feel. A large hearth crackled at one end, its firelight dancing across the polished floorboards and simple, sturdy tables. The scent of mulled wine and hearty stew drifted through the air, mingling with the faint tang of old wood and woolen fabrics. A few patrons sat scattered around, some nursing tankards, others finishing quiet meals, their murmured conversations melding into a pleasant hum.

Lamps hung at intervals along the walls, their warm glow illuminating the simple artwork—landscapes of rolling hills and starry skies, scenes that might be familiar to travelers who came and went. A rack near the door held thick cloaks and traveling staffs, and straw mats by the hearth encouraged weary wanderers to warm their feet by the flames.

Approaching the small counter near the fire, you found a stout figure in an apron waiting, brows lifting slightly at your approach. The innkeeper—a middle-aged fae with kind eyes and a no-nonsense posture—took in your travel-worn attire and the faint smell of stable hay clinging to your clothes without judgment.

“I need a room for the night,” you said, voice low but clear. You placed a few coins on the counter, enough to cover lodging and a decent meal. “And a safe place for my horse,” you added, gesturing out the door with a tilt of your head.

The innkeeper nodded, pocketing the coins and scribbling a note in a ledger. “You’ve chosen the right place, traveler. We’ve a stable hand on duty tonight, and plenty of hay and water for your mount. I’ll have your belongings sent up to your room—top of the stairs, second door on the right. Will you be needing dinner?”

The gentle crackle of the hearth made you realize how hungry you were. “Yes, please. Something hot.” The tension of your long journey began to ease as you spoke. Soon, you would have a warm meal and a quiet room, a moment to gather your thoughts before facing the days to come in Velaris.

The innkeeper nodded again. “We’ll have stew and bread ready for you in a moment. Make yourself comfortable.”

You thanked them quietly and made your way toward a table near the fire. Settling down, you let the warmth seep into your bones. Outside, the snow continued to fall lightly, dusting the night-silenced streets. Inside, the inn’s modest comfort wrapped around you, a gentle reminder that, for all the changes beyond these walls, solace could still be found in simple things: a crackling fire, a hot meal, and a secure place to rest.

You thanked the inn’s attendant who brought your things upstairs—your saddle and bag neatly placed in one corner, your personal items laid out on a small bench. As soon as the door closed, you set about making yourself comfortable. The tiny room was modest but cozy: a single bed with a thick quilt, a wooden chest for your belongings, and a narrow door that led to a private washroom. The lamp on the bedside table glowed softly, illuminating rough-hewn beams overhead and the simple woven rug underfoot.

The bath you drew was warm and fragrant, a rare luxury after so many months on the road. You sighed as the hot water embraced your tired muscles, steam rising to blur the edges of the lamplight. Every ache and tension slipped away, replaced by a gentle calm. You lingered there longer than you intended, letting the warmth and quiet stillness soothe the raw edges of your journey.

Eventually, you stepped out, drying off with a towel that smelled faintly of lavender. Pulling on more comfortable clothes—soft trousers, a loose tunic, and thick socks—you immediately felt lighter, more at ease. Settling into the single chair at the small desk, you opened your sketchbook. The pages bore neat sketches of rare herbs, diagrams of organs and nerve clusters, annotations in your own careful handwriting describing remedies learned in distant courts. You added a few more notes now, clarifying a technique you’d picked up in the Winter Court for combating frostbite injuries—how their healers used crushed frost lily petals to reduce swelling.

You’d barely finished jotting down a final sentence when a gentle knock sounded at the door. Crossing the tiny space in a few strides, you opened it to find the innkeeper’s assistant holding a tray. The rich aroma of stew—savory and warm—wafted into your room. You offered a quiet thanks, voice hushed as if not to disturb the hush of the night. The assistant nodded politely and retreated, footsteps receding down the hallway.

Placing the tray on a small round table by the window, you pulled up the chair. The stew steamed before you—thick and hearty, with chunks of root vegetables, tender meat, and herbs that reminded you of home. Next to it was a small loaf of crusty bread and a pat of butter, already soft enough to spread easily.

As you dipped your spoon and brought the first mouthful to your lips, the flavors bloomed across your tongue—rich, comforting, and exactly what you needed. Your gaze drifted past the rim of the bowl to the window. Beyond the glass, the Sidra River shimmered softly under starlight. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the night, catching in the glow of distant lanterns. Across the water, the Rainbow—Velaris’s famed artistic district—was lit with gentle hues, colors blending seamlessly into the darkness.

The scene was a masterpiece of tranquility: the star-flecked sky, the quiet city, the snow falling softly as if trying not to wake the world. You savored another spoonful of stew and leaned back, allowing the moment to settle around you. Here you were, in a city you’d left centuries ago, come home to take up a mantle left by your old mentor. So much had changed and yet this moment—warm meal, quiet window, gentle snow—reminded you why you returned. Comfort, safety, purpose, and memory woven together in a tapestry of starlit peace.

You finished the last of your meal, wiped the bowl clean with a piece of bread, and gently pushed the tray aside. The steady warmth of the stew had settled in your stomach, making your limbs feel pleasantly heavy. Outside, the snow continued its quiet descent, dusting the rooftops and the narrow streets with sparkling powder. The lamplight in your room seemed softer now, the hush of the winter night wrapping around you like a familiar old cloak.

Rising from the small chair, you crossed the room and extinguished the lamp on the bedside table. Only moonlight and the reflection from the snow-blanketed city remained, sending faint silver shapes dancing along the floorboards. You slipped beneath the quilt, the scent of wool and lavender drifting from the linens. The mattress gave slightly under your weight, a gentle cradle after so many hard beds and forest floors.

Your thoughts drifted naturally to the meeting you’d have the next day. Madja’s voice echoed faintly in your memory—her gentle, steady guidance so many years ago. Tomorrow, you would see her again, no longer as a wide-eyed apprentice, but as a seasoned healer returning to take up her mantle. The idea hummed softly through your mind, a mixture of anticipation and a quiet, nervous pride.

The distant murmur of Velaris lulled you: the soft creak of settling beams, the whisper of the Sidra’s current, the faint call of a night bird. Within moments, the fatigue of long travel and the comfort of a true bed smoothed away the edges of wakefulness. Your eyelids grew heavy and closed, shutting out the gentle glow of stars and snow.

Wrapped in warmth and memory, you drifted into sleep, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow would begin a new chapter—one you were finally ready to embrace.

---

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musamora · 11 months ago

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𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖙𝖜𝖎𝖓𝖊𝖉 「𝔩𝔲𝔠𝔦𝔣𝔢𝔯」 ೀ⋆｡˚

content. f!reader. discussions of separation/divorce, friends to lovers, (name) is a fallen angel, sexual harassment, insecurities, discussions of mental health, spoilers for hazbin hotel season finale, implied/referenced not-safe for work. not proofread. 3.3k+ words.

author's note. i'm not sure if i'll be making a valentine's day post, but i haven't updated in a while, and i wanted to post something. so here's another hazbin hotel oneshot that's been in my drafts for a while! (sorry to all my bsd readers, i will be posting content soon!) i hope you guys enjoy ٩(^ᗜ^ )و ´-

would you like to see more? fill out the taglist or comment under this post.

synopsis. two fallen ones, cut from the same cloth, destinies forever intertwined by the choices you made as young seraphim.

OR someone comes in to try and ruin your relationship with lucifer, and he isn't happy about it.

You remembered the sensation of an eternal inferno, the mark of damnation that scorched your fingertips, submerging your divine being within a cluster of flames. Exiled from the heavens—a fate worse than death to most became an accepted element of your newfound reality. You never belonged perched atop clouds, even with the virtue nestled in the recesses of your heart. A part of you feared the unknown as you descended through novas and clouds, but it felt like a pressure had lifted from your being as those imposing gates shrunk behind you.

As the first of a cluster of falling stars, your impact landed you on the steaming ground of a new, hellish landscape, your mind scattered from the force of the fall, limbs trembling with their aching joints. And that was when you saw him, a brand-new man who held out his hand, smile desperate yet reassuring. The Morning Star himself, brought upon the same fate, still shaken from the tragedy of his descent—it had been much more personal for him.

“It’ll be okay, (Name),” his familiar voice reassured, but it was impossible not to hear the waver in his tone as your hands intertwined. “It’ll all be okay.”

And with a single touch, traversing hand-in-hand through this foreign land, you knew that someday, he would be right.

But that happened many millennia ago, a tale for storybooks rather than a memory that should’ve constantly been on a loop in your mind, held onto during the dead of lonely, bitter nights. Despite your long-standing friendship, the both of you held very separate lives—him with his family, you with your industry. You worked in tandem in relation to the public and aristocratic duties but otherwise barely spoke past the occasional smile and wave. And no, you couldn’t help the desolation that had sprouted inside your heart, the muscle aching as you observed his radiant smile from across ballrooms, the king exchanging affectionate glances at his wife while coddling his sweet daughter. But you were happy for him all the same. He deserved to be surrounded by those he loved, deserved to be happy after years of heartbreak, even if you weren’t in the picture.

But you knew that you could depend on each other, even if you hadn’t spoken in months. It was an unspoken connection between you, a rule unbroken. Which was the reason you knew his midnight call one evening had been serious. His voice was flooded with anguish, sputtering out incomprehensible words as his breath caught with every beat. You dropped everything, the paperwork and meeting planning, flying over with speed so fast that the denizens of Hell whispered for days about the shooting star that had flown across the sky that evening.

In your journey, there was one persistent question that kept bothering you—why wasn’t his wife the one to comfort him? It wasn’t that you minded, not at all, but the entire situation struck you as odd. However, your answer became clear as you cracked open the doors to his bed chambers; the room was frozen and still as if left abandoned. However, the knocked-over furniture and smashed artifacts only made it look like it was robbed, which you highly doubted. And there in the center of the chaos was the Morning Star himself—no, Lucifer. Simply Lucifer. His body crumpled to the ground, painful hiccups leaving his lips. You slipped inside with ease and were about to grab his attention, and then you spotted it, the large lettering of a familiar type of document—a divorce agreement.

You were aware that the relationship between Lucifer and Lilith wasn’t perfect, not by any means. When they had fallen in love, there wasn’t a guideline for navigating relationships and marriage. They had to play it entirely by ear, leading to rushed decisions and a shaky foundation. You had always believed that they were each other’s perfect half, but it was only because their punishment and subsequent banishment had tied them together and forced them to suffer the same fate. At least, that was their belief for a couple of millennia. It didn’t mean that the split that was bound to happen didn’t hurt.

His cries had been hard to hear, throaty and painful, his body trembling as he mourned on the floor. It took a culmination of your mental and physical strength to unravel him, forcing him away from those papers and into an embrace, slowly steadying his breath with yours as he clung to you as if you would leave if he let go. That night set the standard for weeks of a miserable routine, with the former king reduced to sobs and silence. It was unbearable, especially as he pulled away from those who cared for him—his fellow sins, his friends, and especially his daughter. But you continued to hold on, not leaving even with his harsh utterances and occasional outbursts. You wouldn’t let him be alone, couldn’t let him be alone, moving into the broken family’s manor to care for him full-time.

And he would always be thankful for that.

His mental health was climbing uptick for years, fluctuating back and forth until he had stabilized, at least in comparison to his state before. He became fantastic at masking his depression, brushing it underneath the rug as he delved into his own creations, pushing many of his relationships even further away as he stopped leaving home. You were the one to bring him food and clean the estate—his staff had drifted to other careers over the past few years. You were the one assuring that he wasn’t left hunched over a bench in the worst posture possible, toiling away with his latest obsession, no matter the cuteness of the ducks.

In his more conscious moments, you would listen as he ranted about his issues, even though you both were aware they were a product of his self-isolation. But in those instants, whispering quietly as if the heavens still held onto your every word, hiding from its light as if the touch of it would scorch your skin, an intimacy blossomed from the depths of your former friendship. It had remained idle for centuries, underlying the foundation of every interaction and word, leaving fleeting touches and shared laughter in your blissful youths for stern support and brief softness in your demonic adulthoods—neither of you ever noticed that you saw the other through heart-shaped lenses. Two fallen ones, cut from the same cloth, destinies forever intertwined by the choices you made as young seraphim.

But that had been the norm for thousands of years.

And without knowing, you had fallen into a relationship stage humans had archaically dubbed as “courting,” traveling outside the estate for the chance to spend time with one another, exchanging personalized gifts whenever the opportunity arose, swapping words of encouragement and affection. It was only after you had kissed him on the cheek one night that you both realized your feelings, and it only spiraled on from there. There were scars from his past love—undoubtedly, you had nurtured them with care—but even despite those, you worked to establish a healthy, balanced relationship as you navigated this strange stage in your lives.

However, there was someone who had not been quite so fond of this new development. You had attended meetings with the Heaven Embassy for many years as a favor to Lucifer, his absence becoming common after his separation from Lilith, but you could still remember locking eyes with the first man as you entered the room, dropping the chicken drum in his hands as his mouth widen agape.

“Hot damn.”

His flirtatious and oftentimes self-centered advances didn’t fly past your head like you wished they would. It seemed despite having thousands of years under his belt, he was unable to learn any kind of manners, but he had been the original sexist prick. And for his status as a divine man, he fucked around a lot. You didn’t doubt that was due to his own insecurities about both of his wives preferring someone else’s dick over his.

Once you and Lucifer had started dating, you happened to make the mistake of slipping that information to Adam in the hopes that he would back off, but it only seemed to provide him a challenge as his flirtations increased tenfold. From then on, your meetings no longer consisted of the same old information surrounding the exterminations; rather, they were him pointing out the many sexual accolades that he had roped under his belt and the way that apparently made him better than Lucifer—his favorite line was always that “that snake must have a little snake.”

Your disdain was obvious, repeating over and over for him to shut his mouth, but he would only smirk, taking your response as a sign that he had struck a nerve and that it was an opportunity to dig deeper. You decided to take over all the meetings with the embassy, keeping Lucifer away from the lecherous banter of the man, no matter the discomfort that formed in your gut from his unabashed perverseness and the predatory stares at your body.

“Come onnnn, babe,” Adam whined, in the middle of biting the meat off a chicken bone.

You shot him a look. “I’m not your babe, Adam.”

“Babe.” If you were able to reach over and strangle him, you would’ve. That was probably the reason the coward used a hologram instead of coming here himself. “A guy like that couldn’t possibly please you the way I could.”

You massaged your nose bridge, pointedly ignoring the flicker of his eyes from your face to your chest, unable to maintain stable eye contact. “Can we just get on with the meeting?”

“You know I’m right, but I’ll let you off the hook for now.”

You groaned, slamming your head onto the table.

From years onward, his nerve only increased, but he had never shown his bloodlust to you before until the exorcist army descended from the heavens to wreak chaos and death upon the doorstep of Lucifer’s only child, Charlie. You and the ever-so-optimistic princess of Hell developed quite a soft spot for one another, which wasn’t difficult since you had already been considered family in centuries past. The title of your romantic relationship with her father initially came with questions and a couple of awkward moments, but it wouldn’t stop either of you from growing a deeper friendship and understanding, walking through the process together. And it definitely didn’t stop you from defending the girl you had seen for years as a pseudo-daughter, along with her noble ambitions.

“Charlie!” you yelled, knocking Adam away from her as he attempted to strangle her. Charlie sputtered, holding her throat with a pained cough, and you raised a steady hand to her back, helping her rise to her feet. You gave her a once-over, relieved to find that she had no substantial wounds besides a couple of cuts and bruises.

You sighed, cupping her rosy cheeks. “Thank goodness you’re alright. Sorry for being so late. Your father will be here any moment.”

Her formerly desolate expression quickly changed into a beaming smile, eyes glimmering with revitalized determination. “Good! We need all the help we can get.”

However, the moment was cut short by the overexaggerated breaths of a particular man, Adam wobbling to his feet as he cradled his bruised ribs, which you didn’t doubt had been cracked in the impact. It was hard not to smile as he struggled to stand, a wave of retribution twitching through your fingertips.

“You bitch,” he groaned between shallow gasps, though his voice drifted into a humorous lilt. “You know, I’m all for feisty women, but this shit’s a bit extreme, don’tcha think, babe?”

“I am not your babe, Adam.”

You cringed at the moan that left his lips, knowing it was not from the pain of his bruises. “God damn, I love it when you say my name.” He chuckled. “It’d be better if you screamed it.”

“You couldn’t have been that good if both your wives left you for someone else,” you muttered, swallowing your bodily urge to vomit as you rubbed the burgeoning headache coursing through your temples.

His expression drained of any warmth or humor, only leaving behind the rotted, sinful corpse of a man that he pretended not to be. “What the fuck did you say to me, bitch?”

“Hmmm,” you hummed, rolling your eyes. “Did I strike a nerve there?”

His mouth contorted into a snarl. “You know, the only reason that snake keeps your ass around is because he needs a couple of assets,” he barked, curving his hands to gesture toward your curves. “To distract him!”

“Hey! Don’t talk about him—”

He cut you off, his imposing figure towering over you. “You’re only a convenience. A pretty face and a hole to fuck.”

You gasped, but he didn’t let you speak, a smirk curling up on his disgusting face. “You don’t mean anything to him, hun,” he sneered, his voice sickeningly sweet as he grabbed your chin, craning your neck at a muscle-aching angle to stare into your eyes. “You had a chance at heaven, slut. A chance to be with me. And you fuckin’ blew it—!”

He didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence, a bone-crunching punch tunneling into his face, his body cast off the hotel, which rocked under the aftershock, before it started to crumble like a deck of cards. With no time to waste, you and Charlie haphazardly jumped from shrapnel piece to shrapnel piece, able to land on the ground with barely a tumble as it collapsed into your foundation. The moment would’ve been devastating if your focus hadn’t been pinpointed elsewhere, the screams of a dying man drawing everyone to the impact pit.

“You have a lot of fuckin’ nerve,” a low voice scowled, sweltering steam blocking everyone’s vision away from the pair until it evaporated into the air, and that was when you spotted him. His voice was barely recognizable. The duplicated tones and whispers surrounding each word made him unidentifiable. But you knew who it was; those familiar sets of wings and the eyes of his tailcoat were clues enough. You hadn’t seen him take this form in decades, centuries even—he had no use for it, and to go to such an extreme was unlike him. He was shaking more than ever before; his fists balled up Adam’s collar as he pinned him to the ground.

“Intruding on my fuckin’ realm. Hurting my daughter.” And with each offense, another blow was added to the first man’s face, which looked more like roadkill than a former human with each malefaction. “Harassing and insulting my future wife!”

“Don’t you mean your little whore?” Adam managed to utter, that cocky tone still persistent.

But that was a terrible mistake.

Lucifer did not respond to his comment, not at all. Instead, he paused, finding himself unprepared for the sheer audacity of the man underneath him, a man only clinging to life through recesses of holy power and spite. To the unsuspecting bystander, it would seem the king had calmed himself down, but instead, an inferno blazed between his fingertips, his form threatening to tear with the amount of heavenly light that he balanced on his palms. The ire of his many eyes looked upon Adam, and they saw to it that his judgment day had come early.

“Die.”

“Dad!”

Luck seemed to have Adam’s back as Charlie intervened, one of the few people who could ever draw her father out of such an irate warpath. However, it was only after a moment of contemplation from Lucifer, whose eyes stared at Adam, his face unreadable as his fingers twitched before he cracked a wicked smirk.

“How’s mercy feel, bitch?”

The next moments were a blur, though those eyes had turned towards you instead, not with the anger they had towards Adam, but of sheer contemplation—not that you paid attention to them, watching Adam’s death unfold in an ironically anti-climatic sort of way. You would’ve felt bad if your mind didn’t remedy the guilt in your gut with memories of your several encounters, most of which were not PG-13. The rest of the staff and residents gathered their bearings, joining to work on rebuilding the hotel, but you did not have the strength to. Instead, you took a moment for yourself, thoughts toiling through your head as they often did, not understanding the icky, nauseous feeling pooling at the bottom of your stomach.

You flinched at the brush of a hand that rested on your shoulder, only to find that it had been Lucifer, his brow furrowed in that same contemplative expression. And much like those times alone in the estate decades prior, a patient silence persisted as he sat next to you, gauging each touch as he pulled you closer, allowing your limp body to lean into his.

“You know none of what that asshole said is true, right?”

Is that what you had been so concerned about? You couldn’t tell. Your thoughts surrounding your relationship, especially in the context of his former love, had always been indecipherable, even to yourself. His question brought a small beam of clarity into the shadowed pits of your darkest thoughts, but it wasn’t the time to talk about it. Not now, at least.

“Yeah, I know.” Your voice was more shaken than you wanted it to come out, but he understood the underlying message. He could tell it wasn’t the truth, not entirely, and that the roots of your insecurities weren’t something to be remedied through a singular conversation. But it was a start. He intertwined your fingers, caressing the bare area of your ring finger.

“I wish you would’ve told me,” he spoke, his voice soft. “I would never have let you go to those meetings.”

You stayed staring out into the distance. “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

However, he believed differently, tilting your chin as he cupped your face, much more loving compared to the hands that had grabbed you prior. And his eyes, ones that had been filled with hatred, now glinted in sharp concern. “But it is a big deal. That’s sexual harassment.”

“You were going through so much,” you replied. “It was just one additional thing I didn’t want you to deal with. Another burden on your back.”

“(Name),” he said, voice stern.

The gruffness of his uncompromising tone drew your eyes to your hands. “Any insult to you is an insult to me. Always has been, always will be. People don’t get to talk to you like that. It doesn’t matter what shit I’m going through. That doesn’t mean you get to be thrown under the bus.” He cracked a smile. “And anyone who even thinks of treating you less than the perfection you are deserves to be roasted alive. You’re not a burden. You’re priceless.”

“You’re really into those cannibalism metaphors recently,” you quipped, a bit of your reprieve and humor returning back. He laughed, his heart falling into ease, though he recognized the nod towards his disdain for a certain radio demon, his expression contorting in disgust.

“I’m not gonna eat him! Think of how gross that thing would taste. Just awful, bleh—!”

You cut him off with a kiss, making his rosy cheeks redden more. “Thanks, Lu.”

You tried to stand. His arm braced underneath your back, a hand brushing across the sensitive skin of your waist as he hovered above, his lips locked onto yours. You sighed into his mouth as his fingers mapped every beauty mark of your face, only for him to split, panting. His eyes shone with recognizable desperation, but the smirk on his lips told you he was prepped to tease, brushing the stray baby hairs out of your face that had been ruffled in the fray.

“If someone ever bothers you like that again, you tell me. Got it?”

You only sighed. “Lucifer, I can handle my—”

He pressed a kiss to your knuckles, mouth upturned in a cheeky grin at the way it cut you off. “It’s not smart to fight without your shield, now, is it?’

You relented, unable to withhold your bashful grin. “Of course.”

A silence persisted.

“Your future wife, hm?”

“…shit.”

TAGLIST: @little-miss-chaoss

#☆.musings #f!reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #lucifer morningstar #lucifer #lucifer morningstar x reader #lucifer x reader

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mountaesan · 1 month ago

Text

while you were sleeping ; m. jaehyun

pairing. sunshine!jaehyun x grumpy!reader (ft. best friend!taesan) genre. fluff , sunshine x grumpy au synopsis. you finally find a word to describe the overwhelming feeling you have for your lovely boyfriend word count. 1234 words warnings. none? playlist. while you were sleeping by laufey !! notes. aaaa my first published work !! hope ygs like it <3 btw reader isn’t exactly… grumpy ? in this ? lmao you’ll see what i mean

“Jaehyun?” You whispered, scared you might awaken him if he was asleep. “Jae, are you sleeping?”

Your boyfriend let out a small snore in response, confirming your suspicions. He was curled into you, his legs tucked under him and arms wrapped tightly around your torso. You let out a small laugh, remembering his loud proclamation to not be the first to fall asleep during your weekly movie marathon. He was horribly wrong and you were elated at the idea of gloating about your victory to him tomorrow morning. Still basking in your triumph, you turned your attention back to the movie.

The weight of Jaehyun’s head resting on your shoulder was comforting but it soon became a distraction. You caught yourself constantly looking away from the laptop screen in front of you to watch your sweet boyfriend and his peaceful face as he slept. There was a recognizable itch at the edge of your fingertips, a familiar ache to run your fingers through Jaehyun’s hair, trace his face and commit every small detail to memory.

Outside, the dark canvas of the night sky was illuminated by the countless number of stars scattered across the sky, like delicate and small pinpricks of light. Each star shimmered with a small brilliance, like it was whispering stories of ancient tales gathered from the farthest corners of the universe. The pale moonlight spilled gently across Jaehyun’s face, softening the edges of his usually sharp features with a silvery glow. Shadows danced delicately in the hollows while the light seemed to linger on his skin; it was almost as if night itself had paused to admire Jaehyun.

Your fist clenched tightly at your side as you fought the urge to cup his face in your hands and smother him with kisses.

Jaehyun was, in no doubt, the more physically affectionate one in your relationship. In the past four months, he’s made it a habit to kiss every inch of available space of your face whenever he could. Grabbing your hand and tugging you into his embrace, his lips pressed against the crown of your head. A sneaky kiss on the cheek when he thinks you’re not looking. Entangling his fingers with yours when you’re outside. Wrapping his arms around you from behind, tucking you into the warm folds of his overcoat to shield you from the cold, crisp air. The list could honestly go on for forever.

You, on the other hand, were not as physically affectionate. Not to be confused with being not affectionate. You loved Jaehyun with all that you had but you were more selective with how you outwardly expressed it.

A particularly loud sound from the movie snapped you out of your train of thought and Jaehyun flinched in his sleep next to you. You couldn’t help the smile that began to grow and you pressed a quick kiss to his head.

“It’s okay, baby. I’m here.” You whispered. Jaehyun let out a small grunt as he shifted in his sleep. Nuzzling his face deeper into your shoulder, you felt the warmth of his body radiate and spread through your body, chasing away any remnants of cold from the winter.

“Love you…” He mumbled. The words were barely coherent, just above a whisper uttered into the universe and into existence. A quiet confession equivalent to a gentle rustle of a singular blade in the neverending expanse of a meadow; hard to notice but once it catches your attention, you can’t look at anything else.

For a moment, time seemed to still and the warmth of his words sank in, melting any doubt you had left in you. A familiar feeling of warmth bloomed within you and you welcomed it with open arms. It traveled through your body, finally reaching your heart and giving it a tight, breathtaking squeeze.

You let the silence stretch, the loud beating of your heart filling in the gap like a drumroll in your chest. Not out of fear, but out of wonder. This moment felt so fragile, you were worried any sudden movement might break it.

You looked down at Jaehyun, still asleep and blissfully unaware of the chaos he had just evoked within you. Brushing away a strand of hair from his face, you felt the warmth in your chest swell until it spilled over into a soft, uncontainable smile. “I love you too.”

Although he’d always been skeptical about aliens and paranormal life or whatever, Dongmin was slowly beginning to believe you were living proof of an alien abduction. Like you were whisked away one night on an UFO and some poor, random soul was placed in your physical body. There was something seriously wrong with you.

Your friend watched you with an intense gaze, his sharp eyes scrutinizing and analyzing every move you made as you admired the bouquet of flowers gifted to you by your boyfriend before he left for work. You were humming, for God’s sake. Humming.

“What?” You asked mid-hum, dropping the smile within a millisecond when you noticed Dongmin staring at you like you had grown a carrot for a nose. There was a slight accusatory tone in your voice, one that could easily be mistaken as malice to anyone else, but Dongmin knew you better than that.

“You’re smiling,” He pointed out with a teasing smile and lilt in his voice. He picked at a stray petal that had fallen from the bouquet of flowers and you scoffed in disbelief.

“Well, pardon me for being in a good mood. I can’t always be the brooding one, can I? Even us grumpy people need a break sometimes too, you know.” You shot back, but your biting words failed to prove its bite with the wide grin that was currently growing on your face in record speed.

“I think we need to get you to a hospital. Something’s not right in your head.” Dongmin rested his hand on your forehead to take your temperature and you playfully swatted his hand away.

“I’m perfectly fine, thank you very much. You’re–” You jabbed your finger in your best friend’s face. “–just jealous you’re spending this holiday season with no roster. Again.”

