#you requested angst and that brandi | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

ticifics · 5 months ago

Text

Restoration

Count Vronsky x fem!reader

Summary: You allowed your heart to fill with a faint hope. Maybe Alexei could love you. Maybe time would make this more than an arrangement, more than a contract. But then Anna came along.

Warnings: angst, marriage in crisis, emotional conflict

A/N: My fourth request - anon, sorry if I strayed a little from the proposal, it's the first time I've written about marital problems, so I hope it wasn't too bad

Restoration Spin-Off

The hall was silent now, with the distant echo of the last celebrations echoing through the corridors. The moon streamed in through the window, its silvery light highlighting Alexei’s contours as he moved around the room with elegant ease, his jacket already undone, his cufflinks set aside. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, your heavy wedding dress still intact, your hands busy with the embroidery of the veil that you weren’t sure how to remove.

Arranged marriage. The word had been weighing on your mind since the moment you heard the news months ago. Your fate sealed in meetings between families; your life decided before you could even formulate your own wishes. But deep down, wasn’t that what every woman of your position expected? To grow up hearing that she should be an exemplary wife, produce heirs, build a respectable home. Yet, between the expectations and your solitary dreams, there was an almost childish desire for love—a love that blossomed in the unexpected, that overcame the cold barriers of a social contract.

And then Alexei had come into your life.

A tall man, with a presence that was impossible to ignore, eyes that held something between amusement and danger, a smile that seemed designed to disarm anyone. He was charismatic, that was undeniable. At every meeting before the wedding, his words had been gentle, but there was a confidence in them that seemed both unpretentious and rehearsed. He knew the effect he had—and he used it skillfully.

Yet he had never been cruel.

“You seem to be trapped in a maze of thoughts,” Alexei said, his low voice cutting through the silence. He was close now, closer than he should have been, and you could smell the faint note of brandy on his breath.

“My lord…” you began hesitantly, but he held up a hand, as if stopping her was a natural gesture.

“Alexei,” he corrected. The name sounded intimate on her lips, and it made him smile. “I want you to call me by my name. We’re not strangers anymore, after all.”

Your breath caught in your throat. He was watching you in a way you couldn’t quite decipher yet—not predatory, but as if he was studying your every reaction, as if he found pleasure in seeing you flustered.

With deft fingers, he reached out and effortlessly began to undo the delicate pins that held the veil together, his eyes still fixed on yours.

“Let me help you.” His voice held something softer now, almost intimate, and the touch of his fingers on your skin made heat rise up your neck.

It was this charm, this ease, that made you wonder if there could, in fact, be love in your marriage. He was an enigma: gentle, yet impenetrable. Seductive, yet never completely surrendered. And yet, throughout the weeks that followed the ceremony, he had been careful.

The wedding night had not been what you had feared. Instead, it had been marked by unexpected patience, by quiet words spoken in the dark, by touches that seemed almost studied to ease your tension. And the following nights were no different, filled with a passion that was restrained and yet intense.

For you, there was something sacred about these intimacies. You wanted to give him an heir, yes, but there was more: you wanted him to see you as more than a wife chosen for convenience.

You allowed your heart to fill with a faint hope. Maybe he could love you. Maybe time would make this more than an arrangement, more than a contract. Still enchanted, still nervous, by the idea that perhaps it was possible to find love in this man’s eyes.

The two weeks of your honeymoon passed in the blink of an eye, but you felt as if you had lived a dream. Alexei was the personification of kindness—attentive in every small gesture, tender in every word, always one step ahead in caring for you. Under the sun of a place that seemed so far away from everything, he made you laugh with his witty observations, gave you goosebumps with subtle touches, and looked at you as if you were the only person who mattered at that moment.

Now, as the carriage made its way to your new home, you watched the changing landscape through the window, but your mind remained anchored in those moments. There was something new growing inside you, a feeling you barely dared to name.

“Lost in your thoughts again?” Alexei interrupted your contemplation, his voice low and soft. He was leaning back against the seat, his eyes shining with something between humor and tenderness.

You smiled, blushing slightly, but before you could respond, he leaned forward, taking your hand and kissing your knuckles. “I hope those thoughts include your husband. It would be terrible to find out you’re dreaming about someone else.”

Your laughter escaped before you could contain it, and he followed suit, the sounds blending together.

Back at the house, the routine began to settle into a slow but comfortable dance. Alexei seemed to know exactly how to make every moment of the day special—the way he would take your hand at the dinner table, the smiles he would give you when you walked into the room, the casual touches that seemed to last longer than necessary. There was a magnetism about him that made your heart race without warning.

It was during one of those nights, after dinner, that he brought it up.

“Have you ever thought about how many children you would like to have?” he asked, his voice calm as he held a glass of wine in his hand, his gaze fixed on you.

The question took you by surprise, but the tone of his voice reassured you.

“I… I don’t know for sure,” you replied, looking down at your hands in your lap. “What do you want?”

He leaned back in his chair, resting his elbow on the armrest and his face in his hand, his eyes still fixed on you.

“Whatever you want, my dear. As long as it brings you happiness, that will be enough for me.”

The words were simple, but the way he said them—with a light seriousness, almost unpretentious, but sincere—made something inside you heat up.

It was then that you decided.

The nights—and sometimes days—of passion became frequent. You could never have imagined the intensity he brought with him, how each touch seemed charged with a greater purpose. He was patient and tender, but there was an almost electric energy that made it impossible for you not to lose yourself completely in him.

On one such morning, the sun timidly entered through the window, casting a golden glow over the bed. You were leaning against his chest, your fingers drawing lazy circles on his skin, while Alexei’s messy curls fell over his forehead.

“You’re thinking about something again,” he said, his lips curved in a lazy smile, his hands tracing soft patterns on your back.

“Maybe,” you replied, biting your lip to hold back a smile.

He tilted his head to get a better look at you, his eyes alight with amusement.

“Then tell me. I want to know what’s going on in that busy little head of yours. Don’t keep your secrets from me.”

You laughed, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.

“I was just thinking about how different you look like this…” you said hesitantly, but he arched an eyebrow.

“Different.”

“More…” You searched for the words. “Human.”

Alexei laughed, the sound vibrating through your body, and leaned down to kiss your forehead.

“Is that a compliment? I hope so, because my wife is seriously risking hurting her husband’s pride.”

The laugh was inevitable, and he joined in, a wide, disarming smile on his lips. You loved that smile—so rare in public, but so natural in moments like this.

There was a gentleness about Alexei that he seemed to save just for you, a kind of intimacy that made your heart yearn for more.

The halls sparkled with the reflection of the crystal chandeliers, the sound of the orchestra filled the air with elegant melodies, and you felt the eyes of many on you. Alexei had that effect—a natural magnetism that didn’t go unnoticed anywhere.

He looked particularly stunning that night, with his perfectly tailored suit and his golden curls combed with a charm that seemed casual but that you knew was meticulously calculated. Every smile he offered made the people around him glow as if they had been touched by a ray of sunshine.

And you were right there with him.

He made a point of keeping you close, his hand firmly on your back, guiding you through the circles of high society with unshakable confidence. Whenever someone made a comment or leaned in to talk, Alexei found an opportunity to whisper something in your ear—a witty observation, a sharp comment, a little teasing. It was impossible to hold back your laughter, even if you tried.

“They’re all watching us, you know?” he murmured, with that smirk that always made your heart race.

“Of course they are. Because of you,” you replied, trying to hide the blush that threatened to rise to cheeks.

“No. Because of you. You leave them speechless, my darling.”

Before you could protest, he pulled you into another dance, the third that night. It was more than protocol dictated as appropriate for a married couple, but Alexei seemed immune to the veiled criticism. His every move was fluid, as if he were born to lead a waltz, and he made sure you were the only one who felt it.

“Should I worry about what they’ll say about us?” you whispered, slightly breathless, as he twirled with calculated precision.

“Let them talk. I don’t care, and neither should you.”

And at that moment, you really didn’t care.

But then she walked in.

Anna Karenina didn’t need to say a word to draw their gazes. Her black dress contrasted with her pale skin, her hair shining in the light of the chandeliers, and there was something about her posture—a natural confidence that made the entire room seem less grand.

You noticed the subtle change in Alexei before you even looked at him. His eyes, always so intent on you, shifted. It was only for a moment, but it felt like an eternity.

He recovered quickly, turning to you with a soft smile, as if nothing had happened.

“It’s Mrs. Karenina, isn’t it?” he asked, his tone casual and unconvincing.

You simply nodded, keeping your expression neutral.

Out of courtesy, or perhaps something more, Alexei approached Anna. After a few brief, polite comments, he held out his hand. “May I have this dance?”

You saw it all.

The way Alexei bowed slightly, the slight tension in his shoulders as he waited for her answer, and then the way she smiled before accepting. They were a vision together—he with his natural elegance, and she with an almost defiant magnetism.

The dance was… different. There was no denying it. The entire room was watching them, and it seemed like they didn’t notice anyone else. The rhythm of the waltz seemed to be dictated by them, each step, each turn perfect, as if they were in another world.

You felt something tighten in your chest, but you kept your composure. When Alexei returned to your side, he smiled as always, as if nothing had changed. He took your hand and led you for another dance.

Later, back in the bedroom, he took you in his arms with a passion that seemed almost desperate. His touches were intense, each kiss carried an urgency that you didn’t fully understand, but accepted.

As he slept beside you, his golden curls falling over his forehead, you watched him in silence. He seemed so peaceful, so much yours in that moment, that you decided that everything you had seen before meant nothing.

“None of that mattered,” you told yourself, closing your eyes. “None.”

The days that followed were peaceful, almost idyllic. Alexei was still as affectionate and attentive as ever, filling the moments you spent together with laughter and tender gestures. He made a point of looking you in the eyes when he spoke, as if you were the only person in the world who deserved his attention. Yet, there was something different.

A sparkle in his eyes—an energy you couldn’t quite describe. He seemed more attentive, more restless, but never in a way that diminished the care he showed you.

That morning, he kissed her before leaving, holding your face in his hands. “Goodbye, my dear. Be well for me.” And then he was gone, leaving behind a void that the house could not fill.

It was the first time you had spent so much time alone. You tried to keep yourself busy, supervising the servants, organizing small details to make the home more welcoming and, finally, preparing to receive some ladies of society. The afternoon brought restrained laughter and lively conversation to the drawing room, as the women settled in with cups of tea and delicate sweets.

The conversation flowed as usual, until a name came up casually, but with a devastating impact. “Anna Karenina was stunning at the ball, don’t you think?” The air seemed to grow heavier around you.

You kept smiling, raising the cup to your lips, but your fingers tightened slightly on the porcelain.

“All the men only had eyes for her, even the married ones,” one of them commented, letting out a muffled laugh. “But of course, she’s a married woman, so it’s just… admiration, isn’t it?”

You forced a laugh along with the others, but the words echoed inside you. Her name seemed to have taken root in your mind, and each time it was repeated, the knot in your stomach tightened a little more.

When Alexei came home that night, the sound of his boots on the wooden floor made you straighten your posture and put a smile on your lips. He appeared in the entrance, as always impeccable, and his smile immediately widened when he saw you.

“My dear.” He greeted you with a kiss on the cheek, his warm hands holding your waist. “Did you miss me?”

You melted, as always. It was impossible not to get lost in the attention he gave you, in the low, intimate tone of his voice, in the warmth he seemed to carry with him.

“How was your day?” You asked, trying to sound casual as you followed him to his office. “Did anything interesting happen?”

He paused for a moment, taking off his coat and hanging it up carefully. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Just the usual business. And your day? I hope you weren’t bored without me.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “No, the ladies came to visit. It was a nice afternoon.”

He stepped closer, lightly touching your chin so you would look at him. “I’m glad you did. You deserve to be surrounded by good things.”

The knot in your stomach tightened again, but you pushed it away. Don’t be silly, you thought. He was a kind and caring husband, someone who always made you feel special. Your marriage was better than most other women’s, and wasting time on dark thoughts would be foolish. When Alexei kissed you again before going to change, you decided you had better believe it.

Time passed, bringing sunny days and starry nights as you and Alexei indulged in your mutual desire more and more. He seemed more than happy to respond to your attempts to conceive, and you couldn’t deny that you enjoyed seducing him.

There was something powerful in the way he looked at you, a glint in his eyes that told you he wouldn’t resist anything you asked. “Do you have any idea what you do to me, my dear?” He whispered as he pulled you closer, the heat of his words almost as overwhelming as the touch of his hands.

In the mornings, when the sun was barely breaking over the horizon, Alexei would sometimes hold you in bed, preventing you from leaving. “Don’t go yet,” he would murmur, his voice hoarse with sleep, his strong arms wrapped around you. “Stay with me a little longer.”

And in those moments, with your head resting on his chest and his fingers drawing lazy circles on your skin, any doubt that tried to sprout in your heart was forgotten. He made you feel loved, wanted. The world seemed to not exist when Alexei was only yours.

But the world, inevitably, kept turning.

Meetings with the ladies were a crossroads between gossip and appearances, and you did your best to maintain your composure. Still, the whispers about Anna Karenina and Alexei kept finding you, cutting like sharp knives disguised as smiles.

“He’s so devoted to his wife,” one of them would say, almost enviously. “But it would be a wonder if his eyes didn’t follow her too. Who could blame him? Anna is stunning.”

You forced a smile and stood up straight, as a good hostess should. But every word seemed to erode a little of your confidence.

Alexei was still the loving husband he had always been, but there were moments—small, fleeting, but undeniable—when he seemed distant. His eyes, though focused on you, were elsewhere.

And though he would never admit it, you knew there was something more. His schedule seemed different. He would leave early and sometimes come back late, always with a ready excuse, always with a reassuring smile.

“Just meetings, my dear. Don’t worry.”

You believed him. Or at least you tried to believe him.

That night, as he pulled you into a hug on the couch, you snuggled against his chest, listening to the rhythmic sound of his heart. He stroked your hair tenderly, and for a moment, you thought about asking. About Anna, about the rumors, about the absent-minded glances.

But then he whispered in your ear, “I’m so lucky to have you.”

And you decided you didn’t want to hear the answer.

The days passed, and although Alexei remained affectionate and attentive at times, something was off. He always seemed busy, and you began to notice the gaps—small delays, glances that strayed beyond where you were.

But that wasn’t the typical behavior of an unfaithful man, was it? He still held you by the waist when he passed by, still kissed you lingeringly before leaving. These displays of affection confused your thoughts and increased your anguish.

That night, determined to get an answer, you spent the time leafing through a novel, although the words were nothing more than blurs on the page. There was something on your mind, a restlessness that you could no longer ignore. You were wearing a nightgown that you had previously hesitated to wear, a soft and provocative fabric, with strategically placed lace.

When Alexei entered the room, exuding the freshness of the cold night, he stopped when he saw you. His clear eyes slid over you, shrewd and shining with something indefinable. “An unexpected reception,” he murmured, his voice filled with a mixture of surprise and something deeper.

You stood up, your heart racing, but your face carefully serene. You walked over to him and began to help him take off his gloves. The coat came next, feeling the weight of the fabric on your arms, while you asked trivial questions. “Was it very cold outside? Did you find who you needed?” He answered calmly, but there was something in his voice that seemed a little distant.

Then, before you could lose your courage, you looked at him. “Alexei…” you began, hesitantly, your fingers lightly touching the sleeve of his shirt. “Are you still happy?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer, and the pause made the air in the room seem thicker. But then, without a word, he pulled you to him. His lips met yours with an urgency you hadn’t felt in a long time, and the answer came not in words, but in actions. He adored you that night, as if you were something sacred.

Every touch, every gesture felt like a promise, and for a moment, you believed that everything was fine again. But when morning came, the unspoken words returned, and the promises evaporated like dew under the sun.

A few days later, at a gathering of the ladies, held in the gardens of a hostess’s house, the rumors reached you again. They spoke in low tones, but curiosity overcame discretion.

“It seems that Anna and Alexei were seen together in the garden, alone.”

You tried not to react, but you felt heat rise to your face and a lump tighten in your throat. “Don’t talk nonsense,” one of the women said. “She’s married, so is he. It’s just rumors.”

Rumors or not, the words hit you like a blow.

That evening, as you looked at Alexei at the dinner table, you noticed the shadow of weariness in his eyes. He smiled at you, the same smile that had so often calmed your fears. But something seemed out of reach.

“What’s wrong, my dear? Is everything okay?”

You just nodded, but in your heart, the distance seemed to grow ever wider, and the two versions of Alexei—the loving man who held you in his arms and the distracted husband who was possibly with another woman—began to overlap, leaving you without answers.

The days became a disjointed dance of avoided glances and touches that seemed more like habit than genuine affection. Alexei would arrive late, his face tired and his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

“Is everything okay?” You asked one night, as he took off his coat, his gaze lost somewhere in the room.

He smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Just my duties, love. Nothing to worry about.”

But you worried. His silence seemed louder than any words, and the way he took so long to answer you in certain conversations made the discomfort grow.

“You’ve been working too much,” you commented again, feeling the weight of loneliness as he left her at the dinner table to attend to a letter that had just arrived.

“It’s necessary,” He kissed your forehead before leaving, but the gesture seemed mechanical.

Meanwhile, Alexei, increasingly involved with Anna, felt torn between duty and desire. She was… fascinating. There was something in her way of speaking, in her eyes that seemed to decipher his thoughts before he even expressed them, that made him want to be close to her. Their encounters began to become frequent, and the longer touches were inevitable.

“That’s not right, Alexei,” she said in one of her hesitant moments, although she didn’t pull away when he took her hand.

“Maybe not, but how can you ignore something so… inevitable?”

And he was lost.

That night, at home, you were waiting for him. The dinner, untouched on the table, had already gone cold, but you remained seated, trying not to look at the clock. When Alexei came in, later than usual, something inside you gave way.

“It’s so late,” you said, his voice hesitant, almost a whisper.

He sighed, as if the guilt he was trying to hide was weighing more heavily than expected. “Yes, I’m sorry. The meetings went longer than planned.”

You stared at him, your fingers fidgeting in your lap. “Alexei… I need to ask you something.”

He stopped, his body tense, but he tried to hide it. “Sure, whatever you want.”

“Anna Karenina.” Her name left your lips before you could stop the tremor in your voice. “Do you… what do you think of her?”

For a moment, Alexei seemed to struggle with himself, and you could see the hesitation in his eyes. But then he took a deep breath and answered, almost as if he were talking to himself.

“I think she’s amazing.”

The word hit you like a blade, and the world around you seemed to stop. Alexei realized too late the impact of what he had said, but he didn’t try to correct it.

You stood up, unable to hold back the tears that were already stinging your eyes. “Amazing? Is that what she is to you?”

He tried to move closer, but you took a step back, your hand shaking as you gripped the back of the chair to steady yourself.

“It’s not what you think,” he tried to explain, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never… there’s nothing you need to be afraid of.”

But you were afraid. Not just for him, but for the shadow that was beginning to creep into your marriage, a shadow that now had a name and a face.

When he held you in his arms that night, trying to comfort you, you wondered if he really held you or if his mind was still with her.

The glances started as something subtle, almost imperceptible. A second longer of hesitation, a half smile that seemed fraught with pity. But now, it was unmistakable. When you entered a room, conversations would cease for a moment before starting again, whispers slithering like snakes around the corners.

“She’s admirable, don’t you think?” someone had commented once, their voice low but not enough to escape your ears. “To carry on like that, with such dignity. I don’t know if I could do it.”

“It really is impressive,” another replied. “Especially with… well, with everything that’s said.”

You smiled, as you had learned to do since you were a child: with the grace required of someone in your position. But inside, you felt as if a crack were forming, threatening to widen with every strangled comment and look of commiseration.

At home, Alexei seemed determined to erase the marks of whatever was causing your guilt. Fresh flowers appeared on your bedside table, delicate jewelry was left on your pillow, and he never failed to compliment your when they were alone.

“You look so pretty today,” he said one evening as he watched your dress for a social gathering.

“Thank you,” you replied, trying to force a smile that didn’t reach your eyes.

The truth was that the gifts were a cruel reminder. No matter how much Alexei tried to make up for it with kindness, his words about Anna that night echoed like a distant bell, ever present. He thought you were a good wife, a wife as one should be. But that wasn’t the same as loving you.

Meanwhile, Alexei was falling deeper and deeper into what he couldn’t quite name as anything other than fascination. Anna wasn’t just amazing—she was magnetic. Their encounters, though brief, were a relief in a world where everything seemed predetermined. She laughed openly, challenged his ideas with cunning, and the looks they exchanged grew more intense every day.

“You should stop coming,” Anna said during one of their encounters, her eyes shining with a mixture of irritation and provocation.

“I should have,” Alexei replied, but his hand lingered on hers, unable to pull away.

Anna felt her frustration grow. Alexei’s attention, once sufficient, now seemed like a mere crumb. He had a wife he returned to every night, and she… she didn’t want to be a shadow in anyone’s marriage.

“It’s unfair, Alexei.” Her voice sounded quieter, but no less intense. “I’m not the kind of woman who shares. And you know that.”

Back home, you tried not to fall apart. Your routine became a desperate cycle of busyness, trying to keep the house spotless, planning meetings, but none of it filled the growing emptiness. It was in the silence that the tears came, without warning, as you wondered how everything had become so fragile.

And then the nausea began. First, a slight malaise, which you attributed to fatigue. Then, a constant nausea, which seemed to intensify along with your anguish.

Alexei noticed, of course. He wasn’t blind to the changes in you—your lost gaze, your trembling hands, your increasingly hesitant responses. One night, he found you crying silently in the living room, your face hidden in your hands.

“My love…” he began, kneeling beside you. “What’s happening? Tell me, please.”

You shook your head, unable to find the words. How could you explain something that even you didn’t fully understand?

Alexei tried to take care of you in his own way. He brought you warm broth, promised to stay home longer, held your hand as if that would be enough to seal the cracks. But even as he did so, something in him remained distant.

And it was Anna that his thoughts fell upon when the silence of the house became unbearable. She was the opposite of what he had known, a breath of life amidst conformity. But he knew he was being cruel, to you, to himself, to Anna. And yet, it didn’t stop.

While you faced the loneliness and growing discomfort, Anna, in turn, began to feel an anger she couldn’t hide. The idea that Alexei was going back to another woman night after night was intolerable.

“You need to decide,” she said in a firm tone, her arms crossed as he looked at her, speechless. “I won’t be your second option, Alexei. If that’s what you want, leave. Now.”

He didn’t answer, and the silence between them was as heavy as any accusation.

Anna and Alexei had been apart for a few days, but the distance was never more than a pause. It only took a chance encounter — or maybe not so chance — for the attraction between them to rekindle. He saw her from afar at a social event, talking and laughing with a naturalness that seemed to light up the room. She saw him too, and a corner of her mouth formed, full of meanings that only they understood.

