#you know. something she also would have gone through | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shy-writer-999 · 3 days ago

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1-800-LONELYCHEF . ₊ ⊹ .

Summary: The same man calls you every Friday at 11:30PM. It seems like he has nothing better to do. After months of the same routine, you've started to take a liking to him, which is a problem, considering that he's your client... and you work at a phone sex hot line. WC: ~7k. CW: NSFW content! ANGSTY! Afab reader w/gendered language (she/her pronouns). Masturbation, oral sex. MDNI plz!

“Hello?”

You’re very familiar with the caller on the other end of the line. He calls you once a week—every Friday, after his shift at the bougie restaurant he works at, 11:30PM on the dot.

He must be very attractive, or at least that’s what you’ve garnered over talking to him for many months.

At first, he was evidently too shy to make use of your more… explicit services. This is a phone sex hotline, after all.

He honestly sounded like he just needed someone to vent to. So, you listened, as was your job. After the first few months, you both got more accustomed to one another. His shyness melted away. He got friendlier.

It’s been six or seven months since he first called. You’ve become very fond of him, but you have no idea what he looks like. So, one day, you decide to ask.

“Your voice is so sexy,” you start, giving him a line that you gave everyone, except this time you mean it. “I can’t help but wonder what you look like, Sanji.”

With other callers, you’d have to check what their name is before you say it. But you’re far past that point with him, and every time you say his name it makes his heart flutter.

“Well,” he says. “I’m blonde. And my eyebrows have a little… curl to them. I’m a decent height and I have a bit of a goatee.”

“And what color are your eyes?” You ask, trying to get the full picture.

He notes that question. It’s a thoughtful one. You’re thoughtful, in general. He knows that you are just being nice to him because, well, it’s your job, but also… he can’t shake the feeling that you have a soft spot for him. Do you talk to everyone like this?

“My eyes? Hmm. It depends on who you ask. I don’t know, really. Some people say they’re black, other people say grey, I’ve had a few tell me they’re blue. I’m not sure.”

You hum in response. There’s a beat of silence.

“What sort of eyes do you like?” He asks. He’s cheeky like that. You have the feeling that he has a real soft spot for you, too. Why else would he call you every week? There are plenty of others he could call. But he just sticks with you every time.

You respond. “It depends on who you ask. But historically I have liked guys with black, grey, or blue eyes. Do you happen to know anyone who fits the bill?”

He can tell that you’re smiling. He finds himself blushing, getting giddy for a few moments before he realizes that oh, right, you are at work, and oh, right, he is paying you to talk to him, like the loser he is.

His voice falters a bit the next time he speaks, a couple of seconds later. You know the exact thought that just went through his head. It’s something you are well aware of but… it does make you a bit sad with him. You like him far too much for your own good.

You wonder if you would like the look of him in real life, painfully single as you are. You wonder if he would like the look of you.

You might have a teeny tiny crush on this guy you’ve never met. Teeny tiny is a massive understatement. Just because he’s so consistent—you’ve never met a man as consistent as him—and so kind, and such a gentleman, even on the phone.

But tonight, the call ends earlier than usual. It seems that your open flirtation was a bit too genuine for him. Hit a bit too close to home. He finishes the conversation and dodges your attempt to take it farther.

“Thank you as always, beautiful. It’s a pleasure to talk to you. See you next week.” The phone hangs up abruptly. He’s gone now.

He always calls you beautiful, like everyone else does, but… it just means something coming from him. Maybe because he’s the only caller who has ever wanted to truly know something about you. And every time he hangs up, he says ‘see you next week,’ even though you never see each other. It’s cute.

You find yourself wishing he was still on the line. You’re a bit bummed that he hung up this early, not because you’re going to be left wanting for money (he always overpays), but because you always look forward to talking to him.

When you take the next caller, you’re quickly reminded that Sanji is by far the youngest and kindest of anyone who has ever called you.

---

“Hello?”

He’s on the line again. It’s Friday again, 11:30PM sharp.

You respond, tone warmer than it needs to be, given that you’re speaking to a client. “Hi.”

You’re glad to talk to him. Very realistically, this is the only interesting thing you have to look forward to—it’s not like you can afford to go out and party on the weekends. Or any day, for that matter. He’s your Friday night date every week. That doesn’t escape him.

“How was your week?” He asks, like he always does. He’s the only client who has ever asked you that.

You respond as frankly as you can without overstepping. “Hmmm. It was alright. Pretty boring, in general. It could have been better. How was your week?”

He pauses for a moment. “It was pretty good.”

“Tell me about it.” You prompt, and he begins detailing his week for you, as is your routine.

The things you know about this man’s life are random and vast, among them, you know that he lives in the city next to yours, he eats oats every morning for breakfast, and that he chain smokes as often as he can get away with (which is almost 24/7). You’ve been privy to him trying to cut back on his nicotine intake more than a few times, and he has never forgotten that you cheer him on every time he tries.

Among other things, this week he had to go to work on his usual day off (Wednesday) because the sous-chef called out (again). You can hear him roll his eyes when he says that. You roll them too, even though he can’t see.

He vents about that, and you hear him out.

“The sous-chef sounds like a real asshole,” you say. “Always has. Didn’t he call out a couple weeks ago?”

He laughs out loud at your honesty. “I fucking know, right? And yes, he did. It’s ridiculous.” Then his heart skips a beat. You really do pay attention to what he says.

“They don’t appreciate you as much as they should, Sanji. I bet I could talk some sense into them.” You say, and you both chuckle for a moment.

“What else happened this week?” You follow up, genuinely wanting to know. This man fascinates you. With how charming and sweet he is, it’s a wonder to you that he’s single. Also, the life he lives is quaint. He is a man of routine, a hard worker, and he’s driven. He has a strong and warm personality.

When he replies to your question, you can’t quite make out the tone of his voice—is that reluctance? Hesitation? Shyness? Or awkwardness? It’s hard to tell.

He responds to your question. “Well… I went on a date last night.”

Before you can wonder why, your heart starts to sink. Fuck. You really do have a crush on this guy, don’t you?

You regrettably (internally) acknowledge your disappointment. You do have a massive crush on this guy. And he’s your client. So, get a grip.

Your acting skills have to be excellent for this job. You make good use of them now. “Oh, a date?” You emanate the pinnacle of excitement for him. “How was it?”

This has happened maybe half a dozen times before. The dates always go well but the follow through rate is bad. Obviously. Or else he wouldn’t be here. But every time it has happened, your heart always sinks. Not a fun feeling.

“It went really, really well.” Sanji’s voice is happy. “Might have been the best date I’ve ever been on.” You know he’s smiling right now. Positively beaming. Your heart breaks a bit before you reprimand yourself. You have no right to like this man the way that you do.

He probably wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot-pole if he met you in real life (you tell yourself this, and you know it is a lie, but you try to say it to make yourself get a grip… needless to say, this strategy doesn’t work.)

“How was she?” You ask because you know he wants to talk about it.

“She was thoughtful, kind, and considerate. Very sweet. Kind of like you, actually.” He says, not realizing how much those words make your smile fall. “One of the cooks set us up. Like a blind date. I had no idea what to expect but she was gorgeous. Wow. So funny, too.”

His voice trails off. It’s your turn to talk.

“Awh, Sanji, I’m so glad. You deserve some attention.” Your voice is sugar coated like usual and his heart patters.

The conversation wanders into various topics. The woman he went on a date with is a veterinarian. That sours your mood. She must be real swell. Caring for sick animals and all that stuff. Ugh. The whole topic is forcing you to accept the fact that you like this guy wayyyy more than you should. You have no business having this intense of a crush on him, having this intense of a crush on a man who is, ostensibly, and for all intents and purposes, using you as his rent-a-girlfriend.

The pair of you then talk about relationships—has he ever been in one? (Yes, ages ago.) What is his love language? (Physical touch and acts of service.) What’s his type? (Essentially, you.) You ask him questions and he asks you them back. It’s a nice conversation, an intimate one, one that would have you feeling better if not for the fact that he just happened to have an amazing date.

After a while, the conversation dwindles. You know that he’s in the mood to do what this whole thing is really about—phone sex. When Sanji is in a really good mood or a really bad mood, he takes advantage of your expertise in this area. Tonight is the former.

“Is there anything else on your mind, handsome?” You ask, gauging what he’s up to tonight.

“Mmmm, there is. What are you wearing, gorgeous?”

You smile. He’s cute. Usually, you lie when men ask you this question. But with Sanji you tend to be a bit more truthful. Maybe it’s the fact that you feel like he’s going to get taken off the market soon and never call you again one day, or maybe it’s something else, but you’re getting the urge to be more candid and flirtier with him than you’ve ever been before. Real flirty, not work flirty. You’re getting the urge to step out of whatever character you put on when you pick up the phone.

“Do you want the regular client answer, or the Sanji answer?” You say, bold and not giving a fuck. Why not? He can have the real answer, hell, he can have some realness because you’ve talked for so long, and because you like him so much. Like you said, he deserves some attention.

“Oh. How about both?” He’s tickled and intrigued. “I’m flattered that I have my own option.”

“You always do. Well, the regular client answer would be that I’m wearing a babydoll slip dress made of black mesh… with a black lace thong and thigh-high black stockings. Do you like that?” Your voice starts to transform; it starts to drip pure lust, candied in honey and flattery. It’s a well-trained skill. Sanji gets hard almost immediately, tenting his pants and widening his thighs.

“I like it very much.” His voice is getting huskier, thicker. You love it when he sounds like that. His voice really is sexy. He continues. “Now, tell me the Sanji answer.”

“It isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

He nods, but it’s not like you can see him. “Of course.”

“I’m wearing a black tank top and blue plaid sweatpants. No bra, but I actually am wearing a black lace thong.” You laugh. “Very sexy, right?”

His voice comes out raspier this time. “It is, though. I much prefer the Sanji answer.”

“You’re sweet.” You say, and he can tell you mean it. “Now, what are you wearing?”

Sanji blushes and his erection strains against the fabric of his boxers. “Do you want the regular client answer, or the You answer?”

You laugh again. “How about both?”

“Well,” he continues. “The regular client answer is that I’m in black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone and my sleeves are rolled up to my forearms. I’m wearing black loafers and black socks. Now, the You answer isn’t nearly as glamorous. Do you still want to know?”

“Mhm.”

“I don’t have a shirt on and I am coincidentally wearing blue plaid sweatpants as well. Can you believe that?”

“No way. Really?”

“Yep.”

“Anything underneath?” Your voice is coy and his erection pulses.

“Yep. I have boxers on. Boring black ones.”

“And what’s going on underneath of those?”

He dryly chuckles and reaches down to rub his hard on for a second. “A lot.”

“Just what I wanted to hear.” You practically purr and he runs his palm over his bulge in response.

He lets out a soft groan that make you feel some sort of way. “Oh yeah? Y’know, even though I don’t really know what you look like, I just know that you’re looking sexy in your pajama outfit right now.”

Your witty reply is stopped short. He’s the only one who is this real with you. Most of the men on the other line tend to be creepy, old, and just downright weird. This is a dying profession, after all. Sometimes the other clients are rude and dismissive, too. But Sanji… you know he really means what he says.

“You’re adorable, Sanji,” you say. “I’d venture a guess that you look pretty good right now, too.”

“Mmmm.” He hums, heartbeat rising as he continues to palm himself. “I wish I could see you right now.”

You can’t tell if this is part of the fantasy. You really did wish you could see him, though.

“What would you do to me…” your voice is smooth as silk. “If I peeled off my tanktop and shimmied out of my sweatpants?”

Sanji’s breath hitches. Something feels realer than usual about this—knowing what you’re wearing right now, what you’re really wearing, is turning him on beyond belief (assuming that you’re telling the truth, but he always chooses to believe that you are).

“If I was there, I’d kiss you, actually.”

His answer catches you off guard. You’re not sure he’s said something like this before.

There is silence for a second. You don’t know how to respond, really. You decide to just respond honestly, without appearances. Fuck it. He’d probably be off the market soon if his amazing date was anything to tell for it, so might as well.

“Wow, that’s really sweet. I’m not sure anyone has said something that nice to me in years.”

He tuts. “That’s my lowest bar of sweetness. I can go much sweeter than that, my love.”

He’s never called you that before, either. You’re starting to forget that this is a work call. It feels distinctly different than one.

“I’d like to see how sweet you can get, Sanji.”

His cock twitches again. Fuck. You really have a way with words. You get him more riled up than anyone he’s ever met before.

You continue. “After you kiss me, what would you do to me?”

“I would kiss every inch of you.”

Your heart melts. Fuck. Is this guy a saint? Where does he get off being so suave?

“Mmmm. That sounds nice. I’d like to return the favor.” Your tone, to Sanji, is effortlessly erotic. The thought of you kissing every inch of him—yes, even those inches—has him grinding the palm of his hand over his cock.

“Sounds even better. Then, if you let me, I’d go down on you.” The blonde is starting to get worked up. You can tell from his voice—when it gets all husky like this, you know he’s about to start touching himself, if he isn’t already.

Also, the fact that he said ‘if you let me’ really struck you. No one had ever said that before in your line of work. He has the tendency to say things you’ve never heard before, and he always surprises you.

“Of course I’d let you go down on me,” your voice gets softer. “What exactly would you do?” You wonder if he’d be any good. Maybe his answer will be elucidative.

“I’d start by kissing up your thighs, one at a time. Then I’d very slowly, very gently kiss your clit. Hopefully it would feel good. After a while, I think I’d be able to tell if you liked it. I’d run my tongue downwards and taste you. And tease you as much as you’re willing to put up with.”

“Mmmm. I think I could put up with a lot.” You let out a breathy sigh. You’re starting to warm up between the legs. With that voice, and those words, and that mental image… it sounds divine. You’re about to let yourself get carried away. It’s tempting.

“Is that so?” Sanji decides to keep going with the fantasy as long as you’d let him. Frequently, this happens the other way around. You usually describe to him, in great detail, what you would do to him. Apparently tonight it would be the other way around.

“In that case,” Sanji continues, “I’d take my time with you. I’d push my tongue inside of you delicately at first, then harder, and switch between that licking your clit.”

You can feel that you’re getting wet. It has only ever been with Sanji that you’ve actually gotten aroused while talking to a client. Usually, you’re as dry as the Sahara when talking to clients. But this man does things to you. Sinful things.

“What else?” You ask, biting your lip and sneaking your hand lower. You decide that, just this once, it’s okay to get carried away.

He can hear it in your voice. The synthetic, sugary (but still very much erotic) tone is dissipating and he’s hearing, for the first time, your voice bathed in genuine arousal. Your breaths are quicker than usual, your tone is less composed, and he can tell that you’re hanging onto his every word.

At the same time that his hand goes under the waistband of his boxers, yours goes under your underwear. He starts to stroke himself, relishing the first ripples of pleasure from his hand, and you do something similar. Each movement of your fingers is accompanied by his voice, by some filthy image he puts in your head.

“When you’re moaning loud enough, I’d press my middle finger into you slowly, to make sure you’re comfortable. After a moment, I’d move my finger and caress you inside a bit, and if it seemed like you liked it, I would press my ring finger into you.”

You start to mimic what Sanji is describing. It feels dangerously good. A barely audible sort of gasping sound falls out of your lips and Sanji hears it. His fist goes faster. He hasn’t ever heard you make that sort of noise before—he’s heard fake moans, sure, they were still hot (and he always told himself they were real). Anything you did was hot. But this sort of noise was the sort that could only be caused by one thing—pleasure.

Sanji’s fist goes a bit faster when he concludes that you may be touching yourself. The idea makes him feel like he’s on fire.

“I’d curl my fingers inside of you and find your g-spot… draw circles around it and press it while I place some kisses on your clit. Would you like that?”

His question catches you off guard—you’re getting lost in the act of fingering yourself.

“Mmmm. I would like that, Sanji.”

“How would I know that you liked it?”

“I’d, fuck,” another soft moan slips out of your lips and Sanji squeezes his cock tighter. “I’d run my fingers through your hair and pull you closer. Buck my hips into your tongue so you, ah, get deeper.”

“What would you say?” His voice is low now, and you can hear a faint sound in the background. He’s fisting his cock to your conversation, which is nothing new, but it brings you more of a rush than usual right now because you’re touching yourself too. “What would you say if you liked how I ate you out?”

“Don’t stop,” you shudder, and it sounds like it would if he was actually eating you out. The noise makes his heart flip. He can hear wet sounds from your end of the phone, too. He can hardly believe his ears, but sure enough, he can make out the noises of you bringing your fingers in and out of yourself.

“I wouldn’t,” Sanji says and then groans. The obscene noise goes straight to your aching core. You’re going to orgasm soon. “I wouldn’t stop until you came all over my face and I licked you clean.”

“Fuck,” you mewl. “That sounds, ah, sounds like it would feel good, Sanji.”

“Does it feel good?” He counters, twisting his hand over the head of his cock. His fist brings down the precum that has been beading at his tip, and the sensation makes his hips rock up inadvertently.

“Mmmmphhh, I—yes, it feels good, Sanji. Feels so good.”

You curl your fingers inside, searching for the spot that Sanji mentioned before. You press on it as you speak. You know he’s going to love the noise you make.

He grunts and throws his head back. He’s going to cum soon. He’s going to cum if you say his name some more. He wants it. “Say that again.”

“Fucckkk, Sanji. Feels so good.”

“I love hearing you say my name. I’m—hah—‘m gonna cum if you do it again.”

“Sanji. Sanji. Sanji, fuck, Saannnjjjiii.” On repeat, you moan his name through your orgasm, which you finally allow to wash over you. He can hear it in your voice, can hear you trying to force his name out of your mouth between keens.

Your voice has never sounded so good. He’s sure now, sure sure, that you’ve been touching yourself this whole time and that you just came. It’s a first for him. He’s suspected your arousal at other times, but this time, it’s a confirmed fact. In an instant, the fantasy fades and he can see the moment for what it is—you’ve thrown away the pretenses, acting skills, and flattery, and, for a handful of minutes, you’ve been 100% yourself with him, more so than ever before.

That’s what makes him cum. Your unreserved sincerity and desire. It’s the hardest he’s cum in a long time—and that’s a high bar, considering the fact that any time he broaches these activities with you he cums hard.

When you’re both panting in the euphoric aftershocks of your orgasms, Sanji whistles. “Damn.”

You hum in agreement. “Wow.”

He cracks a joke. “So, am I supposed to send you an invoice after this one?”

He’s hilarious in general, and this one makes you laugh. “I might allow it.” Your tone is uncharacteristically bashful. You’re about to say something you’ll later regret. “I think you’re the only person who has ever gotten me off over the phone.”

Sanji is taken aback for a second. “Really? I’m honored. And surprised.”

You almost instantly regret oversharing, chuckling awkwardly before you realize that this is a work call, and you should act accordingly. But it’s hard to pull yourself out of the intimacy of this moment and you don’t want to. So… against your better judgment, you don’t.

“I’m impressed, Sanji. Maybe we should do this more often,” you say, and Sanji’s heart thumps again. “You don’t have to only call me once a week, you know.”

“As long as you won’t get sick of me, I would love to. And we can do this again any time, gorgeous. It’s seriously my pleasure. You don’t know what you do to me, it’s only fair that I return the favor.”

While he’s saying the last part, Sanji realizes that this isn’t a favor, really. He tries to brush off that sad feeling for a moment but finds himself wondering what you really think of him.

It’s time for him to go to sleep, he concludes. He’s exhausted after a long shift and a hard orgasm.

“So, same time next week?” His voice is chipper.

“Mhm. I look forward to it, Sanji. See you later.” When the words leave your mouth, you wonder if he feels butterflies, too.

“See you later, sweetheart.”

Sanji hangs up the phone.

In your respective bedrooms, you’re both wondering what the fuck just happened. This call was full of lots of firsts and, little do you two know, the other feels elated.

But Sanji thinks about it more. He weighs his feelings for you against the practical understanding that he is, presumably, nothing more than a client to you. His heart aches at the thought.

And then he looks at his phone. The person who he went on a date with texted him while he was on the phone with you—she’s asking for another date. She says she looks forward to seeing him.

---

A week passes.

It’s Friday again.

11:30PM comes and goes. No call from Sanji.

In a span of over six months, this is the first time he hasn’t called you.

As you sit and wait for him, passing off other phone calls in case he decides he wants to speak to you tonight, your heart starts to sink.

Was last time a mistake?

Ten minutes go by.

Twenty minutes go by.

Many minutes go by. The time is now 12:30AM.

You’re left to conclude that last time was, indeed, a mistake.

You decide to take the night off. Your tears are making it hard to get any work done. You can’t put on that sultry voice and moan at old men in your current state.

There’s no denying it—his absence hurts you. Bad. Especially after last week. Especially after you admitted to him that you had never orgasmed over the phone before, and that you wanted to talk to him more often.

Why hadn’t he called you?

You wrack your brain for possibilities, but one major thing stands out. That date he went on. Maybe he went on another one and decided he liked them better.

Liked them better? You ask yourself after realizing what you just thought. He’s paying you to talk to him on the phone. Get over it. He isn’t going to keep calling you forever. What did you expect after last week? That he would just confess his love, offer to pay all of your bills, and that would be it?

You frown harder, hurting yourself deeper with your own rhetoric. The tears won’t stop.

It’s excruciating to realize that you like Sanji this much. You really like him. You know almost everything there is to know about him, too. And as much as you generally try to avoid giving out personal information, he knows a large chunk about you. Maybe that’s why it hurts so bad.

No, you tell yourself. Don’t kid yourself. You know it hurts this bad because you were hoping he liked you for real. You were hoping that this man, who you had never truly met before, who you had never seen, would, against all odds, decide that he wants you, even if he hadn’t seen you.

Fat chance, you tell yourself. Never do that with a client again, and this will never be a problem again.

---

Sanji does not call you back the next week.

Or the next week.

Or the week after that.

Or the month after that.

You are over it by the time the second month rolls around.

It’s pretty good timing, on your behalf. You think you’re really over this huge crush on a man you’ve never seen before. By the fifth month, you’re still telling yourself that you’re over this “crush”.

But that’s a delusion—any time you’re in public and there’s a blonde man, you find yourself scanning his face. Does he have a goatee? Could those eyebrows be considered curly? What color are those eyes?

When you see one that you think might be him, you always work up the courage to speak to them. But it never is Sanji. You would recognize that voice anywhere.

You wonder what you will say to him if he ever calls you again. Or if you see him in person. You decide that if he ever calls you again, you’ll either curse him out or break into tears.

In your most down-bad-hour, you contemplate showing up at the restaurant he is the chef at. You contemplate asking if you can see the kitchen. You just want a glance at him. A glance will keep your heart quiet.

But the joke’s on you—his restaurant is too expensive for you. Truly. You couldn’t afford a drink there if you tried. Okay, maybe just one. But you refuse to stoop to that level of desperation.

You’re a call away from him. He just has to dial your number.

You, on the other hand, have no way of calling or texting him. The service you work through scrambles client numbers before they’re patched through to you. The only way you know it’s Sanji is when he calls, at 11:30PM on the dot, on Friday nights. That’s Sanji time.

But it seems like Sanji time has come and gone.

You can’t shake the feeling that he did you dirty—but then you remember that he doesn’t owe you anything. This is your line of work. Phone sex. And that’s what you had. You just stepped over a boundary that you usually stay far away from. Whose fault is that?

No amount of logic can shake that feeling, though. You develop a little grudge against this man who you will never meet.

That’s what you tell yourself—that you’ll never meet him. But there’s a nugget of hope inside that, someday, he’ll call you. Someday he’ll kiss you. You try to obliterate that nugget though, as it is antithetical to the remedy to your lovesickness that you’re seeking.

Which will come first, him calling you, or you quitting this job that you’ve been meaning to quit for months at this point?

You hate to admit this to yourself, but he’s the only thing that was keeping the thoughts of quitting at bay. Maybe you really will quit this time around.

---

It is a Saturday night and you’re working again. It’s an unfortunately slow night, which sucks, because you really could use the money.

You’re scrolling on your phone, waiting for the next call to come in. It has been three hours with no calls. Guess all the creepy old men have plans tonight, which is such a shame because you need to pay rent soon. Sigh.

Time passes. You check the clock. It’s almost 11:30PM. The time doesn’t remind you of him anymore (well, much).

Maybe if you channel some of your good karma, ask the universe to cut a check of it right now, someone will call you for one long, lengthy conversation. You can help get them off as many times as they want. Five times in a row. You’ll break that record and go for six times if they just pay you. No questions asked.

Sure enough, a call comes through. You check the clock again. It’s been moving at a snail’s pace tonight. It’s 11:35PM. Hopefully whoever this is feels like talking.

“Hello?”

Your heart stops.

It sounds like Sanji for a second. But there’s no way. It’s been five fucking months.

“Hi.” You respond in your sugared up, sultry voice.

“It’s been a long time, gorgeous.”

It is Sanji.

Your heart flutters and your stomach flips. You’re speechless.

Don’t forget your game plans: curse him out or cry. But you can’t bring yourself to do either now that he’s waiting on the other line. You’re about to hang up the phone. You owe this man nothing and he owes you nothing—it’s that simple.

As you go to press the end call button, he speaks again.

“I’m sorry.”

