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lowkeyren · 3 months ago

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—how to win my husband over 101

in which : you marry the ruthless prince of kremnos, and everyone says you'll never thaw his heart. but you’re nothing if not stubborn. surely all you have to do is win him over right? how hard can that be?

wc 8.7k (it’s worth it trust me), historical au, marriage of convenience, sunshine x grumpy, strangers to lovers, you fell first + he fell harder, fem reader referred to as “princess” / “milady”, ts burns so slow u might rip ur hair out sorry, heavily ib how to get my husband on my side. art by @/kannbergri on x.

surprise pookies @vxnuslogy @luvether @knnichs @kazucee it’s finally here!!!!

PROLOGUE: HOW TO SURVIVE THE EARLY DAYS

you married a stranger to save your homeland.

there was no love in the arrangement, no romantic vows exchanged beneath moonlit skies, no promises of forever whispered in soft voices. just firm handshakes and signatures inked on parchment.

it was a straightforward agreement: kremnos would protect your people in exchange for a union, and you were sent to marry the crown prince, mydeimos, to solidify the alliance.

you had heard his name long before you ever saw his face. prince mydeimos of kremnos —a name whispered with reverence, with fear, with awe; carrying the weight of countless victories carved into the blood-soaked chaos of battlefields.

but none of those stories prepared you for the reality of him.

the grand hall of kremnos' palace feels colder than you imagined.

marble floors stretch endlessly beneath your feet, polished to a gleaming perfection that seems to reflect the distance between you and the life awaiting you here. the walls, adorned with banners of deep reds and golds, do little to warm the oppressive air.

servants pass by in hushed movements, their heads bowed, their whispers inaudible. the air carries the faint aroma of polished wood and lingering incense, yet there is no warmth to be found —not in the hall, not from the people, and certainly not from the man standing at the far end of the room.

you bow slightly out of instinct, a gesture of respect, though you feel foolish doing so in the context of your marriage.

dressed in the royal garb of kremnos, a deep red cloak embroidered with gold thread draped over his shoulders, his marigold eyes lock onto yours with piercing intensity.

“princess,” he greets you, his words polished to a fault —exactly what you’d expect from a prince.

“your highness,” you reply, matching his formality.

“welcome to kremnos, i trust the journey was not too difficult.”

it’s not a question, you realize. merely a statement to acknowledge your presence. you offer a polite nod, “the journey was smooth, your highness,” you reply, your voice steady despite the unease creeping into your chest. “thank you for your hospitality.”

you watch as he takes a glass of reddish liquid from a servant standing nearby, lifting it to his lips with ease, the vibrant color catching your eye.

the rich crimson hue seems too unnatural for something as mundane as wine. your gaze fixes on the glass as he drinks, a chill running down your spine as an unsettling thought creeps in.

is he drinking... blood?

your heart skips, a sudden nervousness, and you quickly avert your gaze, unable to meet his eyes.

he catches your stare however, “what is it that you find so fascinating?”

flustered, you lower your head, stammering, "i... beg your pardon, your highness.”

you can feel your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your cheeks as you panic. the weight of his cold gaze is almost unbearable, and you fear you’ve already made a fool of yourself.

for a moment, you dare not look at him, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you.

the prince casually wipes the red liquid from his lips with the back of his hand, as your eyes drift involuntarily toward the glass once more, still questioning its contents.

his eyes flicker to you as they narrow, “still curious?”

you freeze, wrecking your head for a sensible answer lest you further embarrass yourself.

with a sharp sigh, he places the glass down on the tray. “it’s pomegranate juice, nothing more.”

you blink, stunned for a moment, the absurdity of your previous assumption crashing down on you.

“pomegranate juice,” you repeat softly, as if testing the words to see if they make sense.

“yes. is that so difficult to believe?”

that night, you lay on the luxurious bed in your chamber, the events of the evening swirling in your mind. you shake your head, embarrassed by your own overactive imagination.

you turn onto your side, pulling the heavy blankets tighter around you, but sleep evades you.

yes, your husband is a man of few words, fewer emotions, and absolutely no warmth when it comes to you. yet within that frost lies a heart, waiting for the right touch to thaw it.

ACT I: HOW TO DRAW HIS ATTENTION

over the weeks, you've learned many peculiar things about your husband.

you’ve noticed, for instance, that he always rises before dawn, and spends hours in the training grounds perfecting his form —an unyielding warrior at heart. or how he has an unusual preference for adding goat's milk to his pomegranate juice, a combination that strikes you as strange yet somehow fitting for him.

you’ve also discovered that, contrary to expectations, he favors the color pink —an oddly delicate choice for a man so rigid in his demeanor. and while he is undeniably polite, he also remains stern and is not one to easily open up, not even to those closest to him.

all that you've learned, you’ve used in an attempt to earn his favor, though your effort often feels like trying to breach a concrete wall.

(one day, you deliberately rise early, before the sun fully breaks over the horizon, and make your way to the training grounds.

there, you find a concealed spot in the shadows, watching him spar with the guards. you’ve gone, in part, because you want him to know you care, but also because of the impressive display of his skill that subconsciously draws you in.

it’s not long before he notices your presence; his expression remains impassive, but his gaze hardens, narrowing slightly as he observes you making your way to him from across the field.

as you finally reach him, you extend the water in your hand. but just as you take a step closer, your foot catches on an uneven stone. you stumble forward, crashing into him, and spilling the cold water across his chest.

the gasp that escapes you is quickly followed by frantic apologies.

"princess," he says coolly, the water dripping from his toned muscles, tracing the lines of his broad shoulders and down his chest. "...are you always this clumsy, or is today a special occasion?"

ah.

well at least he has jokes..?)

or after noticing how he often stays silent during meals, you decide to change the pace.

(at the dining hall, you ask about his interests, but he only gives brief, impersonal responses; his attention fixed on his plate, quietly indulging in the honey-drenched pancakes. you try to make a lighthearted joke, but he doesn’t even look up, offering only a polite “i see” before the silence drapes over the table again.

so, you finally decide to try a more… direct approach —flattery. surely, no man can resist a little charm, right?

you lean close as you gather all the courage you can muster, batting your eyelashes at him hoping you appear as endearing as you intend.

"i must say, my dear husband, you —uh, you are unmatched in your… strength and wisdom. it’s no wonder my heart can’t help but be drawn to you..?”

well that didn’t exactly sound convincing.

“and�� your arms, they’re quite impressive. i mean —wait, that’s not what i meant—”

and that certainly didn’t make it any better!

you brace yourself, expecting a sharp rebuke or, at the very least, some irritation. but instead, he simply nods, offering a brief, detached “thank you” before turning his attention back to his meal.

you immediately avert your gaze, feeling a pang of relief. though it’s strange to think that at any moment, your husband might decide to chop your head off for being so foolish (...if he felt so inclined) he is the crowned prince, after all; and while his politeness is unsettling, it’s still better than his wrath... right?)

either way, it’s clear that your efforts have made not the slightest dent. better luck next time!

today will be different.

failure has never sat well with you, and after last night’s mortifying attempt at charming your husband, you refuse to let things end on such a dismal note. if words fail, then perhaps actions will speak louder.

so, with a woven basket tucked under your arm, you wander through the palace gardens first, where roses and marigolds flourish in a riot of color, their petals unfurling like delicate silk under the afternoon sun. honeysuckle vines twist gracefully around the trellises, their sweet fragrance lingering in the warm afternoon air.

you kneel amidst the blooms, fingers brushing over soft petals, feeling the gentle give of each flower beneath your touch. carefully, you pluck a few of each, tucking them gently into your basket, mindful of their fragile stems. you arrange them just so, already picturing the bouquet coming together in your hands.

but as you wander further, you find yourself drawn toward the edge of the estate. past the hedgerows and beyond the garden’s stone pathway, you notice something that catches your eye, a cluster of wildflowers —soft pinks and gentle whites.

perfect! these will be the finishing touch to complete your bouquet for mydeimos.

pleased with yourself, you smile and make your way toward the water’s edge. leaning forward, you stretch out to pluck one, your body lowering toward the ground, shifting your weight slightly, when—

a sudden force slams into your back.

the breath is knocked clean from your lungs. there's no time to react as the world tilts violently, and before you can even scream, the cold shock of water swallows you whole.

it’s deeper than you thought.

icy water rushes into your nose and mouth, sending a searing burn down your throat. panic grips you as the world above fractures into shimmering light, distorted by the rippling surface. you try to push yourself up, but alas, the weight of your dress still drags you down.

as you thrash around uselessly, your limbs start growing heavier. the surface above you slips further away; and the last thing you register is the sensation of strong arms wrapping around you —with a final strained breath, your vision dims to nothingness.

the next thing you feel is warmth.

your head rests against something solid, a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek .a firm hold keeps you close, one braced securely around your back, the other hooked beneath your knees.

you blink sluggishly, your lashes heavy with water. that’s when you realise, you’re in the arms of your husband.

his hair clings to his forehead, damp strands framing the sharp angles of his face. droplets trace slow paths down his jawline, soaking into the dark fabric of his tunic —leaving nothing to the imagination.

for a moment, disoriented and breathless, you can only blink up at him.

did he jump in after you..?

“why did you wander off alone?” he chastises, snapping you back to reality.

your throat feels tight, your heart hammering in your chest. "i-i just wanted to do something for you!" the confession spills from your lips, desperate, your fingers clinging instinctively to the soaked fabric of his sleeve.

it’s foolish, maybe, but you’re still reeling —from the near drowning, from the fact that mydeimos saved you.

he exhales sharply, exasperation heavy in his breath. "why are you like this…" his grip tightens on you, but there’s a tension in his voice as if he’s swallowing something he can’t quite put into words. “didn’t i say there’s no need to attract attention this way?"

the accusation stings, your brows knit together as you shake your head, droplets of water slipping down your temples. "i just… thought you’d like some flowers."

his fingers, still curled beneath your back, twitch slightly, his hold unconsciously steadying you.

“you don’t need to do anything reckless just to get my attention," he murmurs at last, his voice softer now, no longer edged with frustration. then, almost hesitantly, he adds, "...if you want something, just come to me."

mydeimos shifts, adjusting his hold on you before finally rising to his feet. the movement is effortless, but even so, a sharp chill runs through you as the air bites at your damp skin. before you can fully steady yourself, he places you down, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary before withdrawing.

your dress clings uncomfortably to you, heavy with water, and when you glance down, you spot the basket lying a short distance away, half-tilted on the grass. the flowers you so carefully picked are scattered around it, petals crumpled, stems bent.

a pit forms in your stomach. all that effort, and now—

a shadow moves beside you. mydeimos steps forward, the hem of his cloak grazing against the fallen blooms. he considers them for a moment, then looks back at you.

“well?” his voice is steady, and you can’t quite grasp the intention behind it. “you went through all that trouble to gather the flowers… aren’t you going to give them to me?”

sure they're not nearly as perfect as they were when you first picked them. still, you kneel, fingers brushing over the damp grass as you carefully pick up the least damaged flowers, smoothing out the crumpled petals as best you can.

“…here.” slowly, hesitantly, you extend the bouquet towards him.

his fingers brush against yours as he accepts the flowers. “sorry they’re ruined,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

he shakes his head, unbothered. “they’re mine now, so i’ll take care of them.”

there’s no mockery in his expression, no disdain for your failed efforts. if anything, there’s something almost unreadable in the way he looks at you, something that makes your heart lurch against your ribs.

he spares you one last glance, then turns. “come. you need to get changed before you fall ill.”

and just like that, your husband walks ahead, idly twirling one of the flowers between his fingers. hardened steel and soft petals, strength and fragility; it doesn't look out of place.

somehow, it fits him too well.

ACT II: HOW TO CARE FOR A WARRIOR

once a year, the empire erupts into feverish anticipation for the annual gladiatorial tournament. a traditional competition of strength, bloodshed, and sheer willpower.

held in the heart of the capital, within the city of kremnos; warriors from across the kingdom —such as knights from noble houses, seasoned mercenaries, and ambitious upstarts, all gather within the grand coliseum, each vying for glory, honor, or a place in history.

and three weeks from now, the coliseum will roar with life, filled to the brim with nobles and commoners alike, all eager to witness the blood and glory that’ll unfold within the arena.

the tournament may be weeks away, but mydeimos knows better than to grow complacent.

within the castle training grounds, the clash of steel echoes through the air, each strike reverberating like a war drum. two figures move in relentless rhythm, locked in a sparring match that is as much a dance as it is a battle.

mydeimos meets his opponent’s strike head-on; phainon, captain of the royal knights, his equal in skill if not in strength, matches him blow for blow. the force of the impact ripples through his arm, but he does not waver. instead, he swiftly pivots, forcing mydeimos onto the defensive.

the crown prince presses forward, his sword carving ruthless arcs through the air, a feint —then a sudden, brutal swing aimed at his opponent’s side.

phainon barely manages to parry, their blades grinding against each other in a fierce deadlock. exhaling sharply through his nose, he holds firm against the pressure. “mydei,” phainon mutters, breathless. “don't hold back."

mydei’s gaze remains unreadable, but there’s a flicker of something —amusement, perhaps, before he abruptly shifts his weight. with a sharp twist, he breaks the deadlock.

“HKS,” he counters, shoving forward with enough strength to force phainon back a step. “getting tired?”

phainon lets out a short laugh, adjusting his stance. “not in the slightest.” he disengages, spinning his blade in a quick counterstrike.

alas, the fight reaches no clear victor, ending in yet another stalemate.

exhaling, phainon lowers his blade. “not bad.”

but before mydei can respond; a slow, warm trickle down his arm draws his attention. his gaze flickers downward —a thin slash mars his bicep, blood welling along the cut.

the knight’s expression shifts, eyes catching on the wound. “heh looks like i take the win this time,” he gloats, though there’s a slightest hint of concern in his tone.

“...though i do apologise, your highness,” phainon says, eyeing the wound with a tilt of his head.

mydei rolls his shoulder, testing the ache, then huffs. “nothing to be sorry for.” his lips curl slightly, eyes flicking back to phainon.

“but don’t think this means i’m letting you off easy. we’ll settle it properly next time.”

“oh? and here i thought you’d take the loss with dignity for once,” phainon snorts, sheathing his blade in one smooth motion. “but i suppose i wouldn’t want you growing too accustomed to losing.”

“you land one lucky hit and suddenly you’re talking like you’ve dethroned me.” mydei scoffs, already turning toward the weapons rack. phainon watches him go, shaking his head to himself before following suit.

mydei doesn’t know why you’re worrying so much.

the cut is insignificant, to him at least. within hours, it’ll be gone —his body already stitching itself back together. he doesn’t need tending to, least of all by you.

and yet, here you are.

as you sit beside him, your hands deftly press a cloth soaked in cool water to his wound, cleaning away the dried blood with careful strokes. for some reason, seeing you like this —fussing over him with a tenderness he’s never quite experienced before —renders him quiet.

“…you’re frowning,” he murmurs.

“because you’re hurt,” you say as a matter of factly, setting the cloth aside before reaching for a bandage. your fingers are gentle as they smooth it over his skin, lightly tracing the curves of his biceps.

he watches the way your lips press together, tying the final knot with a delicate tug, patting the fabric down as if to reassure yourself that it will hold.

something tugs at the edge of his mind.

you’ve pretended to love him ever since you stepped foot in kremnos; he thought he knew every expression you wore, every feigned tenderness. but this —this time, it’s different. there’s no audience here, no need for the carefully crafted role of the adoring wife.

so why do you still look at him like that?

his breath stills. he doesn’t know what to make of this.

“…please be more careful next time.” mydei glances at his arm, the ache is already fading.

you don’t know how pointless all of this is. by morning, there won’t even be a scar.

you exhale softly, your brows still furrowed in concern. then, as if unable to help yourself, your fingertips ghost over the bandage, smoothing it down with a tenderness that makes his chest tighten.

“does it still hurt?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

he should say no. he should tell you it’s nothing.

but when he looks at you —sees the way your eyes linger on him, so earnestly unguarded. he falters.

“…not much,” he admits instead. “you act as if i’m on death’s door.”

“and you act as if you’re invincible,” you retort softly.

he freezes.

he almost laughs at the irony of it —because in some ways, you aren’t wrong. his body will always mend itself, his wounds never lasting long enough to be of real consequence.

but his darling wife doesn’t know that.

and perhaps that’s why he lets you worry, lets you dote on him with such sweet, unknowing devotion. because, against all logic —against everything he’s told himself, he finds that he likes it.

your touch finally retreats, hands settling in your lap. “i’ll leave you to rest, your highness.”

you rise from your seat, and as you turn to leave, mydei catches himself watching the space where your hands had been, the phantom warmth still resting against his skin.

for a wound that’s already gone, he finds it strange —how reluctant he is to let it fade.

ACT III: HOW TO AVOID MISUNDERSTANDINGS

"sir phainon, thank you for showing me around the city," you say, offering the man beside you a faint smile as you step around a corner.

the knight dips his head, “of course, milady. the pleasure’s all mine."

you’re glad phainon took time off to accompany you —wandering the city alone would’ve definitely left you lost and stewing in your own thoughts.

phainon glances at you, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. "but i’m surprised his highness let you wander the city with another man," he muses.

you let out a small laugh, running your fingers along the petals of a flower display as you pass by. "well, i don’t think he cares."

phainon’s steps slow, his brow lifting ever so slightly, as if he isn’t sure whether he misheard you or if you’re simply playing coy. "you don’t think he—" he exhales a sharp chuckle, running a hand through his hair. "hah. now that’s funny."

you shoot a puzzled look at him,"what is?"

to phainon, who’s seen the way mydei looks at you, heard the way he speaks of you; your words make no sense at all.

—but he holds his tongue. "nothing, milady. let’s keep walking before i say something i shouldn’t."

the warmth of the moment sours when you round a corner near the market square. there, just past a cluster of gossiping nobles, mydei stands stiffly, arms crossed as he listens to a young woman speak.

you recognize her —a lady-in-waiting that serves in the palace.

“…always playing the victim,” she sneers, voice pitched just loud enough to draw attention. “everyone pities her, but really, she’s just an outsider to kremnos—”

your steps falter, confusion flickering across your face. is that lady… talking about you?

“she was never worthy of standing by his highness’s side!” the lady continues with simpering disdain.

beside you, your companion stiffens, his fingers subtly curling at his sides. he’s noticed, too.

but before you can fully process the words, she lets out a haughty laugh. “she tripped herself that day. i only gave her a little push and—”

“what?” mydei’s voice cuts through the air, his eyes narrowing.

the lady startles, whipping around to face him, but quickly smooths her expression into one of feigned innocence. “y-your highness…” she lowers her head just slightly. “i only meant that a mere nudge shouldn’t have been enough to send her stumbling so helplessly.”

she offers a small, demure smile. “unless, of course, one lacks the grace befitting a princess.”

“it was unfortunate that your highness was troubled because of—”

her words trail off as her gaze flicks to the side, right where you stand.

and in that fleeting moment, mydei follows her line of sight.

your breath catches. you hadn’t meant to be seen.

a small, almost imperceptible smirk forms on her lips; just as mydei glances to your side, his attention diverted for a split second; she falls toward him, her body angling toward him in a way that all but demands he steady her.

you feel a jolt of realization —her intentions are clear as day towards you.

mydei’s eyes barely flicker as she topples toward him, but his hand moves —not to steady her, as she so clearly intended, but to seize her wrist in a firm, unyielding grip.

with a sharp tug, he wrenches her upright, the motion not even close to an act of chivalry.

a startled gasp slips past her lips, her wide eyes darting up, stunned by the strength of his hold. the gathered onlookers murmur amongst themselves as the prince fixes her with a cold, unreadable stare.

“tell me. are you purposely trying to cause a misunderstanding between me and my wife?”

the lady blanches, her mouth opening and closing as she scrambles for a response. “y-your highness, i would never—”

“spare me the excuses.” his fingers uncoil, and she stumbles back, barely catching herself. she cradles her wrist as though burned, whether from pain or humiliation, it’s hard to tell.

“guards.” mydeimos doesn’t raise his voice, but the command rings clear. two armored figures stationed nearby immediately step forward, “take her away.”

“y-your highness, i only—”

mydeimos doesn’t even spare her a glance as he delivers the lady’s fate. “for daring to put her hands on the princess, she is to be punished accordingly. let this serve as a reminder, such conduct has no place in my court.”

the color drains from her face as the guards seize her by the arms, her protests falling on deaf ears. the onlookers part to make way, some exchanging knowing glances, others whispering amongst themselves.

then mydeimos’ gaze softens —only slightly, in your direction.

phainon leans in, “and yet, milady insists that his highness does not care?”

but you don’t respond, heart fluttering traitorously in your chest as mydeimos turns on his heel and strides toward you.

with a small tilt of his head, he nods to phainon before finally speaking.

“she was desperate,” he remarks, voice edged with dry amusement. “did you see how she threw herself at me? pitiful.”

he studies you for a moment, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze. “...you weren’t fooled, were you?”

you blink, caught off guard by his question. “of course not, your highness.”

ah. was he worried you’d misunderstand?

his lips part slightly, but no words come, instead he just exhales softly, as if to himself. “good.”

phainon, ever perceptive, arches a brow but says nothing of it. instead, he steps back with a knowing tilt of his head. “well then, i shall take my leave. duty calls, after all, milady, your highness.” with that, he turns on his heel and disappears into the crowd, leaving just the two of you.

mydei’s eyes linger on you —searching, almost reluctant, before he finally tears his gaze away. “we should go.”

he starts walking, and you follow, the quiet rhythm between you shifting in a way that's hard to place. it’s subtle, so subtle that if you weren’t paying enough attention, you might’ve missed it.

the way his steps fall in sync with yours, slowing his usually large strides ever so slightly, as if unconsciously matching your pace. the way his hand hovers near yours, close enough that if you swayed even slightly, your fingers might brush.

it doesn’t feel intentional, and yet, it doesn’t feel like an accident either.

the marketplace hums around you both; vendors calling out their wares, the scent of fresh bread and spices curling through the air. but your mind is elsewhere, lingering on the man beside you, on the things left unsaid.

at some point, curiosity gets the better of you. “your highne—” “mydei.”

…would it be foolish of you to think of it as a plea? that, beneath the indifference he wears so well, he cares how his name sounds when spoken by you?

(because with you, he doesn't need to be the prince of kremnos, nor the valiant warrior they call mydeimos. he’s just your husband, mydei.)

you glance up at him, but his gaze stays ahead. he doesn’t offer an explanation; your thoughts linger on that single word, and maybe that’s why, after a moment’s hesitation, you decide to give it a try.

“mydei… what were you doing in the market today?”

he doesn’t answer right away. a terribly fond smile tugging at his lips.

he looks good like this, you think.

with a glance to the side, he replies, “nothing of importance.”

a half-truth, at best.

your thoughts drift back to the last time you were here —the flowers you had given him, bright and delicate in his hands. an odd sight, perhaps, yet somehow, they suited him.

a ridiculous thought takes root before you can stop it.

could he have been looking for ways to take care of them? …surely not.

but any doubt vanishes the moment a florist calls out to him. “your highness! you’ve returned! here, this is the care guide you requested, along with the special fertilizer. it should help the flowers bloom beautifully.”

mydei takes the offered items with a nod, thanking the florist who beams, clearly pleased to be of service.

"you must truly cherish them, your highness," they remark. "not many would go through such trouble for a simple bouquet."

mydei only hums in response, tucking the items away as he turns back to you. for a moment, it almost seems like he might explain himself, but instead, he merely lifts a brow, as if daring you to say something about it.

warmth unfurls at the edges of your chest, spreading slowly, irresistibly.

you press your lips together, fighting the smile threatening to surface. "so," you muse lightly, "you’ve been taking good care of my flowers?”

mydei exhales, the ghost of an amused smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "it would be a shame if they wilted so soon,” he says. then, as he starts walking again, a quiet afterthought —so soft you almost miss it.

"especially when they were a gift from you."

and this time, when his hand hovers close to yours, you don’t resist the urge to let your fingers brush.

ACT IV: HOW TO TAME HIS JEALOUS HEART

it’s late —past the hour most would retire, yet the training grounds remains lit by torches that flicker against the cool stone walls, their flames casting long, dancing shadows. mydeimos leans back against the walls, arms loosely folded across his chest as his gaze follows phainon sharpening his blade a few paces away —though, truthfully, his thoughts are elsewhere.

it’s phainon who breaks the silence first.

“you know,” he starts, glancing up without looking directly at the prince, “you’re awfully quiet these days, your highness.”

he wipes his sword down lazily, throwing a glance over his shoulder. "...say, mydei."

mydei doesn’t look up, but his posture shifts, "what?"

phainon lets the silence drag for a moment, almost like he’s weighing his next words.

“do you have genuine feelings for [name]?"

the words land like a blow in the silence between them; he doesn’t bother to wait for an answer.

“because if you don’t, i was thinking maybe i’d give courting her a try.”

ah. that does it.

mydei’s eyes flick to him, and if looks could kill, phainon would be six feet under —and the former wouldn’t even spare the effort to toss dirt over his grave.

phainon laughs quietly under his breath at his comrade’s reaction, not bothering to hide the tilt of his mouth.

“don’t cross the line.” the words fall from mydei’s lips, low and clipped like a warning.

phainon laughs —the kind of laugh shared only between men who’ve known each other long enough to grow used to the other’s sharp edges.

“relax,” he drawls, sheathing his blade with a lazy flick. “i was just joking, you can stop glaring at me now.”

“i’m not mad i—”

“you’re not mad because you think i meant it,” he cuts in. “you’re angry because you know i’m right. you’ve been walking around pretending like she doesn’t mean a thing to you, bottling up every damn thing you feel for her. if it were anyone else, they’d have given up by now.”

mydei looks away. “she’s not anyone else,” he mutters.

phainon smiles. “then tell her.”

mydei stays uncharacteristically silent as phainon steps past with a clap on his shoulder. “you're lucky she’s patient.”

the sour look on your husband’s face whenever phainon’s name comes up is a recent development.

you first noticed it in passing: an almost imperceptible downturn of his lips, a restrained (but still noticeable) eyeroll or the press of his lips into a tight line. at first, you thought nothing of it. but lately… it’s been happening a lot.

right now, you’re seated in the castle’s sunlit tea room with someone you can now call a friend —phainon. the scent of fresh brews curls in the air, warm and comforting, but it does little to soothe the frustration tightening in your chest.

phainon leans back in his seat as you lay your troubles before him. surely, as one of mydei’s closest friends, he could offer some worthwhile advice on how to win the latter’s heart.

because at this rate, if you don’t manage to win him over before your contract runs its course, you wouldn’t be surprised to wake up with his sword cold against the nape of your neck.

“so… what do you think?” you ask, poking at a pastry with your fork.

phainon hums, tilting his head in thought. “he’s a reserved man —you’ve probably figured that out by now. give him some time, he’s the type to take forever to realize what’s right in front of him.”

he shrugs, a smirk tugging at his lips. “though, i do hope milady won’t give up on him just yet.”

you nod, committing his words to memory, but then he suddenly straightens, that familiar glint of mischief lighting his gaze.

“actually,” he muses, glancing down at his hands, now dusted with crumbs and icing, “my hands are a bit of a mess from this cake. mind doing me a favor?”

he lifts his sugar-coated fingers in emphasis.

you eye him suspiciously. “...what kind of favor?”

phainon tilts his head, his smile just sly enough to make you wary. “feed me.”

narrowing your eyes, you scoff at his request, “look, buster—”

“just this once,” he interrupts, grinning. “think of it as repaying me for my advice.”

there’s something almost too innocent about the way he leans in, like he’s well aware of what he’s doing… or rather, what exactly might happen if a certain someone were to walk in.

still, with an exaggerated sigh, you pick up a piece of pastry and lift it towards him—

only for a firm grip to catch your wrist before you can.

just your luck.

mydei smoothly takes the sweet straight from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingertips in the process; his gaze locked onto yours as he takes a bite.

and before you can pull away —the barest hint of his tongue swipes against the sugar-dusted tips of your fingers, licking away the faint trace of sweetness left behind.

did he just—?

heat rushes to your face. your mouth parts, but no sound comes out.

phainon whistles lowly. “oh yeah i forgot to mention,” he says, far too amused.

“the prince has a sweet tooth.”

for a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft clink of porcelain as phainon sets down his teacup, watching the scene unfold with thinly veiled amusement.

all you can do is stare —frozen, pulse skittering in your throat.

mydei, on the other hand, is utterly unbothered. if anything, he looks as composed as ever, chewing leisurely, as if he didn’t just—

your fingers twitch in his grasp. finally, he releases your wrist, his touch lingering just a second too long before he pulls away.

you snatch your hand back like you’ve been burned, curling your fingers against your palm as if that will erase the phantom heat of his lips, the fleeting press of his tongue.

phainon wonders if he’s about to be thrown out of the castle with the way you and mydei glare at him (for different reasons, respectively)... but judging by his smirk, he finds the risk well worth it.

the annual gladiatorial tournament is only days away, and kremnos is already stirring with anticipation. you’ve heard the chatter in the halls, the wagers placed on champions, the hushed whispers of which warriors will rise and which will fall.

seated on a bench near the training grounds, you let the rhythmic clash of weapons fade into background noise, your focus trained instead on the fabric in your hands. a delicate handkerchief, its edges carefully stitched, the embroidery thread gliding through with each careful motion of your needle.

you had learned from a few noble ladies: it’s tradition for warriors to receive tokens of fortune from their beloveds —most commonly, a handkerchief embroidered with care to carry into battle as a reminder that someone’s waiting for them to return.

before you, the clash of steel rings out as two men spar. you glance up just in time to see phainon nimbly dodge a particularly heavy swing, a grin tugging at his lips. “feeling a little aggressive today, aren’t we?”

mydei doesn’t respond. he simply readjusts his grip on his sword, his expression unreadable.

