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bluemerakis · 2 days ago

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Recently finished Swayze’s ‘ghost’ and now I can’t stop thinking about post-Hell Dean, where the reader has his iconic brown leather jacket hanging in her room thinking she’s never gonna see him again but he shows up in her room (in a non creepy way as much as possible lol) and they fuuuuck like old times and she thinks she’s dreaming until she realises it’s actually him (or not lol) but the romanticism is screaming out to me, idk if it’s something you’d be interested in writing but omfg you’d write this so painfully well

ANON!! i LOVE LOVE LOVE this SO much! i’m so honoured that you’ve entrusted me with this idea—i had the time of my life writing this & went a lil wild with it LOL. thank you for your support and kind words, it means the world to me! i hope i did your request justice 🩵

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────────── ᝰ bluemerakis ༝༚༝༚ ───

❝ sunshine ❞

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pairing ୨�� dean winchester x fem!reader

warnings .ᐟ s4!spoilers, established relationship, dramatic descriptions of grief, cussing, angst, sam being an adorable little angel, nip sucking, unprotected sex p in v, tooth-rotting fluff. lmk if I forgot any! if there are typos, no there isn’t

synopsis ─ after dean had sealed the deal that warranted him a one-way ticket to hell, you had no hopes of ever seeing him again. you were overcome with a grief that felt inescapable, but with sam’s help, you’d managed to pull through the storm and enter clearer skies. just when you thought you’d have to navigate a new life without dean, against all odds, he makes an unexpected appearance.

word count ~ roughly 15k

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Four months.

The duration of your ongoing turmoil. The grim tally of his absence.

For four months, you’d been trapped in the stagnant bog of your grief. It had formed the very first night you’d lost him, seizing your mind like a rabid plague. It didn’t matter which way you attempted to swim, or how hard you paddled to try and stay afloat, there was no sure escape from its bottomless depth. It immobilised your existence, broke down your hope—scattered it like falling leaves to be lapped up by the famished surface and swallowed to the point of no return. It was lonely and suffocating, but you’d since given up on waiting for a lifeline to be cast from some land beyond your gloomy horizon, so sure that you’d isolated yourself from any soul kind enough to try.

Except for Sam.

Sam had tried to rescue you many times, but the lines he casted were always too battered—chewed up by the demons of his own grief. And you knew that if you grabbed onto it—where he stood barely clinging to the other end—it would snap and pull him right in. You couldn’t do that to him, so you’d surrendered to the bog entirely, allowing your grief to engulf you into its endless, bone-chilling nothingness. And each day, you sank further and further, like the dead weight of a stone, drifting down into the pits of your despair. Your living, breathing death.

A slow, agonising journey of digestion—your body, mind and soul disseminating into nothing.

Reaching rock bottom hadn’t taken long, not when you’d been left feeling so shallow by the robbery of your life’s meaning. And you’d laid there ever since, slowly deteriorating, slowly drowning. Over and over and over again. You could have said that you were losing every part of yourself, but you hadn’t been whole to begin with, not for a long time—not since losing him.

If he were here, he could have saved you from yourself. But he wasn’t. And you hated him for it.

You hated him. For striking a deal with the devil. For placing his life on the line without a second breath. For lying to you about it. For even thinking that nobody would notice the dead space left behind. There were certain days that tended to plunge that hateful knife—already engrossed in your heart—a little deeper. A day like this morning.

The day that marked the anniversary of Dean Winchester’s death.

On the first day without him, you’d spent your time trying to fight it—forced smiles, laughs of denial, stares that didn’t linger on any of his belongings for too long. But it was hard not to come face to face with his memory when the ghost of his existence seemed to prowl after you at every turn and every corner of the apartment. His favourite coffee mug with an infamous chip on the rim. The frozen, pasty pies he’d crammed the freezer full of. Six packs of canned beers stocked along the pantry’s top shelf. His discarded shoes. His sparse watch collection. The shampoo bottle he’d diluted to last a month longer.

And that damn leather jacket, which currently draped from the frame of your desk chair.

It hung there like a museum exhibit—the memory of Dean Winchester, frozen in time. The jacket he’d left behind on the day he’d slipped your life for good. You hadn’t once touched it. You couldn’t bring yourself to lay your fingers across the leather when there’d be no warmth radiating through its fabric to soothe you—couldn’t face the fact that it’d reflect the cold, empty truth of it all. So there it laid, collecting dust and slowly drowning beneath the suffocating, grey sea without a merciful hand to liberate it. It was a cruel parallel of your own withering state.

Every morning, your eyes would peel through a hollow sleep, and the first thing they’d settle on was that damn jacket. Every. Single. Time. As if you needed the constant recap on top of everything else. You could have mustered up the courage to move it some place else that’d finally warrant the motto out of sight, out of mind. But the naive fool that had created that saying failed miserably at accounting for the woes of the brain. Once scorched into memory, nothing would ever truly be forgotten. You’d remember regardless of where that jacket lay—a curse bound to your life, never to be broken.

Unless you broke first.

You shifted at the heart of your king-sized bed, your head sinking back into your plumy pillow as you gazed up at the ceiling. At anything but that jacket. Your limbs sprawled out between the cotton sheets, taking maximum advantage to voyage the sea of space left at your disposal. While a mattress this large and luxurious should’ve offered you a sense of comfortable freedom, you couldn’t help but mourn all the space—space that at one point, had been occupied by him.

The gentle, golden glare of dawn had begun its steady journey into the room, letting itself in almost shyly through the slits of your curtains. The meek sunbeams sliced through the dim atmosphere you’d found solice within, and you watched as dust particles began to waltz around one another through the bronzed air—as if they’d been cast into the centre of the ballroom. Around and around they swirled in perfect, mirrored harmony. You thought it looked a lot like a courting display—more mental imagery to emphasise your loneliness.

For a second, some faded image—a memory—flashed across your mind. Yourself and Dean, taking to the neglected dance floor of a bar nearing its closing time. A half-emptied beer bottle clutched in his one hand as his other linked with yours, serving as the leash that dragged your protesting form to its debut on the dance floor.

You’d never been too confident in your dancing skills, a fact you’d tried many times to disclose, but Dean had been insistent. Somewhere behind you, Sam had whooped from the comfort of the booth you’d both discarded, and when you’d glanced back at the younger Winchester, he had his beer-adorned hand raised into the air as a cheer. You’d scoffed with a heavy thanks for nothing.

When you’d turned back to Dean, he’d drawn up in his tracks without any prior warning, causing you to crash not-so-elegantly into his torso. Instinctively, your free palm had lurched forward to cradle his chest in a steadying motion, your chin tilting up to grace him with a stunned giggle.

The drink he’d throttled in his other hand sloshed with the jolt, foam tumbling over the nozzle’s edge like a provoked volcano’s tantrum. It slathered his fingers and trickled to the floor, adding fresh patterns to the aged, sticky blotches already scattered amidst the young night.

“Woah, easy there, tiger,” he’d laughed, but the hand that’d dragged you here released your fingers only to form a seductive curve at the small of your back. There, he’d pulled you in even closer, his lips closing in on you with the promise of a love-sick kiss. But instead, his jaw had dipped past your temple, lips grazing your cheekbone before hovering at your ear. “There’s nuff o’ me to go ‘round without you jumpin’ ship for the first spot,” he husked. You’d practically felt the grin spreading his lips.

You’d ducked your head away from his with a hearty huff. “Down, boy,” you’d scoffed, hands trailing up his chest to crown either shoulder with a natural ease. The touch had been smooth, magnetic. And maybe you two were like magnets, utterly obsessed with being intangible, and eager to keep on exploring every inch of one another with a shifting touch rather than be torn apart.

Dean’s eyes had lowered to the naughty line you’d drawn to his shoulders, the grin he’d taken up deepening enough to suction his cheeks into the dimples you’d come to adore. When he’d acquainted your eyes again, it was through a heavy-lidded stare that promised all sorts of activities to reciprocate your tantalising touch. “Oh, I’ll get down, alright,” he’d chuckled hoarsely, leaving the line open to interpretation as he brought his beer to his lips. He’d downed a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes not once straying from yours as he watched you mentally decipher his words.

“You know what? Enough of your games,” you’d laughed, hands slipping from his chest to forsake the dance floor before you’d have a chance to make it regret hosting you. You’d attempted to turn tail and flee, but Dean’s hand had found your wrist in a firm, yet gentle tug, and then you were held prisoner under those hypnotising eyes once more. Your lips had split to offer some final protest, but his own lips puckered into a shushing pout that had you clamping down on your tongue.

“Don’t say anythin’, just dance with me,” he’d instructed, and then the hand tethering you to him lifted, your arm following the motion like a chain effect. Against your will, you were spun around in an awkward, off-timed circle that deviated abominably from the background music. When you came to face him once more, his chest had rattled with a laugh a little too passionate for your liking. “That was adorable—like a toddler learnin’ she’s got the gears but don’t quite know which she’s shiftin’.”

Your cheeks had seared hot at that comment, free hand diving forward to shove his chest lightly. “Stop—I warned you!” You’d simpered.

“Hey!” He’d laughed, beer-occupied hand lifting in a gesture of innocence. “I’m only playin’! You’ll get the hang o’ it—I’ll teach ya. Watch.” Your hand lifted under his guidance as he executed his own spin—even more sprawled and ridiculous than yours had been. Your free hand had flown to cradle your mouth as a disbelieved chortle blared through, and as Dean came to face you once more, his brows were lifted in question. “Eh? I’m a natural, yeah?”

You’d giggled into your palm again before dropping your hand back to your side, lips pursing with amusement. “Let’s just say that I don’t think either of us should be teaching the other,” you’d huffed through a pained smile.

Dean lowered your joined hands to the space between you. “Well,” he’d begun, pulling you into his frame once more, like he just couldn’t get enough of your presence—like he wanted it to hog him. “Guess we just gotta. . . y’know, feel this one out together,” he’d murmured suggestively, eyes narrowing with cheek while he released your hand to settle into its natural hold at the small of your back.

You’d leaned your smirk-heavy lips closer to his with a content hum, your hands coming to wrap around his neck. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll follow if you lead.” He’d grinned approvingly at that, tugging you along to a slow and steady sway of the bodies, which you’d succumbed to and harmonised with in no time—much to your surprise.

“Sammy!” Dean had called to his younger brother, his eyes not once straying from yours as he presented his beer in the direction of the booth. “All yours for the takin’.” He’d paused to steal a glance at your beaming lips. “I got my own special o’ the night.”

You’d laughed at that, and Dean’s charm had grown all the more potent as he stretched out the dance between the two of you for what felt like a good couple of hours. In the background, the music in bad taste had blared on, ever so eager to cheapen the moment between the two of you, but you’d become so enthralled with one another that all else around you was drowned out, anyway.

Both his hands had selfishly hoarded your lower back, pressing you so far into him that you’d stumbled around his feet more times than you’d have liked to admit. But you’d remained steadied by the hands furled around his neck, and comforted by the gentle, reciprocated press of your foreheads, gazing into the sanctuary of one another’s eyes.

If you’d known then, in that moment, that Dean Winchester was going to die, you’d have held onto him a little longer—and probably never have let go. Even if it killed you, too.

With a heavy, rattled rise of your chest, you came back to your grim present, drawing in a long and shaky breath. You shifted between the sheets to roll onto your side, arm coming up beneath the underside of your pillow to cradle it like an emotional support teddy. You tuned your attention to your curtain-clad windows, and like a corpse, you continued to rot away within your coffin of a mattress, watching idly as the sun continued to announce its ascent.

It wasn’t long before warm golds drained into a paler shades that fully lit your room now—the official statement of a new day. But still, you didn’t stir. The curtains remained cast, the windows crammed closed as tightly as they’d been left about a week ago, and your soul feeling anything but renewed to tackle this heavy day head on.

Somewhere beyond your wall, footsteps thrummed lightly down the hallway. Now and again, you’d let yourself believe that they belonged to Dean, on his way to brew you both a morning cuppa—just to offer some pathetic, fleeting slither of comfort. But nothing—nobody could ever fill those shoes left behind. It hadn’t stopped Sam from trying, though.

Before Dean’s. . . disappearance, the brothers had stayed together in the larger room of your two-bedroom apartment—nothing like reliving the good old times, right? It didn’t much bother either one of them, given that Dean had slept in your bed on most nights, leaving the space feeling basically like Sam’s own. The dynamic between you all worked well, and it was practical for a hunter’s lifestyle. Costs were cut, perimeters familiarised and mapped out, and the shared company between you all was reliable. Trustworthy.

You’d become a blended family of some sort. You didn’t think there was any external force that could’ve torn you all apart. But you hadn’t accounted for an inside job. Hadn’t accounted for the weak link that was you.

After Dean’s death, you’d gone into a self-destructive spiral, eager to push anybody and everybody away while you feigned bravery. But Sam had clocked you like an open book, and it made him the hottest target of your impulsive ire.

You couldn’t stand looking at the younger Winchester, how he served as a constant reflection of your own grief—the grief you’d tried so hard to drown out. You knew you should have bonded with him over your shared loss, and the younger Winchester had tried everything to utilise that angle to be there for you, but it’d only made you push back harder. You half expected him to walk out after the first week, but you’d forgotten how deep-rooted stubborness ran within the Winchester bloodline.

Sam had continued to stick around. Why was beyond you. You could have argued that it was because he’d come to love you like a sister, but you couldn’t help the feeling that Dean had made him promise to look out for you, should he ever bite the dust. And it made you hate him more. Because if it were the latter, it meant that Dean had always intended to stay en route on the sacrificial pathway you’d tried countless times to swerve him from. And it meant that loving you hadn’t been reason enough for him to become sidetracked.

If only he’d held out a little longer and put off making that damned deal, you could have continued searching for a solution that didn’t end with either of the Winchesters’ deaths. But deep down, you knew that fate hadn’t written that ending down in any of her books. That continuing to skim page after page would have done nothing but waste minutes paid in blood. Deep down, you knew that Dean had no other choice, but it didn’t make you hate him any less for choosing it.

The faint clanking of utensils transcended the walls, indicating that Sam had worked himself into the kitchen. It was like a routine now. Every morning, the same time. You thought he might’ve craved some taste of control over his life by instilling this morning pattern he now followed so religiously.

You envied how well he seemed to hold himself together, despite it being his blood that had passed on. It made you feel invalidated in all your mourning. After all, if he could move on from the loss of his brother, whom he’d known all his life, why couldn’t you move on from a man you’d known for a pitiful number that paled in comparison?

As they so often did, your thoughts rampaged for a while longer, so eager to hold you captive between the sheets. But eventually, you felt the pit of neglect burrowed into your stomach gape wider, something that you couldn’t ignore any longer.

Your head turned to glimpse the plates you’d stacked atop the bedside table over the last few days. Almost all of them held meals that you’d scarcely picked at, meals Sam had cooked you, and they were starting to smell. It wasn’t doing much to help encourage the full return of your appetite. But still, you had to eat—something fresher, of course.

Eventually, you mustered up the courage to stir and shed the sheets, your week-old pyjamas falling limp around your frame as you shovelled your weight onto wilted legs. You stood for a moment, taking in this new pull of gravity, before angling yourself toward the door.

At the corner of your eye, it beckoned to you. You shouldn’t have looked, shouldn’t have given it the attention it so desperately craved, but how could you stand steadfast when you were crippled with the need to reminisce him during every waking moment? So you buckled, like you always did, and turned to glance over the waiting leather jacket.

It beamed a little brighter this time around, illuminated by the sun’s pale touch. It looked almost angelic, and you could have sworn that new life had been bestowed upon it—like a reincarnation. But no matter how long you stared, no body seemed to materialise between its hold to glorify that hope. Still no Dean Winchester to show for it.

So much for having faith.

With a barely audible scoff, you finally tore your gaze away and trudged toward your bedroom door. You reached for the handle, fingers hovering over the cool metal as you took a moment to think about what’d you say to Sam. Starting with an apology would probably be ideal, followed up by a looping string of thank yous for everything he’s done. You swallowed thickly before tightening your hold, the mechanism clicking open with a brash sound that cut through your senses. And then, like a ghost, you neglected your grave and slunk into the hallway.

When you traipsed into the open-plan apartment on light, reluctant feet, your eyes wandered over to the kitchen at the corner, where Sam had already made himself comfortable at the hot lip of the stove. His back was turned on you, but you caught the whisk of his arms as he executed an impressive flip of something within the skillet. It landed with a muffled thump, a result that had Sam hissing out a noise of satisfaction.

A shy, smoky ghost levitated above the Winchester, and it wasn’t long before the cracked kitchen window wafted a clue in your direction—the sweet tang of pancakes tickling your nose. Usually, it was a smell that had you inhaling a little deeper, like you couldn’t miss savouring even a scrap of its existence. Now, the smell roused nothing other than a faint reminder of just how much you didn’t crave breakfast. Or anything, for that matter. But still, duty called. More like your stomach would begin eating itself if you insisted on starving it for a day longer.

With a practiced breath of bravery, you picked your way past the living room sofas, your sock-clad feet scuffling across the floor with a severe lack of motivation. As you approached the kitchen island, you spotted a can of sweetened whipped cream—your favourite—and a bowl of berries straddling the plated, ever-growing stack of pancakes. It was the complete picture your stomach needed to enlist the first of its rumbling, but you hadn’t had much of a mental appetite for quite some time. The simple joy you’d once held for eating had been boiled down to the dull necessity of sustenance—you ate only because your body needed fuel. Anything more than that just wasn’t worth feeling.

And, truthfully, it was a baffling, new reality because there was a time you'd have nagged the boys to drive you halfway across the country to try some new cuisine you'd seen advertised across billboards. You’d scribble down the names of the niche diners and renowned restaurants in your trusty notebook to be reviewed on the trips back to the motels, heated debates unfolding as the brothers either vouched for or condemned your idea of a good meal. Now, the memories were so distant that you'd started to wonder whether they'd even existed. Whether that version of you still existed.

You brought up the rear of one of the kitchen chairs, moving a hand to cradle your protesting stomach while the other outstretched to retract the chair at the rim. The sudden, intrusive screech of wood against wood was enough to startle Sam into a growing awareness of his surroundings. He pivoted on his heels to face you, the pan making a reflexive dive in your direction in what was meant to be some pitiful means of a defence. The white of his eyes blared through, his tall frame ducking slightly as he assumed a defensive position.

Your composure didn’t falter as you slunk into the seat; his reaction wasn’t any surprise, not when you lead the adrenaline-laced life of a hunter forced to guard their six on a daily. And you doubted he’d expected any company after you’d basically stopped existing outside of your room these last couple of days—and at this early hour, no less.

What did surprise you, though, was that the pancake had managed to cling to the metal of the skillet in the midst of his jolt.

As Sam drank in your familiar form, his broad shoulders sagged visibly under his growing relaxation, the vice grip he’d unintentionally taken up around the pan’s handle now relenting an inch.

“Oh,” he stuttered out, a flustered half-chuckle diffusing his misplaced adrenaline. He slunk toward the island with his head slightly bowed, his gaze flickering between you and the pan. “Hey,” he murmured, his lips pursing shortly after the meek sound, as though he were afraid to let the wrong words slip. His caution wasn’t misplaced; you hadn’t exactly been kind to him these last few days.

It usually went that way around this time of the month. The days stepping up to the anniversary of Dean’s death tended to trip you right into the worst vision of yourself. You were more sullen than usual, losing patience over minuscule things, and sinking jaws of hostility into anybody who’d even attempted to offer hollow words of comfort.

Bobby had been the first to withdraw with some muttered crap of I’m too old for this shit. But Sam had always been too forgiving. He’d stuck around regardless of your temper, taking all the verbal beatings while he tended to your unspoken needs in ways that you couldn’t. You owed him so much more than you were capable of giving at this time.

You leaned onto the cool marble of the island, your hands coming forward in a timid fold as your lips flattened into a pathetic spectacle of a smile. “Hey, Sam,” you murmured, and for a second, the sound startled you. It was so dull, so lifeless—you’d even go so far as to say that it was so unlike you.

It was a stark contrast to the version of yourself the brothers had learnt to tolerate, maybe even appreciate—constant chatter and running commentary streaming live from the backseat of the impala. Dean had gone so far as to nickname you sunshine and rainbows, trailing after the twin storm clouds—the Winchesters—that seemed to thunder down on the unassuming world. But now, you felt like nothing more than the rolling, gloomy skies that paved way for everything wet, woeful and destructive. A weather so devastating that a show of a rainbow would be a mockery rather than a promise.

Sam returned your smile almost sheepishly, his head dipping to drink in the view of the counter. “You, uh. . . you sleep alright?” He asked, the pan coming forward to leer you over as he tipped the metal downwards and crowned the seasoned stack of pancakes with the fresh newcomer.

Your eyes lowered to the newest addition of the pancake pile, following the faint trails of heat that seemed to rise with a freedom and lightness you craved to feel. “Yeah,” you lied, your lower lip instantly pulled into a tense bite. “Yeah, I slept. . . fine.”

You knew that Sam wasn’t convinced, the moment of silence following after evidence of some tactic he might’ve been mentally reviewing to try and coax the truth from you. You began tracing a line along the patterns of the marble counter with your index finger, anticipating the awkward conversation to come.

“Come on, really?” He laughed softly, but the sound was gentle and sympathetic, not slathered with amusement or scorn. “‘Cause I didn’t,” he confessed.

You glanced up at him in surprise, your finger halting in its place. “Really?” You breathed out softly, instant relief crashing over you. Maybe Sam hadn’t recovered as much as you thought he had, and as unfortunate as that was, you couldn’t help but feel slightly comforted—less alone.

He tipped his head to the side in consensus, a wry scoff piercing his lips. “Honestly? Can’t remember the last time I did,” he said, eyes flickering up to glance you over briefly before he turned his back on you to discard the pan at the sink. He slid over to the stove, flicking buttons and shifting dishes before he was back at the island. “I mean, I sleep—but just. . . not very well.” He took up a spatula and began shovelling at the pancake stack. “One?” He asked intuitively.

“One’s perfect,” you said. You watched as he dragged the rim of the spatula down the building of pancakes, stopping somewhere around the middle floor before he slid the utensil inward. He shimmied out a hot and fluffy pick, placing it onto your plate rather gingerly before he nudged it in your direction. “Thanks, Sam,” you murmured, receiving it with a forced show of eagerness—you didn’t want your lack of an appetite to make things more personal than they already felt.

“Yeah, anytime,” he answered, sparing you a soft smile before he took to plating his own stack of three.

You held off on digging into your singular pancake, hands idling around the knife and fork bracketing your plate as you waited for the younger Winchester to cover up the remainder of the breakfast.

With a satisfied dusting of his palms, he finally pushed his own plate across the marble to slide in a distance beside yours before he made his way around the island. He pulled out the seat beside you and settled himself down with a heavy plop and an appreciative grunt—almost like an old man of some sorts.

He took up his cutlery and glanced over at you with a comforting smile. “Time to, uh. . . dig in, I guess,” he laughed lightly. “There’s whipped cream and berries if you’d like.” His chin jutted to the listed toppings, and then his knifed hand jolted into the air suddenly. “Oh, and there’s syrup, too. I’ll fetch it from the pantry.”

Without waiting for your response, he set down the cutlery and shifted back in his chair, but you turned your body a slither to face him before he could slip away as quickly as your nerve.

“Sam, wait,” you said, your hands straying from the table to bundle in your lap in an anxious toying of fingers.

He halted in place almost instantly, turning to face you with his brows quirked an inch—like your sudden unrest was news to him. But you knew he was only trying to be polite in playing his attentive part; he likely knew exactly what this was about. “Yeah?”

You drank in his softened eyes, and they held so much purity and innocence that it caused your heart to sag with a fresh, guilt-ridden heaviness. It tugged your head down to the view of your lap, your chest heaving with a shuddering inhale. “I’m so sorry,” you blurted out, your voice rattled by so much regret that it began to quiver.

At the edge of your vision, you saw Sam settle back into his seat, arms drawing onto the counter. “Hey,” he cooed gently. “It’s oka—”

“No, it’s not okay,” you cut in hastily. “I need to say this. I’m sorry for everything—for the way I acted. . . for the things I said—you didn’t deserve any of it, Sam.” You began picking at the skin of your nails. “I just, I have all this. . . anger inside of me. I’m angry at myself, and I’m angry at Dean—I’m angry at everything cause everything’s just so fucking unfair. And I know that it’s not an excuse, but I just. . . I figured. . . I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know,” you scoffed, but you braved face and lifted your head to face him once more. “But I do know that I am truly, deeply sorry.”

Sam’s head lowered to take in the view of his plate, his eyes darting about the porcelain. “Listen,” he eventually murmured, his mouth stuttering around air as he searched for the right words. Eventually, he settled on grace. “I get it, okay?” His chin lifted to gift you with a break you didn’t think you deserved. “All that anger inside of you. . . I’ve felt it before—more than I’d like to admit, actually,” he laughed dryly before his expression warped into something more solemn. “It eats you up inside. . . makes you say and do things you wouldn’t usually say or do. There are so many times I’ve gone down that road, but Dean—he’s always been there to pull me back, even if it was by the tip of my ear.” He laughed again, this time more genuine, and you couldn’t help but crack a smile of your own.

