#the hotel of forgotten memories | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aleksatia · 24 days ago

Text

💗 Rafayel – Five Years Later

The second in a series of stories exploring MC’s return after five years of silence. Others are coming soon — links will be added as they’re published.

Original ask that sparked this continuation.

Sylus | Caleb | Zayne | Xavier (coming soon)

CW/TW: Trauma & PTSD themes, Implied past abduction, Betrayal / emotional manipulation, Poisoning & near-death experience, Violence (including one execution-style kill), Self-sacrifice, Intense emotional conflict, References to grief, guilt, and long-term separation, Complex relationship dynamics, Themes of forgiveness and healing While inspired by the original characters and lore of the game, this is a personal interpretation. Some aspects of character behavior, relationships, or world-building may differ from canon — especially given the five-year time gap and the impact of traumatic events. Consider it an alternate emotional timeline, shaped by growth, grief, and what-ifs.

(He taught himself silence. Learned to paint with absence, to breathe through longing. But when your shadow crossed his path again — living, breaking, real — the stillness inside him remembered how to shatter.)

The thing about disappearing is — if you do it right — no one comes looking.

Not because they don’t care. But because you made it easier to pretend you were never real in the first place.

You left the sea behind. The salt. The songs. The man with sunlight in his laugh and grief in his hands. You traded it all for concrete, steel, smoke. Somewhere between New Madrid and the Eleventh Sector, you stopped being a person and became a profile: Level 3, Tactical Division, Close Range Neutralization. Specializing in high-value body retention.

A shadow with a badge. A ghost on retainer.

It suited you.

You didn’t drink anymore. You didn’t play games. You didn’t say his name.

“Client arrival is in twenty minutes,” crackles the comm in your ear. "Full week assignment. High confidentiality. Zero contact protocol unless engaged."

You glance at your reflection in the elevator’s gold trim.

Eyes colder. Shoulders straighter. Gun holstered under a matte jacket that still smells faintly of last week’s adrenaline. You're not the girl who once cried into coral bedsheets. You're her replacement.

The hotel smells like money. That antiseptic richness meant to distract from the emptiness.

You position yourself in the lobby near the marble fountain — half concealed, half obvious. Just enough to look like part of the architecture. Just enough to see everything.

The concierge nods. The manager paces. The staff adjust flowers no one will notice.

Then: the cars. Black, sleek, ghost-silent.

Doors open.

Two assistants spill out first. Press, probably. One on a tablet, one on comms. Then a manager — with a face oddly familiar, like a half-forgotten memory trying to surface. Then—

Your heart forgets how to be a muscle.

He steps out like the city belongs to him. Like time bent itself around his absence.

Still tall. Still too elegant for the world he’s forced to live in. Purple waves of hair tied back. Sunglasses sliding down a nose built for poetry. He’s wearing that long beige coat he used to throw over your shoulders when nights got too cold, and his cologne hits you like déjà vu dipped in seawater and regret.

Your mouth is dry. Your hands are ice.

He doesn’t look at you.

Not yet.

You do what you were trained to do: you check for threats. Scan exits. Ignore your pulse.

He walks through the lobby as if unaware. As if untouched. But when he passes, just before the elevator closes — he turns his head.

And smiles.

Like sin. Like summer. Like he knew it would be you.

Then—

“Hello again, Ms. Bodyguard.”

***

The suite was silent. Too silent for something this expensive.

No music. No hum of ventilation. Just the hush of carpet under your boots, and the faint, distant rhythm of city breath outside the window.

You stood near the corner, hands behind your back, spine too straight. Default position. Default you.

He was across the room, jacket already off, sleeves rolled. Moving like someone who was used to being observed. Not by the public — by ghosts.

The wine had already been poured. He handed you a glass like it was part of the ritual. You didn’t take it.

He arched an eyebrow.

“I’m working,” you said.

He didn’t insist. Just smiled, faintly.

Of course.

He used to fill every room — all noise and color and heat. But now, somehow, he'd grown quiet. Not in absence — in weight. Like a masterpiece in a gallery. Like the only rose in a field of thorns. You could look away, but you’d still feel him. Like a crosshair you couldn’t shake.

The window beside you looked out over the city — not that you were looking. Your eyes were trained on his reflection in the glass. Even blurred by distance and light, you could tell: he hadn’t broken. But he’d bent.

Harder than most things could survive.

His voice came low, like something remembered instead of spoken.

“You weren’t always stone.”

You didn’t answer.

He crossed the room without hurry. You didn’t move.

His eyes found yours — not searching, just… waiting. Like the question wasn’t whether you’d speak. It was whether you still could.

“And yet here you are,” he murmured, “standing in my suite like you were carved to fit the corner.”

You felt the words land somewhere deep in the ribs. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak.

He took a slow sip from his glass. The color of the wine caught in the light — the same shade he used to mix on his palette when painting you in shadow.

“I saw the new series,” you said, voice even.

He glanced at you over the rim.

“Did you?”

“Less gold. More... grief.”

A pause. Then a smile — dry, almost kind.

“I ran out of yellow.”

That made your throat tighten. You looked away before it showed.

He studied you. Not your face — your posture. Your silences. You weren’t hiding emotion. You were holding it.

Like a soldier holding a wound closed with one hand.

“And you,” he said, softly. “Still chasing bullets?”

“I don’t chase. I shield.”

“Of course you do.”

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch. But enough that you could feel him again. That impossible warmth, wrapped in restraint.

He looked at you like an old painting. The kind you see once, remember forever, and never find again.

“You followed me,” he said, almost offhand. “Even after you left.”

You didn’t deny it.

“I had to know you were… functioning.”

He laughed — quiet, empty.

“Functioning,” he repeated. “Right.”

You searched his face for anger. You didn’t find it. Only something slower. Older.

Like ash.

“How have you been?” you asked.

It was a mistake. The question hung in the air like smoke from a match — small, stupid, but dangerous.

He stared at you for a long moment.

Then the glass in his hand cracked. A clean, bright sound. Like winter splitting.

The wine didn’t spill. He didn’t move.

“You left,” he said.

Not bitter. Not accusing.

Just: you left.

“And now you want to ask if I’ve been well?”

You shifted. Just enough to register discomfort. Nothing more.

He looked at the flame creeping along his knuckles — Evol, awake and restless. He closed his fist, and the fire vanished like breath from a mirror.

“What did I do?” he asked, quieter now. “What sin did I commit to earn a silent goodbye?”

You drew breath through your nose. Measured.

“I was tired.”

“Of what?”

You looked at him.

“Of being a story you told instead of a person you knew.”

That did it.

Not an explosion. Not a slam. Just a shift. Like something in his chest cracked, and he had no hands free to hold it in place.

He turned. Slowly. Set the broken glass down. No sound. No shatter.

Then he walked to the adjoining door, pressed it open.

“You’ll stay here,” he said.

A simple guest room. Clean, unpersonalized. Quiet.

He didn’t look at you when he added:

“You’re my shadow for the week. No leaving. No exceptions.”

“And if I object?”

He paused at the threshold. Then turned. Finally met your eyes again.

“You won’t,” he said.

Not a command. Just a prophecy.

***

The days blurred.

They stretched long — drawn out by tension and silence — and yet they flew past with the quiet cruelty of something you couldn’t stop. You caught yourself counting minutes. Not until the assignment ended — but until he left again.

You told yourself it was duty. But no. You knew. The closer it got, the more it scared you.

You’d thought you’d buried the past. That five years had been enough to cauterize what you felt. Enough to flatten grief into dull, predictable weight. You’d taught yourself not to cry. Not to ache. Not to wake up reaching for a voice that wasn’t there.

But now—

Now the thought of losing him again bled through you like poison Slow. Sharp. Relentless.

For the first time, you truly wondered — had you made the worst mistake of your life?

You’d always known leaving was cowardice. A reaction. A wound reacting to pressure. You’d told yourself it was necessary — that you couldn’t survive another secret, another lie, another impossible moment in his orbit.

But now, as you stood in his shadow again, you returned to the one truth you kept avoiding. It wasn’t just the secrets. It wasn’t just his careful, curated nonchalance. It wasn’t even the things he didn’t say.

It was that moment — the one you could never forget.

The Nest. The kidnapping. The deal he’d made behind your back.

The betrayal.

The man who once made you feel like a myth had handed you over like a pawn. And you’d left. Because you couldn’t find a version of yourself that could love him and survive it.

But now…

Now you knew. The price you both paid for your fear had been too high.

***

He treated you like a shadow. Professional. Polite. Silent.

He didn’t try to speak. Didn’t joke. Didn’t prod. Whatever playful gleam had once lived in him now belonged to the stage.

You watched him wear charm like a costume — perfectly tailored, easily removed.

The real man?

He wore quieter things now. No more garish brands. No flash. Just silk-lined precision. Weight without noise. Like he’d stopped needing to be seen in order to feel powerful.

And yet — you felt it. The way his gaze burned across rooms. The way silence wrapped around you both like a loaded pause.

Something was coming. You didn’t know what.

Only that it would not be small.

***

Then came the reception.

A charity event. Wealth, power, and politics pretending to like each other in the same room. He handed you your role the night before — not as a request.

You weren’t the bodyguard tonight. You were his date.

No one must suspect otherwise. His reputation demanded it.

And so here you were:

Draped in sea-glass velvet, cut to glide and cling. Your hair swept into soft, impossible waves. Sapphires at your ears, your throat. Everything felt too heavy. Too expensive. Even your heels were a weapon you didn’t know how to use. You hated how they made you move — slow, deliberate. Exposed.

The car slid to a stop. He stepped out first — a vision in black and steel. Then he turned, offered you a hand.

You took it. His skin was cold.

But the touch — the touch burned. Like nothing had ever healed.

Cameras. Screams. Flashing lights.

Your instincts screamed — scan the crowd. Find the threat. Always the threat. But his fingers tightened around yours. Hard.

He leaned in, breath against your ear — warm, familiar, furious.

“Smile, for fuck’s sake.”

You did.

Not for the cameras. Not for the cause.

But because you knew — the storm wasn’t over. It was just beginning.

***

You played the part well.

Neutral. Polished. Cold enough to earn whispers you never heard, but felt just behind your back.

No one dared speak them aloud, of course. They looked at you and said the compliments to him.

“She’s stunning.”

“Such a refined presence.”

“As if she was made to be on your arm.”

As if your face belonged to him. As if your silence was his design.

In some twisted way, maybe it was.

You didn’t remember how you got here. One minute you were cataloguing exits with your eyes, tracking the crowd with practiced ease —

The next —

You were dancing.

His hand on your waist, the other guiding yours. Everything too close, too warm, too practiced.

The chandelier above cast a slow rain of light. The room turned gently, spinning around its own silence.

His touch wasn’t tender. It was intentional.

“Your expression,” he murmured, “is slowly assassinating my reputation.”

You didn’t look at him. “Your reputation as what, exactly?”

He paused. Just a second.Then:

“A man of appetites.”

You tilted your head slightly. “How poetic.”

“I thought so,” he said. “Though the press prefers playboy.”

A beat.

“So you’ve read it,” you said.

“I have someone who clips the good parts.”

“Must be a short list.”

He smiled — not kindly. “Normally, I’m seen with far more… expressive company.”

“Then why break tradition?”

His fingers flexed slightly at your waist.

“I suppose I wanted something quieter.” A beat. “Something that might bite back.”

Your gaze flicked to him. Just once. A sharpened glance.

“And how does this help your image?”

“It doesn’t.” He leaned in, voice a thread. “But it’s not always about image, is it?”

You could feel it — the heat building between syllables. Not passion. Not yet.

Just tension. Waiting.

You moved together like two creatures pretending not to hunt each other. Each step precise. Each breath withheld.

“You used to enjoy this sort of thing,” he said, voice soft now, too close. “Crowds. Light. Being seen.”

“I used to believe in things,” you replied.

He said nothing. But his hand curled tighter against your spine.

For a second, you let the silence say everything.

Then—

You noticed it.

The way his eyes had started slipping away from you. Again and again — to a single shape on the edge of the room. A man. Grey suit. Clean line. Controlled posture.

You knew that look.

The dance ended, but you weren’t let go. He took your arm, like a gentleman.

But you knew better.

***

The garden was colder than it had any right to be. The kind of cold that wasn’t about temperature — it was about distance. About the way stone walls and sculpted hedges swallowed sound and left only the weight of footsteps behind.

You followed him without a word. Because you already knew.

You’d seen his eyes stray to the man in the grey suit half a dozen times during the reception. Not nervous glances — calculated ones. Not curiosity — confirmation.

And now here you were, walking straight into the web.

The man waited by the marble fountain, one hand resting casually in his pocket, the other holding a glass of something expensive and unnecessary. His smile was pleasant. His suit was quiet money. His name was carved into memory from the briefings you used to skim with more detachment.

Elias Varrick. Publicly: philanthropist, investor, art collector, father of four. Privately: suspected ties to high-level biotech experimentation, classified marine acquisitions, and several quiet disappearances.

All rumors, of course. Nothing on paper. Nothing proven.

Still — you knew. Your gut always knew.

But you didn’t know what Rafayel knew. Not yet.

They greeted each other like old acquaintances. A handshake that looked effortless. Painless.

“I thought it best to deliver the piece myself,” Rafayel said. His voice had its old rhythm — slow, warm, dipped in charm.

You watched him as he spoke. Not the words — the tone.

Polite. Polished. Performing.

“That kind of personal art,” he added, “deserves a personal hand.”

Varrick smiled wider. “Very kind of you. My family will love it. We’re planning to hang it in the main lounge — the one where we gather in the evenings. My wife, the children, my mother. It’s where we live.”

And that’s when it happened.

You didn’t freeze. Not outwardly. But something inside you did.

That phrase. The way he said it — we live here.

You didn’t hear a lie. That was the problem. You heard sincerity.

You saw the portrait — Rafayel’s portrait — hanging above a mantel. You saw children playing on a rug beneath it. An old woman sipping tea in a chair nearby. You saw innocence. Unaware. Wrapped around a weapon.

And suddenly, all the scattered images connected. The rumors. The names. The “environmental” fund. The experimental projects tied to Lemurians. The disappearances.

He wasn’t here for charity.

Rafayel was hunting. And you were holding his arm like a lover while he did it.

It wasn’t the lie that made you pull away. It was the memory of all the ones that came before.

You stepped back. A breath lodged in your throat.

“I need a moment,” you murmured.

He turned. “Wait—”

You didn’t let him finish.

“Don’t.”

You turned away.

You needed air. Space. Time. You needed to stop hearing the echo of his voice in your chest, the one that said it’s different now, even when you knew it wasn’t.

But he followed. Of course he followed.

“Let me explain—”

“No,” you snapped, more sharply than intended. “No more explaining. That’s always the beginning of the lie.”

He reached for your arm. You stopped him with a look.

“I want to know one thing,” you said. Your voice was low, barely steady. “That painting… it’s a weapon, isn’t it?”

He hesitated. Just a breath. But it was enough.

“Not here,” he said softly. “Please.”

“There are children in that house, Rafayel. Children. How can you guarantee there won’t be innocent blood?”

His jaw tensed. The silence between you vibrated with unsaid things. Then:

“Come with me,” he said. “I’ll explain everything. But not in public.”

“Answer me.”

“I said not here,” he whispered. Not angry. Not cold. Just—desperate. Controlled. And that — more than anything — told you what you needed to know.

And that’s when it happened. The movement was too fast.

You heard it before you saw it — a hiss of compressed air.

Then the glint of metal. Then the needle, already buried in the side of Rafayel’s neck.

Everything shattered.

Rafayel stumbled, hand flying to the injection point. His eyes widened — not with pain. With realization.

Varrick stepped back with chilling calm, adjusting his cuff.

“I knew it was you,” he said simply. “The moment I saw your face, lemurian. I knew you were the one behind Raymond’s death.”

You didn’t wait for orders. Didn’t need permission.

You drew and fired — one shot. Silent. Precise. Varrick collapsed with a grunt of pain, clutching his leg.

You were on him in three strides. Knee in his chest. Barrel to his throat.

“What was in it?” you growled.

His breath rattled, half from the pain, half from the thrill of it all. He was enjoying this — the game, the brink.

“I’m not—”

You slammed the muzzle harder against his neck.

“Tell me. Or I swear, I’ll have your lungs painting that lovely family room of yours by morning.”

He laughed, blood in his teeth.

“Requiem Coral,” he gasped. “Gen-modified. Synthetic compound. It bonds to Lemurian blood — slow neural degeneration. Burns out the body one nerve at a time. Quite poetic, really.”

You stared at him. Then you fired again.

Between the eyes.

No poetry. Just silence.

***

You found Rafayel still upright. Barely. His pupils were uneven. Sweat glistened on his temple. His balance was shot.

You got under his arm, bore half his weight.

“No hospital,” he muttered.

“I’m not a moron,” you snapped. “We’re going home.”

You drove with one hand clenched around the wheel, the other wrapped tightly around his — clammy now, fingers twitching less and less.

The city blurred past like water through glass, useless. Silent.

He was slumped in the seat beside you, head tilted back, jaw clenched.

“Is this your version of a confession?” he muttered, voice paper-thin. “Waiting ‘til I’m half-dead to finally hold my hand?”

“Shut up,” you hissed.

He smiled — barely. “So harsh. Romance really is dead.”

You tightened your grip on his hand. His skin was cold.

“Don’t do that,” you said. “Don’t talk like you’re not about to die.”

“I mean, statistically—”

“I said shut up.”

Your voice cracked on the last word.

The rest of the ride was agony. You didn’t feel the road. You didn’t feel the turns. You felt him — fading beside you. His breath going shallow. His body heavy.

And all you could do was drive faster.

***

Your home wasn’t built for tenderness. It wasn’t a place to recover. It was a place to survive.

The door slammed behind you, and you half-dragged, half-carried him to the medical bench. He tried to help. He couldn’t.

He collapsed like a broken marionette, breathing hard, sweat cold on his brow.

You moved by instinct.

Antitoxin. Anti-inflammatories. Burn stabilizer. Anything. Everything.

Tubes. IV. Scanners.

Your hands didn’t shake — until you realized that nothing was working. His vitals dipped. Once. Again.

No improvement. And you weren’t a doctor. You weren’t a biotech. You were a weapon.

You could take a man apart in thirty seconds, but this — this—

You couldn’t fix this.

You hovered over him, swallowing panic, shoving down the scream forming in your throat.

He opened his eyes — only halfway. Saw the mess you were making. He lifted one trembling hand, and caught your wrist.

“Stop,” he whispered. “You’ll do more harm than good.”

You shook your head violently. “No. No, I can— I just need time—”

“There is no time.”

His voice was barely there.

“I don’t— I don’t know how to stop it,” you said, broken. “I don’t know how to fight it—how to save you—”

“Then listen.”

His eyes found yours.

“If this is it…” His breath caught. “If I’m not waking up from this—”

“Raf, no—”

“Then I want the truth.”

He looked at you like a man watching his own shadow disappear. Like someone who knew there was no second chance this time.

“No secrets. No lies. Nothing between us.”

You froze. And something inside you cracked.

The words came out on a sob.

“I know.”

He blinked slowly. “Know what?”

“I know you sold me out. N109 Zone. Five years ago.”

The air stopped moving. His lips parted, but no sound came.

You looked down, ashamed and shaking.

“I found the records. I connected the drops, the timing. You handed me over.”

There was a long pause. Then, suddenly — he laughed. A ragged, broken sound that became a cough.

“Oh, you—God.”

His smile was pained. Too pained.

“You wanted to reach Onichynus, remember?”

You looked up.

“There’s no easy road there. No clean path.”

He coughed again, winced, and gripped your hand tighter.

“I was watching. If things had gone wrong, I would’ve stepped in. I wouldn’t have let them break you.”

Your lips trembled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t trust myself not to stop you. I didn’t want you to look at me like you are right now.”

He coughed again — something wet in the sound now.

“I never betrayed you.”

His hand drifted to your chest, barely touching.

“You were always my heart.” He smiled faintly. “And when you left… you took it with you.”

You crumpled. Your hands went to his face, cold and pale, and your voice shattered into pieces.

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I thought— I thought you used me. Manipulated me. Like everyone else.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

“I would’ve died for you.”

“I know. I know now.”

Tears streamed down your face.

“I took your heart, Raf, but mine—” You pressed a hand to his chest. “Mine never left you. I… still love you.”

Your voice broke like a body under fire.

“God, I never stopped loving you.”

You leaned down, kissed his lips — dry, cold, still his. Your tears landed on his skin.

“Please,” you whispered. “Fight. Just… fight. Tell me what to do. Anything. Because if you die— if you leave me now— I swear—”

“I’m already leaving,” he said.

A beat. A breath.

“I don’t think anything can stop it.”

You shook your head. “No—”

“But there’s something you can do.”

You stilled.

“Take me to the sea,” he whispered.

His eyes were almost closed.

“If I die… I want the ocean to take my last breath.”

***

You helped him into the water, one arm steady around his waist, the other gripping his wrist as if holding on could somehow hold him here.

The sea was cold, even for nightfall. Each wave climbed higher, tasting skin and memory as it came. Rafayel leaned into you, too light, too quiet. His steps were uncertain, but not from fear. He wasn’t afraid. He was done.

By the time the water reached his chest, he stopped.

His breath caught. Not sharply — softly, like a curtain falling.

For a moment, under the pale gleam of moonlight, he closed his eyes. His features relaxed. And it struck you — how little color remained in his face. How glass-like his skin looked. Almost translucent. Almost not there.

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words never found shape.

Because he let go.

He stepped back. And before you could stop him, before you could tighten your grip — he slipped beneath the surface and vanished.

No sound. No splash. Just absence.

“Rafayel.”

Your voice wavered, swallowed instantly by the dark. Then louder—

“RAFAYEL!”

But there was only the sea.

You surged forward, boots stumbling, breath catching in your throat as you threw yourself into the waves.

Cold bit into your spine. Your jacket dragged you down. Salt stung your eyes. None of it mattered.

You dove.

Once, five years ago, it had been the same. Different ocean. Same cold. Same fear.

