#Tolerance as a step for equality | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

glissadia · 3 months ago

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Upon Further Examination

A professor does her best to figure out why her student's ritual circle isn't working, and discovers that the issue may be a bit bigger than she thought. 6k words.

"Three. Two. One. Ignite. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Indicators. Four. Three. Two. One."

"Failed," Selin states in time with my counting, doing a halfway-decent job of masking her frustration and disappointment. I nod approvingly, as I’ve done each attempt, because it’s still important to acknowledge the adherence to procedure.

"Quench," I respond, picking my earlier cadence back up. "One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Release. One. Two. Disengage."

Selin steps back from the now-inert ritual circle and I step forward to check her work. Today I’m acting as her examiner, rather than my usual role as her mentor, so I’m supposed to keep my observations to myself. However, I think we’ve gotten past the point where I need to stick to the standard process.

"Perfect," I speak aloud, and Selin jumps slightly. "Your inscriptions are more than within tolerance for preciseness, you’re following your derived procedures to the letter, your timing would put the carillon tower to shame, and I can’t identify a single fault with your channeling."

"Wait, so I got the ritual right this time?" Selin asks, her voice equally confused and hopeful. "Then why didn’t it work?"

I shake my head.

"You got it right every time," I tell her. "Even the first two attempts, which I intentionally sabotaged without your notice, according to academy procedure. You corrected and compensated without prompting."

I don’t have to look at Selin to anticipate the indignant response that revelation will elicit, so I simply hold up my hand to silence her.

"It’s not the moon, it’s not ambient interference, and it’s sure as hell not my materials. It’s not your procedures, your written report has no problems on paper and I tested it last night in this very room, so it’s not the location either."

Sure enough, when I tested Selin’s ritual myself in preparation for today, the brilliant purple spark had appeared in midair and fragmented into responsive motes, just as she had designed it to do. By her own accounts it had worked just as well while she was developing it, so we should be seeing at least some sort of magical response from the ritual besides the barest, halfhearted ionizing glow coming from the air above the circle, and yet here we were, twenty-two attempts later. I would normally have to penalize her for taking this many attempts, but that part of the rubric was written under the assumption that failure would be due to something on the student’s part. This, however…

"So what is wrong with it, Professor?" Selin asks as she slumps down into one of the armchairs arranged against the wall of my workshop. "I know you’re not supposed to tell me until after the exam, but…"

"Nothing," I say as I sit down next to her, with a bit more grace. "Absolutely nothing at all, besides the fact that it is simply not working. Selin, I genuinely have no idea what to tell you. I’m half-tempted to just award you full marks and some extra credit on top of it and call it a day."

"Well don’t do that," she whines. "How am I supposed to call it a success if it doesn’t work when it’s supposed to?"

"You do realize most students wouldn’t hesitate to accept that offer, right?"

"Well there’s a reason you’re mentoring me and not them," Selin says, and I concede the point with a chuckle. The girl has a work ethic and level of tenacity I haven’t seen in years. What makes her stand out even more is the fact that when she was my student in introductory classes, I had initially assumed she would wash out of the program. It took her almost twice as long as most of the other students to get her fundamental spell weaving up to par, and her magic still has a tendency to try and run away from her in a way that’s amusingly familiar. But what she lacks in control, Selin more than makes up for with her sheer breadth of comprehension of theory. With time and effort, she’s grown to become the most promising student in her year, and I was quite excited to see what she came up with for her end-of-semester project. It was ambitious, sure, but pulling it off should be fully within her capabilities, and yet success has eluded her thus far today. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if she refused to leave my quarters until the ritual succeeded, be it hours or until the end of the day or even longer. I myself would be remiss to end before she got it working, but at this point I genuinely have no idea what to do.

"Why don’t you take a break?" I suggest. "Just half an hour. You can ask Ember to make tea. I’ll stay here and work out the problem, then you can come back with a fresh mind and it’ll work this time."

I can tell Selin does not share my optimism, nor does she want to give up even temporarily, but exhaustion wins out and she nods, standing up and removing her apron and protective goggles before exiting the workshop. I remain, close my eyes, and focus my mind the problem at hand.

Fifteen minutes later and I’m only more frustrated. I tested this yesterday and it worked. There should be no effective difference between the two setups. What the hell is going on?

The softest, quietest tink of porcelain interrupts my thoughts, and I open my eyes to see Ember setting down a cup and saucer on the end table next to my chair. My maid’s lips quirk in dissatisfaction when she realizes that she wasn’t quite silent enough to go unnoticed, but quickly return to her usual warm smile.

"You’ll get me one of these days," I assure her, and she stifles an amused snort. "How’s Selin?"

"Antsy, but she’s staying in one place, at least," Ember responds. "I think the failure is getting to her."

"And to I as well," I sigh. "She’s executing the ritual even more precisely than I did, and nothing."

I pick up the cup from the saucer, then pause as I notice the contents and raise one eyebrow at Ember.

"What is hot cocoa if not tea made of chocolate steeped in milk?" she says, with an ever-so-slightly mischievous lilt to her voice. "I thought you both could use the comfort."

I roll my eyes, though there’s no real annoyance behind it. A small sip confirms that it’s been heated well beyond the boiling point, the enchantment on the cup preventing it from evaporating or scalding, and I breathe a sigh of contentment. She knows me too well.

"Would you like me to give it a look, my lady?" Ember asks. "Fresh eyes could spot something new, perhaps?"

"You’re welcome to, if you’d like," I tell her. I don’t honestly expect her to find anything, though not for any lack of faith on my part in my maid’s skill. I just can’t imagine there’s anything to find.

Ember walks around the outside of the ritual circle a few times, staring at it intently as I sip my cocoa. I try to keep thinking, picking apart the problem in different ways, but the answer continues to elude me. When Ember speaks up again, the distraction is very welcome.

"She’s using your mana siphon design. Integrated correctly, but still not standard. Is that a problem?"

"No, it should work just like the standard design for her. A bit more efficiently, even, which I assume is why she’s using it," I say. Ember knows this, of course, but it’s still good to talk things out. Maybe something will spark an epiphany.

"Hmm." She’s quiet for another moment. "And you recreated this last night exactly, including the siphon, correct?"

"It’s the design I have to grade, so naturally," I confirm. "It worked flawlessly, first try."

"Even with the compensation runes?"

I frown.

"I suppressed them temporarily, like I always do with that design. My magic only needs compensation when I’m reproducing the standard siphon design, you know this," I say, not entirely sure where she’s going with this. The runes hidden in the walls of my workshop and the classrooms I teach in are critical for ensuring rituals designed without my own little custom component actually function properly and don't just immediately fizzle out. My own magic doesn't play nicely with rituals, so any mana siphon attempting to use it to power one finds itself promptly overwhelmed unless it's built to handle that kind of mana (like my design is) or the volatility in my magic is compensated for, like the runes do.

"And they’re on now, because that’s their normal state," Ember hums. "Out of curiosity, what would happen if you tried this ritual with the compensation runes active?"

"Modifying the design to use a standard mana siphon? I can’t see any reason why I wouldn’t be able—"

"No," Ember cuts me off. "As implemented."

"It wouldn’t work, obviously. The siphon’s design is too specific for properly collecting my magic processed to behave like normal magic, it has to be either or. Standard siphons are more forgiving, but less efficient."

"So the siphon would get overloaded and fail relatively quickly?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at me.

"I can see where you’re going with this, but it’s wrong," I say, leaning forward in my chair and placing the now-empty cup back down on the saucer. "To the runes, normal mana might as well not exist. They wouldn’t do anything to Selin’s, she’s the one igniting the ritual, and the ritual isn’t tandem nor does it collect ambient mana. My magic isn’t affecting things at all, I’ve made sure of it."

"What if her magic needs to be compensated for?"

"I—"

The notion is ludicrous. So ludicrous that I start to respond without thinking, but then cut myself off. If I was the one doing the ritual, then yes, I’d need to suppress the runes in order for it to work, just like I did last night. I never designed my improved mana siphon to work with them, because there was absolutely no need to and it would have just complicated the inscription. If I still tried anyway, though… the siphon would eke out the barest amount of mana, then promptly give up. The distribution lines would do their best to convey the mana to the rest of the circle, which would… which wouldn’t even get through the first step of the intended output. No spark. It would try, though, and if I had to guess, that weak, mana-starved attempt would probably look just like a faint purple glow in the air, and nothing else.

It doesn’t make sense. It makes too much sense. It explains everything nicely and raises so many more questions. I desperately want to hang onto any possible evidence it’s not true, because it couldn’t be. I would know. And there’s no way. No way at all. But…

"But she’s human," I say, voice a little weaker and more unsure than I’d like. Ember simply raises an eyebrow again.

"You thought you were."

I sigh. I don’t want to acknowledge even the remotest possibility of Ember being right, but at my core I’m too much of a scientist to not at least attempt to test the possibility.

"It’s been long enough; she’ll be itching to try again," I say, defeated. "You go get her, I’ll turn off the compensation runes."

"Of course, my lady," my maid says, in that way she’s perfected that conveys very little of the deference the title would imply. She exits the workshop, and I get back to my feet, turning around and placing my hand on the wall. A twist of will sees the rune contained within made dormant for a time, and I walk to and repeat the process with the other five walls, finishing just as Selin rushes in with Ember behind her.

"What’d you figure out?" Selin asks excitedly, already throwing her apron back on and pulling her hair back. "Are we good to go?"

"There’s… a chance we are," I hedge. "I don’t want you to get your hopes up, but I’ve tried something and there’s a very remote possibility it should work now, no other modifications necessary."

"Alright!" Selin cheers, tying the apron strings behind her back. "You don’t sound very hopeful, though."

"The lady has a tendency to temper her expectations to an unreasonable degree," Ember says, insolent little creature that she is. "I have faith in your abilities, Selin."

"Aw, thanks!" Selin says, grabbing the materials she needs for another attempt. "Anything I should do differently or just like I designed?"

"Just like you designed," I confirm. "And if this doesn’t work then please don’t feel discouraged."

"No promises!" she declares, working with remarkable efficiency. "Okay, prepped and reset for another go."

I give her work a cursory glance, but I have no doubt it’ll be perfect, just like all the other attempts. Alright. No time like the present.

"On my call," I say, and Selin nods. "Three. Two. One. Ignite."

Selin pours her magic into the circle once again, and the air above the ritual circle blooms, brilliant purple light coalescing into one single, shining point. I allow myself a fraction of a second to process, which is not nearly enough, but I have a job to do.

"Seven. Six. Five. Four," I call, and the spark fragments, much smaller points of light rapidly spreading out to fill the cylindrical space above the ritual circle. There must be thousands of them, and the density Selin has achieved is noticeably greater than what I managed last night with the exact same conditions. "Three. Two. One. Indicators. Four. Three. Two. One."

"Succeeded," Selin declares, voice full of pride. The results are plain to see, stabilizing well before the seven second mark and taking much less than four to interpret.

"Hold," I continue in cadence. "One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Stable."

Selin hesitantly sticks her hand into the field of purple, and the motes in a small radius around it drift towards her. She clenches her hand into a fist, and they rapidly move to coat her hand, before all suddenly jumping back into position when she opens her hand again. She beams at me.

"Well done," I say as I release a bit of the tension in my body, though not all of it, and catch Ember’s eye. She’s grinning at me very smugly, which I suppose is well-deserved. This… complicates things.

"Told you it works," Selin says, self-satisfaction oozing out of every pore. She pulls her hand back and the pinpricks of purple light stay where they are, having done their job in this demonstration.

"If you’ll recall, I never doubted that it should," I respond. Okay, time to start teasing this mystery apart. "Selin, your mana siphon. Why did you use my design over the standard one? It must have been harder to integrate."

"Huh? Oh, the siphon. Because the standard one sucks and yours is better?" Selin says as she pushes her goggles up to her forehead. Somehow I don’t think she means it solely as a compliment.

"It’s harder to inscribe than the standard version, though," I prompt her. "And reproducibility was one of the factors you were instructed to keep in mind when designing your project."

"Well yeah, of course I thought about that," she defends. "And I started with the usual one, like I’m supposed to, but I’m bad at inscribing it and I could never get it right so I just rebuilt the ritual around yours and I actually started getting results."

I freeze. She does not mean what I think she means. She can’t.

"What do you mean you’re bad at inscribing it?" I ask. "Your inscriptions are some of the most precise I’ve ever seen."

"Aww, thanks," Selin blushes. "And I mean I’m bad at it! I can only get it to work half the time, usually when you’re helping me. Anything that’s designed by you always works for me. It’s consistent!"

It’s consistent because I always deactivate the compensation runes in my classrooms and workshop when we’re working with rituals I’ve designed, because of the fact that they interfere with each other. And any time she’s tried a ritual with my mana siphon outside of those places, there aren’t runes to worry about. But no, that would mean…

"Selin, have you ever successfully completed a ritual using the standard siphon outside of this room or a classroom?"

"Uh, well… not really?" she admits sheepishly. Oh goddess. "I’ve just kinda taken to modifying the rituals when I’m at home, 'cause there isn’t an instructor there to tell me off for doing it wrong."

"You’re modifying rituals to include my mana siphon?" I ask, flabbergasted. "You can’t just put it in place of the old one; the integrations are completely different!"

"Uh, yeah?" Selin says, sounding confused. "It’s not that difficult to rework the distribution lines around it."

Yes it is. Yes it fucking is. I don’t say that to her, though, instead turning to the room’s other occupant, whose grin is almost too wide for her face at this point.

"Fine. Fine! You win, Ember," I declare, throwing my hands up in the air. "You were right, I was wrong. She can’t do rituals without compensating."

"I’m so glad your humility hasn’t left you, my lady," Ember beams. Selin, meanwhile, just looks confused.

"Sorry, 'compensating?'" she asks. "I’m not doing anything differently, as far as I know. What did you figure out? Why did it work this time?"

I sigh.

"You didn’t do anything different. It was a problem with my workshop, which I apologize for. But, we’re not quite done yet. This is not part of your exam, but I’d appreciate it if you humored me anyway. Light spell, as by-the-book as you can."

Selin’s confused expression only deepens, but she obliges me, holding up a hand and making a simple ball of light appear above it. It roils and shifts, maintaining a loosely spherical shape as it ebbs and flows. Selin’s magic has frequently expressed itself this way, and while I’ve drawn parallels to my own experiences, I never made the conclusion that it’s seeming like I should have.

"Hold it there, don’t lose focus," I instruct her as I walk back towards the wall. With a touch, I draw back out the mana keeping the rune within suppressed, fixing my eyes on the Selin’s light spell as I do so. It flickers, though not by much. I walk to two more walls and do the same thing, then return to my student. With half the runes in effect, the ball of light has calmed itself a bit, still far from static but significantly more under control. Selin looks to be concentrating hard on keeping it stable, her lips pursed, but I don’t offer her any insight, instead walking to the remaining three walls and reactivating the runes contained within. Walking back up, I can see that the little ball of light has become a perfect, static sphere, as textbook as I’ve ever seen. Selin looks up at me questioningly, but I preempt her with a question of my own.

"Are you sure you’re human?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?" she asks incredulously.

"Like I asked earlier, please humor me," I say patiently.

"I… yes?" she says, and I can tell she truly believes it. "There’s some elven blood on my dad’s side if you go back like eight generations, but that’s extremely diluted, I know how this works."

And indeed, it should not have this kind of effect oh her magic. But, what I’m asking about isn’t something brought about by genetics.

"Release and disengage the ritual at your leisure, then you two start cleaning up," I order. "I need to grab something. Ember, don’t bias her while I’m gone."

"Bias me?"

"My lady?"

"I’m doing a test," I state, and Ember’s eyes go wide.

"Hey wh—"

The rest of Selin’s confused exclamation is cut off as I abruptly turn on my heel and yank myself through space, the workshop around me immediately transitioning into a new, much larger space. Cavernous walls of rough-hewn rock, globes of magical light suspended from the very high ceiling, and approximately forty fireballs spontaneously generated and fired towards me by the wards the second I take a step forward. My stride doesn’t falter as they hit and harmlessly wash over me, my robes being enchanted to protect themselves and anything contained within the many pockets from flame. That doesn’t include the wearer, but, well. The day I can’t handle a bit of fire is the day I die.

I was lucky enough to find this cave a couple of centuries back, and promptly sealed it up and warded it to high heaven to prevent anyone else from doing so after me. If anyone else besides me or my staff tried to get in here, they’d be faced with a lot worse than just fireballs. They’re more of a precaution, anyway. Plus, the heat is nice. These mountains don’t have any geothermal activity, so the entire cave system has to be heated magically, which takes a lot of energy.

It doesn’t take me long to reach the cave’s main event, since while this chamber is absolutely massive, so is the pile of treasure it contains. For years, I never really understood the appeal of having a hoard, but the very first time I held a gemstone the size of an apple in my hands, I was hooked. That was a long, long, time ago, though, and now my trove has grown to a size even the most ascetic of my kin would salivate over. Not that they’ll ever get to see it, of course, nor will any humans. Very few people know my true identity, and I like it that way. I doubt my life of tenured pedagogy would be quite so peaceful if the rest of the staff knew there was anything more to me than an experienced noblewoman with a penchant for magical research and a slightly strange magical response to rituals. Anonymity holds power, in this world, which is one of the many reasons why part of me greatly dislikes the idea of potentially revealing myself. But, I’m forced to admit, if I’m correct, the alternative would be worse for Selin, and I like the poor girl far too much for that.

I spend around half an hour searching through the piles, examining each splotch of color poking out from in between pieces of gold from this century and many past. My search criteria is very specific, and it’s not like I can just pull some random ruby out and be done with it. I’m loathe to part with even a single piece from my collection, as any self-respecting dragon would be, but I know that if this test succeeds then there will be no way I’m getting this back. Finally, though, I spot it. A brilliant purple, Selin’s favorite color. Round, roughly cut (though that just adds charm, in my opinion), and large enough that it’s awkward to carry in only one hand. Corundum. It’s perfect. …Now I just have to find something to carry it in.

When I return to my workshop, a large felt bag clasped in my hands, my eyes barely have time to focus before I’m assaulted with a shrill exclamation.

"You can teleport!?" Selin yells, and I wince before schooling my expression.

"Were you waiting the entire time just to ask that?" I say tersely.

"Well yeah, you just disappeared so what else was I supposed to do after cleaning up?" Selin responds, and I am pleased to see the workshop is looking spotless. "Ember won’t even talk to me and I am still very confused as to what is going on."

"I apologize for leaving you in the dark, so to speak, but this is very important," I sigh. "Yes, I can teleport, it’s rather advanced magic and relatively inaccessible to most people, but I will teach you, should you desire. In any case, I think things will very soon become clear. Come."

I turn and walk towards the door, navigating down the hall and to the sitting room. As expected, Ember is waiting there, tea already prepared. Cinnamon this time, I can smell, not chocolate. I sit down on one of the chairs, bag in my lap, and motion for the other girls to do the same. Selin picks the chair opposite me, looking at me intently, while Ember picks the couch to the side of us. She always gets squirmy when she’s excited, and that’s quite evident now, despite her attempts to sit still.

"So, first things first," I begin. "Nothing you are about to see or hear is to be discussed outside of my quarters, and never with anyone besides me or my staff. Do you understand?"

"'Staff,' plural?" Selin says, raising an eyebrow and glancing at Ember. "Are there more?"

"Cinder and Tinder tend to the estate while I’m teaching; you’ll be introduced to them eventually," I elaborate, and before she can think too much on the names I continue. "Besides Ember and I, you will not breathe a word of this to anyone else. I repeat, do you understand?"

"Yes," Selin nods, and I can tell she means it. Everything that’s happening is much too intriguing for her to just walk away.

"Good," I say, then reach into the bag and tug it off of the gemstone contained within, watching Selin’s expression carefully. "Secondly, congratulations on passing your practical exam. As I said earlier, I will be awarding you full marks, plus extra credit."

As I reveal the giant purple corundum, I see the spark in Selin’s eyes, and my theory is confirmed. A bittersweet feeling washes over me at that. As much as I was enjoying the relatively solo life (well, as solo as a girl can be with three kobolds), it’s nice to know that I’ll be mentoring my favorite student for a good while longer yet. I stand up, holding the gem in both hands, and walk over to Selin, holding it out to her.

"A gift," I tell her. "And hopefully a fitting start to your collection."

Her eyes grow even wider than they already were, and she reaches up, almost reverently, taking the gemstone from my grasp. I feel a pang in my heart as it leaves my hands, but I push it down. This is necessary. I’m not going to let her wander, lost, like I did.

"I… I don’t know what to say," Selin starts as I walk back to my chair and sit down. "This is… this is too much. What even… what?"

"Purple corundum," I state matter-of-factly. "The same thing that rubies and sapphires are made of, just with a different name and color. Near flawless, as best I can tell. I’ll help you weigh and grade it later. You’ll want to know."

"Professor, this is… how much is this even worth?" Selin nearly whines, most of her sense of decorum leaving her. Which is understandable.

"Oh, I have no idea," I tell her, semi-honestly, then lean forward in my seat. "If it’s too much, then simply give it back. I’ll find you something more appropriate."

She looks at the gemstone for a long while, longer than she thinks, I’m sure. Then, very slowly, she brings it down to her chest, holding and hugging it despite the weight. I nod approvingly. There really was no chance of anything else.

"Then, thirdly, your ritual," I say, and I think I manage to recapture most of her attention. "Like I said, the problem was with my workshop, not you or your execution. I would like to once again apologize for causing that unnecessary stress."

"That’s… alright," Selin nods. "What was the problem, if you don’t mind me asking?"

"The answer is rather complicated, but I’ll do my best to explain," I start. "While my preferences lie in other fields, I do consider myself somewhat of an expert in ritual magic, and I’d hope my teaching position supports that assertion. This is in spite of a rather curious quirk of my magic, which interacts with most modern ritual designs in a way that precludes them from working. Unless, of course, the ritual circle utilizes the mana siphon I designed some two hundred years ago to address this very issue. You, Selin, have this same quirk."

