#you rejected the well-written version | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fanbasetwo · 1 month ago

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TIL DEATH DO US PART , RICKY

PAIRING: husband ! ricky × wife ! afab reader

SYNOPSIS: In an arranged marriage where sparks never flew, you finally chose divorce as the only path to freedom. But when your husband died in a sudden accident, life took an unexpected turn, binding you to a reality marked by guilt, grief, and the shadows of unfulfilled words. Now, you must navigate a world that holds him forever gone.

GENRE: fluff + angst

WARNING(S): not proofread, kissing, dirty jokes, a little bit suggestive, mentions of suicide and death, insecurities, mentions of pregnancy. lmk if I missed anything.

WORD COUNT: 16.2K

FEAT: JAY from ENHYPEN + some ocs

MASTERLIST !!

NOTE FROM SENA , this kinda flopped on my enha blog but I still wanted to reach more people, so here it is. an ricky version of the same fic, if you find ‘jake’ instead of ‘ricky’ in some paras please mention so that I can edit it out. hope you have fun reading this <3💗

DEAR RICKY,

I'm sorry, but I can't continue living like this. I'm leaving. Our marriage has become a constant battle, and I believe we're both suffering more by holding on than we would by letting go. I know neither of us wanted it to come to this, and I wish things were different. But deep down, I think we're better apart. I hope one day you'll understand.

With regret, Y/N.

TEARS BLURRED YOUR VISION AS YOU STARED AT THE CRUMBLED NOTE IN YOUR HAND—the one you had written to Ricky months ago. The one that now felt like a curse. Your hands shook as you traced the familiar words, guilt twisting your insides. I'm leaving. I'm sorry. He had never known the true weight of those words. And now he never would.

The police had found it in his pocket. They said he'd carried it with him, even after everything. Even when he... when he was gone.

You collapsed onto the couch, clutching the note like a lifeline, but it only felt like a reminder of how far you had pushed him. How much you had wanted out, and now, how deeply you regretted it. A year together, two lives constantly at odds, and it had ended in this way. A divorce that never came, an accident that did. You didn't want this, didn't want him gone, but now, all you had was this-regret, and a body that was too still in your bed to hold. The anger, the frustration of him being gone-it consumed you, ate at your soul.

Why couldn't you have waited?

You had hoped time apart would fix things, give you both breathing room. But he hadn't lived long enough for you to see the good you could have made of it. The guilt ate you alive, deeper than the frustration ever had. You tried to convince yourself it wasn't your fault, that you couldn't have known, but deep down, the truth stung. Your note had been his last reminder of your marriage. His last memory. He had carried your rejection right until the end.

Would things have been different if you hadn't written that letter?

The thought raked at your mind like shards of glass, shredding everything in its path. What if you had kept fighting for him, for the marriage? Would he have been here? Would you have learned to love him? Or would he still have left, still have been gone, no matter what?

Your thoughts flickered back to moments with him-so small, so easy to overlook. The way Ricky had rolled his eyes every time you'd scolded his niece Semi for spilling juice, or how he had tried to hide his smirk as he pretended to act innocent. The little things that used to irritate you, that you had never really appreciated until now.

You remembered the way he defended you against his relatives, his words sharp and protective as they made cruel comments about your body. They didn't understand, but Ricky did. He had always been there, not perfect but trying.

“She suits me well enough.”

The memory felt like a slap now, a cruel joke. You had spent so much time pushing him away, not seeing that he cared. You hadn't seen that he had tried.

“Why couldn't I have seen it?” You whispered to the empty room, curling up on the bed, pressing your face into the pillow. The tears soaked into the fabric, and the sobs wracked through you like a storm. Why was it only now, when he was gone, that you realized how much he had mattered?

You had never kissed him, never held him the way a wife should. You thought you had the luxury of time, but now you had nothing left but his memory. The memory of a man you barely knew but had somehow been the one constant in your life. How selfish of you to push him away. How stupid to think it was all about the fights, the annoyances, and not about the love you could have had.

“Please... Ricky. I'm sorry...”

The words escaped you as your sobs grew louder, choking your breath. Your body trembled with grief, the weight of regret pressing down on you until you couldn't breathe. If only you could undo it, go back and rewrite the note. If only you hadn't given up on him, on the marriage, on the chance for something more.

The room felt suffocating now, as though the walls were closing in around you. What now? you thought. There was no future with him anymore. No next step. No reconciliation.

Why had you waited so long to realize how much he meant to you?

You sank deeper into your pillow, tears soaking your face and your hair, wishing for the impossible: for him to walk through the door, to come back, to make everything okay again. But he wouldn't. He couldn't.

And all that was left was you. And the note.

YOUR MOTHER IN LAW’S HANDS TREMBLE AS SHE EXTENDS THE ANCESTRAL RING TOWARDS YOU, her eyes glistening with raw grief. The ring's delicate gold band catches the light, an unwanted reminder of everything Ricky represented—strength, love, an unfinished story.

“He wanted you to have this… but I never thought I’d give it to you now. Not like this,” she whispers, her voice breaking before dissolving into quiet sobs. The sound is so raw it scrapes at your heart. For a moment, the room feels unbearably small, closing in with the suffocating weight of shared loss.

You stare at the ring, fingers hovering uncertainly. The thought of accepting it feels like admitting he’s really gone. Yet, you know you can’t refuse it; Ricky’s wish, even unspoken now, feels sacred. You slip the ring onto your finger, a silent acknowledgment of the man you had once promised yourself to, a man you’ll never get the chance to truly know.

With a hesitant step forward, you place your hand on her shoulder, the touch meant to soothe but feeling fragile, as though it could shatter under the weight of her grief. The older woman leans into you, body racked with tremors as she buries her face in her hands. Her sobs rise and fall in uneven waves, echoing in the otherwise silent room.

“Please… don’t cry,” you whisper, your voice hoarse and cracking at the edges. The night had drained you, leaving your eyes dry yet still burning, poised for more tears that you no longer had the strength to shed.

Her grief pierces deeper. “He wouldn’t want to see you in pain,” you add, voice low, carrying the weight of a plea that even you don’t believe.

“I-I know,” she manages between sobs, her shoulders trembling. “But… he was so young, so full of life. It should’ve been me, not him. He barely started his life, and now…”

The room seems to warp under the heaviness of her words. You know she’s right. The unfairness of it all gnaws at you. But what would Ricky want? The question echoes in your mind, clawing for answers you wish you didn’t have to seek.

You close your eyes for a brief second, conjuring his face in your memory—the way his smile would sneak out when he thought you weren’t looking, the stubborn tilt of his chin when he was determined. You imagine him here, telling you what to do, how to be strong for her when he couldn’t be.

Drawing in a shaking breath, you shift, wrapping your arms around your mother-in-law. She stiffens for a heartbeat before collapsing into the embrace, her body convulsing with grief. Her head rests on your shoulder, and you stroke her back, the gesture rhythmic, almost desperate, as if the act itself could soothe the unsoothable.

“My poor boy… he must’ve been so scared, so alone in those final moments,” she chokes out, and it’s as if a knife twists in your chest. The image of him in pain, of his last moments, blurs the edges of your control. A tear slips down your cheek, a singular escape among the multitude waiting behind your lashes.

“I’m so sorry, Ricky,” you whisper, barely audible. The guilt is relentless, intertwining with the ache of loneliness that had settled deep within you long before he passed. You were alone when he was alive, and now that emptiness has transformed, sharpened by grief, into something more unbearable.

Her sobs quiet, just enough for her to lift her head and take in your expression, your tears mingling with unsaid words. She studies you, eyes clouded by grief but touched with understanding.

“You must feel so alone too… You and Ricky… barely had time,” she murmurs, her voice a weak echo of empathy.

The silence stretches, heavy and uncertain. You meet her gaze and see the exhaustion, the pain mirrored back at you. It anchors you for a moment, before she speaks again.

“You’re still young. You should think of moving forward one day. Remarry, maybe… You’ll always be like a daughter to me, but you have to live, too.”

Your heart clenches, rejecting the thought. You don’t want to. The ache of wanting Ricky, even in a marriage that had felt distant, is a raw wound you can’t imagine healing. The loneliness was familiar; life without him is uncharted, unbearable.

“I won’t… I can’t,” you admit, voice shaking as the tears finally spill, unchecked. “I just want him back. Even if it means being lonely again.”

The words break you open, and this time, neither of you tries to stop the crying. You hold each other in the ruins of shared loss, hoping, against hope, that the pieces of your shattered hearts will one day feel less sharp.

YOUR HANDS CHILLED FROM THE BRISK AIR, DIG DEEPER INTO YOUR COAT POCKETS AS YOU GAZE OUT INTO THE SWIRLING SNOW, a faint numbness settling in your bones. Each snowflake that brushes against your cheek feels colder than the last, a physical reminder of the frost that’s taken root in your heart, a void Ricky's absence left behind. Life has lost its rhythm, its purpose, and the bustling world seems foreign, moving on a beat you no longer recognize.

Nursing, once a passion that filled your heart, now feels suffocating. The once-simple act of caring for patients, seeing them through their darkest times, now stirs something darker inside you—an envy for their hope, their chances. These creeping, bitter thoughts had scared you enough to step back from the only profession you knew. The faces of crying relatives haunted your dreams, their grief striking chords too familiar, too close. You’d sworn to heal, never harm, yet here you are, carrying shadows of guilt too heavy to bear.

The café’s warmth hits you as you push through the door, a momentary comfort against the gnawing cold. You shuffle forward, fingers fumbling in your pocket for money as your eyes wander the room. Ricky had always spoken fondly of this place, a little corner shop with its cozy mismatched chairs and the sweet aroma of cocoa and baked pastries. A small pang clenches your chest, regret whispering its usual 'what ifs.' If only you’d agreed to visit here with him, if only time hadn’t been a cruel master.

The barista, a young woman with weary eyes, glances up as she speaks. “Ma’am, are you ordering?” Her voice, though polite, carries a slight impatience with the growing line behind you.

“Ah, yes… a cold coffee,” you manage, the words falling flat as if they don’t quite belong to you. Her brows lift, a flicker of confusion.

“In this weather?” she asks, a hint of genuine concern lacing her tone.

Realizing the absurdity, you swallow, forcing a small, resigned nod. “Hot chocolate then,” you say, the warmth of Ricky’s recommendation tugging at the edges of your memory.

The exchange is brief, the hot drink pressed into your hands a minute later. As you turn to leave, the weight of the ancestral ring around your finger pulls at you, its cool surface grounding and yet suffocating. The bittersweet metal reflects a dull glow, a silent reminder of promises made and broken, of the love lost and the void left behind.

The wind picks up outside, tugging at your coat as you sip the hot chocolate. Its warmth spreads through you, but it’s fleeting, never enough to touch the ache within. You shake your head, Ricky’s face vivid in your mind, his teasing smile as he’d planned your future dates. You’d push the thought aside, but every step feels like dragging a part of him behind you.

“Why can’t I let go?” you murmur, voice snatched away by the icy air. Your brother-in-law’s words echo in your mind, urging you to stop living in Ricky’s shadow. But how do you tear yourself away from the ghost of a love that never got to finish its story?

Snow clings to your coat as you continue to trudge through the city, each step heavy with an ache that refuses to fade. The glow of the streetlights bathes the snow in a warm, golden hue, contrasting the bitter chill that settles in your chest. Sipping the hot chocolate, you try to focus on the warmth sliding down your throat, but the sweetness only sharpens the emptiness inside. The steam curls from the cup, a fleeting comfort as your breath mingles with it in the frigid air.

You pause near a park bench, eyes darting to couples bundled up, their laughter piercing through the quiet snowfall. One couple stands close, the man adjusting the scarf around his partner’s neck with a smile that makes your heart clench. You bite the inside of your cheek, the taste of copper sharp on your tongue as you fight back the sting in your eyes. The jealousy gnaws at you, sour and uninvited.

The memory of Ricky’s voice flits through your mind, warm and teasing: “Good things happen to good people.” You scoff, the bitterness in that statement now a cruel joke. Were you not good enough? The universe seemed to think so, because it had ripped him away, leaving a hollow shell in his place.

Lost in thought, you find yourself on the bridge, fingers trailing over the iron railing that has frosted over, leaving cool streaks on your gloves. This place, once so filled with light and memories, feels haunted now. You trace a path where your and Ricky’s hands once met, where laughter and shared secrets once echoed.

A voice, small and familiar, intrudes on your thoughts. Semi’s question echoes, fragile and innocent: “Aunty, when will Uncle come home?” You close your eyes, the lump in your throat thickening as the memory sharpens. You remember her wide, unknowing eyes searching yours for an answer you couldn't give, the guilt of that half-truth searing into you as you whispered, “I’m not sure, sweetie.”

You grip the railing tighter, feeling the cold seep through your gloves as the ache of regret claws at your heart. The river below moves steadily, unaffected by the chaos in your chest. You look down, watching the water catch the light in rippling patterns, your reflection distorted and wavering. The noise of the city fades as you breathe in the freezing air, each exhale a shuddering attempt to steady yourself.

A gust of wind stings your face, and you force yourself to look up, straightening with a resolve that feels fragile. Ricky’s brother and his wife were inside your apartment, their watchful eyes filled with concern disguised as casual chatter. You know why they stay—it’s not out of pity, but out of fear, a silent agreement to keep you tethered when your world felt like it was splitting at the seams.

The laughter from the park drifts over again, mingling with the hum of distant traffic. For a moment, you let yourself remember the warmth of Ricky’s embrace, the way he’d nudge your shoulder and murmur, “Life doesn’t stop, even when we want it to.”

“Maybe it shouldn’t,” you whisper into the night, the words barely a breath as they dissolve in the chill.

The warmth of the hot chocolate fades as the biting wind grazes your skin, a cruel reminder of the numbing void left behind. You stare at the bridge, eyes tracing the railings where Ricky’s laughter once echoed. A memory surfaces, unbidden yet vivid.

“I know this isn't what either of us planned, but... I wish we could work it out,” Ricky had said, a touch of hesitation softening his confident voice. His hands, hesitant but steady, hovered near you, respecting the space you held between.

“I wish that too,” you had murmured, the lie sliding off your tongue too easily. You’d convinced yourself you didn't care enough for Ricky then, but the pang of that memory now gnawed at your insides. Regret had a way of reshaping the past, twisting even the most indifferent moments into sharp blades.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Ricky had prodded gently, eyes bright even as he leaned down to meet your gaze.

Caught off guard, you’d raised an eyebrow. “Like what?” The question felt foreign, untouched by anyone's curiosity until now.

“Your ideal type,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting as though challenging you. His height had always made you tilt your head back to catch his expression—a detail that now felt like a cruel nostalgia.

“Why would you ask that?” You'd played along, teasing but curious.

Ricky chuckled, the sound resonant and warm. “Because we're getting married, and maybe knowing each other better will make it feel less... strange. Maybe, just maybe, we'll fall in love.” His hand, finally settling on your shoulder, had felt reassuring, a silent promise in its touch.

The memory cleaves through you like a knife, leaving behind a raw wound that no time or distance can heal. A single tear slips down your cheek as you blink, the reality of the moment washing over you like a wave. The park across the street bustles with couples walking hand-in-hand, laughter and warmth breaking through the cold that wraps around you. A fresh ache takes root, sharp and relentless.

You drop the empty cup into the trash can, the metallic clang breaking your reverie. The grief, heavy and suffocating, presses you to the edge as you turn and begin the long walk home. Your footsteps are heavy, every step an effort against the pull of the past.

“Aunty, you're so late. Did you bring Uncle with you?” Semi’s small voice meets you at the door, eyes bright with innocent hope. The guilt hits you like a punch, stealing the air from your lungs. Your throat tightens as you shake your head, eyes avoiding her searching gaze.

Jieun, seeing your reaction, sighs softly as she pulls Semi closer. “Semi, we talked about this, remember?” Her voice holds the practiced patience of a mother trying to shield her child from the pain.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” Semi mumbles, eyes dropping to her tiny hands that fidget nervously. The sight twists your heart, guilt layering over the grief that refuses to ease.

You force a hollow smile. “It’s okay, Jieun. She's just a kid,” you say, your voice low and void of emotion as you shrug off your winter coat and hang it up. The familiar routine feels like a play you no longer wish to act in.

“Still, I just—” Jieun’s words falter as you cut her off, your voice breaking the tension.

“Please,” you murmur, the word sharp and desperate, silencing the room. The stillness that follows is suffocating, your breaths shallow as you fight to keep your composure.

Jieun's eyes search yours, understanding but hesitant. “We just don’t want you to be alone,” she whispers, her voice thick with worry.

“I know,” you reply, sitting on the couch with your head hung low, hands clenched tightly in your lap. After a long pause, you add, “But you need to leave. This is your home too, but you have your own life to get back to. I need time... time to figure out how to grieve.” Your eyes don’t lift to meet theirs; you can’t bear to see the disappointment or concern there.

Semi’s voice pipes up again, the innocence piercing through your defenses. “Are you sending us away, Aunty?”

The weight of guilt deepens, pressing into your chest. You close your eyes, feeling the sting behind your lids before you answer. “No, sweetie, I’m not sending you away. You can come whenever you want. Aunty will always be here.” The words come out flat, and you feel them land like lies in the air between you.

Jieun picks Semi up, nodding at you as if she understands, though her eyes glisten with worry. “We’ll give you some space. But we’ll check in. Don’t forget that, please.”

When the door clicks shut, silence wraps around you, heavy and thick. Your gaze shifts to the note you’d prepared earlier, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. The words, written in your own hand, feel foreign now: apologies to the people who stayed, memories they never knew you held, and the final confession of a heart too weary to go on.

You were battling with the urge to just end it all.

The rational part of your brain told you that you were young and had your whole life ahead and that you'd meet a lot of guys in your life but the stubborn heart won't give up and held onto the memory of the guy you once called your husband.

So, you gave up.

A smile, then another.

The city glows beneath you, lights sprawled like constellations cast on earth. The wind at this height is sharp, tearing through your clothes and chilling your skin, as if trying to pull you back from the edge. Your shoes scrape against the concrete ledge, the slight tremble in your legs betraying the battle waging within. The night air smells faintly of rain, metallic and crisp, mingling with the faint hum of traffic below.

You steady your phone in your trembling hand, its cold surface grounding you momentarily. A notification pings, an ironic reminder that life continues to tick on, indifferent to the turmoil within you. The camera lens reflects the shimmer of unshed tears as you hit record, the small red dot staring back like a silent witness.

A smile forms—hesitant, broken. Then another, and another, each one a mask that crumbles too soon. “To everyone who still cares,” you begin, your voice low and cracking, “Semi, sweet, innocent Semi. Jieun, always so patient. Jay... my husband’s shadow in every way. My sister, my friends, all of you who tried.”

The wind picks up, whipping strands of hair across your face as you pause, the weight of the unsaid pressing on your chest. You blink rapidly, tears slipping free, their warmth stinging against your cold cheeks. “Ricky wouldn't want this. I know he'd call me stubborn, weak even.” You let out a hollow laugh, the sound swallowed by the wind. “But he wouldn’t understand how loud it is in the silence he left behind.”

Your heart hammers as you shift your weight, the city seeming to inhale with you, holding its breath in anticipation. The edge of the building digs into the soles of your feet, the space between you and the world below both terrifying and liberating.

“I miss the little moments, Ricky,” you whisper, voice breaking as you squeeze your eyes shut. “I miss you making me feel lonely, and now... now I’m lonelier without you.” The ache in your chest is unbearable, a cavernous void that steals your breath.

One last deep breath, air burning through your lungs, and you step forward. The world blurs into a rush of sound and sensation—wind roaring in your ears, your body weightless, suspended in a moment between despair and peace.

And then the fall hits.

Pain surges through you, sharp and overwhelming, before darkness takes over. Around you, the chaos erupts into a cacophony—screams, the frantic pounding of feet, and the sharp cry of ambulance sirens slicing through the night. But these sounds are drifting away, becoming faint murmurs from a world slipping out of reach.

Silence wraps around you, one that made you feel like everything would be okay after this. Maybe, just maybe, peace waits on the other side. In death.

YOU WALK THROUGH THE DENSE, MILKY FOG, EACH REVERBERATING IN AN ECHO THAT NEVER QUITE SETTLES. The air is cool, feather-light, whispering like distant memories. Is this heaven? The question circles in your mind, unspoken. If it is, where is Ricky? A quiet laugh escapes your lips, hollow. He couldn’t have done enough wrong to land in hell, you think, the hint of humor biting through your longing. Yet, the anticipation twists your heart—an ache that makes you want to see him so desperately.

You try to call out, “Ricky?” but the sound stays trapped in your chest, choked by the thick fog. Another step forward and there’s nothing but endless white, stretching out, swallowing you whole. Your breath catches; suddenly, the air thins, compressing your lungs, squeezing out every ounce of oxygen. You gasp, your hands clawing at the invisible force stealing your breath. It feels like drowning in emptiness.

Then—without warning—everything shifts. White light erupts around you, blinding and all-consuming. You brace for oblivion, muscles tensing for an end you’re sure is near. But instead, there’s a softness beneath you—a mattress that cradles you like an embrace you forgot.

Your eyes snap open, pupils adjusting to the familiar pale ceiling. It’s your ceiling. Your shared room. The bed, the faint scent of Ricky’s cologne still lingering in the sheets, as if he just left. You sit up, heart thundering, hands brushing over your body frantically. No pain, no bruises, no broken bones—nothing. You’re whole, intact.

Then the realization hits you like cold water, and your fingers tremble as you pull them away.

“What the…?” you murmur, eyes darting around, seeking answers that the silent room won’t give. Your gaze falls to the phone on the bedside table, its screen blank and mocking in its stillness. You grab it, breath hitching as the time blinks to life.

January 29th, 2024. 6:30 a.m.

A shiver races down your spine. The date stares back at you, sharp and impossible. You set the phone down, legs feeling weak as you stand and approach the mirror. Your reflection isn’t that of a woman who has been weeping endlessly. Your eyes, dry and wide, reflect confusion rather than the storm of emotions that you carry.

“Is this one of those flashes they say you see before death?” Your voice trembles as the words escape, and you reach up to touch the cold glass. The girl looking back at you does the same, fingers meeting yours in a silent plea.

Then, your eyes catch it. The blue gel pen resting on the dresser—a pen that has no place outside your drawer. It’s a small thing, but the sight of it makes your breath hitch. Memories slice through you, sharp and unforgiving. That pen was the one you’d used for the note to Ricky, the one that demanded space, an end.

“No,” you breathe out, shaking your head, bile rising in your throat. The pen feels like a cruel token, mocking you for what came after. In a swift motion, you snatch it up, the cold plastic biting into your skin as you grip it tight. The weight of your guilt, your regret, turns your stomach, and with a sudden burst of anger, you hurl the pen into the trash, its clatter punctuating the silence like a final plea.

