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sugurouge · 26 days ago

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── in your hand. from my heart. hades! sylus x persephone! female! feader

. ˳༚༅༚ explicit content, dark contentish, mdni: stalking, kidnapping, aphrodisiacs, dark magic, rituals, marking, loss of virginity, slight corruption, obsession, manhandling, multiple orgasms, pet names, size difference, praise, body worship

♱ word count: 16k

♱ synopsis: You never asked for the shadows to love you but the god who rules them has deemed you his obsession. Sylus watches, yearns, and finally steals what Olympus never deserved to keep. You should hate him. You do. Yet the underworld feels less like a prison, and more like a sanctuary awaiting your claim.

author’s note: I’ve adapted the original Hades and Persephone myth to better suit Sylus’s story and personality. While I’ve strayed from the soulmate bond (since gods don’t have souls) I’ve imagined a sort of darker, ancient thread of fate to connect Sylus and reader

I recommend listening to Even In Arcadia :)

You are the kindest thing that ever happened to me, even if that is not how our tale is told. When everyone else told me i was destined to be a forgotten nymph that nurtured flowers and turn meadows gold, you saw that the ichor that resides in me demanded its own throne. You showed me how a love like ours can turn even the darkest, coldest realm into the happiest of homes.” ― Nikita Gill

Many wars begin with a whisper. The God of the Underworld may have never expected to wage war against himself. They are quiet at first, nothing but sultry temptations dancing at the edge of Sylus's mind, enticing him with promises of you, of fate, of the inevitable. Urging, no, commanding him to take what is his.

Sylus resists. For now.

However, the whispers never cease. They dig their claws deep within his being, weaving their way through his thoughts to haunt him relentlessly until they become a part of him. All sparks kindle new flames, and this obsession sears, cuts, and bleeds into every waking moment, every fevered dream. Always, her . Always, you . The girl embraced by sunlight. The daughter of sky and soil, too radiant to be held by either. She who treads through fields that bow to her, who crafts blossoms with her loving care, who beckons earth to summon spring and chase away the biting cold and darkness of winter.

A pulse of new life, a being of warmth. Your presence bends the very fabric of existence: your laugh causes the trees of Olympus to shudder in delight, and the tunes you hum bring the rivers to still to listen to your beautiful voice. Treasured, you remain untainted by darkness and desire, by everything that clings to Sylus like a second skin.

Though he has cherished you equally from the depths of his realm, the King of the Dead, meant for an existence without everything you embody, has watched your every moment. He knows you do not belong to the Underworld—you do not belong to him—and yet, he wants your divinity to grace his lonesome heart.

Neither reason nor logic may be found behind his obsession. How could something so untouched by shadow, so wholly good, possibly stir the hunger inside him unbearably?

────────── ♱

To your ears, the whispers have always been there. They called for you in the rustling of the olive trees, in the wind slipping through wheat fields. But it is at the end of a long day, in the stillness settling just before dusk, when the whispers' embrace finds you again.

As a child, you mistook them for a fantasy of your lonesome moments, an imaginary friend your mother brushed off. But time removed the layers that painted them an illusion. These are not the voices of imagination. They stir from something older, something waiting to welcome you home. They linger in the shadows, out of reach but ever near, watching you blossom. They are a presence unseen yet felt, accompanied by ruby eyes piercing through the dark.

Two dots, burning like embers, keep you company as you dance through the realms of dreams. Guarding you, cherishing you.

They first caught your attention while hiding in the branches of a forest. You told yourself that the moment had been fleeting, a trick of the light. Yet the sensation of being watched continued to press against your skin and sink into your very bones.

You never mention them, not to your mother, not to the nymphs, never to your father. Not after the debacle upon the confession of the whispers clouding your mind.

Agreed, it was foolish to believe something could possibly lurk in the corners of your world, to imagine that the unseen figure belonged to something more than a waking dream. But the truth had never been so simple: Mephisto has been watching you for years.

A shadow among fruit trees, a winged guardian keeping its master's gaze locked upon you. The crow found a home on your windowsill, in the canopy of trees—wherever you went, he was sure to follow. Each sighting, each fragment of your life gathered in the folds of darkness, only deepened Sylus's craving.

Though he remained in his realm.

After all, the God of the Underworld was not a creature of impulse, no, he was patient, methodical, and ruthless in his desires.

From his throne cradled by obsidian halls, Sylus watched you grow from an innocent flower into something untamed, something the gods of Olympus could never truly fulfil. It was not merely your beauty—yet he would never deny the allure of your glistening skin under the sun, your hair flowing in the air, or the delicate curve of your lips whenever you smiled. But it was the spirit beneath the surface. You were no ripe fruit waiting to be plucked. Not with the fire you carry within.

A fire Sylus longed to set ablaze, longed to hold in his cold, empty hands.

It took Sylus longer than he first anticipated to weave the strands of fate in his favour. His influence may stretch long and deep, seeping into the world above like rotten roots blighting the earth. However, abducting a goddess required planning. But he yearned to see you through his own eyes, to touch you with his own hands, to hear your voice rise in ecstasy and anger.

The golden light of the late afternoon leaves its loving kiss on your skin to craft a creature of warmth as you move through fields of endless gold. You stray far from the others, lost in the simple pleasure of the breeze, of the flowers, and of the rivers greeting you.

The moment is peaceful until it isn't.

Suddenly, the world itself seems to shift as even the wind stills.

A shadow darker than any you have ever witnessed spreads like thunderclouds over the once sun-kissed lands. They chase away the light and its warm hold, replacing it with something cold that wraps around your senses like a viper ready to strike.

A chill chases down your spine while your widened eyes search for the true reason for your distress. It is only upon another turn that you finally see him.

Standing at the edge of the fields, as if undaring to breach the final boundary between your bodies, he watches you. A figure of impressive, near looming height, dressed in flowing black garments with shadows dancing at the edges of the seams. Long hair cascades down his back and frames his shoulders, its silver-tone a stark contrast against the twisted horns curved atop his head to frame a face too sharp, too cruel, too impossibly beautiful. His intense eyes smoulder like burning coals, causing your gaze to drop to the blood-red ruby in his chest.

Neither a fight nor a flight response kicks in as you realise his familiarity. Those eyes—you know them from the darkness of night—remember them staring at you as you caught them from the corners of your eyes.

"You," nothing but a breathless whisper, but oh does it tug on Sylus's heart to finally hear your unfiltered voice—in recognition at that. He ignores the tentative step you take backwards. A part of him perhaps pities you for the freedom you are about to lose.

"You've been watching me," you dare to accuse. While your voice may not shake, the tremble in your hands is as evident as the longing in Sylus's eyes.

But he can't lose his composure just yet. He can't scare away his prey through his own foolish greed. A slow, knowing smirk on his lips is his attempt to act nonchalant.

"Of course."

Revulsion battles with another deeper, more twisted emotion buried in your bones. And finally, finally , your instincts scream at you to run, to flee, but upon the first turn of your ankle, a snap of fingertips follows, and darkness shoots out like tendrils all around you. Not to split the earth beneath but to finally bring his world into awaiting arms.

The mist pulls you forward, closer to the being at the edge of the field. Panic claws up your throat, causing your voice to become a broken, raspy screech as you struggle against the pulsing shackles around your figure. "Let me go!" You try to warn him, fighting and clawing at nothing but shadows. But your struggle doesn't hinder Sylus. If anything, your fighting spirit amuses him.

Yes, he seems magnified by the racing rise and fall of your chest, by the widened pupils and blazing anger flashing across your features. "You fight like a young wildcat," he muses in a sultry voice, tilting his head as if admiring you in deep thought. "Claws bared, teeth flashing."

A scoff follows from your lips while you twist and turn with all the strength you can muster up. And still, his expression remains one of idle fascination. As if this, too, was exactly as Sylus had imagined.

"Mhm, you shine brightly, my dear," Sylus teases before one finger curls toward him. It is a simple gesture that sends another wave of black and red force to come crashing around you, steal the breath from your lungs, and cause your fighting spirit to falter in exhaustion.

The world may turn blurry; your knees may give way, but you do not crumple into the ground. Not when strong arms can finally cradle you. Sylus moves fast, almost too eager yet incredibly fluid to catch you. One arm wrapped around your waist is enough to cradle you against him. A gentle, near-ticklish touch glides along the back of your thighs before lifting your feet off the ground.

He carries you like an offering he already claimed. "Hush now," a mumble in a way that could render you willing, that should convince you to find comfort in his arms.

At least to his calculations.

But you do not.

How your body twists in his grasp, how your fists hammer against his chest—it is almost enough to infuriate him. Of course, it does not hurt, not physically, but your vehement rejections land piercing blows to his ego. Part of him believed you would willingly run into his arms and would recognise this connection you share.

Oh, was he wrong.

"Put me down!" Sylus assumes that the command is the first of many to follow in the future.

But he is quick to understand the need to act it off. He has to pretend to be unbothered by your distaste for him. So, after steeling his resolve, crimson eyes glance down to face your glare head-on. Newfound amusement dances across Sylus's features, accompanied by a burning passion whirling through glistening flecks of gold in his gaze. "I would, but I fear you might run."

"I will!" you bite back while struggling harder against the confident hold of your captor. "I will run, and I will never stop!"

Something akin to a purr rumbles inside Sylus's chest. His smile widened, slow and indulgent, at the prospect of a game. "Don't tempt me so…" he mumbles in adoration while leaning in to nudge the tip of his nose against yours.

Fury seems to burn brighter than your fear by now, though it did not change the scene that unfolded.

The fields, the light, the warmth of the sun— everything vanishes into the abyss. Only him, only the darkness, the scent of smoke and myrrh remains as the blackened energy whips around your entangled bodies and pulls you down.

Sylus hides his face in the crook of your neck, and as much as you drown in darkness and despair, does Sylus finally drown in warmth and sweetened notes of fruits and florals.

No matter how much you struggle in his loving hold, ultimately, there is no escaping the force that drags you downward. The sun becomes a distant memory before it is gone entirely. The home you knew and cherished is no longer a place to return to.

────────── ♱

Now everything is new. No, it is not new; it is different. Other . This silence seems suffocating, so unlike the gentle hum of life or the breeze in the leaves, it feels like finality. It presses against your skin like the desperate hands of drowning souls trying to grasp their chance for life anew.

Vast and endless, a silence that does not belong to the living.

"You're awake."

Your breath falters at the commanding voice reverberating inside these grand, dark halls. The only source of light falls from the flickering glow of lanterns filled with ethereal blue fire. The shadows in this realm appear to stretch longer across the polished floors, and at the heart of it all, he sits on a throne made to be feared and cowered before.

The figure that has stolen you from the world above. The God of the Underworld. Known to the mortals as Hades, known among gods as Sylus .

He waits for you with bated breath. Hoping for you to speak, to move, to give him anything he could work with. Perhaps you sense his hidden distress, at least that is what Sylus tells himself, since you finally part your lips.

"Why am I here?" Your voice is hoarse, raw from the screams of your fight.

A slow, deliberate smile tugs at the corner of Sylus's lips while he watches your impatience sprout like weeds. So unlike the gentle goddess, you present yourself to be.

"I concluded it was time for you to come home."

The words slam into you, twisting and turning until anger surges to victory and leads you to stagger to your feet. "This—" You pause right after the first word to allow yourself another glimpse at these forsaken halls. " This is not my home!" There's so much bark for such little bite, you look entirely endearing to Sylus.

So, unsurprisingly, he does not fall for your temper. Instead, he remains unmoving. His lips are sealed, and no arguments follow. He only watches patiently, as if waiting for you to tire yourself out of this tantrum.

It's almost like he already knew the end of your tale.

"Take me back." The demand leaves your lips with a confidence Sylus has not yet seen. Oh , and this look, the determination in your eyes, awakens the desire he tries to keep at bay.

Why not coax the spark into a blaze?

A flicker of amusement crosses his face, followed by a gentle sigh of satisfaction. There is only one word, two syllables, and its meaning is distinctive: "No."

The thundering echo of father's famous rage appears to ring true inside your frame as your fingers curl into fists and the ground of the Underworld starts to shake. Perhaps it already recognises its queen. "You have no right!" Is your angered accusation towards the god who remains unbothered by your distress.

Sylus is indeed unbothered, but for differing reasons than one might suspect. His mind is distracted by how willingly his home, his realm, welcomes you in, bends to you, and kneels at your will.

Shadows darkened his face upon the tilt of his head, and the amusement that once danced across his features vanished in the blink of an eye. When he speaks again, his voice is soft but cuts through the air all the same. "I have every right."

The weight of his words presses down on you, heavy as the walls of this palace. You try to find reason and desperately make sense of the situation you find yourself in. But there is none. Only panic, worry, and fear are your newfound companions through the dark reaches of the Underworld.

Your mother will search for you; the gods above will not stand for this, and there will be consequences.

Yet any possible consequence means little to Sylus.

Eventually, he rises from his throne in a slow and graceful motion, serving as a reminder of his prominence. He is tall, impossibly so, and his form casts a long shadow over you, staging as claws of a predator while they reach for his prey.

You flinch away from the outstretched hand, but something so feeble could never stop a god possessed. Sylus's fingers brush against your cheek—light, worshipping—before he pulls back too soon. Though his eyes, warm and filled with unspoken wishes, remain on you, to study you like the most precious treasure.

His treasure.

"You were always meant to be here," Sylus eventually murmurs, breaking this seemingly still moment between you two. Even if you don't see it yet," he adds, before halting not just his words but also the fingertips that almost brushed against your shoulder. "You are made for me."

With these words, Sylus turns to leave and vanishes into the endless corridors beyond. Though your words of hatred become his companion, they echo off the palace halls.

"I will never belong to you!" A vow, a promise, a warning spoken with conviction.

How much truth rings true may only be deciphered in the future, but Sylus seems already sure of the outcome, judging by the small, knowing smile spreading on his lips after he mumbles, "We shall see," like a secret between himself and the darkness around him.

You stand motionless, every muscle in your body tense, perhaps even trembling, as you remain stubbornly unwilling to accept the cold finality of your circumstances. The grandeur of the palace is impressive, though to you, it feels like a cage. The polished black stone reflects your form in taunting echoes as you wander through forgotten halls and corridors.

Your anger seems to boil like a volcano about to erupt, a force even nature yields beneath. You are a goddess, not a helpless mortal ready to be toyed with. And yet, you were taken, stolen in the bright afternoon sun.

────────── ♱

Time moves strangely here. Day and night have no meaning when neither the sun nor moon chase another across the sky. Instead, you are suspended in the void, accompanied by an ever-burning firelight. You have lost track of how long it has been since he stole you away, but the hunger inside you sharpens with each passing hour.

In silence, you defy Sylus. Sealed lips, empty stomach and eyes filled with hatred render the God of the Underworld near helpless. The plates of ripened fruit and honeyed delicacies tempt yet do not manage to break your will. The air, filled with sweet scents of pomegranates, figs, and golden-crusted bread, is in equal amounts ignored as the goblets of wine.

Hunger gnaws at you; it scratches against the hollow of your stomach, but your resolve is stronger.

Through it all, Sylus watches. He does not force you, does not plead or beg for you to see reason. But he also does not take pity. No, he simply leans against the framed passage to your chamber, muscles bulging from the fold of his arms across his chest.

He only watches.

It is infuriating.

"Refuse me all you want." Sylus's words snap you out of your trance-like state. You haven't even realised his movements, but he sits across from you by now. The ruby on his chest pulses in the dim light as though it has a heartbeat of its own.

He might as well pass a statue, a thing of immortal beauty and cruel stillness, were it not for his eyes—those endless red depths, watching you with emotions akin to something patient and knowing.

"Starving yourself won't help," he continues in an attempt to break your silence. Perhaps you only need a nudge in the right direction? The domineering aura relaxes once Sylus leans back against the cushioned chair, literally opening himself up to you and your scrutinising gaze.

There it is. That familiar glare he has come to appreciate.

His fingertips drum against the chair's armrest, seemingly anticipating whatever you finally offer him.

"I want to go home."

The words surprise him, though do not infuriate. Instead, he appears concerned at your undying defiance. A slow blink follows a momentary freeze of his figure before a lick across his lips wet them. "You are home," Sylus reassures you with a quiet, seemingly compassionate voice.

It further fuels your anger. "This is not my home!" The words bounce off the palace once more, as they have for the past days since Sylus brought you here.

He exhales a puff of air while pinching the bridge of his nose. Silver strands of hair slip forward upon the tilt of his head, accidentally catching the firelight to illuminate the piercing rubies beneath his bangs. "And yet, you were meant to be here. Can't you feel it?"

You can, which is the most terrifying part of all. Something disturbs your peace within whenever Sylus is near you. It should not be there, this pull, this inexplicable gravity that makes it hard to look away. But it is always there, and it only grows stronger with each passing day.

You try to push it off as nothing but the old magic of this place, the way the very walls seem to recognise your presence. But it is not just the Underworld that calls to you.

It is him. And you hate him for it. Even more so hate the realisation of your influence over him: Sylus hesitates on the rare occasions you say his name out loud, as though it carries a power even he does not understand. His gaze always lingers too long; his fingers twitch as if resisting the urge to reach for you. He is the God of the dead, ruler of this forsaken realm, feared by all—and yet, you begin to wonder if you are the one meant to rule over him.

While these thoughts may not change your anger, grief, or longing for the world above, they shift something within you.

Until one night, your hunger eventually wins.

Perhaps the servants left the plates out on purpose. The truth may never be revealed, nor is it important in the grander scheme of things. The only thing that mattered now was the intoxicatingly sweet scent of fruits that lingered on throughout your sleepless night. The warning voice inside your mind rings hollow; it pales in comparison to the glistening cuts of fresh harvest tempting your restless figure teetering at the edge of your bed.

You should not.

But your stomach twists, your body weakens, and the scent lures you in to take step after step until you stand in front of the silver platters. Without thinking or comprehending your mistake's finality, your fingers close around a small pomegranate seed, glistening like a drop of blood.

The moment it slides down your throat, the air in the room changes. It is a subtle shift at first, a whisper, then a gust of wind, usually unbeknown to this isolated place.

One pulse is all it takes for Sylus to stand in the archway of your chamber once more, like he has done many times before—watching, waiting. Your breath is unsteady, the weight of your actions sinking into your stomach like lead. And unlike the despair coursing through your body, victory curls Sylus's lips into a small, satisfied smile.

"You understand now, don't you?" His voice is low, almost gentle, perhaps influenced by the horror visible in your helpless gaze. You swallow hard as you try to find your voice, your reason, yourself . But the only possible solution is to blame it all on Sylus.

"What have you done?"

Now you irritate him. His brows crease upon your accusation, though his calm demeanour does not crumble. "What have you done?" he much rather returns the question right back to its sender to watch your defiance finally break.

Trembling hands appear tainted to your blurry gaze as you look down in disbelief. They are clean, but to you, each tip seems stained with the juicy remnants of your sin.

The truth is an unbearable thing.

You cannot leave.

Not now.

Not ever.

Never again.

The realisation crackles like the fireplace, though you have never felt this cold. With slow steps, the distance you so fiercely fought for diminishes until Sylus stands right before you.

This time, you refuse to flinch when his hand reaches for you; his fingers trace the air in between before closing around your wrist. Skin to skin, you realise the chill that clings to his touch, though an unfamiliar fire courses through your veins, a traitorous response you loathe yourself for.

Sylus turns your hand over and lifts it to his lips. The first gentle brush of lips against your palm is enough to send shivers down your spine. It is a kiss as soft as the brush of a feather; however, the warmth of his breath lingers, seeping into your flesh and marking you in ways deeper than any chain could.

"You belong to this realm," he murmurs into your palm, his lips grazing each word into your skin. "And you belong to me."

Irritation in its purest form hardens Sylus's features as you yank your hand from his hold. You should really stop fighting; you should stop despising him. "The damage is already done," he whispers beside your ear, though he does not touch you this time.

You can feel it—this invisible thread that ties you to him, to this place, to the very darkness that seems to sprout within you. "I hate you," you whisper in return.

Momentarily, a flicker of hurt passes through those crimson depths before Sylus takes a step back, and you might even start to regret your declaration until a slight smirk lifts the corners of his mouth.

"You say that now," he says softly, "but you have already begun to change."

────────── ♱

His words ring true.

The air in the Underworld is different now. It hums with an energy that wasn't there before, a certain pulse in the walls, the ground, and the air you breathe. You feel it around you; it seeps into your bones and reshapes something deep inside you. It is a dark and restless presence that lingers like the weight of your mistake, like the warmth of his lips against your palm.

There is no time to mourn your fate in silence and isolation, not with Sylus. He comes to you more often now, no longer content to watch from the shadows. His presence is as constant and inevitable as the burning torches that line the palace halls.

Sylus never forces, but he does not relent either. He pushes, always pushing the boundaries you fight so hard to uphold. But his endurance might be one of his most impressive qualities.

The pursuit is a slow, insidious thing that sneaks into your veins like the pomegranate's curse. He touches you more deliberately—a palm at the small of your back as he guides you through the corridors, fingers graze your wrist when you pass him in the grand halls, a featherlight brush of his knuckles along your jaw when you glare at him too fiercely.

It is maddening.

And yet, your pulse races when his lips hover near your ear when his voice spills honeyed words against your skin.

He seeks you out, always, even in your chambers, especially in your chambers, where the air is heavy with your sweetness.

"You are avoiding me," his musing tone catches you off guard. If it weren't for his proximity, for the body looming behind your back, you would whirl around to glare at the uninvited guest. "And you fight so hard," Sylus's breath is warm against the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

How his lips yearn to taste you.

It's as though he enjoys your rejections more than an open welcome. You're too adorable this way as if you truly were to believe your acts of defiance could help against fate itself.

"I have no desire to entertain you" is a grumble as you turn further away from Sylus. But for each step you take away from him, Sylus takes two in return.

"That is a lie." His presence presses against your senses, unrelenting in his pursuit. Sylus happily witnesses the goosebumps his touch leaves in its wake with the gentle ghost of his fingertips along your arm. "Your body betrays you so very clearly, my beauty."

Your heart thrums within your chest, so loud it nearly succeeds in drowning out the teasing lilt in his voice—almost, but not quite. Because you're too attuned to him now, too ensnared by the pull of his presence to resist for much longer. Whether caused by fury or the desire to look into crimson eyes, you turn and face Sylus, drawn as if by fate itself to those infernal, beautiful features. "You tore me from everything—my life, my mother. How could I ever—"

Oh, you are ravishing like this, even more so with that sinful glare upon the knowing, near-cheeky smile on Sylus's lips. "Because you are mine." A light touch weaves its way through your fingers, tickling your palm and wrist to brand your skin with his longing.

A nudge from Sylus's free finger tilts your chin up, effortlessly forcing your glare to focus back on his eyes. That little gasp from your lips beckons him to close the scant distance between your mouths. "Hate me, curse me, reject me," Sylus murmurs with a voice as dark as the abyss itself, "it will only deepen my love for you."

The heat in his stare makes your stomach twist in ways you fail to comprehend, in ways you refuse to acknowledge fully. You do not answer, cannot answer, because some terrible, secret part of you shudders in delight at how right his claim feels even as your mind rebels against him.

He is too close to the point that his scent clouds your better judgment while silver hair falls past his shoulders to tickle your skin. Momentarily, you consider running your fingers through the long strands.

Instead, reason calls upon you to press your hands against Sylus's chest to push him away—but he feels so good beneath your touch that you fail to pursue your goal.

And he notices, of course, he does. His muscles give way beneath your palms as Sylus leans in a fragment closer. "You are fighting something inevitable, my love," he whispers against your temple. "Do you not feel it? The pull?"

You do, and you loathe yourself for it.

Long, greedy fingers trail along your collarbone; it's nothing but a ghost of a touch meant to unravel. "I could make this easier for you, little goddess," a gentle murmur of affection, though his voice remains laced with amusement, with something far more wicked. "Or you could keep resisting. Either way, you have me wrapped around your finger."

Despite the raging pulse that betrays your resistance, you snap at the God of the Underworld. Once more, forever more, Sylus's own heart skips a beat at the rejection of his feisty goddess. "I would sooner wither."

The words could have caused him to fall apart in this instance if he had lower self-control.

Perhaps it is this very realisation that causes Sylus to chuckle. Low and deep and true, the sound vibrates against your skin. "Would you?" His lips nearly kiss the shell of your ear. "Tell me, do you truly despise this?"

Worshipping hands slide down your arm; they trace the curve of your wrists and ultimately entwine with your fingers. A moment passes before your hands are lifted to his mouth for Sylus to press kisses across your knuckles.

Only now do you realise the beautiful and heavy set of his lashes and the gentle crease of his brows as if this act alone could convey the undying embers of his love, which burn hotter than his breath against your skin.

The sensation sends a sudden jolt through you, something unfathomable if you remain insistent on denying your own affections. This tender moment ends with a sudden yank to free your hands from his reverent hold, though it does not darken Sylus's mood.

"You are insufferable," you grumble all over again, to which Sylus chuckles. The sound is neither cruel nor mocking. No, it is like the weightless reassurance of a man who knows you will come to him in the end.

────────── ♱

The Underworld is not the lifeless void you once assumed it to be. Its unexpecting offer is more impressive than what you first granted: Through the dark pits of Tartarus, the paradise of Elysium and the barely noticeable meadows of Asphodel flow rivers like silver snakes, their surfaces rippling with unseen currents, only disturbed by Charon transporting souls across the Styx. Shadows curl and move, whispering in the voices of the hopeless and lost. And the sky here? It's not black but a deep, endless twilight speckled with stars that do not belong to the world above.

And rather than simply accepting your fate, you embrace it now.

Your reflection reveals it first. In the land of the dead, you flourish. Your skin shines with renewed energy while a new-found hunger lingers in your eyes, craving more than sustenance. Your gowns are also different now: darker, tighter, more opulent, and made for the station Sylus insists is yours. Jewels glint at your throat, wrists, hair, gifts, all of them, from him .

You tell yourself you wear them only because you have no choice, but deep down, you know better.

The realm accepts you now. It bows to you in small ways—doors open before you touch them, whispers grow soft when you pass. The Underworld does not take just anyone. It takes queens. One queen. His.

Sylus does not bother to hide anymore. He is not just waiting for you to succumb—he is guiding you toward it, coaxing you, moulding you. His every interaction carries intent: every touch is a test, every word a step closer to something inevitable.

One evening, he corners you in the dim glow of the throne room to tease and tempt you until you want to flee. Your steps back ultimately cause you to stagger into his chest through the calculated tug on your wrist. Grasped between his thumb and pointer finger, your face is directed towards his own; your head tipped back for your lips to part invitingly.

"You wear my gifts well," Sylus murmurs the compliment while rendering you defenceless thanks to the simple brush of his thumb against the swell of your lower lip, "they were made for you, and you were made for me," a hushed promise spoken against the shell of his ear.

Shamelessly, his head dips lower, and you feel his nose against your jawline, feel him inhale your floral scent deeply as though attempting to fill his entire being with you before pressing a singular kiss filled with longing against the racing pulse dancing beneath the thin skin of your neck.

"What?" He continues this solitary conversation. "Are you not going to hiss at me?" The quirk of his brow is infuriating—infuriatingly attractive.

"I was not made for you," you force the reply, a sweet attempt to seem as repulsed as before, but the words come weaker than you intend.

At that, Sylus can't help but laugh. The sound is low and rich, and it's exclusively for you.

The grand finale of tonight's pursuit follows in the shape of Sylus's lips brushing the corner of your mouth—not quite a kiss, but rich enough in intensity to make you wonder what it would feel like if he truly claimed you.

────────── ♱

The arrival of Hermes shatters the fragile dynamic that has begun to blossom from your connection with Sylus.

He appears without warning, a figure of golden light and refined grace, with flaxen hair and eyes of near-luminescent blue. Xavier. His movements are effortless, fluid, a beacon of hope in the heavy stillness of the Underworld. With him, he carries the expectations of Olympus, and for the first time in weeks, you remember what it felt like to breathe in fresh air, to feel the sun's kiss upon your skin.

Yet there is something sharper about him here in this place of no belonging—his smile is edged with mischief, his ivory tunic ripples with divine energy. A calculative gaze flicks to you, then to Sylus, who remains seated on his throne, utterly unbothered by the unwelcome interruption.

The messenger neither bows nor cowers. "Well," Xavier says, his arms moving to cross as he leans against a pillar. "The king of gods has spoken."

Sylus tilts his head at the mention of your father, clearly unimpressed. He eyes the messenger amid his grand hall, mustering the God of trade and luck. "Has he now?" Despite the calm tones in Sylus's voice, there is a dangerous edge lurking beneath its surface. By now, you can tell as much.

Xavier's gaze momentarily returns to you. Emboldened by the solemn vow to bring the harvest goddess's beloved daughter back to the realm of living, he speaks. "Your mother grieves. The earth withers in her sorrow. You are to be returned to Olympus immediately."

Freedom? A return… home?

For a fleeting, breathless moment, the words cause a flutter to take wing inside your chest—like a bird stirring from its slumber after a long night. Hopeful, fragile, aching to believe. But then you notice how Xavier speaks of you. Not to you, no over you.

To be returned, not to return.

You move slowly and find Sylus already watching you. His attention pushes down on you with unspoken words and painful longing while restless fingers drum against the jet-black glass of his throne. Then, without looking away, he plays his final card.

"She has long eaten the fruit of my realm."

Xavier sighs dramatically at the desperate antics from the God of the Underworld. "Yes, yes , and you've tied her to you now. Very clever." He glances at you once more before meeting crimson head-on with cerulean. "But the world above cannot survive without her. You know this."

Sylus lifts a hand, demanding immediate silence from the messenger without another glance in his direction. Rising from his throne, he crosses the chasm between your bodies with purposeful steps until the distance wanes and bends like fate itself. He does not stop until his presence surrounds you and his hot breath ghosts over your lips.

Gentle fingertips find your jaw for a touch equally sinful as tender. Possessive. Worshipful. The pad of Sylus's thumb lingers beneath your chin, tilting your face for him to adore your every angle. "You are mine," he murmurs, low and intoxicating. "Even if I let you go, you will return."

