#that’s all there is to finish this chapter

[quicksilversnails]

It's so fun how the Princess and the Dragon acknowledges and plays with game mechanics that are assumed to be non-diegetic, and uses them to add insight to the story/characters.

The title card is a really obvious example, being something that TLQ actually sees and can comment on, and something that the Princess hadn't ever seen. What most would assume is just a framing device for the player is a real element of the world/construct.

I think it emphasizes how the story that the Narrator constructed is only "meant" to be told to TLQ. After all, The Narrator only appears in TLQ's mind, providing elaborate descriptions and attempting to contextualize the events of the game as a heroic task to save the world. Meanwhile the Princess is all alone, with no title cards or exposition, no context for why any of this is happening to her. The story revolves around her, but it doesn't care about her beyond her designated role, as something to be slain and hated. Her perspective is irrelevant to the Narrator's plan, so she doesn't get the fancy presentation or necessary context: she doesn't deserve it.

There's also those long stretches of dialogue where the voices talk to each other in TLQ's mind without progressing the story. They're occasionally acknowledged by the Princess elsewhere (Prisoner, Nightmare) but P&tD makes it very explicit and confirms that time is actively passing during these conversations, with TLQ staring in silence for who knows how long.

(Personally I don't think all of the voice dialogue is necessarily in real time, if only because some Princesses wouldn't have had the patience for it. Like if you had really stood still for that long, the Beast would've definitely eaten you... she's not waiting for you to finish thinking lol)

This one I think is more for humour, but it also draws attention to how much of the inner conversation the Princess is missing in normal chapters, when the voices aren't actively speaking to her through TLQ's body. Where we're having vibrant debates or key information revealed by the Narrator, she just sees a silent, staring figure. Speaking of the Narrator, He's completely absent from the Princess' POV, either because He doesn't want to speak to her or is somehow unable to (He does say in Tower that she's not supposed to be able to interact with Him...) Again, the story was not made to be told to her, so she isn't given His context, and because the player is usually so immersed in TLQ's perspective, they probably wouldn't realize just how much she's missing until they see things from her perspective.

One other example: if you choose to [Say nothing] immediately after you excise yourself, the Princess reacts to it:

I just find this so hilarious tbh, and the fact that she repeats back those exact words implies that she literally senses the text written in brackets. If you do it once you're back in the basement, she says this:

I wonder if it's the same for the Narrator/voices... do they also “feel” your actions while you’re choosing them? Do they hear you say (Lie) before you lie? When Skeptic said "Wink" out loud did he actually choose a dialogue option with [Wink] in brackets?? Ok that last one's a joke but there's lots of potential here

I just think it's cool because the average player wouldn't think twice about any of these things, because they seem like simple stylistic/game design choices. In a game where all player input is through dialogue options, the square brackets are an immediately understandable way to convey action, as opposed to plain text. In a game structured around repeating loops, it makes sense to make those loops distinguishable for players by separating each loop with a title card, and the chapter naming convention works as a nod to the fairytale storybook aesthetics the game draws from.

But by placing you into the Princess's head and acknowledging those design choices as diegetic elements that change depending on your perspective, it forces you to reevaluate your experiences: the things you didn't think were really "part of the game" and the experiences you didn't realize weren't universal. It exposes your hidden privileges, the luxuries and structural supports you have compared to the Princess that you don't even notice because you've never experienced the alternative.

It might make you realize how the way you perceive and conceptualize the world might be very different from how others conceptualize it (Tony's recent ask about the multicoloured glass in HEA could also play into this in a fascinating way, with the mismatch in perception between TLQ and the Narrator's script). It's all just very cool for a game that's based on perception.

It also makes me wonder... what other elements of this game are diegetic that we just haven't paid attention to?

Well, I think that the captions are probably also diegetic. TLQ occasionally refers to the voices by their complete titles despite them not ever referring to each other by those titles, instead opting for descriptors like "jumpy one" or "the worst one" or "rage boy" or "chilly little freak" lol. For a direct comparison, Paranoid exclusively calls Smitten "the lovesick one" or some variant in HEA, but TLQ refers to him by his full name using quotation marks, as if he's quoting something he's read:

The voices don't seem aware that these titles exist, while TLQ does, despite them sharing a mind. Also, when the Princess shares a body/mind with you, she never uses their titles either. In the Spectre/Princess and the Dragon, she calls Hero "the nice one", Cold "the quiet one" or "cold little freak", and the Narrator "the bossy one" or "that murder-happy know-it-all". Spectre describes the voices as shards of broken glass on the floor, so she likely perceives them completely differently to how we/TLQ see them.

Even The Narrator isn't aware of His title. If you call Him that in the mirror conversation, He says "'The Narrator'. I suppose that's my job, isn't it?", reacting to the title as if it's His first time hearing about it. There's also this question from the fourth Shifty encounter:

It seems like the titles are presented specifically for The Long Quiet/decider, and that they somehow reflect how TLQ perceives the voices/Narrator, since TLQ takes credit for "calling him" that. If the captions were specifically shown to TLQ in the same way that the title cards are, it'd explain how he has this information without it ever being verbally told to him, and why the Princess doesn't know their titles even when she's sharing your body.

But besides the captions, I think it could be fun to interpret the game as if most, if not all of its game mechanics exist in-universe. The choice menu, the music, the cursors, the save/load icons, saving/loading in general, the title screen, the Clown Princess living in the walls (game files), you name it. Let’s peel away these game mechanics cell by cell! Let's see what meaning we can find together, let's see what we're made of!

[itneverendshere]

LOVED YOU AT YOUR WORST - r.c series - TWELVE

pairings: ex!sweethearts; rafe x thornton!reader; rafe x sofia. chapter warnings: mentions of severe anemia; pregnancy; abortion

💌MASTERLIST

Rafe rolled over, squinting against the sunlight breaking through the shitty broken blinds he'd meant to replace weeks ago. His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and before his eyes were even fully open, he swiped it up.

"Yeah?" His voice was a low growl, all gravel, and irritation.

The voice on the other end was professional. "Mr. Cameron? We’re calling to follow up on your father’s properties. There are a few—"

Fuck off.

Rafe cut them off with a sharp exhale, rubbing his temples.

He didn’t let them finish. "Yeah, I know what you’re calling about. I’m not dealing with that right now, okay? Call someone else."

"Sir, you are listed as—"

"I said call someone else," He snapped, hanging up before they could launch into another scripted response. He tossed the phone onto the mattress and stared at the ceiling, breathing hard.

It had been months since Ward died, and somehow, his name was heavier now than it ever was when he was alive. Everyone wanted something—answers, signatures, money. All things Rafe didn’t have or didn’t care to deal with.

The phone buzzed again. He grabbed it, ready to tell whoever it was where to stick their questions, but it was just a reminder about his plans with Topper. For half a second, he considered texting back: Can’t make it. Something came up.

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he shoved himself upright, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and dropping his head into his hands.

The dream the call robbed him of was still vivid. For a moment, he forgot where he was—his room felt colder, and emptier, and the bed might as well have been a mile wide.

In the dream, you were eighteen again, and so was he. Back when things were simpler—or maybe just felt that way. Back before he’d ruined everything.

He could see it so clearly: the two of you sneaking out of some party you didn’t want to be at, your hand locked in his as you ducked through the dark streets. You’d been laughing, trying to shush him because he couldn’t stop cracking dumb jokes.

You ended up at the dock by your uncle’s boat. The stars were out, scattered across the sky like a million little promises. He remembered how you’d sat cross-legged on the wooden planks, your hair falling into your face as you smiled at him like he was the only person in the world.

The dock, your laugh, the stars—those were the good parts. But he remembers what you were going through back then, and it hit him all over again.

You’d just lost everything—your parents, your sister, gone in an instant. The private plane went down, and so did the life you’d always known. He remembers the way you’d talk about them—your family—late at night when it was just the two of you. Your voice would crack, and your eyes would shine with unshed tears, but you’d talk anyway. About your dad teaching you how to sail, your mom’s tenderness, the way your sister used to be your role model.

He hadn’t thought about those nights in years, but now they come rushing back, all tangled up with the dream. He still wasn’t strong enough for you back then. He let his own shit get in the way, let his insecurities and his anger twist everything good between you over the years. And when he walked away, he left you to deal with the wreckage of your life and his own cowardice.

He threw on a shirt, and some old shorts, didn’t even bother fixing his hair. No one was going to care—not like anyone was looking to him for anything these days anyway. He stomped down the stairs, rubbing at the back of his neck, pretending like he didn’t spend the night dreaming of your face. 

Wheezie was at the kitchen counter, cereal in front of her, scrolling her phone.

She didn’t glance up when she heard him, "You look like shit."

Aw, nothing like a teenager. 

"Good mornin’ to you too," Rafe grumbled, heading for the fridge. He grabbed a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap like it had personally offended him, “You’re really settling in, huh?"

Wheezie snorted, not looking up from her phone. "Rose stuck me here with you. What else am I supposed to do? I’m just trying to survive." 

“It’s two days."

He hadn’t exactly planned on babysitting Wheezie while Rose was out of the country, he hadn’t planned on much lately

"Two days too many," she shot back, smirking. "You going somewhere?" 

Rafe slammed the fridge shut, twisting the cap off his water.

"Why are you stomping around like that?" 

"Not fuckin’ stomping," Rafe muttered, leaning against the counter.

"You are," she scowled, shoving a spoonful of cereal into her mouth. "You sound like a baby elephant."

Rafe glared at her, but she just shrugged, unfazed. "You’re up early. What’s the occasion?"

"Just woke up, okay?" he snapped.

"Jeez, someone’s in a mood," Wheezie rolled her eyes. "What’s your deal?"

"No deal." He took a long sip of water, staring out the window.

"Can you drop me off later?" she changed the topic, her tone too casual to be innocent.

Rafe side-eyed her. "Drop you off where?"

"Poguelandia.”

His hand froze halfway to the trash can. "You’re kiddin’."

"Nope," Wheezie said, popping the “p.” She didn’t even look at him, scrolling on her phone like this was just a normal request.

"You know Sarah’s there, right?"

"Yeah, that’s kinda the point," Wheezie finally met his glare. "She texted me. Wants to hang out."

Rafe scoffed, tossing the empty water bottle into the trash. "Since when are you and Sarah talkin’?"

"Since forever," Wheezie pursed her lips, "Just because you two can’t stand each other doesn’t mean I can’t hang out with her. Also," She adds, "there’s a party happening later. Like, nothing crazy, but… y’know."

He hadn’t been around much for his little sister lately—shit, not for a long time, if he was honest with himself. After their dad died, he kind of just… checked out. Too much of his own crap to deal with. But Wheezie didn’t ask for any of that.

"Nothing crazy," Rafe repeated flatly, his arms crossed.

"Relaxxxx,” She shoved another spoonful of cereal into her mouth. "Just drop me off. I’ll figure out a ride back."

He rubbed a hand over his face, groaning. "Wheeze, do you even know what you’re walking into? Pogues don’t fuck with us."

"I wonder why….” She hummed, waving him off. “I’ll be fine, they don’t hate me."

"Yeah, well, they hate me."

"Good thing I’m not you.” Wheezie fired back, hopping off the stool.

Yeah, good thing.

"And it’s not just a party. I’m visiting Sarah, too."

"Yeah, I heard you the first time," Rafe rolled his eyes, "Here’s the deal: I’ll drop you off—"

She perked up, her face lighting with hope.

"—but on one condition," he cut in, smirking just enough to make her suspicious.

He hadn’t really spent time with her in ages—not since Ward died. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, it was just…easier not to. Easier to stay away, to let the silence pile up.

The real issue was that, for the longest time, he’s been gone for a reason. He didn’t want to be here. It was easier to be numb by being drunk or high. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his sister—it was just that it was too painful, and complicated.

Yesterday, his therapist had told him to invest time in his sisters. To be there for them, to reconnect, because they were his only real family left. Whezzie he could do, Sarah? 

Only time would tell. 

You have to show up for the people you love. Even if it scares you.

It scared the shit out of him, honestly.

"What?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

"You come with me and Topper on the boat first," he said, folding his arms tighter like he’s already won.

Wheezie groaned, slumping back in her chair. "Seriously? What part of not showing up on a yatch is this?”

“Take it or leave it.”

“Why? So I can sit there and listen to you two talk about girls you’ll never get and beer brands you can’t pronounce?"

Rafe glared at her. "It’s not up for debate. You wanna go to fuckass poguelandia? You’re comin’ with us. End of story."

At least he was trying—trying to do something for her, to make up for the time he’d lost, the ways he’d been absent or worse. Even if he still sounded like an asshole most of the time.

"Fine. Whatever. I’ll go with you and Topper. But you owe me big time.”

The whole idea of being present was terrifying, it ruined him when he was a teenager, but he couldn’t keep hiding from it. There was nothing left to hide behind.

“I’ll buy that stupid cereal you like.”

"Lucky me."

"Alright, smartass," He grabbed a mug and filled it with coffee, trying to ignore her smug look. "What do you even eat besides cereal? You’re gonna starve or some shit.”

"I’ll survive. You, on the other hand…" she trailed off, gesturing vaguely at his unkempt pantry. "You look like you could use a babysitter."

Rafe let the corners of his mouth twitch. "You’re an asshole, y'know that?"

“You’re my brother, what did you expect?”

It was just the two of them in his big, empty condo. He might not have been much of a role model—or even a decent older brother—but for the next two days, he could try.

“You’re the worst,” she grumbled, grabbing her phone off the counter.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Rafe said dismissively, turning toward the door. “Be ready in ten.”

Wheezie, rolling her eyes so hard he thought they might fall out of her head, stomped back upstairs, probably to change into something less “little sister on a boat” and more “teen rebel” or whatever the fuck kid’s liked these days. She could dress however she wanted as long as she didn’t make him regret dragging her into this.

Rafe leaned against the truck while he waited for his sister. His arms were crossed, his fingers drumming against his bicep in a nervous rhythm. It wasn’t about the boat—he didn’t even know why he’d suggested it. Maybe it was just an excuse to keep her close for a little longer before dropping her into pogue territory. He missed her.

An hour later, he was pulling the truck into the dock’s gravel lot, the tires crunching as he rolled to a stop. Topper was already there, lounging on the boat, a beer in one hand and sunglasses perched low on his nose.

Wheezie hopped out of the truck before Rafe even had a chance to cut the engine. “God, does he ever not look like a wannabe country club poster boy?”

Rafe smirked as he climbed out.

“Rafe! Wheezie!” Topper called out, spreading his arms wide like he was greeting royalty. “What’s up, losers?”

Wheezie snorted, marching toward the boat. “Nice shorts. Did Vineyard Vines have a clearance sale, or did you just raid your dad’s closet?”

“Stop being ruthless,” Topper glanced down at his pastel pink swim trunks, feigning offense. “These are a classic.”

“A classic embarrassment,” she fake gagged, stepping onto the boat.

Rafe followed her, shaking his head. “Play nice.”

“Fantastic,” Topper drawled, “There’s two of you today.”

“You make it too easy.” Whezzie dropped onto one of the cushioned seats and leaned back, pulling her sunglasses down over her eyes. “What’s the plan, Captain Douchebag?”

Topper raised his beer in a mock toast. “The plan is sailing.”

“Wow. Revolutionary.”

Rafe chuckled, untying the boat and giving it a shove off the dock. “Just sit back and relax, Wheez. We’ll drop you off later.”

Topper’s head snaps up, “Drop her off where?”

"Where do you think?" Rafe leaned over to check the boat's engine. He didn't bother looking at Topper, already waiting for the inevitable reaction, “Sarah's.”

"Wait, wait, wait," Topper held up a hand like he was stopping traffic. "You're taking her to Poguelandia? Are you out of your mind?"

"It's not your problem," Rafe grumbled, starting the engine. The low hum drowned out part of Topper's rant, but not enough to miss the gist.

"Not my problem? Dude, the second you step foot over there, it's everyone's problem. She’s there too, y’know? Stopped by earlier to make peace…She changed her gate’s code. And the lock.”

The gate code. The lock.

He couldn’t get it out of his head.

For years, it had been the same—just like the keys he used to have to your place. Just days ago, the gate had swung open just like it always did, the same code he’d memorized like it was second nature.

You hadn’t changed the code, hadn’t swapped the locks. He’d half convinced himself it meant something, maybe you weren’t ready to fully let him go, either.

Rafe’s hands stilled on the throttle. He tried to keep his expression neutral, but his jaw tightened all the same. Topper, of course, noticed immediately.

"See? This is what I’m talking about," Topper leaned back in his seat, spreading his arms like he was laying out some grand revelation. "Where do you think she’s staying at? It’s fuckin’ obvious. We show up, and it’s gonna stir shit up.”

It was almost like you’d left the door cracked open for him. Just enough to make him believe there was still a chance. Now he wasn’t so sure. Had his visit been the final straw? Had the sight of him standing on the other side of your door—looking desperate and pathetic—been the thing that made you decide to shut him out completely?

You didn’t let him in, but you’d opened up the door. After everything he’d put you through, it was your way of protecting yourself. Shutting the door so he couldn’t come crashing back in.

Topper’s voice snapped him back to reality, “You even listening to me, man?”

Rafe blinked, forcing himself to re-focus on the boat’s controls.

“Yeah. I heard you. ’m not staying. Just dropping her off."

“We’re dead meat.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Topper knew better than to keep talking, the conversation ended there.

For the next twenty minutes, the boat cruised over the water, Rafe kept on steering, letting Topper and Wheezie chatter away behind him. He wasn't really listening—hadn't been for most of the trip—but every now and then, Wheezie's laughter or Topper's exaggerated storytelling pulled him back just enough to remind him they were still there.

When they finally dropped anchor near the sandbar, Topper leaned back, cracking open another beer as he stretched out under the sun.

"Alrigh’, who wants to make a toast? First outing of the month, gotta celebrate properly!"

Rafe shook his head, pulling a bottle of water from the cooler instead. He twisted off the cap and took a long sip, ignoring the way Topper raised a brow at him.

"Wait a second," Topper said, sitting up slightly. "You're not drinking?"

The fact his best friend sounded surprised was reason enough to stay sober. He didn’t like being scrutinized.

"Nah," He waived off, leaning back against the seat and letting the sun warm his face.

He’d made the choice not to drink before they even left the dock, but it didn’t stop the instinct—the small urge to crack open a beer and let the eventual numbness take over like it usually did.

Topper looked between the beer in his hand and Rafe, "You serious? Could've told me, wouldn’t have brought all this shit."

“Yeah, sure you wouldn’t have.”

"Fair," Topper admitted, "Still, man. That's… good. Like, really good."

Wheezie, who had been scrolling on her phone, perked up at the exchange. "Yeah, Rafe. I think it's awesome."

Proud. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had said that to him. Maybe you, but it had been a long time since anyone had looked at him and seen something worth being proud of.

He shrugged, “It’s not a big deal.”

But it kind of was. Because sitting there, sober and fully present for the first time in months, he realized it didn’t feel as bad as he thought it would. He’d been drinking non-stop—first to deal with his dad’s death, then to quiet the guilt, and then to forget you.

The therapist had called it “self-medicating.” Rafe had scoffed when she first said it, she didn’t know what she was talking about, but the longer the sessions went on, the harder it was to deny. Drinking had become a way to drown out the memories and feelings he didn’t know how to face. 

The therapist had suggested he take a break from drinking, just for a while. “You don’t have to stop forever,” she’d said. “Just give yourself a chance to feel what’s really going on.”

Yeah, because that sounded like fucking fun. Sitting with his feelings. 

But something about today felt different. He couldn’t explain it—maybe it was Wheezie’s not hating spending time with him after all the stunts he pulled, or the way Topper had thrown himself into planning this trip like he was trying to cheer him up—but for once, he didn’t feel like drowning himself in alcohol.

It wasn’t like drinking had helped anyway, if anything, it made it worse. The mornings after, when the hangover hit and he couldn’t even look at himself in the mirror, let alone call you to apologize for everything he’d done wrong. 

So, yeah. Maybe the therapist had a point. 

He glanced at the cooler full of beers and liquor that Topper had dragged aboard. “Don’t feel like it today.”

Topper was still eyeing him like he was an alien, while Wheezie had gone back to scrolling her phone, but every now and then, she'd glance up at him, like she was checking to see if he was still there—if he was still him.

"Alright, enough of the sentimental shit," Topper declared, "Let’s make this a proper day. Who’s up for some wakeboarding?"

Wheezie groaned, flopping back dramatically. "You two are so predictable. Wakeboarding, really? What’s next, golf? A steak dinner? Gonna break out the cigars and talk about how much you cripto?"

Rafe snorted, tossing a towel at her. "Wheez, you screamed your head off last time you tried it."

“Yeah, because I nearly died!" she threw the towel right back at him.

"You were fine.”

“You said I was fine while I was choking on lake water.”

Rafe smirked, standing up to adjust the rope for the wakeboard. “Builds character.”

“Builds trauma,” she retorted, kicking her flip-flops off and stretching her legs out over the seat. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when I’m suing your ass.”

“Good luck with that.”

She tilted her chin up with a satisfied grin, “I can now, thank you very much. I’m an adult.”

“You turned eighteen two weeks ago. Chill with the big-girl talk.”

Topper cracked up from the other side of the boat, pointing his beer at her like it was a microphone. “She’s got you there, big bro. Maybe let her drive the boat next.”

Wheezie perked up instantly. “Wait, can I?”

“No,” Rafe deadpanned.

“Why not?” she whined, her entire body deflating.

“Because last time you tried, you almost ran over a dock,” Rafe tugged the line to make sure it was secure.

“Okay, that was one time, and I was learning,” Wheezie argued. “You’ve done way dumber stuff.”

Topper leaned over, watching the exchange like it was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week. “This is amazing. You guys should fight more often.”

“Shut up,” Rafe and Wheezie said in unison, which only made Topper laugh harder.

The afternoon passed quickly, filled with sun, water, and Wheezie’s relentless commentary. She refused to try wakeboarding again, opting instead to sunbathe and heckle them from the safety of the boat. Rafe couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard her laugh so much—or the last time he’d felt this calm.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the water in shades of gold, Rafe slowed the boat to a gentle drift. Wheezie was sprawled out with her headphones in, her phone propped up on her stomach. Topper had passed out in the corner, his sunglasses slipping down his nose. Rafe sat at the helm, one hand resting on the wheel, the other dangling over the side. The cool water lapped at his fingertips, calming him in a way he hadn’t felt in years.

For once, he wasn’t thinking about the mistakes he’d made or the people he’d lost. He wasn’t drowning in guilt or regret. He was just… there, present. It didn’t feel as bad as he thought it would

Rafe cut the engine as the boat drifted closer to the dock. The sight of Sarah’s house on the Cut came into view. It wasn’t a kook mansion or some pristine estate—just a house that Sarah and her friends had claimed for herself.

The second the boat bumped against the dock, Wheezie sprang up, tugging her bag over her shoulder. Rafe was quick to follow, throwing the rope around a cleat to tie them off.

“You’re not getting off, are you?” Wheezie asked, looking over her shoulder with her brows furrowed.

Rafe stepped off the boat, sneakers hitting the creaky dock with a purpose. She rolled her eyes when she realized he wasn’t staying behind like she hoped.

“You don’t need to come,” she grumbled, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

“Yeah, I do,” Rafe said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Not letting you walk in there alone.”

“She’s our sister, not some random stranger,” Wheezie stomped down the dock.

She might as well have been.

Rafe grabbed the bag she was struggling with and followed her toward the weathered building at the end of the pier. Sarah’s place wasn’t just a house; it was a business. A small café-slash-bait shop that catered to the locals. The painted sign hanging over the front door read Cut Cafe in faded lettering, with a little drawing of a fish under it. 

He hated it.

Not because it wasn’t nice, but because it wasn’t theirs. It was Sarah’s—a piece of her new life that had nothing to do with him or Wheezie or anything resembling their family. Another reminder of how far he hadn’t gone.

If he was being honest—something he rarely let himself do—he missed her. Not the Sarah she was now, but the sister she used to be, before the huge fights, before she looked at him like he was some kind of monster. Before Ward.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Ward had made sure Rafe would never get to have what Sarah did. She was the golden child, Dad’s favorite. And Rafe—he was just there, a constant disappointment.

It wasn’t that he hated her; it was that he hated what she represented.

Approval he’d never get, a life he wasn’t good enough for.

It was ironic, really. He used to resent Sarah for being Ward’s favorite.

Now he resented her for being yours.

Rafe scowled as the sound of the party reached his ears, even from the dock. Music thumped loud enough to vibrate the air, shouted conversations, and the occasional crash of something—probably a bottle—shattering.

Someone let out a loud whoop, followed by the unmistakable sound of people chanting for a keg stand. Rafe pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience thinning with every passing second. He wasn’t in the mood for this juvenile shit.

“You're way too comfortable here,” he scoffed under his breath as Wheezie marched ahead, her steps confident. It pissed him off more than it should have.

“Maybe because Sarah doesn’t treat me like I’m still twelve,” Wheezie shot back, smirking at him over her shoulder.

Rafe ignored the jab, his eyes scanning the small crowd outside.

A couple of Pogues lingered near the porch, laughing over beers and baskets of fries. Their relaxed, judgmental stares followed him like they could smell the kook entitlement on him from a mile away. He bristled, tightening his grip on Wheezie’s bag.

She bounded up the steps and pushed open the door, the bell above it jingling. He hesitated for half a second before following her inside, knowing he was going to regret ever stepping foot in this place.

The air smelled like beer, fried food, and sunscreen. Behind the counter, Sarah stood with her back to them, her hair tied up in a loose bun.

Wheezie cleared her throat loudly. “Hey, Sar!”

Sarah turned, her smile faltering the second she saw Rafe lurking behind Wheezie. Her expression hardened. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too,” Rafe said dryly, crossing his arms.

“I told Wheezie to come by. Not you.” Sarah’s eyes flicked to Wheezie, softening just slightly. “You didn’t need to bring a bodyguard.”

“I wasn’t gonna let her wander around here by herself,” Rafe shot back, his voice low and defensive. He hated the way Sarah’s words hurt, hated that her disapproval still got under his skin after all this time.

Sarah rolled her eyes, wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped out from behind the counter. “Wander? She’s not a toddler. She knows how to get here. It’s safe.”

Wheezie stood between them, looking like she was torn between laughing and rolling her eyes so hard she might fall over. “Okay, can you two stop? It’s embarrassing.”

Sarah sighed, brushing past Rafe as if he wasn’t even there.

“Whatever. You can go now. Wheezie’s fine here.”

He stood awkwardly near the door, arms crossed, glaring at the locals who cast curious glances his way. It wasn’t worth staying.

Wheezie was safe.

Sarah would make sure of that, whether she hated him or not.

With a sigh, hr pushed open the door and stepped back out onto the porch, letting the door slam behind him. He took a deep breath of salty air, rubbing the back of his neck.

He’d barely made it to the dock when he spotted someone climbing off the boat—

“Dude,” Rafe’s brow furrowed as his friend stepped onto the creaking wood. “Thought you were scared shitless of this place.”

“I’m not scared,” Topper lied through his teeth.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, “Right.”

“We ran out of snacks on the boat, and I’m starving, figured I’d raid the stash at the party.”

“Snacks?”

“I’m starving!” Topper argued, throwing his hands up. “And unless you brought a secret bag of chips somewhere, this is my best shot!”

He sighed, knowing there was nothing he could do to change Topper's mind. “Hurry up.”

“Relax, I’ll be two minutes!"

He watched Topper jog away, sighing and leaning against one of the wooden posts. 

You were probably in there, somewhere. Laughing, maybe, or smiling that smile he used to wake up to, a smile that used to be for him.

Now, it was for everyone but him.

He tried not to think about you, but that was like telling the ocean not to rise and fall with the stupid tides. Therapy had taught him to sit with his feelings, to not let them rot into something worse, but he was just starting and you weren’t just the girl he loved.

You were the only person who had ever seen him for more than his name, his mistakes, or the wreckage Ward Cameron had left in his wake. You didn’t just tolerate him; you chose him, since day one.

He didn’t deserve you, not then, not even now. 

The sound of footsteps broke his focus.

“About time,” Rafe muttered, turning. But it wasn’t Topper.

Sofia stumbled into view, her dark hair wild and face flushed. Her hand gripped the railing for support as she swayed slightly.

He frowned, mildly concerned, “What the f—are you okay?”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and frantic. “Y-You need to go get Topper. Right n-now.”

His first thought was that she might’ve come here to throw some drunken, slurred insults his way.

The last time they'd spoken, things had ended...He didn’t even know how to classify that mess. But it didn't look like she was there to slam him with any guilt-trips or hurtful words.

She just looked scared.

“What?” His brows knit together as he stepped toward her, “What are you talking about? Are you drunk?”

Sofia waved him off, her breathing panicked. “The T-thorntons.”

That stopped him cold.

“What about them?”

She tried to grab his arm, her eyes wide, “They’re fighting. It’s bad.”

“Fighting?”

It couldn't be just some random fight; this had everything to do with the bullshit Topper had pulled.

Shit.

Rafe wasn’t even sure if he could fix it. Could he? You hated him too, and no matter how hard he tried, it seemed like you’d never forgive him for everything he’d fucked up. But Topper—Rafe didn’t even have to think twice.

He knew you, how you were when you’d had enough. You weren’t the type to lose your shit unless it was really bad.

He gritted his teeth, knowing full well that when you finally let it out, it was never just a “throw a drink and move on” kind of thing. Nah, when you lost it, it was like you’d been holding all this shit in for way too long and finally decided you weren’t gonna take it anymore.

He knew exactly what you were pissed about.

Topper. Of course. And him. Fuck.

He hated it.

The way your voice would rise when you finally let everything out.

You weren’t someone who yelled, but when you did? Jesus fucking Christ, it hit different. Rafe could never prepare himself fully for that kind of fury, especially when it was aimed at him. 

He hated seeing you like this, especially when he knew it was because of him. But it was his fault, wasn’t it?

Rafe’s thoughts were a mess as he followed Sofia, who was clearly way over tipsy, stumbling a little, but she was still trying to explain, voice slurring a bit from the alcohol.

“You gotta understand—she was helping me. I wasn’t feeling so great, right? M-my head was spinning, I don’t know… I just needed a little space. But then Topper walked in and he...S-she just lost it.”

He wasn’t even surprised when she mentioned that you’d been helping her out. Of course you would.

You always had that side to you. Even when you were pissed, even when you hated people, you couldn’t help but step in when someone was in need. You hated Sofia, and everyone knew it. You hated the fact that she’d come around right after he’d fucked everything up with you. You hated how fast she seemed to take your place, even though Rafe didn’t want to admit it to himself either.

Still, there you were, trying to make sure Sofia was okay, again. It made him feel like shit. Not just because you were still holding it together when he couldn’t, but because he knew the whole fucking reason you probably didn’t want anything to do with Sofia—because of how it’d felt when he’d jumped into something else so quickly, so recklessly, after breaking your heart.

The sound of raised voices reached him before he even saw you. He could hear the anger in your voice. There was no mistaking it: you were pissed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen you this way, and it fucked with his gut. You didn’t lose control easily. You never let anyone see the mess, the shit you were going through.

Now you were ripping into Topper in a way that made his blood run cold. He rounded the corner and saw you, hands flailing, and he couldn’t help but wonder: When was the last time anyone stepped up for you? It certainly hadn’t been him. Not the way he should’ve.

And then, of course, there was Topper. He could see the look on his face—guilt, embarrassment. But it wasn’t going to be enough. You had to work through it yourself.

Your shoulders were tense, the way you stood, like you could snap anyone who walked through that door in half if they so much as blinked the wrong way, was all too familiar.

Your cousin was standing in front of you, trying to apologize like it was gonna fix anything, but you weren’t hearing it. No, you were done with that shit.

Topper wipped his hands down his ruined shirt, green smears of guacamole spreading across the fabric. “I fucked up.”

“No shit,” you hissed, “You don’t get to come back from this. You have no idea how fucking sick I am of you—” Hands shaking as you shoved him back, your words coming out in short bursts, "You're the fucking worst. How could you—"

You were about to throw something—probably another drink—when your eyes snapped over to Rafe.

For a fraction of a second, he thought he saw your breath hitch. You froze, eyes wide for a second, and then your expression soured.

Your lip quivered before you sucked in a breath and squared your shoulders.

"Not you too,” you sneered, throwing your hands in the air as the world had just dropped another pile of shit on your already full plate. “Oh my fucking god, seriously?"

Your face was flushed with anger, lips twisted in a snarl. You were so fucking beautiful, even when you were fuming. He could see the fire in your eyes, that same spark he’d fallen for all those years ago. You were just... you. And it was killing him.

He was so fucked. 

“All of you—” You spit out, “I should’ve known better. I did know better, but I was stupid. So fucking stupid.”

He couldn’t think straight when you looked at him like that, when you had that look in your eyes. Even in the middle of a fight, it was so goddamn hard to look away.

You weren’t just a memory to him anymore. You were right in front of him, and he couldn’t even breathe straight.

Rafe’s throat tightened, feeling something that wasn’t just anger or regret or confusion. He felt longing. He longed to hear your voice, all the time, longed for those mornings when you’d be pressed against him, all warm, the world outside his shitty room irrelevant.

He missed the simple stuff.

He missed your face, the way you’d look at him with that irritation and affection.

It hit him harder than anything had in months—how much time had passed since he last saw that pretty face smile at him like you used to. Since he last kissed your forehead while you fell asleep next to him, since you last fit so perfectly into his arms that he didn’t want to let go.

He didn’t even know how to start getting that back.

He left. Over and over again.

Rafe registered another drink splashing across Topper’s face a little too late, the sound of the liquid hitting his skin pulling him out of his trance. He blinked a few times, the moment dragging back to the mess in front of him.

You weren’t done, though, as if throwing the drink wasn’t enough, you whipped a bowl of guacamole from the table and hurled it at Topper’s face. It splattered across his shirt, leaving a sticky, green mess in its wake.

He didn’t even flinch, still apologizing, still taking it.

“Sis—”

“I don’t want some bullshit excuse! You were supposed to be my family. You were supposed to—” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head because you couldn’t fathom finishing the thought.

And then—slap, slap, slap—you were hitting his arms, frustration flashing across your face as you let him have it. 

Your cousin stood there like a fucking idiot, wiping guac off his face, trying to stammer out some kind of half-assed apology. 

“You had no right,” you spat, voice breaking on the words. “None. You don’t just walk in here and act like everything’s fine after what you—” your words choked in your throat. You threw another plate, “You had no right!”

Rafe saw it all, saw the tears ready to spill as you wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand. You weren’t crying yet, but he knew that was about to change. And when it did, it was going to hurt worse than the yelling, worse than the throwing.

Before you could even get another word out, Rafe was there, stepping in between you and Topper, his body tense, preparing himself for something, maybe a few slaps across the face, a drink if you felt generous. You didn’t have to say a word, he could sense it in the way your lips quivered, the way your shoulders shook.

“You need to calm down,” He told you tenderly, though it wasn’t a demand—it was more of a desperate plea.

You didn’t listen.

Instead, you shoved him out of the way, the tears starting to slip down your cheeks, but you didn’t even bother to wipe them away.

“Get out,” you snapped, "Move.”

Rafe didn’t budge, he was here for you, he never stopped fucking choosing you even when he had no right to. He remained still, staring down at you with those blue eyes that had always known you better than anyone.

“Fuck, not like this,” Rafe muttered under his breath, stepping forward once more, this time blocking your path before you could reach Topper again. His hands were gentle on your shoulders as he held you back, “Please, stop.”

You froze, eyes wide, like you couldn’t believe it—you hadn’t been expecting him to step in, hadn’t been expecting him of all people to be the one to try and talk you out of it. 

Rafe’s heart dropped when he saw the way your body was starting to shake. You were spiraling, he could see it coming—he'd been here before. The way your breath hitched, how your eyes turned glassy.

He still knew the signs all too well.

His hands shot out instinctively, grabbing your arms, trying to hold you still, "Hey, hey, calm down," he muttered, his voice soothing, "You're gonna make yourself worse if you don’t stop."

He could feel the rapid pulse under your skin, the way your body tensed like a coiled spring, and he didn’t give a fuck that you still hated him. 

"Look at me," he coaxed, "Please, just breathe with me. You know this ain't gonna help. You gotta breathe."

Rafe’s heart broke all over again as you crumbled in front of him, damn it, he should’ve been there. He should’ve been there when this all fell apart, when you needed someone to hold you together instead of pushing you away.

He hated seeing you like this.

"I’m right here," he said again, softer this time, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

Topper stood there, eyes wide, not sure what to do, his face pale as he watched you fall apart in front of Rafe.

Sofia, still drunk and disoriented, caught the look in his eyes and quietly grabbed his arm, “We need to go," she whispered, nudging him, "T-this isn’t helping her."

Topper’s eyes moved to you, and then to Rafe, you could see it in his expression—the guilt, the regret. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

Rafe shot him a look, one that said everything—get out.

Your cousin, wiped his face before he took a few steps back. "I’m sorry," he muttered, eyes darting between you and Rafe.  "I’m so sorry.”

He turned away like a dog with his tail between his legs, Sofia following him without saying much, leaving you.

Rafe barely paid them any mind, his entire focus on you, his hands still holding yours, as he watched you try to calm your breathing.

He pulled you closer, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered again, "Not going anywhere. I’m here, swear to God, I’m here."

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into him fully, not caring if he was blocking the view of anyone else, not caring if things were a fucking mess—he only cared about getting you back to yourself.

He could feel it in his chest, every shitty thing that had piled up, every moment no one had your back when you needed it most.

You didn’t pull away. Maybe it was the anger finally burning out or the exhaustion catching up to you, but for a moment, you let him hold you. Your chest heaved as you fought for control, but your weight sagged against his hands.

His hands loosened their grip, his thumb brushing against your arm without him even realizing it. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to risk letting go because God knew if he’d ever get this close to you again.

You’re safe. You’re okay. I’ve got you. 

He didn’t deserve it—not even a little, but he couldn’t let go, you needed someone, even if it wasn’t really him you wanted anymore. 

Rafe could sense the way your breathing came out as almost pants against his chest. Every little tremor sent a pang through his chest, like someone had grabbed his ribs and squeezed until it hurt to breathe.

What the fuck was wrong with him? Why hadn’t he fought harder? 

Rafe rested his cheek against your hair, closing his eyes as he let himself feel it—the weight of you leaning on him. The smell of your perfume, faint but still the same as always. He felt like a fucking thief, stealing this moment from you when he had no right. You didn’t want this from him, didn’t need this from him.

He wished he could take it all back, erase every mistake, the fight, every stupid decision that had pushed you to this point. If he could trade places with you, take all the pain and carry it himself, he would. In a heartbeat. 

You took one shuddering breath, then another. It was enough for him to feel like maybe he’d done something right for once. Maybe he could—

“Get your hands off me.”

Rafe barely moved. His grip slackened, but he didn’t let go, didn’t step away like you wanted.

You pushed at his chest, but he didn’t budge. “I said get your fucking hands off me.”

“Not happenin’,” He swallowed hard, his pulse thrumming against his throat, but he didn’t loosen his grip. “You’re not okay.”

 “Go fuck yourself. You don’t get to decide that—”

Your voice cracked, and the sound of it nearly knocked the will to live from his body. He’d always known your tells, had always been able to read you better than you liked.

Rafe’s hands twitched, and then he moved them, moving like he was about to let you go—but then you did it.

You curled your arms around yourself, your fingers gripping the fabric of your dress, right over your stomach. Protective.

Fuck.

Could it be? It was an unconscious gesture, you probably didn’t realize you’d made, but to him, it might as well have been a fucking confession.

Rafe felt his body lock up, every muscle going rigid as the pieces fell into place. 

Fuck fuck fuck. Topper was right, wasn't he?

His throat went dry, he managed to croak out, “You’re—”

“No,” you snapped immediately, your fingers tightening on your dress, but you wouldn’t look at him.

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t need you.”

He knew he was losing you.

Rafe exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

“Fuck you. You don’t get to— say shit like that. You don’t get to—” Your breathing hitched, and you bit down on the inside of your cheek.

“To what? To give a shit?”

He waited, watching, hoping, praying—please look at me, baby, please—but you didn’t move.

