#the way she says just be there is so heartbreaking | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gifsbysimplysonia · 2 days ago

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Hola otra vez! For anyone not familiar with my annoying rambly feedback, ahead there be

This is the end of the first paragraph of the story and it's just so fcking ... like it works SO well for me, it makes me wanna spike a football

it's hard to find places where he's thought of as a stranger. no familiar faces, no conversation, no fuss. just logan, a bottle of whisky and time.

logan had no reason to keep count. until he saw you.

Well, if there's any indication a man is smitten, I'd say it's when he decides to keep counting after 200 years on Earth cuz of YOU *ded*

the bar was busy, as it normally was. he didn't mind it this way, less attention on him, less chances of someone trying to pick a fight with a specific stranger. not that they'd win, but logan had grown too tired for petty fights these days.

It's super interesting to think about Logan in relation to time and age. We just went from him deciding he's got a reason to keep counting the years to him being so tired that he doesn't want to get into petty fights. And as someone who grew up with Logan on the XMen cartoon lol, I know Logan to BE petty. So whilst we can't always think of Logan in terms of age, cuz looking at his appearance can make us forget, to hear that he's so TIRED that he doesn't even wanna squabble up on occasion? Well, that's impactful. The author makes it hit home in this other way and I really like it.

And here's another example of the author getting across to us where Logan is at when we meet him in life:

you're easy on the eyes, especially to these tired old hues that have grown accustomed to staring at the same old walls.

Straight up now we have the word tired, but also old. And not in relation to himself, but what he's got eyes on. It's such a clever thing the author has done here, and I really am appreciative of it.

logan can't let himself look too much, he isn't allowed nice things, especially not pretty little things such as yourself. he's poison, tainting everything he touches, spoiling it. he's experienced enough heartbreak, enough losses for a lifetime and more.

Sad face. This is very in line with the Logan I think most of us know (and adore). Gotta take all the blame, gotta punish yourself, gotta try to protect others from you by denying yourself connections. Wanna hug him.

he wonders if you know most of the tips you receive by the end of the night are from him. you're diligent, you work hard, and you deserve more than the minimum wage you're probably getting.

Also very on brand for Logan. Sees a need, fills the need, but doesn't want credit for it. He's also seeing someone he believes is worthy (and perhaps not in a way he feels he could ever be?) of more so he tries to be the provider.

it's not even lust on his mind either, he just finds himself captivated by your presence. he wonders about your life, your interests, your dreams. . .

And again, we are seeing how smitten he is because the man who has been painted as weary and bored suddenly has questions and wonderings again. That is, in the context of Logan's long a$$ existence, quite magical. But that magic is immediately followed by

though he'd be lying if he said he'd never pictured bending you over against the bar and fucking you senseless. he is an animal, after all.

and it's like

relying on others was a weakness. besides, what would you be to him but just another person he'd lose someday? it wasn't worth it. you weren't worth it. fuck.

"Relying on others was a weakness" is just hella relatable to me, so I key in on that. And then that ire being followed by showing vulnerability by thinking of her as another person he'd lose; Logan's heart has always been huge and you just know he remembers the faces and details of each person he has had to lose and she has that status already. Logan trying to lie to himself with the "not worth it" talk only to have to curse himself cuz he KNOW he's lying is also peak Logan behavior, and once again on a personal level, hiiiiiiiiiiiiiighly relatable lol. I'm always lying to myself about my own feelings.

you were strangers, this was stupid, it was all fucking stupid. but the mind of a lonely old man is a desperate one, and what logan really craves isn't just eye candy.

"Lonely and desperate" self descriptions and Logan referring to himself as "stupid." I'm sure we all wanna shake this old man, right? LOL because when he let's himself think about the truth:

he craves a touch, that first touch that sparks electricity throughout your every nerve ending, causes goosebumps to ripple along the skins surface. he craves something, anything. he was so fucking hungry. always so fucking hungry. a rumbling hunger that starts at the pit of his stomach and gnaws through him like a rabid animal frantically trying to escape a suffocating metal cage. it's a hunger he can't satisfy, he knows he can't satisfy. but he'd been alone so long.

It's connection, and it's gnawing at him. Loneliness is a helluva thing, and I think a lot of us know this. But this author is shining in the way she is describing it for us, outside of the usual age/years gone by methods. Tired, lonely, and now ravenous. And while we are in the space of a more spiritual hunger, here, it so easily slides right back to physical as well because he's thinking about a woman and wonders

surely one bite couldn't hurt?

Me literally screaming into my pumpkin pillow cuz I'm like NO IT COULDN'T LOGAN, GO GET HERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR cuz I know what's gonna follow is gonna be liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

switching bars wasn't particularly appealing to him, but it was better than having to look at you and feel that familiar ache.

The self loathing and denial is top tier Logan. He will inconvenience and punish himself just as long as it's in line with denying himself cuz he just "doesn't deserve it." Siiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

Logan then proceeds to go drain the snake before he beings his newest self inflicted penance, but she comes in to clean the bathrooms thinking they were empty.

Gurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl lol

your eyes lock on one another for just a split second before you quickly busy yourself with the mop again. but that split second was enough. it was enough to notice how you were looking at him.

HOW WAS SHE LOOKING AT YOU, LOGAN?!?! It's funny how if it was almost any other man, I'd snort and be like, sure buddy. But it's Logan so I have ZERO issue believing whatever he saw in her eyes let her know she DOES indeed know him and want ... well, something.

you lean back against the bathroom stall divider, eyes drifting across logan's figure. he was tall, big. this is the first time you're really able to look at him, to study the features of his face. this time he's not hiding behind a glass or a bottle.

How interesting to see the contrast of her view of Logan because while he's always looking at her and sworn that he never caught her looking his way, she's letting us know she has definitely looked his way enough to notice he was a man in hiding. And she actually acted respectfully to respect that and not ogle him, which bummed Logan out lol.

the hunger in his gaze is obvious, but it's dulled, like he's just barely holding back. you think he looks lonely, there's a distinct air about him that practically screams that he needs to be touched.

Oof, she's intuitive! So she SEES what he needs and seems to be quite willing to, ahem, deliver for him but WILL HE LET HER is the big question.

logan pushes himself from the sink and approaches you slowly. was he really doing this? after a month of pining and longing for you, a stranger in a bar, was he really going to give in to his desires? would you let him? the lust was clear in your eyes and he knew he was reflecting it right back tenfold.

you eye the stranger who's been watching you, tipping you. of course you've noticed, you'd have to be pretty stupid or oblivious not to. you've come to expect him at each shift, but his presence intrigued you more than the other regulars. not just because he was more handsome, considerably more handsome. no, it was those sad eyes that seemed to say a million words while his mouth remained firmly shut that had you curious. even now as he stands before you so silent you could hear a pin drop, when you look into his eyes you can feel a sea of words brewing.

I do so love the fact that she's intuitive, curious and sees beyond the big burly handsome cover. He never speaks but look at his eyes and boy, are there a thousand stories waiting to be told. And it's the SAME WAY in the present with her. Liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike, it's about to go off.

oh how you wanted to open him up, to peer inside behind that rough exterior, to take a peek behind the facade. you're sure you're easier to read than he is.

Again, I love that this goes beyond physical with her and that she's genuinely intrigued by him and by what probably most others don't see in Logan.

"i've seen you, you know," you mumble bravely, "looking at me." logan doesn't seem surprised, he brings a hand up to hold your chin, turning your face from side to side to get a proper look at you now that he has you up close. "yeah?" "yeah," you reply shakily, "thought i was imagining it at first. but by the second night it was obvious." he smirks, so he's not as subtle as he thinks.

No because how is he the King of Self Denial but somehow automatically is giving Dom the first time he approaches a woman he means to get to know? Not even embarrassing at being caught at his blatant perusal of her. SIR.

logan grips your wrists, not the suit. he wasn't talking about that now, he had to shut you up.

When I tell you this BROKE me. King of Self Inflicted Penance. I stg. And it's quite the conundrum to be going through an emotional gut punch when it's immediately followed up with

he leans in, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss as his strong hands keep a firm grip on your wrists. you submit, leaning back against the cubicle divider as you let him slip his tongue into your mouth.

and we know it is OFF TO THE RACES!!!

"taste so fuckin' sweet," he mumbles against your lips, kissing you between words, "you do this often? let men kiss you in the bathroom?" you mumble a 'no' under your breath, ". . . just the ones who tip good," you grin.

OH SH!T, WE HAVE HAN AND LEIA BANTER! They are my OTP so I'm always gonna call a combative in love couple that, but this dynamic is MY JAM and I love that what we seem to have here is a clearly dominant male with a bratty female. I am in Heaven lol

logan feels himself chuckling, biting your lower lip. oh, he liked you.

WE DO TOO, LOGAN!

his hand travels upwards, finding purchase around your neck. you gasp in response, moaning. he eagerly swallows your moan with his mouth, drowning out any sound that threatens to escape.

Always a trip when I am personally attacked by a fic lmaoooooooooo

he kisses you like a man starved, like he'd devour you if you let him. and you would, you think, if it felt this good.

"shhh, shhh," he whispers against your lips, "feel good? i know it feels good, but you gotta stay nice and quiet."

I want to diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie at the giving of instructions and reminder that, HEY WE ARE IN PUBLIC but we are absolutely NOT stopping.

"you wanted this just as much as i did, huh?" he growls into your ear, "need it, need me to fuck you."

Excellent dirty taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalk

he nods against the side of your cheek, his stubble scratching against your soft skin, "there we go, attagirl. . ."

And he praises? *dies again*

"yeah i am," logan smirks, he knows he's big, and he knows exactly how to use it. you just have time to gasp before you feel one of his hands connect harshly with your skin, the sound ringing out in the small bathroom of the bar.

"you've been thinkin' about this since you started your shift," logan says confidently, his words confirmed by how you drip around him, "thought about me fillin' you up, nice and full?"

I once again must mention top tier dirty talk!

and fuck does it make him harder to know that you've thought about this just as much as he has.

Once again, Logan's vulnerability is illustrated here because it's very human and natural to WANT TO BE WANTED so that it's exciting for him makes all the sense.

he knows if he lets you look at him, look up at him for too long, he'll lose it. he can't have your soft eyes on him while he fucks you, he doesn't deserve it.

*shakes him* He's still so Logan. Trying to convince himself again he is just not worthy. But I also do this to myself which is no doubt why I key on it, mention it, react to it. That just means the author is striking a chord with me and isn't that what we want? To feel resonance and know we are not alone in our experiences?

because he can't describe the shame that swirls in his stomach, that this is how he relieves himself, a quick fuck in a bar. this dirty older man who's seen so much sin, perpetuated sin with his own hands, who longed for the young pretty little thing in the bar. logan doesn't deserve nice things, this he knows.

It's a jarring feeling to be really into some hot smut and then have there be an intermission of this caliber. Cuz again, we are seeing into Logan's heart and his internal self who just screams and screams about not being worthy. And it's so painful and wretched for us as an audience cuz we KNOW it's not true and we just wish HE WOULD SEE IT.

you can't help but smirk, mouth stuck open as you moan softly, he likes it when you talk to him during, huh?

Even in her blissful state, she is noticing what he likes and trying to provide that for him and I love her for considering him and being thoughtful with him. HE doesn't think he deserves it, but we readers know that he absolutely does so it's sweetness in this midst of lust and shows us that she cares beyond whatever is happening now in this bathroom.

Y'all NEED to go read this cuz the smut is rough but because of the well established connection the author built between these two, it's very intimate despite the circumstances which don't necessarily lend themselves to anything other than a "quickie." Because of what's going on between these two and how well laid out that is for us, we know that the reason this is so rough and intimate is BECAUSE it's not meant for just here and now. But will Logan allow anything more?

standing on trembling legs, you lean up, giving him a surprisingly soft kiss. your hands take over his, helping him back into his jeans, zipping them up, clasping the buttons together and buckling his belt. all the while your lips are on his, slowly, passionately intertwining together.

And again, I love her for her thoughtfulness. She's being soft and tender with him. I'm not sure if it's a conscious effort to keep him from screwing things up (by trying to now brush her off) or if it's just naturally who she is and giving into her instinct to want to be gentle with him and keep him close. Either way, I love love love this moment.

". . . does that count as your tip for the night?" you joke with a smirk, hoping to see a flash of his smile again, hoping to alleviate some of that shame he's carrying.

Adore her for infusing humor into the situation and wanting to bring light back into his eyes. Whoever is going to be with Logan needs to have a sense of humor and give him as good as he gives.

the shame seems to settle, begins to dissipate. it feels less like satisfying an urge and more like. . . exploring something new. his eyes drift back to you.

Is Logan ACTUALLY going to give this thing a chance, and more importantly, HIMSELF a chance?!?!

I hate to quote too much in a story, especially an ending becuase I WANT PEOPLE TO GO READ FOR THEMSELVES but I need @silverskyeline to know that the last 3 paragraphs of this piece are SO FCKING GOOD.

The breakthrough and revelation he has, the tentative willingness to let himself release a burden and not self flagellate? OMGGGGGGGGGGG. Literally all the applause and bravo on this amazing piece. I really really fcking enjoyed it and am so grateful to you for creating and sharing.

It's really a wonderful character analysis or look at who Logan is, the person he think he has to be, with some hot smut that actually isn't a pause in the narrative but continues the throughline of exploring who he is and what he thinks he deserves and how he's giving himself permission to be a man again. I just ... I love this so so much. Thank you again.

'hunger' 18+

worst!wolverine x f!reader (3.9k words) summary: logan can't tear his mind away from the new barmaid at his usual haunt. he tries to resist you, he really does. but when you're both alone in the bathroom, he finds he's not the only one plagued with filthy thoughts. tags: for the 'longing' prompt for logan promptober, set in the bar from the movie, kind of angsty, filthy, pent up logan, alcohol consumption, doggy style, creampie, biting, light choking, pinning wrists, hair pulling, spanking, rough sex, implied age gap, sweet ending.

his usual haunts offer comfort, safe nests tucked away down isolated roads, usually requiring quite the drive to find - it's hard to find places where he's thought of as a stranger. no familiar faces, no conversation, no fuss. just logan, a bottle of whisky and time.

time spent staring into the grain of the old wood on the bar wondering how the fuck he ended up here. he'd stopped keeping count a long time ago, how long he'd been around, been alive. things get kind of hazy after two hundred years. logan had no reason to keep count.

until he saw you.

he's sat at the bar when the bartender clocks off, switching with someone new, someone he'd never seen before. you walk in and his eyes immediately scan your face, your build, your outfit. it's a habit of his, one he hoped he'd grow out of - but logan has learned that he'll never stop assessing for new threats. it's just in his dna.

but what he finds isn't a threat.

you're easy on the eyes, especially to these tired old hues that have grown accustomed to staring at the same old walls. he drags his eyes back down to his glass like he's forcing himself to look down the barrel of a gun rather than looking at you, before settling on you once more.

. . . but what harm can looking do?

a few weeks pass, logan notices you're in every few nights from now on, must have been put on the regular rota. he wonders if you know most of the tips you receive by the end of the night are from him. you're diligent, you work hard, and you deserve more than the minimum wage you're probably getting.

you've never noticed him, or at least, he's never caught you looking in his direction. but he finds himself craving it, willing your eyes to meet his even for a second. the extent of your interactions have been sliding a glass or a bottle in his direction before continuing with your other duties.

it's not even lust on his mind either, he just finds himself captivated by your presence. he wonders about your life, your interests, your dreams. . . though he'd be lying if he said he'd never pictured bending you over against the bar and fucking you senseless.

he is an animal, after all.

he wonders if he should switch bars just to distance himself. he couldn't let himself become comfortable with the idea of you. relying on others was a weakness. besides, what would you be to him but just another person he'd lose someday? it wasn't worth it. you weren't worth it.

fuck.

logan curses himself under his breath for even having this internal debate. you were strangers, this was stupid, it was all fucking stupid. but the mind of a lonely old man is a desperate one, and what logan really craves isn't just eye candy. he craves a touch, that first touch that sparks electricity throughout your every nerve ending, causes goosebumps to ripple along the skins surface. he craves something, anything.

he was so fucking hungry. always so fucking hungry. a rumbling hunger that starts at the pit of his stomach and gnaws through him like a rabid animal frantically trying to escape a suffocating metal cage. it's a hunger he can't satisfy, he knows he can't satisfy. but he'd been alone so long.

surely one bite couldn't hurt?

no, he finds himself shaking his head as he stands from the bar. he'd take a leak, and leave early. it'd only been a month since he first saw you, he could get over this. switching bars wasn't particularly appealing to him, but it was better than having to look at you and feel that familiar ache.

the bathroom door swings open and he walks inside, situating himself at one of the urinals. a few moments later, the door swings open again, logan doesn't bother to look over.

"oh, thought these were empty, sorry."

his head turns quickly. it's you, mop in hand. there's an uncomfortable silence that follows.

speak, fucking speak. "it's fine."

you pause, then nod a little and begin mopping the floor.

his eyes are back on the urinal, swallowing hard. was this really going to be your first conversation? with his eyes glaring into old porcelain, dick in his hand? he tries not to picture you stealing glances at him, but he can't help it. is that what he wants?

maybe.

finishing up, he quickly makes his way over to the sinks, pushing his hands under the cool water and rubbing with soap. his eyes flit up to the mirror. and he catches you.

your eyes lock on one another for just a split second before you quickly busy yourself with the mop again.

but that split second was enough. it was enough to notice how you were looking at him.

"all done," you say with a sigh after a few moments, standing straight and gripping the mop but making no effort to leave just yet.

logan eyes you in the mirror, watches how your eyes dance across the room before inevitably landing on him again. he turns to face you, noting the distance between you both in the room.

you rest your mop against the wall, "you're in here often." you state, it's not a question.

"guess i'm a regular," he replies curtly.

swallowing hard, you continue, "i noticed. i always have to restock the whisky when you come by."

"i like a drink." he says with a subtle shrug, just a step away now, eyes never leaving yours.

a small smile tugs at your lips, "i know."

you're not sure what you're really doing. you're supposed to be on shift, designated five minutes to clean the bathrooms. five minutes you'd much rather spend doing someone something else.

no, it was those sad eyes that seemed to say a million words while his mouth remained firmly shut that had you curious. even now as he stands before you so silent you could hear a pin drop, when you look into his eyes you can feel a sea of words brewing.

oh how you wanted to open him up, to peer inside behind that rough exterior, to take a peek behind the facade. you're sure you're easier to read than he is.

you're not sure when or how it happened, but he's right in front of you now, his body almost touching yours. you look up at him with a feigned innocent look.

"i've seen you, you know," you mumble bravely, "looking at me."

logan doesn't seem surprised, he brings a hand up to hold your chin, turning your face from side to side to get a proper look at you now that he has you up close. "yeah?"

"yeah," you reply shakily, "thought i was imagining it at first. but by the second night it was obvious."

he smirks, so he's not as subtle as he thinks.

your hands snake down, finding his belt buckle and brazingly begin to unbuckle it. he watches you, eyes fixated on the way your fingers move. he swears he's about to start drooling. but then you move, hands winding up to the buttons on his shirt. you splay your hands across the fabric, eyes widening when you feel what's underneath.

"are you. . . is that-"

logan grips your wrists, not the suit. he wasn't talking about that now, he had to shut you up. he leans in, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss as his strong hands keep a firm grip on your wrists. you submit, leaning back against the cubicle divider as you let him slip his tongue into your mouth.

he moans, relishing the taste of you, the taste he's thought about for so fucking long. he brings your hands up, pinning them above your head, shifting his grip so one hand easily pins your wrists, leaving his other hand free.

his free hand plants firmly across your upper chest, the rough pads of his fingers brushing against your collarbone as he explores your mouth with his tongue. you're lost in the sensation, knees going weak as you allow the older man to have his way with you. he needs this, you know it.

"taste so fuckin' sweet," he mumbles against your lips, kissing you between words, "you do this often? let men kiss you in the bathroom?"

you mumble a 'no' under your breath, ". . . just the ones who tip good," you grin.

logan feels himself chuckling, biting your lower lip. oh, he liked you. his hand travels upwards, finding purchase around your neck. you gasp in response, moaning. he eagerly swallows your moan with his mouth, drowning out any sound that threatens to escape.

the kiss grows in intensity, you wonder how long it's been since he's kissed someone. he kisses you like a man starved, like he'd devour you if you let him. and you would, you think, if it felt this good.

his hand on your neck gives a gentle squeeze before running down your torso, palming at your jeans suddenly. you try to whimper in pleasure, but he's silencing you with his lips again.

"shhh, shhh," he whispers against your lips, "feel good? i know it feels good, but you gotta stay nice and quiet." logan can feel the material of your jeans begin to damp and he resists the urge to growl, feeling the way the fabric beneath gives way.

you nod, whispering small affirmatives as he touches you through the material. "just give me more," you whine.

and that spurs him on. in a flash he's pushing you into the stall, stealing a few more kisses where he can before he turns you, pushing your back against his chest. his lips find your neck, pressing hot open-mouthed kisses along the skin he finds there.

you're like putty in his hands, melting back against him as his hand returns to your crotch, rough hands massaging circles against your clothed core. you resist a moan, exhaling shakily instead as you let him use you.

"you wanted this just as much as i did, huh?" he growls into your ear, "need it, need me to fuck you."

you nod quickly as you feel his lips curve into a smirk against your skin.

"yeah, thought so," he nibbles on your earlobe, breathing deeply through his nose as he tries to steady himself, preserve the moment. but how can he when you feel this good beneath his fingers, taste this good on his tongue? "tell me you want it."

"want you to fuck me," you whimper almost immediately, suddenly feeling so very needy. there's a hot ache growing between your legs, one you're desperate for him to fill.

logan laughs, "you can do better than that, honey, know you can."

"please," your voice cracks and you swallow back moans as you squirm beneath his touch, "please fuck me-" it becomes apparent to you at that moment that you don't even know his name. your cheeks flush at the thought of letting this stranger, this older man fuck you in the bar bathroom, but actually, you kind of like it that way.

he nods against the side of your cheek, his stubble scratching against your soft skin, "there we go, attagirl. . ."

with that, he pushes you forward, forcing your hands onto the tank of the toilet to support yourself as he bends you over. his hands find your waist, his hips connecting with yours and slowly grinding his very apparent, large bulge against you.

you let out a whimper, arching your back a little at the sudden contact.

"feel that?" he mumbles, guiding your hips to grind back against him, "feel what you do to me?"

a gasp, "fuck, you're big." you can already tell, the way his bulge is pressing against you, demanding to be felt. you swear you can almost feel it throb through the material.

"yeah i am," logan smirks, he knows he's big, and he knows exactly how to use it.

pulling back slightly, he roughly pulls your jeans down, practically manhandling you, your underwear disappearing with it. he grabs handfuls of your ass before kneading the skin. "look at that, pretty little ass, all for me."

you just have time to gasp before you feel one of his hands connect harshly with your skin, the sound ringing out in the small bathroom of the bar. "f-fuck!" you whine, feeling the sharp sting, knowing there's a bright red imprint in the shape of his large palm on your ass.

there's some jingling, the sound of his belt being moved out of the way, a zipper. you prepare yourself, or at least you try to, but his cock is already slapping against your backside before you have time to steady your hazy mind.

"you gonna take all of me?" he asks, biting his lip as his aching length slaps against your skin, "think you can?"

you nod quickly, looking over your shoulder at him, "mhm!"

"if you say so. . ." he smirks and positions himself, one hand on your hip and one aiming his cock at your tight little hole.

then, all at once he's sinking in. you gasp, he gasps. and fuck, he is big. you feel that sweet stretch, his cock throbbing against your tight walls as it slowly glides inside. you're whining as it slowly fills you, eyes rolling back at the sensation. but he pulls out a little, only to push back in again.

he's working you up just right, mesmerised by the way you take his cock. his eyes are fixed on your tight hole begging him to enter, loving the slick sound as it pushes inside.

"you've been thinkin' about this since you started your shift," logan says confidently, his words confirmed by how you drip around him, "thought about me fillin' you up, nice and full?"

despite the way your cheeks flush bright red, you can't deny it. you've thought about it more than once, fantasised about it in bed, hoping that one day that stranger from the bar would fuck you so good you forget your own name.

you don't need to reply either, because he knows. he knows from the way your wet hole flutters around him, and fuck does it make him harder to know that you've thought about this just as much as he has. he begins to pump into you at a leisurely pace, firm hands on your hips.

"holy fuck, so fuckin' tight," logan grumbles, his deep slow strokes hitting you deep as he bottoms out inside of you.

you try to turn your head, to look up at him, but he grasps the back of your hair, pushing your head down. "nu-uh, keep that head down."

he knows if he lets you look at him, look up at him for too long, he'll lose it. he can't have your soft eyes on him while he fucks you, he doesn't deserve it. he'll take you, just like this, with your head down and your ass up and his cock buried deep inside you.

you feel his thrusts grow rougher, your legs slipping apart as you attempt to hold yourself up, hands planted firmly on the tank of the toilet. you're squeaking softly with each pump, feeling him use you to release his pent-up frustrations. and it felt so fucking good.

with his firm grip on your hair tightening by the second and his other large hand digging into your hip, you begin to bounce back against his motions, sending him even deeper. you both moan in sync with the feeling and you pant softly, cheeks flushing further at the soft 'plap plap plap' of his hips connecting with you, the sound reverberating around the small cubicle.

"that feels so fucking good," you sing, closing your eyes. logan gives a particularly hard thrust, speed picking up. you can't help but smirk, mouth stuck open as you moan softly, he likes it when you talk to him during, huh? "keep fuckin' me, just like that, so good. . ."

he groans, wrapping your hair around his fist as he relentlessly pounds into you. harder and harder, deeper and deeper, you're sure you'll have bruises littered over your body before the day is through.

"harder!" you cry, feeling your legs tremble. you're not gonna last long like this, and by the way his cock is twitching inside of you, he isn't either. "i'm gonna cum, you're gonna make me fuckin' cum!"

another groan slips from his lips, gritting his teeth as he uses you, watching you take his throbbing cock beneath him. "look so pretty like this, bent over, takin' what i fuckin- shit. . . takin' what i give you."

your body grows hotter, sweat forming on your forehead, each impact pushing you forward roughly. you're really not gonna last long.

he begins to hunch over, his chest flush with your back as he huffs against your neck, fucking you like a rabid animal. you're squealing now, the pleasure swirling in your lower stomach, threatening to send you crashing into bliss. at this point, you don't fucking care if someone walks in and finds you like this, sees his feet planted behind yours underneath the stall. in fact, the thought of the risk sends a bolt straight to your gut.

"yes yes yes," you mutter, feeling your orgasm approaching steadily. you swear you can feel him in your guts. you begin to flutter around him, begging for release, knowing it's going to completely destroy you.

logan can't even form words, just grunts slipping from his lips against the side of your neck. and then he feels it, his cock twitches, his mind reeling with the imminent release. he needs this, oh he fucking needs this.

he bites down on your neck, teeth sinking in slightly as he feels himself release deep inside you, his cum spilling out in strong waves. you feel your knees buckle, but a strong hand planted on your tummy helps keep you upright as he fucks his release deeper into you.

the animalistic nature of his thrusts combined with the sensation of his hot cum painting your insides sends you flying over the edge, your orgasm milking him as you clamp around his aching cock. he slams his hand against the stall wall with a loud metallic bang, splaying his fingers across the metal as if to ground himself as his thrusts falter.

his tongue lazily licks the indents of his bite mark against your neck, groans easing their way from the back of his throat. you can hardly catch your breath, legs still shaking from such an intense release. it's hard to think straight with his dick still buried deep inside, feeling it twitch with every aftershock.

you both stay like that for a solid minute, panting, coming down together. he's planting soft kisses along your neck as your breath slowly comes back to you.

he pulls out, stepping back as he stuffs himself into his jeans. you collapse onto the toilet seat, shakily pulling your jeans and underwear back up as you look up at him. it's clear he's looking to leave, a distant look in his eye, maybe a little shame creeping into his features.

you pull back, buttoning your own jeans as you continue to look up at him. ". . . does that count as your tip for the night?" you joke with a smirk, hoping to see a flash of his smile again, hoping to alleviate some of that shame he's carrying.

and there it is, a small smirk on his lips as he glances away. "maybe."

the shame seems to settle, begins to dissipate. it feels less like satisfying an urge and more like. . . exploring something new. his eyes drift back to you.

"i'll see you tomorrow?" you ask, tilting your head.

he blinks, suddenly remembering time exists outside this small space seemingly crafted just for the two of you. "yeah," he says, quietly.

"good," you pat his chest before moving past him, leaving the stall. you stand, looking back at him. a beat, "or, you can meet me after my shift ends?"

his eyes widen, taken aback. fuck, had he forgotten how to do this? his eyes flit to the side, before making up his mind. he gives a firm nod.

you smile before leaving him in the bathroom, returning to the bar through the door.

logan stands there for a few moments, running his fingers through his hair. he smooths down his shirt, feeling the suit beneath, a stark reminder always of his past.

but maybe he could begin to take a few steps forward. maybe he deserves more than to suffer forever, forced to keep everyone at arm's length. maybe he could allow himself this small happiness, a date, or whatever this was.

maybe it was time to satisfy his hunger, his loneliness, for good.

#wolverine #logan howlett #marvel #fan fiction #feedback #drag queen #trixie mattel #bebe zahara benet #miz cracker #michelle visage #vanessa vanjie mateo #nicole byer #trinity taylor #animations #AND mine

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mysunshinetemptress · 1 day ago

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Smarter

Smarter Insight 1 Insight 2 Insight 3

You can’t breathe, it’s the only thing you can think of as the door swings open and your pulled into the house, you can’t breathe, you can’t get any oxygen into your lungs as they try desperately to get you to clam down, as they try desperately to try and understand what’s going on but you can’t speak because you can’t breathe and in a moment of panic they shout “I’m calling Leah ok.” That seems to help a bit as you let out a gasped no.

They looked confused as you still try to draw in a breath but you don’t want them to call Leah and that doesn’t seem to make any sense, nothing you gasp out is making any sense “it-it won’t-it won’t fit.” You’re lent over the counter your palms pushing into the cool top trying to ground yourself “it-it won’t fit.” You say again “her ring-her ring it-it won’t.” You feel light headed now but a voice in the back of your head screams at you that you’re not just breathing for yourself, you’re breathing for your baby and that seems to flip a switch as you place a protective hand on your stomach.

“Her ring-Leah’s ring it-it doesn’t fit.” Leah grabby looks at you eyebrows scrunched together in confusion “her wedding band, of course it fits darling.” You shake your head “It’s not her ring Granny, I-she.” You feel your stomach twist again as Leah’s granny tries to understand what’s going on.