At home, you began to connect the dots of your nausea. It was hard to ignore the way the smell of some dishes, once appetizing, now made you nauseous. But you kept your suspicions to yourself, until Natalia, always so attentive, pulled you aside one morning.

“Madam, forgive me for being blunt, but I think I know what’s happening to you.” The maid hesitated before continuing, her voice low and careful. “It could be that… you’re expecting a baby.”

Her words were a shock and, at the same time, a spark of hope. Natalia helped you call a doctor in secret, a trustworthy man who guaranteed discretion. After a brief consultation, he confirmed what you already suspected:

“Congratulations, ma’am. It looks like you’re in the first weeks of pregnancy. Make sure you get plenty of rest and avoid unnecessary worries.”

The news was like a ray of sunshine breaking through dense clouds. It was the first time in a long time that you felt truly happy. The idea of a child was not just a blessing — it was a promise of renewal, a new chance for your life with Alexei, something that could bring you closer together. Without realizing it, you had adopted the habit of running your hands over your belly, whispering little promises to the baby you couldn’t yet hear:

“You will be loved. Always. And you will have everything you need.”

One afternoon, while embroidering in the living room, you lost yourself in thought. Your fingers worked almost automatically, transforming a piece of linen into something delicate and intimate. The embroidery that was taking shape was of a small flower surrounded by arabesques, an image that referenced Alexei's family crest. A gesture that, in a way, linked the father's inheritance to the son's future.

You were so absorbed that you didn't hear Alexei enter the room.

"You're distracted, my love." His voice sounded low, but close enough to startle you.

The sudden movement caused you to prick yourself with the needle.

"Oh!" You exclaimed, bringing your injured finger to your mouth.

Before you could react, Alexei was at your side. He took your hand carefully, observing the small spot of blood.

"Let me see." His voice had a tone that bordered on authoritative, but his movements were incredibly gentle. He pressed his finger delicately, assessing the damage before bringing his lips to the small wound, sealing it with a gesture that made your heart falter.

Alexei, with his always impeccable posture, looked more tired than usual. His eyes, an intense blue that reminded you of winter skies, were shadowed with the hint of restless nights of sleep. His golden hair was slightly disheveled, and you noticed there was something almost vulnerable in the way he kept his expression neutral, as if carrying the weight of something he couldn’t share.

“You need to be more careful,” he said, with a slight frown that quickly softened. He looked down at the embroidery in his hands and arched an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

You tried to hide the linen, but it was too late.

“Oh… nothing much. Just something to pass the time.”

“Nothing much?” Alexei narrowed his eyes, as if trying to guess the reason behind the drawing. “You’re happier these days. It… relieves me, you know?”

His words were sincere, and it touched you. Alexei might have been distant, but there was genuine concern there, even if it was expressed hesitantly, as if he himself didn’t know how to handle it.

“I don’t want you to worry about me,” he continued, holding your hand for a moment longer than necessary. “There’s a lot I can’t control, but… you’re important to me. You always have been.”

You felt the weight of those words, but also the contradiction behind them. How could he say that, knowing what the others were whispering? Knowing that there might be a grain of truth to the rumors?

“Then why…” you began, but the words caught in your throat.

Alexei pulled his hand away, returning to his more formal posture, as if the moment had been a lapse. He cast one last glance at his embroidery before standing up.

“I’ll be in the office. If you need anything, please send for me.”

You watched him leave, and at the same time, something inside you remained torn between the warmth of your concern and the ice of the uncertainty he left behind.

Invitations to social events arrived frequently, but you rarely had the will to accept them. This time, however, was different. The news of the pregnancy seemed to have rekindled something inside you. As Natalia adjusted her dress, you looked at yourself in the mirror, trying to see yourself as Alexei would see you.

The fabric of her dress flowed like water in the yellow light of the room. It was a deep blue, almost black, with silver details that sparkled with every movement. Her satin gloves came up to her elbows, and a simple diamond chain rested over her elegant neckline. Her hair was tied in a low bun, with a few strands strategically loose to frame your face. For a tiny moment, you allowed yourself to believe that there were no problems, that your life was as beautiful as it seemed in the reflection.

The theater was a masterpiece of gold and velvet. Huge chandeliers hung from the domed ceiling, casting a warm light that bathed the boxes and the audience. The walls were adorned with mirrors and ornaments that seemed to dance in the light. You walked up the stairs with Alexei, feeling the light touch of his hand on your back, guiding you gently.

In the box, the seats were padded, covered in crimson brocade. You settled in next to Alexei, feeling almost safe in that moment. The murmur of the crowd filled the space, a distant sound that seemed to match the growing anticipation for the show.

Then it hit you. Alexei’s gaze was lost in the audience, crossing the distance like an arrow. You didn’t need to follow his gaze to know who he had found.

She was there. Anna.

You knew it before you even saw her. There was something in the way Alexei took a deep breath, the way his shoulders tensed. Still, your gaze shifted, and then you saw her. She was gorgeous, a vibrant red dress that seemed like a challenge, hugging her figure with unshakable confidence. Her hair was loose in perfect waves, falling over her shoulders. When she laughed—oh, that laugh—the people around her seemed to lean in like sunflowers facing the sun.

It was impossible not to compare. You were beautiful, yes, but Anna was a force of nature. There was something about her that transcended appearances. She was magnetic, and worst of all, she seemed unaware of her power.

When the break came, people began to stand, some going to get refreshments, others just to stretch their legs. You and Alexei were silent when she appeared, as if drawn by an invisible magnet.

“Alexei.” Anna’s voice was low, but it carried a natural musicality. Then her eyes fell on you. “And this must be your wife. What a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Your smile was impeccable, polite, but you felt the hidden blade beneath her words.

“The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Karenina.” Your voice was firm, but there was a tension in her shoulders that you knew she would notice.

“Anna, please. Formalities between us seem so… unnecessary.” She tilted her head slightly, as if assessing you. “You are even more charming than I imagined.”

You murmured a thank you, aware of Alexei’s gaze darting between you and Anna as if he were trying to navigate a minefield.

“And you, Anna, look, as always… stunning.” Alexei’s voice broke the silence, and the weight of his words was palpable.

For a moment, Anna looked away from him. It was brief, but long enough that you felt as if the ground had dropped from beneath your feet. The way they looked at each other… there was no need for words.

The conversation continued, polite and courteous, but each sentence was loaded with hidden meaning, like a game of emotional chess. You realized that Anna wasn’t just beautiful; she was perceptive, intelligent, and knew exactly how to use those qualities.

“I hope this evening is memorable for both of you,” Anna said finally, with a smile that seemed almost sincere. “Maybe we’ll meet again.”

When she walked away, you felt the weight of the comparisons that inevitably arose. Her posture, her grace, her naturalness… it was hard not to feel small in front of her.

Back in the box, the silence between you and Alexei was almost unbearable. When he touched your hand, just to help you sit down, the heat of his fingers seemed to burn your skin. You wanted to scream, to ask him what she had that you didn’t, but you remained silent. The show started again, but you could barely pay attention. Your thoughts were caught up in Anna, in Alexei’s gaze, and in the growing abyss between the two of you.

When you arrived home, the stillness of the night seemed to stretch even longer than before. The air was thick, permeated with a tension that neither of you dared to break. Alexei led you to the mirror, his eyes dark and attentive. With almost automatic movements, he removed the clips that held your hair, one by one, with reverent delicacy. His hands, firm but careful, touched your scalp, relieving the pressure, and you closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the touch and the lightness of the moment.

Silence spread between you, and you could feel the distance that had settled since the theater. You, with a heavy heart, tried to ignore the echo of those images, the way Anna caught your attention, her beauty, her magnetic presence. Alexei, unconsciously, cast furtive glances, and you, without needing more, knew that his thoughts were far away.

Suddenly, without warning, the tears formed and fell, silent, as if they were a chain that had been waiting for a long time to break. The tip of his fingers gently touched your face, the warm tears still on your skin.

“What is it?” He spoke, his voice low, full of a tenderness that seemed tailor-made for you.

You looked at him, and for a moment, the words were stuck, but the question escaped with a thread of voice, so broken that it seemed like a whisper:

“You… you don’t want me anymore?”

The question seemed like a blade, cutting through the air. Alexei stepped back a little, his eyes wide with surprise, but soon the expression gave way to compassion. He came closer, touching your face with his fingertips, as if he was afraid that you would fall apart in his hands.

“Never say that, never.” His voice was firmer now, and his eyes, which had previously been filled with tension, now reflected a softness that you couldn’t fully understand.

The silence returned, but it wasn’t the same anymore. You shook your head, a tired denial, and your voice, choked, made the air around you seem colder.

“Prove it to me.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, struggling with something inside, and then, with an expression of resignation and affection, he answered, in a tone so sincere that it almost hurt:

“I’ll show you, today. I’ll show you that I still want you.”

And that was how the night turned into an intertwining of touches and whispers, a desire that materialized in a careful, almost reverent way. He kissed your as if each contact was an oath, a commitment that he tried to seal on her skin and in your heart. You felt that he was sharing something, something that couldn’t be ignored — an internal struggle between affection and what was still left in his mind. But at that moment, with every touch, there was a real effort to connect, to show that desire, no matter how much it was confused with guilt and doubt, was still there.

The night was made of touches that spoke louder than any words. Alexei's body moved with a care you had never seen before, each gesture an attempt to fix what was broken. He knew it wasn't a solution, he knew the abyss still existed, but that night, as the two of you met, there was no room for fear — there was only now.

When dawn began to tint the sky with shades of orange and pink, you rested in his arms, exhausted and satisfied, your heart still beating with the memory of the night. The world was coming back into existence in its fullness, but a question still haunted your mind, one you didn't dare to speak out loud:

Why couldn't things always be like this?

The answer remained unexplored, somewhere far away from you, but for now, as the sun began to rise, the only thing that mattered was the promise, still uncertain, that he would be there. Even if the dilemma continued, even if love was divided, at least for that moment, there was something you could believe in.

The afternoon was filled with a light breeze that moved with a whisper, as if it were a warning, a caution. You sat in the armchair next to the window, with the needle in your hands, your eyes fixed on the work in progress. The embroidery fabric was still stained with soft lines, but the thought of your son's layette brought some peace to your heart. But that peace was shattered by a sudden pain that shot through you, a stab so sharp that the world seemed to stop for a second.

You lifted the skirt of your dress with trembling hands and a scream escaped your lips before you could contain it. The sight of those red stains, fierce and cruel, made you tremble, fear spreading through every cell of your body. The pain was overwhelming, but nothing compared to the feeling of terror of losing what was growing inside you.

“Natalia!” Your voice was a lament, a desperate whisper that echoed through the room, each word filled with fear and helplessness. The sound of your own screams seemed distant, drowned out by the frantic beating of your heart. You fell to your knees, your vision blurred by the tears that flowed uncontrollably.

The blood. The merciless red. Cruel. It was all you could see.

“Please… No… Not my baby.” The words were mumbled, disjointed, a thin thread of plea as your trembling hands held your belly in desperation. The pain was more than physical; it was a growing emptiness, a loss you weren’t ready to accept.

The hurried footsteps echoed through the house before Natalia burst through the door.

“Oh my God, ma’am! What happened?”

“Natalia, please… save him. Please do something!” Your voice barely came out, muffled by sobs, as you gripped the maid’s arm with a strength that seemed impossible for someone so fragile at that moment. “I can’t lose him, Natalia. He’s all I have. All I… Please!”

Natalia, pale with horror, knelt beside you, trying to calm you down while struggling to hide her own panic.

“Calm down, ma’am, calm down. I’ll call the doctor. Just stay with me. Breathe, please!”

But you barely heard her. The heat of the blood running down your legs was a constant reminder of what was being ripped from you, cruel and without warning.

Meanwhile, Alexei walked along the path that led to the woods, the cool breeze caressing his face with a cruel gentleness, as if the environment did not understand the weight he carried in his chest. Each step seemed heavier, each breath more difficult, as if his conscience fought against his body, insisting that he return. But he kept going. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

When he saw her, sitting on a carefully laid blanket, with a picnic basket beside her, her eyes shining with expectation, he hesitated. Anna was everything that should be perfect – beautiful, charming, captivating. But at the same time, she was a constant reminder of everything he was destroying.

“You came…” Her voice carried a softness that should have calmed him, but only increased the guilt that consumed him.

“I shouldn’t have,” he murmured, but still sat down next to her. The words were true, but his presence there made them empty.

Anna smiled, as if she hadn’t heard or as if she believed he didn’t mean it. Her hands touched his, soft, hesitant, but not rejecting. He should push her away. But he didn’t. The silence between them was heavy, each moment of stillness stretching the tension to the limit.

Then Anna moved closer. Her fingers slid over Alexei’s face, her eyes searching for something in his—a permission, perhaps, or a reciprocity she already believed was there. When her lips touched his, for an instant, Alexei gave in. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Every lingering touch, every lingering look, every time he’d allowed her to come closer—it had all been pointing to this moment. And now that he was here, how could she back away?

The kiss was passionate, almost desperate, as if they were both trying to erase doubts and insecurities in the heat of the moment. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer as his thoughts tangled in a confusing whirlwind. This was what he wanted. This was what he was supposed to want.

But then her hands began to unbutton his shirt, and something inside him stopped. These weren’t the hands he wanted. These weren’t the kisses he wanted. The realization hit him like a blow, crushing any illusion he’d been trying to nurture.

“Anna, no.” He held her hands, firmly but not harshly. The surprise in her eyes hurt more than he expected.

“Alexei…? What is it?” Her voice was confused, almost a whisper, as if she were trying to comprehend a rupture she hadn’t anticipated.

He was slow, an abrupt movement that left him standing, while she was still kneeling on the blanket.

“I’m so sorry.” The words came out quickly, but they sounded insufficient, empty in the face of what he knew they had for her. “I can’t go through with this, Anna. I can’t.”

“Why? Isn’t this what you want?” Her question was sharp, but there was pain in her voice, a vulnerability he couldn’t bear.

He ran his hand over his face, his fingers pressed against his temples as if to stave off the internal conflict tearing him apart.

“I thought it was. But I was wrong.”

“Wrong?” Her disbelief was palpable. “Are you telling me that this… us… doesn’t mean anything?”

“Anna, I don’t know what this means. I just know that… I can’t do this to her. Not anymore.”

She found herself gasping, as if the words had been a physical blow. Alexei knew he had hurt her, but there was no other way.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice low, barely audible.

He turned away from her before he could change his mind, each step back onto the trail feeling like an act of self-punishment. Your face, the pain in your eyes, the frustration and anger—all of it following him, like a ghost he knew he would carry with him forever.

On the way home, the silence of the forest seemed to mock him. Each decision, each choice took him further away from the peace he so desired. But one thing was clear: he needed to renew what was left.

When he finally saw the house, the familiarity of the sight hit him hard. Inside, you were there—the woman he swore to protect, to care for, to love. The woman he hurt every day with his absences, his lies, his indecision.

Alexei walked into the house, feeling the weight of each step. Something was wrong. The lack of noise, the way none of the servants looked directly at him, as if they were afraid that any word or gesture might ignite a flame they could not control.

“What’s going on?” His voice was firm, but with an urgency he could not disguise.

The servants hesitated, but it was the housekeeper who finally answered, her voice low and careful: “It’s your wife, sir… She… The doctor is with her now.”

Before she could finish, Alexei was already climbing the stairs, his heart racing in his chest. Each second seemed like an eternity, the echo of his footsteps amplifying the fear that was growing in his mind.

When he reached the bedroom, he stopped in the doorway, his body tense. The doctor was talking in whispers to the housekeeper, gesturing discreetly. The scene before him was a nightmare. You were lying in bed, the sheets disheveled around your pale body. Your fragility was a cruel blow – a vibrant, lively woman seemed broken, almost unrecognizable.

“What happened?” He was elegant, his voice sharp, almost desperate.

The doctor turned to him, straightening his jacket before answering.

“Your wife had a serious scare. There was some bleeding, but fortunately the baby is fine.”

The doctor’s words hung in the air, and Alexei felt as if the ground had disappeared beneath his feet. A baby. He blinked in disbelief as the weight of the information descended upon him. What had once been a distant murmur was now a deafening scream in his mind. You were pregnant. You were pregnant, and he didn’t know it.

Suddenly, everything began to make sense. Your sudden improvement a few days ago, the way the laughter had slowly returned to your voice, how you seemed lighter, almost radiant. And he… He hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t paid attention to the little signs.

Alexei raised a trembling hand to his forehead, unable to shake off the whirlwind of thoughts. How could he have been so blind? He, who should have known your better than anyone, had failed to notice something so significant, something that should have been shared and celebrated by both of them.

He didn’t need to ask why he hadn’t been called sooner. He knew the answer. He knew exactly where he was. He knew exactly who he was with. Guilt hit him like a blow, stealing his breath. There were no excuses, only the knowledge that he had failed you—again.

When he finally managed to take a few hesitant steps toward the bed, his eyes fixed on your belly, where his seed grew, protected but barely lost. His chest tightened, an almost unbearable knot. Here was something he hadn’t even known he had, and it had almost been ripped from him without him having the fight to keep it.

“Alexei…” Your weak voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he knelt beside the bed, holding your hand with a gentleness that seemed to contradict the storm raging inside him.

Your eyes were half-closed, the lids heavy with exhaustion, but there was a glint of pain he couldn’t bear.

“I’m so sorry…” Your voice shook, each word filled with overwhelming guilt. “I failed you. With… with the baby.”

He shook his head, his fingers squeezing your lightly, as if he wanted to push the pain away with his touch.

“Don’t say that. It wasn’t your fault. None of this is your fault.”

But he knew whose fault it was. Not yours, never yours. Every bit of blame, every mistake and omission was his. Alexei looked down at your belly again, unable to contain the tightness in his throat.

“You’re safe now. And the baby too. I’m here.” He tried to sound firm, but his voice was a broken whisper.

You closed your eyes again, exhaustion overcoming you, but not before a single tear ran down the side of your face. Alexei watched you in silence, his heart torn by the fragility you showed.

Natalia, standing near the door, took a small step forward, hesitant but determined to speak. “She called for you.”

Alexei turned his face to her, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

“What?”

“As she cried, in despair. She called out to you.”

The words pierced him like blades. He looked away, feeling the weight of her absence crush him even more. How many times had you called out to him? How many times had he not been there when you needed him?

He leaned closer, pressing his forehead against your hand, his eyes closed in a mixture of relief and despair.

“Never again,” he whispered, the promise escaping his lips like a prayer. “Never again will you call out to me and not answer.”

And as the night deepened around them, Alexei stood there, beside your, in silence. For the first time in a long time, he felt that the silence was more deafening than any storm.

The days that followed were an exhausting mix of silence and tension. Alexei seemed like a man possessed by an almost desperate determination, willing to do anything to ensure his wife’s well-being. He had the finest dishes the chef could prepare brought to you, even if you barely touched them. He hired musicians to play softly in the garden, hoping the music would help ease your paleness. He brought expensive fabrics, delicate jewelry, perfumes from faraway lands.

The mornings were always filled with Alexei at your side, urging her to eat another spoonful, to take a few steps into the room. When afternoon fell, he would have your sit by the window, the view of the garden filling the space where words failed between them.

But nothing seemed to work.

You didn’t push him away. You didn’t refuse his care. But the distance between you grew every day, a chasm that Alexei didn’t know how to cross. He could feel it in the stiffness of your shoulders when he entered the room, in the gaze that hadn’t met his for a long time.

And then came the blow he hadn’t expected.

You knew.

He realized the moment your gaze finally met his, charged with something he had never seen before. It wasn’t anger, but something worse. It was the stillness of someone who was too hurt to confront, the resignation of someone who had lost something that could not be recovered.

He tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

“You were with her.” Your voice cut through the air like a thread of ice.

Alexei froze. He wanted to deny it, he wanted to make up an excuse, anything. But the lies stuck in his throat like a tight rope, because deep down, he knew that you deserved more than your lies.

“I… I didn’t want it to be like this,” he murmured, his voice so low it sounded like a lost echo.

You laughed, a bitter sound he’d never heard come from your lips.

“I didn’t want it to be like this? Then how should it be, Alexei?”

His name on your lips was like a slap. There was no affection, only the cold formality of someone who’s given up the fight.

“I didn’t know about the baby,” he said, his voice shaking. “If I had known… if I had known…”

You interrupted him with a weak gesture of your hand.

“And would it have made a difference? Would you have stayed by my side? Or would I have been just another responsibility to balance between your escapades?”

Alexei fell to his knees beside the bed, his eyes pleading. He wanted to say yes, that everything would have been different, that he would have chosen you and his son above all else. But the words wouldn’t come, because he knew he couldn’t erase her—Anna—from his mind with mere promises.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he finally said, his hands shaking as they held yours.

You looked up at him, your eyes brimming with tears.

“But you did. And now I don’t know how to fix it, Alexei. I don’t know if it’s possible.”

Silence fell between you again, heavy as a stone. Alexei lowered his head, his breathing ragged.

“I want to try,” he whispered. “For you. For the baby. For us.”

You closed your eyes, allowing the tears to slide silently down your face. You didn’t answer, and Alexei felt his heart break a little more. He released you slowly, feeling as if you were slipping through his fingers, a fragile rope fraying under the weight of your own mistakes.

As he left the room, Alexei stopped when he heard Natalia whisper to another servant:

“They try to protect her from everything, but what is really destroying the lady of the house is here inside.”

The weight of the words hit him like a blow. He knew that it was not only her body that needed rest, but her heart that he had broken.

And for the first time, Alexei had to face the possibility that there might be no way to mend what he himself had destroyed.

The distance between you became more palpable every day. Alexei felt it in your gestures, in the way you looked away when he entered the room, in the short words that left a cold space where there had once been warmth.

He knew he had no right to demand anything, much less forgiveness. But despair was a hungry animal that consumed him, tearing away pieces of his sanity with every blank look you threw in his direction.

When you announced that you were changing rooms, he froze. Since the wedding, there had not been a single night in which you had slept apart.

“Is this necessary?” he heard himself ask, his voice low, almost a whisper, as if your answer could crush him.

You just nodded, without even looking up at him.

That night, Alexei wandered the house like a lost soul. Sitting in the darkness of the empty room, he stared at the bed where you should have been, your absence an oppressive presence that stole the air from his lungs. He didn’t know what to do, how to bear it. The bed seemed bigger, the room colder, the silence deafening.

And then he saw you. The next morning, as he walked down the hallway to his new room, the door was ajar. Alexei stopped. He didn’t want to invade that space that was no longer his, but something compelled him to look.

You were sitting by the window, the sunlight gently touching your face. One of your hands rested on your belly, and there was a smile on your lips. A smile he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“My little miracle…” you murmured, your voice soft, as if you were talking to the baby you were carrying.

