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studioeisa · 2 months ago

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the unabridged journals of sylvia plath, sylvia plath • love, eileen chang • we have always lived in the castle, shirley jackson • wasteland, baby!, hozier • lemony snicket • charles bukowski • a visitor to a museum (1989) • eurydice, sarah rul

wasteland, baby! | x.mh

⭐starring: xu minghao 💌 genre: angst | wc: 1.4k 💬preview: they say love can cure infection.

cw/tw: character death, heavy angst, true love and soulmate trope, descriptions of suffering and wounds, a countdown of time, apocalyptic world

🪽fic rating: pg

☁️ masterlist & a/n: i only have one thing to say: @studioeisa (kae), this one’s for you. thank you so much to @lovetaroandtaemin (ally) and @chanranghaeys (haneul) for beta reading <3

now playing: wasteland, baby! by hozier

this is an addition to the angst olympics: click here to read the masterlist!

They say love can cure infection.

Scratch that—true love can cure infection.

The silent countdown had started in Minghao’s head five minutes after the first bite. It burned and smelled of rotten flesh, as he peeled back his tattered shirt to reveal the charred teeth marks embedded in the side of his chest.

Minghao keeled over and threw up at the sight. What was the longest survival rate for infection again? Minghao couldn��t think straight.

Right. 10 measly days.

As he stumbled out of the ruins and onto the grassy field surrounding him, Minghao tried to gather his bearings. Turning left, towards the oncoming horizon, would take him back to base—towards the medics and his best chance of survival.

But Minghao was never an avid believer of science. He knew the millions of dollars the government had put into finding the cure was a hoax.

10 days to live. The countdown in his mind ticked on.

Minghao stubbornly turned right and began his trek to you.

“You love me, right?” Minghao’s battered and bruised face enters your line of sight. His lips are cracked and tinted with blood, his left eye sporting colors of purple and blue—yet he had never looked more handsome.

“I do.” It was a fact, as plain as could be.

“Then we have nothing to worry about.”

Minghao was resilient and strong-willed, all great characteristics for surviving the ongoing spread of disease, a strange infection that was eradicating humanity, nation by nation. He had ranked top of his class in the military, and his commanding officer had given him a 98% chance of survival.

But Minghao was also filled with misguided hope and optimism. And that cut his chance of survival down to 0.03%.

After all, the infection was brutal, cruel, and left no space for such futile things.

“Of course.” You reply, threading your grimy fingers through his own blackened ones. “We’ve got true love on our side.”

Your commanding officer had given you a 78% chance of survival. You were a realist, weak-willed but full of wit and life. Then he had given one glance at the way you looked at Minghao and changed your chance to 0.01%.

The infection might have no space for hope and optimism, but it actively choked out love.

9 days. Minghao had always been a patient person, yet with his journey still leading nowhere close to you, he began to panic.

He used to laugh at the prospect of dying, saying he’d welcome death with open arms and laugh in his face. But everyone says they’ve made peace with death until it’s actually time to go. Minghao stares at death’s face before falling asleep, and the laughter chokes down his throat.

He passes fields of flowers and drying grass on his trek towards you, the sun beating down torturously on his back. He stops only to sleep.

He sees your face in his dreams.

8 days. Fighting past a pack of the undead barely drained his energy. He plows on, through the snaking river and across the rickety wooden bridge.

He hallucinates your figure walking ahead of him and nearly falls in the water trying to reach you.

“Y/N!” He calls, and the birds on the trees fly off from the sound. It echoes, and Minghao is suddenly too aware of how he is utterly alone for miles.

He watches as you run towards the edge of the bridge, your summer dress flowing in the wind. You lean over, and his heart catches in his lungs.

He’s about to warn you to be careful, but you turn and smile, and Minghao’s brain goes quiet. No loud thoughts. No annoying drone. No hum.

“Come look.” You beckon to him with your hand. The ring on your finger catches the light and glitters. It becomes the only thing he can focus on. You bring him next to you, and he watches the ducks follow their mother home on the rippling water.

He blinks and remembers the waters have long since been dry.

7 days or so. Minghao can feel that he’s close to home, to you. He wonders for a moment if you’re missing him, and a weak laugh escapes from him. What a silly thought. Of course you miss him too.

The landscape around him has transitioned from the drying fields to a cracked desert. He’s parched but hardly feels it. One foot in front of the other. Again, again.

Minghao counts down the days left in his life and when he can see you.

6 days, or is it 5? He can hardly remember anymore. He whispers your name in his sleep, his lips cracked and his throat as dry as the world around him.

He counts the amount of breaths he takes and wishes he could store them in a bottle for later. He doesn’t know how much of those he has left.

He feels your fingers run through his hair like phantom pains.

“We’ll see each other again.” He had promised you before leaving. “I’ll return to you.”

You nodded, running your hands through his growing hair. “I’ll be waiting.”

One of the undead growls from behind him and interrupts your parting. Minghao barely flinches when you aim your pistol over his shoulder, and a gunshot rings out.

You frown up at him. “That could’ve killed you.”

He smiles. “But you had my back. You always do.”

“I won’t be with you out there.” You shake your head at his easy going nature.

He presses a firm kiss to each of your hands. “Don’t worry about me. I beat you in training, didn’t I?”

You nod. He wraps his arms around your waist and holds you close.

Neither one of you mentions how 97.8% of people who leave the encampment don’t ever return.

Minghao hates statistics. They’re never in his fucking favour.

4 days. Minghao continues to walk, ignoring the fact that he’s utterly lost. Somewhere along his journey he had lost nearly half of his vision, and he could no longer see more than a few steps ahead of him.

He could feel it so very clearly that he was dying.

“It’s just wasteland, baby.” Minghao murmured into your hair as the two of you laid down on your bunk. “Just wasteland.”

“I miss all the pretty things we used to have.”

He hums. “You’re the prettiest thing in this wasteland, baby.”

You laugh, smacking his arm gently. “That’s cheesy.”

He laughs too. “No, but I’m being serious. The world might be ending, but at least it’s ending with me next to you.”

“Just wasteland.” You echo his words from before. His finger draws circles on your arm. “True love can cure infection, anyways.”

That was his lifeline. He had to believe reaching you could save him.

Minghao stopped to gather his bearings. He turned around. It was a wasteland all around.

3 days.

“Minghao!” He hears his name coming from you and spins around to greet you. He spins too fast and stumbles, falling to his knees.

“Y/N?” It comes out as a hoarse whisper, barely uttered. “Y/N?”

He wants to believe you’ve come out to find him– that you’ve met him halfway, because he knew he was nowhere near home.

Minghao uses the last of his energy to raise his head up towards the sky. The clouds are dark and unmoving. He doesn’t see you.

He doesn’t move.

2 days.

You’re waiting by the castle tower. You haven’t moved from your spot on the lookout for the last 5 days, eagerly looking out towards the stretch of barren land for your lover.

“He’s not coming back.” Someone gently places a hand on your shoulder.

You raise your gun as a warning. “Shut up.”

They leave.

You keep waiting.

1 day left.

Minghao gets up from his spot on the desert floor. He keeps walking. He walks and walks until he sees the outline of a decrepit castle.

You see him from afar before his face is even visible. It’s a speck of a person, stumbling towards the castle, their steps uncoordinated and slow.

You squint, and you can’t tell if it’s really him.

You run out to meet him. Just in case. You know from the way he’s moving that something’s wrong. You know you’re the only one who can save him. If it really is him.

You skid to a stop a few meters away.

An undead stares back at you and continues to walk closer. He has the growing locks of hair and eyes of your lover.

And for the first time, you don’t raise your gun.

#(📑) library #glaring at the 'this one's for you' like this wasn't a direct land #talked about this with someone but there's just something inherently. wrenching. about apocalypse-adjacent fics #the talk of numbers and statistics absolutely bowled me over--the deterioration and the hallucinations and the . the whole journey #i know this is a wasteland fic but 'crawling back to you' hozier cover of AM.. yeah. yeah. anyway. i digress #this felt a bit like spending the entire fic peeking/reading through my eyes for the inevitable #breathed a shaky sigh of relief at the ending; is that not a sort of love in itself #the odds are bad and the person is a shell of who they used to be but #but if the g*n is in your hand and the one you love is infront of you. does the bullet have anywhere to go?#this fic poured me empty and now i'm staring at the walls like i might find an answer in the plaster lmaooo #serena. i will remember this.#but also: if the world ever devolved to chaos like this? i too would be crawling back to you #bad vision and fragmented memories and infection and all. i adore you <3

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torpublishinggroup · 1 year ago

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alexispunkkk · 1 month ago

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no mercy in seattle

- pairing: dark!tommy miller x fem!reader

- summary: on tommy’s rampage in seattle after the death of his brother, he needs a way to get his anger out. he uses you as his outlet, taking his emotions out in the best way he knows—sex.

- warnings: rough sex, cussing, unprotected piv, dark!tommy, dubcon, boot riding, boot humping, oral sex, spanking, face slapping, spitting, hair pulling, manhandling, creampie, mentions of murder and guns blah blah blah, joels sooo dead sorry

- word count: 5.1k

- weird mix between the game/show plots adjusted for this. anyway i wrote this in protest against the show writers because where tf is tommy!!! jesse says he’s in seattle with him but they’re not even gonna show me my man?? need him picking off the hoes one by one at the wlf with a sniper. soooo here u go here’s tommy’s deserved vengeful journey

based on this ask | on ao3 | masterlist

For Tommy, mornings don’t exist in Seattle. Not anymore. There’s no sunrise, no one to wake him up. Not Joel, obviously, not Ellie, not Dina, and not you.

Just sudden jerks out of sleep where his hand automatically reaches halfway to his gun, his breath caught in alarm. He’s endlessly alert and anxious, alone, every noise sounding suspiciously like footsteps and every little rustle in the woods like someone’s about to take a shot at him.

He sleeps in fragments: an hour there, and another thirty minutes on occasion–never in the same place twice. Temporary safehouses, abandoned rooftops and buildings. He misses having a real bed. Especially the part where he’d have someone next to him.

Everything is covered in moss, rain leaking through cracks and soaking into his jacket, pooling by his thick boots. He doesn’t care much, though.

He’s a smart guy. A good hunter. When he moves, it’s silent and calculated–each move is normally from a vantage point, though. Seattle is a fucking maze of concrete and glass and vines and rot that invade the city. And the damned Washington Liberation Front patrol it like they own it. They’re well-armed and well-fed, something Tommy can’t afford or handle all by himself out here.

So, he watches from above. Behind the scope of his gun, he watches. Never hesitating.

He takes them clean out, one by one. One shot, one body. Quick, clean, never caught by the others. Another shot.

It’s not for trophies, but simple revenge–he gets closer, mind searching aimlessly for the names reported by Dina on the day that his brother died.

The list burned into his soul like a brand on the hyde of Jackson’s cattle, giving him the motivation to keep cleaning the WLF off in hopes to find one girl in particular. He moves silently and quickly, gone before they can catch sight of the figure taking them out one by one.

But, every time he thinks he’s found a trail, it went cold. Every time he gets close enough, they slip away in time and it becomes harder–he feels like he’s being hunted in return. Being played. Has to ration his ammo so, so meticulously. Three bullets for his rifle, two for emergency. Every shot counted with Tommy.

The same goes for his food: little pieces of jerky that he ripped up and chewed while his eye remained in his scope. Ate in silence, slept with a shiv clutched in his hand and his rifle right next to him.

All the while, the ghost of his brother followed him. Not in body, but in the quiet of the city.

Tommy sees Joel in the corner of his vision, egging him on to find Abby and end it. He hears his grumbled laugh in the rustling leaves, his flannels in the cold air when it rains. Seattle is a rainy place. It worsens it.

Sure, it kept him motivated in his killings. But moreover, it kept him angry. Not just the fact that he’s gone, but how it happened. The mere sight of a golf club drives him off the wall nowadays, and he rages in silence.

When he does take a shot, it’s quiet, but it’s not exactly clean. He’s taking them out, destroying them. Knees, throats, headshots. Watched their blood boom and splatter across concrete from over a hundred yards away, but it still didn’t feel like enough. Not enough for the taking of Joel.

Not even close.

There are days his hands still shake, days he punches walls if he misses a shot, or if he catches the scent of something in the air that reminds him a little too much of his older brother. The guilt swallows him whole, bringing him into a mindless pit of rage and vindictiveness.

It’s not resentment that he has for the WLF–it’s genuine loathing.

So, when three familiar figures show up, he’s acting a bit different.

Ellie and Dina allowed you to tag along to Seattle with them, trusting you enough with your knowledge of weaponry and hunting. Thanks to Tommy for teaching you, of course.

The three of you have been doing surprisingly well, beginning your arrival with a stay downtown: searching synagogues and courthouses and banks before landing yourselves in a hotel. There were dead bodies–not many infected–but of soldiers and humans.

Tommy’s doing.

Naturally, there are instances that put your group in grave danger, but you make it out decently. An elementary school, news station, tunnels, a theater. Clickers and runners and more bodies, a horse that had once been Tommy’s as well, and lots of Ellie’s guitar playing.

On the third day, Dina isn’t feeling too hot. Finding Tommy would be the best decision right now, in equal importance to finding Abby. In a mix of luck and the opposite, your group clashes with him in the Seattle Waterfront Aquarium.

In a frenzy where Ellie had managed to successfully kill both Mel and Owen, leaving her with a panic attack due to the now-dead woman’s unknown pregnancy, he shows up behind her and prompts you all to leave. Always a pragmatic thinker.

The reckless first three days, thankfully, did leave you back in the hands of your Tommy. The same tanned, flirtatious man you once knew now ruined by the guilt of his brother’s passing and having to strip himself of sleep and life in order to kill civilians over and over in a ruthless rampage of revenge.

His eyes, once a soft brown, seem darker, flicking over you in silence. When Ellie and Dina were around, his mouth opened like he might say more, but he doesn’t. Couldn’t.

The air stretches thickly between the two of you as if waiting for something, but the energy is off. Your sweet, caring man now tortured with a lack of sleep and too much violence, even for him. That says a lot, considering his days as a combat veteran in the Gulf War and the strenuous times spent hunting infected ever since the outbreak.

He’s always been the strongest man you know, ever since the two of you met in Jackson a few years back. Goes on every patrol without a word of complaint, gets over serious injuries like they’re simply papercuts, can take out six clickers in a row without the blink of an eye or a breath harsher than the last.

Hell, he’s handled bloaters by himself before.

But something about him seems different–not only in the sense that he’s tired and sick of killing, but he’s truly hurting.

You know Joel’s death got to him. Badly. He and his brother were so close growing up, stuck together for years at the start of the outbreak. Tommy was there for him when Sarah passed, when he lost hearing in one ear from a missed shot to his own head. They hunted in Boston together, took the lives of so many. A strong bond.

So you have a basic understanding of his drive for revenge. You certainly didn’t know it could reach this extent, though.

The theater door clicks shut, the sound echoing longer than it should’ve when Ellie and Dina head out for a bit on a supply run. That was their excuse, at least–it was probably because they could feel the tension and the way Tommy was about to unravel.

For a long second, you just stand there and watch him from across the room.

It’s the first time the two of you are alone since he left, and as much as you missed him, you’re a little scared. You feel bad, obviously, but you’re terrified for him. He’s seemingly going insane right now, looking incredibly tired. A big gash on his hand from accidentally grabbing his knife too quickly, hair plastered to his neck, jacket soaked and rain-damaged.

His back is to you, crouched beside a bench while he unstraps his gear and sets his guns down for once.

“Tommy��” you take a breath, stepping closer and putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. He’s literally radiating fury in the form of heat, seething profusely with each breath.

He doesn’t answer yet, just stands. Slowly. Too slowly. It doesn’t feel like your Tommy.

He turns around, and it feels like it hits you in the chest this time. His face is hollowed out, wrenched with exhaustion. His eyes are bruised and sunken in, his jaw clenched so tightly that you can see the veins of muscles tick. Not just grief, like you would’ve expected out of a normally soft-spoken man.

It’s fury. Bare and red seething rage curled under his skin, eating him from the inside out.

“Can’t do this shit anymore,” he begins, voice rough and gravelly. He hasn’t spoken in a few days now, and he’s severely dehydrated. “I can’t—fuckin’ can’t.”

You step forward carefully, as if approaching a wild animal, unknowing if it’s docile or not.

“Tommy.”

Your fingers slide from his shoulder to his arm, working down gently until reaching his hand. It’s the same hand you always hold, the same soft and big fingers that have graced and worshipped every part of your body back in Jackson. Just now, hardened by a week in the wilderness without access to much clean water or resources other than his need for carnage.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. That look on his face. And I swear to God—” he cuts you off, swivelling around to grab the back of a chair and slam it into the ground. The wood splinters under his grip, two of the legs breaking off entirely as the piece of furniture hits the surface.

“Could fuckin’ kill every one of ‘em with my bare hands.” He resumes, turning back around after the crash of the chair. His chest heaves. “Still wouldn’t be enough.”

You’ve never seen him so angry. You didn’t know he had the capacity to be so angry. Back home, he’s all sweet and southern–a townsman, good with the animals and kids. Never yells. Jokes and flirts his way out of situations.

Now, his eyes are dark and bloodshot. Genuinely wildlike.

“Tommy,” you repeat, trying to calm him down. It’s the first time you’ve seen him in a while, so you want it to be nice–but his mind is racing. “C’mon, hon’. Calm down a bit. We can sit. Take a break.”

“No.” He scoffs, breath picking up quickly as his chest rises up and down. Deep, dense heaves that he can’t control.

“I’m losin’ my mind out here, baby,” he rasps, shaking his head and beginning to pace around the room, trying to keep from looking at you while his pants start to feel just a little bit tighter. “I’ve been out here alone, killin’ and hunting and shit. None of it’s fuckin’ changing anything.”

He steps forward now. Fast and desperate. He smells differently than usual, that usual clean cedar adjacent scent replaced by an unwashed musk and the acrid scent of gunpowder lingering on the fabric of his jacket. He’s a little gross and smells faintly of the mildew that comes alongside heavy rain, but he’s still your Tommy. Your poor, tortured, grieving, angry Tommy.

“You get it?” He asks, grabbing your face. Rough and needing as ever. “I’m gonna explode and I can’t—-I don’t know where to put it. Don’t know where the fuck to put it.”

You nod. No, you don’t really understand. But you’ll always do anything for him.

“I know,” you respond, voice hardly above that of a whisper.

Tommy only stares at you like he doesn’t fully believe you, like he needs you to prove it.

“Don’t need any talkin’,” his forehead presses hard against yours, breathing coming out in pants now with your face this close against his own–his breath isn’t the freshest, either. Jerky and days without brushing. He gets a pass, though.

His hands slip down to your hips, holding onto you for dear life. He’s always been one for constant consent, but now his eyes are asking all that he needs. After all, he did just say he doesn’t need you talking.

“Please. Tell me you want this. Just need something that ain’t anger right now.” He gasps when you nod and rut against his hips in return, taking that as a pathetic excuse for consent.

“Tell me I can have you right now before I lose it and don’t ask.”

You don’t speak. Just pull him in. And he completely breaks in that moment after one of the worst weeks of his life.

The threat of not asking gets your heart racing, showing how badly the trip has really treated him. The Tommy you know wouldn’t even be able to conjure up that thought, but he’s filled with such unfathomable rage and frustration that he physically needs a place to dump it. Luckily, your pussy is up for offer.

Your back hits the wall with a hard thud, the cracking plaster of the theater catching your shirt and tugging it up to expose your stomach as his body presses flush into yours. His breath is hot against your neck, raising the baby hairs on the back of it and eliciting a flush all the way up to your cheeks.

“Fuck,” he hisses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You don’t get what you’re fuckin’ doing to me right now. What you are to me.”

His hands are everywhere in seconds, rough and dirty palms ghosting up your sides and moving the shirt further. He fully untucks it from your belt, shamelessly forcing his hands up the fabric and snaking around to reach the familiar clasp of your bra.

He’s done it a million times, but somehow manages to get it off faster than any previous attempt. The fabric hits the ground while his mouth trails up to your ear, front teeth nibbling at the dangling bit of your sensitive earlobe.

There’s no foreplay like usual. No finesse. Just want and frustration.

Raw, filthy, desperate need.

He bites down, hard, right after moving his set of teeth to the base of your throat. Your gasp makes him almost snarl, grinning and breathing out the filthiest noises onto the skin he’d nearly ripped through with the force of his jaw.

“That’s it.” He mutters, voice meaner now. He tries again, sinking his teeth into the area above your collarbone, leaving a sticky patch of saliva where he’d also left his mark. “Like it when I’m mean. Fuckin’ slut getting off to me bein’ angry about my brother.”

He’s never talked to you like this before. Never even been close to something that resembles an attitude with you. But here you are, growing wetter at the sound of his mumbling and yelling after a rough week.

“Tommy–” your hand curls into the bottom hem of the damp flannel under his coat, fingers barely grazing the hot skin on his lower belly that lies under.

“Nuh-uh.” He growls, forcing your legs apart with his knee and shoving his thigh between yours. It locks you in place, his hands grinding you down on the thick, meaty stretch of thigh enough to make you whimper. “Think I’m gonna be soft on you? After what they did to Joel?”

