#they have moved past him and left him behind | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mrmeowski · 3 days ago

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˚✧𝐂𝐚𝐧 𝐈…?✧˚

Synopsis: Curiosity often pushes us to seek answers to the unknown, but sometimes, those simple questions lead you down unexpected paths. What seems innocent at first can stir deeper emotions, and what’s shared may reveal more than anticipated. The question is, are you ready for them?

CW: Slight angst [Boothill], slight 2.5 spoilers [Jiaoqiu], suggestive

Word Count: 5.5k

Characters: 🧡༻✧ Blade [668] 💜༻✧ Boothill [627] 🧡༻✧ Dan Heng • IL [628] 💜༻✧ Dr. Ratio [880] 🧡༻✧ Jiaoqiu [776] 💜༻✧ Jing Yuan [993] 🧡༻✧ Sunday [935]

⋇⊰BLADE⊱⋇

"Can I… help you with the bandages, Yingxing?" His eyes shift toward you, a flicker of irritation crossing his gaze as he starts unwinding the bindings on his arm.

You stand in the doorway, watching him. He sits silently on the edge of the bed, half-turned toward the wall, his top discarded. Shadows play across his scarred skin, deep lines from past battles marring his form, history of his trials and rebirths.

To anyone else, this sight of him unguarded would be fleeting, barely a moment before he'd forcefully shut them out. But you aren't just anyone, and for you, he’s left the door ajar, though he denies it.

"I’ve told you not to call me that." His words are gruff, but they lack the bite he'd have with anyone else.

Ignoring his protest, you step inside, letting the door slide shut behind you as you settle beside him on the bed. The mattress dips slightly under your weight, and he tenses, though he doesn’t move away.

"So I take that as a yes?" A playful smile tugging at your lips as you leaned your head on his shoulder.

He huffs but doesn’t pull his arm back.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he mutters.

Feigning a pout, you slipped your arms around his waist, feeling the subtle hitch in his breath as your hands brushed over his skin.

"Oh, come on," you teased, nudging him gently. "Can't I care for my dear husband?" For a moment, he was silent, his jaw clenched as he stared at his hands, as if trying to decide whether to give in.

With a reluctant sigh, he handed you the bandages, though his voice still held a touch of exasperation.

"Fine. But make it quick." With a smile, you took the roll from his hand, your fingers brushing against his for a brief moment longer than necessary.

His warmth radiated under your touch, and as you began to carefully wrap the bandages over his scars, your movements were gentle, almost reverent, tracing the lines of his past with a tenderness only you could offer him.

"You know," you murmured, "You don't have to do everything alone." He tensed, his gaze flicking to you.

"I don't need help," he said, but his tone had softened significantly.

You only smiled, pressing lightly on his shoulder to make him hold still.

"Maybe not," you replied, "But that doesn’t mean you can’t let me help anyway." A rare softness flickered in his eyes, and for a brief moment, he let himself lean into your touch.

Silence settled between you, a comfortable, unspoken understanding. And as you continued your work, you could feel his heartbeat—a steady rhythm beneath layers of pain, guarded by walls he let no one else cross.

When the last bandage was secure, you paused, fingers lingering on his skin.

"See?" You grinned proudly. "Not so hard to let someone in every now and then., hm?"

He huffed, turning his gaze away to hide the faint blush that crept onto his cheeks. But he couldn't deny his heart any longer, nor the warmth that had stirred within him since you'd come into his life.

Taking a breath, he lifted his hand, the wedding ring that decorated his finger gleamed faintly in the soft light of his room—a reminder of the promise you’d both made, binding him to you more deeply than any scars ever could.

His hand found its way to your cheek, rough and calloused from battle, yet gentle as it cupped your face. You leaned into his touch. There was a vulnerability in his gaze that is only known to you. Slowly, he leaned closer, his lips capturing yours in a tender, lingering kiss that spoke more than words ever could.

You melted into his embrace, responding to the quiet passion he’d held back for so long.

Between breaths, his lips hovered close to yours, and in a whisper that trembled with sincerity, he said, “Thank you… for staying by my side all this time.”

⋇⊰BOOTHILL⊱⋇

"Can I... wear your hat?" You asked, unable to keep the curiosity out of your voice.

You knew what they said, curiosity killed the cat, but really, it was just a cowboy hat, right?

You’d seen him without it on a few rare occasions, but never anyone else wearing it. Boothill was... particular about that hat—almost as if it was an extension of himself.

So when you found yourself sitting close to him on the old, worn sofa, his metal arm resting around your shoulders and pulling you in just a bit closer, the question slipped out before you could stop yourself.

For a moment, he was silent. You could see the faintest trace of color rise to his cheeks, darkening his usual calm expression with a blush you’d never quite seen before.

He chuckled, his hand reaching over to tousle your hair playfully, “Well now, darlin’,” he drawled, an easy grin spreading across his face, sharp teeth glistening, “What’s got ya so interested in this ol’ thing, huh? Don’t tell me you’ve gone and developed a taste for a dusty cowboy hat...” You rolled your eyes, fighting the smile that tugged at your lips.

“Oh, come on, I just want to see what all the fuss is about. It’s not like it’ll bite.” He tilted his head, watching you with a mix of amusement and something softer, almost hesitant.

“Ain't no ordinary hat, ya know," he muttered, that faint blush deepening as he looked away for a moment, “But if ya really wanna wear it... who am I to say no to a pretty thing like you?”

You watched as his hand came up slowly, taking the hat from his head. He held it for a moment, as though second-guessing himself, then handed it to you with an almost reverent care. The weight of it settled in your hands, and as you gingerly placed it on your head, his gaze lingered on you, his eyes softening.

“There,” he murmured, his tone lower, “Looks like you’re all set to join the rodeo now.” You laughed, adjusting the brim so it sat just right, feeling a rush of warmth at the way he was looking at you, like you’d just stepped right into his heart.

He shook his head, grinning as he leaned back, his arm still around your shoulders. “Enjoy every second now, sugar—ain’t every day I let someone else wear that ol’ hat of mine.” You turned to face him, feeling bold, your gaze meeting his.

“Guess that means you trust me, huh?” He chuckled again, that easy, lazy grin spreading across his face as he looked back at you with a glint in his eye.

“Trust, interest… somethin’ like that.” Pulling you in a little closer. His fingers trailed down your cheek, slow and lingering, as he let his thumb trace along your jaw. “Just means you might be in for a bit of trouble now,” he whispered, his voice low and warm, his gaze flickering to your lips.

The brim of his hat dipped, casting a shadow over your faces, and you felt his lips brush against yours. The kiss was gentle at first, but quickly deepened as his sharp teeth grazed your lower lip, pulling at it in a way that made your heart race.

Deep within something weighed heavy in his chest—a deep, unspoken grief that seemed to tug at the very core of him. The moment you wore that hat of his... it reminded him of her, of a time long ago, when he was still human, when he had something to protect—someone to care for. His daughter. The one he had lost, the one he would never get back.

His heart, once broken, was mended only by one thing: you. He pulled away slightly, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath ragged.

"I ain't the man I once was... but I’ll protect you, darlin'. With my life, even if it goes against everythin' I ever knew. As long as it's you... I'll do it."

⋇⊰DAN HENG • IL⊱⋇

“Can I… touch your horns?" Your voice barely above a whisper.

The very moment Dan Heng shed his human form to reveal the graceful, imposing figure of Imbibitor Lunae, an undeniable curiosity had settled within you. Those glowing horns, the soft fur trailing along his tail—they all seemed to call to you, sparking a fascination that you just couldn't ignore.

He glanced up from his book, his calm demeanor briefly faltering as a faint blush colored his pale cheeks.

“Excuse me?” His tone was guarded, but you could see the faint flicker of surprise in his eyes.

It was as if he needed you to repeat it, to confirm you’d actually asked what he thought you did.

You had always urged him to embrace his true Vidyadhara form. At first, he resisted, but your persistence wore down his resolve. Eventually, he relented, but only within the privacy of his quarters or the quiet of an empty Astral Express.

“You heard me,” you said, inching a little closer, fingers itching to reach out. “I just… wonder what they feel like.” Your gaze drifted to his horns, mesmerized by the gentle glow that radiated from them, casting a warm light across his features.

For a moment, he looked away, his shoulders tense. “It’s not... something I’m accustomed to,” he murmured, his voice low. His gaze returned to you, a quiet understanding in his eyes. "But… I-I suppose I can allow it."

He leaned down, bringing his face closer to yours, giving you an unspoken invitation.

With a him, you raised your hand, reaching out to trace the gleaming, curved horns that adorned his head. The moment your fingertips brushed against their smooth surface, he inhaled sharply, and a low, involuntary growl escaped his lips.

His book snapped shut in his hand, and his whole body seemed to shiver from the contact, the sensation reverberating through him. Surprised, you flinched, your fingers halting as you pulled back.

“A-Are you alri—”

He let out a strained sigh, his hand darting forward to gently capture yours and place it back on his horns, “Why’d you stop?” His voice was rough, with a hunger you’d rarely heard from him.

Wait... is he purring? Half-lidded, his gaze locked onto you, eyes softened by the warmth that has always there when you're around.

His horns weren't usually so sensitive to the touch, but perhaps it was because it was you—the one person who had grown so close to him, the one person he felt tethered to in a way he couldn't fully explain. His body seemed to respond to even the slightest touch, and the very air you breathed seemed to send him spiraling.

As you resumed tracing his horns, the low rumble of a purr rose in his chest, almost too soft to catch. You blinked, your breath catching as you noticed his tail slowly curling and swaying behind him, giving away his pleasure. The purr deepened, reverberating through him as he leaned into your touch, his control slipping.

And then, before you could react, he pushed you deeper into mattress of his bed. You felt his chest press against yours, his tail curling possessively around your waist, pulling you closer as he buried his face against the side of your cheek, his purr vibrating against your skin.

He brushed his nose along your cheek, purring with an intensity that left no doubt about his feelings. You felt his heartbeat echoing in rhythm with yours, and his arms encircled you.

There was no mistaking it now. He knew the moment you stepped foot into the Astral Express, the moment you entered his life.

His head rested against yours, the glow of his horns casting a soft light between you, whispering into your ear, “You’re mine...”

⋇⊰DR. RATIO⊱⋇

“Can I... touch your arm?” The words slipped out before you could even process them, and by the time you realized, it was too late.

You were constantly drawn to the unknown, to things that fascinated you—and today, Dr. Ratio’s arm, the one exposed by his rather bold style of clothing, had caught your attention.

You could feel eyes shifting to you, a mix of shocked and bewildered looks coming from the students surrounding you both. Among them, you could practically feel his sharp, glaring stare boring into your skull.

He sighed, clearly irritated, before passing the clipboard he held to one of the astonished students. He grumbled something under his breath, clearly struggling to keep his composure.

“Excuse us for a moment… continue with your project,” he ordered through gritted teeth.

Before you could react, he had his arm around your shoulder, guiding you swiftly out of the room and into a quiet, secluded hallway.

Once out of earshot, he released you, crossing his arms and fixing you with a stern, no-nonsense glare.

“Do you realize the kind of attention you’re attracting with those questions?” His brow arched.

You gave him a sheepish grin, scratching the back of your neck as you looked away.

“I didn’t mean for it to slip out,” you admitted, your voice light. “At least… not in front of everyone. But really, it’s tempting.” You glanced back at him, letting the playful curiosity seep back into your gaze.

He sighed, shaking his head slightly as he studied you.

“I can never truly understand what goes on in your head, [Name]. Nor how someone like you manages to be one of the best researchers here,” he muttered, sounding exasperated but almost... begrudgingly impressed. “You were always like this, even back when we were students.”

It was true. Back then, you’d always ranked either at the very top or just below him, your carefree demeanor had led him to believe you didn’t take anything seriously. You had an uncanny ability to get under his skin, and no amount of stern lectures ever seemed to change that.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover, right?” You shrugged, clicking your tongue playfully, adding, “So, is that a yes or a no?” He gave you a hard stare, brow furrowed.

“You’re serious about that?” His frown deepened, and for a moment, he seemed genuinely perplexed.

You were a puzzle he could never quite solve—a Rubik’s cube with infinitely shifting sides, always challenging, always just out of reach.With a heavy sigh, he finally relented, unfolding his arms and extending one toward you.

“Fine,” he said, his voice resigned. “If this will put an end to your pestering, then go ahead.”

You couldn’t hide your delight as you grinned and reached out, fingertips brushing against the firm curve of his arm.

The instant your touch met his skin, a subtle shiver that ran through him, though he tried his best to keep his expression steady. His poker face remained composed, yet you sensed the faintest twitch in his jaw.

Every time you were near, there was this unexplainable spark between you, something that always lingered just beneath the surface.

He’d told himself countless times that he kept it well-hidden, convinced that his practiced, stoic mask shielded him from your perceptive gaze. But there were whispers—others had noticed how he’d look at you, and sometimes he wondered how long he could keep this under wraps. At least, he reassured himself, you hadn’t noticed… yet.

His arm was exactly as it's displayed—defined, solid, with the firmness of something sculpted. As you trailed your fingers along his bicep, you looked up at him, caught in that same sense of wonder you often had when encountering the unknown, that glint in your eyes like a spark of discovery.

He held your gaze, his own expression softening against his will. Somehow, the realization that he could inspire that curiosity in you made something inside him stir—a quiet pride, even if he’d never dare admit it.

“Done?” Arching a brow, though there was something almost gentle in his tone.

You couldn't resist giving his arm a playful squeeze—only for a surprised sound, almost a groan, to slip from him. His cheeks flushed a faint pink as he shot you a glare, yet neither of you moved, frozen in place.

A second passed in that charged silence before you broke it with a shaky laugh.

“A-Ahaha… I-I think that settles it,” you said, flashing an awkward smile as you tried to compose yourself.

He muttered something under his breath, flustered, “This is the last time I’ll indulge any of your whims.” Yet he wasn’t certain he could keep that promise.

“Oh, well, at least I enjoyed my privileges,” you teased, grinning as you attempted to brush past him to rejoin the others.

But before you could slip away, his hand gripped your arm, halting you.

“Since you’ve had your fill… I expect you’ll indulge my curiosities as well,” he murmured, voice low.

You tilted your head, looking up at him, but he didn’t move back. His hand lingered as he traced the curve of your cheek with a feather-light touch, his gaze intent.

“So?” he asked softly, his voice almost a whisper. “Is it a yes or a no?”

⋇⊰JIAOQIU⊱⋇

“Can I… touch your tail?” It was out of the blue to suddenly asked him fot his.

But really, who could blame you? His tail was just there, brushing against your legs with that irresistible fluffiness. It was practically begging to be touched!

Jiaoqiu’s ears perked at your request, and though you couldn’t see his expression entirely, you caught a glimpse of his grin hidden behind his fan. He had been waiting for this, teasing you by letting his tail drift closer until you could no longer resist.

“Oh my, aren’t you bold?” He purred, his tail slowly winding around your waist as he leaned in closer. “You do know it’s quite… rude to ask a Foxian such a thing, hm?” His tone was light, yet playful, and his words left you flustered.

Your face heated up, and you scrambled to apologize, “I-I’m sorry, Jiaoqiu! I didn’t mean to—”

“—For strangers,” he interrupted, his voice soft as his free hand reached out, fingers gently brushing against your cheek. His thumb traced a small circle, grounding you with his touch. “But you… you are no stranger to me.”

His voice was a low whisper now, an invitation that made your heart skip a beat. “Go on… touch it,” he urged, his words making your nerves flutter with a mix of excitement and hesitation.

You hesitated, fingers trembling as they moved closer to the soft, salmon tainted fur. Finally, you brushed your fingertips over his tail, feeling its warmth and softness.

His breath hitched, his fan lowering just enough for you to see his lips part slightly.

Each movements sent a shiver through him, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his ears twitched with your every touch. As your hands roamed deeper into the soft fur of his tail, he didn’t try to hide how much he enjoyed it.

But then again, he never really had been hiding it from the start, had he? It was you who had been oblivious to how he truly felt—how close he had always been to you.

His tail curled further around you, brushing against your body as if drawing you in. It wasn’t just his tail; his scent had already imprinted on you, marking something only the other Foxians could understand.

Even after he was gone, that trace of him stayed with you, lingering on your skin as if to remind others that you belonged to him.

“Feel free to touch me…” His voice was low, inviting, with a grin that never wavered. “I don’t mind.”

Was this what heaven felt like? You wondered, your fingers still lost in the softness of his tail, your heart racing as his words settled in the air between you.

Your gaze drifted to his ears, noticing the faint flush at the tips. You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips at the sight.

Curious, you cautiously reached up, your fingers brushing gently against the soft, white fuzz inside his ears. His reaction was immediate—a slight quiver running through his body as his grin deepened.

“So this…” you murmured, your fingers lingering near the sensitive spot, “Is alright?”

His breath caught again, and he gave a slow nod, allowing you the freedom to explore. “That’s perfectly fine,” he purred, the words dripping with a quiet satisfaction.

He leaned into your touch, his cheek brushing against your arm as you ran your fingers over his ears. A contented purr vibrated through him, but then you felt something... wet?

You froze, confusion flickering across your face as you glanced down. He was nipping at your arm, leaving soft kisses on your skin.

"Jiaoqiu...?" Your heart raced, pounding in your chest as you tried to process what was happening.

He chuckled softly and for a moment, you couldn't tear your gaze away from his eyes. Though his vision was obscured, his golden irises seemed to meet yours through the half-lidded gaze he offered. Even without seeing, there was an unmistakable intensity in the way his eyes stirred with deep and raw emotions.

"When I spoke, you can touch antyhing... I was hoping for something else... [Name]," he whispered, his lips pressing a delicate kiss into your arm again, this time lingering just a fraction longer. "I suppose I need to be a bit more clear, hm?" His tail unwound from around your waist, and the warmth of his hand moved, sliding down from your cheek to gently grasp your hand.

His fingers intertwined with yours, his grip firm yet gentle, his touch holding an unspoken promise. The playful edge in his voice deepened.

"Why don’t we go to your residence, my little bunny?"

⋇⊰JING YUAN⊱⋇

"Can I... pet Snowmoon?" You ask, your gaze fixed on the lion sprawled lazily beside Jing Yuan’s desk.

All the while the general is hunched slightly over the mountain of paperwork. It’s rare to see him actually working, and you’d be lying if you didn’t occasionally wonder if he just pretended to.

Hechuckles, his eyes lifting from the stack of documents as he props his chin on his hand, watching you with that familiar, teasing smile.

“It’s not me you should be asking for permission… that decision lies with her.” He pauses, giving her a fond glance. “You know she has a mind of her own.” You grin, shrugging with a spark of confidence.

“Oh, please—she only acts so aloof because she’s around you,” you tease. “Animals tend to mirror their owners, after all.” He raises a brow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, though he lets out another soft chuckle, his gaze warm as it lingers on you.

“Fine,” he relents, a playful warning in his voice. “But don’t go running to me if she growls.” You roll your eyes, standing from the sofa and making your way toward the lion.

The first time you met her, you were admittedly a bit nervous—after all, it’s not every day you come face-to-face with a lion—but any hint of fear quickly melted into awe. Her coat is as pristine as freshly fallen snow, her gaze a clear, serene blue like the depths of the ocean.

As you crouch down beside her, you reach out a tentative hand, stopping just before her nose. She sniffs your fingers curiously, then surprises you by licking them before leaning in, her soft fur brushing against your fingertips.

Her fluffy coat is even softer than you imagined, and you can’t resist a small, quiet “Aw” as you scratch the side of her neck. Her eyes half-close, and you feel the gentle vibrations of her purr against your touch.

“See?” You call over your shoulder, unable to hide your grin. “She’s just a big, fluffy kitten.” She leans in closer, enjoying your attention.

He leaning back in his chair with a feigned huff of indifference, “Hmph, don’t get too comfortable now." You can’t help but notice the slight pout in his features as he watches the scene unfold.

She is notorious for growling at him when he tries to get close. And yet here you are, someone who only occasionally visits his office, getting all the affection.

It’s unfair! But there’s also something undeniably heartwarming about it for him. As he watches you, a faint smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Two of his favorite things, together right before him. If he could freeze this moment, hold onto it, he would.

Time slips by unnoticed as you sit there, nestled against her, your hands combing through her fur. The big kitten has dozed off, her steady breathing and occasional soft purrs filling the quiet room.

You’d intended to move at some point, but every time you lift your hand just an inch away, she lets out a tiny, sleepy whine and nudges closer, demanding more affection. It’s hard to say no to her.

The thought crosses your mind that she really does resemble her owner in some ways. There are rare moments where he gets... needy. Although her insistence on cuddles is much cuter than his endless, persistent begging.

A low, familiar voice pulls you from your thoughts. “I think that’s enough." Arms crossed as he looks down at you, trying to maintain a serious expression.

There’s a slight frown and a hint of jealousy in his gaze. You smirk, raising a brow.

“Oh? I didn’t quite catch that. What was it you said?” You reply, a playful challenge in your tone.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and steps closer. “Don’t make me repeat myself, [Name]. I think I’ve given you more than enough time with her.” She stirs, looking up lazily before resettling against you, as if she’s decided you’re staying right where you are.

With a soft chuckle, you glance up at him, “She seems to disagree, General.”

“Well then, I’ll just have to insist." He takes a few steps toward you, but his progress halts when a low, warning growl rumbles from the lion.

He stops in his tracks, momentarily caught off guard, a rare look of surprise flickering across his face.

You chuckle, shaking your head as you tease, “Aw, poor General. Looks like I’m staying here after all—”

Before you can finish, he moves in a flash, sweeping you up in his arms and lifting you away from Snowmoon’s side. His grip is firm, yet gentle, holding you securely against his chest. How can someone who naps so much move with such speed?

She rises and lets out another displeased growl, her tail lashing slightly as she watches you being spirited away from her side. You glance back at him, and it almost feels like a silent battle between a man and his lion.

His arms tighten around you possessively, and he huffs, “[Name] is mine!”

The lion stares for a moment, then flops down with a disgruntled sigh, clearly deciding the effort isn’t worth it.

He chuckles in triumph, settling back in his chair with you still cradled in his lap. Without a moment’s hesitation, he leans in, nuzzling his head against your neck, his warm breath tickling your skin. You shiver, feeling the softness of his hair brushing your cheek.

“Are you actually jealous of her?” you ask, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice.

He pauses, his gaze meeting yours with a glint of playful mischief.

“Jealous? Me?” He lets out a low chuckle, drawing you even closer, his arms tightened around your waist. “Maybe. But can you blame me?” His voice drops to a whisper, lips now close to your ear. “After all, I’d rather be the one keeping you all to myself...”

⋇⊰SUNDAY⊱⋇

“Can I... see your wings, S-Sunday?” you ask, feeling the name catch slightly on your tongue. After all the time you’ve spent calling him ‘My Lord,’ addressing him by name still feels foreign, as if you’re crossing some unspoken line.

His gaze lifts from his desk, and his eyes meet yours, expression unreadable. It's only been a few months since the two of you moved past mere formalities and into something deeper, but sometimes you still feel like a servant asking for a favor rather than a partner making a simple request.

“Pardon?” His tone is calm, yet curious, those small wings behind his ears twitching slightly.

“Your… other wings?” Your voice barely above a whisper. “I-I mean, if it’s alright with you, of course. I wouldn’t want to—” You stop yourself, feeling the awkwardness bubble up, regretting how impulsive your request had been.

He smiles, a faint chuckle escaping his lips as he observes you. “My dear,” he says, his voice soft and soothing, “Never feel shy to ask anything of me.” Slowly, he rises from his desk, each step deliberate as he approaches you. “Whatever you wish, I am yours to command.” There’s a quiet confidence in his steps, his gaze never breaking from yours.

His fingers tilt your chin up slightly, and his eyes soften, lips curling into a smile that always leaves you a little breathless. And as if it were the most natural thing, he shrugs off his coat, draping it neatly on the sofa beside you.

“Uh... w-what are you doing?” You stammer, trying to keep your composure as he slides out of his outer layer with a practiced ease.

“I thought it was clear,” he replies, voice rich with amusement. “You wish to see my wings, yes?” He finishes folding his coat, his gaze never wavering.

In a single, fluid movement, his two hidden pairs of wings unfurl, and you find yourself awestruck at the sight before you. Each feather fades from an ash-blue at the base to a rich midnight hue. That last pair was far darker, the outermost tips tinged in a shadowy, ashen black.

Though darker than expected for a Halovian’s wings, they exude a potent aura—divine, yes, but laced with an undertone of something almost… sinister. It’s mesmerizing and daunting all at once.

As you sit there speechless, he lowers himself onto the edge of the sofa, his thighs bracketing yours, his wings forming a slowly enclosing cocoon around you. His gaze is unwavering, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile.