You remembered that too well — sinking below the surface on a job gone wrong, your lungs seizing, your vision narrowing. And just before the dark closed in, it had been him who pulled you out. His arms, his breath, his voice.

Breathe, cutie. Come on. Breathe.

And now—

Now it was your turn to find him.

You kicked downward, deeper, into the black.

You couldn’t see. The moonlight didn’t reach this far. But you didn’t need to see. You needed to find.

The water grew colder the further you went. Each stroke slower, weaker. The pressure in your chest building, blooming like fire. Your hands swept forward, wide, desperate — fingers searching for fabric, for skin, for anything.

You found nothing.

The panic came slowly. Not like a scream, but like a slow tightening, a noose drawn carefully across your ribs. Your lungs began to burn. Your mind whispered it was too far. Too late. But your body refused to listen.

You kept going.

Until your arms stopped obeying. Until your legs stopped kicking.

Until your last exhale slipped from between your lips, and with it, the only word that still meant anything.

“Rafayel,” you mouthed.

And sank.

Everything stilled.

Time, sensation, thought.

And just as the darkness began to take you—

Something changed.

A pulse. Not from the sea. From inside.

Evol. Dormant until now — roared awake. But not with power. With purpose.

It didn’t surge to protect you. It didn’t scream in defense. It answered something quieter. Deeper.

A wish.

You weren’t trying to save yourself. You weren’t trying to rise.

You were trying to give him your heart back. To pour your strength into his veins. To reignite the spark inside him — even if it meant extinguishing your own.

Let me give it back. Let him live. Let me take the weight.

That was the prayer beneath your ribs, and Evol obeyed.

It moved through you like liquid fire, searing down to your bones, pulling from every corner of your being. It hurt. God, it hurt — not like dying, but like unraveling. You were emptying yourself willingly. Not out of fear. Out of love.

And then — resonance.

Not just from you. From him. Like something in the darkness roared back.

No. Not her. Not this way.

You felt it — a pull in the opposite direction. Not rejection. Not resistance. Reciprocity.

His Evol flared back — instinctive, involuntary, desperate. Refusing the gift. Refusing the cost.

He wouldn’t let you die for him. And you — you couldn’t let him die for you.

And so you were pulled. Not rising. Not flying.

Drawn back. Both of you. Together.

Because even now, even here — at the edge of everything — neither of you could bear to leave the other behind.

***

You came back coughing.

The world hit in pieces — salt on your lips, sand beneath your palms, the weight of your own chest struggling to rise.

And then—

Arms.

Not the ocean’s. His.

He was holding you. Soaked. Shaking. Alive.

His heartbeat thudded beneath your ear, ragged but real. His breath skimmed your temple. His fingers gripped your shoulders like he wasn’t sure whether to anchor you — or himself.

You opened your eyes. The sky swam above you, vast and starless.

And Rafayel’s face was there. Pale with exhaustion, hair clinging wet to his skin, eyes too bright in the dark.

You reached up, touched his cheek with trembling fingers. He leaned into it.

No words passed between you. There was nothing to explain.

“This,” you whispered, voice torn to ribbons, “is exactly where I want to be when I die.”

His mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile breaking through.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he murmured, “next time we die.”

Your breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“Raf…”

He hushed you with his thumb against your cheek, his gaze steady and quiet.

“It’s over.”

You shook your head. “But how—”

He didn’t answer right away.

Only looked at you, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, you saw it— light. Faint, buried, but alive in him.

“Cutie,” he said softly, “how could I keep dying when you needed me this much?”

The sound you made was broken, wild — grief and love tangled into one. You folded into him, arms tight around his shoulders, burying your face in his neck.

“Then you’ll have to live,” you whispered, choked, “for a long, long time. Because I need you. Every day. Every second. Every stupid heartbeat.”

He laughed — quiet and hoarse, and it felt like sunlight after rain.

“Another eternity, then. Sounds like a curse. Or a blessing. Maybe both.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. Moonlight caught the water on his skin, and you felt like crying again.

“I was such a fool,” you said. “You shouldn’t have brought me back. I ruined everything. I wasted so much—”

“I’m not arguing,” he cut in gently. “But I figured… maybe you’d want to fix your behavior.”

A huff escaped you. Wet, shaky. Almost a smile.

“Will you let me try?” you asked. “Will you—can you forgive me?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Sweetheart,” he said, cupping your face in both hands, “this was never about forgiveness. Not really. Not about second chances or fresh starts.”

His thumbs brushed away the tears you didn’t realize were falling.

“We’re us. Flawed. Messy. Brilliant and brutal in equal measure. We hurt each other. And we heal each other.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“I forgave you a long time ago. I was only angry because I didn’t understand. I thought maybe—if I’d been softer. Or warmer. Or better—maybe you would’ve stayed.”

You closed your eyes, tears slipping free.

“I never left you,” you said. “Not really.”

“I know.”

He leaned forward. And kissed you.

Once — soft and slow, like breathing. Then again — deeper, like memory.

And when you kissed him back, there was no anger left. No questions. Just the weight of five years falling away between your mouths.

You broke away just long enough to murmur, “We almost died.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth.

“We’re always almost dying.”

You laughed, breathless.

“This is a terrible time—”

“There’s no better one,” he said. “You never know which kiss is the last. Which night is the edge.”

He pulled you to him again.

And beneath the moon, on wet sand and shaking limbs, you gave yourselves back — completely. No hesitation. No conditions.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t clean. But it was real.

You loved him like you remembered how. And he held you like he never forgot.

And this time, it didn’t feel like the end.

It felt like the beginning.

***

You woke to the sound of brush against canvas.

Soft, rhythmic. A whisper of motion. It tugged at something in your memory, something half-forgotten.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t even open your eyes.

There was warmth on your skin — sun, blankets, and something else. You inhaled. Salt. Linens. Paint.

And him.

When you finally blinked into the light, it took a moment to understand where you were.

The room was high-ceilinged, the windows cracked open to the hush of waves. The bed was too big, sheets still tangled, your body aching pleasantly in ways that reminded you — yes, it was real.

Last night was real.

And then—

“Don’t move.”

His voice. Low. Focused. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache.

You turned your head slightly, and there he was.

Rafayel. Sitting on a low stool near the foot of the bed, bare feet braced against the floor, shirt half-unbuttoned, canvas before him. A brush in one hand, a palette balanced on his thigh.

You blinked at him. “What… are you doing?”

“I said don’t move.” He didn’t look up. “You’ll ruin the pose.”

“I wasn’t posing,” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. “I was sleeping. Possibly drooling.”

He finally glanced at you. A glint in his eyes — amusement.

“You were beautiful. Are. I wanted to keep this one.”

“Raf,” you said, stretching with a grimace, “I probably look like a tangled sea urchin. There’s still sand in places sand should never be. I need a shower.”

“If you let me finish, we’ll shower together.”

Your brows lifted. “Tempting bribe.”

“I know.” He smirked. “Also—note to self: never again sex on sand.”

“The ocean was too cold,” you teased.

“Not in my arms.”

That stopped you for a breath.

You smiled. A small, stunned thing.

And somewhere in the middle of smiling and remembering and wanting to kiss him again, you noticed something on the canvas. You squinted.

“Wait... is that yellow?”

He flinched. The brush stuttered.

And then—he groaned, deep and dramatic. “Dammit. Now I have to start over.”

You sat up on your elbows, eyes wide. “Was that my fault?”

He stood slowly, brush still in hand. “You moved. You talked. You ruined my masterwork.”

You grinned. “Your nude beach goddess masterwork?”

“Yes,” he said solemnly. “It was going to hang in the Met.”

“Well, in that case—” you started.

But before you could escape, he lunged — grabbed your ankle, yanked you toward the edge of the bed with a playfully feral grin.

You shrieked.

“Raf!”

“You destroyed art!”

“I was the art!”

You kicked. He caught your other foot.

Laughter spilled from your throat — loud, full, aching in your ribs. You couldn’t remember the last time you laughed like this.

He climbed over you, breathless with mock outrage, and you tangled together in the blankets, in limbs, in joy.

You were still gasping when you murmured, “I’m sorry I can’t erase the past. Those five years... they’re etched into us. But I swear, I’ll spend every day trying to heal what I broke.”

His expression softened — all teasing gone.

“Cutie,” he said quietly, brushing a thumb over your cheekbone, “you still don’t see it, do you?”

You stilled.

“Last night,” he said, “you were ready to give everything. Your Evol, your life, your soul — for me. Even when you thought I wouldn’t survive.”

He leaned his forehead against yours.

“In that moment, I think even the gods cried.”

You closed your eyes.

“My wounds healed the second you chose to stay,” he whispered. “There’s barely even a scar left.”

Then his voice dropped lower.

“Just promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Never disappear again. Not without giving me the chance to fight for you. Not in this lifetime. Not in any other.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You looked him in the eyes — and felt the weight of every mistake, every mile, every ache that had brought you back here.

And then you said, quietly:

“Even if all the oceans rise, even if this world burns and time eats itself whole — I’ll find you. In every life. I’ll find you, and I’ll stay.”

His lips parted. He didn’t speak.

He just kissed you.

And this time, it wasn’t for survival.

It was for everything else.

#love and deepspace #lads #rafayel love and deepspace #lads rafayel #rafayel x reader #rafayel x mc #rafayel x you #storytelling #fanfic #fanfiction #angst #hurt/comfort #emotional #trauma #conflict #grief #second chances

583 notes · View notes

alastorss · 11 months ago

Text

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Alastor comes home to silence.

It's strange considering how much of a night owl you've become since meeting him. The quietness is almost eerie—the long stretch of hall between the staircase and your shared bedroom seeming daunting despite the fact that he's walked it a million times before.

The rest of the hotel is dark, like it's been devoid of life all this time. Even Husk has retired for the night, the bar closed and wiped down.

He wonders if he accidentally waltzed into an alternate dimension.

Shaking his head, Alastor creeps down the hall as to not disturb the other guests between him and the bedroom. The door creaks at the hinges as he slowly pushes it open, not wanting to spook you in case you were awake.

He can't explain it, but warmth fills him from the tips of his ears all the way down to his toes when he finally lays eyes on you.

You've fallen asleep at the desk, head buried in your arms to hide your face from the light of the lamp. Your shoulders rise and fall gently with each soft snore, the blanket sloppily thrown over your shoulders cascading down to the floor to make you look like royalty.

The demon feels his grin shrink into a small smile as he slips behind you to peer at what you were doing before you passed out. Dozens of polaroid photos are lazily scattered around the desk, each one dated in the corner and signed with your name and a heart.

His eyes scan the sprawling expanse of photos, dating all the way back to just before you'd introduced yourselves to each other.

He carefully plucks the sharpie from your fingers and caps it before slipping an arm under your knees and the other behind your back. Hoisting you up and using his hip to slide the chair back into place under the desk, he watches as you stir in his arms for a moment.

Alastor carries you to bed, laying you down and re-fluffing your blanket so that you can cozy into it. He sweeps your hair from your eyes and leans down to kiss your forehead.

"Sleep well, Cher," he whispers.

He's just about to whisk himself away to get ready to join you in bed when he happens across the photos again. Curiosity washes through him and, nosy as ever, he dares to take a peek at what your little project was all about.

The demon is careful not to nick the photos with his claws as he lightly drags them across the film, tracing each memory you captured.

Your first day at the hotel, dangling between Charlie and Vaggie as they took you in like a lost puppy. He's not in the photo, but he still remembers hearing your laughter from the lobby and thinking it was wonderful.

Your first time doing one of Charlie's ridiculous bonding activities, where you confessed that you had no recollection of your life as a human. It wasn't uncommon for new Sinners to have forgotten their lives, after all.

Your first time letting Angel dress you. He had decided to put you in something tight and revealing... that bastard.

Alastor's fingers stop atop a polaroid dated to when you first became friends.

He's distracted, looking at you with an expression he can't even recognize himself. Brows quirked and smile making his cheeks cherub—you snapped the photo in his moment of vulnerability when he normally would have vanished from it instantly.

He continues tracing your face in chronological order, your smile growing in each. And he's in every single one of them, never looking at the camera but instead distracted by you in some way.

"People told me you never like to take pictures," your voice suddenly startles him. He looks at you over his shoulder in surprise. You blink at him slowly through your bleariness, the same smile he's seen in all the photos gracing your face. "But for some reason, you've always been in mine."

Alastor turns around again to scan across all the polaroids you've taken of him, dating up until just last week when you had surprised him his favourite meal.

For a moment it dawns on him that he, a demon, should never have opened himself up so much to you. That you were his greatest flaw. That he was weak around you. The thought leaves as fast as it came when he realizes how soft his smile had gotten around you.

He can't remember ever being this happy even as a mortal walking the earth.

"Al?" You say quietly, now sitting up in bed alert and awake from his uncharacteristic silence.

He's still for another second. Then, he swipes the camera from the desk and makes his way to your side. You barely have time to register what he's doing before the light flashes and the shutter clicks.

The picture prints slow enough for you to finally realize that you had been the subject of his photo.

"What was that for?" You giggle, rubbing your eyes from the blinding light.

Alastor takes the picture and slips it into his pocket.

"I want to remember this," he tells you with a kiss to the top of your head. "A memory for me to keep, dearest."

taglist: @the-lake-is-calling @dragons-and-dwarves-are-nice @averylonelysea @bri22222 @cxrsedwxrlds @amarokofficial @anae-naea-zacheria @for-hearthand-home @fantasy-is-best @angixyc @th3-st4r-gur1 @nonbinaryanarchist0013 @dilemmaiscool @concentratedconcrete @squiword7 @clarakainda @princekeerys @cedarrthefluffylee @alastorthirsty @queermaxwooo @readergirlstuff (send an ask to be added!)

2K notes · View notes

awhhayden · 5 months ago

Text

TAKE IT AWAY ⊹₊⟡⋆ 18+

CONTAINS : 20+ age gap, f is 19, james is 40, smut, fem!reader, p in v sex, size kink, praise kink, soft!dom, y/n implied, daddy kink,

SUMMARY: James Kelly is your bfs dad, after a stinging betrayal by your bf you find yourself at James front door.

JAMES KELLY’S doorstep was the last place you'd expect to find yourself at in the pouring rain late at night, but after a painful betrayal by your boyfriend and a rocky relationship with your family, your boyfriend's dad was the only person you could think to go to.

Of course, you knew him. You’d been dating Chris for over a year now—a relationship that began with promise but grew increasingly tangled in his chaotic habits. Chris, a year older than you, had seemed charming when you met at the start of your senior year. But as time passed, his love for drinking and late-night parties began to erode the foundation of what you thought you had. Tonight was the breaking point. After a grueling shift, you arrived at your shared apartment, only to stumble upon a scene you’d never prepared yourself for. Chris lay in your bed, passed out and tangled in the sheets—with another woman by his side. The mess of discarded clothes and disheveled bedding told the story as clearly as if they’d shouted it aloud.

You fled the apartment as quickly as you’d entered, not uttering a single word. The night’s silence was broken only by the soft patter of rain, which quickly turned into a downpour as you sped out of the complex’s parking lot. Hot tears streaked your face, blurring your vision as your mind raced. Part of you had almost anticipated this moment, yet another part had clung to the hope that Chris would never stoop so low. For 30 aimless minutes, you drove through the rain-slicked streets, the clock on your dashboard flashing 1:00 a.m. The storm was heavier now, matching the chaos inside you.

You considered pulling into a nearby hotel, but the cost gave you pause. Going to your family wasn’t an option—they’d never been the kind of safety net you could count on, and showing up at their door in the middle of the night would only make things worse. Your mind drifted to an unconventional idea, one that felt both reckless and oddly comforting: James Kelly. Chris’s father had always been kind to you, a steady presence in the background of your chaotic relationship. He owned a small auto shop, if memory served, and lived alone after Chris’s mother walked out when he was a baby. You’d been to his place a handful of times, and now, with no other options, you found yourself driving down his street. A flicker of hope lit within you, faint but persistent, as you wondered if he might still be awake. The thought of telling James everything—of laying bare what his son had done—sparked a strange mix of boldness and satisfaction that pushed you forward.

You eased your car up to the small two-story house, its silhouette hazy in the rain. To your surprise, the living room light spilled out into the dark night, accompanied by the warm glow of the porch light. Was he awake? you wondered, your chest tightening with a mix of nerves and anticipation. Taking a shaky breath, you pulled into the driveway, the rhythmic drumming of rain against your windshield growing louder.

Glancing at the passenger seat, you realized with a groan that you’d forgotten a jacket in your frantic rush. Bracing yourself, you inhaled deeply before throwing the door open and making a dash for the porch. The rain immediately soaked through your clothes, icy and relentless, but you pressed on. By the time you reached the shelter of the porch, your hair and sleeves clung to you uncomfortably. Hesitating for just a moment, you raised a trembling hand to the doorbell and pressed it. The chime echoed faintly inside, and seconds stretched like hours. Then, you heard the sound of a lock clicking, followed by the creak of the door swinging open. Standing before you was James Kelly, his piercing eyes locking onto yours. His expression flickered briefly with confusion, then concern, as he took in your soaked appearance

James’s brows knitted together the moment he saw you—soaked to the bone, shivering uncontrollably. Concern flickered across his face. “Kiddo, what are you doing here? Is everything okay?” His voice was steady but laced with worry. Tears burned your eyes as you tried to respond, but the words caught in your throat. “I…” was all you managed before your voice cracked. Without hesitation, he reached out, gently taking your arm and pulling you inside. The door closed behind you with a solid thunk, and the sudden warmth of the house wrapped around you, a sharp contrast to the cold rain that clung to your skin. He took a step back, studying you with a careful yet alarmed expression. You could only imagine how you must have looked—drenched, trembling, your face a portrait of exhaustion and heartbreak. In that moment, you felt as fragile as glass, yet something about his steady gaze made you feel a little less alone.

James grabbed a soft throw blanket from the closet and draped it around your shoulders, his hands shaking slightly as he pulled it tight. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling a shaky breath before looking at you with deep concern. “What happened, hon?” His voice was low, barely above a whisper. You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, but the words spilled out before you could stop them. “Chris... He... I came home from work, and he was passed out in our bed—with another girl.” The tears, which had been threatening to fall for hours, finally spilled over, and you wiped at your face, your voice breaking. James's expression shifted in an instant, his features hardening with disbelief and a flash of anger. “He did what?!” he demanded, his voice sharp with fury. You flinched at the force of his reaction. “I... I didn’t do anything. I just left. They were still asleep when I left.” You could feel the weight of your own words as they hung in the air. James’s face softened with regret. He closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if trying to process the words that didn’t seem to make sense. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with sympathy. “I didn’t realize it had gotten that bad between you two” You nodded, unsure of what to do with the heavy silence that followed. Your chest tightened, the emptiness of it all pressing in. “I just needed you to hear it from me,” you whispered. “I’ll go now. Thanks, Mr. Kelly.” You turned to leave, your hand hovering over the doorknob, when his voice stopped you, hesitant but firm. “Are you going back?” For a moment, you stood still, torn between the truth and what you thought he wanted to hear. Finally, you let out a shaky breath and admitted, “No... I was planning on sleeping in my car tonight and figuring out the apartment thing tomorrow.” His face softened with worry, his eyes darkening with concern. “What? No, honey, you can’t do that”, he said gently, stepping forward. You can stay here tonight. “Chris’s old room is still open. Please... stay here.” The offer hung in the air, warm and kind, like a lifeline thrown at just the right moment.

You hesitated, heat rising to your cheeks. You’d always found James attractive—his kind demeanor and effortless warmth had a way of making you feel safe, even in moments like this. The thought of losing him, too, in the aftermath of this breakup made your chest ache.

“I… I don’t want to be a burden,” you murmured, glancing down at the floor. “Burden?” he scoffed gently, already grabbing a fresh sheet and blanket from a nearby closet. “Not a chance. You’re not sleeping in your car. That’s final.” He handed you the linens, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Take these up to Chris’s room. There’s no bedding on it right now,” he said, pausing to take in your still-drenched frame. His eyes softened. “You should shower in the bathroom up there. I’m pretty sure Chris has some old clothes in the closet you can borrow. It’s not ideal, but it’ll do for tonight.” He offered a small, reassuring smile that made your heart flutter despite everything. You swallowed hard, emotions bubbling to the surface. “Sir… I mean… Thank you,” you managed to say, your voice wavering. He smiled again, softer this time. “Please, call me James.” With a nod, he pointed toward the stairs, and you turned, clutching the linens tightly as you made your way to Chris’s room. Each step felt heavy, but for the first time that night, there was a flicker of comfort waiting for you.

James sank back onto the couch, the soft hum of his show barely registering as he stared blankly at the screen. Letting you stay wasn’t an inconvenience—not after what his son had done to you. He sighed heavily, tipping back his beer, the familiar bitterness doing little to chase away the anger and disappointment that churned in his chest.

How had it come to this? He’d tried to raise Chris better. Sure, his son had always had his flaws—his drinking, his impulsive, reckless streak—but James had held onto the hope that with age, Chris might finally grow up. Turning 20 should’ve been a turning point, yet here they were. James dragged a hand through his dark hair, frustration etched across his face.

And then there was you. Sweet, soft-spoken, kind-hearted—you’d always been a bright spot in the mess Chris often created. James had secretly hoped you might be the one to inspire his son to change, to break free from the careless habits that held him back. But tonight shattered that illusion. The image of you standing on his doorstep flashed through his mind: rain-soaked, shivering, and heartbroken. It stung more than he cared to admit. How could Chris betray someone like you? Someone who, in James’s eyes, deserved so much better.

You stepped out of the shower, steam curling around you as the cold air hit your skin. Reaching for a towel, your hand met empty space. Shit. Your stomach dropped as you realized you’d forgotten to ask for one. Frantically, you glanced around the bathroom, hoping to spot something—anything—you could use. But the room was almost barren, save for a few toiletries and the clothes you’d left in a heap.

Groaning in disbelief, you stood there for a moment, weighing your options. Finally, with a deep breath, you cracked the bathroom door open just enough to call out. “J… James?”

Downstairs, James’s head snapped up from the TV, the sound of your voice cutting through his thoughts. He rose, walking to the base of the stairs. “Yeah?” he called back.

