#and the answer is devastatingly ''not much'' | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

readwritealldayallnight · 1 month ago

Text

Part 4 of Bird Watching aka hot construction worker Simon Riley x single mom reader

It’s almost comical, when you allow yourself the rare moment of quiet to sit and reflect, just how different life is now compared to less than a year ago

Last year, the mental check list you went through every time you ventured out of your flat was much shorter, simpler, the bare essentials one might say

Wallet? Check

Phone? Check

Keys? Check

Out the door you went

Nowadays, the check list was only the teensiest bit longer, thanks to the teensiest addition to your flat

Wallet? Check

Phone? Check

Keys? Check

Diaper bag? Check

Enough diapers and wipes? Got it

Extra sets of clothes in case she has a blow out? Already packed in the bag

Her little beanie in case it gets chilly? You swore you had shoved it to the bottom of the diaper bag last time you took a walk…

Enough blankies for her to be comfortable in the pram? Most are in the hamper where you left them…

Her pacifier if she gets fussy? Can’t find a single one, though you swore you owned a dozen…

The baby sling if she becomes tired of the pram and wants to be held? Has to be somewhere around here…

Getting out the door recently proved to be a more complicated affair than you were used to, as did every other aspect of new motherhood that no one could suitably prepare you for, though as the weeks went on, you were slowly but surely getting the hang of things

Not that you had much of a choice in the matter, did you?

Your family and friends overseas were supportive, they checked in with you regularly, always gushed over each and every baby photo you sent their way, had even gone and sent you care packages not long after your delivery, helping to contribute to all the baby gear and supplies you would need to embark on this new chapter of your life… but at the end of the day, you were still going through all this by yourself

It was you who was navigating the late night cluster feedings, it was you who had to learn how to soothe a colicky infant who never wanted to be put down, you who still had to cook the meals you needed to eat, you who still washed the dishes that piled up, you who still had to do the laundry that needed washing, you who had to pay the bills which weighed heavy on your mind each time you watched your bank account diminish, all of this while running on such little sleep you oftentimes felt more like the undead than someone who’d just created new life

And yet… you managed

This hadn’t been how you’d originally envisioned your life going, but now that she was here, now that the tiny speck of life you’d spent months growing inside you was more than just a blurry mass on an ultrasound screen, now that she was a real tangible person whose birth certificate bore your name and yours alone, you couldn’t picture a world without her

The only issue was, you couldn’t picture how much longer you’d be able to keep this up - money was the one thing you couldn’t offer her in abundance

You were a smart girl, you’d been saving up ever since you started working as a teenager, you rented a flat that wasn’t out of your budget, you sold the car when it became evident that it was a luxury you couldn’t afford to keep any longer - but no one could have prepared you for how utterly and devastatingly expensive babies were

Your only choice was to go back to work, as heartbreaking as the thought of leaving your new baby in the care of strangers was, and as much as your body protested the idea, you really were running out of options unfortunately

The stark lack of childcare available was only just the cherry on top of it all, wasn’t it?

You’d reached out to in-home nurseries, local daycares, nanny agencies, larger company centres, and every time the answer was the same: there’s a wait list

As much as you valued your independence, your ability to stay positive in the face of problems no matter how big or small, and as much as you despised asking for help, you had been inching closer to a breaking point when you overheard a conversation between two mums in the paediatricians waiting room, something about the bothersome construction site around the corner being worth it in the end if it turned out to be a new nursery after all

Swallowing down your pride and putting on what you hoped came across as a brave face, you’d ventured over to that very construction site, determined to find out if this might be your needle in the haystack, if this truly could be somewhere you had a fighting chance of enrolling Rosie before the money ran out, even if that meant asking for help for once

What you hadn’t realized at the time, was just how much help you’d end up getting

Part of you still wakes up some mornings, wondering if Simon was a perfect dream you had, the answer to your prayers you’d never spoken aloud, the solution to your problems handed to you on a silver platter

Because what kind of man does all of this for a stranger? Who goes through all this trouble just to be kind? Did he feel bad for you? Did he pity you? There had to be some sort of ulterior motive to this, right?

“Or, I don’t know? Did it ever occur to you that maybe he likes you?” You roll your eyes as you picture the exact expression on your best friend’s face as she tells you this over the phone. You’d told her everything, keen on getting someone else’s opinion on the situation

“He doesn’t even know me yet.” You reply, phone cradled against your ear and shoulder as you double check you’ve packed everything in Rosie’s diaper bag

“Exactly, not yet. He obviously wants to.” She answers easily, never one to be phased by your talent to shut things down prematurely. “Don’t go ruining a good thing before it even happens.”

“I don’t know. It’s not just me I have to make these decisions for anymore, you know? I’ve got Rosie to think about too.” You say, glancing over at her in her crib, entirely entranced by the mobile spinning above her

“Yeah, and look at how he’s already trying to provide for the two of you! The guy literally found you a nursery spot within days! You’ve been telling me it’s impossible for weeks and dude did it in the blink of an eye. For you.” She tries to rationalize to you. “I know it was different while you were pregnant, you didn’t want to date, and I get that. But she’s here now, and you can’t keep yourself closed off ‘til she’s eighteen.”

“When did I say I was keeping myself closed off?”

“Sweetie, I know you, okay? You tried finding him, we all did. But he’s not just going to appear.” You can’t help but cringe slightly as her words, knowing exactly who she’s referring to. “You are not the first woman in the world to get pregnant from a one night stand, and you won’t be the last.”

“I don’t-”

“No I’m serious, listen to me.” She interrupts you before you can protest properly. “You never even got his name, babe. I love you, and I know you always want to do the right thing, but you can’t keep holding out hope you’ll find him again. If this Simon guy wants to step up and take you out for a date, then let him. Who knows, you might even have fun. You remember that word right? Fun? Something people are supposed to try and do.”

“Maybe I should take back the godmother idea, after all.” You joke, knowing deep down that your friend is right

“Too late. I’ve already got it embroidered on my jacket. I’m gonna get her a matching one when she’s bigger.”

You go to tease her instantly, knowing that her embroidery skills will have the jacket looking like Rosie decorated it herself, when a knock at the door interrupts your thoughts

“I’ve got to go, I think he’s here already.”

“Just try to give this a chance, will you? Please?” Your friend asks, the sincerity in her tone giving you pause as you refrain from automatically rolling your eyes again

“I’ll keep you posted.”

“You better.”

Hanging up the phone, you scoop Rosie up to cradle her against your chest as you make your way towards the door, steadying yourself with a deep breath, a quick glance in the hallway mirror letting you know you don’t look half as bad as you could, before you’re opening the door for Simon

The first thing you’re caught off guard by is the same as every other time your eyes have landed on him, which is just how ruggedly handsome he is, his impressive stature and evident muscle tone aside, the thin scars and pock marks littered across his pale skin cannot hide the strong face beneath, dirty blonde hair with a days worth of stubble to match, a nose that looks as though it’s been broken and reset one too many times, it’s his eyes that really captivate you, his eyes that tell you there’s a story to be uncovered here

Your gaze doesn’t linger long however, when you spot the bright yellow bouquet clutched in his hands

He wonders if it really is this easy, to keep a pretty bird happy

If he knew how elated you’d be at the sight of some bright flowers from the shop nearby, then he should have figured the new infant car seat securely installed in his truck would have you practically bursting as the seams

You tried insisting to him that you’d pay him back for the car seat, that he really hadn’t needed to make such a purchase for you, but he wasn’t having any of that

In truth, Simon never even bothered to look at the price tag or the receipt at any point, the cost was the furthest thing from his mind, not when he considered your happiness to be pricelesss

And while he could readily admit to himself that he didn’t know how to do this, didn’t quite understand how to go about this ‘the right way’, didn’t know how to come off as anything other than intense and insistent, he could equally confess that he was just following what felt right

He figured that pretty birds liked it when men bought them things, showered them in grand gestures, but they probably liked it even more when it was things they paid attention to, things that made them feel seen, like flowers in your favourite colour, or a car seat to keep your baby bird safe, or opening the door for you when your hands were full, or offering to carry the absurdly large diaper bag while you juggled the baby

Of course, it wasn’t like he’d had much of an example growing up to follow off of, someone’s footsteps to trace and replicate. Simon can’t help but to think for a fleeting moment as he watches you buckle Rosie in, ‘would it have been that hard?’ for his own father to have paid attention? To have made his mum feel seen? To have tried? Was it really so difficult to be a good man?

He can recall a time when his old man was far too pissed on the drink to notice that Simon had been skipping school, sat in front of the telly and yelling about how the news stories that day were rubbish, his speech too slurred to be fully comprehensible, but he’ll never forget when the old man turned to him, looked at him for the first time in a long time and saw him rather than saw through him, empty beer bottle pointed in his direction and eyes glazed over, telling him ‘When I see wha’ I wan’- no- when I see wha’s mine, I take it! Y’hear me boy? You see wha’s yours, an’ you take it.’

Never in his life had Simon ever wanted to take the man’s advice, determined to never turn out as he had, but this was one such occasion where he could agree with the low life’s sentiment

Because when he looks at you, sat contently next to him in his passenger seat with a smile on your face, a glance in the rear view mirror showing a strapped in baby lulled to sleep on the drive, he knows he can’t let this slip through his fingers, not when his heart kept repeating one thing to him

Mine mine mine mine mine

What was one more lie to make sure this was his? He’d never claimed to be a perfect man, not even a good a man, but if one more innocent fib helped him get one step closer to calling something his own for the first time in a very long time, helped him prove he could be the right man for you, then where was the harm in that?

“You might-” he clears his throat awkwardly when you glance over at him, averting his gaze quickly and readjusting his grip on the steering wheel. “You might hear ‘em call me a weird nickname, dependin’ who’s workin’, by the way.”

“Oh yeah? And what’s that?” You ask him with immediate curiosity, angling yourself more towards him now, with an elbow against the centre console while you balance your chin on your fist, attention solely on his words

The two of you had been making idle chit chat throughout the drive, mostly your endless thanks and his insistence that you were no bother, but this is the first thing he’s mentioned that’s really caught your attention

“We’ve been workin’ on this site for a while, the nursery. I’ve put in quite a few hours on it myself. I like to see things through properly, end up workin’ later than some o’ the other blokes most days.” He starts off, peeking at you quickly as he weaves through traffic, seeing that you’re still listening intently. “Anyway, someone made the joke one day tha’ I treat the job almost like it’s my kid or somethin’, that I’m sort of the ‘dad’ on site.”

“Really?” You scoff, not in an unkind way, but more like you believe what he’s saying, believe that some younger lads on the crew would totally take a jab at him and start referring to him as the dad

“Really. After that, the name just sort o’ stuck. So if you hear anyone call me dad, tha’s all they’re talkin’ ‘bout.” He shrugs, trying to come across as casual as he can, nonchalant in the way someone telling a real anecdote would be

“Even folk outside your work crew call you that?”

“Done enough jobs for this company that somehow they got wind o’ the name. Haven’t been able to shake it yet.” He playfully rolls his eyes and looks at you in a ‘what can you do about it’ kind of way, hoping that this is one of the last tales he has to weave into the web of lies he’s unintentionally begun to spin around you

He knew it was a bit of a stretch, that the odds of avoiding the truth and pretending to be your husband, to be Rosie’s father, were stacked against him, and piling higher and higher the more he opened his mouth, but Simon knows that this isn’t a sprint to the finish line, this is more akin to a marathon, and while he’s stretched and rearing to go, if he can play his cards right, you’ll be waiting for him with open arms on the other end of the ribbon, ready to crown him with those same titles he’s pretending are already his to claim

He wasn’t sure if the ‘dad’ lie was going to be entirely necessary today, though he’d wanted to cover his bases as much as possible before the meeting, hoping to avoid interfering too much and raising suspicions

He’s ultimately glad for the fib however, when he holds the door open for you and Rosie, and the three of you are greeted with the sight of a flustered assistant director sat behind the desk

“Oh, hi! Apologies if I seem rushed, our director had something come up last minute, and she won’t be able to make it in time. Flat tire, it seems.” The young woman explains as she attempts to straighten some scattered documents, Simon nodding along in understanding when you voice your own sympathy at the situation, feigning ignorance as though he hadn’t been the one to prick the woman’s wheel earlier that morning

“She’s asked me to speak with you in the meantime.” She goes on to say, coming around to desk and approaching Simon first with an extended hand. “You must be the dad she was mentioning to me then.”

“Aye, nice to meet you.” He agrees politely, offering the woman a quick shake of the hand before dropping his gaze over to you, the two of you sharing a look that says ‘wow, they really do call you that, huh?’

“And then you must be Mom, of course.” She turns towards you, offering you the same professional handshake and smile she likely gives everyone who walks through these doors

“That’d be me. Though, just Rosie’s mom. I could never handle all those sites and jobs like he does, the baby’s enough for me.” You joke, believing that you’re all referencing how Simon is ‘dad’ to his construction jobs, while you’re mom to the little girl that’s brought you all here today

Lucky for Simon, this woman apparently doesn’t get paid enough to dissect people’s statements

“Agreed, we’ll leave that to him.” She laughs along with you before turning her attention towards the squirming bundle in the pram. “And who have we here then?”

Just like that, the attention’s off of him, off of your relationship to one another, diverted instead towards enrolment details, paperwork that needs to be filled out, information you need to know as a parent and information they need as a childcare provider

Before he knows it, more than an hour’s gone by, the t’s have been crossed and the i’s have been dotted, and you’re told that as soon as the open sign switches on at the new location, Rosie’s got a spot in their infant program

“I should probably feed her quickly, just before we get going again.” You tell Simon, bouncing an increasingly upset Rosie against your shoulder as you stand up from your chair

“Oh. Yeah, ‘course. You have a, uh, a bottle for ‘er, or-” he trails off, not yet prepared to name the alternative

“I wish. No, she hasn’t taken to a bottle quite yet. Still prefers it straight from the tap.” You explain easily, not catching the way the mental image you’ve just painted for him has his heart jump starting in his chest, breath catching in his throat, and heat rushing up his neck

“We do have a breastfeeding space, just past our staff room around the corner here. You’re welcome to use it.” The assistant director informs you, pointing you in the right direction as she opens her office door back up

“Perfect. And thank you again so much. I can’t even begin to tell you how much this means to us.” You tell her, sincere gratitude painted across your features

“You go on ‘head, love. I’ll wait out ‘ere for ya.” Simon says, watching you turn around the corner out of earshot

“You’ve got a lovely family, Mr. Riley.” The woman tells him offhandedly, beginning to gather all the paperwork you’ve just filled out by hand for them

“I do. I’m very lucky.” He agrees easily, taking a step closer to her desk. “Though the poor missus has been exhausted lately, late nights with the baby an’ all tha’. Hope everything was filled out alrigh’.” He adds, throwing a baited line out into the water, waiting to see if he’ll get a bite

“Ugh, don’t we know it. She looks like she’s handling things well though, and everything here looks to be in order as far as I can- oh. Actually,” the woman says, fingers stopping halfway through the sheet she was quickly glancing over, making sure no spots were left empty now that Simon had mentioned it. “It looks like she only filled out the emergency contacts halfway. She’s only put herself.”

“S’alrigh’, I can add my information quickly. I know she’s real tired, poor girl.” Simon doesn’t give the woman the chance to blink before he’s snatched a loose pen up and is scribbling his name and phone number under the second emergency contact, marking himself under as ‘dad’

After all, it’s only a matter of time until the words he’s put on paper are as real as the ink drying on paper declare them to be

It’s midafternoon by the time he’s driven you and Rosie back to your flat, insisting that he help you carry the diaper bag and pram back inside as you cradled a sleeping babe against chest, hopeful that you could lay her back down in her crib without waking her

“You can make yourself a cup of tea if you’d like, while you wait. I’ll hopefully just be a minute or two. Mugs are in the cabinet by the sink, tea bags by the kettle.” You tell him before slipping down the hall towards her room

Simon takes his time glancing around your space this time, now that his attention isn’t solely enraptured by your presence, and thinks he can hear his heart beating through his ears, when he catches sight of his own chicken scratch penmanship in your kitchen, on the fridge amongst the postcards and takeaway menus and old seasons greetings cards, is the phone number he’d written for you when you first met, a mirrored version of his own fridge at home bearing only your writing

He takes your advice and prepares not just one but two cups of tea, puts your new flowers into a vase and fills it with water before setting it on your table, the sound of your approaching footsteps masked by the hissing of the kettle, though when he turns and makes eye contact with you, the energy in the room is different from before, a tension that wasn’t present the last time you both stood here

“How’d you take your tea?” He asks, jutting his chin towards the chairs at the table, his way of telling you to sit and let him take care of you, his own way of unofficially saying his job isn’t over yet, he��s not done here yet. Rosie’s daycare spot might be filled, he might have driven you home, helped you inside, but won’t you let him prepare your tea? Won’t you indulge him just a little longer?

To his elation, you do. You tell him how you like your tea, you watch him gather his ingredients and prepare both your drinks, watch him as he slides your cup across the table and lowers himself into the seat next to you, rather than across from you like last time, feeling more daring than before

“Simon, I know you keep telling me this is all okay, that it’s no big deal, not a problem,” you start, fingers fidgeting with the handle of your mug as he takes his own sip, pretending as though he isn’t desperately hanging onto your every word, hoping that the gears turning in your head have landed on a conclusion in his favour. “But I just- I don’t know how to thank you.”

“There’s no need to thank me. Truly.” His reply is instantaneous, honest, one he’s given you each time you try to act as though you owe him anything for his kindness, as though he isn’t the one getting more out of this than you are

“How’s this possible?” You ask with a flustered laugh, the smallest crack in your usually cool and collected facade beginning to show, a glimmer of a flummoxed, confused, disbelieving girl peaking through for a split second

“What’d you mean, love?” Simon inquires, pushing his mug to the side and offering you his undivided attention now

“I just- you’ve been nothing but kind, and helpful, and outrageously generous since the literal minute I’ve met you Simon. And I’m so beyond appreciative and thankful- but I- I mean- how- what are you getting out of this?” You finally ask, a visible weight being lifted off your shoulders as you ask the question that’s clearly been plaguing you

Part of him aches as you essentially admit to him that you have a hard time believing someone could be so kind without expecting anything in return, that you feel you owe him anything because of his help, but he also lives in this same world as you, has seen just how dark and cruel and greedy people can be, agrees with the sentiment that you can’t willingly trust just anyone

But he doesn’t want to be just anyone to you, and so he decides to try some honesty for a change

“I like you.”

“You think you like me. You hardly know me.” You reply, as though his answer was one you were expecting, though the determination on your face cannot hide the faint blush that appeared on the apples of your cheeks soon as his words were in the open

“I’d like to get to know you. Feel a bit like I already do.” At this, Simon eases your mug out of your grasp, slipping his own calloused palms into your much softer, smaller hands, knowing already that he’ll be feigning for your next touch before he’s even let go of you yet. “I look at you, love, you and Rosie, the two o’ you, and I see…”

What he doesn’t dare say aloud is that you remind him of something achingly familiar, that he looks at you and sees someone alone, someone in need of help, too fiercely proud to admit so, you remind him of him, you remind him of home, in the most fucked up yet equally incredible way

But for now, he settles instead on telling you a little less

“Hope.” Your eyes widen at his words, mouth falling open in the slightest ‘o’ as you take in his words. “You- y’give me hope.”

Something about that seems to resonate within you, has you blinking at him as though you’ve been only seeing a silhouette through thick fog thus far, able to make out the silhouette of a man but unable to define his edges, unsure whether you’re seeing a friend or foe, but now, it’s as though the high beams have finally turned on, as though you’re seeing him in perfect, unfiltered light

Simon can only hope you don’t hate what you see

He thinks it’s safe to presume not, when your hand lets go of his, reaching up instead to pull him in by his shirt collar until your lips meet, eyelids closing with visions of yellows flowers in the corner of your eyes

Next chapter

Tag list: @dawnnightshade666 @topaz125 @ilovetaquitosmmmm @th3on3and0nly1r1s @sirbonesly @biscgutz @cmbghost @glossy01 @slowlyshycomputer @barcelonaaababe @astrxsee @sweetpeakarolinaaa @aqua-nina @wizzdot @beautifuleaglealpaca @peachy-satan00 @drewsuncrustables @pato-spoiler-27 @lem-hhn @dravenskye @juullllssss @mxsatorisimp @merkitty49 @monssan99-blog @notkyleelol @tessakate @sahvlren @danika1994 @viennakarma @pastel-devil-06 @asoulsreverie @puppydollgstar @strawberrygato @heletsmelovehim @404creep @just-lilita @desiretolive @marigold-morelli @robinfeldt98 @sleep101 @scaleniusrm

#readwritealldayallnight #call of duty #simon ghost riley #call of duty fic #call of duty fanfic #simon riley x reader #simon riley #simon ghost x reader #ghost x reader #cod fanfic #ghost x you #cod simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty ghost #cod simon riley #simon fluff

2K notes · View notes

gyuuberryy · 6 months ago

Text

no doubt !

loser!enhypen's reaction to your confession + their down bad behaviour

genre: completely fluff, slight crack

warnings: self doubt, very little stuttering

note: live, laugh, love hot loser men

word count: 2.3k

i love reading your comments and reblogs, so please do so if you liked reading this<3

HEESEUNG

heeseung was the guy who always sat in the back of the library, oversized hoodie pulled up and earbuds blasting lo-fi playlists. not because he was trying to look cool and aloof—he just didn’t know how to talk to people. heeseung’s whole vibe screamed ‘leave me alone’, and yet, you were drawn to him. maybe it was the way his big glasses always slid down his nose or how he’d stammer when the librarian asked if he needed help. there was a sweetness to his awkwardness, a genuine quality that made him stand out(not to mention how devastatingly handsome he was).

you started leaving him little sticky notes on the library desk when he wasn’t looking, simple messages like “nice doodles!” or “your handwriting is cute<3” the day he caught you in the act, his face turned the color of a ripe tomato.

“you think my handwriting’s c-cute?” he stuttered, practically vibrating with nervous energy.

a bit nervous, you laughed and nodded. “yeah, i do. and i think you’re cute too.”

heeseung froze, his pen dropping to the table. “wait, you… you think i’m cute?” he sounded so disbelieving it was almost funny.

when you confessed that you liked him, he spent two weeks in disbelief, constantly asking if you were joking. but after you assured him that no, you weren’t pulling some cruel prank, he became utterly devoted. he’d text you good morning every day, walk you to your classes while carrying your books (even when you insisted you could manage), and write you poetry—the kind of cringe, over-the-top poetry that made your heart melt anyway.

heeseung was the kind of boyfriend who’d get embarrassingly jealous but try to hide it. if someone so much as glanced at you for too long, he’d fidget nervously and mumble something about how they were probably just admiring how amazing you were. and if you hugged him in public? forget it. he’d be grinning like an idiot for the rest of the day.

when he wasn’t nervously doting on you, he was daydreaming about your future together. he’d scribble little sketches of the two of you in his notebook, complete with hearts and statements like “me + you = forever.” if you teased him about it, he’d turn beet red and try to deny it, but you could see the tiny smile playing on his lips.

rest is under the cut!

JAY

jay was the guy in your science class who thought he could blend in by keeping his head down. what he didn’t realize was that his nervous habits were endearing: the way he’d mumble answers to himself during group work or adjust his glasses every 30 seconds. he was always sketching random diagrams in his notebook—half for class, half because he was too awkward to make conversation.

you had a crush on him because, despite his shyness, there was something magnetic about the way he focused—his brows furrowing as he sketched diagrams in his notebook, the faintest pout forming on his lips when he was deep in concentration. one time, you caught him organizing the classroom supplies, his long fingers deftly sorting through tape dispensers and markers while muttering something about order.

when you mentioned you liked him, jay blinked at you like he couldn’t comprehend the words. “me? like me, me?” he asked, pointing to himself.

you nodded, trying not to giggle at how wide his eyes had gotten. “yes, you. i think you’re really sweet.”

jay’s face turned a deep shade of red, and he immediately started rambling. “i mean, i… uh, wow, okay, i didn’t expect this. are you sure? like, really sure? because i’m kind of a mess, and—”

once it clicked, though, he was all in. he’d send you paragraphs of text apologizing if he thought he said something wrong, shower you with small, thoughtful gifts (like your favorite snacks or a plant he’d researched how to care for), and eventually worked up the courage to hold your hand—though he’d sweat buckets the entire time.

jay would also start making lists—actual, physical lists—of things he could do to make you happy. “compliment her at least once a day,” “remember her favorite coffee order!,” and “learn how to not be a complete dork >:(” were scrawled on a sticky note tucked into his notebook. and when he wasn’t nervously doting on you, he was daydreaming about you, doodling your initials in the margins of his notes.

very soon, he was down-bad for you, which was evident through his real life and his social media activities. he’d post the cheesiest captions about you, like “can’t believe i’m dating the most amazing person in the world” with a blurry photo of the two of you. his friends teased him mercilessly, but he didn’t care. to him, you were worth every bit of embarrassment. late at night, he’d re-read your old texts and smile like an idiot, convinced he was the luckiest person alive.

JAKE

jake was a lovable mess. he wore mismatched socks, always seemed to forget his pencil, and somehow managed to trip over air at least once a day. his “plan” to talk to you involved him awkwardly hovering near your desk and pretending to need help with math problems he already knew how to solve. you knew from the start he was a bit of a loser—but that’s exactly why you liked him along with you finding everything he did adorable.