“Well?” Voice smooth as butter, his eyes glinting with intrigue. “What do you think?”

“T-They’re… beautiful…” You manage to whisper, captivated by the midnight elegance of his wings.

Almost instinctively, you lift a hand, fingertips itching to trace the delicate lines of his feathers, but you hesitate, unsure if your touch would be welcome.

Noticing your hesitation, his expression softens, and he tilts his head slightly.

“Go on,” he says quietly, a hint of amusement in his tone. “Feel free to touch them.” You reach out, hand trembling just slightly, and your fingers make contact with the nearest feather.

It’s softer than you imagined. You let your hand glide down one of the dark feathers, marveling at the subtle gradient of color and the warmth radiating from his wings.

As your fingertips brush against the soft feathers of his wings, a shudder ripple through him. A low sound escapes his lips, and you glance up, a hint of surprise crossing your face. His grip tightens around the cushion behind you, his knuckles whitening as if he could tear it apart at any moment.

You don’t notice the intensity of the effect your touch has on him, too caught up in the sensation of his wings, twirling your fingers around the delicate feathers.

Halovian wings are known to be sensitive, fragile even. But his wings, especially these two pairs that had been hidden away for a long time, are more so.

They’re darker than most, a reflection of the weight of his past actions, and he’s always kept them concealed, ashamed of what they’ve become.

When you asked to see them, a quiet surge of happiness stirred within him. To have someone, someone he holds so dear, ask to see this part of him… It was something he didn’t expect but longed for. And even more, when you found them beautiful, it filled a void in his heart that had been empty for far too long.

"My dear..." His voice drops a few octaves, darker than usual, as he watches you with half-lidded eyes.

You glance up at him, finally noticing the slight hitch in his breath, the flush creeping across his features. A sudden wave of concern floods you, and you start to open your mouth to ask if you’ve hurt him in any way.

But before you can speak, he leans in, his lips crashing onto yours in a kiss that is anything but gentle. His hands move to cradle your face, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens, his wings fluttering slightly

You’ve always known Sunday to be a gentleman, always composed, always polite. But you had also know that there’s a side of him that’s far more… chaotic. His kiss is desperate, hungry, as though he’s been holding back for too long.

The moment his lips part, the air around you seems to grow thicker, charged with an unspoken tension. His breath, warm and steady, brushes against your skin as his voice, barely a whisper, slips from his mouth.

"My dear... do you wish to see something more.. pleasing?"

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theonottsbxtch · 2 days ago

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I LOVED YOU FIRST PT2 | FC43

part one

an: not even gonna leave an an, i always had a part two lol

wc: 5.2k

Franco found out she was dating Angelo via an Instagram story. A fucking Instagram story.

But that was almost three years ago now, and Franco tried to let it go, god did he try. He was getting married now, after all. He had to forget about what could have been.

The engagement ring on his finger felt heavier than it should. Not because he hadn’t once thought it was right—he had. Or maybe he just convinced himself it was right. They’d been together for four years, maybe more, he stopped counting. She was beautiful, poised, easy to love, easy to fit into his world. That’s what he’d told himself, anyway.

But now, standing in the grand suite of the London hotel they’d rented for the weekend, Franco stared out the window at the city below, watching the lights flicker in the distance. He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something was missing. Not that he had any right to be questioning it. After all, he was about to get married, wasn’t he?

The last three years had been a blur of wins, podiums, and post-race parties. Formula 1 had been a dream realised, his face plastered across billboards in every country, every magazine with his name next to the headlines. He’d travelled the world, earned millions, lived a life many envied. But somewhere along the way, his heart had wandered.

And the truth was, despite the glamour, despite the fame, the money, he couldn’t shake the thought of her. The way she’d looked when she told him she loved him first. The way her eyes had glistened with unshed tears that night in Monza—before she left for good. The way she’d walked away, no longer the girl he took for granted. It was like he could still see her disappearing down the hallway of the hotel, leaving him behind, a shadow in her past.

What if I had chosen her?

He thought about that too often. But it was too late. She was gone. She’d moved on with Angelo, the guy who was everything Franco wasn’t—steady, grounded, someone who could give her a love that wasn’t tied to racing, fame, or endless, mind-numbing travel. And that fucking Instagram story—her laughing, the two of them in a café in Buenos Aires, arms around each other, looking so effortlessly happy—had been the final blow.

That was the last straw.

And now, three years later, here he was—about to get married, with the wrong person. He should have been thrilled, but something about it gnawed at him, like he was suffocating in a life that wasn’t his own. She was everything he thought he wanted. She’d followed him to every race, always the perfect girlfriend, the perfect partner. But the truth was, he wasn’t sure he loved her anymore. He wasn’t sure he ever had.

She had been the easy option. She fit into the world he’d built for himself—the shiny, public life, the world of sponsorships and media appearances. She had the right background, the right education, the right looks. She was what was expected of him. What people saw when they looked at a successful F1 driver: the perfect match, the ideal woman.

But the reality was that whenever he closed his eyes, he saw someone else. He saw her. The girl from that small village in Argentina, the one who’d loved him first and probably would, even when he didn’t deserve it. Even when he hadn’t been able to see it for what it was.

He hadn’t thought about her for a while—not in the sense that would make him ache, not the way he used to. He’d buried that pain under the chaos of the last few years. But it was like a low hum in the back of his mind. Every time he saw Angelo’s name pop up, or when he’d hear a new story about her from people back home, he couldn’t help but wonder how her life had turned out. Was she happy? Was she still with Angelo? Was she finally over him?

He could only imagine the life she’d built without him—the kind of life she deserved.

But now, standing on the edge of a new chapter of his life, Franco wondered if he’d ever be able to move on. Because, no matter how many laps he raced, no matter how many trophies he collected, it always came back to her. And now, with his wedding on the horizon, he couldn’t help but ask himself: What the hell had he been doing this whole time?

His phone buzzed on the table, snapping him back to the moment. His fiancée. A text: “Hey, I made reservations for dinner tonight!”

He sighed and stared at the screen of his phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

He knew he shouldn’t, it was ridiculous. It was stupid. He had no right to send her an invitation, not after everything. He hadn’t heard from her in so long, hadn’t even thought about reaching out beyond those painful Instagram stories and the passing updates from mutual friends.

But, for some reason, there he was—typing out an invitation to his wedding.

It’s the right thing to do, he told himself. She was a part of his past. She had been the first person to love him unconditionally. They’d spent too many years growing up together not to extend an olive branch. Besides, she had a life now, a life without him. Maybe it was selfish to think she would even want to come, but maybe, just maybe, she deserved to know. She deserved to hear it from him, the way things had turned out.

He hit “send” before he could overthink it any more. The words felt hollow as they left his phone, but there was no going back now.

It was a quiet afternoon in Buenos Aires. The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a soft, golden light through the windows of their apartment. She and Angelo had just finished dinner—nothing fancy, just pasta and wine—and now she was curled up on the couch with a book in her lap, one of the many cosy rituals they had settled into over the past couple of years.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She glanced at it, seeing a notification from her email app. The subject line made her pause.

Wedding Invitation: Franco Colapinto.

She blinked, feeling her chest tighten before she even opened it. It had been so long since she’d thought about him—since Monza, really. It was a chapter of her life that had closed the moment she walked away. But the sight of his name brought it all rushing back. The summers spent racing bikes down dirt roads, his smile so effortless, so wide. The way he’d looked at her before everything changed.

Slowly, she opened the email, feeling a strange mixture of nostalgia and disbelief.

I hope this message finds you well. It’s been a while since we last spoke, but I wanted to reach out and invite you to something important. I’m getting married in three months' time, and I wanted to personally invite you to be a part of the day. It wouldn’t feel right without including you.

I understand if you’re unable to come, but I thought it was important to extend the invitation.

I hope everything is going well in your life.

All the best,

Fran

She stared at the message for what felt like an eternity, the words swimming in her mind. There were so many things she could have said, but the only thing she could focus on was the feeling of her heart, beating a little faster than it should. A soft ache settled in her chest.

Three years had passed. She had moved on, found a life she was proud of—one that was stable and calm, filled with love from Angelo, whose steady hand had never wavered, who had been everything Franco couldn’t be. She had built a future, and it was more than she had ever expected for herself.

And yet, the invitation sat there, a reminder of what had been. Of the boy she had loved, the boy who had never truly seen her. Of the boy who she had walked away from.

She set the phone down for a moment, leaning back against the couch. Angelo’s gentle snoring filled the living room from the slightly ajar door, a quiet reminder of the life they had made together—together, with no ghosts of the past lingering between them. But even as she sat there, she could feel the sting of Franco’s message, the painful reminder of how much had been left unsaid.

She thought about the wedding. How strange it felt to be invited to something so intimate, something so final. It was a life she would never be a part of. A life that wasn’t hers to claim, never was. But part of her, deep down, still wondered what had happened. Was he happy? Was this really the life he wanted? Or was this just another easy option for him? Another decision made out of convenience?

Why am I even asking myself this?

She shook her head, her lips curling into a rueful smile. She knew she didn’t want to go. There was no reason to go back to that part of her life, not now. Not when everything she had built with Angelo was exactly where it needed to be.

The following morning, the soft clink of Angelo’s keys echoed through their small kitchen as he got his things ready for work. He was already dressed in his crisp suit, his tie neatly adjusted, preparing for another day at the law firm. She, on the other hand, was in her scrubs, packing her bag for her shift at the hospital.

She was tying her trainers when she saw him glance at her, his eyes focused on his phone.

“Hey,” he said, his voice casual but tinged with curiosity. “You seem a little quiet this morning.”

She shrugged, setting her bag down on the counter. “I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”

It was only a half-lie. She had hardly slept last night after receiving Franco’s invitation. The words had stuck with her, gnawing at her thoughts, replaying in her mind like a loop she couldn’t escape.

“What’s up?” Angelo asked, watching her intently, his brow furrowing slightly.

She hesitated, then sighed and reached for her phone, pulling up the email Franco had sent her. She handed it to him without a word.

Angelo read it in silence, his eyes scanning the screen. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but somehow, she already knew that he would have an opinion on it.

Finally, he set the phone down and looked at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. “He’s getting married, huh? I didn;’t believe it when I saw it on the news.” he said softly.

“Yeah,” she replied quietly, as if the words themselves felt like an admission. “I guess he thought I should know.”

“You’re not planning on going, are you?” Angelo asked, his voice laced with concern.

She shook her head, biting her lip. “He’s my past now. It doesn’t matter. It’s… it’s not something I need to revisit.”

Angelo nodded, his eyes softening as he stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. He knew how much Franco had meant to her—how he had once been the centre of her world. But that was years ago. And he had never once doubted that she was now his world.

“I haven’t seen Franco since we were sixteen,” Angelo said, his tone thoughtful. “I know things between you and him ended... well, the way they did. But maybe it might be good to go. For closure. For you, if nothing else.”

She met his eyes, her gaze wavering. “Closure?” she repeated, almost incredulously. “I don’t need closure, Angelo. I moved on a long time ago.”

“I know,” Angelo said, his voice gentle but firm. “But I think sometimes it’s easy to say we’ve moved on, that we’re over things. But there are pieces of our past that stick with us, no matter how much time passes. Maybe seeing him—seeing that life—will help you put the final chapter behind you. Don’t you think?”

She was quiet for a long moment, turning the idea over in her head. It made sense, in a way. The past had never quite been put to rest, even if she had buried it deep. Maybe it wasn’t about Franco anymore. Maybe it was about facing what had happened, about finding peace with it, once and for all.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, shaking her head. “I don’t want it to mess with what we have, Angelo. I don’t want to go and be reminded of something that doesn’t exist anymore.”

Angelo smiled softly, taking her hand in his. “It won’t. I promise. You’re the one I want, mi amor You’re the one who matters. Whatever happened back then, whatever Franco was, that’s not us. It’s not our life. But if this is something you think you need to do, then I’ll be there with you. I want you to have the closure you need.”

She felt a warmth spread through her chest at his words. Angelo had always been like that—steady, understanding, and so patient with her. He never pushed her to forget, but he also didn’t hold her to the past. He was the one who made her feel safe, who built her the life she was proud of, and the thought of him beside her through whatever this was made her feel like she could take on anything.

With a slow, hesitant breath, she met his eyes. “You’re right. Maybe it would be good to go. I don’t know what I’ll feel when I see him, but I think... I think I can handle it now.”

Angelo smiled, squeezing her hand. “Then we’ll go. Together.”

She nodded, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. The decision was made, and it was time to let go of the last remnants of the past. Franco and his life—whatever that was now—could stay in the past, but she wouldn’t be running from it anymore.

“Thanks,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “For always being here.”

“Always,” Angelo replied, his voice warm. “Now go. You don’t want to be late for your shift.”

She smiled at him one last time before grabbing her bag and heading for the door. The wedding was still months away, but somehow, her world felt just a little bit more at peace now.

Three months later

The morning of the wedding, the soft rays of the sun filtered through the curtains of their hotel suite, casting a warm, golden glow across the room.

She stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the fabric of her dress as Angelo adjusted his cufflinks in the reflection behind her. The air was filled with a quiet sense of anticipation. It had been a few months since she agreed to come to the wedding, and now, standing in this luxurious hotel in the heart of the Mediterranean, she could feel the surrealness of it all.

She was here. With him. With Angelo.

He caught her gaze in the mirror, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “You look beautiful,” he said, his voice tender.

She smiled back, her heart swelling with a quiet joy. Angelo was always so calm, so steady, and he knew exactly how to make her feel loved without needing to say much. The simple moments like this were the ones that made her certain that their life together, their future, was the right one.

“Thank you,” she said, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. He was perfect in every way. “You look handsome, as usual,” she added with a smile.

He chuckled softly. “I try,” he teased, adjusting the hem of his suit jacket before stepping forward to take her hand. “Are you ready for this? I know it’s been a long time coming.”

She nodded, squeezing his hand. “Yeah. I’m ready. It’s just… it’s strange. You know? We’re not the same people we were three years ago. And I feel like I’m finally letting go of that past. I just need to do it, for me. And for us.”

“Whatever you need, you have it,” Angelo said, his voice unwavering, filled with a quiet strength.

She smiled at him, grateful for his support. They had come so far, and no matter what happened today, she knew she was in the right place.

“I’m going to step outside for a second,” she said, pulling away from him gently. “I’m going to grab a photo of the schedule. I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” Angelo replied, watching her with those warm, reassuring eyes.

She stepped into the corridor of the hotel, her heels clicking against the polished floor. She pulled out her phone, navigating to the event details to snap a photo of the ceremony’s schedule. The hallway was quiet, save for the distant chatter of guests below and the hum of preparations for the wedding in the distance. The excitement was palpable in the air, but in this moment, everything felt calm.

That was until she heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching from behind.

She turned around, feeling her heart give a small, unexpected jolt when she saw him.

Franco.

He was standing there, half-dressed in a black tuxedo with his shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, his tie still loose around his neck. He looked just like he did three years ago—handsome, dishevelled in the way that made him seem effortlessly charming.

Her stomach tightened.

“You came,” he said, his voice soft with surprise.

She stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say, before forcing a calm smile. “I said I would,” she replied evenly. Her heart beat just a little faster, but she kept her expression neutral.

He looked at her, his gaze a little more intense than she remembered, and she couldn’t quite place the mix of emotions flickering in his eyes. There was something unspoken there, something she hadn’t expected.

“I didn’t think you’d follow through,” he added, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

She didn’t know what to make of that. She shrugged. “I thought I’d at least be polite.”

A silence stretched between them, uncomfortable and thick with everything that had been left unsaid over the years. Franco’s gaze drifted toward the floor for a moment before he looked back up at her, his jaw tense, and his voice was almost pleading when he spoke.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his words hesitant.

She hesitated, feeling her pulse quicken. She didn’t want this. Didn’t want to go back to the past—didn’t want to open that door again.

“I’d rather not,” she said, her tone firm, though her heart was beating harder than she cared to admit.

Franco’s expression softened. “It’s been three years. Three years overdue, don’t you think?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply, the weight of everything hanging between them. She didn’t owe him anything, and yet, a part of her—perhaps the part that had loved him—knew there was still something lingering. Something that she hadn’t been able to shake off.

She finally gave a soft sigh, one that carried all the weariness of the years that had passed. “Fine,” she said quietly, her shoulders sagging slightly in resignation. “But just for a minute. I don’t have time to rehash everything.”

“Thank you,” Franco murmured, stepping forward as he gestured down the hallway. “My room’s just down here. I won’t keep you long.”

They walked down the corridor in silence, the weight of the moment sinking in. She wasn’t sure what she expected from this conversation, but she knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Not for either of them. When they reached his room, Franco opened the door and stepped aside to let her in.

It was a modest suite, far removed from the lavish ceremony unfolding just downstairs. The quiet of the room seemed to accentuate the tension between them. He closed the door behind them, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, his voice distant as he turned to face her. “Water? A drink?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

There was a long pause. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly nervous. For the first time in a long while, he seemed uncertain.

“So…” Franco began, taking a breath, “I guess this is awkward, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied, her voice steady, but her insides were churning. “A little.”

Before she even had a chance to settle with what she was doing, he shot her straight to the heart with the words that came out of his mouth.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said, his voice quiet. “I know I did, but that wasn’t ever my intention. You were always there for me, and I should’ve done better. I should’ve realised…”

Franco ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture that was all too familiar. He seemed to be gathering the courage to say something, but when he spoke, his words were not what she expected.

“I should’ve told you,” he started, voice low, almost regretful. “I should have told you that I loved you.”

She blinked, her chest tightening as she took in the weight of his words. “Don’t,” she said quickly, cutting him off. Her voice was sharp, a defence mechanism against the rawness he was trying to expose. “You can’t do that. You can’t come here and say things like that after all this time. It’s... it’s mean.”

Franco’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “I should’ve told you,” he repeated, his voice thick with something she couldn’t quite place—guilt, perhaps? Regret?

She shook her head, unable to stop herself from responding. “Why are you still with her, then?” Her voice trembled slightly, the question feeling more like a challenge than a simple inquiry. She thought of how excited she must be right now getting ready, while he was confessing his love to his childhood best friend. She wondered whether she knew.

He didn’t answer right away, and when he did, his eyes flickered away, as though he was ashamed of the truth he was about to speak. “It’s easier to pretend to love her,” he admitted, his voice flat. “It’s easier than facing the truth.”

“Than what?” she asked, her words cutting through the air, her eyes locking onto his. “Than admitting you love me?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Franco’s eyes darkened, and he stepped closer, a hesitation lingering between them. He opened his mouth, but instead of speaking, he exhaled deeply, as if trying to gather the strength to continue.

“You don’t understand,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I was scared. I didn’t know how to handle what I was feeling. I still don’t.”

She looked at him, biting her lip, trying to keep herself from breaking. “You can’t do this,” she said, her voice cracking with frustration. “You don’t get to walk back into my life now and make me feel like I was some... some second choice. You don’t get to say things that undo everything we went through.”

Franco’s gaze darkened, but his next words were even more dangerous. “Say it, and I’ll leave her,” he said, his voice low and intense, as if he were testing her. “Say you want me the same way you wanted me three summers ago, and I’ll do it. I’ll walk away from her. I’ll choose you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, her heart stuttering in her chest. The temptation was there—familiar, painful, and so very dangerous. She could feel that old longing tug at her, the part of her that had loved him so fiercely, so deeply. But this wasn’t that girl anymore. She wasn’t the girl who would wait around for him to realise what he’d lost.

“I can’t,” she whispered, feeling tears prick the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “I can’t do that anymore. I’m happy now. I’m happy with Angelo.”

The words felt heavy on her tongue, and for a moment, it felt like she had to convince herself of them. But as she looked into Franco’s eyes—still searching, still wanting—she realised that she meant it. She really did.

Franco’s face fell, his expression a mixture of frustration and defeat. “You don’t understand,” he said again, the words sounding more like a plea. “I never stopped loving you.”

She took a step back, shaking her head, trying to clear the emotions that were spiralling inside of her. “No,” she said firmly, her voice resolute. “You don’t get to say that, Franco. Not now. Not when I’ve spent three years getting over all of this. You don’t get to come here and break my heart all over again.”

For a long moment, they stood there, the space between them filled with unspoken words and unresolved tension. But it was over. It had to be.

“I can’t undo what happened,” she added softly, her gaze not leaving his. “But I’m not that girl anymore. And I’m not going to be someone’s second choice.”

Franco didn’t say anything. He just stood there, staring at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. The weight of everything they’d been through hung heavy between them, and it was clear now that nothing could fix it. Not words. Not promises.

She turned to leave, her hand on the doorknob, but before she could step out of the room, she paused, glancing over her shoulder one last time.

“I’m happy now, Fran,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite everything. “And you need to figure out what makes you happy too. But I can’t be part of that anymore.”

She opened the door and stepped out, not looking back, not giving him the chance to say anything more.

The wedding was beautiful.

The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a golden hue over the guests who had gathered for the wedding. The ceremony was set to take place on the terrace of the luxurious hotel overlooking the sea, the soft sound of waves lapping against the rocks below barely audible amidst the murmur of excited chatter.

She sat there, a few rows back from the front, Angelo by her side. The venue was beautiful—everything that was supposed to be perfect for a wedding. The guests were in their best attire, the flowers were arranged in pristine perfection, and the atmosphere felt like a dream. But something was off. A low hum of anxiety had been building ever since the music started, and she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Franco was supposed to be standing at the altar now. But he wasn’t.

She stole a glance at Angelo, who was sitting quietly beside her, a reassuring hand on her knee. He could sense her unease.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice almost drowned out by the gentle clinking of glasses and conversations around them.

She nodded, but her eyes drifted nervously toward the aisle. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “Something feels wrong.”

The minutes dragged on. The officiant glanced at his watch, confusion spreading across his face as he leaned over to whisper something to the bridesmaids. There was no sign of Franco, and the guests were beginning to exchange worried glances. The tension in the air became palpable, the excitement of the ceremony suddenly replaced by a growing sense of discomfort.

After a few more minutes, she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She turned to Angelo, her voice barely above a whisper, but her anxiety was thick in her words. “Do you think he’s going to come?”

Angelo squeezed her hand gently, his gaze soft and understanding. “I don’t know, cariño. Maybe something’s happened. He’s probably just... running late.”

But as they exchanged those quiet words, it became clear that it wasn’t just a delay. The guests were shifting in their seats, some starting to murmur under their breath, the ceremony now holding a sense of surreal anticipation.

And then, just as the whispers reached a crescendo, the sound of footsteps echoed from behind. Everyone turned, their heads swivelling as they saw him—Franco. He was walking down the aisle, his face pale, his expression one of guilt and uncertainty. He wasn’t in a rush, though. It was as if he was taking his time, as though he had already made a decision.

The room fell silent as Franco reached the front. He looked out at the gathering of faces—his family, his friends, all of them waiting for the moment when he would say "I do." But he didn’t speak immediately.

He was struggling with the words, and she could feel the weight of the tension from across the room. Her heart raced, confusion and disbelief washing over her as she watched him take a deep breath, his eyes scanning the crowd before finally locking on the bride’s family sitting in the front row.

“Excuse me,” Franco’s voice broke through the silence, shaky but loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m sorry for the disruption,” he continued, his eyes darting nervously between the bride and the guests. “I... I can’t do this. I can’t marry her.”

The air seemed to stop in that moment. His words hung like an echo, the shock rippling through the crowd. She couldn’t look away, her heart pounding in her chest as Freddie stood there, his face flushed with embarrassment, his hands trembling at his sides.

“I’m sorry, I thought I could,” he went on, his voice quiet but steady, “but I can’t marry her when I love someone else.” His gaze shifted to her, and for a split second, their eyes met. The pain, the regret, the history of everything they had been—it was all there in that single glance. But she didn’t feel anything but exhaustion. It was like watching someone else’s dream unravel.

The guests were murmuring, unsure of how to respond. His bride, stood by the doors he’d just walked in from, ready to walk down the aisle frozen and unmoving. Shelooked like she was about to collapse, her face pale as she took in the words that no one had expected.

“I’m sorry, I just—” Franco continued, his voice breaking, “I can’t do it. I can’t go through with it. I’m sorry. I—I just can’t.”

Without another word, he turned and began to walk away, stepping down from the altar, leaving the bride standing alone, abandoned in front of everyone.

The room was filled with stunned silence.

Angelo reached for her hand, squeezing it gently as the reality of what had just unfolded sank in. She didn’t know how to feel—didn’t know what to think. Her chest ached with a strange mixture of relief and guilt, but most of all, there was a numbness that began to set in.