“She’s cheating on me-Leah’s cheating on me.” Granny feels her blood run cold as her face drops “that’s-are you sure.” You nod as the pieces play in your head “she-she wasn’t wearing her ring- I told her I’d take it-her-she said her hand was swelling from practice and when I went to put it on-it doesn’t fit.” Granny can see the struggle, the way your hunched over scared that if you let go of the counter that the world will slip away. She sees your hand grasping at your stomach protectively and she herself starts to feel nauseous.

“Where is the ring Y/n.” You shake your head at the memory “I-i-SHE wears it around her neck.” Granny reaches for your hand grasping it tightly “who darling.” A tear tracks its way down your cheek “the girl she’s sleeping with.” Granny freezes, that ring had seen forty five years of pure love and happiness it was given to Leah so she could show it the same instead it’s been disgraced.

“I-what-what do I do.” You ask as granny leads you to the couch “I-i-we were supposed to have a baby.” Granny feels her heartbreak at your quieting voice “I was going to tell her it worked, that-that I’m pregnant.”

You’re so overwhelmed that you don’t notice granny calling Amanda, or the rest of your family, you don’t notice the blanket she’s draped over you and you definitely don’t notice that you’ve fallen asleep until you wake up to voices in the kitchen.

“I-how did she end up like this, I mean why would she do something like this to her marriage, to Y/n.” Amanda looks shell shocked as she sits talking to granny her hands wrapped around a mug “Do you think she’ll let us still see the baby.”

You place your hand over your stomach again “I-I can’t do this on my own .” You say stepping forward Amanda turns to you standing in the hallway “I-please don’t make me do this alone.”

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mountainsandmayhem · 8 hours ago

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BDSMaid - Chapter 9

Series Summary: In order to save money for law school, you accept a job working as a maid for high end clients. You aren’t supposed to know whose home you’re cleaning, but your curiosity is peaked by your first client, and when the two of you have a shocking and surprising run in more than just your curiosity peaks. Word Count: 5k CW: see small red lettering below the cut AN: I'm going to miss them!! I'm absolutely heartbroken that I'm done, but so fucking proud of myself for what I've created. Thank you to @lotusbxtch for being my beta from pretty much the very beginning. I am so grateful to you and so honoured (yes, with a u because I'm Canadian lol) to call you my friend. Also little shoutouts to @for-a-longlongtime, @alltheirdamn, @mermaidgirl30 and @littlevenicebitch69 for listening to me go on about them for 80% of 2024. As always, graphics and dividers by @saradika-graphics

My Masterlist || Series Masterlist

TW: unprotected p in v, one spank, multiple orgasms and Overstim hinted at, pining, heartbreak

Eight Months Later

Joel

“I got yelled at by a feisty brunette last night at that gala,” Tommy says as the two of them sip whiskey at the bar of the club.

“Probably deserved it.” Joel deadpans and closes the folder of invoices he’s looking over.

He should be doing this in his fancy, and newly renovated, office across the street. He was in the large office for all of three minutes the day after you left when he could only see the ghost of you. From the chair you sat in when you first asked him to teach you how to be a sub, to the door he pinned you against and confessed how out of his mind he was over you, everything was you, and it had to go if he had any chance of following what you needed from him. Joel hasn’t even been in his room at the club out of the fear of what it would do to him. Would I still be able to smell the lavender of her shampoo in there? Still be able to hear her beautiful cries of pleasure and pain bouncing off the walls?

“She thought I was you,” Tommy says, glancing over at his brother and interrupting Joel’s impending spiral.

Joel sighs, slipping his reading glasses from his face before taking a long pull of the amber liquor from his crystal glass. Tommy looks straight ahead as he continues.

“She’s doing great, by the way. Or at least that’s what her friend said when she was scolding me.”

Joel winces at his words, “Of course she is, Tommy.” Even though it's been almost a year since you left, just the mention of you rips his barely-mended heart back in half. It doesn’t seem to matter how much time passes, he still feels like he did in his kitchen.

The very fibers of his being ache just as hard for you now as they did then. He longs to see you and touch you, to feel your warm, soft skin under his hands again. Anyone before you was always, ‘Yes, Mister Miller,’ even when they weren’t in a scene; but not you. You weren’t afraid to be curious and unapologetically yourself. He hasn’t laughed as hard with anyone, including Tiffany, as he did with you. But the part that he misses the most is the way you look at him the first time you see him. Your eyes soften, velvety pink lips parting slightly before they curl into a smile that makes his heart hammer behind his ribs. Then, he watches your shoulders relax and it makes him feel like he hung the moon and stars for you, and if he could have, he would have.

He clears his throat and then rasps, “She’s too smart to not be doing well.”

Tommy stands, bringing his hands to rub at Joel's shoulders. He squeezes his tense deltoid muscles and with a hint of mischief in his voice he says, “Lots of pretty girls here tonight if you feel like moving on.”

Joel shakes his head and pulls away from Tommy’s grasp with a grunt. “Never gonna happen. Get outta here before you get yelled at two nights in a row.”

“Just too bad for me that you aren’t a hot brunette,” Tommy says with a laugh.

“I have brown hair,” Joel replies defensively, running his fingers through the grown out curls.

“Not to kick you when you’re down, but it’s mostly grey at this point.”

Joel holds up a single finger at Tommy over his shoulder as he laughs and walks away.

Two and a half years later

You

You’ve been up to your eyeballs in studying as you prepare for your finals. These last few years in California have been the hardest yet most fulfilling time of your life. Two nights in a row now, you’ve fallen asleep in the library, only waking when your Spotify would switch from the white noise playlist you use to help you focus, to your “getting ready” playlist. After dragging yourself to your dorm room in the dead of the night, you’d get a few restless hours of sleep before heading right back to your favourite studying spot. You can’t believe that in just a few short weeks you’ll be graduating and stepping into the life you’ve always envisioned for yourself.

The unmistakable FaceTime jingle fills your AirPods. Jamie’s name is splayed across the screen of your phone, along with a photo of the two of you at Albany Beach when she visited this past Christmas break. You put your highlighter down and slide the answer toggle over.

“Hey!” She says, her warm smile shining up at you. You squint, trying to place where she is. You don’t often let yourself think of Joel, but the cracks across your screen make FaceTiming difficult, and the selfish side of you always wishes you had grabbed that new phone before you left. Your head cocks to the side; broken screen or not, you don’t recognize the background.

“Where are you?” You ask.

“Oh, I’m good, thanks. How are you?” She jests with a mocking eye roll. “I’m at a cabin.”

“What cabin?” You say, glaring at her jokingly. A deep laugh comes from the otherside of the phone and your eyes widen. “Who’s that?”

The man's voice comes from offscreen, “I can’t believe you thought she wouldn’t ask where you were. She’s going to be a lawyer, for god's sake.”

“Jamie, who is that? What is going on here? Blink twice if you need rescuing!” You joke.

Jamie blushes, looking over the phone at whoever that voice is coming from. “I just wanted to call to see how the studying is going, and to let you know that I got the graduation tickets.”

A glass of white wine appears in front of Jamie and she smiles before puckering her lips in a kissing motion towards the man in the room with her. “Ok, seriously, who the fuck is that and where are you?”

“I was also calling to let you know that Laren can’t make it anymore and Odette is in New York,” she takes a small sip of her wine.

“Oh, well that’s ok,” you say, trying to squash the disappointment and hoping it doesn’t show in your voice or face. You wished that at least two of your three best friends would be there for you. “It can just be me and you, baby!”

“Well…I’m wondering if I could maybe bring my boyfriend? Might be a good opportunity for you two to meet.”

“What? What boyfriend?” You say, officially abandoning all study materials until you get some answers. Jamie raises a perfectly manicured finger and calls the mystery man over.

You swallow hard as Tommy Miller appears beside her.

Jamie glances up at him, her bright green eyes full of admiration, his mirroring hers. The starry look in their eyes tells you everything you need to know; they’re so far gone for that even a search and rescue team wouldn’t be able to save them. She looks back at you. “Meet again, I guess.”

You try to push for answers, but either of them give in, claiming you need to focus on finals. Before you hang up, Jamie promises to tell you the entire story when you see each other next. You’re happy for your friend, especially seeing the way Tommy looked back at her. Even through your cracked screen you could see the love, but as you try to go back to studying you have a hollow feeling in your stomach.

Graduation Day

You

The late afternoon sun fills your dorm room, boxes of your belongings stacked haphazardly around you. After walking the stage tonight, you are going out to dinner with Jamie and Tommy, and then he has paid for a hotel suite so the two of you can have a girls’ night. You can’t wait to hear how Tommy went from, in Jamie’s previous words, “my dad’s new asshole friend” to her boyfriend.

You step in front of your floor length mirror, zipping up the black graduation gown over your knee length, form fitting, deep emerald velvet dress. The California sun has been good to you, your tanned legs and sunkissed nose and cheeks are glowing. You place your blue and yellow Berkeley Law stole over your head and then grab your cap, ensuring the ‘Class of ‘28’ tassel is secure. You fluff your curls one last time as a light knock comes from your door.

“Ready to graduate, gorgeous?” Ronan smiles at you, eyes trailing down your gown. He’s the type of handsome that’s almost painful to look at, but more importantly - you wouldn’t have made it through these last three years without him. You met the first day - the lock on your door wasn’t working, and he waltzed in on you half naked when he mistook your room as his.

You smile at him in your doorway now; remembering the way you screamed at him that first time, trying to cover your chest, and him scrambling to close the door. His eyes were clamped shut, and he slammed his finger so hard that you had to take him for stitches. Now, several years later, he fills out his graduation gown perfectly with those wide rugby shoulders, a sight you couldn’t even have imagined back then. Whichever angel made him didn’t make a single mistake - he’s tall and insanely broad, with dark sandy blonde hair, and clover green eyes that in the right light are a golden hazel. He’s easily one of the smartest men you’ve ever met and an incredible athlete. The cherry on top, because of course there’s more: he’s an international student and has a panty-melting Irish accent.

“Beyond ready. Let's become lawyers, babe.”

He steps aside, one arm out in a ‘ladies first’ gesture. Handsome, charming, and thoughtful - a dangerous trifecta. You slide your hand in the crook of his muscle-lined arm and walk across campus together.

Ronan jerks his head towards the coffee cart. “Remember when you spilled your entire coffee on your new puffer jacket?”

You glare up at him, you saved for weeks to buy that jacket. “No, but I remember you throwing up in that trash can after the Halloween party last year.”

“Well, if Beach Party Barbie had helped Lifeguard Ken with all those shots we wouldn’t have had that problem, would we?” You laugh as Ronan puffs out his chest, but you both know he was more than willing to take your half of the ‘Best Couples Costume' shots.

Finally, you reach the courtyard where the law students will be walking across a stage that acts as the symbolic bridge to the rest of their lives. I’m a lawyer, you think to yourself and try to force a smile. The magnitude of the day only really starts to sink into your bones as you see the friends and families of your classmates start to take their seats. The excited feeling you had earlier starts to morph. You’re proud of yourself for what you’ve done these last three years, and this was just the first step. You have so much to look forward to, so why do you feel a sense of dread building in the pit of your stomach?

Ronan walks you to where you need to line up alphabetically, kissing your cheek and then, after leaning in and placing his large hand on your lower back, he whispers a joke about how you better not trip. You glance around the thick crowd for Jamie and Tommy. After realizing it’s hopeless to try and spot them in a group this large, you slip your cap over your hair and get in the procession line.

You try to soak in every minute of the day, from the speeches to the birds chirping in the background, but something akin to loss flutters at the base of your spine. You’re just as sad to be leaving Berkely as you are excited to carve out your future. Leaving here isn’t what’s causing you to feel this way, however. You try to tell yourself that maybe it’s just nerves; even with all the job offers coming in from your internships, it’s normal to be nervous about what comes next.

As the student union president gives his toast to the family and friends, you look down at your lap, pushing back the cuticle on your left thumb. Maybe it’s leaving Ronan. He’s been an anchor for you, grounding you almost every day of the last three years and you don’t know how you let yourself become this dependent on anyone, especially a man, again.

You shake your head at yourself and try to move your focus to the cuticle on your other thumb. Seeing the skin clean from the nail bed eases the tension slightly for you. ‘I’m allowed to be nervous when leaning on people, but not everyone will leave me,’ you recite almost automatically in your mind, the mantra you’ve had these past few years whenever you feel yourself getting this anxious. Just as you finish the thought, a car revs in the distance and the realization of what - or who - you’re actually missing slams through you so hard that you almost feel winded. Your lungs ache, tears pushing behind your eyes as his name rings loudly through your mind.

Joel.

You kept yourself busy since the minute you left Austin. The busier you were, the less time you had to focus on the void in your heart. During the school year, you didn’t have to find things to stay busy with; law school nearly chewed you up and spit you out. Over the summers, you worked as an intern and visited your friends. There was never a quiet moment, never too much time alone with your thoughts, and it was better this way. You can confidently say that you’d only thought of Joel six times since you walked out of his house that day: when you fell asleep on the beach and were so sunburnt you could barely move for three days; when you failed your first test; when your rusted SUV, that acted as your ticket to freedom at eighteen, died on the freeway in rush hour (from that point on you had to rely on public transportation to get you to the homes you cleaned). When you experienced your first earthquake; when you stayed up for forty-two hours straight after your partner in a group project didn’t have their side of the work done; and, lastly, this past New Year’s Eve when you were in Austin and thought you saw him at a party.

“Is he here?”, that little box of feelings that you shut away in a vault long ago wonders. “Has anything changed for him in the last three years?”

The small smile that pulls at your cheeks, and the excited flutter of your heart when you think about the possibility of seeing him again, proves that maybe nothing has changed for you. As the minutes tick by, your mind races with all the possible scenarios for after the ceremony. What if he is here? What will you say? What will he say? How will Ronan react, you know he has strong feelings about what happened between you and Joel. Even worse though, what if he’s not here? But maybe he’s at the hotel where Tommy and Jamie are staying?

Before you know it, your row is standing and walking single file towards the stage. With each strike of your high-heeled strappy sandals against the concrete, a memory of Joel floods your system. The toast he made you in his kitchen, the kiss in that dimly lit hallway on your birthday, the way he walked you through his club and how calmly he talked about you being in charge before going into the voyeur room. The multitude of orgasms he gave you within the four walls of his private room. Him singing on the small stage of the dive bar you found, followed by him spanking you right there in the bathroom with his hand clamped to your face to keep you quiet. His strong hand grasping your thigh as he drove you to his house. The way he tasted on your tongue. The smell of his skin: all ash and leather, occasionally mixed with whiskey or mint. The feel of his body: hard, broad and hot. His shuddered breaths as he confessed so many things in so few words.

‘It’s only you, sweet girl.’

‘Just call me Joel.’

‘I know, and I’m so proud of you, sweet girl.’

You carefully walk up the stairs, forcing the thoughts of Joel from your mind, just in time to hear your name announced as a graduate of Berkeley Law. You float across the stage, grabbing the piece of paper that acts as your degree until the real one comes, shaking the hand of the Dean who flips your tassel before you walk to the stairs on the other side; the stairs that symbolize the ending of your time here and the beginning of the rest of your life.

As you reach the top of the steps, you look out into the audience and see Jamie. She pumps her fist in the air and before you can process the empty seat beside her, you feel it; a strong tug from behind your navel. It takes you less than a heartbeat to find him and the sight before you floods your body with a familiar warmth. Standing under a large tree at the edge of the audience, dressed in all black, and holding his Stetson hat to his heart, is Joel. For the first time in years you feel whole again.

You keep your gaze on him, worried that if you so much as blink that he’ll be gone. You are supposed to follow your classmates, but you veer left, walking towards Joel. The closer you get, the more at ease you feel. He’s real, you think, he’s here. You stop a foot or so in front of him.

“Hi, Freckles,” he whispers, his voice cracking slightly. His eyes dance around your face, almost as if he’s trying to memorize this moment. You can’t help but wonder if he’s feeling exactly how you are.

“Hi, Sweet Cheeks,” you say, the same tremble in your voice, as you try desperately to hold it together. “You’re here.”

He nods and you give him a tight-lipped smile as your mind races. There’s so much you want to say, but now that he’s standing right there in front of you after three years, you don’t know where to start.

Joel breaks the silence, jutting his chin in the direction of the other graduates as he says, “I saw you come in with your boyfriend. When I saw you kiss, I was going to leave, but I made you a promise.”

You knit your eyebrows together and take a step closer. “Boyfriend?”

“The man you walked over here with,” Joel says, his black Stetson sliding down the chest you so desperately want to touch as he drops his hands to his sides. He’s left no barriers between the two of you except the heartbreak that’s evident on his face.

You laugh quietly, “No, he’s - that’s Ronan.”

Joel nods. “Okay.”

“He’s my friend,” you clarify, and when Joel’s face stays the same, you add, “And he’s still as gay as the day we first met!”

Joel lets out a whoosh of a breath and closes the distance between the two of you, his free hand comes to one of your curls, twirling the end of it around his thick fingers. Soft and silky meets rough and calloused. “I’m so proud of you, Freckles.”

You don’t miss how he watches your tongue dart between your lips, “Thank you.”

“So? How does it feel?” He gives you a soft crooked smile, his dimple carving into the short facial hair of his salt and pepper beard. Between that smile, and the way his brown eyes wash over you, you’re overcome with affection. He let you go. He did exactly as you asked him. He didn’t chase you or try to convince you to stay. You told him if he really loved you, then he’d do exactly this; and in turn, he did what he said he would.

He showed up.

“I love you,” you state and the air between you turns electric, almost like this moment could either set you both aflame or act as a generator for your future together. Joel gives you that look, the one that makes you feel like you’re the center of his universe. He lets the curled end of your hair slip from his fingers, reaching up towards your graduation cap but hesitating.

“May I?” He rasps and swallows hard.

You nod, and knowing exactly what he’s going for, you take the Stetson from his other hand and place it on your head after he removes your cap. The brim of it blocks out everything but the two of you.

“Say that again, sweet girl,” he murmurs.

“I love you,” it’s barely a whisper this time. “Even after three years apart, you are everything to me. I asked you to let me go so I could accomplish this, and you did. You’ve always done what I asked, what I needed. I’m not sorry for what happened between us, but I am sorry that I missed out on getting to spend the last three years with you looking at me how you are now. I love you, Joel Miller.”

He brings his lips within a breath of yours, and your body practically vibrates with the knowledge that if you leaned just a bit forward, you’d finally have his mouth on you again. You can almost taste the mint on his tongue as the familiar fragrance of ash and leather surround you. “I have dreamed of hearing those three words leave your beautiful lips more times than I can count, baby. You’re it for me. I’ll do anything for you, even if it means breaking my own heart, but I’m always going to be here for you, rooting for you and encouraging you. I’m glad you’re not sorry, because I’m not, I’m so fucking proud of you. I love you, too, my sweet girl.”

Finally, he presses his warm, firm lips against yours while pulling you tight to his body. You wrap an arm around his neck, holding the black cowboy hat against your head with your other hand. It doesn’t matter that the ceremony isn’t done, or that there are hundreds of people to your right. For the first time in three years, everything goes quiet. He hums contentedly and you feel yourself melt against him, tilting your head so he can deepen the kiss. He parts his lips, letting you take the first swipe of your tongue against his. Need floods your system, and based on the way he grinds into you, he’s feeling the same.

He breaks the kiss, but doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against yours. “Take me home,” you practically purr.

“Where do you want home to be? I’ll go anywhere,” Joel rasps, running his nose down the bridge of yours.

“Austin,” you respond, your breath catching as his lips ghost along the side of your mouth.

“I sold my portion of the club to Tommy and Tess. I don’t have anything holding me in Austin anymore, sweet girl. If you have a job offer you really want, that’s where we’ll go.” You pull back to look at him. You can tell by the set of his jaw that he’s serious.

“I want to go to Austin. I have a job offer there.”

“Good thing I told Tommy not to touch my room at the club then.”

“That’s a very good thing,” you moan and then pull him in to kiss again. The audience behind you erupts into cheers, celebrating the accomplishments of every student in that crowd.

You’re a lawyer, and suddenly, the future doesn’t seem so scary.

Joel

Taking you home to Austin that night unfortunately wasn’t an option. After finding Jamie in the crowd, and being formally introduced to Ronan, he called the car to pick up the three of you. You all met Tommy at the restaurant, celebrating with all the expensive homemade pasta and overpriced wine that you wanted; even though seeing you in that curve-hugging velvet dress was slowly killing him. Joel had kept at least one hand on you since seeing you again, and he doesn’t plan on changing that anytime soon.

He didn’t want to rush you on your big night, so he waited patiently, listening to you tell stories of your last three years, and revelling in the evident joy that you and Jamie share over being together again. When dessert comes around he catches Tommy’s attention and gives him a small smile. It’s fitting that the two brothers, who have been so close their entire lives, would fall in love with best friends.

Once in his room, he spent two hours stripping you down at an almost painfully slow pace. He kissed every inch of your skin twice over and has pulled five orgasms, and counting, out of you so far.

Now, Joel is seated in the wide velvet arm chair in the corner of his hotel suite. His cock is buried deep inside of your tight cunt as you straddle him. Your skin feels like butter under his hands as he trails them along your back and the globes of your perfect ass. He’s missed tying you up, but this is what he longed for: the earth shattering intimacy he feels with you in these moments.

“Please,” you mumble into his neck, desperate to move your hips.

“Not until you answer me,” he demands softly. “How many times was it that you needed me, but were too stubborn to reach out?”

Earlier tonight you told him about the six times you really needed him. He’d kissed you softly after each confession, returning the trust with a time he needed you. After the last one, he’d pulled back to look at you with dark eyes. He’d hated that you needed him and he couldn’t be there. He’d clenched his back molars twice before he said you’d be denied six orgasms the next time you were at the club, but tonight you have permission to come as often as you need to.

He swats your already reddened ass cheek and your pussy flutters as you cry out. “Mister Miller, stop. Please, just let me move.”

“Do you need to use your safeword?”

“No,” you respond with a pout.

“How many times?” He says again through gritted teeth, even though already knows the answer.

“Six,” you sob.

He tuts and then growls, “That doesn’t sound like my good girl, does it?”

You shake your head against his throat and moan a sound of disagreement.

“Do you want to come for me again?”

“Yes, Mister Miller. Please!”

He trails his fingers up and down your back again, the thin sheen of sweat on your skin makes it easy for him to caress you. He smiles to himself at the shiver that racks through your body at his touch. You react so beautifully to him. “Yeah? You wanna grind your swollen little clit on my piercing, baby girl?”

“Please,” you whine again, stretching out all the vowels in the word.

“Show me. Ride my cock, take what you need.”

You lift your head from the crook in his neck and pull back slightly, rocking your hips back and forth; a sultry laugh leaves his lips at your eagerness. You look at him with hooded eyes, hair stuck to your forehead. His eyes trail down your neck to the bruises he sucked into your collar bone earlier and then to your breasts; both of which are covered in his marks. He watches the little gold nipple clamps, and the chain that connects them, bounce with each flick of your hips.

“That’s it, sweet girl. You look like a goddess, my goddess. Who do you belong to?”

“I’m yours, baby,” you say through shallow breaths. He pulls at the chain and you cry out in pain. “S-sorry, Mister Miller.”

“Again, sweet girl. Tell me who you belong to.”

“Oh fuck, y-you, Mist -” his hands come to your face and when he whispers your name the rest of your sentence dies on your tongue.

“Just call me Joel.” The commanding voice of his alter ego is gone as he says it.

Your hips slow, changing from a frantic back and forth to a sensual swirling motion. “I’m yours, Joel. Forever.”

He kisses you softly, a silent telling of how vulnerable he is at this moment. “Don’t ask me to let you go ever again.”

The smile you give him causes his heart to skip, “I won’t.”

“You might, sweet girl. I won't survive it if you do, so I’m going to remind you of this moment as often as possible for the rest of my life. Remind you how much you’re loved and supported. You’re mine, Freckles.” Your hips swirl and he feels you tighten up around him. “Come for me, my sweet girl.”

“Fuck, fuck, Joel!” It’s a cry and moan all at once.

“I’m here, it’s ok, baby.” With that, your body shudders and you fall into him as you shatter. Your pussy clenches and releases rapidly around his length. His cock twitches, and once he can’t hold it anymore he relaxes, letting his orgasm rock through him in time with yours.

“I’m yours, too,” he gasps as he melts into you.

The End

Coming Soon:

Curious how Jamie ended up with her "dads new asshole friend?"

Part 2 of the BDSMaid Trilogy coming mid 2025!

Also, stay tuned for the epilogue for Joel and Sweet Girl.

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strang3lov3 · 1 day ago

Text

The First Taste

Roman offers you money if you just let him put the tip in. Just the tip, that's all (it's not all).

Tags - smut, loss of virginity, virgin!reader, virginity kink, big dick roman roy, dare i call that cock gargantuan, ludicrously capacious, even? Unprotected piv, fingering, blow jobs, cunnilingus, hand jobs, nipple stim, just the tip (it’s never just the tip) dubcon, manipulation, deception, coercion, betrayal, Roman solicits sex from reader and is also insensitive about stds, pay him no mind. I made myself soaking wet every day while writing this so. Do what you will with that information. 5.8k words. A/N - This is just...smut. Beginning to end. I’m gonna be working on stepdaddy after this, probably write a stepdaddy sick fic cuz I feel kinda like shit. Kisses to all yall sluts 😘

Finally, some fucking quiet. For now.

The couple in the hotel room next to yours has been going at it all night, a marathon of fucking. Endless moans, rhythmic squeaking of the bed becoming louder and faster, then quieter and slower. This couple makes you wonder if their room is the honeymoon suite or something, the way they’re fucking like a couple of newly-wed bunnies. You rest against the plush headboard, closing your stinging eyes momentarily.

You dipped from the wedding an hour or so ago, maybe closer to two hours at this point. It’s about midnight now. You’re alone in your room, crinkling the once neatly made bedding as you play a dumb little game on your phone. Your mind wanders as you mindlessly tap the screen, thinking about what the couple next door is doing. What he’s doing to her, what she’s doing to him. How good it all feels, probably. You wonder what it’s like.

Knock. Knock knock. Knock knock. Knock knock–

Roman. You don’t even have to look through the peephole to know it’s him. Nobody else knocks like that, and nobody else would show up at your door at this particular hour. You sigh as you get out of bed, taking heavy steps toward the door before opening it.

“Evening, sexpot. You have something of mine and I’d like it back, please and thank you.”

Roman’s still wearing the outfit he wore during the wedding, though missing his suit jacket and tie. The sleeves of his white button down shirt are rolled above his elbows, there’s an extra button undone. Once neatly slicked back, his hair is now disheveled, a few loose strands falling over his eyebrows. His eyes are half-lidded, lips curled into that smug, casual, infuriatingly handsome smirk he always wears. He looks gorgeous.

“I do?” you ask, thinking before remembering quickly. “Oh, shit. Yeah, I do.” You open the door wider and make space to allow him to follow behind you, Roman first closing the door. You unplug his charger from the wall outlet and wrap the cord in a figure-eight around your fingers, some habit you’re not sure where or when you picked up. Roman holds out his hand and you place the charger in his palm. “So is the wedding finally over?”

“Mhm. You vanished on me, though, Cinderella. I thought I’d get at least a dance out of you but you stood me up, you heartbreaker, you. Felt like a virgin on prom night,” Roman laments with a dramatic flair, no real hurt in his tone. “But I’ll live. Me and some bridesmaid-chick totally dry humped on the dance floor, so it all worked out.”

You know he’s teasing, probably lying. Embellishing the truth. But it makes you squirm just the same, and you’re not totally sure why. You could be a little jealous, maybe. But there’s another reason, too.

“Anyway, uh. Thanks. I’ll leave you to it,” Roman says, toying with the charger cord.

“No, thank you. Came in hand–”

“Oh, fuck, like that. Just like that, harder, harder, fuck, ohhhh!”

You’re interrupted by the sounds of your temporary neighbor’s moans that you’ve become very well-acquainted with. “Oh my god,” you mumble, rolling your eyes.

Roman’s lips curl into an even wider smile, his eyes lighting up as he raises his eyebrows. “Oh, nice!” he says, giggling, “Man. That’s awesome. Lucky you, with your front row seat to the show. Maybe there’s a hole in the wall behind this mirror or something. You should see if you can watch.”

“They’ve been going at it for hours,” you deadpan.

Roman nods in approval, that big, stupid smile still on his lips. “Awh, fuck yeah. Good for them. You should ask to join. We both could, actually. Let’s go knock.”

Your cheeks heat up at the idea, even knowing Roman’s not serious. Probably not serious, at least. Roman notices this, takes mental notes of your flustered expression, how you look anywhere but at him. The shifting of your feet, the unnecessary movements your body makes as you squirm. “Ahh, too shy. I get it,” Roman says. “So you’re just - you’re…what, jerking off to it in here, all by your lonesome? Fuck, did I interrupt? How rude, let me get out–”

“No!”

“No? You want me to stay?”

“No - you - I–” you huff, closing your eyes as you inhale and exhale a deep breath. “I meant that I’m not…you know. Doing that.”

Roman’s eyes sparkle. “It’s okay, you can admit it. I know you ladies are more, you know - audio than visual.” He wiggles his fingers by his ears as he paces slowly around the room, inspecting the slice of cake you brought back with you from the wedding, swiping a bit of frosting off the plate with his finger before sucking on it.

“Stop it, Roman.”

“I think I’m gonna stay a while, if you don’t mind. Listen to the music.”

“Whatever, knock yourself out. I’m not sleeping as long as they’re still doing it.”

True to his word, Roman listens intently to the sounds of the couple fucking. You wouldn’t expect anything else from him. He makes little faces of intrigue or surprise at the noises, the extra loud moans or the occasional smack. You regret allowing him to stay. This is so fucking awkward, so you distract yourself by tidying up your already-pristine hotel room. Rearranging some glasses that haven’t been touched, then pouring yourself another glass of water even though you’re not actually thirsty. Roman notices all of this, too. At some point his attention shifts from the muffled noises coming from the other side of the wall to you, how you nervously flit around the room. He decides to up the tension, to make it all worse for you.

“We should fuck,” he says plainly. “You know, louder than them. Establish our dominance. There’s a bed right there.”

It takes you a second to reply. “Funny,” is all you say, your voice coming out quietly and not very confident. Fuck.

“You’re very shy about it, you know that?”

“Shy about what?”

“Oh, fucking - c’mon. You know what,” he deadpans. “Sex! Coitus. Fornicating. Love mak–”

“No, yeah. I got it–”

“Fucking,” Roman interrupts. “So why are you all shy about it?”

“I’m not - I’m not shy,” you stutter.