Sam’s head lowered again, his smile simmering away. “Anyway, I guess what I’m tryna say is that, I get it. I get why you said the things you did, and I’m not mad about it. For once, I don’t feel that anger anymore.”

Slowly, your fingers began to still their fidgeting as you listened to him talk, your chest cooperating by letting up on its rapid pace.

The younger winchester upturned his eyes to yours with a new ferocity. “I’m here for you. I’m always gonna be here for you—and not just because I owe Dean that much, but because you’ve been there for me, too. So many times. Even at my. . .” He trailed off as he averted his gaze to the side, some unspoken shame breaching his conscious. You saw his Adam’s Apple bop under a heavy swallow before he turned back to you. “Even at my worst,” he continued. “So. . . don’t worry about it, really. I get it.”

For the first time in a long time, you found your eyes watering an emotion other than grief and heartbreak—something far lighter and rejuvenating. Love. Appreciation. Relief. You envied Sam’s ability to barrel through this cruel life so determined to pin him down, and you admired how each time, he seemed to emerge with a heart even larger than before. Even after all the rounds you’d emptied into his chest, he stood tall, still offering that hand you so desperately needed to pull you from your self-dug trenches.

Maybe, it was about time you finally took it.

The first tear slipped the keep of your eye, jettisoned from the ledge of your cheekbone to where it splattered across the marble top. Your hand flew to wipe the moisture away, an ugly sniff racking your chest. There was a clank of shifting metal before Sam’s hand came forward to brush your shoulder.

“Hey,” he cooed softly, and then you were carefully tugged into the side of his towering frame. “Come here,” he urged, and he was so gentle that it had you fully succumbing to his hold without a single reflexive need to resist. His arm snaked around your shoulder blades to hook around your arm as he drew you into a tight hug, your hands bundling further into your lap. “It’ll be okay. We’ll get through this. Together,” he added pointedly, a clear warning that he didn’t intend to let you get your lonely way again. You were okay with that.

Your lower lip began quivering with fresh emotion—guilt bouncing on the rim the heaviest. “I’m so sorry, Sam,” you reiterated.

Your felt his chin settle into the crown of your head, the vibration bouncing off your hair. “For what? Being human?” He laughed. “In case you haven’t noticed, we tend to be dicks from time to time, and I’d say hunters have more right than most to be a bigger one now and again.”

You laughed—actually laughed at that, the sound snotty and slightly gross, but real. Sam harmonised with his own throaty chuckle, the hand furled around your arm in a tight, reassuring grip relenting to rub comforting lines up and down the expanse.

“Now, enough of the pity party. Let’s finish these pancakes before they get cold, and then what do you say we pull out a couple of board games?” He gave you one last comforting squeeze before slowly releasing you from the hug.

You leaned away from him, centring your weight back over your own chair as you turned your head down to your plate with a thoughtful pout. “Okay,” you agreed, your chin ducking in tiny, accepting nods. You sniffed away the lingering tears, hand coming up to pat your eyes one last time for good measure. Then, your head swivelled to face him as you put on a weak smile. “Hey—think you’re smart enough to challenge me to a game of scrabble?”

Sam laughed as though your challenge was satire, but you frowned with slight offence, which sobered his smile into a look of confusion. “Wha—you’re serious?” He huffed, jaw gaped around disbelief.

“And why wouldn’t I be?” You exclaimed, your voice cracking around a light giggle—the first you’d uttered in a while. “I’m as smart as you are—we read the same books!”

His averted his gaze, head cocking to the side with a scoff before he glanced back at you in amusement. “Yeah, and after you gave your reports, I had to go back and reread every single one of those books to fill in information you left out,” he said pointedly.

You shook your head with light disbelief, a thin chuckle following after. “You know what? Let’s have that round, and if you win, you can bullshit my literacy skills all you like. Deal?” You outstretched your hand across the counter.

Sam’s gaze ducked to the gesture, his brows cocking on a look that you thought was a little too smug, before his hand reached to link with yours in an informal pact. “Deal,” he said through a scheming smirk.

You squeezed his hand lightly as a warning. “Wipe that douche-display off your lips, nothing’s set in stone.”

“Yeah, no, of course,” he replied nonchalantly, but when your hands unlinked, you saw the corner of his mouth hitch with some mental remark.

“All right, that’s it.” You took up your utensils while Sam glanced you over with slight surprise. You began digging into your pancake with a renewed sense, plopping the first piece into your mouth and taking on a ferocious chew. There was a brief wave of nausea at the food’s sudden intrusion before it quickly dissipated at the sweet taste, beckoning you back for another bite.

“You might wanna slow down there,” he laughed, hands tending to his own plate before they finally presented his first bite to his lips with far more poise.

“Uh uh,” you hummed through a mouthful, swallowing thickly before continuing. “I got a lot riding on this. You made it personal when you brought my ego into this. Sooner we’re done here, sooner I can beat you.”

Sam let out a disbelieved laugh, but didn’t argue any further as he began dissembling his own pancakes at a faster rate. Once you’d both lapped down the dough and licked the plates clean, you’d taken to washing up the dishes and wiping down the counters while Sam procured the board games that had long since collected dust. You’d taken the liberty of microwaving you both a bowl of popcorn and pouring glasses of soda while he set out the game within the living room. Then, you both settled down for the first round, snacks at the ready.

Sam had won, as he’d so smugly anticipated. But you weren’t so eager to be humiliated without a challenge, so for the rest of the day, you’d played out the game to a tally of the most wins. Hours seemed to pass like the impression of a second, the apartment growing dimmer and dimmer with each trailing retreat of the sun.

Eventually, you were both cast in a saturated bronze that poured in through the living room windows, illuminating the score page you’d scribbled up and further glorifying Sam’s final win. He took the game by far, and you were forced to acknowledge that maybe he was the smarter one of you both. Or at least the more apt thinker.

After that, you’d both powered through a movie of his choice, chowing down on some Chinese takeout he’d had delivered. And you emptied the carton down to the last noodle, appeasing the appetite you’d developed somewhere throughout the day. Already, you felt so much lighter—physically and mentally—and you knew that you owed it all to Sam and his perseverence. You couldn’t help but beam with some newfound appreciation for the younger Winchester.

Through the darkness, the tv screen emitted just enough light to illuminate Sam’s side profile. His eyes were glued to the screen, jaw circulating hasty chews as he practically inhaled his second bowl of popcorn. The sight made you shake your head with light amusement, and you watched him a little longer just for the sake of it.

“Hey, Sam?” You eventually called, which made him face you with a look of sudden concern.

His hand halted within his bowl. “Yeah?”

“Thank you. For today—for everything.” You offered him a warm, appreciative smile. He’d given you something you desperately needed today—a distraction. From everything and most definitely from yourself. Debts like those didn’t feel possible to repay, but you’d try, regardless. As long as it took.

Sam took a moment to drink in your words, his features motionless before his brows furrowed like he’d made nothing of your gesture. “Yeah, no problem,” he answered, a smile to match yours following shortly after. You both turned your attention back to the screen, and for the rest of the movie, you sat in comfortable, popcorn-tinged silence.

Once the movie came to an end, you’d both chatted about anything and everything until the first person let a yawn slip—that person being you. After that, you’d both tidied up the space, folded the blankets and packed the games back into their keep. Then, you’d dipped into your room to gather your old dishes, discarding the food and washing up the plates. Sam had helped pack it all away.

Once the day’s chores were wrapped up, you’d both exchanged your nightly greetings before going your separate ways. Sam retreated back to his room, though not without snagging a thick book from the shared reading shelf. You’d briefly slipped into your own room to pull out a fresh set of pyjamas and a towel before dipping your toes into a much needed shower.

Once you felt you’d scrubbed off enough of your week-long rot, you’d slunk from the shower and back to your room to call it a day. When you clicked the door closed behind you, you hovered on the spot with a hearty sigh into the dim atmosphere. You took a moment to reflect on the day, and for once, it provoked a smile—not sadness, not anger, not grief—but a genuine smile. The relief after the storm.

You flicked on the light and dressed yourself into your fresh set of clothes, teeth brushed and hair secured back before you flicked the lights off and sank into your bed with a new type of exhaustion. A fulfilling one. It wasn’t long before sleep arrived to hurl you into vivid dreams, and not unlike other times, you dreamt of Dean.

Within your bed, he had you bare and sprawled out beneath his own nude figure, his lips wandering gentle, curious trails along the side of your jaw before dipping down the ledge to trawl the arch of your neck. His elbows propped him up on either side of your head as he took his time to lovingly brand you with his wet caress, your own hands combing blissful strokes through his hair.

You sank back into your pillow, lips parting with breathy mewls as he shifted his attention down to your breasts. He moved to cup one tenderly, tongue swirling a loop around the hardened bud, his strained moan sprawling into the mix of stimulation as you tightened your hold within his hair.

“Dean,” you exhaled weakly, for no reason other than to verbalise the unorthodox way he made you feel. Your teeth found your lower lip in a restrained nibble as he acknowledged your absent-minded praise with a gentle kneading of your breast—as if he sought to gorge on it to the point of total devouring.

You felt the blood flow vigorously to your chest, spurred onward by the suctioning of his lips, and it pooled at your nipple, causing it to throb within his hold. You let slip a soft noise of discomfort, your hand collapsing from his hair to gently push him back at the collarbone.

Dean’s head lifted to yours, a slight pant wafting from his glistening lips. “All good there, sunshine?” He murmured, hand slipping from your breast to run a light, reassuring finger across your cheek. He smudged away the moisture beading along your skin before settling his thumb in the divot of your chin.

“Too much,” you breathed through a dazed grin, hand coming up to gently wrap around his wrist. “You’re like a leech,” you added with a soft giggle.

His lips thinned in a proud smirk, encouraged by your tease rather than offended. “Damn right I am—have you tasted you? Freakin’ delicious,” he praised, smacking his lips in a dramatic show and tell. It made you giggle and release his wrist to pin his lips between your thumb and index finger, and you held them captive while he mumbled noises of protest. He looked so ridiculous, it warmed your heart.

“Stop that!” You laughed, your cheeks flushing hot at the silly sight of him.

Dean wiggled his lips between your grasp until he was able to wrap his lips around a finger, nibbling your skin tenderly so that you released a light squeal and pulled away from his famished lips. “Stop what?” He mocked lightheartedly, head lowering down to you as he followed after your retreating hand with a determined grin playing his lips.

Your hands flew to your chest in a pretence of helplessness, your giggles elevating to a heartier laugh as he pretended to chase after them. His teeth acquainted the air all around them with animated chomps, but made no good on the promise. Eventually, he gave up the hunt and pressed his lips to the side of your jaw, gradually tracing his way up to the soft curve of your cheek before he drew back an inch to gaze into your eyes.

“My sunshine,” he said softly, adoringly, leaning down to nuzzle the button of your nose with his own before he placed a soft kiss there.

Your heart trilled love-struck melodies around Dean’s proud declaration, the magnitude of your smile hoisting up the apples of your cheeks until your eyes were compressed into half-moons. “Say it again,” you murmured, palms drifting up to frame his face and thumbs twiddling to soothe the humps of his cheeks.

Your touch set Dean’s composure alight, his sultry stare softening into something more pure and needy. His eyes narrowed as he gazed down at you, as though you had captured his complete and undivided attention. You found yourself getting so wrapped up in their green depths that for a second, it felt like you couldn’t breathe.

“You’re my sunshine,” he repeated in a voice so low and soft that it bordered a husky whisper, but the love imbued into those words carried through as clear as a shout. “I don’t care if that sounds like the title of a Jane Austen novel. You’ve got this. . . fire to you, the kind that nobody—nothin’ can gank. And you draw people into your orbit like they’d never stood a damn chance. Trust me, I sure as hell didn’t,” he laughed, both his hands coming up as a unit to brush back the hair framing your face. “And you’re warm. . .” He trailed off to place a kiss on your cheek, “—and radiant—” and then the other. “And my whole goddamn universe.”

You gazed at him as he pulled away from your proximity, his eyes brimming with love as he waited for your response. What you wanted to say was, “I knew you read Jane Austin in your free time!”, a harmless poke that would keep this tender moment elevated at meaningful heights. Then you’d both share a laugh, and melt into the night cocooned within each other’s warmth.

But deep down, something more solemn tugged at the strings of your heart—an unanswered question that slowly began to resurface despite your attempt to bury it time and time again. So instead, you said, “then how could you leave me?”

Dean’s face warped into a light frown, your question catching him off guard. For a few seconds, he did nothing but stare, his lips parting to search for an answer that you’d waited months to hear. But when he looked as though he might finally answer, no sound carried through to lay your suspense to rest. His mouth gaped and his lips moved, but they formed nonsensical words, and no matter how hard you tried to focus and decipher your most craved confession, it never came to you.

Then, the scene around you began to distort, the lights cutting out and the shapes of the room’s decor warping erratically. And when you blinked, Dean had disappeared entirely—his atoms scattered into the cosmos of your mind. You tried to call out to him, to summon him back to his rightful place beside you, but it seemed as though he were destined to be robbed from the palm of your hands—both in the waking world, and in the confines of your own mind.

And then you, in your entirety, were dissolved into a black abyss, the surroundings melting away like you’d imagined it all in a vivid episode of mania. For a moment, you floated around in a void, your mind slowly dissociating from the fantasies of its own creation. You heard nothing, saw nothing, but somehow, you felt a touch lingering upon your arm. It was warm, familiar, and even though no face materialised to claim it, you knew that it was Dean.

You prepared yourself to mourn the loss of it once you emerged into the waking world, but as your eyes fluttered open, your lids blinking frantically to clear your vision, the touch didn’t fade. If anything, it became more palpable, solid—real. And when you’d adjusted enough to the dawn haze shrouding your room, it wasn’t the image of the leather jacket that arrived first to taunt you.

It was Dean.

You blinked harder, more desperately, your heart rate skyrocketing as you attempted to rationalise whatever fucked up delusion your exhausted mind was currently displaying you. But his body didn’t vaporise into nothingness, and blinking didn’t seem to possess the same parlour trick of making the rabbit disappear, like it did in your dreams.

It was real.

There he sat, as stoic as a statue, at the edge of your mattress, and the hand you’d felt cupping your arm stroked up the curve of your shoulder to gently frame your neck. The contact sent a shiver up your spine, your lips falling open to expel a shaky breath.

It can’t be, you thought, your brows contracting in a puzzled frown. He’s dead—he’s in hell, he can’t be here.

Through the dawn gloom, you could make out the faintest stretch of his lips—an almost simper. “Good mornin’, Sunshine.” But you didn’t recognise the voice. It was low, gruff and abraded, like his vocal cords had been extracted and sent through the grinder before being forcibly shoved back into its compartment. And he sounded dull, the type of dull you’d come to embody in his absence. It was. . . anything but Dean Winchester.

Your lower lip began to quiver, your shoulder drawing into yourself as you shied away from his touch. “This isn’t real,” you choked out, hastily collecting yourself onto your elbows as you sought to put some distance between you two. “You’re not real!” You exclaimed in rising volume, which had the impersonator stretching out both his hands in a steadying motion.

“You’ll wake Sammy,” he whispered urgently—a harsh sound that came across as more of a scold.

You frowned as you inched yourself a fraction across the mattress, eager to reach the end opposite to where he sat. “Who are you?” You demanded in a tone more regulated, your hand subtly reaching behind you to grab ahold of the salt container you kept on the bedside table like a framed picture.

Dean’s eyes seemed to follow your not-so-subtle play with dry amusement. “It’s me,” he insisted gruffly, his hands coming to settle on his knees—and one of them bounced with unspoken thoughts. It was a habit you’d come to recognise since knowing him, and it did a fraction of a favour in vouching for his authenticity. “It’s Dean,” he continued, eyes straying from your hands to settle onto your face.

“No,” you refused, and behind you, your fingers grabbed ahold of the salt. “Dean Winchester died—four months ago,” you explained in a low, but no less stern voice. “So I’m going to ask you again—who are you?”

His nostrils seemed to flare with dwindling patience, his eyes flickering off to the side. “Man, paranoia’s one son o’a bitch,” he scoffed under his breath before turning to face you again. “Listen, I know you’re not gonna believe me. And I also know that you’re about to baptise me with a shit ton o’ salt to barbecue the livin’ crap outta whatever demon you think’s got his hand stuck up my ass.” He began reaching into his shirt pocket. “Now, as much as I’d love to swallow a mouthful of killer blood pressu—” his words were cut short as you tossed a handful of salt in his direction, the mound not shying away from taking a bold dip in his mouth.

The assault dealt no physical damage to his body, but it did earn a passionate look of annoyance from Dean, whose jaw slowly circumducted as his tongue began shovelling the salty hell from his mouth. You scrutinised him for a few seconds longer, not so eager to let down your guard because of one passed test.

“You’re not a demon?” You asked more than stated.

His jaw fell limp at your question, a slow blink accentuating his displeasure. “Clearly not,” he said lowly, the words slurred by his unwillingness to taste the salt with proper pronunciation.

He leaned forward, hand reaching for the box of tissues sitting atop the beside table, and yanked a few free. He brought it up to his lips, where he spat furiously to cleanse his mouth. After a rough clearing of his throat, he bundled up the tissues, tossed it onto the table and glanced over at you once more. “Listen, I’ve already been through all the tests back at Bobby’s. I was goin’ to pull out the phone and get him on the line to clear me before you decided I needed some seasonin’,” he said flatly.

You watched him suspiciously, your brow quirking in disbelief. “Fine,” you said tensely, but offered nothing further.

Dean frowned lightly, his eyes doing a brief and clueless sweep of the room as though he expected you to offer more clarity. He settled his attention back onto you, his chin lifting slightly as he uttered a cautious, “okay.” He began reaching into his pocket once more, the movement deliberately slowed. “Just gonna reach for the phone, alright? So hands off the fuckin’ salt,” he said, eyes flickering between you and the container. “Please,” he added gruffly, and then his had retracted with the phone.

You prowled after his every move like a predator, but despite your weariness, you still lowered the salt an inch. You watched as he flicked open the phone, thumb gliding across the keypad as he pulled up Bobby’s number. Then, he lifted the phone to his ear, eyes trained on you with equal caution as he waited for the line to connect him to the opposite end.

You heard the static click, and a voice blared through shortly after—Bobby’s voice. The sound soothed your heart by a slither.

“Hey, Bobby,” Dean greeted, passing his tongue along his lower lip. “Listen, I, uh. . . I need ya to do that thing I told you I’d need—you know, vouchin’ for me and all.” On the other end of the line, Bobby uttered a few, incomprehensible words. “Yeah,” Dean laughed weakly. “Yeah. . . she threw me with the salt. Just like you said.” His eyes flickered to you with subtle amusement before Bobby said something else. Then, he was handing you the phone.

You narrowed your eyes in skepticism before your free hand reached for the phone, so careful not to graze his skin as you retrieved it from his fingers. Dean seemed to notice the rejection, and his mouth gaped slightly with the hurt it evoked. You pushed aside the image, but didn’t stray from his face as you brought the phone up to your ear.

“Hello?” You called into the line.

“Hey, kid, it’s me,” Bobby’s static voice answered. “Listen, I know you’re goin’ through one helluva mind-fuck right ‘bout now. . . but it’s ‘im, kid. It’s Dean.” He trailed into silence after those words, providing an interval he expected you’d fill with some sort of taken aback reaction. But all you could do was choke on your stunned silence, your heart beginning to ram at your chest harder than it’d ever managed before. “Kid? Y’still there?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed all-knowingly as he watched you in patient silence. His hand shifted from his lap an inch, like he yearned to reach out to you and offer some reassurance, but you both knew it’d do little to soothe you in this current predicament—the mental debate of whether or not the man you loved was really back.

Eventually, your body hosted a response, but it wasn’t one you’d preferred to have at this instant. A tear clotted along your one eye, bundling up until it was heavy enough to slip over the edge. Dean’s expression visibly softened, his jaw clenching with the knowledge that he couldn’t exactly pull you into a tight embrace—not just yet, anyway.

Your lips loosened, a rattled breath breaking through. “I saw his body, Bobby,” you pushed out in a quiver. Another tear lined the opposite cheek. “I watched you and Sam dig that fucking hole. . . and I watched you roll his lifeless, rotting corpse over the edge before cementing him under six fucking feet of dirt.”

The phone line hissed and crackled with the silent air on Bobby’s side. You almost thought he’d given up the ruse that you were so determined to believe you’d gotten caught up in, but then his voice blared through—the most tender and sympathetic you’ve ever heard it.

“I know you’re confused,” he began. “Hell, this shit had me believin’ that my family’s history of Alzheimer’s had finally kicked the bucket out from under me. But I did all the tests, and I interrogated him over and over again. I gave him hell, kid, but in the end, it’s really him. Y’know I wouldn’t have even thought ‘bout lettin’ him get close to ya if I weren’t certain o’ it. So if ya can’t trust ‘im just yet, then trust me. I give ya my word.”

Your fingers gripped the phone a little tighter, if only to still the trembling of your hand, and you gave a large sniff as you processed his words. Your eyes still bore into Dean, as though it would keep him pinned to the spot should he think about making a run for it.

You shifted the phone against your ear an inch, taking your lower lip into a tense bite before you spoke again. “Okay,” you breathed softly. “I trust you, Bobby.”

From Bobby’s end, shuffling noises chafed your ear like sand-paper. “Alright, kid, I’ll leave the two o’ ya to it. Good luck,” he said, and then the line terminated with a beep. The call’s ending tune reached Dean’s ear, where he shifted on the mattress almost anxiously while he waited for your decision.

“So, uh,” he began, his lips stuttering on the right words as his head buckled to face the hands he’d crossed in his lap. His palms rubbed tense lines—like the scheming motion of a fly—before he glanced back up at you. “We good?” He settled on. You saw the subtle desperation in the clench of his jaw. He craved the pardon only you could give him.

Slowly, you lowered the phone from your ear, flipping it closed as your chest rattled with another, shaky breath. Your eyes began to water once more, and this time, it didn’t hold back. In a second, you were hurling yourself across the mattress, arms flailing through the air to wrap around his neck with a desperation that could have body-slammed him to the floor.

“Woah,” he steadied in a laugh that sounded all too relieved.

Your chest crashed into Dean’s, and his hands were hasty to return your hug as he wrapped himself around your waist. There, he completed the embrace, pulling you against him so tightly that it started to pinch the meat of your skin through your shirt. But you didn’t care if his grip left behind a bruise—you’d consider it a physical reminder of just how real this all was.

You pressed your face into the crook of his neck, all the pent up emotions you’d come to harbour over these last few months finally liberated from your clutch. The tears began to roll without practiced regulation, and you found yourself yielding all control. Because being around Dean always had you feeling safe enough to do so, and your body had utilised its muscle-memory to re-establish that foundation. To rebuild the home that his death had wrecked.

“I thought I’d lost you forever,” you whispered against the stubbled skin of his neck, the sound heavy and cracked.

His palm stroked slow, comforting circles across your lower back, his own face buried against the slope of your shoulder. You felt his warm breath waft over your skin as he spoke. “Me too,” he pushed out tensely. Shakily. There were very few moments that you’d ever heard that tone on him. “I didn’t think I was ever comin’ back,” he admitted. “Didn’t think I’d ever see you, or Sammy—hell, even Bobby, again. But I’m not complainin’,” he added hastily. “Shit, I’ll never complain ‘bout anythin’ e’er again. I got everythin’ I need right here.”

He shifted against you, torso pulling back as though he couldn’t wait a second longer to peer into your eyes. You leaned yourself back in rhythm, your cheeks blown red with your overwhelmed state and your eyes still glistening with fresh tears. You kept your hands looped around his neck, fingers still clutching his phone, and your heart was seized by a new fist of pain as you saw Dean’s bloodshot eyes pave way for his own, sparse—but undeniably real—tears.

His hands settled at your hips, fingers subconsciously squeezing at the meat as he did a mental walkthrough of his own emotions. “I missed you so goddamn much,” he whispered, his lower lip trembling now. “God, all I could think ‘bout down there, every second of every miserable day, was you—how much I needed you. How much I missed you.” His chest jolted with a forced, but much needed exhale to steady his next words. “And how much I love you.”

You choked on your breath at that final confession, words that—up until now—had never directly admitted. You couldn’t help but huff a slight breath of disbelief, a weak grin beaming through as your eyes softened with a warmth that made you feel whole again. Dean, himself, looked slightly stunned at his declaration, his eyes widening mildly as he drank in your reaction. But as you gazed at him, there was no undertone of regret or shame mingling with his features. There was only what looked like relief, if the slight quirking of his lips and the soft sigh that followed after was any indication.

Maybe, it was relief attributed to the fact that he’d finally started to unpack—and put words to—some of his more complex emotions. It made you feel so much closer to him.

Without sparing it another thought, you blurted your own reciprocation. “I love you too, Dean.”

He smiled tenderly at that, and neither one of you moved as you shared an intense stare that circulated all sorts of emotion—love, adoration, and desire. Then, as though some unspoken agreement had been exchanged, you dove down to meet his lips in a fierce kiss, the phone you’d been clutching dropping to some surface beyond your current care.

Dean’s hands trailed up the expanse of your back as he returned your kiss hungrily, his lips feuding with yours for an advantage of the play. He wasted no time sliding his hands beneath the hem of your shirt, his warm palms massaging a determined, upward trajectory until he gained enough leverage to tug it over your head.