Alexei felt his heart tighten. He should have been by your side, participating in that moment. He wanted to be the one with whom you would share your hopes and dreams for the future. But now, he was just a spectator from afar, like a stranger looking through the window of a life that was no longer yours.

He didn’t dare interrupt. He stayed there, quiet, until you slowly got up, supported by Natalia, and disappeared into the room.

The days dragged on. He dedicated every moment to trying to win back something, anything, but you remained distant. He no longer saw the warmth in your eyes, only an icy formality, a barrier he didn't know how to cross.

Sometimes, he heard you talking to the baby. Little promises, loving words that made his heart ache. He wanted to kneel right there and beg for a chance, for a moment of grace. He wanted to tell you that he didn't know how he had lost so much. That now he saw.

Because now he saw.

He saw in the expressions of the servants who passed by him, the veiled judgment in each furtive glance. He saw in his own eyes when he looked at himself in the mirror, the emptiness that had taken over his face. For the first time, he saw himself outside the lens of fascination that had blinded him, outside the lies he had told to justify his actions.

But none of that seemed enough to fix what he had broken.

At night, when he lay in his empty bed, the darkness seemed to weigh on him. He wondered if you thought of him as he thought of you. If, when you caressed his belly, you imagined him as the father of that child, or if he was already a specter in your memory. And he knew that, no matter how hard he tried, your forgiveness was not something he could demand. It was something you would give, or not, and he would have to accept it. But the waiting, the silence, the distance, were a hell he didn't know how to bear.

That night, he sat in the empty room and whispered to the darkness: "Forgive me. Please… forgive me."

But the only answer was silence.

A few more days passed. The mansion, with its spacious halls and impeccably silent corridors, seemed smaller, more suffocating. Still, you kept trying. The weather, the garden, the cold breeze that announced the arrival of a new season — everything was an effort on her part to find some balance, to not let herself succumb to chaos again.

Your belly, although still discreet, was already the center of everything. The servants avoided talking more than necessary, moving carefully around you, as if each word could be another weight on your shoulders. But you were tired. Not of living, perhaps, but of suffering for him.

The walk in the garden came as an unexpected relief. The flowers were still resisting the beginning of autumn, and the wind, although cold, did not seem merciless. There, for a few minutes, your thoughts about Alexei gave way to a momentary peace.

But the calm never lasted long.

That same afternoon, while you were strolling through the streets, something caught your attention. It was a small shop with modest windows, where baby clothes were carefully displayed. You hesitated, but ended up going in.

Inside, the soft colors and soft fabric of the clothes seemed to scream promises of a better future. Your fingers touched a specific piece — a light blue jumpsuit with small, delicate embroidery. He looked so small, so fragile, that for a moment you closed your eyes and allowed the image of a baby to fill your mind.

A boy, you thought. He would have eyes like Alexei’s. And the smile too, that smile that once brightened your days.

The thought came without warning, but it brought a wave of mixed emotions. You didn’t know what it meant—this longing, this inevitable connection between the baby and the man who had broken your heart. But the tightness in your chest was real.

You bought the onesie. When you left the store, the fabric still in your hands, you realized you were shaking.

On the way back home, your steps seemed slower, as if they carried the weight of everything that had been unsaid, of everything that still hurt. The idea of a new beginning, something that had once been a promise for you and Alexei, now seemed uncertain. How could you possibly rebuild something with so many pieces around it?

But as you held that piece of clothing, too small to imagine a body inside it, a silent truth began to take shape. No matter what happened to you and Alexei, that baby was real. He was the hope in the midst of chaos, even if you didn’t yet know how to fully grasp it.

And deep down, even without wanting to, you knew. Part of you still wished things were different, that he was different. That the warmth would return to your eyes, that he would be the father you imagined when you held the onesie in your hands.

The days passed with an unbearable slowness for Alexei. He tried desperately to find ways to get closer to you, but all his attempts seemed to be lost in the void. Dinner that night, the first you would share in weeks, seemed like a small miracle to him. The table was set, the delicate aroma of carefully prepared dishes filled the room, but the euphoria in your chest soon gave way to an anxiety that was hard to ignore.

You were serious, but not hostile. There were no more tears, nor any looks filled with pain. There was a calm that, for Alexei, was even more frightening.

The meal passed with little more than the sound of silverware, and he struggled to create some dialogue, anything that could fill the silence. But then you spoke, and your words shattered the faint hope he had.

“I’ve been thinking,” you began, your voice low but firm, as your eyes remained fixed on your plate. “I think it would be better for everyone if I moved to another house.”

Alexei froze. The knife slipped from his hand and hit the plate with a loud clang that echoed through the room. He looked at you, confused, as if he couldn’t have heard you correctly.

“What?” he barely managed to whisper, his voice hoarse and incredulous.

You didn’t look away, even as you felt your chest tighten at the look on his face.

“It’s not uncommon. Lots of ladies do it,” you continued, your tone almost clinical, as if you were explaining something obvious. “It’s a practical solution. I would be fine, and you could have your life… with whoever you want.”

The words were like knives, stabbing one by one into his heart. He shook his head slowly, as if denying the reality you were proposing.

“No…” Alexei murmured, standing up from his chair with an abrupt movement. He approached you, almost tripping over his own feet, his voice louder now, more desperate. “Don’t say that, please. Don’t do that.”

But you remained where you were, looking at him with an expression that seemed both hard and fragile.

“It’s not fair, Alexei. You could… keep seeing Anna, without having to worry about me.”

He interrupted before you could say more, urgency brimming with each word: “There is no more Anna.”

The silence that followed was sharp.

You blinked, disbelief evident in your eyes. Alexei took a step forward, as if he needed to close the physical distance to reach you somehow.

“It’s over. I… I broke up with her. There’s nothing between us anymore, I swear.”

Your expression remained firm, but he saw the doubt in your eyes, the hesitation.

“Why would I believe you now?” Your voice shook, but you kept your tone controlled.

He took a deep breath, running a hand over his face, the gesture of an exhausted and defenseless man.

“Because I couldn’t go on, not after…” He hesitated, his eyes darting to the floor for a moment before meeting yours again. “Not after realizing what I was risking. What I almost lost.”

Alexei knelt in front of you, his hands gripping yours with desperate strength, as if the mere contact could stop you from pulling away any further.

“I was a fool, a complete idiot, and I know that… that my apologies may not mean anything now. But please, believe me. There is no one else. Just you. Just you and…” He looked down at your belly, his gaze softening for a moment, before returning to your face, so full of hurt. “And our son.”

You wanted to believe him. A part of you screamed to accept those words, to allow the pain to be replaced by something sweeter. But there were wounds that were still raw, and the fear of getting hurt again was too great.

“Alexei… I…” You began, but the words died on your lips.

He felt the wall between you, knew that his words, as sincere as they were, might not be enough.

“Please, don’t go.” He spoke again, his tone lower, almost a whisper. “I know I have no right to ask this, but I… I don’t know how to live without you.”

The weight of his declaration hung between you, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. But you looked away, unable to bear the intensity in his eyes.

And yet, even when your hands released his, he didn’t pull away. He remained there, kneeling, caught between guilt and hope, waiting for a miracle that might never come.

The weeks that followed were a slow unraveling of us. The distance between you two still existed, but it was no longer an unbridgeable chasm. There were shared glances that lasted a little longer, less charged silences, gestures that seemed to seek something beyond the surface. And although fear still inhabited your chest, you didn’t leave.

That afternoon, the room was silent, the discreet sound of the fireplace being your only companion as you read. Alexei was there too, sitting in a nearby armchair with a book that seemed more like a disguise than something he was actually reading. He kept stealing glances at you, as if he was afraid of missing some detail of your expression.

Finally, he broke the silence, his voice low and almost hesitant: “Can I… can I touch your belly?”

The question hung in the air, and you looked up from your book, meeting his. For a moment, Alexei almost regretted asking it, afraid that you would refuse. But to his surprise, you nodded slightly, a shy but genuine permission.

He approached you slowly, kneeling beside you as if each movement were a silent prayer. When his hand finally rested on the soft fabric covering your belly, it was with an almost reverent delicacy. He held his hand there, still, as if afraid that a bolder gesture might break the moment.

The heat from his palm seemed to pass through your skin, and you watched him as he leaned in slightly, his eyes shining in a way that made your heart clench. He was smiling, a soft but genuine smile, so full of happiness that it was impossible to ignore.

“He’s… still so young,” Alexei murmured, almost to himself, his voice choked with emotion.

You just nodded, unable to answer. Something inside you broke at that moment, and tears began to sting your eyes. It was impossible to reconcile the man in front of you, so vulnerable, so in love with something that was still just a promise of life, with the same man who had broken your heart.

He looked up at you, and for an instant, the connection between you was so strong that it seemed like nothing else existed. But the pain was still there, mixed with the tenderness of that moment.

“Alexei…” Your voice broke a little, and it took you a moment to gather your courage. “Tell me about her. About Anna.”

He froze, the happiness on his face replaced by an almost palpable hesitation.

“I don’t know if…” he began, but you interrupted him, your voice firmer now.

“Please. I need to know.”

Alexei took a deep breath, the weight of the confession weighing on him. Finally, he pulled away a little, sitting next to you on the couch, but keeping his hand on your belly as if it were his anchor.

“The rumors…” He began, choosing his words carefully. “They say we were in love. That there was… something between us. But that’s not true.”

You remained silent, allowing him to continue, although you felt your chest tighten with tension.

“There was never a night of love. There was never anything physical.” He shook his head, his eyes locked on yours. “I was foolish, I was blind. I fell for her… for an idea of her, maybe. It was like… something I couldn’t have, and it made me want her even more.”

Alexei paused, his fingers lightly touching your belly, as if the gesture gave him the strength to continue.

“I wasn’t in love with her. Not really. How could I be? She was… an empty dream, a distraction. I was an idiot for not realizing it sooner. And by the time I did, I had already hurt you.”

You closed your eyes, allowing the tears to finally escape, running silently down your cheeks. He leaned in slightly, his free hand hovering in the air as if he wanted to wipe them away, but didn’t dare.

“I’m so sorry.” His voice was a whisper, filled with regret. “If I could go back, I would change everything. But now, all I can do is ask… ask that one day you forgive me.”

The silence that followed was heavy, but there was something different about it. It was no longer the oppressive emptiness of before, but something more… full of possibilities. And although you still didn’t have answers for everything, in that moment, you allowed it to stay.

Because, maybe, this was a start.

The days began to pass differently. The void that had seemed insurmountable between the two of you was now slowly being filled, not with the certainties that had once existed, but with something new. Alexei was present in a way he hadn’t been before, and every gesture, no matter how small, seemed to carry a greater meaning.

He was no longer just the husband you knew, but a man who seemed to strive to be worthy of any space in your life again. There were flowers left on your dressing table, always your favorites, though he never gave them to you directly. There were short notes with kind words placed next to your tea. Little things that you began to notice and eventually treasure.

The visits from the ladies close to you also contributed to this new rhythm. When they arrived, they brought with them not only laughter and pleasant conversation, but also a natural curiosity about how you were doing. They were different from the ladies who had come before, full of snide comments and innuendo. These were your friends, the ones who seemed genuinely concerned.

As they drank tea in the sunlit living room, one of them casually commented:

“It’s funny… no one sees Anna around anymore. It seems she’s gone back to her life, with her husband, as if nothing had happened.”

The remark made the room go silent for a moment, and you felt your heart sink, but you forced yourself to maintain your composure.

“Maybe it’s for the best for her.” Your answer was calm, almost rehearsed, as you sipped your tea.

“No doubt.” Another lady agreed. “After all, it was all so… scandalous. But it’s good that things are getting back to normal.”

The subject changed quickly, but the words stayed with you, a reminder of something that still weighed on you, even when you wanted to let it go.

Alexei kept trying, and each day seemed like a new opportunity for him to show you that he was there for you. One morning, while you were tending the flowers in the garden, he appeared, shy as someone who fears rejection.

“Can I help you?” The question was simple, but the tone begged for a yes.

You hesitated for a moment before handing him the pruning shears, allowing him to join you. The minutes that followed were calm, with him working beside you in silence, until, at some point, he began to speak.

“I know that nothing I do can erase what happened. But I want you to know… I will never do anything like that again.”

You paused, watching him as he continued, his voice full of sincerity:

“I will never let anything or anyone hurt you like that because of me again. I promise, with everything I am.”

His words touched something inside you, but it was hard to know if they were enough. Still, you didn’t pull your hand away when he lightly touched yours.

The nights changed too. Although you still slept in separate rooms, there were times when he would stay by your side for longer, talking quietly about the future, about the baby. He asked questions, listened carefully to your answers, and his eyes shone in a way that made something in your chest tighten.

“I want to be here. I want to be the father our son deserves.” He said one night, and there was sincerity in every word.

It was hard not to believe him when he looked at you like that, with a vulnerability you had never seen before. And even though the fear was still there, you began to let it in again, little by little, like sunlight filtering through the cracks in a curtain.

Things were still not the same. Maybe they never would be. But for the first time, you began to believe that they could be something new.

The night was quiet, the silence filled only by the sound of Alexei’s voice as he read softly, careful not to disturb the peace of the moment. He was sitting in the armchair next to your bed, holding the book with steady hands, but his eyes often strayed to you, searching for signs of fatigue or, perhaps, some trace that your presence was more than just tolerated.

You were lying on your side, your eyes closed, but you weren’t sleeping. It was a relief, somehow, to hear something familiar, something that wasn’t accompanied by excuses or explanations. He read with the same passion he always had, the words coming out as if they were his own creation.

Then, when he finished the poem, a comfortable silence settled in.

“I like it when you read to me.” Your voice was soft, almost hesitant, but true.

He paused, almost in disbelief, before responding with a small smile.

“I like it even more when I read to you.”

The room felt different that night, enveloped in something that went beyond comfort or closeness. It was as if the two of you were walking together in new territory, built on scarred ground but with real possibilities to flourish.

“Stay.” You murmured, the words spilling out before you could reconsider them.

Alexei’s gaze froze the moment he heard them, and he thought for a moment that he had imagined it.

“What?”

You opened your eyes, meeting his, and repeated a little more firmly:

“Stay the night.”

There was a second of hesitation, but only because he was trying to control the wave of emotion that threatened to overflow. Alexei nodded slowly, standing up carefully so as not to break the moment. He seemed nervous, almost as if it was the first time he had approached you this way, and maybe, in a way, it was.

He blew out the candle next to the armchair before lying down next to you, as if every movement could scare away the possibility of this moment existing. The bed seemed smaller with the two of you, but he didn’t complain, didn’t move more than necessary.

For a moment, he stayed there, just staring at the ceiling, unsure if you really wanted him to touch you. So when you turned onto your side and he felt your body settle closer, he took a deep breath and finally gathered his courage.

His arm slowly rose, wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer, until your body was completely fitted against his. Alexei’s breathing was shaky, as if he couldn’t believe this was real.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with emotion.

You didn’t respond, but you shifted slightly, adjusting to his warmth, which was answer enough. The closeness was a balm for Alexei, a kind of redemption he never dared ask for, but yearned for every day.

His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t asleep. Not yet. He was too busy memorizing every detail of that moment: the way your hair smelled, the rhythm of your breathing, the feel of your body against his.

“Do you still like me?” Your voice cut through the silence like a barely audible whisper.

Alexei paused, his throat tightening with the force of the question. He leaned in slightly, pressing his lips against the top of your head, the only response he could muster without breaking down completely. “I never stopped.” It was the last thing he said before you finally fell asleep, and he lay awake for a long time after that, holding you like you were the most precious thing he’d ever had—because to him, that’s exactly what you were.

The room was bathed in soft light, filtered through the curtains that danced lightly in the morning breeze. Alexei woke first, his eyes blinking against the brightness as he adjusted to the surroundings. For a moment, he lay still, as if afraid that any movement would undo the scene before him.

You were still asleep, your face relaxed, your breathing slow and even. He let out a sigh, not of exhaustion, but of relief. As hard as the journey here had been, there was something immensely comforting in simply being able to be by your side again.

His hand moved almost on its own, his fingers tracing invisible lines over your skin, from your shoulder to the delicate curve of your arm. He didn’t dare do more than that, afraid of intruding on the moment. But when you sighed in response, still asleep, he let a shy smile appear on his lips.

When your eyes finally opened, Alexei was already there, watching you with an intensity that almost seemed new, but at the same time familiar.

“Good morning.” He murmured, his voice low and a little hoarse from sleep.

You blinked a few times before answering, still adjusting to reality.

“Good morning.”

The soft voice made something in his chest tighten, and for a moment, he wanted to say everything he felt, but didn’t know where to start. So, he opted for something simpler, safer.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes.” You answered, your gaze meeting his. “And you?”

“Better than I deserve.” The confession was out before he could stop himself, and when he realized what he had said, he blushed slightly, looking away for a moment.

You studied him silently, noticing the still faint dark circles under his eyes, the way he looked anxious, but at the same time… content.

“Do you still tolerate me?” He asked, finally gathering the courage, though his voice carried a palpable hesitation.

The question made your heart clench, but you didn’t look away.

“Alexei…” You began, your voice thick with emotion. “It was never about tolerating. I never stopped loving you. That’s why it hurt so much.”

The words hit Alexei with the force of a wave, his breath catching in his throat. It took him a moment to process, but when he finally did, something in his gaze changed. It was a mix of relief, pain, and an emotion he couldn’t name, but it pulled him closer to you.

And then he couldn’t resist.

Your faces were inches apart, and the hesitation disappeared the moment your lips touched. The kiss started out timid, careful, as if you were both testing the waters after so long. But the initial softness gave way to something more intense, more urgent.

Alexei held your face in his hands, as if he needed to anchor you there, next to him. His lips moved with silent desperation, each touch loaded with months of unspoken words, of accumulated pain, of a love that, despite everything, had never disappeared.

You returned it with the same intensity, feeling his heat envelop you like a flame that didn’t burn, but healed. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, as if the space between you was unbearable.

When you finally pulled away, you were both panting, your faces close, testing the newly rediscovered intimacy. Alexei rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed as he tried to catch his breath and his words.

“I love you.” He whispered, his voice thick with vulnerability and conviction. “I always will.”

You didn’t respond with words, but the way your eyes sparkled was answer enough. And when your lips met his again, it felt like a silent promise that this time, things would be different.

#count vronsky x reader #count vronsky #alexei vronsky #alexei vronsky x reader #fanfiction #count vronsky x you #count vronsky x y/n #count vronsky fanfiction #anna karenina #angst #angst with a happy ending #atj #request #count alexei vronsky x reader #alexei vronsky fanfiction #count alexei vronsky #atj x you #atj x reader

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fayes-fics · 8 months ago

Text

The Secrets We Keep: Pt II

<< Part I

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Knowing someone your whole life doesn’t mean they can’t surprise you… (part II, see above for link to part I)

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, loss of virginity, vaginal fingering, oral sex (m to f), cunnilingus, hand job, vaginal sex, woman on top, orgasm. Also a lot of fluff and a few dashes of angst.

Word Count: 8.5k (13.6k for complete fic, including Pt I)

Authors Note: Part 2 of 2. Part 1 linked above. My longest gestating WIP! It’s been more than 18 months since I received a request for this secret diary fic. Tulip Anon, I have no idea if you still follow me, but I hope you think I did your detailed request justice. Here is the conclusion to this Benepic! Betaed by the awesome @colettebronte, who I can’t thank enough. Enjoy! 🫶

-vii-

The first thing you feel is throbbing pain, an insistent drum in your head, mouth dry as if you have been chewing cotton wool—the instant regret of excessive drinking floods through you. However, when your eyes reluctantly peel open, your predicament escalates.

You have no earthly idea where you are. Or how you got here. The last thing you remember was Benedict kissing you; then the room was literally spinning from entirely too much brandy.

Still in the dress you wore yesterday, but tucked under crisp white linens. A trace of a familiar scent upon the pillow that you cannot quite place in your fuzzy state. Gingerly sitting up, you try to get your bearings, not yet awake enough to have any reaction beyond puzzlement.

The room is darkened, thankfully, save for a sliver of the rising sun that slashes across the bed through a narrow gap in the curtains. You are in a large mahogany four-poster bed; the room is decorated in rich jewel tones—heavy velvet burgundy drapes and dark blue Persian rugs, panelled walls on which stunning artwork hangs. Embers glow in a nearby fireplace as you spy your pelisse hanging on the back of a door and your shoes neatly arranged nearby.

Then you twist and see the bedside cabinet, and your stomach plunges.

There, alongside a glass of water, is your notebook. Your secret notebook. The one that should still be concealed within the hidden pocket of your pelisse. But instead, it is here. And what is worse, it is open. Open to a page with one of your favourite sketches of Benedict: his eyes crinkling against the strong rays of the sun, a carefree smile on his face.

Instantly, you grab it and slam it shut. Fingernails drumming urgently on its silken cover, now hugged into your chest. Horrified that your mystery generous benefactor, who must have seen you to bed, has also been privy to your most private thoughts.

Galvanised by a need to solve the mystery of who, you relinquish your tight hold on the tome. It is then that a folded letter slips out of its pages and drops into your lap. Tentatively, you unfurl the paper and are aghast by the headed notepaper declaring the author and revealing your host. The worst possible person you could think of.

But then your gaze falls to the elegant script inked onto its thick parchment, and your life is indelibly altered.

Dearest Y/n

I hope you are well-rested. There are so many things I am impatient to impart, but I must begin with an explanation and, indeed, an apology.

You are in my bedroom, at my lodgings. I brought you here as I saw no other option that would guarantee your safety and welfare, which is always my utmost concern. I made pains to ensure your arrival here was not seen, and I must assure you, in case your recall is uncertain, that nothing has happened between us beyond our kiss.

Now onto my apology, which is two-fold, although I suspect it should contain multitudes more. Firstly, my most sincere and unreserved apologies for my ungentlemanly conduct at our last two encounters. As wondrous as those kisses were, they were nonetheless inexcusable. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive my impulsive actions.

Secondly, I must apologise for my discovery of this, your private diary. My knowledge of its existence is purely accidental; I removed it from your coat merely as a wish for your possessions to be in neat order upon your awakening. My knowledge of its contents, however… for that, I must throw myself at your mercy and beg for your forgiveness. Curiosity and liquor are not the best companions, and it seems both got the better of me.

In what I hope is partial recompense, I will confess a secret of mine. Arguably selfish in nature and most likely the worst possible timing, too. However, given what I have now seen, I am utterly compelled to convey it….

I love you, y/n.

Most ardently and most truly.

There is no person in the world I would rather spend time with. Whose thoughts I am always impatient to know and whose every moment I wish to be a part of. For some time now, you have occupied my every thought.

It is why I felt compelled to act when I heard from Eloise about your impossible situation. I will do anything within my power to assist you. It is why I said that I want to alleviate your burdens. I meant every word and more. My happiness is seemingly inextricably calibrated to yours—when I see you happy, it brings me great joy, and when I see you are not, it brings a pang to my chest I know not what do with.