And then, just as quickly as Franco had walked away, he was gone, disappearing behind the closed doors of the venue, leaving a trail of shock in his wake. The ceremony was over before it had even begun.

She couldn’t help herself.

The guilt she felt in her stomach was strong.

It was her fault.

the end.

an: actual an, im sorry guys! i was feeling sad so i wrote this muahhah

tags: @obxstiles @charlosvibesonly @zestytimbit @taygrls

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capseycartwright · 15 hours ago

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you're my sun, my moon, my guiding star

“Fine, let’s have it your way then,” Eddie slammed his phone down on the kitchen table. “You set me up a dating profile then – Hinge, Grindr, whatever you fucking want, Buck. Set me up a dating profile, and you pick which random man I need to sleep with to make it so you feel okay about wanting me.”

in which evan buckley gets dumped, gets drunk with his best friend, realises he's in love with said best friend, and lets his abandonment issues get the best of him. because your first is never your last, right? so buck can't be eddie's first: he needs to be his last.

ao3 link

Buck was driving himself to Eddie’s before he could really even think about it, the autopilot of his brain engaging and getting him behind the wheel, and on the road to his best friend’s house without needing much thought at all. Eddie was who he needed, in that moment – not Maddie, and her sage advice, not Hen, who’d be clever, and logical about it all. No, he needed Eddie. Eddie, who inexplicably opened the front door in his underwear and a pink shirt. Eddie, who let them sit in silence, a playlist churning out eighties rock for a full twenty-three minutes (Buck checked) before Eddie said anything at all.

“So,” Eddie set his empty drink down, gesturing to Buck for a second. Buck twisted the cap off before he handed it over, adding to the pile on the coffee table. “What happened? You said that you and Tommy were going to the movies tonight.”

Buck groaned, the sound loud in the quiet of Eddie’s house. “I was supposed to be,” he slumped back onto the couch. “But then he dumped me.”

Eddie raised an eyebrow. “He dumped you?”

“He dumped me,” Buck confirmed. “Because I am a deeply unlovable individual who is going to die alone.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “I think you might be being dramatic there.”

“I’m not!” Buck protested. “Eddie, everyone I date dumps me – or leaves me. That apparently doesn’t even change when I’m dating a man. It’s not – I thought it would be different, with Tommy.”

“Because he’s a man?” Eddie’s confusion wasn’t judgemental – no, Eddie never judged him, Buck was sure of that much. It was sincere confusion, his best friend wanting to understand where Buck was coming from.

“Yeah? No? I mean – maybe,” Buck huffed. He wasn’t entirely sure how to articulate himself. “I guess – I guess I just thought that now I know who I am, that I’m like – consciously aware I’m bisexual – it might be different. That maybe it didn’t work out before because there was this part of me that I didn’t know, or understand, and that had affected my relationships because I wasn’t bringing my like, whole self to the table. But if it didn’t work with Tommy, then that’s not why. Right? Then the problem is me.”

Eddie’s expression softened. “I don’t think the problem is you, Buck.”

“It has to me! I’m the only common denominator here.”

Buck wanted to cry. He wanted to lie down on Eddie’s couch and cry until he had nothing left – and it wasn’t about Tommy, really, because Buck had liked Tommy, but the end of their relationship wasn’t what was making him feel so devastated. It was the idea of Tommy, more than anything else – what Tommy represented. A happily ever after that Buck was falling short of all over again.

“What did Tommy say, exactly? Maybe – maybe you’re spiralling, and he gave you a good reason that you’re not seeing.”

“He – I asked him to move in with me.”

“Buck.”

Eddie sounded long-suffering. Buck had earned that. He knew that much. “I know,” he knew it had been the wrong move. The words were barely out of his mouth, and Buck knew it had been the wrong move – but that was sort of his thing, to cling desperately to relationships that didn’t work because he was so terrified of being alone. “I just – I felt comfortable with him, and the whole Abby thing was weird.”

“Really weird,” Eddie agreed, wincing.

“But not the kind of weird I couldn’t get past. Right? He came over tonight, and I told him – why be apart when we could be together. Then, he said he couldn’t move in with me, because if he did, I would only break his heart,” Buck sighed. He wouldn’t intend to. That’s what Tommy had said – but who ever planned to break someone’s heart? No one was that cruel. Maybe they were – but Buck wasn’t. He’d never wanted to break anyone’s heart, even if that had been the end result sometimes.

Eddie was quiet for a second. “Did he say why he thought you’d break his heart?”

Buck’s beer burned his throat as he took another gulp, the sour taste lingering. “He said that he was my first, but he wasn’t my last.”

read the rest on ao3

#911 abc #evan buckley #eddie diaz #buddie #911 fic #in which i ramble #in which lorna writes fic #i spiralled about the first and last line so buck should too

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koolades-world · 3 days ago

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have three really great ideas but this one was brainrotting me more so you get this one first. may or may not be inspired by myself and the amount of birthmarks i have personally (i do actually have all the birthmarks listed!) if you guys want a part two for solomon's birthmarks and mc doting on him, let me know. i could make that happen!

i can't explain it but i kept thinking of that one solomon and his wives post written by my beloved mutal alba while writing this. not sure why, but i'm giving credit where it is due. please go check her out!!!

this can read a little suggestive so read with caution! however, i think it's very very cute!! <3

birthmarks

"Hey, Mc." Solomon looked up from the book he was reading. You were seated not too far from him, sitting cross-legged on the ground surrounded by papers you were organizing.

"What's up?" You didn't look up from what you were doing.

"Have you ever heard of any old wives tales behind birthmarks?" He asked.

"Well, that was out of the blue." When you paused, he continued to look at you expectantly. "Yes, I've heard a couple. The first one I thought of were they were how you died in a past life." You let out a snort of laughter at the expression that crossed the sorcerer's face.

"That's not the one I was thinking of." He shook his head.

"Then, you must've been thinking of the one where they're where you've been kissed in a past life. If the death one was the case, I would've had some brutal deaths." You recalled the simple, yet romantic myth where every birthmark was a kiss left by a lover of your past. You much preferred that outlook, even if it wasn't real.

"That's the one. Now, I'm curious..." He trialed off, giving you his best attempt at puppy dog eyes.

"You could've just asked in a normal way. You're my partner. Asmo must be rubbing off on you." You got up, and joined him on the sofa.

"No, Asmo would've just asked you to get naked." The two of you giggled together at the idea. In his defense, he was right.

"Do you have any birthmarks?" You wondered how he'd thought to ask something like that in the first place.

"Maybe you'll get to see later, if you're lucky." Solomon winked at you.

"Solomon!" You smacked his arm, to which he pulled you into a hug back.

"Maybe you can help me find each and every one..." He voiced died as the words left his mouth. He ran a thumb over the birthmark on your cheek, his touch gentle. You could tell he'd already moved on from that idea despite how enthralled he'd seemed with it a second ago. "This a cute spot to have one."

You had many birthmarks, but the one on your cheek was the one most easily visible. "Thanks. I must've gotten lots of cheek kisses." You remarked. "Is this the one that got you thinking?" You put a hand over his, which was still on your face.

"You read my mind." You studied his face of oddly deep concentration. While he was looking at you, he didn't even realize he wasn't meeting your gaze. Instead, he seemed to be memorizing your features.

"Compared to the others, this one is small." This comment seemed to snap him out of his stupor.

"Where are the rest?" His hand stayed on your cheek, but seemed ready to move to the next area at any point.

"I've got a fair amount on my arms and hands. There's one on the base knuckle of my right index finger, and another just underneath the first knuckle of my left ring finger." He took both of your hands in his, moving to study them next.

"You were well loved." He threaded your fingers together. "They were sweet to you, and married you." You began to grow shy once you realized the implications of the birthmark on your ring finger, and a little upset with yourself for not realizing that sooner.

"I'd never thought of that." You cleared your throat, and pushed past the mild embarrassment. "I also have one on my left forearm, and one on both of the backs of my shoulders." He let go of your right hand to run his fingers up your arm and to your back, but held steadfast onto your left hand. He remained silent, his lips a thin line.

"I have one over my heart, and one in the center of my chest." You pressed a finger over the center of your chest where you knew the mark was. Solomon's frigid hands settled over your heart. You hoped he couldn't feel how it was racing under his touch.

"Is that all of them?" He finally met your eyes. They were filled with a tenderness you could only place as fondness.

"No, I have a couple more." You took his free hand, and guided it down to where the remaining two were. You knew he'd do it anyways. "I've got one here." You placed his hand on your hip. After steeling your nerves, you guided his hand lower down to your inner thigh. "And one here."

"You were well loved." He repeated. You'd expected some sort of snide comment about the placement of the last one, but that didn't even seem to be on his mind. You stared at him, trying to figure out what thoughts were running through his head. You left his hand on your leg, and stroked his face like he'd done for you moments ago.

"Solomon, are you jealous?" The corners of his lips twitched at your comment.

"What if I am?" He sighed. He held your left hand close to his body, and cuddled you close to him.

"Did you ever consider that maybe it was you?" You whispered.

"Me?" Solomon sounded surprised.

"I think it was you. If you don't believe that the way I do, you can replace them. That way, I have double the kisses from you, and you know for sure your lips were the last to touch me." You could tell your words were getting through to him by the way his zeroed in on yours.

Instead of responding, he lifted your left hand to his lips, and kissed your left ring finger, and ghost of a smile on his face. "Then, I have work to do, don't I?"

#gn reader #drabble #obey me #obey me!#obey me x reader #obey me shall we date #obey me solomon #omswd #obey me! shall we date #obey me! shall we date?

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on-my-vigilante-sht · 2 days ago

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Wrong Person (College AU!)

Hockey player!Cregan Stark x Reader, Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Summary: Aemond's girlfriend has a group project with the man he hates the most, Cregan Stark.

Warning: abuse, domestic violence, alcohol consumption, implied smut, implied fighting, smoking, angst; characters generations/ages don't quite make sense but basically everyone is 20 in this

Word Count: 4.7k

Masterlist

A/N Hey guys, I know its been a while. Some of you may have figured out I stop posting as much when school picks up but here’s something I’ve been slowly piecing together

Taking a deep breath, I knocked on Aemond’s door. Softly, but not so soft he would miss it. Immediately the door swung open and I was met with Aemond’s eternally neutral expression. I felt my own heart sink as he yet again didn’t greet me with a smile. “Hey,” I greeted shyly, feeling my lips quirk up into a smile despite how disappointed I repeatedly found myself.

“Hey,” he greeted in return, stepping aside to let me through. I walked past him, finding his dorm just as I always did. It was surprisingly clean for a guy’s college dorm but Aemond was pretty tidy. Coming up behind me, he gently lifted my bag off my shoulder, placing it on the desk chair before moving me towards his bed.

I suddenly found myself wishing Criston, his roommate, was here. “Oh I actually need my-”

“What?” Aemond snapped, cutting me off.

I stared up at him for a second, trying to register just how angry he was. Finding no real, threatening anger I decided to answer him. “It’s just, I, uh I have to wrap up something quick for that project. Cregan just-”

Aemond scoffed, rolling his eyes. He walked around me, flopping onto his bed with an annoyed expression. “All I fucking hear is about Cregan fucking Stark and your project. You’ve been doing this project for like two months.”

I found my arms wrapping around myself but stopped. Aemond hated when I did that. “Stop acting like I’m gonna hurt you!” he’d say. “I’m sorry but it’s a semester long project,” I explained for the hundredth time.

“I don’t see why you had to partner with him,” Aemond grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest petulantly.

“I know, but there were no other seats.” We repeated the same conversation we’ve had dozens of times throughout this semester.

Walking into Tyrell Hall, I checked my phone. One minute until class started. Cursing, I rushed up to the second floor, quickly locating classroom 221B. Entering the room, I let out a huff seeing that every seat was filled. Scanning the room for a glimpse of an open seat, I observed my classmates. I waved to the few I knew, girls from my freshman year residence hall, some people who ran in Aemond’s circle, a few I didn’t know, and then the hockey team. They all sat in the rear corner of the room, with the only seat left being right next to their captain, Cregan Stark. Glancing at the professor, I found her looking at me expectantly so I reluctantly headed to the back of the room, trying to disappear into my hair as I walked past the hockey team.

“Now that we’re all here,” the professor started, “make sure to get to know your desk partner. You’ll be working with them all semester.” Shit.

I looked to my left, finding Cregan already giving me a shit eating grin. “Oh this is gonna be fun,” he smiled, knowing how much Aemond hated the athletes.

Aemond just got quiet, biting his lip as he looked down at his crossed arms. “C’mon, don’t be mad,” I begged, getting up on the bed. I no longer thought about it. We had been through this routine so many times I just acted. I laid on his bed, practically on top of him as I wrapped my arms around his waist, resting my head on his chest. “I hate it too but it’s only for one semester.”

Aemond huffed, uncrossing his arms so he could lay one across my shoulder, nestling me further into his chest. He didn’t say a word, rather he just looked at me. His expression wasn’t expectant but I knew what he wanted. Pushing my body up, I connected my lips to his. He immediately escalated it, turning so he could place one hand on my jaw, the other on my waist as he moved to be on top of me.

Managing to pull away slightly, I looked up at him, his lips still so close I could feel his labored breath. “Aemond, I want to, I really do,” I tried to keep him from getting mad, “but I have-”

“Is this about your project?” he interrupted me, still so close I could feel the sharpness of his breath as he got angrier.

“No,” I assured quickly. “I have a history assignment. Besides, doesn’t Criston get back from class soon?”

“I don’t care,” he said, brushing his nose against mine. “Here,” he said, leaning over me to his bedside table to grab his phone. He typed out a quick message, only briefly showing it to me before tossing it back onto his bedside table. “You can do your work tomorrow morning before class.” His words phrased as a suggestion but holding the weight of a command. He connected his lips to mine again, wasting no time slipping his hand up my shirt.

Sitting in class, I tried my best to ignore Cregan. The first half of class was always dedicated to lecture, with the second half going to working on our project. I was keenly aware of Cregan’s eyes flickering toward me every few moments as well as Aemond’s friends a few rows ahead. I just kept my gaze firmly on my notes and the professor’s slides.

Finally, the professor reached the end of her slides. “Okay, that wraps up today’s lecture. Turn to your partner and continue working on your projects. Remember: you should be submitting an outline to me by Monday.”

As I turned towards Cregan, making sure to keep my hair covering my neck, I caught a glimpse of Aegon’s watchful eye. Remembering Aemond, I turned to Cregan’s wolfish grin, refusing to return it. Undeterred, he leaned closer to me. “Hey, I saw you were working on the doc at five a.m. What were you doing up at that hour?” he asked good-naturedly.

“Oh, I couldn’t get to it last night so I woke up early to work on it,” I shrugged. I tried my best not to dwell on the fact that he had noticed that. And judging by his furrowed brows, I tried to ignore the fact that he was concerned about me. “Why were you up at that hour?” I returned, immediately feeling guilty for engaging him.

Cregan’s smile widened. “I was up for hockey practice and got the notifications. Speaking of which, are you coming to the game tonight?”

I sent him a look. “I think you know the answer to that.”

Cregan’s lips fell into a pout. He actually pouted at me like a dog. “C’mon, I want the girl who’s carrying me through this project there.” I just let out a breathy laugh, trying to dismiss his insistence, but thoughtlessly moved my hair, exposing the hickies Aemond had made a point to leave. Beside me, Cregan’s eyes widened. “Woah,” he exclaimed. I felt embarrassment consume me and I wanted the ground to swallow me whole in that moment as I quickly replaced my hair back where it was. “Wow, someone wants everyone to know you have a boyfriend,” Cregan chuckled.

“Cregan,” I began, ready to tell him off. The mortification must have been written all over my face because his expression morphed into silent sympathy as I looked at him.

He cleared his throat, looking down at his notes for a second before turning his attention to my laptop screen. “So where are we on the outline?” he asked. He looked back up, meeting my gaze and I gave him a soft smile of thanks before returning to the project.

Cregan looked up at the stands full of students. Peering in the student section, he was disappointed but unsurprised to find the stands void of his health sciences partner.

“C’mon man, you had to know she wasn’t coming,” Benjicot Blackwood, Cregan’s best friend, interrupted his thoughts. “You know Aemond would never let her come.”

Cregan shrugged. “He’s not in charge of her. She could come.”

“Cregan,” Benji stopped his best friend, becoming very serious for once. “You know he basically controls her every move right? You had to have noticed. She basically hasn’t talked to anyone except Aemond and his friends since like October last year.”

Cregan stopped to think. Now that he thought about it, he realized that she had used to be one of the most well liked people at the university. But now, she really only had a reputation for being Aemond fucking Targaryen's girlfriend. He couldn’t believe that she of all people even looked at that silver haired prick twice.

Seeing his best friend’s dismay, Benji felt bad knowing that Cregan had had a crush on the girl since he first saw her freshman year. “Hey,” he caught his friend’s attention. “Larys told me Aemond and his little cult are going to Phi Gamma Delta tonight. Even if she isn’t there you could ‘accidentally’ spill some beer on Aemond.”

Cregan sent a mischievous look to his friend, a small smile quirking on his lips.

“So where are we going?” I asked Alicent as she curls my hair.

“Phi Gamma Delta,” she explained, putting down the hot wand and spraying hair spray all over me.

“Are the guys coming with us?” I asked, turning to her as she took the curling wand to her own hair.

“Yeah, Harwin is going to let the guys in,” Alicent explained, flawlessly curling her brown locks.

I stood up from her bed, going to my bag to grab my outfit. But as soon as I pulled it out, Alicent turned toward me with wide eyes. “Oh no, I already have something for you to wear so we can match,” she came up with on the spot.

“Thanks but I haven’t gotten to wear this since like first semester sophomore year,” I said, holding up the backless top. I didn’t say the quiet part out loud, I hadn’t worn it since Aemond and I got together.

“Yeah but I’m wearing a long sleeve,” Alicent said, standing up from her desk and holding up her sheer top.

“Another time,” I promised her. Grabbing my clothes, I headed for her bathroom, quickly changing into the top and my black jeans that I had cleaned beer off of so many times.

Entering the room again, Alicent had a slightly sour attitude as she finished off her hair. But I just ignored it, determined to have a good night as I got started on my makeup. Once the both of us were ready, we headed to Aemond’s room where all the guys were waiting for us.

I knocked, being louder this time so as to overcome the music that was already blasting. The door swung open, revealing Criston. “Hey!” he greeted the two of us excitedly. “The girls are here,” he announced to the very crowded dorm room.

Aemond pushed his way to the front of the room, a beer fueled smile on his face. But it dropped as soon as he saw me. My heart immediately sunk seeing his expression but he just grabbed my arm, dragging me into the dorm somewhat harshly. Before I could even speak, he was already barking orders at me. “Go grab a drink, I’ll talk to you in a second,” he spat. Disheartened and slightly scared, I went over to Criston’s desk which was lined with booze.

Aemond turned his attention to Alicent, seething. “I thought she was wearing that one long sleeve top,” he growled.

“I’m sorry, I tried to make her take it but she wouldn’t,” she defended. “I could’ve told her it was you insisting she wear it,” she threw back with a quirked brow.

Aemond just sent her a glare before going back to his girlfriend. “Hey,” he greeted, an arm slipping around my waist to bring me to face him. “Look, I’m sorry I got mad earlier its just… this top,” he said, tugging at the fabric, “is… well its basically a rectangle of fabric held together by one string,” he explained. His fingers now finding the back of my top, tugging at the string to where it almost came untied to make his point.

I averted my eyes, gaze flickered down, shame coursing through me. “I’m sorry, it’s just, I loved this top.”

“I know, baby. And I’m not trying to control what you wear just, keep close to me tonight. Not all the guys there will respect you,” he said, giving another tug to the string of my top before stepping away towards his friends.

Feeling slightly disoriented and embarrassed, I headed to the bathroom in order to fix the top before returning to the pregame, trying to forget the earlier conversation with cheap booze.

After a few more moments, Aemond had declared that it was time for us to all go to the frat. As we all headed over, Aemond had his arm slung across my shoulder. By the time we reached the house, I was shivering thanks to all my exposed skin, and slightly wishing I had listened to Alicent.

As soon as we entered, Alicent grabbed my hand, dragging me to the dance floor as the DJ started to play Super Bass. It wasn’t long after we had been jumping around on the dance floor that Aemond found me again, moving to stand behind me with one hand around my waist and the other holding a beer.

After a couple songs, I felt Aemond’s fingers tap on my hip before his lips came up behind my ear. “I’m gonna go out back for a smoke. Be safe,” he advised before taking his leave, a few of the guys following him upstairs out of the basement.

I just turned back to Alicent who seemed to relieved to not have anyone hovering around her so she could let loose. I laughed as her dancing became more wild and sloppy. That was until her eyes went wide and she was looking at the staircase leading out of the basement. Confused, I turned to find the entire hockey team filling the stairway, with Cregan Stark standing at the top of the staircase.

He looked around for a moment as he descended the stairs, before his eyes settled on me and a smile broke across his face. It was as if Aemond’s training kicked in or something because I had the sudden urge to go find him but something in me kept me firmly rooted to the ground. Maybe it was the beer and god knows what other sticky substances keeping my shoes on the floor of this frat basement.

Either way, it was too late to leave because Cregan was pushing his way through the crowd towards me until he towered over me. The dancing bodies of other students being no match for his hulking frame. He stooped down, bringing his lips closer to my ear. “Hi,” he greeted, pulling away with a bright smile.

“Hi,” I returned, not even bothering to try to reach up to reach his ear.

“Where’s your owner?” he asked sarcastically.

I sent him a look when he pulled away. He just laughed, bringing his lips to my ear again. “I kid. But seriously, I’m surprised he’s not attached to your hip making sure someone like me isn’t talking to you,” he teased.

This time he didn’t immediately stand up, allowing me to talk in his ear to answer. “He’s in the backyard. He’ll be out soon,” I answered.

“Well then I guess I have to make due with the time I have,” Cregan smiled. Before I could protest, his hand found mine, tugging me towards him. His grip was tight enough to move me, but not so tight that I couldn’t slip out if I wanted to.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help but move with Cregan, finding laughs building in my chest as I watched him dance. We were having a good time until all of a sudden Cregan got a serious expression on his face, standing straight up and looking toward the staircase. I didn’t even have time to follow his gaze before he grabbed my arm tugging me behind him.

“Hey! Wha-” I began to protest as I was whirled around but the words died in my throat as I realized why Cregan had gotten serious.

Currently pushing through the crowd was a murderous looking Aemond. Rather than rush to calm him like I probably should, I found myself cowering behind the hockey captain, clinging to his arm. “Stark!” Aemond barked across the crowded room, so loud everyone managed to hear it. “What the hell are you doing with my girlfriend?” he spat, getting in Cregan’s face.

“Nothing, we were just dancing,” he answered coolly. “Then you came down here looking like you wanted to murder someone.”

Aemond rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, maybe don’t dance with another guy’s girlfriend next time.” He turned his gaze to me, holding out his hand expectantly. “Come on, we’re leaving.”

The fear coursing through me was screaming at me to take his hand but something wouldn’t let my body move. Cregan sent a glance back towards me before turning to Aemond. “She doesn’t wanna go with you.”

“Stay out of this,” Aemond seethed. “This is none of your business.” He then looked at me expectantly again. “We’re going,” he spat.

By now the music had died down and everyone was looking at us. Glancing around, I saw both the hockey team and Aemond’s friends coming towards us, prepared to back up their guys. “Nah, I’m not letting her go with you,” Cregan declared. “Not until you calm down.”

That just seemed to ignite a fury in Aemond. “She’s my girlfriend, Stark,” he spat through gritted teeth. “She’s perfectly fine with me and I sure as hell am not leaving my girlfriend with any of you,” he nodded to the hockey team.

“Then why does she look terrified of you right now?” Benji interjected.

“Shut up, Blackwood,” Criston spat.

All of the guys started arguing, yelling at the others to shut up. Still behind Cregan, I snapped my head behind me as I felt a gentle hand brush against mine. Turning, I found Rhaenyra looking at me with a concerned, gentle look. I just stared at her for a moment before Alicent’s voice brought me back to the conflict.

“Enough!” she got in between Cregan and Aemond. “I’m taking her back to her dorm unless all of you,” she pointed at the guys on both sides, “want to leave.”

There were some grumbles but no one protested. “I’ll go with her too,” Rhaenyra offered.

Not letting the boys fight it out even more, I spoke up. “Yeah, we’re going home,” I agreed. Stepping away from Cregan, I shakily approached Aemond. He was looking at me like I had committed some serious sin against him. “I’m sorry,” I whispered softly. I tried to move past him but he grabbed my waist, pulling me into an aggressive kiss. I could taste the beer and smoke on his lips as he forced his lips into mine. And I had a sneaking suspicion his eyes were locked onto Cregan’s.