“But you are. Because you don’t talk about it, ever. You like, clam up, get all fuckin’ weird and quiet,” Roman says, gesturing to you. “And like right now, you won’t even look at me. It’s almost like you’re nervous or something. Are you?” he pauses, “Nervous, that is?”

You’re feeling defensive now, cornered, as Roman’s wedged himself deep under your skin. “No, I just - what does it matter, Roman?” you snap. Sighing, you sit on the edge of the bed and cross your arms.

“I just wanna know, that’s all. Just curious,” he replies, tempering his tone to be much less pointed, less mocking. “You know me. No judgement here.”

“I just…don’t feel the need to talk about it, I guess.”

“You can’t even say it,” Roman digs, crossing his arms. “Are you a prude? Is that it?”

“No, Roman, I’m not a prude. It’s just a very personal thing for some people.”

“Naturally.”

“Not that you’d understand,” you bite.

Roman presses a hand against his chest, pretending you’ve just shot him. “Ouch. But yeah, no, I get it.” Roman pauses, then joins you on the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Is it herpes?” he whispers. “It’s herpes, isn’t it? You know, there’s no shame in it. I’ve actually created new strains of STDs myself in the course of all of my sexcapades. And look at me, I’m not ashamed,” he smiles, stifling a giggle at his own joke.

“If that’s true, Roman, you really should be. And don’t be facetious. That’s not something to laugh about.”

“No, you’re right, I’m sorry,” he concedes, the apology devoid of any sincerity at all. “So are you saving it for marriage, then? Gonna give Mr. Right your most precious gift?”

You freeze then. Roman’s getting warmer, burning hot. It’s not the truth, but it’s not…not…the truth. An inch away from uncovering your big secret, that you’re a virgin. Never had sex, not once.

It must be written all over your face in big, bolded letters or something, because Roman’s face twists in realization. His eyes are sparkling, jaw dropped in an open, wry smile. “Holy fuck,” he scoffs. “You’re shitting me. Virgin?! You’re a virgin? Oh my god, gross. Ew,” he laughs, turning your cheek to force you to look at him.

It makes you feel bad inside. Insecure. Your bottom lip quivers a little as tears well up in your eyes, that awful feeling of embarrassment taking over every one of your senses. Face hot, ears pounding, the walls closing in. “Roman,” you whisper, tilting your chin down to hide yourself.

“Hey - heyyy. Don’t fuckin’...don’t be like that,” he says, tilting your face back up. Roman laughs, then makes a sympathetic expression as he pulls you close, wrapping his strong arms around you in a tight hug. Some of your tears soak the collar of his shirt as he presses your face into his shoulder. “I’m very sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I took it too far, that’s on me. I’m sorry. Hey–” Roman nuzzles your hair, “I mean it. I’m sorry.”

You don’t say anything. You’re too pissed to speak but even if you weren’t, you’re not sure that you could conjure up any sort of response to…whatever the fuck just happened.

“It’s not so terrible, being a virgin.” Roman offers, rubbing your back soothingly as he kisses the top of your head. “There’s worse things to be.”

“Yeah? Like what?” you ask, voice muffled as you mumble into his shirt.

“Like…fuckin’ dead, I guess.” Roman thinks for a second, “Or ugly. And you’re not that, so…”

“Thanks, Rome,” you reply flatly.

“And guys like virgins,” he adds. “Like, do you know how much some creeps would pay to fuck virgin pussy?”

“Uhh…”

“Millions. They’d pay millions,” Roman says, taking note of how your ears perk up at the statement, the incredulous look you give him. “Yeah, now that’s interesting to you, isn’t it? Shit, I’d pay you for it. Let’s skip the middleman, huh?”

“What? No.” You pull away from Roman’s arms.

“Yes. Why not?”

Why not? Just the littlest amount of pushback from Roman and you’re already questioning the lines you’ve drawn in the sand for yourself. For a moment, you contemplate the idea of having sex with Roman, and you’re tempted - his naked body on yours, pleasuring you in a way you’ve never felt at the hands of someone else before, his attention all on you. His perfect, soft lips on yours as he swallows your moans, loving you the way you deserve. But ultimately you decide no, it’s not happening. It can’t happen. Not like how he’s suggesting. He doesn’t have the capacity to handle something like this with any amount of respect or tact.

“I don’t know, Roman. I guess that I always envisioned my first time having sex being with someone that I love. Or trust, at the very least.”

“And you don’t trust me?”

You scoff “Fuck, no.”

“Yeah, that’s smart,” Roman nods. “Okay, fine. I won’t pressure you. You save that special little gift of yours for someone who deserves it.”

You nod as you look down at the floor, tracing the pattern in the carpet with your eyes, gasping when you feel Roman touch your bare knee. “Or…” he murmurs.

“Or?”

Roman’s had the idea of screwing you in his head for a while now, and by his own admission, is especially turned on at the prospect of being the first one to fuck you. It fills him with a primal sort of feeling, knowing that at least for a moment, you’d be his. Your first lover’s name you’d moan would be his, your first orgasm at the hands of another will belong to him only, forever. There’s something about taking your virginity that fills him with a sickening, all-consuming sort of need. He’ll do it, too. By any means necessary.

“Just the tip,” he whispers, his warm hand sliding up your thigh to toy with the edge of your pajama shorts. He wriggles them even higher, not stopping even when you hold your breath and grab his wrist to keep him from traveling further. “Chill. I’m not doing anything,” Roman mumbles, sliding his hand out from under yours to take your hand and put it flat on the bed. He holds your thigh again and speaks slowly, quietly, “You just let me put the tip in and I’ll pay you the same. Whatever - whatever fuckin’ number you want, alright? Put however many zeroes at the end, and it’s yours…if you just let me put the tip in. Sounds easy enough, right?”

“Just the tip,” you repeat quietly, thinking…thinking that it sounds like bullshit, and yet, you’re kind of falling for it anyway. He makes you feel stupid, even when he’s not insulting you.

Roman speaks again before you can talk yourself out of it. “Just the tip,” he lies. “So long as I don’t - you know, fully penetrate you - technically, you’d still be a virgin by the end of our little thing.”

“You’re saying it wouldn’t count?”

Roman nods his head. “Wouldn’t count at all. It’s…a loophole of sorts,” he says, tracing his fingertips up and down your thigh, inching closer and closer to where he wants to feel you the most. “Virginity stays intact. C’mon,” he urges.

You’re fighting yourself. Roman can see the temptation and the self-preservation fighting each other in your mind, and he can’t let the smarter, safer side of you win this.

“You’ve got nothing to lose,” he adds. And he’d get to satisfy a curiosity, but that’s not something he needs to tell you.

“I don’t know, Rome. It - something about it makes me nervous.”

“I know. But I’ll be gentle with you, alright? I’ll take it nice and fuckin’ slow, walk you through the whole thing. No surprises.” Roman shifts a little and reaches into his pocket for his wallet, then pulls out a stack of bills, all hundreds, and places them on your nightstand. “There. Call it a fuckin’...deposit or whatever, I don’t know. Now do we have a deal or not, virgin?”

You bite your lip as you think - or do something resembling thinking, rather. You can’t think clearly, not with Roman’s hands now on your waist. He doesn’t have to touch you anywhere private or sensitive - just his hands on your body is enough to make your brain fucking melt, you poor thing. Don’t even know how badly you need it, need him. Roman will make it all better. Fix you.

“C’mon, baby,” he whispers, his hot breath tickling your ear. He presses a couple of kisses against the side of your neck, feeling your pulse beneath his tongue as he licks you there. You let out a broken moan in response, nodding urgently. Roman smiles against your skin in satisfaction. “Attagirl,” he murmurs, then pulls away from you. Your pupils are blown wide, lips parted. Perfect.

He dims the lamps around the room and turns off the overhead lights, casting the room in a warm, orange glow before joining you on the bed again. “Let’s fuckin’ do this thing. You ready?”

“I don’t - I don’t -”

Roman calms you down before you spiral. “Shh, relax. Relax. We’re going slow, like I said,” he reminds you. “God, you’re so fuckin’...c’mere.”

Roman puts both of his strong hands on your face, thumbs on your jaw, the rest of his fingers firmly pressing into your neck. He pulls you close and kisses you, and his lips feel even better than they look. You let out a little noise that Roman doesn’t acknowledge; he only continues to move his lips tenderly against yours, deepening the kiss when you begin to reciprocate.

He’s an excellent kisser. The way he uses his tongue makes you feel dizzy and sets your whole body on fire, and you feel his hands everywhere. Your face, your neck, your waist, digging his fingers into you and squeezing you like he loves you. “Gimme these.” Roman takes your hands in his own and puts them on his own shoulders, his silent way of showing you how it all should be done as he inches closer to you.

He’s warm, warmer than you imagined. Warm in a comforting way. He smells so…him. Slightly sweaty, but not in a bad way, with his cologne worn down to its base notes. He tastes good, but you couldn’t even begin to describe. You’d be content with just this tonight, really.

Roman deepens the kiss and lays you down gently, caging you in with his body. You’re still feeling out of your depth, unsure of where or how or if you should even touch him, though Roman doesn’t seem to mind. Of course he doesn’t mind. He’s got only one thing on his brain, and that’s ruining you. Touch him however you like or don’t touch him, he doesn’t give a fuck.

His fingers crawl beneath your shirt, climbing up your body until he’s squeezing gently at the flesh of your breasts. You gasp when he rubs his thumb in circles over your nipple, feeling it harden with his touch. “Rome-” you breathe, clutching his bicep.

“It’s okay,” he tells you, repeating the action with your other nipple, causing you to writhe beneath him. “I gotta get you ready for it, sweetheart.”

Roman pushes your shirt up as high as it’ll go, and kisses your neck, dragging his tongue down your skin. He uses the muscle to tease one of your nipples, putting to use his lips and teeth as well. His hands travel down your body, fingers passing over the neat little bow at the front of your pajama bottoms as they slide down towards your center.

You gasp when you feel him touch you there, just over the fabric. Roman groans as he rubs his fingers, feeling how you’ve soaked yourself. “Yeah, you weren’t fuckin’ lying, were you? Made a goddamn mess down here,” he mumbles, pressing little kisses against your neck.

“Lying about what?” you breathe.

Roman has to stifle his laugh so as not to embarrass you, but you are such a cliche, absolutely drenched from a bit of kissing. Too easy. “Shh, nothing,” he says. “Nothing. You’re fine.” Roman pulls your panties and shorts to the side, exposing your cunt to himself. “Has anyone ever touched you here before?”

You shake your head. “Mm-mm.”

Roman only nods as pulls your thighs apart, and your heart pounds hard. He traces your lips only momentarily before diving between your folds, feeling the pool of arousal he’s caused.

“Fuck,” you moan, eyes squeezing shut as you arch into his touch. “R-Roman, Roman…”

“Ohh, man, you’re sensitive,” Roman laughs quietly, rubbing lazy circles over your clit. “Holy fuck. That feel good? Huh, virgin?”

“Yeah,” you whimper, squeezing his forearm and bicep with your hands as if to anchor yourself or something. You feel like you’re gonna break. Everything feels heightened, but sort of sharp and fuzzy at the same time. Your head spins, and you can’t keep track of your thoughts.

You whine when Roman pushes his middle and ring fingers into your pussy, pumping them in and out slowly. “How does that feel?” he asks.

“Good, kinda - uh…kind - kind of hurts.”

“You gotta relax,” he tells you, “ It’s okay.”

Roman shifts a little and smiles at you before curling his fingers, stroking that special, sensitive little place deep inside your cunt you’ve probably never found on your own before. By the way your eyes roll back into your head and how you squeeze your legs shut around his arm, Roman guesses he’s right. “Oh my - fuck, Rome, that - you–” Your voice comes out in broken, breathy moans and you don’t bother finishing your sentence. All you can do is bury your face into his neck and try not to shatter into a million pieces.

Roman fingers you like that for a minute or two longer, listening to those wet noises your cunt makes for him, then slows down his movements before pulling away. “You’re ready for it,” he tells you.

“I am?”

“Absolutely.”

Roman leans back and sits you up, then pulls off your shirt without saying so much as a single word. He does the same to your shorts and panties, tossing them into a crumpled pile on the carpet. The way you squirm and hide yourself makes Roman smile. “Don’t be shy. I need to be able to see what I’m working with, right?”

“Yeah, no. That makes sense.”

“Hold on.” Roman unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off, pulling off his undershirt too. His bulge is sizable in his black slacks, and when he unbuckles his belt and pulls the rest of his clothes off, his hard cock slapping against his tummy, your eyes widen. His dick is massive. The tip reaches his belly button, and it’s curved beautifully, slightly to the right. Roman wraps his fingers around it and squeezes, knuckles whitening a little.

“Y-you’re fucking huge,” you stutter.

“I know, right? It’s Roman Roy’s best kept secret.” He smiles wide, pleased with himself as he winks at you. “Alright. Spread those legs and let’s fuckin’ party.” Roman reaches for your ankles and pulls them apart, eyebrows raising when you fight to keep them closed.

“No! No, don’t.”

“...No?” Roman drops your ankles and sits back, eyeing you. “Scared?”

“Very.”

He chuckles. “You’ve never even felt a cock before, have you?” Roman asks, stroking his cock slowly. You shake your head and he nods in understanding. “Wow, it really is all new to you. That’s my bad, sweetheart.”

Roman lays down next to you again, this time flat on his back. He shifts a little and grabs your wrist, guiding your hand to his cock. “Get to know it a little. Just touch it, however you want,” he instructs. Roman waits for you to touch him, but you’re frozen. He raises an eyebrow, “It’s not gonna bite you.”

“I know, I just don’t know…don’t know what to do.”

Roman says nothing, only presses your fingertips against the large, blunt head of his cock. “Like this,” he says, dragging your fingers down his shaft. He wraps your fingers around his length, then lets you go. Your turn.

You slide your palm up and down his dick, just…taking it all in. His cock feels heavy in your hand which doesn’t surprise you, but you’re struck by his warmth, the heat radiating from him. You trace his veins, then squeeze him slightly in your fist, feeling him throb a little.

Roman patiently lets you explore, despite it being an excruciating tease, groaning softly as he tilts his head back. “Now when you do this for real, with your Mr. Right or whoever,” Roman says, “Don’t just tease him like this. You’ll piss him off,” he warns.

“I will?”

“Oh yeah. No, you’re even pissing me off a little bit. Like, if this weren’t a teaching moment, I’d fuck you in two for this shit.” Roman words scare you a bit, and you stop touching him. “Relax, will you? It’s not gonna happen. You’re in good hands.”

“Okay.”

“Let me show you what to do instead.” Roman takes your hand again, this time spitting in it. “You grab it like you mean it,” he says, wrapping your fingers tightly around his cock, tighter than you would have done yourself. “And–” Roman slides your palm up and down his length, helping you to maintain that firm pressure, “You go all the way up, all the way down. Like - fuck - yeah, like that. You’re a fuckin’ natural, virgin, look at you.”

Roman lets you work him on your own, simply enjoying the feel of your hand on his cock. He thinks it’s cute when you circle his tip with your fingers - it’s not something he taught you to do, but he doesn’t mind it.

“Does this feel like, good?”

“Feels awesome. But,” Roman purrs, “You know what’d feel even better?”

“What?”

“You gotta be brave, sweetheart. Do you want to be brave for me?”

You’re not feeling very brave or adventurous but you nod a little anyway, and Roman jumps at the opportunity. He moves you down the bed, sitting you down between his thighs that are spread wide. “You’re gonna suck my dick,” he tells you, grabbing your face with one of his hands. “Don’t freak out, okay? You’re gonna be fine. Open your mouth.”

Roman holds his thick cock between his thumb, middle, and forefingers. He taps the head against your bottom lip, encouraging you to open wider. When you open your mouth more, Roman lowers your head and fits himself between your lips, simply letting you get used to the feeling of him there. It takes a lot of patience on his part, to not fuck your mouth here and now.

You’re not sure what to do, and Roman knows this. Tangling his fingers in your hair, he bounces your head just a little on his cock, your tongue sliding over his weeping slit. The taste of his precome surprises you - it’s a salty, warm, masculine sort of flavor that you don’t really mind. You’re pleased by how soft his skin feels, how he smells. Gaining confidence, you take him deeper into your mouth.

If Roman were a better man, he’d stop you - he’d warn you that you’re going to choke on his cock, that it’s gonna be too much too quickly. But that’s not Roman, not by a long shot. He inches you further down his cock with each bob of your head, grinning at the way you gurgle and sputter a little. “Little more,” he says. “Keep going.”

Cock in mouth, drool dripping down your chin, you look at Roman, searching for some sort of approval or encouragement. “You got it. And use your tongue, sweetheart. You can make a mess on me. You should, actually.”

You move your tongue in inconsistent patterns, swirling it around his length as Roman moves your head. “Breathe through your nose,” he instructs. “You’re doing so well.”

He lets out soft little groans and his eyes shut for a moment, lips parted. Saliva is running down his cock and your jaw is beginning to ache from his girth, but Roman ignores your noises of discomfort and the tears in your eyes. He fucks himself deeply into your mouth, pushing you far past the point he should. Then suddenly, you gag and cough harshly, pulling yourself off of him. “Oh, fuck. Fuck,” you spit.

Roman rubs your back and stretches across the bed, reaching for your glass of water. “You’re good, you’re alright,” he says, pressing the glass against your lips. “Have some water. You’re not supposed to take me all at once, virgin. That’s how you choke,” he taunts.

After finishing the water, Roman takes your glass and sets it back on the nightstand. “Alright. Back to you, sweetheart. Lie back and spread your legs for me.”

You tremble a little as you lie down, parting your legs only a little. You feel the bed shift with Roman’s moving weight and close your eyes, nervously anticipating the inevitable.

Roman pushes your knees toward your chest and lowers himself, smirking at how tense you look with your short breaths, your fingers fidgeting with the comforter. He could warn you of what’s to come with a couple of kisses pressed against your inner thighs, but it’ll be more fun to surprise you.

He licks your sex from bottom to top with a flat tongue, dragging it slowly through your folds. “Roman,” you gasp, hands darting for his head. You tangle your fingers in the sleek strands of his hair, tugging on them tightly. “You - you’re–”

“Shh,” he interrupts. His stubble scratches your inner thighs as he teases you, tongue circling your clit. Roman buries himself in that softest and most private place on your body, rubbing the tip of his perfect nose against your clit as he tastes you. He circles your entrance a couple of times before dipping inside, tasting your arousal right from the hole it trickles from.

You’re babbling incoherently, whimpering his name as he then drags his tongue up and down your folds. He circles your clit once, then twice, then pulls the hood back and laves over the sensitive bud repeatedly, forcing you to lie still with a strong hand holding you down. He savors you like this, how you shudder and shake, muscles tensing as you fight to close your legs, not used to a feeling so intense. Roman fucks you with his tongue, guiding you through the first orgasm you’ve ever shared with another as you gush into his mouth, clit throbbing under his tongue.

When Roman pulls away, you feel like you could cry. You bite your bottom lip to keep it from wobbling and try to will away that pressure building behind your eyes, but it’s hard. You wonder if Roman notices.

“Now you’re really fuckin’ ready,” he tells you.

“Okay,” you breathe, voice shaking. “Just the tip?”

“Mhm. Just the tip,” Roman confirms. He hovers over you and reaches between your legs to gather your arousal on his fingertips, then coats his cock in your slick. When he presses the thick head of his dick against your pussy, your heart races. You can’t conjure the words to tell him what you need, and urgently take his free hand in yours.

“You wanna hold my hand?” Roman smirks and laces his fingers between yours, pinning your hand against the bed. “We can hold hands, sweetheart.” And then, in one swift, brutal motion, Roman fully buries his cock fully inside you.

It sends you reeling. He’s so huge, it feels like he’s splitting you in two. You feel betrayed and try to squirm away, but Roman forces you to stay down with a hand on your ribcage. Forces you to take it, to feel it all. “Shhh, shh. You’re - hey - you’re fine.” Roman catches the free hand you use to try and shove him backwards and pins it to the bed with the other.

“Y-you–” you sob, unable to form a sentence.

“Ohhh, I know, I know, I know,” Roman coos mockingly. “I played a dirty trick on you, huh? Wasn’t very nice of me, was it?”

You look at Roman and cry, tears falling down your temples and into your hair. With his hand still clutching yours, he uses your own knuckles to wipe some tears away. “Poor thing. You’ll get used to it.”

“But you said–”

“I know what I said,” Roman interrupts. “It’s never just the tip, baby, you know that. Or–” Roman pauses, thrusting into you deeply, “Maybe you really don’t know that. But this is real life, sweetheart. It’s a cruel fuckin’ world out there.”

Roman sets a pace then, drawing in and out of you. Not particularly harshly or quickly, because the penetration alone hurts enough. He rocks his hips, pulling out of you and filling you up all the way with every stroke.

“Roman, stop–”

“No. Fucking take it.”

Roman ignores your sounds of discomfort, going so far as to cover your mouth instead. Your sobs are muffled under his palm, skin dampening with tears and saliva. Roman builds the tempo, lips curled into that awful, lopsided smile. “Listen to yourself. You’re fuckin’ soaked, do you hear that?” he taunts through a strained breath.

The pain is utterly blinding, until it isn’t. You almost resent the way the hurt is replaced with pleasure now, because the betrayal is still there. Betrayal by Roman, and now by your own body. This…this isn’t what you were promised. You trusted Roman and he exploited that, but you’re fucking enjoying it.

Roman’s palm tastes salty over your mouth. When he removes it, a moan slips past your lips, and Roman grins. “Yeah, there it is. Not so terrible, huh, baby?”

You free your hands from his grip and wrap your arms around his shoulders, which is the only thing that feels right. You don’t entirely know why, you just know that you need him close. Roman pulls back a little to watch you, his greenish, hazel eyes darkened with something primal as he pulls out of you and pushes into you, again and again and again. You bury your face in his neck as he fucks you, and one of his hands slide up your torso to grope your breast and tease your nipple.

“Your pussy feels so fuckin’ good,” Roman grunts, rutting his hips into you. He’s in love with all of this, in truth. Addicted. How soft your body is for him, for his hands to squeeze and his fingers to dig into. He could fucking eat you.

He fits his hand between your bodies, the heel of his palm pressing into your pubic bone. He rubs your clit in circles, thrusting into you harder, faster, deeper. “Look at me. Right here” he pants, using his free hand to hold your face. “Come on my cock. Come for me, sweetheart.”

He pulls your orgasm from you effortlessly. Roman’s name spills from your lips in choking sobs as you come on his cock, feeling impossibly full as your cunt pulses around him. It’s the heaviest, most overwhelming feeling, washing over you in waves, muscles spasming and twitching. Roman’s thrusts turn frenzied and frantic, and there it is - he’s coming too. Milking himself inside you, spurting thick, hot ropes of his come, and you take all of it.

Roman pulls out of you then, and uses two fingers to push his escaped spend back inside your poor, raw, throbbing cunt. This time, you do cry. “Ohh, come here,” Roman says softly. He scoops you up into his arms and holds you tightly, stroking your hair. “You okay?”

“No,” you sniffle.

“No?” Roman repeats, momentarily moving you to lean over the bed. He reaches for his pants and grabs his phone out of the pocket, then takes his place next to you again, pulling you into his side tightly. “You’ll get over it. Watch,” he murmurs, unlocking his phone and opening Venmo. He pulls up your profile and shows you the screen, the little blue cursor blinking. You type in a number, then give the phone back to Roman, who adds an extra zero before tapping Pay.

If you enjoyed, please lmk ♡ i love when you reblog and send me asks. It means the world to me ♡

romey tags

@goldenispunk @littlevenicebitch69 @gaeela-6 @bean-is-reading @slutsoutgutsout

@galarian-weezing-on-prep @cum-a-calla @pastelpinkflowerlife @kolsmikaelson @moth-maam56

@kothku @cult-of-escapism @swiftiegirliepop @bluecookies-and-ink @romanarose

@kappasbbgirl @magpiepills @highinmiamiii @verstappensrealwife @thesummerpetrichor

@lilipads @luiscarrutherss @baronessvonglitter @myromeow

@ovaryacted @doll-0f-flesh @always-andromeda @causesimmer @pedropascalbabygirl

@baloobalee @slimybeth69 @pearlstiare @romanisbrat @callsignwidow @ziggymars

@/perpetuallymanic @/111melo @/veryverycoolgirl @/marisemonteiroo

#roman roy x reader #Roman Roy x reader smut #Roman Roy smut #roman roy x you #Roman Roy/reader #Roman Roy/you #roman roy #Kieran Culkin #succession #succession fic

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kedreeva · 3 days ago

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i have an odd animal husbandry question you seem like you might know the answer to, your comment about stan reminded me - ive been thinking about getting into backyard chickens for a couple years and the thing that makes me hesitate most is hard culling. im confident in my ability to put down an animal thats sick, or infirm, or for food, but for like, temperament? or for poor egg layers? just sticks on me for some reason. i think it would feel like telling them theyre not a good enough chicken for me. how to you process this part of animal husbandry?

This will be a little long, so bear with me.

If you want to keep use animals (animals bred for a purpose, to be used for a purpose instead of kept as a companion), you gotta get good with the idea that they are here for you under the agreement that you will only keep them as long as you need to. When you take them on, you are agreeing that you will release them to whatever their next life holds for them as soon as you do not need (or they've completed) their service. Maybe for some people that's just release to the biological cycle of life, for others maybe there's an eternal rest, for others maybe it's reincarnation. For soft culling that's just moving to the next household. Whatever it is, you are allowing them to pass to it in as humane a way as you can, and ultimately it is the single greatest kindness and gratitude you can show to them, to give them proper care while they are here and allow them to end with little to no pain- something animals outside of our care rarely get. You are thanking them for their service, and letting them go. Worth does not even begin to factor into it.

It is not easy to take a life. It is NEVER easy, regardless of reason, regardless of excuse, regardless of anything. It is ALWAYS heavy, and it will always hurt you. And it should. I am grateful for the weight of taking a life, because it reminds me that it is serious, and reminds me to take the production of life seriously, because at some point any life I cause to come into existence via breeding animals will have to end.

On top of that, some things ARE heath related that do not seem health related. Aggression in domestic animals IS A HEALTH ISSUE. A cock is aggressive because he is stressed about intruders, containment, mating threats, resource guarding, etc. Even with the best of care this can be true, and unfortunately for you both, this means the animal is not suited for domestic keeping. The same goes for animals (in any stripe of use, but particularly private care) that display repetitive stress behaviors from normal, proper captive care (for example, mice that are food chewing are stressed and should be culled from lines where possible because they are not having a good time). You are doing them a disservice to keep them in a stressful situation you cannot change because of their biology. It has nothing to do with not being good enough for you, and everything to do with producing/keeping animals that do not experience that stress in captive care and releasing the rest from duty because they will not be okay in any captive care.

For some issues (poor egg laying, for example) you CAN pet-home culls instead of hard culling. It's harder to do, you will spend time finding people who just want pets that don't intend to breed or don't care, but it can be done. However!! Is the bird just slow at producing eggs because her genetics say that's how fast eggs get produced, or is she producing slowly because there's a health problem that isn't immediately evident? Is her ovary damaged, is her reproductive tract infected, does she have a disorder that prevents her from processing food correctly so she can't get what she needs to produce eggs as fast as normal? Are you setting the bird up for failure (and someone else for heartbreak/money troubles) sending them to a pet home? Is it something which could lead to pain/suffering down the road if she's allowed to continue? Hard to say without spending a lot of money. Are you willing to risk your reputation, if someone takes a surprise illness/genetic issue down the road badly ("Oh THAT breeder sold me a sick/unhealthy bird/bird with bad genetics"), and compromise your ability to find homes for healthy birds down the road?

You are okay with culling a bird for food- there's nothing that says you cannot eat the bad temperaments, the poor egg layers, the one with genetic issues, and so on. And if you can tell early enough that you, personally, can't make use of the meat, there are plenty of folks with other animals that would LOVE feed for those animals. Take yourself down to a local reptile expo, grab the business cards for a few people who have big snake babies (retics, burmese, anaconda, redtail boa, even BP) that say they'd be interested in taking culls, OR look up local bird of prey rescues in your area (or reptile rescues or big cat rescues if there are any) and ask if they'd be interested in culls. There is ALWAYS someone that can use what you can't/won't. You may have to jump through some hoops to donate to some kinds of rescues (health testing for example), but it's an option you can look into if you want to combat the feelings you're talking about.

As a last note- and I am saying this gently and holding your face in both hands: do not anthropomorphize animals in reality.

In YOUR eyes, you are culling them an illness or an injury or for food or for temperament or for poor quality or or or---- it does not matter to the animal why you are culling them. A death is a death, to them. They are here, and then a thing happens, and they are no longer. They do not understand life or death or afterlife or reincarnation or that they are here for a purpose or not a purpose or literally anything you as a human might impose upon them in your head. They live while they are alive, and then they are not. They do not "want to live" in the "avoid death" sense because they do not necessarily understand "death" as a future concept. Instincts that have worked well to preserve life have been encoded in their DNA to one degree or another, they can and do respond to avoid pain, but with little exception (like... maybe elephants and dolphins and a crows and a few others), it's unlikely that they understand the connection between doing those things and being alive/avoiding death.

So while TO YOU it may feel like telling the bird they are not good enough, and TO ME it feels like allowing the bird to move on in peace... the bird doesn't know either way, and honestly the reason hardly matters. It is alive in the present, and one way or another it will not be alive someday, and you are responsible for making sure that the one way under your control is so peaceful or quick that the bird hardly knows it is no longer alive. The bird doesn't care about (and cannot understand) the why of their death, any more than they understand their pain/stress and how it relates medical assistance; it's why animals often freak out, refuse meds, etc. They don't hate the vet or the car or the carrier or anything- they just simply don't understand human stuff and react according to instincts/what they do understand. If you treat an animal like the animal it IS rather than the person you imagine it to be, you will find yourself with a lot better relationship with them during life, and be able to frame their passing a bit better later on.

#it's not an odd question actually #it's not even the first time I've been asked questions like this #It's a topic a LOT of people will not face head on #or talk about in louder than a whisper #but death is arguably the most important part of animal husbandry to talk frankly and openly about #asks #animal death for ts #culling #hard culling #chickens

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nomie-11 · 2 days ago

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Vi x Reader - I Love You, I'm Sorry

masterlist!

“Really, Vi?” You practically spat, face to face with a girl you thought you knew. “You’re running with the enforcers now? Since when were you a bluebelly?”

The grimace on her face was set in firm lines, hard and unyielding and so unlike the Vi you once knew. This was her—same powder blue eyes, same fiery pink hair, same cheekbones, same lip shape, but your Vi would never betray you like this.