Your face burned with embarrassment. “I… uh… I don’t have a towel,” you admitted, your voice barely louder than the hum of the rain outside. James winced, mentally kicking himself for forgetting. “Right. Sorry about that,” he called up, his tone gruff but understanding. “I’ll grab one and leave it outside the door.”

He trudged upstairs, grabbing a fresh towel from the laundry room. His footsteps were heavy but careful as he approached the bathroom. Setting the towel just outside the door, he cleared his throat. “It’s there,” he said, his voice low. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and disappeared into his bedroom, the quiet click of the door shutting behind him leaving you alone once more.

You peeked out from the door before quickly grabbing the towel and drying yourself off gently. Taking a deep breath, you wrapped the towel around yourself and stepped cautiously out of the bathroom. Just as you did, James emerged from his bedroom, having changed into his pajamas. You turned and gasped, nearly bumping into him as you took in the sight before you. He stood there in nothing but grey sweatpants, his bare chest inches from your face, his tall, toned frame towering over you.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, your heart racing.

James looked down at your figure, your glistening skin only partially concealed by the towel, and felt a rush of heat pulse through him. “Sorry, kiddo,” he muttered, quickly walking past you and heading downstairs. You turned on your heel and rushed into Chris’s room, shutting the door behind you, your breath coming in heavy gulps, a mix of confusion and rising desire swirling within you.

Quickly, you dressed in one of Chris’s oversized shirts and a pair of old boxers. You tiptoed down the stairs and into the living room, where James was engrossed in his show. “Mr. K—erm, James,” you said softly, not wanting to disrupt him completely. He turned to look at you, a warm smile breaking across his face as he gestured for you to sit beside him.

You settled onto the opposite end of the couch, trying to maintain as much distance as possible, but the charged air between you grew thicker with each passing moment. As the episode concluded and the credits began to roll, James stretched and stood up, preparing to walk by you. But in a moment of boldness, you reached out and grabbed his hand, stopping him in his tracks.

“Sir,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. His gaze flickered down to your hand entwined with his, surprise etched on his face. “Y-Yes?” he stuttered, a hint of uncertainty in his tone. You patted the cushion next to you, silently inviting him to stay. He hesitated, the tension palpable, before finally sitting down beside you. A rush of emotions surged through you—hurt, anger, confusion, and an undeniable longing. Gathering your courage, you turned toward him, your hand resting on his leg.

“I…I don’t want to be alone tonight,” you whispered, the implications hanging heavily in the air. James tensed at your touch, his eyes widening as he processed your words. “What do you mean?” he choked out, his voice thick with apprehension.

You took a deep breath, hesitating for only a moment before straddling his lap, trailing soft kisses down his neck. His eyes widened completely as his body ignited with fire at the feel of your warmth pressing against him. “Sweetie…you…you don’t know what you’re doing, you’re upset” he protested weakly, but the growing tent in his pants betrayed his struggle. Pulling back slightly, you met his gaze, intoxicated by the electric tension that surrounded you.

You gazed up at him, an intoxicating mix of desire and exhilaration coursing through your veins. “No… please…” you whispered breathlessly, your lips trailing down the warmth of his neck once more. He panted, the sound raw and primal, his hands hanging limply at his sides as he surrendered to the moment, throwing his head back against the couch in a surrender that sent shivers down your spine.

Pulling back, you locked eyes with him, vulnerability etched across your features. “Please, sir… take it away… it hurts… please,” you whimpered, your voice thick with need. Each plea that slipped from your lips only stoked the fire of his desire, the tent in his pants growing more pronounced, his pupils dilating with hunger.

He held your gaze for a heartbeat, tension crackling in the air, before swiftly rising to his feet, lifting you effortlessly over his shoulder. You gasped in surprise, the rush of exhilaration making your heart race, and just then, he gave your ass a playful slap, the sound echoing like a declaration. “You asked for it, princess,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips as he carried you triumphantly up the stairs, the anticipation of what was to come hanging thick in the air.

As he carried you up the stairs, your heart raced in tandem with each step he took. The world around you blurred, and all that mattered was the thrilling heat radiating from your bodies. He reached the top, and with a swift motion, kicked opened his door and tossed you onto the plush bed, the soft fabric welcoming you against your skin.

You lay there, panting in anticipation, your body tingling with electric excitement. He stepped closer, a feral glint in his eyes. “You wanted me to take it away, didn’t you?” he growled, a predatory smile curling his lips. The heat between you was palpable, a magnetic force that drew him even nearer.

“Please,” you murmured, your voice quivering with an intoxicating mix of pleading and longing. He leaned over you, his breath hot on your cheek, sending shivers cascading down your spine. His hands found your waist, fingertips digging into your skin as he leaned down to capture your lips in a searing kiss.

His tongue danced with yours, a seductive exploration that ignited every nerve ending in your body. You moaned softly, lost in the taste of him, the way he pressed his weight against you, his arousal evident. He broke the kiss, his breath a ragged whisper against your skin. “You have no idea how much I’ve wanted you,” he confessed, his voice low and husky, making your pulse race.

His hands roamed down your sides, exploring every curve, every dip that made you uniquely yours. The roughness of his touch contrasted with the softness of the bedding beneath you, creating a delicious tension that made you ache for more. “I’ll make it go away” he promised, his eyes dark with desire as he captured your gaze.

As he hovered over you, the energy in the room crackled with intensity. He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. “What would Chris think seeing you this wet for me?,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. “You naughty girl begging for my cock.”

Your heart raced as he pressed his body against yours, the heat between you growing unbearable. His hands roamed freely over your skin, almost worshiping every curve, exploring the soft expanse of your thighs before moving higher, teasingly slow. “Tell me what you need, princess,” he commanded, his tone both rough and thrilling.

“Please… I need you,” you gasped, your body arching instinctively towards him, craving his touch as if he were the only source of sustenance in your world.

He captured your lips fiercely, plunging his tongue into your mouth, dominating yet savoring you at the same time. “Do you want me to fuck you hard? Or would you rather I take my time and make you beg for it?” His words dripped with sultry intent, fanning the flames of your desire even higher.

“Both,” you breathed, the urgency of your need spilling over. “I want you… I want all of you.”

He grinned wickedly at your response, his eyes blazing with lust. “Good girl,” he praised, the words igniting something deep within you. “You’re so fucking cute when you beg.”

He slid down your body, leaving a trail of kisses that ignited your skin as he plunged further down. He paused, his mouth hovering dangerously close to where you most craved him. “I want you to remember this,” he said, his gaze locked onto yours, “Think about how much you begged for your exs daddies cock. I own you.”

His lips finally found you, teasing at first, sending waves of pleasure washing over you. You moaned, your back arching, your hands tangling in his hair, urging him closer. The sensation was exquisite, and he lapped at you hungrily, his tongue swirling and flicking in ways that made your hips buck against his mouth.

“Does that feel good, princess?” he asked between trails of kisses, his voice a low, intoxicating whisper that wrapped around you like silk. “God, yes… please don’t stop,” you gasped, your voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating through you. “I won’t stop until you’re begging me to let you come.” And with that, he intensified his rhythm, his fingers now working in perfect harmony with his mouth, bringing you closer to the edge.

The tension coiled within you, a tight spring ready to snap. You could feel it building, an insatiable need coursing through your veins as he took his time, drawing you tantalizingly close but never quite over the edge.

“Just a little more,” he urged, watching you with hungry eyes. “Let go for me, let me hear how good I make you feel.” And with one final stroke, he pushed you over the edge. The pleasure exploded through you, radiant and consuming, as you cried out his name, your body trembling as he held you through it, his voice a dark, sultry whisper in your ear. “That’s it, let it all out.”

Finally, he climbed back up, his body pressing against yours once more as he captured your lips in another heated kiss, tasting you, savoring the sweetness of your release. “You’re perfect,” he growled against your mouth, his hands finding your waist, pulling you flush against him. “Now it's my turn.”

With a commanding grip, he positioned himself at your entrance, looking deep into your eyes as he pressed forward, filling you completely. “You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, his voice rough with need. “You’re mine, all mine.”

He began to move, slow and deliberate at first, before ramping up the intensity, each thrust igniting the fire within you once more. “You like that, don’t you?” he growled, his breath hot against your skin. “You like being my little slut.”

“Yes… I’m yours,” you moaned back, surrendering completely to the pleasure.

His pace quickened, urgency fueling every movement as he drove into you harder, taking you deeper with each thrust. “Tell me how much you love it,” he demanded, a rough edge to his tone.

“I love it so much! I never want you to stop! fuck Daddy” you cried.

“Good girl,” he hissed, driving into you harder, faster, the sound of your bodies joining filling the air. Everything faded away until it was just the two of you, lost in this fevered dance, spiraling higher and higher together.

With each thrust, he pushed you closer to the edge, and as your bodies intertwined, there was no denying the depth of your connection. The heat, the passion—it consumed you both, leaving nothing but raw desire in its wake. And as he whispered words of lust and possession, you became his entirely, swept away in the madness of the moment.

“Let go for me again, princess,” he urged, his voice laced with a dark hunger. “I want to feel you come around me.”

His breath hot against your skin, you could feel the tension building, both of you teetering on the precipice of something profound. The delicate dance of pleasure wrapped around you, binding you closer together. You arched your back, desperate for more, your body aching.

“Just like that,” he whispered, his voice a low growl that sent shivers racing down your spine. You could hear the urgency in his tone, the need that mirrored your own. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, craving the sweet release. The room filled with the sounds of your shared ecstasy—breathless gasps, soft moans, and the sweet melody of bodies moving in perfect harmony. With one final thrust you came around him one final time with a cry.

With one final Thrust of his own, he captured your gaze, and in that moment, you felt him let go. The powerful rush of his release sent waves of heat through you, and you could feel him spilling into you, filling you completely with a low groan.

As the waves of ecstasy began to subside, he slowly pulled out, a mix of tenderness and lingering desire in each deliberate movement. The warmth of his body left a lingering heat, and the sudden emptiness felt both startling and oddly intimate. You felt the weight of his gaze as you both lay there, the aftermath wrapping around you like a soft blanket.

For a moment, silence enveloped you, broken only by the soft sounds of your breathing gradually returning to normal. The room was thick with tension, the kind that seemed to pulse with the echoes of what had just transpired. You could still feel the remnants of his warmth surrounding you, the faintest ache reminding you of the deep connection you had forged in the sweet bliss just moments ago.

He turned to you, his eyes reflecting a mixture of satisfaction and vulnerability, as if he was also processing the intensity of the experience. His fingers brushed through your hair, a tender gesture that sent shivers down your spine, and you couldn’t help but smile, feeling a rush of affection swell within you.

“It was…” he started, searching for the right words, “beyond anything I expected.” you answered voice low, almost a whisper, laden with sincerity. He could see how the rawness of the encounter had affected you too, his usual confidence was softened by the depth of what you’d shared.

he nodded, as you tried to gather your thoughts. The connection felt different, more profound, Nothing that you had ever experienced with Chris. An understanding passed between you—an acknowledgment that this was more than just a fleeting moment. His presence beside you was grounding, comforting, and you reveled in the intimacy of simply lying there together, skin against skin.

The world outside faded away, and in that cocoon of tranquility, it felt as if time had paused, allowing you both to bask in the simplicity of being together. Every breath drawn in was a reminder of the shared pleasures and an exhilarating sense of belonging. You lay there, enveloped in the warmth of his arms, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. James sleepily trailed soft kisses down your shoulders, each gentle touch igniting a warmth that spread through your skin. The comfort of his presence filled the space between you, soothing and incredibly intimate. As you felt his breathing slow, turning into a soft snore, a sense of peace washed over you.

You closed your eyes for a moment, absorbing the atmosphere—the quietude, the warmth, the feeling of being cherished. In this serene bubble, worries about consequences or judgments seemed to fade like shadows in the light. You allowed yourself to embrace the moment, the vibrancy of your feelings, and the possibility of something beautiful unfolding.

You didn’t want to think about what tomorrow might bring or how you would confront Chris. All you could focus on was the way he held you, the way his arm wrapped protectively around you, making you feel safe. In that moment, nothing else mattered. The only thing on your mind was falling asleep in the warm embrace of James Kelly, letting the softness of his breath lull you into a gentle slumber, where everything felt perfectly right.

ahhh my first story, Thank you so much for reading! it isn’t the best as I’m still experimenting with ideas and writing style but glad I could get something out there!

#fanfic #oneshot #hayden christensen x reader #hayden christensen #james kelly smut #james kelly x reader #star wars #i need him #anakin x reader #pleak #plz reblog #i hope you like it

522 notes · View notes

ohisms · 1 year ago

Text

↪ 𝑺𝑬𝑻𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺 , updated . ( a collection of various settings meant to inspire drabbles or be used as prompts . )

001. the seaside , as the sun is setting .

002. a cabin in the middle of the woods .

003. a picket-fenced home in the suburbs .

004. a dark bus stop lit only by street lights .

005. a private jet miles high in the sky .

006. a funhouse’s room of mirrors .

007. an office building , bustling and busy .

008. the back row of an empty movie theater .

009. a run - down motel room .

010. a loud house party on a suburban street .

011. a university lecture hall during a class .

012. the rooftop of a very tall building .

013. a great ballroom during an elegant party .

014. the back of a wailing ambulance .

015. the wine cellar of a large mansion .

016. behind the school’s gymnasium .

017. a boisterous bonfire at the lakeside .

018. an otherwise empty parking lot .

019. the shady bar of a noisy , dark club .

020. the grounds of an empty summer camp .

021. a large hedge maze , easy to get lost in .

022. a neglected or derelict treehouse .

023. a spacious , light-filled meadow .

024. an underground illegal fighting club .

025. an abandoned scrapyard .

026. a large penthouse overlooking the city .

027. an apple orchard in the middle of spring .

028. an empty playground with squeaky swings .

029. an extravagant greenhouse .

030. the base of a large waterfall .

031. a spacious walk - in closet full of lovely clothes .

032. a solemnly quiet hospital room .

033. the dark depths of an abandoned mine .

034. the deck of a fishing boat at night .

035. the thick crowd of an audience at a show .

036. a long , winding road .

037. the scene of a violent crime .

038. a fork in a hiking trail deep in the wilderness .

039. a cramped dressing room .

040. a dusty antiques shop full of relics .

041. the street of an unfamiliar city at night .

042. between the tall shelves of a thrifted book shop .

043. a building abandoned during construction .

044. a house without power or running water .

045. a mysterious trail found in the woods .

046. the back of a taxi stuck in traffic .

047. the inside of an elevator that won’t move .

048. fairgrounds during a large event (or after hours) .

049. a garden bountiful with flowers or produce .

050. a childhood home or bedroom .

+ 30 more setting prompts : 1 / 3 / 2024

051. the site of a horrible accident .

052. a closed pool , after everyone has left .

053. a home holding horrific memories .

054. by the side of a dangerously quick river .

055. a private hotel room .

056. a police station in the middle of the night .

057. a ferris wheel carriage under a sky of fireworks .

058. a lavish , invite - only party .

059. a public transit stop as rain is pouring down .

060. the back of a taxi going in the wrong direction .

061. the underworld .

062. a dusty , forgotten attic .

063. on the set of a television show or movie .

064. a lighthouse overlooking the raging sea .

065. in a post - apocalyptic bunker .

066. on a ship hundreds of miles from the nearest coast .

067. on the rooftop of a perilously tall building .

068. a tent pitched in the middle of the woods .

069. a crowded stadium during a football game .

070. the morgue during an identification .

071. an otherwise empty library during a late study session .

072. a place that feels familiar , yet you've never been here before .

073. a long hallway that seems to stretch on forever .

074. a signpost at the start of a hiking trail .

075. a bar or tavern bustling with life .

076. the dance floor of a masquerade ball .

077. inside of a car parked in a secluded area .

078. at the edge of a cliff overlooking a large lake .

079. inside a very old house with very old haunts .

080. the antiseptic interior of a space station .

#i'll add more eventually #just had to repost this time cos the old post wasn't in beta :/#inbox prompts #setting prompts #rp prompts #rp memes #inbox memes

2K notes · View notes

tayraedoll · 5 months ago

Text

Radio Daddy

My entry for @6esiree contest! I hope you enjoy this little story!

18+ MDNI

This is my take on what the dynamic between Alastor and a Gen Z radio host would be like. A little bit of rivalry, a little bit of sexual tension, and a lot of attitude.

Word count: 2979

TW: Smut, P in V Intercourse, Oral (male receiving), Rough s3x, soul deals, swearing, Alastor is a bit mean, but reader likes it

"...and that is why Hell would be better off as a matriarchy", you spoke into your mic. It had been a long four hours of broadcasting, you were exhausted and definitely looking forward to dinner by this point. But you also loved the studio, the freedom of creating your own show and speaking your mind, and the power to sway the masses that listened.

"Don't forget- I will be DJing at the Hazbin Hotel Grand Re-Opening tomorrow night! It's sure to be lit so stop by and have a drink with me. Until next time, stay gucci my friends!"

You signed off and leaned back in your chair, closing your eyes and taking a moment to relax. The tranquility didn't last long however, before you had a chance to take a breath you heard the telltale radio static of your boss- Alastor The Radio Demon. You sigh before opening your eyes and turning to the futon in the corner of your recording studio.

You arrived in hell 2.5 years ago after unfortunately overdosing when someone spiked your drink at a gig. When you learned that Hell only had one radio station you set out to create your own; everyone called you crazy, that the radio was the domain of the infamous Radio Demon. But at that time he had been missing for 5 years, his radio show nothing but static whispering memories of the past. So you brushed everyone off and made your own show anyways. It was an instant hit, your fan base expanded rapidly as sinners were eager to listen to a new voice in Hell's media scene. You had found your niche, your place in the despondent plane called Hell.

For two years you were the queen of radio, but you unfortunately sat atop a borrowed throne. Six months ago you were broadcasting like any other day when, after signing off, you had found yourself locked inside your own studio as the shadows of the room crawled over you. Alastor had offered you a choice- either you sign a soul contract with him and continue your show under his administration, or you cease broadcasting for the rest of your afterlife. You suppose you should count your lucky stars that he didn't just kill you, you were technically a rival after all and you had heard how he dealt with others who challenged him. His reason for letting you live was just one of the many mysteries of The Radio Demon.

Said demon now sat on your futon, back ramrod straight and legs neatly crossed and tucked underneath him. His fingers were interlaced in his lap as he smiled radiantly at you.

"Evening my little doll! Riveting performance as always! Although, I do have one note. You recall a discussion we had earlier about not using profane language while on air yes?", his smile tightened, his eyes hardening ever so slightly in annoyance.

You rest your chin in your palm and give him the most bored expression you could muster,"No one gives a shit if I swear Alastor. We are in Hell, or have you forgotten?"

Everyone else was scared shitless of this man, but he made your heart rate spike for an entirely different reason than he did for most others. Your boss was fucking HOT. You regularly pleasured yourself as you listened to his own radio show he revived upon his return, your thighs automatically clenched together at the sound of his voice. So, in retribution for him being so damn attractive, you behaved like the biggest brat. It was a victorious day if you could make his ears twitch, an almost imperceptible movement of his fluff that would be easily missed if you weren't looking so hard for it.

Your sassy remark earned you the little ear flick you were going for which made you smirk, your Overlord employer narrowing his eyes at you in warning. "I really wouldn't start with that smart mouth if I were you Darling. Need I remind you that I own your little show? Therefore, you will abide by my rules- no more profanity. This is the end of the discussion." His tone left no room for argument; as much as you liked pushing his buttons, you were not stupid and knew when to quit while you were ahead...or alive that is. You let the argument go with a scoff and a mumbled "Fine".

Alastor beamed back at you once again, his voice returning to its normal, chipper tone, "Splendid! Now on to business- I would like to hear what you have prepared for the hotel's ceremony tomorrow. This event means quite a lot to our dear Princess Morningstar and I will not let her down." You caught the underlying threat, really it was you who carried the burden of making sure you upheld his image. Your job was not just to entertain the hotel guests, but to make The Radio Demon look good as well.

Luckily for you, Charlie was huge fan of your show. She would regularly call in to talk to you about your chosen discussion topic of the day and put in song requests. Really you had known Charlie for longer than Alastor had, you knew exactly what she liked and were more than prepared to cater your services for her party. Your smile sweetened again as you logged into your playlist for the Grand Re-Opening Ceremony, "I was going for a persevering and uplifting kinda vibe, concentrating on songs that will give girl-power and fuck-the-system. Charlie is a Swiftie, so I made sure to add several of her greatest hits to the line-up like 'Shake it Off' and 'Look What You Made Me Do'." You turn your laptop around so your boss could look at the playlist you made, only to be met with him giving you a "are you dumb?" look.

"There is absolutely no way you will be bringing that ridiculous contraption into my hotel Darling", he pointed to your computer with revulsion written clearly on his face as if the laptop personally wronged him.

You bark a short, incredulous laugh, "Alastor, if I can't bring my equipment into the hotel then how exactly am I supposed to do my job?" You cross your arms over your chest and lean back in your chair, waiting for him to explain his absurd rules that will only hinder your ability to make him proud.

"VoxTek cannot be trusted and is not allowed in the hotel- particularly by my very own employees! No no no no, I will provide you with everything you will need to provide top-notch entertainment to our esteemed guests", he snapped his fingers and a retro-looking record player and several record albums appeared beside your desk.

You became more and more exasperated as you rifled through the collection before you, "There isn't even anything from the last 50 years in here! As far as I'm aware, this isn't a "Roaring 20's"-themed party. If the goal is to make a good impression and get more sinners to stay at the hotel then we need to offer more than just old jazz tunes!"

The Radio Demon clutched at his chest in offense to your comment, "My Doll, no one partied harder than we did in the 20's. Jazz and speakeasies were truly the pinnacle of entertainment. I assure you that if you stick to my plan all will go just swimmingly." His voice hardened again at the end of his speech, warning you to just follow along. But you wouldn't, not when you knew you were right.