“wait, wait,” he said when you told him you were into him. “you like me? like, romantically? or is this a ‘pity me’ situation?”

after realizing you genuinely liked him, jake became a golden retriever in human form. he’d facetime you at random hours just to say hi, take you on chaotic “dates” that involved him occasionally tripping over things in public, nervously ordering food for you both and all silly fun activities like arcade games and amusement parks. it was never a dull day with him! after your first kiss, he couldn’t stop grinning for hours, texting his friends in all caps: “GUYS I JUST KISSED THE LOVE OF MY LIFE AAHJKHSSSK”

jake’s down-bad behavior reached new levels when he started making playlists for every possible mood you might have: “songs to cheer you up,” “songs that remind me of you<3,” and even “songs to study to (but only if you want to study with me):3” he’d even text you mid-class to tell you he missed you, even if you’d just seen each other that morning.

jake was also the kind of boyfriend who’d insist on carrying your bag even when it was clear it was too heavy for him. “i’ve got this!” he’d say, wincing slightly but refusing to let you take it back. and if you ever mentioned feeling sad or stressed, he’d immediately panic, asking, “what can i do? tell me, and i’ll do it!” he’d even write you little notes with nerdy jokes or doodles to make you smile, slipping them into your locker or bag for you to find later.

SUNGHOON

sunghoon thought he was slick, but his ‘cool guy’ act was so transparent it was almost cute. he’d lean against the lockers during breaks, pretending not to notice you, but the way his ears turned red every time you walked by gave him away. despite his awkward attempts at being aloof, you found his loser tendencies adorable: like how he’d secretly google pickup lines but chicken out before using them.

when you confessed your feelings, he genuinely choked. “wait, you like me? oh wow… you have bad- I MEAN great taste ahem.” he spent a solid week trying to act nonchalant, but once you started dating, his loser side came out full force. he’d ask you to “rate his outfits” before dates, send you selfies captioned “just thinking about you bbg,” and blush furiously every time you complimented him. sunghoon may have tried to act smooth, but deep down, he was utterly whipped.

sunghoon would also start practicing ways to compliment you in the mirror—only to mess it up completely when the time came. “y-you look… uh, very… beautiful? no, wait, gorgeous! that’s the word i meant!” and everytime you smiled at him, he’d be texting his friends, “she smiled at me again!!!!! i’m gonna pass out.”

his devotion extended to doing the smallest things for you, like bringing you your favorite drink or snacks without you asking. he’d even memorise your schedule so he could “accidentally” bump into you between classes, claiming it was coincidence even though the timing was suspiciously perfect. at night, he’d lay awake replaying your conversations, smiling at the ceiling like the lovesick fool he was.

SUNOO

you had noticed sunoo always sitting at the edge of friend groups, laughing along but never quite joining in. he was bubbly and fun but had an air of self-doubt that made him endearing. you started noticing how he’d always bring extra snacks to share with classmates or go out of his way to compliment people—little acts of kindness that made your heart flutter. not to mention his angelic beauty, that had you look twice the first time you had seen him standing near the water cooler awkwardly.

it was hard not to develop a crush and when you told sunoo you liked him, he’d blink in disbelief. “no way. you’re joking, right?” but after realising you were serious, he’d giggle nervously and hide his face in his hands. once you started dating, he became the most attentive boyfriend ever, remembering every small detail about you and hyping you up like you were the main character. he’d also send you cheesy tiktoks at 2 a.m. with captions like, “this is so us babe ><”

sunoo was head over heels for you, the literal epitome of “she fell first but he fell harder”. he did adorable things like creating a secret pinterest board filled with date ideas and texting you pictures of cute animals with captions like, “look, it’s us in 50 years!” he also started learning how to bake just so he could surprise you with your favorite treats—though most of his attempts ended in chaotic, flour-covered disasters.

if you ever seemed upset, sunoo would go into full panic mode, showering you with compliments and doing everything in his power to cheer you up. “you’re the most amazing person i’ve ever met,” he’d say earnestly, his eyes sparkling with sincerity. he even kept a list on his phone of all the things you’d mentioned liking, just so he could surprise you when you least expected it.

JUNGWON

jungwon was the class president who seemed to have it all together—but his close friends knew better. he was the guy who’d trip over his words during speeches, carry five planners because he kept losing them, and stress over things like forgetting to bring tape for a poster project. you liked him because, despite his loser-ish tendencies, he had a heart of gold and worked hard to make everyone feel included.

when you told him you had a crush on him, jungwon’s first reaction was to nervously laugh. “wait, me? are you sure? why would you do that to yourself!?” once he accepted that you really liked him, he became the sweetest boyfriend imaginable. he’d plan thoughtful dates (that inevitably went slightly wrong but ended up being more fun because of it), leave you encouraging notes in your locker, and get adorably flustered every time you kissed him.

jungwon also started creating “motivational speeches” for you, writing them out on notecards and practicing in the mirror before giving them. “i believe in you,” he’d say earnestly, fumbling to hand you a little note that said, “you’re amazing, and don’t you forget it.” if you teased him about it, he’d bury his face in his hands and mumble, “stop, you’re embarrassing me…”

his love didn’t stop there. he’d stay up late researching ways to make your life easier, like creating color-coded study guides or finding fun new spots to take you on dates. and if anyone dared to speak poorly of you, jungwon would step up, surprising everyone with his sudden fierceness. “they don’t know what they’re talking about,” he’d say, his tone protective and unwavering.

NI-KI

ni-ki was the quiet gamer boy who’d rather blend into the background than be noticed. he wore the same hoodie every other day and constantly had earbuds in, even when they weren’t playing anything. you liked him because of how unpretentious he was—and how his eyes lit up whenever he talked about something he loved, like a new game or a random meme he found hilarious.

when you told him you were into him, ni-ki almost dropped his controller. his eyes narrowed into a glare, “are you sure you’re not messing with me? did jake tell you about my crush?” after he realised what he had said, he immediately scampered away leaving you standing there confused. once he got over his initial shock, he became your biggest simp. he’d send you memes that reminded him of you, let you beat him at games (even though he’d deny it), and randomly text you “you’re so pretty” at the most unexpected times. around his friends, he’d brag about you non-stop, showing off pictures of you with a proud grin.

once he was down bad for you, he became hell bent on learning how to cook your favorite meals—even though he’d never cooked before in his life. “how hard can it be?” he’d say, only to panic five minutes in and call you for help. he also started staying up late to design matching gamer tags for the two of you, insisting that everyone online needed to know you were his.

in quiet moments, ni-ki would open up about how much you meant to him, his voice soft and a little shaky. “i don’t know what i did to deserve you, but i’m not letting go.” and if you ever showed up to surprise him during his gaming sessions, he’d immediately log off, saying, “sorry, guys, my priority is here,” as he turned his full attention to you.

𝗰𝗼𝗽𝘆𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 ©𝗴𝘆𝘂𝘂𝗯𝗲𝗿𝗿𝘆𝘆 on Tumblr

˚ · .𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱

taglist: @soobnuuy @senascoooop @moafloribunda @lunalovesstories

@firstclassjaylee @levandright @fancypeacepersona @mirouie

@gaonashi @firstclassjaylee @kkamismom12 @evandsolo

3K notes · View notes

floweycidal · 7 months ago

Text

i keep thinking about how flowey had to construct the very concept of cruelty from the ground up.

not from watching anyone else, not by osmosis, but by cobbling it together himself in the garden where he woke up. alone.

this was a child who fell asleep to his mother's stories, who knew every inflection of his father's laugh. who spent endless golden afternoons with his sibling, both of them doubled over with giggles as they filmed their silly videos, messing up on purpose just to hear each other laugh. again. and again. and again.

so warm. so safe. where the gravest offense imaginable was maybe tracking mud on the carpet.

the worst fear, disappointing people who would love you anyway.

where could he even begin?

save. say these words that once meant comfort, but twist them just so. watch their eyes dim as something inside them breaks. load.

save. make a promise—you remember those, how snug they once made you feel—then shatter it. document exactly how hope crumbles. load.

save. try another combination. another betrayal. watch what splinters differently this time. load.

the world's loneliest science experiment.

look at the cruelty he creates, it's all so personal, specific. so devastatingly asriel.

watch how often he comes back to the idea of being replaced. of being forgotten. how he taunts you with the possibility that none of your relationships matter, that everyone will move on without you. that none of your choices mean anything in the end.

your fault. your responsibility.

if only he you hadn't made anyone love him you. If only he you hadn't loved them back.

of course he'd fixate on all that. how could he not? his mother, who used to speak his name like it was sacred, those tender words she reserved for him—for THEM—are now handed out indiscriminately, like candy to anyone who asks.

all he can do is take note: see how easily love transfers? see how simple it is to fade away?

so, he sneers. taunts you with the thought that it's all dust. you're just another passing face in the crowd. nothing lasts. nothing is worth the weight of caring. but even as he pushes that narrative, as his voice drips with contempt, he is still out there. in the ruins. checking on her.

observing from a distance, like maybe if he watches long enough, his past will solidify into something he can hold again.

flowey develops his cruelty like he's trying to solve an equation. if this word plus this action equals pain, then surely there must be some formula that yields not caring anymore.

if he'd just gotten it right. if he'd just kept everyone at a distance. if he could just be flowey. save. load. the answer has to be here somewhere.

but how do you quantify the sting of hearing her say "my child" to someone else? how do you account for the absence left in the places where joy once thrived? how do you document, in clinical terms, why you keep watching over people you swear don't matter anymore?

you don't devote yourself to perfecting devastation unless you remember, with searing clarity, what it felt like to be whole.

you don't give so much of yourself mastering the art of ridiculing attachment unless you're terrified of how much you still have left to give.

unless every attempt to prove love meaningless just confirms how much meaning it still has for you.

...point IS! flowey did an interesting job creating his own idea of a bully. it's all pathological. so crudely stemmed from his own sorrows and fears. he's created his own textbook definition of meanness...but then every chapter's just him screaming in a mirror.

#undertale #flowey undertale #flowey #undertale flowey #undertale asriel #asriel undertale #flowey the flower #asriel #think i've touched on this before #but i guess it wasn't enough #flooweyeyueueuueu #his projection game is STRONG as hell bro

1K notes · View notes

xxsyluslittlecrowxx · 2 months ago

Text

if no one's watching.

[ Sylus x Zayne ] (Art made by @yvilonion )

a/n : This fic was born out of pure, unfiltered pettiness. After getting hate for writing one SnowCrow fic (yes, one), I thought to myself: you know what would be fun? Being a petty little bitch and writing another one—except this time, let’s make it soft, slow, and devastatingly intimate. So here you go. Two men. No shame. No apologies. Just love written in silence and breath. To everyone who sent kindness: thank you. i love you! To the rest? I hope this fic ruins your whole afternoon. 💋

summary : On a rain-soaked night heavy with everything unspoken, two longtime roommates tiptoe around the truth they’ve buried for years. In the hush between words and touch, desire unfolds—not as confession, but as instinct. What begins as silence ends in something unmistakably real: love finally allowed to breathe. cw/tw : Repression and emotional denial, slowburn queer intimacy, explicit sexual content (consensual, emotionally charged). archive of our own : [ Press Here! ]

IT WAS RAINING...again.

Not the kind of rain that fell in orderly vertical lines, but the slanted, disoriented kind—like even gravity had grown tired of holding everything together. It clung to the windows in thin streaks, barely audible, yet inescapable. The kind of sound that doesn’t fill a room so much as echo inside your own head.

Rain against glass. And the occasional creak of floorboards expanding into silence.

Sylus stood in the kitchen, barefoot, cradling a mug of lukewarm water he hadn’t meant to drink. The stove light above him buzzed softly, flickered once, then held steady. He didn’t look up.

His gaze hovered somewhere past the sink, out through the narrow window where the city melted into a thousand wet halos—orange, white, indistinct. Cars ghosted by like memories. People didn’t.

In the living room, Zayne hadn’t moved in over an hour.

He lay curled at the far end of the couch, a book splayed open across his chest. Not asleep, not awake. Limbo. One leg tucked beneath him, the other stretched half-heartedly toward the edge of the rug, like he might get up—but never did. His socks didn’t match. One was black. The other had a hole near the toe.

Sylus had noticed it earlier. When Zayne arrived soaked and shivering, shaking his umbrella out over the entryway like a man trying to purge more than just water.

They hadn’t spoken much since dinner. Not out of anger—they rarely fought. But silence could belong to a hundred different things. Some of them gentle. Some of them not. And on nights like this, the silence felt braided: part fear, part distance, and something else entirely.

Sylus finally moved.

He set the mug beside the sink without drinking from it. The ceramic met the countertop with a soft clink. Rain swallowed the sound.

He walked toward the couch—slowly, as though unsure where his body was carrying him. Not directly to Zayne. Just... in that direction.

As he passed, Zayne’s eyes flicked up, then down again. The page didn’t turn.

Sylus didn’t sit. Instead, he drifted to the window, folded his arms, and leaned one shoulder against the cold pane.

"The streetlight's out again," he said.

Zayne didn’t answer.

Sylus hadn’t expected him to.

He watched the space where the streetlight used to glow. It had once cast a soft gold puddle onto the balcony, breaking gently against the railing. Now, it was nothing. Just darkness—a patch darker than the rest. A silence nested within another silence.

Then: Zayne’s voice, from behind, quiet enough to be mistaken for thought.

"You think it'll flood?"

Sylus turned his head, just enough to catch Zayne’s reflection in the glass. Dimly lit by the oven’s glow. Unreadable.

"No," he said. "Not enough rain for that."

Zayne nodded, slowly. His eyes weren’t on Sylus. Not on the window either. They lingered somewhere just beyond the book’s spine. Toward the untouched mug on the coffee table.

And there it was again. That third presence.

Not quite tension. Not quite emptiness. Something unnamed—but heavy enough to warp the air.

He used to call it loneliness. That aching inertia of sharing space with someone without actually reaching them.

But this—this wasn’t clean like loneliness. This was messier. Wetter.

He didn’t know what Zayne thought about during silences like this. Did he feel the same static between them? Did his shoulder graze Sylus’s in the kitchen by accident or design Did the pause before “goodnight” mean nothing? Or everything?

Sylus pressed his fingertips to the glass. The chill made his skin ache.

"I think it's supposed to rain all night," he said.

A hum from behind him. Low. Unbothered. Almost tender.

Something shifted inside Sylus’s chest.

But he didn’t turn around.

He let his hand fall from the windowpane. It dropped without ceremony, curling against his side like it no longer belonged to him. His fingers were colder than they should’ve been—forgotten by the rest of his body. Behind him, the kitchen light hummed on, painting everything in soft amber. He didn’t move.

Then: fabric rustled.

Nothing urgent. Just the sound a body makes when it forgets it’s being heard. A shift of weight. A sigh whispered into cotton.

"You didn't each much," Zayne said.

His voice held no judgment. No edge. Just a note of observation, soft and bare, like dust in a shaft of light.

"I wasn't hungry," Sylus replied.

A pause followed—not the kind that asks for anything, but the kind that simply is.

Zayne exhaled again, slower this time. "You always say that."

Sylus didn’t answer. There was no lie, and no truth, to offer.

The room pulsed with presence. Two gravitational fields that didn’t quite orbit—just drifted. And yet, something subtle pulled at them. Not intention. Not desire. Just that unspoken tilt toward closeness.

Sylus stepped away from the window. Not toward Zayne. Not toward the kitchen. Just into the hollow between both.

He hovered there—arms loosely folded, eyes unfocused.

Behind him, the couch gave a soft creak. Zayne’s weight shifting again.

"You don't have to stand like that," Zayne said, quieter now. "It's weird."

Sylus glanced over his shoulder. Just enough to see a partial view: Zayne reclined, head resting against the couch arm, knees bent loosely. The book lay beside him, discarded. His gaze rested on Sylus. Not piercing. Not demanding. Just... watching.

With a breath that barely moved his chest, Sylus crossed the final space and sat—opposite end of the couch.

Not far. But not close.

Between them: a cushion and years of practiced restraint.

The silence returned, but this time it ticked. It breathed. Something alive, with a pulse.

Zayne bent one leg, letting the other dangle over the edge, toes brushing the worn fringe of the rug. Sylus leaned his jaw into the cradle of one hand, elbow perched on the armrest. In the corner of his eye: Zayne’s outline. Familiar. Too familiar.

The television murmured low across the room—something dubbed, unintelligible. No one was watching. But it filled the air enough to explain the silence. Enough to pretend neither of them noticed how loudly the other breathed.

Outside, the rain shifted. Not heavier—just different. A gust swept through the alley, lifting metal. It clattered. Neither of them flinched.

Zayne’s voice again, casual but strange. "You ever notice how this place always smells like something's burning?"

Sylus blinked. "No."

"Huh." A shrug lived in the syllables. "Maybe it's just me."

They fell quiet again.

Eventually, Zayne adjusted the throw blanket over his legs. The motion displaced a pocket of warmth, spilling it subtly across the cushion beside Sylus. Not contact. Not quite. Just the ghost of presence.

Without knowing why, Sylus shifted. An inch. Maybe two. Not toward Zayne. Just… into the warmth.

The television flickered on the far wall, casting pale, intermittent light over their faces.

"You okay?"

The question floated between them, steady but delicate.

Sylus didn’t respond immediately. His eyes found the spine of a book on the coffee table. One they’d both read, but never talked about. Its corners were bent. A receipt stuck out halfway, curling at the edge. Not his.

He swallowed. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Zayne didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, his head tilted, eyes now on Sylus—open, unguarded. Always too bright, too knowing. But in that moment, soft.

Sylus felt it—not the gaze itself, but the change in weight. The difference between being seen and being looked at.

And he made the mistake of glancing up.

Their eyes met. And held.

Only for a second. Less.

But long enough.

Something sparked. Dry paper. Too close.

Zayne looked away first. Not ashamed. Not afraid. Just—gentle. As if maintaining the look had cost something, and he wasn’t sure what was left to spend.

Sylus let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His shoulders dropped, barely. His fingers curled tighter against the seam of the couch—small, invisible. A warning to himself: Don't.

The air between them warmed, subtly. Like the room had shifted one degree toward something dangerous.

Then Zayne moved again.

Just slightly. His knee angled inward, brushing—soft, accidental—against Sylus’s thigh.

Neither of them moved.

The contact was nothing. Less than nothing. A graze of fabric. A shared inch of cushion.

But it lingered. Not by force—by stillness.

Sylus didn’t breathe differently. Not on the outside. But something internal gave way. Quietly. Not a shatter. A slackening.

Zayne hadn’t looked at him again. He was facing the screen now—or pretending to. His features calm, unreadable. Like that accidental touch hadn’t shifted the atmosphere.

Like the air wasn’t denser now.

Sylus’s fingers—resting idle on the armrest—shifted by a fraction. Not a reach. Not a retreat. Just a quiet twitch. A reflex of awareness.

The space between them wasn’t space anymore.

It was a membrane.

Thin. Breathable. One motion away from dissolving.

Zayne adjusted, slower this time. The blanket slipped lower, revealing the cut of his ankle. His foot tapped once against the rug. Aimless. Then he stilled.

Sylus became hyper-aware of his own body. The way his shirt clung where it brushed his ribs. The curvature of his spine against the couch. The weight of one shoulder slouched slightly behind the other.

The heat near his hip—Zayne’s warmth—barely there, but impossible to ignore.

He didn’t look.

Even a glance felt like trespassing.

Time passed like breath held underwater. A minute. Then another.

Outside, a car passed. Tires whispered over shallow puddles. Headlights crawled across the ceiling like a slow breath. Touching nothing. Leaving everything changed.

The room returned to silence.

Zayne’s breathing had shifted. Not louder. Just steadier. Controlled. Held too carefully.

Like someone hiding their own heartbeat.

Sylus closed his eyes. Not in retreat. Not in surrender. Just to listen.

And in the darkness behind his eyelids, the touch became clearer. Not sharper—just more real. The press of a knee, the hum of nearness. Not touching, but felt. His whole body attuned to the parts of Zayne that hovered at the edge of contact.

When he opened his eyes, Zayne hadn’t moved.

It rested now on the cushion between them, fingers relaxed, as if forgotten there. Not a gesture. Not a question. Just… placed.

Sylus let his gaze linger on it. He didn’t trace it upward. Not to the wrist, or the arm, or the line of Zayne’s jaw he sometimes dreamed about.

Just the hand. Still. Breathing its own silent, trembling invitation.

He didn’t answer it.

Not out loud.

Instead, his own hand moved—drifting downward, slow, unintentional. His knuckles brushed fabric. Near. Not on. Just near.

No skin. No contact. Just the awareness of how little distance remained.

Zayne didn’t move.

The silence thickened again.

Not heavy. Not oppressive. Just warm.

Like the breath that lingers between two people who aren’t speaking because they know.

A flicker moved through Zayne’s shoulders. Barely a ripple. The faint tremor of someone swallowing a thought too large to name.

He exhaled—softly. Not out of weariness. But uncertainty.

Then his fingers curled. Not toward Sylus. Just inward.

Like something small and vulnerable folding back into itself.

Sylus felt it. Not in his chest. Lower. A shift in the stomach. Not hunger.

Recognition.

As if something inside him had just pointed at the shape of the moment and said: This. This is what it's been.

He let himself glance—just once—toward Zayne’s face.

Zayne didn’t look back. His gaze was still on the screen. But his eyes weren’t tracking anything. His expression was still. But not serene.

There was tension there. Just beneath the cheekbone. Like he was listening for a line that hadn’t yet been spoken. Like he didn’t know what came next.

Sylus turned his hand. Slightly. Palm-up. Resting beside Zayne’s.

Not touching. Just waiting.

He told himself it didn’t mean anything.

That Zayne wouldn’t notice.

That the night would pass, and sleep would come, and no one would speak of it in the morning.

But then—

Zayne’s pinky twitched.

And didn’t move away.

The motion was so small it could’ve meant nothing. A twitch. A balance shift. The ghost of sleep passing through a limb.

But it wasn’t.

Sylus knew. In the way the hairs on his forearm lifted. In the way his heartbeat caught, then stumbled like a misstep in the dark.

He didn’t move. Not from fear.

But because movement would mean belief. And he wasn’t ready to believe. Not yet.

The space between their hands felt different now. Not in distance, but in intention. An unfinished sentence. A question, unsaid.

Zayne shifted, almost imperceptibly. Shoulder dipping, head tilting—like the couch had betrayed its shape, or like his own skin had turned unfamiliar.

His hand didn’t move.

That smallest finger—barely bent, still close—held the gravity of a thousand silences.

Sylus let his own finger drift nearer. Not touching. Just enough to echo the closeness. A breath’s worth of nearness.

Zayne inhaled.

Not a gasp. Not surprise.

Just a breath turned over in the body, like a page in a quiet room.

The sound of it passed across Sylus’s cheek like mist. When he realized what it meant, he almost stopped breathing.

Zayne had turned his face toward him. Not all the way. Just enough to abandon pretense.

The television murmured in another language—meaningless. The rain had thinned to a whisper, dissolving into fog.

The world outside had vanished.

All that remained was the air between two men. And the charge that neither could name.

Sylus looked. Not at Zayne’s hand.

At his face.

Zayne wasn’t looking back. His eyes rested somewhere near Sylus’s collar. Not bold enough to hold his gaze. Not distant enough to claim indifference.

The flicker from the television lit the ridge of his nose, caught on the curve of his lip. His mouth wasn’t tense. Wasn’t relaxed either.

It looked— careful.

Sylus shifted. A small rotation of his hips. One knee brushing lightly against Zayne’s.

No words. No contact, not really.

But the room felt closer now. As though even the air had begun to fold inward.

Zayne wasn’t breathing evenly.

Sylus could feel it in the shape of his silence. The way his chest rose—not with the weightless drift of sleep, but with the careful breath of someone standing at the edge.

Ready to fall. Or run.

Zayne’s hand curled inward again. Then relaxed.

It stayed close. Sylus’s hand stayed open.

The tension between them wasn’t sharp. It was unbearable in its gentleness.

No urgency. No heat.

Only the slow gravity of two bodies fluent in a language they'd never been allowed to speak.

Sylus didn’t know who moved first.

Maybe neither of them did. Maybe it was just the couch collapsing under the weight of unsaid things.

Their heads tilted—forward.

Not far. Not enough to kiss.

Just close enough that their breath mingled. That the space between their mouths fogged like glass.

Zayne’s eyes were half-lidded. Lips parted—not in invitation, not in refusal. Suspended.

Sylus didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

His voice had abandoned him somewhere between intention and ache.

Zayne blinked, slow.

And for a moment—there was no history. No room. No rules.

Just this.

This strange, reverent quiet pressed between them like folded hands.

Sylus leaned in again. An inch. Maybe less.

Zayne didn’t move. He didn’t have to.

Their foreheads touched. Soft. Weightless.

A contact so restrained it felt like apology.

Zayne exhaled.

And that was the betrayal.

Because in that breath—all the denial unraveled.

It was too tender to fake. Too vulnerable to disguise.

Sylus’s hand turned.

Palm-up.

Beside Zayne’s. Not touching. Just waiting.

Their lips hovered—still inches apart. Eyes half-closed, fragile with questions.

But the silence had changed.

It was no longer still. No longer safe.

It trembled now— on the cusp of becoming.

Sylus’s breath hitched—caught between ribs like a thought that should’ve stayed unsaid. The air in his chest wasn’t air anymore. It was weight.

Zayne didn’t move back.

Didn’t move forward either.

He just stayed—face hovering close, not with purpose but with gravity. The kind that forms when silence stretches too long and begins to collapse under its own density.

The space between them had turned unbearable. Not emotionally. Not metaphorically.

Viscerally.

Zayne’s eyes lifted—just enough to find Sylus’s. And then—

A breath. Barely shaped.

"...Sylus."

It wasn’t a question. Wasn’t a confession.

It was a name—spoken like it had been kept behind clenched teeth for years.