I would have taken these feelings to my grave… were it not for this diary. When what I found hidden within ts pages gave me the exquisite burden of hope. Hope that perhaps you return my affections? May indeed have done so for quite some time as well?

I must also take a moment to compliment your poetic talent, and that is to say nothing of your artistic abilities, which quite frankly are humbling. Dare I dream of a day that we could paint together? Sorry (Again! Multitudes indeed!), I am likely getting far ahead of myself.

I will not be home when you read this. Partial cowardice on my part, no doubt, but born out of utmost respect. You always deserve the right to choose, y/n, and that includes what you do with this confession. I do not wish for you to be obligated to see me or let me know your response, thoroughly eager though I am to hear of it.

If you wish to speak to me before your wedding ceremony, please leave your hair ribbon tied to my phaeton upon your departure. I will find a way to see you. If you do not, I shall, of course, respect your decision.

A vila mon coeur, gardi li mo: You will always have my heart; I hope you also choose to be its haven.

Benedict

You could read this confession a thousand times over and still scarcely believe it; the depth of his feelings declared plainly, boldly, and so lyrically in writing. You pour over it once more, giddily aglow, your fingers tracing across his elegant, looped script, your lips moving as you mouth his words, needing to have them within you somehow. Then, you lovingly refold and place the letter between the last two blank pages of your notebook—a more fitting denouement to its contents you could not imagine.

You put on your shoes and pelisse, still floating on a cloud. A valet meets you in the hallway and, with a wordless nod of acknowledgement, leads you out of the rear mews entrance, handing you a large silk scarf to conceal yourself under. With one final glance up at Benedict’s abode, you unfurl the ribbon from your hair and, insides aflutter, tie it in a neat bow onto his phaeton before wrapping the scarf around your head and stealing out onto the streets of Mayfair.

-viii-

Still in a daze about Benedict’s confession, you slip into the servant's entrance of your family home, tiptoeing through the dormant kitchen and tugging off the scarf. Just as you believe yourself home-free, Mrs White, head cook and ersatz maternal figure, materialises from the pantry, nearly dropping a bag of flour in surprise.

“Lawks alive, sweet child, you gave me a fright!” she exclaims, clutching her chest. “Pray tell, why are you sneaking into my kitchen at the crack of dawn?”

You cringe and turn sheepishly to meet her gaze. “Sorry for the scare, Mrs White. I, um, indulged rather too heavily last night. I was in no fit state to return home. I stayed with a trusted friend.” The truth, albeit behind a veil of obfuscation. “Please do not tell Father!” you add hurriedly.

As she plunks down the flour and smacks her fingers together to rid them of its nascent dust, she chuckles. “I shall not divulge if you do not… for I was already under your father’s employ when I did the same many years ago, the night before I made my Harry an honest man.”

“Deal!” you giggle, clutching your notebook tight to your chest, unable to quash the ebullience fizzing in your being.

“You look as if you caught a rainbow and sold it to the sky,” she declares, crossing her arms and observing you closely. “Wedding day excitement, yes?!” she adds pointedly with a raised eyebrow, even as her tone very much suggests she suspects otherwise.

“Of course, Mrs White…” you concur, attempting to conceal the quirk of your lip.

She rolls her eyes and shoos you affectionately towards the hallway. “Away with you! I suspect the less I truly know, the better…”

You say nothing; just give her a nod and race up the servant's stairs, keen to make it to your bedroom unseen.

As soon as you are safely there, you toe off your shoes and only then relinquish your vice-like grip upon your notebook to hurriedly change into your nightgown as if you had been asleep in the house all night. Enacting a plan you conceived on the brisk walk home, you grab a night bag from your ottoman. Flinging open your wardrobe, patently ignoring the wedding dress hung upon its door, you bundle the notebook with a couple of your favourite outfits and stuff them into the bag. Buckling it shut while you scoot across the room, you open the sash window and - with a quick check of the garden below - drop the bag into the large rhododendron beneath, hopeful the dense, fragrant blooms will conceal its presence for now.

Just as you are closing the window, a gaggle of ladies descend upon your room, led by your fussing mother, your ladies' maid Rachel among them. Realising she has had to lie to keep your cover since yesterday at the modiste, you silently shoot her a brief look of reassurance.

“Rise and shine, darling!” your mother chimes. “‘Tis your most special day!”

And then everything is a blur as the preparation for your wedding starts in earnest, you still slightly detached from it all, your thoughts purely of Benedict. It is only sometime later that you get a few moments of peace with just Rachel as she puts the finishing touches to your look.

“You seem changed, my lady…” Rachel opines sotto voce, sliding a pin into your hair.

You say nothing, even as your eyes meet in the vanity table mirror, unwilling to confess details of what has transpired just yet. Unsure yourself even what it could mean until you get the chance to see Benedict yourself, your stomach in knots to do so.

“I told your family you took dinner alone last night in your room after returning from the modiste, and then you went to sleep…” she whispers, leaning in even though you are alone.

“Thank you. I am truly grateful,” you offer sincerely before adding: “I will tell you more when I am able. I do beg one more favour of you…?”

She makes eye contact again in your reflection, giving a brief tentative nod after a pause.

“If you should hear from a Bridgerton valet, please follow any directions he provides,” you implore, the image of your hair ribbon fluttering gently in the breeze emblazoned in your mind.

“A valet? Not a ladies’ maid?” she checks softly, frowning.

“Yes, just please… do as he asks?”

“Yes, my lady,” she demures before reaching for your jewellery.

It is only as the carriage you and your mother ride in shudders over the cobblestones towards St George’s church an hour or so later that reality comes crashing in.

So engrossed in thoughts of seeing Benedict all morning, you had almost forgotten the dreadful fate that likely awaits you. A sudden spike of fear that he will not turn up, that something will prevent him from seeing you, or, heaven forfend, today’s stiff breeze has blown your hair ribbon asunder.

All at once, your head is spinning, your dress feels too tight, and there is a plunging dread in the pit of your stomach, your skin prickling hard before your vision seems to swim with dots before narrowing to blackness…

“Y/n!? Whatever is the matter?!” your mother’s alarmed voice rings out as you woozily return.

You are slumped sideways against the glass window, its cool surface a balm on your suddenly fevered temple.

“Is it what I told you about your wedding night…?!” she frets, her laced glove tickling your forehead as she appears to be checking your temperature. “I can assure you, you will get used to it…”

You bat her away and slowly sit upright, taking a calming breath while also trying to blot out the memory of her talk about marital relations right before you left the house. Not able to confess it as unnecessary without raising suspicion, you had to endure a stumbling, unhelpful explanation of things you already know. Indeed, you have witnessed at Granville’s parties, even if you have not taken part yourself.

But then the sudden thought of being required to do such with Lord Farringdon has you grasping the curtain, your empty stomach heaving at the mere prospect. The silent hope that Benedict can assist you at the eleventh hour is the only thing that stops you from passing out anew.

With a shaky gait and a queasy, oily feeling, you alight a few moments later, your mother lending an arm of support as your father and brothers pile out of the other carriage. This is to be the entirety of your wedding guest list. You have pulled into a side courtyard of the church, concealed behind high walls, away from the inquisitive sights of the Ton. The rushed nature of the union and Whistledown’s latest means your family has no wish for this to be a public event, keen to be rid of scandal. Only your immediate family, your husband-to-be and the vicar - a friend of your father’s - know of today’s ceremony. Well, and Benedict. You did not even get the chance to inform Eloise of this expedited schedule.

As he leads you up the stairs and into the side vestibule, your father informs you that Lord Farringdon is already awaiting you at that altar and that he will appreciate a swift ceremony. You swallow thickly and nod mutely, sensing the window of opportunity creaking closed with alarming alacrity, each incessant tick of the church clock seeming like both forever and not enough time, scrabbling for any chance to stall.

Just as you are about to lose all sense of hope, you see movement over your father's shoulder that has your heart leaping into your throat. There, through a mullioned window, you see the distorted outline of a phaeton swiftly pulling up on the other side of the church from where you entered, a palpable wave of relief and excitement washing over you.

Benedict has come!

-ix-

“Father, may I please have a moment alone?” you rush out breathlessly, pulse-pounding hard in your ears. Hoping he will interpret your request as mere nervousness about the imminent ceremony, you add: “Before I must take this big step and become a wife?”

He reluctantly grants your wishes, brusquely telling you it should be brief before following the rest of your family through the doors into the nave.

As soon as the coast is clear, you are darting out the entrance again and running around the outside of the church, wedding dress swishing around your legs, until you skid to a halt next to a pillar that conceals you from the street.

There, before you, arrestingly beautiful and jumping athletically down to the pavement, is Benedict—a vision in a blue velvet jacket and teal cravat.

Your eyes meet, and your knees want to buckle; such is the magnitude of the moment. He bounds up the granite steps and crushes his lips to yours briefly.

“No time to talk,” he rushes out. “If you wish to escape, take my hand, for we must depart now!”

Your heart hammers as you do the only thing you could ever want to: grab tightly onto his proffered hand as his face breaks out into the most arresting smile. Then it's a blur as he whisks you down the steps to his phaeton, hoisting you up onto its leather bench and throwing a blanket into your lap, then clambering in himself. With a shake of the reins, you lurch and take off down an alleyway at a rapid pace. The velocity of motion, red bricks of buildings whizzing by mere feet away, has you momentarily stunned and so you almost jump out of your skin when he speaks loudly over the rushing noise.

“Cover yourself before we get to the street,” Benedict advises quick-fire, only taking his attention off the road briefly to nod to the blanket. Just as you are struggling to conceal yourself, the horses careen onto Park Lane, attracting attention for the speed you are already travelling.

“Benedict!” you chastise, your arm shooting out to grab the side of the partial umbrella-like hood that arches over you, having to cling on for dear life. “This is not exactly a stealthy escape!”

“I know,” he grimaces, not looking at you, “but we must make haste and be as far away as we can as soon as possible.”

“Regardless of destination, we will need to stop at my house!” you almost have to yell to be heard over the jostling wheels on either side of you.

“Why??” His whole face screwed up in disbelief.

“I must gather some things! I will not leave without them, Benedict!!” you warn.

“What could possibly be worth stopping for?” he decries, the whole vehicle swaying violently as he rounds another bend.

“Perchance, other clothing?!” you wither loudly, frowning that he had not considered such, before adding: “And your letter!?”

His head whips around to look at you and there is an intensity in his gaze that has your heart stuttering. An all-consuming want to kiss his lips as his gaze falls to your mouth. Only the urgent yelp of a pedestrian you narrowly avoid colliding into rips your attention away from each other.

He rights the phaeton, tugging the reins so the horses slow.

“Alright,” he concedes, quieter, calmer. “But please do be as quick as you are able…”

You don't get the chance to inform him you have already packed and stowed a bag because he is pulling up in the quiet mews behind your family home. You jump down and take off, sprinting through the small gate and across the lawn. Soon, you are diving into the large bushes on the side of the house beneath your bedroom window. Fumbling around, you have to wrestle your dress from a branch before you reach the wall. Emitting a muted noise of victory as you are finally able to grab your bag and out of the foliage without looking.

“Miss y/l/n!?”

You jump out of your skin, spinning to see Mrs White standing at a nearby door, wielding a rolling pin.

“Mrs White, please,” you beseech, “please, do not tell anyone!”

She takes stock of you: your animated state, your wedding dress torn over your knee where it snagged upon that branch, a night bag grasped in your ringless left hand… and she appears to make a calculated decision.

“I fear I could not, my child,” she offers with a shrug, “I do not see anyone for me to tell of…”

The small, sympathetic nod and smile toying her lips has you barreling towards her, throwing your free arm tight around her as flour dust puffs onto the silk of your dress. You utter your thanks, flooded with gratitude, hugging her close before disentangling, you take off sprinting before she can say anymore.

-x-

As you depart from your family home, a companionable silence settles between you—a tacit understanding that there is much to discuss, but the journey is not the ideal place to do so. Both resolute to put some miles between yourselves and your family, likely now emerging from the church and wondering where on earth you are. A flare of guilt in your belly for not informing Rachel or even your mother. You resolve to send word tomorrow that you are safe without providing details.

As the edges of London give way to the countryside, you do decide to ask one simple question.

“Where are we headed, Benedict?”

“I have a suggested destination….” he begins enigmatically, an odd cadence to his voice, “but we will discuss that later, once we stop for the night at an inn.”

There is a little flutter behind your ribs at the thought, but it is forgotten as a strong gust of wind whistles over the carriage, making you shiver and burrow into the blanket, wishing you had grabbed your pelisse from the night bag before setting off.

You startle as Benedict pulls you snugly into his side, adjusting the carriage hood and then the blanket, too, so he provides partial shelter from the winds as they whip across the fields.

“I am sorry I do not have an enclosed carriage for you to journey in comfort,” he winces, his speech humming into you. “But it is best we use this speedier option anyway. We will cover more ground swiftly travelling light.”

You nod in acknowledgement. “Thank you for the blanket, at least; it is very considerate,” you respond, not unpleased to have an excuse to cuddle into him as you reassure him: “I am well now.”

Indeed, the warmth of his flank on yours and the steady rocking motion of the carriage is soporific, the whirlwind of the day hitting you even though it is merely lunchtime.

“Please rest if you need to,” he intuits, “I will wake you if needed.”

And despite the elements, you find the lure of sleep inevitable.

A warm wetness on your brow stirs you.

“Y/n…”

You wish you could always be roused like this; your name a soft rumble from Benedict’s lips as they trace gently over your forehead. You nuzzle unthinkingly into the sound and feel, which has him chuckling into your skin.

“We are here, at the inn….” he murmurs, his breath hot into your hairline.

You blink awake. “We are?!’” You twist to see you are stopped alongside an elegant Tudor wood building. “How long have I been asleep?!”

“All afternoon,” he admits, a touch sheepish. “You looked so peaceful and I assume you must need the rest after a tumultuous few days.”

His touching manner has a warmth spreading behind your ribs that makes you push up and land a kiss on his jaw.

“Thank you,” you whisper, pulling away but pleased to see a dot of colour high on his cheekbones.

“‘Tis nothing,” he demures before changing the topic. “I am sure you are hungry and in need of refreshments. So we shall dine and remain here for the night. We have covered a considerable distance from London already—around forty miles.” He jumps down and stands expectantly holding out a hand for you to follow suit as he continues speaking. “To avoid attention, we should present ourselves as family relations—cousins, perhaps?”

“I am in a wedding dress,” you remind as you wrestle your way out of the blanket and reach for him to descend.

His Adam’s apple bobs as he scans down your form, lingering slightly.

“Oh yes. Well. Umm. Perchance as husband and wife then?” he flusters as you step down with his assistance.

“Would that not draw the attention you mentioned we should avoid?” you murmur, your hands still joined even though you are on the ground now.

“Do you have another suggestion?” he queries, his breath warm on your face as you stand entirely too close, fingers flexing around yours.

“Unless you wish me to remove my dress out here…” you goad, a little crest of victory as his pupils rapidly dilate and he huffs a breath, “...then I do not.”

“We have much to discuss,” he almost growls, which stokes something low in your belly as he tugs you along towards the entrance, only stopping to nod briefly to the inn’s groomsman who emerges to take care of your horses.

-xi-

The tavern at the inn is a warm, convivial space, wood-panelled, the smell of delicious foods wafting in the air alongside the tannin of wine and the ferrous tang of dark beer as crowds of people of all walks of life gather. Benedict sees you into a corner booth away from other patrons as he orders food, then goes to secure your accommodation for the night.

As he returns, passing you a glass of wine, there is a nervous churning in your gut; this is the first opportunity you have had to talk properly since you awoke to his life-changing letter.

“I have no idea where to begin,” he confesses, looking perplexed, and it makes you reach out in reassurance over the table, pulse strong in his raised veins under your fingertips.

“Your letter was the single most wondrous thing I have ever received,” you offer honestly, his eyes softening, making your heart flutter. “Benedict,” you take a steadying breath before ploughing on with the truth you have never spoken aloud before, “I have loved you for as long as I can remember…”

His face lights up, and his hand turns under yours, your palms touching as he laces your fingers together in a tight knot, then brings your joined fists to his lips, kissing your knuckles gently.

“Why did you never tell me?” He entreats softly.

“Why did you never tell me?” You return lightning quick, a quirk on your lips that has him chuckling.

“An entirely fair accusation,” he concedes, shuffling closer and grabbing your other hand, your heads so close together now. “I suppose I thought my feelings irrelevant, futile even, that you would secure a titled husband. Though why your father chose such a vile one confounds me, I must confess.”

“I believe that a chastisement,” you commence but are interrupted by food arriving at your table.

So, as you eat, you explain the whole story between mouthfuls. That you were able to delay your debut last season in your father’s absence, but it meant this season, he was determined to see you matched swiftly. Recounting fondly your time spent with your Aunt Eliza, Benedict appearing impressed as you reel off all the skills you now possess. You also talk in detail about how her encouragement meant you fell into the London art scene and how you know Henry Granville. Benedict listens intently, taking bites of his dinner, but his attention never wavers from you as you recount everything.

“So yes, I believe the match was about my father’s wish to quash a perceived rebellion more than a match society might deem appropriate for the firstborn daughter of a Viscount.”

“An untitled second son, even less so,” Benedict muses softly, downcasting his eyes, a flare of insecurity that has you putting down your cutlery and grabbing his jaw.

“Benedict, please do not,” you petition, rubbing a thumb over his cheek. “You know me. You know that I have never cared what society might think! If I were to marry, I would only ever want it to be a love match. I would not give a damn if my husband were a penniless beggar as long as he loves and respects me.”

You pause as he raises his soulful gaze to yours, your faces so close.

“Luckily for me, the man who stole my heart fifteen years ago is neither penniless nor a beggar. He is a wonderful, caring, handsome, passionate artist who I would indeed be lucky to paint next to,” you conclude with reference to a line in his letter, a scene you can picture so clearly it seems more premonition than a dream.

“Fifteen years?” he repeats, a look of utter wonderment as he turns his lips aside to kiss your palm where you still cup his face. You nod, a little nostalgic smile tugging at your lips as he adds: “Then I must confess… I have never been more grateful for my incessant curiosity; it led me to your diary and thus to this very moment.”

He takes your hands from his jaw, then kisses both of your knuckles again in turn, but this time, he lingers, his lips warm, damp and pursed open, and a trace of his tongue dabs your protruding bone. A shiver runs down your spine, stoking something acute, dangerous and exhilarating.

“Do you know I have kept that notebook hidden since I was fourteen? Sewing a secret pocket into all of my coats or hiding it under floorboards so it would never be found. For six years. Yet it took you less than one evening…”

“Maybe it was waiting to reveal itself to the one person who needed to see it the most…” he muses between kisses, his breath gusting hot over your fingers.

That seismic but simple poetic sentence devastates your ability or wish to talk anymore—a thronging need for him that you are powerless to resist any longer.

“Take me to our room, Benedict,” you command, voice tremulant with want and hope.

His head shoots up, his face a captivating tapestry of barely bridled passion and astonishment.

“But I-I booked us separate rooms,” he stumbles, confounded, and that gentlemanly act just makes you want him all the more.

Uncaring that you are sitting in a wedding dress in a public tavern, you pitch forward and capture his lips in a kiss that instantly becomes passionate and demanding, your hand running into his hair and tugging him closer.

“You should return the key and request your money back, for that will not be necessary…” you decree, breathing the words into his mouth.

That seems to light a fire in him. He shoves back the table and sweeps you into his arms bridal style, striding out of the room purposefully, his mouth hot on yours, your pounding heartbeat almost drowning out the bawdy, raucous cheers from the drunken patrons you pass.

-xii-

Once the room door clicks closed behind you, his demeanour softens. He gently removes your shoes before setting your stockinged feet down on a plush rug in front of a roaring fire. He tugs his jacket off so he stands before you in a colourful waistcoat and ruffled shirt.

“Are you certain?” His ask is chivalrous, tinged with such delicate hope it makes you melt.

“I have never been more certain of anything in my entire life,” you declare candidly, boldly stepping towards him.

His hands encircle your waist as yours slide up his biceps, the warmth of his skin through the crisp white fabric making your blood run warm.

“I may be chaste, but I know of what we are to do; I have been at Granville’s, remember. I also know that I want this. So very much.”

“I am the luckiest man…” he asserts in a low rumble, your honesty seeming to ignite him again as he crowds into you.

It’s an electrifying kiss that has your scalp tingling: his hands moulded to you, mapping your every curve as you take from each other as you never have before, desperation bubbling over with each parry of tongues. His fingers land on the buttons of your dress, between your shoulder blades, silently asking permission.

“Rip it off me,” you urge impulsively, chest heaving within your stays. “I want you to destroy this very dress and everything it represents….”

His responding growl inflames your core, molten liquid heat as his large hands grab the material and tear it asunder from your body so you stand before him, trembling with desire in just your stays and chemise.

He guides your fingers to his waistcoat, the crackle of the fire and the huff of his breaths the only sound in the room. His chest rises and falls steadily as you work on each button. When you reach the last one, he shucks the garment from his torso, then crosses his arms and discards his shirt in one swift motion, sailing away in a puffed arch. The broad expanse of smooth chest before you has you tongue-tied. A lean musculature and pale complexion reminiscent of Italian renaissance sculpture… but living, breathing and looking at you as if you are the most precious thing on earth.

Long arms wrap around you, enveloping you in his warmth, fingers spidering up the notches of your spine through the thin cotton of your chemise until they reach your stays and pluck upon the laces there. He unties them slowly as his lips trail hotly down your throat. You have observed forms of intimacy but didn't expect the firsthand experience to be so rich, so all-consuming. The sights, the sensations, the scents. Like the tangy undernotes lurking beneath his woody cologne, an aroma that is all him, his bare skin. It makes your mouth water and lean into him; a want to be a part of him almost—so much heat and touch.

As your loosened stays drop to the floor behind you, a clawing need for his flesh on yours has you rapidly discarding your chemise over your head, naked now save your stockings. But before he has the chance to see, you propel yourself into him again, his solid chest colliding with your breasts, your peaked nipples trapped against his warmth. A loud groan from his lips that you swallow as you push up onto tiptoes and wrap your arms around his strong neck, kissing him ferociously. His grip slides down to grasp your bottom, pulling you into him, something rigid pressing your stomach through the refined wool of his trousers.

“Let me look at you,” he pleads, withdrawing a half step, his eyes sweeping covetously down your body as you feel aglow in the heat of the adjacent fire. “You are so beautiful,” he attests shakily, an insistent throbbing between your legs that is all of his making, so close without any stimulation.

“Touch me, Benedict.”

