#i know how specific chapters will go from beginning to end

[patchwork-crow-writes]

Ralsei is the Literal Personification of Abandonment And Self-Esteem Issues - and it's all because Kris threw him away in their childhood.

Been a while since I've done a long-form essay on Ralsei Deltarune! Chapter 3 and 4 really blew the doors wide open on this guy - how he sees himself, how he relates to other darkners, his place in the prophecy (and his attempts to subvert it), how he echoes the goatlike Dreemurrs but isn't a carbon copy of them, and his relationship with Kris Dreemurr particularly, entirely divorced from the SOUL/player possessing them. I've been swirling it all in my head over the past two weeks, trying to figure out what it all says about him, alongside what scant knowledge was established in prior chapters.

This is the result: a thesis that will lay out my vision on who and what Ralsei truly is, why he's manifested in this way, why he dotes on Kris specifically, and how everything ties together to explain some of his more... questionable actions in the chapters we have so far. Altogether, I want to provide context for his actions in previous chapters, his beliefs about himself and darkner-kind in present chapters, and where the future chapters might take his character.

Buckle in, this is going to be a LONG one.

Part 1: "I just wonder what... being "Ralsei-like" even is...?"

Before Chapters 3 and 4 came out, the question of "Who or what is Ralsei" was a rather open-ended one. Concrete evidence was scant, and what little could be gleaned from optional dialogue or careful observation didn't shed much light on anything. For every point that indicated Ralsei was Kris's horned headband, another would refute that and suggest he was created whole cloth as a character for the player's enjoyment. Was he a naive, inexperienced youth struggling to deal with his friends' big emotions, or an uncaring gamemaster who was determined to keep events on the rails? Perhaps he was a creation of Gaster - a Goner, like those transient souls we sometimes see in Undertale if we're lucky. Or maybe he was a Titan Spawn, rebelling against his ordained purpose and using his knowledge for the forces of light.

With the new chapters, what we got instead was far more interesting and compelling than any of us could have possibly imagined. What we got... was a scared, lonely, sad boy, burdened with knowledge he didn't ask for, raised in isolation from anything approaching care or compassion, desperate for love and camaraderie but never feeling like he truly deserved it. Alone so long he doesn't know who or what he is, so conditioned by prophecy that he sees himself as little more than a playing piece on a board much grander and more important than himself.

Yet, for the sake of his friends and their happiness... he tries to defy the fate set out before him. Write a happier ending for them... but not for himself. Never for himself.

Because he's a darkner. And darkners don't matter.

Part 2: "Just forget about us and make some real friends."

You do not have to play Deltarune long to get a sense of how Ralsei sees himself in relation to lightners (See: literally anything he says to Kris - we'll visit this later on)... or, for that matter, how he sees darkners as a whole in relation to lightners. Everything is framed through this lens for him, even all the way back in chapter 1:

And chapter 2:

All of which culminates in the bombshell revelation at the beginning of Chapter 3 - Darkners are nothing more than inanimate objects given life by some sort of "meta-darkness", permitted to exist only in a liminal, "indistinct" state of being. For all intents and purposes, darkners are entirely imaginary... and Ralsei is entirely, painfully aware of that fact, even as he's explaining it to Kris and Susie.

Astute players will have noticed clues indicating this truth, and even that Ralsei himself has known about it this whole time - particularly when it comes to getting Kris to gather up all the objects in the Abandoned Classroom to bring back to his Castle Town.

However, the implications of this knowledge that Ralsei possessed, or whether it affected him in any capacity, weren't fully apparent until he tried to "console" Tenna at the end of chapter 3:

"Mr. Tenna… I… understand how you feel. To want to be… important. To be… useful. Perhaps… you might not be watched much anymore… But… that doesn't make you a failure, Tenna! You've brought smiles, light into Lightner's lives… to Kris's family and friends, for so long. So, there's nothing to be ashamed of.If… that ever comes to an end. Darkners.. all become obsolete eventually. But we aren't "real", Tenna. We shouldn't make Lightners worry about what happens to us. It'd just… make them unhappy, wouldn't it?"

This speech is, for want of a better term, a trainwreck. If it was intended to provide comfort and solace, it did the total opposite, and it was only thanks to Susie's timely intervention that Tenna was able to rally. But what it says about how Ralsei feels about his station as a darkner - as the Prince of the Dark, no less - speaks volumes. Stated plainly, he sees the relationship between lightners and darkners as a purely functional, transactional one, where darkners are destined to amuse, entertain and bring happiness to their lightner betters. Once they can no longer sustain that function, for whatever reason... it is then their destiny to be cast out, disposed of, left behind and forgotten. In fact, he goes further than this, implying that darkners as a whole should be GRATEFUL to have been useful in any capacity, and that they should not lament their fate, in case they upset the lightners they are supposed to serve.

To most anyone else, this would be a horrifying portrayal of existence - but to Ralsei, it is his lodestone, the guiding principle that informs his every action. A true darkner would be happy to have served so faithfully, so he thinks... it's not as if he or any of the others are real, in any case, so what they think doesn't even matter in the first place. He will be useful to his friends - his masters - for as long as he can serve, in whatever capacity he can serve.

And Ralsei will condemn himself to abject misery in order to do it.

Part 3: "If anyone's going to hurt... let it... just be me."

To call Ralsei "self-sacrificing" is a level of understatement that borders on the tragically comic. He constantly falls over himself offering his services to Kris and Susie, ensuring they are happy, trying to protect them from things that might make them sad. He sees Lancer "transform" into a stool ONCE, then takes that transformation for himself so he can be a literal object for his friends to use at their convenience - even when there's an actual perfectly usable stool nearby.

(For the record, I don't kinkshame. Go off prince!)

Want more? Okay - Ralsei is so preoccupied with making cakes for Kris and Susie, but has never even attempted to try one for himself - and is then ashamed at how much he enjoys it.

Still not convinced? Okay - Ralsei goes to all the trouble to create bespoke rooms for Kris and Susie in his castle, AND all the major chapter antagonists (except King lol), decorates them all to their occupants' liking... and then we stumble across his room in chapter 4 and it's completely empty. Not even a chair to sit on - Nothing except a small window looking out into the world.

Ah, but luckily, there IS something he feels like he deserves: pain. Physical pain, mental pain, emotional pain... he's such a glutton for punishment that he won't settle for his own pain, but put himself in ever-greater anguish for the sake of his friends... and smile while doing it.

He'll suffer the crushing burden of knowledge, the tragedy of the final prophecy, Kris and Susie thinking he's weird, the PLAYER thinking he's suspicious, being belittled, demeaned, looked down upon and ignored... he'll take it all upon his own shoulders, and not once dare to complain about it.

And for what? To risk alienating the very people he cares so much for? To risk Susie's anger and frustration at his constant pussyfooting around difficult subjects? To one day take on too much, to watch as his careful facade shatters and crumbles around him, to burn himself out so utterly that he ceases to be of any use to anyone?

Good thing he's friends with Susie, right?

...right?

Part 4: "How can she be so kind...? How...?"

Susie sets herself in opposition to Ralsei's worldview from the very start of their adventure, rejecting her status as a hero and walking off to do her own thing. She rebuffs his lofty speeches about "prophecies" and "purpose", choosing instead to trust in what her senses are telling her in the present moment.

And she has very little patience for his more... self-denying tendencies. She'll insist he's real to her and Kris at every turn, she'll pledge to get him furniture for his room and make it the most "bad-ass room in the castle". She'll cut over his "motivational" speech to Tenna and replace it with her own, insisting that "someone wants you" and "no-one's getting thrown away".

Even when faced with the inevitability of the Final Prophecy - the tragic ending that Ralsei has tried so hard to stop her from learning about - she refuses to bow to it, shattering it into a million pieces and reassuring him it won't ever come to pass - because they won't let it.

So it is that Susie's example sets a fire in Ralsei's heart. He finds himself endlessly inspired by her, not in spite of her crass, irreverent manner, but because of it. Everything she does, she does because she WANTS to, not because anyone told her to. And that fills Ralsei with hope - hope, however dim, that perhaps they can defy the cruel fate set out for them.

But hope alone isn't enough.

Part 5: "Darkners... all become obsolete eventually."

This line, taken from the aforementioned trainwreck of a rousing speech to Tenna, perfectly encapsulates everything that Ralsei believes about himself, about darkners in general, and about the way things must be. And it stabs right at the heart of his trauma.

Because he has already experienced it firsthand.

This is the point where we must venture into conjecture - everything I've established over the past few minutes has laid the groundwork for my theory on what Ralsei is, why he's the way he is, and how we might predict how he'll behave in future chapters.

Remember Toriel talking about Kris's old horned headband back in chapter 1? How they asked her when their horns would grow in? How they wore it for months, before it suddenly, mysteriously disappeared? Those horns played a role in Kris's life, and an important one at that - they helped to validate their feelings around their identity, allowed them to feel more akin to their adoptive family, more like a monster and less like... an outsider. To have lost or otherwise misplaced such a treasured object would be unthinkable.

Now... have you noticed the way that Ralsei will fawn over Kris specifically throughout their adventures together? How he'll doggedly follow in Kris's shadow no matter what they do or how they act? How he'll excuse them any behaviour, no matter if he'd rebuke another for that same behaviour? How he'll go out of his way to reassure them, console them? Validate their identity, their talents, their choices - to an almost obsessive degree?

Put these points side-by-side, and you start to see how they correlate with each other - how Ralsei's behavior in the present follows on from the headband's role in Kris's past. It is the strongest indication we have that Ralsei's light world object is more likely than not to be that very same horned headband. Indeed, the parallels between them are so strong that once you see them, it's almost impossible to believe otherwise. It neatly explains Ralsei's almost crush-like obsession with Kris, his need to validate their identity at all costs, and his acute embarrassment and joy at being seen as their equal.

But my assertion goes further than this anodyne observation: I assert that, at some point after wearing the headband for months, Kris realised that they were NEVER going to be a true monster, a true Dreemurr... that they'd always be shackled to their humanity, no matter what. And so, far from accidentally losing the headband, they made the conscious decision to throw it away once they realised the lie it represented. It had served its purpose, brought joy to a child who felt like they didn't belong... and then its purpose was used up, and it was discarded.

Abandoned.

At a stroke, this explains all of Ralsei's strange behaviours - his obsessive need to be useful, his almost-slavish devotion to the happiness of his lightner friends, his twisted and utilitarian views on darkner-kind, and his own catastrophic lack of self esteem. He is TERRIFIED of being abandoned again, and will do anything in his power to remain useful, to not become obsolete and unwanted... and yet at exactly the same time, he sees it as his inevitable fate. One day, his use will run out, and without warning he'll be cast back into obscurity. And try as he might, there is nothing Ralsei can do about it.

He failed in his purpose once before... and he could just as easily fail it again.

Part 6: "Hearing that from you... I might just..."

I've mentioned before that Susie attempts to counteract Ralsei's narrative that neither he nor the other darkners are "real", and that none of them really matter in the grand scheme of things. She loudly proclaims the opposite, any chance she gets, asserts her profound believe that Ralsei IS real, and that they ARE friends. And not just Ralsei - her concern and compassion extends to ALL darkners. It's sweet and touching, and brings the two of them closer together.

And none of it has any effect on Ralsei's view of the world whatsoever. To him, Susie's grand platitudes are just that - they can enkindle hope in his heart that their grim future can be averted, and they can bring comfort in a moment of insecurity... but they alone cannot heal his trauma. Because while he DOES desperately want to hear those words spoken to him, it's not Susie he wants to hear them from.

It's Kris.

And we know this because there are two instances where Kris CAN say something approaching those words to him - once in chapter 2's Acid Tunnel, where they can say "It's nice that Ralsei is Ralsei", and again in Chapter 4, upon discovering Ralsei's unfurnished room, they can say "Please be yourself". And the way he reacts in both instances is telling:

The takeaway here is that, no matter how ardently Susie proclaims and validates Ralsei's fundamental identity and existence, it won't be until Kris echoes that sentiment, freely and of their own volition, that he'll begin to truly believe it for himself. It has to come from Kris - the one who had once needed him to validate their own identity, before they unknowingly consigned him to loneliness and bereavement.

Perhaps at that point, Ralsei's trauma can finally begin to heal from the damage that was done to him.

Part 7: "My own desires. My own... fears."

So. Now that we've reached this point... where does Ralsei's character arc go from here? How can we use what we've built up here to try and anticipate where Chapter 5 might take him, and how his relationships with Kris, Susie, and everyone else will change as a result?

We see glimmers of what it could look like in his talk with Kris, discussing him coming to discover his own likes and dislikes, his own selfish desires... contrasted with the "hobbies" he took up just as a way to further serve his lightner friends, and the internal conflict he feels at such:

I don't really have any hobbies, or interests. Baking, sewing, singing... those are all just... things I thought to do... for you two. But recently... I'm starting to feel like... like I'm developing my own opinions. My own likes. My own dislikes. My own desires. My own... fears. ...please... tell me... should I... Should a... Darkner... be feeling like this?

Do I think this means he'll one day abandon the persona he's so carefully curated up to this point? No - rather, I believe he will iterate and build upon it. His edges may become a little coarser, but fundamentally he'll still be the same caring, considerate fluffy boy we all know and love.

But that isn't to say there won't be bumps in the road along the way.

I brought up Chapter 5 specifically because of a few interesting hints about what it will entail. In Susie's trial against Gerson, he mentions the events of each chapter we've run into up to this point, and also this hint for Chapter 5's content:

Now, most people will see this and infer that this "jealousy" will be from Asgore, upon discovering that Toriel has shacked up with Sans. And while I do believe he will have his part to play, allow me to add another potential point to consider: I think RALSEI will be the one to experience this burning jealousy for the first time - and in its newfound intensity, make a crucial mistake that could wind up making things worse down the line.

Jealousy that he cannot be at peace with his purpose like the other darkners seem to be.

Jealousy that it took him so long to realise he could start to be his own person, independent of the lightners.

Jealousy that Susie's healing capabilities are beginning to eclipse his own, his "unique talent".

Jealousy that he cannot have what everyone else takes for granted - a normal, carefree life.

Jealousy that Kris seems to prefer Susie over him.

I believe that chapter 5 will be the point in the story where Ralsei's sense of purpose and obligation crashes headlong into his new, burgeoning wants as his own person, and he'll finally begin to reckon with the events of his past... how he was loved and cherished only to be thrown away without warning. The sadness and the bewilderment of such a traumatic event... but also, the resentment, the bitterness.

What had I done wrong to deserve such treatment? Why did I have to suffer like this? Why couldn't I have been kept, even if just as a memento?

Why won't Kris look at me the way they look at Susie...?

How can I get them to see me the way they used to?

Why can't we go back to the way things were before?

And where else would such an epiphany take place but the very space where another person struggles with their own questions about the past, and where every flower is seemingly grown for the sole purpose of proving his undying love to his former partner, in the hope that things may one day go back to the way they were before...?

Indeed, once you see the parallels between Ralsei and Asgore, they're almost impossible to unsee. And the more I think about it, the more certain I become that this is where Ralsei's character arc is progressing towards - a reckoning with the past, a lamentation at the present... and a resentment that threatens to burn down the very future he's fought for so valiantly up to this point.

And oh, what an inferno it will create.

Closing Thoughts: "I want to believe... it can change!"

Ralsei is a character who has been largely misunderstood by the fandom at large for a long time. Part of my motivation for writing this essay was to help steer people towards a more nuanced understanding of his behaviours, his role in the story, his potential past and future, and his strange, almost limerent connection with Kris. The scenario I outlined in the previous part was an attempt to show what I believe would be the most interesting and compelling direction for his character to go in, based on everything that had been established in both the game and my speculation up to that point. I hope that I have succeeded on this point.

I should say right now, for the purposes of clearing up any potential misunderstandings: I don't believe this potential is in any way indicative that Ralsei's gonna turn "evil" - just that he's a young person suffering a great deal from immense trauma and crushing responsibility, who doesn't have much experience with people, or even his own feelings, and who has the potential to lose control at a crucial moment. That doesn't make him evil - it makes him a person.

Likewise with Kris "abandoning" Ralsei - that act doesn't make them evil. Indeed, how could they have possibly known the significance of that action prior to reuniting with him years later? How many precious toys have you thrown away in your lifetime, and does the act of doing so make you some kind of villain? Perhaps in a world where darkners have the potential to exist... but otherwise, the question is ridiculous and doesn't merit discussion.

I suppose what I wanted to achieve by writing this essay is to allow people to see in Ralsei what I see in him - a flawed, tragic character, struggling to make sense of himself and his place in the world; to love and trust people as he finds them, not as he wishes them to be; to have the courage and belief to let go of the injustices of the past, and to face the uncertain future without fear... wherever it may take him.

I see a great deal of my own prior struggles in Ralsei. It's why I strongly believe that, if not actually autistic, he has been written with autistic coding in mind - the masking, the people-pleasing, the lack of finer social mores... but those same traits that endear him to me seemed to repel a great many others. I don't want a repeat of the chapter 2 times, I don't want his character to be defined by a misunderstanding like it has been up to this point. I hope that, after reading this, you all feel the same way.

Thank you so much for reading <3

special thanks to @dawnthefluffyduck and @bleakoutlo for their input and suggestions! :D

[solibrie]

suselle is so awesome because it develops by both girls' own choices (in the normal route obvi) and not any meddling from the player. (the only interference you can cause suselle is stopping it from developing in the weird route)

like ch2 makes this most obvious imo. noelle is the one who chooses to approach at the beginning of the chapter and ask susie to study together. even if you don't talk to noelle about susie at the end of ch1, she still decides to reach out to susie on her own terms the next day!

the big suselle scene of the chapter is the ferris wheel, which we have no control of whatsoever. we are voyeurs at best and that is it. noelle thinks it's a dream, but susie knows it isn't- knows what noelle is saying is real and honest because what would the point of lying even be?

ch4 though... it's so excellent. susie just approaches noelle after the sermon without telling kris her plan!! and noelle *thinks* to ask permission, but decides against it entirely and goes for an opportunity to spend time with susie and kris is also there

minor note: i'm obsessed with susie calling noelle "top shelf" when she's talking to rudy after church. it's such a specific descriptor that tells you about susie's (lack of) self esteem and how she perceives noelle. don't let anyone tell you suselle lacks character depth because they're LYING TO YOU!!!

the basement scene, dess's bedroom scene, and guitar scene are all just so good. dess's bedroom & the guitar scene are so illuminating to me. dess is obviously a sore subject in the holiday home, but relatively new-in-town susie probably doesn't know anything about dess besides that she exists and isn't in hometown right now. for all susie knows, dess is at college with asriel or something. noelle doesn't tell susie that she's intruding on the bedroom and prized possession of a missing teenager. she just... sits with her. and we can't do anything about it! all we can do is make the dess's bedroom scene shorter by getting to the guitar before the dialogue runs out, but then we've gotten the guitar and now noelle is going to suggest (OF HER OWN FREE WILL) that susie try to play it.

she asks susie out to the festival! and susie accepts!

i am just so compelled by the character work present in these scenes. noelle has grown despite believing ch2 to have been a dream, and it shows via her scenes with susie. and it rules

[styxxsyringe]

it's been months and i still don't know how to start off reassassination

[angelsforthenight]

screen babe, mean babe, guess who’s gonna cream babe! (pt. 4)

camgirl!vi x reader (pt 1, pt 2, pt 3)

summary: days are going by too quickly and fickle feelings blossom between you and vi. you make the most of each day with her, but when a certain someone comes back and places a hard choice on you, decisions will have to be made.

PRE A/N: hi lovelies,, even though i really really love when u guys send me messages and express how much u love my work (i adore it sm pls keep doing so) pls don’t ask me when i will update a chapter because i can never tell you a specific time and it stresses me out .·°՞(¯□¯)՞°·. believe it or not it takes a lot to write a series fanfic and i’ve already got a lot on my plate with work and school so pls acknowledge that ;; ANYWAYS I HOPE U ENJOY AND I LOB U GUYS

content (18+): lots of smut, situationship, tribbing, sub!vi, brat!vi, dirty talk, begging, risky sex, sort foot fetish but i don’t wanna call it that 😭🙏, very faint angst, lots of fluff too!!! crushing & yearning, dbf!sevika feature, we get a bit of vi’s pov, cliffhanger at the end :p

“you’re never gonna forget about me, are you?”

your legs are currently slotted in between vi’s, sticky not only from the film of sweat coated over your bodies, but also the undeniable arousal that has grown and festered between you two.

vi gasps sharply when you push yourself forward; bumping your clit against hers and smearing your fluids.

“you’re so… f-fucking smug.” she has to force the words out, now familiar with the fact that you always expect an answer to your questions. you reach down and cup her face, squeezing her cheeks.

“because i’m right. you’re gonna go off to wherever the hell knows where and i’m still going to be on your mind.” you grin, fucking her harder. vi’s hand flies to her mouth as she stifles in a cry. she doesn’t want to wake your parents who are asleep next door.

“i prefer not to think about that.” vi pitches her hips up, making sparks of stimulation rivulet down your entire body, right down to your feet. a whine doesn’t fail to escape your lips.

you and vi have been at this since the night of the barbecue party. fucking. it’s the best thing you could’ve wanted, especially because you always get to tease and taunt vi in the process. the unconscious ‘competition’ that had been going on between you two is now no more, but if it was, you’d be so many points higher than vi right now.

“i’m close. keep talking to me.” you sigh, eyes fluttering closed.

“i— fuck… c-can’t really talk either, you know. hah!” vi tries to sound snappy, but with the way your clits are gliding together at an intense pace, her voice comes out as pathetic instead.

“how bad do you need to cum right now?” you huff, your gaze struggling to focus as the impending release threatens to overtake you.

“real bad.” vi whines, tipping her head back. your hand reaches for vi’s, intertwining your fingers with hers.

“beg for it. i know you can.”

with how close you two are about to cum, your movements begin to grow sloppier, inconsistent. vi squeezes her hold on your hand.

“oh god… please let me cum. pleaseplease—“

it’s a salacious view alright. what with the harsh pants and the outwardly pornographic noises filling the room, creaming your sopping pussy against her own.

“then go ahead. make a mess.” you permit. vi doesn’t even need to be told twice, tipping her head back as her body goes rigid, shuddering violently. she swears she can see god, and you, the same.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

you are something quite like the sun these days. even your parents have noticed your heartened mood.

“you have roses in your cheeks.” your mother would point out warmly, the old-fashioned saying never failing to make you blush even more. you’re fucking glowing, and you have no one else to thank but vi. the bond between you two have nurtured like a river, flowing deeper with each passing day. is it too early to say that you’re falling in love?

it’s currently the evening and vi’s exhausted after a long day of running after animals, cleaning kennels, feeding and watering. you’re half sat/half laying in between her legs, with the cd she bought for you playing soothingly in the background. vi traces her name on the nape of your neck and you squirm, scrunching your face up.

“that tickles. and you’re not slick.”

you turn around only to see vi smiling impishly, like a mischievous child. “i was gonna write violence, actually.”

“liar.” you smile, turning back around and nuzzling comfortably against her front. you could fall asleep right now if you wanted to.

her fingertips graze against your scalp, tracing circles and stars and spirals. her name is what she writes the most, however, from the back of your head to the nape of your neck. as if engraving her name in your brain. 

you’re the happiest you’ve been in a while.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

fried chicken for dinner tonight. vi’s got one of those nights when she comes early from work, and your parents like her so much that they insist on eating all together and chatting when they all have the chance to. whereas two weeks ago you hated it, you’ve now come to appreciate it.

you sink your teeth into a wing, immediately regretting doing so because of how hot it is.

“damn it.” you mutter, blowing on it repeatedly. vi, sitting across from you, watches you amusedly. a slack smile playing on her lips.

“that’s why you gotta be patient.” she chirps, and your parents agree. you roll your eyes, though your heart betrays you by fluttering in glee. any sliver of attention from vi gets your heart going, and by the way she’s looking at you makes you hope she likes you the same way you do.

your clothed foot grazes vi’s under the table before sliding up her leg. vi quickly glances at you before focusing on her food again, quietly clearing her throat. you smile, your eyes brazenly set on her. it seems to be embarrassing her, considering the way her skin is beginning to match the colour of her hair.

you make matters worse by guiding your foot upwards, boldly pressing the heel of your foot against her crotch. it makes vi jolt so hard that her knees hit against the table, making the dishes clatter. you quietly snort.

“are you okay, violet?” your dad asks, raising a brow. vi’s jaw slacks open, her brain momentarily short-circuiting as she tries to figure out something to say.

“i… um. sorry. i get… s-shivers.” she mutters slowly. your foot doesn’t move.

“it’s okay, dad, i get them too sometimes.” you chime in, though your eyes are still settled on vi’s nervous ones. you take this a step further by ever so slightly shifting your foot up, with the right amount of pressure. vi instinctively clenches her thighs against your foot. the fabric of your sock crammed against vi’s dressed cunt is unbelievable, and vi hangs her head low, pinching the bridge of her nose as she tries her hardest to act normal at the dinner table. this is all so fun, watching vi try to stay as still as possible. her food is left discarded on her plate, completely forgotten about, whilst you amusedly nibble on a fry.

you press too hard, and high-pitched whimper leaves her lips. she thinks nobody heard because she instantly shot up from her seat, offering to take plates to the dishwasher. she shoots you a withering glare, one that makes you feel a pang of heat on your lower stomach.

you innocently smile back at her, offering her your plate for her to take.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

“that wasn’t cool what you did back there.” vi huffs whilst she tilts her head to the side, letting you pepper sloppy, open-mouthed kisses all over her neck.

“you didn’t like it?” you let yourself be selfish, planting purple bruises on the slope of her neck where it meets her shoulder.

“it’s not th—ah..t. it’s ‘cuz we were with your p-parents, so it’s weird…” vi’s voice is beginning to slew into a heap of slurred babbles, because you’ve now brought your teeth into the mix; nipping and sucking at her skin.

you glance up at her, taking in the hazy look on her face, the way her eyebrows are already settled in that familiar needy look you worship so much.

“good thing we didn’t get caught then. right?”

vi gazes down at you, furrowing her brows. the corner of her lips twitch into a little smile.

“you’re really something y’know?” she whispers, brushing your hair to the side so she can see more of your face. “you know what? you’re right. i’m probably not gonna forget about you.”

you blink, eyes widening a fraction as you register what she’s just said. mere words have somehow blown you off your socks and left you speechless, your dominant and playful demeanour gone like the wind. vi isn’t going to forget about you.

you glance down, busying yourself by running your hands up her thighs so vi can’t see how flustered you’re getting, how hard your heart has started to pound against your ribs.

“you mean that?” you mumble quietly, the question slipping out of your lips before your brain even gets a chance to stop them. you mentally curse yourself for sounding so needy and desperate. vi looks down at you quietly, before gently guiding your chin up to focus your gaze on her. she flashes you a grin.

“what was that tone? ’you mean that?’ you sound so sad.” you flush red when vi mimics you, swatting her hand away and looking away from her.

“fuck off.”

“no! just say you’re gonna miss me.” vi teases, trying to get you to show your face. you jerk away like a baby refusing to be spoon-fed. “come onnnn!” she coos.

vi pounces on you, making you both tumble onto the sheets. you squeal as you two get yourselves into playful roughhousing. you lightly pull at vi’s hair whilst she shoves your face, rolling around on the bed. you can’t help but burst out laughing at how silly you two are acting.

“there she is.” vi breathes, raising herself above you, her hands being on either side of your head. you guys both pant breathlessly, synchronised, as if connected.

“so what if i am going to miss you?” you mutter.

vi smiles sympathetically, a look you both want to diminish from your brain and keep it locked in there forever. you really don’t want vi to go. for her to just go back to being a cam-girl on your screen.

vi leans down and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. though vi was the one to initiate it, your lips chase after hers, cupping her cheeks and holding her close. as if she’ll disintegrate if you let go.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

you two sleep together in your bed that night. it wasn’t planned, it just kind of happened. your heads are huddled together, vi’s cheek pressed against yours. despite the onslaught of boiling summer heat you’ve been experiencing these past few weeks, the covers are pulled up high, just under your chins, tucked in comfortably with the woman you’ve come to fall for.

you sleep so well that you don’t even realise your mother coming in the room to leave some towels in the cupboard. she’s quite surprised at the sight, not having really known how close you two have gotten. she smiles to herself and creeps away quietly, not wishing to wake you two up. she knew you’d be embarrassed if you found her there.

it’s the sound of vi’s alarm that wakes you two up. you inhale sharply at the unexpected blaring noise, whilst vi groans and lazily switches it off. she squints her eyes at the harsh sunlight bleeding through your sheer curtains. she then glances down at you — who’s trying to bury your face in her arm so you’re isn’t met with how bright it is.

“think it’s time to get up.” vi mutters, her voice laced with sleep. you groan awake, stretching and purposely shoving her a little while you do so.

“hey.” vi giggles, shoving you back.

you two end up staying in bed for a while longer, lazily mumbling about all sorts of things: how vi has the day off today, and you suggesting you go to the ice cream parlour downtown together. all the while, the tip of vi’s nails drag against your scalp soothingly.

though this little tranquil moment feels lovely, there’s a little voice nagging in the back of your head that vi will be leaving soon, in less than a week, so you shouldn’t feel too comfortable. guilt slithers up your spine at how much this feels like a relationship, like you two are girlfriends. the fact that this moment won’t last upsets you.

you faintly move away from her. “i’m gonna start getting ready.”

“mmm i’m gonna stay here for a little longer. i like your bed.” vi stretches.

after getting dressed, you pad downstairs. you expect to see your parents in the kitchen, but instead you surprisingly find sevika instead. sitting against the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee, reading a magazine as casual as ever, as if she’s been here all along.

“oh, look who’s finally up.” she glances at you through her glasses, before taking it off and setting it down on the table.

“sevika?” you blink repeatedly, “what are you doing here? where are my parents?” your thoughts frantically rush to vi, dreading how awkward things will most-likely be if she comes downstairs. your mind then proceeds to flash to the barbecue party, how you were so drunk you were practically throwing yourself all over the poor woman.

“they went out, told me to look after the house.” she grins. “i haven’t left this side of town quite yet. sorry to disappoint.”

“disappointed? no! definitely not… i’m more than happy you’re here actually.” you ramble, spilling more than you should. sevika simply stares at you amusedly.

“what’s with you lately? sit next to me.” she instructs gently, her voice so low and guiding that you can’t help but comply immediately. her silver eyes pierce through you so hard you’re afraid she’ll be able to somehow read your mind, so you look away. you do not want vi to come downstairs and see you like this.

but alas, vi does. skipping down the staircase and even cheerfully singing a little tune to herself. however upon seeing you and sevika, her face falls. in fact, it even sours.

“oh. hello.” she greets sevika flatly. glancing at you straightaway. you want to melt.

“morning. violet, was it?” sevika looks at her.

vi hums in response, you internally cringe at vi’s obvious attitude. “you?”

“name’s sevika. i’m a friend of the family.”

there seems to be this inexplicable tension in the room that is so thick that it feels like it’s being shoved down your throat and constricting your airways. you make up an excuse to leave, lying that there’s plants that need to be watered.

vi fleetingly hates you for leaving her alone with this older woman, who exhibits an air of being intimidating yet lenient all the same. she knows you two are close, judging by the way you two acted at the party. it may be selfish to admit, but she didn’t like it. not even in the slightest. sure, it’s worrying, considering you two aren’t even dating, and she’ll probably never see you again once her stay here expires, but she doesn’t care.

“you’re staring at me a lot. is there something on my face?” sevika smiles. vi swears she’s not being crazy when she says she can feel the condescending tone bleeding out of her.

“no.” vi mumbles as a response, trying to peek at the garden to see where you are at; silently pleading for you to come save her from this painful conversation.

“so… you and y/n? y’all close or..?” sevika raises a brow.

vi narrows her eyes. she’d be pleasured to snap in sev’s face about that being frankly none of her business and that she should be playing bingo or some shit (vi has no sense of what forty year old women do.)

“sure. close enough to know that she’s good with her hands… which explains the planting thing.” vi passes it off as a simple gardening thing, but she meant more, and sevika knows she meant more. they glare at each other silently, an invisible zing of electricity charging between the two of them.

you come back just in time to fizzle out the tense moment, and both women stare up at you, saying your name at the same time. vi and sevika glare at each other whilst you stand there confused; obviously unaware of what happened whilst you were gone.

sevika’s the first to successfully grab your attention, getting at your name first before vi does.

“you mind if we talk? privately?” she mutters.

“it’s fine, i’ll just go upstairs.” vi bitches, storming up the stairs like an angsty teenager. you furrow your brows at her behaviour. maybe it wasn’t such a good idea leaving them alone.

“anyway. i mostly came here to talk to you about something.” sevika says, her eye contact as strong as always. you quietly nod, though a little inkling in your brain is worrying about vi, hoping she isn’t actually sulking upstairs.

“i’m leaving today. do you want to come back with me?” sevika’s words make you pause, your gaze fully focused on her.

“just for a few days. i already talked to your parents about it. i think you’d like it. would be good for you.” sevika smirks.

your brain short-circuits, just shy of exploding. a year ago, you were absolutely gutted upon hearing that sevika was leaving. you wanted nothing more than for her to pack you up in her suitcase and take you with her. you adore sevika. anything she says, goes.

but on the flip side, you cannot just leave vi: someone you’ve bonded with heavily, even outside of sex. you can’t even begin to imagine her face if you’d tell her, especially since vi’s days of living in your house are coming to an end. you don’t even think you’d be able to see her go if you went with sevika.

then again… vi came here with a purpose. she simply wanted to do volunteering and wanted a place to stay in. having sex with you is probably just a mere bonus, that’s all she probably sees it as. you two don’t mean enough to each other than you hope.

you get out of your head, noticing that sevika is looking at you expectedly. whatever you pick will matter, and will leave an impression that’ll hardly be forgettable…

part 5 (final part)

taglist: @moonchildcovenxx @h0n3yf0rlif3 @vxtanne31 @elliesbabygirl @jaydonisnothere @wlw-please @d1psht @morticeras @bambiaches @drunkenrosesluv @vicforelsfavorite @elliezlils11utt @ghgygd @gel6tine @yearningandstillnotlearning @honeyboo-1 @scissorszex @rishofkf @jajsnjz @kmhbygss @pornoangelz @ilikegirlz @rhian88 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @goticapomposa @etherealpixie8 @elliecoochieeater

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[lemonlover1110]

𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Sukuna

[Chapter 2] Arrangements

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Pairing: Trueform!Sukuna x f!Reader

Warnings: MDNI Sukuna joins reader bath without permission (nothing crazy), Nudity

Discord +18 - Twitter - Ko-Fi

You’re still in the process of retaining all that has happened while your arms and feet are being washed. You’re smelling a fragrance that is way out of your means and while it does smell nice, you want to puke. This is all too much for you. You weren’t even given an option, you were simply just dragged away as if you weren’t your own person.