You scoffed, a bitter sound.

“You don’t care. You just don’t like the idea of—” Your breath caught, but you swallowed it down, pushing past the lump in your throat. “You don’t like the idea of me making a choice that doesn’t involve you.”

He hadn’t breathed properly since he saw your hands gripping your stomach, hiding yourself from him like you thought he was something to be afraid of. Like you thought he wouldn’t love you.

You thought he wouldn’t fucking stay.

“I love you.”

He barely recognized his own voice when he said it, but it was the only thing he could spill out. He swore to God he saw your left eye twitch at the confession, he knew what came next, but he’d never been good at shutting up when he should when it came to you.

“I do,” he insisted, “And I know I don’t—I don’t deserve to say that. I don’t deserve to expect anything from you.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “But I need you to know it.”

You clenched your jaw.

“I fucked up, I know. I fucked up so bad.”

You turned your head to the side, blinking up at the ceiling, refusing to spare him a glance. “I don’t want you to fix it.”

“I know,” he said immediately. “I know, but I can’t—I can’t just let you go through this alone.”

Your chest rose and fell too quickly, your breath uneven, but still—you stood your ground. “I don’t need you.”

“Please don’t say that,” he nearly dropped to his knees. “Please.”

You looked at him, since he’d realized what this meant, you lifted your head, met his gaze—really met it.

And shit—It nearly destroyed him, because he knew that look.

“Where the fuck were you, Rafe? Kissing her two months after we ended? Huh—” Your breath shuddered, and you shook your head, stepping back, “You didn’t even wait. You just—just moved the fuck on like I never even mattered—”

“It wasn’t like that—”

"Did you fuck her?" Your lips curled into a faux smile. "That’s what I thought."

"No,” He added quickly, shaking his head like the thought alone disgusted him, "No, I didn’t."

You chuckled disbelieving. "Don’t lie to me."

"I’m not," he said, stepping closer despite the way your body went rigid. "I didn’t touch her like that. I swear to God."

"But you wanted to, right?"

His head moved so fast it gave him whiplash, "No. The only person I’ve ever wanted is you.”

You scoffed, “That’s real sweet, real fucking poetic.”

“I let my own shit get in the way, and I hurt you. But I swear to God, I’ve never stopped loving you.”

“That supposed to make me feel better? You fucked off to play house with some other girl,” You swallowed hard, eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Why were you there with her? Why did you let me think—"

"Because I’m a fucking assshole," he admitted, "I was trying to forget you, okay? But I couldn’t. No matter what I did, it was always you."

“Fuck you.” You snickered. “Where were you when I finally got my internship? The one I worked for, the one I wanted so bad?” You shook your head, “You didn’t even text me. Not once.”

His throat was tight, his pulse hammering, because he had thought about it—so many times, so many nights staring at his phone, fingers hovering, but he hadn’t.

Rafe’s heart plummeted.

“I—”

“You what? You forgot?”

His nails bit into his palms, “I—”

“You don’t get to speak,” you seethed, you eyes burning through him. “You don’t get to fucking say you care when you weren’t there, when you didn’t even fucking check if I was okay.

"I'm sorry."

"Where the fuck were you,” you whispered, voice shaking with grief, “when I found out I was pregnant with your fucking kid?”

Rafe froze, his stomach jumped around, violently, his ears started ringing. His brain short-circuited, his lungs forgot how to take in air, his heart fucking stopped.

Pregnant.

Pregnant. With his—

“Oh, right.” Your laugh was venomous, “You showed up at my charity gala.” You licked your lips, shaking your head, “Defending her.”

He never felt so completely useless, completely fucking helpless while you stood in front of him, looking up at him like you hated him.

“I—” He started, but nothing came out. “You—”

There was nothing to fucking say, you were right, he had failed you.

You weren’t telling him this so he could weigh in or because you wanted him to be a part of it. You were telling him so he’d know, so there wouldn’t be any misunderstandings, so he wouldn’t ever think, even for a second, that there was still a version of this where he got to be a part of it.

“How long?” The words were hoarse, hardly audible.

Your lips curled in disgust, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Like you fucking care.”

He did, he did care.

So fucking much that he thought he might fucking die under the weight of it. Except the realization hit him just as quickly—he didn’t get to stand here, wide-eyed and breathless and shocked like this wasn’t the natural conclusion to the shitshow of mistakes he’d made.

“Don’t fucking stand there and act like this is some big revelation. You didn’t spend the last months with your tongue down someone else’s throat while I was home—sick, alone—wondering how the fuck I was supposed to do this without you.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, pressing your knuckles to your lips to stop them from shaking.

His gut twisted.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Jesus Christ, he’d been so fucking stupid.

“I don’t need you. I never did.”

It was a lie, maybe you even believed it.

But Rafe knew you, understood how hard it was for you to ask for help. Knew how much it had hurt to stand in front of him, admitting the truth. And Rafe—he needed to fix this. Even if it was the last thing he ever did.

“I should’ve been there.”

“Yeah? No shit.”

Rafe felt his ribs caving in. “I’m here now.”

“That’s not good enough.”

It was a death sentence, it was fair but fuck, he couldn’t accept it.

Rafe stepped closer.

You took a step back.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he swore, desperate. “I don’t care if you fucking hate me, don’t care if you never forgive me.” His throat worked around the lump in it. “I’m here.”

You were so fucking angry. So fucking hurt. He didn’t blame you for it. But if he didn’t try, if he didn’t fucking show you—prove to you that he was here now—then he’d never forgive himself.

“You think I’m gonna just forgive you for this?” you sneered, arms folded tightly over your chest. “Just because you’re here now, just because you say the words that mean nothing—that’s enough? After everything? After all of it?”

All he could do was look at you—look at the person he had ruined, the person he had loved, and still loved, more than anything. 

“I just—” He sucked in a breath, running a hand through his growing hair. “Tell me about the baby.”

Your expression faltered before you hardened again, lips pressing into a thin line.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Bullshit.” His voice broke. “Don’t do that—don’t shut me out. Is it... a boy? A girl?”

You hesitated, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. “Why does it matter?”

“Don’t—don’t keep me in the dark, please. You’ve felt them move?” 

You looked down at your feet. “No.” 

"Did you—uh—" He rubbed the back of his neck, nerves raw. "Do you have morning sickness? I read that happens early on, right?"

You blinked, "What?"

"Like... throwing up and all that? You okay?" He sounded genuinely concerned, but it only made your head spin.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, “Can we drop it?”

It’s then he remembers the beach cleanup, the memories of that afternoon colliding all at once—the way you’d collapsed into him, pale and unresponsive. The panic that gripped his chest as he carried you to the truck. The fight during the drive, when you told him to leave, your refusal to let him come inside.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You were…” He pratically gasped, “You were pregnant. At the beach cleanup.”

You stiffened, already dreading where he was going with this.

“Don’t.”

His pulse raced, “That’s why you didn’t want me to come inside the hospital, wasn’t it?” His words spilled out, “You were scared they’d tell me. Holy shit.”

“Stop,” you snapped, but he couldn’t.

“You passed out because of—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. “Jesus Christ.”

“I said stop.”

He couldn’t unsee it now—couldn’t unfeel your dead weight on his arms. He’d been right there, clueless, driving you to the hospital while you were carrying his baby. And instead of being there for you, he’d made everything worse.

“I didn’t know,” he pleaded, voice breaking. “I swear I didn’t know.”

“Exactly.” Your voice was cold, “You didn’t know because you weren’t there.”

He was going to have to spend that entire fucking inheritance fortune on therapy

TAGLIST: @maybankslover @october-baby25 @haruvalentine4321 @hopelesslydevoted2paige

@rafebb @rafesbby @whytheylosttheirminds

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@serrendiipty @sunny1616 @yootvi @ditzyzombiesblog

@psychocitylights @maibelitaaura @kiiyomei

@stoned-writer @justafangirls-blog-deactivated2

@starkeygirlposts @enjoymyloves @ijustwanttoreadlols @icaqttt

[gumii-bearr]

❝ i'm already yours ❞

summary: megumi learns to be honest with you and tell you what he wants.

featuring... megumi fushiguro

content warning: MDNI (18+), afab!reader, angst, fluff, some rude guy (ino slander im SORRY), mentions of alcohol, mentions of megumi's ex, fighting, megumi still being emotionally stunted but hes learning, ozawa x itadori mentions, maki x yuta mentions, nobara is a menace, megumi being such a cute lil baby, swearing, smutttt, fingering, mirror sex, missionary, p in v sex, loss of virginity, belly bulge, unprotected sex (dont do that!), pulling-out method, subspace a bit, squirting, aftercare!!

word count: 9.3k

author's note: oh BABY, this one GOOOOOD

chapter one

Megumi Fushiguro is starting to really like you.

Like, more than just ‘like-like’, as you so eloquently put it those few months ago while lying naked in his bed. Megumi’s heart races at the sight of you. Granted, that has always been the case but he’s starting to think about you all the time.

You still sleep in your separate rooms, though you’ll occasionally sneak into his room in the late hours of the night holding your pillow and softly chanting ‘sleepover’. And Megumi’s heart just swells, moving aside in his tiny single bed to make room for you to curl into his side, your leg thrown over his waist and your hand clutching his shirt.

You are his first thought every morning.

Whether you’re still sleeping beside him, cooking breakfast, doing your makeup in your room or already at work or college; you are all he thinks about. Most of the time he thinks about good things, but sometimes he thinks about the not-so-good things. 

Like if you’re getting tired of him.

Or if you think he’s too possessive or too clingy or too needy or too much–

“I’m home!” you exclaim from the front door. You have your hands full holding take-out bags, your apron still tied around your waist (Megumi pictures you walking around in public still wearing the brown-coloured apron with the little bear on it and your name tag still pinned to your shirt because you always forget to take it off). 

Megumi is quick to appear in the hallway, effortlessly lifting the bags from your hands as you attempt to kick your shoes off, hopping on one foot and cursing like a sailor when they don’t cooperate. 

“Hi,” Megumi greets, voice soft and a little tired. 

He always waits up for you, even when you have a midnight closing shift and he’s been awake since five in the morning. When he knows you’re finishing late, he makes sure to text you at exactly 12:16, a minute after your shift actually ends. He likes to make sure you’re okay, even if he won’t admit it.

“Hi, Gumi,” you beam, a wide smile on your face as you press up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. You giggle when his face flushes slightly and he averts his gaze to avoid you catching him blushing. But you think it’s so unbelievably cute. 

“How ws’ work?” He asks, dropping the take-out bags on the counter in the kitchen.

“Boring,” you whine, dropping your car keys (Megumi’s car keys) in the bowl by the door and shrugging off your jacket. “Some guy had me re-make his coffee, like, five times at 11:55! How rude.” You mumble the last part with a scowl on your face.

“Mm, you should have just pretended to remake it,” Megumi mutters, unpacking the take-out from the plastic bags and grabbing some plates for the two of you.

“Oh, I did,” you reply with a cheeky grin, “after the fourth try, I just shook it and gave it back to him… It seemed to work ‘cus he said it was perfect.”

Megumi gives an amused smile, “that’s my girl.”

You smile sweetly at the nickname, padding over to Megumi and wiggling your hands through his arms to wrap your hands around his waist, pressing your front to his broad back.

“I missed you, Gumi,” you nuzzle into his warmth just between his shoulder blades.

“Missed you too,” Megumi says after a beat, lifting a hand to squeeze your arm still wrapped around his waist.

Megumi seems tired, though his voice is laced with something else a little sadder and you know when Megumi gets like that it’s because he’s thinking. And you’ve been so busy with work and the rapidly approaching final exams, that you haven’t been home as much as you want to.

“What’s wrong?” You ask quietly, twisting yourself around Megumi to peer up at his tired face.

“M’fine,” Megumi replies after a short pause. 

You frown, “...what’re you thinking about then?”

Megumi hates how you know him. After the catastrophe that was his confession to you, you’ve been more sensitive to and observant of Megumi’s changes in behaviour. You can now so easily tell the difference between Megumi’s genuine exhaustion and when his thoughts start to spiral into insecurity and anxiousness. 

“Just stuff.” Ah, Megumi Fushiguro, a man of many words.

“You wanna tell me about it?” You don’t ever push. Sometimes Megumi does want to talk about it, other times he just wants to curl up on the couch with you to distract himself. It worries you no matter what though.

Megumi knows he should talk about it with you. He’s been trying really hard to tell you about things that are bothering him since when he used to talk about it with his ex, she would rattle off insults about him being too clingy or too nervous or too paranoid. 

But you’re different.

You pay attention to him, holding his hand so gently and letting him get the words out on his own, no matter how long it takes or how much he stumbles over his thoughts. 

It took him about forty minutes to ask you if you’d be his girlfriend.

“And I… I think that–” Megumi cuts himself off, running a hand through his messy hair and avoiding eye contact with you by staring at the ceiling then the floor.

Your hand holding his is making him even more nervous. Your thumb strokes over his knuckles, your knee touching his as the two of you sit on the couch, the movie you were watching long forgotten.

“Do you… Is it okay with you if we, uh. Fuck… We’re dating, right?”

You chuckle softly, “yeah, we’re dating,” you ponder for a moment. “You’ve been taking me on dates, right?”

Megumi gives an amused huff, “that’s what they were intended as.”

“Okay, then I’m confident in saying that yes, we’re dating,” you giggle. 

Megumi always over-thinks the plans he makes. Wondering if you will like the picnic he planned (with the help of Nobara and Yuko who were sending him far too many pinterest screenshots at 3am), wondering if you’d like the restaurant he picked (you’re determined to try almost everything on the menu and claim he’ll have to roll you home), and wondering if you still like him.

He knows it’s irrational. You are always so excited to see him at the end of every day, always so excited to tell him about your day and ask about his even if he spent the whole day at home.

“Will you… Would you want me to be your boyfriend?” Fuck. He asked it wrong. “Wait, I meant will you be my girlfriend?”

The smile that spills across your face is so happy and so bright and you crash tackle him onto the couch, squealing in delight and pressing kisses to his face as Megumi just chuckles (mostly with relief). “I would love to be your girlfriend!”

“Really?”

“Of course! …It was so worth the forty-five minutes of stammering–”

“Hey!”

“M’just thinking about you,” Megumi finally forces out, a nervous pit forming in his stomach as his eyes flicker around the room, unable to meet your gaze.

“Good things, I hope,” you reply, slipping your hands into Megumi’s and playing with his warm fingers. You know deep down he’s feeling anxious and worried about things regarding you and your relationship, you know none of it is malicious because that’s just the way Megumi is; always thinking.

Megumi shrugs, “js’ worried about me being… too paranoid and stuff.”

Your expression softens and you reach a hand up to cup Megumi’s jaw, gently forcing his head to tilt down and his gaze to meet yours. Your eyes flicker between his and you smile softly, “you’re not too paranoid, Megumi. You’re a good person and you worry about doing and saying the right thing.”

Megumi chews on the inside of his cheek, “...you sure?”

“Always,” you beam. “You never have to worry about me… ‘cus I like-like you,” you giggle quietly.

Megumi’s lips tug into a smile, “I like-like you too.”

You press up on your tiptoes, hands snaking around Megumi’s neck to toy with the shorter baby hairs at his nape. His eyes glance down to your lips, still tinted pinkish with the strawberry-flavoured lipgloss you love so much. 

You smile before leaning up to press a slow peck to his lips, revelling in the way Megumi gently pulls you closer by your waist, hands so big yet so gentle as they hold you close to his body. You taste like strawberries, some of your lipgloss smearing onto Megumi’s lips.

You chuckle lightly, lifting your thumb to rub the gloss off his lips, “Ozawa asked if we wanted to hang out Saturday night too.”

Megumi moves some of your hair out of your face, “doing what?”

“Mm, bowling and arcade games? Maybe some drinks? I thought it would be nice to hang out with them since we haven’t in a while,” you shrug. 

Megumi hums, “if you want to.”

You smile softly, “only if you want to.”

“I never want to.”

“Yeah, I know,” you chuckle. Megumi isn’t exactly social, he would prefer to stay cooped up in the apartment with you, both of you lounging around in your pyjamas and watching movies or playing video games (a.k.a. Megumi playing CoD while you play Animal Crossing). 

Megumi watches your expression falter a little and his heart squeezes, “but I’ll go.”

Your face lights up, “really?”

“Mhm,” he hums, “I’ll win you a plushie in the claw machine.”

“A Hello Kitty one?”

“Sure.”

“Yay!”

—

You practically sprint toward Yuko when you see her. She’s sitting at a bar table next to Yuji, his hand resting on her thigh, but she promptly swats his hand away and leaps off the barstool to tackle you in a crushing hug.

“Eee! Y/N, I’ve missed you!” Yuko sways you from side to side, able to bear hug you with how much taller she is than you (and with her chunky heels on). “I haven’t seen you in, like, so long.”

“I saw you three days ago,” you giggle against her shoulder. 

“Yeah, but that was work, it doesn’t count,” she tuts, pulling away from you and giving you a disapproving look. 

“Right, of course,” you roll your eyes playfully.

Yuko peers behind you at your bored-looking boyfriend who stands a few feet away from you with his hands stuffed in his pockets and your adorable pink kitty bag slung over his shoulder, “hi, Fushiguro… cute purse.”

Megumi sticks his hand up in a half-assed wave, “m’trying something different,” he jokes with a bored expression. Anyone who didn’t know Megumi would think he was being dead serious with how his jokes tend to come across.

Yuko chuckles, “come on, we’ve been waiting for you guys forever.” Yuko tugs on your hand and you reach your own hand out for Megumi, who catches you easily with his long strides and laces his fingers with yours. 

“Heeey!” Yuji drawls, “what took you dorks so long?”

“Traffic, you know,” you shrug. 

That’s a lie; Megumi was too busy laying you down on the dining room table so he could stick his head under your skirt and eat you out because you looked so damn cute in your pretty outfit.

“Sure,” Yuji gives a Megumi a shit-eating grin, to which Megumi rolls his eyes and moves to pull a chair out for you at the table.

“You want a drink?” Megumi asks, peering down at you as he helps you into your chair.

“Mmm, surprise me,” you smile, pressing a kiss to Megumi’s cheek and inwardly beaming at how his cheeks dust a little pink at your affection, especially in front of his friends.

“Sure,” Megumi ruffles your hair, but not enough to ruin it because he knows you spent a lot of time making it look pretty in the bathroom mirror. Megumi promptly disappears into the huge crowd forming around the bar (given it’s a Saturday night, you’re not exactly surprised).

“You two are so cute,” Yuko nudges your shoulder playfully.

You smile, “he’s cute.”

Nobara makes gagging sounds from across the table, “boo, get a room.”

Maki elbows her, “you’re just jealous ‘cus you don’t have a boyfriend,” she says cooly, taking a sip of her martini.

“Rude,” Nobara retorts, dramatically rubbing her shoulder.

“S’okay, Nobara, we’ll fine you a boyfriend,” Yuko chuckles.

“Ew, no thanks,” Nobara scoffs, “men are gross.”

“That’s not very nice,” Yuji whines, his voice muffled from the mouthful of burger shoved in his face.

Nobara raises her brows and points at him, “see?”

Yuko chuckles and picks up a napkin, gently wiping the sauce and crumbs from Yuji’s cheek. He just sits there with a little smile on his face (if he was a dog his tail would be wagging happily, let’s be honest).

You chat with everyone for a while, finally meeting Maki’s boyfriend Yuta and his friend Inumaki (who doesn’t talk much from what you’ve gathered). But as soon as the boys leave to grab more drinks from the bar (they noticed Megumi was at the front of the line and decided to hijack his spot), Nobara and Yuko lean in toward you while Maki rolls her eyes.

“So…” Nobara drawls, scooting her chair closer to yours.

You look at your friends, the tips of your ears feeling hot from the sudden attention. “What?” You huff out a nervous laugh.

“You and Fushiguro done the ol’...” Nobara wiggles her brows childishly to emphasise her point. 

You roll your eyes playfully, “that’s none of your business.”

“So that’s a no,” Maki chimes in matter-of-factly.

You’ve only met Maki a handful of times but you like her. She’s quiet and intimidating but she always offers sound advice as opposed to Nobara who lives for disrupting your peace. 

But no, you and Megumi haven’t had sex yet. You’ve come close a few times but Megumi is quick to hold back, instead kissing down your tits and your tummy to eat you out or slipping his fingers into your panties to get you off. 

It’s not that you don’t want to have sex. You absolutely do. You don’t want anyone other than Megumi to be the one to take your virginity. 

But Megumi avoids it and he always seems to be battling some kind of inner turmoil when you hint at him having sex with you. Whether you ask if he’s got a condom or you reach for the waistband of his pants– he’s quick to redirect you and you want to ask him, you really do, but it makes you wonder if he’s unhappy with you or maybe he simply doesn’t want to have sex with you.

You try not to be insecure about it because Megumi loves being between your legs, he loves touching you behind closed doors and worshipping you with kisses and lovebites. And he loves it even more when you’re on your knees in front of him, his hands wrapped around your hair and pulling into a makeshift ponytail so you can take him into your mouth uninterrupted (you’re getting pretty good at it, you think).

But it still makes feel insecure.

“You should do it whenever you’re ready,” Yuko smiles warmly, her hand holding yours. You love your best friend to pieces, always the voice of reason in these situations.

But the thing is; you are ready. It’s Megumi who holds back.

“Yeah, I know,” you sigh, squeezing Yuko’s hand gently. 

“I got you this… thing,” Megumi suddenly appears behind you, placing down a fizzy sweet-looking pink drink topped with edible glitter and a little umbrella. “The bartender said it was popular.”

You smile in delight, “oh it’s so pretty! Thank you, Gumi,” You turn in your chair and plant a hard kiss to the underside of Megumi’s jaw. 

“‘Welcome,” Megumi replies, nursing his own drink (which looks exceptionally normal compared to yours). 

Megumi pulls a chair around to sit beside you, basically forcing Nobara to move over (who attempts to put up a fight but Megumi simply moves her himself). You rest your head on Megumi’s shoulder and he goes a little stiff at the simple form of affection.

Megumi isn’t big on PDA, he prefers to show you how much he cares for you in the privacy of your apartment or when he’s confident that the two of you are alone. But you like showing him off, holding his hand, peppering his face with kisses, hugging him from behind as you wait in line at the grocery store. You’re a little snuggle bug and Megumi is slowly, slowly, getting used to it.

“You gonna win me a Hello Kitty plushie, right?” you tease, wrapping your hands around Megumi’s muscular arm.

“Even if it takes me five tries,” he replies with an amused smile.

It takes him more than ten.

“This shit is a scam,” Megumi grunts, giving an annoyed kick to the neon purple machine filled with soft pastel plushies.

You stand beside him laughing into your hand, “s’okay, Gumi–”

“I’ve spent like forty dollars,” he huffs, “on one machine.”

“Come on, we should play something else,” you tug on his arm, “I already have about four of every sanrio plushie anyway,” you shrug.

Megumi’s jaw clenches and he sighs in frustration, eventually giving in to your protests and letting you tug him off the claw machine to play some other game. The arcade is huge, there are plenty of other games to spend forty dollars on instead of a goofy claw machine.

“We should play space invaders– oh! Or DDR!” you beam.

“I don’t have the coordination for DDR… or the energy,” Megumi grumbles.

You giggle, “right, let’s play space invaders.”

Megumi trails behind you the whole evening, playing games with you and absolutely refusing to let you pay for any of them. You always pull some coins out or your card and he promptly swats your hand away or wraps his strong arm around your middle, pinning your arms to your sides and lifting you away from the machine so he can pay.

You appreciate him doing this with you considering he doesn’t like being social all that much (all his friends think it’s crazy you managed to get him to come along tonight). But really, you know Megumi isn’t doing it because he wants to, he’s doing it because you want to and it makes your heart swell and your body want to melt into a puddle of happiness.

“Oh, boo, this is a scam,” you mutter to yourself as you attempt to win yourself a My Melody plushie in a new claw machine. Megumi was dragged off by Yuji to play some shooting game with Yuta and Inumaki and you snuck off to play another claw machine (and pay without him knowing). You saw that the plushie looked loose and you were sure you could win it if you nudged the claw just right.

You gave up after three tries and grabbed your bag to rejoin your boyfriend and his friends on the other side of the arcade. You spot your pretty boyfriend quickly, giggling as you hear him bickering with Yuji over not shooting straight.

“Uh, hey,” a voice appears beside you.

“Hm?” You peer to the side and notice a taller guy wearing a beanie looking at you, he’s holding a plushie out toward you.

“I saw you trying to win that pink bunny thing…” he holds out the My Melody plushie you were attempting to win.

“Oh,” you beam, “that’s really sweet!”

He laughs softly, “that’s okay… I’m Ino.”

“I’m Y/N–”

You suddenly feel a looming presence behind you. You peer up at Megumi, his eyes harsh and narrowed toward this guy talking to you.

“Uh, hi?” Ino forces out.

“Can I help you?” Megumi deadpans, his jaw slightly clenched in annoyance.

Ino barely offers him a glance, “I was just giving this pretty girl the plushie thing she was trying to win–”

“She doesn’t want it,” Megumi forces his lips into a condiscending smile.

Ino looks between the two of you before clearing his throat, “boyfriend, huh?”

“Mhm,” Megumi hums, his hand snaking around your waist and grabbing at your hip.

“Right,” Ino nods, “sorry, man.” He doesn’t seem sorry with how he mockingly laughs at Megumi’s protectiveness of you.

“Whatever,” Megumi huffs. 

Ino promptly disappears, handing the plushie off to some other drunk girl on his way out. You chew on the inside of your lip before turning to Megumi, “Gumi–”

“What?” Megumi spits, a little harsher than he meant it.

You press your lips together, “nevermind,” you sigh, forcing his arm off you and leaving to join Yuji, Yuko and the others, Megumi trudging behind with his hands in his pockets and feeling his mood rapidly plummeting into a mix of annoyance and insecurity. 

Megumi’s jaw is tight with tension and he feels like shit because he didn’t watch his tone when he talked to you. He gets protective of you and perhaps a little jealous. And he knows it’s stupid being annoyed and upset over not being able to win you a fucking plushie from a children’s arcade game, but he promised you and this guy managed to do it in one try and actively sought you out to give it to you.

“You two okay?” Yuko asks curiously, almost startling Megumi as he stands at yet another claw machine.

Yuko saw the way your mood immediately changed after your interaction with that guy, instantly becoming a little sad and not as bubbly and talkative as your little group moved around to play more games.

Sure Megumi wasn’t always super affectionate toward you in public, but he wasn’t even staying near you or holding your hand anymore.

“Fine,” Megumi retorts, eyes still glued to the pink plushie he’s trying to win you.

“...Did she upset you?”

“No.”

“Did you upset her?” 

“I don’t know,” Megumi shrugs.

Yuko sighs, “maybe you should talk to her.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to me.”

Yuko lets out an amused laugh, “Fushiguro, she always wants to talk to you.”

Megumi feels a pang in his chest at that, feeling bad that he didn’t even attempt to drag you off to the bathroom or outside so he could talk to you. He’s still trying to get better at the talking, he was just fucking embarrassed. 

The machine suddenly chimes, a little song playing as a plushie falls in behind the collection door.

“Hey, you won,” Yuko beams.

Megumi bends down, pulling the plushie out of the machine and scoffing; it wasn’t the My Melody plushie he as aiming for.

Yuko laughs, plucking the bored-looking penguin plushie from his hand and holding it up, “I see the resemblance.”

“Who even is this?” Megumi takes it back, squeezing the soft toy in his large hands,

“It’s Badtz Maru,” Yuko replies, “looks a bit like you.”

“Mm,” Megumi makes a noise of annoyance. 

Yuko nudges his shoulder, “she might like it even more,” she sings softly. 

Megumi walks around the arcade looking for you, peering around corners and looking through the claw machine section in search of you. He can’t find you. He spots Itadori, Inumaki, Yuta and Maki but can’t find you anywhere. He asks Yuko and Nobara and they shake their heads with a shrug.

How did no one know where you were?

“Where’d she go?” Nobara looks around for you.

“I’ll call her,” Yuko offers.

“S’okay, I’ll call her,” Megumi replies, pressing on your contact and holding his phone to his ear. The call rings before your voice message comes through. Megumi grunts in annoyance. He starts to worry as he texts you a few times, asking where you are. You don’t respond in the record speed you normally do and he shoves his phone back into his pocket.

He walks around the arcade a few more times, then he finally spots you.

He relaxes a little at the sight of you, but it’s short lived when he spots that fucking guy again. He’s leaning against the wall, basically trapping you in a corner as you attempt to curl away from him, your back flush against the wall.

“U-Uh, I should get back to my friends,” you laugh nervously, your hands wrapping tightly around the strap of your purse.

“Lemme walk you t’them then,” he offers.

You look around anxiously, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “Uh, no thanks, I can go myself–” Ino suddenly puts a hand on your upper arm.

Megumi surges forward, slightly blinded by anger and annoyance as he pushes the guy away from you, forcing some space between you. Ino stumbles back, clearly intoxicated with how he struggles to catch himself, his hands flailing around to catch himself against the wall.

“She said back off,” Megumi spits, forcing himself in front of you protectively.

“I ws’ just talking to her,” Ino slurs back.

“And she doesn’t want to talk to you,” Megumi retorts, forcing him onto his feet and half-pushing him away. “So fuck off.”

Ino scoffs, “whatever, bro. Was just tryna be nice.” Megumi rolls his eyes at the shitty excuse, jaw clenched angrilly until the guy finally leaves, stumbling off back to the bar. 

Megumi suddenly hears you sniffle and his expression instantly softens, shoulders relaxing as he spins around to look at you. You have your back pressed against the wall, your face a little flushed with embarrassment. Your hands are pressed to your face, hiding yourself from him.

“Baby?” Megumi coos, reaching a gentle hand out to pull your hands away from your pretty face.

“M’sorry,” you mumble, your bottom lip quivering as your eyes gloss over with tears.

Megumi’s heart sinks and he sighs, pulling you to his chest to crush you in a hug, a hand stroking the back of your hair. You press your face into his chest, staying there for a moment and melting into his warmth. 

“M’sorry I was mean,” he says against your hair.

“You weren’t mean,” you mumble, “I was being dumb.”

“You’re not dumb, Y/N. You thought he was doing a nice thing for you,” Megumi replies. He pauses for a moment before deciding to admit his thoughts to you, “...I was js’ jealous.”

You pull away from him, a bit of your makeup staining the fabric of his black shirt. “Why were you jealous?”

You never thought Megumi could be jealous. He always seems so laidback and bored that you assumed everything was water off a duck’s back to him. But you were obviously sorely mistaken.

“M’always jealous when it’s you,” Megumi shrugs, eyes glancing away as he admits it to you, his face dusted a light pink.

You grin cutely, “you like-like me,” you poke his chest.

“Shut up,” Megumi mumbles, earning a soft laugh from you. He suddenly remembers the Badtz Maru plushie in his other hand. He lifts it up toward you, “I won this for you.”

You pout, “really?”

“Mhm,” Megumi nods, handing it to you.

You squish the softness in your hands before giggling, “looks like you.”

“I don’t see it,” he grumbles.

“He could be your son!”

“It’s a plushie, Y/N.”

Megumi has a winning streak after the two of you make up, winning you a bag of sweets, a pair of earbuds in that impossible to win string-cutting game, and wins you a Hello Kitty plushie that is almost half the size of you. 

You carry it around with a big smile plastered across your face and earning jealous glances from other people who have obviously been trying to win the massive toy. You walk around with it under your arm, your other hand in Megumi’s.

“You guys ready to go?” Yuji asks, “‘cus I am officially broke.”

Yuko giggles, “okay, lets go, baby.”

Yuji plants a kiss on Yuko’s nose, then another on her cheek, then another on her forehead before peppering kisses in a circle around her face, his hands resting on her hips as she giggles.

You smile softly at them, your hand unintentionally squeezing Megumi’s.

“Yuck, get a room!” Nobara gags. 

Megumi watches you smile at your friends, resting your head against his shoulder. He feels his heart thumping in his chest, suddenly feeling the urge to show you the same affection. He doesn’t like PDA, he thinks its gross and people should just save it for the privacy of their home. But he can see how people like it, being able to show off their partner in public so people know they belong to them and no one else.

You feel Megumi’s eyes on you and you peer up at him, “you okay, Gumi?”

He suddenly presses a soft kiss to your lips, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheekbone. You smile against his lips and he pulls away, planting another kiss to your cheek then your hair.

You grin at him when he pulls away from you, “what was that for?”

Megumi shrugs, “I just wanted to.”

You point your finger at him, “who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”

Megumi rolls his eyes, “oh, ha-ha.”

—

You sigh with relief once you kick your heels off at the door, your shoes landing haphazardly in the corner as you lug your new plushies down the hall. Megumi follows you, dropping his keys in the bowl on the side table in the hallway. 

You and Megumi have made up, but Megumi still has something on his mind. He knows exactly what it is but he feels weird bringing it up again since you’ve already worked it out. 

But you can tell there’s something on his mind.

You drop your plushies in your room, putting your Badtz Marui plush on your bed so you can sleep next to it (it can be your Megumi stand-in when he’s busy or away). Megumi is sitting on the couch when you come out of your room, he’s scrolling on his phone absentmindedly, jaw tight with tension.

You pad over to him, gently pulling his head back to rest on the back of the couch. You peer over him, your hands gently resting on his shoulders. 

“You okay, Gumi?” You ask, lifting your hands to stroke your thumbs across his jaw.

“M’fine,” he replies.

You frown, “don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Not tell me,” you sigh. “I can tell when you’re sad or you’re thinking about stuff, I want you to be able to talk to me.”

“I really am fine, Y/N,” he huffs, pullin away from your hands and getting up off the couch. 

“I’m not your ex, Megumi,” you stare at the back of his head. 

Megumi visibly stiffens, “...I know that.”

“Do you?” You ask without thinking, “because I really care about you n’ I’ve been trying to be patient and understanding but I–” you cut yourself off, sighing sadly.

Megumi turns to look at you, his teeth gnawing on the inside of his cheek like he always does when he’s nervous. “I know you’re not her, Y/N. You’ve never made me feel the way she has.”

Your shoulders relax and you glance away. You still get insecure about Megumi having an ex, mostly because she’s got to see parts of him you haven’t yet, but in the same breath, she was awful to him and is part of the reason he’s wound so tight and struggles to talk.

You don’t even think when it falls from your mouth, “why don’t you want to have sex with me?”

Megumi’s eyes widen and he feels his heart in his throat. He stiffens, unable to form anything other than– “W-What?”

You sigh, “I know it’s stupid. I just… I wanna have sex… with you. And it just seems like you don’t want to… with me.”

Megumi’s heart aches painfully. Of course he wants to have sex with you. He wants to every day like some kind of maniac, but you’re too good for him (at least that’s what he thinks). And it’s important to him that your first time is perfect and special and Megumi can be a fucking wreck a lot of the time, unable to communicate simple things with you, unable to convey his feelings in a way that’s coherent and not total gibberish.

He can’t shake the fear of him being too needy and paranoid toward you. You’re so special to him and he fears losing you. Fears that one wrong move will send you packing or make you hate him.

“I…” Megumi squeezes his hands into fists, trying to release the tension inside his chest. “Y/N, I do want to.”

You peer up at him, eyes glossed over, “...I’ve beent trying to like… hint at it but you–”

“I’m scared,” Megumi sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I mean… I’m not scared, m’just worried.”

Your brows furrow, “worried?”

“I want it to be special for you,” Megumi admits, “I’m just always thinking that I’m not special enough for you.”

Your heart cracks and you feel like crying and wrapping Megumi up and crushing him in a bear hug and covering him in kisses. Because how could he not think he’s special enough for you?

“Gumi,” you sigh out his nickname and he wipes his eyes. You pout, padding around the couch to press your body against him, wrapping your arms around his waist in a tight hug.

He hugs you back, chin resting on your head gently. 

“You’re perfect for me, Gumi,” you murmur. “There’s no one else I trust more in the world than you.”

Megumi squeezes you a little tighter, “I’m not good at talking.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, “I know.”

“I want to be better at it, ‘cus you’re my priority now,” he says, heart beating rapidly in his chest at his confession. “And I’m worried that I’m too paranoid or needy… I don’t want to– I can’t lose you.” You pull away from him a fraction, a tear slipping down your cheek. Megumi catches it, “don’t cry. Please.”

You sniffle, “I don’t want to lose you either, Megumi.” You wrap your arms around his neck, his strong arms still wrapped around the small of your back. “But you need to talk to me, even if you think it’s stupid… Because I tell you stupid stuff all the time and you still listen.”

Megumi chuckles softly, “yeah, I know.”

You cup his cheek, beaming as he leans into your touch, “offer yourself a little kindness, Gumi. You’re too hard on yourself.”

He knows you’re right, you’re always right. 

He nods, “I’m gonna try,” he sighs.

“You’re already doing good,” you praise, “I’m still going to be here no matter what.”

“Promise?”

You grin, “I promise.” You hook your pinky with his.

“Then I have something else I need to tell you,” he forces out.

You frown, “okay…”

“I didn’t like that that guy grabbed you,” Megumi huffs, “it made me really fucking mad.”

You chuckle softly, “you handled it, though.”

“But still,” Megumi’s jaw clenches. “Asshole.”

“You don’t like that some other guy touched me?”

“I wanted him dead right then and there,” Megumi’s arms squeeze around you a little tighter. 

“Mm, that’s pretty hot,” you giggle.

“...Hot?” Megumi seems confused.

You shrug, “yeah… I like that my boyfriend wants me all to himself.”

Megumi pauses, any words that he could possibly think of getting caught in his throat. Your giggles die in your chest as Megumi’s steely eyes bore into you, an intensity settling in the air.

“Gumi?”

Megumi’s eyes flicker down to your lips, “m’gonna kiss you.”

You grin, “I’d never be opposed to that,” you whisper.

Megumi’s lips are on yours in an instant, his big hands resting on your hips and pulling you against him. One of his hands rests on the back of your neck, tilting your head to the side to deepen the kiss. He forces a whine from your lips when his tongue swipes across your glossed lips. He pushes his tongue into your mouth, slowly backing you up against the wall and knocking some poor unsuspecting vase onto the floor.

It smashes on the ground and you yelp in surprise, “G-Gumi–”

“We’ll fucking clean it later,” he grunts, forcing your jaw to tilt upward so he can kiss you again. Your hands squeeze the fabric of his shirt, your tits pressing against his chest as he grinds his hard-on against your thigh. 

The two of you awkwardly crash through your apartment before you finally get to your bedroom door, giggling at how eager Megumi is to get you onto your bed. Your bed is a little bigger than his and always makes it easier for cuddle sessions and Megumi always looks so cute with his dark hair and dark clothes in your pretty pink, white and pastel room. 

Your hands tug at the hem of his shirt, pushing the fabric up his abdomen and chest. Megumi helps you, finally pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it across the room. His lips connect with yours again, forcing you back until the back of your thighs hit the mattress. Megumi lets go of you, letting you fall back.

You giggle, scooting yourself up your bed and eyeing your strikingly hot boyfriend with his pretty abs out and staring down at you like he wants to devour you. Megumi just stares at you, his eyes raking over your pretty spread thighs, peeking at your lacy pink panties under your skirt, almost salivating at how pretty your tits look almost spilling out of your top– his eyes meet yours, your pretty eyes wide with lust and just pure adoration.

You are his favourite person.

“I love you.”

You pause, lips parting slightly as Megumi’s words finally sink in. You press up on your elbows, eyes widening, “what did you say?”

Megumi presses his lips together, wondering if he should back track. But no, he needs to be honest with you and himself, he owes it to you and to himself. “I said I love you.”

“You love me?” you pause, your bottom lip sticking out in a pout.

Megumi crawls onto the bed, body hovering over yours and his hands pinned on other side of your head as he just looks at you, taking in every part of you. “You told me I should be honest.”

You beam, “Megumi–”

“Don’t say anything,” he says softly, “js’ let it stay out there for a minute.”

You close your mouth, a smile tugging at your lips. Megumi grins at you, the prettiest smile you’ve ever seen, before he leans his head down, pressing his lips to yours. It’s slow and so loving, he’s gentle with you as one hand comes up to cradle your face.