Dongmin scoffed and pushed your hand away. “I’m just gonna pretend I didn’t hear the second half of that statement. Do you seriously need me to list off everything that you did today?”

The inquisitive quirk of your eyebrow was enough to answer his question.

“You've only been playing love songs since I got here, smiled at strangers all three hours we’ve been here, waved at the Santa from Salvation Army out on the sidewalk, and you literally pranced down the baby diaper aisle at the convenience store,” Dongmin rattled off, counting on his fingers as he did so and threw his hands down in exasperation at the end. “It’s like you’ve been possessed.”

You burst into laughter. “You make me sound like I’m some anti-social cynic, Dongmin. I’m just… in the holiday spirit, that’s all.”

Dongmin faltered, his retort to call you out on your bullshit dying on the tip of his tongue. As you admired the flower bouquet in front of you with a warm, loving glint in your eyes, he couldn’t help but quietly laugh to himself. He had his doubts but watching you running your fingertips gingerly along the rich, velvet-like texture of a pink tulip told him everything he needed to know.

You were in love. Hopelessly, utterly in love.

ᰋ liked this ? consider liking, reblogging, or providing feedback !

ᰋ want more ? send in an ask to be added to my taglist !

#mountaesan.works #boynextdoor #bnd #boynextdoor fluff #boynextdoor x reader #boynextdoor imagines #boynextdoor oneshot #boynextdoor fic #bnd fluff #bnd x reader #bnd imagines #bnd oneshots #bnd fic #boynextdoor jaehyun #myung jaehyun #myung jaehyun fluff #myung jaehyun x reader #myung jaehyun imagines #myung jaehyun oneshot

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r3starttt · 5 months ago

Text

KISS ME

PAIRING: Jackson! ellie x reader

CW: request. outbreak | tlou universe.

SUMMARY: Ellie takes care of you after patrol.

DON'T BUY TLOU | PALESTINE MP PALESTINE LINKS | DAILY CLICK

TAGLIST | - ellie taglist: @ilovetaylorrr @imdrowningindispair @rkivedpages

The night sky stretches above you, a deep canvas of blue-black, with only a few stubborn stars daring to puncture its vastness. The moon, however, shone with an almost ethereal glow, casting a silvery light that softened the edges of the night. It illuminated your path home. Yet, its light did little to ease the weariness clinging to your body. Every muscle ached, each movement sending a fresh wave of pain through your tired limbs.

The ground beneath your feet felt distant, as if you were walking on shattered glass, each step a jagged reminder of the day’s relentless toll. It felt as though the very bones in your feet might shatter with the weight of the exhaustion that clung to you, heavy and unyielding.

From the moment you left the safety of yours and Ellie's shared walls, it was a relentless march through the wilderness, every mile weighing down on you like a stone.

The hours went by in a haze of heat and sweat, the sun’s unforgiving rays beating down on you until you felt as though your very essence was melting away. The memory of that heat still lingered, a phantom pain that sapped what little strength you had left.

Your legs had carried you far beyond what should have been your limit. Every patrol was a test, pushing you to the edge, but it was always the final stretch—the steps that brought you back home—that hurt the most. The pain of a long day wasn’t truly felt until you stood on the threshold of safety, when the body, sensing the nearness of rest, began to unravel, finally allowed to release.

The night was quiet, the crickets were quieter tonight, their usual chorus subdued, as if they, too, were tired. Instead, the usual symphony had been replaced by the distant air, a murmur of voices- the sound of the town coming alive in the evening.

People greeted the returning patrols, their voices carrying a mix of relief and fatigue, like echoes of a world that still held onto some semblance of normalcy. Your own group had been particularly weary tonight, the day’s struggles etched into the lines of their faces as they shared tired smiles and half-hearted jokes. Last voices you heard were tinged with exhaustion, drifted to you, words that blended together in a chorus of shared fatigue.

But the sounds of the night could not drown out the ghosts that clung to your mind—the groans and cries of the infected, the hollow echoes of what once were human beings. Their twisted forms a grim reminder of what awaited those who let their guard down.

A smear of dried blood clung to your cheek, the crimson stark against your sweat-streaked skin. Every inch of you was covered in the grime of the day, the sun having left its mark in the form of a relentless burn that sapped your energy and left you feeling hollowed out.

The bruises and cuts scattered across your body throbbed with a dull ache, a heavy weight that seemed to settle in your stomach, twisting it into tight knots. It felt like you’d been running on empty, forcing yourself through sheer willpower, and now that you were so close to rest, the pain was finally catching up to you.

Your fingers brushed against the rough wood of Ellie’s porch door, the familiar texture grounding you for just a moment before it was pulled open. The door swung inward with surprising ease, and there she was—Ellie. The first thing you saw was her eyes, green orbs filled with worry as they drank in the sight of you. She had been waiting, her anxiety palpable in the way her fingers fidgeted nervously, tangling together as if she could knit away her fear.

Without a word, she reached for you, guiding you inside with a gentle hand on your arm. You stumbled through the doorway, the weight of your body dragging you down, but before you could even think to shrug it off, Ellie was there, the moth tattoo peeking out from beneath her sleeve as she motioned for you to turn around. Your body moved on autopilot, dragging itself to obay her command, sluggishly.

Ellie had barely waited for you to move before she was easing the heavy backpack from your shoulders, her fingers deftly undoing the straps as if they were second nature. Too enveloped in the warmth, in the soft glow of the Christmas lights adorning the room and adding to the feeling of safety that she always manages to create around you- barely registering the weight of your backpack being lifted from your shoulders.

“Hey, you okay?” Her voice was soft, a quiet melody tinged with concern, though you could only manage a nod, your throat too tight to form words. The day had stolen your voice, leaving you with nothing but the heaviness in your chest. But Ellie’s voice wrapped around you like a blanket, soothing in its familiarity.

The space enlightened in a gentle, golden hue. It felt like a safe haven, a sanctuary where the world outside could not reach you.

You stumbled toward the couch, your hands fumbling with the laces of your boots. On your ears echoed the faint rustle of fabric as Ellie hung up your—her—jacket on the hook by the door, the simple act somehow grounding you even further.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she murmured, her gaze lifting to meet yours, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. Despite the exhaustion pulling at your very soul, you found comfort in that smile, in the way she always knew how to take care of you when you couldn’t take care of yourself.

Yet the calm faded with a frustrated groan that escaped your lips as you encountered a stubborn knot, the simple task suddenly insurmountable in your current state. Ellie noticed immediately, her eyes softening with sympathy as she was already there, kneeling down in front of you, "Stop, you’re gonna make it worse,” she chided gently, her hands brushing yours aside with that lopsided smile you knew so well.

“Let me,” her whisper insisting once again, preventing you from even thinking on fighting her back. Ellie's tone low and husky, a sound that always sent a shiver down your spine. Her fingers worked deftly at the knot, untying it with ease, her touch careful and deliberate. As she did, she glanced up, her voice dropping to a softer, more husky tone, as if trying to coax a response out of you. “Did you hear what I said?”

You managed a half-hearted reply, more of a mumble than anything else. “Get me cleaned, yes.” her fingers finally loosening the stubborn knot, helping you out of your boots. It felt as if the weight of the day begin to lift, replaced by the comfort of knowing that you had her with you, in this very moment to finally provide you safeness.

She would never say it, but you could see the relief in her expression, the way her worry eased just a fraction realizing the same thing. After a long day, she had you there, safe.

"Come on," you groaned, tilting your head back as you sighed deeply. Inside your mind, you counted down from five before finally taking her hand and standing up.

The stiffness in your feet began to ease as you pressed your feet against the cold, hard concrete floor. Its coolness and firmness, in contrast to the warm flesh, added just enough pressure to make you feel better.

Ellie led you into the bathroom—it was only a few steps, really. Her hand was a steadying presence, her fingers resting gently on your opposite arm with each step you took. The small space was dimly lit, a single candle flickering and casting soft, dancing shadows on the walls. Ellie’s bathroom was simple but functional—a small tub, a sink, and a water system. A barrel of water sat near the ceiling, connected to a series of tubes that fed into the showerhead, sink, and toilet. It wasn’t much, but it worked, and in this world, that was everything.

The absence of her touch contrasted with the tender atmosphere. From your viewpoint, you could see her hair, messily tidied into a bun, with a few baby hairs and stray strands adorning her neck and the area behind her ears. You wanted to kiss them.

She knelt by the tub, her movements loud as she filled a bucket with water. The sound of the water splashing into the bucket was soothing, a gentle reminder that you were finally safe—finally home.

Ellie set the bucket down next to the tub and looked up at you, only then realizing you were already looking back. It was quiet, aside from the sound of the water, but everything felt blurry in her presence.

You shifted slightly, resting the back of your arms and elbows against the sink to keep your composure, making enough space for both of you and allowing her to stand up.

She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against your cheek, wiping away the dried blood that clung stubbornly to your skin. "Arms up," she said with quiet determination, an unspoken promise that she wouldn’t let anything else be a struggle tonight.

You nodded, too tired to do much else, and let her help you out of your clothes. Each piece of fabric that left your body and fell to the floor felt like another layer of the day’s grime and exhaustion being peeled away. By the time you stood there, bare and vulnerable, you felt lighter—still weary, but no longer weighed down.

The tub was cold and stiff, making your bones ache. But it was all easily forgotten. Ellie dipped a sponge into the bucket and began to gently cleanse your skin. She worked in silence, her touch tender and methodical as she wiped away the dirt, blood, and sweat that clung to you. The water was cool against your overheated skin, soothing the burns left by the sun and the aches buried deep in your muscles. The sponge moved across your body with a kind of reverence, as if she were handling something precious. In that moment, you were—precious to her, and safe in her care.

When the sponge had done its work, Ellie carefully poured the dirty water over you, rinsing away the last remnants of the day and ensuring your hair was thoroughly wet. The water cascaded down your body, carrying away the grime and blood, leaving you feeling half-clean—both physically and emotionally.

You let out a soft sigh, feeling as though the water was rinsing away more than just dirt. It was washing away the tension, the fear, and the exhaustion, leaving you with nothing but the comfort of being home, of being with her.

Ellie reached for the soap, lathering it between her hands before gently running them over your skin. The smell of it—something mild and earthy, a scent she had traded for a few weeks back—filled the small bathroom. The soap felt comforting against your battered skin, and Ellie’s hands moved with the kind of care that came from knowing just how fragile you felt in that moment.

She repeated those same motions later, with the soap on your body, her fingers careful not to apply too much pressure whenever there was a cut, bruise, or anything that could cause pain.

“Let me know if it hurts,” Ellie murmured, her voice a low, comforting hum that resonated in your chest. You managed a weak nod, closing your eyes as you surrendered fully to her care. The world outside ceased to exist, reduced to the sound of water splashing against porcelain and the feeling of Ellie’s hands moving over your body in a slow, rhythmic dance.

Finally, she reached up and pulled the chain that controlled the flow of water from the barrel, letting a gentle stream of water fall over you from the showerhead. It wasn’t much—she had to be careful with how much water was used—but it was enough.

"Here," she whispered, planting a kiss on your forehead as she handed you a small towel. It was barely enough to properly dry your hair, but you always managed to make it work.

Too focused on the wet sounds in your ears coming from your hair being dried, you barely noticed the commotion Ellie made while searching for a proper towel for you. She swore she had a clean one left—or maybe she had just convinced herself earlier to avoid doing laundry today. But you didn't know that, so she had to hurry.

When she finally appeared in the doorway, you tilted your chin up, meeting her hands first and then the towel she held. "Come here," she murmured. In a matter of seconds, she had the towel wrapped around your shoulders and was guiding you out of the bathroom and, much to your relief, into the very desirable bed.

She knelt in front of you again, her hands busy with the towel, drying you off with the same care she’d shown throughout. As she worked, her eyes kept flicking up to meet yours, as if she needed to reassure herself that you were really safe, here.

"Can I?" she asked, her fingers lightly grazing the skin of your thighs. Her hazel eyes, dilated pupils, focused on all the bruises, all the wounds. And again, you didn't reply verbally but simply moved the towel aside, exposing yourself before her and allowing her to reach every inch of skin that needed the tenderness of her touch.

It took some pain, hisses, and a kiss here and there. The needle was probably something no human could ever get used to, nor the sensation of the thread between your skin. But you made it work; you had to.

Ellie was gentle, helping you into a clean set of clothes—something soft and warm that smelled faintly of her. You could barely keep your eyes open by this point, the weight of the day catching up with you now that you were finally clean and comfortable.

"Hey," Ellie called softly, taking your hand and gripping it just enough to reassure you. You turned your chin up, meeting her pretty eyes and that sheepish smile. "Let's go eat, come on."

As you did every morning, you forced yourself out of bed. Just as you had done with the couch when you first came in, you took a deep breath, counted to three, and stood up.

Dinner most nights was something she threw together while you were out on patrol. Today, the aroma of a hearty stew filled the room, mingling with the faint scent of herbs.

Usually you’d joke about her cooking, mocking her “chef talents”—she wasn't the best. But tonight, the words stuck in your throat, weighed down by exhaustion and the thought of simply touching the bed again, it looked so inviting.

You slid into your seat at the table, the day's exhaustion making your limbs heavy. Ellie chuckled, her usual dorky grin present but softened by concern. "It's not fancy, but—" she said, sliding a plate in front of you. "It's edible."

She watched as you took tentative bites, her hand resting on your back, offering silent encouragement. As usual, she didn’t touch her own food until she saw you eat.

The silence between you was comfortable, the warmth of the stew seeping into your bones, grounding you after the chaos of the day. Yet, as the meal progressed, your appetite remained low. You gave small glances at Ellie, considering your usual reluctance to eat her cooking.

"I know you’re tired, but you haven't had proper food since breakfast."

You knew that if you refused again, she’d let it slide, waiting until you were sound asleep before eating anything herself just to avoid an argument.

But after all she’d done to take care of you tonight, you couldn’t bring yourself to fight her on this. "I’ll wait with you. We can eat together.” With a quiet nod, you picked up your spoon again and took another bite.

Relief. Ellie could only stare at you with relief. The adrenaline of every time you went out on patrol never really fading until next day- for her, it wasn't only the thoughts of you getting hurt, but killed, taken by anyone and being hurt. She feared humans mostly.

And then, seeing you in front of her- yes, hurt, but nothing else- it was like all the anxiety finally made any sense. What would it be if any day you didn't come back, how could she ever manage to eat dinner herself, alone.

Having you in front of her, so close. Feeling the warmth of your skin under her hoodie- the fact that you're the one on her clothes, right next to her. The fact that she's having to force you to eat. It's always a relief, to know you're here, with her, that she has you.

It wasn't until her brain finally realized it was all good that she started to eat.

You always finished first. Only waiting for your stomach to feel full enough, with a gentle move, you pushed the plate away slightly to let her know you were done. Ellie always replied with a nod and a quick glance. Her hand on your thigh as she finished the last few bites of her meal.

The usual banter and teasing were absent, replaced by a quiet understanding—a silent agreement that tonight was about more than just food or sleep. It was about taking care of each other, about finding comfort in the little things. Like—no dishes to be washed tonight. That's future you both's problem.

“Let’s get you to bed,” she whispered, her voice a soothing balm to your tired mind.

You didn’t argue, letting her lead you to the small bed you shared. The sheets cool against your skin as you slipped under them, Ellie sliding in beside you. She pulled you close, her arms wrapping around you in a comfortable and tight enough embrace that felt like the safest place in the world. The steady rhythm of her heartbeat against your back lulled you.

You could feel the rhythm of her breathing against your neck. It all creating the most desirable sanctuary. And after hours that felt endless, you could close your eyes, focusing on the feeling of normalcy—the simple, precious moment of being held by someone who cares deeply, knowing that no matter what tomorrow brings, you'd wake up next to her, ready to face it together.

#( 𓍼𓈀A𝕽𝐂𝐇𝖎V𝕰 ⨟ 𓍯 ellie )#( 𝕽EQ'S﹕⠀ ❪ Ellie ❫#ellie x reader fluff #ellie x fem reader #ellie x y/n #ellie x you #ellie x reader #ellie fluff #ellie williams fluff #ellie williams x fem!reader #ellie williams x female reader #ellie williams x you #ellie williams x y/n #ellie williams x reader #jackson ellie #A𝕽𝐂𝐇𝖎V𝕰 ( ellie )

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revelboo · 1 month ago

Note

[/slams a request form on your desk like an over zealous court room anime dude]

Mx.Revel, consider this a request of the utmost importance! This request is for none other than your personal favorite cybertronian, whom ever they may be.

Thank you for your time, your honor, I concede.

That’s Wheeljack, buuuut how about an angst ficlet? Was thinking about how utterly ill equipped Shockwave is to deal with emotions other than anger and a scenario where Soundwave is grieving a cassette. Shock wanting to do something for his friend, basically the only Cybertronian that doesn’t find him deeply unsettling, and he doesn’t understand he can’t just replace the cassette with something near the same size. Honestly, I just wanted to do an alternate take with these two. Title is ‘Clumsy Heart’ by The Matches

Clumsy Heart

IDW Shockwave x Reader, Soundwave x Reader

• Servos of his one hand flexing as the uncomfortable noise in his processor grows, those invasive thoughts and shadows of memory that aren’t his floating to the surface, half seen and hazy. Watching Soundwave cradle the still form of a cassette to himself, the way his servos ghost over that small shape making the chaos worse. Becoming uncomfortable, unable to really understand this grief, but realizing that he should know this. That he hates this. He can repair the frame, but the spark is gone. Senses his friend won’t appreciate it if he resurrects a pale shadow, even if he’s not sure why he knows that.

• Spark aching at the loss, Soundwave is aware of his other cassettes echoing his pain. Of Shockwave lingering nearby, head tipped to study him like his grief is something foreign and fascinating. “Leave me,” he says, servos gently touching that little face. Had they looked for him at the end? Knowing he’d be there in time to save them like he always is. All of them trusting without question that he’ll protect them. And he’d failed. Feels like coming apart, losing something so dear to him, a part of him. Finally, Shockwave drifts away, leaving him to grieve with his surviving cassettes.

• Leaving the base, trying to get rid of that tangling, unpleasant feeling of dissonance, Shockwave tips his head up to the night sky. Trying to understand. Wanting to. Can’t bring back the cassette, but he can find a replacement. Something similar. If it’s the loss of a small symbiote he cares for that is paining Soundwave, maybe another small thing he can care for will ease that grief? Doesn��t know, can’t really understand why he grieves at the loss. Everything dies. It’s inevitable. And it’s illogical to mourn the inevitable. Striding into the night, he ponders replacements. Something that can speak with him like a cassette. Something small and alive. One of the little, organic natives would do.

• Breath fogging in the morning air, you check the rifle. Exhausted after being up all night finding every single photo he’s in and cutting out his face. Taping those hateful little visages all over his Xbox, all his games, those stupid baseball cards and then lining them up for execution on the lawn. A petty bit of satisfaction as you line up the first shot and fire. For the bra hanging on the back of a kitchen chair. A game disc explodes in jagged shards. For those slutty lace panties on your kitchen counter. The cards aren’t as satisfying, just scattering. For that bitch in your bed and the look on his face when you’d come home early because work was slow. Slowly, picking targets and destroying them since you can’t go after him, he’s not worth it. The crap he’d left when you’d grabbed the rifle and chased him and her naked out of your house last night? Fair game.

• Is this a valid course of action? It seems logical. If something has been lost and is causing a problem, replacing it should resolve the issue. Aware that it might be a bit more nuanced than that, because of emotions he can’t grasp, he moves through the woods outside the base. It’s a sound theory and it can’t make things worse to try. Probably. That, too, eludes him. An answer that relies on emotion.

• Reloading the rifle, you hear a branch crack and come crashing down in the woods behind you. Making you flinch and nearly drop the gun. It’d been windy the day before, a branch must have broken. Turning toward the sound, your mouth falls open as a giant steps out of the woods, a single red optic finding you, antenna flicking up. “Acceptable,” it growls as the fine hair at your nape prickles. Opening fire on it as it strides your way, completely unfazed. Dropping the rifle to run, you scream as it bends and snags you in a giant hand.

• Still weighed down by grief even after laying the cassette to rest, Soundwave’s head lifts at the sound of screaming. Of terror and pain that goes right through so soon after his own loss. Freezing as he spots Shockwave entering his quarters and his attention drops to the small form wriggling like mad in his grip. Speechless as the scientist drops the human on the desk and the tiny creature lunges to their feet and runs, only to stop short as they hit the edge and realize how high up it is. Can feel the chaos and fear in their mind, that panic so bright and hurtful. “A replacement,” Shockwave says, gesturing at the terrified thing with his cannon. Like it’s as simple as that. Like a human can replace his cassette. That people are interchangeable. Turning away from the edge, terrified eyes look up at him and that fear nearly cripples him. You can’t replace what he’s lost, but you do need him. Hates Shockwave right then and those frightened eyes.

#transformers x reader #shockwave x reader #idw soundwave #soundwave x reader #idw shockwave

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sansaorgana · 6 months ago

Text

— FARE THEE WELL

PAIRING — Ser Gwayne Hightower x fem!Reader

SUMMARY — You're a barmaid who had a fling with a noble knight a few moons ago. Now he comes back for one more night to spend with you before he leaves to join the war.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — It’s based on the idea for a fic by @peachysunrize that I really liked and since I usually write wife!Readers and noble born Readers in this Universe, it felt nice to explore a new trope. I couldn't help myself to make it a bit angsty as well, for which I am sorry... 🙈

WARNINGS — angsty ending, SMUT, bath sex, slight choking

WORD COUNT — 5,420

🔞 THIS FIC IS 18+ 🔞

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

FARE THEE WELL

It was a nice and peaceful afternoon at the Tavern where you worked. The sky was blue and clear with only a few clouds and a slight wind was messing with the reckless strands of your braided hair whenever you went outside with the mugs full of beer and bowls full of food for your customers.

“There are men coming,” your boss told you after walking downstairs. “I saw ‘em from the window. A few knights on the horses that will need water and hay. They have King Aegon’s banners,” he rubbed his hands together. “This war’s good for business,” he hummed to himself.

You only nodded at that and wiped your hands in your dirty apron. The war could be good for business indeed but it also meant lots of work with demanding knights and noblemen although you hoped for some generous tips if only you acted nice enough.

“Make it look presentable, will ya?” Your boss barked at you at the sight of the counter. The crumbs were scattered all over the surface and it was sticky from the beer.

You nodded obediently and cursed under your breath when he turned around. You collected all the crumbs with the side of your hand and threw them away into the bin nearby where you kept your waste before taking it out. Then, you began to clean the counter with the damp cloth.

Busy on taking care of every little sticky spot because your boss tended to be a perfectionist, you forgot about the men coming to the Tavern already. Therefore, when the doors opened loudly, you got startled and jumped in your spot before looking up.

Your eyes widened at the sight of the familiar looking armours. You had known once a man who was wearing armour like that – green and silver with golden ornaments and a symbol of the lighthouse on his chest. You had to blink a few times to snap back to reality.

“It is my favourite Tavern in these parts,” one of the men announced and your heart skipped a beat. Oh, you knew that voice but… Was it possible that it was your mind playing tricks on you?

He took his helmet off and rested it on his hip, holding it with his left hand as he ran his right hand through his auburn hair and you gasped.

Ser Gwayne Hightower. Oh, you knew that man.

It had been a few moons ago when you had met him. He had been staying with a Lord living nearby, discussing the matters such noble men usually discussed. He had been trying to explain it to you on those nights spent together in one of the rooms upstairs but you had never fully grasped it.

What you had understood from his story was that he was the eldest son of Otto Hightower who had been King Viserys’ Lord Hand at that time. He was running Oldtown in his father’s name and sometimes he travelled to different parts of Westeros to meet with the vassals and to make the new ones. You remembered that you had asked him about his wife but he had assured you of having none.

You could feel your cheeks heating up at all the shared memories from all those moons ago. You hadn’t expected to see him again ever in your life.

It was not like you were sharing bed with every man visiting your workplace. It was a Tavern, not a brothel and you were only a barmaid, not a whore. But Ser Gwayne was different. From the moment you had seen him, you had known he was special. Something about him was making you feel the way no other man had ever been able to make you feel. He was worth risking everything.

And to him you had been only another adventure, a girl to warm his bed while he was away from home. At least in the beginning. With time, after many nights spent together on talking and fucking, he had started to grow fond of you. He had admitted that himself. He had been confused by what he was capable of feeling towards a common barmaid. And you had been surprised by that as well.

His blue eyes searched the room and then he spotted you, right behind the counter. He smiled at you and walked up as you straightened your back, with the damp cloth still in your hand.

“Well, well, well, and look who’s here,” he looked you up and down with a smug smile. You furrowed your brow, a little confused by his approach. Not that you expected him to pick you up and spin you round. After all, you were no Lady, you were no Princess. “Cole?” He beckoned over another knight.

His armour was not a Hightower one but it was also grand. He had short black hair and big, brown eyes.

“That’s our new Hand of The King, Ser Criston Cole,” Ser Gwayne introduced you and you panicked at first. You had no idea if it was some jestering or was he serious, so you decided to bow down slightly and Ser Gwayne chuckled at you. “And that is my favourite… barmaid,” he introduced you and you swallowed a lump in your throat.

His arrival was not as sweet as his departure all those moons ago when he had nearly had tears in his eyes while kissing your hand goodbye. He had made you feel like a Lady then.

Now, he made you feel like a common whore. And that had to be what The Hand thought as well when he was nodding his head at you. Ser Cole didn’t spare you any more glance and he walked away to sit by one of the tables with other men.

“We shall stay here for the night,” Ser Gwayne informed you and your boss standing behind you.

“That is an honour, Ser,” your boss nodded. “What are you in need of?”

“We want food, beer, baths and rooms to sleep in,” Ser Gwayne threw a few coins on the counter carelessly. “Our horses require tending as well.”

“I’ll fetch them some water and hay,” you cleared your throat and put the cloth down before fixing the reckless hair strands on your hair and walking out as quickly as possible.

Ser Gwayne’s confused eyes followed you but you didn’t look back since you already had tears in your own. All those moons of remembering a sweet, chivalrous knight who had stolen your heart… All those moons of dreaming about him and missing him… The fantasies and memories had all been based on an illusion. It did not feel nice to realise that.

You entered the stables and saw beautiful, armoured horses. They looked very elegant and you were taking your time with petting and feeding them. You wanted to spend as much time in the stables as possible. It was quiet there and the horses would never hurt you the way certain humans would.

As you were caressing one of the horses gently with your hand and watching him eat with a soft smile upon your face, you heard footsteps behind you. You sighed, assuming it would be your boss or another barmaid he had sent after you. But no, when you turned around, you saw Ser Gwayne himself; his face lit up just slightly from all the candles inside the Tavern next to the stables. The sun had set already while you were with the horses.

“Do forgive my tardiness, good Ser,” you cracked a smile at him.

“Sweet darling, why are you addressing me like that?” He approached you and stood right behind you. His hands touched your arms as he breathed in your scent. You were confused.

“Me, Ser Gwayne? Hasn’t it been you treating me like a common whore? Why are you back here, Ser, by the way? Were the brothels all busy or perhaps is our King Aegon running out of coins in his treasure, so you wanted to go back to a silly barmaid who is giving herself to you willingly, free of charge?” You asked but it was not asked with anger – your voice was filled with hurt as you looked down.

“Aren’t you adorable,”Ser Gwayne only chuckled before leaning in to cup your chin and force your head to turn around, gently. You looked up at him and he joined your lips together in a sweet kiss.

You gave in immediately and you hated yourself for it but there was something so charming and alluring about that man… You couldn’t deny yourself a gentle kiss from his lips.

“My sweet,” he cooed to you, looking intensely at your face with so much adoration that you couldn’t believe that a man as noble as him was capable of it. Such a look on his face should be reserved for the Princesses or pretty Ladies he would win tournaments for. Certainly not for you. “I couldn’t possibly reveal how much you mean to me in front of everybody, could I?” He explained to you. “There has been no day for me without remembering you, sweet (Y/N),” he whispered and your name had never sounded so pretty in anyone’s lips.