The kiss broke off momentarily as your arms flew up in an eager gesture to shed your layers, your chest heaving with the exertion. He managed to successfully tug the shirt over your head, the neckline the last to go and leaving behind an impression as it briefly snagged onto your hair. When he gave it one last freeing tug, your hair tie came loose amidst the commotion, your hair cascading across your bare torso in fresh, yet slightly damp strands.

Dean came forward to press two distinct kisses against your lips—hasty, but a bold statement in itself—before he leaned back to roll his shoulders and discard his own clothing. Your hands flew to his chest in aid, fingers sliding beneath the isles of his unbuttoned shirt to push it over the slopes of his shoulders. His hands twisted behind himself to pluck each sleeve from his arms with practiced speed, discarding it some place behind him before he was tugging his snugly-fitting tee over his head.

Instantly, your attention lowered down his toned torso, the glorified sight of him causing your core to pulse with desire. You didn’t get to exploit his image for long before he hogged your view with another, fierce tumble of the lips, his hands grabbing at your waist like he’d needed to remember what you felt like. Your tongues found one another with an ease that felt like its fates were tied, swirling about in a seductive dance to the death. Your hands settled at his neck, gently rubbing and kneading the skin as you allowed yourself to melt into his devouring.

When your palms wandered further down the contoured muscle of his broad shoulders, you felt the skin of his left bicep raise in a questionable pattern. The contact over that area made Dean wince into your mouth, and then he withdrew from the kiss with a feral pant, eyes shifting from an insatiable hunger to a more vulnerable uncertainty. It was enough of a reaction to tear your gaze away from him and steal a glance at the mood-killing discovery. But you almost wished you hadn’t stumbled upon it because the sight of a raised, red handprint seared into the flesh of his forearm made your eyes widen in horror.

“Dean—” you breathed, overcome with the instinctive need to trace your hand over the anomaly, but his shoulder withdrew from your curious touch, which called your attention back to him. “What happened?” You asked softly.

He shook his head lightly, taking a moment to acknowledge the marking with a newfound solemness. His chin dipped down for a second, a broken, incomplete noise dangling from his lips. You knew then, that whatever grim reminder had been imbued into this branding was something too fresh to confront at this time, so you made the silent decision not to probe him about it any further.

You moved to cradle his face, tilting it up to you. His expression looked defeated, his eyes sagging with a heavy fatigue. You didn’t doubt that hell had had its tolls—if anything, you were surprised that he’d come out of it in one piece. Physically, at least. Whatever mental deconstruction he’d undergone during his time there was knowledge beyond your grasp, and a conversation for another time. Hell had already taken enough from the both of you; you wouldn’t let it have this moment, too.

“If you want to stop, just say the word,” you told him gently, offering a hearty smile. “We can just lay here and cud—“

“No,” he answered, the hands at your waist tightening with new resolve. “We’re gonna cuddle, alright, but after we’ve had our overdue fun,” he said, a newfound smirk creeping through his evident exhaustion. “I’ve waited too damn long for this day—hell if I pass it up in a blink.”

You loved it when he took charge this way. Your teeth peered through your lips in an exhilarated grin, and then, you let out a yelp of excitement as he pushed you back onto the mattress, his frame following closely in a controlled hover as he positioned himself on top of you. His lips came crashing down onto yours, the heated dynamic between the two of you returning full-forced, as though it’d never been interrupted in the first place.

Your hands wandered messy lines up and down his neck, occasionally dipping down to glide over the curve of his pecks. The heat in your core began to build with every second you spent tumbled within the skilled warmth of his lips, his hands adding fuel to the fire with the way they staggered along your exposed torso to grace any and every inch of your skin.

He pulled away to drag his moist lower lip up your cheek, pressing a kiss to your temple before he whispered into your ear. “I need to feel you. I need to have all o’ you,” he breathed, and then he pulled away as quickly as he’d arrived, leaning back onto his knees as his fingers found firm grip at your shorts.

He tugged the material down mercilessly, pulling your underwear along with it, and you lifted your legs with a giddy laugh to allow him all the access he needed to yank it free. He tossed it to the other end of the room, his hands flying to undo his belt and jeans while his fixated you with focused eyes—like he was silently entertaining all the things he’d like to do to you.

He shed his boots at the foot of the bed to terminate his undressing, and your eyes immediately lowered to the bowing length of his manhood. It felt cheap—ogling him this way, but something about the sight felt so validating that you couldn’t help but stare. Maybe it was knowing that the mere sight of you was enough to spur him on in this manner, and god, you needed him just as much as he evidently needed you.

Your core throbbed more impatiently now, your built-up arousal taking the first of its leave through the slit of your folds. You were tempted to call out to him, to utter the first, desperate words of beckoning, but Dean seemed to clock your needs almost instantly. He leaned back down to you with a charming smirk, one hand propping himself up at the side of your waist while his other took ahold of his manhood.

“Ready, sunshine?” He murmured—low and rough and slightly dazed with his own suffocating arousal.

Your core seemed to answer before you did, the area beaming hot at the mere sound of his voice. You pushed out a needy hum, and Dean wasted no time in sliding his tip between your folds. He breached through your slicked entrance with ease, his head tilting back an inch and his eyes fluttering closed as he pushed out a gruff moan. He sank himself further into you, his length conforming to your walls in perfect unity. Instinctively, your legs propped to give him better access, and the action drew him in even further.

“Fuck,” he murmured lowly, his head then tilting forward as he gathered himself and fully leaned himself down to you. He placed a kiss onto your lips for good measure, both arms scooping beneath yours in a sure grip. His fists balled at either side of your head, and you wrapped your own arms around his neck.

“I need you, Dean,” you cooed into his ear, and he left slip a breathy sound of acknowledgment before he drilled the first thrust into you.

You both harmonised with noises of pleasure, your nails digging into the nape of his neck as his hips began swaying at a faster pace. He leaned his forehead down against yours, lips parted as he fought to steady the feral breaths of pleasure heaving his chest.

Your eyes stuttered closed as his thrusts deepened and deepened, curving against your walls and gliding to meet your sweet spot at just the right angle. Your head burrowed back into your pillow, your lips gaping with a loud moan. It made Dean lower himself onto your lips, taking them between his in a soft, chiding nibble. You breathed into him erratically, releasing noises that gradually became more and more slurred until you became a hot, panting mess.

His own control seemed to slip from his grasp as he began to grunt and whimper against your cheek, his head eventually falling past yours to graze your ear with just the right verbal performance to add to the contractions of that growing ache within.

His thrusts became firmer—but not brutal. They were passionate and needy all at once, but still laced with a sort of caution that only deep admiration could warrant. He gave a few more firm thirsts, both of you heaving against one another with the approach of your climax. Then, with a final jerk of his hips, the knot that had tethered you to one another came undone in a cascading warmth.

You felt it seep from your entrance, and for a second, Dean didn’t stir from atop you. He remained hovered over you, the point of his nose brushing your cheek methodically as he attempted to replenish his lungs and recover from his own bliss.

“Jesus,” he remarked, an impressed chuckle tickling your ear. “All this time apart, and still it doesn’t feel like I ever slipped your spell.”

You released your own breathless chuckle. “I’m usually opposed to captivity of any sort, but in this case, thank god for that.”

Finally, Dean withdrew from inside of you, collapsing to side of the mattress nearest to the door—his space. Rightfully occupied at last. He reached over to pluck some tissues from the nightstand before turning back to you, fumbling the tissue between his fingers before he began dabbing at the moisture along your forehead.

He gazed at you through loving eyes, so soft and vast that it made your heart throb—like you were falling in love all over again. Dean seemed to notice the lovesick look on your face because he smiled with an expression to match. He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips, and you puckered your own to receive it eagerly. And then he shifted momentarily to clean you down below.

When he came back up to you, he flicked the used tissues off to the side, and then instantly, you were pulled against his chest in a tight embrace. The skin-on-skin contact soothed you, your body relaxing almost instantly within his firm hold—a type of pressure therapy that only worked because it was him. It felt so safe and natural, so you melted further into him, and the hand he’d cupped around the back of your hair began to massage a soothing pattern into your scalp.

Everything about this moment was enough to lull you into a much needed state of relaxation, your body finally unwinding after months of being held together at the threads. Your eyes drifted close, your breathing deepening with the newfound peace.

“You know,” Dean said suddenly, beckoning to your senses. Your eyes remained closed, but you hummed softly to acknowledge him. “Down there, time works differently.” That piqued your interest enough to part you eyes in narrow slits. “You said I’ve been gone for four months? Well, for me, it’s been forty years.”

Your eyes widened fully now, your lips split with some bewildered gasp. “Dean,” you sympathised softly, hand moving from its place at his chest to stroke along his cheek. “I’m so sorry—that sounds awful.”

He shifted to place a kiss on the first part of your palm he could reach. “It ain’t your fault,” he assured you thinly, his eyes bowing under his own exhaustion—as if the mere recollection drained him. “If anythin’, you got me through it. I don’t have to tell you just how shitty things are down in Satan’s basement,” he laughed, but you knew there was no real humour behind it, only pain. “But you. . . just thinkin’ o’ you. . . rememberin’ what I’ve gotta fight for, it kept me sane. Strong.”

You smiled weakly, his words evoking a mixture of warmth and guilt all at once. You appreciated that you’d been able offer him some sort of comfort in your mere memory, but at the same time, you wished he hadn’t needed it to begin with.

Hell was no place for a good man like him.

“Well, you’re back now,” you offered softly, your hands shifting to wrap around his torso in a hug. His own arms wrapped around your upper back, pulling you so tightly against him that you thought your beings might finally form a physical union to mirror the spiritual tying of your souls.

“And I’m here to stay,” he finished in a faint murmur, the words—the promise—hot against the crown of your head.

Those words lingered in your mind as you eventually drifted into a sleep, the steady sound of his breathing the last thing you needed to loosen your grip on reality. Darkness came to claim you, and this time, you welcomed it eagerly.

When you roused into the waking world, your room was fully lit with the tell of noon. The finding was indication enough that you’d stolen the sleep of a lifetime, and there was no lingering heaviness perched on your lids this time around. It filled you with a sense of satisfaction, and you blinked a few times to ground your bleary senses.

When you stirred against the sheets, you heaved a deep breath, your lungs expanding around a newfound sense of inner peace. Instinctively, your arm reached across the mattress to claim the touch of man you loved, but where you expected to feel the warmth of his skin, you felt nothing but the cool, empty space of the comforters.

With a jolt, you sat yourself up, head swivelling about the room with a sense of panic. Dean was nowhere to be found. Your mind instantly began reeling with endless possibilities, your breathing elevating with a growing sense of panic—had you imagined it all? Had he ever been here to begin with? Had you finally snapped and gone insane?

But when you took a moment to lower your head and drink in your frame, you found yourself to be as bare as when you’d fallen asleep. You shifted to the edge of the mattress, feeling some slither of relief that your clothes were where you’d left them—discarded about the room in ruthless bundles. And then, out of instinct, your eyes wandered over to your desk chair, where you expected to greet the leather jacket that had become a pivotal part of your morning routine.

Only, your heart lurched when the chair glared back at you with a bare rim—the jacket nowhere in sight.

Beyond the walls, mingled laughter brightened the atmosphere. The sound made you slip from the mattress almost instantly, where you darted about the room to gather your scattered pyjamas in a hurry before slipping it over your frame. You dashed toward the bedroom door, twisting the handle with anticipation before you practically hurled yourself into the hallway.

When you entered into the open-plan living room, you found that Dean and Sam were weaving rather chaotic ant trails around the kitchen’s floor, each brother tending to steaming dishes that you were too far away to appreciate in detail. But you weren’t paying much attention to it, anyway. You were far too focused on watching Dean, as though you’d had to solidify the mental image of his presence—to believe that he was really here, and here to stay. And the best part of it all is that he was wearing the leather jacket you’d thought would never come to crown another set of shoulders again. It was the last image you needed to place the final puzzle piece in your heart—no, you felt truly fulfilled.

Some part of you had thought—just for a second—that your reunion had been a figment of your imagination. But now, you could breathe a little easier knowing that Dean had truly returned, rooted in flesh as he drifted about the kitchen with an extra skip in his step.

Just then, he spun on his heels to nick something off the counter, his head lifting in your direction as he finally noticed your loitering figure. “Second g’mornin’ to you, sunshine,” he called to you, birthing a cheeky smirk. He flashed a quick glance at Sam before turning back to you. “In case you were wonderin’, Sammy here’s all caught up,” he said. “So let’s skip the big, mushy family reunion and get movin’ on those damn tacos. I’m starvin’”.

“Tacos?” You echoed with a light laugh.

Sam appeared at his big brother’s side, beaming so brightly, it was almost blinding. “We’re having tacos for lunch. Everything’s basically finished,” he piped in, casting a pleading glance in your direction. “Would you mind helping me plate it?”

Your heart settled as you drank the both of them in. This was the life you’d come to miss so dearly, and you couldn’t help but smile appreciatively. You jerked your chin in Dean’s direction. “Why don’t you make him do it?” You teased, padding your way over to the kitchen island.

“Call it a family discount,” Dean chuckled smugly, rounding the counter to draw up at your side. “Or, y’know, the breakin’ free from hell card.”

You shook your head lightly, narrowing your eyes at him. “Isn’t it a little too soon?” You scoffed.

“You let me worry ‘bout my own shit,” he replied, gracing you with a charming wink.

You didn’t offer anything further as you turned your attention down to the prepped toppings spread out across the counter—mince, lettuce, guacamole, chilli sauce, salsa, cheese and the taco shells themselves. You reached for the empty plates and began topping each one with the hollow taco shells, moving to fill the first one with the toppings.

Dean snuck up behind you, his hands finding grip at your waist while his chin came to rest atop your shoulder. His lips grazed your ear. “Thank you for lookin’ after my jacket,” he murmured. “I didn’t think I’d be seein’ this old thing again.”

You smile at his words, hands shifting to stuff the taco with the next pick of toppings. “My reason for keeping it was more selfish than that,” you admitted. “I just couldn’t bear to move it. It would’ve felt too final.”

He hummed a noise of understanding, a soft kiss gracing the side of your neck. “The only thing that’s final is that I’m back,” he said. “You don’t gotta worry ‘bout that anymore, alright?”

“I know,” you murmured, and Dean squeezed you in a light hug, but continued to keep you tucked within his hold as you finished stuffing the taco. You lifted it over your shoulder, carefully guiding it toward his lips.

He released an approving noise before leaning forward to accept your offering in a gluttonous chomp, his lips practically smothering your fingers as though it were deemed part of the meal. You giggled at the feeling, taco fragments scattering across your shoulder as he chewed the food intently.

“How does it taste?” You asked him, turning your head to get a better view of his expression.

His eyes did a roll of appreciation, his cheeks swelled with the large bite. He hummed a string of approval, coupled with a content, repeating nod. Once he gave a hearty swallow, he cleared his throat in satisfaction.

“Tastes like sunshine.”

──────────────────────

a/n ─ can you tell i had the time of my life writing this?? can you tell?? anon i love your mind so so much please never stop your special creativity. i will be tending to my other requests soon, and i encourage you all to keep on sending them through. i appreciate you ALL and your lovely ideas, as well as the support and trust you have in me to flesh out your fantasies 🫶 now, it’s literally almost 4 am as i publish this so nighty night beautiful people!

thank you for reading! all likes, comments & reblogs are deeply appreciated

tags ─ @gibson-g1rl @fallbhind @bohemianblasphemy @figthoughts @deansbbyx @angelicjackles @titsout4jackles @starzify @ultravi0lence14 @floralscented

comment/message me to be added to/removed from the taglist for any future jensen ackles works!

other works ─ supernatural masterlist

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dvepalki · 21 hours ago

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THE PROMISED SHITPOST IS HERE!

OCs USED AN THEIR RESPECTED OWNERS ARE: Perpetual Umbra - @mewguca ; Glimmer le Dale - @moodymuu ; 12 Solemn Guards - @paradoxbeta ; Bright Scale Among the Feathers - @reredram : Monolith of the Hateful - @darkopsiian ; Plume of Embers - @ideavian ; Sleep Schedule Ruined - @kadalcoffee ; Leaves across a Tree - me:3 ; Dystopian Arbitrary Endless Possibilities - @hdra77 ; Dark Tides - @voldkat(their acc doesn't appear the fuck??); Last String of Life - @dustyfandomtrashbin ( @groupalpha )

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literaryvein-reblogs · 1 day ago

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Writing a "Narcissistic" Character

Narcissist - an entitled and sometimes arrogant and manipulative person who primarily views other people as means to their own ends.

Some narcissists might come across as unpleasant, but others are charismatic and engaging until you cross them.

A covert narcissist like this might shift from acting like a charming adult to throwing a temper tantrum when they realize you won’t give in to their demands.

You might find you encounter more narcissists in fields centered around competition or winning.

For example, a well-meaning entrepreneur might come across a competitor or colleague with an extremely inflated sense of self—and this might present speed bumps for both parties.

Similarly, family law and divorce lawyers come across many people exhibiting narcissistic traits in their personal lives and must negotiate with that in mind.

As a caveat, although you might be able to accurately theorize as to whether or not someone possesses narcissistic tendencies, you should leave diagnosing someone with an actual narcissistic personality disorder to a professional.

Key Narcissistic Traits

You can spot narcissistic traits if you know what to look for specifically. Some qualities to keep in mind to identify narcissism:

Innate sense of entitlement: Everyone wants things to go their way if possible, but narcissists expect them to at all times and at all costs. The average person is willing to compromise and anticipates delayed rather than instant gratification in many scenarios. A narcissist, by contrast, expects everyone to be a willing contributor to their happiness all day, every day, no matter the extenuating circumstances. Psychologists call this endless drive for gratification at the expense of others “narcissistic supply.”

Inflated view of self: It’s one thing to be confident, it’s quite another to think you’re the most important person in the room at all times. Someone with narcissistic tendencies expects everyone to treat them like a king or queen. They often fall into delusions of grandeur and bouts of self-mythologizing to justify why people need to bow to their whims at all times.

Lack of empathy: Narcissistic abuse is common due to the lack of empathy such an attitude engenders. When someone considers their needs above anyone else’s, it makes them less likely to understand other people and more likely to hurt others to get what they want.

Prone toward manipulation: If you’re dealing with a narcissist, expect them to pull out manipulative tricks to get you to do what they want. This might mean gaslighting, belittling, or outright lying to you in the interest of throwing you off balance and getting you to succumb to their demands.

How to Negotiate With a Narcissist

Navigating the negotiation process with a narcissist might be difficult, but it’s definitely doable. Remember these tips as you advocate for yourself with someone who cares more about their own ego:

Iron out concrete details. Before entering a negotiation scenario with a narcissist, sit down and ask what you want out of the negotiations. Try journaling or filling out a worksheet to help you figure out your needs. You can also rely on third parties to help you do this more effectively. For example, if you’re trying to leave a narcissistic spouse, your divorce attorney can assist on this front.

Play to their narcissistic tendencies. To get what you want from a narcissist, sometimes you have to give them what they desire most: adoration. Of course, you can merely feign this sense of awe—stroking their ego with the knowledge you’re only doing so as a negotiation tactic. For example, suppose you’re in law school dealing with a narcissistic professor who has a track record of grading final exams unfairly unless a student praises their teaching. In this scenario, you could tell them you appreciated their lecture or you listened to their podcast as you leave class one day to get them on your side.

Practice emotional detachment. Negotiating with a narcissist can get ugly. Devaluing and abusing other people is one of the central tools in a narcissist’s arsenal. Especially if you’re in an emotional situation already—like a divorce case—it’s paramount to try to practice as much mindful detachment as you can. Remind yourself their words do not define you or reflect reality. For that matter, in this scenario, you can also rely in part on other parties to do your negotiating for you—that’s a major reason people pay attorney’s fees in the first place.

Stand your ground. Even if you grit your teeth and stroke a narcissist’s ego to get a concession at times, it’s important to stand your ground and maintain your sense of self. Always negotiate like you matter—because you do, regardless of any abuse they might hurl your way. Narcissists, at their root, are often very insecure—and your self-awareness and confidence can trump these insecurities in a negotiation scenario. Remind yourself you are strong and your own well-being is your first priority—this way, you can leave interactions like this knowing your pride and your feelings of self-worth are still intact.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#requested #writing notes #character development #writing reference #writeblr #literature #writers on tumblr #dark academia #spilled ink #writing prompt #creative writing #writing inspiration #character building #writing ideas #light academia #john william waterhouse #writing resources

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solxamber · 2 days ago

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Can I get the dorm leaders with an Miku like Male Reader? Basically, (M/N) is super carefree and nice along with being a megastar idol in the music industry.

miku mentioned in the inbox, i've prayed for times like these!! It turned out gender neutral, i hope you don't mind!

Housewardens with a Miku! Reader

Riddle Rosehearts

At first, Riddle is baffled by your carefree attitude. You’re so nonchalant about everything, from your fame to the massive crowds you draw, that it’s almost incomprehensible to him. Doesn’t someone as successful as you need structure and discipline?

He respects your talent and hard work (once he understands how much effort goes into your performances), but your breezy approach makes him a little anxious. He might even lecture you about maintaining a schedule or not overextending yourself.

Your kindness and lack of ego eventually win him over. When you casually serenade the Heartslabyul students with a cheerful tune during an unbirthday party, even Riddle can’t help but smile.

If you invite him to one of your concerts, he’ll first attend out of courtesy but secretly marvel at the sheer joy you bring to your fans. Seeing you on stage makes him realize that your carefree demeanor isn’t laziness—it’s part of your charm.

He’d quietly admire your ability to bring happiness to others and might even ask for advice on how to better connect with his dormmates.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona initially pretends not to care about your fame or talent. He’s not easily impressed, and your cheerful energy feels a little too much for his laid-back personality.

However, your carefree attitude intrigues him. You’re a megastar, yet you don’t flaunt it or demand special treatment. In fact, you treat him like any other person, and he respects that.

He might grumble about your music being “too loud” or “too cheerful,” but he secretly listens to your songs when he’s alone. The upbeat tunes remind him of a world where things don’t feel so heavy.

If you casually hum a melody around him, he might mumble, “Tch, not bad,” which is as close to a compliment as you’ll get.

He won’t admit it, but he’d feel a sense of pride if you dedicate a song to Savanaclaw or include elements of his culture in your performances.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul sees you as a walking business opportunity at first. You’re a megastar with an enormous following, and the possibilities for collaboration are endless. Maybe a performance at the Mostro Lounge? A merchandise line?

When he realizes you’re too carefree to be manipulated, he’s equal parts frustrated and impressed. Despite his schemes, you remain kind and genuine, treating him as a friend rather than a business partner.

Your performances leave him in awe. He’s astonished by how effortlessly you captivate an audience, and he finds himself studying your stage presence, wondering if he could apply some of your charisma to his own endeavors.

Azul would eventually see you as a source of inspiration. “How do you make it look so easy?” he might ask, genuinely curious.

You’d be able to encourage him to focus less on overthinking and more on enjoying the process, which is advice he’d reluctantly take to heart.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim immediately becomes your biggest fan. He’s already jumping up and down with excitement before you’ve even sung a note.

Your carefree and kind personality resonates with him deeply, and the two of you become fast friends. Kalim loves joining you in impromptu sing-alongs, whether it’s on stage or during casual moments in the dorm.

He’d insist on throwing grand parties to celebrate your success, complete with fireworks and extravagant decorations. “Your music deserves to be celebrated!” he’d say with a big grin.

Kalim admires how you make people happy through your music, and he’d try to emulate your positivity in his own interactions. He’d also want to learn some dance moves from you, even if he ends up tripping over his own feet.

Your presence brings out the best in Kalim, and he feels inspired to spread joy in his own way.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil is immediately aware of your status as a megastar and views you as a peer rather than a fan. He respects your success but is critical of your carefree attitude, wondering how you maintain such a polished image without a rigorous routine.

Your kindness and humility eventually disarm him. He appreciates that you don’t let fame go to your head and that you treat everyone with equal respect.

Vil might critique your performances at first, offering advice on how to improve your stage presence or vocal technique. However, he’s secretly impressed by how natural and effortless you make it all look.

He’d be a little envious of your ability to connect with your audience so easily, but he’d also feel motivated to push himself harder. “You have a gift,” he’d admit one day. “Don’t waste it.”

If you ever feel overwhelmed by the pressures of stardom, Vil would offer you surprisingly empathetic advice, drawing from his own experiences in the spotlight.

Idia Shroud

Idia is a fan before he even meets you. He’s watched all your music videos, memorized your lyrics, and even owns some limited-edition merchandise. However, meeting you in person is a completely different story.

He’s a nervous wreck, fumbling over his words and avoiding eye contact. “Y-You’re… amazing,” he might mumble, his face bright red.

Your carefree attitude puts him at ease, and he eventually opens up about his admiration for your work. He might even share some of his own ideas for collaborations.

Idia is amazed by how effortlessly you handle fame and social situations. He secretly wishes he could be as confident and outgoing as you.

If you ever perform in the Ignihyde dorm, he’d watch from the shadows, feeling a mix of awe and disbelief that someone as incredible as you considers him a friend.

