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mikaylathenerd5 · 13 days ago

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All I Want Is You | Roman Reigns

Mistakes With Your Last Name Series One Shot

“Then I’ll move slow enough for the both of us.” —Roman

🖤 Pairing: Roman Reigns x Asha Langston-Reigns (black oc)

📌 Summary: Asha wasn’t supposed to fall in love with him—not after everything that happened. But when the weight of it all becomes too much to carry alone, she asks the one question that could change everything. A love that doesn’t ask for perfection—only honesty.

🎧 Song Inspo: "ALL I WANT IS YOU" by The Kid LAROI

⚠️ Content Warning: This story contains emotionally heavy themes, including vulnerability, fear of abandonment, and complicated relationship dynamics. It also includes explicit sexual content intended for mature audiences. Please read with care, especially if you're in a sensitive headspace.

A/N: This was written from a softer, more vulnerable headspace. If it feels heavy, that’s because it came from somewhere real. Thank you for holding space for it and for me. It means more than you know. 🥹🤍

📝 Word Count: ~8.4k

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'Cause first time you looked at me, I knew you were already mine With me in every past life, destined to be by my side...

— The Kid LAROI, “All I Want Is You”

You keep telling yourself this is fine.

That being distant is safer than being raw. That if you can just ride the wave long enough—just smile, nod, keep washing dishes like your hands aren’t shaking—it’ll pass.

You don’t mean to pull away.

But every time someone asks, “What’s wrong?”, your chest caves in like it’s been wired to collapse on impact.

Because if you do answer, if you do unravel—

What if they don’t stay?

What if loving you only works when you’re easy to hold?

So you keep it in.

You shrink to fit the silence. You stretch a fake smile across your mouth and hope it holds. You try not to flinch when your voice cracks or when someone gets too close. You hope no one notices that your skin doesn’t feel like it fits right anymore.

Your shoulders ache from holding so much. Your jaw’s been clenched for three days. You don’t even notice anymore.

When did your body become a container for everything you never said out loud?

Roman’s not stupid.

He’s watching you.

And you can feel the questions in his eyes, even when he doesn’t ask.

Even when you beg him not to.

She learned young that love came with conditions.

That being easy to love meant being easy to manage.

Asha was seven the first time she realized her tears made people uncomfortable. She had scraped her knee outside—just a normal fall, the kind that startled more than hurt. But when she cried too long, when her chest heaved and her little hands shook, her mother sighed sharp and impatient like the sound offended her.

“You’re okay,” she’d snapped, flicking a glance from the sink. “Stop crying. It’s not that bad.”

It wasn’t the words that stuck—it was the look.

The tightness around her mother’s mouth. The way her eyes flickered not with concern, but with shame. Embarrassment.

Asha swallowed her sobs. Bit down on them. Nodded even though it still stung.

She didn’t ask for a Band-Aid.

She didn’t reach for comfort.

She learned.

Don’t cry too long. Don’t make things worse. Don’t need too much.

That’s how you stayed wanted.

That’s how you stayed kept.

Years later, she still caught herself saying “I’m fine” too quickly. Still measuring every reaction, every emotion, against whether it might inconvenience someone else.

And now—

Now she stood in her own kitchen, grown and exhausted, rinsing a clean mug under cold water while the man she loved stood just feet behind her. Watching. Waiting.

The silence between them was thick.

And still—she said nothing.

It started with the silence.

Not the comfortable kind—the one that draped itself over Sunday mornings and lazy kisses and slow-burn jazz humming in the background. No. This silence was different.

It pressed against the windows. It crawled up the walls. It coiled around Asha’s chest and sat there like something alive.

She stood at the sink with her back to him, rinsing the same mug in a slow, endless circle. The water had turned cold long ago, but her hands stayed there, submerged, as if the routine might save her.

The ridges of the ceramic dug into her palm.

It didn’t ground her.

Her thumb traced the rim again. Around, and around. A child’s muscle memory.

Stop crying. You’re fine. Don’t make it worse.

She could still see her mother’s face—tight-lipped, disappointed, tired of the noise.

Roman wasn’t her mother. She knew that.

But fear doesn’t care about facts.

Behind her, Roman stood at the threshold, his presence as steady and quiet as a coming storm. He didn’t say anything at first—he rarely did when she got like this. When her shoulders sank under invisible weight. When her laugh thinned out until it was all silence and swallowed sighs.

But it had been six days.

Six days of ghosted touches. Of distant eyes. Of her curling into herself like she was trying to disappear.

“Asha.”

His voice came low. Measured.

She blinked once. Her heart hiccuped.

“Yeah?”

“You good?”

She nodded, barely. “Yeah.”

Too fast. Too thin. Like tissue paper over a bruise.

Roman stepped forward, slow and deliberate. He didn’t touch her—he knew better than to crowd her when she was brittle. But his presence swelled behind her like gravity.

“You’ve been quiet all week.”

“I’ve been tired all week.”

“That ain’t the same thing.”

The mug slipped in her hand—just for a second.

She caught it, barely. Set it down with too much care, like overcompensating. Her hands were shaking. She curled them into fists before he could notice.

“I’m fine,” she said again. But it came out hoarse.

Roman didn’t answer.

He didn’t believe her.

And that made her want to scream.

She slowly turned, towel clutched in her hands. Her posture was straight, too straight, like a house built after the storm but still rattling in the wind.

“I’m not trying to fight with you,” she said, voice low and brittle. “I just want to sit. I want to be alone. Is that okay?”

His gaze didn’t waver. But his hands curled into his sleeves, like he was holding back something sharp.

“You want to be alone,” he said, “or you want me to leave you alone?”

She blinked. “Same thing.”

“No. It’s not.”

And that did it.

The words fell in the air like the snap of a rubber band stretched too far. Asha felt it burst in her chest—the tight coil of silence, of pretending, of stuffing everything down until it leaked out anyway.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“The truth,” Roman said, quiet now. “Whatever it is.”

Her throat closed. She stared down at the towel in her hands, twisting it tighter, tighter, tighter until it bit into her skin.

“I’m not okay,” she said, voice so small it barely passed her lips. “But I don’t know how to talk about it without sounding ungrateful. Without sounding like I’m ruining something good.”

Roman said nothing.

And that silence—

That silence shattered her.

“I spent so long being the strong one,” she whispered, shaking now. “The funny one. The low-maintenance one. The one who doesn’t ask for anything. And now? Now I don’t know how to not be that girl. I don’t know how to let you see me like this without thinking you’ll leave.”

Roman didn’t speak.

He didn’t know how to tell her that none of that scared him.

That this—watching her slip behind her eyes—was the only thing that did.

“I’m not leaving,” he finally said. Gentle. Grounded.

“But you’ll see me different,” she snapped. “You’ll see the parts that don’t smile through it. The parts that cry too much. The ones that shut down and flinch at kindness because they don’t know what to do with it.”

She laughed—but it was a sound made of static and splinters.

“You don’t get it, Ro. You fell in love with the version of me who keeps everything light. Who doesn’t take up too much space. And now I’m this—and I don’t even like me right now. So why would you?”

Roman stepped forward again.

One step.

Then another.

He raised a hand.

She backed up.

Not because she didn’t want him. Because she did—and wanting him while feeling unworthy was the cruelest thing in the world.

“I don’t tell you what I’m going through,” she said, voice trembling, “because I’ve been told I’m too emotional since I was a kid. Because people leave when I cry. Because people stop loving you when it gets heavy.”

Roman’s breath hitched. His hand stayed frozen in the air, still reaching.

“I’m trying,” she said, tears welling now, “to stay soft. To not bleed all over the things we built. But I feel like I’m drowning. And I’m scared if I say it out loud, I’ll ruin everything.”

He moved to hold her.

She stepped back again.

“I just— I need air,” she choked. “I need out.”

“Don’t go,” he said quietly.

She turned toward the door.

His voice followed her.

“Don’t run from me, Asha. Not when you know I’d stay.”

She hesitated.

Just for a second.

Her hand hovered on the knob.

She didn’t turn.

Didn’t look at him.

But her shoulders curled inward like she wanted to.

Like the little girl in her almost believed someone might follow.

She turned the knob.

Roman didn’t chase her.

He watched her walk out into the dark.

The door clicked shut behind her. A soft sound.

But it echoed like a scream.

Roman stared at the space she left behind.

His mouth opened.

“Asha—”

But the words caught on grief.

Then—

Crash.

He sent the glass from the island spinning, shattering into a thousand jagged truths on the floor. Shards sprayed across the tile like something vital had been ripped out of him.

“FUCK.”

The word tore from him, ragged and deep.

He pressed a hand hard over his face. Fingers dug into his beard. His shoulders curved inward like he was folding in on himself, trying to keep everything from spilling out.

The kitchen felt colder now.

Lonelier.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t clean it up.

Didn’t wipe the tear that slipped down his cheek.

Just stood there, in the wreckage of everything she couldn’t say—and everything he didn’t know how to heal.

The kind of silence that taught her love was conditional.

And the kind of silence that made him wonder if staying would ever be enough.

The beach was empty this late. No tourists. No locals. Just moonlight trying to reach the water and failing, and the sound of the ocean refusing to stop for anybody.

Asha parked without thinking. No charger. No bag. No plan. Just her keys, a hoodie she couldn’t remember grabbing, and the weight she hadn’t been able to shake since Vegas.

She kicked off her shoes and walked barefoot into the sand. The grains clung to her ankles like reminders: of mistakes, of memory, of softness she didn’t know how to keep.

The ocean stretched out in front of her like a wound that never closed.

She dropped into the sand, knees drawn up, and let the silence swallow her whole. Not the water—just the hush. The kind that pooled around her, cool and indifferent, like grief that didn’t need a name.

She pulled her sleeves over her hands. Tried to match her breath to the waves. Slow. Gentle. Controlled.

It didn’t work.

Her chest stuttered. Her pulse skittered like it didn’t know where to land. Her fists tightened in her hoodie as if she could hold herself together from the outside in.

She stared at the horizon like it owed her answers.

But the truth was... there was no fixing this.

Not what she’d done.

Not how it had started.

Not how it had begun with a bad decision and somehow turned into the only place her heart felt safe.

She was supposed to be married by now.

To someone else.

A man who made sense on paper. Who didn’t make her heart race or her walls tremble. Who didn’t make her feel like she had to shrink to be held, but didn’t see her either.

She hadn’t even loved him—not really. But she’d trusted the routine. The predictability. The quiet safety of it all.

But that didn’t erase what she left behind.

She could still hear his voice from that last voicemail—tight, clipped, humiliated: “So this is how I find out? From TMZ?”

Her stomach turned. Not because she wanted him back. But because she used to be someone who wouldn’t hurt people like that.

And maybe she still was.

Maybe she’d always be too much. The girl who cried too loud, felt too deep, loved too recklessly. Maybe even now—after all this—she wasn’t someone anyone should bet on.

But then came Vegas.

And then came Roman.

And the sound of his voice saying her name like it wasn’t a burden.

And the look in his eyes when he touched her like he didn’t just want her body—he wanted her.

And now?

She’d married him in a haze, walked out on a man who never saw her, and somehow built something real with someone who could ruin her just by staying.

It should’ve felt wrong.

But Roman never did.

And that was what terrified her most.

She didn’t hear him walk up.

Didn’t hear the car. Didn’t hear the footsteps.

But she felt him.

The way her spine straightened just slightly. The way her lungs unclenched like they recognized him first.

Roman didn’t say anything.

He just lowered himself to the sand beside her—slow, solid, like he knew she was already made of glass.

There was space between them. A full foot. Maybe more.

But she still felt him like warmth in winter.

He reached out like he might brush sand from her sleeve—then stopped. Let his hand fall between them instead.

Asha didn’t look at him.

He didn’t ask her to.

The ocean never stopped reaching.

Just like her—too much, too often, too loud.

And yet the shore always met it.

Every single time.

They sat like that—still, quiet, broken open—until Roman breathed in.

Just once. Slow.

Then he said, “I didn’t want to push you.”

Her eyes stayed forward. “I know.”

“I just…” His voice caught low. “I didn’t know what to do with the way you looked at me before you left.”

Asha swallowed hard.

“I didn’t leave because I wanted to be away from you,” she said. “I left because I didn’t know how to stay without falling apart.”

Roman’s jaw tightened.

She kept going—not because it was easy, but because silence felt like the only thing worse.

“My whole life, I’ve been told I’m dramatic. Sensitive. Too much. And I believed it. So I stopped letting people see me break. I stopped letting myself break.”

She dug her fingers into the sand again.

“And then I met you. And I was already engaged. Already living a lie. Already pretending I was okay because it was easier than admitting I wasn’t.”

Her voice cracked.

“And then we got drunk and married and somehow it felt like the only thing I’ve ever done that made any damn sense.”

The tears came easy now.

“But then came the guilt. And the shame. And the fear. Because what if it was just adrenaline? What if I’m not enough to make this last? What if I was never supposed to be loved like this?”

She turned to him finally.

And his eyes—

They didn’t flinch.

She wiped her cheek, even though it didn’t matter anymore.

“I don’t know how to be with someone who actually sees me. I’m so scared you’ll look too long and decide I’m not worth the cost.”

Roman didn’t blink.

“You think I don’t already see all of that?” he asked quietly.

She stared at him.

“I see the parts you think make you hard to love. And I still—”

His voice broke.

He looked down.

“I didn’t mean to fall in love with someone who already belonged to someone else,” he said softly. “But I did. And I wouldn’t take it back.”

Her breath hitched.

Her lips parted, but no sound came. The wind moved her hair across her cheek, and for once, she didn’t try to fix it. She just let it settle.

Roman looked up again. Met her eyes.

“I still want to love you anyway.”

Silence fell again.

But this time it wasn’t heavy.

It was full.

Asha turned back to the ocean.

Her chest didn’t hurt as much.

Her breathing, while still shaky, came easier now.

Roman moved closer. Just a few inches. But she felt it. The permission in it.

She let her shoulder lean into his.

Not much.

Just enough to remember what it felt like to be held.

They stayed like that.

Shoulder to shoulder. Leg to leg. Grief to grief.

And when her hand slipped into his, he didn’t ask for anything else.

He just curled his fingers around hers and anchored her there.

Not in words.

Not in promises.

Just in presence.

Some silences weren’t empty. Some silences said everything.

Roman helped her stand.

He didn’t rush her.

Just rose beside her on the sand and offered his hand like it wasn’t a rescue but an invitation. Like she could say no and he’d still stay.

Asha hesitated for only a moment.

Then her fingers found his.

And for the first time all night, she let someone carry part of the weight.

They didn’t say a word as they walked to the car, feet sinking softly into the cool beach sand. The ocean stayed behind them, whispering secrets neither of them could quite hold anymore.

Roman opened the passenger door.

She got in.

The ride back was quiet.

Not the kind that echoed with what hadn’t been said—but the kind that softened the parts of her still clenching.

Asha leaned her head against the window, the chill of the glass grounding her. Her knees curled toward her chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. Her hoodie was damp at the edges from the sea air, and her throat still burned from crying.

Roman didn’t fill the silence with apologies or questions. His hands stayed steady on the wheel, eyes on the road, but his energy never drifted. He was here.

Present.

Even in her silence.

His right hand shifted to the center console and rested there—open, palm up.

She stared at it for a beat.

Then laced her fingers through his.

She kept rubbing her thumb over the ridge of his knuckle. Not hard. Just enough to remind herself she was real. That he was real. That she hadn’t drowned.

The wind outside howled softly against the windows. But inside the car, it felt still.

Not healed.

Not fixed.

Just still.

And for once, stillness didn’t scare her.

They pulled into the driveway. Roman turned off the ignition, but neither of them moved.

The porch light cast a soft glow across the front step. Familiar. Quiet. A house they shared but still hadn’t fully settled into.

Asha uncurled herself slowly.

Roman got out first and came around to open her door.

His hand hovered at her lower back—not touching this time. Just letting her know he was there.

She stepped out on her own.

But when the breeze caught her hair and she shivered, his hand found the small of her back like it belonged there.

Inside, the house smelled faintly like leftover garlic knots from two nights ago and the candle she forgot to blow out before she left. It was clean—but something in the air still felt fractured.

Like grief was waiting at the threshold to ask if she was still carrying it.

She slipped out of her shoes at the door and stood there, uncertain.

Roman’s voice cut softly through the quiet.

“You want me to run a bath?”

Asha nodded. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

She stayed in the kitchen while he moved down the hall. The sound of water rushing into the tub filtered through the walls like white noise.

Asha leaned against the counter, arms folded, eyes low.

The glass from the fight earlier had been cleaned up. The space looked untouched.

But her heart wasn’t.

She stared at the drawer she’d slammed hours ago and felt something fragile uncoil in her ribs.

Shame.

Exhaustion.

Relief.

Roman’s voice broke gently through the quiet. “Tub’s ready.”

She looked up.

He stood at the edge of the hallway, dim light pooling behind him. His shirt clung to him, wrinkled and soft from the night. His eyes weren’t guarded anymore. They weren’t trying to read her.

They were just waiting.

She walked toward him, steps slow, towel tucked into her arm.

Then stopped.

“Will you stay?” she asked.

Roman didn’t blink. Didn’t move. He just stared at her for a beat, like he wanted to say more, like he had more— “I’m not going anywhere.”

The bathroom was warm.

Steam curled in the air like breath.

The lights were dimmed low. A candle flickered on the shelf beside the tub—its soft glow catching the edges of the tile and making everything feel less sharp.

Asha undressed slowly, peeling off layers like old skin. Her hoodie. Her shirt. Her sweatpants.

Her hesitation.

She stepped into the water.

The heat enveloped her.

It reminded her of when she was little, hiding in the bathroom with the door locked and the water running—not because she was dirty, but because the silence made her feel safe. Because if no one checked on her, it meant she was being good. Easy. Not too much.

Back then, she used to pretend the tub was the ocean.

Tonight, it felt like one.

Roman didn’t leave.

He sat on the closed toilet lid, arms resting on his knees. His presence wasn’t looming. It was anchoring. Like the tide coming back to shore.

Asha leaned her head against the edge of the tub and watched the flicker of the flame.

She didn’t speak.

But her body softened in the quiet.

Minutes passed like that.

Neither of them moved.

Eventually, she looked up. “You ever think about what would’ve happened if we didn’t get married that night?”

Roman’s gaze found hers.

“I think about it,” he said.

She waited.

“But not because I regret it.”

Asha’s heart thudded.

“I think about it,” he said again, slower this time, “because it scares me to think I might’ve lived a life without ever knowing this version of you. The real one. The one who’s not trying to be perfect.”

She blinked hard. The water blurred around her, but she didn’t close her eyes.

“I’m still learning how to be her.”

He nodded once. “Then let me learn with you.”

When the water cooled, she rose and stepped out.

Roman stood and grabbed a towel. He didn’t look away. He didn’t ask her to hurry. He just moved like someone who had loved her in all her versions.

“May I?” he asked softly, towel already in hand.

She nodded.

He wrapped her slowly, reverently, like she was made of something rare and breakable.

His hands smoothed the edges over her shoulders.

And then he just… stood there.

Not trying to make it better.

Just staying.

Asha’s hand found the front of his shirt. Not pulling. Not clutching.

Just… resting.

Her thumb brushed his jaw. Just once. And then she kissed him like maybe—just maybe—she was choosing to believe him.

Their mouths met in the middle.

The kiss was quiet. Almost hesitant. Like two people asking the same question at the same time.

Then it deepened—slow, aching, open-mouthed.

Roman’s hand rose to her cheek. His thumb brushed under her eye, and Asha didn’t even realize she’d been crying again until he caught the tear.

“You’re not too much,” he whispered, barely audible. “You never were.”

She closed her eyes.

And for the first time in days, she believed him.

When they finally broke the kiss, her forehead rested against his chest.

His arms wrapped around her fully now, the damp towel forgotten between them.

He kissed the crown of her head.

“You ready for bed?”

Asha didn’t answer with words.

She just took his hand.

She never liked silence after crying.

Not the kind that wrapped around your ribs and stayed there. Not the kind that echoed like a punishment, or held the weight of things unsaid. It always came too soon—after a fight, after an unraveling, after trying not to shake while pretending she was fine.

But tonight, silence was what met her.

And it didn’t scare her. It hurt.

Because Roman didn’t say a word when they stepped into the bedroom. Didn’t reach for her. Didn’t brush a thumb across her knuckles or let his fingers skim her lower back like he always did.

He just closed the door behind them and stood still. Present, yes—but distant, somehow. Still trying to let her breathe.

It should’ve felt like space.

It felt like loss.

You’re too much. You ruin the mood. Why are you always so damn sensitive? Smile and stop making everything so heavy. If you keep crying, no one’s going to stay.

She had spent so long learning how to hide her feelings in order to be loved. And every time someone left, she wondered if it was because they finally noticed the weight she carried. Not just on her shoulders—but in her chest, her gut, her throat. Every part of her that pulsed, ached. She thought she had to earn love by being easy. Palatable. Pleasant.

Even when it was killing her.

Asha stood in the center of the room, towel wrapped high around her chest, as if it were armor. She wasn’t sure who she was more afraid of disappointing—Roman or herself.

Her hands flexed at her sides. Her voice came out raw.

“I’m not okay.”

It wasn’t a confession. It was a wound.

Roman didn’t move. But something behind his eyes flickered—tight and protective and burning.

“I know,” he said, voice low. Not careful. Not tiptoeing. Just real.

“I want to be close,” she whispered. “But I don’t want to be consumed.”

She didn’t look at him when she said it.

“I can’t… I can’t lose myself in this. Not again.”

There was a pause.

Then Roman asked, softly, “May I take it off?”

Her eyes shot to his.

Not because she was startled by the question, but because she felt it down to the bone.

He wasn’t talking about sex.

He was asking to peel away the thing she was still hiding behind.

She nodded.

Barely.

But Roman still waited.

Only when her fingers dropped away from the towel’s knot did he step forward.

His palms hovered just inches from her skin—two suns waiting to rise.

“You can stop me at any time.”

She didn’t.

The towel loosened beneath his hands. A quiet pull.

A gentle slip.

And when the thick fabric fell, it landed on the floor with a soft thud that sounded louder than it should’ve.

Asha stood completely bare. Goosebumps rising along her arms. Not from cold.

From vulnerability.

Roman’s eyes didn’t trail down her body—not immediately. He looked at her face first. Stayed there. Just stared.

“You’re beautiful,” he said simply. As if it were a fact. As if it couldn’t be argued.

Asha swallowed hard. “Even when I’m like this?”

“Especially when you’re like this.”

Her lower lip trembled. She hated how it did that. How her body betrayed her.

Roman didn’t flinch. Didn’t say a word.

He let her come apart one thread at a time, steadying her with nothing but his presence.

When he reached for his shirt, he didn’t yank it over his head like a man preparing for something physical.

He peeled it off like a man shedding expectations.

One slow sweep of cotton over muscle. One silent offering.

He stood bare-chested in front of her, and for a second, it felt like they were two strangers staring at something they weren’t sure they could survive.

But neither of them looked away.

“I don’t want to be the girl who breaks every time,” she said quietly. “I hate that I still get like this.”

Roman’s jaw tightened. Not out of frustration. But something closer to hurt.

“You’re not breaking,” he said. “You’re feeling. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

She blinked.

“And if I crumble?”

His voice dropped.

“Then I’ll hold the pieces.”

Asha stepped forward, slow and unsure. Her hands lifted to his chest.

Fingertips first. Then palms.

Roman’s skin was warm. So warm.

She wanted to crawl into it.

He bent down and kissed her forehead. Then the tip of her nose. Then—finally—her mouth.

The kiss wasn’t deep. It wasn’t ravenous.

It was quiet. Full of breath. Full of patience.

When his tongue finally touched hers, it felt like silk—an invitation to stay, not a plea to hurry.

Her knees wobbled slightly. Roman caught her waist, grounding her.

“I got you,” he murmured.

His breath brushed her lips.

“I always got you.”

She didn’t know how they moved.

Only that the backs of her knees hit the bed. And his arms came around her again.

Lifting her.

Holding her.

Laying her down like something sacred.

She stared up at him.

He knelt between her legs and just looked.

At the curve of her hip.

At the stretch of her collarbone.

At the small tremble in her fingers.

And then, finally, at her eyes.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did she.

But something passed between them—breath, fear, surrender.

And then Roman leaned in.

He kissed her knee first.

Then her inner thigh.

Slow. Reverent.

Each kiss deeper than the one before.

Asha’s head fell back. Her breathing picked up.

His beard scraped gently, his mouth soft—hot.

When he reached her hip, he paused and nuzzled the delicate dip just above her pelvis.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly.

“I don’t know how to stay still,” she whispered.

“Then I’ll move slow enough for the both of us.”

He kissed up her torso, tongue grazing her ribs.

Then he made it to her chest.

She gasped when his lips wrapped around her nipple—warm, wet, slow.

Her back arched.

Her thighs shifted.

Roman dragged one hand up her leg and gently splayed it across her belly.

“You’re allowed to feel everything,” he said into her skin. “You’re allowed to want. To need.”

She whimpered.

“I need you to see me.”

“I do,” he said. “I see everything.”

Asha’s thighs parted slightly.

Roman slid lower, nuzzling the inside of her knee, then her inner thigh again—closer, warmer, almost there.

Her heart was thundering.

Her hand slid into his curls, anchoring herself.

Roman looked up, voice low, eyes darker than she’d ever seen.

“Let me taste you.”

Her breath hitched.

She froze—but didn’t pull away.

Roman’s voice was a promise when he added—

“You’re not too much. You never were. You’re mine.”

Asha closed her eyes. Let her head fall back. Felt the air shift. Felt her body say yes before her mouth could.

She didn’t reply out loud.

But in her chest, in the quiet that used to scare her—

She heard it clearly:

He sees me. He wants me. Maybe I really never was too much.

He was right there.

Between her thighs, lips grazing the skin that had never felt so exposed, so open, so alive.

And somehow, she still couldn't believe this wasn’t a test.

Not a dream. Not a trap. Not a moment she’d regret later when the lights came on and someone called her too much again.

Because that voice still lived inside her. Not his—hers.

“You ruin everything when you feel too loud.”

“If you stop crying, maybe someone will stay.”

“Don’t take up too much space. Don’t be dramatic. Don’t ask for more than people offer.”

But Roman wasn’t pulling away. He wasn’t hurrying her along. He wasn’t shrinking from the parts of her that felt wild, tender, loud, or complicated.

He was… waiting.

Not like a man who needed permission to touch her. Like a man who already understood that he’d never touch her the same way twice. Because she wasn’t just skin and heat and breath.

She was weather. She was feeling. She was everything she thought made her unlovable—and still, he stayed.

Still, he looked at her like the ache in her chest was a symphony.

And she didn’t know what scared her more.

That he might leave.

Or that he might never let her hide again.

Her fingers trembled where they clutched the sheets. Her eyes fluttered shut.

And in the silence she once feared, she heard something new:

“You don’t have to be small to be safe.”

“You don’t have to be quiet to be kept.”

“You don’t have to be perfect to be loved.”

Roman’s hands slid along her thighs again. His beard brushed sensitive skin. And when his mouth finally dipped low—soft, warm, unhurried—

Asha didn’t brace.

She let go.

The first time he kissed her inner thigh, it didn’t feel sexual.

It felt like worship.

Roman didn’t rush. Didn’t grope or devour. He kissed her skin like she was something he’d prayed for and now held in his hands.

Asha lay bare, breath unsteady, her body still humming from the unraveling conversation before. Her towel was gone. Her armor too.