He pulls away after a minute and you smile, “I love you too.”

Megumi pauses before he lets out an amused laugh, “yeah?”

“Yeah,” you giggle.

“Say it again,” he teases.

“I love you,” you whisper, holding his face in your hands. Megumi leans down, pressing a wet kiss to your neck. You tilt your head up to give him more access as his teeth gently nip at your skin.

“Again.”

“I love you, Gumi,” you whine out as he sucks on a particularly sensitive part of your neck, leaving a angry red mark on your skin. 

Megumi’s hand slips under your top, pushing it up your tummy and over your tits. You help him pull your top over your head, leaving you in your skirt and your pretty pink lacy bra that makes your boobs sit like pretty soft pillows against your chest.

“S’beautiful,” Megumi mutters, trailing kisses down your neck and down between your tits, his hand snaking under your body to unclasp your bra.

No matter how many times Megumi sees you naked, you still get nervous under how intense yet adoring his gaze is. You feel your heart hammer in your chest as Megumi toys with your hardened nipples, his eyes occasionally flickering up to your face to catch your gaze.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whine.

Megumi chuckles, “like what? Like I love you?”

“Like you want to devour me,” you correct with an amused laugh.

“Mm, no promises,” he smiles, pressing a peck to your lips.

Megumi’s large veiny hand squeezes your soft breast, kneading the flesh in his hand while flicks his tongue over your hardened nipple, leaving hot wet kisses all over the pretty mound of skin. Your hand tangles in his hair, forcing his mouth down further. He gives a gentle bite to your skin, forcing a pretty whimper from your lips.

Megumi kisses down your tummy, one hand still squeezing your breast while the other trails up your thigh and underneath your skirt. You feel your skin prickle at the feeling of his gentle fingers trailing across your soft skin, his lips leaving a trail of wet kisses down your body.

You tug on Megumi’s wrist, forcing him back up your body, “what is it, baby?” He asks breathlessly.

You press a peck to his lips, “I wan’ you to touch me,” you murmur against his slightly chapped lips.

“Oh yeah?” Megumi asks, his tone a little teasing.

“Mhm,” you nod quickly.

Megumi chuckles, trailing his hands up the inside of your thigh and pressing his fingers against the damp patch forming on your panties, “mm, someone’s excited,” he teases.

“Shut up,” you mutter, forcing his lips back onto yours.

Megumi rubs against your clothed clit, feeling his cock twitch in his boxers at the sounds you were making because of him. The smell of your arousal lingers in the air of your room as Megumi forces your legs to spread open a little more, finally slipping his hand down your panties to feel your slick pussy against his fingers.

“S’wet, princess,” he murmurs against your cheek.

“All f’you,” you whine as Megumi nudges your clit with the tip of his middle finger.

Megumi pulls his hand from your panties, forcing you to whimper at the loss of contact but he quickly slips his fingers into the sides of your panties, pulling the soaked fabric down your legs and tossing them onto the floor. 

Megumi manhandles you into his lap, laying his upper body against your headboard and forcing you to sit between his legs with your back to his chest. 

“W-What are we doing?”

Megumi gently holds your jaw, forcing you to look at the mirror across the room in front of your bed, the same mirror you take your cute little outfit of the day photos in every day. You suddenly feel embarrassed seeing yourself so vulnerable. Your legs are spread, one knee hooked over Megumi’s muscular forearm while the other is propped up, forcing your soaked pussy lips open.

“Look how pretty you are,” Megumi mutters against your ear, his large hand squeezing at your tits.

“Gumi, this is embarrassing,” you whine.

Megumi presses a kiss to your cheek, “just watch.”

You press your mouth closed as Megumi trails his fingers down your tummy, dragging two of his fingers down your glistening slit. You throw your head against his shoulder as he nudges your neglected clit, fingertips circling the little bundle of nerves agonisingly slowly. 

“F-Faster, Gumi, please,” you moan, your hands squeezing Megumi’s strong thighs.

“Shh,” Megumi coos, “be patient, baby.”

Megumi slips his fingers down your slit, pressing his middle finger against your sopping hole. Your thighs instinctively spread apart further and Megumi slowly slips his finger inside you, his long finger dragging against your gummy walls. 

You whine, hand gripping his wrist as he starts to curl his finger inside you, pressing against that spongy spot inside you, “m-more.”

Megumi chuckles at your desperation, pressing a second finger into you. You whine at the burning stretch, subconsciously grinding your hips down on his fingers, your ass unknowingly grinding on his hard-on in his boxers. 

“Look at you,” Megumi mutters against your ear. 

Your eyes flicker up to your reflection. Your skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, your baby hairs are stuck to your forehead and Megumi’s eyes are glued to your cunt, watching his thick fingers disappear inside you. You whine, pussy clenching down on his fingers as he fucks them into you.

Megumi presses against the spongey spot inside you, the ball of his palm rubbing against your clit and making you fucking dizzy. You feel your tummy start to burn, your nails scraping against Megumi’s clothed thighs as your hips grind and roll against his hand.

“G-Gumi, m’gonna cum,” you whimper.

“S’okay, baby,” Megumi coos, “cum f’me.”

“N-No,” you force out, your hand wrapping around his strong wrist in an attempt to stop him from forcing an orgasm out of you.

“No?” Megumi slows his movements, the lewd squelching sounds in your room silencing as he gently pulls his fingers from your sopping pussy. “What’s wrong?”

You pant, whimpering as the burn in your tummy fades and you feel so fucking pent up. Megumi’s face is laced with concern as he turns you on your side in his lap. You give him a tired smile, “please.”

“Please, what?”

“Please,” you whine, “I need your cock, Gumi.”

Megumi grunts, “fuck, baby.”

“Please,” you beg, “please, I’ll be s’good.”

Megumi cups your face, pressing his lips hard against yours. Your swollen lips move against his, your hand tangling in his messy hair. Megumi pulls away from you slightly, pressing his arousal-soaked fingers against your tongue. You whine when you taste yourself on his fingers, your tummy jumping with excitement as you suck his fingers clean.

“Such a good girl,” Megumi praises, kissing your forehead. 

Megumi forces you onto your back, your body bouncing against the soft mattress slightly. Megumi rests his thighs on either side of your hips, tugging your legs over his hips. You’ve never had your pussy this close to his cock and your mind is reeling with excitement.

Your shaky hands reach for the waistband of his pants but Megumi quickly forces your hands above your head, pinning your wrists together, “you said you’d behave.”

“Mm, you can’t blame me for being excited,” you whine pathetically. 

Megumi only chuckles at how damn cute you are before he forces his pants down his hips, kicking them off across the room, leaving him in just his boxers. There’s a wet patch forming on his boxers and your mouth salivates at the idea of him finally fucking you with his big cock that you’ve had in your mouth many times before. 

“S’big,” you compliment, wrists wriggling against his large hand still pinning them above your head.

“You sure about this?”

There’s a sudden intense seriousness in the air. You peer up at Megumi and he looks nervous, his teeth nipping at the inside of his bottom lip. He lets go of your wrists and you reach up to cup his face, forcing his steely eyes to meet yours, “Megumi Fushiguro,” you call softly.

“Mm?”

“I love you,” you sigh. “There’s no one I want more to take my virginity than you.”

Megumi lets out a shaky breath, “...you sure?”

“Never been more sure of anything in my life,” you grin.

“Because I really want you to be mine.”

“I’m already yours, Megumi.”

Megumi lets out a huff of a laugh, leaning down to pepper kisses across your forehead and down your nose to your lips, forcing a soft giggle from your chest. 

Megumi reaches down slowly, pulling his boxers down his hips until his cock springs free, the angry red tip leaking with precum. You peer down at his pretty cock, eyeing the vein you trace with your tongue every time you suck him off, noting how heavy it is as it struggles to hold itself up. 

Megumi sighs, wrapping his hand around the base of his cock and pumping a few times, his eyes never leaving yours. You cup his face, forcing him to kiss you one more time before he sits up, scooting his hips closer to yours.

He eyes you one more time, looking for any sign of regret or hesitation. You don’t offer any, eyes wide and almost sparkling with anticipation. Megumi holds his cock and lets it slap against your tummy, the tip almost reaching your belly button.

Your brows furrow and you wonder what he’s doing. Then it sort of dawns on you.

He’s sizing you up. 

“M’gonna be right here,” Megumi presses the tip of his finger to the spot just below your belly button. His eyes meet yours and all you can do is meekly nod, your heart slamming against your chest. You knew Megumi was big but now that he’s fucking sizing you up and showing you where he’s gonna be inside you, you’re starting to get a little nervous. 

But fuck you want him inside you.

You buck your hips up and Megumi chuckles, “s’eager.”

“Shut up and fuck me,” you grumble playfully. Megumi smiles, scooting your hips up and leaning over to quickly kiss your forehead one more time.

“You tell me if it gets too much,” Megumi says seriously. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You smile, “you won’t hurt me.”

Megumi nods slowly before gently gripping the head of his cock, rubbing the precum-covered tip against your swollen clit. Your hands grip the sheets and you bite your lip to keep the whines at bay. Megumi breathes heavily as he dips his tip down to your soaked hole, your arousal slipping out of you and dripping down your ass. 

“Look at me,” Megumi orders softly.

You open your eyes, not realising you’d pressed them closed. 

“Please,” Megumi sighs, “I wanna watch your face when I put it in.”

God, this fucking guy is gonna be the death of you.

He presses the tip into your cunt, groaning softly at your tightness as your pussy swallows his tip eagerly. Your thighs instinctively spread open to accommodate his size. He presses into you slowly, letting your tight cunt stretch around him to get used to his size. 

“G-Gumi–” you whine out.

“Y-You okay, baby? What’s wrong?” Megumi stills his movements.

You pant slightly, chest heaving, “feels s’good.”

Megumi sighs a little in relief, hand coming up to cup your jaw as he presses his thick cock into you. He’s over halfway when you let out another whimper, your thighs shaking slightly with the stretch.

“Still okay?”

“Mhm, almost in?” you ask.

“Just over halfway.”

“Halfway?!” you force out.

Megumi chuckles before pressing his fingertip to the space between your pretty pussy lips and your belly button. “M’about here.”

“Holy fuck,” you pant. “So fucking big.”

“Don’t flatter me,” he chuckles. “It’ll go straight to my head,” he jokes.

“Mm, s’true.”

Megumi laces his fingers with yours on the sheets, his steely blue eyes staying glued to your face as he pushes the rest of the way in, your soaked pussy sucking him in. Once he finally bottoms out, you let out a shaky sigh at the fullness.

“F-Feel okay?” Megumi’s voice shakes, feeling like he’s gonna cum like a damn teenager with how tight you are around him.

“Mm,” you screw your eyes shut, “you can m-move.”

“You sure?”

“Uh huh,” you nod slowly. 

Megumi leans down, lifting your arms and forcing them to wrap around his neck. He plants a kiss to your lips before pulling out– you whine– then he pushes himself back in. Your arms wrap around his neck, forcing Megumi’s head to rest against your shoulder as he pulls almost alllll the way out before plunging back into your tight heat.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Megumi groans, his hips snapping against yours as you hook your ankles together behind him, your thighs squeezing his waist. “S’good, princess.”

You moan and whine against his neck, feeling like he’s rearranging your fucking guts with how big his cock is and how hard he’s fucking you. It almost seems like Megumi needed this more than you with how his hips snap hungrily against yours. 

You tip your head back, mouth falling open as he forces moan after moan from your pretty swollen lips. Megumi reaches a hand down between your bodies, rubbing his thumb over your neglected clit, forcing you closer and closer to orgasm. 

His cock drags against your gummy walls, slick pooling around the base of his cock and soaking the sheets below as your nails drag against Megumi’s strong back, leaving angry red marks in their wake. 

Megumi hisses at the feeling, groaning into your hair as he snaps his hips into yours a little faster, thumb still rubbing your clit, your room is filled with lewd squelching sounds, your pussy so wet and tight around him.

You feel the white-hot pleasure of your orgasm approaching, your belly burning as you arch your back off the bed, letting go of Megumi’s shoulders to grip the sheets. 

Megumi suddenly sits up on his knees, lifting your hips in his strong hands, creating a new angle that makes you scream out in pleasure. His tip fucks against your cervix, surely leaving a bruise. You feel him in your tummy, his sheer size forming a bulge in your tummy. 

“F-Fuck, look at you,” Megumi groans, eyeing the bulge in your tummy.

You toss your head from side to side, your toes curling as Megumi reaches for your hand, forcing you to press down on the bulge in your tummy, his hand over yours. 

Then you just cum. There’s no warning as you gush around him, your vision going stark white as you spray your orgasm across Megumi’s pelvis, his thighs, your own thighs and all over the sheets.

“Fuck, did you just squirt?”

You don’t say anything, you can’t. You’re mumbling incoherent noises as Megumi fucks you through your high, his hips snapping harder and harder against yours as he chases his own orgasm. You’re both covered in a thin sheen of sweat and Megumi feels his orgasm fast approaching.

He pulls out of you with a quiet pop, quickly jerking himself off, your arousal making his cock slippery as he cums across your tummy. Hot ropes of cum paint your abdomen and tummy, Megumi panting as he squeezes the base of his cock.

“Mm, you’re fucking perfect, sweet girl,” Megumi praises, panting as he comes down from his high.

“Mm, Gumi,” you whine, voice quiet.

Megumi gently lowers you onto the bed, crawling up your body to cup your face, “are you okay? What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, “mm-mm, felt s’good.”

Megumi sighs with relief, “we gotta get you up, you have to pee and I gotta clean up–” he peers down at the utter mess you’ve made of the sheets, “–somehow.”

“Sleepover?” You beam.

Megumi chuckles, “sleepover.”

Megumi carries you to the bathroom, running you a warm bath. The two of you share a bath together, Megumi gently washing you hair for you while you make him a bubble crown. You’re obviously sore with how you limp down the hallway to Megumi’s room, clutching your pillow under your arm.

You rest your head against Megumi’s chest, his fingers gently smoothing over your wet hair and tracing down your bare arm.

“Any regrets?” He asks curiously.

“Mm, no,” you reply with a smile. “You made me squirt my first time having sex… I think you have to marry me,” you giggle.

Megumi chuckles, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “mm, maybe one day.”

You giggle, sitting up to press a kiss to his lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too, sweet girl,” Megumi pauses, “what is that?”

“What’s what?”

“That,” Megumi points to the bored-looking penguin plush he got you. It’s pressed to your chest right between your boobs.

“Oh, you mean your son?”

“Y/N,” he groans. “Get that thing out.”

“I will not!”

“I’ll throw it out the window while you’re sleeping.”

You gasp, “don’t do that to your son!”

“It’s not my son!”

author's note: HEHEHEHEHEHEH

taglist: @starpachinko @2ukika @sukunabish @somethinglikero @wannabewolf @milliex01x @princessa143 @hrithi11 @katsukita69 @slayzzz @arcanefeelings @shirabu-k @izzzzzzig @zah2890 @evergumi @aerareads @flashilyquinn @raedollsstuff @happylildeath @anormieee @l1v1ngzomb1e @kimkimoruo @sunnyf4lls @saekolust @kalulakunundrum @xastoriaaurax @feliaeae @sleepyxzn @raya4643 @kaidostwin

[marzipanandminutiae]

PIRATICA

A THOUSAND TIMES PIRATICA

it's basically all I've read of hers, and I haven't finished the series but it's one of the most thorough and interesting Alternate History stories I've ever read. she had me looking up certain slang terms just to make sure they didn't REALLY exist in 1812, because everything was so fluidly written and what was changed wasn't modernized

also rugpulling the reader on the nature of the plot like three chapters in is an insane move and she knocks it out of the park

(also also, "early 2000s action heroine is clever, witty, charismatic, and good with a sword but STILL has some bumps and setdowns when doing things she's literally never done before, because she's a human being" gained Lee so much respect from me)

Tanith Lee Recs

Since Tanith Lee deserves to be known for much more than having been plagiarized, I thought I'd share some recommendations. She had a HUGE body of work, and I've seen it suggested that the reason she never became a household name in fantasy and science fiction is that she wrote so many things that were different from each other, rather than staying in one easily labeled niche. I've only begun to make a dent in her catalogue, but here's the stuff I liked the best.

Note: A lot of her stuff can be disturbing, and I can't remember everything well enough to give perfect trigger warnings.

Red as Blood and Redder Than Blood: These fairy tale collections are being talked about now for the title story, but my favorite is The Golden Ladder, an incredibly creepy and hot version of Rapunzel, or perhaps When the Clock Strikes, a horrifying beautiful take on Cinderella.

The Weird Tales of Tanith Lee: As you can see, I love her short stories. These are all the ones published in Weird Tales, which includes some of the above fairy tales (including When the Clock Strikes) but also Arthurian, steampunk and science fiction stories. It's a great sampler of all the things she could do.

Blood 20: One more short story collection! This one is (most of) her vampire stories, so I know you goths will like it! There are things erotic, fantastical and grotesque in here, but to me the most haunting is the tragically mundane The Vampire Lover.

The Secret Books of Paradys: In this series, an alternate history of Paris, bad things happen. Supernatural things, sexual things, horrifying things. And sometimes good things happen, such as a man saved by a Jewish sage an his beautiful daughter who then actually converts to Judaism.

The Secret Books of Venus: I've only read the first entry in this similar series about an alternate world version of Venice, but once again it leaves the reader feeling totally transported to this sometimes sinister, sometimes lovely place where romance and cruelty live next door to each other.

Vivia: This tragic medieval plague-influenced vampire story is maybe the darkest thing of hers I've read, but dear god can she paint a picture with words. Along with The Birthgrave (which I didn't like as much), George RR Martin definitely pulled a lot of Danaerys's story from the title character here.

Islands in the Sky: And now for something completely different- a children's book. I remember finding this at the library as a kid and wanting to cry when it was over, because it gave me an equal sense of wonder and happiness as The Lion the Witch and the Wardobe, which I hadn't known was possible and worried would never happen again.

...but if you're like me, you'll just see which of her books you find at the library and used bookstores. You may not love every single thing, but it will always be interesting!

[cherryblossom-heart]

I hate you (9/?)

modern!Sukuna x Reader

Awkward encounters, a birthday and a date. What doesn’t Sukuna bring to your life?

Content Warning: Jealousy, Enemies to lovers, Sukuna being nice? (if you can call it that) Sukuna is his own warning, mention of sexual content, slut shaming (both sides). This is a +18 post so MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. If I catch any minor or ageless blog interacting with this series I will block you.

A/N: Hi besties! And here we have this weeks episode. So in case anyone missed it, this series is close to get to an end. Here I put an option for all of you... we can either call it, finish it and wrap it up OR we can have a season 2. It's up to you guys, I'll leave a poll down here.

Season 2 or nah?

<Previous Chapter. Next Chapter>

If you like the story please interact: reblogs, likes and comments go a long way. Feedback is always appreciated! Feel free to message me about it.

Taglist:

@beautifulwitchcandy @divineascensionz @yunho-leeknow @jun1p3rlol @starriesworlds @orikiix @vladsgirlxx @paradisestarfishh @animereaderinsertwriter @lastsubstance @moonchhu @vorfreudevortex @that-willowtree @v1x3n @gojoscumsluttt @wrldtups @frootloopscos @aldebrana @kidd3ath @saltedcoffeescotch @meggletoomanyfandoms @b0nez9 @storiesbyparadise @fairygardenprincesss @dimplesxx @comeonatmebruh @imoutofpot @meowpopsicle @csolya @sukubusss @chosolovrrr @naammiii @dollchub @iluvrinnie @magalimachete @pimento-mori @boogiemansbitch @seellove @emochosoluvr @kittyyyyykats @tojisrealwifey @deegausserr

[zerocoded]

summary: caleb makes you kung pao chicken and you repay him by milking him dry.

authors note: banner credits to the one and only cutie who draw this! gut wrenching smut to my caleb girlies. like jungkook said, SEVEN DAYS A WEEEK 😩 get in the car babes, we're going to pound town. so sorry for the delay! like i said, idk how to write happy feelings so i struggled with this one a little lol. but i still had a good time! thanks for reading this four-chapter series, you guys have my heart. again, this was supposed to be allll in the last chapter but i figured it would be too much for just one post, so i split them in two.

warnings: HEAVY ANGST • nsfw content, mdni • obsessive!caleb • UNCANNON bc i finished this before caleb release • grinding • astraphobia • downplaying fears as we all do • soft!dom caleb but then hard!dom caleb • teasing • orgasm denial • SO MUCH TEASING • word play • fingering • skyhaven is under a isolation period.

word count: 13.3k (i swear i'm not sane)

the first time you see caleb after the incident┃caleb uses you as a hostage at the farspace fleet┃you punch caleb in the face┃you're here

isolation week blurred together in a strange rhythm, the days blending into each other like half-forgotten dreams. you didn’t keep track of the hours—there was no point. the world outside skyhaven felt distant, unreachable, as if it had been swallowed by the endless hum of magnetic fields holding this floating island in the sky.

caleb made it easier, somehow. his presence was a strange mix of soothing and frustrating, a reminder of the man you used to know and the one he’d become. you hadn’t realized how much you’d come to depend on him until you were confined to this room together.

the first morning felt awkward, to say the least. after inviting him back to the bed, you woke up to find him sprawled out beside you, his bionic arm stretched across the mattress like an unfamiliar guest. he wasn’t touching you—you could see he’d been careful about that—but the warmth of his presence was undeniable.

“morning,” he’d said when he caught you staring, his voice low and teasing. “sleep well?”

you hadn’t, but you didn’t tell him that. instead, you muttered something incoherent and shuffled to the bathroom, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened under his gaze.

that first day passed in cautious steps, a strange dance of proximity and avoidance. caleb filled the silences with stories from the base—how he’d managed a near-disastrous training exercise or how a recruit had accidentally fried half the communication systems. you found yourself laughing more than you expected, his sharp wit and easy charm tugging at memories you thought you’d buried.

the second day was spent with caleb working in the living room and you lounging in his room. turns out that the floor-to-ceiling glass windows weren’t as soundproof as you thought. every time caleb cursed under his breath at whatever he was tinkering with, it carried into the bedroom like a muffled echo, forcing you to stifle laughter more than once. by the fourth time he muttered something about “rookie mistakes” and “damn loose wiring,” you couldn’t help but shout, “you talking to the wiring or yourself?”

his reply was immediate, his voice full of dry humor. “depends. which one’s listening better?”

when the evening of the second isolation day came, a storm rolled in slowly, creeping over skyhaven like a shadow. it began with the faintest rumble of thunder in the distance, barely audible over the soft hum of the dorm. the sky outside the windows darkened, heavy clouds gathering until the first streak of lightning cut through the horizon. you glanced toward the glass, drawn to the way the city lights below flickered like stars against the storm.

caleb called you to the kitchen for dinner, his voice casual but tinged with an edge of exhaustion. “nothing fancy,” he’d said, placing a plate in front of you. “just leftovers. figured you wouldn’t complain.”

you didn’t, especially not when you caught the faint scent of whatever he’d reheated—it smelled good, and by now, you were too hungry to care about the lack of flair. you sat together at the small table, the storm outside casting shifting shadows across the walls. the dim lighting made the space feel smaller, more intimate, and for the first time in days, the silence between you felt easy, comfortable.

“do you remember when we used to sneak into the kitchen at gran’s place?” you asked between bites, the memory coming unbidden but welcome.

caleb snorted, a rare, genuine laugh slipping past his usual guarded demeanor. “you mean when you’d sneak and i’d get dragged into it?”

“oh, please,” you shot back, a grin tugging at your lips. “you were the one who wanted to make those awful peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with way too much jelly.”

“you ate them, didn’t you?” he countered, raising an eyebrow.

“because i was starving!” you laughed, shaking your head. “you could’ve fed me cardboard, and i would’ve said thank you.”

he chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “you were easy to please back then. now look at you, living the high life with reheated kung pao chicken.”

the playful jab earned him a mock glare, but the warmth in his voice made it impossible to be annoyed. the shared memory lingered between you, softening the edges of everything else. for a moment, it felt like you were kids again, stealing moments of joy in the quiet corners of a world that never quite felt safe.

outside, the storm intensified, the thunder growing louder, closer. lightning lit up the room in sharp flashes, followed by the low growl of the sky. you turned your gaze to the windows, the storm demanding attention with its unpredictable rhythm. caleb followed your line of sight, his expression shifting as he watched the storm unfold and your reaction at the same time.

“this one’s going to be loud,” he said, almost to himself. “storms like these always are, especially up here.”

his voice was calm, but the weight of the storm pressed against the walls, creeping into the space between you. as the wind howled and the rain began to streak the glass, the moment of levity faded, replaced by a quiet intensity that you weren’t capable of ignoring.

“guess we’re in for an interesting night,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the first sharp crack of thunder.

“looks like it,” caleb replied, his tone softer now, his gaze flicking to you as the storm continued to rage outside.

for the next minutes, you realized that storms in skyhaven were way different from the storms in linkon city. the way the lightning lit up the entire sky, crackling with a brightness that seemed to ripple through the clouds, was almost beautiful—if it wasn’t so overwhelming. the thunder was deeper here, more resonant, as if the very air carried its weight. every flash and rumble seemed to rattle the walls, making the room feel smaller, like the storm was trying to press its way in.

unfortunately, you were scared of both.

you tried to keep your composure, focusing on your plate and the casual rhythm of caleb’s fork against his. but when a particularly loud clap of thunder roared through the dorm, your hand flinched, nearly knocking over your glass. caleb’s head snapped up at the sound, his gaze flicking to you with an intensity that made your cheeks flush.

“you okay?” he asked, his voice steady, though his brow furrowed slightly.

“fine,” you replied too quickly, your voice thinner than you meant. you placed your hands in your lap, twisting your fingers together to hide the slight tremor. “just… loud, that’s all.”

he didn’t look convinced, his eyes narrowing just a fraction before he set his fork down. “are you still scared of them?” he said, leaning back in his chair. his tone was casual, but there was a softness to it, the kind he used when he was trying not to push too hard.

you nodded, your gaze fixed on the plate in front of you. “still not my thing.”

he watched you for a moment longer, his gaze steady but unreadable, before a particularly sharp crack of thunder split the air. it was closer this time, louder, and it made you flinch despite yourself. your breath hitched, your shoulders tensing as you tried to steady yourself.

“hey,” he murmured, his voice gentler now, the edge gone. “come here.”

you hesitated, your fingers tightening in your lap. “i’m fine,” you started, but the words felt hollow, unconvincing even to yourself.

“you’re not, pipsqueak” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. he reached out then, not quite touching you but close enough that the gesture felt like a tether. “i know you. just… come here.”

you stood slowly, unsure at first, but when you moved closer, he didn’t hesitate. he pulled you gently into his lap, his arms wrapping around you like a shield against the storm.

the movement caught you off guard, but you didn’t resist. the warmth of him was immediate, grounding, his bionic arm cool against your side as he adjusted it carefully.

“better?” he asked softly, his breath brushing against your temple.

you nodded, your cheek pressing against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat calming the chaos inside you. “a little,” you admitted, your voice muffled but steadying.

another roar of thunder shook the room, and your hands gripped his shirt instinctively. he didn’t flinch or pull away—he just held you tighter, his hand moving in slow, reassuring circles against your back.

“you’re okay,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “i’ve got you.”

“i look like a child, sorry,” you muttered, your voice barely audible as you kept your face buried against his chest. “i fight wanderers, for god’s sake.”

caleb chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through you. “you don’t look like a child,” he said, his tone light but carrying that familiar edge of warmth. “you are you, pipsqueak.”

you huffed a quiet laugh, rolling your eyes even though he couldn’t see it. “comforting.”

“it’s true,” he added, his voice dropping slightly, almost like he wasn’t sure he should say it. “i remember you always cried when it was storming back then.”

you pulled back just enough to look at him, his words tugging at a long-forgotten memory. “you teased me at first,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “but then you always slept with me in my room afterward.”

his lips quirked into a faint grin, his eyes softening. “because you’d cling to me like a little barnacle,” he teased gently, though the fondness in his voice was unmistakable.

“you never complained,” you countered, your cheeks warming at the memory.

“never had a reason to,” he said simply, his gaze steady on yours.

the room felt quieter then, the storm outside reduced to a distant rumble as the two of you sat there, his arms stayed around you.

“it’s not so different now, is it?” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “just you and me. like it’s always been.”

you didn’t reply, but the way you stayed pressed against him, your hand unconsciously gripping his shirt, was answer enough.

“stupid floating island, why did the daa have to make their base here?” you joked, your voice muffled against his chest. “now i can’t even finish my burnt kung pao.”

“burnt?!” caleb laughed, mock-offended, pulling back just enough to look at you. “you just said you wouldn’t complain. for me, that’s partially overcooked, nothing more.”

you tilted your head, giving him an incredulous look. “partially overcooked? caleb, the chicken was practically charcoal.”

he smirked, his hands still resting lightly on your sides. “it’s called adding texture. i’m innovating.”

you couldn’t help but laugh, the tension in your chest easing as his grin widened.

the storm rumbled outside, the occasional flash of lightning casting fleeting patterns across the walls. his hands, still steady on your sides, seemed to hesitate for a moment, his thumb brushing lightly against the fabric of your shirt. it was such a small, unconscious gesture, but it sent a shiver down your spine nonetheless.

you glanced down at his hand, then back up at him, and found his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. there was no teasing in his expression now, no quick retort or sarcastic comment. just him, watching you like you were something fragile and precious, something he couldn’t bring himself to look away from.

“caleb…” you started, your voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

“what?” he asked softly, his tone steady but edged with something deeper.

you shook your head, unsure of what to say, unsure if you should say anything at all. “nothing,” you murmured, though your heartbeat betrayed you, thudding loudly in your ears.

he didn’t press, but his gaze stayed on you, unrelenting. the hand on your side shifted slightly, his fingers curling just enough to ground you, to remind you he was there. “you sure about that?” he asked after a beat, his voice low.

you nodded, but the motion felt half-hearted, like you weren’t entirely sure of anything anymore. the tension between you grew heavier, the air around you thick with something unspoken, and you wondered if he could feel it too—the way the space between you seemed to shrink without either of you moving.

“you’re trembling,” he said softly, his brow furrowing as his other hand came up, hesitating before resting lightly against your arm.

“it’s the storm,” you replied, though you weren’t sure if that was entirely true.

“is it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper now, his thumb brushing a slow, deliberate line against your arm.

you didn’t answer. you couldn’t. instead, you stayed there, caught between the steady warmth of his hands and the wild rhythm of your own heart, waiting to see what would happen next.

another thunder came, the loudest yet, and you trembled in his hold. his arms tightened instinctively around you, grounding you as your breath hitched.

"fuck, this sucks," you muttered, frustration and embarrassment creeping into your voice. "i’m sorry, i think i should—"

"do you want to watch something on the tv?" he interrupted, his tone casual but deliberate, like he was trying to steer your focus elsewhere.

you looked at him, confused. "i think i shouldn’t—you don’t have to worry about me."

he tilted his head slightly, his expression soft but unyielding. "i used to distract you from the storms with silly cartoons when you were younger," he said, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "i think it will help."

"we’re not kids anymore—" you started, but he didn’t let you finish. in one swift motion, he stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms, bridal style. "what the hell!" you gasped, your hands instinctively clutching at his neck to steady yourself.

"i can walk, you know," you said, glaring up at him, though the heat rising to your cheeks betrayed the annoyance in your voice.

"i know," he replied, his voice warm but firm. "but i prefer you don’t when i’m around."

you opened your mouth to argue but stopped when you caught the way he looked at you—steady, unwavering, his grip on you secure but gentle. as he crossed the living room and entered his bedroom, you couldn’t help but feel the tension in your chest begin to ease. 

as he set you down carefully on the edge of his bed, his hands lingered for a moment, his touch light yet grounding. his fingers brushed your arms briefly as he pulled back, and the faint contact left a trail of warmth on your skin.

"you good here?" he asked softly, his voice low, his gaze searching yours as if to make sure you were really okay.

you nodded, but the truth was, the weight of the storm still pressed on you.

"yeah," you murmured, your voice quieter than you intended. but even as you said it, your hands fidgeted in your lap, betraying the unease that still lingered.

caleb didn’t move far, instead crouching in front of you, his arms resting on his knees as he leveled his gaze with yours. "you don’t have to pretend, you know," he said, his tone soft but firm. "if it’s still too much, just tell me."

his sincerity made your chest tighten, the way his eyes softened as he spoke, the faint crease of worry between his brows. the storm outside growled again, a low rumble that rattled the glass, and before you could stop yourself, you moved.

your body acted on instinct, seeking out the comfort that had been so immediate and steady. you slid forward, closing the space between you as you climbed into his lap, your arms wrapping around his neck.

“hey,” he murmured, startled for only a moment before his hands came up to steady you, one resting firmly on your back while the other settled on your hip. “you okay?”

“sorry,” you whispered, your face pressed against the curve of his neck. “i just… it’s better like this.”

he exhaled softly, the sound more like a sigh of relief than anything else. “don’t apologize, pipsqueak” he said, his voice low and soothing. “the storms you’ll encounter in the future… they shouldn’t exist here.”

his words sent a shiver down your spine, and you felt his arms tighten slightly around you, holding you closer. the heat of his body seeped through the thin fabric of your clothes, and the steady rhythm of his breathing calmed the erratic beat of your heart.

his fingers flexed against your hip, the warmth of his hand seeping through the material. “i’ve got you,” he replied.

he sat on the bed bringing you with him, his back touching the headboard.

the storm outside roared again, but it felt distant now, muffled by the space you shared. you shifted slightly in his lap, and his grip tightened reflexively, a quiet inhale escaping him as you moved.

“sorry,” you murmured, your cheeks warming with the apology.

“you’re trembling,” he noted again, his voice quieter now, rougher at the edges. his hand on your back moved in slow, soothing circles, but there was a tension in him that hadn’t been there before—a subtle stiffness in his posture, the way his fingers lingered just a moment too long.

“i’m just a little shaken,” you replied, though your voice betrayed you, wavering slightly as your chest pressed against his.

“don’t worry too much, princess,” he murmured, his voice dipping low, the words brushing against your ear like a secret. his hand stilled on your back, the pause heavy, loaded with something unspoken. “i like when we’re close like this.”

you didn’t reply at first, your breath catching as his gaze held yours. his eyes searched, questioned, the intensity of his closeness overwhelming—the faint warmth of his breath on your cheek, the steady weight of his hand against your back. it was too much and not enough all at once. you swallowed hard, your voice barely a whisper as you said, “me too.”

“do you?” his tone was curious, soft, yet laced with something deeper, and you felt a flicker of need pulse through you. his question lingered in the air, fragile and heavy. you didn’t know how to respond, unsure if the truth would feel like breaking something—or like setting it free.

“because i do,” he admitted, his voice unwavering, his honesty unraveling something inside you. “always have.”

the sincerity in his words, the way his eyes held no doubt, no hesitation—it pulled at you. it felt like stepping into something safe and terrifying all at once, his certainty acting as a charm you couldn’t resist.

“i do,” you murmured timidly, your voice so soft it was almost lost to the storm outside. you couldn’t meet his gaze, your eyes dropping to avoid the weight of everything he’d laid bare.

smoothly, caleb's hands tightened on your sides, his touch a quiet plea for your attention. and so, you look at him. your gaze meets his amethystine eyes, and there, you find it—yearning, raw and unguarded, etched into every facet of him.

"would you hate me even more if i said i wanted to kiss you right now?"

his voice was so steady, so effortless, that it left you momentarily stunned. you stayed silent, your heart pounding against the truth you were too afraid to confront, the truth simmering just beneath the surface of your heart.

“i don’t hate you,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. they hung in the air between you, fragile and vulnerable. his gaze softened, searching your face for something—permission, maybe, or clarity.

“but you don’t want this,” he said, though his voice wavered, unsure. his grip loosened, like he was already preparing to pull away, to retreat.

you shook your head slightly, barely more than a tremble. “it’s not that…” your voice cracked, and you hated how exposed you felt.

"i’m sorry," he murmured, his voice heavy with regret, eyes staring at both of his hands on your side. his bangs fell over his eyes, giving him an innocent look. caleb had always been effortlessly pretty in your eyes.

you caught yourself staring at his sudden shyness with more awe than apprehension. ever since you’d grown a little taller and started seeing caleb through a different lens—one that wasn’t colored by the “older brother” view you once had—you couldn’t help but admire his beauty. moments like this, when his youthful charm caught you off guard, felt like they pressed you against an invisible wall, leaving you breathless.

because how many times had you wanted to kiss him before? god, you’d had the silliest crush on this man for what felt like forever. and now, knowing he’d been pining for you just the same all along? it felt unreal and unfair at the same time.

"i shouldn’t put you in a position like this… let’s just—let’s watch something." he leaned back slightly, creating space that felt colder, emptier, and pretended to be searching for the controller on his bedside table.

but you saw it—the restraint in his eyes, the way he was holding himself back for your sake. and you couldn’t let that linger. "caleb," you said softly, reaching for his hand before he could fully pull away. "it’s not that… you’re not putting me on the spot." you hesitated, your breath shaky as you forced the words out. "i kind of… want to be on the spot."

were you caving yourself in a bigger mess? you honestly couldn’t tell. but ignoring your childhood feelings right now seemed to be as painful as the possible ache of regret you could face later.

his eyes snapped back to yours, wide, searching for any sign of doubt. "you do?" his voice was quieter now, almost disbelieving.

"i do," you admitted, your cheeks warming under his gaze. "it’s just… this is new, and i’m scared, but that doesn’t mean i don’t want it."

he exhaled slowly, his shoulders relaxing as he took in your words. "fuck, i don’t want to scare you, pipsqueak," he said, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

“you could never.”

his lips parted slightly, his jaw tightening as he exhaled through his nose, seeming thoughtful. “you want me to stop?” he asked, his voice low and steady, though there was a hint of strain behind it.

again, caleb seemed so youthful in this light, his features softer, the usual sharpness in his gaze replaced with something gentler. there was an innocence about him now, a vulnerability that clung to the edges of his desperation. it wasn’t just restraint—it was care. as if the fear of scaring you, of pushing you too far, outweighed any longing he might have for your body.

you shook your head, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you leaned closer. “no,” you whispered, the word trembling between you.

your breath caught, and for a moment, the world outside—the storm, the hum of skyhaven, everything—faded into a quiet, dizzying stillness. his touch was grounding, his gaze searching, and yet, all you could think about was the last time you felt this close to him.

a week ago.

it came rushing back, unbidden and vivid, like a memory you’d tried to bury but couldn’t. the moment when he reappeared on your front door in linkon city, alive and impossibly real, standing in the doorway of your tiny apartment as if the months between you hadn’t happened.

your chest tightened as the ache in your heart shifted into something else—something sharper, hungrier. you leaned in without thinking, your hand moving to his jaw, your lips hovering just a breath away from his.

but before you could close the distance, he froze. his hand moved to yours, holding it gently but firmly, his eyes now wide and dark, filled with something you couldn’t quite name.

“don’t,” he rasped, his voice barely above a whisper, his breath hot against your skin. “don’t do it if you are not ready to forgive me yet, princess.”

his words made your heart stutter, the rawness in his tone cutting through the haze in your mind. his jaw tightened beneath your hand, his grip on your waist trembling slightly, as if the effort to stop himself was taking everything he had.

“tell me you want it first,” he pleaded, his voice rough, almost pained. “please.”

your breath caught, the weight of his gaze pinning you in place. he looked at you like the thought of stopping physically hurt him, like holding himself back was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“caleb…” you started, but your voice wavered, the unspoken pull between you making it hard to find the words.

“say it,” he urged, his forehead resting against yours, his voice a whisper now, almost broken. “if you want me, tell me.”

fuck, caleb was trembling.

“i think,” you whispered, your voice shaking as much as he was. you brought your hand to his jaw again, your fingers brushing against the faint stubble there, grounding both of you in the moment. “i think this will help.”

—with the forgiving part, you wanted to complete.

his eyes searched yours, desperation and longing swirling together in a way that made your chest ache. “don’t say it unless you mean it,” he murmured, his voice rough, his forehead pressing against yours harder now, like he needed the contact to steady himself. 

you swallowed hard, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw as you let out a shaky breath. “i want this,” you said, the words fragile but true. “i want you.”

his breath hitched, his fingers tightening on your waist as if those words had been the only thing holding him back. 