Your name was usually shouted by men rushing you to bring them their orders faster or by your angry boss. You had never expected to actually get a taste of what it would be like to be a real Lady. But when Ser Gwayne was whispering your name in such a delicate manner, you suddenly were a noble woman and your heart was at peace.

It brought heat to your cheeks immediately and you looked away since his gaze was getting too intense.

“I have been thinking of you, too, Ser Gwayne,” you confessed. “I have been praying to the Warrior for you and… to the Maiden… for myself.”

“Oh, have you?” Ser Gwayne chuckled and bit on his lower lip. “If I removed your skirts, I would find your knees scratched then?” He teased you.

You were taken away by his straightforward words and you walked away from him to finish your work with the horses but he kept standing there and observing you.

“I am on my way to war. A real one like I have never experienced before,” he confessed. “A real one like I have been trained to take my part in ever since I was a child, wielding a wooden practice sword.”

“It is a dangerous war coming, Ser,” you nodded, focusing on pouring the water for the horses. You didn’t want to look up and meet his gaze because you would burst out in tears if you saw his face now. “People talk that the dragons shall dance in the sky and it will be nothing but blood and fire,” you mumbled out. You didn’t want Ser Gwayne to leave for such an awful, horrible war.

“You do realise then that simple men like me do not stand a chance,” he tried to be playful about it.

“I do not wish to speak of it, Ser,” you interrupted him and shook your head, sniffling your tears back.

“Me neither, sweet (Y/N). I want my one last night of peace… Or at least an illusion of it. And I couldn’t imagine it anywhere else other than here. With you,” he informed you and nodded his head before walking out of the stables.

This time you hurried with the horses and you came back inside the Tavern as fast as possible. Your boss gave you an unpleasant look.

“What has taken you so long?”

“They’re no common horses. They’re fancy,” you rolled your eyes at him, coming up with excuses. “They demand special treatment,” you chuckled.

Your eyes sparkled while letting out that laughter and you spotted Ser Gwayne by one of the tables. Your gaze met with his for a brief moment and your whole body filled with so much warmth and nostalgia that you nearly exploded right there, in the middle of that awful Tavern.

Ser Gwayne would forever remain your what if. What if you had been born a Lady. What if he had been born a peasant. You would still love him, of that you were sure. If he was a miller, a smith or a carpenter, you would marry him in a heartbeat and perhaps your lives would be much simpler than as a Lord and a Lady.

Ser Gwayne beckoned you over with a wave of his hand and you fixed your skirts before approaching him. Some of his men were staring at you as well but you only cared for his blue eyes. Here, in the light of the Tavern, he looked even better than in the stables.

“Are you busy mayhaps, fair maiden?” He winked at you and you were trying very hard not to roll your eyes at the question.

“Depends on what you’re asking of me, kind Ser,” you bowed your head slightly.

“We have a long road ahead of us,” he answered. “I would love a long and relaxing bath.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw some of his men smirking. You just nodded your head at his words.

“I shall ask one of the girls to prepare it for you, Ser,” you teased him, pretending to sound as serious and professional as possible.

“Oh, no, no, my sweetling,” Ser Gwayne reached his hand out to squeeze yours. “You shall go upstairs now and prepare me one,” he told you.

“If you insist, Ser,” you bowed your head and turned around with a soft smile to approach your boss who was busy counting money at the moment.

“Ser Gwayne asked me for a bath,” you informed him and he only nodded without even looking up at you as he dismissed you with a wave of his hand.

You grabbed your skirts in your hands and rushed upstairs where some other girls working at the Tavern were busy with preparing the rooms for the knights.

“Which chambers are Ser Gwayne’s?” You asked and one of them pointed at the ajar door at the other side of the corridor.

“I’ve just finished preparin’ it,” she informed you and you smiled at her.

“Ser Gwayne wants a bath,” you told her. “Go to the kitchen and bring me buckets with warm water.”

She nodded and hurried downstairs as you entered the chambers that were prepared for Ser Gwayne. They were one of the nicest ones that the Tavern had for the guests but you knew it had to be nothing compared to his chambers in Oldtown.

However, walking around those chambers was bringing memories to you as you smiled to yourself. All those moons ago he had been staying in these chambers as well for some nights. And perhaps for him those were just dirty rooms at some common Tavern but to you those were the fanciest chambers you had ever slept in.

Your dreamy pacing around was interrupted by the arrival of a few girls carrying buckets with warm water. They placed it on the floor and went back to their other duties as you approached the bathtub and began filling it. You sat on the edge and took your time with it like you had before with the horses. You wanted to cherish every moment of that sweet gesture you were doing – taking care of Ser Gwayne. Like a wife would.

Well, perhaps noble wives were not known for such activities. But if you were peasants like you had imagined before, you would be the one responsible for preparing his baths every other day. And you would do it gladly, without complaints. You would love to take care of him when he’d be back from work, dirty and tired. But none of that would matter since you would have him for yourself and you would have him every day, falling asleep in his arms and waking up in them.

The door opened slightly with a squeak and you looked up to see Ser Gwayne himself walking inside with a loving smile.

“You look really domestic like that,” he told you before closing the door behind him.

“Do I, good Ser?” You asked with a sad smile as you dipped your fingers in the water to check its temperature.

“Will you help me to undress?” He asked of you and you nodded, although awkwardly.

You were not familiar with all those armour pieces, however you had a small experience in taking them off of him already. You approached him and started to work on his armour piece by piece, painfully slowly. You were glad the water your friends had brought was boiling hot because you didn’t want him to whine about it being too cold later but you also didn’t want to rush this moment.

“Your fingers are so soft,” Ser Gwayne pointed out when you were working on a chest piece. “Softer than my squire’s for sure,” he chuckled.

“I know it is surprising for a commoner to have soft hands, Ser, but I work a lot in the kitchen and the butter tends to soften the skin,” you explained.

“You must look pretty in the kitchen,” Ser Gwayne pointed out and you looked up at him, questioningly. “With flour on your cheeks and nose, busy little bee,” he explained.

“Who would have thought that a noble knight would be into that,” you commented with a smirk.

“There is still a lot you ought to learn about me, (Y/N),” he whispered. “Would you cook or bake something for me if I asked you to?”

“I would bake you bread and those cakes you liked so much the last time you were here,” you looked up to meet his gaze. He blushed a little at the remark about cakes. “What? You are spoiled, kind Ser, that is not a secret. But I would happily spoil you myself, too.”

“Perhaps I should take you with me to Oldtown and hire you in The Hightower. I think you would like it there, my sweet,” he teased but his voice was more serious than you expected. “Perhaps I shall fetch you on my way back home after the war is won.”

“Perhaps,” you shrugged your arms. “My whole family lives here, however, and Oldtown is far away.”

In fact, Oldtown was like a place from the fairytales to you. It was far, far away and you would never really go there, realistically speaking. And it was a place where your Ser lived and in your imagination it had to be a beautiful and lively place… It was out of your reach in many ways.

A short, awkward silence occurred after that as you worked on the last pieces of his armour and there he stood, only in his underwear. You bowed your head at him.

“I believe my work here is done, Ser. I would recommend getting into that bathtub before the water gets cold,” you advised him.

“Oh, my sweet, won’t you stay to help me wash my back?” He grinned at you and you cracked a smile.

You were hoping for such words. So, you did not leave but stayed, with your hands clasped in front of you as you watched him get undressed completely. You tried not to give any reaction to his naked body while you watched him get inside the bathtub and let out a groan of pleasure at the feeling.

“Come here, sweet little thing,” he beckoned you over and you approached the bathtub slowly. “Join me,” he encouraged.

You hesitated but only for a second and you began to undress as he watched. His eyes were looking you up and down and you started with the apron. You wanted to get rid of it as soon as possible because it was the worst piece of your clothing, an awful reminder of your low status.

The blouse was next and then your skirts. Your corset was loosened from the whole day at work so it slipped off very easily. You were left in your underdress only but you untied your braid before taking it off as well and there you stood, naked and with your hair down as your eyes boldly met his. He had a smug smile on his face.

“You’re still as beautiful as I remembered,” Ser Gwayne remarked and reached his hand out to brush your knee with his fingers. “Come to me,” he invited you.

You joined him in the bathtub very slowly, starting with your right foot and then the left one before lowering yourself and sitting on the opposite side of Ser Gwayne.

“Your knees are scratched indeed,” he pointed out and you chuckled.

“They always are, Ser, for I am a barmaid. I spend half of my days on my knees, washing the floors,” you explained.

“Those pretty knees were made for different things, my sweet,” he assured you with a smirk as he moved a little closer to you.

He grabbed your knees softly and then he pulled you closer to him as you yelped and some of the water splashed out on the floor. You giggled and threw your hands around him to clasp them behind his neck as your faces were so close now that your noses brushed.

“And what have you been up to, kind Ser? Have you gotten married? Fathered a son?” You teased and he rolled his eyes.

“All my thoughts have been occupied by a pretty barmaid,” he confessed and caressed your thighs while you hummed to yourself.

“Oh, have they? And who is she? Is she prettier than me? Is she lovelier than me?” You rubbed your nose with his as you asked, playfully.

“She is exactly as pretty as you. Exactly as lovely as you and she even has your name,” Ser Gwayne answered before stealing a kiss from your lips.

The kiss started nearly innocently but it quickly turned into a more passionate one. It didn’t want to end and you turned out to be gasping into each other’s mouths as your hands tugged onto his hair and his fingers squeezed the soft flesh of your hips, pulling them as close to his body as possible.

“I’ve missed you,” he breathed out and moved his hands up to cup your breasts. “I’ve missed all of you. Your body, your voice, your smile, your cunt,” he confessed and his obscene words made your cheeks heat up.

And not only your cheeks. Your whole body was on fire now. To have him so close and to feel his hands on your skin was enough to make you feel dizzy. You let go of his hair and you placed your hands on his chest to push him gently. Ser Gwayne leaned back and you sat astride him, making sure that his hardening cock was brushing your soft thighs.

“My cunt’s been missing you, too,” you whispered before joining your lips together once more.

You kissed him sloppily, with your tongue and teeth clashing. One of your hands was placed upon his chest for balance and the other you moved down to grab his cock. He let out a moan into your mouth when you started to pump his length. You could feel it growing harder and harder.

Ser Gwayne kept his hands on your back but now he let them run freely all the way down as he cupped your ass and squeezed the soft flesh. His fingers wandered all the way down and brushed your folds, teasing your entrance in a way that was making your pussy throb in anticipation already.

“Have you taken another cock since our last time?” Ser Gwayne asked you and you sincerely shook your head. “Aw, my sweetling, you must be so eager,” he teased.

“And what about you, Ser? Have you been good?” You smirked at him.

You knew already that in the intimate moments the power difference between you two due to your birth status did not matter anymore. In fact, Ser Gwayne liked it when you challenged him.

“There is a brothel in Oldtown I find very enjoyable,” he confessed and bucked his hips slightly when you picked up the pace of your hand wrapped around his cock. “But none of these women could give me what my sweet little barmaid had given to me,” he added.

“Your sweet little barmaid would not be as special as you claim her to be if any common whore would give you what only she can give you, Ser,” you raised an eyebrow at him.

“I even chose the ones who looked like you – who reminded me of you – but they were doing nothing to me,” he breathed out and you leaned in, pressing your forehead to his.

“Aw, you must be so eager,” you teased him with his own words and a smirk as you guided his cock to your cunt.

You both gasped in unison at the feeling you had been missing for so long. His cock twitched inside of your wet, warm pussy that welcomed him with spazmatic throbs. You threw your head back and dug your fingernails into his shoulders, savouring the feeling of fullness.

“Fuck, my sweetling, aren’t you perfect,” Ser Gwayne mumbled out and you looked down at his face through your lashes. Your eyes were hazy from lust and the look you gave him had to be as sultry as if you were one of the whores who had only been pretending to be you in those past few moons.

Keeping your intense gaze on him, you began to move your hips up and down until you found your steady pace and continued to bounce on his cock as the water splashed. Ser Gwayne helped you to ride him with his hands on your hips but he quickly got distracted with your breasts that were right in front of his face. He moved his hands up to cup and squeeze them while you hissed at the feeling.

Feeling confident in your pace and rhythm, you let go of his shoulders and moved your hands to his neck. You looked into his eyes, searching for the confirmation and he nodded at you slightly, so you squeezed your hands a bit. He had taught you all those moons ago how such a simple action would increase the pleasure. You watched with satisfaction as his eyelids fluttered before his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he let out a deep groan.

Your back arched as if you were a cat when you lowered yourself onto his body to feel more of him and to allow his cock reach deeper inside of you, brushing your sweet spot with each thrust. Your breaths were nothing but gasps now, accompanied with soft moans coming out of your parted lips. Riding him in that bathtub, with your hands around his throat and his pretty, flushed face right in front of yours, suddenly nothing else mattered – this Tavern did not, these chambers did not either and certainly all his titles mattered the least. This life and the world were so complicated sometimes but at the end of the day all that mattered was this – two people being close with each other, intimate, sharing pleasure.

“Gods,” you let out a shaky whisper when you felt a knot forming in your abdomen. Your sweet release was close after all those moons of missing him with every fibre of your being.

“Let go for me, my sweetling,” Ser Gwayne encouraged you, his voice was raspy from your choking as he forced his hazy eyes to open and watch you coming undone for him with a loud moan.

You threw your head back and kept riding him while your cunt clenched around his cock and your hands squeezed his throat even tighter. That sensation and the sight of your face was enough to make him reach his high, too. He spilled himself inside of you and your cunt milked him eagerly, taking in every single drop.

The movements of your hips slowed down gradually and Ser Gwayne’s cock softened inside of you but you had no strength to move. You laid down on his chest and tried to catch your breath, still shaking slightly. He wrapped his strong arms around you and caressed your back, letting his rough fingertips wander up and down your spine.

“The water’s getting cold, my sweet,” he pointed out after a while.

You raised your chin up to meet his gaze with a delicate smile.

“You are so spoiled, Ser,” you remarked. “I believe you have never taken a cold bath.”

He winced at that and you chuckled before placing a kiss on his throat, where your fingers had been pressing not so long ago. After that, you moved up and left the bathtub although your legs remained pretty shaky.

You leaned down to pick up your underdress but Ser Gwayne stopped you.

“Don’t,” he said, getting out of the bathtub himself. “You shall stay here for the night. I am not yet done with you.”

It was early morning and you were feeding the horses in the stables. The sun was barely up but the knights had to come back to their camp before leaving with the rest of the men and continuing their march. You had barely had any sleep on the previous night but you did not complain about it.

“I knew I would find you here,” Ser Gwayne walked inside when you were caressing one of the stallions. “I wanted to give you a proper goodbye,” he walked up to you.

You looked up at his face and you smiled to yourself. He looked pretty tired himself and you knew the reason behind that. But the exhaustion was not making him any less handsome.

“Fare thee well, my kind Ser,” you turned around to squeeze his hands that he had reached out for you.

“Can you give me your blessing before I leave?” He asked and there was surprisingly no teasing in his voice.

“I’m no Princess nor a Lady,” you looked down slightly as your cheeks heated up.

“I do not care. I will not be at peace without your blessing, my sweet,” he insisted.

“I do not have a handkerchief to give you, Ser,” you looked up again as you confessed and stood on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his forehead. “That is all I can offer.”

“That is more than enough,” Ser Gwayne smiled sadly at you. He let go of your hands and reached to his chest. He took off a necklace that he was wearing – a small ring on a chain. You had asked about it all those moons ago and he had confessed then that it had belonged to his Lady Mother once. “I want you to have it,” he gave it to you and you froze.

“I… I cannot accept it, Ser,” your eyes widened.

“You must for I insist,” he closed your hands around it and squeezed them. “You shall give it back to me when I visit you after the war,” he bit on his lower lip as he looked at your face in anticipation, curious of your reaction.

“That is… The most generous,” your eyes filled with tears. “I shall keep it safe for you, Ser,” you promised.

He nodded at that and watched you put the necklace around your neck before he took your hand and placed a soft kiss upon it as if it was a hand of a Princess or a Lady and not a common barmaid.

“Farewell, my sweetling,” he whispered.

“Farewell, Ser Gwayne,” you whispered back.

You stared into each other’s eyes for a while and then he nodded at you again and moved away at the sound of other men walking inside the stables.

You watched them mount their horses but your eyes were truly only on him and he kept watching you from the corner of his eye, too. You walked outside to observe them as they rode away and Ser Gwayne turned around one last time before disappearing down the road. You squeezed the ring on the necklace in your hand and your heart moved all the way up to your throat, forming a lump that was hard to swallow.

A few years later you would give the necklace to your son – alongside with the tale of his brave and noble father from Oldtown.

MASTERLIST

#gwayne hightower x reader #lilysfiction

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4vanaa · 1 month ago

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WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING, rafe cameron, 06

summary: y/n left the outer banks years ago, determined to build a life far from the memories of her childhood love, rafe cameron. now a botanist, she's moved on-though a quiet part of her still clings to the past. when an event brings her back to OBX, she's forced to confront the one person she never truly forgot.

cw: mature language, slight angst | masterlist | 05 | 07 |

❀ ❀ ❀ - indication that the chapter takes place in the past!!

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The bonfire crackles under a star-scattered sky, casting a warm glow over the crowd. Laughter mingles with the sound of waves crashing against the shore. The Outer Banks feels alive tonight, a place where memories are made and shattered in equal measure. Your surrounded by familiar faces, friends who’ve known you forever, and for a few fleeting moments, everything feels right.

Rafe stands a few feet away, a beer clutched in his hand, watching you with hawk-like intensity. His jaw is tight, the vein in his temple pulsing. You laugh at something Pope says, and your smile radiates through the night. When Pope leans in and gives you a brief hug, Rafe’s grip on his bottle tightens until his knuckles go white.

You don’t notice at first, lost in conversation. But when you finally turn toward Rafe, his eyes are dark and stormy, barely restrained. He motions with a tilt of his head for you to come over. You hesitate, sensing the simmering rage behind his gaze.

“Hey, I’ll be right back,” you say to your friends, forcing a smile.

You walk toward him slowly, your sandals kicking up sand. The bonfire feels too far away now, its warmth slipping away with each step. When you reach him, his jaw clenches, eyes flicking to the group behind you.

“What the fuck was that?” he growls, voice low but sharp enough to cut.

Your brow furrows. “What was what?”

He takes a step closer, his face just inches from yours. The heat rolling off him isn’t the kind that makes you melt; it’s the kind that makes your spine stiffen.

“That little hug,” he spits. “With Pope. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You scoff, incredulous. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes, I’m fucking serious!” His voice rises just enough to draw a few curious glances. He doesn’t care. His eyes are wild, a storm you’ve seen too many times before. “You let him put his hands all over you like that, and you think I’m just supposed to stand here and smile?”

Your hands clench into fists at your sides. “It was just a hug, Rafe. You’re blowing this out of proportion—”

“Blowing it out of proportion?” he interrupts, his voice dripping with bitterness. “You’re always so fucking friendly with everyone. Everyone gets a piece of you, and I get to just sit here and watch.”

You glare at him, your voice shaking with fury. “I’m not a piece of property, Rafe. I don’t owe you explanations for who I talk to.”

His eyes flare, his lip curling into a sneer. “Yeah, well, maybe if you didn’t need everyone’s attention all the fucking time, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

Your mouth falls open, disbelief washing over you. The hurt seeps through your expression, and for a brief second, regret flickers in his eyes — but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.

You take a shaky breath, trying to steady yourself. Your voice is tight, barely containing your anger. “You’re being a jealous asshole.”

He laughs darkly, running a hand through his hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. “Maybe I wouldn’t be if you didn’t make me feel like I have to fight for you every damn second.”

“Fight for me?” you echo, eyes glistening. “Rafe, I’m here. I’ve always been here. You’re the one pushing me away with your insecurities and this—this fucking control you think you have over me.”

His fingers twitch at his sides, wanting to reach for you, to pull you close and fix it, but his pride holds him back. Instead, his voice comes out sharp and venomous. “You know what? Maybe I should just stop giving a shit.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The words are like a slap, stinging more than you care to admit.

“You know what?” you say, your voice trembling. “Maybe you should.”

Turning on your heel, you feel the weight of his gaze burning into your back. He doesn’t follow. The distance between the two of you grows with each step, the crackle of the bonfire swallowed by the roaring in your ears.

By the time you reach the light of the fire, your friends’ laughter feels like another world — one you’re no longer a part of.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket as you sit by the bonfire, the warmth of the flames doing little to quell the cold knot twisting in your stomach. You try to ignore it, but your thumb betrays you, pulling the phone out of your pocket. His name lights up the screen.

11:47 PM

Rafe: So this is how it is now?

You don't reply. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, heart pounding, before you shove the phone back in your pocket. You force yourself to focus on your friends, on their laughter, but it all feels distant. Another buzz.

11:50 PM

Rafe: You just gonna walk away like that? Cool. Real fucking mature.

Your jaw clenches, and the hurt in his words stings like a slap. You don’t even know what to say. You just keep your phone in your pocket, your hand tight around it like you’re holding onto the last bit of control you have.

12:02 AM

Rafe: Bet Pope’s loving this. Bet he’s been WAITING for you to be single.

Your fingers tighten around the phone, a sick twist in your stomach. This isn’t Pope’s fault. And it sure as hell isn’t yours. But still, the jealousy in his message burns. You don’t respond.

12:10 AM

Rafe: I know Pope likes Cleo. I know I’m being fucking ridiculous. But I can’t help it.

Your heart aches as you read his words. It’s not even about Pope, not really. It’s about you leaving, about the distance growing between you. You close your eyes and try to steady your breath, but it feels like it’s all unraveling. You don’t know how to fix this, or even if you should.

12:15 AM

Rafe: You always wanted to be everyone’s favorite. Well, congrats. You win.

His words hit harder than any of the others. You feel like you’ve been slapped, and the sting is so raw you can’t stop the tears that threaten to spill. You wipe them away quickly. Cleo looks at you, her concern palpable.

“You good, girl?” she asks.

“Yeah,” you lie, forcing a smile. “Just tired.”

Your phone buzzes again. You know it’s him. You don’t want to look, but you do. You can’t help it.

12:32 AM

Rafe: Fuck. I didn’t mean it.

12:34 AM

Rafe: Why do I always fuck this up?`

You suck in a breath. His self-loathing is so intense, so painfully familiar. You wish you could hold him, reassure him, but it’s not that simple. He’s not the only one who’s hurt, and you’re tired of carrying it all by yourself.

12:45 AM

Rafe: Come back. Please.

Your stomach churns at the desperation in his words. Part of you wants to cave, wants to go back to him and forget about everything. But you know you can’t. Not like this. You can’t keep walking in circles around him, hoping that one day it’ll all make sense.

12:50 AM

Rafe: I need you.

Your throat tightens. You’re choking on the ache inside you, the words that you can’t take back and the love that you’re not sure how to handle anymore. He’s always needed you, but you need more than that. You need to be seen, to be loved in a way that doesn’t hurt.

You squeeze your eyes shut, hands trembling. And just when you think it’s over, your phone buzzes again.

1:05 AM

Rafe: I know I’m not good enough for you. But I don’t know how to be without you.

a/n: the next few chapters will all be set in the past, and then no more past chapters!!

tags : @xoxo-ada @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @sleepiibunniiii @urbrunettebombshell

290 notes · View notes

sukirichi · 6 months ago

Text

[ DUSK ‘TILL DAWN : 015 ]

“we who bear the burden of the crown do not need to love. you only need to stay here, with me, in power, in greed, in lust – in victory.”

cw. modern royal au. angst. physical violence (not to the reader.) manipulation. lying. angst. hurt and a little bit of comfort ig??

notes. feedbacks / reblogs/ comments are appreciated <3

wc. 10.4k

series masterlist

[ FIFTEEN ] scattered ‘cross my family line, i’m so good at telling lies – that came from my mother’s side, told a million to survive. . . i can’t forget, i can’t forgive you. ‘cause now i’m scared that everyone i love will leave me

“This was a mistake. We should get divorced.”

The tranquil song of the sea was deceptive. A vast expanse of silver under the soft glow of the full moon caressed Rintaro’s face, his handsome face heartbreakingly heartbroken. The moon hung low in the sky, casting a serene, almost ethereal light upon the two of you. On the distant coast, a lighthouse flickered, its beam briefly piercing the darkness before vanishing. The momentary light was enough to let you see – the truth, the split-second show of vulnerability within his eyes before it left only the memory of its glow.

Rintaro stood in front of you, at an arm’s length away but your heart worlds apart. The long line of spray marked where the sea met the land, its boundary evident. There, where the moon’s loght turned the sand into a luminous carpet beneath your feet, the waves lulled your racing hearts into quiet murmurs swallowed by the breeze.

You listened to his words – words that carried the weight of an ending unforeseen. Disbelief clouded your mind. You refused to accept what you just heard. Turning your head the other way, you bit down on your lip, hard enough you tasted the coppery tang of blood.

The rhythm of the sea was like the lilt of your heartbeat, steady yet trembling. It began, ceased, and began again, each cycle mirroring this endless round of circles you and Rintaro ran in – to loving, to hurting, to forgiving. Was this how ended? In a poorly-timed farewell?

You always knew this moment would come. Someone would have had to say goodbye. You just never thought the words would come from his mouth.

Your feet rooted deep in the sand, you listened to the melancholy refrain of waves crashing against each other. The moonlight reflected in the water, a silver path stretching into the unknown. You stood there, letting the sea speak the emotions too deep to be said out loud.

And what a moment it was – with the beauty of the night, the serene majesty of the sea, and bittersweet flicker of candles behind you.

It would’ve been easier if the sea held your sadness, with the moon as your witness in your quiet despair, the cliffs holding onto their stone each memory you knew you’d keep for many years to come. The night air, sweet and cool, carried away and brought with the wind your unshed tears.

This was a mistake. We should get divorced.

Rintaro’s words echoed in your mind, a cruel reminder that some stories, no matter how beautiful or tragic, all had its end.

“What did you say?” you licked your lips, forcing a smile despite the wobbliness of your knees. It couldn’t be, right? The night was going well. Fate couldn’t be so cruel – he’d just begun to love you. “I must have heard you wrong.”

Your husband turned away from you, his grip on the bouquet tightening. You watched as the flowers crushed between its force, its beauty drained with one just hand.

“You didn’t. I meant what I said – we should end this.”

“Why?”

His head snapped your way. “What do you mean, why?” he hissed, the bouquet slammed on the ground as he gestured to the air. His eyes were blown wide, frantic and desperate. “Look around you. Don’t you realize none of this feels right? Let’s drop the act, Princess. Neither of us truly want each other, and don’t tell me I’m wrong when I see the way you look at me.”

You reeled back, unknowingly clutching at your chest. “And how do I look at you?”

“Like you’re thinking of ways to get rid of me,” he spat out with a laugh, “Like-like you’re looking for the man who courted you two years ago, the one you truly wanted to marry. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, because you’re not going to find him. He never existed in the first place. Whatever it is you’re looking for, you won’t find it in me,” his eyes blazed with fury, but then, as if the fire within him had been doused, his hands fell limply at his sides. “But you may find him in someone else.”

Rintaro’s gaze dropped to the floor. Sorrow filled his eyes, his expression softened before he spun on his heel. Turning away, your husband stepped forward.

“Take one more step–” you threatened him, hands balled into fists. “–and I will make you regret it.”

“Do your worst,” came his tired reply, his shoulders slumped. “I couldn’t care less.”

His steps were quick, as if he couldn’t waste any more time in getting away from you. It made blood boil within your veins. Before you could notice, you’d already crossed the distance in one breath, furiously grabbing him by the elbow and spinning him to face you. You were certain you look crazed – your face flushed, your cheeks damp with tears rolling down. He must’ve seen it too, his face falling at the sight of you.

“No! You think you can walk away from me? You think you can do all this–” you gestured to the beach around you, finding it harder to breathe with each word you spoke. “–buy me a house, tell me you envisioned a future with me, made love to me, and even prepared this dinner–”

“I didn’t do it for you. It was Kiyoomi who came up with this idea because he wanted to make you happy.”