The tears start now. The dam inside of you breaks. Hot tears pour out of your eyes and down your cheeks.

You didn’t think that hearing his voice would have this strong of an effect on you. But the heartbreak that you once thought faded away is now back in full force.

He’s waiting for a response before he hears shuddering breaths from you as you cry. Your tears are all the confirmation he needs—he knows that he was right months ago when he worked up the courage to confess to you. He should have done it. He knows that he was wrong to take the coward’s way out. And he knows he was wrong to tell himself that you didn’t care about him and wouldn’t care when he disappeared, because he was just a client to you. He was so terribly wrong. The sound of your sobs shatters him.

“I should have called you before. I’m so sorry. And maybe you hate me for waiting this long to call you again. I understand if you do. I just couldn’t keep it inside anymore, I—”

“Where the fuck were you?” You cut him off. Your anger is starting to seep through the tears. Maybe the first game plan can still happen. “I waited for you, Sanji.”

He doesn’t even try to think of a comeback or excuse. He tells you plainly what happened and, even though it breaks your heart some more, it makes sense.

“Well… I finally found someone. Last time, after I hung up, I had another date with that person I mentioned, and it went really well. So, we just kept going on dates. It didn’t feel right to keep calling you when things with her were progressing so quickly. We got together, and—”

“I understand, Sanji. That’s all I wanted to hear. Thanks.”

You slam your finger down on the hang up button. Your heart is broken enough as it is. He can keep all that yapping to himself. Good for nothing heartbreaker.

So what, he was with whoever that was. So what, they love each other and have been together almost half a year at this point. So what, he was just a client the whole time and you had gotten your hopes up for nothing and—your catastrophizing is stopped in its tracks when your phone starts to buzz again. You feel like it’s Sanji.

You pick up the phone. It is.

“Wait, wait, don’t hang up, please let me finish, please.”

“What, so you can tell me how much you love your girlfriend? I get it, Sanji. You paid me to talk to you for so long that of course you got sick of it and finally got what you had been after the whole time, a loving, very real partner. I understand that I’m just a service to be used and discarded later. That’s fine. Goodbye.”

“No. Listen to me.” Sanji’s voice is stern and harsh, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. “We got together and then she very quickly dumped me. Do you know what she kept saying to me? She said I was too absentminded. She thought I was thinking about someone else. Dumped me after two months because I couldn’t give her what she wanted. Absentminded.”

His words hang in the air for a few moments while you try to process why the fuck he’s explaining any of this to you and why it matters. He continues. His voice is emphatic, hurried, and nervous sounding.

“And if I’m being honest, I was absentminded. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I know this sounds fucking ridiculous because we’ve never met, and I understand if you tell me to go fuck off because I’m sure this happens to you all the time, but… I can’t get you out of my head. I’ve tried to for months. Three months. I told myself that I was an idiot for falling for someone out of my league. And the crazy thing is, I don’t even have to see you to know you’re out of my league. The way you act is out of my league. YOU are out of my league. You’re thoughtful, and kind, and considerate, and you pause before you respond whenever you talk because I can tell you’re really thinking over your response. And you’re funny. And witty, and charming, and you never once made me feel weird or less than for calling and finding solace in you. I’ve been lonely for years. I make the first move all the time, but it never works out. And I know I fucked this one up, and I know I didn’t have a chance in hell with you to begin with, but I just, fuck, I had to get this off my chest. I love you. I fell for you the first conversation we had. Now please tell me to fuck off.”

You can tell that every word he is saying is sincere and earnest. You can hear the emotion in his voice. While you wipe your tears dry and mend your heart together, you take deep breaths. He can wait for your response. Like he just said, you’re intentional about your responses to people. Every word matters. Especially with Sanji.

“Do you know how bad it hurt after our last conversation to not hear from you again?” You start.

He winces. He knew that was coming.

“I’m so so sorry. I’m so sorry. It was disrespectful of me, and callous, and if you hang up and never want to speak to me again, I understand and I deserve it.”

“You do deserve it.” You say, regaining some composure. “You really do, Sanji.”

“I’m sorry.” You can hear his frown. It’s a cute one. Fuck. His cute words are playing back in your ears too. So, he loves you?

Should you tell him how you feel? How you’ve felt for a long time?

One part of you is screaming at you to get a grip. But the other part—all the other parts—are finally, finally hearing what you’ve been wanting to hear for around a year at this point. That he likes you for you. That he sees you as you, and not some dolled up object of affection that’s only there to get people off and talk dirty to them. It has never been like that between you.

“If I accept your apology, Sanji, what then?”

“I—I actually didn’t think I would make it this far. But if you accept my apology, my next step is to ask you out to dinner with me. And to ask for your phone number. Your real phone number.”

You let out a long, deep sigh. “Sanji. My love. You could have told me these things months ago. It would have saved both of us so much heartbreak. I was devastated. Do you know that?”

You know that he already profusely apologized but you feel like driving it home a bit more. He deserves it. But while you talk, his hopes start to rise. You’ve never called him ‘my love’ before. Maybe that bodes well?

“I’m so sorry. I really am.” He sounds like he means it. You trust him enough to know that he does. Well, fuck it.

“Don’t think I’ll just forget about this because I’m head over heels for you, okay?”

“You—what?” He’s caught off guard. “You are?”

“Sanji. Yes. And you could have found out ages ago. Now, when are we going to dinner? You can apologize to me again then, too. And even if you don’t like what you see, you have to pay for everything. I’m getting an appetizer, an entrée, a dessert, at least two drinks, and whatever else I want. Okay?”

He laughs in relief. “Yes, okay. Yes. Holy shit, I didn’t think you would say that. I wish I could kiss you.”

“Wait—one last thing. If you decide you don’t like me after our date, Sanji, you have to tell me there on the spot. You can’t leave me waiting for another five months. You just can’t.”

“I promise, I won’t leave you waiting. I promise.”

When you hang up the phone a few minutes later (after more twisting the knife), you’re so thrilled that you can hardly breathe.

You can’t believe this is real life. You also can’t believe how quickly you just forgot your dignity, but you’ll unpack that later.

Dinner is set for tomorrow night. 7:30PM on the dot. Sanji is calling out of work, and he’s taking you to the (second) nicest restaurant in town (his is the first, obviously, and he wants to save that for a night where he can really plan ahead and spoil you).

---

When you get to the restaurant, Sanji is already there, waiting outside with a large bouquet of flowers.

He’s more handsome than you could have imagined. Of course he is. You do have great intuition, and you knew from the start that he was sexy. But… goddamn, he is sexy.

It makes sense now what he meant by curly eyebrows. He’s dressed well, too. He’s wearing black slacks and a white button down. A few buttons are undone, and his sleeves are rolled up to his forearms. He has black loafers and black socks. And he smells good. And he smiles good.

He’s so nervous he could puke. He hopes that when he sees you the nerves will melt. But they get 20x worse because he’s enamored with you. You’re beyond his wildest dreams—no number of fantasies could have led him to guess that you look like this.

He’s so obsessed that he starts to stammer before you tell him to calm down, and that he’s making you nervous.

Over dinner, you catch up on everything you’ve missed in the past few months of silence. You fill him in on details in your life that you previously kept to yourself, and he sees a whole new side of you.

At the end of the date, he tells you that he still loves you, that he loves you even more now, and that he’s so so sorry. He says that he’s mesmerized by you, that you’re more than he could have ever dreamed of, and that you can count on him for anything.

You seal the night with a kiss. A long one. It’s so romantic that you feel a bit disturbed with how happy you are after.

And it turns out that yes, this is your big happy ending. You make a perfect pair.

Epilogue: The day that Sanji finally shows off the techniques he told you about long ago, you’re more than satisfied. In fact, it seems like he was actually underselling himself there. You always knew he was the modest type.

thanks for reading! this was inspired by a whole lot of laufey! i hope you liked it. i love sanji so much it hurts me ;(

here's my masterlist if you're interested!

divider courtesy of @cafekitsune tag list @eggrollforyou

#this may be my fave thing i've ever written idk why i just like it a lot #sanji smut #op sanji smut #op smut #op x reader #one piece x reader #one piece reader insert #sanji x reader #sanji x y/n #sanji x you

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limethefirst · 2 days ago

Note

Hi! How are you? I was looking for people writing movie shadow after I saw the movie and hoped I could submit a request for you? Can we maybe have shadow with a reader who is a alien hedgehog like him found after him? Shadow when he met the reader takes her in as his own and helps to in a way raise them. After the accident they both were put under statis and met up again in the base 50 years later after he and she had escaped?

Remember Me

pairings: Shadow the Hedgehog x Hedgehog!reader (platonic)

warnings: spoilers

summary: Shadow takes it upon himself to look out for you even after being frozen for 50 years

a/n: slowly getting back into the writing groove yes!! if i wrote things for other fandoms would you guys burn me at the stake or not❤️

Shadow was used to feeling alone, being the only alien hedgehog constantly surrounded by scientists who saw him as some type of experiment was draining. Of course he had Maria and for her he was forever grateful but she didn't understand how he felt, no one really could. Until you came along, another alien hedgehog that arrived the same way he did, and was now viewed just like he was.

By all means, Shadow, was not considered approachable. He was only ever willingly around Maria and Gerald, and even Gerald was often pushing it, but when you showed up it was hard to catch him alone. He was basically your caretaker, a task he gave himself after seeing how nervous you felt around everyone and how you weren't exactly sure how to regulate the powers you also had.

You sat next to Shadow as Maria put on a new movie she'd found, 'Godzilla', it was called. You didn't like it, it was about an alien, an evil one who destroyed a place on earth called Japan. It made you feel slightly, self conscious? Even though you yourself wouldn't do that or ever thought of committing violent acts against people. Shadow seemingly noticing your discomfort nudged you, drawing your attention away from the self deprivation you were feeling. He looked down at you, giving you a gruff nod, almost like he could read your mind.

His gaze never left your eyes, silently communicating. It was easy to tell what he wanted to say, 'You're not a freaky monster alien who will go and tear up Japan.' Or something along those lines.. the latter was funnier though. Maria glanced over at you two, noticing the subtle communication but also the slight sadness you both had inn your eyes. Although he didn't show it as much, Shadow felt slightly the same upon seeing the movie.

He knew that feeling all to well, he'd seen it, in the eyes of the scientists, guards, everyone who worked here. They thought he was dangerous, and he hated it. Which was why he was determined to make sure you didn't feel the same, because he wasn't sure if he could handle knowing that you also felt like you were a danger, something that was a weapon.

The nights dragged on, and he made sure to keep an eye on you, silently at least. He will never openly show how much he cares. He just will care, and that's good enough for him, although Maria could tell he cared.

Then that night came, where Maria was gone, and so were you. They'd taken Maria from him and grabbed you, pulling you away from him. God, he couldn't stand it, the tears that fell as you screamed for him. He would've tried to do something if it weren't for the fact he was in shock, he'd witnessed one of his closeted friends die in front of him and now he had to watch as they dragged you away, putting you in a small cage as your small hands tried to reach out to him.

Finally there was silence, it was restless, a restless silence that he had to endure for 50 years. Until he was woken up, and all that consumed him was rage. While on the other side of the containment chambers, you'd also woken up, but instead of feeling anger coursing through you, it was fear. You looked around the barren room, the alarms were sounding, and everything was flashing red, suddenly a loud thud broke your nervous train of thought.

You're eyes widened slightly as something punched down the wall, you stepped out of the tube that held you, the liquid used to keep you asleep was drained, leaving your quills wet. The dust slowly began to clear revealing a figure you longed to see since that dreadful night.

"Shadow?.." You're voice slightly trembled as you spoke that name, trying to see him through the red flashing room. Shadow looked at you, his gaze was unwavering but it slightly softened seeing that you were still alive, and unharmed.

He let out a small sigh, his shoulders untensing at your voice, "Let's go," it was rough but his eyes betrayed him. He was grateful, happy to see that you, at least, had survived. He wasn't going to let what happened to Maria happen to you, he swore on that, nothing would harm you.

#x reader #shadow the hedgehog #sonic the hedgehog #shadow the hedgehog x reader #sonic 3 #shadow x reader #sonic 3 x reader #sonic movie universe #sonic movie 3 #sonic fandom #shadow #fanfiction #fanfic #writers on tumblr

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hisfavegirl · 3 days ago

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Obsession's Edge - Maegor Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Summary : He was a man of war, a conqueror forged in battle and bloodshed. But tonight, as he stood before you, his eyes held something else—something more dangerous than rage. Expectation. You knew what he meant. Your fate had been decided long before this moment. You were to be the last. The final wife. The one who would give him what he desired most. A son. A legacy.

Word Count : 8k

Maegor Targaryen Masterlist.

House Of The Dragon Masterlist.

and also big thanks to @zaldritzosrose for let me using yours beautiful dividers 🫶🏻.

The scene unfolds in the dimly lit halls of the Red Keep, where tension clings to the air like a heavy shroud. You stand at the edge of the grand chamber, your hands clasped tightly in front of you as your eyes rest on the imposing figure of your brother, Maegor. His towering frame radiates power, and the infamous Blackfyre sword in his hand glints ominously in the flickering torchlight.

Once again, Maegor’s guards carry the lifeless body of his latest wife, his fifth attempt at securing a son and heir. The sight is as grim as it is familiar. The bloodstains on her pale dress speak of another failed birth, another sacrifice in Maegor’s unrelenting quest for a legacy.

Your stomach churns as you glance at your mother, Visenya, who stands by the hearth. She holds Maegor’s infant daughter—another girl—in her arms. Her face is a mask of cold indifference, her piercing gaze fixed on her son. The child wails softly, but Visenya pays her no mind, cradling the babe as if she were holding a mere object, not flesh and blood.

You take a hesitant step forward. “Brother,” you begin, your voice steady but cautious. “How much longer will this… madness continue? The gods—”

“The gods have cursed me!” Maegor growls, his voice echoing through the chamber. His knuckles whiten as he grips Blackfyre tighter. “They deny me a son, but I will not be denied. I am the blood of the dragon. I will have an heir.”

“And how many more must die for you to prove that?” you ask softly, though your words are like daggers. Your heart aches at the scene before you, but you know better than to openly defy him. Maegor’s wrath is as legendary as his strength.

His dark eyes meet yours, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something— frustration, desperation. But it’s gone in an instant, replaced by the familiar coldness. “You speak of things you do not understand,” he snaps, his tone brooking no argument.

Visenya finally breaks her silence. “Enough,” she says, her voice calm but commanding. “This is not the time to quarrel. There is work to be done.”

You glance at your mother, noting the faint lines of weariness on her face. Even Visenya Targaryen, the indomitable matriarch, cannot entirely mask the strain of watching her son spiral further into darkness.

Maegor steps closer to you, his imposing presence casting a long shadow over your smaller frame. “Do not speak to me of curses or consequences,” he hisses. “You do not bear the weight of a throne, sister. You do not understand the price of power.”

Your throat tightens, but you hold your ground. “And you do not understand the price of the lives you destroy,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, silence stretches between you. The tension is palpable, the air thick with unspoken words. Then, without another word, Maegor turns on his heel and storms out of the chamber, the echo of his boots fading into the distance.

Visenya approaches you, the infant still cradled in her arms. Her expression softens slightly as she looks at you. “Do not provoke him,” she says quietly. “It will do no good.”

“And neither will enabling him,” you counter, though your tone lacks the fire of before.

She sighs, a rare sign of weariness. “We are Targaryens. We endure. We survive. That is what matters.”

As she walks away, the child’s cries growing fainter, you’re left alone in the chamber. The weight of your family’s legacy presses down on you, and you can’t help but wonder: How many more will suffer before the madness ends?

The corridors of the Red Keep were eerily silent as you made your way back to your chambers. The events of the night weighed heavily on your mind. You tried to banish the thoughts of your mother and Maegor, of the infant girl whose cries still echoed faintly in your ears. You didn’t want to think about what would become of the child—or what decisions your family might make under the cover of darkness.

Entering your chamber, you let out a soft sigh and closed the heavy wooden door behind you, shutting out the world beyond. The flickering light of the fireplace cast long shadows across the room, offering a small semblance of warmth in the cold, unforgiving keep.

You approached the dressing table and began to undo the clasps of your gown. Your hands moved mechanically, your mind still racing with questions you dared not voice. Was it truly the gods who cursed your brother, or was this all a punishment of his own making?

The silk of your gown slipped from your shoulders and pooled around your feet. You exchanged it for a simpler nightgown, one that offered comfort over extravagance. The soft fabric brushed against your skin as you pulled it over your head, and for a moment, you felt a sense of relief, however fleeting.

But before you could settle in, a quiet sound behind you made you freeze—a faint shuffling, as if someone was in the room. Your heart quickened, and you turned sharply, eyes scanning the dimly lit space. Then, you saw it: the hidden door in the far corner of your chamber, one you hadn’t even known existed until recently, creaked open.

From the shadows emerged Maegor, his imposing figure casting a long shadow on the stone floor. He stepped into the room with a purposeful stride, his expression unreadable, though his eyes were intense. He had shed his armor, but Blackfyre was still strapped to his side, a constant reminder of who he was.

“Brother,” you said cautiously, your voice low. “What are you doing here? It’s late.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he closed the hidden door behind him, the soft click echoing in the quiet room. His gaze swept over you, taking in your disheveled appearance and the soft fabric of your nightgown.

“You shouldn’t leave yourself so unguarded,” he said finally, his tone matter-of-fact but carrying an edge.

You frowned. “I am in my own chambers. Do you expect an assassin to crawl out of the shadows?”

“In this keep?” he said with a dry chuckle. “You’d be a fool to think yourself safe, even here.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, but you tried not to show it. “Why are you here, Maegor? Did you come to discuss safety, or is there something else on your mind?”

He moved closer, his heavy boots barely making a sound against the stone floor. “Do you think me a monster?” he asked abruptly, his voice low but sharp.

The question caught you off guard, and you hesitated, searching for the right words. “I think…” you began slowly, “that you’ve done monstrous things. But I also think the weight of the crown has hardened you more than it should.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked away, as if considering your words. Then he turned back to you, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

“I do what must be done,” he said firmly, though there was a flicker of something—doubt, perhaps—in his voice. “Do you think I enjoy this? Do you think I take pleasure in burying wife after wife, child after child?”

“I don’t know what you feel,” you admitted softly. “You don’t let anyone see that part of you.”

He stepped closer, his presence almost suffocating. “And what would it change if they did? Would it bring me a son? Would it silence the whispers of weakness?”

“No,” you said firmly, meeting his gaze. “But it might remind people that you’re still human. That you still bleed like the rest of us.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, and he studied you for a long moment. Then, without warning, he reached out and cupped your face in his hand. The gesture was almost tender, a stark contrast to the coldness you had come to associate with him.

“You’re different,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “You see me, not just the crown. Not just the king.”

“Because I’m your sister,” you said quietly, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside you. “And because I know there’s still something good in you, no matter how deeply you’ve buried it.”

For a moment, it looked as though he might say something more. But instead, he released you and stepped back, the moment of vulnerability passing as quickly as it had come.

“Get some rest,” he said, his tone colder now, though there was a hint of softness beneath it. “Tomorrow will bring more battles, as it always does.”

You took a deep breath and turned toward Maegor before he could step back into the hidden passage.

“Stay,” you said softly, your voice breaking the silence.

He turned to look at you, his sharp features shadowed in the dim candlelight. “It’s late,” he replied curtly, his tone clipped. “You should rest. So should I.”

“I’m asking you to stay with me,” you said, stepping closer. Your voice was steady, though your heart was racing. “You’re my brother, Maegor. I don’t mind your company, and you need the rest just as much as I do.”

He hesitated, his piercing eyes narrowing slightly. “I am not in the habit of seeking comfort,” he said gruffly, though the way his hand lingered on the hilt of Blackfyre betrayed some inner conflict.

“You don’t have to seek it,” you replied gently, moving closer until you stood directly in front of him. “I’m offering it to you.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. The air between you was tense, and you could see the walls he kept around himself, the ones he refused to let anyone breach. But then, with a reluctant sigh, he nodded.

“Fine,” he muttered, as though he was doing you a favor. “But don’t think this will become a habit.”

You gave him a small, reassuring smile. “Of course not.”

As he stood there, unmoving, you reached for the heavy belt that secured Blackfyre at his hip. Your fingers brushed against his as you began to unfasten it, and for a moment, his hand lingered before he let you take over. Carefully, you slid the belt free and placed it on the small table near your bed.

“You don’t always have to carry it, you know,” you said, glancing back at him as you gestured to Blackfyre.

He let out a low, humorless chuckle. “I do,” he replied simply. “It’s who I am.”

“You’re more than that sword, Maegor,” you said, your tone soft but firm. “Even if you don’t believe it.”

You paused, your breath hitching as Maegor’s words hung in the air.

“Perhaps the reason my wives have failed me,” he said, his voice low and almost thoughtful, “is because they are not of the blood of the dragon. But you…”

He let the statement linger, and you turned your head to look at him. His piercing gaze met yours, unflinching, filled with something you couldn’t quite name.

“Maegor,” you said quietly, your voice trembling slightly. “You can’t mean that.”

“Why not?” he replied, his tone unwavering. He leaned closer, his hand sliding to your arm and pulling you gently into his embrace. “You are of the blood of Old Valyria, born to the same fire and blood that flows through my veins. If anyone could give me a son—a true heir—it would be you.”

Your mind raced, his words sinking in. You had always known that your mother, had plans for you—plans tied to your brother’s throne. She had often spoken of uniting the bloodlines to strengthen House Targaryen. But hearing Maegor speak of it so plainly, so deliberately, made your chest tighten.

“That’s why Mother promised me to you,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

He nodded, his hand moving to gently cradle the side of your face. “She sees what I see,” he said, his voice softer now. “The strength in you. The fire.”

You tried to look away, but he held you there, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “Do you think I want this, Maegor?” you asked, your tone laced with a mixture of uncertainty and defiance.

“I think,” he began, his lips brushing against your temple as he spoke, “that it is not about what we want, but what we must do—for the house, for the throne, and for the bloodline.”

You shivered as his words sank in, and though you wanted to push him away, his warmth was oddly comforting. He tightened his hold on you, his strength both intimidating and reassuring.

“You could give me what no one else has,” he whispered against your ear, his voice sending a chill down your spine. “A son. An heir. You could ensure the strength of our house for generations to come.”

“Maegor…” you started, but your words faltered as his hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer.

“Think about it,” he said, his tone still calm but laced with something darker, something possessive. “It is your destiny. You were meant for me.”

You felt your resolve waver, torn between the weight of his words and the emotions swirling within you. You had grown up knowing your place in the family, knowing what was expected of you. But this… this was more than you had ever anticipated.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you admitted, your voice breaking slightly.

“You can,” he said firmly, his lips brushing against your forehead. “And you will. Together, we will be unstoppable.”

For a moment, you allowed yourself to lean into his embrace, your mind a storm of doubt and confusion. Whether it was fate or folly, you couldn’t yet say. But in that moment, as his arms tightened around you and his whispers filled the silence, it felt as though you had no choice at all.

You stood frozen as Maegor��s words hung in the air, the mention of your mother, making your chest tighten. You did respect her—more than anyone. She was the guiding force of your life, her word as close to law as the Seven themselves. Refusing her was unthinkable. Maegor knew this, and the faint smirk on his face revealed he was fully aware of how deeply her influence bound you.

Maegor stepped closer, his fingers tilting your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You will not refuse me,” he murmured, though there was no real question in his voice. “You would not dare defy mother’s wishes.” he murmured, his voice low and confident.

You glanced at him, lips parting as if to protest, but no words came out. He was right. You could already hear your mother’s voice in your head, her arguments laid out plainly, reminding you of duty and legacy.

Maegor stepped closer, his imposing frame towering over you. “You’ve always followed her commands,” he continued, his voice softening but losing none of its authority. “You’ve never failed her before. And this? This is what she wants.”

Your silence made him chuckle—a rare, low sound that startled you. He was so often stoic, cold even, but now there was something different in him. Something almost… warm.

He raised a hand, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “You think too much,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Just let it happen.”

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours. It was not the demanding kiss you might have expected from him—it was slow, careful, and deliberate, as if he had been waiting for this moment for years. His hands cupped your face, holding you gently but firmly, ensuring you couldn’t pull away even if you wanted to.

You froze, unsure of what to do. But as the kiss deepened, you felt yourself melting into it despite the swirl of thoughts in your mind. The warmth of his lips, the way his touch seemed to steady your trembling form—it was disarming.

When he finally pulled back, his violet eyes bore into yours, searching for any sign of rejection. But you remained silent, your breath uneven, your cheeks flushed.

“You see,” he said softly, his thumb brushing against your jawline. “It feels… right. Doesn’t it?”

You swallowed hard, unable to deny the strange pull you felt toward him. He had always been a part of your life, a figure of strength and dominance. And now, as he stood before you, so certain and unyielding, it was as if the world itself had conspired to place you in his arms.

“What if I’m not enough?” you whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. “What if I fail you, too?”

His expression softened, his hands moving to your shoulders. “You won’t,” he said firmly. “You are of the blood of the dragon. My equal. My match. Together, we’ll do what no one else has.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine as his words sank in. There was no escaping this—no denying what your mother had already decided for you, what Maegor had clearly longed for.