“Can you stop, please?” Your voice comes off as weak, and it’s easy to dismiss. You feel as if you’re drowning, even though the water doesn’t reach past your breasts. They’re being gentle with you, not wanting to damage the skin of the mistress that will carry King Sukuna’s heir, though their hands feel so rough for you. 

“Can you stop?!” You yell, which makes everyone come to a halt. They’re all staring at the ground, not daring to make eye contact with you. You have yet to realize the power you have in this situation since it’s quickly overshadowed by the fact that you’re… Expected to carry a monster’s heir. You can’t afford to look at them, simply telling them, “Leave, please.”

They got strict orders to bathe you and not leave you alone, but the orders were from Uraume. Right now, they’re more terrified of you than anything; even when you’re frail and soft spoken, they don’t see you as your own being but rather an extension of King Sukuna. They end up leaving you alone per your request.

This is the perfect opportunity to run away– No, you can’t. You came here for a reason, and while you’re still shell-shocked, you can’t leave. You sigh, knowing that even if you wanted to, getting caught would result in a gruesome death. You begin to wonder if you’re able to reproduce with him, Sukuna is one of his kind. He’s not exactly a human… What would he be considered?

Too lost in your own thoughts, you fail to listen to the heavy footsteps that approach you. You only notice his presence when the water reaches your collar bone, and suddenly your chest feels too heavy for you to breathe. He’s decided to join your bath. You divert your gaze, scared of what he might do if you look directly at him.

“Look up.” Sukuna tells you, and you don’t waste a second before staring at his unusual face. He truly isn’t like anyone you’ve seen before, but you don’t think that’s bad. The longer you stare at him, you realize that there’s something charming about his face, you’re not quite sure what it is though. “The servants outside are lucky to be alive. You don’t get to come in here and order people around, Uraume relays my word and you have no say against it.”

“Will you kill me if I do?” You ask, purely out of curiosity. His eyes are practically burning into you, wondering how to answer the question. His immediate answer would be a yes, but he really wouldn’t, at least not when he wants you to carry his heir.

“I’ll kill everyone that’s involved.” He answers, knowing that with that look in your eyes won’t let you allow it. You give him a slight nod, not daring to question him further on the matter. He’s joined you for a reason. Either he joined simply because of you dismissing everyone, or he wants to begin the heir making process.

“How is this going to work?” You ask, but you're not specific enough. You’re thinking about producing an heir. You aren’t a fool to sex, you have somewhat of an idea of how it works; Sukuna isn’t a man though. He has aspects of a man, but he isn’t one. Four eyes, four arms, a tummy mouth, and twice the size of any human being, he’s truly one of a kind.

“You will carry my heir, and I will heal your brother.” He answers, and you let out a low laugh, making him frown. “What’s so funny?”

“I was referring to something different.” You respond, and he rolls his eyes. “But… What will you do with me after I have your baby?”

Sukuna takes a moment to think about his answer because he hadn’t thought that far ahead. After he’s ruined you in each possible manner, what does he want to do with you? He’ll already have his successor, he has no need for you. What do humans do?

“You’ll nurture it until a certain age, then I’ll take over.” Is the best answer he can give. What happens then? He answers all questions you may have by saying, “And if I see fit, you’ll be having more.”

He doesn’t want to let you go, even after you’ve fulfilled your agreement. You’re giving away your freedom for your brother’s health and wellbeing– It’s fine though, it’s not like you had much going for you. Though you don’t want to be someone’s breeding mule for the rest of eternity. You don’t want to be someone that’s easily forgotten.

“Can we get married?” You blurt out, and of all things you could say, he certainly wasn’t thinking that. A marriage proposal from you is certainly… Odd. He smirks though, intrigued..

“What for? You know you won’t be the only one.” He tells you, although you aren’t all that interested in his love affairs. He knows it’s not that though, you aren’t bothered by that. You’re splashing the water, unable to look at him as you answer. You’re too embarrassed.

“I want to be someone, not just the mother of your child.” You respond, and he scoffs at the pitiful request. You were no one before, so why do you suddenly have the need to be respected? He doesn’t care enough to ask.

“If you expect loyalty, you won’t receive it.” He warns you again, but that doesn’t spark your interest whatsoever. You really just want the title of being his wife, and he doesn’t see it as a title of much importance, so he’ll grant it. “I’ll speak with Uraume for the arrangements of a traditional wedding then.”

You hum in response, your eyes looking back up at him. He looks bored. Though your next question does make a smirk appear on his face, “Do you have traditional male genitals?”

“What is a traditional male genital, please enlighten me.” He sounds as if he’s about to burst into laughter at any moment, which makes you want to bury your head under the water. You know exactly how it is, you haven’t been sheltered from the world since you weren’t born into an aristocratic family to be protected– Although you hear the stories, the aristocrats are anything but pure.

“A penis.” Your answer is short and correct, but you can’t even look at him as you say it. Your hand sways in the water, feeling yourself calm down with the sound that it makes. “I used to work near a brothel so naturally I befriended some of the women that worked there.”

“It will be similar to what you’ve been told.” He says, and you can’t help but notice his choice of words. Similar. Now you’re worried. 

“Uraume!” Sukuna yells, and within a second they’re in the room. Sukuna rises from the water, finally giving you a glimpse of what you missed when he got into the water. Your eyes couldn’t get any wider, and your face burns up when you realize why he said the experience will just be similar; he has two of them. “Finish getting her ready.”

Uraume’s hands go to your shoulders and they lift you up from the water. You’re unable to say anything, shocked at what you just discovered. Uraume dries you off with a cloth, acting as if they hadn’t seen the same thing as you. They’re more than likely used to it but it’s weird. He’s referred to as a deity for a reason, he isn’t like anyone you’ll ever meet. Four eyes, four arms, a tummy mouth, and twice the size of any human you’ve ever met, that alone should explain everything.

You still can’t help but question, “Why does he have two?”

It feels hard for you to breathe with all the layers of clothes that you have on. You thought that with the place and Sukuna being unusual, you would have some wiggle room in your attire. However, you’ve been proved wrong. You have six layers of clothes on, for the first time in your life feeling like a noble. There’s too many layers, but at least it’s silk.

��The king will be here soon.” Uraume tells you before sliding the door to the room shut, leaving you to kneel on the tatami floors. You click your tongue as you look down at your attire. All of these layers of clothes for nothing. You wonder if he’ll get mad at the fact that he has to remove each garment. A smile comes to your lips, knowing that he’s definitely not the patient kind. 

You try not to think about what’s to come because you’re nervous. The thought of having sex for the first time is enough to make your stomach churn, thinking about what you just saw makes the nerves even more prevalent. You try to take a deep breath, though the action is unnecessarily difficult due to your attire.

You hear his loud footsteps as he approaches the room, your body slowly trembling out of pure nerves. Your breath gets caught up in your chest as the door opens. He walks into the room, and his eyes stare you down. You try to remain composed, but it’s hard when you know what’s about to happen.

You’re scared… Yet, you can’t help but feel excited at what’s to come. Though your fear is what reflects through your body language. It’s going to happen either way so you try to calm yourself down.

“Where’s your makeup?” Sukuna crouches down to be on your level, one hand going under your chin and lifting your face, forcing you to look at him. You thickly swallow, finding it hard to speak now. He’s impatient, though he won’t raise his voice now because of what’s to come, so he repeats the question, “Where’s your makeup?”

“Uraume said I looked better without it so they wiped it off.” You tell him, and he rolls his eyes. He won’t argue with Uraume though, he trusts their judgment. “Next time–”

“Next time you won’t do anything. You’re going to listen to them.” He’s quick to cut you off, and you nod in response. You’re still shaking in his hand, and he finds himself annoyed. But there’s also this unusual feeling at the pit of his stomach, something that he’s never felt before… Pity? “Have I done something to you? Why are you trembling like a mouse?”

“I’m nervous.” You confess, and he scoffs. Nervous, and he has yet to do anything to you. You have a multitude of layers on, you have no reason to shake as if you were naked. You weren’t acting like this when he was in the bath with you, he doesn’t know what’s changed.

“I haven’t even properly touched you.” He practically whispers. He inspects your face before letting go of you. He has no interest in having fun when you’re this pathetic. You’ve successfully killed his mood to do anything. 

Sukuna loves when his prey fears him… But you aren’t considered prey anymore.

“Uraume has arranged everything for tomorrow. We’re getting married.” He announces. He’s given in, and this is another task he must complete before having his heir. He sighs before saying, “You’re so pathetic, I can’t even touch you.”

“Sorry.” You blurt out while he stands up.

“Don’t embarrass me. My wife will never apologize for anything, not even to her king.” He scolds you before opening the door and exiting the room. He’s announced your wedding and left as if it isn’t a big deal, and you guess it’s not a big deal to him.

You can finally take a proper breath, proving that the clothes had nothing to do with your inability to breathe properly. Uraume walks into the room within a minute of Sukuna leaving. They don’t have to ask what happened, he simply just didn’t want to engage with you yet.

“Let’s get you ready for bed.” They say, and you stand up from the floor. You wish you could follow behind them, but they drag you out as if you were a child. 

It’s your first day amongst the walls, you haven’t gained their trust yet, nor do you have a title to have any say in how you’re treated. It will all soon change though, tomorrow you’ll be King Sukuna’s wife. 

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.1.

viktorxfemale!reader explicit! Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. Uncharted waters for me, because I have no idea how many chapters it will come out as.

Reader is: British, Young Vic (get it?) theatre company director, working class, in her 30s, a control freak, a semi-conscious sub. Viktor is: Czech (as always), working in biotech with Jayce, working class, in his 30s, a control freak, a conscious dom.

MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 4,6K

warnings, or rather this work contains: d/s dynamics between main characters (but who the fuck knows what Mel and Jayce are doing), love (attraction?) at first sight, no strings attached to lovers/strangers to lovers (so like reverse emotional slow burn?), lots of porn, angst, happy resolution. I will be adding kink warnings as they appear in the future chapters.

author’s note: Ok, so, um, hi! A Deer and a Man is ending, so something else has to begin. It’s like… a very freeform thing I’m doing here. Sort of about nothing, just relationships with d/s dynamics, because I want to play around with some kinks and stuff. I’m trying to make it make sense here, but not everything might, since it’s just my subjective take on things. It will have some d/s etiquette but not always, because I’m clumsy and my characters get infected with my clumsiness :v Nothing’s new really (hehe, get it?), some plot, some porn, some feelings. It’s basically me going to IKEA asking you if you wanna come and grab some vegan meatballs and the meatballs are smut in this :v So yeh, hi, welcome to another blurb of a mutlichap work.

Special thanks to my friends @rennethen and @strongfartzemergency for pre-reading this and enabling my brainrot. Artist is @petitesieste, just ahh ♡

Cross-posted on AO3

—

Your eyes glaze over the computer screen, trying to memorize a list of poor souls to probe the next day. An ouroboros of theatre life has reached another mark, one where you must make a million decisions in a short span of time: Which plays will grace the stage, who’s performing in them, who’s directing, and who’s dressing all those people in their fancy costumes? And, most importantly, who’s paying for all of it?

So far, a successful year has set your bar even higher, with the next season looming in the golden light of August evenings. You don’t even have time to warm your bones in it—you have to think ahead, transport your brain to the future, to a cold January, when the real test begins for you. In truth, you don’t have time to do anything beneficial for your bones, and you’ve just learned to accept that your joints crack like dry wood every time you move.

A head peaks through the crack in your door, and you don’t have to look up to know who it is.

“Charlie,” you greet him, your nose still scrunched up by the screen. “I know, I know. I’m going, I just need a second.” You begin to rise from your chair but remain hunched over, extending your arm blindly toward the computer. “Did you bring my shoes?”

“Yes, and I’m not kicking you out,” says Charlie, passing you a pair of ballet flats. “But if you want a driver, well… he’s getting impatient.”

“That’s okay, I can commute,” you smile at him, taking the shoes and glancing at your watch. “It’s only Camden… oh, shit, it’s very late. You should, in fact, kick me out.” After a few hurried jumps while putting the shoes on, you're back to frantically picking up unrelated objects and shoving them into your purse: tissues, lipstick, random notes to review in the morning, and Mel’s gift—a seasonal Young Vic pass for her and her plus one.

“Where are you guys meeting?” he asks, passing you the rest of the things you will obviously want or need. It’s a seamless collaboration with Charlie. Since the very beginning, you two have been sharing a brain, and this is partly why nothing has collapsed yet. On the contrary—both you, as a theatre company director, and Charlie, as an assistant director, have been doing an amazing job, mending together a forthcoming approach and love for theatre. And this is all your head is at, despite the one evening of reprieve where you can share beers with friends in a pub that Mel has chosen completely out of character for herself. Which is why, instead of answering, you ask, “Do you really think we can do Hamlet?”

“Why wouldn’t we be able to do Hamlet?” Charlie parrots, passing you a coat with a raised eyebrow.

“I don’t know, is it not a bit… on the nose? It’s my second year, and my brain’s steamed up so much that I’m doing Hamlet?”

Charlie chuckles softly, as he steps behind you to dress you up. “You are going to do a bitchin’ Hamlet. And now can you please go and have some fun for once?”

“This is fun, Charlie. Hamlet is fun,” you say, holding his arms and giving him a playful shake. “Fun!”

“Calm down, captain,” he grins, rolling his eyes. “Where are you guys going?”

“Ugh… World’s End?”

“World’s End?!” Charlie covers his mouth in feigned horror, his eyes wide. “This is so unlike Miss Medarda!” he whispers, shooting you an incredulous look.

“I know, Mel wanted casual,” you shrug, rolling your eyes. Then, as you move past him, you swat him lightly on the shoulder, seeking another round of uninhibited cackles. “Don’t be mean, Charlie!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Charlie laughs, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Ah, World’s fucking End, who would’ve thought. Let me fetch you a driver, my lady.”

You shake your head and scan your office one last time, making sure you haven’t left anything important behind. Figuratively, of course, since almost everything dear to your heart is actually being left behind. And even though it’s only for a couple of hours, not being in control is frightening.

On the other side of the coin are your friends, with Mel right up front. She’s been there since the very first second of your meeting—right after you yelled at a light technician, making him flinch and nearly fall off the ladder. You had immediately corrected yourself with, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shouted. But this lightwork is still shit. Please fix it. I ask you kindly.”

That was when Mel grinned, wrapped an arm around your shoulder, and whispered into your ear, “Okay. I want to be your friend.”

Since then, Mel has been one of the main patrons of your theatre company, and you—being a firm unbeliever in your own abilities—are convinced it’s largely her money and pep talks that have granted you the creative freedom that led to you becoming an artistic director. Your worlds collided fast and hard, and, being another person married to her work, she quickly became one of the closest people in your life.

Until Jayce.

Mel, being someone who treats every relationship as an investment, doesn’t limit her influence to the arts. So when her family decided to fund research grants for scientists from the Francis Crick Institute, you knew something was coming as soon as she justified the decision with, “And they are both very handsome.”

You know the urge very well—the ever-nagging need to have everything under control, to oversee every grain of sand that rolls through the waist of the hourglass, every second planned, every schedule so tight there is barely time to breathe. It’s one of the things that bonded the both of you.

So when Jayce came along—with his motivation stemming not from a sickening need for self-accomplishment or a desperate urge to prove something to the world, but from the purity of his own heart and a healthy curiosity—Mel began to crack. And then the disease spread to you.

Now, you actually rest. You spend your free Sundays socializing. You talk about things other than work. You’ve even been on a few unsuccessful dates. And it’s all Jayce’s fault.

You loved him for it immediately—the small crumbs of the outside world granted to you and Mel through his unabashed joy and excitement. Jayce made things fun, and turning your phone off—briefly relinquishing control—became a little less terrifying.

From there, your thoughts drift in different directions until your absent-minded stare at the moving lights outside the car window is interrupted. The driver, in a grumpy tone, informs you that you’ve arrived at your destination. You crack the joints in your hands before thanking him and bidding him goodnight.

The World’s End is all red from the outside, its glow bleeding onto the wet pavement. Through the glass, you spot the back of Mel’s heavily accessorized hairstyle, a head of intricate twists and gleaming accents. You glance at your reflection, and—well. You’ve seen better days.

Your mini skirt has twisted around, placing the slit exactly where you don’t want it, so you yank it back into place, cursing Charlie for not telling you. In the process, you notice a small eyelet in your tights, the hole widening with each step you take. No nail polish to stop it from spreading. You curse yourself for that one. Your shirt is crumpled at the stomach—a reminder of hours spent hunched over your desk. Your necklace has caught a bunch of stray hairs, which you pick out frantically as you stride toward the door. And the rest of your hair? An artistic mess, sculpted by an impatient hand that’s raked through it a hundred times too many today.

Once inside, Mel’s slender hand and a row of her impossibly white teeth beckon you forward as she stands up to give you a hug.

And the inside of The World's End is exactly what you would expect from a Camden pub—big, loud, and brimming with mismatched charm. The walls are cluttered with a collection of art that looks like it was bought in a rush at a local flea market. There's a hum of conversation mixing with the thrum of the music playing in the background, and the space itself is large, almost cavernous. The low ceiling and uneven, wooden floorboards give it an unpolished look that feels welcoming to some, but it's not exactly the kind of place you'd expect to see Mel at.

Mel, in contrast, belongs in a sleek, minimalistic bar, somewhere where the drinks are as carefully curated as the furniture, where everything is perfectly composed. Here, she’s lost in the midst of it all, a little too refined for the space, as if her sharp lines don’t quite align with the pub’s rough edges. The things we do for friends.

“Darling, I’m glad you made it,” she chirps, walking toward you and spreading her arms wide.

“Now I can say I’d go to the end of the world for you,” you murmur into her shoulder, squeezing her tight. Then, pulling back, you present a small envelope. “Happy birthday, love. Here—best possible seats.”

Mel’s brows lift as she takes the tickets, flipping them between her fingers. “You shouldn’t have,” she says, though the gleam in her eye betrays her excitement. “But thank you. You wouldn’t believe who Jayce has managed to drag along,” she murmurs into your ear.

“Oh, it can’t be,” you whisper back, scanning the table over her shoulder.

A few of her closest friends sit huddled together, deep in conversation and laughter. Then, Jayce’s broad frame, unmistakable even in the dim light. And next to him—

A pair of loose shoulders, wrapped in a red shirt stretched between two sharp blades. The nape of his neck, covered in a mess of brown curls. He leans on one hand, nodding along to whatever Jayce is saying, his profile cutting sharp against the glow of the street lights.

Viktor. The last man standing, the one seemingly immune to Jayce’s influence when it comes to making people step out of their comfort zones. And yet, here he is. Of all occasions, it’s Mel’s birthday that has somehow coaxed Viktor out of his self-imposed solitude. A horse you wouldn’t have bet on.

You are led to the table, where all the seats seem to be taken—until Viktor removes his cane from the empty stool beside him and gestures for you to sit between him and Jayce. As you lower yourself onto the stool, you take his hand briefly and say, “The smartest man in the room, finally in the room.”

“You must be talking about Jayce,” he counters, a glint of amusement in his eye. He holds your palm for just a moment longer than necessary before letting go. “I’ve heard much about you.”

“Only good things, I hope,” you reply with a smile—until Mel’s head suddenly pokes between the two of you.

“What’s your poison, honey?” she asks. Only now do you notice her flushed cheeks and the way she’s completely disregarded the concept of personal space, her arm stretching beyond your shoulders to tug playfully at Jayce’s hair.

“A pint of bitter?” you say, startled.

She frowns slightly, but you quickly follow with, “Cheers,” hoping to steer her attention elsewhere. Her eyes squint at you, but she relents, giving Jayce’s back a clingy hug before strolling off to the bar. Only now Viktor’s hand releases yours.

He studies you for a moment before turning to his glass, giving you the chance to take a closer look—

The first two buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing the hollow between his collarbones, skin up to his neck is covered in a satin sheen of sweat. Tendons shift beneath it, blue veins threading along his throat. His hair is faintly damp around the ears, curling and plastering itself to his temples. From the side, his jaw forms nearly a perfect square.

You don’t dare to look higher.

Lower down, though, his sleeves are rolled up carelessly, exposing freckle-specked arms. You spot it by dropping your gaze naturally.

Mel was right. They are both very handsome.

As the birthday gal disappears toward the bar, you are left wedged between the two scientists, the noise of conversation assaulting your ears. Across the table, Amara leans in, her many rings clinking as she refills someone’s glass from a sweating bottle of wine. Beside her, Salo—always overdressed for the occasion, his blonde curls neatly combed back—gestures broadly mid-story, his voice animated. A few seats down, Mion, the youngest among them and always balancing the line between sharp and naive, listens intently while occasionally stealing olives from Mel’s abandoned plate.

"So," Jayce starts, shifting his weight so he can face you properly. “What’s keeping you so busy these days?”

You exhale, stretching your arms along the back of your seat, making your spine pop. “Wrapping up meetings with playwrights, directors, and actors—making sure everything aligns. Managing funding and sponsorships, finalising script choices.”

Salo whistles. “Sounds like a headache.”

“It’s a miracle she’s here at all,” Jayce adds, nursing his beer. “I half-expected her to send a regretful telegram from the depths of her desk.”

That earns a laugh from Amara, who nudges your foot under the table. “And what are the plays, then? What’s in?”

You rest your chin in your palm and do a mock countdown with the fingers of the other. “Further than the Furthest Thing, The Scottsboro Boys, A Streetcar Named Desire—possibly Hamlet.”

Mel, just returning with your beer, lets out a delighted gasp as she sets it down. “Hamlet? Oh, darling, tell me you’re doing it.”

“Calm yourself,” you warn, reaching for your drink. “I said possibly.”

She spreads her hands dramatically. “I can already see it now—the staging, the lighting—”

“Don’t start designing the posters just yet,” you cut in, but she’s grinning too widely to be discouraged. “I can still change my mind.”

“You know that’s a lot for one person,” Viktor remarks, leaning in from your right, his voice lower, meant just for the two of you. His pupils are darker, wider than the number of glasses of wine he’s had would suggest, assessing you from under hooded eyelids.

“I’ve always run through my life,” you say simply, tipping your glass toward him. “I do have help, though.” Viktor clicks his tongue, his mouth curving into a half-smile.

Before you can figure out what it means, Mion suddenly snaps her fingers. “Wait—how did you and Mel meet, anyway?”

Mel waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, I saw her preparing Yerma, and it was love at first sight.”

“Love?” Salo lifts a brow.

“She was standing on stage, sleeves rolled up, arguing over how the chairs should be arranged.” Mel sighs theatrically. “Her diligence. Her eye for detail. I knew I had to have her.”

Jayce snorts. “And by ��have her,’ you mean ‘fund her.’”

Mel grins. “Exactly.”

The table dissolves into laughter, glasses clinking. Conversations crisscross—Salo and Mion bickering over some technical aspect of stage production, and you don’t have the heart to correct them. Jayce launching into an enthusiastic recounting of an experiment gone wrong. Someone beside you leans in to talk, and for a moment, you lose the thread of conversation.

The haze of smoke, the warmth of alcohol-softened breaths, the layered voices—it all blurs. Next to you, Viktor is speaking, but his words are swallowed by the noise.

The room tilts slightly, or maybe it’s just the drink settling in. Sounds overlap and ring in your ears as exhaustion takes hold and you zone out. Somewhere nearby, a bottle of wine gets passed around, then discarded in the middle of the table, still within your reach. A voice cuts through the fog, softer, closer. Then sharper, clearer than before.

Foreshadowed by Viktor’s hand on your leg—his right palm rests on you, and the moment it does, you tilt toward him, only to find he’s done the same. His fingers press inward, just barely grazing the inside of your thigh. It’s a gentle invasion, entirely unprovocative, something that simply happens—natural. His left arm hovers over your backrest as his mouth nears your ear, and you can feel the tickle of his hair on your cheek.

“Pass me the wine.” A soft command, tilting toward a question at the end, firm and quiet all at once.

You reach for the bottle without looking, your eyes fixed on his throat as he breathes. The moment it comes close, his touch leaves your leg and finds your fingers instead. His skin brushes yours, spreading the sweat from the glass onto your own, and something coils low in your stomach.

“Good…” he murmurs, clipped, as if something else should follow. “Thank you.” And then his warmth is gone, leaving you painfully sober, achingly empty.

It’s one of the most agonising seconds of your life—except this time, there’s something sickly sweet curling around the edges, a lingering undertone that was missing from all the other agonising moments you’ve suffered through.

For the rest of the evening, your attention doesn’t waver, save for the necessary moments to put Mel in the spotlight.

Viktor lingers close. Not close enough to raise any eyebrows—everyone else is too busy bickering and laughing at Jayce’s anecdotes—but enough for you to notice and relish in it. His breath occasionally fans your face when he leans over you for the bottle, his knee bumps yours under the table. He sits tilted toward you, his arm hooked against your stool, and his eyes never leave you, one way or another. He bombards you with questions and answers yours without blinking.

"Where did you study?" you ask, lips glued to the rim of your glass, leaving an stamp of your lipstick there.

"Abroad," he says vaguely, tipping his head. "You?"

"England. Try again," you counter, not looking up, only baring your teeth to the remnants of a cocktail in your hand.

Viktor exhales a quiet chuckle, tilting his glass idly in his fingers before conceding, "Vigilant, of course. Very well—biochemistry at UTC Prague." He pauses, watching your reaction. "Then onward to Francis Crick through MSCA. Now—tell me yours." The last part, a command again, gentle and firm and you find yourself reciting in no time.

"Theatre and Performance at Goldsmiths," you reply, your words a little looser, the alcohol working its way through your veins.

"Ah, how prestigious," he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

"If you consider five years of bullying that, then yes," you slur, twirling your drink in your glass. His expression sharpens, brows lifting slightly in silent question. You sigh, meeting his gaze. "I got The Royal Academy of Dramatic Art scholarship. Before that, I led an utterly non-prestigious life in Staines."

"Hardworking girl," he purrs, and oh—his hand returns to your thigh, this time less inconspicuous as he drags a long finger up and stops just beneath the hem of your skirt.

"Where do you live?" he asks, his voice dipping lower, quieter, like the answer might be something just for him.

"Hackney," you answer immediately, then, seeing his knowing smile, feel the need to correct yourself. "The bad Hackney. You?"

"Eh, Islington," Viktor says, a hint of sheepishness in his voice.

Your mock jaw drop is immediate. "Unbelievable," you drawl. "And you dare to make fun of my fancy living?"

Viktor smirks, his fingers brushing your thigh before retreating. "You are making it up. But we can share a cab home then."

Something jumps in your chest at the thought of being locked in a tiny space alone with this man. And the cab driver, but, nevertheless. "I suppose we can. When do you want to go?" you ask, as steadily as you can manage right now.

He exhales slowly, then leans in, his breath warm against your ear. "Let's go now."

You have to stop your eyes from rolling in your skull. In fact, with the mix of various alcohols cursing through your veins and the secretive glances he’s been giving you, you’d probably nod vigorously if he offered to fuck you on the bar.

You step away from the table, weaving through the crowded space as you pull out your phone. Your fingers tremble slightly—whether from the drinks or the anticipation, you can't tell. It doesn’t matter. The cab company confirms your ride is on its way, barely three minutes out.

When you return, Viktor is still lounging against the table, his fingers tracing the rim of his now-empty glass. He doesn’t look at you right away, but his body angles toward you the moment you step back into his space. You lean in just enough to let the scent of him—wine, sweet sweat and washing powder—settle into your senses before speaking.

“We have three minutes,” you say casually, as if not stopping yourself from clenching your thighs.

Viktor gives a small, knowing nod and starts shuffling around for his cane and coat. His movements are unhurried, but there’s a quiet efficiency to them, a preparedness that has you smiling.

From across the table, Mel lets out a dramatic sigh. “You’re leaving already? I knew I shouldn’t have sat two workaholics together.”

Jayce snorts into his drink. “At least they lasted this long. I was expecting Viktor to slip out halfway through.”

Viktor hums in vague amusement, fastening the buttons of his coat. “And miss all your storytelling? Impossible.”

Mel rolls her eyes but grins. “Fine, fine. Go, be boring. Just don’t forget—” she waggles a finger at you—“you owe me a Hamlet.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Goodnight, Mel.”

With that, you feel Viktor’s hand brush lightly against the small of your back—an absentminded gesture, almost cautious, but it sends a thrill down your spine.

It’s raining again, and neither of you has an umbrella, so you huddle together under your purse until Viktor opens the door for you. You fall in with no grace whatsoever and slide your ass across the back seat to make space for him. He steps in slowly, throws his address to the driver, then slumps down beside you, looking at you expectantly.

For a moment, you freeze—until you realise everyone is waiting for your address. Mumbling out the street and number, you lean back, your shoulder blades pressing against his arm.

And oh. You know damn well you won’t be able to let this go beyond tonight—or that you shouldn’t be fucking around where you figuratively eat—but he smells good, and his eyes stay on you, dark and hungry. So you tip yourself into the crook of his shoulder, tilting your head up with an innocently pleading look.

Viktor chuckles, as if something has just been confirmed, and his slender hand finds its way between your thighs. His body shifts subtly, shielding you from the driver, who barely suppresses an eye roll in the rear-view mirror. His lips, burning with alcohol and want, close over yours. His tongue pushes inside, licking slow and deep along the row of your teeth. His fingers travel up your leg, stopping painfully close to where you ache for him most, and squeeze—just enough to brace himself as he leans in further.

You fumble with the buttons of his coat, slipping your hands beneath to tug his shirt free from his trousers. Another warm chuckle rumbles against your lips.

“So efficient,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss to mouth at your ear. His breath is hot when he whispers, “Do you want to fuck here, or will you be a good girl and wait until we get home?”

A strangled moan escapes you, and your own hand flies up to clamp over your mouth. Viktor grins against your skin.

“Good. Quiet,” he purrs, before dragging his tongue in a slick trail down your neck, stopping halfway to suck a bruise into your flesh.

Breath stumbles in your lungs when he stops, lips flushed, wet and red with your smeared lipstick, his teeth barely grazing your skin before he leans back to look at you. His fingers remain firm between your thighs, a teasing pressure that makes your legs tense and tremble beneath his touch.

Whatever has led you to this moment is not your usual behaviour, but somehow, you can’t be bothered to announce it. Long ago—somewhere after shitty date number five, or fifteen—you swore off bad sex for the sake of no sex and peace of mind. You grew tired of partners who were more tease than do, and the ones who assumed you’d thrive on organising everything in bed, just as you do at work.

You crave someone to take that pressure off you. Someone who would simply allow you to be dumb, even just for a few moments. To fuck your brains out so that poor strongest muscle of yours can replenish and breathe before you have to step back into the saddle and lead the chaotic orchestra of theatre technicians, actors, directors, and founders toward whatever critics deem a successful season. To take all the decision-making away and praise you for it.

And you have no guarantee that Viktor will do exactly that—other than the way his roaming hand squeezes your leg so firmly or the way his tongue, insistent and wanting, doesn’t ask permission before invading your mouth. The way he has stared at you the entire night has left you hotter and more bothered than anyone’s scrutiny ever has. And even if this is a mistake, it’s one you are willing to make. Your thighs shake at the thought, and Viktor gasps softly against your lips.

"You're trembling," he murmurs, voice low as the vowels roll thickly off his tongue. His free hand reaches up, pushing your hair aside. He trails his knuckles along your jaw, his thumb pressing lightly against your parted lips. "Cold, or something else?"

You give a breathy laugh, rolling your hips ever so slightly into his palm, chasing that friction. Viktor hums, pleased, before his fingers slip higher—just barely ghosting over the hanging-there nylons shielding your underwear. Your breath catches.

The cab rattles over a pothole, jolting you both, but neither of you pulls away. If anything, it only makes Viktor bolder. He shifts to face you fully, pressing you back into the seat as he kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue curling languidly around yours. You taste wine and your own spit on him, and it makes you dizzy.

His hand abandons your thigh only to grab your wrist, dragging it to the front of his trousers, where he's already half-hard beneath the layers of fabric. "I want you," he breathes against your mouth, nipping at your lower lip before letting his forehead drop to yours.

You palm him through the material, pressing just enough to make him suck in a sharp breath. The sound alone makes a fresh gush of lust bloom in your knickers.

Then—a pointed cough.

You both jolt as if caught doing something far more illicit than you already are.

"Islington," the cab driver announces dryly, eyes fixed firmly on the road.

Viktor huffs out a laugh, dragging his fingers through his already-mussed hair. "Do you want to come in?" he says, as if you hadn’t just been grinding against each other like reckless teenagers in the back of a cab.

You swallow, pulse still pounding in your ears. "Yes," you nod. "Yes."

“I suppose we will wrap up the ride here,” Viktor says reaching for his wallet and taking out one note too many to make up for whatever the poor man had to endure.

“Yeah, mate, I figured. Have a great night.”