And Roman? He moved like nothing about her softness frightened him.

Not her tears. Not her tremble. Not even the way she stayed so still—like she was afraid love this gentle might vanish.

His lips ghosted a path up her thigh.

Close. Then closer. Then—

He exhaled against her center, the heat of it making her thighs twitch.

“I’ve been thinking about this all damn day,” he murmured. “You gonna let me taste what’s mine?”

She nodded.

Didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Because the moment his tongue dragged slow and flat through her folds, her whole body shook.

Roman moaned—low and deep—like her flavor knocked the air out of him.

“Fuck.”

His voice vibrated against her.

“Sweetest thing I ever had.”

Then he dove in.

Tongue flicking. Mouth sealing around her clit with gentle suction. Rhythm tight. Deliberate. Focused.

Asha gasped.

Her hand flew to the sheets, the other fisting the comforter by her hip. The sounds coming out of her weren’t careful. Weren’t quiet.

They were real. Soft whimpers. Broken moans. The kind of breathless pleading that didn’t ask permission.

Roman didn’t let up.

One of his big hands slid up to her stomach—spreading wide, warm, anchoring her to the bed as his mouth worked lower.

He kissed her again. Then licked. Then sucked—slow and hard.

Her hips lifted. He followed. Never breaking contact. Never needing her to guide him.

He knew.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmured into her. “And I haven’t even started.”

Asha’s thighs quivered around his head.

She tried to respond, but her breath broke in the middle.

Roman chuckled—dark and soft—then slipped one thick finger into her heat.

She cried out.

The stretch was so much but not enough. Warm. Curling. Precise.

Her back arched. Her hand slid to his curls. Not to pull—just to hold.

“Right there?” he asked.

She nodded, voice breaking. “Yes… there, please—”

Roman sucked her clit again. Harder. Tighter. Tongue pressing in a slow, obscene circle.

Her body began to tense. A wave building in her lower belly—tight, hot, coiling with every flick of his tongue and curl of his finger.

She couldn’t stay still.

Her hips rocked. Her moans spilled out faster. Her legs locked tighter.

Roman growled.

“I said let me hear you, baby. Don’t hold it in. You’re not too much.”

Another finger joined the first—stretching her, filling her, fucking her slow.

His tongue picked up pace. Licking. Sucking. Ruining.

“You feel that?” he groaned. “That’s what it’s like when somebody loves you right.”

Asha’s whole body began to shake.

Her stomach clenched. Her throat tightened. And just before the orgasm hit, Roman looked up at her—lips wet, beard glistening, eyes locked with hers.

“Fall apart for me.”

Then he sucked her clit hard. Curled his fingers deep. And kept his eyes on her the whole time.

The orgasm ripped through her.

Her legs clamped around his head. Her back bowed off the bed. Her mouth opened wide on a scream she didn’t recognize.

She shattered. Hard. Raw.

It wasn’t just physical. It felt like grief. Like release. Like someone finally saw everything she was—and didn’t leave.

Roman didn’t stop. He slowed just enough to ride the wave with her, mouth still worshipping, fingers easing the tremble from her body until her breathing softened again.

He kissed her thighs as she came down. Whispered something she couldn’t quite hear over her pulse.

And then he crawled up her body—slow, heavy, sure.

His hand cupped her jaw. His lips met her forehead. Her cheek. Her mouth.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Hoarse.

“I’ve got you.”

Asha blinked up at him, face flushed, eyes glassy.

“I don’t know how to be loved like this,” she whispered.

Roman kissed the corner of her mouth again. Pressed their foreheads together.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He settled between her thighs, resting his weight on his forearms, still pressed chest-to-chest. His nose brushed hers.

“You don’t have to know how,” he whispered. “Just stay with me.”

His thumb stroked along the curve of her waist, not retreating. Not covering. Just waiting.

And when she didn’t answer,

When her eyes filled with something wordless and wet,

He whispered—

“Let me show you the rest.”

His voice had barely faded when Asha pulled him down again, catching his lips in a kiss that felt like a dam breaking.

Not lust. Not escape. Need.

A need she never let herself speak aloud—because when you grow up believing love has to be earned, you learn how to starve yourself of softness.

She trembled beneath him—not from fear, but from the ache of being seen. Completely. Unhidden. No armor. No edits. Just Asha, beneath the weight of a man who touched her like she was sacred.

You have to be perfect to be loved.

You’re too much.

You ruin everything when you ask for more.

She didn’t say those words out loud. She didn’t have to.

Roman saw all of them—and stayed.

He hovered above her like he was protecting something fragile, bracing one hand beside her head while the other slid slowly, reverently, along the inside of her thigh. He didn’t speak right away. Just watched her—like she was giving him something she’d never given anyone before.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

Her breath shook. “I’m sure. I just… I don’t wanna feel like I have to be small to be loved.”

Roman’s eyes darkened—not with anger, but with grief for all the years she had.

“You don’t,” he said. “Not with me. You can be as much as you want. I’ll still be right here.”

His words cracked something in her. She closed her eyes and nodded.

And that’s when he kissed her again—slow and grounding, his hand never leaving her skin as he shifted his weight and guided himself to her entrance.

The moment his tip pressed against her, Asha gasped, thighs twitching from the heat of it. The anticipation. The stretch. The truth of how much of him there was.

Roman groaned into her neck. “Fuck… baby…”

He was so big. Her body clenched instinctively as he pressed forward—slow, deliberate, careful. Not because she couldn’t take it, but because he wanted her to feel everything. Every inch. Every intention.

One hand cupped her face now, thumb brushing the tear from her cheek she hadn’t realized had fallen. “Breathe for me. You’re doing perfect.”

The way he moved was like prayer. Each thrust deeper, each stroke carving a space inside her where fear used to live.

She clung to his shoulders, breath hitching, head tilting back. “Oh my god—Roman—”

“You got me,” he whispered, kissing along her collarbone, “right here. Let me give this to you.”

He rocked into her slowly, letting her adjust to the fullness of him. Every inch he gave her made her heart pound louder. Every kiss on her skin made her eyes blur.

“You take me so good,” he rasped, voice low and hoarse. “Tightest pussy I ever felt. Warm, wet, perfect. Just like you.”

Asha whimpered, legs wrapping tighter around his waist, needing him deeper. Closer. Everywhere.

She’d never been filled like this. Not just physically—emotionally. She wasn’t just open. She was held.

And then Roman slowed to stillness, his body fully buried inside hers, chest rising and falling as he looked at her.

“Say it again,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” she whispered. “I want this. I want to stop running from it.”

He kissed her again, slower this time. Less hunger, more surrender.

Then he moved—slow, steady thrusts that dragged moans from both of them. Her hands gripped his arms, feeling the strain in his muscles as he held back, grounding himself in her softness.

The slide of him was intoxicating. The burn, the pressure, the rhythm building like the sea—waves rising with nowhere to go but over.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmured, forehead resting against hers. “I swear to God, Asha…”

Her voice caught. “Roman…”

“You’re not too much,” he breathed, rocking into her harder. “You never were. They just didn’t know how to hold you right.”

Her hands slid into his hair, eyes wide and glassy. “But you do.”

“I do,” he said, jaw clenched. “You’re mine. And I’m gonna remind you every time I touch you.”

She whimpered as his pace shifted—still slow, but deeper now. More force behind it. Her body sang with the stretch, the rhythm, the weight of his love poured into every thrust.

“I didn’t think I could be loved like this,” she whispered.

He kissed her shoulder, kissed the corner of her mouth, kissed the truth out of her.

“Nobody ever let me love them like this,” he said. “But I need you to let me. Let me give you everything.”

Asha let out a soft cry—not from pain, but from how good it felt to finally be touched like she didn’t have to earn it.

“I’m yours,” she breathed.

And Roman just held her face, kissed her again, and thrust so deep she saw stars.

Asha didn’t know if she was crying or moaning or both.

Roman had her wrapped in him—thrusts deep and rolling, his forearms braced tight on either side of her, keeping her caged in his heat. His body flexed with every grind, dragging against every tender, aching part of her like he knew what she needed and wasn’t afraid to give it. And she was taking it—every inch, every breathless whisper, every fucking word.

"You feel so good," he murmured, voice frayed and low. “So fuckin’ good, baby. I ain’t ever—” He cut himself off with a groan, his hips rocking deeper, slower, like the truth in his throat burned too hot to speak.

But Asha felt it. Felt it in the tension behind his rhythm. Felt it in the way his fingers tightened on the mattress like if he didn’t anchor himself, he’d fall apart inside her.

Every time he hit that spot deep inside her, her spine arched, her eyes fluttered, and her chest rose like she couldn’t catch her breath. Her body didn’t know whether to cling or collapse. She was so full it made her dizzy. He kissed her between each thrust—her cheek, her chin, her mouth when it opened in a gasp—and she started whispering his name like a prayer she’d just remembered how to say.

“I can’t—Roman—I can’t—” “You can. Look at me.”

His hand came to her face, thumb brushing her bottom lip as he slowed to an aching grind.

“I got you, Asha. I got all of you.”

Her breath hitched. That was what undid her.

Not the thrust. Not the pressure. Not the stretch. Him. Saying her name like it wasn’t too heavy to carry. Like she wasn’t.

Her legs locked around his waist. Her hands fisted the sheets, and when he started to move again—slower, deeper—her climax began to curl like smoke behind her ribs. Her thighs trembled. Her walls fluttered. And Roman felt it—let out a low sound that cracked straight through her chest.

Her mind scrambled to hold on, but her body had already surrendered.

The orgasm took her like a wave—sharp, blistering, impossible to stop. Her cry was jagged, caught halfway between a sob and a scream. Her hips jerked off the mattress. Her toes curled. And she clenched around him like he was the only thing keeping her tethered to this earth.

Roman’s breath punched out of him.

“Shit—baby—” he muttered, voice breaking into a moan as she pulsed around him.

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t need to.

His next few thrusts were shaky—desperate. She could feel it in the tension of his thighs, the tremble in his breath, the way his rhythm faltered when she clenched again.

“Don’t… do that,” he whispered, eyes flickering shut for a second. “Unless you want me to—”

He broke off, grinding into her slow and deep, burying himself like he needed to feel all of her, just like this, one last time.

Then he came.

With a raw groan into her neck, his body tensed—hips jerking, hands clutching her waist, chest pressed to hers like he was trying to breathe her in. He was quiet, but the weight of it rolled through him like thunder. His mouth brushed her jaw, her shoulder, her mouth again. Every part of him shook.

And Asha… just held him.

Still panting. Still overwhelmed. Her limbs were jelly and her heart was water and her eyes filled with tears she didn’t fully understand.

A soft silence settled around them. Heavy. Sacred. Real.

Then her voice cracked open.

“I was so scared I’d ruin this,” she whispered, her fingers brushing his spine.

Roman didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull back. His forehead stayed pressed to hers, like moving would make the truth go cold.

“You didn’t ruin a thing,” he said softly. “You saved it.”

Asha blinked up at him, her throat closing. Her voice barely came out.

“Promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“When I fall apart again… you’ll still be here.”

His kiss came then—slow and sure, like he meant it.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And neither was she.

The room held a silence so heavy it felt sacred.

Not empty. Not cold. Just still.

Only the hush of waves against the shore outside reminded Asha that the world hadn’t stopped spinning. A soft breeze from the slightly cracked window kissed her skin, carrying the faint scent of sea salt and night air. Somewhere in the hallway, a clock ticked like a heartbeat.

Roman hadn’t moved much. His chest pressed gently against hers, one hand cradling her cheek while the other curled protectively around her waist. His body—still flush against her, skin to skin—radiated heat. She could feel the soft rise and fall of his breath. His lips hovered just above hers, close enough that she could still taste him.

Her fingers stayed tangled in his curls.

He hadn’t said a word since whispering, “I’m still here.”

And he was.

Even now, when her body was limp with exhaustion and her ribs felt cracked open from how deeply she’d let him in—he stayed.

Asha closed her eyes.

For a long, quiet moment, she let herself be held.

Eventually, Roman eased out of her, slow and careful, pressing a kiss to her cheek when she whimpered at the loss. One hand lingered on her thigh, grounding her, as if to say, I’m not gone. Just give me a second.

She nodded without speaking.

Then he stood—naked, golden in the soft lamplight, hair tousled and damp with sweat—and walked out of the room.

She watched him go.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel abandoned.

Instead, she felt… still.

Safe.

Her fingers splayed across her lower belly, brushing the soft imprint of his touch. Her eyes drifted toward the ceiling.

And without meaning to, her mind whispered something she hadn’t known she needed to hear:

Peace didn’t arrive when I was perfect. It came when I stopped pretending I had to be.

Not when she had everything figured out. Not when she fixed all the broken pieces. But in the middle of the storm. In the most chaotic, messy, upside-down part of her life. It found her anyway.

And somehow… it looked like him.

Roman came back a minute later, quiet and barefoot, holding a warm towel and a bottle of water. He didn’t speak. He just moved toward her like he’d always belonged there.

She gave him a soft, tired smile as he gently nudged her thighs apart, settling beside her on the edge of the bed.

The towel was warm and damp, the cloth soothing against her inner thighs as he cleaned her—slowly, reverently, without a trace of hesitation. Like none of it scared him. Like he’d do it again and again if it meant she didn’t have to flinch when someone stayed.

Asha blinked up at him, her voice barely above a breath. “You don’t have to—”

Roman shook his head before she could finish. “I want to.”

He set the towel aside and offered her the water. She took a sip, then another. Her throat was tight, but not from pain.

“This is new,” she murmured after a beat, voice cracking despite herself. “Being taken care of like this.”

Roman looked at her for a long moment. Then he brushed a damp curl from her forehead and pressed his lips there instead.

“Guess I’m learning how to stay,” he said softly.

And just like that, the tears came.

Not all at once. Not loud or violent. Just quiet streaks down her cheeks, like her body had finally unclenched and decided to let them go.

He didn’t ask why she was crying.

Didn’t try to stop it.

Roman simply climbed into bed beside her and pulled the sheets up, tucking them around her with one arm while the other cradled her against his chest.

She let him.

Curled into the space beneath his chin and rested her palm over his heart.

His voice came like gravity.

“Sleep, baby. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And for once, she believed it.

Others called it a mistake.

Said she threw away her engagement. Her future. Her reputation. Whispers followed her like shadows: impulsive, reckless, naïve. And maybe once, she believed them.

But lying here—skin flushed, cheeks still damp, body molded to his like they were carved from the same ache—Asha knew the truth.

The real mistake would’ve been walking away.

Because Roman wasn’t her downfall. He wasn’t some drunken accident or broken detour.

He was the only thing that ever felt like choosing herself.The only man who held her without asking her to be smaller. The only one who didn’t flinch when she gave him everything.

And God help her—

He was the damn miracle she never saw coming.

Author’s Note ✍🏽

I’ve been quiet the past few days—giving myself space to breathe, to feel, and to not rush back before I was ready. This one-shot came from that space. It’s softer. Heavier. A little more angsty than I usually write… but it’s honest. And sometimes, honesty is all I have to offer. We should all have a place where we’re allowed to be soft and vulnerable.

I wrote this on a night when everything inside felt too loud. For a while, I didn’t think I’d ever post it. But this moment between them deserves to live on its own.

It’s part of a messier little series that’s been sitting in my drafts for a while—emotional, dramatic, chaotic. But this one needed to come first.

If this story held you—thank you. You didn’t have to read it, but you did. And if you liked, reblogged, or especially commented… your words mean more than I can explain. You give me courage just by showing up and supporting.

My master taglist is always open if you’d like to stay connected. Links to the rest of my work are at the top of the post. There’s more softness there. More chaos. Always more heart.

And if something in this lingered—if a line stayed with you—I’d love to know what echoed back.

My inbox is always open. Whether you want to talk, share, or just need a soft place to land—I'm here. (hugs)

With love always,

Mikayla 🖤✨

✧ What line or moment stayed with you?

✧ Have you ever felt like Asha—caught between love and fear?

✧ What does honesty in love mean to you?

✧ How do you think this fiasco started?

current taglist (love yall down bad)🖤✨

@star017 @sheaabuttaababyy @tribalqueen20 @trippinsorrows @mamis-girly

@pittieprincess22 @zoeroxiie @beccalynns-world @keyera-jackson @li-da-savage

@sharmelasworld @jaded-human @lov3rla03 @justazzi @fearlesschimera

@skyesthebomb @chrissyxcxox @reginawhorge01 @purplementalitybluebird @jeyusosqueen

@brianochka @diamondlifeee @perksofbeingbeautifulyetsobroken @cyberdejos2 @transparentphantomface

@sayyestoheav3nn @kianaleani @sxvual @vebner37 @sexyblacksimper

@dopematicdiamondz @behavior619 @annfg8 @ayeeeitsmiracle @ariiaellbtheedonn

@romanreignsluver1 @ashykneee @fame-ass-ers @baybehkay @queenofklonnie22

@blackchickinthedesert @thekittysmeow @faialii @sassginaswanmills @keenagurl

@tribalchief2112 @emotionalhottiee

#roman reigns smut #roman reigns x black oc #roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #wwe smut #black oc #black writers #wwe x black oc #roman reigns fanfic #the tribal chief #the bloodline #roman reigns fic #roman reigns x oc #kayla's random universe #wwe fanfiction #wwe fic #black fanfic writer

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blainesebastian · 5 days ago

Text

about love

word count: 11,999 ship: Nick Leister x reader rating: NC-17 (for some smut, suggestive sexual language and expletives) summary: Five times you thought you were in love with Nick, and one time you were sure. notes: thank you to everyone who's reading, commenting, liking or reblogging my fics! notes2: gifs from here, masterlist is here! i'm going to start posting requests from this list, feel free to send something in 🥰

You’re not going to deny that relationships have sort of always come easy to you. Throughout your life, your friendships have mostly been with guys and the lines between friendship and more have blurred, sometimes without warning. Slow burns turning into passionate one-night stands or slightly complicated romances while so many wants and needs are figured out.

You ended your last relationship before you moved to London because long-distance was something you couldn’t fathom keeping ahold of. It was hard enough, sometimes, maintaining a connection with Greg without the threat of oceans and land between you. It wasn’t his fault, exactly, you’d been together for a year and yet things never felt quite right for you. Sometimes things were as uncomplicated as breathing, and yet when those three little words would tease your tongue, you found yourself taking a full step back. Greg could feel that distance, but he never broke up with you. And then came the guilt because obviously something was wrong with you.

Greg was a perfectly decent boyfriend, so why couldn’t you just…utter the words you think you felt?

You blame this complicated shortcoming on your parents. They’re not divorced but you’re certain they don’t love one another anymore, so maybe they should be. They’re still married, still going through the motions, but…there’s something definitely missing. Moving to London was supposed to be a fresh start for everyone, turns out the three years you’ve been here is just New York all over again for your mom and dad.

The only bright spot is the people you’ve been able to meet, the friendships you’ve made, the new and slightly terrifying relationship you’ve cultivated with Nick. He makes you feel like no one you’ve ever been with before and you…have no idea how to make sure something so wonderful doesn’t slip right through your fingers.

Nick is someone that took you by surprise, a force that you never saw coming. When you moved to London, you actually decided that maybe taking a break from dating would be a good idea. Just…give yourself some space, some time to figure out what you actually wanted from a relationship. But then you met Nick at a party, something you heard about from Jenna, a friend you’d made at a charity event that your parents had dragged you along to.

You remember everything about the first time your eyes settled on him, drinking him in, something so unfair in the way Nick was handsome. Like it was easy but something he was also aware of, a small smirk dancing on the corners of his lip and amusement bright in his brown eyes. You drank him in, the long lines of his body, the way his clothes fit him—a pair of dark jeans and a sweater shirt, kissing biceps, hugging muscular thighs. Something athletic about him, shaped.

You thought, maybe, sexual attraction was all there was—but then one thing led to another. It was incredibly easy to become Nick’s friend, to drop your own defenses and let him in, and for him to do the same. Which, apparently, was uncommon for him to do. Jenna told you that Nick hadn’t been in a relationship for a while, that the closest thing had been with Anna, but that it was more based on things needed rather than things wanted.

So when Nick shares things with you, personal stories and things he’s excited about, frustrations and concerns about his mother, his sister, about how he worries he’ll never be able to put bad habits away that have seeped into his skin since his mother left his father—you hold those things close to you, treasure them like secrets.

He splits himself open for you, and you do the same.

You can’t recall the last time that a relationship felt like this—raw, genuine. Nick has his rough spots—he can be brash, impulsive, a hot anger that sometimes makes bad decisions. But you’ve also seen him be incredibly thoughtful, protective, sweet—he’s been there for you in more ways than you can count.

Sometimes there’s this overwhelming sensation in your chest when you’re with him, something capable of swallowing you whole. Something you’ve never uttered to anyone that you’ve been in a relationship with, something you’re not sure you can say.

With what you’ve seen and experienced, you’re not convinced that true ‘I love you’s’ exist.

But sometimes Nick makes you feel like they could.

—

one.

You think nights out at the club are your favorite.

There’s just something about gathering with your small group of friends, of wearing a cute dress, of dancing to the beat of the pulsing music and drinking a little bit too much. You swear that it puts you in some kind of whimsical state, everything rose-colored. Or maybe that’s the three drinks and four shots you’ve had tonight.

Washing your hands in the sink of the large bathroom, you smile as other girls wander into the space to fix their makeup or take mirror selfies. After you dry your hands, you reach into your purse for your own lipstick, fixing the berry shade along your lower lip.

“Wow, you’re so pretty.” A stranger says next to you and you grin at her in the reflection of the mirror.

“Thank you,” You tell her, “So are you—I love that shade of lipstick.” She’s wearing some sort of fire engine red and it brings out the warm hues of brown in her skin and eyes.

Giving her a small wave, you turn to make your way out of the bathroom and into the plunge of darkness and throbbing music. Slightly disoriented from the drastic change in your surroundings and the alcohol, you pause to draw a breath into your lungs, almost bumping into a guy on his way to the bathroom.

“Sorry sweetheart, you need some help?” He smiles down at you but before you can crinkle your nose or say ‘no thanks’, an arm reaches for you.

“No need,” Nick replies, drawing you into his side, “She’s fine.”

The guy’s eyes flit between you and Nick before decidedly making a scowl and continuing on to his destination. Nick’s body is warm and solid, a flutter of butterflies leaving your ribs and circling down to your stomach as you turn a little in his arms. His cologne mixes with his laundry detergent and settles a calming blanket over your senses,

“Trouble just finds you, doesn’t it?” He teases, lips against the shell of your ear and making you shiver.

You grin up at him, leaning a bit into his body, “No idea what you mean, I’m always on my best behavior.”

Nick snorts, an action that you can feel rather than hear as he warmly rolls his eyes. He squeezes your hip, slowly putting you in front of him to walk back towards the bustling club. The lights have turned into something that’s bright, blue and strobed and you wince a little, putting a hand over your eyes until they adjust. His hands move towards your waist, a soothing thumb along your ribs as he directs you to where you left your friends at the bar.

Lion and Jenna are dancing, glasses on the bar counter, and when Jenna sees you she grins, throwing her arms around your shoulders to hug you. She almost knocks Nick over and that causes you to giggle, both of you getting caught up in a flourish before she declares another round of shots is needed.

There’s a small smile toying with Nick’s mouth and a definite ‘O’ on Lion’s, because maybe another round isn’t the smartest idea? But no one protests.

You lean back against Nick’s chest, his arms lazily circling your waist as Jenna talks with the bartender. Your head falls to his shoulder and your boyfriend turns his head a little to brush his lips along your neck, planting a kiss to the spot where your throat meets your collarbone. Humming, you feel yourself go boneless, a dangerous combination for the heels you’re wearing.

Turning a bit in his arms, your hips sway a little bit to the music and you plant a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Quarter for your thoughts?”

He raises his eyebrows, bringing his hand up to cup your cheek and brush hair away from your eyes, “Not a penny? A whole quarter?”

You grin, “I think you’re worth the money.”

He laughs, something you can feel against your chest. There’s no need for a designated driver when Nick has the entire ride-share app kingdom in his hands. But you’ve also noticed that on nights that you drink a little too much, he tends to lean back. He likes to have a clearer head to make sure you’re looked after, taken care of. That thought alone warms you up from the inside out.

“I’m thinking about this weekend,” Nick admits, “I’m going to visit Maddie, wanted to know if you’d like to come with me.”

A bright smile spreads across your face at his thoughtfulness. Despite the limited one on one time he has with his sister, he always makes sure to ask you if you want to tag along. You’ve done it a handful of times, but at the end of the day, you feel a tad bit guilty for stealing those days away from Maddie. No one has ever said anything to make you feel that way? But you also know what it’s like to want unshared and uninterrupted time with Nick.

Which is why you gently shake your head, “No, go head. I’ll crash the next one.”

He shakes his head too, cupping both sides of your face now, his one thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “It’s no trouble, Maddie loves you. Think you might be worse at playing hide-and-seek than she is.”

You huff, causing your lower lip to pout. Nick smiles, his gaze drawn to the action, “You know, it’s very difficult to find good hiding spaces. I take offense to that.” Then your eyesight traces along his mouth too, your body buzzing with the urge to kiss him.

“What about my dress?” You ask suddenly, “You thinking about that too?”

There’s amusement dancing in Nick’s eyes, as if the question has come out of nowhere even though it all makes total sense to you. “I’m thinking about taking it off of you. Does that count?”

Grinning, you nod, and Nick smirks before he leans down to kiss you.

—

Luckily, that last shot with Jenna doesn’t make you feel sick but it does make you feel sleepy, which you suppose isn’t exactly a downside? You remember waiting for the ride-share outside the club, your ears slightly ringing from the music as cold air kissed the overheated skin of your cheeks. It felt good to be outside, wrapped up in Nick’s jacket, Jenna talking Lion’s ear off about going to get ice cream. She tried to pull you into the conversation but you merely smiled at her, yawning any time you opened your mouth.

When the third yawn kind of wobbled your footing, Nick reached to pull you into his chest, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. You were grateful for the support, tucking your face into his neck as your eyes closed. Dangerous; seeing as how it wouldn’t take much to fall asleep against him standing up.

“Almost,” He’d whispered, pressing a kiss underneath your ear.

You remember climbing into the car as well but the space between the door closing and arriving home is a black blur. The next thing you know, Nick is rubbing your back and pressing his lips to your forehead,

“We’re here.” His voice is a soft rumble against you and god, the last thing you want to do is move. But you nod, reluctantly pulling away from sleeping against his chest and making your way out of the car.

Nick keeps an arm around you, guiding you into his home, making a pitstop in the kitchen to fill up a glass of water for you. As you sit on one of the island stools, you run a hand through your hair, blinking as the room spins just a little before righting itself.

When your boyfriend moves to stand in front of you, nearly between your legs, you’re still tipping your head back a little bit to look at him with the height difference. He gives you a soft smile, making sure your hand wraps around the glass of water before encouraging you to take a sip.

“Room off kilter?” He asks.

A soft groan sounds from your throat, “Yeah, it’s really rude of your kitchen, Nick.”

He smirks, “I’ll be sure to file a complaint about that.” He agrees, making sure you keep bringing the glass to your lips until most of the water is gone.

There’s a few moments in which you’re watching him watching you, and despite knowing how handsome Nick is, all those easy observations seem to be highlighted in rose-colored focus. Your gaze traces the shape of his lips, the light spattering of beauty marks on his one cheekbone, the way a few stubborn curls rest near the center of his forehead, the strong lines of his jaw. Ridiculous, really.