Malleus Draconia

Malleus is intrigued by your carefree demeanor and megastar status. He’s used to people being intimidated by him, but you treat him with kindness and warmth, which he deeply appreciates.

He’s fascinated by your music and often listens to your performances in quiet awe. He’d describe your songs as “enchanting” and might even compare you to a bard of old.

Your kindness and positivity resonate with him, and he enjoys spending time with you, whether it’s walking through the campus or sharing stories late at night.

Malleus might request a private performance, not because he wants special treatment, but because he wants to experience the magic of your music in an intimate setting.

Your carefree attitude inspires Malleus to relax and enjoy life more. He values your friendship and sees you as a source of light in his otherwise lonely world.

Masterlist

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krirebr · 2 days ago

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Still Life 1

Pairing: Alpha Curtis Everett x Omega Female Reader

Word Count: ~2.8k

Summary: Curtis has been volunteering as a foster alpha for three years now. He's never seen a case this bad...

Warnings: Angst (with an eventual happy ending), past abuse (not Curtis), alpha/beta/omega dynamics, physical scarring, extreme sexism, adult themes, explicit language, All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by me this time!

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

A/N: Well, this is for all of you who thought you'd seen the worst angst I could possibly do. Sorry for how much this one's gonna hurt!

Big thanks to @paperweight91 and @bigtreefest who both read so much of this and helped with structuring and world-building. And huge thanks to everyone who showed so much enthusiasm for this idea. I'm so excited to share this story with you!

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. And if you need to come scream at me, that's ok too!

As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

Nzzzz Nzzzz Nzzzz

It took a moment for Curtis to pull himself out of sleep enough to realize the incessant noise was his phone vibrating loudly on his nightstand. It took another moment for him to pull himself together enough to answer it. “Hello?” he croaked.

“Morning, Curtis,” a harried voice came through from the other end. “This is Yona from the Omega Welfare Center. I'm so sorry to call so early, but we've had kind of a crazy night here and we're in need of several emergency placements.”

That had him waking up. “What happened?” he asked, seriously, sitting up in bed.

She sighed, all of her exhaustion coming through. “A traditionalist compound a couple hours away got raided by the feds and ATF. They prepared for some omegas, but… There were a lot more. Kids too. It’s been all hands on deck at all five omega centers in the state. We’re over capacity, so we’re just trying to place anyone we can immediately.”

“Shit,” Curtis mumbled to himself. Traditionalist communities popped up on the news every once in a while, populated mostly by alphas on a power trip. But this one sounded bigger than most. He looked at his clock. It was just past five. “I’ve got room for one,” he said. “And I can be there in an hour.”

“Thank you, Curtis. I’ll see you soon.”

Fifty-five minutes later, Curtis was checking in at the center, his second coffee clutched in one hand. He’d been volunteering there as a foster Alpha for about three years. Mostly short-term placements. His longest one was just over a month. He provided safe touch, grounding, and a sense of security to omegas who needed to get back on their feet. He’d help them through heats when necessary, never knotting them, but whatever else they might need. Often, it was just his scent. It made him feel good, to be able to help these omegas, offer a positive alpha experience to omegas who hadn’t had many.

He’d worked with a few different case workers during his time. Yona had been the main one for the past year. He’d never heard her sound like she had that morning.

Even just at the front desk, he could sense how much more chaotic it was here than usual. He could hear babies screaming beyond the office door, endless anxious chatter. The entire building reeked of omegas in distress. It made his nose itch and his skin crawl.

After a few minutes of waiting, Yona came and got him. “How bad is it?” he asked the omega as she hurriedly led him down the hall.

She showed him into a small meeting room as she answered, “Really, really bad. I’ve never seen anything like it. None of them are talking, but from what we can gather, most of them have spent their entire lives in the compound. No IDs, no papers. Figuring out who they are has been nearly impossible. And as terrible as it may have been, their whole world was ripped apart in the last twenty-four hours. No one feels like cooperating. We hope you might have better luck as an alpha.”

“You think they'll talk to me?”

She shakes her head. “Just the Omega we're placing with you. They've all been taught never to trust outsiders, but they've also been raised to see Alphas as the ultimate authority. So, it's worth a shot.”

He nodded, slowly. “What do you need?”

“Just basic identifying information for now. So we can see if she even exists in any sort of governmental system. Then we can go from there.”

“If you don’t have any information, what makes you think I’ll be a good fit for her?”

“Honestly,” Yona said, with a helpless shrug, “you only have room for one and she doesn’t have any pups. That’s it. Listen, I know this isn’t how we normally do things and I’m so sorry I’m just throwing you into it without any preparation, but we’re really desperate here. They’re all high needs, high risk. There’s no existing support network for them, and there are more of them than we have room for. So we called all of our most experienced, most dependable alphas first thing this morning so we can focus on the ones we have room to house here. I know it isn’t fair to you but–”

“Hey,” Curtis interrupted. “It’s ok, I understand. I’ll take care of her. I promise.”

“Thank you,” she breathed out, a small fraction of the tension she’d been holding bleeding out of her shoulders. “Ok, I’m gonna go bring her in.”

She slipped through the door and Curtis leaned against the table in the center of the room as he waited. He took a deep breath and tried to focus on putting together a to-do list. He had two sets of nesting supplies always ready, one with his scent and one without. In the next few days, he’d try to figure out if there was anything else this omega wanted for the nest. He’d gone grocery shopping the day before, so his pantry was stocked, but he’d see if there were any favorite comfort foods he could grab in his next shop. He needed to rearrange his work schedule, push back some deadlines so he’d have time to get the omega settled. He had no idea what they’d be bringing with them, so a shopping trip for toiletries and clothes would probably be necessary. Depending on the omega's state, maybe he'd be able to get the shopping done on the way back to his house. He glanced at the time on his phone. Shit. Depending on what was open.

At movement right outside the door, he stood at attention. Yona came back in with you right behind her. He took a good look at you. You wore a rumpled long-sleeved floral dress that went down to your ankles. It was faded like it’d been washed too many times. Your eyes were fixed on the tennis shoes you wore, which had probably been white at one point, but now were discolored and looked like they didn’t fit quite right.

There was a little hand-written number ten pinned to your dress. He wanted to raise a judgemental brow at Yona, but if none of you would say your names, he supposed Yona and her team had to come up with some way to keep track of you all.

He had to stifle a gasp when his eyes landed on your neck. There was a large bite scar over your mating gland. Unlike the neat and pretty, well-healed ones he was used to seeing, yours was deep and jagged, red and white, scar tissue bubbling up where your flesh had clearly been torn. This didn’t look like a mating bite. It was the sort of bite meant to inflict pain. What sort of alpha had you had??

Your eyes stayed on the floor, your expression blank but your scent said so much – panic, sadness, terror, relief all jumbled together. He wanted to reach out and touch you, his alpha instincts were going haywire, but he kept his hands to himself.

“This is Curtis,” Yona said to you. “He's the alpha who's going to look after you until we can get all this sorted.”

You didn’t react at all, just stood there, stiff as a board with your eyes on your shoes.

He stayed where he was, conscious of giving you space. “It’s very nice to meet you,” he said, as gently as he could. Then, with a glance to Yona, “Can you tell me your name?”

Your face scrunched up and the fear in your scent spiked but you didn’t say anything. He sighed. Shit. He really didn’t want to have to use an alpha command with you right now. That could be disastrous for any dynamic he tried to build with you. But they needed this information. He really, really hoped you wouldn’t make him force you.

“Omega, what’s your name?” he asked as firmly as he could, hopefully without scaring you. “I need to know.”

You closed your eyes tightly and he thought he saw the smallest little head shake. There was another moment of silence and he looked at Yona nervously. But then, you said it. So quietly he almost didn’t catch it. But you said it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Yona frantically scribbling it down, but his focus was completely on you.

He tried to keep his sigh of relief to himself. “That was so good. Thank you. You’re doing so well,” he said, keeping the praise soft, hoping you could scent how pleased he was with you. “When were you born?”

You gave up your birthday a little more easily, but you left off the year.

“That’s great. Thank you. Do you know how old you are?” he asked, maintaining his gentle tone, knowing it was possible that you didn’t.

For whatever reason, it was that that finally got a reaction out of you. You looked up at him, so he could finally see your eyes, and snarled, “I’m not stupid!”

There was a beat when no one did anything. Curtis and Yona just stared at you in shock. The snarl was frozen on your face until it suddenly disappeared and your eyes got wide. Before he was able to process any of what was happening, you’d dropped down onto your knees. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m sorry, Alpha. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Alpha, I’m sorry.” You just keep repeating that in a constant stream, your head tucked to your chest.

Repeatedly mixed into that jumble was a number. It took Curtis a few moments to realize it was your age. You were answering his question. He quietly repeated it to Yona, then dropped down to his knees as well so he could be closer to your level. “Hey, hey. You’re okay. You’re alright. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re right. You aren’t stupid. I can already tell how smart you are. It’s okay. I’m not mad.” He wanted to reach out and touch you, wrap you in his arms, even, comfort you however he could. But he was too afraid that that’d make you panic even more. That was a boundary he couldn’t cross. Not yet. He stayed down there, whispering reassurances to you for as long as it took for you to stop apologizing, and a few extra minutes for your breathing to calm down. Once you seemed like you were back in the present moment, he moved to a crouch. “Think you can stand up for me, honey?”

You nodded, but you were back to keeping your eyes downcast. “Yes, Alpha.”

He wanted to tell you that you didn’t need to call him ‘Alpha,’ that ‘Curtis’ was just fine. But that could wait until you were a little more comfortable. Once he had you home, maybe. He could already tell that picking his battles was going to be important.

“Thank you,” he said as he stood up to his full height, and you did as well. “You answered my questions so well. You gave me exactly what I needed.” He looked to Yona to see if there was anything else.

“Do you have any questions for me or Curtis?” she asked you.

You shook your head, emphatically, hunching your shoulders. The room filled with the scent of fear again.

“Okay… that’s fine,” Yona said, and he could tell how much she hated this. “Well,” she turned to Curtis, “I’ll go get the paperwork and then you two can get home. I’ll be right back,” she said to you, then left the room.

This was happening too fast. In normal circumstances, you would have already been at the center for a few weeks, at least, with access to mental health professionals, life skill classes, and support groups. He’d be the last step before going back to the real world. You’d be ready to spend time with an alpha. Ready to work through processing positive physical attachments. Ready to learn how to share space with someone who wasn’t a threat to you. You’d be ready to slowly take steps into the world, with him there to support you.

You had backed yourself into the corner now. He could see the way every single muscle in your body was trying not to cower. You weren’t ready. You were nowhere near ready. But with all the resources for at-risk omegas pushed to their limit by this raid, what would happen to you if he didn’t take you? As insufficient as it might be, his help could be all you’d be able to get. This wasn’t how it should be, but he’d do everything he could for you.

Yona came back in and he watched her take you in, sighing at your state. He knew she was thinking the same things he was. “Ok,” she said, handing him the packet of forms to sign. “No changes since last time. You know the drill.”

He nodded as he grabbed them and sat down at the table, getting to work signing where he was supposed to. As he did, he felt your eyes on him as the scent of your apprehension filled the room.

Yona called your name. “Let’s go outside for a minute while Curtis finishes up.”

You both left quietly. This, too, was part of normal procedure. She was asking if you were sure you were comfortable leaving with him, telling you you had the option to say no, getting your verbal and written consent, and giving you cards with all the emergency numbers on them. He was afraid this situation might stretch the legal definition of informed consent. Based on everything he’d seen so far, he couldn’t picture a scenario where you’d say no.

Nothing about this felt good, but everyone’s hands were tied. And he knew that he’d do everything he could to keep you as safe as possible.

A few minutes after he’d finished signing the last page, you and Yona came back in. A worn knapsack hung from your fingers. It was small, confirming Curtis’s suspicions that you didn’t have much in the way of clothes. Alright, that was priority number one.

Yona had a thin folder in her hand that she immediately passed to Curtis. “The regular information, along with her schedule of appointments for the next few weeks, both doctor and therapist. And the card for the agent in charge of the investigation into the compound, in case anything pertinent comes up.” Then she turned to you with a small box. “I’ve got a couple packets of suppressants for you. Do you want them or do you want Curtis to keep track of them for you?”

Your eyes cut to him suspiciously then flitted back to the floor. “Alpha,” you muttered.

“Okay,” Yona said, handing the box to Curtis as well. Then she clapped her hands together, her face set in grim determination. “I won’t keep you any longer then. I’ll see you both next week.”

On the way out of the center, Curtis was all too aware of the way you walked exactly three steps behind him, one step to the left. That wasn’t just old-fashioned, it was archaic. He’d never seen an omega do it in real life.

At his truck, you looked at the truckbed in a way that made him worried you might try to ride back there, so he opened the passenger door for you and waited for you to get in. He resisted the part of his alpha instincts that wanted to buckle you in. And after a gentle request, you did it yourself.

As the two of you hit the road, he reached over to turn the radio on. He tried to move slowly, but you still flinched. “Want some music?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t respond, so he found an oldies station and left the volume low. His plan for the day had shifted a bit. You definitely weren’t ready to go shopping. That was fine. There was nothing that couldn’t be delivered.

About five minutes into the drive, the strong scent of your tears filled the cab. He looked over at you. You were huddled against the door, as far away from him as you could get. Your face was pressed against the window, so all he could see was the back of your head. But he could hear your sniffles and he could smell your distress.

It took everything in him to not pull over right now and reach over to comfort you. Pull you into his arms. Rub soothing circles on your back. But he knew that would do more harm than good. His touch wouldn’t be welcome. Yet. You weren’t ready.

And god, he wasn’t either. He wasn’t ready for any of this. But damn it, he was going to try.

Tag List is open!

@stargazingfangirl18 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thezombieprostitute @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @bval-1 @km-ffluv @texmexdarling @ladyvenera @roxyfan14-blog @darkserenity24 @midnightramyeoncravings @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @ronearoundblindly @brandycranby @steviebbboi @missaprilt23 @thiquefunlover63 @hisredheadedgoddess28 @stellar-solar-flare @crazyunsexycool @littlelearningbrat

#still life #curtis everett x reader #curtis everett x you #curtis everett fanfiction #curtis everett x female reader #alpha curtis everett #alpha!curtis everett #omegaverse #omega reader #reader insert #snowpiercer #chris evans fanfiction #curtis everett angst #kris wrote something

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joooooniecore · 1 day ago

Text

Confessed by the wrong person

scoupsxfem!reader, best friends to lovers, happy ending

PLOT: a reunion changes everything between you and your best friend Seungcheol. A revengeful confession. Will you both be able to find each other back? Or drift apart?

WARNINGS: smut, explicit language, bodily fluids mentioned, tiny bullying? smut has been marked(skip if uncomfortable)

______________________________________________________________

CTRL+A and backspace. These two are the only things you have known for the past two months. Being an author is fun they said. You would call yourself kind of a newbie author who rose into fame through her debut book. You are a romance book writer but recently you are trying to do something a little different for your fifth book. A mystery thriller encapsuled in a romance book. Its different and hence you are unable to think of any possible plots. A tenuous job. Your agent was kind enough to give you six months' time to finish this book. Your other books were doing great so you could sit back and relax a bit while working on this book.

The doorbell was what brought you out of your endless turmoil. You groaned a bit while getting up from the office chair that have by now moulded itself to the shape of your body. Your hips cracking a bit as you walked up to the door to see who it was. Opening the door widely, you are welcomed by a very happy Choi Seungcheol.

Seungcheol has been your best friend for ages. You both went to the same high school and later attended the same university. It was always you both. From the awkward teenage phase to the pressure of university projects. You both never left each other's sides and everyone around you knew that. You were a duo. A duo many loved but also many hated. The hate list mostly included Seungcheol's dates. All of them miraculously hated you even if you rarely met him. You weren't exactly the type of person who would try to be in her male friend's arms pretending to be platonic. You maintained distance and never sabotaged his dates.

Even if you were in love with him.

"I bought food, now move.", Seungcheol said as he pushed past you and kept the food on the dining table before taking his usual spot on the couch.

"Why are you here?", you asked clearly confused.

"Why? Can't I meet my best friend?", Seungcheol feigned a pout.

You rolled your eyes before replying, "No idiot. I strongly believe that one should work on weekdays."

Seungcheol shrugged his shoulders before replying, "I am the boss so..."

Seungcheol took over his dad's company once he completed his studies. It was his lifelong dream to become a business man. His dad is a very lenient man and actually never pressured Seungcheol into inheriting his company but Seungcheol wanted to do that. So now, with his dad retired, he is the current CEO of the company. You were actually proud of him for achieving something like that at such a young age.

You checked the packets he had bought and it was mostly snacks. You picked out two packets of chips and sat beside him before handing him one.

"How is your book coming along?", Seungcheol asked between bites.

"It's umm well not going great.", you answered with not much confidence in your voice.

"Why? What's wrong?", Seungcheol asked.

"I am unable to create the plot.", you truthfully confessed. You have been struggling to arrange the plot for over a month now and it was killing you from inside. Normally you struggle with writing lines but it has never happened to you that you have not a single plot idea in mind.

"You will be fine. Don't worry.", Seungcheol said as he patted your back.

"Are you going to the reunion?", Seungcheol asked.

The reunion. That is something you have been dreading for quite some time. You love your classmates, there is no lie in that. But you hated that one girl who had once been your entire life. Your ex best friend. The girl you shared everything with. The girl who was there on your highs and lows and the girl who was the only one who knew how you harbored a tiny crush for your male best friend. Haewon.

You and Haewon became close very quickly and were each other's solace. You both went to classes together and even shared weekends at each other's dorm rooms. Seungcheol being in the different department actually gave you less time to meet him so most of your time was taken over by Haewon. Then she started expanding her friend circle. She would talk to the more popular girls of the department and hang out with them more often. The meet ups increased and slowly she abandoned you. She became mean, closed off and somewhat invincible.

You tried to talk with her many times, reminding her about the friendship you both shared but nothing bothered her. She was proud of being one of the famous girls in the class and you were simply a dark spot in her ever so flashy life. You gave up. After that one fight which has been the nastiest fight you have ever encountered, you walked out of her life and planned on never looking back.

"I am not sure Cheol.", you said clearly not willing to face Haewon and her new friends. You knew they will be there, showing off the successes they have had after university.

"Come on. I have no one else to go with.", Seungcheol nagged.

"Don't lie. Jeonghan is going, I know.", your grumbled.

"Yes, but we both know that he is going to flirt all night.", Seungcheol reasoned.

You chuckled a bit after remembering how good Jeonghan is at flirting with literally anyone he finds attractive. You thought for a bit, and seeing how Seungcheol really has no one to go with, you agreed. He jumped on you, hugging you tight as if you saved him from some sort of apocalypse.

______________________________________________________________

The next few days went by in a blur. You were added to the reunion group and you were fearing to even look at the members of the group. The reunion was actually going to be a weekend long trip to a nearby beach city. A simple weekend with old friends sounded so fun if you omitted that one group of people. You decided to not think about it.

It was one morning when you woke up earlier than you do and went out for a walk in the park. You normally exercised at home or in the gym that was attached to your apartment complex but you felt like you need some fresh air. As you walked through the beautiful scenery of the park, you could see many people who have come for morning walks, jogs or even to take their dog out. There were elderly people exercising in the middle of the green ground and you kind of found it peaceful.

After rounding the entire park two times, you decided to sit on a bench and rest. A little while later, you felt someone sit beside you but you were so engrossed in thinking about the plot that you barely noticed.

"Want a drink?", came the deep voice from beside you.

You whipped your head to see Seungcheol smiling at you. His forehead was glistening with sweat from exercising or running laps and he was wearing a sleeveless t-shirt for god's sake. His biceps proudly on display and his abs and rigid chest slightly visible through the sweat dripping shirt that was stuck to his body like a glove.

You gulped a bit, trying to maintain your composure and nodded your head. He took out an energy drink from his backpack and handed it over to you not before opening the can by himself.

"There you go.", he said with a tender smile.

These were the kind of things that Seungcheol did which made your heart flutter. He would pay for your dinners, send food to your house, buy you expensive gifts and even run to you whenever you need him. He was a gentleman through and through. You have never seen him miss a chance to open the car door for you. You normally looked at these things through a platonic eye but at certain moments they urged you to ask him "What are we?"

You took the drink and chugged it down in one go, coughing a bit when the strong acid hit the back of your throat.

"Easy there love.", Seungcheol said as he patted your back to help you control your reactions. The warmth of his hand on your back did nothing but send shivers down your spine. Your heart skipped a beat as you tried to control yourself.

"You run here?", you asked after you have controlled your hiccups.

"Yes. I always come here for running. Great place.", Seungcheol explained as he himself took a sip of the drink he was holding.

"Why have I never known about this?", you asked.

"Well maybe because rich people go to apartment attached gyms.", he joked, elbowing you.

"Yah! You are rich too!", you pouted.

"I live in a house, not apartment.", he smirked.

You rolled your eyes and hit him in the chest which did nothing to him. Instead, it made your imagination go wild when your hands laid flat on his chest even if it were for a fraction of second. The hardness of his muscles imprinted on your palm as you flinched a bit and laughed nervously.

"When will you go home?", he asked after a while.

"In a bit.", you replied, enjoying the nature around you.

"Let me walk you back to your house.", Seungcheol said as he got up.

"I can walk back myself.", you said as you also got up and started walking but couldn't reach far as he held your elbow firmly and pulled you closer to him.

"W-What's wrong?", you asked, internally cursing at how you stuttered.

"You see that man over there.", he said as he subtly pointed at this very strange man.

"Yeah? What about him?", you asked.

"He has been eyeing you since past ten minutes. Its only eight in the morning and the streets are empty. Let me. Please.", he practically begged you.

You nodded and started walking with him. And as if on cue, the man eyed you, trying to find a way to see if Seungcheol was going to be with you and that felt like a gut punch. You hated how men thought of women as easy targets, almost trying to attack even if it is in the broad daylight.

After reaching the apartment door, you asked Seungcheol to come in for breakfast which he declined saying that he needs to run some errands before he visits his office.

The rest of the day went by quickly as you sat on your desk and thought of plots. You were actually elated when you thought of a good plot and even discussed it with your agent who gave you a green signal. You racked your brain for ideas and finally by evening, your first chapter was done and you have almost decided eighty percent of the ending.

A phone call took you out of your zone as you picked up the phone to find Jeonghan calling.

"Hello Jeonghan-ah!", you smiled.

"Hie! I have been meaning to call you. How have you been?", Jeonghan said.

"I have been great. What about you?", you asked.

"Great. I heard you are coming to the reunion with Seungcheol.", he said and you could hear the teasing in his voice.

Jeonghan is someone you can never hide something from. He will know and there is no denying in that. The first day he saw you and Seungcheol together at that one party, he came up to you and bombarded you with questions and you quickly complied and told him about your feelings. He laughed and said that Seungcheol was really dumb to miss on a girl like you which you were not sure if was true or not. Why would Seungcheol regret it? You are no one special. And with his money and looks, Choi Seungcheol can date anyone he wants. Then why you?

"I am going yes.", you answered with a sigh.

"Come on it will be fun. So, you both entering like a couple or...?", Jeonghan asked.

"No! We are going as friends Jeonghan.", you answered through gritted teeth.

"Wow stupid people. Anyways, just so you know, I won't let Haewon and her minions ruin this trip for you.", Jeonghan firmly confirmed.

______________________________________________________________

The day of the reunion came closer and your heart started beating faster. You were stressed about your book itself and on top of that you haven't packed anything for your trip. Everything was a mess and it overwhelmed you. You panicked so much that you lied down on the ground in your living room and cried. Finally, when you realized that the panic wasn't going away, you called Seungcheol.

"Hello?", came Seungcheol's husky voice.

"Hey umm are you busy?", you asked, clearly unsure of how you should say this.

"A bit. Why?", said Seungcheol

"Oh. Then no worries.", you quickly said.

"____. What happened?", Seungcheol demanded sternly.

"Its nothing important.", you tried to dismiss the situation.

"You say it or I come there and find out myself.", he warned.

"I was just having a panic attack as everything was overwhelming me so I thought of calling you.", you explained.

"Are you okay now? Do I need to come right now?", Seungcheol asked, clearly concerned.

"I am fine now.", you said.

"Okay. Listen to me carefully. I want you to take some rest and give me half an hour. I will come to you by then.", Seungcheol explained.

"No. Its not required.", you reasoned.

"Just listen to me once.", Seungcheol groaned and you agreed.

Half an hour later, Seungcheol was actually standing in your living room, helping you sort through your dresses with the help of his sister. She commented on every dress and was glad enough to help you pick some good ones.

"Thank you Seunghee.", you said as you smiled at her through the phone.

"Noona, can I talk to you for a second. Go to the other room.", she said.

"Why? I also want to hear it.", Seungcheol visibly pouted.

"No dummy. I want to have a girl talk.", Seunghee rolled her eyes.

You gladly took the phone from Seungcheol's hands and went to your bedroom before plugging your headphone in.

"What is it?", you finally asked.

"You remember the red dress that I rejected?", she asked and you nodded. It's a bodycon, mini dress with shimmery design and looks absolutely great on you. You were actually disheartened when Seunghee said no to it.