[moonlight-prose]

SIN TI

a/n: years ago when the falcon and the winter soldier came out, i wrote a one shot that has solidified itself as one of my favorite fic i've written. it's a friends to lovers arc and while i wanted to end it there. i couldn't stop myself from giving them another chapter to their love story. so i hope y'all enjoy. there's plenty more torres fics to come. also a massive thank you to my favorite person @soulores who bounced ideas off me and helped me with some of the spanish (i'm learning to fix up my fluency i promise).

note: this fic in my head is a latine reader, but there's no specifications/descriptions so imagine who you wish!

summary: five years have passed. five years since he boarded a plane and left you behind to wait diligently for the man who would never return. when letters and patchy phone calls failed to keep the spark of your relationship alive, you find each other again. only this time as two entirely different people.

word count: 11.2k+

pairing: joaquín torres x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY!!, epistolary beginning, angst, broken hearts, long distance relationships, epistolary style at first, romance, friends to lovers, arguments, passionate declarations of love, fingering, p in v sex, alcohol consumption, biting, cumplay, rough sex, desperation, yearning + pining, he's got a filthy fucking mouth, more angst, the grief of failed love, second chance romance, forever.

SIEMPRE

December 5, 2023

Mi amor,

It’s hard to believe you left only a few weeks ago and somehow I miss you more than I could say in words. If it were possible I’d have sent a longer letter than this. I’d tell you how I miss our mornings spent hunting for coffee, our nights wandering the streets. I’d tell you I miss your lips. But that seems cliché given the circumstances.

I wanted you to stay. And yet…I know how important it was that you go. You need this. You need to figure out where you exist in this world after living in it alone for five years. So I hope you discover what’s always been meant to find you. And when you do, please know that I’ll be here waiting for you.

Back where it all began.

Siempre te amaré.

-Tu corazón

January 8, 2024

Mi corazón,

God I miss your voice, your handwriting, your fucking smile. I miss every part of you. If I told you what I’ve actually been thinking of you’d probably never forgive me for putting it down somewhere in permanent ink. No te culpo. I wish I had better news, or at least some stories to give you, but they’re kicking my ass even before my eyes open. Bright and early at dawn until my whole body is screaming.

I don’t want you to worry mi vida. Please don’t worry. I’m doing okay. I’m alive at least. Gracias a dios. Well I wouldn’t exactly say no to a candle being lit in my name (maybe to help with the constant wake up calls of how you felt that night). Tell Clara and Michael I miss them. Give mi mamá a kiss and drop some flowers off for pops. But most importantly do me a favor.

Wear them for me yeah corazón? They’re my “lost” pair (got reamed out for “losing” my first fucking pair of dog tags but it was worth it to give you a piece of me.) Keep ‘em on. And know that I’ll be fighting like hell to get my way back to you. Back to our spot, back to morning coffee runs and night walks in the city.

They’re yours. Just like I am.

Siempre te amaré.

-Yours forever Joaquín

January 16, 2024

Mi amor,

Thank you baby for the tags. I cried when I felt your name engraved in the metal. Just the feel of the letters reminded me of the way you’d draw on my papers in high school. They were so bad, but I think I still have a few of them in the back of my closet. Somehow that feels like a lifetime ago. I can tell you that I miss you—that’s true—but it’s not entirely the full truth. I never got a first date, rarely got a chance to see your eyes open when we woke up together, or drink shitty beer on the roof of my apartment.

I wish I could say that it doesn’t hurt to wait for you, but that would be a lie. And I can hear you in the back of my head saying: eres mentirosa bebita. And it makes me laugh.

This letter will probably find its way to you near Valentine’s Day. And I can’t have my brave pilot missing the fun. Don’t show anyone. Keep it in your wallet, and enjoy the late nights mi vida (pretend I’m there with my mouth to keep you company, or my hands, or my pussy).

We’ll find ourselves back in that queen sized bed soon enough—that I’m sure of. I will have to take a week off work just to get my fill of you; although even I have to admit that’ll take a long fucking time.

You and I both know I’ll never have enough.

I’ll be thinking of you, as I always do. Especially in our bed. Come home soon mi amor and I’ll be here when you finally do.

Siempre te amaré.

-Tu corazón

February 16, 2024

Happy Valentine’s Day mi corazón.

You’ve got no idea what those Polaroids did to me. I think I touched myself fucking raw (or at least that’s what it feels like). I’ve got half a mind to frame them, proudly display my girl. But I know you might actually murder me, so I’ve got them where you asked—safe in my wallet. I’ve been thinking about you. Okay let me be honest. I always think about you. Seriously you fucked up my brain bebita before I left. Had me wrapped around your finger long before that night, but after…I’m going crazy without you.

Dios mío, yo también te extraño (probably more given how winded I get just thinking about you). And I wish I could say that I’ll be home eventually, but I don’t know. I wish I did. You’ve got no idea how much I wish I could find my way back to you. The air force is…it’s harder than I thought. Nothing I can’t handle.

Until then imagine me finally taking you out on that date. In fact plan it. Figure out where you wanna go, pick out an outfit that’ll drive me batshit, and I’ll be there. On that dance floor to finally finish what we started. Te amo mi corazón. More than you know.

Siempre te amaré.

-Yours forever Joaquín

February 20, 2024

Mi amor,

The thought of you has driven me insane. I actually sprayed your cologne on the pillow you slept on the last few days we were together, just to remind myself of what you smelled like. I also may have rode it. But that didn’t matter. It did nothing but make me ache. Te extraño mucho Joaquin.

I don’t know what to do with myself but go to work and wait for you to come home. But I’ve done what you said—I planned our date. Dinner at our favorite place, a night of drinks at Siempre, and dessert at the small ice cream parlor on the corner.

I want to believe you when you said you could handle the airforce, and I do, but something isn’t right. Por qué mientes mi amor? You forget, I know every piece of you. I know when you’re upset. I know when you are struggling and don’t want to say it, because you think you can bear the heaviness of the world. Even when you were younger you thought you could carry the weight of everyone’s troubles on your shoulders, but you don’t have to. I’m here. I’ll carry it with you.

You can tell me what’s wrong and I’ll promise to listen, to make it better however I can. What’s our love meant to be if not carrying one another through the harsh times of life?

Tell me everything amor. I’ll listen. I’ll save you this time around.

Have they told you when you’ll be able to visit? I know it’s only been a few months, but I just always wonder. If they haven’t I understand—I just miss you. But you know this. I won’t fill up this letter with misery, because you deserve more than that. Your mamá and I have dinner on Sunday’s now (she’s teaching me how to cook so I’ll promise to make a good meal for you).

Clara and Michael are together at last! And they’re worse than us in terms of PDA. I seriously wish you were here just to help me one up them. Give them a show. But that can wait. All of it can wait. As long as I know you’re coming home to me.

Please take care of yourself mi amor. Stay safe and I’ll be here making my apartment a home for the both of us.

Siempre te amaré.

-Tu corazón

March 30, 2024

Mi amor,

I hope my last letter didn’t get lost on the way to you. I’ve heard it could happen. But I’m getting worried with this constant silence. Estas bien? Are they treating you okay? Is the base nice? I just need something to know you’re okay baby. Send a letter, find a way to call me, but don’t leave me with nothing.

I’m not the only one worried and you know it.

I hope you’re safe.

Siempre te amaré.

-Tu corazón

May 18, 2024

Mi corazón,

I don’t know how to start this. I should have answered you earlier. Or sent something in return to your Valentine’s gift. Or shit I should have at least fought tooth and nail for a visitation day to come see you, but that’s no longer possible mi corazón. I’m being transferred to a base further away and I’m not sure when I’ll make it back. I don’t even know if they plan on giving me an idea on what’s going to happen with me, but that’s why I had to tell you.

Lo siento bebita. I’m…I’m just sorry. I love you, I always have and always will. But I can’t force you to wait for me forever. That’s not fair to you. And you deserve better than a man who could never gather the fucking nerve to tell you the truth. Waiting on a soldier like me shouldn’t be your future. So I’m doing what’s necessary.

I’m sorry.

I will always love you.

Forever.

- Joaquín

June 1, 2024

Fuck you Joaquín Torres. You don’t get to rip my heart out that way. You don’t get to end this without looking me in the eyes. Why? Why would you make me fall in love with you if you knew this would end? Why would you promise me forever when you never meant it to begin with? Tell me. Write a fucking letter and answer me!

I deserve the truth. All of it.

I know you are struggling and won’t tell me. I know you’re fighting for your life to keep up with the demands of the airforce and like to pretend you’re fine. But you’re not fine baby. You can’t lie to me and pretend nothing’s wrong. You just…you can’t do that to me. Please. Let me in amor, let me help.

I love you Joaquín.

I need you.

-Tu corazón

FIVE YEARS LATER

The coffee tasted much more bitter than what you remembered. A biting darkness that burned the back of your throat as you gulped down what you could in the fifteen minutes you had for lunch. Whatever food you packed sat forgotten about in your fridge. Another day rushing to the office, another day wandering the streets of a city you could paint with your eyes closed.

A piece of you echoed with the voices of all who came before you. Friends you made, found family that adopted you as their own. Streets overflowing with scents of arroz con pollo and Jamaica flowers boiling away in kitchens—open windows begging for some fresh air.

July scorched the streets with heat you learned to endure. Yet this year felt worse. A curse bestowed upon the people of New York without rhyme or reason.

You pressed a piece of ice to your neck, dabbing at the sweat sliding down your chest. In the hopes you might find some relief from this torture you were forced to endure. Working in an office that barely payed you enough for the rent of your apartment and was far too cheap to put money towards a working air conditioner. You calculated the numbers for them. They could afford it.

“Fuck the heat,” you moaned, wincing with the heat of your coffee.

“That skirt’s sexy mami.”

The sound of her voice was unmistakable. A soft drawled accent of someone who spent her days speaking Spanish more than she did English. You rolled your eyes, digging out another ice cube from what remained in your plastic cup—dropping it in between your breasts with a hiss.

“Tell me why we’re out here?” you asked, shifting as the ice slid lower, finding a spot beneath your breast.

She dropped onto the bench, yanking off a black blazer that looked like hell to be wearing. “Because if I have to spend another day in a court house I’m going to blow my brains out.”

“You work in a court house Clara.”

“Callate. Don’t fucking remind me.”

Her ebony curls were gathered at the top of her head, pinned in place with a familiar teal butterfly clip you lent her a year prior. At this point asking for it back felt irrelevant. She looked better with it than you ever did—never quite learning how to pin it effortlessly like her.

“We’re going out tonight,” she announced between swipes of lipstick, fixing makeup that was primed to perfection.

With a sigh you dug for another ice cube. “Do I have to?”

“Yes.” Her compact clicked shut. “I rarely see you anymore. Plus Michael got the night off so he’s joining us.”

“And where exactly are you dragging me?”

“Dancing.”

You groaned, sinking into the bench far enough to be drowned by the floor. Swallowed whole into the center of Earth—an escape from being whatever you forced yourself to pretend. An adult with a clear path, someone moved on from a heartbreak that ripped you to pieces, someone whole. Yet asking for that felt as if you were signing a life altering contract with gods who weren’t listening to your cries of anguish.

Clara knew you were suffering—she could see the exhaustion on your face—but her specialty was never empathetic talks. She spoke with actions. Loud, boisterous, displays of affection. Like dragging you around town when all you were concerned about was getting home to feed your cat.

“I don’t-”

“Think so,” she mimicked, clicking her tongue. “Ay Dios how many times are you gonna use that fucking excuse?”

“What excuse?” you exclaimed, fixing her with a glare she brushed off with a sigh.

“You need to resurrect yourself. I know you don’t want to talk about him—and I won’t—but you deserve to move on. He became a superhero-”

“Don’t even get me started.”

“Then why aren’t you letting yourself finally meet a future where you get to thrive?”

She was right. You knew every word out of her mouth echoed with enough truth to stab you in the chest. Five years passed before your very eyes and you barely gave yourself a chance to breathe. He’d been your best friend, your partner in crime all these years, and to live a life without him in it felt like a betrayal. Only you weren’t the one to issue the blade, you weren’t the one to open a wound so large it took everything in you not to bleed before her now.

The trail of red followed you on the bleak path ahead. A future without love, a life half lived.

He existed in the world as a hero—a monolithic piece of history the world clamored for. You were merely a mark on a past he might never mention, a brief lapse of youthful hope diminished by powers you held no control over.

What good was it to forget yourself? He certainly didn’t miss you; he barely even thought of you. Yet somewhere along the way you gave him every ounce of strength you should have reserved for yourself.

With a sigh you tossed the empty cup into the trash beside you. “Fine.”

She laughed with a glee that helped break through your melancholy stupor. “Let’s go mami!”

“Where are we going?” And with one word she sealed your fate.

“Siempre.”

The heels were a bad idea, the short silk mini dress was a bad idea, the whole night reeked with poor decisions you should have caught a mile away. Clara shoved you into a green dress yanked from the back of her closet—a forgotten gift she claimed. Only to leave you alone at the bar, her golden yellow nails burrowed into Michael’s arm to drag him deep into a mass of people you tried to avoid.

Your mezcal was tepid, a rim of lipstick decorating the edge of the glass covered in your fingerprints. The music blared loud enough to leave a high pitched ringing in your left ear—a thumping bass causing the floor to tremble with each new song.

You had half a mind to leave, already a sweaty mess just standing listlessly by the bar in a meager attempt at the fun you once had. The same joy that happened right in this very club. But tonight felt different—an energy you couldn’t name that stuck to your tight chest.

“One more,” you called over the music, tapping your glass with a nail coated in chipped polish.

“I’ll get hers.”

You stiffened, his voice washing over you like a bucket of ice dumped atop your head. For a brief moment you wondered if it finally happened, if you reached the point of hearing him when he was nowhere to be found. A dreadful hope that lingered in your chest—a dream you couldn’t speak aloud for fear of driving yourself mad. Until he filled your peripheral, a familiar leather coat you would recognize a mile away and dark hair now cropped and cut short enough to alarm you.

“Mi corazon,” he murmured, leaning close enough to invade your senses with his cologne.

The bottle he left with you still sat on your dresser. Coated in five years of dust, untouched and frozen in a time you would give anything to go back to. Your teeth clamped onto the inside of your cheek hard enough to spill copper across your tongue—a disgusting mixture with the tequila you downed moments prior.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you croaked, barely able to look at him.

“I got home last week.”

“Good for you.” The words were biting, harsh enough to make him wince. Satisfaction flooded your veins.

“Clara invited me,” he admitted, stuffing his hands into his pockets—another song blasting off speakers you wished to break. “I thought…she didn’t tell you did she?”

“What do you think?”

He sighed, ducking his head to stare at his warm mezcal, a withered lime precariously placed on the rim. “I wanted to see you corazón.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped.

Music rang in your ears, a deafening echo that suffocated you beneath the weight of all you couldn’t carry. He fell silent, waiting for an indication that you wanted him there. But none ever came. The irony tasted bitter at the back of your mouth—five years later and still you walked a tightrope he promised to keep upright.

He offered you forever. You just never realized how quickly he could take it all back.

The alcohol stirred in your stomach, bile clawing up the back of your throat and suddenly Joaquín showing up out of the blue wasn’t your only problem. You couldn’t be there. You didn’t know how to stand beside him, feel the heat of his body packed in with everyone else—shame digging its talons into your skin with a malice you probably deserved. Neither of you fought for the love to last.

He didn’t fight for you.

“I came to talk to you-”

“I can’t do this,” you rasped, pushing off the bar before he could finish his half formed pathetic excuse.

“Wait.”

A hand curled into the satin fabric along your back—your quick movements pulling him into the fray. You itched to twist away, remove any trace of his touch that begged to seep into sticky skin and taint the sporadic beating of your heart.

The wall of people stopped you in your tracks, their bodies moving with fluid grace. They called to you, whispered notes of a siren song you could hear beneath the rush of blood in your ears. A thumping promise that banged against a door you sealed shut. You knew it wouldn’t fix anything—only a guarantee to make matters worse—but there was no ignoring what beckoned you forth.

Joaquín called after you, shoving his way through a drunk crowd that barely noticed he was there. You could feel him at your heels, breath fighting its way into your lungs with each punctured gasp—a ragged need for something other than this heat.

His hand curled around your hip, nose buried at the base of your neck.

“Dance with me?” he mumbled.

You allowed your eyes to slip shut, breath spilling past parted lips as the taste of tequila permeated the tip of your tongue. “I hate you,” you sighed, fingers tangling with his.

“Lo se.”

“Then why did you come back?”

The sway of his body behind yours echoed with comfort—that night burned into the back of your mind. “You.”

He spoke with sincerity. A coveted admission he buried the day he wrote those words—his fate sealed with such a tiny stamp. The years may have dragged by, his head barely above water, but the truth still remained. The mere knowledge that you existed somewhere on this Earth—a piece of him left to drag yourself out of the hell he created—broke him little by little. Until he woke up one day, struggling to breathe.

Dancing with Joaquín felt natural. Years spent bar hopping and sneaking into club back entrances weren’t something you could forget with ease.

“It’s not that easy,” you retorted, voice thick and throat constricted. “You don’t just get to…”

“Mírame corazón.”

“No.” The gasp at his touch twirling you slowly in arms you once longed to feel around your waist said otherwise.

There was no fighting something your heart ached for, a pitiful longing you felt claw at the pit of your stomach. The closeness of it, the heat pouring off his body—his hands guiding your hips into a motion the both of you understood better than words spoken in anger. You wanted to hate him. Some parts of you did.

The razor thin line of hate and love blurred as he fit you against his body. A missing puzzle piece you’d been searching for.

He possessed your soul with each step, fingers tangling into his shirt to keep yourself upright. The awkward playfulness that arose like before was nowhere to be found. This time you knew the stakes. He understood the consequences that came with making his choice and he had to live with it every day of his life. Fixing what might forever remain broken would take more than a dance, but it was somewhere to start.

“I fucking missed you,” he whispered—throat tight, constricting his words. He wanted to say more than this, more than words that rang with a hollow truth you might never believe again.

What was stopping you from walking away and leaving him in your past?

What kept you in his arms, following the swivel of hips he craved to grip through the years?

“Joaquín,” you breathed, eyes half lidded and sweat glistening in the orange glow.

“Etérea.”

You pulled away, the hint of lips curled into a grin flashing in darkness he had to squint through. The memories were falling into place. Forgotten joy, carefree moments scattered across a life spent together. He trailed after you for years, determined to love you up to his final breath; if only you understood how quick he might have fulfilled that promise. The reason he crawled his way back—pain splintering along his spine, purple hued bruises now a soft yellow along paled skin.

Tugging you back with a chuckle, he felt the anger wash off your body as you collided with him. His chest snug against your arched back. This was his home. The one place he never dared tell another soul about—too afraid it might disappear.

The gasp you let out was ragged, marred by all the grief he put you through. “I…”

“Yeah?”

“I missed you too,” you relented, head falling back to his shoulder—the mouth you dreamed about finding purchase on your neck.

This felt like a betrayal of yourself. The past five years spent battling demons you never thought could exist in your life. He tore you to pieces with just a few words. Paragraphs of messy ink forever stained in the back of your mind. You could still feel the fucking paper under your fingers—splotches of tears discoloring the pen he used.

How could you allow him to drag you back? But you were tired of pretending to be okay. Exhausted by piteous smiles and pathetic excuses to bring you back to life.

You were stumbling down a dangerous path; his teeth digging softly into salt coated skin that haunted him in dreams. The prick of his incisors scraping along your vein jolted what little sense remained into place—your heart thundering an erratic beat in your chest. He still moved with you, hands securely placed on your hips, body molded to your back until you felt his jeans dig into you.

Waiting on a soldier like me shouldn’t be your future. So I’m doing what’s necessary.

“Stop-” Abruptly he stopped, his touch falling limp at his sides. “No I can’t… We can’t.”

“Joaquín!” Clara’s voice punctured through the thick atmosphere of lust—the wanton need for him washing away with each wave of pain. “You made it.”

“Excuse me,” you muttered, dragging in breath after breath until you lungs burned with the effort. The sting was good, it kept your head above water.

Ramming through the throngs of people you staggered towards the bathrooms. Everyone was far too preoccupied with dancing to crowd the bathrooms and your luck finally came to fruition when you saw an empty hallway. Half worded apologies spilled out of your mouth, tears burning your already hot cheeks as you moved fast enough to send a searing ache down one ankle.

Joaquín’s stomach lurched, his feet already moving before his body could catch up. Michael’s arm looping around his shoulder kept him where he stood, his eyes tracking your stumbling form until the crowd swallowed you whole. Leaving him to agonizingly swallow the stone now stuck at the top of his esophagus.

You were hurt—fighting five years of pain—and he was the one to cause it.

“How was the flight man?”

He snapped to attention, slapping a fake grin on his face he hoped would be enough to sell the lie. “Flight was good. Cramped with all the people.”

“What you didn’t get first class?” Clara teased. “I thought being an Avenger came with perks.”

“Not an Avenger. Well…not yet.”

“Gettin’ too busy for us New York folk huh,” Michael pressed.

Joaquín didn’t hear a word they said, too focused on where you went, what you were doing, how he could rectify his stupid fucking mistake. “Ya cállate hombre. I’m never too busy for you guys.”

“Could have fooled us.” Clara sipped at her drink, a brown lined mauve smile glinting with a voracious sneer he’d seen before. A look reserved for those who warranted such revenge. “I saw you two dancing.”

“Yeah…we were-”

“Too bad she’s already taken isn’t it?” she sighed, the saccharine pitch of her voice slowing the music as a low pitched buzz blaring in his ears.

“W-What?”

“She’s dating someone. A guy from her office. They met a year ago I think? Bueno, we’re thinking wedding bells soon. Since it’s been so long.”

Joaquín’s heart stuttered, mind blaring with a barrage of anger he shut away—self hatred he’d grown familiar with. Time came to a stop, the thumping music falling away, and suddenly he was back in the air. Falling to his death. Your face, your laugh, your voice, whispering in the back of his head—calling him to stay alive. Beckoning him home with wide eyes and forgiveness coated on your tongue.

You couldn’t be lost to him so soon. You were supposed to wait for him.

Only those were fictitious dreams procured in a fractured mind. You didn’t have to do anything. He let you go. And there was no fixing what he destroyed—a grave he dug for himself now lingering with the scent of your perfume, the ghost of your touch haunting him.

“But…” Struggling for air, he straightened his spine—heart twisting beneath the weight of his fuck up. “Wedding bells?”

Clara nodded. “She didn’t tell you?”

The anger was seething in his chest, scorching each vein, clamping around his lungs. “No. That wasn’t mentioned.”

“Pity,” she muttered. “Michael? Another drink mi amor?”

His feet were moving before she could finish her question, hands pushing past drunk people and sweaty bodies lost to the beat of the music. Somewhere in the club you were running to escape a future he now knew could never be. He knew being calm, level headed enough to push through this haze of red, was the only option at this point. But there was no reasoning in love, no sense to be had when you were so close.

Someone cussed at him in Spanish as he managed to make it to the hallway, pushing open the bathroom door without hesitation. You stood alone by the sink. Wiping at tears that refused to stop—your eyes tinged red with how rough you were on yourself. Only when the click of the lock echoed in the small space did you finally look up, finding his reflection in the mirror—your lips twisted into a frown.

“Occupied,” you spit out, yanking another towel from the dispenser.

“Corazón-”

“I don’t want to hear it Joaquín.”

“Five minutes.”

“No. What do you think I don’t want to hear it means? I’ve had enough of the fucking mind games for one night-”

“Escuchame.” The word bit out from the back of his throat, freezing you in place. “What do you want me to say huh? I’m sorry for being an asshole? I’m sorry for fucking up the best part of my life?”

“You were an asshole,” you retorted.

“I know that.” He took three steps, pinning you to the sink, a look you wanted to recognize but couldn’t painting his features. “I know I’m gonna spend every day of my existence apologizing for the shit that I pulled. But what I didn’t know was the truth.”

“What truth are you-”

“Marriage?” he growled like the word dripped with enough sin to kill him on the spot. “You’re practically engaged and chose to dance with me like that? Like I still had a chance?”

Your jaw hung open, mind reeling as the word hit you. “Marriage?” you exclaimed. “Who the fuck…”

“Clara practically jumped for joy with the news.” The laugh dripped with contempt, fingers curling into the edge of the sink as he moved close enough to smell the tequila on your tongue. “I can’t believe I was so fucking stupid.”

“I’m not getting married.”

“Mentirosa,” he huffed.

“Joaquín you’re being insane-”

“Am I?” he snapped. “You’ve driven me insane. Since I lost you I’ve felt pieces of myself disappear.” He dropped his forehead to yours, the warm wash of his breath brushing along your lips—begging for the oxygen you stole when he let you go. “You gotta tell me corazón. Tell me who he is.”

Believing that Clara wouldn’t get involved somehow was ignorance on your part, but some selfish part of you wanted to watch him suffer. To see him break as you did years ago.

Perhaps it was bad of you, a sinister part of your mind speaking, and yet you couldn’t let go of what Clara started. Marriage to a fictitious man—enough of a reality to prove that you were better. That you could live without Joaquín taking up space in your life.

“So you can confront him? I don’t think so.”

Words that only seemed to rile an unforgiving beast buried in the depths of a gentle man. “Someone has to tell him you’re mine.”

Your breath hitched, an all too familiar siren call dragging you to the bottom of an ocean you traversed long ago. “I’m not…”

“Sí lo eres.”

Yes. You were his.

There was no use denying what you could feel in a heart that would forever be carved with his initials. Sacred with its thorns and roots, it drew you to him, captured you with the vow of all he promised before shit fell apart. You were his. You couldn’t even fathom belonging to anyone else. And he knew it the moment your eyes flicked up to meet his—those brown irises you ached for.

“Yeah…” His hand cupped your chin, thumb pulling at a pliable bottom lip willing to fall open. “You know it don’t you bebita?”

“Joaquín-”

Music thumped with a bass loud enough to rattle the walls of this small bathroom, but you could barely hear it over the sound of his heavy exhale. His lips caught yours, hand tightening at the soft breath you pushed into his open mouth—tongue sliding along teeth and taste buds still coated in mezcal. Sucking in air you dug a hand into curls you tugged years ago; still the same man you loved, yet someone entirely different.

A person you longed to know.

You lost all sense when a hand tugged at the skirt of your dress, pushing it up past your hip with a muffled groan. The kisses burned you inside, curling a fist around an already bleeding heart. He devoured you, swallowed each sound and quick pant as you looped your arms around his neck to extinguish the space between your bodies. Fingers dipped beneath the elastic waistband of panties he’d admire later, too intent on the feel of your damp patch and pooling slick.

“Fuck I missed you,” he sighed, teeth sinking into the soft flesh of your throat, palm tipping your head back with a pleased hum. “So wet corazon.”

“I n-need-”

“I know.” Licking a line down your jugular you felt whatever anger still simmered beneath the surface vanish—wanton lust blinding you to the mess this would create. “I’ve been thinking about this. How you feel.”

You moaned, hips pushing into his touch. “Please. Touch me.”

“I am touching you,” he smiled, fingers sliding along your twitching clit with ease—able to rip sounds from you that had gone dormant the day he left. “That what you want? Need that pretty clit played with?”

Nodding frantically wasn’t good enough for a man who dreamed of this moment since departure. He gripped your cheeks, thumb running along a cheek decorated in soft gold glitter courtesy of Clara. A small showing of reverence for the man who toyed with your folds, dipping a finger into your slick and dragging it up slow enough to send shivers up your spine.

“I want words.”

“I-I want you to…”

“To what?” he asked far too smug in the way heat flooded your face, burning the tips of your ears and back of your neck.

Yanking at his curls, you watched in fascination when his head fell back, a groan bubbling past swollen lips. “I want you to make me cum on your fingers,” you breathed, lips pressed to a red flushed ear.

He smiled, dazed by the tight grip in which you held him. “As you wish.”

You should have seen it coming the second you released him, how his lips mashed to yours with a grunt, two fingers plunging into your dripping cunt down to his knuckles. Exactly what you asked for on his terms. You wanted to finish and Joaquín was nothing if not competent in that job. The order falling smooth from your mouth—his mind latching onto it with a desperation you’d never seen in him before.

The heel of his hand ground against your clit, trapping you on the edge of that all too familiar rush of bliss. You were right there. Chasing the edge of something mind numbing. By the hands of a man who ripped you apart, leaving you behind with nothing but blunt words and faded ink.

“That it?” Your body pitched forward, face burying into his shoulder when his fingers struck perfectly. “Yeah that’s it huh.”

“I’m gonna—fuck—g-gonna cum.”

He doubled down, practically ripping the high from you with a voracious need to see you break for him. To burn his name in the walls of your fluttering cunt that coated his palm in your slick. Even through the loud echo of music you could hear the wet squelch of his fingers pounding into you, possessing you in a way that was bound to leave you a shell of yourself.

“Soak my hand,” he breathed against the shell of your ear.

Your thighs trembled, clamping down around his wrist as it tore through you. A muffled shout pressed between teeth you sunk against his neck—marking him with the harsh lines of your canines. The music faded, everything else deafened by the ringing in your ears, the wash of bliss far too much for you to take. It wasn’t until your hand gripped his did he finally cease his movements, pulling away to give you a chance for fresh air not plagued by the scent of his cologne.

“W-Wait.”

“Take your time querida.”

“We shouldn’t…” Reality crashed onto your shores with a harsh sweep that nearly dragged you beneath darkened waves you couldn’t navigate alone.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not in the heat of passion with minds muddled by alcohol and adrenaline, not when he still refused to acknowledge that whatever occurred beforehand wasn’t for the best. You were lost, begging for him to lead you somewhere safe. To protect you against the darkness that ravaged your mind for five years. Instead he allowed jealousy to get the best of him.

You were his without question. But at what cost?

“I need some air,” you gasped, pushing him back until you could stand on shaky legs.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Everything. “I just need air.”

You needed far more than that. Something that would cure the agonizing pain coursing through your veins, the buzz of pleasure and alcohol barely making a dent. You cringed at the slick smearing along the crease of your thighs as you walked—the consistent throbbing where his fingers hooked into you drove your mind to the brink of something worse than madness. He owned you in a matter of minutes; reminded you exactly where you belonged.

“Stop fuckin’ running,” he called after you, pushing past the crowd.

Clara caught your gaze for a brief moment, concern flashing to the surface before you shook her off. Making a beeline for the only exit people practically poured out of. The air felt cold along your skin, drying the sweat along your arms and legs. And he rushed out after you, close on your heels—snapping at a chance to corner you.

To finally hash out what should have been said five years ago.

“Will you look at me?”

Sucking in a breath, you struggled to calm the overbearing rush in your ears. “Just…let me breathe please.”

“Mi vida-”

“No!” you snapped, whirling around to catch his stunned face. Everything unraveled faster than you could gather it in your shaky palms, slipping between spread fingers and raw nails that clung to peace. “You return after five years of silence and what? You expect me to forgive you? Just like that?”

The echo of your voice traveled down the street, attracting attention from whoever was closest, but you’d breached the point of complacent false smiles and sweet words void of feeling. He’d ripped you to shreds in mere sentences. Sliced through a lonely heart with something he knew would destroy what parts of your relationship held on despite the distance.

“I was willing to wait for years Joaquín,” you sobbed. “But you couldn’t even handle a few fucking months. You were too much a goddamn coward to break up with me the night you left.”

“Do you think I wanted to break up with you?” he snarled.

“Yes-”

“Me vuelves loco.” He’d been reduced to muttering under his breath, hands tugging at his hair as you wiped at the tears with sweaty palms. Love wasn’t supposed to be this. A knife neither of your held onto, plunging into wounds that never stopped bleeding. But he couldn’t stay away.

Who was he without you in his life?

“Maybe you just have to let me go-”

“Don’t you finish that fucking sentence,” he spit between clenched teeth. “You think I wanted to be without you for five years? That life was easy without hearing your voice or seeing your face? That you were alone because of the choice I made? I hate myself for destroying us! I can’t let you go because I’m desperately hopelessly in love with you. You can’t fix that corazón.”

Your breath hitched, familiar words spoken a lifetime ago here in this very spot. “It hurts Joaquín. Being near you is strangling me.”

“Then tell me what I can do. You have to tell me so I can fix it.”

“I don’t know if you can,” you whispered.

Taking the final few steps, he finally stood toe to toe with you—a calloused hand reaching for the curve of your cheek glistening with makeup and tears beneath the dim streetlight. “I’m nothing without you. I just existed for five years until I saw you again.”

His touch was warm, enticing in all the familiar ways that transformed the reasons you fell for him. Even as you shattered before him, there was still comfort to be found in his presence. He was the sunlight on a warm summer day. The reason you bloomed in the seasons of friendship and almosts and forgotten saccharine love. You couldn’t remain tied to the ground without him acting as gravity—twining himself around your broken form to keep you safe.

Even if he was the reason you bled along the cracked pavement below.

Perhaps it was a mistake, a memory you’d look back on in another five years. But he’d been your path since you found his eyes in a crowded classroom. His smile painted across cheeks that flushed red when you asked if he’d like to sit with you—if he’d take the first step in a thousand, start the story and watch it unfold before you.

“Okay,” you breathed, lost in the brown hue that still gleamed after all this time.

The apartment was stuffy after hours of relentless summer heat. A broken fan you never bothered to fix sat precariously on a stack of worn books picked up at the local thrift store. Joaquín thumbed through a familiar title he remembered snagging off your bookshelf in your old bedroom. The pages were yellowed, corners folded and re-straightened, but he could recall the story as if he was back in that old house listening to your family through the walls.

“How’d I know you pick that one,” you mused, discarding your purse onto a slightly messy kitchen table.

“Can’t help that I love it.”

You smiled. “Even though I never let you borrow it.”

“Never said I had to give it back,” he retorted, leaving it on the small wooden table by your counter, making a note to stick it in his back pocket when you weren’t looking. “The place looks…the same.”

“And that’s bad?” He snapped to attention, stomach jumping. Only to melt at the shining grin you gifted him in the yellow glow of your lamps. “Eres tan fácil.”

Laughter came easier the closer it got to midnight, the familiar warmth of your apartment echoing with memories he wouldn’t soon forget. “Mala.”

If he closed his eyes that night existed with a clarity that punched the air out of his chest. The quick pace you fell into one another—uncaring of what might come to pass. You were reckless in love, desperate to finally feel the touch held back for so long, the longing that was bound to snap. He could smell the perfume you wore, taste the drink you were nursing before Michael pushed him to dance with you. How you sounded beneath him, looked and tasted and touched after years of pure imagination.

Tonight sparked with a charged past ready to play out before your very eyes. A moment in time neither of you could ignore for much longer.