“This is for you, this is for Zaun,” god, even the words tasted like a lie on her tongue, but she wouldn’t admit it. “Jinx is a danger to us both topside and here in the undercity. You should know that!”

“Is that the lie you’re telling yourself to justify this!?” You were practically vibrating with anger, fists clenched tightly at your sides. “I loved you, Vi. What are you doing?”

Vi’s face twisted, a crack of pain breaking through her tough facade. “I—” she started, but her words fell apart.

The silence that stretched between you felt louder than the pounding of your heart. You could barely breathe, your chest heaving with rage, disbelief, and heartbreak.

“You loved me? Don’t you dare use that in the same breath as selling me out,” you snapped, stepping closer to her. You didn’t care about the enforcer shadowing her, a step behind with one hand hovering near her weapon. All you could see was Vi, standing there with a badge at her hip and gilt in her eyes. “I trusted you. You swore you’d never betray us. Never betray me.”

“This isn’t about betrayal!” Vi shot back, her voice trembling as she raised her hands, trying to calm you or herself—you couldn’t tell. “This is about stopping you before it’s too late. You’ve gone too far, Y/n. The arson, the—” she hesitated, jaw tightening. “The murders. Working with—”

“With Silco!?” You laughed, a dry, bitter sound. “That’s what she told you, isn't it?” You gestured sharply to the enforcer—Caitlyn—her perfect Piltover uniform untouched by the grime of Zaun. “Let me guess, she spun some story about me being a terrorist, and you just ate it up because she’s got a fancy accent and a badge.”

“That’s not—” Vi started, but Caitlyn’s voice cut through her hesitation.

“She’s dangerous, Vi. You know that.” Caitlyn’s tone was level, professional, but her gaze flicked to you with a mix of wariness and disdain. “We need to bring her in—now.”

“Jinx and I have done more for this city than you ever could! We’ve brought hope back to Zaun and you’re trying to rip it to shreds! What about my parents? What about your parents!” Your heart cracked, splintering into sharp, jagged pieces. You took another step forward, daring Vi to stop you. “So, what’s it going to be, Vi? Do you believe her?” You pointed at Caitlyn. “Or me?”

Vi hesitated, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. Her eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, you saw the girl you fell in love with. The girl who once fought for Zaun, for her family, for you. But then she looked at Caitlyn, and everything shattered.

“I love you,” Vi whispered, her voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”

The words hit you like a blow to the chest. Your vision blurred, not from tears—no, you wouldn’t cry—but from a red-hot fury that burned through your veins. “No,” you growled, voice low and venomous. “Don’t you dare say that to me. You don’t get to say you love me and choose a Piltie over me.”

“Y/n,” Vi said, stepping toward you, but you backed away, shaking your head.

“Stay the hell away from me,” you spat, your voice trembling with anger and heartbreak. “You’re no better than the blue bellies who raided Zaun and tore our families apart. You’re just like them. You’re a traitor.”

The words cut deep—you saw it in the way Vi flinched, the way her hand wavered before falling uselessly to her side. But you didn’t care. Let her feel a fraction of th pain she had inflicted on you.

Caitlyn stepped forward then, gun in hand. “Surrender peacefully, or this ends the hard way.”

A bitter laugh escaped your lips. “You think I’m going down without a fight?” Your hands flexed at your sides, ready to grave the blade hidden beneath your coat. You knew it wasn’t a fair fight—two against one, with Caitlyn’s hextech rifle and Vi’s hextech fists—but you didn’t care. If this was how it ended, you’d make them work for it.

The fight erupted in a blur of movement. Caitlyn fired, but you ducked, the bullet ricocheting off a metal pipe. You lunged at Vi, and for a moment, your fists collided with hers—like old times, but with none of the playfulness, none of the love.

“Y/n, stop!” VI shouted, blocking your strikes. Her voice was desperate, pleading. “I don’t want to hurt you!”

“Funny, because you already have,” You snarled, landing a blow that sent her stumbling back. But Caitlyn was there, quick and efficient, slamming the butt of her rifle into your side. Pain exposed in your ribs, but you didn’t falter.

You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

It wasn’t long before they overwhelmed you. Caitlyn had you pinned, her knee digging into your back as she cuffed your hands. Vi stood over you, blood dripping from a cut above her eyebrow, her expression a mix of anguish and regret.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you hissed, struggling against the cuffs. “Don’t you dare look at me like that.”

“I—” Vi started, but you cut her off.

“You made your choice,” you spat. “You chose her. You chose Piltover. You chose everything you once swore to hate. And for what? A badge? A chance to play hero?” You laughed bitterly, the sound hollow. “Screw you, Vi.”

Her face crumpled, and for a moment, you thought you saw tears in her eyes. But you didn’t care. Let her cry. Let her feel the weight of what she’d done.

As Caitlyn hauled you to your feet, you fixed Vi with a glare, your voice cold and unyielding. “You’re dead to me, Vi. Don’t ever forget that.”

-------

If you enjoyed this one shot, please check out my other series!

#arcane vi x reader #vi arcane #vi x y/n #vi x you #vi x reader #vi x fem reader #arcane x y/n #arcane x you #arcane x reader #arcane x female reader #arcane #arcane season 2 #arcane s2 #piltover's gayest

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ere-the-sun-rises · 3 days ago

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I've got a story about this exact situation.

| | |

I had to read "The Stone Angel" by Margaret Laurence in Grade 12 English. It's hard to describe - a kind of day-in-the-life-of/character study/old-woman-tells-you-her-life-story kind of book. It's not about anything, necessarily - just a run through of one woman's version of the human experience. She tells her story as it happened, occasionally interjecting regrets or observations from her vantage point in the future. An interesting narrative design, and a compelling one.

I hated every fucking moment of reading that book. I bitched and moaned and resented it for taking up my life.

The worst part was, ironically, the protaganist. She was the most bitter, vile, wretched and judgmental shrew I'd ever had the misfortune to read about. I loathed her and being forced to see through her eyes. She would say and think unhinged and cruel things to people who loved her and cared for her. Had she been real before me, I would have slapped her so hard she'd get whiplash. She was repulsive, and even the really shitty things that happened to her - like two abusive husbands who left her broke and shamed - could not summon my pity or empathy. I didn't think she deserved what they put her through, but by god, she certainly didn't deserve to be happy.

And then ... the ending happened.

She skips back and forth between describing her past and narrating her present, where's she's an 80-something living with her second son and his wife. She tells you early on that she's doing this mental exercise because she's been diagnosed with dementia, so she wants to remember everything as it happened.

She decides to wander the neighbourhood and gets lost for three days. She finds and makes friends with a homeless man who lets her share his cardboard and newspaper bedding. They swap some stories about their lives. She thinks about her life on a park bench during the day, sitting in the sun and enjoying the warmth after a cold night. She finally admits she's been ungrateful (and unrepentantly evil) to a lot of people in her life (especially her second son and especially especially his wife). Then, in the middle of a thought, the sentence stops short and the rest of the page is empty. It took me a moment to register what had just happened. I re-read the last few sentences a few times before it clicked.

She died.

An elderly woman, riddled with dementia, lost and unable to find her way home, died out in a public park, alone.

Except I was there.

I'd been there with her the whole time. I left the house with her, followed her through the little city she lived in, listened as she told me her whole life story. I had been with her to her final breath and thought - the only one who was. Someone random. A stranger who, until this very moment, had reviled her and sought only to escape her miserable fucking life - I was who she died with. Not her son who loved her so much or her daughter-in-law who spent years looking after this frigid bitch, not anyone from her past - me. Just ... me.

I was shattered. I sat on my bedroom floor, staring at and rereading her last, unfinished words. I knew she had more to say and only now, once she was gone, did I want to know them. All the resentment drained out of me and I was left by myself for the first time in weeks, hollowed out and sad. Sad for all of it - the misery her husbands put her through, the elitist pride she saddled herself with, the disdain she showed everyone around her, the heartbreak of her son when he inevitably found her body. So much time and energy ... all wasted by her. She couldn't realize much she had until she's elderly and lost, and through a confluence of chance and her own high-handed sins, she dies here. With nothing by ghosts and no one but a distant stranger who never talks back.

I closed that book and stared blankly at the cover art. I just watched that woman die. And this transcript of her thoughts is all that's left of her now - sitting on the floor between my legs and staring silently back at me.

| | |

I only read this book once, and I'm unlikely to ever read it again. I hated her, and I'd probably hate her even more now that I'm an adult with more adult perspectives on the things in her life.

I think everyone should read it.

It's a miserable slog with a repugnant protaganist and it broke my heart so thoroughly that I still remember it a decade later. I've never had a book - before or since - strip me bare with all the things it didn't say. The pathos is extraordinary and devastating. The absence of her words, the unfinished thoughts in her mind ... haunting.

I said that this book isn't about anything, because it isn't. But "The Stone Angel" is something ... her tombstone. It's simultaneously what it is to die and to watch someone die. To feel loss, even for someone you might hate. She's dead, and her death doesn't take her wrongs with her or undo her own suffering - it's just silence. Loss. Maybe even grief.

But that's the point, isn't it? To feel grief, one must have empathy, sympathy; feel affection or pity or both. This book made me feel grief for a fundamentally unpleasant fictional woman simply by letting me experience her life with her.

You'll hate reading this book, and I think you should.

I straight up do not trust you if you did not enjoy a single book you had to read for English class. I know they assigned some real stuffy stinkers and the curriculum varies across districts but not one? Not The Outsiders? Not The Picture of Dorian Gray? Not Fahrenheit 451? Not even Frankenstein? Damn. That’s crazy.

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notashadowbutawave · 8 hours ago

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finally talked my wife into watching 8x06 "confessions" with me and WOW there's quite a lot going on in this breakup scene in buck's apartment (and the infamous glee scene for that matter) that I haven't seen discussed much on this website (though maybe I'm just not finding it?) like this show is always yelling the themes in your face but...

first of all I think it's somewhat intentional that Buck is being written as kind of regressing. So far in the show, he's gotten his confidence in romantic relationships by fulfilling the role with the person that he thinks he should fulfill. with Abby, Buck had just learned about serious adult romantic relationships and how they work and was trying to Be A Partner in a complete speed run. But he learned that no amount of devotion is a substitute for functionality. with Taylor, he was trying to Be A Functional Partner - and he learned that being a partner Has To involve trust, and that trust comes from somewhere else other than just our actions - it has to come from our hearts.

Tommy is the first person he's ever dated where he doesn't know what the next steps are and that's because this isn't something he has a blueprint for - being a Partner and a Functional Partner for somebody who sees right through him and sees exactly what he's trying to do, to make Tommy never leave. Abby was completely clueless (sorry I really dislike Abby) and Taylor didn't realize that an adult man could behave so badly without utter malice in his heart. Both of them kind of make the mistake of being vulnerable to Buck's charms.

Tommy is of course vulnerable to Buck's charms but Buck is more transparently himself with Tommy as well - and what Tommy sees, then, is a person who is deeply insecure and may be trending in the right direction but ultimately still thinks there's a lever he can pull to make Tommy stay and never leave him. He doesn't know that he's not done cooking yet because every new thing he learns about the world or others makes him feel brand fucking new.

So yes, the glee scene:

Josh was absolutely gagged that Tommy was Abby's ex fiance

Buck's first instinct is to see the situation from Abby's side and go into protective mode which is adorably loyal to be fair but also like ; get a grip

I actually love Josh's framing of "you care about this person and if you want a future in a queer relationship you need to learn that we don't all come to this the same way"

Did they need a cultural reference? No. Were they going to self referentially congratulate Ryan Murphy for inflicting it on the world? Yes.

And regarding the breakup itself:

What is wrong with this fandom's sense of humor that I haven't seen a gif of "I'm the himbo" ??? Like yes babe u sure are come here

Buck is really working so hard in this scene to make sure Tommy knows that he's serious. He's like... this freaked me out but I've decided I'm cool with it. She changed my life but not like you !!!

Like bless his heart, Buck thought he was really doing the right thing by telling Tommy about Abby BEFORE ASKING HIM TO MOVE IN WITH HIM. like MY CARDS ARE ON THE TABLE??? SEE??? LOVE ME FOREVER !! it's adorable and it's also cringe as fuck.

I think the real sin of the writing here is making Buck so completely clueless that this is the wrong move. Like he's kind of an idiot (Eddie Diaz's words not mine) but moving in with someone after dating them for six months in your 30s is WILD behavior and I don't think even Evan Buckley would fail to realize that this is a bit much in this moment.

But idk being in love makes one do stupid things? I did all of my messy bitch relationship shit before I turned 30 but I guess it is buck we are talking about

I completely understand why Tommy reacts the way he does in this scene and bless Lou Ferrigno Jr for acting it with such nuance, much more depth than the scene frankly deserves. What a heartbreaker. Like you see him tense up at Buck's request

"I'm not saying let's get married or engaged, even though we would have the right, thanks to the brave people who came before, including you." such an insane thing to say to your boyfriend. Whoever approved this script was trying to take me out like with a gun.

You then see the absolute grief in Tommy's eyes like oh god this kid is killing me. He's so sweet. He's so cute. He doesn't get it. I love him. He doesn't get it.

As an aside, Eddie being stalked in the juice bar by the hot priest was absolutely incredible.

I didn't hate this episode but wow the writing does suck shit, however I fully believe it makes sense for them to break up here and get back together in the future ??? because Buck DOES have some shit to figure out. Like moving in with someone is a lot of fucking intimacy REALLY fast and baby boy sometimes you NEED to pump the brakes a little ESPECIALLY when you think someone might be THE ONE and you just figured out you like guys six months ago.

I get it and yeah the writing is tragic and the inclusion of Abby in general is just unhinged and unnecessary but like I don't hate the broad strokes here. how else does the blorbo learn if not by ritual torture by the writers. Lou is too good to not have back though. My god what a treasure.

end bucktommy endgame truther transmission

#bucktommy #911 abc #911 abc spoilers #evan buckley #tommy kinard #lou ferrigno jr

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formula-ghost · 9 hours ago

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Supermodel (FC43 x fem!reader)

SUMMARY: Franco can’t understand how you, the love of his life, could ever feel insecure—so he goes above and beyond to show you (and the world) how beautiful he thinks his girlfriend is. This can be read within the RYD universe or as a stand alone one shot!

WORD COUNT: 6.1k

WARNINGS: SMUT, 18+, MINORS DNI. Teasing, light dom reader/ sub Franco at the beginning dom Franco at the end, body dysmorphia/reader insecurity, worship, mirror sex, spanking, hair pulling, dirty talk/mentions of AFAB anatomy (reader has a vagina), use of the word whore, protected sex. Use of YN. Also the song doesn’t match the vibe of the story but I wanted to stick with the Måneskin theme lol.

A/N: Some more Franco content! I need some more time with the Oscar fic, plus I’ll be returning to regular life since the holidays are over soon, so I figured I’d tide you over with a spicy Franco one shot. Since (in my head at least) this is set in the RYD universe, I’ve included the same tag list, and I hope you all enjoy it!

TAGLIST: @scopeiguess @storyteller-le @xivilivix @htpssgavi @wierdflowerpower @justsisse @uncreativetm @ncrsbrg @tillyt04 @amz824 @ellelabelle

Yeah, she’s a master, my compliments

If you wanna love her, just deal with that

She’ll never love you more than money and cigarettes

Every night’s a heartbreak

“You’re fucking beautiful,” Franco panted, his eyes trailing your curves up and down just as his fist squeezed tightly over the growing bulge in his pants.

Your cheeks were flushed red, almost as dark as the wine-colored matching lingerie set you now wore before him, leaving little to the imagination. You couldn’t help it—no matter how long you’d been with the Argentine, you still got bashful when he complimented you.

“I hope you know I mean it,” he began, leaving his spot on the bed to advance toward you. He gently brushed your hair away and kissed the top of your shoulder, looking up at you with his deceptively innocent doe eyes. “You’re the most perfect thing in the world to me.”

You smiled, blissful at the feeling of his touch. “It’s easy to say that when I’m standing in front of you in my new set.”

“I love you,” he said, as if it was as simple as telling the time. “So much. More than words can say. And I want you to remember that when you’re mad at me after I rip this off of you.”

He grabbed the strap of your bra, and you giggled, “You better not!” You playfully pushed him back on the bed. “No touching, not yet. Be good.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, obedient to only you. The grip you had on him was intoxicating.

You climbed up on the bed, straddling him, running your featherlight fingertips up and down his arms and chest.

“Mi amor,” he exhaled, “you are cruel to me.”

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked, sarcastic yet seductive.

“Don’t you dare.”

You laughed. If he thought a bit of teasing was cruel, he would not be having fun for the rest of the night.

But, of course, he loved nothing more than ravishing your body, evident by his labored breath, laying next to you when the deed was finished. He stared at you with awe, your eyes still closed. He listened as you tried to catch your breath, placing gentle kisses on the top of your arm and into your shoulder.

You just let out a little noise in response, feeling safe and comforted by his touch. When you two were alone, he always needed to touch you in some way, much to your dismay during the sweltering hot months of summer.

His kisses traced their way up to your neck, chin, and finally to your cheek, where he gently moved your hair out of your face to gaze on the gorgeous image of your face.

“I wish there were better words in English to explain how I feel about you,” he said, his voice low and genuine. “Something stronger than I love you. Something more than just beautiful.”

“You know I love it when you speak to me in Spanish,” you said, letting your eyelids flutter open to meet his gaze, only inches from your own.

“Yes, but I want you to understand what I mean.” He smiled softly.

“My Spanish is getting better.”

“It is, you’re doing great,” he joked, nuzzling his nose into your neck, leaving you in a fit of giggles. “You’ll be talking circles around me in no time.”

“I wish. You’re fluent in yapenese,” you joked. You playfully mocked his voice, “Mi amor, you are so beautiful, the light of my life—”

“Oh hush,” he said, smiling ear to ear. “You love it.”

“I do.”

“And it’s true.” He cupped your face, bringing you into a sweet embrace with a gentle kiss. “Join me in the shower?”

“In a minute,” you answered, as he got up from the bed and started the warm water. After a few more moments of rest, you got up, picking up the discarded items of clothing that now dotted the floor, thrown aside in the heat of the passionate moment.

You crossed the room to open the bureau and grab a fresh set of pajamas, before you caught sight of your reflection in the floor-length mirror.

You had gained a little weight. It was normal, you supposed; a natural result of your many nights out with your lover.

But you felt stuck in front of the mirror, your eyes rolling over the curves at the bottom of your stomach, what once was somewhat flat. Little thunderbolt-shaped lines now decorated the dimpled skin. And as you brought your arm up to grip the loose fat, you saw the extra flesh there too.

“Mi amor, you coming?” Franco called from inside the bathroom. You hummed in response.

You turned, noticing how the light caught every imperfection. The puffiness in your face, the roundness of your jaw, the lines and bumps and discoloration. You sucked in your stomach, seeing the surface flatten, then exhaled, watching with disgust how your body shifted.

“Amor?” Franco said, poking his head outside of the bathroom. Seeing you in front of the mirror, he crossed the room, finding his way behind you. He was covered only with a towel, wrapping his arms around your naked form and kissing your neck. But the sight of his flawless, athletic body behind yours did nothing to dismiss your insecurities.

“What are you doing, pretty girl, hm?” he asked, resting his head on your shoulder.

“I’ve gained weight.”

“Did you? I didn’t notice.” His voice was tinged with a genuine confusion.

“I look like I’m pregnant,” you said, gesturing to your bloated stomach.

“No it doesn’t,” he assured. “But if you want to be pregnant, we can arrange that.”

You ignored his attempts at banter. “I look gross.”

“Mi amor,” Franco began, his voice more serious. “Do I need to fuck you again to show you how beautiful you are?”

“Franco—”

“YN.”

You looked away. “You could be with a model.”

“I’m with you. And you’re perfect, and I love you with my entire heart.” You bit the inside of your cheek. He continued, “Look at me.”

You brought your gaze back to his. “Your body has changed a little bit, so what?”

“It’s easy for you to say. You’re an athlete.”

“That doesn’t matter. No more of this talk. You’re beautiful. End of discussion. Now, let’s stop wasting water and get in the shower.”

You weren’t really feeling any better. If anything, you felt worse, now self conscious of your nakedness as Franco ran his hands up and down the soapy surface of your skin. You wanted nothing more than to get out of the shower, put on your clothes, and bury yourself so deep under the covers that you’d forget that you ever even possessed a physical form.

And, much to Franco’s dismay, that’s what you did, turning away from him as you laid your head down to sleep. He pushed himself up next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. He tapped his foot on your leg, initiating you to throw it over his is like you usually did every night.

“You know,” he whispered, “this is when you’re supposed to pretend like you like me.”

“It’s not you, Franco,” you whispered back. “I love you. But it’s not something you can fix.”

“I know.” He sighed. “But that won't stop me from trying.” He placed a gentle kiss on the back of your neck, and you fell into a tense sleep.

Although Franco hadn’t initially noticed your physical changes, he now noticed your emotional ones. You wore loose clothing more often, as if to hide your body not only from the outside world, but from yourself. You skipped breakfast occasionally when you were having a really bad day. And now, when you made love, you wanted the lights out, preventing him from seeing the shapes of your body.

He knew that what you had said was true—he couldn’t fix this. No matter the amount of love he showered you in, he couldn’t change the way your mind thought when you looked at yourself in the mirror. And it broke his heart knowing that you couldn’t see the same version of yourself that he saw, the perfect girl who he loved so dearly.

Your pain was beyond his fixing, but not beyond his helping. If he had showered you in love before, it was monsoon season now. Flowers every week. More lingerie to model for him. Touching you nearly every second of the day. More sex than your body could handle.

Of course, you welcomed his affection. But none of it helped that wound deep inside of you.

It was at work, of all places, that he got the idea.

“We’ve got a meeting with the new sponsors today,” his manager explained as they quickly trotted down the long hallway to the conference room. “That luxury brand I was telling you about? I’ve sealed the contract, they’re just here to plan the promo materials.”

Now, sitting in the conference room, the brand representative explained it to him. “The idea for the campaign is risque luxury. We want something… elegant, yet dangerous. Formula 1 fans are the perfect audience. Most of the shots for the initial campaign would just be in-studio, and then, we’d need you to wear some pieces we provide at official Formula 1 events.”

“That all sounds fine,” he said.

“Great! We’re still looking for some more representatives for the women’s line, but when we find them, we can set up a date for the shoot.”

“Wait, like a female model? I’d need to pose with her?”

“For the first shoot, yes. And if we can get some shots of you and whoever we choose at official events, that’d be perfect.”

“Uh, well, I have a girlfriend. I can't just…be taking random women to events.”

The rep laughed. “Oh, it’s not like that. The models are all professionals. I assure you that no one would be trying to take you away from your partner.”

“If you all need a female model, why not just use her? We’ll be seen together a lot more than anyone else, no?”

His manager shot him a death glare. Was it highly unprofessional to be suggesting his own girlfriend for a job like this? Absolutely. Did he care at all? Absolutely not.

The rep asked, “Oh, does she model?”

“Eh… no, not professionally. But this could be her big break, no?” Franco laughed, and the rep did too, for obviously different reasons. But Franco was, unfortunately, serious.

“Does she have social media?” the rep asked, and Franco pulled up your instagram as the rep scrolled through.

“Well, first of all, she’s beautiful,” the rep said, clearly trying to be polite. “But, modeling is not just about being pretty.”

“Then why am I here?” The room erupted in laughter, but Franco hadn’t intended the statement to come out like a joke. “No, I’m serious. I drive Formula 1 cars. What are my modeling qualifications?”

“Well,” the rep began, carefully choosing his words, “you have the Latin American market in a chokehold—”

Franco cut him off. “My fans love her, too.”

The rep pursed his lips. “I’m sure they do.”

“Look, I’m not trying to be difficult—”

“Not at all,” the rep said, cutting Franco off as well. “Let me ask, though… is this a deal breaker for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, if we get a real model, are you saying you wont pose or be seen with her?”

Franco looked at his manager across the table, who was nothing short of fuming. He began, “You said the theme was ‘risque luxury.’ I’m not going to pose for risque photos with another woman, no.”

The rep sighed. Franco continued, “And honestly, I still don’t even understand why you all even want me to model for you. Nobody in Argentina can even afford these outrageous prices—”

“Okay Franco, that’s enough!” his manager said, a false happiness in her tone. She turned to walk the rep outside, saying, “This has been a wonderful meeting, we can’t wait to hear from you…”

Once he had exited the building, she returned, looked at Franco, and said, “I hope you know you just lost us that contract.”

“Did you sign me up to do a photoshoot with a random woman?”

His manager paused. “...It’s business, Franco.”

“C’mon,” he said, “you knew about this, and you didn’t say anything?”

“I thought you’d understand. Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do.”

“You knew that was too much.”

She sighed. “Yeah, okay, I took a gamble hoping you wouldn’t care and I lost. But that sponsorship money is coming out of your bonus.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to promote this overpriced shit anyway.”

“You’re the bane of my existence, kid,” his manager said, patting him on the back as she walked out of the room.

At the end of the day, all Franco could think about was coming home and collapsing in your arms. When his manager was mad at him—which was often, given his refusal to be media trained—it was his favorite way to destress.

So when he arrived home and collapsed on top of you, interrupting whatever mindless show you had been watching, you just smiled to yourself. As he exhaled, you placed one hand through his soft curls, and threaded the other under the collar of his shirt to scratch his back. He melted into your touch.

“Hello,” you said, placing a kiss on his head. “Long day?”

“She’s mad at me again,” he murmured, closing his eyes.

“What’d you do this time?”

“Why do you assume I did something?”

You softly chuckled, “Because I know you.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” he pouted.

“I’m sure it wasn’t.”

He sighed. “I fucked up a sponsor contract. But really, it wasn’t my fault! They wanted me to pose with a bunch of models to sell their overpriced jewelry.”

You hummed. “I thought you liked doing photoshoots?”

“They’re fun, yeah, when they don’t want me to touch random women,” he frowned. You could hear the genuine disgust in his voice.

“I think you’re the only man in the world who would turn down the opportunity to be surrounded by models,” you laughed.

He lifted his head up to look at you. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“Why would I want a bunch of random women touching on me when I have a girlfriend?”

You laughed again. “Because they’re models.”

He gave you a look of confused disgust and said, “Oh, hush, YN. You’re the only woman I want within a hundred feet of me at any given time.”

“There’s nothing wrong with acknowledging that other women are beautiful.”

He looked at you sternly. “Um, no. This is when you tell me I’m not allowed to look at, let alone touch, anyone other than you.”

“Franco, you know I’m not like that.”

“You are, though! What has gotten into you, lately?”

“I don’t know what you mean, I’m fine.”

Franco sighed. “No, you’re clearly not. What do I have to do for you to understand that you are the only woman in this world that matters to me? I don’t care what you say, you are the only one I want, the most beautiful girl in the world—”

He leaned up to kiss you, but you dodged his affection.

“Hey!” he protested. You got up from the couch, feeling overwhelmed by the whole interaction.

“YN, come back—” you just ignored him as you went back to your shared bedroom, barricading yourself in the attached bathroom and exhaling.

Franco was right. The insecurity had been eating at you for weeks, and somehow, Franco’s commitment to trying to make you feel better had made it worse. Most girls would be happy that their boyfriend (especially their young, famous, athlete boyfriend) wanted nothing to do with other women. But somehow, it just made you fear the worst—when Franco finally saw you as you saw yourself, and you became nothing more than just another one of the many women he ignored.

“YN, come out and talk to me,” you heard him softly plead from outside the door.

“I’m sorry, I just need a minute,” you said through the tears that welled up in your eyes.

“No need to apologize, take all the time you need,” he said. “But when you’re done, promise you’ll come talk to me about it?”

You took a deep breath. “Yeah,” you answered weakly.

“Okay,” he said. You could hear how he pressed his forehead to the door. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Your voice was shaking.

You just needed 5 minutes to breathe and calm down alone. That’s what you told yourself as you took another deep breath and wiped away the tears that now spilled over the corners of your eyes.

“I’m okay,” you whispered to yourself. “I’m okay, it’s okay. It’s okay.” You’d say it until it was true.

When you'd finally calmed down somewhat, you still waited in the bathroom, not wanting Franco to see your puffy, bloodshot eyes, the evidence of your tears. But he knew you were crying. And he knew you’d keep your word and talk to him when you were ready.

He knew you inside and out. So when you silently emerged from the bathroom and found him in the kitchen washing dishes, he knew no words were needed. You slipped your arms around his waist and rested your head against his back as he turned the water off and dried his hands.

He turned around and met your embrace, holding your head beneath his chin and enveloping you in his strong arms. His tender touch brought the tears back.

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t apologize.”

“No,” you corrected. “You’re so good to me. I don’t know why I’m like this.”

“It breaks my heart to see you hurting like this. Is there anything I can do to make it better?”

“Just hold me,” you said, burying your head deeper into his chest, smelling the familiar scent of his cologne and the warm comfort of his breath rising and falling.

The next day, Franco woke before you, spending a moment staring at your sleeping form before he had to get up and leave for the day.

He knew you had been struggling, but for the life of him, he couldn’t understand how your mind saw something so much more different than his saw. It broke him to know you thought of yourself so negatively.

But he’d hold you all day everyday if it meant it helped even a little bit. He would do anything.

So, when your alarm began screeching and you lazily turned it off, he let you sleep in, simply pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before he went into yet another one of endless meetings with his manager before the season started.

She walked in and slammed a stack of papers on the desk. “I don’t know how you keep getting away with this shit every fucking time,” she said.

Franco raised a brow. Her tone wasn’t angry, as he expected, but rather…frustrated?

“The contract,” she continued. “The rep called me last night. They want you to do the campaign no matter what. They’ll let you do it with YN.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes. We’ll have to get her in here to sign the contract, then we’ve got fittings and we still need to set the date for the actual shoot…”

His manager’s voice faded into the background as Franco remembered the previous night. The idea of you, dolled up in designer clothes posing next to him, had excited him at first. Now, he was unsure if that would just make things worse.

He had to be…deliberate in bringing it up. At home that night, as you two ate dinner, he decided to choose his words very, very carefully.

“So, you remember that contract I said I lost?”

“The designer stuff?” you asked. He nodded.

“Yeah. Well, I…actually didn’t fuck it up as bad as I thought I did. They still want us to do the campaign.”

“That’s good. It’ll get your manager off your case.” Your gaze drifted to the plate of food in front of you. The unspoken question lingered in the air.

“Please don’t be mad at me—” he began, but you cut him off.

“Franco, you’re a professional. I trust you.”

“Well, um… they want you to model.”

You looked up at him, perplexed. “Me?”

“I showed them your social media.”

“And they want…me. To model for them.”

“Well, they want you to do the campaign with me, yes. And wear a dress of theirs to a fancy event or two.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a model. And all my followers are just your fans, anyway.”