Sylus closed his eyes. His throat worked once—dry.

Then: "...Zayne."

Soft. Like surrender.

There was nothing else to say. They had lived too long in the pause between names.

His mind flickered—uninvited—through moments he had long buried:

The time they’d brushed shoulders on the fire escape, too tired for words. Sylus had felt Zayne’s thigh press against his and hadn’t moved for the entire length of a cigarette. The stars had seemed unreal that night. As if even they were holding their breath.

Or the day Zayne returned from a funeral, tie askew, jaw tight with grief. Sylus had set a glass of water in front of him. Zayne had looked at him—really looked. Like if Sylus left, he might fall apart. Sylus hadn’t left. Zayne’s pinky had brushed his then, too. Just once.

Another night—winter-bitten and brittle—when the power had gone out. They’d shared a blanket. Nothing had happened. But Zayne had dozed off against Sylus’s shoulder. And Sylus hadn’t slept at all. Couldn’t. His body had burned in stillness, every nerve awake with fear. Not fear of Zayne. Fear of being seen—by himself.

At the time, those moments had seemed small. Incidental. Forgettable.

But now they came back—not as memories. As debts. Unpaid, and suddenly due.

Zayne moved.

Not boldly. Just enough for their foreheads to brush.

No lightning. No soundtrack. No sweeping cinematic blaze.

Just skin against skin—a contact so fragile it echoed louder than sound.

Sylus didn’t know if his eyes were open. Didn’t know if it mattered.

He could feel the shape of Zayne’s mouth—without even touching it. The warmth of breath. The nearness of something long withheld.

Zayne moved again. Slower this time. The tip of his nose grazed Sylus’s.

Their lips hovered. A breath apart.

Then—

Zayne tilted his head. Not much. Just enough.

Sylus didn’t pull away. Didn’t lean in.

They met somewhere in the middle.

The kiss wasn’t sudden. Wasn’t wild.

It was quiet.

As if their mouths had been waiting—patiently, stubbornly—for a moment like this to finally exist.

Their lips met like an answer. Soft. Known.

Zayne’s mouth trembled slightly against his—like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.

Sylus pressed forward—just a breath’s worth—and that was enough.

Zayne exhaled. It shivered between them.

They kissed again. Deeper. But still unhurried.

No hunger. Only release.

Years of restraint peeling back, like wallpaper in an empty room.

Sylus’s hand rose—tentative—until it found the side of Zayne’s neck. His thumb grazed the hollow beneath his ear.

Zayne’s hand lifted in turn, curling into Sylus’s t-shirt—clinging like someone grounding themselves.

The kiss lingered.

Not out of fear. Not out of desperation.

But because stopping would require naming this. Would mean admitting what it had always been.

What it could no longer pretend not to be.

Zayne moved first.

Barely.

His hand tightened at Sylus’s waist—not to pull, not to possess. Just to be there.

His knuckles grazed the hem of Sylus’s shirt, where cotton met skin. They stayed. That was all it took.

Sylus’s breath shifted—shallower now, uncertain.

The room felt smaller. Not claustrophobic. Just... full. Every inch humming with the gravity of permission.

Zayne kissed him again. Softer. Then firmer. Not rushed.

Searching.

His mouth moved like he was tracing the edges of a dream—one he’d visited often, but never dared touch.

Sylus’s hand slid along Zayne’s back, open, exploratory. He didn’t guide. He followed. Every breath. Every held tremor beneath fabric.

They still hadn’t spoken. But everything in them was speaking.

Zayne’s thumb found a bare patch of skin just under the hem of Sylus’s shirt.

He paused there. Didn’t press. Just rested.

That single point of contact unraveled something inside Sylus—something ancient and aching.

He lifted his arms—slow, unsure. And Zayne understood.

He tugged the shirt upward, careful not to shatter the rhythm they’d slipped into. It caught briefly at Sylus’s shoulders, then came free.

Cool air. Bare skin. Goosebumps bloomed.

Zayne didn’t gawk. Didn’t freeze.

He looked.

Not with hunger, but with reverence. The kind of look you give the edge of a cliff you’ve stood at for years—never daring to jump, never quite walking away.

Sylus didn’t speak. He leaned in instead, mouth brushing Zayne’s jaw, then his throat.

It was part instinct, part apology.

His lips parted against skin, and the sound Zayne made wasn’t loud. It was close. A breath caught in the hollow between want and awe.

Zayne’s hand pressed lightly to Sylus’s chest. His thumb swept over bone and muscle like he was tracing something half-remembered—something sacred.

The tension didn’t break. It deepened.

Sylus reached for Zayne’s shirt. Fingers slipping under the hem, the fabric warm, worn.

He lifted it slowly, watching Zayne’s face for any flicker of hesitation. There wasn’t one.

The shirt joined Sylus’s on the floor.

Zayne’s skin was warm beneath his palms—solid and soft all at once. Sylus traced his side, his hand resting against the curve of his ribs. Zayne’s breath caught—but he didn’t pull away.

Then—closer.

Their bare torsos pressed, breath moving between them like tidewater—gentle, rhythmic, necessary.

Zayne’s hands slid to Sylus’s back, wide and open, not pulling with desperation but certainty. Sylus folded into him—arms around his shoulders, lips finding his again, deeper now.

They kissed like men who had denied themselves too long.

Not from shame. From necessity.

And now— that necessity was gone.

The couch groaned softly beneath them as they shifted.

Zayne parted his legs slightly, and Sylus moved with him—slotting into the space like something inevitable.

Their foreheads met again. No sweat yet, but the heat was rising. Their skin slick with anticipation.

Zayne’s fingers followed the line of Sylus’s spine—tentative, slow. His mouth moved lower, to his jaw, then down—to the hollow of his collarbone.

The kiss there was open-mouthed. Unsteady. Aching.

Sylus gasped. Not from surprise.

From the sheer weight of finally.

Zayne paused. Let the breath settle. Let his lips stay.

Sylus’s hands, trembling now, found the waistband of Zayne’s pants.

He didn’t undo them. Not yet.

His knuckles brushed fabric—careful, reverent. He looked up.

Zayne was already watching him.

No smile. No hesitation.

Just yes.

The sound of a zipper echoed in the room—slow. Deliberate.

It filled the silence like punctuation.

Not a beginning. Not an end.

Just the natural sound of two bodies, long kept apart, finally allowed to want in the open.

No rush.

Only inevitability.

Zayne shifted—hips lifting slightly—as Sylus eased the fabric down, careful not to shatter the fragile stillness between them.

The denim gave way with quiet resistance. The weight of it slipped from skin that had never been touched like this.

Not by him. Not like this.

Not with meaning.

Zayne leaned back into the cushions, one arm resting loosely behind his head. His gaze didn’t waver. Didn’t scan. Didn’t retreat.

He simply watched. And waited.

Sylus paused. Not from hesitation—but reverence.

His hand lingered at the hem of Zayne’s last layer, thumb grazing the edge. His fingers trembled—not from nerves, but care.

That rare, trembling awareness that the person before you is no longer theoretical. No longer a question.

But real. Breathing. Letting you in.

"Okay?" Sylus asked—his voice low, roughened by the weight in his chest.

Zayne nodded. "Yeah." A beat. "More than okay."

Sylus exhaled—quiet and uneven. Relieved. Unsteady.

He leaned in and kissed just above the fabric, at the curve of Zayne’s stomach.

It wasn’t practiced. Wasn’t precise.

Just lips to skin, tentative and real.

Zayne exhaled. Slow. Measured.

His hand rose, resting on Sylus’s shoulder like punctuation.

When the final layer was pulled away, Zayne lay bare beneath the dim, flickering light. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t cover himself.

But his chest paused mid-breath—as though his body hadn’t caught up with what was happening.

Sylus sat back.

He looked.

Not with hunger. Not with claim.

But with awe.

Then came the shedding of his own clothes. Fabric pulled over limbs in quiet, untheatrical motions.

Not display. Not seduction.

Just the removal of armor. Layer by layer.

When he was fully bare, he didn’t reach for Zayne. He simply let himself be seen.

Let fear sit beside him in silence, naked and shared.

Zayne looked at him—not with appraisal.

With reverence. As though he hadn’t believed this moment would ever truly arrive.

Sylus moved back over him slowly, skin meeting skin in scattered points—thigh, hip, rib, forearm.

Each touch unfolding like a sentence too long held in the throat.

When their chests met, bare and warm, Zayne made a sound that lived somewhere between sigh and prayer.

His hand slid to the back of Sylus’s neck, fingers threading through heat-damp hair.

They kissed again—deeper now.

Teeth brushed. Mouths parted slowly. Tongues moved with precision born of restraint.

It tasted like release.

Zayne broke it first, forehead resting against Sylus’s. Breathing shallow.

["I don't know how to do this," he said, almost smiling.

Sylus swallowed. "Me either."

Zayne met his eyes—lit softly by the television’s glow, raw with something gentler than fear. "Then let's not do it right."

A quiet laugh slipped from Sylus—unguarded, small.

He kissed him again.

This time, their hips moved together—slow, uncertain, but aligned. Zayne arched into him, the motion wordless, instinctual, and full of ache.

No one led. No one followed.

They moved.

Sylus’s hand drifted down Zayne’s side, fingers grazing hip, then lower—finding want where it lived, where it waited.

Zayne gasped. Not from surprise.

From awe.

He met the touch with his own. Mirroring. Learning.

Their hands became language. Their mouths the reply.

And through it all—

No words. None needed.

Only breath.

Only sound.

Only two men, no longer pretending they didn’t ache.

Zayne’s forehead rested against Sylus’s temple, sweat gathering between them like truth surfacing—slow, undeniable.

His breath was broken now. Staggered. Shallow.

The sound of someone losing a battle they hadn’t meant to fight.

Sylus’s hand stayed steady. Not coaxing. Not claiming. Just present.

Their bodies rocked together in a rhythm that hadn’t been taught— slow, uneven, unchoreographed.

It wasn’t performance. It was discovery.

Each movement answering a question neither had dared speak aloud.

Zayne’s voice cracked. Just one syllable—unformed, unintelligible—spilled into the hollow above Sylus’s collarbone.

His arms were wrapped tight around Sylus’s back now, as though letting go would unmake the moment.

As if there were still something outside this they might fall back into.

But there wasn’t.

This was the room. This was the world.

Breath shared.

Nothing else existed.

Sylus moved with him, building pressure not with friction, but with closeness.

His pleasure rose not from sensation alone— but from Zayne’s sounds, the tremble in his spine, the small betrayals of control.

Every signal whispered, I see you. I feel you. I want you still.

He wasn’t used to being this seen. To wanting and being wanted in the same breath.

It overwhelmed him.

Still—he didn’t stop.

Zayne clawed gently at Sylus’s shoulder as his body arched, mouth falling open into something raw, unnamed.

Sylus felt it crest—not just physically, but in the way Zayne’s silence cracked open—every breath a breaking point.

And when Zayne came, buried against his neck, shaking but silent—

It felt like truth rising from where it had been buried too long. Gasping for light.

Sylus followed— a quake through the center of him.

No sound. No flourish.

Just breath— deep, shaking, endless.

A letting go.

They collapsed inward. Not apart.

Arms still wrapped. Bodies still suspended.

There was no sound, only the hum of their bodies settling. Heartbeats. The hush of skin cooling where sweat had once tethered them.

Zayne’s eyes were closed, his face pressed against Sylus’s chest, cheek resting just above the sternum—as if he’d always belonged there.

Sylus stared at the ceiling, breath slowing, every muscle gradually relinquishing the weight it had carried for years.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

The world hadn’t.

But here— in this room, in this breathless corner of dim light and tangled limbs— time had fractured.

Zayne’s fingers trailed along Sylus’s ribs. Not with purpose.

Just to stay.

Just to remind them both this had happened. That it wasn’t a dream.

Sylus turned his head and pressed a kiss to Zayne’s temple. Barely.

More intention than contact. A punctuation mark. A promise.

"I didn't know," Zayne whispered—his voice rough, like it had traveled too far to reach him.

Sylus didn’t answer right away. Words felt too fragile. Too small for the moment.

"Me neither," he said at last.

It wasn’t a confession.

It was a fact.

Zayne hummed. The sound frayed and quiet.

"I thought if I let it in... it'd ruin everything."

Sylus closed his eyes.

"It didn't."

Zayne exhaled. Something like a laugh buried beneath exhaustion.

"No. Just... changed it."

They lay there. Not gripping. Just close.

Legs tangled. Skin cooling.

The silence now wide enough to hold them both. Without crowding either.

Eventually, Sylus shifted, reaching for the blanket draped over the back of the couch.

He pulled it over them—fabric worn, scentless.

Familiar.

Zayne turned his face into Sylus’s chest. Not to hide.

To rest.

"You cold?" Sylus asked softly.

"No."

A pause.

"I just want to stay here."

"You can."

Zayne found his hand beneath the blanket. Their fingers laced.

No trembling. No question.

Just warmth. Just presence.

Nothing about the evening. Nothing about what this would become.

Only this.

Two men— no longer half-alive— finally learning what it means to be touched, and known.

— © 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐲𝐥𝐮𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰

557 notes · View notes

crimsonspring · 7 months ago

Text

"What do you think our wedding will be like?" She asks, and Rafayel feels his heart still immediately. He gives it a second, letting the two opposing sides of his heart battle it out.

A part of him feels giddy - she wants to be his bride again. It will happen again, because they are fated mates! All of the worrying was for nothing because look - she wants to get married, bonded to him again! Sure, the "sanctity" of marriage amongst humans on this earth is laughable and ludicrous compared to the solemn oath he literally has embedded on his chest... but he'll take it nonetheless. He'll take anything she has to offer, honestly.

Albeit, the other part of him wants to sulk and throw a tantrum. Because this question is simply yet another reminder of what was left forgotten. The fact that she had already been his bride, but that fact to be so horridly and devastatingly taken away from him. Ripped away from his clutching fingers. Sea of God he may be, but the strength of fate has no competition. What a painful reminder that question is, to be reminded that... Oh yeah you were my bride... until?..

Rafayel doesn't realise that dancing between the two emotions has taken some time. Purple eyes swirling with mixed emotions as his lips pursed to the side in silence. This reaction causes her to shift nervously, afraid that she's made him uncomfortable with the question.

She clears her throat soon after, sitting up after spending hours on the couch with him, slouching against the backrest as his purple hair splays out against her chest. The movement shakes him out of his trance, a brief moment of confusion (and a dramatic look of "how could you!”) plastered on his face as he turns around, sitting up for the first time in 2 hours as well. He faces his blushing partner who is clearly flustered at his lack of response.

"Um.. I mean - I'm not saying we will definitely get married or like whatever, it was just a question! I don't even know if you wanna marry me. again, it was just a question, you don't have to answer it if you-"

He gasps dramatically, brows furrowed deeply as he scoots away from her in bewilderment. "Did you say you don't even know if I want to marry you?" He scoffs, standing up and begins to pace around the room. "Is my devotion - and quite frankly - obvious and constant yearning for you not enough? For you to even question that?"

"Rafayel, I-" "Maybe the hunter's association should put you on bed rest if your brain's not functioning properly. Oh perhaps, it's not the brain, it's your heart and its inability to feel the love I have for you. Is that right, hm?"

"Rafayel," she repeats louder this time, sighing. "That was not what i meant - I just.. You went completely silent on me when I asked the question, so I thought you felt uncomfortable with the topic of marriage." shrugging, the red on her cheeks deepens as a replay of the scene comes to mind. she shrivels into herself, crossing her legs as she begins to play with the loose threads of her sweater. "And I know we’ve never talked about it either, so I shouldn't have just sprung it on you like that."

His face softens immediately, guilt pricking his chest as he watches the vulnerability she was expressing. While she isn't exactly wrong - the topic of marriage does make him uncomfortable. As much as he wants her to be his bride, it’ll undoubtedly open new doors for pain all over again. But as uncomfortable it is, Rafayel knows that she is someone he'd carve his own heart out for (well....).

"You have nothing to apologise for.," He reassures her gently, the tone contrasting the loud rant he performed earlier, and he's back on the couch, crawling onto the space next to her. His fingers are careful, he reminds himself he's holding onto his reason of being, his kryptonite, the atoms of sunlight itself. He feels his stomach flip, and the soft warmth that begins to exude from the side of his chest tells him that if she peeked underneath his shirt, she'd bear witness to the physical embodiment of his sacred vow. "It threw me off guard, yes. But only because i've been keeping it myself for far too long, cutie," he smiles, still ever so gentle as his thumb caresses the smooth of her cheek.

"I’ve known that i have wanted to marry you for years now," and while she'll take that as a mere dramatisation (Rafayel being Rafayel), he means that as literally as it gets. Only he is well versed with the pain, humiliation and fear that comes with the wait and longing, and for a moment, he's almost grateful that she doesn't know. He doesn't want her to be burdened with such hardship-filled emotions, so he'll carry it for the both of them.

"You won't be in white - maybe a light shade of blue. I'll obviously wear the best suit ever to be worn. We'll have a ceremony by the beach," he's speaking straight from the vision he's replayed in his mind countless of times, the smile on his face unconsciously growing as he mindlessly twirls a piece of her hair. "You'll have your hair down, and it'll probably get caught in the sea breeze - but it just makes sense to me."

"and," he pauses for a moment, hesitating before he continues. "We'll say our vows twice. One for everyone to bear witness to, and one just for you and me." A vow so sacred and intimate, Rafayel refuses to share with the world. He refuses to taint it even a little bit, it should simply be meant only for his lover and him, and his pure everlasting love for her.

"Oh," he has rendered her speechless, and now it's Rafayel's turn to be nervous, fearing he has made her uncomfortable. Hiding the embarrassment behind a scoff, he pulls away with a pout. "Y-You were the one who brought it up first!" Immediately, she shakes her head and pulls him back into her chest and Rafayel doesn't fight his body when it relaxes immediately. "I was just a little surprised, Raf - in a good way. Didn't think you would've had all these little details in mind already." Her voice mirrors his previously gentle one, and Rafayel feels his eyes flutter shut, coaxed by her fingers running through his hair.

She hesitates, but braves herself to say it. time and again, once peeling off his layers, she's beared witness to his endless courage so why not walk in his footsteps? "I do hope we get married." Her voice is quieter, but it speaks volumes to him. He feels a lump form in his throat at the emotions that begin to overflow within him. He reaches out to catch onto her hand that's combing through his hair and brings it to his chest in attempts to quell the tears that threaten to form behind his closed lids.

Shakily, his lips whisper against her knuckles, "In my mind, we already are."

In his world, they already were. How lucky is he to get married to her, again and again, and again.

God, he'd do it a million times over.

#i find it hardest to write for rafayel but here's a first try!!!! hehe lmk what u think #love and deepspace #lnds #lnds rafayel #rafayel love and deepspace #rafayel fluff #l&nds #rafayel #rafayel x reader

1K notes · View notes

chrissssssmut · 4 months ago

Text

PROFESSOR, YOU'RE MINE.

An Yujin x Male Reader feat. Gaeul

(Yandere w/ Smut)

(Note: MY FIRST EVER YANDERE FIC WITH SMUT! Hope y'all enjoy this one! I literally grinded writing this😆)

The halls of Daehwa Girls’ Academy buzzed with hushed whispers and stolen glances whenever Professor (Y/N) passed by. He was an anomaly—young, intelligent, and devastatingly handsome. Unlike the older faculty, he carried himself with effortless confidence, drawing admiration from students who saw him as something more than just a teacher.

And An Yujin hated that.

From the moment she stepped into his class, she knew she had to be the best—the only one worthy of his praise. But there was one obstacle in her way: Gaeul. No matter how much Yujin tried, no matter how much she studied, Professor (Y/N) always seemed to favor Gaeul’s work. A quiet nod, a subtle smile—recognition that belonged to Yujin and Yujin alone.

She clenched her fists. If he wouldn’t acknowledge her through talent, she would make sure she was the only one left to notice.

A Week Later – Empty Classroom 4-B

Gaeul stepped inside cautiously, her phone buzzing with the last message she received from Yujin.

"Meet me in 4-B. I need your help with something."

She barely had time to react before a sharp, searing pain bloomed in her stomach. Her breath hitched, a choked gasp escaping her lips as she staggered back. Yujin stood before her, gripping the handle of a small knife, eyes gleaming with something twisted.

Gaeul tried to scream, but her strength faded fast.

“Shh,” Yujin cooed, catching her before she could collapse. “You’re not dying. I was careful.”

Careful.

Yujin’s touch was deceptively gentle as she dragged Gaeul’s limp body to a chair, tying her up securely. By the time she was done, Gaeul could barely lift her head. Blood soaked her uniform, the pain sharp but numbed by weakness.

Yujin hummed, grabbing Gaeul’s phone.

"Professor, can you meet me in 4-B? I need help with a lesson."

Send.

Now, all she had to do was wait.

Professor (Y/N)’s Perspective:

He entered Classroom 4-B expecting to see Gaeul waiting with a notebook in hand. Instead, he was met with a horrifying sight.

Gaeul sat in the middle of the room, tied to a chair, blood staining her uniform. A note was pinned to her chest.

"This is what happens if other students try to be better than me."

His blood ran cold. He recognized that handwriting instantly.

“Yujin…”

Before he could move, a sharp pain exploded in the back of his head. His vision blurred, the world tilting before everything went black.

Unknown Room

(Y/N) groaned, his head throbbing as he came to. The air was thick, suffocating. He was seated against a chair, his wrists bound. In front of him, Gaeul remained tied up, barely conscious.

He struggled, looking around.

“Gaeul! Can you hear me?”

She barely stirred.

Panic set in. He had to get them out. He had to—

Click.

The door creaked open, and there she was.

An Yujin.

A knife glinted in her hand as she walked toward them, a smile stretching across her face.

“Professor,” she sighed, eyes shining with adoration. “I was worried you’d sleep forever.”

(Y/N) gritted his teeth. “Let Gaeul go.”

Yujin pouted. “I can’t do that. She’s the problem, isn’t she? Always stealing your attention. Always taking what's supposed to be mine.”

She trailed the knife along Gaeul’s collarbone, pressing just hard enough to break skin. A thin line of crimson dripped down her chest.

Gaeul whimpered weakly.

“Stop it!” (Y/N) shouted, struggling against his restraints.

Yujin ignored him, her eyes soft yet chilling. “Tell me, Professor. Who’s your favorite student?”

(Y/N) froze.

“This is insane—”

Yujin slashed Gaeul’s chest again, the cut shallow but cruel. A strangled cry left Gaeul’s lips before Yujin struck her across the face, silencing her.

“Try again,” Yujin said, her voice eerily sweet. “Who do you love more?”

(Y/N) swallowed hard.

If he didn’t answer, Gaeul wouldn’t survive.

"...You."

Yujin’s breath hitched. She stilled, as if replaying his words in her mind.

“Say it again.”

(Y/N) clenched his jaw, feeling sick.

“You’re my favorite student.”

Silence. Then—Yujin exhaled shakily, her grip on the knife loosening.

“I knew it,” she whispered, a giggle slipping past her lips. “I knew you felt the same way.”

She turned to Gaeul, patting her cheek mockingly. “You heard him, didn’t you? He chose me.”

(Y/N) looked away, unable to bear the way Gaeul’s body trembled.

Yujin stepped forward, pressing a hand against his cheek.

"Now, Professor," she murmured, brushing his hair back tenderly. "Let’s take you somewhere special."

She tugged him up, leading him away from Gaeul’s barely conscious form.

“Yujin—please—”

“Hush,” she whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. “We’ll be so happy together.”

The last thing he saw before the door shut was Gaeul slumped in the chair, her eyes dull and unfocused.

Then, darkness swallowed him whole.

And An Yujin had him all to herself.

(Y/N) stirred, his body aching as he slowly regained consciousness. The air was different—warmer, suffocatingly intimate. He wasn’t in the cold, empty classroom anymore. This place felt… personal.

His wrists were no longer bound to a chair, but to something softer. A bed.

His heart pounded.

The dim glow of a lamp bathed the room in soft light. The walls were decorated with photographs—him, taken in secret. Candid shots from class, stolen moments in the library, even a picture from when he first joined **Daehwa Girls’ Academy.**

Everywhere he looked, he saw himself.

And sitting beside him, watching with unsettling devotion, was **An Yujin.**

She was no longer in her school uniform. Instead, she wore a loose white blouse, slightly unbuttoned, revealing the curve of her collarbone. Her legs were bare, crossed elegantly as she twirled a knife between her fingers.

"You’re awake," she murmured, setting the knife aside. "I was starting to think I hit you too hard."

(Y/N) tensed, pulling at his restraints. His wrists were tied to the headboard, his ankles bound just enough to restrict movement.

"Yujin," he said, forcing his voice to remain calm. "Let me go."

She tilted her head, her dark eyes gleaming with amusement.

"But why would I do that?" She leaned closer, her fingers tracing the outline of his jaw. "You finally belong to me, Professor."

(Y/N) flinched at her touch, and Yujin giggled. "Still resisting? You’re so stubborn…"

Her hands drifted lower, ghosting over his shirt, which was now unbuttoned halfway. He didn’t even remember when she had done that.

His breathing grew uneven. "Yujin—"

She hushed him, pressing a finger to his lips. "I know you’re confused, maybe even scared. But I promise, I’ll take care of you."

Her fingers danced down his chest, her nails raking lightly against his skin. The sensation sent a shiver down his spine—whether from fear or something else, he didn’t know.

"You don’t need to think about anything else," she whispered, her lips dangerously close to his ear. "Just focus on me."

(Y/N) clenched his fists, trying to steady himself.

This wasn’t just obsession.

This was possession.

And there was no escaping it.