“Water?” you asked breaking the weighty silence.

He shook his head, eyes dark with a familiar need you’d seen once before. “I wanna talk. Like we used to.”

“Talk…” Sucking in a breath, you wiped at the sweat gathering along your chest. Joaquín followed the slow movement with rapt attention—his mouth dry and chest thundering with a restless heart. “What’s there to say? I already know what you’ve been up. Congrats by the way.”

The words were dry off your tongue. A silver tipped blade pressed to the base of his neck.

How could he blame you? When the reason he left you forged a direct path to who he became. The title he carried across his back as he struggled for air.

He wouldn’t be Falcon if he stayed. But he also might have been happy.

“You’re the first person I wanted to tell,” he said softly, admitting what he harbored in a cracked heart for years.

Your heart twisted, stomach fluttering in that old way it used to when you’d catch sight of him. Frustrating. Even as you relished in emotions you longed for after he left. Hope that this would turn into more—a future you could count on. Rather than a consequence you never asked for. Sleeping with him wasn’t the problem; neither was loving him. Even if he never returned you would regret making those choices, pieces of your life that set your heart on fire.

“You could have. If you stayed.”

Joaquín sighed, fingers curling into fists as he gnashed at his cheek. “I know. You never asked about me.”

“What,” you blurted out.

“Micheal knew where I was. He kept in touch. You could have asked him.”

You scoffed. “And who broke up with who again?”

“I wasn’t going to make you wait on me corazón. Being a ball and chain isn’t who I am and you know that. You had a whole life ahead of you. Things you planned to do before that night-”

“What life?” you exclaimed, voice pitched high enough to scratch an already raw throat. “I was broken for five years! Time I’ll never get back. All for what? So you could feel better about a decision you made on a whim? Without asking if that’s what I wanted.”

Ripping open yet another wound he felt his heart give out at the shine of tears on your face. Makeup smudged along the rim of your wet eyes, lips smeared with the remnants of a lipstick he knew was stained along his shirt. You were everything he wanted in life, the moonlight he basked in at the end of the day. The sirens song he crawled home to hear one last time, even as he drowned beneath a shattered love you might never reciprocate again.

He exhaled long and heavy, wiping at his eyes as he glanced around your darkened apartment. A couch he’d slept on was shoved near the window, a new T.V. mounted on the wall was turned off, and an old record player he helped you find now set on a rickety stand. Records piled on a coffee table he could remember eating off of before you found a kitchen table.

A home you built in the time he was gone. One that was always meant to be entwined with his possessions and memories.

Orange flowers sat in a familiar crystal vase his mother used to keep by the kitchen window. Always a new bouquet brought in from his father at the end of a long work week. Music flowing between the walls of a house he now stayed in as he fought to prove himself to you all over again. A past that you lingered in without knowing.

“Cempasúchil.”

You caught what he was fixed on—a small gathering of flowers from the corner you grabbed without thinking. A routine you’d grown to love even after years of his absence.

“For your pops. You said they were his favorite.”

His heart dropped. “You still bring him flowers?”

“I go every Friday with your mamá.”

Every Friday…

Five years of days spent with his family. Even after things fell apart.

He loved you.

He would love you til his last breath, the final beat of a heart that always belonged to him from the very first page. There was no denying a truth that couldn’t be buried in the depths of guilt and grief. Pain laced with memories that clung to apartment walls and city streets. You were his forever. His soul twisted around a body carved with your name.

“Siempre te amaré,” he whispered.

The gasp sounded sweet off lips he could still taste. “Joaquín-”

“I do,” he confessed. “There hasn’t been a day I haven’t loved you mi corazón.”

“You can’t just say that.”

“Why?” he demanded.

Slowly you lowered yourself into a chair that was once stuffed into the corner of his living room. “Because we still have to talk about what this is. What we’re gonna do to figure it out while you’re home.”

“What this is? I know what it is. I’ve known since you asked me to sit next to you. I’m yours. I’ve been yours all along.” He dropped to his knees quicker than either of you expected, his hands grasping the warmth of your thighs through sweat stained satin. “I got hurt mi vida.”

Your body stilled, hands cupping his cheeks as fear threaded between each rib and nerve. “What?”

“I…I was stupid and made a mistake and they had to stitch me back together. But I couldn’t care about any of it. Not the fucking pain, or surgery, or having to recover for months, because when I was falling out of the sky…all I could think about was you.”

How quickly you could have lost him and you never knew. You weren’t there when he was struggling to live. You weren’t there when he woke up. You…weren’t there.

“I-I’m sorry,” you choked out. “I didn’t know. I would have come to you-”

“No, no está bien. Yo estoy bien.”

“You almost died and you’re saying it’s okay?”

He smiled, forehead pressing to your stomach—fingers digging into what flesh he could hold as you clung to him. Some part of you sunk your teeth into the fear of losing him, dragging it close to swallow down that feeling. Every emotion, all the pain it kept you alive. It let you know he was there with you and for the first time in five years you held the choice of forever in your hands once more.

There he was offering you everything he was. All he could be, all you knew he was.

The man you were always destined to fall into.

“It is okay,” he murmured. “Because I’m here with you. And I didn’t think I’d get that again. I’m home.”

This is where belonged. The space that called him forward and you watched his eyes raise to find yours. Love shining in irises that haunted his waking life. Everywhere he went Joaquín saw you. In the midnight sky, in the summer days spent on a stuffy base somewhere, in the people he met and allies he formed. You existed in all that encompassed him—a soul he’d struggle to find and vow to keep.

“Rip me apart mi vida. Destroy me as many times as you want. I’ll do anything you want if it means stayin’ with you.”

“Mi amor,” you said beneath a soft breath and his heart mended itself with a shaky ragged gasp.

He rose to meet your lips as your fingers scrambled to find purchase in his jacket, tugging him close enough to nearly tip the chair back. If it fell he’d be there to catch you. Perhaps that’s what had your legs sliding up around his hips, a soft moan pressed to a tongue that slid along yours. The taste of you drove him off the brink of what kept him sane—all the attempted to stow inside an aching heart.

Licking into your mouth with a broken whimper, he dragged you to the edge of the chair, hands kneading at the top of your ass. You yelped into it with a smile, diving into the kiss with a fervor that had him leaking into his jeans. The heat from earlier pooled along his spine again and Joaquín knew he’d barely survive sinking into you; he could feel his cock twitch with every stroke of your tongue.

“Bedroom,” he gruffly got out, yanking you up onto wobbly legs. “‘M not fucking you in the kitchen. Not tonight.”

You grinned, tugging him down an all too familiar path. “There’s going to be more than one night?”

“If I have any say about it.”

“Eres bien creído.”

Hands ripped at your dress, pulling it up and off your body before he could even reach the bed slightly messy with rumpled covers. A staple he could always remember. It made him smile against your lips as you tugged at his clothes—those same warm hands sliding along bare skin. The jacket was left by the door, shirt tossed to the depths of your room and Joaquín placed you on the mattress before reaching for his belt.

Chills rippled along your back at the sound, heart hammering in your chest. He looked the same. Yet something older was housed in his stance, someone who was sure of himself in the way he pushed away the last of his clothes. A grin bloomed across swollen lips.

You admired him as much as you could. Dragging your eyes down to the red tip of his leaking cock and breathlessly finding his eyes in the dark of your bedroom. Last time neither of you got this chance. A moment of stillness before you collided. Silence thick with an electrifying tension you felt down to your toes.

Lifting a bare leg, you placed your foot on his stomach, dragging it down until his hand wrapped around an ankle—tugging you close with a harsh breath.

“Being a tease huh?” he mumbled, lips finding a home at the top of your thigh.

“Not my fault you’re easy to mess with.”

“Since when?”

You smiled, fingers curling around his mussed hair. “Since always.”

Words slipped to the back of a clouded mind when his hands tugged at the lace of your panties, sliding them off and marveling at the wet spot left behind. He could practically taste you on his tongue. The addicting tang of what he’d been craving since he left you at that airport. With a shuddered breath he slid a thumb along your folds, circling your clit hard as you writhed under his needy touch.

“W-Want you inside me,” you forced out, hips rolling into his hand.

Somehow through the haze of lust he made himself follow through with your plea. Hand positioning himself along the dripping hole he’d drink from later—his tongue swiping along his bottom lip. You were mewling for him, fingers twisting into the sheets and legs dropping open wide enough to accommodate his hips.

He slid along your cunt, grinning with unhinged glee at the loud moan ripped from your throat. You were unable to beg. Mouth barely forming coherent words as he toyed with your pulsing clit. Precum stained the pretty clean skin of your inner thigh, smearing a mess into the hair he was desperate to bury his nose in.

“Say it for me yeah?” he muttered, voice deep with gravel.

A gasping moan hit his ears, your chest heaving. “Please. Fuck me. Come in me. Just p-please do something-”

“Sh, sh. I know mi corazón. You’re empty without my cock huh?”

You nodded, yanking him close enough to feel his chest against yours. “Need it baby. Need you to stuff me full.”

“Mierda-” The near painful twitch of his cock had him burying his face into your neck, teeth scraping against the delicate chain of your necklace. Until he caught sight of silver tucked between your breasts, hidden by the black lace of your bra—a piece of himself he thought he’d never see again.

Only when he was ripping at your final item of clothing did you drag yourself through the thick fog. “W-What’s wrong-”

“You kept them,” he breathed, lips mashing to yours and hand roughly kneading your breast with a grunt. “Wore them the whole fuckin’ time tonight and I didn’t know.”

You wanted to explain that they were all you had left of him, a comfort after all this time. But his mouth closing around your nipple shut down everything but the sparks rushing along veins you didn’t know could exist. He sucked at your skin, teeth indenting into the softness of your breast. That desperate hunger shoving to the forefront—something you could feel wrap around the length of your spine.

He rutted into you, cock brushing where you needed him most, but you couldn’t let go of those words. There was no world where you wouldn’t love him.

No plane of existence you’d be where he wasn’t.

“They’re yours,” you gasped, grinding against him—head tipped back as his teeth scraped your throat. “I’ve always worn them. Since you—fuck baby—sent them to me.”

Whatever he could have said vanished, his mind going white at the thought of you wearing his dog tags from the very beginning. Five years of holding him over your heart. Time he believed to be filled with a cold resentment suddenly colored itself with a flushed pink haze—a dreamlike state he drowned in with a smile painted across his face. You loved him. Even through all this…it would always be him.

He sunk into you in one thrust and you cried out, clinging onto his shoulders at the sudden stretch, his hips meeting yours and head falling to your chest. A muffled fuck pressed between the curve of your breasts—tongue licking the bead of sweat along skin that glistened in the yellow haze of your bedroom. Breath twisted in your lungs, trapping what oxygen remained as he snapped his hips down into you again. Dragging out with slow cruel thrusts.

“So fuckin’ good,” he gasped, hand tangling with yours and pressing it into the plush comforter. “Gonna make me lose my damn mind.”

“Baby.” The word was a desperate whine on your lips, thighs wrapped tight around his hips—chest heaving for resuscitation from the plane of bliss he threw you into.

Without a map you feared you’d be lost to its depths. But his teeth digging into your lip kept you close, satiated the tremble going down your limbs.

There was no mercy in how he fucked you. No time for soft reverence and tender quiet moments. That would find its way to you later—when the moon began its descent along the horizon, time reaching far enough to still what small pleasures you could steal. He’d bring you back to life with a tongue buried in slick folds and fingers pumping deep.

Tonight he ravaged, took his fill of what you both craved as the night went on. Two souls verging together at last. Finally found after years of distance—entire galaxies spanning the years he spent away from your touch.

“Listen,” he breathed hotly into your mouth, lips quirking as the sound graced ears unable to discern his voice from the thundering of your own heart.

But he slowed his movements, plunging into you with a biting grunt you felt burn into your lungs. The loud wet squelch of your cunt bouncing off the walls of an apartment privy to this once before. Sinful in its agonizing beauty. He smiled, grinding his hips hard enough to drag a throaty moan from your chest—his lips there to swallow what you offered with glee. Heat burned beneath your cheeks, the tinge of shame digging between ribs and arteries.

Until he dropped to his elbow, your name encased in a high breath—his brows pulled together and teeth indenting the plush bottom lip you longed to suck on.

“S-Shit baby I’m not—fuck-” The word dragged between a clenched jaw as he rapidly pounded into you, the bed creaking from the force you felt with each stroke.

His cock struck against your walls, a creamy slick pouring out to drip down your ass, coating his balls as they slapped against skin he’d dig his teeth into later. A mess. He’d reduced the both of you to a fucking mess, unable to pick through a hazy mind. Each moan you let out grew higher, thighs shaking from the effort, and he ripped away from your touch before you could drag him close. Looping each limb over arms prominent with veins and familiar tattoos.

Mistakes made back in the youth of being nineteen. Time he spent wrapped in any part of you he could get. Even as something more simmered beneath a friendship always destined to change.

“Joaquín-” you sobbed, clutching at any part of him you could reach, his chest and shoulders red with marks from your nails. “I-I’m not engaged.”

He stilled, eyes wide and mouth parted as he panted for air. “You said-”

“I-I could never marry someone t-that wasn’t you.”

A strand finally snapped, edge reached long before you could ask him what created it in the first place. Brown suddenly bled into black and he now fucked you with everything in him. Lips sealed over yours, hand clenching tight around your hips—his coarse hair dragging along a throbbing clit that begged for more. Your walls fluttered around him, a shattered cry lost to his kiss, but nothing had felt so perfect.

“‘M gonna fuckin’ marry you,” he grunted, forehead resting against yours, bending you up and into his body—cock ramming right up into a spot that left you going blind with pleasure. “Make you mine.”

Everything you longed for—five years of love and grief—crashed at the shore of your body. Ripping the final pieces of your heart from the decay it lived with. You came with his name on your lips, back arching up into him hard enough to draw a flicker of pain down your spine—your eyes rolled back and fingers twisted into the fabric beneath you.

He collapsed over you with a choked shout, face buried into your neck as he coated your walls with that soft pool of warmth. A feeling you had forgotten about—bliss wrapped in the taut muscles of his arms, his body a heavy weight on yours. You were lost to it, drowning in his scent and taste, but his lips finding yours tied you back down to Earth. His hands sliding along your skin, tongue licking the pain off the back of your teeth.

Joaquín pieced you back together with a love that altered you entirely, shifted all that you were beneath the tidal waves of his heart. Peace settled in the base of a hammering heart—hope finding a home in the bottom of a fluttering stomach.

You loved him.

Eternally.

And that would forever be enough.

Sunlight danced along the bare skin of your back, face pressed into his chest—ear above a steady beating heart. It lulled you to sleep after hours of rekindling a flame that never went out. His hands a burn along your body, lips reacquainting with the dips and curves of your thighs. He sought you out in the early hours of dawn with a stiff cock and groggy pleas for your sweet essence.

Who were you to deny him?

He smiled pressing a kiss to your temple, fingers toying with your ring finger. If he narrowed his eyes in the afternoon light he could see a flash of yellow gold along skin he savored—a hand he clutched with promise. It wouldn’t be too big; nor small enough to hide from inquiring eyes. A perfect set of jewels adorned on a finger he kissed, the piece of you yet to hold his permanent promise.

Till death.

Till he found you in the next life.

Slipping from the tangle of your limbs, he relished the leap of his heart at the sight of you spread along the bed. Naked and at bliss, exhausted from his hunger. He stole another kiss along your spine, finding his way through the familiar path of the kitchen that still lingered with the laughter of memories that painted the walls. Times spent with friends—now turned family—moments he might one day have again.

A faded picture of two young kids at high school graduation was pinned to the fridge door, another of a night spent dancing at some shitty frat party—high off the freedom of adulthood. Two versions of a love he’d could pick out with his eyes shut tight.

Another would set nicely beside them. Of a wedding in a small backyard, an aisle scattered with orange petals and white daisies adorned to his tux—a veil dragging along the floor where you walked towards him. An image that would be placed on altars in memory, an offering set between the frame and candle as he clutched you tight even in the afterlife.

The coffee machine beeped, two mugs set on the counter as he poured, and that’s where you found him. Fussing with the bottle of cream and sugar packets damp from hot liquid. He wore his jeans low on hips you bit at some point in the night—the indent of your teeth marked into skin that would forever wear your mark. Even if you had to place it night after night.

Your arms looped around his waist, lips finding the warm skin of his back. “I wanted to wake up with you.”

He laughed, turning gently in your hold. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“You can still surprise me.”

“Yeah?” he grinned, eyes gleaming with a light that caught your breath in the base of your throat. “Got something in mind?”

Life suddenly held a different glow. Contentment filling veins with a something new. A piece that didn’t exist without him near—his love pressing deep and bright into a chest that burned hot. He left you breathless, begging for reprieve. Yet losing yourself to it all the same.

“So…about everything-” He cut you off with a kiss, hand dragging your left palm to his mouth. “Did you mean what you said last night?”

He smiled, at ease with the nerves he could feel beneath your wrist. “If I did?”

“I’d like that,” you breathed.

“Siempre estaras conmigo mi corazón?”

You nodded, heart singing beneath his love. “Si mi amor. I’ll be with you forever.”

©moonlight-prose do not feed my work into ai, do not steal my work, if you are a minor, spam like my fics, or are a blank blog you will be blocked.

[3amfanfiction]

Three, I’ve finally had a thought! (But it might be a 10k nightmare, sorry my dear 💚)

Imagine if you will, ex-cult!AU, there you left years ago, are trying to live a “normal life” and suddenly you feel like you’re being followed, and you? You know when your anxiety is right.

You start making plans to ghost, you haven’t lived away from them for so long without a reason

When you return to your apartment you already know it’s all over. Someone’s here, but close the door behind you. Part of you always knew someone from your past would appear.

There’s a giant behind you, dark eyes cold as he holds a finger to his mouth, signaling you to be silent. All you can do is nod weakly. You don’t remember him, tears are building in your eyes

“‘S wrong, luv? Didn’t think I’d find you?” Something about his voice is familiar, but you don’t know what

When he leans in closer, you see it — a very specific scar you’d been at the birth of

“Simon?” Utter shock pitches your voice higher than you thought possible.

Your only friend couldn’t have been this big, but it had been years since you last saw him

(Is this anything? 💚)

Is this anything, you say like this isn't everything. I'm already up to 20k words my dearest, lovely Temp and I haven't even gotten to the smut so this is going to come out in chapters. I hope you all enjoy part one!

~~~~~

Escaping the Cult Chapter One

tw: none this chapter, 4.8k

summary: you've escaped the cult and stayed off their radar for years. so how did he find you? what does he want from you? simon x f!reader but it stays pretty gn for the most part.

~~~~~

"Hello, love."

He loomed over you, half encased in shadow like an avenging demon. His bulk eclipsed the room, ensuring he was all you could see. This couldn't be happening. You'd been so careful.

Your knees trembled and you used the wall he had you pinned against as a buttress. Something solid that you took what strength you could from. You clenched your fists, the peeling wallpaper getting caught, curled under your nails. "You-you can't be here. I made sure, you shouldn't have been able to find me." Your heart was beating too fast in your chest. It felt like it was about to take flight and leap from its resting place. Your lungs seized and you fought to draw in air as you panicked.

"You might've been able to hide from others. But me? You were never able to hide from me." He took a step towards you, invading your space as you pressed back, your spine molded to the wall. You couldn't help your nervous swallow.

As you took in his broad frame—shoulder eclipsing the room, blocking you from seeing anything that wasn't him—you were reminded that this was the cult's enforcer. If he wanted you to do something, take you somewhere, you wouldn't be able to object. You never would've thought the scrappy little kid you used to go down to the creek with would have a job like that. But he just kept growing that one summer. You swear he'd shot up over a foot in those three months alone. Then when the muscles started packing on it seemed like a foolish hope that he'd ever go to work as something else.

You'd seen the signs as soon as Price had walked down the lane towards your little house—butted right up against Simon's. Knew what he'd ask, knew what Simon's response would be. It marked the beginning of the end of your life in the group.

Even to this day you couldn't call it a cult. Just a nondescript 'group' the closest you could manage, a rotten taste in your mouth at the thought.

And now your past was coming back to haunt you.

"Just let me go. You don't have to do this," you pleaded, trying to find some small chink in his armor. Something you could dig your fingers into and pull. "I haven't said anything to anybody, I promise."

And you wouldn't. Honest. You had no desire to be reminded of your past. Everything you had, everything you lost. Everything you hoped to gain and how bittersweet it was in comparison to your dreams. The past was the past and you never wanted it brought up again.

But the past was standing in your kitchen, taking up more space than you remembered.

"Simon, you know me," you tried. Something to appeal to his humanity, your shared childhood, anything. "You know I'd never talk. Please, you don't have to do this."

"Oh, sweetheart," he cooed with a strange tone of voice. Was it mocking? Eagerness? You flinched, preparing for the worst, "It's not like that at all."

Not like that? What does that mean? You had no ideas, nothing to guide you, no landmarks to follow. You hadn't seen him in years. Sure, you remembered the child fondly but you weren't ignorant to what the adult had done in service of Price. The horrors that Simon must have seen, been in accompaniment to.

He didn't give you a chance to respond before his arms darted out. You took a half step backwards in shock as his hands made contact and he pulled you into his chest, constricting his thick, burly arms around you. You felt your breath huff out at the pressure around your chest, struggling to get another inhale in. Simon squeezed tighter.

He buried his face in your hair and croaked out a, "You don't know how long it took me to find you," squeezing you tightly, as if afraid you would slip through his fingers.

Oh. He wasn't looking to take you back.

He got out.

You felt the tension drain from your shoulders so suddenly you practically collapsed into him, dizzy but trusting that he would have no trouble taking your weight. You wrapped your own arms around his waist, hugging him tightly to you, afraid to let go. To be alone again. Tears started to blur your vision.

The relief you felt was indescribable. You could finally breathe, a weight you weren't aware of had been yoked around your neck, something that wasn't noticed until it wasn't there anymore.

You didn't have to do this by yourself anymore.

—

He had searched and searched for you. Dead-end after dead-end all he had to show for it as the days bled into weeks, into months. It wore on him, grinding away at his determination until it was paper-thin, a hairs-width all that separated him from continuing to look and calling it quits. But he'd always been a stubborn bastard. And if you thought you were going to get away from him, leave him behind, you had another thing coming. So he had put his nose to the grindstone and kept at it. Town after town, questions and probes, always looking. Even when his desperation seeped into his every action, he didn't falter.

It was exhausting.

But it paid off.

It was chance that had him stopping in this blip of a town. Nothing but a twist of fate. And now he had you again. Here, in his arms. Crying into his chest. This was what he had been looking for since he left Price. This was the integral part that had been ripped from his life.

You.

In any capacity he could get, he wanted you.

He buried his nose in your hair, taking all of you in as he held you tightly. Now that he had you, nothing would pry him away.

—

That was weeks ago.

You watched Simon get up to pace a lap around the small living room/dining room combo you had going on. An outlet for the anxiety that thrummed under his skin. Money was tight with you being the only one with a job and you were only able to tighten your belts so far.

Simon had a rough demeanor—a scowl that was ever present on his face ensured he failed miserably at all his interviews, even the ones for a day laborer. You were working doubles trying to keep the both of you fed and afloat while Simon did what he could. He managed to pull in a few dollars here and there but never anything substantial.

You'd forbidden him from finding a fighting ring and trying to earn his money with his fists. You were terrified one day he wouldn't come home, left to bleed out in a ditch after a bad fight. You wouldn't have any word, no way to find him, no way of knowing what happened. He'd just be gone.

No, you wouldn't have it. You'd figure something else out.

Thus the current fight.

"We can't keep doing this, you're about to fall off your feet and I'm sitting around, fucking useless," he snarled, fed up at his own ineptitude. He'd never had that problem before. Back with Price. He'd always known exactly where he fit in, which space was hand-carved just for him. There hadn't been this constant uncertainty.

Now he couldn't even help to make sure you were fed or that there was a roof over the both of your heads. He was sidelined as you picked up back-to-back double shifts, working yourself to the bone. He watched it happening. Each day you came home a little bit frailer, a little more worn. It was eating you alive.

But you didn't see it that way.

"You're not useless. Things are tough right now but they're going to get better."

You wished you had something better to say. Something that said you would work until your fingers bled to keep him here with you. That this was all you wanted, all you hoped for in the darkest parts of the night, was to have him here with you. And now that he was you were going to hold on as tightly as you could, he wouldn't be slipping through your fingers. You just wished you could make him understand what his being here meant to you.

He scoffed and jerked his head, as if he couldn't bear to look at you. You didn't acknowledge how much it hurt, gaze flickering down so he couldn't see the emotion in your eyes. "I don't see how. Rent's due this week."

"It's going to be okay," you mustered, "We're almost there. I'll pick up a few extra shifts, we'll make it—"

"You're not picking up extra shifts," he roared, finally losing his temper as he spun back around to look at you. You flinched at the sound but held your ground. You knew he would never hurt you but that didn't change the fact that he was a big man. A big, loud man. "You're barely able to stay on your feet as it is, we're not going to keep doing this."

"Well, I don't see any other alternatives, do you?" you spat back after you gathered yourself, fed up with an argument you'd had several times before. "We need food, we need electricity and water and all that costs money. Money we don't have."

Simon ran his hands through his buzzed hair in frustration, finally turning to look at you, pinning you in place with his dark gaze.

"You were doing just fine before I came, maybe I need to leave. Head out so you don't have to worry about covering for me."

"Simon Riley, you stop right there before I shove a bar of soap so far down your throat you'll be shitting bubbles. That is the stupidest thing I've ever heard. You think my life was fine before you got here?" You thought back on all the missed meals and cold nights you'd endured by yourself. The lonely hours you would spend staring at the ceiling, too lethargic to get out of bed, nothing that could pull you from its warm embrace. "I was struggling then too, and I'll take this over that any day of the week."

It was clear from the look on his face that he didn't believe you. You stalked over to him and pressed your finger firmly into his sternum, using it to emphasize every word you said. "I want you here. We'll figure it out."

He looked down at where you were pressed so close to his front. Chest and shoulders heaving from the strong emotions coursing through you. He wanted to touch. He wanted to feel your heart race under his palm, feel your breaths skating over the thin skin of his cheek, he wanted you.

You'd always been beautiful but there was something special about this. Something that he hadn't seen before. Certainly not back with Price. You had always been meek back then. A quiet little mouse that wouldn't hardly say boo to a ghost. Nothing like now. He wondered where you'd found your new backbone.

He wished he'd been here to see it.

He took a step closer, forcing your elbow to bend otherwise it would've been your finger, still pressed to his chest. When he was close enough to smell your shampoo he paused, suddenly unsure about pushing this further.

You watched with an uncertain look, waiting to see what he would do. Your chest was still heaving with emotion, dragging in what oxygen you could and let your hand drop. You watched his pupils expand as he looked at you. The black eating away all color of the iris.

He took a deep breath, his chest moving out to lightly brush against you before he exhaled. There was hardly any room between the two of you now, just heat and a yearning that was slowly being unearthed. Something that had never seen the light of day but was now stretching its legs, ready to be acknowledged.

You'd loved him for years and wondered if this was it. If this was the moment you were going to risk everything and tell him how you felt. How you saw him. You'd never been brave enough before, but you'd had to be tougher since leaving Price. More sure of yourself. And you knew what you wanted. Him. Simon. Just like he was.

He opened his mouth and you waited with baited breath. Waited for the culmination of years worth of longing. Everything leading up to here. To him. Surely he felt the same way as you. You couldn't have been imagining all the subtle glances and brushed hands over the years. Surely this was reciprocated.

"I—"

The ringing phone snapped you out of your haze. You watched as he closed back off, biting the words back behind his teeth. Another opportunity lost. The disappointment almost choked you as you pulled your phone from your pocket, your mood souring further when you saw it was work calling.

"I've gotta get this. They might have more shifts to be picked up," you muttered as you stepped back, putting distance between the two of you, physically and metaphorically, lifting the phone to your ear. You couldn't look at him. It was too painful. You turned away, missing the look that crossed his face for a split second. A there and gone emotion too quick for you to make out even if you had been watching, one that if you had seen you would have clocked almost as fear.

—

Your days changed after that.

Simon had always been a loner. Even when you two were thick as thieves he still valued his personal time by himself. You couldn't count the amount of times you'd spun around, talking to him while he was supposed to be right behind you only for him to be dust in the wind. Gone without you realizing it to go do his own thing. You went searching for him a few times but you rarely had luck finding him. Even as a child he'd been skilled in hiding and remaining undetected. Something Price, no doubt, saw and made plans to utilize. But something caused his loner tendencies to change. Where before you mostly saw Simon at home, you now saw him when you were out and about as well.

He followed you to the farmers market, something he normally avoided—all the people talking and yelling made his anxiety spike, not that he'd ever admit it. He'd practically kept his hand in your pocket the whole time. He followed you to the drugstore when you were only running in for one thing, he even showed up while you were at work.

You'd just set the last plate of breakfast food in front of a family when the door jangled its little bell letting you know someone new had just walked in. Letting the family know to ask if they needed anything, you turned to seat the newcomer when you came face-to-face with Simon.

You'd slipped out of the house early this morning, not eager to rehash your ongoing fight. You thought it best to give him some time to calm down, to come to terms with the fact that the both of you needed your job, needed the money that you were able to pull in from the diner. The tips were the only reason you'd survived as long as you had.

But you were shocked to see him so early. He must've rolled out of bed just after you left, you thought glancing at the clock. You hadn't been here for a full hour yet. You wondered if something was wrong.

Frowning, you made your way up to him. "Is everything okay? Did something happen?"

"Everything's fine," he said, reaching out as if to trace his fingers gently along your cheek before he caught himself and pulled back. You blinked up at him in shock, mouth parting in an oh. That was new. Simon wasn't a touchy person. He didn't normally reach out to you, letting you keep your space, always a buffer between the two of you. You were the instigator the majority of the time, always the one to reach out first whether for a friendly shoulder tap or pulling him into a long over-due hug. It'd been that way forever, you thought nothing would change that.

He didn't explain anything further, just moved around you to take a seat at one of the back booths. You watched him go with confusion, standing in the middle of the diner dumbfounded before you made yourself move. Moving to pour him a cup of coffee, you sat it down in front of him. You couldn't afford much but coffee was basically free here. You could at least manage that.

Your day passed quietly but with a hefty weight to it. Simon never left, he kept the corner company for the hours of your workday, sitting calmly with a patient focus. Whenever there was a quiet moment you'd look up to find him looking at you, his gaze steady as he watched. You tried to come over and talk to him but he wouldn't say much, would just redirect you to other customers, saying something along the lines of 'we can't lose this job'.

The strangeness continued into the evening. Clocking out, you saw Simon waiting for you at the exit, finally leaving the booth he'd been sat at all day. Leaving with a wave and goodbye to the kitchen staff you met up with him and started your journey home, enjoying the cool breeze blowing across your slightly sweaty skin. The sky was dark and stars were just starting to peek out, evening turning its way into true night.

He reached out and tucked your arm into the crease of his elbow, keeping you firmly within reach.

What was going on?

Simon and personal space were near synonymous. Excluding you, he didn't care much for anyone intruding on his personal bubble and even you he would only put up with until he grew overstimulated and then he would forcibly put distance between the two of you. But him initiating contact again? Twice in one day? You wondered if he might be feeling poorly, maybe a fever was causing him to behave erratically.

You weren't sure but something wasn't right and you were going to get to the bottom of it.

You'd spent the whole walk home thinking up a game plan. What you were going to ask, his expected response, your rebuttal. All of it laid out like a general making war plans. Lines of supply and areas to push, the landmines which were to be avoided at all costs. Keeping the end goal in mind, you planned.

Walking ahead of him you heard the front door of the apartment close behind you. The locks clicking into place a short second later. Turning to frown at him, all your plans went out the window and you flat-out asked, "So today was fun. Why'd you want to hang out with me all day?"

Simon bent down to take off his shoes, not bothering with an answer.

"Was there something that I missed?" You tried again, looking for an in. Something that you could use to pry apart his silence.

He turned to put his shoes into the hallway closet where they belonged.

"Simon. Why'd you spend all day at the diner?" This was like pulling teeth.

"Wanted to," he finally grunted, moving to walk past you into the kitchen, opening the bare fridge before closing it with a huff. You'd split your two free meals with him on your breaks but that didn't go terribly far. Especially when he tried to encourage you to eat the majority of it saying you were on your feet all day, you needed the energy. Moving to the cupboard he pulled out a box of pasta.

You stepped forward, I can make that for you, only for him to pull it away and redirect you towards the bathroom with a firm press to your shoulders.

"I've got this, you go take a shower."

You wavered for a second before a twinge in your lower back made you decision and you decided to take his advice. A shower sounded amazing after your day. You were pretty sure you still had syrup in your hair from when a toddler had flung his plate of pancakes at you. Grumbling at him that this conversation wasn't done you headed towards the bathroom, a slight detour made to grab clean clothes before closing the door behind you.

Stepping under the warm spray, you couldn't help the soft moan of release at the sensation. You stood under the stream for a moment, letting the heat soak in and the running water wash away the stress of your day. When the tendrils of water reached your scalp you couldn't help the shiver that skated down your spine. Goosebumps creeping over your skin in a there-and-gone sensation.

Turning to grab the body wash, your eyes opened for the first time since stepping under the water. You saw a far-too-large shadow standing on the opposite side of the curtain and let out a shriek of fear, the call of Simon! on your lips before your brain had a chance to catch up.

He'd always been your first call whenever you were in trouble.

Watching the dark shape remain stationary, you realized what was going on. Yanking back the curtain just enough to stick your head out, ensuring the rest of you stayed behind it, you glared up at Simon standing just on the other side of the bathroom.

"What. are you. Doing?" you half shrieked, half spat at him. He looked far to nonchalant for the vitriol being pointed his way.

"Food's cooking, just have to wait."

"That doesn't—Simon!" you sputtered, "What are you doing in the bathroom?"

He just looked at you with deadpanned eyes.

"This isn't the time for your stoicism, Simon. What are you doing in the bathroom while I'm showering?"

"Thought I heard something."

"You thought you heard something," you couldn't help but repeat with derision, nose crinkling. "Was that something me showering?"