“Other driver’s girlfriends have done it, why can’t you?” He put down his fork and looked you in the eye. “YN, I think this would be a great thing. I can show you off to the world, and they’ll dress you up and make you feel beautiful. You’re beautiful without it, of course, but you know what I mean. I can’t make you say yes, but I’d love to do this with you.”

You took a beat to think. You couldn’t deny that you wanted the experience of going to lavish galas in designer gowns and seeing Franco grace the covers of magazine and social media home pages. Besides, you thought, if you truly looked bad they could just photoshop you to hell and back.

“Okay,” you answered, “let’s do it.”

So, a few weeks later, you found yourself in one of those cloth chairs that you had only seen in movies, having powder liberally applied to your face by a makeup artist.

“The heavy makeup is just for the lights. They’re warm and harsh, so it’ll drown you out and make you look greasy if we don’t apply this much.”

You hummed in response, afraid to move your face. “I can tell this is your first time,” the artist said. “Just relax and let us work our magic, yeah? When they all say celebrities are fake, this is what they mean.”

You would have chuckled if you weren’t already sweating with nervousness. “Close your eyes,” she said, and you obeyed, only flinching as she generously sprayed setting spray over your makeup.

“Alrighty, off to hair for you.”

Hair was the same—a nervousness that clearly identified you as an outsider to this world of glitz and glamor. You coughed when she nearly drowned you in hairspray.

Then it was time for the final touches, the dress and jewelry.

You gasped as they brought it out. A long silver satin gown, custom measured to hug your curves perfectly. Your neck was adorned with diamonds, your lips blood red, your hair falling in soft waves over your shoulders.

When you finally made it into the studio, Franco was already there, clad in a simple yet elegant black suit to contrast against the shiny fabric of your dress. He wasn’t facing you when you first entered, but hearing the click of your heels against the wooden floors, he turned and stopped in his tracks.

“Oh my God,” he exhaled. “You look…” He was, quite literally, speechless.

You let out an awkward laugh, unused to having so much attention on you.

“Amazing!” the brand rep said. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

And that, you did. The first shots were simple: you resting your arms on a chair while Franco sat, looking off into the distance, his perfect side profile on display. Both of you staring down the camera, arms placed in dynamic positions.

Then you switched to the more sensual shots. Franco kneeled before you, kissing your hand, allowing you to show off the ring they had placed to contrast your black gloves. Another one, a shot of you holding his cheek as he gazed up at you in admiration.

Then you switched, with him taking the more dominant role in the poses. His hand around your neck, showing off his own ridiculously expensive rings, as you tilted your head upwards towards him and he glared at the camera. A shot of Franco holding you up against a wall; his arm was draped above you to show off a watch, but his other hand found your waist and his head was turned as if to kiss you while you stared at the camera.

“Okay, play with the pose a bit,” the photographer instructed. “Let’s get some candids.”

You turned away from the camera, trying to ignore the incessant clicking and flashing in the background.

He smiled. “Hi, pretty girl.”

“Hi,” you replied, smiling as well. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

Franco leaned closer to your ear to whisper, “I really want to rip this dress off you.”

“Franco!”

“Oh, that was good!” the photographer yelled. “Whatever you said, do it again, her expression was golden.”

You laughed as you both repositioned, standing in front of the dark backdrop.

“How much will it cost if I damage this dress?” Franco asked, looking at the photographer.

“Probably more than quadruple my salary,” the photographer laughed. “So please don’t.”

“But I have an idea. Just hear me out.”

Franco leaned down and gripped the strap of your dress in his mouth, eliciting a gasp from you and a thousand clicks of the camera.

His most bold suggestion, though, was the shot from the floor; he laid down and had you crawl on his chest and kneel above his head, draping his shoulders in the luxurious fabric and showing off your bedazzled garter beneath a silt in the dress. Though the photo would only expose a little bit of thigh, you couldn’t deny the rush of adrenaline that the position gave you.

When the shoot was over, it hurt your heart a bit to have to take off the dress and jewelry. Franco could tell. A sad smile painted your face as they carefully removed the diamonds from your neck and ears. But the one that hurt most was the gorgeous diamond ring, which you gently slipped off your gloved finger with a pang of sadness.

Franco was right; it had been fun to dress up and show off, but it was over now. So you said a silent goodbye to this false world of luxury as you walked off to the dressing room, and Franco went over to the brand rep who was packing up your jewelry.

“A lovely job, both of you!” he said. “I’ll admit, I was hesitant at first, but you all definitely proved me wrong. These photos will come out amazingly.”

“How much is the ring?” Franco asked, gesturing to the lockbox that it was now hidden away in.

“Ah, I could tell she liked it. Are you thinking of popping the question soon?”

“Ah, well…” Franco said, nervous now. It hadn’t occurred to him that it was an engagement ring.

The rep laughed. “Well, this one’s from the new collection, expertly crafted. Usually goes for around $130,000, but that’s just with the base without any modifications.”

Franco choked on his own saliva. He certainly wasn’t making that much money yet, and besides, he didn’t know if his little working-class heart could ever justify spending that much money on a shiny rock.

But for you? Anything.

The rep could sense his hesitation. “Well, if you decide to go for it, here’s my card. Maybe we can work something out.” Franco nodded and accepted the card, stowing it away in his wallet after he changed out of his suit.

Once you arrived home, the mountain of makeup and hairspray that you were both still covered in acted as the perfect excuse for a shower together.

As Franco lathered shampoo into your hair, he whispered, “You looked beautiful today.”

You smiled. “I felt beautiful.”

The photos were released a few weeks later, sending the internet into chaos.

YN!?!?!?! CAN FRANCO FIGHT?

Does YN know that we’d all kill to be her right now

The hand placement!! The look in his eyes!!! That man is IN LOVE!!!!!

You chuckled to yourself as you read through the comments on your Instagram post.

You saw the most important comment: the one from Franco.

Eres el amor de mi vida <3

You felt butterflies rise up in your stomach as you tapped the little heart to like the comment, as if that same man wasn’t taking you to the F1 Grand Prix Gala in Monaco tonight.

You wanted nothing more than to walk in on his arm, basking in the glow of the photoshoot. It wasn’t just the glamor of the shots or the makeup that made you feel better; it was Franco. The way he looked at you like you were a goddess—you finally understood what he meant when he said he wanted you to see yourself as he saw you.

As you donned the loaned dress from the same brand—less extravagant than the gown from the shoot, but still gorgeous—you were so thankful you had let Franco talk you into this.

Everyone was abuzz at the event, and you were getting kudos left and right from strangers, which was slightly embarrassing, but you soaked in the attention anyway. But the best feeling was your lover’s hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the crowded ballroom.

You stepped out onto an empty balcony, drinking in the clear night air, now alone from the crowd. Of course, he followed like a lost puppy.

“Mi amor,” he said as you leaned against the ledge, “I don’t know what’s more beautiful, you or the night sky.”

You smiled and rolled your eyes. “That’s too much, even for you.”

“Maybe,” he joked. “And, maybe, we should get out of here. I’m tired of pretending to like all these old rich people.”

“That sounds lovely.”

You two sped home, where Franco wasted no time taking off your dress and decorating the floor with it.

“Let me worship you,” he said, grazing his lips over the soft flesh of your thighs.

“Don’t you already?” you joked, evidence of your returned confidence.

“I do,” he said, “because you’re divine. I want to taste you.” He grabbed your panties with his teeth, pulling them down slowly, enjoying the burning desire you both felt as his skin grazed against yours.

But even now that he had you fully undressed, he still teased you, gently kissing your thighs, looking up into your eyes with every kiss. You pushed his hair back, softly inhaling with every inch of skin that his mouth touched.

“Franco…”

“Mi ángel,” he exhaled. “Mi reina, mi cielo, mi vida.”

With a featherlight touch, he brought his mouth to your wetness, kissing your clit before rolling his tongue around the soaked bundle of nerves. Your breath hitched.

He brought two fingers to your entrance, teasing you until you were dripping with want for him. “You’re perfect. So perfect for me.”

His praise felt like your native tongue, the way your bodies and words naturally curved to each other, fitting together like you were made for this.

He echoed your thoughts, continuing, “You take me so well.” He curled his fingers to hit that sensitive spot inside of you that made you see stars, eliciting a moan.

“I live to pleasure you, mi amor.” He brought his mouth back to your clit, pointing his tongue and swirling circles around it as he pumped his fingers in and out of you.

You squirmed under him, overcome by the pleasure of both his hands and his words. As he continued his movements, he never shifted his gaze from you.

But you looked away, to the mirror in the corner that had been moved as you got ready. You had a perfect view of Franco pleasuring you, and God, was the sight beautiful.

Franco saw you looking and stopped, eliciting a frustrated whine from you.

“Come here,” he said, climbing on the bed. “Keep facing the mirror.” He positioned himself behind you, grabbing your chin to keep your face straight as you both gazed at your reflections. “I want you to watch me fuck you. I want you to see how perfect you look when I take you.”

You wordlessly nodded, loving the vulnerability of being at the mercy of the man who worshipped you.

As Franco unwrapped and put on a condom behind you, you studied the patches of red that colored your cheeks, flushed from your lover having nearly brought you to the brink of orgasm only moments before.

He spanked you and you playfully yelped. “Don’t you dare take your eyes off this mirror.”

“What if I do?” you asked. “Will you punish me?”

He spanked you again, the other side this time. “Don’t even think about it.”

Then, slowly, he placed his hands on your hips and found his way to your entrance, filling you with a swift but gentle motion. You both let out a low moan.

“Even your pussy is perfect,” he said as he began to move. “Taking every inch of me.”

“Yes,” you moaned.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growled, increasing his pace and intensity, making you scream. “I want to fuck this pussy every day for the rest of my life.”

His words went through one ear and out the other; you couldn’t focus with his fucking you into the mattress with every thrust.

You cried and closed your eyes, hanging your head as you tried to hold back the waves of pleasure that were building in your core. But Franco roughly grabbed your hair and yanked your head back up.

“What did I tell you? Look at yourself, getting fucked like the perfect little whore you are.” You loved it when Franco was a little rough with you, but combined with the praise, it nearly sent you over the edge.

“Now,” he said, slowing down his pace, “since you didn’t do what I told you, you don’t get to cum.”

You whined in protest as Franco pulled out, leaving you feeling cold and empty. “Please,” you begged.

He laid down on the bed. “If you want it, do it yourself,” he teased. “Ride me. If you want to cum, you have to watch as you make yourself cum on my cock.”

You didn't argue, instead just obeying and sinking yourself down on him. You watched in the mirror as he disappeared in you, mesmerized by the way your bodies connected.

His hands found your waist again as you began to bounce on him, chasing your release with an relentless pace.

“Fuck, Franco, I’m close—” you moaned, and you felt his hand come down hard on your ass again.

“Are you watching?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Tell me how beautiful you look.” If he had said this at any time other than in the heat of your passion, you would have cringed. But now, moments away from an orgasm, you obeyed.

“I fit perfectly on top of you,” you began with a shaky voice. “And I look…I look perfect riding your cock.”

“What else?”

“I look beautiful covered in your love bites.”

“Good girl,” he growled, matching your pace, fucking up into you. “My perfect, beautiful girl.”

With his final statement of praise, you shook, letting yourself drown in waves of pleasure as he continued fucking you through it.

He had switched back to Spanish now, babbling away what you assumed to be your praises as he chased his own orgasm, quickly finishing from the heavenly feeling of your walls gripping around him.

When you all collapsed in a pile next to each other, he threw an arm around you, wordlessly holding you in his embrace. His words could never truly make it better, he knew that.

But thankfully, his words weren't needed anymore. Now, you believed him.

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waywardwhispersblaze · 23 hours ago

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I'll be forever mad that Jayce ruined the moment right there, but not because I think this would've been a perfect ending for them (I don't). I'm mad because if Jayce had just waited five fucking minutes, the resulting scene would've been so juicy.

Look at the way Vi and Cait look at each other here:

Caitlyn: shocked, betrayed, hurt

Vi just looks sad:

We know from their dialogue in ep 8 that while Vi and Caitlyn were making the plan to distract Ambessa, Vi had another one, to bring in Jinx as a contingency in case Caitlyn couldn't be trusted or failed. She had to know Caitlyn wouldn't take it well once she found out. Vi's priority n°1 was saving Vander though, and they likely didn't have much time to think this through. Basically, she had to know that from Caitlyn's POV, it would look like "Vi chooses Jinx over Cait", edition number 2.

And she was likely right! We know Caitlyn lets go of her anger towards Jinx in the next episode, and accepts that Vi has the right to choose her family, but in my opinion, she wasn't there yet in ep 6. Having a broken Jinx locked up in a cell (her single goal for the last few months) while Vi was lying unconscious on her bed for days very likely helped Caitlyn reassess her priorities in life. But here in this scene she literally doesn't have time to think!

Let's look at Caitlyn a bit more here. During their reunion, She probably expected Vi to hate her guts, but instead, Vi looks grumpy, calls her a mongoose and a cupcake in two sentences, and drops the "my dad needs help" bomb after hesitating for a hot, single second. Moments after that, Caitlyn reevaluates her life choices and decides to make a big career change. Plenty of great posts have already been made about Caitlyn's motivations there, but to sum it up, I'd say it was a combination of: her being already wary of Ambessa and not wanting to let a Noxian warlord get her hands on a dangerous weapon / innocent man, being tired of hating herself, and, yes, her feelings for Vi coming back to her in full force.

For a few, glorious moments, she was working with Vi again! Probably feeling more like herself than she had in months. Maybe she started to hope they could reconcile after all. Maybe, she hoped it could be a "do over" for their failed mission with the strike team, where she'd be helping a member of Vi's family, instead of being torn apart by one of them.

... only to find that Vi didn't actually trust her (which was deserved, but still, ouch), and to come face to face with the source of her seething hatred, the single object of her obsession in the last few months. Right after being saved by said source of seething hatred. It's a lot to take in. She had to be simultaneously disappointed and shocked

So, what was she gonna do? There was probably nothing Vi could have said that wouldn't have pissed Caitlyn off right then (no, Vi, saying "she's changed" probably wouldn't have helped), Jinx opening her mouth would have likely made it worse, but at the same time they still had to run away asap. Caitlyn had already betrayed Ambessa, she couldn't go back. Vi pretty much put her in a position where she'd have no choice but to follow along, no matter how angry she was, at least for a little while...

and I made this post just to say, that the resulting bickering would have been hilarious to see :S

(forget about Jayce waiting five minutes, though, what if it they had an hour? what would Caitlyn had done once they were far enough from the Noxian army? point her gun at Jinx? attempt an arrest? (right in front of Vander? gulp) she might have simply ended up separating from them, and that would have been heartbreaking enough, but a completely different story)

((and that's assuming cult member!vander would have just agreed to leave the commune without acting weird))

#arcane #arcane discussion #caitvi #arcane jinx #arcane vi #caitlyn kiramman #what was the point of this post?#none #everything that happened happened because there was a plot to move along #i just like thinking about alternative universes #want another one?#hey what if vi had died at the end of act II #what then #poor jinx looses vander and isha and vi all at the same time #ekko wouldn't have come back in time to stop her from pulling the pin #caitlyn looses vi at the worst possible time too #after thinking they could re conciliate but before they actually did #especially if you remember that in her last moments vi ditched her in the middle of a battlefield to sacrifice herself for jinx instead #=“vi chooses jinx” edition number 3 #and vi never gets to be free of her family and choose what she really wants #true tragedy for all three of them

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vifilms · 5 hours ago

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i’m sick as fuck. ennalove, you’ve really outdone yourself with this one. the master of imagery, this solidified it. mel may have been the painter but you have illustrated this story so vividly with your strong affirmations of grace and love. the tone for this story beat the same with each word. all of it cohesive, every sentence tied to the next. truly, there’s never a time where i don’t enjoy your work.

seeing sevika painted in such a wonderful light, a soft light with comforting hues but you can still feel the rawness of everything and everyone she’s most. even if it is for the greater good and for the people of zaun, her home has changed — her life has changed. to show that struggle in the beginning, the push and pull of the tide, there’s the intertwine of canon into something even deeper. from an emotional standpoint, you seriously always knock sevika out of the park. i can hear her thoughts, i feel what she feels, her pain is as close to my heart as it is to hers. it’s intimate. i don’t think people understand how hard it is to execute that in writing. a numbing emotion can often feel thoughtless but there’s full intentionality in this and it’s felt in every word. the entire time i was reading this i just craved for more. the worlds you create in your work are stellar, sevika’s feelings don’t get lost in the shuffle and you can quite literally feel everything about them.

she’s wounded, hard but soft around the edges, she’s lost so much, and she’s ridiculed for things out of her control. the way your write sevika feels real and tangible. a woman who no longer has a home but has her heart beat for zaun and the cause she believes in even if she’s surrounded by people who don’t understand it. and they might never, and there’s heartbreaking tangibility in that feeling. it’s something all of us feel consistently. in some aspect, we can’t control circumstances out of our grip, all we can do is take our best foot forward.

…..but melvika.

the imagery and analogies between the stars and what they mean to each other? fucking amazing. how sevika says the stars is the only think she likes but then saying mel is the first person who is kind to her, the first person who appreciates her and the knowledge she has to offer. mel is sevika’s star and vice versa. maybe it’s just me but i’m just a sucker for people from completely different lives and coming together and all of it just works. it shouldn’t, it couldn’t, but somehow it does.

“yeah and there are so many of them, and it’s like every time you see them you’re seeing a completely different sky. and they’re cool because they only come out at night when they think nobody can see them, it’s like they’re shy. but i always see them because i’m always awake with them.” she rambles.

oh yes. this shit is so fucking good. the foreshadowing. always being present with one you love, and also — i always see them because i’m always with them — there’s so much weight in this line. there’s a thousand different ways it can be interpreted. personally it’s someone like sevika, being reserved, shy, or even cautious, not wanting to be seen or perceived because it’s never ended out well for yourself but when someone does for the first time, it’s the most beautiful thing to experience. what’s that saying? to be seen is to be loved. that’s what this little section screams to me. when someone loves you for the first time, not for a version of yourself you think you are or someone wants you to be, but they love you for you. it’s humbling, it aches, it’s more than overwhelming, but there’s nothing else like it in the world.

there’s true submission in love, and that’s where trust and partnership can blossom and grow, and that’s exactly how this fic made me feel. like there’s a blossom of hope on the other side of the tunnel. the people we love waiting on the other side for us. ready to restore a faith in humanity that we’ve lost.

always exquisite, enna. thank you for always challenging the way i write, making me see the craft in a different lense. it’s so hauntingly beautiful. as if a surgeon can suture a cracked heart back together just because they will it so. ennabear, your talent is always a pleasure to witness. i love your work so much. never stop, ever.

♡

✴︎ —PAINT THE AGES A HUNDRED SHADES OF GOLD ⊹₊⟡⋆

I DON’T WANNA TALK ABOUT LOVE ANYMORE ‘CAUSE IT’S GETTING TOO MUCH FOR ME …

cw: councilor!sevika x painter!mel, sevika is a lil sad and mean but she gets over it, sevika is also kind of a loser who can’t stop talking when she gets drunk, jinx and isha mentions because i’m evil and we know this, mel paints sevika nude, body worship, lots of comfort, oral sex, 18+

word count: 7.3k

it’s been months since sevika’s big move, and she fucking hates it to say the least.

all of these pilties are stuck up, even more than she remembers. which is a lot. she’s exhausted, she questions why she’s even a part of the council if all they do is ignore her. showing up every day and listening to them talk about her home and her people the way they do makes her sick.

they draft plans to raid the markets, shutting down anyone who isn’t licensed to be selling meat or rice or bread, but they refuse to let anyone get a license to sell those things. of course, she’s glad that she gets to eat three meals a day now, but with every bite she takes, she’s reminded of her home, and how starving they must be over there.

no matter how much she fights back, offers up a real plan that could make peace between the rivaling nations, they all just snicker and point fingers at her like she’s some sort of circus act.

and don’t ask her about how much she likes being called councilor sevika, because she doesn’t like it at all. she’s not a councilor, and maybe that’s a good thing, because it’s the last thing she’d ever wanna be.

still, she keeps her emotions under control. this is a huge opportunity to help get zaun on it’s feet and cut ties with piltover officially, she won’t spoil it by making a scene and giving up. no matter what, she’s gonna make an effort, even if it means being locked in a room with a group of rich pigs who’ve never felt that growing pit of hunger in their stomachs that make them so dizzy that they keel over on the streets.

that they die on the streets.

so yeah, it’s not easy, not even a little bit.

most of her nights are spent alone in her room. it’s nice, “small” compared to the rooms everyone else occupies, but still bigger than any house she’s ever seen in the undercity. it has large windows that let every bit of light in, but it’s still eerily dark at night compared to zaun.

in zaun, there are neon lights and buzzing street lamps that glow and flicker at every hour, so when it gets dark, the colorful lights bounce off of every inch of the city. you can see them in the reflections of the puddles, bright streaks of light flying up into the night from behind buildings and stretching until they’re out of sight.

here, in piltover, they have different kinds of lights. tiny, white holes in the sky called stars that shine when it gets dark. they have spotlights and statues and lanterns, but it gets lonely at night. everyone is at home, distancing from their friends and their jobs, getting sleep and resting up for whatever the next day will bring.

there isn’t really any rest in zaun, just a small wink of sleep whenever you catch it, and you’re up again. everyone’s grouchy and hungry and cold, but it makes for good shimmer sales, and the bar is a great place to find refuge when you need a break from it all.

so sevika sleeps with all of her lights on. an attempt to remind her of home— although her home doesn’t have a queen sized bed, fluffy pillows and soft blankets, lamps, alarm clocks, fireplaces, clean water on their nightstands, and stars that shine through their windows.

the stars might be her favorite part about piltover. probably the only good thing about piltover. she doesn’t really know what they are or what they do, but they’re nice to look at late at night when she can’t manage to sleep.

every time she finds herself staring up at them, she sends a prayer or two up to janna. always one for the people, a prayer that even though they pretend to hate each other, and there sure are a few goons who are ready to slit her throat for never paying them back, she hopes they’re okay.

she hopes that ran and theiram have got the bar under control, that vi and ekko manage to keep the chaos limited, and most of all, that jinx and isha are doing alright.

ever since silco died, her whole world was flipped upside down and shaken vigorously. who knew that someday she’d be missing jinx? but she does. she cries at night for the blue haired girl, praying for her safety and her happiness, hoping that she’s managed to keep some of her creativity after everything that went down.

and of course for the more tolerable blue haired kid, isha.

she prays that isha is still attached at the hip to jinx, that her fluffy hair gets dyed that awful bright blue color as often as she wants it to, that she’s found some way to communicate with the world while her voice is at rest.

she’s got no clue as to where they could be. one second, she’s wishing jinx would leave her alone. that she’d pack up her inventions and make a home for them far away from sevika’s life. the next second, they’re gone. no warning, no heads up whatsoever, just completely taken from her life.

but if she wishes to find any wisp of happiness, she’s gonna have to push these thoughts to the back of her mind, only letting them front when she’s alone and awake and accompanied by the stars. they’re the only things who understand her.

——

if you listen closely, you might be able to hear the sound of mel’s thoughts buzzing around in her mind.

the past few months have given her some intense whiplash, but things are finally starting to straighten out. her life isn’t exactly normal, but she’s growing used to her… new self.

she spends most of her time perched at her easel, painting the canvas in beautiful colors that fall over various people or places. it’s therapeutic for her, whatever image or question or anger she has lingering in her head, she can work it out with the paints. when she’s done, she lines them up in front of her.

it helps her see things more clearly, like a thought that can’t float away, frozen in time for her to analyze further. some of them are just plain colors. gold, with white, yellow, and bronze streaks, an attempt to recreate the swirls that are painted on her own body.

sometimes she paints her mother, her eyebrows lowered in a scowl and her silvery gray hair crowning her head. jayce and viktor occasionally make an appearance, both of their faces lost in thought as they stare at various equations and formulas that she can’t quite make out.

sometimes she just sees miscellaneous things, quick visions that she needs to bring to life. countless canvases are covered in black, with that dark red fog reaching into it like vines. there’s also the hextech that makes the occasional appearance, but she can’t quite get that bright, rich blue color right.

a few times before, she’s attempted portraits, but she doesn’t prefer them. lest has been one of her closest friends during all of this, she can sit and pose for hours while mel works away at her figure on the canvas. they’ve also tried painting together, but mel prefers her alone time.

she’s tried recreating the pictures from her memory, but it never comes out as well. she covers the canvas in thick paint, a bronze, brown, and white, making up jayce’s features. but she always clouds his face with shiny white webs, and those glistening, rainbow stars. the ones that stole him away.

while she sits, her body stays stagnant, eyes racing around the blank canvas. she mixes the colors in her head before she even opens the tubes, her eyes proportion it all for her, so she rarely makes sketches anymore.

recently, she’s been more interested in staying in and shutting out the world. the occasional knock rings out against her door, but she can’t be bothered to investigate. she doesn’t wanna give her opinions anymore, doesn’t wanna lead all of topside to peace and gas the streets of the undercity. really, she never signed up for that. sure, she’s ambessa’s daughter, but she doesn’t care to be a leader anymore. not when all it does is get people hurt and killed.

but apparently it’s urgent this time, because the knocking persists.

“um, mel?” a timid voice asks. “i hate to bother you, but the council requires yo—”

she flings the door open, clad in her white robe and slippers. her hood hangs halfway over her head as she glares at the man, but he insists on escorting her to the council meeting. her feet gently pad against the floor as she walks through the long halls, already dreading having to play referee for a group of adults who should know better.

but ambessa is gone now, and these people need someone to give them any sort of direction.

the dome shaped room welcomes her, and although she dreads being there, the sun shining through the stained glass is gorgeous. she spies a few familiar faces sitting in their respective seats, and notices some new ones who were added after the war.

“but they need the money!” one councilor booms, one of the newer ones who mel doesn’t quite recognize yet. “you can’t just cut their funds and raise the tax prices, they—”

“councilor sevika, please.” someone says, talking over her voice. “what possibly could they need more money for? our city needs to be rebuilt, and it’s them who’s caused all of this destruction.”

mel observes quietly, noticing the tears that fill sevika’s eyes. she makes an assumption that they’re either out of sadness, anger, or exhaustion, but she can’t quite tell. one thing she does know, though, is that it isn’t fair.

it’s not fair to just drag a zaunite up to topside and force her to be the only one representing her nation. especially when she has to be locked in a room full of people who hate her, who think she’s nothing more than just undercity trash to mock and make fun of.

mel’s surprised that sevika has held her ground for this long. if that were her, she’d want to pack up and leave within a day, especially when she notices the snorts and sideways glances that she gets every time she opens her mouth.

“have you even been down there?” sevika asks. “have you seen the bodies lying on the streets? have you heard the sobs of the starving children?”

they all look at her, unable to imagine what hunger even is, much less an entire nation overcome by it. shoola offers a sympathetic frown, but it’s not enough for sevika. she’s exhausted, and the thought of seeing her home even more impoverished is killing her. worst of all, word on the street is that zaunites are beginning to call her a traitor.

she wishes that they could see how hard she’s working, how much she’s fighting for them behind the scenes. but she can’t exactly blame them, it must be hard to watch every leader they’ve ever had either fail at leading them to sovereignty or turn their backs on the people. must be worse to watch someone who they thought was on their side disappear into the council and watch as things just keep getting worse and worse down there.

and this makes sevika feel horrible.

it’s hard for her not to blame herself for this, especially because that’s what she’s used to. her job for years was to be silco’s right hand, so it was constantly her fault if something went wrong. that’s just how things are. if things don’t go her way, it must be her fault for not working harder to overcome it.

“i agree.” mel says plainly. “councilor sevika has firsthand knowledge of what it’s like for them, why shouldn’t we trust her?”

sevika is taken aback at this. she’s never seen someone so… rich looking… be this understanding toward her. but although it’s the bare minimum, she appreciates it. she’ll take whatever form of kindness she can get right now.

the other councilors stare at mel like she’s just grown three heads. obviously, they’ve never been told no a day in their life. sevika is glad that she gets to be present for the first time. some of them sputter and growl, some of them roll their eyes, but sevika just sinks back into her chair and decides to let them argue it out.

“i agree too.” councilor shoola says. “it’s only fair… unless, any of you would like to go down there and experience it for yourselves? then you could tell us all about their excess of funds.”

sevika sighs in relief, thanking janna or the universe or whatever god decided to help her out. she can’t exactly smile, at least not yet, but she manages a tiny grin, and decides that maybe she shouldn’t feel too bad about herself just yet.

mel is glad that sevika and shoola have at least a little bit of brains, but she’s starting to rethink having all of the others on the council. maybe they need to fire some, or at least add some more zaunites to level the playing field. although, she now knows that sevika can put up one hell of a fight, so maybe she doesn’t need it.

but the clock strikes two in the afternoon, and the councilors file out to get on with their day until they meet again tomorrow. sevika hangs back, waiting for everyone to leave before she returns to her office. but mel hangs back too, determined to talk to sevika more, to get to know her.

sevika pulls her cape over her shoulders, completely covering her figure before she exits the room. mel perks up and shoots her a questioning look.

“yes?” sevika asks.

“you’re brave.” mel says.

“no i’m not. d’you think it’s brave of me to leave my people starving and helpless down there while i have a real home and three meals a day?”

mel just stares blankly at her. that isn’t what she meant at all, but at the same time, she’s completely right. as much as she still believes that sevika is brave for putting up with the councilors, she should be calling everyone else brave, everyone in zaun who goes days without food. sevika is the luckiest of them all.

“that’s not what i meant.” mel explains. “i meant that you’re better than them because you stand your ground instead of just getting everything you want. you work hard for what you earn.”

sevika shrugs. “i guess you could say that.”

“do you miss it down there?”

“what do you think?” sevika grunts.

“i’d bet that you do, you just try not to show it in front of anyone.”

“yes, because showing weakness gets you killed.”

“not up here, it doesn’t. you should open up a little, it might be good for you.” mel suggests.

“i’ll pass.”

“i could help you.”

“i don’t need—”

“let me help you.” mel says, reaching out to grab sevika’s hand.

“help me how?” sevika asks.

“open up to me. tell me about your life. friends, family, past, anything.”

“okay… maybe.”

“okay, good.”