"And how many sinners from the NINETEEN-20's will be there exactly?!", your voice rose in volume with each word,"Face it, Alastor, most of the sinners there will be from more recent times. Therefore, we need to play music that ISN'T 100 years old!" You got up and started pacing your studio, completely oblivious to the growing radio static filtering off the man in red or how his antlers were starting to grow more tines. "Honestly, it's like you don't even try to connect to your audience anymore. I don't understand your complete aversion to modern technology, if you don't learn to adapt your are going to be left behind-", you stopped abruptly in the middle of the room, staring at the wall as the epiphany hit you like a ton of bricks. Your back was turned to the now irate Overlord, his claws dug into the leather of your futon to stop himself from launching at you. "That's why I'm here", you whispered, "You didn't kill me, you made me sign a soul deal so you could use me to bridge the gap between you and the younger audiences of hell. The younger generations find your show BORING."

You whip around with a triumphant smile on your face, ecstatic that you figured out the clever demon's ploy. Your face paled and the smile quickly disappeared when you took in the state of The Radio Demon. His normal crab-claw antlers now more closely resembled an elk's spread, the sclera of his eyes were jet black. The ever-present smile still adorned his face, but it now resembled a malicious grin akin to one you'd associate with The Joker. He rumbled out a low, dangerously dark chuckle that had the hair along your arms raising in goosebumps.

"Oh my Doll, you really should have learned when to quit running your mouth", he stood up and had you backed into the wall in three strides flat. "I should kill you for your insubordination, if you were anyone else you would be a mangled mess of blood and bone where you stand", his eyes bore down on you. Your heart hammered away in your chest as he lifted one hand to your face but you refused to flinch away from him, if this was how you died a second death then you would not give him the satisfaction of seeing your fear. Instead of dealing you a death blow, however, he gently dragged a claw from your temple to your chin. "Luckily for you, Princess Charlie would never forgive me if you were hurt by my hands. That... and I admit that I have grown quite fond of you myself. But-", his claw dug into the point where your chin and throat met just behind your jawbone, "-there must still be punishment. What kind of Overlord would I be if I let my possessions speak to me in such a disrespectful manner?"

You opened your mouth to plead your case but were quickly shot down, "Careful Doll. I enjoy you, but be careful. In fact, perhaps it is best if you do not speak at all", he chuckled again before summoning your soul chain in his hands. The bright, radioactive green glow of the chain blinded you momentarily and before you could process what was happening you were yanked to the other side of the room. When your eyes finally focused again you were on your knees with Alastor sat on the edge of the futon in front of you.

"Now Darling, how about you show me if that smart mouth of yours is good for something other than backtalk?", he pulled the chain again and your face came just inches from his crotch. You looked up at him with wide eyes, was he really asking you to do what you thought he was asking you to do? The way his eyes narrowed and his grin widened told you that yes- he wanted you to do exactly what you were thinking.

Well, you know what they say- what The Radio Demon wants, the Radio Demon gets. With a newfound determination you steeled your resolve and ran your fingers up his thighs to his belt. Without ever breaking eye contact with him you slowly unbuckled and removed the belt before opening his trousers. His cock was only half-hard under his briefs, running a finger up the length of it made it twitch deliciously and you smirked again before you freed his length from its fabric prison.

Even at only half-mast he was of impressive length and girth, no doubt you would struggle to take all of him once he was fully hard. Your mouth watered at the thought, you glanced back up at his face and noticed how his jaw was clenched in anticipation, eyes half-lidded at he stared at your mouth.

His expression was all the confirmation you needed before you leaned forward and licked up the length of his shaft from tip to base, nose brushing against the red curls of his pubic bone. Alastor gasped sharply above you, one hand wringing your hair around it as the other hand held your leash taut.

You teased his lower head with your tongue, swirling around it tantalizingly slowly. Gently parting your lips, you take just the mushroomed part into your mouth and give a gentle suck before teasing with your tongue again. You repeat this process a few times until his cock stands at full attention. After the third suck, he lets out a growl uses his hand in your hair to force you down further on his cock, clearly tired of the teasing. A small gag escaped your throat before you forced it to relax to accommodate the sudden intrusion. With a moan you slowly pushed forward until you felt him bottom out at the back of your throat.

"That's it Doll, such a good girl", Alastor gritted out through his teeth, holding your head there for a moment. You slowly started to bob your head, lips wrapped tightly around his shaft giving a popping sound every time they passed his engorged tip. Your tongue ran along the vein on the underside of his length, the skin velvety and warm.

After several long, slow passes, the deer demon gripped your head again to still your bobbing movements with your nose buried in his curls. Without a warning, he harshly pulled back and thrusted forward again, burying himself as deep down your esophagus as he could go. You sputtered, gagging sharply and tears instantly forming in your eyes. Your hands came up to push against his thighs but the chain on your neck quickly pulled tight again to keep you from moving a centimeter off his cock.

"Nuh-uh-uh Dear, it's time you learn your lesson for talking back to your master", he pulled back again just to thrust back into your mouth with brutal force. True to his word, he set a punishing pace. You struggled to breath between his continuous assault on your throat and the saliva that pooled in your mouth, dripping down your chin in thick spouts. Tears clouded your vision, all you could do was sit there and take his punishment and try not to pass out from lack of air. Every breath you managed to take came in through a gasp and left through a gag.

"My, my Doll. What pretty noises you make, so much better than the sassy remarks you usually give me. Perhaps you deserve a reward for taking your punishment without complaint."

You were suddenly pushed back off his cock, your lungs taking full advantage of the reprieve by gulping in as much air as they could. Clawed hands gripped your elbows as strong arms picked you up from the floor, your knees hit the futon cushion as your forearms landed on the back of the frame. A sudden breeze alerted you that your skirt was hiked up over your hips and your heard fabric ripping as your panties were torn from your core.

Alastor held your hips in a bruising grip and he thrusted into you, filling you to the hilt in the first go. A strangled moan left your raw throat, hands clenching onto the back of the couch. You were given minimal time to get used to the full feeling before Alastor resumed his brutal pace from before.

"I'll tell you what my dear, I'll make you a deal. I will provide you with a more modern record player and the vinyls for all those songs you wanted to play tomorrow as I still will not allow VoxTek technology in the hotel," you were honestly only partially listening as his tip was hitting your g-spot with every word. "In exchange, your body is mine to use as I see fit. Does that sound fair Doll?"

A lewd moan escaped you as he continued to drag his length through your walls, "Fuck Alastor-"

He stopped his movements just as you were reaching your peak making you whine in displeasure "I asked you a question- do we have a deal? You will not cum until you've answered me."

"Yes, Alastor! It's a deal. Please, please, please make me cum!", you cried out, you were so desperate for release you would have agreed to anything he asked.

"Hmm, I quite like you begging Doll. I quite like punishing you as well- I do hope you continue to behave like a brat, just to give me an excuse", he resumed his pace and before you knew it you were pushed over the edge, clenching hard around him. Alastor's own release soon followed as he spilled into you with a groan.

You knelt there on the futon, catching your breath as he pulled out and redressed himself. Once he was neatly tucked away again he walked around the couch to your face. His index finger lifted your chin so you were looking up at him, "I will see you tomorrow my doll, do not be late."

With that he disappeared into the shadows, leaving you reeling from what just happened. After a few minutes of processing the unexpected turn of events the smirk returned to your face.

"I wonder what would happened if I was just 5 minutes late?"

#hazbin alastor #alastor x reader #alastor x you #hazbin hotel #alastor the radio demon #fem reader #alastor is in hell for a reason #rough daddy #rivals to rivals with benefits?

423 notes · View notes

stevieschrodinger · 1 month ago

Text

Part One Two Three Four

Eddie’s vaguely aware that his finger is now actually hurting, but he can’t seem to make him self stop gnawing on the fleshy bit next to his nail. It hurts, but feels kind of good. If he goes much longer he’s probably going to taste blood.

His mating gland itches like fuck, and gnawing on himself is better than scratching at it.

The scent of himself is becoming insufferable.

Eddie’s not a masochist or whatever, he doesn’t like, enjoy pain, or anything like that, but the finger chewing is kind of nice. His stomach gurgles unpleasantly but he can’t tell the difference between nausea and hunger.

He decides to go and try and find Steve, make him earn his pay, or whatever.

Steve’s walking laps of the lounge, making a wide birth of Eddie’s gaudy sofa, following the edge of the massive rug that practically fills the room, just a slither of wooden floor left at the edges. He’s looking down at his phone, it dings, and Steve says something fucking unintelligible. Another positive noise, and Steve does a little fist pump to himself in celebration, it’s possibly the saddest fucking thing Eddie’s ever seen.

Another tinkling noise, and Eddie vaguely recognizes the noises that green owl makes when it’s trying to force you to learn something.

Steve finally spots him, coming to a slow halt, “sorry, did I disturb you?”

“You’re real disturbing Steve, but I think I’ll make it. What are you doing?”

“Trying to learn some Italian,” he shrugs, “always wanted to go.”

Eddie shrugs back vaguely, “it’s hot. Ice creams good, I think it’s pretty.”

“Yeah?” Steve perks up, “got any pictures?”

“I...maybe, actually,” Eddie slopes off back to his room, finding his laptop. Chris is pretty good at saving all his photos and back ups and whatnot, Eddie is pretty criminal at losing phones, dropping phones, throwing phones in a fit of pique. He finds his laptop eventually, almost surprised he doesn’t have to blow dust off the thing. Eddie switches it on, carrying it through the house as it wakes up.

Steve is sitting on the ugly couch, waiting patiently as Eddie comes back.

Turns out he’s got a lot of photos, like a lot. Stuff Eddie has forgotten about. He doesn’t exactly forget about the Italy thing, but he gets distracted, and Steve doesn’t seem to mind. He finds pictures of himself as a teenager. Pictures of himself with the guys, “Jesus. We look like kids,” and they do. They look so young in the early pictures.

Eddie finds pictures of himself with Wayne. Wayne at the trailer. Their first Corroded Coffin poster. Their first gig.

Probably not first. Definitely not their first; there are actually people in the audience.

Their first golden record. Their first platinum. The history flicks by so fast, pictures of people that Eddie can’t even name now. Crowds of screaming fans. Videos of fucking fancy hotel rooms from back when Eddie was still impressed with that sort of thing.

They trail off. Drunken and blurry.

“Sorry,” Eddie flicks back, “got distracted. Pretty sure this is Italy.” Eddie doesn’t actually know, but the beach is beautiful and the sea is the same color as the sky and Chrissy is eating gelato out of a sweet bread roll; it tickles a memory, “Sicily,” Eddie adjusts, “yeah, Sicily.”

“Looks beautiful.”

Gareth with awful sunburn. Banks of squat little white washed houses with blue shutters. Fishing boats resting high on shingle. Eddie remembers the smell of that photograph. “I really liked it there, we had a villa, I think we had a few days off during a tour, or something.”

Eddie closes the laptop; he’s pretty sure this all happened before he fucked it up.

“Would you like to go back?”

“What, on tour?”

Steve shrugs, “on tour, or just to...go.”

“Yeah. Maybe. Maybe both. I like touring, but...maybe those big tours aren’t for me any more,” it’s the first time Eddie’s admitted that out loud. The stress and blur and five shows a week and sleeping on buses and on planes and never having a second to yourself. Doing the exact same performance again and again, some guy reminding you of where the fuck you are thirty seconds before you go out just so you don’t say hello to the wrong fucking city.

Thinking a line will get him pumped for the show and before he really knew it, he couldn’t get out of bed without it.

Steve breaks him out of his spiral, “you played your guitar lately?”

“Not since before- before being admitted.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, but Eddie goes and gets the old acoustic anyway. He sits on the deck with it, just doodling with the strings. No real direction, snatches of song. Everything is still working fine though. He knows how to do this, it’s not been lost.

Steve brings him a cup of tea of all fucking things, and Eddie sips at it while Steve listens to him play.

“Go and have a bath.”

“Meep meep meeep meep, that’s what I hear Steve, when you talk, did you know that? You know that muppet, the Swedish chef? That’s what you sound like.”

“Pretty sure that was Beaker.”

“What?”

“The Swedish chef was more kind of hurdy gurdy chicken in a basket, sort of thing.”

“Why do you even know that?”

Steve doesn’t look up from his computer, “I used to babysit.” Eddie scoffs, but he doesn’t know if he believes it or not. Steve keeps typing, “go and have a bath.”

“Jesus you’re obsessed.”

“Don’t then. Makes no difference to me that I get to write in an email to your very good friend that your ass hasn’t seen a bar of soap for nearly forty eight hours.”

“Chrissy doesn’t give a fuck.”

Steve turns his head, looks at Eddie, raises his eyebrows like, the most minuscule amount. Like you’d probably need professional scientific equipment to detect how small of an amount Steve just raised his eyebrows.

Eddie sighs, “Chrissy is my friend and she cares about my well being.”

Steve nods, and goes back to his typing. Eddie wonders if it’s about him.

“What’s in it for me? Good behaviors get rewards right, as part of the training process?”

“Treating yourself well is it’s own reward,” Steve says without so much as missing a beat with his typing.

“Find that in a fortune cookie?”

Steve sighs, closes the lid of the laptop, and gets up.

It’s a repeat of the first time this happened, Eddie trails after like a lost puppy, and Steve runs his bath and Eddie gets in it. Steve cleans again, but not as long as last time, it’s only been a couple of days, Eddie hasn’t managed to make too much of a mess.

Eddie’s vaguely aware of Steve changing his bedding, he can hear it from where he is, the rustle of sheets, the lid of his laundry hamper. Eddie wonders vaguely how Steve changes the cover of that king size comforter all on his own, but quickly decides that it’s just Steve being good at everything.

“Come and wash my hair,” Eddie whines, just to be a bitch.

Steve huffs in the doorway, “what did your last save die of?”

“Nothing, he’s still alive and has stupid hair.”

“You wish you had my hair,” Steve grumbles, but he gets the stuff out of the cupboard anyway.

Steve puts a massive glass of water in front of Eddie. And an orange juice. And a coffee.

“Trying to drown me?”

“The nurse will be here at eleven, she’s going to check you over as well as take bloods. Drink, I’m already concerned she will have trouble getting anything out of you.”

They did have trouble, at the center, Eddie’s veins elusive under his pale skin. Some of them probably collapsed and abandoned ship after all the naughty things Eddie did. They ended up taking it from his foot more than once. Eddie didn’t like it, so he drinks the coffee, then moves on to sipping the juice.

Steve puts toast in front of him; peanut butter and sliced bananas. And so it goes on. Steve insisting on feeding him. Eddie’s loath to admit that he feels a little better for it.

The nurse has choppy copper hair and isn’t even remotely dressed like a nurse. She introduces herself as Robin as she’s putting the blood pressure cuff on him. Explains that she’s taking four vials of blood and they’re testing for everything. Tells him as she tightens that thing on his arm that he should make a fist. She says this might hurt after she’s already put the needle in. Tells him she’s weighing him before the final vial is even filled.

Eddie is left with a plaster on his arm and Robin is packed up before he even realizes what’s happening.

He sits there, bemused, on his own couch, wondering vaguely if she has a hundred other clients to get through today, because she was in such a fucking rush Eddie feels a little turned upside down by the whole thing.

He goes to look for Steve once she’s gone, but can’t find him anywhere.

Eventually he thinks to look outside, and when there’s no sign out back, Eddie looks out front.

Steve is sitting in the passenger seat of, what Eddie presumes, is Robin’s car. Both doors are flung wide open and they appear to be sharing a packet of chips. Robins laugh is like a braying donkey, Steve with his hand over his eyes like he can’t believe it.

Probably Eddie, what else is there to laugh about?

Eddie shuts the door.

Part Six

#steddie #pre steddie #rock star eddie munson #drug abuse #alcohlism #eddie munson #stranger things #steve harrington #ficlet #chrissy cunningham #eddie and chrissy #alpha eddie munson #beta steve harrington

301 notes · View notes

antimonyandthyme · 5 months ago

Note

body swap, for carcar or even landoscarcar?

He wakes up, disoriented. It’s not even light out yet, why the fuck is he awake? His throat’s a little sore, his hips are a little sore. Jeez. Didn’t even bother to put some pants on last night, and did he chafe his ass on like, the sheets or something? Wow. He’s sore all over. A settled, pleasant kind though, a muscle ache too deep for him to reach. Maybe he can skip the gym today, hop on a stream, relax. Grab Carlos for a round of golf before he leaves, if he’s not too busy mapping Monaco on his bike.

He turns to his left. Claps a hand over his mouth, shrieks into it.

Like, he’s groggy. He doesn’t have the remnants of a disaster headache, so he’s not hungover. But it’s early, and he never wakes up early. Must be why he’s hallucinating.

When he can bring himself to look again, Carlos is still there. Close enough that Lando can hear the air whistling softly through his teeth.

Lando shifts uselessly, stares. That’s Carlos, alright. He’s always been a loud sleeper. Back in their McLaren days, when they’d shared hotel rooms, Lando had taken voice recordings to prove to an adamant Carlos that he snored. The memory makes his lips twitch. It’s nice Carlos looks well-rested. Better than he has in awhile. A pretty trophy will do that for you. If he wants, Lando can choose to waste precious time counting Carlos’s lashes while he figures out what to do. He’ll lose count at probably a hundred.

That’s Carlos, alright.

What were they doing last night? Surely Lando would remember. The party was loud, raucous, the Prince of Monaco victorious here at last. All podium finishers present, fourth place included. Drinking, laughing, cozying up to one another. Carlos and Oscar smiling tentatively at each other after sharing just one couch, animosity seemingly forgotten. The prickly itch crawling under Lando’s skin, until Charles finally manages to bag him a set. The music, beats pounding a tattoo into his brain. He remembers all of that.

Surely he would remember taking Carlos’s clothes off. He’s wanted to for—

Lando slaps both hands onto his cheeks, hard enough to sting. He needs to take a leak.

He squeaks out of the bed, as quietly as he can. Trips over a pair of jeans that look vaguely familiar, rams his toe into the wheel of a suitcase that definitely wasn’t there last night. Finds the bathroom, closes the door with a silent snick.

Fumbles around like a dunce for the light switch, right there where all light switches usually are.

Flicks it on. Shrieks for real this time, without his hands to cover the noise.

It’s a good thing Carlos has always slept like the dead. To be absolutely fucking certain, Lando peeks his head out.

Yep, still asleep. That’s Carlos, alright.

Deep, deep breaths. As deep as he can go without passing out. He returns to the mirror. Feels for his face like it’s a foreign object.

Which it is. Because that’s Oscar Piastri, looking right back at him.

He means to start off with something useful. Something like, Hey, do you remember what drugs we were on last night? E? Salvia? Because mate, these are the strangest withdrawal symptoms I’ve ever experienced. Or even something funny, like Haha, now I know what you look like naked. The fans are going to have a field day.

Instead, what comes out of his mouth is, “Why are you sleeping with Carlos?”

“Good morning to you too,” Oscar says, after the longest pause on planet fucking earth.

He didn’t mean for that to sound as sulky as he did. But he’s sore all over, and his lips, which are not his, but Oscar’s, feel extremely kissed, and he definitely does not expect that to make something in his chest twist tighter than a coiled spring.

“Aren’t you going to answer?”

“What did we drink last night?” Oscar says, unsurprisingly choosing to be the level-headed one in this conversation.

“Something bright green, something ocean blue. Dunno. Lost track during the set.”

“Lando,” Oscar says patiently, in Lando’s voice. Which is just all kinds of weird. “Something green, something blue, doesn’t sound all that normal.”

“I knew that DJ couldn’t be trusted.”

The world-weary sigh Lando receives makes his skin prickle with heat. Things have been happening. The car’s gotten faster. From his grandmother to the mechanics, everyone’s been talking about a chance he could pull like magic out of thin air. It’s not his fault he wasn’t paying attention. At the club, or to every encounter Carlos and Oscar had prior to this that has led them here.

“Look, I’m gonna—where are you?”

“In Carlos’s room,” Lando says, rudely, unhelpfully.

“Right. I’ll. I’ll be there in. We’re staying just, two blocks away, right? I’ll be there in ten. Could you. Could you please, just—”

Lando expects him to say something totally condescending. Please just don’t freak out. Please just don’t do anything until I get there, because I’m being responsible and you’re being a baby.

“Just, go back?”

“What?”

“Be next to him, when he wakes up?”

Lando swallows. The acid from yesterday must be making his stomach churn. Oscar—in Lando’s fucking voice, sounds smaller and more hopeful than Lando ever wants to hear himself sound.

“I don’t want him to think.” Oscar stops. Lando can practically see him scrubbing at the back of his neck. “I don’t want him to think I left, or anything like that. Could you—”

Lando hangs up.

The earnestness. The, the audacity.

The phone rings again, and Lando hangs up again, out of pure spite. He paces wildly, in front of the mirror. Each time he turns on his heel he imagines his body morphing back into what’s right. Each turn smacks him with the image that Oscar’s pale, freckled skin turns splotchy red when he’s angry.

What. A useful thing. To know.

It’s been half an hour since he’s woken up. Which means, oh fuck. Fuck. Carlos’s body clock has always been impeccable. Eight, on the dot, he springs out of bed like it’s a wonderful thing being alive at that hour, and then goes and makes coffee without fail. Which means in three, two minutes, Carlos will open his eyes. And, and he’ll be alone in bed.

He’ll be alone. That’ll make Lando feel better, right? Carlos will be alone, and then Oscar will no longer be a problem, and then the itch under his skin will disappear, for good.

Carlos will be alone.

He flicks off the light, slips out of the bathroom. Bangs his toe again on that damned suitcase. Slides under the covers, adjusts himself into a position he hopes might be believable. Head on one hand, face tilted toward Carlos. Body leaning, reaching. Always reaching. Eyes half-closed.

But open enough so that he can see the exact moment Carlos wakes. See that small, relieved smile. See the way Carlos clicks his jaw askew, the way he always does before making a decision. Then feel Carlos run the backs of his knuckles against a face he wishes were familiar.