Chest heaving, you close your eyes. If this is some kind of twisted second chance, you don’t know if you should feel terror or relief. But the room, the sheets, the absence on the other side of the bed—everything points to one impossible truth.

You’re back.

But this isn't a romance novel, is it?

Your eyes trail back to the empty bed, where Ricky should be. “Ricky?” The name falls from your lips, hopeful, trembling, but the silence stretches on, suffocating.

Your heart thuds like a wild drumbeat, erratic and desperate, the rhythm matched only by the single hope that propels you forward: seeing Ricky. Alive. Healthy. Breathing.

You practically jog out of the shared bedroom, your bare feet sliding slightly on the hardwood floor as you turn the corner. The guest room door is ajar, a sliver of dim light illuminating the narrow hallway. The pulse in your chest quickens, breaths shallower with each step until you reach the threshold. You pause, drawing in a trembling breath before stepping inside.

There he is. Ricky. Lying on his side, dark hair fanned messily over the pillow, the soft rise and fall of his chest hypnotic in its simplicity. Relief washes over you so powerfully that your knees almost buckle. You inch closer, careful not to make a sound. The blanket is snug around his torso, exposing his bare, muscular chest—the way he prefers when he’s alone. Your throat tightens at the sight, familiar yet so foreign now.

Your hand, almost on its own accord, hovers over his face, fingers trembling as you place them under his nose. The soft, warm breath that meets your touch is enough to sting your eyes with unshed tears. Your hand drifts down, resting against his chest, where you can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat—a rhythm you thought you’d never sense again.

Ricky stirs, the sudden shift pulling you out of your trance. His eyelids flutter open, dark eyes glazed with sleep but sharpening as they land on you. He blinks once, then again, brows drawing together.

“What are you doing?” His voice, rough with sleep, carries a note of confusion that makes your hand fall away as though burned.

“I-I…” The words snag in your throat, scrambling to make sense of the madness. How could you possibly explain? Your eyes dart nervously to the floor, heat searing your cheeks as you mutter, “I missed your kisses.”

The room freezes. You can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy with disbelief. He shifts, sitting up, and the blanket slips down to his waist, revealing the sharp lines of his torso. Your eyes betray you, flickering over the familiar planes before darting away in embarrassment.

“But… we never kiss,” he says, voice low and edged with confusion. The statement slices through you, painfully reminding you of the distance you both had grown used to.

“I know... I...” you whisper, fingers clenching into fists at your sides. The silence stretches, heavy, until the sharp trill of his phone alarm shatters it. Ricky’s attention shifts, eyes narrowing as he leans to silence it. When he looks up again, the space where you stood is empty.

You rush back to your room, shutting the door behind you with a soft thud, heart hammering in your chest. Sliding down until you sit with your back pressed against the cool wood, you cover your flushed face with shaking hands. Your pulse thunders in your ears, mixing with the replay of his sleepy voice, the fleeting touch of his warmth.

Is this really the past? The question festers, tugging at the edges of logic, but the ache in your chest and the rawness of your emotions tell you it is. And if so, this year holds one horrifying certainty: Ricky’s death.

The mere thought twists something deep inside you, bringing back the soul-crushing grief, the endless nights of regret. You glance down at your wrist, breath catching as your eyes lock on the ink-black date that marks it: November 4th. The day Ricky dies.

Frantically, you rub at the skin, as if the stubborn mark will simply smudge away under your touch. But it doesn’t. The date remains, stark and immovable, taunting you.

A shiver crawls up your spine, but then a thought—a glimmer of defiance—roots itself.

What if you change it? What if this was given to you, not as a cruel joke, but a chance to rewrite what went so terribly wrong? To love him in a way you never did and save him from the fate that once tore your entire world apart.

“I can do this,” you whisper, determination threading into your voice. The regret may have once paralyzed you, but now it fuels you. If you only have until that date, then every second will be spent fighting fate, no matter how impossible it seems.

THE SOFT MURMUR OF THE COUPLE’S CONVERSATION DRIFTS DOWN THE STERILE HOSPITAL CORRIDOR, brushing against your ears like a whispered secret. The woman lies propped against crisp white pillows, her leg encased in a cast, eyes fixed on her partner with a blend of exhaustion and comfort. He leans forward, fingers interlaced with hers, voice low and tender.

“Can you please see what's wrong?” he asks, eyes glistening with concern. He gently squeezes her hand, words spilling out as quiet reassurances. “You're doing so well, love. It's going to be okay.”

A tight warmth coils in your chest as you approach, a familiar pang of bittersweetness shadowing the sight. The love, the unwavering devotion-it's moments like these that remind you why you cherish your job. The fragility of life, held together by threads of connection, has always moved you, even when those threads unraveled in your own life.

When you started nursing, blood was your greatest fear, the sight once enough to turn your stomach. Time had softened those edges, transforming anxiety into steady resolve. It was also during those early years when you married Ricky, the man whose smile was warm enough to banish shadows but whose presence now only haunted your memories. The marriage had lasted five years before everything shattered with the crash.

No. Stop. The thought rushes at you like a wave, cold and suffocating. You grit your teeth, eyes burning as you push it down, push him down, refusing to let the grief claw at you. He's alive here, in this fragile present you've been thrust into. Don't let the past bleed into now.

“Sure,” you say softly, the practiced smile you wear settling on your face. You reach out, fingers moving gently over the girl's cast, checking the edges, ensuring everything is as it should be. She nods in silent gratitude, eyes fluttering shut with relief as her partner exhales.

The end of your shift arrives with the deep hues of twilight stretching across the sky. The drive home is long, punctuated by the soft rumble of the engine and the anxious thrum of your thoughts. Your fingers drum against the steering wheel, tapping out a nervous rhythm. Avoid home, your mind suggests, listing off a million errands you suddenly think of, any excuse to delay the inevitable.

But the excuses run dry when you're standing in front of your door, keys cold against your palm. The air outside is crisp, biting at your cheeks as you draw a deep breath and hold it. The weight of the morning—Ricky’s sleepy, questioning eyes and the ghost of your impulsive words-hangs between you and the door.

“Is it too late to back down?” The whisper escapes your lips, trembling in the chilly silence. You picture his expression, the puzzled furrow of his brow as he replayed your words. The way his fingers brushed over his phone, gaze lifted just in time to see you flee. He isn't stupid. Ricky never was.

With a sigh, you slip the key into the lock, the click loud and final. The door opens, and warmth spills out to meet you, along with the faint scent of his cologne. Your pulse quickens as you step inside, the hum of your heartbeat louder than the quiet creak of the floor under your weight.

Don't run, you tell yourself, even as the urge coils tight in your muscles. You close the door behind you.

As you push open the front door, the faint glow of the television casts flickering shadows across the living room. There he is-your husband, Ricky, reclined on the couch, eyes fixed intently on the news. His brows knit slightly as a montage of suited politicians gestures on screen, their voices droning promises as hollow as a whisper in the wind.

He is basically watching those politicians give some weird and untrue promises for the sake of votes.

How romantic. How normal. The bitter thought twists in your chest. But it isn't. Nothing about this is normal. Why would he be watching the news, of all things? Then, a pang of irony hits you like a wave. How hypocritical, you think. You promised Ricky your forever in a ceremony that now feels like an echo. The vows shared between you had been spoken out loud but never truly lived.

You shake the memory away, an old wound you refuse to pick at as you step inside, the floor cool under your feet. Ricky doesn't notice you at first, his attention locked on the screen, oblivious to the fact that the person who left him a note asking for space now stands in the doorway, wrestling with the tension roiling inside her.

“Hey,” you finally say, the word falling between you like an anchor. It comes out awkward, unsure, a fragile hope that he won't read too much into it. But Ricky's eyes flick to yours, a spark of recognition cooling to something unreadable.

“You're back home?” His voice is measured, neither warm nor cold, but there's a tightness to it that you can't ignore. He shifts, the blue glow of the screen catching the sharp line of his jaw as he waits for your response.

The note. You had slipped it into his hand, asking for a break from a marriage four years deep but hollow. Your heart thuds in your chest, fingers clenched at your side as you speak before fear can pull the words back.

“The note-I take it back. I don't want a break from you or this relationship, Ricky.”

The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the low hum of the news anchor's voice. His eyes search yours, a hint of disbelief darkening the warm brown you once memorized. “Why?” The question slices through the quiet, clipped and cautious. You almost flinch at the hardness there, a wall built brick by brick in your absence.

“Because I don't want to stay away from you.” Your voice trembles, raw honesty exposed between you like an open wound. Ricky's eyes widen slightly, the stoic mask cracking as a flush creeps across his cheeks.

“Y-You're blushing?” The soft, astonished laugh tumbles out of you, a momentary break in the storm that makes you feel like you're standing on the edge of something new. The corners of his mouth twitch, the faintest sign of a smile, but he shakes his head.

“Sure, sir. You're just cold.” You chuckle, sinking onto the floor beside the couch, knees drawn up as you hug them close. The laughter is sharp, almost giddy, the sound foreign in the room that has held so many silences.

Ricky watches you, confusion settling into his features, the red on his cheeks fading as he leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You're acting weird,” he murmurs, the words half swallowed, uncertain.

“How am I acting weird if I'm seeing my husband show some attraction to me, which isn't platonic, for the first time?” The jest slips out, tinged with sincerity, but it brings a hush over both of you. The truth stands stark between you, glaring and painful. For a moment, neither of you speak, each of you weighed down by memories, by the heavy knowledge of what's been lost and what still aches to be found.

But determination flares in your chest, a stubborn warmth. So what if love had been absent before? So what if promises were half-kept and hearts guarded? You could start again. You could relearn how to be two flawed people willing to try. Your gaze meets Ricky's, the hope in your eyes unyielding.

Don't let go, you silently plead. Let this be the start of something real.

Ricky clears his throat, a subtle attempt to dissolve the tension settling over the living room like a blanket too heavy to lift. His fingers fidget, running nervously over the seam of the couch as he shifts his gaze downward. There you are, still seated on the floor, legs tucked to one side, eyes catching the soft glow from the TV. Cute, he thinks, the word rolling silently through his mind, too heavy with unsaid truths to speak aloud.

“So...” The word escapes him, thin and unfinished, hovering in the air. His eyes flit over your face, searching for a reaction. The awkwardness clings to the silence, but you don't falter.

“So?” you echo, your tone a notch steadier, holding the slight tremor that betrays your effort. You lean forward just slightly, a gesture that feels braver than it is. If courage could rewrite fate, you'd wield it now, not just for yourself, but for him. For Ricky, who might not know the sharp edge of reality that's cut you.

He rubs the back of his neck, glancing to the side where the blue light paints his profile in soft, wavering lines. “You know... Semi's birthday is next week.” His words stumble, trailing off as if second-guessing their own existence. But you aren't in the dark. You know exactly what this moment leads to.

“Yes, I'd love to go shopping for gifts for her,” you respond, your voice quick and practiced. His eyes widen, caught off guard, the surprise stark against his usual composed expression. The tension in his jaw slackens, and he blinks, unsure if he heard you right.

“Excuse me?” He stares at you, the faint crease between his brows deepening.

“Isn't that what you were about to ask?” You tilt your head slightly, a small smile playing at your lips, testing him. He hesitates, realizing that denial means trouble, but his face softens into a relieved kind of acceptance.

“No, no... of course. You could... accompany me to shop for Semi's birthday presents.” His voice picks up, the uncertainty lifting as he finds the path back to normalcy. He notices your smile widening, the tension slipping just enough to let him breathe.

“Okay then, see you tomorrow, husband.” The word slips from you, unbidden, laced with a warmth that surprises even you as you turn on your heel. You make your way toward the guest room, feet padding softly against the floor. Ricky's brows knit again, eyes following your form until you pause, hand on the frame of the doorway.

“Why are you heading to the guest room?” His question is quick, a thread of confusion laced with something else-something vulnerable.

“Because we sleep apart, and I wouldn't want my husband's back to break on that stiff, rough bed. The sheets aren't even comfortable,” you say, voice light but with an edge that dares him to react. You step into the room, but glance over your shoulder with eyes that glimmer, a playful smirk pulling at your lips. “Besides, I'd rather you break your back or get tired doing me than struggling on a bed.”

His jaw drops, eyes wide with stunned silence as the door closes between you. Ricky sits back, eyes fixed on the now-empty hallway, replaying the moment in disbelief. The wife who barely spoke above a whisper at their wedding, who tiptoed through years of silence, had just turned the tables with a single teasing line. His pulse hammers beneath the stillness.

What on earth just happened?

“ARE YOU TELLING ME Y/N JUST TURNED INTO A COMPLETELY DIFFERENT PERSON?” Jay's voice, casual yet curious, echoes through the phone. He's speaking to Ricky, who shifts from foot to foot, eyes glancing around the boutique as he waits for you to finish picking out a dress for his niece. The sound of soft music drifts around him, mixing with murmurs of other shoppers.

“Exactly that!” Ricky’s voice comes out louder than intended, drawing looks from the store's staff. A woman in a sleek uniform, brows raised in disapproval, approaches with a pointed glare.

“Sir, please keep your voice down or refrain from talking altogether,” she says, sternly but professional.

Ricky's ears burn as embarrassment blooms across his face. “Yeah, I'm sorry” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

Through the phone, Jay's laughter rings clear and unapologetic. “You seriously got told off by staff? Man, you're killing me!” Jay's chuckles fade into a smirk that Ricky can practically hear. Jay's the same as he's always been-playful, relentless, the older brother who teases but listens when it counts.

“Fine, fine, I'll stop. Tell me what you mean by Y/N changing, just... keep it PG, will you?” Jay's tone is teasing, but curiosity laces through.

Ricky’s jaw tightens, eyes scanning the store for you as if your sudden return would put him on the spot. “There's nothing intimate going on between us,” he blurts, the words a knee-jerk reaction. His chest tightens with the memory of you resting your hand on him in your sleep last week, the way warmth had crept through him then. He clears his throat. “I mean, she's talking to me more, being... sweet. She listens. It's almost... submissive.”

“I told you, no bedroom details!” Jay chimes in, sarcasm sharp enough to make Ricky's teeth clench.

“THIS IS NOT A BEDROOM DETAIL!!!” Ricky retorts, frustration coloring his tone. It earns him another hard look from the store associate across the room, who pointedly glances over her glasses. Ricky sighs and mouths an apology again, shoulders drooping as he lowers his voice.

“What I mean is, she's more... attentive. She's not arguing as much. It's like she's listening to me for the first time.”

Jay's voice softens, just a hint of seriousness slipping through. “Isn't that how she always is with others?”

“Yeah, with everyone else. Just not with me,” Ricky admits, the admission heavy with a history neither of them mention.

“Interesting.” Jay's reply is contemplative, but before he can say more, Ricky's voice interrupts, distorted through the line. “Oh shoot, she's coming back. I'll call you later.”

As the call ends, Ricky pockets his phone, glancing up just in time to see you walking back with a smile. Jay, on the other side of the city, sets his phone down, a smirk playing at his lips as he thinks of sharing this tidbit with his wife later. Whatever was happening between his brother and sister-in-law, it was about to get even more intriguing.

On the other side, Ricky stands, a mixture of amusement and curiosity on his face as you hold up a tiny pink dress. It's perfectly frilly, fit for a little girl. But all he can think is how charming it would look in a size for you—a thought that makes him shake his head, realizing how ridiculous it sounds.

“So, what do you think? Should I get this for Semi?” you ask, eyes sparkling with anticipation. There's already a growing collection of clothes for his niece in your arms, a reminder of how you've embraced being part of his family.

“Are you getting all of them?” he asks, more out of shock than judgment. He never imagined children's clothes could come with such hefty price tags.

“Yes, why? Is this too much? I can cover it if—”

Before you can finish, he interrupts, affronted. “I'll pay. It's for my lady, after all.”

The statement hangs in the air, not romantic as he'd intended but awkward, making your brows twitch slightly. You resist the urge to grimace, forcing a polite smile instead.

A staff member, the same one who had shushed Ricky earlier, walks over with an unimpressed expression, exchanging a silent, almost comic glare with him. She gave Ricky a look that said 'you're weird and I don't want to talk to you'

'what have I ever done to you' was the look that Ricky presented back to the staff before she looked away. You glance between them, slightly confused. Then Ricky clears his throat, moving the conversation forward.

“Do you have a similar dress in a bigger size?” His voice drops to almost a whisper. He feels self-conscious asking, but the idea has stuck.

The staff member blinks, taken aback. “Excuse me?” She tilts her head, uncertain if she heard right.

“Yeah, do you have something like this,” Ricky gestures at the dress in your hands, “but, you know, for an adult?” A flush of red creeps across his cheeks as he points to you. The staff member nods after a moment, walking off to search, while you stand there stunned, watching her go.

“Why are you buying something for me? Semi’s dress is already pricey. A woman's size will be—”

“It's just a dress,” he interrupts with a small sigh, eyes softening. “Think of it as a gift.”

“But today isn't anything special.”

“Maybe not. But I'd like to make it special,” he replies, voice lowering. “I haven't given you anything since our wedding. That was four years ago.” His words carry a quiet vulnerability as he looks at you, taller and more serious than you expect. You hold his gaze before shifting and mumbling a reluctant, “Fine,” looking away to hide the way your cheeks warm.

The staff returns holding a similar dress, but in an adult size. It's pink, short, and undeniably cute-something that looks a little too daring for your style.

“Will this do?” she asks.

“Absolutely not,” “hell yeah,” you and Ricky say in unison. The staff's eyebrows raise as she turns to you, sensing you as the more level-headed one.

“We're not buying it,” you insist, giving Ricky a look.

He doubles down. “We are.”

“Ricky, no.”

“Why not?”

“It's too short!” you argue, exasperated. He shrugs, eyes softening as he counters, “It's knee-length. That's normal.”

With a dramatic sigh, you roll your eyes and give in. But you don't try it on in the store; the idea of wearing it in front of him makes your heart thud with a mix of nerves and embarrassment. After all, you've barely even shared a bed in weeks—how could you possibly show him a dress like that now?

RICKY’S HEART STOPS FOR A MOMENT AS HE TAKES IN THE SIGHT BEFORE HIM. You, standing in the baby pink dress that hugs your figure just right, with its soft fabric brushing just above your knees. The playful, shy smile you wear as you twirl slightly sends a wave of warmth through him. He never expected to see you like this; the reality strikes him so suddenly that it leaves him breathless.

The laughter of Semi fills the room as she runs around in her matching pink dress, giggling and pulling you along by the hand. The soft glow of the post-birthday celebration lights casts a golden hue, warming up the atmosphere in the living room. Ricky sits on the edge of the couch, one hand resting on his knee as he watches you and Semi, his gaze softening with an emotion he hasn't felt in what seems like ages.

A gentle nudge breaks his trance, and he turns to see his mother looking at him with raised brows and a hopeful gleam. “When are you two going to have kids?” she asks, her voice light but laced with longing.

The air in the room shifts. You pause mid-spin, eyes darting to Ricky with a look of surprise. This isn't part of the script of your past life; this question throws you off balance, the sudden attention making your heart race.

Ricky’s father, seated across with a glass of wine in his hand, lets out a dramatic sigh. “I think I'll be long gone before I see any grandchildren from this one,” he jokes, though the weight behind it is unmistakable. The statement slices through the room's cheerful mood, leaving an awkward silence in its wake. Ricky's jaw tightens, a subtle tension creeping up his spine. He wants kids too, he really does—but not in a house that feels as unstable as theirs has become.

Before he can respond, you surprise everyone, including yourself. “We're trying,” you say, the words slipping out with practiced ease, even as your pulse pounds. The room freezes, all eyes turning toward you in shock.

Ricky’s eyebrows lift in silent question, but he plays along, shifting to put on an unreadable expression. He nods, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips as he covers the uncertainty boiling beneath. The room shifts back into a mixture of excitement and surprise.

“Is that true? You're both trying?” Ricky’s mother's eyes glisten, her hope rekindled as she looks between you and her son.

“Really?” Ricky's father echoes, leaning forward, his earlier sarcasm replaced by genuine interest.

Jay, standing near the fireplace, furrows his brow, lips parting in disbelief. Only last week, Ricky had confided in him about how distant and weird things had become between you two.

Ricky forces a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah... we've been trying for a while.” The lie feels heavy in his mouth, and he shoots you a look that says, Why'd you lie about that?

Your sister-in-law, Jieun, raises her hand, pointing at you with wide eyes. “Since when?” she blurts out, unable to contain her shock.

Ricky stutters, “It's been a-a month,” the answer sounding rehearsed yet shaky. He glances at you again, his eyes pleading for an explanation that won't come.

The conversation quickly shifts into an excited buzz, with well-meaning wishes from your in-laws filling the air. You catch Ricky's gaze, and despite the tight-lipped smile you give the family, there's a flicker of humor in your eyes. The absurdity of it all makes you want to laugh.

You both know the truth: the notion of trying for a child is impossibly far from reality.

Heck, it was funny for you to watch.

You were still a virgin. You two didn't even kiss more than once in those four years and they expect a baby to suddenly pop out of you?

And once the party winds down, you find yourself sitting on the couch with Semi by your side. Her wide, curious eyes shine with excitement as she swings her legs back and forth. At just four years old, she's a bundle of endless questions and innocent wonder.

You smile, reaching over to gently ruffle her soft, dark hair. “Does the birthday girl like her dress?” you ask, voice playful.

Semi beams, glancing down at the pink ruffled dress with pride. “It's so pretty,” she chirps, then looks up at you with a thoughtful expression. “But yours is prettier. You always look pretty, Aunty.”

Your heart melts, and you chuckle softly. “Aww, you learned how to give compliments, huh?” you tease, watching as her cheeks turn rosy and she averts her gaze to fiddle with her fingers.

“Aunty!” she whines, wanting you to stop teasing. Her eyes sparkle with mischief as she leans in closer and motions for you to do the same. With a curious tilt of your head, you move closer, letting her whisper into your ear. “Will you eat a baby to have a baby?” she asks, voice so serious it makes you freeze for a moment.

You stifle a laugh, your eyes crinkling at the edges. Gently cupping her cheek, you whisper back, “No, sweetie. That's not how it works. But that's grown-up stuff, and we don't talk about it now, do we?”

Semi giggles, her little fingers playing with a toy she received from her grandmother. The sight makes your chest tighten in a bittersweet way. You can almost picture your mother-in-law doting on a future child, fussing over toys and tiny clothes. The thought sends a shiver down your spine, making you shake your head lightly as if to dispel the image.