When he released me, I let out a shuddered breath as his hand rested on my hip. “We’ll discuss this tomorrow,” his voice was grave. But his hand came off my waist, as if giving me permission to walk away.

Nothing was really said as I left the frat with Alicent and Rhaenyra on my heels. They both tried to ask me multiple times if I was okay, to which I just nodded in agreement. My mind was too consumed playing out what had just happened. But as soon as we were within ten minutes of my dorm, I stopped walking and turned to the two girls behind me. “I’m good here if you guys wanna head home or back to the party. I appreciate you coming with me but I think I just need to be alone right now.”

They both sent each other a glance. “We’re not letting you walk alone at night,” Rhaenyra protested.

“I’ll be fine,” I insisted.

They both looked at each other reluctantly before looking toward me. “Okay but, call someone if you start to feel freaked out,” Alicent said.

“I will,” I agreed, before turning on my heel and walking away.

Immediately, I pulled out my phone, afraid to see what was on there. Opening it, I was first confronted with a text from Cregan.

Hey sorry about tn If he tries anything with you let me know and I’ll handle it

My heart melted reading his messages. I wanted to cry at how sweet he had been lately, mostly because Aemond had been anything but.

Going to our messages, I found nothing. I didn’t know if that was a good or a bad thing. I’m sure my refusal to move would come up some way or another.

I swiped out of my messages with Aemond, going back to Cregan. Reluctantly, I held down on the message until the option to delete it popped up. My finger hesitated over the delete button before I hit it. Just like I had deleted all his flirty texts. Leaving nothing but the texts about our project.

The next morning, I was woken up by incessant banging on my door. Glancing quickly at the clock, I saw that it read eight a.m. Rushing to the door, I opened it without checking who it was because deep down, I already knew.

As the door flew open I immediately took a step back, finding Aemond practically glowing with fury. “What the hell was that last night?” he spat, storming into my room.

I backed up as he entered, the door slamming shut behind him. For the first time, I cursed the fact that my roommate went home every weekend. “Aemond, I’m-”

My words were cut off as he lunged forward, his hand coming to close around my throat. “You’re what?” he spat. “Sorry? Sorry for humiliating me? Making me look like an awful person?” But I hardly heard a word, too busy trying to process the fact that he had actually grabbed me by the throat and was choking me. But it seemed my silence angered him more as his fist became tighter and he pressed me up against the wall. My vision was beginning to fade as he crushed my windpipe even tighter. “You cowered away from your boyfriend behind Cregan fucking Stark! Do you know how that makes me look? This,” he said, referring to his hand around my throat, “is because of you. You make me out to be some abuser, fine. It can be that way,” he spat before dragging me to the floor.

I coughed and sputtered as I hit the ground. Hard. “I’m sorry,” I managed to gasp out through tears and desperate gulps of air. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Aemond stood over me, bending down to get in my face. “You’re damn right you weren’t thinking straight. I’ll see you Monday and you better have fixed this attitude by then,” he said before marching out of my room.

That entire weekend I just flipped between numbly trying to wrap my head around what happened and sobbing violently. Every time I caught a glimpse of my bruised neck in the mirror—Aemond’s fingers clearly marked in my skin—or thought about the feeling of his hand around my throat.

I stood in the bathroom, my skin blotchy from the tears and black and blue covering my neck. I had only just managed to start being able to look at myself without immediately dissolving into sobs when my phone rang. Hesitantly, I picked it up, finding Cregan’s name scrawled across my screen. After another moment of hesitation, I answered the call. “Hello?” I answered, immediately cringing at the hoarseness of my voice.

“Hey,” Cregan’s voice came over the phone, his concern apparent. “Are you okay?” His heart was racing as he heard the scratchiness in her voice.

I hesitated for a moment, trying to clear my throat but it was no use. Between the choking and nearly two days worth of sobbing, my voice was fried. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“No you’re not, I’m coming over,” Cregan informed, already getting up from his bed.

“Cregan,” I began to protest.

“You’re still in Benjen Hall 514, right?” Cregan asked.

I opened my mouth to protest but the words wouldn’t fall. So instead, I gave a reluctant confirmation.

“I’ll be over in five.”

I hung up the phone, going over to my bed and slinking onto it. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I should try to clean myself up and hide the hand print on my neck. But if I hod it, what life was I resigning myself to?

I didn’t have much time to act because there was a knock at my door. I found myself rushing to open the door, despite my resistance to being seen by anyone. But either way, I opened the door, quickly ushering Cregan inside before letting it shut again, once again hiding Aemond’s act from the world.

After observing my room for a moment, Cregan turned to me. “So what’s wrong?” he asked.

I realized I was looking at the ground, effectively hiding my face and neck. After a second of hesitation, I looked up, letting him see the bruises and tear stains. His eyes widened, his jaw even dropping as he saw my state. He just stared at me for a moment before he spoke hesitantly. “Did- did Aemond do that?” he asked, horror lacing his voice. I only nodded reluctantly.

I watched the shock turn to sympathy, to hurt, to finally anger. His jaw locked and his fists curled as he took a step away from me. “That little-” he couldn’t even finish his insult he was so angry. “Did you get my text? Why didn’t you call?”

“I-” I began but I was cut off my my cringe at the sound of my own voice. “I don’t know. The past few days have just been a blur.”

Cregan stepped towards me. I flinched as he came towards me to which he immediately stopped. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” he swore. He took another hesitant step forward until he was gently grasping my shoulders. “I am however, gonna beat the shit out of that deadbeat boyfriend of yours. Or should I say, ex-boyfriend.”

“Cregan,” I began, my hands finding his chest. “I-” I didn’t even know what I wanted to say. I just broke down into sobs as I fell into his chest. In response, he just hugged me tightly, running his fingers through my hair.

“Hey, it’ll be okay,” he hushed me. “I swear I’ll be right back.”

Cregan cringed as he knocked on room 514. His knuckles were bloody but he didn’t care. Immediately the door swung open, revealing his health sciences partner. She immediately threw herself into his arms, much to the hockey player’s joy. He hugged her tighter as her legs came to wrap around his hips. Entering the threshold of the room, he let the door fall shut behind him as her feet fell back down onto the ground. “No one’s ever gonna hurt you again,” Cregan swore, his forehead resting against hers. “I promise you.”

Masterlist

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rafesbabygirlx · 19 hours ago

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Unknown Identity - Drew Starkey x Reader

Masterlist

Summary: when the reader is at some bar/at a party at the club and she hooks up with drew & ends up at his hotel room or something & she has no idea who he is and it comes up somehow on the morning after

Warnings: hookup, smut (oral, missionary)

@chocolovelatte I hope I did her justice

The club lights pulsed to the rhythm of the heavy bass, a beat that thudded deep in your chest as you leaned against the bar, sipping a fizzy, sweet drink. The energy of the crowd surged around you, a blur of faces and the endless dance of the night. The air was dense with the mix of perfume, sweat, and an electric thrill that promised anything could happen.

You felt a presence at your side before you saw him. Tall and striking, he stood with a confidence that drew attention without effort. His dark hair looked perfect and his eyes were bright even in the darkness of the club. When he caught your gaze, a sly smile curved on his lips. He was familiar, but not in a way you could quite place.

“Hey,” he said, leaning in just enough for his voice to cut through the music. “You from around here.”

You laughed, tilting your head in amusement. “Just moved. Is that your best pickup line?”

“I’ve got a couple more if you’d like to hear them,” he replied, eyes glinting with something playful, his voice deep and sexy. The tone was warm, smooth, like velvet wrapping around each syllable. You felt a shiver run down your spine.

You and your best friend had just moved to New York. Needing a change of your small quiet hometown for something exciting. What better place to have gone? Your friend had left you at the bar to go dance with someone and you had no problem with it. This wasn’t your typical scene but you’re pushing yourself since the change of scenery. You weren’t expecting to find someone of your own.

Before you knew it, the hours melted into moments. You danced, talked, and shared glances that lingered longer than they should. His laughter was infectious, his voice low and intimate when he leaned in close to speak over the music. The drink in your hand was forgotten as the electric charge between you crackled and grew.

It wasn’t until you found yourself in the back of a taxi, heart racing and cheeks flushed, that reality started to blur around the edges. His hand rested on your knee, grounding you in the moment as the city lights blurred past the window. He would lean over and whisper in your ear and his lips would graze over your earlobe. You swear you could go crazy at just the slight touch.

The hotel room was as sleek and polished as you’d expect from someone who carried themselves with such confidence. He held the door open for you, eyes never leaving yours, as you walked in and kicked off your heels. The click of the door closing behind you sent your pulse skyrocketing.

His hands were immediately on your waist spinning you around to face him. “You good with this?” The way he looked, staring down at you as you could only look at the way his tongue glides over his bottom lip wondering how it would feel on yours. “I’m so good.” You both smile as he cups the side of your face and pulls you in for a kiss. You immediately let his tongue explore your mouth. You can taste cigarettes and beer and you never thought you’d love the combination until now.

He walks you backwards to the hotel bed as you unbutton his shirt and he begins to lift your dress up and over your head. He looks down at your matching black set and sinks to his knees. He places kisses on your stomach and down to your thighs. His fingers rub circles on your soaked clothed core and you shake above him. He wraps his fingers around the hem of your panties pulling them down and placing kisses where they were just covering. He motions you to sit and he pulls your legs over his shoulders.

He begins to work on your clit. Flicking light licks onto it while you grip the back of his head to pull him in closer. He continues the movements of his tongue until you're dripping wet and climaxing. He moves up to lay in between your legs. Freeing himself of his pants he’s quick to line himself up with you. “I can’t wait to feel you around me, pretty girl.” Still coming down from your high you find it hard to form any proper sentences. “Please,” is all you get out as you grip his biceps.

He pushes into slowly with a smile but concern in his eyes as he watches you to make sure you’re ok. You winced a bit at the stretch but as he bottomed out the pain subsided and all you felt was full. He slowly moved back and pushed into you again. You gasp through a smile at his movements, “harder…” you breathe out.

He picks up the pace. Thrusting into you at a speed that has your breath hitching and walls clenching around him. “Fuck you feel good.” He moves the hair out of your face to get a better look at you. Both of you thinking about how you’ve never hooked up with someone else in this way but it just feels right. Like it was meant to be.

“…I’m close. Shit.” You gasp out feeling your stomach begin to tighten. You wanted to call out his name but realized neither or you even know each other’s. That was quickly pushed to the back of your mind when he sped up his movements to get you to another high. It doesn’t take much longer until you're arching your body up into his and crying out from the pleasure. He keeps moving to get you through it. Once you’ve settled back onto the bed, he pulls out and begins to stroke himself. You watch him as he does and cant help yourself but to take over. You stroke him quickly as he hunches over you and you let him release onto your stomach.

Once he’s caught his breath he stands up and heads to the bathroom. He returns with a washcloth wiping his come off your stomach. You get up and start to collect your clothes. He comes out of the bathroom dressed in sweatpants and hands you a shirt of his. “Stay with me, only if you'd like.” You contemplate for a second before smiling and accepting the shirt. Much better than the walk of shame through the nice hotel lobby after all the workers saw you two walk in together wrapped in each other's arms laughing loudly. You both climb back into bed, you lay your chest to his back and he pulls you in tightly.

Morning came too quickly. The rays of sunlight sliced through a crack in the curtains, waking you from a deep, dreamless sleep. You blinked against the brightness, taking in the unfamiliar room. The minimalist décor and the expensive sheets wrapped around you hinted that you were far from home. Slowly, the events of the night before trickled back—his smile, the way he’d whispered sweet words into your ear, the feeling of him inside you, the way his hands had traced patterns on your skin until the early hours. You turned over, heart pounding, to see him beside you, still fast asleep. His dark hair was tousled, eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones, making him look softer than he had in the dim light of the club. There was something about him, even in sleep he was still so handsome.

Then, as you sat up and got up to make your way to the bathroom, your eyes landed on the glossy magazine sitting on the room's table. It was a Vanity Fair. You take a closer look at it and your eyes widen at the realization. The cover showcasing a familiar, handsome face. A name next to it that made your breath catch: Drew Starkey. He was sitting next to Daniel Craig in honor of their new movie coming out.

Reality hits you like a wave. Drew Starkey, the actor, was lying just next to you, just fucking you last night, in this hotel room that seemed too polished, too perfect. It was impossible. Yet, there he was, blinking his eyes open, a lazy grin spreading across his face when he saw you. You never watched anything he was in, and knew of his name from friends. May have seen a photo of him once or twice, but you really had no idea he was the same person who’s been giving you butterflies these past hours.

“You’re…” you managed to say, voice cracking with shock and disbelief. You held up the magazine not being able to finish your sentence. “Yeah,” he said, the grin turning a bit sheepish as he propped himself up on one elbow, taking in your reaction. “I didn’t know,” you return. He seemed entirely too relaxed for what you felt—a cocktail of shock, disbelief, and something that teetered on the edge of panic. “Surprise?”

You stared at him, your mind spinning as you processed the night before. How you hadn’t noticed who he was, how easily you’d been drawn into his orbit. Your cheeks flushed as you remembered how open, how uninhibited you’d been. He gets up and begins to move towards you. He reached out, a playful glint in his eye as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I gotta admit,” he said, eyes searching yours, “it’s been a while since someone looked at me and didn’t know who I was. I liked it.”

You blinked, trying to push past the embarrassment and confusion, to focus on the way his touch still made your skin tingle. “I had no idea…” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

“Well,” he said, leaning in just a bit, “maybe that’s what made last night so good.”

He cupped your face, just like last night and pulled you into another kiss. You didn’t know who he was yesterday but even now knowing your feelings towards him are no different. You like the way the previously unknown man made you feel and you hope for more of it.

.⭒☆━━━━━━━━━✰━━━━━━━━━☆⭒.

Taglist:

@rafestoothbrush @weluvwbb @itsforeverandalwayz @butterfly-ibuki @percysley

#drew starkey #drew starkey smut #drew starkey x reader #drew starkey fanfiction

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itacats · 1 day ago

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2 Lines Means Positive (mini-series)

FT: Simon Riley x reader

Warnings: pregnancy, worries of repeating the past/being a bad father, please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

A/N: Baby fever is in full swing this last little while, and I thought why not plague you all with a mini-series! There will be more to come for some of the other TF141 gang, but they'll just have to wait their turn.

SUM: Simon, a man haunted by a turbulent past, finds an unexpected moment of peace in a quiet Manchester evening. When you call him into the kitchen with life-changing news, he’s forced to confront the shadows he thought he’d left behind.

Soap MacTavish

Whispers of Hope

In the heart of Manchester, the rain poured steadily, creating a rhythmic backdrop that seemed to wash the world in a muted symphony. The room was bathed in a cozy, golden glow from the dim lamps scattered around, their light reflecting off the dark wood accents and worn leather couch. Shadows flickered gently, forming a mosaic of memories on the walls—memories that Simon Riley could never quite leave behind. These walls had seen him at his most vulnerable, his most broken, but they had also held the echoes of laughter, soft conversations, and the comfort that you both had woven into this place over time.

From his seat on the couch, Simon watched you glide through the kitchen with the kind of ease and grace that he found both foreign and comforting. There was an air of simple beauty about you as you moved, your sleeves rolled up, strands of hair slipping down past your ears, framing your face. You didn’t need to look up to feel his gaze; the warmth of his presence filled the room like a tangible force, blending with the aromas of herbs and simmering vegetables. It was these small moments—your content hum, the sizzle of food in the pan—that painted the portrait of a life he never thought he’d be part of.

You had pieced together a life of quiet sanctuary from the fragments of two turbulent pasts. Here, the ordinary became sacred: the unhurried evenings, the lazy weekend mornings, the feeling of safety that had been so hard to come by. It was fragile yet profoundly resilient, like the ivy that grew stubbornly through cracks in the cobbled streets outside. Every meal, every tender moment shared was a testament to your joint determination to build something out of nothing, to push back the darkness with a relentless light.

As he rose from the couch, crossing the worn wooden floor toward the kitchen, Simon felt a swell of emotions that had taken him years to understand, much less articulate. In the delicate frame of the person he loved, he saw a reflection of his own transformation—a man haunted by wars, scars, and regrets, now finding himself on the cusp of something he never believed he deserved: hope. The shadows in his mind receded a little as he approached, drawn forward by your voice.

“Simon! Can you come here for a second?” Your voice held an edge of anticipation, soft yet weighted, as if bracing for the impact of the moment. He quickened his pace, heart drumming in sync with the rain outside, a mixture of curiosity and unspoken worry bubbling beneath the surface.

“Sure, love. What’s up?” His words were casual, but his heart pounded as he watched you, a small plastic stick in your hand, held with the care and fragility of a message that could alter everything. Your eyes flickered with something unreadable—a mix of wonder and anxiety—and it was a look he’d come to know well: the way you gathered strength before sharing something you held close to your heart.

As you looked up, drawing a breath, the world around Simon slowed. All the battlefields, all the sleepless nights, all the walls he had built around himself felt oddly insignificant. He could feel the gravity of this moment settling over him, seeping into his bones, as the words left your lips:

“I’m pregnant.”

The words reverberated through the kitchen, hanging in the air like an incantation. For Simon, it was as if time had splintered. A swirl of thoughts collided within him—visions of childhood, flashes of solitude, echoes of a life filled with struggle and survival. But above all, one thought loomed larger than the rest: Could he be the father this child would need? He had always thought of parenthood as a distant, almost impossible concept—a role reserved for men without his past.

His gaze flickered to yours, searching for the strength he suddenly felt slipping through his grasp. “Wow…” he whispered, the word barely escaping. Simon could feel the old fears creeping in, familiar and unwelcome. His own childhood flickered in his mind like a reel of dark images, a life marked by pain and isolation. How could he, someone so steeped in darkness, nurture a life so fragile and innocent?

You stepped toward him, your hand reaching for his arm, grounding him with a gentle pressure. “Simon? Are you okay?” The tremor in your voice softened as you met his gaze, unwavering, clear—a lighthouse guiding him back to shore.

He closed his eyes for a moment, sighing as he combed a hand through his dark hair, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. “I just… I don’t want to screw this up. I’m afraid, love. Afraid of what I carry inside—afraid that I’ll let you both down.” His voice trembled, each word revealing cracks in the armor he’d worn for so long.

You held his gaze, firm and sure, your hand rising to rest over his chest, right above his heart. “Simon, you’re more than your past. You’ve faced so much, but you’ve never faced it alone, and you won’t now. We’ll do this together.”

In that moment, Simon felt an indescribable warmth—a kind of healing light that began to seep through his defenses. Here, in the heart of your small kitchen, surrounded by the comforting scent of dinner and the quiet rain outside, he felt something rare: hope. His world, once defined by battles and shadows, was now tinged with the promise of something softer, something worth fighting for in a different way.

“I want to be there for you—and the baby,” he confessed, feeling the weight of the words settle like an oath in his heart. It was a declaration, one spoken not from fear but from love.

“And you will be,” you whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek, the warmth in your eyes a mirror to his own. For once, Simon wasn’t haunted by the ghosts of his past but guided by the love in your gaze.

He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you, feeling the reassurance and strength of this newfound purpose. Together, you stood amidst the rain’s gentle rhythm, a silent promise lingering between you. For the first time, Simon Riley felt a light within him strong enough to break through any darkness—a light he would carry forward, forged not by fear, but by a love that would lead him into the unknown.

Here's the current post schedule with some upcoming stories to look forward to!

#bt extra #call of duty #simon ghost riley #cod #cod fic #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #pregnancy #pregnant #pregnant reader #fanfic #tf 141

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mr-ys-phantasma · 2 days ago

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🌙 Moon Phases 🌙

Agatha Harkness X Fem!Reader

Word Count: 1359

Chapter 41:

Now, with Jen out of the way, only Billy, Agatha, and you were left in the room. It was still unknown what this trial truly was and if the Road had chosen to just speed it up and end it right now.

Technically, once the green witch would have her trial; the road would end. Not everyone had to be trialed. At least it didn't last time.

Now... you were not so sure.

"This can end right here, right now." Agatha suddenly said as she sat down in a meditating position.

"How?"

You frowned, but as you locked eyes with your lover, you could almost read her thoughts. "By helping you next. Helping you find Tommy."

Agatha smiled faintly at your quick thinking and your keen ability in connecting the dots. She then patted the spot in front of her while looking at Billy.

"Come. Sit Down."

Billy did not seem to fully believe her. "What?"

Agatha remained patient. "That's what you want, right? Tommy isn't waiting out there. Not in a body, anyway. That's what got Rio in such a tizzy. She knows you could do it for him."

"Do what?"

"Give him another life! Another spin around the dance floor."

This got Billy interested, and he ended up sitting on top of his folded legs right in front of Agatha, desperation and undying hope glowing within his dark eyes.

"You think I can bring him back?" He questioned. "I don't know how I did it."

It was your turn to smile weakly as you moved to sit behind Billy. "You never do. That's the fun in it. " You folded your legs and leaned on the heels of your feet to keep some height.

Billy looked at you above his shoulder, surprised by your close proximity and the fact that he didn't know what you were planning to do; worried him.

Sure, you did not have any foul means in the end like Agatha, but you were a fully powered up witch with some impressive skills in your arsenal.

"Time to grow up." Agatha said, drawing his attention. "And don't worry about Y/N. She will help since... well, I don't have my powers back yet. "

In the end, Billy obeyed with some hesitation. He gave you one last look, trying to gain courage from your reassuring smile.

"It's okay, Billy. We can do this," you told him and motioned for him to focus back on Agatha. "Close your eyes and remember... remember your last moments with Tommy."

Billy closed his eyes and tried to take a few deep breaths while he explored his messy and divided mind for what he was looking for.

"I don't remember anything." He confessed.

Agatha looked at you, a silent signal to give him a little boost.

You took a deep breath and concentrated, white magic gathering gently in your palms. You were more confident with this, for you had done it in the past.

Using magic to help trigger a memory was a skill Agatha had helped you practise, offering herself as your guinea pig until you got it right.

It scares you at first, fearing you might hurt her, but she had remained fully trusting in you; knowing you would do it.

You closed your eyes and placed your hands close to Billy's temples, not touching his skin. Your white magic came alive and moved in gentle waves towards his head, bypassing any natural barrier they met.

"You were ten. You lived in Westview. You and your brother." Agatha started as you used your magic to jog his memory, a more subtle way of the trick she used on Wanda back the.

Billy was trying trying hard to remember. He didn't register when your magic started to affect him. He didn't have time to focus on it as his memory started to get jogged. "I was... about to fall asleep. I realize I'm breathing at the same time as Tommy. He's not snoring, but... It's heavy enough to listen to. It's nice. That feeling when your body knows it's safe."

Agatha hummed faintly in approval. "Breathe with him. Breathe." She guided him.

His breathing became even, and if you were not focusing on controlling your magic, you would have smiled with pride.

The little silence didn't last long as Billy started to sweat faintly, eyes twitching behind closed eyelids and a could almost feel the intensity of huss sunbconisous travel as it passed through your magic.

"The sound of him. It stops because everything else does." He exclaimed, a single finger faintly twitching.

"It's your mother folding her world. That's okay. It's okay." Agatha reassurd him. "You keep breathing. Even if you can't hear him, you don't have to open your eyes to know how close he is. Breathing together. You breathe for yourself. You breathe for him. You breathe for everything he is. You hold it all inside of you. But it can't stay there. The memories. The feelings. You can't keep them." Billy started to twitch more, his mind fighting him as the experiences and his emotions were becoming too much.

You had to open your eyes and look at Agatha with worry, feeling the inner turmoil within the boy. You felt sorry for him, not able to even imagine the traumatic experience he had been going through.

However, you were also worried that he might break from this meditation and attempt to see how much he was fighting it. If he did, you doubted there would be enough time to start again and help him.

Agatha seemed to share your thoughts, for she chose to act. She placed her hands above yours and forced them to press against his temples.

The sudden move shocked you, but you immediately had to close your eyes and keep control, his emotions and the connection you subtly shared due to your magic threatening to overwhelm you as well.

You took a few deep breaths and tried to focus on Agatha's warm hands, bigger and softer; cupping your own. They were trying to help with whatever remnants of magic she had taken from Alice and whatever her own strong will could do.

And so, the two of you worked together to encourage Billy to help him keep going now that he was so close to the end.

"Keep your eyes closed no matter what. You can't keep him. So where does he go?" Agatha asked, trying to focus as well and gain any kind of connection through your magic as well.

"I don't know!" Billy said in panic.

"Find him a place."

"It's black. There's nothing. He floats. He looks down... He's afraid." His pants grow deeper, louder, and you can feel the beads of sweat forming on his forehead and rolling by the side of his temples; getting stopped by your hands.