The certainty of his claim causes your heart to falter, and you feel yourself falling apart, unravelling beneath his acts of devotion. You hate him for it. You hate that a part of you knows he is right.

Xavier watches the exchange with an arched brow. "Charming as always" is a mockery of God, who never showed romance to any being prior to you.

Though the words fly past the bubble created by Sylus's longing for you, you're enthralled by the hypnotising allure of tender lips that, once more, press slow kisses onto your hand. "My queen," he speaks the title into your skin as though searing your being with your future power and might.

Eager to escape this scene of lust and devotion, Xavier attempts to break this tension by clearing his throat before speaking: "Then I assume we have reached a compromise."

"A compromise?" Sylus echoes in wonder, though neither of you flees from the ensnaring heat crafted through your eyes as if the very act of looking at another was a ritual in itself.

"You will release her," Xavier declares, the decision carried by the weight of Olympus. Sylus already parts his lips to retort, though the messenger beats him to it. "And she will return to her mother, as the divine law demands. However…” Xavier's gaze moves to you, seemingly softer, mournful almost. "Since she has tasted your realm, she is now tied to it. Therefore, she shall walk between both worlds. She will return to you for half of the year until duty calls for her to step into the light of Olympus for the remaining months."

Sylus's grip tightens on your hand; a faint tremble to his fingers betrays his opulent presence. The smugness he wears like armour fades into a scowl. Turning to Xavier, Sylus pulls you to stand behind him with a possessiveness akin to a dragon threatened to lose his treasure.

His body turns into a shield between you and the final sentence of Olympus.

"She will depart with me today," Xavier continues unconcerned, "And until her eventual, unfortunate return to the Underworld, you shall be tested. Your patience, your virtue, the purity of your devotion to the Goddess of Spring,"

Xavier's conclusion leaves no room for arguments. A flicker close to triumph dances through the messenger's eyes as the God of death and shadows has been brought to his knees, even if only for a season.

"So be it," Sylus murmurs before, all too soon, returning to gaze upon you. As though you are the only vision that matters, the only beauty worth witnessing.

His free hand rises for his fingers to trail along the column of your throat before curling around the back of your neck. However, he would never use force on you. No, instead, Sylus draws close to you, so close his words become a secret between you two. "Enjoy your time above, little one, while I wait for your return to me."

It's a promise, a threat, and a certainty all at once. And truthfully, a part of you already misses him.

────────── ♱

Sylus had never realised how deafening the silence of the Underworld could be. It stretches through the empty halls of his palace and seeps into the very marrow of his existence. Once filled with your anger and fire, the throne room is once more cold. The grand halls echo only with his own footsteps. And even the torches seem to burn a little dimmer.

You are gone, and he hates it. He should not feel like this. He has ruled the Underworld for aeons and has never known loneliness, not in a way that mattered. But now, now he feels it.

You are in the world above, in your mother's arms, beneath the golden touch of the sun. You are in a place where he cannot reach you, and the realisation gnaws at him like a slow, festering wound.

His patience wears thinner than ever thanks to sleepless nights or haunting dreams of nothing and no one but you. Always you. Of your lips parted in anger, in surrender. Of your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. He imagines your return and how you will look when you finally stand before him again. Will you be softer? Will your time above have reminded you of all the things you once thought you wanted? Or will you have come to understand the truth? That you belong to him.

He waits and watches once more. Never would Sylus have ever suspected to be forced to witness you again through the crow's eyes, but here he was—dependent on his messenger. Mephisto is his eyes in the upper world, a shadow against the bright skies. The crow perches in high branches, on windowsills, in the eaves of the great temple where Demeter holds you close, whispering reassurances that all will be as it once was.

But it will never be as it once was because you have changed, too.

While at first you revel in your freedom, the world above seems a little too bright, vibrant, and bursting with life in a way the Underworld never could. The fields bloom beneath your mother's touch, and the air is warm, filled with the scent of ripening fruit and fresh earth. You are surrounded by love, by the warmth of familiar arms, and by the laughter of those who missed you.

And yet, on the first night already, you awake to search for something which isn't there. On the second night, you dream of silver hair, hands trailing along your skin, and a voice murmuring your name in the dark. On the third night, you catch sight of a shadow moving along the tree line, and your heart stutters in your chest—not with fear, but recognition at the familiar gleam of red eyes.

Mephisto does not leave, and you do not want him to.

Days pass, then weeks, then months. You fill them with laughter, with long walks through sunlit meadows, with the comfort of your mother's presence. But there is a hollowness inside you now, a quiet, insidious ache that only grows with each passing day. It is not enough, you realise.

None of it is enough. Nothing measures up to the feelings Sylus brought to life within your shell. You are not the same as you were before. Confidence, stubbornness, and greed are qualities you happily embrace by now.

Your mother notices the change. One evening, she catches you staring out at the horizon with distant eyes while watching the setting sun. She sees how your hands trace absent patterns against your skin, as if recalling a touch is no longer there. She does not speak of it, but you can feel her watching, worrying.

When the leaves turn red and yellow, you wake with the remnant taste of pomegranate on your tongue, with an anticipation that brings your heart to pick up its pace at the prospect of returning to him .

────────── ♱

The descent is not the same this time. You are not stolen, not wrenched from the world above in a flurry of fear and resistance. No, this time, you go willingly. Your heart pounds with anticipation as the air around you grows heavier, the sun's warmth fading into the cold embrace of the Underworld's shadows.

And then you see him. He is there already, long awaiting.

His silhouette emerges from the fog like a memory-made flesh, tall, terrible, and heartbreakingly familiar. His eyes devour you. They do not blaze with conquest, though they burn with aching relief, with desire tempered only by the agony of restraint. A god undone by the absence of the one thing he could not command: your return.

"You came back," he says, and it is not a statement of triumph. His voice sounds fragile, relieved. The evidence of a desire stretched too thin over too many empty nights.

All you manage to respond is a quiet "I did," since the weight of this moment, of your joy, presses into your lungs and bones.

Sylus says nothing in return; the longing in his eyes is louder than any verbal confession. He rather steps closer, slowly, carefully, to chase away the forced distance of the past months. He has not changed, not truly. But the sharp edges of his obsession have softened.

He looks at you like you are someone he is afraid to lose, which makes your next step easier as you extend your hand toward him. Without hesitation, he encases your offer in his palm and lifts your hand to his lips, though a deep exhale of relief escapes his lungs long before pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles.

This time, you do not pull away. This time, you let him. This time, you welcome him.

The gates close behind you with a soft sigh, like a breath exhaled after being held for too long. The Underworld waits. Not as a cage this time, not as a prison of shadow and stolen freedom. No—it waits as something altogether different. Your kingdom to rule.

────────── ♱

For the first time, Sylus leads, and you follow. You allow him to bring you to a garden that does not need sunlight to blossom; it's hidden beneath a silken canopy draped in silver threads. It glows from within, lit by fireflies not belonging to the world above. The flower petals here are as dark as night, and their stems shimmer faintly with iridescent dew. They are beautiful in a way that defies logic.

You sit on cushions of satin and velvet, a low table between you, and a feast of things not found in the upper world. Black figs bleeding golden juice. Pomegranate seeds are like rubies scattered on porcelain. Honey-soaked cakes with petals pressed into their tops—slices of moon fruit, with shimmering flesh like opal.

"Does it please you?" Sylus asks, with a voice as gentle as a lover's caress. You glance at the spread and then at the man sitting across from you, his broad frame draped in a tunic of deepest black threaded with the night sky that barely conceals his impressive build, exposing well-defined muscles inked with faint, ancient markings.

Sylus's lips curl into a smile upon the motion of your head, the simple nod rewarding him with a sense of relief. "It's strange. But yes," you admit with a gentle tone.

"One could consider yourself strange in this surrounding, too. And yet—you please me." Sylus's honesty strikes somewhere low in your belly. You should be used to his intensity by now, but thread by thread, it continues to unravel you. He is open with his intent, never hiding it, not the want, worship, or way his eyes trace the line of your throat or the corners of your mouth when you speak.

For a while, you sit in silence. A peaceful quiet, as though both of you are learning how to be something other than what you were. Not captor and captive. Not hunter and prey. Equals, lovers . The final thought may lead your fingers to finally reach for a slice of fig and hold it out to him.

Sylus's gaze flicks to yours, something akin to amusement pooling in those crimson shades as he momentarily hesitates. "You're feeding me now?" Though he regrets the words quicker than he has spoken them once, the sweet reward is being snatched away from Sylus's lips with a huff of mild exasperation over his daring, teasing response.

Mind you, the God of the Underworld is not one to have his treats taken from him. A firm touch around your wrist, a breathed chuckle and a brush of soft lips follow all too soon before Sylus welcomes the fruit from your offering hand.

His actions are deliberate and intimate, causing your breath to catch and your cheeks to grow warm beneath his intense gaze. Through thick lashes, his crimson eyes bask in your reaction, though his mouth remains occupied until a murmur of "Why, aren't you sweet tonight?" falls from glistening lips that seem to beckon you to lean in.

It is only at the last moment that you notice your desire. You catch yourself and pluck one grape off its vine instead of reaching for the God of the Underworld.

However, Sylus takes it from your fingers and presses it to your lips instead. "Your turn," a gentle command and challenge dusted in this low, sultry tone.

Parted lips allow the grape to burst on your tongue—sweet and tart, while Sylus's attention remains on your mouth. He doesn't budge, not when he knows you have grown aware of his stare, not when you chew, not even when you swallow.

"I missed you," he says in a whisper that carries a longing stretched too thin. His expression is nearly vulnerable, tender, and a little insecure, perhaps.

This newfound softness suits him. Leading you to allow your eyes to roam over his sharp features to find further gentle details. From his cupid's bow to the golden flecks in his eyes and the lines on his face when he smiles at you, for you.

"Did you?"

"Every night," Sylus murmurs, possibly a little rueful. "I dreamed of you walking back into my realm, of your voice echoing through my– our halls. I imagined…"

He stops himself at the last moment. A hint of a blush dusts his features, bringing a charm to his looks you would have never granted him before.

"Imagined what?"

The heavy set of his jaw causes his held-back confession to stir worry in your mind; Sylus can tell as much as he takes in the slight crease of your brows. It may be time to jump over his shadow.

His smile returns, though it appears rather self-deprecating this time around while avoiding your gaze.

"You. Smiling at me like you meant it. Touching me because you wanted to," Sylus admits with a purse of his lips, evidently cringing at his confession. This was ill-befitting to the ruler of the Underworld.

Yet, your fingers befit him very well. How they begin to trace the lines of his hand, from the back of his hand to the calloused pads of his fingers? Sylus stills beneath your touch as if afraid a single move might cause you to vanish again.

"And I missed—" he continues but swallows the rest.

You are the one to smile now. You didn't expect to coax so many confessions out of him tonight, though he appears to be in a rambling mood, which makes it impossible not to tease, not to probe and test your luck further.

With a tilt of your head, you let your eyes flick up to his own, a glint of amusement dancing in your gaze. "Tell me."

His eyes dart away almost immediately, lashes fluttering against flushed skin, while Sylus seems to contemplate whether or not he shall make a grander fool of himself. But you seem receptive, accepting of him...

"I missed the sound of your voice even when you cursed me. Especially then."

You smile at that, a real one. "You deserved every word."

"I still do," Sylus replies, unbothered at that and well aware of his own 'shortcomings'.

The conversation finds a tranquil close through shared chuckles and lingering eye contact before the fruits call for attention.

You eat in slow, quiet indulgence. Feeding another slice of moon fruit and seeds of pomegranate accompanied by a brush of his thumb across your lower lip or the hitch in Sylus's breath as your fingers graze his mouth.

The air seems to thicken with something you do not dare to address, a sweetness far beyond the decadence of the fruits.

When juice glistens at the corner of Sylus's mouth, you reach without thinking to wipe it away. The gentle moment deepens once long fingers catch your wrist to press your palm against Sylus's cheek.

He leans into the touch like a man starved of warmth and love, turning his head for his lips to brush against the warm skin of your hand. "I've waited," Sylus murmurs, "I've tried to be good. I did not drag you back, though every shadow begged me to," his words are paused to nip into your palm while amusement dances in his gaze upon your soft sound of surprise. "I wanted to see if you would choose me. Not as your captor—but as your other half."

Your heart stumbles at the confession, and you allow yourself a moment to look at Sylus, really look at him. He is still dangerous, still secure in his power and confidence—but beneath it all, he is trembling.

"For nights, have I imagined this," Sylus continues upon your flustered silence. "This canopy. This moment. You, beside me. Willingly ."

At that, you finally reach out to brush a strand of silver hair from his cheek. Your fingers trail along Sylus's defined jawline, down his throat to witness him swallow before being drawn to the ruby in his chest, where you allow your fingers to rest.

Though the touch lasts briefly before you rise to claim your throne, Sylus watches you unmoving as you settle into his lap. His arms come around you as if instinctually, one hand splayed across your lower back, the other cradling your nape.

Surrender. You see it in Sylus's eyes, in his body language. So, you conquer. A touch along his cheek before your fingertips drag from his jawline forward to his chin to pull him in, to make him chase until your lips meet.

Soft. Tentative. A whisper of longing finally answered.

Sylus groans—it's a low, broken sound—and deepens the kiss, pulling you closer until there is no space left between your bodies. The heat of him surrounds your body; his hunger devours your lips while his hands glide along your waist, over your shoulders and back.

Every touch is a question Sylus does not dare ask aloud.

You answer with your body, tilting your head and opening your mouth, letting him taste the sweetness you've withheld for so long. This ignites the deep pull of your bond, the magnetic ache that has hummed between you from the start. But now, it sings.

It is only once you're breathless that your lips part, though Sylus chases you once more—one more time to kiss you deeply until his confession clings to your skin as his mouth moves down your neck.

"I'm shameless with you," nothing but a hot breath, a roughened rasp. "You've made me something undone."

At first, only silence follows. A silence that seems to weigh down on Sylus's shoulders as he slumps into you, his embrace on you tightening as though he may fear you were to disappear into fine dust.

But then he feels you lean in again and grants you complete control. So you guide his head to tip back while your lips brush along the curve of his throat, the edge of his jaw before your words find their way into his ear. "And I like it."

You kiss him, not on the mouth this time, but under his ear, along the line of his jumping pulse. You mould him with every breath and shift of your body in his lap.

"Is that so?" Sylus asks in quiet, curious amusement while shooting you that confident smirk alongside a quirk to his brow.

He is powerful, yes—but tonight, you are the one who holds him in your palms.

And you know it, you abuse it. Leaning closer, you brush your lips against his again, gentle, faint, teasing as you whisper, "It makes me feel powerful."

Sylus is patient. He waits years to welcome the lost to his realm, watches calmly over the mishaps in the upper world and waits for the cards to play in his favour.

But your teasing? Oh, it all causes Sylus to grow impatient.

He craves the promise of relief from your lips, wanting to taste the sweet haven. The denial is almost too much to bear when you lean back, the disdain manifested with a groan vibrating through Sylus's chest and the flex of his arms around your figure. "You are," he assures you so willingly, "you could command me with a single word."

"Then behave," you whisper before pulling away enough to let Sylus see your smirk and that awful challenge in your eyes.

You didn't expect Sylus to laugh at your little display of power. A sound low and dark, self-indulgent even when he leans in to nuzzle your cheek. "I've been fighting my hardest. You have no idea how much. But you're not making it easy, my little goddess."

To make matters worse, you indulge Sylus by threading your fingers through his long silver strands, scratching past the base of his curled horns to steal a soft grunt as you whisper in his ear: "I'm not trying to."

He hums in delight as though your torture was the purest love of all.

"Good."

The tension snaps at that, causing your lips to seek out another kiss and another until pecks turn to a passionate exchange of breathless sighs and saliva.

You guide Sylus's hands to your waist, your fingers curl into his hair, tugging gently as your kisses turn urgent.

Sylus groans—an unguarded sound, shameless and beautiful—and his grip tightens again, grounding himself through you, needing you to anchor him as much as you need to feel him unravel.

You feel the restraint in him teeter on the edge of collapse, but it does not break tonight.

Instead, you curled up against him, your fingers brushing the ruby in his chest as if it were a second heart. He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and ragged, but his touch remains gentle, cradling you like something sacred.

You lie together beneath the silken canopy as torchlight flickers against your skin. He tells you of the garden he grew while you were gone. Of the starlight dome he had built to mimic the sky you miss dearly. Of every small hope, he fed his heart in your absence like embers waiting to be fanned.

You listen, and you stay until sleep finds you. Enveloped in Sylus' arms, where you belong.

Home.

────────── ♱

With that, the time has finally come.

Hades has passed his trial from the gods above and earned the right to wed his spring queen. He kneels before you, succumbing to his love and burning desire for the one true love.

A pulse moves through the obsidian caverns, across black rivers and beneath skeletal trees. The dark realm stills in anticipation. Even the air tastes of omen. Stones whisper in a tongue long forgotten by Olympus—born of death, longing, and devotion.

Tonight, the god of the dead weds his queen.

There is no mortal spectacle, no divine applause. The ceremony unfolds deep within Domos Haidou, an ancient grove untouched by time, where even the moon dares not look. Only ghostly embers and violet fireflies shimmer, illuminating the sanctum where the veil between sacred and sinful has worn thin.

Here, beneath a sky of nothing but velvet void, where only the faintest glow from ghostly fireflies and floating embers light the scene, the ritual takes shape.

You are dressed not in fabric but in falling petals—obsidian lilies and pale mourning blooms cascading from your shadow-cloaked figure. The scent is intoxicating. Crushed orchids and roses bleed sweet perfume into the air, mingled with the deep, honeyed pull of burning amber, cracked myrrh, and the lush, ripe promise of pomegranates split open beneath a blade.

Incense swirls in winding tendrils around your ankles, carried by a wind that seems to breathe only for you.

Sylus waits.

He stands at the altar made of stone and root, his tall frame outlined by flickering braziers lit with violet flame. His tunic clings to him, dark as pitch, draped loose over his strong shoulders, revealing the ridged definition of his chest. A crown of black laurel rests upon his silver hair, his curved horns framing the impassive mask of his face—until he sees you.

And then he breathes again.

The firelight deepens the red in his eyes, and his gaze—tender yet hungry—devours the sight of you. Not like prey. Never that. Like devotion, like something sacred, he has been waiting for eternity to touch.

Your steps, unhurried and deliberate, carry all the words your mouth does not say. You are no longer a frightened girl ripped from her world. You are a woman who has tasted the Underworld and claimed it alongside its ruler.

You place your hands in his, and the world shifts.

From a chalice forged from volcanic crystal, you share the ritual drink—a dark elixir of wine and crushed blossoms, thick with enchantment and laced with the bite of something older than lust. It slides down your throat like fire, and immediately, the air changes. It prickles against your skin, magic thickening like fog. Your limbs are warm, your head light, and your breath shallow.

The circle around you ignites. Flame spirals from the ground, blooming outward, as though the Underworld itself recognises this union. Vines coil around the altar, pulsing in rhythm with your breath. The ruby at his chest flares, and a low hum answers from beneath your skin. You are bound now. Not by force nor by fate. By choice.

That choice leads you to step closer while Sylus remains still as a statue. However, his tension is unmistakable. His knuckles are white from holding back, yet his hands do not move without your invitation.

You lift one to your lips, leaving a kiss on his palm. Sylus exhales your name like a prayer, like a curse, as you trail your fingers up his chest, letting your touch linger to tease the dip of his throat and the line of his jaw. You watch how Sylus shudders under the weight of your attention.

The power you feel is intoxicating. You realise now how far you've come.

Once, he ruled the stillness where nothing grows.

Now, you bring the bloom that breaks it.

Your lips brush the corner of Sylus' mouth—not quite a kiss, but the hint of one. In return, he tilts his head, drawn in immediately to chase more, but you retreat with a teasing smile. It wrecks him how helpless he has become, though Sylus can only laugh softly at his misery.

"You've changed," he murmurs, his voice is low and full of awe while his eyes and fingertips adore your beautiful features.

"I had to," your touch leads down his ribs. "To match the man who waited for me."

At that, Sylus sways into you, the heat of his body bleeding into yours. You guide him down onto the silk-lined altar floor, settling in his lap as the folds of your ceremonial robes slip open around your legs. When your lips meet his—tentative at first, a question, a test—he doesn't devour, only responds with slowness.

Then, the kiss deepens and shatters the last barriers of restraints.

His hands explore your waist, back, and hips as if memorising each curve. You feel his strength, not in dominance but in surrender. Sylus lets you set the rhythm and mould him into what you need.

And you do.

Your touches are not hesitant anymore—they command. You tilt his head where you want it, angle his mouth to yours, and drag your teeth along the seam of his lips until he groans, gasping your name like it's his salvation.

And still, he waits because there is no rush to this moment. He has forever with you. But the Underworld grows impatient in the way magic winds around your entwined limbs, tugging, twisting, binding. Your hips roll together in an instinctive rhythm, and the scent of burning flowers and fruit envelops you like a shroud.

You are both drunk—on love, on hunger, on power.

Sylus' mouth finds your throat, your shoulder, your ribs. He speaks your name between kisses like it is the only word he has ever learned. His restraint is thin, stretched taut with every passing breath, and when you push him beyond it when you finally press him down and whisper, "Take me," he falls apart.

The vines around your promised bodies seem to dance in a song older than the gods themselves. The flames bloom higher, flicking beautifully on the crimson depths of Sylus's eyes.

You're magnified by the molten longing pooling inside, entranced and enthralled. You watch the way he looks at you.

His mouth parts like he wants to speak but cannot. Because how does a god, a ruler, a creature of death and punishment, explain what it means to be undone so completely by love?

"My love," you whisper as your fingers guide his palm between your breasts, lower to your belly. The air around you grows heavier as he follows the trail of your skin.

His hand continues downward. Over the rise of your stomach, the dip of your navel, the curve of your hips, until finally, finally , his fingers move between your thighs, cupping your most intimate part with the size of his palm.

When you arch into his hand, and your head falls back, Sylus watches it all with greed and worship. An approving, low rumble tickles your skin upon his discovery. You're wet, throbbing, already so unbearably ready—your arousal a product not just of the intoxicating magic in the air but the weight of everything that has passed between you.

The ache, the longing. The vow that, tonight, you would be his.

He turns you then, gently but without hesitation, lowering your back into the dark grass beneath like a holy offering.

His figure looms over you—broad and protective—as if he wasn't the danger himself. Twisted horns cast long shadows that flicker in the torchlight, while silver hair cascades over broad shoulders like a waterfall spun from moonlight.

The width of Sylus' thighs parts your own effortlessly once he settles. Accompanied by a gentle touch that glides along the sensitive skin of your legs, with fingers digging into the flesh of your inner thighs, his gestures are worshipful as he stares down at you, naked and glistening with want. Beautiful.

Yet still—he waits.

He does not take.

You're the one to set the tone.

Your hands lead crimson eyes to follow the curves of your body, slow and shameless; you rake your nails down your chest, teasing your nipples until they pebble before dragging your touch lower over your stomach and down to the place that aches for him most. When your fingers dip between your folds, and you moan softly at the contact, you keep your eyes locked on his.

Sylus watches, transfixed and with monumental restraint, as your fingers work your slick folds. A traitorous flush spreads over his neck, across the sharp lines of his cheekbones, that almost makes him look innocent–if it weren't for the lust pooling in his eyes.

How willing you are for your husband.

And then, you reach for his hand. Smaller fingers lace around Sylus' wrist to guide him back to your body until his chest hovers just above yours. He is so close now; his breath mingles with yours, his lips barely grazing the corner of your mouth.

His eyes search yours, and what he finds leads Sylus to give in. Soft lips crash against yours in a deep, hungry kiss before his teeth nip at your bottom lip, demanding entrance and surrender.

A warmth spreads over your skin thanks to the heat of Sylus' palms sliding up your body, eager to replace every touch you have left on your figure with his own. He spoils your breasts with attention, kneading the soft mounds and tweaking your nipples until they are hard, aching peaks.

"So soft, so warm and needy…" he murmurs against your breasts before his tongue drags heavy over skin littered with goosebumps. Sylus rocks his hips forward, the hard, thick length of him pressing against your core before staining your skin with more whispers of desire.

"Tell me you want it," he mumbles while the delicious drag of his length would already be enough to make you say yes to all and any of his wishes. But he seems desperate for your consent, for your dependence on him. "Tell me how much you need me, my goddess."

Your thighs twitch from the delicious stimulation Sylus offers, the sounds following seem natural, like a sweet symphony of a tune you've never sung before. "Sylus," you sigh for him, so sweetly, so fragile, as your fingertips trace the ruby in his chest. "I want to be one with you," you reach for his hand, lacing your fingers together.

"My love," you search his eyes with an expression so soft and tender that Sylus didn't even dare to dream of before. "Can you help me? Can you guide me? To be all for you, only you forever and always..."

It's incredible how you effortlessly play with Sylus' heartstring—a heart most people deem nonexistent. Yet here you are, toying with the God of the Underworld as though he could never be a real match to you.

This is the power you hold over him, the control you have over the darkness that dwells within. You managed to tame the untamable, to make him kneel at your feet like a loyal hound.

Sylus brings your entwined hands to his lips and presses a lingering kiss, gentle yet filled with devotion, to your knuckles. Crimson eyes remain glued to your own, as though his gaze alone could convey all the feelings he holds dear inside.

"I will guide you, mould you, make your body fit mine like it was crafted for me alone," a whisper breathed along the veins running down your arm, sealed with kisses.

When he finally sheds his tunic, it is a teasing, slow gesture meant to draw your attention to nothing but him. The silver clasps snap open under Sylus's touch, revealing a defined figure made for your exploration. Every line seems to be carved by divine hands.

But it's his length that steals your breath—thick and heavy; it stands proud and pulsing, the flushed tip glistening with need. It intimidates. It arouses. It makes something flutter inside you.

Sylus's pupils dilate as he takes in the sight beneath him: His wife, his goddess, spread wide for him, your stomach stained by his fluids.

"Beautiful creature of sin…" The words escape him in nothing but a whisper while his tip nudges against your entrance, teasing you, creating sounds of desire as he lowers himself again, positioning the head of his cock at your entrance.

"Breathe for me," he says, soft and commanding all at once, his thumb brushing your cheek. "Take a deep breath, and let me in. Let me fill you. Stretch you. Make you mine."

And you try. You truly try to obey. But the moment his thick head presses past your entrance, your muscles tense. The shock caused by the unfamiliar stretch steals your breath, and you let out a cry—not of pain, not quite.

With a gentle thrust of his hips, Sylus pushes forward, deeper into your velvety sweetness. He groans deeply, affected by the stretch of your walls when they try to accommodate him. Ah, the feel of you, so hot, so tight, so perfect .

You're so wet; he can't refuse to push in deeper, to conquer places nobody has ever been.

Sylus groans—a sound torn from deep within his chest—as your walls flutter around him, your body drawing him deeper with each slow roll of his hips. Your heat envelops him like velvet soaked in flame, your core yielding and trembling around his cock. The stretch is near unbearable, your breath caught in your throat as your body struggles to adjust to his size.

He is thick, unrelenting, the burn making tears swell at the corners of your eyes, though you never look away from him. His hand braces your hip while the other cups your jaw with infinite care, his thumb sweeping away one of those traitorous tears.

"Wrap your legs around me," he breathes with his eyes locked on yours, hunger and adoration swirling in those crimson depths. "Pull me in deeper, let me feel you clenching around me. Let me fill you like I was made for this."

Your thighs move on instinct, curling around his waist, and he catches them with both hands, holding you steady. When your hips roll—desperate, seeking—you impale yourself further onto his cock, inch by aching inch, until you're gasping from the pressure, the fullness.

"S-Sylus," you sob, your voice trembling at the edge of a moan as he stretches you deeper, wider. Your head tips back into the ground, fingernails clawing at the obsidian cloth beneath you while the tremble of your thighs highlights the effort of holding back the pleasure threatening to consume you.

"Shh, my love," he murmurs in a gentle tone even as sweat beads on his brow from the effort it takes not to move too fast, not to thrust in and claim you all at once. "Breathe through it. You're doing so well. Taking me so deeply, so perfectly."

His lips brush your temple and jaw to soothe the tension wracking your trembling form. He presses his forehead to yours, allowing his breath to mingle with yours as he grounds you, anchors you, and helps you through the storm of sensation.

"How much more?" you gasp, though you do not dare look down—too afraid of the answer.

Sylus huffs a breathless laugh, his eyes glinting with restrained mischief and adoration. "A little," he murmurs, lies, while distracting you by pressing kisses on your cheek. "I'm halfway in."

A sob melts into a moan as his mouth claims yours, a kiss that leaves no space for thoughts. Hungry lips swallow your cries while a domineering tongue explores your mouth with depraved hunger. Large hands never stop moving—stroking your thighs, palming your breasts, coaxing your body to surrender.

"Breathe with me," he pleads against your lips alongside the gentle rocking of his hips in a slow, deep roll, easing in. You feel every stretch, every throb, every heated inch as he fills you further. "Feel how your body welcomes me."

You try—gods, you try—but your breath breaks as his cock finds something inside you that makes you seize, makes your nails dig into his arms, dragging across the tense muscles of his biceps. "N-Not there—Sylus, not there—"

But that's precisely where he presses again, with deliberate force, and the high, breathy sound that escapes you is half protest, half plea.

His mouth trails down your neck, over your collarbone, with his tongue licking away the taste of salt from your tears as he groans against your skin. "There, right there," Sylus retorts with a sudden sharpness, causing his words to cut through your weak protests.

The defiant words are punctuated with a selfish, more brutal thrust of Sylus's hips. The head of his cock kisses your velvet depths as he stills, gently rolling his hips against you to spoil the spot made for you to see stars even in the depths of hell. "That's it. That's your sweet spot, isn't it? The place only I get to touch."

He sets a steady rhythm then—thrusting deeper, grinding his hips in such a way that the head of his cock kisses that spongy spot again and again until your moans become desperate, until you writhe and pant beneath him, your body burning alive with pleasure too immense to hold.

"Let it take you," he urges, his voice low and thick, laced with command and affection. "Don't fight it, my love. Allow yourself to feel; take what you need."