He didn't do anything beyond shrugging his shoulders, his gaze never leaving yours.

"Get out."

"Gotta brush my teeth."

"Simon Riley, I swear on your life. You get out right now or you're not going to like the consequences." He sighed like you were the one being difficult. Setting down his toothbrush he looked from you to the dark night creeping in through the small bathroom window, back to you again. A staring contest ensued before he finally shut the cabinet with a disgruntled huff, turning to leave, at last giving you peace.

"What was that?" you couldn't help but ask the empty stall once you heard the door click shut. Like it would have the answers showing the inner workings of Simon's brain.

Your shower was a touch hurried after that. Your hair took the time it took to get the stickiness from it, body and face scrubbed perfunctorily, no longer basking in the heat. Shutting the water off you could almost swear you heard footsteps retreating from the other side of the doorway, heading back into the kitchen. Like he had been waiting for you to finish. Listening.

What was happening?

Drying and dressing as quickly as you could, you decided to nip this in the bud. He was going to talk to you, one way or the other and he was going to do it tonight. No weaseling his way out of it. You were going to sit him down and have a conversation.

Walking into the living room you saw him sitting on the couch—finished bowl of pasta on the cushion beside him—looking completely unaffected by the ire pouring out of your skin.

Coming to a stop in front of him, you threw your hands on your hips and glared down at him. "What is going on with you? Why have you been acting so weird all day?"

His brows furrowed before smoothing into an impassive mien. He looked down at his hands. "I'm not acting weird, you're just being paranoid." he said in a strange tone of voice. An unknown strain bracketing his shoulders, the tension causing the cords of his neck to stand in relief.

You looked at him in askance. "Simon, you showed up to my job. You were practically in the shower with me." You were coming up with nothing when you racked your brain, nothing that could point to an instigator for his new behavior.

You thought things were fine. Not good, as your frequent arguments about money and jobs highlighted, but okay. You two had always gotten along and had a way of understanding each other that seemed almost supernatural when witnessed from the outside but nothing was making any sense in what was going on with Simon.

"You can't just shut me out like this." You chased after him as he stood up and moved to take his bowl to the sink, talking to his broad back, his shoulders tightening as he tensed with every word. "Not only is the shower thing weird, showing up at my job will get me fired. If my boss would've been in today he would've been asking about you."

Simon stood at the sink in silence, letting the frustration and indignation grow in the stagnant air as he faced away, avoiding looking at you. Why wasn't he saying anything? Was he trying to freeze you out? What good would that do? You were at your wits end when he finally gave you a crumb.

"—Making sure you're still there," he muttered.

"Still ther—You're acting like I'm some sort of flight risk," you scoffed in derision at his quiet statement, still craning to get a look at his face. A glimpse at the side of it showed you the moment his demeanor cracked.

"That's because you are!" he roared back, whipping to face you as strain finally broke in a way you couldn't have foreseen. It was clear he had no concern for the neighbors who probably had their ears pressed to the wall, eager for any drama. He spun around to face you, chest heaving as his breaths came in deep, sharp pulls. His face was turning a reddish hue, splotchy anger marks rising along his cheeks.

"I'm—I'm not a flight risk," you said, shocked, into the charged air. "Why would you think that?"

"Why would I think that?" Now that the seal had been broken he had no problem telling you what was wrong. His arms jerked out as he gestured wildly. "Tell me, was it you who woke up one day to your best friend missing? In the wind without a word about where they went?" He sneered down at you, "I was alone and you were gone. I was left wondering where you went, if you were safe, if you were hurt, why you'd left."

You heard the unspoken why you left me that hung in the fraught air. You felt your lungs squeeze as if in a fist. "It was so hard Simon, I wanted to tell you, I really did—"

"You didn't give two shits about me," he cut in with a barely contained yell. his gaze frenetic. "You just wanted to get out. Wanted out so badly that you left everything behind."

You felt your heart crumbling against his accusation as your breath hitched in your throat. Because it was true, wasn't it? You had left him. You'd packed up and sure, maybe you'd regretted the fact that you couldn't say goodbye but you never seriously thought about staying.

Not even if it meant keeping him.

Keeping Simon.

You chose yourself over him, hadn't you? And then you expected everything to fall into place once he was back? That was presumptuous of you.

"I'm—I'm sorry, Simon—"

"—Don't. Don't apologize when you don't mean it." His voice evened. His shoulders lost their tension. "I spent years looking for you. You forgot me as soon as your feet hit the road."

"Simon—" was all you could say as he made his way for the door. You couldn't help the uncalled for flinch when it clicked closed softly, the hint of an echo bouncing off the suddenly silent room in accusation.

Fuck.

Next

[cozycottagetarot]

Where You Bloom Bold

Links: Reading Masterlist | Ko-Fi | Personal Readings - open

About This Reading:

This reading is a sample from my latest offering on Patreon and marks the beginning of a new chapter over on my new blog, The Enchanted Chapter (@theenchantedchapter). Cozy Cottage Tarot isn’t going anywhere! I’ll still reblog new readings here, but from now on, all new posts will go up first on the new blog.

I’d love for you to follow along and step into this next dreamy chapter with me 🦋

Elle x

The focus is on where in your life you are currently playing small. The full version includes how you can begin to change that and how or where it will help you bloom.

Just so you know, I read tarot and oracle cards using their literal meanings, card imagery and intuition. These readings are primarily meant for entertainment purposes. The contents of this reading are not meant to act as or replace professional advice of any kind. Please only take what resonates and use it to reflect if you feel called to.

Decks Used: White Numen Tarot, The Citadel Oracle, The Deadly Apothecary Oracles, Seasons of The Witch Lammas Oracle

How to Choose A Group:

Take a deep breath or ground yourself in whatever way works best. Whatever option you feel most drawn to is your group. If you feel drawn to multiple groups, that’s okay too.

Read the section that belongs to your chosen group/s and remember to take only what resonates.

🌿 Roots & Reckoning

I did ramble a bit since you were my first group 😅

Where you’re currently playing small…

Cards: ten of wands, six of swords, page of swords, the captain, the champion, the puppeteer

It seems like you’re on a journey of moving from one chapter of your life into a new one. This transition has been one you’ve been waiting for for a long time. There are all sorts of emotions attached to it, good and bad, but the issue isn’t that these emotions exist; it’s that they are heavy. They are heavy, and you’ve become so entangled in them that you might not even be able to recognise where you begin and these feelings end. But you’re at a point in your life where, as you move into this next chapter, you have to put these feelings down. I think this is something you’ve been working hard towards. You’ve stepped up and become someone who could navigate all the hardships that life threw at you, one after the other. Help might have been limited or nonexistent during these times.

You’re moving from being burdened to being full of joy, excitement and happiness. You’ve got all these new ideas of what good/positive things can happen for you in the future. You’re finally getting the chance to explore who you are unfiltered and what way of expressing yourself feels right.

So, how does this tie into how you’re playing small?

When you were navigating these responsibilities, struggles, whatever you choose to call them, you were on your own to carry them, but you weren’t alone. You carried these weights alone because there was no one to lean on, or you felt like you couldn’t. The specific cause of it had to do with your relationship with working with others. Maybe others didn’t acknowledge how much effort you were putting in. Maybe you didn’t ask for help. Maybe you did, but no one came to your aid.

Despite this, you worked towards an achievement of some kind. An achievement that allowed you to move from one chapter to the next. However, it feels like you’re holding yourself back and playing small in terms of how you celebrate this win and embrace the next part of your story with open arms.

You’re not giving yourself the full credit you deserve for not only this win, but how hard you’ve worked to get there. It feels like you’re trying to downplay it.  It’s like you’re afraid of what people will have to say if you embrace this next chapter boldly. Like you feel the need to apologise for evolving as a human, for finding happiness. There’s nothing to apologise for. This is your win. You can have gratitude for any help you received, and you can feel resentment toward the fact that you may not have received any. But release any feelings and obligations.

If you like this sample and you want to read the full reading, you can access it through my Patreon here. ✨

🍯 Thorns & Honey

Where you’re currently playing small…

Cards: the magician, ace of swords, queen of wands, the patron, the thief, the diviner

Honey, you are magic in all the best ways possible, but it’s like you refuse to let it be. You’ve either had or are on the cusp of having some kind of mental breakthrough, and it feels like this could be regarding something that has the potential to be big. The ideas won’t stop coming, and it’s almost like everything is finally falling into place. But the thing about having these ideas is that simply holding on to them in your head isn’t enough. You have to be willing to actually see them grow and bloom in the world outside your head.

I think you’re every bit capable of seeing this idea manifest in your reality, and I think that you know you’re capable of it too. The problem is it’s almost like you’re afraid of your own power. You’re familiar with the idea of “with great power comes great responsibility”, and the responsibility of it is what is getting to you. This could be because you don’t feel ready, you don’t know how to start, or maybe you’re worried that if you try to assert yourself as an authority or someone capable of executing your idea that you will be being dishonest in some way. You’re not, and you won’t.

You have this vibrant, magnetic energy around you. Your ability to create and be creative is at a high for you right now. However, you’re playing small by not having the (full) confidence and belief in yourself. Maybe you have a fear of being seen, or you’re afraid of success and the attention and demand that would follow, so you play small in an attempt to stay in what is familiar.

I think that you’re leaving things to divine timing and intervention. But you haven’t done enough work yet to say what happens next is out of your hands. This breakthrough is your opportunity that you must grab onto with both hands before you claim to let fate do the work. You have to start paving your way. I’ve been pondering how ‘the patron’ ties into this. Originally, I was going to say this idea could have to do with you starting some type of endeavour that involves mentoring or coaching others on a certain topic. If that resonates with you, then by all means, take it as a confirmation. But what I really think this card is trying to highlight is that you’re playing small by telling yourself you need more experience. Once you have more experience, then you’ll be ready to go to the next phase… but you have everything you need to bloom right now.

If you like this sample and you want to read the full reading, you can access it through my Patreon here. ✨

🌹 Roses & Rust

You’re my more straightforward group so keep in mind that the messages are a bit shorter because you’re mainly doing what you need to be doing.

Where you’re currently playing small…

Cards: four of cups, the hermit, seven of swords, the dancer, the muse, the catalyst, the sentinel

I don't feel like you're playing small, but I do feel like you're standing still. You strike me as someone who likes to make sure you can navigate your internal and external world as swiftly and seamlessly as possible. Because of that, it feels like right now, you're more focused on reflecting, trying to map out the pros and cons of what paths and opportunities are available to you at the moment.

There is a possibility that you're afraid of ruffling feathers, and if that's the case, then I feel like that's where you're playing small. You're denying yourself the opportunity — and the right — to fully explore your options on your own terms, without worrying about what other people have to say or think about it.

The energy here feels very muted. It's as if the cards are pointing towards a disconnection from yourself, and that’s what’s coming through now. You're usually someone who's more optimistic — a lover, a romantic of life in general, not just of people. But for some reason, you’re keeping yourself closed off in your external world, and as a result, it’s creating stagnancy internally too.

You're playing small by not embracing your inner dreamer — that lively, vibrant spirit that lives within you. You have to free yourself of this, because it is time for you to change. Something in your life is ready to shift.

By not making any moves, by closing yourself off, you’re actually stopping the very changes you might be hoping for from happening. It’s time for you to shake things up on purpose. Let change be your intention, not something that happens to you.

Rather than change pulling you away from the things you want or are working towards, it might just be the thing that brings you even closer to them.

Maybe you’ve experienced some kind of betrayal recently, possibly in the last few months — and that’s what’s caused this shutdown. If you’ve been searching for inner guidance and it’s felt absent, that could be a strong reason why.

If you like this sample and you want to read the full reading, you can access it through my Patreon here. ✨

[jumpinginmuddypuddles]

svsss fic where shen yuan transmigrated without the knowledge of transmigration or the plot of pidw - instead the system gives him information of what is to come through some kind of prophetic visions.

like, he’s just some normal disciple (if that at this point) and he keeps getting smacked over the head with visions of the future. it starts of vague, with just scenes of war and suffering, before it specifies to the fact that the demonic and human realms combine (without knowing that it’s luo binghe’s doing). maybe he also gets random knowledge on plants and animals and people from convoluted wife plots and he gets kind of famous in the village he’s squatting in as some kind of seer.

and because this is pidw, someone would come hunting for him like lao gongzhu hoping for some fate-directed success. thankfully though shen yuan has the sense to apply to cang qiong where he’s taken up by shen qingqiu.

through coaching his visions begin to clarify and get more detailed. he sees specific events now, but bonus! it’s absolutely traumatising. and he hasn’t seen luo binghe’s face yet, but he knows that there is a man who crowns himself emperor and is the cause of all this damage.

on qing jing he also now gets visions of the first few chapters of pidw and their plot - he can prevent liu qingge’s death, he can give the mountain more prep time before the demons invade. thanks to his meddling, he’s pretty confident shen qingqiu isn’t going to go about abusing any disciples anytime soon, so phew he’s dodged a bullet there. time to keep trundling on while having weekly meetings with the peak lords to tell them what he’s learned to try and map the future and put preventions in place.

and then luo binghe comes along. maybe shen yuan has seen his abuse at the hands of their shizun, or knows he somehow ends up in the abyss. either way, he befriends this cute little guy who follows him around like a lost duckling. and shen qingqiu tolerates it, even though he’s fiercely protective because every time shen yuan leaves the peak there’s always an attempted kidnapping.

and then— just a scene. where shen yuan finally manages to see the face of the demonic emperor that has caused all this damage. so much bloodshed and loss of life. all these traumatic visions he’s received.

and it’s luo binghe. small, cute, naive luo binghe. how could his shidi become a devastatingly dangerous tyrant? the more he interacts with him, the more he sees. i think the pivotal moment would be seeing what he does to shen qingqiu, shen yuan’s shizun. does shen yuan risk trying to change fate (he already has) and how would his meddling cause his visions to change? would he be seeing alternate timelines, how would his character change if he can see the timeline changing based solely on his own actions? and don’t even get me started on if shen qingqiu found out.

just i have a lot of thoughts ok

[loveafterdeath-if]

Yeah, similarly to what another anon said, I was kinda hoping for this to be a story about moving on after losing a lived one, specifically your partner, which I thought was a beautiful and heartbreaking concept, and while we did get that in the first few chapters, it feels like this plot twist kind of defeats the whole point.

Though, unlike the other anon, I personally will probably continue reading because I think you are an amazing writer and because I love Ekissa. The only thing that makes me not sure about continuing is that the situation is a bit awkward, makes me feel a bit uncomfortable, so I was wondering about how you were going to manage it? Because MCs moving on process obviously gets cut short, but for those of us who are gonna romance someone else, we still need to finish that process, and one important thing when moving on from an ex is time apart, especially for one you were grieving not so long ago. Otherwise old feelings, nostalgia and a lot of other emotions get mixed up and that would probably lead to confusion. (Sorry, for the long paragraph, just a bit worried about how this is gonna continue)

It's heavy spoiler territory, but I'll have to address this for anon. And it'll be a long-ass response, so be prepared,

You are right about one thing, the whole plot falls apart if El is alive, doesn't it? And like someone said in the LAD discord "why love after death then". They didn't phrase it exactly like that, but you know what I mean. The plot does start with El, but it won't end with them. Idk how to explain without giving away too much, lol

There are clues that El isn't really dead in the first chapters. The flowers MC receives, and now players know El was the one offering them. The doc and Athiel never talk about death when discussing El. MC doesn't have the right to go to the funeral or even see El's body. Even L being called by Juliet at the beginning will have its importance. They're small details, nothing too obvious, but they're here.

I'll be honest, sometimes when writing Athiel talking with MC, I struggled to remember El wasn't dead because I tried to make it look and feel like El was dead, so I drowned a bit in that department.

The characters might seem like a lot, but each has their own purpose, big or small. Some are a breath of fresh air for MC since they're not caught up in all the drama and can be objective. Others are here because they'll play an important role later. Then there are those who serve as reminders of the past with El (like the neighbors). And some are just like those background characters in anime; you don't even see their features because they're just there to serve a small purpose and keep the intrigue going. They come and go.

Sorry, I'm talking too much. So how I'll manage it, is by—and it's where it's gonna get tricky—make MC aware of it as soon as possible. There will be a reunion between MC and El. The tricky part is showing that El won't remember MC, no matter how much/if the MC tries to jog their memory.

The past El is dead; the memories won't come back, and if any fragments do resurface, El won't feel the love they once had. It's more like a ghost of memories; their body remember, but it's more mechanical than actual feelings. Like an old habit that won't go.

MC will have to grieve the old El anyway, even with them actually alive.

In El's route, it'll be all about falling in love again, getting them out of this toxic relationship with their mother, helping them learn to love themself again, and living with someone who is El but not the El you used to know. They have trauma, the confidence they once had is gone, they're insecure and they're more reserved than before.

Juliet is like, the first villain before introducing the final boss. What I wanted to do was weave two kinda plots in the same book because I didn't want to make two separate books. Love After Death is Love After Death for a reason. The plan is to make the players realize that El wasn't the focus of this book in the first place.

I hope there won't have any inconsistencies in this story, but if you find any plot holes, you're free to let me know, and I'll do my best to improve. It's only with advice and constructive critique that I can do so. I'm sure there are blind spots I won't see right away; I'm only human😭

[mollygrass]

Pretty Little Thing

Remmick x Black Female Reader

Reuploaded, edited and proofread

Tags and Warnings: Chicago 1930s Au, Mafia Au, Remmick is in an Irish mafia, Remmick is still a vampire, Reader is 22 years old, everyone is up North from the South, Age gaps, slow burn, eventual smut, dub-con, (maybe—non-con), lengthy fanfic

Summary: At the twins new night club in Chicago, you give an opening performance and among the crowd of onlookers a certain Irish man from the other side of the Southside eyes linger a little too long on you.

A/N: ⚠️ Hi, everyone!! Before diving deeper to read this story, I ask that you throughly read the tags and know what you’re about to read. This contains dub-con and maybe non-con. Please be aware of those factors if you’re uncomfortable with that. If not please proceed and enjoy! ⚠️

I put this extra warning because someone on ao3 felt it had non-con in it in later chapters, i apologize profusely for that because it wasn’t what I thought I was writing and I don’t want anyone else to have to same experience as that person, so please tread carefully and be warned!!

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི ⁺‧

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི ⁺‧

“Well, little lady, you ready to show off that voice of yours?” A raspy, dried out voice croaks.

In the mirror’s reflection your eyes catch a glimpse of an old tall man peeking his head through the crack of the dressing room door. Still applying makeup, you give him a silent nod, heart racing wildly.

Profusely you begged your older twin cousins from down south to let you sing at their new night club in Chicago. Persistently without an ounce of sympathy they denied you, specifically the more firm, mean one—Smoke.

The only reason you’re set to put on a show tonight is because little ole Sammy from down south came all the way up north to escape the hot fields of crop sharing and is putting on a show himself. He’ll perform right after you, singing the blues whilst playing his fancy little guitar.

You two are the same age—twenty-two and you made sure to bring it up to make your case against Smoke. Stack took your side and convinced his brother and that’s how you ended up in their club’s dressroom.

“Okay, well make the dolling up quick, Smoke says you're on in five minutes, little lady.” His southern accent drips from his words, old and raw. He too came up north to support the twins' new night club.

“I’ll be out soon, Slim.”

With that said, Slim leaves and the door clicks shut softly. You continue finishing your last step of putting on the makeup–lipstick. Careful and docile, you apply a dark cherry red lipstick before twirling in the mirror. The pale purple flapper dress dances in the air, shining from the light's reflection. You always wanted to wear this type of dress, but never had the money to afford one. Stack has taste since he’s the one who brought you the dress for tonight.

You join Slim on the main stage excited but nervous. From his piano he looks up and smiles. “My, my, little lady, you are breathtaking tonight.”

You blow the old man a kiss. “Why thank you!” You giggle, eyes bright.

People pool into the establishment, wearing all sorts of expensive attire for tonight’s event. The sight of so many people nearly makes you want to dash off stage to the dressing room and stay there the entire night. But you refuse to back out. Not after all that convincing you did. Nope, no going back now.

Sammy strolls on the stage, guitar in hand as usual. “Good luck out there.” He smiles ear to ear.

“Same to you!” You chirp, as Slim begins to play the piano and other musicians on stage join him.

Soon the night club is buzzing with folks from all around Chicago’s southside. Brown faces of all shades fill the room leaving no space for any lighter tones. Though the city wasn’t legally segregated, it’s still separated by redlining. The closest you’ve been to white people are the ones also residing in the southside as well but in different neighborhoods–Irish white folk.

Lately there’s been rumors of tensions growing between the Black and Irish gangs for territories and things you really didn’t know about. It’s also rumored tonight an irish gang will join tonight's grand opening, settling tensions or come to some sort of compromise.

Whatever, it doesn’t concern you so you don’t mind it. On the main level where the dance floor is Smoke and Stack stand side by side welcoming their guests. Stack displays a bubbly face and his brother, an intimidating frown, stoic as always.

Stack takes a drag of a thick cigar. “Welcome, good folk of chicago! How y’all doing tonight?” His voice booms, southern drawl rich.

The crowd hoots and whistles among multiple claps.

“Tonight our little cousin, raised and born here in the sweet ole windy city will be our opening performance.” Smoke chucks a thumb over his shoulder to the stage facing his backside and takes his turn with the cigar.

The crowd cheers louder this time as the showlights shine brightly on your frame at the center of the stage. It nearly blinds you, but you remain stiff, not daring to move an inch.

“She got the voice of an angel y’all, but let’s get this shit started!” Stack hypes the people up once more before blending into the sea of tables with his older brother trailing behind.

The lights everywhere else in the large club fade to a dimmer glow, and only the bright light on the stage shines. You feel like you could throw up at any given second with so many eyes glued on you. At the side of the stage Delta Slim begins playing the piano and other musicians on stage follow suit.

Deep among the multiple faces of strangers, Sammy gives you a reassuring smile and mouths, “you got this!” He flicks up a thumb.

You gulp, giving moisture to your gritty, dry throat and start singing. Slowly your body loosens up, that stiffness melting off. As the song goes on your body moves with the flow dancing around the stage and the crowd springs to life. People cheer for you and others groove to the rhythm themselves.

As you’re distracted, absorbed in the world of music, you miss the glowing red eyes far off at a table with Smoke and Stack. The eyes latch onto your body, watching your every move on stage.

Curiosity turns to interest.

Interest to fascination.

Fascination to lust and desire.

“Hey, Irish man, eyes on me,” Smoke demands, eyes grave as his palm rests on the gun buried in his hip holster. “Not on my baby cousin on stage.”

Stack joins in, a cocky smirk pulls at his full lips. “I know, she a diamond ain’t she? But you ain’t come here for that. So, you best keep those wanderin’ eyes on us.”

The Irish man grins himself, eyes slick. “Can’t help admiring pretty things,” he drifts off, eyes daring to sneak a peek at you once more. “And I’m the type of man that loves pretty things.”

His words tick the twins off. Between the both of them it enrages Smoke the most. It takes every ounce in his body to stop the itch in his hand not to aim the gun at the cheeky Irish man.

“You better watch that filthy fuckin’ mouth of yours, motherfucker,” Smoke growls.

The Irish man’s goons around him grow tense at his offensive words. Ready to start a bloodbath, hands ghosting over their guns too but their boss’ voices freezes them.

“Be calm, this ain’t nothing.” And as if it’s a command their muscles relax. “Right, me and my men are gathered here for business. So let’s talk business, fellars.”

On stage you huff, panting, light sweat pooling at your temples. The crowd goes wild, clapping and cheering your name.

“You did amazing,” Slim says and takes a swig from a flask.

You shoot him a smile too tired to use your voice. When the cheers die down you gain the club’s attention. “Cousin Smoke and Stack, cheers to a wonderful night tonight!” Your hands point to them and then at Sammy. “And everyone give it up for little ole Sammy from the deep south!”

Like before, cheers shake the club as you leave the stage. Behind stage Sammy squeezes you in a tight hug. He applauds your performance before rushing to the stage to sing his blues. Before he completely disappears to the stage he halts, head peering over his shoulder.

“Oh also, Smoke said to stay in the back rooms cause you ain’t allowed up front.” He sharply inhales, eyes glinting with guilt. “Sorry about that!”

You blink. His words take a minute to sink and soak in your brain and before they register he’s already bolted on stage. The booming sounds from the crowds tell it all as it practically shakes the walls. You want to ask him why, but seeing it’s too late you just listen.

Salty and disappointed, you walk through the short dimly lit hall. Fingers trailing along the blood red walls as you pass by. The backroom is empty of people. Fancy expensive couch chairs surrounding a polished wooden table with a candle on top centers the room.

Mirroring the halls outside, the walls inside here are red with painted portraits of long black figures dancing and playing the blues. Left to the wooden table is a brick built in fireplace and to the right is a small bar with pricey booze bottles.

Illegal booze.

Plopping down on a tall stool, back slouched, you snatch a liquor bottle.

How ironic, blues music whispers in the backroom as you’re feeling quite blue.

After tonight you’ll make sure to give Smoke and even Stack a piece of your furious mind. This sudden unpromised treatment is petty and unfair. After your performance you expected to be out on the dance floor dancing and mingling. Not locked away back here for no one to see.

You slide a nearby shot glass to you and pop the bottle open. The top goes clacking on the cocktail table. Filling the small glass to the brim, you take a swig of the bitter poison. It burns, slipping down your throat. You repeat the process once more.

You sigh and bury your face in your palms, both elbows propped on the table. “Fuck you Smoke…and fuck you Stack.”

Your vision blurs as you sniffle.

As if they planned it, the twins burst through the door and you jolt upright on the tool. Behind them a pale white man follows after. His eyes are quick to find you and a sly smirk carves on his face. The twins however fail to notice you until they're on the cushion red couches. Smoke's face is quick, flashing anger and irritation while Stack is dumbfounded.

Stack stands. “What the fuck are you doin’ back here?”

Your eyes widen, appalled at his words. “Why am I back here,” you pause. A glare pulls your brows together. “You two jerks sent me back here, that’s what I’m doing back here!”

Your little feisty attitude makes the Irish man lean forward. Elbows resting on his legs, callused hands entwined as his face ghosts above them. A low chuckle rumbles in his throat. His mind races, ideas of how he’d have fun breaking you in. He never did like the obedient type of women.

Smoke remains seated, legs crossed. “Watch your damn mouth in front of company, girl.”

The word girl makes you flinch as the three men watch you. Smoke rarely speaks to you in such a tone let alone call you girl. It makes you wonder who spit in his drink tonight.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just a bit moody,” Stack says lightly, but you still don’t buy it.

You shift on the stool, feeling a bit shaky at your older cousin’s brutal demeanor. “Whatever,” you mumble, but no one but your ears hear it.

“But really, why’re you back here, Sammy didn’t tell you to come here.”

Confusion flickers upon your features. “With all due respect, yes he did.”

A long exhale falls from Smoke’s mouth. “Damn boy, can’t even listen right.”

The Irish man sitting between both twins is silent and patient as he watches the scene unravel. His eyes sparkle with greed and mischief as his eyes linger longer over at the bar.

“Well, gone on home. Find Sammy and Slim so they can take you.”

“Wait.”

All of your eyes fall on the Irish man. You stand on your feet, hand idly resting on the bar table.

He tilts his head towards the bar and you swear you can see steam seething from Smoke.

“Don’t,” Smoke grits out. His eyes glint doused in bloodlust as he leans forward on the couch.

The Irish man keeps going, regardless of Smoke’s threatening tone.

“Is that my open booze over there by the pretty little thing?” His eyes remain on the twins.

Smoke and Stack heads whip to the bar. The younger twin eyes grow wide and his brother’s face twists in rage. Smoke curses under his breath, lost for words.

“Remmick, you leave her out of this. She had no idea it was yours,” Stack says, brows furrowed.

You stand frozen, mind dizzy, stomach sinking. Did you do something wrong? Yes, and you know it, but you just don’t know what exactly it is. You do figure it’s got something to do with the open booze bottle on the cocktail table.

It might be the wrong decision to say something right now, but you speak anyway.

“Okay, Smoke. Stack. I’m gonna head home now.”

“Don’t move.”

Remmick’s voice freezes your body in place.

“I think you owe me, darlin.” He smirks, eyes growing wide.

“How much money for the bottle?” Smoke jumps from the couch.

“I’m not talking to you,” Remmick says, voice stale and dry. His deep brown irises burn holes through you. “What was it again?” His fingers caress his chin, licking at his sharp canines that resemble more that of fangs than regular human teeth.

Finally, he says your name as if he’s won the lottery, snapping his fingers. He turns to you and sighs, still smiling like a maniac.

“How are you gonna pay me back for drinking my booze, pretty little thing?”

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི ⁺‧

[zorostitties]

Aurora; 8 (m)

⤕ Your existence had been an endless night, where shadows whispered long forgotten secrets. Trapped in a golden cage, your fragile mind and shattered memories were chains that kept you from dreaming of freedom. Then, he appeared with the first light of dawn, like a gentle sun warming your cold skin. In his gaze, the promise of a new beginning; in his presence, the sunrise your soul had longed for.

In which Alucard saves you from Erzsebet.

pairing: alucard (castlevania) x (f) reader

genre: angst, romance, slow burn, eventual smut

warnings: violence/blood, explicit language, mental health issues, grief, physical abuse.

rating: 18+

word count: 9k

A/N: HAPPY ONE MONTH ANNIVERSARY TO AURORA!!! I can't even believe I got this far with this fic. Fucking 50k+ words in a month??? Hyperfixation REALLY go boom! It also happens to be my birthday today 🫠 my age is definitely starting to sound WAY TOO SERIOUS now. welp. ANYWAYS - an anon motivated me to create a playlist for aurora, so here it is!!! These are some of the songs that I listen on repeat when I'm writing. Not all of the lyrics have anything to do with the story tho, some just match the vibe of the fic. Though, if I had to choose a "theme song" for Aurora, it'd definitely be Darkness At The Heart of My Love - Ghost. I know metal isn't everybody's cup of tea but in my brain, vampires = metal. And specifically Castlevania = Rammstein for some reason lmao. Anyway!! I hope you guys give it at least (1) listen, as I really think the playlist encapsules the vibes I'm trying to portray in my writing very well. ANYWAYS!!! LET ME SHUT UP!! ENJOY THIS BEAST OF A CHAPTER <3

⤕  Masterlist  ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Playlist

? Years Ago

Jerash, Ottoman Empire

The moon was hidden behind heavy storm clouds that night.

The rain whipped against the walls and ceiling of the humble house. It consisted of only two rooms – the kitchen and a tiny bedroom with simple wooden furniture. One would consider it the house of a common peasant, but the hundreds of books piled over one another indicated otherwise. They were everywhere: over the table, stored on shelves, precarious bookcases and boxes… some looked ancient, some looked new. Some had intricate leather covers, beautiful handwriting and illustrations, while others were nothing but a bunch of pages with incomprehensible scribbles. It was even difficult to walk into the house without stepping over one.

The place smelled of spices. Many types of dried herbs were hanging around the kitchen. Different types of stones of all colors and sizes rested over the closed windowsill: quartz, crystals, amethysts, obsidian, malachites… colorful bird feathers were tied by threads in intricate designs, also hanging from the ceiling. All of that was supposed to provide “protection” against the “evil”, apparently.

Drolta hated that place.

No… hate was too strong of a word. To hate someone or something, you must care about it enough, and Drolta didn’t. She was… disgusted. All the dirt, the simplicity, the cheap magic that wouldn’t even hurt a fly… it was boring.

And the owner of that house was especially disgusting.

That short, bald creature finally appeared from inside the bedroom, carrying a heavy book in hands and an annoying large smile. When all this ended – and hopefully it would end very soon –, Drolta would make sure to kill this little man and take a long, really long bath to take his smell off her skin. She didn’t even plan on feeding off him. He didn’t deserve it. Drolta refused to drink from a neck that wasn’t soft, young and feminine.

“Here it is. The product of all of my researches over the years,” he claimed proudly. What was even his name? Was it Khalil? She didn’t remember. Before looking at her face, his eyes stopped for two seconds on her cleavage. He did it every time and hadn’t been trying to hide it ever since Drolta stepped foot into this thing he called home.

Men… oh, how easy men are. Drolta witnessed multiple changes in the world during her long lifetime. She saw empires rise and fall, cultures cease to exist, philosophies and religions sweep the Earth. But one thing that had never changed over all this time was the simplicity of men. All she needed to do was put on a tighter corset, a deeper cleavage… and she had him on the palm of her hand. Drolta didn’t even need to try much much harder. This little Khalil man was the type she despised the most: the needy type. Never got married. Judged too strange by his fellow villagers. Probably never felt the touch of a woman. He was desperate.

But he had something that Drolta valued after all: knowledge. There was a time when the world was full of magicians. Speakers, priestesses, witches, oracles, shamans, alchemists… actual scholars of the ways of magic. But that was before the fucking Church. Now, apparently, all humans knew how to do was kneel and pray for a God that could not grant them any power.

Drolta was aware that she was partially at fault in all this. However, she would redeem herself soon.

When she finally succeeded in bringing Sekhmet back to life, this Earth would know what a real Goddess is. A Goddess with real power, real impact, who could bring real fear and obedience and adoration.

Soon, she thought to herself. I can feel it. She will come back soon. I will bring her back soon.

So many centuries of preparation. So many sun cycles searching for the right candidate. She had finally, finally encountered someone whose body managed to withstand Sekhmet’s power. Erszebet Bathory grew more powerful every day; the holy blood she drank was slowly but surely changing her body, her soul, empowering her. Drolta could feel Sekhmet’s presence in this world getting stronger. She could feel her goddess through Erszebet, talking through her, striving to resurface through that vessel. Everything was going so well.

And yet – all of her effort was still not enough, because half of Sekhmet’s soul was still missing.

Aside from taking care of the vessel, Drolta and her sisters roamed Earth after the Ba – Sekhmet’s mummy. For some reason, it was always out of reach: stolen from someone, bought by someone, then stolen again, then auctioned… Drolta was always too late. She prayed, prayed, prayed ardently that her beloved Goddess would help her from the other side, give her a sign, maybe twist things a bit so she could have a chance… but oh, she knew her Goddess was too weak to help. Drolta knew she would have to find a way.