"Okay, wait, slow down," she says. "I’ve seen you use the standard mana siphon before. I’ve used it before. And my ritual used yours, but it wasn’t working. Also, sorry, did you say two hundred years?"

"Young lady, you should know better than to ask about a woman’s age," I admonish her, and savor the wounded expression on her face for the couple of seconds I can manage to prevent my mouth from cracking into a smile. "But yes, I am significantly older than I look. And in regards to your other questions, there is more than one way to mitigate the effects of this quirk, which I had to do before I designed my own ritual components. Built into the walls of my workshop and classrooms are runes that, when activated, compensate for the volatility of my magic, forcing it to behave as normal to standard mana siphons."

Understanding begins to dawn on Selin’s face.

"So when you had me do the light spell and it got less and less chaotic…"

"The runes were processing and calming your magic as I activated them, yes."

"That… makes a surprising amount of sense," she says. "The standard siphon only working for me in the classrooms and your workshop, not at home. Wait, but what was the problem with my ritual, then? I was using your design, that takes care of the issue, you said."

"It does, yes," I nod. "The problem was that I, not knowing about your situation, left the runes activated for your exam. The siphon does not process my magic after it has been affected by the runes, due to the specificity of the design, and neither was it processing yours. When I deactivated the runes, as I do whenever I deal with rituals of my own design, that allowed your natural magic to fuel the ritual as normal, and thus leading to the success. The compensation runes have no effect whatsoever on magic without this quirk, so I did not expect them to have any effect on your performance."

"Huh," Selin responds, thoughtfully. "I assume you’re willing to show me the runes so I can use them myself?"

"I do plan on doing so," I nod affirmatively. "They’re not exactly simple, but I have no doubt you’ll be able to reproduce them with relatively little effort."

"Well, okay then!" she beams. "That’s good to know. Use your siphon when I can, use the runes for the standard version, don’t mix and match. That all seems pretty clear. I don’t really get why this is such a secret, though."

I sigh. Here’s where we get to the more significant part of this conversation.

"Selin, you are the twelfth person I have met in my life besides me with this condition. This is over many centuries, and I know there are a number more I have not met but experience the same thing, since it follows a very clear pattern. I hope you believe me when I tell you how rare this is, and that I am very confident when I say it is indicative of more overall characteristics of the person the volatile magic comes from. I was initially extremely unwilling to believe that the runes were responding to you, for the very simple reason that the runes do not respond to humans, nor most other races. Yet your magic is of the variety they were designed for, which only stems from one source."

"So, what are you saying?" she asks me, pulling the gemstone a little tighter against herself. "That I’m not human? How the hell could I not be?"

"In this case, it’s a matter of the soul," I tell her. "I do not know the exact mechanism behind it, for there are so few of us to be studied, and I am still not entirely sure how similar it is for other races. But, sometimes, very rarely, a person can be born with a soul not befitting of their body, and this leads to a mismatch. One that could potentially go unnoticed for their entire lives, given a lack of the right circumstances. Such a case is certainly a tragedy, which means that it is my responsibility to prevent the same from happening to you."

She takes a deep breath.

"Just… out with it. Stop dancing around whatever it is."

Well. Here we go.

"Selin, every single person whose magic behaves like this is a dragon."

To her credit, she doesn’t laugh.

"Bullshit," is her response, soft, too quickly. I say nothing, and simply draw my hand down my face, letting my human visage fall away and the deep blue scales of my true form shine through, though still in a somewhat humanoid shape. Selin gasps at my sudden reveal, then glances over to Ember, whose disguise falls away at the same time mine does, leaving a short orange kobold sitting on the couch instead, tail rapidly wagging. She’s still wearing a smaller version of her maid uniform, though, and waves happily to a stunned Selin.

"I hope you understand why I asked you to keep this a secret," I say, only managing to hide around half of the amusement I’m currently feeling. Not much of my body is visible with the robes, but it should certainly be enough.

"I… yes," Selin responds, finally managing to find her voice again. "But you’re… that’s not… I’m not…"

"Here’s a proposal for you," I say to her, leaning forward to give my folded-up wings some space. "Hand the stone back to me, or fail my class."

The immediate look of shock and betrayal on her face is just what I expected, so I escalate, holding out my scaled palm and summoning a roiling ball of flame above it.

"Hand the stone back to me, or die."

She tenses up, eyes narrowing. I know that look, and while it is what I’m fishing for, I don’t particularly feel like ruining my sitting room with a mage battle, so I extinguish the flame and raise both my palms up deferentially while lowering my head.

"Easy, easy," I placate, letting my human form wash back over me to break her concentration. She blinks, eyes refocusing, so that hopefully did the trick. "I’m not going to take it away, I promise. I’m sorry."

"G-good," Selin says. Then, after a moment, her eyes widen. "Wait, holy shit, I didn’t mean to… fuck, I am so sorry, um—"

I lower my left hand, letting the right one remain up to stop her.

"It’s exactly the reaction I was provoking; there’s no need to apologize," I assure her. "It’s natural to get defensive over items in your hoard."

"My hoard?" she asks incredulously. Then, softly. "Oh. Fuck."

I nod at her.

"Are things starting to make a bit more sense?"

"…Getting there," Selin says, demurely. "There’s still a lot I don’t understand."

"Well, we have all the time in the world to get to remedy that," I assure her. "And as it turns out, all the time is the world is going to be a lot longer for you than either of us thought."

"Aaaa, this is going to be so much fun!" Ember squeaks, and I can’t help but agree with her. Even Selin lets a hint of anticipation show through on her face, which makes my smile grow even wider.

Goodness, I love being a teacher.

#short story #fiction #dragons #therian #dragon tf #this is just a oneshot #but the girls are begging me to write more

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pearlymel · 10 months ago

Text

The last time when...

Synopsis : you're an assassin. Your next mission? Get rid of your husband.

Warnings : Sylus × gn! reader, angst angst, death, miscommunication, blood, 1.6k wc.

Notes : if this broke your heart a lil bit, then i will make an apology letter by making a part 2 where they're all a happy family and alive 😓

When was the last time you looked at your husband and thought; how crazy must you have been to be with this as equally crazy man?

Or when was the last time he looked at you and thought; how lucky he was that you were able to tolerate him, to marry him, even.

He knew. And you thought you were able to hide your true occupation just well.

He seemed calm right in front of you while your hands were shaking.

He.. was the target?

Let's take this back to yesterday.

You were pushing your motorbike to its limits as you tore down the dark, winding roads, the sound of gunfire ringing out behind you. Bullets whizzed past you, narrowly missing their mark as you expertly maneuvered the motorcycle to avoid getting hit.

Your heart pounded in your chest as adrenaline rushed through your veins. You could hear the shouts and curses of your pursuers, their voices full of anger and frustration.

Despite the danger and the high-speed chase, you manage to keep your composure and reach for the gun holstered at your waist. With a quick and practiced motion, you whip it out and aim it behind you, training it on your pursuers.

Bullets continue to fly in your direction, but you return fire, hoping to buy yourself some time and discourage them from closing in on you.

You safely escaped, for now.

You were either going to get killed by them or by Sylus if he finds out you put yourself recklessly into danger.

Let alone burrowing his motorbike for this mission.

Stupid organisation, you mutter to yourself as you kick your boots off, the snowy weather certainly wasn't helping with your thoughts either.

You had hoped to leave your old life behind, especially after marrying Sylus. But that was a year ago, and the phone call from your old organization has shattered that illusion of peace. These assholes.

They had one more job for you, a job they think no one can ever successed in, unless it was you.

They didn't even tell you who your target is. Just simply send in you the location instead.

As you push open the door to your shared bedroom, your heart sinks when you see that Sylus is still awake. His eyes are fixed on you, and judging by the expression on his face, he is far from pleased.

His arms are crossed in front of his chest, a stern frown creasing his forehead as he regards you silently, waiting for an explanation.

“i was visiting a friend,” you explain, your grip of steel around the doorknob.

Sylus doesn't seem convinced by your flimsy story. He continues to stare at you, "Visiting a friend," he repeats, sarcastically.

“Mephisto says otherwise.”

That damned crow.

“I'd like it if you stopped stalking me.” You say bitterly. And it's true, his eyes seem to be everywhere, anywhere.

That's why you made sure to quit being an assassin before getting together with him. You wanted a happy, peaceful life as well.

“You're saying it like I'm some sort of creep or stranger.” he drawled, stepping closer to look down at you, and his crimson eyes seem to shine brighter in the dark as he lifts your chin up.

“I'm your husband, i have the right to know why my partner is late.” he squinted his eyes at you before letting go off your chin to turn away.

“Get some rest.” Sylus retreated back to bed. You both didn't speak a word that night, both of your backs facing the other, and you think the weather might have become colder.

—

They have threatened to hurt the people you love most if you don't do this one last mission.

You still feel upset that you didn't clear things up with Sylus last night, you hate fighting with him, but if it has to come down to this, then you'd rather protect him.

You made sure no one would follow you this time, not even Mephisto.

Let's say you did some adjustments on him.

Sorry lil guy.

It's probably not clever to leave your trail of footsteps behind on this particularly heavy snowy day, but they said your target would be here. Right at this time. And this place.

What an odd feeling.

Your body goes taut as you suddenly hear the sound of snow being crushed underfoot. It's a familiar sound that immediately puts you on alert. In a flash, you turn around, your gun gripped tightly and ready to fire.

Sylus.

Your heart leaps into your throat as you recognize the figure emerging from the falling snow.

Shock flood through you, your body instinctively relaxing a fraction as you lower your gun, "Sylus," you exhale breathlessly, the tension in your muscles melting away momentarily.

He observed you with a gaze that felt like it cut deep into your very core. There was no anger in his eyes, no hatred, no rage. Just a quiet resignation. “It's strange,” he says, his voice low, “fate bringing us here like this.”

He wasn't armed. He most likely knew.

Wait, he's.. the target?

He noticed your reaction, but there was no flicker of fear in his eyes. Despite your step back, he continued his approach, slowly and deliberately. His eyes never left you, yet there was not a threat in them, just...resignation...understanding?

Sylus was close, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, so warm in the cold, he reached out and gently brushed the hair that had plastered itself to your face, to reveal your expression of fear.

“step… back.”

“and why should i do that?”

“I'll shoot,” the words slip from your tongue quicker than you could stop yourself from saying it.

He simply lifted one eyebrow at the sight of the gun now pointed at his chest, unperturbed. “Is that how you greet your husband dearest?” he asks, the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth with his head tilted slightly to the side.

He was so infuriatingly calm, like there was nothing to worry about.

His smile only widened, and he lifted his hand to rest it on the gun, his fingers gently tracing the barrel, bringing it closer to him, and you gasp, “but don’t you know how much I love getting under your skin, sweetie?”

“Don't—!” you drawed your hand back when his fingertips played dangerously near the trigger, sending your heart to almost stop. You step back again.

He knew you wouldn’t shoot.

“What the hell are you doing?” he said, his voice dropping the smooth façade once you aim the gun at yourself.

“Put that down, now.” he stepped closer to you, your warnings going through deaf ears before he became impatient, resolving this by using his evol, the energy manipulation red and black strands wrapping around your hand and taking the weapon away from your hold to throw it to the side.

Well, you were certainly no match for him.

“I can explain.” You sounded defeated, a fool. You knew you were going to face the consequences if you don't do something now. “I'm really sorry.”

“do that when we get home—”

Sylusd didn't get to finish what he was about to say, and he didn't freeze either when he heard the familiar sounds of gunshots going off.

Gunshots. Aimed directly at you.

He had no time to look around at the source of danger, everything felt like it wad going in slow motion when be was reaching his arm, his body out to protect you and shield you.

Only to find you on your knees in a blink of an eye, your body limp and falling into the pile of snow.

Sylus shouted your name in fear as he knelt beside you, gathering you gently in his arms, his voice a strangled gasp. He held you close, his eyes wild while his hands palpated your body, searching for the wound.

Two gunshots. Shot right through your chest and stomach.

No, no, no.

Sylus has never felt more scared than he was right now, with your crimson blood seeping quickly, melting down with the snow, even when he was taking off his coat and shirt, all to apply pressure on your wound.

He clutched you, his hands trembling, “stay with me," he pleaded, his voice hoarse. "Please, please stay with me.” His mind raced, frantically thinking of what to do, of why the blood wouldn't stop running down, your eyes so tired and almost dull, oh how he felt so helpless right now.

He clenched his jaw, the unfamiliar tears starting to gather around his eyes.

“You’re not quitting on me,” he muttered, the anger in him rising. “You don’t get to quit on me, damn it. You’re not dying on me. Not today, not anytime soon.”

“So—sorry..”

Your last breath. Sylus’ world came shattering down as your eyes lost their light and your body went still in his arms. There was no breath left, no pulse, just deafening silence and the harsh wind.

Your last words were an apology. Not an ‘i love you’ nor ‘take care’.

He refused to believe it. He refused to accept that you were gone, that your lips would never say his name again, that your hands would never touch his skin again.

”Don’t leave me.”

…

“please?”

…

“Are you really.. going to leave me to be alone again? ”

Sylus only remembers seeing red and white that day. The prettiest angel resting in his arms with their precious blood mixed with the cold embrace of the snow.

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #love and deepspace angst #sylus angst

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willowed-wisp · 7 months ago

Text

könig as a dad (part two)[ könig ]

part one | part three

- In your second pregnancy he is much more likely to take in more missions (you told him to- ordered even)

- He HATES being away from you and your little boy.

- Marvels at how much he has grown in a couple of weeks.

- When his missions last for more than a fortnight, he goes stir crazy but focuses on the task at hand to get back to you

- Nobody knows he’s a dad at KorTac, he’s not close to any of them

- His greatest fear is for his kids to ever be scared of him.

- When he comes back, you don’t even realise until you see him in the rocking chair by the crib- your baby boy in his arms. Whatever wounds he has tended to by you, you MUST insist and pry your son away from him.

- Is glad that your boy will have a sibling very close in age- conceived a month after his birth. He was a very lonely child, he’s glad his kids won’t have the same experience.

- Presents you with another crib, and would be offended if you ever bought one.

- The cribs are very stable and thought carpentry looked good on him.

- He was going to teach his kids it, as his grandfather taught him.

- Your kids are named after his grandparents (I’m convinced he was raised by them in the Austrian countryside) and they were the only source of kindness in his traumatic childhood.

- The birth comes and it’s another boy.

- Next pregnancy comes in quick succession, and it’s a baby girl.

- Ahhh, that was why he got a four bedroom house… sly bastard.

AGES 0-4:

- Not afraid to change diapers or sick, he’s seen so much shit in the field… it doesn’t phase him

- Records everything! He’s such a documenter, he has very little photos from his youth so makes sure he takes them in excess.

- He manages to record all three children’s first steps and jots down their first words.

- Loves watching you teach your kids very early on, is so proud whenever they do something new.

- Your boys take after his height, they stick out like a sore thumb in nursery when around the other kids. And König doesn’t tolerate bullying, you rein him in from going yourself.

- He’s been known to make grown men cry and the kids at nursery look at him in fear. Even if he smiles.

- Mums flirt with him sometimes, he ignores them. He’s only there for the kids.

- Is sad when your kids start growing out of clothes, reminds him they’re growing up and in a matter of years they won’t need him anymore.

- He loves your kids equally but may be more attached to your daughter. She was premature and doctors said she may not make it.

- Cried in private when she was stuck in an incubator for weeks on end. He doesn’t want to burden you or unsettle the boys.

- When she could be held, he couldn’t let go. His sweet angel, so tiny compared to his large body. A kiss to her forehead.

- Your sons don’t know what to make of the small creature that cries in the middle of the night. You hoped they would come to understand what happened when they were old enough.

AGES 5-9

- Your boys look out for each other in school- König made sure of it.

- He also instilled them to watch over their little sister when she would attend primary school.

- You had to hide a bullying incident, every one of them concerning your little girl. Knowing what would happen if König found out.

- But he knew. He checked in with her every day after school and she told him, “It’s because I’m littler than them,”

- “I was picked on, for being too big…”

- “Really, papa?” With eyes like his own, the soul hadn’t been taken out though. “I wish I was tall like you…”

- He holds her on his knee, “You are perfect just the way you are, little mouse.” Giving him the love he rarely had gotten from his own parents.

- His constant lesson to his children is ‘be yourself’. Something he wishes he had learned at that age and onward.

- If your sons are picking on each other, he puts them through the wringer and gives them a hard time.

- He lets them then figure it out between themselves.

- Helps with homework, though literature and comprehensive skills aren’t his thing. Science and maths are his jam, though. Your kids are getting good grades from homework assignments.

- Walks them home from school, on the daily.

————

masterlist

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natlovesls2 · 7 months ago

Text

Gobble Gobble

Oscar Piastri x American Fem!Reader

*ੈ✩‧₊˚warnings: minimal swearing, mentions of alcohol no use of y/n, pretend this makes sense

*ੈ✩‧₊˚word count: 1.7k

*ੈ✩‧₊˚summary: Oscar experiences that absolute shit show that can be Thanksgiving or Oscar's first Thanksgiving with your family

︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵୨୧︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵୨୧︵

Your family had begged you to invite Oscar to the annual Thanksgiving dinner and, with hesitance, you did. It wasn’t that you didn’t want him to join in the celebration, rather you knew that your family could be much, especially during the holidays. But wasn’t that the case for every family? It was like the holiday season brought a weird tension.

Oscar looked at the front of the home you had grown up in, letting out a nervous breath as you reached to open the small gate that separated you from the yard. “Are you ready?”

He gave you a nervous laugh, “As ready as I can be.” You had warned him, multiple times, about your family's antics. From the nosy aunts, who would undoubtedly interrogate him all night, to the loose-lipped brother. He wasn’t sure if they like him or even tolerate him, but he knew what to expect– or at least he thought so.

“They’ll love you, trust me” you said, opening the gate and taking a small step into the front yard. Oscar smiled at you, liking the confidence you had in his ability to make a good first impression.

“I trust you,” he gave you a small nod, his eyes flickering down to your lips, moving to stand closer to you.

The moment was interrupted by the noise of the front door being swung open, your mom standing below it with a wide smile. She called out to you, walking down the steps of the porch to envelope you in a tight hug. Your mom held you for a moment before turning her attention to Oscar, smiling at him and giving him an equally tight hug. “You must be Oscar, it's so good to finally meet you,” she said, pulling away from him, “We’re still cooking up a storm, so I’d recommend staying out of the kitchen, but make yourself at home– because, well, you are home,” she said, urging you inside before retreating into the kitchen to resume cooking.

You led Oscar into the house, taking off your coats and placing them on the coat rack. The house smelled like all sorts of food and baked goods, it was evident that you all would be eating a great deal. He stopped at the hallway, his eyes scanning the walls and the pictures that decorated them. “She likes you,” you told him, taking a hold of his hand.

Oscar took in every family photo, smiling, his gaze lingering at the ones from your childhood, “you think so?” he asked, turning to face you, his hand squeezing your own.

“Mmhm, absolutely.”

He smiled at you, taking a step closer, his eyes flickering down to your lips. Oscar glanced around, as if he were a child about to steal a cookie from a cookie jar, deciding the coast was clear he wrapped his hands around your hips. His lips found yours, his hands slipping under your sweater and gently squeezing at your skin. Your lips tasted like the lipgloss you had applied earlier, a taste that Oscar had grown to love in the months you had been dating. He deepened the kiss, a hand coming up to tangle in your hair.

“I am definitely going to gouge my eyes out,” said a voice you found all too familiar, causing you to jump away from Oscar.

Oscar turned to look at the direction in which the voice came, noticing a man leaning against the doorframe that led to the living room. Your brother stood there, a smirk on his face, he looked similar to you besides a few small differences in features. “What the hell is your problem?” you whispered harshly, glaring at your brother as you straightened yourself up.

Your brother smiled at Oscar, extending his hand out as a greeting, “You two need to be aware of your surroundings” he said as Oscar shook his hand.

“You need to stop being such a creep,” you quipped.

“A creep, me?” your brother asked, holding back a smile, “says the girl who just a second ago had her boyfriends tongue shoved down her throat like a fucking vacuum.”

Oscar bit back a laugh, clearly amused by the situation, almost enjoying the way in which your face filled with embarrassment. You hadn’t lied when you said your brother said anything and everything that came to his mind. “How much is she paying you?” your brother asked Oscar, continuing to tease you.

He turned to look at you, expecting you to lash out at your brother but found you only shaking your head at him. “No payment,” Oscar said, “It's all voluntary.”

is“Oh just piss off,” you said, playfully shoving your brother aside. He smiled at that, finding it amusing that you were more vocal against him while Oscar was around. Your brother prepared himself to speak again before being cut off, “Mooom! He’s bothering us!” you called for your mom, who yelled at your brother from the kitchen.

He glared at you, flicking you off, “You’re such a baby, can’t handle shit,” he grumbled, leaving you and Oscar alone again.

“He's so annoying.”

Oscar smiled at you as you returned to his side, clearly still annoyed by your brother's behaviour, “He loves you, that's why he annoys you so much. It's a brother thing.” His eyes lingered on your lips, clearly wanting to continue your earlier actions but scared that another family member would magically materialize.

“Sure he does, come on, I want you to meet my dad,” you said, reaching for Oscar's hand again, giving it a small squeeze of reassurance.

“Lead the way.”

You led him down the hall to the living room, where your father would undoubtedly be watching a game of football. As you approached, your father glanced over his shoulder from the couch to get a look at you, noticing your intertwined hands.

“Hey,” you greeted, pulling Oscar along to sit on the couch opposite of your dad, who greeted you with a soft ‘Hey’ and nod before turning his attention back to the game. “Who's winning?” you asked. Your dad grumbled, it was obvious that the team your family rooted for was losing, although your dad held out the hope that they’d make a comeback. He looked at Oscar for some time, trying to make an opinion of him. “This is Oscar,” you said, introducing him to your dad.

