#thread: friends of the forest | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

valeisaslut · 6 days ago

Note

Hey, if you're up for it, could you write like a twisted fairytale inspired fic for ellie pls. Like flynn rider ellie would EAT. Huntsman! Ellie and snow white reader would EAT. Btw im in love with your writing MWAH

if this is a fairytale, let it be the wrong kind ࿐

❀ word count: 2.5k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

❀ content warnings: fairytale-like au, huntsman!ellie x princess!reader, fluff, soft romance, gentle tension, yearning, pining, implied class difference, longing, mutual awe and aching, AFAB reader, likes, reblogs and comments are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

the morning begins with lace.

fine as gossamer, soft at the wrists—your favorite dress, dove-white, threaded with blue silk that catches the light when you move, pearl buttons climbing up the slope of your spine. it was sewn for parlors and politeness, for tea at noon and embroidery at dusk. for sitting straight and talking softly.

not for this. not for grass-stained hems and the hush of the early afternoon pressing cool against your skin.

but something inside you aches today, not a sharp one. not the kind that demands, or cries. this one is quiet, steady. the ache of rooms that remain always quiet, of footsteps too graceful and always being watched.

so you slip out.

before the cooks stir the hearth, before your sisters rise for lessons, you pad barefoot through the servants’ wing. past the rose trellis, past the fountain with the cracked cherub, past the garden gates no one expects you to cross.

and the woods greet you like an old friend.

they stretch together—green, unspoken, older than your lineage, older than the palace. the trees rise like cathedral columns, their limbs tangling high above your head in whispered praise. sunlight breaks through in speckled ribbons, and somewhere, water hums over stone.

the forest remembers what the castle forgets. and you, the youngest daughter of a crown too heavy, come here to be forgotten.

you step lightly, in silence, alone. or so you believe.

because from the thicket — unseen, quiet, breath held tight behind a branch — a pair of green eyes watch you.

ellie doesn’t believe in fairytales.

she believes in the weight of blood in snow, of meat over her shoulder, of a clean shot held steady in her lungs.

she’s been tracking this buck since sunrise — wide rack, steady gait, a good kill. one bullet could feed the village for days. it’s not the first time she’s watched through her scope and lined up the end of something.

but then a girl steps into her view.

barefoot, graceful, glowing — dressed in something white and weightless, fabric soft enough to catch the light like water. your hem brushes the ferns, but you move as if gravity forgot you. as if the world, with all its mess and weight, doesn’t dare cling to you the way it does to everyone else.

ellie’s breath catches.

she’s seen a thousand things in these woods. blood, bones, beauty in pieces.

but never anything quite like you, never anyone that beautiful. never anyone that makes her wonder if their feet even touch the ground.

the buck lifts his head, but doesn’t run.

you move towards him slowly, hands open, soft whispers spilling from your lips in a language not meant for soldiers or servants. soft and strange, tender in a way ellie has never heard before. a language meant for gentler things.

and then your hand — careful, dainty — grazes the velvet of his antlers, and he stays.

ellie’s finger slips from the trigger.

something unfurls in her chest. not a snap, not a shatter, but a slow pull. like the first thread coming loose from a tightly sewn seam, sharp and unfamiliar, pressing against the inside of her throat.

you smile.

and her heart does something it’s never done before.

it aches.

just slightly, just once, but it’s enough to make her gasp.

and in the still air of the forest, you hear it.

“hello?”

you lift your head, and your voice carries like wind through leaves— light, curious. it sounds like music, it’s sweet like honey on spring.

ellie freezes. still crouched behind the brush, rifle lowered, heart pounding loud enough to startle birds from trees.

she then steps accidentally on a branch, wincing at the snap and cursing under her breath. your head turns sharply towards the sound.

“who’s there?” you call, still gentle, but now laced with the kind of fear that doesn’t come from fairytales.

then a girl steps out from the brush slowly, rifle slung over her shoulder, both hands raised in harmless surrender.

“s-sorry,” she says, voice low. “didn’t mean to scare you.”

you blink, and so does she.

you have never seen anyone quite like her.

sun-warmed, broad at the shoulders, sleeves rolled to her elbows, arms smudged with dirt. her right forearm is speckled with ink, markings that curl and bloom down to her wrist, somewhere between maps and magic. her auburn hair is tied back in a loose, messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. freckles dot her cheeks and nose, scattered like constellations. her eyes — green, striking — meet yours without hesitation.

and for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

you hadn’t expected a girl, and definitely not a girl like this. not one this handsome, this rough-edged, this beautiful. not one dressed in worn canvas and leather, boots scuffed, looking more myth than maiden.

she startles you. not because she’s threatening — but because she doesn’t look like any girl you’ve ever seen around the castle.

and she’s looking at you like she’s not sure you’re real, either.

“i didn’t mean to interrupt,” you finally mumble softly, your cheeks warming.

“you didn’t,” she replies, voice gentle. “he let you get close.”

you glance toward the buck, already slipping away into the trees, unbothered.

“i just…love animals,” you admit.

ellie’s mouth quirks at the corner.

“that’s why you came all the way out here in a dress worth more than everything i own?”

you laugh, bright and unfiltered. “you think this is my finest dress?”

she lifts a brow, teasing. “well, it ain’t exactly hunting gear.”

you smile, faint and fragile, and then you hesitate.

“…are you a hunter?”

she nods, eyes not leaving your face. “yeah,” she says. “had him in my sights.”

“the buck?”

“mhm.” she shifts, and there’s something sheepish in the way her voice dips. “but then you stepped out from the trees and… yeah. ruined the whole thing.”

your mouth drops open, scandalized. “i did not!”

“you did,” she says, grinning. “completely.”

you cover your mouth with your hand, laughter caught somewhere between apology and delight. “oh—i’m so sorry—”

“don’t be,” she interrupts gently, shoulders lowering. “i’m not mad. just… surprised.”

you tilt your head. “surprised?”

“that you chased off the deer,” she says, then flicks her eyes over your dress again, that faint smile tugging at her lips, “and that someone who looks like you would wander into these woods alone.”

your cheeks blaze, and you can’t stop it. it’s the way she looks at you — sharp and soft all at once, like she can see straight down to the bone — that makes your heart trip and race, beating harder, louder, like it’s trying to escape. like it’s waking up to a feeling it’s never felt before.

“well,” you say, quiet and a little breathless, “sometimes princesses get tired of being watched.”

and just like that, the air changes.

ellie freezes.

princess.

the word lands heavy between you. and now, of course, it all makes sense.

your voice, your posture, the embroidery on your cuffs. the single gold ring on your right hand, with the family crest etched into the band as a promise you didn’t ask to wear.

ellie lowers her eyes and bows her head slightly.

“your highness.”

you wrinkle your nose. “oh, don’t do that.”

she lifts a brow. “do what?”

“that! the bowing, the title,” you say, waving a hand between you. “it ruins it.”

“ruins what?”

“this moment.” your voice is quieter now. “i’d like to pretend, just for five minutes, that i’m not who i’m supposed to be.”

she studies you, green eyes tracing the lines of your face like she’s reading a book she never imagined she’d be allowed to hold.

“then who are you?”

you inhale slowly. the warm breeze stirs your hair, tugs soft at your skirts.

“…a girl,” you say, “that talks to a buck.”

a silence settles between you, delicate as spun sugar.

“what’s your name?” she asks, not like she’s demanding it, more like she’s hoping you’ll trust her with it.

you hesitate, but only for a breath.

“it’s—” your voice softens, as if saying it aloud might undo the spell. “y/n.”

ellie’s lips curve around it, soundless, tasting it in her mouth before saying it back.

“y/n,” she repeats. “suits you.”

you tilt your head, curious. “and you?”

“ellie,” she says. “just ellie.”

“...ellie” you smile. “suits you, too.”

she grins, a little sheepish, a little proud. “i’ve never heard it sound that pretty before.”

and for a moment, the forest breathes around you — slow, golden, endless — and your names hang between you like a promise.

her eyes crinkle.

“you always talk to animals?”

you blink. “yes. why?”

ellie shrugs, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “just seems... personal. like they know things you don’t tell anyone else.”

“they do,” you say, half-teasing, half-serious. “they’re the best secret-keepers.”

she laughs, low, surprised. “guess i missed out, growin’ up with chickens and hogs instead of deers and doves.”

you grin. “and what would you tell them?”

“hm?”

“if you had your own creatures, what would you tell them?”

ellie goes quiet for a moment. then, “maybe that i wanna leave sometimes. just pack up and keep walking past the river and the mountains.”

you blink. “why haven’t you?”

she flicks a pine needle off her sleeve. “because someone’s gotta stay”

“so you stay for others?”

“not exactly” she looks at you again — really looks. “do you?”

you don’t answer right away. instead, you smooth your skirt, glance at your bare feet in the moss.

“…i do,” you admit. “but sometimes i wonder what it would be like to wake up with no one expecting anything from me.”

“i wonder the same,” she says. softer now. “except the other way ‘round.”

you lift your eyes.

“what do you mean?”

ellie picks at the edge of a callus on her thumb.

“i think i’d like someone waiting. just one person, expecting me to come back.”

the hush that follows feels almost holy.

a breeze rustles the ferns. the leaves above you catch the light, spill it down in golden strings. petals tumble lazily from a nearby branch, spiraling to the ground like blessings.

there’s nothing clever left in either of your mouths. just awe, just quiet.

ellie shifts. clears her throat. “you wanna sit?”

you nod.

right there, in the grass, knee to knee, sunlight balmy on your shoulders, you watch her pull her legs up and rest her arms on her knees. her eyes keep soft but her voice is a little steadier now.

you talk.

about animals, books, your childhoods. she tells you about the time she tried to tame a raccoon, and got bit on the ankle for her troubles. you tell her about the time you dropped your crown into the fishpond during a royal procession and jumped in after it, dress and all.

“and you just jumped in?” she repeats, laughing.

“i was six,” you say. “i thought it was enchanted.”

“was it?”

“no. i smelled like fish for a week.”

you both dissolve into laughter.

and god—it feels so real.

there’s a rhythm to her voice, a music to it. her drawl catches the ends of her words like soft twine. you catch yourself watching her lips more than once.

and ellie’s watching you, too. every time you laugh, every time you push a strand of hair behind your ear, every time you glance up at the sky, nervous you’ve stayed too long.

which you have, because the sun is starting to set, pouring warm aureate through the trees. and because the ache in your chest is only growing.

you glance at the treeline, reluctantly. “i should go.”

ellie’s jaw ticks. “me too.”

you both stand. brush the grass from your skirt, shake the dirt from your sleeves. she rises beside you, and just like that, you remember how her shoulders slope like a drawing come to life. how the light kisses her freckles, how her eyes are the color of moss and storms and something you’ve aren’t sure if you will ever be brave enough to name.

you fidget. she watches you.

“…about the buck,” you begin, suddenly timid. “i really didn’t mean to ruin your hunt—”

“don’t worry about it,” she says quickly, voice low and fond. “i think he earned the day off.”

you smile.

then you step closer, just a little. not quite valorous enough to touch each other, but close enough to feel the heat of your bodies.

“will you be here tomorrow?”

she shrugs, but there’s a flicker in her voice.

“maybe.”

“maybe?”

“depends if another girl comes wandering into the woods and ruins my shot.”

you narrow your eyes. “you’re blaming me again.”

“not blaming,” she says. “just… hoping.”

and you laugh, soft and quiet, but so bright it finds its way between her ribs, making her chest ache as a pulled bowstring.

“i hope you’re here,” you murmur. “i mean it.”

ellie swallows.

“i hope the same.”

you don’t say goodbye. you don’t have to.

there’s something about the way you look at each other before parting — something quiet and knowing — that makes words unnecessary. your fingers never touch, but they flex in tandem. your paths diverge, but your steps feel tangled.

you walk barefoot back up through the woods, your hem damp with dew and heart too full to carry properly. the world feels different now. lighter, overall, but heavier in places you’ve never noticed before.

behind you, ellie stays in the clearing long after your glowing figure disappears behind the trees. her hand lingers on the bark of the tree where you sat, her thumb pressed into the groove where your skirt rustled the moss.

and something in her, restless and tender, doesn’t follow her home.

it follows you.

that night, in your canopied bed with silk sheets and moonlight spilling over the pillows, you bury your face in your hands and whisper her name into the stillness. once, then again, just to see if it feels real.

ellie.

it does.

more real than anything else has in your life.

your maid knocks once, gently, to ask if you’re feeling well. you don’t answer. you just smile to yourself, and say nothing.

miles away, in a low cabin tucked between two hills and swallowed in pine, ellie lies flat on her back, boots still on, one arm thrown over her eyes. the fire is down to embers, the windowless walls creak with wind.

she should be asleep, should be out cold after the miles she walked and the meal she skipped.

but her whole body is humming. her lips tilt into a foolish, beautiful smile, and her chest aches. warm, sharp, like it’s learned a new language.

she keeps thinking about the way you laughed — high and sweet and sudden, as if you hadn’t done it in a long time. she keeps replaying the moment your eyes glinted, the way your lips parted, the blush that bloomed slow and shy across your cheeks when you saw her for the first time.

it wasn’t supposed to be like this. you were never meant to meet.

she’s a hunter. you’re a princess.

she smells like smoke and sleeps in wool. you smell like flowers and dreams and wear pearls on your wrists.

you belong to opposite worlds.

but even still — lying there in the dark, fingers curled into the edge of her blanket, teeth worrying her lip — ellie can’t help but think:

if this is a fairytale, then let it be the wrong kind.

because god, what a feeling.

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ AWWWWWWWWWWWWWW LETS ALL JUST AWWWWWWW IN TANDEM BECAUSE AWWWW HEART IS MELTINNNGGG!! first time writing something like this HEHEHE wanted to try out fluff and romance and i kinda really liked the result!!! hope yall did too <3333 thank you nonnie for the request love youuuu

perm taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <3): @talyaisvalslutsoldier @miajooz @andieprincessofpower @mayfldss @sunflowerwinds @coastalwilliams @hotpinkskitties @ssijht @pleasejoel @pariiissssssss @liddy333 @beeisscaredofbees @d1catwhisperer @the-sick-habit @elliescoquettegirl @elliewilliams-wife @yueluv3rrrr @your-eternal-muse @ellies-real-wife @katherinesmirnova @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @thxtmarvelchick @natscloset @lesbiansreverywhere @2against3 @wwefan2002 @ilahrawr @harmonib @piastorys @azteriarizz @starincarnated @natssgf @ukissmyfaceinacrowdedroom @iadorefineshyt @claudiajacobs @urmomssideh0e @kingofeyeliner @womenlover0 @ferxanda @imunpunishable @elliewilliamsloverrrrrrrr @bambi-luvs @maru0uu @mikellie @gold-dustwomxn @nramv @liztreez @eriiwaiii2 @elliewilliamskisser2000 @azxteria @elliecoochieeater

images from pinterest - edited by me

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dr1diot · 2 months ago

Text

here are those who share the memories

pairing: zhongli x goddess!reader

synopsis: you disappear from morax’s life shortly after the archon war, after he gains the title of geo archon—the title you’d fought tooth and nail to help him obtain. centuries pass, and he hasn’t heard word of you since you left—he assumes you’re dead, faded from existence like so many other gods. until one day, one of his ever-loyal yaksha report a strange sighting near wangshu inn…a human who looks just like you.

aka the real reason behind zhongli’s retirement

morax didn’t think he’d ever shot to his feet as fast as when xiao had reported sightings of a human who looked eerily similar to you near wangshu inn.

he’d been spending his afternoon the same way he always did—keeping a watchful eye over his city from the clouds, hidden from the sight of the mortals who bustled down below.

as the sun had dipped ever closer towards the horizon, he’d landed on the highest peak of the stone forest sprouting from the ground northwest of liyue harbor, shifting back into the form of a man. it was as he sat down at the familiar table hewn of stone that xiao had appeared before him, brows furrowed as he reported his sightings.

morax had believed for a long time that his heart had turned to stone the day you left him. but now, at the sound of your name on his yaksha’s tongue, he felt it thud painfully in his chest for the first time in centuries.

he wasted no time in snapping his fingers and shifting into his human vessel—the one he’d named zhongli some decades ago, when he’d first ventured into the city cloaked under the guise of mortality—before commanding xiao to take him to where he’d seen you last.

so there he was, leaning against the railing on the highest floor of wangshu inn. furiously scanning the milling crowd enjoying the restaurant, power rippling out in waves gone unnoticed by the oblivious humans below as tendrils of his power threaded through them—weaving up, down, side to side as he explored each human, searching for even a drop of the power that had belonged to you. that had felt almost as familiar as his own, that had mingled with his each night spent together, each time you’d held each other after a long, bloody, soul-battering battle.

he searched. he searched and searched and searched and searched—

and he couldn’t find you.

he stayed there until the sun went down, until the lamps were lit, bright against the darkness—until the humans began retiring to their rooms, drunk and laughing and happy—

morax thought he’d never be happy again. not after his heart had risen so high, after he’d been filled to the brim with hope that he’d be able to hear your voice again—

ah, as grief weighed his eyelids down, dropped mountains on his shoulders, even his own mind turned against him.

he could have sworn he heard you. the silky, almost musical cadence of your voice—oh, how he missed your voice.

“morax.”

he laughed hoarsely, silently cursing celestia. the mind was truly an amazing thing—how familiar the trickery his grief-stricken psyche had conjured sounded to the way you’d called his name so many centuries ago—

oh, it was painful. his heart cracked.

but then he felt xiao bristling at his side. and then, heard footsteps from behind.

his body moved on its own, whipping around as a painfully familiar power washed over his senses—

and oh.

he fell to his knees.

because the one in front of him—the human—

it was you.

and damn if he didn’t feel those cracks in his heart mending.

you were smiling softly as you stood several paces from his trembling, crumpled form. “it’s been a long time, old friend.”

how did you sound so unfazed when he felt close to breaking out in sobs?

he hadn’t realized just how much he missed you all those centuries ruling liyue by himself.

“it’s…it’s you. you’re alive.” his voice was hoarse, disbelieving.

he vaguely noted his yaksha disappearing into the night to give them space.