You’re not sure if you say something outloud, but suddenly there’s another smile on Nick’s face as he brushes hair over your shoulder, his large, warm palm resting on the side of your neck. “Can I get you anything else?”

He wants to make sure you’re okay before going to bed and you swear you feel your heart throb in your chest at how considerate he is. A puff of air leaves your lips, making them flutter, and you honestly give it a long thought because do you actually need anything else? It’s got to be nearing two in the morning at this point, you think? But for some reason your brain whirls towards that diner you and Nick have been to a handful of times. One dot connects to the other—morning, diner, breakfast—

“Pancakes.” You declare, almost too confidently.

He raises his eyebrows, mouth opening and closing before a surprised laugh sneaks out. “Pancakes?”

You nod, smiling prettily up at him. You are so certain your life could change with pancakes—because, of course, right? Though distantly…you know it’s late, it’s ridiculous to be asking for pancakes right now. There’s no way Nick will want to entertain that thought when you’re sure he’s just as ready for bed as you are.

And yet, he holds your gaze for a long moment before his thumb brushes the underside of your jaw, “Chocolate chip or blueberry?”

You grin, an excited noise leaving your lips, “Chocolate chip.”

Nick hums, nodding, leaning forward to press a long kiss to your forehead before pulling away.

And as you watch him get a pan out and the ingredients to make batter, being sure to sip on the refill of water that he gets you, you’re pretty sure this is what being in love feels like.

—

The pancakes sober you up enough that when Nick helps you out of your dress, he helps you out of your bra and underwear too. You wrap your legs around his waist, uncaring if he’s half dressed, naked or fully clothed—you just want him against you. He seems to understand the slight desperation, shifting your thighs to move one of his between yours. His hands settle on your waist, tugging down, and a gutteral noise leaves your lips when your cunt grinds against the fabric of his jeans. You swivel your hips, needing pressure and friction and more, so much more.

“You gonna cum like this?” He asks you, mapping kisses along your neck, “All over my leg?”

Fuck.

You nod hastily and really, it doesn’t take much, especially when his hand dips down between your bodies and strokes your clit in tight circles. You moan his name when you let go, when you allow yourself to unravel, and you’re not quite sure if Nick ends up cumming too, but his fingers dig into your hips as he pulls you close to kiss.

Dizziness swarms black dots in your eyes post-orgasm and you feel him lie you down in bed, clean you up, pepper kisses in random places. He tucks you underneath the comforter before heading to the bathroom and turning the shower on.

And maybe it’s leftover pleasure swirling through your body, or the sweetness leftover on your tongue from chocolate chip pancakes. But you come back to that same thought again—you’re almost certain this is love.

—

two.

Maybe this isn’t something that’s rare at all, maybe it’s just something you’re so not used to in a relationship that it’s come as a surprise. Nick’s protective, thoughtful—in large gestures and in small, seemingly insignificant ones. The first time he did something for you when he didn’t need to go out of his way, you texted Jenna, dumbfounded. Not so much to brag, but just…it was something so uncommon and unexpected for you that you needed to talk to someone about it.

Y/N: But like, flowers /and/ my favorite latte order Jen. I didn’t think he even knew what it was. Jenna: yeah :) he hasn’t been in a relationship in a while? But nick’s just like that. He’s always been a good friend. Y/N: he’s a good boyfriend too

You think that maybe small details like that might fade away with time. Not that Nick would become less contemplative, or anything like that, but that being attentive might have a time limit. Narrowed down and limited to that sweet spot of a honeymoon period in a relationship.

You couldn’t have been more wrong.

—

“Who came up with this idea, anyways?”

Nick smirks, turning to look over his shoulder as Maddie leads the way through the woods at the back of her house. It’s a beautiful day out, sun high in the sky, minimal clouds, though the massive trees create shade that adds a chill to the air. There’s this small lake-like structure tucked into the back of the greenery connected to Nick’s mom’s yard. Apparently this is something Maddie and her brother do all the time, small little hikes after soccer.

Look, you enjoy a nature walk as much as the next person but…you didn’t wear the right sneakers for this. Not to mention? It’s slightly uphill.

“I told you those shoes wouldn’t work.”

A slight pout appears on your lips as you glance down at your Nike’s. Yeah, they’re definitely more of a fashion sneaker than something to trek up hills in, but…they’ve always been comfortable to go on walks?

“I didn’t realize I’d be hiking in the Andes.” You reply wryly, jumping over a fallen tree branch. You land a little haphazard, almost twisting your ankle.

“So dramatic,” Nick teases, but his voice is warm as he pauses to reach a hand out to you. You playfully swat it away, making him laugh.

“I can handle this just fine, thank you.”

“Your ankles hurt, don’t they?” You hate how he so smoothly forms that question, like he can read words printed right on your face—and maybe he can. The slight pinch between your eyebrows, the concentration of your pursed lips. Yeah, it’d be easier if you had high-top sneakers on or…hiking boots, if you even owned them.

But how much further could it be, anyways?

“Only five more minutes to go!” Maddie calls back, responding to your thought and humming to herself as she drags her hand through the leaves of low trees. It’s a ten minute walk one way…which means it’s ten whole minutes back. Twenty minutes. Fuck me.

Your whole face pinches, “I’m gonna die.”

Nick sighs softly through his nose as he stops and turns to face you, but he’s not frustrated, it’s more warm amusement—affection. His hands rest on his hips as he waits a moment for you to catch up. It seems highly unfair for Nick to not even be breaking a sweat, calm, cool and collected as he watches you struggle. A smirk is playing with his lips, his eyes drinking you in, and all you can think about is shoving him in his shoulder and ruining his handsome demeanor.

“I’m so tired of you looking like that.” You mumble to which Nick raises his eyebrows.

“What was that? I was gonna offer you a piggy-back ride the rest of the way but…”

“I said you’re the best boyfriend I’ve ever had,” You smile brightly, playfully fluttering your eyelashes.

He hums, nodding, reaching for your arm to tug you closer, “Funny, that’s what I thought you said.”

Nick leans down to brush a kiss over your cheek, stealing one at the corner of your mouth. You lean against him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. And for a moment, kissing him under the canopy of leaves, birds chirping in the distance, bugs buzzing their own melody, you’re almost sure you love taking nature walks.

“Come on,” Maddie declares with what sounds like a foot stomp. “Less kissing, more walking.”

Nick smiles against your lips, pulling back a fraction, “You heard the boss.”

He turns and crouches low and you stand on top of an overturned log to give yourself some height. Nick lifts you up easily, adjusting your weight so you’re balanced against his back. You hold him around his shoulders, his arms under your knees—and he carries you the rest of the way and then all the way back towards home when you’re done for the day.

—

It’s one of those rare days where London gets more sunshine than clouds, so you and your friends take advantage of that by spending the day at Nick’s in his pool. It’s a full afternoon of tossing a beach ball around, lounging in the hot tub, enjoying iced drinks and making food to eat. It’s not until the early evening that you start feeling uncomfortable, a slight squirming underneath the towel that’s draped over your shoulders.

You’ve been trying to make the move to change out of your damp swimsuit for the better part of the hour but you’ve also been buzzing around the pool deck along with slipping in and out of Nick’s kitchen ‘helping’ with putting dessert together. (Also known as snagging pieces of chocolate and strawberries as Nick tries to melt chocolate for a fondue you’re all going to gather around.)

“You know,” Nick comments as he stands at the stove, swirling chocolate around in a small, metal pot, “You could help instead of being a menace.”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” You lick your lips, wiping chocolate off the corner of your mouth.

He shakes his head, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth. When you lean down to rest your elbows on the counter, you grimace, letting go of the towel that was covering your shoulders. Nick clocks that expression, pausing his stirring to give you a onceover.

“You alright?”

You nod, setting the towel on the island stool next to your leg, “Yeah, towel is just scratchy.”

He frowns, turning the stove off so that the chocolate doesn’t burn. You want to tell him not to fuss, that your skin is probably just a bit dry from the all-day chlorine but a soft hiss leaves your lips when he gently prods at your shoulder.

Nick winces in sympathy, “Sorry, I think I got some aloe for that.”

A soft noise of acknowledgement leaves your lips, “What about the chocolate?”

He gives you a gentle smile, leaning down to press a kiss to your jawline. “Take care of you first, then we’ll take care of the chocolate. Lion and Jenna can wait a little for dessert.”

Your stomach flutters in butterflies at the gentle sentiment, watching him disappear down the hallway to find aloe for what you assume is sunburn on your shoulders. You were applying sunscreen pretty consistently, but apparently not enough. Letting out a soft sigh, you lean against the counter and grab another strawberry, smiling when Nick comes back in.

“Alright, you want this colder? We could put it in the fridge.”

You shake your head, turning so that your back is to him. He sets the bottle on the counter after squeezing some out into his hands. He rolls it between his palms for a moment before carefully spreading it on the back of your shoulders.

You let out a small sound which is mostly air leaving your nose, your eyes slipping closed. Fucking ouch.

“I know,” He whispers, pressing a kiss to the back of your head, “It’ll feel better after the aloe sits on it.” And while this isn’t the first time you’ve gotten sunburned, you know how aloeing after the fact works, it does feel better to have Nick’s gentle words as comfort. To have his hands on you, taking care of you.

You turn your head a little, brushing your lips along his, “It already does feel better.”

Nick smiles, resting his forehead against yours before drawing you into a kiss.

—

Admittedly, you’re a creature of habit when it comes to ordering food. You have your favorites and there’s nothing wrong with that. Rarely do you go out of your comfort zone to try something new…but apparently tonight’s going to be that type of night. There’s a burger special on the diner menu and you debated it all of five minutes while sipping on your chocolate shake to see if you should try it? Or go with your usual: buffalo chicken wrap with extra crispy french fries.

“I’m going to do it.” You declare, setting the menu down.

Nick glances up from the menu in front of him even though he tends to order the same thing too. “What, the burger?”

You nod, straightening your shoulders as you take another long sip of your milkshake. It’s definitely different…has a spicy mayo and onion straws and pepper jack cheese. All things that you like, for sure. Just feels like a good night to try something new…besides, who knows, it could become one of your favorite things to order. How will you know unless you give it a shot?

He raises his eyebrows but he’s quiet, tapping his fingers against the table. You narrow your eyes at him, which makes him smirk.

“What’s that face for?”

“What face?” He asks.

“That one.”

A soft laugh leaves his mouth, “No face, not at all.”

But before you can argue that there definitely is something up with his expression, the waitress comes and takes your order. You raise your eyebrows in soft surprise when Nick orders your usual, breaking away from his typical pancakes, hashbrowns, and bacon routine.

He shrugs one shoulder, “Maybe I wanted to switch it up too.” A smile tugs the corners of your mouth in that solidarity.

You're excited when the food comes, munching on a few french fries before you make sure there’s not a tomato or raw onion on your burger and then have a bite. In general, everything is perfect? The cheese is melted, the burger cooked how you like, the onions perfectly crispy…and yet, altogether? It’s not exactly your favorite flavor profile. There’s something about it giving you the ick…maybe it’s the spicy mayo?

Either way, you lick your lips, your eyebrows drawing together in a thoughtful expression before you have another bite. Maybe you just need to try it again. Nick watches you carefully from his seat across the booth, eating a few fries on his plate.

And…okay. Definitely not a fan. Trying something new? Totally a failure.

“So you like it?”

Your eyes glance up at Nick’s question, pursuing your lips, the back of your neck heating because… “Yeah, totally. It’s good.”

Nick smiles a little, making a soft noise of confirmation. When you look down at your plate, you gather a few fries to dip into your ranch. It’s not the worst thing you’ve ever tasted? So you can deal with it this one meal, especially since you’ve got fries and—

And your boyfriend reaches for your plate and swaps it with his own.

You blink as his dinner, your favorite thing to order at this place, is right in front of you. He leans back in his seat and picks up your burger, having a bite, licking his lips, making sure your ranch ends up on your side of the table.

“But…”

Nick shrugs, “Not feeling that tonight, picking something new just wasn’t working out.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, an infectious smile overtaking your face as you realize Nick, on the off chance you didn’t like what you got, he ordered your favorite thing so you’d have something to eat. You swallow over a strong emotion forming a lump in your throat, reaching out to brush your fingers against his own as they rest on the table.

“You’re sweet,” You tell him, even though other words exist that you think you want to say.

He turns his hand, drawing your left into his right, rubbing his thumb against yours, “No,” He tugs your hand up until he can press a kiss to your knuckles. “Not really.”

But you read right between those lines: only for you.

You don’t think that’s true but you’re grinning anyways as you have a bite of your buffalo chicken wrap.

—

three.

Nick’s been off all night.

It’s something by now, being in a relationship with him, that you can sense rather easily. Just as Nick’s figured out how to read you, you can pick up on when he’s upset without trying very hard, his body speaks to you. It’s in the rigidness of his spine when you touch him, the tightness of his shoulders, how they seem hooked onto his ears. It’s in the way his jaw clenches every so often, like he’s running through a conversation in his head and becomes pissed off all over again when he gets to a certain part. You try to draw him out of his mood, but you also know there’s a very fine line in doing that.

You know when to stop.

So when you rideshare back from Jenna’s after a party, you linger by your car, wondering if you should leave or follow him inside. He senses your hesitation, turning a little and raising his eyebrows, a silent what?

Letting out a slow breath, you’ll give one last push to see if he’ll talk to you, even though you might end up regretting it. “Maybe you should just tell your mom how you feel? That you’re struggling?”

Nick stopped by his mom’s yesterday to check in, or moreso, she wanted to touch base about his behavior as of late. The thing is, he’s been doing a lot better than when you first met him? There’s less fights, less racing, less getting into trouble. But you know that Nick, as much as you’ve seen him have these thoughtful, calm moments, can be a fucking hothead. He reacts, sometimes with zero wait time, especially if it involves defending or being protective of the people he cares about. Of you. You understand having those strong emotions, you feel the same way about him but…there has to be something better than putting his fist in another person’s face.

You’re assuming Nick’s mom is probably telling him a similar message, but you just think if she…understood where he was coming from? How it’s difficult to leave old habits behind, that he is trying, that would make a big difference.

You can tell by the frustrated tick along his jawline that you shouldn’t have said anything. “Right. Y/N, it’s not that easy.”

You reach for him, “I know, but—”

“Do you?” He asks and the tone of his voice, firm and cold, makes you drop your hand. “You’re acting like you’re so upfront with your parents. Have you told them how you feel when they bring up getting a divorce?”

You draw in a sharp breath because Nick knows how much that’s a pressure point for you right now, that you’ve been having a difficult time considering that your parents might make this big decision—what it’ll mean for them, for you. Despite the fact that your mom and dad don’t get along very well, even with a move to London to salvage something…you’re not quite sure that they love one another anymore. There’s some childish part of you that wishes that they’ll figure it out. Maybe that’s naive, maybe that’s just what hope looks like.

Either way, it hurts that Nick’s dragged your insecurities into this conversation. There’s been brief attempts to talk to your parents, but even then?

“It’s not the same.”

“It’s not?”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, not liking how this is turning into an argument. That’s the last thing you wanted. You take a step back towards your car, eyeing up the way Nick’s body is suddenly standing—like he’s gearing up for a fight. He’s protecting himself by verbally attacking you.

You know this, understand this defense mechanism, and yet, “This isn’t about me.”

“You’re right,” He runs a hand through his hair, “So maybe keep your comments to yourself.”

His words feel like a physical blow, the bridge of your nose stinging as your eyes well up. A slow breath leaves your lips because now you’re angry, even though you know he’s just trying to get under your skin. To push you away so he doesn’t have to focus on how he really feels.

You hate that it’s working, “There’s no need for you to be an asshole to me.”

“Hate to break it to you,” Nick practically sneers, “But you knew who I was before you decided to date me.”

You scoff out an incredulous sound because, “You’re right, I do know you.” A tear slips down your cheek that you quickly wipe away with the back of your hand, “Which is how I know that you’re only talking to me like this because you’re actually angry with yourself.”

Nick gaze lingers on you, swallowing over words stuck in his throat. There’s a moment in which he looks guilty, hating to be the reason you’re beginning to cry, but it’s gone almost as soon as it appears. A trick of the light.

“So when you’re done using me as your own personal punching bag,” You unlock your car, pressing a button on your keys to start the engine, “You know where to find me.”

You wait until you’re at least a street away before letting the tears come.

—

Drawing in a breath, you weave your way through a crowd of people at Anna’s house, smiling as a few people call out your name in hello. Another day ending in Y, another party, though you’re kind of thankful for the distraction at this point. You haven’t touched base with Nick since the nasty misunderstanding you had outside of his place a few days ago. You’re more than happy to let him stew in whatever he’s going through but…you wish he’d let you help, let you in. However, you’re not about to push yourself into where you’re not wanted, either.

His words hurt you but that doesn’t stop you from missing him. From caring.

Jenna catches your arm as you begin to head outside, gently tugging you right inside the glass doors. A small smile pulls the corners of your mouth as you take a look at her, almost glowing with how gorgeous she looks tonight. A shimmering gold top paired with black jeans, gold clasps in her braids.

“Hey beauty,” You have a sip of the beer in your red cup. Not your usual drink of choice but you’re not trying to get drunk tonight.

There’s a soft, contemplative hum from your friend as she reaches out to fix the strap of the maroon dress you’re wearing. You know what she’s going to say before it leaves her lips, “Nick’s looking for you.”

You hate that your stomach does a full and complete swoop, butterflies erupting in your veins. “I’m sure he is.” Your reply is an attempt at nonchalance but there’s a soft smile hooking the corner of Jenna’s mouth. She knows you far too well.

You let out a long sigh through your nose, “We had a fight. Or…I guess that’s what that was.”

She gives a soft wince, “I could tell something was up, it’s all over his face.”

And that…that reaches into your chest and squeezes your ribs together. Despite words exchanged, how Nick made you feel, you know that pushing you away was just a defense mechanism that’s as ingrained in him as fighting, racing. Despite all that, you don’t want him hurting.

You open your mouth to say something else but someone calls Jenna’s name, breaking the conversation. Your friend turns and gives a wave before glancing at you again, “See you later?”

You nod, watching her disappear in a wave of gold sparkle. Drawing in a breath, you look down into your red cup, as if it’s some sort of Magic Eight ball that’ll give you the answer you’re searching for.

—

Even though you’re not actively avoiding Nick, you haven’t managed to bump into him yet. You were lingering around the living room for a while before slipping outside to the back where the large patio and pool area are…and somehow got cornered by this guy who will not get the hint. You said something in passing to him about liking his shirt and apparently that warranted an invitation to kind of follow you around, even though he’s attempting (and failing) to be nonchalant about it. He seems pretty harmless but that’s besides the point.

Letting out a long sigh from your nose, you give him a polite nod as he manages to get the courage to say something to you again, wanting to get you another drink even though you’ve got one in your hand.

You feel Nick before you see him, like a shadow passing right over this guy’s face, the smile he was wearing disappearing into a pale swallow. The heat of his body presses into your right side, the gentle scent of his cologne brushing against your nose. You’re not going to lie and say your body doesn’t instantly react to him, absentmindedly shifting a bit towards him, your heartbeat kicking up a notch.

“She’s not interested.” Nick informs him and when the guy glances at you, almost to confirm, his voice nearly pinches on the next set of words, “Fuck off.”

You almost laugh as the guy scurries away—almost. Shaking your head, you lick your lips, turning to look up at him, “I’ve been at this party for an hour and haven’t run into you but one guy tries to flirt with me and suddenly you appear out of nowhere.”

Nick hums lightly, his gaze ripped from where that guy’s gone to give you his full attention. Having him so close nearly takes your breath away. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to how beautiful he is, a deep-seated ache beginning in the center of your chest. Straightening your shoulders and setting your drink down on a nearby table, you also notice that he…is much more centered than he was before? Like that burden is lifted, no longer carrying what was weighing him down. Or maybe just worked through.

“You seem a little better.” You comment lightly, not looking at him.

But he steps closer, not touching you but you can tell by the way his fingers flex at his sides that he wants to. “I don’t want to talk about me.”

You scoff out a soft laugh because isn’t that how this whole problem started? But you can tell just by looking into his eyes that that’s not what he means. He doesn’t want to focus on himself because…

“I hate that I hurt you.” He lifts his hand to brush your hair along the side of your neck and when you don’t pull away, he cups your cheek, touching your cheekbone with his thumb. “That I made you cry.”

Maybe you should be angry with him, maybe you shouldn’t want to forgive him, but you hate feeling disconnected, you hate the space between you two. “I know why you did it.” You whisper.

Nick shakes his head, his response almost swallowing yours, “It doesn’t matter why I did it, it matters that I shouldn’t have.”

Your hand curls around the wrist of the hand that’s on your face and you turn your head a bit so that you can kiss his palm, “You may not have said it in the best way but…you were kinda right,” You shrug your one shoulder. “I don’t talk to my parents about the divorce they might get. I’m too afraid to. I was trying to…” You clear your throat, “help you because I don’t know how to do it for myself.” You offer him a small smile, “I guess it’s always easier to give that advice than to live it.”

His eyebrows draw together, “I’m sorry.” And you know he’s apologizing for far more than just what he’s said that hurt you. It’s for this shit with your parents, that you’re struggling with it, that instead of supporting you, he used it against you—betrayed that trust.

A soft smile flutters at the edges of your mouth, mostly so you don’t end up doing something foolish like crying in the middle of this party. “It’s okay.” You whisper.

It’s not but Nick draws you a bit closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “I got you,” He states, “It’s not my strongest suit but…I’m gonna be better at letting you in.”

You hold his gaze for a long moment, nodding. “Promise?” There’s a gentle tease there, your fingers poking at his side so that he smiles too.

And he does, “Promise.” Nick’s arm slides around your shoulders, tugging you in the direction of the house. “C’mon, there’s a basket of fries and a chocolate milkshake at the diner with your name on it.”

You finally allow yourself to lean into his side as he guides you away from the pool area. He feels like home.

—

four.

The four of you have been planning a beach trip to Ibiza for a while now, just a getaway before the craziness of college semesters start up. Not that you haven’t been before, but Jenna’s been a bit overzealous in what the day-to-day is going to include and you’re definitely not going to complain about having an itinerary. Not only did she work in beach time but clubs you all haven’t been to before, dinners and brunches, and what you’re most looking forward to? Sight-seeing. Might totally be touristy? But you really want to visit the Dalt Vila, Ibiza's fortified old town—it’s essentially a romantic medieval castle.

And yet, here you are, barely able to get out of bed.

You had a feeling last night before you crawled under the covers that you were getting sick. It was only your second night out but you felt exhausted. Still, you pushed through. Ibiza is one hour ahead of London, which isn’t that big of a deal in terms of acclimating, but you blamed something as simple as not being able to catch up on sleep as to why you didn’t feel well. You drank, danced, had the best time, and the headache you had last night you tried to attribute to too much tequila and not enough water.

Apparently not.

You turn your head a little, pressing your face into the pillow. Your arm moves slightly, reaching for Nick, but you feel cold sheets underneath your hand. It’s then you hear the shower turn off and you run a hand over your face as you attempt to breathe in through your nose. You’re congested, your head is still pounding, your throat hurts and your entire body aches.

Fuck.

Shifting to look towards the bathroom, Nick steps out with a cloud of steam following him. He’s only got boxer briefs on, toweling his hair dry in a haphazard fashion that’s going to frizz out his curls. He tosses the towel into a corner where you’re gathering laundry, his eyes finding your,

“Hey,” He murmurs when he sees you’re awake. He moves to sit down next to you, his hand trailing over your shoulder and down your side.

You imagine that he smells good, that comforting combination of soap and skin you associate with him—not that you could pick up on it right now. God, your head feels like it’s in a vice.

“Not feeling any better?” He asks, reading you like an open book.

A small sound in the back of your throat turns into a wince, “I think someone hit me with a truck while I was sleeping.”

A small smile tugs the corners of Nick’s mouth, his fingers brushing some of your hair out of your face, “You sound awful.”

“You’re awful,” You mumble, closing your eyes and pretending you don’t feel like death incarnate.

Nick’s hand slides along your neck, searching for pressure points, and when he finds them along your temple he begins to massage them. A low groan leaves your lips and you keen a bit into the touch, “I take back what I said, you’re amazing.”

His chest rumbles in a gentle laugh.

Fuck, you can’t beleive this is happening. There’s only been one other time you’ve gotten sick on a trip like this, maybe you’ll bounce back before heading home to London? Today, however? It’s a total wash. There’s no way you’ll be able to do anything Jenna has planned for the day…you can barely inch closer into Nick’s touch without feeling like you might disintegrate.

Your phone begins to buzz on the nightstand and you have no idea whether that’s your alarm or someone calling you but a noise of protest leaves your lips when your boyfriend’s hand leaves your head to grab it.

He doesn’t pick it up but he does stop it from vibrating. “Jenna.”

You turn to lie on your back, covering your face with both hands a moment. “I can’t go out today.” You reply through your fingers, voice a bit muffled. “I might pass away.”

“Cute, but dramatic.” He teases, tugging one of your hands off, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles.

A pout forms, dragging your lower lip down, “I was so excited to see Dalt Vila—there’s a terrace of La Plaza restaurant that has my name all over it.”

“Well now the bed does,” Nick answers gently, “I’m pretty sure you have a fever.”

You wince, “Do not.” But you have the sneaking suspicion he might be right.

Nick smiles a little, leaning down to brush his lips along your forehead. He lingers for a moment, then kisses the bridge of your nose, “You feel warm.”

“This is the worst way you’ve ever hit on me.”

Regardless that you were excited about the plans that Jen put together, you know your boyfriend is just pointing out what you already know: you have to stay in bed. Maybe a full day of rest will help you feel more human tomorrow. There’s still plenty of time left on this trip and overdoing it now will just end up hurting you in the long run.

You shift a little, propping a few pillows so that you’re leaning against them. Glancing at Nick, you give him a ghost of a smile, reaching to thread a few of your fingers in the messy, yet beautiful damp curls resting on his forehead.

“You gotta take some pics and videos of where you go today with Jenna and Lion,” You insist, “I have to live vicariously through you.” Because you’re not about to insist that he stay in with you. Missing out on all the cool things Jenna probably has organized for the day? Definitely not.

He raises his eyebrows but before he can begin to protest, you weakly push his arm,

“Don’t even think about it. You’re not staying behind with me. Go, shoo, take pictures.”

“Stated that you’re practically on your deathbed and yet you’re still so bossy.” Nick comments wryly but he’s smiling, allowing you to nudge him out of bed.

“It’s part of my charm.”

You watch him rifle through his suitcase to find something to put on, a light colored pair of jeans, a white tank top, a light blue, floral-patterned, short sleeve button-down shirt over top. It’s left open, his hand raking through his hair as he wanders into the bathroom, you’re sure to put a little bit of gel into his hair to tame the curls.

He really is something to behold, you think, how easily handsome he is, how you don’t think you’d ever tire looking at him. Especially like this—domestic, intimate, in a way that not many others would get to experience him.

You’re not sure when you close your eyes, all that you know is that you feel a kiss brush your forehead before you fall back asleep.

—

You don’t think you’re out for long, a slight shuffle and gentle clunk pulling you from dreaming. You wince, feeling a bit worse, rubbing your eye as you turn your head towards the sound. And then blink, trying to focus your vision.

It’s Nick. Nick with a bag under his arms and…

“Why do you have flowers?”

He turns to look at you, a bouquet in a set of flowers you don’t recognize but they’re beautiful. Bright white, yellows and pinks, nearly spilling out of the newspaper they’re wrapped in.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” He sits down near your hip, “Also—I’d think the flowers are fairly obvious, unless you’re that sick that you can’t figure it out.”