Your fingers scrabble across his body in search of purchase—dragging down his forearms, gripping his shoulders, clutching at his back. You can feel how he stretches you, how you pulse around him, how your arousal coats his length in slick, shameless heat. And yet still, he moves, driving into you with the kind of worship only a god could offer.

"Too much," you whimper, though your hips chase him and reveal the lie all too soon. "So deep, Sylus… you're too deep."

He groans in response, driven to madness by the way you tighten around him, by the way, your body submits and fights all at once. He watches your face, mesmerised by every flicker of pleasure, every helpless twitch of your body.

"Too deep?" Sylus breathes against the shell of your ear, his voice thick and rough, saturated with love and possession. "I'm going to fill you so deeply that you'll forget everything but me."

With that promise, Sylus begins to move harder, faster. His hips snap forward, his cock plunging so deep it feels like he carves himself into you. And all around you, the Underworld responds—flames dancing higher, flowers smelling stronger, vines curling tighter around the altar in a frenzy of magic and bliss.

His moan makes you shiver, the vibration of his voice against your throat paired with the brutal honesty of his rhythm as Sylus continues to thrust into you with devastating precision. The words, the sounds, the act—all of it ensnares you, makes you pulse around his cock in pleasure, your body clinging to him like it's forgotten how to exist without him inside.

He hits that spot again—again—and each time, your body tightens, jerks, your thighs trembling, your lips parting in a choked moan that only serves to spur him on. You scramble across your own body for support, your hands fluttering desperately over your breasts, your stomach, down the slope of your hips and thighs, fingers searching for anything to anchor you as Sylus's hips snap forward relentlessly in their devotion.

Your moans, your cries—praise wrapped in trembling complaint—are music to his ears. And every word, every broken syllable, only serves to make you wetter, to make his cock slide in with less resistance and more heat, slick and obscene.

Sylus can feel everything—your desperation, your pleasure, your helpless submission to the sensations he's pulling from you—and he welcomes it all. He welcomes the pain you mark into his flesh with your nails, the way your pussy clenches as though trying to milk him, your walls fluttering as your orgasm builds. He knows your body is teetering on the brink, stretched and overwhelmed, yet still greedy for more.

"Shh," he murmurs into the shell of your ear, his voice a low, soothing rumble barely disguising his unravelling. "Let it happen, my love. Let it take you. I'll hold you through it—I'll catch you when you fall."

He leans down to let his teeth graze your throat before finding the tender juncture where neck meets shoulder, and he bites—not cruelly, not gently, but with the kind of claiming pressure that leaves no doubt: you are his. The pain sings through you, a sharp counterpoint to the constant, throbbing pleasure.

Your body arches beneath him, shuddering violently as your nerves threaten to fray. At this moment, the only salvation seems to be proximity as your arms wind tight around Sylus's neck to tug him down, clutching him close, your face buried in his skin, your breath hot and gasping against his jaw.

The drag of his cock over your sweet spot makes you cry out, helpless against the sensations that storm through your body. You cling tighter, whimpering, shaking, your sounds muffled against the column of Sylus's throat. You don't even try to speak anymore; you only feel everything he gives you: every thrust, every grind, and every pass of his length as it fills you.

And then, your head falls back into the grass, exposing your throat to him once more, surrendering everything.

He watches you through half-lidded eyes, drunk on the sight. The moment you hiccup out one word: "Faster," in a voice small and desperate, Sylus's control unravels.

He grins—a dark, wicked thing.

"Your wish is my command."

Sylus's hands tighten on your hips, and he fucks you harder. Faster. The rhythm turns punishing, perfect . Each thrust slams into you with wet, smacking force, your breasts bouncing wildly from the force of it, your moans turning ragged and sharp. You think you might scream, might beg, but all you do is fall deeper into the heat, the rhythm, the filthy sounds of your bodies colliding.

Sylus's mouth finds your throat again, his tongue dragging up your skin, tasting sweat, tasting tears. His groans echo in your ears, low and hungry.

You feel like you're being devoured—worshipped—and still, you crave more. With your body rising to meet his every thrust now, your walls fluttering around his cock in a rhythm that betrayed your surrender to him, to this act, to the darkness curling around your bodies.

The ritual may have begun with devotion, but now it breathes life due to the pleasure of possession and want.

Sylus watches the hypnotic bounce of your breasts with every impact of his hips, watches the way your body arches and quakes beneath him like it was offering itself to be consumed. Sylus lowers his head, his breath hot and panting as he buries his face in the valley between your breasts, his lips and tongue worshipping your skin.

"You look divine like this," he whispers. The praise is nearly lost beneath the wet sound of skin on skin and your rising cries. "Undone. Broken open by me."

You gasp when his mouth latches onto a hardened nipple. A sharp graze of teeth follows, and his tongue soothes right after. You can feel it building again—not just the orgasm, but something darker. A bloom of divine intoxication takes root in your belly. Sylus finds that spot inside you once more, and the groan he lets out against your skin sends shivers down your spine.

You're slick, swollen, trembling, stretched to the brink and somehow still aching for more. You don't need to beg; Sylus would give you everything. And he was far from finished.

"My goddess," Sylus murmurs with lips wet from your sweat and the salt of your skin. "What a perfect vessel you've become."

As his hips grind into your sweet spot again and again, the coil within you finally snaps with a sound of pleasure torn itself free of your throat. You clench down, pulsing in frantic waves as you come apart—loud, messy, utterly divine.

Sylus exhales a moan as you spasm around him, slick coating his cock whilst your cries melt into broken moans. The magic thickens in the air, the vines twist tighter around the altar, and flowers burst open in wild, fevered bloom. His hold on you becomes unrelenting, grounding you through your climax while Sylus continues to move, each motion pulling you deeper into bliss. You cling to him like your sanity depends on the rhythm of his hips.

And still, he moves inside you.

Hot, open-mouthed kisses hold a kind of hunger that strips the air from your lungs, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as though he owns the space, tasting every sound you try to make and swallowing them down like they are the only offering he has ever desired.

"Again," he murmurs at your throat, dragging his mouth along the damp curve of your neck. "I want to feel you fall apart once more until your body forgets everything but me."

Sylus is everything now: your altar, your sin, the ruin you've come to love—and you, soft and pliant beneath him, offer yourself with nothing left to hide.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. To admire the glow of your skin, the way your chest rises in shaky gasps, the tremble in your hands as you drag them over your own body like you can't quite believe how wrecked you have become, how much Sylus has wrecked you.

"There is nothing more beautiful than this," Sylus says, voice thick with something heavier than pride as his eyes drink you in. "Nothing is more beautiful than you."

Your lashes flutter as your body can no longer keep up with your mind, and though your limbs tremble, you manage to hold his gaze, even as his cock throbs inside you with growing need. The tension in Sylus builds steadily; his body is tense, his jaw locked, his control fraying beneath the weight of how badly he wants to finish inside you—but still, he holds back. Still, he is waiting because he needs more from you first.

"Tell me," he whispers, his lips brushing your cheek, your ear, the line of your throat where your pulse stammers beneath the skin. "Tell me what you want. Speak it, and it's yours. I only exist to please you."

Your vision blurs, your thoughts scattered by the intensity of him, but your hands still find his hair, threading through it as your legs curl around his hips, pulling him closer, offering yourself without shame.

"Show me," you breathe, your voice hoarse, and your mouth barely forms the words. "Teach me what you like."

Sylus stills for a heartbeat, something shifting in his expression into a flash of pure and empty-headed desire.

And then he moves. The shift is fluid, your world tilting as Sylus turns you onto your stomach, one hand guiding your hips back into position as if you were meant to be there, presented like an offering no god would dare refuse.

He watches for only a moment, taking in the arch of your back, the tremble in your thighs, the way you present yourself, and then he slides back inside you with one long thrust that punches the air from your lungs, steals the cry from your lips, and buries him in the heat of your body once again.

Sylus breathes your name into the crook of your shoulder as his pace deepens, your cunt clenching around him so tightly his hands have to grip your waist with bruising pressure.

"Yes… just like that," Sylus exhales, his voice rasping against your ear as your walls tighten around him. He leans over you to press himself closer, to reach around your front and embrace your breasts whole. His fingers knead your soft mounds, his thumbs rolling over your nipples until you whimper without meaning to.

Each cry feeds his hunger for more of you, for everything and everything. Your effect on him roughens Sylus's voice. "You're so soft... you take me so well..." he murmurs into your hair while he seems to drown in the sensation of your body welcoming him again and again.

You can't reply. You can only gasp and sob as each thrust pushes you deeper into the grass, into the magic wrapping around your body, into the unbearable fullness that makes your thoughts scatter.

"Sylus—, Sylus—" your voice cracks as his name escapes you like it's the only word you remember how to say. And each time you try to repeat it, Sylus pushes in harder, dragging another broken sound from your lips until you fall apart in stuttering cries.

His voice dips, hushed and dangerous by your ear. "That's it… Come again. Let me feel you break for me. Let your body beg—so I can spill inside you like I was meant to."

You shake your head, though it's barely defiance. The pleasure is too close, too sharp, and your sobs spill between whispers of longing and disbelief. "It's too good… I don't want it to stop… I c-can't—"

"All night," Sylus breathes and sinks his teeth into the curve of your neck.

Your entire body seizes as your release washes over you while Sylus's teeth stay anchored, not cruel but claiming, holding you in place as he continues to thrust, to coax every pulse of your climax from you. The dark magic around you grows in its potency and ties you together in blood, lust and devotion.

"Forever," he whispers into your flesh.

While your shoulders slump into the grass, boneless with pleasure, your hips stay high, your walls still fluttering helplessly around him. Sylus towers above you, a monument of muscle and shadow, watching your arousal drip down your thighs, the scent of your union wafts thickly in the air.

"A glutton," he murmurs, almost fondly. "Just like me."

Then, ever so effortlessly, Sylus lifts you. One hand slides between your breasts to press you flush against his chest. Your head tilts back against a firm shoulder with a gasp as his cock pushes deeper from the new angle, the stretch all-consuming.

His lips stretch into a grin against your temple, one hand slipping down to cup your breasts again, to tease your sensitive nipple until you moan, each twitch feeding his delight. "Truly insatiable," he hums in approval.

You clench around him without meaning to. He feels it—the tremble of surrender. The way your body opens for him all over again.

"Tainted skin," Sylus whispers as his lips graze your ear. "Tainted body… all mine."

And then, he slips out, slowly, unbearably so, to leave you gasping as you grow aware of the emptiness inside you. Your body aches from the absence even while Sylus eases you down among the grass as though handling something sacred only he is allowed to touch.

There are no words left in you—only a breathless nod, parted lips, trembling limbs caught beneath the weight of everything he has given and everything he now promises to take. It is not just want. It is far more consuming—need, surrender, devotion in its most unholy, exquisite form.

"Please," you whisper, a word that sounds more like a prayer than a plea.

A goddess's offering to her God, and of course, he answers.

Sylus's hand wraps around the base of his cock as he strokes himself above you, the flushed tip leaking and twitching, swollen with pressure as crimson basks in the view of your awaiting body. Your skin is kissed with sweat, the grass clinging to your curves, the darkness wrapping around you like a blanket.

And then Sylus breaks the heavy silence. The sound brushes against your ear. "Now... I will give you everything."

Fingers trail slowly down the trembling expanse of your thighs, the tips of them sink into their softness as though he means to memorise you by touch alone.

The contrast is stark—your yielding body beneath his strength, held back only by the need that you alone summon from him with every breathless sound you make.

"You offer yourself," Sylus murmurs, his voice hoarse and cracked at the edges, the kind of tone that drips not from worship but hunger. "Like a promise whispered where no god dares to listen."

He watches the way your hands lift to your chest, fingers trembling as they trace over the peaks of your breasts, your body bared to him not in submission but in power, in invitation, and he is helpless before it.

His cock twitches in his grasp, flushed and throbbing, veins thick with desire as though every inch of him aches to return to the place he knows belongs to him. Sylus's breath stutters, his eyes hooded, his body tight and straining, forged by a need that only you have ever been capable of drawing forth without lifting a finger.

"Only you," he chokes out, the words scraped raw from somewhere deep and private, "Only you could bring me here. Pull me down. Make me beg. Make me break."

Sylus sinks into you again, his mouth seeking out the marks he left behind along the curve of your shoulder, the vulnerable dip of your throat. His teeth press into the skin not to wound but to keep, to seal, to remind you that you are his. His tongue follows and drags slowly over your heated skin until your fingers thread into his hair, pulling him closer and dragging him back deeper.

"My beloved," you whisper, your voice thick with amusement and awe as you glance back at him, your eyes catching his like a spark in the dark. Come for me."

The words break him.

"You're a vision," Sylus breathes against your neck. Sylus drives forward with sharp, selfish thrusts, then another, and another still, burying himself to the base with a force that knocks the air from your lungs.

The pleasure ripples through him. It scorches everything he is, everything he was and thought he will ever be as if your body is the vessel he was crafted to spill himself into. His release comes in waves, each thicker and hotter than the last—a vow carved into the softest parts of you.

He cannot be gentle. Not now. Not when your walls clamp around him like they never intend to let him go. His hands are firm on your hips, his teeth press into your shoulder again, and every motion of his body tells you the same thing—you are his. His end, his beginning, his undoing.

Your name slips from his lips, whispered in need for more.

And the Underworld responds.

The altar lights with fire too bright to be natural, and the vines wind around your entangled limbs as if even the ground beneath you seeks to hold you in place.

Voices long dead hum secrets beneath the surface, recognising what has happened for what it is: a binding not made with rings or sweetly spoken promises but with desire and darkness.

Still, Sylus moves. He shifts only slightly; his hips are rocking with slow, shallow thrusts as he rides out the last pulses of his orgasm. You feel the heat of his breath, the tremor in his muscles as firm arms curl you into his chest.

Forehead pressed against forehead, you remain as one. He is still inside, thick and full and twitching as if your body is the only place that can hold him now. You feel him leaking from you, slick and warm as it drips down your thighs.

"I am ruined," he whispers into your skin, the words frayed and aching with a breathless chuckle of disbelief. "And I never want to be whole again. Not if it means letting go of this. Of you."

He presses his mouth along your shoulder, jaw, and the corner of your lips as you finally turn into him, and the look on his face is no longer that of a god. There is no king here—only Sylus— yours.

He lowers himself beside you on the shadow-kissed grass, the dark flowers blooming around your tangled limbs as he pulls you into his arms. You remain joined, still one, and then he kisses you softly.

"I won't stop," he breathes against your lips, his voice uneven, deep with something he never says aloud. "Even if doomsday arrives outside this sanctuary. Even if the skies burn and the world forgets our names. I will still be yours."

Magic winds around you both like a second skin, soft and warm. It is a promise that will never fade: you are his queen, and he is your King.

And the Underworld will remember the night it bore witness to gods falling not into ruin but into something far more ethereal.

You are lost in the petals that never stop falling, the heat between you, and the spell crafted from skin and union.

And Sylus holds you like the world has narrowed down to this—just you, just now.

You are no longer something stolen, no longer taken from the world above, but something claimed—willingly, completely—and he is yours, now and always, bound to you in a way that even eternity cannot sever.

feedback & reblogs would be deeply appreciated | dividers by @/cafekitsune

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littlepuppers · 7 months ago

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i really want to go camping. just a nice, solo camping trip to relax and have time to myself :)

I’d wake up and make breakfast, hike up to a different spot, start a fire and forage for a bit, draw or carve something, and setup camp for the night.

i have one pair of pjs with me and my sleeping bag for the night because i don’t have to worry about anyone judging what i wear or asking me for a spare blanket. So i packed just a pair of booty shorts and a smallish tank top. it’s just basic undergarments, nothing fancy, and i would be pretty embarrassed if anyone knew i wore these drabby clothes to sleep.

after i make a cup of sleepytime tea and wait for the fire to die out, i snuggle up in my sleeping bag. it’s a bit chillier tonight but i don’t have any other clothes to wear on top of this since i only brought my pjs and my stinky hiking clothes.

whatever. i drift off to sleep and dream of watching shooting stars falling around me, so pretty. as they crash onto the ground around me i feel the heat from them on my skin. it’s getting warmer, but i also really feel it on my cheeks. like i’m flushed or blushing. i watch the stars spark into flames and die out into embers.

animals start to surround me. deer, rabbits, foxes, and coyotes. they all come up around me and start sniffing my face and body. they start licking my face and neck, i giggle trying to push them away, it tickles. one of the coyotes that’s licking my stomach starts traveling down toward the hem of my shorts. woahhh haha, watch out buddy, i tell him.

Obviously not understanding english, he nudges his snout under the hem and takes a lick on my parts. i push his head away harshly and sit up. Immediately im pushed back down by the other animals and a huge buck comes and steps on my hair and arms so i can’t move.

i know this is a dream but how am i not waking up already???

a rabbit comes and starts pulling my shorts down, the coyote comes back and nudges his snout between my legs, i scream and try to close them but he turns and bites one. fuck, that felt real.

He goes back and starts licking, hesitant at first, just seeing how it tastes i guess. since foraging and meal prepping the smart and healthy way, ive only packed like fruit and stuff so obviously it probably tastes like really fucking good. at least that’s all i can assume from him diving in, licking deeper and deeper. fuck her tongue is fucking huge. it goes in and out fluidly. the slick sounds filling the air along with my whimpers and the other animals breathing and chirping and whining.

i feel it building up in my tummy, something molten. fuck, this is the weirdest wet dream i’ve ever had.

all of the sudden, his tongue dives insanely deep and curls into one of my spots. I wake up with a gasp and shaking through an orgasm. letting out a loud screaming moan, my eyes shoot open as i feel it curl inside me again.

WHAT THE FUCK

a tall dark figure is above me, my sleeping bag is unzipped and this persons hand is between my legs, his fingers curl inside me again. i scream, grabbing his arm and trying to push him away and get his fingers out. he plunges them deeper and uses his other hand to wrap around my neck and push it to the ground, holding it there.

i try to scream but can’t with my minimal airway, so i struggle and whimper, squeezing and trying to tear his arm away from my neck but it won’t budge. his fingers are still thrusting in and out of me, sometimes slowing down to explore and prod at my spots. i really cant help but shiver from the stimulation and orgasm from earlier. but who the fuck is the guy and how did he get in here and find me?!?

he finally speaks, moving his fingers to slip out a bit. “you weren’t this wet the whole time darlin’, my friend had to help you out to start, could barely get him off’a you. but i can’t blame him…” the dark figure takes his fingers out slowly with a shhlickkk sound, putting them up to his mouth, “…because you sure do taste fucking heavenly.” he leans to the side so i can see behind him something moves, a fucking dog. what the fuck. i thrash and whimper. “don’t fucking move. he bit you once, he’ll do it again.” I freeze, the bite, the dream, fuck it was all real.

the dog starts whining and tries to come up to me but the man pushes him back. he pushes his fingers back into me and starts moving them again, fuck i’m so overstimulated it almost hurts. “fuck, he’s eager. do u mind if he goes for a second course?” “fuck you,” i strain out. he opens my legs barely and the dog jumps over me sniffing and licking as deep inside as he was in the dream. fuckkk this is horrible i could get a disease or something, he needs to stop licking at my fucking spots it’s really too much.

the pressure starts building again. oh no, no no no no. please god i can fucking cum on a dogs tongue. opposing to my thoughts, my body gets closer and closer and- he stops. i freeze and tears start flowing from my eyes. from relief his contact from me is gone and because my body is so worn out now.

SHITT, something scrapes at my hips, the dogs paws, what the fuck is going on?? “sorry darling, he needs a little help, do you mind?” the man takes the pillow out from under my head and harshly lifts my hips, placing it underneath. he takes his hand off my throat finally, i gasp for air and can barely speak through my damaged vocal chords, “fuck you asshole.” “uhh yeahhhh i won’t, but he’s about to.” he nudges the dog forward. the man stuffs my shorts into my mouth so i can’t scream. how the fuck is this happening.

the dog immediately scratches at my hips again and starts rutting his hips toward me. FUCK NO. i thrash around but feel something poke my neck. it’s the man holding my wood carving knife i. his hand against my neck. “move, and I’ll fucking slit your throat.” tear start flowing from my eyes. how did i ever get in this position. i feel something scortching start to poke at my entrance, fuck please no please please please no…

the dog edges toward me more and suddenly plowing himself so deep inside me, how the fuck did i think doggy dicks were small??? this feels fucking huge, it fucking hurts. he’s thrusting in and out and an inhumane pace. his huge red doggy part pushes every single one of my spots and i can’t think anymore, i can’t even move. it’s like he’s going through me i can almost feel it in my stomach. he starts growling and i feel it get bigger. no way, this dog is not gonna knot me. please god. he can’t fit it in thank god.

“aw cmon buster, you can do better than that,” the mysterious man says before pushing the dogs backside against me and i feel it force inside me FUCK.

fuck that’s huge, i can’t fucking move because i think im gonna break. help please someone help me god…

i feel it. the flooding of molten liquid filling me. all i can do is whine through this soaked through fabric. i’m such an idiot for getting myself in this stupid situation, for not bringing a gun, im so stupid. there’s nothing i can do now except stay still while this dogs huge knot presses on my spot and his cum dumps into my cervix. i feel it dripping out. all over my sleeping bag and the floor of the tent. “how’d that feel hun? seems buster loved it, did you?” he takes his finger and wipes from the base of the dogs cock, bringing the liquid up to my mouth and smearing it all over my lips. i feel it leak down into my mouth and i’m utterly repulsed.

the dog breaks away with a POP and my legs and hips and whole body goes lax. the man chuckles and puts his hand down there again. oh no please don’t, and he doesn’t. instead, he scoops up the dogs cum and pushes it back into me. “good girl keep it in ok? the scent of it will help him track you down again.” i groan weakly and my vision begins to go blurry. the last thing i see is him throwing a stick outside the tent and the stupid dog running off after it to fetch.

fuck camping.

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slutla · 3 months ago

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ROLLED UP ‘N RUINED ! | MARK GRAYSON X FEM READER

warnings: 18+, nsfw, usage of weed, oral (f receiving), masturbation (m), cunnilingus, unrealistic pussy eating, mark tries weed but it doesn’t affect him, mark is kinda subby, outgoing ‘n carefree reader, friends with benefits kinda. whimpering.

summary: you try to teach your friend how to smoke a blunt—instead, you learn something entirely different. wc: 3.1k

an: minors dni. i’ve only done weed once n i greened out horribly so this may not be the best description of a good high lmfao. also idc idc mark a d1 eater, literally nothing could convince me otherwise. not proofread excuse any mistakes.

“Does weed even do anything to Viltrumites?” You don’t look at him when you ask, your fingers working the paper, the grind of leaf and resin between your fingertips. A familiar ritual, slow and practiced. The room is thick with the scent of it, sweet and burnt, though the air between you is heavier with something else.

Mark shifts on the couch, the leather creaking beneath him. “Not sure,” he says, voice easy, weightless. He waits, sprawled like a cat in the sun, his hands loose at his sides. You stride over to him ignoring the mess on the table—scattered lighters, empty glasses, a book neither of you had finished—and hold the thing out to him. His fingers brush yours when he takes it.

“Well,” you murmur, striking the lighter, its flame leaping up, carving out the planes of his face in gold and shadow. “Let’s find out.”

The flame kisses the tip, a slow burn. He inhales—too fast, too much—and then it hits him all at once. A sharp cough tears out of his chest, then another, his whole body jerking forward like he’s been punched from the inside. You watch, amused, arms crossed as he fights against his own lungs.

A small laugh escapes you, light and sharp. “You’re not supposed to rush,” you chide, reaching for the blunt, plucking it from his fingers before he can protest. “Here, let me show you.” Smooth, practiced, you bring it to your lips, inhale slow, let the smoke curl inside you like a secret before exhaling in a soft, languid breath.

Mark glares, still half-choking, half-annoyed. “You could’ve started with that first,” he mutters, eyes red-rimmed, voice caught between confusion and irritation.

“’S not even my fault,” you scoff, sinking back into the couch. “Didn’t know you were gonna try ‘n inhale the thing like its air.”

Mark opens his mouth, then shuts it again, because—yeah. Fair point. He takes the blunt when you pass it back, more careful this time, dragging slow like he’s mimicking you. The smoke unfurls from his lips in thin ribbons, dissipating into the dim light of the room.

He exhales, waits a beat. “I don’t feel anything,” he says, flat, like he’s waiting for the universe to prove him wrong.

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly hurts. He cannot be serious. “No shit,” you mutter. The fact that he doesn’t know how weed works is honestly embarrassing. You would’ve thought Amber—Who’s often at party scenes—might have taught him at some point, but apparently not.

“It’s not gonna work instantly,” you say, settling deeper into the couch. “Well—actually, I don’t even know if it’s gonna work at all, considering you’re basically, like, half alien.” Mark looks at you, head tilting just slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression. Then that small, lopsided smirk appears. “You say it like it’s an insult.”

You huff, rolling your eyes, but there’s a twitch at the corner of your lips. “Maybe it is,” you tease, watching the ember glow between his fingers. “Maybe it’s not.”

He takes another drag, the ember burning low, and you shift closer without really thinking about it. Your bare knees brush against his, the fabric of his sweats soft against your skin. It’s a small touch, barely anything, but it feels like something.

Mark glances at you, eyes lidded, curious. You hold his gaze longer than you mean to. You’ve never really looked at him before—not like this. He’s handsome. Not in the obvious way, not in the way that makes people stop and stare, but in a way that sneaks up on you. The way his black hair falls over his forehead, just a couple strays stand out of place. The way the dim light catches the sharp lines of his face.

And he smells good. Even through the thick haze of weed, his scent lingers—earthy, fresh, something clean that sticks in your lungs longer than the smoke does.

“Stop hogging it,” you say, voice edged with faux annoyance. “Just ’cause I’m teaching you doesn’t mean you get to smoke the whole thing yourself.”

Mark chuckles, a low but sweet sound, it settles somewhere deep in your chest. Instead of handing it back, he lifts the blunt to your lips himself, holding it there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hesitate—just for a second—before leaning in, letting your lips part as you take a slow drag. The heat of the smoke curls in your lungs, thick and heavy, but you’re barely paying attention to that. You’re too aware of the way his fingers hover near your mouth, the way his gaze lingers, watching.

Maybe it’s the weed settling into your bloodstream, slow and syrup-thick, or maybe it’s just plain curiosity—but the thought creeps in before you can stop it.

You know he’s not a virgin. That much is obvious. But has he ever eaten pussy? Like, really eaten it? The kind that isn’t just half-hearted, obligatory foreplay, but something done with intent? With enthusiasm? You’d take him for the type.

The idea lingers, unexpected and distracting. You steal a glance at him—his lips slightly parted, still damp from the last drag, his expression relaxed, almost careless.

“Mark, have you ever eaten pussy?”The words slip out before you even think to stop them.

Mark freezes, eyes wide like you just asked him to solve a math equation with a gun to his head. It’s almost comical—the way his entire body tenses, the way his brain visibly lags trying to process if he really just heard what he thinks he heard.

“What—?” His voice cracks, just a little. “Why—why would you even ask me that?”

You almost lose it right then and there, laughter bubbling up at the sheer horror on his face. Like the thought has never even occurred to him before. Like you’ve just introduced a concept so foreign, so absurd, that his brain is rejecting it outright.

You bite down on your laughter, pressing your lips together to keep it from slipping out. “We’ve been friends for a long time, I’m just curious,” you say, trying to sound casual, like this is a completely normal topic of conversation.

Mark blinks at you, still looking like he’s in the middle of a mental blue screen. He shifts slightly, running a hand through his hair, clearly debating whether he should actually answer or just pretend this never happened.

A few moments of silence pass, thick and heavy between you. Then Mark exhales, sinking back into the couch, his body relaxing again—except for the telltale flush creeping up his ears.

“No,” he admits, voice low, almost begrudging. “I haven’t.”

You hum, nodding like you already knew. Like it makes perfect sense. You pluck the blunt from his fingers, bringing it to your lips with an easy inhale. “See,” you murmur through the smoke, exhaling slowly. “That wasn’t so hard.”

Another beat of silence, the kind that feels like it’s waiting to be broken. And, maybe because you’re high, or maybe because you just can’t help yourself, you push further. “Why not?” You glance at him, head tilting slightly. “You’ve had, what, two girlfriends? And you never ate it?”

Mark groans, tilting his head back against the couch like he wants to sink into it and disappear. “Why are you so invested in this?” You smirk, tapping ash off the blunt. “I’m just saying, statistically, it doesn’t add up.”

“I mean,” he starts, still staring at the ceiling like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the room, “I just never really got the chance, I guess.” You blink at him. Never got the chance? How does someone not get the chance? It’s not like his exes would’ve stopped him—if anything, they probably wanted him to. And then you realize.

He’s a superhero. He barely had time to show up to his own girlfriend’s charity drive or whatever that was, let alone explore his sex life. Between saving the world and getting his ass kicked, there was probably never a moment where things could slow down enough for something like that.

You laugh. You don’t even know why you’re laughing, but it bubbles out of you anyway, light and uncontrollable. Maybe it’s the weed, maybe it’s the ridiculousness of the conversation, or maybe it’s just him.

And then—before your brain can catch up to your mouth—you say it.

“If you ever want to, you could always practice on me.”

The second the words leave your lips, your whole body seizes with horror. Your once relaxed position vanishes as you jolt upright, hands suddenly restless, fumbling over themselves like they can physically rewind time.

“I meant—like, I meant it—” you stammer, face burning, voice pitching slightly higher. “It was supposed to be comforting!”

Mark finally looks at you, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted like his brain just short-circuited. For a long, agonizing second, he doesn’t say anything. And that somehow makes it so much worse.

Your face is on fire. Actually burning. You can feel the heat creeping up your neck, settling hot behind your ears. And then you make the mistake of looking at Mark—his face, usually so composed, is tinted pink, eyes slightly wide, lips parted like he’s still buffering.

Neither of you say anything.

The silence is unbearable. Suffocating. The kind that stretches so long it starts to feel like a tangible weight pressing down on you. You shift awkwardly, hands gripping your knees, mind running a thousand miles an hour trying to figure out how to backpedal—how to undo whatever the fuck this is.