Shaking your head, you shoved at his chest. “He wouldn’t do that. Kiyoomi wouldn’t be so cruel!”

“Oh, but I am for going along with it?” he snapped, closing the distance until his wrath enveloped you. “Get out of your head. Just because I did all those things for you, doesn’t mean they meant something. Are you forgetting I spent two years of my life trying to win you over, and I never once felt something for you other than tolerance?” When your face fell, triumph washed over his features. “That’s right. You remember now, don’t you? She’s the one I want. Everything I do is for her. Don’t forget your place.”

“My place? I am your wife. It’s my ring that you have on your finger. What place should I be forgetting? All of this is for me, you did this for me–”

“Oh, wake the fuck up, Y/N!” he bellowed, grabbing at his hair before he turned to glare at you. “I’m so tired of you going around acting like everything I do meant something. Has it never crossed your mind I could have just been bored? It didn’t, did it? Because you’re honestly foolish enough to let your guard down and believe that I wanted you!”

“Then why do all this if you didn’t?” you retorted, “You could become King as long as you married me and I gave you a son. You didn’t have to buy me a house, o-or act like you cared behind the cameras–”

“Well, are you? Are you with child?”

“No, but why does–”

“Then you have no hold over me. Marriage means nothing. This ring? This stupid fucking thing?” You glanced at the gold band at his finger, the one you watched roll over the floor on that day you gave it back to him. Rintaro hadn’t taken it off since, but now he looked at with resentment – like it suffocated him, choked him. “It means nothing. You cannot make me King if you don’t give me a child. And as long as you’re walking around without a baby in your belly, then you mean nothing to me. You have no purpose in my life.”

“So that’s what this is, then? Because she’s pregnant and I’m not?”

Rintaro’s face morphed into despair for a fleeting moment, so quick you questioned if you saw it at all. But almost as quickly, Rintaro’s posture straightened, his eyes hardening with steely resolve. Your breath caught in your throat – your suspicions confirmed.

So it was true. He knew.

And all of this – this house, that mocking conversation of building a family with you – it had been nothing but a cruel joke.

A strangled gasp escaped your lips. Stumbling back, your hands instinctively clutched at your chest as if desperately holding together the pieces of your shattered heart. The attempt was all for naught. The weight of betrayal crashed over you like a thundering wave. Each thought was a daggered stabbed to your soul as the pieces fit together – your husband, the one you loved, and his true love, now carrying his child.

Tears welled up, blurring your vision. You tried to hold them back, refusing to let him have the satisfaction that he’d succeeded in hurting you.

And it had been so easy, wasn’t it? He knew you so well, knew you like the back of his hand, that it came without too much effort that it was so easy to have you wrapped around his finger. One kiss, one tender touch, one proclamation of his so-called affections, and you would’ve broken your back bending to his will. He knew. He knew how easy it would be to win you over, and time and time again, you fell for it like the fool you were.

Everything burned. The pain was too raw, too overwhelming.

“You are cruel, Suna Rintaro. I regret the day I danced with you,” you gritted your teeth, digging your nails into your palm. Hard. “Perhaps you are right. We should get divorced.”

Rintaro sighed. “It’s for the best, even if it’s not what you think.”

“Because you can finally be with her, right? Your dream life is already coming true. You’re going to be a father, you’re going to spend a future with the one you love, and I’m hopelessly in love with you enough that I’ll just let it happen,” you smiled for him, clapping your hands together slowly and mockingly. “Congratulations. It’s everything you wanted. Things are finally going accordingly to plan. Should we open a wine to celebrate?”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Stop acting like a child. You knew what you were getting into when you caught us together and still proceeded with the wedding.”

“You still blame me for that after everything I did for you?”

The silence hung in the air. Somehow, his lack of response already spoke a thousand words.

Unable to help yourself, you glanced at the beach house behind Rintaro. It stood proudly against the backdrop of the setting sun, its white walls glowing warmly in the fading light.

The memories came flooding all at once – the laughter you shared, the stolen kisses when he thought no one was looking, the whispered promises of a life you’d never life. You could almost see them dancing in front of you, like ghosts of the past, lingering in the shadows of the porch and taunting you with the fact it had been too good to be true. So many dreams built, so many dreams shattered.

Your heart ached in ways it shattered you bone-deep. It echoed from your chest and reverberated down to your feet as you recalled the nights you spent wrapped in his arms. His hands on your cheeks, a small smile on his face – when he still looked at you like he loved you and meant it.

But now? Now, that love felt like a cruel illusion – a beautiful dream turned into a living nightmare. The betrayal cut deep, deep enough it left behind the harsh hand prints on your soul. The wounds stinging hard that it might never heal. You forced yourself to tear your gaze away from it – from the swing on the porch swaying gently on the evening breeze, the window that once framed your silhouettes when you welcomed the sunrise together. Each detail was a stab to your already broken heart.

A stray tear fell on your cheek. Brushing it away, hands trembling, you took a deep breath – forcing the salty air to fill your lungs. “Was… was any of it real?”

Turning away from the house was the hardest part. Each step felt heavy, as if the weight of your memories were trying to pull you back. You cast one last, longing glance over your shoulder, your heart silently breaking anew.

Deep down, you already knew his answer. Still, it did not soften the blow when the words left his lips. It didn’t hurt any less when regret crossed his features, like somehow; a part of him wished it had been. “No. None of it was.”

“Okay,” you resigned, your body turned away from him, so he wouldn’t have to see be so pathetic anymore. When you finally spoke again, your voice came out as a breathy whisper. “You should go.”

You heard a slight shuffling behind you, followed by his mumbled words. “I never wanted to stay, anyway.”

When Rintaro walked away from you, each step he took was daunting, final. You didn’t know what hurt you more – the fact he never looked back, or the fact he never hesitated. But there was one thing that was made crystal clear to you now: it was never going to be you. How deeply unfair it was, that a man could say things he did not mean, do things he did not want to. How he could marry you and buy a house, and then turn you away at the next moment.

Love truly was a dangerous thing. It made you break down your walls, hopelessly and blindly handing your heart in the hands of someone, all while silently hoping they wouldn’t break it. And when it did, who would pick up the fallen pieces? Who would gather the shattered shards of your soul as it spilled like blood through his fingertips?

You didn’t have an answer for any of these.

Knees buckling, you fell into the sand, your palms sinking on it with its weight. You cried your heart out – the skies hearing your anguish as it echoed in the dead of the night. You screamed, begged, and called out for a God who never listened. The betrayal left a bitter taste on your tongue, a relentless ache that gnawed at your insides until it felt like nothing was left. As if you’d been hollowed out, bled out to dry, and discarded to the side.

You laid there for who knew how long. The flames of the candle had gone out, the food forgotten and cold. Sand had made its way into your joints and your hair. Your cheek felt crusty and hard from the dried tears. You cried and cried until there were no more tears left – watching from the horizon as the skies deepened into a darker shade.

Just then, a jacket fell on your bare shoulders. Stiffening, you raised your head from where you rested it on your drawn knees – blearily blinking at the figure before you. The man stood tall even with his legs bent, the faintest hint of spice mixing with the breeze.

Behind you, the Second Prince stood, his face devoid of any emotion. Yet, his eyes said it all. You are briefly shocked by how much you saw of yourself within him at that moment. The longing, the sadness – Kiyoomi wore his grief proudly. At the sight of you, his face softened. He offered his hands, one you took with no hesitance, and allowed him to pull you up to your feet. You two stood like that for a few minutes – unspeaking, and just staring at each other.

Kiyoomi was the first to look away.

“You’re cold. You shouldn’t stay out here,” tightening his jacket around you, the Prince suddenly pulled you in for an embrace. It happened too fast, faster than you could react. Before you knew it, your face was pressed against his chest, his heartbeat – strong and mighty – the only sound audible aside from the howling breeze. And you sunk into his hold as your tears stained his shirt, realizing a little too late how much you needed this – to be held so tightly like he feared letting you, like he could squeeze you hard enough and it would hopefully – eventually – piece back together the heart his brother had broken.

“Shhh. I got you, Princess. I’ll always be here for you.”

You’ve gone past the point of believing such flowery words. But when it came from Kiyoomi, you never doubted he’d keep the promises he’d made.

The once-vibrant beach house, filled with laughter and endless conversations, now stood in silence. Its walls held the unspoken truth that forever was not going to last. The gentle breeze that had always carried a promise of endless days spent in joy now whispered farewells through the rustling palms.

Rintaro had begun his farewells. Now, it was your turn to leave everything behind.

The Princes and their companions moved with quiet efficiency. Ever since that dreadful night, things hadn’t been the same anymore. No one spoke about what happened, but it didn’t take a fool to understand that romantic dinners weren’t supposed to end with you and Rintaro returning to the house hours apart – both miserable and mum. One quick look at you two, and the Princes began packing up.

Everyone knew their time had run up.

Casting a final, longing glance at the house, you breathed in the salty breeze one last time. The memories clung to you, each step you took feeling like a betrayal to the woman you could’ve been – the wife he could’ve had, and the mother you would’ve been. With a heavy heart, you watched as everyone loaded their luggage back to their respective vehicles, each one of them driving off. Their movements – along with yours – had been mechanical, as if the finality of their departure had numbed everyone to their core.

You looked out the window. The sun had began to greet the world with its morning kiss. The sea, once shimmering and glistening with spark-like waves, now seemed to mourn with you. The beach, scattered with the footprints of a happier time you’d said goodbye to, would soon be swept clean by the tides.

Any traces of the memories you made would be wiped clean by the world itself. If only it could give you a new beginning, too.

The journey back to the palace was somber. The rolling hills and distant forests passed by in a blur of muted colors – the world passed you by, in both the literal and metaphorical sense. If anything, the ride back felt like walking into your own death. A death march of duty and purpose. Speaking of duty… your hands cradled your belly. You weren’t pregnant, nor were you experiencing any symptoms. Rintaro knew this, too, otherwise he wouldn’t have thrown it in your face that you were merely nothing but a breeding mare for him – and a failed one, at that.

The palace loomed ahead, its grand spires and imposing walls reminding you of your reality.

Back at the beach house, your emotions were valid. There, you were a brokenhearted person who longed for true love. Here, though? None of that mattered. The Palace was not a place for emotions. It was a pillar, the foundation of what the Crown held – power, victory, wealth, control. Here, you were a Princess, and a Princess should always hold her head high.

You couldn’t do it. Bile rose up your throat each time you pictured yourself walking down its grand hallways, the gold shimmering and blinding you. Just the mere thought of the Queen studying you with her observant gaze made you squeamish.

You turned to Rintaro. “Can we please head to my parents instead?”

He looked at you like you’d grown two heads. The Palace was already in view. Still, his gaze darted at you, and back at the Palace, as if seriously considering it. Then, he pinched the bridge of his nose and slumped against his seat. “If you are doing this as an act of revenge–”

“I’m not. My parents truly did want to see us.”

Rintaro contemplated. Absentmindedly, he spun the ring on his finger, gazing down at it with an unreadable expression. His voice was light, and whisper-like as he said, “You cannot tell them about the affair.”

You pursed your lips. You never planned on doing so in the first place. Crossing your arms against your chest, you huffed. “Don’t worry, Your Highness. I never planned on ruining your perfect image.”

Rintaro didn’t bother with responding. Instead, he asked the driver to head back to the Yuzuru Estate, and quickly informed Her Majesty on the detour. It didn’t take long enough before you were surrounded by the familiar grove of trees that led to your place. The sound of wheels on cobblestone mingled with the soft murmur of the midday breeze. Outside, the manicured gardens and stately mansions blurred into a comforting embrace, their elegant silhouettes nostalgic. You couldn’t help but feel the need to reach out, to run your fingertips over the freshly mowed grass, or admire the shapely bushes designed to perfection.

You missed your home very much – one of the few places you felt solace in before your life turned upside down.

Pulling up into the driveway, your butler immediately opened the doors for you. There was a round of warm welcomes and joyful smiles. You’d missed them, too – all the loyal staff who took turns watching over you, even when they remained hesitant to properly acquaint themselves. Nevertheless, it was home. You greedily breathed the fresh air in, letting it fill up your lungs as you breathed out the darkness pooling at your chest.

The double doors opened, and the two of you were ushered in. A few minutes later, your mother came rushing past – a shawl drawled at the curves of her arms. A smile instantaneously, rising up from your seat to meet her halfway.

“My daughter, oh, how I missed you!” she laughed, the sound of it light and coloring up the room. Pulling back from the embrace, she cupped your face with her gloved hands – all her previous smiles slowly wavering. “My goodness, have you been eating well? Sleeping well? You look… different.”

You winced. It would be hard to hide things from her, but you had to try.

Leaning into her palm, you gave her the biggest smile you could muster – teeth flashed and all. “I’m okay, Mother. The Palace can just get a little exhausting sometimes.”

“Does your husband not help you with your duties?”

It was your father who spoke this time. He must’ve come straight from trimming the bushes; a sunhat covered his head, and he wore gardening gloves that were stained with grass and a miniscule of dirt. You didn’t miss the way his gaze leered at your husband. Rintaro was stiff behind you, having stood up as well as soon as your mother entered. “He does most of them, so I believe he is more tired than I am,” you supplied, pointedly ignoring Rintaro’s relieved sigh. Clapping your hands together, you walked towards your father with open arms. “But let’s not discuss any of that – how is everyone doing? I feel like it’s been forever since I last stepped in here.”

“Ah, no,” your father complained as he held you at an arm’s length away, “My clothes are soiled, and you are pristine. Do not bother yourself with getting dirtied.”

You pouted; your mother giggling behind you.

Being back at home was an instant medication. You hadn’t been here in months, yet the effect was evident – your shoulders felt lighter, your smile more natural. You’d stopped trying to think of Iris, too, yet you remained warily aware of your husband. And it was clear Rintaro was unsure of himself. He lingered longer on the doorways, his interactions with your parents more formal than it had been compared to the first time he called upon you. You couldn’t blame him for his discomfort – the question of his affair lingered on the air.

It was only a matter of time before someone addressed it.

A few hours later, with your stomachs filled with warm, homemade meals, you all moved out towards the back gardens. The garden stretched out in a lush expanse beneath the golden glow of the setting sun, each corner rich with the memories of your precious childhood.

Winding stone paths meandered through vibrant displays of blooming flowers – roses in shades of crimson and blush, peonies in soft pastels, and clusters of fragrant lavender. Elegant statues and an ornate fountain stood in the middle of it, their waters cascading beautifully. Majestic oak trees, their branches spreading wide in a serene embrace, provided cool, dappled shade – your signature reading spot from your teenage years.

You’d made many memories here; time spent with your father chasing you and your mother around as your gurgled giggles echoed through the air. It was also where your father taught you to use weapons (much to your mother’s distaste), and eventually, even a date spot when Rintaro wanted a reprieve from the public eye.

Rintaro and your father went ahead. Your father claimed he hadn’t properly worked out in a while, and that perhaps your husband could help him warm up. Beside you, you and your mother watched as the two men rolled their sleeves up to practice sparring. It’s a silly thing, but one you knew Rintaro enjoyed. He often spent time with your father like this when he was still courting you. They toyed with weapons, hunted birds, and sparred with one another. It was your father’s way of gauging Rintaro’s strength at first. Now, they simply did it as a way of bonding.

You smiled despite yourself.

You could still remember those times vividly, where warmth crept up your neck upon the knowledge your parents liked this boy you adored. You appreciated all his efforts, never once backing down from an absurd request from your mother, or another challenge from your father. Rintaro had proven to them, without fail, that he was dedicated in winning your heart.

He’d succeeded. It would be impossible if he didn’t.

He came every day, always at seven in the morning, with a bouquet of flowers that led you into reserving a room just to turn it into an indoor garden. He’d brought flowers for your mother, too, and you knew the moment she shed a tear at his sweetness, that he’d also won their hearts. The sweet ‘yes’ he’d been working hard finally came a year during the courtship. It was on that memorable night he’d driven you out for dinner – no drivers, no servants, no anything. Just you and I, he’d said with a smile, placing a kiss upon your knuckles.

It was the first night you’d kissed him, and the first night you stayed up awake as you lost the battle of trying to calm your racing heart.

If you’d known that early that his heart had already been occupied… No.

Even if you knew, even after you knew, it was too late. You were doomed from the moment he’d picked you out from the crowd. You’d resigned yourself to your fate when the throng of people parted for him as he made his way to you, wearing the most dazzling, lazy smile befitting for a Crown Prince.

You didn’t stand a chance.

You might’ve fallen in love the moment you stepped on his toes, and all he did was laugh.

“My dear,” your mother’s silken voice pulled you out of your trance. Smiling at her, you turned her way, silently sipping on the tea the servants had prepared. Before you, your mother twitched, playing with her fingers splayed on her lap. “I don’t mean to suddenly spring this up on you, but surely you’ll understand a mother’s curiosity and concern. So, tell me. Is it real? Is it true the Crown Prince is cheating on you?”

Your body froze. You’d seen this coming – known she would’ve asked one way or another.

“No, Mother,” you shook your head, dropping your gaze onto your lap in the hopes she wouldn’t see right through you. “His Highness would never. That article was already proven to be a hoax.”

“I see…”

You shared an uneasy silence. Seated across from each other, you stirred your tea absentmindedly, gaze drifting over the manicured hedges that framed the secluded nook. Your mother, poised and composed, sipper her tea with deliberate slowness. You could tell without looking at her that her inquisitive gaze searched for answers on your face. For signs of the truth you struggled to conceal with each passing minute.

The gentle clinking of porcelain and the soft rustling of leaves did little to alleviate the tension, the silence between you two growing heavier with each unspoken word.

Finally, your mother set her cup down and sighed. “I still remember the day the Crown Prince came to call on you,” she began, her words delicate and careful. Her gaze flitted to the two men before you, still elbow-deep in their sparring. “Your father and I didn’t want to believe it at first. You were always beautiful, of course, but you were such a shy, little thing. We worried you might grow old without striking a conversation with any man, but a Prince? A Crown Prince, no less? We were over the moon,” she shook her head at the memory, a small smile playing on her lips. “But then your father and I both agreed you didn’t deserve any lesser man. There couldn’t have been anyone else for you. The Crown Prince was perfect.”

He was, you wanted to agree, he used to be.

“I remember that day, too,” you mused, the image of the Prince with his slicked-back hair and three piece suit flashing in your mind.

You’d expected he would look out of your place in the Estate, whatnot with the royal crest on his chest, yet he never looked more fitting – surrounded by your family portraits and delicately gazing at your childhood photos.

“He was especially handsome – I’d say even more so than when he showed up for the Palace’s royal events.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be surprised. It was clear he wanted to impress us, and you, especially,” teased your mother with a slight poke of her elbow, her face softening. “I remember it all, my dear. How he would always share with us his plans for the dates he’d take you on, how he always took you home at the exact time he promised he would. He was a perfect son, the perfect addition to our small family. And I could never, ever forget how you changed when you met him.”

“I changed?” your brows furrowed, before you shrugged in agreement. “I suppose I have. Being with someone like him… I had to be conscious and aware of everything I did. Do you remember that, Mother? When I begged you to come shopping for clothes for me when you knew I never was interested in any of it?”

Your mother giggled behind her hands.

“I was so happy that day when you asked me to come with you! I thought my sweet girl was finally growing into a mature woman. But that wasn’t the change I was talking about,” she continued, sliding her chair closer to yours. Her palm landed on top of your knee, and she slowly caressed there – just like how she did when you first scraped your knees. And how healing it was, a mother’s tender touch on top of your wounds. It made you want to rip your heart out and shove it between her fingers, to silently beg her to make it all okay.

“…When you met him, you became radiant. In love. You smiled more often, and you opened up a whole new world that the Prince showed you. There wasn’t a day you didn’t speak fondly of him. And you had that look on your face, sweetheart–” she ran a finger down the side of your face, her eyes glistening with tears. You couldn’t understand why she looked so broken. “–it was in your eyes. Everyone could tell how much you loved the Prince.”

You swallowed, the smiles you wore becoming more and more faded. “Mother, I still love him.”

“I know, sweetheart, I can tell,” she cooed. Prying the cup from your hands, she immediately held your hands in hers, her warmth soothing as it seeped through her gloves. “But I also know you’re not happy anymore.”

Your resolve began to crumble.

“Mother…”

Your eyes began to glisten with unshed tears that you struggled to keep at bay. Despite your best effort, the façade of composure slipped. A single tear escaped, trailing a path down your cheek – and just like that – a dam had opened. The door holding your secrets unlocked. It was hard – painfully so – to pretend everything was okay when it was not. You felt like a little child again. A little girl craving her mother’s soothing embrace, and you couldn’t help it – you launched yourself into her arms, burying your face in the crook of her shoulder as your body shook with each sob.

“Oh, sweetheart,” your mother patted your back. Judging by the way her body quivered under you, she’d been crying, too. “It’s okay, I promise. Please, tell me what’s wrong. I can’t handle seeing you like this.”

“Mother, it’s…” you bit at your lip, trying to muffle the whimpers that passed your lips. “I’m sorry, it’s true. I didn’t want to lie, or have to hide it from you, but Rintaro loves you both a lot and I was afraid you’d hate him–”

“Oh! Oh, my poor baby. Never apologize, okay? It wasn’t your fault.”

You clutched her tight, her dress balled into your fists. A part of you told you that you should feel pathetic, that your actions weren’t Princess-like. That Her Majesty would frown at the sight of you and tell you to act your age. But you couldn’t muster the strength, not when your mother’s embrace was the only thing keeping you together – the only thing that told you it was safe enough to fall apart. And so you cried, your tears soaking her dress and the fabric wrinkling under your grip.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Your mother’s sniffles was the last thing you heard before the sound of a fist connecting with skin resounded in the area. Pulling back, you gasped at what you saw.

Rintaro was lying on the ground, your father on top of him. Your father grasped Rintaro by the collar, delivering blow by blow to his face until blood spattered to the grass. Somehow, you managed to scream. The sound was ear-splitting as your heels hit the ground, clutching the ends of your dress as you ran for him. Rintaro wasn’t putting up a fight – his arms limp by his side, his head swaying with each merciless punch on his face.

“Stop!”

“You cheating bastard,” your father glowered, rearing his arm back for one final blow. “How could you do that to my daughter?”

“Father! Please, stop!”

The commotion caused servants to pour from every corner. The guards arrived, pulling your father back by the elbow as he struggled to free from their restraints. Meanwhile, your mother stood beside him – crying and dabbing her handkerchief at his blood knuckles. And you? You fell on the ground, uncaring that the grass had stained your dress, and loomed over your husband. “Rin,” you called out. A low groan was all you received, but it was enough. You breathed out a sigh of relief, immediately calling for the servants to bring some ice and towels.

“Get out of here! You aren’t welcome here anymore!” your father kept kicking and screaming, the sounds of your mother’s pleas falling on deaf ears. “I swear by the Gods your title won’t keep you safe, boy, you will regret it–”

“Get up,” hooking your arm around Rintaro’s elbow, you grunted at his weight. “Rin. Come on. Let’s go.”

Still dazed from being beaten, Rintaro’s legs wobbled underneath him. He groaned, finally wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you limped back to the house. Your father was still a screaming mess, but you knew your mother would calm him down eventually. For now, you needed to tend to his cuts.

You brought Rintaro up to your room. A servant had left an ice pack and some towels there already. Making Rintaro get rid of his bloodied shirt, he changed into one of your father’s – his wince displeased yet left with no choice. Once he’d changed into something clean, he sat at the edge of your bed, shoulders slumped and his handsome face bloodied and bruised.

The air was thick with uneasiness in the dimly lit confines of your room.

The soft glow of your candlelight flickered across the ornate furnishings and Rintaro’s wounds. You worked quietly before him, finding there was no need to speak. His face, usually lacking in interest and graced with slow, lackadaisical smiles, was marred by a collection of bruises and cuts.

Your hand trembled slightly as you carefully dabbed a cloth soaked in cool water against a swollen cheek. The Crown Prince, despite his physical pain, looked even more vulnerable under the soft lights – his usual demeanor replaced by quiet resignation.

With delicate movements, you applied salves, ensuring your touch remained tender and soothing. It wouldn’t erase the hurt from his body, but maybe your care would make it ache less. Each gentle stroke of your fingers served as a silent apology for the pain he endured. And the room, filled with the faint scent of healing balms and the soft rustle of fabric, suddenly felt all too intimate.

The silence between you was heavy, punctuated only by the occasional rustle of the bandages and the soft sighs coming from him. As you finished tending to his wounds, your eyes met, and for a moment, it felt like he was that young man from two years ago – fresh-faced, and red-cheeked upon entering a maiden’s room for the first time. He’d been so nervous back then, his hands clammy and drenched with sweat. In reality, that man was just a fragment of who he truly was now – your poor, bruised husband who winced at every tender, caring touch. As if your love wounded him, and cut him in ways he couldn’t heal from.

As if he just waited for that finishing blow to come from you instead, to be his final damnation.

But it never came.

In that fragile moment, Rintaro closed his eyes, leaning into the caress of your palm as it hovered beside his face. This gesture you remembered – of him accidentally cutting his palm open with a letter opener years ago, and when you’d wrapped bandages around his wound. He did the same thing and leaned into your touch, only to kiss the insides of your wrist. He’d looked up at you from under his lashes, his lips full and ready to be kissed. And kiss him you did, because then he’d been yours, and you’d been his.

You didn’t pull away then. You couldn’t pull away now.

Using your thumb to stroke his swollen cheek, you sighed, the sound tired and heavy. “Did you tell my father? Is that why he beat you up?”

“No. We barely spoke during the spar,” he informed, tongue darting out to lick the dried blood off his lips. “But he kept looking over at you and your mother. I reckon he was just waiting for you to reveal the truth eventually,” just then, Rintaro chuckled, wincing when the motion made his cuts split further apart. His smile remained, however, and you drunk his features in – the way he tipped his head to the side, his eyes hooded, with just the barest hint of a playful smile. “You were never a good liar, you know that?”

“Is that so?”

“Hmm,” he hummed, “On our second date, you told me you didn’t want to watch the movies because you were worried people might crowd us. But it was written all over your face how much you wanted to.”

That, you remembered, as well. You found it impossible how a Prince – a Crown Prince – could simply saunter to the theaters like he was any regular man. He was right; you did want to. You’d never been to the theaters since it was always crowded, and you never did well in the dark. But you soon learned the dark wasn’t so scary when he had his arms wrapped around you. If anything, it felt elating – having the Prince play with your fingers, his gaze never really focusing on the movie.

Rintaro’s jaw clenched, more so in thought. “You always kept things to yourself, always did things for me even when it made you uncomfortable. Was it because I’m the Crown Prince that you felt you couldn’t be honest with me?”

“Not entirely. I guess I was just afraid that if I didn’t do what you liked, then you would lose interest in me.”

“That would never happen,” he interjected, “The moment I laid my eyes on you, I knew you were the one I wanted to marry.”

The realization dawned on him a little too late. His words carried weight with its double meaning, and he winced. The moment was broken. The thread snapped right in front of your eyes. Pulling away from him, you quickly gathered the bloodied towels and set it aside. You made yourself busy, fully aware of his eyes on you, but you wouldn’t dare look back. You had a feeling that if you did, your mind would run rampant again on the last time he’d been here in your room, when your sheets still smelled like him, and he’d fucked you hard enough on your bed that your bodies left an imprint.

You wouldn’t look at him. You couldn’t.

“I’m sorry about what my father did.”

“It’s fine. I deserved every punch,” he shrugged it off, then smirked. “Although I’m probably less appealing in your eyes now. Bruised and all. I don’t look very Prince Charming-like.”

You snorted. “Since you wish for my honesty, then I’ll tell you now the whole Prince Charming act never suited you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I liked you better when you finally became more comfortable around me. You weren’t as poetic as when you first started courting me, but you were more… yourself. You were funnier, and a lot more charming when you weren’t trying so hard,” you broke that rule all too easily, and you did look at him. You looked at him, even if you could never see through him. “To me, it felt like I wasn’t dating the Crown Prince at all. I liked the unfiltered version of Suna Rintaro better. The one who enjoyed silences, instead of filling it with flowery words to get my heart fluttering. The one who preferred phone calls over texts because you wanted to hear my voice before going to sleep. The one who I considered my closest friend, the one I knew I wanted to marry, too.”