But a small part of you can't help but smile at the idea, a blush rising to your cheeks. The dream is distant, almost unreachable, and not yet yours to claim.

When you and Ricky step out into the cold night, the air nips at your exposed legs below your knees. The dress he had picked out for you, delicate and pastel pink, offers little warmth, and the heels are beginning to pinch with every step. You trail behind him, taking careful, aching strides to avoid twisting your ankle.

Ricky notices, stopping suddenly to turn toward you, eyes scanning your shivering frame. “What’s wrong?” His gaze softens as he realizes how exposed you are, legs trembling from the chill. Without hesitating, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. The sudden warmth is welcome, but your teeth still chatter as you mutter, “Wish I had something covering my legs instead.”

He exhales, half exasperated, half amused, before a wry smile forms. “Should I carry you like a princess? You’d be warm then.”

Surprised, you bite back a retort, matching his teasing tone with confidence. “Maybe you should.”

Ricky’s eyebrows shoot up, stunned. “Wait, what?”

“Chill, I was just joking,” you mumble, looking down at the ground. But before you know it, he’s stopped again, this time dropping to one knee. Your eyes widen in shock. “WHAT THE HELL?” you blurt out, stepping back in reflex, heat rising to your cheeks at the unexpected gesture. (more so because you believed he was trying to look up your dress)

Ricky looks up, mildly annoyed but patient. “I’m helping you,” he says simply. Before you can argue, he pulls out a pair of slippers from a little carry bag he had brought from home. The realization hits, softening your expression as he glances up. “Lift your leg.”

You comply, feeling foolish for your earlier outburst. He slips the heels off your feet and replaces them with the soft slippers, careful and precise as if proving he has no ulterior motive. The chill in the air suddenly seems less biting.

“You had these the whole time?” you ask, voice softer now, eyes wide with realization. He places the heels into the carry bag, stands up, and meets your gaze with a smirk.

“Yeah. Thought you might need them,” he says, a hint of smugness in his tone. You’re about to thank him when he reminds you with a mock-accusing look, “And you were ready to accuse me of being a pervert.”

The memory makes you feel small, but you muster a sheepish, “Sorry.”

He shakes his head, a touch of amusement in his eyes as the two of you start walking again, your steps now confident and comfortable. His jacket around your shoulders holds a warmth that seems to seep straight to your heart.

“So...” Ricky’s voice cuts through the silence, the question you've been dreading finally arriving. “Why did you lie about... us trying for a baby?” His tone is cautious, probing.

You sigh, the answer already clear in your mind. “It was the only way to get them to stop bothering us,” you admit. A pause follows, your gaze flitting up to meet his. You don’t dare to say more, not with your secret burden looming—coming from a future where he is no longer alive and your mission is to keep him safe.

Ricky hums in agreement, the tension easing a bit. “I can’t argue with that.” A comfortable silence settles between you, only broken by the sound of your footsteps. He glances at you again and asks, “Are you hungry?”

As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Relief flashes across his face before he reaches out, taking your hand and leading you forward. The two of you approach a small, tucked-away restaurant, its sign faded but familiar. Ricky’s eyes light up. “You have to try the cold coffee from that café across the street,” he points out, the fondness in his voice unmistakable.

You nod, memories flickering back. His odd, endearing preferences were things you never forgot. “Fish curry with plain rice and some shrimp on the side?” you guess, eyes twinkling with recognition.

Ricky’s head snaps to you, surprise clear as day. He stares, a laugh escaping him as he shakes his head. “Since when did you start memorizing my favorites?”

You had heard about his fav things to eat from your brother in law, Jay. But Ricky never said it to you himself so the boy was pretty much stunned when you literally memorised them, as if you were waiting to flex this whole time.

You offer a small, knowing smile. “I have my ways.”

The waiter arrives promptly with your orders, and the rich aroma fills the space between you and Ricky. He takes a bite, but pauses, eyes drifting to you with a soft, contemplative expression. “We’ve never done this before…” he murmurs, his tone a mix of realization and gentle amusement.

You tilt your head, savoring a piece of shrimp. “You mean this date?” you ask, half-smiling.

“Yeah. I guess that’s what I mean,” he replies, taking a moment before continuing, as if gathering the courage. “I like it. I like how we are now.” He takes a sip of water, and the way he watches you is tender, raw. His hand slides across the table to rest over yours, fingers warm against your skin.

“I don’t know what changed, but I…” He hesitates, eyes locking with yours, a profound intensity that silences you. “I like how we’re not avoiding each other anymore, how we talk instead of fighting over every little thing.”

The sincerity in his words pierces through you, tugging at memories of a future where his absence left a hollow ache in your chest. The pain you’d carried, the distance, the loss—all of it feels heavy in this moment, but now, something else unfurls within you. An unexpected warmth that swells as his thumb brushes over your knuckles.

He draws in a shaky breath. “I know I’m not perfect. I’ve made mistakes, maybe too many, and that’s why we kept drifting apart in those four years we were married. But I want us to stay like this. Is that too much to ask for?” His voice cracks, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

The depth of emotion he shows takes your breath away, and your vision blurs as your own tears spill over. The raw honesty in his confession reaches a part of you that had long been buried under grief and guilt. But this isn’t grief—it’s something different, a warmth that wraps around you and fills the spaces that loss once consumed.

“Ricky…” you whisper, voice trembling. He blinks rapidly, tears tracing paths down his cheeks as he tries to manage a laugh, a hand lifting to wipe at his face. “Did I go too overboard?” he chuckles, awkwardly, brushing his fingers over yours, an attempt to ease the intensity.

But you can’t answer with words, your heart too full. Instead, you wipe your own tears away, watching him as he takes a deep breath and resumes eating, eyes still red-rimmed, his emotions raw and vivid between you. The silence that follows is... a little satisfying this time around. Your chest tightens, and you realize this feeling—this unexpected, overwhelming tenderness—is the spark you hadn’t felt in what feels like forever.

The confession... It did something to you. It made you feel things or you believed so.

You reach for his hand, this time without hesitation, and hold on as if anchoring both of you to this moment. A shared glance tells him everything you can’t yet put into words: you’re here, with him, and for now, that’s enough.

AS THE DAYS PASSED FOLLOWING THAT UNEXPECTED DINNER, a subtle shift had occurred between you and Ricky. It had been a month since then, and despite your hectic lives—you, a dedicated nurse, and him, an ambitious lawyer—something had changed. You continued to sleep separately, a necessity due to your conflicting schedules. Late nights saw you returning home to find Ricky already asleep, and early mornings had him leaving before you awoke. This unspoken arrangement was born out of mutual respect for each other’s rest.

However, the reminder of the future haunted you. The date on your wrist, November 4th, hadn’t faded or smudged. It remained stark and vivid, a grim reminder of the fate you knew awaited Ricky, filling you with silent dread.

Despite your busy lives, the dinner at that small restaurant had stirred something unspoken between you. A shared tenderness had taken root, and in the brief pauses between work, you found yourself drawn to those moments that whispered of possibilities—moments that spoke of a bond that hadn’t existed before.

The room feels charged with an unspoken tension as you stand there, watching Ricky. The question slips from your lips, “Are we sleeping separately again?” masking the tremble in your voice with an attempt at confidence. Ricky’s eyes meet yours, an amused smile playing on his lips as he tilts his head. “Do you want to sleep with me?” he asks, casual yet knowing.

You stammer, trying to find an answer that won’t reveal how vulnerable you feel. “No—yes—but—” The uncertainty in your voice makes him chuckle softly, the sound sending warmth through your chest. The realization of your feelings for him washes over you again, clear and inescapable.

“It’s normal to want to sleep with your husband. Don’t worry,” he says reassuringly. His tone is light, yet there’s an edge of tenderness as he turns and walks to the bedroom. He pauses at the doorway, looking back with an expectant eyebrow raise, and you follow.

Inside, the dim light casts soft shadows. The atmosphere feels different tonight, heightened by the realization that, while you’ve shared this space before, this moment feels profoundly intimate. He hesitates for a moment, the usual playful confidence in his manner replaced by a quiet consideration.

Should he lie down first?

Wait for you?

Or speak?

“You don’t need to worry. I won’t touch you unless you want me to. We could even put a pillow between us if you prefer,” he says in a rush, trying to ease the tension. But his words leave you both flushed. You respond, flustered yet honest, “No—you can touch me—I mean...”

Ricky’s eyes widen, and a surprised silence falls over you both, broken only by your slightly quickened breaths.

Finally, you break it, murmuring, “So... do we sleep?” You wish the dim light hides your expression, but Ricky’s shifting on the bed signals that he’s as unsettled as you are. He lies down first, and you follow, settling into the bed with a space that feels simultaneously too close and too distant.

Minutes pass as the darkness deepens around you. You’re aware of every sound, every breath he takes, and the slight rustle of sheets as you both try to find comfort. The knowledge that he’s staying dressed out of respect doesn’t escape you, and neither does the chill that seeps through the room, despite the blanket. It’s enough to make sleep elusive, even as your heart drums with quiet, unspoken hope.

The air feels thick with tension as neither of you can fall asleep, despite the dim light and the shared silence. Ricky gently sits up, his voice breaking the stillness. “I’ll get changed into my night clothes—this is uncomfortable. You should get changed too,” he suggests. His words are practical, but they stir a shyness inside you. The thought of wearing shorts around him makes you feel self-conscious, though the blanket and darkness give you some comfort.

With a deep breath, you agree. You grab your oversized top and shorts, retreating to the bathroom to change. When you return, Ricky is already asleep, dressed in a soft T-shirt and shorts. His peaceful expression makes a pang of guilt settle in your chest. You feel both relief and unease at the same time, knowing he’s so close yet so far away.

You lie there, tense in the stillness of the night. Ricky’s hand lands instinctively on your stomach, the warmth of his touch sending a jolt through you. You hold your breath, carefully shifting his hand away. Just when you think you're safe, his leg shifts under the blanket, pressing gently between your legs. A rush of heat floods your chest as you gently push his leg away, silently exhaling in relief.

In the quiet, you watch him sleep. His messy hair, a small trail of drool escaping his lips—something inside you stirs. Without thinking, you bring your thumb to wipe away the drool, brushing it lightly against your shirt. You stare at him for a moment, your heart racing in ways you can’t fully understand.

For Ricky though,

He wakes to find you so close, your noses nearly touching. A small breath escapes him as he pulls back, but then he notices your body, curled into him—one of your legs and arms wrapped around him, as if clinging to his warmth to escape the cold. You’re nestled so comfortably against his chest, and though a small part of him wants to get up, he finds himself content in the moment.

He stares at you, watching as he slips his fingers through your hair, the quiet intimacy settling around him like a comforting blanket. When you stir, half-awake, he expects you to pull away. But you don’t. Instead, you bury yourself further into his chest, and he smiles, a little amused by your unconscious need for closeness.

“Morning... Baby,” he says softly, though he’s hoping you’ll move just enough for him to slip out of bed.

“Morningg,” you murmur, nuzzling his chest. He notices how you don’t seem to mind the nickname, a small sign that you’re still in that dreamy, sleepy state. He wants to pull away, but he doesn't want to disturb you, so he asks, “Can you move a bit, baby?”

You barely stir, your arms and legs still tangled with his. “Too cold,” you mumble, your voice muffled against his shirt.

“I know, baby. I’ll turn the heater on for you, is that good?” he whispers, his voice tender. He’s careful not to wake you fully, knowing you won’t even remember this when you wake up.

An hour later, you wake up alone in the bed, the soft comforter still wrapped around your legs. You stretch and yawn, rubbing your eyes, only to hear the door creak open. Ricky stands there, a plate in hand—an omelette and a fruit salad. You blink, unsure if you’re still dreaming, and pinch your cheek, just to make sure this isn’t some figment of your imagination.

“What's that?” you ask, your voice still thick with sleep.

“Breakfast in bed,” Ricky says with a playful grin, setting the plate down in front of you.

“For me?” you ask, surprised and touched.

“Who else?” he replies with a shrug, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

“Why...?” You blink at him, unsure of why he's being so considerate, so affectionate.

“Why not?” he answers, teasing, but there’s a sincerity in his eyes that makes your heart flutter.

You stare at the food in front of you, but the nerves kick in. “Well, uhm... I haven’t brushed.”

“It’s okay,” he reassures, waving off your concerns.

“No, it’s not. It’s gross. I do care about germs,” you argue, a bit embarrassed. Before he can say anything else, you rush off to brush your teeth, feeling a little self-conscious. You quickly freshen up, brushing your teeth with the toothpaste, hoping that’ll help with the lingering awkwardness.

When you return, you take a bite, and the emotion hits you harder than you expect. You don’t quite know why, but the tenderness of his gesture fills you with gratitude, and a soft lump forms in your throat.

“Why?” you ask again, your voice shaky, as you sip some water. The question has been swirling in your mind ever since you saw him standing there, holding that plate.

“Hm?” he hums, genuinely confused, not fully understanding why you're so emotional.

“Why are you being so nice... and romantic?” You wince after speaking, regretting your words, but you can't take them back now.

Ricky tilts his head, his smile fading slightly. “Like I said a month ago... I meant those words. I want us to stay like this... And not go back to how it was in those four years.. Are we really that immature to let it happen again?” The vulnerability in his tone catches you off guard, and for a moment, you can see the hurt in his eyes.

It's raw, honest, and you feel a knot twist in your chest, not having a reply to his genuine question.

THE DAYS AND MONTHS THAT FOLLOW ARE UNEXPECTEDLY TENDER, filled with moments that remind you of what being husband and wife is meant to feel like. The shared smiles, lingering touches, and quiet mornings are sweeter than they have ever been, and for the first time in a long while, peace seems attainable. Yet, there is an undercurrent that stirs beneath it all—the date that looms, casting a shadow over your contentment.

November 4th.

With the month drawing nearer, your heart starts to tighten with an anxious grip. Paranoia seeps into the quiet moments, the fear of what November 4th could mean—what it has meant in the past—makes the days feel more fragile. Your mind races, replaying scenarios and doubts that you can’t shake off. Each sweet gesture, each kind word from him, is tinged with the knowledge that the date approaches, threatening to unravel everything you’ve rebuilt.

Ricky’s expression is heavy with exhaustion, dark circles under his eyes hinting at the long day he’s had. You offer, “I’ll heat up the dinner,” and turn toward the kitchen, but he stops you with a gentle grasp around your wrist. Before you can react, he pulls you back, pressing you against the wall. The soft strains of a romantic song drift from the living room, creating an intimate, almost fragile atmosphere.

He’s close—closer than usual—and you feel the warmth radiating from his body as well as the subtle scent of his cologne. The proximity sends your pulse racing.

“Ricky?” you say softly, confusion lacing your voice as you look up at him. His face is unreadable, the dim lighting casting a shadow over the tired lines of his features. His eyes meet yours, carrying an unspoken emotion.

“Mm?” he murmurs, his voice hushed, as if not to disturb the moment. His hands find their way around you, holding you securely against him, and he leans his chin on your head. The gesture feels protective, desperate even.

“What are you doing?” you ask, your words barely above a whisper, unsure if you’re seeking clarification or reassurance. His embrace tightens for a moment, and you feel his chest rise and fall against yours as he takes a deep breath.

“Can you stop calling me Ricky?” he says quietly, the request landing softly, yet weighted.

Surprise flashes through you. “What do you want me to call you?” you ask, voice muffled against his shirt. The question feels vulnerable, as if shifting something fundamental between you both.

“I don’t know... something like... baby, darling, honey... or anything,” he admits, a subtle flush spreading across his cheeks despite the solemn tone. You catch the shy dip of his eyes, and a faint smile tugs at your lips.

“You’re being quite demanding,” you tease, looking up into his face. His lips part slightly as he considers your words.

“This isn’t being demanding,” he counters, pausing just long enough for the silence to underline his meaning. His eyes search yours, raw and full of an unnamed plea. “I just want to spend my last months with you, thinking we’re just... normal. Like any other couple.”

His words sink in, bringing with them an ache that spreads through your chest. The silence that follows is heavy, laced with all the things unsaid and the truth that’s pressing in on both of you. You lift a hand, letting your fingers brush the hair at the back of his neck. His eyes soften, dark lashes casting shadows against his skin as he watches you.

There’s something fragile in this moment, a bittersweet understanding passing between you that makes your throat tighten. The future looms, uncertain and unkind, but for now, you’re here, held close, suspended in the tender present.

Ricky’s voice lowers, a tremor in its depths that betrays the weight of his words. “You might not believe me, but... I come from a reality where I’m dead. So, I hope we can at least be nice to each other in my last moments. Can you do that?”

A stunned silence follows, your breath catching in your throat as his confession hangs in the air. You believe him; how could you not when you come from the same reality? Eyes widening, you step back, raising your wrist to show the dark, unerasable mark: November 4th. The ink-like number seems to pulse, a constant reminder of a fate that binds you both.

Ricky’s eyes mirror your shock. He releases you, just enough to reveal his own wrist. There it is, the same haunting date. The mark seems alive, almost mocking, as if counting down with every heartbeat.

Neither of you speaks for a moment, the silence heavy with shared grief and realization. The next second, you’re in his arms again, your face buried in his chest as he pulls you close, his own face pressed into your hair. The world around you blurs, reduced to the rapid thumping of your heart and the warmth of his embrace.

“I... please don’t... leave me this time,” you plead, your voice breaking under the weight of your fear. The memory of finding him lifeless in the world you came from, the coldness of that reality, rushes back with a cruel force.

“I will try,” he whispers, his voice barely steady as he runs a hand down your back in a soothing gesture. “We changed the relationship, right? So maybe... just maybe, we can avoid death too.”

You both stand there, unmoving as the moment stretches out. It feels absurd, two souls transported from a fractured future, now clinging to each other in the present in a fragile hope. Yet the thought of letting go is unbearable, so you don’t. For now, the reality of the present is enough.

RICKY’S FINGERS TREMBLE SLIGHTLY AS HE HOLDS OUT THE SMALL BOX, A HINT OF NERVOUSNESS CREASING HIS BROW. “This is for you.” His voice is softer than usual, his eyes searching yours for a response. The box is familiar, a relic from the present you left behind, steeped in memories. Inside is the ancestral ring, one that Ricky’s mother entrusted to you after his death—a token that held more value than any wedding ring could.

“I wasn’t... couldn’t give it to you before, but now... I’d like you to have it.” His voice is almost a whisper as he takes your hand, slipping the cool metal onto your finger. His touch lingers, warm and careful, as if anchoring the moment between you.

You look down at the ring, its delicate design catching the dim light and glistening softly. The weight of it brings back a rush of memories that mix grief with an unexpected warmth. Meeting his gaze, you let a small, genuine smile curve your lips. “Thank you. After you… I mean, after your death, your mother gave it to me,” you say, voice thick with the past, “but I’m glad it’s you giving it to me now.”

The way his eyes widen before softening speaks volumes—acceptance, regret, and hope, all blending seamlessly as he draws you closer.

Ricky’s expression shifts, a soft smile forming as he leans in, his body pressing yours gently against the bedroom wall. His breath mingles with yours, warm and scented faintly with his cologne. His eyes trace your features, holding a glimmer of something tender and fragile. You raise a brow in playful defiance, a silent challenge, and a sheepish smile tugs at his lips. Without another word, he cups your face, his thumb grazing your cheek, and leans in until the space between you disappears.

The first touch of his lips is tentative, testing. A shiver races down your spine as his mouth moves with a gentleness that makes your heart stutter. Your eyes flutter open for a second, catching the serene expression on his face before closing again as you respond, deepening the kiss. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring yourself to reality.

When he finally breaks away, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing in short, uneven gasps. The room is silent except for the soft crackle of a song playing somewhere in the background. Ricky’s eyes open, and in them, you see a question—a hesitation laced with anticipation. “Do you want to go further?” His voice, barely above a whisper, holds a vulnerability that makes your pulse quicken.

You exhale softly, a hint of a smile teasing your lips as you match his boldness. “How far can you go?” The playful edge in your voice makes him chuckle, low and breathy.

“As far as you want to go.” The words are a promise, and before you can respond, his lips capture yours again, more confident this time, as his hand moves to the strap of your dress, gently sliding it off of your shoulders.

THE NEXT FEW WEEKS PASS IN A COMFORTING CALM, the bond between you and Ricky strengthening with each passing day. You're no longer weighed down by the regret of the past, but instead, you focus on cherishing the present. Yet, there's still a lingering unease.

Ricky driving the car is something that continues to gnaw at you. It's not just a simple fear; it's the haunting memory of the future you came from, where that very action led to his tragic end. As November nears, the pressure builds. You look at the date on your wrist—November 4th—and the thought of losing him again, of it becoming reality, is too much to bear. Your chest tightens, and you feel a mix of helplessness and dread, hoping with every fiber of your being that this time, things will be different.

Ricky offers a reassuring smile, the kind that tries to mask his own unease as he softly says, “Chill, I’ll be back in an hour, alright?” His hand moves up to gently smooth your hair, eyes soft with understanding as he takes in the worry etched across your face. You cling tighter to his arm, voice trembling as you ask, “Is it important?”

He nods, and the hopeful part of you crumbles. The instinct to keep him close, to refuse, is almost overwhelming. But before you can protest, he leans forward, placing a tender kiss on your forehead. His hands slip down to rest on your shoulders as he looks at you earnestly.

“I promise I’ll be back. Now, will my pretty wife give me a smile so I can come back even sooner?” The playful plea tugs at your lips, and despite the fear swirling inside, you manage a small, forced smile. He chuckles softly, ruffling your hair before turning to leave.

You trail behind him to the door, eyes glued to the taillights of his car as they fade down the street. The ache in your chest sharpens, and you glance down at the ancestral ring on your finger, tracing its smooth surface as if the touch alone could make your wish come true: Please, come back safely.

The minutes stretch painfully long, and every ten minutes, you can’t resist sending a text, the same anxious message: “If you’re okay, just send a heart emoji.” True to his word, Ricky replies with a heart every time—until the fifty-minute mark.

The silence is deafening. Your heart thunders as you stare at your phone, willing the screen to light up. Nothing. The dread coils tighter, stealing the air from your lungs. You take a shaky breath, but it barely settles you. Panic sets in, and you hit the call button. The phone doesn’t connect; the ring tone never plays. Your chest tightens.

In desperation, you call Jay, your brother-in-law. His voice is laced with confusion as he picks up. “Jay, is Ricky with you?” The silence that follows your frantic question only amplifies your fear. “No, why? What’s going on?” he asks, suddenly serious. Before you can answer, he cuts the call, sensing the urgency and attempting to help in any way he can.

The next hour drags like an eternity, your anxiety swallowing every rational thought. You pace the room, eyes darting to the clock, phone clenched in your shaking hand. Then, after what feels like a lifetime, you hear the distant purr of an engine. Your pulse stutters as Ricky’s car comes into view, whole and unharmed.