“i am.” you nodded, taking a step forward—and your scent washed over him.

his eyes widened. it was so distinctly human—it was similar to how you’d smelled before—and yet, it had an edge of raw mortality to it—

“how…? why do you smell human?”

“ah, right. i never showed you my human vessel, did i? though it seems you’ve taken one too. i named it ‘huangxi.’ pretty name, no?” you toyed with a strand of your h/c hair, eyes flickering down to the form of the man before you.

he only stared up, eyes still wide. “why?”

you flicked the strand of hair behind you. “i didn’t want people to constantly be falling at my feet and begging for blessings—it’s easier to move around this way.”

“no. why did you leave me?”

ah.

your smile turned into something sad, eyes filling with understand at the hoarseness of his voice. “i’m sorry, morax. i simply…got tired. of being a god. i wanted to experience something new. something human. and you…you could never leave your post. your duties.” you laughed ruefully. “i wanted to travel the world. but you—you were tied down to liyue. you could not have travelled with me. you loved the city guizhong left you too much.”

morax shook his head as he stood on trembling legs. “i—i thought you were dead.” he takes a wobbly step forward. “i would have gone with you, had you asked. breaking my contract with liyue would have been better than thinking you were gone this whole time.” his voice broke, and he took another step.

“i’m sorry. i knew you would have tried to stop me had i told you of my plans. but that was wrong of me. i should’ve sent word to you that i was ok. forgive me. i didn’t know you cared so much.”

didn’t know that he cared? the words made him shake. how could you have not known? after everything the two of you had gone through? after those nights together? he could feel slivers of his godhood slipping through his mortal vessel, his eyes, arms, the tips of his hair beginning to glow.

“are you mad at me, morax?” you questioned softly, cocking your head to the side as he took another step—you were now close enough for him to touch if he simply raised his arms.

oh, how he wanted to be mad. how could you leave him? let him believe you were dead for so long?

and yet, as he tried to muster his anger, all he could feel was pure, heart-wrenching relief at having you standing before him.

“…no.” he raised both hands, brushing your face softly before cupping your cheek, your jaw. almost in disbelief at the warmth beneath his fingers, at the heat that leaked through his gloves.

you were here. in front of him. alive.

before you could react, his arms were wrapped tightly around your waist, dragging you to his chest as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.

and then he was crying.

his shoulders trembled as he took deep, choked breaths trying to wrest his sobs back to silence.

you tried to lift your arms to wrap around his broad back, yet the slight movement had him squeezing tighter.

“i’ll go with you. i’ll go with you, so don’t leave me again.” he kept his face buried, but this time didn’t react as you lifted your arms to pat his back gently. “i’ll be human for you. then we can travel together.”

you laugh. “oh, morax, morax, morax. you should not give up your godhood so lightly. what would guizhong say?”

“guizhong,” morax breathed as he finally lifted his face, eyes red and puffy, cheeks wet, “would tell me to follow my heart, for she was a kind god.”

his heart.

you stared into his amber eyes for a long time, smile fading as you beheld what was there.

“morax. we are only friends. what we shared after battles—that was for comfort. to forget the horrors of that day.” you began shaking your head. “do not be so quick to give up the archonhood that you fought so hard for.”

“that we fought so hard for.” he corrected, something sparking in his eyes. “and i’m tired too, y/n. it’s been six thousand years.” he smiled ruefully. “i think im ready to stop.”

you both stared at each other for a long time.

“if that is what you truly desire,” you said slowly, “then i will not stop you. but please, do not regret your decision later.”

he smiled, partly in relief, partly in assurance. “i will not. after all, how can i regret a decision made in love?”

in love.

the word threatened to bring you to your knees.

“you do not mean it, morax.” you warned softly.

“i do. i have had centuries to think about it. to realize what my feelings for you were before you left. now i am taking this chance, this miraculous chance, to tell you.” his voice was soft, and yet you heard the conviction there. and your heart squeezed.

“then i must confess something,” you whispered. “when i left you, yes, i was tired of being a god. but i was also afraid—i loved you too. but i was scared. scared of what that meant. so i ran like a coward. even knowing this, can you still say you love me?”

“i do not see why that is a problem.” he took one of your hands, pressing his lips to your palm. “y/n. i would love, more than anything, to spend the rest of my existence with you. as a god, as a human, i do not care—if you’ll have me. what say you?”

your eyes shutter shut, and you begin crying. “i do not deserve your love.”

“you deserve the world and more, dear y/n. in fact, it is i who does not deserve your love.”

you open your silver-lined eyes, beholding the love in his eyes. the gleaming affection. and begin crying harder. “yes,” you sobbed, bowing your head as tears roll down your cheeks. “i will have you, if you truly want that.”

morax looked ready to collapse in sheer relief as he closed his eyes, leaning in to press his brow to yours. “thank you.”

you only smiled tearfully, patting his back as he wrapped his arms around you once again. “i should be the one thanking you.”

“zhongli!”

“ah—there you are, huangxi.” zhongli patted the empty spot next to him, smiling at the sight of his lover waving in his direction as she approached the table. “please meet director hu. she’s my boss at the wangsheng funeral parlor.”

huangxi smiled brightly as she sat next to the immaculately-dressed man, extending a hand to the girl with pigtails. “it’s great to finally meet you, director hu. zhongli has told me much about you.”

“aiya, really? all good things, i hope!” the young funeral director exclaimed, raising an eyebrow at her newest employee.

“of course, he reassured, bowing his head.

“good, good. though i must apologize, ms huangxi—i frankly have no idea who you are, or your relation to my employee here. mr. zhongli is loathe to talk about his personal life at work.” she sighed in exasperation, massaging her temples with mock frustration.

“ah.” huangxi lifted an eyebrow at the man sitting besides her, who cleared his throat.

“do forgive me for not filling you in earlier, director. this is my wife, huangxi.”

“…what?!”

part two: huangxi

#zhongli x reader #zhongli #genshin x reader #zhongli angst #zhongli x y/n #zhongli x you #genshin impact #genshin writing #angst with a happy ending #genshin x reader angst #genshin fanfic #zhongli fluff

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tanpl-if · 6 months ago

Text

In the summer of 1986 you get a letter informing you of your mother's death.

The first and only letter you get in ten years since you left your hometown.

You stand in the middle of the old, tiny room that you can barely afford to rent and read it over and over again until the buzz at the back of your head quiets down. Until your hands stop shaking.

You think of what it means for you.

I hope you arrive soon. You know Marrowbone will always have a place for you.

The words spin in your head and you think of Marrowbone then—a secret, lonely place, standing at the edge of everything, surrounded by forests and fields, barely acknowledged on the maps.

But it is home.

And whether you like it or not, you are coming back.

There are no people left is an 18+ horror inerractive fiction game for language, themes and potential explicit content

• romance one of the 5 ROs or choose a platonic route

• choose between 3 preset personalities for MC that will open different paths in the story and exclusive scenes

• reconnect with your old friends and make new connections

• explore your hometown

• remember why you left

DEMO: (09.03.25)

Olya - Aside from working the bar left to her care by her parents, she isn't up to much of anything, the days passing by her seamlessly. You watch her work - pale fingers gripping the glass she is cleaning a bit too tight, lips pressed into a frown - and think how much she has changed since you last saw her.

She looks older. More tired too, but more than anything angry. With life perhaps. With you - for sure. The tension hangs between you, threads through every conversation, follows with every touch.

A decade of silence will do that, you think, almost guilty. You wonder if there was ever a chance of putting the fragile pieces back into place.

You wonder if the only thing left for you is to mourn.

Timur - Head held low, he keeps to himself most of the time. You remember him a sickly thing - his parents never letting him out to play, hiding him away in fear for his poor health. You remember sneaking into his room - muted laughter and hushed whispers, when you kept him company.

The memories taste bitter now, after all those years.

He seems more shut off now, and as much as you expected him to forget you, you're even more surprised when he gives you the same smile that reminds you of a sweet little boy that used to be your neighbor.

In the midst of half-forgotten faces and unwelcome memories, he still feels the same as when you were kids.

You're not sure if it brings you comfort or not.

The Doctor - He does his work well, and that's what matters, the doctor says, not in the most friendly fashion.

His face is lined with age, gray temples vivid among the black, as he runs his fingers through his hair, looking at another report with pursed lips and tired eyes.

You don't remember seeing him before, a hard thing to achieve for one of the few doctors of Marrowbone - a surprise and a revelation at the same time.

You know he is local, and your mind burns with questions. You can't imagine anyone in their right mind coming back here if they ever managed to leave - not by choice anyway - but you hold your tongue. It's not your place to intrude.

And it's definitely not your place to judge.

The Gravekeeper - As frail as she appears to be, she manages to be just as cheerful.

The keeper's granddaughter spends her days taking care of the dead - keeping them company, she says - the hem of her dress brushing against gray stone, as she moves around, steps light.

She is all sweet smiles when she talks to you, dimples catching your eye. And though you never saw her before, there is Marrowbone etched into her in a way you can't explain - dark eyes and a knowing pull of her lips - there is no doubt she has always been a part of this town.

The Widow - There is a rumor about her, almost a tale, nurtured by years of boredom from the residents of small town - not much to do in Marrowbone aside from gossiping about your neighbors - about a woman on the hill, lonesome in her manor, a number of husbands lying dead in the small graveyard in front of her home. About a woman always wearing black, forever in mourning. Some believe her cursed, though a more cynical crowd would call her much meaner names - a gold-digger with an exceptional streak of luck.

A witch.

You see her there, standing at the top of the hill - her dress swaying in the wind, black veil covering her face. And though you can't make out a single detail behind it, somehow you know - her eyes are on you.

Sonya - Your mother. You don't know what happened to her.

asks and scenarios are welcome!

tags: @interact-if

#interactive fiction #twine #there are no people left #if intro

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ruruumin · 5 months ago

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everything to him.

₊˚ ᗢ itoshi rin x gn! reader.

⤷ when he's just (your) rin.

when you wrap your arms around him, he immediately forgets everything. from his stiff shoulders to the dryness of his lips, the ache in his right leg as well as the rhythmic migraine that beats down on him, all of those things didn’t matter once he was in your arms. every thought and worry washes away like sandcastles on the beach. drifting far, far away from him. he’s bringing you as close as possible. his nose buries itself in the crook of your neck to inhale the subtle sweet smell of your presence.

if you’re in his arms, he thinks he can do anything. he could be anything he wanted. with you, there was just rin. he’s not the vanguard of blue lock nor was he the younger brother to the greatest midfielder itoshi sae. he wasn’t the genius prodigy that everyone looked up to.

to him, he was just rin. a man who loves eating something sweet before his ochazuke. someone who loves to buy tickets to see the latest scary movie or attraction at a park. just another customer in line to buy the latest manga thats flying off the shelf. rin likes ochazuke, he likes scary movies, and he likes his manga. but most importantly, he likes who he is when he’s with you.

each time you smile, he’s melting like chocolate left out on a hot summer day. he’s always right beside you, thumbing the back of your hand as you pick carrots in the produce aisle. during these quiet, mundane days, he is reminded once again who he is. he’s your boyfriend. your best friend. your confidant and closest advisor.

he’s everything to you.

you strip him of his titles and worries. peeling back the loose threads that keep him strung together. when your lips make contact with the side of his ear, he finds himself sinking into your warmth. your love for him has always been apparent. when he asks you in the dead of night if you loved him, truly and sincerely, he adores your sleepy confidence: i’ll always love you, rin. this always ends with you pulling him into your embrace, brushing through his ivy locks with your fingers as you lull him to sleep with your gentle heartbeat.

you remind him of slow, quiet days. that no matter how fast life might move, you'd remain by his side, honest and kind as ever. you're the fire to his ice. his other half. his one and only true love. and the only person he could imagine growing old with.

so when he presses a cold lip against your shoulder, arms tightly wrapped around you like forest vines, he is the happiest man alive.

... and you’re everything to him.

#₊˚ ᗢ ruruumin #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #bllk rin x reader #rin itoshi x reader #itoshi rin x reader

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errruvande · 6 months ago

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Celebration

Pairing: Kang Daeho x reader

Summery: you had to celebrate the New Year in Seoul, for the first time in many years.

Triggers: PTSD, brief mention of blood

Author note: some random ass Korean names cause we need to call their made up friends somehow lmao

Word count: 2 882

It was yours and Daeho's first New Year celebration in Seoul, to the amusement of your friends, who were dying to celebrate it with you at least once in a lifetime. When the debts creeped in, fast and furious, you found it to be impossible to celebrate the holidays as you had been for a few years of your relationships. And both of yours families found it hard to have you in, after all of the rounds of debt collectors slamming their doors to scare them about your well-being. Your parents were equally scared and embarrassed.

Because of the debts, you could not afford to leave your apartments: parents would've not let you in their houses, and the renting prices even in the smallest villages were too high in that period for you to afford it.

When your friends found themselves too eager and excited about you staying in Seoul, telling you all of their plans for celebration, they were rapidly cut off.

"We will be staying at home all night." You said to your friend, studying the shelf in the store and trying to locate the red and yellow marks amongst the price-tags. You felt your friend pouting with your skin, the air between you two tensing.

"How can you stay home the whole New Year night?" She almost meowed at you in disbelief, putting a pack of mung beans in her cart. "What about the parties? We don't even have to pay to party, the streets themselves are partying! C'mon, you need to have some fun, it's New Year!"

"We'll be having fun at home!" The tone of your voice was unnecessarily harsh, you barked at at your friends without having the time to process your words, and had to look at her meekly. "I'm sorry for that..."

The noise of the supermarket went to the background while you were staring at the bean shelf, spinning around the memories of your only celebration in Seoul before you and Daeho started celebrating New Year in a countryside. Your hand twitched, squeezing the soft pack of fermented beans, as your face turned pale red and the unbothered firm line of your lips turned into a frown.

You shook your head and sighted, putting the beans in your small cart. "We won't be leaving the house, I'm sorry."

Your friends didn't know about Daeho's condition. He never told them and he asked you not to tell them too, he was too embarrassed of his panic attacks no matter how many times you tried to convince him that having them is not embarrassing and it absolutely do not makes him a lesser person. But you didn't need to be asked twice, so all of your friends just thought that both of you were respecting traditions and spending the holidays with your families.

Daeho popped out the living room, tinsels shining in his dark hair like glitter. The way he flew to you, jumping from the spot and sliding on the floor untill he bumped slightly into your body, laughing childishly, a few tinsels falling down his pretty face as he leaned in to give you a tender kiss through laughter. He picked up the bags and carried them to the kitchen, saying that whatever you'll make will be enough, cause he was with you and your presence alone will always be enough for him to celebrate anything.

"Sweetheart, I'm home!" You shut the door behind you, dumping the bags on the floor to take the clothes off. "It's not much, but I'd be able to make something for us to celebrate."

When he said he put his heart and soul into decorating your small apartment for the new year, he meant it. You didn't have a lot of new year's toys, tree balls and the lights, but he did what he could, grabbing a few (all that he could barely fit in his hands) spruce and pine branches from the little forest near your neighborhood and tried to make some arnaments, embodied it with red ribbons and threads. Daeho's hands were in glitter and glue, and now your face was shining too in the places he cupped your cheeks in to kiss you, when you walked into the chicken.

"One thing to go with the decorations!" Soft murmuring of his through your lips tenderized you and you mewled into his mouth pathetically, wrapping your hands around his shoulders tight enough to be able to press your entire body to his.

In one swift motion Daeho lifted you up, rewarding himself with your sweet laughter, and carried you to the tree you had in the living room.

"Take this." He tipped you lower over the little table, to the spot where the handmade star wrapped entirely in the shimmering red ribbon was lying on. You freed one hand from the hold onto Daeho's shoulder and took the star, smiling on the lights playing in the shimmers of the ribbon. "This spot is only for you, love."

He lifted you higher, making it easier for you to place the star on the tip of the tree. Once you put it securely, you felt the tear rolling down your cheek. Even in the hopeless situation like you had been in, Daeho still tried to find small things that would bring joy to both of you.

"You did a great job, sweetie." You looked down at him over the shoulder, sucking your lips in like a child seeing something pretty.

He pulled you down, twirling you around mid action, to see your face adorned with a beautiful smile he fell for a few years ago. You found his shoulders with your palms for balance, and when you felt the ground with your toes, you leaned forward, resting your head on Daeho's chest, the warmth of his body radiating through your cheek.

A few hours later, when a small festive dinner was made, the windows closed and sound proofed and the the zeros lined up on your clocks, you were ready to your own special fun time, when you heard the door knob threshing mad.

"On the New Year???" You tore yourself off Daeho's chest as you were lying on the couch, eyes round darting between Dae's tensed face and the door to your apartment. "Can't they let us be on a New freaking Year night?"

Daeho stood up, taking the first heavy thing he could put his hands on, and ran to the door, checking the guests though the peephole. You saw his posture relaxing as he opened the door lazily. It was your friends. Four of them. Jungheul and his wife Haeun, and Eunji with her new boyfriend you haven't had the chance to meet yet.

They piled into your house, their clothes white with the snow, laughing and talking loudly enough to give you both a mild headache.

"You guys are coming with us! It's not negotiable!" Jungheul wrapped his hands around Daeho and pulled him out of the apartment, asking his wife to bring his coat with her. The screams and arguing wasn't doing anything. The four of your friends were too stubborn and drunk to listen, Eunji's boyfriend threw you onto his shoulder and carried you out to the streets against your will, your screams and your fists beating his back a several times didn't help at all.

"Just stop it!" When he put you on the ground you smacked his chest hard enough for your own hand to hurt, but the guy just chuckled back, gutteral sound graving through you.

Daeho looked equally pissed off, but was too busy looking around frantically, his head turning left and right every time he heard a bunch of people laughing or screaming.

"Jesus, Daeho, it's just people having fun, what the fuck is wrong with you two?" Jungheul laughed merrily.

"There's nothing wrong with him!" You almost ganged up on him, but the sudden loud blowing sound caught all of you off guard. Your friends screamed joyfully and it seemed you were the only person seeing Daeho falling on the ground, face to the snow, his ears covered with his hands. His body tensed, as he was shaking uncontrollably, head bumping into the concrete road with the blowing sounds continuing from kids throwing off the firecrackers under other people's feet.