He was beautiful like this – his shirt hanging loosely at his broad shoulders, his arms slightly leaning back as it dipped with his weight on the mattress. His hair was tousled, the dark locks beautifully framing his face. And his eyes – hazel and more brown than green as the orange ember glows kissed him – were something you could lose yourself in for hours. For forever, even.

Suddenly, you wanted the world to end this way. You wanted time to stop if it meant picturing him like this, frozen and unguarded, beautiful and smelling like your perfume. You would’ve died a happy man if it meant this would be your last moment. With him on your bed, his clothes on your floor, and your ring on his finger.

You yearned for him so badly your body ached.

“Princess,” he mumbled after a pregnant pause, his voice coming out small as he said, “Why don’t you hate me?”

“Who says I don’t?”

The smile you pulled from him is lighthearted; unresevered. “Let me rephrase my question. Why do you still love me?”

Because isn’t that what love is? To know someone’s flaws, and to accept them as who they are? To see all your bad mornings and watch you stumble into the bathroom, clumsy and hazy. To see you at your worst, to choose arguments with you than silence with you. I thought that’s what love meant – to see the ugliness in another and to defy the impulse to turn the other way in search of another, the ‘someone better.’

You don’t tell him that. Instead, you offer another truth. “I wish I knew how to answer that myself.”

“I’m afraid,” Rintaro admitted, voice vulnerable and small. “I fear that one day, your hatred of me will consume you, and you will forget why you ever loved me.”

The candles cast soft shadows off his face, flickering like the fleeting time of the time you had with him. Each flame pulsed with the restless ache in your heart as you recalled the moments of closeness and intimacy that was half-heartedly reciprocated.

Your gaze drifted toward the space where he’d once lain beside you, the indentation in the sheets a painful reminder of the absence that now filled the void. You wanted to tell him you hadn’t changed the sheets since he last slept here. The scent of his cologne still lingered in the air, he still had his own pair of socks in your drawer, he’d left a wristwatch or two behind. He was here everywhere in your room, even if his heart wasn’t.

And it was so hard – so fucking hard – to accept that he didn’t love you.

Want me, you pleaded silently, at least want me. Just a little bit.

With slow, deliberate steps, your hand rested lightly on the bed’s edge, your fingers brushing against the cool, smooth fabric, as if permanently pushing the warmth of his presence back to the bed. Your heart ached with a bittersweet yearning for a heart that was never fully yours, a yearning that clung to you until it wrapped its fingers around your throat.

He was here now, wasn’t he? He wasn’t leaving. He said he would divorce you, he said it was always going to be her, but he was here – in front of you, in your room. If you dared to reach out a hand and crawl close enough, you could fall into his lap and cradle his head to your chest. And it was exactly that passionate longing that would ruin you – because you couldn’t resist. You couldn’t resist from trailing your fingers up his arm, all the way to his face. His eyes were unreadable; his pupils dilated and his lips pulled apart.

God, you wanted to kiss him.

So you pulled him close. Grabbed him by the collar, and slid yourself into his lap until Rintaro was forced to scoot backwards to balance you both, his large hands coming to rest on your hips. You breathed hard, shaking your head at yourself before your forehead knocked with his.

“Rin… Your Highness,” you corrected, rasping out the words. “I’m sorry. I know it’s wrong, and I know I could never have your heart but could you just – could you please hold me? Just for a minute, please. Pretend that you’re in love with me, I just–” your breath hitched when he squeezed your hips, to stop you or encourage you, you couldn’t tell. “–I just want to feel it again. That happiness I had with you.”

Rintaro hitched you up higher on his lap. Your chest crashed with his, and his lips followed. He tasted of blood and sugary biscuits. His taste, and his scent, flooded your senses until there was nothing to perceive but him.

And the kiss? It isn’t gentle. It isn’t soft. It’s desperate – lips bruising lips, teeth knocking with teeth, and tongues passionately grasping at one another. Your hands fly everywhere after that. Tugging at his hair, grabbing him harder by the collar to deepen the kiss. He swallows every sound you make, breathes them in like he needs them to live. So you give all you can and moan out his name – not Your Highness – and revel in the way he keens. He melts like snowflakes in the heat of your palm, like your touch burns him. You’re seconds away from dragging him back up on the bed when Rintaro suddenly shoves you off him. He flings himself upright and crosses the other side of the room in quick strides, the quick rise and fall of his back facing you the only thing visible from the dimly-lit room.

He didn’t need to say it out loud.

He’d regretted that kiss. Your heart broke once more as you sat at the edge of your bed. His rejection stung, even more so when he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Rintaro was shivering now as his head knocked against the window. Each breath he took seemed labored, as if even the act of drawing air was a struggle against the overwhelming sorrow that enveloped him. The air around him felt dense with the gravity of his internal torment, and your heart sank as you finally voiced out what he could never say out loud –

“…You really don’t love me.”

The silence falling over the room wrapped around the space like a heavy, suffocating shroud. the absence of sound was deafening. It pressed in on the walls and made each breath feel louder. Every creak of the floorboards or distant murmur from the outside was amplified, heavily echoed in the thick air. And when Rintaro finally spoke, it came with a tone of finality and unconcealed regret.

“I’m sorry.”

You swallowed, blinking back the tears as you fixed your appearance. “Pardon me for a moment,” you began to exit the room, your hands hovering on the handle before you you’re your decision. “Your Highness… is it okay if I stay here at my parents? It’s just for a few days. I don’t think I can handle returning to the Palace anytime soon.”

“Of course. Take all the time you need.” Rintaro did one final sweep of your room with his eyes. Something unreadable passed over his face. In the next moment, he cleared his throat, and opened the door himself. “I should leave. Goodnight, Princess. Please tell your parents that I left already, and I truly am sorry for the mess I caused.”

Rintaro was gone before you could say anything.

Just before his back disappeared from your line of sight, you saw something you thought you would never witness – Rintaro took two steps at a time on his way down, his frown pronounced as he wiped the tears off his face.

It unfolds like a badly written tragedy.

One moment, Rintaro is standing in the confines of your room, his heart racing with a desperate urgency that pulsed through every fiber of his being. He’d wanted to keep kissing you. Pulling away, and resisting his desire had to be one of the greatest pains he’d experienced, but he had to. He couldn’t keep doing this to you. His conscience wouldn’t let him.

That’s why he had to resort to doing the only thing he could think of in that moment – to run away and leave you behind.

Storming through the stately halls and out the grand doors of your estate, Rintaro pushed through. The weight of his regrets made each step harder to take, a burden that dragged him toward the waiting car parked outside the chill beginning to settle.

He jumped into the vehicle, ignoring his driver’s confused queries before slamming the door shut behind him. Inside, the car felt like a confining cell, its leather seats and polished surface now an inescapable prison of his own making. His hands, trembling with a mix of frustration and despair, gripped the steering wheel with a white-knuckled intensity.

In a sudden, raw burst of emotion, his fist struck the steering wheel with a deafening thud. The impact reverberated through the car and sent a shiver down his spine.

Still, he kept going – each strike of his fist minimal in comparison to his anguish. He reveled in it, the sharp pain in his knuckles a fleeting distraction from the deeper, more consuming agony that began to eat away at him.

His breaths came in ragged gasps, each inhalation a struggle. The air inside the car felt stifling, thick with the heavy scent of leather and the acrid tang of the remnants of blood at his face. His tears began to flow uncontrollably, streaming down his face and mingling with the sweat that dampened his brow. In the suffocating silence, his mind raced through a myriad of memories – from when he’d first kissed you, when he first held your hand, and the tender embraces he held you in. Each memory served to remind him of what he had now – nothing but a fractured connection, a strained marriage, and your fragile heart which he couldn’t protect.

Each image passing through his mind were tinged with bitterness. He recalled the warmth of your presence, the way your smile could light up the room, and the feeling of your hand in his.

He wished he could take it all back – to start from the beginning, to re-introduce himself to who he truly was. But he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t. It was too late.

He’d gotten Iris pregnant.

Rintaro hadn’t mean to. Sure, he was careless and never used protection, but he thought little of it. Iris’ cycles were irregular and they never worried if she missed her period. She was always on the pill – all because of him, since Kiyoomi wouldn’t have touched her anyway. In another lifetime, Rintaro might’ve felt happy. Instead, he was filled with crushing dread. He couldn’t be a father, he didn’t want to be like his father.

And why hadn’t she told him? All this time… he foolishly thought she’d began ignoring him because it was a mutual, unspoken feeling that they’d just gotten tired. He never handled the media’s criticism well, and Iris wasn’t any better. She cared about her image and reputation more than anything – so why hide this from him? If he had known sooner…

What? his mind taunted, What would you do if you knew sooner?

Rintaro’s head dropped to the steering wheel. The voice in his head was right. He wouldn’t have done anything. Had he known four months ago, he would’ve celebrated. Had he known two months ago, he would’ve been upset, but choose to take responsibility in the end. But now? Now his decision was clear. Without giving it a second thought, Rintaro pulled out of your driveway and headed straight for the palace, dialing Iris on his way.

She picked up on the third ring.

“So it’s true,” he spoke to the phone, driving past the other cars on the highway in full speed. He should drive more carefully, but his blood was pumping loud in his veins – your touch lit a fire in him, and he needed that fire stoked. “You’re pregnant.”

A pause came from the other line. “How did you know?”

Rintaro gripped the steering wheel tighter, glaring at the phone even if she couldn’t see. “You’re heartless, Iris. How could you let my wife find out about it first before I did? Why did she have to tell me?”

“She told you – what? I never planned on letting you know about it, Rintaro. I don’t even know how she found out!”

“What, you were going to use that baby against me? Is that what you planned?” he growled at her, “You’re not keeping that damned baby – you’re getting rid of it right now. I’m not letting you fuck up my marriage.”

“I wasn’t going to keep it anyway! You’re absolutely insane if you think I’m planning to give birth to your filthy child–”

“Shut up!”

Rintaro ended the call. He’d had enough of her and her greediness. How dare she keep something like that from him, aborting his child before he even knew of its existence?

He stepped harder on the gas.

The engine roared in defiant response to his intense, almost reckless driving, its powerful growl a stark contrast to the stifling silence that enveloped the car. The air inside the car was thick with the acrid scent of tension and frustration, each breath he took feeling heavier and more labored as he fought to keep his rage contained.

His thoughts raced with the echoes of the argument, each harsh word and biting remark replaying in his mind like a relentless loop. The sting of her anger gnawed at him, fueling the fire of his own resentment. The images of her face, twisted in frustration, seemed to haunt the darkened windows of the car. Iris seemed to do that often – haunting him both in his dreams and a nightmare.

Rintaro couldn’t fathom why it was too late when he realized she’d never been a good person to begin with.

She was never his friend.

She only approached him because Rintaro was malleable. He was a blank canvas of a man, a lost Prince. He was nothing but an experimental toy for her. She’d kissed him, stolen his heart, and fed him lies that she’d give him what he wanted if he did what she liked. And he did – every fucking time. He drunk himself wasted, because Iris didn’t like drinking alone. He smoked packs of cigarettes for her even when he hated the taste of nicotine, because Iris got antsy without smoking. He fucked her hard and deep, and spent countless nights in her bed, because her husband never wanted to touch her. And what did he get in return?

Fake smiles. Sarcastic, mocking comments. A dry reply from his enthusiastic texts. A quick, good fuck if they were bored enough.

Iris never wanted him. She only ever wanted one thing: security. And when she was married to a Prince, and had another wrapped around her finger? She could do no wrong in the eyes of the throne.

As he drove, the powerful beams of the headlights cast fleeting shadows across the road.

The palace loomed ahead, its silhouette a distant promise of refuge that seemed increasingly out of reach. The anger that coursed through him was a force unto itself, a seething urge that refused to be quelled.

As he approached the grand gates of the palace, his emotions were spilling all over the place. He only had one place in mind: Belleview Manor.

Rounding a corner in the dimly lit hallway of the palace, Rintaro came to an abrupt halt. The reaction of his body was instantaneous: his breath caught in his throat, his muscles locking into place. Before him stood the Queen, her regal presence magnified by the soft, flickering light of the sconces lining the walls. Her silhouette, framed by the rich, opulent draped and the gleaming marble floors, seemed almost otherworldly.

She stood there, unmoving, like she’d somehow known he would be coming any minute now.

Rintaro’s head pounded in his chest. Cold dread washed over him, an icy hand clutching at his insides. The Queen’s serene yet inscrutable expression was nothing but an act, that he knew. In reality, her expressions were alien and foreboding. Her eyes, deceptively warm and reassuring, stared back at him like dark abysses, their depth hinting at the hidden complexities and secrets Rintaro had never cared to consider before.

He felt as if the ground beneath him had shifted, his already unstable world rocked by the revelation of a hidden side to his mother that he never perceived.

He stood frozen, a tangible sense of fear and anger enveloping him as he confronted the unsettling truth: the queen, his mother, was a mystery he had never fully unraveled.

The secrets she harbored, once a vague notion in the back of his mind, now loomed large and menacing, casting a long shadow over his perception of her. The fear that gripped him was profound and disorienting, a jarring contrast to the reverence he had always felt. His whole life, he’d only wanted one thing – to please his mother, to make her proud, to be a Queen’s son worthy of becoming the next King. His whole life he’d only done what he was told.

But in that moment, he was consumed by the chilling realization that the mother he had known and loved was a stranger, and the weight of her concealed truths left him trembling with a profound, unsettling fear.

“You,” he breathed out, his fear now overtaken by his sight going red. He felt mocked, humiliated, used. “Why did you never tell me?”

The memory of that night on the beach was seared into his mind.

He could never forget it – Iris’ sneer, the way her lips curled in contempt, as though he were something beneath her. Her words had cut deep, bleeding into his every being until the truth pounded at his veins. She had looked at him with disdain, her eyes cold and unfeeling, as she spat out how she’d never wanted to be with him, how she’d used him to cure her loneliness. A rejection born from a sick, twisted confession.

And now that he’d fulfilled his purpose in the bleakness of her world, he was nothing more than a disposable distraction. She’d called him worthless, a joke, someone unworthy of her attention – a prince in name but never in her eyes. The wind had whipped around him, cloaked around him like a glacial storm, but it was her biting words that had left him feeling exposed and small.

She’d delivered a stab to his heart that no amount of time could erase.

I never wanted to be with someone like you in the first place.

Didn’t you know, Rin?

You were never the King’s son.

#suna x reader #suna x you #suna rintaro x reader #haikyuu x reader #suna rintaro angst #suna x reader angst #haikyuu angst #kiyoomi x reader #kiyoomi x reader angst #kiyoomi sakusa x reader #sakusa x reader #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #suna rintaro x you #kiyoomi x you #haikyuu x reader angst

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wandering-winchesters · 5 months ago

Text

Under the Stars

Summary: you share a quiet, intimate moment in the woods, where a simple hand-holding leads to a deeper connection under the starry night sky.

Word Count: 607

The evening was quiet, the kind of stillness that settled over the world just before twilight gave way to night. The air was cool, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth as you and Dean Winchester walked side by side down a winding path through the woods. The only sounds were the soft crunch of leaves underfoot and the distant call of an owl somewhere deep in the forest.

You had been walking in companionable silence for a while, both lost in thought, when you felt Dean’s gaze on you. You turned your head to meet his eyes, and the intensity in them made your heart skip a beat. There was something unspoken in that look, something that made the moment feel charged with electricity.

“Can I hold your hand?” Dean’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure what your answer would be.

For a second, you didn’t respond, caught off guard by the vulnerability in his tone. This was the same Dean Winchester who had faced down monsters and demons without flinching, yet here he was, asking you something so simple, so human, with a kind of earnestness that made your heart ache.

Without a word, you reached out and took his hand, your fingers intertwining with his. His grip was warm and firm, grounding you in that moment. The world seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of you standing there, connected by that simple touch.

Dean let out a breath you hadn’t realized he was holding, and you saw a flicker of relief in his eyes, as if he had been afraid you might say no. He squeezed your hand gently, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t a big smile, not the usual cocky grin you were used to seeing, but something softer, more genuine.

As you continued walking, hand in hand, the silence between you felt different—more intimate. Every step you took seemed to sync up, the rhythm of your footsteps matching perfectly, as if you were both moving to the same unspoken beat. The connection between you felt natural, like it had always been there, waiting for the right moment to be acknowledged.

The path eventually led to a clearing, where the trees opened up to reveal a stunning view of the night sky. The stars were out in full force, twinkling like tiny diamonds scattered across a velvet canvas. You both stopped, taking in the beauty of the scene, and you felt Dean’s hand tighten slightly around yours, as if he were anchoring himself in the moment.

“I don’t do this much,” Dean admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “The whole… letting someone in thing. But with you, it feels different. Feels right.”

You turned to look at him, your heart swelling with emotion. “It feels right to me too, Dean.”

He smiled at that, a real smile this time, full of warmth and something that looked an awful lot like hope. You both stood there for a while, just holding hands, staring up at the stars, and enjoying the peacefulness of the night. It was a simple thing, really, but in that simplicity, there was a kind of magic—proof that sometimes, the most powerful connections are forged in the quietest moments.

And as the night deepened, you knew that this was a moment you would both hold onto, a memory that would stay with you no matter where the road took you next. Because in that moment, under the vast expanse of the starry sky, you both found something you hadn’t even realized you were searching for—each other.

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risuola · 8 months ago

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ENTRY #14 ♡ F. READER X GOJO SATORU // You taught me to feel and it overwhelmed me.

contents: arranged marriage!au, nsfw, virgin!reader, reader discretion is advised — wc. 4224

a/n: this series is my baby, i love it so much so please don't mind me posting for it so often, but here goes the long awaited smut entry — enjoy!

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It’s beautiful.

Despite the clouds, the sky still hints some pinks; the orange hues of sunset peeking through the grey fluffy layers that sparsely canopied above, a tell-tale of late hours and looming night. The air is warm and humid, thick with scent of grass and dew and somewhere, far in the distance, a thunder rumble. And then, warm, summer mist of raindrops starts to fall — cool and refreshing, a pleasant relief from the sweltering heat. It feels calm, soothing as the smell of rain makes its way up the atmosphere.

Or maybe it’s you.

You’re there, basking in the serene atmosphere and Satoru thinks you’ll get sick from it, but he doesn’t stop you. You are too beautiful. Smiling and spreading your arms, reaching your face up towards the sky and he watches you, allows you the relief, allows himself to commit the picture of you to memory.

Thin fabric of your dress clings to your body; peaks of hair stick to your forehead and neck but you seem so careless, so happy — he envies you, he envies those strands, he envies the cotton. Your feet are bare, shoes long gone as you stroll through the green meadow, as if all the care of the world had suddenly disappeared. The meeting you’ve both been on just hours ago forgotten, now it’s you and him in the middle of nowhere.

You notice him staring, he’s way too obvious, but you smile at him and he forgets about the world around. “Turn it off,” you speak softly, your voice like silk, and you reach your hands up to cup his dry face.

For a moment, he looks at you, studies you — the way raindrops cling to your skin, to your eyelashes; how they trace the curves of your cheeks and nose, only to drip from the tip of it. He follows the one that makes it lower, languidly running down your cupid’s bow and onto your lips and then, he leans in, kissing it away and letting go of everything but you.

Raindrops are pitter-pattering against his skin and it’s foreign. Clothes grow heavier and goosebumps scatter across his form, but Gojo isn’t entirely sure if it’s because of the rain running down his spine or you in his arms. Maybe it’s you; your fingers teasing at the nape of his neck, nails running through the undercut and your body pressed to his own, your mouth against his mouth.

His eager tongue darts out, seeking permission at the seam of your lips and you part them, allowing him in. The kiss deepens into a tango of passion; an addicting kind of dance that ignites a fire within him and the cool drizzle no longer feels refreshing. Taste of rain mingles with the sweet flavor of you and Satoru’s heart is pounding in his chest, matching the rhythm of raindrops pelting your bodies. Your clothes are soaked, but neither of you seem to mind as you pull yourselves closer.

He wraps his arms around you, tracing the shapes of your hips and back. The warmth of your body pressed into his chest is contrasting vividly with the cold shower from heavens and he craves more. His breath catches in his throat as you reach to unbutton his jacket, your dainty fingers dealing swiftly with the gold button and the zipper — then you pull it off and he lets you, following your movements like an obedient puppy he sheds the outer layer only to have your hands run across his bare skin. The short sleeve sticks to his frame, cotton losing its softness and he feels the sprinkle hitting his back, his arms and neck. It’s running down his body, trickling his muscles and making him shiver in nothing but anticipation.

He grips the fabric of your dress; nervous fingers searching for the zipper and he feels you smiling against his lips. Then you pull, cause him to bend, to sink onto the wet grass and he’s got you on top of his lap. You swallow the gasp that left his mouth and he’s too eager to break the kiss, burning with want and losing his mind over the feel of your weight resting on him.

You’re smiling, panting but not missing a beat in the way you touch him. You explore his shoulders, his back and chest. His needy hands are gripping your sides, running up and down your back as they inch towards the fastener lined with your spine and you moved, tracing his jawline with kisses, savoring the whimpers that barely stand out over the monotonous buzzing of the rain and soft swooshes of wind dancing in the foliage. You kiss his neck, nip at the sensitive spots, discovering them along the way and then, you tug at his t-shirt to reach more of his collarbone and shoulder.

Satoru pulls at the zipper, too harsh, too desperate, but you don’t mind. Your frame shakes gently with giggle and he chuckles too. He loves you. It’s a thought that pops up in his mind for a while now, he loves your smile, your laugh, your taste. You had become a center to his universe, your orbit the only one he wished to follow. Is it weakness? He doesn’t feel weak.

He’s eager, pulling at your sleeves, pushing the fabric of your dress down, crimpling it at your waist and the sight takes his breath away. You’re gorgeous like this, soaked wet and with water trickling down the ups and hollows of your figure, the valley between your breasts, the tender flesh of your stomach and the curve of your hips. The bra you have on, made of nothing but lace, clings to your skin; the crowded pattern of it taunting him with the peek of what’s below and he takes a moment to just admire as he swallows thickly. A knot forms in his throat and stomach and he feels hot, mustering the power within him to gently brush away the wet strands of hair that glued themselves to your collarbones and neck. He swallows again. He’s nervous.

Your eyes flicker to his lips and they’re parted. His breath hitches and you inhale, leaning in and kissing him again. His hands are wandering, exploring your flesh, absorbing the warmth and gliding over your rain-soaked curves. He kisses you — with passion, with need and you feel yourself trembling in his hold. You love him — his eyes, the way he cares, his taste.

You feel his fingers dancing near the clasp of your bra, struggling with it, shaking. He manages to do it, to unhook it and you move your hands away from his hair to let him slip it off. Satoru’s impatient, he tugs his own t-shirt off as you barely pull it up and then, his strong arms are wrapped around your middle, pulling you flush to him. Skin touched the skin and he forgot how to breathe.

Then, you’re down, your back on the grass and he’s right above you. He gasps, allowing his eyes to run down your frame because you are a sight to admire — with your wet hair scattered around your head and your half-bare body glistening from water, surrounded by green glass and delicate flowers. They wished to have your charm. You blush underneath his gaze, warmth spreading across your cheeks and the tips of your ears but you keep smiling, keep panting. He wants more.

Satoru leans in, kissing your lips, your chin and down your neck. Raindrops are drumming against the expanse of his back as he hovers above you, kissing you, tasting you. He presses his nose against your skin, inhales you — the subtle mixture of your natural scent and the perfume you always wear makes him dizzy and he licks you. He’s biting, nipping at your skin ever so gently, sucking little red spots all over you as the reminder that you gave him what he finds the most valuable in the world — yourself.

He wants everything, he craves everything and you’re willing to give it to him. One of his hands run up the curve of your hip, his thumb brushing the underside of your left breast — a silent plea for permission to go higher and you purr, he feels it under his cheek and his nose. A soft groan escapes his mouth as he feels the soft flesh of your chest, both under his palm and his lips and you whimper when his tongue flicks against your nipple; the hot muscle a stark contrast to the cold rain on your skin and you bury your fingers into his hair, finding purchase in the wet, white strands.

Satoru feels like he’s starving and only you can ease his hunger. He licks the raindrops off your body, tease the sensitive spots and nips. You are a feast he cannot get enough of; his tongue twirls and flicks, his teeth grazing your nipple as he latches onto it, kissing and suckling the bud and skin around it, making it red and swollen — all while his hand finds the other one. He cups your breast, his thumb brush around the nipple and he’s rolling it between his pads, tweaking and tugging at the sensitive peak. He’s lost in the taste of you, the feel of your skin under his tongue. He groans against you, sending vibrations through your body and you gasp aloud from the intoxicating pleasure of his touch.

You’re a putty in his hands, soft and pliable, responsive to his whims and he can hear your heart drumming below the cage of your ribs, echoing through your sternum as he presses a searing line of kisses along it. Then he trails lower, reaches your stomach, follows the curves and edges, and leaves his marks here and there — each of them causing those tiny sounds to leave your mouth. Satoru loves the melody.

He reaches the layers of your gathered dress that pool around your hips and tugs at it and you raise your hips off the ground to help him. Satoru groans at the sight of your underwear, a simple cotton adorned with the same lace that your bra was made from, now soaked wet and translucent against your complexion. The sight is teasing, taunting and he’s still hungry.

The kisses he leaves on your thighs burn, sending waves of heat throughout your body. There’s lava inside your veins, reaching up the very tips of your frame. You feel admired, worshipped by the god himself, you feel loved. Desired. You’re hot, feverish, the excitement is bubbling inside your chest and pooling below your stomach; narrowing your thoughts only to the man that kisses your ankles as if you were a goddess he wished to devote himself to.

“You are so beautiful,” he voices his thoughts, the only ones he has right now. “I need you, my god, I need you more than air.”

“I’m yours,” and he’s hooking his fingers at the band of your panties, tugging them off, tossing them away — the soft lace gets lost in the tall grass but he doesn’t care. He’s gentle with you when he pulls you closer, when he runs his palms up your inner thighs, when he leans in and kisses the most intimate parts of you. Your back arches and your head fall back; a soft, quiet moan slips through your parted lips when his tongue finds where you need him the most.

The first lick has him moaning, his tongue parting your sensitive folds and running up between them until he reaches your clit and you’re twitching beneath him. Satoru’s messy about it, sloppily slurping and licking, sucking and teasing. He’s making out with your pussy, wetly lapping at your puffy bundle and setting your nerves alight, making you squirm against the wet grass and even the downpour isn’t enough to cool you down anymore. You’re seething, whimpering, writhing in his grasp and he holds you firmly — one hand set around your thigh, the pads of his fingers digging into your plump flesh, and the other ghosting at your entrance, spreading the slick and saliva all over your pretty pussy. He could stay there.

Gojo’s deliberate when he eases his way into you, sinking his long digit in slowly and he begins to move, soon finding the rhythm that matches his oral ministrations. You’re so tight, so responsive, so delicious. He’s addicted.

“Feels good?” He asks, panting and kissing your trembling thigh, pressing his cheek to the plush of it. His cerulean blue eyes, lidded with heat and desire, search for yours and he smiles, seeing you so hazed.

He looks ethereal — with his hair down and wet, messily brushed back and with few loose strands stuck to his damp forehead. His lips are glossed with saliva and your juices, so red and swollen, you wish to kiss them, to bite them. Drops of rain are running down his cheeks, he looks like an angel crying. You want to worship him.

“S’good,” you reply, the sound barely leaving your mouth in a coherent way before you’re moaning again. The second finger slips into you and you struggle to accommodate him at first. Then, he’s back at the supper, his tongue working overtime at your swollen clit, flattening against it and twirling around, delving deeper and deeper. His hand holds onto your hip as he devours you, his fingers moving in sync, in and out, scissoring inside you, stretching you bit by bit and he curls them, searching for the spot that will send you over the edge.

“There it is,” he grins, his words muffled by the way he keeps himself nose deep into your sopping cunny. You’re arching off the ground, crying out his name, seeing stars and he’s learning your body, studying it, memorizing. He wishes to know it all and then, he hopes he’ll forget and learn it all over again.