And although all odds seemed to be working against her, Drolta found another way. Drolta thought of another chance.

As far as her associates scattered around the world knew, the mummy was lost forever. She completely lost track of it somewhere in the Horn of Africa; the last news she heard about it was years ago. As much as Drolta despised the idea – as much as she’d like to personally torture whoever committed such blasphemy towards the body of Sekhmet –, she had to be realistic and assume that the mummy was, perhaps, definitely gone.

But Drolta wouldn’t let herself be drowned by despair. No. Despair was the enemy of reason. She had to be strong – for Sekhmet, for her sisters, for her goal.

So another idea grew into her mind.

Drolta was under possession of Sekhmet’s blood, the Ka; the Goddess’ Ba, the mummy, was out of reach.

And then there was the third piece of her soul which was also out of reach.

Except… maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe there was a way to reach into it.

Yes, she knew no one had ever managed to do it. Yes, she knew the possibility of failure was high. Yes, she knew that, perhaps, it was all but a delusion. However, Drolta couldn’t be sure without trying first. If there was even the smallest possibility of it working, she would go on with it.

She had to do it – and do it fast. Drolta had never met anyone that could take so much of Sekhmet’s blood, but even her couldn’t take much more; the Goddess needed her other half.She could not lose Erszebet; she would do anything in her power to keep that woman safe.

Which led Drolta to this annoying mortal man.

He was disgusting. He smelled bad. He had the audacity of assuming he was going to fuck her. And still, he was an alchemist – and there weren’t many alchemists in the world anymore. Not good ones, at least. Drolta wasted her time going after a famous alchemist in China months ago, but she turned out to be a charlatan. As far as Drolta knew, this one was real. Maybe not powerful like mortal alchemists used to be, but he could do the job.

“From the information I have gathered, it hasn’t been tried in centuries,” Khalil spoke with amazement and reverence. It truly was the work of his life, apparently. “Not many scholars even believe it happened, in fact… it is under deep discussion. However, the ones that believe it, report that the occurrence happened in Wallachia, when a certain alchemist tried to… well…”

Khalil averted his eyes, seeming embarrassed and hesitant. Oh, the traits of a man that has been laughed at and ridiculed his entire life. Drolta felt grateful that he was this way. Much easier to deal with.

She rested her hand on his forearm and looked at him with round, curious eyes – even though she already knew what he was trying to say.

“Tried to what? Please, tell me,” she asked in a honeyed voice.

Khalil probably had an erection at that moment. His face flushed and he smiled.

“Tried to bring D-Dracula back to life,” he finally let out. “Yeah, I know it sounds absurd. I-I mean, Dracula? The folk tale to scare kids? How is that even possible?”

“I don’t find it absurd at all,” Drolta said, shaking her head softly. “Please, continue.”

The man averted his gaze from hers sheepishly, holding the book just a tiny bit stronger.

“Y-You are the first person to ever take me seriously, Miss Danubia,” Danubia? Oh… it’s the name she made up for herself. She had almost forgotten. “I… I really appreciate it.”

What, are you going to cry? Spare me.

Drolta caressed his arm softly.

“I admire your intelligence. I’d sit with you and talk for hours about all of your discoveries,” the idea sickened her, in fact. But Drolta couldn’t just force him to do anything. As far as she knew, the entire process had to be done willingly, otherwise it wouldn’t work.

For fuck’s sake, it really looked like he wanted to cry. Khalil blinked rapidly and looked down at the book again.

“Apparently, the portal was opened directly into Hell in order to retrieve Dracula’s soul. But it’s entirely possible that, through this same ritual, I could try to reach into other realms, too…” For the first time, Khalil looked hesitant. He gulped. “Though, if I’m to be completely honest, Miss Danubia, I do not believe I have the expertise needed to lead such a powerful ritual.”

Drolta stepped back, letting go of his forearm.

Khalil looked up at her, slightly startled at her sudden lack of touch.

But then, Drolta looked down, putting her hands over her chest and…

Tears welled up her eyes.

“I-I wish you could understand my pain and my despair, Khalil,” she started, voice trembling. “My mother… my dear mother. I could never tell her goodbye before her death. She had such a painful, slow death…” Drolta looked at him again, a single tear streaming down her cheek. “I do not wish to retrieve her soul, Khalil; I understand this goes against the laws of nature. I just want to… talk to her. In my culture, we believe that the souls of our deceased goes to the duat. If I can just get a peek of it… just look at her face once more… you will have my eternal gratitude. I-I can’t let this chance go by…”

Drolta covered her mouth and sobbed. With the corner of her eyes, she saw Khalil rush to put the heavy book over the table and bring her a handkerchief. She didn’t want to put that stinky thing near her face, but took it anyway and wiped her tears delicately.

Khalil pressed his lips together. All the hesitance was gone, being replaced by determination.

“I believe I can do it, Miss Danubia.” He inhaled before speaking. “The g-good feelings I have for you will be my guide and shield.”

Drolta offered him a sweet smile and a fragile thank you.

Khalil took off his coat and pushed the small table to the farthest corner of the room. He then took a piece of white chalk and started to draw something on the floor.

“This is the symbol of Osiris, Egyptian god of the Underworld… or the duat,” he explained while he drew. As if Drolta didn’t already know it. Yet, she acted shocked, trying to engage him in conversation as he lit a circle of candles around the hieroglyph. She needed him content and willing. Mortals work better when they are in their best feelings; they tend to put much more of their force into what they are doing, and this, in magic terms, was extremely meaningful.

Drolta loathed the fact that she needed this man happy to achieve her goal, but it was necessary. Well, if not happy, then hard. Sexual energy can also be extremely powerful.

After Khalil finished his preparations for the ritual, Drolta approached him and held his hand.

The man visibly held his breath.

It was so easy for her to send him that sweet gaze. So easy to trap his entire attention on her, as if Drolta became the very air in his lungs. She leaned down slightly and pressed her soft lips on his cheek, making sure to stay there a second longer than necessary, before leaning away a delivering a smile that showed quiet sadness and care.

“If you succeed, Khalil, you will have my heart eternally,” she purred in an almost whisper.

He was shocked.

It really looked like he couldn’t breathe.

Finally, he managed to crack a smile. He puffed his chest like a pathetic male bird and nodded as Drolta stepped away.

“I will, my lady. For you.”

She held back laughter.

Finally, Khalil took his heavy book again and stood near the candle ring. The flames projected eerie shadows around the walls; the outside storm was everything they could hear. He placed the book in front of his feet and took a small knife from his pocket.

“Blood is required to initiate the ritual,” he explained. “You can look away if it makes you uncomfortable, my lady.”

Khalil didn’t see when she rolled her eyes this time.

He swiped the knife on his palm, wincing in pain as he did. Weak little human, can’t even stand a cut without crying. He let blood drip over the symbol on the floor before walking back to the candle ring and taking the book in his hands once more.

He took a deep breath before finally initiating the spell.

His pronunciation of Akkadian was bad. Laughable, even. Drolta could barely understand half of the words. And yet, it was enough.

The candles trembled. The air within the house got colder. Drolta felt the floor beneath her feet shake slightly, the air vibrate in a high frequency – the frequency of high magic.

It was working.

A grin slowly grew on her lips. She… underestimated this little man after all. He was an actual alchemist – but the ritual was only working because of her efforts, she realized. Khalil was putting all of his love into the spell. Yes, actual love. How such a naive creature fell in love with her so quickly after a few days of knowing each other was beyond her.

Love is also extremely powerful in magical terms.

The storm grew angrier out there. A thunder so loud and so close shook the entire house, made Khalil lost his focus for a second before continuing to read the spell.

Followed by another thunder – even closer this time.

And another thunder.

The ground shook. Some books fell from the shelves. Khalil lifted his head and looked towards the window.

There was another sound mixed within the cacophony of the heavy storm.

Screams.

What was that out there? Was the house of his neighbor burning?

“W-What is–?” Khalil stuttered.

He hadn’t noticed that Drolta was towering right behind him. How did she get so close so fast?

She held his head with both hands from behind, guiding it down towards the book again.

“Keep reading,” she instructed in a quiet whisper, her mouth close to his ear.

A violent shiver ran down Khalil’s spine.

For the first time, Drolta’s presence made him feel uneasy. Her voice changed drastically; it wasn’t welcoming anymore, or warm, or caring. It was just freezing cold. It… it didn’t even sound much human.

All these talismans he hung around his house for protection – and yet the worst evil he could possibly imagine was standing right behind him, welcomed by him with open arms.

Another thunder. Another fire. Another house burning down. A few more souls to fuel the spell.

Khalil could be a real alchemist, but he was far from being a good one, Drolta remarked to herself. All of those books taught him nothing – again, she had to do most of the job. In the few days she worked on gaining his trust, she also made sure to mark every house in the village of Jerash with the symbol or Osiris. Marked it with virgin blood to make it even more effective.

Every respectable alchemist knew that in order to open a door into the Infinite Corridor, multiple mortal lives were required. That is why most alchemists weren’t brave enough to do it.

Khalil wouldn’t be brave enough to do it too if he knew what it’d cost. That is why Drolta lured him into it and made the preparations behind his back.

Drolta chuckled. How he must had been feeling at that moment, knowing he sacrificed hundreds of lives of his fellow villagers in the hopes of sticking his tiny penis inside of her?

“I told you to keep reading,” she repeated, and this time her voice sounded like a dangerous hiss.

Khalil’s hands trembled. He gulped. His voice wasn’t as confident anymore, but he had already initiated the ritual; there was no coming back from there.

The floor shook as more souls were reaped into the spell. Suddenly, the windows opened all at once; the ceiling cracked and was swiped away by a violent gush of wind. Drolta looked up in time to see a funnel of souls converging into a single streak of red light, being attracted by the symbol of Osiris on the floor; they made a twister within the circle of candles that were somehow still lit despite everything.

Wind and rain whipped Drolta and Khalil, made his books fly in all directions. None of that bothered Drolta. She had a maniacal grin on her lips, eyes locked in the chaos unveiling in front of her eyes.

Finally, finally, finally, a white crack slashed the air inside the candle ring. A crack in reality itself.

Freezing cold wind came out of it. The crack was slowly but surely getting wider. It made Drolta’s eyes widen, shivers run her body; few times in her life did she witness magic so powerful, so strong, so chilling.

It was working. It was finally working.

She stepped aside from a shell-shocked Khalil and extended her arms in a wide movement, the smile never vanishing from her lips.

A door to the Infinite Corridor, opened right in front of her eyes.

And yet – her work wasn’t done. This door needed to be redirected; it needed to be aimed at the right place.

“Oh Sekhmet, Eye or Ra, Lady of Terror, Mistress of Dread, She Who Mauls; hear mine calling, let thou be guided by the voice of thy loyal servant!” Drolta chanted with all her might, raising her voice as to be heard beyond the storm and the magic and the weeping souls.

The crack got a bit wider. Insurmountable amount of energy escaped from inside. Drolta didn’t even know if Khalil could stand in front of it much longer, given how weak he was, so she needed to rush.

“Hear mine call, Your Magnificence!” Drolta continued, gesticulating in wide movements. “Let mine voice guide thee through the waters of the primordial abyss; let thy Akh resurface in the land of the living. Oh Sekhmet, Lady of Slaughter, She of Ten Thousand Names; walk back into thy rightful realm, retake the throne unfairly taken from thee, wear thy rightful crown once more!”

The crack got wider, wider, wider. It was difficult to understand what could be seen inside of it; it looked like a confusing kaleidoscope. Different images jumped in the blink of an eye, landscapes not even Drolta could understand. And yet, she kept chanting, hoping her energy would be the necessary guide. The mark of Osiris burned in bright red.

Finally – the image within the crack seemed to stabilize itself.

Drolta’s eyes widened.

She saw a… calm river. A temple made of gold in the distance, sitting atop of an island. A pyramid. Purple trees adorned it; the tip of the pyramid shone with a blinding light. The most beautiful sky she had ever seen.

That was it. It was the duat.

Drolta got even more passionate in her speech; her throat ached from screaming.

“Hear mine voice, Lady Sekhmet! Hear mine voice! Come to me!” She begged. Finally, finally, finally, her goddess was right there; after years and years of searching and fighting for her and protecting her legacy and trying to find ways to revive her, after so many frustrated attempts of retrieving her mummy... Finally, Sekhmet’s Akh was right there in front of her eyes.

Finally, Drolta had succeeded.

All she needed to do was cross the door. Drolta couldn’t enter the duat, but Sekhmet could cross it towards the land of the living. Drolta held a small shabti made of pure gold in her hand, the holy object in which she could safely store the third part of Sekhmet’s soul. From there, Erzsebet would only need to incorporate it.

Come to me, Sekhmet; come to me, come to me, come to me, come to me, come to me, come to me–

Something happened.

The image twisted.

“What?” Drolta gasped.

The sight of the duat blurred.

Suddenly, the winds that whipped the house got stronger, more violent. The soul twister got more chaotic. Now, everything that could be seen within the door was the kaleidoscope of colors again, passing rapidly.

It… started to get black.

“No! No! What are you doing?!” Drolta turned to Khalil, her wrath so big that made him tremble. But the man was frozen in place, tears falling down his cheeks mixed with the rain.

“I-I-I’m not doing anything!” He stuttered. “It wasn’t me!”

Drolta turned to the door again.

The air was getting even colder. Colder, colder, colder… freezing. The Osiris symbol suddenly started to burn in black – and then everything else was black. The souls, the flames of the candles, the energy rays that poured from the door.

The air smelled of coal and sulfur.

“No! Stop! Stop!” Drolta yelled at whatever was interfering with the ritual. “I don’t want you here. I didn’t call you!”

But it was too late.

A second before the explosion, Drolta saw a dark figure walk out of the door.

She had time to protect her face with her arms. She did not care about Khalil.

Boom.

The shockwave destroyed what remained of Khalil’s house; he was sent back flying meters away. The reaped souls let their final, painful yell before dissipating in the air. The candles were extinguished in a gush of wind.

Drolta was the only thing to remain standing in place.

She lowered her arms slowly. It seemed that even the heavy storm got timid after such an unnatural occurrence. The neighbor houses still burned; the fires spread down the hill. As it wasn’t magical fire anymore, the rain started to quiet them down. No voices were heard. No more screams. No live witnesses anymore. The village of Jerash became nothing but a burning cemetery.

Drolta fell to her knees.

A shrilling scream of pure anger crossed the air.

She had failed. She got so fucking close and failed yet again. The duat was right there in front of her and she failed.

She turned around to see Khalil’s body on the floor.

Drolta got up, red anger clouding her gaze. He was still alive – hurt, bleeding and crying, but still alive.

“You stupid piece of shit!” She kicked his stomach so hard that the men rolled a few more meters away. “Useless little man. I submitted myself to your disgusting presence for days and you still didn’t serve me anything!”

Khalil coughed blood. He refused to look at her, shrinking into his own body, crying like a child.

She should skin him alive. This, at least, would serve as a way to calm down.

And yet – she stopped in her tracks.

Rain still fell over her head. She was entirely drenched. Drolta stopped and inhaled, letting her anger quiet down.

There was someone talking to her.

Something.

The air still smelled of coal and sulfur. It had nothing to do with the burning houses.

Slowly, she turned back to the circle of candles.

Her eyes widened.

There was someone laying on the floor inside the circle. She rushed towards it.

It was… it was a woman.

For a moment, overwhelming joy and excitement rushed through her veins. Could it be who she thought it was? What if she had actually succeeded, but in a different way than she first expected?

What if that was Sekhmet incarnate?!

Drolta knelt down beside the woman. She was unconscious, laid on her side, completely naked. With care – even hesitancy – Drolta turned her body around, making the woman lay on her back. She took some strands of drenched hair away from her face.

It was a young woman. Her chest moved slowly, as if she was simply asleep.

Drolta frowned.

She pressed two fingers over her neck. A regular pulse. The scent of… regular mortal blood.

Her frown deepened.

“This is no Sekhmet,” Drolta said through gritted teeth. “This is just human woman.”

Then, she lifted her gaze – and finally noticed what was talking to her.

It was nothing but a strange, tall shadow; Drolta could barely make sense of what she was looking at. But yet, that grin was very much recognizable. The entity seemed weak, vibrating in a low frequency, making the entire area around it even colder.

“Did you bring her with you?” She asked. The entity answered. It didn’t use… words. It spoke into her mind with intentions instead. Perhaps, it was way too weak to vocalize.

Drolta huffed with disdain. “And what use would this mortal have?”

The entity moved slowly, circling around them.

Drolta froze in place.

“How do you know this?” She asked in a cautious hiss.

The entity’s grin seemed to get even wider, now knowing that it had Drolta’s full attention.

It continued sliding around Drolta. The vampire lowered her head, looking at the human woman once again.

She looked and looked and looked and looked and…

She remembered.

Slowly, Drolta’s eyes widened as realization hit her.

This… wouldn’t solve all of her problems. She still needed to find the other half of Sekhmet’s soul. And yet… it could also serve her plans, in a way.

Drolta once again lifted her gaze towards the grinning shadow.

“I know you wouldn’t be offering me this out of the goodness of your heart,” she started with suspicion. “What do you want of me in return?”

The entity trembled. Drolta leaned her head slightly.

“An easy task. And if I fail?”

The entity grinned at her quietly. Drolta chuckled.

“You won’t have it, for I won’t fail.” She got up to her feet again. “But this sounds like a fair deal.”

A fair pact, in fact.

Drolta extended her arm towards the entity. It approached her; the shadow extended too in what resembled an arm. It revolved around her hand with a chilling touch.

When the shadow retreated, there was an icy object over Drolta’s palm.

A ruby necklace.

Drolta nodded at the entity; it sent her a last eerie grin before disappearing into the shadows of the night.

It was done.

Drolta looked down.

She took the cloak off her shoulders and covered the woman’s naked body with it. She leaned down, taking her into her arms, before straightening her posture again.

It… wasn’t a complete failure, after all.

Her Goddess never left her without a way out. She was always kind to send Drolta another option, another strategy, and that’s why Drolta managed to survive and move on after every problem.

“For every suffering, a wisdom is gained,” she said quietly. The mantra that had been keeping her sane for centuries.

Khalil was still weeping some meters away from her. Drolta paid him no mind. He wasn’t totally useless in the end, which meant he gained the right to keep living.

Drolta walked away from the burning cemetery of Jerash with the unconscious woman in her arms, the ruby necklace safely tangled around her palm.

The heavy storm clouds opened a small breach for the first time; the moon peeked through, being the only witness of the horrors that had unveiled that night.

Present time

Paris, France

The sun had hidden behind the horizon at least three hours ago.

You looked out the window at the full moon reigning sovereign in the sky from the tiny inn bedroom. There were barely any clouds to hinder its view. Stars adorned the space around her, creating a breathtaking view.

And yet, the air was… eerie.

Maybe because you knew what was about to come, and the fact that the rest of the city didn’t know yet made the situation horrifying. So many people were probably having dinner with their families, resting their heads over their pillows, having no idea of the hell that was about to burst upon them.

What made the situation even more difficult was that you were, well, useless in the middle of it all.

Richter and Annette were hunting nests of vampires. Alucard was about to leave to talk to the leaderships of Paris in order to organize the defensive lines. The three of them, much obviously, were ready to fight.

And you? All you had was a useless golden scepter.

Maybe you had your hopes way too high after what happened at the Louvre. You remembered what Annette told you when you first met – you might be a witch, Ruby; you just don’t remember it. You thought that, the moment you put your hands over the artifact again, you’d have some sort of epiphany. Your past would unveil itself in your head, you’d finally understand Erzsebet and Drolta’s interest in you, you’d know why you were needed to summon eclipses…

But nothing happened.

The scepter was just heavy and very impractical to carry around.

Alucard had no idea what language the inscriptions were. He advised you to not read them out loud, as it wasn’t clear the effect it could cause. You also didn’t magically understand what these words meant. So… just another frustration to add onto the pile.

“Ruby, I’m talking to you.”

You jumped and turned your head around. Alucard was standing in front of the door, searching for something in the inside pocket of his coat and eyeing you with curiosity. You adjusted your posture where you were sitting on the bed.

“I’m sorry. I… wasn’t paying attention.” You said sheepishly.

The white-haired vampire paused for a moment.

“Are you scared of being on your own?” He asked quietly.

You shook your head. “No! Not at all. I’ll be fine.” You reassured.

To be honest, being alone wasn’t exactly an idea you liked. The last three days were the safest you’d ever felt in your life, and that was because you were around them. You tried to avoid picturing the horrifying image of Drolta in her new night creature form breaking through that window and dragging you back to the chateau. There’s no way this is going to happen, not now that she retrieved Sekhmet’s mummy… I’m not needed anymore.

But the idea you liked even less was of being a burden, and you knew you’d be a burden if you kept hanging around uselessly while they fought. Annette almost died due to your mere presence. You were sure everyone would’ve handled the fight much better if you simply weren’t there. So… it’d be better if you just stayed hidden at the inn for the time being.

Alucard shrugged slightly and approached, finally revealing what he was searching for in his coat: a… red string?

He sat by your side on the bed, eyes glued on it. The only source of light came from the moon outside and a single candle holder over the desk. The light of the timid flame created a golden silhouette on his delicate features.

“The Revolutionary Commune is reunited some blocks away from here at this moment,” Alucard explained while his fingers worked on measuring the string. You watched him in silent confusion. His voice always dropped even quieter when he was close to you like that. It was… comforting. He was so close that his arm brushed on yours. “I must go warn them about the incoming fight. There will most definitely be vampires roaming the streets right now, hence why you must stay hidden for the time being.”

You nodded. “I understand.”

You watched as Alucard tied the red string around his own left wrist skillfully. How did he even manage to tie something with a single hand? That was quite impressive. “I won’t take more than two hours, however. After I assure your safety within the Revolutionary Commune, I will come to pick you up.”

Then, he brought his wrist close to his mouth; he put the remaining length of the string between his teeth and cut it using his sharp fangs.

Oh.

You couldn’t help but feel shivers run your spine whenever you remembered that Alucard had vampire fangs. He was half vampire, in fact. It was a bit strange how, as you grew comfortable around him, this “detail” became less and less relevant; you always associated vampires with the worst things possible, while Alucard was much the opposite. Perhaps that’s why it was a bit surprising to remember part of him was one.

You also had noticed that Alucard didn’t open much of his mouth when he talked… and it seemed to be a very conscious act when he was in public. You payed attention to how he talked to those boys earlier. Was it an attempt to make his fangs less obvious?

“Give me your left wrist.” He asked. You promptly obeyed. Alucard tied the remaining string around yours this time. “If anything happens, anything at all, untie this string. Mine will untie, too, and I will rush to you.”

You nodded, a bit surprised. “This is impressive.”

Alucard chuckled and tilted his head slightly. “You were effortlessly summoning eclipses and this is what surprises you about magic?”

The words got caught in your throat.

“Well– it is impressive.” He looked at you with a quirked eyebrow, which did not help you organize your thoughts better. “A-And I wasn’t summoning them, not exactly.”

“You’re not sure about that, are you?”

No, you weren’t.

Your shoulders dropped. Alucard chuckled again.

He finally let go of your wrist and a tiny part of you immediately missed his touch.

“Remember. Two hours. No more, no less.” He got up from the bed again and walked towards the door. “I might be asking too much from you, but I’d advise you against sleeping, too.”

“As if I’d be able to close my eyes at all,” you whined quietly to yourself.

Alucard opened the door and looked at you.

Once again, it seemed that he was about to say something. He looked… hesitant. His expression wasn’t as nonchalant as usual, but you couldn’t tell exactly why. You looked at him expectantly.

Then – this small glimpse dissolved in seconds.

“Lock the door,” he said, pointing at it with his head.

Oh.

You got up in a jump. At last, he left. You safely locked it and kept the key in the pocket of your vest.

Then, you were alone.

For the first time in your life, being alone didn’t bring you relief. You’d usually look forward to the moments you’d be locked inside your quarters again, recovering from your wounds; despite the pain, it were the only times when you had some peace. Now, however, you’d wish someone was here. You hoped Annette and Richter were safe, wherever they were…

You laid on the bed and faced the ceiling. The scepter was also over the bed, right beside you.

And you just… stayed there.

Your fingers fiddled with the red string on your left wrist mindlessly. Alucard didn’t make a complicated tie as to keep it easy to undo, so you took care to not untie it by accident. This little piece of braided wool had magic in it… but you didn’t feel anything strange while touching it.

You remembered how Alucard felt that the scepter was magic just by touching it, while for you it was just a normal object. You remembered how Richter could summon elements with his bare hands and Annette could see spirits as easily as people…. Perhaps you had no aptitude for magic at all. Perhaps they made you read that book because they needed a human to complete the summoning of an eclipse, not because you had some sort of hidden power.

You touched the scepter again without bothering to look at it. Cold and lifeless as usual.

Maybe it had that reaction – shining, the rust disappearing – because it needed someone to… awaken it. Anyone. Not you specifically.

But it must had been touched by someone before, isn’t it? Of course it was. It didn’t walk into that crate. Someone put it there.

You groaned and turned to your right side.

Minutes went by. Minutes, minutes, minutes. You were on high alert, so your eyelids didn’t feel heavy with sleep.

You laid on your stomach and brought the scepter close to your face.

These characters… you recognized them.

Alucard told you to not read them out loud, but he didn’t say anything about writing them.

You got up and rushed to the desk. There was a small drawer there with a piece of paper and some charcoal. You laid on your stomach again and started to translate the characters into the common Latin alphabet. Alucard might not recognize the characters, but what if he saw the syllables in a language he could read and the words made sense to him?

As the scepter had a lot of text and you didn’t have much paper, you tried to keep the letters as tiny as possible. You broke the charcoal a bit to make a sharper point. Your hands and the sheets got dirty with the black of the charcoal, but you couldn’t care less.

You didn’t pay attention to the time now that you had something to busy yourself with. Minutes went by. Minutes, minutes, minutes. An hour. Half an hour.

You had little free paper left and a lot to translate still when a sound out there immediately brought you back to your senses.

You froze and looked towards the window.

The street was very quiet up until that point – you even wondered if nights in Paris were always so peaceful. That sound, however, was impossible to ignore; was impossible to not make your heart immediately race.

A scream.

You got up in a jump and approached the window slowly, peeking at it with caution.

The scream came from a nearby street, followed by fast steps. Another scream. It sounded female.

No… it sounded childish.

Maybe it’s nothing. Just a kid spooked by a dog or a rat. Nothing to worry about. You shouldn’t get on your nerves every time you hear a scream.

You stood by the window for some more minutes, your heart thundering nonstop… and nothing appeared. You sighed, tried to calm your already irregular breathing. Focus on a single thing, a simple thing, to muffle everything else–

Someone running down there on the street.

You eyes widened. Your breath got completely caught in your throat.

It was a kid. A small kid, desperately running away from something. A boy. You recognized the worn out clothes and the curly black hair.

The lily in the pocket of your vest seemed to get hot.

It was Oliver.

When he disappeared from your sight, you saw what he was running from: three men. They laughed as they pursued him.

Three vampires.

You grabbed the scepter, the piece of paper and without taking a single second to think, you were already running out of the room.

The only things you could hear were your deep breathing, your thundering heartbeat and your boots rushing on the wooden pavement, then on the stone street as you rushed out of the inn. You almost fell when taking a sudden turn in the direction you saw Oliver running to. The street was completely empty and cold, but your body already felt hot from adrenaline.

You ran as fast as your legs could take. Please let me not be too late please please please please please please please please please–

Another strangled scream followed by more voices coming from an alley nearby.

You didn’t take a second to consider what you were going to do, how you were going to save him from this situation.

You just rushed into it.

“Oliver!” You screamed, stopping on your tracks.

The scene unfolding in front of you made your blood boil in a mix of anger and fright.

Oliver, the little boy, had fallen; his back was pressed against the wall. It was a dead end. His knee bled – he had probably fallen –, tears streamed down his cheeks, his pants were wet. He was shaking; his eyes, the most widened you’d ever seen.

The three vampires cornered him. They wore simple clothes, but all of them shared a similar trait: the symbol of an eclipse burned into the skin of their foreheads.

They immediately turned around at the sound of your voice.

For a moment, everyone was shocked – you, Oliver, the vampires. They were the first ones to recover.

“M-Madame!” Oliver stuttered in a strangled, horrified voice.

The vampire in the middle smirked.

“What do we have here?”

“This is even better than that bastard,” the one on the right laughed. “No one told you to not walk around at night by yourself, sweetie?”

“Leave him alone,” you blurted out. You didn’t sound that frightened, at least, because your body hadn’t properly processed what the hell you had gotten yourself into yet.

“Oh, we might now that you’re here.” One of them said with a disgusting smirk. “And what is it that you’re carrying with you? Looks interesting.”

They started to approach at slow steps.

You knew how vampires acted. They didn’t see you as a threat, so they would not use their inhuman speed. No; they wanted to savor your panic, to make you think you’d have a way out the way they did with Oliver. Vampires acted as cruel hunters, not as animal predators that acted purely on instinct and hunger.

That’s why they didn’t notice when you put your left wrist behind your back and swiftly untied the string.

I’m sorry, Alucard, you thought as the reality of that moment finally hit you. You… you did it again. You put yourself in danger again, exactly the opposite of what Alucard told you to do. But if you had waited for him, if you had untied the string at the inn and then explained what happened and then hoped that Alucard caught the vampires in time, would Oliver still be alive? Would he have an extra minute of luck?

Whatever these vampires were about to do with you – it didn’t matter. You could take it. Oliver couldn’t. The same way Annette wouldn’t have taken the night creature’s bite.

“M-Madame, run!”

His voice caught your attention again.

That little boy had wet himself in fear. He could barely stand. And yet, he was telling you to run. He was worried about your safety.

That little boy.

So small and so fragile and wearing those worn out clothes and shaking and hurt.

It brought forward an instinct within you. Perhaps that same instinct you felt when you looked at Richter’s sad expression. A will to take care. To protect. Something that run deep into your soul, something very familiar in ways you couldn’t explain, as if you had been in a similar situation in the past, as if you had felt this desperate need to protect someone small and fragile and dear to you.

These men were going to kill that little boy and he wouldn’t even be able to fight back.

This strange instinct to protect and the anger towards these men and the revolt because you had been in similar situations too, countless times, and you couldn’t do anything to fight back against a force tenfold stronger than you made your mind go blank.

Blank, blank, blank, devoid of any thought. Any fear. Any hesitance. At that moment, there wasn’t anxiety anymore. Your fingers didn’t shake. You didn’t think of any consequence.

All that existed was the need to protect that little boy.

One of the vampires approached and grabbed the scepter roughly. Instinctively, you held it with both hands, trying to pull it back.

And then – the vampire screamed.

A sizzling noise filled the alley.

“Let me go! Let me go!” He screamed.

The scepter was burning his hands. He couldn’t take them off.

Your mind didn’t register well everything that happened in the following seconds.

The moment you held it with both hands, it started to glow again – but in a different way than before.

The inscriptions started to glow. That same glow traveled from one end to the other – to the tip of the scepter; the image of the sun.

It started to shine.

The light was blinding. You had to tighten your eyes. It was hot hot hot hot, you almost dropped it on the floor, but something told you to keep holding it. So you held it with all your might. You felt a strange wave of energy flow from your body towards the scepter.

The little sun of the scepter shone, brightening the entire alley as if day turned to night–

And the three vampires yelled in agony.

They tried to cover their faces, tried to run away – but it was already too late. Their skin began to burn as if they were set on fire. Their muscle, their clothes, their scalp, their bones, everything was burning. The vampire that tried to grab it was the first to fall on the floor, agonizing, until he finally stopped moving. The other two screamed, yelled with nowhere to run. Their limbs were way too damaged to move.

You felt that your heart was burning, too.

Finally, the burning was too much for you to take. With a scream of effort, you dropped the scepter with a loud metallic noise and fell back on the floor.

The light extinguished.

You panted. You supported your body on your arms. Finally, the screaming stopped.

There were three dead vampires on your feet.

Their carcasses completely burned, unrecognizable. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air. Smoke clouded the alley.

You started shaking again.

What– What just happened?!

But then, you heard another tiny voice besides yours and you remembered that there was someone you still needed to take care of. You got up from the floor, not daring to touch the scepter again, tip toeing to avoid stepping over the bodies.

You knelt in front of Oliver and held him by both arms.

“What are you doing here at this hour?!” You lashed out. “Alucard told you to not get out at night!”

The boy sobbed.

“I-I-I’m s-sorry, m-madame,” he stuttered between his cries. “I-I-I was t-trying to help. I-I was t-telling people to g-get into their houses. I was already g-going back home…”

You wiped his tears with the sleeve of your blouse before hugging him. Tight. Oliver cried on your shoulder, his little body shaking against yours.

A hand touched your shoulder from behind – which caused you to gasp loudly.

Alucard had the most shocked, confused expression you’d ever seen. It was one of the rare moments when he wasn’t being subtle.

“What happened?” Was all he asked, but it sounded like a demand.

No no no that’s not what you should ask right now. Oliver is the priority.

The boy leaned away from you and you held his shoulders again. “Where do you live?”

He sniffed and rubbed his nose. His little face was all puffy and wet. “T-Two streets away from here.”

You got up and took his hand. “Let’s go.”

“Ruby–“

“Let’s go,” you interrupted Alucard. “I need to take him home.”

Take him home take him home take him home. Yes, this is what I need to do. This is all that matters.

You walked on a beeline with a rushed pace towards the exit of the alley – both the scepter and the piece of paper with your translations completely forgotten on the floor. Alucard followed you closely, but in silence. Oliver’s little hand was still shaking. You held it tightly.

After no more than five minutes of walking, he pointed towards his house. You leaned down and hugged him again.

“Don’t leave your house. Did you understand? Do not walk out under any circumstance. Tell your parents about it.” You repeated in a serious authoritarian tone you didn’t recognize yourself. Have you ever spoken that way before?

Oliver nodded and apologized again. Finally, he waved a last goodbye and entered the house.