But you don’t relax. Not until you see him. The door swings open, and there he is, frustration etched into his features as he steps inside. Your breath catches, relief and anger colliding within you.

Ricky's expression softens as he speaks, keeping his voice low despite the frustration. “Why’d you call Jay over something like this? My phone died while I was working. I charged it and got caught up in the case. It’s embarrassing.”

Your eyes well up, the weight of worry turning to a sting of hurt. “So? It’s not important?” Your voice wavers, raw with emotion. “I was terrified, Ricky! I didn’t want to lose you again. Sorry for being the clingy wife you’re ashamed of.”

Turning to leave, you barely make a step before he’s there, blocking your path. His eyes search yours, but instead of a defensive remark, he pulls you close, enveloping you in an embrace that tells you more than words could. His arms tighten, anchoring you to him as he murmurs in your ear, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s strange, but I promise I won’t say that again, okay?”

His breath is warm against your hair as he leans his cheek on your head, his heartbeat steady against your own erratic one. Despite the tension, you sense his understanding, a silent acknowledgment of your fear. He’s learning to hold your worry without judgment.

“I was so scared, Ricky. I thought I’d lose you all over again.” Your voice cracks, and he feels the tremor in your body. He wants to say the right thing, anything to soothe the tremble in your words, but all he can do is hold you tighter.

Both of you are haunted by that date imprinted on your wrists, “November 4th.” A reminder that looms like an uninvited shadow, a constant whisper of what could happen.

THE DAY ARRIVES, a heavy silence filling the air between you and Ricky. His promise lingers like a protective shield around you both: he won’t drive, he won’t leave. His presence is a balm for the fear that pulses in your chest. As the two of you snuggle on the couch, the soft glow of the TV playing a rom-com, you turn to him with a worried look, your voice low and unsure.

“What if something bad happens while we’re in the house?” you whisper, nuzzling into his warmth. The thought of losing him, of the world continuing without him, feels unbearable.

Ricky shifts, his arm wrapping tighter around you as he looks down at you, his breath warm against your neck. “Nothing will happen. And if it does, I’ll protect you,” he assures, his tone strong and sure, though his own heart is heavy. He knows how much your fear weighs on you, and he wants to shoulder it for you.

But the thought of you living without him—he can’t imagine it. He brushes your hair from your face gently, his voice a soft promise. “I love you too much for that.” His words come out naturally, like it’s something he’s been holding back but feels right now to say. It’s the first time you hear him say it, and the weight of those words floods your heart with warmth, knowing this is real.

“I get it. I won’t put my life at risk,” he murmurs, though there’s a quiet uncertainty in his words, an unspoken truth that he would never let anything harm you—even at the cost of his own safety.

You glance up at him, your lips pressing together in a worried frown. “You better not,” you mumble, not able to let go of the fear completely. You’ve spent the whole day together, in the safety of your home, trying to ignore the impending dread that the date will pass and nothing will change. Watching TV, cooking together, each small moment a reminder of how much he means to you—and how fragile life can be.

You curl up closer to him, as if physically wrapping yourself around him can keep him safe. Your eyes glance at the clock, the seconds ticking by too slowly. Every moment spent together now feels like a treasure, and you want to hold on to it forever.

The two of you lie in bed, the soft glow of the nightlight casting a gentle warmth over your forms. His hand rests tenderly over yours, fingers interlocking. He watches you as you sleep, your face relaxed, peaceful. A quiet whisper escapes his lips: “I love you.” His eyes linger on your peaceful expression, your other arm still clinging to him as if you’re unwilling to let go even in sleep.

He leans over to turn off the lamp, and then his gaze falls to his wrist—where the date once was. It’s gone. A wave of disbelief washes over him. The tension that has gripped him for so long begins to melt away. Perhaps it wasn’t an omen after all, but a reminder that after November 4th, a new chapter awaited them both.

He takes a deep breath, reaching for your wrist to find the same thing: no date. Relief floods him, and he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, pulling you even closer into his arms, savoring the moment.

But he knows, as much as this moment feels like a new beginning, there will still be challenges ahead. The fear you carry about him driving is not something that will fade overnight. Your worry, rooted in a past he knows you can’t shake, will take time to heal. But for now, he holds you close, understanding, and promises silently that he’ll be patient, allowing you to find peace in your own time.

TWO MONTHS HAVE PASSED SINCE THE FATEFUL DATE, and though life has taken you and Ricky through different stages, there’s an undeniable warmth between the two of you. Sitting at the family dinner table, surrounded by loved ones, the air is filled with laughter, conversation, and the quiet hum of joy.

Semi, now a cheerful five-year-old, eats her meal quietly, occasionally looking up with shy glances.

You glance over at Ricky, noticing him take a deep breath as he prepares to speak, his hand resting on the table near yours. It’s clear he’s nervous, even though it’s just family. He clears his throat, the words finally tumbling out: “So… We’re having a baby.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Ricky’s father scoffs, not giving him an ounce of reaction, while his mother rolls her eyes. “Oh, c’mon, you can fool us one time, not twice,” she says, clearly referencing the last family dinner, where you had tried to casually mention trying for a baby, only for him to play along. He felt the blame was entirely on him, but you knew the truth—it was a team effort.

You chuckle softly to yourself, leaning into Ricky’s side, your heart fluttering at the thought of a new life, a new chapter. He meets your gaze, his lips curving into a small smile, even amidst the teasing.

This moment, while filled with playful mockery, marks something deeper. You’re finally here together, stronger and more united than ever before. And this new adventure? It’s the start of a new journey that no one can take from you.

“Really, Y/n’s pregnant. We're having a baby,” Ricky says, his voice laced with excitement. His mother, skeptical, eyes you closely. “Is that true?”

Without waiting for Ricky’s confirmation, you nod, feeling his fingers intertwine with yours beneath the table, his touch calming your nerves.

"I won’t hesitate to beat your ass if this is fake," his dad grumbles, irritation mixing with a hint of hope.

Jay, barely containing his amusement at the scene, watches the family react, while Ricky proudly pulls out the ultrasound pictures, revealing the truth. His parents take turns looking at the images, jaws dropping in surprise. Jay, knowing already, can’t help but chuckle.

"Father was starting to question your masculinity. Glad you proved him wrong," Jay teases, earning a gentle nudge from Jieun, urging him to keep it light.

"Wait... So there’s a grandkid on the way?" Ricky’s mother recovers first, grinning with hopeful excitement. Ricky nods, and your heart swells at the thought of everything that's to come. This moment, this family, it feels like the beginning of something truly special.

Ricky’s mother leans forward, still processing, but the excitement is slowly bubbling up. “A grandchild? Really? My little boy having a little one? I’m going to spoil that baby so much.”

Ricky chuckles, glancing at you. “Well, you already spoil Semi enough, so I guess it’s fair.”

“Hey, I’m a great grandma-in-training,” she quips, giving Semi an affectionate pat. “But if you two need any advice, I’m here.”

Your heart swells seeing the warmth in her eyes. But then, Ricky’s dad, clearly trying to keep his cool, mutters, “I’ll believe it when I see a baby in my arms.”

“You’ll see him,” Ricky says, giving you a reassuring squeeze. “Or her, right, Y/n?”

You smile, feeling the weight of the moment. “Definitely,” you whisper, feeling a rush of emotion.

Jay, still grinning, can’t help but poke at his younger brother. “So, what’s the plan, huh? You two gonna have one of those perfect Pinterest-worthy baby showers or just skip the whole thing?”

Jieun smacks his arm lightly. “Don’t make them nervous, Jay. Let them enjoy the moment.”

Ricky laughs, looking over at you with that same loving gaze. “Honestly, I think we just need to take it one step at a time. But yeah, we’ll get there.”

“You know, when you have a baby, you’ll see just how much you need each other,” his dad says more seriously now, a rare moment of wisdom breaking through his tough exterior. “It’s not just about being a parent, it’s about being there for each other even more.”

Ricky nods, his hand tightening around yours as if to say, “I’ve got you, always.”

The whole family seems to settle into a comfortable silence after that, everyone soaking in the news in their own way, but all of them sharing the same unspoken bond.

“Guess we’ll need one more chair for next time,” Jay jokes, breaking the silence, and everyone bursts out laughing.

You glance at Ricky, his eyes full of joy, and your heart feels fuller than it ever has. There’s something about being surrounded by family—being with him—that feels right. “Yeah, we’ll need one more chair,” Ricky agrees softly, his gaze drifting to the future, to the family that’s just beginning.

In the end, you and Ricky had proven the vows true—til death do us part. Through all the challenges, fears, and moments of doubt, you had always found your way back to each other. The promises made, the trust built, and the love that had endured everything now stood as a testament to what you had together. With every touch, every shared laugh, and every quiet moment, you knew that no matter what, your hearts were bound—for life—and beyond.

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thenationofzaun · 2 months ago

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Thoughts on Act 1 of Arcane Season 2

The positives:

- The animation is fucking incredible.

- Jinx and Sevika teaming up watered my crops and cleansed my skin.

- Underwater goodbye with Jinx and Silco. That scene was made specifically for me.

- Jinx's voice actress continues to be excellent.

- Loved the designs of all the Chembarons. The glimpse we got of the gang wars was also interesting. Unfortunately, too tiny a glimpse. Which brings me to...

The negatives:

- Too many plotlines. They stuffed the season with too much shit which is why each individual plot gets a much shorter screentime than it should. Smeech is introduced and killed in the same episode. Chembarons' gang wars, a huge issue which has repercussions on the entire Undercity, gets only one musical montage before moving on. And this is coming from someone who loved that montage, as well as the song. My favourite on the soundtrack so far. But musical montages shouldn't come at the expense of the story and definitely shouldn't replace the story. There are just way too many music video scenes in general that feel like a way to condense a storyline into the sparknotes version because they don't have the screentime to flesh it out. And they would have the screentime if they cut out all the extra stuffing. Look I'm happy for the League fans who are excited for the Black Rose and all that, but what the hell is it doing in a Piltover/Zaun show. And with zero foreshadowing in Season 1 too. It would definitely be easier to swallow if they had at least hinted at it in the first season. They could have kept Ambessa's beef with this magic cult for a Noxus show. The P/Z narrative has enough to deal with, enough characters to handle already.

- The new side characters are uninteresting and generic. Maddie and the two other enforcers (we don't even know their names after three episodes LMAO) are bland. We know nothing about their characters or personalities. Maddie looks like a rookie, and one of the dudes is an alcoholic, yet they get chosen for an elite strikeforce to capture Jinx? Isha is pretty generic too - the token cute kid that needs protecting. I get the role she will play in Jinx's arc. But that's the problem - she should be a character in her own right, not just a vehicle for someone else's character development. A good example is Mylo. He died for Jinx's arc, but when he was alive he was a distinct character with his own personality. We had a sense of his insecurities, his goals, who he was as a person. Name a single personality trait of Isha and Maddie other than "generically nice person". That's right. You can't.

- Whatever the hell is going on with Viktor. He wakes up from his coma and immediately rejects Jayce so quickly that it was funny. Apparently disapproves of Jayce using the Hexcore to save his life, but then immediately goes to use the Hexcore to save random Undercity people. Bruh. I also don't really like the way the fridged woman from last season seems to be his motivation so far. Nor the way he seems to have no agency in his Machine Herald arc. Instead of Viktor himself believing in transhumanism and mechanizing himself, Jayce does it for him. Instead of Viktor having an ideological drive and wanting a "Glorious Evolution", he is driven by guilt over Sky. Meh. Also he's not even mechanized, instead he's weirdly fleshy?? In a magical way?? More like The Magic Herald :(

- Vi. Her whole character is a mess. Insanely rushed arc which I find unacceptable for one of THE main characters and one of the faces of the show. She and Jinx are supposed to be the leads, their relationship the heart of the story, but so far only Jinx is a well-written fleshed out chaacter with a believable arc. I have too much to say about Vi so I'll expand more on this on another post.

- So much nuance and detail is missing. How does Heimerdinger feel about his ex-colleagues being killed? Does he care? Does he feel guilt? Relieved that he wasn't in the chamber when the bombing happened? No clue! Let's have comedy Mission Impossible instead! How does Ekko feel about the Council attack? Does he approve of it? Think Jinx went too far? How does he feel that she even survived their fight to begin with? No clue! Here, have him joking around with a Councilor for a bit (someone whom Ekko logically should despise), then he can talk Science with Jayce and all three get sent to another dimension together. Yay. What does Vi think happened to Ekko? The last time she saw him, he was fighting Jinx to the death to give Vi and Cait time to escape. He could be dead for all she knows and she doesn't give a fuck. Doesn't even think about him nor mention him once. It's like the writers forgot they're childhood friends. What does the entirety of Zaun make of Silco's death? I assume they heard about it from Piltover (who heard about it from Caitlyn), but how do they think it happened? His body is gone and to Zaun it seems he just mysteriously disappeared. Are there conspiracy theories? Conflicting accounts and rumours? So much nuance that would give the world and characters more depth, sacrificed so we can pack in more rushed subplots and music videos.

- Caitlyn "Wifebeater" Kiramman. And Caitvi in general. So far Caitlyn has guilt-tripped Vi, manipulated her into joining the enforcers, insulted her and then physically abused her. After Vi sacrificed everything for Cait, wore a badge she hates for Cait, even let Cait kill her own fucking sister (and only intervened when the random kid got involved). Why should I give a shit about such a one-sided relationship lmao. "B-but Cait's mom is dead so she's sad about it", every other fucking character in this show has dead parents. Half the cast has faced unfathomable amounts of trauma and pain that make Cait's pale in comparison. Nothing justifies her hitting Vi. "B-b-but it's a parallel to when Vi hit Powder", a shit parallel then. Because the circumstances are not even remotely comparable. "God forbid lesbians do anything🤪", give me a break with this corny bullshit. Be serious for a second. I'm not even a Vi fan and I think she deserves better than this mess of a relationship. The power dynamic between them makes it worse. The way Caitlyn is one of the richest people in the city and Vi is broke. The way Caitlyn is highly educated and Vi never went to school and spent her entire teen years locked in a box. Did the writers think about all this when writing their relationship? Keep in mind, Vi met Caitlyn like a week ago. She barely knows this chick. She's been out of prison FOR A WEEK. Where she was physically abused every fucking day. Putting her in a relationship with a cop who hits her would certainly be a choice! Do I have faith this show will handle it with care? Not really, no. They already ignore Vi's prison trauma. Most likely they will make Vi forgive Cait way too easily because "muh mummy muh grief".

#i could write essays on how much of a fumble vi's character is #her prison trauma. her reason for joining the enforcers. her relationship with jinx. so much potential for a rich character squandered.#will have to elaborate on another post #arcane #arcane league of legends #league of legends #arcane season 2 #arcane netflix #vi #jinx #viktor #caitlyn #sevika #jayce #caitlyn kiramman #silco #arcane s2

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cherienymphe · 1 year ago

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Southern Charm (Rafe Cameron x Reader x Chase Andrews)

Warnings: NON-CON, stalking, underage drinking, crossover

➥ you don’t have to be familiar with Where The Crawdads Sing to follow along with any characters in this fic. Just know that he’s a 1960s version of Rafe with a domestic violence + attempted rape charge

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | divider by @firefly-graphics

summary: Privileged assholes always want what they can’t have. Or, alternatively, you turn down the wrong guys one too many times.

Chase Andrews was one of the proudest men you ever knew. He was also one of the most determined, so, in truth, you didn’t know why you expected anything less when you turned him down more than three months ago. You hadn’t given it much thought, to be honest. He was a simple guy asking out a simple girl, and the rejection shouldn’t have been any more complicated than that.

You’d forgotten that you were dealing with Chase Andrews.

If you hadn’t been so determined to get home before your mom threw a fit, you might’ve paid more attention to the way his face had fallen. You might’ve noticed the slight tightening of his jaw, the way he pulled his lip between his teeth, or the way he’d completely faltered altogether as if your refusal had been the last thing he’d expected. You might have even noticed the glint that passed through his eyes, signaling less than friendly thoughts as you tossed him a quick apologetic smile.

If you hadn’t been in such a hurry, you just might have noticed the way he stared after you, half in disbelief and half affronted.

You hadn’t though, and so you’d made your way home none the wiser to the dark thoughts brewing behind a familiar face. You’d greeted your mom with a quick hug before hurrying to your room. You plopped your purse down onto your bed without another thought spared towards Chase Andrews. After all, he was a simple guy who’d asked out a simple girl that only resulted in an equally simple rejection.

What had there been to linger on?

You hadn’t even brought it up to Kie, that’s how insignificant it had been to you. You told your best friend everything, and somehow, it really had slipped your mind that pretty rich boy Chase Andrews had asked you out on a date. It was only weeks later when you were forced to think on it some more did you realize that deep down, you’d written the whole thing off as some cruel dare.

It seemed like something right up his alley, pushed into it by equally troublesome friends.

You didn’t grow up along the rougher areas of the island, but that also didn’t mean you’d spent your time growing up around guys like that either. Guys like Chase grew up with everything and anything they could want, unfamiliar with the word ‘no’. You grew up fortunate, that you would always admit, but you hadn’t grown up like people like Chase. You hadn’t been raised to walk through life with the assumption that anything—and anyone—was yours if you wanted it.

So…maybe that was why you hadn’t anticipated any of it.

The sound of your name being called made you slow to a stop, and when you turned, the face matched the voice. Dark, almost black looking, hair and steel blue eyes contrasted against fair skin that looked like it barely saw the sun in spite of how much you always saw him out and about. Before you’d felt nothing at the sight of him, apprehension now gripped you instead.

Chase Andrews was a determined man.

“You heading home?”

It was a silly question.

He knew you were.

“Yeah,” you evenly told him.

He replied before you could give him some halfhearted reason as to why you needed to hurry away from him.

“Well, let me walk you…”

It was tempting, even if just for the sake of placating him. After all, maybe if you gave him a crumb, he’d be satisfied for the time being, but you wondered what kind of effect that deep southern drawl had on other women in town. You saw the way they flocked to him and hung off of his every word. There was something about that face that was disarming, you had to admit, but you didn’t make a habit of hanging around guys like Chase for a reason.

You were just about to refuse him, the umpteenth rejection within months, when it was his turn for his name to be called.

The familiar voice had contrasting reactions from you both, a slight frown between your brows while the dark-haired man sported a teasing grin when he turned around. You took the opportunity to take a step away from him, glad that he was too distracted by the sight of his cousin to notice. Dealing with one spoiled rich boy was one too many, never mind the presence of two.

Rafe Cameron was just as tall, just as pretty, just as rich but far more entitled than his dark-haired counterpart. He was an impulsive short fuse compared to Chase’s icy disposition. Where Rafe got into fights on the beach brought on by a coke fueled rage, Chase got drunk and harassed any unsuspecting less fortunate inhabitant who crossed his path. It had been years ago, but you could still remember the sound of his voice as he threatened to have some kid’s dad fired for simply bumping into him.

Rafe was proud to be an asshole while Chase liked to pretend that he wasn’t.

On their own, they were bad enough, but once together, you shuddered to think of what they could—and had—accomplish.

You only glanced over your shoulder once more as you quietly escaped what could’ve been another awkward encounter. Chase was already grinning at the dirty blond, an excited lilt in his voice as he talked about some party happening this weekend. In your efforts to make sure you were getting away unseen, your own gaze connected with a familiar blue one.

Rafe’s expression was even as he drank you in, nary an emotion flitting across it as he somehow both listened to the other man and kept his attention on you. A soft North Carolina breeze blew by, ruffling the few strands that grazed his forehead, and when his blue eyes lowered, straying from your own gaze and to parts of you you’d rather they didn’t, you finally turned back around.

Rafe Cameron, years ahead of his cousin, had asked you out once in high school. You’d been bolder then, less mature and lacking more than half the patience you carried now. You hadn’t just rejected him, but you’d told him in no uncertain terms that you didn’t like guys like him. You’d long suspected that he never really got over that, and you didn’t need to look over your shoulder again to confirm that he was still looking at you.

You could feel the heat of his gaze pressing down onto your back.

“Just give me five more minutes and then I’ll be ready,” Kie promised you, briefly touching your arm before hurrying into the back of her family’s restaurant.

The place was pretty packed today which made her parents’ decision to let her take off all the more surprising. Sarah Cameron was in the corner somewhere with her boyfriend Topper, the blonde throwing you a friendly smile when you came in. She was a lot closer to Kie than she was to you, and in truth, that was more so your doing than hers.

Rafe just wasn’t someone you wanted to interact with if you could help it, and considering that he and Chase were joined at the hip more like brothers than cousins, the desire to steer clear was doubly so.

You had just pulled out your phone to check your messages when a shadow passed over you. You didn’t pay it much mind, but the feel of their body heat mingling with yours clued you in on the fact that whoever they were, they were too close for comfort. You were both surprised and resigned when you heard a familiar voice.

“Picking up for Cameron.”

You tensed at the sound of that smooth voice, shrinking in on yourself as you continued to look ahead. Rafe knew that you knew he was there, and you could feel his eyes on you as you stared in front of you, waiting for Kie to return. You heard the blond next to you let out a small sigh, and you only glanced at him when he dared to move closer.

“You know,” he slowly and softly began, leaning in just a tad. “…you’re kind of hurting my cousin’s feelings.”

That was the last thing you’d expected to come out of his mouth, and you looked at him with a deep frown. There was a small smirk dancing on Rafe’s lips, the corner of his mouth quirked up just a tad, but there was an earnestness in his eyes that hinted at some truth in his words.

“Is that so,” you murmured, looking away. “I doubt that.”

You heard Rafe chuckle, but it was bitter, dry and lacking humor.

“He really hasn’t been anything but nice to you…and you treat him like garbage.”

Rafe’s voice had lowered some, an edge to it that forced you to look at him again. His expression wasn’t so mirthful, a smile or anything close to it nowhere in sight. Despite the volume in the restaurant, you felt like you and Rafe were the only ones in the place, and you swallowed.

“…and how do I do that? By politely turning him down?”

You kept going before he could intervene.

“How else should I do it? Or…would you be happier if I just didn’t turn him down, at all?”

You watched Rafe’s jaw tick as he ran his eyes over you, an iciness creeping into them that made you shudder. He stared at you just like that for what felt like a long time before finally speaking again.

“What’s your problem, Y/N?” he slowly wondered. “You think you’re too good for him or something?”

Such a thought was a great sin to guys like Rafe.