“say it again,” he whispered, his lips so close to yours that you could feel the heat of them.

“i want you,” you repeated, your voice steadier now, your grip on him tightening as if to prove it.

that was all it took. the tension between you snapped, and caleb closed the space between you in one fluid motion, his lips crashing against yours with a hunger that stole your breath. this wasn’t like the kiss in linkon city, sharp and painful and desperate. this was different—deeper, slower, filled with a need that burned just as fiercely but carried the weight of something more.

his hands moved to your back, pulling you closer, every inch of him pressing against you as if he couldn’t bear the thought of space between you. the storm outside raged on, but in that moment, it felt like the two of you had created your own—just as powerful, just as unstoppable.

his lips moved against yours with a deliberate intensity, each touch igniting something deeper. his hands, strong and steady, slid up your back, grounding you.

your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groaned softly against your lips, the sound low and desperate. the sheer intensity of it all made your pulse race, and you felt a rush of heat spread through your body as he deepened the kiss, his teeth grazing your lower lip before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze.

“tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, his voice rough, his breath fanning across your cheek. his forehead rested against yours again, his grip on your waist firm but trembling just slightly, a reminder of how much he was feeling at the moment.

“it’s not,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of your heart pounding in your ears. “don’t stop.”

he leaned in again, his kisses softer now but no less consuming, his mouth tracing a path down your jaw to the curve of your neck. 

his hands tightened on your waist, pulling you into his lap again as if he needed you even closer, needed to feel every part of you against him. his bionic arm settled carefully on your side, his fingers cool against your skin where your shirt had ridden up slightly. the contrast between the metal and the heat of his other hand sent a thrill down your spine, grounding you in the moment.

“you’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin, his voice raw and unguarded, the words slipping out like he couldn’t hold them back. “i don’t deserve you.”

“i’ve wanted this—wanted you—so much, princess, you have no idea.”

your chest tightened at his confession, the vulnerability in his tone cutting through the haze of heat and desire. your fingers moved to his face, cradling his jaw as you pulled him back to look at you. his lips were swollen, his breathing uneven, but his eyes—his eyes were full of unshed tears that broke your heart.

"caleb," you whispered, your voice trembling with the weight of it all. you searched his face, seeing not just the man you cared for but the fragile edges of him he never let anyone else see. "i’m here," you said, the words barely louder than a breath. "it’s okay. i want this."

his hands moved to yours, holding them against his face as if grounding himself in the moment. “i’ve wanted this for so long,” he whispered.

“show me, then” you said softly, the words trembling with their own weight. “show me how much you wanted me, caleb.”

as if echoing the tension that crackled in the air between you, a thunderclap roared outside, the sound reverberating through the walls and into your chest. 

a trembled exhale escapes you, and in that moment of vulnerability, he takes the opportunity to slide his tongue alongside yours. 

his bionic fingers shift against your cheek, you can feel the tension in him—the way he’s holding you so carefully despite the intensity of the moment. it’s as though he’s trying to reconcile the boy he used to be with the man he’s become, and in that kiss, he’s asking you if you can love both.

the kiss is frenzied, a desperate tangle of lips and breaths.

without thinking, your body moves on its own, testing his resolve with a slow, deliberate roll of your hips into his lap. the effect is immediate—his jaw tightens, the sharp edge of restraint etched into his expression. his hands fly to your waist, one strong and warm, the other cold and unyielding, gripping you tightly as if to steady himself.

“princess,” he groans, his voice low and ragged, though his hold betrays how much he doesn’t want you to stop.

ignoring his warning, you roll your hips again, feeling the heat of his reaction through the thin layers between you. a low, guttural sound escapes him, and the sheer rawness of it sends a rush of heat through your body. the sound pulls a whimper from your own lips, and you move with more purpose, your body seeking to draw that noise from him again, needing to unravel him.

it felt like your core had its own heartbeat.

“pipsqueak” he mutters, his grip tightening as if trying to regain control. his head falls forward, his forehead pressing against your shoulder. his sweet resolve was being tested and you felt your lips curl into a smile, sweet vengeance sounding fair in your ears.

“pipsqueak,” he muttered, his grip tightening as if he were struggling to regain control. his head dipped forward, his forehead resting against your shoulder. his sweet resolve was fraying at the edges, and you couldn’t help the smile that curled on your lips—sweet vengeance was practically begging to be served.

but just as you were about to push him a little further, his metal hand gripped your behind with enough force to draw a startled squeak from you.

“fuck—” you breathed, the word tumbling out unbidden.

“watch it, baby,” he murmured, his lips trailing up from your neck to your ear, his voice a low, tantalizing growl. “i’ve got years of pent-up tension to take out on you.”

was that a promise? god, why did you wanted it to be so much?

“caleb, please,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a mix of need and vulnerability. the sound of his name—your plea—seems to undo him. his resolve snaps like a frayed wire. with a growl, his hands shift, pulling you even tighter against him as his lips crash into yours again, no longer holding back the storm that’s been building inside him for so long. 

“i know, princess,” caleb mutters, his voice thick with restraint. his erection twitches in the confines of his pants as he watches you, the sight of you slowly grinding into his lap nearly ending him. your eyes, half-lidded and dark with lust, hold him captive, and he swears he could lose himself in that expression alone.

every slow roll of your hips sends a wave of pleasure coursing through both of you, the friction igniting sparks that only leave you wanting more. there’s an incessant throbbing between your legs, a growing need that these teasing movements can’t quite satiate. each brush of your core against him only heightens the ache.

caleb feels it too, because he’s already pulling at the waistband of his pants, his thumb hooking into both layers as he tugs them down, revealing the sharp definition of his defined v-line. the sight alone makes your mouth go dry, heat flooding your veins as your gaze lingers.

“fuck,” you whisper under your breath, unable to stop the word from slipping out.

caleb catches the way your eyes widen, and his lips curve into a slow, wicked smirk. his bionic hand rests on the bed beside him for balance, while his flesh hand gestures toward you. “take it off,” he commands, his tone soft but laced with a quiet authority that makes your pulse quicken.

you freeze, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice, and the way his gaze seems to pin you in place. the handsome smirk that tugs at his lips grows wider as you let out a startled breath, your cheeks burning hot with embarrassment and arousal.

you’d seen his body before, seen the dedication he put into keeping it in peak form. you’d been there when his once-lean chest began to transform, muscles growing larger than any of your own limbs as he transitioned from boy to man.

and you’d dreamed about his touch too—wild, fleeting thoughts that only a hormonal teenage girl could summon on those countless nights when the ache of loneliness crept in.

god, you should probably feel embarrassed for all of it right now.

but caleb didn’t seem to mind. he didn’t seem to care about your wild thoughts swirling around him now or the teenage fixation you’d once had on his quiet care. all that mattered to him was the relief painted across his face—the realization that this wasn’t a one-sided transition, that you were right here with him. aching for him.

biting your lip, you slip off his lap and move to stand, your fingers curling around his waistband as you carefully pull his pants and boxers the rest of the way down. his member springs free, hard and aching, and the sight sends a jolt of heat straight to your core. your thighs press together instinctively as you shiver at how thick and undeniably pretty he looks.

fuck, you weren’t exactly a novice—but being a deep-space hunter didn’t leave much time for fooling around. still, every fantasy you’d ever buried seemed to find its way to the surface, all centered on the boy you could once call your first love.

caleb was intimidating, but in the most deliciously enticing way. you weren’t a teenager anymore, and your desires had grown with you, maturing into something sharper, more urgent. whatever this was between the two of you—it felt like the thing you’d been craving for so long, the missing piece you didn’t even realize you’d been waiting for.

he was thick, but not in an overwhelming way—just enough to leave you aching, his desire for you palpable in every movement. but what truly left your mouth watering was his length, something you’d only ever imagined existed in exaggerated adult videos or ridiculous ads.

was this really the same person who stood up to bullies for you and patiently taught you how to cook when you were 14? fuck, you were absolutely cooked.

in a good way, it seems.

you don’t even realize how long you’ve been staring until caleb clears his throat, the sound breaking through the haze of your thoughts. your gaze snaps up to meet his, only to find his smirk has softened into something more amused, though no less confident.

“while i appreciate the compliment,” he teases, propping himself up on one elbow, “i wasn’t talking about me, princess. i meant you. take it off.”

your nerves were impossible to hide, and his commanding voice only made it worse. for a fleeting moment, you wondered if there was a way to skip past this awkwardness and dive straight into satisfying the ache in your core that you could no longer ignore.

caleb seemed to catch onto your hesitation. he offered you a kind, almost reassuring smile as his flesh hand wrapped gently around your wrist, his touch grounding you in the moment.

suppressing your nerves, you hook your fingers into the waistband of your shorts, sliding them down your legs along with your panties. they pool at your ankles, and you step out of them with a small, shaky breath, standing between his legs as his gaze sweeps over you.

“beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low and sincere. the word sends a rush of warmth through you, and the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only thing in the galaxy—makes your chest tighten.

did he feel this instant pull towards each other too? 

sitting up fully, caleb pats his lap, his smirk softening into a smile that’s equal parts playful and inviting. “c’mere,” he says, his voice rich and steady, like a promise.

you could come, my god. but you hope you weren’t so transparent in your lack of confidence in the moment, hoping to have some leverage over the man who seemed to be eating you alive with only his eyes.

caleb seemed so sure of his love and his expression for you, it made you feel small—not in a bad way—, but maybe a bit childish.

you hesitate for only a second before stepping closer, climbing back onto his lap. his hands, warm and steady, settle on your hips as he pulls you against him.

“that’s better,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering against your skin. 

you crawl onto caleb’s lap, careful not to sit fully. hovering just above him, your knees press firmly into the mattress on either side of his thighs, effectively trapping him in place. you can feel the heat radiating off his body, but there’s no way in hell you’re going to lower yourself—not yet.

if you did, you’d be pressing your bare pussy against his naked thigh, and he’d feel everything. the thought alone has your cheeks flushing hot, knowing it would expose just how soaked you’ve become from mere kissing.

caleb’s gaze doesn’t waver, his sharp eyes watching you like a predator sizing up his prey. he hums softly, one hand trailing up your side to lift the hem of the shirt you were wearing—his shirt—, pushing it up just enough to reveal your bare chest. his expression softens slightly as he sighs, a low, appreciative sound rumbling from his throat. “pretty,” he murmurs, his voice husky and thick with restraint.

before you can respond, he leans forward, his lips capturing one of your nipples. the sudden contact makes you gasp sharply, your hands instinctively flying to his shoulders for balance. his tongue swirls over the sensitive peak, rolling it in a way that has your back arching toward him.

“caleb—ah!” your cry cuts off as his hand moves between your legs, startling you with its boldness. his bionic fingers rest against your thigh, steadying you, while the fingers of his other hand slip against your slick folds, testing you.

“you’re wet,” he comments, his voice quiet but undeniably teasing as his fingers slide through your arousal. the statement is casual, but the tone of his voice sounded almost painful, as if the realization seemed to fucking pain him. 

you swear you heard him mutter a “fuck” while closing his eyes.

“no fuck, sherlock,” you almost whine, the words sharp though your voice lacks any bite. your head falls forward against his neck, the words trembling as his touch continues to unravel you.

but he doesn’t stop. instead, he presses another finger against you, slipping them both at once inside with deliberate ease. the stretch has you gasping, your hips jerking instinctively against his hand as he curls his fingers, finding the spot that makes your breath hitch. “you got this wet just from grinding, pipsqueak?” he murmurs, his tone both teasing and utterly sinful.

“shut up,” you try to protest, but the way his fingers push deeper, curling again, steals the words from your lips. a whimper escapes you instead, and you clutch at his shoulders, your body trembling against him. “fuck”.

regardless of the resistance that was impossible to ignore, your body was so hot that the initial discomfort was quickly replaced but more desire. caleb’s fingers were so damn long, reaching places your personal toys used to reach. the knowledge made your insides clench, something so dirty crossing your mind in the early stages of your love making.

“you’re incredible,” he mutters, his voice low and reverent, his lips brushing against your temple as he works you open with a deliberate precision that leaves you breathless. “don’t be shy, princess. let me hear you.”

a shaky breath stutters out of your mouth as you rock yourself against his hand, chasing the initial fire that have taken upon your core. but it’s not enough—not nearly enough. the ache in your core is unbearable, and every deliberate curl of caleb’s fingers only makes you crave more. 

“do you have a condom?” you manage to gasp, your voice trembling with urgency.

his movements still for a fraction of a second before a sly, knowing smirk spreads across his face. “oh my, already?” he drawls, his tone dripping with playful teasing. “princess, i’m just starting with you.”

before you can respond, he moves. with a fluid motion, caleb rolls both of you over, his body pinning you down against the soft expanse of his king-sized bed. the shift leaves you breathless, his weight grounding you in the moment. his hands frame your face, one warm and rough, the other cool and unyielding, a perfect contrast that sends a shiver down your spine.

his lips hover just above yours, his breath mingling with your own as his teasing smirk softens into something darker, more intent. “we’ve got all the time in the universe, princess,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvety, sending a thrill through your body. “i’m not rushing this. i’ve waited too damn long to rush things now.”

your heart pounds in your chest as his gaze locks onto yours, his eyes filled with a heady mix of desire and something deeper. “please—” you start, but the words catch in your throat as his lips press against your neck, soft and deliberate, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.

“c’mon, princess, don’t be shy. it’s just me, caleb.”

you were grateful his fingers weren’t inside you anymore, or else he’d have felt the dangerous clench your pussy made upon hearing his sentence. how can someone act so innocent with so much craving embedded in his voice?

“i want to savor this,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice muffled but no less commanding. his hand slides down your side, his touch lingering as if committing every curve to memory. “savor you.”

you swallow hard, your body arching into his touch despite your best efforts to remain steady. “but i want—”

“shh,” he interrupts gently, his lips brushing over your collarbone before he leans back to look at you. his smirk returns, though it’s softer now, tinged with affection. “don’t worry, princess. i’ve got you. you’re going to have to be patient, all right? let caleb take his time with you?”

his words are both a promise and a warning, and you can feel the anticipation building as he begins to move inside of your heat again, his touch deliberate, his actions slow and measured, as if determined to explore every inch of you before giving you exactly what you asked for.

“of course, you’re so warm, you had to be…” caleb mutters, his voice low and strained, each word dripping with unfiltered desire. his lips brush against the shell of your ear, and the heat of his breath sends shivers down your spine. “i’ve always imagined how you’d feel—if you’re as pretty on the inside as you are on the outside.”

the deliberate tease in his tone is enough to set your skin aflame, and your breath hitches at his words. 

“stop,” you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders as your body reacts to every word, every touch. the intensity of his gaze locks you in place, your heart racing under the weight of his attention.

“what’s wrong, pipsqueak?” he asks, his smirk wicked, his voice like velvet. “am i being too honest for you?” his lips graze your jaw, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. “or is it that you like hearing how much i’ve wanted you all this time?”

your cheeks burn as your hands clutch his biceps tighter, your body betraying you by arching closer to his. 

“do you like the fact that i’m obsessed with you? that i’d burn the world down for you?” caleb teases, his voice a dark, sinful whisper as his fingers curl inside you, scissoring your pussy with deliberate precision.

your body betrays you completely—your walls clench tightly around him, and a loud, unrestrained moan spills from your lips before you can stop it. your head tilts back, your thighs trembling as he chuckles low in his throat, the sound dripping with satisfaction.

“oh, what’s that?” he drawls, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth as his fingers continue their relentless rhythm. “is this your special spot?”

your cheeks burn, and your hands grasp at his shoulders for support as his words wash over you, leaving you utterly exposed. how come his fingers were so fucking long? to the point where only them were already making you feel lightheaded. 

or maybe it was him the one to blame for that.

“shut up,” you manage to gasp, though there’s no real weight behind your protest. every inch of your body is responding to him, and he knows it.

“my princess likes being naughty?” caleb counters, his tone as infuriatingly smug as the grin tugging at his lips. his bionic hand steadies your hip, keeping you from squirming too much, as his flesh fingers work deeper inside you. “you’re the one clenching around me like that, baby.”

“caleb—” your voice breaks as he curls his fingers just right, hitting the spot that makes your back arch and your moans grow louder. his smirk widens, his eyes glinting with mischief and unrelenting focus.

“that’s what i thought,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. “don’t fight it, let me hear you, please.” his fingers curl again, dragging another sharp moan from you, and the sound only seems to spur him on. “thank you, princess,” he adds softly, but there’s an edge to his words, a possessiveness that makes your heart race even faster. “every little sound, every little reaction—thank you for gracing me with them.”

“you’re impossible,” you manage to whisper, though your voice trembles, your resolve crumbling under his teasing.

“and you’re irresistible,” he counters, his lips finding yours in a kiss that’s equal parts tender and consuming. his words, his touch, his presence—it’s all too much and not enough, and you can feel yourself spiraling under his careful control.

your hands move instinctively, cradling his face, your thumbs brushing gently along his cheekbones as you pull him closer. his eyes search yours, intense and dark, as though waiting for you to shatter whatever thin line of control remains between you.

“just fuck me already,” you whisper, your voice trembling with need, your lips brushing against his as the words spill out. “please, caleb… i’m sensitive.”

the corner of caleb’s mouth lifts into a crooked smirk, though there’s a flicker of something deeper in his gaze—desire tempered by affection, by the weight of how much he feels for you. 

“sensitive, huh?” he whispered against your lips, his tone teasing, but his eyes were anything but. they searched yours, dark and heavy with longing, silently asking for permission, for trust.

you nodded, your breath hitching, and he smiled—a soft, crooked smile that made your heart stutter.

he brings his lips close to your pulse point, his warm breath brushing against your neck. you feel the tease in his exhale, deliberate and slow, as if savoring the moment. instinctively, you tilt your head, offering more, knuckles still buried inside of you.

he leans in close, his voice low and dark as he murmurs, “you love being teased like this, don’t you?” a soft whimper escapes your lips, your body responding instinctively to the way his fingers work, each movement sending waves of sensation through you.  

your hands press against his shoulders, searching for control, but he holds you firmly in place, his grip on your waist unyielding. his movements are deliberate, precise, barely grazing over sensitive spots, leaving you aching for more.  

he doesn’t relent, his rhythm intensifying with every motion, each calculated touch sending your body into spiraling sensations. your breaths hitch as your body tightens, overwhelmed by the building tension, every moment pushing you closer to the edge. 

"you look so damn gorgeous here in my arms, princess," caleb murmurs, his voice dripping with heat. "makes me wonder what would happen if i just..." he trails off, bending his fingers inside you until they hit that perfect spot again, sending a shockwave of pleasure through you. he focuses on it relentlessly, each movement precise and deliberate, drawing sharp gasps from your lips as your body responds instinctively.  

the tension builds, pooling low in your stomach, ready to snap at any moment. you're right there, teetering on the edge of release, when suddenly, he stops. the absence is jarring, leaving your body aching for what it was so close to having.  

your eyes fly open, heat rising in your cheeks as shock and frustration flood your senses. "caleb, what the hell?!" you gasp, scandalized, the words tumbling out before you can stop them.  

he chuckles darkly, the sound low and unapologetic, almost infuriating. "did you really think it would be that easy, my sweet girl?" his tone is teasing, almost rhetorical. "i love to savor what i want. so tell me..." his gaze locks with yours, daring and full of mischief. "will you let me play with you a little longer?" 

"this isn’t funny," you pout, the frustration evident in your voice. "i want you."

"i know that, baby," caleb replies, his tone soft but teasing. "and i’ll give it to you. just hang in there for me a little longer, okay? don’t you want to be a good girl? i promise, it’ll feel even better."

before you can respond, his fingers are back inside you, curling with precision as he picks up where he left off. the intensity leaves you gasping, your body arching into his touch as he pins you firmly to the bed, each movement calculated to unravel you.

he drinks in every sound you make, the way your body reacts under his control. the tension builds quickly, spiraling upward as he focuses on that spot that drives you wild, your walls tightening around him. but just as the wave threatens to crash over you, he stops again, pulling away like it’s a game.

"caleb," you whine, your voice trembling as you feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "i-i need to come, please."

"i know, baby, i know," he soothes, his fingers moving gently now, almost comforting, though his teasing tone betrays him. "you trust me, don’t you, sweet girl?"

you nod weakly, cheeks wet and burning with embarrassment, but caleb’s gaze softens as he leans closer. "so pretty, my princess," he murmurs, his words wrapping around you like a caress. "i’ve waited so much for this. you deserve the world," he whispers, his lips trailing kisses down your body until his warm breath fans over your chest, teasing the hardened peaks of your nipples.

"she’s going to wait for me, just like i waited for her all this time, right, baby?" his voice sounded almost mocking, a dangerous mix of sarcasm and pure love.

was he talking about your pussy? oh god.

his words make your eyes widen, shock coursing through you as you try to pull away, only for him to hold you firmly in place.

"caleb," your voice trembles, barely above a whisper, and he chuckles softly, finding your helplessness endearing.

"hey, hey, look at me," he says gently, tilting your chin so your eyes meet his. "i’m here, aren’t i? don’t you think it’s fair, pipsqueak?” his lips press harder against your skin with every word, leaving marks that bloom red and tender. “i’ve always held myself back, endured for you." his canines leave two red dots just above your nipples, "day after day, after day, it was suffocating."

he pauses, his lips lingering just above your chest, leaving a bruise that you know will remind you of this moment long after. "at some point, i thought you liked me too," he whispers, pain lacing his words. "but then you left me. and forgot about me."

“caleb!” you try to protest, wanting to tell him he’s wrong, that he doesn’t understand, but the way he touches you—so deliberately, so tenderly, even when he’s pushing you to your limits—leaves you breathless, knees weak, eyes fluttering shut.

how does he know exactly what to do to unravel you like this?

before you can gather your thoughts, his fingers are back inside you, moving with an unrelenting rhythm that has you gasping, every thrust calculated to drive you closer and closer to the edge. just when you think you’re finally about to tip over into bliss, he pulls away again, leaving you trembling and desperate.

and the worst part? he keeps doing it—again and again—pushing you to the brink only to deny you at the last second. tears streak down your cheeks as you thrash beneath him, pleading for release, your body betraying you with every lewd moan and quiver. his fingers work you over, drawing out every sound, every reaction, but he never lets you find that sweet relief.

it doesn’t make sense—how can he know your body this well after such a short time? how can he read every twitch, every sigh, like he’s been doing this for years? there’s something almost reverent in the way he watches you, as if your pleasure is his own, even as he denies you again and again.

he’s wicked—a tormentor wrapped in the guise of a lover.

each time you’re on the verge of release, he withdraws, and fresh tears spill over as you whimper and beg. “please, caleb, let me come,” you plead, voice breaking. “i promise, i’ll listen, i’ll be good—just please, let me come!”

his lips curl into a smug grin, the glint in his eyes almost cruel as he leans in, voice a dark whisper against your ear. “princess wants to give in so soon?” he teases, the condescension in his tone making you burn.

he chuckles, low and sinister, the sound vibrating through you as he promises, “i haven’t even started yet.”

you’re reduced to a tearful mess, your body trembling with desperation as you try to cling to whatever composure you have left. you’d kick him if you could, but caleb holds all the power, the keeper of your release, and you know you have to play his game if you want even the slightest chance of relief today.

"caleb, baby," you plead, voice dripping with desperation. "the love of my life, please, please—i’ll be good now. i won’t push you away anymore. i need you."

did you sound pathetic? a little. but there are moments where you couldn’t find the strength to protect your pride when all that you ever wanted was to untie the knot burning in your core.

his dry chuckle sends a shiver down your spine as his grip tightens on your torso, holding you steady while his fingers continue their relentless rhythm. "i know, baby," he murmurs, his voice softer now. "just give me this moment, please."

and then he’s right back at it, thrusting his fingers deep inside you without mercy, his other hand occasionally teasing your clit. each precise movement against your sensitive spot sends you spiraling, the overwhelming pleasure leaving you breathless.

this time, though, he leans in, his mouth finding your pulse point. the heat of his lips against your damp skin, the way he bites and sucks at you, adds another layer of stimulation that has you reeling. it’s like he’s devouring you, taking every piece of control for himself as he plays with your body, denying you over and over like it’s a game he never tires of.

but when you find your voice again, it’s what finally cracks his composure. "caleb, baby, please—i need your cock, or i swear i’m gonna die."

it’s dramatic, sure, but it works.

he pauses, his breath uneven as he seems to wrestle with himself. his hand slips away from your aching core, giving you a brief moment of reprieve before he lines himself up against your entrance. the thick head of his member presses against you, the sensation so euphoric it has you pressing your forehead against the nearest pillow, trying to ground yourself.

was that what he wanted to hear all along?

biting his lip, he drags himself against your slick heat, collecting your essence along his tip, his gaze locked on the way your body clenches, desperate to be filled.

“you see, princess,” he continues, his voice a mix of tenderness and control, “maybe you’ve learned today, but i will always put you first.” his movements slow, deliberate, as he anchors your wrists against his shoulders, his hands firm but not harsh. “in my own selfish way, i just want the best for you. okay?”

you nod frantically, your body practically begging, even if your mind can’t quite catch up. you’re not sure what you’re agreeing to anymore, only that you want him—need him—to follow through.

but just as you think you’re finally there, everything shifts.

in one swift motion, caleb flips you onto your stomach, his weight pressing you into the bed as he adjusts himself behind you. the next thing you feel is the coarse sensation of something binding your wrists together behind your back, leaving you to hold yourself up by your shoulders.

a rope.

your heart races as you realize what he’s done, his control over you now complete, and all you can do is submit to whatever he has planned next.

it wasn’t just a rope, it was almost like a wire.

"caleb?" your voice wavered as you heard a mechanical whirring behind you. craning your neck, you caught a glimpse of his bionic arm in motion, a thin wire smoothly retracting from his forearm. the precision of it left you breathless—it was designed for this, leaving the prosthetic intact as it unraveled into a makeshift rope.

he wasted no time, expertly wrapping the wire around your wrists, binding them together at the small of your back. the restraint pressed you further into the bed, leaving you utterly at his mercy.

god, this was so hot.

"fuck, do you enjoy this, pipsqueak?" he murmured, his lips trailing soft kisses along your shoulders as he spoke. the heat in your body answered for you, clenching around nothing, leaving you needy and exposed.

"oh my…" his voice dropped, intimate and teasing. "if i knew my dirty princess was this naughty all this time…"

the way his tone dipped lower, filled with a mix of awe and desire, sent shivers down your spine. once again, you felt dangerously adored, like the very center of his universe.

he paused, leaning close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath. "you tell me to stop, and i’ll stop. you know that, right, baby?" his question hung in the air, a gentle reminder that despite everything, he was always seeking your consent.

"yes, just—go on with it already," you manage, your voice trembling with anticipation as the tension within you continues to build, lingering in every nerve. even the sound of his voice feels like it could unravel you completely.

and that’s all the warning you get before caleb presses forward, his movements slow and deliberate at first, as though testing your reactions. his hands steady your hips, his touch both firm and grounding, as he finds a rhythm that makes you gasp softly.

the press of his member was initially a relief. you could see yourself opening your mouth in an embarrassing long moan that reverated into the walls of his bedroom. the pitch was drown out by the teasing of his bare member, no protection whatsoever, and the feeling of each vein of his pressing against your insides.

you could feel everything. and the clench of your walls was the proof of that.

caleb moaned too—almost a pornographic grunt—and left you searching for the back of your head with your own eyes as he pushed and pushed and pushed inside of you.

“oh fuck, baby,” caleb fucking whined, too lost in the heat of your pussy. you could picture him throwing his head back and taking a deep breath after setting himself all the way in.

you were left clenching and clenching and clenching until you could feel the pressure in your abdomen starting to hurt you.

“caleb, wait—,” you hissed and pinched your eyebrows, bound hands trying to reach for his hips. at the sound of your plea, he seemed to get back to himself.

“what, sweet girl?”. he pressed his forehead on your shoulder and hissed at the clench your pussy made because of the new angle. 

“just—go slow please.” you asked and he nodded.

“can you feel this, princess?”, caleb snaked his hand in your stomach and pressed his long fingers into the bulge he could feel right there. you moaned loudly at his teasing, feeling his member twitch inside of you.

“is that you?”, you whined weakly, already feeling lightheaded.

“yes, my sweet girl, this is me right here,” he pressed the tent in your stomach again, making your breath hitch and your cheeks wet. “see how well you were made for me? my perfect baby”. caleb pressed kissed all along your back until he was no more touching your skin. 

he fucks you experimentally slow for all but one minute before he speeds up, and fucks you mean and hard and rough from the get-go. you whine and thrash at first, but then you start feeling the delicious burn of his movements right below your navel and surrender yourself to the pleasure. he buries himself to the hilt, revels in the perfect sponginess of your tight, warm walls until he pulls out, only to insert himself again.

you gasp sharply, the intensity of caleb’s movements overwhelming as he keeps a steady, unrelenting rhythm. the sounds between you fill the room, a harmony of raw emotion and connection. his presence feels all-encompassing as you adjust to him, every motion deliberate, leaving you breathless.

you brace against the makeshift restraint, your body responding instinctively to the sensation, a soft moan escaping your lips. “caleb...” his name falls from you like a prayer, your voice trembling with both need and surrender as the moment consumes you completely.

you don’t even realize you’re reciprocating caleb’s movements with your own, meeting his rhythm as he keeps up a rough, relentless pace. you submit to his every motion so easily, fueling caleb’s confidence, his nerves alight with a mix of dominance and raw desire.

“fuck, princess. look at how good you take it… such a good girl for me,” he murmurs, his voice rough and breathy, laced with his own building tension. you can tell he’s been holding himself back, the strain evident in his tone.

“god, caleb, please—go harder. you’re so…” you pause, your words trailing off as the sensations overwhelm you.

caleb takes your plea to heart, his grip tightening as one hand tangles in your hair. he pulls gently but firmly for leverage, picking up his pace, the sound of every movement echoing through the room like a symphony of chaos and passion.

of course him pulling your hair made you moan even louder, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

caleb’s ego swells as he takes in your pleas, doing exactly as you ask. his hand tightens in your hair, using it as leverage to increase his pace, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing through the room in a rhythm that leaves you breathless.

you can’t help the moan that escapes your lips, his grip on your hair sending jolts of pleasure through your entire body. “fuck, caleb, yes,” you gasp, your voice trembling with need.

caleb chuckles deeply, the sound rich and heady, his own composure slipping as he leans further into the moment. “now i’m sure you were made for me,” he mutters, his voice rough and strained. “god, i’ve dreamed of this for so fucking long…”

his words push you further, every syllable igniting something primal in you. you let go of every inhibition, your moans growing louder as he finds that perfect spot inside you, the one that leaves you reeling.

just when you think you’ve felt it all, caleb surprises you. his grip on your hair tightens slightly as he brings his other hand to your throat, his palm pressing lightly against your skin. the added sensation leaves you stunned, his breath hot against your ear as he leans in close, his voice a low whisper that makes your pulse race.

“how are you so loud, princess?” caleb murmurs, his words teasing yet softened by the gentleness in his tone as he trails praises over your skin. “i know you can take more than this. my girl is so strong, isn’t she?”

tears prick at the corners of your eyes, the overwhelming sensations building, the tension in your body coiling tighter and tighter with each second. you squirm against your restraints, craving more of him, every fiber of your being begging to let go.

“caleb, i’m so close,” you gasp sharply, his movements deliberate as he pulls your hips closer, each thrust leaving you breathless. “you fuck me so good, yes,” you manage, voice breaking under the weight of everything.

caleb pauses just long enough to undo the makeshift restraint, his dark, intent gaze never leaving you. his fingers work quickly, and the wire is discarded without a second thought. his hands steady you as he flips you onto your back, positioning you in missionary again.

you look up at him, relieved to see the same undone expression mirrored on his face. sweat beads along his skin as he breathes heavily, his movements just as affected as yours. instinctively, you reach out for him, but he catches your hands effortlessly, pinning them above your head.

“you’re mine,” he growls lowly, his voice strained with intensity, his gaze burning into yours. “all pretty and mine, finally.”

his grip remains firm as he leans down, his lips finding your neck, leaving heated kisses and light marks in his wake. his other hand braces against your hip, steadying you as he moves with an intensity that leaves no room for anything else. the bed shifts with each motion, his every movement deliberate and overwhelming as your own release builds again, unstoppable this time.

“caleb, please—i need to,” you plead, your voice trembling, barely holding yourself together as you teeter on the edge. “please let me…”

his gaze softens briefly, his focus solely on you as he leans closer, his movements never faltering. “just a little more, princess,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you.”

his thrusts are so powerful you’re sure he’s beating up your stomach, guts fully rearranged until they spell his fucking name.

“you want to come, princess? is that what you’re asking for?” caleb’s voice is firm, laced with dominance, but there’s a tenderness beneath the edge as his hands hold you firmly in place, grounding you amidst the chaos.

“yes, caleb, please,” you gasp, your voice breaking under the weight of your own need.

he holds you strictly in place as he gives it to you unforgivingly, hammering your pussy like it’s his, because fuck, are you goddamn his.

he leans in closer, his breath warm against your ear. “then tell me, baby,” he murmurs, his tone commanding yet teasing, “what’s my name?”

your voice trembles as caleb moans, your walls aching so bad your clit’s engorged beyond comprehension. it’s sickening the way he fucks you, so intoxicating and blissful and perfect you feel your soul leaving your body, feel your insides coiling so tightly you’re going to snap any second.

“caleb, fuck, caleb!” 

“do i treat you right, baby?” caleb asks, his voice softer now, tinged with vulnerability beneath the heat. “will you let me be yours? will you let me love you, finally?”

“yes,” you gasp, your voice trembling with conviction. “god, yes—whatever you want. i’m yours, caleb. always have been.”

his response is immediate, shifting his position to deepen his movements, his breaths coming out in rough, raw grunts as he finds an angle that leaves you utterly undone. every motion is purposeful, pushing you to the brink as your hands strain against his hold, your body giving in completely to him.

and then it happens—your vision clouds, a rush of heat and intensity overtaking you as the tension inside you snaps like a tightly wound coil. everything bursts at once, your body consumed by waves of release so powerful it leaves you breathless, shaking as the moment overwhelms you entirely.

you’re so in your head it’s caleb’s frantic speaking that even keeps you at it, suddenly feeling something gush out of you in sheer abundance. “oh, oh shit, princess, you’re squirting, holy fuck, yes. just like that, baby, this is so fucking hot.” he praises copiously as you squirt all over caleb’s cock, leaving a gigantic, sloppy mess as he finally allows himself to come fiercely. 

the connection between you remains unbroken as he lets himself go, his own release crashing over him. his body shudders, and you feel him tremble against you as the intensity of it all leaves you both breathless. the world narrows down to this shared moment, leaving you weightless and entirely consumed by the euphoria of being completely his.

your body lurches off his cushions and caleb’s dick twitches inside you, throbs and fills you up to the brim with his cum, the feeling nothing short of euphoria.

he releases with a deep, guttural groan, his body trembling as his palms press into the bed on either side of your head, caging you in. his breaths come in heavy, uneven huffs as he hovers above you, beads of sweat clinging to his damp hair, a mixture of exhaustion and satisfaction radiating from him.

your wrists fall limply above your head, released from his grip, but you barely have the strength to move them. your body feels heavy, spent, every muscle lax from the intensity of the moment. your eyes flutter open and closed, exhaustion pulling at you as you try to focus on the man above you.

he’s still nestled against you, his body fitting yours like it was meant to, his forehead coming to rest gently against yours. his voice, low and husky, breaks through the haze. “pipsqueak, baby, don’t sleep just yet,” he murmurs, his breath mingling with yours as he cups your face in his warm hands.

your throat feels dry, your body too worn to respond fully, but his touch keeps you grounded. he brushes his thumbs over your cheeks, his voice soft and tender, as if to anchor you. “princess, you were amazing. you did so well… my good girl, forever my good girl,” he whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose.

you barely manage a small nod, the pull of sleep too strong to resist much longer. his words are like a lullaby, soft and full of adoration, wrapping around you as you drift.

“i love you, caleb,” you manage to mutter, your body still trembling faintly from the aftershocks coursing through you. “i always have.”

his movements still at your confession, and though your eyes remain closed, you can feel the weight of his shock. his silence stretches, thick with emotion, and you wish you could see the expression on his face.

“you do, princess?” he finally breathes, his voice cracking with disbelief. “are you sure?” the raw vulnerability in his tone is almost heartbreaking, as if the idea of you loving him is too fragile, too precious for him to fully believe.

you nod, unable to speak, too afraid to shatter the fragile moment between you.

his hand brushes against your face, trembling slightly. “i’ll be good for you, princess,” he murmurs, his voice steady but thick with emotion. “i promise. you’ll never have to cry again. not ever.”

you feel a strange pressure leave your body, realizing it’s caleb pulling out of you. the sensation leaves you feeling empty, but his gentle care grounds you. he moves with practiced tenderness, cleaning you up and whispering soft reassurances as your exhausted muscles fight against the weight of sleep. even as your body surrenders to the pull of rest, his touch remains a steady reminder that you’re safe in his hands.

as caleb works quietly, his hands careful and deliberate, you can’t help but notice the shift in him. the way he moves, the way he looks at you—it’s different now. softer, almost reverent. he’s so eager, so determined to tend to your every need, as though this moment means as much to him as it does to you.

he catches your gaze, and for a moment, you see it—his redemption arc, written in the lines of his face, in the way his hands tremble ever so slightly as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. he’s trying so hard, pouring every ounce of himself into being what he thinks you need.

“princess,” he murmurs, his voice soft as his fingers trace your jaw. “you okay? do you need anything else?”

his question is earnest, his eyes searching yours for any hint of discomfort or lingering pain. and it’s in that moment you realize—this isn’t just about pleasing you. this is about him trying to earn something he doesn’t think he deserves. your love. your trust. your forgiveness.

“the condom, you asshole—you forgot the fucking condom,” you say, trying to sound angry, though there’s a playful glint in your eyes.

caleb freezes, his body going rigid as panic spreads across his face. his gaze darts to your body, and it’s like his senses have only just returned to him.

“shit—fuck, princess, i swear it wasn’t on purpose! i just… i wanted to feel you so fucking bad,” he blurts out, his words tumbling over themselves in his desperation to explain. “after you said you needed me or else you were going to die, i—i lost it. i threw all caution out the window. i’m so fucking sorry—”

his rambling apology is so frantic, so guilt-ridden, that you can’t hold back the soft chuckle bubbling up from your chest. it cuts him off mid-sentence, his eyes snapping up to meet yours, wide and full of worry. the tenderness in his expression, the way he’s so wrapped up in your well-being, tugs at something deep inside you.

“what?” he asks, his voice almost breaking. “fuck—i know it’s my fault, i know, i’m going to—”

“caleb,” you interrupt softly, reaching up to thread your fingers through his tousled brown hair. the motion draws his attention, grounding him as his frantic thoughts start to settle. “i’m joking. i’m on the pill.”

his eyes search yours, blinking in disbelief as your words sink in. “you’re… you’re joking?” he repeats, his voice a mix of relief and exasperation.

“yeah,” you say with a small, teasing smile, letting your fingers curl a little tighter in his hair. “relax. i’ve got it handled.”

he exhales a shaky laugh, resting his forehead against yours as his body finally unclenches. “jesus, princess, you almost gave me a fucking heart attack.”

“good,” you reply, smirking. “you deserve it for forgetting the condom in the first place.”

he laughs again, softer this time, and there’s something vulnerable about the sound. “you’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmurs, pressing a light kiss to your lips.

“maybe,” you whisper against his mouth, your smile growing. 

caleb pulls back just enough to look at you, his lips still curved in a soft smile, but his eyes are searching yours. there's something unspoken there, a mixture of relief and lingering uncertainty, like he’s still trying to believe this moment is real. his hand brushes your cheek, his thumb trailing a path down to your jaw, grounding you both in the quiet intimacy of the aftermath.