——

sevika has never been great at opening up to anyone, but mel is… understanding. as much as she hates to talk about her struggles to other people, mel is probably the best possible person to talk to. mel marched herself down sevika’s hall to her door, banging on it until sevika sleepily presented herself. she marched sevika down the hall and through the building until they reached her own suite, and she fed sevika more and more wine until she started to talk to her.

it started with just a confession. sevika was wine drunk and admitted that yes, she did miss her home, and that she hated topside. and then mel pressed for more, made her tell her specifically who she missed and what she missed about them.

the list of people who she missed was never ending. at the top— jinx and isha. in all honesty, mel is shocked to learn that sevika had anyone that she really considered family, much less a daughter or a niece. but sevika tells her all about them, how isha would beg to paint her nails or dye her hair, and how jinx finally had a sister who she could play with, instead of just being too young to do anything.

but when mel asks where they’ve gone, sevika freezes. she doesn’t know, and it’s not something she prefers to think about. dead is something she’d heavily considered, but that ending makes her too sad. as long as she doesn’t know that they’re dead, they’re not. at least not in her world.

she tells mel that she hopes they’re somewhere safe, somewhere that they can have fun together. like floating on a cloud, or living in outer space with the stars. maybe they are with the stars, and that’s why she loves them so much.

“you like the stars?” mel asks.

“that’s the only thing actually worth liking about this place, i think…” sevika slurs drunkenly.

“hmm, i guess they are pretty, aren’t they.” mel ponders.

mel can’t help but giggle. again, everything she said is exactly right, but she’s never seen it that way. sevika offers her a fresh new perspective, one that makes her ponder how much she knows about the world.

“sorry…” sevika whispers, suddenly aware that she’s drunkenly blabbering and probably making a fool of herself. she tries to blink herself sober but it doesn’t work.

“no worries. i like them too.” mel soothes.

“i think i should go.”

“already?” mel asks.

“it’s gett’n late. i have places to be tomorrow…” sevika sighs. mel stands and walks her to the door, grabbing on gently to her human arm in an attempt to stabilize the woman. she offers a sweet smile to sevika as she leaves, even takes her hand in her own for a second and squeezes it tightly, but sevika just stares at the floor.

“mel?” she asks finally, although in a timid voice.

“yes?”

“thanks for sticking up for me. i don’t know what those pigs would get up to without people like me and you.”

mel’s heart warms at this. sevika is so drunk that she’s starting to get sappy and sweet, and while it’s adorable, it’s clear that she needs to get home. but she’s glad that her effort isn’t going unnoticed, and she’s starting to really like sevika.

“of course.” she smiles again. “get some sleep for me, okay? don’t spend too much time with the stars.”

sevika curses herself for the warm feeling that wraps herself all around her, she hates that she’s being vulnerable and making friends. she just blames the feeling on the alcohol, but she knows that it’s not. because that light, warm feeling clings itself to her every time she sees mel.

it happens again when they coincidentally cross paths, mel on her way outside for some fresh air and sevika on her way to her room to sign papers until her fingers bleed. but she realizes for the first time that mel is so beautiful. she hasn’t spotted sevika yet, but the sunlight glowing in from the windows catches her golden streaked skin perfectly, and she’s shining. it’s like she’s a real life star, and sevika can’t peel her eyes away.

“oh, hi sevika.” mel grins.

“um… hi.” she responds, her heart suddenly beating faster than usual. “where are you going?”

“just outside. been cramped up inside all day and the smell of my paints are starting to give me a headache.”

“you paint?” sevika asks, although to anyone else the answer would be obvious.

“yeah, all the time. i’d love to show you someday.” she offers, already knowing that she’s gonna have to drag sevika by the arm and force her to visit.

“okay… yeah, that would be nice.” she says.

“what are you doing right now?” mel asks.

“i just have a lot of paperwork to fill out, letters to write, things to sign, you know how it is.”

“will you stop by later, then?”

“are you gonna make me?”

“probably. if you don’t show up by yourself.”

“alright, see you later then.”

——

sevika is dreading this outing. the more times she thinks about going back over to mel’s, the more anxious she gets. every time she’s been over there the past month, she’s ended up either drunk or blabbering on about stuff that doesn’t matter. or worse— drunk and blabbering. she always finds some way to make a fool of herself, and she doesn’t know how to stop. she just wishes it wasn’t so easy to open up to her, wishes that mel wasn’t so damn likable.

mel already knows she’s gonna have to drag sevika over to come look at her paintings. she always does. no matter how many times she tells the woman to come on her own terms, she finds herself stomping down to sevika’s door and forcing her to hang out. it’s cute, in mel’s mind, it’s like a date. so that’s what she finds herself doing tonight. cleaning up her suite a little, spinning one of her jazz records, and marching down to collect sevika.

she’s arranged her paintings in no particular order, but the array is beautiful. some are framed, some are smaller than others, some of them aren’t even finished. sevika feels so moved by this. she’s never seen anything so beautiful. not anything in real life, not mel herself, not even the stars are as beautiful as her paintings.

mel sits her down on the loveseat, pouring two glasses of wine and sitting down next to sevika, but sevika begs her to talk about her paintings. she’s dying to know how anyone could make anything look more beautiful than the stars. mel blushes at that compliment— it’s a lot coming from sevika for multiple reasons— but she decides that now it’s her turn to open up.

they sit an chat for hours, and before long, sevika feels as if she knows mel like the back of her hand. she now knows about jayce and viktor and what happened to them, about ambessa, her mother, the noxians, and the rest of her family. sevika’s oddly surprised. of course, she’s aware that mel is probably the strongest woman she knows, but she never would’ve guessed that she’s been through that much.

mel cries a bit, and sevika cries too, and they laugh about their emotions like old friends. for once in her life, sevika feels like maybe not everything sucks, and that maybe it’s okay to let herself fall for someone. she just hopes that mel feels the same way.

“sevika?” mel asks, still catching her breath after a fit of giggles.

“yeah?” she smiles.

“will you dance with me?”

“i don’t dance.” sevika says, laughing at the image of her dancing with someone. how silly.

“aww, come on! it’s just us and some jazz! you’ll be fine.” she reasons. “please?”

sevika rolls her eyes at mel’s outstretched hand, but she’s very tipsy and in a good mood, so how could she say no to the beautiful woman standing in front of her?

mel yanks her up by her arm, and sevika wastes no time following after her to the middle of the room where the big sky lights let the stars shine in. sevika scowls and tenses up a bit, but mel wraps her arms around sevika’s waist so gently, guiding sevika’s arm to press against her back. mel sways them back and forth a bit, and sevika soon loosens up and stares down at mel with a smile that puts all of the stars to shame.

“do you ever miss your arm?” mel asks.

“yeah, sometimes. i miss the one jinx made for me, i wish i didn’t take it for granted.” she responds, her mood quickly turning sad against her will.

“i could have one made for you.” mel offers.

sevika shakes her head and flattens her lips into a straight line. “they won’t let me have one on the council.”

it’s mel’s turn to roll her eyes now. “no, i’ll make you one that they’ll accept. they always listen to me, you know.” she grins.

“i guess that would be alright, as long as it’s not much of a hassle.”

“for you? nothing’s a hassle. don’t be silly.”

sevika’s eyebrows pull together in the middle and she pouts, tears quickly filling her eyes. nobody’s ever been this nice to her before. offering her a new limb, protection from the ruthless comments from the council, good wine, and a dance underneath the stars. she can’t help but cry, but she’s not afraid to anymore. with mel, she feels safe enough to be this vulnerable.

mel notices her sad expression, and she silently prays that she didn’t accidentally offend sevika, it’s the last thing she’d ever wanna do. “oh, what’s wrong? did i—”

sevika cuts her off with a kiss. she doesn’t wanna hear any apologies from mel, not after she’s been a literal angel to sevika this past week. mel’s lips are warm and welcoming, they taste sweet, like if gold was a flavor. she reaches her hands up and cradles the back of mel’s head, deepening the kiss.

mel is completely taken aback by this. she didn’t know that sevika had feelings for her. actually, she thought that sevika was sick of her. but she kisses sevika back, her lips are big and pouty and oh so soft. she also gets to feel sevika’s piercing up close, and the cold metal drags against the bottom of her lips ever so slightly. it’s a stark contrast, but a comforting one at that.

one thing leads to another, and they’re quickly back on the loveseat, lapping at each others tongues and giggling like kids and holding hands. sevika’s had tons of sex before, sure, but nothing comes close to this. she feels so special, so cared for, that she notices this strange, giddy feeling bubbling up in her chest.

little does she know, that feeling is called love.

she pins mel down to the seat, both of them breathless and high on this mysterious feeling— although it definitely has something to do with the liquor— and sevika almost cries again when mel spreads her legs beneath her white gown. the warm lamplight mixed with the starlight causes her to glow again, like she’s on fire, so sevika can’t help but kiss all over the gold patterns that paint her skin.

mel erupts into another fit of giggles, holding sevika’s shocked face in her hands. sevika tenses up slightly at her touch, but takes a deep breath and swallows all of her anxiety.

“can i?” sevika asks.

mel smiles and nods. “of course. you can do whatever you want to me.”

sevika shudders and reaches up mel’s dress, caressing her stomach and hips. mel is soft and malleable under her touch, and she’s golden. she reaches forward to tug her dress above her hips. sevika doesn’t think she’s ever seen such a beautiful sight, and mel absolutely adores sevika’s awestruck face.

the same golden markings that paint her face also trail down her abdomen, all the way to her ankles. there are thick streaks of gold that mirror each other on each side of her torso, twisting themselves into swirls and shapes. she also has small golden freckles littering her body, identical to the ones on her face. they look like stars.

best of all, as if sevika wasn’t already turned on enough, she has small, golden hairs that trail down from just beneath her belly button, only stopping when they crown her dripping hole. this woman is made of pure magic, and if sevika doesn’t get her mouth on her within the next millisecond, she thinks she might faint.

mel grabs sevika’s hand when she notices her hesitation, and this makes her snap back into the moment and start eating mel out. she starts slow, just some teasing, soft licks to her clit that make her shiver. mel moans so sweetly and beautifully and sevika feels like she’s floating.

sevika grips mel’s hand harder and harder as she keeps eating her out, and it’s times like these that she wishes she has two hands. one to hold mel’s with, and one to feel inside of her, pumping her full of her thick fingers. mel arches her back and thrusts up into sevika’s face, and they both nearly cum on the spot.

she pulls back for a second, a string of white slick connecting itself to sevika’s lips before dripping down her chin.

“sev, you’re doing so good, baby.” mel praises. “don’t stop, i’m so close.”

sevika speeds up her movements, determined to make mel cum. her big, silver eyes squeeze shut as her mouth works it’s magic, sucking on her clit and running her pointed tongue between mel’s folds to collect her slick.

but she doesn’t cum until sevika wraps her lips around her clit again, her piercing colliding with mel’s throbbing clit as she tips over the edge. a low whine is pulled from her throat, and sevika pulls back to admire the woman above her. mel yanks sevika up by her shirt, thanking her with a deep kiss. some of sevika’s lipstick is smudged, so mel wipes it off with her thumbs, as well as the wet slick that’s smeared all over her face.

sevika is suddenly very aware that she doesn’t need shimmer anymore, because she feels like mel’s sweet nectar is enough to get her high.

“i’m gonna need that new arm as soon as you can get it.” sevika says with her lips smashed against mel’s. “need to show you what else i can do.”

——

it’s been three weeks since then, and sevika’s been coming over every night. she still has lots of work to do, but mel helps her with all of it. they sort through tall stacks of paperwork, taking turns sitting on the others lap and pouring each other more wine. sometimes they get distracted with sex, but they try their hardest to stay focused. occasionally mel will bring out her paints and work on something new, forcing sevika to stay focused while she’s at work.

they also spend their mornings together. if they don’t wake up in the other’s arms, they’ll sleepily march down to their door and bang on it until they reunite and hold each other again.

but this morning, sevika wakes up in mel’s bed alone. she reaches out for the woman with her arm, but that side of the bed is just cold and empty. sitting up, she glances around the room until she spies mel in her silky white cloak painting on the balcony.

“mel?” she asks groggily. “why’re you up so early?”

“just had to finish something, love.” she responds, smiling at her girlfriend’s half awake state. “you can go back to sleep if you’d like.”

“can i at least see what you’re working on?”

“not yet.” she smiles. “it’s a surprise.”

sevika groans and turns around to go back inside, but mel catches her arm and yanks her back for a kiss. sevika kisses over each of mel’s golden freckles, and then her lips, then her nose, her forehead, chin, and then lips again, before returning inside. mel giggles and tries to swat sevika’s back before she gets away, but she’s too slow and the effort is wasted.

back inside, sevika grabs onto mel’s pillow and stuffs her face into it, bringing a familiar comfort that lulls her back to sleep. she’s shaken awake a few hours later, though. it’s mel, very gently rattling sevika’s shoulder while caressing her hair. “sevika, babe, wake up.” she whispers.

“mmmmh?”

“i have a present for you.”

“hmmmm?”

“wake up so you can open it.”

“ughhhhh.”

“oh, please. don’t be so pouty. i want you to see it! quickly, quickly!” she urges, yanking sevika back to the balcony. the sun is slightly higher in the sky now, some of the orange in the sky is still fading away but the sky is painted in a light yellow color, it matches mel a little bit.

she hands her a giant white box with mel’s name on it, a small golden bow sitting directly on the top. “what is this?” sevika asks.

“open it and see!” mel smiles.

so she does. she flips the lock on the box and pulls it open, a smooth, golden arm staring back at her.

“what is this?” sevika asks again, this time in disbelief. she couldn’t tell how serious mel was about acquiring a new arm for her, so she didn’t think she’d be receiving a new one this quickly, or one this pretty.

it’s a lot more modern compared to her other two arms that she’s had in the past. it has a matte gold casing all around it, with shimmery gold patterns that resemble mel’s carved into it. it has all five fingers, but they’re not as pointy, more resembling her human fingers than her past arms. sevika is overcome with emotions, and she turns around to pull mel in for a hug, hiding her tears on her shoulder.

“do you like it?” mel asks.

“i love it.”

“will you teach me how to put it on you?”

“of course.” sevika promises, and with that, mel tugs her inside and makes her sit and show her. it takes a bit of fumbling. sevika isn’t great at explaining things, but she also can’t do much with only one arm, so lots of trial and error occurs during the process. but eventually it’s all screwed in, and the first thing sevika does is pull mel in for a real hug.

mel never really realized how strong sevika is, and how crushing her hugs are. at least, not until now. she knows that sevika can hold her somewhat tightly, but one arm doesn’t do much. now that she as two arms though, mel is struggling to breathe with the way sevika is crushing her. or maybe it’s just because sevika wants to show her girlfriend some love. and she’s definitely not crying.

“i have one more thing.” mel says, although most of it gets muffled by sevika’s chest.

“what is it?” she asks.

“come outside and look.”

sevika follows her outside, grabbing onto mel’s elbow with her new hand.

“close your eyes.” mel says, so sevika squeezes her eyes shut and tries her hardest not to peek. mel dashes over to retrieve the painting on her canvas that’s now fully dry, and then she holds it to face sevika.

“okay, now open them.”

she opens her eyes to see mel holding one of her new paintings— the one she wasn’t allowed to see yet. but now she’s aware of why she wasn’t allowed to see it, because the painting is of her.

it’s sevika. hunched over at mel’s desk with her reading glasses on and a pen in her hand, a glass of wine half empty on the table next to her. the colors in the painting are very warm, likely resembling the warm lamps that decorate mel’s suite. and the most surprising thing— there’s a smile on sevika’s face.

it’s not something she’s ever seen on herself before. for one, she’s never been one to smile in general, it’s just not something she was ever used to doing. photographs are also very rare in zaun, so the only way she could’ve seen it on herself is by smiling in front of a mirror, which is even more rare.

sevika doesn’t even know how to feel. she should cry, because nobody has ever been this kind to her before, and she’s overwhelmed with emotions from the arm, the painting, and just being around mel.

she should also be happy. nobody has ever understood her as much as mel does, and she feels so honored to be seen in her artistic lense. she should be glad that she gets to live up here, where everything is safe and pretty and valuable. she’s also still half asleep, and can’t exactly tell if she’s dreaming or not.

“what do you think?” mel asks after a while.

“i don’t know what i did to deserve this.” sevika says honestly. “is there some kind of special occasion that i don’t know about? or are you just spoiling me.”

“well, mostly the latter,” mel laughs. “but it is our one month anniversary, if that counts for anything.”

“i didn’t get you anything.” sevika frowns, suddenly feeling way out of mel’s league, almost insecure.

“that’s alright.” mel smiles. “your presence is enough.”

sevika rolls her eyes and manages a smile too, yanking mel forward and giving her a sweet kiss. one month isn’t much, but it’s been the happiest month of sevika’s life, and things are starting to look up for her. for zaun, too.

“well,” mel starts, pulling away from sevika’s lips. “there is one small thing you could do for me.”

“and that is…?”

“model for me so i can paint you?” she asks with a happy shrug of her shoulders.

“now? but you just painted me.”

“yes, i’m aware.” she laughs. “but i haven’t painted your new arm yet, and that was from a few days ago but you just look so adorable today. please?”

sevika smiles too. how could she say no to mel when she asks so nicely? “alright, fine.” she agrees.

“good, and take all of your clothes off, too.”

sevika freezes. although mel has seen her naked hundreds of times, she suddenly feels shy.

“don’t worry, it’s just for us.” mel soothes. “lay on the bed and i’ll position you.”

so sevika is left no choice but to follow the orders she was given. she strips herself of her clothes— which is much easier now that she has two arms— and lays down on the bed, looking up at mel with her big, watery eyes. mel walks over and pushes her backward until she’s propped up with just one elbow.

“is this comfortable?” mel asks.

“uh… y-yeah.” sevika responds.

mel pries sevika’s legs open, positioning them apart so that she has a full view of sevika’s dripping cunt from her easel. sevika whimpers, her eyes widening and sparkling as she looks up at mel.

“don’t be shy.” mel teases. “it’s just me.”

“i know, sorry…” sevika says with a sigh, making a mental note to loosen up.

“are you ready for me to start? we’re probably gonna be here all day.”

“yeah. ready.” sevika responds.

“okay, let me know if you need a break.”

mel isn’t too fond of painting from models, but she can feel her opinion changing as she sculpts sevika with the paint. her legs are easy. long and thick, and she gets to mimic the way they’re pressed open.

her torso is next, which is one of her favorite things about sevika. her abs are hard and sturdy, but they get slightly softened out by the rolls of her stomach. then mel moves up to her tits, painting two perfectly pointed brown circles accented with thick, dark nipples.

her neck comes after, and then her arms, and finally her face. mel has memorized every little expression sevika has, so she has a lot to choose from, but she chooses the one that sevika is wearing right now. a goofy, lovestruck smile, adorned with a slight blush sparkling on her cheeks.

her eyes are also fun, they’re so big and sparkly and metallic, mel can’t help but paint stars in them. and of course, her nose, her tooth gap, her piercing, and her hair. they all come together to make up the most perfect face that mel has ever seen.

she moves on to the arms next, painting one with her thick muscles and her warm brown skin, and the other with a shiny gold. her shoulders are slightly slanted, and they have bite marks and hickeys carved into them, which makes mel immensely proud of herself.

and finally, sevika’s glistening cunt. she paints each fold tenderly, a small circle at the top covered slightly by a thin, fleshy hood. she paints the slick in between her thighs that just keeps collecting with her finest white and silver paints.

and of course, her bush, because she wouldn’t dare to forget it. she curls each stroke of her brush until it perfectly mirrors sevika’s thick, dark curls, and then she trails them all the way up her lower stomach.

she finishes the background next, but it’s not much. she doesn’t want anything to take away from sevika’s beauty. but she makes sure to add a few stars surrounding her of various sizes and shades of gold.

sevika has been surprisingly patient throughout the whole thing, mel predicted that she’d be begging for snacks only ten minutes in. but mel finishes quickly and she’s beaming with excitement as soon as she’s done.

“do you wanna see it?” she asks.

“you’re done already?” sevika replies.

“yeah. you’re an easy model.”

“okay, yeah, let me see.” sevika smiles.

mel lifts up the canvas and presents it to sevika, and it’s somehow even more beautiful than the other painting. mel captures her so beautifully, sevika is so honored to be viewed that way. for the first time in her life, she truly feels beautiful. and mel can tell that she feels that way too, through the tears that threaten to spill in her eyes.

and just as sevika is about to tackle mel to the bed too, she notices something in the bottom corner. in a shimmery gold writing, the words “my star. -mel m.” are painted. sevika looks up at mel with a questioning glance and asks, “what’s that?”

“it’s my signature. the title of the painting and my name.”

“‘my star’?” sevika reads off.

“yeah, because that’s what you are. you’re my star, sevika. you’re so beautiful and bright.”

and those words echo in sevika’s mind for the rest of time, especially when sevika pins mel down and rides her face into the pillow a few seconds later. she’s right. she is mel’s star, isn’t she.

#i may have analyzed more than anything BUT I LOVE THIS !!!!!#melvika is the only correct ship #they are perfection #this is a certified banger but everything you write is #!!!!!!#your fics always change my perspective #they are soft and vivid and light and full of love and your emotion is felt through your craft #it’s truly beautiful.#❝ ⋮ ⌗ ┆ 𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐫𝐚𝐲’𝐬 𝐟𝐚𝐯𝐬 ❞

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c0s-lettuce · 1 day ago

Note

Not sure if this will make sense

But can you do when were Sergei first love comes back. Either he runs into her when he’s out hunting someone and it ends up being her father

a/n: hi nonnie, thanks for the request! i decided to write this in more of a blurb style, hope that's okay!

------

it's hard to forget first love, let alone one that was so strong. sergei was young when he met her, but he knew immediately. this was no passing fancy. that's why he ended it. it was his last act of control before he fell in too deep.

his new life was lonely, but he accepted it. he told himself he was sparing her from future heartbreak. it was for the best. he wasn't made for love, at least not anymore.

he would think about her less and less over the years. not necessarily because he stopped caring, but because he just didn't have the time.

but sometimes he couldn't help it. he'd hear a song that she used to like, or he'd walk past someone who resembled her. or sometimes, during sleepiness nights, he'd think of her completely unprompted.

work was a good distraction. sergei was following a rather long trail of people when he came across his next target. but the name gave him pause. he stared at the surname. her surname.

but the first name belonged to a man. sergei shook his head. there are eight billion people in this world. this was just a coincidence. a distant cousin, at most.

but soon, he found out that this man was in fact was her father. sergei remembered very little about him, except that he was distant and shady, much like his own father. perhaps that was a reason he got along so well with her.

but currently, sergei was at a loss. what was he supposed to do? abandon the hunt? find out more? try to find her?

no, no. he couldn't possibly... could he?

but after too much stalling, he decided he couldn't keep running from her forever. he had to face this. it was time.

------

she lived an unassuming life, doing what she needed to get by. it was a peaceful existence, if it wasn't for her father's constant pestering.

she didn't know the details of his criminal life, steering clear of him as soon as she was old enough. desperate to reconnect, he would regularly reach out to her and try to make amends.

it was all for show. she knew this. he was only trying to make himself feel better for being a shitty father. so, she ignored him.

it didn't take long for sergei to find her. however, it did take long for him to approach her. he watched her leave work one night. she was beautiful. more graceful, almost ethereal. but most of all, she was still... her.

she froze when she heard her name. the voice was low and rough, but strikingly familiar. she turned around and saw him, standing before her. sergei kravinoff.

for a moment, she could only stare. she was speechless. sergei couldn't help the satisfaction he felt from still having that effect on her.

"it's been a while," he said. "can we talk? over dinner, maybe?"

no, she wanted to say, as unpleasant memories threaten to surface. she didn't want anything to do with him.

sensing her hesitation, sergei added, "please? it's about your father."

she furrowed her brow. what does he know about her father? she wasn't sure what sergei was involved in these days, but if he's sought her out after all this time, it must be important.

finally she spoke, "alright, fine. lead the way."

sergei nodded, relieved. as they walked, he tried to calm his nerves. he wasn't here to reconnect. he was here strictly for business. but history is bound to repeat itself. he would start falling for her again. he would feel like he's losing control. but maybe this time, he won't run.

#sergei kravinoff #sergei kravinoff x reader #kraven the hunter #kraven the hunter x reader #kraven #kraven x reader #marvel #marvel x reader #aaron taylor johnson #atj

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moonlitstoriess · 2 days ago

Text

A Symphony of Silence- Cassian x fem!reader (oneshot)

Summary: Y/N, a mute musician cursed by a dark power, seeks refuge in Velaris, performing in silence at a local theater. Cassian is captivated by her haunting music, drawn to her mysterious presence. As their bond deepens, he becomes determined to help her, unaware of the full extent of her curse. As time runs out and her health worsens, Cassian must face a devastating truth that could shatter everything they’ve built.

Warnings: Not proofread, Fluff in the beginning, Trauma, (eventual angst, loss, and heartbreak)

See masterlist

The city of Velaris hummed softly in the aftermath of war. It was the sound of a place still healing, the echoes of battle fading beneath the rhythm of life slowly returning to normal. Cassian walked along the cobblestone streets, his wings tucked tightly against his back, the cool night air brushing against his skin. His boots scuffed against the stone, the sound swallowed by the laughter spilling from nearby taverns and the soft music drifting from street performers who had reclaimed their corners.

It was peaceful, or so it should have been. But peace was a concept that sat uneasily on Cassian’s shoulders.

He’d only just returned from a mission Rhysand had sent him on—a straightforward task of dealing with some squabbling Illyrian clans. Nothing dramatic, nothing particularly dangerous. But the routine of it had left him restless. He’d fought wars that had burned across continents, seen blood and fire in ways that couldn’t be forgotten. And now, with nothing left to fight for, nothing but rebuilding, Cassian felt…adrift.

He couldn’t exactly say this to Rhys or Azriel. Hell, he wasn’t even sure how to explain it to himself. So, he’d thrown himself into work—training recruits, patrolling the city, whatever kept his hands and mind busy. Tonight, though, there was nothing left to do. The streets were quiet, the stars glittered like shards of broken glass in the sky, and Cassian was left alone with his thoughts.

He hated it.

Turning a corner, he found himself walking along the Sidra. The water glistened in the moonlight, the gentle waves lapping against the banks. Ahead, the laughter of a group of friends faded as they disappeared into a nearby pub. Cassian debated following them—distracting himself with drink and noise—but something pulled his gaze to the left.

The theater.

It wasn’t a place he often visited. The world of art and performance felt foreign to him, something softer and quieter than the sharp edges he’d known all his life. He’d been there a few times with Feyre and Rhys, watching as Feyre’s eyes lit up with wonder. He’d appreciated the beauty of it, sure, but it wasn’t his world. Yet tonight, the faint glow of the building, the murmured excitement of the people filing in, called to him.

He wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was desperation for distraction. Whatever it was, Cassian found himself following the trickle of people into the theater, his wings brushing the doorframe as he entered.

The scent of polished wood and aged paper greeted him, mingled with the faint floral perfume of the patrons. Cassian lingered near the back, his broad form earning a few curious glances. He folded his arms across his chest, leaning against a pillar as the crowd settled into their seats.

The lights dimmed. A hush fell over the room, and then she appeared.

Cassian straightened.

The female who stepped onto the stage was unlike anyone he’d ever seen. Dressed in a simple gown that shimmered like liquid starlight, she moved with a grace that seemed almost ethereal. Her face was partially obscured by the shadows of the stage, but her presence was undeniable.

She came over to the large piano royale in the center of the stage, delicate and gleaming, and when she sat and began to play, the world seemed to hold its breath.

The music was haunting. It started softly, like a whisper, then grew into something vast and consuming. It wasn’t just sound; it was emotion, raw and unfiltered. Cassian felt it like a blade to the chest—pain, longing, hope, despair.

He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until the song ended, the final note lingering in the air before fading into silence. The audience erupted into applause, but Cassian barely heard it. His eyes remained fixed on her as she stood, offered a faint bow, and disappeared behind the curtain.

Something about her music, about her, had struck a chord deep within him. It wasn’t just her beauty, though he couldn’t deny that she was stunning. It was the weight of the emotion she carried, the way it bled into her music, speaking volumes without a single word.

Cassian didn’t know her name. All he knew was that, for the first time in a long while, the restless ache in his chest had quieted.

And that terrified him more than anything else.

Cassian found himself returning to the theater the next night. And the night after that. And the night after that.

Each time, he told himself it was just coincidence—that he had no other plans, that the theater was simply a good place to unwind. But deep down, he knew better. He came to watch her.

He couldn’t explain it, not even to himself. There was something about her, something that pulled at him in a way he hadn’t felt in years. She was like a beacon of quiet strength, her music carrying a weight that seemed to echo his own unspoken thoughts.

Cassian sat in the same seat every evening, his wings tucked close to his back, his gaze fixed on her as she took the stage. Her presence was magnetic, her beauty undeniable, but it was the way she played—fingers gliding effortlessly across the tiles of her piano—that captivated him. It was as if every note held a story.

Yet, for all her grace and poise, there was a shadow that clung to her, a weight he couldn’t quite place. It made him want to know her, to understand what had shaped the woman who could command such emotion through her music.

By the fifth night, his frequent visits hadn’t gone unnoticed.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” Azriel remarked one evening as they sat in the River House, the shadowsinger's tone laced with curiosity.

Cassian shrugged, taking a sip of his wine. “Just keeping busy.”

Azriel gave him a long, assessing look. “Busy watching performances in a certain theater every night?”

Cassian stilled, his glass hovering halfway to his lips. “How do you—”

"You aren't the only one lurking in the dark corners” Azriel interrupted, a rare smirk tugging at his mouth as he pointed to his dark shadows. “You’ve got a pattern, brother. And if I noticed, so will Rhys.”

Cassian groaned, running a hand down his face. “I don’t even know why I keep going. I just…” He trailed off, unsure how to put his feelings into words.

Azriel leaned back, his smirk softening into something more thoughtful. “You’re drawn to her,” he said simply.

Cassian didn’t respond, but the answer was clear in the way his wings shifted restlessly.

“You know,” Azriel continued, his voice taking on a teasing edge, “you could always stop lurking in the shadows like a lovesick Illyrian and actually talk to her.”

Cassian shot him a glare. “I’m not lurking.”

Azriel raised a brow, unbothered. “Whatever you want to call it, you’re not going to get anywhere just watching her from the crowd. Talk to her.”

“And say what?” Cassian asked, his tone half-exasperated, half-uncertain. “Hey, I’ve been obsessively watching you play for a week like some kind of a maniac now, and I think you’re amazing—mind if we chat?”

Azriel chuckled. “It’s better than doing nothing.”

Cassian huffed, leaning back in his chair. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is,” Azriel replied, his smirk returning. “For most fae, at least. But you—you like to overthink things.”

Cassian glared at him again, but the corner of his mouth twitched in reluctant amusement.

By the end of the conversation, Cassian still wasn’t sure if he’d actually go through with it. But as he left the River House that night, Azriel’s words lingered in his mind.