"Pack that when Seungcheol goes back home.", she said with a smirk.

"Huh? Why?", you asked, clearly confused.

"You are dumb enough to not see that my brother likes you.", Seunghee rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time.

"What? He doesn't!", you whisper yelled.

"Trust me this one time please. Take that dress and wear it on the night of party. Please.", she pleaded with those glistening eyes that you can never say no to. Seunghee was someone you immensely adored and so you easily caved in.

After the conversation, you handed the phone back to Seungcheol and when he asked about what his sister said, you denied it saying it was related to some girly stuffs that he won't be interested in. You have heard many people say that Seungcheol might like you but for the first time you let someone's words actually affect you. Seunghee's words were enough to put a seed of doubt in your mind and you started seeing everything Seungcheol did from a different perspective.

______________________________________________________________

The journey to the beach town was nothing special. Everyone boarded the train and went there, clearly not sitting side by side. You saw Haewon once but she was soon off to a different coach with her friends. It felt like a relief to you. The rest of the journey went by you and Seungcheol eating, reading, listening to songs and laughing while remembering your college days.

The hotel was pleasant looking. It looked over the beach and gave an amazing view of the sea. You have always been a beach person and finding out that your room overlooked the ocean made you all giddy from inside. After setting your luggage in your room, you went to the attached balcony to enjoy the view. Seungcheol knocked on your door and informed you that everyone is planning to eat something before resting for the evening.

You had some food and sat at the farthest corner, clearly trying to avoid Haewon. You only looked up when Seungcheol sat across you with his food and when someone came by you to greet you and talk with you for a bit. Most of the people who came on the trip were nice. They talked with you with the same enthusiasm that they showed during your college days. Jeonghan was coming later in the evening because he had to get some job done before he catches the train.

The rest of the evening went along without any more interactions. You locked yourself in your room and worked on the book. You have made quite some progress and were actually proud with how good it was coming out. You busied yourself with finished at least the initial segments of the story, weaving most of the mystery and romance that were the main focus of your book.

After dinner you were too tired to even keep up with most of the conversations and you decided to call it a day.

The next day, everyone decided to hit the beach. Jeonghan was finally here and you along with Seungcheol decided to go together. You weren't exactly feeling comfortable in wearing a bikini so you decided on a tank cropped top and some shorts.

As you walked out of your room, you felt someone eyeing you as you turned to see Seungcheol leaning against one of the pillars in the main reception area. He gave you a lazy smile as he walked up to you.

"Good morning.", he said in a soft voice and your heart skipped a beat.

"Morning. Where is Jeonghan?", you asked, trying to compose yourself.

"He is already gone. You are late madam.", he teased and you simply rolled your eyes before walking out of the door, followed by Seungcheol who was simply smiling from ear to ear.

As soon as you stepped on the sand, you saw Haewon and her friends in bikini, lying on beach towels and tanning themselves. You decided to maintain a distance and sit a bit farther near other classmates. They gladly welcomed you and soon you were laughing and chatting happily with them. They even congratulated you for your successful releases. One of the girls even brought one of your books with her on the trip and you were happy enough to sign it for her. It felt good to see people actually being happy seeing you succeed.

"I didn't see you in the hotel last night.", came a high-pitched voice from behind you.

You turned to see Haewon standing there and just said, "I had an early dinner."

"Why? Growing old I see. Or is it your boring books that make you old?", she smirked and you really had no idea why she hated you so much.

You just smiled at her and that seemed to infuriate her more as she walked off.

"I don't like her.", said one of the classmates and all you could was simply agree.

The tension didn't die down from there. Every time you went past her and her friends; they would glare at you. From commenting on your looks to almost faking their concern about your weight gain. You have seen and heard many such things and this was not going to ruin you. Past you would have broken down and cried for days but present you was successful and had a very strong mental grip.

"You know why Haewon hates you so much?", Jeonghan asked as soon as he sat beside you.

You both were currently in the hotel garden that was beautifully decorated with all kinds of flowers.

"Because I am boring?", you answered unsure.

"No! She doesn't care about that.", Jeonghan laughed.

"Then why? I haven't done a thing to her.", you reasoned.

"She likes Seungcheol. Let me tell you a secret. She confessed to Seungcheol on the graduation day.", Jeonghan whispered.

Your eyes went wide as you gasped, "What? Seungcheol never said me that."

Jeonghan laughed a bit and said, "Yes. He knew you hated her and so he just didn't want to bother you more. He rejected her."

"Really? For me?", you were shocked by this new information.

"Yes. He said to her that he can't accept it because of what she has done to you and hence Haewon hates you. Because Seungcheol chose you over her.", Jeonghan concluded.

With this information in mind, you felt like you should infuriate her more. The plan was approved by Jeonghan and he even told you to glam up. It was Saturday and everyone will be gathering in the party hall of the hotel for a reunion party before they go back home the next day.

You decided to wear the red dress and even called Seunghee to help you with your makeup. She was more than happy to help. She told you to leave your hair open and un-styled because it looked good in its natural wavey form. She told you to do subtle makeup but put some bold red lipstick. The dress did the rest of the job as it hugged your curves perfectly. Finally strapping in the high heels, you were ready to go.

Seungcheol was already at the party when you entered with Jeonghan. The moment you entered, you saw Seungcheol get up and walk to you.

Jeonghan whispered a little 'enjoy' and left your side to talk with someone else.

Your breath hitched when you saw Seungcheol check you out from top to bottom. His hot gaze never leaving your figure as he took long strides and in a mere matter of minutes was standing in front of you, towering you even if you were wearing high heels.

"Hi.", you finally said.

"Wow. You- I mean don't take in the wrong way but you look very pretty.", Seungcheol sighed, his hot breath fanning your face.

"Thank you. You also don't look bad.", you teased and he smirked.

You both sat near the bar and ordered few drinks. Laughing and judging everyone that came here. You both shared a bond that nothing could break and at these moments you wished for him to stay in your life forever. Even if you never confess, you would want him to stay as a friend.

"Let's play truth and dare.", someone yelled and everyone agreed, soon huddling into a circle.

You sat in between Seungcheol and Jeonghan on the chair and someone spun the bottle. The game continued for like thirty minutes or so before it finally landed in between you and Mina, Haewon's friend. Your breath hitched as you saw Haewon smirk before whispering something to her friend.

You chose truth just to play it safe.

"Tell me a secret of yours that no one knows about?", she asked.

You racked your brain a bit and finally said, "Umm I write better when sitting in my bathtub."

There were some giggles and relief washed over you. Seungcheol looked at you as if you have offended him and said, "What? How do you use your laptop in that situation?" and you simply just flipped him off.

"Come one ____, you know we want something worse.", Mina smirked.

Your eyes went wide as you said, "I-I don't have such secrets."

"Seriously? You don't? You are not secretly harboring a crush on someone for years now?", challenged Mina and you knew you were fucked.

Seungcheol went stiff beside you as you saw him slightly retract his hands that were originally resting on the back rest of your chair. You quickly felt the loss of warmth that was coming from his hand over your shoulders.

"I-no I don't.", you answered but the slight tremor in your voice gave it away.

This time Haewon stepped in, meaning to ruin you for once and for all as she simply said, "So you are telling me that you are not in love with your best friend?"

That was the final nail on your coffin. You stiffened as you could only look down. Your mind raced as everyone around you hollered. As if on cue, Seungcheol rested his hand on your back and you flinched. You got up, murmuring a small 'excuse me' and left the party even though you could hear your friends call you. Without thinking anything you ran straight to your room and while you fumbled with the keys, you felt a presence behind you.

You turned around to see Seungcheol standing there, breathing heavily as if he has run hundred miles.

"Damn woman. How can you walk so fast in those heels?", he managed to breath normally.

"I- can you leave me alone please?", you pleaded.

"No. We both know that we need to talk.", he answered sternly and you were left with no option but to welcome him inside.

He sat on the bed and patted the space beside him for you to sit. The closeness caused shivers down your spine as you sat down.

"Listen-", he was about to start talking but you stopped him and spoke first.

"I know. I am sorry for hiding it. I didn't want to ruin our friendship and its fine that you don't have feelings for me. You can end the friendship if you want. I was just scared to confess because I knew you would never like someone lik-", this time you were cut off but not by his words, rather by his lips. On yours.

!!SMUT STARTS FROM HERE!!

Without realizing what was happening, you kissed him back. The kiss soon escalated as you both devoured each other's mouth before creating a distance only to breath.

"W-Wha- What was that?", you stammered.

"I didn't know how to shut you up darling.", Seungcheol said with an easy smile.

His fingers were placed on your hip as he firmly kneaded the skin and it sent shivers down your spine. Even if you were wearing clothes, you could feel the warmth of his hand right across your skin.

"I- you? Why would you?", you were at loss of words.

"I have liked you for a long time too. I also didn't want to ruin our friendship and hence I went on all those meaningless dates so that I could move on from you which never happened. I never moved on from you. You were it for me and I should have confessed sooner. I am sorry."

His confession made you blush as you closed the distance and kissed him. Your body molding with his as he pulled you on his lap, your dress riding up a bit as you sat on his thighs.

"This dress has been driving me insane all night.", Seungcheol groaned as he firmly gripped your hips and made you grind on his lap. You moaned in response as your slowly moved your hips in a rhythmic motion.

"The moment I saw you, I wanted to slam you against a wall and kiss you dumb.", said Seungcheol as he stared at your eyes with nothing but lust.

"Then what are you waiting for? Kiss me dumb.", you teased as you dipped your head a bit but didn't exactly kiss him.

This seemed to work wonders as he groaned and kissed you harshly. It wasn't a sweet kiss. This kiss was all teeth. It was a storm after a calm day. It was like the oceans that gushed and hit the shore harshly. His tongue played like waves inside your mouth as his hands grazed over every part of your body, as if memorizing you.

Seungcheol found the chain of the dress and slowly pulled it down, as you got out of it. The dress bunching up near your hips only.

"Fuck.", Seungcheol whispered as he saw the lingerie you were wearing.

"Please tell me that it is a matching set.", he pleaded and you nodded shyly.

"Did you wear this for me?", Seungcheol smirked.

"Kind of. Jeonghan said to see how you would react if I wear the dress.", you explained shyly.

"Oh, I will react. I will react very well.", his voice turned huskier as he cupped your clothed breast and took one in his mouth. With the material still in between his tongue and your breast, it created a delicious friction that made you grind your hips more.

"Fuck I will go crazy. You are so responsive baby.", He whispered against your skin as he unhooked the bra.

"Seungcheol...", you moaned.

"What is it darling?"

"Please Seungcheol.", you had no idea what you were begging for.

"What do you want?", he smirked as he picked you up and threw you on the bed before hovering over you.

"Take it off please. Take your shirt off.", you begged.

Seungcheol delivered. He stood on his knees and in a painfully slow pace, unbuttoned his shirt before throwing it aside. You were welcomed with his toned chest. You audibly moaned and that seemed to boast Seungcheol's ego.

"Loving the view?", he teased

"Of course.", you said as you did a come-hither motion to which he complied.

He dipped his head and trailed kisses down your chest. Starting from your neck, he marked every inch of your skin as you writhed under him. With an agonizing slow pace his mouth finally hovered over your core, which earned a moan from you.

"Please. Seungcheol, please.", you moaned.

"Patience baby.", Seungcheol chuckled and finally teased your core with his tongue which slowly turned into more aggressive licks as he devoured you. All you could do was moan and writhe which also got restricted when he used his left hand to hold your hips down with one strong grip.

Soon you were coming undone on his tongue, as your body shook and all you could do was moan his name.

"I love when you moan my name.", Seungcheol said as he looked at you, his chin glistening with your juices which made you even more aroused.

Suddenly you sat up and pushed him down on bed, before unbuckling his belt and rubbing his throbbing member over the fabric of his underwear. He let out a guttural moan and you smirked in victory. Having such a big strong man moan under you felt so good that you almost got wet again.

"Don't tease me love.", Seungcheol groaned and who were you to deny him.

You quickly dragged his pants and underwear down in one go and his dick sprang up, standing proud and thick.

"Fuck you are big.", you moaned as you moved your palm up and down the length before giving the tip kitten licks.

You took his whole dick in and bobbed your head while consecutively using your hand to create more friction. Seungcheol's fingers went through your hair before gripping it tight to control the bobbing of your head, fucking your mouth deep. Your eyes glistened with tears as you moaned at the feeling of being used by him.

"Fuck baby. You take me so well.", moaned Seungcheol before picking you up in one go and throwing you on the bed again.

"So wet from just sucking me?", Seungcheol teased before sinking two of his fingers in.

"Seungcheol, please fuck me. I don't need your fingers right now.", you moaned and Seungcheol obliged.

"I-I don't have condoms.", Seungcheol confessed shyly.

"It's okay. I am on birth control and clean.", you said to which he simply smiled and kissed you.

"I am also clean so, can I?", he asked and you nodded.

Lining his dick to your core, he slowly sunk in, giving you time to adjust.

"Fuck you are so tight.", he groaned, his eyebrows furrowing as he let out a disgruntled sigh.

"Seungcheol...", you moaned his name as you supported yourself by holding his biceps.

"Keep saying my name. Let everyone know who is fucking you right.", Seungcheol demanded and you moaned his name loud.

"Cheol fuck.", you whispered as you moaned and groaned.

"That's it. Baby, cum for me. Cum all over my cock. Cream me fuck.", Seungcheol whimpered as he kept his pace steady and firm.

Within seconds you were reaching your high again as you creamed his cock. Seungcheol pace didn't slow as he kept pounding into you, making a mess out of you. Your juices were everywhere as sweat formed on your forehead. Seungcheol dipped his head, as your foreheads were against each other and whispered, "I am gonna cum baby."

"Then cum Cheol. Cum inside me. Fill me up.", you said in a lust laden voice and that was Seungcheol's undoing as he came inside you.

!!SMUT ENDS HERE!!

After catching his breath, he lied down beside you for a bit before getting up to bring a warm water-soaked towel to clean you and then clean himself. After showering, you wore Seungcheol's shirt and lied down on the soft bed. Seungcheol joined you as he pulled your back against his chest and nuzzled into the crook of your neck.

"I love you.", he whispered and your heart melted.

"I love you too Cheollie.", you smiled as he giggled.

Then Seungcheol started laughing as you turned your head and gave him a questioning look.

"We are idiots, aren't we?", he giggled and you laughed along with him.

"You know what I am thinking?", you said.

"What?", asked Seungcheol.

"Haewon's face when she sees us hand in hand in the morning.", you smirked and Seungcheol gave a hearty laugh.

"You are a menace my love.", he teased and then you both dozed off.

______________________________________________________________

Author's note: First of all, ignore any sort of typos or grammatical mistakes. I am still trying to get a hang of this app as I have never made such long posts on this app before. Now, I love best friends to lovers trope so much and hence I really wanted to write this. I dreamed about this plot and I needed to write it down. I hope everyone enjoys it.

#seventeen #scoups x reader #scoups smut #scoups seventeen #scoups fluff #scoups imagines #svt #seungcheol #choi seungcheol #seungcheol smut #seungcheol x reader #seventeen seungcheol #seungcheol fluff #svt scoups #scoups

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am-i-interrupting · 3 days ago

Note

What if alternate variations of Viktors went after the reader after the reader managed to save him and Jayce. Maybe the reader is a unique variation, that in many alternate universes she no longer exists.((I want a battle of versions of Viktors and Jayces))

Endless Possibilities

It was in the explosion that ought to kill you all that you felt yourself being pulled away. Your body stretched. Your hand left Jayce’s, left Viktor’s.

Death was not as peaceful as you’d hoped. It was tugging and pulling on you like children fighting over a toy. You stomach lurched and churned. Something at the back of your throat bubbled.

Then it stopped. It changed so abruptly that the loss of it made you dizzy.

Your feet were on solid ground as were your hands. Slowly, your gaze went up, afraid of what you may find even if beneath your fingers was grass.

A hand met you. It was extended, familiar. You grabbed it without hesitation.

“My darling,” a thick, familiar accent spoke, “how wonderful it is to see you.”

You looked up as you rose to your feet. Viktor stood before you but there was something wrong, something different.

“Viktor.”

His hands went to cup your face as he smiled. It was warm and true. His eyes darted around your face, taking you in as you did the same.

His hair was almost completely blonde. Dirty and dark in color in some places, pure white in others, with sprinkles of the brown you were accustomed to. He had the webbing of the arcane on his face but it consumed most of it. This was not the man you knew.

“You have no idea how I’ve longed to see your face in something other than memories and wisps of dreams,” he said.

He bowed his head and placed his forehead against your own. You gripped his hands. Slowly you pried his fingers off of you.

“Where am I?” you asked. “What happened to Jayce?”

He swallowed. His eyes darted away from you, almost shameful. A small exhale that was similar to the one you knew to be filled with anxieties.

“I’m afraid Jayce is not here,” he said. “Not for some time at least.”

“Viktor,” you said, voice pleading and begging, “where am I?”

You looked around the place before you. Robots walked around. Pale and white with gold. They interacted like people but with none of the meaning.

“Where am I?” you asked for a third time.

“Where you’re meant to be,” he said as an answer.

You shook your head. You took one step back from him as he moved to grab your hand. It was followed by another. Then you spun around and ran.

You didn’t care that you bumped into the robots. At least until they started to make moves to grab you. You darted out of their grasp for as long as you could but there were so many of them. It was only a matter of time before you were caught.

“My darling,” he said as he approached you. His hands cupped your face as you thrashed, “it’s alright. I would never— No, no, no!”

There was panic in his eyes as that sickening sensation came to you once more. You kicked harder, tugged harsher. You couldn’t stand the feeling of these hands and they gripped tight, too tight.

Then they were gone.

You nearly fell when your thrashing was no longer contained against something else. You spun around, heart racing, breathing quick.

Viktor.

His hair was ethereal like it’d been when you’d last seen the true Viktor, your Viktor. You called out his name.

“My sweet,” he said.

You were immediately set off. There was something in his voice.

The place around you matched the astral plane you’d been in with Jayce. There were those lifeless robotic bodies around, held up by string that never ended.

“You’ve arrived.”

“No,” you said immediately.

“No?” he asked with a quirk of his lips, like this was funny.

“Where is my Viktor?” you asked.

“I’m right here,” he said. “No matter the circumstances, the situation, the universe, I am always yours.”

“Where is the Viktor I know? Because I am not yours,” you told him, voice shaking with fear and confusion despite how your stance remained strong.

“I had hoped this wouldn’t be an issue,” he said, so quiet it was meant for only himself. “You are my world, my light, my reason to strive for the best possible future. Before you could see it, you left my world. I wish to share this with you.”

“No,” you said, voice stronger than you were. “I want my Viktor. Not this. This is not a world I want. This is not a world my Viktor wants. This is not his greatest accomplishment but his biggest mistake and we are going to fix together so where is he?”

He took a step forward. His hand was held upward. He tried to cup your face. You batted his hand away.

“My sweet—“

“No! I want to go back! Take me back to him!”

“I’m afraid I cannot. I only had the power to bring you to me.”

“Why? Why be so selfish? What about what I want?” you asked him with growing anger.

This past few months had been torture. Seeing the man you love become a monster was not easy. It was hard. No matter what you did to try to convince him, he hadn’t listened.

You’d held onto the hope that perhaps you could save him and for a mere second, you thought you had. That is until the reality of the situation fell onto you.

You accepted death. Why wouldn’t she take you? Why were you being pulled around, shown these possibilities that weren’t your reality?

He placed his hands on your shoulders. “I thought, perhaps, this is what you would want.”

“No.”

“But why?” he asked. “You were going to die, my sweet.”

“Because I was going to die with the love of my life,” you said. “I was going to die beside him and with him so I wouldn’t have to know the pain of living without him any longer.”

Viktor bowed his head. “I apologize then because it’s for that same selfish reason I brought you here. I’ve lived years without you. Not a single one has brought me a fraction of the joy these past few minutes have. To see your face when I never believed I could again is the biggest blessing and I shall cherish it.”

You felt that sickening pull once more.

“Ah, seems someone else would like you,” he said. “Perhaps they will be able to return you to your Viktor.”

He squeezed your shoulder and then let go. With the loss of his touch came the shift in your vision.

A being stood before you with a face split down the middle. Eyes shined against the dark abyss between, golden like a mockery. White lined the edges of the darkness making sharp angles crisp.

“My love,” the voice greeted, haunted and ringing like it came from within an echo chamber.

“Viktor?” you asked even though you knew the answer.

“My love,” he repeated.

He seemed to hover instead of walk. Regardless, he moved closer to you. You moved away.

“I don’t like this.”

He halted. The head tipped to the side, like he was confused. “What don’t you like?”

“Any of this!” you yelled. “I don’t want to be dragged around like toy between toddlers! I just want to go back to my Viktor, even if that means dying!”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes! I do!”

“Death is unforgiving. There is no going back or turning around. It is irreversible. Not even I can undo it,” he said. “Not truly. These people I’ve saved have lost themselves in the search for eternity. But I don’t ask for eternity. Let me cherish you just for a lifetime.”

“No,” you said firmly. “I don’t want a lifetime with anyone else except the man I love, that I know. You may have his body but you are not him.”

It would have almost sounded like a sigh if it weren’t an exhale of hundreds, if not thousands, perhaps even millions of voices behind it.

“Stubborn as always,” he said.

That sickness tugged at you once more.

This time you were in front of Viktor in a white robe. It was covered in pink and blue shapes of the arcane. The interior was beautiful as it showed the stars of the galaxies.

You didn’t look at his face, simply slumped against the ground.

“I want to go home,” you said.

“And that is where I plan to take you,” he replied.

A cane or staff (perhaps a mix of both) was leaned on as he knelt before you. His hand was soft and callused as he brushed hair out of your face and turned away the tear going down your cheek.

“Selfishly I wish to keep you here but alas.” He sighed as he shifted. Something smooth was placed in your hand, “Break this when you return. It should shield all three of you so you may escape death’s clutches.”

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, “that I cannot be what you all want me to be.”

A tired exhale. “Do not be. It is an immense privilege to see you one last time but I cannot in good conscience force you to stay here with this version of me. I can at least rest knowing I am with you in at least one of the endless possibilities.”

His hand curled around the back of your neck. He brought his forehead to yours. You looked up as his boss met yours. This Viktor was older, wiser.

You looked down as something brushed against your chin. He had facial hair. How strange. Viktor kept his face meticulously groomed (when his body would allow it). It was turning grey.

“Thank you.”

“Of course.”

This time it was not like a sickness but a warmth. It was like a comforting embrace that understood. It understood all that you’d gone through and would become. It understood you.

Your hands squeezed the gemstone you’d been given and it crunched as it cracked.

A flash of bright light.

Then you fell harshly against hard ground.

“Are we— We’re alive!” Jayce said as he patted his body with growing glee.

You looked up. You relaxed as you immediately recognized your Viktor. You did not hesitate as you wrapped your arms around him.

He grunted as he was pushed back and forced to catch himself. His arms wrapped around you as soon as he found some stability though.

“My heart,” he said like a prayer as he buried his head in your shoulder.

#might be more angsty than you wanted #oops #viktor arcane x reader #viktor x reader #viktor x you #viktor arcane x you

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luckylzclerc · 5 hours ago

Text

A Thousand Miles 𓍢ִ໋🏁՞ᰔᩚ (cl16)

sypnosis : Due to your different careers, You both have been in a long distance relationship for quite some time. Charles has been nothing but supportive of you and got himself into a habit of mentioning you nonstop in interviews which sparks the attention from the media.

request : yes! from this request ₊˚.༄

AU : Mixed AU (smau + written au)

genre : fluff

an : first post since 2023 ! I changed my layout and tried to be more aesthetic (kinda..) lmk your thoughts on that! anyway, i hope u guys enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed making it hehe :3 pls don't be shy to request, I'll definitely try to answer them all 💌 anyways, have fun reading this and don't forget to like, comment and reblog!

yourusername posted .ᐟ

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yourusername home 🫂🎞️🍝

view 150 comments ↓

charles_leclerc mon cœur, i miss you

⤷ yourusername ahh Charles, tu me manques aussi bebe

(i miss you too bebe)

lando we miss you here, y/n! 😔

⤷ yourusername landooo!! missing you guys too💘💘

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The paddock is buzzing with excitement as fans from all over the world arrive to watch the 2025 Imola gp. Meanwhile, in the Ferrari garage, Charles is on the phone with his lovely girl, y/n.

"Charles, isn't qualifying starting soon?" asked the girl, interrupting her boyfriends ramble about an inchident that happened the night before. "Huh? shit! it's starting in 20 minutes!" replied the monegasque frantically while quickly gathering all his stuff.

Confused, she raised an eyebrow, "Are you going to end the call, or do you want me to do it?". Charles' panicked face contorts into a pout "Do we really have to end the call?" he asked with a soft tone. On the other end of the line, y/n chuckled "yes, yes have to mon amor. I'll talk to you later yeah? Promise me you'll do your best okay?, good luck". He smiles softly at her "Promise, je t'aime" while clicking the 'end call' button. All he could do now is just hope for the best as he wants to get pole to make her proud.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

"POLE POSITION BABYYY" echoes through the entire paddock as Charles crossed the finishing line with the fastest time amongst all 19 drivers. As the crowd errupt with cheers from the tifosi(s), Charles makes his way to the post qualifying interviews.

interview .ᐟ

still feeling giddy, Charles decides to call y/n to tell her about the qualifying even though she was probably watching the entire time. *ring ring ring* -voicemail "huh?" confused as he can be, he started worrying about the sudden voicemail so, he called her again. twice. thrice. no answer. 'What is she up to?' Charles thought to himself.