Will you ever recover from this? Can you?

You consider just getting up and leaving. Walking out of the room, out of the apartment, out of the entire city if you have to. Maybe start a new life. Change your name. Forget this ever happened.

Mark’s head is spinning. Racing. In a thousand years, he’s never—never—thought about you like that.

Sure, you’re beautiful. That was always obvious. The kind of beauty that turns heads without you even trying. But he’s never let his mind go there before. Not with you.

You were carefree, nonchalant, always teasing but never crossing that line. Never someone he associated with anything lewd. But now? Now you’re sitting there, flustered and squirming all pretty, looking at him with wide, nervous eyes like you just realized what you said. Like you’re feeling the weight of it at the same time he is.

And fuck—now it’s in his head.

Mark jerks his head to the side, eyes locked on anything but you. The wall, the cluttered coffee table, the faint swirl of smoke in the air—anywhere that isn’t your face, because if he looks at you now, he knows something reckless is going to slip out.

Something he won’t be able to take back.

And then, because his brain is already working against him, because the weight of your words is pressing down on him harder than he can ignore, he hears himself say—“Is—Is that something you’d like?” The second it’s out, he wants to die.

Because now? Now the silence between you isn’t just awkward. It’s charged. Hanging heavy in the air, thick and hot, impossible to ignore. He can’t see your face, but he feels your reaction. The way your body shifts. The way your breath hitches, just slightly.

Your mind is a mess. A tangled knot of confusion, nerves, and something else—something warmer, heavier, something pooling low in your stomach.

And maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the fact that Mark looks too good right now, all flushed and fidgety, broad shoulders tense like he’s fighting a war inside his own head. Maybe it’s the tension, thick and humming between you, pressing into your skin like static electricity.

Either way, your body reacts before your brain can catch up—nipples tightening under your shirt, thighs pressing together, heat coiling deep in your core. And at this point? It’s probably too late to walk it back.

“I wouldn’t mind.”

The words slip out, smooth and easy, but your heart is pounding. Mark finally looks at you, eyes dark, searching. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you like he’s waiting for you to take it back. You don’t.

You take a deep breath, then exhale, slow and steady. And for some reason, it’s relieving. Like you just confessed something you didn’t even know you needed to get off your chest.

Your body loosens, the tension in your shoulders easing as you sink back into the couch—only now realizing you had been sitting upright, practically perched on the edge, like your body had been trying to flee before your mind even decided.

Mark moves toward you, his face still flushed, that pretty pink creeping down his neck. He hesitates for a second, shifting awkwardly, then clears his throat—but his voice cracks slightly when he speaks.

“Uh—I’m not sure how this works, so… can you guide me?” He rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your eyes for a moment before glancing back at you. “Or, like, tell me if you don’t like it?”

There’s something endearing about it. The way he’s so earnest, so unsure despite everything else he’s capable of. Mark has fought villains, saved lives, survived things most people couldn’t even fathom, but this? This is what makes him nervous. You should be teasing him for it. You want to. But the way he’s looking at you, waiting, wanting to do this right—it makes your heart squeeze a little.

Honestly, you didn’t think he would do it. Despite your frantic panic, you thought after the initial shock that he’d laugh it off, make some awkward joke, maybe shake his head and change the subject. But here he is—kneeling between your legs, eyes flickering between your face and the space between you, his hands hesitating but steady on your thighs.

He drags your shorts off, discarding them aside like shed skin, and there’s your pretty, plush cunt laid bare before him. It’s not his first time glimpsing such a sight, but never this up close. His breath hitches, and he stares. You’re confused—does he not know what to do? Why is he just sitting there, staring? You’re on the verge of speaking when he edges nearer, parting your lips with a slow, deliberate nudge—strings of slick arousal gleaming between them.

You twitch as he eases in, his warm tongue sliding slow and deliberate between your folds, lapping at your pussy with a lazy, filthy drag, savoring every slick drop that clings to you. You’re sweet on his tongue—warm, slick. Maybe it’s too soon to admit, but he already knows he could get addicted to this. Just the taste of you’s got his dick throbbing and hard and his mind all hazy.

You tip your head back into the couch cushion, legs falling wider as he keeps licking at your sloppy pussy like some dog, all messy and eager. He glances up at you, and the sight alone makes him whimper against your slick, swollen pussy. Your head tilted back, lips parted, and glossy, soft little moans spilling from your throat—each one sinking into his skin, making his cock ache.

“You can use your fingers too… if you’d like,” you murmur, intending it as advice, but it comes out more like a command—breathless, needy. He obeys without hesitation, sliding two thick fingers inside you, eager to make you feel good. The way you squeeze around him, warm and wet, makes his breath hitch. He watches, mesmerized, as he pumps them in and out, each withdrawal leaving them glistening with your slick.

“Fuck, ‘s good, you’re doing so good,” you moan, voice breathy and sweet, and Mark swears he could cum in his pants just from that alone. The way you praise him, all soft and desperate, makes his cock throb, aching for relief. He zeroes in on your clit, licking over it before grazing it lightly with his teeth, earning a sharp gasp from you. His thick, calloused fingers follow, circling the sensitive bud with slow, deliberate motions. You’re soaked—coated in his spit, in your own slick—and the weed coursing through your system makes every touch feel twice as intense, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core.

It’s filthy—the way he’s practically making out with your pussy, sloppy and desperate, like he never wants you to leave his mouth. His tongue flicks and drags, lips sealing around your clit with wet, hungry sucks, and when your hips buck against him, grinding down for more, he just moans into you. His jaw and nose are drenched, slick dripping down his chin, but he doesn’t stop—if anything, he dives in deeper, like he wants to drown in you.

“Tastes so fuckin’ good,” he whines against you, voice muffled by the mess of your pussy. His fingers are still buried deep, pumping into you with a steady, obscene rhythm, while his other hand is stuffed between his legs, rubbing over the aching bulge in his pants. He’s desperate—humping into his own palm like he can’t help himself, like just eating you out is enough to get him off.

“Fuck—” His words are slurred, muffled by the slick between you. “Tastes like you were made for me.”

It’s messy, shameless—the way he devours you, like he never wants to come up for air. His jaw aches, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, just pulls you closer, as if he could disappear into you completely. You grind against his face, chasing the sharp coil tightening low in your belly, and he only urges you on, gripping your thighs, moaning as he lets you use him.

Your moans spill into the thick air, breath hitching as your back arches. “‘M—‘m cummin’,” you mewl, voice high, trembling. The pleasure crashes over you in waves, thighs shaking around his head as you unravel, coating his tongue with your release.

Mark doesn’t stop—not yet. He groans against you, drinking in every last drop, licking and sucking like he’s starved, like he wants to commit your taste to memory. His breath is heavy, uneven, and when he finally pulls back, his lips and chin glisten with you.

His own hand moves frantically, pumping his cock through his pants, desperate, chasing the high that’s been building since he first had you on his tongue. The sounds of your pleasure—the broken whimpers, the way you shake, the way you’ve completely let go for him—send him over the edge. With a sharp, shuddering groan, his hips jerk, and he spills hot and thick into his pants, moaning through it, chest rising and falling in time with yours.

For a moment, the only sound between you is your ragged breaths, the faint hum of satisfaction settling between you both.

That night proved two things: first, that weed clearly has no effect on Viltrumites; and second, that Mark, without a doubt, eats pussy like a starved man.

#mark grayson x reader #mark grayson smut #invincible x reader #invincible smut #៹ archive !

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chelseeebe · 1 year ago

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gimme a hand

okay so i saw a silly tiktok abt how guys take nudes wrong and thought our lovely best friend reader could help eddie take some !! i am a little tipsy so pls excuse any mistakes

mdni. 18+. smut. like, literally just smut. fem!reader x eddie. modern au

“so.. how are things with you and.. whatshername?” clicking your fingers in his face.

eddie scoffs, batting your hand away, “chrissy is her name,” correcting your childish behaviour, “and it’s good, we’ve been.. texting a little,” shrugging nonchalantly.

you and eddie had been best friends for years, though these hang outs were few and far between now. both too busy with the perils of adult life to sit around and smoke weed all day, like you used to.

that meant that your relationship had skewed a bit, no longer as close as you once were. though you still tried to feign an interest in his, mostly nonexistent, love life.

he understood though, your life was far too interesting to care about the very small roster of girls he was seeing.

“texting?” you exclaim, stubbing the embers of the joint out into the ashtray, “so you haven’t seen her since?”

eddie shakes his head, realising that what he had thought was an exciting update, was actually just a pathetic retelling of a long text thread.

“i think we’re just.. testing the waters,” brushing off your disappointment. he contemplates even telling you anymore but what kind of a best friend would he be if he didn’t at least tell you all the details. “she sent me pictures the other day,” wriggling his eyebrows.

“pictures?” a slight mocking tone to your voice that he doesn’t like, “what kinda pictures?”

his face scrunches up, cheeks flaming red, as if it wasn’t obvious. “you know.. naughty ones.”

you whistle, blowing the air from your cheeks in the most sarcastic manner, “naughty pictures.. wow eddie, you’re really moving up in the world. did you send any back?”

his head dips, regretful of ever sharing this with you. you had never had a lack of choice for guys lining up for you. even back in high school. of course you wouldn’t understand.

“no..” shrugging again, “i don’t.. don’t know how.”

“you don’t know how to send nudes?” utter shock rippling through your voice, “didn’t i teach you anything?”

“not how to send nudes!” he hits back, getting increasingly frustrated that you’d rather mock him than help him get laid for once.

“i can help you if you want,” you offer, “i don’t have to watch.. i can just.. guide you?” proposing the question as if it were a completely standard conversation for you two to be having.

“really?” his eyes bright and full of hope.

eddie really liked chrissy, she was sweet and the times they had hung out, they got on well. he just wasn’t equipped to match her flirting, afraid he’d overthink himself into losing her.

“sure,” you smile, grabbing his phone as you stand from the couch, “come on,” beckoning for him to follow you down the corridor to the bathroom.

you bundle into the trailers tiny bathroom, poised in front of the mirror with his phone in hand.

“you stand here..” you instruct, guiding him by the shoulders, “you need to get hard,” grinning as you look at him through the mirror, “i’ll stand outside and just.. tell you what to do, okay?”

eddie’s too high for this, wondering how you’d gone from a joint and a couple of beers to now helping him sext the girl he liked.

you disappear outside, shoving his phone into his chest, the knob clicking quietly as the realisation of what the hell he was doing sets in.

“so..” he poises, swiping onto the camera, posing himself in the dirty mirror, “pull my pants down, right?” wanting to make sure that he got nothing wrong.

“yeah, but not all the way, just like.. a little bit.”

okay, he thinks. tugging his sweatpants down just beneath his balls, his boxers following suit. he was getting hard just thinking about it, the fact that you were instructing him what to do wasn’t helping.

his fingers wraps around the base of his cock, pumping his fist a few times, stifling the groan that had settled in his throat.

this was already weird enough, he didn’t need to make it weirder.

“okay..” his voice quivering, “what now?”

you tut, “pull your shirt up.. or off, it looks bad otherwise.”

eddie does as you ask, taking his shirt off and tossing it into the floor with the rest of his dirty clothes. he peers at the image through the screen, inwardly cringing at how stupid he looked.

“i don’t know,” though his dick was already stiff, aching for him to continue. “i look stupid,” he frowns, attempting to position the phone differently, although nothing seemed to help his pathetic stature.

“no you don’t,” your voice rings through the door, “now you gotta pose it.. make it look good, sexy.”

his eyes squeeze shut, wishing you’d stop talking with that low growl in your voice. this was for chrissy’s benefit, not his. getting off to the sound of your voice while trying to arouse another girl was not the plan.

eddie exhales, opening his eyes to reposition the phone, closer to the mirror. his fist begging to move and finish the job.

nothing helped, in fact, it looked worse than before. chrissy’d block him if he dared sent anything like this.

fuck, he felt like a pervert. this was wrong. twisted.

“have you done it?” you call.

“no,” he gulps, frowning at the image of himself in the mirror.

you huff, knuckles wrapping against the door, “i’m gonna come in, okay?” giving him no time to think before you appear next to him in the mirror.

your eyes fall straight to his cock, widening every so slightly, “wow.. okay,” chuckling awkwardly as you snap back into it. “you have to..” your hand lowers his phone, straightening the camera position for him.

his breath is jagged, on the edge of exploding and splattering all over his bathroom. whatever buzz he had had from the weed had dissipated, replaced by the hazy tingly sensation of your hand near his cock.

“and then..” you look to him, in person this time, not through the safety of the mirror, before wrapping your fingers around the ones that were still lingering around his cock. “do this..” voice trailing off into a low whisper, using his fist to pump his already leaking cock.

a strangled gasp leaves his mouth, heat searing through his body. mind too fuzzy to truly comprehend the shit he was seeing and feeling.

the heat of your body presses against his back, delicate fingers still travelling the length of his cock, “film it,” not once letting your eyes fall from the side of his face while his stay firmly on the mirror in front.

maybe this way he could pretend it wasn’t real, that he was just watching some video and you weren’t actually jerking him off by-proxy.

eddie, ever obedient, presses the record button, sighing into his phone as your his hand continues to move.

his knees almost buckle, kept afloat by the sound of you panting into his ear. it was almost too much, his brain collapsing into itself as your hand takes over, ignoring the phone in his hand to continue making him whine and quiver like that.

the weight of your body presses him into the cold china basin, eyes travelling from his face to his dick and right back up again.

you could’ve told him to jump right now and he would’ve. other hand reaching around to grab onto whatever part of you he could get a grip on.

your lips trace against his neck, lingering against the skin. he couldn’t keep the phone straight, the video would just be some big blur of him groaning and the sink. not that it matters. not while you’re touching him.

“is this good?” you ask, breath tickling against his ear.

eddie nods rapidly, “good.. so good,” fingers twisting around your shirt as his eyes flutter closed. “fuck,” he gasps, the phone slipping from his hand onto the counter when your thumb circles the tip of his dick. an otherworldly feeling he had never been able to feel before.

“yeah?” you grit, pulling his hand, signalling for him to turn. his bones were jelly, body mailable and under your control. his back now pressed against the sink, foreheads pressed together.

one hand holds onto your hip while the other finds your cheek, lazily trying to connect your lips. your knee slides between his legs, spreading them just enough for your other hand to creep between and grab his balls.

“ohh shit,” eddie wails, kissing at your bottom lip, sucking at the skin.

nothing felt real, waiting for his alarm to pull him out of this fucked dream to a sticky puddle and a new perspective on your friendship.

your expert fingers fondle his balls while the other fists his dick, pre-cum making your fingers glisten and move with ease.

his throat squeaks, the most pitiful noise a grown man could’ve made, his bottom lip still latched onto yours.

ten years of friendship and yet the two of you had never even kissed before. wishing you wouldn’t have wasted so much time on actually doing it. a newfound adoration for the sweet taste of your lips and the friction of your palm rubbing against his cock.

“i’m gonna cum,” he babbles, stomach flipping, waves of pleasure crashing through his tingling limbs.

you don’t respond to his whining, your nose brushes over his as his breaths become shallow and staggered. a iron clad grip on your shirt as he teeters over the edge, hips stuttering into your palm.

“ohh fuck,” eddie mewls, bursting all over your hand, “shit.. fuck, oh god,” your eyes dark, gazing down at your hand still wrapped around him, somewhat proud of what you’ve achieved.

he lets go of his hold on your body, hurriedly trying to find the counter to ground himself. his head a million miles away on mars, his lack of thoughts disrupted by the sound of the water running.

chest still heaving as he braves a look at you, watching his release swirl down the drain. you’re chewing on your bottom lip, a sudden realisation that you had just made your best friend cum maybe. he doesn’t really want to ask. hoping you won’t regret it.

eddie picks up his phone, stopping the recording, his thumb shooting straight to the tiny trash can until you grab his wrist.

“don’t delete it,” a fire within your eyes, twisting the screen in your direction, “i wanna watch.”’

his finger hovers over the play button, looking to you though your eyes are trained on the screen, waiting for him to press play.

the video starts, shaky footage as the audio of his pathetic grunts and gasps fill the tiny bathroom. eddie can’t bring himself to watch, forcing himself to watch you rather than the video.

you’re smiling to yourself, smug at the sight of you making him crumble. he wants to be embarrassed, can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks and yet, he doesn’t turn it off.

“maybe don’t send that..” you remark, finding his eye, that mischievous sparkle that eddie hadn’t seen in years, reappearing.

he needed to feel you, in the way that you had felt him. cock already reawakening when your lips twitch into a smirk.

shit.

#eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson stranger things

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author-main · 6 months ago

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Recognizing that the "Unnecessary feelings" comment isn't about gay thoughts makes wrightworth better in my honest opinion.

"Seeing you gives me an extreme carnal reaction and I want to kiss you stupid"? WRONG. "Your being here makes me remember a time when I was truly happy. Your presence forces me to acknowledge the icy waters I am submerged in. Your fires make me realize how cold I am, and I'm too scared of reaching out. I'm scared that the moment I reach out, I will douse your flames because I am colder than the darkest parts of this trench I find myself in and I don't think your fire can handle it.

Your warm smile makes me realize how sad I truly am. I look into your bright eyes and feel the dark bags under mine sag. I am tired and I so badly want to rest my head, if only for a moment, on your shoulder, my oldest friend. My dearest friend. My only friend. I want nothing more than to cry in your arms, but my tears are so cold that I may snuff your embers when I wet your sleeves. You open your hands to me to take my burdens, but you don't understand how hefty it is. I will crush anyone under the weight of it, including you.

It would've been better had we not met, you are too earnest, too persistent, too kind for me. You will break yourself for anyone. I don't want to be the one you break yourself on. Because you are the only one who understood me.

Don't ever show your face in front of me again."

#ace attorney #wrightworth #narumitsu #friend posted the screenshot on twt before i could even post in on tumblr 😭/nm #she didn't know it was my post lol

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hedgehog-moss · 3 months ago

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Every year in early spring, when the time comes to burn all the broom and brambles I have cleared during the winter, I have this idea that it's going to be a peaceful, meditative experience. I usually do it at night and I look forward to admiring the colourful dancing majesty of a great fire under the stars, while sitting in its circle of warmth and thinking about my cavewoman ancestors and their relationship to fire.

And then I light the fire and realise there will be no sitting, because dry broom and brambles burn so very fast, I have to keep feeding the fire at an utterly stakhanovian pace so it doesn't die out before I've had time to get rid of all the green waste I've got lying around. Every spring I'm like "... this is a lot more Active and less philosophical than I remembered."

It's better when I have a friend over to act as a fire assistant, because in this case we can take turns so that one of us gets a few minutes of dreamy Fire Appreciation here and there. Looking up at the shower of sparks in the sky, looking for shapes in the flames. Here's a Fire Hen!

Well, I usually see nothing but nudibranchs, to be honest. Remember my cake that looked like a sea bunny? Turns out I can see marine gastropods in anything. It's a gift.

But I didn't have a fire assistant tonight and I regretted it a bit—and then once I had burnt every pile of branches and broom within reach, I finally remembered why I associate this early-spring chore with sitting around quietly and introspectively.

... it takes a lot of time for a fire to die out! You think it's almost done and then a small gust of wind sends the embers glowing brightly again. The preceding frenzy of activity was just a necessary evil to get to this peaceful moment. I wasn't misremembering; there really is ample time to curl up on the grass in the circle of warmth and watch shiny colours and think about your place in the universe.

#crawling along

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ruewrote · 9 months ago

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𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠 𝑤𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑤.

PAIRING: josh washington x fem!reader WARNINGS: suggestive, no use of y/n GENRE: best friends to lovers SONG INSPIRATION: DIE FOR ME by chase atlantic WORD COUNT: 1.4k REQUESTED: yes NOTE: got a little carried away . . .

navigation | ask | josh washington masterlist

the cabin was quiet. the flickering flames in the fireplace cast small shadows across the room as the last embers of the night begin to fade into darkness. you were stretched out on your bed, the warmth of the fire still lingering in the air, even as the chill from the mountain outside crept through the windows.

everyone else had long gone to their rooms. the day had been packed with hiking, teasing jokes, and way too much food, now the others were all passed out, getting some much needed rest for whatever was going to come tomorrow. you should have been tired too, but here you were laid in your bed wide awake, staring at the wall beside you.

the soft creak of your door opening broke the stillness. you didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

“hey,” josh’s familiar voice whispered from behind you. he was always the last one up too, unable to sleep when it got too quiet.

“hey,” you answered, glancing over your shoulder to see him standing in the doorway, his hair disheveled, looking sleepy and tousled. he had that half grin on his face that made you feel warm inside.

“can’t sleep again?” you teased, already knowing the answer.

josh shrugged, padding barefoot across the hardwood floor, making his way to you. “nah, i tried. it’s freezing in my room, and, y��know, it’s weird without you there.”

this had been a thing between the two of you for as long as you could remember. whenever you were on trips with the group, josh would find his way to your room after everyone else had gone to bed.

it started as something simple as after late night movie marathons or study sessions that turned into sleepovers, but over the years. it just became your thing. sleeping alone felt strange now, especially for josh. he always needed you close.

“come on then,” you mumbled, lifting the corner of the blanket without a second thought. there was no need for words. he was already climbing under the covers with you, fitting his body against yours.

he slipped his arms around you, pulling you back against his chest, the warmth of his body immediately chasing away the chill from the mountain air. his breath was soft against your neck, and you felt him relax instantly, his head resting on the pillow just behind yours.

this was normal. it had always been normal. the two of you had shared beds, couches, even floors when crashing at friends’ places after parties. josh had always been touchy, needing to feel you, as if that contact helped him settle. you never questioned it. after all, you felt the same.

his presence was grounding, the one constant you needed in your life.

his hand found its way to your waist, his fingers casually slipping under the hem of your shirt, resting against your bare skin like it was the most natural thing. it sent a shiver up your spine, but not because you were cold.

you were used to this, he always did it. he always wanted that skin to skin contact, as if the barrier of clothing was too much separation between you. and you let him, because it didn’t feel strange. it just felt like josh.

“you’re warm,” he murmured sleepily, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your lower back. he said it every time, but the way his voice softened whenever he said it always made your heart flutter.

you hummed in response, pressing back into him just slightly, the lines of your bodies fitting perfectly together under the thick blanket. his fingers continued their slow, lazy path across your skin, drawing shapes you couldn’t quite decipher but made you relax into him even more.

the room was quiet except for the faint crackle of the dying fire and the soft sounds of josh’s breathing behind you. this was your rhythm. an intimacy that had never been questioned.

josh had always been more than just your best friend, but you’d never dared to label it as anything else. the touches, the closeness, it was just how the two of you operated. you were comfortable, safe with each other.

but tonight, something felt… different.

maybe it was the calm of the cabin, or the way the mountain’s isolation made everything feel sharper, more intense. or maybe it was just the fact that your heartbeat picked up whenever his fingers slipped a little higher, his hand resting now against your ribs, dangerously close to the swell of your chest.

you wondered if he noticed the way your breathing hitched when he moved, the way your body tensed ever so slightly.

“josh…” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the quiet of the room.

“hmm?” his response was a soft hum, his lips brushing the back of your neck now, almost absentmindedly.

for a second, you considered pulling away, setting up those boundaries that were supposed to exist between best friends. but the truth was, you didn’t want to. you never had.

the truth of it settled deep in your chest, an acknowledgment of something you’d both danced around for years.

instead, you turned your head just enough to see him from the corner of your eye. his face was so close, eyes half lidded in the dim light, his lips parted slightly in that relaxed way that made him look vulnerable.

your heart did that little stutter it always did when he was this close, and suddenly, the unspoken feelings that had always been lurking just beneath the surface felt impossible to ignore.

“josh,” you said again, this time turning fully in his arms to face him.

he blinked, eyes clearer now as he studied your face. his hand didn’t move from where it was resting on your skin, but his expression shifted, like he could feel the shift in the air too. “yeah?”

the weight of the moment hung between you, the closeness suddenly more intense than it had ever been. you opened your mouth to say something. anything, but the words died on your lips as josh’s gaze flickered down to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

you weren’t imagining it. the way his hand moved a little more deliberately now, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, skimming just beneath your shirt. the way his body pressed a little closer to yours, his chest rising and falling in rhythm with your own.

this was no longer just about comfort. something had changed.

“i–” you started to speak, but before you could say anything more, josh’s hand slid a little higher, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast so lightly you almost thought you imagined it. but you didn’t. the look in his eyes, now more awake and intense, confirmed that.

his breath hitched, the same way yours had, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was the shared rhythm of your breathing, matching and uneven at the same time.

“we… we’ve always been like this,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, as if he was trying to remind himself of what this had always been. “right?”

you nodded, not trusting your voice to stay steady. “yeah. always.”

but it wasn’t always like this. not with the way his lips hovered just inches from yours now, the way his hand slipped further under your shirt like he was testing a boundary you weren’t sure existed anymore.

“maybe…” he whispered, his forehead now resting against yours, his voice so soft it was barely more than a breath, “maybe we’ve been fooling ourselves.”

his words hung between you, heavy and raw. and just like that, the unspoken tension between you, years of shared beds, lingering touches, and blurred boundaries, came crashing to the surface.

you didn’t pull away. you couldn’t. because deep down, you’d known it too. this was never just about needing to be close. it had always been more. you just hadn’t wanted to admit it.

“josh,” you breathed, your heart pounding in your chest as his hand slid up to your shoulder, his fingers gently tilting your chin so you were looking directly at him.

and then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, his lips brushed against yours. soft, tentative at first, a question hanging in the space between. when you didn’t pull away, he kissed you again, deeper this time, the heat between you building until the air felt thick with everything you’d kept hidden for so long.

you didn’t know where this was going to lead, but in that moment, with josh’s hands on your skin and his lips on yours, you knew one thing for sure.

there was no going back to the way things were.

comments and reblogs are appreciated ˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

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dreamsteddie · 6 months ago

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Nancy knows what people think when they see her and Steve together these days. People mostly include Robin Buckley who, despite what they both say, Nancy doesn't completely believe isn't carrying some kind of torch for the man.

They aren't dating, but it's obvious to anyone who knows them that's what Nancy is angling for. She's not subtle, and she's not trying to be. Doesn't see any reason why she should be. But she knows what it looks like. Nancy Wheeler, fresh off an amicable but heartbreaking end to her relationship with Johnathan Byers has turned tail for a rebound with former boyfriend Steve Harrington. She's using him. She's leading him on. She's going to break his heart, again.

The truth is that Nancy has always liked Steve, was in love with Steve for a fleeting moment when they were both young and stupid and full of mistakes waiting to be made and in the end they had hurt each other, misunderstood each other, too many times to last through their tumultuous teenage years.

The Nancy and Steve of 1984 couldn't have loved each other right, but Nancy knows in her heart that the Nancy and Steve of 1987 could make something beautiful.

Steve is so different from who he used to be. There's a steadiness in him that he always tried to emulate but never fully embodied until the summer of 1985. He always knew how to make her laugh, how to get her to tap into that adventurous spirit within her and live life, but now he also makes her feel safe.

She wants to hold him the way he used to hold her. Wants to whisk him away to New York and build a life perfectly balanced between her ambition and his steadfastness. So she's putting everything she has into rekindling those embers that have always smoldered between them into a steady fire.

She just has to convince Robin that she's in it for the long haul this time.

------

Robin thinks that before she met Steve Harrington her life was never so much like a soap opera.

Her best friend seems to attract danger, betrayal, and romance to him like the world is full of moths and he's the only flame for miles. It would be funnier if it wasn't so god damn annoying sometimes.

Steve doesn't know it, despite how much he insists on being some kind of love expert, but he's got two very eligible bachelors vying for his hand at the moment. She's pretty sure they both see themselves as tragic heroes in this tale of romance, but from her vantage point, it's more like two ornery cats fighting for the prized spot of their owner's lap.

Nancy and Eddie have made themselves both near-permanent fixtures at the Family Video. Ostensibly, they come in because Hawkins is still in the process of rebuilding and there isn't much to do at the moment outside of wandering the woods, loitering at the convenience store, and watching movies at home. In actuality they're both trying to monopolize as much of Steve's time as possible, each trying to lock down his weekend plans before the other.

The first couple of weeks it was funny just to watch, now the only enjoyment she gets out of the whole circus is ruining their plans. She relishes the pissed-off-priss look she gets from Nancy when she asks Steve to go to the drive-in the next town over and Robin turns it into a group outing instead. It's equally funny to watch Eddie's puffed-up shoulders droop when he can't figure out a way to say no to Robin enthusiastically asking if she can join them at the trailer to smoke up on a Saturday night.

In truth, as much as she enjoys messing with them, Robin knows who she wants to win this war. She knows too much about Steve and Nancy's past and all the ways they weren't good for each other to trust her deceptively fragile best friend in Nancy's capable hands.

Eddie, on the other hand...well she's still going to make him work for it before she throws him a bone.

------

Eddie's never been one to fall in love.

He's had crushes, shared a few kisses with girls and boys alike, and lost his virginity in the same fumbling but meaningful way most teens do.

But love? He's never had that before, wasn't sure what it would even feel like.

It turns out that for Eddie, being in love feels a lot like being an overgrown house plant that's finally been moved into suitably a larger pot.

You see, Eddie knows a lot about growing up on his own. Raising himself and finding ways to survive, if not thrive, with a distinct lack of nurturing. He knows how to grow under someone, to grow under the clumsy guidance of his uncle Wayne who never intended to become a parent. And most of all he knows a hell of a lot about growing despite. Growing under the harsh boot forever trying to push him back into the hard dirt he came from.

It's something else entirely to grow with someone in the way he's been growing with Steve.

Steve who was there when he woke up, almost equally as injured as Eddie himself after a second, world saving round with Vecna. Steve who let Eddie lean on him in the difficult month of physical and emotional recovery that came next. Who helped Eddie come to terms with the new reality he was living under the way Steve wished someone had been there for him after his first encounter with the Upsidedown. Steve, who on paper should have been one of the people pushing him down, always gave Eddie the space to be himself and never tried to force either of them into a box they didn't fit.

Eddie knows he's not The Girl. He's not the one who got away, he's not the stalwart princess in one of his campaigns who saves the day herself but still gets the guy. He's not Nancy Wheeler.