His voice cracks again. His head dips with a grunt, forehead pressing hard into your shoulder, arms wrapping around your waist to keep himself from falling apart. His chest is heaving, and he’s gripping onto you like you’re physically keeping him alive and intact right now.

“Could be out there killin’ someone. Finding the bitch who did it to my brother.” Tommy laughs, one hand moving from your waist to your jaw, tilting that pretty head back to look up at him.

He kisses you, absolutely devours you in one go–like you’re air after he’s been drowning. A lifeline. His tongue is hot, teeth clashing carelessly into yours. His hands yank at your clothes until the shirt you’re wearing joins your bra on the ground and your belt is half unbuckled. Doesn’t pay any mind to seams or buttons like usual.

“But I’m here with you, yeah? So you gotta make it good. Give me something, baby.”

He says between kisses, slightly guilting you into helping him out. It’s not that you don’t want to, but the delivery is so strangely unlike Tommy. Fuck it, though. You’re admittedly a slut for him–you take any chance to get on your knees.

Each movement is loud and chaotic as he pushes you to your knees, already grabbing your head of hair in one hand and twisting it up into a makeshift ponytail–or a grip, in his case.

The man’s belt is off in seconds, discarded to the ground before you can even acknowledge what’s going on. The waistband of his jeans drops, hitting the floor quietly. Before you know it, his hand is on your jaw, forcing your head back while his thumb finds your lips to part them.

His tip comes in contact with your lips, smearing the sticky residue of precum on the pink surface of them. It’s been too long since he’s felt them on him.

“Fuck, you’re takin’ it. C’mon now, open up.”

You obediently open, parting both of your lips to allow room for his puffy, sensitive head to slip in. At the simple feeling of your wet, warm mouth, he groans. Head falls back, hips stuttering pathetically. To come back to the feeling of a familiar, welcoming mouth on his cock after the worst week of his life was the best feeling.

Normally, Tommy would allow you to do the work on your own. Meaning you would hold his hips, go at your own pace, take as long as you’d like with the tip versus the shaft.

Tonight, though? Oh no. He’s not waiting. The hand gripping your hair tightens mercilessly, yanking your head toward his body, his thick cock sinking deep into your throat without warning.

“Mmphm—” you try your best to mumble to tell him to slow down, but he’s already thrusting. In, out. Using your mouth like some useless ten dollar pocket pussy. Saliva is dripping from the corners of your fucked-out mouth, groans escaping from the depths of your throat each time he hit it.

“Fuck, take it. Lemme use ya,’ honey.” Tommy groans, yanking your head again until he’s balls deep between your lips, your nose buried in his graying bush of pubic hair.

He’s too distracted by the overwhelming feeling of having this after a tortuous week, getting a break for his own pleasure. From his girl. His perfect girl who’d do anything for him.

So, he doesn’t quite pick up on the rustling beneath him.

While you’re taking his dick as far back into your throat as possible without gagging, you’re getting wet. As you do. He’s right–you are a slut for him. He’d already undone your belt, so it wasn’t that much work to get the rest off.

You managed to shimmy your pants off, leaving you in a pair of dangerously wet black panties. The pooling in them soon transferred onto leather while your aching pussy came in contact with Tommy’s boots. Grinding softly at first, just to relieve the tingling.

In a mere thirty seconds, it became more than gentle grinding. Oops. You’re losing focus on the cock in your mouth because of the feeling of his hard, dirty boot against your sensitive cunt. Even through the fabric, it was fucking orgasmic. You haven’t seen him in a whole week. You’re clearly needy, is that so bad?

“Baby,” Tommy whines petulantly when your usually skilled mouth starts to lose its practiced technique, giving your face a soft slap.

His eyes finally open, drifting down to take in the sight of him between your lips. One of his favorites. Instead, his eyes draw downward further to the desperate movement of your hips.

He raises an eyebrow and snorts, gripping your jaw again and fucking your face harder. Forceful, now. It does hurt a bit, the muscles of your jaw aching as much as your poor pussy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he begins, shaking his head scornfully. “What’chu doin,’ huh?”

You whine and feel a few pathetic tears slip when he uses your throat more.

Tommy doesn’t stop at the tears, but does manage to get his hips to still when you gag much harder this time. Sure, he’s angry right now, but he’s not evil. He knows your limits.

“M’kay. I know, I know. Fine.”

Pulling his cock out of your mouth slowly, he groans at the sight of the long string of saliva that connects the two. Sticky and stringy, stretching out a few inches before falling back and dribbling down your chin. His hand reaches out, rubbing a bit of it off and cleaning his thumb in his own mouth.

“Y’can’t take it? Gaggin’ already?”

He belittles you, bringing his hand back down to the right side of your face. He rubs it, gentle for a quick second, before drawing his palm back and meeting the cheek with a slap. Not the hardest, but enough to leave a mark. Just a little bit of his frustration escaping.

“M’sorry.” You begin, but Tommy’s shaking his head in disappointment.

“Usually better than this. Usually waitin’ your turn all good and proper, not gettin’ yourself off on my boot like that.”

Your cheeks burn in embarrassment. You didn’t think he noticed the grinding on his shoe. Somehow.

Tommy tuts, shaking his head and rubbing the reddening patch on your cheek he’d just hit. It burns so good, a hot feeling rising in the stinging skin the same way it was rising in your stomach while you got yourself off on his foot like a slut.

“Can’t wait, huh? Just had to? That it?” He grumbles, thumb dipping down between your lips and parting them yet again. There’s still a drop of precum on the corner, some saliva dribbling down. He likes the look of you, all spent and messy like this.

“Guess so.” You answer quietly, mouth opening for him when he spreads the two lips.

Without saying anything else, Tommy takes a moment to collect some saliva in the warmth of his mouth. He swishes it around, lips puckering up before opening as he spits right into your now-opened jaw.

It catches you off guard. But you take it, feeling guilty you couldn’t even finish off the head earlier out of your own neediness distracting you. You remain on those knees like a good girl, staring up at him patiently with the gob of his saliva pooling in your mouth, his thumb on your chin.

He raises his eyebrows, just testing you like a fucking asshole right now. Waits too long, a good ten seconds, before nodding.

Obediently, you swallow it, eyes shutting as you savor the taste of his spit after too long.

“M’kay, up, baby.” Tommy nods in approval again, hands slipping under your armpits in order to hoist you up.

He’s always been able to manhandle you so easily, and you love it. The fact that he can pick you up, toss you around, make you his, without you being able to do anything about it. Yum. He’s so muscled and just large, especially his hands. Vascular, thick, hardened from work like all of him is.

You’re in his arms for a few seconds before he finds a little chest to sit down on, grunting while he sits back and sets you down on his lap. Your legs come around his hips, straddling him, your body resting on top of his.

“Might as well give ya’ what’chu want. Clearly not doin’ me good being apart from you.”

His hand comes down your back, feeling the soft plunge of the dimples on the small of it. He rubs your soft skin, slipping up under the shirt he’d previously pulled up, before his hand moves lower. It comes in contact with your ass, the little black panties not giving your skin much protection.

A loud slap sound snaps in the air, louder than the one to your face earlier. It draws a whimper out of you, making you bury your little head in his sweaty neck.

Tommy chortles, rubbing the spot and tapping it a few times.

“Fuckin’ mess. Whimperin’ and shit.”

Another slap, and then he eases up. Your whimpers make him feel bad about it–the sounds of actual pain. But, on the down low, they’re making his cock stand up more.

You’re shifting around, trying to get it to hit perfectly against your clit through the fabric. No luck, though, as his hands come to still your waist.

“Uh-uh. M’doing this tonight. Sit still for me.”

Tommy advises, raising his eyebrows while he gives your right hip another tap of reassurance. You can hardly sit still, even with his hands keeping you in place. Pathetic. Today, there’s no gentleness like the Tommy you know. Just fervor and need. Absolutely raw and heightened by his anger.

He lifts your thighs, turning you around, so you’re in his lap and facing forward. Your back is turned to him, hair tousled from his grip in it earlier, shirt pulled up and bra discarded. Oops.

“Gonna sit and take it for me. Lemme’ use you, hon’.”

His voice is rough in your ear, hand snaking around your waist to the front of your body. It works up your shirt more, moving upward to grip your breasts tightly. His other hand carelessly scoops beneath your thighs, pulling the fabric of your panties to the side.

No, he’s not taking them off. Not enough care for that. Just gonna do what he knows he needs.

Your pussy is exposed to the warm air of the abandoned theater, pressed down on the skin of his hair thighs. His hand spreads your legs, finding your folds and humming at the feeling of how wet you are.

“Goddamn. Soaked.” He snorts, tapping at your clit pitilessly. It’s tortuously teasing, making you gasp and writh. “All cause I’m angry, huh, baby? Likin’ that?”

You nod and lean your head back, not even listening. Already cock dumb, and he hasn’t put it in yet.

“Fuckin’ slut. C’mon, now. Up for me.” Tommy lifts you so he can slip his cock under you, pressing it between your slick folds. “Fuck.”

The two of you both moan, hips moving in practiced unison to rub together for utmost pleasure without penetration. You usually both withstand teasing for a bit, so you’re expecting more of the pussy job, but he’s not wasting time.

Tommy sinks in, sliding his thick shaft right into you without any issues. So soaked, so excited that you’re all opened up and pulsing for it.

“Ah, baby. Wet as shit tonight.”

His hands both find your hips, watching your ass jiggle each time he thrusts up between your legs. He’s pressing you down on him, minimizing the amount of space possible between your two sweaty bodies.

“Tommy.” You whine out, leaning your head back and trying to fall back into his body for comfort.

“Uh-uh. Lean forward, honey.” He growls, pushing you forward and tightening his grip on your hips to ensure you stay like that–it’s the deepest angle, after all.

In seconds, you’re fucked out. You have no clue what he’s saying, but you pick up on the occasional mumble while he slams in and out of you.

“Take it all. Every fuckin’ inch, baby.”

“M’not okay. Only thing holding me together is you.”

“Fuckin’ hell–look at you. Look.”

“Should’ve been me they took. Not Joel.”

“Gon’ kill that motherfucker.”

It's an almost sad range of pure neediness to grief for his brother, the rage shining through yet again while his brain unravels. His thrusts get more reckless, the grip on your hips bruising with each.

And soon, he was close.

You feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his fingers dig in tighter as if you’d disappear.

“Fuck–” he rasps, voice torn. “Fuck, baby. Can’t…can’t hold it.”

The anger dissipates as need numbs his mind, forehead dropping to your shoulder. His sweat-slick skin rubs and burns against yours.

Tommy is panting entirely, shaking now. His rhythm falters, picks up harder and rougher, all until your breath catches in sync with his and your knees nearly give out.

“Too good. Oh.” He growls into your ear, speeding up impossibly and closing any distance left between your crotches until he’s bottomed out, hardly moving.

His teeth graze your neck, eliciting a moan from your throat. And that’s it.

Tommy snaps, a pained and guttural sound ripping from his own throat. He slams into you a final time, hips jerking in brutal strokes. You feel his entire body tense, but the hot pulse of his cum spilling inside you calms the two of you down.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t want to. He can’t.

He can bury himself there for days and stay right where he is if he could. He could live in your sweet little spent pussy if it meant he wouldn’t have to go back out and find those fuckers who murdered his brother.

But no, Joel takes his mind again. This time, it’s less of rage, more of sadness. Guilt for going too rough out of anger.

His hands are fisted in your hair, jaw clenched like he’s trying to fight something. They both loosen up and he shakes his head, slowly pulling out and wrapping an arm around you.

“Shit.” He whispers, panting into your ear. “I’m sorry, baby. But fuck, I needed that.”

He presses a gentle kiss to the back of your neck, returning for a bit to the Tommy that you know.

“S’okay. I get it, you’re mad. Understandable.” You respond, turning in his lap and tucking your head in his neck. You’re straddling him now, kissing the soft skin wherever you can reach and stroking his hair.

He stays like that, rage finally quieted by your presence, his arms wrapped around you.

For now, at least.

@xodilfluvr @lowrisemiller @exqorcism @idkwhylou @thesecretdiaryofnoah @ssssc0m @ilovetoomanymen @darknight3904 @tokkiotears @vrstppnfcb @itwas-maroon16 @valentineispunk @pearlessance @moonchild-143 @randomstuffndstuff @millersdoll @d0uwannkn0w @grayandthyme @pedropascalshubby @mani-pedro @thaliagracesgf @userdarkholme @sweetmonsters @heyitsmirae @ohhoneypascal @joelscowgirl69 @mylittlebleedingheart

#tommy miller fanfiction #tommy miller smut #tommy miller fic #tlou tommy #tommy miller #joel the last of us #the last of us #tlou fic #tlou hbo #tlou fanfiction #ellie williams #dina woodward #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #gabriel luna #pedro pascal #fanfic #smut #manhandling

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sukirichi · 1 year ago

Text

WHEN I SEE YOU AGAIN | G. SATORU x READER

You’ve been pretending not to see ghosts your whole life in order to blend in perfectly, but you can’t ignore the cute ghost with a bright smile standing in front of your door.

cw. ghost! gojo. fem! reader. minimal fluff. graphic depictions of murder. angst. hurt no comfort. mentions of grief. mentions of being under the influence (alcohol and drugs.) characters with depression. unedited.

notes. wrote a lil something for gojo since it’s been a while since i wrote any jjk fics and i missed it :( also should i open requests again? i miss writing one shots lol

wc. 7k

You met him on the first night of winter.

Eager to get home after a long and tiring day at work, you blow hot air on your freezing palms to keep them warm before stuffing it deep in your coat pockets. The walk home was less than fifteen minutes, and you’ve always refused to buy a car because you enjoyed the journey and wanted to familiarize yourself more with the city. You previously lived in the outskirts, but after a phone call from the main department telling you you were promoted and had to transfer in the city, you found yourself packing up on the weekend and renting a cheap apartment.

Located in the middle of everything – convenience stores, medical facilities, popular bars, and a quaint looking flower shop with a cute florist – you thought your apartment was perfect. It was a little shabby, you had to admit. The plumbing didn’t work well and electricity got cut off at random times in the night that resulted in a headache because you couldn’t send that damn email, but the landlord offered an extremely cheap rent that you couldn’t refuse. Plus, it was only a few minutes walk from your office and your neighbors were peaceful.

Well, most of them anyway.

Your neighbors consisted of mostly old couples who were so silent and desolate that you often forgot they existed, your eyes widening whenever you saw an unfamiliar old lady walking and asking you how your day was before realizing, Oh, she’s Mrs. Oliver, I completely forgot. Save for the married couple who were always throwing pots and pans at each other because darn Ronald couldn’t put the toilet seat back down, your place was placid. The landlord was ecstatic when you saw her poster and inquired for a unit, muttering something about not getting enough tenants to keep the place going because of ‘a traumatic issue.’

You’d really rather not ask what it was.

Besides, you’ve never been curious enough of what the world has to offer, simply because you see things – or rather fragments of people – that you’d rather not see. Ever since you started seeing ghosts at a young age of four, people avoided you like the plague, calling you a ‘freak’ and whatnot. Your family soon moved away to a much smaller place in the city because they couldn’t handle seeing their child who often talked to ghosts and sat in corners alone while laughing by herself be criticized by others. They didn’t believe you, of course, often calling it a ‘lonely child’s imagination.’ They sent you to multiple therapists who always assured you that they would listen to whatever problems you were having to cause you to be this way.

Unfortunately for them, there wasn’t anything wrong with you. You weren’t lonely at all. You saw a dozen ghosts every day who were always ecstatic at finding out you could see them, and they were more than willing to interact. As a child, you always thought ghosts were more interesting than actual people because they had an unlimited amount of time to converse with you, and they have had so many experiences to share with you.

When you grew older, however, you started to see yourself in other’s eyes, realization dawning on you that on social norms, you are, indeed, a freak.

Determined to fit in more and also sick of being faced with countless counselors who strongly believed you had a traumatic experience when your whole life has been nothing but bland and plain, you started ignoring them. It wasn’t easy at first, though. These ghosts have always kept you company while everyone gave you the side eye without knowing who you really were, and you admit you felt lonely in the beginning and a little guilty when they were convinced you couldn’t see them anymore.

You participated more in school activities and even joined a photography club in high school (you had to quit a month later because ghosts kept appearing on your photos, and you had to burn them in order not to freak anyone out) and with each baby step you took, you started to fit in more. The proud look your parents had on their faces when you had finally become ‘normal’ and even got an award for being an exemplary student was enough to keep you going on this journey, and you ignored the lonely spirits so hard that you eventually started seeing less and less of them.

Until now.

Standing in front of your door was a young man, his back awkwardly bent and long, beautiful fingers fiddling awkwardly with one another. He stood barefoot yet wore a comfy looking blue university hoodie and grey sweatpants, and his silver hair seemed shiny and healthy enough to not consider him a homeless man who was lost and simply wandering. Tipping your head to the side, you rack your brain to remember if you had any neighbours like him.

His head snaps in your direction.

He is definitely not your neighbour. You would have remembered such a cute looking guy.

He had unnaturally ethereal futures, prominent cheekbones becoming more pronounced when you meet his eyes, and you blink to gain control over your body when you realize you’ve been staring too long than what would be considered acceptable. You don’t even deny you’ve been checking him out, although you do ignore the almost puppy-like way his eyes lit up at the sight of you, causing your heart to jump a little. Just a little. You also liked how his hair complimented perfectly with his pale skin – he seemed like an exact embodiment of winter.

You walk forward, spinning your keys at the end of your pointer finger. Smiling at him politely, you paused in your tracks. He’d been blocking your door. “Hello, is there something I can help you with?”

No matter how cute he was, you wouldn’t hesitate to break his nose if he was a criminal.

His pretty hands come up to his face to cover his mouth falling open, and you take a step back when he does a little jump and starts laughing. “You can see me?”

“Uhm, yes,” you answer. “You’re blocking my door, so yeah, I can very much see you.”

As if realizing just now he stood in the way of you and your comfortable bed, who was calling out to you by now, he mutters a quick apology under his breath before stepping aside, a goofy grin remaining on his face and his childish behavior makes you scoff in amusement. He was still watching you even after you’ve unlocked your door, and you sigh at him. “Is there any reason you’re still standing outside my apartment, or should I call the police?”

Instead of looking worried like you expected him to, his smile only gets bigger. “Actually, I live here, well… I used to.”

You stare at him blankly with a slack expression on your face, watching as his features turn sheepish. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. Looking down on his bare feet, you mumble a curse under your breath when you realize he’s hovering.

“Not again,” you say to yourself before placing a palm against your forehead. It’s been years since you last saw a ghost, why did you have to see them now out of all times? A new branch is opening up and your superiors have given you the project of making sure the launch goes well, and you didn’t really want a ghost bothering you with your biggest task of all time. You worked hard for this promotion, you didn’t want to take one step forward and two steps back. Glaring at the undeniably attractive ghost who still hovered in your doorway, you decided he wasn’t your problem.

“Well, goodnight.”

You slam the door on him and trudge towards your bedroom, ignoring his “Wait!” as you unwrap the red scarf around your neck and plop on your bed almost lazily, moaning when your stiff muscles finally relax. The bed was so soft and warm because you’d left the heater on accidentally, and you’re about to be sent to dreamland when a voice beside you speaks up.

“You should take off your makeup before going to bed.”

Opening your eyes and coming face-to-face with the ghost who was resting his chin in both of his hands and laying on your bed, you grab a pillow and throw it at him, and he grins when the object goes past him completely. “Get out of my house, stop bothering me!”

“Technically, darling, this is still my house,” he tells you and starts sitting up before crossing his legs. “The unit was still named after me before you came.”

“Then why wasn’t I informed about that?”

“I was murdered here four years ago,” he deadpans, soft voice flitting into a murmur as he plays with his fingers again, refusing to look at you. “That’s why I never left. Judging from what you said earlier, you can see ghosts, and you know exactly why we’re still here.”

Swallowing a lump in your throat, you stumble over your words. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know and–”

“It’s quite alright,” he shrugs.

Silence soon joins the two of you; the ghost playing with the ends of your blanket with a far-off look in his face while you study his features, and something tugs at your heart. The reason why ghosts remain here instead of passing on like they were supposed to was because it meant someone was still holding on to them and absolutely refused to let go, or if they had unfinished business that needed to be resolved before they could go in peace. You’ve met ghosts like him who were murdered, and all of them remained with a seething rage and insatiable need for revenge, unable to accept that there wasn’t much they could do in their state.

As for the one sitting in your ghost, a small smile tugs at the end of his pink lips as he takes in your bedroom, amusement dancing in his eyes at the amount of stuffed animals you had and some framed photos of you as a child.

“You decorate much better than me, and you’re a lot more organized, too. This place was such a mess back when I was still alive.”

There was an unmissable hint of sadness behind his voice, and you can’t help but ask his name. “I’m Satoru,” he grins, “and for the record, I’ve always been here, just floating through time and space, but not the afterworld yet. For some reason, ever since you arrived, I just appeared back where I left off.”

You nod and take in his words, noticing how he clears his throat and sends a sheepish look your way. “If it’s not too much of a bother, can I ask for your help?”

“What is it?”