You level him with a sleepy glare that makes him laugh. Though, regardless of the flowers…

“You weren’t gone for very long.” At least, you don’t think he was? You look at the time before reaching out to touch a few of the petals, a small smile pulling at the corners of your mouth. They’re fucking gorgeous, decidedly one of the prettiest bouquets you’ve ever received.

“That’s because I wasn’t, just got some essentials.” When you blink, your eyebrows drawing together, Nick clarifies, “I told Jenna and Lion to go on without me.”

Your mouth falls open but before any words can crawl out from underneath your tongue, the hand that isn’t holding your flowers rests on your waist, squeezing,

“I’m not spending the day away from you.” He replies as if the notion itself is silly. As if you’re not going to be stuck in bed when he could be enjoying the sights and sounds and experiences of Ibiza. “Especially if you’re not gonna make it past tomorrow…I’d like to get a glowing bedside manner review before then.”

A laugh startles out of your mouth, nearly turning into a cough because…this man. You’re nearly dumbfounded at the thoughtfulness.

“Wow,” Nick teases, picking up the brown bag that he’d set on the floor. “Don’t think you’ve been rendered speechless before.”

Well. You can think of a few times that’s happened…when his head is between your legs, specifically, but. This is totally different. “It’ll wear off,” You smile, “Trust me.”

Nick hums, quickly pressing a kiss to your cheek before pulling out everything he brought back.

—

Homemade dumpling soup heated up, hot mint tea made, flowers put in a vase on the nightstand, a box of tissues and honey cough drops, all at your disposal because Nick traded in his time exploring Ibiza to come back to the air bnb and take care of you.

But if you’re being honest? Tucking yourself against his side in bed while a movie plays in the background, allowing your eyes to close as you listen to the beat of his heart along the shell of your ear—occasionally Nick will brush his fingers through your hair, plant a kiss on your temple.

That’s the best medicine.

—

five.

The last time you were out of town it was for your cousin’s wedding, now you’re back in Edinburg for a few days for her baby shower. You’re thrilled to be seeing her, glad that she lives relatively close compared to other family members you’ve got back in the states. But leaving for a few days means missing Nick…and also having him take care of your telescope goldfish, Cheddar.

Yes. You have a goldfish named Cheddar.

You bought him a few years ago at a pet store, in all honesty, because he looked sad. He was lingering down at the bottom of the tank and his scales were a black-ish brown color. You were worried that he was close to dying. With some research and some tender-love-and-care, turns out you were right. He had been close to visiting a big ocean in the sky.

But you bought him, got him a large tank, took care of him by making sure he had proper food and lighting and sure enough? Cheddar thrived. Even got his golden-orange scales back.

You’re pretty impressed he’s lived so long, apparently they can live up to fifteen years? Though you suppose it’s not a guarantee. Regardless of the incredible streak of luck Cheddar has had, you’re having Nick visit to make sure he’s taken care of. He’s low maintenance for sure, but you’re not about to leave your fish to his own devices while you’re gone. You’ve heard about those timed-feeders you could get for tanks? But those come with plenty of horror stories.

Goldfish will literally eat until they burst and you will not have that sort of fish induced nightmare on your hands, you’ll never recover.

Y/N: how is cheddar?🐠

It takes a few moments but Nick texts back: you just asked about him this morning.

Y/N: I miss him. Nick: Yet you don’t miss me?

A small smile tugs the corners of your lips as you sit on the edge of your bed, getting ready to turn in for the night,

Y/N: I didn’t realize you’d get jealous over a fish, this is kind of hot of you.

You can picture Nick’s eyeroll.

Nick: he’s fine. Just like the last time you asked.

Y/N: make sure the curtain is pulled back from the window a bit, he likes to look outside. Nick: you’re ridiculous. Y/N: 😊😊😊 tell him i miss him!

You tug the blankets on the bed, pulling yourself up to the pillows and tucking yourself in.

Nick: I dunno what’s gotten into him but he swam under the spaceship decoration you have in here when I told him that. Nick: think that translates into not missing you

Y/N: nick did you learn how to speak fish while I was away?

It takes a few moments for him to reply again and you reach for your charger cord that’s tucked behind the nightstand. You plug your phone in, a bright smile on your face as you see his next message.

Nick: I miss you.

Y/N: I miss you too. Way more than cheddar 🥰🥰🥰

Nick doesn’t reply, but he does heart the message.

—

Nick picks you up from the train station from Edinburgh and drives you back to your place, helping you inside even though you’ve only got the one suitcase. A soft smile tugs the corners of your mouth as you head up to your bedroom, looking forward to sleeping back in your bed. In your boyfriend’s arms.

Toeing off your shoes, you toss your carry-on onto your mattress and move in the direction of the fishtank that’s by your window on top of your desk. Stretching your arms over your head, you yawn, grabbing a small can of fish food and sprinkling the top of the water. Cheddar skitters towards the food and you gently touch the glass, watching him gobble up the tiny pellets.

Rolling your shoulders, you rub the side of your neck as Nick moves to stand beside you, his hand rubbing up and down your back in slow circles.

“Tired?” He asks.

A soft hum in response. You are exhausted, though you’ve been going non-stop with family in a good way that hasn’t felt stressful. Your mom stayed with your cousin and aunt to visit a little while longer and your dad took a different train to head to a work trip. You’re glad you’re spending the night with Nick, unwinding, it’s all you could have asked for.

Tilting your head, you watch Cheddar swim, Nick pulling away to haul your suitcase up onto the bed. He unzips it, helping you unpack a little, and geez, he really is a good boyfriend. You’re about to tell him that the only thing you need out of there is a clean pair of underwear and a t-shirt but then your gaze catches on your fish.

You blink, hovering, watching as Cheddar makes another round in the tank. One of the things you love about your fish is that his patterns are so distinct, you actually named him Cheddar because there’s a darker gold patch near the tail that reminds you of a chunk of cheese.

A patch that is…suspiciously, no longer there.

You watch for a few moments, your eyes tracing him going back and forth just to make sure you’re not missing it but. No. No, it’s definitely gone. Or rather…maybe it was never on this fish at all because…

Oh my god.

“Nick, remember that movie I made you watch about the aliens that made human clones to blend in?”

A soft rumble in his chest confirms he remembers very well, “Please don’t tell me there’s a sequel.”

“I think my fish isn’t my fish.” You tilt your head again, watching non-Cheddar come to the surface to look for more food that isn’t there.

It’s then you realize Nick is far too quiet behind you and you turn a bit, raising your eyebrows at him. You’re not sure if he heard you but then there’s this look on his face that tells you he did. What? He doesn’t think that’s funny? Obviously your fish has not been replaced by an alien clone but like…you’re seriously wondering if he grew new scales or…

Or.

Your mouth opens and closes, really getting a good look at your boyfriend. A startled sound builds up from your chest, nearly emptying out of your throat as you put two and two together.

It looks like a different fish in your tank because it is one. That’s not Cheddar.

“Nick…” You trail off, waiting until he looks up at you. “Did you…replace my fish with another telescope goldfish in the hopes I wouldn’t notice?”

“No.” But his response is far too fast.

Oh. My god. He did.

This man not only took care of your goldfish when you were away but…obviously when something happened to Cheddar, he went out to find a pet store and attempted to replace him so that you wouldn’t be upset.

You press your lips together, trying and failing to hold back a giggle that escapes. He seems to hesitate, drawing in a soft breath as he watches you, clear that whatever reaction he expected you to have…this is not it. A hand covers your mouth as you grin.

“Nick. You replaced Cheddar.”

He groans, tipping his head back in a frustrating sound as he closes the space between you two, glaring at the fish over your shoulder. “I fed him for one day. One. He was perfectly fine, wasn’t acting weird or anything. Then I come over the next day and he’s belly up. The fucker died on me.”

Another laugh leaves your lips, you can’t help it. Not because you’re…you’re not sad about Cheddar, you are. But goldfish are notorious for lasting a few months, maybe a handful of years if you’re lucky? Even though the telescope ones are longer than most, you never expected to have him as long as you did.

“The last thing I wanted was for you to come home to a dead fish, I was not letting you break up with me over Cheddar.”

“Please tell me you gave him a fish funeral.”

There’s an eyeroll from Nick but it’s tentative, like he’s still not sure if you’re upset or not, “I buried him in the backyard.”

Oh my god—not even flushing him. A full on burial. This guy. You grin now, bright and unrestrained, wrapping your arms around your boyfriend’s shoulders. “So you bought me Cheddar 2.0?”

He lets out a long sigh from his nose, half annoyance and half amusement as his hands find your hips. “You can at least name him a different cheese.”

“I dunno,” You purse your lips, “I kinda like Cheddar 2.0. Got a nice ring to it.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“What about Gorgonzola?” You raise your eyebrows.

Nick shakes his head but he’s smiling, gripping your chin between his thumb and curled pointer finger to steal a kiss.

Complicated, unfamiliar feelings are suddenly as simple as a replacement telescope goldfish

—you’re pretty sure you’re in love with him.

—

and one.

You knew this was coming, and yet it doesn’t make it any easier.

Your parents ask to talk to you in the family room (which feels ironic) as you sit down on the couch, facing both of them. They tell you something that’s been building up, that’s hovered over you like a dark cloud, gathering rain. You straighten your shoulders, tilt your chin up to look both your mother and father in the eyes as they say they’re getting a divorce.

There are reasons, there are explanations, there are apologies and excuses and none of them feel like they’re comforting. All of them hurt. There’s a roaring in your ears like the ocean, a storm breaking free of those clouds and pelting you with rain.

You almost don’t understand why this is so painful for you, especially since your parents are vowing that nothing is going to change. That you’ll still be a family. Maybe because that’s a lie, they both know it, and so do you. They make promises they can’t keep, that they’ll break because otherwise it’ll break them. They say there will still be holidays together and nearly no time spent apart, but that’s what they want? You’re just not sure who will be the first one to move. Either your mother or father will get a new place and you’ll be left to figure out who to follow, whose ‘side’ you’re on, even though no one is claiming you need to pick a side.

And yet it feels like that.

They’re being so…nonchalant, like all of this is fucking normal.

You force a smile because you have to, through the entire interaction, like their words are comforting and encouraging and not like your whole life is crumbling in front of your eyes. You know, distantly, that this is the right thing. That you need this just as much as your parents do…because when was the last time they were truly happy?

But it doesn’t ease the cavern splitting in your chest.

It’s not until you get into your bedroom do you realize that you’re shaking as you force everything under control, not knowing what else to do other than sit on the edge of your bed. In a room that might no longer exist at some point. In a house that may no longer belong to your childhood. What if when one parent moves, the other will want to downsize into a smaller place?

Your heart races in your chest, breathing becoming a little uneven as your eyes well with tears. You tug your phone out of pocket and press the only name on your call list that you want to hear from right now.

The moment Nick picks up, a sob lurches forward and you can’t even form any words. You just cry, all the pent-up emotions you’ve had about this day come spilling out of you. It seemed like something that’d happen so far into the future, you thought it might not come at all. Nick’s voice is a calming murmur in your ear, only asking you specific questions when your sobbing begins to ebb.

“Are you home?”

“I—yeah,” You sniffle, pushing yourself to stand on wobbly knees. “I don’t want to stay here though. Can I come over?”

“You know you never have to ask me that,” His reply is gentle, “But I don’t want you driving, I’ll pick you up.”

You bite down on your lower lip so it doesn’t wobble, “O-okay.” You wipe your face, looking around your room for your shoes.

“Take a few deep breaths, baby,” He soothes, “I’m leaving now. You want me to stay on the phone?”

You follow those instructions, drawing oxygen into your lungs, and despite the tears lingering on your eyelashes, it makes you feel better. You shake your head but then realize he’s waiting for a verbal response.

“No, I’m okay. Thank you.”

“You don’t have to thank me.” Nick assures softly, the sound of his McLaren engine starting up. “I’ll be there soon.”

He waits for you to hang up and once you do, you grab a sweater and tug your arms through it, wandering like a zombie downstairs. You somehow feel wired and exhausted all at the same time, eyes red and a bit sore from the onslaught of tears. You bite down, hard, on the inside of your cheek as you step outside. You wait in the driveway, wrapping your arms around yourself, like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

When Nick pulls up to the house, you don’t give him enough time to exit the car, quickly crossing to get inside the passenger side. He turns the wheels in the direction of the driveway exit, heading back to his house. Neither of you speak, but his hand moves from the steering wheel to rest on your knee. You reach for him, wrapping your fingers around his, squeezing him like a lifeline. You’re probably hurting him but Nick doesn’t protest, just guides his thumb back and forth over your knuckles.

He doesn’t try to placate you, to tell you that you’re okay, he’s just a strong, silent force of support. You don’t realize how desperately you need that until tears start falling again, slipping down over your cheeks and plopping onto your sweater.

When he parks the car in the garage, he quickly undoes his seatbelt along with yours, “C’mere.” He whispers, his hand finding the back of your neck.

You turn into his touch, feeling yourself come apart at the seams all over again, crumpling into his chest. He holds you together, his arms winding around you, his body warm, solid and utterly comforting. You’re not sure why you try to stop yourself from crying, like you should suddenly be embarrassed about how your emotions are spilling out of you.

But Nick tips his chin, pressing a kiss to your jawline, his lips lingering near your ear, “Don’t,” He squeezes your frame, “Just let it out. You’ll feel better.”

So you do. You allow yourself to break in half, to let those emotions out until you utterly exhaust yourself. You pull back at that point, your body spent, Nick cupping both sides of your face and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Let’s get you inside, I’ll make you some tea.”

You swallow, your throat inflamed and your eyes stinging, but nod. Your chest hurts from the heavy emotions and you slowly exit the McLaren. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, keeping you close. You allow him to walk you towards the living room, sitting down in the corner of the couch as he disappears into the kitchen. Your phone vibrates in your pocket and you refuse to look at who it is, already having an inkling that it’s your parents, ‘checking on you’ after they watched you leave.

You shake your head, running your hands over your face, raking them through your hair and massaging your scalp. When Nick comes back into the living room, setting your tea on the coffee table, he sits down next to you. You don’t look at him for a few moments, just sitting in the silence. You know he won’t ask you to talk about what happened, that he doesn’t really need to, but the quiet encouragement is there, his hand laying flat on your back as his palm moves up and down your spine.

Your eyes flicker to the steam curling out of the mug of what smells like mint tea, your favorite, before turning to look at him. He gives you a gentle smile, not pitying you, but swimming in empathy. He’s hurting because you are.

“I feel foolish,” You mention after a few moments, voice a bit choked. “I knew this was coming and I still…”

“Be gentle with yourself,” Nick consoles, “Even if you knew this was going to happen, that doesn’t make any of this easy. Okay?”

Your heart soars in your chest, a flush kissing the back of your neck and your cheeks. Despite somewhere deep down, knowing that, it’s still something you need to hear. Maybe not by just anyone, it means something for it to come from Nick. To have him in your life, the way he’s willing to drop anything to be there for you anytime you need.

After a few moments, you nod, your hand sliding over top of his other one, tracing your thumb over the ring he’s wearing.

It’s almost ironic to you that this entire situation is about falling out of love, and yet…

“I don’t…I don’t know what I would do without you,” You admit, hoping he understands. You’re not sure you have the words to really explain the depths of how you feel.

But Nick holds your gaze, a small smile working across his face, touched at your words. He brings your hand up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles. You know he’s probably going to say something like how you don’t have to thank him for anything, but how can you not?

“You don’t have to know any time soon,” He teases, gently shaking your hand so that a smile tugs the corners of your mouth.

It does, emotion swelling in your chest, unburying words that have been hidden behind your ribs. That you’ve been too afraid to utter—that you weren't sure you were capable of saying, especially after knowing relationships can fall apart. That they can mean so much and yet deteriorate after time and wear.

And yet here you are, wanting to tell him anyway, because you’ve never felt this way about anyone else.

“I love you.” Your voice is soft, almost unsure—not about the words themselves, but about sharing something so intimate. So vulnerable. You squeeze his hand to communicate how much you mean it.

Nick draws in a soft breath, visibly swallowing. He leans forward to kiss you, his hand cupping your cheek, brushing his thumb back and forth along your cheekbone. Your eyes flutter closed, fully leaning into his chest, your arms moving to wind around his shoulders, keeping him as close as you can.

“I love you too.” He whispers back against your lips, pressing a series of quick kisses afterwards just to make you laugh.

When you rest back against the cushions, Nick settles against you, handing you the mug of hot tea. You wrap your hands around the ceramic, his chest pressing into your side, his arm stretching along the back of the couch where your shoulders are. He plants a kiss on your temple and you allow yourself to close your eyes, breathe in, breathe out. Despite everything that’s happening, for a little while you feel completely calm.

And it seems like true ‘I love you’s’ can exist.

#nick leister #nick leister x reader #my fault london #my fault: london #matthew broome #matthew broome x reader #my fault series #mccall writes things

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sttoru · 2 years ago

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♯ 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄.

love: |luv| - n. 1. an intense affection for another person based on familial or personal ties; 2. a deep tenderness, affection and concern felt for a person with whom one has a relationship with. featuring . . . toji fushiguro x fem!reader.

02.34AM. . . toji grumbles some profanity under his breath as he walks into your bedroom, only to find you already asleep, hugging your plushies — one between your knees, the other held tightly to your chest.

“hah. ain’t ya the one that said you’d stay up f’me?” the assassin whispers towards no one in particular. he removes his black shirt and disregards it on the floor with a low grunt — letting his sweaty skin breathe after the job he completed.

toji walks towards your side of the bed and hovers over your body that was curled up on the covers. you seemed to have fallen asleep without it being your intention, he guesses by the fact that you weren’t under the covers despite it being chilly.

and by the sight of your phone on the carpet beneath you. probably slipped from your hand.

“. . . y’re weird.”

the words spill from his lips in a quiet whisper. toji just cannot fathom it; why would you go through such lengths to stay up and await his return? you were clearly tired and yet still tried your best to keep awake to greet him — only for your exhaustion to catch up on you.

it’s the intention that counts, of course, but why?

toji crouches down next to the bed, now at eye level with you. his callused thumb brushes against your cheekbone, though his soft touch fades as fast as it could be felt.

‘why?’ the question echoes through his head again. toji sighs in frustration. he couldn’t come up with an answer to the many questions forming in his head.

he never had someone do this for him willingly. hell, the man never had someone love him so unconditionally. he still doesn’t know why you do.

he’s always considered himself a horrible person — one that didn’t deserve an ounce of love. nor one that could ever be pictured in a romantic relationship.

and yet there you were. accepting toji as he was, not caring about his occupation nor his distant personality and the fact that he didn’t know how to love properly.

toji wishes he could understand his feelings better. he knows he has an undeniable attraction to you — the way you laugh, the way you carry yourself, the way you seem so. . . confident in showing your affection to him and the others around you — it was intriguing. it’s like you have it all figured out; even though he was the older one in your relationship and he hasn’t

“tch, this shit ‘s too complicated — it’s makin’ my head burst.” toji, once again, complains out loud to no one in particular. his finger flicks against your forehead ever so gently in response to his internal frustrations. his piercing eyes take in the sight of you — the sight of you being so vulnerable.

that’s one more thing toji didn’t understand; why you were so trusting of him when you knew of his job. weren’t you scared of him? weren’t you scared of the possibility of him harming you in your sleep?

maybe he was projecting. toji is a light sleeper. always has been. he doesn’t like being asleep, because it meant he was an easy target for any who intended to harm him.

it took him a few months into your relationship to be able to trust you fully — to take a nap whenever you’re around. he was slowly yet surely healing and you were becoming his safe space. which he didn’t actually think he’d ever have in his harsh life.

toji eventually finds himself sitting down on the floor, wanting to live this moment a bit longer. his rough hand finds yours and he gently grazes your skin with his. his head lands on the mattress, his eyes closing as his brain decides that it was probably okay when you were the only one around;

that it was okay to rest. that it was okay to be vulnerable. that it was okay to be himself. that it was okay to receive affection. that it was okay to be weak. that it was okay to heal.

that it was okay. . . to love.

#sttoru writes.#jjk x reader #toji fushiguro x reader #toji x reader #jjk fluff #jjk x you #toji x you #toji x y/n #jjk x y/n #toji fic #jjk fic #jujutsu kaisen x reader

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hyunjinsjeans · 8 months ago

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Baby Brain (Seungmin x Reader)

Masterlist

Summary: Seungmin has to suffer with his pabo members… and now also his pabo wife.

Type: Fluff 🧸, SFW

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy, proofreading to a minimum (it’s my thing, I’m sorry)

Word count: 2569

AN: This fic is a part 2 to Seungmin’s version of the He Knows Series. It can also be read as a stand alone. I took my precious time with this one because I guess my period played games with me and the first versions were angsty af… And that was not the vibe I wanted for my man Kim Seungmin. I think I finally got it, and also huge spoiler for Hyunjin’s part 2 (which is posted too!)

Seungmin sighed as he let Choon-Hee paint his toenails pink and yellow.

He was really working on his patience lately. You sat across from him on the carpet in the living room while Nari “did” your hair.

The Hwang twins, or “dumpling girls” (as the boys called them), were happy to spend the afternoon with you and your husband. A little break for their parents to be able to go on a date alone, and a good practice for what was about to come for you.

“Ready!”

Nari walked around you with a bright smile on her face as she saw the long braid she managed to make with your silky hair.

“Already? Wow!” You smiled and reached for the hand mirror to see her work. “You did so good, Nari! Look, Minnie!”

He looked up at you, for a second his sight leaving Choon-Hee to find you. Initially, he did not like the idea of babysitting a set of three year old twins, but these two girls were pretty easy to manage and to please.

“Woah!” He pretended to be stunned.

In a way he was… Your hair, although maintaining its pregnancy glow and thickness, looked a lot like a bird’s nest. A true 3-year-old masterpiece.

You giggled, you knew it was a horrible mess with tangles and odd twists… but you enjoyed indulging the little ones.

Seungmin was able to see it; your motherly instincts were beginning to take over slowly. As the months began passing and your pregnancy became more evident, so did the signs of your body and mind getting ready become more evident as well.

From the baby bump that grew in a slow but steady manner, to the way you began fixing and arranging things at home, making sure the nursery was ready, preparing spaces for the baby and worrying more and more about Seungmin too.

Your husband only agreed to babysit for Hyunjin because you had already agreed to babysit for Hyunjin!Reader.

The afternoon went by in a blur as you sat with the girls to play and watch cartoons, Seungmin had to be the most responsible adult at home, seeing as your baby bump had begun to keep you from being too active.

He prepared snacks and handed each of the girls (you included) a small bowl with crackers and baby carrots.

“Thank you!” You and the twins said in unison, much to Seungmin’s amusement.

At that point your husband realized he was now watching three girls. Poor Seungmin spent the rest of the afternoon watching you too. Keeping you safe while you decide to do little little somersaults with the girls on the living room carpet.

The truth was that you had a lot of time on your hands lately. Since you found out for sure that you were pregnant thanks to the lab test, you have been a cause of concern for your husband… With all the pregnancy symptoms and the planning for the nursery, you decided to give in to Seungmin’s request of taking things slow. You reduced your hours at the hospital; working only part time. It was supposed to be like that until you went on leave but as things rarely ever go as planned you ended up developing some complications during the second trimester. Doctor’s best advice? Rest. And so you rested; you talked to your boss and you took time off from work. Now you are at home full time, spending most of your time reading medical journals or parenting books. Shopping online for what might be necessary for your little boy once he was born.

Most of all, what you did during your free time was visit Seungmin and the boys during their dance practice and rehearsals. They would be dancing and you would sit with Han!Reader and both would marvel at everything and anything her small Haerin would do. Sometimes Hyunjin!Reader would be there too, her girls already went to kindergarten so she would have the morning’s to herself either to work or run errands.

For your husband’s delight, anytime you and Hyunjin!Reader got together, it meant he would have to keep an eye on you. Even without her, the second you began joking with Lee Know and Hyunjin it was bad news for him.

You did not know it, or maybe you had heard it at some point… but you were considered by the boys as an honorary member of paboracha. You would dance with the boys, attempting to follow their dance moves but most of the time you would get tangled up and trip. Now you were pregnant and almost at the end of your second trimester, your brain was just not in it with you.

Seungmin found you looking for your glasses while you were already wearing them, or looking for your phone while you were on a phonecall. He would see you trying so hard to understand the instructions on a youtube video while trying to knit something for your baby… and he would find a tangle of yarn on the sofa most nights, a clear sign that you gave up that day. He loved to see you cook, but nowadays it is also a struggle that gives him a heart attack every time. You do not seem to think much about what you are doing lately, and it shows in how you burned the toaster when you wanted to turn it on one day, for some reason you put it on the stove and turned on the stove instead… So for the last few weeks the stove and the dangerous appliances are off limits for you.

Seungmin enjoys the quiet tranquility that putting the girls to sleep brings to your home. Finally, after several hours of chasing the toddlers around and keeping his eye on you, the girls got tired and accepted a glass of warm chocolate milk. You held Choon-Hee and he held Nari, each one held onto their favorite blanket and finished the milk from their sippy cups before falling asleep.

“It’s like they’re drunk on milk,” Seungmin whispered, not wanting to disturb the sensitive girls.

“Mhm…” You smiled, holding Choon-Hee close to your chest, effectively creating a perfect warmth cocoon for the little girl.

If there was any difference Seungmin could notice from you in the last few months, besides the obvious physical changes that came with the whole “creating new life” aspect of things; it was that you were more tender. You kissed him goodnight and you touched his cheek in such a way that he could not help but feel his heart swell up with tenderness. You were also more drawn to children in a way you were not before. To Seungmin you were a sweet person, someone kind with no fear of showing their emotions. Now it seemed you were ten times that sensitive, he had to be more careful about his choice of words and the way he behaved - a single eye roll from him during your second trimester brought you to tears one afternoon and if he had to be honest, he was deeply ashamed of it.

He watched you holding Choon-Hee and he fixed his hold on Nari. He was guilty of not having the same change as you, he could not yet feel that tenderness for a little human made of half you and half himself. He was unable to wrap his head around the concept of loving the growing human in your womb. He was assured by his older members that what he saw you already feeling for your baby would come to him naturally as well. That it would happen when the time was right.

“Let me get these two to sleep…”

He got up from the couch and fixed Nari in his arms, the girl already used to Uncle Seeungmin’s firm grasp, turned and held onto his neck while resting her cheek on his shoulder. Nari was the sweetest of the two, the quiet one. She enjoyed attention a lot less than her sister, but she was also the one who needed the most assurance. Seungmin brought her to their room, placing her on their bed with a blanket turned into a roll at the edge of it, helping her stay safely on the mattress without rolling off of it.

When he came back to get Choon-Hee, he found you also sleeping. Your hold on the girl was weak and gentle- The youngest of the twins was the most trouble maker; but sleepy as she was, Seungmin managed to pull her from your arms and take her to sleep next to her sister.

You felt Seungmin pull your legs up as he helped you find a comfortable position on the couch, getting you to rest with a soft blanket over your. He got to read for a little bit while you slept and the night set in. Hyunjin and his wife showed up almost thirty minutes later to get their twins. They looked happy and disheveled, but neither you nor Seungmin commented on it. You barely noticed, and Seungmin was making a mental note to tease his group member during rehearsals the following week…

“They must have tired themselves out…” You told Hyunjin!Reader while Hyunjin and Seungmin carefully put the twins in their double stroller.

“Oh, they didn’t give you trouble, did they?” Hyunjin!Reader offered you an apologetic smile, “We just needed some time for ourselves… and when you offered… I didn’t even think of warning you!”