"you know," he murmurs, his voice low and steady, "i’ve always dreamed of us like this. not just the… well, you know," he says with a small, self-conscious laugh that tugs at your heart. "but being with you, waking up next to you, knowing that this isn’t just something fleeting." his brow furrows slightly, the vulnerability in his expression catching you off guard. "this means everything to me, princess."

your chest tightens at his words, the weight of them settling over you like a warm blanket. you reach up, cupping his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing over the faint stubble on his cheeks. "this isn’t fleeting, caleb," you say softly, your voice steady despite the rush of emotions threatening to overwhelm you. "it never was. i’m here, and i’m not going anywhere. not now, not ever."

his eyes close briefly, like he’s taking in the full meaning of your words, before he leans down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead. "thank you," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "thank you for giving me this. for giving us a chance."

the silence between you stretches, but it’s not the kind that feels empty. it’s filled with understanding, with promises unspoken but felt in every look, every touch. outside, the faint hum of skyhaven’s magnetic fields reminds you of where you are, but for the first time in what feels like forever, you’re not afraid of the isolation. caleb is here, and that’s all that matters.

"we should probably clean up," you say after a moment, your voice light but teasing as you glance at the mess the two of you have made. caleb grins, a mischievous glint in his eye as he leans down to nuzzle against your neck.

"or," he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin, "we could stay like this a little longer. i mean, i’d hate to let go of my good girl so soon." his playful tone makes you laugh, the sound light and free, and you realize that for all the chaos that brought you here, you wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.

"five more minutes," you agree, your arms wrapping around him as he settles beside you. it’s not perfect—not yet—but as you lie there together, tangled up in each other, you can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this is the beginning of something that will be. something that feels a lot like forever.

author’s note: thank you for everyone who took the time to read the four chapters of this mini-series, especially those who commented, you guys have my heart. the cheeky ending is a must, i'm sorry. send me a request • my masterpost

taglist: @bbieainee

[atlabeth]

in over my head

masterlist

pairing: spencer reid x fem gideon!reader

summary: between all the arguments, you and spencer begin to understand each other a little bit more.

a/n: wauw.... out of nowhere i wrote 4k words and finished this chapter in one night... god bless spencer reid. i hope you all enjoy. r's cold heart is finally starting to defrost. title from the fray song

wc: 5k

warning(s): arguing, case discussions (stalking, murder, etc), talk of parental neglect, hurt w/o comfort then hurt/comfort. r lowkey freaking out this whole fic. the usual good time

You lean against the wall, trying to keep your breathing as quiet as possible. 

You don’t really want Spencer to know you were eavesdropping on him the whole time. You don’t really want him to see the look on your face because he defended you to your dad. 

He— he should expect it, shouldn’t he? He’s sitting out in the living room on the phone, and you’re you. It’s only natural you’d listen in on him. 

Spencer defended you to your dad— mouthed off to him in very un-Spencer-like fashion. 

Why? 

From what you’d gathered, he practically worshipped the guy. Even if he didn’t, your dad was still his superior. It didn’t really seem like any kind of good idea to talk back to him. 

But he did. 

For you. 

You thought Spencer merely tolerated you because he had to. You wouldn’t blame him, the way you treated him. So why would he do something like that for you?

You’re jarred out of your thoughts when you hear Spencer say your name. You blink back into yourself to see him standing in front of you, and you feel your face burn. 

So much for not being obvious. 

“I’m assuming you heard everything?” he asks.

You nod. You have the decency to not insult his intelligence, at least. 

“That means we can go over everything,” Spencer says, already starting to walk away. “Come on.”

You frown. You expected him to be mad at you for eavesdropping, or use what he did for you as leverage for something, or— or do anything but act normal. 

You shake yourself out of your thoughts once again as you follow him back to the living room. Spencer sits back down on the couch and you tentatively sit across from him. 

“I don’t want what I said to scare you,” he says. “Hernandez may be our lead right now, but I doubt it’ll stay that way. Elle and Morgan are going to check him out, and I’ll get another call once they do.”

You blink. Of course he’d expect you to be focused on that part—your stalker, the threat against your life, the whole reason you’re in here. Not Spencer sticking up for you. 

“Right,” you say. “Do you think it’s him?”

“Honestly? No.” Spencer sighs and shakes his head. “You heard what I said. He doesn’t fit the profile—he’s a man who made the worst choices of his life when he lost everything. If he’s been released, he might have actually changed. We’re only on him because he’s all we’ve got.”

“…Good,” you say. “Strangling wouldn’t be my top way to go.”

“You need to stop talking like that,” he says. 

“I need to stop doing a lot of things,” you respond. “Any idea how much longer we’ll be in here?”

Spencer shakes his head. “We’re here until this case is solved or our cover is blown.”

You huff. “Like if this guy finds us again?”

He nods. “But that shouldn’t happen. Elle, Gideon, Hotch, and Strauss are the only ones who know about this place, and they’re obviously sworn to silence.”

“Strauss?”

“Erin Strauss,” he says. “The BAU’s section chief.” 

“Ah.” You realize you’re still holding your mug, now empty, and you lean forward to set it on the table. “What happens if we’re made?” 

“You’ve got to stop thinking about the worst case scenarios,” Spencer says. “Pessimism doesn’t just make anxiety, depression, and paranoia worse—it can raise your blood pressure, increase your chance of cardiovascular problems, and mess with your immune system. It’s literally bad for your health.” 

“Well, what else am I supposed to do?” you ask. “I’ve got a stalker and we didn’t realize until he’d been watching me for a month. Your team has only got one lead and you don’t even think it’s the right one. That sounds pretty negative to me.” 

“We’re still at the beginning of this case,” Spencer says. “It usually takes a few bodies for us to figure out what’s really going on and find the unsub in our regular cases.” 

You stare at him, and he seems to realize what he’s actually said. 

“Of course, there won’t be any bodies in this case!” he rushes. “You— you’re going to be perfectly fine!” 

“You’re really not great at reassurance,” you say wryly as you pick up your cup and stand up, “are you?” 

“Homicides only occur in two percent of stalking cases!” Spencer continues, his voice rising as you go into the kitchen. “A- and you might not even be the primary target! If anything, he might be going after your dad!” 

By now you’ve finished filling your mug again. You stop at the edge of the hallway when he finishes, leveling a tired look at him. 

“Thanks, Spence. That really helps.” 

You walk back to your room, and once again, you only close the door halfway to humor his concerns. 

If you’d lingered a little longer, you would have been able to see his frown. 

“Spence?” he murmurs in confusion.

-

The rest of the day goes by smoother than you thought it would, largely because Spencer keeps his distance and you don’t fight it. 

You busy yourself with more cleaning—you never finished it after your last outburst—and when you finish that, you read. You find Pride and Prejudice in the box of books the BAU provided, and it’s a good distraction. You’d much rather worry about the problems of the Bennets rather than your own. 

You end up cooking first, and you offer Spencer some of your pasta when you finish. He initially looks shocked at the olive branch, but you figure you owe him something for all he’s put up with. 

You don’t tell him that, of course. You just tell him he has five seconds to make a decision before you finish the rest, and he snaps out of it pretty quickly. 

(“I promise I’m capable of cooking,” he says as he spoons a helping into his bowl. “I— I just don’t have much time for it. We’re always out on cases so we go to a lot of restaurants, and I get take-out at home because I get home at ungodly hours.” 

“Just shut up and eat your food,” you say. “I don’t need to hear your opening statement.” 

“Actually, I wouldn’t call this an opening statement. It’s more of—” 

“Oh my god.” You pick up your bowl and walk off. “Goodbye.”

“I think it’s more of a witness testimony!” he calls out.)

A similar thing happens with dinner, where you pull out the old reliable of chicken and rice. Dressed up a bit with some of the vegetables that are somehow already on the verge of going bad, but still the same thing you’ve eaten a million times throughout your life. You don’t really feel like cooking, but you also don’t feel like having to hear Spencer set the smoke alarm again, so you settle for this. 

(“You know,” Spencer says as he cuts into a chicken thigh, “I should really be trying everything first. Just in case there’s poison or something.” 

You stifle your incredulous laugh. “How would there be poison in anything? You all bought and brought this stuff in.” 

He shrugs. “I don’t know. But you can never be too careful.” 

“You’re ridiculous,” you say. “I— I think that is the most ridiculous thing you’ve said since I’ve met you.”

“I hope you’re not challenging me,” Spencer says. “Because I can beat it very easily.”) 

Between that, he calls out on occasion to make sure you’re still alive. You think it’s stupid, but it seems to ease his mind, so you play along.

He gets a call from your dad late at night, which he then goes on to relay to you—Agents Greenaway and Morgan paid a visit to Adam Hernandez, and they weren’t able to find anything suspicious. Penelope Garcia is going to comb through everything she can find on what he’s done since his release before they officially abandon the lead, but Hernandez is on parole and hasn’t violated it once—he seems to be clean. 

You don’t know whether you’re thankful for that or not. On one hand, you want this to be over. Getting lucky on the first suspect would be great. On the other hand, having a face to all of this scares you more than not knowing. You still have the chance to deny that all of this is real, really real—when they find their guy, you can’t do that anymore. There’s actually someone out there that wants to hurt you. 

The thought crossed your mind more often than not. 

Other than that, he doesn’t really bother you. Another thing where you don’t really know if you’re thankful or not. 

It’s close to midnight, and though you haven’t been able to sleep, you’re ready to accept this as another, thankfully non eventful day. 

But then there’s a huge flash of lightning, visible even through your closed blinds, followed closely by a deafening crack of thunder, and your whole body freezes up. Your hands stop on the page you were on, and a chill runs all the way through you despite the layers of covers you’re under. 

Rain has been pittering against the house for half the night, and you can deal with rain. You can’t deal with thunderstorms. 

You let out a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down. The absolute last thing you need to do is work yourself into a panic attack and get Spencer involved. You don’t think you could take the embarrassment. 

You attempt to go back to your book. You’d just arrived at Mr. Collins’ unsuccessful marriage proposal, but you can hardly focus. It doesn’t help when lightning illuminates your room once again, a clap of thunder sounding even quicker after, and your lamp flickers for a moment. This is actually the last thing you need—for the power to go out. 

A knock on your door suddenly sounds, and you nearly jump out of your skin. You’re already on edge and the storm’s just barely started. You hear Spencer call your name and ask if you’re awake, and you clear your throat before you respond. 

“What do you want?” You try to keep your voice as level as possible, but it wavers ever so slightly. 

“Can I come in?” 

You don’t want him to see you like this. “Is there something wrong?” 

“It’s the storm,” he says, and he doesn’t wait for you to respond. “I’m coming in.”

You have all of two seconds to make sure you don’t look as pathetic as you feel before Spencer walks in.

He looks like he just got out of bed. He’s wearing a Caltech crewneck and sweatpants, and his glasses are about to fall off his face. His disheveled appearance is in stark contrast to his usual image, with dress pants and button-ups and sweater vests galore. One of his hands clenches around the doorframe, and he uses the other to haphazardly push his glasses up as he sets his eyes on you.

“You need to come back into the living room,” Spencer says. 

“And good evening to you too.” You try not to look at him. You’ve learned that’s the best policy when it comes to him and those stupid glasses. “Why?”

“Because there’s a storm going on, and the power’s already flickered,” he says. “I don’t want to lose track of you if it does go out.”

“If the power goes out, we’re in the open out there,” you say. “If you’re so worried about it, you should stay in here.”

You expect a fight, but he just sighs and sits down in the chair across from your bed. “Fine.”

You frown. “That was easy.”

“I don’t feel like fighting with you over every little thing,” he says simply. “You might enjoy it, but I don’t. So I’m trying to take the path of least resistance.”

“That’s no fun,” you say.

“Well, you’re not very fun to be around,” Spencer says. He glances at you for a split second before his gaze goes back to the wall. “So.”

“Well, neither are you!” You don’t mean for your retort to come out so defensively, and you cringe as he looks back at you. It’s impossible to be around profilers without them knowing your every intent. You’d hate to know all the thoughts he’s had about you. “I might turn everything into a fight, but you turn everything into a drag.” 

“You’re doing it again,” he says. You expect him to go on, but he leaves it that. You find your brows furrowing deeper. 

“And?” 

“Maybe if you recognize your patterns, you’ll stop,” he says. “Sometimes people don’t realize they're doing something until it’s pointed out to them.” 

You huff. “How many times do I have to tell you not to psychoanalyze me?” 

“I don’t choose to do it,” Spencer says. You don’t miss the slight bite behind his words, and it almost makes you smile. As much as he doesn’t want to give you a fight, he can’t really help himself. You tend to bring out the worst in people. “It just happens in my brain automatically.” 

“Try to hold back,” you say. “It—”

Your words die in your throat with another crash of thunder, almost simultaneous with the lightning. It shakes the whole house, and you can’t help the full body flinch that wracks you, almost freezing completely. The power flickers again, and then it goes out altogether. You don’t even hold back your groan of annoyance. 

“Of course,” you grit out. “Of fucking course.” 

“Are you okay?” You look at him despite yourself, and even in the dark you can see the concern in his eyes. It makes your hands clench into fists beneath the sheets.

“Fine,” you mutter. “It doesn’t matter.”

Spencer frowns. “Of course it does.”

You scoff. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Why would it not matter?” he asks incredulously. “You— you’re clearly distressed, and holding it back isn’t helping anyone.” 

“Maybe I just like silence.” 

“Well, you clearly don’t like storms.” 

“How’d you figure that one, genius?” you mutter. You wrap your arms around yourself and pull your knees up to your chest, trying to lessen the sudden chill you feel. 

“...Normally, I would give you a real answer,” Spencer says. “But based on the lecture you just gave me—” 

“You figured right,” you snap. It only takes a second—and those stupid, soft eyes of his to dart away again—for you to feel… bad. 

He sighs and shakes his head as he stands up. “I’m going to get a candle. Stay put.” 

You tense as he walks out. Your whole body does, actually. You don’t know what it is about him or those stupid eyes that always manage to skirt out sympathy from you. 

You should feel gratified. At the start of this, you wanted to push Spencer to his limits—he’s too nice for his own good, and you wanted him to not only give you a more concrete reason to hate him, but get a reason to hate you back. Then you wouldn’t have to deal with this one-sided rivalry with the apparent saint of the BAU. 

But you don’t. You feel bad, and you hate it. You hate it more than any reasonable person should, but then again—you’ve never been reasonable. 

Spencer comes back in sooner rather than later, two lit candles in his hands. You can see the on-sale sticker plastered on the side of both, and you suppress a laugh. It’s something so small but so typical. 

“One’s vanilla, and one is,” he squints as he shifts it in his hand to read, “beach escape. What does a beach escape even smell like?” He shakes his head, then looks at you. “Which one do you—” 

“I’m sorry,” you interrupt. You blurt it out before you can even stop yourself. 

This time, it’s Spencer’s turn to frown. His face is illuminated from beneath by the candlelight and it gives him an almost haunting beauty, highlighted with yellow and white along his jawline and cheekbones. The flames are mirrored in the lenses of his glasses. “For what?” 

“For snapping.” You almost snap at him again out of instinct, and you let out a long, loose sigh in an effort to try and chill out for once. “Sorry. Again.” 

“Oh.” He stands there for a moment holding the two candles, and it could be a laughable sight were you not near consumed with guilt. “Uh— it’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

“Fine,” he says, “it’s not. Which candle do you want?” 

“Which one do you want?” 

“This isn’t where you have to start the ‘being nice to me’ thing,” Spencer says. “They’re kind of starting to burn my hands.” 

“Beach escape,” you say. He nods and sets it on your bedside table, then sits back down in his chair after placing the vanilla one in the window sill. 

“You… seem a little pent up,” Spencer says after letting the silence dwell for a beat. His shoulders have relaxed some, not hunched up almost to his ears. Small victories, at least.

“I don’t talk about my emotions much,” you respond in equal fashion. “It’s not really my thing.” 

He shrugs. “Why not start now?” 

You laugh. “Why would I ever start now?” 

“You said it yourself,” he says. “I have a psychology degree. I’m a good listener.”

“You interrupt me all the time to say stuff.”

“You interrupt me all the time too, so I guess we’re even.” Spencer shifts in his chair. “Besides, I can listen when it’s important. And this is.”

You stare at him. He stares back. 

He has beautiful eyes even in the dark, and you hate that you can’t deny it. Deep brown like the oaks surrounding this place, that shine like pools of honey in the firelight, that always seem to soften just so when he looks at you.

You break first. You have to look away. You always have to look away. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” you manage. “I was a latchkey kid. Storms happened a lot when I was home alone and they scared me. I guess they still do. Happy?” 

“Believe it or not, your pain doesn’t make me happy,” Spencer says. 

“I didn’t think it did,” you say, trying your best to snap. 

He nods. “So we’re in agreement?” 

“I—” you pause, a slight frown creasing your brows. “I guess.” 

Spencer nods again, and he leans forward a bit. “Wasn’t that a lot better than fighting with me, getting upset, and isolating yourself?” 

You scowl. “Don’t you dare therapize me.” 

“It’s hard not to,” Spencer says. “Especially when you seem determined to make our conversations one-sided.” 

You scoff. “I do not.” 

“You act like talking to me is a physical pain.” He crosses his arms. “You locked yourself in the bathroom last night to avoid talking to me.” 

“I locked myself in the bathroom so I wouldn’t lose my mind in front of you,” you say. “Just because I know everything about you doesn’t mean I want you to know everything about me.” 

Spencer scoffs. “You don’t know everything about me.”

“My dad talks about you more than you think,” you say. “About your whole team—but especially you.”

“Where am I from?” he asks. 

“Vegas,” you say. “He mentions it every time you beat him at cards.”

“That— that doesn’t really matter,” he says. “I know you’re from Fairfax.” 

“The worst place in the world,” you say emphatically. You can’t believe you’ve been stuck in NoVa your whole life. “Doesn’t count, though. You’re an FBI agent—you’re supposed to know things like this.” 

“So it counts when you know it, but it doesn’t count when I do?” Spencer asks. 

You nod. “I’ve heard about Penelope Garcia. I’m more surprised you don’t know everything about me by now.” 

“Me too,” he says. “Garcia can find anything. Gideon really did a good j—” 

He stops in the middle of his sentence, his eyes widening slightly as he clamps his mouth shut. 

“What?” You lean forward, looking him in the eye. “He did a good job doing what?” 

“I don’t want to start another argument,” he says. 

“Oh, poor you.” You don’t think you could sound more sarcastic if you tried. “You don’t want to hear me talk about my absent father that didn’t have time for me because he was too busy with you.” You glance away. “You don’t know what it feels like.” 

“There’s something you don’t know about me then,” Spencer says. “Because I do.” 

“Unless your dad’s ignored you all his life in favor of his job and the stray genius he found there, you really don’t.” 

“My dad left when I was a kid because he couldn’t deal with my mom’s schizophrenia,” Spencer retorts. His words get you to look right back at him—they’re not overly sharp or exceedingly soft, just matter-of-fact. “I haven’t seen him since. So you’re right—I don’t know exactly what it’s like, but I know a hell of a lot more than you think.” 

Regret hits you immediately, sour and spiny as it settles in your chest. You’ve been an asshole to him this whole time, and all along he’s held this inside of him? All along, you’ve been accusing him of stealing your life from you when he’s lost more than you have. 

For a moment, you can only stare at him, at a loss for words. He meets your eyes in equal measure. You might know a lot about Spencer Reid, but you’re quickly realizing you don’t know Spencer Reid. 

“Guess we’re a lot more similar than you thought,” he says in your silence. 

“I’m so sorry, Spencer,” you murmur, finally managing to muster up words. “That’s awful. You didn’t deserve that.” 

“No one does,” he shrugs. This time, he’s the one to look away. “But it is what it is.” 

“How can you just say that?” you ask. You lean forward, a frown creasing your brows. “How are you not just— just angry all the time? That your dad doesn’t give a fuck about you or your mom?” 

“For a while, I was.” He chuckles, but there’s no heart in it. “I was angry at everyone. My dad, my mom, the adults around me— I hated myself most of all. It’s part of the reason I was so good in school. I didn’t want to think about it, I didn’t want to deal with it, so I studied as hard as I could, read as much as humanly possible.” He smiles thinly at nothing in particular. “Turns out I’m very good at avoiding things when I want to.” 

You shake your head with a scoff. “You’re a better person than I am. I would have hunted him down by now and given him a piece of my mind.” 

“It’s not worth it.” Spencer looks back at you. “He decided he didn’t want to be a part of my life. I’m not going to reward him by letting him ruin it when he’s not even here.” 

Is that what you’re doing? Letting your dad ruin your life by letting him occupy every part of it even when he’s not there? He’s influenced every part of your life, every part of you, and he hasn’t been here for half of it. Sometimes you’re surprised he didn’t miss your birth.

Another flash of lightning, another crack of thunder. You tense every muscle in your body to stop yourself from flinching as hard in front of Spencer. You think he notices anyway.  

“I’ve been angry at my dad since I was a kid,” you say once you’ve recovered. “He missed my dance recitals and my gymnastics meets and my soccer games, but he signed the checks for all of the payments. He told me to take honors and AP classes and missed the ceremonies for the awards. He was never there for anything that mattered, but—” you laugh again, and you blink back the tears— “but he waited until I was eighteen to get a divorce so I wouldn’t have to deal with a custody battle.” 

You bite down hard on your lip to force them back even harder as you look at Spencer. “Isn’t that fucked up? Neither of them have been there for us, but they’ve still shaped every part of us with their absence. We can’t escape it even when they’re not here, because them not being here is what caused it.” 

“I refuse to give him that much power,” Spencer says. “My dad left. He chose to leave. He doesn’t want anything to do with me, so I don’t want anything to do with him. I mean, I’m an FBI agent. I work with some of the best profilers in the world. I could find him if I wanted to, but I’m not going to waste my time chasing some pipe dream of a father that doesn’t exist.” 

“Your situation is different, though.” Both his eyes and tone soften, and something inside you stirs. “The only break I know Gideon’s taken was that six month medical leave that was practically forced on him. I think it would take an actual, life-threatening injury to get him to take another one. It’s a lot different having someone around and just… being neglected.”

“I’ve just always felt like such an asshole for it,” you mutter. “You all save lives every day. You’ve taken down a thousand sick criminals.” You shake your head with another mirthless laugh. “My dad saves women like me every day, gives them the chance to see their fathers again, and I’m mad at him because— because he won’t meet me for brunch? Because he missed my school band concerts?” 

“It’s not that simple,” Spencer says. “It’s never that simple. You don’t need to feel bad for hating him, but you also don’t need to feel bad for loving him, too.” 

You scoff. “There you go again with the psychology degree.” 

“It’s the truth,” he says. “Just because you feel rightfully angry doesn’t mean you don’t still love him. It’s part of the reason why you’re so conflicted about him.” He gave you a wry smile. “It makes everything a lot more complicated, doesn’t it?”

You shift in your bed. “Far cry from everything you told me before all this started.” 

“We see completely different sides of Gideon,” Spencer says. “I’m just… ashamed that it took me so long to believe you about all of it.” 

You huff a laugh. “I’m the one that should be ashamed. I thought you had this— this perfect life, with my dad loving you on top of it. That’s why I hated you so much.” 

He perks up. “Hated? As in, past tense? As in, you don’t hate me anymore?” 

You try to bite back your smile. You barely succeed. “Call it a truce.” 

Spencer grins and nudges his glasses back into place once again. “This might be my favorite truce since 1914.” 

“Christmas Truce,” you nod. “Good one.” 

“You know it?”

“Of course I do,” you say. “I’m a teacher.” 

Spencer blinks. “You— you are?” 

“Why is that such a surprise?” you ask. 

“You’re so…”

“Mean to you?” You chuckle. “Trust me, I’m not like this with my kids. My job is one of the parts of my life that I’m actually happy with.” 

“...Huh.” Spencer smiles at you, and you find yourself smiling back, subconsciously. “You should tell me about it sometime.”

“Sure,” you nod. “Maybe you can tell me about everything you do sometime.” 

“You’re sure you won’t get bored?” he asks. “You might not realize, but I have a tendency to rant.” 

You laugh. “Part of our truce.” 

This time, he nods. “Cool. That— that’s cool.” 

You roll your eyes as you look away, but your smile betrays you once again. Your gaze snaps over to the lamp as it flickers back on, and you realize you haven’t heard any thunder in a while. 

“Looks like the storm’s passed.” Spencer separates two of the window blinds with his fingers and peers through. You’ve never really focused on his hands like you do now—with the way you feel your face burn, it’s probably a good thing. You look away as soon as possible. “Just rain, now.” 

“Good,” you say, and you let out a yawn. “All our talking tired me out.” 

“Good,” he echoes as he picks his candle up from the window pane. “You should get eight hours of sleep a night, and I know for a fact you don’t.” 

You roll your eyes. “Whatever, professor.” 

“You’re the teacher here,” he says. “I should be saying that to you.” 

“And yet you’re so much more annoying than I could ever be,” you muse. 

“Does our truce include this?” 

“Naturally.”

Spencer chuckles and shakes his head. He starts walking to the doorway, but you speak up before he can leave. 

“Night, Spencer.” You pause as you bite the inside of your lip, then continue before you can stop yourself. “I really enjoyed talking with you.” 

He hesitates for a moment, his hand lingering on the doorframe. Then he bids you goodnight in the same fashion, actually saying your name. “I did too.”

It makes your heart skip a beat. 

Spencer closes the door behind him, and you find yourself staring at the wood long after he’s gone. You jolt when you finally come back into yourself, and you shake your head to get out of the haze. 

You glance at the clock on your bedside table, and blink when you realize it’s almost 1:30. You really do need to get to bed. 

The smoke makes you cough as you blow your candle out, and you wave a hand around to dispel it before you turn the lamp off. You lay down and pull the sheets up around you. You end up having to switch positions at least five times before you start to get comfortable. 

But the strangest thing is plaguing you despite your restlessness. You were freezing before the storm started, even when the electricity was working, but now there’s a strange warmth attempting to permeate within you. It almost helps you relax. 

The room feels a lot smaller without him in it. 

You exhale, long, slow, and deep as you close your eyes. The scent of vanilla lingers in the air.

You hope you don’t dream tonight. 

[fangirlmermaid]

Quinn reading one of your dark romance books and not being able to look you in the eye would be such a good fic omggg

Summary: Quinn read one of your dark romance books by accident and now isn't able to look you in the eye

Warning: Sad Quinn, Lights out Spoliers, Grammar and punctuation mistakes

Note: I originally tried to make this light-hearted but then it kinda took a turn.

I tried my best! Hope you enjoy it!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were out for the day with your sister, hitting up every bookstore Vancouver has to offer.

Leaving Quinn at home bored out of his mind. There was nothing good to watch, he wasn’t in the mood to play video games, and he read every book on his shelf.

That’s when his eyes landed on your bookshelf and the memory of you saying how no one reads the same books as you popped into his head.

Your sister was more into thrillers and mystery books, while you were into romance. Quinn normally didn’t like romance, but hearing the sadness in your voice made him change his mind.

Quinn strolled over to your shelf to look at your book selection. There was some hockey romance (He will 100% bring that up with you).

He was going to read Butcher and Blackbird but according to you, it ruins ice cream.

Then he found something that seemed interesting. He remembered it was one of your favorites, Lights Out. He remembered that it was a stalker romance, which he just assumed was about a stalker who fell in love with a girl but got arrested at the end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had a horrid look on his face, he couldn’t believe the chapter he just read.

Josh stabbed the bed with a knife and told Aly to ride it

AND SHE DID IT?!

Quinn would never judge you, especially about the things that you like but holy shit what the fuck!

Were you into this? 

Did you have a mask kink? Were you afraid that he would shame you?

Quinn's ears perked up when the front door unlocked. Panicked, he shoved the book behind the throw pillow and tried to act casual.

“Hi, lovey.” You smiled, closing the door behind you. Quinn saw bags and bags of books. He wondered how many books you had and now bought like Lights Out.

“Hi, baby,” Quinn mumbled, keeping his eyes on the floor. He couldn’t look at you. It wasn’t because he was mad that you read smut; you didn’t need his permission. So what was it? Was he feeling guilty that he wasn’t satisfying you?

“Quinny?”

Your voice pulled Quinn out of his thoughts “Hmm” he hummed looking up at the bookshelf you stood next to, hoping you didn’t notice. “Are you okay?” you asked knitting your eyebrows together, Quinn nodded as his mind replayed the knife scene.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you finished showing him all the books you got, you noticed his eyes were on the ceiling. Your stomach churned, did something happen when you were out? Was he mad at you?

You sat down next to him “You sure you're okay?” you asked staring at his side profile. Quinn sat frozen looking straight at the TV “Lovey?” you whispered raking your fingers through the ends of his head “Hmm” was all he was able to say “Look at me” you mumbled grabbing his chin and making him look at you.

His eyes landed on the top of your head, “did something happen while I was gone?” you asked, Quinn shook his head “Did I do something wrong?” Quinn shook his profusely.

Quinn gone mute was making your heart sink, he normally was so open with how he was feeling with you. You cupped his cheek “Baby, What’s wrong? You’re scaring me” you mumbled, your thumb stroking his cheek hoping this would do the trick.

Quinn kissed the pad of your thumb before leaning your touch, “Are you not satisfied?” Quinn mumbled softly you almost missed it, you tilted your head “What do you mean?” you wondered. Quinn finally looked at you “I remembered you saying that no one reads the same books as you…” Quinn started to explain, (your heart stopped, hoping he chose one of your PG-rated books). He grabbed the book he hid “And you were sad…so I wanted to read one so you had someone” Quinn explained placing Lights Out in your free hand.

You would feel butterflies if you weren’t so horrified, why couldn’t he have picked one of your hockey romance books? The book was the final piece of the puzzle to understand why he wouldn’t look at you and what he meant by satisfied. “Lovey, that was very sweet of you to do” You smiled, absolutely no one would read the books you would recommend no matter how hard you tried to convince them. You placed the book on the empty cushion next to you.

“Quinny, I am satisfied I promised”

“You sure?”

“100%”

“So I don’t need to start wearing a mask?”

You chuckled, Quinn would go above and beyond to make you happy. You tucked his hair behind his ear “No, I would miss looking at your handsome face” You assured, which seemed to perk him up.

Though the idea of him wearing a mask was hot

Quinn pressed a kiss to your forehead, “Lovey, next time you try to read one of my books just ask for my opinion” You added gazing at him, “Like your hockey romance books?” Quinn teased, you playfully smacked his chest pretending to be annoyed but your smile gave you away.

[omgfangirlland]

The Shadows That Nurture 2

Hii! Here is the second chapter. I will post the chapters when the next one is either 50% or 90-100% ready, based on how long it has been. Hope you enjoy!

previous<< Chapter 2 >>next(tbc)

Breakfast became awkward as soon as you shyly walked in, hunger beating the desire to stay hidden in your room- in hindsight, maybe you should have. They were chatting so eagerly, laughing. You wanted that too but as soon as you peeked through the door the noise stopped. It was like the first day of kindergarten. Lonely, your palms were sweating with anxiety, and- and you missed your mom.

You tried introducing yourself to Richard, but you were met with a hum and one singular glance, no interest from the older boy, your supposed brother. Bruce- you’d rather him not look at you at all. It was like he was trying to read your mind and dissect it.

By the time you had it in you to speak again, to try and create some bonds, it seemed like they couldn’t get away fast enough. They both looked so tired. You’d think they would have taken their time. Your eyes meet Alfred’s icy blues once the room is empty.

“Do they hate me?... Did I do something wrong?” Alfred’s whole body flinched at the question, unseen by the untrained eye. The old man felt pity, a bit of guilt for the way he, himself, acted. But the mask of indifference he’s been trained for years to keep took its place once more.

With a gentle hand, he did his best to soothe her worries. Bruce could never hate a kid, Alfred was sure… He hoped he was. Alfred shook his head- no, he shouldn’t doubt his child- Master Bruce. He shouldn’t doubt Master Bruce like that. He knows better. The old man cleared his throat. “Here, young miss. Master Bruce wanted you to have this. Just like Master Dick has.” His explanation of what and how to use the little black card and the modern phone came just as quickly as his try at making connections between the two kids.

“Giving a kid unsupervised access to so much money and the internet sounds like a bad idea.” Your mumbling made Alfred’s lip twitch. It was and he said as much, but it was what Master Bruce wanted, and what he wanted he got… usually.

And with that, Alfred left too. You understood why he left; he seemed to be the only employee. Taking care of such a big house all on your own must take all day, and to have to cook as well… Poor man, Bruce mustn’t like him very much either. He was old, ancient to your five-year-old self, maybe you could help with something.

After finishing your meal, you take the dishes and carefully put them in the sink. You wanted to wash them but sadly, the counter was taller than you. Instead, you focused on cleaning the table and pushing the chairs back into their place.

Bruce must have gone to work, and Richard to school. Your brows furrowed and your lips stuck out in a pout. You were supposed to go to kindergarten. Neither of the adults seemed worried about that, and you didn’t know how to get there either, so it must be a deliberate choice. Maybe it was closed. Or maybe they forgot.

Your feet carried you across the manor, from the withered garden to the many floors of the cold house, relying on the whispers from the shadows to know what door you can open, and which way you should go. They were leading you in a specific direction, you knew, but what else could you do but listen? Not like you had anything else to do or anywhere to be.

You stopped as soon as the shadows stopped whispering. The overlapping murmuring going silent made the room feel colder, and yet your amazement at the object before your eyes filled you with the warmth and hope you needed to survive another day. It was a simple thing, a painting.

A couple, a woman sitting on a chair and a man standing tall beside her. The position on any other would seem imposing, controlling even, but the hand on her shoulder wasn’t gripping her. It was a tender caress of care that reflected in the man’s face as a gentle smile and his eyes fixated on the woman, his wife. The painter did a great job of portraying the love and softness the man held for his beloved, as they did for the warmth in her smile and mischievously happy gleam in her eyes.

She was beautiful, full of life. Her dress was silky white. Must have been painted on the day of their wedding. She was the perfect picture of elegance as beautiful, shining pearls adorned her neck and the bottom of her dress, and yet… Her eyes seemed as sad as they were happy. She probably missed her mami too. You couldn’t imagine marrying someone and leaving your mom, but then again, you’re young and idealistic, dreaming of things that cannot be anymore.

You sat there for what felt like hours, taking in every little detail you could. You wanted to do this, to paint, to draw, to have your art hung for generations to see. Maybe you could fix the garden as well. Make it a beautiful background for your art, and a little something to make you feel useful. Now… how do you get back to your room?

The shadows seemed to giggle at how your demeanor soured once you realized how lost you actually were. Nevertheless, once they had their fun, they led you back to where you needed to be, gently nudging your tired little self back into the walls of your room. All that walking exhausted you so much, a nap was long overdue- you were sure they’d wake you up for lunch or dinner.

They never did. You woke up at one in the morning, more tired than when you went to sleep, and ten times hungrier and colder. Maybe they didn’t have dinner? The trash in the bin and half-chopped veggies in the fridge told a different story. It seems you’ll have to fend for yourself once more.

Tag List: @bat1212

[pastafossa]

"Love Leaves A Mark" (Matt Murdock x F!Reader, Fic, Pure Fluff)

I've been working on this for a bit to celebrate the release of our older Born Again!Era Matt, and happily I can say this one's now done, which means I can finish up another little oneshot I have and then get back around to The Red Thread's next chapter. This is written with TRT!Reader in mind, but I also tried to write it vaguely so it's easy enough to enjoy even if you haven't read that massive saga. Also if you'd like notifications when I post a new story, drabble, or chapter, you can follow my sideblog @pastaxandria and set it for notifications!

Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Wordcount: 3.8k

Warnings for this fic: None that I know of, they're just being cute and in love as they grow old together. There ARE some vague physical changes described that are standard in aging but that feels pretty normal.

Fic Summary: You and Matt are growing older together, and you're both loving every second of it, including the physical changes that come with it.

“Did you get more toothpaste today?” you called sleepily, lifting one leg to idly scratch at your calf with your foot. You worked your toothbrush over to the other side of your mouth, wrinkling your nose at the taste. Nine years you’d been using your husband’s toothpaste and you’d never gotten used to the flavor, or lack thereof. You’d be damned if you didn’t use it regardless, though. “And Mini’s food?”

“Picked up both.” The low rumble of his voice was sleepy and distracted as it drifted out of the bedroom. Outside the little brownstone you both now called home, the snow continued to fall in thick, heavy flakes, muffling the roar of the wind and the few cars still out on the street despite the late hour and travel ban. You were grateful for that storm. In all the time you’d been with him you’d never had a problem with the Devil’s nightly rounds. Loving Matt meant loving Daredevil, too. But you still treasured evenings like these when he was able to stay in with you, your purring, cuddly husband happily playing the role of your favorite blanket. “I may have also stopped at the bookstore and gotten you something on the way home.”

You paused, shifting your gaze meaningfully toward the open bathroom doorway. You probed curiously at the psychic connection between you, a subtle attempt to discern what it was he’d picked up for you. All you got was a playful nudge back. He didn’t even have to try all that hard anymore, smoothly deflecting you with all the ease of swatting away a pillow.

“I don’t think so, sweetheart.” His voice was an amused whisper in your mind. “You’ll have to figure it out the old-fashioned way.” 

You scrubbed faster at your teeth, grinning at his laugh in the other room. 

“I don’t know how you have any gums left considering how often you do that,” he mused as you leaned down to rinse your mouth out. You quickly shoved your toothbrush back into the penguin-shaped toothbrush holder before flipping off the light and padding out of the bathroom. 

“The benefits of genetic tampering,” you said dryly, joining him in the bedroom. He was already settled into bed, sitting up with his back against the headboard, a well-worn book beneath his hand. Down atop his blanket-covered feet, a large, round black void of fur had arranged itself into a perfect circle, no head or tail to be seen. Matt tipped his head as he tracked your eager circling of the room, the barest little smirk quirking his lips. You scanned around for anything new, hunting along the walls and the bookshelves that had managed to migrate their way into the bedroom once your shared office slash library had gotten too full. Books had a tendency to breed like rabbits between you and Matt. “Where?” “Your nightstand. I figured you’d probably want to dive in.”

You darted over towards your nightstand.

“No way,” you breathed, sitting down on your side of the bed and snatching up the first of the three new hardbacks he’d placed on your nightstand. “This one—I thought it was going to take another week at least before they released it. How did you…?” “I kept checking with Hanna every time I passed by her bookstore.” He cleared his throat as you flipped open your new copy of Dante’s Divine Comedy to a random page, the much-loved scent of new paper and ink filling your nose. “Eventually she took pity on me and finally let me buy this one early with cash. Although she wasn’t sure why you wanted this one when you have so many other translations already.” 

“It’s Palma’s new translation,” you murmured distractedly, dragging your finger down the flowing lines of poetry, your eyes skimming rapidly over the page. You could already spot some of the changes. “I have the first translation he did of the Inferno, but this is the first time he’s done the entirety of the Divine Comedy, and he’s tweaked his previous translation. It’s supposed to mimic the rhyming scheme Dante created more closely. Not easy when you’re shifting it from Italian to English. Dad’s going to have kittens when he hears the Devil got me my copy before he got his.”

Even without looking at him, you could feel Matt’s smug satisfaction. “You should call him so I can hear him swear.” “Call him yourself if you want to rub it in.” You snorted in amusement at Matt’s neverending desire to goad your adoptive father Ciro, who admittedly had a habit of goading back. At the very least their jabs had become less hostile over the years, the two of them now closer to sparring partners than actual enemies. You leaned over to look at the other two books Matt had gotten you, your brows shooting up. “And you got me Emily Wilson’s translations of the Illiad and the Odyssey? You’re spoiling me, husband dearest.” “You said last month you were thinking about picking them both up. I figured I’d check if they were there.” There was a rustle of blankets behind you, and a slightly irritated, ‘mrrp?’, presumably as Matt adjusted his feet beneath the fuzzy black hole curled up atop them. “Consider it an early anniversary gift.” “Not that I’m not grateful, but you and I both know it’s January, dear.” You set Dante back down atop the stack of books before swiveling on the bed to face Matt. You started crawling across the mountain of blankets and silk sheets toward his grinning form. “Our anniversary is months away.” “The anniversary of our first kiss, then.” His smile only grew wider when you reached him and threw your leg over him to sit astride his waist. It was something he welcomed as he always did, his hands setting aside his book immediately in favor of you. He slid his palms warmly up and down the fleece covering your thighs, pausing here and there to knead at the muscle just because he could. It never seemed to matter that he’d touched you a thousand times before. He treated every moment like this as if it were the first. “A few hardbacks are the least you deserve.” “Lines like that make me want to marry you.” You sighed, draping your arms comfortably over his broad shoulders, lifting one hand to idly card your fingers through his dark hair. He hummed beneath your touch, tilting his head openly into the fond drag of your fingers like a big cat. “Buying a woman hardbacks? In this economy? Put a ring on me, Mr. Murdock.”