So, when the next evening came and he found himself once again seated in the theater, watching her with that same quiet awe, he made a decision.

This time, he wouldn’t just admire her from afar. When the performance ended, he would wait. And he would find the courage to speak to her.

Y/N’s fingers hovered over the keys of the piano royale, her reflection barely visible on its polished surface. The heavy crimson curtain behind her marked the boundary between two worlds—the quiet solitude of preparation and the vibrant energy of performance. She exhaled slowly, willing her nerves to settle.

It wasn’t stage fright. That had disappeared long ago, beaten out of her by years of necessity and survival. No, this was something different—a flicker of anticipation, a spark that refused to extinguish no matter how she tried to ignore it.

Because she knew he would be there again.

The first time she’d seen him, she’d nearly faltered. Her gaze had landed on him like a moth drawn to a flame, his presence filling the room like he belonged in the center of every stage, every battlefield, every story. The most handsome male she’d ever seen—his dark hair, those powerful wings draped like shadows behind him, and the quiet intensity in his hazel eyes.

And then he kept coming back.

Night after night, he sat in the same spot, his massive frame a stark contrast to the delicate chairs of the theater. Always watching, always listening. She wasn’t sure if it unnerved her or thrilled her. Perhaps both.

Y/N’s hands clenched into fists on her lap. It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. She had come to Velaris seeking refuge, not entanglements. This city had given her safety when she had none, a home when she had only ruins to her name. She would not risk that—not for him, not for anyone.

But still…

Her fingers itched to play. The piano was her solace, her voice, her lifeline. It was the one thing no curse could take from her. She had lost so much—her voice stolen by a cruel twist of fate and power, her past ripped away by a tyrant who took pleasure in others' suffering.

Amarantha.

Even now, years after the cruel queen had been defeated, the scars of her cruelty lingered. Y/N had refused to kneel, refused to serve, and she had paid the price. Her voice had been silenced, not with magic alone but with pain so visceral it echoed in every note she played.

But in Velaris, she was free. Here, she could perform without fear. And if that Illyrian warrior wanted to sit in the audience and watch her every night, well… She let herself have this small indulgence.

A soft knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. One of the stagehands peeked in, giving her a quick nod. “Two minutes, Y/N.”

She returned the gesture with a small smile, though it felt hollow. Her mask of serenity slipped easily into place as she rose and walked to the stage, the weight of her curse settling on her shoulders like an old companion.

The crowd’s applause was thunderous as she began to play, her fingers dancing across the keys with practiced precision. Each note echoed through the grand hall, filling the space with a melody that was both haunting and beautiful.

She didn’t look at him—not right away. She couldn’t risk it. Instead, she let herself get lost in the music, her emotions bleeding into every chord, every crescendo.

But then her gaze flickered upward, as if drawn by an invisible thread, and there he was.

His eyes were locked on her, his expression a mixture of wonder and something deeper she couldn’t quite place. Her heart stuttered in her chest, but her hands never faltered, the music carrying her forward even as she felt the weight of his gaze.

She hated how much she noticed him—how his presence pulled at her, made her want to imagine things she had no right to dream of.

When the final note faded into silence, the applause swelled again, but Y/N barely heard it. She stood, bowing gracefully before slipping backstage, her heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with performance jitters.

Back in her room, she leaned against the closed door, her hands trembling slightly. She hated how vulnerable she felt, how the sight of him had made her chest ache in a way she hadn’t expected.

A soft knock startled her. She froze, her pulse leaping as she considered the possibilities. Stagehands didn’t usually bother her after a performance.

When she opened the door, she wasn’t sure if she was surprised or not to see him standing there.

His broad shoulders filled the doorway, his wings tucked neatly behind him. He looked almost nervous, his hazel eyes scanning her face before he offered a lopsided smile. “Hi.”

Her breath caught. She nodded, stepping aside to let him in, though she wasn’t entirely sure why.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” he said, his deep voice rumbling through the room as he looked around. “I just—I’ve been coming to your shows all week, and I thought it was time I introduced myself.”

She gestured for him to sit, her hands trembling slightly as she reached for the notepad and pen she kept nearby.

You’re not intruding. She wrote the words quickly before holding them up for him to see.

His brow furrowed slightly as he read them, a flicker of confusion crossing his face before understanding dawned. “You can’t…” He trailed off, his eyes searching hers.

She shook her head, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. She wanted to scream that she wasn’t broken, that she didn’t need pity, but she couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, and she hated how sincere he sounded.

She waved it off, quickly scribbling another message. I’m used to it.

But she wasn’t sure if that was entirely true. Not when she was sitting here, staring at the most handsome male she’d ever seen, knowing she would never be able to truly let him in.

Cassian settled into the chair across from Y/N, his massive frame making the small dressing room feel even smaller. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his hazel eyes warm and curious as they met hers.

“So,” he began, his voice as smooth as the first note of a symphony. “Do I get to know the name of the talented pianist who’s been stealing everyone’s attention in Velaris?”

She couldn’t help but smile, picking up her notepad again. Y/N.

Cassian read the name and repeated it softly, as if testing how it felt on his tongue. “Y/N.” He smiled then, a grin so disarming it made her chest ache. “It suits you.”

Heat rose to her cheeks, and she quickly looked down, busying herself with the pen. And you are?

“Cassian,” he said, leaning back slightly. His wings shifted, brushing against the edges of the chair. “General of the Night Court, Illyrian warrior, and occasional patron of the arts.” He smirked, the teasing glint in his eyes making her heart skip a beat.

She raised a brow, writing swiftly. Occasional? You’ve been here every night this week.

He laughed, the sound deep and genuine. “Caught me.” His grin softened, and his gaze turned thoughtful. “It’s hard to stay away when someone’s as talented as you. The way you play... it’s like you pour your soul into every note.”

Her hand froze midair. No one had ever said that to her before, not with such sincerity. She ducked her head, biting her lip as she wrote. Music has always been my refuge. My escape.

He nodded as if he understood, his expression growing more serious. “I get that. We all need something to keep us grounded.”

She hesitated before writing again. And what grounds you, Cassian?

His grin returned, though it was tinged with something bittersweet. “Family, mostly. Friends. And… helping others. Making sure the people I care about are safe and happy.”

The weight of his words settled between them, and for a moment, she wondered how much he carried on those broad shoulders.

She tapped her pen against the notepad, debating her next question before finally scribbling. Do you know sign language?

The moment the words registered, Cassian’s smile faltered. He sat up straighter, his wings shifting restlessly. “I... no. I don’t. I’m sorry.”

His voice was tinged with regret, and the disappointment etched on his face made her chest tighten. She shook her head quickly, holding up her hands as if to say, It’s okay.

Then she wrote, her strokes swift and firm. You don’t need to apologize. Most people don’t. I’ve learned to adapt.

He didn’t look convinced. “Still. I should have thought to learn. I mean…” He gestured vaguely at her, his frustration evident. “It’s the least I could do to make this easier for you.”

Her lips curved into a gentle smile, and she placed a hand over his for a brief moment before pulling it back. You’re here. That’s enough.

Cassian stared at her, and for a moment, she thought she saw something flicker in his eyes—something tender, something raw.

“So,” he said after a pause, his voice lighter now. “Have you always loved music?”

She nodded, her pen moving fluidly across the page. Ever since I was little. My mother used to play, and I’d sit beside her, watching her hands on the keys. When I was old enough, she taught me.

His expression softened further. “She must be proud of you.”

The words hit harder than she expected. She hesitated before writing again, her movements slower now. She passed away a long time ago.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice filled with genuine sympathy.

She waved it off, forcing a small smile as she wrote. It’s okay. Playing helps me remember her.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the sounds of the theater bustling outside fading into the background.

Eventually, she gestured toward him with her pen, her brow arched in curiosity. What about you? Do you play any instruments?

Cassian laughed, the sound warm and self-deprecating. “Absolutely not. Trust me, no one wants to hear me attempt music. Azriel says I have the rhythm of a drunk goat.”

She giggled silently, her shoulders shaking as she scribbled. I’d pay to see that.

He grinned. “I’ll consider it. But only if you promise not to laugh too hard.”

Her smile lingered even as she tapped the pen against the notepad, debating whether to ask the question gnawing at the back of her mind. Finally, she wrote, Why do you come to my shows?

Cassian blinked, caught off guard. He ran a hand through his hair, his wings shifting again. “Honestly?”

She nodded, her heart pounding as she waited for his answer.

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a soft rumble. “Because when you play, it’s like the whole world fades away. It’s just you and the music, and it’s... captivating.”

Her breath hitched, and she quickly ducked her head, hoping he didn’t notice the blush creeping up her neck.

Before she could respond, there was a knock at the door. A stagehand’s voice called out, “Y/N, we need to start cleaning up.”

Cassian stood, his towering frame suddenly making the room feel even smaller. “I should go,” he said, though he looked reluctant.

She scribbled quickly, holding up the notepad. Thank you for coming.

He smiled, his eyes lingering on hers. “Thank you for playing. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving Y/N standing there with her heart racing and her thoughts spinning.

She knew she couldn’t let this go any further—knew she couldn’t risk him finding out the truth. But as she touched the keys of the piano royale one last time that night, she couldn’t stop herself from hoping.

Cassian leaned back against the slanted tiles of the rooftop, the morning sun casting a golden hue over Velaris. The city below was waking, its streets buzzing with life, and the gentle breeze ruffled his hair. He glanced at Azriel, who sat cross-legged a few feet away, methodically cleaning one of his daggers.

“So?” Azriel’s voice was calm, but there was an edge of curiosity to it. “How’d it go with your mysterious pianist last night?”

Cassian let out a deep sigh, running a hand through his hair. “She’s…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Incredible. Quiet, but not in a shy way. More like she’s got this... stillness about her, like nothing can shake her. And her music—Az, it’s like the world stands still when she plays.”

Azriel smirked faintly but didn’t look up from his blade. “Sounds like someone’s smitten.”

Cassian threw a pebble at him, which Azriel easily dodged. “It’s not like that,” he grumbled, though the warmth creeping up his neck betrayed him. “She’s just... different.”

“Different how?” Azriel asked, finally glancing at him.

“She’s mute,” Cassian said softly. “She communicates through writing, and—damn it—I didn’t even think to learn sign language.” He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “She didn’t make me feel bad about it, but I could see it in her eyes. Like she’s used to people not understanding her.”

Azriel’s brows lifted slightly, his interest piqued. “And yet you’re determined to understand her.”

Cassian shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “She’s worth it. I just... I don’t know, Az. There’s something about her.”

Azriel hummed in thought, his shadows curling around him like curious tendrils. “So, what’s your plan?”

Cassian grinned, his confidence returning. “I’ll figure it out. I mean, how hard can it be to win over a female who barely knows me?”

Azriel snorted. “I’m sure your charm will work wonders.”

Cassian sat up, stretching his wings. “Speaking of charm, let’s take a flight. I need to clear my head.”

Azriel sheathed his dagger and stood. “Lead the way, oh charming one.”

They launched into the sky, the wind rushing past them as they soared over Velaris. The city’s beauty stretched out below—cobbled streets, colorful markets, and the sparkling Sidra winding its way through the heart of it all.

It was during one of these wide sweeps that Cassian caught it—a faint but tantalizing scent carried on the breeze. It was soft and sweet, like fresh jasmine mixed with a hint of something warm and spicy. His head whipped toward the source, his eyes narrowing.

He spotted her immediately. Y/N was walking out of a shop, her arms laden with bags, her face partially hidden beneath a soft scarf.

“There,” he said, angling his wings and diving.

“Cassian, what—” Azriel’s voice was lost to the wind as he followed.

Cassian landed with a thud right in front of her, his sudden appearance startling her so much that she dropped one of the bags. Her wide eyes met his, and for a second, she looked like she might bolt.

“Sorry!” he blurted, holding up his hands. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Azriel landed gracefully beside him, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to Cassian’s flustered energy.

Y/N tilted her head, her expression softening when she recognized him. She crouched to retrieve the fallen bag, but Cassian was quicker, snatching it up and offering it back with a sheepish grin.

“Hi,” he said, his voice a little too loud in his nervousness. “I, uh, wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

Azriel cleared his throat, clearly trying not to laugh. “Y/N, this is Azriel,” Cassian said, gesturing to his brother. “Azriel, this is Y/N. She’s... well, she’s amazing.”

Y/N smiled politely, nodding in greeting, but her eyes flicked back to Cassian with an amused sparkle.

“I told him you were amazing,” Cassian added quickly, then winced. “Not like, in a weird way. I mean, I did—” He groaned, rubbing his face. “I’m just going to stop talking now.”

Azriel chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re doing great, Cass.”

Y/N covered her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Cassian groaned again. “I swear I’m not always like this.”

“Debatable,” Azriel muttered.

Cassian shot him a glare before noticing the multiple bags in Y/N’s hands. “Do you need help with those?”

She hesitated but nodded, clearly a little overwhelmed by the sheer number of them.

“Great,” Cassian said, taking all the bags in one swoop and ignoring Azriel’s raised brow. “I’ll carry these for you. Where to?”

Azriel gave Cassian a knowing look and spread his wings. “I’ll leave you to it.” With that, he took off, his shadows swirling behind him.

Cassian grinned triumphantly as he fell into step beside Y/N. “See? Problem solved. Now, lead the way.”

As they walked, he found himself talking—about Velaris, about the beauty of the city at night, about how he and Azriel used to get into trouble as kids. Y/N listened intently, her expressions shifting between amusement and curiosity.

When they finally reached her door, Cassian set the bags down gently. “Here we are,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you... need help bringing these in?”

She shook her head, scribbling quickly. Thank you, Cassian.

He smiled, the warmth in her gaze making his chest tighten. “Anytime.”

As she unlocked the door and stepped inside, she turned back, holding up the notepad again. See you at the theater?

His grin widened. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

And as she closed the door behind her, Cassian stood there for a moment, staring at the spot where she’d been, wondering how this woman had managed to captivate him so completely.

The theater buzzed with anticipation as the crowd settled into their seats, the soft hum of chatter filling the air. Cassian leaned back, arms crossed, his wings tucked in tight against the velvet seat.

The lights dimmed, and the theater fell silent. Cassian’s sharp eyes picked her out immediately as she entered the stage. She moved like she was part of the music itself, her dress flowing like liquid silver under the soft glow of the lights. His chest tightened at the sight of her—so composed, so seemingly untouchable.

She sat at the piano royale, her hands hovering above the keys. The first notes sang through the air, tender yet commanding, and the entire room was transfixed. Cassian had never considered himself a man drawn to delicate things, yet here he was, attending every performance like some besotted fool.

But tonight… something was different.

Her fingers faltered.

The wrong note struck, a sharp discordant sound that cut through the melody like a blade. Cassian stiffened, his senses on high alert. Y/N paused, her shoulders rigid as if trying to compose herself. Then she tried again. The music resumed, but it lacked the fluidity he’d come to admire.

She faltered a second time.

A murmur rippled through the crowd, confusion and concern spreading like wildfire. Cassian’s instincts kicked in. He sat forward, every muscle in his body taut as he watched her hands tremble on the keys. Beads of sweat formed on her brow, and she was pale—too pale.

“Something’s wrong,” he muttered to himself.

Y/N abruptly stood, swaying as though she might collapse. Her hands clenched into fists, and Cassian’s heart dropped as she stumbled away from the piano. The audience gasped as she braced herself against the instrument, her head bowed as if she were fighting some invisible force.

Cassian didn’t wait. He shot out of his seat, ignoring the whispers and stares as he pushed through the rows of patrons toward the stage. He didn’t care about protocol or appearances—something was happening to her, and he wasn’t about to stand by and watch.

The theater staff hesitated as he stormed past them, his towering frame cutting through their protests. By the time he reached her, Y/N was being helped off the stage by one of the attendants, her breaths coming in shallow gasps.

“Y/N,” he called, his voice low and firm, but she didn’t lift her head.

“Sir, you can’t—” one of the staff members began, but Cassian silenced them with a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

Without another word, he slipped his arm under Y/N’s, steadying her as she fought to stand upright. Her gaze briefly met his, and he saw it—the fear, the frustration, and something deeper.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he said softly, his protective instincts roaring to life.

Pain clawed through her chest as she clutched the piano for support, her vision swimming. She had never faltered like this before. Never. For years, she had managed to suppress the curse, to keep its dark tendrils at bay with sheer willpower and the solace of her music.

But tonight, it had won.

Her legs trembled as she stumbled off the stage, the world around her blurring into a sea of shocked faces and hushed whispers. Panic threatened to consume her. This wasn’t supposed to happen—not yet. She had always known the curse would catch up with her eventually, but she had hoped for more time.

As she reached the wings of the stage, a strong, familiar arm wrapped around her waist. She looked up, and there he was. Cassian.

Why was he here? He had no business being this close to her, seeing her like this—vulnerable, broken. Yet his hold was steady, his presence grounding in a way that both frightened and comforted her.

The curse was getting stronger. She could feel it now, a dark weight pressing against her chest, making it harder to breathe. Her music had always been her shield, a way to channel the curse’s power and keep it from consuming her. But tonight, even that had failed her.

She closed her eyes, leaning into Cassian’s warmth despite herself. She shouldn’t. Letting him get close was dangerous—for both of them. He didn’t know what she carried, the burden that clung to her like a shadow. If he did, he would leave. They all left eventually.

But part of her wanted to tell him.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine. “You’re safe now.”

Safe. The word felt like a cruel joke. She would never be safe, not while this curse still bound her, twisting her life into something unrecognizable.

As they reached the privacy of her dressing room, she sagged into the nearest chair, clutching her arms around herself. Her mind raced with fear and frustration. The curse was escalating, and she didn’t know how much longer she could hold it off.

Cassian crouched before her, his hazel eyes filled with concern. “What happened out there?”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came. Frustration boiled over, and she gestured to her throat, shaking her head.

“You don’t have to talk,” he said gently. “Just… let me help.”

Her heart twisted at his words. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. But the look in his eyes—so earnest, so determined—made her chest ache. She wanted to let him in, to tell him everything, but the weight of the curse held her back.

She couldn’t do that to him.

The morning light filtered softly through the curtains, casting long shadows across the floor of her small apartment. Y/N sat at the edge of her bed, her hands wrapped tightly around a warm mug of tea. She had barely slept, her thoughts a whirlwind of last night’s events.

The performance had been a disaster. She could still hear the discordant notes that had slipped from her fingers, the tremor in her hands, the strange, suffocating sensation that had overtaken her body. It had felt like her curse, that dark power she had kept under tight control for so long, had risen up within her and demanded to be noticed.

Cassian had seen it.

He’d been so gentle with her afterward, yet his concern was unmistakable. He hadn’t left her side until she was safely in her apartment, and even then, she’d caught a glimpse of him perched on the rooftop across the street, his form outlined by the soft glow of the streetlights.

The memory of his quiet insistence on her well-being made her stomach flip again. He’d asked so many questions—about how she was feeling, what had happened during the performance, if she had been overworking herself.

And she had said nothing.

She had only shaken her head and offered a weak smile, the one she wore when she needed to shield herself from the world. She couldn’t tell him. How could she? How could she explain something so awful, so dangerous, when she couldn’t even find a way to keep it from taking over her own body?

He’d been so persistent, so sincere in his concern, but she had been silent, the weight of her secrets pressing down on her chest. She saw the doubt in his eyes, the confusion that crept in when she didn’t answer his questions.

He hadn’t pushed, though. That was the thing. He hadn’t pressured her to speak. Instead, he’d carefully guided her to the door, his arm steady around her waist as he had offered to fly her home. When she’d refused, he hadn’t argued. Instead, he had walked her home, his pace steady and protective.

Cassian had talked to her, enough to distract her, enough to keep her mind from spiraling into the overwhelming chaos that constantly threatened to consume her. The rhythm of his words had grounded her, and she had found herself listening without thinking. She had told him nothing, but he had somehow made her feel safe.

When they had reached her apartment, he had paused at the door, his expression serious as he had reassured her that he would be nearby—just in case she needed him. Then, he had taken off into the sky, his powerful wings cutting through the night air.

Cassian hadn’t left her mind since. His words, his actions—they lingered in her thoughts like a haunting melody, one that made her both want to embrace the warmth and pull away in fear. The curse, the reason she could never be truly close to anyone, was the reason she couldn’t let him in. She couldn’t burden him with her problems, not when he didn’t deserve it.

But as she sat there, alone in her apartment, she couldn’t help but replay the events of the night.

Had she been too careless? She had kept the curse locked away for so long, but was it finally starting to take its toll on her body? What if this was just the beginning? What if it would only get worse from here?

Her chest tightened, and she placed a hand over her heart, trying to calm the fluttering panic rising within her. She had lived with this curse for so long, but now it felt different. More threatening. More uncontrollable.

Y/N’s mind swirled with these thoughts, each one more terrifying than the last. She had tried so hard to maintain control, to keep herself distant from others, but she could feel the walls she had built around herself starting to crack.

And it terrified her.

She had always known that the curse would eventually catch up with her. But she hadn’t expected it to happen so soon, or for someone like Cassian to come so close to seeing the cracks in her armor.

It was easier to pretend she was fine, to act like everything was normal, but she couldn’t keep up the act forever.

And if last night had taught her anything, it was that her curse wasn’t going anywhere. It was only a matter of time before it completely consumed her, and she wasn’t sure if she could bear to let anyone close enough to see it happen.

Her fingers tightened around the mug, her nails pressing into the porcelain, as she fought to steady her breathing. It was just one night. Just one slip-up. She would be fine. She had to be.

But deep down, she knew it wasn’t that simple.

Cassian’s wings beat heavily in the air as he soared above the city, his mind a whirl of thoughts that he couldn’t quiet. The night had lingered with him, and he had barely slept since walking Y/N to her door. It wasn’t just the shock of her performance faltering—no, it was the look in her eyes afterward, the guarded silence she had wrapped around herself.

He had been gentle with her, careful to give her space and not pry too much into what had happened, but he could still feel her retreating from him. It wasn’t the first time he had met someone with secrets, but this felt different. The way her hands shook as she played, the way her breath had caught in her throat before she’d stopped mid-performance—there was something there, something she wasn’t telling him.

And it pissed him off.

Cassian gritted his teeth as he landed on the balcony of his apartment, wings folding with a fluid motion. He walked inside, but the moment his boots hit the floor, his thoughts immediately returned to her.

What had happened to her?

He couldn’t get the image of her out of his head—the delicate lines of her face, the fire in her eyes despite her evident struggle. And the way she had refused to tell him anything.

After a long, restless night, Cassian had done the only thing that made sense—he had gone to Rhysand.

Now, sitting in the study room with both Azriel and Rhys, he couldn’t hold it back any longer. His thoughts spilled from him, his voice tense as he recounted the events.

“I’m telling you, something’s not right with her,” Cassian said, pacing the floor. “I’ve never seen anyone react like that before. She was fine one moment, and then suddenly…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “It’s like she’s hiding something. She’s a damned mystery.”

Azriel, ever the quiet observer, leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes narrowing. “You think she’s hiding something from you?”

Cassian nodded, frustration evident in his tone. “Of course she is. She didn’t tell me anything—nothing about what happened at the show, nothing about why she couldn’t finish. It’s like she’s shielding herself from everyone.”

Azriel’s eyes flicked to Rhysand, a silent question passing between them. Rhysand, who had been listening intently, now raised an eyebrow.

“Who is it you’re talking about, Cassian?” Rhysand asked, his voice calm but curious.

Cassian hesitated for a moment. “Her name’s Y/N. She’s the pianist at the theater I’ve been visiting. The one I told Az about.”

Rhysand’s gaze sharpened, and he stood up, his wings ruffling behind him. “Wait a moment… Y/N? As in the pianist from summer?”

Cassian nodded, confused by Rhysand’s sudden recognition.

“Yeah, that’s the one. You know her?”

Rhysand’s face darkened, and he looked at Cassian with a mix of disbelief and something else—something deeper. “I do. She was one of Amarantha’s victims. I was there when it happened.”

Cassian froze, his heart sinking. “What do you mean? What happened to her?”

Rhysand’s jaw tightened, his gaze turning distant as the memories flooded back. “Amarantha had her voice taken away. Anyone who dared to speak against her—she silenced them in the cruelest ways. Y/N…” Rhysand’s voice dropped to a lower pitch, filled with sympathy. “Her curse was placed upon her during that time. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t even sing. But it was worse than that. Her voice was stolen, not just taken. The power of it was bound to a curse.”

Cassian’s fists clenched at his sides. Anger surged through him, hot and fierce. “How is that possible? How could anyone do that to someone like her?”

Rhysand’s eyes met his, filled with grim understanding. “Amarantha had a way of breaking the subjects. She found a way to take their essence, their power, and twist it. Y/N was no different. But after Hybern fell, she sought refuge here in Velaris. I’ve seen her around, but I didn’t know the full extent of what had happened to her. I didn’t know she was still struggling with the curse.”

Cassian felt his chest tighten. Y/N. The female he had been so captivated by. The one who had captivated him without saying a single word. And yet, here she was, bearing a curse so dark, so consuming, that she had been left to carry it alone all this time.

“She hasn’t told you about her curse, has she?” Rhysand asked quietly, his eyes probing Cassian’s face.

“No,” Cassian said through gritted teeth.

Azriel, who had remained silent through most of the conversation, now leaned forward. “She’s not hiding from you, Cassian. She’s hiding from the curse.”

Cassian’s gaze snapped to Azriel, who continued. “She’s scared. Whatever’s happening to her, it’s worse than you think. She’s afraid of what it could do—not just to her, but to the people around her. And she’s scared that if you find out, you’ll run. That’s why she doesn’t talk about it. She doesn’t want to burden anyone with her curse.”

Cassian felt his chest tighten again, but this time, it was a different kind of tightness. He had been so focused on the mystery of Y/N, on the way she had pulled away from him, that he hadn’t even considered the depth of what she was dealing with.

“Please,” he said, his voice softer now, “I need help. I can’t just sit back and watch her slowly fall apart. There’s something deeper there. I can feel it.”

Rhysand and Azriel exchanged a look, one that Cassian couldn’t quite decipher. Then Rhysand stood up, his wings flexing.

“Alright,” he said, his voice firm, “We’ll keep an eye on her. Make sure she’s safe, make sure she’s well. But you need to be patient, Cassian. She won’t open up to you unless she’s ready. You have to respect that.”

Cassian nodded, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “I understand. But I can’t just leave her to suffer alone. She deserves better than that.”

Azriel clapped him on the back. “We know, Cass. We’ll help. You just need to be patient.”

Cassian’s eyes narrowed as he thought about Y/N, her vulnerability, and the walls she had built around herself. He hadn’t cracked her yet, not fully, but something in him told him that he would. He wouldn’t stop until he had helped her, until he had destroyed that curse for good.

For her.

He made a silent promise to himself then, as Rhysand and Azriel discussed their next steps. He would help Y/N, no matter the cost. He would break down every wall she put up and stand by her side, no matter what secrets she was hiding.

And he would destroy that curse.

No matter what.

Y/N had stayed home that day, too drained from the previous night's performance to do anything. The aftermath of the curse's flare-up weighed heavily on her, making her body feel as though it were made of stone, stiff and unyielding.

The soft knock at the door startled her, breaking her thoughts.

At first, she wasn’t sure if she had imagined it. Who could be visiting her now? No one knew she lived here. But when the knock came again, more insistent this time, she stood up, her joints stiff from the prolonged rest.

When she opened the door, her breath caught in her throat.

There, at her doorstep, sat a wicker basket overflowing with fresh flowers, soft pastel-colored ribbons, and a few food items carefully packed inside. A small folded note lay atop it, written in a familiar scrawl that made her chest tighten.

For the lovely pianist who fills the air with music and beauty. I hope this helps lift your spirits, even if just for a moment. – Cassian.

She stood there for a long moment, staring at the basket. The warmth of the gesture caught her off guard. No one had ever thought to do something like this for her—no one but him. He had noticed her, understood her silence, and cared enough to leave a piece of himself behind. Her fingers hovered over the note, and her heart fluttered uncomfortably.

With a hesitant glance around, she wondered if he was nearby, but there was no sign of him. A pang of disappointment stung her chest at the thought. Still, she couldn’t help but smile softly, touched by his kindness.

She bent down to gather the basket and gently set it inside. But as she stood up, a sharp pain suddenly pierced her chest, causing her breath to catch. She staggered back, feeling the familiar sense of weight pressing down on her. The curse—no, the power within her was shifting again.

She tried to take a breath, but it wasn’t enough. Her vision swam, and the world tilted. She tried to steady herself, but her knees buckled beneath her.

Not now. Not like this…

Her heart pounded as the curse flared again, relentless and painful, constricting her chest, filling her throat with invisible hands. She collapsed to the ground, her fingers clutching her chest in a desperate attempt to find air. Please, please, just let me breathe.

Her efforts were futile as her body gave way to the pain and darkness swallowed her whole.

Cassian grinned to himself as he made his way down the stairs, his heart a little lighter than usual. He had been thinking about her all day, wondering how she would react to the little surprise he’d left for her. He hadn’t been sure at first whether it was a good idea—whether it was too forward—but something about Y/N made him want to show her he cared.

He had picked out the best flowers, the sweetest fruits, and a few small indulgences. Nothing extravagant, just a little something to brighten her day.

She deserves it, he thought with a satisfied smile. And maybe, just maybe, it will make her smile.

Cassian had wanted to be around when she opened the basket, to see the look on her face, but he had made sure to slip away quietly, vanishing into the shadows once he had left the gift on her doorstep. He would have stayed if he could, but he had a matter at hand that required his attention.

Still, the thought of her reaction kept him grinning as he made his way to the library. He was certain she would be happy—no one had ever done something like that for her, had they? He hoped it would at least make her feel a little less isolated, less burdened by the silence that seemed to weigh on her so heavily.

His thoughts were interrupted when a soft voice called from behind him, snapping him out of his musings.

“Cassian,” a priestess said, her hands extended, holding several large books on sign language. “I have the books you requested.” She also gestured toward a woman standing beside her, Mariella, who was mute. “Mariella is one of our own who uses sign language, and she has agreed to help you practice. These books will help you understand how to communicate with those who do not speak verbally.”

Cassian's eyes lit up with excitement. This was exactly what he had been waiting for. He had been eager to learn, not just to make things easier for Y/N, but because he wanted to understand her better—he wanted to make sure she didn’t feel alone.

I’ll learn. I’ll do whatever it takes, he promised himself.

“Thank you,” he said, his tone sincere as he accepted the books. His eyes brightened as he turned toward Mariella, smiling warmly at her. “This will be amazing. Thank you for agreeing to help me.”

Mariella smiled back, a quiet, appreciative expression.