They had money and looks and influence, and so, that put them at a place where no one was off limits. The mere thought that you might think you were too good for his cousin Chase had his eyes flashing…because it wasn’t just about the dark-haired man. If you thought you were too good for Chase, then you thought you were too good for Rafe, and with just one look into a familiar blue gaze, you could tell that Rafe was transported back to senior year when you told him quite plainly what you thought of him.

“I don’t like guys like Chase,” you evenly told him.

You paid no mind to the way his expression hardened as he looked away. Rafe sniffed, pulling his lip between his teeth before meeting your gaze again, his own challenging.

“…and what is Chase like? What are guys like that…like…?”

Rafe was almost daring you to say it, to insult him and his family, and foolishly, you were glad to.

“Spoiled, entitled…guys who lose their temper when they don’t get their way,” you told him, holding his gaze despite how uncomfortable you felt. “You know.”

You pushed yourself to your feet just as Kie returned. She was in the middle of apologizing for the holdup when she cut herself off, coming up short at the sight of Rafe beside you. You were already walking away and urging her to follow before she could even acknowledge him.

“Was he bothering you?” she sternly asked the second you both made it outside.

“No,” you lied with a sigh. “Just Rafe being…Rafe.”

“Good,” she said with relief. “He’s been hanging around here a lot more, and as long as he isn’t causing trouble, who am I to tell him where he can and can’t go, but if he was bothering you, I’ll get my dad to ban him, I swear.”

A laugh was caught in your throat when her words registered. You frowned a bit as you followed her to her jeep, confusion filling you as you hopped inside.

“He has?”

“Yeah, him and Chase,” she groaned, starting the vehicle. “Neither of them gave that much of a fuck about my parents’ place before…”

You clicked your seatbelt with a frown, looking out of the window.

You told yourself that it was just a coincidence. The thought was laughable because when it came to guys like Chase and Rafe…there were no coincidences. You really hadn’t taken Chase seriously when he’d asked you out all those months ago, and the sentiment had held anytime he tried to approach you after. It was exhausting to keep turning him down, politely at that, and to ignore your increasing discomfort.

Chase had a way of crowding you, making you feel so small and at his mercy. The kindness in those blue eyes of his was never genuine, and you never had been fooled by that smooth baritone of his. He always had a look on his face like he was in on some joke you’d just never get, and to make it worse, he made you feel like you were the butt of it.

Truthfully, you didn’t know what Chase wanted with a girl like you, anyway.

You weren’t the partying type, so you’d definitely be no fun for him, and you’d never been eager to stroke his ego and tell him that he was even prettier than he believed. You came from money, sure, but not the kind that would make his mom satisfied. The woman had been convinced that some poor harlot was going to trap her son and swindle him for everything he had since he was a kid.

You really didn’t get what he wanted with you.

Both him and Rafe, to be honest.

Both were about as deep as a kiddie pool, but Rafe had always had a type, and you certainly weren’t it. You saw the kind of girls he hit on at parties, the kind of girls he walked around with, the kind of girls he slipped some free coke to. Rafe was nothing if not consistent in that regard, which made that moment in high school all the more confusing.

What made it even more confusing was that Rafe was obviously still hung up on it years later.

Unlike Chase, however, one hit to his ego was one too many.

“Chase…what are you doing here?”

It was hours later when you found yourself standing on your steps. No one had been more surprised than you when your mom announced that Chase was here to see you. Your dad’s pinched face was burned into your memory as your mom forced him to mind his business.

The dark-haired man before you let out a chuckle, but it sounded…off. It didn’t sound like a laugh born from amusement, but one bred from confusion instead.

“I’m wondering the same thing,” he told you, although his smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You must have rejected me about…seven times by now.”

He laughed to himself again, his white button down pulling as he leaned against the porch post.

“I guess I just want to know why.”

His expression was polite, but his eyes told a different story, and you didn’t need to study the blue of them to know that he’d talked to Rafe. You forced yourself to take a deep breath, crossing your arms over your chest as you briefly glanced away. You could feel his unwavering gaze, both studying you just for the hell of it and because he wanted to know what you were thinking.

“I’m sure Rafe told you why,” was your remark.

When you looked at the dark-haired man, his own jaw had tensed some, face taut, and he nodded with a glance towards his feet.

“Look…I’m not the kind of guy you think I am,” he finally said, perfect teeth winking at you as he grinned, like the thought was laughable to him. “I just…”

He exhaled.

“We’ve both grown up here, and went to school together, and I don’t see the point in pretending like I don’t notice you,” he drawled. “I like you…and I’d like to take you out.”

Truthfully, you couldn’t tell how genuine Chase was, but your familiarity with him had your response on the tip of your tongue before he could even finish.

“Guys like you don’t like girls like me, Chase,” you’d started, turning to go back inside. “At least not for anything more than one fun night.”

When your eyes met his from the other side of the screen, they didn’t look so warm, now. The blue of them seemed darker, although you preferred to write that off to a trick of the light. He looked like he wanted to say more, but you continued just as he opened those pink lips of his.

“Go home, Chase.”

You didn’t wait to hear any kind of response.

You really hadn’t anticipated any of it.

Chasing you down on the sidewalk or approaching you in the street was one thing, but Chase showing up on your doorstep one evening had spooked you, and it was why you’d had no qualms about being straight with him and telling him to just go home. His determination to have you, despite your visible discomfort at the thought, had made it hard to sleep that night, but you’d hoped that your point had gotten across.

…and while Chase hadn’t made a move on you again, you still found no relief.

He and Rafe hung out at The Wreck more often than they ever had, and while they kept their distance, the feel of an oppressive gaze was hard to ignore. You told yourself that you just imagined the sound of a familiar truck driving by your house in the dead of night. It was a small town, and just like before, you’d run into a familiar face often. That was nothing new…

Chase Andrews wasn’t trying to wear you down for a date anymore, but you still felt no peace.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Kie wondered one day, voice heavy with concern. “…and here I thought that they’d developed a taste for my mom’s cooking.”

“I thought he was joking at first,” you confessed. “…and then he just kept asking…”

You felt almost embarrassed to admit how wrong you’d been. After all, you were way too old for childish dares, and when Chase Andrews wanted something, he got it. He was a lot like Rafe in that way, something you’d always known, and yet…you hadn’t anticipated any of it.

From either of them.

“Just stay over at my place,” Sarah Cameron had offered one night.

It was a party that you’d been the one to drag Kie to, but your inebriation was something that took both of you by surprise. You’d felt too bad to stay and didn’t want to cut Kie’s night short too. The blonde girl had been concerned when she convinced you to let her drive you back to her place.

“I know how your mom can be sometimes.”

Almost everyone did, and you’d thanked her.

You’d been grateful.

Sarah residing in the same house as Rafe hadn’t been a concern of yours. Nor the fact that he might not be alone. You’d only been concerned with drinking lots of water and laying down to keep your head from spinning. When you woke up in the middle of the night, you were a lot more sober, and the trek to the bathroom wasn’t one filled with stumbling.

Your shower made you a lot more alert.

…and you were wide awake when you almost bumped into Rafe Cameron. He didn’t look as shocked to see you in his house like you’d expect, only mildly surprised. You did flinch at the sight of him, and you didn’t miss the way his blue eyes ran over the length of you, lingering on your legs and the shirt that kissed your knees.

He didn’t say anything like you expected, and you only forced out a small apology before hurrying back to the guest room.

It had never occurred to you to lock it.

Rafe was annoying and insufferable and an asshole. The oldest Cameron was a lot of things, but there were even some things you’d put past him. So, waking up in the early morning before day by the sound of the guest room door opening was something you hadn’t predicted. The oldest Cameron chewing you out, with blown pupils you might add, was something you hadn’t predicted.

“Do you know how much shit I could’ve put you through?”

You glared at him, but inside, you were shaking. The blond had taken it upon himself to air out his grievances with you, and you were wholly aware of just how unstable he was when he had any drug in him.

“You walk around this island like you’re too good for me,” he murmured, reaching up to touch his chest. “Like I’m just the scum you find on the bottom of your shoe…and instead of being grateful I didn’t make your life a living hell…”

He threw his arms out.

“You turn your nose up at me…like you’re so much better than me.”

You swallowed, torn between wanting to placate him and get him out or treating him like the asshole he was.

“Rafe, you’re high and…”

“…and what?” he leaned in, tilting his head at you. “What?”

Your breathing was uneven, and you wrapped your arms around yourself, taking a step back from him. The blond followed, and you worriedly looked towards the door.

“You think Sarah’s gonna save you? You think I care if she sees what I’m going to do to you?”

His words had you frowning, and your gaze was stricken when you looked at him again.

“That’s not funny, Rafe,” you breathed.

He chuckled to himself, running his hand through already unruly hair.

“…and what makes you think I’m joking…?”

The silence between you was loud, thick, and you furiously blinked.

“You walk around this damn island like I can’t have you…when truth is, I was just being nice,” he sneered. “…because it’s actually so easy for me to do this.”

His hand completely enveloped your chin, fingers harshly pressing into your jaw as he pushed you back. The action made you stumble, and your heart skipped a beat when you landed on the bed behind you. Rafe chuckled to himself at the sight, like he genuinely found it funny, and any possibility that he was being cruel in his humor was gone when he grabbed the ankles that kicked out at him.

“Rafe, stop,” you gasped, pushing at his chest and trying to back away.

He did pause in his movements, but he kept hold of you, head tilted to the side as he studied you.

“…and why would I do that…? I don’t want to,” he slowly told you.

Movement behind him caught your eye, and relief filled you at the sight of a familiar face. It was strange that in all these months, you never thought your eyes would land on Chase Andrews in relief. Rafe, clearly having noticed your line of sight, glanced over his shoulder.

“What?” he distractedly wondered, looking at you again. “You think he’s going to save you?”

His tone was cold, and his words had your relief quickly dying out. Rafe chuckled at the sight of your falling face, heart sinking as the worst finally occurred to you.

“You think he’s not going to watch and get off on the fact that the girl he’s wanted for months is getting what she deserves?”

Rafe’s grip was firm as he pulled at your shirt, the fabric tearing in the otherwise quiet room. You fought against his hands through teary eyes, but it was like they meant nothing at all to Rafe.

“You don’t think he’s just waiting for his turn?”

Your hand connected with Rafe’s face then, but it didn’t deter him.

In that moment, it seemed like all of Rafe’s pent-up anger towards you was finally coming out. His teeth grazed your skin as he held you down, his other hand digging into your hip. Rafe seemed to take delight in your fight, your fear, and when you turned your head, your eyes connected with a blue pair that was much darker than the ones before you.

Chase didn’t look gleeful at the sight of Rafe forcing himself on you. He just looked…satisfied, and you realized then that the blond was right. Chase was scorned, he felt slighted, and you knew that he really did believe that you deserved this.

When Rafe pushed himself into you, your head pressed into the bed as you gasped in shock. His dirty blond strands were kissing your forehead as he leaned over you, pushing his cock into you almost lovingly. One hand was so tight on your wrist that it was a wonder it didn’t break, and despite how much you fought it, how much you didn’t want to give either of them the satisfaction, you weren’t able to hold in a sob.

“What’s that my mama used to always say…” Chase wondered, finally speaking. “Stop crying before I give you something to cry about?”

He was moving towards you both, and through a tearful gaze, your pleading eyes connected with his own emotionless ones. He ran them over you, taking in your naked frame and the abuse that Rafe subjected it to. In truth, Chase didn’t even look like he was enjoying himself, his hands in his pockets as he looked down his nose at the scene.

“Chase,” you tearfully begged him, trying to push Rafe off with your free hand.

“No,” he drawled, moving closer. “You don’t like guys like me, remember? So, don’t go begging for my help, now.”

When he leaned over from behind you, one hand taking yours before he did the same with the other, more tears fell. His grip was tight on your arms as he held you in place for Rafe, the blond using the opportunity to run his hands over you. His mouth left open mouth kisses to your neck and chess, and you blinked for half a second before Chase’s lips met yours.

The kiss was oddly gentle, so out of place, and a sob caught in your chest.

“That was all I ever wanted,” he murmured. “It didn’t have to be like this.”

Rafe’s cock stretched you out in a way that had you whimpering. From pain or something else, you didn’t know the answer, and you were too embarrassed to linger on it. When he lightly bit your chest, you arched into his mouth, and his hips curved into yours.

“I thought you were too good for me, Y/N,” Rafe mocked into your skin. “The way you’re gripping me says differently.”

You squeezed your eyes shut at that, and Chase chuckled.

His own teeth found your neck, and you tried to move your hands again only to hiss when he tightened his grip. The room was mostly quiet outside of your heavy breathing and the occasional moan that would escape against your will. Chase had your arms and Rafe had your legs, holding your thighs apart for him to drive himself into you without abandon.

When Chase did finally let you go, you felt no relief.

You could hear him getting undressed, and when Rafe finally came inside of you, emptying his cock and forcing you to milk him, he looked up at the other man with a chuckle. You were free for all of six seconds before Chase grabbed you and roughly threw you onto your stomach. His hand at the root of your hair forced your head down against the mattress, and if you’d doubted his motives before, they were all too clear when he finally spoke again.

“I was polite…wasn’t I?”

His lips were at your ear, but a whisper as he seemed to want something from you other than sex tonight.

“I asked you out nicely, made sure you got home safe…didn’t I?”

You reached back, pressing your nails into his skin as your tears soaked the sheets.

“Didn’t I?” he wondered again when you didn’t answer.

“Yes,” you sobbed.

You heard him take a deep breath, and his free hand curved into your hip. When he pulled you back onto his cock, you let out a whine, eyes squeezing shut at the feel of him fitting snuggly inside of you.

“…and this is how you treat me?” he wondered out loud, hips snapping against yours.

His thrusts weren’t as gentle as Rafe’s, and you gasped with each one. Rafe’s anger at your rejection was a lot calmer. It was something that had been brewing and festering for years. He’d had time to come to terms with it and just live with it, you supposed. Chase, on the other hand…

The dark-haired man had been after you for months, putting his pride and ego aside to make his intentions clear over and over again. His anger was new…fresh, and he hadn’t quite had the time to process it like Rafe had. All Chase wanted to do was take out this new anger on you.

…and that he did.

Your nails clawed at the sheets as he pushed into you, the sound of his cock thrusting into you so embarrassingly loud in the room. His grip was tight in your hair, so bad that you swore you felt a few strands pop. He was talking to you—or Rafe—but you couldn’t make it out. You were too focused on the pain in your scalp and the fire deep in the pit of your stomach.

“You think you’re better than me? Hmm?” he spat, the hand on your hip pushing your lower half down onto the bed. “You think you can just treat me like any of these second-rate assholes?”

It was clear that he wanted an answer.

“Huh?”

“No,” you sobbed, trying to push back against him to no avail.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? You don’t sound sorry worth a damn,” he harshly whispered, the bed shaking from the force of his thrusts.

“She’s not,” you heard Rafe add, and you trembled.

“I am,” you sobbed, finally cracking. “I’m sorry.”

You sniffed, trying in vain to get Chase to loosen his hold.

“I’m sorry,” you tearfully told them again, toes curling at the feel of his cock plunging into you and sliding against your walls.

“Nah,” you heard Chase drawl, leaning down to press his face into your hair. “You’re not sorry…but I can promise you this.”

He forced you to turn your head, and his soft lips gently brushed the corner of yours.

“You will be.”

tags: @aniquas @softcoreparadise

#rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron x kook!reader #dark!rafe cameron x reader #dark!rafe cameron #chase andrews #chase andrews x reader #obx fanfiction #obx imagine #rafe cameron #rafe cameron fanfiction #rafe cameron imagine #where the crawdads sing #crossover

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practically-an-x-man · 5 months ago

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OC/Ship Ask Game: Firsts

We're back with another super-long ask game! Send a number + a character/ship for a description of their "first"... plus a couple questions for the author as well :D

If you reblog, please send asks up and down the chain for reblog courtesy! It's not a requirement but it does make things more fun for everybody 😊

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For the Character:

First big aspiration (i.e. what did they want to be when they grew up?)

First time meeting their best friend

First opinion of school as a kid

First time experiencing grief

First time breaking a bone

First time they realized their "calling" in life

First time they experimented with their personal style

First time they took a risk, or the biggest risk they've ever taken

First time living away from home

First time adopting/taking care of a pet

First "big purchase" they ever made on their own

First time leaving their home country

First time being drunk/high

First time facing their fears

First thing they remember feeling proud of

First thing they remembered feeling ashamed of

First favorites - favorite color, animal, movie, etc.

First example of real character growth along their journey

First time they felt rejected by another character

First time they felt accepted/welcomed by another character

First major change in their life, and how they dealt with it

First introduction in their story (share a snippet or description)

First display of their powers or abilities

First major loss/failure in their story

First major success in their story

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For the Ship:

A. First meeting B. First impression of each other C. First physical contact (handshake? hug? something else?) D. First kiss E. First time meeting the other's family F. First date G. First time seeing the other one sick/injured H. First time sharing a bed (non-sexual) I. First time sleeping together (sexual) J. First concert/show/festival they attended together K. First fight L. ....And the first time they had to make up M. First time they introduced the other as their partner N. First road-trip/vacation together O. First double-date with another couple P. First time seeing the other all dressed up Q. First act of non-sexual intimacy (e.g. washing the other's hair, taking a bath together, sharing food) R. First time cooking for the other S. First anniversary + how they celebrated T. First time dancing together U. First pet names/nicknames they give each other V. First time they felt insecure/jealous, and how they worked through it W. First time they realized their relationship is endgame... or isn't X. First major hardship they got through together Y. First time living together Z. First time they said "I love you"

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For the Author:

🐣 - First piece you ever wrote (share a snippet or description)

🥹 - First time describing strong emotions, and how you've improved since then

🎬 - First fandom(s) you wrote for, and if you still write for them

💀 - First time writing character death, and how you felt about it

🤝 - Favorite "first meeting" scene you've written between two characters

💋 - Favorite "first kiss" scene you've written between two characters

🔥 - First time writing romance/spicy scenes, and how you felt about it

🌍 - First attempt at worldbuilding, or a notable piece of worldbuilding you're proud of

🐉 - First genre you wrote for, and if you still write that genre now

🖌️ - First character you created, or first character you wrote for

🤩 - First big inspiration for writing (an author? a piece of media? a plot idea?)

🕷️ - First time writing something that scared you, and how it went

📝 - Pick a character: first draft of that character + the final version of that character

🏳️‍🌈 - First queer character/story you wrote

🤖 - First nonhuman character you wrote

🪶 - First longform/multi-chapter piece you've written

✒️ - First shortform/oneshot you've written

🪢 - First time writing a crossover or gift fic

🤯 - First story that gained traction/attention, and how it made you feel

📦 - First story that really took you outside your comfort zone

📖 - Piece you'd recommend as a "first piece" for a new reader to enjoy

‼️ - Free space! Tell us about a notable "first" in your writing journey!

#ask game #my ask game #oc asks #character asks #writing asks #fic author asks #ask meme #new ask game #otp asks #ship asks #oc ask game

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yuurei20 · 5 days ago

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how muscle is the boy and who the most buff because i think silver gym clothes is lying

Hello hello! Thank you so much for this question! I have been hoping to talk about this for so long ⚔️

There is something special about the school uniform and gym clothes cards 👀

Summary 1) Sprites do not always visually represent what is actually happening in the game 2) Yana does not have full control over what can appear as sprites 3) Yana illustrated the gym clothes and school uniform cards from start to finish by herself!

Details/Sources 1) There is sometimes a disconnect between what the sprites are doing and what is actually happening in the stories, as the limits of the medium mean that they can only portray so much.

We will be told via dialogue that what is actually happening is different from what we're seeing on screen, which is where the "novel" part of "visual novel" has to do some heavy lifting.

(above: We are told that Idia is riding Ortho, Jack has tanned and Kalim is wearing glasses, without anything represented visually.)

This is also true of Silver being unusually well-muscled, with characters referencing such repeatedly! (especially in Book 7, for spoiler-reasons that cannot be shared on this blog)

(Ortho: "Silver is also incredibly built!")

In a vignette Silver explains he was able to beat a man in an arm-wrestling contest who had successfully beaten several "burly" members of Savanaclaw:

"All of Ruggie's burly friends had tried, but each lost within seconds. At first the owner went easy on me. Worried he would hurt me, he said. But once he realized I was no pushover, he stopped holding back...It was no easy feat, but all their encouragement helped me eke out a victory."

As for how Silver can possibly be so well-muscled, he explains it is from life with Lilia:

"I've never really struggled with anything involving physical fitness...my daily life back home was training enough. Drawing river water, chopping firewood...Chasing around the animals who lived nearby must have helped strengthen my legs as well...once I stalled while climbing a sheer cliff, and (Lilia) climbed right up beside me to show me how it should be done."

2) In a tweet posted on 2020/5/12 Yana talks about submitting her idea for Crowley to be wearing a vacation outfit in Book 4, despite expecting it to be rejected.

So it seems that she does not have complete control over how the sprites look: she designs the characters but is maybe not doing the game development work of physically implementing them, and there are others who can approve of or reject her ideas based on in-game limitations.

Was a canon-accurate Silver sprite maybe one of those rejections?

Effort was even made to give Silver muscle in the 2nd anniversary PV, so it does seem to be an important point.

3) We do not know too many details about the team that is helping Yana with card illustrations but we know they have been there from the beginning, with the recently released English-version of the first visual book (called "The official art book" in English) providing translations of Yana's notes to the colorists for the ceremonial robes and labwear art.

(Above: hand-written notes seen on Kalim's labwear and ceremonial robes base art)

She also references a graphic artist in her 2020 interview for the Magical Archives:

"As for the illustrations, this was my first time having my original drawings cleaned up by a graphic artist. I am a very rough draftsman by nature, and I make overall corrections before a piece is complete. No matter how careful I am in my original drawings, sometimes details get confused, so whenever I receive a draft back from the graphic artist, I become a useless original artist who is constantly going back to say, ‘I am so sorry, but can you please make these corrections?’" - Toboso Yana (Magical Archives game guide)

But the gym clothes and school uniforms (the original batch of R cards) were different: Yana says she did them all by herself from start to finish, as they were going to be most people's first introductions to the characters.

Disney Twisted-Wonderland has been released today. ・Character design ・Main scenario creation ・Card illustration (all rarities / including finishing for the R cards) ・Supervision of personal scenarios (writing several as well) I handled everything above. I hope you enjoy it! - Toboso Yana (Twitter, 2020/5/8)

I felt that the initial R school uniforms and sportswear cards are special, as they are likely to be the first introductions to these characters, so I was in charge of them all. I am grateful to have been trusted with them. - Toboso Yana (Twitter, 2020/4/13)

So there we are! 🥳

If anything we can maybe consider the base card art for the gym clothes and school uniforms as more "canon" than the sprite designs of those same characters, even though the sprites are what we're used to seeing, as card art is not being forced to change the characters' appearances in order to fit the limitations of Live 2D sprites ⚔️ Maybe!