(if you had to put money on why mydei was more aggressive than usual, you’d wager it had something to do with that stunt phainon pulled a few days ago that had left the former in such a foul mood.)

you return to your stitching, pretending not to notice the way your husband’s eyes flicker toward you between exchanges. unknowingly, a small smile tugs at your lips as you press the needle through the cloth once more.

rumors had circulated for years that prince mydeimos had never once accepted a handkerchief from anyone. not from the ladies who fawned over him at court, not from the admirers who sighed at the sight of his swordsmanship, not even from those with the highest of pedigrees.

it was said that no handkerchief had ever found its way into his hands, let alone remained in his possession. you weren’t sure why; perhaps he found them frivolous, or maybe he had no interest in sentimental keepsakes when he relied on skill alone to survive.

…which didn’t exactly bode well for the one currently in your hands.

so as you carefully stitch your embroidery, you don’t hold out much hope that he’ll accept yours either.

still, it wouldn’t do for the beloved wife of mydeimos to be the only one who hadn’t even offered her husband a handkerchief. whether he accepted it or not was secondary —your duty was to at least play the part expected of you.

as the sparring match winds down, mydei steps off to the side, catching his breath. you discreetly watch as him roll his shoulders, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow.

you glance back down at your embroidery, but before you can add another stitch, phainon strides up to you, shaking out his arms with an exaggerated sigh. “ow… you saw that, right?” he whines, flopping down beside you with an exaggerated sigh. “he’s being so rough with me today!”

you arch a brow, biting back a laugh as he leans against the edge of the bench. “poor thing,” you say, amused. “what did you do to deserve it?”

phainon grins. “absolutely nothing, milady.”

you shake your head, obviously unconvinced —but then, just like that, his playful pout melts into a coprophagous grin that spells nothing but trouble.

oh no.

“if he wants to be mean,” he muses, tilting his head, “then maybe i should give him a reason for it.”

you frown. “phainon—”

he says, far too casually, “i think i’ve got an idea.”

he leans in slightly, a wolfish grin on his face. “just play along, alright?”

“huh?”

"here, let me show you something." before you can react, phainon takes your hand, pulling you up from your seat with ease. a moment later, a wooden practice sword is tossed into your grasp.

you barely have time to protest before he’s already behind you, his hands resting lightly over yours as he adjusts your grip.

"see?" his voice is low, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath near your ear. "you hold it like this, and—"

“that’s enough.”

both you and phainon turn to see mydei standing a few feet away. he doesn’t look outwardly furious, but there’s the tension in his shoulders says enough.

phainon merely raises an eyebrow. “oh? something wrong, your highness?”

the air thickens and you can practically feel the sparks flying. sensing the storm that’s about to break, you quickly slip out of phainon’s grasp and rush toward mydei, practically throwing yourself into his arms.

“mydei!” you call, mustering the sweetest voice you can manage, hoping to calm him down (before phainon gets his ass kicked again). “y-you must be exhausted after all that training today… why don’t we head back and get some rest?”

a warm hand brushes against your temple, fingers gently threading through your hair as they tuck it behind your ear.

even though you were the one who threw yourself at mydei, you find yourself frozen, heart hammering at the unexpected tenderness in his touch.

his gaze is so unbearably soft.

after a moment, mydei exhales and nods before leading you away.

you steal a glance back at phainon—who only winks and flashes you a thumbs-up.

(mydei lets out a quiet sigh of relief, watching as you do everything in your power to avoid meeting his eyes. if he had stayed any longer and if phainon had caught sight of the faint flush dusting his cheeks —he’d never hear the end of it.)

ACT V: HOW TO EARN HIS DEVOTION

the sun hangs high above kremnos, casting a golden blaze over the arena as the city wakes to the sound of distant drums and the clang of steel. colorful banners bearing the insignias of noble houses flutter from towering spires, while anticipation clings thick to the air.

all of kremnos knows what day it is. the long-awaited gladiatorial tournament has finally arrived.

from the highest nobles draped in silk to the lowest commoners pressed shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands, all eyes are drawn to the bloodstained sand at the heart of the arena.

the rules are simple, brutal, unforgiving: fight until your opponent yields, or until they can no longer stand. and of course, there's no word for “mercy” in the kremnoan language… as mydei would say it.

the air in the holding chambers, hidden beneath the grand coliseum, is heavy with the scent of iron and sweat. you step inside with your small offering in hand: the handkerchief you embroidered, each stitch woven with thoughts of him.

and today, you see you’re not alone. the corridor is packed with people, mostly noblewomen, some nervous sweethearts, all fluttering around their chosen champions, many bearing the same tradition in their palms.

you catch sight of more than a few stretching their handkerchiefs out to mydei, vying for even a small glance. a small crowd trails him like petals in a storm, calling his name with saccharine lilts, each desperate to be noticed.

with the way he’s being swarmed, you resign yourself with a small sigh, clutching your own handkerchief, fingers curling gently around the cloth you spent the last few evenings stitching.

nevermind. maybe you’ll give it to phainon instead. he always appreciates the gesture, and at the very least, you’d get a smile out of him.

so your eyes scan the crowd instead, searching for—

only to freeze when you look up and see someone else already standing in front of you.

without a word, your husband takes the handkerchief from your hand, presses it to his brow, and dabs away the sweat collecting at his temple; then folds it neatly and tucks it into his belt where everyone can see.

you blink, momentarily startled.

warmth spills into your chest, it’s strange. he never accepts handkerchiefs from anyone. not a single soul has ever earned that privilege. but today, in front of all these people, he’s taken yours without a second thought.

it’s a light gesture, but it says enough coming from the kremnoan prince.

and if he’s going to make such a bold move, you might as well tease him a little.

you tilt your head, a mischievous smile playing at your lips. “that’s sir phainon’s, you know.”

he stills for a moment, a flash of annoyance crossing his face before he furrows his brows in an almost adorable pout.

“then he’ll just have to go without,” he mutters.

you’ve never seen him look quite like this before —caught off guard and... flustered?

“... and i wanted one today.”

“well, since you’ve gone through all that trouble,” you say with a grin, “i suppose i’ll let you keep it.”

as you study him, a thought crosses your mind. you raise an eyebrow, “are you nervous about the tournament?”

his eyes flick to yours, “there is no word for ‘fear’ in the kremnoan language,” he replies, his voice low and confident.

it’s the kind of thing only mydeimos would say. and yet, something about the resolve in his eyes makes your heart skip a beat.

you manage a soft smile. “then bring back the victor’s crown for me, will you?”

honestly it's more of a vow than a request, you’d be content just seeing him return in one piece. but he takes it seriously anyway.

“if it’s for you,”

his expression softens for just a moment, and without missing a beat, he nods, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“i’d do anything.”

ACT VI: HOW TO BE VICTORIOUS

from your seat among the nobles, your gaze searches for him. the threads of your dress pinched between trembling fingers, creased from how often you’ve clutched it.

ever since you’ve come to kremnos, you’ve grown used to the sound of battle, but today every strike echoes a little louder in your ears.

your heart clenches every time mydei stumbles or blood splashes across the sand. even knowing how strong he is, how capable, there’s a twist of worry that doesn’t loosen its grip.

the kind you only feel when the person you care about is the one walking straight into danger.

you’d heard stories of what the tournament demands, but seeing it for yourself… it’s surreal.

the crowd cheers for violence.

warriors enter the arena one by one, facing off not only against each other, but against beasts dragged from the darkest corners of the empire —corrupted titankins, two-headed hounds, massive golems wreathed in flame; just to name a few.

and each time, the gates crash open with a deafening clang, releasing something more vicious than the last. still, he doesn’t falter. when a snarling beast lunges for his throat, he drives his sword deep into its ribs without a second thought.

the nobles cheer and holler around you, drunk on spectacle. but your eyes don’t leave him, not for a moment.

because while the crowd may be here for blood, all you want…

is to be the first thing mydei sees when it’s over.

the last of the other competitors lie in heaps of blood and sand, either devoured by the beasts or incapacitated by the prince. there’s no one left to challenge him except the creature before him.

the towering beast staggers toward him; your pulse spikes, hands gripping the edge of your seat as you hold your breath. every step it takes sends tremors through the arena floor, snarls echoing off stone as it bears down on him with a murderous roar.

the beast lunges, jaws snapping wide, but mydei meets it with unyielding resolve. his sword arcs through the air, a flash of silver against the blood-soaked dusk. the beast jerks, a guttural screech tearing from its throat as it rears back.

for a heartbeat, you can't tell who’s fallen.

then, through the settling haze, you see mydei standing, blood splattered across his armor, chest heaving with exertion. the beast lets out a final screech —and then crumples to the sand in a thunderous collapse.

for a heartbeat, there’s silence. and then the crowd erupts into a deafening cheer.

“mydei!” you cry out, your heart racing as you push through the sea of people to get closer.

he lifts his gaze, and it’s you he finds.

the victor’s crown, gleaming beneath the sun, is placed into his hands. and he raises it high above his head for all to see.

a roar erupts from the coliseum, the crowd surging to its feet as the name mydeimos echoes from every corner, chanted with unrelenting fervor.

and without hesitation, he strides toward you, his face softening as he approaches.

in a flash, he wraps an arm around your waist and hauls you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly off the ground. he spins you in a wide, sweeping circle before drawing you close. his eyes locking with yours, a triumphant grin playing on his lips.

with a tenderness that belies his warrior's demeanor, he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"yours," mydei whispers. he lifts the victor’s crown in both hands, and with all the devotion of a man offering his heart, places it gently atop your head.

you reach up to his bloodied face, your hand trembling slightly as the warmth of his skin seeps into your fingers. your palm comes to rest against his cheek.

“you came back to me,” you murmur.

he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest moment —like he’s been waiting for this, aching for it.

“i always will.”

you rise onto your toes, closing the distance between you.

at the end of the day, all mydei seeks is not victory or glory, but the soft sound of his name on the lips of his beloved, wrapped in an embrace that makes him forget the harshness of the battlefield.

EPILOGUE: HOW TO WIN HIM OVER

the question that once haunted your thoughts —how could i ever win his heart? —feels like a distant memory now, an answer long since found.

mydei looks at you with a softness in his eyes that you’ve come to know as a rare gift. his hand, calloused from battles fought and won, reaches for yours, his fingers brushing against yours before entwining it.

“by the way, i’m actually… immortal. my injuries heal up after a while.”

you blink at him in confusion, and he chuckles softly, the sound warm and fond.

“wait, then that time when you—” you pause, recalling the night you carefully wrapped up his injury.

he grins, a small, playful glint in his eyes. ”i just like the way you worry over me.”

the admission leaves a flutter in your chest as his thumb gently strokes the back of your hand.

you huff, pretending to be upset, though your heart races at the softness in his words. “you mean to say all that time i was worried sick over you for nothing?”

he tilts his head, feigning innocence. “it wasn’t for no reason,” he says, clearly trying not to smile. “i liked it. still do.”

you narrow your eyes, lips tugging into a pout. “well, you could’ve told me sooner! now i feel ridiculous.”

with a soft chuckle, mydei’s fingers brush through your hair in a gentle, almost apologetic gesture. he ruffles it lightly, his touch surprisingly tender. “you’re adorable when you’re upset,” he murmurs, his voice holding a sweetness that makes your heart skip a beat.

you can’t help but soften, the playful anger fading as his hand lingers for a moment longer. he pulls you a little closer, his forehead gently resting against yours. “don’t be mad. i’ll let you fuss over me for as long as you want, as long as you’re by my side.”

“you better mean that! i’m holding you to it.”

he hums, the sound low and content as he presses a kiss to your temple. “i do,” he whispers. “if there’s one thing i’ll always be sure of, it’s you.”

you think back to every hesitation, every guarded glance, the walls he built high around his heart. and now, that same heart rests in your hands.

“looks like i managed to win you over after all,” you tease softly.

the way he looks at you says more than words ever could —as if you’re the only war he’s ever been glad to lose.

his fingers stay curled around yours; his heart laid bare with the quiet, breathtaking certainty that he is yours, as much as you are his.

"i love you, [name]."

and if this is victory, it’s the sweetest one yet.

thank you for reading!! reblogs are appreciated <3

MASTERLIST

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lillilybells · 11 days ago

Note

part two of the damian fic pls please pls

Family dinner II✧₊⁺

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

pairing|damian wayne x reader

summary|Damian tries to keep his girlfriend a secret from his family, keyword, tries.

word count|1498 notes|don’t love this but I have an idea for a prequel of how Damian and reader met, might do that.

Family dinner masterlist

Damian walked out the bedroom door like a soldier going to war—jaw tight, brow furrowed, every step a reluctant march. His father stood with arms crossed. The silence in the manor was deceptive; his siblings were no doubt eavesdropping from around the corner.

“You have a girlfriend?” Bruce asked flatly, his voice low but not cold. It was how they always spoke now—blunt, clipped. Like neither of them knew how to step back into softer territory.

“Yes,” Damian answered without hesitation.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bruce's expression was unreadable, but there was something behind his eyes—concern, maybe even guilt. He was trying to tread carefully, like a man desperate not to repeat the mistakes he made with his sons before.

Damian hesitated. Arms crossed, his posture rigid. “I didn’t want them to scare her off,” he muttered.

Bruce didn’t respond immediately. He just nodded, slowly.

“I’d like to meet her,” he finally said. “Invite her for dinner. Tonight.”

And just like that, he turned and walked off, giving no room for argument—Damian groaned, long and dramatic, only to hear a chorus of hushed laughter echo from down the hall. His brothers. Of course.

He slammed the bedroom door behind him.

“(Name)! Are you ready yet?” he called, rubbing his temple.

“Yes, Dami,” you replied from the bathroom.

When you stepped out, Damian nearly forgot how to breathe. The dress you’d changed into was the one you were wearing for your date, formal—the only formal thing you had here, maybe a little much for a family dinner, but you looked stunning, and he wasn’t about to complain.

His brows furrowed. “My father wants you to join us for dinner…” he grumbled, trying not to sound as anxious as he felt.

“No date then?” you teased gently.

He grunted. “Tt. Apparently not.”

But you smiled. “I’d love to.”

He blinked. “…Great.”

And now, here you were, descending the staircase together. Damian looked… uncomfortable. His shoulders were squared, his jaw set, and he kept tugging at his collar like it was strangling him.

“Tt. I hate these shoes,” he muttered under his breath.

“Tell me about it,” you whispered back, glancing at your own heels.

“Wow,” Tim drawled as you hit the final step. “You two look like you just stepped out of a fantasy novel.”

Damian’s cheeks flushed the lightest pink. He glared at Tim with all the subtlety of a thrown batarang.

Before things could escalate, Alfred stepped in with impeccable timing. “Master Damian. Miss. I’ve saved you two seats.”

He led you two the table, placing you between Cassandra and Bruce, and across from Jason and Dick, who were already watching you like hawks.

“Sorry for ruining your evening plans,” Dick offered. He smiled, a little awkward, eyes flicking over your dress. “You both look great.”

You gave a polite smile in return. “It’s alright. I’ve wanted to meet Damian’s family for a while now.”

You felt Bruce’s gaze burning into the side of your face. He hadn’t said a word since you sat down, but you could feel him sizing you up like he was solving a case. You did your best not to squirm under it.

“So,” Jason leaned in, “does mystery girl have a name?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but Damian cut in, voice like a whip. “Todd.”

It was more warning than name.

Still, he continued with strained politeness. “This is (name). Beloved, this is: Todd, Richard, Drake, Cassandra… and Thomas.” He introduced his father with a mutter.

You gave a little wave, the tension around the table pressing down like gravity.

“You seem… sweet,” Tim said, squinting like he was trying to see if your kindness was an elaborate ruse. “Too sweet for our resident demon.”

You blinked. “Damian can be sweet.”

The table went quiet.

Dick leaned in. “That’s a first.”

“What is?”

“Calling Damian ‘sweet’ unironically,” he replied, lips twitching into a grin. “And without being under duress.”

“I’ve seen him do very kind things, he once saved a cat from a tree in the middle of patrol.” you defended.

but everyone froze for a moment, turning toward Damian with a raised brow who’s jaw clenched, “yes, she knows.”

“Yeah?,” Jason chose to break the tension. “The only ‘kind’ thing I’ve seen him do is let a criminal lose one limb instead of two”

Damian scowled. “I’m right here.”

“And we’re still processing,” Jason said, sipping from his water like it was wine.

Bruce finally spoke. “So. How long have you two been seeing each other?”

You hesitated. Damian answered for you.

“A few months.”

“Seriously?” Duke’s brows raise.

“And you’re both serious?” Bruce continued.

“We’re still discovering what that means,” Damian replied carefully.

Bruce looked at him for a long moment, then nodded again—approvingly, you thought. “Just be honest. With her. And with yourself.”

It was possibly the most fatherly thing you’d ever heard him say.

Damian’s posture loosened slightly. “I will.”

You reached over under the table and gave his hand a squeeze. He looked at you briefly, then back at the table—face neutral, but his ears had gone pink again.

“Welcome to the circus,” Cassandra muttered, leaning toward you a little.

And oddly, despite the chaos, the scrutiny, and the wild cast of characters you were being thrown into… you smiled.

“Glad to be here.”

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

Eventually Bruce pushed his chair back and stood, commanding the room like he always did—without trying. “Damian, a word?”

Damian tensed. “Tt.” Still, he got up and followed his father toward the study, casting you one last glance before disappearing into the hallway.

you almost grabbed him to make him stay, this was bad, you couldn’t possibly handle his siblings alone.

“I’m gonna use the bathroom really quick..” with that you stood up and disappeared down a hall.

The moment you were gone, the table burst into chaos.

“Oh my god she’s so normal,” Tim muttered.

“I give her two weeks,” Jason said.

“You all are rude,” Cassandra finally spoke, calmly sipping her tea. “She’s sweet. Damian needs someone who grounds him.”

“She’s right,” Duke added. “That boy’s been running around the city lovestruck, he’s so much gentler now.”

“Yeah, I’m doing everything in my power to make sure those two stay together.” Dick declared.

Meanwhile, in the Wayne study, Bruce closed the doors quietly before turning to Damian.

“She’s… good,” he said after a beat.

Damian blinked. “I know that.”

“I mean it, Damian. She’s grounded, she’s smart, and she’s not intimidated by this family. That says a lot.”

Damian crossed his arms, unsure where this was going.

Bruce hesitated. “You’ve been different lately. Softer. I assumed it was distraction, but… maybe it’s something better.”

“I care about her,” Damian said plainly, because he hated dancing around things.

Bruce nodded once. “Then don’t mess it up.”

“That was the plan, yes.”

Bruce smirked faintly. “She makes you happy.”

“She does.”

There was a pause—rare, but not uncomfortable. Bruce clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“I’m proud of you, Damian.”

The boy stilled.

He didn’t say anything in return, but his hands unclenched slightly.

Back in the dining room you’d returned and somehow been roped into a story-sharing contest about “the dumbest near-death experiences in Gotham,” and you were hearing stories that would make any rational person run screaming from this household.

“...and then Dick actually cartwheeled into a moving semi because he thought it was ‘a bold entrance,’” Jason was saying.

“Oh my god,” you breathed.

“I survived,” Dick said cheerfully.

“Somehow,” Tim muttered.

When Damian returned, you guys had switched to the living room, his face immediately snapped to you; who had changed out of your dress into a top Cassandra lent you, makeup wiped off and smiling as Dick showed you Damian’s baby pics from a album he’d stolen from Talia.

Which said ‘baby’ was quick to snatch up before sliding back in next to you. His expression was unreadable, but his hand brushed yours, fingers curling loosely around yours.

“You okay?” you whispered.

He gave a short nod. “Father approves.”

You smiled. “I guessed. You didn’t look like you were preparing to jump out a window.”

“I still might,” he muttered, eyes flicking toward his siblings.

Bruce followed, and something shifted in the room. Not tense—settled.

Alfred reappeared with dessert, because of course he did, and the room fell into companionable chatter.

As the night wound down and the family drifted toward the den, you and Damian hung back in the hallway.

“They didn’t hate me,” you whispered.

“They don’t know how to process emotions,” Damian replied. “But for them? That was practically a standing ovation.”

You chuckled, resting your forehead lightly against his. “You sure you’re okay with this?”

“I am. You… you make this place less insufferable.”

You kissed his cheek. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should.” He smirked faintly. “And thank you.”

“For what?”

“For surviving them.”

#batfam x reader #batfamily #damian wayne x you #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne al ghul #damian wayne #damian wayne x female reader #damian wayne x y/n #bruce wayne #jason todd #dick grayson #tim drake #duke thomas #cassandra cain #dc #dc comics #dc characters #lillilybells

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luna-azzurra · 2 months ago

Text

Betrayal Scene Prompts

A pause too long before they answer your question.

Looking away when someone else is blamed, for something they did.

A smile that doesn’t quite reach their eyes when you succeed.

Promising they’ll show up, but their silence says they won’t.

Sharing a secret with someone else before they tell you.

Holding back the truth with an “I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Changing the subject every time your name comes up.

Watching you fall apart and doing nothing.

The moment they let the door swing shut behind you.

Pretending they didn’t hear the pain in your voice.

Saying “I’m here for you” but not showing up when it counts.

Hesitating before defending you.

A shift in tone, from warmth to formality.

Being left out of a plan they made for both of you.

A gift returned, unopened.

Laughing with someone who hurt you.

Reading your message but never replying.

Using something you told them in confidence, against you.

Inviting everyone but you.

Saying "I didn’t mean it like that" when they absolutely did.

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marionmaverick · 2 years ago

Note

He arrives at camp, blood on his mouth, tears all over his face. He's fine! Really, it's completely fine!!!

Calem's eyes widened somewhat when he saw the spawn stumble into the camp and quickly bundled him off to a tent. Both for the chance to regain his dignity a bit and just in case it took long enough that the sun started to rise.

"Sebastian? Are you alright?" He asked, "You look a bit rough."

A small part of him wondered if the Hyur had just killed a dear and not handled it well, but he didn't want to be cruel while the poor man was still so out of sorts.

#rp #replies #answers #sebastian tag #muse l'calem tia #I'm refering to him as calem in his head but Sebastian probably just knows him as the more formal L'Calem at the moment

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crepezinhos · 2 months ago

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Patriarchy

POV: Waking up back to the 1700s wasn’t as bad as you expected it to be when you had your best friend, Phainon, accompanying you through your new journey. Now you have the chance to begin feminism yourself! How much more advanced will society be if manage to get women equal rights by 1800 instead of 1900?! But, when you were close to getting one right in specific, Phainon’s support of you was suddenly… gone.

⚠️ WARNINGS:

— This is a Yandere SFW work

— Reader is FEMALE and uses SHE/HER pronouns

— Contains: Possessive, obsessive and abusive behavior, a bit of physical abuse, misogynistic behavior and confinement.

— Arranged!Phainon x Arranged!Reader

— AU is: 1700s Europe

“Y/N! You’re back!” Phainon screamed excitedly from the main staircase of your shared palace when he saw you standing in your mansion’s entrance, beginning to step down towards you faster than he was doing previously. “How was it on the streets today?” He asked when he finally finished climbing down and jumped off the stairs, walking towards you with his arms behind his back excitedly.

You, happy to see him too, were quick to take off your hat, jacket and accessories with the help of your lady-in-honor, staring back at Phainon’s joyful ocean-blue eyes.

“It was fine. The army resistance was surprisingly very little today so we didn’t have much trouble doing our protest.” You reciprocated his excitement, bowing to your maid in gratefulness before she could start walking away and taking your things back to your bedroom.

“That’s great to hear, Y/N!” Phainon replied, eyes shining with pure admiration of your courage. “I also have good news.” He blinked to you with a smirky grin in his lips, just waiting for you to ask him about his achievement so he could brag about whatever he’d done.

“Oh? What is it?” You crossed your arms casually, finally putting an end to the classy and formal behavior that you adapted to to follow the societal norms of the town where you two live in.

Phainon decided to fix his throat and tie before he could answer you, trying to make himself a bit more classy and snobby before flexing whatever news he had.

“Our pads and tampons are making such a huge success that one of my investors managed to begin trading our products with all North, Central and South America.” Phainon talked in a slightly sarcastic tone, obviously trying to exaggerate it to you so you could be extra happier with it.

“Are you serious?! No way! All three Americas at the same time?!” You gasped in shock, almost skipping in joy while imagining what would be all kinds of women trying out those items and finding out just how extraordinarily better they are than whatever they were currently using to absorb their menstruations.

“Yessir!” Phainon opened both his arms,welcoming all that joy you were expressing.

Every day, Phainon somehow managed to surprise you with good news and raise your spirits about your current life whether it was because of his mindless kindness and consideration of you or with his intelligent marketing skills. You admired him so much that you didn’t even like imagining what would your life be without him in this universe. You’d probably just find yourself marrying an old man who has zero interest or empathy with you, much less in your feminist ideals, and only gives you the bare minimum attention to keep you sane.

The difference between all men and Phainon is that you and him were modern. While other men thought with a non-industrial mindset of making a few thousands for profit, Phainon, who has lived with billionaires, thinks immediately about the millions he can profit because he knows exactly what to invest in. And while other women were mostly illiterate and solely worried with things like their marriage and birthing dozens of kids for their husbands, you were worried about ‘men things’ such as the job market and human progress and you had knowledge about all sorts of things. Because of this, you two were an extremely powerful duo. Your success was sudden, massive and impressive, leaving every man and woman from all social classes either inspired or envious. You two reigned everything. Either your or Phainon’s presence was highly valued in every party you stepped in, whether as an annoyance, taking everyone’s eyes away from the main objective of the ball, or as a blessing, since your presence meant that the party was entertaining.

After all, whatever the perfect couple interacts with or believes in, many others will want to interact with it or follow your beliefs too.

Yes, you and Phainon were technically a couple that got married a few months ago, but in practice, you two didn’t even sleep in the same room. It was an arranged business that you two agreed to do because women cannot really live without a husband and neither you or Phainon wanted you to be bullied for the rest of your life, so joining family, money and forces was obviously the smartest choice. You two had a little wedding and a marriage certification, but no kiss was ever seen after the fake one in the altar.

Your ‘marriage’ was actually one of the first triggers to awaken women into feminism. It was completely alternative. You weren’t forced to display affection with him publicly, you had all rights to complain and raise your voice to Phainon, Phainon had zero demands to you regarding his satisfaction with his life or kids, while at the same time he’d spoil you nonstop. It made women crave that freedom from their husbands, who all thought you were a greedy witch and that Phainon deserved better. But there was nothing they could do about it. His money reigned the country. So much that it made this sinful way of life of yours affordable and even cultural. It’s not his fault he know as exactly what inventions will be successful or not, but he’ll only keep growing, and whatever you two do will be what people want to do too. ‘His’ idea about creating tampons and pads was actually a request from you. Using random, non-absorbing cloths as pads was horrible and barely efficient, making your routine horrible during menstruation, so you decided to talk to Phainon about it, who immediately went after the creation of tampons and pads. A perfect example of how you two were iconic. Phainon already knew tampons and pads would be an immediate millionaire success, and all women envied the dedication of your husband to you compared their own men.

There is so much Phainon has done to you… He gave you a whole personal room for you to sleep in without him, a whole garden that had all the flowers you wished, he bought you all the dresses and makeup you wanted and every reform and furniture of the house was ordered by you. It felt like his life mission was assuring you a comfortable, almost free life, but it still felt incomplete to you because of one reason. The inferiority of women. Seeing women being sent away at age of 15 to marry a 40 year-old man made your heart ache with anguish. Seeing men shame prostitutes for their jobs and even throw tiny rocks on them made you angry. Seeing men’s hypocrisy to force women into a religion and a cult of purity that they don’t follow on their own made your blood boil… A much larger list of failures in this patriarchal system made you revolt, so you begun using your influence and money to create feminism.

And your ideas were expectedly booming between all women of your country, and Congress was slowly becoming more and more convinced that it wouldn’t be horrible idea to give women a few rights.

“I know I’m awesome, I know.” Phainon used a hand to push his frontal hair back to act even prouder of himself in front of you.

“We’re making so much progress in so little time! I can’t believe we are the first era of feminists and we’re turning out to be so successful!” You tip-toed in the floor, holding your own cheeks with excitement.

“We? No, no, no… you.” Phainon’s fingers suddenly reached to your chest bone and pressed it down, forcing all the credits for the success of the feminist movement to you. “And a lady like you deserves a delicious meal in compensation for her work, don’t you think?” He took away his finger off you, but his face leaned a bit closer to you too, staring at you deeply with admiration. “Follow me, Y/N.” He blinked a bit seductively, making you giggle, and when you looked down, his hands was hanging open in front of you just waiting for you to hold it.

And so you did, inflating your chest with air to show him your excitement and how high were your expectations. Phainon giggled at your behavior, beginning to gently pull you around the house.

You and Phainon silently walked in direction of the dinging room, only a few noises of creaking wood accompanying your steps. The silence wasn’t awkward, only a bit tense due to the circumstances you were in. Every corridor you two walked through, the house would become quieter and darker despite still being early afternoon. Your dining room was in a corner of the house where no background noise could annoy you and him, meaning it was distant from the home’s main entrance. And when you had finally reached the long, dark and narrow hall that led to nothing but the dining room in its end, Phainon decided to break the silence.

“You also have a second appointment today, don’t you? Or maybe tomorrow? Or maybe it already happened?” Phainon turned half of his face to you, staring at you with curiosity.

“A second appointment? I don’t—” Before you could finish speaking, your brain suddenly brought back a memory of you and some of your friends talking about future plans and played it for you.

It was you, Ms. Castorice and Ms. Algaea, the other two co-leaders of your movement, discussing about some great news in Aglaea’s mansion. Congress had accepted to participate in a debate with you and a team of other 5 people about giving women a few rights. You and them were discussing about which topics to bring up, which people to form a team with, and when should the debate happen.

