#[they made their way to the edge of the forest and noticed the ''sky'' was made of cubes.] | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

noirscript · 3 months ago

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cursed covenant

pairing: yandere lesser god x reader

warnings: YANDERE. dubcon. noncon (implied). manipulation. gaslighting. captivity. failed escape attempt.

note/s: let me hear your thoughts about this one. its been stuck in my drafts for more than a year now 😂

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The lanterns bobbed like fireflies in the distance, their golden glow flickering through the dense canopy of the forest. Laughter and music from the village festival still echoed faintly, but the path behind you had long since dissolved into the shadows. The trees loomed taller, the scent of damp earth and moss filling your nose as you clutched the hem of your festival clothes.

You hadn’t meant to wander this far.

One moment, you were chasing after the sound of a bell—a clear, delicate chime just beyond the treeline. And now, the familiar voices of your family were gone, replaced by the rustling of unseen creatures in the underbrush. The festival had felt so warm, so full of life. Here, the air was thick, the silence stretched too long between every chirp and whisper.

Then, the sound of running water reached you.

Relief flooded your tiny chest. The villagers always said the river led back to town. If you followed it, surely you’d find your way home. You hurried toward the sound, stepping over gnarled roots and ducking under low branches.

But when you emerged into the clearing, the river was not the first thing you noticed.

A man sat by the water’s edge.

He was beautiful. Even as a child, you understood that much. His hair, darker than the night sky, spilled over his shoulders, and his silver eyes caught the moonlight like trapped stardust. He reclined against the smooth stones, long fingers trailing in the water, as if unbothered by the presence of a small, lost girl staring at him with wide eyes.

And then, he smiled.

“You’re quite far from the festival, little one.” His voice was smooth, rich like the hum of the earth before a storm.

You hesitated, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves. "I was… I was following a bell."

His expression didn’t change, but something in his gaze sharpened. "A bell?" He chuckled, low and knowing. "How strange. There are no bells in this forest."

A small frown tugged at your lips. But you had heard it. You knew you had.

The man tilted his head, watching you with quiet amusement. “Tell me, little one, are you afraid?”

You blinked up at him. It was an odd question. Should you be? The village elders always spoke of gods and spirits that dwelled in these woods, warning children never to stray too far. But as you stood before this man—this strange, beautiful man with silver eyes—fear was the furthest thing from your mind.

You shook your head.

He laughed softly. “Good.” Then, he reached out a hand. “Come. Let’s get you home.”

You hesitated for only a moment before slipping your small fingers into his. His touch was warm, his grip firm as he led you along the riverbank. He moved without hesitation, as if the forest itself bent to his will, parting the way before him.

As you walked, he asked you questions. Simple ones. Your name. Your age. If you liked the festival. If you enjoyed sweets. You answered eagerly, the nervous edge in your voice fading as you spoke.

He listened.

No one had ever listened to you like that before. Not the other children, who only wanted to play rough games. Not the adults, who often brush you aside with distracted nods. But he—he made you feel important. As if every word you said mattered.

When the village lights finally flickered through the trees, disappointment stirred in your chest. You didn’t want to say goodbye just yet.

The man knelt before you, his silver gaze holding yours as he brushed a stray leaf from your hair. “I will ask something of you, little one.”

You tilted your head. “What is it?”

His fingers ghosted over your cheek. “Promise me.”

“Promise what?”

“That you’ll always return to me.” His voice was gentle, but something deep beneath it coiled tight. “That you’ll be mine, forever.”

You blinked at him, puzzled but unafraid. It sounded like a game, like when your friends made pinky promises by the river.

So, you nodded. “I promise.”

For the first time, his smile reached his eyes. But the glint in them was something you wouldn’t understand until years later.

“Good girl.”

Then, the festival bells rang, and the world blurred.

When you turned to thank him, he was gone.

The festival was already in full swing when you stepped back into the village. Lanterns swayed gently in the evening breeze, casting flickering patterns across the packed earth. The scent of roasted chestnuts and sweet rice cakes filled the air, and the laughter of children rang out as they ran through the crowded streets. It should have been comforting, familiar.

But something felt… different.

Your hand was still warm from where he had held it.

You glanced back at the darkened forest, half-expecting to see those silver eyes watching from the treeline. But there was nothing—just the rustling of leaves, the whisper of wind through the branches.

“Where have you been?” Your grandmother’s sharp voice snapped you back to reality. She appeared through the throng of people, worry etched deep into her face. “I told you not to wander off. Do you know how dangerous it is to go near the mountains alone?”

You opened your mouth to tell her about the man by the river, about how he had brought you home safely. But the moment you tried to form the words, something stopped you. A strange pressure, a weight on your tongue, as if speaking of him would break something fragile and sacred.

So instead, you shook your head and muttered a quiet apology.

Your grandmother’s fingers gripped your wrist tighter than necessary as she pulled you back toward the festival. “You must never go there again,” she warned. “No matter what.”

But you had already made a promise.

And deep in the woods, under the silver glow of the moon, a god smiled.

The years passed.

The seasons changed, the festivals came and went, and the village continued to thrive. But something about you was… different. The boys in your village avoided you. Not out of cruelty, but something deeper, something instinctual. Even those who once played alongside you as children now hesitated to meet your gaze, their hands twitching with nervous energy whenever you came too close. The few who dared to approach were quickly met with sickness, misfortune, or strange accidents.

The only exception was him.

He was always there, waiting in the woods just beyond the village. You weren’t supposed to go near the mountain, but somehow, your feet always found the path leading back to him.

It started with stolen afternoons. You would slip away after lessons, past the watchful eyes of the elders, and run to the river where he always waited. He never called for you, never beckoned you forward, but he didn’t need to. You always came.

He listened to your stories, his silver eyes never straying from your face. When you laughed, his lips would curl into something unreadable. When you cried, he would touch your cheek, his fingers cool against your warm skin. He never asked for anything in return.

Not yet.

But his presence was intoxicating. Comforting.

Yours.

Until the day they took you away.

It happened quickly. One moment, you were walking home from the woods, your heart still racing from your latest meeting with him. The next, your grandmother was gripping your shoulders, her nails digging into your skin as she whispered hurried prayers under her breath. Your parents were there, too, their faces tight with something you didn’t understand. There were no explanations, no time to argue. Just hurried steps, packed belongings, and a carriage waiting at the village gates.

The other elders stood in the distance, their gazes cast downward, their hands gripping charms and talismans. They wouldn’t look at you.

You struggled. You cried. You begged them to tell you why.

But it wasn’t until you saw the thick paper talismans plastered across the door to your home that realization set in.

They knew.

And they were taking you away from him.

Your screams echoed through the village as they forced you into the carriage, your nails clawing at the wooden frame. You didn’t care about the strange looks from the other villagers, the hushed whispers behind their hands. All you knew was that you had made a promise, and they were breaking it.

The last thing you saw before the doors shut was the treeline. The shadows between the trees shifted, moved, as if something—someone—was watching.

And then, the silver of his eyes, gleaming with something dark and terrible.

And then—nothing.

The city was loud. Too loud.

Even after years of living there, the endless noise of car horns, chatter, and the hum of electricity never settled right in your bones. The air was thick with something artificial, something lifeless. The sky never seemed as wide, the stars never as bright.

At first, you fought against it. You clung to the memories of your village, of the woods, of him. But time had a cruel way of dulling things. The face of the god by the river blurred at the edges, the warmth of his fingers against your skin faded to a ghostly sensation, the sound of his voice—once so clear—became harder to recall.

You moved on.

You made friends, explored the city, built a life that had nothing to do with the mountain. And for a while, it was enough.

Until the letters started coming.

At first, they were harmless. News from your uncle, brief mentions of the village, how things had been difficult but were getting better. You barely paid them any mind, offering polite responses in return.

Then, the tone changed.

The village was suffering. Crops withered before they could be harvested, livestock fell ill, and the number of stillborn children had risen to something unnatural. They needed you back—for the festival, for a ceremony only you could lead.

You ignored it.

But the letters kept coming, each one more desperate than the last. Until finally, your uncle arrived in the city himself, standing on your doorstep with weary eyes and hands that trembled as he held out the final letter.

You read it.

And the moment your fingers brushed against the parchment, something shifted in the air.

The scent of damp earth filled your nose. The faint, almost imperceptible sound of a bell chimed in the distance.

And suddenly, the city didn’t feel so safe anymore.

Returning to the village was like stepping into a memory that had been left out in the rain—warped, faded, wrong.

The streets were quiet, the colors muted. The children who had once been your playmates now peeked at you from behind their mother’s skirts, their eyes wide with something too solemn for their age. The elders barely acknowledged your presence, their hands clutching charms so tightly their knuckles turned white.

Your grandmother’s house was the same, but the moment she saw you standing at her doorstep, her expression twisted into something unreadable.

“You should not have come back.”

But it was too late. You were already here.

That night, you lay awake in your childhood bed, staring at the ceiling as the wind howled through the trees. The house creaked, the wooden beams groaning as if something pressed against them, waiting—watching.

And then, through the open window, a whisper.

"You promised."

Your breath caught in your throat.

You sat up sharply, heart pounding as you turned to the window. The forest loomed in the distance, dark and endless.

You told yourself it was your imagination.

But you knew better.

The next morning, before the sun had fully risen, you found yourself walking the familiar path to the mountain. The villagers didn’t stop you. They didn’t even look at you.

The forest welcomed you back like you had never left.

The trees were the same, the river still carved its path through the land, the scent of moss and damp earth filled your lungs. And at the heart of it all, standing just beyond the threshold of his temple, he was waiting.

He was different. The softness of his features had sharpened, the playful glint in his silver eyes replaced with something unreadable. His presence felt heavier, denser, as if the very air bent to accommodate him.

You hesitated.

And then, he spoke.

"Come back tomorrow morning."

You swallowed.

You should have refused. Should have turned back, should have walked away.

But you didn’t.

Because despite everything—despite the years, despite the distance, despite the way your stomach twisted in something dangerously close to anticipation—your feet remained planted in place.

And deep down, you already knew.

You would come back.

You returned the next morning.

And the morning after that.

It became a routine—waking before the village stirred, slipping away before anyone could stop you. Each day, you climbed the path to his temple, and each day, he was waiting.

At first, he only watched. Silent. Unmoving. His silver eyes followed your every step, his presence weighing on your skin like a second layer. You talked, filling the quiet with idle conversation—about the city, your life there, the people you met, the things you learned. He listened, never interrupting, never reacting.

Then, slowly, something shifted.

His silence gave way to words. He asked questions—about your time away, about the world beyond the village, about why you had taken so long to return. His voice, rich and low, wrapped around you like silk, threading through your thoughts, lingering long after you left.

And then, he touched you.

It was subtle at first. A brush of his fingers against yours when you handed him something, a fleeting touch against the small of your back when guiding you up the temple steps. But his hands were warm—too warm—and each time he touched you, something inside you tightened, curled, craved.

The forest changed, too.

The trees stood taller, their leaves greener. The river ran clearer, its waters shimmering under the sunlight. Even the village below seemed to breathe easier, as if your presence had soothed the unseen rage that had gripped it for so long.

But the biggest change was him.

He smiled more, spoke more, let his gaze linger too long. He was indulgent, affectionate in a way that made your skin flush. Yet beneath it all, beneath the warmth, the softness, was something else. Something hungry.

You should have been afraid.

But you weren’t.

You should have left.

But you didn’t.

Because each time you stood to go, his fingers would catch your wrist, his touch firm but unyielding. And though he never outright asked you to stay, his silver eyes always whispered the same thing.

"Don’t go."

The night before the festival, the storm came.

The winds howled through the village, rattling windows and tearing through rooftops. Rain poured in heavy sheets, drenching the earth, turning the roads into rivers of mud.

And when morning came, the mountain path was gone.

A landslide had blocked the only way out, cutting you off from the world beyond the village.

You barely heard your uncle’s reassurances. He claimed the roads would be cleared soon, that it was only a temporary delay. But you knew better.

This was no accident.

He wasn’t letting you leave.

And deep down, a part of you wasn’t sure you wanted to.

The festival began at sundown.

The village gathered at the foot of the mountain, their voices rising in an eerie, rhythmic chant. The firelight cast flickering shadows against their faces, turning them into something unfamiliar, something devout.

You stood at the center of it all, dressed in the traditional red attire they had prepared for you. The fabric clung to your skin, the intricate embroidery swirling around your body like flames. Your fingers tightened around the offering in your hands—the best produce the village could gather, though it paled in comparison to the ones you had tasted in the city.

None of it mattered.

Because as you climbed the mountain, as the torches lining the path flared brighter with every step you took, as the air thickened with something electric, something expectant—you knew.

This had never been about the village.

It had never been about the crops, or the prosperity, or the suffering they had endured.

This was about you.

And him.

The temple was waiting.

The offerings from dawn still sat upon the great stone table, untouched, pristine. But the only thing your eyes focused on was him.

He stood at the entrance, dressed in godly white, his ink-dark hair cascading over his shoulders like a river of night. The contrast was striking—too perfect—the divine purity of his robes only emphasizing the darkness in his gaze.

He was watching you.

Waiting.

You stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, your pulse hammering against your ribs. Every part of you screamed to stop, to turn back, to run.

But you didn’t.

Because the moment you met his gaze, a heat bloomed low in your stomach, spreading like wildfire through your veins. It was intoxicating, overwhelming—an ache so deep, so consuming, it left you trembling.

Your breath hitched.

And he knew.

The eerie smile that curved his lips was slow, knowing, filled with a satisfaction so deep it made your knees weak. He reached for you, his fingers brushing against your cheek, your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.

And then he whispered, voice rich with something dark and unshakable—

"You are mine."

The torches flared.

The wind howled.

And as his arms wrapped around you, pulling you into the depths of his temple, into the depths of him, you knew—

There was no escaping this.

There never had been.

The doors of the temple shut behind you, sealing out the world beyond. The air inside was thick—humid, charged with something unseen, something alive. The torches lining the walls flickered, their golden glow casting restless shadows against the stone.

His fingers trailed down your arm, slow, deliberate. His touch burned—not painfully, but with an intensity that made your breath come quicker, your skin hypersensitive to the smallest movement.

"You hesitated," he murmured, his voice impossibly smooth, impossibly deep. He stood close, too close, his presence consuming every inch of space around you.

Your lips parted, but no words came out. You had hesitated. For a single, fleeting moment, you had thought about turning back. But what use was hesitation now? What use was resistance when his very presence unraveled you, thread by thread?

He didn't need an answer. His silver eyes gleamed with something dark, something possessive, and you knew he had already decided your fate long before you ever stepped into his temple.

"You promised me." His thumb brushed against your lower lip, a touch so light it sent a shiver down your spine. "You belonged to me the moment those words left your lips."

You remembered it—the promise made in childish innocence, spoken in a voice too young to understand the weight of such words. And yet, even then, even in those fleeting moments, hadn't you felt it? That strange pull toward him, the way his presence had made the world feel smaller, as if nothing outside the forest had ever truly mattered?

"I waited." His voice was steady, but there was something dangerous beneath it, a tension so sharp it could cut. "I waited as you forgot me. As you let your thoughts be filled with others. As you tried to build a life that did not include me."

His fingers slid beneath your chin, tilting your head back, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Did you truly think I would let you go?"

The air felt thinner, your knees weak. The answer was already clear. You had known it the moment you stepped foot back in the village. Perhaps, deep down, you had known it all along.

His lips curved into a slow, cruel smile.

"You will never leave again."

His arms encircled you, his warmth engulfing you completely, and the last threads of resistance inside you snapped.

And as his power wrapped around you, seeping into your very bones, your thoughts blurred, twisted—desire intertwining with surrender, need overtaking reason.

The festival chants echoed in the distance, voices raised in worship, in offering.

But the only thing that mattered was him.

And the inescapable truth that you were his.

Now and forever.

—

The temple was silent, but the silence breathed.

It coiled around you, heavy and cloying, pressing against your skin like unseen hands. The torches along the walls dimmed, their flames shrinking as if bowing to his presence. The air itself felt thicker, charged with something oppressive—something hungry.

His arms were still wrapped around you, his grip firm but unyielding. You had always known he was strong, but now you felt it—the raw, unnatural power that lurked beneath his touch.

"You’re trembling." His voice was smooth, indulgent, but there was something dark beneath it, something that made your breath catch. "Is it fear?"

Your lips parted, but you had no answer. Because it wasn't fear, not exactly. It was something deeper, something more primal. A shudder ran through you as his fingers traced a slow path down your spine, and you swayed without meaning to—drawn in by the heat radiating from him, by the way his presence filled every empty space inside you.

He laughed.

A quiet, satisfied sound, as if he already knew.

"You still don’t understand, do you?" His fingers ghosted over your pulse, lingering at the delicate skin of your throat. "What it means to be mine?"

His grip tightened—not painful, but firm enough to remind you.

"Your body recognizes it before your mind does," he mused, tilting his head. "That pull. That ache. The way you want even when you don’t know why."

His lips brushed your temple, a mockery of tenderness, and a rush of warmth spread through your veins—too much, too fast, leaving you lightheaded.

"That’s my influence," he murmured. "My power inside you, working its way through every part of you. You can feel it, can’t you?"

You could. It was in the way your thoughts blurred, in the way your body burned, in the way your knees threatened to give out the longer he touched you. It was wrong—too much, too unnatural—and yet, you needed it.

The realization sent a ripple of dread through you.

He noticed.

His smile widened, his silver eyes gleaming with something almost fond. "Good. I want you to feel it."

His hand drifted lower, brushing against the curve of your waist, his touch featherlight but all-consuming. "I want you to understand."

The temple doors rattled, as if some unseen force was pressing against them. The air thickened further, the walls seeming to close in, and a strange, distant hum filled your ears—low and rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.

No, not yours.

His.

"You are changing," he said, almost lazily, as if he had all the time in the world to watch it happen. "Every moment you spend here, every second you breathe this air—it binds you to me. More and more, until there’s nothing left of the person who thought she could leave."

Your stomach twisted. The weight of his words settled deep, and yet—you couldn’t move away.

Didn’t want to.

Your fingers curled against his chest, and he sighed, pleased.

"See?" His voice was almost gentle now, almost affectionate. "You’re already learning."

You should have fought.

But his warmth was sinking deeper, crawling beneath your skin, settling into the very core of you. His hands on you weren’t just touch—they were commands.

And you were listening.

"You think I will be merciful," he mused, running a hand through your hair. "That's because I have waited, I will take my time, let you adjust, let you resist just a little longer."

His fingers tightened in your hair, forcing your head back, and your breath hitched as you met his gaze.

He wasn’t smiling anymore.

"I won’t."

The temple groaned around you, the very foundations trembling beneath his will. A gust of wind rushed through the chamber, snuffing out the torches all at once, plunging the room into near darkness.

Only his eyes remained, gleaming silver in the dim light—predatory, absolute.

"You are mine," he whispered, his voice laced with something ancient, something terrifying.

And for the first time, you realized—

You had never truly been given a choice.

The ritual, the offering, the village’s desperate prayers—none of it had ever been for them.

It had always been for him.

To bring you back.

To keep you.

Forever.

And as the last of your resistance crumbled, as the god before you claimed what was his, the final thread of your past life snapped.

The girl who had left this village all those years ago was no more.

There was only you.

And him.

And the inescapable, cursed covenant that bound you together.

—

tbc.

—

taglist: @violetvase @hopingtoclearmedschool

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nina-ya · 7 months ago

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Synopsis: It's your first time seeing snow and you decide to make the most of the day until you wander off from the group and Law finds you admiring the scenery. Pairing: Law x reader CW: fluff, first kisses!! • ficmas masterlist • ko-fi • discord server •

The first snowfall of your life felt like stepping into a dream. Each flake tumbled gently from the sky, blanketing the island in a glistening white, transforming the island into something out of a storybook. Everything about this day made your chest flutter with an excitement that you couldn’t quite put into words.

You were barely two steps on land before diving into the snow, your laughter ringing out as you flopped onto your back in a pristine patch of snow. Sweeping your arms and legs back and forth, you formed a snow angel, grinning up at the sky as you worked. When you sat up to admire your new creation, you caught sight of Law standing a short distance away with amusement etched across his features.

“Not bad,” he remarked as he glanced between you and your creation.

“Not bad?” you repeated, feigning offense before flashing him a teasing grin. “I’d like to see you do better. Come on, make one!”

Law raised an eyebrow at your challenge, muttering a ‘maybe later’ under his breath. You rolled your eyes, laughing as you dusted off your gloves. “You’re no fun,” you teased before bounding off to find your next snowy adventure.

Your enthusiasm was infectious, drawing everyone around you into your antics. Snowball fights erupted with chaotic energy, your laughter mixing with yelps as you narrowly dodged some perfectly aimed throws. You sculped a lopsided snowman, its crooked grin and mismatched arms earning a beaming smile from you as you showed it off. When you weren’t building or battling, you were tilting your head back and catching snowflakes on your tongue.

The day wore on, and some crew members retreated to the warmth of the Polar Tang, while others stayed behind longer. You were just about to join those going towards the warmth until you caught sight of something shimmering through the woods.

It was just a glimmer, subtle and fleeting, but it tugged at your curiosity. A light? Ice? Something hidden in the forest? You couldn’t tell, but you didn’t think twice before wandering off and trudging through the snow toward the source.

Eventually, you emerged into a small clearing, and you let out a soft gasp. A frozen lake stretched out before you, its surface gleaming under the pale light of the late afternoon. The surrounding trees were dusted with snow, their reflections faintly visible in the ice, and the scene looked like something pulled straight from a dream.

You stepped onto the ice cautiously, the crunch of snow now replaced with the faint creak of frozen water beneath your boots. The chill bit at your exposed arms, but you hardly noticed, too entranced by the beauty before you. You stared in awe at the surroundings, soaking in the moment in bliss, thinking nothing could ruin something as perfect as this.

That was until one voice came and shattered the peace as it cut through. “Are you out of your mind?”

You spun around startled to find him standing at the edge of the lake, his figure stark against the snowy backdrop. You could barely make out his expression to be something caught in between exasperation and disbelief at you.

“What happened to your coat?” he asked, tone sharp as he started making his way towards the center of the ice where you were.

“It was holding me back,” you replied flippantly, crossing your arms as if to emphasize your point.

Law’s brow twitched. “Holding you back?”

“Yeah,” you said with a shrug, trying to sound nonchalant even as the cold began to seep into your bones. “It got caught on a branch, and well, I figured I didn’t need it.”

“Well you figured wrong,” he snapped back, voice losing some of the calm it once held. “You’re going to freeze to death out here.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but a shiver wracked your body, cutting you off. Law’s frown deepened, and he stepped closer.

“Don’t tell me you’re not cold,” he said, his voice low and firm. “You’re freezing. Come here.”

Before you could protest, he opened his coat, revealing the warm lining inside and gestured for you to step closer. The size of the coat didn't surprise you, as Law always seemed to favor clothes that dwarfed him, but what did surprise you was the way he pulled you into his chest, wrapping the heavy fabric around both of you.

The warmth was immediate, his body heat radiating through the layers and chasing away the chill that had settled into your skin. His arms circled you, holding the coat closed around you and you reveled in the comfort.

“Better?” he asked, voice less harsh. You nodded and murmured a ’thanks’ in response. “Let’s get back to the others, you’ve had your fun for the day.”

You leaned back to look up at him, your eyes wide and pleading. “Can we stay a little longer?”

His brows furrowed, lips parting in an attempt to argue back, but you pressed on quickly, your tone insistent. “The sun’s about to set, and I want to see what this place looks like at night. Just a little longer, please?”

Law glanced around at the frozen lake and the woods that surrounded it. The temperature was already brutal and he knew it would only get worse as the night settled. “It’s going to get even colder,” he pointed out, tone sharp as he attempted to reason with you.

“I know,” you said, your voice tinged with desperation and excitement. “But just look at it, Law. The way the ice catches the light, the way the trees frame everything so prettily. I just… I just want to see it under the stars. Please.”

Your eyes met his, wide and shimmering with sincerity, and for a moment he was at a loss. Logic dictated that he should insist you leave and drag you back to warmth if he had to, but the look in your eyes shattered any logic he had in his mind.

With a long sigh, he relented. “Fine. But we’re not staying on the ice. Come on.”

He guided you off the frozen lake, hand firm on your arm as he led you to a small patch of dirt nestled between the snow-covered trees. The area offered a clear view of the lake and the horizon beyond, and the ground was a much more comfortable spot to sit.

He pulled you down with him as he lowered himself to the ground and you got comfortable as you settled into wait. The sun dipped lower in the sky, painting the world in oranges, purples, and reds, bouncing the colors off of the lake as the surface shimmered with the last rays of sunlight.

The first stars began to emerge as the sky deepened into twilight, their faint twinkles growing stronger with each passing moment. You sighed in contentment, murmuring ‘It’s perfect’, more to yourself than anything.

The stars above glittered like scattered diamonds, and you sat bathing in their glow, your breath puffing into the crisp air as your wide eyes scanned the constellations. Law hadn’t intended to linger, much less to find himself utterly captivated. Yet here he was, his attention irrevocably anchored to you.

He caught himself entranced by the small things: the gentle curve of your jaw, the way your eyes were wide, alight with a child-like wonder that shimmered with the reflected glow of the stars. The way the night wrapped itself around you, painting you in muted blues and silvers, made you seem untouchable. And yet, there you were, close enough that each puff of breath that you released towards the night sky mingled with the warm breaths of his own.

You reached a hand towards the heavens, fingers outstretched as though you could pluck a star from its celestial perch, and when the illusion faded into your palm, your soft and breathless laughter filled the silence.

Law’s gaze softened further, lingering on the curve of your face, the way your breath puffed into the air like tiny clouds. His eyes lingered on your lips, softly parted as you signed in contentment, and he found himself captivated by their softness, their unspoken pull. To put it simply, he was mesmerized, caught in a moment where only you remained.

It was rare for Law to let himself linger like this, to let his thoughts wander without restraint, but at that moment, your body pressed against his, he allowed himself to memorize you. To etch this instance into the depths of his mind, knowing it was a memory he would hold onto long after the cold had faded.

Before he realized it, his hand moved of its own accord. Fingers brushed a few stray flakes of snow from your hair, the movement catching your attention. You turned to face him, and his breath hitched at the sight of your curious eyes meeting his.

“What?” you asked, a soft laugh escaping your lips, a smile tugging at the edges.

Law hesitated, his mouth parting as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, he shook his head, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing,” he murmured, his voice lower than intended. “Just thinking.”

“About?” you pressed, playful and unguarded.

He swallowed, the air suddenly feeling too thin. He should have deflected, should have buried the words threatening to spill over, but instead, the truth fumbled from his lips in an accidental confession.

“You.”

That one little word seemed to suspend the moment in time. You blinked, your lips parting as his answer settled over you. “Me?” you murmured, your voice soft and almost unsure, as though saying it too loudly might make this whole moment go away in an instant.

Law didn’t respond. Not immediately, at least. His heart stuttered and he opened his mouth, but words failed him as his golden eyes, softened by the starlight, flitted from your questioning eyes to the faint quiver of your lips. The silence stretched out and he seemed like a man frozen in time, caught in a trap of vulnerability that he didn’t intend to expose.

A shiver coursed through you, and it snapped him from his trance. His arms tightened reflexively, moving to pull his coat closer around you. The movement was meant to shield you from the biting cold, but instead, it brought you both even closer. The press of your bodies was no longer incidental but undeniable.

The breath you exhaled wavered as the sudden proximity left neither of you room to escape. Your hands, once bunched up in fists wrapped around you, now lay against his chest while his hands froze at your sides mid-movement, as though he too had just realized just how close you'd become. You could feel his heart beneath your fingers beat in a rapid rhythm that matched your own. Neither of you breathed. Neither of you dared to.

Your eyes flickered to his lips, a breath away, the distance so small you feared even taking in a gulp of air would close the gap. The world narrowed to the warmth of your breaths mingling, his faint scent, and the feeling of the winter air kissing your skin.

You couldn’t tell who leaned in first. Perhaps it was both of you. Or maybe the universe itself conspired to close the gap. All you knew was that the moment his lips brushed yours, the rest of the world fell away.

The kiss started off as a question rather than a statement, as though both of you were unsure whether to continue. But that hesitation dissolved the moment you melted into him, your lips parting to welcome the warmth he offered.

His lips were soft and tasted faintly of the coffee he had not too long ago, mixed with something that was wholly, undeniably Law. His hand rose to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing against your cheekbone with a tenderness that made your stomach flip.

You leaned into his touch, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you kissed him back, deeper this time. The cold seemed to vanish entirely, replaced with the heat blooming between you. His tongue brushed against your bottom lip, and when you parted for him, he seized the moment to deepen the kiss as his tongue brushed against yours. His taste was intoxicating, heady and consuming, and the way he kissed you, left you breathless.

The moments blurred, reduced to the press of his lips, the muffled sounds that slipped past both of your lips and the faint crunch of snow beneath your shifting bodies. You wanted to draw this out as long as you could, not wanting it to end.

When you finally broke apart, it wasn't out of desire, but necessity. Your breaths came in soft pants, visible in the air as the cold rushed back to remind you of its presence. His forehead rested against yours, and you could see Law’s lips quirk into the faintest of smiles as his eyes searched yours for a confirmation that you enjoyed that as much as he did.

It was you who broke the silence when you asked between pants, “Do we… have to go back yet?” A smile stretched across your lips as you finished the question, the sight alone dissolving any final pesky bits of tension that may have been floating in the air.

His smile widened, and he let out a huff of laughter as he wrapped his arms tighter around you, pulling you flush against his chest. “Not if you let me keep you warm a bit longer,” he responded.

Such words of affection felt foreign coming from him, but you did not complain one bit as you settled into his hold, leaning into the warmth he provided. You giggled, the sound light and airy, as you leaned in again and captured his lips in yours.

The stars above glittered on, indifferent to the magic folding just beneath them, but you couldn’t help but feel that they were shining extra brightly for just the two of you.