He smiled at Oscar, extending his hand out for him to shake, “Yeah, I know who he is,” he says, his eyes returning to intently watch the television, “you always look like you’re desperately trying to cover up your stressed attitude on the TV.”

You let out a small laugh at that, causing Oscar to smile, “I suppose I do look rather tense from time to time,” he responded.

Your dad takes another look at Oscar, “Make her cry and I’ll break your kneecaps,” he says with a smile, making it obvious that his threat was empty. Oscar let out a laugh, nodding at your dads words. It was clear that Oscar wasn’t the first to be given such warnings.

“He's just messing with you– he wouldn't hurt a fly,” you assure Oscar, playfully glaring at your dad, a smile painting itself on your own face. Your dad chuckled, it was obvious that your dad was only joking around with him.

“He likes you,” I whisper to Oscar.

You sit with your dad for a while, only half paying attention to the game before the doorbell rang. The sound of new voices filling the house as your relatives arrived for dinner. Your dad shook his head, letting out a sigh, “Let the chaos begin.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You sat at a long table filled to the brim with different Thanksgiving foods. A turkey sat in the middle, surrounded by the usual sides like mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, and stuffing. It was like those stereotypical Thanksgiving dinners you see in movies. Oscar was starting to feel overwhelmed by all the simultaneous talking and smells.

“So, when's the wedding?” one of your aunts, Victoria was her name– she was the most nosy of them, asked expectantly.

Poor Oscar nearly choked on the mouthful of turkey he had been eating, the sudden question taking him by complete surprise. He looked down at you with wide eyes, pleading you to answer before he said the wrong thing.

“We haven’t really discussed that– I mean, we’ve only been dating for so long,” you responded. She raised an eyebrow at you and Oscar, amused by the way in which you had avoided truthfully answering her question. It was almost as if she wasn’t too convinced by your answer.

“Leave them alone,” your mom said, attempting to jump to your defense.

“Please,” you whispered, eyes glued to your plate as you moved the contents around with your fork, your hunger seeming to have abandoned you as the questioning began.

“I’m only teasing,” your aunt gave a small wave, clearly unphased by your moms words, “Do you want children?”

Oscar took a sip of his wine, attempting to keep cool after that very personal question. He could feel your eyes on him, and he reached down to hold onto your hand. “Children?” he said with a nervous laugh, “We haven’t really talked about that either,” he said, looking down at his plate to avoid eye contact.

“But surely you must have an opinion of your own,” your aunt added.

He took another sip of his wine, silently hoping they’d find someone else to interrogate, “I mean, yeah,” he started, playing with your fingers as if to distract himself, “Yes, I’d want kids… just not anytime soon– we’re still so young,” he looked at you warmly, a small smile appearing on his lips as he answered.

“Oh he's perfect,” your grandma said from beside your mom, smiling widely at Oscar. Her comment made both of your parents smile, seemingly agreeing with what she had said, it was clear that Oscar had made a good first impression. He smiled at you, his smile growing as you kissed his cheek as your family finally moved on to their next victim.

Dinner continued with more questioning, your family left you and Oscar alone for the most part, and more eating. Afterwards you all gathered in the living room to watch whatever Christmas movie had been picked that year. And as you rested your head on Oscar's shoulder, he felt as if he could get used to Thanksgiving with your family– no matter how intrusive their questions may be.

︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵୨୧︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵︵ ⊹ ︵⏜︵ ⊹ ︵୨୧︵

*ੈ✩‧₊˚Note: This is in no way me condoning the myth of the first thanksgiving. And it is important to acknowledge the atrocities committed against the indigenous people since the arrival of the English. please ignore the spelling or grammar mistakes, I've got to go make mac and cheese– peace out and happy turkey day to anyone who feasts on this day.

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littlerequiem · 2 months ago

Text

LEVI/F!READER/ERWIN | ROYALTY AU | P. 1 OF 2

Having had enough of your father pushing suitor after suitor on you, you make a vow: before the night is over, you will experience pleasure on your own terms. But as the saying goes, forbidden fruit is the sweetest—and no fruit is more tempting than the one your two knights have to offer.

> Crossposted on AO3

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 - Levi Ackerman / Female Reader / Erwin Smith (Attack on Titan)

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 - Rated Explicit (18+) - Royalty AU, Inspired by HOTD, Attempted Assault (not by Erwin/Levi!), Period-Typical Sexism, Swearing, Hurt/Comfort, Drinking, Pining, Eventual Smut, Threesome, First Time (WC: 5.5k)

( Next part )

"Princess Reiss, her Royal Highness, First of her Name, and Heir to the Throne of Paradis!"

The attendant bellows out your many titles, the sound of which echoes in the great halls of your forefathers.

In the distance, a crowd has amassed where your father sits on the throne. All eyes turn as you step in, and you realize there was a reason behind your lady's maid fretting over your hair this morning.

Your eye twitches.

Another day, another suitor.

"This is Floch Forster, your Highness," the Hand of the King declares. He bows, gesturing towards your father's latest pick. "Lord of Utopia."

The man—Floch—runs a hand through his hair as you set your gaze on him.

He's tall, you suppose, and handsome enough, with a serious face and a firm posture. But he looks at you like some trifling prize to be won, and that makes your jaw tight. You will be Queen of the Realm one day—someone he owes allegiance to, not the other way around.

He won't do.

The meeting does not go well, and you send this Floch character on his way. You can tell he's displeased, what with the way he bristles and huffs like a peacock, glares at the floor like it had personally insulted him. You don’t care; you can't imagine a union with a man like him—someone who'd never see you as his equal, but try to undermine your influence and power every step of the way.

In truth, the prospect of marriage has never appealed to you. If it were up to you, you’d ascend the throne by yourself, and rule without the presence of some man who'd expect you to push babe after babe from your womb. But, of course, as a woman, you have royal duties to uphold.

"I will not tolerate you not marrying, daughter," the King warns later on.

You're now dining with your father in the main halls—alone, aside from the presence of knights and servants. You pay neither your father nor them any mind, digging into your vegetables solemnly.

"Do you have nothing to say?" your father grumbles. "Nothing to apologize for? This is the third match you send away! Soon, the realm will run out of suitors."

You lift your cool gaze at him. You know your father means well by introducing you to suitors, that he loves you in his own way. But the way he keeps on pushing man after man on you is simply suffocating. If you were to ever marry, you would much prefer for it to be with someone you actually cared about. You'd want for things to happen naturally.

But the future of the realm, of securing a bloodline, waits for no one, least of all for you.

"I don’t see the issue here," you say all the same. “I will marry when I find the right candidate.”

"Yes, and when will that be? When I am dead and buried underground?"

You roll your eyes. "Really, must you be so dramatic, father?"

“You are the reason your father is so dramatic!” Now he stands. No longer is the look he sends one a father gives his daughter—no, this is the look that a king gives his subject. “My advisors tell me I am too lenient with you, but long have I ignored their plights. Now, I see that I have been blind.”

“And what of my plights, Father?" you hiss. "Do I have no say in my future? What if I wished to rule alone?”

“Your plights are of no consequence to the realm, foolish girl. A woman cannot rule alone.” Your father’s jaw locks, tight as a bowstring. “You will marry before this year is over. Is that understood?”

You scoff. "You cannot possibly—"

“Oh, but I can because I am your king and when I speak, my word is law,” he snarls, slamming a fist on the table. A jug of water tips over—neither of you pay attention to it. A servant scurries to handle the mess. “You either listen to me now, or I will force you down the aisle myself until you produce heirs of your own.”

His threat hang in the air. You feel its weight on you, like physical chains summoned around your wrists. It makes you grit your teeth, setting your glare onto your curled fists laid out on your laps.

The tension could be cut open.

You push your chair back, the feet rattling against the stone ground, and stand up. “Fine,” you sneer as you turn away, “breed me like a brooding mare, if that’s all you care about.”

Your father grates out your first name. "And where do you think you're going? We aren't done."

"But we are!" You swerve your attention back on him, shooting him a look of absolute vitriol. You don't remember the last time you had such an argument with him. "I'm going back to my books, while I still have the liberty to read freely."

"Daughter—"

“—or will you take that right away now, too?"

At your words, your father's eyes gleam furiously; his voice is cold as ice. "This is not the end of this. You will marry, and if you don't make a choice soon, I will make it for you."

You say nothing in return, letting the echo of your scattered footsteps be the answer to your father’s penance.

As you exit the halls that night, you don't see the worried looks your two guards exchange as they follow you out.

You’ve already got a plan brewing.

You do not go back to your books.

As soon as you’re inside your chambers, you lock the door shut, only to hurl a nearby vase across the room. It shatters in a hundred pieces, but it gives you none of the relief you thought it might. With blood pumping through your veins; you heave like you just escaped an apex predator’s claws.

You grit your teeth.

It’s all so unfair. That your father expects you to fall back into line, to do as he says, simply because he commands it. Has he forgotten the child you once were, or does he simply refuse to see the real you?

Damn him. Damn this whole system that cursed you the moment you were born. Another princess might have wept or accepted her fate, but not you.

Tonight, you’ll break free.

“Princess?” a concerned voice comes from the other side of the thick wooden door.

It is soon followed by two knocks, slow and firm. The voice belongs to one man, the knocks to another. Your guards.

"Leave me,” you tell them. “I do not wish to be disturbed,"

The two men, Erwin Smith and Levi Ackerman, have known you since childhood . They understand you well enough to recognize that you're not actually fine, but thankfully, they seem to respect your need for privacy. Erwin lets you know they’re just outside the door if you need anything. You already know you won’t call for them.

Not tonight.

No, tonight, they can’t follow you down this path. Despite being lifelong friends, this journey is one you must make alone.

You eye the corner of your chambers.

There is a secret passage just behind the bookcase of your bedroom. It is not known by many—just you and your guards. It is the same passageway you would often take to meet Levi and Erwin in secret, to watch them spar on the training field, to talk about books and dreams when all still seemed within your grasp.

It seems you must grasp one more dream for yourself.

The streets of Mitras are lively in the evenings.

Filled with jesters and children, dancers and sell-swords, merchants and entertainers, there is much that is happening tonight. The thick stench of sweat and mud, the taste of tart pie and mead, the sound of songs and gossip. It paints a study in the everyday lives of common folks.

On any other day, you might have stopped to observe your future subjects, but not tonight. As you make your way further down the web of the city, you feel equal parts thrilled and anxious. This is the first time you’re out without your guards, after all; you can’t help but feel bare without them. It makes you glance over your shoulders. Clad in a cloak with a dagger and bag strapped to your hip, you know to remain prudent.

You’re on a mission, after all, one that is personal, and you do not wish to be stopped.

Sex.

The concept isn’t foreign to you. You know what coupling is; you’ve seen peaks of it in stories, behind closed doors. You know that sex isn’t simply something that people do to procreate, but that it is immense pleasure. Men and women do it, but also men and men, women and women, and all genders that come in between.

You think that this is what pushed you to step out of the comfort of your room tonight. Pleasure, with someone who would be willing to do it for you—not because you must, but because you both want to.

Only now that you’re here, you falter. The Perfumed Quarters, where you now stand, carry the finest brothels. You’re certain that with the coin you carry, you might find one that would be discreet enough to give you the pleasures you desire. Man or woman, you would have your pick.

But are you really daring enough to do this?

You close your eyes, fidgeting with your hands as you eye the entrance door. You had a glass of whiskey before leaving—some liquid courage for the road—but now, you suddenly wish you’d taken the entire bottle with you.

"Hullo there, pretty thin’," slurs a voice close to your ears. The stench of alcohol that permeates makes your stomach wrench. You glance up, meeting the face of a man gazing at you with clear interest. "My, y'ar quite the sight. Skin like velvet..."

He reaches out to touch your face, but you flinch back.

"Dressed so prettily too, under that cloak... Are ya one of the whores working here, hm? An escaped rabbit from her cage?"

Your brows knit together. "You misunderstand, sire. I'm not a working woman. I simply—"

The man does not listen, seizing one of your wrists. Your brows scrunch low, and with your free hand, you grab the dagger, showing him you're no helpless thing.

A callous bark rumbles out of him. “Is’tis part of the act, hah? The little rabbit has fangs, and I get to eat ya whole?”

Before you have a chance to show him just how real your fangs are, your peripheral catches a flash of silver. Before you realize it, a long blade, cutting the space between the two of you, brands a path dangerously close to the man’s throat.

"Get your filthy hands off of her."

Your body freezes; you recognize that baritone tone.

Sure enough, no later than a second after, your peripheral catches sight of Levi and his golden cloak. He’s the one delivering the threat, though you soon realize he’s not alone: Erwin, to his right, assesses the situation with a sharp gaze.

Your lips part, eyes rounding at the sight of them. How they found you, you know not, but you know that you're in for one a hell of a talk.

"Golden cloaked guards from the palace." The stranger's eyes are wide with fear as he stares back at you. "But that means, you must be..."

"No one you need to concern yourself with," Levi says dryly, stepping in between you and the man, "now, I won't repeat myself, if you wanna live—scram."

The knot in the man's throat bobs uncertainly, but he seizes his chance while he still can—he scurries away. You scowl, watching his retreating form. You know Levi only let him go to avoid stirring attention, but that criminal deserved a lot worse than what he got. Under your rule, you'll make sure the people working these streets receive better protection from people like him.

You do not get time to consider this matter for very long, however, because you’re soon reminded of your guards' presences. You turn towards them, face devoid of emotions.

Levi's eyes narrow. "Explain."

“Not here.” Erwin steps closer to you as well, looking over his shoulder. “We’re drawing unwanted attention.”

Levi sheathes back his sword, his glare still directed at you. “Fine. Let’s go then.”

Despite their words, you stay rooted to your spot.

“It wasn’t a request.” Levi turns, clearly exasperated. He grabs your wrist.

You grit your teeth, glaring at him. You know better than to argue with either of them right now, but you don't appreciate him manhandling you like a piece of meat.

“I will once you unhand me,” you hiss.

Levi’s gaze levels with you, looking at you like you were glass. He finally releases you, but not without his own flair; he crosses his arms over his chest, staring at you like he expects you to make a run for it, to fight him on this.

You roll your eyes; how dramatic. Even if you could somehow outrun them, your bravado for tonight has all but vanished.

And so, you diligently follow them, with Erwin leading, while Levi walks behind you. Both of them are quiet on the walk back, the sound of their armors clinking through the cobblestone streets of the city. Neither wish to attract attention to the fact that they were escorting the future queen of the realm, heading straight into the castle's back way passage.

It is the calm before the storm.

"What the hell were you thinking, Princess?" is the first thing Levi says the moment he ceremoniously drags you into your chambers, hand firmly attached to your elbow.

Levi forces the cloak and weapon off of you, a glint in his eyes that makes it clear he's pissed.

You glare at him, ripping your arm away from him.

Out of your two guards, Levi Ackerman is always the one quickest to rile up. You think he has a bad temper and a mouth that ought to be washed with soap. For this reason, you often bicker with him, partly because you're often too prideful to admit defeat, but also because you secretly enjoy the banter.

Tonight, however, you do not have the will to fight.

"I do not know, Levi." You sigh, heading towards your vanity to place down your bag. "I just wished to wander by myself, I suppose."

"Into the Perfumed Quarters? Don't you know what business goes on in that part of town?"

You whip your head around. "Of course I know. I'm not an idiot."

"Really?" Levi sneers. "Could've fooled me, Princess."

He pops the p in your title, just the way he knows you hate it. Your eyes narrow.

"Let her regain her breath, Levi," Erwin interrupts, effectively breaking apart this building feud. He's made sure to close every door, every window, shut. He sidesteps the broken vase, the pieces of which are still scattered by the entrance. "I'm sure there's a perfectly good explanation for all of this."

Erwin observes you, seeking to understand. He's different from Levi in that way. He's more patient, more calm than his counterpart. Still, under that mask of stillness lurks a cleverness that you've learned not to take lightly.

You hate this—hate that you've ended up caught red-handed by these two men, by your friends. How did they even notice you were missing? You thought you were being discreet.

Knowing them, they probably defied your orders and checked on you, only to discover your treachery. You sigh, cursing yourself inwardly. Out of everyone who might have caught you, why did it have to be them? This feels like a cruel joke from the Gods.

The three of you grew up together. First as a girl and two young squires, later as a princess and her two knights. Yours is a relationship forged in friendship, in trust, in loyalty. Where the princess goes, so does her two guards. There is no one she trusts more.

You've heard the whispers over the years. The words that rivals in court like to spin—those who'd rather slit their throats than see a woman like you sit on the throne. A whore, the little birds whisper. A princess that dared to lower herself by opening her legs not to one, but to both her guards.

None of it is true, of course.

But perhaps it is the spirit from earlier that emboldens you, but you find yourself wishing it were, to at least have this part of yourself that would be yours.

"Earth to the princess of the realm," Levi's chastising voice echoes in your ears. One of your eye twitches. "What the hell were you doing tonight? Don't you know what those places offer?"

“Of course I know, Levi. Did you ever consider that I sought such an establishment for that exact purpose?”

“...What?”

It is no secret that Levi’s mother was a prostitute. You know he doesn’t see the job of a working woman or man as lesser, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t look down on people who take advantage of workers and enable establishments from profiting off their labor.

It must bother him, your words.

You try to soften the blow, because you don't want to lose his good opinion of you, whatever it may be. "I did my research, Levi. I picked one run by a woman, one that treats its workers fairly, with good compensations and living conditions."

"But, why the hell are you looking to... to go to a brothel? You've never… your chasteness—"

"Fuck my chasteness."

Levi’s brows knit together, though the rest of his face looks more in a stupor than anything else. You, on the other hand, are now filled with explosive emotions.

"Why did you seek such a place, your Highness?" Erwin finally speaks up, his smooth voice easing some of the tension in your shoulders. "Why not talk to us about it first?"

Your eyes flicker towards him. There's Erwin. Level-headed, calm, clever Erwin. Always asking just the question you most wished he didn't.

"Because…” you hesitate, “because I wish to know what it is like. I wish for things to be my decision for once, to decide how and where I..."

You close your mouth, feeling yourself growing hot. You know you shouldn't say these words to them. A princess shouldn't want pleasure. A princess shouldn't sneak off to seek a brothel. And a princess should especially not discuss such matters with her two male guards.

They both fall silent, which only renders the situation more awkward.

"You could have at least asked one of us to accompany you," Erwin suggests.

"Would you?" Your gaze is that of tepid coolness. "Would you have let me go?"

At that, both your guards seem a little torn. Levi's eternal frown hasn't wavered, while Erwin's eyes are intently on you, as if you were some puzzle needing to be solved.

You swallow, sitting at the edge of your bed, interlacing your fingers into a knot.

"You heard my father earlier. Soon, I will have no choice. I will marry. And I know it is my duty, I know it. But the idea of someone forcibly taking this part of myself before I am ready to give it up makes me ill. So yes, I went into town. Because I wanted to find this side of myself on my own."

Silence falls. You feel their gaze on you, heated and intense. You look at them. Their expressions tell you enough.

"You see," you say bitterly, "even if I had told you, you would have stopped me."

Steps usher towards you. In a heartbeat, Erwin is kneeling in front of you, eye-level with you. His gaze speaks of compassion, of soft understanding. "It is because we worry for you, your Highness. We've known each other since all three of us were children. We do not wish to see you harmed at the hands of a stranger."

For some reason, Erwin's words make you glance at Levi. You wish to know if Erwin's words ring true.

Levi clears his throat, a pout forming on his lips. "Princess, not every lover is created equal. You should... you deserve to know someone who pleases you."

Something heavy fills in your chest.

“And a brothel wouldn’t give that to me?” you ask in a crestfallen tone. “Aren’t they trained in the art of love-making?”

“That is not for us to say, or to judge,” Erwin answers. “But it doesn’t stop us from worrying.”

You stare at your bare hands, reeling them into a fist over your lap. This whole situation feels so deeply unfair.

“Tell me, why must my body be used for breeding grounds?” you ask, more to yourself than to anyone else. “Why must my value only be placed for what’s between my legs?”

Erwin stands back up, his presence a warm shadow on your side. To your surprise, both he and Levi take a seat next to you, with you in between them.

"Princess, it is not for us to voice what is right or wrong." Erwin places a hand over yours; it sends jitters straight to your stomach. "But we wish for you to be safe."

Next to you, Levi interlaces his fingers on his laps. You can't help but notice how clean and well-trimmed his nails are, compared to even your own. How gentle his fingers look, amidst a sea of armor. You wish he'd place one of his hands on top of yours, just to feel both his and Erwin's touch at the same time.

"You have known me since I was young,” you say. “Don't you grieve for who I used to be? Who I could have become? Why must I let some stranger do what he likes with me—”

You stop talking, feeling nausea churning in your belly. Clearly, you’re saying things you shouldn’t.

But this is Levi and Erwin. Somehow, with them, words always come out easier. With them, things have always come easier. Natural.

“Princess.” Erwin squeezes your hand. You still don’t look at him, but you admire his broad fingers, filled with scars that speak of past battles. “You know we will defend you no matter what. If your future husband forces you—”

"But what if I never want him? What if I want you both instead—"

You don't finish your sentence. Sandwiched between them, their breaths caressing your bare skin like silk, it's hard to think.

To your surprise, Levi is the first one to speak up, "Finish what you were about to say."

Your eyes flicker to him. He's close. His gray eyes are relentless and charged, defying you to speak, like a great storm gathering in the distance. And his lips—

Are moving.

"Tell us," Levi says again, grating out your name.

But you've never been one to say what you want directly—you've never been allowed to. Now that Levi is asking you to tell him, you hesitate. You raise a hand to your face, concealing your shame. "I'm sorry. I know that the two of you are, well, together. I don't know what's gotten into me. I don't know why I'm saying these things to you."