“Now Mrs. Murdock, how would your husband feel about you saying things like that?” His voice was a playful purr, words thick and glutted thanks to the drag of your nails. You were pretty sure his eyes had rolled back behind his closed eyes. “He’d, mmm, hunt me down until his dying breath if I laid so much as a finger on you. As for me, my wife is… not inclined to let me go gently.” 

“You’re goddamn right I’m not.” You sprawled out against his chest, dipping your head. He met you halfway, touching his lips to yours. You gave him a warm, lazy kiss, faint traces of copper and cinnamon passed from his smiling mouth to yours. The familiar taste of him, the softness of his skin, the sweet warmth of his breath in your mouth soothed you in a way little else could, and you drew him deep into you on a slow inhale, humming against his lips. His chest rumbled contentedly beneath you in response, his hands sliding up from your thighs to squeeze and rub affectionately your hips. “And don’t you ever forget it.”

“Never,” he murmured against your mouth, chasing after you to steal another kiss when you tried to lift your head. You ran your fingers through his hair again, sighing at the soft, playful brush of his tongue against your lips, giving it a mischievous nip of your own that made him rumble another pleased noise beneath you. His voice dropped further, all lazy warmth and possessive hunger, shades of the Devil coloring the edges like a painter’s brush. “Mm, my wife, all mine.”                                     “Your wife,” you agreed fondly. “One who’s cut people before and will happily do it again if it keeps you safe.”

“Your services are very much appreciated.”

“They should be since I fully intend to sit in a pair of rocking chairs with you one day in our old age.” You brought your hand around to scratch your fingers lightly through the coarseness of his beard, making him groan breathlessly in delight, his back arching just a little beneath you. He’d been letting his beard grow in for the past week or so. You were unsure if it was by choice or if it was simply that he’d felt too busy to take the time to shave. It had been a while since you’d last seen him with a full beard, though, a few years at least. And to your pleasant surprise, there were a few changes. Your fingers petted curiously over the small patches of silver scattered around. “I’ve even kept you alive long enough that you’ve got grey here in your beard now. That’s new.” His brows rose in surprise, his eyes fluttering open where they’d fallen closed. “Really?”

“Yup. It’s very handsome.” You stroked at the prickly grey strands before your hands slid back and up to his temples, tracing the few strands of grey there just as affectionately. His cheeks had even turned the tiniest bit pink at your praise. “Some here, too. Just a little at your temples. You gonna be my silver fox, Matt?” “I guess so. That’s what I get for letting you pet all the color out over nine years.” He heaved a great sigh beneath you as if his care sheet instructions didn’t specify he get at least ten minutes of petting each day, without which he would wilt away. “You made me look old.” “Oh please. You don’t look old. You look human.” Your fingers left his hair so you could poke him pointedly in the chest. He threw you a wounded look, all furrowed brow and big sad eyes that you weren’t falling for even a little. “Also, you gave yourself those grey hairs, thank you very much. You’re the most stressed man I’ve ever met. Half of what you put yourself through would have turned anyone else’s hair white by now.”

“Fine. I’ll admit that I may have done… a few things that were somewhat stress—” “Got a building dropped on you. Fought Nobu in tissue paper. Got shot in the head. Used a neti pot to snort some fucking rusty tap water full of amoebas and tiny shrimp—”

“That last one still really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

“You have no idea. One day I’m going to kiss you and taste brain shrimp, I just know it.”

He snorted. “You say that like I don’t have my own list of all the things you’ve done that have almost given me a heart attack.”

“Alright, so my list is also… a bit long.” You tilted your head, watching his eyes shift absently around. After so many years with you, he was no longer self-conscious about letting you watch his eyes this closely, much to your delight. In the low light of the bedroom, his eyes were a soft, dark brown rather than the green or grey they could shift to during the day. Beautiful as always, especially with the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes, lines that now seemed permanent even when he wasn’t smiling. You brushed your thumb over a few of those lines, your playful tone falling away into something more serious. “What if I like it, though? These parts of you that are getting older? Like these laugh lines.”

He furrowed his brow pitifully. “Now you’re telling me I’m wrinkly, too?”

“Oh, fuck you!” you huffed, his body shaking beneath you as he laughed. “You know that’s not what I meant. Stop deflecting, I’m serious.”

“I’m know you are, even if you’re telling me I’m a grey, grizzled, wrinkled husk.” He groaned theatrically, rolling his head back. “You should just bury me if I’m that old.”

“Not a chance. Not when I love everything I’m seeing. Like these…” 

You leaned in and planted a kiss on the laugh lines in question, feeling them grow deeper under your lips as he smiled.

“And these…”

Another kiss, this time against one of the grey patches in his beard, making him sigh. 

“...and goddamn do I love all this, too,” you murmured, sitting back so you could drag your hands hungrily down the front of him. There was no part of him you didn’t love, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t just a little obsessed with the dark hair now edging up past his shirt collar—so much of it now that he’d finally given up on shaving his chest and let it all grow back—and the slightly thicker lines of his abdomen and hips, both of them a touch softer than they had been almost a decade ago when you’d first met him. You’d know; you’d been laying on him almost every night for most of that decade, barring a few rough patches and business trips.

“Mrs. Murdock,” he breathed in feigned shock, as if he wasn’t aware of exactly how much you enjoyed both his chest hair and the whole of his body from top to bottom, “are you insinuating something about me?” “You mean like insinuating I’m the reason you now eat regularly and aren’t so dehydrated that I can practically draw a map of your veins by sight?” You squeezed at the meat of his abdomen and hips greedily, your voice growing smug as you kneaded at him. Your touch made him chuckle and squirm beneath you, only drawing more protests from the cat trying to sleep on top of his feet. “Yes. Yes, I am. You’re welcome for the health, by the way. You’re aging like a fine wine, husband dearest. And it makes me happy.” 

His face softened at that, one hand leaving your hips to lay against your sternum. “If your heart wasn’t beating so steadily, I’d say you were just trying to flatter me,” he mused. “But… me getting older really is making you happy, isn’t it?”

“It is. I…” 

You paused for a moment, struggling to put into words what you were feeling. His hand at your hip edged up under your shirt until he could rub his thumb soothingly at your skin, content to wait while you figured out how to say what you wanted to say.

“I think it’s that… there was a time when I wasn’t sure if you’d live long enough for me to see you grow old with me.” You cupped his face in your hands, treasuring the way his eyes fell slowly closed and he leaned into your touch so openly, so easily. It had taken so much work to get him here, where he felt comfortable accepting your love and your affection, but it had been worth every ounce of effort. You traced over his laugh lines again with your thumbs before skipping down to the faint smile lines at the corners of his mouth, a mouth that pursed to kiss your thumb when you swept one over his lips. “But you did. I’m getting to see it. That’s special to me. I want to see that… that you’re still alive, that you’re living long enough for these things to happen. I want to see all these little grey hairs, and wrinkles, and the way your body has gotten a bit softer, because every little piece of you that gets older represents a moment I didn’t know if I’d get with you.”

He drew in a shaky breath before his eyes fluttered slowly open again. And in the dark of his eyes there was such a reverent joy, such a bone-deep love filling their depths that it almost took your breath away. You’d never tire of seeing it, even if you both lived for another fifty, another hundred, another thousand years, joined in this lifetime and in whatever came next. Religion had nothing on being loved fully, wholly by Matt. 

“I could say the same thing about you,” he breathed, his hand at your sternum sliding up to cradle your neck, thumb sweeping gently over the thin skin above your pulse. He pressed just a little, just enough to tug your skin back and forth. A moment later, he tugged you in until he could feather a kiss against your pulse where his thumb had been, lingering there as you nuzzled into his dark hair. “And spots like right here.”

“What’s changed there?” 

“The texture of your skin. How much it moves when I touch it. I like to think,” he whispered against your throat, “that your skin’s a little looser here now, more worn in, because I’ve stroked at it so much that I’ve changed you permanently. It’s a sign of just how much I’ve touched you, how many times you’ve trusted me and let me put my hands here. It’s never mattered to you how scarred those hands were, how covered in blood. You let my love leave a mark.”

He tightened his other hand against your hip next, taking hold of the curves that had changed as you’d journeyed through the years with him. “And you’re softer now, too, just like me.” From there he smoothed his hand affectionately upwards over your ribs and up past your breasts, mapping over all of the places your body had begun to show your age like his: stretchmarks and small wrinkles where once skin had been smooth and tight, scars from old battles now faded and ragged with time. The journey his hand took was made with reverence, tender and heavy with intent, his smile so very soft and almost… wondrous. “I may not be able to see you, but I can feel you growing old with me, too, sweetheart. More curves, a few wrinkles. It’s like I can feel your body sinking deeper and deeper into a life with me.”

“That’s what happens when love winds up being your gravity.” You leaned in to kiss his forehead lines. “A decade of being drawn in by you.”

“Mhm. And up here.” He shifted his hand at your throat to cup your face like you had his, his thumb tracing the corners of your eyes. “Laugh lines. Because our life’s made you laugh so much that it changed you. They weren’t there the first time I put my hands here. But they are now. Signs of how happy you are with me. And there are more every year, because you… love me enough to stay.”

“Hey, my Devil-Man,” you whispered, tilting his head up until your forehead could meet yours. He didn’t bother to hide the vulnerability in his eyes, this old wound of his. It was mostly mended now, when it came to you, but sometimes that furrowed scar inside his heart still made him ache. “Do you need me to remind you again? I’m not going anywhere, husband of mine. There’s nowhere you’ll go that I won’t follow.”

“I know.” His eyes fluttered as you stroked at his skin. His arms left your face until he could wind them tighter around you, pulling you in tight against him until his every breath became yours. That seemed to settle him some, the weight of you against his chest, especially when you dropped your head to his shoulder, nuzzling in against his neck. “That’s… that’s just it. With me, you see… moments you didn’t think you’d have because you didn’t think I’d make it. And I didn’t think I’d have this with you, either. A home, wrinkles, greying hair. Not because I didn’t think you’d live long enough, but… but because I never thought I’d find someone who could love me enough to stay this long. To love me this long. Long enough that I could feel you grow old with me.”

“Loving you has never been a chore, Matt.” You breathed in the scent of his skin, soap and the faint copper of blood, traces of cinnamon and just him. It was a scent you knew better than your own. You  lifted your hand to run your knuckles down his cheek, tracking your way through his greying beard, hoping that your touch would help your words sink in. He slid his hands up under the back of your shirt to drag his palms smoothly down your back, comforting himself with the feel of your skin as he tilted his head, listening to your heartbeat. It wasn’t because he thought you were lying, that much you knew. But he’d told you once he found the truth soothing when hearing something that might make him feel otherwise vulnerable. Something like this, this old wound of his, absolutely qualified. “And it never will be, no matter what comes at us. If you need me to remind you of that every day, I will. I’ll tell you that over and over again, until the day we die and get buried in matching coffins.”

“The same coffin,” he said quietly, tipping his head to nuzzle at your temple. “There’s a reason we took ‘Till death do we part’ out of our vows. No parting, even in death.” 

“Do they even sell double coffins? If so, I’m down.” “Even if they don’t, I’ll tell Foggy to make sure I end up in yours with you.” “I think I should end up in yours.” “Why?” “Because everyone will just assume your coffin’s extra heavy due to your goddamn audacity.” He burst out laughing beneath you, his body shaking and almost throwing you off him entirely. “I’m just saying,” you continued, trying not to grin as he choked out more laughter, “you live your life in a very particular way, man without fear. ‘Christ, why is his coffin so heavy?’ And our friends can just say, ‘well, you know, it’s Matt Murdock’ and it’ll explain everything. No one will notice me shoved in underneath you so you can lay on top of me forever.” 

“It’s a date,” he said, still huffing in amusement. A pointed paw tapped at your back before starting a walk up your spine. “Speaking of which, looks like someone’s eager to get in on the cuddling.” “Behold, offer to cuddle and both Matts will appear,” you snorted as roughly twenty pounds of scarred black cat trod his way stubbornly up and onto your shoulder, rasping out an indignant meow that sounded like he’d been smoking a pack a day for the past seven years, because how dare the two of you do this without inviting him. “I’m about to be sandwiched, I think. Hello, Mini-Matt.”

Sure enough, Matt’s smaller clone enthusiastically rammed his head against your temple, making you grunt, before doing the same to Matt’s chin. He was already purring like an old motorcycle engine in a request to get in on what seemed like a nice, cozy cuddle pile, as if Matt would ever turn the cat down. Sure enough, Matt leaned in, planting a kiss to Mini’s big fuzzy forehead before turning and laying a much gentler kiss on yours as Mini draped himself over your shoulder, stretching one paw out to pat Matt's face. “Something tells me you don’t mind, though.”

“Not even a little.” 

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 11

paring; Azriel x reader

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

word count ; 6.7k

Trigger warning; mention of clipping, violence, blood

notes; Hey hey hey, back with this hmm hmm special chapter, surprisingly (or not hehe) I truly enjoyed writing thing one (I'm sorry y/n). Well I'm not going to spoil anything but I hope that you will enjoy that one. Also I had a question because I'm already writing the following chapters, would you rather have a long chapter or two different (with one posted one day and the other the day after) ? Well you guys tell me because i'm struggling a bit haha. See you soon, love you ! (I love soooooo much your comments btw <33333)

Links; part 10

The last day at the palace was filled with bittersweet goodbyes and heartfelt promises. Each healer expressed their gratitude, their voices tinged with emotion as they pledged to stay in touch and continue the work you had all started. Veras, the healer from the Winter Court, clasped your hand firmly, his icy-blue eyes glinting with determination. “Keep pushing forward, Y/N. You always manage to lead us to the right path.”

Even Rordan, the reserved healer from the Autumn Court, offered a rare smile. “We’ll hold up our end of the agreement. Stay safe.”

Amara pulled you into a quick hug, her hazel eyes soft with concern. “Don’t let the weight of it all crush you, Y/N. You’ve got this.”

Lila from the Spring Court, ever vibrant, waved energetically. “Don’t stay away so long this time, alright?”

Lastly, Telyan gave you a steady nod. “The Dawn Court is always open to you. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

The warmth of their words stayed with you as you made your way back to your room to gather your belongings. The setting sun painted the city in hues of gold and orange, casting long shadows across the polished floors. As you finished packing, you paused by the window, drawn to the breathtaking view of Solterra one last time. The bustling city was beginning to quiet, the glow of its lights preparing to welcome the night.

A soft knock on the door startled you, and Azriel stepped inside, his presence commanding yet quiet. His gaze flickered to you and then to the window, where dark clouds were rolling over the distant horizon. “It looks like the Peregrins’ warning was accurate,” he murmured, his voice low. “The winds will be rough on the usual route.”

You nodded, your eyes lingering on the storm clouds. “It’s going to be a detour by the sea, then. Let’s hope it’s calmer there.”

Azriel joined you by the window, both of you staring at the ominous clouds in silence. The moment felt heavy, but not unpleasant. The bond hummed faintly in the background, but you pushed it aside, focusing instead on the task at hand.

“Ready to go?” Azriel finally asked.

“Almost,” you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “Let’s head to the entrance.”

The two of you made your way through the palace’s grand corridors to the main entrance, where Thesan was waiting. His warm smile greeted you, and he stepped forward to clasp your hand. “Safe travels, Y/N. I trust you’ll keep us updated.”

“Of course,” you said with a smile. “Thank you for everything, Thesan.”

His gaze flickered to Azriel, and he extended his hand to him as well. “Safe travels to you too, Shadowsinger. And thank you for watching over her.”

Azriel nodded, his expression polite but distant. “It’s my duty.”

With that, the two of you stepped outside, the crisp evening air brushing against your skin. The city stretched out before you, the pale light of the moon casting an ethereal glow over its winding streets and gleaming spires. Azriel turned to you, his gaze steady. “Ready?”

You nodded, though the prospect of being carried by him again made your stomach flutter with nerves. “Ready.”

He scooped you up with practiced ease, his strong arms securing you against his chest. The bond hummed faintly, a quiet reminder of the connection neither of you spoke of. You tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the sensation of the wind rushing past as Azriel launched into the sky.

The flight was calm despite the warnings, the gentle light of the moon illuminating the path ahead. The vast expanse of the sea shimmered to your left, its waves glinting silver under the celestial glow. Night had fully fallen by the time you broke the silence.

“It’s beautiful out here,” you said softly, your voice carried effortlessly over the wind.

“It is,” Azriel agreed, his tone contemplative. “More than I expected.”

The two of you flew in silence for a while longer, his steady heartbeat under your ear a soothing rhythm. The bond hummed again, but you pushed the feeling aside, unwilling to let it complicate this moment.

When Azriel adjusted his grip slightly, you glanced up at him, catching the faint flicker of a smile on his face as he gazed out over the sea. It was a rare sight, one that made your own lips curve upward despite the tension that had lingered between you.

For now, the world below and the open sky above were enough.

The flight had been calm, serene even, with the moonlight casting its ethereal glow over the endless expanse of the sea below. But just as you were about to comment on how peaceful it was, the first crack of thunder echoed through the sky. The world seemed to shift.

A storm rolled in with a ferocity that took your breath away. The wind howled, whipping rain against your skin in icy sheets, and the sea below churned violently, its waves reaching toward the heavens in jagged crests.

“Azriel...” you began, your voice unsteady as you glanced at him. “Is this—”

And then, everything stopped.

Azriel’s wings, which had been beating powerfully just moments before, froze mid-stroke. The storm itself paused—a thunderclap suspended in the sky, waves frozen mid-crash. Time itself seemed to hold its breath, the silence deafening.

Your heart hammered in your chest as a bone-deep chill swept over you. A presence, ancient and suffocating, made the air feel impossibly heavy. You glanced over Azriel’s shoulder, and your breath caught.

There, in the distance, was a figure—no, a cloud, a mass of shadows and darkness so pure it seemed to absorb all light around it. It wasn’t just death—it was the embodiment of it. The aura it emitted was a promise of annihilation, and your very soul seemed to recoil in its presence.

You wanted to scream, to shake Azriel, to do anything to break whatever spell had gripped the world. But before you could act, you saw something else—arrows. They were suspended in midair, dozens of them, all aimed directly at you and Azriel.

Panic set in. You reached out to Azriel, shaking him desperately. “Azriel! Wake up! Please!” But he remained still, unresponsive, his wings unmoving as though he were a statue.

Your powers surged within you, raw and untamed. You didn’t know how to control them fully, but you didn’t care. A flash of light erupted from your hands, desperate and unrefined, and suddenly, the world roared back to life.

The arrows hurtled toward you with deadly precision, slicing through the air. You barely had time to think. Your hand darted to Azriel’s side, pulling one of his swords free. The blade felt foreign in your hand, but you didn’t hesitate.

You swung with all your might, deflecting the first arrow with a desperate clang that vibrated through your entire arm. The second arrow grazed your shoulder, pain searing as blood blossomed against your skin. The third arrow you managed to divert just inches from Azriel’s wing.

Azriel’s body jolted as time resumed, and his wings beat frantically, his shadows exploding outward in a frenzy. His head whipped around to you, confusion and alarm etched across his face as he took in your disheveled state and the arrows that clattered into the sea below.

“What the—” Azriel began, his instincts kicking in as his shadows swirled defensively around both of you. “What’s happening?”

Azriel’s voice snapped into focus as you both realized the barrage wasn’t over. “Hold on!” he shouted, his wings beating frantically to dodge the incoming arrows. “We need to go down, now!”

You didn’t hesitate, gripping his shoulder to balance yourself as he angled sharply downward, the wind howling past you both. But the next volley of arrows was relentless. Two found their mark, piercing Azriel’s shoulder and causing him to let out a guttural growl of pain. One scraped across your cheek, leaving a sharp sting, before another embedded itself in your shoulder, the force nearly knocking you loose.

The shock of the impact made your body jerk, and you gasped, clutching at Azriel as he faltered in the air. “Y/N!” he called, his voice strained with both pain and desperation, but his hold slipped as your strength gave out.

You fell.

The rush of air around you was deafening, the world spinning wildly as you plummeted. Pain bloomed in your back as three arrows found their mark, their sharp points slicing through muscle and bone. You screamed as your body twisted uncontrollably in freefall. Above, Azriel’s shout of panic was drowned out by the roar of the storm, and you saw him struggling to stabilize himself. An arrow tore through one of his wings, the force sending him spiraling after you.

The sea rushed up to meet you, and the impact stole every ounce of air from your lungs. You plunged deep into the icy water, your body screaming in protest as the salt stung your wounds. The weight of the arrows and the force of the fall left you disoriented, the dark depths pulling at you as you struggled to make sense of up and down.

Forcing your limbs to move, you clawed your way toward the surface, your chest burning with the need for air. You broke through with a gasp, the storm still raging above. Waves crashed violently around you, and the rain made it almost impossible to see.

“Azriel!” you called, your voice hoarse and barely audible over the tempest. A moment later, he surfaced a few feet away, his wings dragging heavily in the water. His face was pale, his expression both pained and frantic as he swam toward you.

“You—are you—” His words were broken by gasps for air, his golden eyes scanning you with a mixture of fear and determination. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t worry about me,” you managed, your voice trembling but resolute. “I’ll survive.” You gestured weakly toward his shoulder and the ragged tear in his wing. “But you—”

“Fucking faebane arrows,” Azriel spat, his tone laced with frustration as he glanced at his injuries. His shadows flickered weakly around him, their usual strength noticeably absent. “They’ve nullified everything. I can’t... I can’t fly.”

Before either of you could say more, a monstrous wave rose behind you, its crest curling ominously as it towered over your heads. “Azriel!” you screamed, the sound ripping from your throat as the wave crashed down with brutal force.

The impact was like being slammed by stone. Water closed over you, spinning you in its unforgiving depths. When you finally surfaced again, coughing and gasping, you were farther from Azriel than before.

“Y/N!” His voice carried over the storm, laced with urgency. He was swimming toward you, his strokes powerful despite his injuries.

You fought to stay afloat, the pain in your back making every movement a struggle. “Azriel!” you called, your voice weak but determined as you tried to close the distance between you.

The storm showed no mercy, the waves tossing you both like rag dolls. When you finally managed to get close enough, you saw the fear etched into Azriel’s face. It mirrored your own.

“We’re not getting out of this,” he said, his voice low and grim as the sea surged between you. “Not like this.”

“We will,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction. “We have to.”

But the storm’s ferocity didn’t waver, and the reality of your situation settled like a weight in your chest. With no magic, no wings, and no sign of land in sight, the vast, chaotic ocean seemed determined to claim you both.

The relentless assault of smaller waves battered you both, sapping what little strength you had left. Your muscles burned, and every gasp for air felt heavier than the last. Azriel was barely keeping himself afloat, his wings dragging in the water like dead weights. And then, beyond the churning sea, you saw it: a massive wave rising like a wall of destruction, its shadow swallowing everything in its path.

Azriel followed your gaze, and you saw it in his eyes—the change. It wasn’t just fear of the wave’s size or its inevitability. It was something deeper, rawer. A realization, perhaps, that this might be the end. That you might both die here, together. Or maybe it was something more—a dawning understanding of what you were to him. His mate.

But there was no time to dwell. You reached out, grabbing his hand as tightly as you could, your fingers trembling with exhaustion and urgency. “Azriel,” you said, your voice barely audible over the roar of the storm. “Look at me.”

His gaze snapped to yours, the golden glow of his eyes filled with turmoil. You pulled him closer, your hand clutching his with desperate strength as you pressed your foreheads together.

“Trust me,” you whispered, your breath mingling with his. His shadows flickered weakly around you, their touch almost hesitant, as if they, too, feared what was coming. You closed your eyes and began to recite, the ancient words of power tumbling from your lips like a prayer. The language was old, older than you could comprehend, its cadence resonating with something primal, something greater than yourself.

Azriel’s hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his touch hesitant but grounding, his thumb brushing lightly against your hair. His wings twitched weakly in the water, but he stayed focused on you, on your voice.

You began to speak, the ancient words spilling from your lips like a song, like a plea. The language was unfamiliar even to you—something buried deep within, rising now in your moment of need.

The words trembled with power, the sound resonating in the air around you, vibrating through your very bones. Azriel held you tighter, his hand now spanning the small of your back, pulling you closer against him as though to shield you from what was coming.

Azriel tried to keep his focus on you, his hands gripping your arms for stability. But the thunderous sound of the approaching wave was deafening, and the force of its presence was palpable, pressing against the air itself. He could feel it nearing, every second stretching unbearably long. His instincts screamed at him to turn, to face the incoming force, but you held him steady, anchoring him with your voice and your touch.

“Don’t look away,” you murmured, your words a promise as your free hand rested against his cheek, grounding him further. The wave loomed over you both now, its height so monstrous it seemed to touch the heavens. Azriel’s eyes darted toward the towering wall of water, and you saw his grip on you tighten—not in fear of the wave, but in fear of losing you.

His shadows curling weakly around both of you in an almost protective embrace. The wave loomed, impossibly large, and for a moment, you thought you’d failed. You could feel Azriel tense, his wings attempting to fold around you both even in their weakened state.

But then, just as the wave began its descent, the power surged through you. The words reached their crescendo, and the light of the moon flared, not as a shield, but as a portal.

A flash—a blinding, all-encompassing glow—and the icy embrace of the storm disappeared. The roar of the wave faded, replaced by silence and stillness. You and Azriel were gone, ripped from the sea’s grasp, leaving only moonlight in your wake.

The town house was warm and welcoming, a stark contrast to the chill of the winter night outside. The scent of roasted meat and spices wafted through the air, mingling with the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth. The Inner Circle was gathered around the dining table, their laughter and conversation filling the space with a sense of home.

Cassian leaned back in his chair, a half-empty glass of wine in his hand, his brow furrowed as he glanced at Rhysand. “So, when are they coming back?” he asked, his tone casual but with a hint of curiosity. “It’s been days now.”

Rhysand, seated at the head of the table with Feyre beside him, swirled his wine thoughtfully before taking a sip. “They should be on their way back to Prythian by now,” he replied, though his tone wasn’t as confident as his words.

Mor, who was perched on the edge of her chair, arched a golden brow. “Should be? What do you mean, should be?”

Rhys sighed, setting his glass down and rubbing a hand over his face. “I haven’t been able to reach Azriel,” he admitted. “His mental shields are still up, and I can’t get a clear sense of where they are.”

Feyre frowned, her fork hovering over her plate. “That’s... unusual for him.”

“It is,” Rhys agreed, his violet eyes flicking to Cassian. “But Azriel is nothing if not careful. They’re likely taking their time or dealing with unforeseen delays. The journey from the Dawn Court isn’t exactly quick.”

Cassian snorted, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Unforeseen delays, huh? I’d bet my wings they’ve found some trouble along the way. Knowing Az, he’s probably brooding about something, and Y/N is too busy trying to keep him in check.”

Mor chuckled softly, though her eyes reflected a glimmer of concern. “I wouldn’t be surprised. That male has a talent for finding trouble—or letting it find him.”

Amren, who had been silent up until now, set her glass down with a deliberate clink. “Trouble or not, Y/N is more than capable of handling herself. From what I’ve seen, she’s sharper than most. If anything, I’d wager Azriel is the one who’ll be struggling to keep up.”

Cassian grinned, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Here’s to that. Poor Az, stuck with someone who doesn’t let him get away with his usual brooding nonsense.”

Feyre couldn’t help but smile at the banter, though her fingers brushed against Rhysand’s under the table in silent reassurance. “Still,” she said softly, “I hope they’re okay. It’s been a while since we’ve heard anything.”

Rhys nodded, his gaze distant for a moment before he refocused on the group. “They’re both strong. If anyone can handle the unexpected, it’s Azriel and Y/N.”

Mor leaned forward, her chin resting on her hand. “I just hope they’re not killing each other,” she quipped. “Or, you know, that Az hasn’t scared her off with his silent brooding routine.”

Cassian barked a laugh, shaking his head. “If anyone could out-brood Azriel, it’s probably Y/N.”

The table erupted in laughter, though the undercurrent of concern remained. As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, Feyre caught Rhys’s eye, her own filled with a quiet question. Rhysand gave her a small, reassuring smile, though his thoughts lingered on Azriel and Y/N, his mind brushing against the night’s stars as he silently hoped for their safe return.

The lively warmth of the town house was shattered in an instant. Rhysand shot to his feet so abruptly that his chair clattered to the floor behind him. The easy conversation and laughter ceased as he raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Everything on the table vanished—a soundless flash of magic clearing plates, glasses, and food from sight.

In the same moment, a deafening crash echoed through the room. From above, two figures fell, slamming into the now-empty table and shattering it into pieces.

Y/N landed first, sprawled atop Azriel, both of them drenched to the bone, seawater pooling around them. Their chests heaved as they struggled for breath, their bodies trembling. Y/N pushed herself off Azriel weakly, staggering to her feet before abruptly doubling over to vomit a mix of seawater and blood onto the floor.

Azriel remained on the ground, gasping but visibly more stable than her. His wings were tense but intact, though blood seeped from arrows embedded in his shoulders and arms. He coughed, spitting water onto the floor as he tried to sit up.

Cassian surged forward, his voice a low growl of concern. “What the hell happened?”

Y/N, barely steady on her feet, turned her head, her voice raw and hoarse as she rasped, “Madja... Call Madja.”

Feyre moved immediately, her face pale but focused. Before she could leave, Y/N weakly caught her hand, murmuring a list of plants she needed. “Feyre... There’s no time. From the garden—fetch what I need to start the healing.”

Feyre nodded without hesitation and bolted out of the room.

Y/N stumbled toward Azriel, her trembling hands faintly glowing with healing magic. But before she could reach him, her knees buckled. Cassian was there in an instant, catching her just before she hit the ground.

“Y/N, stop!” Cassian growled, his voice filled with panic. “You’re worse off than he is.”

“Doesn’t... matter,” she rasped, trying to push him off and weakly reaching toward Azriel. “He needs—”

Cassian held her firmly, his face a mask of alarm. “You’re bleeding everywhere. You’re going to pass out.”

“I’m fine,” she hissed, though her head lolled to the side, her strength draining rapidly.

Azriel, sitting up now, looked over at her with wide, alarmed eyes. “Y/N,” he croaked, his voice breaking. “Stop. Just—stop.”

Mor knelt beside Azriel, carefully inspecting the arrows in his shoulders and arm, while Rhysand stood frozen for a heartbeat, his expression betraying the fear he usually masked so well.

Madja burst into the room moments later, her sharp eyes scanning the chaos. The instant she saw Y/N, her expression hardened. “Mother above,” she murmured, rushing to her.

“Start with him,” Y/N wheezed, gesturing weakly toward Azriel. “I’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing,” Madja snapped, kneeling beside her. Her hands moved deftly over Y/N, assessing her condition with a precision that belied her worry. “You’re barely conscious. Don’t even think about giving me orders.”

Azriel, still struggling to his feet, waved Mor away weakly. “I’m fine,” he insisted, his voice strained but steady. His golden eyes locked onto Y/N, and despite the blood trickling down his arm, his focus was entirely on her. “Take care of her.”

Madja glared at him briefly. “Sit. Down,” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Amid the chaos, Y/N’s defiant voice broke through. “Azriel... Is he—”

“I’m fine,” Azriel interrupted sharply, his voice firm. “You’re not.”

Madja growled under her breath, barking instructions to Rhysand to reinforce the room’s protective wards and to Feyre, who had just returned with an armful of plants. Cassian held Y/N steady as Madja worked to stabilize her, and Mor hovered close, ensuring that Azriel didn’t try to move too much.

The tension in the room was thick as they fought to manage the injuries and exhaustion. Every glance exchanged between the Inner Circle was filled with unspoken worry, their usual composure shaken.

“You both have a death wish,” Cassian muttered, though his grip on Y/N was firm and protective.

And as Madja’s magic flared to life, it became clear that survival was only the first step in a much longer battle.

Madja knelt beside you, her sharp gaze scanning the damage. Her hands hovered over the arrows lodged in your back, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Go see Azriel,” you rasped, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine.”

Madja’s head snapped up, her eyes blazing with irritation. “Shut up, Y/N. You’re losing too much blood, and if you weren’t in this state, I’d slap you for suggesting something so foolish.”

You coughed weakly, a humorless smile tugging at your lips. “Just... take the arrows out and put me under the stars. I’ll be fine.”

Madja’s eyes narrowed, her exasperation palpable. “If you die because of that nonsense, I swear I’ll bring you back just to kill you again.”

She began assessing the arrows embedded in your back, her movements precise but brisk. “Can I remove your top?” she asked, her voice softening slightly.

You nodded, the movement weak. “Go ahead.”

As Madja carefully eased the fabric away, the pain lanced through you, but it wasn’t what made you tense. The moment your back was fully exposed, you felt the atmosphere in the room shift. Even without seeing them, you knew Rhys, Feyre, and Cassian had seen the scars. The room seemed to hold its breath as their silence deepened.

Their reactions were palpable—Rhys’s grip on his magic tightened, the faint hum of power crackling in the air. Cassian let out a sharp exhale, his usual jovial demeanor replaced with something much darker. Feyre’s sharp intake of breath carried the weight of her empathy, her hand instinctively reaching for Rhys.

Madja worked quickly, her hands steady as she muttered incantations under her breath to stem the bleeding. You clenched your teeth, the pain threatening to pull you under, but you forced yourself to stay conscious just a moment longer.

“Tell them,” you murmured, your voice slurring slightly. “Tell them what happened.”

Madja’s gaze flickered to yours, her expression unreadable, but she nodded once, her attention returning to her task.

Azriel stood frozen nearby, his shadows writhing in agitation. His face was pale, his usually composed features betraying the turmoil within him. His golden eyes flicked between you and the others, but it was clear that his focus was on you.

When Madja pulled the last arrow free, your body shuddered, and the darkness pressing at the edges of your vision began to consume you.

Madja straightened, brushing a hand across her brow. “She needs to be somewhere she can rest and heal without interruption.” 

After hesitating for only a moment Azriel told her “Let me take her to my room. It’s the closest” 

"You will do no such thing Azriel let me take her” Cassian tried to stop him. 

“No, please, no” with confusion the general let him do so. 

His shadows curled around you protectively as he carefully lifted you into his arms. You barely stirred, your body limp against him, your breaths shallow but steady. The sight of you like this sent a pang through his chest, but he buried it, focusing on the task at hand.

As he carried you upstairs, his mind was a storm. The bond that had hummed quietly between you since Solterra now roared with clarity, overwhelming him. You were his mate—and he hadn’t seen it until now. And the sight of you, broken and bleeding, was almost more than he could bear.

When they reached his room, Madja followed close behind, already giving him instructions. “Lay her down gently, and I’ll finish tending to her wounds.”

Azriel placed you carefully on the bed, his movements slow and deliberate. As Madja worked, he lingered nearby, his golden eyes never leaving your face. The scars on your back, the fresh wounds, the exhaustion etched into your features—it was all too much. His shadows coiled around his shoulders, mirroring the storm within him.

When Madja finished stabilizing you, she turned to Azriel, her expression softening for the first time. “She’ll need time to recover, but she’s strong. She’ll pull through.”

Azriel nodded, his throat tightening. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

Madja patted his arm gently before gathering her supplies and leaving the room. 

After coming back in the living room of the townhouse, Azriel sat at the edge of the chair, his elbows resting on his knees, wings drooping with exhaustion. His soaked clothing clung to his frame, and blood still oozed from the punctures left by the arrows, though Madja worked quickly to close the wounds.

Rhysand stood near the fireplace, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, the tension radiating off him palpable. “What happened?” he asked, his voice low but sharp.

Azriel’s jaw clenched as he considered his words. “You should ask her,” he finally said, his voice gruff. “Everything was fine. The storm came out of nowhere, but it wasn’t the weather that was the problem.”

Rhys’s violet eyes darkened, his power flickering faintly around him. “Then what was?”

Azriel exhaled sharply, frustration evident. “We were flying. The storm was manageable until...” His golden eyes lifted to Rhys. “Until the arrows came. Y/N moved out of position suddenly—I didn’t understand why at first—but then she was deviating arrows midair. One clipped me, and the next thing I knew, we were falling into the sea.”

Cassian, who had been silently listening, stepped closer. “Arrows?” he repeated, his voice heavy with concern. “You’re saying someone attacked you in the middle of a storm?”

Azriel nodded, his shadows curling tightly around his shoulders. “The attack wasn’t random. Whoever it was... they knew we’d be there.”

Rhys’s face grew even grimmer. “Koshiev.” The name hung in the air like a curse. He glanced at Azriel, his expression unreadable. “Even if you were caught in the crossfire, this attack wasn’t for you, Azriel. It was for her.”

Azriel’s gaze sharpened, and his hands curled into fists. “Why would Koshiev target her? She’s not a warrior. She’s—”

“She’s more than you realize,” Madja interjected, not lifting her eyes from her work. She sealed the wound in Azriel’s shoulder with precise movements, her tone calm but carrying an edge of urgency. “Do you have any idea the influence she has? The help she’s provided?”

Cassian frowned, glancing between them. “We know she’s a gifted healer, but why would that put her in Koshiev’s sights?”

Madja straightened, her hands pausing over her tools. She glanced at Rhys and then back to Azriel. “Over the last century, many of the continent’s most deadly diseases have been stopped in their tracks because of her. She’s discovered cures where others saw none, saved lives on scales most can’t even imagine. To a being like Koshiev, who thrives on death, fear, and chaos, she’s a threat. A formidable one.”

Azriel’s shoulders stiffened, his mind racing. “But that doesn’t explain—”

“It’s not just what she does,” Madja interrupted, her voice softer now. “It’s what she is.”

Rhys’s brows furrowed, his focus narrowing on Madja. “What do you mean? What is she?”

Madja hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the staircase where you rested. “It’s... complicated,” she said carefully. “But suffice it to say, she’s not an ordinary healer. Her connection to the stars, the moon, to the light—it’s something ancient, something powerful. Something that beings like Koshiev despise and fear.”

Azriel sat back, his gaze fixed on Madja as if searching for answers in her words. His mind reeled with the implications, his thoughts a storm of emotions—fear, frustration, and something else he couldn’t quite name.

Rhysand’s expression darkened further, his hands tightening into fists. “If Koshiev sees her as a threat, then we’ll need to protect her. More than we already have.”

“She’s not going to make it easy,” Madja said with a wry smile. “That woman has a will stronger than steel. But for now, she needs rest. And so do you,” she added, fixing Azriel with a pointed look.

Azriel didn’t respond immediately. His thoughts lingered on you, on the weight of what Madja had said, and on the realization that the attack tonight had been meant for you. He rose from the chair, his wings drooping slightly but his stance firm. “She’ll be safe,” he said quietly, his voice carrying a steely determination.

Cassian clapped him on the back, his grip firm. “Damn right she will.”

But even as the conversation shifted, Azriel couldn’t shake the unease that settled deep in his chest—the knowledge that Koshiev’s shadow loomed closer than ever.

Cassian leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed tightly as he stared at the empty space where you had been carried upstairs. His voice broke the silence, low and heavy. “The scars on her back... are they what I think they are?”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, his golden eyes darkening as he glanced away. He didn’t need to hear the answer; he already knew. His shadows curled tighter around his shoulders, betraying the tension he felt.

Madja sighed, her hands stilling over her tools as she met Cassian’s gaze directly. “Yes. She was clipped.”

The weight of her words hung in the air, palpable and suffocating. Rhysand straightened, his violet eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and confusion. “Clipped?” he repeated, his tone sharp. “How? When?”