You laughed softly, aware that you needed to keep your voice down.

“Don’t worry!” You squeezed your friend’s arm, “they were perfect… they’re such good girls! Right, Minnie? We had so much fun!”

Seungmin looked up at Hyunjin as he helped him cover the stroller with a blanket, Hyunjin looked amused as he saw the look on his friend’s face.

“Did you?” Hyunjin asked him quietly, his doubt evident.

While Seungmin was not bad with children at all, he rarely ever offered to babysit for his friends. Most of the time it was you who offered.

“As the only responsible adult in the house? Yeah, I guess it wasn’t that bad…” Seungmin sighed.

Hyunjin smiled up at you, assuming you had not heard him. “Did you really have fun?”

You nodded, smiling widely. “Yes! And it was great practice for us, Seungmin just needs to brush up on his playtime, but I would say he is ready!” You winked at your husband, obviously trying to tease him.

Seungmin grinned, mentally forcing himself to not roll his eyes, “yeah, maybe…but I’ve got nap time down!”

You blushed and looked back at Hyunjin!Reader, “I fell asleep too… I think I got carried away playing with them earlier”

“Please come visit and get carried away playing anytime…” Hyunjin commented, “they don’t ever seem to run out of energy at home, even if one does, there is still the other…”

Hyunjin!Reader nodded. “We’re signing up for dance lessons, they need to get that energy out somehow…”

You smiled “Oh, they’re gonna be so cute! What are you thinking, baby ballet?”

Both parents nodded, “it’s that or taekwondo… but I don’t want them fighting so they’ll get tutus.”

Seungmin chuckled, “yeah… that’s gonna keep them from fighting…”

Hyunjin gave him a look before speaking: “Anyway, thanks for babysitting, we really needed the time off.”

You nodded too and smiled at your friend, “oh, don’t mention it! We are happy to help, you’re basically family…”

Seungmin agreed with that and said goodbye to Hyunjin before going to the door with them.

You were alone at last, after spending most of the day running around preparing for the twins and then watching them and keeping them entertained the only thing you wanted to do was to get changed and go to bed.

“Minnie, did you really not have fun?” You asked him as you grabbed his arm and leaned onto his side.

He sighed, “I did… it’s just… you’re so hard to keep up with. You need to take care of yourself, you know? I can’t be the only one taking care of you and the baby…”

“Oh…” You pursed your lips, letting out a small laugh, “I just… feel so restless, you know?”

Seungmin nodded as you walked through the house and into your bedroom.

“What do you mean?”

You sighed and explained, “well, I… I think I have a baaad case of this thing… uhm ‘baby brain’.”

Seungmin looked a little defeated. You always managed to be the last person to get the memo it seemed. He felt somewhat amused and incredulous but he allowed you to elaborate.

“I feel like I forget things and I do things that don’t really make sense, Minnie…” You frowned, “And I just can’t figure out how to make a stupid blanket!”

He chuckled at your comment about the knitting project, he was already aware you were struggling with that but he knew better than to say anything, not wanting to hurt your extra-sensitive feelings.

“It’s okay, Y/N…” He reassured you, rubbing small circles on your back. “Your body is working really hard to make a baby. I guess it’s normal that your mind is busy…”

You looked up at him and smiled, “you’re so good to me…” You wrapped your arms around his waist and he wrapped his arm around your shoulders, a small smile appearing on his face. “I know you must be so frustrated with me… and you still cope so well.”

Your husband kissed the top of your head, “I wouldn’t do it for anyone else, Y/N. Only my wife gets my patience.”

“Only me? How about Eun-Jae?” You looked up at him, testing out the name you picked for your baby a few days ago.

Seungmin smiled and looked down at you nodding. Watching the way you stare at him so lovingly he could not help but feel like there is a weight to the name you chose. He put his hand on your belly, rubbing it slowly. He felt some movement under his hand and his eyes widened in surprise, turning to you quickly.

“Hm, he’s moving a lot today. Did you feel that?”

You stared at him with curiosity, Seungmin had yet to experience the feeling of your baby moving in your belly.

He nodded, dumbfounded. “He… moved?”

With a gleeful smile you nodded and pulled his hand over your stomach so he could feel it again, where your baby seemed to be kicking.

“I like to think he’s happy when he kicks like this, he is so strong already…”

“Eun-Jae?” Seungmin asked quietly.

It was true what his members said. That love for his son would come one day and hit him suddenly. And it happened right then, after a busy day while preparing to go to sleep. He watched your stomach with renewed wonder and love, and you touched his cheek softly before kissing it.

“Oh, our baby boy is so lucky to have such a loving, patient dad…”

You went to push your glasses up on the bridge of your nose and almost stuck a finger into your eye. Seungmin sighed and chuckled as he turned his attention back to your face, he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Pabo, you’re not wearing your glasses today… you put on your contacts this morning…”

“Right…”

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Likes, Reblogs and Comments are welcome! Thank you for reading!

#stray kids x reader #seungmin x y/n #seungmin x you #seungmin x reader #seungmin fanfic #seungmin fluff #he knows universe #hyunjinsjeans writing

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sukunasweetheart · 2 years ago

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the urge to throw trueform sukuna into the shoujo manga genre....

(fem!reader, sexual undertones towards the end)

it would be so funny yet so beautiful...i also think he would look so great in that flowery, feminine kind of artstyle <3-

in terms of cliche shoujo love interest, he's a lonely immortal god who is against everything that supports the notion of love... until he experiences what true love is like, for himself. you're his little servant toy that he mingles with for some time, until he realises something's wrong with his heart...

i love him for what he is, but wouldnt it also be lovely to see him in a softhearted story?? the almighty and powerful, but grows weak in the knees all because of one woman!

one day, imagine if he, the most renowned selfish man, with complete disregard for others, who had always valued himself vastly more than anyone else, comes to a point where he sees you in the way of an unstoppable attack from the wrath of an enemy, and rushes in to tank the would-have-been-fatal strike in your stead...

it happened in an instant. he didnt even realise he was moving until he had already been hit. he's bleeding for the first time in a thousand years. he's hit, and it should hurt, it should feel unpleasant, because he certainly wasnt planning to be hit, nor did he engage in this fight for his own pleasure, but for your protection.

yet, he feels relieved. you're tucked behind him safely, looking up at him with worried eyes, and he feels relieved, all because a weakling like you is alive.

after he sends you away to uraume (who gives you the stink eye), he promptly kills the opponent but becomes a little weakened temporarily afterwards as a result of the powerful attack

he's absolutely grumpy about having to be bedridden for a few days for recovery, often stares down at you with unreadable eyes, like he's in deep contemplation about his own feelings

oh fuck me, he thinks, when he finds himself wanting to comfort you as you're in tears over him, even though he's the one that's hurt.

its a confusing sensation, feeling like shit but also not hating everything about being in the centre of your concerns. look at you, feeling so guilty, so worried sick, fussing over him. as you should. he mulls over the incident where he uncharacteristically jumped in to protect you... but he's not one to over complicate things for too long. he'll just continue to do as he pleases, just like before. and if that involves showing you some affection, kissing you, holding your hand, shielding you from his woes... then so be it. if he's the strongest, if he's a god, shouldn't he also be able to save such a frail thing as you?

he orders for your presence in his bed to keep him entertained, but he doesn't even say a word when you're there laying next to him, he's only just staring at you and giving curt touches, like your body is a plaything to him. maybe palms your thighs and breasts, but it doesn't feel sexual at all.

"it's not so bad, having you in my debt," he suddenly says, as sukuna plays around with a lock of your hair. these new feelings he harbors, intrigues him just as much as they irritate him.

"i do owe you my life..." you tell him in response.

"so you're aware. and? what will you do about it?" he asks you.

"i'm not sure, my lord... what would you like me to do?"

"how sly of you, turning the question back onto me."

he thinks about it for a moment.

"well, i suppose there's nothing you could offer me but yourself," he says as he slowly undoes your robe, the other free hand grabbing your face.

"...and your everlasting devotion, to me."

as he's about to sit up to continue, your tiny hand pushes against his chest in resistance.

"you mustn't exert yourself, your wounds are still healing, my lord," you protest, much to his annoyance.

"cease your fretting. movement of this degree isn't enough to hurt me," sukuna sighs, grabbing your wrist and pinning it down against the sheets.

"i... i can do the moving," you tell him with determination, which earns you can amused smile.

"...oh? now that's certainly worth considering," he says, slowly letting go of you.

you carefully get up to straddle the larger man, sitting yourself down on his hips.

"alright then, my brave little devotee. entrance me."

and you do just that for him, all throughout the night. (it wasn't the first time, and it certainly wont be the last)

sukuna learns all about how some fragile things are worth keeping around.

at first, the relationship revolves solely around his own pleasure and satisfaction. but as the ice begins to melt, he sinks into a trap in which he's seeking more and more to keep your own happiness and your beautiful smile in place. he begins to hurt when you're hurting. it was exactly as he feared - his life becoming molded around one singular person who's somehow crawled their way into his heart-- his heart that should've been sealed tight.

at times, when his teasing goes too far, and your bright expressions dissolve into sorrow, his own mood drops considerably and there comes seeping in a crushing feeling in his chest.

he lifts your face up by the chin and says; "i'm only joking. don't make such a pitiful face."

but when he realises that you were merely feigning your hurt, giving him a little cheeky grin, he flies into a quick, but playful anger.

"you little minx. i've spoiled you a little too much haven't i? you're getting ahead of yourself."

he proceeds to lift you up into his arms, an extra hand keeping your wrists together, as he aims to litter his bite marks down your neck and shoulder.

"aah! forgive me, my lord!" you exclaim, writhing around in his tight grip.

but there's an audible giggle in your voice.

Masterlist

tagging; @vagabond-umlaut @yuujispinkhair @satkuna @skunaskitten @sukunastoy @theprettyarachnid @sunshine7queen @gojos-thot-patrol

#sukuna x reader #sukuna #sukuna x you #jjk x reader #soft sukuna #ryomen sukuna #jujutsu kaisen x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna smut

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intimidating-fettuccine · 1 year ago

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It's a complicated topic but... how would LJ, Sully and Jason (separately) react if they had a dream (although it would seem more like a nightmare) where Y/N tricked them?

The three of them like never dream in my opinion so it's definitely angst time but I tried to go more bittersweet. I hope you enjoy

LJ:

Jack almost never dreams, mostly because he almost never sleeps, as it's not necessary for him to function, but most nights it's still just usually quiet in his mind. Tonight, however, was very much not quiet. He'd been feeling quite stressed lately, especially because the two of you hadn't been able to have as much time together, and it seemed his anxieties had manifested as nightmares to haunt him that evening. The words you'd yelled at him, as you'd turned and left him, told him to never speak to you again, it had hurt him more than he thought possible. He wakes, scared and upset, before you even notice the state he's in, chest heaving and tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. He shivers as he looks at you, happily curled into his chest and sleeping peacefully, and does his best to calm his racing heart. He pulls you on top of him as he shifts onto his back, staring up at his ceiling and trying to relax.

The shifting causes you to wake, and you tiredly ask him what's wrong, giving him a tired look of concern that has him chuckling and pressing kisses to your cheeks. He tells you he just wanted to cuddle you a bit more, and of course, you're never one to refuse his cuddles, so you curl up onto his chest, snuggling your head into his neck and soon drifting back to sleep. The warmth of your body is enough to comfort Jack, after all; it's proof you're here. You're here, and you're real, and you're not going anywhere, it was just a bad dream. Although he chooses not to go back to sleep, he enjoys spending his time waiting for the morning listening to your calming breathing, and enjoying the weight of your body on top of him. He'll tell you what happened when you awake, the horrible dream he had, and he knows you'll refute the dream, swearing your love for him as you always do, and the thought makes his heart flutter as he hugs you tighter against him, looking forward to those familiar words.

Sully:

Sully doesn't often have dreams, although when he does he tends to be frequented by nightmares, however, they're usually never about you. About his shared trauma with Liu, about his fears and anxieties in general, but when they do happen to be about you, it's usually about him failing to keep you safe in a nightmare, not you being the source of the nightmare. The words you tell him cut deep, and feel so real and painful, but he doesn't want to believe them. You've never looked at him with such hatred, and you'd never say such needlessly cruel things to him, you'd never run away from him, abandoning him in his misery. As he becomes aware of his dream, he fights against it, he knows you could never do this, but he can't pull himself out. It's not until you wake him up yourself that he's able to escape, his teary eyes opening to see you looking at him in deep care and concern.

He doesn't have the words to tell you what's wrong, only being able to mumble that it was a bad dream, and the knowing, loving smile you give him has his heart racing in his chest for another reason. You shift in bed, pulling him into your chest and pressing kisses to his forehead, rubbing his back in the way he's always preferred, and he feels himself calming down. He nuzzles into your neck, quietly crying out that you'd left him, that you'd said he wasn't good enough, and while he knows you'd never say that it still hurts. You hug him tighter, reinforcing that you would never, ever say that, that he's more than enough for you and you'll never leave him like that. His brain is still anxious, but his body can't help but relax into your familiarity, and soon he's drifting off to more peaceful dreams, still clinging to your body for warmth and comfort. When he awakes the following morning, well rested and greeted by your happily smiling face, he knows for certain that everything will be alright. You're not going anywhere, and he'll be able to protect you forever, just as he always does. That thought brings him more joy than he feels he deserves, so he cherishes you and your love more than anything.

Jason:

Jason, as I've said before, also doesn't need to sleep. As my Jason is robotic, he simply enters a powered-down state when he lies beside you at night, and it's rare for his mind to wander and present him with dreams, but the occasional bad dream does sometimes torment him. While normally a still sleeper, as I've previously said, he tosses and turns on nights when he's having bad dreams, and tonight was no different for him. And, as usual, he's awoken by you powering him on and calling for him, holding him close, and asking him what's wrong. All he can do at first is look up at you in confusion and pain, tears streaming down his cheeks, his eyebrows twitching as he tries to process what's happening before his lips tremble and he clings to you as though his life depends on it.

He cries out, saying he had a horrible dream, one where you left him, where you told him he'd never be good enough for you, that he didn't deserve someone like you, that you'd left him all alone so maliciously, and he was so scared because he loves you so much and it hurt him so badly. Jason is, in general, often scared that you'll realize you deserve better than him (which you always deny and say he's the best you could ever have), and it seems his worries became a nightmare for him tonight. You hold him close as he hiccups through his tears, whispering comforting words and smothering him in all the affectionate gestures you know he loves. You remind him that he's your one and only, that nobody could ever beat him for you, and when he asks if you truly mean it, you smile at him and tell him you swear your life on it. He shudders out a breath as he tiredly clings to you, snuggling into your neck and holding you close. The two of you stay up talking for a while, and it reminds Jason how much you care for him, and how much he cares for you, setting his mind and heart at ease as he finally relaxes once more.

#creepypasta #creepypasta headcanons #creepypasta x reader #creepypasta headcanon #laughing jack #laughing jack x reader #laughing jack headcanon #laughing jack headcanons #homicidal liu #homicidal liu x reader #homicidal liu headcanon #homicidal liu headcanons #jason the toymaker #jason the toymaker x reader #jason the toymaker headcanon #jason the toymaker headcanons

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eternal-pie · 2 months ago

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lux Imperator/ Mr Ring a Ding Head canons

——————————————

Ive been enjoying this silly little god and figured I’d share my head cannons some general, some x reader as usual

Pt.1 Pt.2

——————

I imaging Lux has a very complicated sense of self

He is essentially everywhere

But being confined to a body in one place is a little weird to him

And because he’s so vast and complex, he has a very different understanding of the world compared to everyone else

I think that’s why he blend into his avatars so entirely

He uses them as a frame or vessel to gather a new perspective

They are a small piece of him that’s been refined and simplified

He doesn’t really know how he’s supposed to be so he just picks a guy and copies him

And this can result in him doing things that make no sense

Like he’s in a toon form so he follows toon rules, and toons are shaped around humans

But he’s not human he’s light

So he’ll do things like floating in the air at the smell of a pie

But can he actually smell?

He can’t actually breathe right?

He has no organs, no lungs.

I like to imagine he likes teasing you when you bring that sorta stuff up too much

He’d stage whisper “Golly dolly, you can’t go mentioning plot holes like that!”

He would call you doll and dolly (gender neutral) casually, almost like a fill in for babe and baby

He would be fascinated by “the wonders of physical form” as he calls them

Organs are especially interesting to him

You're just full of fluids, all the time!

He might call you his “meat bag” affectionately

Likes the sound of your heartbeat a lot

Even simple stuff like hair or nails growing is interesting.

Also he’s fascinated by how fixed or unmalleable living things are.

He can bend and stretch and reflect and it’s weird to him that you can’t

“Com'on sweet pea, you know you’ve always been more consistent than me.”

This results in a lot of surprises for both of you about that the other can and can’t do

Like he’ll freak out a little when you crack your knuckles

And you’ll have to remind him that you can only stretch your arms so far when he hands you things

He also might be overprotective because of this too

He has no understanding of what is actually fatal to a living thing.

As a toon, he can get smacked upside the head with a hammer and shake it off like it’s nothing

But that obviously isn’t the case for you

Even the prospect of blood is very new and very scary to him

Like a part of you that is supposed to stay inside of you is now OUTSIDE of you and if you lose enough of it, there’s a very real chance that you’ll JUST DROP DEAD?!

It might be best not to tell him about blood, donations, and organ transplants just yet I don’t think he could handle it at this point

(he would be a little weirdo and think of that organ transplants are like kind of romantic)

And then get sad cause he can’t give you his organs cause he doesn’t have any

He has no frame of reference for what’s an acceptable amount of damage for you to receive at any given moment

He treats bumps and scrapes like their gunshot wounds because he doesn’t understand they aren’t

He’s especially bad when it comes to illnesses

Mostly because he has no understanding of how they function

The way he sees it, anything outside of perfect health could be or is, killing you

You’re so finite and fragile to him

It’s even more concerning when you try to brush him off or explain that it isn’t actually that bad

Cause even if he understands, you know more about your form than he does

To him it is that bad and there’s also a very real possibility that you’re just playing off how bad it actually is in order to make him feel better

When dealing with it, he tries to see his same calm, unbothered and suave self

But his concern and panic bleeds through very clearly

All in all, he becomes very stern making you stay in bed and heal your injury and putting in more research to try and figure out what he needs to do to help you

(if you’re too stubborn, he might end up having steam coming out of his ears)

There is a very real possibility that he’s a good cook, but doesn’t know how to season anything properly

Like after a while, he’d get good at it, but his first couple tries are ROUGH

In his defense, he’s never eaten anything before

——————

I’ve already got a part 2 in the making :)

#doctor who lux #lux imperator #lux imperator x reader #mr ring a ding #mr ring a ding x reader #headcanon

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jolliestlolli · 4 months ago

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More Joris Jurgen headcanons because waiting another week for the next webtoon will kill me otherwise

Okay I kind of stole this one from a certain other person but (you know who you are), he secretly writes and publishes his own novels, usually revolving around themes of existentialism, immortality, doomed romance and political corruption. They're all published under the pseudonym "J. C. J." (Joris Crepin-Jurgen). Surprisingly he's kept this up for the last century or two and no one has caught on yet.

He can and has played various instruments throughout his life, but, well, I refer you to this video to get an idea of how that's going for him. Jack of many trades, master of none.

I think it would be comedically dark if, because of what happened with Salar, his body semi-regularly ends up possessed by beings of untold evil because Salar basically made his soul into a comfy little space with enough room for anyone to just come in and put their feet up. He turned his soul into a fucking 5 star AirBnB for cosmic horrors.

Most of them don't mean too much harm because killing their vessel is rather counter intuitive, sometimes they just wanna deliver a message, sometimes they forget Joris has human limbs that aren't supposed to bend that way.

Regular consumer of the Gin and Panic .

Given how long he's lived and the fact he's also a famous hero and also a political figure, I'd bet my bottom dollar he's dealt with more than one stalker. Some were more malicious than others, some just heard stories about him and became creepily obsessed, most of them stopped when they tried to break into Luis and promptly had the floor open and them them down 3 stories into the basement.

I know I made that post suggesting the idea of him being trans but to be perfectly honest, as far as canon is concerned I can more see him identifying as Agender/maybe being intersex like that One Certain Person suggested.

I 100% know I'm not the first and only one to have the HC that Joris can't/won't use magic cause of the traces of black dragon, but allow me to add to that idea:

During the period after the movie when he was still housing Salar, he couldn't use his own magic at all. After they parted ways, he got slightly better, but still can only do really basic spells like putting someone to sleep or making small flames. Anything more complicated and it either doesn't work or it literally blows up in his face.

Has become an "eat to live" kind of person that would shovel unseasoned rice and boiled chicken into his face just to stay functioning because he has to fit 36 hours into one day somehow. He still enjoys cooking for other people and is very good at it, he just doesn't like cooking only for himself.

Plus, when you're undercover as a political spy in a foreign nation/adventuring out in the wilderness miles from home/kidnapped for interrogation and torture and you're not sure when exactly your next hot meal is coming, you learn not to care if the food you're eating just barely crosses the threshold to be considered edible.

#dofus #wakfu #headcanons #joris jurgen #dofus joris #master joris

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dashielldeveron · 5 months ago

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Binding Magic and Other Medievalisms | 3 | Shinsou Hitoshi Series Masterlist Summary: A trip to your friend's magic shop, the beginning of your quest, and a night at an inn.

Warnings: female reader. Sexual content. Full bush, babey!!! I know what reader would be wearing as underwear would neither be called underwear nor shaped like modern underwear, but I’m vetoing that in the name of modern sensibilities concerning sexiness. Reader is slightly insecure about her body in a vague way (this is me projecting). Reader starts to show her self-destructive tendencies and other fucked-up-edness rooted in her PTSD. Note: consent continues to be complicated. Right now in the story, it’s still mostly dubious consent (sexual coercion + reluctant consent) in terms of what’s spoken about their relationship, but it’s made more complex by reader’s unspoken, half-supressed affection for the Shinsou she used to know (prompting her to both want and not want him). If this sort of tenuous consent is something that might be upsetting for you to engage with, please click away and do not read.

~18.9k

You haven’t seen much of your husband since that night.

Probably for the best.

You suspect Shinsou’s avoiding you just the same as you’re avoiding him. Even when he was ordered to move into your tower, he kept quiet and to his designated chambers on the ground floor, the ones you’d been using for storage. He’s never ventured up the stairs to your study, or else he’s figured out a way to sneak in without your notice.

Either way. Quiet.

Last time you saw Shinsou had been when you were observing the fresh pages training under Captain Iida to scout the new recruits for someone with the potential to become your replacement apprentice. With royal secretary Midoriya and falconer Rody Soul in tow, Shinsou had arrived at the practise late, evidently summoned by Iida as the instructors for certain types of weapons-handling: Midoriya for two-handed swords, Rody for double-edged swords, and Shinsou for daggers and knives. Honestly, you’d thought it’d been rather too much for one lesson, but you’d garnered it’d given some of the pages an idea of what direction they’re going in.

Shinsou had only acknowledged your presence once—well, perhaps twice. The perhaps had been after the individual work pairs had broken out and Shinsou had been teaching a page about handle grip. Frowning at the way she’d been holding her wooden, practise dagger, Shinsou had crossed to stand behind her, flipping his own dagger to himself before handing it to her, watching how she initially grabbed the handle. He must have felt your gaze on him, because his eyes flicked up towards yours, holding you down from across the training grounds, where you’d perched on a half-collapsed scaffold, out of the way. He’d blinked slowly and returned to teaching.

Your only true interaction had been mortifying. Your relationship should have been acknowledged, yes, because it’d have been a poor sign for these children from both houses to see the marriage not going well, but he didn’t have to—ugh. After Captain Iida had disbanded the lesson, you’d leapt down from the scaffold to scuttle out after thanking Iida, but Midoriya and Rody Soul had interjected themselves into your conversation. You’d made a point of being warm towards them, because you could set an example of being kind to members of the House of Aizawa, especially since Iida had been curt with them during the lesson. Shinsou could’ve crept out without anyone noticing him, as usual, but he’d stopped by your group to rest his hand on the small of your back and to kiss your cheek—you’d snapped your head towards him, startled—and he’d slipped away, all conversation puttering to a halt.

You’ve been losing your mind the past few days in your study. The creaking of bookshelves as books rearranged themselves, the burbling and hissing of potions over your fire and stove, the muted chop of a knife against a cutting board and its scrape on the wood as it swept sliced herbs and roots into the pots, the scratching of enchanted quills on parchment and the curling of ribbon with scissors to bind messages to zip about the castle, the whizzing of your wands as they whooshed about the capacious study, emitting sparks and chippering softly to each other—usually, it all combined in a comforting, white noise perfect for concentration, but lately, you’ve been flinching at anything, in the case it might be Shinsou, listening in or, God forbid, stealing your books. To clear your mind, you struck out towards the castle town for the morning. Enough time had passed since the last battle to safely sell your scroungings to Keigo.

With your hood up, you scurried through the early morning crowd, already refreshed by shop bells and door creaks, daily itinerary repeated between children and parents, friends persuading each other to go into shops, chatter from barkers at their makeshift stalls—propped up a bit early for the upcoming festival, mind, and definitely too close to permanent shops to be legal (wait, three chimstalk for a yenner? You may have to stop. Not to mention this barker’s from the north, considering how he’s pronouncing yenner as yenna, and it might be a good opportunity to get a working class opinion on the new trading regulations in the northern provinces).

With your pockets a little lighter, you found yourself smiling as you passed a closed pub, its only worker singing to himself as he swept last night’s broken glass from the doorway, and you scurried around the corner, catching yourself before you could trip on the cobblestone, to thrust open the door to Fierce Wings.

With the tinkle of the door chime came the scent of cinnamon, cloves, and oranges, enveloping you like a hand sinking into a soft pillow as you shut the door behind you. Like many details about Keigo’s shop, that scent strategically endeared the customer while serving Keigo in some way—the smell covered the discordant brewing in the back kitchen for pre-made potion bases; the creaking of the wooden floor made the shop seem like a cosy, homelike building, when it actually ensured Keigo knew where every customer was; his enchanted, red feathers seemed to downplay the customer-hovering that human workers would have, but they allowed the shop to have an eccentric atmosphere that continually reminded the customer just what kind of place they were in.

One of his feathers greeted you with a standard chirp, and it chirruped more loudly when it recognised you, zipping up to weave itself through your fingers before zooming back through the shelves. From the back half of the shop, where more of the herbalist work was done, you heard the feather’s cheerful screech and the subsequent clattering of pottery.

“No, I get it. I’m going; I’m going,” came Keigo’s voice, speaking through a laugh, and his heels dragged along the wood as the feather pushed him up the aisle, steering him out of the way of a pair of customers. “Whatever shall I do; whoever could it be?” he was saying dramatically, the back of his hand to his forehead as the feather parked Keigo in front of you, and it wove through your fingers again when you thanked it.

Keigo’s eyes followed the feather as it swished away, and, grinning, he placed a fist on his hip. “Hi,” he said, “Haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Work stuff, y’know,” you said, waving it away, “Where is my wife?”

“She’s in the back. Come with,” said Keigo, turning and beckoning over his shoulder, “I assume you’ve got something for me?”