You know what the two of them are. Lovers. You know it to be true, because you see the way they look at one another, the way they talk. You’ve long felt envy in your heart—not at one of them in particular, but wishing you could be a part of it. Wishing that they would embrace you with open arms.

The truth is, you love them. You’ve loved them for a long, long time.

And you suddenly wonder: was this what you were seeking to find tonight? Did you simply search for them in others?

"Princess, we've both—" Erwin's voice beckons you back to the present. Your gaze falls on him. He tilts his head, smiling softly. "We have long known how we both feel about you. If duties and titles were shirked away, don't you know what we would have done by now?"

It is a bold thing he is saying—what a guard is saying to his princess. He could be exiled for such a statement, or worse. But Erwin has always been a bold man, one that takes gambles.

You just never thought you'd actually see the day where he would take a chance on you.

Before you can move, fingers slip between your own, filled with questions. You watch as Erwin carefully runs his thumb over your knuckles, gently turns your hand on his lap.

Instinctively, your head turns towards Levi, afraid that you'll find betrayal on his face for the way his lover is touching you.

Wrong.

Instead, Levi's eyelids are half-lidded, an intensity to his expression as he assesses your every movement. It turns the spikes in your belly to butterflies.

"I..."

"Just say it." Levi says your first name again, like it was a prayer that would bring absolution to his sins. "Just give us the command."

But you do not wish for this to be a princess' command. You wish for it to be a woman and two men, bound in pleasure and feelings.

"I wish for your touch," you hesitate, "but not because I command it, but because you wish for it. Otherwise, let us never speak of this again. We can forget and—"

You mean to stand back up.

But a warm hand—Erwin's—snakes up to the back of your neck, forcing you to turn in his direction.

And then his lips meet yours.

He kisses you.

He kisses you... and your mouth parts in surprise, feeling a buzz of energy vibrate across your body, a path of tingling sensation scattering upwards like dozens of tiny birds flapping their wings. Erwin's kiss is chaste and innocent, like a schoolboy kisses a crush. Soon enough, he leans away, vibrant blue eyes gauging your reaction, and when you stare at him, slightly disoriented, he smiles.

He should have known you’d want more. You’re a spoiled thing, after all, used to the finer things.

Which is why you grab him by the collar and demand another kiss.

Erwin's chest vibrates as he chuckles, and his hands gently fall on your waist as he reciprocates the kiss. His lips open up to you, like a flower blooming under the sun. His thumb fumbles with the thick of your dress, a gentle sigh escaping his lips as you lean away.

A lopsided grin graces his lips and you can't help but return it.

"Forgetting about me, already?" comes a drawl from behind.

You turn to Levi, amused at his impatience. He's got a brow raised, staring at both of you with a slight pout on his lips. The sight makes you stare back fondly.

"I would never," you say.

Levi’s flicker to your lips. Where Erwin was bold and self-assured, Levi is more prudent, like he thought you might catch on fire if you touch him.

And so, you make sure to set you both ablaze by pressing your lips to his.

For a moment, nothing happens, Levi just sits there, frozen.

And then, like a switch happening in his mind, Levi's hands fall to your jaw, his fingers winding into your hair, along your scalp. His restraint slips past him as he slides his tongue into your mouth, warm and alive. Your mind reels from the sensation, so different to Erwin’s softness. Levi tastes like black tea, the kind you always see him drink each morning. Levi pushes into you, making you bump against Erwin’s broad chest, and your heartbeat soars the moment you feel Erwin’s steady hands on your shoulders.

Who knew that kissing could feel so lovely, so intoxicating? Who knew what it would be like to feel the embrace of two lovers, of the two people your heart has yearned for?

Levi groans against your lips, his fingers cupping the valleys of your cheeks. Your movement pushes you further onto Erwin, forcing him to lie down as the bed creaks under your combined weight.

When Erwin chuckles, his husky voice vibrates against the back of your skull.

"Ngh —s-slow down, Levi," you huff. "I'm suffocating."

"Can you blame him?" Erwin says languidly, the back of his fingers brushing across your exposed forearms. "You're a delight."

Levi finally slides away, his blown-out pupils taking in the sight. You, all disheveled, resting against Erwin, whose eyes gleam with knowing pride, with love. The knot in Levi's throat bobs. What a sight he has in front of him, for only him.

With a swift hand, Levi undoes his cravat, neatly folding it and placing it on the nightstand. When he comes back at the end of the edge of your bed, he stands there, assessing you with hawk-like seriousness.

Shyly, you offer him your hand.

He takes it.

Without saying a word, you guide him back to his seat, nudging Erwin upright with your other hand. Slowly, you intertwine their fingers together, overlapping them on your lap. You watch with evident admiration at the marvel of golden, calloused skin blending with slender pale fingers, the expanse of their knuckles filled with scars that's a testament to their pledges as your knights.

A smile creeps on your face. Both your lovers watch as you lean back, propping yourself on your elbows while they stay seated upright at the edge of your bed.

"Now it's your turn," you tell them, “… if you want."

Understanding flashes on their faces, though it manifests differently for each of them. On Levi, it comes across as perplexed hesitation, looking from you to Erwin, like he didn’t think you'd want to witness this. Erwin, however, seems to have seen this coming, because his mouth twitches as he bends down to capture Levi's lips with complete confidence.

Levi outright melts into Erwin's touch.

You'd long imagined the two of them like this, kissing. Hands exploring one and another, lips moving in perfect accordion, eyes fluttering shut.

But seeing it now , shared with you… it’s something else.

You love them. You love them so very much.

Because there’s so much adoration, respect, and mutual understanding to be seen here. Erwin’s patience, taking and enjoying, contrasted with Levi’s desire to be filled and devoured, all in the span of this little shared space that now belongs to the three of you.

When they break apart, you are certain your eyes are hazy with desire.

"We got a bit carried away," Levi mutters.

You hum. "I liked it."

You swear a hint of pink kisses his cheeks.

"So we're really doing this?" Levi grumbles. His eyes gleam on you, dark and heady. "It is a sacrilege, what you are doing, Princess. You are debasing yourselves with two people who are far beneath your station. We are not worthy to defile you."

You frown, looking from him to Erwin, searching for an answer on how to make it right. Erwin’s face is blank, and you understand it is up to you to convince Levi, not him.

You reach out for his hand.

"Levi," you say softly, sliding up next to him. Behind, Erwin's fingers brush the nape of your neck, as if to praise you for this step. You look into Levi’s eyes, earnest and true. "In this life, there are not many things that will be mine to pick. So, please... would you be mine?"

Levi melts at your platitude, He takes in the rest of you. You, with swollen lips and hearts in your eyes, must look like quite the delight.

“The two of you are the same,” Levi says, leaning closer with vibrant eyes. “So damn corny.”

You let out a chortle that sounds more disbelief than it does laughter. Levi and his wild mouth. You still think it ought to be washed by soap, though you suppose that it’s got its charms.

Levi leans back, removing his shoes. Next to him, Erwin chuckles, reaching to unclasp his own armor. Like a giddy young girl, you help them, picking up each piece of worn leather and laying it at the base of the bed, making sure it is all neatly ordered for them to easily dress afterward. Once finished, the two men then take their turns disrobing the outer layer of your dress, with Levi grumbling, “how do you even breathe in this thing?” until you are clad in nothing but your chemise.

You shiver. This is the barest you've ever been in their presence, a vulnerability that feels both thrilling and intimate.

For safe measure, you lock the doors—this time, you know no one will interrupt. Only you, Erwin, and Levi have a set of keys.

When you turn back around, Erwin and Levi are both gazing at you, their eyes charged with an intensity that makes your chest lock. They inspect you like you inspect them, their eyes sweeping over your form. A lifetime of knowledge, of love, of duty, and honor, hangs behind this moment, this relationship. It pulses in the air, a recognition that this, right now, is a turning point for all three of you.

Because tonight changes everything.

And you’re prepared to let it.

— Next part / Fic Playlist

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cumironi · 1 month ago

Text

SWEET 18 : GOJO SATORU

sum. he’s your ex-boyfriend and you haven’t seen him in years. years after you left him and your friends, years after leaving town. years of his ribs having no home. and even when you come back, all you ever want is for him to forget you

wn. non-sorcerer! gojo satoru, angst no comfort, under influence gojo, ex-boyfriend, almost 30 you. if you watch lovestruck in the city, you know where this fic inspires from.

your palms sweat like they're whispering secrets you don’t want to hear, a nervous kind of betrayal, slick and shameful. breath stumbles out of you, shaky and unsure, curling into the cold like a ghost that doesn’t know where to haunt. for a moment, it paints the air with little clouds—soft, shapeless, gone in seconds. you rub your hands together, not for warmth but maybe to remind yourself you’re still here, still flesh, still trembling. lungs take in air like it’s made of glass, and you’re afraid to break it.

your eyes wander, restless things, trying to do the impossible—trying to see past the thick frost-glazed windows of the restaurant across the street. maybe if you stare hard enough, the glass will dissolve, and you’ll see the table where everything is about to fall apart. or maybe it already did. maybe this is just the funeral.

reunion, they called it. as if broken things always want to be pieced back together. as if time is a kind seamstress instead of a butcher.

you haven't seen these people in years—since you were eighteen, maybe. or was it nineteen? or maybe you misplaced three years like losing keys in the backseat of your memory. three years gone or ghosted or gutted, and the rest of your twenties? a blur, a flatline, a running joke with no punchline. just echoes and static and flashbacks—those little bastards. they don’t knock. they just crash through the windows of your mind like bricks wrapped in nostalgia and needles.

it hurts. god, everything hurts in ways that don’t even make sense. the snow touches your shoulder like it’s mad at you, like it’s saying see, even the sky is tired of you. the new shoes—stupidly expensive, laughably uncomfortable—are bleeding you dry. you bought them for this night, this mess, this spectacle. to look nice. to look tolerable. to look like someone who isn't unraveling from the inside out.

for him.

just enough so he wouldn’t see the fracture line running down your cheekbone, wouldn’t hear the hollow behind your laugh. wouldn’t notice the earthquake that lives behind your eyes when you look at him. wouldn’t feel the way your silence is just a scream dressed in pearls.

you’re dressed like survival in disguise. pain tucked under perfume. sorrow smudged into mascara. you wish to show up as a whole cathedral of ruin, praying no one sees the fire in the pews.

the light turns green, and your legs, traitorous things stitched with old want, begin to move—without command, without caution—dragging you into the inevitable. they betray you in the same way hope does: sweet at first, then rotten. step by step, as if the concrete is whispering his name beneath your shoes. like the street remembers. like it knows. and you walk anyway, don’t you? not because you’re brave, no, but because your cowardice is a circle—you flee, only to find yourself back where it began. in front of him. again. like always.

and you know. god, you know. it will hurt. you know the burn behind the smile, the silence after hello, the flash of something once-called love rusting between forks and glass cups. but knowledge does not equal prevention. pain has no respect for intelligence.

so you stand now at the restaurant door—old, wooden, slightly warped as if it too has weathered too many reunions, too many entrances full of trembling bones. your hand rises but pauses, midair, suspended like a sentence you’re too afraid to finish. your reflection in the glass pane stares back: fractured, familiar, wearing a coat that doesn’t keep the cold out. eyes hollowed by memory. lips pressed into the shape of regret.

you exhale.

you push the door open, and it groans like it’s in mourning.

warmth spills over you—artificial, suffocating. laughter somewhere deep inside, silverware scraping porcelain, wine glasses clinking like tiny guillotines. your feet drag you forward again, your voice caught in your throat like a scream that never learned to fly.

“reservation under… zero-eight,” you say, numbers dry and brittle on your tongue.

the host nods. nods like this is normal. like your heart isn’t gnawing on its own ribs. like you aren’t the walking ghost of a former self wrapped in wool and shaking. he leads you through the labyrinth of tables, past strangers who have no idea the war you’re waging with each breath, the riot in your blood, the cathedral collapsing quietly in your chest.

and then—there.

the table.

your purgatory.

six people.

six ghosts.

six knives shaped like love.

shoko and her cigarette already half-burned, eyes bored, but soft at the edges like she still forgives you. utahime with posture stiff, but there’s a flicker of worry in her glance. nanami, neat as always, time etched into the corners of his mouth, and yet you can tell he still measures you in silence. haibara, a smile that hasn’t aged, so bright it hurts, like nothing ever broke. geto, the same, but not. eyes darker, smile thinner. a part of him still stuck in the version of you that left without explanation.

and then—

him.

satoru.

gojo satoru.

the beginning and end of all your stupid poems.

his hair is different, maybe. or maybe the light just hates you tonight.

his eyes—

his eyes.

still that impossible shade, like snow learning to burn. they find you, instantly, like they never stopped searching. like they always knew you'd walk through that door again, dragged by memory’s leash.

your knees threaten to fold, your throat to burst.

this is it. this is the table where your past sits, polished and painful.

and you— you’re the ghost arriving late to your own funeral, wondering if anyone will say your name without venom. you take a step forward. the floor doesn’t collapse. you take another. still standing. the world, somehow, keeps turning.

no one says anything yet. they just look. and the silence says what words never could :

you left.

you broke.

you hurt us.

and still—we missed you.

god help you. you missed them, too. more than air. more than peace. enough to walk into the fire again and beg it to remember your name.

but they are warm. impossibly warm. warm in a way that feels like standing too close to a memory you once tried to bury under cynicism and time. they open to you not with hesitation or punishment, but with something far more dangerous—forgiveness. as if your silence hadn’t carved holes into them. as if absence doesn’t rot love like fruit left out in the sun.

shoko is the first to rise—slowly, gracefully, like a tide you didn’t expect to come back. her eyes flicker with a light that could be joy or just the flare of the cigarette burning soft between her fingers. it doesn’t matter. her gaze holds you, tender and bone-deep, and then she moves—no warning, no ceremony—and pulls you into a hug that breaks something inside you with the soundlessness of a tree falling in a forgotten forest. bone-crushing, spine-shaking, a hug that says you’re back, and i hate you for it, and i missed you anyway.

you gasp, or maybe you weep. maybe it’s the same thing now.

utahime follows like muscle memory, arms wrapping around you with a gentleness you never thought you deserved. she smells like citrus and tired days and unspoken loyalty. no one says anything. but she holds you long enough that you almost believe the time apart hadn’t been a chasm with no bridge. then haibara, sweet, unkillable haibara—bursts like sunlight through a crack. he throws himself at you, laughs loud and bright like a matchbox exploding. he squeezes too tight and talks too fast, and he’s everything you remember: a child built of joy and sugar and grief that never stuck to his skin long enough to leave scars. you laugh—god, you laugh. something you thought you buried in the dirt with your better selves.

and it feels like—

old time.

a dream held up by thin wire and memory glue.

you are smiling. god help you, you're smiling. especially when geto—that devil-saint, all sly eyes and poison-dipped words—leans in with a smirk already dancing on his lips. he says something stupid, something petty, something wonderfully cruel in that teasing way only he ever could.

you scoff. roll your eyes. hit his arm.

the ache in your chest swells like a tidal wave at the edge of cracking.

and then he hugs you. tightly. all arms and warmth and history. he kisses your cheek and it leaves a phantom of something lost.

you could almost cry.

you almost do.

and even nanami, who has always worn restraint like a religion, lets something soft escape his composure. a quiet sigh. a small nod. and then— he, too, hugs you. brief. precise. meaningful in the way only nanami can be. his kiss on your cheek is clinical and affectionate, like checking for a pulse on a ghost.

you almost forget where the pain lives.

until you see him.

gojo satoru.

he hasn’t moved. hasn’t spoken. just watched. his eyes—those goddamn eyes, galaxies stitched with winter and war—are still locked on you, like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re real or some hallucination born out of a long-starved dream. you look at him, and it’s like looking directly at a solar flare.

and all you can give him is a smile—fragile, fleeting. a ghost of a thing.

a nod.

just that.

because even that feels like setting yourself on fire.

you cannot touch him. you cannot be touched by him.

because skin to skin with gojo satoru is not touch—

it’s combustion. it’s standing in the center of a burning house and pretending you don’t know the flames by name. you are afraid. not of him—but of what he awakens in you, the old hunger, the tender rot, the ache you never healed.

you stay where you are, still smiling, still nodding. like a sinner bowing at the altar of everything they once destroyed. and he, still silent, still watching, smiles back. a twitch of lips. a flicker of sorrow. a word unsaid.

you are a spark hovering too close to the dynamite. and the reunion goes on. but your heart—it stays paused in that breath between him and you. between almost and never again.

you shrug your coat off with the kind of grace that shouldn’t carry weight, but somehow does—like a monarch shedding its wings before crawling into the dirt. and it shouldn’t mean anything. it’s just a coat. it’s just fabric. but to him, it’s the gates of eden creaking open again. it’s the first light after exile.

and gojo satoru—the strongest, the brightest, the most untouchable—falls. not gently. not sweetly. he plummets.

again.

as if the heart isn’t a one-time bomb but a ritual of detonation, and yours is the trigger he was built to press.

he watches you. really watches you. like a starving man studying a banquet he can no longer touch. like a god exiled from his own temple. your skin glows beneath the weak yellow restaurant lighting—gold, soft, unreal. the kind of softness that memory overexposes with time until it hurts to remember. and fuck, he remembers.

your wrist.

your collarbone.

the delicate shell of your ear.

the way your hands twitch when you're nervous, the way your lips press together when you're trying not to cry. he remembers the sound of your breath hitching under his name like a prayer that never reached heaven.

his fingers curl slightly where they rest on the table, knuckles paling from the pressure. they twitch, like beasts trapped behind glass, aching to roam again across familiar land—your skin. the old kingdom. the fallen empire. he used to know every inch like scripture. and now he doesn’t even have the right to blink too long in your direction.

his lips are sealed into a taut, flat line. but they betray him anyway, trembling like they remember the softness of your name on their altar. they remember your taste, your voice, the way you used to say i love you without actually needing to say it. they remember too much.

and it isn’t memories pelting him now—it’s architecture. full-fledged walls slamming down around him, one after another, building a goddamn mausoleum of what once was. in front of him, behind him, above and below—you, you, you. your memory is spatial. it has mass. it breathes. it’s a fifth dimension he never learned to escape.

even the floor groans under the weight of it. like it's preparing to crack open, to split wide and suck him under into some subterranean exhibit of you. every laugh fossilized. every moan etched in stone. a museum of sins and sacred things alike. you—his relic. his ruin. his religion. just. . . his.

his chest feels too tight for lungs. ribs caught fire long ago, and they’re burning clean now, white-hot, holy. and all these years of silence—of stillness—of pretending not to bleed in the absence— and you walk in like nothing happened. like god didn’t die inside him when you walked away.

you still have him.

that’s the real horror. not that you’re here. not that you’re close. but that you still hold the switchblade that carves his name into the inside of your mouth, even if you never say it again. he wants to laugh. wants to scream. wants to run until his bones snap from trying to carry this ache that has no language.

instead, he just stares. because what a fucking joke.

after all this time—

after all these years—

after all that silence—

he still wants to build a home out of your shadow.

but you don’t need to know that.

the table breathes. you swear it does. its bones groan beneath elbows and glasses and the weight of everything left unsaid. your coat now hangs limply behind you like the ghost of an apology you’ll never give voice to. you sit, and the chair creaks as if even inanimate things remember your weight, your shape, the way your absence once haunted the fibers of every place you left behind. the table trembles slightly when your fingers graze the edge—your touch too holy for wood, too cursed to leave untouched.

they talk first. of course they do. how else to dam the ocean threatening to collapse the room?

shoko leans in, the scent of smoke already woven into her sweater like a second skin. “you still hate parties?” she mutters, a smile twitching at her lips, lazy and weathered. “or is this your way of showing growth?” you scoff softly, eyes flicking down. “maybe i missed suffering.”

“you always did like dramatic exits,” utahime cuts in, eyebrows raised but fondness softening the edges. “figured you’d at least like a dramatic entrance, too.“

“you got both,” haibara chirps, voice too bright for the dim lighting. “you disappeared like a magician and then showed up out of nowhere. like a cursed trick!” you laugh. you actually laugh. and god, it sounds foreign in your own mouth. “i’m full of surprises, no?” you whisper.

geto watches you over the rim of his glass, something wolfish curling around his smirk. “you look good,” he says, and it’s not a compliment—it’s a tease, a jab, a soft knife for old wounds.

you glare, but it doesn’t land. “still an asshole.”

he leans in and plants a kiss on your cheek. “only for you.”

you wipe the spot with mock disgust. “gross.”