(The sprites have this same issue with height! At 156cm Epel maybe only comes up to Malleus' elbows? But in the game Epel is made taller while Malleus is made shorter, in order to fit his horns in the screen.)

#twstask #twisted wonderland

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nushkiespeaks · 2 months ago

Text

"SHE SAVES HERSELF, IT'S HER DHARMA THAT SAVES HER"

I always wanted to say so about Draupadi and the episode of Vastraharan. Before reading BORI CE, I had seen many versions of Vastraharan on TV serials. But after reading the original version, I realized how the serials had either overdone it or underdone it, snatching the actual essence of what the Vastraharan was for.

First of all, there was no instance in Mahabharat which claims Draupadi had insulted Duryodhan/Karn to make them go mad over the fact that they were made fun of by her.

No, there was no such instance.

Duryodhan was very jealous of the wealth and property that the Pandavas had obtained, it's clearly written in the texts how he was literally shivering in jealousy witnessing the glory of Pandavas. He wanted to snatch it all, and hence the plan.

Now comes the actual Vastraharan episode.

I know, many of you guys are extremely angry on Yudhishthir for what he does and the anger is justified enough. I am NOT justifying Yudhishthir or his actions, but actually asking you guys to think, think what would've you done in his place? This man was repeatedly scammed at first thinking that it would be a FRIENDLY MATCH between Duryodhan and himself. And Yudhishthir was a poor player of dice, Krishna himself confirms in the text. Also, Yudhishthir had always said how competing on dice would leave to grave consequences. But it's Duryodhan who persuades him to play. Now, it would really be cowardly for the Samrat to reject a game of dice like that.

Honestly speaking anyone could've said he could've denied it, but he cannot! He cannot because Kings when invited for Dyut had to play, or otherwise they would be tagged as cowards or insults! So at the most what Yudhishthir could do was to try and persuade the Kauravas to drop the idea, which he actually did in the texts, but they didn't give a damn about it.

The game begins, and what Yudhishthir had feared initially happens. He starts losing bouts of wealth, his army, and then the Kingdom he made out of sweat and blood. At this point, the elders, specially Vidur intervenes.

He asks Yudhishthir to stop, but he's at such a position that he cannot. Imagine your entire kingdom is lost, and now you have a bit of hope that you can win it back at the next game, will you actually play or let it go?

Like, don't sugarcoat yourself guys, think about the possibility! It's like you're drowning and playing next is like the branch that would save you, won't your mind flicker? Won't you take a chance to save yourself?

This is what exactly Yudhishthir does, and again he loses his youngest brother Sahadev. Still he hopes he would get everything back, because he had no option. Ofcourse he could've refused playing by now, technically yes. But deep down Yudhishthir knew what calamities can happen if he would try to win everything back by force, so he takes the chance again- and loses Nakul, Bheem and Arjun.

And at last, he loses himself as well.

Now Duryodhan plays the last and crucial move with Shakuni. He asks Draupadi to be staked, and this stuns the Pandavas.

Their KINGDOM is gone, their WEAPONS are gone, and now they're practically the slaves of the Kauravas, and at this time Duryodhan asks Draupadi to be staked. Duryodhan always knew what could break the Pandavas to the core- and that was seeing Draupadi in tatters. So this guy practically renders the Pandavas helpless, and then takes his dig on Draupadi.

And boom! Yudhishthir loses Draupadi too! This is the point where the elders lose their temper, mostly Vidur, and asks Yudhishthir to do something and stop this nonsense, but everything was already done.

Duryodhan sends his own messenger to Draupadi's chamber and tells him to get her.

Now comes the very interesting part.

The ground slips from under Draupadi when she hears the news, but instead of accompanying the messenger, she asks him to question the Sabha that how can Yudhishthir stake her when he already loses himself in the game?

Very valid question by her.

The messenger comes back, and it's clearly written in the texts that he was scared of Draupadi. (Take a note, those who call her "scaredy cat" ). Duryodhan gets angry now, and sends Dushassan behind Draupadi.

Draupadi pleads Dushassan at first, for she was bleeding that time, but when he refuses to listen, she warns him about the consequences. Even that doesn't work, and Dushassan starts dragging a single-garment clad Draupadi to the court. Draupadi is angered, but never scared. Yes, as per the texts she wasn't scared, she was trying her best to SAVE herself from his grip, but Dushassan was obviously proving stronger than her.

Draupadi gets dragged to the court, in a really bad state and is hurled. In the texts, she was said to be hurled like a tree is done by the strong winds, so mucg that she faints for sometime.( My heart starts wrenching while writing.) But Draupadi being Draupadi ( I don't know how this woman had so much self restrain even at this situation), you won't believe this woman actually pleads the court to forgive her them to see her in that state, means she had not washed her hairs since she was in her menses and it wasn't appropriate for someone to appear in a court in such a dishevelled state. Can you imagine the precision of this woman? The mental power, the collectiveness she had?

The story isn't done. Draupadi is taken aback seeing her husbands in that condition. She constantly shoots painful glances at them, and the Pandavas are broken. Bheem yells in anger, warns Dusshasan and Duryodhan but nothing works. Now Draupadi, again stabilizing herself, holding herself questions the Sabha what right Yudhishthir had on her since he himself was lost in the game? How could the Sabha stoop this low to let it happen?

This is when the wretched Karn steps out and says how Draupadi has now been won, she's their slave. He calls her whore and laughs loudly, and orders Dushassan to disrobe her. That man stoops so low, that he asks Draupadi to "serve" the Kauravad sexually, and choose a husband from the Kauravas because her husbands are of no use ( Atp, I wanted to kill him, strangle him).

Vidur intervenes, but even Vikarn too. But Vikarn is again shut up by Karn who calls him a coward and asks him to mind his own business.

Bheeshm is shaken, but he couldn't do anything. He says it was the decision of the Pandavas, and that Draupadi has no choice here. Either she becomes a slave with Yudhishthir, accepting the status of a wife with a husband, or separates herself from the Pandavas. If she choses to separate from the Pandavas, she has no option but to go to the Kaurava's side technically since they won her. So all and all, Draupadi was put in a helpless spot by Dharma ( Bheeshm calls it the subtle nuance of Dharma in text).

That's when Draupadi feels that none of them could resolve the situation and she also knows what was going to follow. This woman finally resorts or rather surrenders to the power of Dharma, which is Krishna ( BORI doesn't mention Krishna explicitly, but calls it the force of Dharma. But for me, Dharma is Krishna.) This woman surrenders her entire self whole heartedly to the supreme Lord. She knows only Dharma is the one that would save her, she knows she HAS DONE NO WRONG, AND THAT DHARMA WAS IN HER SIDE.

At this moment, for anyone the situation is so traumatic that you can end up passing out, but this woman, my God, this woman just KNOWS what is meant for her. Her righteousness shall save her, her purity shall save her. Draupadi knows who she is, Draupadi knows she has done no wrong, Draupadi knows she's innocent, Draupadi knows that it's Dharma who wins at last.

Such was her faith, her stance. If this isn't boldness, then what is? If this isn't her strength then what is? Imagine her situation that moment, she was moments close of getting disrobed and in an inappropriate situation, that moment too she is in her entire consciousness. She knows what would help her.

And that's what happens.

Dushassan tries to disrobe Draupadi, much to the cries of the Pandavas, and that wretched guy feels like he has touched something he shouldn't touch. Yards of cloth extends and covers Draupadi, and yes, Draupadi's righteousness saves herself.

I want to draw your attention how Draupadi was strong till the last end, neither did she BEGGED anyone to save herself, nor did she herself PITY her own condition. Nor she was whimpering or crying, like how people like to show her or something. She BEGGED none, she RELIED on none but her own self. She relied on her strong belief in Krishna, her righteousness and Dharma. At that moment, it was the fight of Draupadi and Dharma against Kauravas.

Righteousness was such that if it didn't save Draupadi, it would've put itself to shame that day.

The story isn't over yet...

Dhritarashtra gets extremely scared now, for he senses the power which Draupadi had. The old King who was enjoying everything, suddenly shudders. He pleads Draupadi to forgive his sons, and asks Draupadi to ask for 3 boons.

Draupadi accedes. She saw her husbands. The helplessness of fate that had rendered them so. And even after so much, she had utter and immense faith in the five of them. She had the belief that the five would rise this time, and shall avenge her. The five of them were enough for it. (And that's why I say why Pandavas and Draupadi were one of the most ideal couples in Mahabharat. There is no concept of Draupadi throwing her chudamani away, or showing pure anger that time. Yes, she was upset and angry, but not so much that she wouldn't understand 5their situation too! She knows what they were going through at that time, it was as traumatic for them as it was for her!)

Draupadi asks Dhritarashtra to free her husbands, that was her first boon. Dhritarashtra agrees immediately. In the next boon, she asks the weapons of Pandavas to be returned. Dhritarashtra agrees to even that, and asks Draupadi to ask for the third boon.

But Draupadi being Draupadi STOPS right there. Yes, she explicitly claims how it is inappropriate for a Kshatrani to be greedy and ask for a third boon, and she has complete faith that her husbands, now free, shall win over and avenge her insult. (ATP, I was literally 🛐🛐🛐🛐🛐 her.)

This woman...this woman, I now realize why Pandavas literally kissed the path she walked upon, for real. This woman knows what she wants, this woman is fearless, this woman is bold, this woman knows exactly what is right and wrong, and this woman SHINES brilliantly, surpassing even the glow of diamonds! This woman is the true example of what true feminism looks like! Believing in herself and her partner without tarnishing the equality of it! She bows to righteousness and chooses the ones who do the same!

She surrenders to Krishna, righteousness and Dharma, in short SHE SAVES HERSELF.

People always pity Draupadi for her Vastraharan, but they don't see how she fights it. They don't understand the power of righteousness at all, but see her as a woman who had no power to fight. Often her surrender to Krishna is looked down upon, like seriously? Surrendering to the Supreme is also a sign of weakness?

Draupadi literally, LITERALLY pulls out the boat which had her and her husbands from drowning from amidst the tempest! She had no weapons, no fighting skills, yet she was able to rescue everyone from the clutches of Duryodhan!

Roughly putting, isn't such a skill more powerful than one having the weapons?

Yet you guys label her as "scaredy cat" and not a Mary Sue, and all?

For me, "shastra ke prayog ke bina hi tumne khudko bacha liya, ye asadharan nahi hai to aur kya?"

In Krishna's words, "Swayam vichar kijiye."

Let others say anything, Draupadi is THE HEROINE of Mahabharat, and in the episode of Vastraharan!

#arjun #krishna #draupadi #mahabharata #mahabharat memes #star plus mahabharat #borice #writers #authors #bookish #booklr #hindublr #krishnablr

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fire-lizard-ro · 1 year ago

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Hi Roro, hope you’re doing well! Let me start by saying your Sunday stuff is MAGNIFICENT, oh my gosh this MAN-

I’ve come with a request for you…

Dr. Veritas Ratio x fem or gn reader. Bathtub. Sex. Like most of the time he’s only interested in reading in the tub, rejecting reader’s advances. But one day, idk, he’s in a MOOD but he doesn’t want to admit it, so he lets reader go a little further than normal with her advances, but he’s still being petty about it, kinda denying and still trying to read his book or whatever and it just Escalates eventually…

Aaaa thank you so much if you decide to do my request! Remember to take breaks and stay hydrated!

I'm ILL over this man jfc-

Dr. Ratio here to prescribe you with a dose of vitamin D-//SHOT

Veri, my love, please just one chance I'm begging just a crumb oisego-

But yesssss gimme the bathtube sex I want it- I wanna do all kinds of wild things to or with this man. Crazy.

But hehehe I know what you are. 👁️👁️

A s i m p . 🫵 (Like I'm any better.)

And thank you!!! This took a While, but I did it. I had lots of fun with it so feel free to request again~

CW and writing under the cut:

CW: vagina and cock (gasp), PIV sex, cockwarming, rough sex, hair pulling, choking (+some breath play), cumming inside (wrap it before you tap it folks), spanking, degradation+praise, objectification, kinda sorta human furniture thing???, name calling (ex:slut), use of words like "cunt" (wow that feels weird writing here-), marking, ignoring you during cockwarming, doggy position(?), cum play, holding your hands behind your back, discussion of safe wording (check-ins), kinda cum as lube?, funishment, d/s aspects to the relationship (though you are dating for romantic reasons as well), slight pussy slapping, talking to your pussy (I know this man a freak <333), crying during sex (+dacryphilia), dumbification (ofc this was gonna be here), ruined orgasm, edging, slight cum eating, a liiiiittle bit of gagging (w/ fingers), usage of "pet" exactly once

Reader gender: fem (I talked with anon separately and they decided on this when I asked for preference- I also only have one fem reader ask. If people want, I can write another version tweaked to be gn or AMAB/male reader~)

Disclaimers:

>>>Dr. Ratio will be referred to as Veritas here since reader is dating him.

>>>This was written and almost finished before 1.6 release.

Bathtub sex, surprisingly, probably isn't the norm for you two. After all, Veritas (oml it feels weird calling him that after so long of calling him Ratio-) enjoys his down time in the bath where he can relax with you and read his books. I like to think that it's one of the few times when his ever racing mind is a bit quieter. So when you are finally pent up enough at just the right time to want to pounce on him in the tub, he's a bit surpised at first. But the surprise would soon melt into mild annoyance. "Can't you just stay still? Quit it- I'm trying to read."

Of course he says it in that ever dramatic way of his while not even glancing up from his book. Speaking of said book- "You're going to get my book wet, darling-" (Yes, he's a "darling" kind of guy. It's sophisticated as he is. And you know he'd say it with that drawl of his and drag the word out. Sometimes in those more intimate moments, it sounds almost like a sultry purr with the way he says it, commanding all your attention.) "And if you do that, you know I'm going to have to punish you, hm?" You almost want it if it means he'd touch you where you want him, but you know that his punishments aren't necessarily fun. Yet still you like them all the same.

(They're more of funishments than punishments in this case- Please do know that funishments and punishments aren't the same, my dear little kinksters~ Since the reader actually enjoys these "punishments" a lot and they are done for their and Veritas' mutual gratification, it's a funishment. These are normally for bratting behavior while actual punishments are for serious things and are meant to actually discourage the behavior that earned you the punishment. Hopefully I explanied it well, lololol-)

But of course you continue to try and rouse his interest, touching him here and there. It reaches the point where you manage to wiggle your way between his arms, in front of his book. Not only does this block his view, but you're dripping water all over his book! (It was all of one or two droplets.) If you listened close enough, you'd probably have heard the sound of his reason breaking in that moment. Like you had poked a sleeping bear one too many times. (And some little part of himself that knew it was also partly because he also was getting into a mood was squashed. Of course it was just because you needed to be disciplined.)

"That's it. You want my attention, darling? Well now you have it.” There was something dark in his voice that sent a shiver down your back and made your nethers tingle in anticipation. He snapped the book closed and set it on the table by the bathtub almost gently, a stark contrast between how his voice sounded and how he was looking at you. He'd tilt his head and consider you, seemingly thinking about how best to punish you for your transgressions. "Hands on my shoulders and do not move them. Color?" Veritas was launching right into it, huh? "Green." "Good."

With hands on his strong shoulders, you watched him with eyes darting around his form to try and figure out what he'd do. Your question was answered by a hand gripping your hip and another dragging down between your breasts, then over your belly, then stopping on your mound. He didn't move any lower, fingers thrumming there just above where you wanted him. Teasing. "I can see your cunt drooling from here. Was she just so hungry that you couldn't be good and hold it until we were out of the tub?" Heat bloomed in your cheeks as he spoke. "Should I punish her? Hm?" Veritas gave your wetness a few light slaps, just enough to make you jolt but not enough to do more than just barely sting. "No- It isn't her fault she's so empty and wanting. But it is your fault that you couldn't be obedient and wait. Isn't that right, my cute little slut?" He whispered in your ear, leaned forward to curl possessively over you while his fingers slipped down to trace around your twitching hole as it tried to suck his finger in.

"Mmmmm..." he hummed lowly, the sound vibrating against you where your chests were pressed together. He kissed the spot beneath your ear before his lips marked a path down your neck, sucking and nipping marks into the tender flesh there. Just as he reached the junction between your neck and shoulder, he suddenly sunk his teeth in and thrusted two fingers into you at the same time. Veritas had sneakily wrapped an arm around your waist to keep you still right before so you weren't able to squirm away from his teeth or his fingers that now plunged in and out of you, agonizingly slow after that fast, rough entry.

The man pressed a kiss to your new bitemark before sliding the hand of the arm around your waist up your back to latch onto your nape and hold you still for a kiss. He chuckled into it as you attempted to fight him for dominance, your tongues clashing. Ultimately, he won and was now devouring your mouth, licking into it with fervor.

At some point, his fingers began to speed up. Veritas was fingerfucking you with his palm slapping against your throbbing clit. And right as you felt yourself begin that climb- He slowed down, his thrusts going back to a leisurely rhythm. He swallowed the whine that left your throat, smirking into the kiss you were still locked in. As he pulled away, he looked incredibly smug. "Thought it would be that easy? Of course not. This is a punishment.”

He did this another time, bringing you close to the rise of pleasure (not at all that close to your peak, though) before going frustratingly slowing. The third time, however... It didn't seem that he was going to stop, and you felt it build and build inside you like a white hot flame. And right as you were reaching the end... He spanked you and ripped his fingers out, sending you over the edge but ruining your orgasm. It had tears beading in your eyes. Fuck did that make him want to fuck you absolutely stupid, but he had more control than that. Your punishment was far from over.

He soothingly ran his hand over your back as you leaned into him, body shivering. "Color?" Through your panting breaths, you managed a weak, "Green." "Good girl." He didn't let you rest any longer, manhandling you into a new position. Now you were leaned over the edge of the tub with your hands keeping you from falling out, Veritas behind you. "I'm going to fuck you now, and you're going to take it all like a good girl, right?" At first you thought he was talking to you, but then he caressed your slit and cooed at it. That mixed sense of shame and arousal shot through you and had you clenching around nothing, making Veritas laugh condescendingly. "So honest..."

Again he started out slow, the sensual slide of his cock inside of your pussy making you close your eyes to focus on the pleasure he was giving you. But he was faster to ramp things up now that he'd already edged you and ruined one of your orgasms. It may or may not have also been because he was quite ready to slake his own lust with your body.

The only reason you didn't slam your face into the tub's edge or fall out was Veritas' grip on you when he grabbed both of your wrists and pulled your arms behind your back. You felt a hand slide into your hair and then he was thrusting into you hard, the slap of his hips slamming into your ass loud in the confined space of the bathroom. It was obscene the way you could even hear the wet sound of his cock going in and out of you amplified by the natural acoustics of said bathroom. "You like hearing how well you take me, slut? I certainly do. It's filthy. Fitting-"

Your hips are bruising from them being pressed onto the edge of the tub, bumping into it with almost every thrust. It hurt but fuck did it all feel so good because he was pressing against your sweet spot every time he fucked into your wet hole.

The hand pulling your head back by your hair let go only to wrap around your throat and pull you up so your back pressed against his chest. "Fuck you sound like such a whore right now. Are you my good little whore? Just for me?" Of course you couldn't answer because your mind was blank from his hand pressing just right to cut off some of that blood flow. Oh and because he had also just tilted his hand to cut off your air. He held for a bit, waiting until your vision was a bit fuzzy at the edges before letting you breathe, the feeling of the air rushing back into your lungs making you dizzy. You felt so close you could scream- And then you nearly did when he pulled out and stopped your orgasm.

His hands let go of you and you nearly keeled over, but he caught you. With an arm around your waist, you couldn't tell what he was doing behind you until you heard the slick sound of him fisting his cock. Right as he began cumming, he slammed back into you to fill you with it while biting down hard on the back of your neck. Another bite to mark you as his.

Veritas then pulled out so the last few spurts of cum would paint your labia in white, marking you inside and out with his spend.

You could feel the frustrated tears pouring down your face as you felt your burning arousal festering in your belly and the mix of embarrassment and thrill at his actions. Fuck this man would be the end of you. He unlatched from your neck to lean forward and lick the tears off your face with a hum. "You look so pretty like this..." He patted your ass before that same hand was sliding down to open you up using your pussy lips as he leaned back to watch as the cum he poured into you began to slip out.

Scooping up the cum that had dribbled out, he fingered it back in, purposefully tapping at your gspot a few times. He then pulled the white covered fingers out and petted your clit, playing with it a little before bringing it to your face. "Clean them off." Your tongue kitten licked some of it off before he was shoving them in your mouth. You gagged a little, drooling over his fingers while weakly sliding your tongue over them to clean them of the cum clinging to them.

"Good girl," he praised with a kiss to your jaw before he let out a sigh. "I'm going to sit you on my cock and finish my reading. Color?" "Green, fuck-" "That's a good pet."

Warming his cock while leaned forward to rest your arms on the lip of the tub while your head rested on those was hard. You desperately wanted to cum, but you now were willing to be obedient to get what you wanted. You weren't sure how much more punishment you could take. It didn't help that he had an arm resting on the back of your hips, slung over them as he leaned on you a bit while his other arm rested atop the other one. That hand was holding up his book. He wasn't touching you besides that and your ass resting in the cradle of his hips, cock deep inside your pussy which still fluttered around his thickness occasionally. Every time you squirmed he would spank you with a pointed look before going back to his book, ignoring you entirely. Any whining or talking would be met with the same treatment.

He checked in on you after a bit. "Color?" "...yellow." His demeanor changed immedately. Petting your side, he eased you back to lean against him once more. "What's wrong, baby?" He typically saved that endearment for intimate moments alone together and times like this where you might need reassurance. "I wanna see your face... wanna hold you." It seemed you might be a bit sensitive, now, after being punished for a while and needed that from him. "Of course, baby. Your punishment is almost over. I'll let you come soon and we can continue in the bedroom, hm?" You loved this man. "Okay." He kissed your forehead. "Good girl."

He slipped out, making you whine. It was met with a chuckle and he helped you turn around to slide into his lap again, this time facing him.

Veritas pulled you to rest against him, tucking you into his neck as he wrapped an arm around your waist. Once you both were settled in, he went back to reading. He still ignored you, but it wasn't so bad this time.

You knew he was done when he set his book on the table again.

He settled his grip on your hips before going straight into fucking up into you hard and fast, what cum was still left in you from his cock plugging it in you aiding the slide of dick in and out of you. He fucked you and played with you until you felt like you couldn't think straight. Even when he asked you questions, knowing you couldn't answer, you weren't quite sure what you said. Whether it was even coherent or not.