He stands up and heads toward your desk, although you supposed it was his since the furniture had already been here before you came. You didn’t think too much about it back then and only felt grateful that you had one less piece of furniture to buy, especially since it was empty. Apparently not, because Satoru keeps digging around through your files with his tongue peeking out his lips, and you vaguely recall that ghosts are able to touch things after feeding off of energy from living beings.

Letting out an ‘aha!’ when his hand finally lands on what he’s looking for, he tenderly places a photo on your outstretched palm with a shy smile. Inside the photo was a beautiful man, probably in his mid twenties, his hair up in a messy bun as he grinned at the camera. Beside him, Satoru’s eyes are closed with his head thrown back in laughter, relishing the feeling of that warm sunny day, and you unconsciously frown at it.

“His name’s Suguru,” he began, his eyes turning glossy at the sight of the polaroid. “He was my best friend before I died.”

Pursing your lips and feeling the tension thicken the room, you ask him, “Why are you telling me this?”

“He’s the reason why I can’t go,” he admits, shoulders dropping while his eyes remain trained on her. “He blames himself for everything and refuses to accept that I’m gone, that’s why I’m still here.”

You remain silent and take a deep breath, your head pounding at the situation. It was a beautiful first night of winter, the perfect weather for you to do your work from home while nestling a cup of hot cocoa in your hands, yet it seems your plans changed and you have to help this ghost out. A part of you wants to reach out and embrace him in a hug, but you know you’ll only end up stumbling on your own feet and clearly, Satoru wants to move on to the next chapter of his journey.

“Can you please tell him I’m okay now?”

When he looks at you like that, shoulders hanging low and an almost shy smile decorating his innocent features, it’s hard to say no.

“I will.”

Through the past few weeks since you’ve met Satoru, your life seemed to light up like a Christmas tree without you noticing. He was a funny guy and often pulled pranks on you, like slamming the cabinets open and closed or leaving your window open in the middle of the night, laughing when you shout at him as your teeth chatter and you slam your windows shut.

“I could have died from the cold, you idiot!”

He keeps laughing as if he didn’t nearly kill you with hypothermia, “Well, if you die, I guess we’ll be together then,” and even has the audacity to wiggle his eyebrows. You scowl at him and pull your jacket closer to your body, asking what he wants from you because he never goes this far to demand for your attention unless he wants something from you.

“What do you want this time?”

“I wanted to finish that series we were watching the other day,” he pouts rather childishly, “You always tell me not to watch it without you.”

On a particular weekend where you felt like your brains were about to explode from exhaustion due to your work piling up, you refused to wake up until noon, and you felt thankful Satoru knew how tired you were and let you have your much needed rest. When you woke up, a bowl of cereal was already waiting for you in your kitchen island, meaning the reason you felt tired even after that long slumber was because he fed off your energy to give you food.

Feeling thankful for the simple, sweet action, you munched on it happily. It wasn’t anything special and the corn flakes had gone too crusty for your liking, but Satoru’s happiness at you appreciating what he prepared was worth it. After breakfast, you dumped the bowl into the sink and planned to wash it later, opting to flick through Netflix for a good show. Satoru had excitedly pointed at one title that he said he’s always wanted to watch, and the two of you became hooked on it soon enough. Lunch and dinner were both forgotten as you two sat beside each other, your leg against his. Although you couldn’t exactly feel him, his presence was warm.

You and Satoru had been so immersed in the show and unexpected turn of events that time flew by and it was already half past three. He was the first to notice and he jumped from his seat, his hands waving worriedly in a comical manner. “I’m so sorry I made you skip your meals! Aren’t you hungry, you should have some pizza delivered or something.”

Glancing at the clock, you hummed when you realized it was indeed late. You weren’t feeling hungry since you were mostly abeyant, and nothing was open to deliver food around this time anyway. “It’s okay,” you shrug, “I’m not really hungry, and that show is addicting. Oh, and don’t watch it without me! I know you always go ahead when I’m not home!”

Satoru huffs and plops down next to you dramatically, rolling his eyes and taunting you. “Then don’t go to work, Little Miss Manager.”

You poke your finger with his forehead but it only passes through and he laughs, “I need money to survive, idiot.”

“Whatever,” he dismisses and points to your bedroom. “You’ve still got to edit your final draft, so you have to wake up early. Go to bed, don’t worry about the dish, I’ll handle it.”

“Liar, you’ll only feed from my energy so you can play video games!”

“Hey, you can’t blame me!” He counters back as he proceeds to your sink and pumps out soap to the sponge, “You were the one who bought me that console!”

“Only because you kept whining to me how much you wanted it,” you retorted before yawning, and his eyes softened at the sight of you. He rarely gets to see you dressed so comfortably in a loose shirt, cardigan and pajama pants since you were such a busy woman whose fashion sense monotonously consisted of pearl white button-up blouses and knee-length pencil skirts. Prudish and preppy, he thought, but it suits you just fine.

“You should sleep now,” he reminds you with a nod of his head back to your bedroom, and you obey, simply because your eyes were sore and tired from binge watching. You’re in the process of cocooning yourself under the covers when he calls out in a sing-song voice, “Thank you for the console, by the way. I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

“Shut up!” You scream, and his rambunctious laugh was the last thing you heard before your body wholeheartedly welcomed sleep.

You’ve been thinking about that day ever since, the moment replaying over and over again in your head, successfully distracting you from focusing on your work. Even your co-workers have noticed that you’re lusterlacking lately, but how could you focus on anything else when you had a charming yet lonely ghost who was waiting for you at home?

For days on end, you can only think about the cheerful and carefree sound of his laugh as if he had so much happiness in his lithe body that he couldn’t contain. Your heart always got tugged in its heartstrings whenever you had trouble falling asleep and he sat beside you in your bed, singing you lullabies and caressing your cheek. You started to feel him now – the gush of air in your skin meant he was pressing onto you, and the more you got attached to him, the more you got confused with your feelings.

He never told you how he was murdered and you never asked, figuring it would be too sensitive for him, and your hands balled into fists each time you remembered he was dead. Satoru is such a precious person who only has too much love to give, and it was completely unfair and outrageous that his life was taken away from him in a single flash. You’ve done your research at work, and only a few articles came up regarding his death. The case remains a mystery and still unsolved until it was completely closed due to lack of leads or suspects, but the police force highly suspected someone had broken in and committed homicide without theft, since not a single belonging of him got touched. They concluded that the murderer was drunk and lost, because he was a well-loved person in their campus, and they couldn’t find anyone who could possibly harbor abhorrence for the sweet boy.

But most of all, a part of you wants him to stay. He frequently asks you if you’ve talked to Suguru, and you always denied it, making up an excuse about how he was hard to find because he graduated years ago. ‘He’s hard to find,’ you would tell him one day, and ‘He doesn’t have social media,’ the next. Even though he told you he majored in Forensics, you couldn’t find anyone in the city.

It’s a half lie. You never found Suguru, because you never looked for him in the first place.

You know it’s selfish of you to be this way, because you know Satoru wants to move on. He doesn’t say anything about it and keeps laughing instead, but sometimes when he thinks you’re too immersed in your work to notice him, you look at him. Being around you only reminds him of what he no longer has, and one look at him has you knowing he was someone who loved life. Satoru loved to travel with his friends, and he still had so many dreams left unfulfilled that made him feel empty yet desperate to be in the afterworld.

However, it is hard for you to let him go.

No matter how much you try to fit in, deep inside, you know you will always be too different from the rest. You still struggled with socializing and didn’t have a single friend yet a hundred acquaintances, and you never realized how lonely you were until he came. His smile lit up the whole room and his laugh was melodious, and you don’t think you’ve ever met anyone who cared so much for you. He liked to play games and pull pranks on you quite often, but underneath all that lies a kind heart.

Satoru knows exactly when his jokes go too far and apologizes right away, promising not to do something to upset you again and always doing something entirely new to cheer you up. On nights where you’re feeling absolutely drained or you carried home your anger at your co-workers, you go to sleep without taking off your makeup. When you wake, there’s used wipes in the bin, the hovering boy in your apartment proud of his work. Sometimes you forget to cover yourself in blankets too, plopping on top of the sheets almost lifelessly. It’s in those times that he shows how much he cares for you, and you soon wake up feeling warm surrounded by heavy blankets and freshly cooked breakfast.

As much as you didn’t want to admit it, you were falling for him. It made interacting with him difficult, because you knew you had to let him go, yet you couldn’t.

He watches you carefully and gauges your reaction, waiting to see if you’ll finish the series with him or not. It’s a Wednesday night, or more accurately an early morning on Thursday and the launch happens in less than a week. Logically, it is much better to go back to sleep and refuse, but he is rocking his weight on his heels back and forth, and you realize perhaps he has been lonely since his death too.

“Fine,” you agree, and now he’s bouncing excitedly next to you on your couch as he keeps pressing buttons in your remote.

“You’re the best, you know that?”

You only hum in response, and Satoru soon becomes lost in the show. Your eyes aren’t focused on the screen – on him rather. Placed on top of your fist lies your cheek as you study his side profile, trying to memorize the slope of his nose and the snow-white hair that keeps falling onto his eyes that makes him flip it to the side every now and then to watch the show. His right leg keeps bouncing up and down, a habit he had when he was anxiously anticipating something, and then stopping before his left leg went bouncing instead, meaning he didn’t like the situation.

Tearing your eyes away from him, you smile sadly when you realize his favorite character had been betrayed. “Did you see that? That freaking woman, he only loved her and she snitched him out like that?!”

Shrugging one shoulder and feeling your eyes become droopy, you reply, “Well, he’s a grave robber, Satoru, he was only nice to her because he liked her. She had every right to mislead him.”

“I don’t understand, but okay,” he relents and leans back, eyes closing before he intertwines his hands behind his neck and murmurs, “I hated the ending.”

“Not everyone gets happy endings,” you add grimly, watching the muscles underneath his hoodie flex at your comment. The two of you remain silent for a few minutes, and plucking up the courage, you breathe in sharply before slowly lowering yourself until your head is on his shoulder.

You keep yourself still in order not to fall, and your eyes remain fixated on his hand, silently yearning to be able to touch him. If he was alive, would his skin be as warm as his presence? His hand flexes and trails from his lap until it’s beside yours, and you hear him swallow audibly before locking your fingers with his.

A tear falls down your face. You could feel him.

Satoru hums a familiar tune, and you chuckle happily when you recognize it’s the song he always sings to you to make you sleep, his fingers rubbing soothing circles on your knuckles.

His other hand tilts your chin upwards until you’re looking directly at his eyes. You hold in your breath, his lips only a centimeter away from yours. If you lean forward, you could kiss him… but you don’t.

“Why are you crying?”

Because I don’t want you to go.

“Nothing,” you lie and offer a forced smile which he notices, but doesn’t comment about it. “I just feel happy.”

He nods slowly before leaning forward, and he gets so close that you can faintly see his freckles that dot across his cheeks lovingly, and your eyes flutter shut when his lips press against yours. Satoru sighs as if he’s been waiting too long to do that, and he is pushing against you so softly, so tenderly, that it almost fits the same atmosphere your heart creates. He is soft in everything he does, from his innocent features and smile that puts the stars to shame, to how he holds you and caresses you. His hand trails from your neck to pull you closer, and you moan when his tongue peeks out and playfully coaxes yours out to play. Tears are streaming down your face when you kiss him back slowly, tongues moving in sync as they danced harmoniously instead of battling each other for dominance. Caressing your face that fits perfectly in his hand, he brushes away your tears with the pad of his thumbs.

A moment passes before you two are breathing heavily with your foreheads pressed against each other, and the silence is broken when he speaks, his voice coming out raspy and out of breath.

“Suguru… has been struggling long before I died.”

“What?”

“My best friend… he got into a rough patch. Had troubles with his parents, went down the wrong path, and met dangerous people. I’d heard rumors he was going around skipping class and talking to people I’ve never seen before, but I chose to ignore it. Suguru would’ve told me everything once he was ready. And I was stupid, you know? I saw it. I saw how he stopped smiling, how he’d lost weight. How his eyes no longer looked happy,” Satoru’s hands trembled, the blue of his eyes hauntingly dark. “One night, I overheard him talking to someone on the phone. I’ve never heard him that angry, and I got worried. I wanted to stop him from whatever he’ll end up doing so I invited him over but… Next thing I know, he came over here, drunk and high, and stabbed me until I bled to death.”

You gasp and shudder as you imagine the scene, Satoru lying on his bed as he waited anxiously for his friend. You see him smiling at Suguru excitedly because he’d actually come, but fear replaces it when his friend succumbs to the madness. The image of Satoru drowning in his own pool of blood made you clench your jaw.

“There had to be evidence left.”

Satoru smiles sadly as if to tell you it doesn’t bother him anymore, but you can’t shake it off. How can a man be so blinded in his own misery that he could take his own best friend’s life? “He was a forensics major; he knew how to cover up his crime.”

A pregnant pause fills the room as you furrow your brows, the sound of the cold wind tapping against your windows as you rack your head to make a decision. Now that you knew the truth, you had to tell the police about it, but how would they believe you if there was no evidence found? And if the case was cleared, and Suguru had finally moved on, that means...

“You can ask me to stay.”

“What?” You breathe out, looking at his eyes with sadness pooling in them. He’s smiling, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You pull away from him completely until he’s at an arm’s length away. He doesn’t look hurt by your action but he sighs, reaching out for you and pausing with his hand mid-air when you raise a palm to stop him.

He must’ve known you’re in love with him. Just as he also knows that once he leaves, you’ll be hurt, and he doesn’t want you to feel that.

You shake your head and stand up harshly. The tears now uncontrollable as you slam your bedroom door to his face. You’re slightly thankful he doesn’t come after you and leaves you alone instead. You needed time. Time to think, time to put his needs over yours - time to forget him. Rummaging through the documents on your desk, you keep looking for it until the polaroid is clutched between your fingers, and you silently place it in your handbag.

Tomorrow, you would set things straight.

Suguru Geto was a hard man to find. He’d fled from the spotlight as one of the best students of his university after Satoru Gojo’s death. The image of his best friend, who was always in high spirits and laughed without a care in the world, covered in his own blood was a sight that scarred him for the rest of her life.

But there was one more person who hadn’t moved on from that night.

Ieri Shoko, the woman who ran first at the hospital when Satoru’s parents were away for a business trip. She didn’t want to believe it at first. Satoru had always seemed so full of life, so in love with what the world had to offer. He’d been so young – it just couldn’t be. They had to be lying, right?

But when she finally saw her friend’s bloodied corpse on that cold hospital bed, she’d fallen apart.

She went to sleep crying to herself every night, regretting and blaming everything on herself. Her instinct told her it was Suguru who had done this to him. She barged into his dorm room, screaming and flailing, punching the taller man and effectively breaking his nose as she dragged him down by the collar. Suguru was already questioned by the police after Satoru’s murder, but his alibi of being in a bar was factual, and they had proven his innocence after checking surveillance cameras. He was only gone for a few minutes before he appeared on the dance floor all over again, and they believed him when he said he only disappeared to go to the restroom.

Presumably to wash the blood off his hands.

Shoko didn’t believe it. “Tell me you didn’t kill him, tell me!”

Suguru growls, frustrated at her for even accusing him of doing such a horrendous thing, and he feigns his innocence as he pries her hands away from his collar. “I didn’t do it, Ieri, I was at a bar!”

“Bullshit!” She screams, slamming a vase onto the floor and dropping down to the floor as sobs wrecked through her body. “I smelled your perfume the moment I walked in. I know it was you…”

His eyes widened, but he remained silent because she had always been smart and too observant for her own good. He shrugs his collar back into place and goes back to his bedroom, but not before darkly muttering, “I didn’t do it, I didn’t kill him…”

Four years later, and you’re sitting in front of Officer Kento, an intimidating man with empty eyes staring at you hardly, his face devoid of any emotion. He’d been the same officer who worked on Satoru’s case before it was closed. “And why should I believe you? Ghosts don’t exist.”

You snap your head up from your lap to him and scowl, “I just want to help you here, Officer. You need to re-open this case.”

He abruptly stands up and slams his palm harshly against the desk, his eyes filled with rage as he stares down at you. “You don’t think I haven’t tried before?!”

“Well then, try harder!” You fumed, standing up. “If you don’t resolve this case, he’s going to remain here forever, lost and nowhere to go. Do you really want him to suffer even after his death?”

“How am I supposed to believe everything you say is true?”

Plucking out their polaroid from your bag and shoving it to his chest, you watch as he crumbles piece by piece. He holds the photo tentatively before cradling it to his chest, and what you presumed was a cold-hearted man was actually just a lost person.

“I don’t know why you closed that case, but it isn’t over. He’s still here, and he needs our help.”

You turn away from him to give him peace and wrap your fingers around the doorknob, “Suguru Geto is out there walking freely. You can still make a difference, Sir. It’s not too late.”

Happiness was a concept you believed to be fleeting.

One moment, you are giggling with the ghosts who tell you funny stories and whisper mischievously in your ear the correct answers in your pre-school days, and the next moment you are pressing a hand against your car windows, watching as the only people you considered friends are witnessing you leave without a goodbye.

That feeling comes back again and again, from little moments such as eating lunch with your high school friends and making empty promises to keep in touch after graduation, giggling when a cute boy comes by and asks for your number. But like any other moment in your life where you feel happy, that feeling dissipates as fast as it came.

The bell attached to the door chimes to signal a customer, and the cute florist you met on the first day you moved to this city, Choso, looks up from the pot he’s currently watering. Bowing politely, he sends a pleased smile upon the sight of you.

You tuck a stray hair behind your ear and return the smile back, his musky perfume blending in well with the sweet aroma of flowers as he stops in front of you. “Hi, I haven’t seen you in a long time.”

“I’m sorry,” you apologize sheepishly, “Our latest branch just opened downtown, so I was a bit busy with that.”

“Oh, you work for that bookshop everyone’s been talking about non-stop?” You nod and laugh at his question, proud of yourself that the new opening had been successful. The state campus was only three bus rides away, and with the extensive amount of books your bookstore offered, along with its affordable prices, everyone’s been talking about it. “I’m proud of you, it was a success,” he commends, rubbing his dirties hands on his apron before opening the door for you. What can I get you?”

Personally, you thought Choso was a bit too rugged to be working in a floral shop. He always seemed to carry himself in such an awkward manner and had an authoritative yet welcoming aura to him, his shy smiles the highlights of your day. “I want to give it to my friend. Today’s their special day.”

“I see,” Choso’s eyes are already scanning the plethora of flowers he has in his shop, his brows pinching together in thought. “Can you tell me a little bit about them? It’d help to make their bouquet more personal.”

A smile makes its way to your face. “They’re… bright, carefree, innocent, and pure. They almost seem like an angel, if you ask me. I was also thinking about something that represents young love, and… new beginnings?”

You have absolutely no idea what you’re saying. The words coming out of your mouth are beyond your control. You’re sure you’re making a fool out of yourself, but Choso nods understandingly, frows burrowed before he snaps his fingers and turns to you. “White roses describe all of those, but if you want, I can whip up more flowers for you.”

He makes a move to get his scissors and starts listing off flowers with the same meanings, but you run up to him and not so accidentally wrap your hands around his to get him to stop. His eyes widen at your close proximity. You clear your throat and take a step backward, fighting the urge to smile when his cheeks are dusted a fine pink. “White roses itself are fine, thank you.”

He gulps and heads towards the back door, coming out later with a bouquet of white roses. You reach for your wallet before his arm wraps around your wris, his smile wobbly and hesitant. “It’s on the house. You can pay me back with a cup of coffee next time.”

Eyebrows rising at his smoothness, you gratefully accept the flowers and cradle it near to your chest. “A cup of coffee it is.”

Choso chuckles shyly and ducks his head, and you leave the shop with a wave of your hand before walking further and further. Your surroundings shift from the high-rise building and busy streets to a hill covered in trees sprawled out everywhere, flowers blooming and withering at every corner. Sitting down on the soil with your legs crossed, you place the bouquet in front of his headstone, his framed polaroid with Suguru standing in front of you.

It’s been exactly seven days since you last saw Satoru.

After countless sleepless nights of phone calls from Officer Kento, he’d finally cracked the case with your help. Suguru Geto was found. He’d confessed to all his crimes, his handsome face weary yet relieved. It seemed he’d never once forgotten about that night when he betrayed his friend, and just before he was ushered behind bars, he turned to you. You wished you felt anger towards him for what he did, but there was only sadness. Only regret in his eyes. He looked so tired, so hopeless.

“Thank you,” he said softly, “Thank you for finding me.”

A nod was all you could give. Suguru felt so familiar, yet so strange. You’ve heard tons of stories about him from Satoru, all about their happiest moments together. He’d been his closest friend, the one he shared so many dreams with, and the one who knew him the most. Maybe he knew Satoru wouldn’t fight back once his demons consumed him. Maybe when Suguru was holding his friend’s bloodied hand in the night, he knew – Satoru was never mad at him. He only wanted to save his friend. Maybe he knew Satoru wasn’t completely dead yet, not when he lived in everyone’s heart, and most especially yours.

That night when you returned home, the apartment felt colder than ever. Normally, it would mean a ghost lingered. But there was no longer the sound of Satoru’s humming, and the dishes were left half-washed in your sink. And for the first time in your life, you hated your eyes and how it gave you the ability to see the traces he left behind.