The one was lying just a few inches away from Daeho.

"Daeho!" You fell on the ground near him, cupping his head in your arms and trying to carefully lift it. "Dae, please, it's me!" When you were able to lift him into a seated position, he ducked his head down into his shoulders, hands still holding ears firmly. The last time he was shaking that bad was exactly the last time you've spent your New Year in Seoul.

With the firecrackers blowing around you, you had zero chances to calm him down. Daeho never lifted his gaze from the ground, his shoulders twitching on every blow, his feet sliding on the slippery concrete as he tried to cringe into the smallest of things, tugging his legs closer to his chest.

"What happened?" Your friends surrounded you, studying panicking Daeho as he was trembling. There was blood on his face from smacking it on the ground a few times, his lip was broken and the brow cut. "What it's like, a panic att-"

You didn't notice how fast you jumped on your feet, staring Jungheul right in the face, your eyes a pit with burning fire as you started yelling at him hysterically. "You either gonna help me or you can fuck off! I told you not to bring him here, but no, you know better!"

You collapsed back to Daeho, sliding your hands between his hands and face in a fruitless attempt to tear them off his ears. "Daeho, you need to listen to me, please."

Everybody went silent. You listen carefully for the noise that had died, the kids ran off to the next neighborhood carrying their firecrackers with them, only leaving the dust and smoked smell in the air behind.

"Dae, baby, they're gone, baby, please." You happened to tear one of his palm off his ear, clasping it in your palms and squeezing, and squeezing, and squeezing up untill Daeho noticed the pain in his fingers and looked at you. "They're gone, everything is fine."

His body still was stiff as a rock, every muscle tense and in agony. He wasn't fully back. You cupped his cheek, guiding his stare back at you.

"Dae, please, what do you see? Tell me what do you see?" You cocked your head on the side and dived down to his face.

"Y-you..." He breathed out barely audibly, after staring at your face for a few seconds. You nodded.

"Great, what else?"

"Eunji"

"Nice, what else?"

Daeho's lips were trembling with every breath, his eyes were moving erratically, trying to catch up on something, but his vision was blurred and his head hurting. "Street light, red car..." He hang his head loosely, staring down at his feet. "M-my boots."

You smiled, caressing his cheek tenderly with your fingertips, as he was slowly coming back to senses. "What you can touch?"

"S-snow" Daeho's arm fell down on the ground, scrubbing the thin layer of snow, snow creaking under his fingers. You looked in his eyes, nodding, waiting for the next thing. He knew this "game" all too well and started searching for the next thing. "I-I can feel you..." Daeho covered your fingers still caressing his cheek with his palm and squeezed them. He look down at your arm and hooked the hairband that was wrapped around your wrists firmly with his finger.

Daeho kept telling what he could feel, what he could smell and hear, his breathing was calming and puls slowing. You could see his eyes clearly, they lost the pale curtains of tears and fear, his lips stopped quivering as he looked around on the last "thing", the one he could taste. "Blood." He winced after tracing his lips with his tounge and catching the blood from broken upper lip.

You sighted, not being able to stop your own tears from rolling down, sanken on the ground without any strength. "Daeho..." You squeled, leaning forward to him, wrapping your arms around his waist and loosing yourself in his chest.

Jungheul and Jiho, that was the name of Eunji's boyfriend as you heard her whispering it to him when Daeho was shaking on the ground, helped Dae to stand up, catching him under the armpits, and led him back to the apartments.

At home, you made Daeho chamomile tea to calm him down fully, sat him down and immediately started treating his cuts, when your friends broke the silence with the cracking, apologetic tone.

"So.. ehm, this is why you're never here on New Year?"

You instinctively looked at them and then at Daeho, waiting for his answer.

"They're already know..." A barely a whisper. He quivered, the words getting lost in the air between you.

"Okay." You breathed out inaudibly, caressing his chin as you pressed the cotton disk soaked in antiseptic to his brow. You glanced over your friends with a sight. "We're going to countryside every year, because there's peace and quiet. You know Daeho was a marine, right?" You felt him squeezing your leg as you were starting talking about his military accident, his nails digging into your tight. You cocked your brows, but he only nodded you to continue, gulping down the ball of nerves. "He had an accident on the battlefield, and now he can't stress the sound that resembles the gunfire. It's called post traumatic stress disorder. So yeah, this is why we're never here on New Year."

For a solid minute all of them were dumbfounded. They were shifting from one leg to another, only nervous breathing audible in the room.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Eunji squatted next to you so Daeho didn't need to look up at her. "You should've told us, Dae."

His jaw started trembling again and you saw tears welling up in his eyes as he tried to speak but failed, only drawing a sharp breath in.

"It's alright, love." You shifted closer to him, embracing him and pressing his body to yours, his nose resting in the crook of your neck. "It's okay." Stroking his hair from the crown of his head all the way down to his shoulders you felt him meeking into your embrace, relaxing his posture.

"He had rather bad experience with telling people about his condition..."

"I didn't want you to think that I'm not normal, that I'm a sych..." He blurred out with his face almost completely wet. Daeho lifted his shoulder to wipe the wettnes from his face and looked at Eunji empty-eyeded.

"We don't think so, Daeho." Jungheul came closer, placing his palm on Daeho's shoulder and squeezing it hard, reassuring. "Can we help with it? Somehow?"

"Maybe stop dragging him out on New Year's night?" You teased them, but you didn't expect Daeho to chuckle.

The way his gentle laughter echoed in the half empty kitchen put everyone at ease.

"It's alright guys, thank you." He wiped out the rest of the face, looking at everybody. "Now, I'm glad you know, but..." He overlooked everyone and shared a gaze with you, the corners of his mouth curled up just slightly. "Really, don't drag me out on the New Year night from now on."

When Daeho put everyone at ease and the loud laugh thundered throughout the kitchen, your friends shared a look and swiftly ran towards the door.

"Don't you dare to start fucking, cause we'll be back in like, 15 minutes!" One of them shouted, closing the door behind the group.

"Stop laughing, I didn't finish with that." You murmured, guiding Daeho's head at your direction and pressing another cotton disk to his lip, soaking up the fresh blood that started flowing out of the wound again, after Dae stretched his lips in a genuine smile.

Fifteen minutes later, like a clockwork, your friends burst into your apartment, Daeho and you still sitting in the kitchen in a precious silence.

"We don't have much either, but you know," Jungheul put the bags on the table, immediately opening one of them and taking the homemade food out. "A thread from everyone bluh bluh bluh, huh."

With them taking food out of their bags the small kitchen table of yours became stuffed, with no place to drop a coin to.

"You know, when we said we wanna celebrate this New Year with you, we meant it." Eunji said with such softness in her voice, Daeho breathed out inaudibly, his jaw left quivering and tears welling up in his warm brown eyes.

As soon as you finished helping with the table, you sat yourself down on one of Daeho's legs, letting your friends take the rest of the chairs, and put a small, tender kiss on his temple.

That was yours and Daeho's first New Year celebration in Seoul, amongst your friends. Behind the soundproof windows and doors closed shut, but yet with loud buzzing, roar of your friends singing, laughing and telling old embarrassing stories.

Maybe it's not your last New Year in Seoul.

#kang dae ho #kang daeho #kang dae ho x reader #kang daeho x reader #squid game x reader #squid game #squid game season 2 #squid game fanfic #squid game fanfiction

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aphroditelovesu · 2 years ago

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Yandere Apollo w/Soulmate!Reader Headcanons (Romantic)

❝ ☀️ — lady l: Who asked for soulmate au with Apollo? It's more of a soft yandere, but I hope you like these hcs! 💞

❝tw: soulmate au, obsessive and possessive behavior, soft!yandere, implied death.

❝☀️pairing: yandere!apollo x gender neutral!reader.

Apollo always wanted someone to love, someone he could pour out all the love he held inside, be completely devoted to that person and be completely theirs. Apollo always wanted to be loved unconditionally and in return he would love with everything in him.

He wanted more than anything to find his soulmate. The true person he belonged to, the person he would spend all eternity with.

Apollo desperately searched for love, in search of his soulmate, the person who would complete him. He had several affairs, hoping that one of them would complete the missing part of him, but it always ended in tragedy and he knew that none of his past lovers were his soulmate.

So he remained alone for centuries, hoping to one day find the one to whom his heart and soul belonged. Apollo sometimes spent his days wandering among humans, hoping to bump into his love, but that never happened. He was tired. He had become desperate for love, to be loved and this shaped him completely. Apollo was no longer the same.

Until one day he found his soulmate. He found you. The person he had searched for for centuries, the half of himself that was missing. His soulmate.

Apollo would never forget the day he discovered that you were his soulmate. The way his heart began to pound in his chest, his breathing became heavy and his hands sweaty. Soulmate, was all his mind screamed.

During yet another of his pointless visits to humans, Apollo found himself walking aimlessly somewhere when he felt something different. Something inside him clicks, something connecting him to somewhere or someone. He followed what was calling him and was breathless when he discovered what it was.

Among lush forests and bustling cities, he saw a young human with a radiant aura, enveloped by the essence of wisdom and compassion. He saw you and saw the red thread of destiny that connected you. You were his soulmate.

Delighted and stunned by the discovery, the god approached disguised as an ordinary human man, wanting to get to know that luminous soul better. You welcomed him with open arms, eager to discover more about this mysterious man and why he enchanted you so much. It was only after a few weeks together that Apolo revealed the truth. He was a god and you were his soulmate. You felt like you might cry at that moment.

You have always wanted to find your soulmate, all your friends have already found the missing part of them, except you. And your soulmate was not only the most handsome man you've ever seen but also a Greek god, literally. You hugged him tightly and kissed him. Soon you were both undressed and sweaty, the love shining through and the consummation of your bond was made. You were officially soulmates.

Everything was rosy at first, but eventually, Apollo changed. His fear, and his trauma of being alone for so long changed him. He became more possessive and controlling every day. You started to feel suffocated. Apollo, however, didn't care.

He tried to compensate for his possessive tendencies towards you with presents, from jewelry to gifts that he could bestow upon you, in addition to giving you the gift of immortality. He wouldn't lose you to anyone, not even the god of death.

Your soul was linked to his, linked by the thread of destiny that united you as one. It said that Zeus was the one who separated humans from their soulmates and Apollo was so happy that he finally found you that all that mattered to him was that you stayed with him. After all, you were destined to be together.

Apollo's love had become increasingly possessive and needy, the god demanded you all the time. He became clingy, not wanting to be away from you. He's already spent too much time away from you, he wouldn't do it again.

How delirious he was could not be said, but felt. You felt the fear, the dread that Apollo had of losing you and that was what made you susceptible to the god's manipulation. He's just in love with his soulmate. That's why he acts like this.

That's how you end up stuck with your soulmate for all eternity. But for Apollo, in the warmth of true love, they transcended the boundaries between the divine and the mortal, uniting as soulmates destined to remain together for eternity.

Thus, the Greek god found his soulmate, a union that shone with the light of the gods and the purity of human hearts that would later be contaminated by the obsession that controlled him. There's no else to go but his side.

#yandere greek mythology #yandere greek gods #yandere apollo #apollo x reader #yandere apollo x reader #yandere apollo headcanons #greek gods x reader #greek mythology #headcanons #yandere headcanons #soulmates au

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spencersmopbucket · 2 months ago

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Fatal Attraction (2) | Paul Lahote

Pairing: Paul Lahote x Reader Summary: After being imprinted on by the Pack's most furious member, you aren't quite sure how to feel — should you be ignoring the pull of fate? Or should you give in to it?

Part 3

Your fingers thread through the e/c strands of your hair, braiding it intricately and tightly. It was a hazy afternoon — only white light coming through the trees, the sun hiding behind thick clouds.

Training again today. The attempt at training yesterday was pathetic. It didn’t help, though, that your world had been quickly and rapidly turned right around. You didn’t even know what had just happened to you was possible.

A werewolf imprinting on a vampire. A vampire mating to a werewolf. It was unheard of. You’d consulted Carlisle immediately after yesterday’s training session, trying to see the history on it or if it could somehow be broken. Of course, to your luck, he’d told you: “Little is known about it. It’s only happened one other time in thousands of years, Name. I’m sorry.”

The worst part was that the Cullens’ genuinely looked as if they pitied you.

Mating was supposed to be a happy thing, something to celebrate. Something to ease the pain of being alone for years. For you, though, it wouldn’t be. It would be confusing, difficult to navigate, and absolutely grotesque. You had been conditioned to hate werewolves from the moment you were created — and here you were, eternally bound to one.

Edward’s reaction was hard to tell. In his topaz eyes, you saw a brief flicker of pain that he didn’t deserve to express. Then, you saw the pity previously mentioned. Then, you saw the typical brood. And finally, you saw his kindness. Selflessness that he always had. He’d do anything to help you through it and you knew it. You just refused to confide in him.

You smelled them. The wolves. They penetrated the sugary, sweet scent of you and the other Cullens', the cracking and thumping through the forest making it obvious who'd arrived. They definitely weren't creatures of subtlety.

As if you were the one that summoned them, you felt various pairs of eyes on you, trying to see how you'd react. You knew Rosalie, your closest friend for decades, expected you to react. She expected you to lash out and set a wolf on fire. But to be honest, you weren't sure how to feel about it.

You weren't angry. It was fate — the wolf, Paul, hadn't chosen it either. It was evident in the way he bounded through the thick tree line in absolute rage. He was angry, but you knew through things you'd heard about him from his pack, it wasn't hard to spark him. He was temperamental, gruff, rough around the edges. But he was light-hearted too, fun, playful. They'd given you a list of pros and cons to Paul that you hadn't even asked for — they being Seth Clearwater and Embry Call.

You opted to disengage, not fully acknowledging the wolves. Their arrival meant it was time to train, time to prepare for a newborn army. You weren't going to be slaughtered on a battlefield because you were too busy acting like a nervous schoolgirl who's crush approached her. When everyone settled into the clearing, Jasper finally spoke.

Jasper stepped forward, his posture as stiff and calculated as ever, eyes sweeping over both the vampires and wolves. His voice was even, but there was a layer of tension there, a quiet storm brewing beneath the surface. “We’re going to start with defensive maneuvers,” he announced, his Southern drawl thicker today than usual. “You're going to face off against someone — someone with speed, someone with strength. You’ll rotate. You’ll adjust.”

He paused briefly, glancing at you for a moment, then at the wolves, eyes lingering just a touch longer on the one still pacing at the edge of the tree line — Paul.

Paul hadn’t shifted back yet. He prowled just outside the clearing, fur bristling, shoulders tense. His wolf form was massive and beautiful in a wild, untamed way — but he didn’t dare come closer. Not yet. Not after what happened.

Embry stood at the front of the Pack, already in human form, arms crossed, trying to be casual. “He’ll join when he’s ready,” he muttered, referring to Paul without being asked, eyes flicking toward you like he was watching for a reaction.

You gave none.

Your golden eyes were focused as the others were put into pairs. Edward with Carlisle, Rosalie with Emmett, Alice with Esme, and you with Jasper. The wolves would be incorporated afterwards.

Edward and Carlisle would begin first.

The clearing quieted as Jasper gave a short nod toward Edward and Carlisle. “Let’s see it,” he said simply. The two moved like streaks of light—Carlisle fluid and composed, Edward sharp and fast. Their blows never landed with force, only precision, pulling back just before they could bruise or break. It was a dance more than a fight, all control and instinct. You watched with arms crossed, jaw tight.

You weren’t watching their technique, though. You were watching him — the wolf in the woods. Paul.

He had stopped pacing.

The moment Edward lunged, a blur of motion, Paul’s gaze snapped toward you. Your eyes met for the first time since yesterday.

It hit you in the chest.

Heat. Tension. Like a string stretched to the point of breaking.

Paul’s lip curled slightly, though you couldn’t tell if it was a snarl or a grimace. Then, without a sound, he turned and slipped back into the trees for a moment. Then, he came back. The same Paul you'd first seen yesterday — tall, threaded with thick muscle and russet skin, dark, wild cropped hair, and intense brown eyes.

He stood at the edge of the clearing, human again but somehow more dangerous like this — more real. There was a rawness to him, like a live wire sparking just beneath the surface. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, jaw clenched, eyes locked on you as if the rest of the world had blurred out of existence.

You didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe.

You could feel every set of eyes shift between the two of you — the Cullens catching the shift in air pressure, the Pack stiffening at Paul’s reappearance. Even Jasper paused mid-instruction, picking up on the tension bleeding from your pores like static.

Paul said nothing. Just stood there, fists flexing at his sides, looking at you like you were the moon and he wasn’t quite sure whether to worship it or curse it.

Embry muttered something under his breath. You caught just the end of it: “Shit.”

Rosalie was glaring.

Edward… looked pained. But silent.

And you?

You didn’t know what to do. The heat that churned in your chest wasn’t just confusion anymore. It was pull. It was gravity. It was a battle between instinct and hatred, fate and fire, and you didn’t know which would win.

Paul stepped forward.

Just one step.

And even that was too much.

Jasper’s hand came down gently on your arm, grounding. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t answer.

Because Paul’s gaze was still locked on you — not pleading, not soft. Just burning. Like he didn’t want this. Like it scared him. Like he hated it just as much as you did.

You shook your head, finally registering Jasper's words, and readjusted your braid.

"I'm fine, Jas. C'mon. It's our turn, right?" You asked, smiling half-heartedly.

Jasper didn’t press you. He never did. He just nodded, his expression unreadable but his hand lingering half a second longer than necessary on your arm before letting go. His instincts were sharper than most — he could feel what you weren’t saying.

“Alright,” he said quietly, stepping back to take his position in the clearing. “Let’s show them how it’s done.”

You followed him, forcing yourself to ignore the weight of the stare still burning into your back. Your movements were fluid, automatic, every inch of you honed for battle — and yet, that heat in your chest remained. Like you were being tugged backward by an invisible string.

But you didn’t look back.

Not yet.

Jasper circled you slowly, eyes calculating. “They need to see how a newborn thinks,” he said loud enough for the group to hear. “You play the threat. Come at me with everything you’ve got. No fire though, sunshine.”