Without any warning, Carlos barged into his room to congratulate his teammate. Noticing the monegasque's unhappy face "Carino, you okay ?" asked Carlos with a careful tone. "Yeah, im alright, its just y/n. She's not picking up my calls!". Understanding the situation, the spaniard comforted his teammate "Ah, maybe her device died or, I don't know? She took a nap or something.. theres endless possibilities, don't worry about it too much."

Nodding, "Maybe you're right.. thanks mate" "No problem!Now time to celebrate!!" Still full of adrenaline from the pole position but not feeling like celebrating, he decided to just head back to the hotel to rest "You celebrate, I'm going back to the hotel" said the monegasque. Walking to his car, he thought to himself 'Maybe she's asleep, I'll just call her again when i get back to the hotel' while trying to ignore the constant feeling of worry.

twitter .ᐟ

As upon his arrival at the hotel, Charles still couldn't shake the feeling of a pit forming in his stomach so, after reaching to his assigned room, he quickly calls y/n again.*ring ring ring*

"Y/n are you there?" furrowing his brows while trying to make sense the black screen on his phone. "Charles! Congratulations on the pole, I'm so proud of you, knew you could do it!" said y/n with excitement filling her tone. Charles commented "Thank you! amor, I don't know if its my phone but I cannot see your face". A few moment of silence passed and Charles keep hearing commotion on the other end of the line.. "bebe? are you there? are you out right now..?". Finally, the girl answered short and sweetly "Sorry, got to go, talk to you tomorrow amor! bisous" and the call went dead.

Now he's even more confused. While trying to decide wether to investigate or not, tiredness washes over him. Finally deciding to ignore the paranoid feeling, Charles decides to get ready for bed and bother the girl with more questions the following day.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

As Charles wakes up at the crack of dawn, all his worries about y/n seems to disappear and he decides to just focus on his race today. While getting ready, he receives a notification on imessage from her wishing him luck on todays race, and that alone is enough to make him smile from the words of encouragement.

As soon as he arrives at the circuit, Charles was quickly rushed to the Ferrari garage to get prepped for the race at Imola. Todays goal was to win, make y/n proud and oh! win again. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to him, Y/n is on the plane flying a thousand miles away to get to the Imola grand prix in time.

Y/n arrives just in time as there were 2 more laps to go. As she quickly rushes to the Ferrari garage, Charles zoomed by the checkered flag in first place. The entire garage was filled with screams and cheers of joy celebrating another win for Ferrari. Outside, y/n could hear the grandstand booming with celebrations as the tifosi(s) celebrate Charles' victory. She couldn't believe it, it was her first time witnessing his win in real life and was feeling overjoyed. Her heart was full of love and admiration.

Charles parked his f1 car behind the '#1' sign and jumped out of the vehicle while doing a celebratory pose. He was feeling so pleased with his results and all he could think about was telling y/n.

As the post race interviews were held, y/n was hiding in the McLaren garage to avoid spoiling the surprise and bumping into her partner.

interviews .ᐟ

"Charles Leclercc!!" echoes through the entire circuit as they announced the winner of the race. Charles walked to the first place of the podium, full of pride and a huge smile across his face. Y/n was standing amongst the crowds watching him stand on the top of the podium filled with excitement and proudness. 'I knew you could do it' she thought to herself, smiling like an idiot.

As the national anthem of Monaco ended, the top 3 winners sprayed each other with champagne and that marks the end of the ceremony.

As Charles makes his way to his motorhome, y/n was hiding in his drivers room with a bouquet in her hand. Other than Charles, his teammate, Carlos was walking alongside him to the motorhome secretly recording the surprise that was about to happen. "Mate, why are u following me to my drivers room?" asked Charles and he twisted the door knob. While still looking at Carlos with a puzzled look, he decides to ask the spaniard again. "Mate???" All Carlos could do was point his head towards the drivers room and there she was. Standing with a huge smile spread on her lips while holding a huge bouquet of red roses.

"Surprise?" said the girl. Charles mouth dropped agape while he stared at her in disbelief "y/n??" as he snaps back into reality, he quickly ran towards his lover and hugged her tightly. "Woah woah! I can't breath Charles" she chuckled. "I can't believe you're here! When did you arrive? How come do I not know? Why didn't you tell me??" Bombarding her with questions. "Mate, calm down" Carlos interjects , which was replied with a glare from his teammate. "Oh you can't believe how much I miss you."

yourusername posted .ᐟ

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yourusername hardest secret to keep❤️👻

view all 57 comments ↓

charles_leclerc Can't believe you're actually here❤️❤️

⤷ yourusername im literally right next to u rn🤨💘

lando not u hiding in the McLaren garage haha!!!

⤷ yourusername CHARLES IS SO BLIND HAHA

⤷ charles_leclerc ??????

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‍‍‍‍‍‍‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎fin.

an : tysm for reading!! I hope you guys liked this!! lmk your thoughts on it as this is my very first time writing. I love to read your comments and dont be shy to ask away in my inbox💌 dont forget to like, comment and reblog ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁!

taglist ⤷ @xf4iryx

#f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 one shot #f1 social media au #formula 1 x reader #f1 x reader #f1 x you #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #cl16 x reader #cl16 imagine #cl16 #f1

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winxanity-ii · 2 days ago

Text

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 21 Chapter 21 | venus rising⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

You woke with a gasp.

Your chest heaved, lungs dragging in air like you had been drowning. Your body jolted upright before your mind caught up, heart hammering so hard it echoed in your ears.

Something was wrong.

Your skin was damp, a faint sheen of sweat clinging to your brow despite the cool air seeping in from the open window. Your breathing was uneven, shuddering. When you reached up to wipe your face, your fingers came away wet.

Tears.

You blinked rapidly, swiping them away with the heel of your hand, confusion tightening your throat. You weren't crying—at least, you didn't think you were. But the evidence was there, clinging to your lashes, trailing down your cheeks.

Why?

No nightmare lingered. No fragmented memory. No reason for this hollow weight pressing against yoribs—s, heavy and unshakable.

You swallowed hard, forcing it down. It had to be exhaustion.

Last night—Apollo—the endless music, the warmth of his presence, the way his voice wrapped around you like sunlight. Maybe it had drained you more than you realized.

That had to be it.

Letting out a slow breath, you swung your legs over the bed, pressing your feet to the cool floor to ground yourself. The lingering haze clung to your mind as you stretched, muscles heavier than usual—but not unpleasantly so.

Moving toward the water basin in the corner, you caught a glimpse of yourself in the polished bronze mirror.

You looked... different.

Not in any obvious way. But something about the morning light—it kissed your skin, lingered a little too long, like it knew you. Like it belonged to you.

You shook the thought away.

Instead, you focused on the familiar routine of washing up, letting the cold water shock your system awake. As you dressed, an unconscious hum slipped from your lips.

A hymn.

To Apollo.

Your fingers stilled on the fabric of your tunic, the sound of your own voice catching you off guard. You hadn't meant to hum it. Hadn't even thought about it. Yet it had come so naturally.

A warmth settled in your chest—gentle, knowing.

You ignored it, shaking the feeling off as you adjusted your clothes and made your way to the door. Whatever last night had meant, it was over. It was morning, and you had things to do.

Taking a steadying breath, you pulled open the door—

Only to nearly walk straight into Callias.

The two of you froze, eyes locking in mutual surprise.

Callias stood mid-motion, one hand raised as if about to knock, the other balancing a small wooden tray. A simple meal rested on top—freshly cut fruit, a bit of cheese, some olives. The kind of food you might have grabbed between chores or on the way to the queen's chambers.

You blinked. He blinked back.

A beat of silence stretched between you before Callias let out a quiet chuckle, a lopsided grin pulling at his lips.

"Well, hello, sleepyhead," he teased, tilting his head slightly. "What made you so tired?"

The question caught you off guard. Your mind scrambled for an answer—one that made sense because how could you possibly explain it? That you'd spent the night with Apollo himself, playing for him, singing for him, lost in melodies that dimmed the stars?

So instead, you settled for something vague.

"You wouldn't believe me," you muttered, shaking your head.

Callias raised an eyebrow, smirk deepening. "Wouldn't I?" he challenged, leaning against the doorframe, eyes glinting with lazy amusement. "You were asleep almost all day."

Your breath caught.

"...What?"

Callias laughed, clearly amused by your reaction. "Yeah, it's almost noon," he said casually, shifting the tray so he could gesture toward the hallway.

The words hit like a stone sinking in water, dragging down into something deep and unsteady.

Noon?

You had gone to sleep just before dawn—only a few hours ago. At least, that's what you thought. You remembered the sky still dark when you finally lay down, Apollo's presence still lingering as you drifted off.

And now... it was noon?

You must have frozen completely because Callias chuckled again, though this time, curiosity edged into his amusement.

"Yeah, you were out," he continued. "But no worries. Prince Telemachus told the king and queen at breakfast that you'd be taking the morning off, so no one's disturbed you."

Telemachus?

Your thoughts whirled, struggling to keep up. You hadn't asked for the morning off. But... he had done it for you? Had gone out of his way to make sure no one expected anything from you after last night?

Something warm and strange settled in your chest, but it was quickly buried beneath the lingering shock.

"Are you okay?" Callias asked, his teasing tone dipping into something softer.

You forced a nod, though your thoughts still spun. "Yeah... just—didn't realize how tired I was."

Not a lie. Not entirely.

Callias studied you for a beat, sharp eyes scanning like he was debating whether to pry. But then, just as quickly, his usual carefree grin returned as he held out the tray. "Well, here, eat something. You probably need it after hibernating."

You took the tray with a small nod of thanks, though your mind was still sluggish, trying to catch up. So much had happened—Apollo, Cleo, your parents, everything—and yet, in reality, it had all been just one day.

The realization made your head spin.

Your body still carried the exhaustion of the Underworld, the weight of divine revelation pressing into your bones. Time had been strange since you entered the Underworld, slipping through your fingers like sand. But even then, you had never slept for so long.

"Anyway, I actually came to tell you about Venus tonight." Callias' grin widened, eyes gleaming with excitement.

You blinked, thrown by the shift. "Venus?"

"Yeah," he nodded, his enthusiasm infectious. "It'll be at its brightest tonight. The whole town is talking about it. Perfectly clear skies, the kind of thing you have to see." Your fingers tightened slightly around the tray as something twisted deep in your chest—not unpleasant, but unexpected.

Venus.

A memory surfaced unbidden, breaking through the fog.

"Tomorrow night, Venus will be at its brightest," Telemachus had said, voice quieter than usual. "It lights up the sky like a beacon. I... was thinking—if you'd like, you could... join me?"

The way he had looked at you then—hopeful, hesitant—made your heart clench.

But before you could answer, Andreia had appeared.

Her presence had shattered the moment, her voice dripping with familiarity as she touched Telemachus' arm, claiming his attention like it was hers to take. He had turned to her, torn between duty and whatever had just passed between you.

And just like that, the offer had been swept away.

You had almost forgotten. Or maybe you had forced yourself to.

Callias' voice pulled you back to the present before you could spiral too deep.

"I was thinking we could go together," he said, his eagerness cutting through the weight pressing in your chest. "It's supposed to be stunning, and I don't want to go alone."

You hesitated, emotions warring inside you.

A part of you—a small, ugly part—wanted to refuse. To lock yourself away in your room and ignore the ache curling inside your chest. To pretend none of this mattered.

But another part of you—the part that refused to let Andreia's callousness dictate your choices—wanted to go.

What did it matter if Telemachus was watching Venus with Andreia?

What did it really matter?

You looked up at Callias, his expectant expression so open, so easy. Unlike Telemachus, who carried the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders, Callias was light. No burdens, no expectations. Just here, grinning at you like nothing was complicated at all.

And maybe, for tonight, you needed that.

You took a breath, shoving the ache of Telemachus and Andreia down. Letting it settle beneath the surface.

"Alright," you said, forcing a small smile. "I'll go."

Callias' grin widened, his whole face lighting up. "Perfect! I'll meet you in the square after sunset."

You nodded, watching as he stepped back with an easy wave before disappearing down the corridor, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

The tray in your hands felt heavier than before.

Exhaling slowly, you closed the door behind you and turned back into your room.

For the first time in what felt like days, you had plans. Not with Telemachus. Not with duty pressing against your back.

But with someone who simply wanted to enjoy the stars.

And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what you needed.

☆

As the day stretched on, you noticed something felt off.

It wasn't something you could name—not fully.

It started the moment you woke, lingering at the edges of your mind like the remnants of a dream you couldn't quite grasp. The air felt heavier, the familiar scents of the palace—sea salt, aged stone, fresh linens—were sharper, more defined, as if you were experiencing them for the first time.

At first, you brushed it off—exhaustion, the weight of yesterday, your mind still catching up to the reality that had shifted beneath your feet.

But as the hours passed, the feeling didn't fade.

If anything, it grew stronger.

Every sound, every color, every sensation felt amplified, as if you had been seeing the world through a veil this entire time, and now, without warning, it had been ripped away.

Something had changed.

You had changed.

But you couldn't explain how.

And you weren't sure if you were ready to.

The sky had darkened by the time you made your way down to the courtyard, the last streaks of twilight fading into the deep indigo of night. Stars pricked through the heavens like scattered embers, and in the east, Venus shone the brightest—a beacon against the endless dark.

You exhaled, wrapping your shawl tighter around your shoulders.

Tonight was simple. Meet Callias. Watch Venus. Let the night be just a night.

This was fine. You were fine.

You weren't thinking about the way Apollo had looked at you like you were his to cherish, weren't thinking about the way Telemachus had asked you to see Venus with him, only for Andreia to steal that moment away.

No. You weren't thinking about any of that.

Tonight was different.

Tonight, you had Callias.

And yet, as you approached the courtyard, your steps slowed.

Something stirred in the distance.

Not Callias—not yet.

Beyond the stone archway, at the entrance to the palace grounds, a small caravan was being prepared.

Horses shifted under the weight of their bridles, their breath visible in the cool night air. Royal attendants moved with practiced efficiency, adjusting saddles, tightening straps, securing supplies. Lanterns flickered, casting long, wavering shadows against the stone walls.

You didn't have to wonder who it was for.

Then, you saw them.

Telemachus and Andreia stood just beyond the main path, illuminated by the soft golden glow of the torches.

Your breath hitched—just for a moment.

She stood close to Telemachus. Too close.

Her fingers barely grazed his arm, but the touch lingered. She was speaking, head tilted just so, lips curved in an easy, confident smile. The way she looked at him—like she knew she was the center of his attention, like she expected it—made your stomach churn.

But it was Telemachus' expression that truly caught you.

He wasn't smiling.

His posture was stiff, hands clasped tightly in front of him. He nodded as she spoke, but his gaze flickered—to the ground, to the attendants, to the caravan. Anywhere but her.

Anywhere but here.

It was the same look he wore when he was enduring something he didn't want but knew he couldn't refuse.

You should have looked away.

You should have kept walking, let the night unfold as it was meant to—without letting yourself drown in the weight of something you couldn't change.

But you didn't.

Something about them—the almost-blue of her dress, the tension in his shoulders, the way the torches illuminated them like a portrait painted in gold—held you there.

This was what could have been yours.

But it wasn't.

Not anymore.

A cool breeze brushed past, making you pull your shawl tighter, and for the briefest moment, you let yourself feel it.

The ache.

The loss.

The quiet, unbearable knowing that whatever had existed between you and Telemachus—that unspoken, fragile thing—was now on the verge of shambles.

And then—

"___!"

The voice snapped you out of your thoughts, light and familiar.

You turned, blinking quickly as Callias strode into view, his usual easy grin in place. He looked effortlessly put together, as always—his brown curls tousled from the wind, a thin gold chain catching the torchlight at his throat.

Behind you, the caravan began to move—horses led forward, wheels creaking against the stone path as the procession disappeared into the night.

Telemachus and Andreia turned as well, their figures half-illuminated in the shifting glow.

And for just a second—a single, fleeting second—Telemachus' gaze found yours.

Your breath caught.

Something flickered across his face—something unreadable, something buried too deep to name.

But then, just as quickly, he looked away, shifting his attention back to Andreia as she spoke.

And that was that.

Callias came to a stop beside you, watching the caravan fade into the dark before turning back to you with an amused tilt of his head.

"You were staring," he noted, teasing but light. "Do I even need to ask why?"

You swallowed, forcing a small, dismissive smile. "Not at all."

He studied you for a moment, his usual playfulness tempered by something quieter, more knowing. But whatever he wanted to say, he held back. Instead, he threw an arm over your shoulders, tugging you lightly toward the garden terraces.

"Good thing I'm here to rescue you from your thoughts," he said cheerfully. "Come on, we have stars to see. And I, for one, refuse to let you mope under a sky this clear."

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head, and fell into step beside him.

The night stretched before you, open and endless, the sky above glittering with stars.

.☆. .✩. .☆.

By the time you and Callias reached the stargazing spot, both of you were panting slightly, the climb steeper than expected. The winding paths of Ithaca weren't anything new to you, but under the cover of night—with the occasional loose stone threatening to send you tumbling—it felt far more treacherous than it should have.

Callias let out a dramatic huff beside you, swiping his curls away from his forehead with the back of his hand. "You know," he started, breath coming in short bursts, "for an island, Ithaca sure has an ungodly amount of hills."

You let out a breathless laugh. "One would think being surrounded by the sea would make it flatter," you teased, shaking your head.

"Exactly!" Callias threw his hands up. "Mountains? Fine. Valleys? Sure. But this?" He gestured vaguely at the incline you'd just conquered, his frustration exaggerated enough to make you laugh again.

The cool night air brushed against your skin, and as you finally lifted your gaze, the sight before you made the ache in your legs seem like a small price to pay.

The stargazing area had been arranged with far more preparation than you'd expected. Ithaca, despite its deep-rooted love for land and sky, didn't typically host large stargazing gatherings. Most preferred quiet moments, watching from their own homes, sharing the night with close friends or family.

But this—this was different.

The clearing had been carefully prepared, no doubt orchestrated by Andreia herself. Blankets covered the grass while small wooden trays sat between each seating arrangement, filled with fresh figs, olives, and honeyed almonds.

Lanterns lined the outskirts, casting a warm, flickering glow—just enough to move around without overpowering the brilliance of the stars.

Already, a handful of servants from both Bronte and Ithaca had settled in, chatting in hushed voices, adjusting their seats. Others lingered by the edges, watching as the last of the caravan settled into place.

It was beautiful, you had to admit, even if it left a strange weight in your chest.

Your gaze instinctively drifted skyward, drawn by habit and expectation. But instead of the vast, glittering expanse of stars you had imagined, drifting clouds veiled the heavens. The familiar constellations flickered faintly behind them, their shapes blurred and broken, swallowed and revealed in slow-moving patterns.

It wasn't unusual for clouds to pass through, but it felt almost... untimely. As though the heavens had drawn a curtain over something you were meant to see.

Your lips parted slightly, brows knitting as you scanned the sky, searching—searching for the one light you had been waiting for.

Venus should have been visible by now.

Yet, for a long, stretching moment, it was nowhere to be found.

A pang of disappointment nudged at your ribs, though you weren't sure why. It was just a planet, just another celestial body tracing its path through the heavens. And yet...

"Don't tell we crawled up this hill for a cloudy sky," Callias groaned beside you, following your gaze with a half-hearted glare at the heavens. He crossed his arms, tapping his fingers against his sleeve. "If Venus is hiding after all that effort, I'm taking it as a personal betrayal."

You let out a small, breathy laugh, though your fingers unconsciously tightened at your sides.

"Just wait," you murmured, more to yourself than to him. "It'll show."

Callias barely gave you a moment before grabbing your wrist, tugging you toward a group already seated near the edge of the gathering. "C'mon," he grinned, excitement buzzing in his tone. "There are a few people I want you to meet."

You let him lead you, weaving through clusters of people, careful not to step too close to the edge of the hill.

Your nerves kicked in when you realized where he was taking you—to a Brontean group, already settled comfortably in a small circle.

Three figures—two women and one man—looked up as Callias approached, their faces illuminated by the soft lantern glow.

The first woman, a foreign-looking girl with deep brown skin framed by a golden-wrapped headscarf, was the first to notice you. Her dark eyes flickered with curiosity, lips twitching in amusement as she nudged the girl beside her.

The second woman—lighter in complexion, black curls tumbling over her shoulders, an air of quiet confidence around her—lifted her gaze from a bowl of figs, sharp blue eyes assessing you quickly.

The man, broad-shouldered with a trimmed beard and golden rings adorning his fingers, smirked as Callias approached.

"If it isn't Ithaca's favorite socialite," he teased, shifting slightly to make room.

Callias rolled his eyes but grinned, tugging you closer. "Everyone, this is ____, the newest addition to my very selective circle of friends."

The woman with the golden scarf hummed, tilting her head. "So this is the one Callias won't shut up about," she mused. "Well, aren't you a pretty lamb ready for slaughter?"

You blinked, caught off guard, while Callias groaned dramatically, shooting her an unimpressed look.

"Asta, that's not how we greet people."

The woman—Asta—shrugged, entirely unbothered. "I think it is."

The dark-haired woman smirked, leaning forward. "You have been talking about her a lot, Cal," she admitted, popping a fig into her mouth.

Callias nudged her foot. "I do have other things to talk about, you know."

"Sure," the man chuckled. "Like wine. And how much you hate horses."

Callias narrowed his eyes. "You're all terrible. Scooch over, we're sitting."

With a dramatic sigh, Asta made room, and Callias pulled you down beside him, flashing you a quick wink before turning back to the group.

The dark-haired woman studied you for a moment before offering a smooth smile. "I'm Lysandra," she introduced herself. "Lady Andreia's personal attendant."

Your breath hitched slightly, but you nodded, keeping your expression neutral.

Lysandra seemed to catch your hesitation because she leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "Don't worry," she murmured, amusement flickering in her gaze. "I'm not here to test your loyalty or anything. Honestly, I'm just here for the stars and good company."

You offered a small smile, though your stomach still twisted uncomfortably.

Beside her, the man stretched, letting out a small sigh as he adjusted the rings on his fingers.

"And I'm Kieran," he said. "Bronte's Treasury Overseer and resident merchant-troublemaker. Whatever you need, I can find it—for a price, of course." His grin was easygoing, but his eyes were sharp, something calculated beneath the charm.

"And I," Asta cut in, her accent unfamiliar, "am just Asta. No fancy titles, no noble houses. Just a wandering soul who somehow ended up in Bronte."

You nodded, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the sheer presence of them all.

Callias, sensing your nerves, nudged you lightly.

"Relax," he whispered. "They don't bite." He paused, side-eyeing Asta, who merely raised an eyebrow. "Most of them don't."

That pulled a small, reluctant laugh from you, easing some of the tension in your chest.

Kieran, always one to seize an opportunity, leaned back on his hands with a grin. "So, Callias," he drawled, stretching his legs out in front of him. "What exactly have you been up to? It feels like we haven't seen you in ages."

Callias scoffed, waving him off. "You literally saw me earlier today. At lunch. And at dinner."

Asta snorted, shaking her head. "You mean we saw you grab a bite before immediately disappearing."

Lysandra smirked, adding in smoothly. "And even when you do stay, you can't stop talking about your new bestie." She glanced at you teasingly, amusement glimmering in her green eyes. "It's honestly kind of cute."

You blinked, caught between mild shock and embarrassment. Callias? Talking about you?

Callias groaned loudly, tossing his head back in dramatic exasperation. "Oh, for the love of the gods—" He shot Lysandra a playfully betrayed look. "You're all just mad I finally found someone who appreciates my charm."

Asta smirked. "Or someone who hasn't yet figured out how exhausting you are."

Laughter rippled through the group, warm and easy, and despite the lingering tension in your chest, you couldn't help but smile.

Callias placed a hand over his heart, dramatically wounded. "If this is how you're gonna treat me, then I'm leaving."

"No, you're not," Kieran said, rolling his eyes. "You wouldn't dare leave your bestie behind."

Callias grumbled something under his breath, but his grin gave him away. He leaned back onto his elbows, shaking his head in mock defeat.

Asta, still watching you with sharp curiosity, tilted her head. "So, ____," she said, smoothly bringing you into the conversation. "What's it like working under Ithaca's rule?"

Kieran perked up beside her, nudging Lysandra with his elbow. "Yeah! How's the pay? I might switch over."

Lysandra swatted his arm without looking. "You wouldn't last a week in Ithaca."

You smiled, feeling a little more at ease. "It's... not bad," you admitted, adjusting the fabric of your tunic as you as you considered your answer. "The royal family is warmer than most would expect."

Asta arched a brow, intrigued. "Warmer, huh?"

You nodded. "It wasn't always like this," you said, your voice softening in thought. "Before King Odysseus returned, things were... tense. The palace felt like it was holding its breath. The queen was strong, but the suitors brought uncertainty. It was hard to feel secure."