Because you wished you had enough time to say goodbye. You wish you had told him everything, but the thought of being another tether to the living realm weighed down on you. You couldn’t do that to him. He had to go. For Satoru to truly move into the next life, you had to close your heart and forget him. Just as Suguru’s forgiven himself, and just as Shoko’s accepted her friend’s death - you too had to say goodbye.

Tears clouded your vision.

The white remnants of his soul sparkled in your apartment. For the last time, you watched as the blue of his hoodie finally disappeared, his hands scrubbing your dishes away fading into nothingness. The plate drops and breaks. Satoru stood, his legs vanishing bit by bit as he saw the running water through his hands. He’d wanted to return your apartment to the way it was before he’d met you, but he knew – his time was running out. He didn’t have energy left to turn everything off.

The water floods your apartment. The new series he’d dearly loved still plays on the TV.

But he was here – hugged by the earth and decorated with flowers, smiling at you from far away even when you could no longer see him. Placing the bouquet of white roses down at his grave, you smiled at the photo they’d taken months before he died. He still looked just as beautiful – all wide smiles, kind eyes, and soft hands.

To you, he was still alive in your heart.

“I’ll see you around, Satoru.”

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p0orbaby · 8 months ago

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Life Was So Simple Then (1)

summary: you and leah embark on a trip through Europe in an effort to save your marriage

warnings: a smidge of angst but you’ll live

a/n: i may or may not be considering making this a series…

word count: 1.4k

The train moves at a comfortable hum, soothing in its way, while London shrinks behind you in pieces, in windows, in corners. The world outside your window looks surreal, vaguely greenish, fragmented by flashes of trees and brick houses. There’s something almost too quiet about it, an uneasy softness to the edges of this journey that is meant to patch you both back together.

You’ve been married for—what is it?—six years now. But you were Leah’s shadow long before that. You’ve been her plus-one, her background feature, her silent assistant in uncountable ways that now feel petty to list. The bitter edge surprises you as it rears up unbidden. You take a breath and decide you’ll name these feelings, as if naming things might tame them. Resentment. Grief. Stubborn hope. You and Leah have been through worse. But also… maybe not.

You glance at her. She’s examining her nails, mouth set into that default neutrality she pulls out when she’s feeling strange or anxious or tired. It’s her ready face, the one she’s kept in her kit since she was just a gangly teenager at Arsenal, desperate to be taken seriously, to get noticed for more than her posture and a fast left foot. You remember those early days. You remember being eighteen, in the stands, showing up for her even when you barely knew her. When all she had to offer was coffee in half-cleaned thermoses and lectures about work-life balance that were one part playful, two parts scolding, and strangely magnetic.

When you finally pulled her into that first kiss, it was a Thursday. You remember that because she had a match the next day. She’d stood there with her mouth half-open, one eyebrow raised, until she laughed that strange, short laugh, pulling you in by your wrist, the way she always did when she was uncertain about something but willing to give it a go. Afterward, you’d watched her lace up her shoes, this careful process that she performed like ritual. The order mattered: left, then right, then another knot. The same attention she brings to everything—coffee, calls, stretching, the single glass of wine she never finishes at dinner because it’s “almost too nice to ruin.”

Back then, she’d just been Leah. But then she’d become Leah Williamson, and you, married to her, got folded into the package. You’d get, “oh, that’s Leah’s wife!” from strangers at the shops, from mothers of kids at school fundraisers, from friends of friends who never bothered with your name. You hadn’t known how strange that would feel until it did, like there was this parallel version of yourself, waiting in the wings, and now this strange person had overtaken you. You’re still working on making peace with that, though there’s little peace about it.

Leah raises an eyebrow as if reading your mind, which is a trick she’s only gotten better at. “You’re very quiet. Am I allowed to ask if something’s wrong?”

“You could,” you say, but it sounds a little brittle, so you reach for her hand, entwining your fingers, hoping the gesture makes up for it. She doesn’t flinch, which is a start. You’re not entirely sure where you left off, after the months of silent dinners, of days bookended by her rising before dawn for physio appointments and crashing in bed long after you’d fallen asleep. Now, as her fingers brush your knuckles, you can almost feel that old connection, an unexpected sliver of warmth threading through the silence.

“Fine, be cryptic.” Her mouth quirks in a half-smile, the kind that used to come so naturally but has felt harder and harder to coax out. She lets go of your hand and turns back to her phone, skimming news alerts and whatever else she’s curated into a daily distraction routine. That’s new, too, the constant scrolling. It used to be just the morning Guardian and the Arsenal forums, but now she reads everything as if she’s half-waiting for some seismic news, some validation that she made the right decision. Retirement. The word feels abrupt, like something has been shaved off the ends. The other day she’d admitted to reading the tabloids. Just the sports ones, she’d said, in that overly casual voice she uses when she’s trying not to sound defensive.

“Did you pack the sandwiches?” Leah’s voice drifts up, and it takes you a second to process that she’s talking to you.

“Yes, your honour.” The words slip out like they used to, like you’re just starting out, laughing over drinks after midnight. You see her relax a little, a sign she’s actually been worrying about the sandwiches, and you realise she’s probably equally terrified that she’ll spend the entire trip thinking about where she’d rather be. The knowledge of her own shifting nature used to thrill her; she’d tell you she was “made of kinetic energy,” that she couldn’t ever be truly still. Now, it seems to disturb her.

“Well, just checking.” She doesn’t ask you to get them, and you don’t offer. You suspect there’s a silent mutual agreement that eating will come later, a familiar tactic she’s deployed whenever nerves or a big match made her too jittery to eat. You’ve read about married people developing shared instincts, unconscious patterns. But this knowledge, like all the habits you’ve developed over time, somehow doesn’t offer the comfort you’d expected. It’s like putting on a jacket that’s become a touch too tight, and you find yourself oddly self-conscious.

As you both sit in this semi-awkward silence, you try to remember the last time you truly sat together like this, uninterrupted. The thing is, you can’t. Even on the few weekends she’d been around the last season, it had always been meals with other players, birthday parties with people you barely knew, her agent dropping by with a sheaf of papers and a grin that you’ve come to resent, though you never say so. Leah had been “there” in a vague sense, the way a familiar armchair is there: functional, comfortable, reliable in theory. But Leah herself? The woman you fell in love with—that particular version of her seemed more and more like a house you once lived in but that someone else owns now.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks finally, in that deceptively soft tone that makes you feel like you’re on trial. She’s always done that, approached difficult conversations like they’re penalty shots. Direct, unflinching, too close to your heart.

“You, mostly.” The honesty slips out before you can stop it. “Us, I mean”

She lets out a soft sigh, nodding as if she understands something specific, though you suspect she doesn’t. Her understanding has become like that of someone who’s learned a language only halfway. There’s the ability to navigate, but no intuition, no rhythm.

“Does it feel strange to be doing this?” she asks. “Like, taking this whole trip to—what’s the word?—to reset?”

You nod, though it’s more than strange; it’s surreal. You’re on a mission to resurrect a version of each other that you barely recognise anymore. The stakes are uncomfortably high, like someone’s dared you both to restore something irrevocably broken.

“You know,” she says, “I used to imagine us doing something like this. But I thought we’d be sixty or something, grandkids on the way, planning things for fun, not… whatever this is.” She looks down, expression somewhere between regret and wonder.

“Yeah. Me too.” You allow yourself a small laugh. “I thought we’d be the kind of couple who’d stay on for tea in strange little pubs and get lost in French villages and drink wine in the countryside”

She snorts, “I’m not sure if I’d drink the tea. Have you seen the quality of some of the pubs out there?” The joke feels just shy of funny, but you force a laugh, hoping she doesn’t notice the effort.

“But you’re right,” she says, finally. “I thought the same. That’s the dream, right? And I don’t know…” She trails off, staring out the window, at the blur of countryside, the unremarkable patches of brown and green that scroll by. “I don’t know if I even know what I wanted anymore. Or what I still want”

The words hang heavy, a confession too thick for this tight, narrow train car. It’s too early in the journey to delve into it fully, too fragile a moment for honesty of this weight. You reach for her hand again, a steadying anchor. Her grip is warm, though her fingers feel a little too light, as if she’s not fully committed to the touch, a detail that pierces your heart like a needle.

“Then maybe…” you start, pausing, wondering if the words are too simple for what needs to be said. “Maybe that’s what we’re here to find out”

#leah williamson #leah williamson x reader #awfc #awfc x reader #engwnt #engwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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sharieb · 6 days ago

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Held in the Hollowed Fragments 8: The Star Beyond the Veil

Synopsis: Shrouded in fog and dreams, a soul long forgotten stirs once more. In a realm outside time, the woman they all once loved is offered a final peace, far from the cruel cycles that broke her. But as she drifts toward rest, a ripple echoes through the void—five broken hearts awaken to a truth they had buried. Each remembers, each mourns, each begins to chase the impossible. A choice is made, a card exchanged, and a cosmic balance unsettled. Yet in the clash between grief and divinity, love begins to stir defiance. As fate fractures and memory ignites, one thing becomes certain: she may have chosen to leave, but they are not ready to let her go. Not yet. Not again.

Pairing: LADS x non-mc! (you)

Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort

Word count: +2.4k

Content warning: angst, mention of death, obsession, implied potential psychological torment, cosmic/divine interference

Music for the chapter: Saturn by Sleep at Last.

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Taglist: @plzdonutpercieveme, @miuangel, @xiisblogs, @loreleis-world, @animegamerfox, @cherlouu, @chaoticfivesworld, @reni502, @nm4565natty, @satansdaughter123, @asakiyu

Writer's notes: Hello, my lovelies. We finally reached the end of this series. I know that I already thanked you all in the previous chapter, but I want to emphasise how honoured and humbled I am by all of you taking the time out to read everything that I have written so far, along with taking part in my journey from the first chapter and even when this series was just a random thought that I posted, all the way up to now. Your love and support mean so much to me. I don't think I would ever have made it this far without all of you here. So thank you all so much. I hope you all enjoy the final chapter of this series, and I hope you all follow along in future journeys with me.

First Previous

Fog coiled thick around his feet, swallowing sound and space as time slowed to a crawl. The dream had not ended; it simply shifted, deepened. A moment suspended in eternity. One figure stood in silence, a shadow of a man whose name did not yet return to him. His identity blurred, his heart pounding with a grief he couldn’t quite name, silent witness to something vast and irreversible.

Before him, in a clearing that felt more like the centre of the universe than a dream, you lay motionless.

The woman he'd almost forgotten. The one he had loved and lost.

Your body was still. Cold. Empty.

But then,

Something shifted.

He didn’t notice it at first, not fully. But the dream lost its hazy edges, the fog no longer lingering as illusion, no longer just a dreamscape. It felt different. Sharper. Real.

And in that moment, a breath of light stirred in the chest. A wisp of warmth. And slowly, gently, something shimmered loose.

Your soul.

It peeled itself away from your corpse like silk pulled from water. A glowing, golden spirit, fragile and quiet, drifted upward. As it rose, your remains, once cold in their arms, faded like dust in morning light, slipping through his fingers until there was nothing left to hold. He watched, rooted in place, grief-stricken and breathless as the soul, your soul, floated above what was no longer a body, but memory. A final heartbeat suspended in the air.

It did not vanish.

It drifted in front of him.

But before it moved away, the soul hovered back down briefly, soft and glowing, and pressed itself gently against his lips, a kiss not of romance, but of parting. Of memory. Of devotion.

In that moment, though no words were spoken aloud, a voice echoed within him, telepathic and aching:

"Goodbye, my love... my all in all...

My snowman

My dragon

My starlight

My fishie

My candy apple

My Emcumbrace Pragma."

Then, with one last flicker of warmth, it lifted and began its slow, radiant ascent.

He felt it too late.

Panic surged through him as he lunged forward, hand outstretched, voice tearing from his throat with a raw desperation he hadn’t known he still possessed:

“NO! COME BACK! I'M SORRY! DON'T LEAVE ME ALL ALONE, PLEASE!!!”

But she was already drifting away, slowly, silently, toward the distance. Toward two figures cloaked in cosmic shadow.

Astra. And beside them, someone else, taller, brighter. Still and infinite. A presence older than time.

He didn’t know who or what that entity was, but the name echoed in his bones before he even understood why. As if etched into his soul from the beginning of time, a truth long buried now rising:

The Supreme Cosmic Overseer.

The Overseer stepped out from the cosmic shadow, light bending around them like time obeying a higher law. As your soul hovered before them, trembling, soft as a candle’s flame, they looked upon you not as a tool or anomaly, but as a sacred, wounded child. The Overseer knelt slightly, their infinite form folding in humility, and their gaze softened with deep, ancient sorrow, as though they had seen countless lost souls, but none that weighed on them quite like this one.

Extending one hand with the utmost care, the Supreme Cosmic Overseer whispered, voice neither man nor woman, neither sound of blissful youth or ageing wisdom, but yet laced with a warmth so infinite it could cradle galaxies:

Come, little one... you’ve suffered more than most ever will. You don’t have to carry the weight anymore. You’ve been brave long enough.

Their palm glowed with a gentle pull, a safe invitation.

“Come now… it’s time to rest.”

After the Overseer spoke, her soul floated gently over to their outstretched hand. It did not fall into their palm, but hovered just above it, cradled by the gravity of grace alone. Light shimmered around your soul, fragile and luminous as it lingered in the god’s quiet hold, embraced by something ancient, protective, and kind.

“You don’t know me,”; the Overseer said with a voice neither loud nor quiet, but incredibly eternal. “But I know you. I’ve watched you through countless lives, countless timelines. I’ve seen you give yourself away piece by piece—for love, for loyalty, for those who never saw you fully. I’ve seen you die with dignity in silence, over and over again.”

Your spirit trembled, a low pulse of grief and disbelief radiating from its core.

“I took pity on you,” the Overseer continued. “And in time, even Astra agreed—begrudgingly. We struck a pact. Your soul is no longer bound to the rules of his game. I have come to take you far from here. A realm untouched by his strings. A world where your heart may sleep, and never be broken again.”

At first, you nodded. Tired. Numb. Willing.

But then, you began to think back.

Back to him.

Back to your Pragma.

He who had broken and died and now wept for you. Who is now kneeling in the far distance, watching helplessly.

“May I make a request... please?” Your voice was faint, light-wrapped and fragile, but clear.

The Overseer turned to her fully, a gentleness blooming in the depths of their ancient gaze.

“You may,” they said. “Any last wish you have—I will grant it gladly.”

Astra materialised, face twisted with rage and curiosity. “She dares-”

The Overseer raised a hand and silenced Astra without a word.

“Speak,” the god said to you.

“I want to take the tragic card with me,” you said. “Their suffering. Their fate. I want to free them. Even if they stay, they deserve better.”

“NO!" Astra barked, stepping forward. “Absolutely not! That card is mine. My Magnum Opus. It exists to repeat and renew pain. They are my pieces to play.”

The Overseer was silent.

Then you spoke again, firmer:

“If so, then I want to propose a choice.”

Astra arched a brow.

You floated out of the Overseer's palm and hovered in front of Astra with no fear, radiant and unflinching, like a star that had never belonged to their darkness. “Either I take the card, the one you hold so dearly, or I take him. All of them, even MC as well. Every soul you’ve bent and broken. I’ll leave this world with them all.”

Astra stilled. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I would,” you said, voice resolute. “You’ve left me with nothing but grief. And if you refuse this mercy, then I’ll take them with me, away from you, away from your stupid game.”

“You would break the rules.”

“You already did,” you snapped as she floated closer to Astra's face, unfazed, remaining headstrong. “So now I’m giving you the choice, Astra. The card, or your favourite playthings.”

The threat wasn’t cruel. It was maternal. Final. And it was effective.

Astra’s face twitched. Annoyance rippled beneath their skin. To lose the card was one thing. To lose their favourite pieces—

Unthinkable.

“Fine,” Astra hissed. “Take the damn card. Just leave my game intact.”

A beat passed. The Overseer’s gaze held Astra’s for a long moment, making sure they understood the cost.

Then, the divine one turned back to her.

“So it shall be.”

The Overseer raised a hand, and light folded around her body. A protective robe spun from something cosmic and pure encased her soul. Her body faded into mist, her spirit asleep within a shell of starlight.

He turned to leave with her.

Then-

“No!” a voice ripped through the stillness.

“Don’t take her!” another cried, each shout overlapping with another.

The two deities paused at the edge of departure, their attention caught by a sudden chorus within the fog. At first, it was just a noise, echoes of shouting, fractured and overlapping.

Then they turned.

Through the mist, a figure approached.

No- five.

Racing forward, still far in the distance. The cries came sharper now, each shout clearer and filled with anguish:

“Don’t take her!”

“Let her go!”

“She isn't yours!”

“She’s mine!”

“Give her back!”

The Overseer’s head tilted ever so slightly, not in surprise, but in quiet sorrow. They understood too well what this was; the sound of love realised far too late. They watched the five boys emerge from the fog, frantic and wide-eyed, and the Overseer pitied them with an almost parental ache.

Astra, on the other hand, scoffed. Eyes narrowing, lips curling into a scold, they watched the scene unfold not with empathy, but irritation edged with intrigue.

"How predictable," Astra murmured.

The Overseer now fully facing the boys' direction, watching them from a distance, not with judgment, but with a sorrowful kind of knowing. Their desperation reached even the stars.

As for Astra, Astra’s eyes still narrowed with no sliver of sympathy, watched the chaos unfold until something sparked behind their eyes, causing their lips to slowly curl from a scold of disdain into a cruel, delighted smirk. Not sorrowful. Not regretful. But of amusement and inspiration.

How delicious,, they thought, with a stretch of their hand.

And with a snap of their fingers, Astra spoke, “You’ve seen too much.”

Soon, the world fractured.

And the boys fell-tumbling through fog, through memory, through a collapsing dream.

Just before the world cast them out, their eyes caught the Overseer’s, just for a flicker of a moment.

He stood still.

Said nothing.

But the way he watched them, these five boys who had broken through the fog just to reach her soul, sparked something behind his gaze. Not cruelty. Not even pity.

Curiosity. A trace of mischief.

How deeply they loved her. How stubbornly they came, even now, even too late.

Perhaps… it was time someone played a trick on Astra for once.

The thought lit in the Overseer’s eyes like a quiet ember. He wouldn’t say anything. Not yet. But the way he turned back toward Astra, amused and unreadable, carried a promise:

He might just bend the rules.

Not for chaos.

But as a silent yet impactful way to avenge her.

And it would drive Astra mad,

Which, in the Overseer’s opinion, made it all the more worth it just for the mirth of it all.

They woke up.

He jolted awake, heart hammering against his ribs, lungs seizing as if he'd just surfaced from deep underwater. Cold sweat clung to his skin, soaking the sheets, anchoring him in a reality that felt no less suffocating than the dream.

That dream. Again.

Dragging a trembling hand over his face, he sat upright, disoriented. The remnants of sleep still wrapped around his mind like thick fog, muting everything but the echo of her absence.

Outside, a thunderstorm howled against the windowpane — rain falling in relentless sheets, as if the sky, too, was grieving something it had long since lost. The wind groaned through the cracks in the walls. There was no sunrise or sunset, no hint of morning or dusk. Just grey.

He glanced at his phone. Thirty unread messages. Twelve missed calls. Some work. Some personal. All irrelevant. Their words could never reach him in the place he was sinking.

Time left before responsibilities demanded his attention: two hours.

But the very thought of rising, of putting on a face, of pretending, filled his gut with lead. Instead, he lay back down, the cold side of the bed stretching into an abyss beside him. Once a space for warmth and company, it was now a graveyard of silence.

He stared at the ceiling, hollow-eyed.

He hated days like this, hated the way they strangled him slowly, how they always began with that dream and ended with him frayed, volatile, barely functional. Days like these always ended in regret. In failure.

He had learned to fear them.

Stillness consumed him. His eyes unfocused. What had he dreamt again? He tried to remember, clawing at the edges of his fading memory, but the specifics slipped through his grasp like sand through desperate fingers.

Except for one detail — the only constant.

A w̸̭̘̜̮͕̥͉͇̗͍̑̌̂̂̾̂ȯ̷̤͍͐̅͝m̶͖̟͇̓a̸̖̟͍̗͚͌̑̇́̅̍̂̕̚ͅ-̴̨̝̰͎̘̣͖̟͖̓̄͑́̄̒̄ͅ.̷̛̪̱͔̬̈́͋̏̊̿̅̒ͅ.̷̛̱̝͎̬̭̜̠̣̊́̄̊͘.̶̧̫̤̮̹͎͎̥̊̀.̵̨͎̠͛̃̇͗͋̍̇̐͠ ̸̧̡͇̭̠̩͎̃̅̀̈̆́̓̆Ȳ̵̢̡̩̖̦̩͈̻͛̏͆ō̸̧̺̺̈̀̍̇̇U̴̢̔̎̄́͘͝͝

Ÿ̸̦̳̪̲̥́̀̊̈̾̌́̒ö̵̠̫̙͉̈̈͜͠u̸̝̤̻̤̰͆͆̈́̈́̅́̂̚͠

Each boy's eyes widened, breath caught, as if their subconscious was clawing its way to the surface.

A scrambled moment. A breathless pause.

Blankness.

Then, clarity.

“…You.”

The name had no sound at first, but it lived in the beat of their pulse. The fog did not reclaim her this time.