(Y/N) swallowed hard, his pulse hammering as Yujin’s fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns against his skin.

"You’re trembling," she whispered, her breath warm against his neck. "Are you scared, Professor?"

(Y/N) turned his head away, trying to suppress the shiver running down his spine. "Yujin… this isn’t right."

She only smiled, sliding onto his lap, her weight pressing down just enough to remind him how powerless he was. "No," she murmured, tilting his chin back to meet her gaze. "This is perfect."

The soft fabric of her blouse brushed against his exposed skin, her fingers teasing the buttons of his already loosened shirt. Yujin moved with a slow, dangerous confidence, her touch hovering just above where he was most vulnerable.

"You’ve always belonged to me," she continued, her voice sweet yet laced with something darker. "You just didn’t realize it."

(Y/N) gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the way his body reacted to her warmth, her scent—something intoxicating and inescapable.

Yujin noticed.

She giggled, pressing closer, her lips brushing against his ear. "You can lie with your words, but your body tells the truth."

Her fingers trailed lower, dangerously close, testing his restraint.

(Y/N) exhaled sharply, his wrists tugging against the restraints. "Yujin—"

She silenced him with a kiss.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant—it was possessive, demanding, her lips molding against his with desperate hunger. She bit down lightly on his lower lip, drawing a gasp from him before pulling back, her eyes dark with satisfaction.

"You taste even better than I imagined," she purred, running her thumb over his lips.

(Y/N) breathed heavily, his mind clouded with frustration, shame, and something he refused to name.

Yujin leaned in again, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down his jaw, his neck, savoring every reaction.

"You’re mine now, Professor," she whispered against his skin. "And I’ll make sure you never forget it."

Yujin traces her fingers down on his body, eventually reaching his cock. Yujin pulls it out of his boxers and lubricates it with her own spit, covering the entire cock with nothing but her own saliva and (Y/N)’s pre-cum.

“God, I never knew you were this big, Professor..” she whispered.

“So eager for me…” she added.

(Y/N) tries to pull away from her but his own body betrays him.

Yujin, without hesitation, strips off her own clothes, revealing her gorgeous body and her wet, glistening entrance.

Yujin lowers herself on to (Y/N), taking him inch by inch, stretching out her aching pussy. Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, a teasing glint in her eyes as she let it slip free, swollen and tempting.

“Fuck… you're so big Professor… I can't believe I almost let Gaeul have this all for herself.” she mouthed.

Yujin, with an all-consuming need, she moved in a rhythm both possessive and unrelenting.

“Yujin… this is wro-.... Ah fuck…” (Y/N) groaned.

“No professor, this is perfect. This is how we are supposed to be. I want every fucking drop of your cum Professor.” She muttered, her words sending (Y/N) closer to climax.

“Breed me Professor… I want all of your fucking cum in me!” she exclaimed, her eyes filled with determination and malicious intent.

She took charge, her touch both commanding and intoxicating, leaving no room for hesitation.

(Y/N) own body betrayed him. This wasn't supposed to happen. He wasn't supposed to be fucking the person who almost tried to end his life, let alone his own dear student.

Each movement of Yujin’s child bearing hips made him closer to the edge.

“Yujin, I'm close.” (Y/N) mouthed, slowly trying to pull out of Yujin's entrance.

“NO! FUCKING CUM INSIDE!” Yujin exclaimed, her grip tight on (Y/N) and her weight pressing down on him. She dominated the moment, each fast, deliberate movement a reminder of who was in control.

She silenced (Y/N) with a kiss. A kiss that wasn't filled with love and care, but of lust and possessiveness.

And with a final thrust in Yujin, (Y/N) pumped his warm cum inside of Yujin’s needing pussy, both of them groaning.

(Y/N) lay still, his body exhausted, his wrists sore from where the restraints had dug into his skin. The air was thick, heavy with the aftermath of what had just happened. His mind raced, trying to process everything, but the warmth beside him was inescapable.

Yujin curled against his side, her bare skin pressed intimately against his. Her fingers lazily traced patterns over his chest, a satisfied hum escaping her lips as she nestled closer.

“You’re quiet, Professor,” she murmured, her voice dripping with amusement. “Are you still trying to convince yourself this didn’t happen?”

(Y/N) turned his head away, his jaw clenched.

Yujin giggled, pressing a lingering kiss to his shoulder. “You can try to deny it, but your body already belongs to me.”

(Y/N) remained silent. Fighting her felt pointless now. She had taken everything—his control, his resistance, his dignity. And worst of all… part of him had given in.

Yujin propped herself up on one elbow, studying his face with a look of pure satisfaction. “You look so defeated,” she cooed, brushing his damp hair back. “But don’t worry… this is just the beginning.”

His stomach twisted.

She smiled sweetly, but there was something sinister beneath it—something final. “I won’t let you go, Professor. Ever.”

(Y/N) exhaled shakily, realizing the truth.

He wasn’t leaving this place.

Not today.

Not ever.

And Yujin? She would make sure of that.

Forever.

#kpop yandere #yandere kpop #yandere x reader #girl group smut #kpop smut #male reader #yandere #yandere blog #yandere stories #female idol smut #ive smut #yujin smut #an yujin #gg smut #smut #smut story #smut scenarios #kpop story #girl group scenarios

644 notes · View notes

urdreamydoodles · 4 months ago

Text

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS x FEM!READER

Marvel Comics Characters with a S/O who is shy and has social anxiety

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Marc Spector, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa & Elektra Natchios

This headcanons is for all my friends who suffer from social anxiety like me!

Peter Parker (Spider-Man)

- Peter understands your struggles in a way few others can. He was the kid who sat alone at lunch, the one who stammered through conversations, the boy who felt too much and spoke too little. So when you shrink into yourself at a crowded event or hesitate before speaking, he doesn’t push. He waits.

- He is patient with you, always. If your hands shake when ordering at a café, his fingers brush against yours—not grabbing, not forcing, just reminding you he’s there. If you struggle to meet a stranger’s eyes, he fills the silence effortlessly, making bad jokes until you breathe out a quiet laugh. He knows how much effort it takes, and he never belittles it.

- When you’re overwhelmed, he finds ways to help without making a big deal out of it. “Hey, let’s get out of here,” he’ll say casually, like he wasn’t watching you from the corner of his eye, counting the seconds between your anxious glances. He makes excuses to leave early, to find a rooftop where it’s just the two of you, the city stretching wide beneath your feet.

- He never forces you into situations that make you uncomfortable, but he believes in you, too. He knows you’re stronger than you think. “You don’t have to say anything,” he tells you after a stressful interaction, “but you did great. And I’m proud of you.”

- One day, when you stand your ground, when you speak up even though your voice shakes—Peter looks at you like you hung the stars in the sky. Like you’re the bravest person he’s ever met. And to him? You are.

Tony Stark (Iron Man)

- Tony is used to fast talkers and smooth charmers. He’s not used to you. The quiet, hesitant way you speak, the way your gaze flickers away when too many eyes are on you. At first, he doesn’t know what to do with it. But then, he realizes—he doesn’t need to do anything. He just needs to be there.

- Social situations? He handles them for you. If someone puts you on the spot, Tony is already redirecting the conversation before you can panic. If a gala feels too loud, too bright, too suffocating, he whisks you away with a perfectly crafted excuse. No one ever questions him—he’s Tony Stark, after all.

- But he also refuses to let you believe your anxiety makes you less. When you apologize for stumbling over your words, he raises a brow. “What, you think that matters to me? Have you met me? I stumble over my words all the time. It’s called being devastatingly charming.”

- He builds little comforts into your daily life without making a fuss. Noise-canceling headphones that match your style. A secret signal for when you need an escape. He makes sure you know—“I got you, sweetheart. Always.”

- One night, when you tell him you feel like a burden, he physically stops in his tracks. Turns to you, eyes serious in a way they rarely are. “You think being loved is a burden?” And when you don’t answer, when you shrink under his gaze, he exhales. Steps closer. “I don’t throw around the ‘L’ word lightly. But I love you. You get that, right?”

Steve Rogers (Captain America)

- Steve is a protector by nature, but he learns quickly that you don’t need protecting—you just need understanding. So he listens. He doesn’t try to fix you, doesn’t tell you to “just be more confident.” Instead, he sits with you in the quiet moments, in the spaces where words aren’t needed.

- When your anxiety flares up, his presence is a steady, grounding thing. His hand finds the small of your back in crowded rooms, a silent reminder that he’s there. If your breathing gets uneven, he murmurs, “With me, sweetheart. Deep breaths. In… out.” And when the world is too much, he shields you—not with his vibranium, but with his warmth.

- He notices the things you don’t say. The way your shoulders tense before you speak, the way you fidget when too many eyes are on you. He never rushes you, never forces you to talk before you’re ready. But when you do—when you finally find the courage to tell him what’s on your mind—he listens like it’s the most important thing in the world.

- He makes you feel safe. Not just physically, but emotionally. You never have to pretend with him. When you’re exhausted from socializing, he doesn’t take it personally. Instead, he presses a kiss to your temple and says, “Want to stay in tonight? Just us?”

- And one day, when someone comments on how quiet you are, how shy—you shrink back, but Steve? Steve straightens. Levels them with that unshakable, unwavering gaze. “Not everyone needs to be loud to be strong.” And the way he says it—the quiet pride in his voice—it makes you believe it, too.

Thor (God of Thunder)

- Thor does not understand at first. He is a god, a warrior, a king—he has never hesitated to speak his mind, never faltered in the presence of others. So when he notices your reluctance, your anxious glances, he frowns.

- But he learns. He watches the way you grip the hem of your sleeve when you’re overwhelmed, the way your voice gets softer when too many people are listening. He learns, and he adapts. Because that’s what love is.

- If you are uncomfortable in a gathering, he makes it known. “My beloved tires of this company,” he declares in the middle of a conversation, and before you can protest, he is leading you away, unbothered by the stares. To Thor, your comfort is more important than social niceties.

- He does not see your anxiety as a weakness. When you apologize for needing space, he shakes his head. “There is no shame in feeling.” And then, softer, “I would battle a thousand foes, but I cannot battle your thoughts. So tell me, my love—how can I ease them?”

- And when you finally speak—when you let yourself be vulnerable, let yourself be seen—Thor looks at you like you are more powerful than any storm he has ever summoned.

Loki (God of Mischief)

- Loki is used to masks. Used to hiding, used to maneuvering through conversations like they are battles to be won. But you? You don’t wear masks. You don’t need to. You are soft-spoken, hesitant, but there is a sincerity in you that unnerves him.

- He sees the way people overlook you, the way they dismiss quietness as weakness. It infuriates him. But more than that—it intrigues him. Because he sees what they do not. He sees the way your mind works, the depths beneath the surface.

- When you struggle with your words, he fills the silence with his own. When you are anxious, he redirects the attention elsewhere. He will never let the world swallow you whole.

- But when you grow comfortable, when you begin to speak more freely with him—Loki listens. No tricks, no arrogance. Just listens. And if anyone dares to mock your hesitance, they will learn why he is called the God of Mischief.

- One day, you tell him you feel small. Insignificant. He tilts your chin up, his green eyes glinting with something unreadable. “You are not small,” he murmurs, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “You are the only thing in this realm that makes me feel real.”

Clint Barton (Hawkeye)

- Clint notices things. He notices the way your hands tremble when too many people are watching, the way your eyes flick toward the door in crowded rooms. He notices the way your breath catches before you speak, the way you fidget when someone puts you on the spot. He notices because he’s been there too—the kid no one thought twice about, the one who had to learn to take up space in a world that wanted to ignore him.

- He helps in his own way. Casual, unspoken, never forcing. When he sees your shoulders tense in a loud bar, he makes a joke so ridiculous, so absurd, that you forget why you were panicking in the first place. If you start to shut down at a gathering, he suddenly remembers an “important thing” he has to show you outside—just the two of you, away from the noise.

- He doesn’t push you to talk when you don’t want to, but when you do? He listens like every single word matters. Because to him, it does. He knows what it’s like to feel unheard, and he refuses to let you believe your voice is anything less than important.

- He’s protective, but not in an overbearing way. If someone tries to rush you into speaking, he’s already cutting in, redirecting the attention, making himself the distraction. If someone mocks your quietness, his usual easy grin goes sharp. He doesn’t need to throw a punch—his words are just as sharp as his arrows.

- But what really gets him? The way you trust him. The way you let him see the parts of you the world doesn’t always understand. One night, after a long day, you let yourself lean into him, burying your face against his shoulder. And Clint? He just holds you closer, arms firm around you, like he’s never letting go.

Natasha Romanoff (Black Widow)

- Natasha understands. She understands in a way no one else does. She was trained to be invisible, to fade into the background when necessary. She knows what it’s like to measure every word before speaking, to feel like too many eyes are on you.

- With her, there’s no pressure. No expectation. She never pushes you to be something you’re not. If you don’t want to talk, she doesn’t fill the silence with meaningless chatter. She lets the quiet exist, natural and unforced, because she knows sometimes words aren’t necessary.

- She is your shield in public. If she sees you struggling in a conversation, she subtly shifts the focus onto herself. If someone tries to pressure you, she gives them a look—a cold, unreadable thing that makes them shrink back immediately. No one messes with you when Natasha is around.

- But in private, she’s different. Softer. When you tell her your fears—your worries about being a burden, about not being enough—she listens, then gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she murmurs, her lips brushing against your forehead. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

- And one day, when you stand up for yourself—when you find your voice even though your hands shake—she watches you with something like pride. Because she knows exactly how strong you are.

Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier)

- Bucky knows what it’s like to feel out of place. To feel like the world moves too fast, too loud, too much. So when you get overwhelmed, when the anxiety becomes too sharp, he doesn’t tell you to “calm down.” He just takes your hand. Grounds you. Stays with you.

- He’s not much for words, but he doesn’t need them. He knows when you need space and when you need him close. If you’re panicking in public, he subtly moves in front of you, blocking the world from view. If you need an out, he makes an excuse without hesitation.

- He’s fiercely protective, but he never treats you like you’re fragile. He knows you’re strong, even if you don’t always believe it. “You don’t have to be loud to matter,” he tells you one night, his voice quiet but sure. “I see you. That’s enough.”

- When you have bad days, the kind where speaking feels impossible, he never makes you feel guilty. Instead, he just sits with you, silent but present. Sometimes, he’ll read aloud, his voice low and steady, filling the empty spaces with something comforting.

- And when you finally whisper, “Thank you,” he just shakes his head. “You don’t have to thank me, doll.” And the way he says it—like it’s the easiest thing in the world to love you—makes your heart ache.

Matthew Murdock (Daredevil)

- Matt hears everything—the shift in your breath when you’re nervous, the way your heartbeat speeds up in crowds. He hears the words you don’t say, the ones caught behind your teeth, and he never pushes them out. He lets you speak at your own pace, in your own way.

- He’s a lawyer, a talker, a charmer—but with you? He is patient. Gentle. He knows the weight of words, the way they can soothe or break, and he chooses them carefully when speaking to you.

- If a social event becomes too much, he senses it before you even say a word. “Wanna get out of here?” he murmurs, already reaching for your hand, already leading you somewhere quieter, somewhere safer.

- He never lets anyone make you feel small. If someone talks over you, dismisses your words—his easy charm vanishes. His voice turns sharp, his lawyer’s precision cutting through their ignorance like a blade.

- But when it’s just the two of you—when the city quiets, when the weight of the world is gone—he presses his forehead to yours and whispers, “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself with me.” And for the first time, you believe it.

Frank Castle (The Punisher)

- Frank is not a man of many words, but he doesn’t need them. He sees you—the way your hands curl into fists when you’re anxious, the way you shrink back when too many eyes are on you. And without a word, he adjusts. He puts himself between you and the world, silent and steady, your shield against everything too loud, too much.

- He never tells you to “just relax” or “get over it.” He knows what it’s like to have demons clawing at your throat, to feel like your own mind is working against you. So instead, he stays close. A hand at your back. A steadying presence beside you. A quiet, unspoken promise—I’ve got you.

- If someone mocks your quietness, Frank’s entire demeanor changes. His voice drops, his posture shifts. “You got a problem?” And suddenly, the room is very, very quiet.

- But when it’s just you and him—when the world is far away and you don’t have to be anything but yourself—he’s softer. He pulls you into his arms, presses a kiss to your hair. “You’re safe,” he murmurs. “You don’t gotta be anything but you.”

- And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, you finally believe him.

Marc Spector (Moon Knight)

- Marc is a man of chaos, of violence, of war. But with you, he learns the art of stillness. He sees the way you hesitate before speaking, the way your hands tremble when too many eyes are on you, and he knows that kind of fear. He’s lived with it—not the fear of people, but the fear of never truly belonging.

- When crowds press in too close, when anxiety wraps around you like barbed wire, he moves instinctively—positioning himself at your side, shielding you from the world. He doesn��t speak, doesn’t pry—he simply becomes a wall between you and whatever is making your breath hitch.

- He’s rough around the edges, all sharp angles and battle scars, but when it comes to you? His hands are gentle, his voice low and steady. If you can’t meet his gaze, he tilts his head just slightly, lowering himself to where you are—never forcing, always waiting.

- If someone dares to mock your quietness, Marc is not a man of restraint. He looms over them, voice eerily calm but laced with danger. “Say that again.” He doesn’t need to throw a punch—his presence alone is enough to send them running.

- But when you’re alone, when the night is still and the world is quiet, he holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered. “I get it,” he murmurs into your hair. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.” And you know, without a doubt, that he means it.

Johnny Storm (Human Torch)

- Johnny is fire, and you are the quiet ember he never knew he needed. He is loud, bold, reckless—the center of every room he walks into. And yet, when he’s with you, he finds himself softening, lowering his volume, learning to exist in the quiet without burning it away.

- He doesn’t always understand your anxiety, but he tries. He notices the way your fingers twitch before speaking, the way you flinch at unexpected attention, and he makes it his personal mission to be your buffer.

- If you ever feel overwhelmed at an event, he pulls you aside with the easiest excuse in the world—“Sorry, gotta steal my girl for a sec.” And just like that, you’re swept away, safe in the warmth of his presence, away from prying eyes.

- When someone comments on how “shy” you are, he grins wide, throws an arm around your shoulders, and says, “Yeah? Well, she’s also the smartest, kindest, most beautiful person in the room, so I’d shut up if I were you.” And somehow, you know he means every single word.

- At the end of the day, when the world feels too big and your voice feels too small, Johnny pulls you into his arms, presses his forehead to yours, and whispers, “You don’t have to be loud to be heard. I hear you.” And for the first time, you believe it.

Reed Richards (Mister Fantastic)

- Reed’s mind moves faster than most, always ten steps ahead, lost in equations and theories. But with you? He slows down. He listens, truly listens, because he knows how hard it is for you to speak sometimes—and if there’s one thing he values, it’s the power of a voice that chooses its words carefully.

- He’s observant, even if he doesn’t always show it. He notices the subtle shifts in your posture, the way your breathing changes when anxiety creeps in. And without a word, he adjusts—offering his hand, shifting attention away from you, giving you space when you need it.

- When someone talks over you, dismisses your words, Reed is not an aggressive man—but he is precise. He calmly redirects the conversation, effortlessly reinforcing your point until the offender realizes their mistake. It’s a quiet kind of defense, but it leaves no room for doubt: your words matter.

- He never forces you into situations that make you uncomfortable, but he encourages you in the gentlest ways. When you whisper your thoughts to him, he repeats them out loud, ensuring your ideas are heard. He never takes credit for your brilliance—he amplifies it.

- And when you’re alone, when the weight of the world is too much, he pulls you close, resting his chin atop your head. “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself,” he murmurs. “You are enough, exactly as you are.”

Felicia Hardy (Black Cat)

- Felicia is a storm wrapped in silk—a whirlwind of charm, confidence, and mischief. And yet, with you, she is something softer, something gentler, something she never thought she could be.

- She adores the way you shy away from attention, how you linger in the background—not because she wants you to hide, but because she loves the way your beauty is something only those who look closely can see.

- When you get anxious in public, she drapes herself over you like a shield, whispering teasing remarks into your ear until you laugh and forget why you were nervous in the first place. She makes the world feel smaller, safer—like it’s just the two of you, even in a crowded room.

- If someone insults your quietness, her entire demeanor shifts. The playful smirk sharpens, her eyes go cold, and she takes a single step forward. “Wanna say that again, sweetheart?” No one ever does.

- But when it’s just the two of you, when the night is quiet and you’re curled up in her arms, she presses a kiss to your forehead and murmurs, “You don’t need to change for anyone, least of all me. I love you exactly as you are.”

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange)

- Stephen is a man who has faced horrors beyond comprehension, who has seen the vastness of the cosmos and returned unchanged. And yet, you—soft-spoken, hesitant, shy—unravel him in ways he never anticipated.

- He is a man of logic, of knowledge, and yet he finds himself studying you as though you are the most intricate spell he has ever encountered. He learns your tells, your fears, the quiet ways you ask for help.

- When your anxiety becomes too much, he doesn’t try to “fix” it—he simply exists beside you, grounding you with his presence. If words fail you, he conjures illusions of calming landscapes, filling the space with something serene, something safe.

- If someone belittles you, his voice turns cold, clipped. “Do you always judge people based on volume, or is it just when you lack the intellect to comprehend quiet strength?” His words cut deeper than any blade, and the offender is left stammering, humiliated.

- But when you’re alone, when the world has faded away and it’s just the two of you, he takes your hands in his, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and whispers, “You don’t need grand gestures to be extraordinary. You already are.” And for the first time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

Namor (The Sub-Mariner)

- Namor is a king, a warrior, a force of nature that bends to no one. He is fire and water, fury and grace, and yet when he looks at you—quiet, hesitant, soft in ways he has never been—his arrogance falters. He has ruled the depths for centuries, but he would kneel for you.

- He does not understand your reluctance to speak, the way your hands shake in crowded halls, but he does not mock you for it. Instead, he watches, learns, and makes sure his court knows that your words carry the weight of a queen’s decree.

- When you feel small, when your voice wavers, Namor’s is strong enough for the both of you. If anyone dares to belittle your quietness, his voice booms across the room, regal and unyielding. “You would do well to remember that power is not measured in volume, but in presence.”

- He encourages you to stand tall, not because he wishes to change you, but because he knows the depths of your strength, even when you don’t. He will remind you as many times as necessary—until you believe it, until the ocean itself whispers your name with reverence.

- And in the moments when the world is too much, when the pressure of existence weighs heavy on your chest, he takes you to the water. He carries you effortlessly through the waves, where silence is sacred and your anxiety cannot reach. Here, with him, you are weightless.

Johnny Blaze (Ghost Rider)

- Johnny Blaze has stared into the abyss and walked away burning. He has made deals with devils, has felt Hell’s fire in his veins, but nothing terrifies him more than the thought of you feeling like you are alone.

- He knows what it’s like to be trapped in your own mind, to battle demons no one else can see. So when he sees your hands tremble, your voice falter, he doesn’t push—he just stays. A quiet, unwavering presence, reminding you that you don’t have to fight alone.

- When your anxiety is a storm raging inside you, he lets you borrow his fire. Not in words, not in force, but in touch—a steady hand at the small of your back, a whispered joke to pull you from the darkness. He doesn’t try to fix you. He just makes sure you know you’re not broken.

- If someone mocks your quietness, Johnny doesn’t bother with threats. He just looks at them, eyes burning gold, voice like gravel and embers. “Wanna run that by me again?” One glance at the fire flickering beneath his skin, and they never do.

- But when the night is still, when his demons are quiet and yours are loud, he holds you close, presses a kiss to your temple, and murmurs, “You don’t need to be louder to matter, sweetheart. You’re already everything.”

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie has never been good with words, and Venom has never needed them. But when it comes to you—shy, hesitant, unsure of your place in the world—they both learn a new kind of patience.

- Venom is fascinated by you. “WHY IS SHE SO QUIET?” the symbiote demands. “SHE IS STRONG. THEY SHOULD FEAR HER.” And Eddie just sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, buddy, but not everyone wants to be feared.”

- When your anxiety flares, Eddie keeps you close, shielding you from the world with the ease of a man who has spent a lifetime on the outskirts. And if that isn’t enough? Venom coils around you, a silent, watchful protector, daring anyone to make you uncomfortable.

- If someone ever makes fun of your quiet nature, Eddie lets out a slow, measured breath—then smirks. “You really wanna keep talking?” And before they can respond, Venom grins wide, teeth gleaming. “WE COULD EAT THEM,” the symbiote suggests, only half-joking. (Probably.)

- But in the quiet moments, when it’s just the three of you, Eddie rests his forehead against yours and sighs. “You don’t have to change for anyone, least of all me.” And Venom, surprisingly gentle, echoes, “WE LIKE YOU AS YOU ARE.”

T’Challa (Black Panther)

- T’Challa has ruled nations, fought wars, stood against gods. But when you look up at him, eyes hesitant, voice barely above a whisper, he feels like a man first and a king second.

- He is deliberate with his affection, precise in his understanding. He does not rush you. He does not try to fix what is not broken. Instead, he offers his hand—steady, unwavering, waiting for you to take it when you’re ready.

- When your anxiety makes you withdraw, he does not let the world swallow you. Instead, he ensures that you are given the space to exist on your terms. You are not just "his" in the public eye—you are your own, and he will defend your right to be exactly as you are.

- Should anyone dare mock your shyness, his response is quiet but lethal. “Do not mistake her silence for weakness,” he says, voice like the edge of a blade. “There is power in stillness. And wisdom in restraint.” And just like that, the room remembers why he is king.

- But when the throne room is empty, when the world is quiet, he cups your face with hands that have known both war and tenderness. “You do not need to raise your voice to be heard, my love,” he whispers. “I will always listen.”