You followed him towards the back half of the shop, where the bookshelves opened into a wider workspace for perishable supplies—the bulk of the work Keigo did in-shop, rather than sourcing it outside. A couple of rather young-looking girls were seated in the chairs by the fireplace, already crackling at this time of day with a blue liquid in a seahorse-shaped glass bottle heating over its flames, and they were passing jars of herbs between themselves (they must be just starting out; maybe you should talk to them later). The cinnamon-clove-orange mixture wafted more strongly here, probably to conceal the scent of whatever pearlescent nonsense he's got brewing in a cauldron featured front and centre, lilac droplets tossing themselves into the air before diving back into the pot.

You plopped your bag onto the work counter as Keigo crossed behind it, lifting his apron off the hook, and you strode past the tables of crimson feathers peeling bark from branches and grinding fungus with mortars and pestles towards the enormous owl Uotani, dozing on her perch.

“My beautiful wife,” you said while Keigo snorted, and you stroked the side of her face as she slowly brought herself out of sleep. Uotani was a great horned owl on whom Keigo had cast a colour-change spell to match the red of his own feathers, to craft the illusion that the magical feathers were hers (it also didn’t help that Keigo told people that she was a wizard in disguise). “What idiocy has that man who calls himself your owner gotten into lately?”

“You can’t have her,” said Keigo, tying his apron around his waist, “She contributes to the shop atmosphere.”

“I wouldn’t have her, regardless,” you said, scratching her head, which she turned to encourage you to pet a certain spot. Would be nice if you could have a pet, though. During wartime, it had been because a pet wouldn’t know where you went, in the chance you’d died. Now that retirement loomed closer, perhaps you could get one—but you wouldn’t count on it. “Mind if I let my wand loose?”

Keigo halted at the bag’s first buckle, and he narrowed his eyes. “Who do you have with you?”

“It’s my gingko one, obviously. Magnolia’s at home in my study. Probably never to see the light of day ever again, because of rude shopkeepers who—”

“I tend to get upset when much of the merchandise is destroyed, however inadvertently,” said Keigo, sweeping his hair back from his forehead, sticking up due to drying sweat, “Go ahead. But you’d better take care she doesn’t work the wand display into a frenzy again.”

Still petting Uotani, you reached into your cloak and unbuttoned the loop binding your wand flat against your side, and the wand whooshed out to hover at eye level, rolling over midair and laughing a sunny, yellow spark before she sped towards the dried bunches of flowers hanging from the rafters to scan the shop for the wand display. When she spotted them, she gave a cheery zoot and, leaving a leafy rustle through the dried flowers in her wake, rushed towards them, all clamouring from their cubbies and clinking their thin chains that kept them from similarly speeding about the shop.

“Shame you’re the Court Mage,” said Keigo, clicking his folding magnifier open, “You could’ve made a living making wands, considering how much life you seem to put into them.” He flipped a scuffed ring from your bag over in his hand, and he held it up to the light. “I’ve had people ask why their wands don’t seem to have as much give or power as yours do. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use yours in public so often, because it’s giving people unrealistic ideas of what the average wand can do,” said Keigo, scrunching his face around his eye so that the magnifier would stay in place, “Now, if you wanted to supply me with wands you’ve made—”

“Forget it,” you said, giving Uotani one last stroke before she nodded off again, “The problem’s in that these people are distanced from the wand-making process. You really should have a relationship with the tree and its surrounding land if a wand’s going to truly listen to you. I still say it’s fine to get someone else to make your wand, especially if you don’t know what you’re doing, so long as you’re familiar with the materials it’s made from. But I get why these wandmakers are making multiple wands from a single tree; it’s a real hassle to call to the heart of a tree. Takes too long. If these wandmakers are looking for profit, they’ve probably found the most effective way to do it.”

Keigo sighed and set the ring down. “Talking to you takes the magic out of everything.”

You shrugged. “Hey, once you know how to do things, it’s harder to be impressed by shoddy work. But then again, I’ve only made a wand three times, and even that took a lot out of me.”

And even so, only your gingko and sycamore wands could still perform heavier magic. Your magnolia wand could only reliably execute non-organic minutiae nowadays. Barely hoddling along by magical standards, the magnolia wand would’ve been disposed of long ago by anyone else, but your own guilt kept you from doing so: she was so drained because you’d used her for the one other fae spell you’ve cast.

From over the shelves came the jangling of wand chains. “It sounds like you’ve got plenty without my help.” You approached the counter, dragging your fingers along it. “Need me to do anything while I’m here? Though I see you’ve got things covered,” you said, nodding towards the feathers working at the tables.

“Yeah, actually,” said Keigo, not looking away from a scrounged booklet with goldleaf, “Mind sorting through some lumstol and siltarian moss? Always better to have human eyes on it. The feathers can’t tell when the fronds are wilted or where to pluck off the stems.”

You untied a cluster of each from the wall and spread them out on the counter. While you silently worked your way through them, Keigo was arranging what you’d scavenged into piles on the counter, already inventorying them in his mind and muttering to himself. You caught a bit of the conversation between the girls at the fireplace, and you smiled to yourself (“What do you mean we have to practise daily recitations? Nobody told me we had to do it every day; that’s mad.” “Yeah, Kameko, that’s why magic is a discipline.”).

Flattening the curling leaves of the lumstol, you scanned the counter. Right next to where Keigo finalised sales was a tray of tiny, pink-tinted bottles, and you picked one up, reading the label: Bibimi’s Charming Love Potions, in overexaggerated cursive. Well, that’s confusing phrasing, since a charm is different from a potion. Small dosage, it looked like, since you could’ve held around four in your palm.

“Why’re you selling these at checkout?” you asked, flipping it over to read the ingredients.

“Eh, a new practitioner in magic’s making them,” said Keigo, and he removed his magnifier from his eye, rubbing his face where it’d sat. “Didn’t want to discourage her, especially since she buys everything from here in bulk. I almost make more from her than I do from you.”

“Fascinating,” you said, squinting at the small letters, “You may want to tell her to relabel them, though. Since she’s using ardithorn and cottoncrown as her base, she’s not pulling from emotions; she’s pulling on bodily sensations. This is more of a lust potion than anything else. A bodily aphrodisiac.”

Keigo shook his head. “They’re probably weak and don’t have much effect. I don’t think she brews them for as long as you’re supposed to.”

“Well, you know my standard for a good aphrodisiac: could it keep you warm during the winter? If it doesn’t increase my body heat enough for me to only need one blanket, it can’t be any good.” You rolled the bottle over in your hand. “Have you tried it?”

“No,” he said, wiping his hands on his apron, “and they haven’t been selling well, either. Why don’t you take one, and let me know how it goes?”

“Sure,” you said, pocketing it, “Why haven’t they been selling?”

Keigo grinned. “If the Court Mage doesn’t rely on love magic for her marriage, no one wants to. Too bad natural feelings are never as pretty.”

“Great,” you said, turning back to the piles of moss, “Fabulous.” If people wanted to experience the marital estrangement you were feeling, they’re welcome to it. A comfort, at least, that this distance was genuine, instead of magically compelled, like the love spell Yamada originally proposed would have been. “Speaking of which. Keigo, what’s the—” You bit the inside of your cheek, grimacing. “—general impression, you’d say, that you get from the public about my marriage to Shinsou?”

“Haven’t heard a word about him specifically,” said Keigo, turning over a gold bracelet, “but some of the older folks blather about being happy that you’ve settled down. Or that the House of Aizawa has been defanged. I don’t think you and he have made enough appearances together for there to be a collective impression.” He shifted golden links over his fingers to examine another section of bracelet. “He came round here recently. Shinsou.”

“He’s shit at magic; what would he need to come here for?”

“To get information on you, idiot. Put the fronds in here. I have a rubbish bin behind the counter for the stems,” said Keigo, sliding a wire tray your direction, “He came in here, what, last week? Just after I’d opened. No one else in the shop. Sneaked up on me like a shadow; somehow, the floor doesn’t creak when he walks—maddening.”

“Loathsome, isn’t it?” You platted the wet fronds, one by one, into the tray. “Wish I knew how he did it.”

“They say he was Aizawa’s spymaster—bah. He didn’t even bother making mindless chatter first, about the shop, and whatnot. He plunged headfirst into asking after you. Wasn’t circular about it at all, not even trying to hide. Though he did start with something odd: he asked what books I have that you’ve read, and I haven’t kept up with that. I directed him towards what titles you keep mentioning, but—”

“You told him?” You splatted the last frond in the stack and slid the tray towards Keigo. “Why would you tell him? Not that it matters, I suppose, what books I’ve read, but he’s not gonna do anything good with that information—”

“Also, after how long you’ve known me, how often you stop by. Didn’t seem interested in me at all once I’d said I’m simply your broker.”

“Good. If you’d said we were friends, he would probably get weird about it,” you said, sweeping the stems off of the counter and into your hand, “Bin?”

Keigo ducked to retrieve it and held it out to you. “Why would Shinsou—”

“Because he was my only friend for a long time. He might feel like you were replacing him,” you said, brushing the last of the stem residue off your hands, “Well. Actually, I don’t know. Speculating. But I wager he’d at least dig into your background, if you said we were anything more than professional, and I’d rather keep you as my source for dried dragons’ blood and dagebane and—”

Keigo shushed you, snapping his fingers and glancing nervously at the girls by the fire. “Keep it down. You never know who’s listening,” he said, rooting around at the bottom of your bag, and you bit your lip to suppress your smile when he frowned at an odd clink.

Several red feathers perked up and peered around shelves as Keigo swore under his breath and cupped the Impractical blade in his hands, rolling the tiny, iridescent dagger between his fingers. “Good Lord,” he said, running the pad of his thumb over the blade and sucking at the blood from the paper-thin cut, “How’d you get this? Find a fae on the battlefield?”

Shaking your head, you hunched over the counter, leaning on your elbows. “Took it off a human. I don’t think he’d had it for long, because he hadn’t a deliberate place for it on his person. I know nothing about it otherwise,” you said, running your tongue over your lower lip, “You think you can fence it?”

“No, yeah,” he said after a moment, still caught up in the awe of seeing an Impractical in real life, “I’ve got a buyer out in Ketsubutsu who’s into faecraft. They’ll—” Keigo slapped his hand over his eyes, and he dragged his hand down his face to cover his mouth, and he took a deep breath, staring at the blade in his hand. “Do you know how fucking rare these are?”

You had an idea.

(Fae had been outlawed, in all six provinces and beyond, for around a century.

They’d been taking too many children and leaving changelings behind, and, in turn, humans had kidnapped fae to work for them. It’d become something of a status symbol, to have a fae servant in the household, controlled by their aversion to iron, but one night, across all kingdoms, the fae had vanished. Evidently unlocked their iron shackles on their own and sneaked out of their masters’ households, leaving everything behind. No violence. No signs leading up to it. An entire race, disappeared into the nothingness of the night mist.

Reports came, here and there, of seeing one. Legitimacy was always debated—lukewarmly now, because most people said they didn’t exist anymore, if at all. Never mind the fae magic that was too harrowing for humans to cast; never mind their lingering influence. Not much of it affects daily life. Just bedtime stories. Nothing more.)

You propped your chin on your fist. “How much could we get for it?”

“I could kiss you for saying we instead of I. I’d have to make the trip to Ketsubutsu, but I was thinking—”

(But not to you.

Yamada was fae.

An eccentric. An outcast. A fae too invested in human affairs. He’d disguised himself as human almost forty years ago now, using both talent and charm to ingratiate himself into human nobility, and he’d thought it was so interesting, so messy, so different from the fae court in which he’d been raised. He’d been some type of nobility there, too, and King Nezu must have noticed that Yamada was a bit too competent at that sort of thing and made him one of his heirs. Fascinating, really, that a fae secretly climbed to the top of the social order in the human realm, that he’d lead one side of a human war.

And you were the only one who knew. Yamada had told you his true identity a few years into your tutelage, and you’d devoted yourself to him ever since—out of gratitude for taking you out of your horrible situation, out of loyalty to him as a person, out of the desire for otherwise unobtainable knowledge—the reasons blurred together, and it’s always been too late to back out, hasn’t it?

Yamada let you in on an incredible number of secrets, including practises that helped you become a better magic practitioner—he’s your source for binding magic; he’s the reason you can spot faecraft from something as small as the angle of a frame; he’s why you even know Impracticals exist—but he’d always been spotty with what information he gave you. Kept his books on fae magic locked up. He’s still keeping secrets, and you resented that. No matter. You’ll dig them up in time.

[That blasted old freak. Who on earth tells his greatest secret to an eight year old? To his credit, you’ve kept that he’s a fae to yourself to this day, but you’ve berated him over the years for telling you when you were so young. Yamada always chuckles and promises he’ll never do it again.])

“Right,” you were saying, “Sounds good. I hope this works. I need all the funding I can get to keep my archive access; I’ll be damned if they boot me out ag—listen. Since you’ll be travelling, can I ask you to get something for me? I’m almost out of dagebane and cantindine pods, and—”

“Slow down,” said Keigo, beckoning over a feather, which dipped itself into the inkwell and scribbled on the scraps of parchment Keigo kept at the ready, “How soon do you need this?”

“And around half a dozen terradyme crystals, just when they’re starting to honeycomb. I think I’ll be out of town, myself, for a while, so no rush.”

“Oh?” Keigo checked over the list; he’d told you long ago that feathers had trouble spelling. “Where’re you going?”

You glanced over your shoulder at the girls by the fireplace, who were standing, stretching, and delegating who would put what bottle back where, and then towards the front few tables, where a few other customers had wandered. “Do you have anything else for me to do? While I’m here, I mean, and while I—”

“Of course,” said Keigo, rolling his eyes, “Let me help these women make their purchase while you go sit your ass down by the fire and be still. You’re away from the castle, yes? Stop forcing yourself to work.”

You took a quick detour to check on Uotani again before sinking into one of the armchairs by the hearth, plaid and plush enough to fall asleep in. Your leg started bouncing in the time it took Keigo to finish up with the other customers, but he eventually left it to the feathers, grappled with the iron pincers hanging on the mantle, and unhooked the seahorse-shaped glass bottle from the spit.

“If you still, for some ungodly reason, feel the need to feel useful, you can try out a new concoction,” said Keigo, using a quiet, wind manipulation spell to twirl the seahorse in the air to cool it, and two feathers brought a pottery mug each. “Now, what’s this about a trip?”

You had the cup of boiling, bright-blue liquid heating both of your hands for a solid minute before you could bring yourself to talk. “I don’t know, Keigo,” you said, “Captain Iida was really rude to Lord Midoriya, Rody Soul, and that man who calls himself my husband today. All of whom are of the House of Aizawa.”

“Shouldn’t bother you,” said Keigo, pulling his armchair closer to yours and scrunching the rug in the process, “That’s the general attitude, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. I’m glad some public opinion is turning positively towards the House of Aizawa because of my marriage, but I don’t think it’s enough.” You rotated the cup in your hands, its reflection of the overhanging flowers refracting. “Because yes, what Captain Iida did wasn’t horrible, but it’s just another symptom of resentment that I’m seeing in court. I don’t think the legal efforts that have been made to reconcile the houses are going to mean anything unless something emotional happens.”

Keigo laughed. “Wasn’t your wedding emotional? If that doesn’t count, I don’t know what would.” He took a sip of whatever it was, smacking his lips thoughtfully. “Does this have an aftertaste to you?”

“My wedding was emotional for me, and I was barely there. No one else probably got much out of it besides a spectacle,” you said, appreciating the steam rising into your face before drinking. “Something’s got to happen to make the higher members of each house like each other, or else the truce will fall apart again. We’re too used to being at each other’s throats.” You exhaled, blue-tinted steam coming out of your mouth. “No aftertaste. The hell’d you put in here? Am I supposed to be tasting almonds and apples?”

“Yes. Thanks,” said Keigo, and he gestured towards the feather writing at the counter, who copied the note. “You don’t have much direct legal power, and I’d bet that a good deal of them can detect an amiability charm between them. I’d forget about it if I were you. There’s nothing—”

“I don’t think I can,” you said grimly, “I’m so tired of fighting, Keigo. So, I’m willing to put in a last, enormous effort to keep it from happening again. I’m going to make these people like each other, if it’s the last thing I do.”

Keigo crossed his legs, his sigh as soft as the distant, papery rasp of herbs crushed with the mortar and pestle. “It doesn’t have to be you.”

“No one else will do it correctly,” you said, matter-of-fact, taking another swig of the blue drink, “May I have some of this for the road?”

***

In the dead of night, you packed your bag and sneaked out through your tower window, sycamore and magnolia wands prodding at you to stay, but you instructed them to maintain an air of normalcy and shimmied down the ivy clinging to outside of your tower. You crept out of the castle grounds and the surrounding farmland with every spell possible to conceal your presence.

With a wave of relief about half an hour’s walk into Tiirnham Wood, you dropped the spells once you reached the first clearing, and you estimated the time based on the position of the moon through the overhead lattice of leaves. No one would be out this late, lest they encounter a wandering night wyrm.

Good. Now, you could relax a bit. Take your time.

You swept dead pine needles off of a slab of rock to sit on it, taking your weight off your feet for a moment, and you listened to the insects churring and wind whistling around tree trunks.

In about a year, you’ll be able to grasp this peace any time you want.

You don’t think you want your cottage as close to the town as this; you’ll want it deeper in the woods, where there’s more deadfall and brambles to dissuade people from seeking you out. Sure, the distant yip of foxes and howl of wolves was a bit unnerving, especially when paired with the strong scent of rotting wood and decaying peat, but all the more to help you stay alone. Besides, there’s nothing you can’t handle behind flagstone walls with a fire lit.

“Would you care to explain—”

You unsheathed your wand and whipped around so rapidly you hadn’t taken a breath, but you huffed when you saw whose neck you pressed its point into.

“Would you care to explain, my lord,” you said, dragging the tip of your wand from underneath Shinsou’s ear and along the underside of his jawline, “why you’ve abandoned your post?” The tip of your wand reached his chin, and you used it to jut his face upwards.

“I haven’t,” said Shinsou, hunched on the rock behind you, stretching his neck to expose more of it as the wand tip pressed into his skin, “I’m investigating why the Court Mage has absconded from the castle in the middle of the night, in the opposite direction of where she said she’d be headed.”

Damn. He’d read the sealed letter you’d posted on your door for Lord Yamada with the lie that you were off to Port Tyr’squith. You’d hoped you’d be unreachable before the news of your abrupt departure broke.

“If you read my letter,” you said, retracting your wand from his neck but keeping it out as you backed away, “you’d know that I’m going to Port Tyr’squith to replenish supplies. My point of contact at Fierce Wings isn’t going there any time soon.”

Shifting from his crouch, Shinsou crossed his legs, taking up all the clean space on the rock. “That doesn’t explain why you’re leaving in the dead of night.”

“If I left during the day or announced that I was leaving at all, then someone would stop me—obviously—with their own rubbish.” You took another step back, snapping a twig and startling yourself. “This can’t wait.”

Shinsou nodded. “All right. Now, please rationalise why you’re headed towards Renfield, instead of Port Tyr’squith.”

“Because I—” Fuck. Fuck! You ducked your head, trying to look ashamed to buy time, and after a beat of the rustle of leaves and animals rooting about in the underbrush outside of the clearing, you tried to look like you were bracing yourself. “It’s stupid,” you said, eyes scrunched shut, hands clutched in front of yourself and fiddling with your wand in what you hoped was a nervous-looking way, “It’s…”

Elbow on his knee, Shinsou rested his chin on his hand, fingers tapping his cheek in a ripple, and he ran his tongue over his lower lip. “Come here,” he said, holding out his other hand.

Okay, okay. You’ve got this. You glanced over your shoulder and then back at him. “Do I have to?”

“Please,” said Shinsou.

You scratched your cheek and averted your eyes. “Fine,” you said, stowing your wand inside your cloak again (you didn’t latch the scabbard shut, though, should you need her to fly out on short notice), and you took the few, uneven steps back to the rock and, after a moment of what hopefully appeared to be anxious floundering, you let your fingers curl into his palm.

“That’s good,” he said, tugging you the final step closer, your knees against the stone, close enough to graze his crossed legs, “Very good. Thank you.” He flipped his hand so that he could lace your fingers together, and he cradled both of your hands with his other one. “Now. Why are you in Tiirnham Wood, hm?”

You swallowed and tried to look self-conscious. “I—hm. Sorry. I’m sorry. I haven’t told anyone yet, but you already know part of it—how I want to get out of there. Retire.” Whenever you lie to someone, you can make it seem more like truth by admitting something embarrassing, especially if the embarrassing part is partial truth. “I was thinking that I could build a cottage somewhere deep in Tiirnham Wood. Somewhere where no one could ever find me. It feels like—like I belong here.”

“Does it?” Shinsou cocked his head, staring up at you. “Tiirnham Wood spans almost three provinces. You could lose yourself in here.”

“Yeah, I—yeah,” you said, and you sighed, breath swaying his hair. “I was—I know it’s stupid—but I was allowing myself a moment to imagine what my life could be like here. Just taking a minute totally for myself. And then I was gonna go to Port Tyr’squith.”

“Uh-huh,” said Shinsou softly, and he reached up to cup your face, calloused fingers cold and gentle. “Why don’t you tell me what you need from there? Maybe, with merchants coming in for the festival, we can find it locally.”

You placed your hand over his, holding it to your face. “You would take my rare time off away from me?”

“Of course,” said Shinsou, smiling, teeth cutting into his lower lip, “since it takes you away from me. What’s Port Tyr’squith got that you need?”

“Cheltfish scales. Snapdragon. Sheerifhs oil, hellebore, Gold Comb, the gumbo recipe from The Greasy Lantern for Lady Hagakure, brackish redweed—”

“Damn it!” Shinsou tilted his head back to bark out a laugh, rocking back in his seat and leaning back on his hands. “You were doing so well, too,” he said, stretching his legs out in front of him, making you scramble out of the way. “Did you like that I played along? Said all the right things?”

“I’m sorry?” you asked, taken aback, mindful not to trip over a knobbled tree root.

“You’ve gotten a lot better at lying, your excellency,” said Shinsou, grinning widely at you as he came down from his laughter and running his hand back through his hair, which fluffed back up immediately, “You do a good job playing into the physical signs of insecurity. That’s skilful misdirection. Much needed for lying well. But, as usual, you talk too much. You gave me too much specificity, and that let me know it was a prepared answer, in the case you got caught. The truth is often vaguer than we expect.”

“Come off of it,” you said, crossing your arms, “I would know what I’m shopping for.”

“Maybe so,” Shinsou said, shrugging one shoulder while adjusting the strap of his bag on the other, “but you’re carrying your bag enchanted to carry much, much more than merely tiny bottles of herblore supplies, and you’re wearing your climbing boots. You’re headed towards the mountains, aren’t you? And for a much longer time than you’ve written you’d be gone.” Pursing his lips, he kicked a clod of dirt towards you, and you stumbled to avoid him and fell back on your hands.

You scowled up at him from the forest floor, wishing with every fibre in your being that you could strangle that glint out of his eyes.

“You did well. Trust me. But not well enough.” Shinsou crossed one leg over the other and smirked down at you. “So, why don’t you tell me what you’re really doing out here.”

You weighed your options. He’s a spymaster. He deals in information. If you tell him what you’re up to and describe the obvious merit in it, he might leave you to it. You shifted your weight from your hands to your ass to sit on the ground, and you began, “Okay, you fuck.”

He clicked his tongue. “That’s not what you call me.”

You inhaled sharply. “Okay, my lord, you fuck,” you said, seething, “I’m ensuring that members of both houses are bonded enough that there can be no more war.”

“A noble cause,” said Shinsou, “How do you plan to do that?”

“An effective, long-lasting way for people to bond is to experience something emotionally significant and possibly harrowing together. I’m secretly setting up a quest that will provide just that,” you said, rubbing your sap-sticky hands together, “I’ll set up certain tasks for them to do, designed with the quest-takers in mind, and when I’ve finished, I’ll ensure the quest is presented as legitimate to the court. As if I had nothing to do with it. As if it’s naturally occurred. The right people will go on the quest, bonding in their hardships, and by the time they return, they’ll never think of betraying each other again.”

For a moment, Shinsou did nothing but frown in confusion. You took advantage of the silence to pluck the pine needles embedded in your skin from the fall. In the distance, you caught the faintest slip of a bellowing gargle, coming off of the tail end of a wolf’s howl—but it was too far away to matter, really.

“That’s unbelievably asinine,” said Shinsou eventually, “Quests aren’t planned. Or set up by anyone. They just happen.”

“Which is why the one I’m creating will be thematically resonant for the people who’ll go on it. You can’t trust a naturally occurring quest; what if they learn the wrong things from it? What if it has too few steps? What if an unbalanced party embarks on it, letting some members feel left out? Not to mention that I don’t have time to wait around for one to, as you say, just happen.”

Shinsou just stared at you. Blinked. “Are you fucking serious?”

You lifted your chin. “Dead.”

Covering a yawn, Shinsou nodded and looked behind him at the way you’d both come, and he pushed on his knees to stand. “All right. You’ve had your fun,” he said, pressing on the small of his back to pop it while squinting up at the moon, “Time to go home. We can tear that letter off your door before anyone even knows we left.”

“No, thanks.” You stood in a rush, hand flying to your wand. “You can go back and tell them I’m off to Port Tyr’squith, like the reliable husband you’re pretending to be.”

Shinsou glowered and took a step towards you but halted at the thunderous, reverberating gargle that shook the forest, bats flying across the clearing from their disturbed perches as dying leaves fell to the ground. A crow cackled at being woken, its wings heavy as it flapped through the shadows.

Tensing, Shinsou tucked his collar closer to his neck, and his eyes darted around the clearing, guard up.

You turned towards him, eyebrows raised. Did he not…? “Must be closer than I thought,” you said lightly, “Or there’s more than one of them.”

“More than one of what?” He rolled his shoulders back and braced himself in what must be a comfortable scowl, but he closed the distance to stand next to you. “We should get out of here. I didn’t think to bring any teleporta—”

“I’m not leaving. You can, if you like,” you said, stooping to gather a couple of pine cones, “Have you never been out when the night wyrms wander, my lord?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

Another ear-splitting gurgle juddered through the forest, shaking peeling bark from trunks. Closer this time.

Shinsou clamped a hand on your shoulder, and he spoke tersely. “We’re going back, now. Night wyrms are carnivorous, aren’t they? We need to—stop collecting—what are you doing?”

“Oh, nothing,” you said, arms full of pine cones, “We’ll be fine, so long as we stay in the clearing.”

With that, you pelted him with a pine cone, and, in the time it took for him to recover, you dashed into the forest.

You were laughing to yourself a bit too loudly, but it didn’t really matter, not when you’re trampling through underbrush and rotting detritus so swiftly. You leapt over a fallen tree and yanked your cloak out of a briary bush, shoving the overhanging moss and branches out of your way as you ran deeper and deeper, following the horrible gurgle.

It’s been so long since you’ve seen a night wyrm, and they’re always so unnerving, especially the inside of their mouths, and you can’t wait to see one again at a safe distance. You’d like to study them, if you had the time and—

“Come on,” Shinsou was saying as he grabbed your wrist and knocked the remaining pine cones out of your arms, somehow catching up with you the second you camped out behind a gnarled tree, “You’re mad; why are you going right towards it? You’ve got to be—”

You flipped him over, holding his back to your chest and smushing him against the tree trunk, and you clamped a hand over his mouth and used it to direct his line of sight. Past the echoing bellows, you detected the shuffling of the wyrm’s nose through the canopy of trees not fifty metres away, and you guided Shinsou to look in its direction.