But he's also not a quitter, and even if everything about the world and the narrative arc of their lives says that Steve will never end up with him, Eddie knows he would regret it for the rest of his life if he didn't put his hat in the ring for the hand of the fair Sir Steve.

------

Steve's not stupid.

He knows that there's something happening between Nancy, Eddie, and himself. Knows that if he chooses to look a little closer, to examine why exactly all his weekends are suddenly booked up and Robin has taken to stealing the Recese's Pieces off the shelf whenever either one of them comes into the store like she's settling in for a show, he would come to the conclusion that two of his best friends are essentially courting him in competition with each other.

But Steve isn't looking closer.

His mom always said that he was just like his father, too stubborn for his own good.

Robin says he's a control freak, pushing non-life-threatening problems off until he knows how to deal with them on his own terms.

The truth is Steve already knows how this will end, and he knows how this should end.

Because in the eyes of society, in the arc of the narrative, Steve and Nancy should already be making plans to move out to New York and start a life together. Steve should be looking at apartments while Nancy finalizes her class schedule. He should be looking into getting a job at his dad's New York office to support his future wife through her college education where they both know she'll breeze through her classes and move onto the world-changing career she was always meant to have, while Steve stays home with their children like a perfect little modern family.

And the thing is, if the story had gone like it was supposed to, if the world had been saved the fourth time around and Eddie Munson had died on the cold, hard ground of the Upsidown, that's probably exactly the future that would have happened and Steve would have never known to not be content with it. But Eddie did make it, and while Steve mourns the future he could have had, he knows it's not the one he's going to choose in the end.

Even though Steve knows exactly what will happen when he allows himself to face the ever-mounting tension between the three of them, it's scary to take that plunge.

Everything about Steve's world up until Robin has told him that what he's going to choose will damn him forever, and even if he's never put much stock into God and the church, he knows that the future in front of them will never be easy. There's a part of him that wants to take the easy way out. He's never been attracted to a man before Eddie, never had to imagine himself loving someone discreetly, and the thought of it makes his heart hurt prematurely. It would be simpler, he knows, to choose the path most taken.

But Steve has always thought more with his heart than his brain, and he knows that after everything they've been through, after all the time they've spent healing together and growing as one that he could never choose anyone but Eddie.

The time is coming for him to make his final decision, he can feel it, but for now he'll let them sit in this liminal space a little longer.

#steddie #stranger things #dreamer speaks #fanfiction #eddie munson #steve harrington #nancy wheeler #robin buckly #this one is a little different #but it's been floating around my head for a while #lmk what you think!#Edit: 12/22 for spelling and gramatical errors

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chaoticwriting · 5 months ago

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YOU ARE MARRIED!!??3

Part 2

It's been a week since Ellie arrived at the manor. All the guests from the night of Ellie's arrival had already returned by that night. And so far, they haven't managed to pry open any more information about their brother-in-law from Ellie that they already didn't know of.

Currently, Ellie is sitting in the living room drawing on her green notebook while eating fruit snacks that Alfred prepares. Cass is watching over her, occasionally asking her what she is drawing.

Except for Cass and Alfred, everyone else is either at work or at school. Suddenly, a portal opens and comes out Cujo with a bag that has Ellie's name on it. So far, Cujo has been delivering Ellie's essential almost everyday for the past week. Whenever Ellie or Cass ask him about Danny, Cujo just shakes his head meaning either he doesn't know or he can't tell them.

Cujo also never stays for long and just jumps away whenever his delivery is done. But to their surprise, Cujo is not alone today. A woman in punk clothing and blue flaming hair follows after Cujo holding a guitar in her hand. Ellie perks up when she sees Ember coming out of the portal.

Ellie: Aunt Ember!

Ember: Hey Ellie. How are you doing? I assume you have been eating well.

Ellie: Yes! Everyone is so nice. Alfred always brings me snacks if I want to and grandpa Bruce buys me a lot of things.

Ember: Good good. I'm just here to say hi and check up on you. Your papa has been worrying a lot since he sent you here.

Ellie: Aunt Ember, when will papa finish his job? I miss him.

Ember: I don't know but for now you stay with your mama, okay? I will tell your papa to deal with his job quicker.

Ellie: Okay. :(

Ember then turns towards Cass and smiles at her.

Ember: Hey Cass. I'm Ember. Danny's friend. Sorry about the late greetings.

Cass: It's fine. About Danny, can I know what his job actually is?

Ember: Errmm, it's not that I don't want to tell. It's just I feel like you should ask him directly since even I don't know what his actual job is. Usually, Clockwork just calls him and off him go to wherever or whenever he sends him.

Cass: I see. But can I know if he is okay?

Ember: As far as I can tell, he is fine. Clockwork hasn't asked any of us for back up yet, so his mission is probably going well.

Suddenly, Bruce enters the living room seeing Ember and Cass talking.

Bruce: Why hello there miss. How can I help you?

Ember: *Stares*

Bruce: Errmm, miss?

Ember: You are that guy that got sent back and forth in time wasn't it? I remember your face from one of Danny's missions.

Bruce: What?

Ember: Yeah. You are Bruce Wayne, right? The Batman.

Bruce: How do you know about me?

Ember: It's not hard when your bestfriend is the one that helps one of his favorite heroes to escape forced time travel.

Bruce: Danny helps me back then?

Ember: Yeah. But at that time, he was mostly chasing after Plasmius. It is a coincidence he met you so he sent you back home first before he continued chasing Plasmius.

Cass: This Plasmius guy, how dangerous is he?

Ember: Ehh, depends on his sanity to be honest. One day, he might come to just fight you, another day he might try to release an interdimensional tyrant from his long slumber. So it's really random.

Cass: And this time?

Ember: Oh did Ellie tell you they are chasing Plasmius? I don't actually know what he is planning this time. Clockwork is being his cryptid ass again and not telling the whole story.

Bruce: Is this Clockwork safe?

Ember: Well, he is okay. I think he adopted Danny at one point so you could call him his adopted parents. But Danny also has real parents so there is that. Overall, he wouldn't allow any significant harm to fall onto Danny or anyone close to him unless he knows that is the best solution possible.

Ember: Oh well, I need to go now. Have a concert to attend to. Bye Ellie.

Ellie: Bye Aunt Ember! Bye Cujo!

Cujo gives out a bark and opens a portal. Both of them enter the portal and disappear from the living room. Bruce has that serious calculating look on his face while Cass just takes everything and processes them. She trusts his husband's judgement. And since she is with Cujo and Danny trusts Cujo, that means whoever Ember is, she is probably a friend.

Bruce goes to his study to enter the Batcave, while Cass and Ellie continue playing in the living room.

-Somewhere else-

A young man with white hair and black and white hazmat suit is flying across an urban city as he chases after a vampire-like older man that is holding a bracelet giving off a green light.

Danny: Give me the bracelet, Plasmius!

Plasmius: You gotta take it from my own hand, little badger!

Danny shoots an ecto beam towards Plasmius as he dodges the attack coming from Danny. Danny being agitated, tries to fly faster but he is already going as fast as he can.

'I wish I could just appear in front of him.'

Suddenly, Danny's vision goes black and when his vision comes again, he sees Plasmius rushing to him. Plasmius is shocked to see Danny suddenly in front of him and tries to maneuver away from him, but at such close distance, there is no way for him to outrun Danny.

Catching his wrist, Danny puts a collar that Clockwork specifically made for Plasmius. Plasmius turns back into a human and if not for Danny holding his wrist, would have fallen down from the sky.

Danny, seeing Plasmius unconscious, processes what just happened. Did he just teleport? How? He doesn't even know how to open a portal. He kind of just wishes it and it happened.

A green portal appears in front of him, cutting off his thoughts. Danny sighs as he doesn't even know what is going on. He should probably return first and ask Clockwork what is happening.

Part 4

#danny phantom #dp x dc crossover #dpxdc #batfam #danny x cass #dc x dp #dead silent #cassandra cain #cass x danny #is this too short?#I feel like I write a lot already but I still feels like this is short.#I will probably write the next one longer

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missmaymay13 · 2 months ago

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got you - m.boldy

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

m.boldy x fem!oc | 20k?

summary: when the hughes brothers ask matt boldy to watch over their "little sister" while she is away for college, things take a turn when he ends up falling for her

authors note: this was the VERY first piece i ever ever wrote! sorry if its all over the place! its like half edited!

masterlist

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Fate, in all her quiet mischief, had chosen a very specific day to intertwine the lives of the Stella and Hughes families—the day the Stellas bought the lakeside cottage right next to the Hughes’. From that moment on, it was as if the two families had always existed side by side. It didn’t take long for the connection to deepen. With Dominic Stella rotating through assistant coaching jobs across the WHL and Monica Stella proudly carrying her legacy as a former assistant coach for Boston College Women’s Soccer, it was clear: sports ran in their veins like oxygen. Passion bled from both lineages.

The two couples became fast friends, the kind of friends who blurred the lines between family and neighbors. Dinners turned into sleepovers, tournaments into family vacations, and somewhere in between, Maisy Stella became the honorary fourth Hughes sibling—no questions asked.

The Stellas had two kids. Their eldest, Darien, carried the weight of an older brother’s love with an iron grip. Eight years separated him from Maisy, but the bond between them was ironclad. Darien was fiercely protective, to the point where it became his second nature. Watching Maisy grow up was like watching a star he couldn’t hold onto, not forever. He always knew the day would come when he couldn’t be there to watch over her—and it terrified him.

But then came the Hughes boys.

When Darien saw the way Quinn, Jack, and Luke looked at Maisy—as if she were made of glass and sunlight all at once—he felt something settle in his chest. Relief. They were captivated, just like him. Maybe it was the way she skipped through life with careless joy, giggling at nothing, dancing with everything. Maisy had always been a walking burst of light, the kind of girl who didn’t just walk into a room—she changed it. And now Darien wasn’t the only one who saw it.

Maisy had been just eight when she first met the Hughes boys, gravitating immediately toward the youngest—Luke—who was barely a year younger. From the start, they were inseparable. While the older boys busied themselves with teasing and pestering Darien about girls and parties, Luke and Maisy would retreat into their own little world—curled up in the backyard on picnic blankets, whispering to each other under the stars. Their laughter would drift through the night like music, private and sacred.

Then came hockey.

It was everything to the boys. Quinn, Jack, Luke, and Darien all breathed the sport, their lives defined by frozen rinks and worn-in sticks. Everyone tried to pull Maisy in, but she had her own rhythm. Soccer claimed her heart, much to Monica’s quiet delight. Still, Maisy was always in the stands—cheering, screaming, supporting her boys. And in return, they sat under the sweltering sun watching her dominate the pitch, proud as ever.

But time, as it always does, moved forward.

Darien was eventually offered a contract to play pro in Europe—a dream, a risk, a leap. He was torn. He could’ve taken the safe path and gone to the University of Michigan, stayed close, kept watching over Maisy. But deep down, he knew he couldn’t hold her hand forever. And so, he chose the unknown.

That night, after the news broke, Darien and Quinn sat around the firepit behind the cottage. Flames crackled low, shadows dancing across their faces. Quinn noticed the way Darien stared into the embers, jaw tight, eyes distant.

“You’ve been quiet, man,” Quinn said gently, nudging him with an elbow. “What’s going on up there?”

Darien exhaled a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for years. He rubbed his face with his rough, hockey-worn hands. “I’m just… worried. About her.” He shook his head, voice thick. “When I’m gone, who’s gonna look out for her?”

He should’ve been ecstatic—Europe, pro hockey, a dream within reach. But all he could think about was leaving his baby sister behind in a world that didn’t always play fair.

Quinn didn’t need an explanation. He understood. As much as he teased Jack and Luke, as much as they bickered and bantered, he would burn the world down for them. He knew that same protective ache—the one that settled deep in the chest and never quite went away. He had grown to love Maisy too. She wasn’t just Darien’s sister anymore. She was family.

And in that moment, something shifted in Quinn. A vow, quiet and unspoken, rose within him.

He met Darien’s eyes—serious, steady, unwavering.

“I’ve got her.”

Three words. That was all it took.

But in those three words, Darien heard everything he needed to. Loyalty. Brotherhood. Promise.

And for the first time since he made the decision to leave, Darien felt like maybe—just maybe—it would be okay.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Quinn was the first to invite a friend to the cottage for the summer. He was fifteen when he brought Josh Norris along to spend a few weeks lakeside with the Stellas and the Hugheses—a quiet introduction that would become a core memory for Maisy Stella.

The moment Maisy laid eyes on Josh, she was convinced she was in love. She was only eleven, but it didn’t matter. Her heart raced every time he looked her way, and her cheeks flushed a shade of pink the Hughes boys quickly learned to tease her about mercilessly. Jack called her "Mrs. Norris" for a week straight, and Luke couldn’t stop snickering whenever Josh so much as said hello to her.

Quinn, though, didn’t take it lightly. He knew she’d grow out of it—everyone had childhood crushes—but she was still his little sister in all the ways that mattered. And Josh? Josh was his best friend. He trusted him. Quinn made it clear, without ever needing to say it out loud, that Maisy was off limits. And Josh wasn’t stupid. He was around the Hughes family enough to know exactly how fiercely protective they were of Maisy. Besides, she was way too young. He would never risk his friendship with Quinn for a fleeting crush that wouldn’t lead anywhere.

Maisy, however, wasn’t exactly subtle. She insisted on sitting behind the bench at every game Josh played in. She'd avoid eye contact at all costs—except when she was very obviously staring—and giggle at things he said even if they weren’t funny. Her crush carried on for months after that summer, lingering like a sweet ache.

So, when Quinn casually told her that Josh would be spending part of the next summer with them again, Maisy panicked.

She called her brother in a spiral, pacing her bedroom and rambling about how she wasn’t ready to spend the summer with "the love of her life." Darien, ever the protective older brother, didn’t hesitate. He launched straight into big brother mode, insisting she was too young for boys, let alone crushes, and then promptly texted Quinn to make sure Josh stayed as far away from Maisy as possible.

Quinn responded with a laugh and a promise. Josh wasn’t that kind of guy. He never had been. Maisy would be fine.

But then came the heartbreak.

One afternoon, after one of Quinn’s games, Maisy saw Josh come out of the rink holding hands with another girl. She froze. It felt like something inside her cracked. She blinked hard, hoping she’d imagined it, but the image was burned into her mind. Her throat tightened. She barely made it out of the arena before the tears came.

She cried into Luke’s hoodie that night, curled into his side on the couch. He held her awkwardly at first, unsure of what to do, but he stayed with her. Quiet, loyal. Eventually, he texted Jack, who ran out to grab snacks, and started setting up a movie night downstairs while Maisy sobbed quietly into the fabric of his sleeve.

Quinn, meanwhile, took the moment to sit beside her. He wasn’t the comforting type—not in the way Luke was—but he knew when to talk. When her tears slowed and her sniffles softened, he handed her a blanket and spoke.

“Boys can be jerks,” he said simply. “Even the good ones. Especially when it comes to feelings.”

She didn’t say anything. Just listened.

“You’ve gotta protect yourself,” he continued. “Because we’re not always going to be around to do it for you. Life’s not fair. People don’t always mean to hurt you, but they will. And I don’t ever want to see you shattered because you gave your heart to someone who didn’t know what to do with it.”

She didn’t fully understand what he meant. Not yet. But the way he said it, the way his voice was softer than usual—like it carried the weight of something he’d lived—made her nod.

Eventually, she’d grow up and remember those words. She’d carry them with her through heartbreaks and hope, through every moment someone made her feel small. She’d learn, piece by piece, what it meant to protect her own heart. But that night, surrounded by her boys, cocooned in blankets and flickering screen light, all she needed was to feel safe again.

And she did.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Jack was the next Hughes brother to bring friends into the fold. After entering the USA NTDP program, he found himself surrounded by a new brotherhood of teammates—guys he clicked with instantly. It didn’t take long before he started dreaming about introducing them to cottage life. But inviting his new friends to the lake meant exposing them to Maisy. And that meant boundaries. Before any handshakes or hellos, Jack made one thing abundantly clear: Maisy Stella was off limits. No flirting, no teasing, no second glances. A code of honor sealed with a promise.

Trevor Zegras, Cole Caulfield, and Alex Turcotte arrived that summer, full of energy and charm. Maisy, now in her early teens, clicked with them instantly. Trevor was loud and hilarious, always up to something mischievous. Cole’s laugh was infectious—he made her feel welcome, like she was part of their world. And Alex had a quiet gentleness that reminded her of Quinn; protective glances, a soft smile when the others were too loud. The first time they met, there was a beat of stunned silence. Maisy’s big blue eyes and soft, airy voice captivated them instantly.

Then came the smacks to the backs of their heads. Jack and Luke, ever the enforcers.

The promise stood: Maisy was off limits.

That year, though full of laughter and warm nights, weighed heavier on Maisy. Darien had been in Sweden for a few years now, and it was starting to ache. They barely spoke—time zones, soccer, school, life. She buried herself in soccer camps, obsessed over perfect grades, did everything she could to distract herself from the growing emptiness.

It all came crashing down during a local game. She saw them first—Quinn, Jack, and Luke—sitting in the stands, proudly wearing those ridiculous homemade shirts from years ago. Maisy’s Cheer Squad. She should’ve laughed. She should’ve smiled. But she didn’t.

Because one chair was still empty.

Darien’s chair.

She played the worst game of her life that night. She fumbled every pass, missed easy shots, lost herself. Afterward, her boys tried everything—ice cream, jokes, comfort. Nothing worked. She just kept whispering, "I miss him. I just want him here." Jack finally broke. He sent Darien a message, telling him to come home. Whatever it took. He had to be here.

That night, Darien booked a one-way ticket.

Summer came like a dream. The sun hung heavy over the lake, Jack’s friends were on their way, and Maisy—Maisy couldn’t stop smiling. Darien was coming home. Everything felt right again.

On their first night back, the two families transformed the Stellas’ backyard into a makeshift movie theater. A white bedsheet was strung between two trees, blankets and pillows covered the lawn, and Grease flickered onto the screen as laughter echoed through the night air. Halfway through, Ellen noticed something.

Luke and Maisy were missing.

Following her gut, she wandered past the patio, past the firepit, and around the yard until she found them. Side by side on a picnic blanket, lying beneath the stars. They didn’t even notice her. Just like always, they were in their own little world. Luke was talking about a girl named Sammy from his class—his eyes shining, cheeks a little pink. Maisy teased him relentlessly, nudging his arm and giggling. They’d been teased for being so close, but it never bothered them. They knew. It was never like that. It was deeper. Safer.

Luke eventually turned the question back to her. Did she like anyone? Maisy blushed, admitting there was a guy named Mark in her English class who made her heart flutter. They laughed about it. She was glowing. Her best friend beside her. Her brother coming home. For the first time in months, everything felt like it was finally falling into place.

A week later, a scream pierced the night.

Ellen and Jim Hughes jolted awake. Red and blue lights bled through their bedroom window. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

They shook Quinn awake and raced next door.

Inside the Stella house, time stopped.

Monica was on the floor, wailing in a way that didn’t sound human. Dominic sat beside her, eyes vacant, tears pouring silently. Two police officers stood nearby, solemn and still. The world felt tilted, like it had slipped out of orbit.

Quinn’s eyes scanned the room.

No sign of Maisy.

He didn’t speak. Just turned and ran. Room to room. Nothing.

Then—outside. The dock.

He spotted a tiny figure, sitting at the edge, feet skimming the lake. Her hair was down, her body hunched. The sky above was still dark, but it didn’t matter. He knew it was her.

He walked slowly, quietly, and sat beside her. Neither of them spoke. The water lapped gently at their feet. His pajama pants soaked through, but he didn’t care.

Then he looked at her.

And his heart broke.

Maisy’s face was pale, her skin blotchy from crying. Her eyes—once the brightest shade of blue—had dulled to a stormy gray. Her lips trembled. Her voice cracked.

"He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone…"

It hit Quinn like a freight train.

Darien.

He was supposed to come home. Tomorrow morning.

Maisy turned to him, eyes hollow, voice barely above a whisper.

"He’s gone, Quinn. Darien’s gone."

And just like that, everything shattered.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Maisy was never the same after that night.

The girl who once radiated light—who made people smile just by walking into a room—disappeared into the shadows. It was as if someone had flipped a switch inside her, extinguishing the sun. The warmth in her laugh, the sparkle in her big blue eyes, the way she used to bounce through life with a soccer ball at her feet and a grin on her face—it was all gone. The Maisy the Hughes boys knew and loved didn’t just fade. She vanished.

In her place stood someone cold, quiet, and unreachable. She spoke in clipped tones. Her smiles were rare and hollow. She shut everyone out—everyone except Quinn, Jack, and Luke. With them, she still allowed flickers of her old self to bleed through, but they were just that: flickers.

After Darien’s funeral, the tension inside the Stella home began to boil. Monica and Dominic’s relationship fractured under the weight of their grief. They fought almost every night, their voices sharp and unrelenting. Maisy couldn’t bear it. Her house no longer felt like home—it felt like a battlefield. So she fled. Night after night, she’d slip away to the Hughes house, curling up on the couch or slipping into the spare room without saying much at all. Ellen and Jim became her refuge, the safe harbor she desperately needed. They held her as she cried, fed her when she didn’t have the energy to eat, and let her grieve at her own pace.

Eventually, Monica and Dominic made a choice. They didn’t want to lose their daughter, not after already losing their son. The pain had cracked them too deeply to ever fully mend, so they separated. Dominic returned to Canada, chasing the familiarity of coaching in a desperate attempt to stay afloat. Monica stayed behind with Maisy, helping her get through the last stretch of high school.

It crushed Maisy to watch her family fall apart, but she understood. Somewhere deep down, she knew they were all just trying to survive. She missed her dad at her soccer games—missed his cheers, his proud grin—but she knew he was still rooting for her, even from miles away.

Once the dust had settled, once the casseroles from neighbors stopped coming and the whispers faded, the Hughes boys found themselves drawn back to the dock. The same one where Quinn had once sat with Maisy as her world collapsed. This time, it was Quinn, Jack, and Luke.

They didn’t speak for a long while. The sun had dipped low, casting golden light across the lake, and the silence between them was heavy—but not empty. It was filled with memories, pain, and quiet resolve.

Quinn’s mind was a storm. His NHL draft was only weeks away. College loomed. Everything in his life was shifting, but none of it mattered more than the promise he made to Darien. A promise forged in grief, sealed by firelight.

He stared out over the water, his voice steady but soft. "We have to be there for her."

Jack and Luke looked over at him.

"She’s going to be hurting for a long time. Maybe forever. I don’t care how hard it gets, or how long it takes—we have to help her find her way back. She needs to know we’re not going anywhere. We don’t let go. Not of her."

Quinn’s throat tightened. He blinked back the sting in his eyes.

Without a word, Jack wrapped an arm around his brothers, pulling them close. Luke leaned in, silent tears slipping down his cheeks.

"She’s gonna be okay," Jack whispered, voice thick with emotion. "We’ve got her."

And in that moment, surrounded by the only constants left in their world, they made a silent pact.

Whatever it took.

They were bringing their sister back home.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Matt had been coming to the Hughes cottage for a few summers now. The place was serene, addictive—every sunset etched into his memory like the lyrics of a favorite song. Each year, the group of boys seemed to grow, their laughs louder, their bond stronger. Eventually, the Hughes cottage couldn’t hold them all. Thankfully, the neighbors—the Stellas—were close friends and happy to open their doors. Their house became a much-needed extension of the Hughes summer crew.

Matt was always intrigued by the Stellas, mostly by the girl who rarely spoke and never smiled. Maisy.

To Matt, Maisy Stella was a mystery. She was nothing like the Hughes boys—her energy cold and quiet, her presence guarded and sharp. Most of the boys steered clear, but Matt watched. Quietly. He saw the way her edges softened around the brothers, how her scowl would melt into something gentler when she looked at Jack, Luke, or Quinn. He noticed how she wore their jerseys to games and only showed up to parties when one of the Hughes boys hosted. She rarely talked to anyone outside of that tight circle, and when she did, her words were clipped, uninterested.

Matt didn’t know much about her, only what Jack occasionally shared: she played soccer, had worn the USA crest more than once, and carried the weight of more than anyone could see. He’d gone to a few of her games, always at Jack’s insistence, wearing those obnoxious pink t-shirts that read Maisy’s Cheer Squad. Trevor brought a cardboard cutout of her face to one match. It made her blush and bury her face in her hoodie, but the boys caught the flicker of a smile she tried to hide.

Lately though, something had changed.

Maisy had been getting rides home from someone else. Jack mentioned a boyfriend—Mark. Some guy from school. Matt didn’t think much of it. Until that night.

Trevor heard about a party across town and insisted it was the perfect way to kick off summer. Maisy initially declined. Parties weren’t really her thing. But Trevor was relentless, and eventually, she caved.

Matt and Cole were the designated drivers. The rest of the group was already tipsy before they even left. It took some effort to pack everyone into the two vehicles, limbs tangled and laughter filling the air. The party was packed—one of the football guys was hosting, and in Michigan, that meant the entire town showed up.

People dispersed quickly once they arrived. Trevor and Cam flirted their way across the backyard, Jack and Turcs disappeared somewhere inside, and Matt ended up by the beer pong table with Beech. An hour or so in, Matt went hunting for a bathroom.

Every door was the wrong one. He tried upstairs, the last hope. Three doors. The first—a linen closet. The second—he flung open and immediately slammed shut. A guy in a Packers jersey and a redhead, tangled on the bed. Gross.

Then something clicked.

That guy. The jersey. The face.

Mark.

He didn’t have time to think before the hallway door opened behind him. He turned to find Maisy standing there, about to reach for the same bedroom door. Her voice was soft.

“Any luck finding the bathroom?”

He froze. Shook his head. Panic blooming in his chest.

Maisy shrugged, hand on the doorknob.

And then the door swung open.

The redhead stumbled out first, giggling, adjusting her skirt, clearly drunk. Maisy tried to move aside—and then bumped into someone.

Mark.

Too busy zipping up his pants to notice her, he brushed past her like she was no one. No pause. No apology.

Matt watched her freeze. Watched the color drain from her face.

She backed into the wall, slowly slid down to the floor. Her arms wrapped around her knees. Her shoulders began to shake.

Then she broke.

The sobs came fast. Hard. Raw. Her face buried in her arms, tears falling like rain. Matt rushed to her side, unsure of what to say, unsure if anything could help. So he did the only thing he could—he wrapped his arms around her and held her. Let her cry until her fists balled in his sweater and her heartbreak soaked into the fabric.

He didn’t move. He let her soak him in sorrow, his arms firm around her like an anchor in a storm. The weight of her pain pressed into his chest, and he accepted it without question, without hesitation. Her sobs slowed to quiet trembles, but she didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Matt wasn’t sure why, but in that moment, he knew she just needed someone to stay. So he did.

Eventually, Trevor stumbled up the stairs, Jack and Alex trailing behind. They stopped cold at the sight.

Jack’s face dropped.

“M? Maisy? What happened?”

No response. Just her small body shaking.

Jack turned to Matt, demanding answers.

Matt said only one word.

"Mark."

A week later, Mark had the audacity to show up at the Stella house. Bags in hand. Smiling. Expecting a summer like nothing had changed.

Luke answered the door.

The second he saw Mark, every muscle in his body tensed. He gritted his teeth and stood tall, blocking the entrance.

Mark frowned. “What’s your problem, man? Let me in.”

“You’re not welcome here,” Luke said, low and cold.

Mark tried to step forward, using his height to intimidate. But Luke didn’t budge.

Inside, Quinn looked up from the couch where he was sitting beside Maisy. Her head was on his shoulder, eyes distant. The commotion drew his attention, and he walked toward the door, voice even.

“You need to leave. She doesn’t want to see you.”

Still, Mark pushed. Claimed he didn’t know what was going on. Said it was all a misunderstanding.

Bullshit.

The boat docked in the distance. Jack was back.

Cole spotted the unfamiliar car in the driveway first.

“That’s Mark’s car,” Jack muttered, fury rising.

He didn’t even wait to tie off the boat properly. He sprinted toward the house, Trevor and Alex on his heels. Bursting through the front door, he saw him.

Quinn grabbed Jack before he could launch himself at Mark. Alex and Trevor pulled him back.

“You absolute piece of shit—how dare you show your face here?!” Jack shouted.

Maisy emerged from the hallway. Her eyes landed on Mark and something inside her hardened.

He lit up. “Baby, tell them to stop! Tell them we’re fine!”

Maisy didn’t blink.

Jack snarled. “Fine? Who the hell was that redhead then? The one you were inside when she walked in?”

Mark stammered. “It was a mistake! She came on to me!”

Maisy stepped forward.

Two hands on his shoulders. Her eyes locked on his.

And then she brought her knee up. Hard.

Mark doubled over in pain, gasping.

Maisy leaned in, grabbed his chin. Whispered just loud enough for him to hear.

“Get out. Before I let Jack finish what I started.”

Then she slapped him—hard—and turned on her heel, disappearing into the house.

The door slammed shut.

And for the rest of the day, she didn’t come out.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It was hard on Luke and Maisy when Quinn left for Vancouver. They’d always leaned on him—he was their anchor, their voice of reason, the steady older brother who made things feel safe. His absence was like losing a part of their foundation. But they had Jack. And having Jack around made it a little more bearable. He filled the space Quinn left behind in his own chaotic way—louder, messier, but warm and constant.

Now, Jack was getting ready to leave too. His NHL draft was just days away, and all signs pointed toward New Jersey. Maisy was thrilled for him—so proud she could burst. But underneath all that joy sat a quiet ache.

She remembered Quinn’s draft day like it was yesterday. It came just a few months after Darien’s passing, and the weight of his absence was unbearable. Everyone tried their best to smile, to celebrate, but it hung over the day like a shadow. Maisy stuck close to Luke and Ellen, trying to keep it together. She didn’t want to cry—not on Quinn’s big day.

But Quinn had always seen through her.

Just before they went to find their seats, he pulled her aside. She was already crying.

“He’s so proud of you, Quinn,” she whispered, voice cracking.

Quinn blinked, a single tear slipping down his cheek. Maisy reached up, wiped it away, and smiled through her own.