"Such a cute, dumb girl for me."

As you came around his cock again, you moaned as you felt the warmth of his cum in you. "Did so, so good for me. Such a good girl." Veritas gave you some time to come down from your high before asking. "Do you want to continue in the bedroom or are you finished for the night?" "...m' done." "Alright, baby." He gave you some more time before cleaning you up and draining the tub. Another kiss was pressed to your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips. "Let's go to bed, darling. I'll take care of you."

Lololol hopefully you like it. 🙏

If there’s any typos or if it doesn’t make sense somewhere… Your honor my client claims “oopsie daisy”. It’s me. The client is me, your honor-

#Roro writes #asks answered #dr ratio x reader #dr ratio smut #fem reader #hsr x female reader #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr dr ratio #honkai star rail dr. ratio x reader #hsr Dr. Ratio x reader #Dr. Ratio x reader #hsr smut #honkai star rail smut #smut

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littlelostmoth · 2 months ago

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The Final Double Exposure Post

Okay, the game is out now and just wanted to share some final thoughts about Double Exposure and the big problems with it. All spoilers below the cut.

Ultimately, even outside of the brutal murder of Pricefield, gaming's most classic wlw couple, the game is just very poorly written. This post will acknowledge that breaking up Pricefield is terrible writing and they do not do it in a way that makes any remote sense whatsoever. While everyone can sit and say "It makes sense they broke up," it didn't. These characters are characters, ones designed to tell a story. Characters who exist as a bright spot for sapphic and queer people playing video games in 2015.

It's the same thinking as everyone used to say "Well if Nathan just had therapy, he'd be better." And to which it would be answered, "No shit, maybe he would have been better with therapy, but it's a story and he rejected going so no he didn't get better and won't get better because that's not the point of the story." Point being, you can self-justify the Pricefield break up with real world logic all you want, but the fact that even Dontnod is sad about the state of it should be telling. That in addition to the leaks about Square hating Chloe and the D9 narrative team hating her, and it was not done as a good faith way to tell a story. Ultimately, the game encourages you to choose the "Kill Chloe" ending of the original game so that Max can retain her memories of her in a pure way, while also removing her from story. If you choose what the D9 devs believe is the morally evil choice, you get horrible Chloe.

There is SOME good stuff in here, but it's not enough to justify the game's existence. Here are the short amount of pros we compiled for the game: the music is well done, the environments are very nice, and the side characters are fine for the most part.

That's it. Everything else is a con: the story, the handling of Max and Safi as characters, the entire mystery of the game basically being shafted in favor of... making the most important thing about Life is Strange the superpowers. It just seems like this game misunderstands what Life is Strange is or was at any point.

Max is so horribly out of character in this game. Why? Why does she do the things she does? Sometimes she feels like a natural adult version of the original game's Max, while other times she's overly horny to the Nth degree. Max has the ability to cheat on her two love interests, and both love interests reject her in the appropriate timelines of pursuance. Within the text of the game, she uses her powers to circumvent the fact that they've rejected her.

Remember the original game's ending? Nightmare!Max accuses Max of selfishly using her powers to manipulate others to her own selfish end. Ultimately, we're left with the fact that Max used her powers to help get others to like her because she didn't have many friends and was a target of bullying. It's morally dubious, but she wasn't doing any of it for like selfish personal gain. It was an extension of her anxiety.

This game goes around this and makes Max purposefully use her powers for selfish gain. The entire first game revolved around the concept of whether or not she was using it for selfish gain. She wasn't. Now the game forces Max to go through the same exact arc, but this time she is actively being awful instead. Not only cheating, but using it to get around being actively romantically rejected.

Then there's how the game handles its story. Like what the hell is going on here? How does any of it make sense. Spoilers again, but the mastermind is Safi, and Safi is a shapeshifter. She wants to take over with world with Max and collect her own superhumans to form a what? A Legion of Doom? Why? Why is Safi a villain? Her villain arc literally comes out of nowhere and the game does little to sell how she goes from wanting a book deal in the beginning to "I have godlike powers, let's take over the world together." Like honey, WHAT? WHY? And the fact the final choice is to join or refuse her??? LIKE WHAT? WHERE DOES IT COME FROM? WHY WOULD MAX, WHO EITHER HAD TO MAKE THE CHOICE TO SACRIFICE A TOWN OR HER LOVED ONE AND IS ETERNALLY TORMENTED OVER BOTH... SUDDENLY ONBOARD WITH BECOMING JUST A GENERIC EVIL GIRL?

And that's it??? Nothing else in the game matters. The romances go nowhere, thus making breaking up with Chloe pointless since it's not like the game allows Max to pursue a relationship seriously any further. Or just the mere fact she's shitty for doing so. None of the plot points of this game matter, and the mystery the game is built on doesn't matter.

It's like... Here's a murder mystery! Without the murder or the mystery! And then... the game just ends. It just ceases to exist and stops without any sort of... ending that feels satisfying. We get an AVENGERS LEVEL END SCREEN OF "MAX CAULFIELD WILL RETURN."

We think about the endings to the other game's endings. They all have some sort of conclusion that feels like its own self contained experience. You get this long and depressing ending of Chloe dying and her funeral... You get this wistful drive out of Arcadia Bay as Obstacles plays. You get Sean surrendering himself to the police so Daniel can live to grow old and not suffer for the sins of those older than him, and how Sean comes out after. You get to see how Chloe and Rachel grow as time passes to the first game. You get to see how Alex chooses to live her life on her own terms after so long of feeling like she was trapped. You get all of these different endings for the game and here you get... what amounts to the exact same ending depending on your choice which is to be horribly evil supervillain when the time comes or not, and then sequel bait with Diamond and Safi. Why? Why does she have a bleed from her nose? Since when did that become a common occurrence for superpowers? Or storms when powers are overused along with nightmares?

In the original game, the nosebleeds are a result of Max twists reality around her as the epicenter. It's the physical damage she gets for what her powers are physically doing to existence. The storm? The point is, we don't know why the storm comes.

When did Life is Strange become about superpowers and taking over the world? When did it become all of these things? Like True Colors isn't a perfect game by any means, but for fuck's sake it at least knew the scale of what a Life is Strange game should be. Small town mysteries with a colorful cast we love and hate. To this day, I still think that the Jed stuff is some of the most morally fascinating questions to be raised in the franchise. To have that final choice be to either forgive him or not? It's an incredible final choice that is so intertwined with the game's themes. To leave or to stay afterwards? They're both extremely meaningful, dual choices.

This game does nothing. That's ultimately it. What did we gain from Double Exposure? Nothing. It doesn't continue Max's character in any meaningful way. It does little to build upon the actual lore of the original game. It doesn't actually use any original characters except Chloe and that's solely to drive it in how much they despise her from a writing perspective.

Regardless of how well each game did at telling their stories... They all had something meaningful to say in some way. Even if Before the Storm is not a game that I'd necessarily say is amazing, there is some thought and thematic purpose put to that game. It's still 1000 times the game this will ever be.

When I was first exposed to the game's ending... the emotion I felt was pure and raw bafflement. Not anger. Not sadness. Bafflement and bewilderment. I had no idea what the fuck I just played or what I gained from it? What does Max as a character gain from this story? What do any of the characters in this game gain from the story? Nothing. The game starts and then it ends. And we all gained absolutely nothing from the experience. (And in BtS the ending is fine, because it's a prequel that has to have a clearly defined ending to lead into the first game. You can't break Chloe and Rachel's relationship, it always has to be what it is.)

For a long time I really hated the Life is Strange comics. It felt like a kick in the head to the original game's story. But then after it ended and this came out, we can view it as a more honest and genuine follow up to the games as opposed to... whatever we got here.

The comics focus heavily on Max's perceived guilt over what happened to Arcadia Bay. She comes to believe that she, herself, is the problem in reality. That she makes everyone around her unhappy, including Chloe. While Chloe reassures her this is not true... she ends up displaced and removed from reality... and punishes herself by sending her to a world where Chloe is happy with Rachel.

The rest of the story is Max and Chloe apart for years, as Max wrestles with her guilt... while Chloe waits for her. Chloe waits and knows Max is out there still. Max eventually realizes how wrong she was after self-reflection and being around the alt!Chloe and Rachel helps her realize she was wrong.

Chloe builds them a home.

Chloe comes to move past her own grief, just as Max did.

Chloe helps rebuild Arcadia with her own hands. She decides she has a home. This town, with Max. And then they're together... And that's what matters because... like Michel said: "They have each other."

And that is what Life is Strange was about. These two young women, who were best friends... they grew apart through tragedy and life circumstances... And then they found each other again, fell in love, and even in tragedy had one another to rely on.

I am who I am because of Life is Strange.

I met the love of my life because of Life is Strange.

And no matter how bad Double Exposure is... It can't take away Life is Strange, Max, or Chloe from me.

No.

It can't take them away from us. From all of us who cared enough to stick around this funny little 20$ adventure game from a decade ago.

#life is strange #double exposure #max caulfield #chloe price #pricefield #spoilers #spoilers for all lis games #true colors #life is strange 2 #before the storm #read the comics

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beachf4gz · 4 months ago

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I recently was able to restart my adhd meds after a few months of them being out of stock so I have been reading wayyy more DE fanfic again, and something I find kind of interesting is how prominant certain in-game choices are in regards to Harry's fanon characterisation. I understand why the communist route and sorry-cop copotype are by far the most common ways ppl write Harry- I think most people playing the game end up identifying with those dialogue options and therefor end up following those routes (and its a fairly big time commitment to replay with the intention of seeing all the different route you could take)- but I do sometimes really wish there was more writing for the different copotypes and political orientations because the ways Harry's internal processes and position in the world are affected are REALLY interesting to me. I completely understand being uncomfortable (or just uninterested) by the idea of exploring an ultraliberal, moralist or facist character- I think fanfiction as a medium is compelling in part because you are conveying your own relationship to a piece of work, including your own moral reactions and beliefs applied upon the work's characters- but I think DE includes the option to *play as* a character occupying these roles (rather than just presenting them through npcs) in order to invite players to experience and examine the act of being these things both internally and within social contexts.

I think Harry can be fascinating and heartbreaking as a character study in any of these routes, and the gameplay can feel radically different between them even following the same plot. For example, I found the moralist route deeply evocative. It has an uneasy, desperate feeling to it as someone struggles to occupy the in-group, to live in normalcy and civility in the face of their own world ending. It creates an odd position for Harry as accutely disabled and vulnerable- contrasting percieved social acceptance and safety with the tearing of reality "as it should be" at the failure of the social mechanisms he believes in to meet their promise of happiness or safety. The gameover at the statue left me genuinely stunned when I first got it, its sort of horrifying in it's bluntness, and I found it really upsetting in this specific raw way. Its an excellent way of demonstrating, emotionally, the failure and cruelty of liberalism upon those who believe in it- but also its devastating for Harry's character as he is presented through the moralist dialogue. I also found it rlly compelling how the honor cop dialogue options explore Harry as a person seeking dignity in the face of their social ostracisation, and how apocalypse-cop explores the social modes of someone who has fallen out of the "normal reality space", how impaired his ability to live is in response to a full awareness of overwhelming, total threat. I'm not good at writing essays and stuff, idk if I'm explaining this well, but all of the routes are written with such an intimate and personal examination of how it *feels* to occupy different modes of being- of the way the world will treat you if you interact with it in certains ways, or the person you will be and the emotional shape your life will form depending on your framework. I think its kind of abstract and difficult to write properly, but I think its something you can reaaaallly sink yourself into if you find Harry a compelling character- I personally do (lmao) and its something I love seeing whenever I get the chance. I get the appeal of Harry as an exccentric mentally ill communist whose political beliefs are, in social contexts, extentions of his rejection of social norms and position as othered under liberal belief- I do also just enjoy the fact that this version of Harry is only one mode of being he could occupy, and the varying ways in which he is socially, emotionally or cognitively enabled/disabled by other modes of being, and the position the game takes in exploring them all as choices or as routes and reactions by the same person- as someone afloat and disempowered in the world attempting to find "how to live".

#disco elysium #annoying text post alert #bad spelling i am on my phone

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janearts · 1 year ago

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I couldn't help myself from referencing Highlander. There can be only one [wielder of the Netherstones]!

Proper answer (and some character analysis for Roisia) under the read-more.

Roisia was surprised by Gortash, but pleasantly so. In the first place, as far as Roisia is concerned, Ketheric and Orin recall their respective gods in their appearance: Ketheric is withered, a husk of a person, but indomitable, and Orin... well, Orin looks like a flayed corpse with meat-suit clothes, but close enough. Roisia would have expected Bane's Chosen to be more... physically domineering. Terrifying. Intractable. ...Loud? Instead, here's this charming handsome fellow who is really rather ordinary. If Roisia met him on the street, he'd just be another debonair noble lusting for power. (Join the feckin' queue!)

And neither does Gortash behave as Roisia would have expected Bane's Chosen to behave. She would have expected a Banite to be a tyrant, a Faerûnian-version of the Machiavellian prince, who instils a terror of himself and who rules through fear. Instead, Gortash gently curates among the populace not a fear of him, but a xenophobic fear of The Outsider (whether that outsider is a cult like the Absolute or a group of people like the Coast's refugees).

Roisia—by all accounts an oppositional force to his own—encounters a man who is genuinely, fully, confidently willing to partner with her to achieve a common goal and is willing to swear a divine oath to secure that partnership...

Poor man. What a fool.

You see, Roisia is something of a Machiavellian prince. She would despise to think of herself in that way were she to read Il Principe, but she has within herself some (but not all!) of the traits and qualities that are described within. She is frequently a mirror: where she meets evil, she wields evil with aplomb. ("You desire me to kiss your foot? I think not. You shall kiss mine.") She would very much prefer to offer mercy, but if her mercy is rejected—like when Ketheric imprisons Dame Aylin once again before yeeting himself into the primordial soup—then she will dole out cruelty in equal measure. Most importantly of all, Roisia is a liar and a deceiver, all while appearing compassionate, guileless, and true to her word. Roisia only really keeps her word when it suits her purposes. Were she otherwise, she would have found that Gortash would have been faithful to his word to the last. But as the Machiavellian prince, she betrays and slays him.

Actually, having written all that, Roisia is more of an embodiment of the Machiavellian prince than I originally thought: she is virtuous and good, sure, but she is also intimately familiar with baser behaviours (lying, cruelty, conspiracy, etc.) and wields those base behaviours like a tool when and where she feels it is needed and necessary.

Which is why I was absolutely thrilled when I had her do what was only natural to her and had her speak to Gortash post-mortem. Roisia is a character who believes herself to be godless: damned and/or abandoned by Kelemvor, Lord of the Dead and Judge of the Damned, for being a Necromancer. She had a sliver of hope that she would find favour with Myrkul, but Myrkul thought only of the Chosen stolen from him. She thought, perhaps, that she might find favour with Bhaal because, let's face it, she had slaughtered and bloodied so many in her long journey to Baldur's Gate, but the skull only wept blood and that was that. Bane, however, actually speaks to her, acknowledges her, validates her. She won his favour the moment she betrayed and slayed Gortash. She is in her very nature a stellar Banite. Incredible! And absolutely absurd. Thank you to Larian for programming that opportunity in. 😂

#Baldur's Gate 3 #BG3 #BG3 Spoilers #Gortash #Enver Gortash #BG3 Roisia #Act III Spoilers #Roisiacanons #rosecanons #roisiacanons

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writteninlunarlight-years · 3 months ago

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Please Don't Prove I'm Right

This is based on the song Please Please Please (Epic Version) - by Morgan Clae. I haven't written in a long time; my mental health has taken a significant toll not too long ago. I have been going to some consistent therapy as well as taking things slowly on my own terms. I thank my support and followers right next to me as I recover. The banners are all from @venomhound. Please reach out to them for some excellent help with the Tumblr blog. They have been a big help to me. @literallurker is their main account. Thank you everyone for bearing with me. You are all amazing. My moons~

TW: AFAB Reader, Hurt, Graphic Details of Harm, Religious Truama's, Yandere Reader for a moment

In the beginning, heaven was a breathtaking expanse of glistening white, where clouds floated like soft pillows in an endless sky. The angels above drifted gracefully among them, their laughter echoing with pure joy, and the air held an ethereal light that felt almost alive. It was a realm of boundless beauty reserved solely for God’s beloved.

But everything changed when Lucifer, once the most cherished of all angels, was cast down. The pristine clouds darkened, their softness replaced by a bitter heaviness that weighed down the heavens. The once-gleaming landscape morphed into a realm of towering structures and watchful exorcists. The loss was palpable, as if the heavens themselves mourned the fall of its brightest star.

When you first encountered Lucifer, you were just a baby angel, a mere child of the heavens. You were newly formed, wide-eyed, and full of wonder, destined to guide the three humans wandering in the paradise of Eden. You felt an unshakeable bond with him—a connection transcending mere friendship. He was your sun, your air, the essence of your existence in this perfect world.

Lucifer was intoxicatingly brilliant, his spirit igniting something that felt sinful within you. Yet, whispers of his rumored affections for a human stirred around you. It was said that he had fallen for one of them—impossible, you thought. God’s favorite should follow divine order, untouched by earthly desires, especially for a mortal once destined for Adam and soon rejected.

As you flitted anxiously through the heavens, awaiting his return, you could feel the eyes of the other angels upon you, judgment simmering in their stares. Sera, a newly appointed Seraphim, approached her voice a gentle choir against your rummaging thoughts.

“Y/N, you seem troubled. Is everything all right?” Her youthful features were unmarred by the weight of time, yet you could sense the unspoken warnings in her tone.

“I’m just waiting for Lucifer,” you replied, forcing a smile. “He’s never taken this long before.”

You could hear the skepticism in her voice before you even looked up. “Y/N, he’s trouble. He doesn’t see you the way he sees that woman. His heart is blind to your devotion, lost to her instead.”

Each word struck like a dagger, stinging your eyes with tears. “No, Sera. He cares for me. He tells me everything about his adventures in Eden. He will come back for me.” Your voice trembled with hope and desperation as if your sadness could summon him.

Just then, like a flash of lightning, Lucifer burst through the gates, the embodiment of energy and life. He swooped down, wrapping you in a joyous embrace, spinning you through the clouds, laughter spilling from his lips like music. You could feel Sera’s disdain radiating from behind, but you didn’t care. In that moment, you were weightless, untouchable...his.

In an instant, he whisked you away to a secluded corner of heaven, where you could gaze down upon Eden. Confusion washed over you as you settled on a fluffy cloud, watching him pace with uncontainable excitement, his wings shimmering behind him. He was always so proud of his beautiful wings.

“Y/N! I’ve discovered how to make Father recognize the humans as equals!” he declared, his eyes alight with excitement.

“Why would you want that?” you asked, a knot tightening in your chest. “We’re different for a reason. We’re not meant to be like them.”

His face fell as he paused, the thrill evaporating. “I need them to be seen as equals so I can bring them to heaven with us! Don’t you remember everything I’ve shared? All the dreams I have?”

The ache in your heart deepened. You wanted to forget, to lose yourself in his bright hair and vibrant blue eyes, but the thought of Adam, Eve, and Lilith standing beside you twisted like a knife, no, not beside you...beside him. Two perfect couples, it seemed.

“Of course, I remember,” you said, forcing a smile. “Please, continue.” But inside, a storm raged between your heart and mind.

What if you could just keep him for yourself? What if you shattered his wings, leaving him grounded and broken? What if you descended into the chaos below and extinguished Lilith’s light? What if you bound him to your will, claiming him as your own?

In that moment, you felt the weight of your thoughts, and the realization stung sharper than any blade. He was meant for her, not for you. There is no way when he spoke of you to her, if he did that, she had these thoughts...were you even an angel?

A chill ran down your spine as these dark fantasies engulfed your mind, each thought more treacherous than the last. You gasped, the air thick with dread, realizing you were still with Lucifer, his presence a paradox of comfort and ongoing torment.

He rushed to you, his fingers brushing your cheek with a heavenly and cruel tenderness. His soothing yet distant voice echoed in your ears as a haunting melody. He was perfection incarnate, and you couldn’t fathom why those mere mortals deserved even a fraction of his devotion. You were willing to sin to keep him all to yourself...

After countless attempts to gain your attention, he realized it was futile. With a gentle sweep, he lifted you into the air, his wings unfurling majestically as he flew you to your resting zone—a serene haven that now felt like a ticking clock counting down to your last moment of peace.

If only you had known this would be your final day in his embrace, perhaps you would have listened more intently, held him tighter against the wind, and begged him to affirm that your bond was real—that his heart belonged to you, not to that woman on the surface.

But morning shattered the tranquility, a sudden onslaught of light and chaos. Angels gathered, their faces a storm of judgment as Lucifer stood before them, shackled and tormented, bound to that woman from below.

Tears blurred your vision as the reality of betrayal washed over you. He had chosen her, and in a cruel twist of fate, you were forced to witness your shame laid bare before God and all the Angels you shared home with.

Then came the searing pain—the molten metal of chains biting into your neck and wrists, dragging you toward the center of the circle of wrath. Confusion clouded your thoughts as you locked eyes with Sera, whose disdainful glance pierced through your confusion like a dagger.

“Y/N, DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU’VE BEEN SUMMONED HERE WITH THESE TWO TRAITORS?” The voice boomed, a thunderous echo that reverberated through your very essence. You looked past Sera to see Him—the man the Archangels called Father, his presence both majestic and terrifying. With a shaky breath, you swallowed your fear and shook your head.

“No, Father, I don’t understand. Why am I being punished?” Each word felt like a desperate plea, even as the burning sensation clawed at your skin, choking you of your right to breathe.

“Father, please! Y/N is innocent! She knew nothing of my plans; she was ill when I confided in her last night!” Lucifer’s voice, once a safe haven for your soul, now felt like salt in an open wound. The sincerity in his plea twisted your heart, revealing the depths of betrayal you had yet to fully grasp.

“Silence, Lucifer, for God speaks! The matter at hand isn’t who has wronged whom but that this angel knew of your treachery and chose to remain silent!” Your world crumbled hearing Sera’s voice. You were to fall alongside those who had deceived you, tethered to the very man who had strung you along with promises and soft whispers late in the night, now choosing to partake in those nights with Lilith instead.

“FOR YOUR PUNISHMENT, Y/N, YOU WILL BE THE JUDGE OF THE SPACE BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH. YOU WILL DETERMINE THE FATE OF SOULS, FOR YOU HAVE CHOSEN TO WALK AMONG BOTH SIDES! YOU WILL FACE ETERNAL LONELINESS AND ISOLATION FOR YOUR TRANGRESSIONS UPON HEAVEN AND EDEN!” Fear engulfed you, a suffocating darkness that threatened to consume all hope. You were to be cast into a purgatory of your own making, alone and forsaken.