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra moves like a shadow, speaks like a blade. She has spent a lifetime in the dark, but with you, she learns that love does not need to be loud to be real.

- She understands your silence in a way few others can. She does not push, does not pry—she simply exists beside you, unwavering, patient. If you need space, she gives it. If you need grounding, her hand finds yours, steady and sure.

- When your anxiety takes hold, she does not fill the silence with empty words. Instead, she teaches you how to fight—not because she expects you to, but because she wants you to know that you are strong. Even in stillness. Even in silence.

- If someone ever dares to mock your quietness, Elektra doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. One sharp glance, one tilt of her head, and suddenly, the offender remembers they have somewhere else to be.

- And when the night is quiet, when it’s just the two of you tangled in silk and moonlight, she runs a slow hand down your spine and whispers, “The world does not deserve you.” And you believe her—because in her eyes, you are more dangerous, more beautiful, more powerful than anyone could ever understand.

947 notes · View notes

mmochammoss · 2 months ago

Text

Fan behavior

Izuku Midoriya had burner accounts. Plural.

Some were obvious, like the ones he used to scroll through hero discourse on Twitter or reply to fans anonymously. But some were…

more specific.

A private Instagram that followed pro-hero fanpages, analysis pages, and even a few shipping accounts. A Reddit username dedicated to lurking in threads like r/heroranks and r/candidproheroes. A TikTok profile with zero posts but a very suspiciously curated ‘likes’ tab.

He had always been like this. Always online. Always watching. Not in a creepy way, just in a lifelong fanboy kind of way. Most people assumed he didn’t have time for any of that anymore now that he was the number-four hero. But Deku made time.

Especially when it came to you.

You had taken the hero world by storm. All strength, grace, and confidence, with a quirk that could split pavement and a smile that could break the internet.

He remembered watching your first solo billboard debut while eating convenience store snacks on the rooftop of a building at two in the morning, freezing mid-bite because you looked that good.

You were always beautiful. Always capable. Always you. And he was always… just a little bit obsessed.

Not in a weird way, of course.

You were old classmates. Friends. You had trained together, cried together, fought alongside one another back in the U.A. days. You’d even defended him online after his first public interview when his voice cracked halfway through a sentence.

You’d always been sweet to him. Gentle. Supportive.

He used to chalk up his crush on you to proximity. Just another harmless high school thing. Everyone had one, right?

But his thoughts of you didn’t fade the way most high school crushes were supposed to.

They only grew.

And now, years later, every time your face popped up on the side of a building or in his timeline, he remembered just how thoroughly and hopelessly he had not grown out of it.

Especially when he saw the fan content. And there was always so, so, so much of it.

It made total sense to him though. You were internet gold.

There were memes. There were fancams. There were reaction edits, deep-dives, lore threads, shipping compilations, whole Discord servers dedicated to analyzing your every move and wondering which pro hero you might be dating (if any).

Izuku tried not to pay too much attention.

Until one night, curled up in bed after patrol, scrolling on one of his private burner accounts, when he saw it. A fan edit titled simply:

“She looks at him like that’s her favorite person alive.”

It was under some viral TikTok audio, something soft and emotional.

The clips were nothing special on their own. Moments pulled from interviews, red carpet footage, post-battle recaps.

But they were all of you and him.

You glancing at him across a press panel. Smiling at something he’d said in an old agency interview. A photo someone had taken where you had your hand on his shoulder after a tough mission, face full of quiet pride.

And his favorite:

A short clip where you’d been asked about what hero inspired you most these days.

You had smiled, eyes soft, and answered,

“Ouuuuu? Who inspires me the most?… Probably Deku! I look at all he’s done and all he’s gone through and it reminds me that I can always push harder, do more, be better, y’know?”

He watched it three times.

Then a fourth.

Smiling through every rewatch, until…

“Shit.”

He threw his phone onto the bed, face hot, heart racing. He stared up at the ceiling and groaned.

Because he knew. He finally, finally knew. This wasn’t just some crush anymore.

He’d liked you once, of course.

Back in school, it was simple. You were warm, kind, devastatingly beautiful, and you always treated him like he mattered, even when he barely believed it himself.

But this? This was different. It wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t innocent. It was full-body want.

The kind that lived in his soul, tight and aching, every time your name lit up his feed. And God, he felt so guilty for it sometimes.

Because you were more than beautiful.

You were brilliant. Respected. One of the top heroes in the country. And a good person. And he admired you for that. He did.

But sometimes…

Sometimes he just wanted to imagine you whispering his name.

Not “Deku.” Not “Midoriya.” Izuku.

He wanted to hate himself for how his mind wandered. For how badly he wanted to touch you. To kiss you. To pull you into his lap and feel your fingers drag through his hair as he got drunk on your lips.

He wanted your body wrapped around him after long missions. Your thighs warm against his sides. Your mouth against his skin. Your voice soft with pleasure, telling him just how much you’d missed him.

And worse than all of that? He wanted you to want him back. Not as a coworker. Not as a friend. But as something real.

He rolled over onto his stomach, face burning as he buried it in the pillow and groaned. He shouldn’t think like this. He knew better. But it was too late.

Because it wasn’t just about how badly he wanted to kiss you anymore. It was about how deeply, desperately, helplessly he was in love with you. Not some idealized version of you. Not the you from glossy spreads or high-res fan edits.

You.

The way your nose scrunched when you laughed. The way you chewed on pen caps when thinking. The way you’d always text him congratulations after a good mission, even when he hadn’t spoken to you in weeks.

You were real.

And he wanted you in every way a person could be wanted. He felt ashamed of it. Guilty. Like he was crossing some unspoken line just for thinking it. But how could he not?

How could he not dream of kissing you until your knees gave out? Of holding you so close he’d feel your heartbeat match his? Of letting you ride the high of your shared victories straight into his arms, or his bed, into something so perfect it made his brain short-circuit?

He wanted you. He was so far gone.

Maybe, someday, if he could stop hiding behind burner accounts and start being brave again he’d tell you.

And if you let him, he’d love you for real. Not from a distance. Not through a screen. Not like a fan.

Like a man who wanted to be completely and totally yours.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #bnha imagines #mha imagines #izuku midoriya fanfic #izuku midoriya fluff #izuku midoriya x reader #izuku x reader

415 notes · View notes

enhaflixer · 4 months ago

Text

pjs - Signed, Sealed & Undone. - Part 2

A TIME TRAVEL CONTRACT MARRIAGE FIC PART ONE HERE

Synopsis: Fake marriage proposals are a tired billionaire trope.

But when Jay Park—former golden boy of Park Industries, now chaebol exile—comes back from disgrace (and back in time), he’s got one goal: rewrite the past before it destroys him.

When you, an unassuming journalist with nothing to lose, get an offer of a lifetime, you’re sure it’s a mistake.

A contract, a relocation to Seoul, and one fake wedding later, you’re still trying to convince yourself none of this is real. The only problem? Neither of you seem to remember where the performance ends and something devastatingly real begins.

WC: 11K CW (18+ MDNI) : fake marriage, slow-burn romance, power dynamics, corporate intrigue, arranged marriage trope, emotional angst, unresolved sexual tension, longing glances across boardrooms, contract loopholes, financial manipulation, morally gray billionaire!Jay, forced proximity, family expectations, betrayal, public displays of affection (for the cameras, obviously), enemies-to-allies-to-lovers, suppressed feelings, business politics, one bed trope (but make it corporate), dramatic confessions, late-night whiskey-fueled arguments, high society drama, backhanded compliments as flirting, dramatic departures followed by even more dramatic returns, lingering touches that mean too much, feelings clause not included in the contract, deep intimacy, power dynamics in a romantic context, possessive tendencies (but soft), light dominance/submission themes, clothing being undone at a painfully slow pace, tension so thick it could shatter glass, breathless dialogue, interrupted kisses that lead to frustration, and the inevitable realization that this was never fake at all.

Your first meeting with the Parks was not what you expected.

Chairwoman Soo-min Park, Jay's mother, welcomed you in her minimalist office overlooking Seoul's skyline. Everything about the space proclaimed power—floor-to-ceiling windows, a desk carved from a single slab of marble, carefully curated art pieces that probably cost more than your entire education.

The woman herself matched her surroundings—elegant, precise, every silver-streaked hair perfectly in place. Her handshake was firm, her assessment clinical as she gestured for you to sit.

"So," she began without preamble, "you are the woman who captured my son's attention where so many have failed."

You felt Jay tense beside you. This was your first test.

"I believe we captured each other's attention, Mrs. Park," you replied evenly. "Sometimes connection happens where you least expect it."

Something flickered in her eyes—not warmth exactly, but perhaps respect.

Her questions were direct bordering on invasive. Your education. Your family background. Your career trajectory. With each answer, you maintained the same calm directness, refusing to be intimidated despite the butterflies in your stomach.

When she asked about your professional goals, you surprised yourself with your honesty.

"Journalism lets me uncover truths others miss," you said. "I value authenticity, even when it's uncomfortable."

"Authenticity," she repeated, glancing at her son. "A rare quality in our circles."

"That's what drew me to Y/N," Jay interjected, his hand finding yours. "Her perspective is... refreshing."

Chairwoman Park studied your joined hands for a moment. "You understand, of course, that marrying into the Park family comes with considerable scrutiny. Your life will not be your own."

"With respect, Chairwoman," you countered, "my life will always be my own. I'm choosing to share it with your son and, by extension, your family. But I won't disappear inside the Park name."

A loaded silence followed. Jay's grip tightened on yours—whether in warning or support, you couldn't tell.

Then, unexpectedly, Chairwoman Park smiled. Not broadly, but genuinely.

"Good," she said simply. "Jongseong needs someone who won't vanish into his shadow. Come, I'll show you to your quarters myself."

As she led you through the compound, Jay fell into step beside you, an almost imperceptible furrow between his brows.

"My mother never personally shows guests to their rooms," he whispered. "That's what staff is for."

"Should I be concerned?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "But I think she might actually like you."

The thought was both comforting and terrifying.

Your suite was breathtaking—traditional Korean elements blended with modern luxury. Adjacent to Jay's quarters but with your own entrance, exactly as promised in your contract.

"These were my grandmother's rooms," Jay explained after his mother left. "No one has used them since she passed. Not even guests."

"Is that significant?"

"Extremely. My grandmother was the family matriarch. The only person my mother genuinely respected." He ran his hand along an intricately carved wooden screen. "This is... unexpected."

That word—"unexpected"—became the theme of your first week in Seoul.

At family dinners, Jay's father questioned you extensively about American business practices, not dismissively but with genuine interest in your perspective. His uncle, who reportedly spoke only Korean in business settings on principle, made efforts to converse with you in English while praising your attempts at Korean phrases.

Most surprisingly, Jay's cousin Danny—initially the most skeptical about your sudden appearance—appointed himself your unofficial cultural guide.

"The press will tear you apart if you make certain mistakes," he explained, showing you how to properly pour drinks for elders and which honorifics to use with which family members. "Better you learn from family than from a public relations disaster."

Family. The word kept surfacing in unexpected contexts.

"Y/N is family now," Jay's father announced when authorizing your access to the private family wing of Park Industries headquarters. "She'll need to understand our operations."

"Family chooses wine together," his aunt insisted, inviting you to help select vintages for the wedding reception.

"Family protects its own," his mother stated when she discovered paparazzi had obtained your old address in New York. She immediately dispatched security to ensure your apartment was secure and your subletting friend undisturbed.

It was Danny who finally explained what was happening.

"They're closing ranks around you," he said during an impromptu shopping trip for traditional Korean accessories. "Not because they necessarily believe this whirlwind romance—"

"But they're acting like they do," you interjected, confused.

"Because Jay chose you," Danny said simply. "That's enough. If you're his, you're ours. The Pack protects its members."

"The Pack?"

"Family nickname. Not very subtle, I know." He grinned. "But accurate. We Parks might fight among ourselves, but against outsiders, we're unified."

You found yourself surprised by the Parks' fierce protectiveness. From Danny's explanations about family loyalty, it seemed at odds with the cutthroat business world they dominated.

Later, during a rare moment alone with Jay in the garden, you broached the subject.

"Your family is so... unified," you observed. "Different from what I expected."

Jay's expression turned pensive. "The Parks protect their own. That's always been the rule."

"And yet you seemed shocked by how they've embraced me."

He was quiet for a moment, staring at the stone path. "I've seen another side of them. In business, loyalty can shift suddenly when interests change. I've witnessed how quickly protection can turn to abandonment."

Something in his voice suggested personal experience—a wound not fully healed.

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," you ventured carefully.

His jaw tightened. "Just cautious. The business world has taught me that today's allies can become tomorrow's executioners without warning."

He fell silent, tension radiating from his shoulders. Without thinking, you reached for his hand.

"Well, you have me now," you said softly. "And I don't abandon contracts halfway through."

His smile was hesitant but real. "That may be the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me, Y/N."

"I try, baby," you replied, the endearment slipping out more naturally now.

The moment lingered between you—not quite romantic, but something deeper than your initial arrangement had suggested. You couldn't help wondering what experience had made him so wary of sudden betrayal, even from his own family.

Later, alone in your suite, Jay paced like a caged tiger.

"Something's not right," he muttered. "I've never seen my mother compromise like this."

"Maybe she genuinely approves of me?" you suggested, curled in a window seat overlooking the compound's gardens. "Unlike whoever she was planning to match you with before."

"Perhaps." He didn't sound convinced. "But my mother never yields on guest lists. Never. It's unprecedented."

"Is that concerning?"

He stopped pacing, his expression thoughtful. "Unexpected, certainly. But advantageous. They're accepting you more readily than I anticipated."

"Your romantic soul overwhelms me," you teased gently.

His expression softened as he looked at you. "Sorry. Corporate strategy is my default setting."

"I've noticed, baby. It's almost endearing now."

The pet name made him smile every time—a small, private reaction that felt like a victory.

Three weeks before the wedding, as preparations reached fever pitch, Jay found you in your suite's private garden—your sanctuary when the pressure of performing became too intense.

"We need to discuss the honeymoon," he said without preamble, settling beside you on the stone bench.

You'd been wondering when this would come up. The wedding night and subsequent honeymoon had loomed in your thoughts—unspoken questions about proximity and expectations.

"Bali," he continued, consulting his tablet. "Private villa, secluded beach, minimal staff. I've arranged separate bedrooms, of course."

"Of course," you echoed, trying to identify the strange emotion that fluttered in your chest. Disappointment? Surely not.

"Two weeks is standard for executives of my position," he added, scrolling through details. "The villa has separate office spaces so we can both work when needed. Full security team, but stationed distantly for privacy."

"It sounds... well-planned."

Jay looked up, studying your expression. "But?"

You hesitated. "Nothing. It's appropriate for our arrangement."

He set down the tablet, turning to face you more directly. "Y/N, by now you should know you can speak freely with me."

"It's just... very businesslike," you admitted. "Which is fine. That's what this is."

Something shifted in his expression. "It is business," he agreed. "But after these weeks together, perhaps also... more than just business."

The admission hung between you, neither fully acknowledged nor dismissed.

"People will expect certain behaviors," he continued after a moment. "Public affection. Shared meals. The appearance of... intimacy."

Your mouth went dry. "You mean..."

"Nothing beyond your comfort," he clarified quickly. "But enough to convince the staff, who will inevitably report back to my family and, by extension, the press."

"Right. Our ongoing performance." You nodded, trying to sound matter-of-fact. "I can handle looking... in love."

Was it your imagination, or did his eyes linger on your lips before he glanced away?

"There's also the wedding night," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "The presidential suite at the Grand Hyatt has been secured. Very private, but hotel staff notice everything. Champagne that goes untouched. Beds that aren't slept in."

A blush crept up your neck despite your best efforts. "What exactly are you suggesting?"

"Nothing inappropriate," he assured you, though his own complexion seemed warmer than usual. "Just... awareness that appearance matters. The illusion of consummation without the actual act."

"Rumpled sheets and champagne glasses," you summarized, aiming for a clinical tone. "The suggestion of intimacy without crossing boundaries."

His gaze met yours, something unreadable in his expression. "Unless specified otherwise in a future amendment to our arrangement."

Your breath caught. "An amendment?"

"The contract allows for mutual revisions when both parties agree," he said carefully. "I'm simply acknowledging that... feelings can evolve. Expectations may shift over time."

The implication was clear—if physical boundaries changed between you, the option existed to formalize that evolution.

Your heart raced traitorously. "I'll consider the amendment possibility," you replied, matching his professional tone while heat bloomed low in your abdomen.

"Good," he said softly. "That's... good."

A weighted silence fell between you, charged with possibility.

"I should check on the security arrangements," he said finally, rising from the bench. At the garden entrance, he paused. "Y/N?"

"Yes?"

"Whatever happens or doesn't happen, you have my respect. Always."

After he left, you sat in the garden until twilight, wondering how a false engagement had led to what might be the most honest relationship you'd ever experienced.

The photoshoot among cherry blossoms marked a turning point. What began as another staged display of affection shifted when the photographer positioned you against a tree, Jay's body pressed against yours from behind.

"Kiss her neck," the photographer instructed. "Like you can't resist her."

Jay hesitated, then lowered his mouth to the sensitive spot below your ear. The touch of his lips sent electricity down your spine. You couldn't suppress the small gasp that escaped you—one that had nothing to do with performance.

His arms tightened around your waist in response, and you felt him inhale sharply against your skin.

"Now turn and kiss properly," the photographer demanded. "Passionate but elegant."

You turned in Jay's arms, expecting the usual carefully controlled press of lips—three seconds, no movement, just enough for the camera.

Instead, when your mouths met, his lips parted immediately. Without thinking, you responded in kind, your hand sliding into his hair as the kiss deepened. His groan, too quiet for anyone else to hear, was undeniably real. Seven seconds stretched to ten before you separated, both breathing harder than the situation warranted.

"Perfect!" The photographer exclaimed. "The chemistry is explosive!"

In the car afterward, heavy silence hung between you.

"That was..." you began.

"Convincing," Jay finished, his knuckles white on his knee. "Very convincing."

But that night, sleep proved elusive as you replayed the feeling of his mouth against yours, his hands tightening on your waist, the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressed against you during that brief moment.

The final wedding rehearsal was scheduled for exactly one week before the ceremony—a full dress run-through to coordinate the complex choreography of family processions, ceremonial exchanges, and media moments.

You stood in the bride's preparation room, attendants adjusting the simplified version of your wedding hanbok, when commotion erupted in the hallway outside. Sharp voices in Korean—too fast for your intermediate skills to follow, but the tension was unmistakable.

Danny appeared at the door, his expression tense. "Small situation. Nothing to worry about."

"What kind of situation?" you asked, recognizing the forced casualness in his tone.

He hesitated. "Unexpected guest. Jay's handling it."

Before you could press further, the door opened again. Jay entered, his face a carefully composed mask that didn't quite hide the tension around his eyes.

"Everything okay?" you asked.

"Perfect," he replied with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just a minor protocol issue."

He was lying. After weeks together, you'd learned to read the subtle tells in his expression—the slight tightening around his mouth, the barely perceptible furrow between his brows.

"Babe, come on.."

He met your gaze, then sighed. "We should speak privately."

Once the attendants had been dismissed, he took your hands in his.

"Seraphina Visconti has arrived in Seoul," he said without preamble. "Apparently for a 'routine business meeting' with Korean shipping companies."

Your stomach tightened at his expression. Though he'd never mentioned this woman before, his reaction told you everything you needed to know. This was someone significant. Someone threatening.

"Who is she?" you asked directly.

Jay hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "The daughter of an Italian shipping magnate. Her family has been trying to establish business connections with Park Industries for some time."

There was more to the story. Much more, judging by the tension radiating from him.

"And?" you prompted.

"And at one point, she was someone my mother considered a suitable match for me." His jaw tightened. "Her arrival, one week before our wedding, can't be coincidence."

Understanding dawned. "She was a candidate. Before me."

"Yes." Something dark flickered in his eyes. "The Visconti connection would have been... strategically valuable."

"But you chose me instead," you said slowly. "And now she's here to what? Object at the ceremony?"

"The Viscontis don't give up valuable connections easily," he replied grimly. "If they can't secure a Park alliance through marriage..."

"They'll seek another inroad," you finished. "Business partnerships, friendships, however they can get close to your family."

He nodded. "She's requested a meeting with my mother tomorrow. To 'extend congratulations' on my engagement."

The subtext was clear. This woman represented exactly the kind of strategic alliance Jay had been so determined to avoid when he proposed to you. Her presence was a direct challenge to your arrangement.

"What do we do?" you asked.

Jay's expression hardened with determination. "We proceed exactly as planned. But we must be extra vigilant. Seraphina is... persuasive. She can make fiction sound like fact and manipulation feel like coincidence."

You squeezed his hands, an unexpected protectiveness surging through you. "I'm not going anywhere, Jay. Remember, I keep my contracts."

Something flickered in his eyes—gratitude, perhaps, or something deeper.

"There's something else you should know," he said quietly. "Seraphina and I... we had some history. Brief, but potentially something she might leverage."

"I understand," you assured him, an unexpected pang of something like jealousy surfacing. "You don't need to explain."

"No, I do." His grip tightened. "Because there was never anything real between us. It was strategic on both sides. But with you..." He paused, seeming to search for words. "With you, the strategy has become... complicated."

Your pulse quickened. "Complicated how?"

Before he could answer, a knock interrupted the moment. Danny again, looking apologetic.

"Sorry to disturb, but she's here. At the rehearsal. Somehow she convinced the event coordinator she was on the guest list."

Jay's expression darkened. "Of course she did."

He turned back to you, his gaze intense. "Stay close to me. Don't let her isolate you or my family members. She's skilled at creating divisions."

You nodded, a strange mix of anxiety and determination rising within you. "I'm ready."

"Y/N," he said softly, bringing your hand to his lips in a gesture that felt more genuine than performative. "Thank you for being here. For being real."

As you stepped into the hallway together, his arm protectively around your waist, you couldn't help wondering what Jay wasn't telling you about this woman—and why her arrival had shaken him so deeply.

Something bigger was happening beneath the surface of your arrangement. Something Jay was keeping from you.

And for the first time since accepting his proposal, you wondered if there were secrets within your contract that might eventually tear it apart.

The rehearsals for the wedding ceremony required hours of practice—precise movements, timed responses, careful choreography. Two weeks before the wedding, after yet another exhausting day of preparations, you found yourself alone with Jay in the family's private study, reviewing final details.

"If I have to make one more decision about fucking flower arrangements, I might lose my mind," you groaned, kicking off your heels and curling into the corner of the leather sofa.

Jay laughed—a real laugh, not his public chuckle. "The Parks have been arranging strategic marriages for generations, but I doubt any of my ancestors had to choose between thirteen different shades of white roses."

"Is that what we're doing? A strategic marriage?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.

His smile faded. "That was the agreement."

"I know what the agreement was," you said, studying him. "I'm asking what we're doing now."

The question hung between you, dangerous in its directness.

Jay moved to the bar cart, pouring two glasses of whiskey. He handed one to you, then sat beside you on the sofa—closer than necessary. You found your eyes drawn to the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders as he leaned back, the top button undone revealing just a hint of collarbone. When had you started noticing these details?

"I don't know anymore," he admitted, the rare honesty catching you off guard. "This has become...complicated."

You took a sip, welcoming the burn. "Because of the kiss?"

"Which one?" The question surprised you both. He continued quickly, "The photographer. The press appearance last week. The practice for the ceremony. We've kissed numerous times."

"You know which one I mean."

His eyes met yours over the rim of his glass. "Yes. I do."

Another silence, this one charged with possibility.

"We could try again," you suggested, your heart hammering. "Without the photographer. Without the audience. Just to... clarify things."

Jay set his glass down carefully. "That would be crossing a line."

"We drew those lines. We can redraw them."

He studied you, his expression guarded. "Why would you want to?"

"Because I'm tired of pretending I don't feel anything when you touch me," you answered honestly. "Because I'm curious if whatever happened during that kiss was real or just... heightened performance."

"It was real," he said quietly. "At least for me."

The admission hung in the air between you, neither advancing nor retreating from it.

"So?" you prompted.

He exhaled slowly. "So this is dangerous territory. Emotions complicate strategy."

"Fuck the strategy," you said, setting your own glass down. "Just for a minute. Just be Jay, not Park Jongseong with his perfect plans."

Something shifted in his eyes—the careful calculation giving way to something darker, more urgent. His hand moved to your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone in a touch too intimate for strategy.

"If I kiss you now," he said, voice low, "it won't be like the others."

"Good." You held his gaze steadily. "I don't want it to be."

He closed the distance between you slowly, deliberately—giving you time to retreat. You didn't.

His lips met yours, and immediately you understood the difference. This wasn't performance. This was hunger—controlled, but barely. His hand slid into your hair, cradling your head as the kiss deepened. You moved closer, your hand finding his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath expensive fabric.

When his tongue traced the seam of your lips, you opened to him willingly, a small sound escaping your throat. He groaned in response, the arm around your waist tightening, pulling you half onto his lap.

The kiss turned desperate, months of controlled touches and careful boundaries dissolving under the heat of genuine desire. His hand moved to your thigh, sliding upward beneath the hem of your dress, fingers tracing patterns on sensitive skin.

"We should stop," he murmured against your mouth, even as his hand continued its upward path.

"Probably," you agreed, making no move to pull away. Instead, you shifted fully onto his lap, straddling him. The position brought you into direct contact with unmistakable evidence of his arousal.

"Fuck," he hissed, his composure fracturing further. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you into a slow, deliberate movement against him.