She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight.

When they got home after he was drafted to the Canucks, Quinn and Maisy ended up on the dock—the same place they’d sat the night Darien died. They stayed there for hours, trading stories and memories. They talked about everything—about growing up, about missing him, about the ache that never quite faded. And when the sky turned dark, they tilted their heads back and scanned the stars.

Trying to find the one that belonged to Darien.

Jack’s draft day was different. Louder. Crazier. Cameras swarmed the venue, buzzing like bees, documenting every move of the projected first overall pick. Jack was magnetic—cracking jokes, flashing his trademark grin, soaking up the attention like he was born for it. He posed for pictures, answered questions with charm, and moved through the day with the energy of someone who knew he belonged on that stage. But underneath the confidence, Jack carried something else. Something heavier.

He hadn’t told many people. Just his family. Just Ellen.

When the media crew asked about his suit—a sleek, custom navy piece with a burgundy tie—he chuckled and told them to give him a second. He slowly shrugged off the jacket, folding it over one arm before flipping it inside out. There, stitched behind the left breast pocket, directly over his heart, was a number.

26.

Darien’s number.

Gasps from those watching nearby filled the air. The camera zoomed in. Jack glanced sideways and found Maisy in the crowd. Their eyes locked, and she crumpled. The tears came fast, unrelenting. She buried her face in Jack’s chest when he reached her, wrapping her in the tightest hug.

“You like it?” he asked, voice cracking.

She nodded into his shoulder, unable to speak.

“You think he’d be proud?”

Maisy pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. "More than proud. He’d be bragging about you to every coach in the league."

He let out a shaky breath, one hand cupping the back of her head as he kissed her temple. Jack never said it often, but Maisy was his sister just as much as she was Luke’s and Quinn's. This moment wasn’t just for him—it was for all of them. For Darien.

When his name was finally called, time stood still.

"With the first overall pick in the 2019 NHL Draft, the New Jersey Devils select... Jack Hughes."

Cheers erupted. Flashbulbs burst. Jack made his way to the stage, accepted the jersey with pride, and slipped it on. Before walking off, he paused.

He looked up, his chest rising as he pointed to the sky.

The arena quieted just slightly, long enough for people to understand.

Later, in an interview, Jack explained.

"That was for my brother. My oldest brother, Darien. He didn’t get to be here, but I know he’s watching. I carry him with me every day. Especially today."

After Jack left for Jersey and Quinn returned to Vancouver, the silence hit harder than either of them expected. For the first time, the house felt too big, too still. The echoes of laughter that once bounced through the walls were replaced with long stretches of quiet.

Maisy started sleeping over more, sometimes without saying much at all. They didn’t need words—they just needed each other. Luke would wait for her after practice, drive her home from games, sometimes just to sit in the driveway and talk about nothing. Other nights, they’d sneak into the Hughes living room at 2 a.m. with bowls of cereal, watching reruns of shows they used to love with Jack. It became their thing.

They went on long walks with no destination, talked about the dumbest things, but also about the things that mattered. About Darien. About the way grief sometimes felt like wearing wet clothes—always clinging, always cold.

One night, Maisy had a nightmare. She showed up at Luke’s door crying, and he didn’t hesitate. He pulled her into his arms and held her like Quinn and Jack once did. That night, he promised her again. "I’ve got you, M. Always."

They were just two kids carrying too much, holding each other up the best they could.

Maisy’s final year of high school came with a decision she had been avoiding. Everyone assumed she’d go to Michigan. It made sense—Quinn had gone, Luke would be there soon, and it was home.

But her heart was restless.

She needed change.

She needed to feel alive again.

Boston offered her that.

She kept it quiet at first, afraid of what it might mean—afraid of breaking Luke’s heart. But she knew she had to tell him.

They were lying in the Hughes backyard, heads tilted toward the stars. A comfortable silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken thoughts. Finally, she spoke.

“Luke… I want to go to Boston.”

She said it softly, like it might shatter between them.

Luke didn’t say anything right away. He turned his head to look at her. Her eyes shimmered in the moonlight, and for the first time in years, he saw something there—hope. A sparkle he hadn’t seen since before Darien.

His heart cracked a little. Of course he wanted her at Michigan. He wanted her close, always. But this—this was what she needed.

He nodded.

“I know.”

Maisy blinked. “You do?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “You’ve been stuck here too long. You need something new. Something just for you.”

She smiled, but it wobbled.

“I’m gonna miss you, Lukey.”

“I’m gonna miss you too, M. But I’m proud of you. So damn proud.”

He reached over, threading their fingers together.

They lay there under the stars, just the two of them, not quite ready to say goodbye—but starting to understand that letting go didn’t mean losing each other.

It just meant growing.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It was officially move-in day for Maisy.

Her stomach twisted with nerves and anticipation. Boston felt so big, so unfamiliar. The campus buzzed with early arrivals, but it was still quiet compared to what it would be in a few weeks. The air was thick with the weight of change. The women's soccer team was kicking off summer training, which meant Maisy was one of the first to move into her dorm—no crowds, no chaos, just the hollow echo of new beginnings.

Luke came with her, of course. He wouldn’t have let her do this alone.

They carried up her things—box by box, bag by bag. He helped hang her fairy lights exactly the way she liked, folded her clothes with the precision only a younger brother trying to stall time could manage, and arranged her desk with ridiculous attention to detail. They didn’t say much while they worked. They didn’t need to.

It was a bittersweet kind of silence—the kind that settles when you know you're about to turn a page and leave an entire chapter behind.

When the time came to say goodbye, they lingered. Maisy stared at the open door, her arms wrapped tightly around Luke, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder. She didn’t want to let go. Neither did he. This was it. This was the end of what they knew—the late-night drives, the cereal, the dock, the whispered memories. This was the start of something new for her. And for Luke, it was letting go.

“Text me when you wake up,” he whispered.

“You’ll be the first,” she replied, voice cracking.

It was bittersweet.

They both felt it—that push and pull of pride and heartbreak. It was the beginning of something new, something Maisy needed. But it also meant the closing of a chapter they weren’t quite ready to end. One written in backyard stargazing and cereal at 2 a.m., in unsaid words and lifelong promises.

Eventually, reluctantly, she pulled away, telling him he needed to get on the road before the sky turned too dark. He nodded, brushing his sleeve across his eyes before turning to leave. But instead of pressing the elevator button to go down, Luke pressed one for the floor above.

He had one more stop to make.

Matt had only just finished unpacking the last of his things. The walls of his dorm still smelled like fresh paint and cardboard boxes. Alex Newhook, his roommate, was off at the gym, and Matt was enjoying the rare silence. Until a knock echoed through the door.

He didn’t think much of it—maybe Alex forgot his key. But when he swung the door open, he froze.

Luke Hughes.

Standing there, looking exhausted and wrecked in a way that had nothing to do with moving boxes.

"I need you to promise me something," Luke said. No greeting. No small talk. Just a voice weighed down by something far heavier than words.

Matt stepped back and gestured for him to come in. "What’s going on? What do you need?"

Luke looked around the room like he didn’t know how to start, like the words themselves were too big. He rubbed a hand over his face before finally meeting Matt’s eyes.

"I need you to take care of her."

Matt’s brow furrowed. "Maisy?"

Luke nodded. "She’s not just my best friend. She’s my sister. She’s our sister. Me, Jack, Quinn—we’ve spent our whole lives protecting her. Watching over her. And now we can’t be here. None of us. Not like we used to."

He took a breath, the kind you take before saying something sacred.

"We lost someone once. Darien. He was her everything. And after that, we made a promise to look out for her. To never let her feel alone again. And I know you and her haven’t… you don’t know her the way we do. But I’ve seen the way you are, Matt. I’ve seen you at her games. I’ve seen you sit with her when she’s quiet. I’ve seen you notice her when no one else does."

Matt’s throat tightened. He hadn’t known it showed.

Luke took a step closer.

"I need to know that if she ever breaks, someone will be there to pick up the pieces. That if she starts to pull away again, someone will remind her she’s not alone. That someone will protect her the way we always have."

It was more than an ask. It was a responsibility forged in love and grief, entrusted to someone they barely knew—but hoped could become her anchor.

A sacred passing of the torch.

Matt nodded slowly, the weight of the moment settling into his chest.

Then, with calm certainty, he met Luke’s gaze.

"I’ve got her."

Luke blinked, his jaw tensing with emotion. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Luke reached out and gripped Matt’s shoulder—a silent thank you, a silent trust.

And then he turned, walking out of the room.

Leaving behind the one person he hoped could become her next safe place.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Maisy was settling into her new situation a lot better than she had expected. In the weeks leading up to her move, she had braced herself for the worst—awkward roommate situations, homesickness that wouldn't let up, or worse, feeling like she didn’t belong. But Boston had surprised her. The campus had a kind of energy that buzzed beneath her skin, and the soccer field felt like a second home the moment her cleats hit the turf.

She was finally starting to feel like herself again. The girls on the soccer team were sharp, funny, and tough as nails, and they welcomed her into their circle without hesitation. There were jokes at water breaks, music blasting in the locker room, and fierce competition that pushed her to her limits. That was what Maisy thrived on. Being pushed. Being seen.

She bonded quickly with her roommate, Addison—Addy—who was easygoing in a way Maisy found comforting. Addy didn’t ask too many questions, but she always knew when Maisy needed to vent or be pulled out of a slump. They shared playlists, swapped clothes, and whispered late into the night like they were kids at summer camp.

Maisy’s confidence on the field grew with every practice. She was earning her place—not just skating by. It was the kind of progress she hadn’t felt in a long time. For the first time since Darien’s death, since the goodbye with Luke, she didn’t feel like she was walking around with a hole in her chest. Here, she had purpose. Structure. A shot at something more.

For a while, things felt... good.

But that high didn’t last forever.

One quiet night, the homesickness crept in like a slow fog—thick and relentless. It wasn’t triggered by anything specific. No sad song on shuffle, no familiar scent wafting through the dorm, no phone call gone unanswered. It just arrived, heavy and unwelcome. She had been sitting by the window in her room, watching the streetlights flicker, when the weight in her chest began to grow.

She missed the comforting chaos of home, the background noise of Jack's obnoxious laughter, Luke’s half-hearted attempts at cooking, the warmth of Quinn’s protective silence. She missed her mom’s voice echoing through the kitchen, and even the quiet grief they still carried together. And more than anything, she missed Darien. That ache never really left—it just faded into the background sometimes, waiting for the silence to settle so it could come clawing back.

She missed Michigan’s grey skies and chilly mornings, the way the air always felt a little damp but familiar. She missed knowing exactly where she was, who she was, and who had her back. Here, everything was new. Everyone was new. And for all the things going right, there was still a void that nothing could quite fill.

She wiped at her eyes quickly, frustrated with herself. She hadn’t even lasted a month. What kind of fresh start was this, if she already wanted to run home?

Addy and a few girls from the team noticed her mood dip. In true college fashion, they decided the cure was a night out. Frat row. Loud music. Cheap drinks. Shiny outfits. Anything to shake the blues.

They dressed her up in the cutest outfit they could throw together—a sparkly silver tank top that caught the light with every movement, a tiny black skirt that flounced with each step, and glittery heels that made her legs look a mile long. Addy curled Maisy's hair into effortless waves and dabbed on just enough highlighter to make her glow like she owned the world. Lip gloss? Check. Perfume? Spritzed generously. They hyped her up like it was game day. Taylor Swift blasted from the Bluetooth speaker while the girls danced around their dorm, snapping selfies and screaming compliments at each other. It was girly pop time, and Maisy, for the first time in days, actually laughed—loud, bright, and free.

By the time they stepped out into the warm Boston night, the group of them looked like they belonged on a magazine cover. Confidence buzzing through their veins, they strutted down frat row like it was their runway. For a little while, Maisy felt like maybe—just maybe—things would be okay.

Matt had made a promise—and he didn’t break promises. Especially not the kind that came with Luke Hughes’ glassy eyes and trembling voice.

So when he saw Maisy at the party, obviously drunk and pressed up against some random frat guy whose hands were way too familiar, something in him snapped. He didn’t think. He just moved.

He slid between them in one quick step and shoved the guy back.

“Bro, do you mind?” the frat boy slurred.

“Yeah, actually. I do. Back off before this becomes a problem.”

Matt was big. Broad. Confident. And pissed. The other guy took one look at him and wisely backed off.

Maisy, on the other hand, was not pleased.

Her jaw dropped. “What the fuck was that?” she yelled, glaring up at him.

“I’m just looking out for you,” Matt said, his voice gentler than his actions. “He was getting handsy and you’re—look, you’re too drunk.”

Maisy’s expression shifted from surprise to fury. “Yeah? Well I don’t need you babysitting me, Matt. So fuck off.”

And with that, she stormed away, leaving Matt standing alone under the flashing lights.

Maisy couldn’t take it anymore.

Everywhere she went—there he was.

Matt Boldy had become a permanent fixture in her orbit. A tall, broad, aggravating presence that hovered just a little too close, a little too often. It was almost like one of the Hughes brothers had hired him to be her full-time chaperone. And honestly? That sounded exactly like something Jack would do.

She thought moving to Boston would be her reset button. Her clean slate. But no, Matt Boldy—of all people—had to be here, too. Or rather, he had already been here. But that didn’t make his constant appearances any less maddening.

He showed up everywhere. At every party, at the gym, in the dining hall, in group hangouts. If she turned a corner, he was probably there. Watching. Hovering.

And not in a creepy way. More like an annoying, I-promised-your-brothers-I’d-keep-you-safe way. But that didn’t make it better. If anything, it made it worse.

The girls on her soccer team started to notice it, too. They teased her relentlessly, whispering that maybe Matt had a crush on her. That maybe he was secretly in love with her. That maybe this was his weird, hockey-boy way of flirting.

They were wrong. Maisy knew it.

This had Hughes written all over it.

What made it worse was that her roommate Addy had started dating his roommate Alex. Which meant that every group lunch, every casual weekend plan, every movie night—Matt was there. Smiling like he didn’t just ruin her night the weekend before. Acting like nothing was wrong. Like he wasn’t the reason guys kept a five-foot radius from her at parties.

Every time she tried to talk to someone—just talk—Matt would appear like some six-foot-two hockey-playing storm cloud. “You’re too drunk.” “That guy’s sketchy.” “You sure you want to be around him?”

It got to the point where people just stopped trying. They knew about Matt. And no one wanted to mess with BC’s golden boy.

She felt cursed. Like she had the cheese touch.

Maisy counted down the days until the hockey season officially started. She prayed he’d get too wrapped up in practices and games to keep breathing down her neck.

But until then, she was stuck with him.

And to make matters worse? He wasn’t even all bad. He was... infuriatingly decent. He was funny in a dry, unexpected way. He showed everyone pictures of his dog back home like a proud parent. He wore the same blue Drew hoodie every other day and somehow made it work. And he really did care about his teammates.

It was enough to make her almost forget how insufferable he was.

Almost.

It all came to a head at a football afterparty.

Maisy was about to make out with Connor—the quarterback, the definition of tall-dark-and-handsome—when Matt appeared, seemingly out of thin air. He grabbed her arm and pulled her away before she even had the chance to lean in.

"Sorry man, not tonight," Matt said coolly to Connor before leading Maisy toward the group of hockey guys on the other side of the house.

Maisy yanked her hand back, face flushed with fury. “What the fuck is your problem, Boldy? You can’t tell me what to do. I don’t care what Jack or Luke told you.”

“Leave me the fuck alone. I’m fine without you. I mean it.”

She turned to walk away, but Matt caught her wrist again and leaned in, his voice low and sharp.

“Really? You’re fine? Going out every weekend, getting wasted, throwing yourself at every guy who looks at you—that’s fine to you?”

The words hit her like a slap.

“You need to wake up, Maisy. Pick yourself up.”

She yanked her arm free and didn’t look back.

Maisy kept her distance after that.

Soccer season was about to begin, and the pressure was on. The home opener against Wisconsin loomed over every practice like a shadow, and Maisy knew this was her moment to prove herself. She wasn’t just fighting for playing time—she was fighting to show everyone, including herself, that she belonged here.

So she buried herself in the grind. Conditioning drills, early morning lifts, tactical sessions. She was the first one on the field and the last one off, her body running on adrenaline, stubbornness, and protein bars. Her cleats barely left the turf as she sprinted, again and again, chasing a version of herself that felt whole.

The loneliness crept in at night, during the quiet moments. Luke had a tournament that overlapped with her first game. Jack and Quinn were buried under their NHL calendars. No one was coming to the opener. No one would be in the stands wearing her number, cheering when her name was called.

The ache of that truth settled in her chest like a rock.

So she ran harder.

It was midafternoon, the sun relentless, when she finally dropped to the grass beside the field. Her shirt clung to her back, her lungs burned, and the world felt like it was spinning slightly off-center. She lay there, face tilted to the sky, trying to slow her breathing and not cry out of pure exhaustion.

Then a shadow fell over her.

She groaned. "Can you actually fuck off for once in your life?" she muttered, eyes still shut.

"Wow... that's harsh! And I thought we had something going at the party the other night."

Her eyes flew open.

Connor.

Maisy jolted upright, flustered. “Oh my god—I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

Connor laughed, easy and amused, offering her a hand. She hesitated a beat before taking it. Once standing, she brushed grass off her legs, avoiding eye contact as her cheeks flushed.

“No worries, princess. What’s got you out here working like it’s the World Cup?”

Maisy finally looked at him, squinting slightly against the sun. He was even better looking in daylight. His hair curled gently around his ears, a little damp from a workout of his own. His eyes were green and bright, and that smirk of his? Devastating.

She cleared her throat. “We’ve got our home opener coming up. I’m a rookie—I’ve gotta work twice as hard to keep my spot.”

Connor nodded, clearly impressed. “Damn. Respect. You looked locked in out there. Intense.”

She smiled, bashful and surprised by the compliment. “Thanks.”

He glanced toward the gym. “I’ve gotta run—coach is waiting for me. But we should hang out sometime. You know, when you’re not trying to outrun the flash.”

He handed her his phone with Snapchat open, and she typed in her username, trying not to fumble it. Their fingers brushed as she returned the phone, and her stomach flipped—just a little.

Connor started to walk away, then turned back with a grin.

“By the way—you still owe me a kiss, 26!”

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Word spread fast across campus: Maisy Stella and Connor Owens were a thing. It started with a few casual sightings—walking together after classes, sharing smoothies on the quad—but what sealed the gossip was when someone caught her sneaking out of one of the football team’s houses wearing a hoodie far too big to be hers. The dots weren’t hard to connect.

Matt Boldy hated it.

He’d known Connor since freshman year, and if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that Connor Owens was bad news. Charming? Yes. Smooth? Absolutely. But Matt had heard enough from the girls on campus—some of whom were his friends—to know Connor had a pattern. He’d flirt, win them over, keep them just long enough to satisfy his ego, and then leave without warning. Always with a different girl, always with the same outcome.

And now Maisy? Sweet, firecracker Maisy, with her razor-sharp tongue and guarded heart? She didn’t deserve that.

Matt tried to let it go. Tried to keep his distance. But it gnawed at him. So, one afternoon after classes, he caught her just outside the building they both had lectures in.

“Maisy,” he called out, jogging to catch up.

She turned, brows already furrowed.

“I need to talk to you,” he said. "About Connor."

Maisy didn’t even wait for the warning to come out of his mouth. "You’ve got to be kidding me," she snapped, loud enough to draw attention from a few students walking by. "What, are you following me now too? Just like every other second of the day?"

“I’m serious, Maisy. He’s not who you think—”

“Fuck off, Matt!” she yelled. "Seriously. Just leave me the hell alone."

She stormed off before he could say another word.

Matt stood frozen in the hallway, heart pounding—not from fear, but frustration. He hated how she looked at him like he was the bad guy. Like he was trying to ruin something good.

Later that night, guilt ate at him. He couldn't sit with it anymore. He picked up the phone and called Jack.

It backfired.

A few days later, as Matt was leaving the rink, mentally preparing to dive into the mountain of homework waiting for him, he spotted a small blonde figure marching toward him with fury in her steps.

Oh no.

Her eyes were sharp, jaw clenched. She was all stormcloud.

“You're actually so unbelievable,” she seethed.

Matt raised a brow. “People tell me that all the time.”

Smack. Her hand connected with his shoulder, then a shove. It didn’t move him much—she was strong, but he was bigger. Still, the force behind it made a point.

“You told Jack? Are you fucking serious?”

Matt’s smirk dropped. “Maisy—”

“What are you? His little bitch now? Can’t fight your own battles so you have to go crying to him?”

That one landed. Hard.

Matt’s insecurities—about being second best, about living in the shadows of Jack’s spotlight—came rushing to the surface. That comment cut deeper than she knew.

He looked down, voice softer. “He’s not a good guy, Maisy. I just didn’t want you to get hurt. Again.”

That word. Again.

It hit her like a brick wall. Images of Mark, of that awful party, of betrayal and heartbreak—all of it surged back. The flashing red lights. The girl stumbling past her with smeared lipstick. The numbness that sank in when she saw him zipping up his jeans, acting like she didn’t exist. It all played in her head like a cruel movie on repeat. Her eyes welled, and she blinked them away quickly, refusing to let Matt—or anyone—see her fall apart like that again.

She didn’t say another word. She turned on her heel and walked away.

She avoided him after that. Lunch? Taken to go. Group hangs outs? Skipped. She buried herself in practice, in studying, in anything that kept her from seeing Matt’s stupid face.

Things with Connor were... fun. At least on the surface. He said all the right things. Knew how to make her laugh. Had this way of making her feel like the only girl in the world when they were alone. She spent most nights at his place, wrapped in his oversized sweatshirts, believing—desperately hoping—that maybe this time, it would be different.

It was the afternoon of her home opener. The stadium buzzed, and so did she. Her name had cracked the starting lineup. After weeks of pushing herself harder than she ever had before, she had earned it.

And yet... the stands felt too empty.

Her brothers weren’t there. Luke had a tournament. Jack and Quinn were mid-season. It hurt more than she let on.

But Connor said he’d be there. Front row. Loudest in the stands. He’d stayed up with her all week as she spiraled through her anxiety. Reassuring her, rubbing her back, telling her she was amazing.

She clung to that.

When they called her name and number, she ran onto the field, her heart pounding. Her eyes scanned the stands, looking for his signature green eyes and floppy brown hair.

But he wasn’t there.

Instead, she caught a different pair of eyes. Blue. Familiar. Matt.

He was wearing that goddamn pink t-shirt—the one her brothers always wore to her games. Maisy’s Cheer Squad.

The sight of him—so still, so steady—knocked the wind out of her. After everything she had said, every harsh word thrown like knives, after pushing him away over and over again... he still came. He still chose to show up. No expectations, no need for recognition. He just sat there, right in the front row, wearing a ridiculous shirt and clapping like she was the most important thing in the world.

Maisy’s chest ached with the weight of it. That kind of loyalty—it didn’t just appear. It was earned. It was rare.

And as much as she didn’t want to admit it, a part of her had been hoping he’d come. A part of her had been looking for him, maybe even before she looked for Connor. Because somewhere deep down, beneath all her anger and confusion, she knew Matt would never let her down like that. He never had.

Her throat tightened as the guilt sank in deeper. The memory of their fight still fresh—her rage, the slap, the words that cut far too close. The look on his face. She remembered it too clearly now. But he showed up anyway. And for a brief, painful second, it reminded her of another night. Another party. Another boy she trusted.

That night with Mark flashed in her mind like lightning. The red lights, the pounding music, the girl stumbling past her with smudged lipstick, and then him—zipping up his jeans, not even looking at her. Acting like she meant nothing. The way her heart shattered in silence while everyone else kept dancing.

That night had changed her. And maybe, just maybe, Matt knew that.

Maisy blinked the sting from her eyes. She couldn’t fall apart now.

Focus.

She turned back to the field.

Focus.

The game began.

She played like her life depended on it. Her passes were sharp. Her defense impenetrable. And then came the breakaway. One clear path to the net. She darted, weaving through defenders, picked up speed—then the fake step, and the ball soared over the goalie’s reach.

Back of the net.

Her teammates swarmed her. Her first college goal. Her first win. It should’ve been perfect.

She looked to the crowd again. Still no Connor. Just Matt. Still in that ridiculous shirt. Still clapping with that stupid proud smile.

Connor never showed.

And he never texted.

No call. No excuse. Just silence.

Maisy told herself it didn’t matter. That she didn’t care. That maybe he just got busy. But the ache in her chest told the truth.

She scrolled through her phone after the game, trying to distract herself. Messages from Luke, Jack, and Quinn flooded her screen—photos of them in their pink shirts, too. Only this time, they weren’t just the old ones. They’d added something.

#ForDarien26.

She broke.

Maisy called each of them that night, crying, laughing, telling them how much she loved them. They weren’t there, but they made her feel like she wasn’t alone.

Her inbox buzzed. Congrats from Trevor. Cam. Johnny. Even Josh Norris, who she hadn’t talked to in years. It all meant something.

And then there were two texts from Matt.

We’re all proud of you, M. Go kill it out there.

Unbelievable game! So happy for you. Treat yourself tonight. Check under your car :)

She paused. Threw on a hoodie and ran to the parking lot.

There, tucked behind her front tire, was a small bouquet of daisies and a note. Matt’s messy handwriting scrawled across the front.

Inside: a gift card to her favorite ice cream shop, and another note.

You were magic tonight. I hope you know that. –M

Maisy stood there, frozen, heart thudding. Everything was a mess—her feelings, her friendships, her sense of trust—but somehow, standing there with daisies in her hand and the night breeze brushing her cheeks, it didn’t feel so heavy.

Maybe she’d been too harsh. Maybe she didn’t know everything.

And maybe... Matt wasn’t the problem at all.

She slid into her car, starting the engine.

Ice cream sounded really good right now.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

It was finally the weekend, and the soccer team had one thing on their minds: celebration. Their first win under their belts, adrenaline still coursing through their veins, they were ready to let loose. Maisy, still emotionally tangled in the wreckage of the last few weeks, needed a night where she didn’t have to think. About Matt. About Connor. About any of it.

Tonight wasn’t about heartbreak. It was about music, red solo cups, bad decisions, and losing herself in something other than the noise in her head.

The party was everything she needed—loud, sweaty, chaotic. She played drinking games with her teammates, screamed the lyrics to early 2000s throwbacks, and laughed louder than she had in weeks. For a few blissful hours, she forgot how heavy everything felt. Her empty cup in hand, she told Addy she was going to refill and made her way through the crowded living room.

The line at the keg was short, and Maisy let her eyes wander as she waited. She scanned the room lazily, watching the blur of bodies dancing, couples making out in corners, people swaying and spinning and laughing.

She’d spotted Matt earlier in the night. He hadn’t approached her, hadn’t hovered. He’d finally given her the space she’d screamed at him to give her. It should have felt like a victory. It didn’t.

Her turn at the keg came quickly, and once she had her drink, she turned to head back. The room had grown even more packed in her short absence, and every few steps she bumped into someone. And then she collided into a solid chest, beer sloshing everywhere.

“Oh shit, I’m—” she began, but the words froze on her tongue.

Connor.

She took a step back, wide eyes taking in the familiar face she hadn’t seen—or heard from—since the game. And then she saw it: his hand. Interlaced with another girl’s.

Her stomach plummeted.

His smile curled, lazy and cruel. "You got a problem?"

That smirk—it used to make her blush. Now, it twisted her insides. It looked so different tonight. Cold. Detached. Like she had never meant anything to him at all.

It hit her all at once.

The familiar pang of betrayal. The humiliation. The ache. The way her chest tightened so suddenly it felt like she couldn’t breathe. It was Mark all over again—the redhead girl at that party, the flash of guiltless eyes, the hand shoved through her as if she were invisible. The breaking. The erasing.

Maisy pushed past Connor, barely able to see where she was going as her vision blurred with tears. The music and crowd pressed in, making the room feel too loud, too hot, too full. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she shoved through the crowd, desperate for an exit, for air.

And then a hand.

Not rough, not forceful—gentle. Steady.

Matt.

She didn’t even have to look. She knew.

He tilted her face up, his thumb brushing away a tear she hadn’t realized had fallen. She met his eyes—calm, concerned, warm. No pity. No anger. Just him.

“Maisy?” he asked, voice low. Safe.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Matty... I wanna leave.”

That was all he needed.

He led her through the mess of bodies like it was muscle memory. Shielding her with his frame, never letting go of her hand. The second they stepped into the cool night air, Maisy let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. A breeze rolled across her bare shoulders and she shivered.

Matt immediately shrugged off his brown button-up, draping it over her. Then he wrapped his arm around her again, pulling her close as they walked in silence.

About halfway back to campus, Matt gently guided her to a bench on a quiet stretch of sidewalk. The moment she sat, the dam broke. Tears spilled freely, sobs shaking her frame as she buried her face in his chest. He didn’t say a word—just held her. Firm. Solid. There.

Like always.

Why was it always him?

When the sobs turned to quiet sniffles, Maisy finally whispered, “You’re always here. Why?”

Matt shifted. He leaned back just enough to see her face, his hand finding its way to her cheek again.

He looked at her for a long moment. Really looked. At her trembling lip, her tear-rimmed lashes, the vulnerability she tried so hard to bury.

And then he said, simply, “Because I want to be.”

The silence that followed was charged, thick with everything they weren’t saying. Her hand reached up, holding his wrist where it cradled her face. Their eyes locked, and neither one looked away.

Matt’s arm still held her close, his other hand now trailing up to the back of her neck. Their bodies had molded into one another, the bench a shrinking island in an otherwise still world. She could feel his breath. Her hands pressed to his chest, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt.

He dipped his head just slightly, gaze flicking to her lips. Her name slipped from her lips in a whisper. “Matt...”

He looked back at her eyes—something shifting behind his. Something fragile. Longing. And then a car drove past, headlights sweeping over them, breaking whatever spell they were under.

Matt pulled back first.

“I should get you home,” he said quietly.

Maisy nodded. He wrapped an arm around her again, pulling her against his side as they walked the rest of the way. Neither spoke.

But everything had changed.

And Maisy didn’t know what scared her more—how much she wanted to kiss him, or how much it already felt like home.