It’s equal parts order and request, grabbing his wrist and guiding it low over your belly. His elegant fingertips curl through the patch of hair before swiping between your legs, dilated pupils boring into yours as you emit a wanton moan, knees almost buckling. A strong arm wraps around you to keep you steady as he observes you up close, repeating the motion, parting your folds this time, you honeying upon his fingertips as he glances over your swollen clit.

You whimper his name, and he claims your lips again, sliding the pad of his fingers over that spot over and over. Fingernails digging into his arm at his expert touch, the air swirling with the wet sound and scent of your arousal.

“You smell so utterly divine,” he groans, pitching forward and almost biting your bottom lip in a toothful, desperate meeting, your moans echoing over his tongue. “I need to taste you,” he stutters.

You have to shoot out an arm to grasp the mantlepiece as he suddenly drops to his knees before you and buries his face into your mound, inhaling deeply, his nose pressed onto your clitoral hood. He is so primal in his desperation as he lifts one of your legs and places it over his shoulder, diving into your folds, his tongue a wet, hot spear over your swollen nub. Your other hand burrows into his thick head of hair, scratching along his scalp as he hums his approval into your damp heat, the vibration causing sparks of pleasure to fan out.

It takes what little shred of concentration you have left to stay upright, clinging to the fireplace and him, rocketing skyward so dizzyingly fast, slack-jawed, breathless, rooted in your body as you gawk down at him. You had no idea this would be so intense, so carnal. His stare is fixated upwards on you, reading your reactions like a book, his glazed jaw moving with expert precision buried between your legs—an intoxicating sight that burns into your retinas.

“I need you to come for me, y/n,” he begs hotly into your soaked flesh, his tongue a muscular swipe greater than his fingers, his fingers plucking the ribbons holding your stockings loose so they slide down to your feet.

“I want to do so with you…” you gasp, unable to prevent whatever forms in your mouth from slipping out, leaking profusely onto his chin.

“You will; I promise,” his gravelly assurance, the permission you need to let go, riding his tongue with abandon, your body undulating, chasing that ephemeral high you have only experienced from your own touch before. But this is so much more, so wholly other, magnitudes indeed, the words from his letter never far from your thoughts even as you spiral somewhere close to bliss. His gaze locked onto you, able to read all your signs: skin flushed, ragged pants, shuddering with each quest of his tongue.

And then he gently bites your clit, and you are gone, his hands needing to clamp onto your hips to hold you upright as your body convulses. You cry out, sagging onto him as your body races with a high that fizzes in every cell, radiating in waves of pleasure that have you calling out, uncaring who may hear, incapable of anything but clinging to his hair for dear life and scrunching your toes into the thick wool rug underfoot.

You know you utter a curse, entirely overpowered by the euphoria coursing through you as he stands back up and pulls you into his arms, kissing your cheek chastely, the scent of you strong on his face. But as you come back to yourself, renewed passion stokes in you, determination to give as good as you have been given, a drive for mutual pleasure that has you shoving him backwards forcefully.

He falls back onto the bed, a look of total surprise claiming his face as you crowd over him, attacking his trouser buttons with a vigour that has him stunned, his mouth agape. But he doesn't move to stop you, far from it. There is a flash in his eye as you grab his hands and cage them onto the sheets briefly before returning to attack his clothing. Wordlessly, he lifts his pelvis when you tap his hipbone, and then you are tugging his trousers down and off, flinging them across the room.

You are momentarily taken aback when you look down and realise he is without underwear, now as naked as you. His cock, nestled in a small patch of hair, is larger than you have seen before, tinged dark pink and leaking from the tip. It looks so good you bite your lip, a twinge deep inside that is pure want.

His moan is beautiful as you take him in hand. He is hot and steely in your grip as you move your hand up and down, learning his contours, fascinated by the contrast of how silky his skin is.

“I am so glad you have seen things you should not have,” he groans, squirming delightfully, so very responsive to your touch. It makes you greedy always to have him like this, yearning for you as much as you do him, stuttering your name as you change your grip and move a little faster.

“Please stop…” he grits out, his hand covering yours and slowing your motions, but you can tell it is utterly reluctant. “I am too close, my love…”

That reflexive term of endearment makes something melt behind your ribs, and you crawl up over him as you release his cock, claiming his lips in a kiss, his hands encircling your waist, pulling you down so that his cock is trapped under your pubic bone.

“I love you,” you breathe quietly over his lips, holding his face, wanting to convey the depth of feelings you have for this man.

“I love you too, y/n,” he replies earnestly, his eyes glassy, a cloud of emotion claiming his expression as his hands cup your jaw as well, a profound moment of heartfelt sincerity amid this tableau of fevered physicality.

“May I?”

Your ask is hesitant as you rearrange, sliding your legs up either side of his hips, signalling your wish to ride him, a need to be the one to give your virginity to him more than him to take it. Something achingly significant in the ability to choose.

He nods a reassuring and spellbound look, and a beguiling hitch in his throat as his tip brushes your entrance.

“It may hurt a little, my love,” he advises, wincing as if wishing that was not the case for you.

“I know,” you murmur back, grabbing his hands to aid you in sitting up so you have more range of motion.

And then, with a steadying breath, you lower yourself onto him, mouth falling open at the invasive stretch with barely a fraction of him inside you. His face is a kaleidoscope of everything you hope for him—joy and bliss. Your fingers grasp tight around his knuckles, your joined hands a knotted fist, as you feel a pinch of pain that makes you suck air through your teeth, knowing this is the moment you become a woman. So glad it is with him, the categorical love of your life.

Luckily, the ache is fleeting, and you sink lower, him moaning your name lyrically, you puffing a breath at the complete fullness. A pressure holding you open that is so galvanic you now understand the hedonism of what you have previously witnessed—the drive to satisfy an urge that is innate and potent.

“Oh my god, Benedict,” you stutter, as finally he is fully seated within your body, clinging to him, held open in the most arresting way.

“I know, my love, I know…” he soothes, untangling your hands to touch your skin, running his palms reverentially down your body. “You are amazing, a wonder…”

“Guide me…?”

He smiles and whispers gentle instructions for you to push up with your thighs and then sink back down, his hands now clamped around your waist to assist you. The sensation is indescribable, the drag of his cock against your walls as you slowly ascend and descend, trying to catalogue every second as a precious memory.

Your speed increases as you get used to the physicality of movement, a cloying, dewy heat spreading over both your bodies as you move in unison. He starts to tilt his hips off the bed to assist in your strokes, pushing to a new depth that catches your breath and has you muttering a curse, your hands scrabbling his abdomen, enjoying the flex of muscles there. His grip moves to your breasts, teasing your nipples in a way that has you gasping and riding harder. His fingers snagging on your sensitive buds is a beeline zipping to your engorged clit, that mashes into his body with every downward stroke you take. Still on a high from your last orgasm, it won't take much more for you to come again; this time, you hope in tandem.

His movements become more urgent, his noises louder, his touch firmer, squeezing you, bucking up with force now, making you moan with each new plunge onto him, as if he craves to leave an imprint of himself inside you.

“Are you close, my love?” you query, borrowing his term of endearment. It has his screwed-shut eyes flying open, his hands flexing on your hips, and a ripple up his rigid cock you can actually feel.

“Yesssss,” he hisses back, “please call me that again,” he entreats through clenched teeth, a prominent vein in his neck pulsing hard as his whole being seems to tense.

“My love,” you coo, treating it like a gift to bestow, addicted already to the effect it has on him, his fingers digging into your flesh in a way that will leave marks you will be proud to wear.

You move faster now, the sturdy bed squeaking in protest, the sound of your damp skin slapping together, taking even yourself by surprise at how visceral this is, especially for a first time. Expecting it to be less somehow and enraptured that instead, it is better, burning brighter than anything you have ever fantasised of—skin and sweat, muscle and bone, heart and body in rhapsody.

One of his hands squirrels between your legs, fingertips hooking against your clit, and within seconds, you are breaking. Your vision whiting out as you slam onto him, your pussy clenching in waves, his cock almost too much as you float somewhere that is both within you and a thousand miles above. Dimly, you sense his nails scrape your flesh as he calls out your name, loudly, debauched, wrecked, a strong pulse through his length as he shudders then goes entirely still, a warmth blooming deep inside your channel that is his seed, something about it so very primaeval.

You slump inelegantly onto his chest, huffing breaths, altered fundamentally by this magical experience. His touch is soothing, encouraging to lay upon him as he softens within you, eventually slipping out as you lay nuzzled together, exchanging soft words of sated joy—a sudden tide of fatigue lapping your edges. Fuzzily, you feel Benedict chuckle under you and, with hushed, tender words, rearrange your pliant body, rolling you onto your side and curling protectively around you, a warming presence that has sleep seizing you almost immediately.

Awakening the following morning in Benedict’s arms is sublime, his stubbled lips grazing your neck as he rolls you under his warm weight. Just as your body stirs under his sensual kisses, he stops and sighs, dropping his forehead onto your clavicle.

“I wish to spend a lifetime right here, entwined naked with you, my love, but alas, I must desist,” he laments softly. “We need to get moving…”

“You never did say your planned destination,” you point out, running your fingers into his lush hair as he tilts his handsome face up to meet your gaze.

“Did I not?” He lilts, feigning ignorance. “I blame you entirely; your beauty is far too distracting..” Flattery falling from his lips reflexively. “Well, anyway, we must make haste if we are to reach Scotland by Friday as I have planned.”

“Scotland?” you echo breathlessly. “That is so far! Why there?”

“Gretna Green, my love,” his eyes sparkling as he hovers over you, entwining the fingers of your left hands together, his thumb brushing your ring finger. “I hope you are amenable to my proposal...”

And your heart veritably explodes.

-xiii-

The journey is long but worth it. Your wedding, five days later, over the border in Scotland, is everything you could hope for—a beautiful, romantic, private moment for just the two of you, promising your lives to each other in secret. Something thrillingly illicit about its location, too, the place to which all forbidden lovers escape. You do not wear a wedding dress, just a simple light blue chiffon one you had thrown into your night bag, always a favourite since Benedict once complimented you in it. He wears a cravat in the same colour. Exchanging matching wedding bands engraved inside with the same phrase Benedict signed off his love confession with: A vila mon coeur, gardi li mo (Here is my heart, guard it well).

You are happily ensconced in his idyllic Wiltshire cottage by the time family reactions to your elopement reach you almost two weeks later. The Bridgertons are supportive if a little shocked; the dowager Viscountess is always enamoured with a dramatic love story. Your family is less so, but they cannot deny a match with a Bridgerton is no bad thing, even if it was fleeting gossip fodder. You hear from your mother that Lord Farringdon did not demand compensation for your abscondment from the altar. Apparently, you were not the first to do so. Rumour has it that the odious man is negotiating a marriage deal with the Cowpers for their wayward daughter. It may be the first time you have felt a pang of sympathy for Cressida.

Mostly, you are grateful that the more scandalous truth surrounding your union - Benedict stealing you away on your wedding day - never becomes public knowledge. Every couple must keep some secrets from the world, no?

Although, a couple of weeks later, on a leisurely Sunday morning, you discover your marriage can no longer be considered as such.

“Darling, you might want to see this…” Benedict drawls casually, wandering into the bathroom as you luxuriate in warm water.

He drops the latest issue of Lady Whistledown onto a nearby stool as he tugs off his shirt, apparently planning to join you in your bath. Your mouth falls open in shock as you grab the pamphlet. But it is not from his naked form as his trousers hit the floor; it's from what you read:

Lastly, this author may have to eat her hat. News has reached me that Mr Benedict Bridgerton had indeed done the almost unthinkable and married the spirited Miss Y/n Y/l/n. They exchanged vows in a quiet ceremony far from the prying eyes of the Ton and will now settle in Wiltshire, I hear.

“How did she find out?” you ponder aloud as he slides into the tub behind you. Surely Whistledown must be close to the Bridgertons to discover as such?

“I have not a clue. But perhaps I should send her some honey from our hives to make her headwear more digestible?” he jests, interrupting your reading by pulling you backwards into his arms.

“Mr Bridgerton!” you chastise playfully, holding the paper aloft to save it from the sloshing he creates as he surrounds you, laughing carefree, so much delightfully naked skin around yours.

“Are you done reading Mrs Bridgerton?” His tone changes to a husky murmur in your ear, his fingers trailing distractingly upwards over your ribs under the water.

“You just brought this to me, husband,” you riposte pointedly, but your argument dies off into a wanton noise as his hands slide up and cup your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples expertly. You abandon any attempt to focus on the page, tossing the paper aside and twisting to capture his lips with yours.

Upon the floor, as water splashes onto the wood nearby, the last few sentences you missed glow in a shaft of sunlight:

Congratulations on the latest Bridgerton love match, and I wish them a lifetime of happiness. As I am certain, do all of you.

What secrets will I unearth next, dear readers? Even I do not yet know. But I look forward to it. Don’t you?

Yours sincerely,

Lady Whistledown

masterlist • wips • taglist (follow this blog to be tagged)

Benedict taglist pt1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

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melodyreads · 3 months ago

Text

Roommates

hamzah x reader

summary: Moving in with Hamzah was supposed to be temporary, a kind gesture from a good friend… but the ease of unspoken understanding turned a short stay into a home. How long can you keep up this mundane routine until someone cracks?

(fluff to angst, reader gets jealous, confusing realationship, happy ending)

a/n: let me know if you guys have any prompts, I would love some inspo <3

———

"Do you want any coffee Hamzah?"

It was 7:42 to be exact. Y/n was in the kitchen wearing a baggy sweater and brandy shorts. Her mismatched socks were the staple to the outfit as she held one of Hamzah's mugs, offering to fill it.

Hamzah laid his head back on the couch dramatically, "Yes, and don't be shy with the amount." Y/n rolled her eyes at this before following through with his instructions. He was sitting in grey sweatpants and a grey hoodie as he edited a video he needed to get done before Martin came over later that day. Y/n walked over to him with his requested mug full of coffee outstretched as she sat on the couch next to him. He caught her peering over his shoulder.

"Yall must save a lot of money not paying for editors."

Hamzah scoffed, "I wish, this is literally a video requesting more editors."

Y/n hummed in response as she sipped her own coffee. She enjoyed these moments in the morning before the both of them went off with their own days. Ever since Y/n had moved in, both of them had easily adapted to one another's presence. She feared it might have been awkward at first being that the situation was not ideal to begin with.

The friends that Y/n had originally left the States with got homesick almost immediately before packing their bags not even a month into their residency.

"Why didn't you go with them?" Hamzah questioned at dinner the night they left.

Y/n sighed out a long breath she had been holding ever since she arrived. "I wasn't to go back... my internship doesn't end until the summer and, I don't know," She muttered as she started picking at her plate "I feel as though I have unfinished business here." She looked up from her plate to meet Hamzah's dark eyes. She cleared her throat, "I'm not too sure what that is though." Hamzah hummed softly as he leaned back in his chair, "Well... I know we haven't known each other long, but if you need somewhere to stay, I have an open room available. You can rent it out for as long as you need."

Y/n didn't know what to say. Well, actually she did, because she moved in the next day with no hesitation whatsoever.

The had just reached 7:50 as she and Hamzah still sat on the couch quietly. As Y/n was reading through a book she just bought and Hamzah was still on his computer, she started to become acutely aware of her knee touching the top of Hamzah's leg. As she sat there rereading the same paragraph for the sixth time, unable to focus, Hamzah finally broke the silence.

"What should we get for dinner tonight?"

---

Y/n heard the door handle shake as the familiar sound of keys rattled.

"Hamzah must be home" Y/n thought to herself.

Y/n had been bed rotting all afternoon, it was Saturday and she had the day off from work. She was planning to ask Hamzah what his plans were for the afternoon, and whether they should stay in or go out tonight.

Hamzah walked in... but as she turned her head to greet him, she was meet with another face as well.

A girl.

Y/n sat up slightly, her back still resting against the headboard as she took in the unfamiliar presence beside Hamzah. The girl was pretty—long dark hair, bright eyes, and a warm smile that seemed perfectly in place as she stepped inside, toeing off her shoes like she’d been here before.

"Hey, Y/n," Hamzah greeted casually, setting his keys on the entryway table. "This is Layla."

Layla.

Y/n blinked, her grip tightening slightly on the blanket draped over her legs.

"Hi," Layla chirped, offering a friendly wave.

"Hey," Y/n replied, keeping her voice neutral as she gave a small nod.

She looked at Hamzah, expecting an explanation, but he was already walking into the kitchen like nothing was out of the ordinary. Layla followed behind, leaving Y/n to process the shift in atmosphere alone.

She hadn’t known Hamzah was seeing anyone.

Not that it should matter.

But the unspoken comfort of their routines, their quiet mornings and shared dinners—it all suddenly felt less… permanent. Less theirs.

Pulling herself out of her thoughts, she pushed the blanket off her lap and stood, making her way toward the kitchen.

Y/n cleared her throat.

"So... how do you two know each other?" she asked, keeping her tone light as she leaned against the counter.

Hamzah, busy pouring himself a glass of water, barely looked up. "We met through a mutual friend. Layla just moved here recently."

"Yeah, I’m still getting settled," Layla added, smiling. "Hamzah’s been showing me around."

Y/n couldn't help but notice how close she was standing next to him and how she leaned into him as she continued to speak.

"God could she be any less obvious"

Y/n nodded slowly, feeling something settle—something she couldn't quite name.

"Oh, cool. Well, welcome."

Layla beamed, and Hamzah finally glanced at Y/n, his expression unreadable.

"Anyway," he said, setting his glass down. "What were you up to today?"

Y/n shrugged. "Nothing much. I was gonna ask if you wanted to do something later, but—" she gestured between him and Layla, "looks like you’ve got plans."

Hamzah hesitated, as if he were about to say something, but Layla spoke first.

"We were just grabbing coffee, actually. Nothing big."

"Right."

Hamzah shifted his weight. "We can still do something later if you want."

Y/n smiled, small and easy. "Nah, it’s cool. Enjoy your coffee."

And with that, she turned on her heel, walking back toward her room before she could let herself overthink why she suddenly felt like an outsider in her own home.

—-

These visits become much more frequent in the following month.

Y/n tried not to think much of it.

"They're just friends." She reminded herself a little too often. But something about the way he would laugh at her jokes like she was the funniest person ever. Or even look at her with a captivating expression when he listened to a story she was telling.

I didn't sit right with you.

When Y/n walked out of her room to see Layla pouring herself a cup of water in Hamzah's mug she swore she started to see red.

"Hey y/n," She looked down at the mug she was using, "Hamzah was begging me to get him some water, he's such a baby." she chuckled.

Before Y/n could even get a word out, Layla disappeared back to the room she came from. Hamzah's office.

The worst of it came on a random Thursday night.

Y/n had been exhausted from work, the kind of exhaustion that made her want to curl up on the couch with a movie, maybe convince Hamzah to order takeout and stay in.

But when she walked in, Layla was already there, sitting comfortably on the couch next to Hamzah, her legs tucked under her as she scrolled through something on his phone.

Y/n froze in the doorway.

Hamzah glanced up and grinned. "Oh, you’re home."

Home.

She didn’t feel like it.

Layla looked up, smiling too. "We were just picking a movie. You wanna join?"

Y/n swallowed. She felt ridiculous—like a child being edged out of their own friend group.

But maybe that’s exactly what was happening.

"No," she said after a beat. "I’m just gonna head to my room."

Hamzah frowned. "You sure?"

Y/n forced a smile. "Yeah. You guys enjoy."

And then she walked away before she could let him see the crack forming in her composure.

Before she could let herself admit that it wasn’t just frustration she was feeling.

It was jealousy.

It was something deeper, something she hadn’t dared to name before.

And now, she was too afraid to.

Y/n stared at the half-packed suitcase on her bed, her mind a whirlwind of thoughts she hadn’t yet made sense of.

Y/n shoved another sweater into her suitcase with more force than necessary, her chest tightening with every sharp movement. The apartment, once her safe space, now felt suffocating. Every corner of it held memories—shared laughs over burnt pancakes, lazy Sunday mornings with coffee, the quiet comfort of existing alongside Hamzah without needing to say much at all.

But lately, it felt like she was the only one holding onto those things.

Maybe it was the way Layla seemed to slip so effortlessly into his world.

Or maybe it was how Y/n suddenly felt like she was watching from the outside, no longer a part of whatever they had built.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair before zipping up the suitcase. She hadn’t fully decided where she was going yet—maybe a friend’s place, maybe a short-term rental—but she knew she couldn’t stay here anymore.

She had just grabbed her phone when the knock came.

"Y/n?"

Hamzah’s voice was cautious, like he already knew.

She exhaled before opening the door.

His eyes immediately flickered to the suitcase. His brows furrowed. "What’s this?"

She crossed her arms. "I think it’s time I moved out."

His expression flickered—confusion first, then something else. Something closer to panic.

"What?" he scoffed. "You’re joking."

Y/n shook her head, suddenly finding it hard to hold his gaze. "It’s just... things feel different now, Hamzah. I don’t want to overstay my welcome."

"Overstay your—" He let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Y/n, this isn’t just some arrangement. You live here."

"Yeah, and maybe I shouldn’t anymore," she said softly.

A tense silence settled between them. Hamzah was looking at her like he was searching for the right thing to say.

"Is this about Layla?" he finally asked.

Y/n hesitated, struggling to find the right words. "It’s about a lot of things."

Hamzah ran a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. "You’re really doing this?"

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I think it’s for the best."

"Don’t do that," he said suddenly causing Y/n to look up at him.

His face was laced with anger and confusion. His fists balled at his side as he started to breath heavily.

He shook his head. "Don’t act like this doesn’t matter."

"To who, Hamzah?" she challenged, dropping her arms in frustration. "Because from where I’m standing, I don’t matter anymore. Layla’s here all the time, and suddenly, I’m just—what? Some extra person taking up space in your home? In your life?"

Hamzah paused as if that statement struck a chord with him.

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration radiating off him. "That’s not true, and you know it."

"Do I?" Y/n’s voice cracked despite herself. "Because I feel like I’ve been watching you replace me right in front of my face."

The words hung between them,

heavy,

suffocating.

Hamzah exhaled sharply, stepping closer. "You really think I could replace you?"

Y/n clenched her jaw, looking away. "Doesn’t feel like I have a place here anymore."

Something in Hamzah’s expression shifted, his anger giving way to something raw, something desperate.

Hamzah took another step forward, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

"I need you here." He said suddenly, as his dark eyes searched yours for some sort of decoding of his confession.

Despite feeling her breath caught in her throat, she forced herself to stand her ground. "Then why does it feel like I’ve been pushed aside?"

Hamzah shook his head. "You don’t get it, do you?" His voice was strained like he was barely holding himself together. "I wasn’t replacing you. I was trying to-" He stopped himself, running a frustrated hand through his hair before looking back at her, eyes burning with something she couldn’t name.

"Trying to what?" she challenged, hating the way her voice wavered.