#athy texts #fanfic #rpf #carcar #carlandoscar #anon why not both #why not both!!!#bodyswap prompt fic

426 notes · View notes

sorrowedpickle · 5 days ago

Text

Drunk in love.

g!p!Jenna Ortega x fem!reader

Warnings: smut, that’s it. Pure smut

a/n: i was eating sea food while writing this and so was @mommykye and @makncheese12 who were lovely enough to help with editing it so go follow them

Her touch was electric, a frantic exploration that sent shivers down your spine. Her fingers dug into your sides, pulling you closer as her lips remained glued to the sensitive curve of your neck, her breath hot and ragged against your skin making you shiver. The frantic rhythm of your pulse thrummed in your head as you fumbled through your purse to find the key card.

The memories of the Met Gala after-party swam hazily in your mind – the clinking of champagne glasses, the sound of laughter and conversations with so many people and friends of Jenna faint in the back of your mind almost near forgotten as you rush to get inside. The drinks had loosened your will to act right, painting the air between you with desire. Every glance, every accidental brush of skin to skin, had sent sparks flying through your core and even more through Jenna’s.

And now, her pressed against your back in the dimly lit hallway, the carefully constructed facade of polite conversation had shattered as whispers in your ear were said throughout the car ride. Her after-party dress, a shedded down version of her original dress, clung to her curves like a second skin, each movement a tantalizing display. Her hands, emboldened by the unspoken tension, slipped beneath the hem of your own short dress, sending a jolt of heat through you. You gasped as her fingers, insistent and knowing, traced the lace of your panties. Her teeth grazed the shell of your ear, a delicate torment that made you shudder with anticipation.

The fear of being seen, the awareness of the public space, spurred you to action. Your fingers finally closed around the cool metal of the key card. With a surge of adrenaline, you slid it into the lock and stumbled into the darkened sanctuary of the hotel room, Jenna a very close shadow pressed against your back before you turned in her hold as she kicked the door shut, a loud bang shouting out as it clicked.

The urgency intensified. Her hands worked swiftly at the zipper of your dress, a soft growl escaping her lips as the fabric gave way. Simultaneously, your own hands reached behind her, fumbling with the delicate strings of her corset. Your lips crashed against hers, a desperate, hungry kiss that tasted of expensive champagne and her intoxicating Dior perfume, a blend underscored by her own musk that sent your senses reeling.

The sound of tearing fabric filled the small space as she impatiently pulled the expensive dress she had tailored for you down your body, the delicate material pooling at your feet, discarded without a second thought. Her hands, now with uninhibited access, roamed your skin, mapping the contours of your body with a feverish intensity. You, in turn, finally managed to untie the intricate lacework of her corset, releasing her from its structured embrace no thanks to her as she made it much harder for you, more focused on getting you naked than herself.

Before you could fully register the change in atmosphere, you were pushed forward, stumbling onto the plush surface of the bed. She followed, a lack of grace in her movements as she crawled on top of you, her gaze hot and filled with a raw desire that mirrored your own.

Her dark eyes, wide and dilated, raked over you. "You look so pretty like this," she whispered, her voice husky with longing. Your hair fanned out against the pillows, breath catching in your throat as you stared up at her, every nerve ending alight with anticipation. Your own hands reached up, fumbling with the buttons of her silk button up, eager to feel her skin against yours.

Her lips left a trail of fire down your neck. "beautiful," she murmured, her breath hot against your flesh. A shaky laugh escaped your lips. "You're one to talk." The words were barely out before your hands found her waist, pulling her down between your legs, a silent plea for the friction you both craved.

A husky laugh rumbled in her chest, a sound that vibrated through your core, igniting a firestorm of sensation. You felt her hand reach behind you, fumbling and almost struggling with the straps before pulling them apart and quickly discarding the offending fabric joined your dress on the floor. In the next instant, her lips closed over your nipple in a swift motion, a sensation so intense that coherent thought dissolved into a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

you moan quietly, hand reaching to the back of her hand as you hold her there while your other hand works to find the strap of her own bra.

The tug on her bra strap was clumsy but effective. The delicate lace parted, and you finally had the skin-on-skin contact you craved. Jenna shifted above you, her weight a delicious pressure. Her mouth left your breast, trailing kisses down your sternum, each touch sending jolts of electricity through your already heightened senses.

Jenna’s breath hitched as your fingers finally released her bra. The immediate skin-on-skin contact sent a fresh wave of desire crashing over you both. She shifted, her silk shirt falling off completely, revealing the soft swell of her breasts and below the band of her boxers. Her dark eyes locked with yours, a silent, hungry conversation passing between you.

Her hand slid down your stomach, her fingers dipping beneath the elastic of your panties once more, finding the slick heat waiting there. You gasped, your hips lifting instinctively as she explored you with a practiced touch.

“God, you feel so good,” she groaned, her voice thick with lust. Your hand tangled in her hair, tilting her head back as she fought to rain kisses down your jawline.

Without warning, she shifted again, her weight pressing you further into the mattress. Her lips found yours once more, a deep, open-mouthed kiss that left you breathless. Her tongue tangled with yours, a frantic dance of desire. You could taste the lingering champagne and something else, something uniquely her, that drove you wild.

She broke the kiss abruptly, her gaze intense. “I want you to taste me,” she rasped, her hand still firmly between your legs, her fingers teasing and probing. Your own hands reached for the hem of her boxers, your desire a tight knot in your belly.

“Then let me,” you managed.

Jenna didn’t hesitate. With a rough tug, she pulled down her boxers, revealing the impressive length and girth of her hard dick. It pulsed visibly, thick and heavy, the head already glistening. She moved, a low growl rumbling in her chest, and lay back against the pillows, her eyes never leaving yours.

Your breath came out ragged. You moved to lay on your stomach and reached out, your fingers trembling slightly as you wrapped them around the shaft. It was hot and solid, filling your hand completely. Jenna groaned, her hands moving to your head to grip your hair tightly as she watched.

You leaned down, your lips brushing against the velvety head. She inhaled sharply, her hips lifting slightly off the mattress. You took her into your mouth, the taste instantly familiar and intoxicating. You sucked deeply, your hands working up and down the length of her dick, relishing the feel of her throbbing against your tongue.

Jenna’s moans grew louder, more desperate. Her hands tangled in your hair, guiding your head, urging her dick deeper down your throat. Her hips bucked against your mouth, a frantic rhythm that mirrored the frantic beat of your own heart. You could feel the tension building in her body, the anticipation radiating off her in waves.

The taste of her was potent, arousing you further. You swirled your tongue around the head, paying special attention to the sensitive underside. A strangled sound escaped her lips, fingers tightened in your hair, a silent plea for more.

After what felt like an eternity, she pulled you back slightly, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her eyes were glazed with lust, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

“Fuck, baby,” she groaned, her voice thick and raw. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”

She moved again, her hands gripping your thighs, pulling your legs open. You instinctively parted them further, your own desire a burning ache between your thighs. She positioned herself between your legs, the hard head of her thick dick pressing against your slick, swollen pussy. You gasped, a primal sound of anticipation escaping your lips.

“Please, Jenna,” you whispered, your hands reaching for her hips, guiding her closer, desperate for the connection.

With a guttural groan that seemed to tear from her very core, she thrust forward, her dick sliding deep inside you. You cried out, a sharp intake of breath as she stretched you open, the sensation both intensely pleasurable and momentarily overwhelming.

She paused for a fraction of a second, letting you adjust, her hands gripping your hips tightly, her gaze locked on your face.

Then, she began to move.

Her thrusts were deep and rough, fueled by the alcohol and the raw, desperate need that had been simmering between you all night. The worn bedframe slammed against the headboard with each powerful movement, the rhythmic thudding echoing in the small room like a frantic heartbeat. You wrapped your legs around her waist, meeting her forceful thrusts with your own instinctive movements, your hands gripping her back, digging your nails into her skin, leaving long red marks in there wake.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” she grunted, her breath hot against your ear, the words laced with a desperate edge. “So fucking good.”

You were both slick with sweat, your bodies moving together in a primal, almost violent rhythm. The world outside the hotel room ceased to exist. There was only the intense friction, the deep penetration, the desperate gasps and moans that filled the air, punctuated by the relentless banging of the bed.

Breaking her relentless rhythm, she suddenly flipped you over with surprising strength, manhandling you onto your hands and knees. You barely registered the abrupt change in position, your mind completely consumed by the intense sensations flooding your body. Her hands gripped your hips, lifting you slightly as she slammed into you from behind, her thick dick hitting your deepest point with each forceful thrust.

“Like this, baby?” she growled, her voice thick with lust and a hint of something almost feral.

“Yes,” you gasped, your head thrown back, her hand tangling itself into your hair while her other hand pushes you down between your shoulder blades. “Oh god, yes, Jenna. Fuck me.”

The force of her thrusts was almost brutal, the bed rocking precariously beneath you, threatening to give way entirely. You could hear the wood creak and groan under the immense strain, but neither of you cared. You were both too far gone, lost in the intoxicating, almost violent frenzy of your drunken, desperate coupling.

Jenna’s hands roamed your body, squeezing your waist, pulling you closer and pushing you down, her fingers digging into your skin, leaving faint trails. Her teeth grazed your neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, a primal claim. So much different than her usual calm public figure.

The rhythmic pounding continued, faster and harder, the urgency escalating until you both teetered on the precipice. You cried out, your body clenching around her thick dick as wave after wave of intense, shuddering pleasure washed over you, stealing your breath. Jenna groaned loudly, a primal sound of release tearing from her throat as she pumped into you one last time, her entire body shuddering with the force of her orgasm before collapsing on top of you, her weight heavy and utterly satisfying.

You both laid there for a moment, taking a moment to breathe and stay in the small embrace.

“More,” Jenna mumbles suddenly, breaking the silence as a sudden burst of energy courses through her.