That, at least, was easy. You could focus on that. You could be the monster they needed you to be. Better than thinking about him.

You let your eyes darken, your expression shift, and lunged.

Jasper ducked, your body flying above him, fingernails just grazing his shoulder in an attempt to grab him. You’d been close, close enough that you could feel his emotion. Focused. Grunting, you braced yourself, knees landing softly in the dirt as you bounded back up.

“Lucky.” You snickered. You were a seasoned fighter, having worked with newborns before in your life too. You and Jasper had almost the same level of experience.

You were just too good at mirroring the mannerisms of a newborn. An outsider would’ve thought you were one.

Feeling his movement through the air, you swung an arm, the swipe once again just narrowly missing him. You knew there were eyes on you — everyone’s were. That’s how it was intended to be. This was a lesson.

You felt air whoosh as Jasper ducked under your movement again, rolling to the side and springing back up with that calm, soldier’s precision only he could master. You chased him like lightning, your lips pulled back in a grin that was all teeth — calculated menace for the sake of performance.

"Come on, Major," you taunted. "You going soft on me?"

Jasper didn’t answer, but you felt the flicker of amusement pass through him — barely there, like a shadow of a smile. He was in his element. So were you.

You spun, landing a fake blow to his side that he dodged at the last second, your hands digging into the dirt for stability. You kicked off it, body twisting through the air, an acrobatic move you knew a real newborn wouldn't have even attempted.

Around the clearing, everyone had stopped whispering. The wolves were still — even Emmett, who usually couldn’t keep his commentary to himself during training, had gone quiet.

Because you were good.

And because of what you were doing it with on your back.

Paul.

Even now, you could feel him. Not just his stare — the imprint. The bond. Like something tied to the marrow of your bones. Every time you twisted or turned, every time your heart beat (even though it didn’t need to), he felt it. You knew he did. And somehow, it felt like he was holding his breath for each move you made, just waiting for one misstep.

Jasper landed lightly a few feet away, brushing dust off his shirt and calling, “That’s enough.”

You nodded, wiping the dirt from your knees too.

"That, ladies and gentleman," Jasper said, using the spar as a teaching moment, "is what you'll see when facing a newborn vampire. Unparalleled, feral, only wanting one thing. To kill you."

His words lingered in the humid air, weighted and sharp. You straightened fully, adjusting the sleeves of your dark jacket, your gaze flicking toward the wolves now standing closer than they had before. You could feel the shift in the atmosphere — the unease, the tension, the awe.

"That’s what we’re up against," Jasper continued, eyes sweeping across the group. "They won’t hesitate. Neither should you."

Embry let out a low whistle, breaking the tension just slightly. “Remind me not to piss her off.”

That earned a quiet snort from Rosalie.

You turned — slowly, deliberately — and met Paul’s eyes again.

Something shifted.

He stepped forward, just once. It was cautious, rigid. Like he didn’t trust himself. Or you. Or the thing tethered between you.

But then, someone else moved — Jacob, approaching the edge of the circle. “We should take a turn now,” he said, trying to keep things moving.

Jasper gave you a nod, a silent gesture of thanks, then moved to begin the next demonstration with Rosalie and Emmett stepping into the ring.

But even as others took your place, and the sounds of sparring filled the forest again, the weight of him never left your shoulders.

Later into the training session, after Rosalie and Emmett's spar, it was time to involve the wolves. Give them an opponent tough enough to teach with. Jasper was nice to you, giving you someone other than Paul to work with.

You were given Jacob, of course. The two of you matched — headstrong, not afraid to strike. You were tasked with teaching him how to defend himself from a truly volatile threat.

Jasper instructed swiftly, as if he was made to lead.

"Once again, nothing fiery," He told you, nodding his head forward. "Show Jacob how it's done. Then, the rest of them will pair up."

Jacob phased easily, the cracking of bone and a slight grunt giving way to a huge wolf. Nothing you hadn't seen before, but slightly bigger than the ones you'd seen. He had thick brown fur with traces of black, deep eyes, and a cocky snarl on his dripping teeth.

You arched a brow, arms still at your sides, body loose but deadly. Jacob was already in position, massive and looming — an eager challenger. You’d heard stories of his boldness, his talent, his drive to be the best. It showed in the way he stood, tail high, muscles coiled like springs.

You weren’t going to make it easy for him.

“Ready when you are,” you called out coolly, voice echoing across the clearing.

Jasper gave a signal.

Jacob lunged.

You sidestepped — fast — the world blurring for a moment. He was powerful, no doubt, but unrefined in his technique. His head snapped in your direction too late to stop your hand from colliding sharply with his shoulder. Not hard enough to damage — just enough to make a point.

The Pack let out low growls and huffs in response, a few of the younger wolves shifting restlessly. Leah, in her usual biting tone, muttered, “Cocky idiot’s gonna get himself knocked flat.”

You heard her. So did he.

Jacob turned, more calculated this time. He charged again, but now he was trying to predict you. His paws dug into the dirt, but you caught him off guard with a spin and a sweep, the back of your hand grazing his snout just enough to send him skidding sideways.

Jasper called again, “Keep control of your weight, Jacob! Don’t overcommit unless you’re sure.”

You exhaled slowly, already walking backward to reset your position.

"Focus, dog. Less on striking me, more on defending yourself. Use my ferality against me." You snap, lunging forward again.

He let out a huff through his nose — half annoyance, half amusement — and braced himself. You weren’t giving him an inch, and he was finally starting to take it seriously. Good. You needed him to. This wasn’t a game. This wasn’t schoolyard brawling. It was survival.

Your body blurred forward, fangs just slightly bared in a snarl. Jacob ducked, finally reacting with the kind of precision Jasper had wanted from the start. He shifted his weight, tried to knock you off balance with a low swipe of his big build. You leapt over it cleanly, twisting in the air and landing light on your feet behind him, your hand brushing his spine — a kill shot, if you’d wanted it to be.

"Again. But better." You snort.

Finally, it seemed as if Jacob had locked in.

Your fangs were bared, a snarl leaving your clenched teeth as you flipped backwards, lunging for him again. This time, you didn't even make contact with fur. He wasn't anywhere you'd expected him to be.

In fact, he was in front of you.

You felt his sharp set of teeth graze your wrist as you attempted to pull back, golden eyes wide and impressed. But before you could react, you heard the commotion.

A snarl. Bounding feet, the sound of massive dogs fighting.

Paul had phased — and was clearly not happy that Jacob had managed to get teeth on his imprint.

The sound was instant, violent, claws tearing against the forest floor, an enraged snarl splitting the air like a thunderclap.

“PAUL!” someone shouted — Sam — but it didn’t matter. The damage was done.

He was already on Jacob.

They collided mid-air, a blur of russet and brown fur, jaws snapping, limbs crashing. The ground shook beneath them as they rolled, snarling and slamming into trees, leaves and debris bursting into the air like shrapnel. Paul was pure fury, unhinged and explosive, snapping toward Jacob's throat without hesitation. Jacob fought back, instinct kicking in, but it was clear — this wasn’t training anymore.

He couldn’t stand down. Not when your scent was still on Jacob’s teeth. Not when he could still feel the brush of your pain through the imprint like it was his own.

Jasper appeared at your side in an instant, a cold hand shooting out across your chest to stop you. “Let Sam handle him.”

“No.” Your eyes were glowing now, bright gold. Dangerous. “He’s not going to stop. Not unless I stop him.”

The wolves were active now, circling — Embry and Quil, snarling low and unsure, Seth whining anxiously, Leah pacing with her hackles raised. It was only a matter of time before someone got hurt. For real.

You stepped forward. “Paul,” you said, addressing him for the first time. Controlled. “It’s me.”

And like something in him recognized the weight of your voice — not your power, but you — his head snapped around.

Your breath caught.

His eyes were still wild, glowing with something deeper than rage — something primal, ancient. Not just fury.

He stilled under your gaze, heavy chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. His lip curled, torn between instinct and obedience, but the recognition in his eyes was clearer now. It was you. You.

Slowly — reluctantly — Paul backed away from Jacob’s downed form, his massive wolf body quivering with the effort to hold himself together. He turned, muscles twitching, and bolted into the trees, fur flashing like firelight through the branches.

You exhaled sharply, only now realizing how tightly you’d been holding yourself. He was running away. Yet again. The coward was running.

Or so you thought.

He stepped out. Human. Shirtless, bleeding from his shoulder. His chest was still heaving, his fists clenched like he was fighting ghosts under his skin. His jaw was tight — clenched hard enough to crack. He didn’t look at anyone but you.

“You think I wanted to do that?” he asked, voice low, raw. “You think I don’t hate this too?”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came.

He took a step closer. “You got hurt. I felt it. What the hell was I supposed to do, just stand there while he put teeth on you?”

You didn’t flinch. Not from his volume. Not from the pain in his tone.

“I’m fine,” you said evenly. “It wasn’t even a bite. It was training. Jasper’s training.”

Paul scoffed, dragging a hand through his hair. “You don’t get it. It’s not about logic. It’s not about who’s in charge or what this was supposed to be.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, burning.

“It’s you. I can’t — I can’t not react when it’s you.”

Your eyes softened. You didn't want them to, but they did.

And he saw it — the shift in your eyes. The subtle drop of your shoulders. The hesitation in your breath that betrayed you before your mouth could catch up.

Paul stepped forward again, slower this time, like he was testing the ground beneath him. “You think I like this?” he asked, quieter now. “Being this… out of control? Every time you’re in the same damn field as someone else, it’s like something in me breaks.”

You stayed silent.

“I’m not asking you to feel the same,” he added, voice barely above a whisper now. “I know you didn’t want this. I know the bond… it scares you. It terrifies me. It's wrong. But don’t act like you don’t feel it too.”

The truth hung heavy between you. You did. You felt it in the way your hands trembled after every sparring match. In the way your eyes always found him in a crowd. In the ache that started in your chest and ended in your bones whenever he looked at you like that — like he’d go to war for you without blinking.

You swallowed hard, your voice low. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Paul nodded. “No. But it did.”

Another beat passed — tight, breathless.

“And I don’t know how to turn it off,” he added, voice nearly breaking. “Not when it’s you.”

You nodded, swallowing harshly, though you didn't need to. Grabbing your discarded jacket from the grass, you sped off. If they could, frustrated tears would've filled your golden eyes.

You fucking hated this.

Finding a clearing, you stopped there. Rage boiled through your body as you let a groan tumble from your lips. You roughly shoved a tree, watching it fall, breaking all of the trees around it in the process. You then plopped down on the dirt, putting your face in your arms.

Why did this happen to you, of all people? Hadn't you paid your dues? You gave up the love of your life, just to be eternally tied to something you hated.

"Sulking. I always hated when you sulked." You heard behind you. You sighed, a bittersweet smile curving onto your lips. Of course, he had followed you.

He always did know how to manage you best.

Edward.

"Go away." You muttered into your arms, trying to hide the way your voice trembled.

But instead of leaving, he crouched down beside you, his cool hand brushing against your shoulder in an oddly gentle motion. "I can't do that," he said softly, his voice low and calm. "You know that."

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have the energy for a fight, not when everything inside you felt like it was about to burst. You felt like a raw wound, and the last thing you wanted was for him to see it. But he always saw right through you. Always had.

There was a long pause, and when he spoke again, it wasn’t with the usual teasing or authority you were used to.

"You can't keep doing this to yourself." His voice was quieter this time, almost hesitant, as if he was tiptoeing around something fragile — which, you supposed, was exactly what you were in that moment.

You shook your head, the ache in your chest growing heavier with every word. "You don’t get it. I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask to be in the middle of a mess that I can’t fix. I didn’t ask to feel like I’m trapped between wanting something I can’t have and something I’ll never be free from."

Edward let out a slow breath, his cool fingers gently lifting your face so that you were forced to look him in the eye. "I understand more than you think," he said softly, his gaze steady, unwavering. "And I’m not here to fix everything for you. I can’t. But I can listen."

The truth in his words stung, not because they weren’t what you wanted to hear, but because they were everything you needed.

"I didn’t want this," you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "I didn’t want to be bound to him. I didn’t want to feel like I’m falling apart every time I see him, every time he gets close."

Edward’s expression softened, and for a long moment, he just looked at you — not with judgment, not with pity, but with a kind of understanding that only he could offer. "I know," he murmured. "But you don’t have to go through it alone."

You couldn’t stop the bitter laugh that escaped your lips. "It doesn’t matter, Edward. I’ve been alone for so long, I don’t even know how to not be. And this bond... it’s like a prison I didn’t even sign up for."

His eyes darkened slightly, but his grip on your chin didn’t loosen. "You’re not alone. Not with me. You may feel trapped, but you don’t have to be."

There was a sincerity in his voice that caught you off guard. You hadn’t expected it from him — not with everything that had happened between the two of you. But maybe, deep down, you had always known that despite the tension and distance, he would never leave you stranded.

"I don’t know how to deal with this... with him," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Edward’s gaze softened even more, and his thumb brushed across your jaw. "I know. And I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. But you don’t have to fix it all at once."

For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt the weight on your shoulders ease, just a little. "I hate that you’re right about everything," you muttered, dropping your gaze.

He chuckled, though there was no humor in it. "I’ve heard that before."

You shook your head, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at your lips. "You always know what to say."

"That’s because I’ve been where you are," he replied, his voice quieter now. "I know what it’s like to feel like you're drowning in something you can’t control. But you have to let go of the idea that you can fix everything by yourself."

You swallowed hard, taking in his words. You weren’t sure if you could let go, but for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel as if you had to carry it all on your own.

"Thanks," you murmured, voice small.

Edward smiled, a rare, soft smile that didn’t reach his usual teasing or self-assuredness. "You don't have to thank me. Just don't keep pushing everyone away. Not this time."

You nodded, but the lump in your throat didn’t disappear.

He stood, offering you a hand. "You ready to go back?"

You hesitated, glancing up at him. For the first time since the chaos started, you didn’t feel like running. "Yeah. I think I am."

You were able to return to the clearing, critiquing the Cullen family and the wolves on defense tactics. The heavy stare never stopped, though.. but oddly, as moments passed, it started to feel less and less uncomfortable.

#twilight x reader #twilight fanfiction #twilight fandom #the twilight saga #twilight saga #twilight #jasper hale #rosalie hale #emmett cullen #edward cullen x reader #jacob black #bella swan #paul lahote x reader #paul lahote #the pack #forks washington #la push #carlisle cullen #paul lahote fanfic

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inkedinshadows · 1 month ago

Text

Mistaken

Pairing: Eris x reader

A/N: @kathren1sky-blog here it is! I hope I did it justice :))

Word count: 509

Warnings: none

9 - tripping, but being caught in the arms of the other

(fluff writing game)

If anyone could see inside your head, they'd probably think you were being foolish.

Friends since childhood, you and Lucien had always shared a strong bond. You understood each other effortlessly, knew each other's deepest secrets, and spent every formal gathering tucked in a corner, sipping wine while complaining about court politics and judging everyone's outfit in hushed tones.

Then Lucien made that comment—about hoping his mate would one day be someone like you. You were too stunned to ask what he meant, or why he'd said someone like you and not… just you.

But he never mentioned it again, and you had no idea how to bring it up without sounding awkward.

In the month that followed, you’d become more clingy. You were sure a mating bond would snap between you two because—even if you’d never thought about Lucien romantically—maybe your connection was meant to be something more than friendship. Maybe that was why you’d always been close and never once fallen out.

With every subtle touch, every glance, every conversation, you now expected the bond to snap. It was only a matter of time.

Better to be mated to your best friend than to a total stranger.

Lucien had told you to meet him at your usual spot in the gardens, so you left the Forest House to join him.

Just outside the front door, you found Eris with all of his hounds gathered around him. He was patting one of them.

You waved at him as you descended the front steps. “Hi, Eris,” you greeted.

Remembering Lucien had mentioned something about his brother going hunting today, you added, “Are you leaving for—”

Another hound appeared from around the corner and raced toward the pack, cutting you off and brushing against your legs.

You stumbled over the last step and instinctively threw your hands out to avoid planting your face on the ground.

But you never fell.

A pair of arms caught you effortlessly. The only impact was against a strong chest.

When you found your balance again, you looked up and met Eris’ concerned gaze.

“Sorry about him,” he said. “Are you alright?”

You nodded, but you couldn't speak. You were too close to him, and his hands were still on your waist, as though afraid you might fall without his support.

He seemed to realize it too, because he cleared his throat and stepped back. “I'm sorry. That wasn't—”

You felt it at the same moment he did.

Something snapped in your chest, like a thread pulling taut and stretching outward—toward Eris.

Your eyes widened. Your breath caught.

He rubbed his chest, right where you also felt the tug.

You stared at each other for a long moment—shocked, confused, at a loss for words.

This was something you had never considered, never even imagined.

How were you supposed to deal with it? How was he? How could it even be?

All this time, and your mate had been there from the beginning.

But it wasn't Lucien.

It was his brother.

Taglist: @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @lilah-asteria @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @ivy-34 @yesiamthatwierd @lreadsstuff @littlest-w01f

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softsusanoo · 15 days ago

Text

Lazy Training (18+)

summary: the nights in Konoha had grown quieter, but the silence did nothing to still the noise within you. Shadows stretched longer, and so did the pull toward him—subtle at first, then impossible to ignore. And when your paths crossed again, not in battle, not in duty, but in something softer, heavier, it felt less like coincidence and more like inevitability. Something had shifted. And neither of you could quite look away.

pairing: shikamaru x female reader (reader is a member of the ANBU)

genre: friends to lovers

word count: 10,7k

warnings: fighting scenes, mature content/mature language, smut, softdom!shikamaru, softdom!reader, smoking

The sun hung low in the sky, bleeding gold into the treetops. You walked slowly, letting your steps fall into rhythm with the soft hush of the breeze threading through the leaves. The air was warm—not the stifling heat of midday, but the kind that clung lightly to your skin, like memory. The kind that carried the scent of grass, dust, and something half-forgotten.

You didn’t rush. There was no need to.