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Trying to ignore it. Trying to pretend like I don’t look for you first when I walk through the door. That I don’t feel off when you’re not here. That I don’t-" His jaw clenched, his fists tightening at his sides.

Y/n swallowed hard, her heart pounding. It was her turn to take a step towards him. "That you don’t what, Hamzah?"

And then suddenly, she didn’t have to ask.

Because Hamzah was right there, closing the space between them in a heartbeat. His hands came up to cradle her face, rough and warm and desperate

His lips crashed against hers.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.

It was laced with frustration and longing and everything unspoken between them, unraveled all at once.

Y/n gasped into the kiss, her fingers gripping the front of his hoodie, holding onto him like he might slip away. Like she might slip away if she let herself think too much.

Hamzah’s hands slid down to her waist, pulling her closer, like he was afraid she’d disappear if he didn’t. The heat of it, the weight of it, settled deep in Y/n’s chest, breaking down every wall she had built to keep herself from feeling this.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them were breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, hands still clinging onto each other.

"Stay," Hamzah whispered, his voice raw, like a confession.

Y/n’s heart stuttered in her chest.

And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t want to leave.

a/n: I hope yall liked this one!!!!! I had been sitting on this idea for a while now, anywayssss pls lmk what u think

muah luv u all <3

#hamzahthefantastic #hamzah x reader #hamzah x y/n #hamzah fic #hamzah imagines #hamzah angst

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viviennevermillion · 2 years ago

Note

*slides into your inbox because HSR requests are open*

Hey Vi! I was wondering if I could request some heacanons for Sampo, Blade, and your boy Luocha with a reader who likes to play with/run their hands through the boys hair? They all have such pretty hair and I want to play with it!

Anyway take your time of course, and I hope you're doing well! Please remember to take care of yourself!

playing with their hair

✧ ɴᴏᴛᴇꜱ: ryker, yayyy, thank you for sending in a request! you made me think about sampo and realize that he's the funniest fucking character in the entire game and so much fun to write for. i had a blast with his banner too, the song fits him so well 💀��

btw requests are open and if you guys would like to read more of my works, check my masterlist!

✧ ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ: carried me with you — brandi carlile

✧ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ: sampo, blade, luocha

✧ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: very slight angst in blade's (i'm so sorry, i'm trying, i promise)

Sampo loves when you play with his hair. He'd be 100% down for you trying ridiculous hairstyles on him but on a good day he'll put a pillow in your lap and puts his hands behind his head, sinking into the soft fabric. He closes his eyes when your fingertips start carding through his blue strands of hair. "This is the good life", he sighs and winks at you, "now all you'd need to do would be feeding me grapes like they do in the movies and things would be perfect." "Wait until I throw you off the couch", you shoot him a warning glare. "Hey, hey, I jest", he puts his hands up defensively and laughs.

"You know I'm lucky to have you", he takes your free hand into his and presses a kiss to your knuckles, "this is like we're straight out of a romantic piece of literature, don't you think?" You raised an eyebrow at him: "You're not exactly what I'd consider a romance novel protagonist."

He sighs. "True. I'm more like, the court jester who fell in love with the pretty royal heir", he reaches up to cup your cheek, caressing it gently with his fingertips. "And I love you for it", you laugh as he sits up to press a kiss to your lips. You bury your fingers in his hair whilst kissing back.

You take a deep breath and drift off into your own thoughts now that Sampo was quiet for a moment. A rare occurence, really.

As you enjoy this moment with your beloved, you think back to the chaos that was all over Belobog recently. "Hey, what do you think our friends from the Astral Express are doing now?", you wonder and Sampo sinks back into your lap again, resting his cheek against your stomach. "Maybe fighting a giant, strong lady with the help of a dragon, but what do I know?", he shrugs with a satisfied smile on his face. "Isn't it usually the other way around?", you raise an eyebrow. "It is, isn't it?", he puts a finger to his chin and chuckles.

You laugh and ruffle his hair. "You always have such an overactive imagination. You should write a book." "As much as I'd slay as an author, I'm just doomed by the narrative like the rest of us, darling."

Blade enjoys when you run your fingers through his hair. It's a sensation that momentarily distracts him from everything else that is going on in that busy, but tired mind of his; so it's well-appreciated.

He will not let you mess up his hair under any circumstance. Kafka calling him "Bladie", a terrible habit that rubbed off on you, was bad enough. He didn't need her and Silver Wolf to tease him about having a ponytail on top of his head with several braids going off from it, tied together with colorful hair ties.

Thankfully, you were sane enough not to attempt that.

But he does let you do a few nice hairstyles that look good on him; like a simple, long braid. He doesn't care for what he looks like after all these years of being alive but you seemed to find joy in it and it made his daily life easier sometimes to have his hair put together in a braid.

Sometimes when you sit behind him and braid his hair, you press a few teasing kisses to his neck. Unfortunately for his usually so serious demeanor, Blade is the most ticklish person you have ever met, so that's one of the only things that gets a laugh out of him; even if he didn't feel it emotionally. You brush a strand of his hair back, relishing in the sound he made so rarely; a slight tinge of sadness in your heart and a thought you didn't dare voice.

I wish I could see you laugh more... I'd do anything to make you happy.

He also lets you brush his hair every morning if you want to. His hair is so soft, as you have told him many times. He always wonders how something so simple could bring you so much joy; but he's glad that it does.

Luocha always takes good care of his hair; after all a professional appearance was important for a merchant. His hair is very soft and silky and you have a great time brushing and braiding it.

He teaches you how to do his signature hairstyle. It's quite difficult to do on his own so he appreciates that you're happy to help. This pretty much became a routine for the two of you in the morning.

Sometimes he'd try to get up at night to go to the bathroom and find you accidentally laying on his hair. He hisses an "ouch" under his breath, sometimes waking you up in the process. Once he's back in your arms, you massage his scalp and carefully run your fingers through his blond strands to make up for the painful accident.

In the morning, you tend to sit behind him and do his hair, often littering his neck and shoulders in the process. "Is this just an excuse for you to give me kisses?", he chuckles and shakes his head. "I suppose you caught me", you sigh with a smile on your face and Luocha turns his head to pull you into a deep kiss that catches you off guard. You quickly melt into the gesture, closing your eyes and noting how pleasant the taste of his lips is. You presume he applies lip balm in the morning before you do his hair but you never actually saw him do it.

When he gets home after a long day, depending on what hairstyle you did for him, his scalp hurts sometimes when you undo his braid so he loves to rest his head in your lap and have you ease brush your fingers through his hair.

#honkai star rail fluff #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail blade #blade x reader #blade x you #sampo x reader #sampo koski #sampo koski x reader #sampo x you #luocha x you #luocha fluff #luocha x reader #hsr luocha #luocha #sampo #hsr x reader #honkai star rail

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hangesdarling · 4 months ago

Note

Hii,can I request headcanons for a psychiatrist hange zoe x insane reader

(Hope this fits your rules)

insane as you are — h. zoë

PAIRING. Hange Zoë x female reader

SYNOPSIS. Your psychiatrist helped you escape the asylum.

CONTENT. blood, stabbing, angst, murder, inaccuracies (i can do smth worse than this, let's do that next time)

A/N. I shortcircuited writing this: Hange is insane too with an "I can fix her" syndrome. billy russo and krista dumont from the punisher s2 kinda inspired me to write it like this

"This is somewhat unoriginal of you. I was betting you'd come up with something better," Hange heaved a grunt, trying to keep the knife you drove through their shoulder in place. The gun you stole from the guard outside your door had four missing bullets, not even one caught you in the encounter—such a shame. Your eyes flicked over their slumped form against the wall.

"Sorry for putting you in such a situation, Hans," you walked over and kissed their forehead. "I'll see you later, okay?"

"Don't get killed on your way out."

"Won't be."

It wasn't a great plan to begin with. Just because you were locked away in some cheap standard comic asylum doesn't mean all the guards are stupid. You weren't superhuman either so that's a far stretch of a difference from the escape stories you read about on your stay there.

What irritated you the most was probably the bullet that gashed the surface of your cheek right when you couldn't afford to be bleeding out.

It was rough. The guards put up a fight. Just a standard Tuesday night.

You had to thank Hange for the lowered security, and failing machinery inside. Only then did escaping become possible with getting little to no injury.

Once the red and blue lights of police cars zipped through the streets, you knew it was headed for the old, cheap asylum that housed you for at least five years.

Snow drizzled outside, the night bluish with speckles of snowflakes falling. You caught one on your finger and almost laughed at yourself for wanting to cry. You forgot what snow felt like. The place treated you like a sewer rat with very little ventilation. You only had small, barred clerestory, and mud-colored bricks to gaze at in each waking moment. Even the sheets are bland.

Only when Hange arrived in your life did you have the chance to see what was outside after such a long time. It's been a year since the asylum sent an overqualified psychiatrist in front of you and it brings a smile to your face at where you at now.

The night was cold but you were warmed by the thick coat you stole from a stranger on your way out. You left the poor man bleeding on the pavement but thankfully not a speck splattered on the coat. It has such an expensive, natural color to be stained.

You sat obscured on a rotting bench near the alleyway, waiting for your lover. Sure the proceedings may take longer than you'd like. They will be interrogated, after all.

A few minutes and many strangers passed by after you spotted their familiar dark green coat. They turned on the next street and you soon followed.

"They did such a half-assed job on this one. No wonder you're still bleeding," you complained, tearing the poorly wrapped bandage on Hange's shoulder.

"Are you even surprised by such a degree of incompetence at this point?" Hange chuckled, taking a shot of brandy. You were straddled on their lap as you bandaged them properly.

"I guess not."

"We dodged a bullet back there, you know," Hange said, setting down their glass to place their hands on your hips.

"What happened?"

"They sent someone too curious for her own good. Almost had evidence against us. But we staged it well somehow."

A laugh escaped your lips, "We did not."

"I know," Hange laughed, showing you that broad, charming smile you love. "We need to get away in a week or so. We can't hide for long."

"I have some plans you might want to hear about."

"Go on. Shoot."

You took the bottle of brandy from the side table, not even bothering with the glass. You gulped the liquid down your throat, missing the burn of the alcohol.

You set it back down and took Hange's face on yours which was already focused on you anyway.

"You sure about this?" you asked.

"About what?"

"This thing we planned. Running away."

"We planned this long ago."

"But are you sure?"

"Yes."

A sigh, perhaps of relief, passed your lips. Then you smiled.

"You're insane, Dr. Zoë."

They grinned, squeezing your hips a bit, "Try me."

But good things don't last as much as you'd love them to. You were bound for destruction no matter how much you tried to keep your bloody hands to yourself.

"Hey, baby, please," Hange called with a sigh, nursing the shallow gash in their arm as they kneeled in front of you.

The bloody knife unfurled from your fists, clattering against the floor.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you sobbed. Their hands tried to reach yours but you were afraid to touch them again.

"I know you didn't mean it," Hange tried to soothe your sobs, brushing a tear from your cheek.

"You should just call the police," you mumbled, hugging your knees.

"I'm not doing that after we've been through," Hange said strongly. "Our flight will be in a few days."

"I don't want to hurt you again. I didn't mean to—"

Hange sensed another burst of apology from you again. They cupped your face, forehead leaning against yours.

"I know, Y/N, I know," they ran a hand through your hair. They gently tugged you to your feet and pulled you on the couch with them.

"I thought it would be okay again," you said through tears, gaze falling down your hands with much hatred and disappointment. I thought I’d be okay again.

"It will be. Eventually. We don't have to rush anything."

Their small side hug warmed your heart and yet you still couldn't get around the fact that you're dangerous, even for Hange. Knowing that you can't even control that sort of impulse was a slap in the face.

"Are you willing to give all of these up, everything you built?" you said slowly, fiddling with your hands. "For me?"

They laced their hands around yours, pressing a kiss on your cheek.

"You know I will," Hange said softly. With a gentle sigh, they added, "We'll be okay."

"I'm not sure about the me part."

A humorless smile spread on your lips.

"I want you to be okay on your own terms," Hange can't help but crack a smile. "Damn, I can lose my license ten times over just by saying that."

You laughed, pushing your fear to the back of your mind this time. You kissed them, as gently as you could, as if they would fall apart in your hands.

"I think I get what you mean."

Hange knew it wouldn't be easy. Only god knows how many times you'll turn up at their door with blood on your hands from people you don't remember or how many times they'll meet the end of your knife. But only Hange knew and understood your internal turmoil. The urge to just cut off your own hands rather than hurt them again. Hange found the gentleness built within your walls. It was fiery and stinging. It hurts to hold. But akin to the moth to a flame, Hange still held you closer and closer even if it felt like digging a knife deeper into their chest. They persevered even with all the awareness of the faults these situations present. They didn't spend years studying psychiatry only to wander from patient to patient, hoping some of the therapy would stick. They knew they could piece you together in some semblance of normal. And they knew you'd let them.

likes, reblogs, and comments are appreciated, sweethearts <3

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echoric · 6 months ago

Note

FIRST OFF I ABSOLUTELY LOVE YOUR FICS!! Secondly I was wondering if I could request a little Drabble? Maybe a “Iceman is openly gay with slider, Hollywood and wolf man. But Maverick isn’t as comfortable with his sexuality and thinks he still has to act straight even though he’s got it BAD for ice”

first off thank you so much!!! :DD im glad you like my writing <3 & secondly of COURSE i can write that, i love a bit of closeted angst (i hope i got everything the way you wanted) this got a bit longer than i expected lol, it is crossposted to ao3 (HERE) if anyone prefers that format

standing face to face with "i told you so"

icemav angst (Word Count: 3,488)

Ice was staring again.

Maverick could feel those intense blue eyes burning into the side of his head as he intentionally stared forward, scanning the crowd at the bar as if he were actually looking for someone or something. He’d already gotten caught twice by the man when he had chanced a glance back to see if he was watching or not, and Maverick wasn’t sure his heart could take anymore eyecontact with the other pilot. Goose had kicked him in the shin in time for him to look away before an approaching lady caught him staring at Ice last time. But Goose had since drifted away to join the other pilots and RIOs in conversation, leaving Maverick alone at the bar and painfully aware of Ice’s attention. His pulse was racing, making his cheeks flush slightly as he thought about meeting his gaze again just to see.

“Right, Maverick?”

He almost jumped. He had forgotten completely about the lady at his arm – Sandra…or was it Sarah? He scrambled, but flashed her a smooth, well-practiced grin, and laughed, not knowing at all what she was asking him and hoping it was the right resposne. She seemed pleased with his laugh, giggling to herself as she leaned into his side to distance herself from the tall, frustrated-looking man who had followed her up to Maverick’s spot at the bar. Maverick gave the man a sharp, teeth-baring grin as he draped his arm over Sandra’s shoulders, leaning into her like a confident boyfriend.

“In fact, everyone keeps asking when we’re going to be engaged. This scoundrel just can’t commit, isn’t that right, Maverick?”

“You know what they say about us sailors. Brandy, you’re a fine girl,” Maverick crooned, half-singing with a wink. He placed a chaste kiss on her temple to keep up the act.

She laughed and put her arm around his waist, squeezing him as she looked up through her eyelashes, “What a good wife I would be?”

“But my life, my love, my lady–”

“Is the sea,” they finished in sync, laughing together. The man at her heels finally seemed to take a hint and walked off with an irritated huff, muttering under his breath.

Sandra stayed close up against his side for a while as she watched the man leave. She relaxed as Maverick leaned back against the bar, sighing and shaking her head. Her arm fell from around his waist and he took his arm back. She smiled at him, a sad look in her eyes and exhaustion in her voice as she spoke quietly enough that the music would’ve kept it a secret from anyone else, “Thank you for being a good man, Maverick.”

“Pete,” Maverick said with a smile, holding his hand out like it was a business deal. Her smile softened and she took his hand in a firm grip.

“Sandy,” she said as she shook his hand once, “but you can call me Brandy, sailor.”

Maverick grinned and tilted his head with a shrug, “It was improv.”

“It was good. Really,” she waid with a grin. She pulled a small compact mirror with an ornate carving of a flower on it from her bag and checked her reflection in it. She ran a hand through her hair and sighed again. “Some men can never seem to understand that some ladies just aren’t interested.”

Maverick raised an eyebrow, slightly caught off guard by the change in topic. He was about to respond when his eyes scanned over the crowd absently and caught another pair of eyes watching them. Ice still hadn’t looked away – or if he had, he was looking again. Maverick felt a thrill shoot up his spine as he locked gazes with the man, dangerous and electric, but it was overpowered by the familiar urge to smother it and push it back down deep where no one might see it. Not even him. He cleared his throat and tore his eyes away from Ice, looking back to Sandy.

“Mhm. Can I buy you a drink, Brandy?” Maverick asked waving to the bar behind him and pointedly ignoring the stares he was getting from Ice and the other pilots and RIOs. “Just between friends. I understand when a lady only wants to use me for her protection.”

Sandy laughed and snapped her compact mirror shut. She turned to lean against the bar with her forearms crossed. Maverick caught a flash of a white handkerchief in the left pocket of her jeans as she hummed, scanning over the bar’s options. Sandy eventually smiled and waved the bartender over, “I’ll have a whiskey, neat. Put it on the sailor’s tab.”

“Mitchell,” Maverick said in response to the glance from the bartender. He nodded and turned to make her drink as Sandy turned to face Maverick more. “So, Brandy, what brings you here if not to flirt with all the sailors? Everyone knows that’s the main crowd at this dive.”

“My taste is less…salty, more sweet,” Sandy said with a wink. She nodded to the bartender with a smile as he handed her the drink she requested. “If you know what I mean?”

Maverick had no idea what she meant. He nodded anyway, pretending to understand with a quiet hum. He waved to the bartender and he slid Maverick another glass of the tequila that he’d been sipping on all night. He couldn’t resist glancing tot he side out of the corner of his eye as he waited for the drink to be poured, seeing if the attention from the table across the bar was still on him – it was. Sandy lifted her cup when he picked his up, they clinked them together before tossing them back in sync.

“Put it on my tab this time. Tequila,” Sandy called out to the bartender. She ran a hand through her hair again before sliding a shot to Maverick with a grin. “You up for a challenge, sailor?”

“I can drink in circles around you, Brandy,” he said confidently. His mind was already drifting back to Ice even as they clinked their glasses on the bar before tossing them back in sync.

It wasn’t the first time he’d felt the sharp, nervous edge around the other pilot, but the awareness of that was always muted, vague. He blamed the tequila for how loud it seemed now. Maverick smiled easily at Sandy, feeling easy and in his element even if he could pick up that it was strictly platonic competitive energy between them. He was good with women. He’d dated countless women he genuinely liked; he could talk with them easily, laugh with them, play the part of a flirt without breaking a sweat – it was easy. Comfortable. Ice broke away any part of that comfort with his harsh words and challenging stares. He wasn’t simple or easy to get along with, and it was equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

“You’re not as oblivious as other men, are you?” Sandy asked before their next shot arrived. Her eyes were studying his face intensely, softened by alcohol and maybe a bit of camaraderie that Maverick wasn’t sure why she’d feel with him. Her eyes flitted briefly over to wher eIce was sitting, one eyebrow lifted just slightly out of his neutral resting face as he watched them – watched Maverick. “I mean, you’re clearly aware of your surroundings.”

Maverick shrugged and gave Sandy the grin that had saved him countless times in the past. “Iceman? Yeah, he’s competitive and a good pilot. We’re just…you know, rivals.”

“Oh, is that what they call it now?” she asked, her voice low and teasing as she grabbed two more shots for them from the bartender. For a split second, he felt his heart lurch into his throat and his face felt hot, a definitely blush creeping over his face that he couldn’t blame on the alcohol – an embarrassing reaction to what was likely just a harmless question.

Sandy gave him a sympathetic smile and pushed the shot into his hand, tossing hers back. “Relax, sailor. Just a friendly observation.” She didn’t look away from him though, and her expression softened a little as he took his shot and forced his eyes away from Ice for what felt like the umpteenth time. There was understanding in her eyes, sad and compassionate. “Listen, Pete, I know we don’t…know each other at all. But if you ever need to, you know…talk through it, or whatever, I get it.”

“Get what?” he asked – too quickly. She gave him a look that let him know that she could see straight through him. A slow grin worked across her face as she ordered another round.

“Oh, nothing,” she said lightly, “just some people like their whiskey neat, others like it with a twist.”

Maverick forced himself to laugh at Sandy’s comment, but her words lingered, stirring something he didn’t quite want to confront. He swirled the tequila in his glass, downing it quickly – he was drinking too fast, too much, he should cut himself off, but he lifted his hand to order another round from the bartender. Sandy simply watched him with a calm, knowing smile. After a moment, she leaned in with a conspiratorial grin.

“You know, Pete, I think I’ve had enough of sailors for tonight. I’ve spotted someone who might be more might type, think she’d be interested?” She nodded subtly toward a tall brunette with a sharp undercut and a black leather jacket, looking just a bit out of place in the sea of Naval whites. Maverick raised an eyebrow, watching Sandy adjsut her hair and straighten her jacket. She looked at him and gave him a playful wink and sly grin. “Wish me luck, sailor?”

He grinned back, feeling a strange sense of relief as everything clicked into place. He lifted his new glass to her, “Good luck, Brandy. I doubt you’ll need it.”

Sandy winked again and, with a confident sway to her hips, headed off across the bar with an impressively steady gate for taking so many shots with him so quickly. Maverick once again was alone with his own thoughts at the bar. He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck as he felt the full force of Ice’s stare on him again. He tossed back the drink and slid his card to the bartender to close his tab. He’d probably regret his game with Brandy in the morning, but he didn’t care in the moment as he gathered himself and headed over to the table where the other pilots and RIOs were laughing and talking.

“Hey, Mitchell!” Slider called, smirking as he looked to where Sandy was now talking to her new interest. “What happened to your date? You let a catch like that slip away?”

“Oh, come off it, Slider, she was just looking for help to get away from that creep,” Maverick said, shrugging it off. “She wasn’t my type anyway.”

Slider gave him an exaggerated look of utter disbelieve. “Not your type? That was probably the hottest lady in here, man. You’re slipping.”

“Maybe my standards re higher than yours,” he shot back, crossing his arms defensively and rolling his eyes.

“Please,” Hollywood chimed in with a grin and chuckle. He leaned back with his drink and pointed at Maverick. “Just face it, Mav, you just got friend-zoned by one of the hottest girls in this dive. Maybe she could tell you were already in love.”

“Or maybe I don’t chase after anything with a pulse unlike some people,” he snapped, his tone a little sharper than he had intended – the tequila. He glanced away as everyone went silent, feeling uncomfortable and awkward from the tension he’d accidentally caused. It was broken after a few moments by a low chuckle from Ice, which made Maverick glance over at him.