As he leaned in again, his lips brushing against yours in a way that made your knees weak, you realized that this was no longer just about duty or tradition. This was about Maegor’s unwavering belief in you, his determination to claim you as his own. And for the first time, you wondered if perhaps you didn’t mind being claimed.

Maegor’s hands gripped your waist as he effortlessly lifted you, settling you onto his lap as if you weighed nothing. The strength in his touch was undeniable, and yet there was something careful about the way he held you, as though you were the most precious thing he’d ever claimed.

Your hands instinctively wrapped around his neck, fingers tangling in the thick, silver strands of his hair. He pulled you closer, his lips pressing firmly against yours, deepening the kiss with an intensity that left you breathless. His confidence was overwhelming, but it was also intoxicating, pulling you further into his orbit.

You hesitated for only a moment before giving in, letting yourself lean into the kiss. When your lips finally began to move against his, Maegor let out a low hum of approval. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, his lips brushing against yours as he spoke, his voice low and laced with amusement. “There she is,” he murmured, his smirk unmistakable. “I knew you wouldn’t resist me for long.”

Your breath hitched at his words, the weight of them sinking into your chest. He leaned in again, his lips ghosting over your jawline, trailing down to the curve of your neck. You gasped as his teeth grazed your skin, his tongue quickly soothing the spot he’d bitten.

“Maegor…” you whispered, unsure whether it was meant as a plea or a protest.

He chuckled against your neck, his hands roaming over the curve of your hips. “Say my name again,” he commanded softly, his tone sending shivers down your spine.

You hesitated, but when he nipped at your skin again, a quiet, breathless “Maegor” escaped your lips. He growled in approval, his grip on you tightening as he kissed his way back to your lips.

“You’re mine,” he said against your mouth, his tone firm and unyielding. “Do you understand that?”

You nodded, your mind spinning as his words and actions consumed you. His hands moved back to your waist, holding you steady as he pressed you closer to him.

“You’re the only one who can give me what I want,” he continued, his lips brushing against yours with every word. “A son. A true heir. And I’ll make sure of it.”

His words should have frightened you, but instead, they filled you with a strange sense of purpose—a feeling that you belonged here, with him. When his lips met yours again, you found yourself kissing him back with a fervor that matched his own, your hands tightening in his hair as the room around you seemed to fade away.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice filled with satisfaction as he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. “You’ll see. This is where you were always meant to be—by my side, as my queen.”

And for the first time, you didn’t feel the urge to argue. Instead, you leaned into him, letting his words wash over you as you surrendered to the fire that burned between you.

Maegor’s hands were rough as they slid up your back, pulling your nightgown up and over your head in one swift motion. The cool air of the room brushed against your skin, but it was quickly replaced by the heat of his touch. His eyes darkened as they roamed over you, his lips curling into a smirk before he leaned in to claim your lips once more.

This time, his kiss was hungrier, more demanding, as if he was staking his claim all over again. You responded with equal fervor, your fingers threading through his hair and pulling lightly, earning a low growl from deep in his chest.

“You’re playing with fire,” he murmured against your lips, his voice laced with warning and amusement.

You smirked in return, rolling your hips slightly against his lap. The way his body reacted to you—his sharp intake of breath, the way his grip on your hips tightened—only emboldened you further. “Maybe I like the flames,” you whispered, your tone teasing as you brushed your lips against his again.

His laughter was low and dangerous, a sound that sent shivers down your spine. “Careful,” he said, his voice a soft growl. “You keep pushing me, and I won’t be able to hold back.”

“Maybe I don’t want you to,” you replied, your tone filled with challenge.

That was all the permission he needed. With a swift motion, he shifted, pinning you beneath him on the bed. His hands framed your face as he kissed you deeply, his body pressing against yours with an intensity that left you breathless.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for,” he said as he pulled back slightly, his gaze locking onto yours. “But don’t think I’ll stop once I start. You’re mine, and I’ll make sure you never forget it.”

You gasped as his lips found your neck, trailing heated kisses along your skin. His hands explored your body with a mixture of gentleness and possession, leaving no doubt in your mind that he meant every word he said.

“Maegor…” you whispered, your voice barely audible as you arched beneath him.

Hearing his name from your lips only seemed to spur him on. His lips curled into a smirk against your skin as he moved lower, his hands sliding to grip your hips. “Say it again,” he commanded softly, his voice filled with raw desire.

“Maegor,” you repeated, your voice trembling with anticipation.

He growled in satisfaction, his grip tightening as he began to guide your movements against him. The fire in his eyes was unmistakable as he watched your every reaction, his own control slipping with every passing moment.

“You wanted this,” he said, his tone low and dangerous as he leaned closer. “And now you’re going to take everything I give you.”

And as his words sank in, you realized there was no going back—not that you wanted to. You surrendered to him completely, letting him pull you deeper into the flames as the night stretched on.

Maegor’s eyes burned with intensity as he discarded his trousers, his movements deliberate and unhurried. You couldn’t help but smirk, shifting your hips slightly to tease him. The way his jaw tightened and his nostrils flared only encouraged you further, knowing you were testing the limits of his control.

“You think this is a game?” he asked, his voice low and rough as he stepped closer.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Why, brother, I have no idea what you mean.”

He growled, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “You’ll regret that,” he said, his tone a dangerous promise.

Before you could respond, his hands were on your hips, pulling you toward him with a force that made you gasp. In one swift, decisive motion, he buried himself within you, tearing a cry from your lips as pain and pleasure collided.

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as you struggled to adjust. “Maegor!” you cried out, your voice trembling.

He laughed softly, the sound dark and laced with satisfaction. “Does it hurt, little dragon?” he murmured, brushing his lips against your ear. “Good. You’ll remember this moment every time you think you can defy me.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as your body stretched to accommodate him, the sensation overwhelming and unfamiliar. “You’re… you’re too much,” you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He grab your cheek, forcing you to meet his gaze. “You’ll take all of me,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You were made for this—for me.”

You whimpered as he began to move, each thrust sending a new wave of sensation through your body. The initial pain began to fade, replaced by a heat that spread through your veins like wildfire.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice filled with both admiration and possession. “So beautiful, even when you’re trembling beneath me.”

Your cheeks flushed at his words, but you couldn’t deny the way they made your heart race. Despite his roughness, there was a strange sense of care in the way he touched you, as though he was staking his claim but also ensuring you wouldn’t break beneath him.

As the rhythm of his movements increased, your cries turned into soft moans, your body slowly surrendering to the intensity of the moment. “Maegor…” you whispered, your voice shaky but filled with need.

He smirked, leaning down to capture your lips in a fierce kiss. “That’s it,” he murmured against your mouth. “Say my name again.”

“Maegor,” you repeated, your voice louder this time, filled with both pain and pleasure.

His hands gripped your hips tightly, holding you in place as he thrust deeper. “You’ll learn to love this,” he said, his tone both commanding and soothing. “And soon, you’ll crave it as much as I do.”

You could only nod, your body and mind completely consumed by him. In that moment, there was nothing else—just the two of you, bound together in a way that felt both terrifying and inevitable.

Maegor’s heavy, calloused hands pinned your wrists above your head, his grip firm but not painful. His towering form loomed over you, his silver hair falling into his face as he gazed down at you with a mixture of triumph and hunger. You had always been the one to tease, the one to provoke—but now, under him, you were at his mercy.

“You’ve always been so bold,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. “Always looking for my attention, always testing me.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words turned into a gasp as his hips moved, a sharp thrust that left you breathless. Your body arched instinctively, pressing closer to him as he continued his relentless pace.

“Look at you now,” he said, his tone laced with dark amusement. “So quiet. Has the little dragon finally met her match?”

Your cheeks burned at his teasing, but you couldn’t form a coherent reply. Every movement, every thrust, sent waves of pleasure coursing through you, making it impossible to think clearly.

“Maegor…” you managed to whisper, your voice trembling.

He smirked, leaning down until his face was just inches from yours. “Say it louder,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for defiance.

“Maegor,” you repeated, your voice cracking as he drove deeper, his movements precise and unyielding.

“That’s better,” he said, his smirk widening. “You look beautiful like this, you know. Completely mine.”

You tried to squirm beneath him, your body desperate for some sort of release, but his strength kept you firmly in place. His hands tightened around your wrists as he held them above your head, his grip a reminder of just how powerless you were in his grasp.

“You’ve always thought you were in control,” he continued, his voice low and dangerous. “But here, like this, you belong to me.”

His words sent a thrill through you, even as you tried to deny the effect they had on you. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered, though your voice lacked any real conviction.

Maegor chuckled, the sound deep and rich. “And yet, you can’t get enough of me.”

Before you could respond, he shifted his weight slightly, angling his hips in a way that had you crying out his name again. The sound only seemed to spur him on, his movements becoming rougher, more deliberate.

“You drive me mad,” he admitted, his voice barely audible over the sound of your ragged breaths. “But I’ll make sure you never forget who you belong to.”

His free hand trailed down your side, his fingers brushing over your skin in a way that made you shiver. “Every inch of you,” he said, his voice filled with a dark promise. “Every sound you make, every breath you take—it’s all mine.”

You couldn’t argue with him, not when your body was betraying you so completely. Instead, you surrendered to the overwhelming sensations, letting Maegor claim you in every way he desired. And as his laughter echoed in your ears, you knew there would be no going back.

Maegor’s relentless pace left your mind spinning, every sharp thrust erasing any coherent thought from your head. The world around you blurred, and all that remained was the man above you—his weight, his heat, and the overwhelming power of his movements.

“Maegor…” you whimpered, your voice breaking as you clung to him, your nails digging into his broad shoulders.

“Say it louder,” he demanded, his tone a deep growl as his piercing gaze locked onto yours. His face was a mix of smug satisfaction and raw intensity, his silver hair damp with sweat as it clung to his forehead.

You cried out his name again, louder this time, unable to stop yourself as he buried himself deeper, the force of his thrusts stealing the breath from your lungs. Maegor grinned, his lips curling into a dark smirk as he watched you unravel beneath him.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice thick with pride and something darker. “Completely at my mercy. Does it drive you mad, little dragon? Knowing that no one else could ever ruin you like this?”

Your only response was a strangled moan as your body arched into his, seeking more of him despite the overwhelming intensity. Maegor leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as he growled, “You’re mine, now and always. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, your voice trembling with a mixture of desperation and surrender.

“That’s right,” he purred, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine. His hands gripped your waist tightly, holding you in place as he drove into you with even more force, drawing another scream from your lips.

“You feel so perfect,” he said, his tone softening just slightly, though the fire in his eyes never dimmed. “Like you were made for me. Tell me, little dragon—do you feel it too? That you were meant to be mine?”

You nodded frantically, unable to find the words as waves of pleasure crashed over you, leaving you trembling in his arms. Maegor chuckled darkly at your helplessness, his grip tightening on your hips as he pushed you closer to the edge.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured, his lips trailing down your neck. “Lost in me, lost to me.”

As you cried out again, your body clinging to his in desperation, Maegor groaned, the sound low and primal as he felt your walls tighten around him. His pace faltered for just a moment before he drove into you one last time, his head falling to your shoulder as he growled your name.

The room was filled with the sounds of your labored breathing as the two of you came down from the heights of your passion. Maegor didn’t pull away immediately, instead leaning down to press a lingering kiss to your lips, his touch surprisingly tender after the intensity of his movements.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, his voice soft but firm, as if sealing a promise. Maegor smirked, his confidence returning as he gazed down at you. “I’ve made my claim on you, little dragon. Don’t ever forget that.”

As you lay in his arms, your body still trembling from his touch, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of inevitability. You were his now, completely and utterly, and there was no going back.

Maegor’s strong hands gripped your waist tightly, holding you in place as he lifted you with ease and settled you on his lap. You gasped, your hands bracing against his broad shoulders for support, but before you could utter a word, his deep, commanding voice interrupted.

“If I am to have a son, little dragon,” he growled, his violet eyes dark and blazing with determination, “then I will not stop now.”

Your lips parted to protest, but the words never left your mouth. In one swift motion, Maegor thrust himself upward, pulling your hips down to meet him. The intensity of the movement made your head fall back as a loud cry escaped your lips. The sensation of him so deep, so overwhelming, was too much for your trembling body to process.

“Maegor!” you screamed, clutching onto his shoulders for dear life as he began to move, his pace relentless and unyielding.

“You can take it,” he said, his tone almost mocking, though there was an edge of possessiveness in his voice that sent shivers through you. “You were made for this—made for me.”

Your breathing came in short, desperate gasps as he guided your movements, his hands firmly holding your waist as he controlled the rhythm. The combination of his strength and the sheer intensity of his movements left you unable to do anything but follow his lead.

“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice low and commanding. When you didn’t respond, too lost in the sensation, he reached up and tilted your chin toward him, forcing you to meet his gaze. “I said, look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his piercing violet stare. The raw hunger in his expression made your heart race even faster.

“There you are,” he murmured, his tone softening ever so slightly. “I want to see that pretty face of yours when I give you what we both know you want.”

You whimpered in response, your hands gripping his shoulders even tighter as he pulled you down onto him again, deeper than before. The new angle sent shockwaves through your body, and you couldn’t stop the loud moan that escaped your lips.

“To much?” he asked, his smirk returning as he studied your reaction. “Or is it exactly what you need?”

“Maegor…” you whispered, your voice trembling as you struggled to catch your breath.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice a low rumble as he leaned forward, his lips brushing against your ear. “Say my name, little dragon. Say it so the gods themselves hear you.”

You obeyed, crying out his name over and over as he continued to guide your movements, his strength and determination leaving you completely at his mercy. His hands roamed your body, exploring every curve as if claiming you all over again.

“You’re perfect,” he growled, his lips trailing down your neck. “Perfect for me. Perfect to bear my sons.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t hold back the way your body responded to him. Maegor chuckled darkly, clearly pleased by the effect he had on you.

As he quickened his pace, his movements became even more demanding, pushing you closer to the edge. Your cries grew louder, filling the room as he drove you higher and higher.

“Give it to me,” he commanded, his voice thick with need. “Give me everything.”

And with one final, powerful thrust, you shattered in his arms, your body trembling uncontrollably as waves of pleasure washed over you. Maegor followed shortly after, his grip on your waist tightening as he buried himself as deep as he could, a low, guttural groan escaping his lips.

As the two of you came down from the intensity of the moment, Maegor’s hold on you remained firm, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath.

“You’ll give me a son,” he murmured, his tone resolute. It wasn’t a question—it was a statement, one he believed with every fiber of his being.

You nodded weakly, still trembling in his arms as you leaned against his chest, too overwhelmed to respond with words. Maegor smirked, pressing a kiss to your temple as he tightened his embrace.

“This is only the beginning,” he promised, his voice filled with dark determination.

Maegor didn’t give you a moment to recover. His strength was overwhelming as he lifted you effortlessly, his hands gripping your thighs firmly, and carried you to the sturdy table in the center of the room. Before you could fully register what was happening, he placed you down with precision, positioning you exactly how he wanted.

“Did you think I was done with you, little dragon?” he asked, his voice a low, teasing growl.

You opened your mouth to respond, but all that came out was a sharp gasp as he buried himself inside you again in one swift, forceful motion. Your hands instinctively reached out, grasping the edges of the table for support as he set a punishing pace, his movements quick and unrelenting.

“Maegor!” you cried out, your voice echoing in the chamber, but your pleas only seemed to spur him on.

“Louder,” he demanded, his tone thick with authority. “Let everyone in the Keep know who you belong to.”

You clung to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he leaned over you, his large frame completely dominating yours. The table creaked beneath the force of his movements, but you didn’t care. Your body burned, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all, and yet you didn’t want him to stop.

Suddenly, Maegor’s hands gripped your waist, lifting you slightly before pushing you to lie flat against the table. Your gaze shifted, and that’s when you saw it—the large mirror across the room, perfectly angled to reflect the two of you.

Your cheeks flushed a deep crimson as you took in the sight. Your disheveled hair, your trembling body, and Maegor’s powerful figure towering over you, his muscles flexing with every movement. His face was a mixture of focus and satisfaction, his violet eyes locking with yours in the mirror.

“Look at us,” he said, his voice rough yet filled with pride. “See what we are.”

You whimpered, overwhelmed by the rawness of the moment. Your arms reached out, wrapping around his neck as you pulled him closer, hiding your face in his shoulder to escape the intensity of your own reflection.

“Oh no, little dragon,” he murmured, chuckling darkly as he lifted your chin with one hand, forcing you to meet his gaze in the mirror. “Don’t look away. Watch how perfectly you take me.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you couldn’t stop the way your body reacted, arching into him as he continued his relentless pace. His free hand traveled to your hip, gripping it tightly as he adjusted the angle, drawing out even louder cries from you.

“Maegor, please…” you whispered, though you weren’t sure what you were begging for.

“Please what?” he asked, his tone mocking yet filled with hunger. “Tell me what you want.”

“I-I can’t,” you stammered, your voice trembling as he pushed you further and further toward your limit.

“You can,” he countered, his lips brushing against your ear. “You will.”

Your body trembled beneath him, your mind clouded with nothing but him—his touch, his voice, his presence. The sight of the two of you in the mirror only added to the overwhelming sensation, and you felt yourself nearing the edge once again.

“Say it,” Maegor demanded, his voice a low growl as he drove you closer and closer to the brink.

“I’m yours,” you finally gasped, your voice breaking as the words spilled from your lips. “I’m yours, Maegor.”

A triumphant smirk spread across his face as he slammed into you one final time, sending you spiraling over the edge. Your cries filled the room, your body shaking uncontrollably as you clung to him, your nails digging into his skin.

Maegor followed moments later, his grip on your hips tightening as he buried himself as deep as possible, a guttural groan escaping his lips. His forehead pressed against yours as he caught his breath, his hands gently stroking your sides as you lay sprawled on the table beneath him.

“You’re mine,” he said, his voice softer now but no less commanding. “Always.”

You nodded weakly, your body too exhausted to respond with words. Maegor smiled, brushing a strand of hair from your face before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“And I’m not done with you yet,” he added, a mischievous glint in his eye as he lifted you once more, carrying you back toward the bed.

Maegor showed no mercy as he pressed your trembling body into the mattress, his large hands gripping your hips tightly while his movements remained unrelenting. You were sprawled out beneath him, barely able to catch your breath as he continued his punishing pace.

"Maegor… please…" you whispered weakly, your voice muffled by the soft fabric of the bedding.

"Please, what?" he asked with a mocking laugh, his tone dark and teasing as he leaned over you. His weight pressed you further into the bed, his breath hot against your ear. "Do you want me to stop?"

You knew he didn’t expect a reply—he already knew the answer. The smirk on his face widened as he felt you unconsciously arch your back, your body betraying you as it sought more of him despite the overwhelming sensations.

"That's what I thought," he growled, one hand slipping around your waist to pull you closer, making his thrusts even deeper. "You’re mine, little dragon. You’ll take everything I give you."

You could only whimper in response, your hands gripping the sheets tightly as your mind spiraled into a haze of pleasure and exhaustion. Every inch of your body felt consumed by him—by his strength, his dominance, and the sheer heat of his touch.

When you tried to lift your head, Maegor’s hand came to rest on the back of it, guiding you to stay down. "No, stay just like this," he ordered, his voice softer now but still firm. "You look perfect beneath me."

"Maegor…" you whispered again, your voice breaking as you tried to form coherent words.

"Say it," he demanded, his tone sharp yet filled with desire. "Say you're mine."

"I’m yours," you gasped, the words tumbling out without hesitation.

His deep chuckle rumbled through the room, and he rewarded your surrender with a sharp thrust that made you cry out his name. "That’s right," he murmured, his voice filled with pride. "You’ll never belong to anyone else."

Despite your exhaustion, you couldn’t help but shiver at the possessiveness in his tone. He leaned down further, his lips brushing against the back of your neck as his pace quickened once again.

"Look at you," Maegor muttered, his voice filled with admiration as his hands slid over your trembling form. "So beautiful. So perfect. You were made for me, weren’t you?"

You couldn’t respond—your voice was lost to the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body. All you could do was grip the sheets tighter, your body giving in completely to his relentless claim.

When he finally reached his peak, his grip on your hips tightened, and he buried himself as deeply as possible to make sure that he's seed go deep in you, a guttural groan escaping his lips. The sheer intensity of the moment left you breathless, your body trembling as he collapsed beside you, his arm draped possessively over your waist.

"You’ll never escape me, little dragon," he murmured, his voice soft but laced with a promise. "Not now. Not ever."

You closed your eyes, your heart racing as you felt the warmth of his presence beside you. Despite everything, you couldn’t deny the way your body craved his touch, the way his words seemed to root themselves deep within your soul.

Maegor shifted his weight, rolling your trembling body to face him. His piercing gaze roamed over you—your flushed cheeks, disheveled hair, and quivering form. A smirk spread across his lips, a dark chuckle rumbling deep in his chest.

"Look at you," he said, his voice filled with both amusement and satisfaction. "Utterly spent, yet still so beautiful."

You tried to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you met his gaze. "Maegor…" you whispered, your voice barely audible, a mix of exhaustion and disbelief.

He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours with surprising tenderness. "You’re perfect like this," he murmured, his hand trailing down your side, sending shivers through your already sensitive body. "Made for me. And only me."

Just as you thought he would let you rest, he pulled back slightly, his smirk fading as his sharp eyes traveled lower. His expression darkened when he saw the evidence of his release dripping from your swollen cunt. A low growl escaped his throat, filled with frustration and possessiveness.

"No," he muttered, almost to himself. "I won’t have that."

Before you could process his words, he pressed you down firmly against the bed, his hands gripping your thighs to spread you open. You gasped, weakly reaching for him, but he didn’t give you a moment to protest.

"Maegor, wait—"

He didn’t. With a deliberate, forceful motion, he pushed his fingers inside you, his touch firm yet calculated. You cried out softly, your body jerking at the sudden intrusion.

"Be still," he ordered, his voice low but commanding. "I won’t have what’s mine dripping away so easily."

Your head fell back against the pillows, your body arching instinctively as he worked with a steady rhythm, pushing his release back into you. The sensation was overwhelming, sending a mix of pleasure and overstimulation coursing through your nerves.

"Maegor, I can’t…" you whimpered, your voice trailing off into a broken sob.

He leaned closer, his face hovering just above yours as his free hand cupped your cheek. "You can," he whispered, his tone surprisingly gentle despite the fire burning in his eyes. "And you will. You’ll take all of me, no matter how many times it takes."

Your breath hitched as his movements became slower, more deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours. "You’ll give me a son," he murmured, his lips brushing against your temple. "I’ll make sure of it."

A tear slipped down your cheek, and Maegor leaned in to kiss it away, his lips lingering on your skin. "Don’t cry, little dragon," he said softly, his voice almost tender. "This is what you were meant for. To carry my blood. To give me what no other could."

His words, though harsh, carried an undeniable weight. You felt the heat of his possessiveness searing into your very being, leaving you no room to escape his claim.

When he finally pulled back, satisfied, he gathered your trembling form into his arms, holding you close. His hand rested protectively over your stomach, and he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

"You’ll see," he said quietly, his voice carrying an edge of certainty. "You’ll give me the legacy I deserve. And you’ll be the queen by my side when I do."

Exhausted and overwhelmed, you could only nod weakly, the gravity of his words settling deep within you as sleep began to overtake your tired body.

Tag List : @danytar @hangmanscoming @julessworldd @yazzzmints @callsignwidow @giirlinblack @searatarg @vaelry

#hotd imagine #hotd #hotd one shot #hotd x reader #hotd smut #maegor targaryen #maegor x reader #king maegor #maegor smut #maegor the cruel #house targaryen #house of the dragon

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luvst4rc0r3 · 2 days ago

Note

CAN YOU DO A JINX X READER FIC BUT READER IS PREGNANT AND LIKE SHE DOESNT KNOW HOW TO TELL JINX.

IF YOU DO IT TYYYYYY❤️❤️

“Two Pink Lines”

Jinx x F!Reader

WARNINGS: Mention of abortion?

WC:2311

NOTE: established relationship.

Your POV

You had been pacing the tiny space of your shared room for the last ten minutes, the little pregnancy test feeling like a bomb in your hands.

Your heart was pounding so hard it made your head hurt. You knew this wasn’t something you could just ignore—Jinx deserved to know. But saying it out loud? Actually forming the words? That felt impossible.

“Hey, Jinx, so, funny story—I’m pregnant.”

Nope. Too casual.

“Jinx, I have something to tell you… I’m having a baby.”

Too dramatic.

“Surprise! You knocked me up!”

Oh, hell no.

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. Every option sounded worse than the last. There was no way this wouldn’t shake her, no way this wouldn’t send her brain spinning in all directions. Jinx wasn’t bad with emotions—she just didn’t always know what to do with them. And this? This was big.

You had seen how uneasy she was lately, the way she watched you with that nervous, twitchy energy. She knew something was up, but instead of pressing, she’d let it fester, probably assuming the worst.

Jinx had been through too much, lost too many people, and she had this awful habit of thinking everything was her fault. And you had not been helping, avoiding her questions, brushing off her concerns, all because you didn’t know how to say it.

That had to stop.

You exhaled sharply.

You needed to tell her. But you also knew that telling her face-to-face might make it worse.