#nina writes~✦#trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #trafalgar d water law #trafalgar law #one piece x reader #x reader #ficmas 2024

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bamgyw · 8 months ago

Text

˖°𖡼.𖤣𖥧 little red riding hood 𖥧𖤣.𖡼°˖

summary: afab!reader x werewolf!beomgyu just as little red riding hood entered the woods, a wolf met her. little red riding hood did not know what a wicked creature he was, and was not at all afraid of him. little red riding hood modern [smut] retelling.

warnings: little plot, lot of smut at the end. fingering, biting, sucking, they fuck in the forest? dub-con. definitely not as pretentious and cheaper than six nights.

word count: 6,5k

rey yaps: rey comeback. yay. as you can see, this is not the six night update. i am so very sorry. if you don't like it, i did it on purpose. it's camp. happy halloween.

once upon a time there was a dear little girl who was loved by everyone who looked at her. whenever the wind whistled she wore a warm, scarlet cloak, so she was always called little red riding hood.

the window’s open just enough for the wind to slip through and moan against the narrow slit. its sighs blend with the creeping chill of autumn nights, making it too easy for her to ignore the other sound—the low, mournful howl of the wolf stalking just beyond the trees. waiting. starving.

but inside—warm, cozy, oblivious—she’s giddy, caught up in the process of getting dolled up. the vanity of the pre-party ritual. halloween night, or the night to honor the ancestors' harvest festival by dressing like an unapologetic slut.

she leans in closer to the mirror, dragging the eyeliner brush across her eyelid. the black ink smudges into a sultry, careless flick.

her reflection stares back—rosy cheeks, fox like eyes, lips twitching into a smirk as she perfects her look. red little riding hood. she’s got that ominous, almost brilliant look of blood on snow; hair like lint, cheeks tinted a synthetic red, lips red like wine.

outside, the darkness gathers thick. that part of town—the forgotten edge where the trees grow too tall, too twisted, their branches clawing at the sky—has a reputation. by day, the leaves rustle with tiny, cheerful birds. but by nightfall the trees bend into shapes that shouldn’t exist, and the black between them isn’t just dark. it’s hungry.

she doesn’t care. not tonight. she’s excited.

she’s got a boyfriend, and she adores him in that hopeless, foolish way. taehyun—so princely, so mature, so different from any other boy she’s ever known. just the thought of him sends a flutter through her stomach.

but her excitement falters, her hand with the eyeliner brush pausing mid-stroke.

for quite some time now, she’s had the gnawing feeling that taehyun doesn’t like her anymore. he's distant. cold. the hunger in his eyes has dulled into something worse than disinterest. he doesn’t kiss her the same, doesn’t touch her like he used to. the golden glint of lust she once saw in his gaze is now replaced by dull apathy.

but not tonight. tonight, she’s going to fix that.

she has gotten herself a ridiculous little dress, so charming and frilly that it would drive any boy insane. a costume meant for a twelve-year-old, that should stretch over her curves and frame her just so. a skirt that's more like a belt made of little ruffles, barely brushing the tops of her thighs. puffed sleeves, and a corset cinched tight enough to steal her breath—she doesn’t care. she’s pulling the hunger back into her boyfriend's eyes.

the cheap red costume lays across the tub, a mess of fabric that’ll turn her into something untouchable. a gift for him, draped in lace and bows. she shrugs off her bathrobe, careful to close the door but leaving the curtains wide open. why bother? what harm could come from the empty wilds?

in a deep red bra and panties that cling like fresh blood to bare skin, the fabric is thin, barely there, a gauze that the cool night air slices through. the chill raises goosebumps, and her nipples harden beneath the lace, two sharp peaks straining against the sheer veil.

somewhere in the woods, the wolf is watching.

she notices her own reflection and pauses, taking in how her body looks under the dim light. the slight tremble of her chest, the rosy peaks beneath the lace. her breath catches in her throat as she runs a hand over her stomach, feeling the curve of her waist.

somewhere in the woods, the wolf starts salivating.

she has drowned in self-loathing lately. the boy she loves has been treating her like she’s nothing. she’s felt like nothing. but tonight —must be the witches, the spirits and the ghosts— she feels pretty.

the wolf thinks she’s pretty too. he has spotted a tender, plump mouthful, and hunger is curling in his belly. he can’t hold back anymore, and his howl cuts through the silence—sharp, hollow, vicious. and the wolfsong is a warning. the sound of death by the window.

she freezes. a chill creeps down her spine, not from the cold, but from something primal. she holds her breath, listening. and then she hears it—a soft, distant inhale. a wet and heavy breathing. not hers. human, but not quite.

her head snaps toward the window, eyes wide. there, in the darkness, something moves. no, someone moves. two glowing yellow lights. embers, burning. they don’t blink. they just… watch.

she pulls the drapes shut, heart racing, forcing a grin. halloween, she thinks. just some asshole playing a prank. a cheap, silly trick.

somewhere in the woods, the wolf smiles.

just as little red riding hood entered the wood, a wolf met her. little red riding hood did not know what a wicked creature he was, and was not at all afraid of him.

"just go from streetlight to streetlight," she tells herself.

focus. one light. two. a quick breath of safety before plunging into the next stretch of black. the cold night air curls around her, prickling her skin like needles.

her little red heels click against the uneven pavement, the sound echoing in the stillness. for a moment, she feels that gnawing, unshakable sense that she's not alone. but she shrugs it off, laughs under her breath, calling it paranoia.

the road ahead glimmers beneath a blanket of fallen leaves, slick and shimmering in the muted glow. on either side, the dense, impenetrable forest looms—a thick monster of dark green and black, framing her path to the party.

above, the moon, full and obscene, watches her like a voyeur. all still. all quiet.

except, that is, for the rustling of leaves beneath the predator’s steps. the wolf moves with ease, slipping behind her unnoticed, eyes on her legs as they sway, hungry.

this is his territory. she just doesn’t know it yet.

tucked inside her little basket—a cute part of the costume she’s rebranded as a purse,—there’s a small pocket knife. mom’s voice echoes in her head: “you never know what's lurking out there, darling.”

however, no amount of steel could cut through the one rule. the rule older than the trees that lined this cursed path. in the history of women walking alone at night—never, ever make eye contact.

so when she sees the shadow up ahead—thin, crooked, leaning against a lamppost with a cigarette hanging lazily from his lips—her heart does what it must. it kicks into overdrive.

head up. eyes forward. don’t let him know you're aware of his existence. her fingers tighten around the basket’s handle, knuckles turning white. it’s fine, she lies to herself. just keep walking.

one meter.

he tilts his head slightly, tracking her as she nears, but doesn’t move. her heels click louder now, faster, echoing hollow.

two meters.

close enough to smell the smoke curling from his cigarette. her skin crawls, but she doesn’t falter. just a few more steps and he’ll be behind her, another shadow, another forgotten threat. she feels a sudden, punctuating cold down her neck, but she barely pays attention to it.

three meters.

she passes him, breath held, heart pounding. it's done, she's safe. her fear was stupid, it always is. then it happens—a hand, cold and solid, lands on her shoulder.

her stomach drops. she spins, ready to scream or run, but the words die on her lips when she sees him.

a beautiful boy, just—beautiful.

dark, untamed. his hair’s a mess, falling over his forehead, deep brown eyes glowing like embers. flannel over a ragged band tee, the faint scent of smoke and damp leaves hangs around him.

“you dropped this.” his voice is low, nearly a growl, as he holds out her little red hood. it must’ve fallen when she rushed past.

“o-oh.” she stammers, half breathless, “thanks. i didn’t even realize.”

as she takes it from him, his gaze lingers for too long, making her hyper-aware of the way the dress clings to her body.

“pretty…” he says, the word half-whispered. a slight and wicked smirk touches his lips, like he knows he can degrade the costume and the girl beneath with just a single look.

a shiver races down her spine, but she forces a smile. “t-thanks.”

his eyes drag up and down her body, slow, making sure she notices. heat blooms in her neck, unbidden, and she tells herself—this dress is for taehyun, not for some stranger who smells like rain-soaked earth and cigarettes. and yet, when he bites his lip, something flutters low in her stomach—dangerous, thrilling.

“little late to be walking around dressed like that, don’t you think?” he sneers, and scorn flickers in his eyes. but the humiliation sends a shiver through her, one she doesn’t quite hate. “you headed to the party?”

“obviously,” she shoots back, spreading her arms, letting him take in the dress—though he’s already noticed, definitely. still, she’s relieved. he knows about the party, and suddenly he feels closer, more familiar. not quite a stranger anymore. “you?”

“yeah,” he shrugs, casual, like it’s nothing. “not really big on parties, though. i prefer the quiet.” his voice dips, eyes lingering on her. “but you gotta socialize… or you get lonely.”

“right.” she quirks a smirk, finally letting herself look him up and down. “but it’s a costume party, you know.”

“oh, i’m in costume. i’m just subtle,” he says, grin spreading wider, darker. “wanna see?”

against her better judgment—against every instinct screaming at her to walk away—she nods. his smirk deepens. he lifts his lip, just enough for a single sharp fang to catch in the dim light.

she laughs, half-relieved. “that barely counts as a costume.”

“oh, but it counts,” he says.

“fine. so, what are you supposed to be?”

he leans in just a little closer, his words coiling around her like smoke. “that’s the game, pet. you have to guess. guess right, and you win something. guess wrong...” his smile widens. “well, i get something.”

naive and pathetically charmed by the boy, she raises an eyebrow. “what do i get?”

he leans back, pretending to think, though his eyes never leave hers. "i mean... i'm a stranger in the woods. you get to walk away... unharmed."

poor thing, she rolls her eyes like he was joking. "and if i don't guess right," she speaks, her voice softer now. "what do you want?"

"a kiss."

her heart stumbles. she'd give it to him, gladly. hell, she'd guess wrong just to get their lips together. but... “i'm really sorry i…” she stammers, smile faltering, “i have a boyfriend.”

and though he doesn't seem fazed, his expression shifts. subtle, but unmistakable. his eyes darken, the playful charm fading away. “you shouldn’t go around teasing strangers when you're all alone like this,” he says softly, “might find yourself in trouble.”

she swallows hard, "i– i'm so sorry, i wasn't trying to—"

“it’s whatever,” he says, stepping back into the shadows, his voice a low warning. “go to your boyfriend, little red. but be careful. there are wolves out here. and not all of them are as friendly as me.” he pauses, a smirk twisting his lips. “name’s beomgyu, by the way.”

and so little red riding hood wanders on, oblivious to the truth: wolves wear many skins, each one crafted to prey on vanity, on longing, on the hollow spaces left unguarded.

they slip through shapes, feeding on weakness and hunger. but it’s in the glow of those predatory eyes that you recognize him. the unmistakable trace of his essence, the constant lurking in every form.

the wolf is as cunning as he is ferocious; once he’s had a taste of flesh then nothing else will do.

the halloween party is but a yearly excuse for yeonjun to show off how filthily rich he is and make a joke out of it. as if by opening the doors of his mansion to the rest of the mortals he lets them in on the punchline. a spectacle for the sake of being one. a big parody of himself.

and tonight, he’s dressed as gatsby, because of course he is. the slick white suit shimmers under the bruised purple lights, like a spotlight trailing him—and it might as well be, because yeonjun is the spotlight, soaking in every second of it.

he carries a champagne glass permanently attached to his hand, always swirling just enough liquid to keep things classy but not sober. every grin he flashes feels rehearsed, and he keeps crooning “old sport!" at anyone close enough to hear.

he's a cartoon. a well-dressed, charming caricature of wealth and tragedy, and everyone in the room knows it. and they love it. and he loves it more than anyone.

the music thumps through the house like a pulse, vibrating underfoot and inside ribcages. it’s too fast, too loud, forcing everyone to keep moving or else be swallowed up by the noise. by the chaos. bodies blend together, creating a messy tangle of limbs and sweat, grinding and swaying under the flickering strobe lights.

a chandelier overhead swings crooked, crystals throwing fractured light around, mimicking a starry sky in a thousand different colors. it's gaudy, too big for the room, and yet perfect for yeonjun’s vision. a crown fit for the king of excess.

she sits on the edge of it all, watching. just watching. taehyun’s next to her, but he might as well be miles away.

his eyes are glued to yeonjun who leans in close, whispering something in his ear, pointing out random people in the room. every now and then, taehyun’s lips twitch into a smirk as he scans the room like he’s calculating everyone's worth, everyone’s weaknesses.

he hasn’t looked at her once. she could have been invisible.

the bitterness stings, but she pushes it down. instead, she reaches out, her fingers grazing his arm, trying to pull him back to her, even if just for a second. “hey… you wanna get out of here? somewhere quieter?”

taehyun doesn’t react at first, not even a flicker of recognition in his eyes. he’s in his own world, lost in whatever game yeonjun’s playing.

dressed as a medieval knight, his armor shines under the lights, making him look even more untouchable. when he finally speaks, it’s almost an afterthought. “yeah, yeah. in a bit.” his words are hollow, thrown over his shoulder like loose change. “just… give us a second.”

and before she can process it, yeonjun’s turning toward them with that same cruel smile he’s been flashing all night. “god, you’re clingy,” he says, “can’t handle not being the center of attention for, what, five minutes?”

her stomach twists, heat flooding her face. “i wasn’t—” she starts, but her soft spoken words quickly fall short.

“it’s fine,” taehyun cuts in, still not looking at her, “just… chill, okay? we’ll leave soon.”

it feels like a slap. not hard, not violent. just… cold. her chest tightens. and it’s so clear now—he doesn’t care. he’s tolerating her, only and barely. her fingers clench into fists on her lap. she swallows hard, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill over.

"i’m… i’m going to the bathroom," she says, voice barely audible over the pounding music. but it doesn’t matter. taehyun doesn’t hear her.

she drifts through the crowd like smoke, unseen, slipping between the life and color all around her, barely there.

she finds her way out to the porch, cold air cutting into her skin, sharp as the bitter edge of disappointment still lingering in her chest. she hugs her arms, the night heavy and indifferent, pressing in on her as if to make her smaller.

yeonjun’s yard sprawls below, made-up like a graveyard—plastic tombstones lurch from the soil, skeletons claw out of dirt, grinning skulls leer up at her from the fog.

her breath puffs into the night, fading just as she feels she has, every inch of her dressed up for someone who never even noticed. ridiculous fucking slut.

but then, the air thickens, a chill going down her spine. she senses him before she sees him. a crackle in the dark, the slow burn of a cigarette lighting up.

“you look… sad, little red,” barely a purr. low, smooth, a murmur from the dark that curls around her like a trap.

she startles, spinning, heart slamming up to her throat. it’s him. beomgyu. the boy from the woods.

he's lounging against a stone grave, cigarette dangling from his fingers. his face is a smirk made of shadow, his eyes glinting, almost like he’s playing at something, watching her to see if she’ll play along.

“why aren’t you inside?” she asks.

“i told you," he says, snuffing out the cigarette against the stone, his gaze never leaving her face. "i like the quiet. besides...” his smirk stretches, razor-sharp. “can’t say i’m exactly welcome in there.”

then he stands. he steps closer. that lazy, stalking pace that narrows the distance between them, each footfall a reminder of who’s in control. the night presses her back against the railing.

“you’ll freeze out here, pet,” he says, words tipped with a cruel sort of sweetness.

he’s looking at her the way a wolf might look at a lamb. like he could devour her whole, and god help her, a spark of thrill runs down her spine, sharp as a nail.

she stares, heart skittering in her chest, searching his face for something human—but his eyes are restless, ravenous. and yet they see her, see through her. why couldn’t taehyun ever look at her like that? why couldn’t he see her like beomgyu did?

“i… i want to take that bet.” she asks, trying to keep her voice steady.

his eyes spark, the faintest flicker, and she feels like she’s opened a door she can’t close. he leans in, his smirk curling wider. “what about the boyfriend?”

she holds his gaze, refuses to look away, “the boyfriend doesn't give a fuck about me.”

one of his hands is already sliding around her waist like a snake coiling around prey. the other lifts to the neckline of her dress, fingers sliding up to tug gently at the red ribbon there, toying with it.

“then guess, little red,” he murmurs, lips curling into a pout that pretends innocence, “what am i?”

and from the bottom of her being, she knows what he is. but she doesn’t dare put it into words. she decides to guess wrong.

“a kitten, maybe?” her voice comes out playful, teasing, such a pretty little fool, “with those cute fangs?”

he laughs, sharp and cocky, and she watches his tongue glide over his canines. “wrong,” he murmurs, leaning down, his grin widening. “you owe me something now, don't you?”

she smiles, heart racing as she tiptoes to reach him and his arm tightens around her waist, providing a steady anchor. her lips brush his just barely, the peck of a little bunny.

but he’s already got her, pulling her in harder, his mouth a claim, his kiss a taking. his lips are cold, but the kiss is hot, burning. his jaw tightens and loosens wide and heavy, lips pressing against hers with a force that feels like he's taking something from her—something she didn't agree to give.

she allows him to do as he pleases, giving herself to him like she's under a spell. she clings to his frame, hands gripping his shoulders, body caught up in the press of him.

her breath becomes shallow, her mind a blur. his touch, his heat, too much all at once, too intense, too—

she dares to open her eyes. just to look at him. just for a second.

and she's terrified to discover that his once brown gaze is now molten, liquid yellow, something feral staring back at her. her pulse jumps, fear clawing its way up.

she pulls back, gasping, but he’s already there, leaning in again, his mouth hovering like he wants to bite, to consume. she raises her hands, warding him off. “i… i think i should go back inside.”

"why?" he purrs, and his breath impatient and almost manic against her cheek. "scared, little red?"

her throat tightens, "i don’t really… know you, and…" she tries to step away, but his hands close around her waist like iron. trapping her.

"you don’t need to." his fingers dig into her, reminding her that her body is his to command. he draws her close, “let’s play one last game, pet. just one. what do you say?”

“what… kind of game?” she asks.

and just like that he lets go. he steps back. a twisted offering of freedom she knows can't be trusted.

“we race,” he says, voice low, almost playful. “you run. back to your house. if you make it—” his eyes gleam, hungry “—i leave you alone.”

“and if i don’t?”

beomgyu never replies. he stays silent, shadows pooling in his amber eyes.

the full moon hangs ivory, casting a ghostly glare across his face. he glances up at it, bathing in it's glow like it's medicine. then his gaze drifts back to her, that twisted, merciless smile twisting his face.

and he just starts counting down.

ten... nine... eight...

she doesn't wait for seven.

she bolts. she flies down the steps, heart pounding, her feet barely grazing the ground as she breaks into the night. gravel scrapes beneath her heels.

six.

she ditches her shoes mid-sprint, stumbling onto the cold, wet ground. the fake cemetery looms around her, fog twisting between the tombstones as adrenaline pushes her forward.

five.

the sound of him shifts, something subtle at first—a dark, guttural growl building low in his throat. her heart stutters. it’s happening.

four.

a crackle of bone, a sickening pop, a snarl splitting the quiet night. something breaking, reshaping. she hears his breath deepen, his bones stretching, snapping.

three.

a howl cuts through the night, piercing, shuddering through her bones, her skin, her soul. the sound belongs to something that is no longer human.

two.

she dares to glance over her shoulder, just once, and what she sees makes her blood run cold. a massive, shadowed figure, fur gleaming silver under the moonlight, teeth bared in a snarl that sends ice through her veins.

his eyes, the same molten yellow as before, are locked on her, brimming with a hunger that borders on savage.

she never hears the one. she just runs and runs, as fast as she can. but the wolf is faster.

carnivore incarnate, only immaculate flesh appeases him.

the trees claw at the sky. gnarled limbs jutted out, crooked talons waiting to snatch her, tear her apart, make her one with the dark.

she doesn’t run but hurtles through the blackness, branches snapping beneath her feet like brittle bones. the forest isn't just there anymore—it's aware, watching her, toying with her. she can’t stop. can’t even breathe.

he's after her. and he's close.

“guess right, and you get to walk away unharmed.” how she regrets what she's done. she should've guessed right. should've kept her life instead of trading it for a kiss. stupid mistake. stupid choice by a foolish girl.

but just when she's about to give up she sees—between the curtain of twisted trees, the faintest flicker of light. her house. it's almost a visual illusion. something so desired it seems unreal. so near. almost there. her heart skips with hope.

she never makes it.

something cold as death clamps around her wrist, yanking her back. her body slams against a thick, gnarled oak tree, the bark biting into her back. it’s like the forest itself is starving for her, clawing at her, pulling her deeper into its hunger.

she feels red-hot, searing pain. then the wet warmth of his breath on her face. human again, if you can even call him that. all ragged, scraped and scratched. but human.

"run, run, run," he purrs, voice slick with amusement, "did you really think you could get away?"

it was never about catching her—it was always about the chase. the thrill of letting her think she could escape, just to tear that illusion apart in the final, hopeless moment.

she’s not escaping. not now. not ever.

"little red," he says with a sultry pout, his index finger tracing her jawline, “you seem so scared…”

“w-what are you going to do to me?” she asks.

she tries to wrestle, always avoiding his eyes. but each movement affects her physically, making her more aware of his body against hers, of his hands upon her.

he lowers himself, bringing his face close to her neck and breathes her in. his nose grazes her skin in a barely-there caress that makes her insides tighten. he nuzzles his head against her throat, his body stirring as if comforted by the scent.

“you smell even better up close,” he says, his lips parting as they hover over her neck. he lets his tongue brush her skin, savoring the faint saltiness. “taste even better than i imagined."

he sends a shiver through her, a crackling thrill that races under her skin. her heart beats so swiftly that she feels as though this were the moment she had expected for years. she almost stands up on her toes to hear the rest of his words.

"you’re so beautiful, little red.” he continues. “boyfriend never noticed, but i did. i’ve been waiting for this… for so long.”

and she knows it's true. she would’ve known even if he hadn’t said a word—could’ve felt it in the way his arms cage her against the rough bark of that oak, the trembling eagerness in his body.

he wants her, not gently, but raw and feral. and when she meets his gaze, those amber eyes glowing in the half-light, starvation licking at the edges, she feels something inside her shift. the want for this monster—this creature with fire burning in his stare, diabolically phosphorescent.

in quiet awe, she says, “what big eyes you have.”

“all the better to see you with.”

he does see her. exactly how she wants to be seen. and she wants to let him see more.

she pulls off her scarlet shawl—a flash of poppies, the bloody bloom of sacrifice. and since fear is of no use to her now, she sheds it like old skin, too. next, the blouse—soft, almost apologetic in the way it slides over her head—leaving her breasts bare, kissed by the cold silver of moonlight.

his arms find her without thinking, tight, firm, an embrace that feels like iron bands. in that grip, something stirs inside her, something she hasn't felt in so long it almost frightens her—it’s not just being wanted, but being claimed, protected, as though she belongs to him entirely.

“what big arms you have,” she breathes, her fingers tracing the hard ridges of his bicep, brute strength beneath her palms.

“all the better to hold you with,” he grins, his lips parting just enough for her to catch the white of teeth. the daggers of fangs.

her voice drops to a whisper, “what big teeth you have.”

“all the better to eat you with...”

his words slither out just before his mouth crashes onto hers, devouring. his lips, firm and greedy, drink from her, swallowing her breath, tongue invading with a force that leaves her dizzy.

his hands grip her body with the same ruthless intensity, fingers mauling her flesh like claws, leaving painful bruises blooming under his touch.

his mouth drifts lower, down to her jaw, down to her neck, teeth grazing her skin in teasing bites, until he finds the soft skin of her chest. the hardened, sensitive nipple. he sucks hard enough to leave a bruise. a mark of ownership. meant to hurt. to claim.

his tongue grazes the sensitive peak again, teasing her with the cruelty of it, dragging it out. her breath falters, and before she can choke it back, a broken whimper slips out.

“good girl,” he purrs against her skin, “such a good little pup.”

his hands aren’t far behind. they drift lower, fingers tracing the curve of her body, abandoning her chest like it’s no longer enough. they slide down her sides lingering over her stomach before slipping between her thighs. his fingers brush the garters, barely caressing the lace straps holding them tight against her legs.

“too tight, don’t you think?” his voice is quieter now, almost thoughtful. he traces the garter’s edge again, pressing into the skin where it’s biting in. “let’s see if it left a mark.”

he lifts her skirt, letting her feel every inch of skin being exposed, every second of her body laid bare to his gaze. her leg lifts instinctively, just a small movement, but enough for him to slide the garter down, peeling it away from her thigh.

and there, above the edge of her stocking, her skin gleams, reddened, damaged by the strap. he stares for a second too long, then up at her, asking for permission, knowing very well he has it already.

of course, she lets him.

his fingers skim the inside of her thigh, higher, until they’re at the edge of her panties, toying with the fabric like it’s something fragile. he grins, teasing. and she sees in his eyes, in his invigorated breath, that something violent is coming.

his fingers press against her cunt, once, cold and firm, right against the damp fabric clinging to her skin. then comes a ruthless slap, quick, and she bites down on her lip hard enough to taste blood. then a second slap, harder, leaving her moaning, and her hips jerking toward him.

without a word, his finger slips past the soaked fabric, and makes its way inside her, slow but firm, pushing through the heat of her skin like he’s sinking into something molten, something desperate.

her back arches hard against him, her head falling onto his shoulder. the surrender comes easily—she doesn’t fight it. she opens for him, lets him push deeper, lets him take.

he stops when he’s knuckle-deep, breath hot against her ear. "you like that, little red?”

her heart slams against her chest, and the wet heat grows, slick and throbbing. she can only nod and let out a pathetic “hmph”.

she’s already soaked, but the need—the ache—builds with every passing second, with every subtle shift of his breath, his body looming over hers like a shadow.

another finger slips in, just as slow, until he curls them inside her, pressing deep enough that she feels every inch. her entire body trembles, a soft moan slipping from her mouth.

he pulls out his fingers, but only for a second before he plunges them back in, harder this time, deeper. forcing her body to open for him. her breath hitches, and her cunt clenches around him, her walls spasming as he presses further.

“such a tiny little hole…” he says, almost to himself, a wicked grin curling his lips.

when he withdraws, he drags it out, agonizingly slow, like he wants her to feel every ridge of his knuckles as they pull back. the emptiness is immediate, the loss of him, the loss of that pressure, unbearable.

he holds his hand up, and her eyes widen. she can see the evidence of her need painted across his skin, shining under the dim light.

the dampness between her thighs coats his fingers in a thick sheen. it glistens, dripping down toward his palm, the slick strings of her arousal hanging between his fingers. “so fucking wet for me,” he growls, his voice rough, edged with a sharp, dark amusement. “dripping like a little slut.”

his hand moves again, back down, fingers sliding over her trembling cunt, tracing along the wet, swollen folds. when his fingers find her clit, they barely press—just enough to make her shiver, just enough to make her whimper. the wet bud throbs under his touch, every nerve in her body firing at once.

"beomgyu p-please," she whispers, barely recognizing the sound of her own voice.

the grin that spreads across his face is demonic, a depraved satisfaction settling in the lines of his jaw. every second that passes is his to control. in one fluid motion, his hands are at the waistband of his jeans, undoing them with a pull.

the pants slide down, peeling off like skin, and then he’s free. the hard line of him, thick, swollen, standing rigid in the faint light. it gleams, slick at the tip with precum, and her breath stumbles over itself, catching, holding, as her eyes latch onto the sight.

his hand wraps around his cock and he strokes himself, the rhythm heavy. his size makes her breath hitch—the way she knows he’s going to stretch her, fill her completely.

the thought of him fucking into her becomes all-consuming. her thighs tremble, and she can feel the clenching heat between her legs, aching, desperate.

he moves corruptly slow, dragging the swollen tip of his cock down, sliding it through the soaked mess of her folds. it’s a tease, the wet heat of her slick coating him, and the pressure of him right there—right at her entrance—makes her head spin.

a moan escapes, soft, helpless, her lips parting as he toys with her, his cock gliding up and down, never giving her enough, always holding back just a little longer.

his eyes lock with hers, and they’re glowing, that eerie golden glow, something unholy in them, “beg for me.”

“p-please,” she chokes out, the haze of lust clouding every rational thought. “please, beomgyu… i need you. please.”

the second the words spill from her mouth, he moves. he thrusts into her, forcing her open, the thick length of his cock splitting her apart. the stretch is instant, a burn that radiates through her core, and she gasps, her back arching as he fills her.

the tightness of her cunt clamps around him, a desperate attempt to take him all in, and she can feel every inch of him, every ridge, every vein as he pushes deeper, harder, until he’s buried to the hilt, his cock seated deep inside her.

he grips her hips with ruthless strength, his fingers digging into her skin, sure to leave marks, bruises that will linger. he holds her there, buried deep inside her, savoring the way her body shakes, the way her walls flutter around him.

“ah, fuck…” he groans, his voice rough and guttural like he’s barely holding back from wrecking her completely.

a tremble runs through her like a live wire, raw nerves, everything sparking at once. she adjusts to the size of him inside her, body bending, flexing around the thick intrusion. she feels like she's being split open, the sharp line between pleasure and pain blurring until it’s just sensation—hot, pulsing, overwhelming.

he starts to move, each thrust like a shock to her system. his hips grind into her with almost cruel force, ricocheting pleasure up her spine, waves crashing in her chest.

"look at you," he growls, voice thick with satisfaction, "taking me so well. fuck, my little pet, keep making those noises for me,”

she whimpers in response as the coil of pleasure in her belly winds tighter, tighter, pulling her in. he slides in and out of her, their bodies tangled, twisting, rolling together. her cries now mount in endless spirals, loud as if he was murdering her.

beomgyu answers each cry with a deeper thrust, pushing into her harder, his hips slamming against hers with a brutal sound. he’s lost in it, in her, in the need to possess her to annihilation. she belongs to him now, her body molded to fit his touch, pliable under his hands.

his fingers tangle in her hair, yanking her head back, exposing the vulnerable curve of her neck, and his lips find her there, hot and hungry, biting, sucking, the sharp edge of his teeth sinking into her skin between breathless kisses.

his grip tightens as his thrusts become frantic, erratic, the control slipping from his grasp. “s-so fucking close,” he groans, his voice raw, trembling, every word a struggle against the rising tide of his release.

and with one final, savage thrust, she's the first one to shatter.

the orgasm crashes into her with a force that steals her breath, her vision blurring, her walls clamping down around him as her climax takes over.

he escapes a low, animalistic sound. a howl that vibrates through her chest. he fucks her through her oversensitivity and his thrusts grow rougher, less controlled, his hips slamming into hers. the obscene slap of their bodies colliding fills the air, the noise of flesh on flesh, sweat-slick and raw.

he curses under his breath, his hips stuttering, his cock buried deep inside her as he finally comes, his release spilling into her, thick and hot, filling her completely, warmth flooding through her as her body trembles uncontrollably under the onslaught of pleasure.

beomgyu’s teeth sink deep into her flesh. biting hard enough to leave marks, her skin yielding under his canines, and she whimpers, too far gone to feel the pain, her body burning with pleasure, every nerve on fire, every sensation magnified as the aftershocks ripple through her, wave after wave of white-hot bliss.

his cock twitches inside her, pulsing, pumping more of his release into her, and she sobs, her body shaking as the pleasure rips through her, the intensity of it almost too much to bear. her vision blurs, white-hot flashes behind her eyes, and all she can feel is him—filling her, marking her, owning her.

with a snarl, he finally pulls back, releasing her neck, and a soft moan slips from her lips as his tongue flicks over the small wound he’s left behind, licking away the blood, soothing the sting with gentle kisses. there’s a tenderness to his touch now, strange and foreign after the brutality.

slowly, he shifts his hips, easing his cock out of her, and she whimpers at the sensation, her body so sensitive that every movement reignites the sparks of arousal beneath her skin. she feels him drag against her, the last of his release leaking out of her, warm and thick, a reminder of how thoroughly he’s claimed her.

she lies there, spent, panting, her body soft and malleable under his hands, no longer her own but something broken, something he’s molded, possessed. his slave, his ownership, growing soft under his fingers.

for a moment, everything is still.

the only sound is their ragged breathing, their chests rising and falling in sync. his body stays pressed against hers, his warmth seeping into her, grounding her in the moment. his lips brush her ear, “you’re mine now, little red. all mine.”

she doesn’t even have the strength to respond. she’s spent, hollowed out, drained of everything, her body limp, barely held together by the weight of him, by the grip of his hands still clutching her as if she might slip away. everything feels far away, like she’s underwater.

the world fades—blurry sounds, dim lights—and then she’s weightless, cradled in his arms as he carries her like something fragile.

there’s nothing but moonlit quiet and deathly cold in the woods. only the soft fall of his steps, paw prints in the ground.

and little red sleeps, forever nestled in the arms of the tender wolf.

taglist 𖥧𖤣.𖡼°˖ @beomiracles @yoseicour @fairfootedflekk @bubbly-moon @izzyy-stuff and i know more people asked to be on the general taglist but i'm an idiot and i never kept track so. yeah. sorry. just ask again.