You moan softly as she yanks you to the end of the bed, legs falling off as she positions herself inside of you again.

~~~~~

The frantic energy of moments before dissolved into a heavy, sated silence after hours of Jenna endlessly pushing both your limits. The only sounds were the shallow, rapid breaths escaping your lips and the deeper, rumbling inhales and exhales of Jenna’s body pressed against yours. Her weight, which had felt electric and demanding just moments ago, now felt comforting, possessive. Her still-hard dick remained buried deep inside you, a lingering reminder of the raw intensity that had just consumed you both.

A small, involuntary whimper escaped your lips as you shifted slightly beneath her. The friction, though dulled, was still undeniably present. You could feel the faint throbbing of her pulse against your inner walls, a subtle echo of the storm that had just passed.

Jenna mumbled something incoherent, eyebrows furrowing before relaxing, her face nuzzling into the crook of your neck, her breath warm and damp against your skin. Her grip on your hips gone, but she remained connected with them wrapped around your torso, her body a dead weight atop yours.

You ran a hand through her sweat-dampened hair, the dark strands clinging to your fingers. The scent of her – the lingering perfume, the musky undertones of exertion, and something uniquely Jenna – filled your senses. A wave of tenderness washed over you, a stark contrast to the almost violent passion of your lovemaking.

A soft snore escaped her lips, a clear indication that exhaustion and the lingering effects of the champagne had finally claimed her. Her body remained intimately joined with yours, a testament to the depth of your shared pleasure.

A wry smile touched your lips. You could only imagine the state of the bed, the rhythmic banging against the headboard echoing in your mind. You made a mental note to discreetly inquire about any potential damage to the furniture upon checkout. The image of the worn frame protesting under your combined frenzy was almost comical now, in the quiet aftermath. not to mention the embarrassment you’ll encounter.

Your gaze drifted to the discarded remnants of your expensive dress and her tailored gown, lying in crumpled heaps on the floor. They were casualties of your mutual desire, ripped and disregarded in your haste to be closer.

A fresh wave of desire stirred within you, a low thrumming in your core. The thought of waking up with her still inside you, the promise of a slow, deliberate awakening filled with lingering touches and whispered promises, sent a shiver of anticipation down your spine. You imagined the lazy stretches, the soft moans as she became aware of your intertwined bodies, the inevitable renewal of your passion.

You shifted again, trying to get more comfortable without fully dislodging her. The slight movement caused a soft groan to rumble in her chest, and she instinctively tightened her grip on you, a possessive reflex even in sleep.

A surge of affection welled up within you. This raw, unguarded intimacy, so different from the carefully curated public persona she presented, was a privilege. You knew, with a certainty that resonated deep within you, that when Jenna woke, still intimately connected to you, the night was far from over. The frantic exploration might give way to a more languid, sensual awakening, but the intensity of her desire would undoubtedly remain. And you would be there, ready to meet it, your own body already anticipating her touch.

—————

Tagslist: @skate-to-breathee @wol-fica @raven-ss @restlessdot @dumb-fvck104 @crazyoffher @rhythm-catsandwine @makncheese12 @jennasslut@t-wylia @pnsteblnme @mar-romanova @ssinfulprayers @hellenheaven @btrizi @furry-monster-trash @je-tts @mokotodenis123 @ajortga @jensortega813 @bluetreecloud20

#jenna ortega x reader #tara carpenter x reader #jenna ortega #wednesday addams x reader #lorraine day x reader #tara carpenter #vada cavell x reader #x fem reader #jenna ortega x y/n #jennaortega #jenna ortega x you #x reader

213 notes · View notes

drmaddict · 8 months ago

Text

Keep Out

Summary: modern!Aemond takes his girlfriend home with him for the semester break over summer. He had already forgotten that he barely got any peace and quiet in his old room.

Wordcount: 1.717

Warnings: tiny smuttish part, but also not really, mentions of an unwanted lap dance, lots and lots of fluff

Present

They heard something rumbling loudly against the door. "Urgh. Fuck. Aemond?" shouted Aegon through the door.

(Y/n) laughed silently and shook an equally smirking Aemond, who was lying on her stomach.

2 months before

Aemond was unusually nervous for his ratio. He had never brought anyone home before. It was unusual. He felt strangely naked, as she paced around his room, looking at the books and posters from his school days.

When a grin appeared on her face, he knew immediately what was coming.

"Aha!" She pulled the CD case from the shelf and held it up triumphantly. "I knew it!",she grinned at him.

He just rolled his eyes and put the My Chemical Romance CD back in its place. "Behave.", was all he said.

Her smile softened. Her arms gently wrapped around his neck and pulled him in for a soft kiss.

"Close the door! Would you?", they heard someone laugh. None other than Aegon stood in the doorway and grinned at them both. "We don't want mummy to think you're promiscuous."

"Wow. That was a difficult word for you.", Aemond replied in a calm voice, but (Y/n) could see the tension in his jaw.

"At least I'm not a twenty-year-old virgin.", Aegon rolled his eyes and walked away again.

(Y/n) scratched his neck reassuringly. "So this is Aegon?"

He grumbled in agreement, annoyed.

"You exaggerated a bit with his hair. I was almost expecting a half bald head.", she turned his mind to another topic, knowing full well that he was largely uncomfortable with the subject of sex.

"You didn't see him after rehab. He was close."

She laughed lightly.

He lay relaxed on the bed. (Y/n) half beneath him. His head lay on her chest and he savoured the delicate fingers, as they ran over his scalp and through his long strands.

Sleeptoken was playing softly in the background, but he focussed more on her heartbeat, which he could now hear so clearly.

His eyes had fallen shut at the caresses, his breathing was calm and deep.

Everything was beautiful. Everything was good. Everything-

"Aemond we - Oh sorry."

Both their gazes shot in the direction of the roughly flung open door. His mum stood in the doorway, a little embarrassed. "We'll order something from the Italian. Please come downstairs... And put a shirt on Aemond!"

He dropped his face into the crook of her neck and groaned in annoyance. "I should have taken a hotel.", he grumbled.

She kissed his temple. "Just locking up is cheaper, I think."

"We don't have to.", she explained quietly.

Aemond shook his head. "I want to try it.", he admitted, still looking nervous. "But only on you for now.", he confessed quickly.

She stroked his hair. "Okay."

"You sure?"

She nodded with a smile.

Aemond cleared his throat. He had come a long way since he was a boy and a teenager, but the memory of that night was still so present.

Aegon had dragged him along to his birthday. He doesn't know what he'd expected, but it hadn't been a stripper.

He and his friends had cheered her on as she danced on Aemonds lap. He had never felt so overwhelmed und uncomfortable. The fact that he had come in his pants less than two minutes later had, of course, taken the mockery to the extreme.

They had bawled and Aemond had simply run away until he could lock himself in the bathroom, where he washed himself three times in a row in an attempt to wash off the shame.

"Hey." He felt her hand on his cheek. He pulled himself from his memory. "It's just me here. No one else." She smiled so warmly at him again. And she was right. The rest of his family was gone tonight, except for Haelena. But she rarely left her bugs voluntarily anyway.

He nodded, but still buried his face briefly on her shoulder. "Can I?," he asked, stroking her waistband with his fingers.

She nodded with a smile.

He carefully slipped his hand under the elasticated fabric and immediately came across the top of her panties. He looked at her questioningly again. She simply nodded. His fingers travelled deeper. He felt light stubble and took in the slightly scratchy feeling beneath his fingertips. He drew a few exploratory circles.

"Does that bother you?", she asked a little hesitantly, but he immediately shook his head.

"Not at all."

He let his fingers wander deeper until he felt what he was looking for. He groped around a little awkwardly and blindly. Searching for what he had already read about. She tenderly pushed her hand towards his. Grasped his fingers and brought them into position. She calmly showed him how to move them. He followed her with concentration.

She sighed slightly and withdrew her hand again. He tried himself out. Experimented. Memorised what caused which reaction.

And he realised, that this was okay. It was even kind of nice. It was-

The door to his room opened again. Helaena poked her head into the room. She didn't pay any attention to the situation of the two of them, frantically trying to present themselves in a more socially acceptable manner.

"Helaena!", shouted Aemond reprovingly.

She looked absolutely neutral in return. "Have you seen my Tarantula? She's run off."

"Your what?", asked (Y/n) immediately in alarm.

"My Tarantula. She-"

"Rethorical question.", explained Aemond immediately. "And no."

"Okay."

The door closed again.

"Please tell me that Tarantula is the name of your cat."

"Don't worry about it. The creature is ancient. It probably just turned to dust."

"Found her!", Heelena shouted from the corridor.

"Great.", Aemond called back, only slightly annoyed.

(Y/n) was still sitting tensely on his bed. "What do you say we-"

"Chinese or Thai?" he asked.

"Chinese."

"I'll just wash my hands and get the car.", he explained and stood up humbly. Would he ever have a quiet evening in this house?

"I love you.", she called after him tensely.

"Love you too.", he called back with a sigh.

They made out violently. She was sitting on his old desk and had her legs wrapped around his hips like a snake.

His centre kept twitching slightly forward. His family was gone, even his sister, and the damn door was locked.

Aemond pressed himself against her even more than he already did. His hands wandered under her top. His lips broke away from hers and travelled to her neck. He was ready. He was sure. He felt comfortable with her. He wanted this.

"To bed?", he asked, slightly out of breath.

She nodded eagerly. "Please.", she sighed. He lifted her from the table and carried her towards the bed. She took off her own top and threw it somewhere. He did the same.

She was already sitting down on the mattress and pushed herself into the middle of it, when Aemond tried to get out of his trousers.

He lay down on top of her. Their lips met. He sighed, when he felt her hands on his bare back.

He was just sliding his hands into the waistband of her trousers when he heard the click of the lock. He frantically threw half of the blanket over (Y/n) to cover her body as his grandfather stood in the doorway.

He looked at them both in astonishment.

"Excuse me.", he nodded briefly to (Y/n). "Otto Hightower. The grandfather." He introduced himself impassively.

"Hello." (Y/n) waved back, overwhelmed.

"You still have my encyclopaedia.", he explained, turning to Aemond.

He looked at him perplexed. "Couldn't you have just called me?"

Otto just raised an eyebrow. "The book, Aemond.", he demanded.

Aemond stood up angrily, took the book from the shelf and pressed it into his grandfather's hand.

"Could we have some privacy now, please?"

Otto just waved him off. "But don't get her pregnant. We don't need any more complaints like your brother's."

He didn't even look at them again. He simply left the house.

Aemond breathed in and out in a controlled manner.

He turned round with a jerk and pulled his trousers back on.

"Aemond, it's all-"

"Get dressed. We're driving."

"Driving? Where?"

"To a hotel.", he explained curtly and held out her top.

(Y/n) looked at him in surprise. "So we're not stopping?", she asked, half teasingly, half cheerfully.

Aemond looked at her insistently. "Not if you don't want to."

She smiled. "Let's go then."

The night was mild. Mild enough that they didn't try to put as much distance between them as possible. Just touching fingers or knuckles.

No. Aemond had snuggled up to her chest and (Y/n) held him in a relaxed grip.

They both lingered in the land of dreams, knowing that the door was locked and the key was still in it.

They had had their peace and quiet all evening. No one had gotten on their nerves. Aemond had snuggled up to her as he usually only did in his own flat. A place where no one could go without his permission. The key in the lock wasn't the highend security system in his flat, but it reassured him enough.

Even in his dreams, he still had the feeling that he had finally triumphed when he was suddenly and rudely torn from this world.

A loud, breaking sound rang out. The sound crashed into the room like a bang.

And with the noise, Aegon smashed in too.

"Oaaa! Fuck!", he exclaimed, annoyed, then he laughed clearly drunk.

Aemond and (Y/n) immediately sat upright in bed. (Y/n) looked perplexed at Aegon.

Aemond looked at the hole in the wall that had once been his door, now lying as splinters of wood on the floor.

"I didn't get the curve.", Aegon laughed, still on the floor. "Sorry little brother."

Present

"Stable.", (Y/n) stated, when she had her laughter under control again.

"Steel core with a security lock. Standard for banks.", explained Aemond relaxed.

He firmly grabbed her hand, which she had withdrawn during her fit of laughter, and put it back on his head.

"Don't stop.", he just sighed and closed his eye again. A slight smile played around his lips.

She kissed the top of his head with a smile and complied.

#aemond targaryen #aemond one eye #hotd fanfic #modern!aemond #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #hotd aemond #aemond targaryen x you #fluff #aemond targaryen fluff

632 notes · View notes

wonyowonyo · 2 months ago

Text

Static Echoes (U. Aeri/Giselle X M! Reader)

Wc: 9.6k Tags: Angst? In a captivating city humming with static, a faded musician haunted by a lover’s ghost-voice and a photographer who blurrs every truth must choose: burn in the clarity of what they almost were, or drown in the beautiful ruin of what’s left. A/N: No scene banners for this one, just pure emotional angst. For the lad who asked for Giselle, I'll write a fluff to make up for this, trust hehe

Rain sluiced down the window of Y/N’s cramped third-floor walk-up, distorting the neon glow of the pawn shop sign across the street into a bleeding halo. Inside his dim apartment—a cramped realm of mismatched furniture, scuffed vinyl floors, and peeling posters of bands that once stirred his soul—Y/N hunched over his battered acoustic guitar. His fingers, worn from years of relentless practice and broken promises, plucked uncertainly at new strings he’d just installed. Somewhere in the background, a demo of “Moth Wing Hours” played on an aging laptop, its fragile melody looping relentlessly like a half-remembered dream.

Y/N’s apartment reeked of rosin and stale coffee, and every surface was cluttered with the detritus of a life half-lived. Amid scattered guitar picks, dog-eared notebooks of scribbled lyrics, and dusty vinyl records, the air pulsed with an undercurrent of longing—a ghost of musical glory days when his voice had burned with the reckless promise of forever. But now, that promise had faded into the static of everyday drudgery.

He had once believed his music could set the world ablaze, but time had a way of dampening even the brightest flames. Today, he was less a celebrated poet of chords and verses and more a reluctant music teacher, offering guitar lessons to disinterested teens. Their boredom was palpable, their questions laced with teenage cynicism, as if each chord he strummed was a reminder of the disconnect between his faded dreams and their insipid realities. Corporate gigs had replaced smoky dive bars; the sterile ambiance of upscale hotel lobbies and overpriced cocktail lounges left him feeling like nothing more than a ghost—a relic of a 20-something’s Spotify playlist that had long been forgotten.

As he tuned the guitar, Y/N’s eyes drifted to the rain-streaked window. Outside, the City of Seoul pulsed with neon life, a chaotic mix of transient lights and forgotten promises. The rain blurred the boundaries between past and present, and in that liminal moment, he could almost believe that the static in the background wasn’t just electronic noise but something more—a whisper from a memory he’d long tried to escape.

A sudden hiss from the ancient coffee machine in the kitchen shattered the quiet. The sound, almost spectral in its persistence, seemed to carry an echo of a laugh—low, smoky, and hauntingly familiar. For a split second, Y/N thought he heard Aeri’s laugh amid the hiss, a sound that had once lit up the darkest corners of his heart. In that instant, time fractured, and memories surged forward like a tidal wave: the clink of ice in a glass, the soft murmur of conversation on a fire escape, the reckless abandon of youth.

Distracted by the ghostly echo, his hand jerked, and the mug he’d cradled slipped from his grasp. It tumbled onto the linoleum floor, shattering into a constellation of ceramic shards that cut into his palms. He stared at the scattered pieces, each fragment a silent testament to a past filled with hope and now a present marred by regret.

Y/N’s thoughts raced. How had life reduced him to a curator of almosts? Almost-famous, almost-healed, almost-in-love. He glanced at the list on his cluttered desk—a litany of student names and dates, each entry a quiet reminder of those who had slipped away. Hannah W. flashed before his eyes, the note beside her name a sarcastic parenthesis: “nursery rhymes” from a canceled lesson. Fifteen years ago, such a cancellation might have ignited a fury worthy of a thrown phone, but now, he felt only numb resignation.

He ran a hand through his tangled hair and let his gaze fall on the cracked screen of his laptop. The demo of “Moth Wing Hours” continued unabated, its melody merging with the rhythmic patter of the rain. In that fragile moment, the past and present blurred—a bittersweet fusion of what once was and what might have been. The static in the apartment wasn’t just background noise; it was the heartbeat of his disintegrating dreams.

————————————————————

Miles away, under a different kind of light, Aeri’s world unfolded in stark contrasts. Her studio was a converted loft that doubled as a darkroom, its atmosphere thick with the smell of chemicals and the red glow of safelights. Here, she reigned as both artist and chronicler—a trauma paparazzo who captured the raw, unfiltered moments of human devastation. Images of bombed-out hospitals in Kyiv, ashen faces of wildfire survivors, and the solitary photograph of a child’s shoe half-buried in flood mud hung from the walls like spectral memorials. Each image was a frozen scream, a testament to chaos and loss.

Among these fractured narratives, one photograph stood apart with startling clarity. It was a portrait of Y/N, captured in the vulnerable quiet of sleep, bathed in the gentle glow of dawn. His face, soft and unguarded, bore the delicate lines of a man haunted by memories yet still clinging to fragments of hope. Aeri’s eyes lingered on it, her pulse quickening as she recalled that moment—a rare instance when the chaos of her world had paused, revealing a truth too intimate for her usual repertoire.

Her phone buzzed insistently on a cluttered table, its screen lighting up with a reminder of an impending deadline. Aeri’s agent was on the line, his voice crackling through the speaker with the brisk efficiency of someone used to demanding perfection.

“Look, Sash, The Times wants a quote about ‘UNSEEN.’ I need you to give them the usual—‘It’s about the elusiveness of truth’—and stop overthinking the damn artist statement,” he barked, his tone a mixture of impatience and exasperation.

Aeri pressed a thumb against her scar—a faded, jagged line from the ’16 riot in Istanbul that had nearly cost her more than just her pride. “I’m not overthinking,” she snapped, her voice low and tremulous with defiance. “I’m curating, shaping fragments of reality into something real.” She swept a hand through her ink-black hair and looked around her darkroom, where each photograph seemed to pulse with unspoken stories. “Truth isn’t elusive, it’s blinding. Sometimes it’s just too bright to face directly.”

Her agent’s voice cut through her reverie. “Just stick to the script, Aeri.”

As if in response to the mounting pressure, Aeri reached for a freshly developed print of Y/N’s photo. She held it up to the dim red light, marveling at the clarity that set it apart from the other blurred images—a moment of pure, unedited vulnerability in an otherwise chaotic portfolio. In her trembling hands, that image represented all the contradictions of her life: her success as a trauma chronicler and her inability to process the intimacy that this one shot demanded.

But as she adjusted the print, a misstep sent a splash of developer solution cascading over it. The clear lines of Y/N’s face blurred into a golden smear, the vivid detail dissolving like memories fading in the rain. For a long, heart-wrenching moment, she watched the image twist into something unrecognizable—a casualty of her own inner turmoil.

“Fuck,” she muttered, her voice barely audible over the steady hum of the chemicals. With shaking fingers, she retrieved the ruined print and, as if performing a ritual of both guilt and preservation, she tucked it away into a drawer labeled “UNDEVELOPED.” In that secret compartment of her studio, Aeri locked away not just a ruined photograph, but a piece of herself she wasn’t ready to confront—a reminder of the man whose sleep had betrayed his true self.

Outside, the rain eased into a gentle mist, and the city began to stir with a hesitant vibrancy. The blurred boundaries between past and present, reality and memory, persisted like a half-remembered dream. Aeri exhaled slowly, her mind a tangled web of creative passion and self-imposed isolation. Each ruined print, every blurred image, was a step in her journey to capture the inescapable truth—no matter how painful or beautiful it might be.

————————————————————

Later that evening, Y/N mounted his aging bicycle and pedaled into the night. The urban landscape, washed clean by the relentless rain, was transformed into a series of luminous reflections and fractured silhouettes. He navigated the slick, glistening streets with an air of weary determination, his mind heavy with the ghosts of unfinished songs and missed opportunities.

As he passed under a mural on 5th and Vine, a colossal billboard came into view. It was an arresting display—“UNSEEN: PHOTOGRAPHS BY AERI UCHINAGA’’ sprawled boldly across its surface. The image that dominated the ad was Aeri’s own, her face a study in defiance and vulnerability, half-consumed by shadow and light. Her eyes, sharp and inscrutable, seemed to challenge the viewer to uncover the secrets behind the facade. The billboard glowed with an almost otherworldly intensity, daring him to confront the specter of their shared past.

Y/N’s pulse quickened as he slowed to a stop, the chill of the evening mingling with the heat of buried emotions. Every detail of the billboard—the stark typography, the interplay of dark and luminous hues—spoke to the unresolved tension between him and Aeri. In that suspended moment, he felt the weight of every nearly-spoken word, every lost chance at redemption.

He fumbled with his phone, hesitating as he opened a new text message. His fingers hovered over the screen, a message forming—a tentative greeting, a whispered admission of his lingering feelings. “Heard you’re in town…” the message began, each word a tentative bridge between past hurts and uncertain hope. But as quickly as the words appeared, doubt flooded his mind. What if reaching out would shatter the fragile peace he’d fought so hard to build? The tension between longing and fear was as palpable as the damp chill of the night air.

In a moment of desperate indecision, he deleted the message. But the act of deletion felt like a small betrayal of his own yearning. His heart pounded in his ears as he stared at the dark screen, the silence more oppressive than the constant hum of the city. The electric tension of unsaid words and unfinished conversations surged within him, igniting a fury that he could no longer contain.

In a burst of anger and sorrow, Y/N’s hand clenched around the phone. With a swift, impulsive motion, he hurled it against the wall of a nearby building. The impact sent a shudder through the quiet street, and the sound of cracking glass echoed like a final exclamation mark to a conversation that would never be finished. For a few heartbeats, he stood motionless in the rain, the bitter taste of regret mingling with the dampness on his skin.

A bike messenger whizzed by, his whistled comment barely audible above the steady patter of rain. “Bad breakup?” the stranger teased, his tone light as if life’s hardships could be distilled into a single, offhand remark. Y/N managed a bitter smile in response, but the gesture was hollow—more a mask for the turmoil swirling inside than an expression of genuine amusement.

The billboard loomed above him, its vibrant, defiant image of Aeri a constant reminder of the unresolved chapters in their shared past. The rain continued to fall, each drop a muted percussion in the symphony of urban solitude. Y/N’s eyes traced the contours of her face on the billboard—the half-shadowed jawline, the fierce determination in her eyes—and he felt the sharp sting of memories both beautiful and painful.

In that fractured moment, as the rain softened and the city settled into a contemplative hush, Y/N realized that the static in his life—the noise of lost opportunities and unsaid apologies—was something he could no longer ignore. Whether it was the echo of Aeri’s laugh in the hiss of the coffee machine or the blurred remnants of a photograph hidden away in a dark drawer, the past had a way of intruding upon the present, demanding to be seen, acknowledged, and, ultimately, resolved.

As the neon lights danced on the wet pavement and the echoes of his shattered phone reverberated in his mind, Y/N stood at the crossroads of what had been and what might yet be. The city, drenched in rain and bathed in the fractured glow of memories, beckoned him forward. Somewhere between the static of his fading dreams and the promise of a new, uncertain dawn lay the truth he had long evaded—a truth as elusive as the fleeting smile of a ghost, yet as persistent as the rain that never ceased.

In that final, lingering moment before the night swallowed him whole, Y/N closed his eyes and listened to the symphony of his past—the haunting refrain of “Moth Wing Hours,” the whispered echoes of a love lost and found in the static, and the promise of redemption hidden within the fractured reflections of neon light. The journey was far from over, and with each beat of his determined heart, he knew that the search for truth, however painful and elusive, was one worth the risk.

————————————————————

The night deepened, and as Y/N finally mounted his bike once more, the city around him seemed to pulse with a renewed urgency. Every raindrop, every flickering streetlamp, every shard of broken glass on the pavement was a reminder of both the beauty and the brutality of a life lived on the edge of memory and possibility. He pedaled on, the remnants of his anger slowly dissolving into a quiet resolve. Tonight, beneath the relentless rain and the indifferent glow of neon, Y/N would confront the static that had haunted him for so long—and perhaps, in that act of defiance, find a way to reclaim the fragments of himself he’d long thought lost.

The urban night was alive with possibility, each corner and shadow a silent promise of stories yet to be told. As Y/N disappeared into the rain-soaked maze of city streets, his heart whispered a tentative hope: that even amid the static of shattered dreams, there might yet be a spark of something real—something that could light the way forward, however uncertain the path.

————————————————————

The memory of that humid summer night still burned like an old photograph in Y/N’s mind—a moment when uncertainty danced with reckless possibility. It was his first open mic at The Iris Room, a dive bar where the walls were as worn as the stories of its patrons. Y/N, just 24 and armed with a hopeful guitar and a pocketful of unsung songs, stood on a rickety stage beneath a single, sputtering spotlight. The audience, a ragtag collection of night owls and lost souls, leaned in with half-expected indifference.

As he strummed the opening chords of a song he’d never fully finished, his voice wavered between passion and apprehension. Every note carried the weight of his insecurities and the tender promise of new beginnings. Mid-performance, when he dared to let his guard down, a sharp voice cut through the din. “Stop singing like you’re scared of the mic, poet,” came a taunt from the back of the room.

He paused, heart pounding, and then spotted her—Aeri, 23, with eyes alight like flares in the dark. Her tone was mischievous and daring, a challenge that stung yet invigorated him. The remark hung in the smoky air, a spark that ignited something inside him. Instead of retreating into his shell, Y/N found himself grinning, a flush of adrenaline and defiance coloring his cheeks.

After the set, with applause mingled with playful jeers, Aeri made her way to him. “You’ve got guts,” she said with a wry smile, leaning against the peeling backdrop of a backstage door. “But you’re holding back—like you’re afraid to let the real you out.”

Her words, sharp yet tender, cut through his uncertainty. The moment crackled with the electricity of two lives colliding unexpectedly. They traded barbed compliments and earnest confessions in the haze of cheap beer and neon reflections. When the night was winding down and the band’s final chord lingered in the air, Aeri whispered, “Come on. Let’s ditch this dump and do something reckless.”

Y/N hesitated for only a heartbeat before grabbing his coat and following her out into the sticky summer night. They left The Iris Room together, laughter trailing behind them like a shared secret. The humid air was thick with promise as they hopped onto a beat-up car and sped away from the dim lights and stale smoke of the bar.

Their destination was as unconventional as their encounter—a towering, abandoned water tower on the outskirts of the city. Its rusted metal skin and precarious perch promised both danger and freedom. As they climbed the narrow, creaking stairs, the city below spread out in a patchwork of lights and shadows. At the top, the world seemed suspended in a moment of both vertigo and liberation.

Aeri pulled out her camera with practiced ease. “Hold that smile,” she urged, aiming the lens at Y/N. With the cityscape behind him and the wind whipping his hair, Y/N’s laughter echoed off the cold metal—a pure, unguarded sound. In that moment, as the shutter clicked, she captured not just his face but the raw, unfiltered joy of that reckless defiance.

Barely containing her delight, Aeri teased, “You’re like a chord that won’t resolve.” Y/N’s grin widened as he retorted, “Maybe I’m a bridge to nowhere.”