The friction was exquisite even through layers of clothing. You tangled your fingers in his perfect hair, destroying hours of careful styling as you deepened the kiss.

His mouth moved to your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below your ear. "Tell me to stop," he said against your skin, his breath hot. "Tell me this isn't what you want."

In answer, you rolled your hips more firmly against his, drawing a groan from deep in his chest.

"I want this," you breathed. "I want you."

His control snapped. In one fluid movement, he had you on your back on the sofa, his weight deliciously heavy as he settled between your thighs. His mouth reclaimed yours with new urgency, one hand sliding higher under your dress, fingers tracing the edge of your underwear.

A sudden noise in the hallway outside—a staff member passing by—broke the spell. Jay froze, then slowly pulled away, his breathing ragged.

You both stared at each other, the reality of what had almost happened settling between you.

"That was..." he began, pushing himself up to a sitting position.

"Definitely not in the contract," you finished, adjusting your disheveled clothing.

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "No. It wasn't."

"Do you regret it?" You had to know.

He considered for a moment, straightening his tie with hands not quite steady. "I regret the interruption," he said finally. "Not the action."

Something warm unfurled in your chest. "So what now?"

"Now we should probably get some sleep." He stood, offering his hand to help you up. "Separately," he clarified, though the reluctance in his voice was evident.

You nodded, accepting his help. As you stood, he didn't immediately release your hand.

"This changes things," he said quietly.

"Yes." There was no denying it.

"We should discuss it. Tomorrow, when we're both thinking more clearly."

But tomorrow brought a crisis with the venue. The day after, an issue with security arrangements. Each evening ended with meaningful glances and careful distance—both of you acutely aware of the shift but unable to find the right moment to address it.

The unresolved tension built with each passing day, each careful touch that lingered too long, each glance that held too much promise.

The wedding was a masterpiece of carefully orchestrated moments—traditional Korean ceremony in the morning, Western exchange of vows at sunset, both executed with flawless precision despite Seraphina's strategic presence in the third row.

Throughout both ceremonies, Jay maintained perfect composure, his hand steady as he placed the ring on your finger, his voice unwavering as he recited vows that sounded surprisingly heartfelt for a contractual arrangement.

"I choose you," he said, his eyes holding yours with unexpected intensity. "Above all others, against all expectations, I choose you."

Only you noticed the way his gaze flickered briefly toward Seraphina when he spoke the words.

At the reception, she approached with practiced grace, champagne flute in hand and calculated warmth in her smile.

"Such a...surprising match," she said, air-kissing your cheek. "Jay never mentioned you during our time together in Europe."

"Some connections don't need public announcement to be meaningful," you replied smoothly, feeling Jay's hand tighten at your waist.

Her smile never faltered. "How fortunate that his mother's plans changed so suddenly. We all thought—" She laughed lightly. "Well, it hardly matters now."

Before you could respond, she turned to Jay. "Your uncle mentioned the Hanjin merger is progressing. Fascinating choice, considering."

Something shifted in Jay's expression—fear, barely controlled.

"If you'll excuse us," he said abruptly, "my wife and I should greet the ambassador."

He guided you away with uncharacteristic urgency, his composure fractured.

"What was that about?" you whispered.

"Nothing. Just Seraphina being Seraphina." But his eyes kept scanning the room, tracking her movements like someone monitoring a bomb.

The presidential suite at the Grand Hyatt was everything Jay had promised—lavish, private, with discreet staff who delivered champagne then vanished.

Yet the tension from the reception followed you. Jay paced by the windows, making calls in rapid Korean, his tone increasingly agitated.

When he finally ended the last call, you confronted him directly.

"What's going on? And don't say 'nothing' again."

He stared at you for a long moment, conflict evident in his expression.

"I need to check something at the office," he said finally. "A document that shouldn't exist."

"Shouldn't exist?" You frowned. "What does that mean?"

"I'll explain when I return." He was already reaching for his jacket. "Please, Y/N. This is important."

"It's our wedding night!"

"I know." He paused at the door, genuine regret in his eyes. "Two hours, maximum. Then I'll tell you everything."

After he left, you paced the suite, frustration mounting. Whatever game he was playing with Seraphina clearly went deeper than corporate rivalry.

On impulse, you opened his laptop—the one he always kept with him, password protected and closed whenever you approached.

The password prompt glowed accusingly. You tried his birthdate. Access denied. His mother's name. Access denied.

Then, on a hunch: YN-contract-date.

The screen unlocked, revealing dozens of folders meticulously labeled and dated. One caught your eye: "Original Timeline - Evidence."

Heart pounding, you clicked it open.

News articles. Court documents. Photos of Jay looking years older, haggard, defeated.

A marriage announcement with Jay and Seraphina, dated three years earlier.

Headlines about corporate espionage, Jay's disgrace, his removal from Park Industries—all dated years in the future.

The room seemed to tilt as you opened a video file.

It showed Jay—older, with strands of gray at his temples—standing in an empty apartment, speaking directly to the camera.

"If you're watching this, it worked," the Jay in the video said. "I don't know if the consciousness transfer will be complete or if I'll remember everything, so I'm recording key details. The Hanjin merger is the trigger point. Seraphina orchestrated everything through her connection with Chairman Kang..."

He continued methodically outlining his downfall, his eventual disgrace, names and dates and evidence.

"Time travel is theoretically impossible," he concluded. "But so is the pain of having your entire life stripped away in a single day. If there's any chance of preventing it..."

The video ended abruptly.

You stared at the dark screen, heart racing. Time travel? Consciousness transfer? Future knowledge?

"I'm losing my mind," you whispered to the empty room.

You closed the laptop, then opened it again, half expecting the folders to be gone. They weren't.

Maybe this was an elaborate fiction—research for some project, a game, a psychological exercise. Because time travel couldn't be real. That would mean...

The implications made your head swim. That would mean Jay had known about meeting you at the gallery before it happened. That he'd orchestrated everything—your meeting, your relationship, your marriage—as part of some grand design to change a future that had already happened.

It would mean everything between you was calculated, predetermined, false.

"No." You shook your head. "This isn't real."

But the evidence on the screen didn't vanish. Future dates. Future events. Things that hadn't happened yet detailed with journalistic precision.

By the time Jay returned, you'd gone through half the champagne and were sitting on the floor, back against the bed, laptop open beside you.

"Y/N." He stopped in the doorway, taking in the scene. "What are you doing?"

"Having a psychotic break, apparently." You gestured vaguely at the laptop. "Either that or marrying a time traveler. I'm not sure which is more concerning."

His face drained of color. "I can explain."

"Explain what? That you're from the future?" You laughed, a brittle sound. "That's literally insane, Jay. I'm insane for even considering it."

He approached slowly, as if you were a frightened animal. "You're not insane."

"Then you're saying it's true? That you—what? Traveled back in time to avoid marrying Seraphina? To prevent some corporate disaster?" The words sounded ridiculous as you spoke them. "Do you realize how that sounds?"

"I know it sounds impossible." He knelt in front of you, keeping a careful distance. "But you've seen the evidence."

"I've seen elaborate fiction. Or I'm hallucinating. Because time travel isn't real." You ran your hands through your hair. "People don't just wake up five years in the past with a chance to redo everything."

"I didn't think it was possible either." His voice was steady, gentle. "Until it happened."

"So what am I to you?" The question escaped before you could stop it. "A convenient pawn in your time-travel chess game? A random variable you introduced to change your precious timeline?"

Pain flashed across his face. "Initially? Yes. I sought you out deliberately at the gallery. I remembered our brief conversation from my original life, and you seemed...perfect. Outside my world. Beyond manipulation."

The confirmation hurt more than you expected. "So you manufactured everything. Our relationship. Our connection. All of it."

"No." He moved closer, carefully taking your hands. "The plan, yes. The contract, yes. But what's grown between us? That wasn't planned. That wasn't strategy."

"How can I believe that?" You searched his face. "How can I believe anything now?"

"Because I'm telling you the truth when I could keep lying." His grip tightened. "Because I'm risking everything by admitting this to you."

"Or I'm having a complete mental breakdown and none of this is happening." You pulled your hands away. "Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and be back in my apartment in New York. Maybe this whole thing—you, Korea, all of it—is some elaborate delusion."

"It's not," he said firmly. "You're not crazy, Y/N."

"Prove it." You met his eyes. "Tell me something that will happen. Something specific. Something I can verify."

He hesitated. "The stock market—"

"No. Something personal. Something that matters to me."

Jay thought for a moment. "Priya and Jake will announce they're expecting a baby next month. Earlier than they planned to tell anyone, but there will be complications and they'll need support."

Your heart stuttered. "That's cruel. Using my friends—"

"Call her tomorrow if you don't believe me. She took a test two days before our wedding but didn't want to steal your moment."

"Stop it." You stood up, needing distance. "I can't—this is too much."

"I know." He remained kneeling, looking up at you. "And I'm sorry. I never intended for you to find out like this. Or at all, honestly."

"That's worse! You were just going to lie forever?"

"I was going to fulfill our contract. Two years, then release you with everything promised." He rubbed his face. "The timeline is already changed beyond recognition. My purpose was accomplished."

"Your purpose." The words tasted bitter. "Which I was instrumental in without my knowledge or consent."

"Yes." No excuses, just raw admission.

You moved to the window, staring out at Seoul's glittering skyline. Everything suddenly felt alien—the city, the marriage, the man behind you.

"I need time to process this." Your voice was steadier than you felt. "I need to... I don't know, call Priya tomorrow. Verify your claim. Try to determine if I'm actually having a psychotic break."

"Of course." He stood but didn't approach. "Whatever you need."

"I'll sleep in the second bedroom tonight."

He nodded, accepting this without argument. "For what it's worth, Y/N, whatever brought us together—time travel, fate, strategic planning—what's grown between us is real. At least for me."

You couldn't respond to that. Not yet. Not when you weren't even sure what reality was anymore.

As you gathered your things for the night, one question burned through the confusion.

"Why did you do it? Why come back?"

Jay's answer was simple and devastating in its honesty.

"Because I lost everything. And I couldn't bear to live through it again."

You closed the bedroom door between you, then pressed your forehead against it, tears finally escaping.

Either your husband was a time traveler who had manipulated your entire relationship, or you were completely losing your grip on reality.

You weren't sure which possibility terrified you more.

Sleep proved impossible. Around 3 AM, you gave up trying and reached for your phone, scrolling until you found Priya's number. It would be afternoon in New York.

Your thumb hovered over the call button. This was ridiculous. You couldn't just ask your friend if she was pregnant based on your time-traveling husband's inside information.

But you needed to know. Needed some external verification that either confirmed you were sane or confirmed you weren't.

With a deep breath, you pressed call.

"Y/N!" Priya answered on the third ring, her voice bright. "Should you be calling me on your wedding night? Shouldn't you be, you know, occupied?"

"Just checking in," you said, aiming for casual. "How are you feeling?"

A pause. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know." You pressed on. "You seemed tired at the wedding. Jake was hovering more than usual."

Another, longer pause. "Okay, that's weird. We literally told no one."

Your heart stopped. "Told no one what?"

"Y/N..." Priya's voice dropped to a whisper. "Are you psychic or something? I'm pregnant. Six weeks. We weren't going to tell anyone until the second trimester, but I've been spotting, and the doctor says..."

The room tilted as she confirmed exactly what Jay had predicted. Exactly what shouldn't be possible for him to know.

"That's wonderful news," you managed, though your voice sounded distant to your own ears. "I'm so happy for you. And whatever's happening, I'm here, okay?"

After reassurances and promises to talk soon, you ended the call and sat motionless in the dark.

It was real. All of it. Which meant Jay had truly traveled through time. Had truly sought you out as part of his plan. Had truly married you to prevent some alternate future.

You moved to the door, pulled it open, and found Jay sitting on the floor in the hallway, back against the wall.

"Couldn't sleep either?" you asked.

He looked up, dark circles under his eyes. "Not really."

"I called Priya."

Understanding flashed across his face. "And?"

"She's pregnant. She's spotting. Everything exactly as you said." You slid down the wall to sit beside him. "How is this possible?"

"I don't know." His honesty was strangely comforting. "I went to sleep in my apartment five years in the future and woke up here, in the past. I've spent every day since then trying to prevent the sequence of events that destroyed my life."

"Including marrying me instead of Seraphina."

"Yes." No hesitation, no sugar-coating.

You both sat in silence for a long moment, shoulders almost touching.

"I'm still angry," you said finally. "And confused. And honestly, a little terrified."

"I understand."

"But I also..." you struggled to find the words, "I also can't deny what's happened between us. That feels real, even if the foundation was a lie."

Jay turned to face you. "It is real. The beginning was calculated, yes. But everything since—the late night conversations, the moments when no one was watching, the things we've shared—those weren't strategy. Those were just... us."

"Is that even possible? To find something genuine inside a manufactured situation?"

"I don't know." He reached for your hand tentatively. "But I'd like to find out."

You stared at his outstretched hand, the wedding ring glinting in the dim light. A contract. A strategy. A lie.

And yet, underneath it all, something had grown that neither of you had planned.

After a long moment, you took his hand.

"I'm still not entirely convinced I'm not having some elaborate psychotic break," you said with a shaky laugh.

"If it helps, in my extensive experience with both time travel and mental breakdowns, this feels more like the former."

That surprised a genuine laugh from you. "Oh well, if you're an expert..."

His answering smile was hesitant but real—the smile of the man you'd grown to care for, time traveler or not.

"So what now?" you asked.

"Now we figure this out together," he said simply. "No more secrets."

"No more secrets," you agreed.

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, a question in the look.

You answered by leaning forward and pressing your mouth to his—your first real kiss, not for show, not for strategy, but because despite everything, you wanted to.

His response was immediate and overwhelming, arms pulling you against him as the kiss deepened. Months of performed affection crystallizing into something genuine and urgent.

"Y/N," he breathed against your mouth. "Are you sure?"

"No," you admitted. "I'm not sure about anything anymore. But I want this. I want you."

He stood, pulling you up with him, searching your face one more time before lifting you into his arms and carrying you toward the master bedroom.

Whatever came next—whatever impossible reality you were living in—at least this part would be real.

Jay carried you to the bedroom, his movements both gentle and urgent. In the dim light filtering through the windows, his eyes never left yours—searching, questioning, even as he lowered you onto the bed.

"Are you certain?" he asked again, hovering above you. "With everything you now know..."

You reached up, tracing the contour of his face. This face you'd come to know so well, yet belonged to someone with secrets you were only beginning to understand.

"I'm not certain about reality anymore," you whispered. "But I'm certain about wanting you."

Something broke in his expression—the careful control he'd maintained since you met him fracturing completely. He lowered his mouth to yours with an intensity that stole your breath, his kiss no longer measured or performative but raw with need.

Your bodies had been close before—staged embraces for photographs, choreographed affection for observers—but this was different. His weight pressing you into the mattress felt like an anchor in a world suddenly unmoored from everything you thought you knew.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured against your neck, his voice rougher than you'd ever heard it. "No script. No strategy. Just us."

"Everything," you breathed. "I want everything that's real."

His hands trembled slightly as they moved to the zipper of your dress—the man who negotiated billion-dollar deals without blinking suddenly unsteady with wanting. The vulnerability in that small tremor undid you.

You helped him with the fastenings, the dress soon forgotten on the floor. He paused to look at you, his expression almost reverent.

"I've imagined this," he confessed. "Not as part of the plan. Just as a man wanting a woman."

Your own fingers worked at his shirt buttons, needing to feel skin against skin. "How long?"

"Since Washington Square Park. When you laughed at that Ukrainian restaurant. I wanted to kiss you then, contract be damned."

The admission sent heat spiraling through you. All those controlled touches, those careful boundaries—beneath them, he'd been wanting this too.

When his shirt joined your dress on the floor, you ran your hands over the planes of his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm. Not the measured rhythm of Park Jongseong, corporate heir, but the accelerated tempo of Jay, the man who wanted you.

His mouth found yours again as his hands explored with increasing boldness—tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your breast, his thumb circling your nipple through delicate lace until you arched into his touch with a soft moan.

"I need to taste you," he murmured, trailing kisses down your neck, between your breasts, his tongue tracing patterns that made you shiver. "I've thought about this for months."

You tangled your fingers in his hair as he unhooked your bra with practiced ease, his mouth closing around your nipple while his hand kneaded your other breast. The careful restraint he'd always shown was nowhere in evidence now—replaced by hunger barely contained.

"Jay," you gasped as his teeth grazed sensitive flesh. "More."

He looked up at you, eyes dark with desire. "Say it again."

"More," you repeated, understanding he meant something else.

"My name," he clarified, voice hoarse. "Not for show. For me."

"Jay," you whispered, then louder. "Jay."

Something fierce and possessive crossed his features. He moved lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses across your stomach, his fingers hooking into your underwear and slowly drawing them down your legs.

When he settled between your thighs, his breath hot against your most intimate place, he paused again, looking up at you.

"This isn't strategy," he said softly. "This is just me wanting to taste every part of you."

Your answer was lost to a gasp as his mouth closed over you, his tongue exploring with deliberate precision. This was Jay applying the same focused attention he gave to corporate acquisitions to your pleasure—finding exactly what made you tremble, what made your breath catch, what made you cry out his name.

His hands gripped your hips, holding you steady as you began to unravel beneath his relentless attention. When he slid one finger inside you, then another, curling them forward while his tongue continued its assault, the tension building inside you shattered.

You came with his name on your lips, your body arching off the bed, one hand fisted in his hair while the other clutched desperately at the sheets.

Before you'd fully recovered, he was moving up your body, his expression almost feral with need. He shed his remaining clothes with uncharacteristic urgency, his erection heavy against your thigh as he positioned himself above you.

"Protection?" you managed, your mind still hazy with pleasure.

"Nightstand." He reached over, retrieving a condom and sheathing himself with efficient movements. Then he was there, poised at your entrance, searching your face one last time. "Y/N?"

You wrapped your legs around his hips, drawing him closer. "Now, Jay."

He sank into you with a groan that sounded almost pained, his forehead pressed against yours, eyes open—connection beyond the physical as he filled you completely.

"You feel..." he began, words failing him for perhaps the first time since you'd known him.

"I know," you whispered, understanding perfectly.

He began to move, slowly at first, each thrust measured and deep. But as your bodies found their rhythm, as your hips rose to meet his, the careful control he prided himself on began to slip.

His movements grew more urgent, his breathing ragged against your neck. You ran your nails down his back, urging him on, needing more of whatever this was—this genuine connection amid so much calculated deception.

"Y/N," he gasped, his rhythm faltering. "I can't—"

"Let go," you urged, feeling yourself climbing toward another peak. "Just let go."

Something inside him broke at your words. His next thrusts were almost desperate—hard, deep, relentless. One hand slipped between your bodies, finding where you were joined, his thumb circling your sensitive flesh.

"Come with me," he commanded, his voice raw. "I need to feel you."

The intensity in his eyes, the command in his voice, the precise circles of his thumb—it was too much. You shattered around him with a cry that might have been his name, might have been a prayer, might have been a curse at the universe that had brought you to this impossible moment.

He followed moments later, his release triggering aftershocks of pleasure through your still-pulsing body. His arms gave out, and he collapsed against you, his weight pressing you into the mattress in the most grounding way possible.

For long moments, there was only the sound of your mingled breathing gradually slowing, his heart pounding against yours.

"That wasn't in the contract," you finally said, a hint of laughter in your voice.

He lifted his head to look at you, a smile spreading across his face—genuine, unguarded. "I believe that qualifies as an amendment."

"A very thorough amendment," you agreed, brushing damp hair from his forehead.

He rolled to the side, taking you with him, keeping your bodies connected. "I may require multiple amendments. To ensure complete clarity."

"Very prudent," you murmured, tracing patterns on his chest. "Contracts should be explicit."

His expression sobered slightly. "Y/N, what happened between us just now—"

"Was real," you finished for him. "Whatever else isn't, that was."

He pulled you closer, his lips brushing your forehead. "I didn't travel through time expecting to find you. That wasn't part of the plan."

"And yet, here we are."

"Here we are," he echoed. His hand traced lazy circles on your back. "I'm still not entirely sure how it happened. The time travel or...this."

You settled against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. "I'm still not entirely convinced I'm not having an elaborate psychotic break."

His chest rumbled with quiet laughter. "If so, it's an exceptionally vivid one."

"Maybe that's all life is," you mused. "Vivid hallucinations we choose to believe in."

His arms tightened around you. "Then I choose this one. With you."

You lay together in comfortable silence, the questions and complications temporarily held at bay by the simplicity of skin against skin, heartbeat against heartbeat.

Tomorrow would bring reality crashing back—Seraphina's machinations, the timeline Jay was trying to alter, the complex web of truth and deception that had brought you to this point.

But for now, in the quiet darkness of a wedding night never meant to be real, you'd found something neither of you had anticipated in your carefully constructed arrangement.

Something genuine in a world of strategic fabrication.

Something true in a reality bent by impossible physics.

Something neither time nor planning could have engineered.

Epilogue: Three Years Later

"I said I wanted to relax on the beach, not hike up a mountain," you grumbled, one hand braced against your lower back, the other resting protectively over the prominent curve of your seven-month pregnant belly. "This babymoon was supposed to be about pampering, not cardio."

Jay looked back at you from several steps ahead on the winding trail, his expression softening as he took in your flushed cheeks and the slight breathlessness in your voice.

"It's hardly a mountain, angel," he said, immediately returning to your side. "More of an elevated pathway with strategic viewpoints. But we can turn back if you're uncomfortable."

You leaned into him as his arm slid around your waist, supporting some of your weight while his other hand came to rest alongside yours on your belly. "A 'strategic viewpoint' is what you called that cliff in Santorini last year, and I nearly had a heart attack."

"You said the photos were worth it," he reminded you, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"I was being polite. I was actually contemplating pushing you over the edge for making me climb all those steps."

His laugh rumbled against you, warm and genuine. In three years of marriage—one beyond your original contract—that laugh had become more frequent, less guarded. When you'd first met, Park Jongseong's calculated public chuckle had been as meticulously controlled as everything else about him. Now, Jay laughed openly, especially with you.

"The Park heir doesn't back down from challenges," you added, perfectly mimicking his mother's crisp tone and slight accent. "Isn't that what your mom told me last week when I complained about the nursery color palette meetings running four hours? Who needs eighteen shades of 'celestial' anyway? They're all just... blue."

Jay winced. "If you quote my mother again while we're on vacation, I'm flying Danny out here to keep you company. He's been dying to revisit that story about my high school talent show performance."

"The K-pop cover?" Your eyes lit up with mischief. "With the leather pants and the hair gel? Please do. I've only seen the photos, but the video footage would make excellent blackmail material for the next twenty years of parenting."

"I looked good in those pants," he defended, though his hand moved to massage the sore spot on your lower back that had been bothering you since morning.

You groaned appreciatively as his fingers found exactly the right spot. "Keep doing that and I might not share the existence of those photos with our daughter when she's old enough to be mortified by her father."

"Negotiating already? She's not even born, and you're forming alliances against me." His tone was playful, but the tenderness in his expression whenever he referenced your unborn child made your heart flutter. The man who had once approached marriage as a tactical business arrangement now spent evenings reading pregnancy books and speaking Korean lullabies against your belly.

"Another ten minutes to the overlook," he promised, thumb working circles against your lower spine. "Then we'll head back to the villa. I promise it's worth it."

You sighed dramatically but allowed him to guide you forward. "Our daughter better appreciate all this hiking I'm doing for her. She's been practicing her taekwondo moves on my bladder all morning."

"She's already plotting her corporate takeover strategy," Jay said, unable to keep the pride from his voice. "A true Park."

"God help us all," you muttered, though your free hand squeezed his in affection. "One strategic mastermind in the family was enough."

"You forget your contract negotiation tactics. You extracted a villa in the Maldives with private chef, daily massages, and no conference calls for two weeks. Our daughter is getting the best of both of us."

"Speaking of strategies," you said, pausing to catch your breath, "I've been thinking about names again."

Jay groaned dramatically. "Not this again. We had a system. A spreadsheet with weighted attributes and cultural significance metrics."

"I'm vetoing the spreadsheet." You continued walking, leaning heavier on his support. "No child of mine is going to be named via algorithm."

"It's not an algorithm, it's a—"

"Strategic naming methodology with comparative analysis," you finished for him. "I've heard the pitch, Mr. Park. Still vetoing it."

He sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward. "What names are you considering now?"

"I like Mina."

"That's actually on the spreadsheet's top five. Strong in both cultures, elegant, historical significance—"

"I don't care about your spreadsheet points. I like how it sounds."

"Alright, angel. Mina stays on the list." His easy acquiescence was still something you were getting used to. The Jay you'd first met would have defended his methodical approach for at least another ten minutes. "We still have two months to decide. Unless she makes an early entrance."

"Don't even suggest it," you warned. "After what your mother said about Park babies always arriving precisely on schedule, like their corporate acquisitions? I think she'd be personally offended if this baby came early."

"Chairwoman Park does not acknowledge the existence of unscheduled deliveries," he agreed solemnly, though his eyes danced with amusement. "Though she did order the hospital's maternity wing renovation completed a month ahead of schedule, just in case."

"Your mother terrifies me," you admitted. "And somehow I still adore her."

"She feels the same about you. She told Uncle Jimin you're the only person who's ever successfully changed her mind during a board meeting. He said she sounded proud."

"She should be. That sustainable investing initiative is going to increase profits by twelve percent next quarter."

Jay grinned at you. "Look at you, talking profit margins and quarterly projections. Remember when you said you'd rather die than become a 'corporate drone'?"

"I maintain that position," you insisted. "I'm an independent consultant who happens to occasionally advise the largest conglomerate in South Korea. Completely different."