“Cat got your tongue?” Phainon woke you up from your thoughts, laughing at your frozen face and still staring at it now with a mischievous stare.

“I do!” You snapped the fingers of your other free hands. “I-I have to go to Congress by 6 tonight!” Phainon’s eyes widened when you reminded him of what appointment was scheduled for today or maybe sometime else.

“Ah, yes!” Phainon stopped walking and let your hand go. “You were telling me about your plans for it a few days ago!” He pointed to you with a hand, trying to relate to you.

“Yes, yes, yes! I’ve prepared such good arguments to tell the Congress! It’ll be very difficult for them for them to deny our requests, much less with a good reason!” You crossed your arms again, remembering the expectations you had set. “Can you imagine? By tomorrow we might get the right to divorce! Women will get the right to divorce!” Phainon’s eyes widened when he felt the impact of those news.

“Seriously? The right to divorce this early?!” His mouth dropped to the floor as you confidently nodded to him.

“Yessir! We might finally be able to ask for a divorce too!” You laughed at your own additional words, but you quickly realized that Phainon went fully quiet while you were, so you stopped laughed and looked him, only to see he did not reciprocate, still with the same widened expression in his face, but his mouth was not smiley anymore.

“What do you mean?” He asked a bit confused.

“Me and you… Getting a divorce…” You pointed to him and you as you spoke, then you put your hands together only to separate them, representing what divorce was.

But Phainon’s expression turned horrified and almost pale when you separated your hands from each other, apparently taking it as a genuine offense.

“Why..?” His eyebrows frowned, looking as you worried.

“Well.. because we aren’t exactly married… This is all just for survival, remember?” You laughed a bit to try cooling him off, but Phainon’s expression only seemed to sadden even more.

“But… we’re fine together, aren’t we? We’re surviving really well, aren’t we? So why would you want to divorce?” Phainon stepped closer to you once, and this hall started to feel like it’d became narrower.

“W-Well, yeah, we’re doing good, but if I get women the right to divorce and to work independently, I won’t need you anymore… I mean, we were not doing this back in Amphoreus for a reason…” You laughed it off again, but then his hurt expression and silence made you realize you shouldn’t be giving him any reasoning. “What’s going on, Phainon?” You darkened your expression, trying to get straight to the point.

“I’ve been a good husband, haven’t I? I’ve made you happy all this time, haven’t I?” Phainon now sounded visibly anxious, breath almost hitching as he slowly stepped closer and closer to you, forcing you to repel and step backwards.

“Yeah, Phainon, but you’re not actually my husband. No need to call yourself one…” You laughed at his words, not sympathizing with his worry. “This is all an act for us to survive in this society, remember? There is no actual love or dependence between us or anything…” Phainon’s eyes widened with that last phrase as if you said something that just crushed his heart.

“W-What..?” Phainon’s cute puppy eyes stared at you with dying hope, but you still didn’t feel the slightest pity for him.

“Phainon, seriously, what the fuck is going on?” You decided to step forward this time, setting your ground for him to understand he was almost disrespecting your space.

Phainon didn’t answer you at first, only reluctantly staring at your eyes with his shaky blue pupils. It costed him quite a while to build courage to be truthful with you, gulping down his accumulated saliva and turning his head down to avoid the shame of what he has in his mind.

“I… I don’t want a divorce.” His confession came out as loud as a whisper, which made you not understand what he said initially and forced you to guess it.

Jointing the few syllables you’ve heard and assuming the words and articles he’d said with the help of context clues, you’d concluded he’d said ‘I don’t want a divorce’, which immediately triggered you to have a negative reaction. But you still remained quiet, trying to comprehend why would he want to stay married to you. Maybe he’s afraid to live without a wife in this rigid society? But he’s a man… You are the one supposed to be afraid of living without a husband. Or maybe he’s thinking about that? About your safety and comfort living in this society without a husband? Or maybe… that alternative you’ve been avoiding to recognize ever since the day of your ‘marriage’..?

…

No, it can’t be. He would never.

So you just sighed, throwing that thought to the back of your and concluding your investigation. Phainon did not want a divorce, and he doesn’t want it because he’s worried about you.

“You don’t a want a divorce?” You firmly queried, trying to have a bit of confirmation over your guess, a hand of yours moving to the necklace you wore to fidget it while he answered.

“Yes…” He mumbled shyly and you scoffed in pride of having guessed it correctly, still not understanding why was he be acting like this if his intentions were so pure.

“Why?” You inflated your chest again, preparing for whatever he wanted to say now.

“Because…” He tried to answer your question immediately, but the knot in his throat impeded him from finishing. “Because…” And he tried again, a bit less desperately, failing so miserably he looked down to the floor again in embarrassment.

And so, you exhaled, letting all that imprisoned air in your lungs in a sigh. Since he couldn’t say it for himself, you’d do it for him.

“I appreciate your worry for my comfort, Phainon, but I can definitely live on my own. I don’t care about what these people have to say about me and my choices. In fact, they can feel free to bully me as much as they want, I’ll still be milking more money than them in the end of the day.” You spoke less firmly, trying to see if that would make him feel comfortable to be more honest with you. “I can’t even guarantee that we will get the right to divorce in the first place anyway…” You tried to be a bit more optimistic, but then you immediately regretted it in recognition that it is needed to be realistic in a situation like this. “But I’ll still go to Congress today and fight for it. For me and all the women that need to get away from their husbands.” You could see Phainon swallowing another big chunk of saliva when you finished talking, surprisingly having a negative reaction again.

“For you? Why you?” Phainon stepped closer once again, face only becoming more stunned, which truly disturbed you.

“You’re scaring me, Phainon.” You brought your shoulders closer to your body, trying to make yourself more resistant and tolerable to his behavior.

“I don’t mean to scare you, Y/N… I just want to know why do you want a divorce when we’re so happy together…” He tried to argue in a way that still didn’t reveal his reason, but seeing how unmoved and suspicious you still were of him, he sighed and squinted his eyes. “I don’t want a divorce…” He stated his intentions again, but in a weak tone that made him sound like a hungry puppy, trying to make you feel guilty.

And that pissed you off. You believed Phainon was genuinely not trying to intentionally manipulate you into staying married him, but he was still acting unreasonably.

“But I do.” You countered him firmly. “And I will get it.” You wanted to turn away and immediately walk back to your room, but the moment you spun your right foot, before you could even start about turning your full body away from him, Phainon reacted to your words.

“No, you won’t..!” The tone of his voice deepened in such a rapid way that made you stop and look back at his eyes immediately, a sense of danger growing in the back of your mind.

“Yes, I will.” Feeling even more cornered by the hall’s tightness and afraid of Phainon, you decided to turn away abruptly in a speed that would stun Phainon for a moment before he could possibly catch you and bring you back to the discussion.

“Where are you going..?!” You heard Phainon stomp forward harshly, launching himself forward to reach your wrist and hold you tight with his large hand.

“Let me go, Phainon.” You decided to turn your eyes back to his again, trying to use your presence to order him, forcing yourself to control your voice from shaking as you spoke, taking his action as a threat to your security.

“Why are you trying to leave..? Why are you trying to leave me?!” His eyes were fully widened with anguish as he desperately filled you with two questions to answer.

“I’m just… not hungry anymore. I’ll eat later.” You quickly mumbled a fake reasoning, but it didn’t seem to convince him. After all, Phainon’s eyebrows noticeably frowned.

“That’s not true. Why are you lying to me..?” His grip in your wrist tightened in a way that made you grunt from the pain.

“Phainon, you’re hurting me..!” You tried to pull your hand away from him, only to be fully held back, which only made you even more nervous and scared of him.

“I don’t want us to divorce, Y/N… We don’t need a divorce…” He suddenly turned a bit soft again, endlessly trying to argue with you about that despite the fact that he was really freaking you out.

“I-I need to prepare for Congress, Phainon..! Let me go at this instant!” You even tried stepping away from him, seeing if it was possible to run away, but it didn’t work due to his heavy weight holding you back.

“No…” He mumbled, looking the deepest he could to your eyes, still trying to find any bit of pity in you and hope for himself.

“You’re only giving me more reasons to divorce you right now, Phainon..! Let me go now!” You had no choice but to try facing him with your own strength, now trying to use your other hand to grab that wrist of his to pull it away from you.

“No… We can’t divorce…” His repetitiveness finally made you snap.

“Yes we can and we will!” You launched your face forward and screamed at him, trying to shake your hand out of his grip the fullest you could.

But that triggered him snap too in reaction to your audacity in making such a hurtful statement.

“NO, WE WON’T!” He screamed at a tone that you’ve never heard from him and didn’t recognize, also finally releasing your wrist.

But before you give your first step backward, or think about his change in tone, something else stunned you again.

SLAP!

Your body immediately fell to the ground as Phainon’s hand smacked across your face, your feet enrolling themselves with the thick layers of your dress, giving your instincts time to only put your palms in the wooden floor before your head actually hit the ground, meaning you successfully landed sat instead of fully laid. But you recovered a second after the fall, so you immediately placed a hand on the cheek Phainon had slapped to ease the arduous pain he inflicted on you and rose your head up to him, finding him powerfully standing right in front of you, staring at you like a caught prey, jailed in a cage.

Neither of you spoke for the next seconds to process what had just happened and only breathed with opened mouths. The more you thought, the more frightened for your life you became, remembering the sudden change in his tone to one you’ve never heard, the slap itself and the threat it represented to your relationship… But the more he thought, the more calm he became in realization that you were frozen in fear, defeated by his action. And that’s why after a last round of breathing in and out deeply, he shut his mouth and calmly walked closer to you, kneeling down in front of you.

“Y/N…” A hand of his also reached the same cheek you were holding, cupping it gently, which only made your skin shiver with disgust of his touch, begging yourself to scream at him to get the fuck away from you. “I’m… I-I’m sorry…” He briefly wheezed, trying to ease the both of you from the mood. “I didn’t mean to… do this… or… t-to scare you.” He pathetically smiled at you, only making you wish to run away from him even more, but your adrenaline could only afford to freeze your body in that sat position. “I just… don’t want us to divorce… There’s no good reason to do that… That’s all…” He gulped down again.

You knew it. Deep down, you’ve always known it. You just didn’t want to admit it.

But maybe… you should’ve definitely talked to him about it sooner.

Phainon’s kindness… was never just friendly.

And there were always many little signs that rose that flag…

For example, the way he’d stare at you whenever he gave you a gift, sometimes only a few inches away from your face, just waiting to see the amazing reaction he’d rip out of you. Deep down, it always felt like he urged for more of something you couldn’t name until now. It didn’t feel like he just wanted your comfort and happiness because that’s what friends do, it felt like he did it as if he was your lover. These little gifts, perfectly enveloped in a beautiful wrap, felt like little seduction attempts. After all, the next gift would always be better than the next, as if he wanted to show just how dedicated he is, and convince your heart to let yourself fall for him.

The way he treated you during the day of your marriage… In the altar, what was supposed to be just a quick smooch to pose a fake picture of yourselves to the crowd witnessing you, turned out to be so much more touchy, intimate and even… real, like real couples do. And even when the vows were done, he kept throwing himself at you and holding your hands for the rest of the celebration party, for some reason so happy with the day. Friends don’t stick their tongues inside their friends’ mouths when it’s needed to fake a kiss. It wasn’t just an act.

And the one habit that mostly made you icky about thinking about Phainon’s possibly feeling things for you… The way his eyes stoned in you and his cheeks flushed whenever he saw you trying any ball dresses and makeup for the parties you were invited to or even when he saw you in your rendered pijamas when you two were home… They always delivered you a message of lust, and you don’t want any of your friends to lust over you, much less Phainon in such a situation like yours right now. But it was true, Phainon would not react to you being pretty like a friend would.

You should’ve accepted it sooner. But now it’s too late. You’ve let this grow. You are reaping what you sowed.

Phainon liked you as more than a friend.

“But think about it… Wouldn’t it be iconic? The leader of the feminist movement herself doing all of this work to get the right of divorce when she, on her own, does not desire to divorce her husband? You could show them that it is possible to be a feminist and be a married woman at the same time…” His thumb caressed your hand, lamenting that he couldn’t directly reach your fluffy cheek.

But you were still too stunned to say anything, despite the thousands of protests running in your mind, begging to be shouted.

“We are such a good duo… Why would you ever want to put and end to us? Put an end to our influence? Our impact? Our empire?” Phainon looked at you with more pity, assuming his position of total power over you. “We don’t need to be exactly like other couples… I would never force you to do that… We can still be exactly like how we are today, but all I want is to still be able to live in the same house as you… and call you my wife.” Phainon pulled that hand of yours that held your cheek and turned it around, making your palm face down.

And with very slow movements, he smooched your knuckles, smiling softly at them. And then he looked down at your fingers, meeting that engagement ring that the both of you were forced to wear to avoid any accusations or bullying, and that made his grin grow, blue eyes shining with joy. He leaned down and kissed the ring too with more intensity, sucking your skin for a bit to demonstrate just how much he valued that golden ring.

“I just want you to wear this ring with me for the rest of your life… Is that too much to ask from you? I’ve done so many harder things for you…” Phainon laid his cheek on your hand, rubbing himself against it as if it was the comfiest pillow he’d ever laid on.

He kept doing that for a few seconds before he kissed your hand again… and then again… again, again and again, many spots in it becoming a bit moistened with his saliva. He even turned your hand around and begun kissing your palm and its heel as deep as he could.

“I love you, Y/N…” He mumbled in your skin with closed eyes, breath warming up your skin. “I really do…” He made sure his message was clearly sent to you, pausing for a moment to let you absorb it. “But I can’t let you do this to us… to me…” He opened his eyes, staring at you with a weird kind of pity again, as if he wasn’t bothered by your discomfort, like a masochist would.

But then he stood up again, not offering you any help to get up too.

“You won’t go to Congress today.” He stated a bit more seriously, contrasting his previous tone as he stared down at you very firmly, before he started to calmly walk away from the scene as if he hadn’t just done something completely absurd and out of normal.

Your eyes followed his body in fear, watching him walk with his hands holding each other behind his back ao elegantly, each step making the wood planks creak a bit. In the end of the hall, where you two came from, Phainon met one of your many maids standing still with an uncomfortable expression visible in her face, but still forcing herself to do her job as either your or his servant.

“If you see her trying to leave tonight, don’t let her. You understand?” Phainon spoke to the maid very gently, contrasting himself once again.

“Yes, sir.” She nodded, assuming her new responsibility.

“Good. You may call me or the guards in the gate if that happens.” Phainon assigned the maid her permissions, making her nod again, but silently. “Go tell the other maids their new assignment.” He used to a hand to tap her shoulder twice very sweetly.

“Yes, my master.” She gently bowed to him again, making Phainon grin, feeling comfortable enough to keep walking away from the scene.

When he finally turned to the left and fully left you alone, the maid looked at you again, staring at your pitiful situation with mixed feelings. It was a silent communication, but you could still get her general message, the same way she could get yours.

After all the efforts you’ve been doing to push a feminist agenda in your town to all kinds of women and men, you’ve failed to do that in your own home with your own maids. The same women who were stuck in your palace, working 24/7 to keep every detail of your home perfect and make your routine as easy as possible, were neglected by you and your movement, just like how in real life some women were neglected from the early stages of feminism too. And now you were suffering the harshest consequences of it you could suffer. She pitied you and even seemed to wish she could do something for you, but all she was ever taught to do in this sort of job was obey the man’s command, meaning she’d betray her own beliefs and risk her whole career if she dared to think about helping you, which would be disobeying Phainon. So all she could do was give that silent treatment until she couldn’t bare her own grief anymore and begun to walk away in the same direction as Phainon did, beginning to call him by his nickname, her voice echoing in your ears lightly.

How could you forget? You live in a conservative patriarchy.

Phainon is the man in your relationship.

In conservative patriarchies, the man is always the leader. The woman is just his follower. A servant who is always mindlessly ready to please him.

And he likes this system the way it is.

Today he just made that very clear. The roles of the relationship were established.

Taglist: @gaboplaydespacito

Don’t forget to like and comment if you liked it! <3

#honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #yandere honkai star rail #yandere hsr #honkai star rail x you #phainon #honkai star rail phainon #phainon x reader #phainon x you #phainon x y/n #yandere oneshots #yandere phainon #yandere drabble

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you-know-honey · 8 months ago

Text

Dance

Viktor x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3k

Jayce has a plan: convince Viktor to attend the most important charity party in Piltover. But, as expected, Viktor refuses. What he didn't expect was that his assistant would show up at his workshop with a dazzling dress… and an invitation that Jayce secretly gave her. Could he really refuse now?

N/A: English is not my first language, feel free to correct me in the comments and I'll update it. Remember share if you liked it.

Viktor was focused, hunched over his desk as he fine-tuned one of the delicate pieces of hexcore. The dim lamplight illuminated his tired face, with dark circles under his eyes and strands of hair falling across his forehead. He didn’t notice Jayce’s entrance until the echo of the door closing resonated through the workshop.

“Viktor, old friend,” Jayce said, his tone bright and already foreshadowing trouble. “I have news.”

“If it has to do with that charity party, the answer is still no,” Viktor replied without looking at him, adjusting the tool in his hand.

Jayce sighed dramatically, dropping his weight into one of the nearby chairs.

“Mel has insisted that we go. We represent the future of Piltover, remember? Innovators, role models…” Jayce made a wide gesture with his hands, as if he were giving a speech.

“If Mel insists, you can represent us alone,” Viktor replied indifferently. He knew he wasn’t really required here, inviting him was just a formality. Then he looked up and looked at him seriously. “I don’t have time for parties, there’s a lot of work to finish here.”

Not to mention that dancing was something he had crossed off the list of things he could still do.

His friend really wanted Viktor to go, mostly because he had been very down lately, he barely left the lab and there were days where he would find him with his face on his notebooks after falling asleep at some point in the early morning, he was the first to arrive and the last to leave, if he ever did.

Jayce watched him in silence for a moment, before giving him a sly smile.

“Okay, I understand. You can’t just drop your projects. But what if I gave you a reason to go?”

Viktor frowned, distrusting his tone.

—What kind of reason?

Jayce didn't answer. Instead, his smile widened as he glanced towards the door of the workshop, as if he was waiting for something. He had recently discovered what he thought was a clue to the kind of feelings Viktor had for you, the long longing glances, the little smiles, the casual approaches of his hands, he answering any of your curiosities and letting you sing soft melodies while he worked were all very obvious clues to his eyes. Viktor followed the direction of his gaze just as the door opened.

And there you were.

Viktor felt the air leave his lungs. You weren’t wearing your usual practical attire. Instead, you were sporting an elegant iridescent white dress that flowed like water with your every move. The color perfectly complemented your skin tone, and the design highlighted your figure in a way Viktor couldn’t ignore. Your hair was delicately arranged, and a glint in your eyes suggested you was nervous, yet excited.

“Y/N?” Viktor asked, still processing what he was seeing.

You gave him a shy, yet warm smile.

“Jayce invited me as your date,” you said, your tone a mix of apology and expectation. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Viktor slowly turned to Jayce, who now wore an expression of unabashed triumph.

“What have you done?” Viktor asked, his voice low, but laced with disbelief.

“I gave you a reason to go,” Jayce replied, raising his hands in an innocent gesture. “I knew you wouldn’t accept if there wasn’t something… or someone to make the evening interesting for you.”

Viktor felt his face heat up as his thoughts struggled to organize themselves. Of course he felt a certain special affection for you. It had been a secret he had jealously kept, even from himself, and he had refrained from dwelling on it too much, after all they were coworkers. But now, seeing you there, so beautiful, waiting for his answer, completely disarmed him.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Viktor,” you said softly. “I just thought it would be… nice.”

Viktor’s heart skipped a beat. There was something in your tone that made him immediately doubt his usual refusal. For the first time in a long time, the idea of getting away from his work, even for a few hours, didn’t seem so far-fetched. Mostly because he didn’t seem able to wipe that beautiful smile off your face by refusing. His mind searched for excuses for himself, to justify that he had now changed his mind, and that this change had nothing to do with you.

Finally, he stood up with the help of his staff, running a hand through his messy hair, although it didn't help much.

"If you insist…" he murmured, looking at you more than at Jayce. "I suppose I can make an exception."

Jayce smiled widely.

"Perfect. Now, change. You can't go dressed like that."

Viktor let out a resigned sigh as he took the suitcase that Jayce had left with his suit, in another attempt to convince him, but he couldn't stop a small smile from appearing on his lips as he headed to the bathroom to change.

When he left he felt a little silly, he tried to arrange his hair in front of the mirror but it was totally impossible. Jayce see proudly that his plan had paid off, but the most important look for Viktor and the one he looked for as soon as he opened the door was yours. He watched your pupils dilate rapidly as you saw him come out in that elegant suit. Your hands went to your mouth trying to hide a smile. Viktor forced himself to look away to avoid them seeing the small blush that ran across his pale cheeks.

“Oh! I almost forgot.” You quickly went to open one of the tool cabinets, rummaging through the back with the curious gaze of the boys behind you. After a moment, you pulled out a small box, and as if you were a little girl skipping, you approached Viktor with it. “I hope you like it.”

Viktor looked at you in surprise as he took the delicate box in his hands. He opened it delicately to discover a maroon tie between the strands of paper. His gaze traveled from the gift to you several times before giving you a warm smile as he took the tie between his slender fingers.

“Would you have the honor?” You nodded with a smile, as your hands took the tie you got closer to him, managing to smell the coffee aroma that you loved so much, you brought the tie behind his neck inside the collar of his shirt and tied it perfectly over his chest. “Thank you.”

The evening was everything Viktor had expected: lavish, loud, and filled with Piltover’s elites. Laughter and lively conversation echoed between walls adorned with gilded chandeliers and silk curtains. Viktor had always considered these events a waste of time.

When they arrived, Viktor could barely take his eyes off you. Jayce had already gone after the councilwoman, leaving them alone, as Viktor knew he would. His discomfort was evident in the way his hands played with the handle of his cane, which he tried to hide as soon as he began to walk through the crowd. You seemed to radiate confidence with every step, politely greeting the other attendees, as if these events were common for you.

Viktor, however, felt out of place. He held his cane tighter than usual, trying not to trip, but it was difficult given the state of his leg and the huge crowd.

“Relax,” you whispered with a reassuring smile as you tangled your arm through his. “Is it that bad?”

Viktor looked at you, his eyes softening instantly.

“Easy for you to say. You seem made for this.”

She let out a soft laugh.

“Not as much as you think. I’m just trying to look like it.”

A waiter passed by with a tray of wine glasses, taking a couple, offering another to Viktor. He reluctantly grew taller, though he hesitated before taking a sip.

From a safe distance, Jayce watched the scene with a satisfied smile. Mel approached him, arching an eyebrow in curiosity.

“What did you do this time?”

“A little push in the right direction,” Jayce replied, nodding towards where you stood with Viktor.

Mel let out a light laugh, shaking her head.

“I didn’t know you were a matchmaker.”

Jayce said alarmingly, shrugging.

“I’m not. But sometimes, a man needs help to see what’s right in front of him.”

Meanwhile, you and Viktor had climbed the stairs to the second floor, so you were more isolated from the hustle and bustle, it was a big job for him, but he really wanted to get away from the crowd. Plus the second floor was an even more beautiful place than the main hall, full of huge stained glass windows and a balcony at the end.

“I never imagined I’d end up here,” you said, looking at the lights that dyed the floor thanks to the stained glass. “When I was a child, I looked at the towers of Piltover from Zaun and dreamed of seeing them up close.”

“Zaun leaves its mark on all of us,” Viktor said softly, his fingers drumming against the handle of his cane. “But it’s not always a bad thing. Sometimes, it pushes us to… be better.”

You looked at him with a shy smile, your eyes meeting his.

"Do you think we've accomplished that?"

Viktor was silent for a moment sighing before answering, then slightly tilted his head at you.

"You certainly have."

Your eyes widened in surprise, a slight blush coloring your cheeks.

"That's quite a compliment coming from you."

The sound of music filled the air, and the guests began to make their way to the main hall for the dance. Jayce didn't hesitate to take Mel's hand and head out onto the dance floor.

"It's time to dance" you said, looking over the railing at the rest of the guests dancing with their partners with some longing.

"I don't dance" Viktor answered immediately. It was one of the things he had crossed off the list of things he could still do.

You looked at Viktor, shaking your head.

"I can't…"he didn't like saying that at all, but he didn't want her to be disappointed for failing even in the attempt to do it, all his life he had known that those things weren't for him, so he didn't give himself the time to even try. "I'm sorry to disappoint you." Viktor approached the railing, to look at all those couples dancing next to you.

"Disappoint me?" you answered incredulously, carefully bringing one of your hands closer to his "I don't think you can ever do that."

Your pinky gently caressed his hand, it was okay if he didn't want to dance, you had already witnessed what the pain in his leg could cause him and you didn't want that to happen today. You were pleased to just have his presence by your side, that was enough for you.

Viktor sighed, feeling guilty for 'ruining your night' he looked at you and knew he had to take the risk. He reached out a hand to you, more shaky than he would have liked.

“This time I might try.”

You took his hand carefully, leading him away from the railing, to his own little dance floor. As the music continued, Viktor tried to focus on following your steps, but he realized his attention was completely fixed on you, the way you held his hand, the way he felt your body close to his, your warmth against the cold of your skin. He couldn't help but blush as he finally worked up the courage to look at your face, your smile, the way you looked at him as if he were more than just an inventor addicted to his work.

For the first time in a long time, Viktor allowed himself to let go of the cane that made an almost imperceptible sound as it fell to the ground, he allowed himself to be enveloped by the moment, by the sensations, by you. He forced his leg to be useful to him for the first time, slowly under the silver lights of the moon, the outside world faded away, the pressure of his work, everything that tormented him left him to live the moment with you.

"Viktor, your cane…" you rushed quickly to grab it, thinking that you had dropped it by mistake but his hand in yours stopped you.

"I want to try it like this." He said as he extended his other hand for you to take. You weren't sure if that was the best thing for him, but the confidence on his face, the way he looked as if he were begging you to let him live that moment like that ended up convincing you.

Jayce, watching the scene from a safe distance at the bottom of the stairs, smiled to himself.

"It's about time." he said before Mel appeared and he happily let himself be dragged back to the dance floor.

The dance continued, and although Viktor's movements were a little stiff, your slow, gentle movements managed to relax him little by little. Despite his lack of experience, Viktor was surprised to find a natural rhythm next to you. The murmur of the rest of the guests, the echo of laughter and conversations, faded as your eyes remained fixed on his, with your hands resting on his shoulders, and his own hands caressing your waist.

"See? It wasn't so terrible after all," you murmured with a smile as you buried your face in his neck.

Viktor looked down, his lips curving into a slight smile. But he knew he couldn't last much longer standing without his cane, he was starting to feel that stabbing pain in his leg, he tried to control it as best he could, he didn't want that moment with you to end.

"It's… bearable." He tried to keep his body as relaxed as possible, to avoid you noticing and he feeling like a dying man again.

You laughed, a sound so warm and sincere that it caused Viktor to have a strange tingle in his chest.

"Always so enthusiastic?" you joked.

"Maybe the environment has an influence" he answered, keeping his tone sarcastic but with an unusual softness that you didn't miss.

A comfortable silence settled between the two of them as they continued to sway to the music. Viktor, normally so oblivious to social interactions, couldn't help but wonder how someone like you, so kind and brilliant, was more than comfortable being in his life. And more importantly, how he had been lucky enough to have you stay in it.

As the music began to become softer, both of their movements became slower, until they stopped completely. You stayed close, your hands still joined, until he spoke in a voice barely audible to you:

"Thank you for joining me tonight."

You nodded.

"Thank you… for making it bearable."

He smiled, his gaze lowering for a moment before meeting yours again, as you picked up his cane from the floor and surrendered.

"Thank you. We should do this more often, don't you think?"

The suggestion took you by surprise, you didn't think Viktor would want to repeat something like that, but instead of responding with a negative and referring to his leg, you simply said:

"Maybe." with a sweet smile, now that you both shared more than just work. Without the bustle and inquisitive glances of the attendees, it was as if they were in a world of their own.

The party had reached its moment of recess, with laughter and soft music filling the air. The guests began to disperse throughout the place and some began to climb the stairs. The moment you shared was abruptly broken when a visibly drunk councilman stumbled towards you with a smirk on his face. His ostentatious attire and wine glass in hand made him seem out of place in the serene atmosphere you had created.

“Ah, there are the strangers!” he exclaimed, his tone heavy with mockery. His eyes assessed you both, lingering a little longer on you, an expression that made you shudder in disgust. You had received such looks before, you knew them and knew they led to nothing good.

Viktor tensed instantly, straightening up with difficulty and leaning more heavily on his cane to take a step forward.

“Can we help you with something?” Viktor asked coldly, clearly uncomfortable with the man’s presence.

The councilman let out an exaggerated laugh.

“Oh, I don’t need any help from you.” Though I must say, Heimerdinger has strange priorities, letting a couple of second-class citizens mingle among us.

Your brow furrowed and you clenched your fists, more than ready to throw him down the stairs and pretend he slipped. But before you could say anything, the man turned to Viktor with a sly grin.

“You… Viktor… How admirable that you accomplish so much in such… poor health. It’s a miracle you can stay on your feet, don’t you think? Though, of course, when all you have to offer is your brain, I guess there’s not much else you can use to impress.”

The comment hit like a whiplash, but Viktor didn’t respond immediately, it wasn’t the first time he heard someone talk about him like that, he didn’t care at all. His grip on the cane tightened just because you were there, and his jaw clenched, of all people in the world, he didn’t want you to be the one to hear that. He remained silent, his gaze fixed on the man.