Their banter mingled with the roar of the wind and the distant hum of a city that never slept. In that dizzying height, every word, every glance, vibrated with the intensity of newfound chemistry. When Aeri’s hand brushed against his, the connection was immediate—a live wire that seemed to electrify the very air between them.

As the night deepened, the duo settled on a battered metal bench near the edge of the water tower. Aeri, ever the provocateur, pulled a worn flask from her leather satchel and offered it to him. “Here,” she said, eyes twinkling, “for the bold and the brave.” In a moment of playful rebellion, Y/N snatched it from her hand and pretended to take a swig, only to toss it back with a laugh. The flask, like their burgeoning connection, was both a challenge and a token—a symbol of defiance against a world that had too often demanded conformity.

Their conversation wove through the night like an improvisational melody—stories of past heartbreaks, dreams too wild for daylight, and confessions whispered over the hum of a forgotten city. Every word felt charged with meaning, every pause pregnant with possibility. As they descended the water tower, their fingers remained intertwined—a silent promise of adventures yet to come.

By the time they reached the ground, the horizon was a blur of deep blues and emerging hints of dawn. That night, in the raw, unfiltered glow of urban rebellion, they had forged an unspoken pact: to live as though every moment were both a beginning and an end, a snapshot of perfection in a world of nearly-there moments. Their first meeting had been a collision of contrasts—a clash of vulnerability and audacity, leaving them both forever marked by the brilliance of a summer that almost was.

————————————————————

In the weeks that followed, their whirlwind romance unfolded like a montage of vivid snapshots, each moment as fleeting and fragile as moth wings in a summer breeze. Aeri dragged Y/N into her nocturnal world, a realm of abandoned factories and forgotten landscapes, where the ruins whispered secrets of a once-thriving industrial past. At 3 a.m., when the city slept under a veil of darkness, she would lead him to places that pulsed with a raw, melancholic beauty.

One such night, they arrived at an abandoned factory on the outskirts of town. The building, draped in ivy and bathed in the ghostly glow of moonlight, seemed to breathe with memories of its past. Aeri’s camera was an extension of her steady hand, capturing each decaying detail with an artist’s eye. As she framed a shot of a rusted machine half-submerged in shadow, Y/N’s presence disrupted the serene stillness of her composition. He wandered into the frame, his eyes filled with wonder and a hint of mischief, transforming the image from a static relic into a living narrative.

“You always ruin the shot,” she laughed, shaking her head as she snapped a quick picture of him. But the irritation in her tone was softened by the affectionate glimmer in her eyes. In that brief exchange, Y/N felt both exasperation and adoration—a realization that she saw the beauty in his spontaneity even when it disrupted her meticulous plans.

In quieter moments, Y/N retreated to his notebook, scribbling lines of poetry and song lyrics that seemed to capture the duality of their connection. One passage in particular resonated with him as he wrote in a cramped diner booth, the words flowing almost unconsciously:

“You’re the flash that ruins the shot I’m the darkroom, begging for light.”

The line encapsulated everything: Aeri was a burst of brilliance that threatened to overwhelm the careful, shadowed spaces within him. Her presence illuminated parts of him he’d kept hidden away, and yet, it also unraveled the fragile fabric of his carefully curated persona.

But as with all passionate affairs, the summer was not without its fractures. One rainy afternoon, a letter arrived that upended their fragile idyll. It was from Aeri’s ex—a reminder of a past that refused to be forgotten. The letter was laced with bitterness and regret, accusing her of betraying what was once real. That night, in the cramped intimacy of her apartment, Aeri’s facade cracked.

Over clattering dishes and the low hum of an old fan, she confronted Y/N. “You’re romanticizing chaos,” she accused, her voice trembling with a mixture of fury and sorrow. “Every time you spin your tales, you turn our moments into some tragic myth.”

Y/N’s eyes, usually so soft in the face of her intensity, hardened in response. “And you,” he shot back, “are nothing but an emotional tourist—riding the waves of every storm without ever letting the calm in.”

The argument reverberated through the night, punctuated by sharp words and longer silences. Their love, once a spontaneous burst of light, now flickered uncertainly in the shadow of old wounds and unresolved grief. Yet, even as anger spilled over, the undercurrent of desire remained undeniable—a magnetic pull that neither could fully resist.

After the fight, they found themselves drifting into a fragile silence. In the quiet moments that followed, Aeri’s eyes wandered back to the ruined letters and half-packed bags, and Y/N’s mind returned to the pages of his notebook stained with hastily scribbled verses. The vibrancy of their summer began to show the scars of reality—a reminder that even the most luminous moments can be marred by the ghosts of the past.

Despite the pain, there was beauty in their chaos. Each spontaneous adventure, every whispered word and stolen glance, was a piece of the mosaic that defined their summer. Their love was a collage of moments—bright, blurred, and sometimes broken—but it was entirely theirs. In the dim light of early morning, as they lay side by side on a threadbare rug in a forgotten loft, the echoes of laughter and argument blended into a haunting melody. It was a love story written in stolen snapshots and fleeting verses, as transient and unforgettable as the moth wings that fluttered in the heat of summer nights.

————————————————————

Dawn crept in with an unforgiving clarity that shattered the illusions of the night. In the cold predawn light, Aeri moved silently through the narrow apartment they’d once shared, her footsteps echoing against tile and worn-out memories. Y/N lay still in a tangled heap on the bed, his eyes closed as if he could escape the painful finality of what was about to unfold.

She had always been the one to seize the moment—the wild, untamable spirit who never hesitated to break free. And now, as the first blush of morning painted the sky in pale pastels, she was leaving. The weight of their fractured summer pressed down on her with every careful step.

Y/N’s eyes fluttered open just as she paused by the door. He forced himself to remain still, feigning sleep as he watched her prepare to leave. In the quiet hush of that fateful morning, he sensed the end was near. The silence was thick, punctuated only by the distant hum of traffic and the soft clink of her keys in the lock.

Aeri lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, her silhouette framed by the weak light of dawn. Before stepping out, she pulled out her camera with a practiced precision. There was a final ritual she needed to perform—a goodbye captured in crystal-clear honesty. In a single, decisive moment, she turned the lens on Y/N, freezing him in a tableau of vulnerability. His face, relaxed and unaware of the significance of the shot, bore the deep lines of a man who had given his heart away too many times.

As the shutter clicked, Aeri’s hand trembled with the weight of what she was doing. In that silent snapshot, every unspoken word, every tear unshed, was captured in a moment of raw, unedited truth. Her eyes flickered over the image, then to the worn notebook on the bedside table where Y/N’s poetry had once spilled like secrets.

For a few agonizing moments, she fumbled with a crumpled piece of paper—a note that she had scribbled in a fit of conflicting emotions. The words were hurried and raw: “I’ll ruin us faster than art ever could.” The note, however, never found its way to him. In a sudden impulse, Aeri crumpled it into a tight fist and tore it up, scattering fragments of regret and unfulfilled promise across the cold floor.

Then, without another backward glance, she slipped out the door into the early morning haze, leaving Y/N alone with the echo of her departure. The apartment, once a sanctuary of shared dreams, now felt unbearably empty—a mausoleum of memories and lingering echoes of laughter.

Y/N remained still for a long while, the silence of the room pressing in on him like a suffocating fog. He listened to the distant sound of footsteps receding, each step marking the slow death of what had once been a blazing, uncontainable flame. In that quiet aftermath, he felt the sting of loss so acute that it seemed to tear at the very fabric of his soul.

He turned his head toward the window, where the first rays of the sun filtered through in brittle strips of light, and wondered if this was how every ending felt—both inevitable and shattering, like a masterpiece unraveled stroke by stroke. The crisp clarity of the morning betrayed no hint of the wild, transient passion that had defined their summer. Instead, it was a mirror reflecting back the broken shards of a love that had burned too fiercely to last.

For hours, Y/N lay there, caught between the desire to call out and the resignation of silence. He replayed every laugh, every heated argument, and every tender touch in his mind—each one a delicate thread in the tapestry of their brief, chaotic romance. And as the sun climbed higher, warming the cold floor beneath him, he realized that even in the midst of heartbreak, there was a strange, unyielding beauty in the truth of it all.

————————————————————

Years later, the echoes of that tumultuous summer still resonated in the present, converging in a singular, charged moment. Y/N arrived at the gallery with his battered guitar strapped to his back—a silent testament to a life that had wandered far from the reckless days of youth, yet never quite escaped their shadow. The gallery buzzed with the hum of murmured conversations and the clink of glasses, the air thick with anticipation and the scent of polished wood.

Across the room, under the cool glow of strategically placed lights, Aeri stood framed by a backdrop of her photographs. Dressed in a tailored blazer that contrasted sharply with the raw, unfiltered images of pain and beauty she had captured, she exuded an air of controlled authority. For a moment, as she interviewed a particularly enthusiastic art critic, her composure faltered. Her eyes lifted and met Y/N’s across the crowded room—a silent collision of past and present that sent a jolt through both of them.

Time seemed to pause as memories cascaded between them—the fevered nights on water towers, the stolen laughter under abandoned factories, the quiet devastation of that final morning. In that suspended second, the gallery, with its pristine walls and hushed whispers, transformed into a stage for their unresolved history. Y/N’s heart pounded in his ears, the sound mingling with the ambient chatter, as he took a tentative step forward.

The critic’s questions faded into the background as Aeri’s gaze held his, raw and unspoken. For a brief, fragile moment, they were transported back to that summer of almosts—the incandescent flash of youth, the daring risk of vulnerability, and the bittersweet taste of what might have been. Aeri’s hand twitched near her side, as if reaching out to bridge the gulf of years and regrets. And Y/N, with a mixture of hope and hesitation, wondered if the unresolved chords of their past could somehow be tuned to a new melody.

In the charged silence that followed, both recognized that the distance between them was measured not in miles or years, but in the scars and memories that each carried. The gallery lights, soft and unforgiving, illuminated every wrinkle of regret, every lingering smile of nostalgia. It was a moment where the weight of their shared history pressed against the fragile present—a reminder that even as life marched forward, the past never truly let go.

As the room slowly returned to its normal rhythm, Aeri cleared her throat, regaining her professional poise, while Y/N lingered at the edge of the conversation like a ghost from a time when every note mattered. In that brief, electric encounter, the silent promise of unfinished music hung in the air—a promise that perhaps, someday, they would dare to play their old song once again.

The past and present, woven together in a delicate tapestry of memories and unspoken truths, revealed a love that was never entirely lost—only transformed into a haunting refrain that echoed through every chord and captured frame.

The evening had settled into a heavy, indigo twilight as guests filtered into the gallery. The space, a converted industrial loft with soaring ceilings and exposed brick, was filled with hushed conversations and the soft clink of wine glasses. Overhead, a single spotlight traced slow circles around Aeri’s photographs—a sprawling body of work that oscillated between raw brutality and a fragile, dreamlike beauty. It was as if every image was a confession, a whispered secret meant for those brave enough to look beyond the surface.

————————————————————

Clusters of guests drifted among the images, their voices a murmur of appreciation and critique. One guest, a sharply dressed critic with a wry smile, stopped before a series of images that captured urban decay and intimate despair. He leaned in, appraising the photos with a measured gaze, then remarked loud enough for those nearby to hear, “Brave… if you like emotional voyeurism.” His tone was mocking yet laced with admiration—a dismissal that somehow validated Aeri’s work as both daring and disturbingly honest.

Y/N stood in a quieter corner of the gallery, a silent observer amid the well-heeled conversation. His gaze was fixed on a photograph titled “The Bridge to Nowhere.” It was a blurred shot of a water tower, its structure distorted by motion and shadow. The image seemed to capture something essential—a moment suspended between hope and futility, echoing the restless nights of their shared past. The photograph, much like the memory of that summer, was both haunting and achingly beautiful. Y/N’s thoughts swirled with the recollections of a time when every risk was a promise, when every misstep was a note in the symphony of youth.

The dim lighting in the gallery transformed the image into a ghostly vision. He could almost hear the echo of their laughter on that water tower, feel the electric thrill of their first encounter mingled with the uncertainty of what was to come. In that moment, every critique, every whispered appraisal in the room, faded into a background hum—insignificant compared to the relentless pull of the past.

Across the room, Aeri navigated her own storm of emotions. Dressed in a sleek, tailored blazer that belied the chaos of her inner world, she moved with a practiced grace. Yet every so often, her eyes would stray to the very photograph that haunted Y/N’s attention. It was as if, through that blurred image, both of them had found a piece of themselves they could never quite reclaim—a truth too raw to be confined to memory alone.

————————————————————

As the exhibit drew on, the tension between past and present reached a fever pitch. The gallery’s polished interior gave way to a narrow, fire-escape landing behind the building, a shadowy refuge from the pretension of art critics and connoisseurs. Here, the rawness of the night reigned again. The metallic scent of rain and the chill of concrete underfoot were a stark contrast to the curated beauty of the exhibit.

Y/N found Aeri leaning against the cold railing, her gaze fixed on the city skyline—a tapestry of neon lights and distant sirens. The space between them was charged, a silent battleground for words unspoken for too long. Y/N stepped forward, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and yearning.

“You took the truth and smudged it into something safe,” he said, his tone both accusatory and desperate. His words cut through the night, raw as the wind that whipped around the fire escape.

Aeri’s eyes flashed with a storm of emotions—regret, defiance, and a deep-seated pain. “You think I didn’t try?” she shot back, her voice low and measured, though every syllable trembled with the weight of old wounds. “I’d point the lens at you, and it’d feel like… like aiming at the sun.” Her words were a confession, a brittle admission that the process of capturing truth was as dangerous and blinding as confronting it directly.

For a long, suspended moment, the only sound was the rustling of their breaths mingling with the city’s distant hum. The fire escape, lit only by the feeble glow of a streetlamp, became the stage for a collision of their two worlds—one forged in the incandescent heat of passion, the other cooled by the bitterness of memory.

Aeri’s gaze dropped to the small leather case slung over her shoulder—the one that contained all her most intimate photographs, the images she’d hidden away from prying eyes and the relentless scrutiny of the world. Slowly, almost hesitantly, she unlatched it and drew out a single print. It was an image she had never dared show anyone—a photograph captured in the darkness of a forgotten night, a moment when vulnerability and raw emotion intertwined to form something irretrievably real.

Y/N’s eyes widened as he took in the image. The photo was of him—at a moment of complete exposure. His face was lit by a soft, almost unearthly glow; his expression was one of tender anguish and hopeful defiance. It was as if every line, every shadow on his face, had been etched by a memory too painful to forget and too beautiful to ignore. The clarity of the image was in stark contrast to the blurred aesthetics of “The Bridge to Nowhere.” It was the unvarnished truth, stripped of artifice.

“I—” Y/N began, but his voice faltered. The room around him seemed to dissolve, leaving only the image and the haunting echo of a song in his mind. The static of all his past regrets, hopes, and dreams crescendoed into a familiar refrain—a melody he had long tried to bury but could never forget.

In that moment, as if summoned by the intensity of his emotions, the first notes of “Moth Wing Hours” began to swell within him. The song, raw and unpolished, rose from the depths of his memory. It was a piece Aeri had never heard, a melody woven from the threads of their shared history and the silent spaces between their words. Its strains were both a lament and a declaration, a summoning of every lost moment and every almost-forgotten promise.

The sound seemed to transform the night. The city below, the cold metal of the fire escape, even the distant hum of traffic, all receded as Y/N’s inner world surged forth. He could almost see the images of their past—flashbacks of a summer ablaze with possibility, of stolen kisses and reckless confessions. The song was more than music; it was an outpouring of every fragment of his soul that had been buried under layers of static and silence.

Aeri’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she watched him. For so long, she had hidden behind her camera, behind her carefully curated images, in an attempt to capture the truth without facing it. Now, faced with the raw, unfiltered emotion of the man before her, her defenses crumbled. The photograph in her hand trembled as if it, too, could sense the gravity of the moment.

————————————————————

The confrontation on the fire escape marked a turning point—a precipice between what had been and what could be. With the hidden photo still clutched in her hand, Aeri took a tentative step forward. The quiet urgency in her eyes spoke of regrets and unspoken apologies, of a love that had once burned fiercely but had been dimmed by time and circumstance.

Y/N, still clutching the weight of the photograph in his mind, slowly retrieved his battered guitar from the case slung over his back. The instrument, scarred and weathered by years of neglect and forgotten melodies, was as much a part of him as the memories that haunted his every chord. He sat down on the cold, metal step of the fire escape, the city lights flickering like distant memories around him.

With deliberate care, he positioned the guitar against his knee and began to strum—a single, raw note that cut through the stillness of the night. The sound was unpolished, rough around the edges, yet it carried with it an undeniable truth. Each chord resonated with the cumulative weight of every missed chance, every whispered regret, every spark of defiant hope that had flickered in the darkness of their shared past.

As the melody built, so did the intensity of their unspoken exchange. Aeri watched, transfixed, as the notes of “Moth Wing Hours” filled the space between them. There was a vulnerability in his playing—a surrender to the truth that had long been hidden behind layers of static and distance. The song unfolded slowly, each refrain a delicate tapestry of sound that intertwined with the fragile remnants of their memories.

Tears welled in Aeri’s eyes as she absorbed the raw emotion in every note. Her camera, once a tool for capturing the fleeting beauty of the world, now hung limply by her side—a silent witness to the convergence of art and life. The layers of artifice and carefully contrived images fell away, leaving only the bare, unfiltered essence of who they once were—and perhaps, who they could still become.

For a long while, the two stood there on the fire escape, the night embracing them with its cool, indifferent arms. There was no physical contact—no desperate reach or trembling embrace. Instead, there was a communion of souls, a recognition that in the interplay of light and shadow, truth and art, they had found something worth preserving.

The music swelled, a crescendo of emotion that echoed through the empty streets below. Y/N’s fingers danced over the strings, coaxing the final notes from the guitar as if to seal the past and herald a new beginning. The song, filled with every fragment of their broken history and every glimmer of hope, hung in the air—a fragile promise that the static could finally fade.

In that suspended moment, the relentless noise of life—the criticisms, the ghostly echoes of mistakes, the ever-present reminder of what had been lost—began to dissolve. The collision of their worlds, so long marked by the fractures of time and regret, softened into a quiet understanding. The harsh lines of memory blurred, giving way to a tender, unspoken possibility.

Aeri’s tears fell silently as she listened, each drop a small testament to the emotions that had been held at bay for far too long. Y/N’s playing was not just a performance—it was an act of confession, a desperate attempt to reconcile the shards of a past that had been shattered by the weight of dreams deferred. The notes of “Moth Wing Hours” wove around them like a cocoon, a fragile barrier against the relentless tide of the world outside.

When the last chord finally faded, the silence that followed was profound. It was a silence filled not with emptiness, but with the unspoken promise of renewal—a moment where every raw, painful truth was met with the gentle possibility of forgiveness. Y/N’s eyes met Aeri’s, and in that exchange, both knew that the collision of their lives had not been an end, but a chance—a narrow, trembling opportunity to rebuild something honest from the ruins of what had been.

Without a word, Y/N set his guitar aside, the echo of his song lingering in the night air like a benediction. Aeri, still trembling, slowly retrieved the hidden photograph from her jacket pocket. In the weak glow of the streetlamp, she allowed herself a final, shuddering breath—a silent farewell to the ghosts of their shared past and an acceptance of the fragile, uncertain future that lay ahead.

For a long, aching moment, neither spoke. The raw, unvarnished emotion between them was palpable—a truth too heavy for words, yet light enough to bear hope. The static of all the past, the noise of regret and the clamor of what might have been, had finally begun to fade into the gentle hum of a new beginning.

As the city resumed its nocturnal rhythm, Y/N turned away, leaving the fire escape and the echoes of the past behind him. Aeri lingered a moment longer, her heart full of all the things unsaid and undone, then stepped back into the gallery. Inside, the harsh critiques and the polished facades of art awaited, but for a brief, transcendent instant on that cold fire escape, the raw pulse of truth had reawakened something long dormant.

In the days that followed, neither could entirely erase the memory of that night—the night when art and life collided, when every fractured note and blurred image spoke of a love both haunting and redemptive. Y/N continued to play his music, the unpolished notes of “Moth Wing Hours” now a permanent refrain in his heart. And Aeri, her camera now a little heavier with the weight of remembered truth, sought out new images—each one a step toward capturing not just the fleeting beauty of the world, but the unyielding truth of a love that had once dared to defy the static.

They never touched that night, never bridged the distance with a single embrace. But in the quiet resolution of their separate paths, there was a promise—a promise that though the static of their past might always echo faintly in the background, they had finally chosen to let the unvarnished truth shine through.

As dawn broke over the city one crisp morning, the remnants of the night’s collision lingered like a soft melody in the air—a reminder that even in the midst of shattered dreams and blurred memories, there existed a fragile, defiant hope. And somewhere in that hope, the truth of who they once were—and who they might yet become—was etched in every fading note and every captured image, waiting, quietly, for the day when the static would finally be silenced.

————————————————————

In that silent space between yesterday and tomorrow, the choices they made—of art, of truth, of love—resonated far beyond the confines of a single night. The exhibit had been a canvas for Aeri’s struggles, a testament to the pain and beauty that had always defined her vision. The fire escape had been their confessional, a place where raw truths were spoken in whispers against the roar of the city. And the final, tentative notes of “Moth Wing Hours” had been both an ending and a beginning—a declaration that, no matter how fractured the past, the future was theirs to create.

The collision of their lives, so vivid and violent in its intensity, had not been about reunion or reconciliation in the conventional sense. It was about confronting the ghosts of their shared history, accepting every imperfect note and blurred memory, and choosing, despite it all, to carry forward the fragile light of truth.

For Y/N, the music had always been a refuge—a sanctuary where every dissonant chord and every melancholic refrain held the promise of redemption. For Aeri, her lens was a way of seeing the world in all its painful, luminous detail. And for both of them, the choice to stand on that fire escape, to let the static fade into a quiet, unguarded melody, was a small act of defiance—a declaration that, even in a world awash with half-truths and muted regrets, there remained the possibility of something real, something unyielding.

And so, as the gallery lights dimmed and the night retreated into memory, the echoes of that fateful collision lingered—a testament to the power of truth, art, and the indomitable human spirit. In the space where music, memory, and image converged, a new chapter was written—a chapter not of perfection, but of raw, unvarnished beauty, where every note, every captured image, and every silent tear told the story of lives that dared to defy the static.

————————————————————

As the new day dawned, a subtle shift had taken place. The unresolved tension between art and truth, between the photographer and the musician, had not been erased but transformed into something more profound. The static that had once drowned out their voices now lay softened by the resonance of honesty—a reminder that, in the end, even the most fragmented hearts can create a symphony when they choose to embrace the full spectrum of light and shadow.

In that delicate balance between loss and hope, between memory and renewal, Y/N’s song continued to play—a song of truth, of love, and of the promise that the static would, at last, fade into silence.

Y/N’s world had shifted again. The past—every chord of regret, every flash of passion—had receded into a gentle hum, replaced by the steady cadence of life’s next movement. Now, he found solace in the familiar rhythms of teaching, where each imperfect note held the promise of discovery.

————————————————————

In a small community music school tucked away in a weathered building downtown, Y/N stood before a semicircle of students. The room was cluttered with worn instruments and scribbled sheet music, its windows streaked with the soft light of a fading afternoon. Today’s lesson wasn’t about scales or technical perfection; instead, Y/N introduced what he called “imperfect songs”—melodies that bore the scars of real life and the beauty of unfiltered truth.

“Music,” he began, his voice warm yet edged with a quiet intensity, “is never meant to be flawless. It’s the little mistakes, the unexpected pauses, that make it ours. Every off-key note, every stutter in your rhythm—it’s part of your story.” His gaze swept the room, catching the nervous smiles and tentative nods of his students, each clutching a guitar or keyboard as if it were their lifeline.

He led them through a simple chord progression, encouraging them to let their imperfections speak. “Play it with feeling,” he urged, “don’t try to make it perfect. Let the music breathe.” As the students hesitated at first, they slowly began to relax into the exercise. The room filled with a chorus of hesitant strums and tentative notes, and Y/N smiled, thinking of the songs that had once defined his own restless nights.

After class, a few students lingered, eager to ask questions or share fragments of their own stories. One student, a shy teen with a passion for lyrics, approached him quietly. “Mr. C,” she said, her voice soft but determined, “do you think it’s okay if my song isn’t… perfect?” Y/N knelt down to meet her eyes, his expression gentle. “Absolutely. Perfection isn’t what makes a song memorable—it’s the heart behind it. Remember, every masterpiece is born out of imperfection.”

As he walked home that evening, the city’s neon glow bathed the sidewalks in shifting hues. He thought of the moments when his own music had been raw and unguarded—a collection of fragments that somehow merged into the haunting refrain of “Moth Wing Hours.” Tonight, at a nearby dive bar, he would revisit that melody, offering it a new ending that spoke of transformation rather than despair.

————————————————————

The dive bar was a sanctuary for the misunderstood and the outcasts—a dimly lit den where the air vibrated with the sound of guitars and voices that had seen better days. Y/N took his usual spot on the small stage, his battered acoustic guitar slung over his shoulder like an old friend. The familiar murmur of the crowd wrapped around him, a living echo of his former life.

As he tuned his guitar, Y/N’s mind wandered back to the countless nights spent strumming the same chords in empty rooms, each note a testimony to his journey through loss, regret, and hope. Tonight, he would share a rendition of “Moth Wing Hours”—a song that had once captured the fleeting beauty of a love lost in the static of memory. But now, something within him had shifted. The static had faded, replaced by the warm afterglow of acceptance.