The path wound ahead in lazy arcs, half-swallowed by weeds and thick with the smell of pine sap. You let your fingers graze the low branches as you passed, your gloves brushing against the rough bark and small curling leaves. Somewhere deeper in the forest, a cicada hummed, its song rising and falling in a tired kind of way.

He hadn’t wanted to come. Not really.

“Training? With you?” he’d muttered, flat on his back under a half-dead tree outside the mission hall, one arm slung across his eyes like the sky was just too much. “Sounds like a drag.” You’d said nothing then—just raised a brow, arms crossed over your chest. Waited.

After a beat, he sighed through his teeth and cracked one eye open. “Tch. Fine. But only because you’ll annoy me about it otherwise.”

You had smiled then. Just barely. He didn’t say it, but you both knew the truth. Time had been a rare thing lately. Scarcer than rest, scarcer even than silence. If you hadn’t asked, he probably wouldn’t have seen you at all.

The dirt path curved gently up a slope now, the tree cover thinning just enough to let in streaks of amber light. You stepped over a half-rotted log, your shadow stretching long across the moss-covered stones. You remembered another afternoon—years ago now—when you’d both been younger, not quite friends yet, just two people orbiting the same strange shinobi world.

It had been during one of those endless village-wide drills—mandatory formations, repetitive routines, all barked orders and synchronized movements under the hot sun. You’d spotted him off to the side, half-slouched against a tree, yawning like the whole thing might actually bore him to death. “You don’t care about any of this, do you?” you’d muttered as you passed him in line, your voice low and dry. He’d shrugged without looking up. “I care. Just not about people pretending to be useful by shouting.” That had made you laugh—quiet and sharp-edged, but real. You hadn’t expected him to be funny. You hadn’t expected him to notice things the way he did. From then on, it had been easy. Easier than most things.

The clearing came into view slowly, like it wasn’t in a hurry to show itself. Just a patch of grass worn down by time and use, framed by tall reeds and scattered stones. A few dragonflies hovered over the shallow dip of a stream nearby, their wings catching what was left of the day’s light. You stepped out into it, pausing at the edge of the clearing.

He wasn’t there yet. Of course he wasn’t.

You moved toward one of the flat stones and sat, stretching your legs out in front of you, the heat of the day still clinging faintly to the rock beneath your thighs. The katana across your back shifted slightly as you leaned forward, elbows on your knees. There was something about the quiet here. It wasn’t the oppressive kind. It was the stillness of things that had been left alone long enough to simply exist. You let it settle around your shoulders like dust. Behind your eyes, the memories flickered again. His voice, half-asleep beside a fire on the edge of some half-finished mission—“You’re always tense when the wind changes.”—your hands tightening on the straps of your gear, your reply a murmur—“And you’re always watching me.”

He hadn’t denied it. Just rolled over, the embers painting his face in soft reds. Another breeze moved through the trees, and you closed your eyes against it, letting it brush over your skin. The sun had started to dip lower now, the gold deepening into something richer, more muted.

Footsteps.

You heard them before you saw him. Not loud—he never was, even when he didn’t try. But you knew the rhythm of his walk, the slight drag of his heel, the way he took wider steps than he needed to, like it was all too much effort. “Yo,” came the voice, a little rough with disuse, as if he’d just woken up. You opened your eyes. He stood at the edge of the clearing, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other lifting lazily in greeting. His hair was tied as always, though a few strands had fallen loose at his temple. His vest was unzipped, shadows catching in the folds of the fabric. “You’re late,” you said. Not annoyed. Just stating fact. He rolled a shoulder. “Didn’t say what kind of afternoon.” You huffed softly. Typical. Still, something in your chest loosened just a little.

Shikamaru moved toward you without ceremony, dropped onto the grass a few feet away, arms stretched behind him as he leaned back. His gaze drifted upward, toward the cloudless sky. “Hot,” he muttered. “Mm.” You looked at him. The line of his jaw, the way the light caught the curve of his cheek. His eyes were half-lidded, unreadable. He let the silence stretch between you, like always. Not awkward—just quiet. Comfortable. You leaned back onto your hands, mirroring his posture. The grass was warm, the scent of summer thick in the air—wild mint, sun-dried earth, faint smoke from a distant cooking fire.

“Sure you’re up for this?” you asked eventually. He didn’t answer right away. Just let out a long breath, eyes tracking a bird overhead. “I’m here, aren’t I?” You nodded, not looking at him now. “Didn’t think you would be.” He made a sound—something between a scoff and a hum. “Tch. You’re annoying when you disappear for days without saying anything.” You blinked, turning toward him again. His gaze was still skyward, but something in his voice tugged at you.

“I didn’t disappear.”

“Didn’t say goodbye either.”

The words sat between you, quiet and unpolished. You weren’t sure what to say. Eventually, you pushed yourself up, brushing the grass from your palms. “Well,” you said, voice steady, “I’m here now.” He looked at you then. Really looked. His eyes, dark as burnt honey, settled on yours. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.” You watched him for a moment longer. Just watched. The way he slouched against the breeze like gravity was a personal offense. The soft line between his brows, always there even when he pretended not to care. You’d known him long enough to recognize the tension in his stillness—how stillness didn’t always mean peace. “Staring,” he said, not moving. You didn’t look away. “Observing.” “Tch.” His lips curled slightly. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

You stood slowly, the movement easy, unhurried. The scabbard at your back shifted with the roll of your shoulders, but you didn’t reach for it. Not yet. The warm wind tugged at your sleeves as you stepped out into the center of the clearing, your boots silent on the flattened grass. Behind you, you heard him sigh. Heard the rustle of cloth as he pushed himself to his feet with all the enthusiasm of a man asked to dig his own grave. “Taijutsu only,” you said, glancing over your shoulder. “Don’t be lazy.” “Ugh. Troublesome.” But he was already rolling his neck, loosening his limbs. “You sure you wanna spar like this? You’ll just get annoyed when I keep dodging.”

You turned to face him fully now. The light hit him from the side—warm gold catching in the line of his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat already forming at his collarbone. He looked half-asleep and entirely aware, like a predator playing dead. “Not if I hit you first,” you replied. That made him smile—just a little, just enough. “Bold.”

And then you moved.

No warning. No signal. Just the quiet thud of your foot pressing off the earth as you rushed him, closing the space with practiced ease. His body responded in an instant—lazy didn’t mean slow—and he twisted just as your fist cut through the air where his face had been a heartbeat before. You pivoted, not overextending, already anticipating the counter that didn’t come. His hand brushed past your ribs, a testing motion, not a strike. You ducked beneath it, shifting your weight to your back foot, grounding yourself. He was watching you. Not your face—your shoulders, your hips. Reading your next move before it even formed.

You lunged again, this time lower, sweeping at his legs. He hopped back, barely putting effort into it. You followed, tightening the space between you. “Not bad,” he murmured, ducking as your elbow came for his temple. “For someone who hasn’t trained in days.” “Is that your way of asking where I’ve been?” you shot back, breath even as your body twisted into a quick strike toward his midsection. He caught your wrist—not hard, just enough to redirect the blow. “Wouldn’t be asking.”

You broke the grip with a sharp flick, stepping in close, closer than you usually dared. He let you, which meant he was planning something. His body shifted, weight loading on his back leg. “Still dodging,” you said, breath hot against his jaw as you slid past him, fingers grazing the edge of his vest. He turned to follow, not quite fast enough. You felt your knuckles graze his ribs, a soft thud of contact. Not a full hit, but enough. “Still chasing,” he replied, but there was something in his tone now—less lazy, more focused. You were waking him up.

Good.

You circled him slowly, not dropping your guard. The air between you was thicker now, warmed by motion and breath and something else—something unspoken. He moved first this time. A faint shift, almost imperceptible, and then he was coming at you in a blur of angled momentum—nothing flashy, just efficiency and control. His foot aimed low, his arm coming high in a feint. You blocked the kick with your shin, absorbing the impact, then stepped into his guard, your forearm slamming up to catch his incoming elbow. For a second, your bodies locked—chest to chest, muscles taut, breath mingling. You smelled smoke on him, and green tea, and that vague scent of sun-warmed cotton. “Missed you,” he muttered, like it wasn’t a confession. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t let it distract you. “You said that out loud,” you replied. His brow arched. “Did I?” You used the moment. Hooked his ankle with yours, shifted your weight, tried to unbalance him. He didn’t fall—but he stumbled, and that was enough. You slipped behind him in a flash, fingers brushing the edge of his collar. A mock kill. He stilled. Just for a breath. Then exhaled slowly. “Alright. You win.” You didn’t move. “Too easy.” He glanced over his shoulder, smirk tugging at his mouth. “I’m letting you win. Clearly.” “Obviously,” you echoed dryly.

But you stepped back, giving him space. He turned to face you again, brushing a bit of grass from his shoulder with the flick of a hand. There was sweat at his temple now. You felt it mirrored on your own skin, a slow trickle down the side of your neck. The breeze picked up again. Your lungs pulled in the scent of the clearing—earth, water, sun. And him. You tilted your head. “Round two?”

He hesitated, eyes scanning you with something unreadable behind the calm. “Thought you’d be more tired,” he said. “Thought you’d be more difficult.” He gave a low chuckle. “Tch. You’re getting cocky.” You smiled, slow and sharp. “You like it.”

And again, you moved. This time, he was ready.

You traded blows like it was a language only the two of you spoke—quick jabs, low blocks, turns and redirects. His footwork was lazy and elegant all at once, like water flowing around stones. Yours was more grounded, but no less fluid. You pressed him, made him move. He responded with the same deliberate calm he always wore, except now there was an edge to it. A gleam in his eye that hadn’t been there before.

You kicked high—he ducked. You went for his ribs—he twisted, caught your wrist, let go again. The dance continued. “Still not using ninjutsu,” he said between breaths. “Neither are you.” “Shadow possession’s too easy.” “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He grinned, wide enough to show teeth. “Maybe I like working for it sometimes.” The comment sent a flicker through your stomach. Heat of a different kind. You slammed your elbow toward his chest. He caught it, barely, fingers brushing your skin. You twisted, broke free. “Careful,” he murmured, voice low now. “You’re smiling.”

You hadn’t noticed you were. You pushed forward, letting instinct take over. Your body remembered him. Remembered how he moved, how he thought. You knew him in this rhythm—this quiet collision of force and restraint. And he knew you.

The next strike came fast—your knee toward his side. He blocked with both hands, used the force to spin you off balance, and then you were tumbling onto the grass with a soft grunt, the world tilting briefly. Before you could fully recover, he was above you, one hand planted beside your head, the other raised—just barely, just for show.

“Gotcha.”

You looked up at him. His hair had come loose again. A single strand fell across his brow. His chest rose and fell in slow, even pulls. He didn’t look triumphant. Just…there. Present. “Not bad,” you said, not trying to move yet. His mouth quirked. “I’d say the same.” Neither of you moved for a beat. The wind whispered over the clearing, stirring the grass beside your head. A dragonfly buzzed somewhere above. You breathed. He stayed. You exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the earth. The silence between you stretched like the pause before a storm.

Then, quietly, you said, “No more rules.”

His brow lifted, a flicker of something alert behind his gaze—but before he could fully process the shift in your tone, you moved.

Fast.

A sharp twist of your hips, one leg snapping out to catch his side—not hard, just enough to shift his weight. His balance faltered for half a second, and that was all you needed. You were already on the ground with him, bodies tangled in motion, so you used the momentum—hands shooting forward to shove at his chest. He resisted, but not fully—already calculating, already adapting.

You didn’t let him.

A sharp press of your knee, a pivot of your shoulders, and you rolled—taking him with you. The world tipped sideways in a blur of grass and shadow. His arm tightened instinctively around your waist as you moved together, but you shifted again, using his own leverage against him. He landed beneath you with a quiet thud, breath catching as you straddled his hips in one fluid motion. Your heel planted firmly in the grass beside him, your palm came down, aimed directly over his sternum—controlled, but decisive.

A breathless second passed.

He blinked. “Okay,” he murmured, a small grin forming. “Didn’t see that coming.” You were already gone. A graceful backflip—weightless, clean—and you landed light as a whisper several meters away. Hands poised. Breath steady. The smirk faded from his mouth as he rose, slower this time. His eyes never left you. “So,” he drawled. “All jutsu allowed, huh?” You didn’t answer. Just smiled. He sighed. “Troublesome woman…”

But his hands were already forming seals. His shadow twitched like a living thing, snaking along the grass—quick, clever, hungry. You darted left, right, low. Your fingers flicked through your own set of seals, breath flowing like water through each motion. A soft glow flared at your palms and you whispered a quiet word—one you’d learned under fading lantern light and too many bruises. A wall of wind erupted in front of you, spinning in tight coils, lifting dust and leaves into a brief, blinding curtain. “Trying to block my line of sight?” Shikamaru called through it. “Smart.”

The ground beneath your feet trembled—just slightly—as his shadow moved beneath it, bypassing the wind entirely. You felt it graze your ankle and leapt high, spinning midair, forming another quick set of seals. A barrage of chakra-sharpened kunai appeared around you in a shimmer of pale light, launching downward like falling stars. You heard him curse, low and annoyed, as he twisted into a dive to avoid the spread. One of the blades clipped his sleeve. Another embedded in the ground just beside his hand.

You landed behind him in the same breath, already moving, already striking. He rolled away at the last second, and his shadow surged again—larger this time, faster. It caught your left hand. You froze as your muscles stiffened, shadow chakra locking the limb in place. Shikamaru straightened with a lazy kind of satisfaction, already pulling a senbon from his pouch. “You know,” he said, voice maddeningly calm, “if this was a real fight, you’d be dead now.” You met his gaze evenly. “If this was a real fight…” You smiled. Your hand twisted—only slightly, but enough. The jutsu unravelled like smoke. His eyes widened. “You countered—?” You moved again before he could finish. The air around you rippled. Wind-enhanced speed carried you forward in a blink, and this time your kick connected. Hard. His body hit the ground with a thud and rolled, though he recovered quick, sliding to a stop with both hands on the earth. He looked up at you. “That hurt.” “Good.”

He laughed then, actually laughed—a low, delighted sound you rarely heard from him in the middle of a spar. His hands blurred into another jutsu before you could press the advantage. “Shadow Strangle,” he said casually. The next thing you knew, the grass beneath you surged black. His chakra shot out in thick tendrils—grabbing, wrapping, tightening. You dropped to one knee, fingers forming seals in rapid succession. “Wind Release—Vacuum Sphere!” The blast cut through the shadows like a blade, severing their reach. The jutsu didn’t hit him, but it gave you space. You bolted to the side, heart racing now, and not just from exertion. He was better than before. Faster. Sharper. But so were you. The clearing was torn now—grass ripped up, small craters where jutsus had collided. Your breathing came hard and steady. Across from you, he stood loose and easy, but his eyes were sharp. “You’re stronger,” he said. You shrugged. “You’re not holding back.” “Should I be?”

Your eyes met.

“No.”

In the next moment, you both moved. Chakra burned through your limbs like fire. You met mid-air, your kick clashing with his forearm. The impact sent a shockwave through the trees. Birds scattered overhead. You landed on a broken log, pushed off it, feinted left. He anticipated it, tried to trap you with a looping shadow. You vaulted over it, somersaulted low to the ground, and released a burst of wind from your palm that knocked him back a step. Close. So close. He came at you with a kunai now, not even bothering with shadows. Just instinct and muscle and breath. You blocked it with your own, the clang of steel ringing out, sparks flying. You twisted into his guard, your forearm pressing to his chest—too close for weapons, too close for thought. Your faces were inches apart.

He was breathing hard now. So were you. “Getting tired?” you asked. “Never,” he murmured, and you felt his chakra rise again, hot and sharp. But instead of attacking, he smirked. And then his shadow surged beneath you.

Damn it.

You tried to move—too late. The binding caught your right foot. He lunged forward with a grin, arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you down in a clean, practiced maneuver. You hit the ground with a grunt, pinned beneath him. “Checkmate,” he whispered against your ear. You looked up, breath caught between laughter and frustration. Sweat beaded at his brow, sliding down his jaw. “I hate you,” you said. “No, you don’t.” His voice was low, close — and he hadn’t moved.

You were still beneath him, the weight of him grounding you, one hand pressed into the earth beside your head, the other curled near your waist, not quite touching. His breath ghosted against your cheek. His hair fell slightly into his face, strands shadowing his sharp eyes, the ones that always seemed to see more than he let on.

The world outside the clearing felt impossibly far away. Neither of you spoke for a while. Just breathing. Listening. “You’ve gotten good,” he said finally, voice quiet, like the comment wasn’t entirely welcome. “Too good.” You arched a brow. “Is that a compliment?” “No,” he said, deadpan. “It’s a threat.” You laughed under your breath, eyes falling closed for a moment. “Better be.” Still, Shikamaru didn’t move. And neither did you. Then—slowly, carefully—you opened your eyes again.

And looked up. Really looked.

There was something about the way the sunlight filtered through the canopy above, painting his features in shades of amber and gold. His expression wasn’t teasing now. Just thoughtful. Still. That same unreadable calm he always wore when the moment mattered more than he wanted to admit. Your chest ached a little. Not from the fight. You didn’t say anything. You just held his gaze. The air between you had shifted—less a breath, more a heartbeat. Tangible. Deep. That moment stretched, wrapped around you like warm cloth, familiar and bittersweet. His lips parted slightly, like he might say something—then didn’t. Instead, after a long pause, he asked, “When do you leave again?”

You blinked.

His voice was steady, but something behind it sounded tired. Not with you. With everything else. You hesitated before answering. Your throat felt dry. “…Soon,” you said, softer than before. “A few more days. Maybe.” You watched the way his jaw tensed, subtle but unmistakable. He looked down, just for a second, brows drawn as though the words tasted bitter in his mouth. “Of course,” he muttered, almost to himself. You felt the shift in his body, the quiet frustration he wouldn’t name. You knew that tone. Knew it well. It wasn’t anger. It was the kind of weariness that came from knowing something was necessary but hating it anyway.

You reached up, fingers brushing lightly at his sleeve—not enough to pull, just to anchor him. Just so he wouldn’t drift too far from this moment. He looked back at you, eyes meeting yours again, and this time he didn’t hide it. The faint flicker of something unresolved, something held back for too long.