Jinx was all reaction—she acted before thinking, emotions bubbling over before she could grab hold of them. If you just told her, there was a chance she’d shut down, that panic would take over before she even had time to process.

But if you left the test somewhere she’d find it, without the pressure of you standing there waiting for a reaction… maybe that would help.

Your eyes landed on her workshop.

That’s it.

She was always working on something, always tinkering with gadgets and bombs. Her workbench was her safe space—the one place she could think things through. If you left the test there, she’d have time to work through the shock before she had to deal with you staring at her, waiting for an answer.

Decision made, you swallowed hard and forced yourself to move.

Jinx wasn’t in the workshop, which was perfect. You stepped inside, ignoring the usual chaos of scattered blueprints and half-finished projects, and placed the pregnancy test dead center on her workbench.

She wouldn’t miss it.

You took a shaky step back, staring at the little plastic stick like it might suddenly shout the news for you.

This was the best way. You had to believe that.

Taking a deep breath, you turned and walked out. You’d give her a couple of hours—enough time to let her mind run in circles, freak out, and hopefully settle before you came back.

You just had to hope she wouldn’t blow anything up in the process.

‧͙*˚⁺‧͙ㅤ ওㅤㅤֺㅤ ⠀⠀✧ ⠀ ㅤֺㅤ ওㅤ ㅤ*̩̩͙‧͙*˚⁺ ͙

Jinx’s POV

Jinx felt like her skin didn’t fit right.

Something was wrong.

You were gone again, and she had no idea where or why. You kept sneaking off, looking at her like she was some kind of fragile bomb that might explode if you said the wrong thing.

She hated it.

Hated not knowing.

Hated the pit of anxiety gnawing at her stomach.

She stomped into her workshop, muttering to herself, fingers twitching at her sides. Maybe she could work on something, blow off some steam, keep her hands busy before she—

Her eyes landed on her workbench.

Jinx froze.

There, right in the middle of the mess, was something that didn’t belong. A little box.

Her brows furrowed. She stepped closer, picking it up and flipping it over in her hands. The words on the front made her stomach drop.

Pregnancy Test.

Her breath hitched.

That wasn’t—

No way.

She ripped the box open, fingers fumbling as she pulled out the little plastic stick inside.

Two pink lines.

Her heart stopped.

She stared at it, willing the lines to disappear, to change, to be anything else.

Two lines meant—

It meant—

Jinx’s breath came fast and shallow, her grip tightening around the test. Her thoughts were spiraling too fast to grab onto.

You were pregnant.

With her baby.

Her lungs felt too tight. Her hands were shaking. The world tilted, her brain screaming at her to do something, but she didn’t even know what.

This was why you’d been acting weird. This was why you were avoiding her, why you looked so nervous every time she got too close.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Did you think she’d be mad? Did you think she wouldn’t want this?

Jinx stumbled back, almost knocking over a pile of scrap metal.

A baby. A tiny, fragile thing that would need her, to touch her, to need her warmth.

Her.

Jinx.

A girl who broke everything she touched.

She squeezed her eyes shut, sucking in a sharp breath. No, no, don’t go there, don’t—

Her brain wanted to run, to slip into that dark, gnawing place where she wasn’t enough, where she couldn’t be enough. But another thought cut through the panic—sharp, insistent.

You hadn’t left.

You didn’t run.

You left this for her to find, trusting that she’d handle it.

She blinked down at the test again.

Her fingers loosened.

The fear was still there, lurking under her skin, but something else was rising up too—something warm and unfamiliar.

You were having a baby.

Her baby.

Jinx let out a breathless, slightly manic laugh.

She had to find you. Now.

And you had a lot of explaining to do.

̩̩͙‧͙*˚⁺‧͙ㅤ ওㅤㅤֺㅤ ⠀⠀✧ ⠀ ㅤֺㅤ ওㅤ ㅤ*̩̩͙‧͙*˚⁺‧͙

You took your time getting home, dragging your feet through the dimly lit streets of Zaun. Every step felt heavier than the last, your stomach in knots.

You had done it. You had left the test on her desk. You had given her time.

Now you had to face whatever came next.

But the closer you got, the more the fear crept in.

What if she freaked out?

What if she shut down?

What if she left?

Jinx had a habit of running from things that hurt. And this? This had the potential to destroy her.

Your hands were ice-cold when you finally reached the door. You hesitated, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

Then, slowly, you pushed it open.

Jinx was standing in the middle of the room.

Her shoulders were hunched, her hands curled into fists at her sides. The pregnancy test was still clutched in her fingers, white-knuckled like she had been holding onto it for hours.

The moment she saw you, she went still.

Completely still.

Your breath caught.

She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t moving toward you.

She was just staring.

The weight of it crushed you.

She didn’t want this.

You could see it in the way she held herself, in the way her fingers trembled slightly around the test, in the way her mouth parted like she wanted to say something but couldn’t force the words out.

Your stomach turned, a sick, hollow feeling settling in your chest.

She didn’t want this.

And that meant—

You swallowed hard, your voice coming out quiet, fragile.

“I can get rid of it.”

The second the words left your mouth, Jinx broke.

“No!”

Her voice was so sharp, so panicked that it actually made you flinch.

Your breath hitched.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The room was suffocating, thick with something raw and unbearable.

Jinx’s breathing was uneven, her chest rising and falling too fast. She looked—

Terrified.

Not of you. Not of the baby.

Of losing you.

“You don’t—” her voice cracked, and she shook her head so violently her braids whipped around her shoulders. “Don’t say that. Don’t even think—”

You took a step back.

Jinx moved forward immediately, closing the distance like she was afraid you’d slip away if she didn’t grab hold of you now.

“You thought I didn’t want this?” she asked, voice strangled. “You thought I—?”

You had.

She saw it in your face.

Her expression twisted, something like hurt flashing behind her eyes, and it made your chest ache.

“Shit,” she breathed, voice cracking. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides. “I don’t—I don’t know how to do this, okay? I don’t know how to be—” Her throat bobbed. “I don’t even know how to be a person most days. How the hell am I supposed to be a—?”

She cut herself off.

Didn’t say the word.

Couldn’t.

The weight of it was too much.

You looked down, eyes burning. “Then maybe—”

“No,” she snapped, voice hoarse. “Don’t. Just—don’t.”

Jinx ran a shaking hand over her face, dragging her fingers through her hair.

“I want this,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I want you. I want—”

Her gaze dropped to your stomach, and something in her expression cracked.

“I want them.”

It was barely a breath, barely a sound, but it knocked the air from your lungs.

She looked lost, like she didn’t know how to want this but did anyway.

Your throat tightened.

“You do?”

Jinx let out a soft, broken laugh, but it was filled with confusion and fear. “I do,” she whispered, her eyes glossy. “I just don’t know how. I don’t know how to be ready for this. But I want to try. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose us.”

Her voice wavered, and she reached out, her hand trembling as she placed it gently on your stomach. It felt tentative, like she wasn’t sure if she had the right to touch you, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to have a future with you and the baby.

But her fingers lingered there, almost as though she were trying to feel something real, something to ground herself. Her breathing was shallow, her body stiff, like she was holding herself together by sheer will.

You didn’t know what to say.

You could see it in her eyes—the fear, the doubt, the overwhelming weight of everything crashing down at once. She loved you, she wanted you, she wanted the baby, but she was terrified. And the last thing she wanted was to ruin everything. She couldn’t bear to mess this up.

But all you could think about was the space between you, the way she was afraid to touch you too hard, like she might break something precious.

“I don’t want to do this alone,” Jinx muttered, her voice cracking as she looked up at you, her face twisted with desperation. “Please, don’t make me do this alone. I… I don’t know how to be a mom. I don’t even know how to fix myself half the time, let alone another person. But I swear to you, I’ll try. I’ll try, okay?”

Her words hung in the air, raw and painful, and you could feel your heart breaking for her. You reached out, pulling her close, wrapping your arms around her. She tensed at first, but then she melted into you, pressing her forehead against your shoulder, her body trembling.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I’m not leaving you. I’m not leaving this. We’ll figure it out. Together. I promise.”

Jinx clung to you tightly, as if she feared you would disappear if she let go for even a second. Her hands dug into your back, her nails pressing into your skin as though she were holding onto the last thread of stability in her life.

But even as she held onto you, you could feel her shaking. Her whole body was trembling with the weight of everything she was carrying—the fear, the guilt, the uncertainty. She was scared, and you could feel it in the way she breathed, in the way her fingers tightened around you, as if she thought she might lose her grip.

“You don’t have to do it all alone,” you whispered, your voice soothing, trying to reassure both her and yourself. “We don’t have to have it all figured out right now. We’ll take it one day at a time, okay? No pressure. We can be scared together.”

Jinx pulled back slightly, just enough to look you in the eyes. Her face was streaked with tears, her cheeks flushed, and her gaze was still full of uncertainty. But there was something else there, too. Something softer.

“I’m scared,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “I’m terrified. But I want this. I want you.”

Her confession hit you like a wave, crashing through the walls you’d built in your own heart. You couldn’t stop the tears that welled in your eyes, couldn’t stop the sob that escaped your throat. You didn’t want to be scared anymore, either. You didn’t want to doubt everything you had with her, everything that was coming next.

You kissed her then, gently, softly. It wasn’t a kiss of passion or desperation, but one of quiet understanding. Of shared fear, shared hope.

When you pulled away, you both stayed close, your foreheads resting against each other, breathing in unison.

“I’m not leaving,” you repeated, almost to yourself, as much as to her.

Jinx nodded, her breath shaky, but she didn’t pull away. “Promise?”

You smiled faintly through your tears, nodding in return. “I promise.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the silence between you stretch, the weight of everything pressing down on both of you. But there was a new understanding there now. An understanding that no matter how broken you both felt, no matter how terrifying the future seemed, you wouldn’t face it alone.

You had each other.

And that, for now, was enough.

YALL I LOVE THIS REQUEST!!

I want food

#arcane x reader #arcane x y/n #arcane x you #x reader #x y/n #x you #jinx #jinx arcane #jinx league of legends #jinx lol #jinx x y/n #jinx x reader #arcane #arcame

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angstywaifu · 3 days ago

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Everyone Has Secrets - Aaric Graycastle

Request: Aaric x reader where the reader is a rider but also a princess of another Provence, but she kept it a secret from everyone because she ran away to be a rider to fight venin because she didn’t want her people to suffer. A/N: This is my first time writing for Aaric so I hope you guys like it. I've seen a few requests come in for him now so I'll definitely be working on them and hope to improve my writing for him.

Warnings: The below contains spoilers for Onyx Storm. If you have not read Onyx Storm do not read the below!

Masterlist | Support Me

“What’s up with you and Aaric?” Sloane whispers to me as Devera asks Violet about her trip.

“Nothing. Why’s that?” I ask as I look up at her.

“Because he’s been staring at you since he sat down. It’s like he’s trying to read your mind.” She informs me.

I turn my head and meet Aaric’s piercing green eyes. And Sloane is right. The way he’s looking at me is like he’s trying to figure something out. And it’s like me looking at him confirms what ever it is he needs, quickly turning his attention back to the front of the room. What was that about?

“Maybe he was trying to see if we were ok? He’s been gone a while.” I whisper back with a shrug.

She shakes her head. “No. This is something else.”

Devera turns her attention back to the rest of us, putting an end to our conversation. It doesn’t take long for me to feel Aaric’s eyes on me, but I don’t turn to meet them this time.

Something had clearly happened while he was away with Violet and the squad she had put together. But I had no way of telling what it was.

Throughout the rest of our classes I feel Aaric’s eyes on me every now and then. But I couldn’t pin point why. And it honestly had me on edge. I’d never seen Aaric like that towards anyone since our time here. I had planned to ask him what his problem was, but his seat at our table remains empty during dinner.

“We’re going to go train, want to come with?” Sloane asks me as we stand up from our table.

I shake my head. “I’m going to have an early one tonight. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I tell her as I back away towards the dorms.

She just nods and lets me go, knowing Aaric’s weird mood towards me had put me on edge. I was glad she’d opted for the let me be approach rather than distract me with training or plotting how we could find out what was going on.

As I push through the door to the dorms, someone grabs me from behind, causing me to yelp which echoes in the empty hall. I turn around to fight back, grasping a dagger in my hand which hangs in the air once I see the familiar green eyes I’d felt on me all day. Green eyes that feel like they’re staring into my soul.

I open my mouth to ask him what the hell is going on, but he just drags me up the stairs to the first year floor and down to his room. He shoves me inside before closing the door behind us, leaning back against it to block any attempt I might make to leave.

“What the hell is going on?” I demand, wanting to know why his behaviour towards me had changed so much since his trip.

“Seems you’ve been keeping secrets. Princess.”

My eyes go wide at his words, my dinner threatening to make an appearance. Shit. How the hell did he know? No one knew where I was from. Nowhere in Navarre knew who I was. Unless… shit.

“Everyone has secrets.” I say with a shrug, trying to play it off.

“Oh trust me, I know.” He replies cockily, causing me to narrow my eyes at him. What the hell did that mean. “And you probably would have gotten away with yours if I hadn’t gone with Violet.”

“What are you going on about?”

He pushes off the door and walks over to his desk. Going through the bag he was yet to unpack from his trip. He pulls out a frame, holding it out to me. I grasp it in my hands, turning it over as dread washes over me. Staring back at me is a painting of me with my parents done not long before I’d left. The family Id left behind to come and do something. To protect them from a war that would more than likely come our way one day. There was no way I could deny what Aaric had figured out.

“I always thought your eye colour was unique. Such an interesting shade of blue. Sometimes looking purple when the light hit it them right.” He tells me as he leans up against the desk, watching me take in the photo. “So you can probably guess the shock I got when we land in Hedotis, and we’re greeted by people with the same coloured eyes. The same ones I’ve been looking at since July. And then when I go looking around, I find this sitting on a desk.”

I look up at him, not sure what to say or do. I had thought my secret would be safe forever. No one here had ever been to Hedotis, and I honestly thought no one would ever go there. But now Aaric stood in front of me, waiting for answers.

“What are you going to do? Force me to go back? Go get whatever reward they want for my return?” I snap at him, shoving the painting back at him.

He shakes his head as he places the painting next to him on the desk. “Fuck no. I want to know why though. I have my reasons, but what are yours? Why make that big of a journey to come here of all places?”

His reasons? What the hell did that mean? Pretty sure it was going to be my turn to interrogate him after this at this rate.

“Because I didn’t want to sit back and do nothing.” I tell him as I walk over to his window, looking out over the forest below. “I was sick of us turning a blind eye to what could potentially come our way. Pretending that everything was fine and blissful. When over the ocean, people were dying. I needed to make a difference, even if my parents wouldn’t. All they cared about was marrying me off to make alliances. Give another province an heir that would make them allied to us. Even though we would never back them up if they needed help. I needed to do something.”

Aaric doesn’t say a word. Silence falling over us. I turn around to see him looking at me, a smile pulling at the edges of his mouth.

“Good. Because honestly your people are kinda shit.” He jokes as he steps away from the desk to walk over to the door.

“Not so fast Aaric.” I say, causing him to turn and look at me with a cocked eyebrow. “Now it’s your turn. Why do you have your reasons?”

#fourth wing #fourth wing fanfic #the fourth wing #the empyrean #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #aaric fourth wing #aaric graycastle #aaric graycastle x reader #aaric x reader #onyx storm #iron flame #onyx storm spoilers #onyx storm fanfic #rebecca yarros #empyrean series

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pretentious-blonde · 2 days ago

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new neighbour

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: steve is down because of his dating life, or lack thereof. that is until the new girl captures his attention

warnings: literally none, nervous and sweet steve!!

a/n: i have been gone for 3 months but uni has finally settled down! also if anyone wants a pt. 2 with steve trying to help move r in i am so down! i have so many ideas!!!

A steady stream of gray light filtered through the wide front windows of Family Video, illuminating the rows upon rows of VHS cases. The day was uncharacteristically slow, the kind of weekday lull that left the store feeling hollow and cavernous. Steve Harrington stood behind the counter, leaning his elbows on the chipped laminate surface, tapping his fingers in a pattern he’d repeated so many times in an attempt to give him something to focus on.

His eyes hurt under the fluorescents, and though he tried to keep a casual expression, anyone who looked long enough could see the small, flickering signs of boredom crossing his features. On the other side of the store, Robin roamed the aisles, a small stack of VHS tapes in her hands, placing each one in its rightful place on the shelf. Every so often, she’d glance toward Steve, as if expecting some lively remark, but he remained lost in his thoughts.

“Hey,” Robin called, sliding a Night of the Comet tape onto the appropriate rack. “So… Vicky and I were talking the other night, and we thought, maybe this weekend…” She paused, drifting closer to the register so her voice wouldn’t echo.

Steve raised an eyebrow, still drumming his fingers on the counter. “Yeah, maybe what?”

Robin placed the last tape in her stack onto the shelf with a gentle thud. “Well, we’re making dinner. A real dinner—you know, in an actual kitchen, with actual groceries. Vicky wants me to learn her mom’s lasagna recipe. The whole shebang.” Her bright eyes searched his face. “Why don’t you come over? Eat with us?”

To anyone else, that might sound like a friendly suggestion. But there was a flicker in Robin’s eyes that Steve knew well: an undercurrent of pity. After all, he’d gone on a date last weekend that hadn’t exactly gone well. He was used to being the one with endless charm, the guy who always had a witty quip or a warm smile to keep a conversation going. Yet none of that had worked on Tanya—no matter how hard he tried. God was he trying.

Steve sighed, pushing himself upright. “Yeah… no.”

Robin visibly balked, confusion knitting her brows. “What do you mean, ‘yeah… no’? You can’t just respond to an invitation like that.”

“Exactly how I just did,” he said, mouth tilting into a faint, lopsided grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thanks for the invite, but I’m not interrupting your date night just because you feel bad for me. I know you guys are trying to, like, throw me a bone or whatever.”

Robin’s cheeks puffed out in a mock sigh. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She turned away, pretending to occupy herself by adjusting a crooked VHS case. The slight shift in her voice told him otherwise. She always was a terrible liar.

He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “You know what I’m talking about.” He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant, though the memory of last weekend pricked at him more than he liked to admit. Tanya had been gorgeous—dark hair, lovely eyes, a laugh that could probably stop traffic. At first glance, she was the perfect fit. But after an hour of him asking question after question and receiving nothing but uninterested one-word answers, he’d realised that appearances weren't enough to carry a conversation. The spark was missing, that intangible something that made him want to stay, to laugh, to learn more. It just wasn’t there. He was beginning to think it never would be, at least for him.

Robin finally turned back. “Okay, so maybe I know you’ve been bummed. But it’s not pity, Steve.” She rolled her eyes. “Vicky genuinely likes you. We both do.”

“Sure,” Steve said, gently drumming his fingers again. “Vicky likes me enough to let me crash her romantic, candle-lit dinner with her girlfriend.” He narrowed his eyes playfully. “Yeah, that’s not weird at all.”

Robin shot him a look. “It’s not weird if we invite you. And besides, it’s not like this is going to be some super fancy dinner. There might be candles, but that’s only so I can see the food properly, okay?”

Steve snorted, though the weight in his chest didn’t quite lift. “Look, Rob, I appreciate it,” he said, voice softening. “I do. But I’m not sure I’m up for third-wheeling on a Saturday night. I think it’s safer for everyone if I steer clear, especially given your experimental cooking.”

She pressed her lips together, fighting a smile. “Wow, way to appreciate me trying to feed you.” Though she spoke jokingly, she studied his face for signs of deeper sadness. He was Steve Harrington—he was supposed to be the one with the perpetual easy grin. But ever since his dating and social life had crashed and burned, Robin could see the twinge of hurt in his eyes. He was insecure. He liked to feel needed, he always had. He had no problem giving himself to others. So watching everyone else find their person only made him more self-conscious. The truth was nobody needed him, and that knowledge was slowly eating away at him.

“You know,” Robin added, resting her hands on the cart that held a few more tapes, “it’s not just about the date. I get it—you’re lonely. It’s okay to admit that. We’ve all been there.”

He opened his mouth, his gaze slipping away to look out the window at a slow-moving car. The driver was just a blur behind the glass, but it gave him something to focus on. Because she was right. He was lonely, and part of him wanted to accept Robin’s invitation so badly. The other part of him couldn’t bear to insert himself as a third wheel—he knew that feeling too well. He’d spent years longing for something real, something effortlessly mutual. Maybe he’d find it eventually, but not if he was hanging around a couple who only extended the invite out of sympathy.

“Okay,” Robin said, exhaling the tension that had built up between them. “If you change your mind, call me. Seriously, no guilt trip, no questions asked. Vicky won’t mind. We’ll have a plate ready.”

A genuine smile tugged at the corners of Steve’s mouth. It still looked like it held a bit of sadness but he covered it up to not upset her further. “Yeah. Thanks, Rob. I promise, if I get the sudden urge for a crisp lasagna—”

“Hey!”

He grinned for real this time. “—I’ll give you a call. Right now, though, I think I’m just gonna stick to renting a movie and ordering takeout. Maybe keep my Saturday night simple.”

Robin nodded, accepting his declination. Her gaze lingered, and she wanted to push harder, but she knew Steve well enough to sense that pushing too much would only drive him further into his own shell. “Alright,” she said softly, reaching out to pat his arm. “You know where to find me if you need to talk.”

“I know. And thanks.” He meant it.

Their eyes met before Robin moved off to shelve the remaining tapes. He watched her go, then slowly leaned forward on the counter again. Outside, the sun was getting a little brighter, illuminating the Family Video sign and casting reflections across the empty parking lot. He was trying to think about whatever movie he would undoubtedly be bringing home with him for the weekend, alone. That is, until he sees you.

You’re walking at an unhurried pace, shoulders slightly hunched against the cool breeze, but there’s something about you that holds his attention. The way your outfit matches in a way that feels effortless but intentional, the way your hair catches the light, styled just enough to suggest effort but not so much that it seems like you’re trying too hard.

You push open the glass door, and the bell above gives a soft jingle that seems to echo in the stillness. The warmth of the store envelops you, a cozy contrast to the lingering chill outside. Rows of tapes tower around you, aisles lit by bulbs that buzz quietly in the background. It all feels a bit nostalgic, not too intimidating.

Behind the front counter, Steve stands with his elbows braced on the worn surface. For a second, it looks like you’ve interrupted him mid-daydream—his brown eyes are distant. The moment you step inside, he blinks, and you can practically see the switch flip as you catch him. Suddenly, he’s all awareness, standing straighter, swallowing once. A faint flush colours the tips of his ears, though he tries to hide it by running a hand through his hair.

He looks at you in a way that he hopes is welcoming, he’s not sure if he should say something immediately or give you space to browse. There is a gentle lift of his shoulders as he inhales, working up the courage to speak. You offer a polite nod and slide toward the nearest aisle before he can get a word out.

He exhales a shaky breath he didn’t realise he was holding, mind racing as he tries to place you. He can’t recall seeing you here before, and he was certain he would remember if you had. He drags his fingers over the keyboard, tapping random keys to pretend he’s busy. In truth, all he wants is to keep glancing your way. It was maddening forcing his attention to the computer screen.

You wander among the rows, taking in the titles. There’s something oddly comforting about the smell of plastic VHS covers. Occasionally, you catch sight of Steve peeking over from the desk, just for a moment, before he ducks back down to avoid being caught staring. You find yourself smiling at his obvious attempt to be casual.

He, meanwhile, is silently scolding himself. He knew he was being weird—God, he needs to get a grip. But there’s a traitorous part of him that can’t help noticing the delicate way your hair frames your face, or the look of your jacket—well worn, well loved, taken care of. Even though your aura was disarming, he felt like he was in high school all over again, unable to stop staring at the pretty girl in the corridor.

Eventually, you settle on a tape, The Empire Strikes Back—something classic you’ve been meaning to watch again. Taking a steadying breath, you head to the counter, the plastic case clutched in your hand. As you approach, he forces himself to appear relaxed, collected, though inside he’s buzzing with anticipation.

“Um, hey… Steve,” you look up from his name tag, placing the tape before him. His eyes dart down to the cover, then back up to you. “Do you work here?”

The moment you say it, you realise how silly it sounds—he’s in the company vest, with a company name tag on it. Heat flares across your cheeks.

A laugh bubbles out of him—warm, kind. He shakes his head gently as if to say, Don’t worry about it. “Yeah, I do.”

You nod, cheeks still burning from your awkward question. “Yes. Sorry, I, uh… obviously you work here.”

“Nah, no problem. I’ve gotten weirder questions,” his smile widens, softening around the edges. You’re cute when you’re embarrassed. “Good pick, by the way.”

As he scans the tape, you notice the slight tremor in his hand. It’s barely there, but you sense the sweet, nervous energy radiating from him. His gaze flickers to you, then back to the screen, then to you again—like he can’t quite decide which deserves his attention more. You, probably.

“So, um,” he starts, clearing his throat, “I haven’t seen you around before. Are you… new in town?” He tries to sound casual, but a hopeful note creeps into his voice, as though he’s crossing his fingers for you to keep talking.

You brighten at the question, happy to have something normal to say. “I am, actually. I just moved here a few days ago. The apartment is literally right across the street—well, I think you can see it from the window.”