When it was his turn, Y/N stepped forward and began to play. The opening chords filled the room, gentle and unassuming at first, then building into a rich, resonant melody. As he sang, his voice carried both the weight of his past and the promise of a new beginning. When he reached the final verse, he paused, a moment of silence that hung heavy in the air.

Then, with a quiet certainty, he sang the final line: “We were the flash, Now we’re the afterglow.”

The words, simple yet profound, resonated with everyone present. For a moment, time seemed to slow as the audience absorbed the transformation encapsulated in that fleeting phrase. In that subtle shift from a burst of intensity to a lingering warmth, Y/N had captured the essence of change—the transition from the tumultuous brilliance of youth to the steady, enduring light of experience.

————————————————————

Miles away, in a quiet corner of the city, Aeri’s world was taking shape in stark, deliberate focus. Her studio was a space of creative solitude—a converted loft where sunlight filtered in through large industrial windows, illuminating rows of meticulously arranged photographs and scattered notebooks filled with handwritten thoughts. Here, amidst the controlled chaos of her artistic process, Aeri prepared for her final act of catharsis.

For weeks, she had wrestled with the decision of which image would define her upcoming exhibit. Every photograph she had taken was imbued with fragments of truth, yet one image haunted her—the clear, unblurred shot she had secretly kept, the one that captured the essence of what almost was. In that photo, Y/N’s features were rendered in sharp detail—a moment of vulnerable authenticity that had eluded her in every other frame. Now, with trembling resolve, she selected that image for submission, titling it “What Almost Was.”

Late into the night, with the exhibit deadline looming, Aeri composed a final email to the gallery curator. Her fingers moved hesitantly over the keyboard as she attached the image, her heart pounding with a mix of apprehension and exhilaration. In the message, she wrote: “This is the piece that captures the truth of our imperfection—the clarity in the chaos. It’s the one shot that reminds us that sometimes, the most honest moments are the ones we try hardest to hide.”

After sending the email, Aeri retreated to her studio’s back corner, where a small, worn mirror and a vintage camera awaited her next experiment. Tonight, she was determined to capture a self-portrait—a raw, unmediated look at herself that bore no filters, no distortions. With deliberate care, she set up the camera on its tripod, adjusting the focus until the world beyond the lens receded into a soft blur.

As she sat before the camera, Aeri allowed herself a rare moment of introspection. The image that would soon materialize on the screen was more than just a self-portrait—it was a declaration of self-acceptance, a recognition of every scar, every triumph, and every moment of vulnerability that had led her to this point. With a deep, steadying breath, she pressed the shutter.

The camera clicked, capturing a single, unadorned moment of truth. In the photograph, Aeri’s eyes met her own with a clarity that was both shocking and beautiful. There were no shadows obscuring her features, no layers of artifice to mask the raw emotion that lay within. It was simply her—unfiltered, real, and unmistakably present. For the first time in a long while, she allowed herself to see the full spectrum of her identity—the artist, the wanderer, the woman who had loved fiercely and lost deeply.

————————————————————

In the quiet aftermath of their separate acts of transformation, a subtle shift rippled through the city. Y/N’s classroom echoed with the sound of imperfect songs and tentative chords, a living reminder that beauty often emerged from the flawed and the unfinished. His dive bar gig had been more than just a performance—it was a reawakening, a reaffirmation that even the most battered heart could produce a melody that resonated with truth.

Aeri’s exhibit, bolstered by her final, unfiltered submission, garnered unexpected acclaim. Critics who had once dismissed her work as “emotional voyeurism” began to see a new depth—a vulnerability that transcended mere spectacle. The photograph titled “What Almost Was” became a focal point of the exhibit, its clarity standing as a testament to the unvarnished reality of love and loss. In the hushed reverence of gallery halls and intimate discussions, Aeri’s work spoke of both the fragility and the resilience of the human spirit.

As the days passed, the city continued its ceaseless rhythm—a blend of neon lights and whispered confessions, of dreams pursued and quietly abandoned. Yet, amidst the din, there were pockets of silence where new beginnings took root. In one such corner, a small, dusty radio in a second-hand shop began to hum with life. The static that had once obscured the truth of the world had finally faded, replaced by the clear, steady sound of a familiar melody—a song that echoed the journey from chaos to clarity.

Y/N, in his classroom, continued to inspire his students with his unconventional lessons. He often spoke of the beauty of imperfection and the strength found in vulnerability. His final line in “Moth Wing Hours”—“We were the flash / Now we’re the afterglow”—became a mantra not only for him but for every student who dared to embrace their own flawed, radiant journey. At every gig, at every lesson, the echo of that line reminded them all that even in the aftermath of brilliance, there could be a gentle, enduring light.

In her studio, Aeri hung the self-portrait next to “What Almost Was,” creating a small gallery of truths that were as clear as they were raw. Each image, each captured moment, was a step toward reclaiming her identity—not as an observer of chaos, but as a participant in the unfolding narrative of her life. With every click of her camera, she found solace in the fact that the clarity she sought was already within her, waiting to be acknowledged and celebrated.

The resonance of their separate journeys began to intertwine in subtle ways. A new student in Y/N’s class would ask him about the inspiration behind his teaching, and he’d speak of a summer long past—a summer where imperfections were not mistakes, but the very notes that composed the music of life. Meanwhile, a quiet art critic writing a review of Aeri’s exhibit remarked on the unexpected warmth and lucidity of her latest work—a testament to an artist who had finally learned to let go of the blurred boundaries between memory and reality.

On a crisp morning, as the city stirred awake under a pale sky, both Y/N and Aeri found themselves standing at the threshold of new chapters. Y/N, after another lesson filled with tentative strums and off-key harmonies, sat quietly by the window of the music school. He watched the rain wash away the remnants of yesterday’s melancholy, the droplets creating a transient mosaic on the glass. In that reflective moment, he realized that every imperfect song his students played was a promise—a promise that the beauty of life lay not in its flawless perfection, but in its raw, unedited truth.

At the same time, Aeri revisited her now-familiar studio, pausing to admire the self-portrait that had, in its unvarnished clarity, become a mirror of her own transformation. The image was a quiet revolution—a defiant declaration that she was no longer the haunted artist chasing ghosts, but a woman embracing her truth, every detail sharp and unblurred.

Somewhere in the gentle hum of the early morning, a solitary radio in a forgotten corner of the city sprang to life. Amid the soft whispers of a new day, the familiar strains of a song filled the air—a melody that had once been lost in static, now emerging with a crystalline clarity. The transformation was complete, the collision of art and life forging a new harmony in the wake of all that had come before.

Somewhere, a radio clicks on. The static is gone.

#kpop #kpop fanfic #kpop gg #kpop imagines #kpop girls #aespa imagines #aespa giselle #giselle #idol x male reader #idol x reader #aeri uchinaga #aeri x reader #uchinaga aeri #giselle x you #giselle x reader #aespa x reader #aespa x you #aespa x male reader #aespa x y/n

225 notes · View notes

b00tyliciousbabe · 8 months ago

Text

waves

pairing: surfer!bf x THICC!male reader

summary: oh, how i need a tall, curly headed goofball…

notes: HOPE MY LOVELIES ARE DOING WELL. trying to get through my requests, but this was a personal one of mine. slowly but surely y’all! as summer is coming to an end, it was SO necessary for me to feed my hot girl delusions at least a couple more times. also, enjoy the new style i have been experimenting with!

song rec: they. - diamonds and pearls

album rec: sabrina carpenter - short n sweet (my girl sabz ate so hard with this project, i just wish it was released in early aug so she could’ve rly CONQUERED summer 2024) THEE POP PRINCESS!

brief background:

your boyfriend was raised with a silver spoon; he’d never had to work a day in his life and everything he ever wanted, he got. well, everything except you. throwing money to impress people had worked on all of his other childhood crushes, but not you, which made him all the more determined to prove to you he wasn’t just some fuck boi the media painted him out to be. his family owned the richest resort in the carribean, and had hotels in every mega city worldwide. but wherever they travelled to, your man was never too far from a beach. call it fate, but the sea would always lead you back to him. it was where he first laid eyes on you; reading a very lengthy novel as you laid on the sand, watching your friends play in the water. after their surf practice, your mutual friends introduced the two of you and you were SMITTEN - but you couldn’t show your interest too soon. he too was whipped, and didn’t take nearly as much effort to hide it, practically drooling whilst staring at you. his mates would constantly ridicule him for his dazed expression around you, and he could never hear the end of the new nickname ‘bambi boy’ you gave him because he looked so cute when he was flustered. after weeks of regular conversation and a couple walks on the beach, he officially asked to be your boyfriend and you said yes.

when it came to finally introducing you to his family, they loved you almost as much as he did. he was the youngest of six and so he got the privilege of this. his parents especially were wishing y’all would stay together. they believed you were the perfect match for their goofball of a son.

core memory sfw:

the first time he said ‘i love you’ with TRUE meaning; you were always worried that you were just one fuck away from being forgotten, but your man made sure to constantly affirm his love for you. he brought you the biggest bouquet of your favourite flowers, and stood outside in the pouring rain, playing a mixtape he’d made for you. it was genuinely a scene out of a film, he was your knight in shining armour (a hawaiian shirt and matching shorts) and it was then that you knew that you guys were endgame.

core memory nsfw:

to say your bf loves your body is an understatement. the way he’s hooked on your body, some might say it’s borderline unhealthy. he’s so handy and keeps his hands on your ass all the time. whether it’s a spank, watching it jiggle as you walk away from him, or a full on grip as his pulls you onto his dick, he’s a man that would gladly die between your cheeks. one time during dinner you wore a wrap skirt paired with a tank top, paired with a thong that was peeping out enough to make your man’s eyes pop out of his head like a cartoon character. as his jaw dropped, practically salivating at the sight of your body moving closer to him, you picked it up and giggled, stroking his chin endearingly. for the entire meal he was practically sat right next to you, breathing in your luscious skin. ‘boy, you better calm down, we have company.’ you giggled. ‘fuck bby, how can you say that when you look good enough for me to eat?’ he whispered into your ear, trying not to bring too much attention. before you knew it you were face down, ass up and your thong was pulled to the side, as he used it as a pseudo leash keeping your pussy bouncing on his cock.

your favourite thing about him: his oddball nature.

as much as it can annoy you that he’s always cracking jokes, leaving no room for respite, your bf never fails to bring joy to your life. as the life of the party he’s always bringing that much needed energy to the dull world of his mostly corporate family. whether it be seeing you hollering at some unhinged thing he’d said, or watching him (ironically) fuck the smile onto your lips, you can tell that comedy is who he is, and you wouldn’t change your weirdo for anything.

his favourite thing about you: how artistic you are.

almost impossibly, it makes your boyfriend fall in love with you even more seeing your creativity flourish. you’re always making him jewellery out of the shells and stones you find. he loves to wear them, it gets you going when you see the necklace you made for him swing back and forth as he fucks into you. or when you feel the cold of his rings and bracelet on your waist as he holds you in position to fuck you even harder. he’s so proud of you.

his insta post: mostly just him showing off his good looks (we love a cocky man around here) and his beach flix.

surfer!bf my face is his favourite seat.

y/n: that big dick is a very close second though.

tinashe replied: @y/n, you a nasty girl fr.

sabrinacarpenter replied: @y/n girl, need you on that bed chem remix. about to do some damage…in a good way x

your insta post: almost always pictures of your creations; you like to keep your relationship with him private, that’s YOUR man, and you can get very possessive.

y/n feel free to add to your pinterest boards.

surfer!bf: baby you’re so talented 🩵

viviennewestwood: so excited to see your next collection!

surfer!bf: i love you.

y/n replied: @surfer!bf aw, i love you too babes!

plans for the future!

being with one of the greatest surfers in the world, definitely came with some amazing perks.

marriage:

oh, he’s 100% thought about it, and would definitely be the one to propose. the free spirit in him doesn’t need a piece of paper to prove that he loves you, truly. But would totally be your husband if you let him x

children:

your surfer!bf ABSOLUTELY WANTS TO HAVE A FAMILY WITH YOU! sees himself as the best father and y’all would have the cutest kids ever.

tag list:

@gayaristocrat

@multireese

@malereadermaniac

@lysanderplume

@ghostking4m

#gay #bottom male reader #smut #gay male #gay reader #male bottom #male x male #gay love #gay smut #male bottom reader #male x male fluff #male reader #bottom reader

754 notes · View notes

hazbinhotei · 1 month ago

Text

letting go.

read part one here — the alternate, happy ending.

warnings: heavy angst

word count: 2883

summary: Alastor navigates the weeks following his decision to run from his feelings for you—but has he realized his mistake too late?

alastor x gn!reader. we're going to simply ignore the concept that lilith may appear in future canon for the plot, okay? okay. hope i didn't make this too angsty that it sounds forced, but alas, alastor is nothing but a giant edgelord; so maybe it fits! i struggled a bit with making the ending not so cliché but our beloved radio demon needs the character development. hope you all enjoy (pain and suffering)!

And so, you did as Alastor said.

You moved on.

If Alastor wanted to forget everything that happened between you two that night, then you would allow him the comfort of forgetting it as well.

At first, there had been disappointment. A quiet, aching pain that settled in your chest as you stared at the note he left behind. It was as if the air had been sucked from the room, leaving only silence and the dull throb of betrayal. He had spilled his soul to you that night, clung to you like you were his last tether to reality, and yet, by morning, he erased it all as if it were a mistake.

Then, that disappointment hardened. Turned sharp, defensive. If he could pretend none of it mattered, then you could easily do the same. You could rebuild your walls, strengthen them, reinforce them with the anger that simmered beneath the surface. Because it wasn't just the rejection that stung—it was the ease with which he had discarded you, the way he carried on as though that night had never happened at all.

So, you played your part. You acted as if his desperate confessions, his trembling hands, his broken voice had been nothing more than a figment of a dream long since forgotten. You met his indifference with your own; if he could act as if it meant nothing, then so could you.

And Alastor? Well, he certainly seemed unaffected. He reverted back to the same charming, grinning menace he had always been. He still walked the halls of the hotel, still indulged in his morning coffee (that you did not make anymore), still meddled in the affairs of others with a tune in his voice and a glint in his eye. If anything, he was more insufferable than ever, as if to prove a point. And so, you let him be.

But something had shifted between you.

You were colder now, your smiles towards him forced, your voice lacking its usual fondness. Your presence, once light and easy, now carried a weight—a distant lull that he had to pretend not to notice. And for all his efforts to carry on as normal, it stung. Every clipped response, every glance that no longer lingered, every morning you passed him by without so much as a word felt like another nail driven into his coffin.

But he bore it.

He had made this choice. He had pushed you away. And so, Alastor swallowed the anguish that pressed against his chest, forcing himself to believe that this was for the best. He kept his peace, and in doing so, protected yours. You should be relieved for such a selfless sacrifice!

Yet, no matter how often he repeated this mantra to himself, the pain never dulled. It settled deep in his bones, persistent and gnawing, whispering doubts he refused to entertain. He told himself that this was the right course, that he was merely ensuring neither of you suffered needlessly. But if that were true, why did it feel like this was the worst suffering he had ever endured?

Sleep had not come easy to him since that fateful night. Not since he allowed himself to collapse into your arms, to sink into the affection he had no right to claim. He had lived in solitude like it was second nature, but now, in the dead of night, he found himself haunted by the ghost of your touch. The way your fingers had threaded through his hair, pointed claws gently scratching his scalp in slow, soothing strokes—it had burned into his memory, a sensation he could still feel if he let himself think too long.

It was absolute torment.

But he went through with it, wearing a carefully crafted mask of a smile on his face as he continued on about his days, pretending he didn’t completely ruin himself with one foolish choice. He ran away—not just from you, but from the love that had threatened to consume him, from the fear of something he could not control. And now, that choice had become his greatest woe, an agony that festered with every moment spent without you.

A week passed since your night together. That's when Lucifer arrived.

At first, Alastor despised him, but not for the reasons he would later come to understand. Lucifer was a threat—a presence far more powerful than any other being in the hotel. The mere sight of him lounging around, making himself at home in Charlie’s project, set Alastor’s teeth on edge. But what truly unsettled him wasn’t Lucifer himself.

It was you.

Because suddenly, he was sitting beside you on the couch. He was the one enjoying quiet evenings with you in the library, laughing softly at whatever book you had convinced him to read. He was the one passing you your morning tea, the way you had once done for Alastor.

And unlike Alastor, Lucifer wasn’t hiding anything.

The king of Hell had lost his queen, and in the hollow space Lilith had left behind, he had found comfort in you. And Alastor had to watch, day after day, as Lucifer made no attempt to hide his affections. He gazed at you with a softness Alastor had never allowed himself to show. He let his fingers linger when he passed you a cup. He said your name with such reverence it made Alastor’s stomach churn uncomfortably anytime he heard it.

And you? You didn’t shy away from it.

No, you leaned into it. Into him.

Alastor tried to convince himself it didn’t matter. That it was nothing. That you were nothing to him. But then, a laugh—your laugh—rang through the lobby, bright and unburdened as Lucifer whispered something in your ear. And Alastor felt it. The sharp, sickening twist of jealousy. The way it soured his entire mood, left his fingers twitching at his sides, his usually pristine control fraying at the seams.

More weeks passed, and suddenly, it was everywhere.

The way you looked at Lucifer. The way you let him touch you so effortlessly, so casually, as if he had always been the one meant to hold you. The way you curled into him on the couch, nestled against his chest, his arm draped over your shoulders like a claim Alastor had never dared to make. And then, one evening—the final blow.

He hadn't meant to see it. Hadn't wanted to see it. But fate, cruel and relentless, had different plans.

Hidden away in the shadows, Alastor watched as you two curled up on the library's loveseat, a book dangling from your loose fingers as Lucifer quietly snored in your embrace. Alastor tried to convince himself it was accidental, that you had subconsciously drifted toward Lucifer in your sleep. But then, as you sighed into him, pressing closer with a sleepy smile, Alastor knew—really knew.

The choice he made was a mistake.

His hands curled into tight fists at his sides, his breath caught in his throat. His sleep-deprived eyes flickered, pupils shifting into sharp, jagged radio dials as he struggled to keep himself still, to remain unseen. He should leave. Should tear his gaze away from the sight of your flushed cheeks, your chest rising delicately as you nuzzled deeper into Lucifer, the way Alastor dreamed you would hold him.

He had to remind himself; you did hold him like that. Once. And it was all his fault you would never hold him again—because he had been too scared to admit that, for the first time in his undead life, he valued someone above himself. There was no denying it—Lucifer had taken his place, not just in the hotel, not just in the spaces where Alastor once sat beside you, but in your heart.

And oh, how it ruined him.

Alastor didn't know why he was doing this, standing outside your hotel door with a bouquet in hand, unsure if this was a feeble attempt to win you back or a desperate bid for absolution. He spent weeks watching you slip further and further away, his own self-imposed exile turning into an unbearable prison. Every moment spent seeing you in Lucifer’s arms had been another crack in the fragile wall he built around himself.

But now, here he was, gripping the bouquet so tightly the stems threatened to snap, swallowing down the unease rising in his throat. He didn't know what he would say, didn't know if this was meant to repair what was broken or simply acknowledge that he had broken it in the first place. All he knew was that he had to speak to you—had to bridge the gap he created before it consumed him entirely.

The door creaked open, and there you stood, surprise flickering in your expression at the sight of him—at the sight of the flowers.

Alastor forced himself to straighten, his usual confidence faltering beneath the weight of this moment. "Hello, my dear," he said, voice uncharacteristically measured and grin forcibly wide, betraying none of the frantic thoughts racing through his mind.

But instead of scowling or sending him away, you simply smiled.

You opened the door with an gentle look, one that made Alastor stiffen in surprise. You greeted him warmly, as if his presence was neither unexpected nor unwelcome, as if he hadn't shattered something between you just a few weeks ago. He hesitated, the bouquet clutched tightly in his hands. You weren’t cursing at him. You weren’t demanding him to leave.

"Why are you stopping by, Alastor?" you asked, your voice light as a feather.

His throat felt dry, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out: "I need to talk to you."

You nodded slowly, gaze lowering to the flowers in his hands before taking them delicately, cradling them with care. "They’re lovely. Thank you."

He blinked, momentarily thrown off by your graciousness. He prepared himself for hostility, for icy rejection, for words laced with venom and hurt. But you simply stepped aside, allowing him in.

He entered cautiously, his shoulders tense, his fingers twitching at his sides as his gaze swept across the suite. The last time he was here, he had been cradled in your arms, clinging to you like a drowning man desperate for air. Now, in the bright light of Hell, it was different. Warmer. Lived-in.

His eyes landed on you again—on the way you moved so easily, placing the bouquet down on the counter, filling the kettle to make him coffee. He watched in silent awe, unable to tear his gaze away as you moved with practiced ease, as if nothing had changed between you. As if this were any other morning.

He could feel it now. Hope. Rising in his chest like an unbearable swell, thrumming beneath his skin like a song waiting to break free. Perhaps he had been foolish. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Perhaps—perhaps—this was a sign.

Then, you poured the drink, no sugar, piping hot, and handed it to him with a small, effortless smile.

Just the way he liked it.

His mind reeled, spinning wildly between the past and present, between what was and what could have been. You still remembered. Still knew his preferences down to the very detail. That had to mean something, didn’t it? That had to be a sign that, somewhere in that heart of yours, you still held some sort of feelings for him, right?

He wanted to believe it—needed to. And as you sat down across from him, your eyes unjudging and bright, he opened his mouth to say anything that would reveal the tremendous amount of pining that plagued him ever since you had shown up to this very hotel.

But then, in the midst of his frantic, desperate grasp for something to hold onto, his eyes strayed past you—past your waiting expression, past the bouquet on the counter, past the hopeful delusions—until they landed on a single frame resting on your bedside table.

The very bedside table where he had placed his note.

A picture of you and Lucifer, your pursed lips placed upon his rosy cheek as he grinned at the camera, now took up the space where his note used to be.

You looked happy. In love.

Something inside him clicked into place. A realization so heavy it nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. His eyes flickered back to you, to your curious expression, calm and gentle. You were not kind because of him—you were kind because you were happy. Because Lucifer’s love had softened you, had turned you into something Alastor had spent his entire life running from.

Someone in love.

His lips parted, but only three words escaped: "You're spoken for?"

You blinked, surprised that those were his first words, but you followed his gaze to the picture frame. Your expression softened, fondness creeping into your eyes as you turned back to him.

"Yes, I am."

And yet, here Alastor was, holding the cup of coffee you made him like it was proof that he still held your heart, a fool grasping at something that had already slipped through his fingers.

You were so close, yet so far. Within reach, yet untouchable. He had once been the one you held, the one you whispered to in the dark, the one who had been allowed to see you in the most vulnerable, quiet moments of the night. But now, you stood before him, softened—not by his love, but by Lucifer’s love.

And that was the difference.

Lucifer had done what Alastor never could—he had made you happy. Genuinely, effortlessly happy. Not in fleeting moments, not in carefully stolen seconds, but in a way that radiated from you, from the warmth in your eyes to the empathy in your voice. You had moved on.

And for once in Alastor's life, he felt truly defeated. But it wasn't what he expected—he expected defeat to feel suffocating, its taste vile in his mouth as it flooded his senses. But all he felt now was emptiness, a hollow, deep awareness that he lost the moment to ever make you his. As you carefully watched him, he exhaled deeply, letting himself sink into the lonely abyss of heartbreak. He almost disappeared into its shadow, lost in the heaviness of his own sorrow—until a gentle weight pressed against his empty hand. His eyes fluttered open, and there you were, your fingers resting gently atop his. As your gaze met his, you offered him a sad, knowing smile.

And though his heart was still scattered around his chest like broken glass, there was an unexpected comfort blooming beneath the cracks from your smile—an unfamiliar understanding that lessened the force of his grief. He expected only bitterness to fill his heart, the sting of regret and nothing more, but instead, in your presence, in your mercy, he found something lighter. His smile turned genuine as he exhaled deeply, letting the weight of his heartache settle into something he could finally bear. "...I'm happy for you, cher."

Your grin widened, eyes crinkling at the corners as you beamed at him, radiant and warm. It was the most dazzling expression he had ever seen. He held the image in his mind, committing to memory the way your eyes sparkled with pure joy. "Thank you, Alastor, honestly." You paused for a moment, your soft hands still holding his as you sighed. "Whatever we had, whatever happened between us—I don’t hold any bad feelings towards it anymore."

Alastor let out a deep exhale, his shoulders relaxing as he nodded. "I'm truly sorry. For... whatever turmoil I may have caused you. I know I haven't been the most... considerate, these past few weeks."

You gave him an impish look, your laughter ringing out in the space around Alastor, surrounding him like a tight embrace. "Considerate? When has the Radio Demon ever been considerate?"

Your toothy grin seemed to ease the stinging in his chest, the sharp ache dulling as you joked with him like old times. Alastor let out a breath he didn’t realized he was holding, shaking his head before slipping into the rhythm of your banter. It was effortless—so natural that, for a fleeting moment, it felt as if nothing had changed at all. And soon enough, the two of you had fallen into habit, laughter filling the space between you, comforting and familiar.

And in that moment, as he took in the way happiness radiated from you, Alastor felt a shift deep within him. Love—a notion he once had dismissed as weak—now seemed like the most powerful force of all. Because if it could make you shine like this, if it could bring that warmth to your smile, then perhaps it wasn’t something to scoff at. Even if you now belonged to another, you had still offered him kindness. Even if it wasn’t by your side as he had hoped for, you still offered him a place in your life despite everything. And for that, he was truly grateful.

So, with a deep exhale and a quiet acceptance settling over him, he let himself smile. Not the forced, hollow grin of before, but something real. Something gentle. "Love suits you, my dear," he murmured at last, his voice lighter than it had been in weeks. "It always has."

my first ever tag list!! screaming!! @sirens-and-moonflowers @diffidentphantom @catticora

#i guess this could be seen as a happy ending because you and alastor become friends again...#time to write the happy ending #alastor #hazbin hotel #hazbin alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x you #alastor x reader #angst #oneshot

174 notes · View notes