Your fingers traced absent patterns into your sleeve. "But ever since the king came home, things have been different. There's a new kind of peace in Ithaca. He's fair but firm. He sees people, not just titles."

Kieran hummed, considering. "Not bad," he mused. "Maybe I should switch over."

Lysandra groaned and flicked an olive at him. He barely dodged it. "Oh, shut up."

Then, she turned her gaze toward you, curiosity glinting in her eyes. "So, ____, what's he really like?"

You blinked, caught off guard. "Who?"

"The great King Odysseus, of course," she clarified. "Word of his return spread all the way to Bronte. Everyone was talking about it—the king who defeated death itself to come home."

Asta hummed in agreement. "It's a big reason why we're here, actually. Along with the whole Prince Andros situation, of course."

At the mention of Andros, a shadow flickered across Kieran's face before he scoffed.

"The 'Andros situation'—what a polite fucking way to put it," he muttered, voice edged with sarcasm. He stretched his legs out, leaning back on his hands. "More like the clean-up of a fool. Serves him right."

Asta shot him a warning look. "Careful," she said, voice even but pointed. "Someone might overhear and snitch to the princess."

Kieran rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. We're not in Bronte, Asta. What's she gonna do? Have me executed in Ithaca?"

Asta arched a brow, adjusting her seat. "No. But the way she's moving... she might find a way eventually."

Kieran's smirk faded into a scowl. He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "Yeah. What a fast one, the princess is," he muttered, irritation laced through his voice.

Then, his sharp gaze flicked to you.

"Speaking of which," he said, tilting his head. "What have you heard on your end?"

You blinked. "Pardon?"

Kieran leaned forward slightly, his eyes glinting with intrigue. "C'mon. We're not gonna snitch. I just mean, what rumors have you heard? About Princess Andreia? About your prince?" he urged, tilting his head toward the clearing, subtly motioning with his hand.

Your chest tightened at the phrasing—your prince—before following his gesture, your gaze landing on the opposite side of the clearing, where the best seats for stargazing had been arranged.

Andreia sat in a broad wooden chair—one brought just for her—an ornate cushion beneath her to keep her comfortable on the rocky ground. She was speaking to Telemachus, lips curved into an easy, knowing smile. Her hands moved lightly as she spoke, graceful, practiced, but her expression betrayed little true emotion.

Telemachus, however, wasn't looking at her.

His face remained calm, polite. But his eyes were already fixed skyward, waiting for the clouds to part and reveal Venus. His fingers tapped absently against his knee, his mind clearly elsewhere.

You weren't sure why you kept watching him. Maybe it was the way his expression barely changed, the way his body sat there—composed, proper—while his hands betrayed his thoughts. The rhythmic tapping against his knee, the quiet inhale through his nose every few moments, the way his shoulders never fully relaxed despite Andreia's presence.

As if a memory had been scraped to the surface, Callias' words returned with startling clarity.

"One of Andreia's personal attendants let something slip... Apparently, she's been in talks to form political alliances between Bronte and Ithaca."

Your stomach tightened.

How long had it been since he told you that? A week? A day? Less? Everything that had happened—the Underworld, Apollo, your own unraveling—had swallowed your focus so completely that you had forgotten.

Just how much had she accomplished in that time?

Had she already planted her roots deeper into Ithaca's court? Had she secured her place by his side while you were tangled in your own problems, failing to notice?

Your fingers curled slightly against the fabric of your tunic.

What has she gained while I wasn't paying attention?

The thought made your skin crawl.

Not because of duty. Not because of political maneuvering—those had always existed, always shaped the lives of the powerful.

No, what unsettled you was Andreia herself.

"...the way she's moving... she might find a way eventually."

Asta's words echoed fresh in your mind, sharp and foreboding.

And the truth was, she was right.

Andreia wasn't just here to bask in Ithaca's hospitality. She wasn't lingering at Telemachus' side out of passing interest.

She was moving.

Every smile, every carefully placed word, every touch Telemachus never stopped—she was shifting the board, playing the game.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as your gaze lingered on her.

The dress she wore tonight was a lighter seafoam blue, not green—a color closer to Ithaca's than Bronte's. A subtle change, but deliberate. A symbol of someone adjusting, assimilating. She was embedding herself within Ithaca's court, reshaping her image to make it easier for others to see her as belonging here.

Beside its prince.

Your eyes flicked back to him.

His hands had gone still, resting idly against his knee. His face was polite, but distant.

Waiting for the clouds to move.

Not looking at her.

Your grip loosened slightly.

For all of Andreia's efforts, for all of her presence—

Telemachus was not looking at her.

He was looking up.

And for just a moment, you let yourself believe—maybe Asta was wrong.

Maybe, no matter how much Andreia tried to weave herself into his world, she would never truly have him.

You opened your mouth, ready to answer Kieran—to say something, maybe that you weren't sure, that you hadn't heard anything worth repeating.

But before you could get a word out—

A half-eaten fig flew across the blanket and smacked Kieran in the shoulder.

"Gods, do you lot even know how to ask a normal question?" Callias huffed, stretching out lazily as if he hadn't just launched fruit at someone. "What ever happened to 'Hey, ____! What'' your favorite color?' Or 'Wow, that's a nice shawl, where'd you get it?' You know—questions that don't make people think they're about to be interrogated."

Kieran let out an exaggerated sigh, dramatically rubbing his shoulder as if the fig had done any real damage. "Callias, you are insufferable."

"Selfish,"Lysandra agreed, shaking her head in mock disappointment.

"So selfish," Asta echoed, plucking the remains of the fig from where it had rolled onto the blanket and tossing it at Callias in retaliation. He dodged effortlessly, flashing them a smug grin.

"You're all just mad that I have social skills," Callias shot back, wagging a finger at them.

"You mean the skills of an annoying little brother," Lysandra muttered.

Kieran rolled his eyes and turned back to you. "This is the first Ithacan servant we've actually had a chance to talk to since being here—ever—and he want us to waste time with trivial nonsense?" He shot Callias a pointed look before glancing back at you. "I, for one, think we should make good use of the opportunity."

That... surprised you.

"You've... never spoken to any of the other servants?" you asked, hesitantly. "Is it... forbidden?"

The moment the words left your lips, the energy around the group shifted. A brief, noticeable silence settled, the once-playful air turning heavier, more serious.

Asta was the first to break it. "Not explicitly," she admitted, rolling a small olive between her fingers. "But it's an unwritten rule for Brontes not to be too communicative with outsiders."

Lysandra nodded, leaning back on her hands. "It's about presenting an image—one of strength, unity. The less our servants talk, the more disciplined and devoted our homeland appears to others. It's..." She hesitated, then settled on, "A way to maintain control, I suppose."

Kieran, however, scoffed loudly, completely unimpressed. "It's bullshit is what it is. The whole thing's designed to make us miserable. Keeps us longing for home, thinking about how much better we had it before leaving." His jaw tensed slightly, and for the first time since meeting him, there was no teasing in his voice—just frustration.

Asta arched a brow, a slow smirk tugging at her lips. "You've been awfully bold lately, Kieran." She propped her chin on her hand, eyes gleaming with amusement. "What happened to the perfect, quiet little merchant's son from Bronte?"

Kieran shot her an unimpressed glare. "He got a taste of freedom—of Ithaca—and now he's got a spine," he retorted dryly. Then, as if flipping a switch, his expression brightened.

"Oh! Tadros is passing out wine!"

He practically jolted upright, pointing toward the far end of the clearing before turning to Lysandra and tugging her arm. "Come on! Let's go before all the good stuff's gone!"

Lysandra rolled her eyes, though a faint smile played at her lips. "Fine, you child," she muttered, already getting to her feet.

Asta followed suit, stretching her arms above her head. "I'll help carry enough back for everyone," she said before shooting a smirk at Kieran. "Not that you'd be any help with that."

"You wound me," Kieran gasped, clutching his chest dramatically before grinning and leading the way toward the group of Bronte servants gathered around the wine.

As they walked off, you exhaled slowly, the weight of the conversation still lingering. The laughter and chatter faded into the background, leaving only the quiet hum of the night and the distant murmur of the gathering around the wine.

You turned toward Callias, curiosity—and unease—pressing against your chest too strongly to ignore.

"Is it really true?" you asked, voice quieter now that it was just the two of you. "That Bronte's servants aren't allowed to speak to Ithacans?"

Callias glanced at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before letting out a soft chuckle, shaking his head.

"Yeah, it's true," he admitted. "At least, that's how it's supposed to be."

Leaning back on his hands, he tilted his head toward the sky, his face thoughtful. "But I've never been one to stick to all the rules—especially not when the princess herself is out here making 'alliances.'" His lips curled into a knowing smirk, but there was something else behind it. Something tired.

His words made your stomach twist. You hesitated before asking carefully, "Have you... gotten into trouble because of... me?"

The smirk faltered—just for a second. It was quick, barely noticeable, but you caught it before he forced an easy grin back into place.

He shrugged, brushing invisible dust from his tunic as if the question meant nothing. "Of course not," he said lightly. "Like Kieran said, what could she do to us here? This isn't Bronte."

For some reason, you didn't believe him.

But instead of pressing the issue, you simply nodded in quiet acceptance. Maybe it was better not to know.

A flicker of movement caught your attention from the corner of your eye. A Bronte servant approached, their steps quick but measured, head slightly bowed as they reached Callias.

"The princess has requested your presence," they said in a hushed voice. "She wants you near her... and to play the panpipes."

A brief, loaded silence followed.

Callias didn't move at first, absorbing the words. Then, without hesitation, he gave a short nod. "Of course," he said, voice neutral. The servant inclined their head and disappeared back into the gathering like a shadow.

Once they were gone, Callias let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Well. That's that," he muttered, exhaling sharply before turning back to you. "Sorry, ____."

"You don't have to apologize, Callias," you assured him, offering a small smile. "She would've noticed you were here sooner or later anyway."

His gaze lingered on you for a moment, as if debating whether to say something more. Then, instead of dwelling on it, he grinned—though it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You're right," he said. "Still—kind of a shame. I was having fun."

You chuckled softly. "Me too."

Callias stood, stretching his arms above his head before rolling out his shoulders. "Tell you what," he said, glancing down at you with a playful tilt of his head. "Tomorrow, let's hang out. No princess, no obligations—just a normal, rule-breaking Bronte servant and his new bestie."

The casual way he said it made you smile. "Alright," you agreed, nudging his foot with yours. "Tomorrow, then."

His grin widened before he took a step back. "Great. I'll come find you."

With that, he turned, heading toward the main gathering—toward Andreia, who was waiting.

You watched him go, the easy energy he always carried feeling just a little heavier tonight. As he disappeared into the crowd, you let out a small breath, shaking off the weight of it all.

Tomorrow.

That was something to look forward to.

But tonight wasn't over just yet.

Before you could dwell too much on Callias' departure, the sound of approaching footsteps pulled you back to the present.

Kieran, Lysandra, and Asta returned, carrying a few clay cups of wine between them. Kieran was the first to plop down beside you, exhaling like he'd just completed some impossible task. Lysandra and Asta followed, setting down a small flask with the remaining wine.

Asta's sharp eyes swept over the circle, immediately picking up on the absence.

"Where's Callias?" she asked, brow furrowing.

You hesitated, then sighed. "Princess Andreia sent for him."

That was all it took for the mood to drop.

Asta's mouth tightened into a thin line. Kieran scoffed, shaking his head as he handed you a cup of wine, and Lysandra sighed heavily, settling in beside Asta.

Kieran took a swig from his cup, grumbling, "Figures. The four of us finally get some time together, and she takes him. As always." He rubbed a hand down his face, exasperated.

Asta hummed in agreement. "It's no different than back home," she said, swirling her wine before taking a small sip. She turned to Lysandra. "Does she ever talk about why she loves picking on Callias so much?"

Lysandra frowned, clearly considering the question before shaking her head. "I'm not sure," she admitted. "Since we've come to Ithaca, I haven't been as close to her. It's not like before."

Kieran clicked his tongue. "Bet she caught on," he muttered, stretching his legs out in front of him. "Or another servant ratted them out. You know how Bronte royals are when they travel. They love pitting their servants against each other."

His words struck something in you, but before you could dwell on it, his gaze flickered to you. His expression softened slightly, the usual sharpness easing.

"Hey," he said, nudging your arm with his elbow. "I just wanna say—if we made you uncomfortable earlier, I'm sorry. We can be... a bit much."

You blinked, then quickly shook your head. "No, it's alright. I wasn't uncomfortable," you reassured, offering a small smile. "It was nice... getting to talk to others."

Lysandra tilted her head, watching you for a moment before speaking.

"I know you were mostly here for Callias," she said gently. "And you might not be comfortable around the rest of us just yet—but we did enjoy getting to know you." She paused, then smiled. "Hopefully, we'll get to do it again."

Something about the sincerity in her voice made your chest warm slightly. You nodded, gratitude settling in your bones. "I'd like that," you admitted.

After that, you excused yourself, stretching as you stood. The others bid you a casual farewell, already shifting their conversation elsewhere.

You wandered a short distance away, their chatter fading into the background as you searched for a quieter spot. Then, finally, you found it.

A ledge.

It wasn't far from where they sat, but it felt separate enough to offer some peace. The land sloped downward slightly before opening to a ledge overlooking the sea. You made your way toward it, the faint salt of the ocean thick in the cool night air.

Settling down, you placed your cup beside you, the clay cool against the stone.

Below, the waves crashed against the cliffs, the water an endless abyss of dark blue and silver, illuminated only by the moonlight breaking through scattered clouds. The distant roar of the sea filled the silence, steady and unrelenting, constant and unfazed by mortal worries.

Above, the sky stretched wide, stars blinking in and out as the clouds drifted lazily. Orion and Perseus had already emerged, their familiar figures standing boldly in the heavens.

But Venus—

Venus was still hidden.

You sighed softly, watching as the clouds shifted, waiting.

The wind carried the scent of salt and damp earth, the waves below crashing rhythmically against the cliffs. Above, the thinning clouds slowly unveiled the vast cosmos, stars flickering into view one by one. The night stretched endless—vast—as if you were floating somewhere between the sky and the sea, caught in a strange, quiet stillness.

You traced the familiar constellations absently, mind drifting, thoughts slipping into a hazy blur—until a voice cut through the quiet.

"Now, now. Sitting all alone, looking all broody? You're gonna make me think you're lonely."

You barely smothered the startled yelp that nearly escaped, your hand flying to cover your mouth. Heart hammering, you turned sharply to your left, only to find—

Hermes.

The god lounged beside you as if he'd been there the whole time, one knee propped up, chin resting lazily against his palm. His golden eyes gleamed with mischief, lips curled into a lopsided grin that spelled nothing but trouble.

"Gods," you whispered breathlessly, pressing a hand to your chest in a feeble attempt to slow your racing heart.

Hermes chuckled, straightening slightly. "Startled you?"

You shot him a look, still trying to calm your nerves. "Just a little," you muttered, exhaling through your nose.

"Good." He winked, stretching his arms behind his head. "I'd hate to think I'm losing my touch."

You shook your head, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. But before you could respond, Hermes tilted his head, his grin turning sly.

"Speaking of trouble..." he drawled, voice dipping into something playfully accusatory. "Aren't you a little troublemaker? What happened to 'Don't get into trouble without me'? I leave you alone for one afternoon, and you almost get me singed by Hades."

You winced at the reminder, guilt pooling in your stomach. "Ah..." You scratched at your cheek, looking away. "Sorry about that. I—I really didn't mean to—"

Hermes let out a bark of laughter, waving off your apology with an easy flick of his wrist. "No worries. Lucky for you, Persephone made sure you wouldn't get any punishments. Even Hades liked you a little—but don't expect him to admit it."

Your eyebrows lifted. "Hades?"

"Mhm." Hermes leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming with interest. "I gotta say, I'm impressed. How did you do it? I was all set to be the one escorting your soul when your time came, and yet, here you are. Breathing. Living." He made a dramatic gesture with his hands. "Existing."

You cleared your throat, turning your gaze back out to sea as you scratched your chin, recalling the moment. "I, uh... just repeated the phrase you whispered to me. The one about the threshold."

Hermes blinked. Once. Twice.

"That's it?"

You nodded.

He stared for another beat before leaning back with an amused hum, tapping a finger against his chin.

"Huh."

Silence stretched between you, the waves below filling the space with their rhythmic crash. You weren't sure if Hermes was still mulling over your words or simply enjoying the way you squirmed under his unreadable gaze.

Then, his lips curled into a smirk, golden eyes glinting with mischief.

"Besides that, a little birdie told me you've learned of your favor to my insufferable big brother." He gave a dramatic sigh, running a hand through his curls as if the thought physically pained him. "Congratulations, little musician. You're officially tied to one of the most dramatic gods on Olympus. And that's saying something."

You couldn't help the small smile tugging at your lips. "Thank you," you murmured, though something about his words stirred an uncomfortable thought in the back of your mind.

Favor of a god.

Cleo's voice slithered through your memories like a whisper in the dark.

"You have everything, ____. The favor of a prince, the favor of a god. Do you even realize how selfish you are?"

Your stomach twisted. The cold breeze suddenly felt sharper against your skin. You fidgeted, clearing your throat to steady your voice.

"Hermes," you started hesitantly, shifting to fully face him. "Could you... help me with something?"

His brows lifted slightly, amusement softening into curiosity. "Of course. I am very helpful, you know."

You hesitated, heart pounding. The words felt heavy in your throat, but after everything—Cleo, the Underworld, Telemachus—you needed an answer. Even if you weren't sure you'd like it.

Taking a slow breath, you forced the words out.

"Was I... supposed to die?"

Hermes froze.

It was brief—a flicker, a second of unnatural stillness—but you caught it. His smirk faltered, his body tensed ever so slightly before he quickly masked it with a scoff.

"Where on earth did you get that idea?" he asked, tilting his head with an easy grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.

You shifted under his gaze, suddenly embarrassed. "I—I don't know," you admitted, gripping the fabric of your clothes. "It's just... things have been strange lately. And Cleo—" You swallowed hard. "She said it. That it was supposed to be me down there. And when I asked Polites, he just told me to ask you."

But you weren't done. The thoughts had already started unraveling, spilling from your lips before you could stop them.

"And then Telemachus—he said favors never end well. That they come with consequences. And what if this is mine? What if—" Your breath hitched, words tumbling out too fast, chest tightening with something raw and unspoken. "What if I was supposed to die, and Apollo changed it? What if I was never meant to be here at all?"

Your voice cracked, and you clenched your jaw, willing yourself to calm down. But the fear had already crept in, clawing up your spine, coiling in your stomach. It had been lurking in the background all day, shadowing every thought, every breath. And now, as you finally voiced it, the weight of it nearly crushed you.

Your heart pounded against your ribs, the cold air too thin, too sharp. You curled in slightly, gripping your arms to ground yourself as a quiet tremble ran through your limbs.

Then, warm fingers pressed gently against the top of your head.

A strange sensation rushed over you—soft, golden warmth eased the tightness in your chest, smoothing over the edges of your nerves. Your shoulders relaxed before you could stop them, the tension draining from your body like water slipping through your fingers.

You blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

Hermes huffed, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he ruffled your hair like you were a child fretting over nothing. "There we go," he murmured. "No need for all that panic, little musician."

You exhaled shakily, realizing just how fast your heart had been racing. The warmth from his touch settled deep in your chest, lingering like sunlight after a storm.

Hermes watched you for a moment, then clicked his tongue, shaking his head with a smirk. "Look at you. All teary-eyed." He leaned in, swiping away a stray tear with his thumb before you'd even noticed it was there.

The touch was quick, fleeting—but it sent a shiver through you nonetheless.

"Unfortunately," he continued, tone lighter now, "that particular question is a little outside my jurisdiction."

You frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, my dear little mortal," he said, tapping your nose playfully, "whether or not you were meant to die is Apollo's business, not mine."

Your heart sank. "So you don't know?"

"Oh, I probably do," he teased, grinning when you huffed. "But that's a family secret, you see. Divine intervention and all that."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he raised a finger, cutting you off.

"What I can promise you, though," he said, voice dipping into something softer, more certain, "is that you don't have to worry about dying anytime soon."

Your breath caught at the quiet sincerity in his words.

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment before his smirk returned, gentler this time. "I won't allow it."

His voice was light, teasing as always, but something in the way he said it—the certainty, the quiet weight—made your chest tighten.

A promise.

A reassurance.

And for the first time in a long while, you let yourself believe it.

The warmth of Hermes' words settled deep in your chest, lingering like the last traces of sunlight on your skin. It was strange—comforting, even—how easily he could dispel your fears with a smirk and a well-placed touch. You hadn't realized just how much you needed to hear it, how much you had been carrying, until now. Your fingers flexed slightly against your lap, testing the weight of your own relief.

Hermes, for his part, looked entirely at ease. His golden eyes glinted with satisfaction as he rocked back slightly, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. His usual mischievous grin played at his lips—but then, something shifted.

His gaze flickered past your shoulder, his smirk softening into something more knowing—resigned, almost.

"Well," he exhaled through his nose, "looks like our little heart-to-heart is about to be cut short."

You frowned. "What do you—"

"You'll see," he interrupted, smile turning lopsided, teasing. "I'll be seeing you soon, little musician."

There was something in his tone—something weighty beneath the ease—but before you could question it, a sharp crack split through the quiet.

A twig snapping.

Your breath caught. The sound was close—too close. The night air thickened, charged with something unseen, your pulse skipping as your senses sharpened.

A shadow shifted just beyond the tree line, stepping hesitantly into the torch-lit clearing.

Telemachus.

Your stomach twisted at the sight of him. He stood just at the edge of the light, framed by the silver glow of the stars, his posture stiff—almost uncertain. His dark eyes found yours instantly, the flickering torches casting restless shadows across his face.

"____," he said softly, clearing his throat before glancing away, as if collecting himself. Then, quieter, more hesitant—"Can we talk?"

Instinctively, you turned slightly, expecting Hermes' presence beside you, a snide remark or knowing grin at your expense.

But when you looked, the space where he had been was empty.

The only thing that remained was the whisper of the wind, as if he had never been there at all.

Your mind reeled, struggling to catch up. Hermes was gone. Telemachus was here. And now—he was asking to talk.

You swallowed hard, pushing down the tangle of emotions threatening to resurface.

"Of course," you murmured, voice steadier than you felt.

Because despite the uncertainty, the exhaustion, the unresolved weight between you—one thing was clear.

Whatever Telemachus had to say, you were ready to hear it.

He moved quietly, lowering himself beside you on the ledge. The air between you settled into something fragile yet familiar—not tense, but not entirely at ease either.

Neither of you spoke.

For a long moment, you just sat there, listening to the distant crash of waves against the cliffs below. The wind carried the scent of salt and cypress, weaving through the silence like a presence of its own.

He exhaled slowly, barely audible over the night's quiet hum. His fingers flexed against his knees, gripping the fabric of his tunic like it was the only thing anchoring him. At first, his posture was rigid, but as the silence stretched, his shoulders slumped slightly—like something within him had finally given in.

You turned toward him just as he lowered his head, eyes cast downward, expression caught somewhere between thoughtfulness and quiet remorse. His lips parted like he wanted to speak, but he hesitated.

And then, finally, he looked at you.

His brown eyes met yours, raw and unguarded, holding an intensity that sent your heart skittering, bracing yourself for whatever was to come, and then—

"I'm sorry," he murmured. His voice was soft, but the weight behind it was immense. "For everything."

His fingers curled into his palms, nails pressing into his skin. "I've been acting like a fool. I see it now," he admitted, his tone edged with frustration—though not at you. "The way I've treated you, the way I've kept things from you... I don't know why I thought that was fair. As if you could read my mind, as if you could just... understand the weight of everything I've been trying to juggle without me even telling you."

He let out a breath, shaking his head. "That's not fair to you. It never was."

You said nothing, letting him speak, letting him unravel what had clearly been building inside him.

His hand dragged over his face before dropping limply to his lap. "I don't even know where to start," he admitted. His lips pressed into a thin line before he sighed. "Lady Andreia. She... " He hesitated, then forced himself to say it. "She proposed a marriage alliance the first time we spoke alone."

A sharp pang shot through your chest, but you pushed it down, focusing on the way his face twisted, on the flicker of barely contained disgust in his eyes.

"I didn't see it coming," he continued, voice tight. "Not at all. I thought—" He scoffed at himself. "I thought she was just trying to recover after losing her brother. I never imagined she'd have her sights set on me, on Ithaca. Gods, I was blind to it. Completely blindsided."

His jaw clenched, frustration bleeding into every word. "And then I went to my parents. I told them everything." He let out a humorless laugh. "They weren't surprised. Not really. My father, being who he is, took it in stride. He spoke of alternatives—military alliances, cultural exchanges—but I could see it in his eyes." He exhaled sharply. "He was testing me. Seeing if I would choose duty over myself."

His voice dropped, quieter now. "And my mother... she reminded me that Andreia isn't just a princess. She's a girl who lost her brother, trying to secure a future for herself the only way she's ever been taught." His gaze flickered toward the sky, though he didn't really seem to see it. "And I hated it. Hated that it made sense. Hated that I could understand why she was doing this. Hated that I didn't know how to escape it without making things worse."

Silence settled between you, heavy and unmoving.