The councilor, seeing that he wasn’t getting a response, turned his attention to you again. His eyes scanned you shamelessly, his smile twisting even more.

“And you, my dear… I guess it makes sense that you’re here with him. The girls of Zaun always know how to… adapt to circumstances, don’t they? A perfect match: a disembodied brain and a… well, you know.”

Indignation took hold of you. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, but before you could respond or move to fit his nose with a punch, Viktor grabbed your hand, stopping the hurricane of thoughts in your mind.

“Stop it,” Viktor said, his voice low but firm.

The councilman raised his eyebrows, feigning surprise.

“Oh, did you hit a nerve? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“No,” Viktor interrupted, taking a step forward, despite the obvious annoyance the movement caused him. “Don’t be sorry. And I don’t want your fake apologies. Just… shut your mouth and get out.”

The man snorted, but before he could say anything else, you faced him, walking steadily in front of him, your voice clear and determined.

“It must be exhausting carrying so much shit around,” you said, with an icy smile. “But I guess I couldn’t expect anything else from someone whose only virtue is his last name.”

The councilman looked at you, surprised by your bravery, and then snorted before turning to leave, muttering something unintelligible and spilling half of his glass of wine on the floor.

When you were alone again, the air was still tense, your fists still clenched at your sides. Viktor finally let out a long sigh, closing his eyes for a moment.

“You shouldn’t have… faced him,” he said softly. “I’m used to his usual nonsense.”

You looked at him with a determined expression.

“And you shouldn’t bear that in silence. No one deserves to be treated like that, especially you. They should lick your shoes, thanks to you this city really became the city of progress. You shouldn’t have to get used to it, Viktor.” You intertwined your hand with his, like an instinct you couldn’t ignore.

He looked down at their intertwined hands. He could feel the warmth of your touch breaking through the cold barrier he had built up over the years.

“I don’t believe his words, they’re irrelevant to me,” he finally admitted, his voice laced with honesty.

You gently squeezed his hand, forcing him to look at you.

“Then stand up for yourself, because you know what I believe? I believe you’re more than just a brilliant brain, Viktor. You’re not just a man with a cane or someone who comes from Zaun. You’re so much more than that, a genius, a visionary. There’s so much about you that’s amazing besides your wit.”

Viktor let out a short, dry laugh, but there was a spark of something else in his expression. Maybe gratitude, maybe something deeper that he didn’t dare name yet.

“You’re… persistent,” he said, with a slight smile that quickly faded as he looked back into your eyes. “But I don’t understand why.”

You tilted your head, confused.

“Why, what?”

Viktor looked away, unsure of how to continue, but he knew the words were already on the edge of his lips, and he couldn’t turn back.

“Why do you care so much about me? Why are you still here, by my side, despite everything. Helping me with everything, always taking care of me, looking at me as if there was nothing more interesting than me when I talk to you…even now.”

You looked at him for a long moment with a huge blush caught in your cheeks, and then, with a warmth in your voice that almost disarmed him, you answered, “Because I see you, Viktor. I see who you really are, and… I care about you. Much more than I should.”

The world seemed to stop in that instant. Viktor swallowed, feeling the air grow heavier, but also clearer at the same time.

“Y/N…” His voice was a whisper, as if he was taste out your name in a different, more intimate context that even he didn’t know about.

Their eyes met again, and this time, Viktor didn't look away, just watching your eyes sparkle and your pupils widen, it warmed his heart to know it was because you were looking at him.

"I should tell you now, but well…it's something new."

You smile softly, giving him some relief.

"You don't need to be good at it. Just tell me what you feel."

Viktor took a deep breath, as if he was preparing for a leap he had feared for a long time.

"I admire you. Not just for your intelligence or your ability to put up with my…quirks. But because you make me feel different…alive. With you, I don't feel alone. With you, I feel like…I can be something more."

His words were clumsy, but the sincerity in them was undeniable.

“And I think… I feel something really deep for you, Y/N.”

The silence that followed was overwhelming, but not because you were hesitating. But because you were taking in each word, feeling them deeply. Slowly, a smile spread across your face, and with a determined step, you closed the distance between you.

“That’s good, Viktor,” you whispered, leaning in just enough for him to hear each word clearly. “Because I’m already in love with you.”

Viktor looked at you, a flash of something soft and warm crossing his eyes.

“Thank you,” he finally said, his voice almost a whispered gasp. Despite everything he believed made him unworthy, you always saw him as something more.

The air seemed to vibrate between you, charged with an energy neither of you could explain but both of you understood. As the lights of Piltover continued to shine in the distance, the two of them towered over high society, standing together in a pure, private moment.

Jayce, who had been watching the scene with a mix of satisfaction and pride, decided not to interrupt. Mel, at his side, looked at him with an arched eyebrow.

“Happy with your masterpiece?” she asked, taking a sip of her glass.

“More than I imagined,” Jayce replied, crossing his arms as a triumphant smile lit up his face. “Viktor deserved it, although he’ll probably hate me tomorrow.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’ll hate you,” Mel said, watching the couple. “Maybe he’ll even thank you… eventually.”

As the night progressed and the lights in the hall grew dimmer, you and Viktor remained close, away from the bustle of the rest of the guests. For the first time in a long time, Viktor wasn’t thinking about the Hexcore, or his work, or his body, or the expectations he had placed on himself.

At that moment, there were only the two of them, and that, for Viktor, was a discovery as fascinating as any scientific breakthrough.

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catchastarorten · 6 months ago

Text

—100 loaves of bread.

Pairing: the salesman/recruiter x bakeryowner!fem!reader

Summary: it started with a few visits from him buying 100 loaves of bread each time from your little bakery, but overtime the two of you started to get familiar, little did you know about his ‘work’ and how he should’ve given the card to you but didn't...

Content: fluff, aggressive stomping on bread, him having a soft spot for you, trying to convince himself that he doesn’t care about you (it doesn’t work lol), a bit of reader's backstory, self-conflict and a bit of change of heart from him, English isn’t my first language, mistakes should be present, not proofread, sorry!

Word count: ~ 2.1k

You were wiping down the counter when the familiar chime of the bell above the door jingled. It was late in the afternoon, and the bakery was quiet, except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the faint scent of freshly baked bread and sugar lingering in the air. You glanced up, already knowing who it was. He was here again—the man with the sharp suit and the briefcase who bought bread in quantities that always left you baffled.

“Afternoon,” you said, watching as he walked in with the same calm, measured way as always. He almost looked too friendly for someone who carried himself so formally.

“Afternoon,” he replied, stepping up to the counter and resting his briefcase at his feet. “I’ll need the usual. A hundred loaves.”

A hundred loaves of bread. It was such a ridiculous request, and yet, he never failed to make it.

You’d asked him once, early on, what on earth he did with all that bread. Selling it somewhere else for a profit? Feeding a small army? Storing up for an apocalypse? He had only smiled at you then, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and said, “Something like that.”

It had been weeks since his first visit, and by now, the routine was familiar. You’d load loaf after loaf into paper bags while he stood patiently, sometimes asking about your day, sometimes quietly observing the modest little bakery. Today, though, you felt compelled to ask again.

“Are you sure you want all of it?” you asked, sliding the first bag across the counter. “That’s… a lot of bread.”

He smiled faintly, reaching for the bag and setting it beside him. “You ask me that every time.”

“Well, it’s not everyday someone comes in and buys out half my stock,” you said, tilting your head. “It makes me curious.”

His expression softened, and for a moment, he seemed like he might answer—really answer. But then he only shrugged slightly, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “Let’s just say it goes to good use.”

You frowned, unsatisfied but unwilling to press further. He always paid in cash, crisp bills that he counted out with precision. You noticed, as you often did, that he never left without dropping a generous tip into the glass jar by the register. He offered you a warm look as he slipped a few bills into the tip jar again.

“Keep up the good work,” he said. “Your bread’s the best in the city.”

You weren’t sure whether to be flattered or suspicious. He seemed genuine, but there was something about him—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

Still, it wasn’t your place to pry. You handed him the last of the bags, and he left with the same polite nod as always.

The next time he came in, it wasn’t for a hundred loaves of bread.

You were behind the counter again, rearranging a tray of pastries, when you heard the door chime. Glancing up, you saw him standing there, his briefcase nowhere in sight.

“Not the usual today?” you asked, half-teasing.

He smiled slightly, stepping up to the counter. “Not today. I was thinking I’d try something different.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

He scanned the display case, his eyes lingering on a slice of strawberry shortcake near the center. “That,” he said, pointing.

You wrapped up the slice for him, and when you handed it over, he didn’t leave right away. Instead, he took a seat at one of the small tables by the window—a seat no one ever seemed to take—and unwrapped the cake with a kind of deliberate care. You watched, unable to help yourself, as he took a bite.

“It’s good,” he mumbled, almost to himself. “Really good.”

A flicker of amusement crossed your face as you watched him eat. He wasn’t as neat as you’d expected—a bit of whipped cream ended up on the corner of his mouth, and he licked it away absentmindedly, his gaze drifting to the shelves of decorative knick-knacks you’d lined the walls with.

“I never really noticed these before,” he said, gesturing toward a small ceramic cat perched on one of the shelves. “Did you make them?”

You shook your head. “No, those were my parents’. They used to run this place before me. They had a thing for collecting stuff like that.”

He nodded, his expression thoughtful. “It’s nice. Feels… homey.”

You didn’t know why, but his words left you oddly self-conscious. The bakery had always been your parents’ dream, not yours, and while you’d taken it over out of necessity, you’d never thought much about how it felt to anyone else. But hearing him say it was homey made you feel a faint sense of pride.

“Thanks,” you said softly.

He stayed longer than usual that day, finishing his cake and ordering a coffee to go with it.

You found yourself talking to him more than you normally would with a customer. He asked about the bakery, about your favorite thing to bake, about whether you’d ever considered expanding. You didn’t ask about him—not directly—but you couldn’t help but wonder what kind of man he was.

By the time he left, it was dark outside, and the bakery was empty except for you. As you locked up for the night, you found yourself thinking about his smile, the way it lingered even after he was gone.

One day, as he was paying for a loaf of sourdough, he looked at you, his head tilting slightly. “Do you ever think about getting out of here?” he asked.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… this place is great, but don’t you ever wonder what else is out there?”

You hesitated. It wasn’t that you hadn’t thought about it—leaving, starting fresh somewhere new—but the bakery was all you’d ever known. It was safe, familiar. And after your parents passed, it felt like the only thing that tethered you to them.

“Sometimes,” you admitted. “But I don’t know. This place… it’s home.”

He nodded, his expression unreadable.

For a moment, there was a silence between you. Then he smiled again, that warm, almost disarming smile, and slid an extra bill across the counter. “For the tip jar,” he said.

You watched as he walked out the door, his briefcase in hand, and wondered—for the hundredth time—what kind of life he led.

...

The bell above the bakery door chimed familiarly.

He stepped inside, brushing imaginary dust off his jacket, his polished demeanor there as always. But inside, his stomach churned. He had made a decision today—a decision that, for once, made him feel something like guilt.

He scanned the shop. You were at the counter, hands dusted with flour as you arranged freshly baked rolls on a tray. The soft glow of the afternoon light spilling through the window caught on your hair, and the faintest smile tugged at your lips when you saw him. That smile… It was a problem.

“Afternoon,” you said, just as you always did. Your voice was warm, even though he could see the slight tiredness beneath it. That smile didn’t reach your eyes as much these days, but you still tried, didn’t you?

He nodded, keeping his face neutral. “Afternoon.”

You weren’t supposed to matter to him. That was the rule. He had a job to do, a system to uphold, and people like you—drowning in debt—were just part of the equation. It shouldn't have mattered how good-hearted you were, how hardworking you were.

You weren’t special... at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

He first started coming to your bakery for convenience, but as time passed, the lines started to blur. The bread looked good, better than most places in this part of the city, and you didn’t ask too many questions.

The loaves weren’t for eating, of course. They were for a little ‘social experiment’.

“Bread or lottery?” That’s what he’d ask them—the desperate, homeless souls he scouted in the park. It was always the same. He’d hold out a loaf in one hand, a lottery scratcher in the other. The bread could fill their stomachs. But the lottery ticket? That promised a chance. A gamble. A way out.

They always chose the ticket. Every time.

He knew what came next. The moment they realized it wasn’t a winning ticket after all. They’d just stared at him, some cursed out loud, some were just disappointed, their hopes bleeding out onto the pavement.

And the bread? He destroyed it. Stomped it into the ground until it was unrecognizable, crumbs scattering across the concrete.

It was dramatic, yes, but it served its purpose. It showed them the choice that they had made, the food that they had thrown away and destroyed, not him. It was necessary. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

But the bread came from you.

That detail had started to bother him more and more. You put your heart into every loaf, every pastry, every crumb that came out of your oven. He saw it in the way you worked, the way you carefully packed the loaves into paper bags for him, the way you smiled when he left a tip. He had started tipping more, as if that would excuse him of the guilt of what he was doing with your work—it didn’t.

He had been keeping tabs on you. He knew about your debts, the ones you and your brother had racked up trying to keep the bakery afloat after your parents passed. He knew how hard you worked to stay above water, how you barely made enough to cover the bills some months.

You were exactly the kind of person he was supposed to recruit.

He told himself that’s why he started coming more often. He needed to assess you, to figure out the right moment to offer you the card. But the truth was, he liked being in the bakery. He liked the smell of fresh bread and sugar, the hum of the old refrigerator, the quiet way you moved behind the counter. He liked your voice when you asked him how his day was going, even though he never answered honestly.

And he hated himself for liking any of it.

The card was in his pocket today. He had been carrying it around for a while now, waiting for the right moment.

Today, he had decided, would be the day. After all, you deserved it, right? The games were brutal, yes, but they were also fair. A chance for people like you to escape the crushing weight of debt.

That’s what he told himself as he walked into the bakery. But when you looked up at him, your flour-dusted hands resting on the counter, and said, “So, what are you getting today?”—he froze.

He could feel the card in his pocket, its edges pressing against his fingers. All he had to do was pull it out, slide it across the counter, and say the words. But he couldn’t do it. Not to you.

Instead, he cleared his throat. “I’ll take another slice of that cake,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

You looked over to the display. “The strawberry one?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, his finger gently tapping the display glass that caged all the pastries. “It’s… good.”

You smiled faintly, wrapping up the slice and handing it to him. “Anything else?”

He hesitated, the card burning a hole in his pocket. But then your eyes met his, and something in them—something warm, something real—made his resolve crumble.

“No,” he said softly. “That’s all.”

As he ate the cake at the small table by the window again, he told himself that letting you go was the right thing to do. You didn’t belong in the games. You didn’t belong in his world. And yet, he felt something close to longing as he watched you work behind the counter, your movements quick and precise, your expression focused.

For the first time in a very, very long time, he felt human.

When he left the bakery that day, he slipped a few extra bills into the tip jar. He told himself it was just another gesture, another way to balance the scales. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough to make up for what he did—what he was.

And yet, he didn’t offer you the card. He didn’t bring it the next time he visited, or the time after that. He told himself he’d do it eventually, that it was inevitable. But the truth was, he didn’t have the heart to drag you into the darkness he inhabited every day.

You weren’t like him. And he wanted—no, needed—to keep it that way.

#the salesman #the salesman squid game #the salesman x you #squid game #the salesman x reader #squid game fanfic #squid game fic #squid game imagine #squid game x y/n #squid game season 2 #squid game x reader #squid game x you #the salesman x y/n #the recruiter squid game #the recruiter #gong yoo #gong yoo x reader #gong yoo x you

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dismalflo · 1 month ago

Text

summer is for lovers

Remus Lupin x fem!reader ✩ 10k words

summary: on your hunt for a new flatmate you come across Remus. Lovely, handsome Remus. Over the summer months you slowly grow closer to each other.

cw; vague smut (not detailed) but still 18+, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, tiny bit of angst, miscommunication, both reader and remus are a little emotionally constipated.

✩ May ✩

The harsh glow of your laptop screen, paired with the dwindling list of options, is giving you a headache. The pain pulses behind tired eyes, you’re exhausted. Landlords are pricks. The notice came a few weeks ago: your tiny flat, with its damp-stained walls (despite your investment in a fancy dehumidifier), a temperamental oven, and heating that barely registers in winter, is about to cost far more than you can afford. It’s barely worth what you pay now.

It turns out that most places in your price range are even worse than this, you must've seen upwards of twenty flats. So you’ve resigned yourself to looking for someone, anyone in need of a flatmate. Something entirely out of your comfort zone. A quiet, lonely girl by nature the idea of living with a stranger is alien and uncomfortable. But what other choices do you have?

There's a listing that seems like a good fit. Close to your work in a nice area, walking distance from a Tesco and it’s seemingly a good size. The only thing that puts you off is the fact it's a man, similar in age to you, advertising for a flatmate.

You don’t love the idea. But you’re running out of time. So you grab your phone and hover over the keypad, your mind racing while your fingers tremble as they type in the number.

Each ring after you press call makes your skin crawl with second thoughts. Still, you don’t hang up. And just when you’re about to, he answers. His voice makes you jump.

“Hello?” It’s low and calm.

“Hi,” you manage, your voice thinner than you’d like. At least he sounds nice, you think. “I, um… I saw your ad for a flatmate and I was wondering if you're still looking?”

“Yes–yeah,” he replies, sounding almost relieved. “You’re welcome to come by, have a look around? See how it feels?”

“That would be great, actually,” you say, breathing out slowly. “Would this afternoon work? Or whenever suits you.”

“This afternoon is perfect.”

You confirm the address and end the call, only then realising that you don’t know his name and he doesn’t know yours. Still, something about the tone of his voice settles the panic in your chest. It’s probably foolish, but for now, it’s enough.

The tube ride over is a blur. You're tucked into a corner seat, fingers clenched tight around the handle of your bag, knees bouncing in spite of your best efforts to seem composed. The whole journey, you’re rehearsing what you might say. Hi, I’m here about the flat. Too stiff. Nice to meet you, thanks for having me. Weirdly formal. Please let me live here, I’m very quiet and I won’t use your milk. Pathetic.

The closer you get, the more you regret not backing out. Your stomach’s knotted, heart thudding. It doesn’t help that the sky’s overcast, a flat grey pressing down like it might rain at any moment. You find the building easily – it’s a narrow brick townhouse with peeling paint around the windows but an otherwise respectable facade. Not too posh, not too grotty.

You buzz the number he gave you. A beat, and then the door unlocks with a clunk.

You’re greeted at the top of a narrow stairwell. The man from the listing is already waiting at the threshold of the flat, leaning lightly on the doorframe.

You freeze.

He’s beautiful.

Not in a clean, shiny way like the men in ads. No, he’s something quieter, warm brown eyes, framed by tired lashes and shadows that suggest long nights. His jumper hangs loose on a tall frame, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. There’s a scar that cuts across the bridge of his nose – thin, pale, old – but it fits his face. You’re staring.

He shifts, and you realise you're just standing there like a lemon.

“Hi,” you manage. “I’m Y/N, by the way.”

He smiles. “I’m Remus.”

You nod like that’s normal, like his voice isn’t curling around you in a way that makes your breath catch. Remus. You tuck the name away for safekeeping.

He steps aside to let you in. “Come on, I’ll show you around. It’s not Buckingham Palace or anything, but it’s solid.”

The flat is surprisingly nice. Wooden floors, worn but clean, a big window in the living room that lets in more light than you’d expected. There are bookshelves and a threadbare sofa that looks deeply comfortable. The kitchen is small but tidy, and he opens a cupboard to show you what would be “your half”.

“And the bathroom’s through here–no mould, promise,” he says, glancing at you over his shoulder with a grin that’s too charming to be fair. “And I don’t take forever in the mornings.”

You follow, nodding, your voice still lodged somewhere near your collarbone. “You, um... seem very prepared.”

He chuckles, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I try my best.”

You breathe in through your nose, trying to summon enough courage to sound like a normal person. “Well,” you say, your voice higher than usual, “as long as you don’t kill me in my sleep, I think we should be fine.”

The words are barely out before you regret them. Why would you say that? You flush, gaze snapping to the floor. But then—

Remus laughs.

Not just a polite huff, either. A real, warm laugh that starts low in his chest and melts into something softer.

You blink, stunned.

“Fair enough,” he says, still smiling. “I promise not to kill you. I make a mean cup of tea, though. That help balance it out?”

You nod, trying to hide the way your mouth twitches. “Yeah. That might do it.”

Living with Remus is fine, better than you expected actually. You’ve found him to be a perfectly amenable flatmate and his claims were true, he doesn't take forever in the mornings and he does make lovely cups of tea.

Still, you find yourself hiding away in your bedroom most of the time, listening for when he vacates the living room and kitchen before making some quick food to eat and retreating back. He spends a lot of his time sitting at the dining table working on his manuscript and you'd hate to disturb him.

It's no fault of his that you hide away, you dont think you’ve met a nicer, more gentle boy in your life. It’s more like, you're so worried about imposing on his space and routine, being an annoyance that you avoid him.

So, when you hear the sound of his bedroom door shutting you make a break for the kitchen, stomach rumbling.

You rummage through the fridge, the cold light humming against your skin, illuminating a disappointingly bare shelf. Half a tub of hummus, a sad-looking cucumber, and a block of cheddar that’s luckily mould free. You sigh and close the door with your hip, already drafting a mental shopping list.

Tomorrow, definitely. You’ll go tomorrow.

For now, you settle on a sandwich – cheese and cucumber. The bread’s from the freezer, so you wedge two slices apart and drop them into the toaster, rubbing sleep from your eyes with the back of your hand while you wait. The flat is quiet, save for the low tick of the kitchen clock and the mechanical whirr of the toaster heating up. It’s peaceful like this, when it’s just you and the hum of appliances. You suppose it's always peaceful really though, Remus isn’t very loud.

You’re halfway through slicing the cucumber when you hear it: the soft creak of a door down the hall. Footsteps. Then Remus appears, yawning into the sleeve of his jumper, his hair mussed like he’d been lying down.

“Oh–I’m sorry,” you blurt, stepping back from the counter instinctively, knife still in hand. “I didn’t mean to take over the kitchen.”

He blinks, confused for a half-second before smiling. “You’re fine,” he says gently. “Just need to get in there–” he nods at the cupboard above your head.

You quickly sidestep, hugging the counter as he reaches past you. As he opens the cupboard, his fingers brush your shoulder in passing, a light, friendly touch. You flinch, just barely, but he either doesn’t notice or chooses not to mention it.

From the shelf, he pulls down a small box full of blister packets of painkillers, the label worn from use. He moves to the sink, filling a glass with water as you return to your sandwich-making, quieter now. More self-conscious.

“I, um–didn’t mean to interrupt your rest,” you offer, hoping it doesn’t sound too awkward.

Remus looks over his shoulder at you, then downs the tablets with a quick gulp. “You live here too,” he says easily, setting the glass in the sink. “You don’t have to apologise for being in the kitchen.”

You look at him, a little surprised by the softness in his voice.

“Still,” you murmur, pressing the sandwich together, “you’ve got your routines. I didn’t want to get in the way.”

“You’re not,” he says, and smiles. It's a little crooked, a little tired. “Seriously. Come in here whenever you want. Cook something that stinks. Use the last teabag. The whole kitchen is yours too.”

Your eyes lift to meet his, and there’s something about the way he says it, like he means it, that makes your throat go tight.

“Oh,” you say softly. “Okay.”

Remus excuses himself with a quiet smile and a muttered, “Back in a bit,” before padding back down the hallway.

You catch it just as he turns: a slight shift in his gait. Barely noticeable, the way his weight tips unevenly between steps, like one side of his body isn’t quite cooperating with the other. It slows him, just slightly. Enough that your brows draw together before you even realise you're staring.

You stand in the kitchen for a long moment, sandwich forgotten in your hand. It’s not like you to pry. You hate when people ask about things you haven’t offered up willingly – hate the sharp, intrusive edge of what’s wrong with you?

You take your sandwich to the little dining table where his laptop still sits closed, charger curled beside it. The seat across from you remains warm from where he’d been earlier. You chew in silence, mind gnawing at the image of him walking away with that faint limp. He hadn’t mentioned anything. No sign of injury.

Your chest prickles with quiet unease. Maybe it’s not your place. Maybe he doesn’t want questions.

The sandwich is half-finished when he reappears, this time in fresh pyjama bottoms and a different jumper, a little looser in the sleeves. He walks slower than usual, and now that you’re looking for it, the limp is unmistakable. It’s subtle but deliberate, a kind of favouring of one leg over the other. You feel that pinch again, behind your ribs.

Remus notices your eyes on him, and he offers you a faint smile, tired but open.

“Sorry,” he says, lowering himself gently into the chair opposite you with the kind of care that makes your heart ache. “Was hoping the tablets would kick in faster.”

Your voice is quiet when you speak. “Are you okay?”

He glances up at you, blinking like he hadn’t expected the question. For a moment you think he might brush it off, toss out some polite, yeah, all good lie. But then his expression softens. Honest.

“I will be,” he says. Then he hesitates, eyes flicking down to the grain of the wooden table, fingers brushing over a faint coffee ring like it might help ground him. “It’s just a flare-up. Happens sometimes.”

You nod slowly, waiting. Letting him lead.

“My joints,” he says eventually, voice low but calm. “They’ve been wrecked for years. Doesn’t usually act up like this, but sometimes–weather, overdoing it, not sleeping right–it just hits harder.” He gestures vaguely toward his leg, then his shoulder. “Today’s one of those days.”

You don’t say anything at first. Not because you don’t know what to say, but because your first instinct, that sounds awful, I’m sorry, feels both too much and not enough. You don’t think he’d want the sympathy of it anyway.

Instead, you offer him your full attention. “Is there anything you need? I mean, anything I can do?”

Remus looks at you, properly this time, and something unreadable passes behind his eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Surprise.

“No,” he says gently. “Thanks, though. Just rest, really. Try not to be on my feet more than I have to.”

You nod. Then, quieter, “I didn’t realise you were in pain.”

“I hide it well,” he says, the corners of his mouth lifting in something that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Comes with practice.”

“I could make tea?”

He smiles, just barely. “Only if you make it as good as I do.”

✩ June ✩

Downpours in June always catch you off guard. In your mind, the month should be full of sun and warmth even though it never is. Shockingly, the rain does little to dampen your mood on the walk home, too excited with the knowledge that when you get into the flat, Remus will be there, probably writing, ready to talk to you and listen to your day.

You found quite quickly, after you got more comfortable, that you and Remus have a lot in common. You like the same shows and takeaways, both reading copious amounts of books and both of you are quiet and calm a lot of the time. You think he might be your only real friend and maybe that's a bit pathetic but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Your trainers squelch faintly as you step into the building, hair sticking to your forehead and the back of your neck. Still, there’s a smile tugging at your lips. You’re soaked and half-frozen, but the thought of the flat and Remus keeps your spirits high.

You shake the worst of the water from your coat before unlocking the flat door. It swings open, the familiar creak greeting you–

–and then a sound you weren’t expecting.

Laughter. Loud, overlapping voices. And not just Remus’.

Your eyes flick up as you step into the living room and stop short.

There are people in your flat.

Three strangers are sprawled across the sofas, legs thrown over armrests, half-drunk mugs of tea and empty crisp packets scattered across the coffee table.

The girl with striking red hair and green eyes is curled into the far corner of the loveseat, gesturing with a half-eaten biscuit and grinning. Next to her, a tall, dark-haired boy is half-lounging, half-sliding off the cushions, knees spread like he owns the place. His shirt is rumpled, his hair even more so, but it works on him. On the floor, sitting cross-legged and sipping from a mug, is another man, long dark hair, an open leather jacket.

And in the middle of it all, Remus.

He’s leaned forward in his usual seat, elbow braced on his knee, a lazy sort of smile tugging at his mouth. He looks comfortable. At home. The sleeves of his jumper are pushed up, and there’s a small ink smudge on his knuckle. He lifts his head at the sound of the door and lights up when he sees you.

“Oh–hey!” he says, already standing. “You’re back.”

All at once, the three others look up. At you.

You freeze in the doorway, suddenly aware of your rain-slick hair, damp jeans, the drip of water off your coat. Your bag sags heavily at your side.

“Hi,” you manage, blinking.

Remus crosses to take your bag, entirely casual. “Didn’t think you’d be back this early. I’d have warned you.”

You shrug, trying for a smile. “The rain chased me home.”

“Let me get you a towel in a sec–uh, this is Lily, Sirius, and James.” He gestures over his shoulder, and they all wave.

Lily smiles kindly. James does a salute from the couch. Sirius raises his mug.

You nod, stepping a little further into the room, wringing your hands slightly.

Of course Remus would have friends like this, you think. People who look like they stepped out of a film set or an advert or maybe an indie band that never quite went mainstream. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume they were all built in the same beautiful factory.

Sirius leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glinting with mischief. “So you’re the one living with Moony. Brave soul.”

James chimes in, grinning. “Yeah, seriously. Does he still snore like a bear, or has he grown out of it?”

You blink, then giggle – actually giggle – which surprises even you.

“I haven’t noticed,” you say, glancing at Remus as he hands you a towel, whose ears have gone slightly pink. “He’s actually… really great to live with.”

You miss the way he straightens slightly at that, how his expression softens. You’re too busy trying to unstick a strand of wet hair from your cheek.

“I’m just gonna–” you gesture vaguely down the hall, “–shower. Before I mildew. I’ll be back.”

You duck into the hallway with a grateful glance toward Remus, clutching the towel he pressed into your hands like a lifeline. You’re still soaked through, jeans sticking to your legs, and your skin feels clammy beneath your shirt. In the bathroom, you peel out of your wet clothes, your cheeks still warm from the shock of unexpected company.