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softsusanoo · 12 days ago

Text

Lazy Training (18+)

summary: the nights in Konoha had grown quieter, but the silence did nothing to still the noise within you. Shadows stretched longer, and so did the pull toward him—subtle at first, then impossible to ignore. And when your paths crossed again, not in battle, not in duty, but in something softer, heavier, it felt less like coincidence and more like inevitability. Something had shifted. And neither of you could quite look away.

pairing: shikamaru x female reader (reader is a member of the ANBU)

genre: friends to lovers

word count: 10,7k

warnings: fighting scenes, mature content/mature language, smut, softdom!shikamaru, softdom!reader, smoking

The sun hung low in the sky, bleeding gold into the treetops. You walked slowly, letting your steps fall into rhythm with the soft hush of the breeze threading through the leaves. The air was warm—not the stifling heat of midday, but the kind that clung lightly to your skin, like memory. The kind that carried the scent of grass, dust, and something half-forgotten.

You didn’t rush. There was no need to.

The path wound ahead in lazy arcs, half-swallowed by weeds and thick with the smell of pine sap. You let your fingers graze the low branches as you passed, your gloves brushing against the rough bark and small curling leaves. Somewhere deeper in the forest, a cicada hummed, its song rising and falling in a tired kind of way.

He hadn’t wanted to come. Not really.

“Training? With you?” he’d muttered, flat on his back under a half-dead tree outside the mission hall, one arm slung across his eyes like the sky was just too much. “Sounds like a drag.” You’d said nothing then—just raised a brow, arms crossed over your chest. Waited.

After a beat, he sighed through his teeth and cracked one eye open. “Tch. Fine. But only because you’ll annoy me about it otherwise.”

You had smiled then. Just barely. He didn’t say it, but you both knew the truth. Time had been a rare thing lately. Scarcer than rest, scarcer even than silence. If you hadn’t asked, he probably wouldn’t have seen you at all.

The dirt path curved gently up a slope now, the tree cover thinning just enough to let in streaks of amber light. You stepped over a half-rotted log, your shadow stretching long across the moss-covered stones. You remembered another afternoon—years ago now—when you’d both been younger, not quite friends yet, just two people orbiting the same strange shinobi world.

It had been during one of those endless village-wide drills—mandatory formations, repetitive routines, all barked orders and synchronized movements under the hot sun. You’d spotted him off to the side, half-slouched against a tree, yawning like the whole thing might actually bore him to death. “You don’t care about any of this, do you?” you’d muttered as you passed him in line, your voice low and dry. He’d shrugged without looking up. “I care. Just not about people pretending to be useful by shouting.” That had made you laugh—quiet and sharp-edged, but real. You hadn’t expected him to be funny. You hadn’t expected him to notice things the way he did. From then on, it had been easy. Easier than most things.

The clearing came into view slowly, like it wasn’t in a hurry to show itself. Just a patch of grass worn down by time and use, framed by tall reeds and scattered stones. A few dragonflies hovered over the shallow dip of a stream nearby, their wings catching what was left of the day’s light. You stepped out into it, pausing at the edge of the clearing.

He wasn’t there yet. Of course he wasn’t.

You moved toward one of the flat stones and sat, stretching your legs out in front of you, the heat of the day still clinging faintly to the rock beneath your thighs. The katana across your back shifted slightly as you leaned forward, elbows on your knees. There was something about the quiet here. It wasn’t the oppressive kind. It was the stillness of things that had been left alone long enough to simply exist. You let it settle around your shoulders like dust. Behind your eyes, the memories flickered again. His voice, half-asleep beside a fire on the edge of some half-finished mission—“You’re always tense when the wind changes.”—your hands tightening on the straps of your gear, your reply a murmur—“And you’re always watching me.”

He hadn’t denied it. Just rolled over, the embers painting his face in soft reds. Another breeze moved through the trees, and you closed your eyes against it, letting it brush over your skin. The sun had started to dip lower now, the gold deepening into something richer, more muted.

Footsteps.

You heard them before you saw him. Not loud—he never was, even when he didn’t try. But you knew the rhythm of his walk, the slight drag of his heel, the way he took wider steps than he needed to, like it was all too much effort. “Yo,” came the voice, a little rough with disuse, as if he’d just woken up. You opened your eyes. He stood at the edge of the clearing, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other lifting lazily in greeting. His hair was tied as always, though a few strands had fallen loose at his temple. His vest was unzipped, shadows catching in the folds of the fabric. “You’re late,” you said. Not annoyed. Just stating fact. He rolled a shoulder. “Didn’t say what kind of afternoon.” You huffed softly. Typical. Still, something in your chest loosened just a little.

Shikamaru moved toward you without ceremony, dropped onto the grass a few feet away, arms stretched behind him as he leaned back. His gaze drifted upward, toward the cloudless sky. “Hot,” he muttered. “Mm.” You looked at him. The line of his jaw, the way the light caught the curve of his cheek. His eyes were half-lidded, unreadable. He let the silence stretch between you, like always. Not awkward—just quiet. Comfortable. You leaned back onto your hands, mirroring his posture. The grass was warm, the scent of summer thick in the air—wild mint, sun-dried earth, faint smoke from a distant cooking fire.

“Sure you’re up for this?” you asked eventually. He didn’t answer right away. Just let out a long breath, eyes tracking a bird overhead. “I’m here, aren’t I?” You nodded, not looking at him now. “Didn’t think you would be.” He made a sound—something between a scoff and a hum. “Tch. You’re annoying when you disappear for days without saying anything.” You blinked, turning toward him again. His gaze was still skyward, but something in his voice tugged at you.

“I didn’t disappear.”

“Didn’t say goodbye either.”

The words sat between you, quiet and unpolished. You weren’t sure what to say. Eventually, you pushed yourself up, brushing the grass from your palms. “Well,” you said, voice steady, “I’m here now.” He looked at you then. Really looked. His eyes, dark as burnt honey, settled on yours. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.” You watched him for a moment longer. Just watched. The way he slouched against the breeze like gravity was a personal offense. The soft line between his brows, always there even when he pretended not to care. You’d known him long enough to recognize the tension in his stillness—how stillness didn’t always mean peace. “Staring,” he said, not moving. You didn’t look away. “Observing.” “Tch.” His lips curled slightly. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You stood slowly, the movement easy, unhurried. The scabbard at your back shifted with the roll of your shoulders, but you didn’t reach for it. Not yet. The warm wind tugged at your sleeves as you stepped out into the center of the clearing, your boots silent on the flattened grass. Behind you, you heard him sigh. Heard the rustle of cloth as he pushed himself to his feet with all the enthusiasm of a man asked to dig his own grave. “Taijutsu only,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “Don’t be lazy.” “Ugh. Troublesome.” But he was already rolling his neck, loosening his limbs. “You sure you wanna spar like this? You’ll just get annoyed when I keep dodging.”

You turned to face him fully now. The light hit him from the side—warm gold catching in the line of his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat already forming at his collarbone. He looked half-asleep and entirely aware, like a predator playing dead. “Not if I hit you first,” you replied. That made him smile—just a little, just enough. “Bold.”

And then you moved.

No warning. No signal. Just the quiet thud of your foot pressing off the earth as you rushed him, closing the space with practiced ease. His body responded in an instant—lazy didn’t mean slow—and he twisted just as your fist cut through the air where his face had been a heartbeat before. You pivoted, not overextending, already anticipating the counter that didn’t come. His hand brushed past your ribs, a testing motion, not a strike. You ducked beneath it, shifting your weight to your back foot, grounding yourself. He was watching you. Not your face—your shoulders, your hips. Reading your next move before it even formed.

You lunged again, this time lower, sweeping at his legs. He hopped back, barely putting effort into it. You followed, tightening the space between you. “Not bad,” he murmured, ducking as your elbow came for his temple. “For someone who hasn’t trained in days.” “Is that your way of asking where I’ve been?” you shot back, breath even as your body twisted into a quick strike toward his midsection. He caught your wrist—not hard, just enough to redirect the blow. “Wouldn’t be asking.”

You broke the grip with a sharp flick, stepping in close, closer than you usually dared. He let you, which meant he was planning something. His body shifted, weight loading on his back leg. “Still dodging,” you said, breath hot against his jaw as you slid past him, fingers grazing the edge of his vest. He turned to follow, not quite fast enough. You felt your knuckles graze his ribs, a soft thud of contact. Not a full hit, but enough. “Still chasing,” he replied, but there was something in his tone now—less lazy, more focused. You were waking him up.

Good.

You circled him slowly, not dropping your guard. The air between you was thicker now, warmed by motion and breath and something else—something unspoken. He moved first this time. A faint shift, almost imperceptible, and then he was coming at you in a blur of angled momentum—nothing flashy, just efficiency and control. His foot aimed low, his arm coming high in a feint. You blocked the kick with your shin, absorbing the impact, then stepped into his guard, your forearm slamming up to catch his incoming elbow. For a second, your bodies locked—chest to chest, muscles taut, breath mingling. You smelled smoke on him, and green tea, and that vague scent of sun-warmed cotton. “Missed you,” he muttered, like it wasn’t a confession. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t let it distract you. “You said that out loud,” you replied. His brow arched. “Did I?” You used the moment. Hooked his ankle with yours, shifted your weight, tried to unbalance him. He didn’t fall—but he stumbled, and that was enough. You slipped behind him in a flash, fingers brushing the edge of his collar. A mock kill. He stilled. Just for a breath. Then exhaled slowly. “Alright. You win.” You didn’t move. “Too easy.” He glanced over his shoulder, smirk tugging at his mouth. “I’m letting you win. Clearly.” “Obviously,” you echoed dryly.

But you stepped back, giving him space. He turned to face you again, brushing a bit of grass from his shoulder with the flick of a hand. There was sweat at his temple now. You felt it mirrored on your own skin, a slow trickle down the side of your neck. The breeze picked up again. Your lungs pulled in the scent of the clearing—earth, water, sun. And him. You tilted your head. “Round two?”

He hesitated, eyes scanning you with something unreadable behind the calm. “Thought you’d be more tired,” he said. “Thought you’d be more difficult.” He gave a low chuckle. “Tch. You’re getting cocky.” You smiled, slow and sharp. “You like it.”

And again, you moved. This time, he was ready.

You traded blows like it was a language only the two of you spoke—quick jabs, low blocks, turns and redirects. His footwork was lazy and elegant all at once, like water flowing around stones. Yours was more grounded, but no less fluid. You pressed him, made him move. He responded with the same deliberate calm he always wore, except now there was an edge to it. A gleam in his eye that hadn’t been there before.

You kicked high—he ducked. You went for his ribs—he twisted, caught your wrist, let go again. The dance continued. “Still not using ninjutsu,” he said between breaths. “Neither are you.” “Shadow possession’s too easy.” “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He grinned, wide enough to show teeth. “Maybe I like working for it sometimes.” The comment sent a flicker through your stomach. Heat of a different kind. You slammed your elbow toward his chest. He caught it, barely, fingers brushing your skin. You twisted, broke free. “Careful,” he murmured, voice low now. “You’re smiling.”

You hadn’t noticed you were. You pushed forward, letting instinct take over. Your body remembered him. Remembered how he moved, how he thought. You knew him in this rhythm—this quiet collision of force and restraint. And he knew you.

The next strike came fast—your knee toward his side. He blocked with both hands, used the force to spin you off balance, and then you were tumbling onto the grass with a soft grunt, the world tilting briefly. Before you could fully recover, he was above you, one hand planted beside your head, the other raised—just barely, just for show.

“Gotcha.”

You looked up at him. His hair had come loose again. A single strand fell across his brow. His chest rose and fell in slow, even pulls. He didn’t look triumphant. Just…there. Present. “Not bad,” you said, not trying to move yet. His mouth quirked. “I’d say the same.” Neither of you moved for a beat. The wind whispered over the clearing, stirring the grass beside your head. A dragonfly buzzed somewhere above. You breathed. He stayed. You exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the earth. The silence between you stretched like the pause before a storm.

Then, quietly, you said, “No more rules.”

His brow lifted, a flicker of something alert behind his gaze—but before he could fully process the shift in your tone, you moved.

Fast.

A sharp twist of your hips, one leg snapping out to catch his side—not hard, just enough to shift his weight. His balance faltered for half a second, and that was all you needed. You were already on the ground with him, bodies tangled in motion, so you used the momentum—hands shooting forward to shove at his chest. He resisted, but not fully—already calculating, already adapting.

You didn’t let him.

A sharp press of your knee, a pivot of your shoulders, and you rolled—taking him with you. The world tipped sideways in a blur of grass and shadow. His arm tightened instinctively around your waist as you moved together, but you shifted again, using his own leverage against him. He landed beneath you with a quiet thud, breath catching as you straddled his hips in one fluid motion. Your heel planted firmly in the grass beside him, your palm came down, aimed directly over his sternum—controlled, but decisive.

A breathless second passed.

He blinked. “Okay,” he murmured, a small grin forming. “Didn’t see that coming.” You were already gone. A graceful backflip—weightless, clean—and you landed light as a whisper several meters away. Hands poised. Breath steady. The smirk faded from his mouth as he rose, slower this time. His eyes never left you. “So,” he drawled. “All jutsu allowed, huh?” You didn’t answer. Just smiled. He sighed. “Troublesome woman…”

But his hands were already forming seals. His shadow twitched like a living thing, snaking along the grass—quick, clever, hungry. You darted left, right, low. Your fingers flicked through your own set of seals, breath flowing like water through each motion. A soft glow flared at your palms and you whispered a quiet word—one you’d learned under fading lantern light and too many bruises. A wall of wind erupted in front of you, spinning in tight coils, lifting dust and leaves into a brief, blinding curtain. “Trying to block my line of sight?” Shikamaru called through it. “Smart.”

The ground beneath your feet trembled—just slightly—as his shadow moved beneath it, bypassing the wind entirely. You felt it graze your ankle and leapt high, spinning midair, forming another quick set of seals. A barrage of chakra-sharpened kunai appeared around you in a shimmer of pale light, launching downward like falling stars. You heard him curse, low and annoyed, as he twisted into a dive to avoid the spread. One of the blades clipped his sleeve. Another embedded in the ground just beside his hand.

You landed behind him in the same breath, already moving, already striking. He rolled away at the last second, and his shadow surged again—larger this time, faster. It caught your left hand. You froze as your muscles stiffened, shadow chakra locking the limb in place. Shikamaru straightened with a lazy kind of satisfaction, already pulling a senbon from his pouch. “You know,” he said, voice maddeningly calm, “if this was a real fight, you’d be dead now.” You met his gaze evenly. “If this was a real fight…” You smiled. Your hand twisted—only slightly, but enough. The jutsu unravelled like smoke. His eyes widened. “You countered—?” You moved again before he could finish. The air around you rippled. Wind-enhanced speed carried you forward in a blink, and this time your kick connected. Hard. His body hit the ground with a thud and rolled, though he recovered quick, sliding to a stop with both hands on the earth. He looked up at you. “That hurt.” “Good.”

He laughed then, actually laughed—a low, delighted sound you rarely heard from him in the middle of a spar. His hands blurred into another jutsu before you could press the advantage. “Shadow Strangle,” he said casually. The next thing you knew, the grass beneath you surged black. His chakra shot out in thick tendrils—grabbing, wrapping, tightening. You dropped to one knee, fingers forming seals in rapid succession. “Wind Release—Vacuum Sphere!” The blast cut through the shadows like a blade, severing their reach. The jutsu didn’t hit him, but it gave you space. You bolted to the side, heart racing now, and not just from exertion. He was better than before. Faster. Sharper. But so were you. The clearing was torn now—grass ripped up, small craters where jutsus had collided. Your breathing came hard and steady. Across from you, he stood loose and easy, but his eyes were sharp. “You’re stronger,” he said. You shrugged. “You’re not holding back.” “Should I be?”

Your eyes met.

“No.”

In the next moment, you both moved. Chakra burned through your limbs like fire. You met mid-air, your kick clashing with his forearm. The impact sent a shockwave through the trees. Birds scattered overhead. You landed on a broken log, pushed off it, feinted left. He anticipated it, tried to trap you with a looping shadow. You vaulted over it, somersaulted low to the ground, and released a burst of wind from your palm that knocked him back a step. Close. So close. He came at you with a kunai now, not even bothering with shadows. Just instinct and muscle and breath. You blocked it with your own, the clang of steel ringing out, sparks flying. You twisted into his guard, your forearm pressing to his chest—too close for weapons, too close for thought. Your faces were inches apart.

He was breathing hard now. So were you. “Getting tired?” you asked. “Never,” he murmured, and you felt his chakra rise again, hot and sharp. But instead of attacking, he smirked. And then his shadow surged beneath you.

Damn it.

You tried to move—too late. The binding caught your right foot. He lunged forward with a grin, arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you down in a clean, practiced maneuver. You hit the ground with a grunt, pinned beneath him. “Checkmate,” he whispered against your ear. You looked up, breath caught between laughter and frustration. Sweat beaded at his brow, sliding down his jaw. “I hate you,” you said. “No, you don’t.” His voice was low, close — and he hadn’t moved.

You were still beneath him, the weight of him grounding you, one hand pressed into the earth beside your head, the other curled near your waist, not quite touching. His breath ghosted against your cheek. His hair fell slightly into his face, strands shadowing his sharp eyes, the ones that always seemed to see more than he let on.

The world outside the clearing felt impossibly far away. Neither of you spoke for a while. Just breathing. Listening. “You’ve gotten good,” he said finally, voice quiet, like the comment wasn’t entirely welcome. “Too good.” You arched a brow. “Is that a compliment?” “No,” he said, deadpan. “It’s a threat.” You laughed under your breath, eyes falling closed for a moment. “Better be.” Still, Shikamaru didn’t move. And neither did you. Then—slowly, carefully—you opened your eyes again.

And looked up. Really looked.

There was something about the way the sunlight filtered through the canopy above, painting his features in shades of amber and gold. His expression wasn’t teasing now. Just thoughtful. Still. That same unreadable calm he always wore when the moment mattered more than he wanted to admit. Your chest ached a little. Not from the fight. You didn’t say anything. You just held his gaze. The air between you had shifted—less a breath, more a heartbeat. Tangible. Deep. That moment stretched, wrapped around you like warm cloth, familiar and bittersweet. His lips parted slightly, like he might say something—then didn’t. Instead, after a long pause, he asked, “When do you leave again?”

You blinked.

His voice was steady, but something behind it sounded tired. Not with you. With everything else. You hesitated before answering. Your throat felt dry. “…Soon,” you said, softer than before. “A few more days. Maybe.” You watched the way his jaw tensed, subtle but unmistakable. He looked down, just for a second, brows drawn as though the words tasted bitter in his mouth. “Of course,” he muttered, almost to himself. You felt the shift in his body, the quiet frustration he wouldn’t name. You knew that tone. Knew it well. It wasn’t anger. It was the kind of weariness that came from knowing something was necessary but hating it anyway.

You reached up, fingers brushing lightly at his sleeve—not enough to pull, just to anchor him. Just so he wouldn’t drift too far from this moment. He looked back at you, eyes meeting yours again, and this time he didn’t hide it. The faint flicker of something unresolved, something held back for too long.

You opened your mouth to speak. But the words never made it out. Because in the space between one breath and the next—he kissed you.

There was no hesitation. No warning. Just his lips pressing to yours, warm and sure, like he’d made the decision in an instant and didn’t plan to take it back. And everything stopped. The air stilled. The sounds of the forest dulled. Your thoughts—your heartbeat—stumbled over themselves before dissolving into quiet, into heat, into the softness of his mouth and the certainty of his hands. One braced beside your head, fingers curled into the grass, grounding himself in the moment. The other found your waist, firm and unyielding, as though afraid the world might pull you away from him if he didn’t hold you close enough. You inhaled sharply against him—but then you melted. Completely.

Your hand rose on instinct, fingers brushing against the curve of his jaw, the line of his neck, memorizing the feel of him beneath your touch. The stubble along his skin. The warmth of him, the steadiness. You curled your other hand at his shoulder, holding on like you were trying to memorize the shape of this moment—afraid it might vanish if you let go.

The kiss deepened—not rushed, not desperate, but full. Heavy with everything unspoken. It carried the weight of days and nights spent dancing around something neither of you would name, of passing touches and lingering glances, of unsent letters and silences too thick to cut through. He was quiet, always. But this—this was him speaking.

You felt it in the way his lips moved with yours, slow but certain, reverent almost. In the quiet sigh that trembled through his chest and into yours, like he was finally exhaling something he hadn’t let himself feel until now. Something careful. Something real. Your heart ached with how tender it was. With how long you’d both waited for this, maybe without even realizing it. And as his forehead came to rest against yours, his breath uneven now, you felt that ache deepen. His eyes were still closed. Like he wasn’t ready to let go of the moment just yet. Or maybe he didn’t trust himself to look at you without it breaking the spell. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your hand stayed at his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone softly, reverently, as if touching something fragile. And he let you. Leaned into it, just barely, as if even now, he didn’t want to ask for more than what you gave freely.

You felt the tension slowly unwind from his body, bit by bit, like every second of closeness was untangling knots neither of you had known were there. The weight he always carried—the pressure, the burden, the solitude—lifted, just a little. Enough for you to feel it. Enough to know how much he trusted you. When he finally opened his eyes, they found yours instantly.

And you saw it—all of it.

The worry. The longing. The fear of losing something he never dared to ask for in the first place. “I wasn’t going to say it,” you whispered, voice barely there. He didn’t need to ask what you meant. He already knew. He swallowed, throat bobbing slightly. “I know.” And still—he kissed you.

Again.

Softer this time. Slower. Like he was trying to memorize you in pieces. The way your lips parted for him. The taste of your breath. The tremble in your fingers. The way your lashes fluttered shut.

It was the kind of kiss that said: If you have to go, take this with you.

The kind that said: Don’t forget me.

The kind that said: I won’t say it. But I will show you. Every time.

And it shattered you in the gentlest way. Because he didn’t make promises. He didn’t offer declarations or pretty words. But this—he gave you this.

And in his world, that meant everything.

So you held him close. Closer than before. As if you could carve the memory of this moment into your bones. As if the weight of his body against yours, the warmth of his hand at your waist, the quiet strength of his heart beating through his chest, could keep you anchored when the silence came again. And maybe—it would. Maybe it had to. But for now…

For now, you just stayed.

●

Days had passed. Long ones.

You hadn’t seen him since that evening on the training grounds, when breath and bruises had turned into something softer. Into a kiss you hadn’t expected and hadn’t stopped thinking about since.

The memory lingered in a way nothing else quite had in recent months—like warmth tucked under your skin. Every time your mind wandered, it went back to that moment. The way his mouth had found yours, without hesitation. The way he’d touched you like he wasn’t sure he deserved it, but needed it anyway.

You thought about the sound he’d made when you kissed him back. About the silence that had followed, comfortable and close. About the weight of his forehead resting against yours.

It was strange, how something so quiet could echo for days.

He’d been called away on a mission shortly after. Nothing long—just a few days. But in the stillness of your own temporary leave, the absence of him became a kind of presence too.

You spent your time resting. Reading. Walking through the quieter edges of the village without a destination. You let yourself be still—just for a little while.

But tonight was your last night before heading out again. And the quiet had started to feel a little too quiet.

So you’d lit a few candles. Not because you needed them, but because the soft flicker made the evening feel more grounded. More yours. You’d just come out of the shower, wrapped in the scent of your favorite soap, skin warm from the steam, your hair damp and curling softly at the ends. You wore a simple wrap dress—comfortable but just a little pretty, like you were trying to feel human again before the cold distance of a mask and mission overtook you. It hugged you gently, cinched at the waist, and fell around your knees like water.

In the kitchen, the scent of miso and soy filled the air—your ramen wasn’t quite finished yet, but it was close. The broth simmered slowly, the noodles resting nearby, waiting. You sat curled on the couch, one leg tucked under you, a book open in your lap and a cup of green tea resting between your palms. The soft hum of the stove and the occasional page turn were the only sounds in the room. And then—three knocks at your door.

You froze.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Not this late. Not tonight. You set your tea down, placing the book spine-up on the couch cushion, and padded barefoot across the wooden floor toward the entrance. The knot in your chest tightened slightly, your shinobi instincts sharpening for a brief moment—until you opened the door. And everything softened.

Shikamaru stood in the doorway.

Hair slightly tousled, shadows under his eyes, mission gear gone, but fatigue still clinging faintly to him like dust. He wore a simple dark shirt and pants, nothing dramatic—but in his hand, almost awkwardly held, was a small bouquet of flowers. Wild ones, mostly. A few sprigs of white, pale purple, something with green stems that didn’t quite match. It wasn’t elegant. But it was… real.

The scent hit you first—a strange but strangely comforting mix of crushed petals and faint cigarette smoke. A contrast that somehow fit him too well.

You blinked. He didn’t say anything at first. Neither did you. The moment stretched, quiet and oddly full.

“…You’re back,” you finally said, voice soft, almost unsure whether to smile. “Yeah.” He scratched at the back of his neck with the hand not holding the flowers, looking somewhere just past your shoulder. “Didn’t plan to come by, honestly.”

A pause.

You tilted your head, brow arching slightly. “Should I be offended?” That made his lips twitch, just slightly. His eyes finally met yours. “I can leave if you want.” It was said with his usual dry tone, but there was something underneath it—something shy, almost. Like he wasn’t sure how he’d be received. Like he’d been playing the scene out in his head the entire walk over and had already prepared himself for you to shut the door in his face. You looked at him for a long moment.

Then you reached forward, fingers brushing gently over Shikamarus wrist as you took the bouquet from him and stepped aside. “Stay,” you said, quieter now. “I was just making ramen.” He hesitated, still lingering in the doorway as if unsure whether this counted as permission or a trap. “You’ll like it,” you added, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you turned and walked back into the apartment. You didn’t have to look back to know he followed.

The door clicked shut softly behind him. You set the flowers on the counter, searching for a jar to use as a makeshift vase. You heard him sigh behind you—tired, maybe, or just releasing something held too long. “So,” you said over your shoulder as you filled the jar with water. “Was it a difficult mission?” “Not really.” He sounded closer now. “Just… a lot of walking.” “You hate walking.” “Troublesome, yeah.” You could almost hear the smirk in his voice now. “But I made it back.” You turned, placing the jar of flowers on the table near the window. The setting sun caught the petals just right, making them look almost prettier than they were. You looked at him. He was watching you. His eyes didn’t move. The air shifted a little.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d see you before I go.” you admitted, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. “I figured you’d be—busy. Or… tired.” “I was,” he said quietly. “But I kept thinking about that kiss.” Your breath caught. You turned fully toward him now, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the counter for balance. Shikamaru shrugged, looking almost annoyed with himself. “Couldn’t get it out of my head. Figured that meant I should stop thinking about it and do something instead.” You didn’t know what to say to that. So instead, you walked past him to the stove, stirring the ramen gently, letting the silence stretch in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable.

He moved closer.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him behind you, not touching, but present. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to reach for you again—but hoped you might.

You turned, ladle still in hand, eyes finding his again. “Can you grab two bowls?” you asked gently, nodding toward the cupboard behind him. Shikamaru blinked once, as if coming out of some quiet internal fog, and turned around without a word. You watched him as he reached up, the hem of his shirt pulling slightly with the stretch. His movements were unhurried, efficient—but still carrying that particular kind of laziness only he had perfected. He handed you the bowls without needing to be asked twice.

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking them and setting them down beside the pot. You ladled the ramen carefully, making sure to get enough broth and noodles in each bowl. It wasn’t anything fancy—just something warm, something real. Something to fill the quiet with more than just silence. “Chopsticks?” he offered, already moving toward the drawer where you kept them. “You know your way around too well,” you said, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Troublesome how often I’ve been here,” he replied, handing you a pair and taking the other for himself.

You carried both bowls to the small coffee table in front of the couch, setting them down gently before settling in. Shikamaru joined you, legs folding easily beneath him, the lines of his body relaxing in that same way you remembered from nights long past—those quiet hours after missions, both of you too wired or too worn out to sleep. “You know… for someone who’s been here so often, it’s kind of funny nothing’s ever really… happened.” Shikamaru raised a brow. “Nothing?” You sank into the cushions a little deeper and gave him a look. “I mean, except for you randomly kissing me on that training field and then pretending like it didn’t completely scramble my brain.”

A corner of his mouth lifted, something slow and slightly smug. “Randomly? You were the one who pinned me to the ground.” “That was a sparring maneuver.” You rolled your eyes, but your lips tugged upward despite yourself. “You kissed me, remember?” He shrugged again and lowered himself onto the couch beside you, deliberately close. “Seemed like the right move at the time.” You ate in relative silence at first. It wasn’t uncomfortable.

The young man blew on the noodles before slurping them down, his usual expression of faint disinterest returning every now and then between bites. You watched Shikamaru from the corner of your eye, amused by the speed at which his food disappeared. “Did you even taste it?” you asked eventually, quirking a brow as he lowered his bowl. He gave a small shrug. “I was hungry.” You picked at your own ramen with a faint smirk. “Clearly.”

Shikamaru shifted beside you, leaning back into the couch. One arm draped along the backrest—casually, but it settled just behind your shoulders, his fingers barely brushing the fabric of your dress. Not quite touching you… but close enough that you felt the warmth of him, the nearness. The kind that made you hyperaware of your own breathing. The other hand lifted to rub lazily at the back of his neck, his movements slow, unbothered. “Could’ve told you no. Could’ve gone home. Slept.” “But you didn’t,” you said softly, not quite looking at him. “No,” he admitted, voice low and a little rough, his eyes half-lidded as he turned just slightly toward you. “Didn’t want to.” There was a pause. One of those stretches of silence that wasn’t awkward—but heavy. Charged. His fingers shifted, brushing a little closer to your shoulder, just enough to set your skin tingling beneath your dress. You didn’t lean in. But you didn’t lean away, either. There was a pause, long and warm.

Then he sat up and gestured vaguely toward the windowed door. “Mind if I smoke?” You shook your head. “Go ahead.” He stood and slid the glass door open with a soft sound, stepping out onto the small balcony that overlooked the quieter side of the village. The cool evening air slipped in around the edges of the room. You finished the last few bites of your ramen in silence, your thoughts drifting somewhere behind your eyes.