They knew.

The mysterious woman in the dream wasn’t just a shadow; it was you. The person they once clung to, then let slip through the cracks of time.

And they had almost forgotten.

Horrified by the realisation, each of them lurched from their beds.

He grabbed a notebook and scribbled your name again and again, the pages tearing beneath the force of his strokes.

With his hands shaking, he reached for his medical journal and began sketching your eyes, your voice in symbols he didn’t understand, desperate to keep you real.

He tore through drawers until he found a very old blank photograph. He flipped it over and wrote one word: You.

He painted in a frenzy, colours exploding across the canvas. A figure in the fog, soft and luminous.

He stared at his reflection, then wrote your name on the mirror with a red permanent marker, over and over until the glass fogged with breath.

They each did whatever they could, anything, to etch you back into their lives. To keep you from fading.

Because this wasn’t just a punishment.

You were taken because you were tired.

Because you chose peace.

And now the obsession, buried deep, suppressed by time and the god of this world, resurfaced like fire to dry kindling. But this time, it wasn’t delusion. It was devotion.

They would find you.

Wherever the Supreme Cosmic Overseer had taken you, they would chase it.

A world beyond Astra’s game. A realm untouched by fate.

He muttered to himself, hunched over his desk, voice hoarse:

“She saved me… and I let her go.”

He stood before his studio wall, canvas smeared with a storm of colour, his breathing ragged as he stepped back.

“You never stopped being my muse... and I’m done painting grief.”

He stood upright, alone in his sterile apartment, and whispered with clinical finality:

“Not again. Not this time.”

He opened a hidden drawer filled with celestial maps, dream patterns, and ancient coordinates.

“I’ll find you. No matter how far.”

He stared out through the window of his base, the city lights blurring beneath the rain as he exhaled:

“I'm coming for you, my love.”

Somewhere beyond the fog, beyond the world that they lived in, your soul stirred.

And the world, finally, began to remember you.

#love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #lad x non mc #lads x non mc #caleb x non mc! reader #sylus x non! mc reader #zayne x non mc! reader #rafayel x non! mc reader #non mc reader #sharieb #starry lookout #Youtube

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epione-xx · 9 months ago

Text

BOUNDLESS ☆

Small fragments of lights decorated the ceilings. Hot hands laid on your waist as he rubbed soothing circles into the skin.

You and Damian danced under the fairy lights of your room, it was soothing, special. It made you feel like the world couldn’t touch you both.

You lay your head on his strong shoulders, smiling warmly as you felt his arm fully wrap around your waist.

“Princess, are you sleepy?” It was teasing but also slightly concerned, he didn’t want you falling asleep on top of him and not in bed, were you would be comfortable, warm and safe.

A sleepy hum echoed out your mouth as you slowly pull away, the swaying stopped and he looked down into your it beautify eyes, the eyes he saw in his dreams, the eyes that confronted him so much. They were so full of life and love, love for him.

You had been his rock in all his hard times. Even when he left for every mission or life changing journey, at the end of it all was you. Arms wide open and ready for a hug.

“Let’s go to bed” his arm is under your knees in an instantly as he pulled her into a princess carry, holding her close to his chest as he walked over to the bed by the window. He placed her down and pulled out her chair before he tucked her in. He slides next to you, reaching an arm around your waist as he pulled you to your chest.

You hear his heart beat, it’s lulled and calm, just the way you like it. You enjoy when he’s so calm with you, it makes you feel special.

Being fair you are special, you’re the only person who can break his walls down. Who can make him smile and laugh and cry. The only one he can be himself with.

He’d love you to the end of time, the end of his life, the end of the universe. To Damian, you were everything. The morning sunshine that bronzed his skin, the chilled wind that blew past him to cool his face down, the perfect egg in a pan of broken yolks, the perfect melody.

In each other arms, you both fell asleep, holding onto one another like it was the only thing keeping you breathing, like you were magnets that cousins be pulled apart. Damian’s lulled breath was like a melody of lullaby’s that only your ears could hear, and your weight was the only thing that made Damian felt safe and secure in his sleep.

You were you, you were his, he was yours. It was perfect, boundless and forever.

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queers-gambit · 10 months ago

Text

Shadows of the Past

prompt: the High King recruits you personally for the expedition headed by your intended, Herald Elrond. your company encounters the darkness and Galadriel portrays an apology to her friend.

pairing: Elrond x betrothed!female!reader

fandom masterlist: The Rings of Power

word count: 5.1k+

note: wonky brain can think of nothing but this show right now i'm so sorry

warnings: cursing, spoilers, another reader insert for the haters, depiction of character injury, emotions are hard, small canon complicit angst, literal hurt and comfort, established relationship.

"Tell me again," your brother-in-law asked, "why you're not leading this company?"

You smirked, stepping over a fallen branch, "Because the High King has bestowed the honor to Herald Elrond, Daenor."

"Then why enlist you, too?"

"I am a mere emissary of the King. Besides, skills are required for this quest, Daenor, why would I not be employed?"

"Right, of course. I guess my question should be, what skills do you possess?" He teased, laughing when you shoved his shoulder playfully. "But truly," he asked, "why would the King send you both, so close to your wedding day? Why send you, too, if not to lead this company?" However, before you could answer, the air turned serious when the procession you followed came to a rather disturbing discovery upon the laid path.

You leaned on the intact stone while listening to Camnir discuss with Elrond possible paths forward after intending to cross a bridge over the gorge, only to find it in ruins and rubble. Elrond originally questioned the force that could've brought the ancient stone down in such a harsh and violent manner, thinking perhaps lightning, but another voice refuted this idea by claiming it was the Dark Lord, Sauron.

This familiar voice was that of Lady Galadriel - and while you've known her to be a fellow Commander, you were unsure of her title now. Yes, she was technically lieutenant of this company, and that was what she was addressed as, but you knew how stubborn the Elleth was and that she would not be so easily demoted.

You said nothing. You just listened as Camnir told Elrond they could take one of two paths: one so out of the way, it would add two weeks to their journey, and the other, down the same darkened path the Dark Lord laid.

Upon mentioning the path before them through the Hills of Tyrn Gorthad, Lady Galadriel twitched. She had been daintily ghosting her fingertips over the charred and mangled metal of the lanterns set on the imploded bridge, seemingly stuck in thought, then freezing. You couldn't see her face, only taking note of the brisk tension mounting in the Elleth's shoulders.

She spoke, "There is evil in those hills." The group shared silent looks, each with varying degrees of mistrust or caution. "Ancient, and full with malice," Galadriel glared at the landscape before her. "Sauron means for us to go that way. We must go another," She informed the group as if she were in a position to give orders.

From the crouch he took to observe the damage done to the stone, Elrond rose while speaking in a firm tone that overpowered the Lady's, "The Enemy is doubtless watching both roads." His eyes flickered over yours last as jetting over each of his soldiers, clocking the way you nodded in agreement. To you, it seemed common sense: of course, the bad guy was watching the paths that would lead the good guys to him! He was evil, not stupid! Elrond reminded his people, "This collapse makes it more critical than ever to reach Celebrimbor at speed."

"We won't reach anywhere with speed if we walk into a trap," Galadriel argued; the two friends (and distant cousins) held each other's even stare for several moments.

"What say you, Commander?" You asked, hoping to break the tension and little trance they were locked in. No, no, not out of jealousy, but out of protectiveness; wanting to break the ice for the sake of Elrond's authority.

"We go South," Elrond decided, turning from the fragmented bridge stump, ready to lead his company on, when Galadriel spoke again - from the same spot she had yet to move from.

"Commander, I must protest."

You did not move when the others did, you waited when Elrond paused and replied, "Your opinion on the matter has been heard."

He went to walk away again when Galadriel growled with a rolling tongue, "Elrond!"

You flinched to a halt in blinding irritation, upset by your peer's very audacity. Everyone halted around you, Camnir even shifting in his stance out of nervousness from the heat of your glare not on him. Your fiancé turned back to glare at his friend, ending with finality, "Opinion heard, lieutenant. We go South." He gave an encouraging command in Sindarin, leading only a few strides before pausing. When you automatically halted yourself at his side, he nodded and spoke softly while seemingly mindlessly grabbing your hand to give an affectionate and reassuring squeeze, "Lead them on, love, stay on the trail."

You glanced back at Galadriel, who was finally moving to keep up, and whispered for only his ears, "You sure?"

"I'm sure, go on," he confirmed, nodding again and offering a soft sort of half-smirk. His eyes, though, were squinted; indicating he was genuine in his displayed gentleness. With a squeeze to his hand, you offered one last stale look at Galadriel, who expertly avoided your eyes, then let go and walked forward to lead the way.

Behind you, Elrond snarled his scolding of Galadriel, insisting she shape up, forgo trust in the Ring of Power she wore, and if that wasn't possible, she needed to excuse herself. The Commander of the Northern Armies rebutdtaled that she did not desire to see any member of the company slain - a veiled response to her stubbornness to not abandon their quest and refusal to ignore her ring.

Forward, you marched.

Though you seldom showed it, you felt fearfully nervous when the night fell and your company crept further into what felt like infected wood. The ground turned spongey, a particular stench permeated the air, the darkness shadowed most all you saw. The trees loomed tall, the moon casted a bright silver light, and dead leaves crunched under booted, lithe steps. Elrond shared a nervous look with you, his hand only briefly brushing yours; a way to say he was there with you without being overly affectionate in front of his soldiers.

From the corner of his eye, Elrond saw your head tilt back in wonder before a fell voice hissed on the wind, "I am waiting for you." But in truth, nobody was sure about what they heard or did not hear. Perhaps they did not want to know, but still, the voice made the area further darken in suspicion, and once in a small clearing, all came to a halt to survey the surrounding area. There was a threat somewhere, but where exactly was yet to be determined.

Daenor questioned sharply, "What is this place?"

"Tyrn Gorthad," Camnir answered. "Known to men as the Barrow-downs."

You chimed in softly, "In ancient days, this was where they laid their lords and kings to rest."

"I feel no rest here," Daenor grumbled. "Even the trees seem ill at ease."

"Fear not," Vorohil chimed in, sounding amused while stepping up to (and through) your group's observation deck. "Dead men are no threat."

"Well, we've lived very different lives," you scoffed under your breath.

However, after Vorohil, Elrond followed; casting a look at the lot of you and reminding, "Keep moving."

You let the others pass ahead of you, trying to shake off your nerves and mentally prepare yourself for the hell you were walking into. Something anchored your feet, refusing to let go; every nerve in your body on fire and begging you not to wade into the dark. Your name was spoken gently, Galadriel's hand on your shoulder startling you.

"What is it?" She asked quietly.

"We shouldn't be here," you whispered, Elrond doubling back when he noted your delay. Not wanting a confrontation, Galadriel sighed and patted your shoulder before slipping away as your lover approached you.

"Are you alright?" He asked softly but urgently.

"There's something sinister here," you told him stiffly, stepping half a step closer, "watching us."

He took a breath, "If Galadriel's ring - "

"It's not that!" You insisted. "I feel it, Elrond, not the ring, not anything Galadriel said. I feel it."

Elrond's brows furrowed at the tips, like something hooked them to yank towards his nose. "Then stay close to me," he decided.

"We should move on, quickly," you snatched his hand to prevent him from parting; his gaze turning worried. "Please, listen to me."

"My love," he spoke softly, squeezing your hand, "it is a gravesite, nothing more. The dead cannot harm us."

"It is the living's influence I fear."

He sighed and nodded, "We will not linger." His forehead found yours to rest, "But do not stray from my side, it is of great comfort."

"To us both," you agreed, letting him pull back. Yet he did not relinquish hold of your hand, keeping it tight in his and leading you into the clearing the others were surveying.

"Commanders," Rían called, standing over the corpses of two horses... Attacked seemingly a time ago, and upon inspection, discovered the pairing bodily remains of an Elvish party.

Elrond questioned your name when you squatted, brushing aside debris. "Their barding is from Lindon," you told him, gently ghosting the leather with your touch. You looked up to meet his eyes, glancing over to see Galadriel, predicting, "The King sent a dispatch to warn Celebrimbor."

Galadriel nodded in confirmation as Rían discovered the encased message from the King in a decorative tube, asking, "This dispatch?"

Slowly, you stood from your position and held a silent hand out, being given the tube for inspection; all eyes on you, waiting for whatever your overly keen (even for an Elf) eyes would see. After confirming the contents, your eyes locked with Galadriel's, and she spoke what you both were thinking: "We must go from this place."

Elrond appeared ready to agree, tension mounting as your company seemingly felt the blanket of panic being thrown over them all. From the dark, a set of rotting chains shot out to coil around Daemor, yanking him into the toxic, spongey earth and across the clearing.

"Y/N!" He shouted in shock, and without thinking, your hands slapped into his as if in an effort to anchor him... But you were both yanked off your feet. "Commander!"

"Daenor! NO!"

"Help me! Y/N, Y/N, please!"

"Hold onto me!" You begged, being drug on your belly.

"Sister! Sister, please, help me! Help me!" He sobbed in fear, a vice grip on your wrists and hands surely to leave blemishes. "Don't let go! Pl-eeeeeaaaaaase!"

"Daenor!" You whimpered, struggling as the force that held you both hostage was too strong to maintain a safe, secure hold permanently - meaning, saving him was futile.

Your name was bellowed, being drug towards one of the opened tombs; but at the last moment, the tether that kept you and Daenor together was broken and he was pulled into the abyss of the grave. You whimpered in fear, slowly lifting from your belly and to your knees as Daenor's screams were silenced... In fact, the entire area turned eerily quiet.

Behind you, the others rushed to the scene and Elrond immediately dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around you. "Are you hurt? Hey, hey, look at me, are you hurt?" He demanded, fearful that the chains might shoot out again to finish the job to swallow you in the dark. He checked for any physical injury, but the tension was too great to ignore; the mouth of the tomb glaring at you, forcing Elrond to silence himself.

You flinched back into his hold when the gruesome sounds of crunching bone and squelching flesh was heard; indicating whatever was inside, whatever claimed Daenor, had disposed of his living body.

Elrond took advantage of your flinch to rock you back onto your feet, standing as a group as a voice hissed, "Cold old be hand and heart and bone, And cold be sleep under stone, Never more to wake on stony bed, Never, till the Sun fails and the Moon is dead." Galadriel brandished her sword as the wights first emerged, revealing their zombified forms. You encouraged the group to form together in a circle as the demons emerged. The Voice continued, "In the black wind, the stars shall die."

"Prepare yourselves," Galadriel warned, the group arming themselves.

"What are they?" Rían trembled.

From perfectly between Galadriel and Elrond, you answered, "They are those who laid in the tombs, the Lords and Kings of old... Lore calls them Barrow-wights."

The creatures surrounded your company, leering, growling, sizing you up. In Sindarin, Elrond commanded, "Attack!"

In tandem, the group lunged; weapons striking the ghoulish foes but they merely disintegrated in air... Then reformed. It seemed that fighting only served to irritate the enemies, their collective hissing and screeching making stomachs curl and skin to prickle in fear. Galadriel clocked this first, warning Rían, "Still your arrow!"

But the Elleth was already locked and loaded, the string slipping from her grip to fire at a distant wight. But it only soared through the zombie's face, not stopping, directing towards Camnir - but Elrond intercepted, swiping his sword to cut its path and save his soldier. The creature rejuvenated.

"They're impervious to our weapons," Camnir voiced, fear inking his tone.

Elrond's eyes found yours, seemingly connected by a string of similar thought; remembering the old wives tales you once read a lifetime ago, ancient lore about Barrow-wights dating back to the time of Melkor. So, he sheathed his sword and told his soldiers, "Hold fast." To Camnir, the closest to him, he demanded, "Come with me!"

"Where are you going?"

"Help me open it," Elrond told him, trying to pry open the sealed tomb as you swiped at another wight's skeletal hand reaching for you.

"What?"

"Hurry!" Elrond barked in Sandarin.

Back in your group, Rían muttered nervously, "Commander?"

"Ease yourself, remain calm..."

"What do we do?"

"Make no sudden movements. Stay together, fend them off but don't engage a fight," you advised, "hold strong - "

A gasp cut off your words when chains coiled around your ankle; securing in a tight zip that knocked you off balance and back into the toxic dirt. You scrambled for purchase on anything, finding only wet leaves; and suddenly, the chain turned taunt with tension before you were being sucked back into another tomb.

"Commander!" Vorohil shouted, trying to reach for you, but just missing as you were reeled back over the dirt.

"Y/N!" Rían cried, alerting Elrond and Camnir of your situation. You whimpered in fear, sobbing as you couldn't fight the force; couldn't save yourself; only able to helplessly submit to your approaching doom after clawing unsuccessfully for salvation.

"No! No!" You yelped, trying to remove the chains, but another tightened around the first chain in a horribly tight, vice grip that strangled breath from your lungs from the pure burning sting. With the last of your air, you screamed, "Elrond! Please!"

You heard Vorohil sprinting after you, freezing in your escape attempt when a grisly, decayed hand extended from the ebony shadow of the tomb towards you. There was a panicked finality to your blood, fear clogging rational thought; never seeing Elrond, only focused on the threat pulling you in. But the half-Elf you meant to marry in only a few weeks time came surging onto the scene, sliding on his knees at the mouth of the tomb and swinging a sword to sever both hand and chains.

"Y/N - "

"Fuck's sake!" You snarled, unintentionally cutting Elrond off; shoving the chains from your leg, scrambling to your feet.

You were just about to thank Elrond when he instead encouraged, "Here, take this." He held out one of the ancient weapons excavated from the tomb, nodding with increased vigor before turning away when it was in your grip. You hacked and stabbed the wight that came after you, Elrond and Camnir tossing the rest of the company weapons to cast down the surrounding enemies.

"How?" Rían asked in shock, seeing the wisps of the last wights waft into the wind.

"According to lore, only the blades with which they were buried with will return such creatures to rest," Elrond explained.

"But the men buried here have been entombed for over a thousand years," Camnir trembled, turning to his companion.

Vorohil seethed, "I think it is safe to say that something has awoken them."

"No," Galadriel argued, glaring down at the wight's decaying body. "Someone... Awakening evil. Across all Middle-earth."

You ignored the conversation and slowly took a seat; leaving your weapon in the dirt while focusing on hiking up your trouser leg after discarding your boot. With a clenched jaw, you revealed the wight's chains left sizzling lacerations; the metal seemingly enchanted to burn damn near to the bone, creating craters, indentations, dimples to your otherwise pure and unblemished flesh.

You winced when fabric stuck to the wound, bearing your teeth while hissing through them; breathing turning staggered as the pain became biting. "Commander?" You heard Camnir question softly with concern, others turning to set their attention on you.

"It's nothing," you insisted, observing the wound and deciding a tourniquet was required.

"You're hurt," Elrond growled, surging forward and unintentionally knocking Galadriel's shoulder - but the Elleth didn't take offense. The others wanted to close in around you, but Galadriel held them back after witnessing you before. As Commander of the Southern Armies, you had seen many battles with Galadriel, and sometimes, you sustained injury; she's witnessed how you turned akin to a panicked animal when accosted with attention - no matter how genuine the concern.

"It's nothing," you repeated, reaching for one of your belts, "I'm fine."

"You're not - "

"It's a burn, Elrond, nothing more," you sniffled, feeling how far up the chain had gone; deciding to tie the tourniquet above your knee.

"Let me," Elrond whispered, laying his hands over yours that shook and trembled without abandon.

"Elrond - "

"Just," he snipped, needing to pause and take a breath, "please, let me help you."

Behind him, Galadriel ushered the others away to a short distance; deciding to gather whatever belongings of Daenor they could to honor his lost life. You met Elrond's worried gaze and nodded, sniffling, "Okay. J-Just above the knee, here," you showed him.

"I know, love, I've got yah," he breathed, shuffling closer and kneeling beside you while taking the belt. You pulled the material of your trousers straight, grimacing when Elrond first wrapped the leather around your thigh. "All right?" He checked, seeing you nod rapidly; no words used because you were holding your breath to prevent yourself from crying out. When Elrond first tied the leather, you whimpered and his eyes turned teary. "It's gonna get worse, love, just hang on f'me - " He warned you before suddenly tightening the tourniquet, making you yelp painfully. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I know it hurts, I know, I know, I'm so sorry," he repeated, your hands latching onto his forearms out of subconscious need to feel him for comfort while he secured the leather belt. When done, he reached for your cheeks and pet hair that escaped your braids behind your ears, encouraging, "Breathe for me, just breathe, love. You're all right, there you go. Breathe. Good, good, I've got you, I'm so sorry, just breathe, just breathe... Oh, I, uh..."

"What's wrong?" You worried when he trailed off; eyes full of tears and his mouth half opening while retracting his hands that you held by his wrists still.

"I've blood on my hands..." He splayed them in display between you two.

"It's okay - "

"Got it on your face," he frowned.

"It's fine," you insisted, sniffling sadly, "it's my blood, anyway. We should be moving - "

"You're hurt."

"I know, but it's not life threatening, I don't need coddled."

"I'm not coddling you - "

"You are," you half smirked, "because you're worried."

"Of course, I am," he scoffed, using his sleeve to wipe your cheeks and temples free of blood. "How can I not be? You..." His voice quaked with emotion, "You are my starlight, my fairest friend, my sweetest love. Seeing you hurt..."