The shower helps. Hot water pounding against your back, steam curling around your face, loosening the tension in your shoulders. You scrub quickly, methodically, trying not to think too hard. You don’t know why their presence made your chest tighten like that – maybe it was the surprise, maybe it was how pretty they all were. Maybe it was the way they all seemed to belong here.

It’s not jealousy, exactly. Just a small ache, like being on the outside of a joke you’d love to be part of.

Back in the living room, as the sound of the bathroom door clicks shut, a shift happens.

Sirius, who had been half-sprawled on the floor with his mug, shoots a look at Remus – slow and smug. “Mate.”

Remus doesn’t look up from where he’s fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “Don’t.”

“Oh, I will.” Sirius grins, wolfish.

Lily lets out a snort, raising her brows at James. “Did you see the way he lit up when she walked in?”

James nudges Remus’s knee with his own. “It was sweet, actually. Like a dog seeing its favourite person.”

Remus groans, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re all insufferable.”

“Not denying it, though,” Lily singsongs.

“There’s nothing to deny,” Remus mutters, flushing down to his collarbones. “She’s just my flatmate.”

James grins. “Flatmate. Right.”

Lily’s voice softens just slightly, teasing but kind. “It’s okay, Remus. We like her. She seems sweet.. And clearly into you, even if she doesn’t know it yet.”

Remus shifts in his seat, pulling his sleeve back down like it might shield him. “She’s not. And even if she were, she deserves... more.”

Sirius tilts his head, tone quieter now. “More than what?”

Remus doesn’t answer.

The conversation lapses just in time for the soft pad of footsteps down the hallway.

You return with damp hair falling to your shoulders, the sleeves of your jumper pulled over your hands. The soft scent of your shampoo trails after you. You hover at the edge of the living room, unsure if you’re intruding again.

Remus looks up first, his face softening instantly. “Feel better?”

You nod, giving him a small smile. “Much.”

There’s a pause – comfortable, this time – before he gestures to the seat beside him. “Come sit?”

You do.

The sofa is warm from where he’d been sitting earlier. Close, but not too close.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, turning slightly toward you. “We’ve got crisps, biscuits. Sirius tried to eat all the digestives but I fought him off–”

“I let him win,” Sirius adds from the floor.

“–or there's your leftovers in the fridge.” He continues, ignoring his friend's input.

You shake your head. “I’m okay, thank you.”

Lily leans forward, her smile easy. “So, how’s it been living with this one?” She jerks her thumb toward Remus.

You glance at him, then back to her. “Honestly? Pretty great. He’s... very considerate.”

“She’s being polite,” Remus mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.

“She’s being nice,” Lily corrects, then turns back to you. “It’s very commendable of you, I’m sure there's something about him that annoys you.”

“Charming, Lils.” Remus says with a fond eye roll.

Lily is wrong, you think, at this point in time you can't think of anything about remus that annoys you. He’s not a perfect person, obviously, but any little annoyances you have with him are forgotten quickly after they happen.

The conversation rolls on from there. They ask about your job, your favourite books, where you went to school. You end up laughing more than you have in weeks, tucked into the corner of the sofa beside Remus, your shoulder just barely brushing his arm.

By the time the clock on the wall nudges past ten, the living room has slipped into a comfortable sprawl of conversation and low laughter. Mugs have been refilled more than once, empty wrappers tucked under cushions, and Sirius has taken to stacking biscuit crumbs on James’s shoulder like a game of Jenga.

Eventually, one of them – Lily, predictably – checks the time and groans. “Alright, we’re off,” she says, pushing herself up with a dramatic sigh. “Some of us have to be adults in the morning.”

“Tragic,” Sirius mutters, already reaching for his jacket.

There’s a flurry of movement – shoes tugged on, bags slung over shoulders, mugs gathered into a clumsy stack for the kitchen. You stand too, a little uncertain, hanging back near the hallway door as the group bunches near the entrance.

Then, unexpectedly, Lily turns to you

“You coming to the pub quiz next week?” she asks, suddenly warm and familiar, like you’ve known each other longer than just a few hours. Her voice is bright but her eyes are kind, like she really means it.

You blink. “Oh. Um—”

“It’s good fun,” she says quickly. “Low-stakes. Mostly an excuse to drink.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself. “That sounds nice.”

“Perfect,” Lily beams. Then, before you can overthink it, she wraps you into a hug.

You freeze for a second. Her arms are confident and soft around you, her hair brushing your cheek. But after the initial surprise fades, you lean into it.

“See you there,” she murmurs as she pulls back, with a wink

The others say their goodbyes in overlapping waves. Sirius claps Remus on the shoulder with a dramatic flourish, James promises to text him about the weekend, and Lily gives Remus a kiss on the cheek.

Then they’re gone – the flat door swinging closed behind them with a satisfying click, their chatter already fading down the stairs.

You’re still standing in the living room when Remus comes back a few minutes later, having seen them out to the street. He exhales deeply as he toes off his shoes, running a hand through his hair.

You’re already moving, collecting empty mugs from the coffee table and straightening a blanket draped halfway to the floor.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, voice gentle as he returns to the room. “It’s not your mess, love.”

You glance up at him. The endearment settles warm and light in your chest. He says it so naturally you’re not sure he even notices.

“It’ll be faster if we do it together,” you reply simply, heading into the kitchen with a stack of cups.

Remus follows, quiet but not resisting. The two of you move easily in tandem – like you’ve done this before, like you’ve lived together for years instead of just a month. He wipes down the coffee table while you rinse out mugs. You clear the sofa of stray crisp bags while he tucks the blanket back into shape.

It’s domestic, almost absurdly so. The kind of soft, mundane routine you used to dream about without realising it.

When the last mug is tucked into the drying rack and the cushions on the sofa are more or less back in their proper places, you find yourself standing in the middle of the living room, blinking in the stillness. It’s quiet again, but a good kind of quiet.

Remus glances over from where he’s just finished folding the throw blanket across the back of the sofa. “Right,” he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Mission accomplished.”

You nod, suddenly aware of the ache settling into your limbs – the kind of tired that follows a long day and warm company.

“C’mere,” Remus says, and without really thinking, you follow as he flops down onto the sofa, sprawling into the corner he always claims. He gestures for you to join him, and you do, curling up on the opposite end. Your knees tuck beneath you, your elbow sinking into the cushion. The warmth of the evening clings to your skin, a pleasant, weighty tiredness settling in.

You let out a breath, soft. “Your friends are really nice.”

He hums in agreement, tipping his head back against the cushion to look at the ceiling. “They are.”

Then, quieter, you add, “Sorry if I was... imposing. I didn’t mean to crash your night.”

His head tilts, gaze sliding over to meet yours, brows gently pulled together. “You’d never be imposing.”

You blink at him, something tender sparking behind your ribs.

“They liked you,” he says, like it’s the simplest, most obvious thing in the world.

You smile, small and uncertain. “That’s a relief. I’d have to start hiding away again if they didn’t.”

He huffs a soft laugh, turning more toward you, one leg tucked up beneath the other. “I don’t see how anyone wouldn’t like you.”

The room goes still for a beat.

It’s not even the words that hit you so hard, it’s the way he says them. Quietly, plainly. Like it’s not even a question. Like he believes it.

You swallow. Your fingers twist in the hem of your jumper.

“You’d be surprised,” you murmur.

Remus watches you carefully, eyes soft and steady. “No, I wouldn’t.”

You look away first, heart thudding too loud in your chest. It’s not flirtation, what he’s doing – it’s too sincere for that. It feels heavier somehow, more honest.

He shifts again, this time stretching his legs out, one foot brushing yours beneath the throw blanket. He doesn’t move it away.

You try for something lighter. “You didn’t tell me you had friends that were basically a rock band.”

He chuckles, running a hand over his jaw. “Yeah, they’re a bit much, aren’t they?”

“They’re... great,” you say, and you mean it. “I don’t think I’ve ever met people that easy to talk to.”

His smile is quiet. “They’ll love that. Especially Sirius. He lives for being charming.”

“I could tell.”

Remus’s laugh is low, and it lingers. “I’m glad you stayed. You looked like you were going to bolt.”

You flush, ducking your head. “I was.”

There’s a pause.

“I get it,” he says eventually, voice softer now. “Crowds. Strangers. It’s a lot sometimes.”

You nod. “It’s not that I didn’t want to be there. I just… didn’t think I’d belong.”

Remus’s gaze sharpens slightly, something almost fierce behind his tired eyes. “You do. You absolutely do.”

The words land between you, sure and solid. You feel them take root within you.

You glance over, meeting his eyes. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t look away. “Anytime.”

Your foot is still touching his under the blanket. You don’t move it.

The telly is dark, the flat dim except for the soft glow of the kitchen light and the little lamp in the corner. Everything feels slow. Settled. The way conversations stretch late into the evening when neither person wants to be the one to end it.

Eventually, you yawn. An embarrassingly large one that catches you off guard.

Remus smiles. “Go to bed.”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” you ask, though your limbs are already heavy.

“I’m older,” he says, mock-stern. “I get to decide.”

“You’re not that much older,” you mumble, rising reluctantly.

As you pass him, he catches your wrist gently. Not to stop you – just a brush of fingers, warm and grounding. You pause, and he looks up at you from where he’s still curled on the sofa.

“Hey,” he says, low. “I meant it, you know. About people liking you.”

You nod, throat tight again. “I know.”

He lets go. You head to bed. And long after the door closes behind you, the warmth of his touch lingers.

✩ July ✩

“Please tell me you didn’t actually do that!” you exclaim, laughing at Sirius’ expense.

“I did,” he responds, having the decency to look ashamed, “I didn’t expect him to cry though.”

“He must’ve been a sensitive soul.”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, doll?” Sirius shoots back, grinning as he nudges you with his foot under the table.

You move to swat him, but he’s already leaning back, laughing like this is his favourite game. And maybe it is, because you’ve learned Sirius loves nothing more than winding people up, especially the ones he likes.

You can’t be sure when it happened but somewhere between meeting Remus’ friends and now, they became your friends too. The pub quiz is a weekly ritual for you all now. You have silly in jokes with them and you're almost at a point now where you speak with them as freely as you do Remus.

You’re just about to fire back a quip when a familiar hand places a drink in front of you.

“Here,” Remus says softly.

Your eyes lift to find him standing beside you, the warm pub lighting casting a soft glow over his features. He sets down his own glass as well, then, without really thinking, slides into the booth beside you.

As he sits, his hand drifts up and settles between your shoulder blades, thumb brushing idly in a slow arc. It’s not the first time he’s touched you lately – little things, small and familiar. A hand on your lower back when guiding you through a crowd. Fingers brushing your knuckles when you pass him a cup of tea. But this, it still catches your breath a little.

“What have you done to get her attacking you already?” Remus asks, shooting Sirius a look that’s half amused, half exhausted.

Sirius throws his hands up. “I didn’t do anything. She’s just violent–where’s my drink?”

“You didn’t ask for anything,” Remus says with a small shrug, taking a sip of his own pint.

“I didn’t know I had to ask,” Sirius complains, scandalised. “I thought we had a system.”

“You thought wrong.”

You shake your head, trying to hide your smile as you pick up your glass. “Thank you,” you murmur to Remus, your voice quieter than before.

He turns his head toward you just slightly, expression softening, “Anytime.”

You take a sip.

Sirius groans dramatically, flopping back in his seat. “This is blatant favouritism.”

“You’re just mad because she doesn’t threaten to hit me,” Remus replies, entirely deadpan.

“I’ll start,” you offer, raising your eyebrows at Remus in mock challenge.

He grins, a slow, crooked smile. “I’d like to see you try.”

Before you can respond, the door to the pub swings open and a gust of summer air follows James and Lily in. James is grinning, his hand causally linked with Lily’s as she glances around, eyes landing on your table.

James and Lily slide into the booth with the easy comfort of long familiarity – James immediately reaching to swipe a chip from Sirius’ plate, Lily pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as she squeezes in beside you.

“We’re not late, are we?” she asks, already pulling a notepad and pen from her bag.

“Perfect timing,” Remus says, glancing towards the bar where the pub quiz host is fiddling with a mic.

“Brilliant,” James says, cracking his knuckles. “Because I’ve been revising.”

“Revising?” Sirius snorts. “Is this the A-Levels again?”

“Better,” Lily says, shooting a grin across the table. “He made me quiz him on obscure geography facts while I was straightening my hair.”

James winks. “Multitasking, babe.”

You laugh into your drink, heart buoyant with the energy around the table. You’re hemmed in by Lily on one side and Remus on the other, the heat of his thigh brushing yours beneath the table. He’s not moving away, and neither are you.

The quiz kicks off not long after – a crackly voice through the speakers announcing the rules as the pub dims the lights slightly and the host launches into the first round.

It starts out strong. Lily knows every answer in the literature round. Sirius, unsurprisingly, nails the music one, especially anything classic rock or 80s synth. James and Lily dominate the sports and politics sections, passing the pen back and forth like it's a baton in a relay.

You’re good at the random ones. The weird general knowledge stuff no one expects anyone to know. But every time you offer a hesitant guess, Remus is the first to jot it down without hesitation.

“She’s right,” he murmurs after you mutter something about which planet has the longest day. “It’s Venus.”

You glance at him. “Are you sure?”

He taps his pen, smirking. “Positive.”

And he’s right.

Remus is the dark horse of the whole night. Quietly scribbling answers during the history and science rounds, barely even hesitating. Everyone starts deferring to him, especially when it gets harder.

At one point, James throws down his pen and mutters, “Where do you keep all this stuff? Is there a little librarian in your brain with a filing cabinet or something?”

Remus shrugs, barely biting back a smile. “Just... remember things. I read a lot.”

You lean over and murmur, “You know so much weird information. It must be all the books.”

He turns to look at you, eyes crinkling. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“No,” you say, grinning. “It’s kind of impressive. Annoying. But impressive.”

Remus nudges your knee with his. “Thanks, I think.”

But when the final scores are tallied, and the host calls out your team’s name as the winners, the entire table erupts.

You blink in disbelief, then burst out laughing as Sirius howls, leaping to his feet and banging on the table like a victory drum.

“We won! We actually won! We’re legends! Immortalised in pub quiz history!”

Lily rolls her eyes fondly and raises her glass. “To Remus, our walking encyclopaedia.”

They present the prize – a bottle of cheap prosecco and a £25 bar tab – and you all decide to split one more round with it. The drinks are sweeter, the laughter looser. There’s music playing now, and you find yourself talking to Lily about your favourite poetry collections while Sirius tries to convince Remus to dance.

Eventually, the evening wanes. The pub thins out, chairs scraping, the air thick with the scent of beer and summer sweat. You and Remus walk home together under a sky lit dimly by street lights and stars.

It’s warm enough now that your jacket’s slung over your arm. Your trainers scuff the pavement in easy rhythm beside his.

The walk home is slow, lazy with the warmth of the evening and the quiet hum of contentment between you. The street is dappled with soft pools of golden light. You and Remus fall into step like always, shoulder to shoulder, the occasional brush of arms sending quiet ripples through the comfortable silence.

You’re still buzzing from the night, from the win and the wine and the lingering warmth of everyone’s laughter. Every time you glance at Remus, he’s smiling, that soft, secret smile that curls at the corner of his mouth when he thinks no one’s looking.

“I still can’t believe you knew the name of the first cloned sheep,” you say, bumping your shoulder into his.

“Dolly,” he replies smugly.

“I know,” you groan. “I’m saying I can’t believe you knew that.”

Remus shrugs, casual. “It’s basic trivia.”

You huff a laugh. “It’s bizarre trivia.”

“It’s useful trivia,” he counters, giving you a sidelong glance that makes something flutter low in your belly. “Won us a bottle of cheap prosecco, didn’t it?”

You grin, and the quiet stretches between you again.

Your hands swing close again, knuckles brushing lightly. Neither of you pull away.

He shifts slightly, just enough that his fingers brush yours again, and this time, they stay. You glance down, heart in your throat, and feel his hand open, tentative but waiting.

You don’t think. You just slide your hand into his.

His fingers curl instantly around yours, warm and certain. You both keep walking, pretending it’s nothing, pretending your heart isn’t hammering so hard it hurts.

You step inside, the familiar hush of the flat wrapping around you both. Remus toes off his boots and hangs his jacket up, and you do the same, suddenly hyper aware of the proximity, the quiet.

He turns to you, lingering just a step closer than he needs to be. The air between you feels too full, your skin thrumming where he’s still holding your hand. His eyes flicker down to your mouth, just for a second. Barely a heartbeat.

Then he leans in.

It’s subtle at first, a shift in weight, his eyes still locked on yours. And then he’s close, close enough to kiss you.

And he almost does.

His breath ghosts over your lips, and you tilt your chin up instinctively, eyes fluttering shut—

But at the last second, he stops. Pulls back.

Just a fraction.

You blink up at him, startled and flushed and blinking hard, heart suddenly thudding in disappointment.

He opens his mouth like he wants to explain, but nothing comes out. You clear your throat, trying to save the moment, to make it feel less heavy.

“Right. Um–goodnight, then,” you murmur, stepping back and turning toward the hall.

You don’t get far.

“Wait–” he says, voice low and rough.

You freeze.

Then you feel it, his hand catching your wrist.

You turn, breath held tight in your lungs, and he’s right there again. Eyes stormy and wide, jaw tense.

“I can’t–” he starts, but the words twist out of him like they’re too slow for what he’s feeling. “I’ve wanted to–”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not gentle.

It’s urgent – a bruising, heated thing that steals the breath from your lungs and sends your hands into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tight. His mouth moves over yours like he’s been holding this back for too long, like he’s starving for it.

You gasp, just slightly, and he swallows the sound with a low groan, his hands sliding up your arms, into your hair, down your back. You’re pressed against the wall before you even realise he’s moved you, his body warm and solid against yours, his mouth insistent.

There’s no space between you anymore. Just warmth, friction, hands fumbling and mouths desperate.

You break for air only to pull back in with even more hunger, his lips on your jaw, your neck, then back to your mouth like he can’t decide what part of you he wants more.

“Remus,” you breathe against him, dizzy.

His hands settle on your waist, gripping tight like he’s anchoring himself. His forehead rests against yours for a breath, and then he murmurs, “Come with me.”

You nod.

He leads you to his room without another word, fingers still laced with yours, and when he closes the door behind you, the air changes again.

Slower, now.

More deliberate.

The urgency is still there, but it softens into something deeper, more consuming. He kisses you again, slower this time, reverent. His hands roam, mapping, remembering. Yours find the hem of his shirt, the warmth of his skin.

You don’t rush.

You undress each other like a secret being unfolded. You climb into his bed like you’ve always belonged there.

And when he finally sinks into you, it’s not rushed, not hurried.

He holds you like he’s afraid to let go. Like he’s wanted this for months and is still struggling to believe it’s real.

And when you come apart beneath him, it’s with his name on your lips and your hands in his hair, and the kind of breathless clarity that tells you nothing will be the same.

The first thing you feel is warmth.

From the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the steady heartbeat you must have drifted off to somewhere between kisses and whispered breaths.

You’re tangled up in Remus Lupin.

The duvet is twisted around your legs, one of his arms is slung heavy and loose around your waist, and his bare chest is the perfect place to rest your cheek. His skin is warm, smooth in some places, scarred in others. You trace a lazy finger over one of the faded marks near his collarbone, remembering where your mouth had been hours earlier.

He’s still asleep, face tilted slightly toward you, lips parted just enough to show the edge of a tooth. His hair’s a mess – curling against his forehead in soft, unruly waves – and he looks younger like this. Softer. The tension that he sometimes carries, that quiet weight he doesn’t talk about, has slipped away entirely in sleep.

You smile without meaning to, letting your eyes wander across his face.

How is this real?

You stay like that for a while, not quite ready to break the spell, watching the soft flutter of his lashes, the faint rise of his chest. You feel safe, grounded, like the world could wait a little longer.

And then–

Your phone buzzes.

You blink, reach for it blindly, and when the screen lights up, your stomach drops.

“8:43 AM – New Message from Manager: Hey! Just checking you’re still coming in?”

You sit bolt upright.

“Shit–shit, shit, shit.”

Remus stirs beside you, brow furrowing slightly, but doesn’t wake. You scramble out of bed, moving towards your own bedroom trying to get ready as quickly as possible.

You do a rushed version of your morning routine in the tiny bathroom – brush teeth, splash water, a swipe of mascara and a spritz of dry shampoo that does absolutely nothing. When you return to his bedroom, Remus hasn’t moved. He’s sprawled diagonally across the bed now, hair mussed, arm half-reaching toward where you’d been.

And then you’re out the door, down the stairs, and into the rush of the day.

The hours drag.

Your body is at work, but your mind is still back in that bed. On the way Remus had looked at you. On the way he’d touched you. You spend the day replaying it in loops, trying not to let it show on your face.

It’s hopeless. You catch your reflection in a window around lunch and see it: the too-bright eyes, the almost-smile that keeps slipping onto your face for no reason.

By the time you get back to the flat, you’re not sure what to expect.

Remus is in the kitchen.

He looks normal.

Hair still messy. Wearing one of his old jumpers – the navy one with sleeves that swallow his hands – and stirring something in a pot on the stove. You hover in the doorway, your bag still slung over one shoulder.

He glances over, smiles. “Hey. How was work?”

It’s his usual voice. Easy, casual. Like it’s any other day.

You blink. “Uh... fine. Busy.”

He nods, turns back to the stove. “You want dinner? I made pasta.”

Your heart sinks a little, stupidly. “I’m not super hungry right now,” you murmur. “Thanks though.”

He doesn’t push. Just shrugs and says, “Alright,” like nothing’s strange.

But it is. You can feel it.

The thing that bloomed between you last night, heavy and breathless and real, has been tucked neatly out of sight.

Maybe he regrets it.

Maybe it was a one-time thing.

Maybe he doesn’t want it to mean what it meant to you.

Eventually, you mumble, “I’m gonna go change,” and head down the hall before he can answer.

You close the door to your room with more force than necessary, leaning back against it with your eyes squeezed shut.

You feel foolish. You’d thought...

Well.

You’d thought it might change things.

Instead, it feels like everything’s gone backwards.

So you do what you always do.

You hide.

You crawl under your duvet and pull your knees up to your chest, pretending you’re tired. Pretending you’re not waiting for a knock on your door that never comes.

✩ August ✩

You’ve fallen back into your routine from when you first moved in. Hiding away in your room, when Remus is in the living room. Retreating into yourself, an act of self-preservation, you think.

You’ve escaped from your room today, Remus away at the doctors. Laying out on the sofa with a glass of cold water to combat against the heat that seeps into the flat, the hottest day of the year. You stare at the tv, staring unseeingly.

You’re halfway through the world’s most pointless reality show when the front door clicks open without warning.

You flinch slightly, half-rising off the sofa, until a familiar voice echoes from the hallway.

“Don’t get up on my account, sweetheart.”

A second later, Sirius is leaning over the back of the couch, sunglasses perched on his head and a takeaway iced coffee in each hand. He pokes you in the shoulder with one long finger, smirking.

You blink up at him, disoriented. “How did you get in?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Still have the spare. You lot never changed the locks after that one time I borrowed the toaster.”

“Stole,” you correct automatically.

He walks around the sofa and flops down beside you like he owns the place, long legs kicked out, one arm draped over the backrest behind your shoulders. He hands you one of the coffees. “Drink this. You look like you’re dying.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, finally slumping back into the sofa, gaze returning to the screen, where someone’s just burst into tears over a ruined meringue.

Sirius watches you for a beat. Then he leans in again, voice pitched low.

“So… what’s going on with you and Moony?”

You blink at him, your brain stuttering.

“What?” You shake your head. “Nothing. I mean, I have no idea. We don’t really… talk.”

Sirius clicks his tongue.

“Ah. Problem found.”

You glance over. “What?”

He gives you a look that’s both amused and just this side of exasperated. “He’s mopey. Has been for like, a couple weeks.”

You try not to let your expression betray you. “I don’t think that’s about me.”

“Yeah,” Sirius says dryly, “and I’m the Pope.”

Sirius watches you steadily, the smirk slipping off his face just a little as the silence stretches. You take a long sip of the iced coffee, letting the condensation chill your fingers, and avoid his gaze.

Finally, you exhale. It’s a slow, reluctant thing. “We slept together,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t… nothing. I mean, it didn’t feel like nothing.”

Sirius’s eyebrows shoot up, but to his credit, he doesn’t interrupt. Just takes a slow sip from his own drink and waits.

You run a hand through your hair, the heat of the day clinging to your skin like guilt. “It was after the quiz. We were walking home and then–god, it just happened. And it was… really good. But I had to go to work the next morning. And then when I came back–he didn’t bring it up.”

You swallow. The words are harder to say than you thought they’d be.

“I figured if he wasn’t talking about it… maybe it was just one of those things. A mistake, even. So I didn’t either.”

Sirius lets out a low whistle, tossing his head back against the cushions. “Bloody hell.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”

There’s a beat of silence. You focus on the way the ice is melting in your cup, the way your pulse hasn’t quite calmed down.

Sirius shifts beside you, his voice quieter now. “Look. Rem’s a smart bloke. But sometimes…” he trails off, shaking his head. “He forgets people can’t read his mind. Thinks if he doesn’t say it out loud, it’s safer. Like he can keep it from meaning too much.”

“And he’s got it in his head,” Sirius continues, nudging your knee with his own, “that you’re far too good and far too pretty for him.”

You snort. “What, so he thinks I pity fucked him? Are you serious?”

Sirius deadpans, “Unfortunately.”

“That’s–” You set your coffee down with a soft thud, sitting up straighter. “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard. He’s gorgeous.”

Sirius flashes a grin, all teeth. “Preaching to the choir, babe.”

You blink at him. “Wait, you–?”

He waves a hand. “Not the point. The point is, he’s probably thinking he’s ruined everything and you’re here thinking you did. You’re both being daft.”

You sigh again, pressing your fingers to your temples.

“You think I should talk to him.”

“I think,” Sirius says, voice level now, “that you need to. Because he’s not going to. Not unless he’s sure you want him to.”

“Okay,” you say finally, softly. “Okay. I will.”

Sirius reaches over, squeezes your shoulder with surprising gentleness. “Good girl.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t push it.”

He winks. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You feel grosser and grosser as the day goes on, becoming more sweat than girl. Whether it’s because of the heat or nerves you’re not sure. An unhealthy mix of both, probably.

You’ve run through what you want to say a million times in your head.

Maybe more.

Every version sounds wrong. Too much. Too vulnerable. Not enough.

So you sit on the sofa, legs crossed, iced coffee long since gone watery, clutching a cushion to your chest like it’s armor. The fan is humming in the corner but it does nothing to move the heat pressed into the walls of the flat.

When the front door creaks open again, you sit up so fast your spine protests.

Remus walks in slowly, his posture heavy with the weight of the day. He pauses when he sees you sitting there, like he wasn’t expecting it. There’s a split second where his face flickers. He gives you a tight, polite smile. The kind you might offer a stranger you bumped into at the shops.

Then he turns wordlessly toward the hallway.

“Remus.”

You say it before you can talk yourself out of it. Your voice doesn’t shake, but it’s close.

He stops. Still facing away. One hand resting on the edge of the doorframe.

“…Yeah?”

You take a breath that doesn’t help at all. Then another.

“I did want to talk about it.”

His head tilts slightly, just enough that you see the edge of his profile. There’s a pause. Like maybe he’s hoping he misheard.

“About what?” he says finally. Neutral. Careful.

You press your palms against the cushion like it might anchor you.

“About us having sex,” you say plainly. Then, softer: “And the day after.”

He winces.

You see it even from across the room – pain flashing over his face before he schools it away again. But not fast enough. Not before it lands in your chest with a hollow thud.

“I just…” You trail off, shake your head, try again. “I don’t want to pretend it didn’t happen. Because it did. And it wasn’t nothing to me.”

He turns at that, just enough to look at you properly. His arms are crossed, but not in that closed-off way you sometimes see, more like he’s holding himself together. His brows draw in, mouth set like he’s bracing.

“I know it wasn’t nothing,” he says quietly.

You sit back a little, heart thudding so loudly you’re sure it’s rattling your ribs.

“Then why didn’t you say anything?” It comes out softer than you mean it to, more hurt than accusatory. Your voice dips at the end like you’re hoping he’ll have an answer that makes it all make sense. Something that takes the last few weeks and peels the ache from them.

Remus hesitates. Then he laughs – dry, self-deprecating. Not unkind. Just tired.

“Because you didn’t say anything either.”

Your mouth opens. Closes again. You hadn’t expected that.

He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, the gesture tight with nerves. “I thought I’d messed it up. I thought–I don’t know. That maybe I crossed a line. You left so quickly that morning, and then you just–disappeared. And I thought, alright, that’s fair, it was a heat-of-the-moment thing. And I didn’t want to make it harder by pushing.”

“But I didn’t disappear,” you whisper. “Or I didn't mean to, I had to go to work. You acted like nothing happened when I got home.”

He meets your eyes then. And for the first time since that night, he looks open. Vulnerable in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Because I thought if I let myself believe it meant what I wanted it to mean,” he says, voice low, “and I was wrong… I wouldn’t be able to look you in the eye again.”

You blink. “What did you want it to mean?”

There’s a beat of silence between you. The fan hums on, useless. The world waits.

Remus’s eyes are soft, almost pleading. “Everything.”

Your breath catches in your throat.

He exhales like he’s been holding it for hours. Days. Weeks, maybe.

“I wanted it to mean we’re not just friends who got carried away,” he continues, stepping closer, careful. “I wanted it to mean I get to look at you in the mornings and kiss you before you leave for work. I wanted it to mean you wanted me, too. Not just that night. After.”

Your heart cracks wide open.

“I do want you,” you say, voice trembling now, but sure underneath. “I never stopped. I thought I’d imagined it–that you regretted it. That it was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t,” he says, quickly. Firm. “Not even close.”