At the same time, above you, the lights keep turning off one by one; unevenly.

"But he has you with him now." Agatha reminded Billy.

"I can't find a place."

"Don't give me that. 120 bodies empty out every minute. Find one."

Billy was quiet for a few seconds, and that made you worried, but you did not dare to break your concentration, fearing for the worst.

At last, he started to speak again, and his words brought hope within your chest.

"It's underwater! There's a boy. It's a prank. They tricked him. He's gonna drown. It's a bad place." He informed, in his mind, being able to feel and see everything as if he was suffering them himself.

"It usually is."

"And the people, the family, there's no one to love him! He's got no one!" You caught faintly his hands glowing blue as his magic worked. "Agatha, am I killing this boy so my brother can live?"

Billy screamed as he successesded on the task, the lights above flickering. A crack on the cement appeared between Agatha and him, and in the very next second, he had disappeared from the room; never getting an answer and just leaving you and Agatha behind...

Once again, the two of you at the very end of the road.

Chapter 42

#agatha all along #special treat: two chapters in one day #agatha harkness #agatha spoilers #agatha fanfic #agatha x reader #agatha harkness x reader #moon phases fanfic #marvel #kathryn hahn #aubrey plaza #lesbian #billy maximoff #jennifer kale

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paceprompting · 3 days ago

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beside, not behind

written for ‘guard’ wc: 532 # | rated: t | cw: era-typical homophobic language & violence | tags: early relationship, protective steve harrington, feral eddie munson, soft ending

@steddiemicrofic

Steve knew he had a problem.

He didn’t care.

So what if he was the first one to jump in front of the danger; the things with rows of sharp teeth and no mercy. Or the normal people in their shit town with somehow less mercy than the demons.

So, yeah, he wasn’t going to hesitate to step in front of Eddie. His own body was shield enough.

Jason’s fist cracked across his jaw, his big-ass class ring cutting into the thin skin and drawing blood that spattered along the asphalt when Steve’s head snapped to the side. It’d been meant for Eddie, in the random gas station parking lot when they dared venture out for beer Steve didn’t realize he’d been out of.

Eddie hadn’t started it, but he hadn’t ignored Jason’s taunting. Old habits of biting first to be left alone had backfired, and Jason’s ego had flown out, full force.

He stumbled back into Eddie, but didn’t fall. He might get put down on his knees, but Steve was strangely good at keeping between the danger and the protected.

“Need a fucking guard dog when you go out now, Munson?” Jason seethed.

“Fuck off,” Eddie snapped, his hand landing on Steve’s shoulder, trying to push past. Steve refused, extending his arms to keep Eddie at his back. Steve may not have had any problem standing in front of Eddie, but Eddie definitely had a problem letting him.

“Steve, fucking move.” Eddie dug his nails into Steve’s shirt. Steve’s jaw fucking throbbed—and oh, did Eddie owe him later—which was enough to keep Eddie from throwing himself at Jason. Steve could take it, because no one else needed to.

He was the only one who needed to take the brunt of the world.

“Yeah, Harrington,” Jason said, flashing his teeth with a wolf-like sneer. “Let the fag take his beating with some dignity.”

Steve was so focused on keeping Eddie back, he’d hadn’t enough focus to do the same for himself. Not when ignorant, repressed fucking Jason Carver went after his Eddie.

He lashed out, one hand curling into Jason’s stupid letterman jacket and the other returning the blow he’d given Steve across the face. It didn’t draw blood, and Jason overcame the surprise by grabbing hard onto Steve’s hair and yanking him around.

There was so much shouting, Steve didn’t realize Eddie had joined the fray until Jason flew off to the side, a chaotic blur of black leather and chains wrapped up with him as they rolled onto the pavement. Eddie managed to stay on top, smacking his hand across Jason’s face and drawing several lines of blood from his own rings.

Jason shoved him off, swearing. Eddie went easily, getting onto his feet and towering over Jason.

“Get lost, or I’ll do it again.”

Holding his jaw, Steve turned away and fell back against the side of the Beemer, ignoring Jason. Eddie joined him, pressing his nose to Steve’s temple.

“I wish you wouldn’t step in,” Eddie whispered.

Steve shook his head, but Eddie stopped his response with a hand around his wrist.

“I want to face it with you,” he said against Steve’s skin. “Not behind you.”

#steddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fic #steddie microfic #steddie ficlet #protective steve harrington #feral eddie munson

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zvezda-writer · 10 hours ago

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Ex-boyfriend!Simon x Sex Worker!Reader

How big was your surprise when the door of your client's apartment opened and there was Simon, your ex.

Well, yes, it has been around ten years since you saw each other and he definitely had a glow up from the gaunt, funny boy you met back in the shitty neighborhood you two lived in Manchester. Same neighborhood, same type of family, same struggles growing up. You two had everything in common and could've ended up getting married and living in a one bedroom apartment in the same old neighborhood.

But he left.

Without goodbye, without explaining, he just left. You found out by his brother that he had joined the military. You were devastated, to say the least.

You stayed behind, having to take care of your ill mother since your father was a drunk bastard. Until he died when you were nineteen, killed during a bar fight. With the employment rate near to zero in the area you lived in, your solutions were either prostitution or drug dealing, and you refused to be involved with drugs.

That's how you ended up in the sex business. The money was good and you and your mother moved to London, and you started getting richer clients. That's how you ended up there, face to face with the man who broke your heart when you were only sixteen.

You two stared at each other in dead silence for a couple of seconds until you decided that he probably didn't even remember you, so you just acted normal, like you didn't remember him too. The money was too good to reject it.

–You're the one who called me, handsome?

You asked, your voice sickly sweet. He didn't answer, of course. At least not with words.

Without saying anything, he cupped your face with his big, callused hands, attacking your lips with his with deep, burning passion, the taste of his lips heavy with a mix of whiskey and tobacco. The taste had changed, but the way he kissed you, like a starved man, was the very same since you were both teenagers.

But, oh, he remembered you. More than you could've expected. And the moment he saw you standing right in front of the door, the feelings he had butried so deep came back to life in a explosion, leaving him blind with passion and longing.

After a moment he finally let go of your lips, pulling away just enough to get some air, his hands never leaving your face as he whispered in a raspy, rough voice who almost made you moan.

–Can't belive you're bloody real... Ten years, bunny. It's been fucking ten years.

And your heart stopped. He remembered. And hearing him call you the petname he had used with you so many times in the past made your heart twist in knots, eyes burning with tears that you refused to let fall. Your makeup was too expensive for it.

–I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry for not saying goodbye.

He murmured, kissing you again and again as he pulled you inside, shutting the door close without letting go of you.

Each kiss, each touch, everything about him and his presence was an explosion of feelings and sensations you couldn't describe, ecstasy cursing through your veins at each pump of your heart, lungs suffocating with the smell of his cologne at each uneven breathing, brain melting with every sweet word that left his mouth, body shuddering with every thrust of his divine sculpted dick.

–I'm never letting you go again, bunny...–another thrust –Gonna marry you...–another thrust –Gonna fill you up and make you a mommy, yeah?

All you could do was nod, your brain barely registering his words as he overwhelmed you with pleasure and love, and even if what he said wasn't true, it didn't matter at the moment. At that moment, you were both the old Y/N and Simon again, hiding inside his father's old truck at night to have a moment alone.

Your mind turned into a puddle as an overwhelming, destructive orgasm hit her, your warm and soaked cunt clenching and throbbing around his cock, and after a few more thrusts he made his words come true, filling you up to the brim.

Sure, at the moment you didn't actually believe he would marry you and take care of you, but then six months later you found yourself sitting on a comfortable armchair, hand resting on top of your round belly as you watched the most handsome man in the world build your daughter's crib in her pink room, under your inspection of course. Guess he took his promises way too seriously because after the first encounter in two months you were married and moving to a beautiful house in a nice, calm neighborhood, and everyday he made sure to remind you that you didn't have to lift a finger, he was your man, he's supposed to take care of you, right?

#simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon riley x you #cod ghost #ghost cod #ghost #simon ghost x reader #call of duty

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writingwisterias · 17 hours ago

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A Helping Hand

Dormmate!Leon Kennedy x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: SMUT, MDNI, Masturbation, Sex toys, Oral (f), Slight Edging, Cum play, Leon cums on reader, I know he has a strong pull out game, Slight overstimulation

You groaned loudly as you stepped through the door, slamming it shut behind you leaving the terrible day behind you. You were half tempted to leave a sock on the door desperate for some quiet but that wouldn't be kind, Your dormmate didn’t do anything wrong. The two of you weren't in a high enough pay bracket to even afford a room on your own. You sighed looking at the clock on the wall, it wasn’t long until he came home; about half an hour to be exact. That gave you enough time to play; to slip out your vibrator you have been itching to use for a few days. You felt giddy as you pulled out the box from under the bed, it was only a small one as when packing you didn't want anyone risking seeing it. The cool metal of the bullet only made you squirm further, more than ready to release the stresses that have been clinging on for the past few days.

You stripped yourself exposing your pussy to the cold air of the dorm. Crawling onto the small bed before burying yourself under the duvet. You practically groaned as the vibrator hummed to life, the vibrations making your fingers go fuzzy. The bullet tickled your skin as you rubbed it over your nipples first; your breath shook in anticipation as you began bringing it down towards your clit. Gathering up the arousal that started to spill out of your aching cunt; bringing the wetness up towards the puffy ball of nerves. You sucked your lip between your teeth in an attempt to silence the moans that threatened to leave. The vibration pulsed through your clit as you circled it, overstimulation creeping in such a glorious way. Your surroundings began to fade into the background as you got lost in the pleasure that was building. The stress melting off your body. Now if only you had something that could fill your aching pussy hating the way your walls were forever clenching around nothing.

Leon paused at his dorm door, the keys pausing mid-air as he tried to figure out the noise. The low hum that flowed through the walls. Eventually, he gave up only to open the door of your form in bed. The duvet tented where your knees were raised, your head resting against the bed with your eyes pinched shut tightly. He froze unsure of what to do; Should he leave? Save you the embarrassment of having to explain what you were doing, leaving your poor body still worked up. His sock throbbed at the restraints of his pants as he watched the way you squirmed under the duvet, the hand that wasn’t holding the vibrator gripping at the sheets so tightly your knuckles were going red. He would be lying if he hadn’t thought of making a move on you, imagining what it would feel like to be buried inside your velvet walls; feeling your juices drip down his cock to his balls. He shut the door loud enough for your head to shoot up towards the door. Apolgies spilt from your heaving chest as you attempted to ground yourself. He felt bad denying your orgasm, preventing you from the high he could see you were so close.

His presence at the edge of the bed was a silent question towards you, one that you pathetically nodded as your fingers grazed each other. You hated the whine that left your lips; making you sound so pathetic and needy for him. Leon pulled the duvet away from your legs - finding the vibrator discarded between them; still giving off a low hum that ran through the bedding. Your pussy shined in the low light of the bedroom, your arousal already damping the sheets beneath you. He always wondered what it would taste like as he ran his tongue against your folds - taking in the precious juices that you created. “D-do you need help?” he asked, his fingers at the hem of his shirt. If you didn't want this he would leave the room, go and find somewhere else to deal with his problem as you finished yours. “You don't have you.I’m sorry you walked in on this” you said between breaths; your mind still foggy from the pleasure, your body craving more. Leon didn’t reply instead settling in between your parted legs and began to feast.

His tongue lapped up everything you had to offer, his lips sucking on your sensitive nub like it was his last meal. He groaned as your fingers tugged at the strands of his blond hair; pulling him closer and practically smothering him with your pussy. He didn’t seem to be affected as he continued, only diving his tongue deeper inside your hole. You could still feel the bullet vibrating against the mattress, your hand leaving his head in an attempt to try and find it. Leon pulled away smiling at you, his lips covered in a gloss of you. “You don't need that anymore” He teased pulling it out from underneath him and turning it off. It landed against his bed with a small thud. You watched as he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing a chiselled chest; one that you weren't aware of him having. Next were his jeans and underwear; expertly removing both of them revealing his erection. Pre cum beaded at the tip, his body almost seeming as desperate for this release as you were. Perhaps both of you will benefit from this accidental slip-up.

His tip ran along your folds, gathering up your arousal as a lubricant. You smiled at his whines as his head fell against your shoulder whilst he slowly pushed himself in. Your nails dug into his shoulders as your walls stretched to accommodate him, what he lacked in size he gained in girth. “Fucking hell-” he groaned in your ear, nipping at your pulse point. You smiled against the skin of his neck, taking in the scent of cheap body spray and after spray. He pulled back, shimming his knees under your thighs, lifting you to the perfect arch. His finger dug into the flesh of your hips as he began to move, watching as your weeping cunt welcomed him inside. Leon groaned at the white ring that formed around his base, the small tuff of hair that he had yet to shave began to curl from the wetness of you. Your moans were heavenly as he drove himself faster and deeper inside your welcoming warmth.

He continued to get lost in his own pleasure, driving his hips forward so he was bottoming out each thrust. He couldn't help it, he was so desperate for you craving to see what this felt like from the first night he shared with you. He remembers it each time he rubbed himself in the communal showers, the way your duvet had pooled at the bottom of your bed in your sleep; exposing your body to the night air in just some underwear and an oversized shirt. Eventually he would watch you steal his own shirts displaying yourself around the room as you studied. "I've wanted this since the moment we moved in together" he grunted, his balls slapping against the skin the of your ass as the tightened. "The final straw was you stealing my shirts like you owned me...like you were mine to take. You are now"

Normally a possessive man would be a red flag, especially a college student. But his words only added to the flurry of pleasure that ran through you. White hot pleasure exploded around your clit as it begged to be touched again. Your hand sneaks past his grip, your small fingers dancing around the sensitive nub causing your legs to tighten around his hips trapping him against you. "Fuck princess I can't pull out if you do that" he grunted. His large hands brought your legs over his shoulders, his body shadowing yours as he thrusted deeper inside. He smirked as your eyes rolled back, your fingers moving away from your clit as you began to loosen ready for your orgasm.

You were so pretty like this, so flexible for him to take as you began to drift off into your orgasm. He bent your body further until you were completely smothered underneath him. "So close please-"

"I know baby I know...let go for me" he cooed. Your face pinched tight as a silent moan left your lips. He could feel your gush around his cock as your walls squeezed him so tight practically trapping him inside. He pulled out of you, leaving your walls clenching around nothing as he used the juices to finish himself off. You smiled as you watched his tip spurt his cum on your body, the stream leaving him so fast he could barely aim it. You watched as the cloudy substance decorated your tits and neck, scooping it up with your fingers to get a taste. Leon whimpered at the sight as he milked himself dry, his cock now semi hard connecting to your stomach with a dribble of cum.

You watched his chiseled chest rise and fall asleep he stared at you. His lips curve into a smile like he finally won a prize, and to him he did. You were the prettiest girl on campus and he finally had enough luck to actually get you. He bent down to kiss you, the taste of yourself still lingering on his lips. "Round 2" he murmured against your lips. You only smiled, finally thankful you had a way to get rid of the stress of your course.

#resident evil x reader #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy x reader #leon scott kennedy #resident evil fanfiction #resident evil #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy imagine

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aleskie-hischier · 2 days ago

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Summary: In the aftermath of your choice to leave Nico behind in Paris, your world shrinks to the cold, suffocating walls of an estate where the past comes to haunt you. Isolated and broken, you resign yourself to a fate sealed in blood. Nico, on the other hand, steels himself to ensure that his promise to bring you out of the shadows rings true. Together, you make a choice: to stay in the dark or to fight for a future outside of it, however harrowing it may be.

Word Count: 10k Warnings: angst to fluff!! swearing, bad parenting, there's an action sequence here so like...fighting? reader is NOT having a grand old time until nico arrives

READ PART ONE HERE

Nico wakes up on the rooftop in Paris, his body sore and head pounding, a faint sting on his arm where you’d injected him with the anesthetic. He reaches into his pocket for his phone—it’s almost dead, teetering on the edge of shutting down. Still, there’s enough battery left to see a stream of messages from his colleagues, congratulating him on completing his final mission and wishing him a happy retirement.

Your words echo in his mind.

Be happy, okay? For me?

You’d said it with a smile, but he remembers the fear in your eyes, the way it lingered beneath the surface. Why did you do it? Why did you take the fall?

He knows the answer, of course, and the weight of that knowledge gnaws at him, knowing you’d chosen this path because of him.

He lets his head fall back against the rough stone wall, closing his eyes, forcing his mind to drift to the happier moments with you—those days wandering Paris together, where the world felt small and full of possibility, where he could almost convince himself that you could both leave the underworld behind together and start a new life somewhere quiet, somewhere peaceful.

His thoughts slip further back, to the first night he saw you at that gala in Germany, all those years ago. He smiles faintly, remembering how you had captured his attention so thoroughly he nearly forgot his own purpose there. Amidst the polished crowd, under the glow of chandeliers, you stood out with a quiet allure that blurred everyone else to shadows, like a flame he couldn’t look away from.

He reminded himself back then he was above distractions, especially on a night with a mission so crucial. As an agent, he’d learned to see through beauty and charm, to focus on his objective. But you—you felt different. Genuine but guarded, elegant but dangerous.

From across the room, he’d watched you, unable to look away, studying your every move with the precision he usually reserved for a target. Yet this time, it felt different—as though he were the one being lured, the one about to be ensnared by a trap he hadn’t seen coming.

And looking back at it now, he realizes he never stood a chance.

Nico reminded himself of why he was there—to extract sensitive information from a French diplomat. But then your arm brushed against his, and he caught his first glimpse of your face. You were stunning, a vision that made him falter. He watched as you slipped through the crowd and headed to the balcony doors. His carefully honed focus wavered, pulse quickening as he watched you pass, something inside him urging him to follow.

He’d built a career on staying disciplined, never letting a pretty face or a fleeting distraction pull him off course. But this was different. There was no logic, no reason to abandon his position, but the pull was undeniable. The thought of letting you disappear, of not stepping out onto that balcony, felt like a missed chance he’d regret forever.

So, against his better judgment, Nico left his mission on hold and followed you into the night, needing to know who you were—and why he couldn’t look away.

He thinks back to that night, to the flirtation and the way you’d smiled at him, playful but guarded. He knows now it was all part of your act, but he doesn’t care. In his memory, it feels real. He remembers the moment he was about to ask if you wanted to slip away from the gala, explore the city with him—something he didn’t get to ask until Paris.

Just as the words were on his lips, your father had entered, stealing you away. Nico remembers the frustration, the urge to punch the man right then for interrupting, unaware then of how deeply he’d come to loathe the man you called ‘Father.’

If he’d known back then how your life was probably like under his care—the fear in your eyes last night was more than telling—he might have swung that punch. He should have, he thinks now, even if it blew his cover and ruined any chance with you. The man deserved it.

Then he remembers the moment he realized who you truly were and what you were after. You’d let him kiss your gloved hand, your lips curled in that mysterious smile of yours. It had all seemed so innocent until his lips met the fabric, and he felt the burn of the poison seeping in. If he hadn’t already had an antidote with him, he’d have been dead within minutes.

In some darkly ironic way, he admires the elegance of it all, the lethal grace with which you’d nearly killed him. There was a certain style to it, a quiet artistry.

For the next five years, he laid low, staying far from anything that could alert anyone to his movements. But he kept tabs on you—your assignments, whispers of your work. It was almost an obsession, though he’d never admit it. Every time he caught a mention of you, even something as small as a rumor, he couldn’t help but listen. Morbid, maybe. But it was you. And he could never turn away from that.

And then he saw you again. Paris. It felt like fate, almost laughably so, meeting in the city of love. Seeing you there stirred something in him, a silent thrill he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years. He felt a pull, a longing to rewrite that first encounter—minus the poison, maybe. This time, you spent days together, sharing quiet glances, stories, and stolen moments that spoke volumes. It wasn’t a surprise that he wanted it to last forever.

But he wasn’t naive. He knew you’d come to Paris for a reason, and he knew exactly who you were after. So he brought you to his favorite haunts and little cafes, tucked treasures into your hands—a tiny Eiffel Tower charm, photos of you on either your phone or on his old film camera. Maybe it was foolish, but he wanted to leave something of himself with you, something you’d carry after it was all over.

Still, there was a small, stubborn hope in him, one that maybe—just maybe—you might walk away from it all for him. That tiny hope was enough to keep him from doing anything drastic, from confronting you. And the worst part? He genuinely thinks you would have left with him, if things had been different.

He doesn’t know what your fate would be exactly when you got back to your ‘Father.’ But he has an idea. And he doesn’t like it, doesn’t want to live in a reality where he got so close to what he wanted, but was unable to grasp it within his hands.

Now, though…well, he doesn’t know exactly what would await you on your return to your ‘Father,’ doesn’t exactly know what consequences you’d face for treason of this scale. But he has an idea. And he doesn’t like even the mere thought of it. He clenches his jaw, hating the helplessness, the idea of coming so close to the life he wanted, only to have it ripped away, just out of reach.

He steadies himself, pressing a hand to the cool wall for balance as he rises. His legs are still shaky from the anesthetic, but his mind is clear. A grim resolve takes hold, a fire ignited by the fear of losing you entirely.

He moves quickly, descending the staircase, each step sharpening his focus. He doesn’t have a real plan yet—just an unshakable decision. He’d saved countless lives in his career, operated in situations where failure meant the end, but this was different. This was you.

He isn’t naive about what he’s walking into. Your ‘Father’ wouldn’t make it easy, and the odds were stacked against him. But he’d spent years keeping an eye on you, learning everything he could. He knows your father’s tactics, knows his inner circle and, with any luck, knows enough to get close.

As he reaches the entrance to the hotel, the weight of his decision settles in. There’s no guarantee he can pull this off, no assurance he’ll be able to save you. But he’ll die trying if he has to.

You don’t run from ‘Father’s’ guards when they meet you at the airport. You expected it, the cold efficiency of their movements, the lack of any question about what you’ve done. They take your suitcase and purse, and, just as you anticipated, they blindfold you when they shove you into the car. It’s almost as if ‘Father’ is giving you one last small mercy—a blindfold instead of a bag.

The car ride is silent, the hum of the engine and the steady rhythm of the tires against the road the only sounds. You feel the weight of what you’ve done pressing down on you with every mile. The tension in your chest is unbearable, but you don’t fight it. You don’t fight them. You know what’s coming, and you’ve accepted it.

When the car finally stops, they take off your blindfold, revealing a sprawling estate, one of the many hidden manors 'Father' uses for those who’ve betrayed him. And betrayal is an understatement. You didn’t just defy him, you obliterated his empire, his carefully built legacy.

The guards don’t speak as they usher you out of the car, up the stone steps, and into the house. They take you to a room on the highest floor, secluded from everything and everyone, as though they’re already preparing for the isolation that awaits you.

You don’t complain. You don’t fight. You know what you did. You know what you deserve. The silence in the room is suffocating, but it’s a kind of peace. A peace you’ve earned, a peace you’ve sealed with your own actions. They leave you there alone after ensuring you’re unarmed, that you have nothing to aid in any attempts to escape. You’re not sure how much time passes—three days, maybe four or five, you’d lost count long ago. Meals are brought to you in intervals, but other than that, you’re left with nothing but your thoughts. So, you fill them with the happiness of remembering Paris. Remembering Nico.

Then, on the third day—or maybe the fourth—there’s a knock at the door. It opens to reveal Joy, his eyes filled with sorrow. He was always the softest of your siblings, the one whose heart was too gentle for the life you led.

“Did father send you?” you ask, sitting up on the bed, your voice hoarse from the silence.

He nods, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. “He’s being nice by sending me, Shadow. He could have sent Punch, of all people,” he says softly, his voice shaky. “If you just tell us what happened in Paris—just tell us why, tell us anything—maybe we can still fix it. You’re his favorite, the best of us. I’m sure there’s a reason for what you did.”

You don’t answer immediately. You watch him for a moment, the anxiety swirling in his gaze. His hope, his desperation to save you, makes the silence between you feel heavier.

“I blew up the warehouses,” you say simply, your voice betraying no emotion, just a blunt truth.

“What? You—You—” Joy stammers, his face a mask of disbelief. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Shadow, stop playing around. This isn’t a joke. This is serious.”

“I’m not playing around,” you reply, your lips curling into a small, bitter smile. “I pushed the button. I destroyed everything.”

His eyes widen, a flash of hurt and fear crossing his face. “Shadow—” he gasps. “Do you realize what you’ve done? Father’s going to have you killed for this!”

“I know,” you tell him, your voice almost detached as you stare out the window, at the trees swaying gently beyond the fenced view. The peacefulness of the scene contrasts so sharply with the chaos inside you. “I knew the risk. And I did it anyway. I knew exactly what I was doing.”