You followed him a few minutes later, barefoot on the smooth wood floor, your bowl now empty and set aside. Shikamaru leaned on the railing, cigarette between his fingers, the glow of the ember pulsing faintly in the growing dusk. The breeze ruffled his hair slightly. He didn’t turn when you stepped out. You didn’t say anything, either. You moved past him, quietly, and turned to rest your elbows on the balcony railing, leaning back against it with a soft sigh. Your eyes closed for a second, the breeze cool against your skin, your head tilted slightly toward the stars just beginning to peek through the dark. The sound of the village was soft below. Somewhere far off, a dog barked. The faint clang of metal echoed from a distant training yard. But here—it was still.

You opened your eyes again and turned your head slightly, watching him as he took another drag. His profile was quiet, unreadable. The same look you remembered from a hundred nights like this, from campfires and debriefings and the uncertain in-betweens of wartime. “You remember the coastal mission?” you asked suddenly. He glanced sideways at you. “Which one?” “The one with the smugglers. Three years ago. Before I joined the ANBU.” Shikamaru made a soft noise of recognition, exhaling smoke out toward the sky. “Right. The warehouse. You almost got crushed under a collapsing ceiling.” “You dropped that ceiling.” “It was tactical.” “You said, ‘Oops.’” He gave a faint snort. “Still tactical.”

You laughed, leaning your head back again, the sound brief but real. “You really were sure I was going to die.” “I wasn’t.” His voice was low. Thoughtful. “I was sure you wouldn’t let yourself.” You turned your head toward him, slowly. “I remember thinking I’d never felt more tired,” you murmured. “Everything ached. My legs were jelly. You pulled me out by the strap of my vest.” “You told me if I yanked any harder, you’d puke on my boots.”

“I meant it,” you grinned. He gave a half-smile of his own, the cigarette hovering near his lips again. The smoke curled lazily around him, catching in the breeze. It didn’t bother you like it used to. Now, it just smelled like him. Like missions and late nights and something too familiar to ever forget.

“I miss that,” you said softly. “Not the danger. Not the blood. Just… that kind of simplicity. Being on a team. Knowing someone had your back. Knowing it was you.” He didn’t answer right away. Then he flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and murmured, “You were always the one who moved first. I just made sure no one stabbed you in the back while you did.” You smiled faintly, the words warm against the growing chill in the air. “You ever think about what things would’ve been like if I hadn’t joined the ANBU?” you asked, more out of the silence than out of hope for an answer.

“All the time,” he said, too easily.

You blinked. Looked at him. He didn’t meet your gaze. Just took another drag. Your throat felt tight, suddenly. Like something unnamed had been sitting there, waiting. You looked out over the edge of the balcony again, eyes tracing the rooftops and familiar shapes of the village that had never really changed. Only you had. “I still remember the way you looked at me when I told you I was accepting the offer,” you said. “Like you already knew I was going to say yes.” “I did,” he replied quietly. “Didn’t mean I liked it.”

You were quiet for a long time.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. He finally looked at you then. Really looked. “Because it wasn’t my decision,” he said. “And because… if it had been me, I’d have gone too.” You swallowed. There was something heavy in the air now, but not suffocating. Just weighty. Full of everything that had never been said but had always been there—hovering, like smoke that never quite cleared. “I thought I’d forget how this felt,” you admitted. “Standing here. With you.”

“Did you?”

You shook your head.

He dropped the cigarette to the ashtray on the railing and crushed it out, the ember vanishing.

“Come back alive,” he said simply.

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the quiet intensity in his voice. “I always do,” you replied softly. “Yeah,” he muttered, gaze flickering down. “But I still like hearing it.” You pushed off the railing and moved closer, slow. His eyes lifted again as you reached up, fingers brushing lightly over his sleeve. “You could’ve told me this before the kiss,” you said, almost teasing, but something in your voice wavered. He gave a small, tired smile. “Would’ve ruined the moment.” You huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re an idiot.” “I get that a lot.”

Another beat of silence passed between you.

Then, softer—almost reverent—you murmured, “I’m glad you came tonight.” Shikamaru’s eyes didn’t leave yours. His voice was quiet. Steady. “Yeah. Me too.”

You weren’t sure who moved first. But it didn’t matter.

His lips met yours with a quiet kind of urgency—like a thought that had been unfinished for far too long. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t fumbling. It was slow and real and known. The way his mouth moved against yours, warm and certain, told stories neither of you had ever dared speak aloud. It was familiarity wrapped in something newly blooming. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission—because it had always been waiting.

He tasted faintly of smoke and something softer underneath. His hand came to rest at your waist, firm but not forceful, grounding you like he always had in the chaos of everything else. Your breath caught softly in your throat as you tilted your head, letting yourself lean in—just enough to fall. You pulled back only slightly, just enough to whisper the question against his lips.

“…Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

Shikamaru opened his eyes, just barely. They searched yours for a quiet second before he spoke. “Timing,” he said. “Or maybe just me being a coward.” You huffed a breath of air that could’ve been a laugh if your heart hadn’t been pounding. “You?” He gave a small, rueful smirk. “Yeah. Me.”

And then he kissed you again.

This time, it wasn’t tentative. There was no testing, no lingering question. It was need—years of unspoken words, of shared glances and brushed hands and near-confessions left to hang in the silence. It was the release of everything you’d both held back for too long.

Your hand found his chest, fingers splayed over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath. Your other hand rose to the back of his neck, threading into the dark strands of his hair, drawing him closer. He let you. More than that—he leaned into you, the warmth of his body pressing against yours, matching your rhythm, deepening the kiss until you weren’t sure where one of you ended and the other began. The air between you shifted—warmer, heavier. Your breath mingled with his, skin prickling with every brush, every pull. You felt his fingers slide up your back, steadying, learning. Your body answered without hesitation, leaning into every inch of closeness he offered. It was heady and warm and utterly overwhelming. But it felt like coming home.

The kiss broke just barely—only enough to let breath return in shaky exhales. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes half-lidded, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Just the sound of your breathing. The quiet hum of the village night beyond the balcony. The way his hand didn’t leave your back. “…Still think the timing was bad?” you whispered, voice uneven. Shikamaru shook his head, eyes not leaving yours. “No,” he murmured. “Feels exactly right.”

The moment your lips met again, everything else fell away. The world outside your small balcony ceased to exist. There was only him. Only the warmth of his mouth against yours, the way his breath hitched slightly when your fingers slid up into his hair, the way he pulled you just a little closer, like he couldn’t help it. It was slower this time. Softer. But no less consuming. Your heart thrummed beneath your ribs, loud enough you were sure he could feel it. You parted your lips just enough for him to deepen the kiss, and he did—carefully, deliberately—like he had all the time in the world now.

Your back bumped gently into the doorframe as you pulled away just long enough to look at him. His eyes searched yours again, quiet and unreadable, but his hands stayed on you—one resting against the curve of your waist, the other slipping to the small of your back. “Shikamaru…” you murmured, not even sure what you were going to say. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low and rough with something unspoken. You didn’t finish the thought. Instead, your fingers curled into the fabric at his collar as you stepped back into the apartment, leading him with you. He followed without hesitation, never quite letting go of you, his fingers brushing against your skin with every step like a tether he refused to loosen.

The apartment was dim now, lit only by the low glow of the few candles you were lightening earlier. The ramen bowls sat forgotten on the coffee table, but neither of you even glanced at them. Every few steps, you stopped again—another kiss, another touch—like gravity kept pulling you back to each other.nBy the time you reached the hallway, you were both breathless, your smile caught between kisses and half-formed laughter. You bumped into the wall once, giggling against his shoulder. He mumbled something about how troublesome you were, but his mouth was on yours again before he could finish.

You didn’t let go of him. You didn’t want to.

Your hand slid down to find his, fingers interlacing, grounding yourself in the simplest, oldest gesture between you. The kind that said: stay. The kind that didn’t need words. When you finally reached the edge of your bedroom, you paused—just for a second. The air between you was warm and full and trembling with something delicate. His thumb brushed along your knuckles, eyes catching yours in the soft dark. “You sure?” he asked, voice barely more than a breath. You smiled, pulling him gently inside. “I’ve never been more sure.”

The door clicked shut behind you, but you barely heard it over the soft sound of your breaths—his and yours, mingling in the quiet. Shikamaru kissed you again before either of you spoke—slow, aching, like he was trying to tell you something without words. You melted into him, arms curling around his neck, fingers threading into his hair. His lips moved against yours with reverence, with restraint that was fast unraveling. You could feel it in the way his hands gripped your waist—gentle still, but with an edge of urgency just beneath the surface. Like he’d waited too long already.

The soft material of your wrap dress shifted under his fingers as he followed the curve of your body. When his knuckles brushed against the tie at your waist, he paused. His forehead rested against yours, and for a heartbeat, he simply breathed you in. Then he tugged the knot loose—slowly, carefully—watching the dress come undone like the last piece of distance falling away.

Fabric whispered to the floor, and you stood before him in nothing but delicate lace and bare skin. His eyes moved over you, not with hunger, but awe. Like he was seeing something rare. Something fragile. Something Shikamaru didn’t dare rush. “Damn…” he murmured, so low you almost missed it. His thumb traced along your hipbone, barely there, like he was afraid to press too hard and shatter the moment. You could feel your pulse flutter beneath your skin, your breath catching when he leaned in again—not to kiss your mouth this time, but the corner of it. Then your jaw. Then lower. Each press of his lips was deliberate, unhurried, trailing heat wherever it landed.

Your fingers found the hem of his shirt and slid beneath it, palms meeting warm skin. He inhaled sharply, but didn’t stop you. You undressed him in silence, your touch lingering, mapping the contours of his body like a blindfolded prayer. When your eyes lifted back to his, the air between you was thick—heavy with want, with everything you hadn’t said and everything you didn’t need to.

You leaned up to kiss him—this time slower. More intentional. And he kissed you back like he finally understood what it meant to need.

Shikamarus fingers skimmed the edges of your lingerie, reverent, featherlight. As if your body was a secret he was being allowed to learn, one breath at a time. When he pushed the straps from your shoulders, he didn’t tear them away. He watched the way your skin reacted to the cool air, his hands steady, his gaze impossibly soft. You gasped softly as his lips found your collarbone, a kiss so tender it ached. Your back arched instinctively, inviting him closer, and he accepted—his hands cradling your ribs like something precious. One slid to your lower back, pulling you flush against him, while the other traced a slow path downward, past the lace and silk, until every layer between you had been undone.

You were bare to him now, completely. But somehow, you’d never felt safer. He looked at you like he’d never seen anything more important.

Shikamaru leaned in, and your lips met once more, soft and steady. His kiss no longer asked a question. It gave an answer. His hands found your back, pulling you close again, chests pressed together, heat bleeding between you. You melted into him, fingertips sliding up the line of his spine as you kissed him deeper, slower. There was no urgency here—just quiet, careful hunger. The kind that had been held back far too long. You barely noticed the way you drifted toward the bed until the backs of your knees brushed against the mattress. He paused, looking at you again—just a breath of space between you—searching your expression for any trace of hesitation. You gave him none. Only a soft smile, your hands guiding him forward with a whisper of pressure.

The bed gave beneath your weight as you lay back, and he followed you down with quiet reverence. The world narrowed to the sensation of skin against skin, of warmth and breath and the gentle weight of him above you. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye, as if grounding himself in the reality of your presence. Shikamaru kissed you again, and this time his mouth didn’t just kiss—it lingered. He traced the edge of your jaw with slow, deliberate care, moved to your neck with soft, lingering pressure, coaxing sighs from your lips you hadn’t meant to give. His touch followed—fingers trailing along the lines of your collarbone, your sides, your waist—like a silent conversation passed through skin. You arched slightly into his touch, eyes fluttering closed. Your breath caught when his lips found the hollow of your throat, slow and sensual, his hand splayed against your ribs. The way he moved wasn’t hurried. It was intentional. Like each moment was meant to be savored, as if he wanted you to remember not just the feeling, but the meaning in every press of his mouth. Your hands roamed in kind, fingers gliding over the muscles of his back, the curve of his shoulder, the warmth of his skin. You felt every shift of him above you, every careful adjustment as he leaned down again, kissing you with more certainty, more need.

His hand skimmed down your thigh, pausing only to anchor you closer again. Your fingers slid into his hair, grounding yourself in the way he made you feel—seen, held, wanted. Shikamarus lips returned to yours, slower now but burning, and you met him with equal fire, your body instinctively rising to meet his. There was something sacred in the way you moved together, like every unspoken feeling was finally given space to breathe.

You could feel his restraint slipping away, the once-gentle brush of his fingertips on your thigh turning into a possessive grip. His kiss deepened, no longer tender but hungry—his tongue tangling with yours, demanding, urgent. Your legs parted instinctively, welcoming him closer, and he responded without hesitation. His hand slid upward, caressing the delicate skin of your inner thigh, sending shivers racing through you.

The contrast between the chill of the room and the growing heat between your legs sent a ripple of anticipation through you. You bit your lip as his fingers found your wetness—your arousal slick and warm against his touch. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating from his chest into your core. Shikamarus thumb circled your clit with the lightest, teasing pressure, and you moaned into his mouth, your body instinctively arching toward him, silently pleading for more.

Shikamaru didn’t make you wait.

He explored you with an intoxicating blend of tenderness and intensity, his fingers delving into your folds as if Shikamaru were learning you by heart. Each stroke of his thumb against your clit was a question, each curl of his fingers inside you an answer. You responded in gasps and whimpers, your hips rolling against his hand, seeking more of the pleasure he gave so generously. His eyes never left yours, his gaze burning with a need that went far deeper than lust. It was raw. It was real.

His name fell from your lips in a breathy whisper—“Shika…”—and his expression darkened with want. He leaned down, pressing his mouth to yours again, his kiss open and consuming, as if he needed to taste every sound you made. As his fingers continued to work you, his lips left yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. When he found your pulse, he sucked gently, teeth grazing the sensitive spot, leaving behind a mark only you would know was there.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, drawing him impossibly closer. You could feel the hard press of his cock against your entrance, and it made you gasp—so close, and yet not enough. He paused again, one hand still pleasuring you while the other gripped your thigh tightly. His gaze locked with yours, wordlessly asking. You nodded, eyes wide and filled with trust and desire. He shifted his hips, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your opening, the stretch delicious and slow as he began to sink into you.

The moment Shikamaru entered you, the world seemed to go still. It wasn’t just physical—it was profound. The way he filled you, inch by inch, made you feel claimed, possessed, and utterly cherished. The stretch was intense, a perfect ache that had you clenching around him, your breath catching in your throat. His eyes searched your face for any sign of discomfort, but all he saw was your need, your raw openness.

Shikamaru stayed there, unmoving, letting your bodies adjust, letting the sensation sink into both of you like heat into skin. Then, slowly, he began to move—each thrust measured, deliberate, as if he were savoring every second, every inch of friction. You met his rhythm instinctively, your hips rising to meet his in a dance older than time. Your breaths tangled, your mouths met again, and in that moment, it wasn’t just sex—it was something far greater.

Your hands roamed his body, feeling the flex of muscle beneath sweat-slicked skin. His back arched into your touch, and his movements grew more confident, more demanding. You whispered his name like a prayer, like a plea, and it spurred him on—his hips snapping forward, harder now, deeper. Shikamarus mouth left trails of fire across your collarbone, his tongue and teeth alternating between teasing and worshiping your skin. When he leaned down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, you cried out. His tongue swirled around the stiff peak before he grazed it gently with his teeth, and the jolt of sensation shot straight to your core. He palmed your other breast, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers until you were arching off the bed, your cries filling the air. Your bodies moved as one—sweat and breath, moans and gasps blending into a symphony of unrestrained need. You clung to him, nails digging into Shikamarus shoulders, leaving marks that would remind him of this moment for days to come. “Harder,” you gasped, and he obeyed, his thrusts becoming powerful, unrelenting, driving into you with a force that bordered on wild.

“Look at me,” Shikamaru growled, his voice thick and broken, and your eyes snapped open, locking with his. The intensity in his gaze was staggering—feral, tender, worshipful. “You’re mine.”

You nodded, the word catching in your throat as the pleasure built higher, tighter, unbearable.

“Always,” you whispered.

The word shattered something in him. He surged forward, hips slamming into yours with punishing precision. You could feel yourself tightening around him, your orgasm clawing its way through you, a tidal wave threatening to consume you both. Your cries grew louder, your voice breaking on Shikamarus name as the world spun out of focus.

And then it hit you.

You came with a scream, your body seizing around him, muscles contracting in waves of overwhelming pleasure. Shikamaru followed moments later, groaning your name as he buried himself deep inside you, his warmth flooding into you in hot, pulsing bursts. The sensation of him filling you, of your bodies locked so tightly together, sent another ripple of pleasure through you, leaving you trembling and breathless.

You clung to him as your bodies trembled, lost in the aftershocks of shared release. Shikamarus thrusts slowed, becoming gentle, almost reverent. He pressed soft kisses to your neck and collarbone, a tender contrast to the fury of moments before. Your bodies remained tangled, breaths mingling, heartbeats racing in perfect unison. In the quiet aftermath, nothing else existed—just the two of you, suspended in the stillness, wrapped in the glow of something that felt like more than desire. It felt like devotion. The rise and fall of his chest began to slow, calming in the hush that settled over the room. It was as though neither of you dared to speak, in case words might break whatever this quiet thing was now blooming between you—fragile and beautiful, like morning light just before it touches the world.

But eventually, he shifted.

Just enough to press a kiss to your hairline. Then another, softer, to your temple. And finally, he leaned back, brushing a few strands of hair gently away from your face. His eyes found yours in the dim candlelight still flickering from the hallway, and for a long moment, he just looked at you. Really looked.

There was no smirk. No laziness in his expression. Just something still and certain. Something that reached deeper than words.

He sat up slightly, careful with you. The sheets rustled as he leaned over to grab the light blanket at the foot of the bed, unfolding it and laying it over your body with a quiet kind of reverence. The aftercare wasn’t showy, but it was there—in the way his hands moved gently across your skin, the way he brushed a kiss to your shoulder before laying back down beside you.

His hand found yours again beneath the covers, intertwining your fingers with a sigh that sounded like peace. You stayed like that for a while. Quiet. Breathing. Feeling. His thumb traced over the back of your knuckles like he was memorizing every detail.n“…I leave tomorrow,” you said at last, your voice quiet and barely audible in the stillness. “First light.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Just nodded, slow and thoughtful. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I know.”

You turned to face him more fully, resting your hand against his chest where you could feel his heart beating—steady and strong beneath your palm. “I’ll come back,” you said, softer now. “To you.” His gaze flickered, just slightly. Something tightened and then released in his face, like he was trying to pretend your words hadn’t meant more than they should. But his fingers tightened around yours, just enough for you to feel it. “Tch,” he muttered, eyes closing briefly. “You’d better.”

You let out a small laugh, the sound breaking through the tenderness like sunlight. His lips twitched at the corners, but his expression remained subdued. “I mean it, Shikamaru,” you said, more serious now. “Whatever happens… I’ll come back.” “I know,” he said, quieter still. “But just in case…” He leaned in again, pressing one last kiss to your lips—slow, anchoring, the kind of kiss that said more than anything he could ever phrase aloud. It wasn’t full of desperation. It was full of promise. You let your forehead rest against his, your noses brushing, breath mingling in that last shared quiet before the weight of the world returned. Neither of you said goodbye. You didn’t need to.

Not when you’d already decided to return to each other. Not when your hearts had already met halfway.

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synity · 27 days ago

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Hey!

I was wondering if I could request a Wonwoo x Reader — something with a strangers-to-lovers theme where the reader falls first, but Wonwoo falls harder. I'd love it to have an intense romantic vibe with some angst and emotional depth. Maybe some possessive (but respectful) kind of love, and eventually them building a family together.

I'm not sure if my request makes sense, but if it does, I’d really appreciate it if you could give it a try �� even if it takes time! I'll be looking forward to it. 🩵🩷

BREATHE ME

(Jeon Wonwoo x FemReader)

*Romantic angst, strangers-to-lovers, emotional, slow-burn*

I never believed in fate not until the day I met Jeon Wonwoo.

It was a rainy afternoon, the kind that made people rush through the streets, duck under umbrellas, and curse the sky. I, however, welcomed the cold drizzle. It gave me an excuse to slow down, to breathe amidst a life that often felt too loud, too fast. I was on my way to the bookstore a tiny one, hidden in the corner of an old alley near campus. The kind of place no one really noticed unless they were looking for it.

I had just finished a long shift at the library where I worked part-time. The dust of centuries-old books clung to my skin, and the dull ache of standing for hours throbbed in my legs. Still, I walked. My tote bag was weighed down by textbooks and dreams I hadn’t quite given up on yet.

That’s when I saw him.

He was standing inside the bookstore, a book in one hand, his fingers lightly brushing over the edge of a page like it was a piece of art. He didn’t notice me, not then. But I noticed everything about him. The way his brows furrowed in concentration, the curve of his lips as he muttered something under his breath, the gentle shake of his head when he decided the book wasn’t what he was looking for. I remember thinking he looked like a painting still, quiet, timeless.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How someone you’ve never met can suddenly become a character in the story you tell yourself every night before sleep.

I didn’t talk to him that day.

But I went back.

Again. And again.

At first, it was coincidence. Then it became intention.

He’d come every Wednesday at the same time. Always alone. Always browsing the literature section. And I… I would pretend to be lost in books, stealing glances like a teenager with a hopeless crush.

He never noticed.

Until he did.

It was a Thursday. I almost didn’t go because of a deadline. But something in me tugged, told me to skip the library and head straight to the shop. He was already there, dressed in all black, a cap pulled low, fingers dancing along the spines of new arrivals. I made my way to the poetry shelf, pretending not to look.

Then I heard his voice.

“You always pick that one.”

My heart dropped into my stomach. I turned, stunned, blinking up at him. His voice was low and rich, like velvet over gravel. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes… they held something recognition, amusement, warmth.

“I-I like this author,” I replied, gripping the book in my hands a little too tightly.

He nodded. “You’ve read it five times. At least. I’ve been counting.”

My face burned. “You… noticed?”

He looked down for a second, then back at me. “Hard not to.”

That’s how it began.

From that moment, something changed.

I started going to the bookstore not for the books, not even for the poetry I claimed to love but for him.

Wonwoo.

That was his name. He told me the next time we bumped into each other, casually slipping it in like it wasn’t going to rearrange my entire world. He didn’t ask for mine right away. He just nodded when I introduced myself, then went back to the fiction shelf with that quiet smile that never quite reached his eyes but made something flutter in my chest anyway.

Our conversations were brief at first. Soft and hesitant. Like two people afraid to speak too loud, afraid to pop the bubble that somehow formed around us. He had a calm aura, but it wasn’t cold it was grounding. Like a forest. Like shade on a summer day. And he listened. God, he listened. Like every word I said mattered.

“I work in publishing,” he told me once, though I later learned he was far more than just an editor. He’d authored books, quietly helped build the careers of some bestselling writers, and was known in circles I only dreamed of stepping into. But he never boasted. If anything, he always downplayed himself.

That made me fall harder.

And I was falling. Hard.

The crush was no longer a secret I whispered into my pillow. I couldn’t help it. I looked for him in crowds, smiled when my phone lit up with his name, read into every soft touch of his fingers when he handed me a coffee.

But I didn’t tell him. I didn’t dare.

Because he was… Wonwoo.

And I was just me.

Still, he kept showing up. Not just at the bookstore, but at the art gallery I mentioned in passing. At the same café I worked at on weekends. Coincidences became too specific. One night, he even showed up with a scarf I’d mentioned loving weeks ago and said, “It looked like something you’d wear.”

That night, I cried into my pillow, unsure what the hell we were becoming but praying, hoping it was more.

And then came the day I realized he was falling too.

It was late autumn. The bookstore was about to close, and we had sat on the floor near the back wall, flipping through a novel we both loved, arguing over its ending like we hadn’t just spent hours doing this already.

I was laughing. Not a soft laugh but a real, throw-my-head-back one.

And he was staring.

I felt it. The weight of his gaze. When I looked at him, his eyes didn’t move away.

He was still.

Too still.

And then his hand reached forward, gently brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

“I think I’m in trouble,” he whispered.

I blinked. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t mean to feel this much.”

He didn’t kiss me that day.

But his words did.

After that, everything changed. The air between us charged with something electric, something dangerous. I couldn’t sleep that night. Neither could he he texted me at 3AM: Can I see you tomorrow?

We started spending every evening together. In silence. In bookstores. In hidden cafés. In the park under fading lamplight. He was thoughtful. He never rushed me. Never pushed. He asked questions that mattered. Looked at me like I was a mystery worth solving. Held my hand like it was a vow.

But there was something in him I couldn’t reach.

A shadow behind his eyes.

He told me he’d been hurt. That he didn’t believe in “forever” because it always came with a deadline. That the last time he let someone in, he watched them leave anyway.

“I’m scared of ruining things,” he admitted one night, his voice raw.

“You won’t,” I whispered, resting my forehead against his. “I’m not asking for forever. Just... stay for now.”

That was the night he kissed me.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was something quieter. More intimate. Like a prayer.

But with every passing day, I saw it he was falling. Slowly. Deeply.

And the way he looked at me… like he was memorizing me. Like he had already imagined a life.

He fell quietly, but hard.

Harder than I ever expected.

It started small. The shift.

At first, I told myself I imagined it because I always do that when I’m scared of losing something good. The overthinking. The second-guessing. The flinch when something beautiful starts to tremble.

But Wonwoo was different.

He’d made me feel safe. Sure. Steady. Like he’d catch me even before I fell.

So when the silence between texts stretched longer, I pretended he was just busy.

When he stopped showing up at the café like he used to, I convinced myself he needed space.

But then, the first real silence happened.

He left me on read.

For an entire day.

No explanation. No excuse.

And it crushed me more than I’d like to admit.

I sat on the steps outside my apartment building, phone in hand, reading our past messages like some kind of love letter eulogy. I replayed his voice in my head, his laughter, that night under the stars where he told me, “I didn’t mean to feel this much.”

And now he was acting like he didn’t feel anything at all.

When I finally saw him again, it was by chance.

or fate.

I was walking home from the bookstore, arms full of paper and poetry, when I saw him across the street. Frozen. Like he didn’t expect to see me either.

Our eyes met.

And there it was that old look again.

The one that used to undo me.

He crossed the road in slow steps. Didn’t say anything at first. Just stared.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, voice rough like he hadn’t used it in days.

I didn’t reply. I didn’t know how.

“I’ve been... off. I know.”

I waited.

“I started overthinking,” he admitted. “How serious this is. How much I want you. How scared I am to want this much and still not be enough.”

That was when I broke.

“You already were enough, Wonwoo,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “You were more than enough. I didn’t need perfection. I needed you to show up.”

“I know.” He took a breath like it hurt. “And I didn’t. I got so scared of falling deeper, I started pulling away. I thought if I stepped back first, I could soften the blow.”

“And you think hurting me like this softens anything?” I choked out, tears falling.

He looked wrecked. And I hated that I still wanted to pull him into my arms.

Then, in a moment of desperation—he did it.

He wrapped his arms around me, tight. Desperate. Like he was anchoring himself.

“I didn’t know I could feel this much,” he whispered against my hair. “You made me feel everything, and I panicked.”

I didn't move. But I felt the warmth of him seep into my bones.

I wanted to stay there. But I needed to protect myself too.

I gently pushed him back.

“I love you, Wonwoo,” I said, voice trembling. “But I can’t keep being the only one willing to stay when it gets hard.”

His eyes widened. Like that was the first time he realized what he was about to lose.

And he broke. Right there.

His knees hit the pavement. Mine followed. We didn’t care about the people passing by.

We clung to each other like lifelines. Both crying. Both shaking.

He pressed his forehead to mine. “Let me fix this. Please. I’ll do anything.”

After that night, things didn’t magically heal.

But he showed up.

Every day.

He made coffee for me before I woke up. Showed up at my class presentations with quiet pride in his eyes. Walked me home when it rained. Sat with me during my breakdowns and said nothing just held me like I was allowed to fall apart.

And when he asked me to move in with him months later, he didn’t make a speech. He just handed me a key and said, “Let’s start writing our story together, not just visiting chapters.”

We learned each other’s fears. Our triggers. Our love languages. Our silences. And we chose to love anyway.

Wonwoo became mine.

Not just in words but in the way he lived his days around me.

He was possessive, yes but in a way that always respected my space. Protective, not controlling. His love was quiet but all-consuming. He’d touch my lower back in crowded rooms. Glance at me a second longer if someone else made me laugh too loud.

And one night, years later, while sitting on the floor with photo albums and our newborn sleeping nearby, he whispered,

“Remember when I told you I didn’t believe in forever?”

I nodded.

He took my hand, pressing a kiss into my palm. “I was wrong. I just hadn’t met you yet.”

I noticed it before I admitted it.

The way Wonwoo’s hand tightened slightly whenever someone complimented me. How his arm slid around my waist like a quiet claim, even when the conversation was harmless. The way his gaze lingered on anyone who laughed a little too loud near me.

I knew he loved me. That was never the problem.

The problem was when it started to feel like he didn’t know how to let go.

It came to a head one evening after a long day of classes and studio time. I was exhausted. He had picked me up, like always, and we went back to his place. The silence in the car had been thick.

He glanced at me when we got inside.

“You’re quiet.”

I shrugged, kicking off my shoes. “Just tired.”

He followed me into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as I poured myself water. “Something happened?”

I took a slow sip. “No. Not exactly.”

He waited.

And that’s when I said it.

“Wonwoo, do you trust me?”

His brow furrowed. “Of course I do.”

“Then why does it sometimes feel like you don’t trust anyone else around me?”

There. I said it.

The air shifted.

He didn’t respond right away. Just stared at me, eyes searching mine like he wasn’t sure what I meant or maybe he did, and didn’t want to face it.

“I’m not accusing you,” I added quickly, softer this time. “It’s just… sometimes, it feels like you’re always on guard. Like you’re constantly trying to prove something.”

He looked away for a moment, jaw tightening.

“I’m just protecting what’s mine.”

“I’m not something you own, Wonwoo.”

That was the first time I’d ever raised my voice at him. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

His shoulders tensed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know you didn’t,” I said gently. “But I can’t always feel like I’m being watched, like I’m being hovered over. I love you. I come home to you. Isn’t that enough?”

He was quiet for a long time.

And then he said, “I’m scared.”

That cracked something open in me.

“I’ve never had someone like you before,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “And when I see people looking at you, laughing with you, getting close… I feel like I’m holding something I don’t deserve. And I’m terrified one day you’ll realize that.”

Tears pricked my eyes.

I stepped closer. “Wonwoo… you do deserve me. And I deserve you. But love doesn’t mean you have to hold on so tightly you forget I’m standing right beside you.”

He swallowed hard, eyes glassy.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” I whispered, voice cracking. “But if we don’t talk about these things… if we keep letting silence do the talking, we’re going to break something we can’t fix.”