Satoru rubs his fingers against the spongey spot inside you and your thighs tremble, close on him. He feels your muscles tensing, clamping his fingers and his name is slipping through your lips in a whiney melody that has him humming — the soft currents of vibrations go straight into your clit. He doubles the efforts, lapping at it, pressing wet kisses all over you and each time his mouth moves to find the plush flesh of your thighs, his thumb is rubbing heated circles along your folds, toying with you.

He looks up at you, watches as you come undone; all the pushes and pulls, jolts and trembles telling him that you’re close — so very close that if he only wished to, he’d push you over the edge. But he doesn’t. The pleasure stops and your chest is heaving. He swallows the moan that leaves your mouth with a wet and messy kiss, all teeth and tongue and you can taste yourself on his lips.

“I’m—so, so sorry—” he mumbles between kisses and he moves down towards the pulse on your neck. “I need to feel all of that on myself, I—” he whines, “I need you to come undone while filled with me—” His words blur against your skin, they mingle in his mouth. He’s so pussy-drunk, he can barely think. His cock is straining against his pants, aching to feel you, begging for any kind of friction and he’s close to be grinding on you. He feels like an animal in heat. Thirsty. Desperate.

You hum — whimper — and grip him suddenly, pushing him over, rolling on top of him and Satoru’s brain short circuit when the plushy weight of your ass rests on top of his aching crotch. The sight of you on him nearly makes him lose his mind — your naked, perfect body scattered so beautifully with red marks of his mouth and teeth. Every beauty mark that adorned your skin, every scar and every crease made him wonder if god worked on you himself. Your hands running up and down his chest, exploring his toned body cause his blood to boil with desire. Then you kiss him, kiss his chest, tease his nipples and he thinks he’ll implode just like that. His hips buck up, his rock-hard cock twitching, begging for any sort of friction and release and he feels the sticky precum soaking his underwear.

You move down and your fingers shake a little when you unbutton his pants. “Take your time,” he coos, rubbing the sides of your thigh despite the urge to take you then and there. Despite the need to fuck you silly, he stays gentle with you. His breath pauses and the first contact of cool air and raindrops with his cock has him moaning. And then, you wrap your fingers around him, your warm, soft palm struggling to envelop him whole, but it’s perfect to him. He’s ready to bust.

You move along his dick, thumb gliding over the slit at the top, collecting the pearls of precum and spreading them down his shaft. His veins are prominent against the pads of your hand, he’s heavy as you hold him, twitching at your touch. His abs are tensing, feet plant themselves onto the ground and you know he’s desperate. “Sweethea—haah,” he whines, his fingers dig into your thighs and you know it’ll bruise.

He looks at you and you offer him a soft smile — one that’s sincere, it’s loving and he could just melt against the green bed of nature.

And then, you move again and his mind goes blank. You stroke him again, spreading the slick all over him and then, the tip of his cock slides between your folds. You’re teasing him, not allowing him to enter just yet as you make sure your juices coat him thoroughly and he moans again. The way you roll your hips, the way your slippery pussy rubs along the side of his erection has him seeing stars. Sticky ropes of precum coat his lower belly, stretching between his skin and the tip of his cock when you’re moving. “Please, I beg yo—” he tries but words die down on his tongue when finally, finally, you sink down onto him.

It’s good, too good, it’s too much. It’s not enough.

He’s overwhelmed, his senses struggle to catch up.

There’s nothing else but you.

He reaches his hands to find purchase upon your waist, he holds onto you as you slowly nestle yourself on top of him. The sight of his cock being swallowed whole by your gummy walls for the first time is so deeply erotic, he thinks he’ll never see anything better. You’re dizzy with pleasure as you dig your nails into his skin. Satoru reaches up to cup your face, brushing soothing circles onto your cheek as he watches your features contort in discomfort — you’re new to this and he’s your first; he’s planting his feet onto the slippery grass, keeping his hips in place despite the desperate need to buck them into you. In seconds, the pain fades into nothing and your body relaxes.

He stretches you so good, so fucking good, you already feel the knots forming at the pit of your stomach. “It’s okay,” you promise, nuzzling into the warmth of his palm and kissing the heel of it. Then his hand falls back to rest on your waist; the muscles in his body ripple underneath his pale skin and he grunts lowly when you move for the first time. Your hips rolled against him and he could die like this.

“My god, you’re—” he whimpers, pulling you onto him, flush to his chest and bucking his hips upwards. His arms wrap around you, his lips find yours as he finds his pace — slow and steady first, then faster, and wetter, and deeper, “perfect,” and he kisses you, wet, sloppy, “so tight, so—“, he needs more, “I love you so much,” he whispers and you moan.

He’s leading the movements, despite being on the bottom and you let him. Your lips never leave his skin, you press your nose to the crook of his neck and your eyes are tightly shut. “I love you,” you cry out, “I lo–ve yo–“ you love him. “I love you—” you do. It’s a whisper, it’s a plea, it’s a scream. The words are shattering in your throat but you’re desperate to let them out, to let him know.

“I love you,” he echoes, his fingers digging into your flesh and he’s about to lose himself. The wet, slapping sounds of two bodies colliding bounce between the trees, it’s mingling with the melody of ecstasy and lust. He feels so good, you feel so good.

Satoru’s hips stutter, he feels his balls tightening. Your walls clench and pulsate and you bite onto his shoulder to muffle the screams when one of his hands snakes between your bodies, fingers eagerly rubbing at your throbbing, puffy clit. You’re close, you’re squirming, trying to run away, you’re so close, but he holds you. His name is all your vocabulary, he’s all your thoughts, he’s the air you breathe and the blood in your veins.

“’m s’ close,” he whines, nuzzling his nose into your wet hair, “w–where—?”

“Inside, you can com—aah,” you cannot take it any longer and Satoru moans loudly. He pulls your head to look at you, he wants to see your face. Your walls tighten as you come, pushing him out and sucking him in at the same time, milking him for all he’s worth and he feels your juices coating him in a sticky layer of filth. A thick, white ring of cream gathers at the base of his cock and he’s soon coming as well — his moves are rushed, erratic; hot torrents of seed sprouting deep inside your tight canal as he pumps it deeper, coating your insides with white, filling you to the brim and overflowing.

Your eyes are glazed with tears and his are not better. Your breaths mingle as he kisses you — slowly, messily, nearly missing your lips. His head falls back, white hair spread against the grass and you relax on him as the final stutters of his hips calm down.

Satoru has never felt as much as right now.

No infinity, no barriers.

Just him and the wet grass tickling his shoulders, his nape, his cheeks, and hips. The rain drumming gently against his skin, cold on his hot body. The wind, ghosting over him and then you.

You.

Your breath fanning his sensitive neck, your nose nuzzling somewhere beneath his jawline. Your weight resting on top of him — comfortable, relaxed, perfect. Your hands on his body, your skin pressed to his skin.

He has never felt so much.

And he loves you.

He has never loved anyone that much.

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♡ EXTRA ♡

You giggle softly and his mouth is curved into a sheepish smile. You didn’t expect this when pulling him onto the vibrant green grass, you truly didn’t see that coming but here you are — your hands buried within his hair, lathering the third round of shampoo and you massage his scalp, brushing your fingers through the once pristine white strands, now scattered in green-ish stains.

Satoru’s lips are glued to your skin, pressing gentle kisses all over your neck and chest and he doesn’t care about his hair. In fact, he’s grateful for the incident because it allowed him to have you there longer — in a hot bath that you both agreed that you needed after spending so much time in cool rain and on the wet ground. You’re on his lap, the soapy foam is running down the curves of your body and you try to wash his hair, to bring it back to its usual snowy shade and he’s sure you’ll manage to do so.

His hands run up and down your hips, trace the line of your spine and he loves his place in between your breasts. It’s warm and soft, it’s close to your heartbeat. “How is it going?” He asks, though he doesn’t care. Your fingers rubbing his scalp feel heavenly, he wishes the green is still there.

“Let’s see,” but you’re serious about it as you tug at the strands just enough to prompt him to tilt his head back and you grab the showerhead, beginning to slowly rinse the lather off. He watches you, the focus on your beautiful face, the adorable pout on your lips and the joyful glimmer in your eyes. You’re gentle with him, not a drop of shampoo or water reaches his eyes and he thinks he doesn’t deserve you. “There we go,” your face breaks into a grin, “white like new, no more green spots,” you seem proud of your achievement and he’s proud of you.

He hums in response and your eyes flicker to him; you lean in and kiss the very tip of his nose. In few moments his hair is covered in conditioner and you slowly allow yourself to sink under the surface of warm water, resting your head on your husband’s peck and nestling into the strong embrace of his arms. His lips press to the top of your head.

It’s a dream. It must be.

And if it is, he doesn’t want to wake up.

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hjvi · 15 days ago

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𝘾𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙔𝙤𝙪

Pairing: Chris Sturniolo x Fem!Reader

Summary: Intimacy, intimacy, intimacy.

Warnings: Smut. MDNI. Kissing, touching, fingering. Inexperienced and slightly innocent reader. Loss of virginity.

You’re sitting on the worn, overstuffed couch in Christopher’s basement, the dim light of a single lamp casting a golden glow over the room. The faint hum of his laptop sits in the background, but your focus is entirely on him. Christopher—your Christopher—is pacing, talking a mile a minute, hands flying in every direction as he tells you about some ridiculous idea for a YouTube video. To anyone else, he’d be this loud, fast-talking ball of energy, hard to follow and even harder to keep up with. But to you, he’s everything.

Ever since you were kids, you’ve known a side of Chris that no one else sees. To everyone else, he was the annoying kid who couldn’t sit still, who blurted out answers in class without raising his hand, and who was always two steps ahead of himself. But you—you saw the quiet moments. The times when he’d focus so intently on a drawing or a thought, his blue eyes narrowing in concentration, the world fading around him. You saw the way he’d bite his lip when he was nervous or how his hands fidgeted when he was trying to keep his energy under control. To you, he wasn’t just loud or impatient—he was a puzzle, intricate and endlessly fascinating. And for some reason, you were the only person who seemed to want to figure him out.

The two of you grew up in the same neighborhood, your houses just a few blocks apart. Your earliest memory of Chris is of him at a birthday party when you were six. He’d been the kid running around with cake smeared on his face, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. But later that same day, you’d found him sitting under the dining table, quietly drawing pictures of dinosaurs on the napkins. He’d looked up when you crawled under to join him and smiled, wide and genuine. “You like dinosaurs too?” he’d asked, his tone curious, his smile so warm it felt like sunshine. From that moment, it was like you’d known each other forever.

As the years passed, your friendship deepened. Chris was the only friend you ever needed. He was loud, sure, but he always made space for you. No matter how chaotic his energy was, he’d stop everything to listen when you needed to talk. It amazed you how someone so full of life could also be so present, so deeply invested in you. He’d lean back in his chair, hands still for once, his blue eyes locked on yours. “You’re seriously the only person who gets me,” he’d say, and you’d believe him.

When you were ten, the two of you made a promise. It was one of those silly, half-serious pacts kids make late at night when the world feels a little too big. You were sitting on his bed, the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling casting faint shadows. “If we don’t have anyone else by the time we’re, like, old—I dunno, twenty-five or something—we’ll just get married, okay?” he’d said, his tone light but his eyes sincere. You’d laughed and agreed, pinky-promising under the covers.

You never told anyone about that promise, but it stayed with you. Maybe because deep down, you’d always known there was something different about the way you felt about Chris. You’d always loved him, in one way or another. But it wasn’t until recently that you realized he loved you too—not just as a friend, but as something more.

It happened one night a few weeks ago. The two of you were sitting on the hood of his car, parked at the edge of an empty lot. The sky was clear, stars scattered across the black canvas above you. Chris was quieter than usual, his leg bouncing as he stared out into the night.

“Hey,” he’d said suddenly, turning to look at you. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course,” you’d replied, your voice soft.

He’d hesitated, his usual confidence faltering. Then he’d smiled, small and shy. “I think I’ve been in love with you since, like, forever. You’re the best part of my life, you know that?”

Your heart had stopped, then started again, pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. You’d felt your cheeks heat up, and for a moment, all you could do was nod.

Since then, everything had shifted. You and Chris were still you, still the same two kids who had grown up together, but now there was something more. You’d found yourself leaning into it, letting yourself be vulnerable in a way you never had before.

But there were still parts of you that held back. Chris had always been so sure of himself, so full of life, while you had always been a little more reserved. You loved the way he looked at you, like you were the only person in the world, but sometimes you couldn’t help but feel self-conscious. You’d always been thin, your body a mix of sharp angles and soft curves, and while Chris never seemed to notice the things you picked apart about yourself, the insecurity lingered.

The evening in Christopher’s basement feels like every other moment you’ve spent with him, but there’s a new charge in the air, one you can’t ignore. The two of you are on the worn couch again, the soft hum of the paused movie barely audible in the background. His arm rests along the back of the couch, his fingers brushing the ends of your hair. It’s a small touch, one that sends warmth rushing through you.

Chris leans closer, and his voice is softer than usual. “You okay?” he asks, those piercing blue eyes of his locking on yours.

You nod, smiling at the way his concern seems to melt into relief almost instantly. He tilts his head, his messy hair falling into his face just a bit. “Good,” he says, his lips twitching into that familiar, crooked smile that’s always made your heart stutter.

His hand brushes your hair from your face, and for a moment, it feels like the world has slowed. He moves in closer, his lips hovering just inches from yours. The tension is palpable, hanging between you two, thick like a storm that’s about to break. The quiet pulse of your heartbeat fills your ears

You don’t remember who moved first, but suddenly his lips are on yours. It’s gentle at first, an exploration, a shared breath as if testing the waters. But as his lips press against yours again, firmer this time, something shifts. His hands slip behind your neck, pulling you in closer, tilting your head as his mouth moves against yours with more urgency. You respond in kind, your fingers finding the soft curls at the nape of his neck, tugging him closer still. His lips part slightly, and you follow suit, the kiss deepening as your breath quickens.

You kiss him back, feeling the heat of him spread through you. The world fades, and it’s just the two of you, the taste of him on your lips, the soft slide of his mouth against yours. You lean in, deepening the kiss.

His hand slips from your neck, trailing slowly down your body, fingertips brushing the edge of your shirt, and then—deliberate—he slides his hand beneath the fabric. His touch sends a shiver down your spine, his fingers warm against the bare skin of your waist. You feel him hesitate for just a split second, his touch lingering there, waiting for permission.

He pulls back for a moment, his breath hot against your lips. His eyes are locked on yours, searching for something, maybe reassurance, maybe a signal to continue. You can see the longing in his gaze, but there’s something else there too—a tenderness that cuts through the heat of the moment.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, his voice low and raspy, as if he’s afraid of pushing you too far, too fast.

You nod, your throat tight, but even in the dim light, you feel exposed—vulnerable in a way you’ve never been before. “Yeah… just… just slow down a little,” you say, the words coming out in a breathy whisper. You reach up, your fingers trailing down his chest, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt.

He nods, his fingers trailing down your arm before they find your shirt. With a sudden surge of confidence, he starts unbuttoning it, his fingers careful but sure. You can feel every movement, every inch of fabric that loosens, as if the small space between you and him is collapsing with each passing second.

As the fabric falls open, his fingers trace the curve of your collarbone, the heat of his touch spreading through you like wildfire. You shiver beneath his hand, but instead of moving away, he closes the distance again, kissing you harder, deeper, as though he can’t stop himself, as though the world outside the two of you has ceased to exist.

His lips leave yours, trailing down to your neck, and you gasp, feeling the soft press of his mouth against your skin. His hands move, carefully but insistently, exploring, learning the shape of you. You feel exposed, vulnerable—but with Chris, it’s different. It’s safe. He’s not rushing, not forcing anything; he’s savoring every inch of you.

You pull him back up to kiss him again, your hands tangled in his hair, pulling him into you with a hunger that surprises you. He groans softly, pressing his body against yours, the heat of him intoxicating. Your hearts beat in sync now, and everything else—the noise, the world outside, the insecurities—fades into the background.

His lips move to your neck, kissing the soft skin just below your ear, and you shiver, your breath catching in your throat. He pauses again, his lips lingering there as if savoring the taste of your skin. His hands are now at the hem of your shirt, sliding it upwards, slowly exposing more of your bare skin.

You don’t stop him immediately. Instead, you close your eyes, letting yourself drown in the sensation. But when his fingers move lower, his touch now bold and unhesitant, you freeze. His fingers find the clasp of your bra, the small piece of fabric that is the last barrier between you and the vulnerability you’re feeling in this moment.

It’s not that you don’t want him, not that you don’t trust him. But something inside you shifts, a rush of uncertainty flooding you all at once. You swallow hard, the intensity of the situation pulling you back to earth. You place your hand gently on his chest, stopping him just as his fingers brush the clasp.

“Chris… wait,” you murmur, your voice shaky.

He pulls back immediately, his eyes wide with concern, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His brow furrows in concern, and his voice is low and steady when he speaks. “I’m sorry… I—I didn’t mean to—”

You shake your head, your fingers pressing lightly against his chest, grounding yourself. “No, it’s not that… it’s just—” You pause, looking into his eyes, seeing the question there. “I’m not ready for that. Not yet.”

His shoulders relax, but his gaze doesn’t waver. He nods slowly, his lips pressing into a thin line as he processes your words. “Okay,” he says, his voice soft but certain. “That’s all you ever have to say, you know? I’m not here to push you into anything.”

You drop your hand from his wrist, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, his hand lingers on your side, the touch no longer exploring but reassuring. “It’s not just that,” you continue, your voice shaky. “I—I don’t feel… good about myself. I know I’m too thin, and I just don’t—”

“Stop,” he interrupts gently, his tone firm but full of warmth. “Don’t do that to yourself, okay? You’re not ‘too’ anything. You’re you, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

Tears well up in your eyes, and you glance away, feeling vulnerable under his steady gaze. But Chris isn’t having it. He shifts so that he’s kneeling on the couch in front of you, his hands coming up to cradle your face. “Look at me,” he says, his thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes where the tears threaten to spill. “You’re beautiful, m’kay? Not because of what you think you should look like or whatever you’re comparing yourself to. You’re beautiful because you’re you. And I swear, I’ll spend the rest of my life reminding you of that if I have to.”

The sincerity in his voice leaves you breathless. You blink up at him, and when he sees the tears falling, he leans in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m serious,” he murmurs against your skin. “You never have to explain yourself to me. I’ll always wait for you, no matter how long it takes. Because it’s not about me, or even this. It’s about us.”

You nod, your hands finding their way to his as they rest against your cheeks. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He shakes his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “You don’t have to thank me. I love you, that’s all.”

The two of you stay like that for a long time, the weight of the conversation settling into a comforting quiet. Eventually, Chris pulls you into his arms, shifting so that you’re both lying back on the couch. His hand runs gently up and down your arm, his touch soothing.

He leans forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “Take all the time you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

You breathe out a sigh of relief, feeling the weight of your own emotions settle in the safety of his words. He’s not in a hurry. He’s not pushing you. And somehow, that makes everything feel better, more right. The tension that had been building between you two dissolves into something quieter, softer. You still feel the heat of him beside you, the pull of his presence—but now, it feels like something you’re ready to embrace, when the time comes.

And as the night stretches on, you both stay there, wrapped up in each other, waiting for whatever comes next. The promise of more—a promise that can’t be broken.

But as the hours tick by and the night grows colder, you can feel it: things are about to change. The future, unknown and full of possibilities, awaits just beyond the horizon.

And whatever it holds, you know one thing for sure: you’ll face it together.

Months have passed since that night, and the walls you’d so carefully built between the two of you are beginning to feel fragile—like old bricks slowly crumbling, piece by piece. With every moment you’ve spent with Chris since, the weight of the space between you has only grown heavier, more unbearable. There’s something in the air now, a shift that feels as inevitable as the tide. You can feel it in the way he looks at you, in the way his voice deepens when he speaks your name, in the way his hands linger on your body just a little longer than before.

The tension between you both has escalated, winding itself around every glance, every touch, every whispered conversation. What started as tentative steps into new territory—those quiet, soft moments—has gradually transformed into something more intense, more urgent. You’ve grown so close that it’s almost suffocating in the best possible way, each of you navigating the space between comfort and longing, between safety and desire.

You’ve taken things much further now. Your lips no longer linger at the edge of hesitation; they meet his with fervor, with want, with a fire that feels like it could burn through everything in its path. The warmth of his touch sends waves of electricity through you, leaving you breathless and wanting more. You’ve learned every contour of his body, every curve of his smile, the exact way his lips feel against yours.

But none of it is enough.

You’ve built something with Chris, something you know is real, something you can’t imagine living without. But every time his hands trace the line of your back, his fingers brushing against the bare skin under your shirt, every time his lips leave a trail of soft kisses down your neck, it only leaves you wanting more. Not just his touch—not just the feeling of him beside you—but the intensity of everything he makes you feel, the wild, untamed yearning that has settled in your chest, burning brighter with each passing day.

It’s hard to put into words, the way it’s grown. The longing, the craving—it’s like a hunger you can’t ignore, can’t sate, no matter how many times your lips meet, how many times his hands gently pull you closer. You need more. You need him like you’ve never needed anything before. Your body aches for him in a way you hadn’t fully realized until now—until every moment you’ve spent with him has built to this crescendo, this pressure that you can’t push down anymore. It’s there when he smiles at you, his eyes full of mischief and sincerity all at once. It’s there when he touches you, his fingertips grazing your skin like a spark that could light the fuse of something you’ve been holding back for too long.

Tonight, the air feels thick with it. You’re sitting next to him on his couch, the soft hum of his laptop still present in the background, but it’s drowned out by the sound of your breathing, your heart pounding in your chest. The way his hand rests just inches from yours—your fingers brushing, the slightest touch—sets your pulse racing. Every movement he makes is like a promise, every glance, every small laugh, an invitation.

He shifts closer, his thigh pressed against yours, the warmth of his body radiating through your clothes. His arm finds its way around your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side, and for a moment, you just lean into him, taking in the feeling of his proximity. But the moment doesn’t last long. You can’t ignore the way his lips linger near your ear, the way his breath fans over your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You know,” he murmurs, his voice low and soft, teasing, “I’ve been thinking about this... about us... a lot lately.”

You turn your head slightly, meeting his gaze. His eyes are darker now, filled with a mixture of warmth and desire that makes your heart skip a beat. He’s not talking about just the past few months of your friendship, not talking about the casual touches or the quiet moments where your hearts would connect in a way you never thought possible. He’s talking about something more, something that neither of you has fully embraced yet.

“I want you, m’kay?” he says, his voice rough around the edges, his hand sliding down to your waist. His fingers press into your side gently, but you can feel the strength in his touch. It’s almost as if he’s trying to hold back, trying to be respectful of the space you’ve both created over the months, but the desire is too strong now.

You breathe out, feeling your chest tighten as he leans in, his lips barely brushing against yours. The kiss is slow, deliberate, his lips moving against yours with an intensity that makes everything else fall away. His hand moves up to cup your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, and you feel it—everything you’ve been craving—crash over you in waves.

You’ve always known how much you wanted him, but this? This is different. This feels like a tipping point, a line you’re both about to cross. And as his kiss deepens, as his hand slides down to your back, pulling you closer, you know it’s no longer about holding back. It’s about surrendering to what’s between you, letting it consume you in the way you’ve longed for.

His lips trail down to your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You tilt your head back slightly, giving him better access, the pulse in your throat beating in time with the wild thrum of your heart. His hands move with purpose now, slipping under your shirt, his fingers grazing the skin of your stomach, sending a wave of heat rushing through you.

And then his fingers find the clasp of your bra. There’s no hesitation now. His touch is confident, sure. You can feel the pressure of his hand against your skin as he works at it, slowly and deliberately. But just as the clasp starts to loosen, you freeze. It’s not that you don’t want him—it’s that you feel yourself on the edge of something, something that makes you nervous but excited all at once.

You place your hand gently on his chest, stopping him. It’s not a rejection; it’s just… a moment of clarity. You pull back slightly, your breath ragged, and meet his eyes. His expression softens, and his lips curl into a small, reassuring smile.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice gentle, full of concern. “I don’t want to rush you.”

You take a deep breath, nodding slowly. “I want this, Chris. I really do."

On one particular Saturday night in the midst of autumn, you found yourself propped up against Chris’s side on one of the couches in the triplets party, legs bent up at your chest as you fiddled with frayed denim at the end of your pant leg. Chris was in a debate with a random man, someone he seemed to know well enough to bullshit with, talking about how the two had snagged something good off a rich man’s car not too long ago.

If it hadn’t been for the incessant rap music Nick played when it rounded two in the morning you’d likely have fallen asleep against Chris, but the occasional jump of a new song kept you jerking awake, a tired pout situating itself on your features as you rested your cheek against Chris’s shoulder.

“Looks like your miss is real tired.” The man stated, taking a long puff from his cigar before gesturing toward you with the end of it, a snicker following his words as he propped himself up against the end of his pool cue. Chris quirked a brow, looking down at you where you were tucked into his side with a hidden smile.

“Guess she is.” He murmured, not saying anything more beyond that before moving to prop himself up straighter, hand smoothing down your back as he looked down at you. “Tired?”

You weren’t tired, tired. More so bored, the constant scent of smoke and alcohol wasn’t helping the boredom or the budding headache in the back of your skull. But knowing if you said anything other than ‘yes’ at that moment would result in another hour downstairs, you nodded, feigning a yawn as you let your eyes flutter deceptively.

Chris caught on, but he didn’t say anything. Instead choosing to click his tongue against his teeth as he played along, shrugging as he moved to stand. “I’ll see you later, man.” He stated, causing the older man to shrug himself before dispersing off into the crowd. Chris turned to you, helping you to your feet before leading you up the stairs.

“Lyin’ is a sin, y’know that right?” He chuckled out, quiet enough for only you to hear as he nudged open his bedroom door with the toe of his shoe, causing you to laugh yourself and avert your gaze from his as you moved into the familiar room.

“Didn’t lie.” You mumbled out, another pout crossing your lips as you kicked off your shoes, making your way to his bed. “Real tired, Chrissy.”

“Sure, doll.” He snickered from the corner of the room as you made yourself comfortable on the bed, the familiar metallic clang of his belt hitting the wooden floor echoing throughout the room soon after.

He moved beside you then, letting out a sigh as he wrapped his arms around your middle, pulling your back flush with his chest. The sound of rap music and clattering pool balls still echoed from downstairs, but the only thing you could bring yourself to focus on was the feeling of Chris’s knee between your legs.

It was an innocent move, both of you slept with your legs intertwined, it felt comfortable given how small his bed was. As he shifted to get more comfortable his knee pressed harder against your clothed cunt, causing your cheeks to flush red as you choked back a whine. Chris stiffened, breath catching in his throat as he took a moment to gauge your reaction before moving his knee again.

“Chri-“ You whined, hand moving down in between your legs as you buried your face into the pillow you two shared, his scent lingering heavily on the fabric doing nothing to quell the growing ache between your legs.

“What, doll? Feel good?” He whispered, words ghosting across the nape of your neck, causing your back to arch involuntarily as you slowly nodded. His hand smoothed down your front, bumping over the fabric of your shirt and jeans as he slowly moved to cup your sex, ever so gently applying pressure as he rocked himself against you.

You felt yourself soaking your underwear with arousal the longer he rutted against you, his fingers pressing against your cunt through your jeans as he did. A familiar sensation bloomed in your lower stomach, one that left you clenching your thighs around his palm as you tried to quell the growing ache.

“Gotta tell me what you want.” He whispered against the shell of your ear, trailing a litany of open-mouthed kisses along the curvature of your throat, pressure from his fingers increasing against your cunt. “Need to hear you say it.”

“Fuck, Christopher, just fuck me.” You whined, embarrassment over the prospect of voicing your needs soon being overweighed by the sheer need you felt for him, your hand moved to grasp at his forearm as you begged. “Please, Chris.”