You stare at him, all those weeks of doubt pooling like ink in your chest. Slowly, you set the cushion aside, like shedding a shield.

He watches you. Doesn’t move.

“I wanted to tell you,” you say, standing slowly. “I just didn’t know how.”

“You’re telling me now,” Remus says softly. “That’s enough.”

You cross the room in four steps, barefoot and shaky and brave, and then he’s in front of you, warm and real and still yours to choose.

“I missed you,” you whisper, hands coming up to rest against his chest.

His arms come around you immediately, pulling you in like he’s been waiting this whole time. His face presses into your hair, his breath warm against your ear.

“I missed you more than I know how to say.”

You lean back enough to see his face, your hands curling in the hem of his jumper.

“Then say it like this.”

And you kiss him.

This time, it’s not urgent. Not desperate. It’s steady and soft and full of all the things you didn’t say. His lips move slowly over yours, reverent. Familiar. Like a promise.

He smiles into it. And when you pull away just enough to look at him properly, you find his eyes lit up with something you’ve only seen once before.

Hope.

“You’re not getting rid of me now, you know,” you say, resting your forehead against his.

“Good,” he murmurs. “I was hoping you’d stay.”

✩ September ✩

The days stretch a little shorter now, but summer’s warmth still clings stubbornly to the air, trailing behind in the soft buzz of bees and the golden hush of late afternoons. The flat’s windows are thrown open, letting in the scent of sun-warmed pavement and the rustle of dry leaves skittering along the street below.

Remus is barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, humming something low under his breath as he chops herbs with practiced ease. The late light catches in his hair, softens his features into something dreamlike. There’s a faint breeze lifting the curtain near the sink, and the clink of glass as he pours two drinks, glancing toward the living room where you’re curled on the sofa, legs tangled with Sirius’ across the cushions.

Lily and James arrive a few minutes later, the door swinging open with a chorus of greetings and laughter. Lily’s holding a warm loaf of bread wrapped in a tea towel; James has a bottle of wine under his arm and a grin too big for his face.

“Boo! I hate you guys being happy and in love,” Sirius announces, flinging himself into a new position across the armchair.

“You love it,” you say without looking up, one hand reaching blindly for Remus’ as he passes you a glass. He presses a kiss to the top of your head before he settles beside you, his arm slung across the back of the sofa, fingers brushing your shoulder in a quiet rhythm.

He hasn’t stopped touching you since that night.

It’s not overwhelming, not loud. Just soft, consistent reminders that he’s here, that you’re his, that he’s yours. A hand at the small of your back, knuckles brushing your thigh under the table, lips against your temple as he passes. Like he’s still learning how to believe it, but he’s trying every day.

Dinner is chaotic and loud, wine-stained and full of clattering cutlery and overlapping stories. Someone burns the garlic bread, Sirius knocks over a candle, and Lily accidentally flings a piece of tomato into James’ lap.

Later, when the plates are stacked and the last of the wine has been poured, Sirius puts a record on — something old and scratchy and perfect — and Lily pulls James up to dance. They sway messily in the living room, laughing, bumping into the furniture.

You’re half-tucked under Remus’ arm when Sirius offers you his hand.

“Come on, one dance. For your favourite.”

You shake your head, smiling. “No way. You’ll trip me up.”

“Probably,” Sirius concedes cheerfully. “But what a way to go.”

Remus chuckles beside you, warm and low, and you turn your face toward him instinctively. His gaze catches yours, steady and soft. Like everything else has blurred out.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “I’ll be here.”

You kiss him once — quick and fond — before letting Sirius spin you clumsily around the room, both of you laughing like children.

When the night winds down, James and Lily head off with matching yawns and promises to host next time, and Sirius dramatically declares he’s staying the night, already halfway through making the sofa into a makeshift bed despite your offers for him to sleep in your room that goes largely unused.

You and Remus retreat to his room, quiet and content. You curl into bed with the windows still open, letting the night breeze ghost across your skin. He wraps an arm around your waist and kisses your shoulder, murmuring something half-asleep against your skin.

It’s nothing dramatic. Just a slow, steady settling. A feeling in your chest that hums: this is it.

masterlist <3

#flo'sfics #marauders au #marauders fics #marauders fanfiction #marauders era #remus lupin x reader #remus x reader #remus lupin x self insert #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin x y/n #remus lupin x you #remus lupin #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin fic #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin smut #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin angst

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literaryvein-reblogs · 11 months ago

Text

Word List: Said

Said—to express in words; state

Alleged - asserted to be true or to exist

Argued - to give reasons for or against something

Articulated - to utter clear and understandable sounds

Asked - to seek information

Asserted - to state or declare positively and often forcefully or aggressively

Babbled - to talk enthusiastically or excessively

Bellowed - to shout in a deep voice

Bragged - to talk boastfully

Commented - to explain or interpret something by comment

Communicated - to convey knowledge of or information about

Complained - to make a formal accusation or charge

Cried - to utter loudly

Declined - to refuse especially courteously

Demanded - to call for something in an authoritative way

Denied - to declare (something) to be untrue

Encouraged - to attempt to persuade

Expressed - to represent in words

Giggled - to utter with a giggle

Growled - to utter angrily

Inquired - to ask about

Mentioned - to make mention of; refer to

Moaned - lament, complain

Nagged - to irritate by constant scolding or urging

Rebuked - to criticize sharply; reprimand

Rebutted - to contradict or oppose by formal legal argument, plea, or countervailing proof

Rejected - to refuse to accept, consider, submit to, take for some purpose, or use

Replied - to respond in words or writing

Retorted - to answer back usually sharply

Roared - to utter or proclaim with a roar

Scolded - to censure usually severely or angrily

Shrieked - to utter a sharp shrill sound

Shrugged - to raise or draw in the shoulders especially to express aloofness, indifference, or uncertainty

Stated - to express the particulars of especially in words; report

Taunted - to reproach or challenge in a mocking or insulting manner

Voiced - to express in words; utter

Vowed - to promise solemnly; swear

Warned - to give admonishing advice to

Whined - to complain with or as if with a whine

Whispered - to speak softly with little or no vibration of the vocal cords especially to avoid being overheard

Yelled - to utter or declare with or as if with a yell; shout

More: Word Lists ⚜ Overusing "Said" ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

#requested #word list #said #writeblr #writing reference #langblr #linguistics #words #dark academia #spilled ink #literature #writers on tumblr #poets on tumblr #creative writing #writing inspiration #writing prompt #poetry #writing resources

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gloomwitchwrites · 8 months ago

Note

141 What If....

You ask him to leave the uniform on? 🥵🥵🥵🥵

I am feral over this. FERAL. Literally chewing on my own arm because I need to calm down. Your prompts always get me going. I totally blame you for this. Now, I went with a little variety here. We've got Kyle in formal military dress, John coming home from deployment, Johnny returning on break for a quickie, and Simon playing out a pre discussed fantasy. Enjoy!!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: established relationship, CNC, breeding, restraints, welcome home sex, quickies, formal events, semi-public sex, unprotected piv, sex in a car, dirty talk, brief knifeplay, light degradation

Word Count: 3.3k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if masterlist

John Price

John’s return is delayed.

He was supposed to come home to you a month ago. But it wasn’t him that notified you about his postponed reunion. Someone from SAS contacted you via the post. The envelope held a singular piece of paper. No apology. Just black ink on a white sheet with an official letterhead. John has always been good about making sure you know when he’ll return. It's something you constantly worry about.

While on a mission, you won't hear from him—this you know. But whenever he is able, John makes an effort to let you know when to expect him or if he's okay.

To not hear from him is odd, and it stirs up all sorts of emotions, pushing your brain toward any number of possibilities. Each scenario appears briefly before sliding into another. They worsen—and then you’re sick, stomach twisted into a tight knot.

That piece of paper is on the kitchen counter. Untouched—but not forgotten. It said yesterday. And yesterday, John did not return.

You’re chewing on your fingernails. Pacing. Stressing.

It's the familiar squeak of the doorknob from the front door that finally stalls your racing thoughts. All that mental energy becomes physical. You're sprinting, throwing yourself at John the moment he enters.

He chuckles—the sound is pleasant and soothing to your heart.

“Didn’t think you’d be home,” he says, drawing you close.

Your answer is to wrap your arms around the back of his neck, and seize a kiss from him that says so much. You need John to know how much you’ve missed him—how worried you’ve been.

His hands on your hips tighten, squeezing slightly as he melts under your kisses. Each one is desperate. Needy. You savor him like you’ll never know this again. John's grip on you is firm, and much stronger than you can resist. He draws you away from him��not enough to create a separation—but enough to talk.

“Slow down, love. Let me look at you.” His hands move to your face, cradling your cheeks. "I've missed you."

"I've missed you, too," you reply. You pull him close again. "Need you." Just a murmur, hardly audible, but John hears it.

He does not resist. He gives in, accepting your love, answering every kiss and touch with one of his own. Hands roam, fingers cling, and yet you're not nearly close enough. You need him on his back with you atop him.

John breaks away, breathing heavy, lips slightly puffy from kissing you. "Bedroom."

You shake your head. "Right here,” you reply, going in for another kiss. “Uniform stays on.”

The middle of John's brow scrunches slightly in confusion, but your fingers are already looping in his belt buckles, guiding him into the living room. That brief moment of confusion morphs into a sultry smirk.

John allows you to guide, allows you to push him onto his back on the sofa. His hands never leave your body, they roam constantly even as you undo the front of his pants and shimmy them down to mid-thigh.

You have him in hand instantly, coaxing him to hardness quickly. The need for him is a driving force, positioning yourself above him, ready to impale yourself.

John's hand slips between your legs, fingers finding your center. "Your—fuck." The sound of your slickness greets him and John groans.

Placing your hands on his chest, John palms the base of his cock, lining it up. You don't slowly ease down. You drop, accepting every inch of him in one go. There is a brief flare of pain from the rapid intrusion, and then it's gone, replaced with the fullness of him inside you.

With your palms splayed wide, you're able to rock your hips, moving up and down his length in a steady movement that has both of you groaning.

"I missed you," he murmurs as you come back down on him. "Fuck—I missed you."

Your thighs start to burn with every bounce. John's fingers dig into your hips, dragging downward before ascending again. With the next roll of your hips, John meets you, thrusting up. It cuts a sharp gasp from your lips.

He grips harder, taking control. You cling to the front of his uniform, fisting the fabric as John brings you down just as he thrusts upward. It is not sweet. It is brutal and desperate. Each connection drags more pleasure out of you until your head falls back and you clench around him.

With a deep groan, John sits up, and effortlessly flips you over onto your back. Pinned beneath him, there is nowhere to go. All you can do is take what he gives.

John buries his face against your neck. "Love you so much."

You hook your heels behind his legs, urging him on. "Love you," you manage to gasp.

It is all sweat and heat. John's lips graze the line of your throat and then your chin. You turn toward him, the two of you meeting as he holds his body against yours, his release flooding your pussy.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle drapes his arm over your shoulder, tugging you against him, the noise of the function receding with every step. Usually when the two of you attend a formal function together, Kyle is in a suit, but this attendance was requested by Kyle's superior officer, Captain John Price.

Instead of a suit, Kyle wears his formal military dress. The uniform is freshly steamed and free of wrinkles. His shoes are polished to perfection. Like this, he's incredibly handsome. You've been admiring him all night, resisting the urge to touch him too much around people he works with on a regular basis.

"Can't wait to take this bloody thing off," sighs Kyle, lightly tugging on the neckline of his uniform.

You rest your head against his shoulder, savoring his warmth. "I think you look rather dashing."

"Dashing?" he laughs.

As the two of you enter the parking garage, you snag his hat, placing it on your head. Kyle's smile widens. He leans in for a kiss, greedily accepting what you offer him. Removing the car keys from his pocket, Kyle hits the button to unlock the vehicle. The SUV beeps, headlights coming on.

Kyle takes his hat back, holding it with one hand instead of putting it back on his head. He offers his mouth again and you close the distance.

"Can't wait to get that dress off you, love," he murmurs against your lips. “Been thinking about it all evening.”

You place your hand against his chest. "I think I'd like it if you leave the uniform on."

Kyle nearly chokes. "What?" he draws back slightly.

With a mischievous grin, you tug Kyle around the side of the SUV. The vehicle is in a corner spot, leaving the two of you tucked between it and a cement wall. There is no camera and no light. Both of you are hidden in shadow.

No one will notice the two of you unless they come looking.

You lean in slowly, offering your mouth. Kyle places his hand on the side of your throat, thumb slowly rubbing against the front of your neck. The kiss is honey-sweet, and tinted with seductive need. You seek another, and yet another until the two of you are gasping for air.

"Not here," murmurs Kyle, drawing back slightly.

Your hand slides downward, pausing at his belt. Kyle whispers your name, but there is no fight in it. If anything, it is lustful. Fingers toying with the belt, you kiss him again, loosening the buckle and then the front of his pants.

Reaching your hand inside, you find him hard and wanting.

"Someone will see," he groans, grabbing your wrist.

"Who will see us?" you reply softly. Kyle's gaze shifts outward to the parking garage.

"No one is around." You start to descend, opening his pants further.

Kyle's attention returns to you. His pupils expand as you take him in hand, painting your bottom lip with a pearly bead of cum. You present your glossy mouth to him, and Kyle brushes the pad of his thumb across it.

You lightly nip at that thumb, and then take him into your mouth. Kyle stifles his groan, but it comes out as a muted whimper. He gently cups the back of your head as you suck him down, hollowing your cheeks when you come back up.

This is just a tease. You want his resolve to slip.

Kyle doesn't break eye contact. He is completely focused on watching you. His dick twitches in your mouth, and Kyle grunts.

"Fuck, love. Come here."

With gentle tenderness, Kyle grasps the back of your neck, easing you off him. You extended your legs, leaning into him.

His voice is slightly husky. "I can't wait until we're home."

Kyle opens the rear passenger door and helps you up into the seat. You slide backward to the other end, Kyle following. With a hand on your throat, he pushes you onto your back. These next kisses are rough and possessive. Hungry. Claiming. You open for him, wanting to consume.

His free hand is gripping your dress, shoving it upward where it collects at your hips. Your tongue meets his the moment his fingers slip between skin and underwear. It is brief, and then he's drawing back only to bury his face between your legs.

Digging your heels into Kyle's back to stabilize yourself, you give in, moaning loudly as his tongue swirls a path up and down your sex. He teases just like you teased him. But it is short-lived.

Kyle is desperate for you. He finds your clit and stays put, tongue working quickly to send you over the edge. Your body shudders, a breathy groan escaping you as the orgasm hits. Still on your back, Kyle ascends, one hand pressed to the inside of your thigh while the other finds leverage against the car door just above your head. You lift your hips slightly, presenting your pussy to him.

He takes the hint, thrusting deep.

He does not go slowly. It is skin slapping against skin. It is all low groans and desperate fingers. His body weight keeps you pinned, and if anyone were to open door they'd have a clear view of his bare ass.

"Don't stop," you beg. "Please."

Kyle's answer is to seize your mouth, to force his air into your lungs, to firmly press his body to yours and swivel his hips, pelvis grinding against clit. Your hands fall on his ass, and then he's transformed. An animal. Rutting.

Surely, the car is shaking, but you hardly care. You only want him to finish. To give you every drop of his release.

You feel his muscles tighten under your hands, and then your bodies are sealed.

There is a small pause between then and the moment he kisses you, this time tenderly.

"So much for waiting," you tease.

Kyle’s exhalation is a pleased one. "Just wait until we get home."

John "Soap" MacTavish

"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at work?"

Johnny's smile is devilish. "Came to see you."

"Me?" you laugh. "You just saw me this morning."

"And it wasn't nearly enough," coos Johnny, grabbing hip and waist, tugging you against him. "Missed you the whole time. Couldn't stay away."

Before you can form a reply, Johnny is lifting you up and onto the kitchen counter. He pushes everything up and out of the way, revealing your pussy to him.

"Johnny!" you exclaim.

With one hand on your thigh, Johnny uses his other hand to remove his belt and undo the front of his pants.

"I came home to fuck my wife." You instantly feel your cheeks grow hot. With a sultry smile, Johnny leans in but doesn't close the distance. "Would you like that?"

You nod. "Yes," you reply, voice nearly a whisper. "But—"

"But what?" he asks. You gesture at him. "The uniform? That stays on, love."

Guiding you wider, Johnny circles your clit with the pad of his thumb. The touch is electric, making you shiver as he toys with your sensitivity.

"Look at that," he purrs. "Look how wet and ready you are for me."

You whimper as Johnny tests your pussy with a finger.

"I think this deserves something bigger. What do you think, love?" He inserts a second and you whimper again. "Use your words."

"I want you inside me."

"I am inside you," he teases, pumping both fingers.

You shake your head, gasping as his thumb toys with your clit. "Your dick, Johnny."

"That I can do." His fingers are gone instantly, replaced with the head of his cock. He holds himself just inside, inching slowly until you've taken him to the base. "We'll have to make this quick. Can't be late and disappoint Price."

Johnny lightly swivels his hips, and then he's holding you in place, thrusting steadily. He kisses your lips, then your cheek. Resting his forehead against your temple, Johnny boxes you in, using your pussy for himself.

"You take me so well," he says softly. "Watch. Want you to watch."

Your gaze shifts downward, locking on to where your bodies meet. Keeping one hand on the countertop to stabilize yourself, you bring the other between your legs, fingers lightly playing with your clit.

"That's it," purrs Johnny. "Come for me."

A brief swirl and you're gone, squeezing hard around Johnny. He fucks you through it, grunting as he increases his pace. With a moan that claws up his throat, Johnny seals your bodies together, and his warmth floods your pussy. He thrusts lightly and stills.

A beat of silence, and then you both burst out into laughter.

"Fucking hell," he mutters, shaking his head.

"You came all this way on a break just to have sex with me?" you laugh.

Johnny leans back, grinning sheepishly. He glances down at his watch, smile fading. "Shit."

He pulls out and steps back, fumbling with his pants.

"Are you going to be late?" you ask teasingly.

Johnny tightens his belt and then helps you off the counter. With a quick kiss to the cheek, he heads out the door.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Every light in the house is off. The blinds are closed and it's completely dark except in one particular room.

The deep red glow calls out to you like a siren song. You stride toward it, moving through the hall silently like a shadow. The bedroom door stands open, revealing the blood-tinged space. From your point of view, nothing is out of place. All is calm and as it should be.

But Simon is here somewhere. Lurking. Watching.

This is what you wanted after all. An idea you passed off to Simon with the hope that he'd indulge your fantasy. Clearly, he took it to heart.

Adrenaline spikes in your blood as your gaze focuses on the bed. Attached to each corner are wrist and ankle cuffs. To be immobile and bred at Simon's pleasure is all you asked for, and here it is.

As you step forward, a large gloved hand slides over the front of your throat, squeezing. Simon is right behind you, and you feel every inch of him. Without even having to look, you know Simon is in full tactical gear. Parts of it dig into your back.

The leather of his gloves squeak as his fingers adjust against your throat. With a little pressure, he tilts your head back and you meet his whiskey-brown eyes. It's all you can see of his face. The rest is shrouded behind a balaclava.

"Do as I say," he growls. "Or you'll make this harder on yourself."

His command sends a bolt of need straight to your clit. Already, you feel a growing slickness between your thighs.

"Answer me if you understand."

"I understand," you murmur.

Simon makes a pleased sound deep in his throat. His thumb rubs a gentle line back and forth over the same spot.

His head tilts, lips pressing against your ear through the balaclava. "Then be a good little slut and get on your back."

Using his leverage on your throat, Simon lightly shoves you toward the bed. This time you turn around, facing him completely for the first time. He's dressed in all black tactical gear. Every inch of him is covered except his eyes, and his large frame fills the doorway.

When you take a step back, he takes a step forward. The backs of your thighs hit the bed, and you push yourself up and on, reclining until you're nearly horizontal. Simon saunters, gaze predatory and observing. His gloved hands hover just above your legs, pausing there before he bends slightly, reaching for an ankle cuff.

Simon glances between it and you languidly. You're not sure what his intentions are, not until he grabs your ankle with his other hand and tugs hard. You yelp, surprised, and then you kick out, attempting but failing to free yourself as Simon attaches the cuff into place.

"You said you understood," he growls, as you sit up to swing on him.

Simon snatches your wrist right out of the air. He hops onto the bed, kneeling as he grabs one of the cuffs for your wrists. Still, you fight and still you fail as he latches it in place.

You're not immobile but you're more restrained than before, movement restricted enough that you can't fight back like you want to. Not that you want to escape.

With a fluidity that surprises, Simon removes a knife from his boot and hooks it under the hem of your shirt. A sharp tug and the fabric surrenders to the blade. Simon tears it further, removing the garment completely.

As you use your one free arm to lash out, Simon is already prepared, blocking the blow and forcing it back to the bed. He attaches the cuff and returns the knife to your clothes, splitting your pants and tossing the remains aside.

You're on your back, completely naked and cuffed to the bed.

Simon's hand wraps around your throat, the knife tip dangerously close to your face. "I was going to worship your pretty pussy," he murmurs. "But I think I'll just take what I want."

It's all a game—a scene. You want Simon to use you, to fuck you ceaselessly, to do whatever the fuck he wants because he can.

Simon flips the knife and imbeds it into the bed above your head. Slowly, he removes his belt, tossing it aside. When he opens the front of his pants and eases them down a fraction, you nearly groan at the sight of his hardness. Simon palms the base of his cock.

"I won't be gentle," he says, gloved fingers pressing against your pussy.

He rubs back and forth, easing a little more from your body before grabbing your hips and slamming home. There is a brief flare of pain from the intrusion and then nothing at all except excitement.

"Your body is mine," he growls as he fucks you. "And for the next twenty-four hours, I'm going to breed this pussy until I'm satisfied."

You are unable to move, unable to do much but take it. Simon is situated between your spread legs, and you have a clear view of his cock sliding in and out of you. If you want an orgasm, Simon will have to grant it. Begging for it won't get you anywhere. You need to be good, and then he'll reward you.

Simon grunts as he thrusts, pace increasing as he nears his end. Watching him is lovely. His groan is lust-drenched, his orgasm sending a little shudder through him that you feel in your core.

Simon's gaze shifts to between your legs where he slowly pulls out. "What a fucking sweet sight," he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

His cum pools at your entrance, threatening to drip out. Soon you'll be overly full, a mess between your legs and on the bed.

Already Simon is stroking himself back to hardness. "Think that cunt of yours needs a bit more.

2K notes · View notes

xiaprint · 4 days ago

Text

the five love languages | minors dni

quality time

xavier was tired.

that was a given. he was always so low on energy but especially so after a full week of being in high demand. it felt as if he were just a piece of string, being pulled at between colleagues and higher ups and wanderers. just the thought of touching his blade made him grimace and since returning back to his apartment, he’s been glued to his bed.

being a hunter was rewarding. he liked who he worked with, he liked having an excuse to stay in good physical shape, he liked doing what he did. this sudden influx of wanderer activity had him on autopilot, the days of overtime turning into an entire week. he truly had no intention of showing his face to the public until he had to return to work, relieved to receive the email of his time off on his way home tonight.

naturally, he had figured that you’d be just as exhausted. you were there every step of the way, working side by side like you always did. he enjoyed times when he was stationed at the same place that you were, the two of you struggling through the heavy workload together. faint dry humor mixed with living off of vending machine snacks had to have been just as tiring for you, too.

that being said, the last thing he had expected was for you to creep into his apartment. you had your own key, knew your way around— it wasn’t out of character for you to show up out of the blue. still, it was a grueling week and he hadn’t planned on doing a single thing but drinking some freshly pressed juice and sleeping for twenty hours straight. he was so stuck in his tired mind that he failed to catch the sound of his bedroom door clicking shut, ignored the dip of another added weight into his bed.

a soft noise of acknowledgement leaves his lips only when your arms circle around his waist. they’re tender, pressing into his body heat that seeped through his white sweater. his head felt like a brick, stuck to his pillow. he was lucky that it was only you who snaked into his bed and not some armed intruder, feeling rather defenseless as his heavy lids refuse to open. he knows it’s you, he can smell your scent.

your cheek nuzzles into the back of his neck, holding him in a way that could almost send him right back into his sleep. the thick blanket covering the both of you confined so much heat inside, enough to make anyone the faintest bit drowsy. everything was so warm and he couldn’t help but relax back into your arms, no complaints about being the little spoon.

“you didn’t answer my text,” you start, a small explanation as to why you brought it upon yourself to sneak in. even so, you knew he never minded. xavier may be very socially drained after upholding formalities for a full week but he’d always have space for you. “figured you’d be tucked away already.”

all you receive in reply is a sleepy grumble, barely audible over the electric hum of his central air unit keeping the room nice and cool. it’s a familiar sound that pulls a faint smile out of you. your hands are soft as they run along the fabric of his sweater, soaking up the warmth against your palms. you snicker to yourself when the tip of one of your fingernails gets caught on a loose thread, tugging on it gently before letting it go.

“aren’t you tired too?” he manages in reply, a grumble that morphs into a quiet yawn. the thought of getting cuddled to sleep only makes his mind fog up, his foot lazily locking over one of your ankles in a silent plea to stay still. “you’ve worked just as hard as i have.”

sure, the past week had been loophole after loophole. your feet still ached from how many steps you got in, needing to invest in some better patrol shoes. with the busy schedule came less time to sleep as well as less time to tend to your needs. there was an undeniable pool of warmth that had settled in the pit of your stomach, trying and failing to sleep it off.

that’s where xavier came into play. he was your usual fix when you were struggling to get some rest, needing some sort of sexual relief before a nice and deep slumber. it was more often than not that you were slipping into his bed at odd hours for a quick fuck, just one of those habits that strengthened the physical aspect of your relationship. a perfect work-life balance.

so when your hand begins to take pity on his poor loose thread and trails up the thick white fabric instead, he can’t be bothered to flinch. your palm grazed his navel, caressing the very light happy trail that disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. nails scraping his skin, touch lighting a similar fire in him. he couldn’t stop his dick from growing to life even if he wanted to.

the more xavier thought about it, albeit slowly, the more it made sense. that text that he accidentally ignored must’ve been your attempt of a booty call, why else would you have invited yourself in and crawled into his bed like you were stalking your prey? he was beyond tired and although xavier was nothing but a pile of bones against his mattress— he couldn’t deny the desire there too.

the playful hand feeling up his stomach snaked lower, dipped into his waistband like clockwork. he gripped your wrist with light but firm strength before it could travel any further, bringing it up to his face. his lips nuzzled against your palm for a moment before you felt a fat glob of spit land right in the center, a substitute for lube.

“still haven’t gotten around to buying another bottle,” he dismisses with a murmur as he senses your slight confusion, turning his head only a fraction to get a glimpse of your face. his eyes, deeper in color than usual, scan your face. “too much to do. just not enough time to do anything.”

your hand immediately returns, smearing the thick coat of spit around his cock. it’s hot and heavy in your gentle grasp, clearly just as pent up. the thought of him so worked up yet refusing to take care of it without you leaves a flutter in your panties. he lets out a sigh of relief, a broken groan following as your hand slides down to the base.

“i know,” you soothe with a whisper and a nod, leaning your face forward to peck at his lips. your wrist flicks at a slow pace, pumping him from shaft to tip with the kind of pressure that has his hips chasing a faster rhythm. it never failed to surprise him just how well you knew him, effortlessly giving him what he needed. “we have time now. just calm down.”

that reassurance is the only thing that allows him to fully melt right back into your touch, his grunts and breathing mingling with your own quiet moans. moments like these where you seemed to know how to relax his racing mind better than he ever could were his favorite. having you around did wonders to his soul, to his mental health, to his physical being. you were a goddamn gift.

his floaty feeling of utter adoration was cut short with the sensation of your sticky fingers cupping his balls, pawing at them in a way that had him choking on his breath. it sent electric shocks up his spine, had him gripping the top sheet beneath him. it was more than enough to bring him to that high, cursing as cum oozed out of his cockhead.

“oh, fuck,” he drags out his words, light and easy despite the heaving of his chest, unsure if he should finally let sleep take him after such a strong high or if he should propose on the spot. regardless, he was too spent to care about how embarrassingly fast he finished.

your giggle of satisfaction overlaps the ringing in his ears, leaning in to press a quick kiss against the hot skin of his lobe. “my turn?”

physical touch

the world of a doctor was particular. numbers, technique, precision, counts. the scent of hand sanitizer lingers with him at all times and after a while, he started to overanalyze and think deeply about things that others view as simple. he knew it wasn’t an easy route but was anything, really?

working with patients and colleagues, nurses and aides— it was incredibly hands on. zayne was constantly touching others whether it be to reposition their bodies on an exam table or get a nice and clean stitch. he knows the human body inside out but generally, he doesn’t like to be touchy with others. part of him believed that it was just his instinct as a medical professional but it never seemed to matter if it was you.

you were the exception, as always. you bring his smile out even when his face physically hurts with how tense it gets, you put him in situations others couldn’t even picture him in. it was only natural that you’d pull this uncharacteristic desire for touch, for warmth, for skin to skin out of him.

his house is equipped with a gym, something he made a personal goal back before he decided to pursue a doctorate. with the financial stability came the opportunity to furnish his place without any bounds, thus bloomed a home gym that could be accessed as early as his schedule allowed.

the first time you used it was after an impulsive stay that had only worked out thanks to the overnight bag you kept tucked away in his closet for emergencies. it had just enough to get showered and upkeep hygiene. thinking ahead served you well, a nice two piece set tucked away for dawn workouts that zayne had a habit of persuading you into.

it was an impressive setup, to say the least. his basement was fully furnished with machines that he had bought over the course of many years, slowly but surely collecting his own equipment. a treadmill, a stairmaster, a smith machine. some benches, plenty of weights, resistance bands. the perfect build for full body.

doctor’s orders are stretches before and after exercising. he’s particular about it, always guiding you through the basics and looking out for you the way he knows best. nothing feels better than making zayne proud and giving him peace of mind, so you’re always happy to follow his guidance.

this time around, sweat clings to your forehead. he’s off in the cardio corner of the basement, steady pants leaving his lips as his feet hit the treadmill belt in a rhythmic manner. his workouts always end with a jog, nearing the end of his own routine. the room is quite spacious and breathable for a basement, the only sound following the electric hum of equipment being the calm music coming from the sound system hooked up to the mounted flatscreen. it plays smoothly, yet not loud enough to bleed through headphones.

despite a good and productive leg day, there’s an undeniable cramping in your calf. dull yet tolerable, causing the faintest scrunch of your nose. it distracts you enough to miss the way zayne’s light jog has slowed to a stop, only noticing him standing before you once he presses a cold water bottle to your forehead in invitation.