You opened your mouth to speak. But the words never made it out. Because in the space between one breath and the next—he kissed you.

There was no hesitation. No warning. Just his lips pressing to yours, warm and sure, like he’d made the decision in an instant and didn’t plan to take it back. And everything stopped. The air stilled. The sounds of the forest dulled. Your thoughts—your heartbeat—stumbled over themselves before dissolving into quiet, into heat, into the softness of his mouth and the certainty of his hands. One braced beside your head, fingers curled into the grass, grounding himself in the moment. The other found your waist, firm and unyielding, as though afraid the world might pull you away from him if he didn’t hold you close enough. You inhaled sharply against him—but then you melted. Completely.

Your hand rose on instinct, fingers brushing against the curve of his jaw, the line of his neck, memorizing the feel of him beneath your touch. The stubble along his skin. The warmth of him, the steadiness. You curled your other hand at his shoulder, holding on like you were trying to memorize the shape of this moment—afraid it might vanish if you let go.

The kiss deepened—not rushed, not desperate, but full. Heavy with everything unspoken. It carried the weight of days and nights spent dancing around something neither of you would name, of passing touches and lingering glances, of unsent letters and silences too thick to cut through. He was quiet, always. But this—this was him speaking.

You felt it in the way his lips moved with yours, slow but certain, reverent almost. In the quiet sigh that trembled through his chest and into yours, like he was finally exhaling something he hadn’t let himself feel until now. Something careful. Something real. Your heart ached with how tender it was. With how long you’d both waited for this, maybe without even realizing it. And as his forehead came to rest against yours, his breath uneven now, you felt that ache deepen. His eyes were still closed. Like he wasn’t ready to let go of the moment just yet. Or maybe he didn’t trust himself to look at you without it breaking the spell. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your hand stayed at his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone softly, reverently, as if touching something fragile. And he let you. Leaned into it, just barely, as if even now, he didn’t want to ask for more than what you gave freely.

You felt the tension slowly unwind from his body, bit by bit, like every second of closeness was untangling knots neither of you had known were there. The weight he always carried—the pressure, the burden, the solitude—lifted, just a little. Enough for you to feel it. Enough to know how much he trusted you. When he finally opened his eyes, they found yours instantly.

And you saw it—all of it.

The worry. The longing. The fear of losing something he never dared to ask for in the first place. “I wasn’t going to say it,” you whispered, voice barely there. He didn’t need to ask what you meant. He already knew. He swallowed, throat bobbing slightly. “I know.” And still—he kissed you.

Again.

Softer this time. Slower. Like he was trying to memorize you in pieces. The way your lips parted for him. The taste of your breath. The tremble in your fingers. The way your lashes fluttered shut.

It was the kind of kiss that said: If you have to go, take this with you.

The kind that said: Don’t forget me.

The kind that said: I won’t say it. But I will show you. Every time.

And it shattered you in the gentlest way. Because he didn’t make promises. He didn’t offer declarations or pretty words. But this—he gave you this.

And in his world, that meant everything.

So you held him close. Closer than before. As if you could carve the memory of this moment into your bones. As if the weight of his body against yours, the warmth of his hand at your waist, the quiet strength of his heart beating through his chest, could keep you anchored when the silence came again. And maybe—it would. Maybe it had to. But for now…

For now, you just stayed.

●

Days had passed. Long ones.

You hadn’t seen him since that evening on the training grounds, when breath and bruises had turned into something softer. Into a kiss you hadn’t expected and hadn’t stopped thinking about since.

The memory lingered in a way nothing else quite had in recent months—like warmth tucked under your skin. Every time your mind wandered, it went back to that moment. The way his mouth had found yours, without hesitation. The way he’d touched you like he wasn’t sure he deserved it, but needed it anyway.

You thought about the sound he’d made when you kissed him back. About the silence that had followed, comfortable and close. About the weight of his forehead resting against yours.

It was strange, how something so quiet could echo for days.

He’d been called away on a mission shortly after. Nothing long—just a few days. But in the stillness of your own temporary leave, the absence of him became a kind of presence too.

You spent your time resting. Reading. Walking through the quieter edges of the village without a destination. You let yourself be still—just for a little while.

But tonight was your last night before heading out again. And the quiet had started to feel a little too quiet.

So you’d lit a few candles. Not because you needed them, but because the soft flicker made the evening feel more grounded. More yours. You’d just come out of the shower, wrapped in the scent of your favorite soap, skin warm from the steam, your hair damp and curling softly at the ends. You wore a simple wrap dress—comfortable but just a little pretty, like you were trying to feel human again before the cold distance of a mask and mission overtook you. It hugged you gently, cinched at the waist, and fell around your knees like water.

In the kitchen, the scent of miso and soy filled the air—your ramen wasn’t quite finished yet, but it was close. The broth simmered slowly, the noodles resting nearby, waiting. You sat curled on the couch, one leg tucked under you, a book open in your lap and a cup of green tea resting between your palms. The soft hum of the stove and the occasional page turn were the only sounds in the room. And then—three knocks at your door.

You froze.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Not this late. Not tonight. You set your tea down, placing the book spine-up on the couch cushion, and padded barefoot across the wooden floor toward the entrance. The knot in your chest tightened slightly, your shinobi instincts sharpening for a brief moment—until you opened the door. And everything softened.

Shikamaru stood in the doorway.

Hair slightly tousled, shadows under his eyes, mission gear gone, but fatigue still clinging faintly to him like dust. He wore a simple dark shirt and pants, nothing dramatic—but in his hand, almost awkwardly held, was a small bouquet of flowers. Wild ones, mostly. A few sprigs of white, pale purple, something with green stems that didn’t quite match. It wasn’t elegant. But it was… real.

The scent hit you first—a strange but strangely comforting mix of crushed petals and faint cigarette smoke. A contrast that somehow fit him too well.

You blinked. He didn’t say anything at first. Neither did you. The moment stretched, quiet and oddly full.

“…You’re back,” you finally said, voice soft, almost unsure whether to smile. “Yeah.” He scratched at the back of his neck with the hand not holding the flowers, looking somewhere just past your shoulder. “Didn’t plan to come by, honestly.”

A pause.

You tilted your head, brow arching slightly. “Should I be offended?” That made his lips twitch, just slightly. His eyes finally met yours. “I can leave if you want.” It was said with his usual dry tone, but there was something underneath it—something shy, almost. Like he wasn’t sure how he’d be received. Like he’d been playing the scene out in his head the entire walk over and had already prepared himself for you to shut the door in his face. You looked at him for a long moment.

Then you reached forward, fingers brushing gently over Shikamarus wrist as you took the bouquet from him and stepped aside. “Stay,” you said, quieter now. “I was just making ramen.” He hesitated, still lingering in the doorway as if unsure whether this counted as permission or a trap. “You’ll like it,” you added, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as you turned and walked back into the apartment. You didn’t have to look back to know he followed.

The door clicked shut softly behind him. You set the flowers on the counter, searching for a jar to use as a makeshift vase. You heard him sigh behind you—tired, maybe, or just releasing something held too long. “So,” you said over your shoulder as you filled the jar with water. “Was it a difficult mission?” “Not really.” He sounded closer now. “Just… a lot of walking.” “You hate walking.” “Troublesome, yeah.” You could almost hear the smirk in his voice now. “But I made it back.” You turned, placing the jar of flowers on the table near the window. The setting sun caught the petals just right, making them look almost prettier than they were. You looked at him. He was watching you. His eyes didn’t move. The air shifted a little.

“I wasn’t sure if I’d see you before I go.” you admitted, suddenly unable to meet his gaze. “I figured you’d be—busy. Or… tired.” “I was,” he said quietly. “But I kept thinking about that kiss.” Your breath caught. You turned fully toward him now, one hand resting lightly on the edge of the counter for balance. Shikamaru shrugged, looking almost annoyed with himself. “Couldn’t get it out of my head. Figured that meant I should stop thinking about it and do something instead.” You didn’t know what to say to that. So instead, you walked past him to the stove, stirring the ramen gently, letting the silence stretch in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable.

He moved closer.

Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him behind you, not touching, but present. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to reach for you again—but hoped you might.

You turned, ladle still in hand, eyes finding his again. “Can you grab two bowls?” you asked gently, nodding toward the cupboard behind him. Shikamaru blinked once, as if coming out of some quiet internal fog, and turned around without a word. You watched him as he reached up, the hem of his shirt pulling slightly with the stretch. His movements were unhurried, efficient—but still carrying that particular kind of laziness only he had perfected. He handed you the bowls without needing to be asked twice.

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking them and setting them down beside the pot. You ladled the ramen carefully, making sure to get enough broth and noodles in each bowl. It wasn’t anything fancy—just something warm, something real. Something to fill the quiet with more than just silence. “Chopsticks?” he offered, already moving toward the drawer where you kept them. “You know your way around too well,” you said, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Troublesome how often I’ve been here,” he replied, handing you a pair and taking the other for himself.

You carried both bowls to the small coffee table in front of the couch, setting them down gently before settling in. Shikamaru joined you, legs folding easily beneath him, the lines of his body relaxing in that same way you remembered from nights long past—those quiet hours after missions, both of you too wired or too worn out to sleep. “You know… for someone who’s been here so often, it’s kind of funny nothing’s ever really… happened.” Shikamaru raised a brow. “Nothing?” You sank into the cushions a little deeper and gave him a look. “I mean, except for you randomly kissing me on that training field and then pretending like it didn’t completely scramble my brain.”

A corner of his mouth lifted, something slow and slightly smug. “Randomly? You were the one who pinned me to the ground.” “That was a sparring maneuver.” You rolled your eyes, but your lips tugged upward despite yourself. “You kissed me, remember?” He shrugged again and lowered himself onto the couch beside you, deliberately close. “Seemed like the right move at the time.” You ate in relative silence at first. It wasn’t uncomfortable.

The young man blew on the noodles before slurping them down, his usual expression of faint disinterest returning every now and then between bites. You watched Shikamaru from the corner of your eye, amused by the speed at which his food disappeared. “Did you even taste it?” you asked eventually, quirking a brow as he lowered his bowl. He gave a small shrug. “I was hungry.” You picked at your own ramen with a faint smirk. “Clearly.”

Shikamaru shifted beside you, leaning back into the couch. One arm draped along the backrest—casually, but it settled just behind your shoulders, his fingers barely brushing the fabric of your dress. Not quite touching you… but close enough that you felt the warmth of him, the nearness. The kind that made you hyperaware of your own breathing. The other hand lifted to rub lazily at the back of his neck, his movements slow, unbothered. “Could’ve told you no. Could’ve gone home. Slept.” “But you didn’t,” you said softly, not quite looking at him. “No,” he admitted, voice low and a little rough, his eyes half-lidded as he turned just slightly toward you. “Didn’t want to.” There was a pause. One of those stretches of silence that wasn’t awkward—but heavy. Charged. His fingers shifted, brushing a little closer to your shoulder, just enough to set your skin tingling beneath your dress. You didn’t lean in. But you didn’t lean away, either. There was a pause, long and warm.

Then he sat up and gestured vaguely toward the windowed door. “Mind if I smoke?” You shook your head. “Go ahead.” He stood and slid the glass door open with a soft sound, stepping out onto the small balcony that overlooked the quieter side of the village. The cool evening air slipped in around the edges of the room. You finished the last few bites of your ramen in silence, your thoughts drifting somewhere behind your eyes.

You followed him a few minutes later, barefoot on the smooth wood floor, your bowl now empty and set aside. Shikamaru leaned on the railing, cigarette between his fingers, the glow of the ember pulsing faintly in the growing dusk. The breeze ruffled his hair slightly. He didn’t turn when you stepped out. You didn’t say anything, either. You moved past him, quietly, and turned to rest your elbows on the balcony railing, leaning back against it with a soft sigh. Your eyes closed for a second, the breeze cool against your skin, your head tilted slightly toward the stars just beginning to peek through the dark. The sound of the village was soft below. Somewhere far off, a dog barked. The faint clang of metal echoed from a distant training yard. But here—it was still.

You opened your eyes again and turned your head slightly, watching him as he took another drag. His profile was quiet, unreadable. The same look you remembered from a hundred nights like this, from campfires and debriefings and the uncertain in-betweens of wartime. “You remember the coastal mission?” you asked suddenly. He glanced sideways at you. “Which one?” “The one with the smugglers. Three years ago. Before I joined the ANBU.” Shikamaru made a soft noise of recognition, exhaling smoke out toward the sky. “Right. The warehouse. You almost got crushed under a collapsing ceiling.” “You dropped that ceiling.” “It was tactical.” “You said, ‘Oops.’” He gave a faint snort. “Still tactical.”

You laughed, leaning your head back again, the sound brief but real. “You really were sure I was going to die.” “I wasn’t.” His voice was low. Thoughtful. “I was sure you wouldn’t let yourself.” You turned your head toward him, slowly. “I remember thinking I’d never felt more tired,” you murmured. “Everything ached. My legs were jelly. You pulled me out by the strap of my vest.” “You told me if I yanked any harder, you’d puke on my boots.”

“I meant it,” you grinned. He gave a half-smile of his own, the cigarette hovering near his lips again. The smoke curled lazily around him, catching in the breeze. It didn’t bother you like it used to. Now, it just smelled like him. Like missions and late nights and something too familiar to ever forget.

“I miss that,” you said softly. “Not the danger. Not the blood. Just… that kind of simplicity. Being on a team. Knowing someone had your back. Knowing it was you.” He didn’t answer right away. Then he flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette and murmured, “You were always the one who moved first. I just made sure no one stabbed you in the back while you did.” You smiled faintly, the words warm against the growing chill in the air. “You ever think about what things would’ve been like if I hadn’t joined the ANBU?” you asked, more out of the silence than out of hope for an answer.

“All the time,” he said, too easily.

You blinked. Looked at him. He didn’t meet your gaze. Just took another drag. Your throat felt tight, suddenly. Like something unnamed had been sitting there, waiting. You looked out over the edge of the balcony again, eyes tracing the rooftops and familiar shapes of the village that had never really changed. Only you had. “I still remember the way you looked at me when I told you I was accepting the offer,” you said. “Like you already knew I was going to say yes.” “I did,” he replied quietly. “Didn’t mean I liked it.”

You were quiet for a long time.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. He finally looked at you then. Really looked. “Because it wasn’t my decision,” he said. “And because… if it had been me, I’d have gone too.” You swallowed. There was something heavy in the air now, but not suffocating. Just weighty. Full of everything that had never been said but had always been there—hovering, like smoke that never quite cleared. “I thought I’d forget how this felt,” you admitted. “Standing here. With you.”

“Did you?”

You shook your head.

He dropped the cigarette to the ashtray on the railing and crushed it out, the ember vanishing.

“Come back alive,” he said simply.

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the quiet intensity in his voice. “I always do,” you replied softly. “Yeah,” he muttered, gaze flickering down. “But I still like hearing it.” You pushed off the railing and moved closer, slow. His eyes lifted again as you reached up, fingers brushing lightly over his sleeve. “You could’ve told me this before the kiss,” you said, almost teasing, but something in your voice wavered. He gave a small, tired smile. “Would’ve ruined the moment.” You huffed a quiet laugh. “You’re an idiot.” “I get that a lot.”

Another beat of silence passed between you.

Then, softer—almost reverent—you murmured, “I’m glad you came tonight.” Shikamaru’s eyes didn’t leave yours. His voice was quiet. Steady. “Yeah. Me too.”

You weren’t sure who moved first. But it didn’t matter.

His lips met yours with a quiet kind of urgency—like a thought that had been unfinished for far too long. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t fumbling. It was slow and real and known. The way his mouth moved against yours, warm and certain, told stories neither of you had ever dared speak aloud. It was familiarity wrapped in something newly blooming. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission—because it had always been waiting.

He tasted faintly of smoke and something softer underneath. His hand came to rest at your waist, firm but not forceful, grounding you like he always had in the chaos of everything else. Your breath caught softly in your throat as you tilted your head, letting yourself lean in—just enough to fall. You pulled back only slightly, just enough to whisper the question against his lips.

“…Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

Shikamaru opened his eyes, just barely. They searched yours for a quiet second before he spoke. “Timing,” he said. “Or maybe just me being a coward.” You huffed a breath of air that could’ve been a laugh if your heart hadn’t been pounding. “You?” He gave a small, rueful smirk. “Yeah. Me.”

And then he kissed you again.

This time, it wasn’t tentative. There was no testing, no lingering question. It was need—years of unspoken words, of shared glances and brushed hands and near-confessions left to hang in the silence. It was the release of everything you’d both held back for too long.

Your hand found his chest, fingers splayed over the fabric of his shirt, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath. Your other hand rose to the back of his neck, threading into the dark strands of his hair, drawing him closer. He let you. More than that—he leaned into you, the warmth of his body pressing against yours, matching your rhythm, deepening the kiss until you weren’t sure where one of you ended and the other began. The air between you shifted—warmer, heavier. Your breath mingled with his, skin prickling with every brush, every pull. You felt his fingers slide up your back, steadying, learning. Your body answered without hesitation, leaning into every inch of closeness he offered. It was heady and warm and utterly overwhelming. But it felt like coming home.

The kiss broke just barely—only enough to let breath return in shaky exhales. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes half-lidded, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Just the sound of your breathing. The quiet hum of the village night beyond the balcony. The way his hand didn’t leave your back. “…Still think the timing was bad?” you whispered, voice uneven. Shikamaru shook his head, eyes not leaving yours. “No,” he murmured. “Feels exactly right.”

The moment your lips met again, everything else fell away. The world outside your small balcony ceased to exist. There was only him. Only the warmth of his mouth against yours, the way his breath hitched slightly when your fingers slid up into his hair, the way he pulled you just a little closer, like he couldn’t help it. It was slower this time. Softer. But no less consuming. Your heart thrummed beneath your ribs, loud enough you were sure he could feel it. You parted your lips just enough for him to deepen the kiss, and he did—carefully, deliberately—like he had all the time in the world now.