That seemed to be all he needed as he moved to sit up on his knees, pressing another kiss to your jaw before pulling his shirt up and over his head. You laid there, lips parted as you watched him undress, feeling your blush spread from your cheeks to the top of your chest. You wanted to touch him, feel him, kiss him - so you did. You moved to sit up, folding your legs underneath yourself as you moved to press a kiss to his lips, hands moving to cup his jaw, only pulling away when you felt that familiar pull to touch him elsewhere.

You’d seen him without a shirt, but you’d never truly been able to admire him until now. Your hands wavered over his body, fingertips dipping in between the rivets of his toned skin, along healed scars, a faint bruise that still lingered under the left side of his ribcage. Above it all you found yourself fascinated with the way his chest rose with each breath and the small freckles that lined his skin. They reminded you of the ones he’d gotten from his time in the sun that plastered themselves against his cheekbones and upper shoulders.

Chris let you look, eyes fluttering whenever your hands would drift farther south than before. You could hear him taking in shuddering breaths, chest catching every few minutes as though he were teetering on the edge of self-control. He raised his hands then, looking to you for approval before he lifted your shirt up and over your head, bundling the soft fabric in his hands before letting it fall to the floor.

You reached your hands behind yourself, unclasping your bra, letting the straps fall down your shoulders until your bra collapsed into your lap, exposing your breasts to him. He felt his throat dry, blue eyes flickering between your chest and your eyes before he moved to gently lay you back against his bed, situating himself over top of you.

“You want this?” His words were hushed as his hand drifted down over your bare stomach, slowly unbuttoning your jeans as he kept his gaze locked on your face, watching for any sign of discomfort or worry. When you responded with a nod and a quiet, “I want this.” He smiled, a soft laugh leaving him as he leaned down to press a kiss to your lips.

You’d envisioned losing your virginity hundreds of times, a perfect encapsulation of what sex had to be painted in your mind, vivid and blaring. But this was so different, the way Chris was so gentle, not afraid to laugh if something awkward happened, both of you sharing the pure moment of intimacy with smiles on your face. Nothing could’ve ever prepared you for it and that somehow made it all so much better.

As he slid your jeans off your legs he smiled up at you, a soft look on his face as he tossed the denim to the floor, moving back up to place another languid kiss to your lips. His hand moved between your thighs, fingers splaying against your cunt through your underwear, a groan passing his lips when he felt just how wet you’d become.

“Chris, please-“ You begged, thighs trembling as he continued to tease you through your underwear. He relented, placing a gentle kiss to your jaw before moving to sit back up, slowly sliding your underwear down and off your body before discarding them to the floor as well.

“So beautiful.” He murmured, eyes wandering over your form laid in front of him, hands smoothing up and down your sides as he took it all in. “So fuckin’ beautiful, doll.”

You watched with bated breath as he slipped his jeans off, kicking his boxers off along with them. His length was bigger than you’d anticipated, only having felt the shape of it when you’d ground down against him during your frequent make-out sessions. As if sensing your apprehension he moved back over you, hand moving to cup your cheek as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“It won’t hurt, alright? We’ll take it slow, real slow.” He whispered, voice soothing as he helped you to wrap your legs around his hips, your heels subtly digging into the flesh of his lower back. He smiled down at you, eyes voicing a silent question if you were alright to which you quickly nodded back, a smile upon your face as well.

He braced himself on his arm, face close to yours as he slid a hand down between you, helping to guide himself inside before sliding his fingers up to slowly circle your clit. A moan left you at the feeling, leaving you clenching around his tip, the feeling causing him to bite back a grunt as he slowly began pushing in.

“Fuck, you’re so tight.” He groaned out, brows screwing together as he pushed himself to the hilt inside of your welcoming cunt, pausing in his movements to give you a chance to grow used to the feeling. “Doin’ so good, baby, so good.”

You’d heard horror stories from your friends, tales of how their first time had been painful and rushed, but this felt the complete opposite. While it took you a moment to grow used to the feeling of him inside of you, A sharp groan slips from your lips, the sound escaping before you can stop it. The sharp sting still lingers, a fiery sensation that makes every breath feel a little too heavy. You try to steady yourself, but the pain pulses with each movement, teasing you with its intensity.

You close your eyes, waiting for the sharpness to subside, the heat gradually fading into a dull throb. The tension in your body tightens, but you force yourself to relax, to let the stinging tone down. It’s a slow burn, a lingering reminder of just how real everything feels right now it was an incredibly welcome feeling. You could feel yourself clenching down around him, his fingers circling your clit only adding to the feeling building in your stomach.

“Chris- Chris, move.” You whispered out, voice hoarse as you grasped at his shoulders, desperate for him to move. He snickered at your pleading tone, slowly pulling himself out before pushing back in, slowly and deeply fucking you as he whispered words of praise into the crook of your neck, pressing kisses against your damp skin whenever he couldn’t help but moan at the feeling of your warmth surrounding him.

You could hear your wetness coating his cock with each thrust of his hips, his fingers slick against your clit. The room was filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, broken-off moans, and whispered words. Your thighs tightened against him as he adjusted himself, lifting himself a bit, unknowingly brushing against a spot within you that you’d never known existed - one that pulled a drawn-out moan from your chest.

Your mind goes momentarily blank, a fog settling over your thoughts as his hand flattens against your stomach, feeling the bulge of his cock. warm and grounding. The touch sends a ripple of heat through your body, and for a second, it feels as though time slows. Every nerve in your body seems to focus on the gentle pressure of his palm against your skin, pulling your attention to the way it feels—so intimate, so right. Your pulse quickens, your breath hitching as you struggle to gather your thoughts, but the weight of his hand keeps you rooted.

“Do you feel that, sweet girl?” His voice is low, the words curling around your senses, sending a shiver down your spine. It’s not just the question—it’s the way he says it, with that mixture of tenderness and something far deeper, far more possessive. His touch lingers, as if savoring the moment, and your body reacts before you can think. The fog in your mind grows thicker, swept away by the overwhelming sensation of him so close, so present.

“Yeah?” He asked through a smirk, hand moving down to cup your hip as he pushed back into you, hitting that very same spot. You could hardly think, let alone breathe as he fucked himself into you, fingers working at your clit as he angled himself to hit that spot over, and over. “Taking me so good, doll.” He grunted out, grip tightening on your hip as he picked up his pace.

Your hand shot down to his wrist as he continued toying with your clit, eyes fluttering shut as you felt your orgasm building to its peak in your lower stomach, the feeling causing you to rock your hips in tandem with his thrusts. The look on your face was enough to make him groan, his hand moving from your hip to your jaw as he tilted your face to look at him.

“Look at me when you cum on my cock, baby.” He murmured, voice soft yet authoritative as he slammed into you. As soon as you opened your eyes he moved his hand, pressing it against your lower stomach as he continued fucking himself into you. It felt as though he were pushing you down onto him, that spot that nearly blinded you with pleasure constantly being rutted against by his cock.

All you could muster was a weak, “F-fuck,” as you came undone, back arching off the bed as you whined out his name. He didn’t stop, stifling a groan at the way you writhed beneath him as he felt his orgasm building. Once you started swatting at his fingers that still circled your clit he moved his hand, choosing to grab the other side of your hip, effectively propping you up against him as he fucked you.

The pace was near brutal, moans forced from your body as your breasts bounced with each thrust. You couldn’t focus, still reeling from your last orgasm as he continued fucking you into oversensitivity-fueled bliss. You could feel his thumbs pressing into your hipbones, short curses slipping past his lips.

“Gonna cum, baby.” He grunted, pulling out of you a second later, spilling his cum across your lower stomach. His chest heaved, cheeks flushed red as he pumped himself through his orgasm. You could only watch in a haze of your own, still catching your breath as he looked up at you, that familiar crooked smile taking over his features as he moved on top of you once more.

“Did so good, doll. Real good.” He murmured against your cheek, pressing a kiss to your skin between each sentence. “You feel alright? Need me to get you something?” He asked after a moment, a hint of concern evident in his tone that made you smile as you shook your head.

“It felt perfect, Chris. I’m alright.” You whispered back, turning over onto your side to face him, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek, leaning up after to press a kiss to his waiting lips. “Perfect.”

Dividers by @bernardsbendystraws

A/N: Thank you for reading if you made it this far, or even if you just skimmed it over - either way I appreciate the interactions! I tried to make this accurate or at least how I envision virginity loss for Chris but feel free to correct me! I am very open to constructive criticism. I'm flopping very bad so I don't expect much interactions:))

taglist: @swagalicious260@watercolorskyy@coquettechris@lovesturni0l0s@christmastreecake@ellbowmacaroni@blog-luvdance@sophand4n4@meg4-matt44

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scoutofmymind · 14 days ago

Note

fratboy!Luigi x i-dont-wanna-be-here!Reader just randomly had the thought of Lu being a rowdy frat boy and got kinda Tingly

Divine Timing Bullshit { Luigi x Reader }

Content: pretty much SFW (if you read about an alleged assassin at work), kissing, existential crisis, Fratboy Lu is actually a sweetie

W.c: 2,485

Notes; Yeah he’s an aggro-frat boy, but he’s also a stoned philosopher, and you appreciate that, because you’re kind of losing it.

Ohh, oh, oh. Yes, yes, yes. Frat boy with a brain and heart, reader is lowkey Going Through It.

Second-year frat parties had lost their theoretical allure. Gone was that first-year thrill of living the quintessential college experience, of checking off every box in the collegiate party manual.

This year, though. This year felt different.

"Who's going to be there?" You mumble through a mouthful of scone, eyes fixed on your screen. The pastry, a hasty purchase between classes, sits half-forgotten in your cheek.

"Since when do you care?" Your roommate swivels from her desk—a chaos of textbooks, scattered lip glosses, an open laptop, and uncapped mascaras. She brandishes her lip pencil like an accusatory finger, eyebrows arched. "You're turning into such a second-year hermit."

You flinch at the accusation, phone dropping to your chest as you stop mid-chew. "Fuck," you mutter, brushing pastry debris from your hoodie — the same one you've been living in for... three nights? Four?

She doesn't need to spell it out. You've become a ghost haunting the same tired circuit: dorm room, library, labs, class. Any moment of freedom dissolves into endless study sessions or mindless TikTok scrolling until you drift off to the white noise of ASMR or satisfying slime crafts.

"Don't make me go alone." Her voice cracks with a plea you can't dismiss. "We're supposed to be doing college together. We promised."

The pact.

The fucking pact.

You'd both sworn, hands clasped under string lights in your shared room during orientation week, that you wouldn't let each other miss out on anything. Not the midnight donut runs, not the questionable decisions, not the memories that were supposed to make these years matter.

And so, it was settled.

•

The house loomed before you, nothing like the usual frat dungeons. This was old money — a sprawling estate with an infinity pool that cut into the manicured lawn like a slice of sky, and a home theater visible through floor-to-ceiling windows.

Bodies pressed past, each collision a reminder that you'd rather be elsewhere.

"Whose fuckin' house is this?" The words barely leave your mouth before your roommate's giggle floats up, her shoulder bumping yours as she shrugs.

The question evaporates into the thrum of bass and chatter.

You knew the drill by now.

She'd disappear into the crowd, hunting for tonight's conquest, while you'd drift through rooms like a wandering spirit in limbo — observing the drama unfold, helping yourself to whatever expensive snacks rich kids kept in their pantries, and sometimes, when the night got boring enough, investigating medicine cabinets.

Eventually, your travels lead you toward clusters of laughing girls, some familiar faces from lecture halls, others newly christened friends after thirty seconds of slurred introductions.

The living room couch has become your sanctuary, a perfect vantage point for the night's theater.

"God, he's fucking hot." Liz's whisper cuts through the ambient chatter, her eyes fixed on the kitchen where the imported marble island has devolved into a battlefield of red cups and spilled beer.

A tall figure commands the space, radiating the particular brand of arrogance that comes with being undefeated at beer pong for the past hour.

"Who?" Your eyebrows knit together before shooting upward in realization. She can't possibly mean -

"His name's Luigi." Her voice takes on that dreamy quality, like a third-grader confessing her first crush behind the jungle gym. "He's studying Computer Science."

Your face contorts into an expression somewhere between horror and disbelief.

"I know," Liz breathes, mirroring your shock. Luigi wasn't unattractive — that was the problem. The universe had already dealt him the unfair hand of conventional beauty; the revelation of actual intelligence felt like cosmic overkill. "Wouldn't think he was aiming any higher than a business degree, huh?"

You watch him slam another cup, arms raised in victory, and try to reconcile this frat god with the same person who probably spent hours debugging code.

The image doesn't compute.

Every other CS major you knew was either passed out in the engineering building or mainlining caffeine in their dorm, not holding court over a beer pong empire.

"Just gives typical aggro frat vibes," you mutter, unable to tear your eyes away from the spectacle. He's exchanging those elaborate, ritualistic handshakes with his bros, throwing back shots like water. Your body instinctively recoils, but there's something magnetic about the train wreck unfolding before you — like watching a perfectly coded program crash in spectacular fashion.

He's performing, you realize — a master of his craft, painting broad strokes of the perfect college experience. Creating stories he'll tell at reunions and job interviews, memories that look better through the lens of a camera than they feel in real time.

You study Luigi's practiced grin, the way he looms over his temporary kingdom, and something shifts.

Does he have someone to call at 3 AM when the world caves in? Or are these connections as deep as the beer puddles on the marble counter — evaporating by morning?

The room tilts slightly, your earlier drinks and that passed joint finally catching up, making everything sharper and softer all at once.

Your gaze drifts over your own circle, these girls laughing and sharing secrets like best friends, some of which you'd only learned most of their names moments ago.

The thought hits you like cold water: who among them would you trust with your real stories? Who would pick up your call at 3 AM? Are you any different from Luigi — just playing your own part in this performance?

The night air slaps you awake before you even realize you've fled, your feet carrying you to a hidden corner of the garden where a stone fountain whispers secrets to itself. Here, the party exists only in echoes — distant laughter, scattered arguments, and drunken declarations of love or war floating across the manicured lawn.

You tilt your head skyward, searching for anchor points among the stars and the world narrows to just this: the cool stone beneath you, the rhythm of water, the infinite above -

"Hey."

Your body jolts to attention, the peaceful moment shattering like glass. Your eyes drop from the constellations to find a different kind of celestial body standing before you — broad shoulders blocking out stars, dark features caught in shadow, curls tumbling across his forehead.

Your mind scrambles for a name, like trying to catch smoke.

Luis? Lucas?

Luigi.

The beer pong champion himself, somehow materialized from your earlier observations like a summoned entity.

"Hey." Your body performs an awkward dance on the bench, caught between making room and trying to collapse into nothingness.

"What are you doing out here?"

The question, though innocent enough, triggers your defenses. Your response comes with teeth: "I could ask you the same thing." It's a warning label, bright and clear: Approach With Caution.

The garden's twinkle lights catch him in their amber web, transforming the beer pong champion into something softer — sweat-sheened skin, features gentled by shadow.

His posture reads like an open book written in a language you can't quite translate, neither defensive nor inviting.

Just curious.

"Well, you could." The words roll out with the same casual grace as the shoulder he shrugs, a yet-unlit joint dancing between his lips as his thumbs tap out a message on his phone's glow. "And I'd just say I live here."

The universe, it seems, has a sense of humor.

A groan slips past your defenses as mortification sets in. Of all the backyards in New York, you had to stake your claim in this one, then challenge its owner about his right to be there.

"To answer your question though-“ The words come filtered through the joint until flame meets paper. He exhales, and his next words ride out on a cloud of smoke: "I came out here to call my mom." His phone screen glows with evidence — his mother's contact photo, her name bookended by heart emojis and a simple Mama.

Something about Luigi — maybe the lingering beer pong bravado, maybe the way he wears this vulnerability so casually — still begs to be challenged. "Gotta make sure she doesn't suspect you have about one hundred NYU students in her home, hm?"

He shakes his head, the sound he makes sliding down the scale like lazy jazz. "Nah, she doesn't care about that shit." His thumb hovers over the keyboard, apparently deciding a text will suffice for tonight's check-in. "And there's definitely not a hundred people in there right now."

You study his posture — the way confidence and caution occupy the same space in his frame, like watercolors bleeding into each other. "Where's she?"

Luigi's eyes lift from his screen to find yours. "Seychelles." The message swooshes into the digital void before his phone disappears into his pocket. "Your turn."

The garden's ambient soundtrack fills the space between you, water music from the fountain where a bronze boy — who bears a suspicious resemblance to a younger Luigi — plays eternal lifeguard to the trickling streams.

Your eyes lock across the dim space, neither yielding.

"My turn to what?" The question is a stalling tactic, and you both know it.

"Your turn to tell me what you're doing out here."

Your gaze wanders the curated wilderness around you — the fairy-lit canopy, the fountain's eternal performance, the swimming pool framed by trees sculpted into shapes that belong in a vintage Playboy spread.

Everything here speaks of a life so different from yours, yet something about the engineering student standing before you, texting his mom from his own party, suggests a truth you hadn’t expected; the distance between your worlds might be shorter than it appears.

"Just needed some air." The lie falls flat, each word a domino tipping toward the truth you're trying to outrun—that existential spiral triggered by watching him earlier, wondering about the depth of his connections, only to find your own relationships reflecting back just as shallow.

Luigi claims his spot beside you, the bench suddenly alive with shared warmth. His knowing smirk and raised eyebrows speak volumes while his lips stay sealed, the silence between you stretching like taffy until -

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Getting some air." He mirrors your words back to you, a perfect echo with an undertone of challenge.

Your hands scrub across your face as if trying to erase something, and when you turn to face him, he's already there, matching your position like a choreographed dance. His eyes lock onto yours — steady, focused — as you stare back with the wild gaze of someone about to jump off a cliff.

"Do you ever think maybe you're just kinda... existing?"

There it is — your midnight confession spilling out into his garden, raw and unfiltered as the joint smoke curling between you.

Luigi catalogs you with the quiet satisfaction of someone who's just solved a puzzle — noting the timbre of your voice (hoarse from shouting over beer pong champions and top-40 hits), the way moonlight catches in your hair, how your eyes betray every thought. "I know that's what I'm doing," he nods, conviction steady as a heartbeat. "And that's enough."

"But what about the connections? What about true and real bonds?" The words tumble out as you watch him draw from the joint. He offers it your way — a bridge between strangers — but you wave it off, earning a laugh that somehow makes your existential crisis feel less like drowning.

"What about them?"

"Don't you miss having them?"

His shoulder grazes yours as he makes a face that suggests you're missing something obvious. "Existing doesn't mean I cease to create bonds or connections." His voice intensifies beside you, taking on the weight of someone that had something to convince you of. "They happen everyday."

The stare between you holds with magnetic force, compelling you to consider his truth: maybe you're the one who's been building walls instead of bridges, hiding in recycled hoodies and social media scrolls while real connections knock at your door.

"You think?" Your vision shifts, the aggressive frat facade dissolving to reveal something unexpectedly gentle around the edges.

"Well, what do you call this." His finger traces an invisible line between you, the gesture casual but weighted. "I think there's reason for everything, besides, like, cancer, or something." The statement perfectly gift-wraps his essence:

A walking contradiction — the frat boy who steps away from his own party to text his mom, a beer pong champion who philosophizes between 'likes,' an engineering major who can turn existential crisis into comfortable conversation.

"Well, it's interesting, to say the least." You're not sure if you mean this moment, this revelation, or Luigi himself. All you know is that Liz will either lecture you about garden rendezvous with her biggest crush, or demand a word-for-word replay.

Probably both.

"You think there's a reason we're both out here, then?" The question follows him as he leans forward, stubbing out his joint in a tray by the fountain. "Some sort of divine-timing bullshit?"

"I do." His conviction stands unwavering against your skepticism. "That's exactly what I think."

The sigh that escapes you carries the weight of self-awareness — maybe you're the one standing in your own way.

"Give me your phone." His shoulder nudges yours again, and you find yourself digging through your purse without hesitation, unlocking it before passing it over.

No questions asked — maybe you're already buying into this divine timing thing.

He returns your phone with a smile that seems to know something you don't. His own phone lights up with urgent news about a friend's overindulgence, likely greening out on the front lawn. "Gotta split."

You straighten your back, body still glued firmly to the bench beneath you, “Wait,” the request comes out steady, but hurried, afraid he might evaporate somewhere into the midnight air. “How - how do you do it, then?”

He settles back down, closer this time, “Do what?”

“Make it easier — connections, parties, being..” You gesture vaguely at all of him. “Present.”

Luigi considers this, his smile softening. "Maybe because I don't overthink it. Like right now — you're probably wondering if this is the right moment to ask the right question, when really..." He leans in slightly, voice dropping. "Sometimes you just have to let things happen."

The air shifts between you, heavy with possibility.

You're acutely aware of how close he is, how his eyes keep dropping to your lips as he speaks.

"Is that what you're doing?" Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. "Letting things happen?"

"I'm letting myself do what I've wanted to since I saw you having an existential crisis by my fountain."

And then he's kissing you — or maybe you're kissing him — the distinction lost in the warm press of lips and the lingering taste of smoke. It's gentle at first, questioning, until you lean into it and his hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek.

When he pulls back, that knowing smile returns. "See? Divine timing bullshit."

His phone buzzes again, more insistent this time. "Duty calls," he sighs, standing. "But text me. We'll work on your overthinking problem."

Read pt 2 Here ☁️

#req #luigi mangione fanfic #Luigi mangione x reader

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joelsrose · 3 months ago

Text

Guns and Roses: Chapter 8

here she iss eeeek insert monkey hiding emoji im scaredddd of yallll haha side note - i lowkey picture Caleb as Adam Brody from Nobody wants this but imagine him as you wish

previous chapters

The air thickened, suffocating and heavy, as Tommy’s words sank deep, each one like a leaden weight dropping into the quiet depths of your mind.

Joel was gone.

The world seemed to tilt, a hollow ache unfurling within your chest, spreading with a pang that left you breathless. Just yesterday, he had been here, a solid, reassuring presence beside you. How was it possible that he had simply… vanished?

His warmth clung to you, hauntingly vivid—the scent of his worn flannel lingering in the air like a ghost. You could still feel the subtle intimacy of that final night together, the easy quiet that had stretched between you beneath a sky scattered with stars. His shoulder had pressed against yours in quiet solidarity, his steady breaths breaking the silence, grounding you in a way you hadn’t fully appreciated until now.

Every detail replayed, sharpened by his absence, each memory carving a deeper hollow within you. He had spoken softly, apologizing, explaining, baring a part of himself he rarely showed, and you had made a promise—a desperate promise that he wouldn’t lose you.

And now, with that promise hanging in the still, empty air, you felt like you could hardly breathe.

Late last night, he’d lain beside you, his hand warm and grounding on your arm, each gentle stroke of his fingers slow and tender, as if he was memorizing the shape of you. Those soft, lingering touches left you breathless, daring you to imagine a world where this could last—where he might finally be yours.

Now, that memory felt fragile, like something barely grasped from the edges of a fading dream, slipping further away the more desperately you tried to hold onto it. The warmth, the tenderness, the quiet promise nestled in his touch—it was all dissolving into something hazy and unreachable, leaving only the ache of his absence behind.

Questions surged, one after another, relentless and raw.

Why now? Why after all the moments that tethered you to him? Had you misstepped, said something to push him away, or was it something left unspoken?

Or, perhaps, had this always been inevitable, a slow unraveling that you’d been too afraid to see?

Your voice wavered, a faint tremor betraying the fragile hope you clung to—a hope that, somehow, this was all just a mistake.

A simple misunderstanding.

Maybe Tommy had it wrong. Maybe Joel was only out gathering supplies or down at the market, grabbing something for dinner, about to walk back through the door with that familiar, unhurried stride. Any moment now, you told yourself, as if willing him into existence.

“What do you mean, he’s gone?” The question slipped from your lips, barely more than a whisper, hanging thick in the quiet air. The weight of it lingered, pressing into the silence, as though waiting—just as you were—for an answer that might make everything right again.

Tommy’s face tightened, worry etching lines deep into his brow, his gaze heavy with a fear he was barely holding back.

“He left early this morning,” Tommy murmured, his voice low and thick with a heaviness he couldn’t quite hide. “Just before dawn. The folks at the gate saw him with Ellie, said it looked like they were headed out on a quick supply run.”

He paused, swallowing as his eyes drifted past you, as though searching for some unseen answer. “But… they haven’t come back. Hours have gone by, and their places are empty—Ellie’s room, Joel’s…” His words trailed off, and his gaze shifted, a shadow of dread flickering across his face. “I don’t see any of his things downstairs. Not a trace.”

Each word settled into the silence between you, the weight of what he wasn’t saying sinking in, thick and foreboding.

Your heart seemed to stop, caught in a painful, suspended beat, as though time itself had faltered. The familiar sight of Joel’s worn work boots by the door, his rifle resting against the wall, his jacket—a constant, comforting fixture draped in your doorway—was gone. The absence felt like a wound, a piece of him violently torn from the space you’d shared, leaving nothing but a hollow, unsettling silence in its place.

Tommy paced the room, his shoulders rigid, his eyes locked on the floor as if searching for some hidden answer in the worn planks. “Did he… did he say anything to you? Act… different?” His voice broke, the words laced with a frantic desperation he couldn’t quite mask, each syllable threaded with a rising panic he fought to keep at bay.

“No… no, he didn’t say anything,” you stammered, the words barely escaping as panic coiled tighter around your throat.

Tommy’s gaze softened, but there was something raw in his eyes, a disbelief that seemed to waver, shaking the resolve he was so desperately clinging to. “Joel… he doesn’t just disappear like that. Not him.” His voice cracked, the tension in his tone betraying the fear he tried to bury beneath his words. “We’ve already got people out looking, but…”

“What if… what if something happened to them?” The question slipped out, trembling, every syllable weighted with the dark possibility you’d been trying to keep at bay.

“Hey.” Tommy stepped closer, his hand settling firmly on your shoulder, a solid, grounding presence amid the chaos spiraling through your mind. “We don’t know that,” he said, his voice calm but charged with urgency. “They’re tough—you know they are. But we need to move, and we need to move fast.”

A surge of determination flooded through you, sweeping away the fear that had nearly anchored you in place. You took a steadying breath, nodding to Tommy, and followed him out of the room, each step quick and resolute despite the dull ache pulsing through your leg. The discomfort faded into the background, pushed aside by the urgency driving you forward—there was no space for weakness, not now.

As you stepped outside, the sun had already dipped low, casting a fierce, amber glow over the horizon. The world was bathed in a fading warmth, a fleeting light slipping into shadow as dusk descended, cloaking everything in quiet anticipation.

No matter where they were, no matter how far you’d have to go, you would find them—no matter the cost, no matter the sacrifice. Joel had been your anchor in the storm, the steady, unbreakable presence who had saved you more times than you could count. He’d been there, unwavering, his voice guiding you through the darkest nights, his strength carrying your burdens when you could no longer bear them alone.

Now, it was your turn to be relentless. You owed him that much.

•••

You and Tommy rode through the wilderness on horseback, moving silently under the cover of night. The rhythmic hoofbeats thudded against the ground, muffled by a thick layer of fallen leaves, the only sound breaking the oppressive quiet. The moon hung high above, casting silver shadows over the trees, but offered little warmth, and even less comfort. There was no calling out, no shouting their names; a single echo could draw attention from raiders—or worse, infected lurking in the woods, hidden in the inky dark.

The hours dragged on, each minute blurring into the next, stretching into an eternity as you scoured the trail. Your flashlight cut through the dark, casting narrow beams over twisted branches, scattered leaves, the faint outlines of abandoned cabins and crumbling fences—yet there was nothing.

No trace of Joel or Ellie. You searched desperately for any sign: footprints, a drop of blood, anything to tell you they’d passed this way.

The air bit into your skin, each gust of wind stinging your cheeks, but you barely registered the cold. It felt distant, insignificant against the gnawing dread growing steadily in your chest. With every step, the silence pressed heavier, yet you refused to slow, driven by a single thought—finding them, whatever it took.

Tommy rode slightly ahead, his gaze darting to the shadows that moved along with the trees. He would glance back at you now and then, his expression a mix of determination and worry, as if he shared the same stubborn resolve but feared what he might find—or not find—in the end.