"I know," you whispered, bringing him close so your foreheads met, "but I'm okay."

"For now."

You sighed, pulling back to respond, "Don't say that, don't even think it. Optimism is our only friend in this situation, else, what is the point of going after Sauron?"

He needed to take a breath, sniffling his own emotion. "Fine. We should rest until morning... Regroup, give you time off this leg for now."

You nodded, "You sure?"

"I think we could all use the reprieve," he admitted.

"Does that include you?" You asked while caressing the coils of chestnut off his forehead.

"I'm fine - "

"As I am?"

Elrond paused, then scoffed a small laugh and nodded. "I'm managing..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Hey," you whispered, bringing him back to your forehead, "you're doing an excellent job of leading this company. But we all have limits and tonight was a lot, you deserve the time to breathe."

"Time is something we don't have."

"We have enough for now," you insisted, more or less forcing Elrond to relent.

As Daenor's belongings were pulled from the tomb and buried in the scorched earth his killers had rose from, the company each offered you hollowed words of condolences for your loss. Beside Elrond, it was known, you and your brother-in-law were great friends - being the reason he met and eventually married your sister. His sword was embedded in the ground as a marker, the company gathered to silently pay their respects while their commander stood at the riverbed's edge in deep, solemn contemplation.

You held one of his daggers, intending to keep it in reminder; pocketing a few pieces of jewelry, intending to give it to his wife. However, all was interrupted when from a distance, you heard the booming rumble of drums. Not just any drums, but the beating sounds of a marching procession; something ominous and daunting. You perked up, standing to your feet as something dark and familiar started in your chest before sinking to your gut. By looks of your company, they, too, heard the drums and shared your worried thoughts; sheathing Daenor's dagger to your belt and surging for where Elrond stood speaking to Galadriel.

"Forgive my intrusion," you bid the pair, Elrond turning instantly.

"Are you all right?" His hand reached for your hip instantly, trying to help stabilize you - if you had been off balance.

Your hand laid to his cheek, answering swiftly, "I'm fine," before dropping your hand to rest on his bicep, "but we've heard drums - in the deep. Sounds like there's a host on the march."

This sent the company into action, tracking the sound of the enemy over leagues of wooded area. By the end of the day, at dusk, you all gathered slowly on a darkened clifftop; watching in horror as legions of orcs marched down the beaten path to the sounds of their war drums. "Orc treachery," Rían cursed upon sight.

"That trail...?" Elrond questioned, letting go of his secure hold on you to lower in a squat, "I gather it leads to - "

"Eregion, my liege," Camnir confirmed.

"We came in search of Sauron," Vorohil narrated everyone's thought and question, "And instead, we find Adar?"

"Could they be in league with each other or... Perhaps at war," Elrond thought aloud, you shifting on your bad leg for a moment to readjust your stance among the trees.

"A legion of Orcs have marched into Elvish lands," Galadriel spat in anger, glaring at Elrond. "We are all of us at war."

Elrond agreed, "Word of this must reach the High King before our host sails for Mordor."

The silence was calm in a resolute sort of way, everyone just pausing to bask in their shock and awe. This was shattered when a distant Orc shouted, "There!" An arrow thunked into the trunk of the tree behind you, a horse neighing shrilly as it galloped through the forrest towards freedom and away from its pursuers. Just as the company turned to face the enemy, another arrow flew through the air almost inconspicuously, finding its mark in the soft part of your chest just beneath your sternum.

You grunted when the arrow landed, taking half a step back and wanting to cry out. Instead, you just held where the arrow embedded itself in your flesh. You felt dizzy suddenly, clothes and hand saturating with blood as the arrow had pierced through the aorta artery to cause major damage. Irreparable damage. Fatal damage...

In a whisper, Elrond told his soldiers in Sindarin, "Hold!"

In the distance, the Orcs were heard complaining about the horse escaping while a few random arrows were fired off again in a last ditch effort to wound the animal. If you did not move, the mangey creatures did not notice, smell, or sense you. But you couldn't form a full coherent thought, just understanding your injury, the looming grace of Death soon to kiss you, that breath was becoming increasingly harder to come by, and the pain - the pain was aching, soon spiking.

You did not mean to, but your fear was too great to ignore, and you stuttered in a whimpered gasp, "El-Elrond?"

His head snapped over, seeing the arrow protruding from your chest and feeling himself crumble inside. You were choking on blood, trying to remain silent - and they all saw that effort. How blood came splattering from your nose as you tried to subdue your noise, but that only made it harder to breathe; inadvertently choking, a groan strangled from your lungs just as Elrond reached you. He held you to him with his chest and single arm anchoring your waist, the other lifting to lay his hand over your mouth as Galadriel glued to your other side for added support.

The company moved back several yards, covering ground swiftly before laying you down behind a natural outcropping of protective rock. You were struggling, unable to fight it any longer; hacking a cough, blood spewing, splattering, streaking down your neck, the pain insurmountable. Elrond's one hand cushioned under your head, tears in his eyes as he could only hold you as the Orcs were heard closing in, other hand once more clasping over your mouth.

Still, Galadriel was sandwiching you, wincing when Elrond's hand stifled your groans of pain as he strained himself to peak over the top of the rocks. When he lowered himself, your lover leaned his forehead on your temple and hushed in your ear, "I'm so sorry." Upon lifting, he met Galadriel's eyes, who had been examining your wound, only to find her's full of sadness. Her head shook with muted words - telling him whatever she saw wasn't good.

You whimpered lightly. The Orcs could smell an Elf.

You wrangled Elrond's hand from your mouth, "Lis-Listen to me - "

"Hush, do not - "

"Shut up and listen!" You hissed, keeping hold of his hand, "'M not makin' it outta this, love, you've gotta go. L-Leave me - "

"No!"

"Elrond. Leave me," you insisted, "and they'll k-know 's m-me they smell. Y-You have t'warn the H-High King."

"I'm not leaving you," Elrond grit.

You smiled sadly, "And I love y-you for that. B-But you h-have t-t-to."

"Not in this lifetime," he begged, a few tears falling. "Just give me time to think, I'll figure something out."

"Time... Is something we don't have," you repeated his words from earlier. Suddenly, Galadriel just knew something without words; a feeling; a sort of understanding that she could help in this moment. She heard you whisper, "I'm so sorry, this wasn't supposed to happen. W-We should've had so much more time - "

"Please, don't say that," Elrond begged quietly.

Galadriel took a sobering breath and moved her hands to the base of the arrow; pressing enough to make you wince and breath in sharply. Elrond went to tell her to back off, but paused when The Ring of Power she wore twinkled in the dark night - seemingly pulling you out of that fatal twilight. Your breathing turned slow... Eyes clearing of hazy pain... Life breathing back into your flesh...

The arrow fell out, making all three of you gasp. Galadriel's hands fell away as your own shot to where your wound had been - finding it healed between the fabric the arrow tore. You looked at the Elleth in shock, breathing, "You healed me...?"

She just nodded, Vorohil speaking in astonished Sindarin, "Amazing."

"You're - You're, you are - ?" Elrond stuttered in shock.

"I'm okay," you confirmed, caressing his cheek as he beamed down at you in pure glee. "I'm okay, love, I'm okay; Galadriel, she healed me," you sniffled, looking to your friend. "Thank you, my friend."

"Of course," she breathed, the Orcs heard shouting in the distance to overturn every rock. With a look of shared understanding, Galadriel told Elrond over your body while you tried to mop up some blood, "Get to Lindon. I will occupy them as long as I am able. Get her up."

Elrond huffed through his nose, but did as bid - not like he needed to even be told in the first place. He gathered you into himself and stood, making sure you were stable before looking back at Galadriel; slowly squatting again as she wriggled the ring from her finger. "Take it," she breathed, presenting Elrond with the band of jewelry. When he made no move, she snatched his hand and folded the ring into his grasp, "Take it, Elrond!"

"What will you do?" He asked begrudgingly, storing the ring in a leather pouch for safety.

"Something foolish, probably," she smirked, nodding in meaning. "Now, go. Go!"

"Elrond, love," you whispered, holding your hand out for his and heaving him to his feet. "With me, c'mon, quickly," you advised the others, beginning the trek down a new path in the woods. As you moved, you realized that Galadriel's ring hadn't just healed the arrow wound, but the Barrow-wight's chain, as well, which helps remedy your limp.

A semi-safe distance away, there came a decently loud and abrupt boom behind you, and upon looking, saw the trees up in flames. It was where Galadriel must've been battling the Orcs alone.

In earnest impression, Camnir narrated, "She scarified herself to save us all."

Elrond came to a halt when he realized his company members were captivated by the sight of heroics in action. So he interrupted their dreamy thoughts by calling, "No, you are mistaken, Camnir." He stalked forward through his delegates, telling them in their native tongue, "She did not do it to save us."

Tension simmered over each member.

"What?" Camnir questioned.

Elrond turned away from the spectacle with Galadriel's fire, consulting the dark again, speaking with ramped distain in Sandarin, "She did it to save the ring." His hand reached for yours again, the two of you leading the company forward with him calling over his shoulder in the Common Tongue, "Hurry!"

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mrsfancyferrari · 1 year ago

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Fragments of Hope

Summary: You had an argument with Daniel and you decided to leave him for a while. What you didn't know is that he can't live without you.

Song: MILLION DOLLAR BABY - Tommy Richman

Author’s note: I can't write short stories to save my life. I hope you enjoy this long journey which may take a full day to read. Please like, reblog and share this! <3

Word count: 4.6k

MASTERLIST - F1

"Daniel, I feel like you're prioritizing your racing career over our relationship. It seems like you don't care about me anymore." You said, stressing over the fact that Daniel didn't understand.

"I understand why you might feel that way, but racing is my passion and it's important to me. I want you to know that you're also a priority in my life." Daniel replied.

"Well it certainly does feel like it sometimes," You muttered, standing up from your seat.

"Y/N please listen to me," Daniel pleaded, standing up to follow you.

"No you listen to me!" you yelled, turning around to face him. "Everyday you stay in the paddock until 1AM or later when you come home and then you leave at 8AM to go back to work. Daniel, I have less than 7 hours to spend time with you and it's mostly used on you sleeping,"

"I understand that it may feel that way, but racing is not just a career for me. It's my passion," Daniel pleaded, his voice filled with sincerity. "I love you more than words can express, and I want to make it work between us."

"How Daniel, tell me how you are going to fix this because right now, I don't feel like I'm in a relationship with you but a friend who helps you."

Daniel stood there, his eyes filled with regret and realization. He had never seen you so upset before, and your words struck a chord deep within him. He knew that he had to make a change, to find a way to balance his racing career with your needs and desires.

"That's what I thought," You muttered, taking your phone before heading for the door, "Don't follow me,"

Feeling frustrated and hurt, you stormed out of the house and went to your best friend's house for the night.

As you're on your way to your friend's place, your phone dies, leaving you disconnected from Daniel. However, when you finally arrive at your friend's house, you decide to check your phone for any missed messages.

Opening your photos or messages, you notice several messages and calls from Daniel. One that read, "I'm sorry for what happened. Are you at your friend's house?"

You take a deep breath, feeling a mix of anger and sadness.

Despite your hurt feelings, you decide to text him back, "Yes, I'm at my friend's house. I need some time to think and process everything. Please respect my space for now."

It's late at night when you find yourself sitting with your friend, doing your skin care routine together. You decide to share your situation with her, expecting some reassurance.

As you pour your heart out to your friend, she listens attentively, her eyes filled with empathy. "I can understand why you're feeling hurt and frustrated," she says, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder.

"It's important to prioritize your own needs and emotions in a relationship. You deserve someone who can dedicate time and effort to nurturing your connection."

"But I have got to remind you how in love Daniel looks when he's with you," your friend said, her voice filled with sincerity.

"I've seen the way his eyes light up when he talks about you, and the way he always puts your happiness first. Maybe this situation is a wake-up call for him to prioritize your relationship and find a better balance. Give him a chance to make things right, but also remember to listen to your own needs and make decisions that are best for you."

You nod, appreciating your friend's perspective and words of encouragement. "You're right," you reply, "I do see how much Daniel cares about me. I'll take some time to reflect on what I need and have an open conversation with him."

The next day, you and Daniel barely exchange any words. It feels like there's a tension between the two of you, but you try to ignore it.

As the race day approaches, you find yourself watching Daniel's race. Unfortunately, he doesn't perform well, finishing in 19th place. The disappointment weighs heavily on both of you and knew that Daniel would be very disappointed in himself, but you decide to give it some time.

You were always the one to comfort him after a bad race, reminding him that everyone has off days and that his performance does not define his worth as an athlete. You would assure him that you still believed in him and that you're proud of the effort he put in.

Feeling conflicted, you decide to reach out to Daniel after his disappointing race. Despite being in your friend's house, you understand that he is most likely in the paddock as usual.

You send him a text expressing your support and reminding him that you believe in his abilities, hoping that it will provide some comfort during this challenging time. . . .

Days turn into weeks, and the tension between you and Daniel remains. One night, you receive a strange picture from Lando, a close friend of Daniel's and you.

In the photo, you see Daniel, his usually composed and determined demeanor replaced with disheveled hair and glassy eyes. His grip on the lamppost is tight, as if it's the only thing keeping him upright.

The streetlights cast an eerie glow on his face, highlighting the exhaustion and despair etched in his features. It's a stark contrast to the vibrant and confident person you've known him to be.

As you study the image, a wave of concern washes over you. You can't help but wonder what has led Daniel to this point.

Is it the mounting pressure of his racing career? The strain on your relationship? Or something deeper that you're unaware of?

Unable to bear the weight of uncertainty any longer, you decide to video call Lando, hoping to gain some insight into what has been happening with Daniel lately.

"Lando, what's going on?" you asked worriedly, your voice filled with concern as you hoped to gain some insight into what has been happening with Daniel lately.

"Oh yeah hey Y/N, your boyfriend is really drunk and he is hugging a lamppost with all of his strength," Lando explained, showing his face and waving at the camera.

"I've been trying to get him to come back to the house, but he's been pretty stubborn. I think he's been struggling with the disappointment from the race and it's just gotten to him."

"Let me see him,"

As Lando shifted the camera towards Daniel, you could see the toll that his recent struggles had taken on him. His usually vibrant eyes were bloodshot and glazed over, filled with a mixture of exhaustion and anguish.

His disheveled hair clung to his sweaty forehead, and his once confident posture had slouched, as if weighted down by the burden he carried.

It was clear that he was in a state of deep distress, and your heart ached at the sight of him clinging to the lamppost, seeking solace in his own thoughts.

"Daniel baby," you said in a gentle tone that you would only use for him. Daniel perked up, looking around for you, his eyes scanning the surroundings until they finally met yours on the video call.

There was a glimmer of recognition and relief in his eyes as he realized you were there, offering him a lifeline of support and understanding amidst his turmoil.

With a shaky voice, Daniel whispered, "Y/N, is that you?" His words carried a mix of vulnerability and hope, as if he was desperate for your presence to validate his struggles and offer him the comfort he desperately needed.

Your heart racing, you didn't waste a second. Without another thought, you hung up the video call and rushed out the door, fueled by a determination to be by Daniel's side.

As you sprinted towards where Lando had described, the worry and fear in your chest propelled you forward, your mind filled with a single thought - you needed to reach Daniel, to hold him, and to let him know that he wasn't alone in his pain.

"Lando, make sure that he stays there and share your location," you instructed, knowing that finding Daniel quickly was of utmost importance.

The urgency in your voice reflected the depth of your concern as you relied on Lando to keep an eye on him until you arrived.

"It's not like he's letting go of this lamppost any time soon," Lando joked

You couldn't help but chuckle at Lando's attempt to lighten the mood. "Well, I'll make sure to give him a little nudge if he's still holding on when I get there," you replied, grateful for the small moment of levity amidst the seriousness of the situation.

Lando chuckled and said, "Just make sure it's a gentle nudge. We don't want him falling over before you get there. I'll keep an eye on him for you, Y/N. He's in good hands."

"Also just make sure you bring some extra strength with you. I have a feeling Daniel might need it," he said, his voice laced with concern.

"I'll be there as soon as I can, Lando," you assured him, your voice filled with determination. "Thank you for watching over him. I know he's in good hands with you."

When you finally locate Daniel, you approach him cautiously. He looks disheveled and confused, unaware of the picture you received from Lando.

As soon as you got off the car and walked over to the two of them, Daniel's eyes were on you. His gaze held a mixture of relief, anticipation, and a glimmer of hope, as if he had been waiting for you to arrive and bring him the solace he desperately needed.

"Thank goodness you're here Y/N," Lando said smiling at you before giving you a hug.

"How is he?" You whispered to Lando, glancing at Daniel whose eyes were still trained on you.

"He's in bad shape," Lando whispered, his worry evident in his voice. "He's refusing to drink water, he's been vomiting, and he has a high fever. But no matter what, he won't let go of that lamppost."

Your heart sank as you took in the state Daniel was in. The sight of him clinging to the lamppost, refusing to let go despite his deteriorating health, only heightened your concern.

"I'll go try and talk to him."

"Good luck but you probably won't need it," Lando replied.

As you approached Daniel, you couldn't help but notice the hollowed look in his eyes, as if the light within him had faded. His once vibrant and charismatic demeanor was replaced by a sense of weariness and defeat.

His disheveled hair and trembling hands were clear signs of the toll this ordeal had taken on him, and it was heartbreaking to see him in such a vulnerable state.

The sight of him clinging desperately to the lamppost, his knuckles white with tension, revealed a level of desperation that struck a chord within you.

Nevertheless, you mustered up all the courage you had and gently reached out to touch his shoulder, hoping to break through the walls he had built around himself.

"Daniel, it's me Y/N, your girlfriend," you said slowly, your voice filled with love and concern.

His eyes flickered for a moment, as if trying to grasp onto a distant memory, before a glimmer of recognition appeared. "Y/N," he whispered hoarsely, his grip on the lamppost loosening slightly.

"I'm here, Daniel," you replied softly, your heart breaking at the sight of his vulnerability. "I won't leave you alone. We'll get through this together."

You placed your palm against Daniel's forehead, feeling the heat radiating from his feverish skin. Concern washed over you as you realized just how sick he was. "We need to get you to a doctor, Daniel," you said, your voice tinged with urgency.

"No doctor," he slurred, his words barely audible. "I don't want their help. Just stay with me, Y/N."

As Daniel's words trailed off, tears welled up in his eyes and cascaded down his cheeks. Each tear carried the weight of his pain and the fear of losing himself and you.

You held him tightly, offering a comforting embrace as his tears soaked into your shoulder, a silent testament to the depth of his despair.

"Daniel," you said gently, wiping away his tears with your thumb, "I understand that you're scared and don't want anyone's help. But I can't stand to see you suffer like this. The doctors can help you get better. They have the knowledge and resources to treat you. Please, let me take you to the hospital. I'll be right by your side the whole time, I promise."

Daniel looked at you with a mix of desperation and gratitude, his trembling hand reaching out to hold yours tightly. "Okay," he whispered, his voice filled with surrender, "take me to the hospital."

You nodded, grateful for Lando's support. Slowly and carefully, with Lando's help, you guided Daniel to Lando's car. As you settled into the back seats, Daniel's trembling hand still tightly holding yours, Lando started the engine and drove off towards the hospital, the weight of the situation heavy in the air.

Daniel leaned against you, his body weak and trembling. Each breath he took seemed to require immense effort, his chest rising and falling in shallow gasps.

The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on your heart as you held him close, praying for his strength to endure just a little longer until you reached the hospital.

"I'm so sorry Y/N," he whispered while taking in sharp breaths, his voice strained with pain.

"What do you mean baby?" you whispered, observing every movement Daniel made.

"I'm sorry.... for.... for not being.... good enough," Daniel stuttered, tears streaming down his face.

Your heart shattered at his words, and you squeezed his hand tighter, your voice filled with love and conviction. "Daniel, please don't say that. You are more than enough, and I love you just the way you are. We'll get through this together, I promise."

"I... love you," Daniel muttered. "Please don't leave... me."

"I love you too, Daniel," you replied, tears welling in your eyes. "I will never leave your side. We're in this together, and we will fight through it. You are not alone."

The rest of the journey was mostly silent, as you focused on keeping Daniel awake and alert, gently talking to him and urging him to stay awake. However, Daniel's exhaustion and pain were overwhelming, and he longed for the comfort of sleep.

Despite his struggle, he fought to stay awake, knowing that reaching the hospital was crucial for his survival.

As you pulled up to the hospital, Lando's prearranged call had ensured that a medical team was waiting at the entrance with a stretcher for Daniel. They quickly and efficiently transferred him onto the stretcher, their urgency matching the gravity of the situation.

You watched with a mix of relief and anxiety as they whisked Daniel away, knowing that he was now in the hands of the medical professionals who could provide him with the immediate care he needed.

You and Lando waited in the waiting room, your legs bouncing against the floor in a nervous rhythm. The minutes felt like hours as you anxiously scanned the hallway for any sign of the medical team returning with updates on Daniel's condition. The weight of uncertainty hung heavy in the air, and all you could do was hope and pray for positive news.

"I couldn't help but listen in your conversation in the car," Lando started. "Did something happen before today?"