Madja leaned back in her chair, her expression weary. “It’s a long story, but if you’re asking how it’s possible... it happened when she was young. Very young.” She hesitated, her gaze softening. “I first met Y/N when she was six, maybe seven years old. Her parents had just died in the aftermath of the war. She was left alone, one of the many orphans wandering Prythian at the time.”

Cassian frowned, his grip on his arms tightening. “She’s from Velaris right?”

Madja nodded. “Yes, but it wasn’t a kind childhood. She ended up in one of the only orphanages we had here. I... I wanted to adopt her, but I couldn’t.”

Rhysand’s gaze narrowed, his tone gentler now. “Why not?”

Madja exhaled slowly, her hands clasping tightly in her lap. “Because I could barely take care of myself. The war had taken everything from us—our peace, our sleep, our stability. I couldn’t bring a child into that chaos, no matter how much I wanted to. But I could teach her.”

Azriel’s eyes snapped back to her, the flicker of surprise evident despite his stoic expression.

“I taught her to heal,” Madja continued, her voice softer now, tinged with something almost maternal. “She was brilliant at it. Gifted, really. Even as a child, she had this... this innate understanding of life, of how to mend it. Time passed, and she grew stronger. Wiser. By the time she was seventy-two, she was already a better healer than many twice her age.”

Cassian ran a hand through his hair, his expression conflicted. “So what happened?”

Madja’s expression darkened, her voice lowering. “She went to Illyria.”

The tension in the room spiked immediately. Azriel’s fists clenched at his sides, and Cassian and Rhysand exchanged wary glances.

“She wanted to visit her parents’ tomb,” Madja said. “To pay her respects. But... it didn’t go as planned. I don’t need to describe the scene to you. You’ve seen what happens to half-Illyrians or even regular Illyrian females who return to those camps.” Her voice broke slightly, but she pressed on. “They clipped her. Left her for dead in the snow.”

Rhysand’s power surged faintly, the lamps flickering as he struggled to contain his fury. “They clipped a healer?” His voice was deadly quiet, his rage barely restrained. “And left her to die?”

Madja nodded, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of sorrow and pride. “She did die.”

Cassian’s breath hitched, and even Azriel stiffened. “What?” Cassian whispered, his voice hoarse. “But—”

“But she came back,” Madja interrupted, her voice steady now. “The Mother brought her back. And with that gift, she was given powers unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Powers tied to the stars, the moon and the sun themselves.”

Azriel’s shadows stilled, his mind racing as he processed the revelation. Rhysand’s jaw tightened, his fury still simmering beneath the surface. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?” he demanded.

Madja’s gaze hardened. “Because it wasn’t my story to tell. And it still isn’t. But perhaps now you’ll understand why Koshiev might see her as a threat. She’s not just a healer. She’s a force of life itself, blessed by the mother and that terrifies beings like him.”

Silence fell over the room, the weight of Madja’s words sinking into each of them. Cassian broke it first, his voice quieter now. “And she’s carried all of this... alone?”

Madja’s eyes softened. “Not entirely alone. But yes, for the most part.”

Azriel sat back in his chair, his mind a whirlwind of emotions—anger at the injustice you had suffered, awe at the strength it must have taken to survive, and something deeper, something he wasn’t ready to confront.

Rhysand finally spoke, his voice resolute. “Then we protect her. Whatever it takes.”

Madja nodded, her expression resolute. “She’s not one to ask for help. But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t need it.”

Azriel’s shadows curled around him protectively, his voice low but firm. “She’ll have it.”

The office was bathed in the dim glow of Velaris’s nightlights, the rhythmic scratch of Rhysand’s pen the only sound as he finished his missive to Thesan. Azriel sat in a chair across from him, his posture rigid but his mind clearly elsewhere. He had bathed and changed into clean clothes in a spare room at the townhouse, but the physical comfort did little to soothe the storm raging within him. His thoughts spun, caught between the weight of your injuries, the attack, and the seismic realization that you were his mate.

His mate.

The words felt heavy and unfamiliar, both a revelation and a burden. You. The healer who had worked tirelessly by his side. The one who had challenged him, comforted him, and stood unwavering even in the face of Koshiev’s deadly arrows.

Rhysand’s voice cut through the silence, quiet but heavy with guilt. “Azriel.”

Azriel lifted his gaze, his expression impassive. Rhys set his pen down, turning his full attention to his brother.

“I was wrong,” Rhysand admitted, his tone raw. “What I said to you before... it was cruel, thoughtless. You’re my brother, and you’ve stood by me through everything. You didn’t deserve that.”

Azriel inclined his head, acknowledging the apology but saying nothing. Rhysand studied him, his regret clear in his eyes. “I know words don’t undo the damage. And I’ll spend as long as it takes to mend what I’ve broken.”

“It’s fine,” Azriel said softly, though his voice lacked conviction. He gave a brief nod, more out of obligation than genuine acceptance. Both of them knew that wounds like these took time to heal, if they ever fully could.

A silence settled between them again, heavier this time. Finally, Azriel broke it, his voice quiet but firm. “She’s my mate.”

Rhysand froze for a beat, then slowly leaned back in his chair. A small, knowing smile tugged at his lips, though it was far from mocking. “I know.”

Azriel frowned, his shadows curling tighter around him. “You knew?” he asked, disbelief lacing his tone.

Rhysand’s smile softened. “It wasn’t hard to see, Az. The way she looks at you... it’s the same way I used to look at Feyre when she had no idea we were bonded. Y/N did an incredible job masking it, I’ll give her that. But I’ve been in her shoes. I know what it looks like.”

Azriel’s frown deepened, his mind racing. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Rhysand’s gaze turned serious, his voice calm but pointed. “Would it have mattered? Look at how you’ve been with Elain. Do you think Y/N would have told you when she saw you pining for someone else?”

Azriel’s heart clenched, the memory of all those moments with you suddenly taking on a new, painful clarity. Rhysand continued, his tone gentler now. “Why do you think it took me so long with Feyre? I wouldn’t have told her while she was still talking to me about how in love she thought she was with Tamlin. It would have been cruel.”

And then the full weight of it hit Azriel. He had asked you, his mate, for advice about Elain—another woman. You had listened, offered him wisdom, and concealed the pain of your bond so flawlessly that he had never suspected a thing.

A knot of guilt and self-loathing twisted in his chest. He had done a terrible thing.

Azriel leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his head dropping into his hands. His shadows swirled restlessly around him, mirroring the turmoil within. Rhysand watched him silently for a moment before speaking.

“You didn’t know,” Rhys said softly. “And she never wanted you to feel obligated. But you know now, Az. What you do with that knowledge... that’s up to you.”

Azriel lifted his head, his golden eyes filled with conflict. “I don’t deserve her,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Rhysand.

Rhysand’s gaze softened. “You might not feel like it now. But that’s not for you to decide, is it? It’s hers. Just... don’t wait too long to figure it out. Bonds don’t wait forever.”

Azriel nodded faintly, though the weight of the conversation pressed down on him. The image of you—wounded, determined, and selfless—lingered in his mind, a reminder of the strength and grace you had shown even when it must have cost you everything.

And now, he realized, it was his turn to figure out what came next.

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[365emotionlessfaces]

Again, y’all. I’m sorry. She’s got me in a chokehold. I might write more chapters for this one. I kinda like it.

Don’t Take My Sunshine

WC: ~2.2k

“What did you call me, Schemmenti?!” Your voice rang through the empty hall of Abbott Elementary. The red-headed teacher has driven you crazy on every level possible for the last three years. She infuriated you from the beginning. She hadn’t even given you a chance when you started teaching at this school, immediately starting in on your appearance and your happy-go-lucky attitude, and then evolving to criticizing your teaching methods! She always knew exactly how to get under your skin, and after all this time you had hoped that she would have calmed down. Or that your skin would’ve gotten thicker.

Fiery hair flew out of the door down the hall, followed by piercing green eyes, a bright pink blazer over a charcoal blouse, flowy black dress pants, and heels that could puncture your heart. Her eyes landed on you, and you felt your breath catch slightly. Even though they always held contempt for you, her eyes were the most beautiful you had ever seen. They almost made her insults bearable. Almost.

“You’re a little sfigata! Comin’ in here, actin’ so full o’ life, an’ now I got my students wantin’ to know what youse guys are doing in the class next door! I can barely keep my kiddos engaged, then we got Mary Freaking Poppins havin’ sunshine and musicals every stinkin’ day! I’m so over you and your chipper little attitude! Get over yourself!” If this was how hostile she was going to be on week three of school, you were going to have to resign yourself to a long year. Your chipper attitude was hard-earned through years of bullies, exes, angry parents, and just plain mean people.

After three years, you had decided two things when it pertained to Melissa Schemmenti:

•She was undeniably attractive- a Philly thirteen, you swear to Gods- and she only got hotter when she was angry

•You were gonna kill her with kindness

“You think I sound like Mary Poppins?” You asked her sweetly, giving her as genuine of a smile as you could muster. You swear you saw her eye twitch. “That’s really sweet of you, Melissa. Just because you’re being so sweet, I’ll try to keep it down.” You gave her a quick wink, and dipped into your classroom to finish grading the tests from today.

You disappeared from Melissa’s line of sight so quickly, you missed the shocked expression flash across her face. It lasted less than a second before it turned to one of annoyance. She tightened her hands into fists, crumpling the papers in her left, before storming back into her own classroom.

The following week found you staying true to your word, keeping the volume to a lower octave than before. You didn’t have any less music throughout your day, though. The week also brought less snide remarks from the Italian next door. They were still there, but they were slowly losing their bite.

By the time Christmas break rolled around, she was almost… complimenting you? She took to not being so snide when she had a request to make, and you think last week you heard a ‘please’ come from those beautiful lips. You’re pretty sure it’s a real smile she gives you when she calls you things like ‘Little Miss Sunshine’ and ‘Princess Happy.’ You realized that, sure, when she was angry she was gorgeous, but when her eyes softened, and the corners of her lips curled up into a smirk at one of your sarcastic remarks, she went from beautiful to straight-up ethereal.

———

“So what did you do over Christmas break?” Janine Teagues slid into the seat next to you, while you attempted to eat your lunch. The stress from seeing your family over break had you so caught up in your own mind, you barely noticed Janine had sat down. You definitely didn’t notice the redhead’s eyes on you.

“Huh?” Was all you managed for a response in between stabbing at your salad with your fork. This seemed to shock a few of your colleagues, as Barb and Jacob both looked at you with concern on their faces. You were usually one to chat animatedly with Janine, or anyone, about a variety of subjects.

“Did you do anything over break?” She repeated, slightly more hesitant than last time.

“Oh, I went home to see my Grandpa,” you sighed slightly, remembering the disaster that was your impromptu family reunion.

It was just supposed to be dinner between you and your grandpa, but apparently over the last three years, he and your father had reconnected. You haven’t talked to your father since his horrible reaction to you coming out. It had been years since you had seen him, and you definitely had not wanted to see him yet. The night ended with you and your cousin screaming and arguing over respecting your elders, even if they disrespect you.

You ended up apologizing to your grandfather for the scene and coming home three days earlier than planned. You spent the remainder of your time away from Abbott making lesson plans, and trying to come up with more projects to get your kids excited to learn. The four pints of ice cream you went through did nothing to soothe your emotions.

“That must’ve been nice! I miss my grandpa. When I was little, he used to take me and my sister…” her voice trailed off as you pulled your mind back into school mode. After you had finished your lunch, you made your way straight to your classroom, not even bothering to bid farewell to a soul in the break room. Not a single one of those souls missed the frown that donned Melissa’s face as you left without saying goodbye, though no one was brave enough to call attention to her suddenly soured mood.

It took all of two minutes before Melissa was out of her seat, and marching down the hall towards your room. The bell rang as she was halfway to your room, signaling that her little eagles would be on their way back to her room. She muttered to herself, something about “saved by the bell” and “stinkin’ sunshine anyway,” and turned to meet her kids in her class.

The rest of the day went by without any major disasters. Other than the usual messes, and small arguments, the children were well-behaved, and your mode started to lift slightly. Being back in your class was bringing a sense of normalcy that you needed after the break. You were reminded that these kids look up to you and really do care for you as much as you do for them.

After dismissal, you gathered your things and made your way to the parking lot, avoiding goodbyes for the second time that day. It wasn’t that you were avoiding them per se, you just didn’t have the energy to be the happy-go-lucky person you try to be when at school, and you didn’t want any of your friends to see you like this.

It took an entire week back from break before you were finally feeling like yourself again. You had avoided any and all unnecessary interaction between your coworkers, which was surprisingly difficult, especially by Wednesday when Melissa had begun to try and seek out interactions with you. You taught kindergarteners, so the only teacher you couldn’t avoid at all costs was Barb, and she seemed to understand you needed space, so she only approached you if she absolutely had to. Thankfully, she hadn’t needed much, so you were able to keep to yourself all week.

Having to endure the entire week without you, got Melissa thinking. On Tuesday, she had thought maybe she had done or said something that crossed the line. Whether or not your cute little laughs had grown on her, she was still a Schemmenti, and Schemmentis had attitude. But between not talking to anybody the day before, and now you’re not at lunch, she realized she might miss that laugh a little more than she wanted to.

On Wednesday, she decided she’d find you and apologize. If she had hurt your feelings, she would actually feel a little bad. You had been a whole ass ray of blinding sunshine for three years, never once faltering at any of her quips, jokes, or all out insults, and if she had really gotten you with one, she hadn’t meant to. Especially not now, not when your smiles were make or break for her day, and your tears made her want to bare knuckle fist fight anyone who made you feel like shit.

Thursday morning brought fumes for Melissa. She hadn’t seen you in the parking lot before school, the break room for coffee, or first recess break, which she knew that you shared with her. And if anyone asks, no, she was not looking forward to seeing you or that beautiful smile that made her question everything or the way you clearly cared about every single student within these walls. She was definitely just upset because clearly you were shirking on your duties, that’s all. It was only during her planning period that she calmed down, and it was due mostly in part because of Barb joining the hot-headed Italian and expressing her concern for you. Realizing that Melissa was not the only teacher at Abbott that you had been avoiding made it slightly more bearable for the woman.

Then came Friday. The morning had been a nightmare for you, starting with waking up late, burning breakfast, and then forgetting your packed lunch right there on the counter in the kitchen. You got to work, and decided to sit in your car to decompress for a moment. Across the parking lot, you saw Melissa getting out of her car and start looking around, probably looking to see if Barb was here already. You were surprised when her eyes stopped on your vehicle, and she started making a beeline towards you. When she got close enough, you two locked eyes, and she began talking. You couldn’t understand her, of course. You were still sitting in your car, in shock that she had sought you out. You opened your door and the barrage of words was audible.

“-get off thinking that you can become a staple in my routine and then disappear? You got some nerve! You can’t just come in and make it all sunshiney and make everyone like you, and then avoid us all! Some of us rely on your insufferable chipperness, ya know?”

The funk of your last week was washed away in an instant as you realized something. Here Melissa Schemmenti was, scolding you, infuriated because she hadn’t seen you for a week. The last three months of you giving her the biggest smiles you could muster and the politest compliments you could think of, had worked.

“Hello?” Melissa’s voice snapped you out of your reverie, “You got anything to say for yourself?”

You grinned mischievously before replying. “You missed me, Schemmenti, didn’t ya?” You saw her soften slightly. Unbeknownst to you, she was flooded with relief. Barb had been growing increasingly worried about you, which of course only raised Melissa’s concern tenfold.

“How can I not miss my sunshine?” She asked with a smile. A real, genuine smile. You would’ve noticed her blush, had you not been too worried about hiding your own. “Just don’t take it away again, ya hear?”

———

“There’s my sunshine!” Melissa was leaning against the doorframe of your classroom with her arms folded across her chest, and a beautiful smile radiating across the room. It was the last day of school and you were just finishing packing the last of your things to head home for the summer. The months since winter break had brought a friendship between you, Melissa, Barb and Jacob that you had never thought would be possible. The four of you had become inseparable, sharing laughs and jokes amongst your days of dealing with the children of chaos, though you wished for more than friendship with one of them.

You looked up at her and smiled. She took your breath away. The last few years with Melissa took your emotions on a rollercoaster. The process from moving from enemies to friends was a long one, but it took no time at all for your good platonic feelings to turn into something very less platonic. You thought about all the work you did to become her friend, and decided you weren’t willing to risk losing that. Not yet.

So instead, you settled with the fact that for now, Melissa Schemmenti didn’t hate you anymore. “Hey, Mel. You, Barb, and Jacob ready to go?” She nodded and you followed her into the hall, meeting up with the other two of the Fearsome Foursome (Jacob’s idea), and heading out to dinner with your best friends.

As far as Melissa was concerned, she thought as she walked with her friends out of Abbott Elementary, she didn’t need to label whatever it was she was feeling for you. You had brought a sunshine into her life that penetrated all the dark little corners of her heart, and she’d be damned if anyone tried to take her sunshine away.

[sweetflanfiction]

Asymetrical Symphony - Part 23

Universe: Arcane (LOL)

Pairing: Viktor x reader

Summary: You had been on the rooftop with Jayce and the Herald and somehow you were sent to a place where things can be different with your help

Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about LOL is from google and all I know about Arcane is taken from the show, so inacuracies will be plenty. I have a sort of idea on how to I'm gonna go with magic and runes, so bear with me. The reader will be written as GN (going by they/them) to get everyone involved, but if you see any discrepancies let me know

A.N: Viktor's Zaunite wear is inspired by this artwork.

Part 1 • Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Part 5 • Part 6 • Part 7 • Part 8 • Part 9 • Part 10 • Part 11 • Part 12 • Part 13 • Part 14 • Part 15 • Part 16 • Part 17 • Part 18 • Part 19 • Part 20 • Part 21 • Part 22

• ··········· • ············ •

It was a cold autumn morning, even as the sun started to shine down on you, bundled up in more layers of clothing than usual. You sat in a little park near the river that trespassed and separated Topside from the Undercity.

The small park was almost deserted, with only a few people walking their dogs and some artists putting up their canvases and even some stalls. It was close to the artist's quarters in the city, so it was a convenient place to set up shop.

You found this place rather soothing; the Artists Quarters was always a go-to location whenever you wanted to unwind. Many festivals adjacent to bigger festivities on the top side would be done in this park. It would be filled with colorful lanterns and unusual foods from foreign, faraway places. You’d always drag Viktor to the festivals, and even though he’d mumble and grumble, you’d find him enjoying the celebrations.

“Apologies for making you wait.” You heard a familiar voice coming from beside you and looked at its owner.

Viktor smiled at you, holding on to his older leather satchel. He was once again out of his normal scientist attire, and you raised an eyebrow at his clothes. His usual white vest was traded in for a dark wine-colored vest with old golden trims, and peeking from under a tattered old blouson jacket was a creamy-colored shirt. His leg brace had black leather belts, and the metal was darker than usual, making the aid hard to see on top of his black trousers. To finish what you were now deeming his Zaunite gear, he had a pair of brown boots with brass tips and two brown leather gloves that had seen better days.

“Look at you. A Zaunite through and through.” You joked, pointing at his outfit. He looked down at himself.

“I never thought I would be wearing these old things again.” He patted the arm of his jacket, and you saw some dust come out of it.

“It suits you…” You threw him a grin and scratched the back of his head, his pale cheeks becoming pink.

“Heh. It reminds me of my childhood. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

Looking down at yourself, you had to agree. The tailor-made clothes you liked to wear on this side had been discarded for today. The outfit was simple, the fabrics diverse and colorful, but not bright. A mix of loose and fitted pieces made the ensemble work. You had annoyed the housekeepers to wash them as many times as possible in two days.

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” You made a dramatic, dismissive gesture.

“Good to know.” He chuckled and pointed to the other side of the river with his head. “Shall we?”

You nodded and turned to make your way to the bridge when a gloved hand gently pulled you in the opposite direction by the shoulder.

“The bridge is that way.” You announced matter-of-factly, looking at the man who was now casually limping in another direction.

“First rule of being invisible: do not cross a bridge patrolled by enforcers.” He kept strolling, a finger-wagging in the air.

You sighed deeply and then chuckled, running to catch up with him. When you reached him, he tilted his head to look at you with a smug grin on his face. You rolled your eyes at him with an exaggerated head turn.

It wasn't a long walk to where he was taking you, but when you looked at where you were heading, your face fell slightly.

The water pumps were a known spot for the scientists and you. Viktor would come here when he needed to think or just be alone, and in the end, no conversation had in this location was good. The good memories of laughing and joking while sipping cold drinks and dangling your feet on the ledge were quickly replaced with fights and resentment. 

“Before we go this way.” He slowed his pace as you both approached a wall of dark green ivy clumped and glued to another, less natural one. “There might be a chance that we could be committing…heh…crimes.”

You pulled yourself together, unglazing your eyes and focusing on the swaying man in front of you. With an inflated gasp, you raised your eyebrows in fake shock, placing a hand on your mouth and another on your cheek. 

“Not crimes!” You shook your head, and he leaned heavily into his crutch, which was the Viktor equivalent of putting a hand on his hip.

“You are the one court-ordered to stay out of trouble.” He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not the one under scrutiny by the council.” He frowned for a beat and then shrugged and nodded.

“Fair. Anyway, I thought you should be aware of it.”

“It’s not a crime to go to Zaun…”

“But we might trespass a few properties to get there.” He told you in a sing-song voice that made you chortle.

“Trust me, I’ve trespassed on worse things than the aqueducts.”

“I’m starting to think the enforcers are right about you. Such a bad influence.” 

He gave you a smirk and pulled the curtain of ivy aside; a wooden panel that was latched with an old and heavy lock appeared behind it. From his satchel he grabbed a set of keys, looked at them, and picked a smaller brass one, making quick work of unlocking the makeshift door.

“No need for magic.” He said proudly, gently pulling the door open for you, motioning for you to get in.

“Now you’re just showing off.” You joked as you passed him, and he shrugged, walking inside behind you.

Once you were both inside, you looked at the scientist straight in his golden orbs and moved your fingers. The sound of the lock latching in place echoed through the stone halls. His face became deadpan and unimpressed.

“That seems like cheating.” He noted, slowly raising an eyebrow.

“We set no rules for this game.” You jutted your chin up indignantly and closed your eyes, trying to look like a spoiled brat. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

You felt something hard hit the top of your head. You let out a yelp and opened your eyes to see Viktor starting to rearrange the crutch under his arm again.

“Did you just bonk my head with your crutch?” You stroked the place it hit and tried to contain the laughter. It hadn’t hurt; it just startled you, and the idea of him doing it was incredibly funny to you.

“Yes. Yes, I did.” He announced proudly, starting to walk towards the lit corridor. “And I’ll do it again if you misbehave.”

“I am being treated unfairly.” You kept joking, both of you supporting smug smirks and grins.

“Says the Piltie about to enter Zaun.” He snapped back, and once again you gasped in mock indignation.

It felt so incredibly satisfying watching this man be this carefree. You had met this Viktor at some point in your dimension, but it seemed like it was a lifetime ago, and it had lasted a blink of an eye. And you had adored him at these highs just the same as you did in his lows. 

Viktor and you kept joking around as you walked through the arches and the gigantic metal gears when a particular archway caught your gaze. Not the architecture, but the view from it. The familiar perspective was burned into your memories.

In your mind's eye, the shadow of a hunched, sickly Viktor appeared. Turning away sharply, a trembling hand on the wall was the only thing supporting him after a violent coughing fit.

‘I am dying!’ his voice resonated in your mind. Hoarse, angry, desperate, cold. ‘I need to focus on my work. You are a distraction I cannot afford. A reminder of a future I can no longer grasp.’ 

You felt the air catch your throat, and a small whimper came out. Immediately a hand tapped your shoulder, gently snapping you out of your reverie.

“Are you alright?” the same angry voice from before now taking a softer tone to your side.

“Hmm…yes…” You gave him what you thought was a nonchalant smile, but his eyebrow furrowing on his face told you it hadn’t registered like that. “The color of the sky reminded me of something.”

It was a sheepish excuse of a lie. You knew it, and when you saw his confused expression as he looked at the completely normal blue autumn sky, you knew he was also aware. 

“Would you like to stop?”

“We just started.”

“We can stop.” He gave a one-shoulder shrug, and you shook your head.

“No need. I’m alright.”

Viktor nodded and took one last glance out of the archway and then back at the way before resuming his walk. You did the same, the haunting silhouette frozen in place. You felt the need to apologize to it when you turned away and sped up towards this companion. You both walked in silence, the joyous beginning of the adventure now taking a more serious tone.

“How was the place you came from?” Viktor asked suddenly. 

“Mmm?”

“The place you come from. Was it nice? Did you like it there?”

The line of questioning was expected, and it had surprised you it had taken him this long to do it. In the many times you thought about it, you had decided to be as honest as possible.

“Oh…It was nice. More topside than undercity.”

“Do you miss it?” 

“I don’t know.” You answered truthfully and saw him tilt his head to look at you. “I miss what it was. Before I left, things became…rough.”

A beat of silence, and Viktor sighed. The kind of sigh that told you you weren't going to like whatever he said next.

“I…know the story you tell about Esther being your aunt is not true.” He gave you a small smile, without malice or anger in it. “You don’t need to tell me the truth now. I understand the necessity for keeping secrets, but…when you are comfortable, I’ll listen.”

Of all the things you wanted to tell him, you knew right there and then was not the time. Or maybe it was, but in your brain, something was pulling you back. 

It would be so easy to sit him down and tell him. You knew he would not only understand himself but help you understand. It would be an amazing discovery for science. For him. The man whose eyes lit up every time you showed a hint of magic.

But something held you back. So many variants of what could happen after you told him quickly pushed away any willingness to do so. What if he became obsessed with jumping time and space like the other Viktor became obsessed with perfection? What if the knowledge of the other him being able to become essentially a god-like creature was enough to make him keep working on the hex-core until it corrupted him? What if his need to help others surpassed his need for self-preservation and led everything to the same path? What if knowing his cosmic twin was dying in another world made him spiral like it sometimes made you?

There were too many options that you couldn’t control, and now was not the time to gamble on which one would be on the card.

“I will…” you said meekly, not being capable of looking at him. “Thank you.”

“It’s only fair that I let you know.” He shrugged, scratching the back of his neck. “You are not a very good liar.”

“I am.” You told him honestly. You weren't being cute or sassy or egocentric. You were good at lying. You'd lied many times since you got here. He was just privy to the moments that took more effort.

“Heh…” He swayed his head from side to side, and his hand mimicked the gesture, tilting side to side. “Perhaps to other people.”

You felt your legs stop walking, and when he realized you had paused, he turned back to you. His eyes filled with concern. He called your name gently, about to start talking, but you shook your head and interrupted him.

“I’m not always lying.” You took a deep breath. You might not tell him everything, but you had to give him something. “I’m compartmentalizing. There are two boxes, and one is filled with…the past. And the other is here and now. And that past box is filled with…memories, good and bad. And I’m trying not to let that box spill into this one. But this box, the here and the now, what’s been said, what’s been done. There are no lies.”

He limped towards you and made the move to place a hand on your shoulder but stopped midway. Instead, he grabbed your hand. He'd learned that if he did it gently enough, you would allow it.

“One day, when you let me see what's in the box, I will do my utmost best to understand.” He whispered, moving his head to catch your eyes in his warm one.

You looked up at him, his voice dripping with sincerity. Your eyebrows were furrowed in thought, and as quickly as he could, Viktor leaned down and kissed the place between them. 

He did it with such confidence that all you could do was let out a tiny gasp, your hand immediately coming up to grab his arm, ready to push him away…or pull him to you.

It wasn't just the gesture that made your eyes widen. It was the familiarity that the gesture carried. The Viktor you knew did it whenever you'd frown.

'There's a line right here,' he'd say and then kiss it away.

Looking slightly up, you could feel his minty breath on your face. His nose was a breath away from yours, and your eyes landed on his lips. It would take a single motion for you to kiss him, and you knew he knew that. You saw him swallow and look back at his whiskey eyes. A small twitch telling he was expecting you to do something.

Oh, fuck it...

• ··········· • ············ •

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[tahbhie]

How Plot Progression Works—Myths and Facts.

Let me start with a myth.

Last week, a writer approached me with their half-finished draft, unsure how to continue. Apparently, they got writer's block in the middle of the work. For about thirty minutes, we discussed the book freely as if it were a finished and published work.

Then I realized the issue.

☞ The problem?

From the conversation, I noticed that the writer's thoughts and ideas, which they voiced for the book, totally contradicted what they had written.

Their book followed a sequence of events. It was well-calculated, and the plot progression was on point but only to a certain level. I noticed robotic recurrences.

Something like this:

Scene 1— a sudden revelation

Scene 2— an unexpected fight

Scene 3— introduction of a new character

Scene 4— a conflict

Scene 5— another sudden revelation

Scene 6— an unexpected fight

Scene 7— introduction of a new character

Scene 8— a conflict

Meanwhile, all these elements didn't tie to each other in the story. They just performed different roles in each scene and were rendered useless in the next and every other scene that followed.

☞ Why did this happen?

Among other reasons, being extremely rigid with writing advice is a main factor.

Writing advice is great, but don't bend your style to suit the rules; bend the rules to suit your style.

Here's a clearer example of what I'm talking about.

Writing advice often says to keep readers on the edge of their seats within the first five pages, but this doesn't mean introducing unrealistic problems that don't fit your story. For example, introducing a sudden and improbable conflict just to add excitement can disrupt the flow and believability of your plot

During our session, I already understood how to assist, and we were setting our comfortable hours when the writer suddenly said, "I was told to include conflict in the middle of the book, then I ran out of ideas when I got there. I could have added one just a few pages in because I believe it would do well there, but again, I was unsure if that would make sense."

Now, who said conflict can't start a book? When you start your book with a conflict, you just have to ensure that you build towards 'the reason' behind the conflict so your readers can understand.

☞ Should I follow every writing advice with a closed mind?

No, you shouldn't. Remember that you are writing that book because you want to, and your idea was great enough to convince you to actually write. You need to enjoy the process and create what you truly want to create. Follow instructions flexibly.

Now that the myth is out of the way, let's talk about things that make a plot.

➜ Basic plot elements.

Initially, your plot should have the following:

✧ Protagonist ✧

Who are readers following in the story? Make that clear in the first few chapters. If you're writing from a first-person point of view and plan on switching between characters, aim for a maximum of two characters. It becomes clear that those two characters are an important part of the story; hence, they get the privilege to narrate the story from their respective views.

✧ Goals and objectives ✧

What is your protagonist after? Here's one thing you should know: your character doesn't have to know what they want at the beginning of the story. They may be as confused about their life as anyone reading, but as the story unfolds, they find a goal worth reaching and discover the needed strength to reach the goal.

✧ Antagonist ✧

What/Who is standing as a threat? A threat is hell-bent on ruining your protagonist and stopping them from achieving their goals. An antagonist could be an object or a human. It all depends on the concept you aim for. Funny enough, the antagonist could be a lie that starts out seemingly small but ends up being harmful. The rom-com movie "Upgraded" is an example of this concept. The lie the art enthusiast told was the greatest trouble she faced.

✧ Conflict ✧

What are the problems the protagonist faces? Problems can start from anywhere over anything, and you can choose to make them mild and solvable at first while building up to something larger.

✧ Resulting consequences ✧

What happens after the protagonist faces the trouble and tries to solve it? Did they lose anything? Hurt someone? Earn support from people they least expect?

✧ Character arc ✧

How has the journey shaped your protagonist? After going through something they probably never saw coming, how has it changed them? For a timid main character at the beginning of the story, do they finally become brave and display a different side of themselves?

All these are important for a well-rounded story as a whole.

Join the Writers' Universe and connect with like-minded writers.

➜ Secondary plot elements

These elements help you shape the above category.

● Setbacks

Let's use movies to illustrate this. There are certain points where we lose hope for the main character, almost convinced they've lost. We see them at their weakest points, hurt that the antagonist got them good. These moments are the setbacks. The protagonist is made vulnerable.

● Loss

What did the setback cost them? The reason I intentionally labeled this as loss is because to move a plot forward, some things need repairing. Since most loose ends were already from the beginning of the story, adding a fresh loss piques the reader's interest. It doesn't have to be the death of someone. It could be the brutal end of an alliance formed on an emotional scale.

● Break of a new dawn

I just wanted to get creative with the title. This point marks the pivotal change of events, and once again, there's hope for the protagonist as they find solutions to their problems. In this stage, they discover hidden abilities within themselves (this isn't limited to fantasy).

And there you have the important sections of plot progression. But keep these few things in mind. To ensure you're not leaving a huge gap in your plot, try to:

┗→ Introduce elements that work for your story:

It's common to believe something works well simply because it did in your favorite book. You might want to reconsider that with a different mindset.

┗→ Tie elements together:

Of course, this doesn't apply to all, but try to create a link between events in your story. If a fight occurred in a scene, link it to a cause in a few scenes ahead. This can lead to another conflict, this time on a larger scale, without having to introduce something entirely different.

And back to the question that birthed this post:

ᴥ Should conflict come early or not?

It depends on your work, but it can come early. That's not taboo.

There was a movie I watched featuring a female lawyer as the protagonist. The movie started with the kidnap of her only child, and the rest of the scenes drove us to the 'cause,’ then more conflicts, setbacks, and finally resolution. We were also able to explore the character’s personality based on the decisions she took in different emotional scenes.

She tried to keep her calm in some scenes while she just flat-out threw a tantrum in others, but overall, she was a strong woman who was broken by the incidents occurring and then rebuilt. I read a book with the same premise: the main character was a tween who misplaced something precious and decided to go on an adventure to search for it, and that was what the story was built upon.

I always tell writers one thing—own your book. The first draft seems to be the toughest one of its pair, but if you don't allow yourself to freely express your thoughts, there will be no first draft or story at all.

✧✧✧✧

Struggling with any stages of writing? Send me a message, and let's sort it out for a suitable fee.

✧✧✧✧

Do you want to create characters readers are compelled to start a fandom for?

Check out "My Characters and I" extensive coaching session. Understand the secret behind every attractive character. The slots are limited, and this opportunity closes once capacity is reached. Don't miss it; you never know when you’ll stumble upon these golden gates again.

[tempo-takoyaki]

Transmigrator!Hua Cheng AU (aka SVSSS x TGCF AU) | I mean technically it's an AU but I wrote it in a way that would make it fit as HC's POV throughout TGCF, so AU or theory? Take that as you will | Warning: Canon Compliant Violence, Suicide ideation, Implied non-con (not between Hualian and never actually happens here)

"A Tale of Three Princes" was Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky’s latest novel. Unlike his previous success, Proud Immortal Demon's Way, ATTP (as it was called by the fans) was a renowned  masterpiece. Far from the stallion novels Airplane readers had been used to, ATTP was more akin to one of those classics that would be taught over and over again throughout  the centuries. What made it so peculiar though was the narrative device used to tell its story.

ATTP was not in fact a single story, but three, set in the same universe, centuries apart. The three stories were updated one after another daily, by chapters of ten thousand words (as Airplane readers were used to). Which meant that the readers had no idea how each story ended before being swept up into the next...

Which also explained why Zhu Qiang did not know any of the three endings when he got reincarnated into ATTP.

It had been just another terrible day for Zhu Qiang when he died. He had found a quiet spot in his school's stairwell to unwind and read the latest update of ATTP when his bullies had found their way back to him. He had put up a good fight, maybe too much, as he could still remember losing his footing and falling head first onto the stairs. When he had opened his eyes, it was not to the stairwell's ceiling, or even a hospital, but a busy street where people in ancient clothing looked at him strangely.

After a few minutes, he had put two and two together relatively quickly. He  had transmigrated in none other than the second story of ATTP, also called the Xianle Arc. As for which character he was supposed to be... He had no idea. When he had asked the system about it, it only flashed him a [System has encountered an error. System update…] which was not helpful in the least. Despite his more introverted personality, he had no other choice but to ask around… And the answers came relatively quickly: “It’s the monster child!” “Get away you fiend!” “Disappear!” With a sigh, he came to the realization that unlike many of those popular transmigration novels, this life wouldn’t be too much different from his previous one.

He hadn’t been the best looking guy back in his hometown, at least from what he knew, and people had always bullied him for it. This time around, he had no mirrors or phones to confirm what others said, but he supposed he wasn’t much different. (Though to be fair, even back in his previous life he had always carefully avoided mirrors and photos, he couldn’t even recall what his own face actually looked like). Once the system had finished its update, it tried to give him some helpful directions to survive, like where he could find food or shelter, but any questions about what character he was supposed to be were left unanswered. (All that he knew was that he was about ten years old). However, he finally got access to his stats (after days left to his own devices) and he almost choked on the spot.

“MINUS THIRTY-SIX ON LUCK?! WTF?!”

The reason for  these god-awful bad stats? A passive skill called Eye of Misfortune which reduced his own luck by a hundred points, and the one of surrounding people by fifteen percent. Completely unfair… But it explained people’s glares and insults. Again, with no mirror to look for, Zhu Qiang had no idea of what that Eye of Misfortune actually looked like. But at this point, he had understood that the best way to stay on the down low was to hide it. Usually, those types of novels would then introduce a special ability only the protagonist could have to solve his main issue and become a total badass… But asking the system about it, for the very first time, it seemed to express an actual tangible emotion.

[System apologizes. There has been an error. UV003 has no special ability attached to this vessel besides Eye of Misfortune and Demonic Heritage.]

Ah, yes Demonic Heritage. Another passive skill that actually was useful, unlike the other, as it made him less receptive to pain by fifty percent. He supposed it was linked to Eye of Misfortune in some way… But again how could he know when he’d apparently spawned out of nowhere with a backstory he wasn’t aware of? As time passed, the hope of bettering his life slimmed down until it seemed barely believable. 

He had no parents to take care of him. No home to find shelter in. No prospect of finding a job with his “deformity” as people called it… Only two months went by before he called it quits.

If he hadn’t died in that stairwell, he probably would have jumped from the rooftop of his school. He wasn’t afraid of death, he had hoped for that prospect for many years prior to reincarnating. But reincarnation hadn’t been kinder to him. It hadn’t offered him a life he could change, one he could better to prove he was worthy of something, anything. The system flashed him warning signs, but fuck it, he was tired. So tired of playing into God’s hand. 

[Major Event Activated: The Last Parade of Xianle.]

At the top of the castle’s wall, he could remember the first chapter of the second story of ATTP. “His beauty was beyond compare, his stance the one of a mighty warrior, and his gaze behind the mask: determined, fierce, and maybe even sly in his own childish way.” (Chapter 2 of A Tale Of Three Princes) He was too tired to go on, but if he had to go one last time, he wanted to see the prince, his favorite character, before doing so.

Once he saw him in his golden clothes, Zhu Qiang took a step beyond the edge and…

…

[Congratulations! Congratulations! Congratulations! Great things must be said three times! You have successfully changed the plot "The Star of Bad Omen" into "A Fateful meeting"! Character role changed from "Canon Fodder" to "Side Character". +100 B-points!]

… Uh?

He was cradled into a pair of strong arms, holding him tight against embroidered robes despite his dirty appearance. He heard the sound of a wooden object hitting the floor, and he looked up. There, with the most gentle eyes he had ever seen…

[New Character Unlocked: Xie Lian, Prince of Xianle. Second protagonist of A Tale of Three Princes.]

Zhu Qiang wanted to strangle the system with all his might. Finally, finally he knew which character he had been transmigrated into: THAT ONE STUPID KID WHO KILLED HIMSELF DURING THE PARADE OF XIANLE, CURSING THE ENTIRE COUNTRY IN THE PROCESS. WOW. That one child who had no name but haunted the entire second plotline of ATTP. Never named but always present, the curse of the city, the failure of its inhabitants, a character full of symbolism but no actual practical utility to speak of… No wonder his luck stat was so low and the system did nothing to make up for it!! He was born to die!!! 

That alone, pissed him off enough to reschedule his suicide at a later date. If he had to die he wanted it to be by his own hands and his own choice. If the system wanted him dead, then it was no better than his bullies back in his previous life! Besides, he was already laughing in its face, because he had been held by the Crown Prince of Xianle, a beauty amongst beauties, the most perfect and fascinating character ever written (in Zhu Qiang’s own biased opinion as a 16 year old).