“That’s bold, Maverick. Those ‘some people’ might be at this table, you know,” Ice said, making intense, pointed eye contact that made Maverick’s cheeks burn before sipping his drink casually – vodka and lime. The usual. Always so predictable, going by the rule book even when they were supposed to be relaxing with friends.

“I’m just saying, I’m not into the…what, all the new-age ‘free love’ shit going around lately. Some of us still have standards,” he muttered – the words tasted bitter even as he said them. It was a cheap shot, a low blow, and not even something he believed, but he felt cornered and couldn’t think of an escape besides digging his way out. The air around the table grew still, and Maverick had the feeling his escape had actually been his grave he was digging deeper.

“You’re out of line, Mitchell,” Hollywood said evenly, his usually easygoing tone long gone. “It’s one thing to tease, but you don’t have to be homophobic about it.”

“Mav, I think we should get going. You’ve probably had too much,” Goose said slowly. He’d been laughing a moment ago, Maverick felt guilty over being the reason why his RIO looked so uncomfortable. “C’mon, man–”

“You know, Mitchell,” Ice said, cutting Goose off with a calm and measured tone. His depression was impossible to read, ice-cool as always but his eyes were sharp, as if he were silently daring Maverick to say something else. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have such a problem with someone like me. There are so many better things for you to hate me over.”

Maverick’s stomach dropped. He could feel his pulse pounding as he stared at Ice. His mouth felt dry, and suddenly, any bravado and defensiveness he might’ve still had disappeared. He glanced around, trying to gauged if the others known all along, trying to read their expressions – but the tequila was making his thoughts feel muddled. Hollywood seemed to take pity on him and sighed, “If you didn’t know, now you do. Ice here is about as interested in women as that lady was in you.”

“I didn’t— I mean, I don’t care if he’s— If you…I—whatever, do whatever you want,” he muttered in a voice that sounded defensive even to himself. He tried to laugh it off but it sounded hollow even to himself. Goose stood up and grabbed Maverick’s arm in a light grip.

“Let’s go take a breather, man. You’re good, just…let’s go take a break,” Goose said quietly, tugging on his arm gently. Ice’s eyes held Maverick rooted in place, steady, waiting. There was something like pity in his gaze, but there was something else too – a challenge. Maverick couldn’t look at him directly, so he looked away like a coward, mumbling something under his breath that he didn’t understand. Ice nodded to himself and stood up.

“You’re good, Goose, I’ll get him home. I was about to get going anyway,” Ice said, brushing Goose’s hand off Maverick’s arm and replacing it with his own.

“You sure?”

“Don’t play pansy with me, I’m the only one here,” Ice said, making the table erupt into laughter – the tension finally breaking.

Maverick felt like he was on fire, heat consuming him and originating from the spot where Ice’s fingers were holding his arm in a firm grip. He didn’t fight it as Ice tugged him gently to guide him through the bar. Maverick glanced around and saw Sandy with the other woman; she gave him a knowing once over before looking at Ice’s hand on his arm and back to his eyes. There was a glint of pride in her eyes as she lifted her glass to him, and then he was outside.

Outside and alone with Ice.

“Mind if I have a smoke while we walk?” Ice asked casually, as if nothing had been said inside.

Maverick shrugged. Ice took that as permission and somehow fished a cigarette out of the pack in his pocket, lit it, and took a puff without ever letting go of Maverick’s arm. He blew the smoke out away from Maverick, which he appreciated – the smell of smoke was making his stomach suddenly realize how much tequila it had consumed in such a short amount of time. He was stumbling and swaying as they walked despite his best efforts, making his leg brush against Ice’s with every other step. Maverick felt like if Ice made eye contact or they touched one more time, his head might explode from the amount of blood making his face burn.

“‘m sorry,” Maverick said when he knew they were alone.

Ice glanced over, taking another slow inhale through his cigarette without saying a word. Maverick almost wondered if he’d even spoken out loud, or if his words had been too slurred for the other pilot to understand. Ice’s hand tensed around his arm and he pulled Maverick to the side, nodding politely to the man he’d almost walked straight into without even realizing. Maverick stumbled from the sudden change in direction, unable to stop his legs as he staggered into Ice’s side. The other pilot reacted faster than Maverick’s drunk brain could track, holding the cigarette in his mouth and catching Maverick with both hands, steadying him until he got his feet back under him.

“You’re a real piece of work, Mitchell,” Ice muttered, waiting for Maverick to start walking before he grabbed the cigarette out of his mouth again and exhaled the smoke. “Dangerous in the air, and dangerous on the ground. Never would’ve pinned you for one of those.”

“Of what?” Maverick asked, wincing at the look that question earned him.

“A homophobe.”

Maverick felt like the air had been punched from his lungs. He didn’t know what to say in response to Ice’s words. He’d said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, as if Ice was completely confident in Maverick being hateful and that he had almost accepted it as a fact just as easily as the sky is blue and Ice is the best pilot in the Navy. Maverick didn’t know how to convince him otherwise, he didn’t know what words could help him.

So he didn’t say anything.

The rest of the walk was in silence. Ice eventually flicked the stub of his cigarette into a random ashtray. They stayed shoulder to shoulder, and the grip Ice had on his arm was the only thing keeping Maverick from falling into the street in front of oncoming traffic. Maverick didn’t really remember most of the walk, but Ice somehow got them both onto the base and into the barracks. He came back into his body sitting on his bed, swaying in place as Ice helped him pull his uniform off. Maverick blinked up at him when Ice stepped back. The silence felt heavy. Maverick needed to break it, or risk breaking the unsteady beginning of a friendship that he’d only recently felt starting between them.

“Ice–” Maverick staggered when he stood up too fast, feeling very underdressed in his boxers compared to Ice’s pristine and perfectly tailored Naval whites, but uncaring as he caught himself with his hands on Ice’s shoulders. Ice caught him again, hands gentle and firm on his upper arms as he helped Maverick find his balance. “Iceman, Ice, I–”

“Don’t say anything, Mitchell. You won’t remember it in the morning, and I need you to remember this conversation,” Ice said; his voice sounded sad. His eyes were sad. Maverick had made the steady, ice-cold Iceman sad.

“Ice,” Maverick repeated, shifting his hands to hold his shoulders more firmly. He licked his lips to moisten them and saw Ice’s eyes dart down to them before the man looked back in his eyes. “Ice.”

Maverick threw all caution to the wind, leaning in and standing up on his toes. A hand pressed over his face before his lips could reach their target. Ice’s expression was tense, eyes still sad but filled with understanding that made Maverick feel like his soul was laid bare between them for Ice to inspect. He shook his head slowly and pushed Maverick back gently, taking his hand away from his face as he helped him sit back down on the bed. Maverick stared at him with confusion and hurt probably written clear as day in his expression, and Ice gave him a sad smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He cupped Maverick’s face and brushed his fingers through his hair before pulling all of his touch away all at once.

“You won’t remember this in the morning, Mitchell,” Ice said softly, he tilted his head as he studied Maverick. “Go to sleep. If you remember anything, I’ll be at breakfast.”

Ice’s words felt like an order that Maverick couldn’t ignore as his eyes grew too heavy to protest. A gentle hand helped ensure he was lying on his bed as he tipped over bonelessly. He heard footsteps and shuffling nearby, but the world faded too fast. The last thing he thought he felt was a hand brushing through his hair as the sheet was pulled over his chest.

#pete maverick mitchell #tom iceman kazansky #ao3 writer #iceman x maverick #icemav #top gun fanfiction #top gun 1986 #icemav fic #icemav fanfiction #gay tom kazansky #bisexual pete mitchell #theyre so special to me

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leighsartworks216 · 1 year ago

Note

for the requests, 20 (suggestive) or 47 (non-sexual) with an afab enby reader? thanks!

20 - French kiss; 47 - Tummy kisses

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

I'm soooo kiss starved oh mY GOD

Warnings: nudity, bathing together, very slight angst

Word Count: 546

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Kiss Prompts

“You look ravishing, darling.”

You chuckle and draw your Star closer with your arms around his neck. The water sloshes gently around his body as he kneels between your legs in the bath. A nice, relaxing spa day was long overdue. “Thank you. You’re pretty easy on the eyes yourself.”

He smirked wryly, pinching your side playfully. You squirm away from it, glaring with no malice at the rogue.

He looks so at ease here among the steam and fragrances. The moment you brought up the idea, he’d gone on about which perfumes would suit you best, especially ones that would compliment his usual scent of bergamot, rosemary, and brandy. Now you were actually here, sitting before him, trusting him to take care of you just as he trusted you to do the same, perfumes were the furthest thing from his mind.

Astarion can’t resist the temptation as he leans in and noses your neck, lips brushing along your collarbone. You sigh and tilt your head, allowing him more access to your neck. How strange for you to let a vampire so freely near your neck, and how he loves it.

“We only have a couple hours in here,” you remind him gently, but you don’t stop him. You run your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp as you go. He hugs your waist, squeezing you to show his appreciation for your touch. He couldn’t imagine going even an hour without your fingers brushing along his cheek, a day without a hug. He craved your touch just as much as he craved your blood, if not more.

“I can do plenty in a couple hours,” he teases, voice low. He feels goosebumps travel along your skin in spite of the hot water.

He kisses languidly along your neck, your shoulder, down your chest. His eyes are closed, his movements reverent. He doesn’t worship any god, but he worships you. His mouth leaves loving, chaste pecks along your stomach, until his chin just about touches the water. He sighs as he presses his nose against your tummy, smirking devilishly when you tense under him, tickled by the light touch.

Satisfied, he lifts his head back up. You look at him with such fondness, eyes relaxed and half-lidded not with lust but with contentment. You’re so gorgeous. So precious to him. It scares him; so much could go wrong so quickly. Who knows what will happen after this adventure is over? Would you even still want to be with him after that?

As if reading his mind, you cup his cheek and give him the sweetest smile. He can worry later. For now, he just wants you. He tilts his head into your hand as he claims your mouth. You welcome him easily, opening your mouth with the slightest brush of his tongue along your lip. He meets your tongue with his, tasting you, indulging himself in you. All his senses are devoured by you. Your smell, your sounds, your touch, your taste; even when he peeks at you, you look so utterly gorgeous. He cups the back of your neck with one hand, the other pulling you closer to the edge of the bath seat, and loses himself in everything you can give him.

---

Tag List:

@satelliteapotheosis @hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @kindadolly @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @puppyg1rl666 @maruichio @cyber-dump-171 @katharynmarie @twinkliker3000 @cherifrog @catching-fire-in-the-wind @phantoms-fandom-blog @thespectacularspaceace @lynnlovesthestars @sylverqueencosplay @tototini @ashrio20 @bambamwolf87 @astarion-imagine-archive @thistrashisreadytobash @rosxtinted @bongwaterflavoredgatorade @the-lake-is-calling @nyxmainex @squid-killer @godoffuckedupcats @dontneedbiologytoadopt

#request #requested #fanfic #fanfiction #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #baldur's gate astarion #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion #gn reader #x gn reader #gender neutral reader #x gender neutral reader

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ballad-of-birdy-lamb · 1 year ago

Text

My Tbosas fanfic masterlist!!

My requests are open!!!

Of course, my request list/rules:

Request rules and list

Coriolanus Snow:

Romantic headcanons with Gender neutral reader

Coriolanus comforts gender neutral reader who is a tribute

Crush headcanon with Plinth! Female reader

Coriolanus looking through District Twelve for female! reader

Spending time with gender neutral! reader at the lake near District Twelve

Hurt comfort headcanons with male! Victor! Reader

Fluff to hurt/comfort headcanons with male! Reader

Lucy Gray:

Comfort fic in the arena with gender neutral reader

Romantic headcanons with female reader

Romantic poly headcanons with shy! Gender neutral! reader (ft. Billy Taupe)

Romantic headcanons of Lucy Gray exploring the woods with female! reader

If you were a boy - Lucy Gray x Fem! Reader fic

I'll hide you in my poetry - Lucy Gray x Fem! Covey Member! Reader headcanon & small oneshot

Sejanus:

Basic romantic headcanon with female reader

Female reader comforts Sejanus while he's in District Twelve

Sejanus Plinth x Fem! Snow! Reader romantic headcanons

Gender neutral reader angst with Sejanus after he's caught

Making peace with my inevitable death - Sejanus Plinth x fem! Reader romantic oneshot

Billy Taupe:

Romantic poly headcanons with shy! Gender neutral! reader (ft. Lucy Gray)

Mayfair:

Jessup:

Jessup Diggs x Fem! Affectionate! Reader x Reaper Ash separate romantic headcanons

Reaper:

Sejanus Plinth x Fem! Reader x Reaper Ash separate romantic headcanons

Jessup Diggs x Fem! Affectionate! Reader x Reaper Ash separate romantic headcanons

Basic romantic headcanons with gender neutral! reader

Fluff headcanons at a party with gender neutral! victor! reader

Are you sick of me? Would you like to be? - Reaper Ash x Fem! Crush Reader romantic crush headcanons

Dill:

Coral:

Coral x Gender neutral! Reader romantic headcanons

Intermixed romantic headcanons with gender neutral! Reader within District Four and in the arena

Mizzen:

Platonic headcanons with Male! Reader

Treech:

Romantic headcanons with friendly! Gender neutral! Reader

Won't you stay with me, my darling? - Treech x Fem! Tribute! Reader romantic hurt comfort fic

How pretty it is, I think I'm in love - Treech/Tanner x gn! Reader separate romantic headcanons

Lamina

Romantic headcanons with friendly! Gender neutral! Reader

Clemensia:

Tigris:

Basic romantic headcanons with female! reader

Dr. Gaul:

Brandy

Tanner

How pretty it is, I think I'm in love - Treech/Tanner x gn! Reader separate romantic headcanons

_______

This is all at the moment, there will be more added later when I get through the eight requests I have going already!!

Thank you all for your support, it's been very fun writing for this fandom!!

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bartxnhood · 2 years ago

Text

why won’t you love me? a.f.i & c.t.h

calum hood x fem!reader, ashton irwin x fem! reader.

summary: after finding out calum had left you, ashton came to your rescue but he had his own secret

warnings: oh god there’s so much angst, strong language, angst, and did i mention angst? oh and no happy ending.

a/n: hi guys !! it’s been a while song i had an original work but this is all for my 5sos ppl <3. i hope you enjoy !! feedback is appreciated !!

disclaimer: this in no way shape or form represents calum hood as a person. this is strictly fiction and written for entertainment purposes. thank you.

requests open

not proofread

✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵ ✵

you stared out the passenger window feeling like you had just lost everything in your body. the only thing you felt was numbness. no pain, no sadness, nothing. you had cried out all your tears, you were left numb

ashton looks over at you from the driver's seat, his heart aches knowing how hurt you are, and how he made you like this. it broke him. ashton was your best friend and he tried to do everything in his power to be there for you and protect you.

but he just couldn’t protect you from this. from him.

“stop blamin yourself.” you manage to get out, looking over your shoulder at him. he looks confused, you had been silent the whole car ride and he was sure how you know his thoughts without him verbally telling you.

“what?” he questioned.

“you’re blaming yourself for this” you stated, followed by a drawn-out sigh and looking back towards the window. “you always do it when something happens. you couldn’t have known he’d do this.” you hear him sigh, but it was a long drawn one. “i should’ve thought. i was there, i was on tour. i could’ve stopped him. i just..” you hear the frustration in his voice and it makes you feel so small.

“ash..” you trail off but he interjects, “no, y/n!” he punches the steering wheel, “i had all the opportunity to stop him if i had just known he..that he’d do that to you i wouldn’t have let him do it.” his voice breaks, a lump getting caught in his throat.

“stop it, ashton.” you sit up in the passenger seat, now facing him. “i..” you breathe, feeling that lump in your own throat now. “it isn’t your fault, you couldn’t have known.” you drop your head into your hands. tears want to fall but you had cried out everything in your body. “he’s… he's always been this way. i should’ve known better than to trust him being gone for most of the year.”

you watched as his knuckles turned white, gripping the steering wheel. ashton shook his head, “no..it just isn’t fair to you.” he was beyond mad, he was furious. he’s pissed that his best friend, or who he thought was, would do something like that to someone as precious as you were. “i know, ash. but there’s nothing we can do now. it’s done.”

calum loved you. at least, he thought he did. he bought you a ring, thinking it was the right call. he loves your laugh in the middle of the night when he made a stupid joke, he loves how much you admired his work and supported him.

he loved how you looked when you went out to a party. how you’d dress up for him. but deep down he wasn’t in love with you. deep down he knew his heart belonged to someone else.

his distance began to become noticeable after a couple of months. it seemed he had already checked himself out of the relationship a while ago. you were left self-conscious wondering why he didn’t love you anymore, or why he abandoned you, mentally.

you knew something was going on with him, but you never thought it would be something that would ruin your relationship or what the two of you had planned.

you weren’t expecting the call from your best friend, brandy, to call you one morning saying she was sorry you had to find out like this.

you looked at the link she sent you which had detailed photos of your fiancé and another woman, spotted many times.

in that moment, everything fell into place. his absence, how he suddenly didn’t treat you like his partner anymore. it was because he was seeing someone behind your back, actively.

“cal?” you speak up, walking outside to the patio where he sat smoking a cigarette.

“hm?” he hums, looking up from his phone eyebrows slightly raised.

“what’s this?” you question as you shove your phone into his face.

he takes a moment to examine the pictures and you see the look of realization and relief wash over his face. “well?” you interrogated.

“who told you?”

you blink, laughing dryly. “brandy just called me”

“oh.” he answers, then falling silent and goes back to his phone.

“‘oh’? is that really all you have to say?” you ask, turning your phone off and stuffing it into your pocket.

“what do you want me to say?” he asks, not bothering to look at you.

“that’s it i’m leaving.” you say, walking back inside from the patio

he’s silent, staring at his cigarette. “where are you going?”

“anywhere but here. i’ll call ashton.”

he scoffs, taking a long drag of the cigarette and blowing the smoke from his lips. “it’s always ashton” he says under his breath.

you soon around and stare blankly at him, “what?” unable to even come up with the right words.

calum looks at you with cold eyes, “it’s always ashton. you’re always by his side or he’s always by yours.” he dunks the cigarette in the ashtray putting it out. “pretty sure you were screwing him behind my back”

you dryly laugh, “i gave you my life calum hood, and you ruined it. i trusted you with everything in me because that’s what a good fiancée does. she trusts her partner to not cheat on her while he’s on tour!”

he laughs dryly running his hand over his head. “just tell me, cal” you’re mindlessly throwing stuff into your suitcase. “tell me why is it so hard for you to love me back? why won’t you love me? i’ve given you everything.”

“i never asked you to give me everything.” he’s looking away from you, sighing heavily. “it’s not that i don’t love you. i can’t love you”

you stare at him blankly, mascara staining your cheeks. you felt like your heart had been ripped out, looking at the man you thought you had loved. the man you wanted to give everything to. “what?” you blink, and he finally looks up at you. “i can’t love you, because i love her. she’s the one i want to be with. it’s always been her, y/n….” he pauses,“i tried loving you. but you just aren’t her.”

you cover your mouth, in shock. unable to comprehend his words which struck you like a knife. “i can’t believe you..” you muttered through your tears as your turned around and began your way upstairs to the bedroom.

you can feel him following you a few steps behind, his eyes linger on your figure as you mindlessly threw clothes into your duffle bag. just enough to do you for a couple nights until you can get the rest of your stuff. “they warned me about you..and i should’ve listened” you say, not bothering to look at him.

“who?” he asks coldly. you turn around, meeting his dark eyes staring into your soul. “everyone. luke…ashton…your sister…mike..everyone.” you say, closing the duffel bag. “just don’t even worry about it now. we’re done.”

you grab the bag and begin walking past him. but, you pause looking down at your hand where the ring lays. you turn around and throw it at him. “i never want to see you again.”

he watched as you proceeded down the stairs where you exited the house. finding ashton waiting in the driveway.

ashton watched as you sat on the sofa, brows furrowed while staring at your empty ring finger. “it’s late” he says, coming up behind you. you just shrug, “can’t sleep” you hear him sigh and he walks around the sofa to take a seat next to you. you see him peer around, brushing your hair from your face. “talk to me..” he whispers.

you finally look up at him showing the makeup staining your face. “i don’t know what to say..” you croak.

he nods, “i have the guest bedroom ready for you, the bathroom is set with towels and-“ he starts but you cut him off, the pain in your chest is too great. the excruciating pain you felt every time your heart pumped made you want to throw something, you felt like your whole world was crumbling.

“i can’t be alone” you shake your head looking at him, “i..i can’t. i’m gonna go crazy..” he nods, hushing your cries. “shh, it’s okay..shh..” he pulls you in and holds you close to him. “just breathe.”

he holds you for as long as you need, his heart aches at each broken sob you let out. he holds you as tight as he can he can’t stand to see you like this.

ashton loves you. it is so easy for him to love you that it frightens him. he’s never been good at anything. but hes never wanted anything so much as he wants to hold you every waking minute. he’s at home when you’re around, he feels himself falling more and more in love with you.

ashton knows it’s wrong, he knows he shouldn’t feel this way when you’re in so much pain. he knows it’s selfish to think of himself as a savior. but he knows he isn’t.

you’re suffering and all he can think about is how much he loves you.

“cmon, we need to get you ready for bed..” he says into your hair, quietly. you nod and let him help you off the chair into the master bathroom. he sits you on the toilet as he gets you some extra clothes and towels. you sit there emotionless and when ashton returns he looks down at you, reaching for a rag, baby wipe, or something to take your makeup off with.

he succeeds, finding some makeup removers and then bends down to your level. “can i?” he asks and you nod. he nods back, opens the package takes out a wipe, and begins cleaning off your day-old makeup. you say nothing and he says nothing. just carefully removing the makeup with his gentle touch. he thought that even though you are exhausted, in pain, and very miserable you still look so beautiful.

“i’ll run the water now, i’ll leave you to get cleaned up,” he says as he stands up throwing away the used makeup remover towelette. you nod, watching as he turns the water on and connects the shower head. “if you need anything, i’ll be right outside.” he smiles, closing the door behind him.

you didn’t know how long you were sitting there, you don’t even remember undressing and stepping into the shower.

you were probably in there for close to an hour, just standing there but ashton waited for you. he occupied himself with his phone but it didn’t do much considering he was so worried for you.

when he heard the door unlock and open, his eyes shot up from the phone screen and landed on you.

you had looked so defeated, your hair was still damp and dripping on some of the clothes he had given you.

“feel better?”

you shrug, walking over and plopping down next to him on the bed. “i don’t know..” you answer just above a whisper. he nods, sighing as he stands up from the bed. “well, i’ll let you be. i’ll be across the hall-“

you cut him off, “no” you look up at him. “please, just stay. like old times.” he looks hesitant but ashton walks back over to the bed and crawls back on the bed. “of course” he says softly.