It seems that you just started to breathe again when you heard the sound of the door locking.

A few seconds of silence went by.

“Ruby.”

You shivered and turned around.

Alucard looked down at you with frowned eyebrows. Was he angry? Oh fuck, of course he was angry. You put yourself in danger again. You did what you shouldn’t. You got out of the inn without his permission.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to interrupt your mission. I hope I didn’t cause any trouble for you,” you started while avoiding his gaze vehemently. Your fingers were trembling again; you hid them behind your back.

“Can you tell me what–“

“Oliver was being chased by vampires. I saw them running through the window and I couldn’t hold myself back. I’m sorry, I know you told me to not put myself in danger. B-But I couldn’t just stay still, you see?” You couldn’t shut up. Why couldn’t you shut up? Why was your voice shaking? “I didn’t want to make you angry.”

“I’m not angry at you.”

“And then– the scepter– it did that thing again. I don’t know how that happened. It– it got so hot out of sudden, and then the vampires were burning too. I d-don’t know if I was the one to do it. I just didn’t want Oliver to die. I hope I didn’t cause any trouble.”

“You didn’t, Ruby.”

“Oh– I left if on the floor, didn’t I? I’m sorry. I put you through all the trouble of going back to the Louvre only to drop it at the alley. I s-should take it back. Oh! And I was translating the writings too. I think I dropped the paper… well, I wasn’t translating anything, I was just writing the words in our alphabet, and I don’t know it’ll be useful at all but I wanted to help somehow–“

“Ruby.”

The words got stuck in your throat.

Alucard cupped your face with both hands, forcing you to look at him and nothing else.

He frowned. “You’re burning.”

You blinked rapidly. “What? N-No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. I can feel it through the gloves.” Alucard used his teeth to take the glove off his right hand; he pressed it over your forehead. He was probably trying to help, but that action made you feel even hotter on the inside. “We need to do something about it.”

“No!” You blurted out. “No, there’s no need. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ll heal. I always do.”

“Ruby.” He called again.

Alucard shoved the glove inside his coat and held your face with both hands again; he lowered himself slightly to get closer to your eye level.

“I am not angry at you.” He started in a slow and quiet voice. “You didn’t interrupt me. You did nothing wrong. But I need you to understand that you are spiraling, and I need you to calm down first.”

S… Spiraling? You were spiraling?

You gulped and nodded.

“Breathe with me.” He instructed patiently.

Inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled. Exhaled. You followed his slow pace.

Adrenaline dissipated in your bloodstream; your head got quieter again. Your heart stopped running and went back to walking. Your hands, however, were still shaking.

You lowered your head, desperately trying to avoid his gaze, when you felt tears well up your eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you said in a weak tone.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Alucard’s voice was even quieter than usual… even gentler. He didn’t step away. His thumb caressed your cheek with care.

“I got so scared. I thought Oliver was going to die.”

Why did you even confess that? You weren’t sure; your brain wasn’t working properly anymore. But yes, that was true. You were scared of getting hurt – you were just used to pain, you didn’t like it – but you were even more scared of seeing that boy die in front of you. So small and so innocent and so familiar for some reason.

Why was that familiar? Why were you so confused? What the hell just happened?

You had no answer to any of these questions. All you wanted to do was cry at that moment – but not in front of him. Never in front of him; it’d be too humiliating. You wanted to step away, to have some space to recover. You wanted to hide from him.

Alucard had other plans.

When the first stubborn tear streamed down your cheek, Alucard pulled you closer to his body. His hands let go of your face; instead, he wrapped his arms around you. He was delicate. Hesitant, even.

Your face was then hidden in his chest.

Alucard didn’t say anything. Perhaps there was nothing he could’ve said at that moment, so he decided to act.

You froze at first. This… this was the closest you’ve ever been to him – at least while fully conscious, a proximity Alucard established willingly. You didn’t even know you had the right to stand that close to him.

When was the last time someone offered you comfort like that?

If it had happened before, you didn’t remember.

Slowly, your body melted under his. Your tense members softened. His sweet scent enveloped you. With much hesitance, you wrapped your arms around his body too, under his cape – and in the moment Alucard realized you accepted his embrace, he held you just a little tighter, a little more comfortable. One of his hands caressed your hair, while the other wrapped around your back.

You did your best to swallow any incoming sobs, forcing yourself to cry in silence. If Alucard even noticed you were crying, he didn’t show it. He just kept his arms around you protectively… affectionately. It made your insides feel warm in a way not even that strange scepter could.

None of you said a word, though there was much to be said. Both of you understood the gravity of what just happened. The three burnt carcasses were there at the alley, waiting to be inspected.

But that could wait for now. Nothing had the right to pierce through the small bubble of peace you shared.

You just stayed there in each other’s embrace for longer than your confused brain could register.

The bright full moon, reining sovereign in the sky, was your only witness.

[xem-ity]

toby fox is such a good storyteller when it comes to suspense and relief. it’s like he was made for this one specific purpose he’s that good

i was thinking about sans and the theory that he comes from deltarune, and how toby managed to keep the suspense of not knowing that for years. he planned it all the way back in undertale, giving us clues we had nothing to do with at the time, the idea that sans came from somewhere else rather than the undertale world was in our minds, but we had nothing to associate it with.

then chapter 1 of deltarune dropped and just seeing sans exist in this world, suddenly things started feeling plausible. the simple act of him being there made the clues fall into place, but everything was still fuzzy enough that we weren’t really sure.

then come chapter 2 and we see the way he interacts with toriel, and the theory becomes so much sadder. if he really did come from deltarune, then he lost everything he knew (except maybe his brother, but we don’t even know that). in undertale, after learning toriels name at the end of the pacifist route, he immediately starts calling her “tori” as a nickname. it seems a little odd to have a nickname already for someone you just learned the name of, but it makes sense if he came from a world where he knew her without the door as a barrier.

then, chapter 4.

chapter 4.

spoilers from here on out because there is a moment in chapter 4 that any theorist needs to experience blind.

we get some more sans shenanigans during the first light world segment, and maybe even a bit of evidence he can teleport? (then again maybe he’s just walking between rooms like rouxls) but nothing really special.

the real first kicker is being able to look inside his house later on, when it begins to rain. everything inside seems just as it is in undertale, almost exactly it seems, though it is “a bit messy”. how papyrus would allow this is strange and very intriguing, but that’s for another post.

however, the moment i really wanted to talk about is at the end of chapter 4. after the adventure is over and you’re overloaded with feelings. you walk out of the church, mind full of theories and ideas about what’s going to happen next, and susie says that “it smells nice, after the rain”

then the first chord plays

the first chord of a melody you know, that you know

you’re transported back, in time, in place, your vision becomes distant. no way toby did this. you immediately understand the implication, immediately understand what has just been all but confirmed. for so long you’ve theorized about what the “somewhere else” in “it’s raining somewhere else” means. it might’ve been deltarune, but it might’ve been something else entirely.

the substance of the “sans came from deltarune world” theory hinged on just one extra clue. one single connection between the two worlds and the two sanses. that’s what created the tension and suspense behind the theory.

one single chord, and it was like a rubber band snapped. the release of 10 year old tension was unlike anything i’ve ever felt playing a video game.

toby fox u are a god, a genius & i cannot wait for chapter 5.

there are still theories to be resolved, and i know toby will release all of that 10 year old tension by the end of this game.

[neptuneiris]

Cruel Summer (01/10)

Sunset's Bay

pairing: modern!aemond × fem!reader

summary: There are two sides to the city of Sunset's Bay, the rich who live in 'Crown's' and the poor who live in 'Black Waves'. What happens when a rich guy and a poor girl meet and inevitably fall in love? In the city where they live and with their status, that can't be possible.

words: 5.8k

series masterlist • next part

I wasn't sure about posting this but if you like the story I will continue with it, it all depends on how you receive it😬

in case you like it, I want to advance that the story will be a kind of forbidden love by the fact of rich and poor hehe and I have a lot prepared, basically everything is already written, I just need to structure it in a better way

this has only been an introduction to the world of Sunset's Bay, so I hope you enjoy it and the warnings will be added as I post the chapters if you like it🤗

so enjoy!

Sunset's Bay.

The hidden but mostly inhabited beach on the California Coast, with golden and white sands that slide into crystal clear waters of such a deep blue that it seems infinite.

According to Google, it is one of the most beautiful beaches in Northern California and where teenagers living in surrounding cities yearn to come every time a new summer begins.

Sunset and sunrise on these waters are beautiful, as they transform the horizon into a palette of vibrant colors, from warm shades of gold and pink to soft purple and the deep blue of night.

Every summer, the beach comes alive with exciting surfing tournaments, as well as Sunset's Pier, the midpoint of the beach where everyone mingles, transforms into charity events with live music, fireworks and lamp shows that illuminate the night with a mesmerizing light show.

Boat and yacht rides add a touch of sophistication to the coastal scene. This allows tourists to explore the waters beyond the beach, visit small islands up close and enjoy the serenity of the open sea.

But on top of all that, everything is meticulously maintained, most of it, like the clean, spacious beaches, adorned by palm trees swaying gently in the sea breeze.

And your favorite section, the volcanic stone cliffs that are distributed in specific locations on the beach, offering rocky walls as you sit on the seashore behind you and all around, emerging as natural guardians of the beach.

And from their heights, you can take in panoramic views of all the beauty of the landscape, encompassing the vast endless ocean and coastline to the endless horizon.

You always looked forward to coming here as a child when a new term at school ended and your mother was always willing to come and spend the vacations with your relatives, the Blackwoods.

They always welcomed you and your mother and together with your cousin Alysanne, you had an amazing summer.

Ever since you were little, you have always been tattooed with the memory of the sand on your feet, the salt air in your nostrils, the water enveloping you completely and the sun in full sunset caressing your whole face as you watched it on the horizon starting to descend on the shore of the beach with the cliffs behind you.

And now, that's all you know, a life in Sunset's and your frequent days at the beach.

Living with your aunt and uncle and Alysanne in a house big enough to also make room for you on the beach shore, this has been your home for exactly a year now.

And now summer has begun.

"Sam has sent a message."

You raise your gaze to Alysanne as you finish cleaning one of the tables.

"He says to meet him at the beach with the others in the evening. Do you want to go?"

You place a small smile on your lips.

"Sure."

"Table nine!"

You both turn your heads toward your boss, who looks at both of you as if he wants to kill you at any moment, and you quickly rush to serve the food, briefly wiping the sweat from your brow to keep working.

"Hurry up, Blackwood," Mr. Frey tells you reluctantly as you begin to pick up the orders on the tray.

You let out a long breath and glance at the clock briefly before going to serve, realizing that you will have to put up with this for four more hours and for the rest of the summer as well.

Unfortunately you and Alysanne have to work, as it has been for some months now at a seafood restaurant where the 'rich' people from this side of the city come to enjoy the delicious food.

And because of the summer, the work has increased. But that doesn't stop them both from having fun now that summer has begun.

So as soon as you and Alysanne finish your shift, you head home as soon as possible and start getting ready to meet your friends at the beach.

Previously going out and having fun was a problem for Alysanne's parents, your aunt and uncle were not the liberal type, but as soon as you both started working and helping them with the household expenses with what you could, they started to be more permissive and understanding.

And this is your home, the less ostentatious side of the city, but still genuine.

Once you join Sam and all the boys on the beach, you head for the small boat floating near the shore.

It is not a luxurious boat, much less can it be compared to a boat or yacht of the latest model, but it is a modest boat that has seen many summer seasons.

And it has taken them all to many spots on the beach and you have shared many anecdotes on it.

And as the boat glides through the calm waters, you and Alysanne enjoy the laughter and stories shared by the boys from the neighborhood, Sam, Daniel and Chase.

The three of them have been childhood friends of Alysanne's and when you came to live with her officially, she introduced you to them and now you all have formed a group of friends where you enjoy afternoons like these with Sam's boat and where you also go swimming and surfing all together.

The sea breeze caresses your faces and the sun slowly begins to descend as it paints the sky in warm golden tones, until the afternoon turns into night.

And on the beach, with a campfire in the center, the starry sky above and all together in a circle, you start burning marshmallows and drinking beer.

"And tell us..." speaks Daniel, watching you both curiously, "How about the slave life for the rich people?"

You and your cousin let out a small laugh.

"Slaves?" you repeat amused.

"Well yeah, come on, you said your boss... what's his name? Grey? Payne?"

"Frey," Alysanne corrects him.

"Yeah, that," he points to her, "He's a jerk or not?"

"And no concept of patience and prudence," you add.

"I imagine the ones who eat there are worse, no?" asks Chase.

Daniel snaps his fingers at him.

"Lannister?"

"Oh yeah, definitely. Jason Lannister has that vibe."

"I put him in the top one of the most hated, along with the Baratheons. And I have a feeling the Arryns do too, I don't know why," Daniel again looks at you both, "Right?"

"You work for them," Alysanne tells him amused, "Don't you know that?"

"Well, it's not like they can tell me much for cleaning their boats and yachts but... no–they're extremely nice, though..." he holds up his finger with a thoughtful expression, "Though I think there must be something wrong with them."

Alysanne lets out a snort.

"They're rich and live at Crown's, practically owning all the establishments on the beach just like the Lannisters, Baratheons, Tyrells and others leaving nothing for us, the poor ones, because they despise us," she says with an ironic but true tone "Of course there must be something wrong with them."

"One time one of them didn't leave me a tip," you say, remembering, "The Tyrell's."

Sam looks at you amused.

"Tips are not obligatory."

"Oh come on," you retort, with a touch of irony, "They're rich, they can have yachts and mansions, but can't they at least give me a five percent tip?"

"Yet it's not obligatory."

Everyone lets out a laugh.

"Yeah, it's not the nicest place to work and the customers aren't necessarily nice but the pay is good, after all," Alysanne says as she shrugs.

And that's true.

Even though it's not a good work environment, the necessity is what makes you not quit and endure as much as you can. Even though your aunt and uncle are taking care of you and taking responsibility for you, you know you can't continue that way forever.

You want to be independent, pay for your own things, especially you want to pay for college, but to do that, you have to work and now this is the job.

Besides it's useless to find work elsewhere when the owners are still the same; rich and arrogant. And you can't find work on your side of the city because the pay won't be much or maybe they won't even hire because they can't afford it.

But right now, being here enjoying the summer with your friends and your cousin, you allow yourself not to think about it and just continue to criticize the rich people.

And after many cans of beer, Chase picks up his guitar and you all together start singing in the most off-key and horrible way possible, laughing amongst everyone with the jokes filling the air, just like the heat of the flames and the aroma of roasting marshmallows.

"You had a party and didn't invite me!?"

Almost everyone together turns their heads unexpectedly toward the approaching outside voice laden with amusement and mild reproach.

And then they all see Cregan Stark with a huge grin and a bottle of beer in hand.

The guys soon start showing off at the mere sight of him, making jokes and greeting him with great enthusiasm, as Cregan greets them.

And you just watch Alysanne with a sly smile, amused by Cregan's sudden appearance, but of course, she quickly hides all traces of whatever her reaction is to seeing him, adjusting her expression to one of neutrality as she tries to appear disinterested.

But you know.

And you're amused at how she acts as if you don't know her.

Cregan Stark is the spoiled son of one of the wealthiest families in Sunset's, living in one of the most exclusive areas on the Crown's side.

His appearance reflects his status; brand name clothes, really expensive accessories, late model car and an attitude that denotes familiarity with luxury. However, despite his wealth, Cregan has proven to be different from other boys in his social environment.

Although he has access to all the luxuries, he does not carry with him the air of superiority and arrogance that many would expect from someone like him and that those of his class usually display.

In fact, Cregan became friends with Chase, who works for his family in the ports.

And it was Chase who introduced him to the group and although at first no one felt confident with him, Cregan instead of imposing his status, imposed a genuine and friendly demeanor that won the friendship of everyone in the circle.

Later everyone understood that he doesn't really enjoy being with people from the same environment as himself. The wealthy teenagers he usually hung out with, for the most part, were overly judgmental and arrogant.

So thanks to Chase, he found company with all of you, the guys from across the city who don't have a mansion and all the money in the world, but who are genuine and free of pretense.

Despite the looks people give Cregan for not understanding his choice of company, he deliberately ignores them. His parents don't say anything to him either, although he says they clearly prefer that he stop interact with you.

"I am deeply, intensely and extremely offended," he says expressing mock indignation, holding a hand to his chest, watching you incredulously but amused.

"Come on, man, don't get dramatic," Chase tells him giving him a friendly tap on the shoulder.

"Yeah, we're just getting warmed up," Sam encourages him.

"Besides..." says Daniel, in an exaggerated tone, "We can't send messages across the beach, us poor people have to use carrier pigeons like the olden days to get anything to you, but guess what... we're so poor we can't even afford pigeons."

Everyone lets out a laugh, enjoying Daniel's humor in implying the differences between the poor and the rich on the beach.

"Stop, seriously, why didn't you guys tell me you were doing this?" Cregan asks, taking a seat on the logs.

"I heard there's a party on your side of the beach and I figured you'd be heading over there," Chase tells him, "Which you did, didn't you?" he points to the beer in his hand.

He lets out a long breath.

"Yeah but it was pretty fucking boring."

"Boring?" you repeat incredulously, "A party with a DJ, champagne and yachts I highly doubt is boring."

"Well, not that it wasn't fun," he says looking around and observing everyone, "But I wanted this, to be with you guys, the atmosphere."

"And how did you know we were here?" asks Alysanne curious.

"I didn't exactly know," he smiles at her, "So I just decided to come and try my luck."

"Oh man, stop it or you'll make me cry," Daniel jokes, holding a hand to his heart.

"He loves us, doesn't he?" asks Sam, with a smirk.

"Yeah, he definitely loves us."

Everyone laughs and you watch discreetly as he and Alysanne start throwing their little looks at each other.

"Party with DJ and yachts? Man, if I were you, I'd be enjoying that," Sam confesses, shaking his head in a gesture of incomprehension.

"It's not big deal and people are hateful, believe me."

No one argues with him about that but you too sometimes wish you could have fun like that, have the experience of going to a beach party like the rich kids in the movies, just once.

But the time will come, someday, there are still many summers left to enjoy.

The conversation flows as the boys settle around the campfire, the warmth of the fire contrasting with the cool night breeze blowing in from the sea.

The atmosphere is filled with laughter and banter, and the relaxed beach setting becomes the perfect backdrop for a night of genuine camaraderie.

Cregan, with his carefree and genuine attitude, seems to fit right in with all fo you and that he values sincere company over superficial luxury.

And you don't know exactly how much more time passes or how many beers that Daniel brings back the theme of the rich party on the other side of the beach.

"Hey, Cregan," he says, leaning forward with a mischievous expression, "Since you're here, why don't you take us to that party? I'm sure it's not as bad as you say."

Cregan raises an eyebrow, amused but surprised.

"What?"

Something about Daniel's words clicks in everyone's head, even yours, so you quickly exchange glances with Alysanne. And Cregan notices how everyone starts to truly consider it.

"Do you guys really want to go to that party?"

"And why not?" asks Alysanne, with an grin, "I'm sure we can have fun, even if we're not part of the rich circle."

"Yeah, and besides..." adds Sam, with a persuasive tone, "It would be interesting to see what the other side of the city is like from the inside. We've never been to a party like this."

Cregan seems to think about it for a moment, looking at the boys with a mixture of doubt and amusement.

"Seriously you guys are telling me this? The rich haters?"

You shrug.

"The rich hate us too."

"And that's precisely why we want to go," Sam says, gesturing animatedly, "We want to try something different. And who knows, maybe we'll give you a good reason to have a little more fun at that party. Right, Chase?"

Everyone looks at Chase, who shrugs.

"I guess that wouldn't be bad."

"But you haven't thought this through," Cregan insists, "As soon as they see you all, they'll know you're not like them."

Everyone looks at themselves and well... he's right.

The rich, especially those who are the same age as you, have a radar to recognize someone who is just like them... or not.

But you don't blame them, since you have them too, the difference is that you don't make disgusted faces or criticize in whispers as soon as you notice.

You notice your two-piece bikini top is wrinkled and is clearly second hand, besides your worn-out sandals. Alysanne is also in the same condition as you and the boys... well, they're worse.

Sam's shirt is torn, Chase's is torn, and the clothes are visibly secondhand.

"We have better clothes at home," you tell Alysanne and she nods.

"And we take our shirts off and stay in shorts," Daniel says, in solution, "Are we at the beach or not?"

"And if something goes wrong, we can always run out and come back here," Alysanne suggests.

Everyone nods and basically watches Cregan with puppy dog eyes, hopeful that he will take you to his kind of people.

"What do you think, Cregan?"

Cregan is silent for a few seconds, his gaze sweeping over the group around him, analyzing and thinking about all the things that could go wrong. And he doesn't pass up the abandoned cat look that Daniel and Sam throw at him.

And finally, he lets out a laugh and a resigned sigh.

"All right, all right. I'll take you. But if we have a bad time, don't say I didn't warn you."

"That's what I like to hear!" exclaims Sam, raising his arms in victory.

"We won't regret it."

"We may not but the rich will."

"Thanks, Cregan," says Alysanne, patting him on the back.

You frown as you watch her gesture and also notice Cregan's confused look for a moment, but go back to watching the boys.

"Well, then let's go before I change my mind."

You put out the campfire, pick up the trash and with laughter they all very animatedly walk away from your spot on the beach, heading first towards the trash cans and then towards Cregan's car.

"You do know Cregan likes you, don't you?" you say to Alysanne, walking a little further away from the guys.

She gives you an incredulous look.

"What?"

"Oh come on and you like him too, don't deny it."

"Of course I don't."

"Of course you do."

"You're crazy."

"And you won't stand a chance if you keep treating him like just a dude."

"Oh yeah, yeah, whatever you say."

You let out a laugh, understanding that it will be difficult for her to accept and share it with you, so you give her time. The guys behind you laugh too, with the echo fading into the salty air, leaving the sea breeze and the sound of the waves behind.

The difference in locations is completely noticeable.

You leave behind the small wooden houses, the unkempt streets, the establishments where you and your friends can shop, the bicycles and old cars, to move to large neighborhoods with green grass, trees and bushes on every corner with huge luxurious houses, almost mansions with modern cars and expensive decorations.

The guys are excited and so are you, as you have never explored these sections of the beach before, which are completely exclusive and with access for the rich people.

Obviously there are entrances with booths and security guards, so Cregan's appearance alone proves he's a Stark and he's allowed in without objection.

And soon enough, you arrive at the party.

"Oh my goodness, look at this," exclaims Alysanne, wide-eyed as she takes in the scene.

"That's a Prestige F4?" asks Sam in surprise, eyeing the luxurious yacht in the distance.

"Seriously, how much money do these people have?" mutters Daniel, in shock.

"More than you'll ever have," Alysanne tells him with a smirk as you all walk onto the beach illuminated by the party lights.

"You don't know that," Chase replies to her, pretending to be offended, "Maybe someday I'll get rich and buy one of those," he points to the yachts.

"I'm very offended that you didn't invite us to your parties sooner," Daniel says to Cregan, putting a hand to his chest as if he were badly wounded, "How could you hide all this from us?"

"Don't draw too much attention to yourselves, guys," Cregan asks with a mixture of concern and amusement in his voice.

"We won't," says Sam, "We'll just enjoy ourselves apart from the others but inside, you get it?"

The music starts to get louder and soon enough, we are inside the party.

Blue and purple neon lights illuminate the white sand, creating a dazzling contrast against the night sky. Waves break gently on the shore, almost muted by the music vibrating through the air.

There is indeed a DJ from a raised platform and most of the people here dance in the center to the music, some with cocktails in hand, bottles of champagne or recording the moment on their phones.

Near the dock, several luxurious yachts are docked, all decorated with lights flashing to the rhythm of the music. There are people inside them, enjoying the party from right there.

Some people get off the yachts to join the party on the beach, while others stay on board, enjoying the view and the exclusivity it offers.

If not beer, there is a bar offering a variety of exotic drinks and gourmet appetizers, such as sushi, caviar and canapés.

And throughout the party, groups of people are spread out, chatting animatedly, laughing, toasting and dancing. There are also party games, such as beer pong and spin the bottle.

While others gather around improvised campfires farther away near the sea, where the atmosphere is more relaxed, watching the spectacle around them.

The air is permeated with the smell of sea salt mixed with expensive perfumes and the sound of laughter and music all along the beach.

It is a party that clearly reflects the wealth and status of their hosts, as well as the people present; pure spoiled kids with rich parents.

"Are we going to have fun or what!?" exclaims Sam excitedly, fully entering the party and everyone follows.

Chase convinces Cregan to be worrying since most of the people here are in their own world and he doubts drunkenly checking to see if they have the latest model Iphone or what.

And honestly you relax too as everyone here is having fun and you along with Alysanne look more presentable in nice bikinis.

They are second hand still but they are more cared for than the others you have.

Sam quickly orders drinks, surprised and excited to have gotten a bottle of champagne, then Cregan and the others take him and you and Alysanne to a more secluded spot.

You make a space for yourselves on the sand, a bit secluded from everyone, having the view of the huge luxurious houses, the cliffs in the distance and also the illuminated yachts on the dock behind you.

Pretty soon you have your beer and start enjoying yourselves just like everyone else, not worrying too much and just pretending you are one of them all.

Mingling with the rich at Sunset's pier is one thing, since the pier is the center of the entire beach and there are no prejudices there, but now pretending to be one is completely different.

You find yourself watching everyone around you when Alysanne nudges you slightly and points her gaze to a specific spot.

"Look at that."

You follow her gaze and see a group of girls.

"That bracelet is from Pandora, I saw it on Instagram."

From here you can see how their gold and silver necklaces and bracelets sparkle. Also the bikinis they have on are beautiful, certainly brand name. There is also a girl with a Guess bag and they all have the latest Iphone model in their hand.

And you turn to Alysanne with a shrug.

"Why are we judging when it should be the other way around?"

"We're not judging, we're just noticing the differences between girls like them and girls like us."

You both let out a laugh.

"You definitely want that Pandora bracelet, don't you?" you look at her amused.

"And you don't?"

The two of you continue to observe or rather admire all those rich girls who have fancy accessories when suddenly you hear a specific boast behind you.

You turn your head and see the dock, noticing how some impeccably dressed people are boarding one of the larger yachts docked near the shore.

And there they are.

You think as you make out those distinctive black, red and silver hair.

Of course they couldn't miss a party like this, the sons of the most influential families in the city, the Lannister's, Baratheon's and Targaryen's, practically the elite of Sunset's.

You've seen Cerelle, Tyshara and Loreon Lannister before on the Sunset's Pier, their red hair gives away who they are instantly. They always brag about their luxurious yachts, cars, jewelry stores and everything else they own.

Their father, Jason Lannister, has built an empire based on shipbuilding and port development.

From what you understand, his company designs and manufactures some of the most advanced and exclusive ships for the world's elite.

In addition to this, Lannister also owns a network of ports and shipyards on several coasts, allowing him to maintain a steady flow of wealth through port fees and contracts with global corporations.

This influence has given him a prominent place among the city's powerful and his family has inherited not only his fortune, but also his imposing and domineering character.

So it is no surprise that the Lannister's are typical spoiled children with clearly very wealthy parents, as are the others, especially the Baratheon's, Cassandra, Maris and Floris.

Known as much for their tanned skin and peculiar dark hair as for their arrogant attitude, they always seek to be the center of attention at any such social event.

Cassandra, the eldest, has a dominant bearing and never misses an opportunity to show off her status. She is also the best known of the daughters to go out every now and then with a boy from an important family either from the city or abroad.

Next, there is Maris, the quietest of the three and the most reserved, but still, as you have heard, just as spoiled and boastful as her older sister.

And finally, Floris, Cerelle's best friend and supposedly the most arrogant, capricious, shallow and boastful of the three.

She is the one who seems the sweetest at first glance, but her spoiled nature soon becomes evident when something doesn't go her way.

You also know that there are two other children, a daughter and a son, Ellyn and Royce, but apparently Ellyn prefers to stay at home and Royce does not live here.

Her father, Borros Baratheon, is a most important and influential shipping magnate and merchant in the region, known for his connections with outside businessmen.

He owns one of the largest commercial fleets operating along the entire Pacific coast. You don't know exactly what it's about but the guys have talked about how his company specializes in logistics and shipping goods across the ocean or something like that.

And finally, the sons of the most powerful family in the entire city and the entire country, the Targaryen's.

Viserys Targaryen is known as the most powerful man in the entire country and by extension his entire family as well. He owns one of the largest and most influential corporations in the region.

Your uncle Ben always had a kind of admiration for him, though your aunt always expressed her dislike of him, as well as the other families, for simply being other greedy money-rotters who drive up the costs of the city for all that they invest to elevate their status and leave you poor people increasingly difficult to make a living.

You honestly couldn't agree with her more, but the Targaryen's have been forging their main empire here in Sunset's for a very long time now and there is nothing that can really be done about it.

The Targaryen business empire focuses on multiple sectors, but they are best known for owning a very prestigious bank, where they serve wealthy elites and large corporations, as well as financing large scale projects, such as real estate developments, technology or even public infrastructure.

You understand that he has built and manages shopping malls, corporate skyscrapers and exclusive developments in major cities across the country, as well as high profile tourist destinations like Sunset's.

So basically all of them and him especially have total control over the financial resources of the region, as well as infrastructure and development in the most luxurious sectors.

Although Viserys and his wife Alicent are no longer seen as much at events this side of Crown's and on the pier, their influence still shapes everything that happens here.

"Hey."

Sam snaps you out of your thoughts when you feel him tap you on the shoulder and you turn your head towards him, confused and attentive.

"Hm?"

"What are you looking at?" he asks you amused, sitting down next to you and offering you a new bottle of beer.

"Oh, no, nothing, just..." you shake your head, taking the beer and not paying attention to the son's and daughter's of rich parents.

But Sam had followed your gaze before.

"I know, they're beautiful, aren't they?"

You immediately watch him intently.

"Who?"

"The yachts," he tells you as if it's obvious, "Imagine spending a whole weekend on one, just doing this..." he points to the beer and all the partying, "In the middle of the ocean."

You let out a small laugh.

"That's your biggest dream, isn't it?"

"And for the yacht to be mine, obviously," he says excitedly, turning his gaze back to the dock where they all are, "If I used to see them from afar and feel envious, now it's torture to have them so close."

You look to where he sees and he has a very good point. They could live perfectly well on one of those yachts and there would be no problem, which is also one of your dreams.

"Oh, come on Sam," you give him a friendly smack, looking at him again and you notice the gleam of longing in his eyes, "Surely your charm can make a girl from Crown's fall in love with you and let you enjoy the amazing yachts."

He looks at you incredulously.

"A Crown's girl with someone like me? Are you kidding?"

"It's not impossible," you shrug.

"Oh yeah, here at Sunset's everything is impossible if you don't live on this side of town."

And that's another good point and very true.

Daniel joins you and Sam's little group and you stop paying attention the moment you turn your gaze back towards the yachts and them specifically.

This time you focus on the Targaryen's, Helaena, Aegon and Aemond.

Surprisingly, despite being in the top tier of the wealthiest and most powerful family in the entire city and country, compared to the Lannister's, Baratheon's, Tyrell's, Arryn's, Stark's and Greyjoy's, they are not so smug, superficial and arrogant.

Although, come to think of it, the only exception is Aegon.

The eldest of the brothers, he is characteristic of his carefree and arrogant attitude. His life is summed up in parties, girls and excesses. Everyone knows him, he is the soul of the party and drives all the girls crazy.

For him, life is a game where he always wins. Sometimes he seems like the typical privileged son who has never had to strive for anything, but his power lies precisely in that.

Then there is Helaena, the only sister among the Targaryens who has a pleasant and gentle presence.

Although she is rich, the richest of them all and extremely beautiful, she doesn't abuse it, she doesn't show it off, she's not shallow or arrogant, besides she's always looking out for her siblings.

She is the kind of person who doesn't need to shout to be noticed and with just a quiet smile, she earns the respect and admiration of those around her.

You know a little about her as Chase has a little now not so secret crush on her and honestly you don't blame him, she is absolutely beautiful and even kind, which is rare due to her provenance.

And finally there's Aemond, who of all them, he's always been... different.

Where Aegon is shameless and carefree, Aemond is calculating and serious. Always impeccably dressed, with an expression that doesn't say much and keeps him at a safe distance from most.

From what you've heard, he's extremely intelligent, he's also reserved and quiet, the complete opposite of Aegon.

There is also a rumor about him about his left eye, something about an accident as a child and where he apparently wears a prosthetic.

You don't really know much about it or him but he's always been intriguing and mysterious, in a way.

You focus on him specifically, watching him from a distance, curious, as he takes a seat on the deck with an expression you can't read as it doesn't tell you much.

You watch as his short silver hair moves slightly in the wind and breeze, as well as he watches everything around him intently, to again focus on his siblings and Floris.

Floris is his girlfriend, apparently they have been dating for a few months now and have given a lot to talk about since no one expected Aemond to even date anyone.

But there they are.

You watch as Floris approaches him and takes a seat on his lap, looking radiant in a tight dress and a huge smile on her face, but he, on the other hand, remains expressionless.

Floris murmurs something in his ear, to which he responds with a slight smile, but averts his gaze to the horizon. However, she gently takes him by the jaw and leaves a soft kiss on his lips.

They begin to kiss and you look away, trying to refocus on the party and enjoying yourself here with your friends.

However, being here with all these wealthy people, especially the Targaryen's, you can't help but feel that divide about the rich and the poor at Sunset's.

You feel like you live in two different worlds, where they, the rich, live a life completely oblivious to the concerns of the people on the other side of town, in Crown's.

While you and the others work in the restaurants, clean their yachts, boats, houses and make sure their lives are comfortable.

They float above it all, the Targaryen's, Lannister's, Stark's, Baratheon's and so on, attending parties and making decisions that only benefit their own.

But you, the poor, the ones who live in Black Waters have nothing, you don't have the money, the influence or the power. Even the name of your side of town is a mockery to them, the rich, in despising even more the poor who don't have what they have.

But that's the life in Sunset's Bay.