You took a deep breath, your voice trembling slightly as you replied, "Yes, Daniel and I have been going through a difficult time lately."

"Excuse me, were you the ones who brought Mr. Ricciardo?" the doctor asked, looking at you and Lando. Your heart raced as you nodded, eager for any updates on Daniel's condition.

"Yes, we brought him," you replied anxiously. "How is he? Is he going to be okay?" The doctor's face softened as they looked at you both with empathy. "We're doing everything we can for Mr. Ricciardo. He's stable for now, but we need to run some tests and monitor him closely. It's too early to say anything definitive, but we're hopeful."

"Can we at least see him?" Lando asked on your behalf, his voice filled with concern. The doctor nodded sympathetically, understanding your need to be by Daniel's side during this critical time.

"Yes, you can see him, but please keep in mind that he needs rest and quiet. Follow me."

As you followed the doctor down the hallway, a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts raced through your mind. Fear, hope, and a desperate longing to see Daniel battled within you, creating a tumultuous storm of anticipation.

You clung to the doctor's words of hope, praying that they would ring true and that Daniel would pull through this ordeal.

As you entered Daniel's hospital room, you were taken aback by his appearance. His usually vibrant and energetic demeanor had been replaced by a pale and weakened figure lying motionless on the bed.

The sight of him hooked up to machines and monitors sent a pang of sadness and worry through your heart. Tubes and wires were connected to his body, a stark reminder of the severity of his condition.

Despite the sterile and clinical environment, the room was filled with an overwhelming sense of vulnerability and fragility.

The beeping of the machines provided a haunting soundtrack to the room, punctuating the silence that hung heavily in the air. Daniel's closed eyes gave no indication of his awareness of your presence, and you couldn't help but feel a profound sense of helplessness.

"I'll leave you to it." The doctor muttered, closing the door and leaving you and Lando in the room.

The atmosphere in the room was heavy with a mix of sorrow and uncertainty. As you stood there, surrounded by the beeping machines and the stillness of Daniel's presence, the weight of the situation sank deep into your being.

It was a somber reminder of the fragility of life and the powerlessness you felt in the face of it all.

You sat down beside Daniel, gently taking his hand in yours. The touch of his cold skin sent a shiver down your spine, a stark contrast to the warmth and vitality he once exuded. As you sat there, you couldn't help but silently will him to fight, to overcome whatever obstacles lay ahead.

"This is all my fault," you muttered, silently crying onto Daniel's hand, overwhelmed by guilt and regret. You couldn't help but blame yourself for the situation, questioning every decision and action that led to this moment.

The weight of guilt and regret pressed heavily upon you as you sat beside Daniel, crying silently onto his hand. Every decision and action leading up to this moment played on a loop in your mind, tormenting you with thoughts of self-blame and what-ifs.

The emotions were overwhelming, and you couldn't help but wonder if you could have done something differently to prevent this.

"It's not your fault," Daniel strained, his voice weak but filled with reassurance. You quickly looked up, astonishment and relief flooding your eyes as you saw him awake.

"I'll leave it up to you guys," Lando said as he left the room and left you both having no chance to hear him as he left.

"Does it hurt?" you muttered.

"No but it hurts that you're crying," Daniel muttered, slowly raising his hand to wipe your tears, "It's not your fault,"

"I shouldn't have left like that, I distracted you before your race and now this," you said, your voice filled with remorse and self-blame. Daniel's weak smile broke through the heaviness in the room as he gently squeezed your hand.

"Don't blame yourself," he whispered, his words carrying a sense of forgiveness and understanding.

"I shouldn't have treated you like that for you to leave the house," Daniel stated, his voice filled with sincerity. "I promise to focus more on our relationship and prioritize our happiness above all else."

"You don't have to," you muttered.

"But I will, I promise."

"You know," Daniel began, his voice growing stronger, "I've had a lot of time to think while I was lying here. And I realized that life is too short for us to hold onto regrets and blame ourselves for things that are out of our control. We can't change the past, but we can choose how we move forward from here."

Tears welled up in your eyes again, but this time they were tears of gratitude and hope. "You're right," you whispered, your voice filled with a mix of relief and determination.

"Can you get in here with me? I miss having you beside me when I sleep," Daniel muttered, his voice filled with longing and vulnerability.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if it was appropriate, but ultimately decided to climb into the hospital bed and snuggle up beside him, finding comfort in the warmth of his embrace.

"Are you comfortable?" you whispered, laying against Daniel's chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

"More than ever," he replied, wrapping his arms around you tightly, as if never wanting to let go.

As you kept quiet, tracing Daniel's tattoos slowly, you marveled at the stories they told, each inked line representing a moment in his life. It was a silent act of love and connection, a way for you to understand him on a deeper level without words.

This was how most of your nights would end, with you tracing over Daniel's tattoos while he tenderly kissed the top of your head and rubbed your back. It was a comforting routine that brought you both a sense of peace and intimacy, allowing you to express your love for each other without the need for words.

In those quiet moments, you felt a deep connection and understood that the stories etched on his skin were a part of him, just as you were a part of each other's lives.

"Will you come to live with me again?" Daniel muttered against the top of your head, his words filled with a mix of vulnerability and hope. You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his, and felt a surge of love and longing.

"Daniel," you whispered, your voice filled with uncertainty. As you looked into his eyes, you could see the sincerity and desperation in his gaze.

A part of you wanted to believe him, to give him one more chance, but another part of you was hesitant, unsure if things could truly be different this time.

Daniel begged desperately, "Please, give me one chance and I promise that I will be more committed to our relationship if given the chance."

Taking a deep breath, you let the love you still felt for Daniel override your doubts. "Yes," you whispered, a mix of hope and caution in your voice. "I'll give us one more chance, but we have to take it slow and work on rebuilding trust."

Daniel grinned, "That's all I need," he said, his eyes filled with gratitude and determination. "I promise you won't regret this. I'll do whatever it takes to make things right between us."

Your heart fluttered as Daniel's hand tightened around your waist, pulling you closer to him. Goosebumps erupted across your skin with every touch, igniting a fire within you that only he could ignite. The electricity between you is palpable, and you can't help but melt into his embrace.

As your lips met, a wave of familiarity and passion washed over you. The taste of his kiss was like coming home, a sweet and addictive blend of warmth and tenderness. In that moment, all doubts and uncertainties melted away, replaced by a renewed sense of hope and desire.

The world around you faded into the background as you lost yourself in the intoxicating dance of his lips against yours, each kiss deepening the connection between your souls.

Time stood still as you surrendered to the magnetic pull of his embrace, savoring every stolen breath and gentle caress. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, a silent promise of a love that had weathered storms and emerged stronger than ever.

You gently tug at his collar, out of breath, and as Daniel asks, "Do you want me to stop?"

Also out of breath, and with a mischievous smile, you whisper, "Just the opposite, please. Don't stop."

Your words are filled with a mix of vulnerability and desire, a silent plea for him to continue. With a knowing smile, Daniel leans in closer, his touch becoming even more electrifying, as the intensity between you grows with each passing moment.

"God, I missed this," Daniel muttered against your lips, his voice filled with longing and a tinge of regret. The weight of his words hung in the air, reminding you of the time lost and the journey ahead.

But in that moment, all that mattered was the fire that burned between you, igniting a passion that refused to be extinguished. . . .

548 notes · View notes

hivemuthur · 4 months ago

Text

A Deer and a Man - Ch.3.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit - pure FILTH as promised: hair undone, bras abandoned, naked ankles and no stockings, Reader is in her whore era. Jk, there is some actual filth :v some warnings that I forgot to mention before: Reader is obviously a virgin, Viktor is not, Jayce? Jaybe, Jaybe not, I was told he reads as one and honestly, I don't mind :') Other than that, this fic has an implied age gap, that will be mentioned only once, of around 8 years between Reader and Viktor. So, sorry for the inconvenience, I'm somewhat biased when it comes to this topic, and consider age gaps to be worth mentioning when they oscillate around 10+ years.

Ch.1. | Ch.2. | Ch.4. | Ch.5. | Ch.6.

word count: 7,3K

tag: #d&m

summary: You are the eldest daughter of a noble family, soon to be married to one of the most eligible bachelors in the region—Viktor, the adopted son of House Talis. The arrangement is simple: a marriage that secures your family's wealth in exchange for access to Hextech. What could possibly go wrong?

author's note: @mithrava and @rennethen thank you for beta reading!

also the artist behind art is here!

Cross-posted on AO3

—

You adjust the piano stool to your height and give its mouth an experimental caress. You can see your distorted reflection in the polished lid. Once its teeth are bare, you press on the A key tentatively. Then, you give the keyboard an abrupt slide with the back of your palm, fingernails clacking against each one with a dry, repetitive click. A sigh escapes you, while you contemplate what should be the first tune you play in your new home.

It did not take long for you to grasp that your honeymoon was far removed from any sweet undertones, lingering instead in the realm of the dull and tasteless. The day after the wedding, as you stepped out of the carriage that had brought you and your husband to your new household, said husband took that very opportunity to step into a completely new personality—one you had not yet met.

Almost as if the crumbs of his previous kindness had been scattered before you solely to keep you from straying from the path. And it was not that he was being cruel—no. Distant was the more fitting word. Or rather, absent.

Absent was perfect.

During your silent journey, Viktor had been wholly absorbed in a text on the voltaic pile. You watched as his lower lip disappeared between his teeth, a finger tracing the lines of letters as he re-read the most intriguing fragments. Every so often, he would sigh or let out a soft gasp, his mouth parting as if to speak, only to freeze mid-thought—perhaps deciding that the present audience would not grasp the grandiosity of the subject matter.

He looked rather pretty like this, you noted—focused and flustered over something as dry and practical as a battery. You wondered if this was what you looked like while playing the piano. Yet besides Viktor, who had only ever had the opportunity to watch your back—or so you thought—there were no witnesses to confirm your speculation.

So you sat there, watching his reflection in the carriage window as he flexed his hand, took notes, and grumbled whenever the wheels jolted over the uneven road, smudging his careful handwriting. By the time you arrived, you had memorized the pattern his hair formed on his forehead and the slight crease between his brows when he concentrated. Not that sentimentality was at play here—merely a lack of better substance to occupy your mind. Soon after departing the city, the landscape had dissolved into a monotonous stretch of rolling hills, scattered trees, and shallow ponds.

Viktor offered you a hand to step down safely and an arm to escort you into the main hall, where your new staff awaited. You were introduced to the butler, housekeeper, lady’s maid, cook, and the rest of the footmen before being led on a tour of the house. Room after room unfolded before you, each accompanied by the expectant gaze of Algernon, or rather Mr. Griffiths, the butler, as he meticulously detailed the strengths and weaknesses of each space.

He led the way through the entrance hall, his measured steps echoing against the polished floor. The space was impressive, if a touch austere, with high ceilings, a sweeping staircase, and dark wood panelling that made the morning light from the tall windows seem distant rather than inviting. A large, gilt-framed mirror dominated one wall, reflecting the assembled staff and, just behind them, you and Viktor—him standing with his usual careful posture, his expression impossible to read.

The butler cleared his throat and gestured towards the double doors on the left. "The drawing room, my lady. A fine space for receiving guests."

You stepped inside, taking in the elegant furnishings—brocade-upholstered settees, a stately fireplace adorned with a marble mantel—but your gaze caught on the gleaming pianoforte tucked into one corner. A quiet, unexpected relief settled over you at the sight of it, the first familiar thing in this house that was not yet a home.

You forced a smile, turning towards the housekeeper, a severe-looking woman introduced as Mrs. Forsythe. “It is lovely,” you said warmly, though you wondered if you would ever feel at ease here.

"The adjoining parlour, should you prefer a more intimate setting," Algernon continued, leading you through a side door into a cosier space with softer furnishings, smaller windows, and a delicate tea service already arranged on a sideboard.

Next came the dining room, its vast mahogany table stretching the length of the chamber, surrounded by high-backed chairs and illuminated by a heavy crystal chandelier. The room smelled of polish and beeswax. You folded your hands in front of you, smiling at the cook, Mrs. Harrod, when she stepped forward to curtsey.

"The kitchens are below, of course," she said, eyeing you with a mixture of deference and curiosity. "We’ve a well-stocked larder, my lady, and I shall ensure your meals are to your liking."

"I'm certain everything will be wonderful, Mrs. Harrod," you assured her.

The tour continued, each room unfolding before you as Algernon detailed its use. There was the library, lined with bookshelves that stretched nearly to the ceiling, the faint scent of leather and parchment lingering in the air. Viktor’s gaze lingered here for the first time, but he said nothing. Then, the morning room, light and airy with pale floral wallpaper and comfortable chairs arranged for quiet conversation. The study, reserved for correspondence and household matters, sat adjacent, its heavy oak desk perfectly arranged.

A long hallway led to a billiards room—more for guests than yourselves, you imagined—followed by a small music room, where an older harp sat in one corner alongside another pianoforte. The footmen glanced at you, waiting for a reaction, and so you smiled again, nodding approvingly even as your jaw began to ache from the effort.

Viktor remained silent throughout, his expression unreadable. He neither reacted nor interrupted, allowing Algernon to carry on without interference. Occasionally, you felt his gaze on you, but whenever you glanced in his direction, he was already looking elsewhere.

Ascending the stairs, you kept your posture straight, mindful of the way the staff’s eyes lingered. The second floor opened into a wide corridor lined with closed doors, each leading to a chamber of its own. Algernon led you towards the first of them.

“This,” he said, opening the door with a measured hand, “is His Lordship’s bedchamber.”

The room was of generous size, its furnishings well-appointed yet distinctly reserved. The four-poster bed stood against the far wall, its dark wood frame matching the writing desk stationed beneath the window. The fireplace was already prepared, a modest armchair set beside it. Everything was in place, tidy, waiting. It did not feel like a space belonging to a man who had just taken a wife.

You stood at the threshold, taking it in. Viktor, beside you, regarded the room with unreadable eyes, his hand tightening ever so slightly around his cane.

“I believe,” he said after a moment, his voice deliberately even, “that I shall conclude the tour here.”

You turned to him, expecting an explanation. He was already shifting his weight, his movements careful, precise. With a slow breath, he lowered himself into the chair by the fire, adjusting his leg with practiced care.

“My leg is acting up,” he stated plainly, an excuse so mild it almost dared no further comment. His amber gaze flickered to yours, cool yet observant. “You may continue without me.”

Algernon hesitated only a fraction before bowing. “As you wish, my lord.” Then, with a glance towards you, he gestured toward the hallway. “Shall we proceed, my lady?”

“By all means,” you murmured, your eyes lingering on the door as it closed almost in front of your nose. And that was the last you saw of Viktor that day.

Behind those closed doors, Viktor took his first real breath. He waited for the sound of your footsteps to fade down the corridor before letting the back of his head thump against the thick wood. He sighed to himself.

“Imbecile.”

He did not know what would do more to ease his mind—sleeping or going straight to the workshop your father had arranged for him and Jayce. He did not know how much longer he could maintain this careful performance, nor how he was meant to uphold his end of the secret agreement you two had forged. But he had to regroup.

He slumped onto the bed, arms and legs spread wide, and sighed again.

“Absurd.”

Absurd was the way you licked your lips when you met in the morning to pack your belongings. Absurd was the way your hand had squeezed his when he helped you in and out of the carriage. Absurd was the way you had watched him the entire journey, barely blinking, breathing deeply—your eyes fixed on his fingers, on his hair, gaze burning right through him, making his clothes feel tight and his seat unbearable.

Absurdity. That was what he was making of it in his deranged mind, because clearly, you were just measuring up your opponent.

He loosened his cravat, then, growing impatient, pulled it from his collar entirely. He unbuttoned his shirt and pressed his hands against his chest. His heartbeat was uneven—final proof of his insanity. The heels of his palms pressed deep into his eyeballs, chest rising and falling, brace digging into the flesh of his leg uncomfortably when Viktor tried to make out anything that would make sense to him. And nothing did.

A vague, unsettled feeling took root in your chest when you finally reached your bedchamber, and Mr. Griffiths paused at the door. “Do you require anything else, my lady?”

“I think… Could I use the music room?”

“By all means, my lady. Everything in this house is yours to use as you please.”

Which is precisely how you’ve found yourself here—perched at the edge of the piano stool, subjecting the instrument to a volatile rendition of Mozart’s Fantasia in D Minor, swinging between tender, thoughtful passages and frantic, feverish key-smashing. Hunched over, eyes shut, your mouth moving as if forming words in a language only you can understand.

The sound echoes through the music room, spills into the hallway, and carries through the corridors—all the way up to Viktor’s bedchamber, where he presses his hands to his ears. His core burns, his hips rut helplessly against the mattress, and he mutters, “God, spare me,” desperate and alone.

***

Your first few weeks do not look all that different from the life you left behind. It feels as though you packed it up and brought it with you—everything except your parents, sisters, and, most painfully, Peggy. Your new lady’s maid is much younger and far more timid than she was.

Eliza knocks on your door every morning and helps you dress, just as Peggy once did, yet her reserve and cautiousness make the ritual all the more unbearable. Just to avoid giving the poor girl a heart attack, you almost instinctively continue to slip back and forth between your night and day self, growing more and more adamant by the day.

How many times have you tried to bring yourself to say a polite little no to a short stay, it is only for you to know. The only thing you have achieved so far is your bun becoming looser and looser, to the point of falling apart by the end of the day—much to Eliza’s horror over the number of pins lost somewhere around the house.

You spend your days alone, reading and playing the piano, performing for no one but yourself and your devoted staff. Viktor, meanwhile, spends all his waking hours in the lab, having effortlessly shed the composed facade he maintained upon arrival. Whenever you glimpse him—usually only for a fleeting moment as you cross paths in the dining room—his hair is mussed, his shirt collar undone by at least one button, his cravat entirely absent, and, to your utter ruin, his sleeves are often rolled up, exposing the taut skin of his forearms.

These glimpses are brief. He is always finishing his breakfast the moment you step into the dining room, wiping his glistening lips with a napkin before downing the last sip of coffee—already on his feet. You greet him with a rigid hello as you take your seat at the far end of the long table, another silent symbol of the growing distance between you. And each time, it strikes you: you do not even know if he has just woken at dawn or has yet to retire for the night.

Until today, when something is visibly askew, and Viktor lingers in the dining room a moment longer than usual. He sits hunched over a stack of notes when you enter, not sparing you a glance—only a quiet, hollow, Good morning.

Of all days, today, when you managed to furiously pluck the pins from your hair on the way to breakfast and shove them into a plant pot in one of the corridors, huffing at yourself in condemnation—why are you valuing your lady’s maid’s peace of mind higher than your own in the first place?

You gather your untamed hair away from your forehead, flip it over your shoulder, and sit carefully, mindful not to trap the curls beneath you. You hum and fuss over your plate, chin propped in one hand, until you finally crack the egg open with an echoing smack—and Viktor hisses, visibly annoyed.

“Is something the matter, my dear husband?” Your unamused voice carries through the room, and Viktor winces, huffing before setting the parchment down with a click of his tongue.

“I was an inch from solving a problem,” he replies with exaggerated politeness. There is more to the remark, lingering somewhere in his throat, but when he finally looks up at you, all he says is—

“Oh.”

“Oh?” you parrot.

“Forgive me, I must—” He stands almost abruptly, nearly knocking his coffee over. “I must call for Jayce. And possibly get back to this,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the papers scattered on the table.

You watch him as he turns, noting the unevenness in his step—the slight wobble, the way his weight shifts too quickly onto his cane. Before he can pass, you twist in your chair, reaching out instinctively. Your fingers close around his forearm, just above where his hand grips the cane.

“Have you rested at all?”

The question lands between you like a stone dropped into still water. He freezes beneath your touch. The muscles under your hand tighten, but he does not pull away instantly. You feel the warmth of his skin, his sleeve rolled up, the faint tremor of exertion, and then—goosebumps, rising where your palm lingers.

You watch it with glazed eyes, your mouth slightly parted, and it becomes unbearably hard to stay motionless as you dangle between snapping your hand away, smoothing your palm down to his wrist to see if the tremor of your heart has a companion in his, or simply squeezing your fingers around him tighter. To keep him with you for just a little longer.

His throat bobs with a heavy swallow. Then, just as quickly as the moment came, it is gone. He retreats, wrenching his arm away as though burned. He does not dare look at his own skin—fears to check whether the imprint of your touch will be glaring at him, a brand he cannot afford to acknowledge.

“I need not your pity, my dear wife,” he says, sharper than necessary, the words laced with a venom that does not quite belong.

Your breath hitches, but the response comes swiftly, cutting through the tension like the precise stroke of a blade.

“I do not pity you. I am merely guessing that you have not retired for the night.” A pause, deliberate, pointed. Then, voice soft but unyielding: “It is only my suspicion, though, as you are a phantom that shows itself to me on rare occasions.”

Viktor blinks caught off guard by your words. His gaze sharpens, but there’s a hint of confusion in it. He turns fully, the squeak of his cane against the polished floor punctuating the moment. You take him in now, properly. The absence of his usual polish makes him appear almost boyish—no layers of coats or stiff cravats, no carefully smoothed-down hair. His shirt is loose at the waist, half-pulled from his slacks, the fabric creased with wear. It softens him, or so it should. But what follows does not suit his harmless appearance.