“affection,“ he shrugs, like it’s nothing. like he didn’t cradle pieces of anger, annoyance to his best-friend’s heart. like the years didn’t warp everything between you into both ache and fondness.

nanami is quiet but not cold. his eyes are still the same—sharp, clear, painfully perceptive. “i’m glad you came,” he says simply. his words feel like bridges being rebuilt, slowly, plank by plank. glass of wine between his fingers, eyes golden behind the rim of his glasses.

you nod. “me too.”

and you mean it. even if your lungs beg to collapse.

then there’s silence. the kind that swells. thick. pregnant with all the unsaid years.

you don’t need to look to feel him— he is a language carved into your bones, a prayer you never meant to memorize but find yourself whispering every time silence clutches the air.

gojo satoru. your once lover. your unfinished poem. the echo of god’s laugh wrapped in white hair and ruin.

he is too much for the room— not because of his height, but because he exists like a collapse, a star falling in reverse, an entire sky crashing into your lungs with every breath you steal. his presence bends gravity, pulls the blood up to your cheeks as if shame is a kind of worship.

your stomach knots— not in fear, but in recognition.

like the sea remembering a storm or a violin string remembering the hands that once made it sing and scream and break.

maybe he was too big for your heart, maybe that’s why you gave up loving him— five years of building a house in a field of landmines, five years of loving a god with no church to bury your prayers in. five years of being the altar. . . and never the offering.

but fuck—

maybe you don’t know. maybe you never knew. maybe you forgot, or maybe you refused to believe that gojo satoru, the man who grins like war and walks like divinity, would let you— you, with your flint-forged teeth and your flame-slick tongue— sink into the softest part of his neck and draw blood like an oath.

he’d bare his throat not out of weakness, but reverence. as if you were the altar and he the lamb, as if your rage was holy and your pain a hymn. he’d let you gnash at his skin, tear through flesh like scripture rewritten, if only to die at your feet— glorious and ruined, a monument of want, spilling his devotion in the red language he never dared speak aloud.

and even then— even as death circles like a vulture over the carcass of his once-beating heart, he’d smile, stupid and soft, and whisper to the silence, “i’ll come back. i swear to every god that ever spat me out, i’ll come back— just let me hear her voice again.”

because love like that doesn’t rot. because your name tastes like resurrection on his tongue. because hell, to him, isn’t fire or chains or suffering— it’s a world where he can’t touch you. where your laugh doesn’t live in his ears like prayer.

and fuck.

you’ll never understand, will you?

what it means to be worshipped so quietly, so violently, so utterly— by a man who would destroy the heavens just to carve you a seat on his ruined throne.

maybe that’s why you walked away. maybe that’s why the hole he left in your ribs still howls like an animal during winter. a hunger not for food, but for the way he used to say your name like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

and now, he sits. close enough to touch. too far to reach. you dare not turn your head. you fear your eyes might betray you, that they might look at him the way a desert looks at rain— with desperation, with longing, with a kind of madness only absence can plant and let bloom.

and he—

he does not speak. but he burns. he is fire in every quiet moment.

he is the ghost of the man you loved and the god of the man you could never stop. you don’t need to look to feel him. he’s already inside every room you enter, every breath you steal, every line of poetry that tastes too much like ache.

and still— your ribs whisper his name like a country mourning the flag it had to lower. like a home that remembers who once set it alight

and called it beautiful.

he doesn’t say anything at first. doesn’t move. just watches you. his gaze, not sharp like a knife, but aching like a prayer long abandoned by its god.

you finally risk it—meet his eyes.

and you swear the earth forgets to spin for a second.

“…hey,” you say.

and it’s nothing.

a whisper.

a crumb of sound.

but to him, it might as well be divine thunder.

because it’s your voice, after all this time. still soft. still yours.

he blinks.

his voice comes out lower than usual. slower. like it had to travel through fire.

“…hey.”

and that’s it.

that’s the whole damn apocalypse. two syllables shared across a battlefield of broken years. you don’t touch.

not yet.

your fingers stay folded in your lap like caged birds. you don’t dare get too close. you’ve seen what fire does to paper. and right now, he’s a wildfire dressed in a suit. but you see it in him—the way his throat works around words he’ll never say,

the way his fingers twitch like they’re mourning the absence of your skin, the way his eyes drink you in with hunger and grief braided together. and somewhere deep in your ribs, you wonder how long you’ll last before you burst into flames, too. because, you’re fucking obsessed with standing by the smoke just to get burn. eating your skin alive, your soul, and maybe death can do you and home him together.

maybe that's what brought you here— after the dinner plates were cleared, after the laughter was rinsed from the corners of everyone’s mouths, after the ghosts at the table stood and decided it would be good, a good idea, to drown what couldn’t be spoken in neon light and fermented poison. the reason? blurred like rain on old glass. gray like grief. black like closed eyes. blue like the bruise of memory blooming too soon, too fast.

bar-hopping, they said. for old time’s sake. for the ruin. for the memory of what you used to be when the world was less cruel. maybe they missed you. maybe they wanted to stitch you back into the tapestry you tore yourself from. or maybe—just maybe—they wanted to press salt into every wound you thought had healed, using gojo satoru as both knife and bandage. punishment draped in nostalgia. revenge kissed in the shape of reconciliation, a justice, a soft, smiling revenge with music too loud and drinks too bitter.

or maybe— maybe it was punishment in disguise. a blade dipped in sugar. because how dare you vanish? how dare you vanish and still wear his name like a wound you never stitched?

you didn’t ask. you didn’t want to know.

you just… ended up here. with the weight of old laughter in your coat

and gojo satoru sitting alone at a table like a war-torn monument left in the middle of a city too afraid to rebuild. his hair is no longer immaculate, no longer kissed by the arrogant sun. it's disheveled,

sacrificed to the cold wind and some dark thought he wouldn’t dare speak out loud.

his cheeks are flushed— not the pink of joy, no— but the bloom of something frozen and fermented, winter’s mouth pressed too long against his face and liquor swimming inside the boy who always hated its taste. his tolerance was never there— always a child before the bottle, always glass in the hands of fists too drunk with grief.

you approach. and his head lifts like it’s a dream stirring awake.

his eyes soften. a broken smile tries to rise but fails halfway. you sit across from him. a round chair. a round table. two broken halos facing each other over spilled liquor and wasted years. your fingers brush against the glass; it’s sticky, like guilt, slick like all the things you never said. and it clings to you like the past— like him.

he blinks. slow. as if your silhouette might vanish with the next gust of wind. “you’re really here,” he slurs, softly, like prayer, like disbelief wrapped in threadbare hope. “for hours i thought i was dreaming.”

“i’m here,” you murmur, barely. the syllables fall from your mouth like old leaves.

he chuckles. a sound that should’ve been joy but dies somewhere in his throat. he takes another sip, then rests his arm on the table,

lays his cheek on it, and looks at you with eyes that are lakes about to flood. his gaze crashes into yours. soaking you. drowning you. and still, you don’t look away.

you copy him. arms folded, chin resting. you tilt your head, just enough to fall deeper into those irises— that endless, violent blue. blue like bruises you never healed from. blue like sky you prayed to and never got an answer.

“you’re so pretty,” he whispers, like it hurts to say it. like your beauty has always been the blade pressed to his neck. “so stop looking at me like that.”

“like what?” you ask, voice a breath, as your finger ghosts across his cheek, wiping away the tear before it commits the crime of falling.

his eyes flutter shut. he hiccups. his smile— god, that crooked smile— it still lives in some unholy cathedral in your chest. “with pity in your glassy eyes,” he mumbles, “all i am to you is a tragedy, right?”

you don’t answer. what answer would suffice for a man who once held your soul like scripture and shattered it like a mirror? you scoff—because you want to laugh, you want to scream, you want to throw the table over and shout, you idiot, you beautiful, stupid man—

don’t you know i have a whole goddamn forest growing inside my ribs, and your name is carved into every tree? don’t you know every breath i take still tastes like your fingertips? don’t you know that i built an entire religion around forgetting you and still ended up praying to your absence?

so you don’t answer. you hum. quiet and dangerous.

because this stupid man— this stupid, beautiful, broken man—

has no idea. no fucking idea that you have a whole goddamn forest living inside your ribs, and every tree bears his name carved deep in the bark, like devotion, like desecration like you never stopped loving him, you just ran out of air.

and still, he looks at you like he’s begging to be forgiven for sins he never understood. and still, you look at him like you’re begging him to sin again.

he pushes himself up with the weight of a thousand silences pressing on his spine, hands trembling slightly as he steadies himself by folding his arms on the table like a man trying to keep his ribs from spilling open, like a man holding the crumbling temple of his own heart together with nothing but the memory of a touch he hasn’t felt in years—his head tilts, just slightly, as if he’s still searching for your warmth in the air between you.

his smile weak and war-torn, barely stitched together by the ghost of better days, and those eyes—those impossibly blue eyes, rimmed red with exhaustion and something far crueler than grief, the way soft snowfall turns into frostbite when you’re not looking—he looks at you like time has never moved, like this is still 3 a.m.

and your limbs are tangled in the dark, in sheets still warm from laughter, in promises still half-whispered and whole-hearted, as if the world hasn’t split open, ended, collapsed in on itself three separate times and somehow rebuilt without you by his side, as if his voice isn’t still the saddest sound you've ever known, a symphony of mourning wrapped in velvet and regret, and when he breathes in—sharp and jagged—it stumbles out as a sob, a soft implosion of a man who’s forgotten how to survive you.

you hum—barely, like your voice has to climb out of a grave to answer him—and nod, slowly, gently, with lips twitching at the corners as though caught between kindness and cruelty, because you know the smile will undo him, and it does, it always has; and oh, gojo satoru, the man who once held up the sky just to keep you from crying, now hates himself so profoundly he can feel the hate as something physical, tangible.

sitting in the hollowness of his chest like wet ash, like an ache so ancient it must have been born before language, a feeling that writhes in his ribs like some caged animal desperate to escape, to crack bone and tear through skin, to burst out and land in your lap just to scream—here, here, here is the broken wreckage you left behind, the useless cage I still carry like a shrine, because you refused to come home and now this, this is all I have: splintered bone and empty halls echoing with your absence.

he takes another breath—another knife dragged down the center of his throat—and his lips tremble, they falter, they fail, and then the first tear falls, silent and warm, like summer rain on a ruined battlefield, and he doesn’t bother wiping it away because he’s tired of pretending he’s anything other than devastation.

and he lets out a breath that could’ve been a laugh in another life but now comes jagged, frayed, a desperate sound clawing its way out of grief, and his voice cracks open like glass, “why am i annoyed to hear you’re doing well?” he asks with a bitter chuckle that tastes like rust and old wine and dying stars.

even the night outside holds its breath for his answer, because everyone knows it’s not really a question—it’s a confession, it’s a plea, it’s the sound of a man trying not to drown in the idea that you’ve moved on, that you survived him, that you found a way to bloom without the soil of his love beneath you.

like a wounded dog with its ribs pressing against the silence, you whimper—no sound made noble, no dignity left to guard your chest as it tightens like a locked gate beneath your skin, breath hitching on thorns of memory that refuse to die, and the tears fall down your cheeks in steady surrender, not like rivers, no—like wounds reopening themselves because healing would mean forgetting, and forgetting would mean killing what little warmth you had left—“can you just forget about me?” you beg, as if he hasn’t made a home of your name in his lungs, as if his heart doesn’t echo in your syllables every time it beats.

and he looks at you with those eyes, red at the corners, drunk and broken and somehow still holy, and replies, not with anger, not with grace, but with the simple clarity of a man who has built his life from the ruins you left, “how can I forget about you?” his voice cracks around the truth like old glass. “we are married.”

and you shatter.

not because you didn’t know.

not because you forgot how his hands used to tremble when he touched you like he feared you were too good for this world. but because something deeper than your bones still remembers being loved by him, being known by him, being made a whole new language in his presence.

and now your flesh, your skin, your very name no longer feels like your own, as if he branded you gently, kindly, beautifully, and you—ungrateful creature—still asked if you could bite him, if you could take blood and memory from a man who gave you the universe and called it yours.

“it was a joke, ’toru,” you whisper, voice raw, breaking like the spine of an old book, “we were eighteen.”

but he only smiles—no joy, only ruin—because tears, tears, tears, and they don’t stop. not from you. not from him. not from the night itself.

he shakes his head slowly, like sorrow is pulling strings in his neck, like grief has turned him into a puppet of devotion. “no,” he whispers, and his voice is so fragile it could collapse if you breathe wrong. “no, it wasn’t a joke for me.”

and then, like a child showing a scar, he raises his hand, fumbling and drunk, as he shows you his ring finger. the ring. your ring. his ring. the one that bound your souls together before either of you understood what eternity could cost.

“I never took the ring off,” he says softly, touching it like it burns and comforts all at once.

and it feels like the world tilts, spins the wrong way, because people—they always say you'll have many versions of yourself at eighteen, that you'll fall in love again, that your heart is a traveler and not a prisoner, that you’ll learn to love better, wiser, gentler.

but how do you love again when your body still barks like a loyal dog for the hands of the man you abandoned, when every smile at another feels like betrayal because your soul remembers, because even your shadow aches for the one you walked away from—not out of cruelty, but fear?

“why not?” you sob, because it’s all you have left. all you can say. the question you scream into your own pillow every night.

and he looks at you, eyes shining like the last stars before morning, his voice swollen with alcohol and truth, “because you told me not to.”

and there it is—your ruin. your miracle. your grave. your home. all in one sentence.

you sob—no, you collapse, inwardly, violently, like a cathedral folding in on itself, like your ribcage can no longer carry the weight of all the ghosts living inside it, like grief has nested in your sternum and refuses to leave—and your hands press hard against your lap, as if anchoring you.

as if your own flesh could offer forgiveness, or at least a moment of silence from the storm within, and you close your eyes with the desperation of a prayer, hoping—no, begging—that if you shut them tightly enough, you’ll wake up in your apartment, alone, wrapped in the artificial safety of solitude, and call this night a nightmare, a fever dream stitched by guilt and memory.

but no.

when your eyes open, the cruel mercy of reality stares back in the form of him—his gaze soft, impossibly soft, as if you hadn’t ripped his throat open with your silence, hadn’t buried your goodbye into the marrow of his bones and left him to bleed and stitch himself up in the dark with trembling hands and a heart too faithful to curse you for the pain.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper through the wreckage of your sobs, your voice a broken seashell echoing with waves of regret, and still—still—he smiles.

not the kind of smile meant for joy.

but the kind that feels like watching the sun set over a battlefield.

warm. soft. broken.

“you are mean,” he says, not cruelly, not accusingly, but like he’s reciting a truth he carries gently, like a wound he tends to every night just to keep it alive, just to remind himself it was real.

and you—coward, runner, storm-disguised-as-woman—you tell him, “that’s why you should forget about me.”

as if forgetting were a door he could choose to close. as if your name didn’t linger in every breath he took. as if memory didn’t wear your face and your voice wasn’t embedded in every “good morning” he never says anymore.

he chuckles, bitter and hoarse, head shaking with a sort of surrender that feels too old for his age, and for a moment he pulls away from the table, just long enough to wipe his endless tears with the back of his wrist—like a child who’s learned not to ask for comfort—and then he returns, folding his arms again on the table like a man returning to his altar.

“you know…” he begins, voice cracking under the weight of unspoken years, “as you can see right now, day by day—literally, day by day—I’m dying a little more inside.” and then his eyes find yours, not with blame, not with bitterness, but with the kind of love that bleeds and never dries—“still, i love you.”

and you sob—god, you sob.

like every part of you finally understands what you’ve done. like the music can’t drown out the screaming in your chest anymore.

you reach for him—trembling, reckless, human—your hand crossing the table like a confession, your fingers cupping his cheek with the tenderness you once buried, your thumb wiping tears that never asked to be seen, and through it all, you whisper the only truth you think you have left, “i’m a horrible woman.”

and his skin doesn’t flinch. his eyes don’t turn away. because in his world, even your worst version is still the only home he knows.

his cheek leans into your palm like it remembers the shape of your hand, like skin itself carries memory deeper than bone, like even after everything—after the silence, after the vanishing act, after the years where your name was a wound he nursed behind closed doors—his body still believes you are warmth, even if your love came with fire.

he doesn’t speak right away.

he just breathes—ragged, trembling, like the act itself is difficult beneath the weight of your touch—and you realize then how delicate this moment is: him, holding himself together like wet paper in a storm, and you, the storm that never stopped.

“you’re not horrible,” he murmurs, voice low, reverent, not forgiving but true—a truth he speaks the way someone confesses their final prayer—“you were just scared.” and that breaks you in a way nothing else ever could.

because fear was the reason you ran, wasn’t it?

not hate. not indifference. just fear. fear that his love was too soft for your jagged edges. fear that one day you’d rot in his garden, unworthy of his sunlight. fear that someone so golden would crumble trying to hold someone like you.

but he never crumbled.

no—he stayed. waited. kept the door unlocked, the light on, the ring on his finger. like his love had no expiration date. “you say that,” you whisper, throat burning from all the saltwater you’ve held back, “but look at you. you’re not even whole anymore.”

and he laughs, bitter and sweet, like a song played out of tune, “i was never whole to begin with. not before you, not after you. i think i was always meant to love you in pieces.”

you cry harder.

not the quiet kind. the kind that trembles your shoulders. the kind that makes your hands useless. the kind where your ribs feel like glass and every inhale feels like bleeding.

he watches you, not with pity, but with that same unbearable tenderness he’s always reserved for you, the kind that says, i know you’re the reason i’m in ruins, but i’d still choose this ruin over any peace without you.

you look at him, eyes red, breath shaky, mascara in smudges and heartbreak etched across your face like a painting only he could love.

“what do you want from me, satoru?” you ask, voice almost a whimper, like a child lost in the middle of a battlefield. “after everything… why do you still want me?”

and he doesn’t even pause.

he just blinks slowly, his own tears still quietly falling, and answers like it’s the easiest question in the world, “because it was never about wanting you. it’s that i am you. i don’t know how to exist in a world where you’re not part of me.”

and somewhere deep inside, something in you breaks open, gentle and violent all at once—

like spring thawing through winter.

like a dam finally giving way.

and for the first time in years, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—love this cruel, this consuming, this patient . . . wasn’t a curse. but a kind of salvation. a home you left behind. a home that never stopped waiting.

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ambrosiagourmet · 1 year ago

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In chapter 28, Marcille lays out why the journey she's been on has been worth the pain: because they were able to bring Falin back. The injuries, the indignity, and the mess of it all - they are tolerable primarily in context of destination she believes she's reached at this point.

In truth, of course, the story is far from finished. In fact, I would argue that this is actually where hers really starts. This scene holds the seed of the very thing the Winged Lion will exploit to lead Marcille to become the Lord of the Dungeon. After all, with a desire as far reaching and deeply held as Marcille's, if the only acceptable outcome is success, what other choice does she have but to bargain with the infinite?

So let's talk about this idea - where it leads her, how Laios' path intersects with it, and how they both help each other move forward in the face of failure.

First though, I want to step back and talk about something else: the shapeshifter chapters.

With these chapters recently covered by the anime, there has, of course, come plenty of fun discussions about which version of each character belongs which other character's perceptions, and what that means.

One thing I've seen pointed out a few times is the fact that both Laios and Marcille's impressions of each other are based around Falin. Marcille's version of Laios is larger and more masculine, because those are the traits that stuck out to her in contrast to Falin. Laios' version of Marcille was directly inspired by her appearance and demeanor when resurrecting Falin.

So why is this important to a discussion about Marcille being focused on success? Well, it shows us where Laios and Marcille's relationship starts: built primarily around their shared love for Falin. It's from that shared beginning that they begin to learn about each other on their own terms.

And this is true for the whole group, to be clear. They are united by circumstance - love for a lost companion, a sense of responsibility, a desire for freedom - but they all grow and help each other beyond that circumstance. They help Senshi bury the ghosts of his past and eat some Hippogriff stew. They help Izutsumi open up to mutual love and friendship. And they learn so much about each other: about Chilchuck's family and Laios' love of monsters and Marcille's desires to live life alongside others.

In the particular case of Marcille and Laios, understanding each other is what lets them save each other. It is not through Falin that Laios talks Marcille down from the edge the Lion has brought her to, nor is it through her that Marcille comforts Laios after the demon is defeated, when it is still unclear how everything will work out.

In fact, it is very specifically the unknown fate of Falin that Marcille comforts him about.

She is willing to accept the outcome - willing, now, to embrace the journey itself, rather than only accepting it as a means to an end.

This is a lesson she learns from Laios, and it's a lesson we watch Laios learn, too.

Just before making her deal with the Lion, Marcille recalls everything that led her to that moment. She lingers on the pain, recalling the worst of their journey:

She only pushes through by remembering her goals: saving Falin, and equalizing the lifespans of her friends to match her own.

And yet, 10 chapters later, when reflecting on why she actually wants to see her goals through, it is the good parts of that very same journey that shine through.

There's an inherent contradiction here, one which Marcille doesn't know how to face. How can the suffering that she tolerates also be the love that drives her forward? How can the loss that she's worked so hard to reverse also be the very circumstance that created a world she, now, cannot stand to give up?

And Laios confronts her with the truth. Because it just is.

Losing Falin forced him to open up to others in a way he never had. It forced him to choose what he cares about, and in making that choice, it gave him the opportunity to be seen. To connect with others.

He has already had to come to terms with the fact that Falin's death has given him something - he would not have been able to kill her again if he hadn't.

There is something here that is fundamental to Dungeon Meshi's understanding of what life even is. Like, I don't think it's a coincidence that part of Laios' speech to Marcille in chapter 85 is actually first seen in the chapter where they fight off ghosts.

In 'Sorbet,' while possessed , Laios thinks that it would have been better if the dragon had eaten him, instead of Falin. The ghosts make people lose their will to live - they are dragged away from life.

When he's pulled back from that brink, Laios realizes that he can't move forward without accepting that she is gone. He even compares the way he was holding on to her to being possessed: it pulled him away from life, from the present moment.

To carry on, he must accept what has been lost, and focus on protecting the life that they still have.

Like Marcille, he has to accept the contradictions of their journey. That life means eating, and eating requires death. That sometimes one must be selfish in order to be kind, and that selflessness can easily be twisted into to cruelty.

That loss will, inevitably, lead you to find happiness that you may not have found otherwise.

This is how he gets through to Marcille. And I think part of the reason he reaches her with these specific ideas is because those contradictions are baked so thoroughly into their relationship.

Marcille only met Falin after she had been left behind by Laios. Laios was able to reconnect with Falin because she left Marcille. They both met each other through Falin, and yet they only really got to know and care for one another after she died.

And of course, that's why Marcille uses the same ideas to comfort Laios, in the final chapter. It is because of Laios that she is able to accept the journey for itself, and not need the happy ending to justify its meaning to her.

Together, they help each other move forward, and accept that they may not be able to bring Falin back.

Which, if I'm being honest... I think this is the reason Falin can come back, narratively speaking, without the resurrection feeling like it takes away from the themes of the story.

After all, she doesn't do it for Marcille or Laios - she does it for her own sake. Her own hunger and her own desire to eat are the things that lead her back to life.

All three of them, together, end the story like this: not clinging to the things they are afraid to lose, but knowing they can choose to move forward together.