And then, in a voice quieter than before, Telemachus whispered, "I should have told you the moment it happened."

Your breath caught.

His hands trembled slightly as he flexed his fingers, his expression twisting into something deeply regretful. "I should have come to you," he admitted, his voice cracking at the edges. "I should have let you know instead of making you piece things together on your own. Instead of making you feel like I was shutting you out."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and when he spoke again. "I didn't want you to—"

He stopped abruptly, jaw tightening.

Didn't want you to what? Worry? Hurt? See how much it was affecting him?

Whatever it was, he didn't say it.

Instead, he let out a long breath, his shoulders sagging. "But by doing that, I made it worse," he admitted. "I made you worry anyway. I made you doubt things I should have been clear about from the start. And now..." He let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Now I've only made a mess of things. Because I was too much of a fool to realize how much keeping this from you would hurt you."

He dragged a hand through his hair, his fingers clenching briefly in frustration before dropping to his lap again. "I don't know how to fix this," he admitted, voice raw. "But I don't want there to be distance between us. Not anymore."

His gaze found yours again, and this time, there was something desperate in it. Something pleading.

"I just... I need you to know that, no matter what happens, no matter what people expect of me, no matter what Lady Andreia or my parents or the gods themselves want..." He swallowed hard, breath unsteady. "It's you I trust. It's you I care about."

His voice barely made it above a whisper, but the weight of his words crashed into you like a wave.

There was no uncertainty in his gaze—only truth, raw and unspoken, laid bare beneath the moonlight.

As you stared into his eyes, a part of you—the one that had spent so long second-guessing, doubting, questioning—shouted in triumph. See? it whispered, See? You were foolish to doubt him. Shame followed close behind, a quiet, creeping thing. Had you truly been so blind to his feelings all this time?

But despite that relief, one thing stood out, repeating over and over in your mind like a mantra, sticking to you like a burr you couldn't shake:

"No matter what happens, no matter what people expect of me, no matter what Lady Andreia or my parents or the gods themselves want... It's you I trust. It's you I care about."

Telemachus trusts you. He cares about you.

Does that... does that mean he—?

Your breath hitched, stomach tightening with a rush of something overwhelming, something far too big to process all at once. It was one thing to feel the connection between you, to share these quiet, stolen moments, but to hear him say it, to know that he put you above all else, was another thing entirely.

Your heart pounded, so loud you thought he might hear it. You swallowed, gaze flickering away for a moment, as if breaking eye contact might steady you. But it didn't.

Slowly, cautiously, you lifted your gaze back to his, and before you could stop yourself, the question slipped from your lips, soft and uncertain. "You... care about me?"

Telemachus stilled.

For just a fraction of a second, his entire body locked up, eyes widening slightly before he coughed, looking away. His grip on his knees tightened, and you saw it—the moment of panic, the scramble for an excuse, the way his lips parted like he might try to laugh it off, to dismiss the weight of his words.

But instead of denial, instead of some hurried deflection, he exhaled slowly. His shoulders loosened, a tired, almost self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips.

And then, before you could react, he reached over and took your hand in his.

The warmth of his touch sent a jolt through you. His fingers brushed against your skin, slow and deliberate, tracing soothing patterns along the back of your hand. His hold was firm but gentle, as if grounding himself as much as he was grounding you.

"Of course, ____," he murmured, quiet but certain. "Why wouldn't I care for the one I love?"

Your breath faltered.

Your entire body locked up, as though the words had physically struck you.

The one I love.

The rush of emotions that overtook you was near unbearable. Happiness, fear, disbelief—all of it at once, making your head spin. Your fingers trembled in his hold, and you barely managed to whisper his name. "Telemachus..."

But the prince wasn't finished.

He shook his head, his grip tightening slightly, his other hand covering yours like he was trying to reassure you, trying to make sure you understood. Then, carefully, he shifted, angling himself toward you fully, his expression raw with something so painfully tender it made your heart ache.

"____, you have to understand," he said, voice softer now, carrying the weight of years, of things left unspoken. "This isn't something new, something I just realized. It's been there—gods, it's always been there. I just..." He let out a breath, lips pressing together before continuing.

"I think I first knew when we were children," he admitted, voice tinged with nostalgia. "The first time I heard you singing to my mother, soothing her when nothing else could. You had this way of making the world feel... lighter. Safer." He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Even then, I think I was falling for you. Slowly. Every day. In ways I didn't even recognize until it was too late."

You felt your throat tighten, emotion clawing its way up, making it difficult to breathe.

"I always thought I had time," he confessed, his fingers curling slightly against your skin. "Time to gather the courage, to find the right moment. But then everything started shifting—my father's return, Bronte, the favor. And suddenly, I realized how quickly things could be taken away." His eyes flickered with something pained, something desperate. "I realized I couldn't wait anymore."

Slowly, carefully, he reached out, his fingers grazing your cheek—warm, reverent. Your breath hitched, your skin tingling where he touched. When you met his gaze again, it was filled with something so deep, so consuming, it nearly swallowed you whole.

"But I understand," he murmured, softer now, as if afraid to break the moment. "I understand that this isn't simple. That I can't just throw caution to the wind and expect you to do the same." His thumb brushed against your cheekbone, featherlight. "I know that for me, it's easy to say I don't care about titles or expectations. But for you... it's different."

Your heart clenched. He understood. He truly understood.

"I would be a fool to ignore that," he continued. "A fool to act as though this isn't complicated, as though it doesn't put an unfair burden on you." His voice dropped lower, the vulnerability in his tone making your chest ache. "But I don't care what the world says. I don't care what Andreia wants, or what my parents expect, or what the gods themselves decide."

He swallowed, eyes dark and unwavering.

"I'm saying this because I need you to know. Not because I expect an answer, not because I want to rush you into something you're not ready for." His lips curled into a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. "I just need you to know that from this moment on, I will be vying for your love."

Your breath caught in your throat.

"You don't have to take my heart," he whispered, "but it's yours regardless."

Your chest was so tight it hurt, your emotions swirling so wildly you could barely keep yourself together.

Telemachus gave you a small, almost pleading smile. "You don't have to say anything," he murmured. "Not now. Not yet. I just... " His thumb brushed against your cheek once more, reverent, tender. "I just want to spend this moment with you. If you'll let me."

Your vision blurred slightly, a single tear slipping down your cheek before you could stop it. He caught it with his thumb, wiping it away as gently as if he were handling something fragile.

A soft, trembling smile curled at your lips. "Okay," you whispered.

And so, you sat there, your hands still clasped in his, his warmth anchoring you as the world stilled around you.

And as if the heavens themselves had been waiting for this moment, the clouds above shifted, parting just enough to reveal a brilliant glow.

Venus peeked out from the darkness, luminous and radiant, casting a gentle silver light over you both.

A/N: AHHHHH IT HAPPENED!!!!! 🎉🎉🎉 I know y'all were starving for romance faster, but I just had to take my time with it, lmaooo 😭😭. the way I was KICKING UP MY FEET writing this... pure ✨delicious✨ agony. also, I had to keep it 10k—I could not cut it up and risk ruining the tension. the build-up, the divine drama, the slow unraveling??? *chef's kiss*. y'all needed to feel all of it. and that little almost/not confession?? Yeahhh... I needed that. 😌 also, shameless plug-in but plz check out my sis's (k_nayee) book 'Warrior'! It's an EPIC fic basically a 'what-if' if penelope were the warrior tyring to get home instead of odysseus 👀 y'all i'm not even gon lie it's good asf and im mad cuz she won't let me be her editor so i can read ahead 💔💔but seriuosuly i'm trynna not to ramble cuz the fanservices "MWAH" never knew i needed to have odysseus more than his son until i read it y'all! here's link to the other sites shes posted on tumblr, wattpad, quotev

Tag List: nerds4life246 ace-spades-1 uniquetravelerone alassal thesimppotato11 jackintheboxs-world kahlan170 akiqvq matchaabread danishland uselessmoonlight apad-ravya

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dungeoncrawlingwithoutprotection · 1 day ago

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Taking a random office job should have been simple. The only reason you even joined was the staggeringly high pay. Which sure, it didn’t make much sense at first.

But then you realized this was a company full of monsters…

The laws you were used to simply didn’t exist because it was under the jurisdiction of the monster society. What the company could do is apply a rule that the human workers, particularly the females, couldn’t be touched if they were under a certain weight.

You in particular were directly on the protected weight line. It could be a little unnerving at times.

That meant listening to Runuc, an orc in accounting who you frequently work with, saying how bad he wanted to hear you moaning. It meant ignoring Hogarth, a minotaur in marketing who often had to give you files, muttering a near constant stream of what positions he wanted to put you in. It meant looking the other way as innocently as possible when the janitor, a vaguely fur-covered monster named Jay, mentioned how there wouldn’t be any mess to clean up if he bred you…

It meant not saying anything when you passed by your boss’s office, not saying anything as he… it? slipped a tentacle juuuust under your skirt to brush your ass.

You couldn’t help but feel at your wits end with this job. It wasn’t enough to be barely protected. Not when the monsters you worked with, especially the ones you worked closely with, were rather attractive. Not when office flings were completely on the table, when the monsters could have their way with you if you were just a little heavier.

And especially not with the endless chatter of your more petite coworkers jealously eyeing you and your fellow chubby coworkers.

What kind of office had you really signed up for?

#monster x reader #monster #monster boyfriend #monster fucker #monster fudger #monster x human #weight limit #terato #teratophillia #monster bf #monster lover

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probablyasocialecologist · 2 days ago

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In the story of "Peter Pan," the fairy Tinkerbell only exists if people believe in her and clap for her. Once we stop believing in her magic, she starts fading away. It’s at this point she implores Peter Pan — and the broader audience — to clap as loud as they can. Tinkerbell is sustained by our attention. A new piece of emerging tech can be a lot like Tinkerbell. When it's still trying to shift from speculative ideas based on buggy demos to real material things that are normal parts of our daily lives and business practices, its existence depends on our belief in the magic of possibility. At this point, they still only exist when we believe hard enough and clap loud enough. If we stop believing and clapping, then they can start fading away, becoming more intangible by the moment until they disappear — remember 3D televisions? Just like with Tinkerbell, audience participation is necessary. That faith in the eventual power of progress can buy time for emerging tech like AI and blockchain — which can feel more like impressive parlor tricks desperately searching for useful purposes and business models — to establish more concrete anchors in reality. Their transparency level can be set at 50 percent for a long time if there are enough people in the audience believing and clapping for them.

[...]

AI depends on vital support from people hard at work in the futurism factory. These are the executives, consultants, journalists, and other thought leaders whose job is the selling of things to come. They craft visions of a specific future — such as ones where AI models built by companies like OpenAI or Microsoft are undeniable forces of progress — and they build expectations in the public about the inevitable capabilities and irresistible outcomes of these tech products. By flooding the zone with an endless stream of new partnerships, new products, new promises, the tech industry makes us feel disoriented and overwhelmed by a future rushing at us faster than we can handle. The desire to not be left behind — or taken advantage of — is a powerful motivator that keeps us engaged in the AI sales pitch. The breathless hype surrounding AI is more than just a side-effect of over-eager entrepreneurs; it’s a load-bearing column for the tech sector. If people believe hard enough in the future manufactured by Silicon Valley, then they start acting like it already exists before it happens. Thus the impacts of technologies like AI become a self-fulfilling prophecy. We should think of AI futurism as a sophisticated form of check kiting — cashing a check today and hoping the money will be in the account later. In other words, the business of expectations is based on producing scenarios about what might happen in the future and using them to extract speculative value in the present. It’s our belief that these promissory notes are worth anything that allows the tech industry to keep floating until the big payday finally hits.

11 January 2025

#ai #artificial intelligence #silicon valley

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moomuzan · 4 hours ago

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‘til ⠀the───misery do us “apart”

arranged marriage⠀ req. ft. fyodor ⸝⸝ dazai ⸝⸝ chuuya warnings. forced relationship ⸝⸝ angst wc. 1.8k

f.d.

Like a silent threat, its silver strands delicate yet unyielding, glimmering with the kind of beauty that concealed destruction, the necklace gleamed in Fyodor’s hand. You stood before him in his dimly lit study, a statue carved from defiance and fear, yet his gaze made you feel like glass — fragile, transparent, breakable. With an eerie calm, he stepped closer, his shadow reaching you before his body did, the weight of his presence enough to still the air in your lungs.

“For you,” he said, the words brushing against your skin like frost. His voice was soft, almost reverent, but every syllable carried a quiet cruelty. He reached out, his fingers cold as they grazed the curve of your neck, and clasped the chain. The weight of it was slight, but it sank deep, an anchor tethering you to him. It wasn’t jewelry—it was a sentence. A final act of obedience, a symbol of submission, and you couldn’t tear it away even as your entire being screamed to fight.

You didn’t dare speak. Silence had become your armor, though it was one Fyodor pierced with ease. His lips curled into a faint smile then, the kind that spoke not of joy but of quiet triumph. “It suits you,” he murmured while his fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, tracing the silver as though ensuring the chains were secure. “A symbol of what we are to each other.”

The words twisted in your chest like a dagger. You weren’t anything to each other. You weren’t partners, weren’t lovers, weren’t equals. He had taken that possibility from you the day he sent that letter—the one with pristine handwriting, promising union or annihilation. The marriage was not a choice. It was a strategy, a transaction written in ink and sealed with your silent screams.

At first, you had fought. You were born into power, raised to lead, and rebellion had coursed through your veins as naturally as blood. On the day you were told of your engagement, you had stormed through the halls of your father’s office, your anger loud and blistering. The letter sat on his desk like a gravestone. Fyodor’s terms were clear: marriage would forge an alliance, but refusal would mean war—war your organization could not survive.

Your father, always a man of control, had looked tired in a way you had never seen before. His hands trembled as he passed you the letter, his voice weak when he said, “You don’t understand. If we resist him, it’s the end of us.”

And so, you had been handed over, a lamb to the slaughter. The man you met on your wedding day was everything you feared he would be. Fyodor Dostoevsky, the enigmatic leader of the Rats in the House of the Dead, was a vision of contradictions. His face was elegant, his voice velvet, but his eyes—God, his eyes—were endless voids, bottomless pools that swallowed light and spat out despair. From the moment you met him, you knew he was a man who moved through the world unchallenged, untouchable, as though every soul he encountered was a pawn waiting to be played.

Of course, you had tried to resist. In those early days, you refused to meet his gaze, refused to play the role of his obedient spouse. You pushed back at every turn, but Fyodor was patient. He didn’t demand your submission outright—no, he dismantled you with the precision of a craftsman.

Slowly, precisely, he turned your silence into a weapon against you. He took your rebellion and reshaped it, twisting your anger into futility. He unraveled you piece by piece, his manipulation a quiet, creeping thing that seeped into your mind until you began to question your own thoughts. His control was suffocating yet intangible, a noose you couldn’t see but always felt.

“You think you’re still free, don’t you?” he had said to you once, his voice soft, almost pitying. He had stepped closer then, much as he was doing now, his presence overwhelming as he brushed a stray hair from your face. “You mistake your stubbornness for strength. But all it does is amuse me.”

Now, as he took a step back to admire the necklace, his grin sharpened, his satisfaction cutting through the air like a blade. “You’ve come so far,” he said, tilting his head as if observing a masterpiece he had carefully crafted. His dark eyes glinted, and you shivered beneath the weight of his gaze. “Though I must admit, I do miss the fire in your eyes. It was… entertaining.”

As he stepped forward again, his movements were slow and deliberate, a predator circling its prey. His hand rose, pale fingers brushing your cheek, tilting your face toward him until his presence consumed every inch of your vision. His touch was cold, calculated, and unbearably gentle. It was the kind of gentleness that spoke of power, of control, of a man who knew he didn’t need to raise his voice or his hand to destroy you.

“You’re trembling,” he whispered, his breath ghosting against your skin. His lips curved into a smile so cruel it felt like a knife against your throat. “Do you fear me that much? Or is it something else entirely?”

When your breath hitched, his grin widened, sharp as broken glass. He leaned in, so close you could feel the chill radiating from him, and for a moment, you thought he might kiss you. But no—Fyodor Dostoevsky never granted anything so human.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, the words coiling around you like chains, binding you tighter than the necklace ever could. “Body, mind, soul. And you will learn, дорогая, that there is no escape from me.”

The moment he finally stepped away, the room felt emptier, colder, as if he had taken all the air with him. The necklace burned against your skin, its weight a reminder of what you had become—a piece in his game, a pawn bound to his will. And as the door closed behind him, you realized that the chains weren’t just around your neck—they were inside you, woven into every corner of your soul.

c.n.

Gilding the air with an unnatural warmth that mocked the cold weight in Chuuya’s chest, the chandelier’s fractured glow cast delicate patterns across the room. Here, the hum of murmured negotiations and polite laughter filled the space, a symphony of half-truths and manipulation dressed up as civility. He sat beside you, his polished image immaculate, the perfect embodiment of devotion, his every movement orbiting around your presence as if it was the only truth he’d ever known. And you—you were stunning. Draped in shimmering silk, you moved like light itself, effortlessly drawing attention to your every gesture. The world seemed to revolve around you in that moment, and Chuuya, against his better judgment, let himself fall into its gravity once again.

Soft and melodic, you laughed, as though you truly found joy in his words, yet the sound was merely a blade twisting between his ribs. He felt the faint brush of your fingers against his arm, light as a whisper, and for one foolish second, he almost believed it. Believed you. But then his eyes found yours, and the illusion shattered.

Those eyes—unwavering, sharp, and devoid of the warmth your laugh so convincingly promised—were the heart of your performance. No one else saw it. To the room full of strangers, you were the doting wife, perfectly attuned to the man at your side. But to him, your gaze was ice, a silent reminder that every touch, every smile, every soft word was nothing more than part of the facade. And in that moment, the bitterness surged, hot, cruel, because Chuuya knew he had no one to blame but himself.

He hated how his heart still leapt when you leaned closer, how his breath hitched at the faint scent of your perfume, or the way his chest ached with longing for something he’d known from the start was never his to have. Though, most of all, he hated himself for falling in love with you. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It was never supposed to be more than a duty, an arrangement dictated by the cruel logic of no one else but the Port Mafia. You were his spouse in name, his partner in deception, nothing more. Yet somehow, against his better judgment, against every warning he’d given himself, he’d let his heart betray him.

From the moment you’d stood beside him on your wedding day, your hand cool and distant in his as you exchanged hollow vows, he’d understood the nature of your bond. Yes, it was a means to an end, a calculated move to consolidate power, to present a united front to the world. Yet, clinging to the depths of his heart, there had been a part of him—a small, foolish part—that had hoped. Perhaps it was the way you tilted your head when you were lost in thought, the faint crease in your brow that appeared when you believed no one was looking, or the rare moments when the mask seemed to falter, revealing the faintest glimpse of something raw and unguarded beneath. Those moments had been his undoing, and now, sitting beside you in this gilded prison of duty and pretense, he couldn’t decide wether he despised you for giving him those glimpses or himself for clinging to them.

Ghostly so, the meeting dragged on, your laughter weaving seamlessly with his as you leaned closer, your lips brushing his ear as you whispered something for him alone. Chuuya didn’t hear the words, though, couldn’t focus on anything but the pounding in his chest and the bitter truth echoing in his mind: it was all a lie. Intertwined in a game he surely didn’t know how to win, he played the fool, and every moment he spent beside you only deepened the ache.

When the meeting finally ended, you stood gracefully, slipping your arm into his without hesitation as he guided you toward the exit. To anyone watching, you were perfect together, the embodiment of a partnership built on unshakable trust and devotion. However, the truth was a cold, unyielding weight between you, a chasm he could never hope to bridge. Spiralling like a lie—a cruel mockery of the intimacy he longed for but could never claim, his hand rested lightly at the small of your back, a gesture of possession and protection.

Only then, he finally spoke, low and sharp. “You’re good at this, aren’t you? Playing the perfect partner.”

“And you’re good at pretending this means anything.”

Chuuya stopped in his tracks, his jaw tightening, as you continued walking ahead, then. Letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, he stared at your retreating figure. wondering how he had allowed himself to become this. How had he, Chuuya Nakahara, a man who had carved his way through blood and chaos, been brought to his knees by something as simple, as cruel, as love?

He pitied himself for it, for the way his heart still reached for you despite knowing it was futile, for the way he let himself dream of a future where you might look at him with something other than indifference. It was a tragedy of his own making, and he bore it silently, playing the role of the devoted husband to a wife who would never be his, locked in a story that was never meant to have a happy ending.

d.o.

The night you discovered the truth about Dazai Osamu, the fragile scaffolding of your carefully constructed reality collapsed in on itself, leaving nothing but a cold, hollow emptiness in its wake. The marriage, the smiles, the fleeting moments of tenderness—they were all a facade, a cruel play in which you had been cast as an unwitting participant. At first, you convinced yourself he was just another victim of circumstance, bound to this arrangement as unwillingly as you were. He played the part of the devoted husband effortlessly, his easy smiles and warm laughter drawing you into the illusion he so carefully curated. You almost believed it. Almost. But now you realized how deeply you had underestimated the man who had promised you nothing and yet had taken everything.

That evening had been unremarkable at first. Draped in an almost serene stillness, broken only by the soft ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall, the house was quiet. You had wandered to his study, intending to retrieve a book he’d borrowed—a trivial task, an innocent excuse to enter the space he kept so meticulously private. You hadn’t expected anything more than shelves of leather-bound books and perhaps a glass of unfinished whiskey on his desk. But what you found instead was a different kind of story, one written in blood and shadows, laid bare beneath the sterile glow of a desk lamp.

First, your eyes wandered to the photographs spread across the polished wood, stark black-and-white images of faces you vaguely recognized—politicians, businessmen, people whose names carried weight in hushed conversations. Then to the documents, dense with codes and schematics, annotated in Dazai’s elegant handwriting. And finally, to the symbol stamped in the corner of the pages, dark and unmistakable. The Port Mafia—a dark, ominous emblem you recognized from whispered rumors and hushed conversations.

Shallow and panicked, your breath caught, while your mind scrambled to process the enormity of what lay before you. This wasn’t just a secret; it was an entire life, an identity, concealed beneath the surface of the man you had called your husband. The realization was like a blade slicing your very own flesh, slow and excruciating, as the memories of his quiet smiles, his light teasing, his unshakable composure rearranged themselves into something darker, something insidious. Every moment with him suddenly felt tainted, every glance laced with a hidden agenda. Still, worst of all was the crushing weight of your own blindness—how you had let yourself be lulled into a sense of safety, of trust, when all along, he had been playing you like one of his carefully chosen pawns.

It was the soft creak of the floorboards that snapped you out of your daze, and as you turned sharply, the room spun with the force of your movement. Dazai stood in the doorway, his figure framed by the dim light from the hallway behind him. His expression was unreadable, those dark eyes fixed on you with a calm that made your heart race in fear. He stepped inside, then, the door clicking shut behind him, sending the sound to echo in the heavy silence between you.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he said softly, his voice devoid of its usual lightness. There was no humor in his tone, no playful edge. Just quiet inevitability, as if this moment had been preordained and all you had done was stumble into it.

Although your lips parted, no words came out. The knot in your throat was too tight, the emotions too tangled—shock, betrayal, anger, fear, all warring for dominance. Finally, you managed to force out a single, trembling accusation. “You lied to me.”

Tilting his head ever so slightly, his lips curved into a faint, almost wistful smile. “Did I?” he murmured, his voice as smooth as silk. “Or did you simply believe what you wanted to believe?”

The question struck you like a physical blow, your chest tightening with a fury that burned hotter with every passing second. “How long?” you demanded, your voice breaking under the weight of the question. “How long have you been using me? Was it all a lie from the beginning? Every word, every touch—was any of it real?”

For a moment that, ultimately, felt like a lifetime, Dazai said nothing, his gaze steady, unyielding. Then he stepped closer, his movements deliberate, almost predatory, until the space between you was suffocatingly small. “What does it matter?” he asked, his voice low, each word dripping with a cruel, almost philosophical detachment. “Reality is nothing more than perception. You wanted to believe in the husband who smiled at you, who made you laugh, who held your hand. That was real to you, wasn’t it?”

Your breath hitched as his words twisted in your mind, tearing through the last fragile threads of your composure. “You bastard,” you whispered, the tears burning hot against your cheeks. “You ruined everything. You—”

Silently, his hand reached out, and for a moment, you thought he might touch you, might offer some kind of explanation or apology. But instead, he brushed past you, gathering the documents from his desk with the ease of a man who had nothing to hide. “I never promised you a happy ending,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “And you never asked for one.”

With a growing sense of despair, the full weight of what he was sinking in, you watched him. This was who he truly was—a man who danced on the edge of chaos, who played with lives as if they were pieces on a chessboard. And you, unwillingly, had been drawn into his game. The room felt colder now, the walls closing in, and as you stood there, staring at the man who had become your greatest fear, you realized you no longer knew where you ended and his web of lies began.

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A/N: this req. has been sitting in my drafts for SO long and due to me being stupidly self-conscious i didn’t want to finish / post this fic but well, here i am. writing for fyodor enhanced my spirits. will definitely do that again ! oooo ! back on my angsty bullshit

ahi don’t even know if this is what yall want to read huh

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