Joy’s shoulders sag, and he drops to the edge of the bed beside you, his head falling onto your shoulder as he fights back the tears that are threatening to spill. “Why?” he whispers, his voice cracking. “Why would you do this? Why—why would you betray him like that?”

You’re quiet for a moment, feeling the weight of his tears against your skin. And then, you finally confess, your voice barely above a whisper. “I went there to kill Agent Heart. Nico Hischier.”

At the mention of his name, you smile faintly, the memories of your time in Paris with him rushing back. The moments of tenderness, of laughter, of something more than the life you were raised in.

“And then I realized I liked him more than I thought,” you admit, your smile softening as the memories flood you, each one more painful than the last. “I couldn’t kill him. Not after everything.”

Joy pulls back slightly, his tear-streaked face full of confusion. “You...you were supposed to destroy everything for us. For Father.”

“I did,” you say, a sad, resigned chuckle escaping your lips. “I destroyed everything...but for me. And for him. Not for father.”

Joy lets out a shaky breath, and for a long moment, he just sits there in silence, his head resting gently on your shoulder. The two of you stare out the window, watching the wind weave through the trees beyond the barred glass. It's a rare, quiet peace, almost enough to make you forget the reality of your situation. Almost.

Finally, he breaks the silence. "We don’t get to feel, Shadow,” he murmurs, his tone laced with resignation, the words weighed down by the acceptance of what’s to come, “You did the one thing we’re never supposed to do.”

"I know," you reply softly, your voice steady despite the turmoil churning inside you.

He turns his gaze to you, eyes searching, then asks, “Was he worth it?”

A gentle smile touches your lips. "He’s worth everything."

For the first time, Joy manages a small smile of his own. It’s tentative, edged with worry and glistening with unshed tears, but there’s something else there—a fragile happiness, a glimmer of pride in your defiance, however brief it may be.

He rises slowly, moving to the door, shoulders trembling as he tries to hold back his sobs. His fingers brush the doorknob, pausing there, as though wanting to say something more but unable to find the words.

“Goodbye, Shadow,” he says finally, his voice thick with emotion and a note of finality you’ve never heard from him before.

“Goodbye, Joy,” you reply, watching him walk away, knowing this would be the last time you’d ever see him.

"Nico, this is madness," Timo hisses, eyes narrowing in disbelief. "You’re trying to save a mass murderer."

Nico watches his friend, feeling the bite of each word, but determined to keep his resolve. He’d turned to Timo because there was no one better—the agency’s top intelligence officer, the brain behind nearly all of Nico’s successful missions. If anyone could help him navigate the storm he’d thrown himself into, it was Timo. But from the way Timo was looking at him, it was clear he thought Nico had finally lost it.

“Well, it sounds bad when you put it like that,” Nico deflects, his voice steady but humorless.

“Because it is!” Timo snaps, his voice rising. “She’s one of their organization’s best operatives. She’s the Director’s most trusted weapon, Nico. And you’re actually risking your life—for her?”

The mention of your ‘Father,’ or rather, the Director, stirs something jagged in Nico’s chest. The name feels like a blow, a reminder of the darkness and manipulation woven around you like a cage. It’s in that moment he realizes how much of your life has been spent hidden away under fabricated pretenses, never living a life of your own. He wonders what you’d be like without those shadows—the girl you might have been, if you hadn’t been his 'Shadow.'

“She’s ended hundreds of lives,” Timo continues, each word sharp and unrelenting. "And those are just the ones we know about. She’s—”

“She’s going to die if I don’t try to save her,” Nico cuts in, his voice a low, deadly calm. There’s a finality in his tone that leaves no room for argument. “She’s as much a prisoner as she is a weapon. If anyone deserves a chance to walk away, it’s her. Please, Timo. Help me. One last time.”

The defiance in Nico’s voice seems to throw Timo off-balance. For a moment, his friend’s face shifts from frustration to a mixture of exhaustion and reluctant understanding. He rubs the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, weary sigh, the silence between them heavy with the weight of all they’ve seen and done.

"You’re out of your fucking mind," Timo mutters, glancing up, his gaze searching Nico’s face for a flicker of doubt. But Nico’s expression remains firm, his resolve unbreakable.

"Maybe," Nico replies, his voice softer now. “But I owe her that much.”

Timo studies him a beat longer, then nods slowly, resignation settling in his eyes. “Alright, Nico,” he says quietly. "One last time."

Nico exhales slowly, as if releasing the weight of a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding. "You’re the best, Timo. Have I ever told you that?" He tries to lighten the mood, offering a half-hearted smile, but it’s weak—too feeble against the suffocating gravity of the situation.

Timo scoffs, his eyes rolling in a gesture of disbelief. "Tell me that again if we actually succeed. For all we know, she could be dead by now." His words are cold, matter-of-fact, and the harshness hits Nico harder than he wants to admit.

The smile falters from Nico’s face, his thoughts spiraling as he tries to come up with a plan—any plan—that might get him to you in time. There’s no certainty, no guarantee that he’ll be able to stop the clock that’s ticking against you, but Timo’s help, slim as it is, gives him the faintest flicker of hope.

"Then we make sure she isn’t," Nico mutters under his breath, more to himself than to Timo. His words come out like a vow, the resolve in his chest hardening like steel. It doesn’t matter what the odds are. He’s going to save you, no matter the cost.

Timo shakes his head, the urgency in his voice rising again. "We have to be realistic, Nico. There’s a very slim chance of succeeding. The Director...he's a goddamn monster. He built his empire on orphans—children trained to be killers. She was his favorite, his most loyal. Hell, he trained her himself. Not even his eldest got that kind of treatment. You can’t even begin to fathom what he’ll do when he finds out she betrayed him." Timo’s gaze drops for a moment, his words softening, as if the weight of what he’s about to say is more than even he can bear. "You could be walking straight into your death. Do you understand that?"

Nico hesitates, the enormity of Timo’s words sinking in. He thinks of his family—his mother, his father, his siblings. None of them had any idea what he actually did. He’d spent years keeping it that way, hiding the truth because normalcy was a shield, it was a part of the job.

To them, he was a diplomat, just a pretty face at international function, a son who sent postcards from cities all over the world, someone who led a quiet, steady life. But now that safety is slipping away, and the consequences of his decisions are looming large. If things go wrong, all they’ll remember is the smile he wore, the boy they thought they knew.

But then, like a whisper in the dark, his thoughts shift to you.

He can still see it—the way you’d looked at him in Paris. That brief glimmer of something hopeful in your eyes, a quiet moment before you’d taken the bomb from him and detonated your ‘Father’s’ empire. The way you’d trusted him to keep your betrayal a secret—and to let you go, without asking for anything in return. You hadn’t begged, hadn’t even looked back, and that made him want to fight for you even more. It had been your choice, your sacrifice, but now he was going to make sure it wasn’t in vain.

“She’s good, Timo,” Nico’s voice is steady, but the edge of desperation is unmistakable in the way his eyes narrow, the intensity of his gaze holding something deeper than resolve. It’s not just determination—it’s something much more raw. “She’s good. And she can be so much more if she can get out of this alive. I owe it to her to try.”

Timo exhales sharply, his face a mixture of reluctant admiration and palpable worry. His eyes flicker to the wall, then back to Nico. "I don’t get it, Nico. You’ve been in this business long enough to know people don’t change. Not easily, at least. Certainly not in her world. She’s one of them, Nico. She knew what she was doing, knew what would happen. People like her—those who betray their own—they don’t get out. They don’t walk away alive."

Nico’s jaw tightens, the tension in his body evident as he steps closer to Timo. His voice drops to a low, quiet certainty that cuts through the air like a blade. “I know what she is. But she’s not just one of them. I’ve seen who she is when no one’s watching, when there’s no role to play. She doesn’t deserve this life. Never did.”

Timo shakes his head slowly, disbelief in his eyes, but there’s a slight flicker of something like understanding. It’s not much, but it’s enough. A resigned sigh escapes him, and he rubs the back of his neck, considering the gravity of what Nico’s asking. “Alright. Fine. I’ll get the intel. But after that, you’re on your own. And if this goes south—if it all falls apart—well, I hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

Nico’s lips curl up into a small smile, but the seriousness in his eyes never fades. He knows the risks. He knows what he’s walking into. But he can’t stop now. "So do I, Timo. So do I."

The days blur together during your isolation. The cold stone walls seem to echo every passing minute, but you’ve lost track of time. You don’t even know if it's been two days or a week since Joy visited.

And then, Hyacinth comes to see you.

A small smile tugs at the corners of your lips when you see him, your baby brother—far too young to be caught in this world, yet he’s already molded by it, even if he doesn’t yet realize the full weight of what it means. His sharp tongue and stubborn attitude are familiar, his quick wit often aimed at getting under your skin, but you know he’s all bark and no bite. Besides, you knew he had a soft spot for you—he always has. He likes you more than any of your other siblings, even if he’ll never admit it.

When you open your arms to him, he doesn’t hesitate, stepping into your embrace like it’s the only place he can find some peace. The hug lingers longer than it usually does—longer than it should, maybe—but you let it. You hold him tight, trying to etch the warmth of his presence into your mind, knowing the days ahead would make it impossible to hold onto this memory. And in this moment, as your arms wrap around him, you wish you could shield him from the darkness that’s closing in on both of you.

Eventually, the hug breaks, and you sit back on the bed, patting the spot beside you. But he doesn’t take it, opting instead to kneel on the floor and rest his head on your lap—just like when he was younger. Back then, when the weight of his training became too much, when the suffocating pressure of their expectations threatened to crush him, he’d seek comfort from you in the rare moments when he could drop his guard. You could never protect him from everything, but you gave him those moments of peace, moments when he could just be Hyacinth.

His voice breaks the silence, quiet and hesitant. “Father didn’t send me, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

You arch an eyebrow. “So you came on your own?” You can’t stop the small trace of concern that seeps into your tone. “You could get in trouble, Hyacinth.”

He doesn’t seem to care about the risk. His eyes flicker briefly, and for a moment, you see a flash of fear, but it’s gone just as quickly. “Normally, I would,” he admits, “but your situation has him… occupied.” He sounds almost relieved as he says it, like he’s found an escape from the endless tension that normally surrounds their father.

You hum in response, running your fingers through his hair, offering him what little comfort you can. The silence between you is a kind of solace in itself. Words don’t always fit in these moments, but this is enough.

Then Hyacinth speaks again, his voice softer, the weight of what he’s carrying heavy in his words. “Joy told him what you did,” he murmurs into your lap. You feel the tension in his body, the subtle shake in his voice. “But he still doesn’t know why you did it—why you destroyed everything. Joy said you didn’t tell him anything.”

You don’t say anything for a long moment, but you can feel his breath grow unsteady, like he’s trying to find the right words, struggling to understand why you made the choice you did. Why you’d destroyed everything that ‘Father’ had worked for, that you had helped him build.

Hyacinth sighs deeply, his chest rising and falling with the effort. “He was mad. Furious, really. I know he was, because he didn’t say anything. He just stood there. Didn’t scream, didn’t throw things, didn’t beat anyone up. Just…stood there. Brooding.”

You nod, your thoughts racing. You’re grateful for Joy’s silence—though you don’t understand why he covered for you. The way he’s acted is unexpected, and you can't quite figure out his motivations. What does he owe you? Why would he protect you after everything you've done? Maybe he’s just trying to keep himself safe, or maybe there’s something more to it. Maybe he was just trying to be a good brother for once.

“What about the others?” you ask, breaking the silence, your voice raw from all the unspoken words hanging between you.

“Punch and Lightning want you dead,” he says, his voice flat, almost detached. But you feel a tear from him fall onto your thigh, though you don’t mention it. “They’ve been pushing for it. It’s strange, though. Father hasn’t made a decision yet. I thought for sure he’d kill you the moment you landed.”

You can’t help the hollow chuckle that escapes you. “Perks of being the favorite, I guess.”

“Oh, so you admit it now?” Hyacinth pouts, his face still resting in your lap, his voice thick with emotion you can’t quite decipher.

“I’m gonna die anyway,” you shrug, trying to sound casual, though the words taste like ash in your mouth. “Might as well own up to things.”

A long silence stretches between you. Hyacinth doesn’t respond immediately, his fingers clutching the fabric of your clothes like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. Finally, his voice breaks through, quieter, softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“Don’t say that,” he whispers, his words thick with emotion. “I kind of need you here,” he murmurs, his voice trembling. “Punch is mean, Joy cries a lot, and Lightning doesn’t talk to anyone—fighting for your death is the most I’ve heard him speak, ever.” His breath hitches as his shoulders shake, his voice cracking further. “You talk to me. Even when I’m being mean to you.”

A lump rises in your throat, choking you with a mixture of guilt and love. “You’re just a kid, Hyacinth.”

“I’m nineteen,” he protests, though it’s barely more than a bitter sigh. “I’m not a kid.”

“Just a baby,” you murmur, your voice barely a whisper.

You gently lift his head from your lap, your hands trembling slightly as you meet his eyes, offering him a small, sad smile. You press a soft kiss to his forehead, hoping it might offer him some comfort, even if just for this moment. You want him to remember you this way—soft, human, real—before everything collapses into darkness.

“You should go now,” you say, your voice thick with the weight of finality. The air feels denser, the space between you somehow more oppressive. “Before someone realizes where you are.”

Hyacinth doesn’t argue, but the hesitation in his movements speaks volumes. He stands, his shoulders slumping as he walks toward the door, his footsteps heavier than you remember them. When he reaches the doorknob, he pauses, his back to you, and for a brief moment, you think he might not leave. He turns, looking back at you over his shoulder, his face drawn and haunted.

“Shadow?” His voice is small, fragile. “Why did you do it?”

You hold his gaze for a beat, your chest tightening as the words hover in the air between you. There’s so much you want to say, so much left unspoken. But all that remains is the truth you can’t hide, not from him, not now.

“I...met someone I really liked,” you say quietly, your voice breaking on the last word. It’s not enough, but it’s the only truth you can give him right now.

Hyacinth’s brows furrow, confusion clouding his face as he tries to make sense of it. But then, almost reluctantly, he nods, accepting the answer without question. He doesn’t push for more, doesn’t demand anything from you that you can’t give.

As he opens the door, about to step out, you call out to him one last time. His name feels heavy on your tongue, like it’s the last thing you’ll ever say to him.

“Hyacinth?” His eyes snap back to you, wide and shining with unspoken words, his face torn between confusion and a desperation he won’t show. “Be good. As good as you can be.”

The words feel like a final plea, a parting wish you can’t take back. You see the raw, quiet grief in his eyes as tears begin to pool there, but he blinks them away quickly, as if trying to hold onto something—anything—before it all slips away. His face flushes, an emotional storm threatening to break, but he says nothing, doesn’t allow the tears to fall.

With a half-smile, teetering on the edge of a laugh, he lifts his middle finger at you, his way of deflecting the moment, of pretending it’s still okay. Despite everything, despite the ache in your chest, you can’t help but chuckle.

The sound is too fragile, too soft, too final.

“Goodbye, Shadow,” he says, his voice barely audible, thick with the weight of everything he wants to say but can’t. His lips tremble, as if he might say more, but he doesn’t. He shuts the door quietly behind him, the soft click of it reverberating in the stillness, sealing the space between you.

“Nico, you’re gonna want to see this,” Timo says over the phone, his voice urgent.

Nico barely hears the rest of Timo’s words as he rushes to his car and hits the gas. He’s already in motion, speeding through Switzerland with a single thought in his head: finding you. His mind runs wild with possibilities. What if she’s already gone? What if they’ve moved her? He can’t bear the thought of you being tortured or worse, and the nagging doubt claws at him.

But he pushes it aside. If even you didn’t think you’d make it out of this alive, then he had to. Someone had to keep the belief alive.

He’s sure he’s broken every speeding law in Switzerland as he rushes to Timo’s apartment, his heart pounding, thoughts racing. The moment he arrives, he practically kicks the door down, desperation making him reckless.

“What’s going on?” Nico demands, striding into the room, his voice sharp with urgency.

Timo doesn’t look up immediately, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “I tracked down every known estate the organization’s used in the last ten years, and any recent whispers about ‘Shadow.’” His eyes finally meet Nico’s, flickering with the weight of what he’s found. “I couldn’t find anything recent about her specifically, but I did find this.”

Timo turns his laptop around, and Nico leans forward, his breath catching as he sees the screen. It’s a map, showing the coordinates of a mansion in the mountains—unassuming at first glance, but its isolated location tells him everything he needs to know. It’s exactly the kind of place someone like your ‘Father’ would use to hide someone away.

“It was bought a couple of years ago,” Timo says, his eyes fixed on the screen. “Officially as an investment property—it has records of regular maintenance and weekly cleanings. It’s been untouched for years, dormant…until now.”

Nico swallows hard, scanning the details. But then something catches his eye, and his pulse quickens. “Wait,” he says, pointing to another set of coordinates a few miles from the mansion. “These markers aren’t for her, are they?”

Timo’s face hardens, and he glances at the screen. “No,” he replies, pulling up a set of data—two names. “Codenames: Joy and Hyacinth. Two other operatives in the organization. They were sighted here within the last 48 hours, though they never stayed longer than an hour.”

Nico’s breath catches. “Her siblings.”

He feels a cold knot tighten in his stomach. He’d always known that your family was complicated—dark, but tight-knit—but seeing them tied to this place, at nearly the same time, complicates everything. Just what were they doing there?

Timo keeps talking, though Nico’s mind starts to race, his instincts pushing him toward action. “These aren’t just random sightings, Nico. Something’s happening there. It’s more than just an investment property; they were there for a reason. And considering what you’re after…” Timo’s voice trails off, the implications weighing heavy in the silence.

Nico clenches his fists, fighting the urge to move now, to storm in regardless of the risk. This could be his only chance to find you.

“Luckily for you,” Timo says, gesturing to the markers that signify Joy and Hyacinth’s recent locations, “They’ve already left.”

Nico nods, relief mingling with the rising tension in his chest.

Timo’s voice drops, serious and clear. “But you understand what this means, don’t you? If you go in, you could end up dealing with the most dangerous operatives, guards, killers. None of them will hesitate to stop you. You’ll have to be prepared for anything.”

Nico’s jaw sets, his resolve steeling. Prepared for anything has always been his life’s code. But now, it’s more than just preparation. It’s personal. It always has been. This isn’t only about saving you anymore. It’s about putting an end to the nightmare your ‘Father’s’ unleashed on you—and finishing what began that night when he kissed your hand and felt his world change.

“I’ll be ready,” Nico says, his voice cold with determination. His mind is already working through the steps. It doesn’t matter who stands in his way. Not this time. Not when it comes to you.

It’s day twelve—or maybe thirteen, or even fifteen—of your isolation. Time has a way of unraveling itself in this place, each hour turns into a blur of endless gray that stretches on, indistinguishable from the next. You can no longer keep track of when you last saw someone, when you last heard a human voice. The isolation has gnawed at you, eroded your sense of self. The quiet is oppressive, thick with memories you wish you could forget.

You think back to the orphanage, those empty eyes of the children who grew up beside you—silent witnesses to the way you learned to survive, to harden yourself against the cruelty of the world. The hunger, gnawing at your insides as you lay in the cold, too hungry to sleep, too exhausted to think. You remember the hunger, the endless feeling of it, made worse by the harsh words of the caretakers who told you that "bad kids don’t deserve good food." They didn’t care if you cried. They didn’t care if you starved.

The bruises still ache, even now, long after they've faded into your skin, replaced by the scars of training that you could never erase. The pain of a childhood that was never yours to keep. You try to push these memories away, but they come rushing back, uninvited, relentless in their demand to be remembered. Each one is a dark pulse that seems to beat inside you, too close, too real.

Your father’s training had been a blur of pain and broken limits. Days spent learning to resist poison, to fight without fear, to survive at any cost, even when it meant breaking yourself. His lessons were built on control, on making you the perfect shadow, the one who could kill without hesitation, without remorse. You remember those days more clearly than anything else—the constant pressure to be better, to be perfect. You remember the exhaustion, the cold, the unrelenting beatings that never seemed to stop, pushing you further and further away from everything human.

It doesn’t matter how many years have passed, or how many scars have healed. In moments like this, when the silence is so thick you can almost taste it, those old wounds reopen, each one a reminder of the girl you used to be. The girl who was never allowed to dream of anything else. The girl who was made to break, made to destroy everything she touched.

You close your eyes, trying to escape, but it’s impossible. The faces of those you’ve killed come to you in flashes, each one frozen in time—their eyes wide in shock, their bodies falling at your feet. You try to shut them out, but they linger, haunting you, replaying like a nightmare you can’t escape. You wonder if it’s too late for redemption, if the weight of their deaths will crush you under its unbearable pressure.

But then you remember Nico—his face, his touch, his laugh, the warmth of his hand reaching for yours in the dark. Those memories are fragile but they’re your only lifeline. You don’t know if he’s out there, if he even survived, but somehow, the thought of him gives you strength. For now, it’s enough to hold on to, a small anchor in a sea of shadows.

You tell yourself, over and over, that maybe, just maybe, he’s still out there, that he’s still fighting for you. But you know the truth. You’re beyond saving.

And yet, the thought of him lingers, just out of reach. The one person who might have made you feel like you were worth something, even if only for a fleeting moment.

You squeeze your eyes shut tighter, but it doesn’t stop the tears from slipping down your cheeks. It’s all slipping away—the hope, the strength, the possibility of something better. You’re trapped, alone with the ghosts of your past, waiting for the inevitable.

The drive to the mountains was almost disarmingly peaceful. Nico had been braced for roadblocks, checkpoints, armed guards at every bend in the winding roads. Instead, the path was quiet, flanked only by rows of tall pine trees and the occasional rose bush peeking out from the underbrush. The deeper he went, the stranger it felt—like he’d wandered into a different world, a place pretending to be ordinary to hide something darker within.

By the time he reached the estate, he was on edge. The sprawling mansion rose up in front of him, a towering fortress nestled into the mountainside. Not a single soul was in sight, not even at the gates. Every window was dark, every corner silent. Even the entrance was wide open and unguarded. The rays of sun illuminating the estate in a pearly white splendor, seemed to mock him.

As he walked up the stone steps to the main door, unease pooled in his stomach, twisting tighter with each step. His senses screamed at him, warning him that it shouldn’t be this easy, that someone would leap out at any moment. But he reached the door unchallenged, his hand brushing the handle as he took a steadying breath.

Pushing the doors open, the sick feeling in his gut hit him in full force. There, standing just inside the grand foyer, was the last person he wanted to see.

Your ‘Father.’

"Ah," The man said smoothly, his voice rich and calm, a predator at ease in his own den. "You actually did come."

Nico clenched his fists, every muscle tensing. He forced himself to stay still, even as every instinct screamed to lash out, to wipe that smug smile off the man’s face. "Where is she?" he demanded, his voice low but firm.

His smile widened slightly, as if amused by Nico’s urgency. "You have no idea what you’ve walked into, do you?” he replied, almost with pity. He stepped closer, hands clasped casually behind his back, eyes narrowing as he studied Nico with cold calculation. “I thought you were smarter than this. Perhaps the Swiss government has been too lax as of late.”

Nico’s jaw tightened. "If you’ve done anything to her—"

“Anything to her?” he interrupted, chuckling darkly. “You misunderstand, Mr. Hischier.” The man smirks. “It’s only you and I here, so let me be frank. She’s here because of you. You, with your ideals and reckless hope, leading her to believe she could be anything more than what she was raised to be. The weapon I made her into.”

His voice was unnervingly calm, but there was a venom in his words that made Nico’s skin crawl. “Do you honestly think she could leave without me knowing? That she could destroy my empire without me realizing the reasons behind it? That her siblings could lie for her without my knowledge?”

Nico’s eyes narrowed, but his fists clenched at his sides. He took a step forward, trying to quell the rising storm inside him. “What are you saying?”

The Director’s gaze flicked over him with unnerving amusement. “I have eyes and ears everywhere.” His voice was almost too smooth now, as if savoring the moment. “The minute she stepped foot into Paris, I knew.” He took a step toward Nico, his eyes never leaving him. “The minute she made contact with you, I knew.” Another step, his cold smile widening. “I knew about your little dates and rendezvous. I knew when she tried to slip poison into your wine. I knew the moment she pressed that button.”

The words hit Nico like a blow to the chest. His heart raced. "You knew all this time?”

Your ‘Father’s’ smile deepened, something almost predatory in it. “You’ve been playing her game all this time, Hischier. But she’s been playing mine. I know exactly why she hesitated to kill you.” He scoffs. “Turns out my best child was my weakest. But you were the one who kept her from finishing her mission. It didn’t have anything to do with her skills. Which is the only reason she’s not dead yet.”