His eyes widened with interest and with the knowledge of your close proximity. “Yeah? Pretty convenient if you want a movie.” And maybe to see me, he almost adds. “So, when exactly did you move in?”

“Three days ago,” you reply, letting out a breathy exhale at the memory. “I’ve been knee-deep in boxes ever since. I finally decided I deserved a break, and what better way than a movie night to make the new place feel more like home, right?”

He nods fervently, excitement sparking behind his eyes. “That’s true. Shame I wasn’t working that day—maybe I could’ve, I don’t know… helped haul a box or two?” He offers a tiny shrug, his words stumbling a bit as he realises how forward that might sound. “I mean, not that I… I just… you know,” he begins to backtrack.

A warm giggle escapes you, putting him at ease. “I appreciate the thought. My arms hurt for, like, the whole day afterwards.”

He huffs a little chuckle, feeling relief wash over him when you don’t seem put off. “Exactly.”

He glances around the store for Robin knowing she’s probably lurking somewhere, listening in with a sly grin. But in this moment, he can’t bring himself to care too much; he wants you to have his full attention.

“If you don’t have a membership yet,” he says, fishing around under the counter for a form, “you’ll need to fill this out.” He slides a paper and pen toward you.

“Right, I’m totally new,” you reply, stepping closer to read the sheet. As you lean in, Steve notices the light scent of your shampoo—or maybe your perfume—and it makes his pulse skip. He’s had customers before, obviously, but none have made him feel this flustered. It wasn't a feeling he necessarily disliked.

Fighting the urge to stare too obviously, he busies himself with looking at the returns papers, occasionally sneaking a glance your way. He notices the way your brow furrows as you fill in the different boxes, huffing to yourself when you wrote your previous address, crossing it out and starting again. It was so human, so endearing, he had to turn away fully or his amused smile would give him away.

Once you’ve filled out the form, you pass it back. He types in your details, the corners of his mouth quirking up as he commits your name to memory. “Perfect,” he tells you, printing out a fresh membership card and sliding it across the counter.

“Thanks,” you say, tucking it into your wallet. “Feels official now.”

He can’t help but feel upset that this moment is slipping away—any second, you’ll thank him, smile, and leave. Then he’ll be stuck behind the counter once again, replaying this conversation over and over until you come to return it, which could be a week from now. That would be unacceptable.

He clears his throat. “Uh, so,” he begins, voice wavering ever so slightly. “You got any big plans this weekend? Since you’re, you know, new here.” You could tell he was aiming for confident, but that casual tone of his falters as he seems genuinely invested in your response.

His smile drops as he hears your reply. “Actually, yeah, I do,” his heart sinks, mind already going into overdrive. You’re probably telling him politely to let him down. He knew he was being too brazen, but he couldn’t stop the embarrassment from settling in his chest.

“I need to head into town and get some furniture,” you explain as his head looks up, stopping him from spiralling. “I heard there’s a store a few miles away?”

He smiles at the fact that you’re still talking and didn’t just shut him down, you’re just busy—and that’s okay. “Oh, yeah,” he nods eagerly. “There is, um, it’s about a ten-minute drive, tops. Depends on traffic, I guess, but Hawkins isn’t exactly wild.” He lets out a weak laugh. “What are you, uh, looking for?”

“Mostly a bookshelf. I thought I could just stack my books, but they’re already in danger of tumbling over.”

He is listening, but a large part of him is cursing how little attention he paid in English class. Wishing he could humour you more. “That’s cool,” he says safely. “So, you’re a big reader?”

You nod, eyes lighting up. “Oh absolutely, I love getting lost in a story.”

He can’t help but think how sweet you are, the warmth in your expression filling his stomach, urging him past his nerves to finally ask what he had been wanting to. “Well, if you need help lugging that thing up the stairs to your apartment, I’m, uh… not working this weekend.” As soon as the words leave my mouth, he realises that, once again, it may have been too forward.

“Really?” You ask, face brightening before he had the chance to overthink. “That’d be great! I was kind of worried about getting it back here on my own.”

His heart does that little flip at your acceptance of his offer. He nods enthusiastically, a few rogue hairs settling on his forehead, making his appearance more boyish.

“It’s no problem,” he tells you as he puts his hands in his pockets, trying to appear relaxed as if this wasn’t the most exciting opportunity to happen to him all year. “I’ve got a car that’s… well, it’s big enough. Definitely more roomy than your average trunk. If yours can’t handle the bookshelf, mine can.”

You break into a grateful grin. “Wow, that’s really nice of you. Seriously.”

A blush creeps across his cheeks at your kind words, his face turning bashful. “Honestly, it’s no big deal at all.” It really wasn't, if all it takes is transporting some furniture to spend more time with you, he would gladly do it.

You lift your shoulders in a shrug, feeling slightly indebted. “Well, at least let me buy you a coffee or something afterwards, to say thanks. I insist.”

“No, that’s—” He starts to protest, but the look on your face tells him you’re determined. It’s kind of adorable how your eyebrows pinch together.

“I insist,” you repeat, a little more firmly, and he laughs quietly. So you're stubborn, he can work with that.

“Alright,” he concedes, holding up his hands in surrender. “Coffee it is. How about…” Think, Steve, think. “Saturday morning, I can meet you out front, say, 10:30? Unless that’s too early?” In truth, he’d be ready at sunrise if it meant spending more time with you, but he doesn't want to sound desperate.

“That’s perfect,” you say, beaming as you pick up your rented tape. “Thank you again, Steve.”

“Sure,” he replied, feeling a grin stretch across his face, so genuine it almost hurts his cheeks. He is shocked at how he managed to do this. How—by some miracle—you of all people had moved across the street.

You give a small wave, and the door shuts behind you, the bell chiming one last time. His heart is still hammering away as he stares at the closed door, trying to process that he just—did that. He just set up what is basically a date… or at least a coffee situation. Either way, it’s something.

In the sudden quiet, he hears a muffled sound from behind him, and when he spins around, there’s Robin standing in the break room doorway. She’s practically bouncing on her heels, eyes wide with excitement.

“Oh, my God,” she says, not even bothering to hide the grin overtaking her face. “Was that—did you just—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he cuts her off, rolling his eyes even though he can’t keep the giddy smile off his own lips. “Shut up, Robin.”

She doesn’t shut up, but he doesn't mind. All he can think about is Saturday morning, and the way your face lit up when he offered to help you, and how maybe this is going to be the start of something really, really good.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington #stranger things #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things x you #stranger things x reader #stranger things x y/n #stranger things imagine #steve harrington oneshot #steve harrington headcanon

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causeimhappinesss · 22 hours ago

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Rome's Devotion (part 2)

Warnings: Emperors Geta & Caracalla are warnings themselves, (slight?) blasphemy, non-con/dub-con, misogyny (Ancient Rome, so…)

Pairing: Geta x Christian!reader x Caracalla

Words: 4,8k

Disclaimer: English isn’t my native language (I’m french), so you can correct me if you spot some mistakes :)

Part 1

The morning light spills through the high windows, soft but cold against the stone walls. The scent of crushed lavender lingers in the air, mingling with the faint musk of oil and damp linen. Servants move in the chamber in quiet efficiency, dressing one another, fastening belts, securing hair. Their hushed voices weave together, rising and falling like the tide. Claudia stands beside me, her hands swift as she smooths the folds of my tunic. She pauses, eyes narrowing as she studies my face.

“You looked shaken last night. Did your task with the emperors go better?” she murmurs.

Better. The word curls in my mind, bitter and hollow.

I force my expression to remain composed. “I did as I was told,” I say.

Claudia exhales through her nose, fingers tightening briefly on my sleeve.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

I hesitate, glancing at the other servants. Most are preoccupied with their own tasks, paying me little mind. Still, my voice drops lower.

“They like to watch me squirm,” I admit. My throat feels tight. “They enjoy it.”

Claudia presses her lips together. “They always do,” she says after a moment. “Especially when the servant is new.”

I glance down, my fingers rising to my collarbone. The gesture is instinctive, an attempt to grasp something familiar, something safe. But my necklace is gone. The Emperor Caracalla still has it. A hollow ache spreads through my chest.

A lump forms in my throat, thick and unbearable, since I doubt he will return it. Why would he, after all? The thought alone makes my stomach churn. That small piece of silver—so delicate, so personal—now rests in his hands, and there is nothing I can do. But God will forgive me. He must. He knows it’s not my fault.

“They test all of us. They enjoy taunting new servants, especially when they are young.” Claudia continues, her voice softer now. “It’s a game to them.”

“A cruel one.” I whisper.

A scoff cuts through the air. “That’s nothing new.”

I turn. Antonella stands behind us, tying a sash around her waist. Her hands move with the ease of habit, her expression unreadable. She’s at least twice my age, her years of service written in the sharp lines of her face, but also with her dark circles. She gives me a long, measured look.

“You remind me of another girl,” she mutters.

A strange unease prickles at the base of my spine and I frown. “Who? Tell me more, please.”

Antonella secures the knot at her hip with expert gestures. “The one who used to care for the emperors when they were boys. They adored her.”

My brow furrows. “Where is she now?”

Claudia shifts beside me, silent, obviously as interest as me in this story. It’s not like we have a lot of distraction here, we work, eat and sleep. Again and again, each day. Only the gossips and prayers keep us distracted.

Antonella meets my gaze and licks her cracked lips, before she shrugged.

“Dead.”

The word lands like a stone in my stomach. I struggle to swallow my spit and my eyes flutter.

“How?” I ask, probably too curious for my own good.

“She belonged to their father.” Antonella’s voice is calm, but there is something dark beneath it, something heavy. “She warmed his bed.”

The chamber feels smaller, the air thick, suffocating. My skin prickles.

“And the emperors…?” I stop myself, uncertain if I want to hear the answer.

“They were in love with her,” Antonella finishes.

A cold shiver runs through me. The two brothers—young then, but still cruel, still dangerous—longing for a woman who gave herself to their father. I picture it too clearly: their jealous glances, their whispered confessions, the unbearable weight of desire and resentment tangled into something impossible to untangle. They were too young to catch her attention and their father too present, dangerous, powerful, to try something.

“They lost her,” Antonella says.

A slow dread seeps into my bones. Claudia clears her throat. “Julia Domna, the mother, plotted the girl’s assassination.”

The emperor’s mother. The Augusta. A women known to be sweet, to love her sons… I blink and tilted my head on the side.

“Why?”

“She saw what was happening,” Antonella says simply. “And she didn’t like it. She was jealous. To Septimus Severius, the young woman wasn’t just a whore and the Augusta refused to be in the shadow of a peasant. End of the story.”

A sharp chill licks up my spine. I know little of Julia Domna, only whispers and half-truths exchanged in hushed voices among the servants. But this… This is something else. My blood runs cold and I finish dressing, rubbing my arms, as I shiver without being able to stop it.

“Then they lost their father.” She tightens the sash at her waist, her fingers lingering over the fabric. “Both in the span of a few years.”

I try to swallow the unease rising in my throat.

“And where is Julia Domna now? I don’t think I ever saw her in two months.”

Claudia shifts uncomfortably and replies in a sigh: “Still here.”

“In the shadows of her sons,” Antonella adds. “Ruling with them, even if we don’t see her often.”

The weight in my chest tightens. That story is terrible and the fact I look like this young woman twist my guts so harshly that I might feel nauseous. I almost how sick powerful and rich people could become… When Claudia touches my arm, in a silent warning, I shake off those thoughts. The message is clear. Speak carefully. Move carefully. The emperors may be the ones who play their games, but the woman who raised them is always watching.

A cold realization settles over me. I am a new piece on the board. And I have no idea whose hands will move me next.

The chamber hums with the quiet sounds of morning preparation: cloth rustling, sandals scuffing against stone, the occasional murmur of conversation. Claudia left my clothes and turns her back to me, so I can help her too.

“Were they always like this?” she questions softly, in a measuring tone.

Antonella chuckles, shaking out a linen cloth before folding it with precise movements. “Like what?”

Claudia purses her lips. Probably just like hers, my heart is beating hard in my chest, not because the rumors are always interesting… Far from it. I just know I have to stay on my guard. Rome is dangerous. Rome is perilous. Rome is bloodthirsty.

“Mischievous. Cruel.” replies my friend.

Antonella’s laugh is low, almost fond.

“Oh, they always had mischief in them. Even as boys, you could see it with their sharp eyes, sharp tongues, but they were children. Their games had little consequence back then.”

I sit on the edge of the wooden bench, adjusting the folds of my tunic. The thought of them as children, smaller, softer, without crowns or power, feels strange. I cannot picture them as anything but the men I stood before last night, eyes gleaming with amusement at my discomfort.

“They rule as they were taught to. Their father was a difficult man. A politician, but a soldier in his soul, before becoming an emperor. Harsh. After all, he killed every people needed before he took the power. And their mother…”

She lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug.

“She made sure they had ambition. No boy raised in that house could have turned out gentle.” she explained with a neutral voice.

I trace the grain of the bench beneath my fingers. “But something changed, right?”

Antonella nods. “After their servant died. After their father died. That’s when the cruelty deepened. Unfortunately, it runs in the family, it taints their blood, it rushes in their veins.”

The room is silent for a moment, except for the sounds of clothes and sandals on the floor as we all leaves our rooms to the kitchen, in which clangs fills the air with many voices.

“Losing people does that,” Claudia murmurs in the corridor.

Antonella exhales through her nose. “It does. But not everyone reacts the same way.” She glances at me, gaze steady. “You should hope they never see you as anything more than a servant.”

A shiver runs through me, though I force myself to keep still.

The conversation fades as we finish dressing, smoothing wrinkles from fabric, fastening belts. The scent of warm bread and honey drifts in from the corridor, signaling breakfast.

We eat quickly, standing by the long wooden table in the servants’ quarters. The bread is coarse but filling, the figs soft and sweet. I chew in silence, thoughts heavy in my mind.

I cannot spend another evening like last night. I will scrub floors, wash linen, even butcher meat in the kitchens, anything to avoid serving the emperors again.

Claudia nudges my arm. “Come,” she says. “Work awaits.”

I swallow my last bite and follow her out.

Days later

The Praetorian’s grip is firm on my arm as he leads me through the dim corridors. He told me I needed to clean some things for the Emperors. My stomach knots tighter with every step. I haven’t seen them in days, not since the other servant recovered, and I had hoped, even prayed, that I wouldn’t have to serve them again. Unfortunately, tonight, I have no choice. The guard stops before a heavy wooden door, knocking twice before, wait for a male voice to scream we can get it and then, the man pushed the door open. A wave of cloying perfume and sweat-drenched air crashes over me. The scent of wine, honey, and something more acrid lingers in the space beyond. Women slip past me as they leave the room, bare shoulders, mussed hair, half naked, breasts not even covered, the lingering sound of laughter on their lips. Some glance my way, eyes heavy-lidded with wine and exhaustion. Others don’t bother. I stand frozen for a breath, my skin burning. I know what this was: a sinful moment of pleasure… an orgy. I don’t need to see the rumpled cushions strewn across the floor or the overturned goblets to understand.

Swallowing hard, I step inside. The floor is a polished stone, streaked with the faint remnants of spilled wine and scattered remnants of food. Rich tapestries hang from the walls, their once-vibrant colors now dulled by time, fluttering lightly in the evening breeze. Lush cushions and pillows are strewn across the room in no particular order, their velvety fabrics soft but marred by the weight of too many bodies pressing down on them. In one corner, an ornate silver goblet rests on the edge of a low marble table, still half-full with wine, though the surrounding surface is cluttered with discarded fruits and the occasional forgotten piece of bread.

Caracalla lounges on a couch, a sheet slung low over his hips. His ginger curls are tousled, his bare chest marked with faint red scratches, between the light brown hairs. He watches me enter, lips curving. Geta sits near him, draped in a deep-red gown. His fingers tap lazily against the rim of a silver cup. He smirks as I lower my gaze and press my hands together in greeting.

“Augustus,” I say softly, bowing my head to both of them.

Geta chuckles. “So polite.”

I move quickly, gathering discarded plates, half-eaten figs, a roasted quail picked apart and abandoned. My hands tremble as I stack golden dishes smeared with honey and oil. The waste turns my stomach. Outside these walls, in Rome’s streets and in the whole Empire, people starve. I have known hunger, true hunger, but here, food is nothing more than another indulgence, easily discarded when appetites turn elsewhere. The brothers speak as I work, their voices thick with amusement.

“She fainted after two rounds,” Caracalla says, stretching his arms behind his head. “Weak.”

“She shouldn’t have begged for more if she couldn’t take it,” Geta replies, swirling the wine in his cup. “Ridiculous.”

Caracalla scoffs and I hear him making himself more comfortable, shifting around his sheets.

“You enjoyed it, though.”

Geta hums, taking a slow sip.

“I enjoy watching them realize they’ve miscalculated.”

Caracalla chuckles. “Like the one last week? The Hispanic girl?”

“She cried before we even touched her.” Geta clicks his tongue. “Disappointing.”

My hands clench around a goblet, breath shallow. I keep my gaze down, swallowing the nausea rising in my throat. Men are utterly disgusting, even worse when they can have everything they desire.

Caracalla shifts on the couch, exhaling in satisfaction. “What do you think, little one?”

I freeze, hesitating, and I clear my throat. Why are they even talking to me? Now, I can even feel their burning gaze on me… I could feel myself melting.

“It is not my place to speak, my Emperor.”

Geta grins. “It never is.”

Without a word, I carefully pick up the broken glass, the sharp edges pressing into my fingers as I try to gather the pieces without cutting myself. The room feels heavier now. I can feel their eyes on me ; the emperor’s presence weighs on me like a storm just before it hits.

Then, I hear it. The soft shuffle of footsteps behind me. Geta.

My heart skips. It’s as though the floor beneath me shifts, a deep, gnawing sensation of dread twisting in my stomach. I focus on the shards in my hands, on the task, trying to block out the fact that he’s coming closer.

Please, don’t come for me… Please, just leave the room with your brother… Let me work alone… I think.

But it happens too quickly. In my rush, I misjudge the glass. A sharp pain flares through my palm. A gasp escapes my lips, and I jerk back. Blood wells from the cut, hot and quick, dripping onto the floor.

Before I can react, I grasp one of the clothes I brought, a clean one, and press it hard against the wound. It’s an instinct, the only thing I can do to stop the bleeding. My fingers tremble as I hold the fabric tight.

“Stand up,” Geta’s voice commands, low and calm.

Dear Lord, stay with me.

My legs feel like stone as I force myself to rise, the pressure in my hand only making the nausea worse. I don’t dare look at him as I stand, my heart thumping erratically. Suddenly, Geta’s hand takes my wrist. His fingers curl around mine, his grip sure and unrelenting. I swallow hard, forcing my gaze down. I can’t seem to pull away from him, his presence overwhelming, suffocating, poisoning.

He lifts the cloth from my hand, studying the wound with an unsettling calm. I barely feel the sting of the alcohol as he pours it over the cut, but it burns, a cold, biting sensation. My body flinches, a breathless gasp escaping me.

“Sensitive,” Geta says, his voice light, a teasing lilt to it. He presses the cloth back against my hand, and my breath hitches.

“Brother,” he calls, his voice smooth and dismissive, “get me one of your ointments.”

Caracalla moves lazily, the sound of the jar opening sharp against the stillness. He steps forward, and for a moment, I feel like I’m trapped in the space between them. My heartbeat echoes in my ears as he takes my wrist, his touch like fire against my skin.

His fingers are warm as he applies the balm, slow and deliberate. Each stroke across my skin sends a new wave of heat rushing to my cheeks, my pulse pounding in my throat. The balm is soothing, but it’s hard to focus on the sensation when his touch feels so intimate, so invasive.

Why is my body reacting like this? Because they are monster? Yes… Yes, it must be the reason.

“Look at her,” Caracalla comments, the smirk in his voice evident even without seeing his face as I avoid looking at their faces. “Like a lamb, trembling and offered to the gods.”

I can’t hold back the blush that floods my cheeks. The words feel like a cruel mark on my skin, a reminder of how small I am in this room, how exposed I am. My throat tightens. I look down at the floor, my breath shallow, heart hammering in my chest. I wish I could disappear and take my hand back, slip out of their grasp, then escape from the weight of their gazes. But I can’t. I’m trapped in the moment, in their eyes, in this feeling of powerlessness. The blood is still there, but it feels like the least of my worries now.

I stand still, feeling the weight of the room press down on me. The smell of wine and incense still lingers in the air, remnants of the orgy that took place not long ago. My pulse quickens as I focus on the task at hand: cleaning, quietly, as if I could somehow fade into the shadows.

“Speaking of gods… ” Geta’s voice drifts over me, smooth and casual. He steps closer, his presence filling the space between us. I try not to flinch as his fingers brush against my hips. The touch is soft, deliberate, as if he’s testing my reaction. A chill runs through me, but I do my best to steady my breathing.

I can feel the blood rush to my face, my heart pounding harder with every passing second. I swallow, praying to God that nothing more will happen.

Lord God,

In this moment of darkness, I seek Your light.

Shield me from harm, from the hands of the wicked,

Guide my steps and protect my soul.

Grant me strength to endure,

And may Your Holy Spirit surround me always.

May Your angels watch over me,

In this life and beyond.

Amen.

The thought of them turning their cruelty into something more unbearable makes my guts twist. My hand instinctively reaches for my neck, but the chain is still gone. Caracalla has it, my necklace, one of my rare possessions, the only thing that made me feel connected to something beyond this place.

I’m about to look down when I hear Caracalla’s voice, a mocking chuckle.

“I believe you’re looking for this,” he says, stepping away, looking in a drawer, before he came back with the necklace dangling from his fingers. The sight of it makes my throat tighten, but I don’t dare reach for it yet. I meet his icy eyes, trying to hide the desperation that swells inside me.

He raises an eyebrow, so light, blond. “Is this what you want, little servant?” His words drip with amusement.

I nod, barely able to whisper, “Yes, please, Augustus.”

A sly smile creeps across Caracalla’s face as he turns and walks toward one of the couches, where he probably had sex with a prostitute. The sheets are still tangled, faintly stained, but they are barely distinguishable from the chaos of the night before.

“You can take it back,” he says, holding the necklace out in front of him. My heart sinks when I see what he does next. He places it on the thin sheets draped over his hips, the chain resting against his loins, hidden from view. His eyes flicker with amusement as he watches me, waiting for my reaction, while a hot blush creeps across my face. I feel the familiar sense of humiliation spread through me. The tension in my chest tightens as I hesitate, standing frozen in place. My throat is dry, my breath shallow. I’m stuck, so stuck in this power play between them.

The silence stretches on, and I feel myself shrinking under their gaze, my self-respect slipping further out of reach. It’s not just the necklace. It’s the fact that they know they can toy with me, pull my strings, make me feel smaller than I already do.

I wish I could run away, but I can’t. I stand there, waiting for their next move.

I stand frozen, my heart hammering in my chest, eyes focused on the necklace resting on the thin sheets. Caracalla’s gaze never leaves me as he watches my every movement, waiting for something. His voice breaks the silence, low and threatening.

“Take it!” he commands, the sharpness in his tone sending a chill down my spine.

At first, I don’t move, the weight of his words pressing on me like a physical force. Alas, I know better than to disobey. Slowly, I take a breath, my hands trembling as I take a cautious step forward. I force myself not to look directly at him, focusing on the necklace instead, even if it feels like his eyes are burning into me. I reach for it, but as my fingers brush the chain, Caracalla grabs my wrist, the grip firm and unyielding. His voice drips with authority.

“Not so fast,” he sneers, forcing my hand to move slower, making me feel every second of this humiliation. I finally close my fingers around the cool metal, as I can feel his manhood hardening, and I pull it toward me, feeling the weight of the object in my palm. He releases my wrist with a slight smirk, as if this is some victory for him.

This is disgusting, a twisted game… Antonella was right. So right. I’m in deep troubles now. Why couldn’t I play sick when the Pretorian guard went to fetch me?

I quickly step back, my mind racing with conflicting thoughts. I want to leave, to escape this room, but I can’t. And then, before I can move further, my back collides with something solid. I gasp, my heart skipping a beat as I realize it’s Emperor Geta.

He stands behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His fingers graze my shoulder, light, almost mocking, before they move upward, brushing through my hair. I don’t dare move, my body stiffening under his touch. In my mind, I’m pleading for God to help me, to give me the strength to endure this.

Geta leans in slightly, inhaling deeply, as if savoring the scent of my hair. I shudder but stay still.

“You should be ashamed,” he says softly, his voice full of something I can’t quite place. Amusement? Disdain? “A filthy Christian, when you look like the Goddess Flora herself.”

I bite my lip, my chest tight with the weight of his words. I don’t respond. What could I say? What would be the point? I simply stand there, praying silently in my head. His hand shifts, a single finger slipping beneath my chin, tilting my face upward.

“Look at my brother, little lamb,” he murmurs, his finger still pressing gently on my chin, guiding me to face Caracalla.

I want to look away, but I can’t. I try to avoid his brother’s eyes, instead focusing on his lower face, but his gaze is insistent, drawing me in despite myself.

I stand in silence as they watch me, their eyes sharp and calculating, waiting for me to respond. The tension in the room is thick, suffocating. Caracalla’s voice breaks through first, smooth and mocking, the edges laced with amusement.