“what hurts?” he reads you like a book, more than knowledgeable about you. it’s clear as day when something is bothering you and he’s nothing if not a nurturer, eager to get to the bottom of it. zayne’s knee hits the edge of the yoga mat you’re settled on, crouching to your eye level where you’re sat with your knees tucked to your chest. “your calf?”

a nod is all he needs before he scoffs softly under his breath. not mockingly, he’d never mock you for a thing. it all stems from the amusement it brings him when you do a poor job at following his professional advice. his fingers work to position your leg outward, guiding it to rest flat on the grey mat.

“point your toes,” he instructs softly, brows furrowed slightly in focus as he gauges the soft wince you give as you extend your toes to the air. “someone needs to drink more water.”

“you always say that.” you shoot back in reply, a bit too proud to admit that his technique has been working like a charm and the cramp is nearly gone.

he can only chuckle under his breath at the immediate eye roll you give him, a gasp ripped from your throat in surprise as he shifts to pick your leg up himself. he guides it over his shoulder, scooting on his knees until his pelvis meets your ass through your clothes. his hand remains flat behind your knee, aiding in keeping your leg straight. his free one cups and massages your aching muscle, stone-faced aside from the twinkle of enjoyment in his green eyes.

“i’m always right,” he muses with a subtle shrug, unable to resist that urge to scan your figure in such a compromising position. your athletic wear damp with sweat, your scent surrounding him. it only takes a heartbeat before his body hovers over yours, satisfied with the way your legs spread to accommodate him. he presses his lips to yours sweetly, guiding your leg around his waist to free up his hands. they work at the zipper of your jacket, pushing the tight fabric off of your shoulders as soon as it loosens.

his tongue is hot when it laps at the salt clinging to your neck, obsessed with even the most natural flavor of you. you mewl and it pushes him to recline your body, using his hand tucked behind your head to shelter you from the floor beneath you.

the warmth builds in your gut fast, already worked up with energy after lifting weights. he feels your heartbeat and it makes him smile to himself, hand snaking between your legs to cup your cunt over the nylon fabric. your heat seeps through and it’s enough to make him chub up in his own shorts, swallowing a groan as he pecks your chin.

“does it still hurt? do you need me to help you think of something else?” he questions with a heavy huff, thumbs dipping underneath the stretchy waistband to peel your shorts and panties down your legs in one swift go. “you can be honest with me.”

“please,” your whisper meets his ear so gently. how could he ever deny you? he’s always been a weak man when it came to you, unable to turn you down when you had that look in your eyes as if only he could tend to the hurt.

so he helps. he assists. he fucks you slow and easy on the natural rubber of the yoga mat, shrugging off your whiny protests because it’s bound to be an expensive mat that you don’t want to ruin. the last thing on his mind is a yoga mat. he french kisses you until the words die down in your throat, until your mind shuts down and all you can do is whimper his name into his mouth. as raunchy as it may be, he’d be happy if all of his belongings could be stained with your essence.

one of his hands leaves your hips, trailing blindly behind his back to find your aching calf that put him in this position to begin with. he soothes it with a gentle massage to the sore muscles, multitasking in time with the rolls of his hips. its tender and sweet and so him that you can’t help but pump cream all over his thick base with a scream.

it makes his pace falter, huffing in amusement under his breath as he leans forward to plant a kiss on your wrinkled brow.

words of affirmation

he could sense something off the minute you came up the stairs. maybe it was the weight of your steps, maybe it was the pout gracing your lips, maybe it was the way you didn’t exactly greet him. rafayel was an expert of everything pertaining to the love of his life so it was never hard to pinpoint when the mood wasn’t right for his usual antics. something was wrong and it caught his attention instantly.

the day was rather hot, just like the day before. summer was coming in full swing around whitesand bay, the ocean waters busy with fisherman looking to catch what was in season. unlike the repetitive commotion of seagulls and the boat action outside, it was rather quiet and peaceful in the confines of rafayel’s studio. it was the way he liked it, ceiling fan on high as it regulates the temperature mixed with the salty air.

painting has been a miss for rafayel today, the inspiration tank in his brain on empty. he had spent his day treading between the downstairs and the upstairs, mixing colors and trying his hardest to strike even the faintest hint of an idea. he was delighted when he heard the gate creak open only for his excitement to deflate at the seemingly upset aura that followed you up the stairs like storm clouds.

“a frown that deep is definitely going to leave a few wrinkles,” his voice pulls you out of your thoughts, your gaze shifting from the floor length mirror settled beside his dresser to where he was lounged against the headboard of his bed. even if his words hit a bit of a sensitive nerve, they hold that soft tone he only ever uses when he senses a vulnerable attitude on your end. it’s evident that he means well.

his suspicions are confirmed the minute you cross your arms and look away without much of a word, eyes trained back on your dampered reflection. the outfit you’re wearing looks nice and breathe-able for the sweltering heat beyond the studio walls yet rafayel realizes quickly that he’s never seen it on you previously. it must be new.

“not now,” you huff back in late reply to his poking and prodding, unimpressed and certainly not in the mood to come up with an equally playful comeback. it was obvious that his words weren’t meant to dig but he could practically taste the sourness of your mood, studying you carefully for a quiet moment. he watches you turn left, then right. eyes barely blinking when you adjust the strap of your top along your collarbone.

a few moments pass before he puts the puzzle together, humming softly to himself. he’s behind you within seconds, unable to stifle a laugh at the way you jump as soon as you catch his figure behind you in the mirror. a pair of arms link lazily around your hips, his silent affection that always goes a long way. there’s love and curiosity in his eyes when they find yours, raising a brow.

“i’m gonna guess that a certain silly girl did some online shopping,” he starts, slow and sarcastic with each syllable that falls from his tongue, hooded eyes soaking up your figure from head to toe. “and is very unsatisfied with her purchase. did i get it right?”

it wasn’t exactly hard to piece together, considering how your attention has been glued to your own reflection since you stepped foot in his studio. he was hoping for some cuddles yet you didn’t get to reach the bed, instead engrossed in what you were wearing. how you looked, the sensitivity and unhappiness radiated off of you in waves. your lack of response was enough of an answer, a dramatic sigh leaving his lips paired with a shake of his head.

a kiss plants itself on your cheek, featherlight yet speaking volumes. at the end of the day, you were rafayel’s lady and he never wanted that mind of yours to wander too far away. you could feel your feelings and he loved to give you that space to do so, but he’d only ever let you stray so far. he would always pull you right back eventually.

“it’s a shame that you feel like it doesn’t suit you,” he murmurs, reading your mind in that scary way he always seems to do. a gentle tug leaves you to stumble back into his hold, knocking your gaze from yourself to meet him instead. your eyes find his and he smiles, guiding you to recline onto the bed. the back of your knees hit the edge, buckling just to give. he kneels to plant a kiss on the hand you have resting on one of your thighs, embarrassment clear as day on your face. “i think everything suits you. i don’t know how you do it, but you pull it all off. every material and color.”

his words sound honeyed, voice strained just a bit. it was right of him to believe that you weren’t a fan of the new two piece set that you ordered on a whim off of a sketch site to begin with, the summer outfit not fitting how you planned in your head. rafayel was nothing if not good at speaking his mind, worshipping the ground that his girl walked on. it was hard to even remember what you didn’t like about the clothing when he had so much to say, kisses smearing along your thighs down to your knees.

soft breaths of defeat and desire mix on your tongue, leaving into the air. his hands guide your legs over his shoulders, his mind on autopilot to fix what was damaged. it’s what he was good at. his thumbs make quick work of sliding your bottoms off, letting the material fall to the floor in a small pile. the scent of you hits his face like a treat, mouth salivating on instinct.

“you’re gorgeous,” he breathes, pressing kiss after kiss against your twitching clit. it’s a form of torture that has your toes curling against the blades of his shoulders, twisting into the sheets and shifting your face to the side to stuff in his comforter. it smells like him, only making you wetter. “every inch of you. pretty down here too.”

that weight of insecurity dissipated into the air within seconds, especially with rafayel’s face between your legs and stuffed against your pussy. he kisses and sucks as if he needs the taste of you to breathe, tongue working to press into your sloppy entrance. it’s divine, just like it always is when it’s you.

he groans into your juices, face gently shaking side to side. if he were being honest, he was waiting for this. it was meant to be for your pleasure but he ate you for his own at the same time, indulging in what has been plaguing his mind for days now. you flood his face, glossing his lips and chin.

days like these were inevitable. it was impossible to not feel down, to ignore that nagging voice in your head that fed you lies. no matter the noise, no matter the clothing— you’d be his definition of art. you embody everything that he lives for and stands for, you catch his eye like no other. all that ever mattered to him was making it known that you were a dime piece he’d be forever happy to hold, proud to show off, the first to appreciate.

“i wanna make you cum,” he pulls back, replacing the tongue that was delving into your walls with two fingers. they curl, thrusting inside of you at a messy and sloppy pace. his ears develop a red hue, successfully entranced and focused on making you feel as good as you look. “let me taste you.”

all it took was a gentle suck of your clit for your body to spasm in the way his brain had remembered so vividly. legs lock around his head as if you never wanted him to leave, fingers scratching at his shoulder. he could only moan in delight, his hands gentle as they run up and down your thighs in an act of quiet reassurance.

after all, words were medicine after challenging days.

gift giving

sylus thinks you look the best when you smile. it never mattered how big or small it was, he was happy as long as it was genuine. it brought a glow to your skin, it made him feel funny in his chest. there was something so intimate about being the one you choose to share your happiness with, something he takes rather seriously.

he was the type of man to let the world burn to ash all for you. his love ran deep and truly knew no bounds, anyone was fair game to him the minute that they crossed you. the need to protect what was his drove him to great lengths but he couldn’t say that he hated the thrill. he was never one to be shy with spending copious amounts of money but when he was doing it for you? it felt more rewarding.

his spending wasn’t in a superficial sense. he liked the high life and only ever knew the finer things, but none of it was driven by an ego or utilized to show off. he simply preferred luxury, quality.

that being said, he never needed an excuse to splurge on you. he does it without much of a thought, feeling that urge to give you what you wanted without worry. he liked that you’ve gotten used to it, that you now accept it with open arms. the initial reluctance died down with time, soon coming to the realization that it was an expression. passing on his love to you.

the hotel room that had been arranged for the night is a big one, no surprise there. spacious, california king, floor to ceiling windows outlooking the N109 zone in all its glory. champagne rests on ice in the kitchenette, walls decorated with a minimalistic vibe. it was simple and held a nice atmosphere, an entire opposite of the exhilarating day you’ve joined him on.

your gaze trails from admiring the luxury to your own hand, a few small cuts decorating your skin from earlier. the mission had taken a turn for the worst but sylus had a way of always spinning things in his favor. you were safe and sound, yet there was still the faintest apologetic look in his red eyes as they find yours from across the bed.

“put some ointment on those scratches, sweetie,” he urges with a sigh, releasing some of the tension in his shoulders with a stretch. “there should be a medical kit in the bathroom’s medicine cabinet. some clothes from the boutique on the fourth floor, too. i’m sure you’ll find something to suit your tastes.”

there’s almost a teasing lift to his last words and it coaxes an eye roll out of you, but you stand from your spot on the bed nonetheless. the sting is dull, caused by a few stray hits that you had been in the way of.

you return to a glass full of sparkling champagne and a tray of neatly assorted chocolate covered strawberries. sylus has since changed into a silk robe that he had brought with, dark red in color. it sits nice on his broad shoulders and ends mid thigh. his glass is nearly empty and he chuckles at the sight of you, dressed in the nightgown from the boutique. a single finger beckons you like a siren’s call and who are you to ignore?

crawling onto the sizable mattress, it feels soft as clouds under your knees. he watches with eyes full of mirth as you settle on your stomach, face beside his propped knee, the only thing separating the two of you being the silver platter of dessert.

“i see someone ordered room service,” your teasing breaks the ice, smiling up at him with a hand holding your cheek up, eyeing the strawberries with curiosity. they were clean, fresh, plump. just the kind of treat that the two of you deserved after such a rogue mission.

a laugh echoes against the walls, a bit deeper than usual thanks to the excitement that’s died down. only sylus could feel that thrill of being hunted down and almost murdered over a bounty. his body shifts on the bed, reaching forward to pluck a strawberry off of the plate. he presses it to your lips, eyebrow cocked in challenge.

“eat up. what good are you if you’re not taking care of your needs?” he murmurs, the only sound filling the silence coming from the crackle of the electronic fireplace in front of the bed. it lights the room with a dim orange hue, effectively setting the mood. “i hope they live up to their price. they were a pretty penny for just a few strawberries dipped in some chocolate.”

his smirk widens as your eyes find his, watching carefully and studying the way your tongue pokes out to kitten lick at the hardened chocolate shell. it’s milk, sweet against your tastebuds that drag from the bottom up to the crown. seductive in every sense of the word, arousal stirring in his gut. sometimes he really does hate how easy it is for you to get a reaction out of him, whether it be physically or emotionally.

you bite and it’s loud, a crunch as the chocolate breaks and you’re met with strawberry and juice. it drips down your chin, a soft moan leaving at the taste. it was textbook teasing yet nothing weakened sylus quite like that smile you flashed him afterwards, lips blooming a pink tint with the fruit. you were his achilles heel and within seconds, he was on you.

“are you enjoying yourself?” he breathes against your lips, sweet treat long forgotten as he slots himself between your spread legs. the hot rush of his kisses trailing along your neck creates a sticky mess in the lace of your panties. “are you getting the reaction that you wanted? tell me.”

your response is cut off before it can even be given, thick fingers nudging the wet lace to the side. cool air clings to your hot cunt and the sweetest of mewls are swallowed down by his mouth, smearing some of your slick along your folds. his free hand releases your wrist, trailing to slip the strap of your down down your shoulder. the leeway of the fabric gives him space to slip one of your breasts out, tongue immediately finding your nipple with a filthy flick.

slippery finger pads dance with your swollen clit, circling in a painfully slow rhythm before trailing back down to meet your drooling slit. the sound of your moans ricochet off of the walls in a way that leaves pride in his chest, suckling a mark over your nipple in time with the fingers he dips into your pussy. there’s no resistance, just overflowing wetness that wraps around his knuckles like a glove.

“good girls take it upon themselves to answer when they’re asked a question,” he murmurs against the swollen skin of your areola, ruby eyes conveying a dangerous message as he stills the fingers pumping into your walls. the lack of sensation has you whining, resisting the urge to tug with the fingers you have tucked in his silver locks. “don’t make me regret treating you with those sweets. i don’t reward bad behavior.”

“yes,” you manage to form a coherent word even if it’s through a breathy pant, so full even with just his fingers warming inside of you. sweat clings at your brow, the taste of chocolate still faint on your tongue. “i got the reaction i wanted. i’m happy, sylus.”

a chuckle of satisfaction is all that follows, sylus supporting his weight with his elbow as he lifts to press a chaste kiss against the tip of your nose. he was just too fond of his weak spot.

“there you go. i knew you could be a good girl.”

acts of service

bad days simply didn’t exist in your world, not if caleb had a say in it. the smallest frown always told him more than any of your words ever could— little details always mattered the most. you’ve been at a rough patch for the better half of a week, stressed beyond belief with the highs and lows of wanderer hunting. devices were always beeping, lunch breaks rudely interrupted. there was no catching up and caleb watched in real time as your shoulders tensed more and more.

he noticed. even if he was silent about it at first, he noticed. those purple eyes have always been sharp and they never stop when they’re on you. it was clear that you were in dire need of a break and that’s exactly why he brought you along on a late night ride.

darkness envelopes what can be seen outside of the private aircraft, the interior as neat and empty as it always is. there’s been splashes of coziness since he first introduced you into his humble abode, your own touches bringing some life to it. perfume bottles here and there, a spare coat of yours hung on the bare coat rack by the entrance. for the first time since he purchased it, the cabinets were actually full and stocked with snacks. before long, it felt like home away from home.

caleb watches quietly as you stand at the tall window, aircraft flying on autopilot. it moved slow, floating around and giving you the familiar view of stars and planets alike. the sight made him smile, two of his favorite things right before his very eyes. it’s like you can feel his stare, turning on your heel almost immediately. it only makes his grin widen, silent as he pats his thigh and leans back into the sofa with a hum.

your feet press into the rug, crossing the distance without a word. he still thought you were beautiful, even if your face was twisted up with disdain after a stressful week. you feel like dead weight as you settle down in his lap, caleb’s hand immediately cupping your face. the hectic schedule left little time to be spent with him and your heart melts, suddenly feeling guilty for the radio silence between the two of you.

even if the replies have slowed down on your end, he still went out of his way to take you to the sky for some peace.

“sorry,” you murmur with fluttery eyes. his brows furrow at your gently mumbled apology, using his thumb to brush a stray eyelash off of your cheek. the last thing he had expected to hear was an apology, the exact opposite of what he had hoped for.

instead of accepting or denying it, he chooses to guide your head forward. your nose bumps into his with the sudden tug, clumsy in the way your lips meet his. they connect, sweet and short, caleb pulling away before you could indulge in a few more.

“don’t apologize. you know better than that.” he chastises quietly, successfully fogging your brain up with desire that you had been neglecting. the second his free hand travels down the skin of your arm, you become pliant. he’s always been very meaningful with his touches and his caresses, fingers brushing along the band of your watch before he’s undoing it. in his eyes, it’s just another piece of work that you haven’t abandoned yet. that just won’t do.

your eyes roll at his soft scolding, watching with tired eyes as he leans the two of you forward momentarily to place the watch into the bowl settled in the middle of the coffee table. he pulls you back, your chest falling to rest against his own. he stares down at you with eyes full of love, silent and wishing there was a way to physically remove the worry clouding you.

he pulls again, delighted that you aren’t pushing. his hands in your hair, soft kisses filling the comfortable silence. he smells of candy apples and aftershave, a combination that has been following him since the seventh grade after he learned how to shave his face. the nostalgia floods you, soon replaced with lust when his needy hands trail down to grip your ass through the material of your sleep shorts.

“gonna make you cum,” he murmurs in decision between hungry kisses, tongue running flat against your own in an intimate and deep exchange. it’s been too long since he’s had a chance to devour your moans, the pressure of his lips on your own leaving you limp the longer you sit in his lap. his hands are sweet, delicately running down the length of your back. free roam like they were always granted. “i’m gonna make you cum and then i’m gonna make us some dinner. get you full and taken care of, how’s that sound?”

all he ever does is talk and talk. it annoys you just as much as it fulfills you, heart pounding so hard that you can hear the bass echo in your ears. it almost masks his whispered words but you catch them just in time to nod and moan all the same.

the stars surround the two of you, atmosphere quiet— as alone as you could ever be. no one to call your phone up for a late night mission because there was no cell service. caleb strived to give you that safe little bubble where you could let your hair down and unwind, using his resources to get you lax. all he ever did is nurture and care and oh, was it the greatest testament of love. your protector, your rock. the only person who can shut you away from the world and take you to the moon. all you ever had to do was ask.

ask, you did. you took his words to heart and asked for what you wanted, learning slowly that he could grant your every wish. his time was spent catering to you, working with your wants and needs.

it doesn’t take much effort to peel your flimsy shorts off and down your legs, kicking the fabric off of your ankle and letting it fall carelessly to the floor.

his cock drags slow against your slick folds, the pure wetness seeping through the thin cotton of your panties. he wanted to tease about the polka dot pattern decorating your cunt but he bit his tongue, preferring to rut against your throbbing mound and chase friction instead. his tip nudges your clit in the best kind of way, your fingers curling into the blanket folded neatly over the back of the sofa.

“my poor girl,” he coos against the shell of your ear, hands shifting from holding you to guiding you. rocking your hips with a steady hold, taking the reigns so that you had nothing to focus on. the point was to help, to assist— make you free of worry. “you’re all burnt out. didn’t i tell you to call for caleb when things got tough?”

of course he did. he’s made it his life’s mission to provide, his broad shoulders built for holding a heavy head. his support is undying and you were a fool to think you couldn’t lean on him sooner, before you ran yourself ragged.

“i am,” your voice catches his attention, laced with need in the way he loves so much. your arms cling around his neck for leverage, cheek slumped against his. the speed of his hips bucking against yours increases the faintest bit, ripping gasps from your swollen lips. nothing has felt as right as this, cunt clenching around air, hungry for him.

the softest laugh leaves him, struggling to quiet down his own hisses and groans.

“sooner next time.”

#xavier smut #zayne smut #rafayel smut #sylus smut #caleb smut #lads smut #lnds smut #love and deepspace smut #xavier x reader #zayne x reader #rafayel x reader #sylus x reader #caleb x reader

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thedivinetarot · 1 month ago

Text

I need you, I breathe you, I'll never leave you

What do you need the most right now?

☆ How to chose your pile? 🪔🪔🪔

☆ Future Spouse Delux offer 🦪🦪🦪

☆ Disclaimer:

This is a general reading. Take what resonates and leave what doesn't. If the energy check did NOT resonate with you, feel free to skip.

☆ Note:

- I decided to bring back the 3 pile readings.

- I have challenged myself to upload 4 reading this month instead of 1. And I'll be updating my tarot masterlist and there will be huge discounts and more tarot themes and options.

Lots of love {❤}

Arya

Pile 1 - The gates

1. Current energy:

Hello Angels, how are you? I hope you are doing well. Now let's get into the energy check. I see the energy of a young page here, perhaps you are someone who just started a small hustle and you are being very creative about. I see things like, crochet, air clay, and making accessories. Someone here aim to reach independence, I'm picking up on someone under 24 y.o. still trying to figure out their life, what they want and what they don't. Now, I see also, that life has been or still incredibly stagnant. Nothing new happen. Someone here might have met their own father or an old male figure. Perhaps, you asked for money. Or that male figure will call you unexpectedly and transfer money to you. I see that someone here is disconnected emotional and they lack discernment. Perhaps, someone here just finished their school or semester college and dealing with post exams fog were you just want to not think of anything. I see also, that if you are seeking a reply from a formal organization about job apply you might hear back from them. But overall, this pile current energy is very stagnant, someone here is bored lol. Others are trying to find their passion or use their passion to earn money.

☆ Placements for you:

Cancer, Taurus, pisces, Sagittarius, Aquarius. Venus in Virgo, sun in cancer and taurus, Sagittarius stallium. Dominant planets: Neptune, jupiter, moon, Venus. Sun or moon in the 2nd, 4th, 12th, 9th, 11th House in the chart.

2. What do you need the most right now?

Okay, What do you need the most is change. Perhaps, you have been seeing 555 or 5555 a lot on the clock or everywhere. Pile 1 you need change, you need to start something fresh and new. You need to get your life together and be connected more to you intuition. I feel like this pile need to listen more to their intuition, they need to be more connected to your intuition. Perhaps, your 3rd eye is blocked or stagnant. The energy there is not moving freely. It is clouded by thoughts, unbalanced feelings and a little bit of frustration. I see that you need to listen more to your inner child. Someone here abandoned their inner child and stopped doing the things that your inner child enjoy. Watch your favourite cartoon as a child, write a cute notes for yourself. Buy yourself flowers and most importantly start sensing abundance around you. Someone here want to be so rich, so independent financially but in order for you to reach there you need to nourish the abundance inside you. I see that your financial state will increase rapidly during winter this year, think September to December. You'll be recognized for your efforts. Yeah also, you'll be known for something creative. Perhaps art, painting, PowerPoint, canva creative writing, poetry. Something creative that will help you get recognition and money.

3. Message:

You already know the answer, stop biting more than you can chew. Direct the energy in one path, you'll be burnt out if you keep doing this.

Pile 2 - Garden

1. Current energy:

Hello dears, how are you? I hope you are doing well🤍. Now, I started coughing and my throat hurt. Someone here perhaps, is either was cleaning, vacuuming their house/room or recovering from cold. What a delicious energy pile 2, I like this. This one is the opposite from pile one, this pile’s energy is very prosperous and happy. I see that someone here is trying to build a healthy inner dialog about themselves. Perhaps, you are repeating affirmations, looking at yourself differently. And someone here is trying to connect more to their sensuality. I see that you have finally given up on your outdated beliefs about love and romantic connections and how they should be. I see that you are adopting more healthy views about relationships especially the romantic ones. You are trying to be as grounded as possible when it comes to that. I see also, that you are trying to connect with your inner child more. Unlike pile one, they are abandoning their inner child but nevertheless they are trying. Anyways, I see that you have a very balanced feminine and masculine energy. Someone here mastered the art of acting in their divine feminine and masculine. I see that you are the delicate blind of a rose but as hard as a diamond. I see that you are manifesting a huge change. Perhaps, relocation. Omg I teared up, I'm so proud of you. Someone here have gone through an ending in a situation that took all the energy from them and now you are looking toward the future with hope and balance instead of hopelessness. I'm getting that you invested emotionally in a connection but the ending was so bad you started healing your sense of self and grounding in reality, fleeting romance is no longer your thing. I see that you might either meet someone with better financial state than you, someone who is serious about relationships, possibly older. That you might end up marrying. Or, you might attend a wedding soon or someone send you a wedding invitation. Anyways, but generally no matter how much you'll wait for that to manifest, you'll get it. Just be patient dear. Also, your throat chakra is unbalanced, try to hum, and clear it out.

☆ Placements for you:

Aquarius, Aries, pisces, Scorpio. Venus in Aries and Scorpio. Sun in Aquarius. Pluto conjunct the ascendant. Dominant planets in pluto, neptune, Venus, and sun. A stallium in the 1st, 11th, 12th, 8th House.

2. What do you need the most right now?

Now, this is huge. You need to surrender. Stop trying to figure things out. You are guided and you are exactly where you need to be. I see that the universe be like "nah he/she/they are not ready, but them back in the oven" and you are like "why is my life is not moving or my manifestation is not materializing??". It's funny but... There’s a bigger picture you are not seeing. Stop pushing forward, the universe want you to surrender to the flow. I mean yes you can still invest in yourself, self love and self concept but when it comes to other things you need to know that you are being guided to a higher mission. I see that you'll get a letter from that person you invested in. But be careful of reignite the connection. It won’t be built on the same values, or same emotional wavelength. It might also, not be the healthiest thing you will be in. And in case they reach out. It is up to you to reply or not. But I'm just telling you that it won't be healthy or as you expect. There will be power struggles, attachment problems and even control. Be careful, I don't want you to go through that❤. Also, for God's sake pile 2. Listen to your spirit guides. They are sending you signs and synchronicity stop ignoring them. That's everything I have for you dear. Take care💕.

3. Message:

You are being guided to higher mission. Surrender. We have got you.

Pile 3 - Navy Crystals.

1. Current energy:

Hello guys, how are you? I hope you are doing well. Now, let's get into your reading. I see that someone here is very focused on the earthy matters. Think health, nutrition, wellness, working out etc. I'm getting someone is pouring all their energy into their physical well-being which is so great. I see that you are investing financially in yourself, cotton clothes? Check ✅, working out? Check✅, skin care? Check ✅, being the hottest person in the room? Check ✅. I see that you are shining brighter than any sun and everyone is starting to see that. I see also that you are sunbathing a lot these days. Perhaps, going to the beach or it can be as simple as setting in a sunny spot in your house to recharge, also I see you going to work, asking care of yourself and enjoying your life in general. I see that you started seeing people for who they are which in return made you stop chasing validation from them and you started putting boundaries between you and them. Someone here was living with a narcissistic parent and you relocated away from them and now you are like "God finally PEACE!". I see that your apartment or house or even your room is the most sacred sanctuary in this world. You dance, you breathe, you are safe. Looking back to how far you have become. Your nervous system? healed, you healed and as Lana said "there's no more nights, blue skies forever". I see that you have finally got rid from self-doubt, being told "not enough" and unhealthy attachments. You are on a higher frequency. Omg, I feel so happy for you I started tearing up. Someone here, perhaps is chasing or trying to pursue you and you are like "No sir/Madame, I'm very happy on my own". I see you feeling very happy you barely think of anyone else because this is finally the life you dream of and became true. Now, you are at a crossroads. The universe is holding its breathe for you to chose but no matter what you chose it'll lead to stability and happiness.

☆ Placements for you:

Pisces, Virgo, Capricorn. Air signs (Libra, Gemini, Aquarius). Venus in Virgo, mars in Capricorn. Dominant planets Venus, Saturn, Mercury. Sun or moon in the 12th, 6th, 10th, 7th, 11th, 3rd house in your chart.