"Of course," he agreed diplomatically. "Just like I'm not a workaholic, I just have 'dedication to operational efficiency.'"

You bumped your hip against his. "You've been better. Only three midnight emails this month."

"All emergencies," he defended.

"The color of the fonts on the annual report was not an emergency, Park."

"Brand consistency is critical to market perception," he began, then caught your expression and laughed. "Fine. Not an emergency."

When you reached the overlook, the view did indeed steal your breath—crystal-clear waters stretching to the horizon, the private cove of your Maldives villa visible in the distance, pristine white sand contrasting with vibrant turquoise.

"Damn it," you murmured.

"Excuse me?" Jay raised an eyebrow.

"You were right. It was worth it." You leaned back against his chest as his arms wrapped around you, hands cradling your belly. "Don't look so smug."

"I would never," he said, not bothering to hide his satisfied smile. "Besides, being right is just part of my charm."

You elbowed him gently. "Your humility is what I love most about you."

"That and my strategic viewpoint selection."

"And your modesty. Clearly."

His hands splayed wider across your belly, and as if on cue, your daughter kicked sharply against his palm. The look of wonder that crossed his face at the contact never diminished, no matter how many times he felt it.

"That was a strong one," he said softly.

"Tell me about it. I'm pretty sure I'm growing a future taekwondo champion in here."

"Like her mother," he said, his voice warm with admiration. "Strong. Determined."

"Cranky when hungry?" you suggested.

"I was going to say 'formidable when provoked,' but your phrasing works too." His chin rested on your shoulder, and you felt his smile against your neck. "She's already perfect."

The simple sincerity in his voice made your hormones send tears threatening. You blamed pregnancy emotions, but the truth was deeper. This man—who had literally traveled through time to avoid destruction—was now embracing a future neither of you could predict or control, with complete certainty that it was exactly where he wanted to be.

"Did you ever imagine this?" you asked, gesturing vaguely at your belly, at the two of you standing on this pristine outlook. "When you made that original contract proposal at that ridiculously expensive restaurant?"

"It was hardly ridiculous. Their wine list was impeccable." His deflection was automatic—the old Jay momentarily surfacing.

"You know what I mean," you persisted. "Did time-traveling Jay ever see this coming?"

He was quiet for a moment, his chin resting on your shoulder. "No," he finally answered with characteristic honesty. "This was never part of the strategy. My plan ended with avoiding the merger, preventing Seraphina's sabotage, maintaining family control of the company."

"Very romantic objectives."

"I didn't believe in romance then," he reminded you. "I believed in risk management."

"And now?" you asked, turning slightly to see his face. "Disappointed that your perfect plan got derailed by unforeseen variables? Namely, catching actual feelings for your contract wife?"

His eyes met yours, that intense gaze that still made your heart skip. "The plan was to avoid disaster," he said seriously. "I got happiness instead. That's not a detour, angel. That's a miracle."

"Don't go soft on me now, Park. What would the shareholders think?" you teased, though you leaned into his touch as his hand came up to brush a strand of hair from your face.

"They'd think I finally made a sound investment with appropriate long-term growth potential," he replied, matching your business terminology while his eyes remained soft.

"Oh? And what's the projected ROI on this particular acquisition?"

"Immeasurable," he said simply, the single word holding more genuine emotion than the countless practiced speeches he'd given over the years.

"A time-traveling corporate heir and a skeptical journalist walk into a gallery..." you began, a reference to how you often joked about your improbable origin story.

"Sounds like the setup for a terrible joke," he finished, smiling against your lips as he leaned down to kiss you.

"Or the perfect story," you countered when you separated. "Though no one would believe it."

"Danny believes it," Jay said dryly. "After walking in on us arguing about whether my future knowledge of the 2024 Olympics constituted gambling when I placed those bets."

"In my defense, it absolutely was cheating."

"In my defense, we donated all the proceeds to charity."

"After I made you," you reminded him.

"A minor detail." His hand moved in slow circles over your belly, soothing both you and the active little one inside. "Speaking of details, that cloud formation suggests a weather change within the next hour. Ready to head back? I've arranged for a prenatal massage at the villa."

You narrowed your eyes. "Did you plan this entire hike timing based on weather patterns?"

"I may have consulted three different meteorological reports and timed our arrival at the overlook for optimal viewing conditions before the afternoon clouds moved in," he admitted without a hint of shame.

"Your level of extra never ceases to amaze me." You shook your head, but couldn't suppress a smile. "This is why I keep you around, Park. Your strategic planning has its advantages."

"Just fulfilling the terms of our renegotiated contract," he replied, guiding you carefully back toward the path. "Section four, paragraph three: 'Husband agrees to ensure wife's comfort during pregnancy with particular emphasis on lower back support, regular food provision, and optimal weather condition monitoring.'"

"You need to stop letting your legal team draft our personal agreements," you laughed. "But I appreciate the thoroughness."

"The legal team wanted to include a footnote about reasonable expectations regarding my ability to control weather patterns, but I refused. I have standards."

"Of course you do." You laced your fingers with his as you began the descent. "Tell me more about this massage. Did you fly in some exclusive practitioner from Sweden who only treats royalty and tech billionaires?"

"Of course not," Jay scoffed. "She's from Norway, and she primarily works with Olympic athletes. Royalty is just her side clientele."

You burst out laughing. "You're impossible."

"I believe the term you used last week was 'extra but endearing.'"

"I was being generous."

"You usually are," he said, his tone shifting to something more sincere. "With your patience. Your understanding. This journey hasn't been... conventional."

"Conventional is overrated," you replied, squeezing his hand. "Though I do plan on writing a book someday. 'How to Negotiate Your Way from Fake Marriage to Real Happiness: A Time Traveler's Guide.'"

"Catchy title. Limited market though."

"You don't know that. There could be dozens of time travelers out there, all looking for contractual arrangements that evolve into genuine love stories."

"Dozens seems optimistic."

"Says the man who literally bent physics. You don't get to talk about 'optimistic.'"

The banter continued as you made your way back to the villa, a luxurious beachfront property that somehow combined Jay's taste for refined elegance with your insistence on comfortable practicality. Like your relationship, it shouldn't have worked on paper, but in reality, it was perfect.

Later, after the Norwegian masseuse had worked miracles on your pregnancy-strained muscles, you lounged on the villa's private deck while Jay prepared dinner—another evolution that would have seemed impossible three years ago. Park Jongseong, corporate heir and strategic mastermind, now insisted on cooking for you at least twice a week, a skill he'd developed with the same methodical precision he applied to business acquisitions.

"Your mother called while you were in the shower," you mentioned as he served grilled fish with a mango salsa he'd perfected over the past year. "She wanted to know if we'd considered her suggestion about the trust fund structure."

Jay paused, wine bottle hovering over your glass of sparkling water. "Please tell me you didn't discuss financial planning during our vacation."

"Of course I did. I told her your idea about the educational milestone incentives was better than her straight distribution plan, and that the sustainable investment portfolio she proposed needed more diverse clean energy holdings."

He stared at you for a moment before breaking into a laugh. "Three years ago, you called investment banking 'legalized gambling for people with too much money.'"

"I stand by that assessment," you replied primly. "But if our daughter is going to have Park money, it might as well be responsibly managed Park money that does some good."

"Our daughter," he repeated, a smile softening his features as he set down the wine and rested a hand on your belly. "I still can't quite believe it sometimes."

"Which part? That we're having a baby, or that you're having one with the woman you initially approached as a strategic human shield against corporate sabotage?"

"Both," he admitted. "Though more the latter. When I found you at that gallery, I was looking for a solution to a problem, not..." he gestured between you, "whatever miracle this is."

"A solution to a problem," you echoed thoughtfully. "That's not the most romantic description of your future wife I've ever heard."

"Would you prefer 'tactically advantageous alliance partner'?" he offered with a straight face.

"Much better. I'm swooning."

His expression grew more serious. "You know what I mean. I wasn't looking for connection then. I didn't think I needed it—or deserved it, after what happened."

"After what was going to happen," you corrected gently. "A future you prevented."

"Semantics," he said with a slight shrug, though you both knew it was more than that. The guilt he carried for actions his alternative self might have taken had taken months of conversations to address.

"Did I ever tell you," you said, changing tactics, "that I almost didn't go to Priya's gallery that night? I had a deadline the next day and was planning to skip it."

"You hadn't mentioned that." He looked up, intrigued.

"I finished the article early and decided last minute that I should support my friend." You took a bite of fish, appreciating the perfect balance of flavors. "One small decision. Go to a gallery or stay home. And here we are."

"The butterfly effect."

"More like the exhausted-journalist-who-finished-work-early effect, but sure." You smiled at him across the table. "Time travel or not, I think we were supposed to find each other."

"I don't believe in destiny," he reminded you.

"Says the time traveler."

"Time travel is physics. Theoretically. Destiny is..."

"Also physics, if you think about it. Predetermined paths, fixed points in spacetime."

He raised an eyebrow. "Have you been reading physics journals again?"

"Maybe. The baby likes quantum mechanics. She kicks when I read about wave-particle duality."

"Of course she does," he said proudly, as though your unborn child's apparent interest in physics was a personal achievement. "She's brilliant like her mother."

"And modest like her father," you countered, though you couldn't help the warmth that spread through you at the compliment.

That night, as you lay in bed with Jay's body curved protectively around yours, his hand resting on your belly where your daughter occasionally pressed a foot or elbow against his palm, you reflected on the strange, wonderful path you'd traveled.

"What are you thinking about?" he murmured against your hair, always attuned to your shifting moods even when you thought he was drifting to sleep.

"About how sometimes the best futures are the ones we can't plan," you replied, covering his hand with yours. "Even for time travelers."

He chuckled softly. "Especially for time travelers."

"Do you ever miss it?" you asked. "The certainty of knowing what comes next?"

"Never," he said without hesitation, his arm tightening around you. "The future we're creating is better than any I could have foreseen. Besides, certainty is overrated. Where's the excitement in knowing every outcome?"

"Says the man who made a career of eliminating variables and calculating risk."

"I've developed a taste for the unpredictable," he murmured, his lips finding the sensitive spot behind your ear that still made you shiver. "A certain journalist taught me the value of beautiful chaos."

"Chaos theory," you murmured. "Small changes in initial conditions leading to wildly different outcomes."

"Exactly." His hand splayed wider across your belly. "One gallery opening. One conversation. One impulsive dinner invitation that wasn't in my original plan."

"Was anything about that night not calculated?" you asked, genuinely curious. After all this time, there were still pieces of his original strategy you occasionally discovered.

"The way you looked at me," he said softly. "When I made that comment about the abstract painting being 'deliberately obtuse to mask the artist's technical limitations.'"

"I remember. I laughed and said you were 'refreshingly honest for someone wearing a watch that cost more than my rent.'"

"That's the moment I deviated from the script," he admitted. "In my original timeline, we had a brief, pleasant conversation and never saw each other again. But something about your reaction made me want more. That dinner invitation afterward wasn't planned."

"So I have your impulsive deviation to thank for all this?" You gestured vaguely at your life together.

"That, and your capacity to negotiate a marriage contract like you were dismantling a hostile takeover bid."

"I was thorough," you defended. "Anyone would be when being asked to marry a virtual stranger for business purposes."

"You demanded a custom sleep number bed, a language tutor who specialized in colloquial rather than business Korean, and a contract clause about maintaining your own journalistic independence even when writing about companies connected to Park Industries."

"All reasonable requests."

"The Hawaiian pizza provision was a bit much."

"A woman has to draw the line somewhere. No pineapple on pizza in our household is a hill I'm willing to die on."

His laugh vibrated against your back, comfortable and familiar. "I love you, angel. Unreasonable pizza restrictions and all."

"I love you too," you replied, shifting to face him despite your unwieldy belly. "Strategic time-traveling and all."

As you drifted toward sleep in his arms, your daughter shifted inside you, a gentle reminder of the impossible journey that had led to this moment—a contract transformed into commitment, strategy evolved into love, calculation giving way to the beautiful chaos of a life built together.

Sometimes the best vows were the ones you never planned to make, but discovered you wanted to keep anyway.

And sometimes the most calculated beginning led to the most wonderfully unpredictable destination.

fin.

Taglist: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @annybah @zzhengyu @naurwayyyyy @ddolleri @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @lovelycassy @highway143 @koizekomi @jaeyunsbimbo @cutehoons02 @deluluscenarios @bubbletaeq @lamin143 @dearestdreamies @heeheeyeoiizz01 @heewhoresimp @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @loudpeachdetective @cristy-101 @ash-engen @miuwonis @pinkglitterpuke @theothernads

581 notes · View notes

moonselune · 2 months ago

Note

Some of the chars (Wyll, Minthara, Lae'zel, Astarion, Halsin) watching the char sleep beside them, in their tents, and realizing that, no matter the circumstances of how, they want them to be their for the rest of both of their lives. Astarion grappling with the fact that, they *probably* won't be. (I romanced him as a Druid, bc Druid's can unlock eternal life at a certain level. I like to think they'd do that for him. Maybe have Astarion see research for it? Idk or not-)

OOoooOOooo I adore this prompt thank you so much for sending it in!

Minthara:

The Underdark was far behind you now, replaced by the open hush of��a moonlit glade. Crickets sang softly beyond the sheltering trees, and a breeze stirred the leaves like whispered secrets. The campfire had long since dimmed to embers, its glow casting flickers of warm orange across the canvas of your tent, painting slow-moving shadows against the fabric.

You were already asleep beside her, your breathing steady, your face relaxed in a way she rarely saw when the world wasn’t quiet. And gods, she was watching you again. She always did when the night fell silent and there were no battles to fight, no enemies to anticipate — only time. Time and you.

Minthara lay on her side, one arm tucked beneath her head, the other hovering uncertainly close to yours. Her eyes tracked the slow rise and fall of your chest, the way your hair curled slightly at the nape of your neck, the faintest smile pulling at your lips — had you dreamed of her?

She hoped so.

She hated how soft her heart had become in your presence. No, not soft. That word was weakness, and she had carved herself from stronger stone than that. She was still the same Minthara who had once knelt before Lolth’s altar and cast blood for power. Still the same commander who had crossed blades with gods and monsters alike.

But you… you had undone her with no blade, no magic. Just kindness. Patience. That maddening smile that made her feel like she belonged in a world that didn’t spit on her for existing.

She breathed in slowly, careful not to wake you. A part of her wanted to run. That part always did — that instinct, ancient and feral, that told her this kind of peace was a trap. That it couldn’t last. That loving you like this — completely, devastatingly — would only end in ruin. In loss.

But another part of her, the one that dared to believe in after, in tomorrow, clung to the way your hand had found hers even in sleep. How you’d whispered, once, after a particularly bloody day: "Let’s find somewhere quiet when this is over. Just us. No gods. No war."

She hadn’t answered you then. She’d pretended she didn’t hear.

Now, watching you sleep in a tent far removed from war camps and strategy tables, that silence gnawed at her. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to build a life in the sunlight — or under it, if you preferred. She’d plant things with you, although she claimed to hate dirt under her nails. She’d ride spiders again if you asked, and maybe, just maybe, she’d learn to laugh without biting her tongue first.

Minthara reached forward, slow, reverent, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. You murmured something unintelligible in your sleep and shifted closer.

“I am hopeless,” she whispered into the hush. Her voice barely made a sound. “Utterly, tragically in love with you.”

The words tasted strange. Not sour, but unfamiliar, like wine she hadn’t dared sample until now.

“I would give up the Underdark,” she said, her lips near your ear now, barely touching skin. “The politics, the power, the fear. I would give it all up, if it meant I could wake beside you like this until I am dust and shadow.”

You stirred again, brow furrowing faintly. She stilled, waiting — but you only sighed, eyes never opening, and turned into her warmth.

Minthara closed her eyes then, finally letting herself press close. Your bodies aligned easily, like they’d done this a thousand times. She tucked her forehead against your shoulder, one hand splaying across your chest.

She would never say those things aloud while you were awake — not yet. But tonight, she let herself pretend.

Let herself want.

Let herself love.

Lae'zel:

Night had fallen over the camp, and silence blanketed the world. The kind of quiet that was neither tense nor dead, but peaceful — a rarity in your shared journey across this unforgiving land. The fire outside crackled low, casting a warm flickering glow through the thin fabric of the tent. The night was cool, but not cold, and your steady breathing beside her was a soft lullaby Lae’zel had come to rely on far more than she’d ever admit aloud.

She lay on her back, still, eyes fixed on the shadowy ceiling of the tent. You were tucked in beside her, your head nestled into the crook of her shoulder, one arm lazily thrown across her abdomen. The rhythm of your breath, the heat of your body — it all felt impossibly natural now. So natural, in fact, that it frightened her in ways that not even the most grotesque of battlefield horrors ever had.

You, mortal and soft in ways Gith would call weak, had become the only constant in her life. And she had no idea what to do with that.

Lae’zel had been raised to reject sentiment, to crush it under heel like so much ash. Love was weakness. Attachment? A tether. And yet here you were — anchor, thorn, salvation. You had seen her through blood and fire and fury. You had watched her scream, rage, break — and never once flinched. You challenged her. You softened her, when she didn’t want to be softened. You taught her, in small, infuriating ways, that not all strength comes from pain.

And now, you slept against her like it meant nothing. Like it was just something you did. As if this — your head rising and falling with her every breath — hadn’t become the only truth she wanted to cling to.

Her gaze dropped down to you. Moonlight painted a faint silver over your features. You looked peaceful. Unburdened. There was something almost infuriating about how easy it seemed for you. She had faced death without blinking. Had slain mind flayers, fought impossible odds, and yet this — this quiet, vulnerable feeling of wanting to stay by your side forever — was the thing that made her heart race.

Her arm curled instinctively around your shoulders, pulling you slightly closer. You shifted in your sleep, nestling deeper into her with a contented hum that made something twist inside her.

“I should not want this,” she whispered, low and sharp, more to herself than to you. “I should not want you.”

And yet she did. Fiercely. Without logic or apology.

It wasn’t just desire — that she had felt before. It wasn’t even comfort, though you gave her that in ways she never expected. It was need. A longing not born of weakness, but of revelation. She didn’t want to conquer you. She didn’t want to possess you. She wanted to stand beside you. To be chosen by you, again and again, long after this war was over and the skies had cleared.

She wanted to wake like this a thousand times — ten thousand — until her bones turned to dust.

Lae’zel closed her eyes, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, light and reverent. Her voice was barely a breath:

“I would fight every star in the sky to keep this. To keep you.”

You stirred slightly, murmuring her name — a mumble from the depths of dreaming — and her breath caught.

She was hopelessly in love with you.

And for once, she didn’t want to run from it.

Astarion:

The moonlight filtered through the trees in thin silvery slats, pooling over your sleeping form with a kind of reverence that made Astarion still.

You lay curled toward him, one arm tucked under your cheek, the other resting where your hand had found his in sleep. Your fingers were lightly wrapped around his, warm and gentle, and it made something in his chest ache — something vast and unfamiliar.

Astarion hadn’t moved in hours.

He didn’t need to, of course — stillness came easily to a creature like him. But this time, it wasn’t necessity that kept him motionless. It was fear. Wonder. Love.

Gods, that word still felt ridiculous in his head. Like some girlish fantasy whispered behind fans at noble dinner parties. Love — for him — had always been a lie. A tool. A performance. But here, in this quiet moment, with the night wrapping around you both like a secret — he felt it. Truly, deeply. Bone-deep.

He watched the way your brow furrowed slightly as you dreamed, how your lashes fluttered with whatever stories played behind your closed eyes. You trusted him — implicitly, foolishly, completely. Even now, so vulnerable, you were wrapped around him like he was home. Like he was safe.

He was not safe. He had never been safe. But you made him want to be.

Astarion tilted his head slightly, studying your face with a sort of gentle desperation. You were mortal. So tragically, cruelly, heartbreakingly mortal. Time would carve lines into your face. Grey your hair. Still your breath. One day — gods, the thought made his throat tighten — one day, you would be gone.

And he? He would remain.

He had scoffed at the notion of forever before. What was eternity but a gilded cage without power? But now… now he wanted it. Not just the eternity, but you in it. The thought of centuries without you beside him — without your warmth, your touch, your infuriating stubbornness and your breathtaking kindness — was unbearable.

Maybe… maybe it didn’t have to be that way.

His eyes drifted to the soft pulse at your throat. The blood beneath. The life. He could give you forever. It would be different, yes. A darker path. But a path you could walk together. If anyone could do it, if anyone could make something good and whole out of the monstrous… it was you.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, and your hand tightened around his fingers. Astarion exhaled — sharp and silent — and brought your joined hands up to his lips. He kissed your knuckles with a reverence he didn’t know he possessed.

“You are the cruelest thing the gods have ever given me,” he murmured against your skin. “And I love you for it.”

There it was. Said aloud. No masks. No coyness. Just truth.

He loved you.

He wanted you — for the next sunrise, and every one after. For the glittering eternity ahead. Not because he needed to survive. But because, against all odds, you made eternity something worth wanting.

And maybe, someday, you'd want it too.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he would hold your hand. Watch you breathe. Press a kiss to your temple and whisper into the dark:

“I’ll find a way to keep you. Always.”

Wyll:

The fire outside the tent had long since dwindled to glowing embers, casting only the faintest warmth into the night air. In the stillness of the camp, with the soft hum of crickets just beyond the canvas walls and the distant rustle of wind through trees, Wyll lay wide awake. You were curled beside him, breathing softly, one arm draped across his chest like it had always belonged there.

He hadn’t moved in what felt like hours. Not because he couldn’t — his limbs were warm and restless beneath your touch — but because he wouldn’t. He didn’t dare.

There was a certain kind of magic in this moment. Not the kind found in spellbooks or arcane circles, but something quieter, more dangerous in its subtlety. The kind of magic that made a man believe he could belong to someone, that he could be seen and still chosen.

You made him feel like Wyll again — not the Blade of Frontiers, not the devil’s bargain, not the smiling folk hero of ballads and embellished tales. Just him. And that was terrifying in a way demons never could be.

He tilted his head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of your face in the dim firelight. Your cheek rested against his shoulder, your breath warm against his skin. Every so often, your fingers twitched where they lay, as if dreaming of some far-off adventure.

He exhaled slowly. Controlled. Careful. But inside, his thoughts were unraveling.

“I’m in love with you,” he whispered to no one, or perhaps to the gods, or the stars, or himself.

He hadn't meant to fall this deeply. Not with everything else. Not with the weight of his past decisions shadowing every step, not with his future still tangled in uncertain paths. But love had never asked permission. It had crept in like dawn breaking over a battlefield — steady, radiant, impossible to ignore.

It was in the way you argued with him when you thought he was being too noble. The way you held him when the nightmares clawed into his sleep. The way you looked at him — not like he was a legend or a burden or a mistake — but like he was yours.

He closed his eyes, just for a moment, and let his hand rest gently over yours on his chest. Your heartbeat was a soft rhythm against him, grounding him more than any sword in hand ever had.

“I’d give up the sword,” he murmured quietly. “I’d give up the name, the stories, the flame and fury… if it meant waking beside you like this every morning for the rest of my life.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word. It was a truth too heavy to carry and too beautiful to leave unspoken.

But you didn’t stir. You didn’t hear him. Maybe it was better that way — maybe the words were just for tonight. Just for him. Or maybe one day he would find the courage to say them while you were awake. He hoped so.

Because under any circumstance, under any curse, bargain, title, or battle, he knew it now: you were the only thing he would choose again and again, without hesitation.

Wyll tightened his arm around you, ever so slightly, and pressed a gentle kiss into your hair.

“I’m yours,” he whispered. “For however long you’ll have me.”

And with that, he finally allowed himself to close his eyes — heart full, soul quiet — as the world outside held its breath.

Halsin:

The forest around the camp was still. Not dead — never dead — but settled, at peace. The nocturnal song of crickets hummed low, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of pine and damp earth through the air. A few embers from the campfire still flickered, their glow reaching faintly into the tent where the two of you lay together. The world had quieted, and yet Halsin could not sleep.

You were pressed against him, your face buried against his bare chest, one leg slung lazily over his hip. His arms were wrapped around you in a loose but protective hold, as if even now some part of him feared you might slip away. Your skin was warm against his, your breathing steady and soft — a rhythm that soothed him like the pulse of the wild heart of the world.

But there was no peace in his own.

Halsin had known many things in his long life. He had loved before, in fleeting ways — the kind that flicker briefly and are then reclaimed by time and change. He had witnessed the rise and fall of empires, felt the breath of centuries pass like seasons. He had found solace in solitude, strength in service to nature, and purpose in healing what others broke.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

He stared at the tent ceiling, brow furrowed in thought, the warmth of your body beneath his hands grounding him more than any root or tree ever had. He could feel the rise and fall of your chest, the slight sound you made when you exhaled, the way your fingers would occasionally twitch in dreams. Every little detail — your scent, the feel of your hair against his collarbone, the subtle ways you leaned into him even in sleep — was seared into him. Permanently.

You had come into his life like spring after a long and bitter winter. Slowly at first. Gently. But now that you were here, he couldn’t remember how the world felt without you in it. You had taught him laughter again — not the kind he shared with comrades or companions, but something deep and simple and sacred. You had taught him patience, and longing, and quiet joy.

And it terrified him.

Because the truth settled in him like a mountain root — steady, unmovable, impossible to deny.

He loved you.

Not in the fleeting, passing way of desire or companionship. He loved you like the forest loves the sun — essential and eternal. He loved you in the way trees bend toward the light without understanding why. Instinctively. Irrevocably.

“Nature will take what it will,” he whispered to himself, voice hushed and low. “But still I would defy it, if it meant keeping you.”