Nico’s pulse hammered in his ears, disbelief warring with rage. “What are you planning?”

“Oh, nothing much," he replied, his voice silky with mock indifference. “Just…bringing her back to her original settings. Make her remember what happens when she disobeys. And for that to happen…I’m afraid I’ll need your head.”

Before Nico could react, a hand shot out, flicking open a sleek black knife with a practiced motion. His movements were blindingly fast, and before Nico could even fully process what was happening, the blade slashed through the air toward him with deadly precision.

Nico’s reflexes kicked in, his instincts honed from years of training and combat. He twisted to the side just in time, feeling the cool rush of air as the blade narrowly missed his chest. Your ‘Father’s’ speed was startling, faster than most of the men Nico had fought in his career, but Nico stayed calm. He had to.

He darted back, avoiding another strike aimed at his side. “You think you can just walk away with her, don’t you?” the older man taunts, his movements getting quicker.

Nico hissed through gritted teeth, his hands shifting into a defensive stance. He couldn't let his emotions cloud his judgment—he had to stay focused.

His opponent was relentless, his strikes coming faster, more furious with each passing moment. His body moved with the precision of a machine, the knife flashing in the dim light of the hallway, but Nico was no slouch. He danced around the attacks, his heart pounding as the adrenaline surged.

But the longer the fight went on, the clearer it became—your ‘Father’ wasn’t just fighting to defend his territory. He was trying to force Nico into a corner, push him into making a mistake. And Nico couldn’t afford to make one.

Another blade slash came at him, and Nico dove low, dodging under the attack, but a boot came down, aimed directly for his ribs. Nico barely managed to block it with his arm, the impact jarring his bones, but he gritted his teeth through the pain.

“You really think you can take her from me?” He sneered, his breath coming in sharp bursts, a twisted glee dancing in his eyes. “You’re already too late.”

Nico’s mind raced. There had to be a way to end this, to survive. If he didn’t get out of here alive, everything—everything he had fought for—would be lost. His thoughts flicked to you, to the last glimpse he had of you in Paris, and something inside him hardened.

No. He wouldn’t back down. Not this time. Not when it was this close.

The Director fought with the precision of a man who’d spent a lifetime learning how to eliminate any threat that came near him, who spent every waking hour trying to fortify his possessions. His movements were swift, calculated—each strike designed to cut deep, to leave Nico vulnerable, to make sure he couldn’t fight back. His knife was a blur, a flashing extension of his will to destroy.

But Nico was different. He wasn’t fighting to just survive. He was fighting for you, for the fragile hope he held onto despite all the evidence to the contrary. He was fighting for something he couldn’t let go of. He had everything to lose. And that made him stronger.

As your ‘Father’ lunged again, the blade aimed directly at his throat, Nico’s body reacted before his mind could fully catch up. He sidestepped, his foot sliding on the slick floor as he drove his elbow into the other man’s ribs with a satisfying crack. The man grunted, but didn’t flinch—he only shifted, twisting his body to try and regain his stance.

Nico pressed his advantage, knowing he couldn’t afford to wait for him to recover. His mind raced, working through each move as if it were a series of chess pieces falling into place.

‘Father’ swung the knife again, but this time Nico caught his wrist, twisting it just enough to send the blade skittering across the floor. In that split second, he drove his knee into his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The man staggered back, eyes flashing with anger, but Nico was already on him, not giving him a chance to reset.

“You don’t own her.” Nico spat, his voice low, dangerous.

He sneered, lunging forward again, but this time Nico was ready. With a fluid motion, he caught his arm, locking it behind his back with a sharp twist. The man growled, trying to break free, but Nico tightened his grip, pushing him toward the stone wall.

“You should have let her go,” Nico muttered, his breath steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. “She wasn’t yours to break.”

With one final, brutal motion, Nico slammed his face into the cold stone wall, knocking him unconscious. The man crumpled to the floor, the knife slipping from his hand with a dull thud. Nico took a deep breath, letting the silence settle around him as he stood over the fallen man. His heart was still pounding in his chest, the fight lingering in his muscles like fire, but he knew it was over—for now.

He didn’t have time to waste. He had to find you. Your ‘Father’ might have been down, but this fight wasn’t finished. Not yet. He would get to you. And you would get your revenge. No matter what.

When the door creaks open, you don’t immediately react. Another visit from one of your siblings, you assume—another cold, emotionless meeting. Joy and Hyacinth had already come, leaving nothing but a hollow ache in your chest. Maybe it's Punch next, here to deliver the final blow, as blunt and sharp as ever. At least with him, there's no pretending, no false hope. Just the end.

You sigh, slowly lifting your head to prepare for the inevitable. But what you see stops you cold, freezes you in place like a shock of ice.

Nico.

Your mind scrambles to make sense of the image before you, but everything about him is different from how you remember. His hair is a mess, his knuckles bruised and raw, and his usually crisp shirts and jackets are gone, replaced by something torn, wrinkled, and soaked with sweat and speckles of blood and dirt. The scent of him is raw, like he’s been through hell. His brows are furrowed, his gaze filled with an almost unbearable mix of worry and fear, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. It’s a familiar feeling, seeing him again, even if he’s different from how you remembered. But it couldn’t be. It couldn’t.

You blink, trying to piece together what’s real and what isn’t. Your heart hammers painfully in your chest, and a wild, humorless laugh escapes you.

“Oh God…maybe I am going insane,” you mutter, running a shaky hand through your hair. Your breath catches in your throat as you try to shake off the vision, try to make it stop. “I’m even seeing him now…”

You turn away from him, pressing your face against the cold, hard wall, hoping the reality of this will fade. Hoping he’ll disappear with the rest of your fading dreams. But then you feel it—the bed dips beside you, a presence you know, a warmth you can’t deny. The mattress groans under his weight, and your chest tightens as you try to convince yourself that it’s just your mind playing cruel tricks.

“Y/N,” he whispers, his voice thick with an emotion you’ve never heard from him before—fear, tenderness, desperation. It’s raw, and it makes your stomach twist. “God, what did they do to you?”

You scoff, not knowing if you’re trying to convince him, or yourself. You can barely glance at him, let alone believe he’s here. You squeeze your eyes shut, your heart aching in disbelief. “I’m fine,” you say, but your voice sounds hollow, like it’s coming from someone else. “I’m fine,” you repeat, as if saying it will make it true. But it doesn’t. It’s a lie.

You close your eyes, wishing for this to end. Wishing for him to go away, because if he’s here, then maybe this is real. And if it’s real, then you don’t know how to handle it. Your mind can’t bear the weight of hope anymore. It’s too much, too dangerous.

“Go away,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “You aren’t real.”

But then, his hand—a warm, familiar touch—rests on your thigh. It’s gentle but grounding, the simple contact igniting something inside of you. You flinch at first, too afraid to believe, but his presence doesn’t waver.

“I’m real, Schatz,” he murmurs softly, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your pants in the same way he always used to, tender and comforting. “I’m right here.”

His words land like a blow to your chest, the weight of them forcing your breath to hitch. The touch, the warmth, the sound of his voice—it’s too much. It feels like a dream, too beautiful to be true, too terrifying to accept. But it’s not a dream. It’s him.

You turn to face him, your eyes filling with tears before you can stop them. “I’m dreaming,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, cracking with the emotion you’ve tried so hard to suppress. “You can’t be…you can’t be here…”

The words die on your lips as he leans forward, his face so close that you can feel the heat of his breath, the warmth of his presence enveloping you. “Y/N, look at me,” he says, his tone raw, filled with an urgency that pierces through the numbness you’ve become so familiar with. “Please?”

For a moment, you hesitate. Everything inside you screams to pull away, to protect yourself from the danger of believing in something that feels too good to be true. But your heart, still beating with something fragile and alive, pushes you to defy that instinct. Slowly, trembling, you turn your face to him.

You study him in disbelief. His face is streaked with blood, his clothes are torn, his eyes bloodshot from exhaustion and worry. He’s not the Nico you remember—clean-cut and confident—but there’s something more real about him now, something raw and vulnerable that makes your heart ache in ways you didn’t know you could still feel.

Hesitantly, you reach up, your fingers brushing against the rough stubble on his jaw. A tear slips down your cheek, and he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing holding him together. His face is still, as if absorbing the simple act of contact, and it breaks something inside you, a crack that lets in all the feelings you’ve tried to block out for so long.

“I’m real,” he whispers, his voice barely audible, as if saying it too loudly might shatter everything. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You don’t pull away. Your hand lingers on his face, feeling the warmth of him grounding you in a way you’ve never known. The cold distance that’s consumed you for so long begins to melt away, replaced by something far scarier—hope. The fear, the ache, the longing for this moment that you’d never dared to believe in—they all come crashing in at once. The walls you’ve built around yourself start to crumble, and you realize, for the first time in what feels like forever, that maybe you’re allowed to feel something other than pain.

"Why?" you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper, cracking from days of silence. "Why are you here? Why did you come?”

His arms instinctively pull you closer, his hand resting on the back of your neck like a lifeline. “I couldn’t leave you all alone,” he says, his voice fragile, almost afraid that saying too much might ruin this fragile moment between you. His breath shudders as he speaks, like he’s been holding onto this for too long. “I couldn’t.”

You pull back slightly, a small laugh escaping your lips, but it’s hollow, pained. “You should have,” you murmur, sitting up a little, needing to create some space, even if just for a moment. You lean your head on his shoulder, feeling the strength of him there, his arm tightening around you. “You were supposed to move on, Nico. Retire, live your life. You…”

His voice softens, a teasing edge slipping through, even though the emotion lingers in his eyes. “I what?” he asks, a quiet chuckle escaping his lips, though it’s full of something far deeper. “What would I have done?”

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you close your eyes, letting the sound of his heartbeat fill the silence between you. A strange tightness fills your chest as you let the words come, ones you’d never thought you’d say. “I don’t know,” you whisper, your voice full of an aching sincerity. “Gone to the beach, gotten married. Been happy, I guess.” The words are bitter, but they’re honest—because you know he deserves that. A life away from this. A life that wasn’t about shadows and blood and survival.

He smiles softly, but there’s something wistful about it, a flicker of sadness hiding behind the tenderness. He presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for just a second longer than necessary, grounding you in a way words could never. “I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy as I was in Paris,” he says, his voice full of a warmth so deep it almost feels like a confession. Each word lands on you like a lifeline, pulling you closer to him, to something you thought you could never have.

You close your eyes, letting the memory of those days flood your senses—those stolen moments of peace where you let yourself believe in a life beyond the chaos. A life where you were just you, and Nico was more than just a fleeting thought, a dream that could never come true. “I thought those memories would be the last I’d have of you,” you whisper, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, desperate to keep him here, to stop the world from swallowing him up again. As if he might disappear if you blinked.

He gently lifts your chin, his fingers warm against your skin, and looks into your eyes with a steady gaze, one that holds all the promises he’s never been able to say. His eyes are soft, but full of a fire that makes your chest tighten. "I’m here, Y/N," he says, and the way he says your name—Y/N—like it’s the only thing that matters in this world, makes your heart shudder. "I’m not going anywhere."

You swallow, trying to steady the emotions swirling inside you, but they’re too much, too big. You have to ask, even if part of you is scared to hear the answer. “Do you still want me to run away with you?” The words barely escape your lips, a quiet whisper, as if saying them too loudly will make the fragile moment crumble. You don’t know if you can bear the weight of his answer if he says no.

Nico’s smile softens, and his eyes hold a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. “I’ve actually come to pick you up,” he says, as casually as if he’s picking you up for a dinner date, the absurdity of it making something light and hopeful rise within you. “I even have a car and everything.”

You laugh, a breathless sound, not out of humor but because for a moment, it feels so normal. It feels like the world outside these walls doesn’t exist. But then the gravity of the situation pulls you back, and the weight of what leaving would mean settles on your shoulders like an anchor.

You drop your gaze, and your voice drops to a whisper. “They’ll be coming for us, y’know?” The words taste like defeat as you speak them, but they’re the truth. “My siblings…father…they’ll never stop hunting us down.”

Nico’s hand tightens around yours, his touch grounding and unshakable. His voice is calm but steely, a quiet confidence behind every word. “Well, lucky for us, we’re even,” he says, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “I have enemies of my own too. Let them try to hunt us down. We’ll keep each other safe.”

His words send a jolt through you, a spark of something you haven’t felt in so long—hope. The possibility of us. The thought that maybe, just maybe, this is how it’s supposed to be. You and him, against the world. Together. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself believe it. You let yourself imagine the impossible, because in this moment, with him here, anything feels possible.

The weight of his words settles into your heart, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a burden. It feels like a promise.

The fear is still there, but with his words, something new sparks to life—hope, fragile and unfamiliar. You’ve lived so long with no future to speak of, yet now, with Nico beside you, it almost seems possible.

You meet his eyes, and something like a spark ignites between you. The bond between you is stronger than anything you’ve ever known. You squeeze his hand, feeling the steadiness of his strength, the unshakable confidence that you never knew you needed, but now, you can’t imagine living without.

“So,” you say, your lips curving into a smile, “Where do we go first?”

“How about Switzerland?” Nico’s playful gleam in his eyes matches the warmth you feel inside. “I make a pretty good tour guide, don’t you think?”

“Switzerland it is,” you reply, your voice thick with a quiet thrill. It’s not just a place—it’s a new beginning. You’re not just escaping, you’re stepping into something new, something alive, something yours. The word “home” hovers on the edge of your lips, the idea of it—of belonging—feeling both foreign and entirely right.

He stands and extends his arm to help you up, a gesture so simple, yet it sends a rush of warmth through you. Your legs feel weak from days of stillness, but as you wrap your hand around his arm, it’s like the weight of the world is suddenly lighter. You lean into him, and together, you make your way down the hallway, the air between you charged with anticipation, with the promise of everything that’s ahead.

As you step through the estate’s entryway, the remnants of a struggle greet you—shattered vases, dark bloodstains on the marble floor, and a knife, glinting just out of reach. The familiar insignia of your father’s authority catches your eye, and your heart stutters. You release Nico’s arm, bending down to pick it up, the blade heavy in your hands.

“Was he here?” you murmur, your voice thick with the weight of everything you’ve just left behind.

Nico’s expression hardens, his jaw tightening with a mix of anger and resolve. “He escaped,” he says, his voice steady. “But he won’t get far. Probably.”

You turn the blade over in your hands, the past catching up to you for a moment, its weight threatening to pull you back into the darkness. But as you feel the cool metal in your palm, something shifts inside you—this time, you let it slip from your fingers. It clatters to the floor, leaving the past behind.

Together, you walk out of the shadows, out of the dark estate and into the light, where the sun feels warmer than it ever has before, spreading across your skin like a gentle promise. The sky stretches wide above you, endless and inviting, and for the first time, you realize that you’re breathing freely—every inhale lighter, filling your lungs with the sweetness of something that feels almost like freedom.

You glance at Nico, who’s watching you with a soft, steady smile that makes the uncertainty seem smaller, as if this new path is yours to shape together. His hand is warm in yours, grounding you as you step forward, leaving behind the dark walls and shattered remains of a life that no longer belongs to you.

The future awaits. It’s yours now—an uncharted horizon that stretches as far as you’re willing to go. And for the first time, you can almost taste it, this fragile, breathtaking possibility of a world beyond fear and duty. You feel it in the quiet between your heartbeats, in the way Nico’s thumb brushes gently against your skin, grounding you in a reality that’s no longer filled with shadows but with a promise. A new beginning.

A maybe even a fresh start to a love story that, despite everything, seems like it’s only just begun.

READ PART ONE HERE

#nico hischier #nico hischier x reader #nico hischier imagine #nico hischier fic #nico hischier au #nh13 #nhl fanfiction #nhl imagine #nhl fic #nhl #nhl x reader #new jersey devils

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silaslich · 15 hours ago

Note

May I make a request for a sequel to "In A Grave so we feel safe"? Something about it scratches an itch in my brain just right. Idk why, I think I just like it when you make 'im mean. 🫣🫣

Our skin starts to rot

Simon “Ghost” Riley x afab!reader

Summary - following from this. Simon hangs around despite the way he treats you like he can’t stand you. The feeling is mutual- to a point.

Wc - 3.8k

Cw - 18+, MDNI, GHOST IS NOT NICE, reader also is not nice, vomiting/purging, referenced/implied drug+alcohol abuse, coercive behaviour, mention of past trauma, smut, fingering, oral (r!receiving), kinda better dynamic toward the end but not really

Your fingernails scrape harshly over the roof of your mouth, and when you look into the bowl of the toilet- you see red.

You gather what’s left of the bile and blood in your mouth with your tongue and spit. Wanting rid of it. Needing to be rid of every last bit of it. All the shame and the guilt and the anxiety, it’s all churned up in your stomach, bought back up with whatever you’d managed to eat last night. Tears sting your eyes from the force and effort of purging, your spine bowed as you grip the white porcelain. Everything hurts. Your body aches. There’s a headache that is pounding like a drum behind your eyes.

The weight of his stare falls over you and so does the shame. You hear him sneer.

“You’re not pregnant are you?” He doesn’t sound as concerned as he should be considering the subject of his question.

There’s a broken laugh that’s hiccuped from your lungs as you wipe your nose with the back of your hand.

“Would it matter to you if I was?” There isn’t anything he can say to make this okay, you’d be happier if he didn’t answer at all. It doesn’t even take him a second to think.

“No” it’s clipped. There’s no emotion there.

You nod to yourself but you don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. There never is. Holding a conversation with him is futile. It’s a waste of fucking breath.

He moves away, you can tell by the sound of his feet scuffing across the floor. Finally- you’re left alone. Allowed out of his sight. Not because he’s concerned, or because he cares. It’s because he wants the control. He knows that you like your own space. He knows that you don’t appreciate it when he lurks over you like a shadow. That’s exactly why he does it. It’s a tactic, like everything else he does, it’s calculated. He smarter than he looks- you’ll give him that.

He’s smart enough to know that, no, you aren’t pregnant. And there’s a very low chance of you being able to fall pregnant. You’ve had an IUD placed for as long as you’ve known him. He’s questioned you enough times about it before. Pinching the device under your skin, smirking when you wince at the pain. He’s asking to embarrass you, begging you to ask the question of what would happen between the two of you if you were in-fact pregnant with his child. He wants you to know that he wouldn’t change. That it wouldn’t make him step up or start to think about his actions.

He’s exhausting to be around, frankly, it’s a living nightmare. You thought you’d miss him. After Price had sent you packing there was a tiny part of you that really thought that you’d miss having Simon near. He’s different here than he used to be back on base or out of country. Maybe that’s because he had the others there, perhaps he didn’t want to let his true colours show for all to see. He clearly thinks very little of you, that and your opinion of him. He couldn’t care less about how you see him, how you perceive him. That does sting, just a little bit.

The water cools your skin as you wash your face, scrubbing the sleep from your eyes and brushing your teeth until your gums feel sore. This is the routine now. When he’s here at least, walking on eggshells in your own home, pretending that he doesn’t bother you as much as he does. You’re lying to yourself, and doesn’t he know it.

You emerge from your bathroom and tread back to your room to get ready for work. In the few months since he’d come crashing back into your life you’d managed to get somewhat of a hold on it again. It’s rubbish money and the hours are even worse but it helps in its own ways. You’re back to some sort of normalcy, outside of Simon and his whole existence within your life. It’s good, you hate to admit, your colleagues are nice enough and the job itself isn’t hard at all. It’s stable. It’s okay. You’ll be okay. Stacking tins and organising pasta on shelves hadn’t been a career aspiration of yours- but you’re alive.

The need for relief is better managed, if you can say that. It’s not always pretty. Some nights are better than others. Your drinking is controllable and the painkillers no longer have a death-like grip on your mind and needs. Sometimes it’s hard to stay afloat, to resist the urge to drink yourself to the point you can’t stand upright or crush tablets between your teeth and rub them into your gums with your tongue. It’s a slippery slope. You can only climb so high before a strong enough wind blows you back down, but growth is growth in your eyes. There’s a noticeable pattern too, it’s always worse when he’s around. He hardly helps the issue. He raids your cupboards and empties your work bag onto the floor every night to make sure you don’t have anything he deems as contraband. As if you’re a child.

The ironic thing is, that he wouldn’t care if it killed you, not really. Not deep down. It might inconvenience him, sure, but it wouldn’t affect him in his daily life. He’d move on to the next unfortunate soul. Hell, you’re probably not the only one he’s seeing, he’s probably already got someone else on the back burner for when you do eventually fuck your liver to the point of no return. It wouldn’t surprise you at all. Not from him.

You get ready and dress for work and head to the hallway that leads to the front door to grab your bag, you’ll sort lunch out at work, because you can hear him in the kitchen. It’s as your key slides into the lock that you hear him still in whatever he’s doing, you bite your tongue.

“I’m off to work” your voice sounds so foreign in your own ears.

There’s a few seconds of drawn out silence and you take that as your cue to leave. Then his voice cuts in again-

“Come ‘ere” it’s rough from his throat. Not yet warmed up since he’d awoken.

You grip the door handle, you could walk out so easily, pretend you haven’t heard him, but it’s hardly worth the aggravation. You leave your key abandoned in the lock and turn to make your way through the living room and toward the kitchen. It’s there that you find him leaning his hip against the counter, a mug of coffee steaming away in his hand, he’s looking right at you as you enter the space.

“Everything okay?” You ask, a brow raised. You’ll be late if he isn’t quick with whatever he wants. He raises a brow back at you.

“I said come ‘ere” he tilts his chin, eyeing up the space directly in front of him.

You blink long and hard to hide the way your eyes want to roll in your skull. You’ll definitely be late at this rate. You do as he wants, nevertheless, stepping right up to him and stopping when you feel the steam from his coffee under your nose. Practically black, as he always has it, barely a drop of milk and no sugar. He’s looking at you in that way that always manages to make you feel so small. Not physically, because that’s already a given. But small in the way that he sees you as inferior to him in every single way. You likely are, but he doesn’t have to make it so obvious to you.

“What is it?” Your temper shortens, just slightly.

His eyes narrow, he notices the shift. His free hand lifts to the side of your face, running a rough thumb over the apple of your cheek, it’s a tender gesture. On the surface level.

“Come and see Price” his voice has softened, just that little bit, the way it does when he wants you to do something he knows you won’t want to.

He wants you to believe he’s on your side. It’s immediate the way you shake your head, he hadn’t even finished speaking.

“Simon- we’ve already talked about this” your patience is thinned to almost nothing. He could have said something earlier, long before you’re walking out the door to catch the next bus.

“Yeah, and you’re not seeing it from my perspective” he eyes you from over his nose, again, making you feel small. There’s a sour taste at the back of your throat.

“When do you ever try to see things from my perspective?” You raise your chin, if he wants an argument over this, you worry he’ll get what he’s after.

He brings his mug to his lips, staring at you from over the lip of it.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever stooped low enough to see things from your point of view, sweetheart” you can’t see his lips but you’re convinced you’d see a smirk there if you could. Your fists clench at your sides.

“I find that very hard to believe” you know little of Simon’s past, but you know enough to know that he is indeed lying. It’s another tactic, another way to get under your skin and piss you off. For his own pure enjoyment.

“Yeah? Try me” he lowers his mug and places it on the counter. His full attention on you. He folds his arms over his bare chest, his tattoos right in your line of sight.

There’s only so low that you’re willing to go, but whatever you say- you know that Simon will have something worse to say about you. That’s just a given with him.

“No no you’re right” you wave him off, stepping out of his space and turning to face the windows across the living room.

A beat of silence.

“Tommy was the druggie, right? Not you”

It’s audible, the way his jaw clicks. You don’t move.

“That’s right” his voice is flat, but you know him well enough to know that he’s annoyed, pissed beyond belief. Maybe not at what you’ve said, but that you’ve dared to say anything at all.

“Means I know a lost cause when I see one” you hear his body shift, the way his right shoulder clicks. Adjusting his stance.

You nod, silently. That’s his perception of you. It hardly rings true, a few months ago? Maybe. Now? You give yourself enough credit to know that you’re doing the right thing. Keeping this job. Not crawling back to Price. It settles the nagging feeling in your chest. You’re trying, at least. Making an effort.

“Why are you still here?” Still- you don’t turn to face him.

You keep your eyes glued to the way the world ticks by outside the window, there’s satisfaction in knowing he can’t see just how unbothered you are at his words. Before, you would have given him what he wanted and cried. Would have screamed and shouted in his face. An accusing finger pressed into his chest. You’d spat at him, once. Then he’d grab you and pull you close, pressing your snotty tear-stained face into the flesh of his chest and make a spectacle of soothing you. Telling you how he forgives you, how he knows it’s the booze and drugs talking- not you. He’d say that you’ll feel better in the morning and tug you into bed or towards the nearest waist-level surface and fuck you raw and slow and everlasting until you’re a puddle of nothing. Dumb and boneless- everything he already believes you to be.