2. What do you need the most right now?

Oh, okay... I think you need to stop carrying everything on your shoulders. Some of these burdens? Not even yours. Passed down through generations, absorbed like emotional waters so nope. Let them go dear, it's time to let them go. You’re being called to invest wisely and not just in yourself. Maybe it’s learning about the stock market, Bitcoin (if your intuition says so), or even something creative and grounding like pottery or painting. Do something that stirs your soul and stacks your legacy. Now, romantically speaking, I see someone knocking at your door like “pls let me in” and you're just sipping your iced coffee like “Mmm, I’ll think about it” before ghosting them to go dance in your joy and peace😂. Another plot twist: a father figure or older male energy might try to “find someone for you” and you’ll ghost them too, because it’s giving ✨inconvenient✨. Whether this is you now or your soon-to-be, your energy is crystal clear honey: You're not in the mood for courtship unless it's courtship of your dreams, your peace, your empire. Because what you really need right now is to focus on building something lasting. Something legacy-worthy. Something that whispers, "I was here, and I made it beautiful." I love that for you dear, so now go ghost people who want to control the narrative, force you do things you don't want to. And enjoy your tea lol. Take care and thank you for reading this💕.

3. Message:

Build your own legacy. Do sorcery and fck the system.

Post date: 4th of June 2025 - Wed

*Feedback is appreciated.

1 ✅ out of 4 {Posted}

#thedivinetarot #free tarot #tarot community #free divination #pick a card #pick a pile #tarotblr #divination #divination readings #tarot pac #tarot reading #pick a photo #free pac #pac

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cosmoszyn · 3 months ago

Text

love, again | zayne.

synopsis: fate brings you into an unconventional way of reuniting with the man you used to love in your medical school—in your workplace during the freezing winter night, propelling you to be the most vulnerable you have ever been since losing him.

content: doctor zayne x senior doctor/pediatrician! reader, hurt/comfort, light angst, eventual romance, reunions

word count: 6,295

author's note: first time writing a piece after five years of slump...

cross posted in my ao3

“It’s a surprise seeing you here.”

Those are the first words that Zayne heard in the long, dead of the night. He swallowed thickly, mustering a soft, half-hearted smile, making eye-contact with those familiar eyes.

“I could say the same to you,” he replies following a soft nod to your presence, blinking at the bright overhead lights of the hospital’s reception.

You drink in the sight of your former junior, after years of being apart. Zayne seems to have grown a couple inches taller from the last time you saw him, his ebony hair still styled the same from his medical school days, albeit a bit more sharper now. He is clad in his usual dark coat over his similar toned sweater. He still wears the same deadpanned expression on his face, and yet you notice the reflection behind his glasses; you could see the uncertainty in his eyes.

You decide to shrug it off. “What brings you here, Dr. Zayne?” You ask. And the honorific before his name makes Zayne almost feel his heart break into two, realizing how formal the interaction is.

He opens his mouth to answer, but before he could, a meek voice greeting you formally cuts him off, “Good evening to you too Dr. Zayne,” the nurse slightly bows down to him before turning to you again, “Dr., as per our director’s directives, Dr. Zayne was the one who performed the surgery for our patient in room 325.”

You blink owlishly at the nurse to which she just stares at you curiously at your reaction, “Is that so?” The nurse nodded and you could feel the pace of your heartbeat quickening, both in nervousness and embarrassment. “I see,” you reply, wanting to clutch your chest in an attempt to calm yourself down.

Instead, you turn back your attention to the man you once adored, giving him a warm smile, “I didn’t expect that Akso Hospital would bring the Dr. Zayne to assist us here at Chansia Hospital,” you say, placing both your hands on the pockets of your lab coat.

Zayne lets out a soft exhale as a reply that sounded more like an attempt to chuckle, “Of course. How can I possibly ignore the situation here?”

“Still as tenacious as ever, I see,” you reply. “Nevertheless,” you continue, tucking a hair behind your ear, “We are very grateful that Akso Hospital aided us in this case.”

He merely nods in agreement, boring his eyes into yours. The intensity of his stare almost makes you feel small and embarrassed, especially with the nurse still around as the audience to witness the reunion of two almost lovers. You clear your throat, darting your eyes to the nurse and to Zayne, “How did the surgery go? I presume it was difficult?”

“Not necessarily,” Zayne replies, “This kind of surgery is quite common now.” His answer brings a brief smile to your face, “Well I am glad that Dr. Zayne was the one who performed the surgery to one of our younger patients, then. It brings me at ease.”

Your words bring a whirlwind of emotions that Zayne thought he had buried under his restless nights of overtime and paperwork. He can’t find the right response to say at your compliment, his words stuck in his throat as he basks in your presence. The bright overhead lights of the hospital highlighting the deepening bags under your eyes, your weary smile bringing fine lines, and the shadows from your glasses slotting on your nose bridge. And yet, he feels the familiar skip in his chest, the same one he had first felt when he met you in the halls of his university.

You shy under Zayne’s intense stare, instead turning to the nurse, “How is the patient doing now? He’s Dr. Lewis’s patient, right?” You ask. The nurse nods, “The patient is recuperating well in his room, Dr. His vital signs have been stable ever since and his guardians have been keeping an eye for his recovery. Dr. Lewis notes that he may be discharged after a couple more days.”

“I see. That’s perfect,” you reply. You muster a half-hearted smile to Zayne, one that doesn’t reach your eyes. Zayne notices. “Well, as I’ve said, it brings me comfort that Dr. Zayne could assist us in these trying times in Chansia Hospital,” you continue.

The nurse then takes a step forward, her arm outstretched to the hospital entrance with her head slightly bowing, “Dr. Lewis would like to extend his deepest gratitude to you too, Dr. Zayne. He brought me here to assist you to your exit,” she says.

Zayne shakes his head, “There is no need for you to assist me. Kindly tell Dr. Lewis that I too am thankful for the opportunity to visit Chansia Hospital again,” he replied monotonously. The nurse picks up the signal to place her arm back to her sides.

In his words, the nurse then nods, excusing herself from the conversation before turning her heel away to return to the nurse’s station. On the other hand, you hesitate. Taking note of how earnest Zayne looks in your stead, as if he wants to say something. And yet, his lips remained sealed.

“It was short-lived but I hope you enjoyed your stay here at Chansia Hospital,” you say, humor lacing your tone as if you’re just hosting a visitor at a hotel. “It was nice seeing you again, Dr. Zayne,” you muse him a brief smile and after another second in silence, you take the signal to give him one last nod, and turn around.

As your heels click through the tiled floors, Zayne could feel you physically slip away from his fingers one more time. And before he could even think about what to say for you to stay, his mouth runs faster than his brain or legs.

“Wait,” his voice echoes throughout the halls and he slightly cringes at the reverberation. The sound of your heels clicking pauses. He clears his throat and calls for your honorific and name. You turn your head back, peeking him over your shoulder. “Is something the matter, Dr. Zayne?” You ask.

He shakes his head, “I would like to accompany you for the rest of the evening. If it’s not much of a hassle.”

You turn your heel around in hesitation, cocking your head to the side in confusion, and for the first time in the evening, you almost laugh, “Dr. Zayne, surely you don’t think I’m a masochist for continuing to work at,” you spare a glance at your wristwatch, “almost 12 midnight?”

He blinks at you owlishly, slightly surprised that you weren’t working further. “I suppose not when I still see you making rounds at,” he glances at his wristwatch, “almost 12 midnight.”

You shake your head in amusement, a soft giggle falling from your lips and your hand covering your mouth in an effort to stifle them, “Still the same as ever with your humor, Dr. Zayne,” you exhaled, “Regardless, your company will surely bring me comfort as I gather my things at my office.”

Your laughter felt like heaven to Zayne. It was the same one that he first heard at the halls of his university as you deliver your experience being an intern at the Akso Hospital in your senior year of medical school while he was still in the starting line.

“Come,” you urge, nodding your head to the side, signalling him to follow you. You two continue to walk through the silent halls of the hospital, your heels clicking through the tiles followed by Zayne’s footsteps padding behind you.

You pause at a familiar door, turning its knob. Behind you, Zayne admires the contrast of the dull, sterile halls with the colorful stickers plastered on your white door, making your office seem more inviting than the other ones.

As you enter your office, you flip the switch on and turn to your desk, gathering the clipboard and the tablet on your table. Zayne follows suit, his eyes darting across, observing every nook and cranny. The rainbows, a smiling sun on the corner of the room, and the random animals and flowers painted on the walls almost bring a soft smile to his face. He takes note of the colorful toys littered on one corner atop of the vivid play mat and the glow in the dark star and moon stickers plastered on the ceiling of your office.

“I assume this isn’t the usual office you would expect from a doctor, yes?” You ask, feeling his gaze all over the room. He nods, “Although this is to be expected from a renowned pediatrician, the rather… brilliant colors still take me aback,” he replies, eliciting a chuckle from you. You place your clipboard and tablet into their respective drawers before locking them shut, as you gather your bag from your seat, you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “Well now I am quite curious as to how your office looks,” you say. You remove your lab gown and replace it with a fuzzy coat and a scarf around your neck.

“It’s quite dull compared to yours,” he replies, rather quickly. You hum, “Is that so? Well I’d like to be the judge of that.”

You walk past him and he trails after you as you both exit the office, your fingers flickering the light switch off and shutting the door behind you. “Once I need a cardiac check up, I’ll make sure to visit Dr. Zayne then,” you say, glancing at him who is walking beside you, expecting him to have a small smile on his lips at your joke. Instead, you see him frown.

“That doesn’t seem to be a funny joke,” he replies. You furrow your brows at him but the faint smile still lingers on your lips, “Oh come on, you know a cardiac check-up doesn’t necessarily mean something negative,” you reply, nudging his arm with your elbow. The short contact could almost bring you to your knees like a teenager touching her crush for the first time. Zayne shakes his head disapprovingly, “You know you can visit my office without any agenda behind it.”

You almost halt at your steps when his words fall to your ears. Suddenly, everything came hitting you all at once.

The man standing before you is no longer the boy you first met in your university, when you’re almost graduating from medicine school. He is no longer the feeble adolescent boy who had difficulties making acquaintances so he sought refuge in you and your senior friends. He is no longer the man who comes to your apartment right after your residency has ended for the day, with worksheets and food in hand to ask assistance from you. Though you were quite sure back then that he didn’t need the assistance when he could quickly answer your questions, he just wanted to be in your presence.

Zayne has grown. He’s now a renowned doctor with his very own office and colleagues, who respect and admire him deeply. His shoulders broader than you remembered, the shadows of his muscles taut against the fabric of his clothes are evident and his stature more confident and intimidating now, his steps more sharp and certain, carrying the weight of countless lives he has saved throughout the years–as well as lives he failed to prolong.

You continue to stare at him, both in awe and surprise, realization sinking deep that everything has changed between you two. Zayne glances at you through his peripheral vision for the lack of your response, almost making you jump. You clear your throat awkwardly, “Is that so? Well I’d say I’m quite grateful that Dr. Zayne is welcoming me to his office.”

As you reach the reception of the hospital, you wave goodbye at the receptionist with a cheerful smile. The receptionist returns the same grin, wishing you a safe walk home and to see you tomorrow again. You nod at him in response before following Zayne who was standing a couple feet ahead of you, his head slightly turned to the side, waiting for you to catch up to him.

Stepping into the chill of the evening, you hold your arm closer to your chest and burrowing your nose close to your scarf, almost shivering, “Nights in Chansia City never get easier in the winter,” you comment, white smoke exiting your lips. You look both sides, taking the lead in returning home.

“Do you usually just walk home in the evening?” Zayne asks, trailing beside you, noting how the receptionist mentioned how you travel home by foot. You hum in agreement, “My apartment is not too far here. And I like to spend a few minutes in silence at the nearby park before I head home.”

Zayne merely nods at your response, his eyes focusing on the street ahead.

“How about you?” You ask, tilting your head at him, earning a glance from him. “Where do you stay here?”

He purses his lips before mentioning the hotel name.

“Oh, that’s a bit near where I live. Just a couple of blocks away. Do you just walk when you go to the hospital?”

He shakes his head at your query, “The hospital provides me a shuttle service in the morning. In the evening I just flag a cab.”

“I see…” You trail off, “Would you like me to assist you in flagging a cab? Though it would be difficult now considering the time–”

“There’s no need,” he cuts you off. “I rather enjoy your company.”

Those simple words elicit a shot of heat striking your cheeks, urging you to look away from him and focus on the white smoke exiting your lips. You could see Zayne smiling from the corner of your eyes, as if your reaction brings him joy.

“Besides, walking has plenty of benefits for your health. For one, it improves your cardiovascular fitness and your muscle endurance, and strengthens your bones and muscles. It also helps you manage your weight,” he continued, earning a laugh from you.

“You do realize I know those things too, right? We went to the same medical school, after all,” you reply.

“I just thought you forgot,” Zayne says with a deadpan expression on his face, but you were certain you saw his lips curl up in amusement for a split second.

“Hey! I don’t forget things that easily, you know!” You protest.

“Is that so?” Zayne hums, “Last time I checked, a certain someone forgot it was her finals if it wasn’t for me to remind her.”

“Unfair! That was years ago, Dr. Zayne! And I just got out of my training that day too,” you laugh.

Right. Years ago.

As you two reach the park nearby, you find an empty bench and plop down into it, the collection of ice in the seat seeping through your coat. Zayne follows suit, succumbing to his feelings and sitting beside you at the bench. You freeze at the slight brush of his coat against yours and the engulfing warmth that he radiates, but you shrug it off once again.

The thick clouds drifting across the moon give you two company in the frosty evening. And while Zayne’s hands remain warm inside the pockets of his coat, your fingers are trembling in your pockets. In nervousness or by the bite of the cold, you’re unsure.

It’s been years since the last time you two sat together in silence. From the usual scraping of pen against paper and the turning of pages from the books, it turned into eerie silence. Silence brought by lingering regrets and loneliness between you two. Silence from the falling out between two almost lovers. The drunken glow of the streetlights accompany the solitary moon as it watches you two attempt to catch up from the sorrowful past you two have run away from. The cold coffee you had ingested an hour ago now shoots up to your bloodstream, sending alerts to your brain that everything in this situation warrants a good long rest after. And yet, despite the heavy dose of caffeine in your system, you were sure that one vulnerable question from Zayne, you could crash into his arms and sob.

“How’s Greyson?” You ask, avoiding the tense silence to linger any further before it could escalate into mourning from the past that could’ve been. “He is doing well,” Zayne curtly replies, as if he was uninterested in talking about his male colleague to the woman he’s only loved throughout the years.

“I remember your silly disagreements with him. It would take your seniors to break you two apart from the debate and make you realize that you two were wrong,” you continue, huffing a laugh from the memory.

Zayne remains silent.

Clearly, he wasn’t buying your reminiscence of nostalgia to fill the night. Nevertheless, you couldn’t bring yourself to talk about the painful memory that transpired between the two of you.

“Do you always work overtime?” Zayne asks, breaking his streak of tranquility.

“Hm… These days I do. But I usually don’t. I’m just working on a research with Dr. Lewis recently. We plan to contribute and present it to our university in the upcoming alumni symposium for graduating students,” you reply.

“I see.”

“Mmhmm.”

Silence emerges between you two again, as if the universe was forcing the two of you to reconcile and face the troubled past together. Whether the universe was bringing you two together to write the closure to forever exit the chapter in your life or a new volume of your book, you’re quite uncertain.

“Have you…” Zayne starts and you continue to stare at your fingers fiddling atop of your lap, not daring to even spare him a glimpse. He inhales, “Have you been seeing anyone since our…” He does not dare continue finishing the sentence, afraid that once he does, vulnerability would engulf you two until you were sure you could collapse from it.

You, however, were taken aback by the sudden question, your eyes shooting up to him while his face remained stoic and focused on the flickering lamp post ahead of you, “Oh heavens no!” You quickly deny, “I am far too busy to start seeing other people. You know how it can be, Dr. Zayne.” You muster a nervous chuckle, a hand running to the back of your head, smiling at him sheepishly.

You could see Zayne’s adam’s apple bob up and down at his throat, “You can drop the honorifics,” he whispers. You blink up at him, “Pardon?”

He exhales, his mouth still hangs from the frost coiling in the winter air, “I hope that you drop the honorifics by now. We are no longer at the hospital and you are my senior. It would make no sense for you to continue calling me by my title.”

Especially when we had something together. He almost says.

“Oh,” you only say, dropping your gaze to your lap. “Okay, Zayne,” you humor him, the name falling from your tongue tastes foreign–like an old popsicle flavor from your childhood resurfacing from nostalgia.

“Okay,” he replies.

You purse your lips together, tilting your head upwards to appreciate the silhouette of the trees merging with the inky black sky. An exhale escapes your lips, white smoke exiting from it as your eyes trail carefully to each branch that intersects with one another. Unbeknownst to you, the man sitting beside you was also engrossed in watching–but instead of the same view across you two, he’s fixated in memorizing your features.

Studying every freckle, blemish, and mole on your face. Despite your features maturing, he takes note of how you still retain that youthful glow he remembers years ago from when he would just immerse himself in your presence in your apartment. He engraves in his brain the image of you beside him, as if he was enchanted by having you again, even if you’re at his arm’s length.

“How long have you been at Chansia Hospital?” He suddenly asks, not tearing away from your features.

You stay still in your seat, busy admiring the night sky, “After my first year of residency, I got an opportunity to continue it at Chansia Hospital. I’ve been here since then,” you answer.

“I see,” he replies. “How have you been faring throughout your stay?” He asked.

You hum and shrug, “The workplace is good, there’s little to no drama and office politics. And I really enjoy caring for the kids there, the hospital has exemplary facilities for the pediatric ward, which I absolutely appreciate. But we still lack the human resource for capable doctors, especially surgeons, which is probably why they requested assistance from Akso Hospital.”

There was a pause between you two. “Perhaps I could ask for a transfer at your hospital, then,” Zayne replies blankly, as if a sudden change in his career is nothing.

You giggle at his words, burrowing yourself into your scarf and a hand hovering your mouth, “I’m sure there is no way Akso Hospital would let go of you, Zayne.”

“Why not?” Zayne murmurs and you swear you heard the pout in his tone.

You snicker and the words tumble out of your mouth before you could even think, “Well if I was your boss, I just know for sure I wouldn’t let go of my most capable and brilliant surgeon.”

“Then don’t,” he counters rather quickly.

You turn your head to him, surprised at both your words from just a second ago, “Pardon?”

He adjusts in his seat, directing his body to your side and you could see the eagerness glimmering in his eyes, “Don’t let me go,” he says in a hushed tone. You barely heard it, if you weren’t mere inches from each other, you could mistake his voice for the howling of the wind. But you picked it up. And his eyes are round, shining the most genuine gaze you have ever seen from him. You could tell from his stare alone that his words carry the weight of a thousand suns.

And you know deep in your soul that Zayne would do everything in his lifetime to bring you home.

Bring you to him.

And you feel the guilt creeping up your throat.

You swallow and shake your head, breaking away from his trance.

You were sure you could crumble from the sorrow and regret seeping in your bones. After years of burrowing all of these unfamiliar feelings and vulnerability, everything started to surface in his mere presence.

“I’m sorry,” you begin. Zayne looks at you curiously, “For what exactly?” He asks.

And you’re undecided what to apologize from. For using his title? Not really. For seeing him accidentally in the hospital hallway? It’s not really your fault fate brought you two together in the most unconventional way possible. For agreeing to walk with you home? Perhaps. For saying that if you were his employer, you wouldn’t let him go? Could be, but not quite.

But none of those things quite possibly slot perfectly with the puzzle you want to complete.

“If only…” You start, breaking the silence, “If only life was kinder and easier to us years ago,” your voice breaks, “I just want to let you know that I wouldn’t have… Slipped you through my fingers.”

It was like your subconscious was talking for you.

Zayne darts his gaze from the lamppost who finally dimmed its light to his hands resting atop of his lap. You gulp, “Everyday I–...” You let out a shaky breath, “I wish you well. Especially in your studies,” you say, a soft smile in your features as you hold back the tears that are threatening to fall.

Even after all these years, Zayne doesn’t understand.

“I don’t seem to understand,” he verbalizes, glancing at you who has your arms wrapped around your body, protecting yourself from the cold. “How can you drop it so easily?” He asks.

How can you drop us so easily?

You pause in your ministrations, before letting out a shaky laugh, “You were an exceptional student, Zayne. You were going to be a fantastic doctor after you graduate, we all expected that. I mean, we all knew that. It was evident. And I–...” You trail off, “I was older. I was graduating med school when you were only at the starting line. I can’t take that away from you, you know that. You have your whole university years ahead of you and I don’t want to take that experience away from you,” you rambled, wishing you could shut up.

You purse your lips together and Zayne opens his mouth to protest but you continue, “I cannot be selfish, Zayne. I couldn’t bring myself to. I didn’t want to impose to you the regrets I’ve had in my years at med school.”

Zayne remembers.

One night at your apartment, lying supine side by side in your twin-sized mattress seemingly squeezed into the tight space, a book long forgotten on top of Zayne’s chest while his fingertips gently brushes against your knuckles beside him, while the soft hum of the AC accompanying the two lost souls in the midst of a warm summer night. You were talking about your failed romantic relationship in your years of medicine school, spending the latter years over a boy who couldn’t provide you with the security and comfort that you longed for. You ranted over how he failed as a partner, not leading enough in the relationship, and how you had to play several roles to make up for his lack of initiative.

You expected Zayne to be indifferent. Or perhaps angry. Maybe even frustrated at your ramblings. But you didn’t take into account how the weight in your bed shifted and he peers into your space, turning your chin to his direction with his thumb and forefinger and cradling your face. He didn’t say a word. And neither did you. You merely stay frozen in your position while he grazes his fingertips over your cheeks as if to say “It’s okay. I’m here now.”

Zayne remembers that night all too well.

“But you did not impose your regrets on me,” he replies confusedly. “I’ve had more regrets with the fact that we didn’t try rather than trying at all.”

He was right. You knew he was right. You could taste the bitterness and remorse from your tongue still lingering after years of trying to forget it all. You release a pitiful laugh, unsure what to even say at this point. How the conversation turned 180 degrees, you were floored.

And as you prepare the mental strength to leave, to finally burrow into the comforts of your home where your plushies would not judge you for sobbing into the sheets for the same man you have cried over for years, Zayne gently hovers his hand over yours that were resting on the small space between you two, and he speaks up, “Don’t you regret the years we wasted being apart?”

You dart your gaze from his hand laying on top of yours and slowly turn to his hazel green orbs. You could feel the tears welling up in your eyes as you muster up a tight-lipped smile at him, and you shake your head. “Not one bit,” you say.

Zayne was sure he felt his heart slowly shatter upon hearing your words. He retrieves his hand from yours and he slowly averts his gaze to his shoes, feeling the scrape of ice and concrete beneath the soles of his feet. You cringe at the lost of his touch.

“If it meant that it would bring you to today, the peak of your career and a successful name for yourself, I don’t regret it. Not one bit,” you continue, albeit shaky.

He swallows thickly, “I see.”

You nod, looking elsewhere than to gaze upon his genuine expression of dejection in his face. “Despite loving you with everything I have, I knew I couldn’t get in the way of your dreams,” you say. You inhale a deep breath, mustering up the courage to bring your hand on top of his cold ones, clasping around it tightly. He looks up at you, with a plastered smile on your face, “And whether or not things would’ve worked out, it doesn’t matter because I chose this decision to be in the future where you were successful. And I was correct, Zayne. I’d like to believe what I chose for us was right.”

You gulp, “I wanted to have a future where you were successful and thriving. I wanted to live in the future where I would see your name on news articles because of your expertise. And I suppose you could call me a coward for deciding to end our relationship for your sake but I had to. Because I loved you. So much so that I couldn’t afford to witness you lose. I…” You inhale a shaky breath, squeezing your eyes shut and your hand against his, “I love you.”

I love you so much to this day, that it physically hurts. You almost say. But you hold back. And you pull your hand away from him, settling it into your lap once again, where it belongs.

The begging in your voice as you explain your decision cuts through Zayne’s willful idea that you would come back and live through the years of what could have been.

Seconds ticked into minutes of silence and you could immediately feel the regret seeping into your bones as you admit the fears and the sacrifice you had to make for his future, unknowingly shutting out all of Zayne’s attempts to return back into your arms. And one thing is for sure, you could just never wrap your head around the concept that Zayne wanted to keep you in his life the moment he laid eyes on you and never let you go.

Zayne abruptly stands up and you turn your head to the side, not wanting to witness him walk away from your life. You clench your jaw, your hand clawing through your jeans in frustration as you inhale the icy air around you. You want to take all your words back, you want to break down all the walls for him and just embrace him and sob into his chest. You want to reach out to him, grab his wrist and ask him to stay. You want to ask him to come home to you. Anything that involves him back in your life you were sure you would be content.

You do nothing.

Zayne shoves his hands down his coat pockets as he lets out a shaky exhale, white smoke emitting from his actions. One heartbeat. Two.

You gulp, preparing yourself for waking up tomorrow with swollen eyes and zero energy, already imagining a life without him.

Zayne sighs, “You’re still stubborn as ever.”

You furrow your brows together, the insult distracting you from the tears threatening to spill from your eyes. “Excuse me?” You say, turning your head to look at him who still had his back turned to you.

You could’ve sworn you heard him laugh breathily. You click your tongue. “Is there a point to this, Zayne?” You ask, unsure where he is headed with his comment. You shake your head, “Or are we just here for the feeling of what we did and reminisce?”

Zayne takes a step to your side and faces you, earning a confused look from you. He gives you a soft smile and kneels in front of you, sending you into a frenzied state.

“Z-Zayne?! What the hell are you doing?! It’s cold!” You exclaim, placing your hand on each of his arms. “Stand up!”

He stays frozen in place, taking your hands into his, clasping both of it together. You watch him in confusion as he continues to cradle your hand into his, before he laces his fingers into yours, watching in awe at how his hand perfectly slots into yours, and before you know it, his lips hover into your fingers, pressing featherlight kisses into it.

You could feel the heat creep up your skin, the urge to pull your hand away strengthening.

But you don’t.

He pulls away from your hands and his lips turn into a small smile as he gazes into your eyes. “I did it already, didn’t I?” He murmurs.

You pause for a second, furrowing your brows together in confusion, before you ask, “Did what?”

“All the things you wanted me to become,” he replies curtly.

The creases between your eyebrows deepens.

“I accepted losing you, regardless of how I… dislike it so much. And you still express the same things you said years ago, of how you did not want to get in my way and desire me to be successful in my field. I have done it already, haven't I?” He asks, peering close to your forlorn expression.

You stay silent.

He huffs a laugh, “I may be just doing my job but you acknowledge that I’m successful in my field, did you not?”

“I don–”

“Only yes or no will suffice as an answer, my love,” he cuts you off. The nickname sends your brain into a frenzy, confused whether the man in front of you is truly your junior from your med school. “Well?” Zayne urges, tilting his head closer to you. You straighten your back, clearing your throat, “I believe I have acknowledged you are successful, so yes,” you reply rather formally, to which elicits a laughter from the man in front of you.

“With those factors into consideration, did you really think that I would let you go again?”

“Excuse me?”

He stands up to his full height, pulling you along with him albeit dazed from his actions. You feel like you could stagger and fall with how you could feel his heat and how close you are with him again after years of no contact. If it weren’t for him holding you up, you could’ve sworn you would’ve fallen to your knees.

“Before my travel here, I already asked Akso Hospital to take a week off for my vacation here with the girl I love at Chansia City,” he says rather straightforwardly. You blink owlishly at his words, confused at the turn of events, “I am sorry, Zayne but can you clarify to me what the hell is happening exactly?” You demand.

“Hm? I am simply taking back what’s mine,” he says candidly. He removes his hands from yours, placing one on top of your waist and the other cradling your face. “I would be a fool if I’d let you get your way again.”

You frown at his words, ignoring the way your body feverishly reacts to his touch, “What does that even mean?”

“If you think you can just push me away again, then you are mistaken. I have waited patiently for years for us. For you. While I still don’t understand why you pushed me away years ago, it doesn't matter anymore. I would rather have you in my proximity again than wait for you to stop being stubborn,” he answers, a soft smile gracing his face. He raises a brow at you playfully, “Because a certain someone would rather have the world stop spinning than admit that she is stubborn.”

“Hey!” You protest, ready to complain but the words die in your throat when he suddenly lunges forward until his breath fans your cheeks, the cold air grazing your rose-tinted skin. He presses you closer to his body, his hand gripping your waist firmly and the other one still caressing your skin. “Tell me you want me to come back,” he whispers, almost desperately. “I’d do anything to keep you in my life again. I no longer want to keep you at an arm’s length anymore,” he continues, his hazel green eyes boring into yours, as if he was trying to stare into your soul.

“Zayne…” You murmur, darting your gaze from his lips to his eyes.

“Just say it, darling,” he mutters, “You don’t have to do anything. We have all the time in the world to figure it all out together,” he assured.

You swallow thickly, the tears that were threatening to spill from your eyes finally break, and you are confused whether they were tears of despair, grief, or happiness. Perhaps it was all three altogether. Because finally, for once in your life, you are going to jump into uncharted territory and not think about anything anymore.

“Zayne,” you begin and he looks at you expectantly. You inhale a deep breath, glancing at his lips again before darting back to his eyes. The breeze of the winter air skimming through your bodies, the moon’s muted glow casting over the dispersing clouds, and the lamppost from across you two finally lighting up again, giving you brighter access to his features. And suddenly, it feels like everything around you disappears, as if you two are the only ones in the universe, holding each other so carefully. “Please stay here.”

He inches closer to your face, a smile gracing his lips, “Of course.”

And for the first time in years, he wraps his arms around you, his hands that were once cradling your face, now holding onto the back of your head and the other embracing your entire body and engulfing you in his heat, every fear in your body to wash and melt away.

And for once in your life, you are no longer sobbing into the sheets, lingering of sorrow and regret–but rather into the arms of the man who found you again, despite your attempts to rewrite history.

author's note: comments, reblogs, and likes are very much appreciated :") also didn't take into account the timeline that much! so if the ages are a bit wonky, ignore LOL

song inspirations: nike by frank ocean, stay here by surl, coming home by honne feat. niki, 18 by One Direction, maybe you are the reason by the japanese house

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