“I am merely taking full advantage of our agreement, as vowed.” His voice is smooth, edged with annoyance that sends a shiver through you. “Hunting my prey.”

Your breath catches, but you do not waver. His eyes drag over you, assessing, and then he gestures vaguely in your direction. “And yet, between the two of us, you afford yourself nothing more than loosened hair.” For the briefest of moments Viktor conjures the feeling of your curls beneath his fingers, a vignette of his own hand closing around the fistful of hair floods his mind’s eye, warmth waking in an unwanted place. No matter.

He steps closer, slow and calculated. “I do not see you running barefoot. I do not hear you playing the piano. I do not see you eating what you please, reading what you please. I see no effort at all to find your deer—” He leans in, voice a near whisper now. “Let alone hunt it.”

Your heart thunders, but you hold your ground. You meet his gaze, chin tilting upward in defiance. “You could have stopped at ‘I do not see you,’” you say, voice steady despite the heat curling at the back of your throat. “That would have been enough.”

Silence stretches between you, taut and unbroken. Then, Viktor exhales, and when he speaks again, your name falls from his lips softly—too softly. A warning.

You wait, but nothing follows.

At last, he straightens, stepping back just enough to sever the unbearable tension between you. “Indeed,” he murmurs, the usual tone devoid of emotion returning to his voice. “I am feeling rather tired.” A pause, measured. Then, with a glance toward the hallway, “Perhaps I should retire for a few hours before Jayce arrives.”

With that, he is gone, and you realise the spoon you’ve been holding has left a dent on the inside of your palm. A tremendous feeling surges through you—a mixture of anger and excitement. Both halves of you stir with something unspoken, as if you have been challenged, and you wonder if Viktor has the faintest idea of what he has just set into motion.

The answer to your question lingers in the corridor, where Viktor halts his wobbly trot to lean against the wall, pressing a hand to his forehead. The weather has grown unbearably hot these past couple of weeks, he tells himself. He will have to go completely nocturnal to survive this. It is possible—he is already halfway there. Jayce will arrive in the evening and take his mind off the intrusive thoughts. He cannot confuse the deer, not now.

The rest of the day passes in seemingly unimportant activities, though in truth, you strike another contract—one with yourself. Your day and night selves reach an accord: it is time to taste some of the alleged freedom that has been granted to you.

By the time the day dims into evening and Jayce’s carriage rumbles up the drive, you are already retired for the night, determined to wake before Eliza steps into your room, her gentle hands poised to constrict.

And so, when dawn stretches its pale fingers across the horizon, you are not in your bed.

You are already dressed—or rather, half-dressed, as far as society is concerned. No short stay, no stockings, bare feet enveloped by delicate satin slippers. The cool air kisses the skin left exposed by your loosened chemise, and for the first time in weeks, you feel unburdened.

Eliza’s head peeks through the door, her voice tight with worry. “My lady, you are up so early! Forgive me my oversight!” She steps in hastily, hands reaching as if to remedy the damage.

You only smile, brushing past her gently. “I can manage on my own.”

You are nearly at the door when a faint, barely audible squirm from Eliza makes you pause. Without turning, you add, “I can dress myself. But I wouldn’t mind some company from time to time, if you find a moment for me.” Your voice is warm, the offer genuine.

Eliza blanches, her face draining of colour. She nods—too quickly, too vigorously—and you cannot tell whether it is because she has noticed your scandalous lack of undergarments or because, somehow, you have become utterly intimidating overnight.

No matter which it is, you take your leave, stepping lightly down the grand staircase. The air is crisp with the promise of morning, your confidence unshaken—until your bravado falters slightly at the sound of voices drifting from the dining room. Viktor’s and Jayce’s.

You step forward anyway.

Their voices sharpen as you near, rising in a rapid exchange of ideas, heated but not hostile. The dining room door is ajar, and through the gap, you glimpse them—both dishevelled, shirts rumpled, hair mussed, sleeves rolled up, the remnants of a long night spent in relentless pursuit of something just within their grasp.

“I’m telling you, the reaction stabilised, but only for a moment—” Viktor gestures sharply, his cane propped against the table as he leans forward, hands braced against scattered notes.

Jayce shakes his head, pushing a plate of untouched food aside. “Then we’re missing something. Maybe—maybe the cooling process is too fast? We need to slow the transition.”

“That would—” Viktor stops mid-thought, snapping his fingers as if trying to seize the fleeting revelation. “That could work. If we control the gradient, if we—”

You step into the room.

The soft rustle of your movement isn’t enough to pull them from their world. Jayce rubs his forehead, squinting down at a set of scribbled calculations, muttering under his breath. Viktor paces—or tries to, moving in uneven strides before settling for gripping the edge of the table. Neither acknowledges your presence at first.

It’s only when you take your seat—silent, waiting—that Viktor glances up.

His entire body stills.

“Oh,” he breathes, his exhaustion-worn features shifting as his focus lands fully on you. His brow furrows slightly, as if trying to reconcile the image before him with the one his mind is struggling to catch up to. “Did we wake you?”

You shake your head lightly. “Not at all.” A pause. You glance between them, their energy still thrumming in the air like a current not yet dissipated. Amusement tugs at your lips as you add, “But I can't deny I'm feeling like I'm interrupting something.”

Jayce, who has been slower to register your presence, suddenly snaps to attention. His chair scrapes against the floor as he stands abruptly, eyes widening in realisation before he bellows your name. The sound echoes across the room, bouncing off the high ceiling, and before you can react, he’s already closing the distance.

His enthusiasm outpaces his manners.

He sweeps you into a hug, broad arms folding around you in an unpractised but genuine embrace. His hands pat your back—gentle at first, then slower, as if something unexpected has dawned on him. You swear you catch the faintest sound from him, a quiet huh, before he swiftly schools his expression into a bright smile, brushing off whatever surprise had momentarily struck him.

“Why are you all the way over here?” He gestures toward the edge of the table where you had settled. “Come, sit. You must tell me how you’ve been—I was worried we’d miss each other.”

You laugh, wholeheartedly, startled by the first honest touch you’ve experienced in days. Then, you glance over at Viktor, who is still standing, braced against the edge of the table. He gives you a timid nod while closing his mouth, then sits, smoothing down his hair.

Jayce, a faint blush playing on his cheeks, guides you with a hand on your back to take a seat between him and Viktor. He fixes your chair and slumps down beside you, leaning in with a boyish curiosity, shedding the last remnants of formalities now that it’s just the three of you. There is something familiar in it, something that makes you feel less like a wife on paper and more like a natural part of this strange little household.

He leans in conspiratorially. “So, tell me everything—how much of a thorn in your side has he been?”

You consider, for a moment, telling Jayce that something must be present to be a nuisance in the first place. But something deeper, some instinct not yet fully understood, warns you against such an admission. Betraying loyalty—even in jest—would lead nowhere.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly, casting a glance at Viktor before saying, with measured amusement, “I find I have little cause to complain.”

Viktor, still smoothing a hand through his hair, blinks slowly at you, eyes narrowing just a fraction before he inclines his head in the smallest of nods.

Jayce huffs. “That’s it? That’s all I get?”

Viktor exhales sharply through his nose. “And are you not going to ask if she has been a thorn in my side?”

And Viktor would have plenty to say on the matter. Not only have you somehow managed to work around his erratic schedule, but it would seem you are well on your way to orchestrating his downfall—death by one’s own sword. The familiarity of your arrangement is creeping into spaces he does not wish it to occupy, slipping into idle moments, threading itself through his thoughts when he least expects it.

The number of times he has stopped by your door, only to hesitate at the threshold, has already reached a ridiculous count—much to his own dismay. And all of this, when the two of you barely see each other.

Jayce barks out a laugh so sudden and loud that it nearly startles you. He claps a hand against the table, shaking his head. “Right. As if there exists a soul more exasperating than you.”

Viktor only rolls his eyes, briefly contemplating calling for a hearse in advance to carry away his still-warm corpse before Jayce tears him apart in front of you.

Thankfully, the rest of breakfast passes without much torment for Viktor as Jayce and you fall into easy conversation, catching up on the time lost between visits. By the time the clock strikes nine, Jayce yawns—big and unreserved—before pushing back his chair and announcing his departure. He remarks that he has already overstayed his welcome and promises to arrive at a more humane hour next time, which, he assures, will be in four days.

Before leaving, he turns to Viktor. “I’ll get the things we need from the city before my next visit.”

With their goodbyes exchanged, Viktor leans back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes wearily. He sighs, then looks at you. “Are you not going to berate me into bed this time?”

You arch a brow. “Last time, it earned me some rather harsh commentary from you, so I will refrain from mothering you.”

His expression softens instantly. And suddenly, he is back—or rather, he shifts into one of the versions of himself that you have grown to like the most. Soft-spoken, his features gentle, a hand lingering on the table as though caught in indecision. He does not reach for you, and yet you feel the warmth of his skin as if he had.

“Forgive me,” he murmurs. “I grow... irritable when I am overtired.”

“It’s quite alright. I am not easily offended.”

He hums at that and stands, bidding you farewell with a slight bow of his head. Yet somewhere between the table and the door, he hesitates, glancing back at you. His gaze flickers downward—just for a second—to your bodice, to your bare feet in their slippers.

“I see you have taken my advice,” he remarks.

You feel warmth rise to your cheeks. “Yes, I am merely testing the waters.”

A sound—so faint you barely catch it—escapes him. Something like a sigh, like the start of a whine swiftly swallowed down. “Good,” is all he says before taking his leave.

You smile to yourself, kick off your shoes, and curl up in the chair, biting into an apple without slicing or peeling it.

***

By the time of Jayce’s next visit, Viktor has managed to adjust his sleeping schedule—if only slightly—into something resembling human behaviour. He cannot deny his own excitement about the threshold they are about to cross. So much so that some of his defences have loosened almost without his noticing.

When the morning following Jayce’s first visit arrives, you take your seat all the way back by the table. Viktor notices before he even means to, and his mouth is faster to speak than his mind can stop him. “I see we are back to the original seat arrangement?”

You glance at him over your cup, the barest glint of amusement in your eyes. “Unless you don’t mind me sitting where I sat yesterday?”

Viktor nearly scowls at this game, realising too late that he is about to lose. He braces himself, carefully setting his spoon down before conjuring an answer that might put you in check. “I would not mind if that was what you desired.”

A perfect deflection—or so he believes, right up until you tilt your head ever so slightly, a knowing glint in your eye. Without hesitation, you approach the seat you had claimed yesterday and sink into it with deliberate ease, smoothing your hands over the tablecloth as though you had always belonged there. “Then I suppose I shall have to keep you guessing as to what it is I desire.”

Viktor stills. His fingers tighten imperceptibly around the edge of the table, mind racing to counter, to regain footing in a match he hadn’t realised was taking place. But you have left him no opening, no move to reclaim the upper hand.

Checkmate.

The air shifts between you, tension strung so finely it might snap at the slightest pull. Viktor exhales sharply through his nose, as if attempting to dispel it, and seizes upon the first neutral topic that comes to mind.

“Did you sleep well?” His voice is steadier than he expects, though he distracts himself by reaching for the sugar dish.

“Well enough,” you reply, mirroring his movement. “Though I admit, I nearly slept through breakfast.”

Your fingers brush against his—just a whisper of contact, fleeting yet electric. Viktor’s breath catches. It is the smallest of things, entirely unremarkable, yet his reaction is anything but. Heat prickles at the back of his neck. He withdraws a fraction too quickly, fingers curling into a loose fist against the tabletop.

You seem unaware of his flustered state, but he cannot risk testing his restraint further. Pushing back from the table, he stands, offering a polite nod.

“I should return to my work,” he says, voice carefully composed. A pause. Then, softer, “I will see you at dinner.”

He does not look back as he leaves, though he feels the weight of your gaze following him all the way to the door. Leaves you with your brows scrunched, before you finally shrug and go about your day.

Another time, he allows himself an odd smile during a brief conversation with you—a small greeting when he finds you reading outside, your belly pressed against the blanket, bare feet swinging idly in the air as you kick at your own buttocks. He is the one to initiate the chatter, asking what has you so engrossed, before his mind catches up with the inevitable flustered reaction caused by the sight of your bare shin.

Viktor nods absentmindedly as you speak, his ears processing the words—something about musical composition, about Bach’s fugues—but his mind does not listen to him.

Some primal instinct takes over, overriding his better judgement, and all he can do is memorise the delicate shape of your ankle, the gentle swell of your calf. His gaze lingers, bordering on something obscene, tracing the bare stretch of your skin where it catches the dappled sunlight. The sight is almost hypnotic, and yet, in your innocence, you mistake it for unwavering focus.

“In fact,” you say, perking up, your expression bright with enthusiasm, “I believe this is something that might catch your interest.” You shift, moving aside to make space for him on the blanket, and in the process, your skirt rides up just slightly—just enough for him to catch a glimpse of your knee.

It is nearly too much.

Viktor coughs abruptly, his throat tightening as if his own body conspires against him. He tugs at his collar, attempting to create more space, but it is no use—the air has grown thick and stifling.

“I—” His voice comes out strained, so he clears his throat again and schools his expression into something neutral. “I would, but I must prepare the lab for Jayce’s arrival.”

The excuse is polite, reasonable, and entirely necessary, lest he make an utter fool of himself. Without waiting for your response, he inclines his head in farewell and turns on his heel, making a swift retreat before temptation can take root any further.

Leaves you blinking dumbfoundedly as your mouth stops speaking mid-sentence again.

Never mind that, the rest of your day is consumed with the attempt to put your freshly devoured knowledge into practice. You spend hours hunched over the piano, fingers chasing after patterns, testing the way structure gives way to emotion in each phrase. The passing of time eludes you until the golden light of the setting sun vanishes entirely, leaving only the soft glow of candle sconces to guide your way.

Footsteps in the corridor signal movement in the house, the shuffle of weary men returning from their labours. You take it as your cue to retire for the night.

Stepping into the hallway, you find yourself crossing paths with Jayce and Viktor. They are both visibly spent, their shoulders drawn with exhaustion, but there is something undeniably triumphant in their expressions. Viktor carries the scent of burnt oil and paper, while Jayce's hair is in complete disarray, as though he has run his hands through it a hundred times over.

"Any groundbreaking success?" you ask lightly, directing the question to Jayce as he stretches with a groan.

"Hopefully," he says, laughing. "We’re making progress—some of it even intentional."

You huff in amusement. "I shall look forward to hearing the grand announcement, then."

"You’ll be the first to know," Jayce assures you, then clasps Viktor’s shoulder before departing. "Goodnight, you two."

That leaves you and Viktor alone, the silence between you both weighted, not uncomfortable but not quite settled either. Without speaking, you fall into step together, instinctively adjusting your pace to match his—slower, deliberate, the quiet tap of his cane punctuating each measured stride—as you ascend the stairs in tandem.

At the landing, where your paths are meant to diverge, Viktor hesitates. Just for a breath. Just for a moment too long.

Your eyes meet.

And then, as though scalded, he steps back, inclining his head with the faintest of nods before slipping away into the dark.

With a huff of resignation, you allow Eliza to undress you and prepare you for bed. She moves deftly, fingers working through the laces of your gown, but you do not miss the way her lips press together as though suppressing a question.

You arch a brow at her in quiet encouragement, and with a shake of her head—half exasperation, half amusement—she finally relents.

“If it is not too bold of me to ask, my lady—” she hesitates briefly before pressing on, “—it has been nearly a month now. How do you find marriage suits you?”

You let out a small breath of laughter, too tired to weigh your words with careful diplomacy. “Not too different from unwedded life, if I am to be truthful. Save for the absence of my sisters’ endless chatter.”

Eliza hums as she loosens the ties of your corset. “If I may say so, my lady, Mister Viktor strikes me as a good husband. Hardworking, thoughtful.”

You pause for half a moment before answering, smoothing your hands over your chemise. “He is a good friend, that much is certain.”

A small huff of laughter escapes her then, as though she cannot help herself. “Oh, my lady,” she says, shaking her head, “I may be young, but even my inexperienced eyes can see that you and Mister Viktor have long since passed the realm of friendship.”

You blink at her, caught off guard, and at once, she seems to realise she has overstepped. Her back straightens, her expression tightening as she rushes to amend her words. “I—I beg your pardon, I spoke out of turn, I did not mean—”

You hold up a hand, cutting off her flustered apology. “No, no, I rather liked that,” you say, surprising even yourself. A smirk tugs at your lips as you add, “Much more, in fact, than your continued attempts to sneak me a short stay each morning. I do hope we will soon be past that.”

Eliza exhales in relief, her mouth curling into a warm, genuine smile. She dips into a small curtsy. “Anything you wish, my lady.”

With that, she bids you goodnight and quietly takes her leave.

Left alone, you crawl into bed, drawing the covers up to your chin. The house is still, save for the occasional creak of settling wood and the distant hush of the wind beyond your window. But despite the quiet, despite the heavy comfort of your bedding, sleep eludes you.

Your thoughts drift, unbidden, to Viktor. To the way he had lingered by your door just moments earlier, caught in a hesitation neither of you had dared to name. To the way he had spoken to you at breakfast, as though testing boundaries he did not yet fully understand. To the fleeting brush of his hand against yours, his fingers warm, his breath catching just so—

You turn onto your side with a soft, frustrated sigh. Morning will come soon enough.

And yet, you do not think you will sleep at all. You swing your legs over the frame with an intention take a stroll to calm your mind.

Your bare feet make no sound against the polished floorboards as you slip into the corridor, the cool air brushing against your skin like a whispered warning. You tell yourself this is only a brief walk to settle your thoughts, to quiet the restlessness that refuses to let you sleep. Yet, without meaning to, your steps carry you past Viktor’s door before you can register the path you have taken.

You mean to keep walking. Truly, you do. But then—

A ghost of your name reaches your ears.

You stop short, the breath catching in your throat. Perhaps it was nothing—a trick of the night, the house shifting in its slumber. But then it comes again, unmistakable now, low and hoarse and pulled from behind that door.

Your fingers hover over the wood as if drawn by an unseen force. You glance down the corridor—empty, silent—before pressing your ear against the surface.

What you hear sends a shiver racing down your spine.

His voice is rough, uneven, his breaths laboured between the syllables of your name. Even through the barrier of the door, the strain in his tone is evident, the sound of it sinking straight to the pit of your stomach. He is panting, sighing, the rhythm of his breaths quickening into something unmistakable.

Your mind can only grasp at the edges of what is unfolding beyond that door, yet the images come unbidden.

Viktor, alone in the dark, his fingers ghosting over his parted lips as he imagines yours wrapped around him instead. His hand strokes himself with urgent, desperate movements, the need unbearable, overwhelming. Your name falls from his lips like a prayer, like a curse. His mind is flooded with visions of you—your bare skin, your hands gripping at him, your body surrendering beneath his touch.

He pictures you riding his cock into oblivion, your hair cascading down your back, tickling his thighs as your head lulls on your shoulders in pleasure, lips moaning out his name. Your throat calling out for him, for God, as his thumb rubs you and his palm clasps around your waist. Your belly stretching over a bulge where his cock fills you up—if he were so lucky for you to lean back, propping yourself on his legs, presenting yourself to him. Your body long and arched as he runs a palm against your stomach, feeling himself hitting that spot that makes your thighs clench around the sharp angles of his hips.

Then, it’s your mouth on him again. That sweet tongue you stick out whenever you play the piano is now flicking against the bundle of nerves under his tip, teasing him. His thumb, no matter how precise, does you no justice—he is certain. His hand is a poor tribute, nowhere near good enough to mimic what your mouth would feel like, sucking on him. Were he so lucky. But clearly, he isn’t.

What he has instead is his own hand—calloused from years of tinkering and writing, ink stains embedded into his skin for eternity. His wrist aches, on the verge of pain, as he pumps himself hastily, chasing completion that wears your face. His free palm runs up and down his torso before clasping around his balls, picturing your wet cheeks pressing against them.

He writhes against the sheets, his self-restraint fraying, his control slipping with every ragged breath. He curses himself for this weakness, for this indulgence. But even as shame wars with desire, he cannot stop.

His own contract—his careful, calculated arrangement—has turned against him. He had thought it would be a shield, a safeguard. But instead, it has left him starving.

And now, the second contract—the one he has spoken aloud in front of many witnesses, the vow to worship you, body and soul—feels dangerously within reach.

His stomach contorts and curls as lust coils tighter and tighter. His skin nearly burns with the friction of his swollen cock, twitching in his own grasp, fingers curling tighter as he pretends it’s your cunt squeezing him. He pretends it’s your mouth enveloping him, your cheeks hollowed out as you hum around him.

With a wrenched-out grunt, he paints his own belly white, chanting your name to the rhythm of his stuttering hips. Drenched in sweat, he pumps his cock until the last drops of seed take their exit, leaving him spent—yet his soul still longing.

The last groan has you gasping, your body tightening and clenching around nothing—a sensation wholly unfamiliar until this moment. It is strong, undeniable, leaving you weak as you stagger back to your bedroom. You bury yourself beneath the covers, heart racing, mind muddled, lips dry. What on earth?

And Viktor groans again in his damp bed, his stomach slick with his own spent. The want for you is overwhelming, insatiable—his hand nearly not enough. How he is meant to keep his part of the deal, he does not know.

He may as well call for that hearse.

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