What the fuck was that.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The days after the party passed in a haze neither of them could quite shake.

Whatever had happened between them that night—on the bench, under the stars, in the heat of heartbreak—it was real. Tangible. But now it hovered unspoken in the space between them.

Matt couldn’t stop replaying it in his head. The way she looked at him like he was safety. The way she clung to him like he was all that tethered her to the earth. The softness of her whisper, the near-kiss that had nearly destroyed him. And God, the way he had wanted to close that distance.

But he hadn’t. Because he couldn’t.

Maisy Stella was off limits.

Jack and Luke had never said it directly, but they didn’t have to. It was understood. Maisy was their sister in every way that mattered, and Matt couldn’t cross that line—especially not with everything she’d already been through. She had already been broken by boys who only saw the surface, who never stayed. Matt didn’t want to be the next name on that list.

So, he did what he thought was best.

He put distance between them.

He stopped sitting with her and Addy in the dining hall. He walked different routes to class. He kept himself busy with hockey and late-night gym sessions and assignments he suddenly cared way too much about. He avoided eye contact when they passed in hallways. He laughed louder around other people, hoping it would drown out the ache he felt every time he noticed her across a room.

And Maisy noticed.

She noticed the way his eyes wouldn’t meet hers anymore. The way his seat at their usual table remained empty. The way he didn’t hover at parties or shoot her quiet glances when no one was watching. He wasn’t there at all.

And it confused the hell out of her.

What had she done? Had she imagined it all? The way his arms wrapped around her. The way his voice softened only for her. The look in his eyes when she whispered his name. The way he almost kissed her—almost.

Maisy wasn’t stupid. She’d known how guarded he was. But that night? It felt like a breakthrough. And now, it was like he’d slammed a door in her face.

She went quiet.

Not just with Matt—but with everyone.

Practice became routine. She stopped staying after to joke with her teammates. She ghosted Addy’s offers to go out. Her laughter faded, bit by bit, until it was gone entirely. The light Matt had seen in her—so bright the night she scored that goal—had dimmed.

And that didn’t go unnoticed.

“Hey.”

Matt froze when Luke’s name lit up his phone screen.

He answered, trying to keep his voice neutral. “Yo. What’s up?”

“Is something going on with Maisy?”

The question made his heart stutter.

“I mean,” Luke continued, “I dunno, man. She’s just been... off. Like, more than usual. She doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t smile. Even Addy says she’s been weird lately. And I know you’re around her a lot so I figured I’d check in.”

Matt didn’t know what to say.

How do you explain to the kid you promised to protect her that you might be the reason she’s hurting?

How do you admit that you got too close, that you let her in, and now you’re pulling away—not because you don’t care, but because you care too much?

He rubbed a hand over his face, swallowing the guilt that climbed up his throat.

“She’s just been through a lot,” Matt said eventually, voice low. “Maybe she just needs time.”

Luke sighed. “Yeah, maybe.”

But Matt heard the doubt.

He hung up the phone and sat there in silence, heart pounding. The truth settled heavy in his chest.

He was the reason she was hurting.

And the worst part?

He missed her too.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The home opener had finally arrived for the Boston College hockey team, and the energy buzzing through the arena was electric. Matt could practically taste it. This—this was what he lived for. The crowd, the lights, the adrenaline pulsing through his veins. He needed this more than ever. A few hours on the ice, free from the spiraling chaos inside his head.

He hadn’t let himself think too much in the weeks leading up to tonight. Every spare second had gone to hockey or school. He skipped the parties. Avoided the group hangouts. Avoided her. No Maisy.

But tonight, she’d be here.

Addy had told him as much when she mentioned Maisy was tagging along to watch Alex. That knowledge added a twist to his gut he couldn’t quite shake. He tried. God, he tried to shake it off as he laced up his skates and took the ice for warmups. The second his blades hit the rink, he let the noise fade. Let it be background to the rhythm of routine: one lap around the net, a few wrist shots, then into his drills.

Hockey. That was all that mattered.

The game started off rough. The Eagles took time to find their footing, the opposing team coming in hard and physical. But by the end of the first period, they were finding their groove, Matt falling into his flow like muscle memory.

Meanwhile, in the stands, Maisy sat curled into her seat, surrounded by cheers and chants. She’d been to dozens of hockey games before—between her brothers and Jack, she practically grew up in a rink. But this was the first time she was watching Matt.

And somehow... it felt different.

He skated with a purpose, a sort of silent command that left her breathless. Every stride was precise, every move calculated. She could see the fire in his eyes, the way he read the ice like he was born on it. And she couldn’t stop watching him.

Her mind wandered back to her own home opener. To the nerves, the pressure, the overwhelming weight of it all. And Matt had shown up anyway, even when things between them were... complicated. He still cheered for her. Still left her daisies. Still reminded her of the kind of person he really was.

Without giving herself more time to hesitate, she reached into her bag and pulled out her phone. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure. Then, she typed:

Good luck #12. Cheering for you x – Maisy

It wasn’t much, but it felt like everything.

Back on the ice, Matt didn’t check his phone until after the game, when the Eagles had pulled out a comeback win. He was exhausted and exhilarated, the weight of the game falling off his shoulders as he peeled off his gear and jumped into a quick shower.

When he got back to his locker, towel slung around his neck, he saw her name flash across his screen.

Maisy.

Just her name sent his heart stuttering.

He read the message once. Then again. Then smiled.

Alex, standing beside him, saw the shift and gave him a shove. "Go talk to her, dumbass," he muttered under his breath before disappearing toward the exit.

Maisy was standing off to the side of the family-and-friends section with Addy, chatting and waiting. Her eyes searched the crowd as the players started to filter out. She wasn’t even sure why she’d stayed. Maybe she wanted to see him. Maybe she hoped he’d look at her the way he had on that bench weeks ago.

And then she saw him.

His hair was still damp from the shower, messy and curling around his forehead. The burgundy BC shirt clung to his chest, and the low gym shorts did very little to hide the veins trailing down his arms. She had to look away for a second, her heart pounding embarrassingly hard in her chest.

God, he looked good.

"You played really good tonight," she said when he finally approached, her voice soft.

"Thank you for coming," Matt replied, his voice just as soft. "And for the text. I really appreciated it, M."

Her cheeks warmed. She looked down quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. That nickname.

Addy and Alex swooped in a moment later, full of energy and praise, and within seconds Addy was proposing a celebratory meal.

“Ooh! The four of us should go get food somewhere! To celebrate.”

Maisy and Matt exchanged glances—silent communication still unspoken between them—and they nodded, agreeing to go.

The diner trip was easy. Light. Comfortable in a way that Maisy hadn’t felt in weeks. And from that night on, something between them quietly shifted.

They were civil. The group dynamics returned to normal. They started sitting together again. Supporting each other’s games. He still wore the Maisy’s Cheer Squad shirt. And she still looked for him every time she scored.

Eventually, group hangouts turned into parties again. The four of them became a unit—Matt, Maisy, Addy, and Alex—often moving together through the crowd like their own little orbit.

And somewhere along the way, Maisy started to let her guard down. The anxiety she used to feel around Matt was replaced by a giddy buzz. She found herself laughing more. Touching his arm when she joked. Sitting closer.

They were undefeated beer pong partners—somehow completely in sync. It was stupid how well they worked together. How he always knew where she was. How her eyes always flicked to him first when something funny happened.

Outside of the group, though, they still didn’t hang out one-on-one. Not yet. Not after what happened at the football party. That night still lingered like fog neither of them could clear.

And Maisy? She was spiraling.

She tried to convince herself it was nothing. But her body betrayed her every time he passed her a drink, fingers brushing hers. Or when he’d silently tug off his hoodie and toss it over her shoulders. The small things—the protective hand on her back when they were crossing a crowd, the way he’d pull her away from guys who stared too long—they no longer annoyed her.

They made her blush.

She noticed it in herself too. The way her heart picked up speed when she spotted him in a room. The way her stomach fluttered when their knees touched at a party.

It was undeniable now.

She was falling for Matt Boldy.

And that terrified her.

Because he was Jack’s friend. And despite everything, that meant something.

She couldn’t talk to Luke—not when he’d probably panic, or worse, tease her. Quinn maybe. But Jack? Absolutely not. He’d flip.

So she turned to the only person she trusted enough—Addy.

“I think I’m falling for Matt,” she confessed one night, sitting cross-legged on her bed, fingers nervously twisting the hem of her hoodie.

Addy’s response was instantaneous.

"Oh my GOD. FINALLY!" she squealed, practically jumping on the bed.

Maisy blinked. "Wait—what?"

“You have no idea how many nights me and Alex have talked about this. Like so many. So... did Matt finally get the balls to admit he likes you back?”

Maisy’s jaw dropped.

“He likes me too?”

Addy’s face fell. Panic swept across her expression.

“Oh God... Alex is gonna kill me.”

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Maisy didn’t know what to do after her conversation with Addy. She tried to act normal around Matt, tried to pretend like everything was the same. But it wasn’t. Not even close.

Addy’s words echoed in her head constantly: "He likes you too." They looped again and again, gnawing at her from the inside out. What if Addy was wrong? What if Matt had just been friendly? He was a good guy. He cared about people. Maybe everything he’d done was just part of that. Maybe the flowers, the texts, the soft touches—maybe they were just him being Matt.

And yet, her heart couldn’t help but hope.

She needed to clear her head. So she laced up her cleats, grabbed a ball and her headphones, and headed for the soccer field. Music blasting in her ears, she let the rhythm of her drills drown out the noise inside her head. She ran until her legs ached, until her lungs burned, until her thoughts finally slowed.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the trees, casting long shadows across the field when she felt it—that unmistakable feeling of someone watching her. She paused, chest rising and falling rapidly, and looked up.

There he was.

Matt.

He was sitting in the bleachers, in his BC hockey sweatsuit, damp hair curling slightly from a recent shower. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, a duffle bag at his feet. He looked like he always did after a game: calm, slightly flushed, focused.

Without thinking, Maisy made her way over, climbing the bleachers to stand one row below him. Her hair clung to her neck from the sweat, her cheeks were flushed, and she was panting from the sun and drills. But when she looked at him, all that exhaustion disappeared. Her heart skipped a beat. A jolt of energy surged through her.

“Hi,” they both said at the same time.

They smiled, both laughing softly at the coincidence. Matt ran a hand through his hair, messing it up even more—and Maisy could barely breathe. He looked good. Too good. The soft outline of his muscles beneath his shirt, the fading bruises along his jaw from a recent game, the glint in his eyes.

And Matt? He was stunned.

She was radiant. Glowing under the last bits of afternoon light. Freckles dotted her flushed cheeks and nose, and loose strands of hair curled around her face from under her headband. Her ponytail swayed slightly with each movement. No makeup. Just her. And she was perfect.

His chest tightened as he watched her. He remembered why he came here. He had to talk to her. He couldn’t keep pretending nothing happened. Couldn’t keep skating around the truth.

They both opened their mouths again at the same time.

Maisy let out a nervous laugh. “You first.”

Matt took a breath, looking down at his hands for a second. “I know.”

Maisy tilted her head, confused.

He looked back up. “Alex told me.”

Maisy’s heart stopped.

She stood frozen, unsure of what to say, how to move, what this meant.

Matt chuckled nervously, rubbing a hand across his face. “Addy really needs to learn how to keep a secret.”

He stood up slowly, stepping down to her level so they were face to face. His hands came up gently, cradling each side of her face like she was something precious. She didn’t pull away. She couldn’t.

Their eyes locked, and the air around them shifted. The world quieted. Maisy could feel every beat of her heart. Could feel the heat of his hands on her cheeks, the way his thumbs brushed softly over her skin.

He leaned in slowly, brows furrowing slightly like he was asking for permission.

Just then—

Riiiiing...

Maisy jumped slightly at the shrill sound of her alarm blaring in her back pocket. She cursed under her breath and reached back to silence it.

They stayed close, forehead to forehead, neither wanting to pull away just yet.

“I have to go to class,” she whispered.

Matt nodded, not moving.

They stood there for a few more seconds, eyes closed, soaking in the moment. Then, finally, she stepped back.

For the next few days, Maisy felt like she was walking on clouds.

Her mind replayed that moment over and over. The feel of his hands on her face. The almost-kiss. The look in his eyes when he said he knew.

She was falling hard, and fast.

They hadn’t seen each other since. Schedules clashed. Practice, class, team events—but tonight was Friday, and both the soccer and hockey teams had the night off. A party was happening, and their friend group was going out.

Maisy was nervous. This would be her first time seeing Matt since the field.

She dressed in the cutest outfit she could find—one that said casual but I tried. Her hair was loosely curled and tucked behind her ears. Right before leaving, she downed a quick shot of vodka to calm her nerves.

Addy laughed, watching her. “Stop stressing. You look amazing. Matt’s not gonna know what hit him.”

Maisy rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.

They made their way to the boys' dorm. The room was packed. She scanned the crowd, eyes flicking around—and then she saw him.

Matt stood near the back, deep in conversation with Alex. But the moment their eyes met, his lips curled up in a soft smile. His eyes never left hers.

Her stomach flipped.

They didn’t talk before leaving, but on the walk over to the party, she felt a strong arm wrap around her shoulders. He pulled her in close.

“You look really good tonight, M,” he whispered in her ear.

She didn’t respond—just leaned closer into his side, heart racing.

At the party, the group began to scatter. The lights were dim, music loud. Maisy turned to Matt, grabbed his hand, and without a word, pulled him into the closest empty bathroom.

The door clicked shut.

Matt’s face was flushed, a huge smile spreading across his cheeks.

“Tell me you’re sober right now,” he said, voice low.

Maisy nodded. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to forget this.”

He stepped forward, cupping her face again, and kissed her. It was gentle. Urgent. Like he’d been waiting a lifetime.

She clung to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world, fisting the fabric of his shirt in her trembling hands, pulling him so close there wasn’t a breath of space between them. The kiss deepened, slow and desperate, like they were trying to memorize the taste of each other. Emotion poured out in waves—weeks of built-up tension, silent longing, quiet glances and missed chances, all spilling into this one perfect moment. His lips were soft and warm, moving with reverence, like she was something sacred, something he'd been aching to touch for far too long. One of his hands slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, holding her gently but firmly, grounding her as everything else blurred away. She was dizzy, weightless, and entirely his in that moment—and he kissed her like he knew it.

When they finally pulled away, breathless, he rested his forehead against hers.

She reached up and wiped the smudge of lip gloss from his mouth, and he took her hand in his, kissing her palm.

“Matty...” she whispered.

He let out a soft groan, his grip tightening slightly.

“What is this?”

He was quiet for a moment, scanning her face with that intense gaze.

“I want this,” he finally said. “I want you. All of you.”

The party was a blur after that.

Neither one of them said anything to the group. They kept it quiet. Close. Personal.

For now, it was just theirs.

They snuck lunches together. Texted nonstop. Studied side by side, worked out together. He made her laugh. She calmed his nerves. They didn’t need to tell anyone yet. They had time.

A few weeks later, just before a big home game against Wisconsin, Matt invited her over.

She found daisies on his bed, her favorite candy beside them. And beneath it all—a Boston College jersey, perfectly folded, her last name printed across the back: BOLDY, #12.

Her heart swelled.

“Awe, Matty,” she said, turning to him with misty eyes. “Are you asking me to wear your jersey tomorrow?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “And for every game after that.”

She practically tackled him into a hug, pressing a kiss to his lips.

She’d never felt more like his than she did in that moment.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The crowd was as loud as ever, chants echoing through the packed arena as the student section let their disdain for Wisconsin be known. Booing erupted the moment the visiting team stepped onto the ice for warmups. It was chaotic, electric, and exactly what college hockey was supposed to feel like.

Maisy stood tucked between Addy and a few of the other hockey girlfriends in the stands, her hands buried in the oversized sleeves of her new Boston College jersey. Matt’s jersey. It swallowed her whole, hanging past her hips and drowning her frame—but it was perfect. Because it was his. She felt safe in it, like a piece of him was wrapped around her even with the boards between them.

As Matt skated his usual warmup lap, he slowed right in front of where she stood. His eyes locked with hers through the glass, and the noise around them faded for a split second. That signature toothy grin spread across his face, and even through all the chaos, she heard him shout, "Looks good on you, M!"

Addy shoved her playfully, squealing like a proud best friend. Maisy rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the blush that rose to her cheeks. With a grin, she blew him a gentle kiss through the glass before he turned and skated back into formation.

The game itself was fast and physical. Boston College fought hard, their passing was clean, their pressure unrelenting—but Wisconsin came out strong, too strong. It was a battle until the final buzzer, but ultimately, the Eagles walked away without the win.

Matt exited the locker room wearing a tired expression, his face tight with frustration. He hated losing. Hated it more when he felt like he hadn’t played up to his own standards. Maisy waited at their usual spot by the family and friends section, arms open the moment she saw him.

She didn’t bring up the game. She didn’t need to. Instead, she wrapped her arms tightly around him, holding him to her chest, her fingers gently brushing through the back of his damp curls. He clung to her a second longer than usual, grounding himself in her touch.

They spoke with Matt’s parents for a bit, polite smiles all around, but Matt’s energy was off. Tired. Worn. Eventually, he mumbled something about wanting to just go home and crash. Maisy didn’t hesitate. She gave his parents a hug and took his hand in hers as they walked across the icy parking lot.

They stayed quiet, wrapped in their little bubble. Her arm circled around his waist, his around her shoulders, keeping her close. They walked like that until they reached the car.

Matt stopped at the passenger door, opening it for her with a tired smile. One hand on the doorframe, the other bracing against the car roof, he leaned down slowly, eyes fluttering shut as he moved in for a kiss—

"ATTA BOY, BOLDY!!!"

Maisy flinched, startled by the sudden yelling.

Alex and Cole stood across the lot near their team’s charter bus, laughing and packing up gear. Matt’s head snapped up, his entire body freezing in place.

Panic.

Pure panic.

What if they saw her? What if they told Jack?

Matt turned quickly to block their view, waving them off with a fake grin while Maisy ducked a little lower in the seat, her cheeks burning.

They were quiet for a beat, both processing the very near exposure.

And then Matt let out a snort.

Maisy followed, unable to stop herself from laughing. It bubbled up out of her chest, and soon they were both breathless with laughter, heads thrown back, the stress of the moment melting away.

After a few long seconds, she met his eyes with a grin. "You’re so dead to them."

The rumors started spreading like wildfire.

By the time everyone was home for Christmas break, the USA NTDP group chat was in chaos. The boys were relentless. They hadn’t missed Matt cozying up to a blonde mystery girl outside the Wisconsin game, and now they wanted answers.

Thankfully, Alex and Cole hadn’t seen Maisy’s face—just a flash of long blonde hair before Matt had stepped in and blocked their view. It was enough to send the group into a spiral, but not enough to expose the truth.

Matt played it off, shrugging the whole thing off with a "just some girl" excuse, tossing crumbs and hoping the boys would get bored. They didn’t. They asked for names. Details. Instagram handles. He gave them nothing.

Maisy, for her part, played it just as cool. When Alex and Cole texted her a few days later asking if she had any clue who the girl might be, she rolled her eyes and typed back:

“No idea. But bless her if she’s putting up with him.”

Back home in Michigan, Maisy had been back for a week, spending every second she could with Luke. Her best friend had been soaking up every second with her around, even if he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different.

She was... glowing.

It wasn’t anything she said. It was the way she smiled more. The way her laughter came easier. The way she wasn’t carrying the same weight in her shoulders. Luke had no clue what—or who—was behind it. But he didn’t care. He was just happy to see pieces of her returning to herself.

The house felt alive again.

Quinn and Jack flew home for a few days during the holiday break, and with the four of them finally under one roof again, the Hughes-Stella home was bursting with noise and laughter. It hadn’t felt that full in years. Not since Darien.

Each of the kids shared their updates. Luke, flustered, admitted he had a girlfriend, which earned him endless teasing. Maisy proudly rattled off her stats and rookie achievements, earning cheers and high-fives. Jack boasted about settling into life in Jersey. Quinn, despite his usual quiet demeanor, took his teasing about the Canucks in stride.

Their moms—Monica, Ellen, and Jim—all had misty eyes. It had been so long since they’d seen their kids this happy, this whole. Even Dominic, who wasn’t there, was spoken about warmly, and the air felt light.

On the day before Jack and Quinn were scheduled to fly back out, the group piled into the family van and made the drive to the lake cottage.

The drive was quiet, peaceful.

When they arrived, they spent an hour or two laughing and lounging around the snow-dusted cottage, reminiscing about old summers and sharing stories. Then, they bundled up, grabbed a few bouquets from the local market, and made their way to the path behind the house.

There, nestled between snowdrifts and pine trees, was Darien’s headstone.

Maisy laid the blanket down gently, brushing snow from the edges of the stone. One by one, each of them laid their flowers down. They didn’t say much. They never did when they came here. Words weren’t needed.

But this time, Luke broke the silence.

“May…?” he said softly. “You’re happy again.”

Maisy looked up at him, then at Jack and Quinn beside him. All three wore soft, unreadable expressions. Their lips quirked into gentle smiles.

She sucked in a breath, adjusting her worn Michigan-blue mittens. Her voice was quiet but sure.

“Yeah. I think I am.”

And that was all they needed.

They didn’t know why yet. Didn’t ask. They just knew their sister was smiling again. That the spark in her eyes—the one they thought might never return—was flickering back to life.

And for the first time in a long, long time…

Maisy Stella was home.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Summer came quickly, and with it, the impossible task of trying to figure out how—or when—to tell the rest of their world about their relationship. Maisy and Matt still hadn’t come up with a good way to come out with the truth. They weren’t hiding because they were ashamed, but because this felt sacred. Quiet. The kind of love you held close to your chest before the rest of the world had a chance to tear it apart.

Maisy had a sneaking suspicion that Luke had caught on. There were moments when his knowing gaze would linger on her just a second too long. But he never pressed her for details. He simply told her that as long as she was happy, and the guy treated her right, that was all that mattered.

Of course, that didn’t stop him from texting Matt anyway.

You got anything to do with Maisy glowing like this? he’d typed one night.

Matt, with his usual poker face, replied: Still her number one hater, don’t worry.

Three weeks into the summer, Matt finally arrived at the cottage. He had been counting the days. Texts and late-night calls had been their only lifeline for weeks, but none of that compared to seeing her—holding her.

When he arrived, the rest of the group was already there, most having come the day before. Jack met him at the driveway and led him to his assigned room for the trip.

Matt blinked.

It was the room across from Maisy’s.

He looked around quickly before Jack patted him on the back and ran off to rejoin the group. The moment he was gone, Matt dropped his bags, crossed the hallway, and knocked gently on her door.

“J, go away—I’m not in the mood.”

He grinned at the sound of her voice.

"M? It’s me."

There was a flurry of movement before the door swung open, and there she was—sun-kissed and barefoot, wearing a hoodie that was definitely his. She yanked him into the room by the collar of his shirt and closed the door.

Maisy practically tackled him, pressing kisses to every inch of his face. Matt laughed, his arms wrapping around her and lifting her clean off the ground. Their mouths met in a real kiss, finally, and they both sighed into the embrace like it was air.

They stayed like that for a while, breathing each other in.

Eventually, they agreed it was best not to be suspicious. They staggered their entrances downstairs, Maisy going first, doing her best to hide her blush.

Luke didn’t miss it. He raised a brow, silently clocking the difference in her mood. She’d left grumbling upstairs, and now she practically glowed. He didn’t say anything, just observed.

Over the next few days, Luke kept an eye on them. Maisy and Matt never touched in public, never said much to each other when others were around—but they were always near each other. Always hovering.

Luke noticed everything.

He saw how Matt always had a hoodie nearby when the sun dipped and the night got cold, one that would somehow end up draped over Maisy's shoulders.

He noticed how Maisy would crack open two beers at a time, placing one beside her where Matt would eventually pick it up. He noticed how their gazes found each other across rooms, how their hands brushed for a second longer than necessary when they crossed paths.

Luke smiled to himself. He didn’t need her to say anything. He knew. And if Matt Boldy was the one bringing this light back into his best friend’s eyes, then he was all for it.

One night, he and Maisy lay out under the stars, as they’d done for years.

“How’s Matt?” he asked casually.

Maisy blinked. “He’s fine?”

Luke turned to look at her, soft and knowing. “How’s Matt.”

She let out a little sigh, her voice barely above a whisper. “He’s good, Lukey. He’s really good.”

Luke smiled, pulled her into his side, and kissed the top of her head.

“Good.”

—

The rest of the boys were slower on the uptake. Blissfully oblivious.

One night, around the fire, they brought up the infamous mystery girl from the BC vs. Wisconsin game again. The chirping was relentless.

Matt eventually groaned and stood up to grab another drink.

He wasn’t gone long—but long enough for Alex to catch the way Maisy casually reached out and touched his arm as he passed. The look they exchanged was subtle, but electric.

Alex blinked.

Did... did he just see that?

“Cole, did you—”

“Nope.” Cole was mid-story, not catching any of it.

Alex let it go.

Until later that night.

Maisy sat at the bar behind the couch in the Hughes' cabin basement, nursing a drink. The group had moved inside after the bonfire, filling the cozy space with laughter and music. When Matt approached, she looked up with the same soft smile that had haunted Alex since the hockey game was brought up. They exchanged a quiet word, then Matt leaned over to grab his drink.

It was identical to the scene at the arena.

Alex and Cole both went quiet, jaws dropping.

“Holy shit,” Cole whispered.

“Maisy,” Alex muttered.

They didn’t say anything then. Just exchanged wide-eyed glances.

Later that night, they agreed: Let them have their moment. They could mess with them later.

Matt said I love you on a boat.

Probably the worst place to say it, considering how loud and chaotic it was—but he couldn’t help it. They were surrounded by laughter, the sun casting that golden hour glow across the lake. Maisy sat beside him, legs tucked beneath her, wind whipping her hair in every direction as she grinned at something Cole shouted from the front of the boat. She looked radiant, glowing with life in a way that made Matt’s breath catch.

He watched her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks pink from the breeze. She turned and caught him staring, and instead of teasing him like she usually did, she just reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his.

That was it. That was the moment.

He leaned in, just barely above a whisper, but still loud enough to be heard over the wind.

“I love you.”

Time seemed to pause—until Trevor, clueless as ever, shouted from the other end of the boat:

“I LOVE YOU TOO, MAN!”

Matt froze. Maisy laughed, her whole body shaking with it, before she leaned in and pressed her lips to his ear.

“I love you so much.”

His heart practically burst in his chest.

From across the boat, Alex and Cole watched the moment unfold in disbelief. They exchanged wide-eyed, knowing looks—the kind of silent conversation that said, oh my god, it’s happening. Cole leaned into Alex, grinning like a fool.

"Boldy's gone," he muttered under his breath.

Alex smirked, not taking his eyes off the two. "Yeah. Totally whipped."

And at the helm of the boat, Quinn’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel. He glanced back over his shoulder and saw them—Maisy with her head thrown back laughing, Matt looking at her like she was the only girl in the world.

Quinn smiled to himself.

His little sister was happy. That was all he’d ever wanted.

Jack was the last to figure it out. Something was going on and it seemed like everyone knew this big secret except for him. He missed all the not-so-subtle interactions between the couple, and if it wasn’t for him actually catching them in the act, he might never have found out.

It was a warm summer night and a few of the boys were out at a party, including Maisy and Matt. It was late, and a few rounds of beer pong had been going for hours. Jack challenged Maisy to a game of doubles—Jack and Quinn versus Maisy and her partner of choice. Instead of picking Luke, like usual, she ran to the couch and grabbed Matt by the arm.

“Boldy?”

“Oh J, just watch. We’re undefeated back in Boston.”

Huh. He didn’t realize they knew each other like that.

Too drunk to think much of it, Jack played. To his surprise, they got absolutely demolished. After Maisy sank the final ball into his cup, she leapt into Matt’s arms, and he spun her around like he’d done it a thousand times before.

The next morning, Jack woke up to the smell of bacon, pancakes, and maple syrup. Excited, he jogged downstairs to find the beer pong champs cooking a full breakfast spread. Still, nothing clicked.

He missed how Matt’s hands flew away from Maisy’s waist when he came in. Missed the way they sat on either side of him in silence, smiling like idiots.

That night, most of the boys went to another party. Maisy stayed behind, hoping for quiet time with Matt. Luke and Quinn stayed too, happy to hang back.

With most of the house empty, Matt and Maisy finally relaxed. They curled up on the couch in the basement of the Hughes cabin, threw on a movie, and forgot about the world. They kissed and whispered until they fell asleep, tangled together like puzzle pieces.

They didn’t even stir when the door opened hours later.

“Let’s play pool downstairs!”

Luke and Quinn exchanged glances.

Jack, oblivious as always, barreled forward.

He stopped halfway down the steps, spotting Matt’s head peeking over the couch.

“Boldy! Get up buddy, we’re drink—oh.”

He froze.

There, asleep in Matt’s arms, was Maisy.

Matt’s head rested atop hers, their bodies tucked together like they belonged.

Jack stared.

Then he looked at Luke. Then at Quinn. Then back again.

Luke winced. “I think she broke him.”

Jack stepped closer, crouched slightly. He reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he smiled.

He stood back up and wrapped an arm around each brother’s shoulders.

“It’s okay,” he said softly. “He’s got her.”

#matt boldy #matt boldy x reader #matt boldy imagine #minnesota wild #nhl x reader #nhl imagine #emmywrites!#jack hughes x reader #jack hughes #quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #luke hughes #luke hughes x reader #ntdp #usa ntdp

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writesvani · 3 months ago

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dear me | 01

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TWs (for this chapter): nostalgia, lost friendships, unrequited love, emotional pain, longing, drifting apart, past relationships, smoking (cigarettes), self-destructive habits, regret, emotional detachment, loneliness, unresolved feelings, reminiscing about the past, bittersweet memories

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M. LIST;

— next chapter

wc: 3k // date: 18th of March 2025

CHAPTER ONE; Me VS. Me happy reading my gummies...