“So, why are you a Christian, then?” he asks, leaning forward slightly, his gaze never leaving mine. “Is it by birth, or did some… conversation with foolish people seep into your mind?”

My heart race, my breath caught in my throat. Their eyes feel like daggers, slicing through me, probing for weaknesses. The words escape me in a stutter, my voice shaky despite myself.

“I… I found God when I… when I expected it the least. His Grace touched me with His Light.” I stutter.

Caracalla chuckles, the sound low and derisive. He shakes his head as if I’ve said something amusing but absurd.

“The Gods will punish you for this, little lamb,” he says, amusement clear in his tone. “They always do for such foolishness.”

I try to steady myself, but the fear only tightens its grip on me. I want to say something, defend my faith, but the words don’t come. I can feel Geta’s presence behind me, close, too close. His breath on my neck makes the hairs on my skin stand on end.

Without warning, I feel his fingers wrap gently around my throat, his touch firm but not harsh, yet it makes my heart skip a beat. I freeze, terror flooding me. My throat constricts under his fingers, and I can’t help but swallow hard, the fear creeping in like a cold wave. I brace myself, expecting them to strike, to end this now. They are the Emperors, after all. They have the power to kill as they want.

“Keep going,” Geta orders, his voice low and strangely soft, yet with an edge of command that makes me shiver.

I can feel his fingers tighten just enough to remind me he’s in control. I choke on my breath for a moment, gathering the strength to speak. My voice shakes as I continue, each word heavier than the last.

“After I lost… everything, my family, my home, everything I knew, I thought I was dying too. I was crying, choking, shaking, unable to think, to talk. I was… doomed. I thought I’d never see the light of day again.”

I pause, swallowing the lump in my throat, trying to push the memory away, but it’s like a weight I can’t shake. The fear, the pain… it all comes flooding back. I take a steadying breath before continuing.

“Then, suddenly, a warmth spread through my chest. Not the kind that consumed me, but one that soothed me, comforted me. It wasn’t like anything I’d ever felt before.”

I close my eyes briefly, remembering that night, the strange sensation of it.

“It was winter,” I kept explaining, opening my eyes to look at the oldest brother. “In the middle of the night, a firefly… a bright one, came close to me, but it didn’t touch me. It just hovered there. I knew it was impossible to have one of those in the dead of winter. But I felt it. I knew it wasn’t… normal.”

I swallow again, the memory vivid in my mind. It’s been so long, but it’s as if it happened yesterday.

“The next day, I saw some Christians in the street, preaching the Holy Word. They were arrested, condemned… I watched them suffer. And then, a month later, a woman appeared. She was dressed in white… luminous, like a glow. I couldn’t see her face, but I could feel her warmth, her beauty… until she disappeared.”

My voice breaks at the end, and I find myself staring at my hands, trying to steady my trembling.

“That’s how God found me,” I finish quietly, almost to myself.

I expect silence, but Caracalla’s laugh rings out, sharp and mocking. “A woman dressed in white, you say? A nice tale, but that’s all it is, isn’t it? A tale.”

Geta’s hand leaves my throat, but I can still feel his presence behind me, a looming shadow.

“She believes it,” Geta whispers, his voice thoughtful, almost teasing. “I think that makes it all the more interesting, don’t you, brother?”

Caracalla’s smirk widens, and I feel smaller than ever, caught between their taunting and my truth.

I stand frozen, my heart hammering in my chest. Geta’s hand moves too close to me, his fingers brushing against my side as he whispers something I can’t fully understand, but it doesn’t matter. I know enough. His words drip with mockery, like poison in my ears, and every fiber of my being tells me to pull away, but I don’t dare. Suddenly, his hands slide over my breasts and grab them. My eyes widen, I gasp for breath and a wave of heat surges through me. The fear weighs heavily on me, making my chest tighten. I feel his gaze on me, hot and uncomfortable, and I try not to flinch. Every instinct screams at me to move, to run, but my feet refuse to move. I know very well the consequences of this.

I try to steady my breath, reminding myself that the only thing keeping me alive is compliance.

God help me! Please!

“Gods told me you’re wrong,” Geta murmurs close to my ear, his voice low and mocking. “Maybe you need a lesson.”

I feel sick. My stomach churns as anxiety builds up, but before I can process the thought, there’s a knock at the door. The interruption is sharp, and it cuts through the heavy air like a knife. A Pretorian guard steps in, his presence like a sudden gust of wind.

“Apologies, my Emperors, but there’s been an incident.”

Geta releases me without a second glance, and I stagger back, heart still racing.

“Leave.” he orders coldly, and I don’t need to be told twice.

I hurry out of the room, my legs unsteady beneath me. As soon as I step into the corridor, I allow myself a moment to breathe, though my heart is still pounding. I wipe a tear from my cheek, feeling the sting of humiliation and helplessness claw at my chest.

I don’t know what will happen now.

But for now, I just keep walking.

- - -

Do I know where I’m going? Yes and no haha.

Tell me if you enjoy this story, it might help me to keep writing this story.

My AO3: BetrayedWriter

My Instagram: carolinemertz_

#emperor geta #geta x reader #gladiator 2 #gladiator ii #geta x you #joseph quinn geta #emperor geta fanfic #emperor geta fanfiction #emperor caracalla #caracalla x reader #caracalla x you #fred hechinger #emperor caracalla fanfiction

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iamquiantrelle · 9 hours ago

Text

SO INTO YOU ────── iamquaintrelle

# pairings: aurelien tchouameni x black reader (✨💕)

# tags: @sucredreamer @snowseasonmademe @jessnotwiththemess @rougereds @judectrl @mufasathatniggatho @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @ayeshami @greyishbach @haartemis @goldenngt @solidbriii @sailurmewn @bbgkoo @mauvecherie-writes @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

# summary: you’re a multiple grammy winning artist with a record breaking single based on an embarrassing crush on a footballer & when that single demands visuals who else do you ask to be your video vixen besides said footballer crush? but is he also willing to blow your back out too? ♡ masterlist

You were never drinking tequila again. Ever.

The tequila bottle sat empty on your coffee table like evidence from a crime scene, mocking you with memories of last night's social media bravery. Your Grammy awards caught the morning light, their gold surfaces throwing judgmental sparkles across your living room walls. You'd really done it this time - slid into Aurélien Tchouaméni's DMs like your verified check mark gave you the right to disturb his peace at 2 AM.

Your manager Carmen sat in the armchair across from you, tablet in hand as she went through tomorrow's flight details to Madrid. But your attention kept drifting to your phone, to that cursed Instagram conversation where you'd actually typed out "hey, random question but would you maybe want to be in my music video? no pressure lol" - asking him to star in your video for "So Into You," a song that lived in that dangerous space between confession and plausible deniability.

“Earth to lovergirl,” Carmen's professional tone carried just a hint of amusement. “You good? Or still having flashbacks to drunk-texting one of football's finest?”

His response still sat there in your DMs, casual as anything: “The song that's breaking records? I'd be down. Though I have to ask - any particular reason you thought of me? 😉”

You'd screamed into three different pillows after reading that.

“I still can't believe he said yes,” you mumbled, sinking deeper into the couch as Carmen scrolled through your embarrassing Instagram activity history with restrained glee. The evidence was damning: every single post liked within seconds, story reactions that probably made you look unhinged, the way you'd set notifications for his account months ago after that first video blessed your FYP.

It had been innocent enough at first - a clip of him in a post-match interview, fresh taper fade catching the stadium lights. Something about the way he carried himself, that quiet confidence wrapped in genuine humility, had you hitting that follow button before the video even finished. The way he'd laugh with his whole chest in interviews, how he could switch from intense focus on the field to the sweetest smile off it - you were gone before you even realized you were falling.

Your best friend had watched your descent with barely contained amusement. “Not you making a whole Tumblr shrine," she'd cackled one wine night, scrolling through @tchouamenithoughts. “Day 43 of manifesting Aurélien Tchouaméni to ruin my life’? Girl...”

“Listen,” you groaned now, watching Carmen pull up the same account on her phone, “we all cope differently.”

“Cope? You wrote a whole chart-topping song about how he 'controls the game like he could control your heart.' That's not coping, that's down catastrophic,” she said, maintaining her composure even as her eyes danced with mirth.

She wasn't wrong. You'd lost hours to The Bridge episodes, team interviews, even compilation videos of his best plays. You'd lost count of how many times you'd woken up hot and bothered from dreams featuring that TCHM chain of his dangling above you, his knowing smile as he– nope. Not going there. Not when you were about to meet him in person.

Your phone lit up with a text from an unknown Spanish number:

“Looking forward to finally meeting tomorrow. Been keeping those 2AM DMs for motivation during training 😊 - AT”

“Oh my god,” you breathed, showing Carmen the screen. “He saved the messages.”

“Of course he did,” she said, checking something on her tablet. “You really think he didn't notice how you watch every single one of his Instagram lives? Even the 3 AM ones after matches where he's just vibing to Afrobeats in his gym? Those thirst traps?”

The way he moved to those beats had no business living rent-free in your head like it did. Neither did the way his eyes got soft when he talked about his family in interviews, or how that dangerous half-smirk would appear after a particularly clean tackle. You'd documented it all on your Tumblr, built whole theories around his personality based on how he interacted with teammates, analyzed every public appearance like it was your job.

“What if he found it?" The thought hit you suddenly. “The Tumblr account?”

Carmen's composed expression cracked slightly with a knowing smile. “Girl, if he has, he still said yes to the video. What does that tell you?”

You didn't want to think about what that might mean. Couldn't let yourself hope that maybe he'd noticed you too, that perhaps those quick likes on your Instagram stories weren't just courtesy, that the way he'd immediately responded to your drunk DM meant something.

Tomorrow you'd be in Madrid. Tomorrow you'd see if that confidence you'd analyzed in countless videos translated in person, if his smile was really as dangerous as it seemed through a screen.

“Make sure you pack some lingerie,” Carmen said as she gathered her things, a slight smirk playing at her lips. “Just in case those Tumblr manifestations worked.”

You buried your face in a throw pillow, but your heart was already racing at the possibility.

**************************************************

The Madrid morning sun painted the makeup room in ethereal hues, casting everything in a dreamlike glow that did nothing to settle your nerves. You sat still as the artist perfected your look - soft glam that highlighted your warm brown skin, each baby hair laid with precision, curls falling in a carefully crafted cascade. The "effortlessly gorgeous" aesthetic you'd aimed for had, ironically, required a 5 AM start.

“He's here,” your assistant's voice cut through your reverie, and your heart performed a gymnastics routine worthy of Olympic qualification.

Here's the thing about Aurélien Tchouaméni - all the 4K footage in the world, every professional photograph, every high-definition broadcast couldn't capture what he was in person. The way he commanded space wasn't something a camera could translate.

He had to duck slightly entering the room (had he always been that tall?), the morning light catching him like it knew exactly what it was doing. The fitted white tee and designer jeans he wore were deceptively simple, the kind of casual that required serious thought. That signature "TCHM" pendant caught the light as he moved, the diamond Cuban link chain you'd written dissertations about on Tumblr proving worthy of every analysis. You'd watched enough matches to know his height, studied enough footage to know his build, but something about him actually being there, all 6'2" of him absolutely dominating the space, had your carefully constructed composure threatening to crumble.

“So," he said, that dangerous half-smile playing at his lips as he approached, “you're the one who slid in my DMs at 2 AM?”

The ground could swallow you whole any minute now. His French accent in person was a weapon that should be classified as illegal. “Listen, about that–“

“Nah, don't apologize," he laughed, the sound rich enough to drown in. "It was cute. Especially that part about my ball control being 'unfairly hot.'”

"Please tell me you're joking," you groaned, but you couldn't help smiling. His presence was magnetic - that quiet confidence you'd analyzed through screens somehow even more potent in the flesh.

"Three fire emojis and everything," he grinned, and you noticed his taper fade was fresh, clearly done for the shoot. The chain caught the light again as he leaned slightly closer, shortening the considerable distance between you. "But for what it's worth? Your voice is unfairly hot too.”

Your cognitive functions ceased entirely. The proximity brought his cologne into focus - something expensive and intoxicating that absolutely wasn't helping your ability to form coherent thoughts. The height difference hit differently in person, requiring you to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

“Five minutes to places!” the director's call pierced through your haze, saving you from having to remember basic language skills.

The shoot itself was a study in sweet torture. For the first time in your career, you found yourself flubbing takes - missing cues, getting lost in moments. You, who prided yourself on one-take perfection, needed multiple runs at the simplest scenes. But how could you focus when he kept looking at you like that? The way his eyes would drift slowly down your body between setups, how his hands would rub together - a tell you'd seen in dozens of post-match interviews when something particularly caught his interest. But then again, Aurélien was known for giving everything his complete attention. You'd watched enough footage to know that.

He played his role perfectly - too perfectly, really. Each take had him hitting his marks with the same precision he showed on the field, but there was something else there. Something in the way his hand would linger just a moment too long when helping you up, how his eyes would catch yours in the monitor playback.

“Last setup!” the director announced, and you silently thanked whatever higher power was listening. Your heart could only take so much.

“So," Aurélien said during the lighting adjustment, his voice dropping to a register that did dangerous things to your pussy. “Since you're such a football fan now... maybe you'd want to come to my match this weekend? VIP seats?”

Your heart stuttered. “Yeah? What if someone recognizes me?”

"Let them," he smiled, and that chain glinted again as he shifted closer. "Maybe I want people to know, especially about that DM.”

You couldn't help laughing despite your burning cheeks. "You're never letting that go, are you?”

"Never," he agreed, then added more softly: "But I'm glad you sent it. Been trying to figure out how to slide in your DMs too, especially after seeing all those likes on my gym posts.”

You looked up at him (way up - seriously, the height difference was doing things to you), catching that dangerous glint in his eye. “Oh….”

"Front row seats," he continued, voice dropping lower. "Right behind the bench. That way I'll know exactly where to look after I score.”

Your heart did another full gymnastic routine. “Pretty confident about that goal, huh?”

"I'm confident about a lot of things," he smiled, and that chain caught the light once more as he leaned down slightly. “Like how good those likes looked on my notifications.”

You were going to pass away on the spot. But then his hand found yours, and that smile softened into something more private, more real. “Sure I’ll go.”

Maybe drunk you had known exactly what she was doing after all.

******************************************

Thank god for these VIP seats because the view? Immaculate.

Grandpa Ancelotti finally put Aurélien in his rightful position and oh my god, watching him command the midfield in person hit so different. TV did not prepare you for this. At all.

The way his orange kit stretched across those shoulders when he'd gesture to teammates? Criminal. And those calves? You'd seen them in videos but in person they were actually unreal. The entire package was just unfair - whoever said football kits weren't flattering had never seen Aurélien Tchouaméni in one. His body was sculptural, all lean muscle and perfect proportions, like god really sat down and took extra time crafting him specifically to ruin your life.

You watched him talk tactics with Jude, all authority and focused energy, and the way he carried himself on the field had you feeling some type of way. His whole demeanor shifted during matches - all business and pure power. The intensity in his eyes when he'd call out positions? Yeah, you were definitely going to need a glass of water.

When he made that assist - a perfect pass that had the crowd screaming - you jumped up cheering before remembering you were supposed to be playing it cool. But how could you when he glanced your way during the celebration with that smile?

Every time he'd body someone off the ball, the way his muscles flexed with the effort... Lord have mercy. You'd really thought writing a song about him was peak down bad but watching him work in person? Your brain was absolutely short-circuiting.

During a water break, he caught your eye and adjusted his shirt - a move you'd seen in countless matches but this time it felt deliberate, just for you. The stadium lights hit his dark skin just right, making him look like he was literally glowing. And that jawline? Sharp enough to cut glass.

The final whistle had you watching his post-match routine like you hadn't already memorized it from videos - the handshakes, the quick interviews, the way he'd run his hand over his fresh fade when downplaying how good he was. But then he looked up at your spot again with that private little smile and yeah... you were absolutely screwed.

Because watching Aurélien Tchouaméni absolutely own the soccer pitch? That wasn't just attraction anymore. That was straight up ruination.

You made it to the designated area and only had to wait around 30 minutes before Aurélien showed up, fresh from the shower, dressed casually but still somehow managing to look like a walking problem. A clean black tee stretched across his chest, showing off the definition of his arms, paired with dark jeans that sat just right on his waist. And the way his chain rested against his collarbone? Yeah, this was dangerous.

“You waited long?” he asked, a lazy smile on his lips as he approached, exuding the kind of confidence that came naturally to him.

“Not really,” you said, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

His eyes dragged over you in a way that felt intentional, like he was cataloging every detail. “Good. Would’ve hated to keep you waiting.”

The way he said it sent a shiver down your spine, but before you could overthink it, he tilted his head. “You hungry?”

You blinked. “Yeah.”

“Come on, let’s get something to eat,” he said, nodding toward the exit.

You followed him out, keeping pace as he led you to his car — his matte black Lamborghini Urus. Of course. He opened the passenger door for you, stepping back just enough to give you space but still managing to be close, like his presence was a gravitational pull.

“You good?” he asked, one brow lifting as you hesitated before getting in.

You nodded quickly, sliding into the plush seat, inhaling the faint scent of leather and his cologne —clean, expensive, and entirely him. He shut the door gently before walking around to the driver’s side, settling in smoothly before starting the engine. The deep purr of the car filled the quiet, and when he rested one hand on the wheel, the other on the gear shift, your eyes traced the veins in his forearm, the way his fingers flexed slightly.

Yeah, this was setting you off.

Aurélien drove with an effortless confidence, maneuvering through Madrid’s streets like he’d done it a million times — which, of course, he had. As he looped around the Bernabéu, he nodded toward the stadium. “You should come back for a tour.”

Your head turned sharply toward him. “What?”

He glanced at you, amused by your surprise. “You liked watching me play, right?”

Like was an understatement. Watching him on the pitch, commanding the game with precision and strength, was one thing. But now, seeing him here, driving through the city with that same quiet control, his jaw flexing as he focused on the road, his fingers tapping against the wheel — it was too much.

You were obsessed. Fully.

Your crush was sitting mere inches away, effortlessly charming, looking stupid good behind the wheel, and here you were, acting all timid. No. You needed to snap out of it. Because if you didn’t make a move now, when would you?

“You like tacos?” His voice cut through your thoughts as he stopped at a red light, glancing at you with a knowing smirk.

Of course, you liked tacos. But right now? Food was the last thing on your mind.

Because tomorrow night, you’d be on a flight back to LA. Who knew when you’d see him again? Your lives were on different continents. And after everything —after DMing him, after him actually showing up for your video — didn’t you deserve this one night?

Your heart pounded as you turned toward him fully, a slow smile curving your lips. “Tacos can wait.”

Aurélien’s lips curved into a smirk, the kind that sent heat rushing through you. He tilted his head slightly, feigning innocence. “Oh? And what are you in the mood for?”

The way his voice dipped on the last word made your breath hitch. He knew exactly what you meant. And judging by the way his fingers flexed against the steering wheel, he liked where this was going.

“Maybe we can go back to your place?” you suggested, trying to sound casual despite the thrum of anticipation running through you.

He hummed, dragging his tongue across his bottom lip like he was weighing his options. “For something to eat…or?”

“Definitely or,” you giggled, the boldness surprising even yourself.

Aurélien let out a deep chuckle, shaking his head slightly as he turned onto a quieter road. “Alright. So, UberEats later. Sounds good.”

Your stomach flipped at the ease in his tone, like this was the most natural thing in the world. Then his eyes flicked to you, warm and dark with something unreadable, and he bit his lip. “You’re so beautiful.”

The compliment was soft, unprompted, and it caught you off guard. Your chest tightened, heat creeping up your neck. “Thank you.”

He didn’t rush the drive, taking his time maneuvering through the streets, letting conversation flow easily between you. He asked about your time in Madrid, what you’d done so far, if you liked the city. And the whole time, his voice had that smooth, rich quality that made every word feel like it was meant just for you.

When he finally pulled up to his house — a sleek, modern place with clean lines and warm lighting —you barely had time to take it in before a low bark caught your attention.

Ocho.

The Belgian Malinois trotted toward the door as soon as you stepped inside, his dark eyes locked onto you with curiosity. Aurélien placed a reassuring hand on your lower back, his touch warm and grounding. “Let him sniff you first,” he murmured.

You extended your hand slightly, letting Ocho inspect you. The dog’s ears twitched before he gave a small huff, seemingly satisfied.

Aurélien grinned. “Good boy.” Then, switching to French, he said, “Va dans ta chambre.” (Go to your room.)

Ocho obeyed immediately, padding off toward what you assumed was his designated space.

“He’s well-trained,” you noted, impressed.

Aurélien shrugged, closing the door behind him. “Had to be. He’s my best boy.” Then he turned to you, his gaze softer now. “You want anything to drink?”

The fact that he even asked — so polite, so sweet —made your heart squeeze a little.

You shook your head. “I’m good.”

Still, he grabbed a bottle of Gatorade and a water anyway, tucking them under his arm before reaching for you. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you in just enough to make your breath hitch. “Come on.”

As he guided you upstairs, his lips found the side of your neck, pressing slow, lingering kisses against your skin as you walked. His goatee tickled, the warmth of his mouth sending shivers down your spine.

By the time you made it to his bedroom, you were already gripping his arm, steadying yourself against the dizzying effect of his touch.

Aurélien smirked as he nudged the door shut behind you. “Still thinking about tacos?”

Not even a little bit. “No.”

He placed the Gatorade and water bottle on the bedside table then Aurélien’s hands were warm against your waist, fingers pressing into your skin as he pulled you in. His lips found yours, soft at first, tasting, teasing, savoring. The kiss started slow, a gentle exploration, his lips moving against yours in a way that had your heart thudding in your chest.

But then his hands slid lower, gripping the curve of your hips, and something shifted. The kiss deepened, turning hotter, messier — needy. His tongue met yours, stroking, claiming, pulling soft moans from your lips that he swallowed greedily.

The room was quiet except for the sounds of your mouths working against each other, the wet slide of tongues, the occasional breathless sighs escaping between kisses. His fingers trailed up your back, making you arch into him, pressing your body flush against his. The heat between you was dizzying, his scent — fresh, clean, and something uniquely him —wrapping around you like a drug.

Your hands roamed, exploring the hard planes of his back, the ridges of muscle beneath his skin. He groaned into your mouth when your nails scratched lightly at his nape, the sound vibrating through you and making your thighs clench.

His hands moved with purpose now, sliding under the hem of your top, pushing it up, breaking the kiss only long enough to strip it from you. Then he went for your bottoms, peeling them away, leaving you in just your underwear. His dark eyes roved over you, taking you in, heat flickering in his gaze.

“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself, before his hands were back on you, caressing, exploring, like he needed to feel every inch of your skin.

You didn’t hesitate, your fingers slipping under the hem of his shirt, tugging it upward. He let you pull it over his head, and your breath hitched when you got a full view of him — his abs looked even better in person, all taut muscle and definition, a masterpiece carved in 4D.

Your fingers traced along the ridges, relishing the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

Aurélien groaned, low and deep, his head tipping back slightly. “You’re really testing my patience, bébé.”

You smiled, dragging your fingertips lower, teasing along the waistband of his jeans. Your fingers worked at the button, then the zipper, easing the denim down his hips. He helped, pushing them the rest of the way until they pooled at his feet, leaving him in just his Aime boxers.

Your breath caught.

He was hard.

The thick outline of his length strained against the fabric, the sight making heat pool low in your belly.

Your hands ghosted over his erection, barely grazing him, but it was enough to make him suck in a sharp breath.

“Shit,” he hissed, his hips jerking slightly at the contact.

You muttered an apology, but he just shook his head, eyes dark with heat. “It’s okay, bébé.”

Then his lips were on yours again, stealing the breath from your lungs, guiding you toward the bed. You barely registered the feel of the mattress beneath you before he was pressing you down, his body hovering over yours, his heat surrounding you.

And from the way he looked at you — like he was about to ruin you — you knew you were in for it.

His hands skimmed down your body to unclasp your bra then his fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down your legs with agonizing slowness. His gaze roved over you, hungry and heated, before he lowered himself between your thighs.

His mouth found your skin, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses from your navel downward, making you shiver in anticipation.

And then — oh.

Aurélien’s lips, his tongue, the warmth of his breath against your pussy had you gasping, your fingers tangling in his curls as he worked you over with a skill that had your thighs trembling.

He was deliberate but messy, completely focused on you, his lips wrapping around your clit while his tongue moved in slow, devastating circles. When he slipped two fingers inside, curling them just right, a strangled moan escaped your lips.

“Tu prends si bien, bébé,” he murmured against you, the vibration of his voice making you whimper. His fingers stroked inside you, matching the rhythm of his tongue, and your hips bucked instinctively. He just chuckled, holding you in place as he kept going, kept building you higher, until—

And then he pulled away.

A whimper of protest left your lips before you could stop it, and he smirked at your pout, his thumb swiping at the corner of his mouth like he was savoring the taste of you.

“Be right back,” he said, pressing a final kiss to your inner thigh before moving toward his dresser.

You pushed up on your elbows, watching as he pulled out a condom, then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, pushing them down. Your breath hitched at the sight of him — thick, long, and impossibly hard.