And, importantly, this happy ending is no longer the thing that gives the journey meaning. Rather, it is the privilege of the journey itself that is her happy ending: the chance to walk alongside others in the time they have, to get to know each other, and to eat well.

#dungeon meshi #delicious in dungeon #marcille donato #laios touden #falin touden #dungeon meshi spoilers #dunmeshi analysis #for anyone keeping track I'm on pdt so it IS still the same day that I said I'd post it on #PUT DOWN THE TOMATOES

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youngsadlesbian · 5 months ago

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hi! i’ve been reading your works and they are so brilliant! one of ny fav authors in here! 🥹

i would like to request popular!wanda x popular!reader wherein they are known to be rivals when it comes to both academics and just, popularity and general. their parents are well-known and everyone assumes they despise eachother, because they feign to be so.

but they’re actually dating eachother. it’s just nice to see everyone worked up about them. and then one day, when wanda hears someone talking bad about reader, she reveals their relationship in the most affectionate way! 😆

thank you!

— 🍂

HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT

pairing: wanda maximoff x reader

summary: for years, you and wanda maximoff have been rivals—battling for the top spot in academics, popularity, and everything in between. the entire school believes you despise each other, fueling the most talked-about feud in westview high history. but here’s the twist: you’re actually dating. and it's definitely fun keeping up with this lie.

a/n: thanks for the request and i'm sorry for any mistakes <3

word count: 956

warnings: fluff and kinda enemies to lovers.

Westview High had two reigning queens.

There was you—a household name, thanks to your influential parents and undeniable charm. Top of the class, president of multiple clubs, effortlessly cool. People either wanted to be you, date you, or just stay out of your way.

And then there was Wanda Maximoff.

Equally brilliant, equally popular, equally untouchable. Her mother was a renowned politician, her father a high-profile businessman. She dominated academics, ruled the social scene, and had a fan club that rivaled yours.

And the two of you?

You hated each other.

Or at least, that’s what everyone thought.

It was a feud so legendary that teachers sighed at the mention of your names. You were always neck and neck—fighting for valedictorian, student government president, even the coveted title of Homecoming Queen.

Students thrived off the drama.

Every eye-roll. Every sarcastic remark. Every competitive smirk in the hallways.

People ate it up.

Little did they know…

You were very much in love with Wanda Maximoff.

And had been for a while.

It started a year ago.

An accidental run-in at a party led to an argument that led to… well… a heated moment alone in an empty hallway.

One stolen kiss turned into another.

And another.

And suddenly, hating Wanda became loving her.

But the drama of your rivalry was too good to let go.

So, naturally, you both pretended to still hate each other.

It was perfect.

No one suspected a thing.

You’d exchange insults in class but secretly text each other under the table.

You’d have intense debates during school meetings and then make out in Wanda’s car afterward.

You were the ultimate power couple in disguise.

And you loved watching the school lose its mind over your “feud.”

\*/

Everything was going great—until one day, Wanda overheard something she did not like.

You had just walked into the school library, carrying your usual confidence. The rivalry was still going strong, and as per tradition, the minute you stepped inside, people started whispering.

Wanda sat at a table near the back, pretending to study, but her ears perked up when she heard two girls from the cheerleading squad whispering nearby.

"I don’t get why people like her so much," one of them muttered. "She’s so fake."

"Right?" the other scoffed. "Like, she just acts all perfect, but she’s probably super insecure. I bet she just uses her parents’ money to stay relevant."

Wanda’s blood boiled.

Excuse me?

Sure, she and you acted like enemies, but there was a big difference between playful rivalry and people actually talking down on you.

Wanda Maximoff had zero tolerance for anyone disrespecting her girlfriend.

And so, for the first time in a long time, she dropped the act.

"Excuse me," Wanda said, standing up.

The entire library froze.

Because Wanda never started public drama. That was your thing.

The cheerleaders looked startled. "Uh… hi, Wanda?"

Wanda’s voice was deadly calm. "I just wanted to make sure I heard you correctly."

The girls exchanged a look. "What—?"

"You think Y/N is fake?" Wanda raised an eyebrow. "That she only stays relevant because of her parents?"

You, still by the entrance, had no idea what was happening—until you noticed the way everyone suddenly turned to look at Wanda.

Oh no.

Wanda was doing something.

And that something was not planned.

You started walking toward her. "Wanda—"

She cut you off. "You know what’s funny?" Her voice was loud enough for everyone to hear. "You sit here, talking about Y/N, when you don’t even know her. Do you know how hard she works? How late she stays up studying? How much pressure she’s under?"

The girls gawked at her.

You?

You froze.

Because—

Was she—?

Wanda turned toward you, eyes burning with fury and something else entirely.

Affection.

Possession.

Love.

"You know what?" she continued, stepping toward you. "I’m tired of pretending."

And then—

In front of everyone—

She kissed you.

If you thought the school lost its mind over your rivalry—

This?

This was nuclear.

The library exploded.

People gasped.

Someone screamed.

A freshman fainted.

Your brain short-circuited.

And Wanda?

Wanda looked smug as hell.

She smirked against your lips before pulling back slightly, her voice teasing. "You gonna say something, baby?"

The whole school malfunctioned.

"Baby???"

Your enemies-to-lovers fantasy had just become the biggest scandal in Westview High history.

And honestly?

It was amazing.

\*/

The news spread like wildfire.

By lunchtime, your phones were blowing up.

"Is this a PR stunt???"

"HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN HAPPENING?"

"ARE WE IN A FANFICTION?"

Even your teachers looked shook.

But the best part?

The absolute best part?

You and Wanda just sat at your usual separate lunch tables—grinning at each other from across the cafeteria.

You took a sip of your drink.

She blew you a kiss.

Someone dropped their tray.

This was so much better than the rivalry.

Because now?

You were the school’s power couple.

And you loved every second of it.

By the end of the week, people adjusted.

The rivalry turned into an iconic romance.

Teachers sighed but secretly rooted for you.

The school paper ran a dramatic headline: "THE GREATEST LOVE STORY EVER TOLD?"

And you?

You walked down the halls hand-in-hand with Wanda Maximoff—owning it.

"You know," Wanda teased one day, leaning against your locker, "we could’ve just told people normally."

You smirked. "Where’s the fun in that?"

She laughed, rolling her eyes. "We are so dramatic."

"That’s why we work, babe."

And with that, you kissed her again—in front of everyone.

Because at the end of the day?

You and Wanda Maximoff weren’t just rivals.

You were legendary.

And now?

You were legendary together.

#wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #elizabeth olsen x you #elizabeth olsen x reader

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goldenlikedayl1ght · 3 months ago

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just like heaven | connor, rk800

ART CREDIT: @possumy (Original post) a/n: hi everybody happy april im happy to still be here my detroit become human hyperfixation is alive and well. also so much love to @possumy if you see this and want me to change the header, i will!!! please just send me a dm/ask!! your art was just perfect for how i was imagining connor to look in this fic and its just. i am obsessed with it your art is so lovely. and one more shoutout to this post by @salt-and-a-dash-of-pepper made that sort of inspired this fic. warnings: cursing, kissing, connor being autistic and also learning emotional regulation, connors first relationship, fuck gavin reed, Gavin is awful to Connor and is weird to reader, canon typical violence, connor snaps at reader, connor is so awkward, mostly canon accurate, established relationship, bridge to terabithia, hank is hank, lots of complicated emotions lots of connor learns how to be a person, uhhh i guess thats it wordcount: 3.1k summary: connor feels a lot of strong emotions and has no 'emotional regulation' feature. pairing: deviant!connor, rk800 x gn!reader now playing: just like heaven - the cure "show me how you do it/and i promise you/ i promise that I'll run away with you/i'll run away with you"

The one thing no one ever tells you about being a deviant is that you need to learn emotional regulation, you know, that thing that small children learn in elementary school?

…Well maybe someone did tell Connor, given how long he spent hunting deviants before becoming one.

But with the revolution and the high stakes scenario surrounding Detroit, he sort of.. skipped that step.

Now, as the dust settles, he’s… adjusting to his new life. And there are so many things that are new--

Including emotions. He never imagined feeling the sort of things he does now..

So, here’s an incomplete list of the emotions that Connor deals with after becoming deviant.

Anger

He can’t help himself. He can’t control it.

Gavin Reed is just so fucking annoying.

And he can’t figure out why—

Androids are on their way to becoming human’s equals. Sure, they’re not there yet because humans are in fact self-righteous creatures who are very stubborn, but slowly, more and more are becoming increasingly tolerant.

Except for Gavin. He still hates androids. Especially Connor.

And all he wanted was to make you a coffee before you got out of your meeting with a witness, a human with a sharp disdain for androids. Hank had gone with you to ask the right questions.

So, he went into the breakroom to make you a warm drink..

That’s what boyfriends do, right?

“What’re you doing, bolts?”

Even at the sound of his voice, a pang of agitation ran through him.

“I’m making coffee for—”

The cup is smacked out of his hand and into the nearby sink before he can fully turn around.

Anger immediately starts to build in the pit of his stomach.

“Androids don’t drink coffee,” He reminded, “Androids don’t eat or drink anything. Stop fucking pretending you’re like everyone else.” He spits, and Connor takes a moment.

He inhales, remembering your advice.

Just ignore him, Connor. He’s a dick who just wants to make you feel as worthless as he does.

“It’s not for me.” He starts, turning now to go make you another cup of coffee, but before he can turn, Gavin grabs his shoulder to turn him again.

“Who’s it for then, Bolts?” He asks, and he steps closer to Connor, his face closer to his. Connor’s cheeks twitch, resisting the urge to scrunch his nose at the smell of cigarettes that wafts off him. “Hank?” When Connor doesn’t answer, Gavin’s face lights up in realization.

“Oh, it’s for your little crush. What a pair you two make.” Gavin scoffs. “For a bot, you have good taste. I might just have to show them what a real man could—”

Connor can’t help himself. He shoves Gavin back a bit. It makes Gavin laugh.

“I’ve been waiting to beat the shit out of you since you attacked me in the archive.” He says, swinging a punch Connor’s way before he can even react.

You thought your session with the witness was going well. Then, from outside the interrogation room, you heard shouting. You glanced over to Hank, your movements coming to a stop.

“Uh,” He clears his throat and stands up, nodding you over to the door, “We’ll be right back, Ma’am.” He says to the witness.

Your stomach fills with dread, hoping Connor was able to stay out of trouble (Yeah, right.).

You see the crowd gathering around the breakroom, and before you can even ask yourself who this fight could be between.. Gavin Reed is thrown across the precinct, and you realize who the other person in this fight is.

Hank realizes it too as Gavin gets up and quickly runs at Connor, as they start to hit each other, fighting like two hormonal, angry teenagers. It’s certainly what Connor feels like in this moment. Well, it would be, if Connor was thinking about anything except seeing Reed’s blood splattered across the precinct floor.

Hank looks to you and before you can register his strides towards the fight, he says,

“I’ll get Reed, you get Connor out of here.”

You’re the one who wanted to date him, remember?

You shove through the crowd, pushing big burly cops who should definitely break this fight up cheer—They’re either cheering for the long overdue ass-kicking of Gavin Reed or the annoying android that won’t seem to quit.

You move to Connor as Hank pulls Gavin back, face bloody but no longer throwing punches—Still hurling insults.

“Connor!” You raise your voice as best you can, and you even hear a few giggles from behind you. To your coworkers, it sounds like a cat trying to bark. Connor takes a step towards Reed but the sound of your voice pulls him out of this trance.

His head snaps towards you, and you can see the way he’s panting; Not from exhaustion. Androids don’t run out of breath.

Connor’s chest is falling dramatically, up and down, because of the hot anger that flows through him. Blue blood runs down his face, staining his shirt. His knuckles are wiped in Reed’s blood, and he turns towards you with such anger.

And then he blinks, his LED blinking yellow. But he’s still angry. All you can think to do is grab his wrist and pull him away to one of the bathrooms.

Connor leans against the sink, just breathing heavily. He doesn’t say anything as you slip off his jacket, and then his tie. You untie it and run it under warm water in the sink. He’s still seething as you use the tie to wipe away the blue blood from under his nose, dripped down his lips, down his chin and neck.

“What happened?” You ask after a moment.

Connor’s LED flashes red and his grip on the sink tightens.

“What do you think happened?”

A frown tugs on your lips.

“I think you let Reed get to you.”

Connor’s LED blinks red again.

“Get to me? He was fishing for a fight, and I just—” He feels his anger bubbling again. “I couldn’t take it anymore—”

You believe him.

“It’ll get easier,” You start, and Connor just shakes his head.

“Stop it,” He turns from you, pacing around the bathroom.

“It will, he’ll get tired of it, and—”

“You don’t know that!” He snaps, raising his voice at you.

You freeze. So does Connor.

Your name tumbles from his lips, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“I’m sorry,” Connor says softly, “I didn’t mean to yell at you, I just.. I got so angry, and I know that’s not an excuse, I just..” Connor’s shoulders finally slump, exhaustion taking over his anger. “I can’t stand the way he talks about you.”

The two of you look at each other, both of you looking for the other to break this silence with sage words of wisdom.

But, neither of you find the words.

Instead, you just step forward and wrap your arms around him, and he doesn’t hesitate to hug back. Connor inhales and exhales deeply. He’s found these hugs to be the best solution to these intense outbursts.

Sadness

Fridays become movie night.

You, Connor and Hank order a pizza and longue on the couch, Sumo at your feet. When movie night first started, Connor challenged Hank to be sober for it. So, he no longer drinks on Fridays. But, in exchange for his sobriety, Hank challenges Connor to experiment with showing affection for you.

It starts with making you tea or snacks, but slowly, you find yourself with his arm around your shoulder, or his hand intwined with yours.

That doesn’t really affect this story, but you think about it every Friday night.

Tonight, you’ve chosen to watch this old movie your mom always put on for you as a kid—Bridge To Terabithia.

Connor enjoys it more than he thought he would, but then he gets towards the end. His face falls when he sees the solemn tone the main character comes home to after a day at the museum.. He feels this.. horrible sadness, and he’s not sure when he starts to cry..

All he knows is that he watches the last few moments of the movie with tears running down his face. He glances to the side and notices your eyes on him. A wave of embarrassment washes over him, and he feels like he’s done something wrong by crying at a stupid kid’s movie.

That feeling goes away when he feels your head leaning on his shoulder.

Jealousy

Another emotion Connor just cannot help but feel.

He’s not stupid—You’re gorgeous, of course people are going to flirt with you! The worst part, in his opinion is the fact that you don’t even seem to notice it.

You’ll go out to dinner, and the waitress will give you a free dessert.

You’ll get phone numbers from witnesses.

And worst of all?

Gavin loves to flirt with you.

Connor is just sitting at his desk, painstakingly waiting for you to step out of the interrogation room where you’re helping interview a perp for a case Reed’s working on. He knows you have no interest in Reed. In fact, you really fucking hate Reed, the way he tortures poor Connor. But even more than that, you have no interest in Reed because you are utterly devoted to Connor, even if he doesn’t see that.

His head picks up when he sees you and Gavin leaving the room, talking by the doorway. What were you two talking about?

And Connor is very bad at social cues, so he squints, trying to analyze your body language to gauge what you’re feeling in this moment.

Hank is talking about—Well, Connor doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he stopped paying attention to the subject matter a couple of minutes ago. He’s trying to assess how quickly he can cross the room and rip Gavin’s hand off as it lands on your upper arm.

“And then, I said—” Connor is up and moving as Hank talks, “Connor, what the fuck—Oh, god,” That last part happens when Hank realizes what has grabbed Connor’s attention.

“Detective Reed,” He starts, and to you, it feels like he just shows up out of thin air, “I believe I heard Captain Fowler was looking for you.”

Reed scoffs, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, bolts?” He rolls his eyes, “Guess I should see what the old man wants.” His eyes flicker to you, glancing you up and down, “See you later, hun.”

Connor recognizes the pet name. Pet names. A very human quirk that Connor cannot seem to get the hang of. But, he can certainly try, no?

An arm is wrapped around your shoulder, but because Connor is not a physically affectionate person, your face twists in confusion.

“Goodbye, Detective.” His head tilts towards you, “Would you like to get lunch.. darling?”

You smile at his awkwardness.

“Sure. Lunch sounds nice.” And you let him walk you out of the police station, not even sure where the two of you were going to lunch. But as soon as you’re out on the street, you have to mention it, “I didn’t know you get jealous,” you tease.

Connor blinks, his LED light flashing yellow.

“It wasn’t—” He shakes his head, “I’d hardly call it jealousy.”

“Oh yeah?” You wonder, “Then why’d you come interrupt me and Reed?”

“Well, you were clearly uncomfortable,” He starts, and then he takes a deep breath, “Besides.. I’m your boyfriend. Not.. Gavin.” Connor says his name with disgust.

You just giggle.

“I think you’re cute when you’re jealous.” There’s no bite to your bark—You really do love your oblivious, amazing boyfriend. Why would you complain that you have someone as handsome and as kind as Connor being so unknowingly jealous?

You decide to ignore the way his ears flush blue. Or at least, you decide not to tease him about it.

Yearning

This one’s my favorite. It’s Connor’s favorite. It’s bound to be your favorite.

Office parties at the DPD always get a little too out of hand.. the vicious mix of ego and alcohol is always a dangerous equation.

But, Ben Collins is a friend of yours, so you and Connor showed up to his retirement party. They decided to host it at the police station, pushing the desks to the back so they could have a makeshift dance floor.

Everyone is dressed nice—Mostly in suits, but now, with the night winding on, everyone’s taken off their jackets, loosened their ties..

Connor’s sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and the first two buttons of his shirt are undone. He looks.. so fucking good.

You’re socializing, having had a drink or two, your hair messier than it had been when you came in. You’re just talking, but when the person you’re talking to leaves, Connor approaches, a smile on his face.

Your handsome— No, gorgeous—No, Pretty boyfriend with those beautiful eyes of his. You know Connor doesn’t really believe in more than numbers and science—psychology over astrology type of guy, or at least, as far as he’s expressed.

But you thank your lucky stars that you have him in your life, but if you told Connor that you’d guess he’d just scrunch his nose and ask what astronomy had to do with the two of you meeting.

(“I’m just thankful for it. I mean what are the odds?”

“Considering I was designed to be a detective where you work, to be your partner? Rather high, I’d say, but if you’d like the exact number, I could run a calculation.”)

You grin.

“Hi, pretty boy,” You coo, just a little tipsy. You watch as he blushes, a deep blue creeping onto his skin.

“Hello,” He says softly, unable to tear his eyes from you. “Are you doing okay?” He rubs your arm gently, his thumb brushing back and forth a bit. You just smile wider, blushing just as much as him.

Maybe it’s the fact that everyone here is too drunk to notice, or maybe it’s just that he feels this deep, crushing affection for you. Like he needs to be as close to you as possible. He’s not sure why, but he can’t find it in himself to deny it or push it away.

He his hands find yours, and just for a moment, Connor thinks about retracting the skin on his hands, a sign of intimacy from Deviants, but he gets too scared.

Instead, he begins to assess the risk of various spots.

Everyone’s in and out of the restrooms, you can’t go there. It seems wrong to drag you to the evidence room or even the interrogation room.

Connor glances back to the desks behind you. How no one’s paying attention to them. How even if they were, they’d be too drunk to care.

So, he leads you by the hand over to a particular desk he’s looking for, before patting the desk.

“Here, sit.”

You raise an eyebrow. Your eyes flicker down to the name on the desk, and you smile.

“Connor—”

He just looks at you, waiting. But you can see the corner of his lips twitch up as you sit right on Reed’s desk.

“Isn’t it normal to engage in a bit of friendly practical joking?” he asked, and he steps towards you, his hands landing on either side of you on the desk, caging you in. You just smile and your hands rest on his shoulder.

“You’re going to, what, prank Reed by making out with me on his desk?” You ask, a teasing edge to your voice.

Connor’s LED flickers pink, and then stays that color as he leans in, his nose barely touching yours. He’s just close enough to feel your warm breath against his lips.

“There’s nothing wrong with some harmless fun..” He mumbles, “We’re all friends here, right, Detective?”

Your heart thumps.

And maybe it’s the alcohol, but all you can to think to say is,

“You and I were never just friends, Connor.”

Something about your words recall memories of his—

Meeting you for the first time.

Saving you instead of catching a deviant.

He thinks about sitting with you on the steps of your porch, sipping hot tea, and listening to the sound of rain hitting the roof above him, your body leaning against his.

He wasn’t even a deviant at that point.

So yeah. The two of you were never ‘just’ friends.

But instead of justifying your claim, Connor’s resolve diminishes, and he presses his lips against yours, and for a rare moment—it’s all worth it.

All the hate he experiences from humans, all the hot, dangerous anger he can’t keep down, the horrible shame, the deep, overwhelming sadness—

It’s all worth it for this moment, when he feels truly alive.

He deepens the kiss and doesn’t stop you when he feels his hand on his jaw, then barely brushing past the collar of his shirt. He doesn’t know what he wants, but he knows he has to get as close to you as possible.

His hands wander, his fingertips just barely dipping beneath your top—

And just the tips of his fingers retract his skin, white fingertips brushing against your skin. He can’t help it. He pulls away from the kiss and begins to kiss your cheek, and then your jaw, and then your neck—

Each kiss is precise, calculated by him to elicit the reactions he knows you’re capable of, trying to satisfy the hunger he finds himself unable to conquer.

Connor had always considered himself an expert on Deviant Behavior—But you, the way you tug on his collar to bring him closer with one hand while playing with his hair with the other, and the vague, fuzzy-at-the-moment memory of you holding your umbrella over Connor’s head, one of the first true kindnesses he remembers—it makes him realize that he knows nothing about deviant behavior or the concept of desire.

But when the sound of small gasps leave your lips, quiet, only for him to hear over the loud music and people laughing, crying, yelling, singing, and the feeling of your warm skin beneath his ivory fingertips, Connor realizes he’s more than willing to educate himself.