He looked at me then really looked.

And when I opened my arms, he stepped into them like he was falling. We sank to our knees, holding each other like we were the last people on earth. My fingers in his hair. His arms wrapped tightly around me. My tears soaking into his hoodie.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured over and over. “I’m sorry I made you feel like that.”

“I know you didn’t mean to,” I whispered. “But you have to let yourself breathe too. Love doesn’t have to hurt to be real.”

And in the silence that followed, we held each other until the shaking stopped.

Until his grip softened.

Until we remembered that we were on the same side.?

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levigarden999 · 1 month ago

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love or heaven ₊ ⊹ levi x reader fluff ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

theme : fluff , healing , you get levi to open up about his late mother, levi misses his mother words : 1,5 k notes : this was heavily inspired by the theory where the white 'scarf' around levi's neck is actually a piece of fabric from his mother's dress. i just love kuchel and levi so much omg

the night was serene at the head quarters. as you walked through the training grounds, the moist grass and the cold gravel under your feet made you feel more vulnerable than in a long time. you held your arms firmly crossed, attempting to warm yourself up despite the fact you were wearing a warm set of pajamas, the edges of the pants so long they got slightly wet from the frosty grass. you looked around, it was awfully quiet with only the sounds of occasional crickets filling the cool night air. it was chilly and the sky was dark, covered with stars that reminded you of a distant mystery. a distant mystery of a man called levi ackerman, who your eyes finally landed on.

he was lying on a small cliff near the edge of the forest, a cliff which was mainly used to train the scouts. once a week levi kept a tough training session for the youngsters and one thing it included was uphill running on this very same cliff. you could barely see in the dark, but the moon allowed the reflected light of the sun to cast blue shadows on the ground and light up the world enough for you to see.

as you began to walk the cliff upwards, your eyes focused on levi. his hair was a little disheveled and pushed back, exposing his face in its’ full glory. you walked next to him, your eyebrows arching in concern. he was keeping his eyes closed, his beautiful thick lashes resting on his soft cheeks. his skin looked nearly white under the moonlight and for a moment, you wondered if he was asleep. however, you recognized his usual frown between his eyebrows, telling you he was wide awake and acknowleding your presence.

he was wearing a pair of black slacks and a gray shirt with a black coat. he almost looked like he was resting on his damn grave with how little he moved, but the small movement of his chest revealed that he had some sort of life left in his body. your eyes focused on something else too – he was holding a white cloth against his chest. his hands gripping the material, almost clutching it.

”levi?” you asked quietly as you crouched beside him. you knew that levi often left your shared bed in the middle of the night to come here and just be. you figured it was one of those moments in his life that he desperately needed to function, to carry all the pressure and trauma he had. however, tonight you felt different. he had been disappearing a lot more lately, which worried you.

”what.” he asked, his voice raspy and barely audible. his eyes didn’t open.

”what are you doing here?” you asked gently, even though you knew the answer. it was surely a stupid question, but in your worry you couldn’t come up with anything better. you didn’t want to touch him, you didn’t want to rip him away from whatever daydream he was having. you had to see if this man would finally, finally, not push you away.

”go back to bed.”

you sighed, your heart feeling heavier again. you so desperately wanted to know the right words to say, to know the right way to approach him. to know how the hell to reach this man.

you looked back at the piece of cloth in his hands. it was white and washed, you wasn’t sure what it was but it reminded you of the cloth levi often wore around his neck.

”what’s in your hand?” you asked, still not touching him. however, you noticed his fingers twitching just the tiny bit. his grip on the fabric got tighter, as if he was seeking for something.

it was silent a few moments, a gentle breeze of cold wind making the trees whisper to each other.

”my mother’s dress.”

you fixated your gaze back to him, and to your surprise, his eyes were open. the look in those dark glossy marbles made your skin shiver. it was longing. desperation.

you knew he had a mother who had passed away when he was only a child, but that was practically all you knew about her. you wondered if he often stared at some particular distant star that somehow drew him in, a star that reminded him of his mother, a star he was afraid that would disappear some day.

”it’s a piece of her dress?” you asked, nearly as a whisper. you were testing the waters, afraid that he would close in again and flee from your love.

”yes. she died with this dress on. i needed something to remember her about, so i took a piece just before kenny took me.” levi explained. you noticed the way a desperate arch had formed on his eyebrows. his eyes were wetter than before, his usual dagger looking eyes were now similar to a small boy’s. a boy’s who was afraid and seeking for something unknown.

you inched closer and sighed softly, but you were still too afraid to touch him. you looked down at his face, hoping he would look at you and not the distant memory that was no longer here.

”can i touch it?”

that made levi’s eyes shift to you and he blinked. for once it really seemed like he didn’t have much to say and that made you worry that you had said something wrong, but no. something about his eyes changed again as he looked at you, as if he was looking hopeful. a glimmer of the moon’s light flickered in his irises, before he handed you the cloth carefully with his delicate fingers.

you took it in your hands, gently holding it and feeling it between your fingers. the fabric was clearly worn out and a little rough, but it was clean. levi probably washed it regularly. you could imagine levi’s mother wearing the dress, even though you had no idea what this woman had looked like. you bet she was a bright, strong women, someone beautiful who never stopped loving her son.

as your eyes flickered back to levi, your heart swelled and nearly burst. you saw tears. tears on those beautiful, white cheeks of his, a lonely blow of wind making a strand of raven black hair fall on his forehead. levi was staring at the cloth in your gentle fingers, his gaze filled with unknown sorrow, but also relief. as if he had given a piece of himself to you, a piece of his memories and dreams – and he had done just that. the cloth held a piece of his past, his emotions, his murderous doings but also heroic acts. the fabric had his whole life in it, which you now lovingly held – you had touched levi’s heart.

”levi..” you whispered and quickly laid beside him, holding a hand on his cheek. you bruhed his tear off with your thumb, looking at him with so much sincere love and affection. you could feel his emotions, all the pain and suffering he had kept inside all these years. all this love and devotion he felt for his late mother made him who he was and you realized that his mother had raised him and loved him, even if she was dead.

levi turned on his side and took the cloth back from you, which you allowed. he held it against his chest once again, like a baby boy holding he’s first plush toy. you wondered if levi ever even had toys in his childhood, beside a knife.

”thank you.” you whispered, looking at his wetted eyelashes and eyes that currently stared down at your neck. he was too afraid to meet your gaze, because he knew it would make all this real. it would make it real that he really had allowed you to truly see him. he didn’t want to allow himself to accept your love or sympathy.

”thank you for letting me meet her. it means a lot.” you continued and smiled softly. levi glanced up at you, more life in his eyes than ever before. it surprised you that you somehow enjoyed this sad, pained and vulnerable look on him more than you did his usual stoic, cold look. even if it was because of pain and suffering, it made his eyes look more human than ever before. and you believed it was a tough spot for levi, since he wasn’t used to be seen as a regular human.

but that was what he was. a human. an emotional, feeling being.

”sometimes i… miss her.” he admitted, his voice only a shaky whisper. you pulled his head closer to your chest, your hand slipping into his black hair which was now damp from the moist grass under us.

”you’re allowed to do so, levi. it would be odd if you wouldn’t.”

levi was quiet for a moment, but you felt his calm breath against the crook of your neck.

”do you believe one of those stars represent her?” you ask, after another breeze of wind passes past you.

”those stars were the same before and after she died. those stars remain the same after you and me die, too. so, no.” his voice was quiet and hoarse.

you remained silent.

”so you don’t believe in a soul? reincarnation? after life?” you eventually asked.

”no. i believe in emotions and memories that we have left from the people who were taken away. believe it or not.” he let out a small huff.

”and it’s enough for me. to love her, to remember her presence, is enough. it’s enough for me to keep going for another day and live.”

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luvly-writer · 1 month ago

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Aretia: Missions gone wrong

Xaden Riorson x Gamlyn! Reader

Masterlist

The mission had gone to hell.

The sky burned a bruised red above the shattered forest line, smoke rolling in waves that stung Y/n’s eyes as Tiamat veered hard, dodging the flames licking upward. Her hands burned from summoning light too much. The air reeked of scorched trees and blood, of magic spent and twisted into chaos.

But none of it mattered.

Because she couldn’t see Sgaeyl.

She couldn’t see him.

Her heart pounded against her ribs like it was trying to break free of her chest. She scanned the battlefield below, her voice sharp and panicked as she barked commands to Tiamat. “Search again! Take the left side. I don’t care if it’s clear—he’s not there.”

The emerald dragon let out a low growl of worry, matching her rider’s rising distress.

Y/n’s breathing was ragged now, bordering on hyperventilation as her mind raced through every possibility—He fell. He’s injured. Sgaeyl was hit. He’s not moving. He’s not—

“No,” she choked out loud, pressing a hand to her mouth as her vision blurred. “No, no, no.”

They landed hard near the edge of the treeline, her boots barely touching the dirt before she was off Tiamat’s back and sprinting into the fray. Smoke obscured everything—faces blurred past her, dragons circled overhead, screams of injured riders and the ring of steel still echoed.

She looked everywhere.

“XADEN!” she screamed.

“SGAEYL!”

Nothing.

She turned frantically, her hair whipping free of its braid, her pearl choker tight against her throat like it might choke the air from her lungs. Her charm bracelet clinked with her shaking hands, her fingers tugging at it like it might give her strength.

“Where is he—where is he—where is he—”

“Y/n!” Ridoc was suddenly in front of her, catching her by the elbows. “Hey—look at me.”

She tried to shove past him. “Let me go!”

“He’s not dead!” he said firmly, eyes wide. “You’d know it if he was. You’d know—”

“I didn't see anything!” she yelled, her voice cracking in a way that made everyone nearby freeze. “I don’t feel him. I always feel him and now—now I don't know.”

Ridoc’s face fell, horror flickering across his features as she turned again in a frenzy, scanning the chaos, running—limping slightly from a graze to her thigh she hadn’t even noticed.

Tears stung her eyes, slipping down her ash-covered cheeks as her panic spilled out like a dam bursting.

She felt Rhiannon’s hand brush her back. Violet murmured something about “Tairn is reaching Sgaeyl, he'll be fine,” but Y/n was spiraling. Spiraling with the image of his empty leathers, of Sgaeyl’s lifeless body, of her waking up tomorrow with a heart severed and nothing left.

And then—

“By the ridge!” someone called.

Her entire body froze.

She whipped around so fast she nearly stumbled.

And there he was.

Xaden stood in the distance, Sgaeyl beside him, one arm pressed to his ribs, his uniform darkened with blood and soot. He looked exhausted. Bruised. But whole. Alive.

The ground shifted beneath her feet as she ran.

She didn’t scream his name—didn’t make a sound—just ran.

Her braid had fallen, her ribbon flying behind her, her dragon’s roar echoing behind her like a war cry of joy. Tears blurred her vision, chest heaving with sobs she didn’t care to hide anymore.

He saw her coming and dropped everything—his blade, his pack, his composure.

When she finally reached him, she slammed into his chest with a force that made him stagger, and she gripped his jacket like if she let go, he might vanish into the smoke again.

“You’re here,” she breathed, again and again. “You’re here, you’re here, you’re here.”

“I’m here, love,” he rasped into her hair, voice raw. “I’m right here. Gods, Y/n—don’t cry, please—”

“I thought— I felt nothing,” she sobbed. “I felt nothing and I—”

“Shh, shh,” he whispered, cupping her face, kissing her cheeks, her eyelids, her mouth. “The wards—there was interference— I was trying to get back— I swear—”

“I couldn’t breathe.”

“You never have to be without me again.” His forehead pressed to hers, his thumb brushed away her tears. “You hear me? I will always come back to you.”

And there, in the middle of a field still burning from battle, Y/n finally inhaled her first full breath since the mission began.

Because she was in his arms.

And he was alive.

Later...

The infirmary was dim and hushed, lit only by the amber glow of dragonfire lanterns hanging from the beams. He sat on the edge of the cot, stripped of his jacket, tunic half undone, bandages wrapped around his ribs—burned, bruised, and still reeling.

And she hadn't moved more than a few feet from him since they’d returned.

Y/n paced at first. Silent, tense, like her body couldn’t believe he was still solid in front of her. Her hands shook even as she fetched water, even as she dabbed blood from the corner of his mouth and smoothed his hair back from his temple.

Now she sat beside him, one leg curled beneath her, fingers tracing slow, aimless patterns along the inside of his wrist like if she kept contact, he wouldn’t vanish.

She hadn’t spoken much.

She didn’t need to.

Xaden watched her with quiet reverence, feeling every tremble in her hand, every deep breath she took as if trying to anchor herself. Her charm bracelet clicked softly with each motion. Her choker was still fastened tightly around her neck, her lips slightly chapped from the wind, her eyes rimmed red but no longer frantic.

She was still in battle gear, blood and soot streaked across her collarbone, but she’d never looked more devastatingly beautiful to him.

Sgaeyl’s voice slid into his mind with a low, knowing rumble: She loves you more than air, boy. You're her safe place. Then, smugly: She looked like she might stab someone when she couldn’t find you. He almost smiled. Almost. She still hasn’t stopped watching you. And you love her back so loud it’s giving me a headache.

He bit back a chuckle.

Y/n’s fingers drifted up to his neck, brushing the cord where her seashell pendant hung. She’d given it to him a few months ago, from her hometown—a small white shell smoothed by tide and time, now worn from where his thumb had rubbed it endlessly in her absence.

“Still have it,” he murmured.

Her eyes flicked up to his. “Of course you do.”

She reached toward her own neck, tugging the black ribbon of her collar aside so the chain with a small emerald ring he’d given her—his fathers’s, now hers—was visible against her skin.

“I wore this every day you were gone,” she said softly. “Didn’t care if it was reckless. I needed something of you.”

His chest ached.

He cupped her cheek, his thumb gently brushing her skin. “You have all of me.”

She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes for a long moment. Then, in a whisper: “I couldn’t breathe without you.”

He moved closer, sliding his hand to the back of her neck. “I know, love. I felt it too.” His voice broke just slightly. “Seeing you run to me… I’ve never felt more alive.”

Her lips brushed his collarbone, the place that bore the bruises from the crash. She didn’t kiss him like she was trying to seduce him. She kissed him like she was trying to remind herself that he was there.

That he came back.

He watched her after, how her gaze scanned him again, just to be sure. How her hand slid to rest over his heart. And how her breathing only started to even out once his arms were around her.

Sgaeyl, ever smug, hummed: You are so thoroughly hers it’s embarrassing. And you like it. Xaden buried his face in Y/n’s curls and smiled into her hair. Yes. Gods help me, I love it.

She curled closer against him on the cot, and he let her stay.

Because for the first time since the mission, Y/n was breathing right.

And so was he.

A few nights later...

The room was still, the kind of silence only found deep in the hours before dawn. The only light came from the moon filtering through the sheer curtains, casting soft silver shadows across the stone walls and the large bed where they lay tangled beneath the blankets.

Xaden stirred first—not from a nightmare, but from hers.

At first, it was just the faint rustle of sheets. But then he felt it— Y/n's body twitching, her breathing sharp and shallow, her fingers curling into the blanket like she was bracing for impact. A soft whimper left her lips. Then another. Her brows furrowed, and she turned her face into the pillow, like she was trying to hide from whatever she was seeing.

“Y/n,” he murmured, instantly awake, his voice low and gravelly. He propped himself up on one arm, pressing his other hand gently to her shoulder.

She flinched.

“No,” she breathed, still trapped in the dream. “No, no, please—don’t fall—”

His heart clenched. “Y/n.” He leaned closer, brushing her hair back from her damp forehead. “Love, wake up. I’m here. You’re safe.”

But she twisted again, the sound that escaped her throat broken, desperate. A whisper of his name—not in comfort, but in terror.

That did it.

Xaden cupped her face, not forcefully, just enough to anchor her. “Y/n. I’m alive. Look at me, sweetheart. Please—look at me.”

Her eyes snapped open, glassy and unfocused. Her chest was rising and falling like she’d just sprinted miles. There were tears on her cheeks.

“Xaden?” Her voice cracked.

He was already pulling her into his arms, cradling her against his bare chest. “Right here,” he whispered into her hair. “I’ve got you. It’s over. I’m not going anywhere.”

She clung to him—like she needed the feel of his heartbeat to believe him. Her arms wrapped around his ribs, and she tucked her face into the crook of his neck, still trembling.

“I couldn’t find you,” she choked. “In the dream—I was there again. You were just gone.”

He didn’t say I’m fine or It was just a dream. He knew better. He remembered the panic in her eyes the moment she saw him alive. He remembered the scream she’d bitten down when she first landed, and how she hadn’t let him out of her sight since.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice raw. “I know it’s stupid—”

“Don’t,” he said firmly, tipping her chin so she had to meet his gaze. “It’s not stupid. You love me.”

That broke her again. Her face crumpled, and she buried it in his neck.

He kissed her temple, then the top of her head, and just held her. "You kept me breathing out there. I'm home because of you."

Minutes passed. The storm inside her began to quiet. Her grip eased slightly, but she stayed curled against him, his arms wrapped around her like armor.

“I’m here,” he whispered again, pressing a kiss just below her jaw. “You can sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

And she did—eventually, slowly, with her cheek over his heart and his hand tangled in her hair, whispering her name like a prayer until her breaths evened out and the nightmares finally let her rest.

The next few days were chaotic. Venin movement everywhere. People coming and going on patrols and missions trying to push them back and stay alert.

Then came another incident. They were supposed to just be patroling.

The clearing reeks of smoke and blood. The wind howls low, like it knows something is wrong.

Xaden's boots hit the ground hard as Sgaeyl lands. His eyes sweep the scorched battlefield—shattered rocks, a collapsed ridge, still-burning brush—but none of it matters.

Not when she’s not here.

“Y/n?” he calls out, already ripping off his riding harness, voice sharp and ragged. “Y/n!”

Nothing.

No answering voice. No flash of dark curls tied in green ribbon. No glow of her light signet or the shimmer of her pearl necklace. Nothing.

Just silence. And the burn of dread rising in his throat like acid.

Sgaeyl?

I don’t see her. I don’t see Tiamat. Her tone is strained—too restrained for the bond they share. She’s trying to stay calm for him.

But beneath that calm is worry. Sharp and biting.

“She was right behind us,” Xaden says out loud, turning to scan the skies, then the ground again. “She was right fucking behind us!”

“Maybe she landed somewhere else,” Sawyer says, approaching with his sword still slicked in blood. “There was a lot of chaos. The ridge—collapsed right after her dragon passed it.”

Rhiannon speaks, gently. “We’ll find her. We always do.”

But Xaden’s heart is already fracturing.

Because he remembers—he remembers—what it felt like when she thought he was gone. Her broken sobs, the way she ran to him like she couldn’t breathe without him. The way her hands had trembled when she held his face.

Now it’s his turn.

And gods, it’s worse than anything he’s ever known.

Ridoc’s voice, desperate, cuts through the air as he runs back toward him, wild-eyed. “Nothing. I checked the south ridge and the eastern ledge—there’s no trace of them.”

Her twin’s voice is cracked. Barely holding together. “I can’t see her—she’s hurt. I know it. I know it, Xaden.”

That breaks something in him. Fully.

Because if Ridoc can’t feel her… if Tiamat hasn’t responded…

He grips his sword so tightly his knuckles go white. “No. No, she’s alive. She has to be.”

He turns, pacing in a tight circle, his mind unraveling as panic claws up his spine. The bond with Sgaeyl pulses with worry and pain.

“I should’ve stayed with her—gods, I should’ve—”

There. Sgaeyl’s head jerks to the left, her tone urgent. There, Xaden. Look.

He turns.

A flicker of movement by the edge of the distant tree line. A shape limping. One set of wings folded tight.

Dark green scales shimmer.

Tiamat.

And there—slumped beside her, favoring one leg but walking—Y/n.

Her hair is half-fallen from its ribbon, her bracelet glinting dully in the sunlight. Blood streaks her temple, and her uniform is torn—but she’s alive. She’s alive.

Xaden doesn't think—he runs.

He shouts her name as his legs carry him faster than they ever have. His vision blurs. His lungs burn. His heart hammers so hard it nearly stops.

She looks up.

And the moment their eyes lock, she tries to break into a run too but can't— limping, highly pained.

They crash into each other in a bone-crushing, soul-healing embrace.

“Gods—” he breathes, pulling her into him, burying his face in her hair. “Y/n—”

She’s trembling. Sobbing. But laughing too, in that broken way that means she knows how close it was. “I’m here—I’m here—Xaden, I’m here—”

His hands are everywhere, gripping her waist, her face, her back—like he can’t believe she’s real.

“I thought—” he chokes, voice cracking. “I thought I lost you.”

She shakes her head into his neck. “Not a chance, Riorson. I promised you forever.”

And Sgaeyl, through their bond, hums with warmth—There she is. Safe.

And Xaden clutches her tighter.

Because now he understands.

Now he knows what it is to live in a world where she might be gone.

And he never wants to live there again.

The infirmary tent is quiet now. Lanterns glow low, casting soft golden light across Y/n’s cot as a medic finishes bandaging the gash on her thigh.

Xaden hasn’t moved from his spot beside her. Not once. Not when she winced. Not when she hissed in pain. Not even when Ridoc whispered something about giving them space—because he needs this space filled. With her. Breathing. Alive.

Y/n gives the medic a grateful nod before settling back against the pillow. Her hair is damp from sweat and streaked with dried blood, and her face is pale beneath the warm brown of her skin—but she’s alive. Gods, she’s alive.

“You’re staring,” she says softly, cracking the faintest smile.

“I nearly lost you,” he replies just as softly. His thumb brushes along the edge of the bandage on her arm. “I’m allowed to stare.”

She reaches out with her uninjured hand and curls her fingers into the hem of his jacket. Like she needs him anchored to her as badly as he needs to stay.

He doesn’t make her ask.

With gentle movements, he slips out of the chair and into the cot beside her. She makes room—immediate, instinctive. Their bodies slot together in the cramped space as if made to.

Y/n buries her face in his chest, drawing in a long breath. “You smell like fire and smoke,” she mumbles. “You always do after a fight.”

“I was trying to find you,” he whispers, his voice rough. “Tore through half the ridge before I even let myself feel the fear.”

She tilts her chin up, eyes shimmering. “Now you know what I felt… when it was you I couldn’t find.”

Xaden presses a kiss to her forehead. Then another, slower one to her temple. “I’m your boyfriend, Y/n. Of course I’d burn the world down just to find you.”

Her breath shudders.

Then she shifts, one leg draped over his, fingers slipping under his shirt to rest over his heart. Feeling it. Needing the beat of it.

“Don’t let go,” she whispers.

“Never.”

He wraps both arms around her, holding her close, his lips pressed to her hair. His eyes remain open long after hers flutter shut.

And when sleep finally takes him, it’s only because her heartbeat is against his chest.

Right where it belongs.

It’s only been two days since they found her—limping, bloodied, eyes wild with exhaustion—and yet Y/n is already pushing to be cleared for training and working.

“I said I’m fine,” she insists, trying to pull her arm free of Ridoc’s grip.

“You lost enough blood to fill a godsdamned tub, Y/n,” Ridoc snaps, not loosening his hold. “You're not setting a single foot outside this building.”

She glares at him. “You're being dramatic.”

“And you're being reckless,” Xaden adds from behind her, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Y/n whirls around. “Not you too.”

But the look he gives her stops her cold. It’s not stern. It’s not commanding. It’s… scared. The kind of quiet fear that lingers behind someone’s eyes even when everything is over. The kind of fear she saw in her own reflection days ago, when he had been the one missing.

“I couldn't breathe when I realized you weren’t on the ridge,” Xaden says quietly, voice rough. “I don’t think I have breathed properly since.”

She softens immediately. “Xaden…”

He steps closer, gently cupping her face. “So forgive me if I’m not ready to let you out of my sight.”

And behind her, Ridoc—arms still folded and eyes suspiciously glossy—mutters, “Same goes for me, and I don’t plan on sugarcoating you, so you know I’m serious.”

That earns a small laugh from Y/n, which seems to loosen the tension in the room just a little.

She looks between the two most important men in her life—her twin and her lover—and finally sighs in surrender.

“Fine. You can both keep your overprotective vigil.” She raises a brow. “But I am brushing my hair. Alone. And you’re not following me to the bathroom, Ridoc.”

“No promises,” he mutters, and Xaden barks out a short laugh.

She walks off, finally, leaving them both watching her go.

And even as she disappears around the corner, Ridoc mutters, “We’re gonna take shifts, right?”

Xaden doesn’t even blink. “Already planning the rotation.”

Days later...

It’s a quiet evening—too quiet for a war camp, too still for Ridoc’s liking.

Xaden had finally eased up on the protective hovering, reassured enough by Y/n ’s return and her slow recovery. But Ridoc… Ridoc hadn’t let go.

Y/n finds him sitting outside her quarters, knees pulled to his chest like he used to do when they were children and the thunder outside their window grew too loud.

She doesn’t say anything at first—just sits beside him, shoulder brushing his. He exhales shakily.

“I felt it,” he says after a moment, voice barely above a whisper. “When you were gone. It was like… everything in me cracked.”

She swallows thickly. “I know. I’m so sorry, Ro.”

He finally looks at her. And for once, there’s no teasing in his gaze. No mask. Just the raw ache of a twin who almost lost his other half.

“I need to be near you. Just for a bit.”

Y/n nods, wrapping an arm around his shoulder as he leans into her, head resting on hers. “As long as you need,” she whispers.

They sit like that, breathing in sync. No words. Just heartbeats and the sound of safety found again.

Later, Xaden peeks in to find Ridoc fast asleep on the couch in Y/n’s quarters, clinging to the edge of her blanket like he did as a boy. Y/n meets Xaden’s eyes and simply shrugs, lips tugging into a soft smile.

“He needed me,” she mouths.

And Xaden only nods, quietly grateful that the woman he loves is made of so much heart.

Taglist: @eepyfaerie @dreamdragonkadia @hiraethjules @nikfigueiredo @galaxystern08 @taleiaargenis @minidemont @poeticbookwormcat @eternallyrosyfire @shadowhuntyi @bubble300 @messageforthesmallestman @iheartshopping @lagrandeourse @readinf @barbreadsbooks @optimisticsoulstarfish @locatinginspo @lxnvmvrzx @im-a-weirdo-for-life

If you want to added to the taglist, leave a comment. <3

#iron flame #violet sorrengail #fourth wing #xaden riorson #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing xaden #xaden riorson x reader #ridoc fourth wing #ridoc gamlyn #onyx storm #the empyrean #xaden riorson imagine #xaden riorson x y/n #xaden and sgaeyl #xaden x reader #ridoc and aotrom #ridoc x reader #of light and shadow

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forkshighschooler · 2 months ago

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Chapter 1 — The Pull

Summary:You live in La Push working part-time for your aunt. While closing at a local coffee cart, you meet Paul Lahote—a quiet, intense local who seems to watch you like he knows something you don’t. There’s an instant pull between you, but you fight it. You’re not looking for connection. Paul keeps his distance… until he can’t.

Part 1-Part 2-Part 3-Part 4-Part 5

La Push was quiet in the way that small towns always were—its silence not empty, but full of whispering trees, restless waves, and the hush of stories passed down from generations that had walked these paths long before you. It was the kind of place where everyone knew your name, your parents’ names, and probably how much you owed at the corner store.

You’d grown up here, a quiet part of the earth nestled between forest and sea. It was familiar, grounding. Safe.

Until now.

It started the day the air changed—just enough that you noticed. A storm was supposed to be rolling in, and the clouds hung low like bruises in the sky, but it wasn’t the weather that made your skin prickle. It was something else. Something wrong.

You had been walking home from the beach after closing up the small coffee cart your aunt let you run part-time. The waves were rough, wind chasing them in like wild dogs. You tightened your jacket and tucked your chin down, the sound of your boots crunching gravel the only thing keeping you company.

Then you saw him.

At first, it didn’t register—just someone tall and lean standing at the tree line, half in shadow, like he was a part of the woods itself. His posture was too still, arms crossed over his broad chest, head tilted slightly like he was listening for something. Watching.

Your pace slowed before your brain caught up to your body. You told yourself it was just someone out for a walk, probably one of the guys from the rez. But there was something about him—about the way the air seemed to warp around him, like he pulled gravity with him. You tried not to stare.

He turned his head.

Even at a distance, your eyes locked. And you felt it—something hot, sharp, and uninvited flaring beneath your ribs. Your breath caught, your stomach flipped, and for a split second, it felt like your entire body went still in response to his gaze.

The moment shattered as he stepped forward—just one step.

You bolted.

You didn’t know why. There was no logical reason. He hadn’t moved aggressively. He hadn’t said a word. But every instinct in you screamed run, and your legs obeyed. You didn’t stop until you were back home, the door locked behind you and your back pressed to the cool wood.

Your heart pounded like a warning drum in your chest.

You didn’t tell anyone about him—not your aunt, not your best friend Katie, who would have teased you relentlessly for being so dramatic. It felt… too strange. Too intimate.

Still, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. You didn’t even know his name.

⸻

The next day, the feeling lingered.

You kept expecting to see him around town. You looked for him out of the corner of your eye when you passed the general store, when you sat on the back porch with your coffee, even when you walked to the bonfire later that night with Katie.

She was rambling about some drama involving Jared and Kim, but her voice felt like background noise against the roar of your thoughts. You didn’t hear most of what she said until she elbowed you.

“Are you even listening?” she laughed, shaking her head. “You’ve been weird all day.”

“I’m just tired.”

“Sure,” she said, clearly not buying it. Then she perked up. “Oh! Paul’s back.”

“Paul?”

She nodded toward the edge of the firelight. You turned.

There he was.

The guy from the woods.

Standing in the golden flicker of the firelight, his skin glowing warm, his dark eyes scanning the crowd. He looked… intense. Like someone barely holding it together. Your breath caught again, and this time you knew it wasn’t just the heat from the flames.

“That’s Paul Lahote,” Katie whispered. “He’s a total dick, but—uh, yeah. Okay, you’re looking at him like he’s an entire meal, so I’m gonna walk away before I witness something unholy.”

“I’m not,” you snapped too quickly. “I just—he looks familiar.”

Katie raised an eyebrow, gave a knowing smirk, and disappeared into the crowd.

Paul’s eyes found yours.

Your heart stumbled.

There was something wrong with this. You didn’t even know him, but you felt like your body did. Like some part of you recognized him without your permission.

You turned your head, but it was too late—he was already walking toward you.

⸻

“Hey.”

His voice was low, rough like gravel but steady. He stood close enough that you had to tilt your head back slightly to look up at him. You stepped back automatically.

He frowned. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“I didn’t say you would.”

“You’re afraid of me.”

You bristled. “I don’t even know you.”

He paused like that answer had hit a nerve. His expression shifted, some wall sliding up behind his eyes.

“You will,” he said, so quiet you almost didn’t hear him.

You stared at him, arms crossed. “Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“No,” he said. Then added, “It’s a promise.”