Each mile you covered without a trace of them chipped away at your hope, your initial conviction giving way to an aching uncertainty. You felt your heart race with each bend in the trail, hoping, praying that around this corner, or maybe the next, you’d see them, that familiar, solid figure of Joel watching over Ellie as he always did. But every turn led only to more shadows, the dark swallowing each ounce of hope you tried to cling to.

The cold seeped deeper into your bones as the hours passed, a slow, creeping chill that even the steady, jostling movement of the horse couldn’t shake. Your grip on the reins tightened, knuckles white, muscles tense as you fought to keep moving, refusing to let your exhaustion show.

But as the night wore on and your flashlight flickered in and out, casting faint shadows along the trail, a heavy realization settled over you.

You were running out of time.

•••

You found yourself back at Tommy and Maria’s house, the quiet weight of the late hour pressing down on everything. Maria stayed close, her hand a gentle but firm presence on your shoulder as she guided you to sit, her movements tender. “Just take a moment, sweetheart,” she murmured, pressing a warm mug of tea into your trembling hands. Her voice was low, soft as a lullaby, each word laced with quiet reassurance. But the comfort felt thin, hollow—a shadow of solace in the absence of the one thing you truly needed.

A surge of frustration flared within you, hot and suffocating, threatening to consume the fragile composure you clung to. Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, blurring the dim room as the questions swirled, relentless and unforgiving.

Why did he leave? Was he hurt? Dead?

The uncertainty gnawed at you, twisting deeper with every silent second, each tick of the clock amplifying the aching void he’d left behind.

“I just… I don’t understand why they’d leave like that,” you whispered, your voice trembling, barely more than a fractured breath.

Tommy stood in the hallway, pacing once more, his footsteps a muted rhythm against the walls, each step laced with his own silent worry.

Maria settled beside you, her hand resting warmly on your shoulder, an anchor in the swirling tide of your worry. “I know, honey,” she murmured, her voice soft, filled with a compassion that felt both comforting and achingly bittersweet.

Her gaze held yours for a moment, then she offered a small, reassuring smile. “Why don’t you stay here tonight? Just for a bit, hm? Give yourself a chance to breathe.”

You managed a nod, unable to find words past the tightness lodged in your throat.

Deep down, you knew Maria was right—you needed rest, a sliver of calm to steady yourself. But as you lifted the mug to your lips, the warmth did little to soften the hollow ache gnawing inside you. The tea, the gentle comfort, none of it could fill the void left by his absence.

All you wanted—all you needed—was Joel.

•••

You tried to eat, but each bite felt like swallowing shards of glass, the anxiety coiled tight around your throat, refusing to loosen. Staying at Tommy and Maria’s only magnified the loneliness; every quiet, familiar corner of their home served as a relentless reminder of Joel’s absence.

The routine you’d fallen into with him—those stolen glances over morning coffee, the quiet, easy conversations under starlit skies, the warmth of his presence near you—now felt like memories from another life.

It had been a week now. A week of riding along rugged trails, combing through barren fields and dense forests, silently calling out into the dark, praying for even a flicker of his shadow.

Hours spent on horseback, searching until your legs burned, and nights of restless tossing and turning in a bed that felt all the more empty and cold.

Every night, you and Tommy would return empty-handed, the weight of defeat pressing down on both of you as you rode back in silence. And every night, Maria would be there, a cup of tea in hand, her eyes soft with worry, her presence unwavering. She’d sit beside you, her hand resting gently on your shoulder, a steadying presence as she tried to lend you some of her quiet strength.

“Sweetie,” she’d murmur, her voice a soothing balm against the raw ache in your chest, “I’m sure he’s fine. Joel’s the toughest person I know. He’ll come back any day now.” The words would change, the phrasing slightly different each time, but the message stayed the same—that he was fine, that he’d come back.

But it wasn’t enough.

But you shook your head, anguish spilling from your heart and filling the space between you. “You don’t know that, Maria.” The words came out sharper than you intended, tinged with a desperation you couldn’t hold back, fear and sorrow woven into every syllable.

As the first tear slipped down your cheek, the floodgates opened, and you felt the weight of it all—the fear, the unanswered questions, the hollow ache of his absence—crash down on you.

The world felt like it was closing in, darkness pressing against the last flicker of faith within you. But even as you trembled, heart aching with an unspoken plea, you refused to let go of that hope, dim but unyielding.

You couldn’t lose him—not now, not after everything.

•••

Six months.

Six months had crawled by—a slow, painful stretch marked by the fading of summer’s warmth and the creeping chill of winter. The once-vibrant air, alive with the sweet scent of blooming flowers and laughter echoing through Jackson’s streets, had turned crisp and silent, as if holding its breath.

The landscape shifted, the lush greens giving way to brittle browns and steely grays, trees stripped bare, their branches stark against the somber sky. Snow draped the ground, muffling the sounds of daily life.

Christmas was approaching, but the usual festive spirit was dampened to you, swallowed up by the bleakness of winter. Jackson itself had changed; the streets that once pulsed with the warmth of camaraderie now felt strangely deserted, the weight of the cold driving everyone indoors.

Flickering lights in windows were the only hints of life in the wintry gloom, a reminder that, even in this frozen quiet, people clung to routine. Each day, the sun rose half-heartedly, casting a pale, listless glow that barely seeped through the thick, oppressive clouds.

Since Joel and Ellie had left, you’d been staying with Maria and Tommy. It was an unspoken agreement, a shared understanding that you all needed each other to get through this. Returning to your own place felt unbearable. You’d stop by now and then, just to keep things in order, but the emptiness inside those walls weighed too heavily on you.

Every corner of your home seemed haunted by memories of him—the kitchen where he’d quietly worked, assembling dinners with a surprising tenderness, the living room where he’d settled close beside you, his quiet presence filling the space.

And your bed, where traces of his warmth lingered like an imprint on your heart. The silence in those rooms was razor-sharp, each echo of him too raw, too overwhelming to face alone.

From your window, the world seemed a reflection of your own heart: numb, blanketed in a persistent, aching silence. You watched as Christmas lights went up in Jackson, their soft twinkling swallowed by the heavy, endless gray, like distant stars in an unyielding void.

You’d been drifting in a numb haze, the days blurring together into a colorless stretch of time. A heavy fog wrapped around your thoughts, dulling every sensation until nothing felt real. Each morning bled into the next, weeks passing without distinction as you moved through life on autopilot.

You ate, you slept, you helped Maria with whatever needed doing. You went on patrol nearly every other day, half for distraction, half—though you didn’t admit it to yourself —in the quiet, desperate hope of catching some trace of them. But nothing held meaning. Each task was empty, a hollow ritual performed on borrowed time.

Memories drifted through your mind, stolen glances and shared laughter slipping away like fragile snowflakes, melting before you could hold onto them. The quiet conversations, his voice low and steady, the way his eyes would soften just for you—each memory surfaced only to fade, leaving behind an ache that settled deep in your bones, a constant, unyielding reminder of everything you’d lost.

Every time the gate creaked open, your heart leapt to your throat, a brief, painful surge of hope that maybe—just maybe—it was him. You’d rush to the window, breath caught, anticipation tightening in your chest.

But each time, the flicker of hope shattered, leaving you with the heavy, familiar ache of disappointment. The emptiness that settled in your stomach felt like a lead weight, dragging you back into a despair that felt inescapable.

Joel was everywhere and nowhere, haunting the edges of Jackson like a lingering shadow, an echo reverberating through a hollow space. Each corner of this town held pieces of him, fragments woven into the fabric of your days, reminders of a bond now stretched across an impossible distance.

You saw him in the stables, the scent of hay and leather stirring memories of his quiet strength, his gentle hands calming restless horses. In the dining hall, a glimpse of an empty chair tugged painfully at you, bringing back the rough warmth of his laughter, the way his gaze would linger on you just a moment too long when he thought no one else was watching.

Walking past the workshop, the faint hum of tools conjured memories of him bent over his work, sleeves rolled up, the intensity in his eyes softened only by the rare, almost shy smiles he’d save just for you. Even in the simple rhythm of Jackson’s streets, you felt his presence—a figure rounding the corner, a low voice in the distance, each one a cruel mirage, dissolving the moment you got too close.

He was everywhere and nowhere, an ache that settled deep in your bones, a ghost that followed you, unshakable, as though he was still here, just out of reach. Every memory sharpened the yearning, the quiet desperation to have him back beside you, to feel his hand graze yours, to see him in flesh and blood rather than in the flickering fragments that now consumed you.

As snow drifted gently outside, blanketing the world in a pristine layer of white, you allowed yourself a moment to slip back into memories. Outside, the world lay silent and frozen, but in your heart, a faint warmth lingered, a stubborn ember that refused to be extinguished.

Even in the heart of winter, a flicker of hope persisted, like a quiet promise that spring would come again.

•••

Maria’s figure had transformed, her belly now round with the weight of new life as she neared her last trimester. You could see the way Tommy clung to the anticipation of his child’s arrival as if it were a lifeline, his focus locked on the future as a shield against the shadows that had crept into your lives since Joel and Ellie’s departure.

The excitement of a new beginning felt bittersweet, casting a harsh light on the hollow space left by Joel’s absence. You saw Tommy’s attempts to mask his worry in forced laughter, the strain showing in his eyes, his gaze clouded with an unshakable concern that he carried silently, like an invisible scar.

Months ago, you’d both stopped mentioning Joel, a silent understanding forming between you and Tommy. Hope had become a delicate thing, slipping through your fingers like sand. Instead of grappling with the gnawing possibility of Joel’s fate, you filled the empty spaces with small talk, with musings over nursery colors and baby names, each word a distraction, a balm against the ache of what might be true.

With your leg fully healed, you spent your days at Maria's side, helping her with tasks that had grown too challenging in her final trimester. The rhythm of daily chores brought a small comfort, a steadying anchor in a sea of uncertainty, as you focused on caring for someone else.

Yet, beneath the surface, an unease shadowed your every action, a quiet tension in the space between you and Maria. You both fell into an unspoken game of play-pretend, smiles and small laughter filling the silences, as though you could craft a reality where Joel’s absence didn’t weigh so heavily.

But you both knew, deep down, that everything had changed. Life had shifted in a way that couldn’t be undone. Each meal prepared, every chore tended to, reminded you of the hollow truth: Joel could be gone. He might never come back. And the thought was like a wound that never fully healed, a grief that echoed in the quiet moments—a phantom ache for someone who felt as much a part of you as your own heartbeat, but who remained painfully out of reach.

Helping Maria set up the nursery, sorting through baby clothes and arranging tiny blankets, you often found your gaze drifting to the window, half-expecting to see him coming up the path, his familiar stride cutting through the cold. But the streets remained empty, the winter air heavy with silence.

In those moments, the world felt impossibly vast and indifferent, a stark reminder of all you had lost and all that might never return.

•••

It was 2 a.m. when you were jolted awake by a scream that tore through the stillness of the night. Your heart pounded as you leapt out of bed, rushing down the hall toward Maria’s room, adrenaline surging through your veins. Tommy was there by her side, wide-eyed and tense, his body coiled with worry.

“It’s happening!” Maria gasped, her voice raw with both pain and urgency. Her face was pale, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and determination as she gripped the edge of the bed, her breaths coming in sharp, shallow bursts.

“Oh, God. Okay!” you stammered, fighting to steady yourself against the wave of panic surging up, clawing at your composure. “I’ll—I’ll get the doctor!” The words tumbled out, breathless and unsteady, as you turned, urgency propelling you forward even as fear tightened around your chest.

You sprinted down the stairs and out into the freezing night, mind racing with everything you’d read and rehearsed. The signs of labor had seemed so straightforward in theory—contractions building gradually, giving everyone time to prepare.

But this was nothing like you’d imagined. It was sudden and overwhelming, every moment infused with urgency and the weight of what was to come.

The doctor—the same woman who had once treated your leg—lived just a few houses down. You sprinted through the silent streets of Jackson, the night air sharp and biting against your skin. Maria’s panicked cries echoed in your mind, propelling you forward, blocking out the cold and exhaustion.

Within twenty minutes, you returned, breathless, leading the doctor into Maria’s room. The doctor moved with calm efficiency, her gaze sharp as she took in the scene. “How are you doing, Maria?” she asked, her voice steady and grounded, a quiet force amid the chaos.

Maria gritted her teeth, clutching the bed as another contraction wracked her body, her face twisted in pain. “I think my contractions are getting stronger,” she managed between labored breaths, her fingers gripping the sheets until her knuckles whitened.

The doctor nodded, stepping closer. “Alright, let’s get you comfortable, and I’ll check your progress,” she said, her voice soft yet unwavering. She spoke with the practiced calm of someone who’d seen it all, grounding the tension in the room with her presence.

You took a step back, your heart pounding as you watched the scene unfold, an electric mixture of anxiety and awe buzzing in your veins. Maria was about to bring a new life into the world, and you were here to witness it, to support her through this momentous night.

•••

The hours bled together in a haze of low murmurs, Maria’s labored breaths, and the doctor’s steady, calming instructions as he guided her through each wave of pain.

You stayed close by Maria’s side, whispering words of encouragement, while Tommy held her hand tightly, both of them drawing strength from each other in those final, agonizing moments. The doctor’s usual brisk demeanor softened, her voice now warm and steady as she guided Maria through each push, her confidence a steady beacon in the room.

And then, with a final, guttural cry that seemed to echo from the depths of her soul, Maria summoned the last of her strength. The room fell silent as the doctor lifted a tiny, wriggling baby into the air, and in that instant, time seemed to stand still. A swell of warmth flooded your chest, catching in your throat as you took in the sight.

The baby was beautiful—a perfect blend of Maria and Tommy. She let out a small, tremulous cry, a sound so pure it filled the room with an unmistakable sense of life, breaking the stillness with its sweetness and bringing tears to your eyes.

“Congratulations!” the doctor announced, her voice thick with emotion. “It’s a girl!”

Maria sank back against the pillows, her face flushed with exhaustion but glowing with joy, tears slipping down her cheeks as she gazed down at her daughter for the first time. Tommy was at her side in an instant, his eyes filled with wonder and love as he looked at his family, a raw, unfiltered happiness radiating from him.

As you stepped back to give them space, a soft smile tugged at your lips. The room was filled with an overwhelming sense of love and hope, a quiet magic blooming amidst the chaos of the world outside. This was a moment you knew you’d carry with you always—a reminder that even in the darkest times, life had a way of breaking through.

You stayed with them, entranced by the tiny miracle before you. The baby’s delicate features, her tiny hands wrapped around Maria’s fingers, seemed almost too precious for this world.

“She’s beautiful,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, eyes fixed on the little girl nestled securely in her mother’s arms.

Maria looked up, her eyes gleaming with warmth and affection as she held her daughter close. “Do you want to hold her, Auntie?” she asked, her voice gentle, the title wrapping around your heart like an embrace.

Your breath caught, and you nodded, managing a quiet, “Yes, please.”

Maria carefully passed her daughter into your arms, and you marveled at the weight of her, so light yet so full of promise. The soft fabric of the blanket brushed against your skin as you cradled her close, an overwhelming wave of love sweeping over you.

“Hey there, little one,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper as you looked down into her wide, curious eyes. “Welcome to the world.”

Your heart ached in ways you couldn’t quite define—a bittersweet mixture of joy and longing as you cradled the baby close. She was warm, her tiny breaths soft and steady against your chest, and you wished with every fiber of your being that Joel could be here, standing beside you, sharing in this tender moment.

You pictured his face softening, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he nudged you gently. “Well, would you look at that—you’re Auntie now,” he’d murmur, his voice soft and warm. The thought sent a tender ache through your chest, filling you with a longing for a moment that felt so close, yet achingly out of reach.

You looked up at Maria and Tommy, their faces bathed in the soft glow of love and pride as they watched you holding their daughter. For them, this was a fresh start, a new beginning to bring light into the shadows that had long lingered.

As you glanced back down at the little girl in your arms, a gentle realization settled over you—despite the ache in your heart, despite the empty space Joel had left, you were grateful to be here, to be part of this beautiful chapter in their lives.

•••

The makeshift Christmas market in Jackson was alive with the vibrant energy of the season, the air filled with laughter and the gentle hum of holiday cheer. People moved between stalls, exchanging goods and warm greetings, their voices blending with the soft music drifting from a nearby record player.

The winter sun hung low, casting a golden hue over the scene, while the crisp air carried the scents of woodsmoke, pine, and the sweet spices of freshly baked treats.

Stalls were draped in strings of scavenged twinkling lights, each one a small beacon against the stark backdrop of winter, and for a brief moment, it felt as though the world outside had faded away, leaving only this small oasis of warmth and celebration.

That’s when you first saw him.

He was new to Jackson, having arrived only a few weeks before with a small group of survivors. His arrival had been the talk of the town, a blend of excitement and wariness threading through the community.

You’d caught snippets of conversation about them—stories of their long, treacherous journey, of how Tommy and some others had found them during a routine patrol and brought them to the safety of Jackson.

As you stood by a stall cluttered with recipe cards, your mind drifted, fingers skimming over options—cherry tart, pecan pie, a rich stew. You were lost in thought, weighing the choices for Christmas dinner with Maria, Tommy, and the new baby.

The gentle hum of the crowd faded into a quiet murmur as you sifted through the recipes, each one conjuring an image of their cozy home filled with laughter, the warmth of the fire casting a golden glow over familiar faces, the simple comfort of a shared meal.

Then, without warning, you felt a presence beside you.

“Tough decision,” a voice remarked, his voice warm and casual, drawing you out of your thoughts. Startled, you looked up, meeting his gaze.

He stood tall, broad-shouldered, with an easy confidence that immediately set him apart in the bustling crowd. Dark curly hair framed his face, tousled while his clothes—faded denim, a well-worn jumper, and scuffed boots—carried the unmistakable signs of long days on the road.

“Oh—sorry?” you replied, a little thrown by his sudden appearance.

“The recipe cards,” he explained, a faint smile pulling at his lips. “Seems like a big decision.”

You laughed softly, feeling a bit self-conscious as you kept your gaze fixed on the table. “Oh, right. Yeah, well… I’m a terrible cook, so I’m not sure these will do me much good,” you murmured, a small, nervous smile tugging at your lips.

He chuckled, a deep, easy sound that wrapped around you. “Believe me, you’re not alone. Once, I managed to go a whole week without dinner because I accidentally set my kitchen on fire trying to make spaghetti.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the mental image pulling a grin from you as you looked up at him. “A whole week? That’s impressive, in a way.”

He shrugged, his grin widening. “What can I say? Survival skills might be high, but cooking…not so much.” He shrugged, a glint of humor in his eyes. “I figure if it’s not completely inedible, it’s a win.”

There was something refreshingly genuine in his easygoing manner, a warmth that made you feel instantly at ease. For a moment, the chaos of the world outside faded, leaving only the twinkling lights, the soft hum of holiday cheer, and a stranger who felt oddly familiar.

A smile crept onto your face, the sheer absurdity of it all tugging laughter from somewhere deep within. It bubbled up, unexpected and warm, filling you with a lightness you hadn’t felt in what seemed like ages.

For the first time in months, the weight of your memories loosened its hold, if only for a moment, allowing you to breathe freely. You hadn’t laughed like this in so long—it was as if a piece of yourself had finally broken through the clouds.

“I’m Caleb,” he said, offering his hand with an easy smile that radiated genuine warmth.

You took his hand, feeling the steady strength in his grip as you introduced yourself. There was something in his gaze—an openness, a sincerity—that sent a quiet warmth through your chest.

He looked at you not with the guarded wariness so common in Jackson, but with the unmistakable ease of someone who was simply, honestly, glad to meet you.

For that brief moment, as your hands met, a quiet spark flickered between you—a connection so subtle it was almost unspoken, a warmth that lingered just beneath the surface, delicate yet undeniable.

But with that glimmer of warmth came a piercing pang of guilt—a hollow ache for Joel that twisted deep in your chest. Memories of him surfaced unbidden, vivid and relentless. The feeling of his hand on yours, rough and reassuring, the quiet strength in his touch—it all washed over you, an aching reminder of what was missing.

You shook your head slightly, as if somehow, with that small motion, you could dispel the thoughts, push them back into the shadows. But they lingered, stubborn and insistent, weaving themselves into every quiet corner of your mind.

“I should probably head out,” you said, your voice steady, though memories tugged at you, filling you with a sudden urge to escape. You forced a polite smile, masking the quiet turmoil churning beneath the surface. “It was nice meeting you, Caleb.”

The words felt hollow, yet you held them there.

“Same here,” he replied, his smile warm and sincere. There was something in his gaze, a friendliness that reached beyond mere courtesy.

You turned to leave, offering a quick wave as you walked away, Caleb’s smile lingering in your mind.

•••

Over the next few months, Caleb became an unexpected constant in your life, seamlessly weaving himself into the rhythm of your new reality. His presence was a quiet comfort—a steady, familiar face that always seemed to show up when you needed it most, as though he had an instinct for the moments when silence weighed a little too heavily.

He and Tommy had quickly struck up a friendship, their bond forming over early morning patrols and long days in the fields. They’d joke about the little things—who had the better aim, who could lift more, trading stories of life before and after Jackson.

Caleb had this easygoing charm that drew Tommy in, a quiet humor that paired perfectly with Tommy’s unguarded nature. Soon enough, they were inseparable, working together to repair fences or sharing a drink at day’s end, laughter echoing into the quiet streets.

For you, it was comforting, even endearing, to watch them fall into step with each other. You soon found Caleb everywhere—At the clinic, he’d be there often, volunteering to sort supplies or assist with whatever needed doing.

Sometimes you’d catch glimpses of him at the library during storytime, surrounded by children, his voice rising and falling with animated enthusiasm as he brought storybook characters to life. His laughter, bright and infectious, filled the quiet spaces, drawing smiles from even the sternest faces.

And at the stables, he’d be coaxing a skittish horse with gentle patience, exchanging quiet smiles with the ranch hands as he worked, his presence a calming influence on both people and animals alike. He was kind, always there with a helping hand or a lighthearted joke, his warmth settling into your life like a gentle balm.

As weeks turned to months, you found yourself looking forward to these moments. In his presence, you felt an unexpected ease, a sense of reprieve from the lingering sorrow tied to memories of Joel.

Soon, he became a regular presence at your table, joining you, Tommy, and Maria for dinners that filled the house with shared stories, the warmth of food, and laughter echoing through the walls.

One evening, you watched as Caleb gently cradled Tommy and Maria’s baby in his arms for the first time. His expression softened, wonder and tenderness in his eyes as he gazed down at her tiny face. “I’ve always wanted kids,” he admitted quietly, his voice filled with a sincerity that struck a chord within you. He held her with a tenderness that was unmistakable, every little sound she made bringing a soft smile to his lips.

Yet, even within the warmth of these moments, a bittersweet ache would surface—soft but unrelenting, a reminder of Joel that lingered in your heart. You’d imagine him with the baby, envisioning how he’d hold her with surprising gentleness, his rough hands steady and protective, softened by a past that had once made him a father. You could almost see him cradling her close, the hard edges of his face easing, his expression slipping into a rare tenderness, a quiet gentleness breaking through the weathered lines he so often wore.

The thought would catch you off guard, slipping into your mind like a familiar melody, stirring memories you’d tried to bury. No matter how much warmth surrounded you, a part of you still felt that quiet pull toward the one person who remained just out of reach.

•••

One evening, you found yourself beside Maria in the warm glow of the fire, its flickering light casting gentle shadows across the room. The crackling flames filled the quiet, and Maria cradled her baby, the soft coos and gurgles creating a soothing backdrop. You held a drink in your hand, but your gaze was fixed on the hypnotic dance of the flames, lost in thought.

Maria’s gentle voice broke through your thoughts. “You okay, sweetie?” she asked, her tone soft, though a hint of concern threaded through her words. You turned to her, pausing, the weight of everything settling a little heavier in that moment.

She asked you this question often, and every time, you’d give her the same small, unconvincing smile.

You’d lie, and she’d accept it, knowing but never pushing, letting you hold your pain close.

But today was different.

Today, you couldn’t bring yourself to smile or hide behind hollow reassurances. Today, the ache felt too raw, too close to the surface, and you found yourself unable to pretend.

“No,” you murmured, barely audible over the fire. “Maria, I miss him.”

Maria’s face softened, her eyes reflecting an understanding that only deepened the ache in your chest.

“I know you do,” she said quietly. She hesistared before continuing “But, honey, life’s gonna move on. You deserve happiness—even if it feels complicated right now.” Her words hung in the air, gentle but firm, a reminder that Caleb’s presence, his growing affection, hadn’t gone unnoticed by her.

Her words settled heavily within you, undeniable yet daunting. “But I don’t think I’m ready to let him go,” you admitted, voice tight with conflict. “I don’t know how to move forward without.. without feeling like I’m leaving him behind.”

Maria leaned in, her gaze steady and reassuring. “You don’t have to rush. But don’t let fear hold you back from living. Joel wouldn’t want that for you. You deserve to be happy—even if it feels impossible right now.”

Her words struck a chord, resonating with a truth you hadn’t let yourself fully face. But the thought of moving on, of letting go of the hope you clung to, tightened in your chest like a vice. “What if I take that step and… regret it?” you whispered, a tremor of uncertainty in your voice.

Maria’s hand drifted to her baby’s head, her fingers brushing over the soft hair as if grounding herself in the love and life she held. “Life’s too short to live by ‘what ifs,’” she said gently, her voice filled with conviction.

“Taking a step forward doesn’t mean forgetting him. It just means you’re choosing to live, even with the pain. You’re allowed to find happiness again.”

•••

The night they left

You had fallen fast asleep beside him, blissfully unaware of Joel's watchful gaze. As he lay there, his mind was tangled with thoughts of the evening—the way you’d looked up at the stars, your face softly illuminated, a quiet glow in your eyes as you’d whispered promises meant just for him.

He’d finally lowered his guard, letting slip the long-buried apology along with a hint of the feelings he’d guarded so fiercely. In return, you had placed your hand in his, a quiet promise that you wouldn’t leave. The warmth of your touch anchored him, grounding him in a way he hadn’t realized he needed, filling the empty spaces he’d carried within him for years.

In that moment, lying beside you, Joel felt something he hadn’t in a long time—relief. The years of guilt, the weight of holding his feelings in check, all eased in the comfort of your presence. For the first time, he allowed himself to feel at peace, letting go, if only for a night, of the burdens he’d carried alone for so long.

Slowly, he reached over, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingertips lingering as he gently traced circles at your temple, as if etching this moment into his memory. He wanted to tell you how much you meant to him, how your quiet promise had started to ease the weight in his chest. He ached to close the distance, to press his lips softly against yours—but he held back, waiting for the right moment, fighting the pull that had never felt stronger than tonight.

And he let himself smile, knowing you wanted it too. You stirred something deep within him, a feeling nestled low in his stomach, reminding him just how far out of his depth he was.

But then he froze, hearing movement downstairs. A sharp knock at the door cut through the silence, urgent and relentless.

He squinted at the dim-lit clock, barely making out the time—4 a.m.

Jesus Christ, had he really been awake this long? And who the hell would be knocking at this hour?

With a sigh, he slipped out of bed, glancing back at you once more, his heart twisting at the thought of leaving you, even for a moment. He moved quietly, careful not to wake you, and made his way downstairs, each knock echoing louder as he approached.

As he opened the door, he found Ellie standing there, pale and shaken, her backpack slung over her shoulder, eyes wide with a fear he’d rarely seen in her.

“Ellie?” he whispered, dread pooling in his stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“They know,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “They know about me, Joel. They know I could be the cure. And they’re coming. They know I’m here in Jackson.”

Joel’s blood turned to ice. He glanced back at the staircase he’d descended just minutes ago, the image of you peacefully asleep etched sharply in his mind. Then he looked at Ellie, his mind racing.

Joel’s jaw tightened, memories of Sarah flashing painfully through his mind, the ache of that loss still raw, still haunting, even after all these years. Protecting Ellie felt was a second chance—something he couldn’t afford to lose.

He looked back toward the stairs, a silent vow etched in his mind—he’d return to you and explain everything once Ellie was safe, no matter what it took.

“Then we leave—now.”

•••

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