As tall as the trees themselves, the night wyrm glided through the wood with the slow-moving weight of a whale, its thick fur standing on end as it hovered above the ground, nearly swimming through air. Its eyes were cloudy, slightly crossed, and a little too closely set, and its long, tapering nose snuffled and flicked like the back end of an agitated snake. It groaned, and it took great pains to unhinge its jaw, spreading it wider than the circumference of the rest of its body. The inside of its mouth flexed with white gills, trailing into an endless black.

“Listen,” you said as quietly as you could, “Their eyesight is poor. Night wyrms primarily track through scent, and what it’s scenting is magic. They’re filter-feeders, looking for any magical residue drifting through the air. They’re incorrectly classified as carnivores, but they do sometimes eat other living creatures, like humans, because they’re producing magic. So long as we’re fairly quiet and don’t have any active spells, it’ll pass us by.”

You planted your chin on Shinsou’s shoulder, and you pressed down on his mouth when he squirmed in your grasp. “Relax.”

The night wyrm snuffled. It sneered. With a booming gargle, it turned its lumbering snout in your direction and swam towards you at the lethargic pace such mass had to employ, its wide, white gills spread and looming.

“My lord,” you said in a rush, thumping his chest as you edged around the tree, “Drop any spells you’re using! You’re not using—do you have any active magic on you?”

“I don’t—”

“The spell you use to move so silently—I don’t care; drop it—”

The wyrm’s nose sniffed and shuffled down the trunk of your tree, its eyes spinning in its skull.

“I don’t use magic to—”

It snuffed, its hot breath hitting you.

You inhaled, holding your breath, but at the tickle of its whiskers grazing the top of your head, you couldn’t take it. Shinsou’d kill you for this, if the binding magic would let him.

You turned towards the castle and cast a spell to punt Shinsou all the way back.

You sped the other direction, shaking off all magic from your cloak. You didn’t pause to glance back at the night wyrm, but considering it hadn’t even turned around (you were running alongside its long body), it might just be snuffling the dirt where you cast the spell.

Well, you thought, wincing from a branch that slapped into your face, that’s one way to get rid of him.

***

When you arrived in a stormy, dreary Renfield after a day and a half of travel, you booked a room in the New Moon Inn and slept through much of the following day. In the evening, you were woken by the pelting of a sleeting rain on the window, cracked just enough for the biting, early winter wind to penetrate the room. You shut the window, sealing off the storm and ushering in blanketed silence.

You went downstairs to the dining area, ordered something warm from the innkeeper, and parked yourself at a back table, away from the wet, raucous groups that traipsed inside now that it was around time for the evening meal.

You pulled your journal from your cloak and opened it to your quest planning notes. If you stayed back here, at a darkened table underneath the baskets hanging from the rafters, you could eavesdrop enough to gather impressions of the inn’s characters. If you could find someone who could keep secrets and their word, you could use someone who spends a good deal of time here as a fixture in your quest—give them some information to belay to your questers.

Renfield was always going to be the first stop in your quest: it got your quest-takers out of their immediate environment while still remaining familiar enough. A step beyond the threshold. Tests their abilities to observe and conform to people they don’t know. A quest has to start fairly simply, which is why the next step is just that enchanted statue.

Let’s see. The innkeeper’s the obvious choice; she’s maintaining an air of elegance and nonchalance while bustling in and out of the kitchen, and she’s still performing hostess duties graciously under the brusqueness from miners coming in from a grim day’s work, scuffing up her floor. Coated in grime, the miners were locals and spent a fair amount of time here, judging by how they appeared to have tables set aside for each of them near the front, each one with a favourite seat—but you wouldn’t rely on someone so dedicated to being part of a group; he’d probably share your quest information with the rest of his friends. Locals, locals—a couple of workers at the bar, the scrawny boy turning a spit over the fire with soot smudged on his hands, a group of older women all sharing a plate of kabobs—no.

It didn’t seem worth picking from any of the less dependable-seeming characters, even if they did contribute to quest atmosphere: the spindly, shrouded figure repeatedly spinning a coin on the bar and occasionally bending to pick it up off the floor; some weirdo wearing a porcelain mask and badly concealing his sword; the amateur fortune teller getting her client liquored up to make her fortune more believable…

What you wouldn’t give for just some bookish-looking person sitting alone. Looks like the innkeeper was going to be the most reliable option, but she’s busy right now. You’ll wait until it cleared out.

You jotted down variations of what information you were going to give her to direct your adventurers to the next step in the quest until your spoon scraped the bottom of your bowl. You sat back to rub at your eyes, flexing the stiff muscles in your writing hand, and after a faint, metallic rolling, you felt something thump against your boot.

Blearily, you stooped to check under the table, where a two-yenner coin was clattering to lie flat. You bent farther to pick it up, and when you closed your fingers around it, a large hand closed around your own. The hand was connected to the shrouded man at the bar who’d been playing with the coin, and—your face fell as you locked eyes with Shinsou, grinning up at you with his hood pulled down over his distinctive hair.

“Sit. Down,” said Shinsou, exasperated, as you moved to leave, and he squeezed around your hand too tightly. “There’d be no getting out of it if I announced the Court Mage were here, would it? Since everyone’s looking for you. So, stay where you are, all right? The night can stay quiet that way.”

“Get up. Get up off the floor,” you said, jerking your hand away, “How did you find me? I gave no indication where I was going. I’ve been using a pseudonym. I’ve been—”

“Your magic—how shall I put it,” said Shinsou, sliding into the booth across from you and propping his feet atop yours once seated, “has an echo to it, of sorts. An aftertaste.”

You traced the table’s wood grain with your finger. “I thought I’d gotten rid of that. I worked really hard to.”

Shinsou put his chin on his fist and, seemingly bored, glanced out across the room. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. It’s subtle. Once you know what you’re looking for, though, it’s unmistakable. You’re just unlucky that I was there when your magic first started leaving the taste of oranges at the back of the throat. You left all of our classmates wishing it were winter so that we could taste the real thing.” He drew his attention back to his coin, and he flipped it to himself before spinning it on the table. “Though, I notice you’ve mostly covered it up with something else, rather than truly getting rid of the oranges, which is why I could follow you. You dried yourself off with magic just outside of this inn. Really careless of you. Led me right inside.”

“I’m glad you’ve had fun,” you said, crossing your arms and resting them on the table, “Answer me seriously: would anyone who is not you be able to track me based on that?”

Shinsou cracked a smile. “I wonder.”

“I’m gonna cut out your larynx. I’m gonna grind you into a mealy grit,” you said, wiping at your nose and frowning, “I’m gonna—hold on. Backtracking. You said that everyone was looking for me. What did you do?”

“What did I do?” Shinsou shrugged and picked up his coin. “What did the Court Mage do? She left in the middle of the night without so much as a note to explain her absence.”

“Oh, you scoundrel,” you said, pushing yourself up from your seat and scrambling over to his side to yank him by his collar, “You didn’t have to destroy my letter when you got back.”

“You didn’t have to send me back by hurtling me through the air,” said Shinsou, unconcerned with your grip on his shirt, “I admit I was quite unsettled by the affair. Would not a teleportation spell have sufficed?”

“You know those are difficult,” you said, grumbling as you released him, folding in on yourself and crossing your arms again as you leant against the table, “What’d you say to the people back home? Did you tell them that I’ve made off with the key to the treasury, or something?”

Shinsou returned to spinning his coin. “I’ll leave my threat to your imagination, where I’m certain it will be more absurd and terrifying than anything I actually said.”

Twisting backwards, you slapped your hand over his rotating coin, clinking it still. “All right, then. You’ve found me. What do you want?”

Shinsou’s eyes flicked from your open journal across the booth, the rolled sleeve of your cloak exposing your wrist, and back up at you. “Kiss me.”

You scoffed. “Get real—”

The inn’s door slammed open with a crash of thunder, and, to your horror, eight knights with Yuuei’s insignia and the House of Yamada’s colours filed inside, soaking wet and agitatedly grim, with one calling over the innkeeper to question her.

Inhaling sharply, you asked through clenched teeth, “Did you call for—?”

But you didn’t get to finish your sentence, because Shinsou was muttering, “Take this off; it’s too recognisable,” and yanking your patchwork cloak off your shoulders to wad it up in the corner of the booth. Before you could complain that they could identify you by your face, Shinsou was sliding you off the table and into his lap and then guiding your legs to spread across his (“It can’t be tame enough for them to want to look.”), and he clutched the back of your head to force your face into his neck.

“At least act like you’re kissing me. Damn,” said Shinsou, hiking your leg higher over his hip, and he snaked his hand underneath your skirts—no, only under the overskirt, so that there was still fabric between your ass and his hand when he clenched a strategic fist to make a bump underneath your clothes.

You weren’t acting because your brain had emptied. Since when has Shinsou been strong enough to manhandle you like that? Yes, there’d been a bit of it your wedding night, but…but just now, he’d wanted your body in a position, and he’d just moved it there, without any meaningful setbacks from you. His sturdy arms held you in place, clutching you firmly enough to prevent writhing, and he tilted wide shoulders away from the doorway, pressing your head farther into his neck, smushing your mouth and nose against his skin. And his chest, rising and falling underneath your palms, was feeling very, very solid. Immovable.

(You thought back to two days ago, when you’d had a hand over his mouth and pushed him against a tree to hide from the night wyrm. There’s no way he hadn’t let you manoeuvre him about like that.)

Your stomach sank, and that brought your attention to—oh, gracious, you were straddling him. Your legs were spread a bit too widely to be comfortable to accommodate his thighs, but Shinsou must have caught your frown as you glanced down, because he shifted you upwards in his lap just a hair, relaxing your legs minutely as his hips slotted neatly into your own.

You scrunched up your face, shutting your eyes tightly as you tried to focus on anything other than he had a hand on your ass and his cock between your legs—both, admittedly, hindered through layers and layers of fabric, but still.

“They’re scanning the room,” said Shinsou against your temple, “Rock your hips for me, hm?”

You huffed against his neck, the heat of your own breath bouncing back to you, and you turned your head slightly to speak. “I am not going to rock my—I’m going to kill you.”

“You promise?” said Shinsou, eyes on something across the room, “Do it later. Keep your head down.”

“Why’d you get rid of my letter? I just,” you said, and you took a deep breath to ground yourself. “I’m not doing anything wrong. Only a bit odd and manipulative.” You tried to settle into his hold, and you skated your hand up his chest to fiddle with one of the leaf-shaped clasps on his waistcoat. “You didn’t have to say anything, especially since—since we agreed that you’d serve me in public. That you’d work in my favour, as a reliable husband.”

“And you haven’t died for me once.” Shinsou spoke more softly, hunching slightly. A knight must be nearby. “I showed a sign of submission towards you at that pages’ training session.”

“Is that supposed to explain the unbeckoned kiss on the cheek? I was trying to hold a conversation.”

“I stepped away, didn’t I? I let you have privacy,” said Shinsou, tilting your head up slightly to drag his lips across your cheek, stopping just before your ear. “Midoriya and Rody Soul know me well enough to note that as deference.”

“It’s not the House of Aizawa that needs to be convinced—”

“Not so loud,” said Shinsou, curling his fingers into the hair on the nape of your neck.

You swallowed but continued at a whisper. “Do you not understand that I’m trying to help you? That I’m trying to ingratiate the House of Aizawa to the public?”

“I do,” said Shinsou, and he kissed your cheek, once, twice—moving closer to your mouth, glancing over your shoulder—thrice. “It’s rather unfortunate that there’s no one in all six provinces I trust less to go on a quest by herself. She might just leave us all behind.”

Shinsou pressed his lips to yours, and you scrunched your nose in fury in the second before you reminded yourself he’s doing this for show, so you made yourself relax into it. He’s a little too skilled at this—keeping the back of your head towards the rest of the room, draping the excess of his coat over you to hide more of your body, shifting to make it appear like he was debating laying you down in the booth seat—all while flicking his tongue against yours and running his hand back and forth along your thigh, goosebumps rising despite the contact being through fabric. He made a particularly loud smack on purpose, and your face burned with shame even as he pulled away.

He was grinning while he rubbed his thumb over your slightly swollen lips, and you flinched when he pressed down a bit too hard. “The knights have settled down at a far table. You’re safe.”

“You’re insufferable,” you said, and you ducked your head, burying your face in his neck again, this time to prevent him from seeing your embarrassment for too long. “You’re a cad and a knave and an ass, and I want nothing to do with you.”

“Yeah?” He shifted you in his lap. “Tell you what. Give me your underwear, and we’ll call it a day.”

Your eye snapped open. “What?”

“You heard me. Take them off,” said Shinsou, stroking the back of your head, “I’ve just helped you out of a perilous situation that would delay your plans even further. You’re safe from being recognised now because I’ve chosen to play as a protective, reliable husband, so unless you want me to march over to their table, you’ll fulfil your end of the deal as my acquiescent wife.”

You sat back to look him in the eyes, and he raised a brow, his gaze falling to your lap.

With a scowl, you muttered threats under your breath while you got off of his lap and onto the seat next to him in the booth, and once you ensured he was blocking the view, you faced the wall and took them off, only exposing bare leg to the side of the booth.

“I hope your balls shrivel up,” you said, clumping up your underwear and shoving them into his fist, “As soon as I get back in the archive, I’m researching curses to curdle your insides.”

“That’s fine,” said Shinsou, unfurling them for a fleeting moment before tossing them onto your wadded-up cloak, and he grabbed your thigh to sling it over his own, manhandling you into a straddle again. When you moved to get off, all ten of his fingers dug into your hips until you stilled. “Thank you,” he said, biting his lower lip while he looked you over, “Bet you’re feeling nervous.”

Your tangled skirts obviated you from touching his lap directly, but that didn’t stop you from flinching at his slightest movement. “How could I not be?”

Shinsou flashed a small smile, so brief it might have been genuine. “I appreciate that you’re being honest.” He tilted his head back to thunk against the back of the booth, and he pulled his hood farther down his face. “Tell me: do you want me to touch you?”

Averting your gaze, you let out a breath and sat as far back in his lap as he and the table cutting into your back would allow. Feeling useless with your hands idle, you twiddled with the ends of his bejewelled belt, the metallic clinking of the chains muted at your touch. “What do you even get out of this?” you asked, “I mean—I’m your wife, yes, but I don’t understand how you benefit from this situation. You don’t get anything besides being bound to an old sore and getting to pick at her until she bleeds.”

Shinsou sighed and poked his tongue along the inside of his cheek as he rubbed a thumb over your hip. “I already told you,” he said with a slow blink, “I want the parts of you that you don’t give anyone else. You’ve crafted a very public persona, your excellency, at the expense of suppressing yourself, and I want my fingerprints on every tiny shred of your private self that you’ve shoved out of sight. I want to invade every crevice in your heart.” Shinsou slid his hand between the small of your back and the table to bring you closer to him, and you had to prop a hand on his chest to keep your distance. “That includes touching you and finding out what you like, especially because it appears you haven’t fully figured it out yourself. If you eventually can no longer separate me from your concept of sexual pleasure, then that’s one part of you that I’ve completely won over.”

“You are insane,” you said, shaking your head, “Something is deeply wrong with you.”

“Kiss me about it?”

“No.”

“That’s fair,” said Shinsou, nodding, “Now, I answered your question. Back to mine: do you want me to touch you?”

He cupped your face before you could turn your head away, but you kept your eyes on the ceiling, counting the baskets hanging from the rafters, swaying in the firelight. “It’s complicated,” you said, every fibre in your being protesting your honesty (with another part screeching back that he’d know if you’re lying, anyway), “but not—not really. Not in front of all of these people, anyway.”

“I see. You’re one, lucky woman, then,” said Shinsou, playing with the hem of your overskirt, “because I don’t plan on touching you. I want you to move so you’re straddling one leg—the one more on the inside of the booth is fine.”

Your legs had started to ache at being spread so widely; straddling only one would have been a welcome relief, but you did so with caution. He’s not going to make you grind against his thigh, is he? That’d be despicable, making your first orgasm in the presence of another also be in the presence of many others.

He was adjusting your skirts, and you tensed when he first grazed your bare skin underneath them, just on the inside of your knee.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to touch me.”

“I said I don’t plan to,” he said evenly.

You looked down at his hand, a lump at your knee under your skirts. “Is that the only hand you’ll be using?”

He nodded.

“May I see it for a moment?”

Shinsou slowly withdrew his right hand from underneath your skirt and presented it to you, palm up, eyeing you carefully.

You traced a rune into his palm with your index finger and muttered the word for cleansing, and after a white glow passed through his hand, from silver band at his wrist to fingertips, you said, “Thank you. Proceed with your debauched instructions.”

Shinsou clamped that same hand over his mouth and pulled down his hood to darken his entire face, but he couldn’t do it quickly enough to conceal that he was laughing.

You rolled your eyes. “I don’t know where you’ve been.”

“I could’ve cast a cleansing spell myself, had you asked. I could’ve even gotten up to wash my hands,” said Shinsou, letting his hood ride back as he composed himself, and he returned his clean hand to your bare skin under your skirts, running the backs of his fingers along your inner thigh. “But let’s proceed with my debauched instructions. You’re about to hover over my hand while I ask you some questions. You’re not allowed to rest your weight on my leg anymore, nor are you allowed to lean against the table. I shan’t touch you, so long as you stay upright—so long as your thighs hold out. And no magically strengthening yourself, your excellency; no one likes a cheat.”

Swallowing, you ran your fingers back through your hair, grappling with how to get out of this, but all you could come up with was “Do I have to?”

“Of course not,” said Shinsou, hand pausing, “but I don’t have to go alert those knights that you’re here, either.”

While you sat forward, guided by his arm around your waist, and parted your legs to strategically shift your weight, you imagined caving his skull in with the fire poker, but you were jolted out of that glorious daydream by the presence of his hand almost all the way up between your legs, fingers and palm curved as if he’s cupping all of you (holy shit), with less than a centimetre between his skin and yours.

“Onto the interrogation. Whom do you plan on going on your quest, my dear lady enchantress?”

“Huh?” you said, frazzled. The heat you’re feeling was simply your own reflected back at you, as emphasised by the shiver that coursed through you at the coolness of his hand, seeping across your labia—but really, you’re certain you were creating enough body heat for the both of you. “I mean—from the House of Aizawa, Lords Bakugou, Midoriya, and Kirishima, and from the House of Yamada, Lords Todoroki and Kaminari and Lady Ashido. They’re—” You flinched. “They’re the ones who argue the most. The ones who cause the most trouble.”

“I notice Yaoyorozu and Uraraka aren’t on the list. Nor is Tokoyami. You’re choosing to elide the best and the brightest from the House of Aizawa.”

“No, of course not,” you said, trying to focus on bracing your thighs instead of how the heel of his palm was positioned to perfectly grind against your clit, should you falter in the slightest, “Correction: I’m choosing to omit certain magical specialties. Lady Yaoyorozu would make the quest too easy, and I can’t have adventurers who can fly. Part of the bonding comes from a horrible journey across the landscape together.”

“I see. How will you ensure the people you want are the ones to embark on the quest?”

How can Shinsou ask such inane questions when, with just a bend of his finger, he could press into your cunt? “I have a friend who’s—who’s been studying divination for the past few years, and she’s working as an oracle. After I set everything up, we’ll workshop a poem she can present as a prophecy. The quest-takers will be listed in it.”

“Hm.” Shinsou tilted his head, his eyes half-lidded.

“Hurry up,” you said, an ache seeping into your thighs and a wave of dread shooting through your body—how were you nervous and twitching when he wasn’t even touching you? You could kind of feel how your pubic hair brushed against his hand, and he seemed to be enjoying that; when he noticed how you just barely shifted your hips away from his hand, he started twisting a few strands together before releasing them. “You cheat; stop touching me.”

“I’m not touching you,” said Shinsou, rubbing another curl between his fingers, “Just playing with something nice of yours.”

“I’ll give it to you that you’re not touching my skin,” you said, almost spitting, “Ask your next fucking question or rip your own tongue out.”

“Fine,” he said, giving the curl a tug before returning to practically cupping your sex, and he pursed his lips, watching your face grow more heated.

Stupid, stupid. How could heat, however faint, be nestling into your lower gut when all he’s doing is hovering nearby? It’s—you told yourself it’s the exposure; it’s the hyperawareness of being exposed and the sting of adrenaline coursing through you because of the probable fact that, since neither of you were gaining pleasure from this, he’s doing this purely to watch your humiliation. And because this illusion of being wanted (sexually, romantically, even just as a plaything) was so new to you, your body and your brain were not getting the message that they shouldn’t be reacting to this version of Shinsou.

Praying nothing leaked onto his hand, you shifted your weight in what you hoped was a subtle manner, and you steadied your voice to sound calm. “Are you done with your questions, my lord?”

“I might be,” said Shinsou, brow furrowed, “I wager this would’ve been easier for you if your pockets weren’t weighing you down.”

“I’m climbing off, if you’re finished,” you said, denying to yourself that your thighs were beginning to quiver (which he might’ve deduced from the soft tinkling of the contents of your pockets shifting).

“Stay where you are,” said Shinsou, “How long will your quest take?”

“I’m guessing two months.”

“Where are you going next?”

“The next step of the quest.”

Patient as ever, he asked, “Where’s that?”

“The statue of St. Tsutsumi.”

“What’s your source on binding magic?”

“Nice try,” you said with a heavy exhale, and you slumped forward to rest your head on his shoulder, releasing the tension from your legs (for a moment, your hand floundered between his pectoral and lower on his chest, and, a bit put-off, you elected for your own lap).

“Worth a shot, I suppose,” said Shinsou, shrugging his other shoulder, and, at his side, the thumb on his free hand fiddled with one of his rings.

“For a spymaster, you’re not very good at interrogations.”

“They don’t usually unfold like this.” He twisted his ring up most of his finger and then used the edge of the seat to force it back in place. “Do you want me to be cruel? I can be.” He tapped your nose. “You’re cheating, by the way. By leaning on me.”

“Fine, you—my lord,” you said, thumping his chest, “But if this goes—”

You choked on nothing, your hand slapping over your mouth, because when you sat back, you’d rocked back onto his hand.

You could’ve sworn he moved it forward from his original place, but—but—you’ll murder him; his hand curved to perfectly slot against you, applying light, even force across your labia (his fingers spreading them minutely so that you felt more exposed), the pad of his middle finger just barely pressing into your cunt, the heel of his palm wide and firm against your clit—not feeling around, not moving at all, just a presence.

A thousand sunrises flashed before your eyes as you dripped onto his hand.

“Good Lord,” you said, burying your face in your hands, “Are you sure you can’t kill me? I’d invite it right now.”

“Gather your things.” Shinsou withdrew his hand and patted your waist to prompt you off of his lap. “We’re going upstairs.”

“What? Why?” you asked, reaching for your journal and clapping it shut.

Shinsou collected the bundle of your cloak and underwear under his arm before standing. “You said you didn’t want me to touch you in front of these people, didn’t you?” He held his hand up to the light, inspecting how it glistened.

You smacked his hand down, shooting frantic looks about the inn. “Well, yes. But aren’t we done? What was the point of…all that, then?”

Shinsou raised a brow. “You were too flustered to lie to me, correct?”

“Shut up,” you said, deflating.

“If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll go tell the knights that you’re nowhere in the vicinity, while you head upstairs.”

“No. I want to see you tell them.” You turned towards the table. “Do you think I leave my dishes here, or should I take them to the bar?”

While you returned your dishes to the innkeeper near the kitchens, you watched Shinsou approach the knights, and surprisingly, the majority of them seemed eager to listen to Shinsou (you recognised at least two of them as belonging to the House of Aizawa, but you couldn’t place the others). From the entrance to the staircase, you scrutinised their body language, how the tension left the knights’ bodies at the news Shinsou broke. One of them started packing her things right away, even.

Shinsou sent them off with a brisk wave and jogged towards the stairs, where you shoved all your shit into his arms again to make him carry it up the two flights to your rented room.

“Shoes off,” you said when you opened the door, with Shinsou striding in past you, “Put my stuff on the dresser. Did you not rent a room?”

Shinsou doubled back to unlace his boots. “Aw, sweetheart, you only booked a room with a single bed? I’m devastated.”

You kicked his leg while he was crouched down. “I didn’t exactly expect company.”

“No, I like it. I like the small bed,” he said, wincing at the impact and peeling off his first boot, wet clods of dirt falling to the floor. “Means you won’t be able to put much space between us.”

“Excuse me. Drop dead.”

“That’s the spirit,” said Shinsou through a smile.

While he was lining his boots (and yours, once you threw them at him) by the door, you shoved your stuff back into your travelling bag and surreptitiously gathered some of the things you’d scattered around the room to pack them away as well. When Shinsou spun around, you jumped and pretended like you’d merely been examining the layout of the room for yourself.

Shinsou gestured towards the bedside table. “If you’ll empty your pockets, your excellency. I wouldn’t want anything getting in our way.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Only if you’ll do the same.”

Once your miscellanea (a sachet of twice-blessed clover, the bottle of Bibimi’s love potion, a folding dowsing rod, pre-cast spells carved like marbles) had mixed with his (loose yenner coins, a pocket edition of a rune dictionary, black vanishing powder in a sheer pouch, what looked like a finger bone) on the bedside table, Shinsou plopped onto the bed, laid back in the indent from your earlier nap, and crossed his arms behind his head. “Let’s finish what we started downstairs, yes?”

“Give me a minute,” you said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

(You could make this work. All it took was pretending that this was happening under different circumstances.

Say that you and Hitoshi are taking a trip from living in your cottage in Tiirnham Wood, the version in your mind where the war never happened. That this is your first trip together as a married couple, and he’s eager to stay close to you, which is why he couldn’t resist teasing you in the booth downstairs, and now that you’re alone, you can see that your husband is looking so very, very pretty in your bed, face shadowy but sharp and beautiful under the dim, outdoor lamps whose light barely shines through the sleet. And he’s holding out his hand because he wants you, loves you, and however he’s going to handle you will be with compassion.

Your chest felt tight.)

“All right,” you said, scooting backwards to put your full weight on the bed, “I’m ready. Proceed.”

Brow furrowed, Shinsou pushed himself upright, his back against the headboard, as you crawled towards him. “What just happened there?” he asked, blinking profusely as you wove your fingers through his, pressing your palms together.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, kneeling next to him on the bed, and when you lifted a hand to his cheek, Shinsou fucking shuddered, scrunching his eyes shut tightly, jaw tensing.

He opened his mouth, but before he could ruin the moment by saying something that could break your immersion, you kissed him, moving so closely into his space that you could feel the crease between his eyebrows and the wrinkle in his nose. You were pressing your tongue into his mouth, but for once, he wasn’t kissing you back—and what a shame, really, if Hitoshi couldn’t kiss you back when you’ve both been behaving so well all evening—

Gasping, Shinsou pulled you by the nape of your neck away from his mouth, and he was scowling, looking you over. “I see. You went somewhere again, didn’t you?”

“Hardly,” you lied, spreading your fingers over his collarbone as you leant closer to him, “I’m thinking of you, my lord.”

Shinsou glowered off to the side, fingers rising to tap over the back of your hand on his collarbone, and he curled them between your own fingers when he returned your gaze again. “You’re not thinking about me right now. You’re thinking of the me back then, aren’t you?” he asked, voice flat, “Well. In that case.” He shifted you to sit in front of him, with your back flush against his chest, and he spread his legs, pulling yours apart in the same movement (you snapped your legs back together, his knuckles smushed between your knees). “We’ll have to make the present moment so distracting that you can’t think about anything else, hm?”

(Okay. You could make this work.

Your husband, Hitoshi, is bored with the routine of these supply runs to Port Tyr’squith. Yes, he’s the one who insisted that he accompany you, since he doesn’t like to be away from you for too long, but you and he have done so many of these runs that they’re growing dull.