Your back bumped gently into the doorframe as you pulled away just long enough to look at him. His eyes searched yours again, quiet and unreadable, but his hands stayed on you—one resting against the curve of your waist, the other slipping to the small of your back. “Shikamaru…” you murmured, not even sure what you were going to say. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low and rough with something unspoken. You didn’t finish the thought. Instead, your fingers curled into the fabric at his collar as you stepped back into the apartment, leading him with you. He followed without hesitation, never quite letting go of you, his fingers brushing against your skin with every step like a tether he refused to loosen.

The apartment was dim now, lit only by the low glow of the few candles you were lightening earlier. The ramen bowls sat forgotten on the coffee table, but neither of you even glanced at them. Every few steps, you stopped again—another kiss, another touch—like gravity kept pulling you back to each other.nBy the time you reached the hallway, you were both breathless, your smile caught between kisses and half-formed laughter. You bumped into the wall once, giggling against his shoulder. He mumbled something about how troublesome you were, but his mouth was on yours again before he could finish.

You didn’t let go of him. You didn’t want to.

Your hand slid down to find his, fingers interlacing, grounding yourself in the simplest, oldest gesture between you. The kind that said: stay. The kind that didn’t need words. When you finally reached the edge of your bedroom, you paused—just for a second. The air between you was warm and full and trembling with something delicate. His thumb brushed along your knuckles, eyes catching yours in the soft dark. “You sure?” he asked, voice barely more than a breath. You smiled, pulling him gently inside. “I’ve never been more sure.”

The door clicked shut behind you, but you barely heard it over the soft sound of your breaths—his and yours, mingling in the quiet. Shikamaru kissed you again before either of you spoke—slow, aching, like he was trying to tell you something without words. You melted into him, arms curling around his neck, fingers threading into his hair. His lips moved against yours with reverence, with restraint that was fast unraveling. You could feel it in the way his hands gripped your waist—gentle still, but with an edge of urgency just beneath the surface. Like he’d waited too long already.

The soft material of your wrap dress shifted under his fingers as he followed the curve of your body. When his knuckles brushed against the tie at your waist, he paused. His forehead rested against yours, and for a heartbeat, he simply breathed you in. Then he tugged the knot loose—slowly, carefully—watching the dress come undone like the last piece of distance falling away.

Fabric whispered to the floor, and you stood before him in nothing but delicate lace and bare skin. His eyes moved over you, not with hunger, but awe. Like he was seeing something rare. Something fragile. Something Shikamaru didn’t dare rush. “Damn…” he murmured, so low you almost missed it. His thumb traced along your hipbone, barely there, like he was afraid to press too hard and shatter the moment. You could feel your pulse flutter beneath your skin, your breath catching when he leaned in again—not to kiss your mouth this time, but the corner of it. Then your jaw. Then lower. Each press of his lips was deliberate, unhurried, trailing heat wherever it landed.

Your fingers found the hem of his shirt and slid beneath it, palms meeting warm skin. He inhaled sharply, but didn’t stop you. You undressed him in silence, your touch lingering, mapping the contours of his body like a blindfolded prayer. When your eyes lifted back to his, the air between you was thick—heavy with want, with everything you hadn’t said and everything you didn’t need to.

You leaned up to kiss him—this time slower. More intentional. And he kissed you back like he finally understood what it meant to need.

Shikamarus fingers skimmed the edges of your lingerie, reverent, featherlight. As if your body was a secret he was being allowed to learn, one breath at a time. When he pushed the straps from your shoulders, he didn’t tear them away. He watched the way your skin reacted to the cool air, his hands steady, his gaze impossibly soft. You gasped softly as his lips found your collarbone, a kiss so tender it ached. Your back arched instinctively, inviting him closer, and he accepted—his hands cradling your ribs like something precious. One slid to your lower back, pulling you flush against him, while the other traced a slow path downward, past the lace and silk, until every layer between you had been undone.

You were bare to him now, completely. But somehow, you’d never felt safer. He looked at you like he’d never seen anything more important.

Shikamaru leaned in, and your lips met once more, soft and steady. His kiss no longer asked a question. It gave an answer. His hands found your back, pulling you close again, chests pressed together, heat bleeding between you. You melted into him, fingertips sliding up the line of his spine as you kissed him deeper, slower. There was no urgency here—just quiet, careful hunger. The kind that had been held back far too long. You barely noticed the way you drifted toward the bed until the backs of your knees brushed against the mattress. He paused, looking at you again—just a breath of space between you—searching your expression for any trace of hesitation. You gave him none. Only a soft smile, your hands guiding him forward with a whisper of pressure.

The bed gave beneath your weight as you lay back, and he followed you down with quiet reverence. The world narrowed to the sensation of skin against skin, of warmth and breath and the gentle weight of him above you. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye, as if grounding himself in the reality of your presence. Shikamaru kissed you again, and this time his mouth didn’t just kiss—it lingered. He traced the edge of your jaw with slow, deliberate care, moved to your neck with soft, lingering pressure, coaxing sighs from your lips you hadn’t meant to give. His touch followed—fingers trailing along the lines of your collarbone, your sides, your waist—like a silent conversation passed through skin. You arched slightly into his touch, eyes fluttering closed. Your breath caught when his lips found the hollow of your throat, slow and sensual, his hand splayed against your ribs. The way he moved wasn’t hurried. It was intentional. Like each moment was meant to be savored, as if he wanted you to remember not just the feeling, but the meaning in every press of his mouth. Your hands roamed in kind, fingers gliding over the muscles of his back, the curve of his shoulder, the warmth of his skin. You felt every shift of him above you, every careful adjustment as he leaned down again, kissing you with more certainty, more need.

His hand skimmed down your thigh, pausing only to anchor you closer again. Your fingers slid into his hair, grounding yourself in the way he made you feel—seen, held, wanted. Shikamarus lips returned to yours, slower now but burning, and you met him with equal fire, your body instinctively rising to meet his. There was something sacred in the way you moved together, like every unspoken feeling was finally given space to breathe.

You could feel his restraint slipping away, the once-gentle brush of his fingertips on your thigh turning into a possessive grip. His kiss deepened, no longer tender but hungry—his tongue tangling with yours, demanding, urgent. Your legs parted instinctively, welcoming him closer, and he responded without hesitation. His hand slid upward, caressing the delicate skin of your inner thigh, sending shivers racing through you.

The contrast between the chill of the room and the growing heat between your legs sent a ripple of anticipation through you. You bit your lip as his fingers found your wetness—your arousal slick and warm against his touch. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating from his chest into your core. Shikamarus thumb circled your clit with the lightest, teasing pressure, and you moaned into his mouth, your body instinctively arching toward him, silently pleading for more.

Shikamaru didn’t make you wait.

He explored you with an intoxicating blend of tenderness and intensity, his fingers delving into your folds as if Shikamaru were learning you by heart. Each stroke of his thumb against your clit was a question, each curl of his fingers inside you an answer. You responded in gasps and whimpers, your hips rolling against his hand, seeking more of the pleasure he gave so generously. His eyes never left yours, his gaze burning with a need that went far deeper than lust. It was raw. It was real.

His name fell from your lips in a breathy whisper—“Shika…”—and his expression darkened with want. He leaned down, pressing his mouth to yours again, his kiss open and consuming, as if he needed to taste every sound you made. As his fingers continued to work you, his lips left yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. When he found your pulse, he sucked gently, teeth grazing the sensitive spot, leaving behind a mark only you would know was there.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, drawing him impossibly closer. You could feel the hard press of his cock against your entrance, and it made you gasp—so close, and yet not enough. He paused again, one hand still pleasuring you while the other gripped your thigh tightly. His gaze locked with yours, wordlessly asking. You nodded, eyes wide and filled with trust and desire. He shifted his hips, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your opening, the stretch delicious and slow as he began to sink into you.

The moment Shikamaru entered you, the world seemed to go still. It wasn’t just physical—it was profound. The way he filled you, inch by inch, made you feel claimed, possessed, and utterly cherished. The stretch was intense, a perfect ache that had you clenching around him, your breath catching in your throat. His eyes searched your face for any sign of discomfort, but all he saw was your need, your raw openness.

Shikamaru stayed there, unmoving, letting your bodies adjust, letting the sensation sink into both of you like heat into skin. Then, slowly, he began to move—each thrust measured, deliberate, as if he were savoring every second, every inch of friction. You met his rhythm instinctively, your hips rising to meet his in a dance older than time. Your breaths tangled, your mouths met again, and in that moment, it wasn’t just sex—it was something far greater.

Your hands roamed his body, feeling the flex of muscle beneath sweat-slicked skin. His back arched into your touch, and his movements grew more confident, more demanding. You whispered his name like a prayer, like a plea, and it spurred him on—his hips snapping forward, harder now, deeper. Shikamarus mouth left trails of fire across your collarbone, his tongue and teeth alternating between teasing and worshiping your skin. When he leaned down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, you cried out. His tongue swirled around the stiff peak before he grazed it gently with his teeth, and the jolt of sensation shot straight to your core. He palmed your other breast, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers until you were arching off the bed, your cries filling the air. Your bodies moved as one—sweat and breath, moans and gasps blending into a symphony of unrestrained need. You clung to him, nails digging into Shikamarus shoulders, leaving marks that would remind him of this moment for days to come. “Harder,” you gasped, and he obeyed, his thrusts becoming powerful, unrelenting, driving into you with a force that bordered on wild.

“Look at me,” Shikamaru growled, his voice thick and broken, and your eyes snapped open, locking with his. The intensity in his gaze was staggering—feral, tender, worshipful. “You’re mine.”

You nodded, the word catching in your throat as the pleasure built higher, tighter, unbearable.

“Always,” you whispered.

The word shattered something in him. He surged forward, hips slamming into yours with punishing precision. You could feel yourself tightening around him, your orgasm clawing its way through you, a tidal wave threatening to consume you both. Your cries grew louder, your voice breaking on Shikamarus name as the world spun out of focus.

And then it hit you.

You came with a scream, your body seizing around him, muscles contracting in waves of overwhelming pleasure. Shikamaru followed moments later, groaning your name as he buried himself deep inside you, his warmth flooding into you in hot, pulsing bursts. The sensation of him filling you, of your bodies locked so tightly together, sent another ripple of pleasure through you, leaving you trembling and breathless.

You clung to him as your bodies trembled, lost in the aftershocks of shared release. Shikamarus thrusts slowed, becoming gentle, almost reverent. He pressed soft kisses to your neck and collarbone, a tender contrast to the fury of moments before. Your bodies remained tangled, breaths mingling, heartbeats racing in perfect unison. In the quiet aftermath, nothing else existed—just the two of you, suspended in the stillness, wrapped in the glow of something that felt like more than desire. It felt like devotion. The rise and fall of his chest began to slow, calming in the hush that settled over the room. It was as though neither of you dared to speak, in case words might break whatever this quiet thing was now blooming between you—fragile and beautiful, like morning light just before it touches the world.

But eventually, he shifted.

Just enough to press a kiss to your hairline. Then another, softer, to your temple. And finally, he leaned back, brushing a few strands of hair gently away from your face. His eyes found yours in the dim candlelight still flickering from the hallway, and for a long moment, he just looked at you. Really looked.

There was no smirk. No laziness in his expression. Just something still and certain. Something that reached deeper than words.

He sat up slightly, careful with you. The sheets rustled as he leaned over to grab the light blanket at the foot of the bed, unfolding it and laying it over your body with a quiet kind of reverence. The aftercare wasn’t showy, but it was there—in the way his hands moved gently across your skin, the way he brushed a kiss to your shoulder before laying back down beside you.

His hand found yours again beneath the covers, intertwining your fingers with a sigh that sounded like peace. You stayed like that for a while. Quiet. Breathing. Feeling. His thumb traced over the back of your knuckles like he was memorizing every detail.n“…I leave tomorrow,” you said at last, your voice quiet and barely audible in the stillness. “First light.”

He didn’t say anything for a second. Just nodded, slow and thoughtful. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I know.”

You turned to face him more fully, resting your hand against his chest where you could feel his heart beating—steady and strong beneath your palm. “I’ll come back,” you said, softer now. “To you.” His gaze flickered, just slightly. Something tightened and then released in his face, like he was trying to pretend your words hadn’t meant more than they should. But his fingers tightened around yours, just enough for you to feel it. “Tch,” he muttered, eyes closing briefly. “You’d better.”

You let out a small laugh, the sound breaking through the tenderness like sunlight. His lips twitched at the corners, but his expression remained subdued. “I mean it, Shikamaru,” you said, more serious now. “Whatever happens… I’ll come back.” “I know,” he said, quieter still. “But just in case…” He leaned in again, pressing one last kiss to your lips—slow, anchoring, the kind of kiss that said more than anything he could ever phrase aloud. It wasn’t full of desperation. It was full of promise. You let your forehead rest against his, your noses brushing, breath mingling in that last shared quiet before the weight of the world returned. Neither of you said goodbye. You didn’t need to.

Not when you’d already decided to return to each other. Not when your hearts had already met halfway.

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meanbossart · 8 months ago

Note

Because of how my Echo is, my friends and have have joked that an individual CAN get a blowjob from a Bhaalspawn... once. Now, clearly Astarion still has all his bits and pieces. How much work went into the Drow not biting off something he'd want later?

It took him killing Orin, dying for about 25 seconds, plus several weeks of Astarion trying to convince him that he can in fact shag without going berserk. So, a lot, I guess!

Astarion and DU drow had sex once throughout the duration of the game's plot - during that very first encounter in the forest that Astarion propositions you with. At that point DU drow was very familiar with his bloodlust, but he thought himself in control of it. This is when he begins to realize that he's wrong - carnal desire was threading a very thin line with violence throughout the whole interaction, and DU drow could barely keep a handle on it. I actually have a short little comic about how this resulted in Astarion getting a bit of his lip chomped off.

It's a bit of a key moment in the relationship for a number of reasons ;)

The sex itself was very brief and I don't even think anyone even arrived at a - uh - culmination of any sort.

After this, they didn't sleep together again at all for a good while, even after the defeat of the Nether Brain. DU drow didn't trust himself to get intimate with Astarion even after he was supposedly free of "the urges", since his brain very much continued to see everything in terms of blood and violence. It took him several weeks and a few awkward conversations to take the final plunge and realize that, as weird as his imagination is, he is in fact fully in control of his faculties.

He also suffers with a bit of a case of "not trusting Astarion's autonomy" and had a difficult time believing he wanted to have sex with his partner for any reason beyond feeling obligated to do it. These are both things they address slowly throughout the course of their relationship - it's always present, causing a little bit of friction, but they do their best.

#ask #du drow lore #du drow and astarion #a novel experience

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twst-aceofhearts · 1 month ago

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A Hunter's Prey

𝖆/𝖓: long awaited rook fic @waterthatsmoe hre you go lol

𝖙𝖜: poison/assassination attempt, death

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: rook x snow white!reader

𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘: 1568

𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖘: @luxaryllis @thegoldencontracts @waterthatsmoe @oya-oya-okay @writingattemptsxx

The forest whispered your name.

Its branches reached for you like curious fingers, sunbeams slipping through tangled leaves like golden threads. You ran—bare feet brushing moss and fallen petals, heart pounding with every beat that echoed Vil’s last command.

"She must be eliminated."

You had overheard it, hidden behind the grand velvet curtain in the throne room. Vil’s voice was honey-dipped poison, beautiful even in cruelty. And though you had once loved her as a sister, the Queen’s heart had turned colder with every glance cast into her ornate mirror.

"Rook, you will be my arrow. Hunt her."

You stumbled into a clearing, gasping for air, and there he was.

Rook Hunt.

The Queen’s favorite hunter. A man cloaked in green and gold, as elegant as he was dangerous. His eyes were a piercing green, sharper than the knives strapped at his belt. A smile played at his lips, serene, unreadable.

“My dear princess,” he greeted with a low bow, his feathered hat sweeping the grass. “The forest has welcomed you warmly.”

Your back hit the trunk of a tree. “You’re here to kill me.”

He didn’t deny it. “Oui.”

Silence stretched. A breeze stirred his blond hair.

“But you haven’t drawn your blade,” you whispered.

“Non.” He stepped closer, eyes trailing the frightened tremble in your shoulders, the light in your eyes that still glowed despite the fear. “You are radiant, like morning dew kissed by dawn. Even the cruelest arrow hesitates before such beauty.”

You shook your head. “If Vil finds out you disobeyed—”

“He already suspects my heart is too soft,” he said lightly. “But it is not softness. It is admiration. I do not wish to end a song before it is sung.”

Rook knelt before you, pulling from his pouch a carved box.

“He desires your heart in this,” he said. “But I will give him a lie.”

You stared as he opened it—inside, a perfect rose carved from stone, stained crimson. It was an imitation. Beautiful. Believable.

“He will be satisfied... for now.”

Your voice was a whisper. “Why are you helping me?”

Rook rose, gaze burning like sunlight through leaves. “Because I hunt only the most wondrous prey. And you, ma chère, are not meant to be slain. You are meant to survive.”

He leaned in, brushing a lock of hair from your face with the gentlest touch. “Run deeper into the forest. There are friends there. A cottage of curious souls who will guard you well. And when the Queen learns of my deceit, I will lead her astray. For the fairest one of all deserves more than a tombstone.”

You stared at him, heart caught between awe and fear.

And then you ran—into the trees, into the unknown—while behind you, the Huntsman stood still, watching with reverence, as though he had just released a dream into the wind.

The day had been warm.

You had just finished sweeping the front step of the little woodland cottage—the one Rook had guided you toward before vanishing back into the trees. The forest had been kind. The birds sang your name, deer nuzzled your palms, and the cottage's tiny inhabitants had welcomed you with wide, curious eyes and gentle hearts.

It almost made you forget the fear that once shadowed your every breath.

Almost.

Until she arrived.

An old woman, cloaked in faded lilac and tattered lace, bent-backed with a basket of gleaming fruit.

“Good afternoon, dear,” she rasped, smiling through cracked lips. “Such a lovely young girl. May an old traveler rest here a moment?”

You hesitated. But kindness was your nature, and you nodded. “Of course, ma’am.”

She sat gratefully, setting her basket beside you. “You must be lonely in this forest. A pretty thing like you deserves a treat.”