Aurélien caught you staring and smirked. “Like what you see?”

You swallowed, your cheeks heating. “Obviously.”

That made him chuckle as he rolled the condom on, then returned to the bed, his hands guiding your legs further apart as he settled between them. One arm reached behind you, grabbing a pillow and tucking it under your lower back, another small but thoughtful gesture that made your chest tighten in a way that had nothing to do with arousal.

His lips found your neck as he nudged himself against your entrance, teasing you with shallow strokes, making your body crave him even more.

And as he finally, finally pushed inside, a deep moan left your lips, because — oh. Oh.

This was happening. Your crush, your fantasy, your dream — was now your reality.

His thrusts were slow at first, letting you feel every inch of him stretching you, filling you, but it didn’t take long before the teasing gave way to something deeper, more urgent. He kissed you through it, all tongue and heat, swallowing your moans as his hips found a steady rhythm.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with pleasure. “So wet for me.”

The chain around his neck swung forward with every movement, the cool metal brushing against your skin, dangling just above your face, and god, he looked beautiful like this — face twisted in pleasure, jaw clenched, brows furrowed, dark eyes locked on yours like he never wanted to look away.

“Tu es si belle,” he groaned, dropping his head to your neck, dragging open-mouthed kisses along your throat before moving lower. His tongue flicked over your nipple before he took it into his mouth, sucking just enough to send a sharp jolt of pleasure through you. Your back arched off the bed, hands tangling in his curls as you whimpered his name.

Aurélien pulled back slightly, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before he released you with a wet pop. His eyes met yours, dark and full of intent.

“Turn over for me,” he said, voice like gravel, thick with desire.

You swallowed, your body already obeying before your mind could catch up. He sat back, watching you get on all fours, his large hands smoothing over the curve of your ass, squeezing each cheek once before dragging up your spine. The way he looked at you, eyes burning with hunger, sent heat pooling low in your stomach.

“You’re perfect,” he muttered, almost to himself. Then he ran a hand through his curls, exhaling sharply before gripping your hips and lining himself up again.

And when he pushed back inside, deeper than before, a broken moan fell from your lips.

“That’s it, bébé,” he murmured, his fingers digging into your skin as he started to move, slow at first, teasing. “Taking me so well.”

His pace quickened, the sound of skin on skin filling the air, along with the low, guttural groans spilling from his lips. His chain swung again, the rhythmic clink of metal adding to the mix of sensations that had you spiraling.

“Feel me?” he rasped, dragging a hand up your spine to fist your hair gently, pulling just enough to make you arch. “So deep inside you. Fuck.”

You whimpered, barely able to form words, barely able to breathe with how good he felt, how he filled every inch of you like he was made for this.

“Talk to me,” he urged, voice raw. “Let me hear you.”

“I’m—” Your words broke off into a moan as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.

“Yeah?” he taunted, a smirk in his voice. “Right there, huh?”

You could only nod frantically, your body trembling as he picked up the pace, chasing both of your releases. His angled his hips once more and that made you let out something primal.

“Damn, yes fuck me back,” he crooned just before you felt his lips touch the middle of spine. You shivered at the sensation, moaning out his name like a prayer.

“Aurélien….”

He rocked into you harder, faster and it made your toes curl. He was relentless and you loved every second of it. The sounds you both were making was the perfect lullaby of lust and pleasure.

“Mm…shit….Aurélien.” You couldn’t stop from moaning his name and judging by the way his hands gripped your hips each time, you could tell that he liked it.

Soon, you both were pushed over that edge, moaning as your orgasm overwhelmed your entire body. After awhile, you felt him slip out of you and then the bed shifted as he moved to throw out the condom.

Your body still hummed with the aftershocks of pleasure, limbs heavy, breath slowly evening out. You were probably a mess — hair wild, lips swollen, body still flushed with heat — but Aurélien? He looked unfairly good.

He was leaning back against the headboard, his chest still rising and falling steadily, dark skin glowing under the dim light. The chain that had been dangling in your face minutes ago now rested against his collarbones, catching the light with each small movement. He reached over to grab his Gatorade, unscrewing the cap and taking a long sip before setting it on the bedside table.

Then, he turned to you, dark eyes scanning your face, something soft in his expression. “You want some?”

You shook your head, not because you weren’t thirsty, but because you couldn’t stop staring at him.

His lips quirked slightly. “You must really like me.”

The way he said it wasn’t cocky or teasing — it was knowing, like he’d been piecing it together all night. And maybe he was right, because you couldn’t help the dopey-ass smile that spread across your face.

Aurélien chuckled, shaking his head before exhaling through his nose. “I like you too. Wish you didn’t beat me to sliding in the DMs first, though.”

You lifted a brow. “You really mad about that?”

He made a little face, scrunching his nose slightly, which was unfairly adorable for someone who had just rearranged your insides. “Not that much,” he admitted. “But I would’ve liked the chase.”

You scoffed, rolling onto your side to face him. “The chase? What are you, a lion?”

That made him smile, a real one, warm and lazy, like he was letting his guard down completely. “When a guy likes a girl, he usually asks her out first,” he said simply. “You were in my likes, I was in yours… I was about to slide through, but yeah, you beat me to it.”

Your stomach did a little flip.

He reached out then, running a hand down your arm before linking his fingers loosely with yours. “But I’m gonna do the rest, okay?”

Your breath caught, your heart stumbling in your chest. This was Aurélien Tchouaméni, your crush, your dream, and now, here he was — holding your hand, looking at you like this wasn’t just some one-night thing.

“Okay,” you whispered, squeezing his fingers lightly.

His smile widened, and then he tugged you closer, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead before settling beside you, keeping your hand in his like he wasn’t planning to let go anytime soon.

You couldn’t help but stare at him — at the strong lines of his face, the sharp jaw softened by the faintest hint of stubble, the fullness of his lips, the way his lashes rested against his cheeks when he blinked. He was so beautiful.

“What?” he murmured, catching you staring.

You shrugged, biting your lip. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

How crazy it was that you were here. That this wasn’t a dream. That your crush — the man who dominated the midfield with an effortless cool, the one you’d written lyrics about, the one you’d been too shy to DM for the longest time — was lying next to you, holding your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“About how wild this is,” you admitted.

Aurélien chuckled, his dimples flashing as he turned onto his side, propping his head up with his free hand. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “I mean, this time yesterday, I was just hoping you’d even notice me at the game. Now I’m in your bed.”

That smirk made a reappearance, but his voice was soft when he said, “I noticed you way before the game, bébé.”

Your stomach flipped. “Yeah?”

“Of course,” he said easily. “You think I wasn’t watching whenever you posted on Instagram? When you DM’d me?”

Your face warmed. “You didn’t answer right away.”

He grinned, teasing. “Had to make you sweat a little.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Wow, so you really are a lion.”

“Gotta keep things interesting,” he mused. Then, more seriously, “But I was always gonna answer.”

Something about the way he said it made your heart squeeze. Like he wasn’t just saying it to make you feel good. Like, in some way, he’d been waiting for this too.

You swallowed. “And now that I’m here?”

Aurélien’s eyes darkened slightly, but there was something tender in his gaze as he squeezed your fingers. “Now,” he murmured, shifting closer, “I’m making sure you come back.”

Your breath caught, and before you could think of a response, he kissed you.

It was slow this time, unhurried, like he wanted to take his time tasting you. His lips moved against yours with an intoxicating rhythm, deepening the kiss little by little until you were completely lost in it. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking over your cheek as he kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

And maybe he did. Maybe this wasn’t just for tonight.

Maybe, just maybe, this was only the beginning.

Aurélien pulled back just enough to search your face, his lips still brushing against yours, his breath warm against your skin. His fingers traced slow, lazy patterns along your arm as he studied you with that knowing smirk that made your stomach flip.

“That song,” he murmured. “It’s about me, isn’t it?”

Your heart stuttered.

For a second, you thought about playing coy, maybe teasing him a little, but what was the point? He already knew. You could see it in the glint of amusement in his eyes, the confidence in his voice.

You sighed, defeated but grinning. “Yeah,” you admitted softly. “It’s about you.”

Aurélien chuckled, shaking his head like he’d known it all along. “I knew it,” he said, his voice rich with satisfaction. “You should write another one.”

You huffed out a laugh. “Another song?”

“Mm-hmm.” His fingers brushed down your back, tracing the curve of your spine. “One about tonight.”

Your breath hitched at the implication, at the way his voice had dipped lower, rougher.

You bit your lip. “Might have to.”

Aurélien grinned. “Good,” he murmured, kissing you again. “Make it a love song.”

#quainwritings #aurelien tchouameni #quain’s masterlist #aurelien tchouameni x black oc #aurelien tchouameni fanfiction #aurelien tchouameni x black reader #aurelien tchouameni x reader #aurelien tchouameni fanfic #aurelien tchouameni fic #aurelien tchouameni imagine #footballer x reader #real madrid fanfic

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alwayslurkinginthebackground · 8 hours ago

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Anger - A Joel Miller Drabble

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader Rating: E (is there anything else with him?????) Truly this is the least crazy thing I've written in days. Unprotected p in v. Word Count: 1155 a/n: Sometimes I spend all afternoon trying to write Joel and get nothing and other times I write 1000 words in less than 30 minutes. There is no in-between. Written for TLOU Sundays!

"You've really gotta do something about him," Ellie tells you from where she's sitting at the kitchen table.

You're barely through the door, coat still covered in a layer of snow from outside. "Well hello to you, too, Ellie," you respond, pulling off your boots before you track any more water into the house. It's strange, how something like keeping the floors dry didn't matter for twenty years and now suddenly again it does. "You're the fourth person to say that to me today though, so I assume you also are talking about Joel?"

She's flipping through the pages of a comic, barely paying you any attention. "Yes, Joel," she emphasizes, not that you need any further confirmation. Maria had cornered you at the saloon, the other half of your patrol had been on your case, and you had a run-in with Jackson's resident grandma first thing in the morning, who gave you an earful about how you needed to learn how to satisfy your man so he would stop torturing the entire town with his bad mood.

You sigh, shucking your coat and flexing your toes in your thick socks as you make your way into the kitchen. "Any idea what's wrong with him? He seemed fine this morning."

Ellie shrugs, still engrossed in the pages in front of her. "I don't know, Dina just told me he was being a real fucking asshole. You know how he gets."

That you do. You're well aware of the way Joel Miller can make or break an entire day based on his mood, especially since you've been at his side to witness it longer than anyone else.

Before you can contemplate further, the man in question storms through the door, a grumble on his lips before it's even closed behind him. Ellie meets your gaze, glancing over at him before turning back to you and then quickly rising. "I've gotta get going," she says quickly, sneaking past Joel to grab her jacket.

She's out the door before he can even say a word.

"Where the fuck is she going?" he questions, ignoring the way his boots squeak on the floorboards as he makes his way to the couch, collapsing into it. A part of you wants to scold him for the wet spots now littered all over the floor, but based on the furrow in his brow, there's no use, and you simply follow him instead, swinging a leg over his thigh to climb into his lap and settle there.

Only he has the audacity to grumble. Again.

"Joel," you say sternly, "don't do that."

"Don't do what?" he fires back, and now you know exactly what everyone had been warning you about. "I didn't do anything."

"What's up with you today?" It's a simple question, an inquiry that he should have no problem answering, but he doesn't, so you continue with a follow-up request, "Just tell me why I had four separate people tell me that I needed to figure out who you're so angry today."

"I'm not angry."

You frown. "Bullshit, Miller. Tell me what the fuck is wrong."

His answer is to seal his lips to yours, his rough grip dragging your hips against his so you can feel the hard press of him between your thighs. This felt familiar, especially since he'd been in an equally shit mood the day you first met, something you'd promptly fucked out of him later that night. And usually, that did the trick, but there was always something else lingering beneath the surface.

Not that you have time to contemplate what it might be because he pushes any thought of his mental well-being from your head when he rips your shirt from your body and latches onto one of your breasts. Likewise, any train of thought is gone just as quickly as the remainder of your clothing.

It's a good thing Ellie left quickly, because within minutes he has you spread out on the couch beneath him, one of your legs hitched around his hip as he pounds into you. There's little space left between you, the moment feeling intimate even with the intensity of the way he's pressing you down, grunting with each thrust until he has you clenching around him.

His fingers are on your clit before you come down from your climax, already drawing you higher a second time. "Joel, fuck, I can't," you whine, gripping at his hand.

"You can," he emphasizes, "you're gonna take every fucking inch of me."

And then you can see it. The rage behind his gaze, the emotion that has his eyes glassed over. The anger he has to unleash somehow. It scared you when you first met him, the first time he had you like this back in Boston, pressed up against the door, the first time you watched his fist collide with a FEDRA officer who tried to touch you, and the first time you saw him have to kill someone who definitely wasn't infected.

But now, you know better. You know that he won't hurt you, but he still needs a way to release the pent-up emotion that boils beneath the surface. You don't know what happened to get him here today, but you do know how to fix it.

Joel groans when you shift to wrap your legs fully around his waist, pulling him down so the soft expanse of his stomach presses against your own, increasing the pressure of your walls wrapped around him. It's all he can do to rut into you, your back slowly snaking up the arm of the couch as he fucks you. The angle changes the higher you move, guiding his lips to yours so he can catch the scream that rips from your throat when you clench around him a second time.

He follows you into the abyss, pulling out seconds before he spills against your center, jerking himself off until the last drops drip down onto the fabric.

When he regains his breath he stands, cock softening as he moves to grab a cloth to wipe his spend from your core. And then he's pressing you into the couch again, settled in the safety of your thighs as his head rests on your chest.

"Do you wanna know what Mrs. Davis told me today?" you ask softly, fingers curling through his hair.

Joel rests his chin on your breast as he looks at you, eyes softer now, more playful. "Fuck, what did she say?"

You smile. "She saw me at the store and pulled me into the corner to tell me that I needed to get you home and ride your cock because she was sick of your shit."

His laugh is rough, but he says nothing else as he settles back against you.

"Was she right?" you ask, your own laughter threatening to bubble up.

He doesn't answer, but he doesn't deny it either.

#joel miller x reader #tlou sundays #joel miller #lurking and writing

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causeimcrayzeebee · 2 days ago

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tetro back it again making me cry way too early in the morning alright lets talk about the things on my mind after this weeks episodes

first of all, (princess) Monomoko. goodness. i have really enjoyed seeing her become more and more sympathetic and aware, building her own consciousness. that really worries me about her, in the event that something could happen to her. the fact that she told seki that she cant justify the killing game anymore, and seki doesn’t really say anything about he feels. i wonder if he feels the same way. also from corrective approach, it seems like seki turned her in, but honestly is it just me or does it seem like something where kan found out on his own n seki wasn’t able to do anything about it? i mean obviously he’s still choosing to do nothing, but like i feel like it would be weird that he told on her yk? or am i just losing my mind.

ojima. oh my goodness ojima, I did not expect a lore dump, but wow. hayashi telling him that talking about it could be his chance to be strong,,, and he actually starts speaking. i really loved that hayashi was the one he told, especially considering their similarities. ojima throughout the ep was hugely impressed that she survived the year of being kidnapped and locked away, and thinking he himself as incapable of being that strong, but hayashi saying that she’s not stronger, she’s just had more practice was a key thing. ojima took that first step of saying something all those years ago, and when the people around him (his father not his brothers) blamed him of lying, he didn’t feel like he had the people to support him that he needed, thus backing away. ojima opening up again after that (and about something he’s avoided for most of his life) is HUGE. now, as he tells hayashi what happened to him, she can be part of that support system for him.

hayashi has gone through so much too. i think her story really highlights the importance of having people around you. her parents were still searching for her, and once she was actually able to escape, she had her parents back. the whole kidnapping was incredibly fucked, it’s amazing that she made it. she’s so strong and i love her, she really has stepped up to giving the rest of the cast support, just like she was by her parents.

on another note MY PARENTS [hayashigeki] ARE NO LONGER ON THE PATH TO DIVORCE!!! the fact that yanagi was so distraught and worried about restricting hayashi and being controlling just like his father, only to find out hayashi was mad at him for putting himself in danger... I really liked communication attempt, I'm so glad they actually talked. yanagi talking about long term plans though worries me..... king pls.....

speaking of long term plans, this is what got me bawling again, in refulgence post mortem. kamimura kazutoshi, the guy literally trying to kill himself just before the killing game (which I still wonder what this means for how they got the participants into the game,,, did they have to like resuscitate him??) , was thinking about going back to school to pursue his dream. he wanted to reconnect with his aunt. hasegawa saying he was proud of him really got me. kamimura had found something he wanted to do, something to strive for in the future. and then he was taken away. hasegawa's distain for okazaki is clear in this episode. they way that hasegawa talked about kamimura was full of love, both when he talked about the little things that were negative about kamimura, like how he was easily annoyed, and when he talked about how funny and kind he was. i think it’s really interesting too how Hama was asking hasegawa, someone the rest of the group knows even LESS, about kamimura. it feels like when two mutual friends talk about someone they knew and get closer through that. i really hope this marks hasegawa beginning to reach out more. (OH YEAH ALSO HASEGAWA CLEANING KAMIMURAS BODY AND THE SCENE,,,, WHAT IF I CRIED.) this episode was also something that really hit how isolated the two were from the rest of the group; we all knew this about kamimura, but hama was hearing a lot of this for the first time.

i really loved hama in this weeks episodes too. teacher hama made me so happy I cant believe we had five minutes of hama yapping about yokai that was AWESOME. wama nation rise this week was peak.... the way he responds to wada in extra credit is so fucking sweet, and him reading chibas story (AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH) to help wada fall asleep was so fucking adorable I lost it. hama is truly someone with so much love to give.

wada this week has clearly been going through a lot. I think definitely in chapter 4, he's starting to grow a bit more confidence and strength to move forward, but shit is hard. it makes sense for wada to backpedal a bit. i knew a lot of what happened cause of wada.exe but damn was it so painful hearing it VOICED. shout out to literallt every single tetro VA, i think their work has absolutely enhanced the story so beautifully. wada has so much to deal with and his past will always be with him. “it can't be trauma because that means it won't go away”, was a really striking line. i really loved all the lines in these episodes, they held so much power.

oh yanagi, you sweet son of a bitch. I'm so worried for his survival chances this chapter, he's been serving everyone. he treated Monomoko to the princess experience despite everything. he helped wada talk about his issues with food and set out to help him do something about it, just like how he did with his sister. he kept trying until finally having the opportunity to talk to hayashi. yanagi is someone who knows where he comes from, but has made huge strides and constant effort to not be like his father.

and finally, speaking of families. watari. oh my goodness, I love watari so much. her interview was amazing, it was such a rollercoaster (girlie is the number one wama n hasemura fan lmfaoo), but I really enjoyed the whole thing. i had a suspicion that she really just longed to be a teenager without responsibilities when I read her secret files, but damn. i think the wish for her mom to be more involved is something so sad but so real. tons of kids have to end up taking care of their siblings like how watari has to, and it’s a lot on someone who’s still growing themselves. i didn’t make that connection to why she loved having fun with okazaki until this interview, and wow. Firefox nation how we feeling (im going to explode UAHSHDJEJEJE). this killing game, ironically, gave her the opportunity to be free, just for a bit. i also find her instinct to say she wants to be an only child interesting, as I think it’s instinct to blame the immediate people around you for a problem that is more (likely?) systematic. but in reality all she wants is her mom to do things for her, like a mother should.

I think this is the first proper time watari has acknowledged how she’s been feeling about Okazaki (Y’all are cruel with these questions LMAO). okazaki was someone she could have fun with, to enjoy herself with. okazaki let her be who she wished she could’ve been, and she wanted her. if Okazaki hadn’t killed like she did, maybe things would be different. clearly, under all her hatred and anger towards Okazaki for the fucked up things she did, she loved her. she misses her. she still wants to be foxes with her, in another life, where they can start over and have a clean slate. she wants to spend life with the one who let her be the carefree teenager she wanted to be. she wants her. don’t mind me bawling my eyes out!

overall, I've really loved the themes of support from tetro recently. I think it's been a common reminder coming through that people need others to keep going. support is a powerful thing, and when so many of the cast of tetro have been alone in some aspect during their life, finding the people to help them through it to move on through their life is an incredibly powerful thing.

#tetro danganronpa pink #tetro danganronpa #tetro pink #prolly onto nothing once again #but i loved this week so yippee #my thoughts

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maximwtf · 2 days ago

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“Limits.”

Baizhu x Reader

Words: 1550

Google Docs Pages: 2,5

Warnings: Lantern Rite 2025 spoilers, established relationship, injury recovery, comfort, idk nothing too emotional.

Opening: Hu Tao drags you back to Bubu in poor shape after saving her, but your partner isn’t quite as happy about this sacrifice. Too bad he’d sacrifice himself for you as well, so you’re in good hands.

AN// G/N Reader. I have a request to write but because my main finally was let out the basement and got content AND he was voiced…I felt like this came first. But also because I wanted this part to be included in the Lantern Rite cut scene but it wasn’t so…Haha, I didn’t make this too long or detailed, since I have other stuff to work on. Hope it’s still okay :”D

“Limits.”

The amount of fetor your body had been exposed to far exceeded the amount you’d expected to face. But none of the efforts had been in vain. Since whatever had happened after, you’d made sure Hu Tao was alive and well before ultimately collapsing in exhaustion.

And she was well. Enough so, to having taken the task of getting you back for treatment on herself. You had no memory of this, barely bits and pieces of the journey. Flashes of small bits of road, faint sounds of Hu Tao cheering herself on under her breath and a faint memory of stairs. A feeling you'd had each time, of wanting to ease her burden of dragging you back by getting back on your feet. But the overwhelming exhaustion prevented you from moving, there was no arguing against it.

It was already dark by the time Hu Tao had made it back to Bubu pharmacy. Allowing herself a moment of rest when Baizhu helped her by taking on some of the weight of your collapsed form, brows furrowed in worry. His hand brushed back some of the lost strands of hair from your face while diligently checking your vitals. Most of the actions done so automatically on the spot he hadn’t even noticed doing them.

He felt displeased, most of that stemming from worry. A part of him not fully comprehending the fact that you’d willingly gone and done something so dangerous. But then again, you had saved the life of the funeral parlor’s director successfully. That fact confused his thought process, not really knowing who to be displeased with. Ultimately deciding that maybe it was better if those feelings weren’t directed at anyone. There were more pressing matters at hand.

That didn’t stop him from mumbling a few rather opinionated comments under his breath while helping Hu Tao escort you to the back room for a more thorough exam. Laying your form neatly on to the bed before going over to the shelves. Mind ticking to find anything to ease the exhaustion that he’d concluded as the cause for the collapse. You needed rest, that much was clear. But he couldn’t have you sleeping without consuming anything for an extended amount of time. That would far increase the risk of more harm than good.

In his hurry to find the best possible medicine, he’d forgotten to thank Hu Tao. Furthermore, he’d forgotten that the girl needed a check up as well. She’d been in the very same place as you, and therefore having had the fetor run through her as well.

“Ah, indeed. Thank you, Director Hu. Once their condition is stable, I suggest you come in for a check up as well.” He spoke swiftly, an attempt to hide the worry in his tone from the other and himself. He wouldn’t have been of much help to anyone if any of those selfish feelings were to come through now.

He couldn’t see the reaction of the Director, merely hearing an agreeing ‘okay’ before she saw it best to leave the doctor to perform his duty in peace. The silence so dreadful when he finally seated himself beside the bed.

He did what he could. Applying all the medicine he could think of that had a chance of easing your condition, taking note of any changes with your vitals. By now having realised that this case with the fetor could have been of use in further research. Then again, that could have been a desperate attempt to distract himself from the identity of the patient he was caring for. It was an odd feeling, seeing something he held close to his heart be injured and unresponsive.

But he knew better than to rue over something that couldn’t be changed anymore. He’d done what he could, knowing that since the fetor didn’t exactly cause an illness, it meant there was nothing he could heal. Merely ease the effects of it now and hope that your recovery would perhaps be sped up by the medicine.

Time passed faster than he expected. The situation had taken such a strain on his condition, he’d barely noticed when he had started nodding off. Changsheng sensed the stress of the situation, not daring to start waking Baizhu up again once he’d fallen asleep by the bed. Thinking it best to allow him rest now, rather than waking him up and having the man fuss over you again for the rest of the night. His body could hardly take the strain, no matter if he always argued otherwise.

Thankfully his dignity was saved, since you hadn’t shown any signs of waking up the next morning either. Only, he’d received a few displeased looks and comments from Changsheng over him straining himself like he’d done. After another overly thorough examination, he’d been able to only conclude that you appeared fine on the outside. Deciding it best to start off his day to get his mind off of the situation. Knowing all he could do was to wait for your body to naturally wake up again.

The day kept him busy with all the check ups he had to do with the patients affected with fetor previously, allowing him to take his mind off of your condition. It was only after Zhongli had come in to visit you that he’d received the news of your conscious state. The other man having seen it best to start leaving so Baizhu had space to make sure nothing fatal had happened due to the extreme exposure to fetor.