“Release her shackles!” As Sera’s voice cut through the air like a blade, you felt the chains around you dissolve, yet the burn marks remained, a permanent reminder of your choices. You were thrust away from Lucifer, your heart pounding against the confines of your chest, and when your eyes finally met his, you saw the flicker of concern. It ignited a deep-seated rage within you.

Pain shot through your back like lightning as your wings began to transform from gleaming white to a deep, obsidian black. Your halo, once a radiant gold, dulled to bronze, and your skin took on a gray hue. The purity of your existence was now tainted by your one-sided love for Lucifer.

“FATHER, NO! SPARE HER!” Lucifer’s desperate cries echoed through the heavens, but they fell on deaf ears. You stood there, hollowed out, your heart aching not for the punishment before you but for the betrayal that had led you here.

As the Archangel Michael took his stance next to Lucifer, he raised his sword, poised to sever Lucifer's wings. You were forced to witness the agony of his fall. His screams of anguish faded into the abyss as the clouds beneath you crumbled, sending you spiraling into your new reality.

For years, you lingered in purgatory, a silent reaper of the soul’s passage, guiding some to Heaven’s light and casting others into the depths of Hell. With each soul that passed through your hands, your heart grew heavy with bitterness, festering into a resentment that twisted into distaste. You found yourself haunted by thoughts of Lucifer—by the life he now shared with her, the woman who claimed his heart and turned your world upside down.

Then came the day you were summoned to Heaven, tasked with presenting your report on the balance of Winners and Sinners. It was there, amid the looming towers and the changed landscape of your once home, that you first laid eyes on her—Charlie Morningstar, a living echo of Lucifer, with his fiery spirit shimmering in her every gesture.

As you sat in the grand jury meeting, the air thick with tension, you listened to the murmurs of angels discussing Lucifer and Lilith’s child. Your heart ached as you watched Charlie fight for her dreams, her passion reminiscent of his—how he had once battled for his aspirations, now he was seemingly forgotten till Charlie showed up.

Then, as if summoned by fate, Adam snapped his fingers, opening a portal to cast Charlie and her partner back to hell. Just as it threatened to close, a surge of instinct propelled you forward, a desperate need to reach him again, the man you loved, to grasp the fleeting connection you had lost. You rushed toward the portal, your heart racing, your soul crying out to see him missing you.

On the other side, Lucifer stood, his eyes wide with shock and recognition. Amidst his hand, a cold golden band sat, showing where his commitments lie. Time froze as you locked gazes, every unspoken word hanging heavy between you. He extended his hand, a lifeline reaching through the veil, but the portal snapped shut instantly, severing the moment like a blade.

Tears welled in your eyes as despair washed over you, your head drooping low as the chamber emptied around you. Sera approached her presence, a gentle reminder of all those years ago, offering solace amid your sadness.

"It's time to let go, Y/N," she murmured, her voice soft yet firm. You nodded, feeling the weight of her words settle heavily in your chest. With a trembling hand, you reached out to the wall where the portal had been, yearning for the connection that had vanished.

As Sera sighed and stepped away, you whispered, “Please, please, please prove I’m right...Please, please, please don’t bring me to tears for one more night...”

Years of pent-up emotions, longing, and heartache surged in a wave. A soft black glow began to envelop you. It consumed you, drawing you back into the solitude that Lucifer had unwittingly gifted you—a prison of your own making. Purgatory was your new and forever home.

Instead of proving you right, Lucifer had always been a master of disappointment, a beacon of hope that burned too bright yet always flickered just out of reach. He would continue to choose her, leaving you alone in the shadows, grappling with the remnants of a love that had never truly belonged to you. Or...did it...

Thank you again, everyone, for the support; I will slowly take steps back into the community one foot at a time. I hope you enjoy my pieces and stick around for my growth <3

#x reader #lunarwritings #moons #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel imagine #Lucifer x reader #Lucifer x you #Lucifer x reader fluff #Lucifer x you fluff #hazbin hotel Lucifer #hazbin Lucifer #Lucifer fluff #Lucifer #Theduckyking #thekingofhell

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harfanfare · 1 year ago

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Hey! I really love your "how to win the heart of." Can you do one for Vil? If not that's totally fine I'm just curious.

How to win the heart of Vil Schoenheit?

Be a fan.

You like to think that the oldest memory you can recall is how you became Vil’s fan.

Until then, the recitals your school took you on were boring. Only in fifth grade, the teachers realise that, hm, maybe ancient plays might be a bit too much for those little brains, and in a spark of determination to change something, your class was taken to watch a staged version of a fairy tale, played by youngsters for youngsters.

The memory of Vil, the villain of the story, entering the scene is much more vivid. Even as a child, he was inarguably elegant and strikingly beautiful, it left you agape and your curious heart beating loudly in your chest.

“It’s better than having a completely fictional crush,” your classmate said after you confessed how much endeared you were by Vil and his acting. You listened as you typed a password to a newly-created Magicam account, solely for following him there. “There is a chance that you and him will be together.”

“A big chance?”

“Uh, like this?” She tries to show how big your chance is with her fingers. She wants to leave a gap between her fingers, but ultimately, they touch, and she puts her hands down. “I mean, we are almost the same age, so maybe you can go to the same high school as him? In a very long future…”

“I am not delusional…”

Nonetheless, the thought did make you hope.

After you reached the age of sixteen, the invitation came. For a whole year — since you saw Vil’s post on his new college choice — you’ve been pondering whether you’ve possessed enough magic talent to get into Night Raven College, the school of chosen. In good dreams, the Magic Mirror deemed your soul to be solely fit for Pomefiore. In nightmares, you were doomed to… well, any other dorm, if you were a student at NRC at all.

And maybe dreams really come true because the future you’ve anticipating has turned into a reality.

“Alright, is everyone from Pomefiore here?” Your heart stops when you hear that wonderful voice, this time not from your phone nor from 100 meters away from the speakers. You turn around, and there he is, Vil Schoenheit in all his glory stands and guides the students to the hall of mirrors. He looks like a portrait, and even if you saw his face thousands of times, the glint in his eyes redeems you speechless. “Congratulations, everyone. We will hold the welcoming introductions at our dorm. Follow me!”

Yes, Vil Schoenheit is your idol. And in the first seconds of meeting him, you were ready to follow him to the end of the world.

‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎

2. Get rejected. Have your heart broken.

“I apologize,” Vil says slowly, and you notice how his voice is a little monotonous. Just a bit, as if he had repeated these words countless times like the lines before a recital. “And while I wholeheartedly appreciate your feelings, [Name], I want to focus on my studies and career. It’s a bad time for me to think about dating. Nonetheless, thank you for being brave and sincere enough to tell me all of this.”

You nod. The pain in your chest gives you goosebumps. It makes your head spin so fast your legs feel unstable as if there is some shift in gravity. You bow with curtsy because every Pomefiore student should be able to do so elegantly even on a space station. “Thank you for listening to my confession.”

“Of course,” he says and looks down at the letter he got from you. It’s neat, somehow cute with how carefully his name is written on it. He holds it gently so as to not crinkle the delicate paper. “I will read the contents tonight.”

“Thank you. No need to write a response,” you force a little chuckle and excuse yourself. You will be overthinking how could you say something like that after you get over your stupid letter and even dumber confession.

Vil doesn’t say anything as you walk a little too fast to keep the step elegant. He sighs at this view and mindfully tucks your letter amid the pages of the book. Now’s the time for history class. He shouldn’t get distracted—

—and soon enough, you’re out of his mind.

That is until he reads your letter.

It's a beautifully crafted confession, put into elegant lettering and a pale pink envelope. It's sealed with red wax in the shape of a perfect heart; if you haven't used magic, it must've taken several evenings to get the precision you wanted.

You’re his fan. He knows it even if you hadn’t pointed it out; the well-tailored sentences betrayed your utter attention on him in the last several years. You’re his fan, but you don’t cheapen yourself. He is the idol you admire and love, but you don’t degrade yourself to a servant or a worshiper. And that is, unexpectedly, uncommon.

The letter is—also—a challenge to yourself. “If you were to reciprocate those feelings, I will prove myself worthy to stand by your side,” it reads.

He likes that letter. Once he finishes it, he skims over the text one last time and puts it between many other letters he has gotten. Between them, another envelope seems unremarkable, yet the words there…

Unforgotten.

He sighs. Maybe he will pay more attention to you from now on.

‏‏‎ ‎

3. Don’t remember all the etiquette rules.

“You wrote in your letter that I've inspired you to learn. Go on, then. Show me how motivated you are.”

So, now Vil bullies you over your letter.

He can’t be satisfied with your scarce etiquette knowledge—he wouldn’t be content if it was decent, as it would be a dishonour to Pomefiore—but amusement crinkles in his eyes at your utter confusion over the numerous forks, knives, spoons and glasses. They’ve been spread out in several rows and columns varying from the oyster forks to champagne flute.

You hesitate. Maybe you could point out which one is the butter knife or sugar spoon, but you never cared enough to discover which fickle knife is a fish knife. Should you be looking for the one with grooves or an extremely thin one? Would it hurt to use a normal knife to eat the salmon?

Oftentimes you’re thankful there is no awkward silence between you and Vil after your confession, but you can’t shake off the impression he’s been harder on you.

“On second thought, maybe I wasn't motivated enough to learn all the names of cutlery,” you say, not daring to try your luck in labelling each piece.

To your surprise, Vil smiles and uses a teasing tone that leaves you stunned and wide-eyed. “Is that so?”

You take a breath and huff, lowering your eyes. “Yes. The power of—,” unrequired, you bite your tongue on that bitter word, “—love ends here.”

Vil cracks another delighted smile. You start suspecting that someone drugged him with a smiling potion, as you should have received a severe scolding by now. You don’t have anything against the change, so the mention of Vil’s (relative) laid-backness goes unmentioned.

“I will have you seated next to me on tomorrow's dinner, so don't even think of slacking off,” he says, putting a hand on your lower back and gently pushing you towards the next table where the heavy textbooks look so very uninviting. “I won't have any student under my wing not know the basic etiquette. Especially if it’s my fan.”

‏‏‎ ‎

4. Have opinions and the courage to voice them.

Because standing for your own makes you flourish in your own colours and not blend into the monotony of the mainstream. Seek truth, good, and beauty and you will bestow the brilliance upon yourself.

‏‏‎

5. Try to have a healthy lifestyle.

You’ve never imagined Vil barging into your room with a tray of food. Why would he? But here you are, sitting in front of an aesthetically pleasing breakfast, mouth-watering pancakes with cream and a bit of honey, and the deep green shake in question that suits the colour palette but probably tastes awfully, like all good stuff packed with vitamins.

“You should never starve yourself if you want to live healthy.”

It’s hard to swallow anything as your dorm leader glares at you, but Vil refuses to leave you before he sees you eating the stuff he brought. You wondered if he prepared the breakfast himself. Probably not.

“No? I thought that keeping a diet is good.”

“If you are dieting you eat,” Vil hisses and sinks a little more into the couch. He brings a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as if he suddenly got struck with a headache. “Oh, heavens. What am I going to do with you?”

“Maybe—”

“Quiet,” it apparently was a rhetorical question. Maybe Vil would be mad at any answer from you as he considers you a fool. He waits until you take another bite of the pancake. “A dinner break will be in two hours, and I expect you to be there.”

“I think I will still be full by that time,” you admit, glancing at a pancake and a half. “These pancakes are savoury but so very filling.”

“Savor them as much as you like,” Vil says somewhat proudly. …Maybe he did make those pancakes? No. He wouldn’t bother this much. The satisfied note in his voice makes you ponder nonetheless. “But you have no excuse for yourself not to sit with us on the meals. Also—”

His gaze grows unexpectedly impish as his eye catches something.

“I will reeducate you on the topic of a healthy lifestyle,” he glances at the bowl of bland lettuce you prepared for yourself. He smiles, either in amusement or light pity. “It should have a little more… spice.”

‏‏‎ ‎

6. Take an interest in high culture.

“It feels like the hellish lessons of Heartslabyul…”

“The Queens’ 810 rules?” Vil’s smile is lopsided and his eyes render into a knowing look once they meet your gaze. “They are nothing compared to a number of customs in etiquette.”

You take a turn. The classes for today might have ended, but if hearing all that useful stuff meant you would walk with Vil back to Pomefiore, you could bear another few minutes of a lecture. You know that everything he tells you about, he already mastered. He wouldn’t teach you anything half-heartily.

“The etiquette of speaking, the dress code, the knowledge of dinner manners (well, you’ve mastered some part of it already, with the cutlery lessons), the control of body language, the indication of voice, the honorifics, the art of writing letters and emails… You don’t want me to list all of the things I expect from you?”

You would like to, because Vil’s voice is beautiful, but the student part of you takes over control and shakes your head. Just like Riddle, who has a reputation for demanding impossible care and inquiring rules, your dorm leader is not much better — maybe even worse, because while Heartslabyul has to oblige the absurd in chosen hours or circumstances, you are on your toes in every moment.

“So much to master in just four years in the NRC…”

“It’s a lot,” Vil says, and he’s the only person you would doubt if he speaks the truth in that matter. Especially if through your walk his strides seemed perfectly calculated and hand gestures finely planned. “But if you put a mind and heart into it, you will learn all of this in no time.”

You hum. It’s hard to think of having any more motivation than from where you were a zealous Vil fan.

You ask (ponder) and he delivers.

“Actually, I have an offer: if you’ll learn it all in ahead of time, I will teach you a dating etiquette.”

…

What?

“…Dating etiquette?!” You shriek so loudly, that several students turn their heads. You cover your mouth as if it would do something, and ignoring Vil’s delighted gaze, and lower your voice to a whisper. “There is such a thing?”

“Of course. Who should invite who on the first date and where, what gifts can you give and what can you accept, and how to behave with your loved one, like,” he pauses a little, and you almost know he bites the sides of his cheeks to contain himself from smiling, “How to kiss someone in particular situations.”

You want to die. How else should you react? How can he tease you so much when he rejects you? (Not like you were expecting much at the time, yet…)

“There is no kissing etiquette. You tease me…”

“Just a little,” Vil laughs, and you slowly relax. “But take my proposal seriously. If I can give you another motivation to engage in your studies, then I will by all means do so.”

‏‏‎ ‎

7. Get an access to his private Magicam account.

“Do you have Magicam? If you want to, you can add me.”

Vil asks the question. He should have chastised you for mindlessly scrolling through social media because you can probably put your mind and hands to better use. The casual tone surprises you, but the inquiry gets you defensive as if it questioned you being Vil’s fan.

“I’ve already been following you for years,” you declare and pull up your phone.

Before you get to his profile, Vil sighs.

“Not the promotional account,” he says. “Mine.”

You frown. Many times you’ve seen Vil posting the photos on the “promotional account” with his personal thoughts. Maybe because you've been blinded by the elegance and harmony of every post, the idea that he would operate the Magicam profile solely for business purposes has never occurred to you.

“You have another account?” You ask, flabbergasted.

Vil rolls his eyes at the surprise in your tone and sits next to you. Your phone beeps as you get a notification about a new user following you. In a heartbeat, you follow the account back. You almost gape at the pictures there; they are beautiful, elegant, and all in Vil’s manner, but he looks like… a common student. Not ethereally, not otherworldly, but still enchantingly.

“It’s a private profile, so I ask you for discretion. I would like to keep this one for my close friends and family,” Vil says, and you hastily nod, your heartbeat sounding like a drumbeat in your ears. Having access to his personal account felt… personal, ironically.

I would like to keep this one for my close friends — he said that, didn’t he? Does he consider you a close friend?

That’s more than you ever imagined.

And yet you dare to dream for more.

You pull your phone close to your chest. “I feel honoured.”

Vil smiles at the statement. “Of course. As you should.”

‏‏‎ ‎

8. Let yourself be pampered.

“Don’t move,” Vil asks for impossible because you want to bolt as he leans to you once again and only the glare he staggers you with as you push away the urge to close your eyes. You hope the foundation is thick enough to cover a blush that creeps on your face. “You will ruin my work.”

You give up and glance down, earning another heavy sigh from your superior.

“Maybe I should finish the eye makeup myself?” You offer. “I am unused to anyone doing my makeup, so it’s hard not to flinch.”

Your good intentions get ruined as the question aggravates Vil even more because he frowns at you. Staying put and keeping quiet about that whole ordeal would seem like a lovely idea, you question whether your heart could manage another hour in this setup.

“Don’t be absurd,” he says. “We need to handle your sensitivity to the touch or you will struggle in the future if you decide to be a model.”

“I am not—”

“Stop.”

“I—”

“Silence. Be quiet, potato,” he presses his finger to your lips to seal them shut. You feel something sticky, and as his finger traces your lips, you realize it’s the lip gloss, and it’s a very good-smelling one like a strawberry; you didn’t expect something so sweet-tasting to be in Vil’s liked products. “You are under my care now. It also brings me satisfaction to see my skills used on someone.”

“Vil—”

“Shut up,” it’s hard to get offended at him, as he uses such a gentle tone. He takes a good look at your lips and as he glances up at you, probably to see if the colours of the whole makeup are consistent, your mouth goes dry. “Before I tell you to do so, don’t speak. You will mess up with the lip gloss and it’s… difficult to apply one on you.”

What? It’s difficult to apply the lipgloss on you?

Alright**,** you nod, pondering if the lip makeup is really that difficult. Do you have an unusual shape of lips (it’s probably not that?), or is this balm so hard to spread? You sit still, as Vil moves closer to you.

Yeah, except for the touch you need a way to ignore the beating of your heart.

‏‏‎ ‎

9. Move on from your heartbreak.

“Would you like to go out with me today?”

A kind smile convinced you to agree, although you barely recognize the name of the boy standing in front of you. His voice was hopeful, and you were reminded of the time you bore the same expectant expression.

You had no heart to let it fall, not right now, not so quickly, so you paint a delighted smile over your face. “Thank you. I would love to.”

…

You should’ve done this a long time ago.

For the sake of your friendship with Vil, you decide to stop hoping that the man of your dreams might change his mind after getting to know you better. He found a friend in you, and you would hate to disappoint him with your longing for him.

So, you should distract yourself from him and fall in love with someone else.

Today’s date will be a perfect opportunity.

You dress quite stylishly, not enough to steal all the attention, but enough to impress your date. You put more effort into the makeup this evening and spend some time picking the most fitting jewellery. The perfume you picked is subtle but alluring and chic, an excellent concoction, but you could’ve expected nothing less from Vil’s recommendation.

…It feels kind of wrong to use everything he taught you to prepare for a date, but you would’ve used this knowledge one day either way, no? It’s not like he is your first… and last love.

“I heard a boy from Scarabia have confessed to you,” the familiar voice you love but don’t want to hear like now spooks you. Vil leans on your door frame, and you wonder how much he has stayed here.

“I just agreed on a date,” you say, standing up and adjusting the folds of your outfit. You look him in the eye. “How do I look?”

Vil snorts, and his lips stretch into a mean, devilish smile. “Are you expecting an approving comment from me?”

Asking the fashion icon to rate your outfit might’ve been a wrong move. You shake your head.

“Nevermind. He’ll have to deal with however I am if he doesn’t want me to be late,” after glancing the last time into the mirror and receiving a smile from your reflection, you pick up your phone. “Well then. I shall get going.”

Vil is still, as if he hasn’t been blocking the exit or as if he wanted to keep you here. You would have loved for him to stop you here. It’s hard to stop the disappointment from flooding over your composure when Vil moves away.

“Alright. Your look is satisfactory so that Scarabia boy better be grateful for being able to go out with you,” he says something ambiguous again, and you feel bad for your date who will have to deal with such a lovesick fool as you. “Enjoy your date.”

The pang of pain pierces your heart. You smile slowly and leave the room.

The heartbreak better goes away as soon as possible, or you’ll go crazy if the thought of dating anyone else hurts that much.

‏‏‎ ‎

10. Look kissable.

“You’re late.”

Maybe you are, but you haven’t been expecting Vil waiting for you. He sits on a sofa, a book is in his hand and the tea that was served in front of him looks cold. You can guess he’s been sitting here for a while.

“How did it go?”

“It went well, I think,” you say. The date went well. Yet, you couldn’t have enjoyed it. The throbbing pain in your heart strained each of your smiles, and it surged when the Scarabian student started to be flirty. You felt as if you were cheating. “He is a kind guy. He has some hobbies and is quite charismatic, so… He’s alright.”

Vil hums. “Will you settle on ‘alright’?”

You stare at him wide-eyed, but he doesn’t look bothered at all. He didn’t lift his gaze from his book, and his tone was nonchalant, so he almost seemed not interested. He was. He is because Vil never asks the question to whose answers he doesn’t want to hear.

“Pardon?”

He spares you a glance.

“I thought your resolution was stronger. What happened to the person who confessed to me and was so willing to determine their worth to me?”

“Are you jealous?”

“I am furious,” he lifts from the sofa, the book forgotten. The air around suddenly grows warmer, and the shiver you didn’t mind that much runs down your spine. Vil’s strides are slower than usual, creating an imposing image of himself before he stands just before you. “If you want to set the bar so low, go on. But let me give you a taste of ambition.”

He twists his head so his eyes meet directly yours. He doesn’t touch you — not yet — but you can feel a warm breath on your cheek, and the scent of his light perfume envelops you. You have the urge to move away and cling to him at the same time. They balance, and you stay still.

A taste…

Vil puts a hand on your cheek. The gesture is much softer and more benevolent than when he was putting makeup on you. His eyes lock with yours, your heart stops, and then they drop to your lips. He moves a thumb over them.

And he kisses you.

In your dreams, you had him kiss your hand, the top of your head. The corner of your mouth. In your boldest wishes, you wanted him to kiss you like that, so lovingly, with so much care. It makes you want to push away for more air, but it makes you worry Vil will disappear if you break the kiss, as all the dreams shatter upon the morning.

He moves away, not breathless, yet not unaffected either. His cheeks burn slowly into a red shade, and his eyes look somehow glassy. “I told you, I will give you just a taste.”

How disappointing.

Before you can say something, he pushes a letter between your fingers. Its envelope matches the one you gave him several months ago. “Read it. I want an answer by midnight.”

The big clock on the wall shows you have over three hours. So much time, and you already know the answer. “You will wait this long?”

“I am giving you a chance and hope,” he says with a subtle smile. The blush on his face makes him more beautiful than you’ve ever seen him. “It’s my duty of your idol to do so.”

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #vil #vil schoenheit #twst vil #vil x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #twst vil x reader #twst vil schoenheit #twst vil schoenheit x reader #Dear Anon I hope you enjoyed this!

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