She held out an apple.

It was the color of velvet blood. Shiny. Perfect. The kind of red that belonged in storybooks, in dreams. Or nightmares.

You blinked. “That’s very kind, but—”

“Ah, don’t be shy,” she crooned. “A single bite, and you’ll taste happiness itself.”

Your fingers brushed the skin of the fruit. Cold. Too cold.

Still… it gleamed like something forbidden and divine. And for a moment, you imagined sharing a slice with Rook, laughing under a golden sun.

You raised it to your lips.

A crisp sound.

The bite crunched between your teeth, sweet and sharp all at once.

Then—

Agony.

Your throat burned. Your fingers spasmed, the apple tumbling to the ground. The world tilted, spun, darkened.

You gasped for breath but none came.

And as you fell, skirts fanned around you like a wilting flower, you saw the old woman straighten. Too tall. Too graceful. Her disguise dissolved like mist, replaced with beauty too perfect to be human.

Vil.

Eyes like shattered mirrors stared down at you, glittering with triumph and something darker.

“The fairest one of all,” he murmured coldly. “No longer.”

Darkness bloomed in the corners of your eyes. The last thing you saw was Vil’s silhouette turning away—flawless, unbothered, victorious.

And the shattered red of the apple glinting beside your still hand.

It was the silence that told him.

Rook had always known the forest by its song—the rustle of leaves, the gossip of birds, the heartbeat of life. But today, the silence clung like mourning veils, too still, too heavy. As if the forest itself were holding its breath.

When he reached the clearing, he stopped breathing too.

There you lay.

A coffin of glass nestled in a bed of moss and violet petals. The woodland creatures had gathered—silent witnesses to beauty preserved and a tragedy unfinished. Seven small figures stood in solemn vigil, heads bowed, eyes damp.

You looked untouched by death. Frozen in the moment of slumber, lips still parted from the last breath you took. Skin pale as winter’s first snow. Hands folded over your chest, one lock of hair curling against your cheek like the gentle brush of a lover’s hand.

Rook fell to his knees.

“Mon trésor…” he breathed, voice cracking with a sound he had never made before. It was not poetic. It was not elegant.

It was raw.

He touched the glass with trembling fingers. “No... this is not how your story ends.”

They told him what happened. Of the old woman with eyes too sharp, of the apple’s gleam, of how you crumpled to the earth like a fallen star.

And Rook knew.

Vil.

His Queen. His muse. His cruel perfection.

He clenched his jaw until it ached.

But he did not shatter the glass. He did not scream.

Instead, he knelt beside you for days.

He spoke to you in soft murmurs—verses from songs he once sang, stories of hunts you never heard, promises left unspoken.

“You were never prey,” he whispered once. “You were the moonlight. And I... I was too late to follow its path.”

The forest wept with him.

But still, your lips remained still. Still red. Still parted.

Still waiting.

The coffin lay untouched beneath the flowering tree.

Each petal that drifted from above kissed the glass with reverence, as if even nature mourned her. Within, you lay—still, unaging, as if slumber had preserved your beauty just as it had your breath.

Rook Hunt had never feared silence until now.

He stood before the glass, boots soaked with dew, cloak heavier than before. His bow was slung over his shoulder, forgotten. In his hands, he carried a single white lily.

He laid it beside you.

The dwarves had said the spell was unbreakable. That nothing—no magic, no potion—could draw breath back to your lips.

But Rook, hunter of beauty, believed in more than logic.

He believed in love.

He knelt.

“My princess,” he whispered, voice like a prayer. “You still steal my breath, even now, in your quiet sleep. But I have grown selfish. I wish to hear you speak again. To see you smile and know that it was not a memory.”

He placed a hand against the glass.

“It should have been me,” he murmured. “I was meant to protect you. I was meant to defy her, not just with words but with action. I was a coward with poetry and no sword.”

The forest held its breath.

“And yet… if the stories are true, if even one tale holds a grain of hope…”

He stood, leaning over the coffin. His fingers unlatched the cover with the gentleness of snow melting in spring. A soft creak broke the stillness.

He bent forward.

“This is not a goodbye,” he said, brushing his lips to your forehead. Then, to your lips—warm despite the stillness.

A kiss.

Not one of grandeur or ceremony. But a kiss filled with all the words he had never said. All the hunts he would have abandoned just to keep you safe. All the silent sonnets in his heart.

And then—

A breath.

Your fingers twitched.

Rook’s eyes widened, breath catching as you gasped—like surfacing from deep water. Your chest rose, lashes fluttered, and your lips parted as a trembling whisper escaped:

“...Rook?”

Tears blurred his vision.

“Oui,” he choked, gripping your hand with both of his. “Oui, mon cœur. I’m here.”

You stared at him, dazed but alive.

And Rook Hunt, the hunter sent to kill you, the man who once walked with shadows, now wept in the light of your awakening.

The curse was broken.

Not with a blade.

But with love.

credit to @cafekitsune for divider

#athena fics #twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst rook #rook hunt #rook x reader #twst rook x reader #snow white au

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fanficsat12am · 1 month ago

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The Prince and the Handmaiden

Born of blood and forbidden longing, the red anemone blooms in Ithaca—this time within a handmaiden who was never meant to love a crown-bound prince. wc: 2.7k warnings: mentions of hanahaki disease, blood and death credits of the art goes to the wonderful @duvetbox and thank you once again to @saradika-graphics for the dividers ❤️

Telemachus pulls you along by the hand, his hold tightening as you both take another turn in the winding forest. You duck, narrowly missing a branch to the face.

“My prince, where are we going? Your mother will be worried sick!” Despite your words, his pace doesn’t falter.

“We're almost there! Just a bit more” he calls over his shoulder, breath hitching with excitement.

You were a bit hesitant when the young prince eagerly came to you as you were about to clean the queen’s quarters. You had lived within the palace walls for as long as you could remember, having helped your mother tend to the queen as chief handmaiden before her passing. From an early age, you had grown familiar with the Prince of Ithaca, watching from afar as he grew from a boy into the man he was today. He was kind—always offering you a smile when your paths crossed, never failing to greet you warmly. Often, you would sneak glances at him, and sometimes, you caught him staring back at you.

As one of the queen’s loyal handmaidens, you knew your duties came first. But with that all-too-familiar spark in his eyes, how could you bring yourself to refuse him? And so, here you are now, weaving through trees and vines, chasing a secret destination he has yet to reveal.

He suddenly halts, letting out a soft grunt as you bump into the back of his chlamys.

“We’re here…” he heaves, a little breathless.

You peek over his shoulder and gasp. In front of you lies a field of red anemones, blooming wild from edge to edge. You walk closer and watch as they sway with the wind, as if dancing just for the two of you. Kneeling down, you take one into your hands, admiring its delicate petals.

“It’s beautiful, My lord,” you whisper, awestruck.

The boy grins, “Please, Telemachus will suffice” he says, settling onto the grass. “I found it by chance. The world was too loud… I came here seeking stillness. But when I saw the flowers, I thought—what is beauty, if not shared?”

He pats the ground beside him, beckoning you to sit. You pause, still uncertain, but your feet move before your mind can protest. For a moment, you both sit in silence, relishing the cold breath of the wind and the hush of leaves overhead.

The sunset’s glow falls upon you and only now do you truly take in the boy's form. He was carved in the shape of kings and wanderers — sun-warmed skin, dark curls tousled by salt winds, and eyes that held both storms and gentleness. To look at him too long was to forget yourself.

“My apologies for taking you away from the palace, Despoina (Y/N). I promise I shall speak with my mother, should she grow concerned. I simply… wished for a moment for us, away from watchful eyes and endless duties.”

You gasp softly. “There is no need for such titles, Prince Telemachus. It is of too much regard for a handmaiden such as myself. And it is my honour and purpose to serve the crown… including the one who may one day wear it.

A small laugh slips from the prince’s lips. “My mother taught me to see all as equals. You see yourself as only my mother’s handmaiden, to me you are the closest thing I have to a friend.”

You toy with the hem of your chiton, fingers restless as the hush returns between you.

After a beat, he speaks again, quieter this time—like he’s not just talking to you, but letting something slip out of him.

“You have a habit, I’ve noticed — when your mind wanders, your fingers weave and tug at the very hem where the thread begins to fray.”

Your fingers still. You blink.

He notices.

“Forgive me,” he says, a little sheepish now. “I didn't mean to…”

You shake your head slowly. “I just didn’t think…”

“That I noticed?” he finishes.

Your breath catches.

“You were always there,” he says, eyes fixed not on the flowers, but on you. “At my mother’s side. Quiet. Graceful. But not unseen.”

He plucks a red anemone, twirling the stem slowly between his fingers.

“You’d smile at the younger girls when they were afraid. You’d smooth the queen’s cloak before she entered the hall. I watched you carry more weight than any girl should have to. And still… you never faltered.”

His voice is barely above a whisper now.

“We are two souls born of the same loom, merely woven on opposite ends”

The breeze catches your hair and for a moment, neither of you speaks.

“I did not think my name was known to you,” you murmur, voice fragile like the petal he holds.

He looks at you then with a small smile, eyes lit like the fading sky.

“You are like a candle in a dark room. Not loud, but impossible to ignore…”

You felt your cheeks grow warm, breaking your gaze.

“It’s growing dark. We should get back to the palace” Rising and brushing the grass from his chlamys, he offers you his hand, palm open, gentle.

You hesitate just a breath, then place your hand in his. His fingers curl around yours—not tight, but warm. Familiar. As if this wasn’t the first time… and wouldn’t be the last.

“Thank you for bringing me here,” you murmur as he pulls you up, your voice barely above the rustle of the wind.

He holds your gaze for a second too long.

You look away, heart thudding.

As the two of you walk back through the forest path, your fingers brush now and then—but neither of you pulls away.

From then on, your newfound friendship with the prince began to blossom. What once were fleeting smiles and polite greetings soon turned into quiet conversations and shared glances across the corridors. His presence seemed to make even the dullest of days feel sun-touched, and his laughter—light and unguarded—often chased the gloom from your thoughts.

The other handmaidens had begun to take notice. Whispers followed you through the halls—soft, teasing remarks about how the prince’s gaze lingered a little too long when you entered a room, or how he always seemed to find you no matter how busy the palace became. You brushed them off with a shy smile and returned to your duties, unwilling to feed into something that could never truly be yours.

You knew your place. A handmaiden—no matter how loyal, no matter how kind—would never stand beside the Prince of Ithaca. And yet, something about him continued to draw you in. Perhaps it was the way he spoke your name like it was a secret he wanted to keep, or the way his touch, light as it was, would linger a heartbeat longer than it needed to. You told yourself it meant nothing. You tried to believe it.

But your heart betrayed you.

It leapt at the sound of his voice. It ached in his absence. And with every tender glance, every brush of fingers, the feeling inside you grew—sweet, painful, and unspoken.

And then… came the cough.

At first, it was nothing. A tickle in your throat. A small irritation you blamed on the changing seasons or the dust from the linens. You swallowed it down, ignored the discomfort.

But it worsened.

The coughs grew deeper, more forceful, like your body was trying to rid itself of something it could not contain. There were moments when your breath caught, your chest tightened, and a strange, sharp ache settled beneath your ribs. You began to excuse yourself more often, hiding behind columns or ducking into empty chambers to recover in solitude.

When the first petal fell, you stared at it in your hand, heart thudding in your chest. You recognized it instantly—the red anemone, unmistakable with its brilliant scarlet hue fading into ghostly white at the tips. It was impossible. And yet, there it was, soft and trembling in your palm.

You didn’t dare tell anyone. Not yet.

Telemachus had started to worry. You saw it in the way his eyes followed you when you thought he wasn't looking, how his brow furrowed when you vanished from your usual place beside the queen. He’d noticed how you grew quieter, weaker—tasks you had once done with ease now left you breathless. Your once-bright eyes had dulled, and the warmth of your skin had paled to something almost fragile.

He had tried to ask, more than once. His voice soft, filled with that boyish concern he could never quite hide. But every time, you gave him the same gentle smile and turned away, pretending all was well.

But you knew it was far from the truth.

You had heard about it once, whispered from your mother’s lips like a ghost story. The Hanahaki. A curse borne of unspoken love so great that it could ill. It was said to be a punishment from Eros himself—a cruel trial where the heart bloomed flowers, and the lungs wept petals of longing. The deeper the feeling left unreturned, the more vicious the growth. Vines would creep along the rib cage, thorned and merciless, until at last it strangled the breath from the beloved.

Worst of all, no one had ever survived it; for no one knew the cure.

And so for months, you suffered in silence. Alone. You would retreat to the hidden corners of the palace—the abandoned garden shed, the far end of the servants’ courtyard, or the dry bathing rooms long out of use. Anywhere you could cough unnoticed, retching petal after petal, staining your palms with color and sorrow.

Sometimes it was only a few. Other times, it was full blossoms, slick with blood, clinging to your throat. Breathing began to feel like drowning in a sea of silk and thorns. Each breath a battle, each gasp a storm raging in your chest.

As Telemachus wandered the marble halls one late morning, he caught the sound of his mother’s voice drifting through the corridor. She was speaking with one of the handmaidens before dismissing her gently. Her eyes turned to him with a knowing smile.

“Telemachus,” she said warmly, “Have you seen (Y/N) today? It’s well past midday and I’ve yet to catch sight of her.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “N-no! I—I haven’t, why would you think that” he stammered, too quickly.

Penelope chuckled, shaking her head as she studied her son’s poorly concealed fluster.

“Don’t mistake me for a fool, my child,” she said softly. “I see how you look at her.”

Despite her calm expression, there was an edge to her voice—worry carefully veiled behind a mother’s grace. Telemachus could see it in her eyes. After all these years, (Y/N) had become more than a handmaiden to the queen. She was something closer. Like a daughter.

His brows knit together, a quiet storm of worry beginning to stir in his chest. Without wasting a moment, he scoured the palace from end to end, asking every handmaiden he passed if they had seen you. Each gave the same answer—a shake of the head, a look of uncertainty. No one knew where you had gone.

After hours of fruitless searching, a heavy truth settled in his gut: you were nowhere within the palace walls. That familiar fear crept in, curling cold around his heart.

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of fire and rose, a thought dawned on him—one final place he hadn’t yet searched.

His feet carried him before his mind could catch up, retracing the path through the forest with frantic urgency. Leaves tore beneath his sandals, branches scraping against his arms as he pushed through the thicket. Then he saw it—a familiar flower, its crimson petals blooming defiantly against the green of the forest.

Red anemones.

He halted, eyes narrowing. Something was off. He knelt to inspect one closely, and his heart dropped.

A smear of deep red.

Blood.

He swore he could rival Hermes himself, for his body moved as if possessed by the wind god’s blessing. He sprinted through the trees, dodging brambles and roots, his heart thrumming like a war drum in his chest, panic clawing its way up his throat. The forest blurred around him.

And then—there you were.

Collapsed among the sea of flowers.

At first glance, he thought you might have been asleep. Peaceful, even. But then your body trembled with another fit of coughing, and he saw the blossoms—bloody, broken anemones strewn around you like a wreath of death.

“No…” he whispered, rushing to your side. He dropped to his knees, cradling your head in his lap, staring in horror at the blood that painted your lips, the petals clinging to your dress, the tremor in your limbs.

“By the gods… What happened to you?” His voice cracked, thick with disbelief. “What is this? What illness—why didn’t you tell me?”

You tried to smile, but it faltered beneath another cough. “My prince,” you rasped, voice barely audible. “I’m sorry… you had to see me like this.”

His eyes burned. “Stop. Stop with such nonsense.” He cupped your cheek, his touch trembling. “We’re going back to the palace. I’ll call for the best healers in Ithaca, in all of Hellas, I—”

You placed a weak hand on his arm, shaking your head ever so slightly.

“There’s nothing they can do,” you whispered, a soft sorrow blooming in your gaze. “It’s too late for m—” A violent cough tore through your chest, doubling you over as more crimson-stained petals spilled from your lips. Your body shook with the effort, each breath shallow, each second feeling like it could be your last.

“No,” he breathed, voice cracking. His grip on you tightened, desperate, as if he could anchor your spirit with the sheer force of his will. You looked up at him, the last rays of sunlight catching in your eyes—eyes that once shone with quiet fire, now glassy and dimming. Staring into the windows of your soul, Telemachus prayed—no, begged—to every god and titan in existence, pleading for one more moment. One more breath. One more heartbeat.

How poetic, she thought bitterly, that it would be the red anemone to mark her end—a flower said to have been born from Aphrodite’s tears mingled with the blood of Adonis, a symbol of love that was beautiful, but doomed. A flower birthed by gods, steeped in sorrow and longing. It was only fitting that such a bloom would take root in her own lungs, fed by a love just as forbidden. What cruel symmetry—to die not by blade or illness, but by the weight of loving the Prince of Ithaca in silence. A love as sacred as it was impossible.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I tried—I tried not to love you. But I couldn’t stop.”

Your eyes fluttered shut like petals falling in slow surrender.

“No, no, no—” Telemachus repeated, over and over, like a prayer, like a curse. “Please… I don’t—I can’t live without you.” His voice cracked. “I love you, (Y/N)...”

A tear traced the curve of his cheek as he cradled you tighter. He leaned down, lips trembling, and pressed the gentlest kiss to your mouth—one full of sorrow, and desperate hope. “Please… stay,” he murmured against your lips. “Come back to me.”

And then—he felt it.

The softest breath, barely there, brushed against his face. His eyes widened, hope snapping through him like lightning.

Your chest rose. Then again. And again.

Your eyelids fluttered open slowly, confusion and life flickering in your gaze. “Telemachus…?”

“(Y/N)!” he cried, laughter bubbling with tears, hands cupping your face like something precious returned from the dead. “You came back—thank the gods, you came back to me!”

He pulled you to him, holding you as if he’d never let go again. The red anemones swayed around you in the breeze, no longer a symbol of death, but of love that defied it.

In that sacred clearing, kissed by fading sunlight and trembling prayers, the boy who would become king held the girl who had once only served. And somewhere, far above, even the gods were silent—for even they could not write a tale more aching or more divine.

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