He hurried to the back room, relieved to find you sitting on the bed with a hand on your forehead. Seemingly having just woken up. “Well, good morning,” his usual voice greeted you and immediately gained the attention he’d missed. “You know, you’re lucky your constitution is as strong as it is. You dealt a serious blow back there.” He continued, a hint of stress apparent in his voice. But maybe that was only to your more trained ear. You were aware of how skilled he was with holding himself back for the sake of others, and that included you.

But he was right, of course. But even if you’d survived, the feeling after wasn’t pleasant. Your head still felt heavy with exhaustion, not to mention the overpowering feeling of wanting to lay back down and sleep. It took every ounce of willpower you had left to muster up a few words. “Could I have a drink?” Like an automatic request. You hadn’t even noticed how thirsty you were, so far having no idea how long you’d been out for.

Baizhu had been already on it, handing you the cool cup right after hearing the request. “You’ve been asleep for quite some time…” He spoke up again, keeping up conversation in order to keep you awake. It wasn’t hard to tell you kept nodding off every once in a while. So he proceeded to raise his voice a little then, give you a gentle push while checking your vitals again.

Gentle with his process, he made one final check up and agreed to let his mind rest after. It truly seemed to only be exhaustion from taking the blow of the ritual. You’d be fine with proper rest, as much as he’d feared otherwise.

The cooling drink ran out faster than you would have hoped, placing the empty cup beside the bed. “You know, I can tell you’re worrying,” voice a little more clearer this time. “But I feel fine, the drowsiness aside…” You tried to chuckle a little to lighten up the mood. “He stayed up almost all night watching over you.” Changsheng spoke up before the man himself was able to, exposing his little endeavors the previous night. “Baizhu-..” You were able to begin the all too practised lecture, only to be interrupted by him. “I’m keenly aware of my limits, unlike some,” he allowed a sight to escape. Letting out some of the built up stress from the ordeal. “That was a trick I do not wish for you to perform again..” He sat down beside you on the bed, brushing some of your hair back with a gentle motion. In the end, pulling you in for a light embrace which was gladly returned soon after. “I think the Funeral Parlor will be in check for some time after this…No need for another rescue, don’t worry.” You hummed, feeling your eyes start to close once again.

Baizhu pulled back, feeling your weight start to shift on to him a little more. “They may be fine, but you..” He laid you down gently, standing back up. “Are not. Which is exactly why you’re going to rest so that no lasting damage will raise its head.” Baizhu explained with the usual firm tone behind his words, knowing fully well that he wasn't going to let you walk this off. But wanting to believe that your negotiable nature wasn’t due to exhaustion, but instead out of wanting to ease the mind of the other. “Alright…”

You could see the warm smile on his face before your eyes forced themselves shut. Only feeling the light peck he pressed against your forehead before outstretching his hand to allow Changsheng to climb back up to his shoulders. “Rest well, dear.” He said silently, before exiting the room. Now with a little more peace of mind.

#baizhu #baizhu x reader #genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #baizhu genshin impact #baizhu genshin #lantern rite #lantern rite 2025 #x reader

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yoonkinii · 2 days ago

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Waiting...

Based on Fluffleboo's post Warning(s): death, mentions of death, hopelessness, murder, kidnapping, grief, depressive episodes, panic attacks, throwing up, mention of attempted su!c!de. Masterlist I hope I did a good job with her idea.

Note: I did change some of the events that take place but this idea and writing was heavily based on Fluffleboo (@fluffleboo) and their brain from coming up with this. Thank you for allowing me to use your idea and to create something with it.

Reader is female (sorry I have not mastered being able to write with no gender yet), no use of Y/N, reader is of the elf lineage (makes astarion being gone for 200 year and the reader not being dead or super old make sense)

I should also make it known that the reader and astarion didn’t live in Baldur’s Gate at the beginning, it wouldn’t make sense if I didn’t change it so lets pretend they just lived in another major city.

LOTS of flashbacks, I’m sorry if it gets confusing but I wanted to write it in a way where there’s backstory to everything. If you need any clarification, let me know and I’ll do my best to explain it. It sort of gives context before having a flashback tied in with the context before it leads up to the main point with no more flashbacks.

Astarion has Green eyes Pre-Vampyr Spawn. Astarion is a little OOC cause teehee.

I did include parts of the song “Will you fall in love with me again” in here, don’t be surprised if you see them.

She remembers the night he vanished - the way the stars burned bright, oblivious to the absence that would soon consume her. She had woken to an empty bed, the sheets cold where he should have been. At first, there was no panic, only reason. He had told her he would be late, something about unrest in the streets, disputes over the new laws he passed.

So she simply sighed, turned over, and let sleep reclaim her.

It wasn’t until the next evening, when the sun hung high and the space beside her remained untouched, that the panic finally set in.

“You’re staring again.”

His voice, smooth like velvet and as warm as the morning rays slipping through the curtains hitting his skin; casting him in a warm glow as he sits against the headboard, silver framed reading glasses hanging low on his nose.

His voice was smooth, warm like the golden light slipping through the curtains, casting his skin in a soft glow. He sat against the headboard, silver-framed reading glasses perched low on the bridge of his nose, a stack of parchment resting in his hands.

She shifted beneath the sheets, the fabric rustling as she propped herself up on her forearms. The blanket sliding down, baring the curve of her back to the morning air.

“Can’t help it,” she murmured, tilting her head with a smile. “You’re absolutely enchanting.”

He snorted, amusement flickering across his face as he glanced at her over the rim of his glasses. “Enchanting?” he echos, setting the papers aside on the dark wooden table beside the bed.

She moved with him, closing the space between them, her body molding against his as if drawn by an unseen force. A sigh left her lips as she rested her cheek against his shoulder, letting herself sink into the warmth of him, of the moment.

She hummed. “Of course. You practically glow in the sun - like a feline.”

A sudden pinch at her hip makes her squeal, laughter bubbling from her throat as she tries pushing him away, her hands pressed against his chest. He only tightened his hold, pulling her even closer, silencing her giggles with a kiss that stole the breath straight from her lungs.

Their lips hovered, teasing, their words nothing more than whispers against the soft curve of each other’s mouths.

“Are you calling me an enchanting feline?”

Her fingers found his hair ,carding through the silken strands, untangling the knots sleep had left behind. His eyes, green as polished emeralds, gazed at her like she had hung the stars themselves.

“Of course not,” she said, voice softer now, reverent. She let her fingers trail down, curling at the nape of his neck.

“You’re my enchanting husband.”

“Your husband is dead.”

The world is muffled, nothing registers in her head as the same words echo in her head over and over again.

The words were distant, muffled, as if spoken through water. They echoed in her mind, looping over and over, a cruel, inescapable refrain.

Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Your husband is dead.

She falls apart in the parlor room of her house.

She collapses in the parlor, the weight of those words tearing her apart at the seams.

She searched - Gods, she searched. Every alleyway, every dim-lit tavern, every shadowed corner of the city. She scoured the streets until her boots split at the seams, until her hands were caked in filth, until grief hollowed her cheeks and darkened her eyes. She pleaded with the Flaming Fist, her voice raw from desperation, begging them to look harder, to do more.

Weeks dragged into months. And then, one day, they stopped looking.

Bile rose in her throat, spilling onto the floor in a sickening splatter as she doubled over on the couch. The room spun, too loud, too quiet, too dull. Through blurred vision, she barely registered the subtle grimaces behind the thin veil of sympathy.

Hands settled on her, cradling her like a wounded thing, whispering empty comforts. Hollow reassurances that everything would be alright. But how could anything be alright when everything was lost?

The words didn’t feel real. They were an ill-fitting mask over an unbearable truth, easier to swallow than the vast, gaping unknown. Bandits. Wild Beasts. A moment of misfortune that stole him away. But there was nothing. No body. No proof. Just a verdict, wrapped in empty condolences.

The home the had built together became a mausoleum, haunted by laughter that no longer filled its halls. Days blurred together, each one as lifeless as the last. Friends told her to grieve, to let go, to move on.

But how could she, when there was no grave to mourn over?

She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

The hearth consumes the room in a comfortable warmth, the heat fighting off the chill that comes along with the night air.

The hearth bathed the room in golden light, its warmth chasing away the lingering chill of the night. The fire crackled and popped, filling the silence with its steady rhythm, its flickering glow bright enough for her to make out the inked words on the pages of her book.

She nestled deeper into the maroon velvet of the chaise lounge, the fabric soft against her skin. A cotton blanket draped over her frame, cocooning her in comfort. It was a quiet night, peaceful. Or at least, it had been.

The ornate wooden doors of the manor opened with a soft creak, followed by the unmistakable sound of his groan echoing through the halls - frustrated, tired. The noise grew louder as he made his way toward her, his presence a storm rolling in to disturb the calm.

She didn’t look up when he rounded the couch, didn’t shift her attention from the book in her hands even as his briefcase hit the floor with a muted thud.

“How was work, my love? She asked, voice lilting with amusement.

Rather than answer immediately, he slotted himself between her legs, resting his head against her lower stomach with a dramatic sigh. His groan vibrated against her skin, and she couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. One hand fell from her book, fingers threading lazily through his hair.

“I take it that it went well?”

He scoffed, shifting just enough that she could feel the eye rolls that accompanied it.

“Oh, of course,” he drawled, “If you consider imbeciles squabbling over meaningless matters without reaching a single useful conclusion, then yes - today was absolutely splendid.”

Her shoulders bounces in silent laughter as she flipped the page. Before she could read another word, the book was plucked from her hands, stolen in one swift motion. She barely had time to protest before he spoke again.

“Let’s go somewhere.”

She arched a brow as he propped his chin on her stomach, gazing up at her. Absentmindedly, her fingers trailed from his hair to cradle his cheek, thumb sweeping gently across his cheekbone.

“And where exactly would we go?”

He sighed as if the answer should have been obvious. “Anywhere.” His brow furrowed, lips pressing into a soft pout. Looking up at her through his lashes, he murmured, “Let’s just leave. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere it’s just us. I want uninterrupted time with you, away from- “ he groaned again, “gods-damned idiots.”

She hummed, feigning contemplation, “Anywhere?”

His eyes brightened, brimming with something she was sure she mirrored back at him. Love. He looked like a child promised a long-awaited treat, excitement shimmering in his gaze.

“Anywhere,” he confirmed, nodding eagerly.

She exhaled a quiet laugh. “I suppose we can- when we get the chance.”

His grin was instant, sharp and boyish, his joy utterly unrestrained. Before she could say more, he pushed himself up, leaning in just enough to steal a kiss- brief but lingering, leaving her chasing the ghost of it as he pulled away.

“It’s settled, then. I’ll handle things at work, and once it’s all arranged, we’ll go.”

Tilting her head, she watched him, bemused by the way he practically glowed with anticipation. “You make it sound as if this trip is going to be enchanting.”

He dropped to his knees before her, fingers curling around her hands with reverence, as if she were something fragile, something sacred. Her heart stuttered, warmth rushing to her cheeks.

“Oh, it will be,” he murmured, lips curving into something sly. “As enchanting as a feline.”

She huffed an incredulous laugh, ready to tease him, only for the words to die in her throat as he lifted her hand to his lips. His mouth pressed softly against her knuckles - against the delicate band of silver circling her finger.

His voice was barely more than a whisper, a vow spoken against her skin.

“For you, I would do anything. Any chance I got.”

But they never got their chance.

The carriage swayed with the uneven rhythm of the dirt road, jostling her body with every dip and rise. She barely noticed. Her fingers twisted her wedding band absently, rolling the cool metal over her skin again and again as she gazed out the window. The forest stretched endlessly beyond the glass, its foreign trees casting long shadows in the fading light.

She had left everything behind. Sold everything she owned in pursuit of a ghost. The acceptance others poke of never came, nor did the quiet surrender that grief was meant to bring. How could she believe he was gone when there was no proof? No body, no grave - only silence. Her heart had never settled. Her future had become a weight, a chore she carried rather than a path she walked with purpose.

So she had set out, wordlessly, determined to reclaim what had been stolen from her

Two hundred years.

Two hundred years of searching, of chasing whispers across the vast expanse of Faerûn. SHe scoured city after city, hired investigators, pleaded with mercenaries, begged the gods themselves. Each inquiry ended the same.

“Sorry. We couldn’t find anything about your husband.”

Again and again, the words repeated until they were carved in her bones, hollowing her out with every rejection. Slowly, hope had withered. And with it, her very soul.

Then, when she had nothing left - when she had stood at the edge of a balcony, staring down the yawning abyss below - she overheard the murmured conversation of tenants beneath her. A city saved. Heroes who had risen from the darkness to pull Baldur’s Gate back from the brink.

It was a city she had never searched, one she had long dismissed as too distant, too unlikely. But hope, weak and flickering, ignited once more. If he wasn’t there, then perhaps these so-called heroes could help.

She had stepped away from the ledge and set out that very night.

“We’re here. My lady.”

The driver’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. She barely acknowledged him as she stepped from the carriage, pressing the free into his hands without a word. He thanked her, but she was already walking.

Before her stood the great gates of Baldur’s Gate, scarred by battle, the remnants of war still etched into the stone. And beyond them - a sight unlike any other.

Fae, humans, tieflings, githyanki, orcs, halflings, dragonborn, dwarfs, drow - so many walking the streets, their lives intertwining in a way that made the city feel more alive than any she had visited before. But beneath the movement, beneath the rebuilding, there was a quiet grief that settled over the people like dust. She recognized it well.

No one spared her a second glance. Not for her sullen expression, not for the way her clothes hung from her frame, weathered by wind and rain. The rich burgundy fabric of her gown had dulled with time, its once - soft texture long since roughened by travel. But she had never cared for the stares, nor the whispered opinions of those who thought a woman should not cross the realm in such impractical clothing.

Her dress had been tailored for survival - study linen layers beneath flowing skirts allowed for swift movement, hidden slits cut along the sides ensuring she could run, ride, fight if she needed to. A wide leather belt cinched her waist, pouches filled with coin, letters, maps, herbs, and the one thing she never parted with.

A single, tattered parchment.

Her fingers brushed over it through the fabric. She never unfolded it anymore - couldn’t bear to. Time had stolen most of the image, leaving only the faintest remnants behind. But his face remained. Always. Smiling down at her blurred form, forever untouched by the years that had worn her down to nothing.

A deep-hooded cloak, midnight blue and heaving with the weight of travel, draped over her shoulders, shielding her from both the elements and prying eyes. Her boots, laced to her knees, were scuffed but strong, having carried her across cobblestones, through forests, over mountains. The only ornament she still wore was the one that mattered most.

Her wedding ring.

Cheers and applause rang through the streets, drawing her attention. A crowd had gathered in the square, their voices an excited hum of anticipation. She approached on instinct, weaving through the bodies, catching snippets of conversation. The heroes of Baldur’s Gate.

Then, with a flourish, the massive linen covering the crowded monument was pulled away.

A statue stood beneath it, towering over the gathered crowd, the figures carved in stone were unfamiliar - strangers cast in heroism. But then her eyes caught a familiar curl, a detail so small yet unmistakable.

The world shifted.

Her breath came short, uneven, a trembling exhale past her lips as her hands fumbled for her belt. Her fingers found the parchment, carefully unfolding the delicate edges, barely breathing as she held it up beside the statue.

Her vision blurred, darting between the image in her hands and the face carved in stone.

It was him.

“Wow! That image looks great! Where did you get that?:

She jolted, nearly dropping the parchment at the sudden voice. Her head snapped to the side, meeting the keen, amused gaze of a tiefling woman,

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she forced her voice to work, though it came out broken, trembling. “You…You know this man?”

She clutched the image close to her chest, as if afraid it would be taken from her.

The tiefling grinned, nodding enthusiastically. “Who doesn’t? That’s Astarion!”

A sob tore from her throat before she could stop it.

The tiefling’s expression shifted from amusement to alarm as she stumbled back slightly, uncertain how to react. Awkwardly, she patted her shoulder, offering hesitant comfort.

But nothing else mattered.

It was him

It was Astarion.

“Doesn’t this whole ordeal seem rather…unnecessary?”

Astarion’s voice dripped with amused skepticism as he stood beside her in the grand wedding hall, his arms loosely at his side. His wife-to-be arched a brow, tilting her head to look up at him, arms crossed over the intricate bodice of her gown.

“Are you telling me that wanting a painting of this moment is pointless?”

Astarion blinked, momentarily caught off guard. His lips parted, the sharp edges of his teeth flashing as he realized his misstep.

“No!” The word shot out of him in haste. “I just don’t see the appeal. Why capture us in paint when you can gaze upon my magnificence whenever you please?”

He puffed his chest with theatrical pride, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

She clicked her tongue, rolling her eyes as she playfully smacked his chest. “I want a painting to remember this day, Astarion. It’s not as though I can wear a gown like this every day.”

His gaze flickered to the silent painter, whose brush moved in steady strokes across parchment, capturing their every detail. Then, inevitably, his eyes found her again.

She was radiant.

The gown she wore was a masterpiece of moonlight and devotion, woven from dreams and stitched with quiet reverence. Soft ivory fabric rippled with her every movement, delicate yet unyielding - much like the woman who wore it. Silver embroidery curled along the bodice like ivy climbing an ancient trellis, glimmering under the light, a quiet tribute to the stars beneath which they had once whispered their vows.

The sheer sleeves draped over her arms like mist rolling over the sea, tapering into fitted cuffs embroidered with ancient runes of love and protection. The skirt cascaded around her in layered waves, each panel split to allow freedom - because she was never one to be caged, not even by tradition. And beneath it all, the faintest glimpse of deep red silk peeked through every step, a secret only the wind and her beloved would see.

Astarion’s arms slipped around her waist, drawing her closer. She turned easily in his hold, gazing up at him with an expectant look - waiting for him to redeem himself.

His fingers trailed along the line of her spine, his voice lowering to a teasing murmur. “I wouldn’t be opposed to you wearing this every day?”

She hummed in mock consideration, her hands smoothing over his shoulders, tracing the fine fabric of his own wedding attire. “Really? And would you wear this every day?”

His coat was a study in elegance, the deep midnight hie reminiscent of a sky on the cusp of twilight. Tailored to perfection, it framed him effortlessly, the silver embroidery tracing the high collar and cuffs like constellations mapping the heavens. It was a quiet nod to the night he had first whispered his love to her beneath the stars. Beneath the coat, a dark crimson waistcoat clung to his form, the color rich yet subtle - like aged wine, like the bloom of roses, like the depth of passion he could never quite put into words. His trousers, dark as shadow, were tucked into polished leather boots, completing the look as man both regal and untamed.

Astarion looked skyward in feigned contemplation, biting the inside of this cheek. “Even though I do look devastatingly grand,” he admitted, “I suppose it would be a terrible inconvenience for everyday wear.”

She laughed, and the sound sent a ripple of warmth through him. It was music - an immortal melody he would never tire of.

His grin widened as he pulled her impossibly closer, reveling in the mirth between them, in the love that bound them tighter than any vow ever could.

The painter, silent and steady, allowed himself the barest of smiles as he etched the moment onto parchment - a portrait not of nobility or grandeur, but of devotion, of adoration, of a love that would endure beyond the confines of time.

She had spent the entire day tearing through the city, asking - no, begging - for someone, anyone to tell her where she could find Astarion. But no one knew. No one even seemed certain where the other so-called heroes of Baldur’s Gate were, or if they still lingered within the city walls.

Her heart felt heavy as if it were a stone in her chest. There was no way this was a coincidence where a man that looked just like him happened to be the hero of Baldur’s Gate. Questions flooded her mind, swallowing her head whole. Where had he been this whole time? Did he simply just leave her? Why did he never reach out to her? Was he alright?

With every unanswered question, her heart sank deeper, heavy as a tone lodged in her chest. It couldn’t be coincidence - there was no way. A man who looked exactly like him, standing among the city’s saviors, bearing the name she had whispered a thousand times in her loneliness? It had to be him. It had to be.

By the time night had fallen, the bustling streets had emptied, lanterns flickering along the roads in a warm glow that did little to ease the cold settling within her. The city, once alive with energy, had quieted, its liveliness slipping into shadows. And she - she felt just as empty.

She wandered without direction, cursing the gods for filling her with hope only to rip it away once more.

A harsh breath shuddered through her, and she pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes until she saw stars, willing the rising grief back down her throat. She needed to stop. Needed to find a place to rest. Needed-

“I had heard a woman was looking for me all day…but to think she was so persistent she’d still be out this late into the night.”

Her entire body went rigid. The voice came from behind her, smooth, familiar, yet laced with something…different.

Slowly, she turned, her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and lips.

And there he was, standing before him, but it wasn’t him all the same.

The night clung to him like an old lover, and he had dressed to match its embrace - sharp, elegant, and just dangerous enough to make it thrilling.

His coat, deep as the void between stars, fit his frame as though sculpture for him alone. The high collar framed his jawline, silver embroidery curling along the lapels and cuffs, catching in the dim glow of the lanterns. He had never cared for unnecessary fastenings, and it seemed like he still did not - the coat remained open, revealing a waistcoat of deep crimson silk, rich and smooth as spilled wine. Beneath it, his shirt was a whisper of pale linen, barely fastened at the collar, as though formality had never quite suited him.

His sleeves were fitted, stopping just as his wrists, where rings of silver and blackened iron gleamed against his pale fingers. His trousers, dark as shadow, moved with him, fluid and effortless, allowing both grace and lethality in equal measure. They tucked neatly into polished leather boots, laced tight to his knees.

He was still beautiful. Still striking. Still-

Her gaze dropped to his hands.

She stopped breathing

Among the trinkets and rings, among the trophies of a life she did not know, sat a single band of silver.

Her wedding ring. The one she had placed on his finger all those years ago.

She swallowed hard, her voice barely more than a whisper against the night.

“Is it you?”

His ears twitched at the sound of her voice, his jaw tightening as he met her gaze, recognition flashing in his eyes. A single, sharp breath left him as he bit down hard on his lips, willing the emotions away.

She took a step forward, hesitant but unable to stop herself. He was different now - so painfully different. His skin was pale, too pale. His eyes, once warm, were now an unnatural shade of crimson. And at his throat, the scar of two puncture wounds sat like cruel reminders of something stolen..

Yet she kept walking. Closer. Closer, until only a breath separated them, until all she had to do was lift her hand and-

“You look different,” she murmured, her voice softer than she meant it to be.

Astarion inhaled sharply.

He fought the instinct to reach for her, to pull her into his arms and never let go. Fought the urge to grasp onto the one thing that had ever made him feel human. The woman who had saved him time and time again without ever knowing.

His memories had been fragmented, buried beneath time and centuries of torment. But her - her touch, her voice, her scent, like the first breath of spring - he had never truly forgotten. Not even when everything else had slipped through his fingers like sand.

Yet now, standing before him, she looked…broken. Her clothes were tattered, her body worn with the weight of grief he knew all too well. She had searched for him. For two hundred years, she had searched.

And what had he done?

He had let her believe he was gone.

Her hand lifted. Slowly, cautiously. He hesitated, uncertain - until, finally, he let her take it.

The moment her fingers curled around his, she flinched.

His stomach churned.

She hadn’t expected his touch to be so cold. And gods, how that realization twisted something deep inside him.

He wanted to run. Run from his guilt, his sins, the weight of what he had become. But he had promised himself - when he finally killed his tormentor, when he freed himself - that he would stop running.

Even if it killed him.

“You eyes are tired,” she murmured, searching his face. “Your frame lighter. Your smile torn.”

A lump formed in his throat.

He could hear her heartbeat, rapid and uneven, like a caged hummingbird.

Then came the question. Soft. Fragile.

“Is it really you, my love?

His breath hitched. His voice - gods, his voice, usually so smooth, so full of confidence - shook as he answered.

“I am not the man you fell in love with. I am not the man you once adorned. I am not you kind and gentle husband. And I am not the love you knew before.”

He turned away from her. He couldn’t beat to see the pain in her face, the way her hope cracked like glass beneath his words.

Shame clawed through him. Not just for the past she did not yet know, but for the time he had wasted, for never trying to find her. He had been free for months now, and not once had he tried. Perhaps, deep down, he had feared what he would find. Feared what his absence had done to her.

A hand touched his cheek, warm against the cold.

His eyes fluttered shut. Instinctively, he leaned into her palm, the way he had so many times before.

When he opened them again, she was smiling. Soft. Loving.

Tears brimmed at her lashes.

“I still think you look rather enchanting,” she whispered.

A shaky scoff left him, something akin to a laugh. “As enchanting as a feline?”

She let out a broken laugh of her own, inhaling sharply. “That’s…weird. That’s something only my husband would say.”

He didn’t think. He just moved, pulling her against him, arms tightening as though she might vanish if he let go.

She sobbed into his chest, body shaking with the force of it. He buried his face in her hair, and for the second time in centuries, he let himself cry willingly.

She pulled back just enough to cradle his face in her hands, thumbs wiping away his silent tears.

“I will fall in love with you over and over again,” she swore, her voice trembling. “I don’t care how, where, or when. No matter how long it’s been, you’re mine. Please…” she choked on her own breath. “Don’t tell me you’re not the same person. You’ll always be my husband. And gods, Astarion, I have been waiting for so long.”

His lips parted, but no words came.

So he held her again.

He had so much to tell her. So much she needed to know.

But for now, he would hold her.

Because after waiting for two hundred years…

She had finally found him.

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