He tightened his grip around you slightly, burying his nose into your hair, inhaling deeply. The scent of you made his chest ache. He had lived so long in balance with the natural world, following its flow, surrendering to its whims. But for the first time in his life, he felt the pull of something that made him want to dig in his heels. To fight fate. To hold onto something selfishly.

You murmured his name in your sleep, barely audible. A sound filled with trust, soft and safe.

It undid him.

“I would give it all up,” he whispered. “The title. The grove. The calling. If it meant I could stay by your side when the leaves fall and the earth grows cold.”

The wind shifted outside, rustling the leaves in soft, conspiratorial laughter. But inside the tent, he was still — a man rooted not to the land, but to you.

You stirred, blinking sleepily, and looked up at him. Your voice was thick with drowsiness as you murmured, “Halsin? You’re still awake?”

He smiled — gently, achingly — and leaned down to kiss your forehead.

“Yes,” he said, voice deep and low. “Just watching the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known.”

Omg this is just what I needed after a shitty day at work, this makes me feel nice and warm inside. Hope you guys enjoyed it! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

364 notes · View notes

prythianpages · 2 years ago

Text

A Field of Dandelions | Azriel

azriel x green witch reader | Your High Lady calls upon you. requesting a remedy that only you know how to make. It requires specific ingredients found between the courts of spring and autumn and you're in need of an escort. Unfortunately for you, she assigns her Shadowsinger to accompany you. The Shadowsinger who hates you...or so you thought.

“Please don’t talk to me like that.”

“Why?”

“It’s cruel and heartless and you don’t even realize.”

warnings: angst but with fluff at the end, mentions of self-hate/abuse. pretty much Azriel thinking he's not worthy of a mate.

a/n: I've been re-reading the Shatter Me series and there's a scene between Aaron and Juliette that drove me to make this along with the song Dandelions by Ruth B. The dialogue above is directly from the book Unravel Me. I used them as a writing prompt along with the general gist of the scene and added my own twist to it. I just wanted to put that disclaimer out there.

The door opens before you can even knock and your dear friend and High Lady pulls you into a warm hug. She beckons you inside with a smile and your eyes dart around the various paintings adorning the walls, finding that some are new.

Surprise etches onto your features when your eyes land on the Night Court’s Spymaster. He stands at the end of one of the winding staircases with his usual stoic expression. Still as devastatingly handsome as always. You drop your gaze as quickly as you had met his and if he notices it, he doesn’t let it show. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge your presence.

Your ears pick up on faint crying. It grows louder and louder. Turning your head toward the source, your eyes land on Nyx. Despite being in the comfort of his father’s arms, his little features contort in pain. You greet your High Lord with a bow of your head, noticing the exhaustion on his face that mirrors Feyre’s.

“Is Mor on her way?” You ask, adjusting the strap of your bag. It’s full with all necessary tools and equipment you need for your venture.

Feyre had requested if you could make a tonic to sooth Nyx’s aches while he’s teething but your apothecary shop was unfortunately out of the main ingredient. Dandelion root. Not just any dandelion root but the ones that grow in the soil between the courts of Spring and Autumn and given the current tensions in Prythian and your status as a former Spring court inhabitant, it was not safe for you to go alone.

“Oh,” Feyre says as she takes the babe into her arms. You coo at Nyx and he blinks up at you, his crying coming to a stop. His lips tug up into a small smile and he wraps a tiny hand around your finger. “She is unfortunately caught up in Vallahan.”

“So then Cassian is to escort me today?” You ask again, looking up at your friend.

You catch the way she looks at Rhysand. They share a look and you know they’re communicating to each other through their mind. It’s Rhysand who answers you this time.

“Cassian isn’t fond of the spring, allergies and all.”

The Shadowsinger steps forward and your smile falls. You turn back to your friend, who gives you a sheepish smile in return.

“Azriel will be escorting you today.”

You almost want to say no. The thought of being alone with Azriel makes your stomach churn with unease and something else that you can’t quite discern at the moment. But Nyx begins to squirm in his mother’s arms with a pout and Feyre’s eyebrows knit in concern.

“Okay,” you sigh.

“Thank you so much for doing this,” Feyre says.

“Our son’s life is in your hands.”

Feyre slaps her husband’s arm with a roll of her eyes. “He’s not dying, Rhys,” she grumbles. “He’s just in some discomfort from teething.”

She then turns to Azriel with a stern look. The corner of her lips threatened to betray her. “Be nice.”

Azriel’s shadows envelop you both, whisking you away to the forest of the Spring Court. It was the safest of the two courts to winnow directly to. The air in the dense woods hangs heavy with the scent of blooming blossoms and you’re thankful for the muffled sounds of nature as it provides a soothing background noise, saving you from the awkward silence between you and the impassive Shadowsinger.

Azriel walks ahead, his movements graceful and quiet. His shadows cling to him like the loyal companions they are but some hover over your boots, silencing your own steps.

He finally breaks the silence. “You’re staring.”

You shift your gaze immediately and wonder if he can also sense the pink that dusts your slightly flustered face. “I’m just surprised you’re the one escorting me,” you answer honestly.

“It’s not like I had much of a choice,” he responds cryptically.

A slight tension settles between you, your heartbeat quickening as you follow him through the forest. “Right,” you say, your face growing pinker.

You shift the weight of your bag to your other shoulder and Azriel comes to a sudden stop. He turns, his hazel eyes scanning you for a moment. Without a word, he takes the bag from your arm, effortlessly hoisting it over his shoulder.

The unexpected gesture catches you off guard, and a quiet "thanks" escapes your lips. “You’re being awfully nice today,” you can’t help but observe, a mixture of surprise and curiosity in your tone “I think this is the most you’ve talked to me since we met.”

Azriel’s lips curve into an almost-smile. A rare sight that sends a flutter through your chest. “My High Lady told me to be nice.”

“Right,” you repeat quietly to yourself as you exhale, a futile effort to calm your fluttering nerves. It’s almost embarrassing the effect Azriel has on you and as the butterflies in your stomach stir, you hope that the rest of the day unfolds quickly.

Mates. Two individuals predestined to be together, brought together by unseen forces and an irresistible bond. Azriel once wondered if he had a mate but after centuries of living, he began to wonder if he was simply destined to be alone.

When his brothers found their mates and he still hadn’t found his, he started to think he was far beyond the reach of love. It was a blessing he could not have. He didn’t need a mate, so he convinced himself he didn’t want one. Romance was not part of his duties and he was starting to come to terms with the fact.

That is, until, he met you.

Nestled right on the outskirts of the area known as the Rainbow of Velaris was a quaint shop. The wooden sign above, engraved with dark letters spelling out Nightrose Apothecary, swayed gently in the cool morning breeze. Azriel had ignored the frenzied whirlwind of his shadows as he stepped into the shop.

Shelves made of twisted vines and wood were neatly arranged with rows of glass jars containing colorful powders, dried herbs and exotic roots. A friendly black cat, lounging on the sunlit windowsill, blinked at him in greeting. As he stepped further into the shop, his senses became overwhelmed with the prominent scent of lavender and chamomile.

Behind a worn, wooden counter is where you stood. You hummed to yourself, immersed in the book in front of you. He found himself unable to take his eyes off of you as you skimmed over the rough edged pages, your fingertips carrying an enchanting green glow and eyes filled with darkness.

You were a witch but it was no surprise to him. He had heard about you. You were a good friend of Feyre’s. One of the few people she could trust during her time in the Spring court. When the Spring Court fell into chaos, Feyre had brought you with her and helped you open up this shop.

His steps were silent and he’s sure you’re unaware of his presence, so he shifted, parting his mouth to speak–

“Hello, Shadowsinger.”

His steps faltered, eyes widening for a fleeting moment.

When you finally lifted your gaze to meet his, his eyes locked with yours and something deep within him awakened. An exhilarating feeling like no other. He felt light. He felt alive. And he was almost afraid to blink, not wanting the feeling to end.

His shadows peeked out from behind his limbs, curious to see what had their master in a chokehold. They dispersed from his body in a thrilled dance as the darkness left your eyes, revealing their natural color. They’re beautiful and sparkling with kindness, even as his shadows disobey his silent orders and slither up your arms in a cool greeting.

“I’m sorry,” he found himself apologizing, a slight tint in his cheeks. “They usually don’t do that.”

“It’s okay,” you brushed off his worry and he felt lightheaded and bewitched at the smile you directed toward him. “What brings you here?”

Azriel can’t help but feel that you already know why he’s there. He pulled his gaze away, choosing to focus on the crystal orbs on the counter instead. “My High Lady recommended I come to you. I’ve been having trouble…sleeping.”

The green glow returned to your fingertips as you beckoned a small clear vial from one of the shelves behind you. It’s filled with a silver liquid that glistened as it moved, mirroring the twinkle of the stars that light up the night sky.

“This should help.” You told him as you held out the vial to him. “Take a sip before you’re ready for bed and it should quickly pull you into a restful slumber. Some say it even brings forth sweet dreams.”

Azriel nodded his head, taking the small vial from you with a gloved hand. He stored it carefully into the chest pocket of his leathers. His hands then dug into the pockets of his pants but you held out a hand to stop him.

“It’s on the house.”

“But–”

“Any friend of Fey–the High Lady’s is a friend of mine.”

His throat tightened as he realized it’s time for him to leave and he doesn’t want to. He’s caught in a whirlwind of emotions and finds himself torn between hope and fear. Or maybe he fears what it means to be hopeful because for once in his life, he wants something.

He wants you. His mate.

But as he thanked you for your kind gesture, he realized that the bond must have not snapped for you as it had for him. So he reluctantly went on with his day and when the sky darkened and stars awakened, he took a sip from the small vial. He had the best sleep of his life that night and dreamt about you.

The next morning he asked Rhysand and Feyre about what he had experienced because he couldn’t believe it himself. They confirmed his suspicions and they were both delighted. Feyre even more so as you were her dear friend.

She had taken it upon herself to bring you two together. Her first attempt was a family dinner. It was going well until Elain had spotted a spider and upon the small scream she let out, Nesta had rushed to kill it for her. Your distress was impossible to turn a blind eye to and Feyre quietly asked if you were alright.

“It didn’t need to die,” is all you quietly said, your eyes lined with silver.

Witches were one with nature and given your niche with herbs and creation, Azriel realized the depth of your admiration for all life that night. Then, another harrowing one. You were so innocent, so pure. He was guilty, hands tainted and stained red. He didn’t deserve you.

The Cauldron must’ve made a mistake.

Feyre was undeterred so she gave it another attempt, despite Azriel’s protest. She arranged a night out at Rita’s for the Inner Circle and invited you. Azriel didn’t plan on going but Rhysand had made sure his schedule was clear and when Feyre had sent him an image of you in a skin tight dress, he came as quickly as he could.

But it was too late.

He arrived to find a high fae leaning toward you in interest and you were smiling at him. A smile Azriel wanted reserved just for him. The male had placed a hand at your waist and Azriel felt his stomach churn when you laughed at something he had said. A sound he wished to be the cause of. You seemed happy and who was he to stand in your way?

The male was everything Azriel was not. Blond, blue eyed and perfectly smooth hands–hands that were all over you and welcomed by you. He unconsciously hid his scarred hands behind his back and when your gaze met his across the room, he looked away.

Azriel was not worthy of you. He didn’t deserve to have you as his mate. So he reminded himself that romance was not part of his duties and convinced himself that the Cauldron, had indeed, made a mistake.

He couldn’t bear the thought of being just a friend to you. The mere idea pained him so much that he pushed you away. He didn’t return to your apothecary when he finished the vial you’d given him–not even when his nights became restless again and dark circles appeared beneath his eyes. When he’d see you walking along the streets of Velaris, he’d turn the other away and when you would visit Feyre and he was there, he’d find an excuse to leave.

But there was one thing he couldn’t shake off–the primal instinct to protect you. It was the least he could do for you as he felt indebted to you for the Cauldron’s mistake.

So when he heard you needed an escort to the border between the Spring and Autumn courts, he was the first to volunteer, despite Mor and Cassian also offering.

It’s as if the ground beneath you comes to life in your presence. Birds fly over you, chirping and singing a beautiful melody. As you pass, buds blossom into beautiful flowers as if enchanted by you. Even the animals emerge from their hidden abodes. The squirrels playfully dart between branches while a family of deer gracefully emerges from the trees.

It becomes evident that nature itself is captivated by your presence. and it extends beyond nature, weaving its magic onto Azriel as well. It reaches into the very heart of the Shadowsinger, casting an enchanting spell that even he cannot escape.

A blue butterfly dances playfully around Azriel. It startles him, pulling him out of his trance and you can’t help the small laugh that escapes from you. You raise a finger and the butterfly lands on it softly.

“Hello, little one,” you coo softly. You turn to Azriel, holding out your finger to him. “Would you like to hold it?”

“No.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you scared of a butterfly?”

Azriel does not answer your question. Instead, his eyes dart around the forest that still stirs with liveliness around you. “What happened to keeping a low profile?”

“Sorry,” you apologize, even though it’s not your fault. The butterfly grants you one last flutter of its wings before flying away. “I can’t help but be admired by many.”

Azriel lets out a hum. You’re too distracted to pick up on the subtle resonance of agreement, your eyes widening as the meadow finally comes into view in the distance.

You inhale deeply, flooding your senses with the sweet and delicate fragrance surrounding you. Time seems to slow and your worries dissipate away as you kneel down, gently touching the soft sea of green, white and yellow. The gentle sway of the dandelions is mesmerizing almost, their feathery plumes catching the morning breeze like wishes aching to be set free.

Azriel watches you and his eyes are a reflection of an adoration deeper than any meadow bloom. There’s a bittersweet ache in his chest. You close your eyes, a serene expression on your face. Strands of sunlight weave through your hair, creating a halo of warmth and Azriel finds it hard to breathe when your lips bloom into a tender smile.

Your eyes open and meet his hazel eyes and suddenly, he’s looking away. He clears his throat, eyes looking around the field. “What’s so special about this place?” He asks, a desperate attempt to reclaim the distance between desire and reality.

“All life is a delicate balance of give and take. Spring brings forth new life and beauty, new beginnings. Autumn leaves showers of gold, recognizing the temporary nature of all things. “ You answer as if it's common knowledge and upon the bewildered expression on Azriel’s face, you offer the simpler explanation: “The soil between Spring and Autumn is very potent.”

“These are weeds. They’ll grow anywhere.” Azriel deadpans. He regrets it immediately at the slight frown that forms at his casual dismissal.

“You may see a weed,” you begin, plucking a single dandelion from the ground as you rise to your feet. You approach the Shadowsinger. “But I see wishes.”

You extend the dandelion to him with a softness in your eyes that he’s never been on the receiving end of. “They say a single dandelion possesses the power to grant one-hundred wishes. But their beauty lies in their resilience because when they fall apart, they simply start again. A reminder to us all of boundless hope.”

Azriel hesitates, his gaze fixed on the dandelion. His gloved fingers brush against yours and for a fleeting moment, he wonders what your skin would feel like against his. The mere thought dares to send a shiver through him but he swiftly pushes the thought away.

You smile at him as he carefully accepts the stem from you. His shadows remain dispersed around the field but from where he stands, he can feel them vibrating joyfully. Your smile is so bright, so dazzling and for the first time since he met you, it’s all for him.

A sudden warmth floods through him, a sensation he never anticipated, and he finds himself utterly captivated.

“Make a wish,” you whisper to him, your voice a gentle prompt that lingers in the air like a spell waiting to be cast.

Azriel is not one to believe in things like this but he finds himself surrendering to the magic of the moment. For you.

Under the tender gaze of a field of dandelions, he closes his eyes. He lets out a silent breath, and makes a wish. A breeze courses through you both in that moment. The dandelion’s wispy seeds take flight, unraveling into a fine constellation of possibilities.

The soft bristles of hope travel through the air and find their way to you and a laugh escapes from you in response to the tickling sensation as they caress your face.

Azriel’s heart feels strangely gentle–as if the weight that often accompanies his existence has momentarily dissipated. His entire body seems to soften in the glow of your laughter and a rare smile forms on his face.

He’s stuck in a trance, mesmerized by you, failing to catch the sounds of the creatures approaching.

Before he knows it, there are arrows whistling around you both. He barely has enough time to respond as one hisses by his ear and darts to you. He immediately raises his hand up, his shadows rushing to the rescue and forming a protective shield around you both.

Your eyes are wide as you stare at the tip of an arrow that is a couple of inches away from you. It’s coated with blood. Azriel’s blood.

Your breath hitches at the sight. There's an arrow embedded into his gloved hand and if it weren’t for Azriel’s other hand at the small of your back, you would’ve fallen backwards.

“Are you alright?” His gaze is examining you carefully, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

You blink at his words. “Are you alright?”

“Well, well, well.” A voice drawls followed by deep, rumbling growls from the hounds that surround you. They’re kept at bay by Azriel’s shadows. “What do we have here?”

Azriel turns around, ready to face the threat head on. His shadows remain at your side protectively. Some slither up and down your arms, their touch aimed at offering comfort and reassurance.

“Eris.”

The red head smirks and his teeth flash when he catches the sight of the Shadowsinger’s injured and bleeding hand. “My apologies,” Eris sneers. “If I had known it was you, I would’ve aimed for the heart.”

A sound escapes from you–one you didn’t know you were capable of making and you step out from the shadows. It draws Eris’s attention to you. His amber eyes drink you in and you feel Azriel stiffen beside you. The Autumn’s male’s eyes land on the obsidian necklace around your neck and they narrow.

“What is a witch doing in my lands?” His hounds that are still surrounding let out another growl, prompted by their master’s tone of voice. They snap their teeth menacingly.

But you’re unfazed.

Perhaps, it’s Azriel’s protective shadows or the overwhelming anger set alight by Eris’s words that grant you the confidence and push you forward. Your eyes fill with darkness, resembling a night sky without any stars and Azriel can feel the energy coursing through your veins as you call upon your magic.

“Keep wasting the air with that breath of yours and I might just cur–”

A hand comes over your mouth, stopping you from saying anything else and you’re being pulled flush into Azriel’s chest. You grimace at the taste of leather and squirm only for Azriel’s arms to tighten around you.

“Cute,” Eris remarks with a hint of amusement but there’s an unmistakable fear that flashes in his eyes for a short lived moment.

“We’re just passing through,” Azriel states, his voice void of emotion.

Eris observes you both in contemplative silence. He must discern something in Azriel that prompts him to stand down. With a thoughtful hum, he gracefully turns away. His hounds follow suit and as he walks away, he calls over his shoulders: “Make it quick.”

You watch as Eris disappears into the forest, still wrapped tightly in Azriel’s arms. It isn’t until Eris is completely out of view that you squirm again and without thinking, you bite on his gloved hand. Hard. Azriel flinches and finally releases his grip on you.

You turn to him with a glare that he returns.

“Threatening to curse the heir to Autumn? Are you out of your mind?”

“I should curse you for stopping me!” You exclaim, crossing your arms with a scowl. Your gaze then softens as you quietly add: “He hurt you.”

“Gods,” Azriel breathes, stepping away from you and tilting his head backwards. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t know what you do to me.”

“You mean besides piss you off by merely existing?” You huff as you snatch your bag away from him to get the jars you brought. “Can’t imagine it gets any worse than that.”

The walk to your apartment is silent and you begin to wonder if you should apologize for your outburst earlier. It was not within your nature to raise your voice at anyone…or harbor anger toward someone. But Eris had tried to hurt you, hurt Azriel and then shamelessly sneered about it.

Azriel follows you into your home, watching as you set the ingredients you collected down. He expects you to bid him farewell and kick him out but as you turn to him and your gaze falls to his injured hand, you sigh.

“Come on,” you offer, reaching out for his hand and he recoils. You frown. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

You know he’s lying by the way his jaw clenches and you can’t help but notice that he appears to be repelled by your touch. You almost laugh. “I promise I won’t curse you. I actually never cursed anyone before.”

Azriel’s expression remains unreadable.

“Just let me see. I can help you.”

“I’m fine.” He says through gritted teeth.

“You’re bleeding all over my floor.” You say in hopes to get him to accept your help and when it doesn’t, you cross your arms against your chest. “Do you really hate me that much? To be repulsed by my touch?”

“I don’t hate you.” Azriel confesses and his voice is much quieter, much softer when he speaks again. “I could never.”

Azriel holds your gaze in contemplation for a long moment. Out of the corner of your eyes, you can see his shadows pushing him toward you so you try again. This time, when you step forward, your hand reaching for him, he doesn’t pull away.

“Sit,” you tell him, nodding your head at one of the chairs in your kitchen.

With a hard swallow, he does. He is entirely still as you hold his gloved hand in yours. Even his shadows are eerily still as if holding their breath. His eyes are boring into you with an intensity that heats your skin. You bring your other hand up, a soft green glow emitting from your fingertips. With the help of your magic, you carefully take the arrow out, drawing a sharp gasp from him.

“Sorry,” you say, turning your attention to his glove next. You use your magic to remove it as well, not wanting to cause him any more pain or discomfort.

As the green mist of your magic dissipates, revealing the scarred skin beneath, your eyes widen. The scars are extensive, streaking around his fingers and the palm of his hand and the bleeding gash in the middle is nothing compared to them. You lift your gaze to meet his only to find his eyes are dead of emotion.

“Azriel.” You breathe and it’s the first time you’ve ever addressed him by his name and it sounds so pretty, so beautiful but the way you’re looking at him…

“Don’t.” His throat feels tight and he starts to withdraw his hand from yours but you stop him. You want to know who hurt him this deeply. Today was a day of firsts for you–first smile from Azriel, first time you ever felt so angry, first time you growled at someone and you were more than willing to add another first to that list. Cursing someone.

But Azriel looks like he’s about to break so you push your rage aside. Realization dawns on you as you now understand why he’s always wearing gloves around you, why he avoided you at all costs before. Your heart aches.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” you say softly as you begin to heal his hand. “Your scars may forever carry their stories with them but they do not define you. Your heart does and I can see it now. It’s bright and beautiful. You’re beautiful and–”

“y/n,” he almost begs. “Please don’t talk to me like that.”

The gash on his palm is now completely healed and you tighten your hold on it. “Why?”

“It’s cruel and heartless and you don’t even realize.” His voice drops to a pained whisper and his eyes are fluttering shut, body trembling. Shadows cling on to him, embracing him in an attempt to comfort their master. You’ve never beheld anything more heartbreaking.

“Do you think that lowly of me?” You begin, your voice quiet. “That I would be put off by your scars?”

When he doesn’t answer, your free hand reaches for his face, lifting his chin up. But his eyes are still closed and deep lines form on his forehead because your skin is so soft, so warm and he’s not worthy.

“Azriel,” you steady your breath. “You’re my mate.”

His eyes shoot open, hazel orbs glistening with tears as he looks up at you. “You know?”

“I’ve known since the moment I met you.” You confess with a pained smile. “I wanted to tell you right away but I didn’t want to scare you and when I was ready to tell you, you were avoiding me. I thought you hated me because, well, I’m a witch and not everyone is fond of them.”

“But that night at Rita’s–”

“My stupid attempt at making you jealous,” you explain to him sheepishly. “I thought it would prompt you to talk to me but it backfired immensely.”

Silence falls over you two.

“I’m sorry.”

Your eyebrows furrow. “For what?”

“For being your mate.” Azriel responds. “I don’t deserve you. My hands are not only scarred but stained red. I’ve tortured many. I’ve killed many. You value life but I take it.”

“I value innocent life. It’s my duty to protect nature–to protect those that cannot speak for themselves.” You clarify. “I understand that it’s your duty to protect this court. I don’t see you any different for it.”

The hand at his face drops and you use it to remove the glove from his other hand. Your hands grasp onto his larger ones and you lace your fingers with his, embracing the thickened and roughened skin. Azriel’s breath hitches.

“This can’t be real,” he murmurs to himself, dropping his gaze. “In that field of dandelions, I wished upon every one of them. For you.”

“Magic doesn’t work that way,” you tell him with a smile as an overwhelming rush of tenderness comes over you. “It cannot create or destroy love. It can only heighten what is already there.”

Azriel’s expression softens and he looks back up at you. Half terrified. Half hopeful. “So this is real?”

You decide to show him instead by leaning down and kissing him.

Azriel’s body relaxes and then he’s using his hands to tug you forward and onto his lap. He kisses you back. Deeply and desperately. He places his hands on your face, your neck and then they’re at your waist, slipping under your shirt. He wants to feel your skin, all of you and you welcome it, arching into him because his touch feels so good.

It stirs a light of desire in you–a desire so bright that it rivals the sun and blossoms flowers of its own. A desire to love and be loved.

“What else did you wish for?” You gasp out when you both pull away for air. His hands are right under the curve of your chest and he leans his forehead against yours.

His breath is heavy but he smiles at you and you engrave the image into your mind because you’ve never seen anything so beautiful. You’re inclined to ask Feyre to paint it for you later.

“My only wish was for you to be mine.” He confesses, pressing a kiss to your nose.

“Done.”

And then he’s kissing you again.

Azriel has heard of a love that comes once in a lifetime–he’s seen it come to his brothers. He never thought it would come to him but he’s pretty sure that you are that love of his and he was a fool to push it away. He knows this now because when he gazes into your eyes, he can see forever in them.

here's an alternate scene, where y/n is the one who says "please don't talk to me like that" instead of az: read here

here's a scene if you're curious about feyre's reaction: read here

if you're interested in reading more about this au you can find the masterlist for this series here

#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel imagine #azriel fluff #azriel angst #azriel acotar #azriel fanfic #azriel shadowsinger #acotar imagine #acotar x reader #azriel x y/n #acotar x you #az!dandelions

3K notes · View notes