As they got to work, Cassian found himself mentally back in his conversation with Y/N, still wondering how she was reacting to the gift. He hadn’t been able to shake the image of her face, her eyes when she received it.

But the thought of her now… it had been replaced by the quiet determination to learn sign language and help her, however he could.

Later on in the night, Cassian’s wings beat steadily as he soared through the skies. However, a strange sense of unease kept gnawing at him. It was almost as if the world had shifted in a way he couldn’t quite explain, and his instincts were bristling, urging him to check on her.

He had no logical reason for concern, but Cassian trusted his instincts more than anything. They’d never steered him wrong before.

As he circled above her home, the soft glow from the windows cast faint shadows on the ground below. But then something caught his eye—a rolling object, bouncing slowly down the steps. It was one of the apples he had chosen so carefully for her.

His heart skipped a beat.

The apple rolled out of sight, and for a moment, Cassian’s stomach tightened. The door was slightly ajar, just enough for him to notice. His pulse quickened. Something was wrong. His wings angled downward, the urgency within him rising as the doors of his mind swung wide open. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to land, to investigate.

He descended rapidly, his feet hitting the ground just in time for him to notice a sense of stillness in the air. There was no movement, no light from inside the house. His protective instincts flared to life, and his fists clenched at his sides. Something wasn’t right.

Cassian approached the door slowly, his eyes scanning for any sign of movement. He pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges louder than usual in the silence of the night.

His gaze landed on her almost instantly.

Y/N lay unmoving on the floor, her body curled slightly, her face pale and twisted in pain. The air around her seemed heavier than usual, thick with the weight of whatever curse plagued her. Cassian’s heart slammed against his ribcage as he rushed forward, his breath coming faster, his body charged with alarm.

“No, no, no,” he muttered to himself as he knelt beside her, panic threatening to seize him. Her chest barely rose and fell, her lips a faint shade of blue. He could see the signs of the curse’s latest flare-up, the way her breathing was shallow, her body fighting against an invisible force.

Cassian’s hands trembled as he carefully placed them on her shoulders, lifting her slightly to check for any obvious injuries. His mind raced, furious that she was alone like this, that he hadn’t been there sooner. He couldn’t let her die like this. Not after everything.

“Y/N!” His voice was hoarse, desperation lacing each word. “Come on, breathe. I need you to fight.”

She remained still, her eyelids flickering but not opening. Cassian’s jaw tightened in frustration, helplessness gnawing at his insides. His mind, usually so sharp and clear, was clouded with a thousand thoughts. He needed to focus. He needed to help her.

He closed his eyes for a moment, his anger and concern swirling inside him. Without thinking twice, he reached out mentally to Rhysand and Azriel, his thoughts flooding with worry.

Rhys, Az, something’s happened—Y/N’s in trouble. She’s—she’s unconscious, and her curse flared up again. She’s not breathing properly, and I can’t—

His words were cut off as Rhys’s calm voice echoed in his mind. Cassian, calm down. I have already talked with Helion to have hids libraries be searched for a solution. Priestesses are also hard at work. Keep her safe. Azriel, keep an eye (ora shadow) out for her. Send anyone to be near her house at all times.

Cassian could feel the protective power of Rhys’s words even across the distance. He had to stay calm. But the frustration clawed at him.

Cassian’s gaze softened as he sat down next to her, careful not to disturb her fragile form. His mind was filled with both anger and a deep sense of helplessness. I won’t let this continue, Rhys. I’ll break this curse, I swear it.

Azriel’s voice cut through, quieter but filled with the same sense of urgency. We’ll figure it out. Just don’t leave her side, Cassian. Don’t do anything reckless.

Cassian nodded, though he knew they couldn’t see him. He couldn’t even bring himself to speak out loud as his emotions swirled. I’ll keep her safe. I’ll do whatever it takes.

Rhys’ mental presence was still strong, his voice calm but resolute. Cassian, when she wakes, we’ll help you with this. If she’s willing, maybe she’ll want to come back to the House of Wind with you. It will be safer for her there, with Azriel and Nesta. You know what we can do to help.

Cassian’s thoughts were consumed with a flurry of emotions—protectiveness, desperation, frustration. I just need her to be okay. Please let her be okay.

Rhys’ voice softened. I know, Cassian. We’ll do everything we can. Stay with her. We’ll be there shortly.

Cassian’s mental communication with Rhys and Azriel ceased, but the weight of their words lingered. I’ll keep her safe.He repeated it over and over in his head, willing it to be true.

Minutes felt like hours. His eyes stayed glued to Y/N, unwilling to blink for fear that something would happen while his gaze was turned. Every time her chest moved with a shallow breath, he sighed in relief. But that wasn’t enough. He needed her to wake up, to be okay. He would do whatever it took.

Suddenly, a shift in the air. He noticed her chest rise higher, her breath deepening, and a soft flutter of her eyelids. His heart surged in his chest, hope blooming.

Her eyes slowly opened, unfocused at first. Cassian was at her side in an instant, his hand hovering near her but not quite touching her. The moment his gaze met hers, everything else ceased to exist.

Her breath was still shaky, but she was alive. Her eyes locked onto his, a mixture of confusion and fear flickering in them as she tried to process what had just happened. Cassian’s chest tightened as he stared into her wide, silent eyes. His hand reached out, brushing a lock of hair from her face, the tenderness in his touch matching the softness in his heart.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “You’re safe now.”

She blinked slowly, and Cassian felt a sense of relief wash over him.

But there was still so much to be done. Cassian felt his determination rise again, a wave of protectiveness flooding through him. He was going to fix this. He wouldn’t let her suffer anymore.

Rhys’ voice echoed faintly in his mind. Let us know what happens, Cassian.

Y/N was tucked into her bed, the soft lamplight casting a warm glow across the room. Cassian sat beside her, a steaming cup of tea in hand. His broad shoulders were hunched slightly, his focus entirely on her as he gently held the cup to her lips. She hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering to his before taking a small sip.

The tea was soothing, and she leaned back against the pillows with a faint, grateful smile. Cassian set the cup aside, his hazel eyes watching her with a mix of concern and determination.

The silence stretched between them until he finally broke it. “I feel really uneasy leaving you here alone,” he admitted, his voice low but steady. “Rhys has already promised to have someone stationed near your house at all times to ensure your safety. But...” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck, his wings shifting slightly behind him. “I’d feel a lot better if you came with me to the House of Wind. It’s safer there.”

Y/N blinked, her brows knitting together in surprise. She reached for the notepad on her bedside table and scribbled a quick response before holding it up for him to read.

Rhys? As in Rhysand? The High Lord?

Cassian chuckled softly, a small smile breaking through his worry. “Yes, Rhysand. The High Lord himself.”

Her cheeks turned pink as she quickly wrote her next message. I’m honored, truly, but I wouldn’t want to be a burden or an inconvenience.

Cassian’s expression softened, but there was a hint of exasperation in his tone. “Nonsense. You could never be a burden, Y/N. We’ve all already agreed it’s the best place for you.”

But Y/N wasn’t convinced. She shook her head and scribbled another note. No. I don’t belong there. I’m just... me. No one needs me there.

Before Cassian could respond, her body suddenly tensed. Her hands flew to her throat, her face contorting in pain as her chest heaved. The curse struck again, sharp and unrelenting. She clenched her eyes shut, her fingers digging into his arm as she gasped for air.

“Y/N!” Cassian exclaimed, moving closer to steady her. His hands hovered protectively over her, his voice softening. “Breathe through it. I’ve got you. Just hold on.”

The wave of pain subsided after what felt like an eternity, leaving her slumped against the pillows, her breaths shallow but steady. Cassian’s jaw tightened as he watched her, his heart breaking at the sight of her suffering.

He took a deep breath, his tone firm but gentle. “You know what? I’m sorry if what I said earlier sounded like a question. You’re coming with me, Y/N. No way in hell am I leaving you here to deal with this on your own.”

Y/N weakly grabbed her notepad, her hands trembling as she scribbled, No. I’m too shy. It is not a place for me.

Cassian gently pried the notepad from her hands, his gaze unwavering. “That’s where you’re wrong. You do belong there, and we do need you. And if anyone has the audacity to make you feel otherwise, I’ll personally make sure they regret it.”

Her lips twitched at his vehemence, a tiny smile breaking through despite her exhaustion.

Cassian smirked, leaning closer. “Besides, Rhys, Feyre, Az, and even Nesta have already agreed. They’re looking forward to having you there. So, like I said—this isn’t a question.”

She gave him a pointed look, writing a quick response. You’re stubborn.

“And you’re just figuring that out?” he teased, his grin widening.

I don’t want to trouble anyone, she wrote, her expression earnest.

Cassian sighed, his tone softening. “Y/N, you’re not trouble. You’re family now, whether you like it or not. And families look out for each other.”

Her eyes softened at his words, the weight of her resistance crumbling under his steady resolve. With a small sigh, she finally nodded.

Cassian’s face lit up with a triumphant smile. “Good. I promise you won’t regret this. Don’t worry about your things—I’ll have them sent to the House of Wind. For now, just focus on feeling better. We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.”

Y/N gave him a faint smile, her eyes fluttering shut as exhaustion pulled at her. Cassian leaned back in his chair, his watchful gaze never leaving her as she drifted off.

“Don’t worry, Y/N,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

The wind whipped against her face as Cassian flew them toward the House of Wind, the towering mountain structure growing larger with every passing moment. His arms were strong and steady around her, his warmth cutting through the chill of the high altitude. She clung to him, not out of fear but because the contact sent an unfamiliar flutter through her chest.

There was something about him—his presence, his strength—that made her feel safe. For the first time in what felt like years, she could breathe, even if the air up here was thin. She stole a glance at his profile as they soared higher, his sharp jawline and focused gaze drawing her in. Her pulse quickened, and she quickly looked away, chastising herself for the strange butterflies stirring within her.

When they landed at the House of Wind, she was momentarily struck silent—not that she could speak anyway—by the sheer beauty of it. The sprawling structure perched atop the mountain radiated elegance and power. Cassian set her down gently, his hands lingering for a moment before he stepped back.

“This way,” he said, gesturing for her to follow him inside.

The grand doors opened, and the entire Inner Circle was waiting for her. Rhysand stood at the forefront with Feyre by his side, both of them emanating an aura of warmth and authority. Behind them, Azriel leaned casually against a wall, his shadows curling around him, while Mor, Amren, Nesta, and Elain stood nearby.

Rhysand’s gaze softened as it landed on her. He stepped forward, his tone gentle. “Welcome, Y/N. This is your home now, for as long as you wish it to be.”

She nodded quickly, clutching her notepad tightly, unsure of how else to respond.

Feyre smiled kindly. “We’re so glad you’re here. If there’s anything you need—anything at all—please don’t hesitate to let us know.”

The others chimed in with their greetings, each of them offering warm or curious words of welcome. Mor’s grin was wide and infectious, while Amren’s sharp eyes seemed to assess her with a quiet intensity. Elain gave her a soft smile, and Nesta... well, Nesta simply nodded, but even that felt like an acknowledgment.

But it was Rhysand’s words that lingered the longest. “I know you’ve endured much,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. “You survived Amarantha’s cruelty, and that alone makes you stronger than you realize. You have nothing to prove to us, Y/N. You’re safe here.”

Her throat tightened at his words, and she quickly scribbled a note: Thank you for your kindness. I’ll do my best not to be a burden.

Rhys shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. “You’re no burden. You’re family now.”

The weight of his words made her chest ache—not from pain, but from an emotion she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Cassian stepped forward, breaking the moment. “Come on. I’ll show you to your room.”

She followed him silently, the noise of the others fading as they ascended a set of stairs. Her heart pounded as they walked down a hallway, stopping in front of a door. Cassian grinned, gesturing to the room beside it. “That’s my room, so if you need anything, I’m just next door.”

He opened her door, revealing a cozy, sunlit space with a plush bed, a small sitting area, and a window that offered a breathtaking view of Velaris. She stepped inside, still clutching her notepad, and turned to thank him.

Before she could write anything, Cassian spoke. “I promise to help you find a way to get rid of this curse, one way or another.”

Her eyes widened, the notepad slipping slightly from her grasp.

He shrugged, his voice softening. “Rhys told me. About Amarantha. About what she did to you. I... I’m sorry you had to go through that. But you’re not alone anymore. We’ll figure it out together.”

Her hands trembled as she wrote: No one can break it. It’s killing me slowly. There’s no way to stop it.

Cassian’s expression hardened, his hazel eyes blazing with determination as he clenched and unclenched his fists. “We’ll see about that,” he said firmly. “I don’t care what it takes or how impossible it seems. I’m not giving up on you.”

She stared at him, stunned by his resolve. The smallest of smiles tugged at her lips as she nodded, though deep down, a bitter truth whispered that his promise was futile.

“Get some rest,” Cassian said, his voice softening again. “Your things will be brought up soon. And if you need anything—anything at all—you know where to find me.”

She nodded again, watching as he left the room. The door clicked shut behind him, and she sank onto the bed, her heart heavy with both hope and despair.

No one could break the curse. Not even Cassian.

And yet, as she closed her eyes, that flicker of warmth he’d left behind refused to extinguish.

Cassian stood in Rhysand’s office with Azriel and Rhys, poring over books and scrolls. Every lead they had on Amarantha’s curses turned into a dead end.

Unfortunately, all was same on Helion's side as well as his librarians kept searching nonstop for a cure.

“She wasn’t just cruel,” Rhys said, his voice tight with anger. “She was meticulous. Every curse she created was designed to last.”

Azriel’s shadows swirled around him. “There must be something she overlooked. No curse is perfect.”

Cassian slammed a book shut. “I don’t care what it takes. I’m not letting her suffer like this. We’ve fought gods before—we’ll find a way.”

Rhys placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll keep looking. But Cassian... don’t let this consume you.”

Cassian didn’t reply, his jaw clenched as he flipped open another book.

Cassian and Y/N sat in the training ring, the sun casting a golden glow over the House of Wind. The faint rustle of the wind filled the quiet as he stretched his legs out, his wings half-spread to soak in the warmth. She sat cross-legged beside him, her notepad resting on her lap, though her pen hovered uncertainly above the page.

He gestured toward the notepad. “You’ve got a real talent there,” he said, nodding toward a detailed sketch of the training ring she’d been working on earlier. “Did you always draw, or is it something you picked up along the way?”

She glanced at him, hesitant, before jotting down her response: I started as a child. It helped me stay calm.

“Smart,” he said, leaning back on his hands. “Az used to say the same thing about throwing knives. Something to focus on, to drown out the noise.”

Her lips twitched, and she wrote: Knives sound less calming.

Cassian laughed, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Fair point. I guess drawing is a bit more peaceful.” He tilted his head, watching her as she added shading to a corner of the sketch. “What do you draw when you’re not sketching stuff like this?”

She paused, chewing on her lip, before scribbling: Dreams. Things I’ll never have.

His expression softened, his hazel eyes darkening as he studied her. “Dreams aren’t things you can’t have. They’re just things you don’t have yet.”

Her hand stilled over the page, and she looked at him, surprised.

He shrugged. “I’m not saying it’s easy. But look at me—grew up with nothing. No family, no home, no future. Now I’ve got people who’d go to the ends of the earth for me, a family who fights for me, a place to call mine. If I can get all that, anyone can.”

She looked down at her notepad, her fingers brushing the edge of the page as if considering his words. Finally, she scribbled: Maybe one day.

Cassian grinned. “Maybe one day,” he echoed. “But don’t think I won’t keep trying to convince you sooner.”

She rolled her eyes at his persistence, but a faint smile tugged at her lips.

“See? There it is,” he teased, pointing at her face.

Her brows furrowed, and she tilted her head in question.

“That smile,” he clarified, his voice softening. “I knew it was hiding somewhere.”

She shook her head, amused despite herself, and started to sketch again.

Cassian leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to be shy around me, you know,” he said gently. “I’d like to know more about you, too.”

She hesitated, her pen hovering over the page, before finally writing: Maybe one day.

“Fair enough,” he said with a nod, his grin playful but understanding. “But just so you know, I’m a pretty patient guy. I’ve got all the time in the world to wait.”

Y/N found herself slowly being drawn into the Inner Circle’s orbit. With Feyre they painted together in the studio, Feyre encouraging her to express herself through colors and strokes. Y/N’s hesitation faded as the canvas filled with soft, sweeping lines.

Mor dragged her into town, insisting on a day of shopping and laughter. Y/N couldn’t stop the small laugh that escaped her when Mor modeled a particularly outrageous dress.Amren’s bluntness surprised her, but it was oddly comforting. They shared a quiet afternoon, Amren reading while Y/N sketched, the silence feeling more like companionship than solitude. Elain introduced her to gardening, showing her how to tend to the delicate blooms in the House of Wind’s gardens. Y/N found the gentle work soothing.

Nesta and Y/N shared an unspoken understanding, a connection forged in the quiet echoes of pain neither could fully articulate.

One afternoon, Nesta found her in the library, seated at a secluded table, surrounded by stacks of books she was carefully sorting. Y/N’s notepad lay beside her, already filled with scribbled notes. The soft glow of sunlight streaming through the high windows illuminated her focused expression.

Nesta hesitated at first, then pulled out a chair and sat across from her. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken truths. Finally, Nesta spoke, her voice quiet but steady. “You don’t have to explain. I know what it’s like to carry something you think no one else can understand.”

Y/N stilled, her pen pausing mid-note. She lifted her gaze to meet Nesta’s, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. Slowly, she reached for her notepad and wrote: Thank you.

Nesta’s lips twitched into the faintest smile, one that carried no judgment, only understanding. She reached across the table, her fingers brushing Y/N’s hand before resting over it gently. “You’re not alone anymore,” she said, her tone firm, a quiet strength underpinning her words. “None of us are.”

For a moment, Y/N stared at her, as though weighing the truth in those words. Then, almost reluctantly, she nodded.

Nesta leaned back slightly, her fingers lingering a moment longer before she let go. “This place,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the library around them, “it helped me. Gave me something to hold onto when I didn’t want to hold onto anything. If you ever need that—or someone to just sit with you—I’ll be here.”

Y/N’s lips curved into a small, grateful smile, and she quickly wrote: That means more than I can say.

Nesta smirked, her eyes glinting with a hint of her usual fire. “Good thing I’m pretty good at reading between the lines.”

Y/N huffed a silent laugh, the soundless gesture enough to make Nesta’s chest tighten with an unfamiliar warmth.

Cassian found Y/N on the balcony overlooking Velaris, the city sparkling like a sea of stars beneath the night sky. She sat curled in a chair, her sketchbook balanced on her knees as she worked quietly, the gentle breeze tousling her hair.

He approached her slowly, his footsteps deliberately soft so as not to startle her. When she looked up, offering him a small smile, she reached instinctively for her notepad.

Before she could grab it, Cassian crouched down beside her, gently taking her hand to stop her. “Wait,” he said softly.

She blinked at him, puzzled, as he raised his hands and began to sign. It was slow, a little clumsy, but unmistakable: I’ve been practicing. For you.

Y/N froze, her eyes going wide with shock. Her sketchbook slid forgotten onto her lap as she stared at him. Tears welled in her eyes, and her hands trembled as she lifted them to sign back: You learned this? For me?

Cassian nodded, a small, warm smile curving his lips. “I told you,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I’m not giving up on you. Not now, not ever.”

Her hands flew to her mouth as a soft, soundless gasp escaped her. Overwhelmed, she couldn’t stop the tears that spilled down her cheeks.

Cassian stood, closing the small distance between them, and held his arms open. She hesitated for only a heartbeat before stepping into him, her face pressing against his chest as his strong arms wrapped around her.

“You’re not alone in this,” he murmured, his voice steady but filled with emotion as he gently stroked her back. “We’ll figure it out, together. I promise.”

Y/N pulled back just enough to look up at him, her face a mixture of disbelief and gratitude. Slowly, she raised her hands again, signing haltingly but clearly: Thank you. For seeing me.

Cassian smiled down at her, his thumb brushing away a stray tear on her cheek. “I’ll always see you.”

In that quiet moment, with the stars above and the city below, the weight she carried felt just a little lighter. For the first time in a long while, hope bloomed in her chest.

The warm breeze from the open window carried the scent of fresh flowers into the room. Cassian leaned against the doorframe, watching Y/N as she carefully sketched in her notebook. There was a serenity to her today, a softness that he cherished. It had been two months since she’d arrived at the House of Wind, and though she had remained largely quiet, there were moments like this when she seemed to open up, even if only a little.

After a long silence, Y/N set her pencil down and reached for her notepad. Cassian raised an eyebrow in curiosity, but she didn’t look up at him right away. Instead, her fingers moved quickly, and then she held it up for him to see.

I grew up in the Summer Court, the words read, the ink delicate and precise.

Cassian’s heart warmed at the thought. “The Summer Court,” he repeated softly, stepping closer to her. He could tell this was a rare piece of herself she was offering him, so he knelt beside her, giving her the space to continue.

She glanced up at him, her eyes shy but filled with quiet hope, as though she was wondering if he would judge her. But Cassian’s expression was one of kindness, and he smiled gently.

Y/N signed again, the fluid movements of her hands capturing his full attention. “It was beautiful there. The sea, the sand, the sunsets... everything felt warm. My people, they love the light.” She paused, biting her lip, before adding, I loved the sunsets most of all.

Cassian’s smile widened, feeling a gentle tug on his heart at the thought of her happy memories. “I can only imagine. I bet the sunsets there are unlike anything I’ve seen.”

She nodded, her smile small but genuine, as though she was reliving those moments in her mind. The sunsets were perfect, painted in the most beautiful shades of gold and pink. They made everything feel peaceful... like nothing could ever go wrong.

Cassian sat beside her then, watching the sun dip low outside the window, as if honoring the memory she was sharing. He could almost picture it—the rolling waves, the warm sands, the endless horizon stretching before her.

“What happened to your home?” he asked quietly, not wanting to push her but also eager to understand more of her story.

Y/N hesitated for a moment, her fingers brushing over the notepad again. Then she signed softly, her voice barely a whisper, even though her words were silent. It’s gone now. The court… it's not the same anymore. I haven’t been back since.

Cassian’s heart tightened at the quiet sorrow that passed over her features. She didn’t have to say more. He could feel the weight of her loss in her gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low and filled with sincerity. “You didn’t deserve that.”

She gave him a small, grateful smile, one that spoke volumes. It wasn’t pity she sought, but understanding. And he gave it to her, without question.

With a soft exhale, Y/N wrote one last thing before turning the notepad to him: I don’t miss the court, not anymore. But I miss the peace. The quiet beauty of it all.

Cassian nodded, understanding more than she could know. He had lost so much in his own life, pieces of himself, pieces of those he loved. But this, her willingness to share her memories—her pain, too—made him feel closer to her than ever.

“I’ll make sure you have peace again,” he said, his voice firm with the promise. “It might take time, but I’ll make sure you find it.”

Y/N’s eyes softened at his words, and for the briefest moment, it felt like the entire world outside was forgotten. Just them, in this quiet corner of the House of Wind, two souls bonding over shared moments of pain and hope.

And in that moment, Cassian couldn’t help but believe that maybe, just maybe, they both had a chance at healing.

It was another one of those nights.

The pain struck without warning, a searing, unbearable wave that made her knees buckle. Y/N collapsed to the floor, clutching her throat as her vision swam. Her breaths came in shallow, ragged gasps, her fingers clawing at the air as if she could wrench the agony from her body.

Cassian, asleep just a room away, jolted awake. Something primal, something tethered to her, pulled him to her side. He burst into her room within seconds, shirtless and frantic, his wings slightly flaring as he skidded to a halt beside her.

“Y/N!” he shouted, his voice laced with panic. He dropped to his knees, gathering her trembling form into his arms as though he could shield her from whatever torment was tearing her apart.

Her lips parted, struggling to form words, but no sound came. Her hands scrabbled weakly at his arm, nails digging into his skin as the pain wracked her body. Tears streamed down her face, and Cassian swore he felt every single one like a knife to his chest.

“Stay with me,” he pleaded, his hand cradling the back of her head while the other pressed against her back, grounding her. “I’ve got you. You’re going to be okay. Just breathe with me.”

The wave finally passed, leaving her limp and gasping for air. Y/N’s trembling fingers moved weakly, forming signs that he had painstakingly learned: It’s okay.

“No,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. He gripped her face gently, forcing her to meet his eyes. “It’s not okay. This—this isn’t okay, and I’m not letting it win. Do you hear me?” His voice cracked at the end, betraying the storm of emotions raging inside him.

Her wide, glassy eyes filled with fresh tears as she shook her head, trying to offer him reassurance. Her hands moved again, slower this time: It’s not your fault.

Cassian let out a bitter laugh, his jaw tightening. “Maybe not, but I’ll be damned if I sit here and do nothing while this thing—whatever it is—tries to take you from me.”

He pulled her closer, holding her like she was the most fragile thing in the world, his calloused hands gentle as they rubbed soothing circles on her back. “We’ll figure this out,” he murmured, his voice softer now but no less determined. “I swear to you, Y/N. I don’t care what it takes or who I have to fight—I won’t stop until you’re free of this.”

Y/N let her head rest against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat a comfort amidst the storm. Her fingers moved again, shakily signing one last message before exhaustion pulled her under: Thank you.

Cassian tightened his hold, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Always,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but filled with a fierce, unyielding promise.

One evening, as they sat on the balcony overlooking Velaris, Y/N signed to Cassian, Why do you do all this for me? You don’t even know me that well.

Cassian smiled, his expression soft but firm. He signed back, Because you deserve to live. To laugh, to dream, to be free of this pain. And because you’ve already shown me how strong you are.

Her chest tightened, and she looked away, blinking back tears.

Fourth months had passed.

Y/N lay in her bed, her skin sweating and her breathing shallow. The curse had taken almost everything from her now—her strength, her laughter, even the small moments of peace she used to find in music or her notepad.

Cassian sat at her side, his large hands cradling her frail one. His thumb brushed over her knuckles as if he could keep her tethered to life through sheer will alone. Around them, the rest of the Inner Circle moved with frantic determination. Healers came and went, their faces grim, their efforts fruitless.

Rhys stood by the window, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might crack. Feyre sat beside him, her hand resting on his arm as silent tears streamed down her face. Amren, Nesta, Elain, and Mor lingered nearby, each offering words of comfort or soft reassurances, though they all knew the truth: they were running out of time.

Cassian couldn’t take his eyes off Y/N. Just two months ago, she had been vibrant, defiant even, as she poured her soul into music on that stage. Now, she was a shadow of herself, her once-bright eyes dulled by exhaustion and pain.

"She doesn't deserve this," Cassian muttered, his voice raw as he stared at her fragile form. "Not after everything she’s been through. Not after everything she’s given."

Rhys turned, his violet eyes heavy with sorrow. “We’ve found something,” he said quietly. “But it’s…complicated.”

Cassian’s head snapped up, hope and fear warring in his expression. “What do you mean?”

Feyre stepped forward, holding a worn piece of parchment. “We got this sent to us by Helion only an hour ago, me and Rhys were contemplating if we should reveal it or not but....the curse can be broken, but it will cost her… everything. All her memories. Her connection to us. To you.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“She’ll live and have her voice back,” Feyre continued, her voice trembling. “But she won’t remember any of it—any of us. It’ll be as if none of this ever happened.”

Cassian’s heart plummeted. The thought of Y/N forgetting him, forgetting the bond they had formed, the trust she had placed in him—it felt like a dagger to his chest. He turned to look at her, only to find her watching him with tears in her eyes.

She reached for her notepad with trembling fingers, but the strength to write eluded her. Instead, she signed weakly: No. I don’t want it. I’d rather die… with the memories of you all. Of you, Cassian.

Cassian’s throat tightened as he shook his head, tears blurring his vision. “Don’t say that,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You don’t have to do this. There’s still time.”

She smiled faintly, a fragile, heartbreaking thing. Thank you for all the kindness, she signed slowly. For giving me a glimpse of what life could be like. I never thought I could know true happiness after fifty years under Amarantha’s reign. But you… all of you… showed me otherwise.

Her gaze softened as it settled on Cassian, her fingers signing once more: You showed me love.

Cassian’s chest heaved with silent sobs as he grasped her hand, pressing it to his forehead. “No. Don’t do this, Y/N. Please. Don’t leave me.”

Y/N cupped his cheek with her other hand, her touch featherlight. Her lips moved, forming silent words he couldn’t hear but understood all the same. Thank you for everything.

He broke then, his tears falling freely. “I can’t let you go,” he whispered. “I won’t.”

Her eyes fluttered closed, her strength fading fast. The room blurred around Cassian as he made his decision.

“Forgive me, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice trembling. Then, with shaking hands, he activated the spell, pouring everything into saving her.

The magic surged, golden light enveloping her frail body as her memories began to unravel. Y/N’s eyes snapped open, confusion and betrayal flooding them as she looked at him one last time.

Her lips moved soundlessly, forming the question: Why?

Cassian choked back a sob as he pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Because I couldn’t lose you,” he whispered.

He pressed his trembling hands over Y/N’s chest, activating the ancient spell with the force of every ounce of his heart. The room filled with a brilliant, blinding light as magic surged through the air.

Y/N’s body jerked beneath his hands, her face contorting with pain as the curse began to unwind. The energy flowed around her like a storm, unraveling the threads of her torment—yet with each passing moment, something else began to shift. Her memories—those precious fragments of time they had shared—began to fade, slowly, one by one.

The Inner Circle stood at a distance, their faces stricken with grief as they watched. Rhys, Feyre, and the others could do nothing but wait.

Cassian’s heart pounded in his chest as he leaned over Y/N, his hands desperate to hold on. But as the light dimmed, he saw the subtle change in her expression. Her eyes—those bright, compassionate eyes that had once held so much for him—began to dull.

Y/N’s hand slowly slid from his, her fingers uncurling like a wilting flower. Her eyes fluttered closed as the magic worked deeper, erasing all traces of what had been. Every shared moment, every laugh, every whisper between them vanished, slipping through his fingers like sand.

Cassian felt the bond—their bond—dissolving, piece by piece, until nothing remained. His chest tightened, each heartbeat a painful reminder of what he was losing. She wasn’t gone… yet. But she might as well have been.

The spell continued its work, erasing Y/N’s memories, her connection to him, the love and connection they were slowly but surely building together. The warmth of their bond faded into nothingness, until all that was left was a hollow silence between them.

Cassian held her limp hand, his tears falling freely as the truth settled within him: He had saved her life, but in doing so, he had lost her. The Y/N who had laughed and loved and held him close was gone. In her place was someone who would never remember the bond they shared.

He could feel her slipping away from him, the last remnants of her fading.

And with that, her memories were gone.

Her bond with Cassian disappeared permanently as her memories of him were wiped away, leaving only the emptiness of a connection that would never be made again.

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