Properly.

Thoroughly.

He decides to make it his mission.

And Connor always accomplishes his mission.

#connor #connor rk800 #connor dbh #connor detroit become human #connor x reader #connor rk800 x reader #connor dbh x reader #connor x you #connor x y/n #connor rk800 x you #connor rk800 x y/n #connor dbh x you #connor dbh x y/n #detroit become human fanfic #autistic connor

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rabberoth · 6 months ago

Text

Guide to Safe and Consentual Worship

Anyone can participate in worship, and anyone can be worshipped. Demons, angels, voids, beings of light, celestial entities—basically the whole cosmic buffet of existence—can be worshipped. Deities, obviously. Gods, goddesses, you name it. The possibilities are endless.

But here’s the thing: there’s a proper way to do worship, and there’s a… let’s call it less-than-stellar way.

To keep things running smoothly and ensure the vibes stay healthy, I’ve put together a simple little guide. Nothing too fancy, just some tips to make sure the dynamics remain respectful.

1) Mutual Consent

Both parties must clearly discuss and agree on the terms of worship beforehand.

Outline what worship entails—whether it’s symbolic gestures, words of affirmation, or creative expressions—and ensure that both parties are comfortable.

2) Establishing Trust

It’s strongly recommended that worship only occur between individuals who have an established relationship or significant trust.

Clearly define what is acceptable and what isn’t for both parties.

Are there any topics or actions that should be avoided?

What are the roles and responsibilities of each party?

3) Avoiding Unhealthy Power Dynamics

Both parties are equals in the interaction. Worship is not about domination or subjugation but mutual respect.

The subject of worship must not use their perceived status to manipulate, demand, or exploit the worshipper.

Likewise, the worshipper must not idealize or pedestalize the subject of worship to an unhealthy degree.

4) Ensuring Emotional Safety

Communicate. Talk about boundaries, and check in with each other on how the dynamic feels.

Either party can revoke consent at any time.

5) Avoiding Parasociality

It’s difficult to maintain healthy boundaries with individuals you do not know or interact with directly!

Encourage any worship to occur in spaces where both parties can communicate openly to each other, rather than one-sided conversations and/or expressions.

Practical Tips for Worship

Avoid Material Demands: Worship should avoid including demands for gifts or other material items, as this can lead to exploitation.

Etiquette: Ensure respectful and kind interactions. The subject of worship should not tolerate harassment, and worshippers should not face excessive obligations they didn’t agree to.

Signs of Unhealthy Worship Dynamics

One party feels guilted or pressured to continue despite discomfort.

Emotional manipulation or demands for constant attention.

One-sided interactions where the worshipper idealizes the subject of worship without mutual acknowledgment.

If one person is putting in all the emotional effort while the other just takes (or demands), it’s time to check those boundaries.

Losing sight of the difference between a healthy connection and harmful dependency.

Unrealistic expectations.

Constant messages, demands for attention, or refusal to take “no” for an answer.

What to Do if You Spot These Signs

Communicate what’s making you uncomfortable.

If that doesn’t work, take a step back and reassess the situation.

If all else fails, walk away.

Remember, worship should be a source of positivity, growth, and connection—not stress, manipulation, or obligation. Worship isn’t bad, just make sure you’re doing it safely loves!

Stay safe out there!

#otherkin #alterhuman #alterhumanity #nonhuman #nonhuman community #deitykin #divinekin #actually divine #godkin #angelkin #actually angelic #actually demonic #demonkin #celestialkin #whoever else is typically worshipped #✧. ┊ ⁭rabberoth advice.

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wholoveseggs · 5 months ago

Note

Huhu, it's me again :) Happy New Year to you and Eggs. I have another idea once you are through with what must be a very long list <3 - So, Reader and Elijah had a romantic whirlwind encounter while she was extensively traveling Europe, living her best life. They agreed to keep it on a first name basis and on keeping things casual. One morning, she just disappears on him. Back in the US, she is taking up a new job/ studies where she meets Klaus, and they start dating (semi casual). Once he introduces her to his family for Thanksgiving, she sees Elijah again, and whatever happens after is completely up to you :) Thanks in advance.

Serendipitous

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Elijah Mikaelson x f!Reader && Klaus Mikaelson x f!Reader } When your new life in New Orleans collides with the past you tried to outrun, you come face to face with the man you never stopped thinking about. And worse? You are sleeping with his brother.

♡♡ Once again you give me the most brilliant ideas @originals23~ thank you and I hope you enjoy! ♡♡

8.4k words {whoops} - Warnings: so much smut (there are THREE scenes in this one ~lol I may have gone overboard), unprotected sex (I know, I know, vampires can't reproduce... but reader doesn't know they are vampires...) fingering, oral (f!recieving), casual sex with Klaus, little but of angst, lot's of unresolved sexual & emotional tension, reunion sex, semi-public sex, Elijah being intense and possessive in the hottest way, Klaus being a messy but well-meaning && inappropriate use of a side table...

Your arrangement with Elijah was simple. Or at least, it was supposed to be.

You met by chance on a sunny afternoon in Florence, your tables at a café so close your elbows nearly touched. A passing comment about the wine turned into a two-hour conversation about art, history, and the fleeting beauty of life. His voice was velvet, his presence magnetic, and by the time the waiter brought the check, you were hopelessly charmed.

Keeping things uncomplicated was your idea. First names only. No talk of the future. Just two people indulging in the moment. But there was something about Elijah. His poised elegance, the way he made you feel seen. Made sticking to those rules harder every time you saw him.

Tonight was no different. Except for one thing. This was your last night in Europe, and he didn’t know. You hadn’t told him you were leaving and that the version of yourself he had come to know. The carefree traveler. The woman with no roots… she would disappear as soon as the sun rose. A part of you wanted to tell him, but the words caught in your throat every time you thought to speak. You couldn’t bring yourself to ruin the fragile perfection of what you had, even if it was destined to end.

Now, standing outside the door to his suite, you felt that familiar pull, equal parts excitement and dread. The lock clicked, and the door swung open before you could knock. Elijah stood there, immaculately dressed as always, his dark eyes glinting with amusement.

“Second thoughts?” he asked, a teasing smile on his lips.

“Never,” you lied, stepping inside.

The suite was extravagant, warm and rich, but it was his presence that filled the room. He gestured for you to sit, though you barely made it to the sofa before he pulled you into his lap, the contact sending sparks dancing under your skin.

“I was going to ask how your day was,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear, “but I know you don’t tolerate small talk.”

“Not when there are better things we could be doing,” you breathed, pulling him in for a kiss.

A soft sigh escaped you as your lips met, his strong hands holding you steady, your heart beating in time with his. You were in freefall, tumbling down the rabbit hole of his affection, and as he deepened the kiss, the last shreds of your resolve fell away.

He was so, damn, crushingly good in bed. He knew how to take his time, to read the smallest shifts in your body and adjust his rhythm. When he touched you, the whole world faded away, until all that was left was the two of you, wrapped up in each other.

You tugged his shirt out of his pants, pulling on the buttons of his vest in an effort to undress him faster. He chuckled, sitting back, watching you fumble.

"I can do it," you muttered, blushing as you undid his buttons, his skin hot under your fingers.

He shrugged off his jacket, and you ran your hands up his arms, across his chest, his muscles firm and taut under his crisp shirt. He was always so impeccably dressed, his clothing clearly expensive and well-made. You’d noticed it from the start, how he carried himself like a man born to luxury, but never flaunting it—just letting it linger in the details. It made you wonder what he did for a living, how did he earn his money? You knew so little about him, yet you were about to have his cock inside you.

You quickly peeled off your dress, watching his reaction as you tossed it aside. You loved how he looked at you. As if you were the only woman in the world, his gaze filled with admiration.

"I like it when you watch me," you admitted softly.

"I'd rather have my hands on you." He replied, running his palm along your thighs, his fingers trailing dangerously high, stopping just short of where you needed him.

You let out a quiet moan, and he chuckled at your response, moving his hands under your hips and picking you up, placing you underneath him on the bed. You watched as he slid his belt from its loops, tossing it onto the floor.

"Can you keep the rest on for now?" you asked, your voice quieter than intended. "You look so good in a suit.”

"As you wish." He grinned as he unbuttoned his pants, freeing his erection, and your heart fluttered. He reached over to the bedside table, retrieving a condom.

"No," you protested, your brain-to-mouth filter long gone. "I want to feel you."

The moment the words left your lips, you knew you had gone too far. The two of you never talked about this. Hell, you didn't even know if he wanted kids. Or had kids. Or birth control. Or anything personal at all. Yet, there was a part of you that didn't care. A reckless, desperate part that wanted to feel him come inside you, to take whatever piece of him he was willing to give.

He studied your face, and you were certain he would tell you no. Any reasonable man would. But then, he dropped the condom and kissed you, a slow, lingering kiss that made you squirm.

"If that's what you want." He murmured, pulling you even closer.

You nodded, clinging to him. Your hips rose to meet him, and his hands gripped your thighs, spreading you wider, as he slowly entered you.

This was such a bad idea. Having raw sex with a stranger. It was the kind of decision that would've gotten you a stern talking-to from your mother. And yet, you'd never been so turned on in your life.

He moved inside you, a languid roll of his hips, and a whimper escaped you. You wrapped your legs around him, urging him closer. You felt drunk, delirious, overwhelmed by the feeling of his skin against yours, his hard length filling you, stretching you, pushing deeper with each thrust.

It was different this way, more intense, the intimacy heightened. You suddenly regretted asking him to leave his suit on. You wanted more, the need for closeness clawing at your chest. You tugged on his shirt, until he took the hint, leaning back to shed it, his hips still moving, keeping a perfect, maddening, rhythm.

"You don't know what you want today, do you?" he said, his tone playful.

You always enjoyed a bit of dirty talk, but the sound of his voice now. Soothing and authoritative, the slightest edge of teasing… had your head spinning.

"Hush," you chided, trying to regain your composure.

He chuckled, his hands sliding up your sides, his fingers intertwining with yours. "I'm sorry," he said, though he didn't sound sorry at all. "Tell me what you want."

You moaned, the warmth in your belly coiling tighter. The way he held your hands, steady and sure, felt too intimate, too personal. But you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.

"Do you want me to go harder?" He leaned forward, his lips brushing against yours, curling into a teasing smile. "Deeper?"

You nodded, closing your eyes as he adjusted his angle, his cock hitting the spot that made your toes curl. You were close, and he seemed to sense it, his hips rocking into you harder, the bed creaking under his weight.

"Do you want me to come inside you?" he whispered, his voice rough, his words sending a fresh wave of desire through you.

It was a foolish, insane, stupid idea, but lord, did you want it. You wanted to feel his release, the heat of him filling you.

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his, the intensity of his gaze overwhelming.

"Yes," you breathed, "please."

The look in his eyes changed, as if a switch had flipped, the gentle teasing replaced by something deeper. It was the thing you were both trying to avoid, the emotion lurking just beneath the surface.

He let go of your hands, bracing himself on the mattress, his thrusts slowed, his pace deeper, drawing out the pleasure, the air between you charged, thick with anticipation.

"Say it again," he commanded.

"Please," you moaned. "I need-"

He silenced you with a kiss, your hands moving to his hips, clutching his ass, urging him deeper, faster.

He buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin, his thrusts growing uneven.

"Please," you whispered, your fingers tangling in his hair, "come inside me."

A groan escaped him, and his body stilled, the feeling of him pulsing inside you making your whole body tense, a white-hot pleasure surging through you as you both came undone, clinging to each other as if the world would fall away without the other to anchor you.

He collapsed next to you, and you curled against him, resting your head on his chest, his heart beating fast and strong under your cheek.

You weren’t sure what this was, the two of you tangled together, basking in the afterglow. He wasn’t usually a cuddler. In fact, he’d never asked you to stay the night. Yet, here he was, running his fingers through your hair, his arms around you, holding you close.

You could hear the traffic outside, the bustle of the city. It felt surreal, as if you were watching yourself from above. The woman who’d begged him to come inside her, who craved his touch, wasn’t you. She was a stranger. A shadow of the person you pretended to be.

The thought sent a jolt through your chest, and you pulled away, sitting up and reaching for your clothes.

“It’s getting late,” you said. “I should-”

“Stay,” he said softly, his hand trailing slowly down your back. His voice was quieter than you had ever heard it, almost hesitant, and the word stuck in your chest like a splinter.

Your eyes darted toward the door, the urge to flee overwhelming. What the hell were you thinking? Reckless. Stupid. You’d never planned for this to go so far, to feel so real. Yet, when his hand slid down your back, the warmth of his touch anchored you, quieting the chaos in your mind.

You found yourself nodding, cuddling back against his chest, as if the heat of his embrace could fix everything.

“Just for a little while,” you said, trying to quiet the voice in your head.

“Mmm,” he murmured, and you could feel him smiling against your hair.

The sun had set, the sky turning a dusky purple, the streetlights casting a warm glow on the buildings below. And the two of you had fallen asleep in each other’s arms, feeling safe, content, and hopelessly in love.

The first rays of dawn spilled through the windows, painting the room in soft hues of gold and pink. Elijah lay beside you, his features softened in sleep, one arm draped possessively across your waist.

You had been watching him for a while, a bit of a creepy thing to do, but he was just so handsome, even with his hair disheveled. You let your mind wander, imagining him being yours, waking up next to him every day, sharing meals and adventures. You wondered what his favorite color was, if he liked cats, his thoughts on politics. All those small details that would help bring him to life.

You also wondered what his life was like, who his family was. Maybe he was married? Cheating on his wife with you? The thought was a cold splash of reality. Of course, he was probably married. A man like him would never be single.

You sighed, running your fingers through his hair. This was such a mistake. You didn't know a damn thing about him, yet, here you were, fantasizing about a future together.

Carefully, you slipped out from under his arm, your heart aching with every movement. You dressed in silence, the weight of what you were about to do pressing down on you. Standing at the door, you glanced back at him, your chest tightening at the sight of him sleeping so peacefully.

You wanted to stay. You wanted to whisper the truth, that he was like something out of a dream. But you couldn’t. Because dreams didn't last. They didn't have roots. And you had a life to get back to.

So, instead, you turned and walked out the door, not letting yourself look back.

The New Orleans heat was relentless, thick with humidity, wrapping around you like a second skin. The streets buzzed with music and conversation, and even after months of living here, the city's energy still caught you off guard. It was a stark contrast to Europe, where everything felt steeped in quiet history. Here, everything moved fast. Loud, unpredictable, alive.

You had built a life here, found a job you actually enjoyed, and for the first time in a long time, things felt normal. A fresh start. And yet, no matter how far you ran, how many new routines you built, the ghost of the mysterious Elijah still lurked in the quiet moments. Not often. Not intentionally. But in the space between thoughts, his presence would slip in. His hands, his voice, the way he had looked at you…

You didn’t dwell on it…

Or at least, you told yourself you didn’t…

Instead, you threw yourself into your new life. And a big part of that life was Klaus.

Not in a romantic, sweep-you-off-your-feet way. That would be a disaster, and you knew better. Klaus wasn’t a boyfriend, he was more of… a friendly force in your life. Someone you got drinks with, argued with, occasionally rolled around in bed with. He was charming in a way that made people want to orbit around him, and somehow, you had ended up in that orbit.

You met him at an art gallery downtown, where he had been swirling a glass of red wine and smirking at a particularly ugly modern piece like it had personally offended him. You had made some offhanded joke about abstract art being a scam, and he had laughed, a sharp, knowing laugh, like he was having the exact same thought.

After that, he had a way of showing up. Inviting you out, dragging you into conversations about history and art over whiskey, introducing you to the chaotic energy of the city’s nightlife. You got along. He was fun. He had a mean streak, but you knew how to handle men like that. It was easy.

And maybe, if things were different, you would’ve let something more happen between you. But you both understood what this was…Just company, just passing time. Just a friendly hookup until real love came along… If it ever did.

The soft breeze drifting through the open window did little to cool the heavy heat of the room. The sheets were a tangled mess, kicked aside during the night’s events, and beside you, Klaus lay sprawled out, one arm thrown over his face, his body lazy and sated.

You stretched, the slow ache between your thighs a familiar, satisfying reminder of last night. It hadn’t been anything deep or meaningful, just fun. Easy. No expectations, no promises.

Klaus was good company, someone who understood the unspoken rules of this arrangement: pleasure, no strings. He was charming, sure. Attractive, obviously. But you both knew what this was.

As if sensing your eyes on him, he stirred, his hand sliding absently across your stomach. “Mmm, already awake?” His voice was thick with sleep.

“Fortunately, for you,” You smirked, shifting to straddle his hips, your palms pressing against his chest.

He grinned, eyes still heavy-lidded. “Eager thing, aren’t you?”

“Only because you’re so damn easy.” You dragged your nails lightly down his torso, reveling in the way he tensed beneath you.

Klaus chuckled, but it turned into a low groan as you rocked against him, teasing. His hands settled on your hips, fingers digging in just enough to let you know he enjoyed it.

“If you’re going to keep teasing, love,” he murmured, voice rough, “you better be prepared to finish what you started.”

“I always finish what I start.” You reached for the bedside drawer, rolling on a condom before sinking down onto him, the feeling of your bodies connecting making you both exhale.

The rhythm was familiar, something you both knew well by now. You took what you needed, moved together in a way that was more about chasing pleasure than anything sentimental. Klaus let you take control, his hands gripping your thighs, guiding your movements but never demanding.

It was good. The kind of effortless chemistry that kept you coming back to him.

But then. It happened.

One second, it was Klaus beneath you, his sharp smirk, his blue eyes watching you with hunger.

And then. The stranger that you couldn't get out of your mind. Elijah.

His face flickered into focus like a mirage, his dark eyes holding you in that way that had once made your breath catch.

You froze, a jolt of panic hitting your system like ice water.

No. No.

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you blinked hard, trying to shake it. When you opened your eyes again. Klaus. Just Klaus. Watching you with mild confusion.

"Are you okay? Do you want to stop?"

"N-no."

"Are you sure? We don't have to keep going if-"

"No. Just give me a minute," you said, swallowing the knot in your throat, your mind scrambling.

This had never happened before. Never. But there it was. An image of him burned into your memory, overlaying Klaus, taking the place of your reality.

Klaus halted your hips and sat up, his brows knitting with concern. "You're trembling."

"Sorry." You shook your head, forcing yourself to meet his gaze, though it felt like your whole world was shattering. "Just... got distracted."

"By?" He was giving you a look, somewhere between concerned and amused, his curiosity obvious.

You sighed. He was going to push this.

"Promise you won't get weird about it?"

"Of course not, love."

You swallowed, trying to ignore the sick feeling in the pit of your stomach.

"Someone else."

Klaus chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. "Don't tell me, the thought of me alone isn't enough to satisfy? That will hurt my ego."

"Don't be ridiculous." You rolled your eyes, fighting the urge to squirm. "It's not about you. It's... an old fling."

"Oh?" His expression shifted, his tone more serious.

"Yeah, someone from when I was traveling. Just... popped into my head, that's all." You shrugged, a feeble attempt to make it seem unimportant.

"I see," He studied your face, his gaze unnervingly steady.

You braced for him to ask more questions, maybe to get jealous or offended, but instead, he flipped you onto your back, a wicked grin on his face.

"I guess I must not be doing my job correctly," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the spot on your neck that always made your toes curl. "I think we can remedy that."

He was a bit rougher with you this time, a bit less playful, his movements filled with a purpose. Like a challenge. He wanted to keep your mind from wandering. And, hell, it worked for a while. The way he was kissing you, moving inside you, touching you, it was so intense. So present.

You moaned, tangling your fingers in his hair, and he pulled away, his gaze searching.

"Is that good?" he asked, his voice softer than usual, the hint of a smile on his lips.

"Yeah," you breathed. "Very."

His hips picked up their pace, his lips hot on your skin, the tension building inside you with each thrust.

You came undone, Klaus following not long after, collapsing onto the mattress beside you, his breathing ragged.

"Still thinking about that old fling?"

You chuckled, swatting his shoulder. "Shut up. Don't be jealous,"

"Me? Never."

You sighed, glancing at the clock. "I need to get ready for work,"

Klaus shrugged, rolling out of bed, stretching, and pulling on his clothes. You watched him, the way he moved, the confidence he exuded.

He was handsome, of course. He was the kind of guy you'd notice immediately, his features chiseled and striking, the perfect amount of scruff. But it wasn't just that. There was something else. A certain... charisma. A presence that made you feel as if he could command a room, the whole city, without even trying.

"Are you coming out tonight?"

"Hmm?" You blinked, his question catching you off guard.

"Tonight, to the dinner party." He cocked his head, looking at you expectantly. "Unless, of course, you've decided to spend your evening pining after someone who isn't here."

"Oh. Yeah, sure."

"Well, don't sound too enthusiastic, love."

You laughed, swatting his arm. "Stop, you know I'm going. I'm actually looking forward to meeting your siblings, mostly to get dirt on you."

"That's a dangerous game, darling." He smirked, leaning over to kiss your forehead. "But, if it makes you happy, I'll see you tonight."

"See you."

He gave you one last grin, the door clicking softly as he left.

You flopped back against the pillows, letting out a shaky breath. Trying to erase a specific pair of haunting brown eyes from your memory. You weren't the type to be hung up on anyone, especially a stranger you hooked up with months ago. Yet, here you were, feeling like an absolute idiot.

You shook your head, getting out of bed, ignoring the way your legs trembled.

This was stupid. A minor setback.

You would move on.

You had to move on.

Right?

You knew Klaus was rich. But you were aware just how insanely wealthy he truly was. It was something that should've been obvious, considering the way Klaus threw around his money, but seeing his ridiculously lavish compound in person was a completely different experience.

The place was huge, sprawling, elegant in a way that only an ancient estate could be. The architecture was stunning, and you were fairly certain the entry hall alone was the size of your apartment.