So, in the safety of the inn you always stay at in Renfield, Hitoshi decides to mix it up—to behave with artificial malice, to bully you, to make you second-guess everything he says, to make whatever sounds he draws from you just that much more satisfying for himself, since he has to work for them—and you love to lose to him when he gets like this.)

You leant back against him.

“That’s good. You’ll be good for me, yes? Behave? It’s what we agreed on,” said Shinsou into your ear, wrestling his hands from between your clamped knees, and he let out what must have been a satisfied sort of huff when you let him manoeuvre your legs this time—he hitched one of your thighs over his own to keep them spread. “Stay here,” he said softly, wrapping his hand around your wrist, “Think about right now. About right here.” He pressed his lips to the side of your head as he brought your fingertips to your lips. “Get your fingers wet.”

You tilted your head back to look at him. “Kiss me first?”

With a flash of his eyebrows, he kissed you hard and opened-mouthed, waiting for the moment your tongue brushed against his before pulling away and sliding your fingers into your mouth, following your tongue the way his tongue had. When you paused in confusion, Shinsou curled his own fingers around yours to twist around your tongue the way he wanted (you jaw was already starting to ache at being spread).

“I’m feeling generous, your excellency,” said Shinsou, bending his fingers and your own to feel around the inside of your mouth, “You’re coming around someone’s fingers tonight, but you get to choose if the fingers are yours or mine.” His fingers broke from yours to swipe underneath your tongue to scoop up saliva, which he let drop onto your tongue. “No doubt you can feel how much larger mine are than yours. How much rougher they are,” said Shinsou, trapping your fingers underneath his as he weighed them down on your tongue, prying your mouth open and prompting saliva to gather, “If you choose to touch yourself, then I get to watch a private tutorial on exactly how to make you squirm. I can see how choosing for me to touch you would appeal to your pride, though—you can pretend you don’t like what I’m doing. Denial would be on your side, and you could keep a scrap of dignity that way. Whereas if you choose to make yourself come, you lose your dignity in exchange for control over how you’re being touched. Decisions, decisions. I’m content with either.”

(God, Hitoshi’s being so mean today. But that’s fine. You like it. You like it, don’t you? You do.

You do.)

“You make me come, my lord,” you said, muffled from your fingers, and once you removed all of them from your mouth, you continued, “I’d probably take too long for your liking.”

“I don’t mind long,” said Shinsou, running his hand down your front, shifting you in his arms, “Long can be wonderful. But! A fine answer, nevertheless.” He moved to pull your skirts up, but you slapped his hand down, trapping it against—through fabric—the stretch where your thigh met your labia.

“I’d like to clarify some things,” you said, pinching the back of his hand when his thumb started to edge towards your clit, “because otherwise, you’ll take it too far. Do not twist my words on this. I know you’re always looking for loopholes, but please take me seriously here.”

You paused, and in the silence, he hummed. “I’m listening,” he said, wrapping an arm around your waist to bring you closer, his broad shoulders curling in around yours very slightly.

“I’ve noticed by now that you like to let me suffer as a result of my own word choice; it’s part of how you get under my skin so well. Please, I—I know you’re gonna ask me somewhere in the midst of this if I wanna come. Am I right in assuming if I said no that you’d just keep edging me, without ever letting me reach orgasm?”

He kissed your head again. “You’re catching on.”

“You’re the worst,” you said, unable to move his hand from when it inched over to cup you over the skirt and very, very gently started to stroke you through the fabric. “Listen. I do want to come. Once. And I want you to do it nicely. If you make it painful, I’m gonna bite into your neck until I rip away flesh.”

You felt, rather than heard, Shinsou inhale sharply, and before you could turn to look back at him, he caught your chin and directed your gaze forward. “What’sh,” you struggled to say through smushed cheeks.

“You should think of a threat that doesn’t go straight to my cock,” said Shinsou, voice strangled, putting some distance between you and his pelvis, “Your conditions are fine this time. Your first death for me will be more humiliating if it’s exactly how you like.” He took a deep breath, and he released your face and guided your hand to the back of his neck. “Anchor yourself here,” he said, coaxing your fingers to curl into the short hair there, “and keep your other hand flat on my thigh. Try not to make a fist; I’ll be watching.”

Shinsou tugged up your skirts, and the cool, night air made your bare cunt clench.

Your hand shot out before he could pull the fabric much farther up your stomach. “You’re not exposing any more of my body.”

“Noted. What strange things you’re concerned about.” He clicked his tongue. “Yet you’re fine with my seeing your cunt?”

“You’re not exactly looking at it directly,” you said, swallowing and returning your hand to his thigh.

“Should I assume you don’t want me to?”

“Not now,” you said, shutting your eyes, but they snapped open when you remembered how one of your not nows from earlier was the reason you were upstairs together in the first place. “Not tonight, my lord.”

“Very well.” Shinsou lightly slid the backs of his fingers along your sex, flesh to flesh, with every nerve in your body on alert as he did so. “I’ll confess that the current view is really working for me, though,” he said, running his thumb back and forth through your pubic hair.

Only the barest inkling of arousal ran through you at this point, and he’s everywhere already: he’s the weight of his chin on your shoulder; he’s his left hand, smoothing over the inside of your thigh (probably in an attempt to stop you from bouncing it); he’s the scent of pears and soap and cedar and sweat as you scrunched your face to the side and into his collar; he’s the muted grunt at the back of his throat when his index and middle fingers first tapped against your clit, and then they moved in slow, deliberate circles.

Shinsou was licking along the shell of your ear and nipping at the top curve of the cartilage, as if to distract you, but without that fucking mouth of his running, there’s no way you can be distracted from his thumbing between your labia, fingers dragging down your folds and just barely circling your entrance to gather enough wetness to make the glide back up to your clit smoother. He parted his index and middle fingers to press them lengthwise along both sides of your clit, and he flipped them over to wet their backs in the motion back up.

You were already fidgeting, already hot at the concept of someone touching you like this, flustered that someone could witness you without all your walls up, and you shut your eyes, determined to shove down your nerves.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay,” Shinsou was saying, stilling your thigh against his with one hand, thumb circling your clit with the other, “No one’s around to see you. No one can hurt you but me, and, for the moment, I’m following your rule to treat you nicely.”

(Wait, yeah, this is fine. This is Hitoshi talking. Your husband. He’s just being a bit mean tonight. You’re safe.)

The chill of his rings when his ring and pinkie fingers first grazed along your vulva made you jump, and Shinsou kissed behind your ear as he circled around your cunt again, smearing all the wetness he could gather along your folds, coating his fingers.

You yipped when a sliver of your skin pinched between one of his rings. “My lord,” you said in a rush, high-pitched, slapping at his hand even though he’d jerked it away the second you made the noise, “Fah—fuck, don’t tell me you did that on purpose.”

“I didn’t. I swear,” said Shinsou, holding up his right hand, dripping with your arousal, “Which ring got you? The silver band, or?” He pointed first towards a plain, scuffed ring on his pinkie and then towards another with an indigo-coloured stone.

“I don’t know,” you said, mildly put off by the combination of pain and an interrupted orgasm.

“Right,” he said, slipping both of them off and putting them on the index finger of your left hand. “Keep these safe for me, then. You can make a fist to keep them on.” He planted your fist to its home on his thigh again. “Since they’re too big for me, they’re definitely too big for you.”

“Why are you wearing rings that don’t even fit? Holy shit,” you said, hips jolting as his thumb returned to rub at your clit with fervour, the rest of his fingers trailing down to your cunt.

“Hand-me-downs,” said Shinsou, and he spread his pinkie and index finger away from his middle and ring, which traced, featherlight, around the rim of your cunt, and he slowly pressed his middle finger inside you, the irregular callous around a scar dragging all the way.

Without thinking, you let out a whine and then clapped your hand over your mouth in embarrassment, determined to clamp your jaw shut so that no more could escape (but dear God, the feeling’s so different when it’s someone else’s hands. Everything’s more intense, more sensitive, and the initial stretch shocked you because his fingers are larger than yours—but, hey, no, this is normal. Hitoshi always appreciates your palpable surprise at how good he can make you feel, doesn’t he? Yeah.).

“Whining at the stretch? That’s cute,” said Shinsou, his finger inside you remaining still, waiting, while his thumb still strained up to circle your clit, a bit more gently than earlier, “because this is barely anything compared to my cock.” Shinsou nuzzled his cold nose into your neck. “You okay?”

(Hitoshi has always liked to tease you like this, likes to make you wait for your reward—)

“Fuck,” said Shinsou, sighing as he plopped his forehead on your shoulder, thumb coming to a halt, body curling around yours as he squeezed you in a snug grip, “This isn’t—you’re not here, are you?”

“What?” You blinked to make your eyes focus. “No, I—I’m here,” you said, “I’m with you.”

“I don’t think you are,” said Shinsou, reaching around to the back of his neck to unlatch your hand, and he set it in your lap. “We’re stopping.”

“What? No,” you said, snapping your legs shut around his hand as he tried to remove his finger (he got almost halfway before getting trapped between your thighs).

You didn’t quite understand it yourself, but something about your growing arousal bred a fog in your brain. It gave you a taste of oblivion. A voice in the back of your mind told you that it would be so relaxing to forget everything for a few minutes, to turn off your brain so that you might not feel the responsibility on your shoulders. Might not feel the need to imagine something else. Might feel like you for a few minutes, instead of Court Mage.

“You’ll keep going,” you found yourself saying, consumed by that desire to chase oblivion, “or I’m punting you back to the castle again. This time, through the roof of the inn.”

“I’m not going to,” said Shinsou, frowning as he tried to work his hand out from between your legs, and he finally yanked it away. “If you’re not with me, there’s no point. You’re too far in your head.”

Shit. Shit! “Fine,” you said, squirming, “You’re right. I’ve been—trying to make it easier for me by thinking of a different situation. It’s still you I’m with, but—yeah. Earlier you.” You twisted in his grasp, and it was your turn you grab his chin to make him look at you. “You don’t deserve the information I’m about to give you, but I’d rather tell you directly instead of letting you have the satisfaction of deducing it yourself. I’m only going to be this direct for this particular conversation. Got it?”

A startled Shinsou, eyes wide and pale cheeks squished in your grip, nodded with as much movement as you would allow.

“It seems like if I’m not thinking about this—us—in a completely different situation and allow myself to get immersed in it, then I start thinking about the fucking war and court and Yamada and Aizawa and the whole—” You gestured loosely. “—messy context to what we’re doing. And I get distracted,” you said, squeezing his cheeks for emphasis, the metal of his own rings imprinting into his skin, before releasing him, “It seems I’d rather create my own distraction than get bogged down in one from reality. So, yeah. I’m too far in my head.” Steeling yourself, you turned in his arms and spread your legs again, hooking one over his own. “So, help me get out of it, my lord. Help me stop thinking.”

Behind you, Shinsou was silent.

“All right,” he said eventually, frown evident in his voice, “but if you leave again, I am stopping, regardless of how close to coming you are.”

“Sure.”

Shinsou laid his palm flat over your cunt again and gathered any leftover wetness, and he hummed in appreciation when you jerked involuntarily at the first press of his thumb to your clit, and when you covered your mouth with your hand when he moved to sink his middle finger into you again, he didn’t stop you—but he did stop himself. Instead of plunging in to the hilt, Shinsou instead hooked his index finger just inside of your cunt and pulled back, stretching the ring of muscle as he continued the movement around the rim (your hips arched into it).

From there, he bullied in a finger, growing shinier with slick with each pass in and out, feeling around your front wall, massaging it, and using his whole wrist to toy with you, even though the thrusts were so shallow.

When your cunt visibly convulsed, Shinsou punched the air out of your lungs by adding his middle finger, pumping them both in a nasty, slow grind. He was probing around inside you, curling his fingers more each time he reached farther inside, and when the heel of his palm finally hit the flesh of your folds, he gasped as your spasming cunt leaked around him and trickled onto his hand.

“Your excellency,” he choked out, grinding his fingers as deeply as he could before returning to pulling them in and out, less exploratory and more urgent, “how the hell are you so blazing hot inside? And—and gripping me so—” A grunt escaped from the back of his throat. “I could come just from feeling you.”

As your head slumped back against his chest and your thighs fell completely open, Shinsou quickened his pace, knuckles making contact with each pump, prompting a tender swollenness and a stickily wet noise each time he drove his fingers into you, the force of which pressed you back against his bulge.

The hot licks of pleasure unfurling up your spine made stars pass before your eyes and your brain to stop thinking. But—you had to focus on how good it felt instead of honing in on any other physical sensation—the jittering of your thigh, his breath on your neck, how your toes spread and curled, how your hips would jerk and come back down to the mattress, the sounds of the sleet hitting the window and footsteps in the hallway, the bedding’s freshly-washed smell—all of the things that could bring you back to where you were and who you are.

(And why do you deserve to distance yourself from—

[You shoved it down.])

“Keep talking,” you said through gritted teeth, writhing against him.

Shinsou kissed behind your ear. “What do you want me to say?”

“Fuck off; fuck off; stop being so impertinent! I just—” Your hips spasmed, and you clenched around his fingers, his scar rubbing over a sensitive spot as the room’s walls closed in. “—fucking talk; just—just be nice to me!”

“I know you’re close. I can feel you,” said Shinsou, fingers moving harder, deeper, “You look so good stretched around my fingers. So good when you’re not thinking about anything but me. You look—” He reached for your chin to make you look his way, and he must have seen something in your face: he stiffened, swore under his breath, and grabbed the back of your head to tuck it into his neck, just as you started to squeeze around him uncontrollably.

Your orgasm struck you all at once, too soon and too hard and consuming, and your clit pulsed so strongly it hurt—

(Don’t you deserve to be punished? For how many lives you’ve ruined or ended, for how much you’ve messed up over the last sixteen years? For losing yourself in a cycle of violence?

Isn’t Shinsou the most appropriate one to punish you? Your former best friend, whom you couldn’t protect, whose life you’ve made significantly worse? Is Shinsou not your perfect grim reaper? Shouldn’t he punish you how he sees fit?

[Shut up, you managed to say to the voice in your head, I just want to stop thinking.])

“That’s it,” he said, chin atop your head, fingers slowing their pace, thumb moving more gently against your clit, making your orgasm less painful, “There we go. Thank you. Thank you. Fuck, you’re shaking so hard. It’s okay. We’re stopping.” He tentatively lifted his hand from the back of your head, and when you didn’t move from there, he placed his hand on your trembling thigh, trying to still it. “Easy, your excellency. You’re okay.”

You were shaking. When did that start? You ran a finger underneath your eyes—good, you hadn’t started crying unnoticed, either. You’d cried on accident on your wedding night, and you didn’t care to do it again.

“Hold on,” said Shinsou, and you held your breath as he pulled out his fingers, glistening in your arousal. He held them up, rubbing them together. “Would you look at that?” he said, more to himself than to you.

“Oh, stop it,” you said, swiping his hand out of the way so that you could crawl out of his embrace, “You’re such a pervert.”

Before you could skulk out from between his legs entirely, he grabbed your arm and said, “Hey, are you all right? You don’t have to leave so—”

“I think so,” you said, unsure if you were lying, “Give me a minute. And don’t even think about licking your fingers; put them down right now.”

Pursing his lips, Shinsou lowered his hand, and he swiped a crumpled handkerchief from your clutter on the bedside table as you separated yourself from him. The instant you left his lap fully, Shinsou groaned and lay back on the bed, head bouncing as it hit the pillow. “I see you’re back to normal.” Shinsou covered his face with his arm, his nose in the crook of his elbow. “You were begging me to do things with such a delectably pathetic tone for a minute, there. Should I edge you constantly so that you stay compliant?”

You blinked. Frazzled, you moved to sit on your knees, pulling your skirts over your legs and clenching your hands into fists to halt their trembling—and then you found you didn’t yet have the strength to stay upright, so you shifted to lean against the wall and stretched your legs to dangle off of the bed. Still throbbing. Still sore.

What was going on? It’s like he’s flipped a switch, and he’s brusque with you again. Not that the brusqueness had vanished while he was touching you, but his edges had seemed sanded down.

You glanced up at him, ignoring the bulge in his trousers and focusing on the pinch of his mouth, nearly hidden in shadow, and you sighed: it hadn’t worked. You couldn’t turn your brain off enough to enjoy yourself; the intrusive thoughts had still broken through. This man too strongly binds you to reality, and because of that, you can’t stop thinking about your situation long enough to relax.

Shinsou lifted his arm from his eyes just a hair. “Lie down with me,” he said, voice rasping, muffled even without the help of the sleet striking glass, “I wanna hear more about setting up your quest.”

You can’t stay around Shinsou. He makes you overthink too much.

You don’t yet have a plan, but you could buy time. You slid off the bed and stepped towards the bedside table to shove your belongings back into your pockets. Shinsou turned in bed to face you and raised a brow. “My throat is dry,” you said to him, slapping his hand away when he reached for one of your marble-spells about to roll off the table, “and you’re paying for the drink I’m about to buy.” You scooped up a couple of his two-yenner coins, flashing them his way before pocketing them.

“You’re the one who just came; you’re probably still discombobulated,” said Shinsou, moving to sit up, “I’ll go down and get—”

“No.” You pushed down on his chest, making his lie back down. “I don’t trust you to. You brought me food last time, anyway, when we—well.” You shuffled towards your boots by the door and started putting them on. “Do you want anything, while I’m down there?”

Shinsou blinked slowly. “Whatever you’re having,” he said, and he folded an arm behind his head, watching you lace your boot. “And I want you to leave one of your boots here, so that you have to come back up here for it.”

You scoffed. “What, do you want me to go down in only one shoe?”

Though recumbent, he shrugged a shoulder. “Wear one of mine.”

Muttering to yourself, you stomped down the staircase to the ground floor in mismatched boots, the contents of your pockets bumping against your legs with every stair. What can you do; what do you have? You have to get out of here without a true spell, since he’s said he can track the aftertaste of your magic; you need something that’ll stall him enough to give you time to get distance between you on foot.

You had to empty your pockets on the counter when you paid for the drinks to search for the loose coins, and after you slid the yenner across the wood to the innkeeper, your eyes fell to the bottle of Bibimi’s love potion.

Laden with two mugs, you pushed your rented room’s door open on the dimly lit silhouette of Shinsou lying in bed—one hand just resting atop his cock, not even palming it, or anything, and the other resting its fingertips against his lips. Both hands shot to his sides when you entered, and your stomach flipped when you realised the fingers on his lips had been the ones inside you.

You couldn’t remove your boots at the door without setting the mugs aside, so you kept them on, uneven as Shinsou’s boot kept you, and you shut the door behind you. “Thanks for waiting,” you said, crossing to Shinsou as he sat up, “A new round of miners has come in since we left, and they’re clogging up the bar. I know you like coffee, considering how much more brutally you’d fight when we cut off your warcamp’s supply, but since it’s so late, I wasn’t in the mood.” You passed him the cup—a bright orange, hand-thrown mug without a handle. “I would have normally gotten barley tea this late, but since you’re paying, I got us both granatus. I love it when I don’t have to prepare a pomegranate myself. What’s so funny?” you asked, cradling your own mug (blue, with an ocean-wave pattern).

Shinsou was grinning, eyes glinting. “Nothing,” he said, scratching the back of his neck, “You’re talking a lot.” He peered into the thick, dark liquid as he perched it on his knee. “Interesting pottery, this.”

“The innkeeper told me her niece makes it.”

“She has a distinctive style,” said Shinsou, holding up his mug and turning it, and he glanced towards your own. “Both pieces are so different, too. No chance of someone getting the wrong cup.”

You froze. “What,” you said, tongue heavy, “are you talking about?”

With a sigh, Shinsou shook his head. “I’ve always thought you very clever, your excellency, but I suppose we all can change.” Shinsou swiped your mug and swopped it with his before you could even blink, and he leant back on his free hand and clutched your blue mug out of reach. “I see that working under Yamada for so long has finally robbed you of your intelligence and clogged your mind with the demanding fripperies of court life. I conjecture you could’ve come up with something clever enough to outwit me, if you hadn’t had to remember nonsense like the spells he uses to turn pages and polish his boots.”

Your hand closed around the orange mug like a claw, eyes darting towards the blue. “I’d like that back,” you said, with an air of deliberate calm, “I like blue things. Reminds me of my patchwork cloak. Makes me feel safe. I gave you the orange cup because—”

“Talking too much,” said Shinsou, smiling and shaking his head, “Get a hold of yourself. You’ve given too much away too quickly.” His gaze softened, and he spoke lightly. “It was quite stupid of you to leave that love potion out on the table where I could see it. And for so long. On the closest surface, even; you could’ve unloaded your pockets on the far dresser, and you were so careful to take it downstairs with you. Do you really believe that you can come back in here, after you’ve had your time to collect your thoughts about being made to come on my hand, and ask me to believe there’s nothing in this drink?” Shinsou sat forward and gestured for you to take a seat next to him on the bed. “You’re right to try to deceive me, your excellency. I’m not upset about that. It’s the idiocy that’s upsetting. You could’ve done much better than this reckless plan, and we could’ve both had fun.”

“Thanks,” you said, scowling, sitting far away from him on the edge of the bed.

“You’re not even using your own magic,” said Shinsou, scooting closer to you, hand sinking into the blankets when he leant against it, “You’re relying on some amateur’s potion. If you’d used something of your own, even, I might be less disappointed. It’d be an experience, to suffer through something you’ve made.”

“I didn’t put anything in your drink,” you said, staring down at the orange mug in your grasp.

“Of course, your excellency. It’d be a discourteous thing to do, especially after I brought you safe food to that dreadful attic when you were about to pass out,” said Shinsou, grinning widely while nudging you with his elbow, curving his foot around your ankle, “Since there’s nothing wrong with that mug, you’ll accompany me in drinking, won’t you?”

“I’m glad one of us is enjoying himself,” you said, biting your lip, and though you both raised the mugs to your lips at the same time, Shinsou drained his more quickly so that he could watch you swallow the last of yours. When you’d swallowed the last mouthful of the syrupy, pomegranate drink, you wiped the back of your mouth in fury and stormed to the opposite wall, sliding down it to sit against it. “I’ll kill you,” you said, hugging your knees to your chest, hiding behind your skirts.

Shinsou stood and brushed off his pants. “I imagine we won’t be hearing that phrase for a while, since you’ll be consumed with love for, as the bottle said, the nearest person with whom you have a connection. I wonder what it’ll be like without any overt animosity aimed towards me? Perhaps, at the very least, you’ll be more open to what I have to say about that man who calls himself your patron. Yamada shouldn’t—” Shinsou rubbed his lower lip and, after rushing to sit down again, at his throat. “Oh,” he said, turning towards his mug, tipped sideways in the blankets, “Very good. It was in the blue mug the whole time, yes?”

You’ll have to inform Keigo that Bibimi’s potion kicked in almost instantly (she probably didn’t peel her ardithorn before brewing). “Brilliant, my lord,” you said flatly, and you got up from your spot against the wall and started packing the rest of your belongings into your bag. “Anyone else would’ve nicked the love potion the instant he saw it or broken the glass or refused to drink at all. But you like watching me talk myself into a corner. You like feeling like you’ve outwitted everyone,” you said, unravelling your patchwork cloak to shake out the wrinkles, and your wadded-up underwear fell to the floor, which you picked up to slip on. “You seem to get off on it.”

You snapped your bag shut, and with your cloak draped over your arm, you strode to the bed, where a flushed Shinsou, despite trying to lie very, very still, couldn’t help from twitching and spasming. Noted. Maybe you should be writing down the effects.

“Your—your excel—” But it came out breathily, and he sucked in through his teeth as he threw his head back, brow furrowed as he thrashed in bed, shirt coming untucked—he seized its hem to hold it in place, but not before you got a flash of a fraying, pale violet scar running parallel along one half of his v-line.

“Can you really not get a full sentence out?” you asked, genuinely interested. “Your whole face has turned red. I think it’s spreading down your neck and chest, too. How are you feeling?”

Shinsou glowered at you, arching his back and inhaling sharply. “Murderous,” he spat, grabbing a fistful of blanket and covering his lower body.

“Huh,” you said, sliding on the first sleeve of your cloak, “I’m only asking to report back on the effects of this potion. Not many people have drunk it, and it’ll help Keigo if we can more accurately describe what it does. It’s mislabelled, incidentally. More of a lust potion than love. Although, I don’t think the creator knows that.”

Shinsou shot you a glare but said nothing; a throaty noise escaped him instead.

“You’ll be fine, my lord. I know a lot about love potions; I use them to keep warm in the colder months—they were the only consistent source of heat inside the walls of during the Siege of Irrishir Gard. Someone halted our other supplies,” you said, reaching to feel his forehead—clammy, sweating at the hairline but not dripping down his face yet—and his eyelashes fluttered at your touch. “Based on its ingredients, this lust potion should be weak. Should only last around six hours.”

Shinsou’s eyes snapped open as he barked, “What? I can’t—can’t stay hard for six—”

“I’m only guessing,” you said, sitting on the bed, and you wretched both of his rings from your finger. “And surely you won’t maintain a single erection. I’m certain you’ll be able to have your own cum all over your hand multiple times before the end of the night.” You took his hand and slid the silver band back onto his little finger. “Think you could fight through it? It’s only an amateur’s potion, after all.”

“All right,” said Shinsou, panting, flexing his fingers with soft pops before letting you slide the ring with the indigo stone onto his ring finger, “I suppose I deserve this.”

“Don’t start that. We’ve done enough to each other that we can neither do enough to earn forgiveness nor get even. And that’s that,” you said, pinching your lip and considering: he’s able to fight it, based on how he’s keeping his head enough to speak in coherent sentences and maintain a sense of modesty. You may need another deterrent to ensure your escape.

Gasping, Shinsou pushed his hand back through his hair, sweat flattening the strands, and he curled his fingers into it to yank violently at the roots, which seemed to bring him down enough to focus. “And what if I forgive you?”

“You wouldn’t. You won’t,” you said, shaking your head, stomach turning as you bunched the fabric of your cloak in your fist, ready to reach down, “not after what I’m going to do to you.” You stooped to pull from Shinsou’s boot the same, obsidian blade he’d pulled on you on your wedding night, and—you had a split second of asking him where he’d want it but decided against it—you plunged the knife near where his shoulder met his neck. The tip didn’t even pierce that far into his flesh—a couple of inches. It clattered to the floor when you released it, and Shinsou groaned, this time in pain, and clutched the spot, blood seeping through his fingers.

“So, the binding magic does let us pierce the skin,” you said, kicking the knife underneath the bed out of reach and stooping to yank off his boot, “I wouldn’t worry, my lord. I trust you won’t die from this.”

You retrieved your own boot, slung your bag over your shoulder, and left money to pay for the room on the dresser; you froze as you started to pull open the door, because Shinsou let out a moan so whiny and broken that it went straight to your lower stomach, with residual arousal leaking into your underwear. You closed your eyes for a moment before tearing a patch from your cloak.

“My lord.” Your turned over your shoulder, holding up the ripped patch. “This can sanitise and bind your wound. Crawl to it at your leisure,” you said, chucking the patch against the far wall, “I’ll see you in a few months.”

“No, I—” Shinsou was winded, panting for breath, struggling to sit up as he shielded his lower half with the blanket, and his arm gave out as he collapsed back onto the bed. But he lifted his head, and for a moment, his eyes regained their usual, determined clarity: “Take me with you.”

With a wry smile, you shook your head and pushed open the door, and as you shut it behind you, you fought the urge to double back to kiss his cheek.

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