[hivemuthur]

To Be Known - Ch.12.

viktorxfemale!reader very explicit as usual, Modern AU, set in London, current era but not very specific. It's just a love story.

<- previous chapter MASTERLIST next chapter ->

word count: 7,1K

warnings, or rather this chapter contains: a small rewind to Viktor's POV, angst (obviously), (bitter) masturbation, thoughts of vengeance, mentions of bullying, criticism of class structure, more thoughts of vengeance (but the second time properly aimed), sub!Viktor, subspace (Viktor), domspace (Reader), and a SURPRISE.

author’s note: As usual, playlist here and artist is @petitesieste ♡ it might end up with 16 chapters, we will see.

Cross-posted on AO3

—

It’s been five days. And not due to insecurity, pain, or even your reluctance—just plain, straight-up five days of nothing, of quick texts and no phone calls where both of you are swarmed with work and where, if one of you cuts the texting, it means they passed out with phone in hand. Viktor is alright with that, he thinks.

Until your voice echoes through the lab and there are two throbs in his body—one, obvious, between his legs, low in his belly, warmth pooling where his blood crashes down like a shameful Pavlovian response. The other, unexpected, unwelcome, spreading from his seized throat to the chest—a pang of something, jealousy maybe, or disappointment, since Jayce is still your first choice in the face of a crisis.

But when a window cracks open—not even ajar, barely wide enough for a finger—he jumps in. "I could... drive you?" he shouts through the lab, craning his face as if you could see him. Retreats from that immediately and then laughs at your red-cheeked admission. Not at you, just with relief, because it’s really fucking lucky that you can’t drive.

Jayce has enough sense to say nothing besides, “Well, bye then,” a kind smile on his face. So Viktor goes—nearly trips over himself while putting on his coat, smoothing his hair with one hand. Then, by the car, he checks his teeth in the side mirror and tries out three poses for greeting you. Sees you with the corner of his eye. Your shoes ridiculously light for the weather, thighs brushing beneath your skirt and—of course—an eyelet taunting his gaze upward, from your ankle where it starts, through your calf, your knee, and higher.

He means to be good. Civilised. But none of that is possible. Before mouth, there should be a hello, but that’s not possible either. He gets busy as soon as you step into the radius of arm’s reach—kisses you like five days was five years. His hands go to your waist first, then skim down, then up again, greedy for shape, for certainty. The first press of your mouth against his is a relief so sharp it nearly folds him in half.

But then he remembers that Jayce knows. And he of course suspects that Mel knows too, which only gets confirmed by the pinch in your brow and the way you crawl back out from the pit of his arms—back to skittish, back to overthinking. How many times Viktor will have to be undoing it, he doesn’t know. But he braces for it. Drives you around London in stiffening silence. Carries your shoes for you. Says nothing when Charlie sends you home—even then, he asks for nothing.

It’s just the thing in his chest that keeps asking and rattling when he pulls over by your house. It animates his little finger to trace along your thigh—it's all he can afford right now. What he wants to say is not even born yet.

Can I come in? Can I see where you sleep? Can I sleep with you? Can I come in?

Enthralled by your weight on his lap, he doesn’t stop you from pulling at the stitches of what hasn’t scarred properly yet. There is little to no fight in him.

Once, he means to tell you to stop—to tell you it’s ridiculous to fuck in his father’s car when the bed is a few steps away—but doesn’t.

Instead, he fucks you in his father’s car. Or rather, lets you fuck him in his father’s car. And begins to regret it somewhere mid-way through, when you become absent and selfish, and he wonders how an act of unprompted chivalry, or friendship, has chased his girl away.

He gives you nothing beyond what’s needed, convinced that if he were to ask, rejection would follow. An excuse of work, of fatigue, of mess, of anything that would prevent him stepping through the threshold of your private space—the border crossing between the country of casual and the country of commitment.

By the end he gets angry, and even though good girl tickles his tongue, he holds it in. Angry with himself, not with you—for being an utter coward.

As soon as the door clicks shut, Viktor exhales a shuddering sigh. Wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist, then his cock with a packet of tissues crumpled in the glovebox. Zips himself up. “Sakra,” he mutters, soft and ragged.

The car reeks of sweat and sex and worse—longing left too long in the sun. He doesn’t move until the fog clears from the windows and the world outside returns to shape. Streetlights. Pavement. The indifferent flicker of a crossing signal.

He drives home in silence, headlights catching in puddles, tires humming soft and steady like breath on a ventilator.

Shoes off. Shower on. He rubs his skin until it flushes, as if he can fix this by friction. When he reaches for the shampoo, he pauses. His jumper—your smell still clinging to the collar—hangs over the chair in the corner. He leaves it unwashed.

Injection. Brush teeth. Fold towel. Lie down.

And then: nothing. No music, no reading, no distractions. Just ceiling. He stares until the grain of the plaster turns to waves, and thinks—what went wrong this time? Was it the offer to help? The silence? The car? Was it me?

His fingers touch his mouth, still swollen. He goes over it again and again. The kissing, the fucking, the breath you stole when you climbed on him like he was an escape hatch, not a man.

But then before that—

Beforemouth. Before the crime of kindness. Before you flinched from being seen.

He remembers the last time you came to him willingly. When you’d forsaken breath just to keep him close. To keep him for long. When you’d cradled him like something worth keeping.

And somehow, seeing you today has done the opposite. He misses you more. He misses the version of you that treated him like her private redemption—not this stranger who approaches him like a perilous inconvenience.

He tries not to. But his body keeps asking where you are. Keeps insisting there must be more. Some remnant. Some evidence. Something left behind.

He’s hard—he realises with  horror, as if it’s not his own cock between his legs, but something foreign and starving. The bed is cold around him and the room is too quiet and he’s too alive. Jumper in the corner smells like you so strongly he can feel it in his nostrils. That car still smells like sex. That silence between you lingers, bitter on his tongue.

He sighs. Rubs a palm over his eyes. Tries not to think—but there you are again, hovering above him, the crown of your womb just out of reach, thighs tense with indecision. Not unwilling, just new to this particular kind of surrender.

The echo of your panic rattles in him. And still, you came to him. Not with confidence, but with choice. Your cunt, warm and glistening, an offering made without ceremony, and him—mouth already open, grateful, greedy, devout. You smothered him so sweetly. Pressed down with caution, then trust, then need. And now—he wishes he’d stayed there. Wishes he’d drowned.

The first touch is more apology than pleasure—soft, weary, resentful. He spits in his palm, just once, and wraps his fingers around himself like he’s done since he was a teenager: furtive, unspectacular, necessary.

But then—your voice, curled soft around a plea. Not tonight’s version. Not the strained half-chatter you used to fill the drive. No, the one from last week, low and syrup-thick. When you’d called him by his name, and it meant the world. When your mouth had opened just for him and you’d taken him in slow, like breath, like acceptance.

He thumbs the slit—just barely—and his hips lift without asking. His mind does the rest:

It’s your tongue now, flat and wide, cradling his base. Your nose sliding along the underside as you breathe him in and then your lips, wet, pulled over your teeth to not hurt his tender flesh. So good, his girl. Then cheeky, when you ask if he’s begging. He’s begging now. Without sound, without shape. Every nerve shouting your name into the meat of his chest.

His hand moves like he’s not sure what he wants—slow at first, just pressure and heat, then faster when the image of your spit-glossed mouth won’t leave him. He strokes himself like it’s you doing it, your hand flicking with quiet cruelty, your gaze pinned to his face while you work him apart with focus and intent. Not even speaking, just watching.

The disgusting sound of his own palm gets louder, and he hates it, but doesn’t stop. The lube—his own spit—is tacky, almost dry. He grips harder, hips rising in short jerks that have nothing to do with rhythm and everything to do with memory.

You, on your knees. You, under him. You, laughing into his neck after you came, soft and dazed and claimed.

He bites his lip and twists his wrist just right—just there—and sees your face, the way it looked the first time you took him all the way down. That startled flush in your cheeks, pupils blown. You’d gagged a little, then moaned like you liked it. Like you’d do it again.

He grunts, soft and low and desperate, like it’s all unbidden. He’s close now, cock heavy and flushed in his hand, balls tight. He wants to hold off, wants to stretch it, to earn it—but his body is no longer listening.

Everything coils at once—the muscles in his gut pull taut, the world narrows to breath and zeal and you. He comes with a jolt, shuddering, a hot spill across his stomach. It ropes up over his hand, clings to the hair below his navel, slick and stupid and human. No satisfaction in it, no victory, just you—still missing.

His chest rises and falls. The ceiling waits, white and useless. His hand slips free and falls to the side. The wet cools on his skin. He falls asleep like that, dirty.

When he wakes, he’s bereft. Cum has crusted like egg yolk over the fuzz on his belly, and his boxers are stiff with it. He groans loudly, then pushes his face into the pillow and lets out a muffled, “Fuck.”

Everything’s a fight—getting dressed, eating, swallowing. For the briefest moment, he’s worried he might be actually depressed before scolding himself for being dramatic. He goes to work instead, to face the final presentation before he and Jayce are free to keep saving the world.

The Institute is so stuffed with people his forehead gets clammy five minutes in, and he has to loosen the scarf. Jayce is not in yet, so Viktor hunches over the notes with yesterday’s stale coffee and revises the pitch they shouldn’t have to be giving in the first place.

He feels like he’s floating next to his body, trying to grasp his own shoulders and sink back into himself, but the movement is slow, underwater. Everything but exuberant, he drags his feet across the tiled floor, attempting to invent a smile for himself that wouldn’t look like someone pinched his skin with a clothes peg on the back of his neck.

Jayce comes in, sees this atrocity of acting, and stifles a laugh. “Are you practicing faces?”

“I, eh—” Viktor stills, but the remark, whatever it was, dies in his throat. He deflates. “I’m trying to find a face that won’t cut our chances short.”

“Easy, V. It’s homestretch,” Jayce says, walking up closer and resting a heavy hand on Viktor’s shoulder. “What’s going on?”

For a minute there, Viktor wonders about pouring his heart out to Jayce. About telling him how he feels used and tossed and small, and how all those feelings alloyed render him close to disappearing. He settles on quiet suffering instead, when he finds his new smile. “It’s nothing,” he says, mouth quirking forcefully. “I’m just nervous.”

It goes surprisingly well, and Viktor ends up hating himself for it. Because he’s just a pebble in the stream of Jayce’s charisma. It’s Jayce’s stability and enthusiasm that keeps the room warm. The one that has his eyes not rolling with exasperation but sparkling—inviting, ready for anyone who asks a dumb question. For Jayce, no question is dumb. He takes them all as an opportunity to bring someone closer. To bring them into his world.

Viktor has always admired that in Jayce, still does. Not so much the phenomena itself—Viktor is also very capable of it, when given an eager set of ears. But the ease of it, how natural it is. Even now, watching Jayce move through the crowd like a current pulling people in. They gravitate to him—students, colleagues, strangers with soft hands and sharp questions.

Today, Viktor hangs at the edge of it. Smiling when spoken to. Nodding at the right times. But everything feels a step out of sync.

He’s used to some of that—has worn misalignment like a second spine most of his life—but today it stings. Today it feels less like oddity and more like being locked out. Of what, exactly, he can’t name. Something warm, maybe. Something shared.

By the time they wrap up, his legs ache from standing. His throat’s dry. His jaw hurts from holding it just right so it doesn’t look like he’s clenching. Jayce claps him on the back with the kind of praise that usually fills him with a low glow, but today it hits flat. He thanks him. Nods. Smiles.

Then disappears. Back to the flat.

He eats tepid leftovers straight from the pan and leaves the fork in the sink. He doesn’t shower. Stands by the window instead with a glass of water, half-drunk and already warm.

By morning, the weight in his chest has calcified into something meaner.

This was supposed to be his. The work. The space where he could think with his hands. The only part of his life untouched by shame of want or guilt. The part that stayed clear even when his mind didn’t. The space in which his desires could spark an intellectual thought instead of being a taboo.

Now he can’t reach for an idea without tripping over your name. Can’t check an email without picturing your mouth. Can’t hold a damn pen without remembering how your hands held his throat, soft and certain. The rage surprises him with how clean it feels.

Not directed at you—never quite you. But at the leak in the hull, at the fault line. At himself, mostly, for letting it get this far without naming it. He wants to blame you, of course, but he knows better. Knows it was him who let affection creep in through the gaps of want. Him who mistook currency for kindness.

As if summoned, your pseudonym appears on his phone screen—Y.V.: Hi. Can I see you tonight?

And there, Viktor knows he should be a better man. But another window cracks open. One that will let him through to an alleviation of all this suffering.

Yes, come at 8, he replies.

And it’s not that he wants to say no and chooses yes instead. It’s the intention behind the yes. A quiet, cancerous impulse—to make things even. To throw all of this back at you—what it’s like to feel replaceable. Insignificant, unworthy of his space. Used and tossed.

For the rest of the day he veers between desire and judgement. Does work on autopilot. Thoughts are elsewhere—you in the car, mostly. Alien to him, a stranger. And the why, why, why clatters around his brain like a metal ball. No answer comes. It wears him out beyond anything physical. He rubs his eyes and yawns.

If that’s what you want—he can try. He can be weight and warmth and friction. He can give you the touch, nothing else. Let you use him until you come and leave. He will try and see if he can take your body without asking for your heart.

Until—

Until the elevator dings and you drag yourself out of it. Face sad, though you try to sport it into neutral. And, on the spot, he wants to gather you and hold you, but he waits, counting your steps.

You walk past him in the door, but eyes on him at all times. No words, yet you speak with your hands—they come cold, reaching, one for his cheek, the other for his nape.

And then your mouth comes, and it’s as if there is nothing before the mouth. Soft, tender. Oh—longing. You’ve missed him, he can tell. Your tongue feels delicate between his lips, shy. You lick into him with quiet smacks of skin on skin until there is more.

A sudden, all-encompassing amnesia rolls through his body like a massive eraser, getting rid of his resolutions. Ice thaws in his chest, where your fingers slot between his ribs, pulling him closer.

He forgets, in an instant, the person you were in the car. It’s you again. The lovely, wonderful, needy version of you that seeks solace in his arms, that will let him break you and mend you.

It’s Viktor who deepens. Towering over you as you make yourself smaller, craning your head to swallow his tongue. His hands slide up your spine, then down again—slow, earnest. He presses his hips to yours, not to rut, but to remind you he’s here. All of him. That you’re welcome. Thus, he reminds himself too.

Your mouth opens wider under his, breath warm, tasting of coffee and stubborn silence. He kisses you like he’s been uncorked—starved for you, for closeness, for sense. Tongue curling against yours, lips parting wider with each drag, every wet give of mouth against mouth spelling out hello and I missed you and I forgive you.

When he nips your lower lip, it’s not for dominance but devotion. He sucks it into his mouth, hums like he could live off your taste. One hand cradles the back of your head. The other—sneaks beneath your jumper, flats over your waist, thumb stroking slow circles into your skin like a reminder: you’re here now, stay.

The ache begins to dull. With this dulling, his body catches up with the fatigue—muscles relax, lungs expand, and Viktor can’t help it when he yawns straight into your mouth.

“Oh, you’re so tired,” you say with a half-smile, brushing hair off his forehead, fingers light and affectionate.

“Yes,” Viktor chuckles, hiding his face in the crook of your shoulder. “I’m sorry, it’s been a long week,” he murmurs, voice muffled by fabric, hands resting at the small of your back underneath clothes, fingertips entwined. “I’m alright though, I can—”

“No, I—” you interrupt, head falling against his, ear to ear. “I’m shattered.” You pull back just enough to look at him. “Do you want to—"

“Hang out?” he offers, hopeful. You sigh and nod, making him smile. “I would love to,” he says, already unshouldering your bag. “Are you hungry?”

“God, yes. I’d kill for a curry.”

“You shall get one,” Viktor says, pressing his lips to your forehead. “Go to the bedroom, I’ll order the food,”

“Thank you,” you exhale into his neck. “Thank you.” A kiss—long, tender peck on his tendon, before you kick your shoes off and trail down the corridor.

He makes the call, then goes to the kitchen to make tea. Waits for a kettle to boil with head in his hands, both ashamed and relieved. It was a momentary flop, he tells himself. He had one, now you’ve had one, it’s all evened out.

When the tea is ready, he takes a slow walk toward the bedroom, cane dangling loosely from his forearm. You're lying on the bed, still dressed, legs apart, toes pointed outward. He sets the cups on the bedside table and settles between your ankles. One of your feet lands in the cradle of his palm—thumb pressing into the sole before it rests on his lap. Your toes are cold too. He finds himself wondering absently if it's tights or stockings beneath your trousers.

“Now we wait,” he says, rubbing out the tension. “How have you been?”

“I—” First you hiss at his thumb digging into your arch, then relax. “Awful,” you admit. “It’s been an awful week and I’ve been awful the last time I saw you,” you say breathlessly, looking at his hands. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Viktor stills his movements, save for fingers caressing your toes through nylon. He’s entirely unsure how to talk to you about Wednesday, since all the anger he’s felt evaporated the minute you’ve put your lips on him. Only fear remains. “Who do I have to smack?” he asks instead.

Your face twists when he resumes, and you exhale a gasp through open mouth. Hot. “Uh, British education system? I really don’t know,” you chuckle, rising onto your elbows.

Viktor hums, takes a deep breath. “Hmm, I will get to work tomorrow,” he says, covering the row of your joints with his palm and twisting gently, until they pop one by one.

“Ah—” you yelp. “Where did you learn how to do this?”

“Eh, I didn’t. I’m treading blindly here,” he shrugs, abashed. I just want to touch you, that’s it.

You eye him for a moment. Then: “How… are you?”

“Very tired,” he admits. “But—it seems that we’ve secured the cancer treatment research, for good. Or rather, for now. The pitch on Thursday went well, so we are moving to in vitro testing.”

You retreat your foot to come closer, and sit on your heels. “Viktor, that’s huge,” you say, resting your hand on his cheek. “Well done.” Your eyes sparkle, honest, truly amazed.

Viktor smiles. Well done. Suddenly his pliancy feels justified. The choice to not confront the pain becomes a right one, because your presence softens it just enough. Him, starved for comfort, lapping the first offered crumb is not a cure, he knows, but it lets him breathe a little better. Even if it’s just survival behaviour, not healing.

Trapped in the space between intimacy and uncertainty, where unspoken affection masquerades as safety, you both float. Acting like you’re close, but never confirming it. And he’s well aware that it’s a suppression in favour of connection. A delayed reckoning. He’s only worried that this tenderness he has for you is not just passive, but it might be also tragic.

A sharp sound of the buzzer jolts you both right up. Viktor rises, and you follow him wordlessly to wait with him by the door. He plays with your fingers.

“Your hands are so cold today,” he murmurs, frowning slightly as he brushes his thumb over your knuckles. Not a complaint—an observation, touched with worry.

“Yes, I think I’m just mildly exsanguinated. I bled my energy out for some posh cunt.” You roll your eyes, trying for lightness, but there’s a tremble under it that makes him study you harder.

He says nothing, just guides your palms underneath his sweater and traps them in warmth with his armpits. Flinches a bit at the glacial sting on the sensitive skin, but endures it, for you.

You do the food drop-off together and then walk clumsily back to the bedroom. Viktor settles against the headboard with his legs spread in front of him, you sit at the foot of the bed, facing him. At first, you eat in silence. He watches you—who is clearly uncomfortable about this. A very blatant scene—two people spending Friday evening eating takeout Indian food.

“Someone from my past reemerged,” you say suddenly. Before Viktor’s eyebrows can climb any higher, you add, “Not an ex—my classmate. She’s an actress now, or she’s trying to be. She didn’t get the role and threw a fit. First tried to bribe me, then maim me, and I—” You shake your head, fiddling with a piece of naan. “I handled it well. I think. But it just… burned me right out,” you admit, your voice dropping into a hush.

This—this is a complete terra incognita for Viktor. He had you talking about your work, yes. Discussing topics with him, even. Asking questions about him. But this? Just a free-willed confession? Never. He shouldn’t be smiling.

He clears his throat, and asks, “What happened at your school?”

“Oh, I—” you start, faltering for a beat. “Well, I survived it.” You look up briefly, then away. “But you have to understand, for someone like me it’s a polygon. I’m almost at the very bottom of the food chain—plain name, no rich parents, common accent. Common person. Just… talented, I suppose. Threatening. A stranger.” You say it with a small, bitter smile, but don’t dress it up further. It lands just as it is—fact.

Before asking, Viktor adds the detail to his internal ledger—another sharp entry in the growing archive of things that have shaped you. It fills him with heat. Livid, yes, at the world that made you shrink your victories before they ever had a chance to shine. He pushes the anger aside, not out of dismissal, but discipline. He’s not here to rage anymore—he’s here to listen.

“Why does that matter?” he asks after a beat.

“I have no idea, but it’s been like this since the dawn of time. When I got the scholarship the first emotion I felt was fear, not joy. And I wasn’t wrong really, I had horrible things done to me. Which is why I will never allow nepotism in my theatre,” you say, your voice gaining force before dipping again. “So I had to… just accept that I’m close to nothing. You know, a dirty beggar in a world where everyone had a nanny and never lifted a finger to do physical chores.” Your tone is matter-of-fact, as if repeating something that was once shouted at you until it solidified into truth.

“I… I really wanted this. Really, so badly. And I know… it’s just school and I’m different now, but meeting someone from then and having them act identical, it… it makes me feel identical as then. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” You hunch forward, staring into your food like it might hide your embarrassment. One shoulder shrugs, small and defensive. Your voice cracks once before you steady it again.

Viktor fights the urge to leave abruptly and seek out the person who did this to you, rip the head off neck, and spit inside. He blinks twice, then speaks your name mid-swallow. “I will listen to everything you want to tell me,” he says, reaching out for your palm, still cold.

You look at him, eyes wide and searching, as if you are weighing something in your head. Then you squeeze his hand back and look away as you speak, ashamed, and it twists Viktor’s guts.

“Once, she stepped on my toes. Literally, with force. Two of them got broken and I had to give up the part in a play. I can’t wear heels for too long because of that. She got the role, of course. I… I lost it. The role, and just… it.” You let out a bitter laugh, then swallow it down. “We um… got into a fight, a physical one, ended up at the principal’s office. I almost got expelled, but there was one teacher… who thought I have potential and he… oh, God, it was awful, I haven’t thought about it in years, but now—” Your words hitch. You choke mid-sentence, breath catching in your throat like gravel. Your eyes glisten and fill faster than you can wipe them. “Sorry—sorry—” you say, voice high and helpless now, and it’s clear you can’t hold the tears back anymore.

“Come here,” he says, setting your food aside. “Come here, darling.” He pulls you into himself and you come, no fight there, fold into him. Your arms wrap around his waist, head rests on his chest and it’s such a sweet weight Viktor sighs. “Tell me her address, I will send her an anthrax letter,” he mutters, stroking your hair.

“Oh, Viktor,” you chuckle weakly. “You’re a star,” you exhale into him, and finally there is some mirth in your voice. Your laugh is shaky but real, muffled by his jumper. “Don’t tempt me though.” You shift closer, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt underneath.

“I would do it for you,” Viktor says with a small smile, innocent. I would do anything for you.  “Nobody gets to hurt you.”

His voice doesn’t rise—it’s the steadiness that makes it land. He says it like a principle, like gravity, as if it’s simply the way the world should work. As if loving you means making it true. He’s absolutely certain he loves you.

“You can tell me things like this, you know that, yes?” He tilts his head to press his lips against your crown, voice low and sure, trying to make you believe it—desperate for you to believe it.

“Well, clearly no, since you are ready to cause an epidemic on my behalf,” you mutter, and all that Viktor can think is: I would. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” you add, voice softening again. “But I don’t tell this to anyone. Mel knows vaguely, nobody else.”

Then: “I… I don’t want to be seen as weak.” You say it into the fabric of his jumper, barely audible, like it costs you something to even admit it.

For a moment Viktor wonders if throwing your wisdom back at you would have an effect. “You are not weak,” he says instead. He tilts your chin to make you meet his gaze, looks you square in the eye, all serious, until the damnedest smirk pulls the corners of his mouth to the sides and up. “You are very good.”

Laughter bubbles out from between your lips, a wonderful sound to him. “You are never letting that one go, are you?”

“No, it’s the best compliment I ever got,” Viktor hums, sliding down the headboard until you are both splayed flat on the bed. He plucks your palm off his chest and holds it to his mouth. “Your hands are still cold,” he says, then blows a gush of warm air onto it, like one would fog glass. There—you both stay. For five breaths. For ten. For fifteen.

Then, an idea—born from desire, yet not one to claim you, but one to vest some power back into you—comes. He rolls you over so that now it’s him nuzzled into the well of your neck, and takes your hand to trap it between his legs.

“You can do whatever you want with me,” he sighs against your skin, rubbing his thighs together.

Your mouth parts in quiet surprise, eyes skating over his face, cautious. “Are you sure?”

Viktor nods, the certainty settling over him slow, thick with longing. “Yes. I want this. I want you.”

A hitch in your throat, the softest exhale; your arm wraps around him, palm skimming the back of his neck, fingers threading tenderly into his hair. You pull him closer until your mouth grazes his cheek. “Thank you,” you murmur, breath hot on his skin, lips feather-light. Devoted, Viktor thinks, and feels heat pool low in his belly.

Then your hand settles on him, pressing steadily through his trousers, and Viktor's mouth opens, a quiet groan slipping free, pure relief. This—this—is what he’s ached for, not the frantic, bitter scrabble of your touch in the car, nor the humiliating friction of his own rough palm, desperate and insufficient. No, this softness, this tenderness—patient, measured, full of care. You, taking your time, cradling the weight and shape of him, drawing out every sigh, every twitch of his hips.

Your palm cups him, fond, tracing the ridge of him as he thickens, fabric suddenly abrasive and too rough, intensifying every sweep of your thumb and subtle tightening of your fingers. Viktor's breath rattles out, damp and ragged; he arches into your touch, hips hitching forward in surrender, nerves sparking white-hot under the pressure of your hand. This is the comfort he's craved, your slow claiming, as certain as sunlight cresting the horizon.

“Yes,” he rasps, barely audible, urgent but sweet. “Please.”

You tighten your grip, just slightly, enough to push him further. His head lolls against your shoulder, lips parted as he breathes you in, every nerve in him open, yearning. Your movements—slow, commanding—break down his edges piece by piece, stroke by stroke. It’s soft agony, the best kind, the kind Viktor wants to prolong as much as he wants it to end, and he clutches your wrist, pressing your hand firmer against him, the only anchor left.

He’s yours now, willingly drowning beneath your fingertips, safe in the hollow of your palm. And he hopes—absurdly, foolishly—that you will never let him surface.

Steadily, you work open the button of his trousers. His breath stops halfway down his throat, lungs flattened by the enormity of this miniature intimacy. Then the zip—small hardware surrendering one tooth at a time, and when your palm finds him, Viktor shudders from root to crown.

Air hits his skin first; then your touch, cool at first, but warming fast. His eyes fall closed. It’s soft, tips just brushing the length, tracing veins beneath delicate tissue. It’s enough—already—to coax out the first slick bead of precum, pearled at the tip and quickly smeared by your thumb, slow, languid circles around the crown. Viktor's jaw slackens, neck arches baring throat, pulse hammering under flimsy layer of skin.

He cracks his eyes open, just enough to watch—the slack in your shoulders disappears; what remains is intent—ownership that straightens your spine. Viktor melts into it, relief unfurling in his gut, hot and urgent.

“You’re so good for me.” The words run down his back like a thumb tracing bone.  Your palm slides lower, then back up, slicking in the tears he weeps, wrist twisting at the head. Viktor groans, hips meeting your grip. Your voice carries deep, coaxing him further open. “You always know what I need.”

The words feel more intimate than your hand on him—each sentence shaping him into someone he longs to be, someone worth this devotion. Viktor aches beneath your praise. Gone is the hollow, exchanged for something deeper, richer. His skin feels too tight, his heart too large, his ribs insufficient to contain the flood of sensation and thirst pouring through him.

You work faster, lust sparking as he trembles beneath you, pelvis rolling helplessly, breath thickened to molasses. You speak again, lips pressed to his temple, whispering your redemption into the curls at his hairline. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

And Viktor, unable to resist you, submits fully—sinks deeper into the mattress, into your touch, into this breaking-open that leaves him entirely bare. Need ratchets inside him—hot, bright—until his thighs start to shake.

Caged between the options of ending and going further he tries to remain still under you, as your fist slides in maddening rhythm, so fucking steady it makes his heart beat out of sync. His legs go tense, and hips lift without reason now, just impulse. Just need.

“Would you like to come?” you ask, voice even as a metronome.

He nods fast, frantic, his breath catching. “Please,” he gasps. “Please—please—” the word trips over itself, loses shape, collapses into a string of syllables as he inches toward the edge.

You breathe out hard through your nose, and then shove another instrument of torture down his underwear. A hand wraps around his balls, already warm. The shock of it jolts a raw moan out of him; his palms fly to his eyes, blotting the room to black.

“Fuck, yes,” he hisses, and then he’s fumbling, clawing at his own shirt, pulling it up in a half-fold across his chest just in time to watch—eyes wide and wet—as he spills over his belly. Thick pulses striping his stomach, each contraction dragged out by the sure pump of your fist.

White skin painted whiter, Viktor blinks between breaths and tries to regain control of his lungs. Nothing foreshadows it—not the hand briefly tightening around him, nor the crack of your knuckles. It shies out small from your mouth, quiet but echoing like a church bell, and suddenly, he’s as pale as the artwork on his abdomen.

“I love you,” you say, as the room distorts around him.

And when his gaze finds you, he wonders briefly if he looks as shocked as you do. Eyes wide, unblinking, lips parted by tremor. Then, you finally breathe out, and oh God, you look like you are going to mumble I’m sorry—a blade, no dull edge—so cum or no cum on his stomach, Viktor moves.

He grips your neck and waist with whatever strength you’ve left his limbs, glues himself to you, wet spreading to your clothes—but he doesn’t care. His tongue could find yours in the dark, in the void, anywhere life takes him. Groaning and breathing you in through mouth and nose, Viktor kisses you as if it’s the first time. He opens his mouth wide and rolls onto you, trapping your confession inside until you forget the cancelling thing that was to follow.

“I love you,” he says between kisses, frantic, lips wet against yours. “I love you so fucking much,” another press of mouth to cheek, to jaw, to lips again. “I adore you,” he mutters into the corner of your mouth, his voice already hoarse, already breaking. “I fucking adore you.”

“Shit,” you say, startled—half-laugh, half-gasp, as if it snuck out of you.

He pulls back just far enough to look at you properly, searching your face. Pupils huge. You blink once, hard, like trying to centre yourself—and something in you settles.

“Okay, yes. I fucking love you.” Your voice shakes on the first word, steadies on the last. “I love you, Viktor.” All-warmed hands come to cup his cheeks, thumbs rubbing it in.

He laughs then. Sound uncertain, breath caught between sob and joy, and if he keeps going, Viktor is sure he will cry with this relief—so he kisses you instead. Mouth torn, palms trembling, a full-body gratitude.

“You wicked thing,” he says finally, slumping onto you, and it sounds like the wretched I love you all over again, scraped raw from his chest. “Weeks, no—months of this, I thought I’m losing my mind.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you ask, face to face, his weight draped over you like a coat still warm from the body. Your brows knit, incredulous, lips parted in a stunned half-smile people wear when they’re trying not to cry.

Viktor’s forehead winkles. He mutters your name like it’s the ultimate answer. “You frighten me—you look like I’m holding you at gun point every time there is even a suggestion. Besides,” he says, eyes dropping to your lips. “How could I tell you when you fucked me in the car like I’m nothing?” You flinch, pull back, mouth already parting to apologise—but he’s faster. “And,” he breathes, cupping your jaw so you can’t look away. “I have already told you.”

“What? When?”

“Mám tě ráda,” he says, all serious smile. His voice is hoarse, lowering into a hum. “It means I love you. Like I love someone who I carry in heart at all times.” He rubs his face on yours, nose to cheek, lips brushing skin as he speaks the next bit straight into your mouth.

“But now I can tell you,” he murmurs, like a secret finally safe to speak. “Miluji tě.” I love you. “Moc tě miluji.” I love you so much. “Moje láska,” he whispers, kissing you between the words, “my love.”

“Like I love you and I am in love with you. Mad about you, for that matter,” he adds, dry-mouthed and half-laughing now, as if even he can’t believe how many times he’s said it and how good it feels to finally get this ballast off his chest.

Your cheeks are burning. You stare up at him, blinking slow, lips parting shyly before the words tumble out. “I think this is more I love yous than I’ve heard in a lifetime.” Your voice shakes as you say it, breath trapped behind teeth—your body speaking louder than mouth.

“That’s a crime,” Viktor mutters, shaking his head. “I will keep telling you until you believe me.”

“I believe you,” you say, lifting your hand to his face. Your palm fits along his jaw, thumb tracing the edge of his cheekbone. “I know. You, I know.”

He sighs at that—long, loud, grateful—and nuzzles into your touch like he can breathe easier from it. “Now, can we,” he starts, tone growing torrid, mouth drifting lower to the hinge of your jaw. To ease that drought, he adds tongue and drags it along your throat.

“Stop having non-committal sex in a safe and friendly atmosphere,” he says, teeth out to join this kiss meant to last in colour—his first legal love-bite. “And move to having fully committed sex, so I can officially tell every person we meet in a fucking restaurant that you are mine?”

“Yes,” you breathe, then laugh, overwhelmed. “God, yes. I have no idea what I’m doing, but yes.” The fear hasn’t vanished, he knows, but he holds it at bay with hands on your hips. You grip him back just as firmly, intention purer than absence of skill.

“You are doing great,” Viktor says, mouth to neck. A smile—insistent—burns a moon-shaped brand on skin. For once, it’s more than enough. Nearly too much. He lets it flatten him anyway, and he breathes through it, deeply, gratefully. It settles into a dignified rest until Viktor’s thoughts drift, and he snorts into the pool of your clavicle.

You pull away. “What?” He sighs, bracing for you to swat him or groan or call him something loving like twat or prick and then with adoration painted on his face, he says, “I can’t believe you don’t know how to drive.”