“i’d never leave you”

you continued to stay with ashton for the next few months, even though you were searching for an apartment he still insisted on having you stay. one, because he loved your company and he had just gotten so used to you being around.

he watched you heal, he helped you heal and honestly, you just weren’t ready to be alone just yet. so, he let you stay for as long as you wanted.

life had slowly begun to improve, ashton kept you afloat and made sure you were safe. he didn’t let you go one day without making sure you were doing something to occupy your mind, so you don’t slip into your mind.

often times you were sat next to ashton in the studio as you occasionally help him write songs the guys had started. you didn’t have the talents like the other four, but ashton would ask your opinion and even using some of your ideas.

you sat bored on your phone, eventually dropping it to your lap as you stare at ashton’s back as he was humming melodies to himself. you stare at all of the papers sprawled out on the table and floor, your brows furrowed reading some scribbles that were supposed to be lyrics. your eyes land on a piece of paper with the lyrics, We're together, all alone tonight So helpless from the other side So why won't you love me?

you feel tightness in your chest, your eyes gloss over with tears. all the memories of you and calum flood back and you. you drop the paper and ashton hears your sniffles and he looks up.

he’s met with your swollen and puffy eyes, “y/n?” you look up at him, and break down. broken sobs filled the studio as he rushes to your side “what is it?” he asks wrapping his arms around you, letting you cry into his chest. “why won’t he love me?” you say, followed by a loud sob stuck in your throat. “why couldn’t he love me?”

you continue to ramble incoherent sobs and ashton tries his best to soothe you. but, he knows he can’t fix everything.

you deserve so much better, even if ashton isn’t what you need. he will always love you. as he’s rubbing your back, hearing your broken sobs he feels heartbroken and helpless.

“i love you..” he says quietly into your hair.

“i love you too, ash” you say, sniffling.

ashton falls silent for a moment before sighing. “no, y/n. listen to me” he pulls you away from his chest, his hands on either side of your face as his thumbs while away your tears. “i love you” he’s looking into your eyes now, and you don’t know how to take what he’s telling you.

“i’m not asking you to love me more than just your friend, but you need to know that i do love you. you’ve been the only constant in my life, y/n. you deserve the best, even if it isn’t me. i’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to, but you need to know.”

ashton knew it was wrong of him to drop the ball on your so suddenly, after calling it off with calum just a few months ago. ashton was sure you probably would hate him after this but he needed to get it off his chest or else he might explode.

“ash..” you sigh, your eyes close and had only hoped that this was some kind of joke, because if he had told you before getting serious with calum, you feel even more crushed hearing the confession spill from your best friends lips.

“im sorry. i really am, and i know you don’t want another relationship but i will always wait for you..” ashton follows, still looking into your eyes.

you fall silent for a moment, admiring his hazel eyes while your heart continues to ache with each beat.

“y/n?” you don’t answer, you just sigh as you shake your head. “just.. just hold me ashton. please.”

ashton pulls you in, letting your head rest against his shoulder and his finger draws circles on your back. you close your eyes, your mind is racing and you just want to turn it off.

“im sorry, y/n..” ashton’s says quietly.

#calum imagine #calum hood 5sos #calum hood imagine #calum hood angst #calum 5sos #calum hood #ashton 5 seconds of summer #ashton irwin fanfic #ashton irwin blurb #ashton irwin imagine #ashton irwin x y/n #ashton irwin angst #ashton irwin #ashton irwin x reader #ashton imagine #ashton irwin fluff

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sirxlla · 15 days ago

Note

Request for Raylan with prompt

Their ex comes back into town

The Boy Is Mine

----------------------------------------------------

Warnings: Angst, Fluff

Prompt: above ^^^^^^^

Notes: female reader, italics are actions and thoughts.

-With that said it's all under the cut-

Winona is and will forever be a pain in your ass, not only because she's Raylan's ex but because all she has to do is bat those baby blue eyes and flick that blonde hair to the side, and Raylan was doing her bidding again. Usually, you don't think of her much, but Raylan said she's coming up to Kentucky from Florida, and it felt like you'd have to fight for him again.

Raylan, for the most part, is good about not bringing up his past, but sometimes you can almost tell he nearly says her name. Every time, it's like a slap in the face.

Every time it makes you second guess his feelings for you, you'd have to console yourself and just tell yourself it's because she's part of his past, but you're his future, so it's all better.

One evening, when he had her over for dinner and he'd been distracted by Willa, you sat her down very quietly and wanted to tell her exactly how all this was going to go...how you know she could have him if she tried hard enough, but he's all you've got.

Raylan had put up Willa in bed and heard you talking to Winona. In a way, he appreciated that you'd stand up for yourself, but it also kinda hurt him to know you thought she could steal him so easily. It hurt to know you felt that way, that he didn't secure your feelings in this relationship properly.

That next morning as you got dressed for work with Raylan, he pulled you into his lap, straddling his waist.

"Darlin', you know you mean the world to me?" He gently grabbed your chin to guide your eyes to his before dropping his hands down to your hips to rub your hips through your nightgown. You looked into his eyes with worry and pure anxiety.

"Winona's only here 'cause I wanted to see my daughter. You gotta trust me, she and I are history. All that matters is you, me, and my little girl...Now, You gettin' all 'The Boy Is Mine' on her was a bit attractive, I will admit, but you don't have to, okay? You've got me wrapped so damn tight around your finger I'm amazed it ain't fallen off." He says with a smile as he continues to rub your hips in a gentle slow motion. The 'Boy Is Mine' comment makes you laugh.

"You best be talking about the Brandy version." You tease him, feeling a lot better. Raylan isn't really great at realizing he needs to give reassurance, but when he does, it just melts any worries away like butter on a hot pan.

"I wasnt under the impression there was another version." He smiles wider and pull you down on top of him.

"Oh, you don't listen to Ariana Grande?" You tease him and play with his chest hair.

"Do I look like a man who listens to Ariana Grande, Darlin? You best be lucky I know the one I do." He laughs and it's on of the sweetest sounds you ever have heard.

"No, If you want someone who listens to her, you might try Tim." He squeezes you ass playfully before pulling you a little closer.

"Tim's not even here and he's catching stray bullets! I'm gonna tell him when we get to work."

"You do that, Darlin but for nownwe gotta get dressed for work." Gently letting go of your hips, moving you to the side so you can get off him. Raylan pats your ass and gets up to also get dressed.

You definitely told Tim about it, to which he said he knows of her but he doesn't listen to her music unless he's forced to in the middle of a JC Penny.

-> Masterlist

-> Send me prompts if you'd like

#raylan givens x reader #raylan givens #timothy olyphant #justified city primeval #justified #justified preferences

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eunoiiaff · 17 days ago

Text

| Chapter 6: Remember. |

Pairing: Joel Miller x FemOC WC: 3.2k Warnings: Angst, violence, blood. A/N: Please turn a blind eye to any mistakes </3 REQUESTS OPEN.

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Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter ______________________________________________

STICKS AND BRANCHES CRACKED BENEATH HER FEET AS SHE MADE HER WAY BACK HOME, THE SUN HIGH IN THE SKY SENDING HARSH RAYS OF HEAT RIGHT ONTO HER, THE WOMAN WAS MENTALLY GRATEFUL FOR THE FACT HER HAIR WAS TIED UP TO PREVENT IT FROM STICKING TO THE BACK OF HER NECK. It wasn't particularly hot, but after having spent the better half of the day out in the woods hunting with almost no breaks, it definitely got there. Small limp rabbits hung from a rope wrapped around her torso, Lucia slightly disappointed to have not received the successful hunt she'd hoped for.

The wooden cabin was sturdy, with thin walls and flaky paint adorning them, but sturdy nonetheless. It was decently sized, with a kitchen, bathroom, living room, and two bedrooms; all one would ever need. Sure, Lucia had found herself getting lonely sometimes living outside of the QZ with no one around to talk to other than clickers, but she'd much rather it over being bossed around just to make it inside those walls - that and the fact that even if there were people around, there were few things that could have cured the loneliness Lucia felt inside of her.

The woman made a b-line as soon as she'd entered the cabin, the sound of the dead rabbits hitting the kitchen counter shaking the walls of the house as her exhaustion got the best of her, walking straight back to the living room. The lid of the brandy bottle executed a satisfying pop, Lucia pouring a healthy serving into the slightly chipped glass that had sat ready on the table for her return.

The buzz she felt as the alcohol entered her system was relieving, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she rested back onto the sofa, the wooden floorboards creaking under the shift of weight. Lucia felt her arms grow heavy, her body sinking further and further into the worn couch. Her eyes wandered to the chipped wood photo frames scattered throughout the room, staring at them as though they held the entire universe behind their glass; and in a way, to her, they did. Joel, Sarah, Tommy, her Father, everyone she wanted to remember was right there in a way. Lucia was no Picasso by any means, but she drew decently well. Well enough that the drawings held a guttural sense of familiarity, the graphite sketches bringing her a sense of ease in a world where that feeling was difficult to find.

__________

THE SUN SHINED DIRECTLY INTO THE ROOM, THE WARM LIGHTING CASTING HARSH SHADOWS ON EVERY ITEM IT DIDN'T TOUCH. The only door in the concerningly run-down room slammed open, Ellie stood up almost instantly, kicking the plastic tray away from her the best she could considering her chained-up state. "Count slowly and clearly from one to ten." The woman spoke, the only sign she was actually a human and not an AI robot being the slight look of annoyance she gave as the tray hit her shoe.

"One, two, three, four-" The medic cut her off almost instantly, unimpressed by the fact she'd disregarded half of the short order she'd given.

"Slowly... and clearly."

"One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Fuck... you." The woman across looked at the girl unimpressed. The men guarding the room remained emotionless, their grasp on their weapons tightening slightly.

"And hold out your-" Before she could finish, Ellie stuck her hand out palm down, a light sigh of boredom escaping her lips. "State your name, slowly and clearly.

"Veronica. Same as yesterday... and the day before... and the day before, and the-" Without a word, the woman who had only just entered a few moments prior left, her body stiff, her movements certain. "Hey, people are gonna come looking for me. People from FEDRA. You hear me? Let me out or you're gonna pay, motherfuckers!" Ellie yelled out, the room emptying rather quickly. "I'm not supposed to be here!" Her yells were met with silence as the door slammed, the chain connected to her arm hitting the hardwood floor as she sat down.

'When you're lost in the darkness'. The paint dripped down the old water-damaged wall, and Ellie's head fell onto her lap with a sigh; the sight of the quote had quickly turned meaningless after being the only sight for her to see over the past several days.

__________

LUCIA WOKE UP WITH A SOFT GASP, THE SUN THAT HAD ONCE FILTERED THROUGH THE RIPPED CURTAINS SLOWLY SETTING BELOW THE HORIZON. The woman's head ached, her eyes slightly blurred as the alcohol had finally left her system. Disappointment flowed through Lucia, though, not for the fact she'd missed the better half of the day, but because she'd woken up. For the fact that she'd have to wait until she could finally fall asleep again to see them; to see her family.

The old floorboards screamed beneath her weight, the walls groaning softly as Lucia made her way into her bedroom. Her hand reached up to wipe the tears from her eyes that she'd only just noticed, presumably wept in her sleep; Joel's face lingered in her mind. Lucia liked to think she remembered every detail of him. Every wrinkle, every mole, every scar. But after twenty years, she couldn't help but doubt whether her memory served her right. She knew her mind had faded. The harsh realities of an apocalypse overwhelmed her more than she'd like to admit, new scars blurring the memories of those she'd wished to keep locked in the safety of her mind. With every new drawing of the man something new appeared and something else faded, whether it were a minute detail or something vital to the piece, Lucia grew unsure of what was right and what was wrong.

The bed creaked beneath her, Lucia kicking her shoes off after having stripped her clothes. One hand rested upon the other on her stomach, shaky breaths escaping her lips after she clutched onto the small dog keychain she'd vividly remembered Sarah giving to her on her last birthday before everything ended. Simultaneously, her other hand fiddled with the dainty bracelet latched around her wrist, with the original chain long gone, a slightly rusted one took its place, the original 'L+M' engraved bar sat against her worn skin.

Every night Lucia hoped the charm and bracelet would help her fall asleep faster, and every night she was left disappointed. Though she did sleep faster with the two items on her person, it was nothing like before. Nothing like knowing the two people she held closest were safe. Nothing like still wanting to live.

__________

JOEL'S SOUL WAS THE EPITOME OF DISAPPOINTMENT, THE EMOTION FLOWING THROUGHOUT HIM AFTER YET ANOTHER DAY WITH NOTHING FROM TOMMY. The sunset shun through the shipwreck of an apartment, Joel quickly moving to pull the map and bottle of alcohol from beneath the floorboards of his and Tess' apartment. The liquor burned the back of his throat as he took swig after swig, the sight of the map slowly growing blurry along with the ache in his heart.

The man could hardly comprehend his movements as he fell into the overly soft bed, his eyes closed the moment his head hit the pillow, and his right hand coming up to cover his face, the gold ring adorning his middle finger resting right on the bridge of his nose. If he were to open his eyes and focus them, Joel would have just been able to make out the small 'L+M' engraved on the lip of the metal.

He remembered the first time he noticed the sentiment; sitting in front of Sarah's freshly dug grave, his fingers fiddling with the ring to distract himself from the utter loss he'd held in his grasp. The light of the night sky shined onto the ring in just the right place for the engravement to catch his eye, what would have been a small smile in any other circumstance instead, a guttural sob from the back of his throat; a feeling he'd never forget.

_____1 DAY LATER_____

THE OLD LADDER SQUEAKED BENEATH TESS' WEIGHT, JOEL RIGHT BELOW HER, THE CONFINED SPACE PUSHING THEM TO MOVE AS FAST AS THEY COULD TO GET OUT. "It's like they reframed the whole structure," Joel noted. "Probably in the '80s. Everyone was cutting down on apartment sizes to sell more condos." The two crawled their way through the walls of the building, pushing past the cobwebs and dust occupying the space.

"Oh. This has been 'Construction Corner' with Joel Miller." Tess joked, her voice strained as she pulled herself up higher and higher, her face throbbing with pain.

"How far up we goin'?'

"Uh... this far." The woman paused, gaining her footing on the small ledge as she attempted to open the hidden door into the hallway of the somewhat large building. "So, this... opens into the ha-hallway," Tess spoke half to herself and half to Joel, her tone a low murmur. "What the fuck? Someone put a piano in front of this?" Her initial soft pushes on the wooden entrance turned into harder prods.

Beside her, Joel looked around cautiously, the light of his flashlight slowly casting down the length of the door. "You smell that?" He inhaled, Tess pausing for a moment. Joel's flashlight paused on the trail of blood dripping down from the other side of the door, the deep red liquid almost haunting.

"Yeah... gunpowder." Joel pulled out his gun and his initial plan to slowly sneak through the entrance first with Tess behind him to scope out the building was left behind as Tess pushed her way through with a grunt. "Tess." The woman poked her head into the corridor, pausing momentarily when the body that had once been blocking the door fell lifelessly to its side. The corridor was ridden with bodies, the walls aged, dirty with blood and grime. Tess poked around curiously, Joel contrastingly looking around cautiously, his gun secure in his grasp. "Well, the battery's no good," Tess noted, shining her flashlight over the battery that sat right next to a dead Robert; the same man who had left Tess' face in its ruined state. "And he still tried to sell it. Twice." She said, unimpressed. Her light shined on the man, his eyes open but dead, not a single sign of life behind them. "You greedy fuck."

A wince from the other end of the hall caught both their attention, the two looking over cautiously, Joel moving to walk ahead as they continued to listen in on the unintelligible chatter. Joel stepped cautiously around the deceased bodies, looking down the corridor discretely to find Marlene and another woman groaning in pain. Before Joel could say a word, the door next to him opened, a young girl running out, knife in hand, charging at him. Without missing a beat, Joel grabbed onto her harshly, swinging her round before tossing her into the wall, her blade falling to the floor with a short clink.

"Fuck." Ellie panted, looking up to find the barrel of Joel's gun pointing straight at her, the stature of their positions and difference in strength making it near impossible for her to get a leg up.

"Joel?" Marlene spoke up, the man looking up to find Marlene and the other woman, Kim, pointing their guns at him despite the blood coating their clothes.

"Marlene?"

"You okay?" She asked Ellie, her weapon still trained on the man.

"Yeah." Ellie breathed out, looking down at the gun a few inches away from her. The girl attempted to reach for it, however her attempts ended futile with Joel placing his boot over the small knife. Ellie glared up at Joel from the floor, their eyes both harsh and uncaring.

"Ellie... Ellie!" Marlene called out trying to gain her attention. The air was stiff, every one of them unsure of what was going to happen next. The woman attempted to calm the girl, however instead, it only made her notice the wounds adorning Marlene's tanned skin.

"Oh shit!"

"No, it's okay. I'll be all right." She reassured, stopping Ellie from trying to rush over to her risking Joel firing his gun. "And you can't be stupid like this." Tess rounded the corner as Marlene and Kim lowered their weapons, Joel's still trained on them. Even if the two women kept their guns drawn, with the state they were in, it wasn't exactly likely their shots would have hit their intended target anyway with the number of injuries they'd sustained; Kim's right ear completely obliterated.

"So this is who Robert screwed us over with?" Tess questioned rhetorically. "The Che Guevara of Boston? I mean, war must be goin' pretty shitty for you to be buying from scumbags like him."

"Yeah, it kinda has been." Marlene slightly snapped, her tone harsh, though, that could have been due to the gunshot wound to her lower abdomen. "The merch was bad, and he obviously didn't take 'fuck off' for an answer."

"Gimme my knife," Ellie murmured looking at her weapon which remained securely under Joel's heavy boot.

"What do you need a car battery for?" Joel questioned, the young girl sitting against the wall beside him unsure of whether he'd just ignored her or hadn't heard her in the first place. Instead of repeating herself, however, Ellie reached for the knife, Joel instantly swinging his gun to aim it at the girl. "Don't."

The two women down the hall instantly aimed their guns at the man, Tess aiming hers at them in response, curious as to why they were so protective of the girl. "Not at her," Marlene ordered. "Point it at me." Joel looked back down at Ellie who had her arms up in surrender, his brows raising for a moment before he slowly turned the barrel of the weapon back to the two women - who in return lowered theirs. "And to answer your question, I need it for a better reason than you do. No offence, but Tommy's just one man." Joel looked at the woman with a harsh expression, unpleasant even. Who was she to say his reasoning for needing the battery was of less importance than her own? Who was she to say his brother wasn't 'worth the trouble'. "It's our business to know things."

"'To know things'." Joel repeated. "You're the cause of it. You turned my own brother against me." He said, thinking back to the time of when he'd lost the only family he'd had left.

"Okay, Joel."

"That was a lot of gunfire," Kim spoke up finally. "FEDRA's gonna be on the way."

"I know." The hallway had gone silent, Marlene looking at Tess and Joel in front of her, the cogs turning in her mind. "We were gonna move Ellie outta the zone tonight. But we won't make it anywhere like this." Joel looked down at Ellie who looked right back at him almost as if she were sizing him up. "Not for a while anyway. So now I'm thinkin'... you're gonna do it."

"The hell we are," Joel said monotonely.

"I'm not goin' with them!" Ellie complained loudly.

"Let me take her." Kim offered.

"Tess... we don't have time for this," Joel said looking back at the woman, his gun remaining trained on the other two.

"Oh, you don't have time?"

"Who is she?" Tess questioned.

"To you? She's cargo."

"We don't smuggle people." Ellie looked back and forth between them all, observing how they'd spoken to one another as if she weren't even there. "Sorry."

"I can do it."

"Kim, you don't have a fuckin' ear on your fuckin' head. Could you please?" Marlene snapped with Kim looking away slightly embarrassed. "There's a team of Fireflies waiting for her at the old State House. I know what's out there." She spoke quickly, Joel scoffing. "We were going with an entire squadron for that very reason. But now I don't have a truck, I don't have a squadron, FEDRA's five minutes away. What I do have is you. And I know what you're both capable of. For better or worse."

"What are they capable of?" Ellie questioned quietly whilst Joel and Tess thought it over.

"You get her there safely, and they'll give you what you need. Not just a battery. The whole thing. Fueled-up truck, supplies, all of it." The woman offered. "I swear." Joel looked at the woman cautiously, his mind raking over the number of possibilities as to what could happen on the way. "I swear." She repeated.

Joel looked back to Tess, the woman tilting her head to the side. Before long, he kicked Ellie's knife from under his boot. "Asshole!" She complained as he walked away to Tess.

"You trust her?" Tess asked Joel quietly. Joel was silent, the woman gaining her answer from that alone. "No, me neither, but she seems desperate."

"Firefly vehicle usually means repurposed FEDRA stuff. So better-than-decent chance makin' it to Tommy in one of those. The second we hand that kid over-" Before the man could finish, Marlene cut him off, her tone slightly desperate but mostly strained from the pain of the gunshot wound.

"Y'all talk it through, but please remember that I'm bleeding out." Tess and Joel stared at one another for a few moments before the woman turned around to face the two at the end of the hallway.

"Okay. Here's the deal. We'll get her to your crew at the State House. But before we hand her over, they give us everything that we want. If not, we kill her, there and then."

"Deal."

"Really? That fast?" Ellie protested.

"But." Tess and Joel rolled their eyes slightly, unimpressed but also not exactly surprised that Marlene had more for them.

"Of course there's a but..." Tess murmured.

"You need to pick someone up first. She lives just outside the QZ, it's marked on the map in Ellie's bag. Tell her Marlene sent you and she'll follow; she owes me."

"Because you think we won't finish it." The woman assumed, Joel growing annoyed at the fact that what was supposed to be a short trip had turned into a whole ordeal.

"Because I'm not taking the chance of leaving her in the hands of you two alone." Marlene looked at the two as they shared looks of uncertainty, the woman sighing. "You get Lopez and I'll have the others at the State House throw in some guns for you too." She said reluctantly.

"We're seeing L?" Ellie questioned quietly, Marlene giving her a look to be quiet.

"Fine," Tess said after a few moments, the hall going silent for a few moments.

"Can I not just go with L?" Ellie murmured, annoyed and not wanting to go with Tess and Joel considering their first interactions hadn't been under the best circumstances.

"No. You are all that matters. I will not jeopardize that. Remember what I told you? Now go get your backpack." Ellie looked back at her, part of her trying to see if she could use mind control to make Marlene change her mind. "Now, Ellie."

With a scoff, Ellie stood up and walked back into the room she'd barged out of in the first place, walking out a few seconds later with her backpack in hand. "Let's go," Tess ordered, turning around and walking away. Ellie and Marlene shared a look, the older woman nodding her head softly; Ellie looked at her a few moments longer before walking away, hitting Joel's shoulder harshly before picking her knife up from the floor.

"Joel," Marlene spoke up. "Don't fuck this up. Please." Without a word, Joel walked away, leaving Marlene and Kim to deal with their injuries alone.

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