AN: okay so first of all, THIS FIC IS MY BABY. my pride and joy. my magnum opus. my chef’s kiss MWAH. i have birthed it with my own two hands (don’t question the anatomy of that sentence, just roll with it). i have been so deep in writing characters that make you go hmm. questionable. concerning. ma’am, do you need therapy? that i just CRAVED writing someone to actually root for. and thus, this fic was born. and i love it. i love it so much.

writing this was an emotional rollercoaster. like, HELLO?? nostalgia just drop-kicked me in the chest. it is actually insane how little we remember of our own lives, like??? the fact that our past selves could be out there scheming, writing weird emails to our future selves, and we’d have NO IDEA?? terrifying and also very on brand.

anyway, i cannot WAIT for you guys to see the other chapters. i am so giddy about this fic you don’t even understand. i feel like a mad scientist cackling in the middle of the night. ugh. okay that’s all.

and yes, i listened to A LOT of Taylor Swift, Olivia Rodrigo and Billie Eilish writing this. 🩷

LOVE YOU, BYE!

Memories are like bruises. They cling to you, pressing into your skin, carving themselves deep until they feel permanent. They settle in, making a home in you—for an unknown amount of time. But slowly, they fade. Day by day, they grow lighter, less sharp, until finally—nothing remains. And it’s as if they were never there at all.

By the time a human gently touches the edge of eighty, they will have lived nearly thirty thousand days. Yet, the ones they truly remember—the ones that weave their strings into the soul’s net—are only a few hundred, perhaps a few thousand.

We are born. We grow. We build connections. And yet, most of them dissolve with time. The light dims. The ties loosen. The voices fade into echoes. But sometimes, even when everything else is lost, the love we once shared lingers. A flame—small as the ember of a dying cigarette—still flickers, waiting, hoping to ignite once more.

Sometimes, the flame never reignites. The memory remains, vivid yet stagnant, sinking deep into the depths of our being but refusing to bloom again.

Other times, love and memory return like a hurricane—familiar knocks pounding at the door, relentless, inescapable.

And in your case—it comes right back, sitting pretty in your inbox. Letter after letter of who you used to be years ago, wrapping around you like a mother’s embrace. And you don’t want to let go.

Checking your email after work is a daily, unskippable ritual—like the scent of morning coffee, the kind that melts down your throat, the kind that holds you in its warmth. Like tying your shoes, a habit that clings to you ever since you first learned how to do it on your own.

Today is no different. You come home, drop your bags onto the first clean surface you can find, and eat the leftovers from the meal you made for your client. Thank God she lets you take them home.

Even though cooking is your passion—even though you live for the alchemy of flavors, for the way warmth blooms in someone’s chest at the first bite—working as a private chef is exhausting. Every single day, new dishes, new expectations, new demands. You love it. You really do. And you’re grateful that your passion pays the bills. But the last thing you want to do when you get home is cook.

Because who in their right mind brings their work home, right?

So you eat the leftovers.

You throw yourself onto your beige couch—the one your mom got you for a suspiciously low price when you bought your apartment.

You stretch like a lazy cat basking in the sunlight, tilting your head until your neck cracks just enough to be satisfying. A deep yawn escapes your lips as you open your laptop.

Specks of dust scatter across the keyboard, forming unrecognizable patterns. You trace a finger through them, leaving a clear trail behind.

Hm.

You’ll wipe it later. Right now, you're too tired.

It’s time to check your emails.

Nothing unusual—job offers scattered here and there, a local bookstore announcing a sale (you’ll definitely order something later), and an overpriced ceramic china set practically handed to you on a golden plate. You toy with the hem of your shirt, debating.

You’ll probably never use it, but it’d be great for special occasions—family gatherings, maybe? You can already picture the jealous grimaces of your distant aunts, their forced smiles twisting at the edges.

Yeah, it’s worth the money.

And then.

Then.

An email.

From you.

Not in your sent folder. Not a draft you forgot about. Right there, sitting patiently in your inbox, mocking you to your face—an email from yourself.

To you.

Your eyebrows knit together as you chew your bottom lip.

What the hell?

Your eyes squint lightly, adjusting to the glow of the screen as it lulls the darkness of your bedroom into sleep. Your breath comes out in gentle puffs.

Then, a chill runs down your spine.

Your palms suddenly feel damp—sweat pooling, clinging. You wipe them hastily on your shirt.

It can’t be. Can it?

You were sure—100% sure—it was a scam.

The sketchy service you paid for when you stole your mom’s credit card at fourteen (earning yourself a lengthy monologue about delinquent behavior) was a scam. It had to be.

But right there, on the screen, words are waiting for you.

Scattered across the desktop, glowing in the dim light. Staring back.

So you read.

"Dear Me,”

You blink.

"By the time you're reading this, you're 28. Jesus Christ, if you're even still alive, you're so old. How does being a granny feel? LOL. Just kidding. I know you're in your prime (or at least I hope so).

So, I don’t know if this is even going to work. A part of me is sure this is a scam, but hey—gotta stay optimistic, right?"

A small smirk tugs at your lips.

Optimistic, huh? Always was, always will be. Or at least, you try to be.

You take a slow sip of the green tea you made after dinner, letting it glide smoothly down your throat. Lately, it has felt as if you're rediscovering life—unraveling its meaning all over again.

And from the words of little you, it seems like nothing has changed.

A quiet chuckle escapes as you keep reading, a small smile still lingering on your face.

"Anyways, how are we, girl?

There are so many things I want to ask you, but I know I won’t get the answers until I become you. Still, I have to ask, okay? Please be patient with me.

First of all—are we a chef? Please tell me we are.

Ever since we went to Italy with Mom and Dad last summer, we’ve been obsessed with food. You remember that kind grandpa who taught us the perfect Bolognese recipe? You know, the one we completely wrecked the kitchen trying to recreate at home? Seriously, Mom was so mad at us—she’s such a drama queen, I swear.

But I’ll keep trying for you. I don’t want to let my future self down."

A soft chuckle slips from your lips as you let the memories bloom—that summer in Italy, when everything changed.

The moment you realized: this is it. This is what I want to do for the rest of my life.

You remember it all.

Your hands, stained deep red from the fresh tomatoes you and that kind grandpa had picked at the local market. The rich scent of the sauce bubbling on the stove. The way he spoke about Italian food as if it were as vital as nuclear physics—and to you, it was. It is. It always will be.

You remember the countless times you destroyed your kitchen, basking in the mess, determined to get it right. You remember failing. Again. And again.

And then—finally—succeeding.

Your heart swells, beating against the quiet of the room.

You did it.

You tried. And tried. And tried.

And in the end—you made the Bolognese perfectly.

After that, you gave your dream the life it always deserved.

"But if you realized you wanted to do something else with your life, that’s okay—I forgive you.

As long as we’re doing something we truly love, I approve."

Typical you. Always reassuring yourself.

Your heart clenches at the thought of your younger self, sitting at her desk, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes bright with excitement. So full of life. So alive. So imperfectly perfect—even though she never thought she was.

"So, tomorrow is the first day of high school, and I—or you, or we, whatever—I’M SO EXCITED OMG!!!"

You can practically hear the urgency behind the words, feel the restless energy of a girl who thought this was the most important night of her life.

"It’s time to meet new people and make new friendships and I can’t wait. I’m literally writing this because I can’t sleep #soexcited."

High school.

You don’t think about your first day much. Of all the roads you’ve traveled, all the moments that shaped you, this has never been one you revisited.

But seeing it now—her, you, how much it meant to her—

It hits.

A wave of nostalgia crashes over you, cold and sharp, like a bucket of ice water dumped over your head.

"And of course, the AWESOMEST fact in the universe: Jungkook is going to the same school as me (I mean us. This shit is very confusing, okay?).

Oh wait—he just sent me a text on FB. He can’t sleep either. RIP.

We’re taking all the same classes, which means WE’RE GONNA BE DESK MATES. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT???”

You swallow hard.

You’d be lying if you said you never thought about him.

Because not thinking about Jeon Jungkook is impossible.

A ghost of him lingers in you—always there, just beneath the surface.

But it is simply as it is.

He was your best friend. He isn’t anymore.

Life happened. It pulled you apart. So you shouldn’t dwell on it.

But you see her—your younger self, in the back of your mind.

A huge grin stretched across her face, fingers flying over the keyboard as she texts Jungkook about the first day of high school.

Her heart hammering wildly in her chest.

Unspoken words pressing against her ribs.

And suddenly, the memory surges back—sharp, vivid, uninvited.

The way she loved him.

The way she was in love with him.

A reminder you didn’t need. A reminder you don’t want.

“And by the way, since so many years have passed—I gotta ask.

Are we maybe married to Kook? Dating him?

Did we confess?

Did he… like us back?”

You inhale sharply, fingertips drifting to your lips—a bad habit, a nervous tell.

“I don’t know how I imagine that story turning out.”

“Did he reject us?”

A pause.

“If he did, how did we survive that?”

You exhale. Slowly. Deeply.

“I can’t imagine that embarrassment. Ugh.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

“But there’s a small flicker of hope inside of me that maybe… he confessed or maybe he likes us back, I don’t know”

A flicker.

Something you never snuffed out completely, no matter how much time passed.

“I guess, a small part of me thinks there’s a chance for Jungkook and us.”

“…But I’m not sure.”

Your fingers press harder against your lips, picking even harder, edges of your teeth pulling at the skin inside of your mouth.She sounds so young.

So immature and mature all at once—the messy contradiction of early adulthood.

But mostly?

She sounds hopeful.

Hopeful in a way you no longer are.

She really thought there would be a time for the two of you. Jungkook and you.

And maybe there was.

Maybe, in a parallel universe.

But not this one.

This one is real. This one is raw.

And you survived.

She thought she would perish without him.

But you’re still here.

Standing. Breathing. Living.

And for that, you’re proud of yourself.

Proud for growing out of it.

Proud for learning how to exist without depending on anyone else.

For being whole on your own.

And yet—your jaw clenches. Your throat tightens.

Because maybe, just maybe, a small part of you didn’t survive.

The part that was hopelessly, utterly, and completely in love with the boy you used to call your best friend.

Some wounds are better left untouched.

But this?

Reading this feels masochistic and beautiful at the same time.

It compels you.

You have to remember more.

You sigh.

But you still have to continue torturing yourself, so you drag your eyes back to the words.

“Even if nothing happened with Kook, even if you fell out of love with him—which I find impossible, because CMON, there’s no love if it isn’t written in Jungkook cursive. But if you did fall out of love by some miracle, I know that you guys are still bestest friends in the whole universe.”

Your fingers tense around the edge of your laptop.

Bestest friends in the whole universe.

You inhale sharply, but it does nothing to steady you.

“I know he’s still a part of our story.”

A hollow feeling burrows itself into your chest.

“Tell me, what does he do for a living? Is he a drummer, like he always dreamed of being?”

Your breath stutters.

Drummer.

A dream that stayed exactly what it was.

A dream.

“He told me last night he’s gonna ink himself in a year or two—AND do A BROW PIERCING.”

A pause.

Your lips twitch.

“His mom is gonna tweak out, like HELLO! But he’s gonna be so hot I simply can’t even debate on this—I have to support him.”

A quiet chuckle leaves you before you can stop it.

“He’s so wild in his own dreams, I always feel the need to chase after him.”

Your throat tightens.

Because once, you did.

Once, there was a time you couldn’t imagine a day without him.

And now?

You press a palm to your forehead, massaging the dull ache forming at your temples. Your heart hammers painfully, and suddenly, you're craving nicotine like it's the only thing tethering you to the present.

Jungkook.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips—dry, pale, bitten raw.

A memory flickers.

Jungkook, terrified at the tattoo parlor.

Your fingers intertwined with his, grounding him.

You—blushing furiously—as the tattoo artist pulled his shirt up, exposing the smooth skin of his ribs.

You were seventeen then, sneaking into some shady tattoo shop where minors passed as adults. No IDs. Just cash and a little recklessness.

But you wrote this at fourteen.

Fourteen-year-old you didn’t know yet.

She didn’t know that Jungkook would get his ethereal skin inked, his brow pierced. Well she didn’t know for sure. But Jungkook hoped to do so and young her, young you believed in him.

She didn’t know that some dreams don’t survive the weight of reality.

Because Jungkook never became a drummer.

The boy who once swore he’d live off the sound of drumsticks against cymbals had to chase something bigger.

A career.

A paycheck.

A better life.

And in that chase—your friendship, the thing younger you was so sure would last forever—

It got carried away.

Somewhere far.

With him.

You bring a cigarette to your lips and take a slow, deliberate drag. The smoke curls around you like a ghost—familiar, haunting, inescapable. It carves itself deep into your lungs, settles in your bones like something meant to stay.

“UGH, mom is yelling at me to go to sleep.”

You exhale, watching the smoke dissipate.

“I’ll be back soon tho, I know you already miss younger you, haha.”

A dry chuckle catches in your throat.

Do you?

Do you really?

“I’m gonna be sending you one email a week for a year through this service, so I’M TOTALLY gonna remind you of our first year of high school.”

Your fingers tighten around the cigarette.

A year.

She’s going to be here for a year.

“Who knows, maybe I’ll steal Dad’s credit card next time so I can pay for another year.”

A scoff pulls at your lips.

Typical.

“I’m unpredictable like that.”

The corner of your mouth twitches.

Yeah, she was.

“For now, I love you.”

A pause. You take a deep breath.

“Past You, Me, or Us (IM NOT SURE).”

Your teeth clench.

You take another pull of nicotine. The taste is bitter, but you let it linger anyway.

You forgot about this.

About her.

About the fact that the emails will keep coming—one after another, a relentless flood of memories you didn’t ask for.

And now?

Now, it all crashes down on you.

A tidal wave of long-buried memories of fourteen-year-old you, giddy and unfiltered, pouring her thoughts into emails, fingers flying over the keyboard like they couldn’t keep up with her excitement.

She had no idea.

No idea what was coming.

No idea who she and Jungkook would become.

How aparat they would be.

A low groan rumbles from your chest.

Why did you do this to yourself?

You hover over the keyboard.

Your stomach twists.

Your mind screams at you to block the emails. To delete them. To wipe them out before they reopen wounds you’ve spent years ignoring.

But your fingers never move.

Because it feels wrong.

Because deleting them feels like deleting her.

And even if you don’t recognize some parts of her anymore, she was still you.

To erase her would be to erase everything you used to be.

And that?

That would be the real betrayal.

You shut the laptop with a scoff.

The sound echoes through the empty apartment, lingering in the silence. Your feet move on their own, carrying you to the shower. You don’t think. You just go.

By the time you step inside, the water is already scorching hot. You let it burn. Let it sear into your skin, as if heat alone can strip away the weight of forgotten memories.

But it doesn’t.

It clings to you, sticks to your bones like something too deep to scrub away.

Because it’s not dirt.

It’s the truth.

And it won’t leave—not even when you wrap yourself in fresh clothes and sink into the soft cushions of your bed.

Your fingers move on instinct, pulling out your phone, scrolling through Instagram stories. You’re not really looking for anything. But then you see it.

He posted something.

Your breath catches.

It’s the sky.

A sunset.

Splatters of red and orange melt together, the sun shyly emigrating between earth and sky.

You stare.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you click on his profile. Something unnameable courses through your veins.

Is it nostalgia?

The longing for a friendship that no longer exists?

Is it simply missing him?

Your best friend?

Your chest tightens.

You tap on the chat option.

And there it is.

A string of messages.

Nothing devastating.

Just… usual.

A cycle of: "Happy Birthday, I love you so much," and "Thank youu, love you too." A chain of story reactions. That’s all that’s left of you two.

Your grip on the phone tightens.

Is this really it?

Is this what you’ve become?

Two people who once built a universe together, now reduced to annual birthday wishes and the occasional double tap?

It’s mocking you.

Because Jungkook and you—you were never just usual.

You were everything.

The chaos and the calm.

The storm and the warmth of sunlight on a rainy day.

The scent of rain, the comfort of old books, the hush of midnight talks.

You were everything.

And now?

Now you’re nothing.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

A part of you—the reckless part—wants to send something. Wants to test the waters, see if there’s still something left to salvage. But then reality crashes down, heavy and suffocating.

You curse yourself under your breath.

Rekindling something out of the blue—who does that?

Not now.

Maybe another time.

Or maybe…

Maybe this is simply how it’s supposed to be.

Locked away.

Tucked inside your heart.

Safe from the ache of all the what could have beens.

Yeah.

It’s better this way.

taglist: @lovingkoalaface @santiiagopopegarcia @jadaocon1 @asyr97

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another-lost-mc · 7 months ago

Text

When it feels like he's constantly competing with everyone else for your attention, Solomon's not going to let a rare opportunity go to waste.

A Stroke of Luck || Solomon x gn!Reader

Content Warnings: NSFW. Soft smut. Corny holiday jokes, pet names, sixty-nine position, fingering and penetrative sex (top!Solomon). Word count: 3.1k.

A/N: This has been in my drafts for a long time but I'm happy to finally share it for the holiday season. Happy birthday to the magic man.

The sitting room of Purgatory Hall is bathed in the soft glow of the fireplace. Flames flicker and embers burn, filling the air with comforting heat and the crisp scent of firewood.

In the peaceful silence that's fallen over you like a blanket, Solomon nudges closer to you on the sofa. He mirrors your position and sits with a leg tucked underneath him. Your knees nearly touch while you chase away the night’s cool draft with each other’s company. Despite the chilly wind outside the comfort of Purgatory Hall that rattles the windows, you feel pleasantly warmed-through. There are two half-empty mugs of hot cocoa forgotten on the kitchen counter, and Solomon's sweetened breath fans gently over your face every time he leans in close to speak.

The dorm is surprisingly empty except for the two of you and there’s something profoundly intimate about conversing quietly long into the twilight hours without interruption. It’s a rare moment of privacy and you appreciate that none of your other friends are hovering nearby or demanding your attention for once.

Judging from Solomon’s rapt attention, his eyes darkening slightly when his gaze drops and lingers on your mouth more than once in the past few minutes, it’s obvious that he’s taking advantage of this rare opportunity too.

“It’s getting late," Solomon says softly, even though you’re both perfectly aware of the late hour. "I suppose I should walk you back soon.” His voice isn’t much louder than a whisper, as if he's scared that speaking too loudly will shatter this perfect moment. He’s certainly not rushing to get you out the door, not when he scoots closer to you instead.

Still, he knows he has to offer and despite the false half-smile he offers, there's a tremor of remorse laced through his words that tugs at your heartstrings. He would never ask you outright to stay no matter how much he might want to, but his body betrays the request he can’t bring himself to admit outright.

Don’t go. Please, stay with me. Don’t leave, not yet.

If he's too worried about being greedy with your company, it’s time to reassure him that he’s not the only one hoping tonight won’t ever end.

“But…what if I want to stay here with you instead?”

The heart wants what the heart wants, after all. It’s easier to be honest about your own desires when it feels like you're both hiding together in this little sanctuary, watching as your shadows dance together along the walls while light from the fireplace casts you both in a soft glow.

In all the three realms and the cosmos beyond, the only place you want to be right now is here with him, and more than anything, you want him to know it.

Solomon's eyes brighten with delight even as he taps his chin and hums deep in his chest while he pretends to ponder your question, and he laughs when you swat lightly at his chest and whine his name at his teasing.

You’re so cute when you’re flustered, he thinks to himself with so much fondness as his heart swells to bursting.

“Oh, I suppose you can stay the night,” he concedes, but after a few moments, his cheshire grin softens into something more genuine. “I’ve missed you too much to want to let you go just yet.”

His eyes shimmer in the dim light like dark water underneath a full moon. You shiver softly when he reaches for your hand, the one resting in your lap. His fingers trace the seven small stars etched into your skin, back and forth so gently that it tickles, so he doesn't scratch you with his nails by accident.

“You know, the angels were called back to the Celestial Realm for their own celebrations this week.” His fingers circle your wrist and rub smoothly over your pulse point before he flattens his palm over your thigh and squeezes your leg. You can feel his fingertips through your pant leg like a searing-hot brand, as if there was no material there at all separating your bare skin from his. “We have the place to ourselves tonight,” he murmurs as he leans close, his voice grows thick and needy with the desire he’s kept under control until now.

A chocolatey kiss lingers at the corner of your mouth and he nuzzles his nose lightly against his cheek when he pulls back again to stare deep into your eyes. He smiles when he finds whatever it is he’s looking for in your expression. “We can do whatever we want.”

Your lips gloss over the edge of his smile when you return his kiss and delight at the faint pink blush dusting across his cheeks. “What exactly do you have in mind, hm?”

“Oh, I can think of a few things." He grasps the back of your neck and a soft whimper escapes him when he finally pulls you close for a proper kiss, and with a slight tilt of his head his mouth slots perfectly against yours. He moves his lips slowly at first but deeper and with more urgency with each breathy sound that escapes you, the soft sighs and whimpers that haunt his dreams on nights when he tosses and turns in his empty bed.

He wraps his arms around you and his open-mouthed kisses turn greedy, all-consuming, and his tongue dips inside your mouth and he nearly moans at the familiar taste of you that he adores so much. His head spins and his heart pounds deep in his chest, overwhelmed with love and lust in equal measure, and deep in his gut, something claws at his self-control like he’s starved and you’re the only thing that can sustain him.

He craves you.

Solomon pulls back long enough to mumble an incantation under his breath before he presses his mouth against yours again, hungrier and more desperate than before. It takes a few moments for you to notice the subtle ripple in the air, the familiar sensation of magic that tickles your skin and you make a questioning noise that he swallows down.

As greedy as Solomon is for you, your fingers weave through his hair and cling to his shirt because you want him just as badly. It’s been too long and you can feel the eagerness in his soft, slightly chapped lips, and in the way he says your name with a hushed sigh or whiny moan. When you pull back to catch your breath, he sucks lightly on your bottom lip and nips it gently between his teeth before letting go.

You can hear his sharp inhale when you palm the bulge in his pants. He sneaks a thigh between your legs before he’s on you again, kissing you senseless while his hands grip the backs of your thighs and encourages you to grind against him. You rut against him mindlessly, squeezing his cock through his clothes, marveling at how thick and heavy it feels and salivating at the thought of guiding it inside you instead.

Without warning, Solomon breaks the kiss and your eyes blink open slowly when he detangles himself from your embrace and drops down to the floor. Underneath him is a large pile of soft blankets and fluffy pillows spread across the floor, summoned from his bedroom with the bit of magic he cast earlier so you can be comfortable.

(He might be desperate to spread you out beneath him, pounding into you with everything he has, but he's not so out of control that he won't ensure your comfort first before he takes you.)

Solomon’s heated kisses, the cozy nest he’s made for you on the floor, the thought of making love in front of the fireplace - it’s so perfectly him, the way he uses magic to create these whimsical, romantic moments when he can finally have you to himself.

And who are you to deny him?

His half-lidded gaze falls to your naked chest when you pull off your shirt and toss it aside. He freezes for a moment like he’s stunned by the expanse of exposed skin suddenly on display for him, and his eyes flitter quickly over your chest and down the gentle slope of your belly.

You realize that he always looks at you like this, as if he’s utterly entranced by the sight of your naked body as though it were the first time.

You also realize that your dear sorcerer is still wearing far too many clothes.

He rushes to take his clothes off when you flick open the button at your waist, and once you’re both stripped down to your underwear, he pulls you down onto the makeshift bed he’s made and holds you in his lap. You’re warm and needy and he can’t resist the temptation to touch all the parts of you he adores without all those pesky clothes in the way. His fingers dance along your spine and trail down your sides. His fingers curl over your hips and he nuzzles against your chest, smearing your skin with wet, lazy kisses while he enjoys the sensation of your hands carding gently through his hair.

There’s so many ways he wants to touch you, so many places he wants to explore with his fingers or his mouth, and he considers all the possibilities until he finally makes up his mind.

He leans back against the plush blankets and blinks at you innocently when he smooths his hands over the swell of your ass and gives your cheeks a little squeeze. You nearly lose your balance when he pulls you on top of him.

He traces along the seam of your underwear and dips underneath the flimsy cotton. Arousal pools between your thighs and it sticks to his fingers as he strokes you.

You try to coax his hand closer to where you’re desperate for him to touch you with more purpose but he clicks his tongue at your impatience. You pout your lips, but when you glance down between your bodies, a strange splash of colour catches your attention.

“Sol, what are you wearing?”

Solomon stammers nervously when you pull away and sit back on your heels between his legs. He’s wearing the type of soft black boxer-briefs he likes, but this pair has a large sprig of mistletoe embroidered on the crotch. The shape is distorted by his erection that tents the fabric slightly.

You tilt your head as if to ask, “Really?”

“It’s only a little festive fun, my darling.” He looks a little bashful and he wonders if this was a misstep. It was meant to be a lighthearted joke, a more creative spin on the human world tradition he’d like to seduce you with. The last thing he wants is to make you feel pressured to do anything you don’t want to.

His breath hitches when you trace over the shape of mistletoe as if you’re considering what to do with him. His cock twitches underneath your fingers as you tease him through the fabric.

The room is startlingly quiet except for his panted breaths and a log cracking in the fireplace. There’s an apology on the tip of his tongue because he doesn’t want this night to be ruined by his own silliness, but Solomon’s mouth falls open with a surprised moan when you suddenly bend low and nuzzle your cheek against his cock through his boxers. You tug impatiently at the waistband of his boxers and he lifts his hips obediently so you can pull them down his legs. They join the pile of crumpled clothing nearby when you toss them over your shoulder.

“T’is the season and all,” you murmur as you settle between his legs, pushing his pale thighs apart to give you more space. “And I suppose if you want a kiss from me that badly…” Your voice trails away as you lower your head again.

The sight of you on your knees like this is nearly enough to undo him. Your fingers wrap gently around the base of his cock and your lips are plump and shiny from kissing. He can feel your soft exhale across his pelvis when you lower your head so you can suck him into your mouth.

“Wait,” Solomon breathes out suddenly. You glance at him in confusion and he fumbles clumsily at your arms and tries to pull you up. When you hesitate, he licks his lips and his dark eyes bore into yours. “Turn around darling, I want to taste you too.”

His request surprises you. It’s not the first time he’s wanted to do this, but there’s a certain amount of nervousness that pools in your gut when you think about putting your body on display like that for him. What settles your insecurity is the undeniable truth that you trust him, with your heart and your body and your love and your vulnerability and everything in between. He’s selfless with his pleasure because he wants to please you too. After a few moments you slowly nod your head and the smile that curls his lips is downright naughty.

It’s awkward to maneuver your body the way Solomon wants but he helps keep you steady while you settle into place. Your limbs tremble slightly, but you don’t know whether it's from excitement or nervousness or both. He distracts you with whispered sweet nothings under his breath, a stream of babbled, soft-spoken praise about how gorgeous you are and how badly he wants you. His hands run up and down your thighs soothingly when you’re finally in position above him.

His soft, snowy-white hair tickles your leg when he turns his head to kiss your thigh, then he grabs your hips and gently urges you down, down, down, closer to his mouth. He’s always so impatient, so eager to please you. He’s determined to make this worth your while.

His fingers spread you open wider for him, and when you finally kiss the tip of his cock and swipe your tongue lightly across the slit, his stuttered groan is lost between the apex of your thighs. The vibration shoots through you as his tongue laps greedily at your most sensitive spots, hot and wet and yearning for his touch.

The muffled sounds of your pleasure and his, growing in volume and frequency and desperation, are drowned out by the slick noises of lips against skin, a depraved symphony that he’s determined to coax from you over and over again.

His tongue flicks greedily at your entrance, teasing the tight rim with the slightest bit of stretch. His cock slips from your mouth when your lips fall open with a loud moan but he doesn’t mind - he wants to hear more of those sounds, and he pulls you down even more so you’re nearly smothering him with your body.

Solomon senses that you’re close when your hips start to move with the slow, grinding rhythm of his lips and tongue. There’s an endless stream of curses and pleas and whimpers tumbling from your mouth, punctuated by gasps and moans that rattle in your chest he pulls from you without mercy. It’s not long before a sharp gasp and a broken cry of his name when your body clenches around his tongue and your release spills across his fingers. He laves over the sticky mess between your legs and savors every delicious drop while he keeps you in place with an arm tucked over your thigh, and he doesn’t stop. Your body shakes above him when he pushes you towards that narrow ledge where pleasure and pain mingle together. Not enough slowly becomes too much and he lets you go when you squirm in his hold to break free from his grasp.

You settle on your back next to him with a soft sight that’s sweet and content, but without hesitation he follows you like being pressed side-to-side isn’t close enough for his liking. He rolls on top of you and he licks his lips with a wickedly satisfied hum before kissing you with all the pent-up desire that still thrums deep within him. His slick tongue pushes gently into your mouth where your scent and taste still cling to him most.

“I want you,” he murmurs against your lips, and though the words are muffled there’s no mistaking what he hopes for next. His erection is firm where it rests between your legs, smearing the faintest amount of stickiness on your skin as it bounces lightly with each twitch and subtle jerk of his hips.

“I want you, I want…can I? Please?” He breathes hotly against your ear as his raspy voice hitches, exhaling a shaky moan while he holds himself above you, waiting.

If you denied him this, you know he’d pull himself off you in an instant without complaint. His desire would ebb and fade away while he holds you quietly for the rest of the night, content with your company itself and any disappointment he feels is gone by morning.

His eyes are hungry and loving in equal measure and with him so close but not close enough, you realize how empty you are without him warming you with the weight of his body and filling you with everything he has. Words fail you but he doesn’t need to hear them, not when you kiss him back just as desperately while your hand reaches down between you and guides his cock inside. Trembling fingers dig into his sweat-slicked back as he moves, slipping over familiar pact marks as you hold him tight enough to bruise. His pace starts slowly at first but grows faster, each thrust filling you so perfectly, burying your cries against his shoulder and spurring him into a pace that loses its rhythm as the pleasure builds inside like a dam about to burst.

When he comes inside you for the first time that night (and certainly not the last), he whispers your name brokenly but with so much love that you can’t help but come too.

Later, much later, when you’re both limp with exhaustion and finally satisfied, Solomon curls protectively around you in a soft nest of bedding on the floor. His slow, rhythmic breathing and the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your ear lull you into a comfortable sleep. His body heat chases away the late night's cold even as the glowing embers of the fire nearby finally fade into darkness.