Your stomach twisted. Something about this was all wrong. Too much. Too fast. You stepped back again.

“I have to go.”

“You don’t even want to know my name?”

“No.”

He didn’t move to follow you, but you could feel him watching as you walked away, pulse pounding so hard your ears rang.

⸻

That night, you dreamt of eyes the color of storms and something wild running through the trees.

You woke with your heart in your throat.

Disclaimer:

I do not own Twilight or any of its characters. All rights belong to Stephenie Meyer. This is a work of fanfiction written for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended.

#forkshighschooler #twilight fanfic #twilight wolfpack #twilight x reader #paul lahote x reader #twilight #paul lahote #paul lahote x y/n #paul lahote fanfic #paul lahote x yn

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bambiesfics · 2 years ago

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⊹ Tag! you’re it. ⊹

(5k wc!)

| SNEAK PEEK: “Fuck me. Almost forgot about her.” The brunette unslung the rifle over her shoulder and head. She threw it a small distance away from you two. The black Nula rifle skidded amongst the twigs, then stopped. You breathed a small sigh of relief amidst your mounting panic. Releasing the terror that it could go off while she fucked herself into you.

⊹ SUMMARY: The concept was simple really. It’s quite literally in the title of this fic. I’m sure you’re smart, reader. So I’m also sure you can deduce what she’s going to make you do. But in the rare chance you’re not that bright, I’ll help and spell it out for you.

You…need…to…run.

⊹ WARNINGS: Predator/prey kink. Strap-on use (reader receiving). Outdoor sex, very rough sex, mean as fuck!Dom Ellie, dacryphilia, ass-smacking, black-out, use of “cock” and “dick” and is referred to as Ellie’s, and other things you’ll have to read to see.

⊹ AUTHOR’S NOTE: Minors & puritans this is not the fic for you. Everyone else: make sure you read this at home. This is genuinely, not safe for work (or school!)

The truck skidded to a stop.

The acridness of burnt rubber twisted its way up your nose, reflexively making you scrunch. The russet haired brunette pulled the keys out of the ignition and slammed the truck's door shut. Her black converses made imprints onto the soft earth.

They were just a few of the many tracks to come.

The slam of the GMC door was like a boom in your head, yelling ‘WAKE UP!’

Laid beyond the car window was a terrifying picture of nature. The forest seemed like rows of shark’s teeth; jagged and everlong. Up along the bank, a crowded family of dark green spruce trees were huddled. Mottled like flecks against the horizon. Nothing could be seen but the green overlaid on top of the clear sky. The trees circumferenced along the bank like a protective dome, surrounding the truck.

This was her idea.

The brunette circled the clearing, her bangs blew softly in the wind. She fixed the M-11 sniper across her back, pulling the dual tabs of her corset webbing to tighten it to her torso. The NULA sniper was heavy. A matte black gun with a wide eyed scope. It was Ellie’s favorite. For hunting; both people and game.

Your girlfriend had known for several years that she’d never be a fan of small firearms. She reveled in the kickback of a sniper.

Firearms.

Running.

Rifle.

Chasing.

Polaroids of memory flooded your thoughts. Snapshots of Ellie pleading relentlessly to convince you to let her use you. Use your adrenaline and terror to scratch a deep deep itch within her. Like a flea ridden dog, your girlfriend had a parasite. And the parasite was the chase. It was a primal itch. One that’d been there since she was a younger girl. It teased along the blurred edges of sociopathy and sexuality.

If you’d really paid attention, you would’ve noticed that Ellie was a little…off. There was an aggression that ran congruent with her boyish teasing and fighting. An intuitive itch at the back of your brain often concluded that Ellie had always wanted to bend your arm back a little bit deeper during play fights. Because she too often enjoyed how quickly your laugh crumpled into yelps.

She’d let out a sudden chuckle during really tense moments, but you were subtly aware that Ellie could, and slyly tried, to get a bit more intense with the floor pinning, with the wall traps, with her power plays. And you suspected she liked it.

Ellie was an awe-inspiring girlfriend, so caring and so sweet; so tender. But you still couldn’t gauge where that hidden characteristic in her temperament came from.

Just how far would she really want to take it?

The surface tension of those memories rippled into obscurity like disturbed water. Leaving you to face the bitter nip of the cool air, and the earthy pine notes that carried itself on the wind.

Ellie had been spending her time studying you from across the distance. Trying to pick apart your thoughts from your micro-expressions. She debated on if the little crease between your brow was tense fear, or if it was exhaustion. Common sense advised her that it was exhaustion; you two had only come out here just an hour after dawn, naturally you’d feel drowsy or irate.

And that pleased her.

Tired would work in her favor. Tired would make you sloppy.

Ellie stepped deeper into the clearing. From your position in the passenger seat, you could see her attempt to feel for the direction of the wind, noting which direction it was blowing her hair. She used the sweep of the wind’s blow on her hair to navigate the direction of which path, in the dense forest, would give her the least resistance.

She planned to avoid that path.

She didn’t want this to be easy.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t have too. Ellie turned around slowly and rooted her feet into the soil. In spite of the distance, her gaze was piercing. She didn’t need to shout, but it was finally time to remove yourself from the safety of the truck.

You steadied yourself on the inside of the door, and used the pane to brace your knees before you dropped from out of the truck.

The sun was a high, white gold. Planting an opalescent sheen on the forest underbrush. It grew brighter and warmer the further behind you left the truck.

Towering above the underbrush, were thick alpine trees; the young and the old. Some of them were beyond being old, and were solidly antiquated. Likely as old as the entire forest itself.

Those alpines were the type of old that’d existed in that forest longer than Jackson town. The type of trees that had seen things not a soul nor an eye would have witnessed. Things, no history book had dared to make a record of.

And today, they saw you.

The sun was shining in her eyes. And she returned back to it her own venomous gaze.

Ellie’s ink moth tattoo moved each time her fingers steadied themselves on the bony juts of her hips. Her evergreen eyes blinked back down to study you once more.

In your timid mannerisms she microdosed on the pleasure of the run to come.

Your back straightened at her voice.

“To set this off, I ran the path six times since last sunday. Shouldn’t take you no longer than ten minutes, fifteen at your slowest. You take twenty minutes, and I come looking for you. Got that?”

Her eyes thinned, then relaxed.

“We’ve done similar patrols around the west wing of Jackson.”

“Like the group patrols and stuff right?”

Your answer was less than stellar.

She itched to grin at your reply, but killed it. Schooling her features back into a placid poker face. “Yeah sure. Those’ll definitely prepare you for today.”

Ellie started stalking behind you now. Eyeing the shoes you chose, how you shifted your weight from leg to leg, how your sleeves were longer than your fingers, and how your fingers fidgeted with its hem.

She pulled back from you. She pressed herself deeper into the gray and dull overcast from the trees. Shadowed by their height and mass, she shouted.

“You get a 120 second head start!”

The air was electric, like power lines running above you. Your fingers twitched, and your stomach tightened. And like a firing gun shooting into the air, she growled.

“RUN!”

Your feet pounded at the earth as your skin braced the whipping wind. Jackson’s forest was miles upon piles of jade. It was a claustrophobic cornucopia of trees. The underbrush scraped your legs with each step you took on the illuminated path of the forest floor. Light speckled from the patterned leaves above you, it looked like a kaleidoscopic.

The earth beneath your shoes was beaten flat from the steps of hikers and runners long before you ever came sprinting down. You’d hiked this path, but hiking and sprinting were light years apart. And the staggering imbalance of the terrain was sending shock waves up your legs. You braced it, a mantra looping in your head like your very life depended on.

Just run.

Your breaths were starting to sound heavier and heavier. Worsened by the regret that was creeping up all the same. Jackson had a system of 5am running patrols that were outlined by Maria on the town’s bulletin. Patrols that you could’ve put your name down for. Ellie did them often, just a short lap around Jacksons gates. She always told you it was only “15 minutes tops”, yet you always regarded that time as an extra 15 minutes to sleep in. Realization dawned on you just as quick as your feet turned around a large spruce tree.

That 15 minutes of running truly did add up.

Just run.

A climbing crescendo of snapped twigs and rustling leaves was all that could be heard whipping about. Louder and louder. Heavier and heavier. An orchestra of sounds; of your heartbeat. Of a burning pain from a persons forceful sprint. Someone was panting, fighting, clawing their way out of Jackson’s forest. You were the someone, but your legs were growing tired.

Your calves were burning as your pace increased, the ache was clawing into the muscles in your lower legs like hot iron. The pain bloomed into your thighs and coiled itself into the pit of your lower belly. It left your breath wheezing and dry.

Sweat broke out on your hairline. Perspiration that would drip down to sting your eyes if you didn’t get home in time. You needed to get home fast. Just as long as you got there before her. Just as long as you beat Ellie to Jackson’s gates, you’d be fine.

All you could do was just run.

You slowed to a stop and cleared a log, you straddled it, holding the large body to steady yourself, before swinging your leg off and hopping back onto the ground. You weren’t nimble. Your girlfriend would’ve cleared the trunk with just the push of her left arm. But you were desperate, anything to not be her prey.

Just run.

Your ears picked up on it, before your brain could process it. The sound was unmistakable. Those were Ellie’s footsteps.

Clearing the log had closed the space between you. This chase was a burning thread. Growing shorter as the distance between you two also grew shorter. Ellies footsteps sounded heavier, more hurried. She could finally hear you too.

You pushed past the haze of pain and ran out of the forest, onto the rocky asphalt in front of the abandoned highway. You slid down the ditch, scraping your palms along before tumbling into a shaky sprint. The abandoned cars in the ditch were as much obstacles as they were protection. But up ahead, growing bigger with every step, were the gates; pillars of protection and strength.

The same voice whispered sharply into your concious, reminding you to

just run.

The only caveat was that Ellie’s conscience was telling her the

exact same thing.

She was behind you. But you couldn’t care where or how far Ellie was. You’d deduced that the strewn jagged pebbles had slowed her down. Converses didn’t work nearly as well on rocky terrain. The rhombus sole could tightly pack gravel and pebbles inside of it, which made for an uneven run.

Jackson’s steep wood gates appeared even larger. A good — no — a great thing. To be dwarfed by Jackson’s gates meant that you were near them. Nearer to the town than you had been a mere minute ago; yet again, still with no Ellie in tow.

You relaxed your sprint into a cursory jog. The relief that coursed through you was electrifying. A tired grin threatened to leap off your face. You were burning, but the chase wasn’t nearly as hard as you had suspected it to be, and for that your nervous system was flooded with relief.

You were so close. Just a few more steps and the lap would be cleared.

Ellie shouldn’t have given you that head start. Jesus, that girl could be so arrogant.

The dual gates were close enough to feel their shade. You took another deep breath, and stretched your arms out. The breeze cooled your skin. The relief from the concluded chase blew a spirit of new life into you. You were done! you had won Ellie’s sick little game of tag.

Now, what you would give to head down to the tavern and ask for a mug of sweet tea and some soft brea—

—Ellie slammed into you, crumpling you to the ground. A tiny yelp ripped out of you like a pathetic puppy. She dug her elbow into the small of your back to put you down, before switching tactics. She instead chose to slide her hand up and grip the back of your neck. She shoved your face into the ground. Holding you down in submission.

“Tag. you’re it.” She giggled.

Your shocked scream was muffled by the ground. Like some hunted doe, only your eyes could communicate. And they strained painfully to the right, hoping to see what the hunter was doing. The pain in the base of your spine ebbed as Ellie removed the puncture of her left knee from your back. She dropped into a crouch. But her hands slid down your back, then down your thighs, then to your knees where she gripped the sides of the joints and forcefully shoved them apart.

In the quiet of the dawn, you were more than a sight to see. You were a picture of desire to drink in, and a terrifying desperation possessed Ellie.

You should’ve ran faster.

Ellie inched all ten knuckles under the band of your jeans, she struggled to shove down your pants and underwear, grunting curses under her breath.

“No way in hell you were convinced you actually had a chance to win against me. I don’t think you realize how much I had to hold myself back. Couldn't let it be that easy for myself.”

Your breath came out ragged.

Ellie loved that.

She barely managed to shove the waist of your pants underneath the crease of your ass cheeks. But seeing as what she managed left her with just the necessary amount of space she needed to work with, it was certainly good enough.

“Honest question.” She paused for a moment and surveyed you. Her hand curled in the air “just to get this straight, were you jogging the entire lap or were you actually sprinting it? I just couldn’t tell.” She mocked.

The sneer her lips curled into was wicked.

But her violence even moreso.

Ellie slapped your ass harshly, intently drinking in the recoil. You yelped and jerked across the dirt. She lunged across to clamp the back of your neck, eyes piercing.

“Stay.”

The sound of a zipper being pulled down made you struggle in her grasp. Your head was scrambling from side to side to better see her. Picking up strewn leaves to tickle the bottom of your lips.

Ellie was having none of it. The fist on your neck squeezed tighter.

She tsk’d next to your ear, your first and now your final warning. She refused to repeat herself a second time.

If only you could’ve seen what she saw. Ass up, face down, bent like some bitch in heat. You were presenting yourself. Your left cheek was squished against the grass and leaves. And your ass was tempting and teasing itself in her face, globes split apart.

God, you didn’t know, but you’d looked so pathetic. Like you were just waiting to be topped. And if that was what you really wanted, then who was Ellie to deny you that?

A wicked grin bloomed onto her face, replacing the sneer.

One phrase boomed in her head.

…my bitch.

Ellie’s.

You were made to be Ellie’s bitch.

Ellie pulled out the harnessed cock, it had a real fat, girthy shaft. With a long vein running along the underside. She drooled at the fantasy of how it’d tug against your tight rim. She slid the dick atop the split of your ass cheeks. Rutting it up and down. Maybe it was a trick of the light, but she swore she saw you roll your hips onto it.

“Fuck me. Almost forgot about her.” The brunette unslung the rifle over her shoulder and head. She threw it a small distance away from you two. The black rifle skidded amongst the twigs, then stopped. You breathed a small sigh of relief amidst your mounting panic. Releasing the terror that it could go off while she fucked herself into you.

Holding her dick against your ass really let her hips take a break from the weight of it. You were such a good doe, letting her warm it between the globes of your ass cheeks. Taking her thumb and forefinger, Ellie angled her tip down, She gave shallow thrusts, reveling in the wet slide of her cock against your labia. She just needed a few more ruts against the slick, to get it as wet as she wanted.

Nimble as ever, the hunter slightly leaned back onto her calves. The bulbous tip of her cock inched back and dragged itself down the expanse of your labia, from clit to hole. Until it caught against the rim of your hole. It barely nudged inside. But the feeling of the tip pressing against it, reflexively made your hole clench a kiss on its head. Ellie whistled at the scene.

Heaven on earth is what this was to her.

“Would you look at that? You want it huh? Can tell by how you’re sucking it in.”

It turned Ellie on so much, seeing her dick just barely touch your hole, just prolonging what you both knew was to come. She was feeling a little violent again, so Ellie cracked another sharp slap on the meat of your ass. The heat and twinge from it, made your eyes widen. A blistering handprint was left where she slapped you. Tears started burning at the back of your eyes and you gasped in a panic. Your reactive jerk from her smack, involuntarily slipped the first inch of her cock into your hole. Your slick coated just the head. Wetness was slowly starting to slip down your walls. And it dripped past the seal of your vagina and coated the top of Ellie’s tip.

Not even pornography could compare; because to the eyes of anyone who could see, the scene between you and her was in every sense of the word: obscene.

You struggled against the grass again. Giving her a beautiful performance of a hunt gone well. Doe-eyed prey shaking fitfully against the grass. Ellie’s intimidating presence dwarfed everything in its path like a dark shadow.

She draped her chest over your back and laid her cheek to rest atop your planted head. Ellie slowly lined up her freckled lips with your ears. It could’ve almost looked like a caress; a sleepy embrace between two lovers. Where one whispered ‘good morning, you up honey?’, and the other grumbled lowly ‘mhm. Just 5 more minutes my love.’

But nothing that came out of her mouth was sweet.

Ellie whispered very lowly.

“I’m begging you—to try to fight me off.”

And with that, and a ghost of a kiss to the shell of your ear; Ellie thrusted the shaft inside, groaning her own pleasure over the shout you yelped into the ground. A sudden intrusion, as alarming as that was, could only be described as malice.

She slowly pumped in more inches of her cock until she felt a strong resistance. She kept testing it, pounding sharp pumps to see if there would be any further give. Each attempt pulled a muffled “n’moh it won’ fit phleese” out of you.

You dug into the grass.

Ellie’s beautiful features transformed into a quizzical frown. Her bushy eyebrows, her full pink lips, and her usually cherubic cheeks, wrinkled in to display a strong feeling of ... .disappointment. There were at least a few inches left of her hungry cock that weren’t warmed inside that slick tight pussy hole.

Why couldn’t you take all of it?

She furrowed her brows, dug her nails tightly into the fat of your hips, and hurriedly bullied her girthy cock into you. She couldn’t help but revel in the way each thrust pulled a yelp out of you like a kicked bitch.

Maybe those weren’t yelps from your lips, but instead muffled moans….

Ellie couldn’t really tell, and regardless, she definitely didn’t care.

Her thrusts were heavy, punchy. There was no space to spare inside of you. Her shaft was molding your hole to fit around its thickness. The cockhead squished against your cervix, pulling a new type of soreness with each pull of it.

“Uhn! Uhn! Uhn! Uhn!”

You drooled on the grass. You took the rhythmic pounding up your abused cunt. Your puffy cervix was leaving wet kisses on the tip of Ellie’s dick, which pulled even more slick from the tiny donut.

“That’s right. Uhn! Uhn! Uhnn! for me baby. Cry just like that. You like being tackled and fucked rough don’t you? Sloppy cunt.”

She mocked.

She was right, it was so sloppy. Your walls were practically drooling along her shaft; and trust her, she could feel it.

Ellie slowly pulled her cock out, only to marvel upon the gorgeous coating of slick that sparkled in the early sunlight. Your milk had pooled along the veins and ridges of her shaft.

There was a creamy mousse ring that wrapped around the base of her balls, frothing from the thrusts.

Ellie had a perverted temptation to taste a bit of that milky coating. The thing was, it wasn’t new to her, she’d gotten a taste of it many times before.

Chuckling to herself, she slid it back in. But with complete knowledge of how intensely full you’d feel, Ellie leaned down to drape her chest across your back once more.

She positioned her torso atop yours, digging her fingers into the dirt on either side of your head to get a solid grip. Dried leaves and grit collected under her fingernails and painted them specks of amber and brown. Her sweaty bangs were sticking to her face now. And they curved around her hairline as she barked a laugh at each rough pounding you took, like her sweet girl.

“So fucking—”

Thrust.

“Fun”

Thrust.

“Watc-hing you—”

Thrust.

Her voice cracked, pounding you was bumping her swollen clit just right.

“Run like.”

Thrust.

“Some weak little prey.”

She replaced her grip in the dirt with finding purchase on top of your hands. She slid her fingers in between yours and interlocked them. She squeezed your fingers between her own, you weakly squeezed hers back. The hunter above you, found just the right footing to put her full body weight into fucking you, and now you felt the stretch and fullness everywhere, everywhere.

No space inside of you was spared.

Who knew hunters could be so mean?

“You feel that? Is it stretching? I wanna know if it burns.” She gruffed.

Yes, yes, and yes. A weepy eyed ‘yes’ to all three.

All you could feel was her. Her cock was nudging past the sensitive swell of your g-spot, bruising the area with her pounding.

How could you not feel it?

Every ridge of her dick pulled muted squeals out of you. And despite how much your neglected clit cried for attention and touch from between its sloppy lips, there was a fiercely intense pleasure that radiated around your body. And the evidence was the strings of glossy slick drooled onto the grass patch below you two. The same slick ran down the underhaft of her cock as she pumped inside you, and collected at the base of her heavy balls. Balls that were building a bruise on your ass, with each stinging connect of her hips to your butt.

Ellie’s sighs and moans were pitching a variation of high and low tones. Huffing like a dog in heat because of how good it felt to be inside of you.

God, the strap was fucking her back. Her brain was growing fuzzy, heavy, needy.

Catching her prey to fuck it, had her mind unraveling.

Who was the bitch now?

“H-hey.” She breathed out

“Your sloppy hole feels s’good. Tiny, tiny pussy clamping on my cock. You making me work for it baby? Work hard to fu— fuck inside of you.”

She screwed her eyes shut. The intensity grew stronger.

“I’ll work as hard as I need to stu-stuff your sloppy holes” she slurred. Her green irises rolled to the back of her head.

Ellie’s grip on top of your hand considerably tightened, which had seemed almost impossible, given their already iron lock.

Ellie rolled her pale hips in shallow circles, grinding inside of you. The friction against your g-spot was dizzying, and from where your nose was shoved in the grass, you grew lightheaded.

As Ellie’s cock made your walls plump and swell, Your vision was slowly growing spotty. Little black dots were dancing across the expanse of your vision. It was unfortunate how little you could breathe, because the barks of pain and whimpers of pleasure that you wanted to release would’ve made Ellie cum on the spot right then.

“Love your pretty pussy. It’s pretty, it’s all mine. All for me. Tiny hole that I get to stuff full of dick—wanna chase and stuff you every day. I wanna be the only one in-inside you. Does my dick hurt your tummy? Want it to hurt you so good. Sorry, m’sorry, but I-I want it to hurt so good.”

Ellie was frantic and erratic. Fever brained and pussy drunk beyond the horizon. She sloppily slurred all her little fantasies in your ear.

The edges of your vision were graying out, your eyes glazed. If Ellie had noticed, she didn’t care.

Instead she obsessed herself with the way she was molding a home for her thick cock in your puffy walls. The same walls were puffy and deep pink inside.

Each thrust from her slender hips was like a zing that dragged pleasure down the ribbed walls. Pressure was building up severely in your tummy, and you were overcome with a strong urge to clamp.

You choked your last whimpering moan into the dirt, and finally let the tension go. Slick milky cum seeped from the seal of your sensitive hole and burst onto the base of her dick. It was frothing and glossy.

Your eyelids grew suddenly heavy. Your vision was tunneling, there was a gray and fuzzy halo around it that obstructed its clarity. You could only make out blurry shapes and colors, only the soft light of the day, just before you relaxed and sleepily went limp.

You had been fucked into a heavy slumber, yet your lower half was still being held up by the girl with the cock inside of you.

She didn’t let up.

Ellie kept fucking you. Frantic and greedy for her own orgasm in your pussy. She needed to be inside of it just a little longer.

She picked up her pace, relishing in the sweet feel of the cockbase smacking her clit. Ellie felt the same pressure in her own vagina rising. Her clit was just as swollen, just as puffy, just as wet and glossy as your hole was on the inside. And Ellie sought a few more angry thrusts to get her over the edge. She snapped her hips forward, and each time you jerked forward in the grass, with your lips forming an “o” and your eyes gently closed.

Thrust.

“Fuck!”

Thrust.

“Please please please.”

Thrust.

“—Prett-pretty my pretty pussy all mine.”

Thrust.

“Sososo tight.”

Thrust.

“Ughhhh!…”

A groan grizzled from her throat.

Ellie squirted spurts of her release down her thighs. Her eyeballs rolled backwards until they were white and veiny, and her hips stuttered with each squirt.

She came all over her skinny jeans.

Her chest rose and fell dramatically as she sucked in deep gulps of air. Ellie’s toned abs contracted with her breathing, clenching and relaxing. Over and over did the muscles dance until her breathing slowly steadied itself.

The hunter pulled out of you and tucked herself back inside her jeans. She barely zipped her pants up, leaving the slick base of her veiny dick still visible to the world’s eyes. She couldn't find it within herself to care, not even a tiny bit.

The NULA rifle was strewn amongst the grass, and its owner walked the short distance to pick it up from the grass. She picked it clean. Wiping the dirt off of it, and blowing off the stuck grass. She stationed the NULA by her hip again, and walked back towards your limp body.

Crescent moon sharpie doodles were scribbled onto the dirty toe box of her converses. The doodles you’d drawn for her one frigid October evening, an entire calendar year ago.

Ellie had found that so endearing, but even then she had been too shy to admit it at the time.

She surely wasn’t shy now.

Despite the fact that her preferred celestial body was still stars, she still held your insistence on decorating her shoes, near and dear to her heart. It had been one of those slow and scary, ‘I think I’m falling in love with you’ moments, that had pivoted the direction of your relationship, unbeknownst to either of you.

Ellie took those same converses and nudged your shoulder. Several times in fact.

In your deep slumber, your body had only moved with the motion of her foot.

A whistle twinkled from her pout.

“….And you’re out cold.”

She reached for your arm “okay come on—get up.” And slung you over her shoulder. It was awkward, it wasn’t easy. The sniper wanted about as much space on Ellie’s slender frame as you did. But she had to make it work. Better than patrollers finding you in the grass with your ass split wide open and your pussy dripping slick like a snail. So she dragged her feet as she carried you, and held the gun parallel to her body.

But she managed to make it work.

She managed all the way to the gates. where she slipped through the back. Your privacy was something she could never risk, no matter how much she reveled in this game.

She managed into Jackson town.

And then into her house, and then into her room, and then into her bed where she tucked you under the covers, so you could sleep the adrenaline and full body orgasm off.

The lull in her messy room was quiet.

It felt like no more than a warm hub, for you and your bold lover. Ellie was tired to her bones, but she worked on the keys of her guitar as you slept.

You’d mewled in your sleep from time to time. And she felt slightly guilty, slightly. She knew you’d wake up just fine. With a bad limp and maybe an attitude to last the day, but still mostly fine.

Ellie dropped her chin onto the guitar, and rolled herself back and forth in her chair.

She mulled over it in her mind, how it’d be kinder of her to just…pull back from time to time. Just so you weren’t wincing in your sleep from the ache. But then she pouted; unsure of herself.

Didn’t you like it when she was mean?

She plucked a key, F major, then B minor. A momentary pause, before her nails hesitantly strummed the strings. They still didn’t sound right. So she tuned them again.

She broke her gaze away from the strings to briefly check on you. You were a sniffling lump underneath her sky blue sheets.

Her chest squeezed at the image.

She knew it was sappy, it was lame. It was the feeling of impassioned affection; of love.

“I know you’ll love this one, whenever you decide to wake up…dork.” She teased.

Ellie strummed the string once again, meditating on the key. She cleared her throat, and whisper-sung her favorite part.

“Shall I stay? Would it be a sin, if I can’t help…” she sucked in a breath, and her cheeks dusted pink. Embarrassed even with no one to bare witness. But this song had best encompassed the ocean of her feelings.

“…Falling in love with you.”

She dropped her head against the body of her guitar.

And smiled into it.

-fin-

1K notes · View notes

riewritten · 7 months ago

Text

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐄𝐀 | READ ON AO3

JOHAN LIEBERT x GENDER-NEUTRAL!READER

˚ · .─ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: A reclusive man haunted by a dark past makes a routine of settling in from one remote village to another, it is until his solitude is disrupted by a warmhearted neighbor who slowly unravels his barriers.

˚ · .─ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 4k

˚ · .─ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: post-canon, neighbors, developing friendship, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort, romance but only if you squint, johan goes by a different name, a bit self-indulgent

The morning was quiet, the kind of quiet that wrapped itself around you like a heavy blanket. Johan—or the man who used to be Johan—stood by the edge of a small, weathered dock. The lake before him mirrored the gray sky above, its stillness a fitting companion to his isolation.

Here, in the shadow of the Austrian Alps, no one asked questions. No one looked too closely at the soft-spoken man who had arrived a year ago with little more than a duffle bag and a name scribbled on forged papers: Elias Meyer.

The locals in the nearby village whispered their theories about him. Some said he was a writer escaping the noise of the city; others believed he was a broken man fleeing a past too heavy to bear. No one dared to press him for details, not when his polite smiles came with an unshakable undercurrent of sadness.

Johan—Elias—had chosen this place for a reason. It was far enough from his past that even the most persistent ghosts couldn't follow.

One afternoon, as he carried firewood from the forest to his small cabin, he noticed a group of children playing by the lake. Their laughter echoed through the valley, sharp and carefree, a sound Johan hadn’t heard in what felt like lifetimes.

When was the last time he had heard it again?

With the question, memories of him and Anna running and laughing around the flower fields surged in his mind like a hidden plague aching to be let out. He tried to shake it off, which thankfully, did when a ball suddenly rolled towards him, coming to a stop near his boots.

One of the children, a boy no older than eight, hesitated before approaching him with wide, curious eyes, “Excuse me, Sir.”

Johan bent down, picking up the ball. For a moment, he froze, staring at the object in his hands. Memories of other children, other faces, tried to claw their way to the surface. But he pushed them back, focusing on the boy before him.

“Here,” Johan said softly, handing the ball back.

The boy smiled, and Johan felt something shift—a flicker of warmth where there had only been cold.

Weeks passed, and Johan began to notice the children more often. They waved to him from the village road, their carefree energy drawing him out of his solitude in ways he didn’t understand.

One day, the same boy from before approached him again.

“Mr. Meyer,” the boy said, using the name Johan had adopted. “Can you help us build a raft?”

Johan blinked, surprised. “A raft?”

“For the lake. We want to float it across and see who can paddle the fastest.”

Johan hesitated. He had spent so long avoiding attachments, avoiding the messiness of human connection. But something in the boy’s earnest expression made him nod.

As they worked together, something unexpected happened. Johan began to laugh—not the hollow, calculated laugh of his past, but something genuine, something that startled even himself.

Months turned into a year, and Johan—no, Elias—became a quiet but integral part of the village. He never shared much about himself, and the villagers respected his privacy. But he was always there to lend a hand, whether it was fixing a broken fence or helping the children with their schoolwork.

He didn’t try to forget his past; that would have been impossible. He didn't try to be a good person to reclaim himself either, as that would've been more impossible. Instead, he let it serve as a reminder of what needs to ponder as he lives the rest of his life in solitude.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the mountains, Johan sat by the lake with the boy who had first approached him.

“Mr. Meyer,” the boy asked, “why do you live here all alone?”

Johan smiled faintly, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Sometimes, people need to start over.”

“Because?”

“No reason, really. They just need to. Maybe to see the world a lot clearer than they did in their old lives…?”

The boy nodded, not fully understanding what his blonde friend was on.

Years later, Johan’s presence in the village becomes a story the locals would pass down—a kind stranger who came out of nowhere and left with no warning. No one knew where he went or why he had left in the first place.

But those who remembered him would always recall his kindness, quiet but comforting, faint but indubitably paved more warmth in their lives.

And somewhere, in places even quieter than the village he had already gone through, Johan Liebert immersed in his new name—quite surprised that monsters like him didn’t actually need to consume another’s existence just to gain one. For the first time, he was simply a man, trying to live—at least, that was the routine he had developed for years and years. Elias Meyer, a man almost unnoticeable building himself a haven from one remote town to the other. Johan had no plans of changing it.

Even when he decided to settle in another remote village to check on an old friend (without making his old identity known, of course), he had no plans of changing it. Elias Meyer is an existence that will always be bound to leave.