What happened afterwards though was embarrassing to say the least. First he had been found out by Qi Rong (that bastard traitor, he had always hated him even when he was only a reader) who had beaten him to a pulp (he was so thankful for Demonic Heritage at that moment), then Xie Lian had saved him (yay!) and he had taken care of him (double yay!) and then he and his subordinates had asked him questions (fuck).

“What’s your name?” He doesn’t know. “What does your mother call you?” Uuuuh people said his cursed eye was red so maybe… “Hong…Hong-er?” “How cute!” Nailed it. “Where are your parents?” Damn, he wishes he knew! “I… ran away from home.” “Poor boy…” He would have felt awful if it weren’t for Xie Lian’s gentle hands and his soft smile. Any lie in the world was worth it if it allowed him to see him. He was however, feeling very uneasy in the presence of Feng Xin and Mu Qing, Xie Lian’s two closest servants and friends who were eyeing him as if he had a bomb hidden under his clothes. Especially Mu Qing, the last chapter of ATTP about Xianle he read implied that Mu Qing was about to betray the prince, and so Zhu Qiang (now renamed Hong-er) didn’t trust him one bit.

But even so… After that awful cultivator told him he didn’t deserve to live (and god did he already know that)... Xie Lian took him in his arms and said he wasn’t a monster. No matter how ugly his sobbing was, no matter the reason for his misfortune, Xie Lian, unafraid of him, held him and told him he was not a monster… that was more than anyone had ever done for him in two lifetimes. And for the first time in a long time, Zhu Qiang cried.

He already knew he was a curse on legs, and so no matter how thankful he was, he couldn’t extend his stay. He knew what sort of character he was, if he did, things would only get worse for Xie Lian from then on. And he didn’t want that for him… And then Xie Lian ascended.

It was a miracle that he stayed alive for so long. His saving grace? Not Xie Lian’s temple he had built himself and took care of. No. It was beating the other street kids like they had beaten him up before. Hey, no judgement, those weren’t modern times, the worst that would happen is some other kids coming back to get revenge and then he could whoop their ass over again. Uh? He was an adult beefing with kids? That’s a detail, system, buddy! Let him enjoy this miserable life of his that had not improved one bit in three years besides that!

[+32 exp point. User has obtained a new success: Child Beater. Congratulations… (-_-)]

Now it’s just making stuff up. Anyway, life was going, that was it. Every day was the same: go in the fields to get a flower for the crown prince’s statue (not only did it make him happy, it also raised his Faith stat!), pray, take care of the temple if need be, take leftovers from one of the big houses in the neighbourhood, beat other kids up when they came to provoke him (or steal his food), go back to the temple to pray (again), clean it up (again), steal food (again), beat kids (again) and sleep where no one will see him (...again). It was fine the first year. The second, it had become redundant, the third, he was wondering what the heck he was doing. Beating kids raised his stats slowly but surely, but becoming stronger wasn’t his goal. What he wanted… And that was it, he didn’t know what he wanted. And after three years, doubt made its way in the cracks of his broken heart: he lived so he could spite the system for attempting to kill him… But was it worth it? 

Xie Lian was a god now, and with his shitty luck, was he going to live long enough to even see him for the upcoming civil war? What was the point of it all in the end? He wasn’t supposed to live. He had never been meant to live at all… So why…?

“If you don’t know what to live for, then live for me.”

[Class upgrade: Beggar -> Soldier. Skill update: STR +15. DEF +13. CHAR +5...etc]

[New passive skills acquired: Blade of Xianle, doubles the amount of exp gained from killing humans. Demonic Heritage II, the might of your ancestors give you +20 to your Strength and Speed.]

[Major event coming soon: Land of Tender, Land of Loser.]

Reading about the Land of Tender had been excruciating. One of the main criticisms towards ATTP was how downright cruel some chapters were towards the main three princes. Each had one specific traumatic event that would shape them up for the rest of the story, their own fall from grace. In the case of Xie Lian… It had been the Land of Tender.

Unlike his previous novel Airplane hadn’t romanticized what happened at all. It was so raw and so awful many readers had considered dropping the story right here and there, Zhu Qiang had been one of them. It was the start of the fall of Xianle, marked by this cruel beyond humanly possible event.

Now, standing straight with his sword in hand, Hong-er faced the flowers. He couldn’t let them close, he knew what would happen if he did. It’s the exact reason for why he had followed Xie Lian in the forest to save Qi Rong even if he hated him. If he gave up, if he wavered for just one moment… Never could he forgive himself.

And then the flowers changed appearances, and laughing, they took the face of the Crown Prince.

Back when Xie Lian only used to be a character in Zhu Qiang eyes, he admitted he looked at some fanarts or some skimpy fics about him, sometimes even watched videos imagining it was him. Face with the real deal, he had vowed himself to never see him again as some sort of forbidden pleasure. And yet those flowers had seen right through him… Maybe they had all been right, his bullies, his parents, his teachers, the villagers, everyone… Maybe he was a monster.

“You’re not a monster,” he had clinged onto those words for years. But his palm against the white skin of his prince, he felt his devotion waver. He thought it was faith, he thought it was fate, now… he wondered, hadn’t it all been in the name of lust and obsession? When Xie Lian left, and he asked for him, he reminded himself of why he shouldn’t have gotten closer in the first place: he was a jinx.

Mu Qing kicked him out of the army after this event. There was no point in arguing with him. No matter how Hong-er told him he was the one at fault for abandoning the prince, the only acknowledgement he got from him was a slap to his face and his insignia snatched out of his hands. And back to the street he was. He wasn’t beating kids anymore, no point to that, he would destroy them at the first occasion. His stats were high thanks to how much he had killed (Paper men, he reminded himself after washing the blood off his hand, paper men). There was the epidemic too. Since he was immune, he got recruited to take care of the transport of the ill. The grotesque faces made him want to puke, but it hadn’t been the worst he’d seen at that point.

He saw Xie Lian one last time. And then another time, his eyes closed, holding the pagoda… And then Xianle fell. And he was back to beating kids up to protect the temples he rebuilt.

“I’ll never forget you!!” His one reason to hold on in two lifetimes.

He died in Xie Lian’s temple, stabbed by Qi Rong, not without smashing his head in retaliation. Heavens, he hated that guy. He laughed low and quiet, the system flashing his health bar lowering and lowering. And then… As he had expected it, everything faded to black.

[GAME OVER. 2/3 life left, start again?]

Wait… HE HAD SPARE LIVES???!!

[Class update: Soldier -> Malice. Base stats changed from Human to Ghost. Passive skills still active: Eye of Misfortune, Demonic Heritage I, Demonic Heritage II, Blade of Xianle...]

[To continue…?]

(I don't know if I'll do it in multiple parts or not, if you like it I'll continue. Other than that, here's the tweets that started it all:)

(I added one of the replies mentioning that it could explain why his writing is so bad because I hadn't thought about it when I made my first tweets, but looking at his writing in adaptations and comparing it to how modern chinese students write... You can see similarities.)

If you enjoy the concept you can add onto it in the replies, the reblogs or send me asks!

[hivemuthur]

Nothing's New - Ch.2.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit!

AU modern era, lovers to enemies to lovers, getting back together, a lot of angst, smut to come somewhere mid-way through

Ch.1. | Ch.3. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6.

word count: 7,2K

tag: #nothings new

summary: More meetings, welcomed and unwelcomed + some foreshadowing. Nothing exactly smutty in this chapter, but I'm leaving it on explicit rating, for reasons of angst and generally adult emotions. Also, I should go to writer's jail for starting so many fics with dialogue.

Cross-posted on AO3

—

“Why the fuck are you only telling me this now?” You fume over the phone. A sloppy text message from Mel has made you stop in the middle of the street. Now. Now, when you are heading to act out your pretend chance meeting with Viktor. Now, when you are ten minutes away from the drop point and haven’t finished replaying all possible conversation starters in your head yet. Now, when your knuckles are white from clutching your coffee cup. Now, when you are bathed in the cold sweat of fear and the hot sweat of the temperature. Why now. Why now.

I feel you should know this. Viktor is seeing someone. Please don’t eat me.

You are going to fucking eat her and clean your teeth with her bones.

“Jayce spilled just recently. He was afraid I would tell you.” Oh, the irony. Mel is whispering on the phone, which indicates that Jayce is around, and her clock is ticking. “Apparently it’s been going on for about six weeks. It’s someone from work.”

“What?! Six weeks? What was that scene at your party then?!” To counter Mel’s whispering, you are screaming. White-hot anger surges through your veins, blinding fury. The audacity. The audacity to make you feel bad for doing something adjacent to moving on when he himself has moved on weeks ago. People scoff as they walk past you, and you glare daggers at them. Fuck off.

“I understand this is… hard, but… I thought you were happy with Paul? Maybe this is the way to fix this?” your friend offers carefully. Very carefully.

“I am happy. I am so fucking happy it makes me sick,” you spit into the speaker against Mel’s sigh. The thought of Paul makes you feel guilty. Your entire relationship has been built on guilt poisoning your reason. But the thought of Viktor. With someone else. That’s different.

“This is all I know. Jayce is leaving, I have to run!” Mel ignores your protests, puts the speaker an inch away from her mouth, and sends you three in-air kisses. You almost throw your phone into the trash bin. You almost slap a person walking past you who gives you a sodden look. You almost kick a beer can under your feet with the force of a rugby player.

This is so, so different. The thought of you and Paul suddenly makes you sad. The way he is a picture of kind insecurity, even though most of him is mouthwatering. There are ugly parts of him, yet invisible to the naked eye. He makes the thought of being touched by someone other than Viktor bearable.

Viktor touched you like he was keeping you. His claiming hands, a constant reminder of his yearning. Which is why, when he stopped, you forgot. You became unkept. A stray in a shelter, getting food, water, and blankets, but no carer. And you could’ve lived without all of those, but not without the belonging. For you, it decayed much sooner than for Viktor.

And then Paul found you. He stumbled upon the pieces of you, left to be picked up and put back together. And Paul touched you like he was asking for permission to be kept. So the two of you strays agreed to keep each other. With time, his touch became familiar; it had overridden the default touch of Viktor. It became comforting, consoling. You never long for it, but you always welcome it. And you no longer need a keeper.

And Paul is a man that everyone envies you for. He’s a man that steals glances and twists the necks of women who congratulate themselves for having a decadent taste in men. In fact, Paul just looks like he fucks well and would make a good dad in the future. He’s hot, but not intimidating, smart, but not a buffoon. Clingy and needy at times. He gets angry in traffic and then patronises you when you freak out about weak Wi-Fi. He has a sadness and kindness to him that makes him a whole human. And sometimes, a whole human is more than you can bear.

You wonder, who is this woman who found pieces of Viktor, and how has she put them back together? If she did. If he let her. If he is in pieces at all.

You feel yourself in fragments, appearing and disappearing, as you approach the shop. And oh God, he is there, and Jayce is running late. Viktor is... picking a bed.

Your shirt clings to you awfully, and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the shop window—face red, remnants of foaming anger visible at the corners of your mouth twisted downwards, hair all messy from digging your hand into it, and two fucking sweat stains under your armpits. Great. Just great.

Why is he picking a bed? Is his bed soaked with you, and he wants a fresh one for the new woman? Is he ready for someone else’s scent so soon? You aren’t ready for him being ready.

You snort up three breaths in a row, no exhales. You hold them until one of your feet steps through the door, announced by a bell. Before your mind can throw you something—anything—you’ve prepared, you feel yourself walking up to him, and you hear yourself blurting out, “Why are you buying a bed?”

Viktor, who is standing by a frame much bigger than the one you two used to sleep in, looks up at you slowly, his lips disappearing into a thin line. “Because I need a bed. And hello.”

“What’s wrong with the old bed?” Unbelievably, you’ve lost all of your common sense. All that matters is why Viktor needs a new bed. His eyebrows raise, and he… smiles. With a horrible, smarmy curve of his lips.

“I don’t have a bed anymore,” he answers sweetly, acid dripping off his tongue.

He didn’t have the bed anymore. For months, he had slept on his tiny couch, which had significantly buggered his spine. But he couldn’t bear it—the bed had smelled of you, and whenever he came near it, it was as if you were still there, lying there, waiting for him. At first, he had wanted to burn it. He asked Jayce for help, and Jayce was frightened. He fidgeted around Viktor and asked him wary questions like, “Are you sure this is what you want?” or, “Isn’t it illegal?”

Viktor scoffed at the last one. He was convinced that if he had told the police why he was burning a bed, they would have helped him do it. But since he was in no shape to chop it with an axe while picturing your face or drive it out of town to build a pillar of hate to pay his respects to you in an eternal flame, he settled on a Craigslist deal. Some poor fucker wanted a bed in exchange for a book. It happened to be the first edition of Naked Lunch. The poor fucker had no idea.

You would have loved it. So he burned it instead.

He burned it on the balcony in the middle of the night, hoping it would make him feel better. Hoping you would feel the tickle of the flames around your soul as he purged it from his being. Hoping that this symbolic act of destroying a piece of literary history would also destroy his feeling of this—this thing he dared not name.

And now, he has just collected a shiny new set of keys to his apartment that he is going to give to Julia the next day. Not to live together, too early for that. But to come and go as she pleases. He will do things differently now. He will do them better this time.

And it is easier, because Jules isn’t so co-dependent. She is collected and pretty. She is alright with anything Viktor proposes. She never challenges him and manages to be funny on rare occasions. They have a lot in common, and it feels comfortable. Yes, Jules is an easy ride—one that he needs after his road through hell.

“What happened to the old bed?” you insist. You loved that bed. It was small and cozy and soft, and Viktor would always jokingly complain about it. And then he would really complain about it, because when he wanted to be far away from you, the softness of the mattress would suck you both into the middle by morning, like a black hole.

His vile smirk turns into a full, shit-eating grin. “It’s gone,” he says coldly. “I hated it. It was bad for my back. Why are you here?” He shoots you a look, and you feel a new wave of sweat pushing itself through your skin.

“I saw you in the window,” you blurt out idiotically, as if that would explain anything. You bite the inside of your cheek, your face contorting into a new expression every second. How utterly mortifying.

“And? You thought you could say hello?” He shifts his weight onto the cane, pinning you like a butterfly on one of those museum boards. Splayed flat, stretched and dried out, dust under anyone’s prying fingers. “Or… you thought it was proper to just come in and be disturbingly weird?”

“I— What? I am not being weird! I’m asking you a question, and you lie to my face,” you hiss, your tone defensive. Oh, he has caught you. His eyes glint, clearly pleased with your mind struggling to formulate a proper comeback.

“Disturbingly weird it is, then,” he deadpans, that fucking smirk still on his face.

Weird. He remembers it so well. He didn’t want to, yet the sensation burned itself into his brain. Even more now, as the act of burning history had the opposite effect of what he desired. After the last remnants of Naked Lunch lifted into the hot summer air and disappeared into glimmering dust, he felt himself stepping into the weird club. The way your weirdness was fascinating and hot. The way his was full of fear and remained unaccepted.

You were neurotic but refused to acknowledge it fully, even though you wore it as a verbal badge. The constant fidgeting, moving objects around, slow pacing across the room as you read your books, always with a soundtrack because your mind needed distractions to remain focused. You could sing a song and read a book simultaneously, and Viktor loved it. He lived to observe all those people encapsulated within you, every single one incomplete, as if you were made of a bunch of different personas.

The fidgeting became overwhelming when he asked you to move in with him. It had been fast, and he owned it—the recklessness of the decision. He left you a way out: keep your old place, just in case. The “just in case” came in handy three years later, when you returned to a dark cage shrouded in dust.

But back then, you had no idea what to do with yourself once your stuff travelled with you to Viktor’s. When you were a guest, the pressure was less. You could move things around, and he would put them back where they belonged after you left. Now, you debated heavily before touching anything. Your books splayed on the floor, your records in a box, while you moved from place to place trying to figure out the value of a random bundle of tomes that some poor soul had sold to your boss for a stupidly small sum.

Viktor was sitting at his desk, trying to work, but your groans made him wince, and your skittish movements lingered in the corner of his eye. He turned in his chair and sighed.

“Come here,” he beckoned, his arm opening in a welcoming gesture, inviting you to sit in his lap. You paused, a puzzled look on your face. Then, you dropped your computer onto the bed, walked up to him too fast to save yourself any dignity, and straddled his hips, hiding your face in his neck.

“Why are you being so jumpy?” Viktor asked, wrapping his arms around you, shielding you from whatever answer you would have to come up with, signalling that whatever the reason was, it was alright.

“I am always jumpy,” you mumbled into his collar. No way to say this. Happy and sad at the same time. Excited and frightened. Bold and shy. Full of his love and hungry for more.

“Hmm, but this time more than usual,” he mused, placing a hot hand on the nape of your neck. A thought struck him.

“Miláčku, are you nervous about a new space?” His question was met with silence, only your nose pressing deeper into his neck. He chuckled, pleased to stumble upon the answer so quickly.

“Do you not feel like this is your home?” he asked, his tone warm and gentle as he propped your face against his palm and lifted it so you would look at him, the response painted on your face.

“Would you like to change something? Would you like to, say, paint a wall?” His peace offering made you wince at your own immaturity. Yes, you wanted to change something. Yes, you wanted to feel less like an invader. The comfort of being a guest was long forgotten, morphing into the feeling of being a stranger probing Viktor’s space, trying to squeeze yourself into it.

Seeing your eyes fixed on him expectantly, your mouth forming a pout, he continued. “Would you like a bookshelf?” A timid nod. He smiled. There we are.

“And maybe a record shelf?” An unhinged display of affection at this. You rubbed your face against his in thanks, nodding a few more times and purring. He chuckled, rolling your hips on his, warmth pooling low under his belly button.

“Hmm, and would you like to get all those things now?” Or would you rather seal the deal with a nice, afternoon fuck? He licked the lobe of your ear, breathing you in through his nose. Your hips pressed down on him, a sweet weight of your ass splayed on his lap making him warm. He ran his flat palms down your back to ground you further, his touch addictive.

“No. Now I want to do something else,” you said, picking up the ball, nipping at his lower lip. You kissed his beauty marks, and Viktor’s eyes fluttered shut in bliss. So much fun to crack you open.

“Ah, distracted already?” he mumbled before kissing you deeply. His hands travelled to cup your ass cheeks, his palms filled with your flesh, just as things should be.

“You always distract me.” Spoken with embarrassment at the admission. Sweet civility, your decorum still intact at those tiny confessions. He swallowed all of them, kept them to himself, and grew stronger and better each time he was granted one.

“And… I’m sorry for being weird,” you said, pulling away an inch to rest your forehead against his.

“I like weird,” Viktor said with a smile, his tone closer to a love confession than a blunt statement. “I am weird,” he added, tracing the lines of your face with his fingers.

“No, you are not,” you chuckled, disarmed. “You are… peculiar,” you announced, poking his lips gently, affectionately.

“That’s just a fancy weird,” Viktor snorted. Peculiar. What a word. What a beautiful word to be given to him. He would wear it like a crown from that point forward. You had anointed him with your gift, and he would cherish it with pride.

“No,” you defended, your brows furrowed at this clear misunderstanding. “No. Weird has bad connotations.” Your finger rested on the tip of his nose, accentuating your point. “Peculiar is fascinating and curious,” you mused as your finger began tracing upward, all the way to the spot between his eyebrows, and then higher, to the line of his hair, brushing it away so you could cup his face. “Odd, in a good way.”

“Alright, word wizard. Did you just come up with this?” he relented with an embarrassed chuckle.

“No, I thought that on the first sight,” you announced proudly. You had. Peculiar was entirely Viktor’s. Wonderful, fascinating. Never fully uncovered, always something there lurking to surprise you. A wild landscape of his brilliant mind, of his raw body—so flawed, so beautiful, like an unfinished sculpture. Every time you remembered his angles, they would shift into something even more mesmerising. The complete lack of effort within him, the way he dressed like a man from a novel. The way he was always incomplete, always searching.

“Peculiar at first sight. Do you have a word for everyone?” he murmured. Seeing your timid nod, his eyebrows shot up. “Jayce?”

You laughed; this one was easy. “Big. Just big. Big everything—big hands, big teeth, big smile, big personality. There is enough of Jayce to literally hug the world,” you said, your tone warm and friendly, as all of this was true about Jayce.

Viktor chuckled, thought for a second. “Mel?”

“Rich.” The word came slightly too fast, and you grinned. Viktor laughed knowingly. “But it goes to everything about her, as I love her,” you clarified, your expression soft. Mel was rich through sharing it with other people. Her fortune came back to her, the more she gave it away. The fortune of her money, her personality, her beauty, spread across all the people she knew.

“Oh, I know. For yourself?” He cocked his eyebrows, his look probing. He had so many words for you. Beautiful. Unhinged. Skittish. Tender. Focused. Distracted. Vulgar. Weird. Hot. His.

“Uh… chaos,” you chuckled awkwardly. Yes, the chaos of your mind never tamed. Which was why your life landed in books. They had provided you with all the personalities you mended yourself from, making your chaotic being work. And Viktor seemed to like all of them.

Until he stopped, and there you were. The weird gained its disturbing friend, and it was no longer cute or fascinating. Now, it was gnawing at him, because he could see those parts of you that he once loved so dearly through a distorting layer of ice, burning his eyes.

“It is none of your concern how I furnish my apartment,” he says calmly. “I am seeing someone and would like your remaining stuff to be removed. Here.” His words stab at you as he pulls out a keychain from his back pocket.

“Next weekend, I’m out of town. Feel free to come and collect your things. Leave the keys in the post box,” he recites, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “If you don’t, I will dispose of them on my own.”

A rush of blood to your head—cold and vile—leaves icy spikes in your veins as it travels upward through your body. Your face drains of colour, your mouth agape. Thousands of “what”s push themselves to your tongue, and you let one slip through.

“W-what?”

“What is so surprising? The pragmatism, or the fact that I had the civility to tell you I’m moving forward on my own accord?” he asks, his tone so utterly cruel it makes your insides twist. “Take this as the last ounce of respect I have left for you.”

“Are you implying that I do not respect you?” you spit, the fury you felt while talking to Mel surging back with full force. What a wanker. “You blocked me. Everywhere. I had no way to let you know.”

“Just take the keys.”

“I… still have my set,” you offer weakly, instantly regretting it as Viktor’s lips curl into a smirk.

“These are new,” he says with feigned innocence. Of course. But you already know this, so why does it shoot straight through your chest? Why does it leave a steaming hole in it? Why do you want to take the keys and stab his eyes with them? Why do you want to scream at him—and yet you can’t.

You take them wordlessly, staring into the void. They burn your hand. “Okay. Alright,” you sigh, defeated, sliding the keychain into your pocket.

An automated smile glues itself to Viktor’s face. So why does he feel so rotten? Surely, this is a victory. Here you are, crumbled into a sad twat of a person, resigned from any further attempts to talk to him. Here you are, exactly where he wants you—hunched and shrunk under the weight of his boot stomping over your cruel heart. You lost, and he won.

So why does he feel so shitty?

He clears his throat and looks away.

“I will have you know that Jayce is desperate to piece the gang together. You and your new… partner will receive an invitation to dinner on Sunday. Jayce has informed me that we are expected to play nice.” The word “partner” is laced with so much venom, the radius could make all the kittens in the vicinity drop dead.

“W-what?” you ask dumbly again. What the fuck? Jayce has lost his mind.

Before you can ask again, the said madman appears by your side.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” he asks wearily, but his embrace is warm.

“Can… can I talk to you for a second?” Your voice cracks, and you hate it. And the worst part is, there’s nobody to carry you home on the top of your shield.

Jayce glances over to Viktor nervously, but Viktor’s eyes are fixed on the mattress in front of him. Jayce sighs, nods, and pulls you a few steps away, pretending the reality isn’t as fucked up as it is.

“What’s up?” He keeps his tone light.

“Jayce, a dinner?”

“Uh, he told you already? I meant to… Yeh, I had an idea that maybe if we all meet and clear the air, things could move forward, at least a bit?”

When he sees your mouth opening and closing a couple of times, and your eyes not blinking even once, he adds, “Please. This is killing me. I feel exactly the same as I did when my parents were divorcing.”

You sigh, finally. Finally, a breath. Your heart is thundering in your chest, and you can feel Viktor’s secretive glances.

“Can I leave at any point?”

Jayce’s face lights up with relief. “Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you, thank you for giving this a chance,” he blurts, so happy, wrapping you up in a hug.

You want to wince away at first, afraid that he might feel how restless your heart is or that he might smell how sweaty you are. But in the end, Jayce’s hug does what it had always done—it calms you, making your head give up. It is what it is.

“I’m gonna go,” you say weakly, pulling yourself away. Jayce shoots you a knowing look and nods, placing his hand on your shoulder before you disappear completely.

You don’t spare Viktor so much as a glance, his keys still burning a hole in your pocket.

***

You despair. The number of times Paul calmly tells you that you could still turn back makes you sick. This poor, kind bastard. He has agreed to this ridiculous idea in an instant, before even checking how you felt about it. Seeing that what you felt is utter peril, he does his best to calm you down and present you with around a thousand options for how this could go.

“We can just not go. We can pretend you’re sick. We can pretend I’m sick, and you can go alone. I can go alone and test the waters for you. We can stay for a drink. We can leave if you feel uncomfortable. Just remember this awesome thing called ‘free will,’ okay?” he says, sitting cross-legged, naked, on the bed.

You are pacing, also naked. Panic surges through your vascular system. It carries said panic to every tissue of your body, making it slowly decompose into a puddle of cries and sobs.

“Hey,” he says, getting up and rushing to hug you. “It’s alright. He’s just a guy.”

This very complacent lie makes you shoot him a look. He tries to be respectful of your old life, of your friendships. Unbidden, his love is too sweet on your tongue as you feel yourself becoming complacent as well.

And then you remember Jayce. His face when he was sad, and he was so, so fucking sad it ripped your heart out. And you feel this vast emptiness that is left after Viktor. With the absence of him, the absence of Jayce and Mel is unbearable. So you sigh.

“Alright. Okay. Let me just… try to do something to not look like a rat.”

Paul chuckles, assuring you that you never look like a rat. When you walk down to the restaurant, your feet stomp heavily on the pavement, and your hand squeezes Paul’s palm in an unrelenting grip. At the door, he says it again, “We can turn back.”

You shake your head and step inside, bravely hiding behind the mass of your boyfriend. Jayce spots you instantly. He gets up so fast, his cutlery clattering to the floor.

“I was afraid you were going to bail,” he whispers loudly into your ear when you finally make it across the room.

“I… thought about it,” you admit under his glare. “You have to thank this guru,” you add with a sigh, gesturing to Paul, who just shrugs, as if it were obvious that you would have bailed without him.

They exchange embraces. You smooch Mel’s face obscenely, actually quite happy to see her, before slumping into your chair, the question staring you in the face. Where is Viktor?

Noticing the question mark distorting your forehead, Mel quickly adds, “They’re on the way. Traffic.”

Bullshit. Viktor lives nearby, and there is no traffic on a Sunday evening. A small relief creeps into you—maybe the outer gods heard you, and it is Viktor who was going to bail. Maybe you have been pulling your hair out over nothing, and this will turn into just a nice evening with your two friends and your lovely boyfriend. Maybe—

“Apologies. Traffic,” comes a sharp tone, accompanied by a shrug and the familiar sight of a cane being hung over the chair’s armrest.

Something sinks in your chest. Peril has just taken relief’s head, ripped it off, and taken a huge shit into its neck. But this isn’t the worst. Introductions come next.

A girl comes running in after him. Pretty. Nerdy. Just… pretty. Nothing remarkable. Pliant and nice, with slightly shy body language. Potentially intelligent. Potentially nothing.

And suddenly, you feel odd having Paul at your side. It feels like you are trying to prove something. It eats at you—that Viktor has shown up with someone so unremarkable, while he himself oozes confidence about his champion. Your champion seems to be completely overblown—his massive frame, his charm that could sweep anyone off their feet.

Overachiever. Poser. Liar.

You feel a nasty fucking thing hatching in your chest. It envelopes your heart, fills your veins with ice, and you could swear the whites of your eyes have gone black. Your hand hesitates when she repeats your name with an oblivious voice, pulling her palm out for a handshake. Your own palm hovers as you muster every ounce of willpower not to slap that mediocre face.

“Hi, Julia. Nice to meet you,” you manage, swallowing the beast, which rakes its claws at your insides as it slides down to your stomach. Your throat burns as you down an entire whisky glass.

You realise it would feel less painful were she obscenely beautiful. Her absolutely average physique has meant that there was something within her soul that beckoned Viktor forth, and the thought makes your own soul wail.

You watch them all from your seat, exchanging names and glances. Jayce knows Julia from work. Paul knows both Jayce and Mel. Which leaves… oh.

“Right, sorry. I’m slow in this weather,” you chuckle a bit too loudly. “Paul. Julia. Viktor.” You gesture clumsily, presenting them to each other before scrambling back into your seat, craning your neck to eye the waiter back to your table.

You watch Paul charming Viktor’s new girlfriend with his smile. You watch Viktor’s slender hand disappear into Paul’s firm grip. You watch their eyes meet, cold and challenging.

You feel a sudden urge to slide under the table. To bury your head in your knees. To bite through the wooden floor to the basement. To dig your own grave and fall asleep in it forever.

“Thanks for the invite, Mel,” Julia beams at your friend, and you spot Mel’s unctuous smile gluing itself to her face. This one is one of her best—so oily and sleek that even Jayce notices. He presses a kiss on her cheek so deep that she has to relax her face.

“So… how did you guys all meet?” It falls on the table and it takes you a few seconds to pick it up.

Holy fucking shit in heaven. Of course. He hasn’t told her. He hasn’t told her that this innocent dinner with friends is actually a farce with the high potential of turning into a carnage. She is oblivious to you. She has no idea. Ignorance is bliss.

“Uh… well, me and Viktor know each other from university, but that you know. Mel I met at a business convention, and, well…” Jayce stammers, stumbling over his words as his forehead begins to glisten with sweat.

Poor soul. You feel so sorry for him, you throw him a lifeline.

“And I am Mel’s friend. Best bitches since business school,” you say, giving the best fake smile you have. Not as good as Mel’s, but it does the job. “And Paul and I met at my work. You can connect the dots,” you throw out nonchalantly. And Viktor was fucking me into heaven for three years. For two.

“Oh, so you’re in business too?” Julia really tries, but the tension is just too palpable. You blink, dumbfounded.

“Uh, no.” A forced chuckle, as if business were a vile way to live. “I sell books.”

“Alright, that’s just unfair,” Jayce intercepts, taken aback by your modesty. You are not trying to be modest; you are trying to give as little information about yourself as possible. You almost smack him, but he continues.

“She finds books like you wouldn’t imagine. Medieval texts, first editions, magic books—all the crazy shit people would write down and publish. Precious objects,” Jayce muses as you try to smooth a crease of panic from your forehead.

“And they trick people who have no idea of their value into selling them rare tomes for chunks of copper,” Viktor murmurs, twirling the wine in his glass.

“Knowledge comes at a price. Of all people, you should be the one to understand that,” you shoot back, your nails slicing through the skin of your palms. You feel Paul’s hand on yours. He doesn’t look at you; he just entwines your fingers together on your knee. The saviour.

“Anyway, it’s actually all incredibly bureaucratic and boring,” you offer weakly, finishing your second drink. “And what about you?”

And then Julia talks. How she is an assistant at the lab where Viktor and Jayce work. How she was always fascinated by their projects. How she thought Viktor distant and mysterious at the beginning, only to discover he was a sweet man. How she just couldn’t say no when he asked her out. Each sentence is a stab into your chest, each of your hard gulps making Viktor smile triumphantly. Until—

The first thing you see is his smirk dropping from his face. The second is Paul’s face as he pulls you in to whisper into your ear, disguising the act as a gesture of affection.

“Smile. And nod. Do you want me to punch him?” he murmurs, the question inaudible to anyone but you.

You smile lovingly, place your hand on his cheek, and shake your head. In fact, you smile so much that your face hurts, and you find yourself needing to physically relax your cheeks with your fingers.

The conversation carries on, all faces a tad sour save for Julia’s. She does most of the talking and asking questions. She focuses on Mel and Jayce, leaving you and Paul to exchange inside jokes. And he does such an exceptional job distracting you that some of your smiles are actually genuine.

You are on your third drink, and your body relaxes despite itself. The food arrives, finally bringing some silence, occasionally broken by hums of appreciation and Jayce’s voice, since he talks with his mouth full. For a moment, you forget Viktor is there—until Julia leaves for the bathroom and leans over to give Viktor a kiss.

His neck cranes to meet her mouth. His hand travels to her throat; the other squeezes her waist. Very briefly, his eyes meet yours. Before you can combust from the look, her hair falls, shielding them both, and all you can make out is the sound of lips smacking apart when she finally pulls away. You wonder what would happen if you stabbed your hand with a fork.

Viktor clears his throat and returns his attention to his plate. You watch him separating meat from the bone, chewing, and swallowing, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he does. And he feels your eyes on him, the smug curve of his lips betraying him.

Paul picks up the glove. He clumsily rolls a chunk of pasta onto his fork and asks innocently if you want to try his food. Absently, you nod, taking a sip of water first to flush your mouth. The bite is too big, and he smears sauce on your cheek and nose. You don’t worry about decorum; you chew as you always chew—jaw working heavily as you gulp down. You can swear Viktor’s eyes are burning a hole in your throat. Paul chuckles at how gross you are and leans in to kiss the sauce off your cheek, nose, and the corner of your mouth. He lingers and comments on how it tastes even better now. It’s all very sickening, and you feel dirty doing it. You can see Viktor eyeing his fork.

Julia returns and plops down next to Viktor with a happy sigh, as if she’s just had the most satisfying number two of her life. You cackle at the thought, but it dies in your throat when Viktor chirps, “I missed you,” to her and presses his lips to her temple.

You feel yourself simmering beneath the skin. It’s all too much.

“Excuse me for a second.” You offer another sweet smile, stand up, place a hand on Paul’s shoulder, and make your way toward the entrance. A gush of sticky air isn’t exactly a relief, but at least it’s not acidic.

“Sorry, can I bum one?” you ask a woman smoking outside. She gives you an understanding look and pulls the cigarette pack toward you.

“Sure, honey. Did you spot your ex in the crowd?”

“Uh, you have no idea. Thanks,” you exhale, letting her light your cigarette. You don’t smoke, but now it seems suitable.

You are expecting Paul to come out after you, ordering a regroup.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Viktor deadpans, giving you a scolding look.

“I don’t,” is all you manage to say without choking on the smoke. “Please, leave me alone,” you plead, seeing him move closer. You could rake that face with your nails. You could slap him and walk away. You could throw his keys back at him and tell him to eat shit. But no. Jayce needs you to play nice.

“Are you not having a nice time?” he asks innocently, just aiming to hurt. “I thought you wanted things back to normal.”

You sigh, looking at the cigarette lying oddly between your fingers. “I…” Your voice falters. And then, despite your efforts to hold the words back, they refuse to stay. They slice your throat open from the inside, bleeding straight into his ears. “I miss you.”

A slap. A slap straight through his heart, hooking his lungs out of his chest. Your beast gets him, instead of sweet Julia. It coils in, purring and eating him from the inside. It’s all he wanted to hear. He won, again. And he feels like shit about it, again.

Viktor’s cane wobbles under his weight, a sharp, uncomfortable cough forcing its way out of him. His face twists. He stands there, still as stone, except for the erratic rise and fall of his chest. His lips part, his tongue flicks to wet them, but no words come. He looks like he is suffocating under the weight of what you’ve just said.

“Fuck off.” The words come out jagged, like broken glass, his voice harsh and cracking. “You have no right.”

You deserve it. You have no right, indeed. Your chest tightens, your lungs pulling for air that isn’t there. He has gone for the kill, but his voice… His voice doesn’t match his words. It’s soft and trembling.

“I know.” Your voice cracks too, balancing on the edge of fury and despair. You step toward him, the cigarette still burning between your fingers, ash crumbling onto the pavement. “But I do.” It feels like scraping off a scab too fresh to be poked at.

Viktor’s eyes widen, just for a moment. It’s quick—too quick—but you catch it. A flash of something buried deep, a flicker of something that makes your knees want to buckle, to throw yourself at his feet. His jaw clenches hard, his lips twitching as if biting back every single thing he wants to say.

“This was supposed to be over,” he hisses finally, but his gaze betrays him, darting down to your mouth, lingering on the curve of your jaw.

“It… is, I just—” You step even closer, the words clawing their way out of you, half a plea, half a challenge. “This is different.” There is no logical explanation for how this is different, except for the absolute certainty, the gnawing truth in your heart of hearts. You are utterly convinced that Julia existed only to spite you, whereas Paul existed to save you, and in principle, the connection between him and Viktor was non-existent. You wonder, for a second, if you should tell him. And then you picture how he would react, and you decide not to.

His hand grips the handle of his cane tighter, his knuckles turning white. “Do not—” His voice wavers. “Do not do this to me.”

You laugh bitterly, the sound hollow and cruel even to your own ears. “What am I doing to you?” You gesture wildly, the cigarette burning low, its ember a heartbeat away from searing your skin. “I try to do right by you. All you do is block me and slap me around.”

“You left!” he snaps, his voice rising, sharp enough to cut through your already battered flesh. “You are the one who left, and now you stand here, saying—saying things you should have said before.” He looks completely crestfallen.

The silence that follows is deafening. Your shoulders slump as you stare at him, and for a moment, you don’t recognise the man in front of you. The Viktor you know wasn’t this—this wreckage, this storm barely holding itself together.

“I left because you made me,” you whisper, the tears you’ve been holding back threatening to spill. “Because you pushed and pushed until I broke. And now I don’t even know if there’s enough of me left to stay mad at you.”

His head dips, his shoulders collapsing in defeat. His free hand runs through his hair, tugging at the roots like he wants to rip something out—anything, just to make the ache stop.

“You think it was easy for me?” he asks quietly, almost a whisper. “To let you go? To—” His voice cracks again, and he stops himself.

That is a first. You knew how hard it was—you had to crawl through your own shitty tunnel. You knew it was hard for him, but you’ve never heard him admit it before.

You both stand there, breathing hard, the air thick like tar. The cigarette finally burns out, the last ember dropping to the ground as you let it slip from your fingers.

“Then why didn’t you fight for me?” you ask, and your voice breaks. “Why didn’t you—”

“I did.” His words come fast, cutting you off, raw and painful. “I did, but you didn’t see it. You wouldn’t.” Viktor fights his hands to not reach out for you and wipe your tears away with his thumbs. He fights his body to not pull you flush against him, to kiss you deeply and whisper a secret into your mouth. He takes a step back, and it costs him everything. Then you both stare at the thing in front of you.

The truth. Ugly and jagged, sitting between you like a gaping wound neither of you knows how to heal. You had both fucked up, royally. And then you went ahead and jumped into something new, hoping that a tiny bit of duct tape would seal a hole in a massive, overflowing tank of feelings.

“Go back inside.” His voice is soft now, a whisper lost in the sticky night air. “I’ll be right there.”

“Everything alright here?” Paul’s voice reaches you before you see him, and you wince. Viktor takes notice. Paul’s arms are crossed on his chest, lips pressed into a thin line.

You nod and drag yourself in obediently. A quick stop in the bathroom to fix your sorry face. A slump into the chair next to Paul, as he places a loving arm around your shoulders. Viktor comes back to the table with an unreadable smile on his face, his eyes wet, but only you can see it. A civil, nice evening, ending with exclamations of how you all should do this again. How it was fun.

“All good?” Paul asks you when you walk home. When you walk to his apartment, the one you silently refuse to move into.

“Yes, just… why did you come out after me?” you counter, puzzled. You pin him with your gaze until he relents into an embarrassed chuckle.

“I thought you needed saving, is all.”

“I don’t need to be saved from anyone, Paul. Don’t intervene again. I’m an adult,” you scoff, opening the door to his apartment.

For the first time, you flinch away from his touch when you are in bed. Tears choke up in your throat all night. But you hold them tight, not letting any slip out. And you realise it takes so long to get over losing someone. That no band-aid, no pretty and nice boyfriend, no amount of friends or sad music could make the process faster. And you realise it isn’t possible to get over Viktor so quickly. And then, you realise that your grief hasn’t moved an inch. It’s still in denial.