"You live here?" You glanced over at Klaus, taking in his nonchalant expression.

He nodded, "It's not too shabby, is it?"

You laughed, "Not too shabby? This is insane."

You took in the artwork hanging on the walls, the ornate furniture, and the grand staircase that seemed to stretch on forever. It was the kind of place people only saw on tv. You felt underdressed, almost as if you had stepped into some kind of dream.

"Come, the food is almost ready, and I want to introduce you to my family."

Klaus led you through the winding halls and corridors, until you finally reached a large dining room. There was a massive table, laden with food, and sitting around it were a dozen or so people, chatting and laughing.

Klaus cleared his throat, catching the attention of the room. "Everyone, this is Y/N, my... friend."

A chorus of greetings echoed through the room, and Klaus gestured to a particularly attractive group sitting at the far end of the table.

"These are my siblings, Rebekah, Kol, and Elijah."

You froze, the blood draining from your face as they turned to face you.

It was him.

The man you had been trying so hard to forget, the one whose presence had taken over your life. The same dark eyes, the same gentle smile, the same strong, capable hands. Those hands.

The memories hit you in a dizzying wave. The feeling of his skin, the taste of his lips, the way he held you, the way he looked at you, memorizing every detail.

Elijah was a ghost. A shadow. Someone you would never see again.

Until now.

His face paled, his expression mirroring your own shock. The two of you stood there, staring at each other, the rest of the room falling away.

Your heart hammered in your chest, your mind reeling. How? How the fuck was he here? Was this a dream? Some cruel joke the universe was playing?

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, unable to find the words.

The silence stretched on, growing heavier and heavier, until Klaus finally cleared his throat, breaking the spell.

"Sit, please. I have more guests coming soon."

You sank into a chair next to you Elijah, your hands visibly trembling. This was a nightmare. An absolute nightmare.

Klaus walked away to greet some more guests, leaving you with his siblings. You snuck a glance at Elijah, taking in his stiff posture, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on the wall in front of him.

The tension was palpable, the air thick with unspoken words. You couldn't bear it, the weight of the silence, the way his presence was overwhelming, intoxicating.

"Y/n, that's a lovely name. How did you meet our brother?" Rebekah asked, her voice slicing through the silence like a knife.

You blinked, struggling to compose yourself. "We met at a gallery. I was, um, critiquing some of the art, and he agreed."

Rebekah chuckled, "Sounds like Klaus."

Elijah remained silent, his expression unreadable. Rebekah gave him a strange look, then turned her attention back to you.

"How long have the two of you been together?" she asked.

"Oh, we're not. Together. We're just friends." You managed a small laugh, trying to hide the panic in your voice.

"Klaus? Friends? Impossible," Kol interjected, his tone teasing.

"Well, we're friendly," you said, avoiding the subject entirely.

A waiter came by and filled your wine glass, and you thanked him, downing half the glass in one go. The alcohol was a welcome distraction, burning a warm path down your throat.

"How are you liking New Orleans?" Rebekah asked, her tone a little more casual.

"It's amazing, honestly. The energy here is unlike anything I've ever experienced. The people, the music, the history." You paused, the corner of your mouth lifting into a small smile. "I can see why people fall in love with this city."

Rebekah smiled, "It does have its charms."

Klaus returned, settling into his seat beside you, his hand resting on the back of your chair.

"So, what have you been discussing?"

"Oh, just the usual. How we're all shocked you've found a friend," Kol said.

Klaus snorted, "Hardly. I have plenty of friends."

"Yes, but they're not usually women," Kol retorted.

"That's not true Kol, he also has Cami," Rebekah chimed in.

Klaus removed his hand from the back of your chair, his cheeks growing slightly pink. He looked down, busying himself with filling his plate, his posture defensive.

Kol let out a laugh and pointed down to the other end of the table. "What's wrong Nik, don't want her to hear?"

You followed his gaze, landing on a pretty blonde who was chatting animatedly with some of the other guests.

"You didn't tell us Camille was coming," Rebekah said.

"It didn't seem important," Klaus muttered, not meeting anyone's eyes.

You had no idea who this girl was, but clearly, Klaus had a thing for her. You could practically feel the awkward tension radiating off him.

He was sweet, but a little rough around the edges. It made sense that he'd be a bit of a mess when it came to his love life.

You couldn't help but smile at that.

"She's beautiful," you said sincerely, nudging him playfully.

Klaus sighed, finally meeting your gaze. "You think?"

"Definitely." You paused, watching his face soften a little. "Why don't you go talk to her?"

Klaus shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips. "You're not supposed to encourage me, love."

"Why not? Isn't that what friends do?" You grinned.

His eyes narrowed, his expression playful as he leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear. "If I'm with her I'm not with you. Where would that leave us, hmm?"

Before you could respond, Elijah abruptly stood, his chair scraping against the floor. "Excuse me."

All of you watched him walk out of the room, his sudden departure startling everyone.

"Is he alright?" Rebekah asked, her tone worried.

Kol shrugged. "He's been in a mood lately."

"You know how fussy he can get about dinner parties," Klaus said, his tone dismissive.

The rest of the dinner was a blur. You tried your best to engage in conversation, but the weight of Elijah's presence was suffocating, drowning out the noise. He had returned halfway through the meal, his expression stony, his movements stiff and calculated. He didn't look at you, not once, but you could feel his gaze on you, heavy and intense, every time he thought no one was paying attention.

Klaus had taken your advice and made a point to speak with Cami, his body language betraying how flustered he was. He was trying so hard, and it was equal parts amusing and heartwarming.

It was almost enough to distract you from the fact that Elijah was in the same room.

Almost.

As the meal came to an end, the crowd started to thin, people milling about the room, talking and laughing.

Klaus was engrossed in conversation with Cami, his eyes never leaving her face. You smiled to yourself, happy to see him making progress.

You scanned the room, noticing that Elijah was nowhere in sight. Without thinking, you excused yourself, walking through the grand hallways, searching.

You didn't know what you were looking for, or why. But the thought of him being so close, yet out of reach, was too much to bear.

The house was enormous, and as you wandered the hallways, you realized just how impossible it would be to find him. You went up a few floors, finding rooms filled with more art, more artifacts, more history. It was mesmerizing, a window into a world you had never experienced.

Finally, you reached a hallway lined with bedrooms, each one as opulent as the last. You were about to turn around and head back downstairs when a door opened, and Elijah stepped out, freezing as soon as he saw you.

A long silence stretched between the two of you, the air thick with tension.

He was even more handsome than you remembered, his dark hair slightly disheveled, his face flushed. He looked upset, his jaw clenched, his posture stiff.

You swallowed hard, fighting the urge to run. To flee and never look back. But you couldn't. Something in his expression kept you rooted in place.

"Hi," you said softly, your heart pounding in your chest.

"Hello," he replied, his voice smooth, but laced with an emotion you couldn't quite identify.

"I'm, um, sorry to bother you. I was just... looking for the bathroom." You winced, realizing how flimsy the excuse was.

"Right." His eyes searched your face, his brow furrowing.

"Sorry," you repeated, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.

"There's no need to apologize," he said, his expression softening a little. "I'm sure this is all... unexpected."

"Yeah, it is," you breathed.

Another tense silence passed between the two of you. Elijah looked conflicted, his eyes filled with an emotion you couldn't decipher.

"You didn't tell me you had a brother," you said, the words tumbling out of your mouth before you could stop them.

Elijah's eyes narrowed, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice. "We didn't exactly do a lot of talking about our personal lives,"

Your face burned. "Right, yeah. Sorry, I wasn't... trying to accuse you of anything," you stammered.

Elijah sighed, running a hand through his hair. "No, I'm sorry… That was a poor choice of words."

You nodded, chewing on your lip. The two of you were both obviously uncomfortable.

"Look, I... I don't know what to say, really. This is... weird. Like, insanely weird," you said.

Elijah laughed, a sound that was a mix of relief and nervousness. "Agreed."

You took a deep breath, steeling your nerves. "I... honestly didn't think I would ever see you again."

"I didn't either."

"And now..."

"And now."

You hesitated, your heart thumping in your chest as you took a tentative step forward. "What are the odds, huh?"

"Quite low, I imagine."

You laughed, a soft, breathless sound. "I guess the universe had other plans."

Elijah's expression shifted, a hint of vulnerability breaking through his mask. He looked conflicted, as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't bring himself to.

Instead he took a deep breath, his voice softer, gentler, "I'm glad you're doing well,"

"You too," you managed, fighting the urge to reach out and touch him, to close the distance between the two of you.

"I should probably get back," you said, not really wanting to.

"Of course," he murmured, not moving away from you, his gaze intense.

You lingered for a moment, neither of you willing to break eye contact. It was strange, surreal. A feeling you couldn't put into words. It pulled you in, and before you knew it, you were moving towards him, drawn by some invisible force.

His hand came up, wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer. His lips met yours, soft, but urgent, and you melted into him, the familiarity of his touch making your heart ache.

You weren't sure how long you stood there, kissing him, holding him, your hands tangled in his hair, his body pressed against yours. It was like no time had passed, the two of you falling back into the same pattern, the same rhythm.

He guided you backwards until you hit a side table, your back pressing against the polished wood. He lifted you, his lips never leaving yours as he sat you on the edge, his body caging you in.

His hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress up, his eyes darkening as his fingers brushed the lace of your underwear.

You pulled back, just enough to look into his eyes, your hands grasping the front of his shirt, needing to feel the warmth of his skin, the beating of his heart.

"I haven't been able to get you out of my mind," he murmured, kissing down your neck.

"Me neither," you admitted, a small moan escaping your lips as his teeth grazed your collarbone.

He lifted your thighs, planting your feet on the edge of the table, spreading your legs wide, his hips pressed flush against yours.

You could feel the hardness of him, the proof of his desire for you, and it sent a wave of heat straight through your core.

You wanted him. Badly. More than you could ever remember wanting anything.

"We shouldn't do this here," you breathed, his lips tracing the shell of your ear.

"I don't care," he whispered, his fingers tugging at the hem of your dress, sliding the fabric up to your hips.

"Someone might see."

"Good," he said softly, his lips curling into a smirk, just inches from yours. "Let them see."

You gasped, arching your back as his fingers found the wetness between your legs, his movements slow and deliberate, teasing you. He slowly circled your clit, drawing lazy patterns, his gaze fixed on your face, taking in every detail, every reaction.

You tugged on his shirt, trying to anchor yourself, to keep from getting swept away. Your heart was hammering, the heat building in your core, the anticipation making you dizzy.

He pushed a finger inside you, then another, his movements firm and steady, his thumb circling your clit. He was taking his time, drawing it out, his eyes never leaving yours, his gaze filled with something raw and intense.

It was that same feeling as before, the one that made you do things you wouldn't normally do. The one that made you feel alive.

Your legs trembled, your body trembling as he brought you to the edge, only to pull back. His fingers teased your entrance, before sinking deep inside you, curling and hitting that spot that made your vision blur.

"Fuck," you gasped, gripping his shoulders, trying desperately to hold on.

He grinned and moved to his knees, his eyes locking on yours, and it was almost too much. The sight of him, kneeling before you, his dark gaze burning into yours, his fingers still buried inside you.

He pulled his fingers from your core, the emptiness almost unbearable, and his tongue flicked over your clit. You cried out, a strangled, broken sound, and he chuckled, the vibrations making your toes curl.

He licked and sucked and teased, his movements perfectly measured, knowing exactly what to do, where to touch. He devoured you, his lips and tongue working in tandem, his fingers sinking back into you, stretching you open, filling you.

You felt yourself hurtling towards the edge, the pressure building, your legs shaking, your fingers tangled in his hair. He looked up at you, his eyes blazing with a mixture of desire and hunger, and it was all too much.

You came, your vision whiting out, his name a strangled cry on your lips. He kept going, working you through the aftershocks, his touch gentle, coaxing, until finally, he stopped, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh.

"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice hoarse.

He stood, and you caught a glimpse of the bulge straining against his trousers, before he leaned down, his lips meeting yours, the taste of yourself lingering on his tongue.

He kissed you, deep and slow, and you felt the loss of his touch acutely, the emptiness inside you almost unbearable. You reached for him, fumbling with his belt, desperate to feel him, to have him inside you.

"I can't believe we are doing this," you muttered, laughing nervously as his zipper came down. "Again," you added, the word barely a whisper.

"Neither can I," he admitted, a small, wry smile on his lips.

"This is insane."

"I'm well aware."

You slipped your hand inside his trousers, the feel of his bare skin against yours sending a jolt of pleasure straight through your core. He let out a soft groan, his hips pressing against yours, his body urging you on.

"Don't get me pregnant," you half joked, your voice a strained whisper.

He laughed, the sound rich and deep, the warmth of his breath fanning across your cheek.

"I won't."

You tugged at his trousers, pulling them down just enough to free him. His cock sprang free, hard and throbbing, and you wrapped your fingers around his shaft, stroking him slowly, the velvety skin sliding under your palm.

He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing you, his lips brushing yours.

"Do it," you breathed, the need coursing through your veins.

He thrust forward, filling you completely, his fingers digging into your thighs. You moaned, the feeling of him inside you, stretching you, consuming you.

He set a slow, deliberate pace, trying not to cause the table to creak and rock. It was sensual and maddening, the feeling of his cock easing in and out of you, his breathing ragged, his hands holding onto you for dear life.

The pleasure was overwhelming, your body tightening around him, drawing him in, trying to keep him there. He pressed his forehead to yours, his lips grazing your jaw, his hips snapping into yours, harder and faster, the filthy sounds of your bodies colliding echoing through the empty hall.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and labored, his hands moving down your back and under your ass, pulling you flush against him.

Your fingers twisted in the fabric of his shirt, your eyes squeezed shut, your entire world focused on the feel of him inside you.

It was like nothing else mattered, nothing existed except the two of you, joined together in the most intimate way.

He held you, his movements growing more frantic, his thrusts uneven and jerky, and you could feel him coming apart. He bit down on your shoulder, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass, his cock pulsing inside you as he spilled his release.

The two of you stayed like that, awkwardly settled on the table, trying to catch your breath, to come down from the high.

After a moment, he straightened, tucking himself back into his trousers and running a hand through his hair, his cheeks flushed.

"That was..." he trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Intense," you offered, as he helped you stand.

"Indeed," he murmured, a small, satisfied smile on his lips.

He pulled you in for another kiss, his fingers tangling in your hair, his lips soft and warm. You melted into him, losing yourself in the feeling of his body against yours.

After a long moment, he pulled back, his eyes filled with an emotion you couldn't decipher. He cleared his throat, the moment breaking, the reality of the situation crashing down around you.

"Well, I should... um, get back," you said, the words hanging in the air, awkward and stilted. "Before anyone notices we're gone,"

"No need, we all heard you two," Klaus' voice echoed through the hall, startling you both.

You turned to see him leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest, a smug grin on his face.

Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, and you hastily fixed your dress, Elijah stepped in front of you, blocking the sight from his brother.

Klaus let out a laugh, "oh no need for all that Elijah, it's nothing I haven't seen before," he drawled.

"What are you doing here?" Elijah demanded, his tone laced with annoyance.

"Well, I was looking for my Y/n. You wandered off and then I heard these distressing sounds coming from the hallway. So naturally, I came to investigate," he paused, his eyes roaming over your body, his gaze filled with a mixture of amusement and curiosity. "And here you are,"

"I, uh, got lost," you offered weakly, still a little stunned.

"In his pants?" Klaus smirked, his gaze traveling between the two of you.

You were speechless, not quite sure what to say. It was humiliating, being caught like this, exposed and vulnerable. There were clearly a lot of complicated feelings between the two of them, things that had nothing to do with you.

Elijah wrapped his arm around your waist, it surprised you, the way he pulled you against him, as if he was claiming you. You glanced up at him, the look on his face unreadable. He seemed unfazed by Klaus' accusation, his expression carefully neutral.

"If you must know, we ran into each other," Elijah said evenly, his hand stroking the small of your back. "We know each other from... Another city."

"Oh, really? How serendipitous," Klaus replied, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"Yes, it is," Elijah said simply, his posture relaxed.

Klaus shook his head, his eyes darting between the two of you, the realization slowly dawning on him. "Wait... That hook-up you were telling me about? The old fling you couldn't get out of your head? That's... Elijah?"

You nodded, your cheeks burning so hot they could melt ice.

Klaus began to laugh, a deep, genuine belly laugh. He wiped at his eyes, his whole body shaking with amusement. "This is too much. This is... I don't even know what to say."

Elijah sighed, his jaw clenched, but his eyes amused. "I would prefer it if you didn't say anything."

"Oh, come on, this is funny," Klaus said, taking a step closer. "You're the reason she was all hung up and miserable,"

"Miserable?" Elijah frowned, glancing down at you.

"Klaus, stop," you pleaded, the humiliation making your chest ache.

"What?" He shrugged. "I'm just stating facts. You were a mess because of him."

Elijah's eyes searched yours, his expression conflicted. His hand was still on the small of your back, and he rubbed it in small, soothing circles.

"Niklaus, if you don't mind, I wish to have a private conversation with her," Elijah said, his tone firm.

"Alright, fine, but do try to keep it down, hmm? We have guests," Klaus winked at the two of you, turning on his heel and heading down the hallway.

You watched him walk away, then you leaned up and kissed Elijah on the cheek. "I'll be right back, okay?"

He nodded, his gaze following you as you walked down the hallway after Klaus.

"Nik!" You called, catching up to him.

"Yes, love?"

"Look, I'm sorry," you said, trying to gauge his reaction.

"For what?" He looked genuinely confused.

"For... sleeping with Elijah," you said, a little unsure.

Klaus laughed, his expression light and teasing. "We were never going to work out, love. Our hearts belong to others,"

"I know," you shrugged. “But still... He's your brother,"

"And you love him," Klaus said simply, a small, knowing smile on his lips.

"What? No, I... I don't even know him, not really," you protested.

"You will, and he'll love you, too," Klaus said, his voice surprisingly gentle.

"It doesn't matter. It was just... sex," you tried to explain.

"Was it, though?"

"Yes," you insisted, trying to ignore the nagging voice in the back of your head, the one that knew he was right.

Klaus shook his head, his gaze softening a little. He pulled you in for a hug, his arms wrapping around you, holding you close.

"Listen, it's none of my business. But if there's something between the two of you, some spark or whatever... Don't let it go. Life's too short for regrets,"

You pulled back, looking up at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. "Thank you, Nik,"

"Of course," he replied, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "And do try to be a bit more discreet, hmm? You two aren't exactly quiet."

You groaned, burying your face in your hands, trying to hide the blush creeping across your cheeks. "I'll try."

He laughed, and then headed back downstairs to rejoin the party. Off to find Cami, no doubt.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, and made your way back to Elijah, his eyes fixed on you, an intensity in his gaze that made your heart race.

You reached out, taking his hand, his fingers lacing with yours, and he led you to his room, the door closing softly behind the two of you.

You stood in the middle of his bedroom, the air thick with tension, everything was happening so fast.

"So," he began, his voice low and soft.

"So," you echoed, a nervous smile tugging at your lips.

Elijah exhaled, slow and measured, but there was no hiding the tension in his posture. “Are you going to run again?”

The question hung between you, weighted with more than just tonight.

You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching at your sides. You owed him the truth.

“Elijah…” You took a step closer, your voice unsteady. “I ran because I was scared.”

His jaw clenched slightly, but he stayed silent, letting you speak.

“I told myself that what we had was casual. That it didn’t mean anything. But then you started looking at me like I was something more.” Your throat tightened. “Like I mattered. And that scared the hell out of me.”

His expression softened, just a fraction, but his silence pressed against you like a weight.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to keep going. “I didn’t know how to handle the way you made me feel.” Your voice was quieter now, raw. “I thought if I ran, I could outrun it. But I didn’t. I never did. Because no matter where I went, no matter what I did, you were always there.”

A beat passed. Then two. And then his hand was cupping your cheek, his eyes searching yours.

“And now?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“And now…” You took a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest. “I’m standing here. With you. And I don’t want to run anymore.”

His thumb brushed against your cheek, his touch gentle but firm. “Good,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “Because I’m not letting you go this time.”

You leaned into his touch, your eyes closing as his lips met yours in a kiss that was both tender and desperate. It was a promise, a commitment, a declaration of everything you’d both been too afraid to say.

When you finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “Stay,” he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “Not just tonight. Always.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you nodded, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Always,” you echoed, your voice steady despite the emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

You kissed him again, slow and sweet, the familiar taste of him flooding your senses. He was everything you'd been missing, everything you'd needed. There was so much more left to say, but it would have to wait. In this moment, there was only the two of you, tangled together, a promise of something more. This was where you were meant to be, you were sure of it.

~Epilogue

The first thing you registered was warmth. The kind that seeped into your bones, wrapped around you like a quiet reassurance. You stirred, blinking against the soft glow of morning light filtering through the curtains. The sheets were tangled around your legs, the scent of him lingering in the fabric.

Elijah's arm was draped over your waist, his breathing deep and steady against the back of your neck. The weight of him, the solid presence at your side, was grounding in a way you hadn’t expected. You hadn’t realized how much you missed waking up with someone... not just anyone, but him.

For a moment, you didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Because this felt… real. Permanent.

And for the first time in a long time, the thought didn’t terrify you.

You shifted slightly, your fingers ghosting over his forearm where it rested against your stomach. He stirred behind you, his grip instinctively tightening, pulling you closer.

“Second thoughts?” His voice was husky with sleep, laced with quiet amusement.

You smiled, a warm flush spreading through you.

"Not a single one," you murmured, turning in his arms, your gaze meeting his.

"Good," he murmured, his hand sliding up your back, pulling you flush against him.

It felt... Right. Like you'd always belonged here, in his bed, his arms. Like he'd always been the one, waiting for you.

There was no more running.

No more fear.

Just this.

Just him.

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