He makes a noise. One that if it were translated into English, it would sound like ‘what the fuck are you on about?’

“I asked you why you’re here”

“Yeah, I heard you” his tone stiffens, it’s clear he doesn’t have an answer for you, therefore- he won’t answer.

There’s a few moments where the silence tells. There’s the sound of a car horn blaring outside and the birds that live in the gutter above your window chirp and sing, it’s the way life just keeps humming away- despite everything. Despite it all.

Simon moves and you stay stood still. You turn your head, watching out the corner of your eye as he walks toward you, he doesn’t look you in the eye. Instead looking out of the window as you had been. You follow his line of sight, watching the same cyclist ride past as he does.

“You treat me like shit y’know” you don’t know why you’ve said it. The thought had just been there, at the front of your mind and the tip of your tongue.

He turns his head, just slightly, to look at you. You feel his eyes- they burn.

“I treat everyone like shit” he returns his gaze to the glass, hands slid into the pockets of his trackie bottoms.

You laugh. It breezes past your lips so easily, so freely. You turn your gaze to him, noticing the way his jaw hardens when you do.

“No you don’t” you don’t take your eyes away from his face. You can’t.

For a moment you remember who he is- what he is. And in that moment you find yourself feeling sorry for him. Maybe he deserves more credit, because he could treat you a lot worse, realistically. It’s the one thing you tell yourself when he’s around, that he could be so much worse. It’s not a defence, no, it’s a lifeline. He’s suffered as you have and maybe that’s why you let him treat you the way he does, because that’s what you think you’re worth. Rough hands and sharp words and glaring eyes. It rolls off your back better these days, it’s easier to shrug off.

Simon hums, he’s caught out and he knows it.

“No- no I don’t” he rolls his shoulders until the right one cracks- again.

You bite the tip of your tongue. There’s so much you need to say to him and it’s never the right time or circumstance. You walk on eggshells around him because you can’t deal with the consequences of his temper and his irrationality. For someone who commands a platoon and leads so naturally, he’s the most pig-headed man you’ve ever met. He doesn’t want to hear your opinion or listen to you explain your point, even if he knows you’re right and he’s wrong.

“Why are you really here?” You’re still looking at him and your chest squeezes when he casts his eyes to the side, barely eyeing you. You’ve always loved his eyes.

They soften, if only slightly, it shows he’s considering the question. That he might not shrug it off like he does everything else.

“I don’t know” Simon’s voice carries that lilt to it, the one that reminds you of the man you’d first welcomed into your home- into your bed. Soft voice and attentive hands. Like he could actually stand being near you.

For a few seconds, it’s as if the world outside stops. The birds aren’t chirping and the traffic has cleared. Even the breeze stills, there’s nothing but the sounds of the both of you breathing. Out of sync. Always.

There’s a weight that dislodges from your chest. You didn’t realise you’d been carrying it for so long. Ultimately burdened by it. You haven’t got any answers, none that would clear away the ache in your heart when he looks at you in that knowing way. But somehow, there’s a satisfaction to knowing that he’s as lost as you are, the same way that you don’t understand why you let him stay- he doesn’t know why he stays either.

He stiffens slightly when he feels you at his side. Head and left shoulder pressed into his ribs and arm respectively. He quickly slackens his muscles, leaning into you slightly.

“We’re as bad as each other” the words are a little incoherent, your cheek smushed against his arm.

You’re not bothered if he hears it or not at this point. It wouldn’t matter. You only know he’s heard you by the way he sighs, craning his neck to lean the side of his head against the top of yours.

“I’m afraid I’m worse” he says it matter-of-factly. It’s the truth, to him.

“Much worse” his voice dies away, slightly. Not as though he’s embarrassed by the words, but perhaps because he knows you’re acutely aware.

You’re fully aware that he’s worse than you, in every sense of the fucking word. You’ve been sugar coating things, telling him what he wants to hear instead of what he needs to hear. He can appreciate that to a point. But he doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need the softness. That sentiment had been beaten out of him long ago, long before the Army sank its claws into him too. He knows what’s right and what’s wrong, it’s as if he doesn’t have the ability to physically stop himself from doing and saying things he doesn’t mean. In a military setting he can be loud and brash and rude; it’s his job. He spends his days as someone else’s superior, telling them when they can and can’t piss, telling them where and when they will die- essentially.

It’s hard for him to kick that habit when he’s out of that setting. When lives aren’t on the line. Yet, you’re right; he doesn’t treat Price or Gaz or Johnny that way. He can’t explain why, and that’s worse than if he could. He’s just a bad person, that’s what it ultimately boils down to at the end of the day.

It’s all he can think of as he takes you by the hand, watching your wide eyes watch him; pushing you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the sofa. Somehow, it’s different, for reasons he can’t think of. Simon Riley has never been a religious man-

Is this what repenting feels like?

He handles you differently, in his own way. The way he thinks he knows how. When he removes your clothes he’s no longer chasing something, that deep-dark spot in his vision that blurs his rationality is gone.

It’s too late for redemption- to prove that he can be something he’s not; because he can’t. He’d be lying and you know that, so you won’t ask that of him, you wouldn’t expect it either.

He holds your gaze as he presses his lips to the mound of your pussy. He watches how your chest heaves, sucking in air through your mouth, like a deer in headlights. This is so foreign from him, the tenderness, the gentleness of his hands and his mouth. No gnashing teeth or bruising fingers. There’s only featherlight touches- to begin with.

Simon warms you up the way he should. Sliding his tongue through the lips of your pussy, gathering the wetness he finds already there- he hasn’t even started with you yet, not really. There’s a slight smile that creeps up the side of his mouth at that. You tell him how much you hate him, but he has this effect on you; that in itself calls your bluff.

He listens to the way your breath stutters, feeling the way your hips cant into the wait of his mouth when he slows down or stops completely. Your juices are smeared across his lips and down his chin, he rubs his face into your pussy, slathering himself in your wetness. He wants to smell you on his skin tomorrow when he leaves, because he will leave, if you really want him to.

“Oh- oh fuck” he plucks these sounds out of you so easily.

He curls two thick fingers into the tightness of your cunt, reeling at how easy your pussy sucks him in. So needy. So eager for anything he’ll give. He watches his digits disappear, barely wanting to take his eyes off of yours but needing to visualise the feeling of your tight hole sucking him in, clamping like a vice around his fingers as he fucks them deeper inside of you.

“There?” He asks, curling his fingers, watching you nod your head wildly.

“So wet f’me” his voice drags, drunk on your pussy.

It’s like electricity hits his bones when he presses his mouth to you again, lapping at your clit while he continues to pump his fingers into you. Matching rhythm. Swirling his tongue, beckoning you with the wet muscle in his mouth, luring you to the edge. When you curl your fingers into the length of hair at the top of his head, that’s when he’s really spurred on. Letting you rub your pussy all over his face, burying his nose in the mound of flesh there, nipping teeth when you get too bold for his liking- because he’s still in charge here.

“Soo desperate” he tries to be cruel with his tone but it goes right over your head.

He feels the way your walls clamp around his fingers. The way your breathing grows ragged, sloppy thrusts of your hips against his mouth and tongue, pushing yourself closer and closer to the edge as Simon fights to pull you there.

“Oh- a-a fuck Si” you’re a stuttering mess. “M’close-”

You’re practically gushing when you cum. He laps at you like he hasn’t before, listening to cries of his own name that bounce off the walls. The sounds of your pussy oozing against his mouth make his cock leak in his boxers. Hard and untouched. He stutters his hips, seeking any kind of friction.

There isn’t any; but watching and feeling you squirm under him like this is a new found thing. He’s had you on your back more times than he can think to count. Yet, none have felt like this- not even in the early days when things were right between the two of you.

Maybe it’s because things have indeed shifted, that maybe you’ve solidified your belief that you deserve better - that this might be it for him.

Even when you almost pull his hair from the roots, riding his nose as he rides you through your orgasm. Your spine arching off the sofa cushion, needing more despite the fact that he’s given you everything.

“Oh -Simon” it’s hissed through your teeth. He’s doing too much now, clamping his fingers into your thighs, not wanting to let go.

It’s the greediness in him. He wants too much of everything, he has no control. There isn’t that little voice in his head that tells him he’s had enough, that he’s done enough. Not that he would listen to it.

He finally lets up, leaning back on his heels, still knelt between your thighs. Eyes watching yours, you’re staring up at the ceiling. Eyes hooded, lips agape, breath ragged- he can’t help but think you look beautiful.

So why has he never said it before?

He leans his cheek against your thigh, eyes still watching your face, then you feel them- feel his gaze. Your eyes snap to his and for a moment, you look remorseful. Then you open your mouth to speak-

“We’re still not friends��

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swampstew · 2 days ago

Text

One long night

Summary: short, multi-chapter choose your adventure story. not thought out a single bit. you're the main character,this is your rodeo and Captain Kid is your bull ;)

Warnings: Eustass Kid X Female Reader, consent is implied, femdom dynamics forced orgasm, exhibitionism because its at a dark pub in the back. WC: 971

There was little left of the dive bar the Kid Pirates trashed that evening. Some still-standing yet drunk as fuck local islanders scattered around the place, the busted lights cast a hazy, dim glow in the already dark bar.

Not that the Kid Pirates minded, it was how they liked to wind down before the night ended.

You, Kid and the crew had been sharing stories and laughing over jokes for a while and the chatter quieted down as they drank and polished off the food on the tables. They dwindled and eventually left with knowing glances at each other, but you and Kid were drunkenly talking and barely noticed when the table was empty. The remaining crew drifted to harass the patrons and mingled with whoever was still around.

“I’m gonna grab us some waters,” you headed to the bar to hydrate and throw down extra cash for tips and damages. You always felt a little bad for owners of businesses they fucked up. It was your collateral-damage cash.

The bartender gave you extra-large mugs filled with ice cubes, and in your inebriated state made you a bit clumsy as you walked back to the table without spilling drop or cube. At the table, Kid had kicked aside the chairs, placing his weapons strap and loose items on the empty seats and table..

Setting the glasses gently down, you felt Kid’s fingers ghost across the small of your back, grazing them to your waist as he guided you to sit in his lap. You tried to ignore the hot buzz you felt along your body as he moved you. You shifted to get comfortable while Kid was finishing his liquor when he suddenly coughed and shuddered underneath you.

“You ok, Boss?”

He cleared his throat before answering, “Y-yeh, drink jus’ went down the wrong pipe.”

Kid prompted you to give him his water, and he let out a few coughs before his voice wasn’t as strained. When his breathing felt more regulated, you brought up a topic from earlier in the day you wanted to double back on – just looking for something to talk about and ignore the fact that you were both past the point of sobriety, and you were plainly sitting in his lap.

He listened and leaned forward to set the half-drunk mug down, and when he sat back upright you had to adjust yourself again having slid down his massive thighs.

Sculpted muscles. Muscles so ripped, you could feel the curves and edges of his quadriceps through the fabric of his pants.

You shifted once more and felt Kid freeze underneath you.

Then you felt something else.

Slowly growing underneath your ass, awakened from the repetitive stimulation. You sucked in a breath when you realized it was his dick.

“Ah-s-sorry, didn’t mean to—” you stammered out.

“It’s ok,” he said tensely. “It happens…”

“I can get off—”

“No,” he cut you off, “It’ll pass. His fingers absentmindedly trailed on the hem of your shirt, trying to steel his mind on to something else. Inadvertently trailing his fingers lower until they dipped beneath the hem touching your bare skin.

Your body broke out in goosebumps, you couldn’t help the shudder that went through your body, shifting on his still-growing erection. You could hear Kid’s jaw click from how hard he clenched them.

Truthfully, you always found him attractive and dreamt more than once about it would be like to smudge that line between captain and subordinate. Feeling for once like you were in position of all the power, you allowed your loosely inhibited state persuade you to intentionally rock on him.

You heard strained grunts as he processed your movements.

Hips dipped back and forth, pressing your wettened core against the promise behind his pants. It felt large, thick, and already so impossibly hard.

The low music that hummed around the bar droned out the others from your table. Only you and Kid existed now. In sensual silence.

You braced your elbows to the table, ass flushed backwards so Kid got a nice view as while you rocked against him. His fingers dug into your hips, trying to exert more force with your grinding.

Kid let out short huffs the closer he got to climax, brought to the brink so suddenly with purposefully long slides of your torturous cunt along his length. His cock stuttered, his arm wrapped around your waist as he pulled you tightly to his flushed torso. You felt the twitch of cock as he came with a near-silent, strangled groan.

You chuckled as you fully came to a stop. Spontaneously teasing Kid to completion had exerted you of your energy.

“S’mthing funny, ya asshole?” he muttered with face pressed to the nape of your neck.

“Nothing’s funny, I’m a lil’ proud of myself. I always wanted to do that.”

He said nothing for a minute before the room violently came to life. Kid activated his power and repelled everything in a frenzy inside the bar.

Knives, forks, trays shot out to stab, and weapons slashing and shooting down the bar tender and remaining patrons. Battering them and forcing them out the double wide door before it was barricaded.

“Is that a fact?” he lifted you up with his flesh arm and used his metal arm to clear the table. Kid put force into the way he shoved you belly flat to surface, holding your back down with just one hand.

“Since we’re sharing, this is something I’ve always wanted to do,” his kilt and belt buckles clinked when he pushed his pants down. “You had your fun, now I’ll show you my version of a fun time. Givin’ ya one chance to back out.”

Puffs of excitement prefaced your smirk, “The hell makes you think I’d so something stupid like that?”

#eustass kid #eustass kid x you #swampstew bedtime stories #eustasscaptainkid #eustass kid x reader #eustass kid x y/n #eustass kid smut #cw voyeurism #cw bd/sm #slight exhibitionism if you think about it. but i don't #swampstew stories #cyoa game #poll game

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anjelicawrites · 3 days ago

Text

Paring: Armand x reader

Synopsis: you're sitting in a pub, you start drawing the mysterious stranger sitting not far away from you. When he discovers you, you don’t realize you’ve picked the attention of a dangerous creature.

Warnings: reference to past injury, self doubt, allusion to past trauma.

A/N: reader is AFAB. They/them pronouns used.

The wind is howling outside the thick windows of the pub, dark clouds promising heavy rain and violent waves against the jagged coast not too far from the narrow road where the pub is built. The fire is roaring in the huge hearth, shadowed by too many people huddling there to nurse their drinks; the lights are dim against the old wooden panels, giving the overcrowded room a homely air.

You beer sits next to the small case full of your pencils as you draw in the dim lights of the overcrowded room.

Your head sits lightly on your free hand as the other rushes to finish the quick sketch you’re working on, before your, unintentional, muse decides to leave; you’re hoping the promise of heavy rain will convince the man to stay a little longer. Who knows if he will or he will try his luck, now that the wind has picked up even more violently.

You focus again on the black lines on the sheet of paper, finishing the outline to start working on the elegant sweater he’s wearing; you’re no expert but it looks expensive, and warm, and soft. A real nightmare to draw using only a charcoal pencil, since you are planning to add colors and you don’t want to put too many shadows that aren’t there.

“It has been a long time since anyone ever painted me. I was given the chance to pose back then, for hours, I have to admit.”

The soft voice makes you lift your head in surprise; dimly you think that there is an accent you can’t truly pinpoint, his words almost neutral in their intonation.

“It’s actually a drawing, not a painting.”

You want to drown in your own sweater at how stupid your response sounds.

“May I sit?”

You can’t see his eyes, hidden behind his wraparounds sunglasses and his expression is hard to read: you’d hate to cause a scene, not everyone appreciates being portrayed in secret.

“Please, do.”

Carefully you move your beer more on the side of the small round table, the too long sleeve of your sweater uncovering partially the black burn glove on your left hand, despite you racing to hide it again.

The man sits down, gracefully and only now you notice he has no drink with him: he must have entered the pub to escape the oncoming storm. He only lays an elegant cigarette case on the battered table, the ornate, intricate designs catch your attention from the rowdy crowd of the pub.

He is stunningly beautiful, but this you realized when you eyes had landed on him, whilst you were sipping your beer and wondering what, or who, you could sketch to pass the time; what truly draw your attention was his aura, so calm, yet it gave you the sense of someone who keeps a tight lid on their emotions, like a summer evening when you know it’s going to rain soon.

“Are you an artist?”

Again, his soft voice drags you back from your thoughts, the musicality of it makes you want to listen to him reading his grocery shop list, if that meant just hearing it.

“No, not really, it’s just a hobby.”

“You have a great deal of sketches in your book, and in your little case.”

Almost on instinct you want to grab your work and curl around it in protection; it’s the gut reaction of a second, you aren’t in that position anymore, this man will not tear your works into shreds for no reason.

“It’s something I haven’t done for a while and then I had decided to pick it up again. We can’t only work all the time, can’t we? We need to treat ourselves.” You say with a smile.

“I am acquainted with that meme.”

It surprises you that he feels the need to convey his knowledge: what a strange man.

“This is my way to treat myself.”

“By drawing unsuspecting strangers?”

There’s no heath in his words, no rage, perhaps a bit of curiosity.

“By drawing what, or who, catches my eyes.” You answer, parroting his words. “I love to hang somewhere and just let my eyes wander. I can stop sketching you, if you want, I know it’s disconcerting for some people.”

You can truly feel the weight of his gaze, still hidden by the sunglasses, even now that the pub is bathed in the dark light from outside. This stranger is not simply looking at you, you feel as if he’s taking you apart to catalog every single piece of yourself he can find, like an entomologist does with a pinned butterfly.

You know you shouldn't feel so calm under his scrutiny, that you should bid your farewell and go home, but you can’t help yourself: you want this stranger to keep looking at you like he would the pieces of a puzzle he desperately needs to put together. No matter how dangerous the consequences.

A shiver runs down the damaged nerves on your left arm, and you decide to ignore the warning.

“Why should you? You’re very talented.”

All of his nervousness now shows itself in the way his index fingers fiddles with the cigarette case, his hidden gaze fixed upon you.

“It’s a shame it’s not possible to smoke in public places such as this one anymore.”

How strange! You think. The law passed here in 2004 and he talks about it as if he had experienced how it was before. He can’t be that old!

He seems to have made his mind as his hand gently grasps the sunglasses, as if ready to remove them.

“Please, don’t!” In your haste you lift your hand, almost to stop him. “The most interesting part is to guess and imagine. Do keep wearing them.”

There’s a slew of small expressions playing on his face, all to hide his surprise and, perhaps, curiosity?

You grab the charcoal pencil in a tighter grip and go back to your work, losing yourself in the quick, almost nervous motions of your hand on the paper: you don’t know why you feel like you have to rush, to capture the fleeting essence of this nameless man, but you do.

With every ticking second you believe you’re going to lose the feeble hold you have on the ideas crowding your mind, with every stroke you fear you’re drifting far away from the first image of sadness and loneliness that lighted up in your mind, as soon as you saw him, sitting alone in the pub, under lights that enhanced his otherworldly beauty, the very thing that set him apart from all the other men present.

You only need to glance at him sparsely, to make sure to capture the texture of his hair and the folds of his sweater, the long lines of his fingers against the battered wood of the table.

Only when you’re finished, you realize you have been holding your breathe for most of the sketching and you have to force yourself to take a big gulp of air, before turning your sketchbook to him, while grabbing your beer again.

You’re learning not to be shy, when it comes to your creations, to share them with the world, to accept the criticism and the compliments; not now. Now you’re crawling out of your shell again, trying to draw while being filled with self doubts and hating every single piece you created, those past months disappearing in your mind, along with the strength you built for yourself.

His piercing gaze is now turned on your drawing, that analytical stare that cut you into layers and layers, now is doing the same to your work, and to himself: you’d do anything to know his thoughts, now that his face shows nothing.

Under the stillness a maelstrom rages. The man looking back at him from the page is a knot of everything he’s always felt and never told. Through the fast strokes of his eyes, he can see all his hardships, all he’s done and lost for centuries, pain and desperation, in a way a simple mirror would never show him: how a simple mortal like you could read him so deeply after staring at him, comes as a surprise. You’re nothing but a child, compared to him, yet you have the understanding of a much older person, as if you’ve experienced the depths of hell, only to expose it in your art, and to him.

It takes a lot of restrain for Armand to show nothing of his internal turmoil: it has been so long since someone managed to pin him down so precisely, so perfectly, he has to fight the instinct to stand up and storm out, away from you and your keen eyes; he wonders if you have done the same to other people, read them so perfectly and bluntly putting them in front of their own soul, like his fledgling had done to him. Do you know how dangerous you are? Do you have any inkling of how easily you could destroy a person’s life? Would you do that in the name of the truth?

“It’s awful, isn’t it? It’s not worth keeping.”

You reach with your good hand to slip the sketchbook away from his grasp and he stops you with elegant fingers on your wrist. His grasp is not strong, it doesn’t hurt, but holds a secret strength you can feel traveling up your arm and makes you shiver with the need for more.

“It’s beautiful.” He says, after a heartbeat, still holding you in place. “The one who painted me wasn’t as good an artist as you are, he lacked the depth you hold.”

His face is now turned back to you, his hidden, piercing stare focused on your features, analyzing you again, as if wanting to explore the hidden crevices of your soul.

“Thank you.” You stammer. “I’m glad you like it.”

Still, he says nothing, making you feel self-conscious of your own existence in this small pub on the coast.

“Would it be too forward of me to ask you to gift me this sketch?”

You’re too dazzled yourself to notice the small quiver in his soft voice.

“Oh! That’s the first time anyone has asked me that.”

Right now the people around you two don’t exist, nor is the wind beating down the old windows and stones of the building. There are no passing cars outside, nor are the waves crashing against the high cliffs, just a handful of miles from here.

“I thought I wanted to color it.”

“I think it’s perfect this way.”

He knows a finished work will incinerate him on the spot, because he will never be able not to stare at it, at himself, like Dorian Gray, to face all his centuries on this Earth.

“You’re too good to me. It’s really just a small sketch.”

“You’re selling yourself short. You have something many professional artists lack.”

When his big hand releases yours, the spell you were under breaks and all the sounds around you attack you again, adding to the fog you’re still feeling clouding your brain.

Almost through a dream, you take the sketchbook from his hand and cut the page off with the small pocket knife you keep in your pouch to sharpen some of your thicker pencils.

“It’s yours, my personal thank you for appreciating my work.”

His fingers touch yours again on the thin piece of paper and only now you notice how cold they are, despite the heath in the pub.

“Thank you.” There’s no calculation in his words, he feels real gratitude, the feeling burning brightly in the scorched desert of his soul. “I don’t even know your name.”

When you answer his question, you feel like he’s got a hold on your soul, like in the stories about the fairies.

“My name is Armand.”

A french name to someone who hasn’t a french accent, but nowadays people call their children anything, you think.

“Are you here on holiday?”

You can see the cheeky way his mouth turns when he smiles at your question.

“I thought I was simply passing through, but I am fascinated with how this area has changed, I think I am going to stay, for a while.”

You almost don’t notice the way he refers to this place as if he’s visited it years and years ago. Almost.

“Do you have somewhere to carry it? My sketch I mean. It has just started to rain.”

“Unfortunately I don’t. And I don’t wish to ruin it.”

“Here, use this!”

With much too haste, you empty the case where you carry your bigger pieces and hand it over to him.

“I can’t possibly accept it. Your other works will be destroyed by the rain.”

“I can roll them up and keep them in my bag, it’s big enough. Besides, that one is fresh, if you do the same to it, it will get ruined.”

“I still need to refund you yours.”

“There’s no need. If you’re staying, you’ll give it back whenever you can. There aren’t many meeting places here.”

The old trick always works: you are all so easy to manipulate.

“Then I shall give it back as soon is possible.”

His hands don’t tremble when they take the case from you, touching the sketch again doesn’t burn him the same way the first time did, but he knows he’s still affected, and needs to understand why.

“Regrettably, I need to go now.”

He lies, a part of him wants to stay to take your brain apart until he knows all the ways the mechanisms work there, but it’s too early for that.

“It’s raining pretty hard.”

“My car is parked nearby and your lovely sketch is safe.”

He doesn’t have a car, but he has faster means of transportation that defy such a small thing as rain.

Before you can stand up, he gracefully takes your hand to kiss the palm, ignoring the smudges of charcoal. He does it the classy way: his lips don’t touch your skin.

“Thank you again for your gift.”

“No, thank you for humoring me. I hope I’ll see you soon!”

Oh, he thinks, you have no idea how ‘soon’ can become ‘now’.

#armand x reader #armand x y/n #iwtv #armand #amc iwtv #interview with the vampire #amc interview with the vampire #the vampire armand

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