The mornings in this town were colder than the last one. The frost was biting at the air before the sun had fully risen. The uncomfortable weather might’ve been too cozy for someone like him, and yet his resolve was unwavering—he is Elias Meyer, and Elias Meyer is an existence that would be always bound to leave—it is until you started appearing at his door with delectable breakfasts at hand.

You had moved to this little village years ago after graduating college, and ever since, the neighbors had perceived you as a bright newcomer with an eagerness to meet each one of them. Poor Elias, they thought to themselves humorously, because they just know his preference for solitude—even to the point of owning a cabin at the edge of town—would have no say once faced with your resolute extroversion.

You perceived Elias as that tall, blonde man whose face looked carved from stone—a beauty so ethereal it’d be a waste if he wasn’t basking in the sun for everyone to see every morning. He barely acknowledged anyone. He kept to himself, slipping into town only for essentials, his words clipped but polite. And unfortunately for you, most of the neighbors could respect his solitude.

But you couldn’t.

When you first saw him at the market buying his fair share of supplies and vegetables, he has unknowingly bewitched you. His beautiful, distant face seemed wrapped in shadows you couldn’t decipher. And perhaps you're a cat whose curiosity would someday get you killed, or perhaps a moth doomed to die by its entrancement to the fire. The neighbors were right, much to their excitement—Elias is doomed to be your project.

The first morning you knocked on his door, you had a basket in hand—freshly baked shortbread cookies, a jar of honey, and a thermos of hot tea.

When he opened the door, his expression was unreadable, pale blue eyes scanning you with a calm detachment that made your stomach flutter.

“Good morning, my new neighbor!” you chirped, holding the basket out. “I figured you might want some breakfast.”

He stared at you for a moment, his gaze cool but not unkind. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Oh, come on, you haven’t even tried it yet!” you insisted, pushing the basket forward. “I made it myself.”

There was a long pause, the kind that might have made anyone else shrink back. But not you. You smiled, unwavering, until he finally sighed and took the basket from your hands.

“Thank you,” he said again, quieter this time. Then he closed the door.

It was all it took for him to take note of your existence? Hell, he looked at you for a solid minute from head to toe, as though taking in your presence before his very eyes! You left his doorstep feeling victorious.

The next morning, you knocked again. And the morning after that.

At first, he didn’t seem to know what to do with you. He would accept the food with a quiet nod, barely saying a word before closing the door. But over time, you noticed subtle changes—with how he lingered a little longer at the threshold, and with how his eyes softened just the slightest when he saw you.

“You really don’t have to do this,” he said one morning, as you handed him a bowl of steaming soup.

“I know,” you replied with a grin, “but I want to.”

He stared at you, as though trying to puzzle you out. “Why?”

“Because you look like you could use a friend.”

The words seemed to unsettle him. He didn’t reply, but this time, he didn’t close the door right away.

Weeks passed, and your morning visits became a routine. He started inviting you inside—not for long, just enough time to sip tea or exchange a few words.

You learned his name was Elias Meyer, though something in the way he said it made you wonder if it was real. You didn’t press him for details; you could tell he valued his privacy, and you could at least respect that despite the things you couldn’t.

But little by little, you saw glimpses of the man beneath the quiet exterior. He was incredibly observant, noticing small details about you that no one else did. He rarely smiled, but when he did, it felt like the sun breaking through clouds.

One morning, you brought him a basket of wildflowers along with the usual breakfast.

“They reminded me of you,” you said, setting the basket on his table.

He gave you a strange look, his lips twitching as though he didn’t know whether to laugh or frown. “Wildflowers reminded you of me?”

“Sure,” you said brightly. “They’re quiet, but they still make the world a little more beautiful.”

Despite the amusing remark, Johan seemed to remember something from a long past, something that made him stare at the flowers way longer than intended. Then, you saw him smile—not a ghost of one, but a real, genuine smile. It was fleeting, but it made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t quite understand.

“You should smile more, Elias,” you blurted, which in turn dissipated Johan’s smile with a clear of his throat.

“Not my thing.”

But still! You quietly gushed. What a beautiful smile! You went home victorious yet again when dusk came.

One evening, as the sun set behind the mountains, you found yourself sitting on the porch of his cabin. He had made tea for the two of you, a small gesture that felt monumental considering how reluctant he’d been to accept your kindness at first.

“Why do you keep coming here?” he asked suddenly, his voice low but steady.

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

He hesitated, searching for the right words. “I’m not the kind of person people like you should want to be around.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “What makes you say that?”

His eyes darkened, a shadow passing over his face, and yet he stayed silent, refusing to answer. It didn't take long for you to put the pieces together. You reached out, placing a hand on his arm. “We all have pasts, Elias. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve a future.” For a moment, he looked at you as though you were something incomprehensible, something he couldn’t quite believe was real.

The days turned into weeks, then months, and slowly, Johan—or Elias, as you knew him—began to change. He still valued his solitude, but he didn’t seem to mind sharing it with you.

He never told you the full truth about his past, not that you ever asked. You didn’t need to know who he had been to see the man he was becoming.

Johan was getting accustomed to his new normal, but then it changed again.

It is a change that, perhaps, would require Johan to rethink the duration of his stay in your village. How strange, one might think, for Johan had developed more disdain for permanence ever since he started living like this. And he only came here to check on an old friend, wanted to see if they’re doing well and good, then he’d be quietly taking his leave again, right? Under what instances must his agenda change?

It started the first morning you didn’t knock on his door. Johan didn’t think much of it. People had lives, after all. Perhaps you’d overslept, or maybe you were busy with something else.

The second morning, however, felt different. He found himself waiting by the door longer than he cared to admit, listening for the sound of your footsteps or the soft knock he’d grown accustomed to. When it didn’t come, he stood there for several minutes before stepping back, unsettled.

By the third day, Johan’s thoughts refused to quiet. Something about your absence gnawed at him, a peculiar weight in his chest he couldn’t name. He hadn’t realized how much he’d come to expect you, to rely on the brightness you brought with you each morning.

So that evening, just as the sun dipped below the horizon, Johan found himself standing in front of your small, weathered house.

The curtains were drawn, and the porch light was off, but he could see a faint glow from inside. His knuckles rapped against the door, firm and deliberate.

“Are you there?” he called, his voice steady but quieter than usual.

There was no answer, but the light inside didn’t move. He waited a moment longer before trying the handle. It turned easily, and he stepped inside, his footsteps nearly silent against the wooden floor.

You were on the couch, curled into yourself, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs. The sight stopped him cold.

There he goes, his hand stops around the doorframe as he processes the sight. And, perhaps, the realization that out of everyone in this unpopulated village, he might not be the one who does best at masking his real self. You, who were always so buoyant, so irrepressibly bright, were now something else entirely—small, vulnerable, broken in a way he hadn’t seen before. You were still wearing the clothes he had last seen you with three days ago. Your hair was all greasy, and your skin was oily as it wrapped around your body. It must’ve been uncomfortable on your end. Your whole house was chaotic, too. As if it had been abandoned for weeks.

He took a careful step forward, then another, stopping just short of the couch. “You didn’t come this morning,” he said softly, as though the words themselves might shatter you further.

“Please, don’t look at me…” Slowly, you turned to look at him, your face streaked with tears as you realized that it was Elias before you, the last person you’d expect to visit you such an hour—with a face hinting concern, no less. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice raw. “I... I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

He crouched beside you, his expression calm but intense, his pale blue eyes fixed on yours. He didn’t move for a long moment, his mind working in ways it hadn’t in years. Comforting others was not something he was accustomed to. His presence had always been a harbinger of destruction, not solace. And yet, here you were, someone who had given him pieces of light he didn’t think he deserved, now in desperate need of something in return.

He reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and gently wrapped it around you. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though trying not to startle you.

What surprised you, however, was when he sat down beside you, leaving just enough space to make his presence felt without crowding you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, his voice low but not unkind.

You shook your head, clutching the blanket tighter. Minutes passed in silence, broken only by your uneven breaths. Johan sat perfectly still, his gaze fixed on some indeterminate point ahead. He didn’t press you, didn’t offer hollow reassurances. Instead, he stayed there, his calm presence steady against the storm inside you.

When your sobs finally quieted, he heated some tea on your countertop, paving his way onto your kitchen with all the familiar stock of food, all because these were all you’ve been bringing to his door first thing in the morning. Much to his surprise, he sees the familiar basket on the edge of your kitchen—two pieces of sourdough bread, a thermos of tea, and a jar of honey refilled. It means you had an attempt to get out of your house and go to his somehow; it’s just that you failed miserably.

Johan is then confused. What made you sink this low? What have you been amidst all the smiles you shine down upon everyone? The monster inside him spoke; poor human beings, to absolutely despise their real form so much to feign buoyancy and joy when out of their safe havens. How despicable.

This was the first time—since Johan had escaped that dreary hospital bed—that he had gotten confused about which voice he’d let take over inside his pretty little head.

Without a word, he handed the mug of tea to you, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Drink,” he nonchalantly said. “It will help.”

You hesitated but took the cup, your hands trembling slightly as you brought it to your lips. After you’d finished, Johan stood and moved toward the kitchen again. You watched him, confused, as he opened a few cupboards and began preparing something—toast, simple and unassuming, but warm. When he returned, he set the plate in front of you without a word.

“You don’t have to eat it now,” he said, his voice softer than before. “But you should eat something.”

The care in his actions, so understated yet deliberate, brought fresh tears to your eyes. There you go again, Johan pointed out in his mind. He never thought you’d be a crybaby. As much as you’d like to disrupt his solitude in the morning, it seemed like he has also taken a liking to observing your every action. How unusual.

Johan stayed until you fell asleep, sitting quietly in the chair across from the couch. As your breathing evened out, he leaned back, his gaze lingering on your tear-streaked face.

And again, for the first time in years, he felt something unfamiliar—a desire not to fix or manipulate, but simply to be there.

As he left the house that night, locking the door behind him, he had decided that whatever it was that fractured your smile, perhaps it would be in his best interest if he didn’t let it consume you—not if he could help it.

A few days passed, and your routine of appearing before his door first thing in the morning still hadn’t gone back.

What surprised Johan instead was the soft knock on his door in the middle of the night, waking him up from a light slumber. He had mentally thanked himself and his unhealthy sleeping habits because as soon as he opened the door, he found you standing there, shivering, your face pale and your eyes wide with a mix of fear and lingering tears.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, clutching the edges of your cardigan. “I had... a bad dream.”

Johan studied you silently for a moment, his gaze sharp but not unkind. Without a word, he stepped aside, gesturing for you to come in.

He didn’t ask what the dream was about as he could sense the weight of it in your shoulders just well—it was in the way you hugged yourself, in your trembling as if the nightmare still had its claws keeping in its wake. It wasn’t an unfamiliar sight. It’s just that he didn’t know what to say; it's been decades since he had comforted someone who just woke up due to their own plaguing demons—it was back in the days when his sister, Anna, could still turn to him like this whenever she dreamt of the Red Rose Mansion.

So instead of pressing you on it, he heated some chamomile tea and placed the warm mug in front of you before sitting across the table, repeating his gesture the nights prior.

“You’re safe now,” he managed after a while, voice steady and calm, as if willing you to believe it.

“Am I?” you blankly stared down the ground, letting the smell of chamomile permeate your senses. It wasn’t long until your words sunk at you: Crap, he might think I’m being sarcastic, and so you muttered, “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“I didn’t mean to bother you, I just... I just didn’t know where else to go.”

"Worry not, you've come to the right place." What did he mean by that? Isn't he bothered? It's three in the morning, Elias. After a few sips of tea, Johan suggested, “Stay here tonight. The dream can’t follow you here.”

You nodded, thankful, but the lurking question was still in mind: Why? Why would the dream not follow you here?

But Johan knew the veracity of his statement all too well, albeit lost at how and why he was acting so unlikely of his character. You came to the right place, indeed, for the monster won't reach you if he’s here. No monster would dare, that much he knew, as much as he had liked the intrigue of other beings becoming a master of Johan’s own game. “Want to tell me what happened?”

You shook your head, unable to form words.

He stayed silent, as though waiting for you to form your thoughts. And when you failed, he just moved to sit beside you instead, not daring to ask questions or try to pull answers from you.

His presence was quiet but steady—a calm in the storm even—that you couldn’t help yourself but rest your head against his shoulder. He didn’t move away; if he was surprised or irked, he showed no sign of it either.

Perhaps the only lurking question in his head was that; how do people usually do this? His hand hovered for a moment before he rested it lightly against your back, his touch—perhaps—was perceived by your brain as a silent reminder: Go on, I’ll stay as long as you need.

"Thank you, Elias," you mutter. "And sorry. I'll make it up to you."

Despite Johan feeling all too unfamiliar—not only with the name but with the mere act of being thanked—he didn't show it upfront. It's as if he's a mere watcher, an observer seeing how things unfold. He's definitely not someone to be thanked, he's sure as hell you're not thanking him—as in the person that he is—but rather the person that he's showing in front of you, as Elias Meyers, as the neighbor you had quite taken a liking with.

However, he's not that kind and caring to not use it for his own gain yet. "Show yourself up on my doorstep again once you're all better, preferably with a breakfast at hand to save me the hassle of cooking for myself."

"Tch," you chuckled and rolled your eyes at how silly the payment had sounded, but you nodded anyway. You miss bugging him during the day.

For hours, the two of you sat there, the world outside forgotten. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you weren’t carrying the weight alone. You ended up falling asleep on his couch, the blanket he draped over you smelling faintly of the pinewood walls of his cabin.

TAG LIST 🏷️ @chxrry-writes @nefarra @ellabellapumela @skexxll @melonvrs

by the way, FOR MY OIL WELL FIRES LOVERS, allow me to cook... read more here ;) also saying this before anyone asks; no i don't want to continue this yet im sorry. maybe after i finish oil well fires? but if someone wants to then pls do and pamper me some johan liebert fluff :( i am so sad

@xeiin-n @s0m4-sh4rk | SUBSCRIBE/UNSUSCRIBE TO STORIES

#johan liebert x you #johan liebert x reader #johan liebert x y/n #monster fanfiction #johan x reader #johan x y/n #johan x you #johan liebert fanfiction #johan liebert fanfic #monster fanfic #johan liebert fluff #johan liebert x gender neutral reader

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neteyamssyulang · 1 year ago

Text

♱ Wild Encounters ♱

♱ Easter special ♱

♱ Pairing: Adult Neteyam x Fem human reader ♱

♱ Summary: While on a late night walk in the woods, you immediately regret your decision.

♱ Warnings: Dom Neteyam, Sub reader, Neteyam in rut, Dub-con?, P in V, Size difference, Creampie.

♱ Translation(s): Tawtute -> Sky person, Tìyawn -> Love.

♱ Word count: 653 ♱

♱ A/N: Happy Easter my darlings!

♱ Tagging: @teyamshuman @ikeyniofthetayrangi @itchaboi-itchyboy @aria-tempest @anemonelovesfiction @loaksulluyswife @kia-wolfie @tallulah477 @kariz-stark

When you decided to go for a late night walk through the forest, this is not what you had in mind.

The air was temperate, the breeze was cool, the bioluminescent moss lighting your way though the endless forest. It felt good to be out here, so perfect and free.

Tonight felt different though, like someone was watching you from the shadows. Whenever you turned around however, there was nobody around. It was like pandora was playing a prank on you, making you feel crazy and on edge.

Glances over your shoulder now and then would ease that nervousness inside of you a bit but it would never fully go away. A twig snapping behind you made you turn around instantly, only to be met with, him.

You've heard stories about the omaticaya prince from humans that went back and fourth from the village, yet none compared to what is infront of you right now.

His eyes, normally described yellow like honey were green, with slits for pupils. His skin was covered in a thin layer of sweat, and a noticeable tent was in his tewng.

"Such a pretty little tawtute" he purred, stepping closer towards you. Instinctively, you took a step back making him growl.

In an instant, you found yourself laying flat on your back with the huge na'vi hovering above you. He was so large compared to you, having to bend his back a bit to bury his head into the crook of your neck.

"Please, don't do this.." you begged him, unfortunately your pleas fell on deaf ears as he ripped off your shorts, along with your panties and shirt.

"You do not tell me what to do, little girl" he hissed, moving his loincloth to the side. His cock slapped against his stomach, beads of pre-cum already oozing from the tip.

Holy mother he was huge, that would never fit inside you. No way, no how. "That thing will ne- ahh! oh shit!" Your cut off as he immediately rammed his cock inside your tight pussy.

"Fuck.. so tight..so good" he moaned, with no preparation the stretch felt unbearable to you. It was like he was tearing you in half, literally.

Tears streamed down your face as you dug your nails into the palm of your hand, leaving small crescent marks. Without warning, Neteyam pulled out only to slam back inside. A noticeable buldge could be seen from your stomach where his cock was buried.

Neteyam hovered above you, his large frame making you feel even smaller compared to him. His arms caged you in as he started rutting into you like a rabbit in heat.

The forest was filled with the sound of his hips slapping against yours, along with the lewd sounds he kept pulling from your lips. You've never felt so full in your life, not even the toys you had could make you feel this way.

"That's it" Neteyam purred, coiling his tail around your ankle. He leaned down, burying his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your sweet scent.

You whined, clawing at his shoulders as you felt your climax approaching. Neteyam groaned, picking up his pace "Is the little human gonna cum for me? Hm?"

Leaning back up, he gazed down at your flushed face. You nodded frantically, desperately wanting to cum already. Neteyam smirked,"Cum, be a good little slut and cum.on.this.cock!" With each word he delivered a hard thrust, his tip kissing your cervix.

A choked out sob left your lips as you came hard, squirting onto his lower abdomen and thighs. Neteyam hissed feeling your walls squeezing around him tightly, with one last thrust he buried himself to the hilt inside, painting your gummy walls white.

Panting heavily, you gazed up at him, his green eyes slowly turning back to the warm honey ones you heard so much about.

"Your mine now, pretty human" he murmured.

#neteyamssyulang #james cameron avatar #avatar the way of water #neteyam te suli tsyeyk'itan #adult neteyam #neteyam x female reader #neteyam x human reader #neteyam smut #tw: dubcon #comments really appreciated #please like and reblog #followmypage

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riddlesrizzler · 1 month ago

Note

hello there, sweet soul! i have a little request, if you’re open to it (of course, there’s no pressure at all).

inspired by the charm of !deer reader, i dreamed up a story about theodore nott. he’s been having a recurring dream—a forest cloaked in mist, quiet as a held breath. in the heart of it stands a deer, watching him with wide, gentle eyes, as if calling to something deep inside him.

then, one day, a new girl arrives. and something about her tugs at him. he doesn’t understand why, only that he needs to look again.

one night, on one of his usual escapes to the astronomy tower, he finds her there. and when he sees her clearly, truly sees her—he recognizes those same soft, doe eyes from his dreams.

i’ve fallen in love with your writing and would be over the moon to read your take on this story. thank you so much for reading this—truly. 🤍🦌

omg thank you so much for this request and I am so sorry it has taken me some time to get to!

but I am so glad that you love deer! reader and this was so fun to write! I hope you enjoy!

Theodore Nott dreamed often, but never of things he knew.

He didn’t dream of school or of people or the cold marble halls of his manor. His dreams didn’t take the shape of faces or voices. They came instead in texture-mist thick enough to touch, quiet that pressed against his ears like velvet, air so still it made his heart pound louder than it should.

Always the same forest.

Its trees reached high into the grey sky, gnarled branches clawing at the clouds. Moss curled around the roots, and the fog never lifted. The world in those dreams was colorless, but not lifeless. There was something watching.

And in the center of it all stood a doe.

She was still. Not with fear, but with purpose. Poised like something sacred. Her eyes were dark, wide, endless. When Theodore looked at her, he felt the strangest sense of knowing-not like meeting someone new, but like recognizing a lullaby from childhood, or a scent from a house you’d long forgotten.

She never moved. Never fled.

Only watched.

And he woke each time with a name just out of reach, his chest hollow and aching, his palms curled like they’d been reaching for something that wasn't there.

It had been weeks since the dreams began when she arrived.

He didn’t even notice her at first-she wasn’t the sort of girl people paid much attention to. She sat in the back of classrooms, never raised her hand, and rarely smiled unless it was to herself. Her robes were always a little too big, like they belonged to someone else before her. Her hair was soft and unassuming. She carried books that looked older than she was, pages frayed from love.

Theodore didn’t notice her, not properly, until he caught her staring at the lake.

It was a Tuesday. Grey skies, wind curling off the water. He was walking back from Care of Magical Creatures alone, his mind in that familiar foggy half-state the dreams left him in. She stood by the edge, shoes just shy of the damp grass, chin tilted like she was waiting for something to rise from the depths.

And the way she stood-the tilt of her head, the soft stillness of her expression-it knocked the breath clean from his lungs.

He stopped walking. Just stood there for a moment, heart thudding for no reason he could explain.

It’s not her, he told himself. That’s ridiculous.

But something whispered otherwise.

Days passed, and he found himself looking for her without meaning to. In the Great Hall, in the corridors, in the reflection of the window glass. She didn’t act like the other girls. She didn’t act like anyone at all. And for some reason, that bothered him more than he expected.

Theodore Nott didn’t chase things.

He didn’t chase people.

So instead he watched.

He started walking the long way to class. Started lingering in the library. Started paying attention.

And still, he couldn’t shake the way her presence pulled at something wordless in him.

It was past curfew when he saw her again.

The Astronomy Tower was his escape. It had always been his-tucked above the castle, so high the world fell away below. The night pressed cold against the stone, and the stars stretched wide above, uncaring and beautiful.

He climbed the final steps, mind thick with fog again, hoping maybe the sky could quiet it.

But when he pushed the door open, someone was already there.

She stood at the far end, arms folded on the ledge, chin resting on her hands. The moon spilled across her face, catching in her lashes, lighting the edge of her hair like frost.

She didn’t turn when the door creaked. Didn’t move.

Theodore froze.

He thought about leaving-pretending he hadn’t meant to come here-but something in him refused. So he stepped forward instead, each movement careful, like she might vanish if he startled her.

She turned her head slightly, just enough to see him out of the corner of her eye.

“I thought I was the only one who came up here,” she said quietly, voice barely above the wind.

His throat felt dry. “You’re not.”

Her mouth curved into the smallest of smiles. “It’s peaceful.”

He nodded, unsure what to say. Her presence felt like a dream he hadn’t fully woken from. Familiar. Too familiar.

“I’ve seen you before,” she said, turning to face him now. “You’re Theodore.”

He blinked. “Yeah.”

“You look like someone who doesn’t sleep well,” she added, voice gentle. Not mocking. Not curious, even. Just… aware.

“I don’t,” he admitted before he could stop himself.

A pause. Her eyes searched his face like she already knew what she was looking for.

“You dream, though.”

The air between them grew still. Something in his chest twisted.

“How do you-?”

“I dream too,” she said, and her voice softened, like she was saying something sacred. “A forest. Always fog. And a boy. He never speaks, but… he looks lost.”

Theodore’s heart slammed against his ribs.

His lips parted, but no sound came.

She stepped closer, and in the moonlight, he saw.

Those eyes.

The ones from the forest. Gentle. Deep. Knowing.

A memory disguised as a person.

“I think you’ve been looking for something,” she whispered.

He swallowed hard, the wind rattling through his bones. “And you?”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “I think I’ve been waiting to be found.”

#ask the rizzler #theodore nott #theodore nott x y/n #theo nott #slytherin boys #slytherin #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #slytherin aesthetic #harry potter #my works #theodore nott x you #theo nott x reader #deer!reader #animagus!reader

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sorceresssundries · 8 months ago

Text

Lilac and Gold

Pairing: FemaleTav/Halsin

Warnings: Smut, pegging, anal sex, rimming.

Word Count: 4.5k

Some smut with feelings! Halsin deserves to get pegged.

A birthday gift for the wonderful @mercymaker.

“I don’t think being kind comes naturally to me,” Maleane whispered, her voice tinged with quiet shame as she gently bundled Thoriel in thick, woollen blankets, preparing the little one for the colder nights to come in the nursery they had made for her.

Halsin, standing nearby, glanced at her with that steady gaze that saw through every wall she had ever put up. “And yet, you are,” he said, warm and sure, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. He had a way of stating things so simply, so matter-of-fact, that they felt undeniable.

“You are trying, and that is enough” There was never any pretence with him—no words spun from too-sweet sugar, no thorns disguised as rose stems. He spoke plainly, and in his words, there was only truth.

The nights are getting longer. Thoriel is teething. The town of Reithwin thrives. You are kind, and strong, and wanted.

In his simplicity, everything seemed so clear, as if kindness was as fundamental to her as the changing seasons or the rise of the sun.

The world turns. The sky is blue. She is kind, and strong, and wanted.

Halsin made her better, in ways she never thought possible. Not perfect, her wounds were too deep for that. But he made her feel safe and loved. He didn’t try to fix her; he simply accepted her as she was, flaws and all.

The warmth of Halsin was always meant to be shared, and she was lucky enough to be welcome and safe in the blazing hearth of his heart.

Maleane wanted to do something for him. She noticed the tired lines etched at the corners of his eyes, the way his movements seemed just a little slower these days. Halsin would never admit to being weary - his sense of duty was too great, his heart too full of love for her, for Thoriel, and for the town of Reithwin. The town had flourished under his care, transforming from a place of shadows and sorrow into a thriving haven of hope and light. People looked to him for guidance, strength, and healing.

But Maleane saw what others missed. He never stopped to care for himself. The moments he used to cherish—smoking his pipe under the shade of the willow tree, the quiet solitude of sketching the creatures of the forest in his well-worn pad—had grown scarce. She missed seeing the peace in his eyes when he could steal away to the wilderness, even if only for a while. He deserved more. He deserved to lean on someone without the fear of crushing them, to let go.

Even the mightiest trees needed a break from the sun, and to have their bark softened by the touch of rain.

And what was she? if not built of moonlight and stormwater.

The next night, she had prepared everything carefully, making sure that Thoriel was settled with Arielle, and the rest of the village would not disturb them. Halsin had given her so much; she would give what little she could in return, and hope it would be enough.

As dusk settled over Reithwin, staining the sky ink blue and swirling purple, Maleane approached Halsin where he stood at the edge of the village, standing sentinel as the chatter of the day settled into dreams and snores. His expression was calm, as it always was, but she could see the lines of fatigue in the corners of his eyes.

“You’re tired, love,” she said gently as she approached him from behind, slipping her arms around his middle, though her hands didn’t quite meet around his solid form. He didn’t respond with words, just turned slightly toward her and lifted one of her hands to his cheek, closing his eyes as he leaned into her touch. He hummed low, the sound vibrating through him, his shoulders dropping slightly.

“You can lean on me, you know,” she whispered.

A soft chuckle rumbled from his chest, the sound low and warm. “Lean on you, little one?” He smiled down at her, the amusement in his eyes momentarily chasing away the fatigue. “I’d crush you.”

She gave him a playful nudge, shaking her head. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t think it comes naturally to me,” he admitted.

“Just try. That’s enough.” She pushed herself up onto the balls of her feet so she could kiss him. Softly. The fullness of her dark lips finding the thin smile of his. His fingers were large and calloused from centuries of hard work, but they may as well have been wrapped in satin for how softly he touched her jaw. His other hand found her waist, and he pulled her against him, and a familiar rumble left his chest as their tongues met and her grip tightened on him, then all too quickly for his liking, she pulled away. Her lilac eyes half-lidded and sparkling.

“Come on, I have something for you.”

They strolled through the forest, hands entwined. leaves rustled in the gentle breeze, and Maleane led him to a small clearing, where the trees parted just enough to allow a view of the starlit sky.

Before them lay a hot spring, its waters warm and inviting, steam rising gently into the cool night air. The surface shimmered under the soft glow of floating lanterns, which bobbed lazily above the water like glowing fireflies. Each one was enchanted, and their golden light rippled on the water’s surface and danced along the rocks. The whole place was soft and golden and dreamlike.

Maleane had decorated the edges of the spring with wild blooms of lavender and sage, and set a simple arrangement of food on a flat, smooth rock. Freshly baked bread, still warm, sat next to a bowl of ripe berries and crisp apples. A small jar of honey glistened beside the fruits, the amber of it glowing in the lantern light.

She turned to Halsin, her lilac eyes catching golden flickers.

He was speechless and love-struck.

“Take this off,” she whispered with playful authority, tugging lightly at the hem of his tunic, her fingers brushing against his waist. Her heart raced a little as she touched him, trying to focus on the task at hand.

Halsin raised a brow, the shadow of a smile playing on his lips. He lifted his arms and allowed her to slide the fabric over his head. The simple motion made her breath catch as the shadows played along the outline of thick muscles that rippled beneath his tanned and scarred skin. He was beautiful.

Once he was completely naked, Maleane gently urged him toward the water. A sigh escaped him as he melted into it. As the water lapped softly at his skin, Maleane slipped in behind him. Her movements were slow and deliberate as she positioned herself at his back, her thighs on either side of his hips. Halsin leaned back slightly, his broad shoulders brushing against her as he settled.

“What did I ever do to deserve you, my heart?” Halsin’s voice was thick with affection. One of his hands found her leg beneath the water, his rough fingers gently caressing the curve of her calf.

His words were a warm and needed cloak which draped and swaddled her. She rested her chin on his shoulder, her lips grazing his skin as she whispered back, “You deserve far more than I could ever give.”

From the side of the spring, she reached for a small vial of oil she had prepared earlier. The liquid was fragrant with a blend of herbs—lavender, rosemary, and a hint of chamomile—and she poured a small amount into her hands, rubbing them together to warm it before resting them on his shoulders.

Her fingers trembled slightly as they worked into the knots in Halsin’s muscles. As her hands moved, slick and gliding over the broad expanse of his back, her confidence wavered.

Her pale, spindly fingers, once so deft at slipping coins from pockets and spinning blades in the shadows, seemed out of place. These were not the hands of a healer, she thought with a pang of self-doubt. They were the hands of a thief and a killer, hands that crackled with the raw power of storm magic, not tenderness. How could they possibly be soft or skilled enough to ease the burdens of someone like him.

Her rhythm faltered. She eased up, fearful of pressing too hard, of doing more harm than good. What if she added to the strain instead of relieving it? Her fingers hesitated.

Before she could pull away completely, Halsin took apart the silence. “I won’t break, my love.” He didn’t turn to look at her, but there was no need. “You feel wonderful,” he murmured softly. “Please, don’t stop.”

Taking a deep breath, Maleane pressed her hands more firmly into his back, her fingers sinking deeper into the tense muscles. She felt the hard knots of tension and focused on working them out, letting her hands do what they could. As her confidence grew, her touch became more purposeful, and she found her rhythm again. The warmth of the oil and the heat of the spring worked with her, loosening the tightness in his shoulders and neck.

Halsin was quiet for a long time, simply allowing himself to be tended to, his breaths deep and even as her hands worked a different kind of magic. She moved with intention, her fingers lingering on the spots she knew were always the most tense - his lower back, his shoulders, the thick muscles at the base of his neck. A soft smile curved her lips as she continued the gentle rhythm of her hands.

“Don’t you dare fall asleep, you great bear” Maleane teased, nipping playfully at his earlobe. Halsin’s eyes fluttered open, a low, rumbling chuckle escaped him and without a word, he turned, his large hands sliding down to grasp her thighs, lifting her effortlessly. She gasped, startled, but quickly wrapped her legs around his waist as he stood, carrying her out of the spring with an ease that made her head spin.

Water cascaded from his body in rivulets, catching the moonlight as it fell, while steam rose from his skin in delicate spirals, as if he were made of fire. She clung to him, laughing breathlessly, and through the slick warmth of the water between them, she felt him—hard and ready, pressed against her.

Before she could form another teasing remark, his mouth found hers, claiming her in a kiss that was hungry and urgent. His lips were firm, and his tongue swept across hers as her fingers tangled in his damp hair.

Maleane had never felt more alive than when she was with Halsin. His touch bloomed her like the spring. The vines of her heart, which she often thought rotted and curled into nothing but husks where fruit had once ripened and died, were all of a sudden green again. Lush. Halsin’s devotion held the power to bring life and joy to the very soil, and it was the same with her. He had seen the best of nature, the full beauty and bounty of the world around him. And he looked at her as though all of it paled in comparison.

She was his heart, and he was hers.

But, the intimacy they both desired didn’t come easily. Halsin’s sheer size had made it difficult - overwhelming for her smaller frame. The first time they’d tried, he’d been everything she could have asked for: gentle, patient, his every touch careful and soft. Yet even with all that care, the discomfort had quickly become too much. Time and again, they had tried, searching for different ways to make it work, but the result was always the same. His body was simply too large for hers to fully accommodate. And though they had found other ways to explore each other - through hands, tongues, hot caresses - it was never enough. No matter how much satisfaction they brought each other, that unfulfilled hunger remained, gnawing at the edges of her mind. She wanted more.

“Before you get carried away, I have a gift for you.” she murmured.

Halsin groaned into the crease of her neck, she knew if she didn’t stop him now he would kiss his way down her body and settle his devoted tongue into the sweet warmth of her cunt, and then all her thoughts would be pulled apart and lost.

“I don’t need more gifts, my heart. You have spoiled me. Let me spoil you in return.”

The pad of his thumb rubbed her waist, in slow mesmerising circles.

“I promise, this will be worth it.” She said with a sly little smirk.

As the heat of the moment simmered, she leaned over to reach for a box wrapped delicately in a lilac ribbon. The wood was finely carved, etched with intricate patterns of vines and leaves. She handed it to him, her eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Something special for tonight,” she whispered, her voice bubbling with an unmistakable edge of mischief.

Halsin's eyes, still hazy with pleasure, widened with curiosity as he untied the ribbon and carefully lifted the lid. Inside, nestled on velvet cloth, was a beautifully crafted wooden sex toy. A phallus, not as large as his, with a sturdy leather harness. Designed for Maleane’s petite figure. Maleane had taken great care in selecting it, ensuring it was as much a work of art as it was a tool for their pleasure.

His gaze lifted to hers, as he took it in his hands, feeling the weight of it in his palm.

“My heart, I must say…” He sighed as he studied it. “I am a little offended.”

Her heart sank, the sudden realisation striking her like a thunderclap. She had misread the situation. Of course she had. Acts of generosity, of attuning to what others truly needed, did not come naturally to her. Of course she would get it wrong. Panic surged through her, and her eyes widened as they met his - the colour of a long and love-filled summer slipping into a comfortable autumn.

“Did somebody else whittle this for you?” He admonished, with faux-hurt.

She burst into a rare, full grin—one of those grins she thought she had long forgotten how to wear. “I may not be the most considerate person,” she replied, “but even I thought it was a bit much to ask you to carve your own sex toy.”

He laughed, low and loose, and it moved her like music. “Why do you think I learned the skill in the first place?” he teased.

Halsin’s large hands took the harness with surprising delicacy. Maleane couldn’t help but smile as he examined the intricate design, his fingers tracing over the sturdy leather straps and polished wooden attachment. He looked at her with a soft, playful smile that made her heart dance.

“Let’s see how this fits, shall we?”

Maleane stood before him and held her breath as Halsin knelt and began fastening the straps around her waist. His movements were careful, but his large fingers struggled with the smaller buckles. After a moment of fumbling, he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.

“This is a little more fiddly than the ones I'm used to.” he murmured.

Maleane grinned down at him, “The mighty archdruid, stumped by a wooden phallus” she teased, biting her lip to suppress a laugh.

“It seems even the wilds did not prepare me for this challenge,” he said, finally managing to slip the last strap into place. He stood up and admired his work, his expression one of playful triumph as he adjusted the fit slightly.

“I think we’ve done it,” she said, giving a small experimental thrust of her hips, the equipment now securely in place. They both laughed as the movement caught Halsin by surprise, his eyes twinkling.

“Perfect,” He reached out, his hands resting gently on her hips as he looked into her eyes, and the laughter faded as he kissed her. Slow and deliberate.

His hands slipped down to her thighs, squeezing gently as he pulled her closer, his lips crashing against hers once more. The kiss was urgent now. Maleane’s hands found his hair, fingers threading through the strands and braids as she tugged him closer.

Halsin’s hands roamed over her. Each scar and stretch mark and imperfection a treasure he wanted to feel under his fingertips. He grazed the straps of the harness, tracing the lines of the leather as it wrapped around her hips and thighs. The sensation of calloused hands against sensitive skin sent a shiver through her, and she pressed her hips against his, feeling the hardness of him beneath her. The wooden shaft of the strap-on nudged against his lower abdomen, and Maleane’s breath hitched as she ground against him, the pressure sending sparks of pleasure through her own body despite the toy being designed for him.

Halsin growled softly, his hands tightening on her thighs as he lifted her slightly, adjusting their position so that the tip of the wooden toy brushed against him. His lips found her neck, kissing and nipping at her skin as his hands roamed over her backside, pulling her closer, urging her on.

Maleane’s heart raced, her body thrumming with desire as she felt him give himself over to her, his control slipping. She gripped his shoulders tightly, her lips finding his again in a hungry, desperate kiss, her hips grinding against him with increasing intensity.

Halsin moaned into her mouth, his hands guiding her movements as she rolled against him.

“I’m going to need you to lie down for me, on your stomach.” Her voice was lower than he’d ever heard it, lust-soaked and wanton. “Raise your hips.”

Halsin compiled and Maleane couldn’t help the little thrill that ran through her as she took in the sight of him. The lean, powerful legs, the muscles of his shoulders and dip of his lower back. He was strength and beauty. He was hers.

Usually when she took charge, it was out of necessity. She had to be in control, so he could be certain he wouldn’t hurt her, and he trusted she would stop if it became too much. Which, unfortunately, was too often for Maleane’s liking.

But now, she was in charge because she wanted to be.

His body stretched out before her like a meal before the starved. She could feel the heat between her thighs, the frustration of nights spent wanting him to take her fully, without restraint. But tonight, things were different. She was in control. The thought sent a heady rush through her as she settled between his legs, her fingers trailing lightly down his spine. Halsin shivered under her touch, letting out a soft sigh that made Maleane’s own arousal pulse. The sight of his body responding to her, the way he tensed and relaxed under her hands, was magical.

“So eager,” she murmured, her voice low, hungry. Her hands skimmed across his firm ass, feeling the solid muscle beneath her palms. She leaned down, her breath hot against his skin as she tongued and bit at his cheeks.

Halsin groaned, glancing back over his shoulder, his expression already dazed. The wildness in him, that primal side she knew he fought so hard to keep in check, flickered in his eyes, but went nowhere. He was not in charge, she was.

“Gods” he gasped, his voice strained.

Her lips curved into a satisfied smile, the power of seeing him unravel beneath her touch sending a fresh surge of arousal through her. She continued teasing him with wet kisses. Halsin’s deep moans filled the night, his hips grinding involuntarily against the ground, the friction making him twitch and gasp.

Maleane’s heart raced. His submission, his willingness to let her take control, driving her mad with lust. She wanted more - wanted to see him bow and arch for her, to hear his rough, needy pleas.

She parted his legs a little wider, exposing him fully to her. The sight of him, so strong and spread bare, so vulnerable and trusting, made her mouth dry and cunt wet. She dipped her head, her breath ghosting over the sensitive skin between his thighs.

“I want to make you feel good” she ran her tongue up in a long, deliberate lick, from his balls to the edge of his entrance.

“Maleane—” his voice was the crackle and spit of a hungry fire.

She smirked, satisfied by his reaction, and repeated the motion, each wet flick of her tongue making him shudder and gasp beneath her. His desperation was palpable now, his restraint slipping as she worked him over with slow, deliberate strokes of her tongue. The way his body trembled, the way he clenched and relaxed with each teasing lick, made Maleane’s own need burn hotter.

“Please,” he rasped, the word barely coherent through his ragged breaths.

Her breath hitched at the sound of him begging, that deep voice usually so controlled now raw with need. She slid her tongue inside him, pressing it against his tight hole, savouring the way he trembled and moaned. She revelled in every reaction. She wanted to push him past his limits, to make him forget everything except her. Except this.

She sat up and dipped her fingers in the oil until they were well-slicked. Slick enough to slide effortlessly between Halsin's muscular cheeks. She ran the tip of her finger lightly over his entrance, savouring the shudder that rippled through his broad frame. His responsiveness was addictive - this powerful, unbreakable man, surrendering so completely to her touch. The control she held over him made her head spin.

Slowly, she pressed a finger inside, feeling the initial resistance give way as Halsin relaxed into her. His deep groan reverberated through the still night air. She moved with gentle precision, coaxing him open inch by inch, her touch slow and deliberate, as she prepared him for what was to come. His breathing became ragged, his massive chest rising and falling heavily as he succumbed to her rhythm.

"Look at you," she murmured, her voice dripping with admiration and lust. "So beautiful."

Halsin rolled his hips into the ground at her words, his need and her praise sending him spiralling deeper into submission. She added a second finger, feeling the tight heat of him yield as she worked him open further. His fists clenched above his head, the thick leather band around his bicep straining under the tension. Good, she thought. Let it break. Let him come undone, completely untethered, in her hands.

With two fingers inside him, Maleane curled them slightly, searching for that perfect spot that would make him tremble. It didn’t take long. Halsin let out a low growl, his body tensing, as she hit that sensitive place deep within him. His hips jerked involuntarily, pleasure crashing through him like a wave. Maleane smiled, revelling in his reaction as she made a scissoring motion with her fingers, stretching him slowly but steadily, making sure he was ready to take her. She withdrew her fingers and poured a liberal amount of the oil on the wooden cock between her legs.

“I want to see your face.”

Halsin complied, rolling over and spreading his legs for her. Maleane’s breath caught in her throat as she took in the sight of him - his strong, muscled body trembling, his cock hard and leaking against his stomach. His pupils blown and face flushed. She licked her lips, her own desire burning hotter as she positioned herself between his thighs. He steadied for a moment, and crooked one of his fingers under her chin to raise her eyes to his. The meeting of lilac and gold.

“I love you, Maleane.”

As though there was any doubt.

The head of the dildo pressed against his entrance, and Maleane felt her own body tense in anticipation. Slowly, she pushed forward, watching as Halsin’s eyes fluttered shut, his mouth falling open in a silent moan as she slid inside him. The heat of his body, the way he stretched around her, made it difficult to be slow, to be gentle.

Maleane had never felt more powerful, towering over Halsin, watching the mighty druid reduced to soft gasps beneath her, completely surrendered. His body, all muscle and raw power, yielded to her every touch, every thrust. The man who could command the very forces of nature, who had spent centuries mastering control over the wilds, was utterly at her mercy. And she delighted in it. With every moan that escaped his lips, she felt her own dominance swell, like she could conquer the world if she wanted to. But right now, her world was Halsin, and there was nothing more powerful than knowing she could undo him completely.

“Look at me,” she growled, her voice rough with need as she thrust deeper. His eyes opened, filled with pure, desperate pleasure.

Maleane could sense the difference in him tonight - the way his usual battle between man and beast seemed almost at peace beneath her touch. It was as though she had tamed that wild part of him, her dominance overtaking his. The way his massive frame trembled beneath her, the way he moaned and writhed as she fucked him, made her feel feral, ravenous. He was soft and pliant under her, while she was the one barely holding back the savage need to take him harder, faster, until nothing else existed but the feel of him breaking beneath her.

Maleane’s hips snapped forward, setting a hard, punishing rhythm as she fucked him, her body trembling with the power of it. “Let go, Halsin” she demanded, her hand sliding down to grip his cock, stroking him in time with her thrusts.

Halsin’s head fell back with a broken moan, his hips bucking wildly against her as she pushed him over the edge. His body tensed, his cock pulsing in her hand as he came with a strangled shout of her name, spilling onto his stomach. Maleane watched him, her heart pounding as his release wracked through him, her own satisfaction swelling as she saw him finally let go, fully and completely beneath her.

The rest of their evening was spent touching and talking, the way lovers who can laugh and struggle and trust together do. There were more orgasms, for both of them. Food and snoozing and bad jokes and so much love.

Halsin’s eyes were a little bit brighter, Maleane’s more hopeful.

She had been kind, and he had leant on her.

They were trying, and it was enough.

#halsin #halsin bg3 #halsin silverbough #halsin fanfic #halsin smut

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jandrichov · 29 days ago

Text

I’m endlessly grateful to @playpausephoto for capturing them in this moment — in a way that has truly left me speechless.

Further - Part VIII

Your Man

—

Morning hadn’t yet reached the room. The air hung cold and still, and through a narrow gap in the shutters came a pale suggestion of brightness — not light itself, only its promise.

Henry was already awake. He lay motionless for a while, facing Hans. Still asleep, undisturbed, one arm curled beneath his head, the blanket slipped down to his waist. His breathing was slow. Face softened, unguarded — as if whatever dream held him, it asked nothing of him.

Henry watched him for a long time. Then he reached out and gently drew the blanket back up over Hans’s shoulder. His fingertips brushed skin that still held the weight of the past days. Hans stirred. Just barely — but he did.

“Is it morning already?” Hans asked, his voice hoarse with sleep, eyes still closed.

“Not quite,” Henry whispered. “But I signed up for the first watch.”

Hans blinked, turning slowly toward the sound of his voice. “Wait… I can go too.”

“No,” Henry said gently, almost smiling. “You stay right here.”

“But I—” Hans rubbed at his eyes and pushed himself halfway up on one elbow. “I don’t want to just lie here and leave you—”

“Hans.” Henry came back to the bed and crouched beside him. “I saw you yesterday. I see you now. You need a few more hours. Take them.”

Hans didn’t answer. He stayed propped up for a moment longer, then sank back down — a little reluctant, a little grateful.

“That felt like an order,” he mumbled, eyes already drifting shut.

Henry smiled. “Someone has to give them while you’re asleep.”

Hans let out a quiet sound — somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. Henry’s hand passed softly through his hair.

“I’ll be back before the sun climbs past the trees.”

Hans was nearly asleep, but even so — barely audible, as if he weren’t quite speaking to Henry — he murmured:

“Don’t go far… even if it’s just a while.”

Henry looked at him for a moment, quiet. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss into his hair — a silent promise that asked for no reply.

He rose and left. The door clicked shut, soft as breath. The forest was quiet. Still breathing the night.

Drops of dew clung to the grass and low branches, the air cool and damp — not in a cruel way, but like the first breath after a long day. Cleansing, not cutting.

Henry walked slowly. Mutt trotted a few steps ahead, silent but alert. Now and then he looked back, as if just checking that everything was still as it should be.

They were alone. And the woods didn’t argue. A quiet crack in a patch of bark. A bird lifting from a distant branch. Then nothing again.

Henry kept walking. He didn’t try to think. He just let himself feel.

The soft give of damp earth beneath his boots. The scent of pine and rotting leaves. The sound of Mutt’s careful steps — the way he paused when he caught a new scent, then moved on.

It was ordinary.

And it was within that very ordinariness that it returned — not suddenly, but as if it had always been waiting.

All at once, he wasn’t in the forest. Or maybe he was, but only partly — the rest of him caught in memory.

In that ruined farmstead, where Hans had tended to his wound after saving his life. In the yard, where he’d wiped him clean — quietly, without a word — and touched him in a way Henry had never known before. By the graves of the two bandits Hans had buried alone, so Henry could rest. In Hans’s arms, when they’d danced without music under the summer sky. In the dark cellar, where they’d held each other while the storm screamed outside. On the edge of the future, where Hans had stood and made it clear: whatever came, he saw Henry in it.

Henry exhaled slowly.

Only when the trees began to part and the land opened out did he notice where his feet had taken him.

A rise above Devil’s Den. The outlines of the inn rising in the morning mist, still and quiet.

The sun had reached this place. It warmed the stone, washed pale light over moss and grass. Henry sat down.

Mutt joined him at once, sitting in the dew, head turned toward the wind. Henry reached out and ran his fingers behind the dog’s ears — not rough, not purposeful. Just the kind of touch that happens when your hand is full and your mind is free.

They sat like that for a while, with only the quiet between them. Only breath. And sunlight.

And in that quiet, his thoughts drifted back to Hans.

Hans — who once had been all mischief and deflection, a young noble who could turn anything into a joke, a question, a laugh — is a man now. With his feet on the ground. Steady. Kind. And wiser now, in ways Henry hadn’t seen at first.

And still — just as sensitive. Just as keen. Maybe even more than before.

That dazzling scoundrel hadn’t vanished. He was still there. Not quite the same — but unmistakably him. Still the one who had caught Henry’s heart off guard before he’d even realised it was happening.

And yet… something in him had changed. Not with time. But along the way. Through what he’d endured. And how he had borne it.

The lightness he’d once worn like a banner was still there — but no longer leading. No longer a mask. No longer a shield. Just one of the truths that had stayed.

The impossible boy he once brawled with in a tavern in Rattay had become a man he would trust with his whole life — and at that moment, Henry realised — he already had.

He stayed where he was. Didn’t move. Mutt breathed softly beside him.

A bird landed on a branch just above.

A woodwele.

Henry looked up at it. Bright yellow feathers. Black wings. An eye like a bead of jet.

Mutt gave a small bark. Henry turned his head. When he looked back, the branch was bare.

He stayed sitting. Just a while longer.

Then he rose, and began the walk back. The sun was high, the dew was gone now. Step by step, the silence of the hill gave way to the stillness of the inn below. From a distance came the sound of voices — calm, steady, absorbed in the day’s work.

Someone was chopping wood nearby. Someone else hauled a bucket of water from the stream. Janosh stepped out of the shadows, carrying a large bowl filled with sausages.

For a moment, he lifted his head and caught Henry’s eye — and gave a slow, deliberate nod. Henry returned it with a faint smile. Mutt stayed close by his side, content and quiet.

Above the inn, a thin plume of smoke curled toward the sky. The day was moving — softly, simply, in its ordinary rhythm. The room was tidy. The bed made, the blankets straightened, everything in its place.

But Hans was gone.

On Henry’s pillow lay a wreath. Daisies, cornflowers, woven with blades of grass.

He stood in the doorway for a moment. Just looking — quietly — at the wordless invitation left there for him.

Then he stepped closer. Lifted the wreath into his hands.

Held it for a moment, his thumb brushing a stem.

And then he smiled. Turned, slipped the wreath gently onto his belt — and stepped outside.

He knew exactly where to go. The ravine opened before him in silence. The stream ran between the stones, sunlight flickering on its surface. The air smelled of pine and water. Everything was the same as before — and yet not quite.

Hans sat by the bank, his feet in the stream. Shirt sleeves rolled up, hair tousled. A small cloth bundle lay in the grass beside him.

He looked up just as Henry stepped from the trees. And the moment he saw him, he smiled.

“Took you long enough,” he called out. “I was about to come looking.”

“Well, I managed not to come looking for you for two whole days,” Henry grinned. “You could’ve lasted a moment longer.”

Hans raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I heard you nearly got into a fight with Zizka when he tried to keep you here,” he said, barely hiding a smirk.

They met halfway. Henry pulled him into his arms. “You’re getting cheeky, Sir Capon.”

And kissed him — long and deep.

Hans gave a crooked grin. „Says the cheekiest squire of them all.”

Henry rolled his eyes, laughed, and pulled him in tighter. For a moment, they just stood there — close, breathing the same air.

It was Hans who drew back first. Just slightly.

“You should eat,” he said. “Before you faint from happiness.”

He nodded towards the canvas bundle in the grass. “Pork. Fresh bread. Beer. Everything I could seize without a fight.”

Henry smiled. “You’re telling me you managed all that without threatening anyone?”

Hans raised both hands, mock-innocent. “Not a soul. I was all charm.”

They sat down in the grass. Henry undid the ties and unwrapped the bundle, revealing its neatly packed contents. The scent of meat, bread, and hops rose between them — plain, honest, and all the more welcome for it.

They ate in silence for a long while. Just small movements, the occasional smile, a sip of beer. The sound of the stream and the wind in the trees.

Later, after they’d finished eating, Hans dipped his feet into the stream again. He leaned back, head tilted toward the sky, eyes half-closed against the light.

“Everything feels so different,” he said after a while. “Like we’ve been away for a month.”

Henry nodded. “Strange, isn’t it?”

Hans looked around, his gaze drifting across the quiet grove. “There’s something about this place today… reminds me of that crumbling farmhouse. When it was just us. The way we made it our own.”

Henry gave a quiet smile. “I was thinking about it too, earlier today.” A pause. “Do you think we’ll ever go back there? To our… retreat?”

Hans tilted his head slightly, as if tasting the word. “Our retreat — the Henry and Hans Retreat… You know what? Maybe we should call it that,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“Or simply… Retreat,” Henry offered.

“Maybe,” Hans nodded. “Though if we ever return? I’m not sure. Probably not. After that storm… who knows what’s still standing. Maybe just the cellar,” he added with a small shrug.

Henry was silent for a moment. “Or maybe we will. We never really know where God’s roads might lead us,” he said. “And if we don’t — it’s still with me. Wherever you are.”

He leaned in.

Hans let out a low breath of a laugh. “And you claim you’re not a romantic,” he murmured, before kissing him.

“Then I must’ve learned it from someone,” Henry smiled.

Hans gave him a look — dry, almost accusing. “You realise that was worse than poetry.” And before Henry could reply, he leaned toward the stream and, without even pretending to be subtle, sent a splash of water in his direction.

“Really?” Henry turned with a mock-offended scowl. “Is that your new way of apologizing for leaving me in limbo for two days?”

„Oh, come on… don’t be mad, river sprite.“

Henry responded with a quiet splash of his own — right to the chest.

Moments later, they were both on their feet, soaked and breathless with laughter, blades of grass clinging to their trousers, sleeves dripping with water.

Eventually, Henry pulled off his shirt, wet and clinging to his skin. He turned to Hans, tossed it aside, and gave him a sly, sidelong grin.

“You only started all this to get me out of it, didn’t you?”

Hans pulled his soaked shirt over his head, let it fall into the grass, and stepped closer to Henry. He reached out and gently ran his fingers through the hair on Henry’s chest.

“I’m not sure I’ll even try to deny it,” he said with feigned dignity. “But can you blame me, with you being such a damn handsome blacksmith?”

Henry chuckled. “Handsome, huh?” The next moment, Hans let out a startled yelp — Henry had lifted him up like a sack of hay and stepped ankle-deep into the stream.

“Henry!” Hans instinctively clung to his neck. “You can’t be—”

“I haven’t dropped you yet,” Henry replied with mock severity, his face deadpan. But then the expression softened. He looked at Hans — up close — a faint smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re lucky I love you this much, you menace.”

And there, above the water, wrapped in his arms, he kissed him. Long and soft.

Hans pressed closer, arms still looped around Henry’s neck. He said nothing — but every line of his body made it clear he didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Henry drew a breath, still holding him. “But a warrior like you… you’re not exactly light.”

They laughed. Together. Unburdened. Then Henry stepped out of the water and gently set Hans down in the grass.

He lay down beside him.

They stayed silent. Henry’s eyes were closed, his head tilted gently against Hans’s chest. Hans’s fingers moved through his hair — slow, quiet, like they had nowhere else to be. Sometimes he paused; sometimes his touch strayed all the way to Henry’s temple.

Henry let out a quiet, contented hum. Like a cat that had found a patch of sunlight.

Hans smiled. Then his fingers shifted — not by chance, not quite innocent. He let them drift behind Henry’s ear, where skin met hairline. Close. Deliberate. Then he leaned in — let his breath linger just a moment — and kissed him there. Soft. Precise.

Henry shivered. Not sharply — more like a wave that rippled through to the tips of his fingers. Then he smiled. Slowly opened his eyes.

“You know exactly what that does to me, Hans…”

Hans leaned back slightly, but stayed close. His eyes were steady.

“I know it perfectly well,” he said. Then added, with laughter threading his voice: “But I have a feeling you’ve read me even better.”

Henry shifted. Turned onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow to look at him. His gaze was calm, his smile quiet.

„I try,“ he said softly. “But you keep making me feel like I’ve only just begun.”

Hans looked at him. He didn’t move — only his eyes shimmered faintly.

Henry glanced away for a moment — then paused. He reached down to his belt, where he had hung the flower crown. Lifted his gaze back to Hans.

“Why did you leave it there?” he asked quietly. “On the pillow.”

Hans smiled, gave a small shrug. “No reason.”

Henry smiled back. Held the crown in his hands for a moment, then placed it gently on his head. No flourish, no irony. Just green grass, white daisies, and cornflower blue.

Hans watched him for a moment — then smiled again. “Looks good on you.” He leaned in and kissed him. Softly.

Henry gave him a look — serious, almost solemn. “Well... do I look like a fairy?”

Hans burst out laughing. “A fairy with stubble and shoulders broad enough to knock over a doorway?”

Henry put on an offended expression. “Well, excuse me…”

“No, wait,” Hans gasped, still catching his breath. “The finest fairy ever to stand at a forge.”

“That’s better,” Henry replied. He pressed a gentle kiss to Hans’s chest, then rested his head there again.

Hans grew thoughtful. “You know… if you really were a fairy, you’d be bound to grant people’s wishes,” he said with a grin.

Henry snorted. “What, like chasing off a pack of wolves? Painting someone’s bull with dye? Finding sheep guts for fiddle strings?”

He gave Hans a look, half teasing, half serious. “Because that’s about my range, really.”

Hans laughed — low and fond — then shook his head. “I meant real wishes. Not… ordinary things. Not things with answers.”

Henry looked at him for a moment. “And you?” he asked, more softly now. “You got one of those?”

Hans didn’t answer right away. His fingers drifted along Henry’s arm — absentminded, like tracing a thought rather than making a gesture.

Then he spoke — a little quieter, a little more certain. “You know, Jindro… if I had just one wish…”

Henry turned to him and looked into his eyes, saying nothing.

Hans held his gaze, a quiet certainty behind the words. “It would be to be the one you call your man.”

Henry looked at him for a long moment. No smile, no words — just a gaze that held everything.

Then he moved. Reached out, and laid his hand gently on Hans’s cheek.

“Your wish has already come true,” he said. “Not now. Long ago.”

Hans didn’t move. Only his eyes shimmered. And his lips shaped a quiet smile that didn’t quite hold. He leaned in closer.

They kissed.

Then Henry stayed quiet for a moment longer. But before their foreheads drifted apart again, he added:

“And I’m yours. Your man.”

Hans drew him closer.

They kissed again. Slowly. Unhurried.

Then Henry rested his head on Hans’s chest again. Hans wrapped one arm around him — steady, warm — and let the other stay tangled in his hair.

Sunlight drifted down the grass. A bird sang somewhere in the branches above.

Henry closed his eyes. So did Hans.

For a while, there was only the sound of the birds above, the grass shifting with the breeze.

Then Hans spoke — his voice barely above a murmur. “Do you have a wish, Henry?”

Henry didn’t open his eyes. He thought for a moment — then gave a small shake of the head. “No,” he said quietly. “I already have everything.”

He shifted slightly — and without thinking, rested his head a little lower, right over the place where Hans’s heart was beating.

Everything fell quiet. Inside and out. Not like a void — but like harmony. As if the breath had slowed to stillness. As if the heart kept beating only to echo the peace around them. And there was nothing left to think.

Just this body. This touch. This chest. This heartbeat.

No pressure, no tension, no after. Only this single moment — and in it, everything ever needed.

They were. Together. Full and silent. As if the world had turned inward for a while. And they lay within it — still, complete. Time lingered with them for a while. As if it, too, was reluctant to move on.

But the light had shifted.

Not suddenly — just stretched a little. Grew warmer, yet lost its brightness. The grass no longer warmed — it only held the heat.

Hans moved his head. Henry felt the rise of his chest beneath his cheek.

“It’s getting late,” Hans said softly. “Or so I think. Hard to tell these days.”

They rose slowly. Their shirts, left to dry in the sun, were warm to the touch now. They pulled them on — lazily, without hurry.

Henry reached into the grass beside him and carefully picked up the flower crown. It was a bit crumpled, but it still held its shape. Smiling, he placed it back on his head.

Hans gave him a once-over. “Still a fairy worth sinning for.”

Henry snorted. “Come on — so some minstrel can write a ballad one day. About two knights who walked into the woods at dusk…”

Hans glanced at him, voice low.

“…and found each other.”

Henry turned to him — and laced their fingers together. They set off.

Hand in hand, they walked through the dusk-dappled woods. After a moment’s thought, Henry glanced at Hans with a quiet smile. “Does it bother you… that your man isn’t noble-born?”

Hans stopped. Still holding his hand, he looked at him and raised an eyebrow. “Seriously, Henry? Not that it matters — but the only thing formally keeping you from being noble-born is Radzig not putting it in writing.” He kissed Henry’s cheek. “But more importantly — if anyone ever did live like a knight… with honour, with dignity… then it’s you. The man I love.”

Henry blinked.

“So don’t start pestering me with questions like that again,” Hans added with a grin, and gave him a swat on the arse.

Henry shrugged and smiled. “I’ll behave.”

When the trees began to thin and the path grew brighter, they slowed. They were no longer lost in the green. No longer alone.

They let go of each other’s hands without a word.

Not like parting. More like stepping back into a world where silence had always been their shield.

Just a glance. And the quiet certainty that nothing between them had faded.

Evening had settled over the land. Around the inn, all was quiet — that soft stillness of the day’s end.

From the door spilled the scent of food, herbs, and smoke.

They didn’t look at anyone too long. And no one looked too long at them.

They stepped inside and headed to their room.

When they entered, Henry’s gaze landed on the table — a piece of paper, carefully folded several times, sealed with red wax.

“Who’s writing to us?” he muttered.

“What?” Hans stepped over and picked it up. He traced the seal with his fingertips. There was no need to study it — the peacock feathers, the fish, the helm, or the shield. He’d been surrounded by those emblems since childhood.

He turned to Henry slowly, his eyes unreadable.

“Hanush.” ❧ ❧ ❧

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